Vanity Fair - Page 415/573

One day, when things had come to a very bad pass--when the creditors

were pressing, the mother in hysteric grief, the father in more than

usual gloom, the inmates of the family avoiding each other, each

secretly oppressed with his private unhappiness and notion of

wrong--the father and daughter happened to be left alone together, and

Amelia thought to comfort her father by telling him what she had done.

She had written to Joseph--an answer must come in three or four months.

He was always generous, though careless. He could not refuse, when he

knew how straitened were the circumstances of his parents.

Then the poor old gentleman revealed the whole truth to her--that his

son was still paying the annuity, which his own imprudence had flung

away. He had not dared to tell it sooner. He thought Amelia's ghastly

and terrified look, when, with a trembling, miserable voice he made the

confession, conveyed reproaches to him for his concealment. "Ah!" said

he with quivering lips and turning away, "you despise your old father

now!"

"Oh, papa! it is not that," Amelia cried out, falling on his neck and

kissing him many times. "You are always good and kind. You did it for

the best. It is not for the money--it is--my God! my God! have mercy

upon me, and give me strength to bear this trial"; and she kissed him

again wildly and went away.

Still the father did not know what that explanation meant, and the

burst of anguish with which the poor girl left him. It was that she

was conquered. The sentence was passed. The child must go from

her--to others--to forget her. Her heart and her treasure--her joy,

hope, love, worship--her God, almost! She must give him up, and

then--and then she would go to George, and they would watch over the

child and wait for him until he came to them in Heaven.

She put on her bonnet, scarcely knowing what she did, and went out to

walk in the lanes by which George used to come back from school, and

where she was in the habit of going on his return to meet the boy. It

was May, a half-holiday. The leaves were all coming out, the weather

was brilliant; the boy came running to her flushed with health,

singing, his bundle of school-books hanging by a thong. There he was.

Both her arms were round him. No, it was impossible. They could not be

going to part. "What is the matter, Mother?" said he; "you look very

pale."

"Nothing, my child," she said and stooped down and kissed him.

That night Amelia made the boy read the story of Samuel to her, and how

Hannah, his mother, having weaned him, brought him to Eli the High

Priest to minister before the Lord. And he read the song of gratitude

which Hannah sang, and which says, who it is who maketh poor and maketh

rich, and bringeth low and exalteth--how the poor shall be raised up

out of the dust, and how, in his own might, no man shall be strong.

Then he read how Samuel's mother made him a little coat and brought it

to him from year to year when she came up to offer the yearly

sacrifice. And then, in her sweet simple way, George's mother made

commentaries to the boy upon this affecting story. How Hannah, though

she loved her son so much, yet gave him up because of her vow. And how

she must always have thought of him as she sat at home, far away,

making the little coat; and Samuel, she was sure, never forgot his

mother; and how happy she must have been as the time came (and the

years pass away very quick) when she should see her boy and how good

and wise he had grown. This little sermon she spoke with a gentle

solemn voice, and dry eyes, until she came to the account of their

meeting--then the discourse broke off suddenly, the tender heart

overflowed, and taking the boy to her breast, she rocked him in her

arms and wept silently over him in a sainted agony of tears.