At the beginning of the struggle, she had written off a letter of tender supplication to her brother at Calcutta, imploring him not to withdraw the support which he had granted to their parents and painting in terms of artless pathos their lonely and hapless condition.She did not know the truth of the matter.The payment of Jos's annuity was still regular, but it was a money-lender in the City who was receiving it: old Sedley had sold it for a sum of money wherewith to prosecute his bootless schemes.Emmy was calculating eagerly the time that would elapse before the letter would arrive and be answered.She had written down the date in her pocket-book of the day when she dispatched it.To her son's guardian, the good Major at Madras, she had not communicated any of her griefs and perplexities.She had not written to him since she wrote to congratulate him on his approaching marriage.She thought with sickening despondency, that that friend--the only one, the one who had felt such a regard for her--was fallen away.
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, papal 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.
Her mind being made up, the widow began to take such measures as seemed right to her for advancing the end which she proposed.One day, Miss Osborne, in Russell Square (Amelia had not written the name or number of the house for ten years--her youth, her early story came back to her as she wrote the superscription) one day Miss Osborne got a letter from Amelia which made her blush very much and look towards her father, sitting glooming in his place at the other end of the table.
In simple terms, Amelia told her the reasons which had induced her to change her mind respecting her boy.