As the horses’ heads turned homeward Cornelia’s gayety faded away, and after a few moments of serious silence, she looked up and said,
“My dear, own Enna, I am very much afraid we are about to have some heavy trouble to contend with.”
“Why, Cornelia?” was my reply, for as this was the first time she had spoken to me of her presentiment of sorrow, I did not wish to add to it, by letting her know that I likewise had observed the cause for it. She told me that she could not tell why she anticipated this trouble; that she knew nothing certain, but she had, like myself, noticed a change in her father—something of moment she was sure must be resting heavily on his mind, for he had not had his usual spirits for some time.
“At night,” said she, “when my dear mother is asleep, I hear him walking his dressing-room sometimes until day-dawn. Mother says he is not well, but I am very confident that it is not sickness of the body that affects him; it is, I fear, sickness of the mind; and yet how foolish, if it be pecuniary difficulties, to grieve so much about it and keep it from us.”
“He knows, dear Cornelia,” I replied, “how unfit his family are to bear reverses of fortune. You alone are able to bear up against loss of means.”
“That’s true,” she sighed, “God only knows what is coming, but I pray He may send strength when the dark hour of trial does burst upon us.”
Poor girl, she did not know how much her father needed her prayer at that very moment, for the hour of trial had arrived to him, and strength was indeed wanting.
At dinner Mrs. Payne received a note from her husband, in which he said, that he would not be at home, until late in the evening, as he was very busy at the counting-house. The meal was a silent one, for even Mrs. Payne looked serious, and expressed her anxiety for her husband’s health, which she feared might be injured by over-exertion. As we arose from the dinner table, Mrs. Payne put her arm affectionately around Cornelia, and said,
“Come, my daughter, give us some of your beautiful music, something that is very brilliant to enliven us, for we are rather heavy this evening.”
I knew well that Cornelia was unfit for any exertion, and as we entered the gay, light drawing-room I seated myself at the piano, and asked Mrs. Payne if my music would not answer the purpose as well as Cornelia’s. Cornelia’s eyes expressed such a world of thanks, that I felt quite repaid for the effort—for effort it was—and soon after I noticed that she quietly slipped out of the room. Mrs. Payne was passionately fond of music, and I sang and played for her, nearly two hours. She was a fine harpist, though she seldom played, but I even prevailed upon her, to play with me some harp duets. While we were in the midst of a brilliant piece, the waiter entered, and said that Mr. Payne wished to see me in the library.