come here at all, and his present unconquerable dread of going to the Park.
He was soon after in London, where, as far as could be judged in such early days, he seemed likely to distinguish himself according to the fondest hopes that Margaret or Laura could ever have entertained. Laura was only afraid he was overworking himself, especially as, having at present little command of ready money, he lived in a small lodging, kept no horse, and did not enter into society; but she was reassured when he came to Hollywell for a day or two at Whitsuntide, not having indeed regained flesh or colour, but appearing quite well, in better spirits, and very eager about political affairs.
All would have been right that summer, but that, as Philip observed, the first evening of his arrival, Amabel was not looking as well as she had done at the time of the christening. She had, just after it, tried her strength and spirits too much, and had ever since been not exactly unwell, but sad and weary, more dejected than ever before, unable to bear the sight of flowers or the sound of music, and evidently suffering much under the recurrence of the season, which had been that of her great happiness--the summer sunshine, the long evenings, the nightingale's songs. She was fatigued by the most trifling exertion, and seemed able to take interest in nothing but her baby, and a young widow in the village, who was in a decline; and though she was willing to do all that was asked of her, it was in a weary, melancholy manner, as if she had no peace but in being allowed to sit alone, drooping over her child.
From society she especially shrunk, avoiding every chance of meeting visitors, and distressed and harassed when her father brought home some of his casual dinner guests, and was vexed not to see her come into the drawing-room in the evening. If she did make the effort of coming, to please him, she was so sure to be the worse for it, that her mother would keep her up-stairs the next time, and try to prevent her from knowing that her father was put out, and declared it was nonsense to expect poor Amy to get up her spirits, while she never saw a living soul, and only sat moping in the dressing-room.
A large dinner-party did not interfere with her, for even he could not expect her to appear at it, and one of these he gave during Philip's visit, for the pleasure of exhibiting such company as the M.P. for Moorworth. After dinner, Charlotte told Mary Ross to go and see Amy. Not finding her in the dressing-room, she knocked at her own door. 'Come in,' answered the low soft voice; and in the window, overhung by the long shoots of the roses, Amabel's close cap and small head were seen against the deep-blue evening sky, as she sat in the summer twilight, her little one asleep in her cot.
'Thank you for coming,' said she. 'I thought you would not mind sitting here with baby and me. I have sent Anne out walking.'
'How pretty she looks!' said Mary, stooping over the infant. 'Sleep is giving her quite a colour; and how fast she grows!'
'Poor little woman!' said Amy, sighing.
'Tired, Amy?' said Mary, sitting down, and taking up the little lambswool shoe, that Amy had been knitting.
'N--no, thank you,' said Amy, with another sigh.
'I am afraid you are. You have been walking to Alice Lamsden's again.'
'I don't think that tires me. Indeed, I believe the truth is,' and her voice sounded especially sad in the subdued tone in which she spoke, that she might not disturb the child, 'I am not so much tired with what I do, which is little enough, as of the long, long life that is before me.'
Mary's heart was full, but she did not show her thought otherwise than by a look towards the babe.
'Yes, poor little darling,' said Amabel, 'I know there is double quantity to be done for her, but I am so sorry for her, when I think she must grow up without knowing him.'
'She has you, though,' Mary could not help saying, as she felt that Amabel was superior to all save her husband.
Perhaps Amy did not hear; she went up to the cot, and went on:--'If he had but once seen her, if she had but had one kiss, one touch that I could tell her of by and by, it would not seem as if she was so very fatherless. Oh no, baby, I must wait, that you may know something about, him; for no one else can tell you so well what he was, though I can't tell much!' She presently returned to her seat. 'No, I don't believe I really wish I was like poor Alice,' said she; 'I hope not; I am sure I don't for her sake. But, Mary, I never knew till I was well again how much I had reckoned on dying when she was born. I did not think I was wishing it, but it seemed likely, and I was obliged to arrange things in case of it. Then somehow, as he came back last spring, after that sad winter, it seemed as if this spring, though he would not come back to me, I might be going to him.'
'But then she comforted you.'
'Yes, that she did, my precious one; I was so glad of her, it was a sort of having him again, and so it is still sometimes, and will be more so, I dare say. I am very thankful for her, indeed I am; and I hope I am not repining, for it does not signify after all, in the end, if I am weary and lonely sometimes. I wish I was sure it was not wrong. I know I don't wish to alter things.'
'No, I am sure you don't.'
'Ah!' said Amabel, smiling, 'it is only the old, silly little Amy that does feel such a heart-aching and longing for one glance of his eye, or touch of his hand, or sound of his foot in the passage. Oh, Mary, the worst of all is to wake up, after dreaming I have heard his voice. There is nothing for it but to take our baby and hold her very tight.'
'Dearest Amy! But you are not blaming yourself for these feelings. It might be wrong to indulge them and foster them; but while you struggle with them, they can't in themselves be wrong.'
'I hope not,' said Amabel pausing to think. 'Yes, I have 'the joy' at the bottom still; I know it is all quite right, and it came straight from heaven, as he said. I can get happy very often when I am by myself, or at church, with him; it is only when I miss his bright outside and can't think myself into the inner part, that it is so forlorn and dreary. I can do pretty well alone. Only I wish I could help being so troublesome and disagreeable to everybody' said Amy, concluding in a matter-of-fact tone.
'My dear!' said Mary, almost laughing.
'It is so stupid of me to be always poorly, and making mamma anxious when there's nothing the matter with me. And I know I am a check on them down-stairs--papa, and Charlotte, and all--they are very kind, considerate, and yet'--she paused--'and it is a naughty feeling; but when I feel all those dear kind eyes watching me always, and wanting me to be happy, it is rather oppressive, especially when I can't; but if I try not to disappoint them, I do make such a bad hand of it, and am sure to break down afterwards, and that grieves mamma all the more.'
'It will be better when this time of year is over,' said Mary.
'Perhaps, yes. He always seemed to belong to summer days, and to come with them. Well, I suppose trials always come in a different shape from what one expects; for I used to think I could bear all the doom with him, but, I did not know it would be without him, and yet that is the best. Oh, baby!'
'I should not have come to disturb her.'
'No--never mind; she never settles fairly to sleep till we are shut in by ourselves. Hush! hush, darling--No? Will nothing do but being taken up? Well, then, there! Come, and show your godmamma what a black fringe those little wakeful eyes are getting.'
And when Mary went down it was with the conviction that those black eyelashes, too marked to he very pretty in so young a babe, were more of a comfort to Amabel than anything she could say.
The evening wore on, and at length Laura came into her sister's room. She looked fagged and harassed, the old face she used to wear in the time of disguise and secrecy, Amabel asked if it had been a tiresome party.
'Yes--no--I don't know. Just like others,' said Laura.
'You are tired, at any rate,' said Amabel. 'You took too long a ride with Philip. I saw you come in very late.'
'I am not in the least tired, thank you.'
'Then he is,' said Amabel. 'I hope he has not one of his headaches again.'
'No,' said Laura, still in a dissatisfied, uncomfortable tone.
'No? Dear Laura, I am sure there is something wrong;' and with a little more of her winning, pleading kindness, she drew from Laura that Philip had told her she idolized him. He had told her so very gently and kindly, but he had said she idolized him in a manner that was neither good for herself nor him; and he went on to blame himself for it, which was what she could not bear. It had been rankling in her mind ever since that he had found fault with her for loving him so well, and it had made her very unhappy. She could not love him less, and how should she please him? She had much rather he had blamed her than himself.
