"Ah! Miss, but it is not the eating and drinking, and the clothes, that make one happy," replied Susan.
At this moment Margaret called her cousin to the schoolroom, and the conversation was interrupted; but Amy could not help thinking of it afterwards, and talking of it to her mamma when she went home.
"It seems very strange, mamma," she said, "that Susan should care so little for having such a comfortable place to live in."
"Should you be happy, Amy, at Emmerton, without me?"
"Oh no! mamma, never; but then——"
"But what, my dear child?"
"I am afraid it is wrong, mamma; but I think sometimes that it would be very nice to have a carriage and servants, and a large house; and it must be almost as great a change to Susan to have so many comforts as she has now."
"The reason why you think so differently, my love, is, that you have never known yet what real unhappiness means. When that time comes, you will feel with Susan, that all such things are of no consequence. I believe God often sends afflictions to teach us this."
"And do you think He will send them to me, mamma?" said Amy, anxiously.
"I believe He will send you whatever is necessary to make you good, my dear, and will give you strength to bear it; but it will be better and happier for you if you endeavour to overcome this longing for riches and grandeur now, and so, perhaps, the trial may not be required."
Amy did not quite understand all that her mother meant, or why she should look so sad; but she went to rest that night with a heavier heart than usual, even though she had made it an especial part of her evening prayers that God would grant her a humble spirit, and teach her not to desire anything beyond what He had given; and when she next went to Emmerton she looked upon Susan as much better than herself, and took even a greater interest in her; and finding that Miss Morton did the same, and studied in many little ways to make the poor girl feel less friendless and lonely, it seemed as if the barrier between herself and Emily was in a measure done away; and she began from this time to experience a pleasure in being with her, which once she would have imagined impossible.
"Mamma," said Amy, as she returned from Emmerton one bright afternoon in the beginning of September, "Aunt Harrington hopes that when I go to the Hall on Thursday, you will go with me; for Lord Rochford is coming over with Miss Cunningham, and she thinks you would like to see them. The carriage will be sent for you whenever you wish it."
"Has not Miss Cunningham been at the Hall before?" asked Mrs Herbert.
"No," replied Amy; "she was to have gone there just after my aunt came, but one of her uncles was taken ill and died, and then she went away somewhere on a visit. I want to see her very much, for I am sure my aunt is very anxious that Dora should be with her a great deal."
"How did you guess that?" asked Mrs Herbert.
"Oh, by the way in which she talked of her, and said she hoped Dora would make herself agreeable, and that there were very few young people of the same age here, and that the acquaintance was very desirable. But, mamma," continued Amy, looking up archly in her mother's face, "I think Dora is determined not to like her."
"And why should you think so?"
"Because I am sure Dora never does like any one she is told to like. She always has a fancy for things which no one else can endure, and she will pet that ugly tabby cat which you saw in the schoolroom the other day, and that great fierce dog which growls whenever any one goes near it, though I think she is a little afraid of it."
"And does her love for human beings go by contraries too?"
"I don't know quite, because I have never seen her with strangers," said Amy; "but I am sure it is her way in other things, for even in her dress I can see it. She generally chooses to wear whatever Margaret or I think ugly. But, mamma, have you ever seen Miss Cunningham, and do you think I shall like her?"
"I saw her frequently when she was a very little child," replied Mrs Herbert; "for before your uncle went to Wayland, Lady Rochford was very intimate with your aunt; but after that she became ill, and I had no carriage, and the distance between us is so great, that we have very seldom met, though I have been asked occasionally to stay there; and once, when your dear papa was here, I went."
"Then you will like to go with me on Thursday, mamma," said Amy; "you know it will make me so happy, and you never go now, as you used to do in the summer. You always say it is such a fatigue; but I did so enjoy the nice long days, when you were with me."
"I must wait till Thursday comes before I decide," answered her mother. "The postman shall take a note for me to Emmerton early, to say whether we shall want the carriage."
Amy watched her mamma more anxiously than usual the next day, and was not quite satisfied with her pale and languid looks; and when she appeared at breakfast the following morning, evidently suffering from the effects of a sleepless night, it was clear that she was more fit to stay at home than to spend the day at Emmerton; and, much to Amy's disappointment, the donkey was ordered at eleven o'clock, and she was obliged to set off for her ride by herself.
There were preparations in the schoolroom for a day of idleness. Rose was playing with her doll, Margaret engaged with some fancy work for herself, and Dora deep in the contents of an amusing book, while Miss Morton, relieved from her usual duties, had gone to her own room to enjoy quietness and solitude.
"I don't think I like coming here on a holiday," observed Amy, when she entered the room; "it does not seem natural."
"I like it, though," said Rose, as she tied a pink ribbon round her doll's waist, in a firm, hard knot, and then held it up to be admired. "I never have my doll's new frock except on holidays; and Emily is coming presently to have a good game of play."
"You won't play here," exclaimed Margaret, sharply; "we can have no litter made."
"I don't want to make a litter," said Rose; "and I had much rather go and play in Emily's room; she is never cross."
"Oh Rose!" said a gentle voice behind her; and Rose was immediately sensible that she had been wrong; and turning round to Emily, who had just come into the room, she jumped upon a chair to kiss her, and whispered, "I won't be naughty; but no one is kind except you."
"You must not speak so," replied Emily; "and your sister is quite right in saying it will not do to make a litter here; but there is plenty of space in my bedroom, and we will go there and play when I have just spoken to your cousin."
"And won't Amy come too?" said Rose.
Amy looked half inclined; but Margaret vehemently asserted that such a thing had never been heard of before; and Dora raised her head from her book, begging more earnestly than was her wont that Amy would stay with them; and so Miss Morton and Rose departed with the doll and her treasures, and Amy remained to while away the time as she best could till Miss Cunningham arrived. Not that this was a difficult task, for there were many books at hand which were quite new to her; and she was so unwearied a reader, that, although her cousins did not take the least trouble to entertain her, the time seemed very short till the sound of carriage wheels and the loud ringing of the door-bell announced the arrival of a visitor. Margaret hastily gathered up her fragments of silk and beads, and thrust them into the first open drawer she could find (a proceeding which Amy did not fail to remark, as she knew that the task of finding Margaret's missing treasures always devolved upon her); but Dora did not appear to observe what was passing till her sister stealthily opened the door and peeped into the passage, and then she called out to her to shut it, and wondered she was not ashamed of being so unladylike. Margaret was not at all inclined to obey, and a dispute would probably have been the consequence but for the entrance of the footman, who came with Mrs Harrington's orders that the young ladies should go immediately to the drawing-room. Margaret ran to the glass to arrange her curls; and Dora, lingering over her book, reluctantly prepared to do as she was told, always a difficult task with her, and particularly so at that moment.
"I suppose my aunt wishes me to go, too?" said Amy.
"My mistress only mentioned Miss Harrington and Miss Margaret," replied the man, very respectfully but decidedly; for he well knew that Mrs Harrington always required her commands to be taken literally.
Amy shrunk back, vexed with herself for having offered to go, and more vexed with her aunt for having omitted to send for her. It would have made her feel shy to be obliged to encounter strangers; but it was not pleasant to be left behind.
"Never mind, dear," said Dora, kindly, seeing her blank face of disappointment; "we shall be back again presently, and then you shall see Miss Cunningham; but I tell you she is just like the rest of the world."
"I don't know why I should care," replied Amy, recovering herself; "it will be much more agreeable to stay here and read, for I am not used to strangers as you are, Dora."
And yet, though it was more agreeable, Amy was not contented; and when Margaret, having arranged her longest ringlet to her satisfaction, and set her dress to rights, and drawn up her head so as to show off her long neck to advantage, pronounced herself quite ready, and left Amy to the quiet enjoyment of her book, she could not manage to fix her attention upon it. For the first time since her uncle's arrival at Emmerton she felt neglected; it had often happened before that Dora or Margaret had been sent for on some little business with their mamma, but then it did not signify; and the few visitors who called seldom inquired for them; or, if they saw them accidentally, there was always as much notice taken of Amy as of her cousins, so that she had not fancied there could be any distinction between them; and even now she hardly acknowledged to herself the cause of her uncomfortable feelings, but sat with the open book before her, trying to find out why her aunt had wished her to be left behind; and then looking at the loveliness of the grounds and the signs of wealth and luxury in the room, and contrasting them with the plainly-furnished drawing-room and the little garden at the cottage, "I should be very happy if mamma had such beautiful things," was the thought that arose in her mind, but there was something within that checked it. They only who have tried earnestly to do right can tell how quickly conscience whispers when we are wrong; and Amy, young as she was, had too often heard her mother's warnings against envy and covetousness, not to be aware that she was at that moment tempted by them; and half-repeating to herself, "how wrong it is in me!" she turned to her book with the resolution of not thinking anything more about the matter. She had read but a few pages when the sound of voices in the passage interrupted her. Dora's constrained tone, and Margaret's affected laugh, told directly there was a stranger with them, and immediately afterwards they entered with Miss Cunningham, and the first glance showed Amy that Dora's description had been very correct. She was neither tall nor short, neither stout nor thin; she had grayish blue eyes, without any particular expression in them; sandy-coloured hair, a fair, freckled complexion, and rather pretty mouth, and certainly was very unlike what Amy had fancied in all but her dress, which was peculiarly handsome.
"This is our schoolroom," said Dora, when Miss Cunningham, upon being told who Amy was, had shaken hands with her, and scanned her from head to foot.
"Is it?" was the reply. "It is a nice little place; I think it must be just the size of my governess's sitting-room."
"It does very well," said Dora; "but it is nothing like the room we had to ourselves at Wayland, which was twice as large."
"My governess's room," continued Miss Cunningham, "used to be my nursery; and then, when I grew too old for it, of course papa gave up another to me; in fact, I have two I may call my own now—a little room where I keep all my books, and a large one where I do my lessons."
"There was a whole set of rooms which was to have been ours," said Dora, "if we had remained at Wayland; and here, I suppose, something of the kind will be arranged for us soon, but everything is so unsettled yet that papa has not had time to think about it."
"My little room," observed Miss Cunningham, "looks out upon the finest view in the whole estate. I can see a distance of twenty miles from the window."
"The tower on Thorwood Hill was thirty miles off, I think. Margaret," said Dora, turning to her sister.
"Yes," she replied; "but then it could only be seen as a little speck on a clear day."
Miss Cunningham went to the window. "You have no view here," she said.
"No," answered Dora; "it is much pleasanter having it shut in in this way, because it makes it so private."
"But when a house stands high, it is very easy to be private, and yet to have beautiful views between the trees."
"I suppose," said Dora, "that when this house was built, several hundred years ago, people did not think so much about scenery, though, indeed, there is a very nice view from the front. I have heard papa say that it is only modern places which stand high. Rochford Park, I think, is about fifty years old."
"Only the new part; there is one wing which is much older."
"But the new part was built when your family first went there, was it not?"
"Yes; it was built by my grandfather, when he returned from being ambassador to Turkey."
"I think the newest part of Emmerton has been built at least a hundred and fifty years," said Dora; "and the old part—I really cannot say exactly what the age of it is; but the first baron who is buried in the chapel died somewhere about 1470, and his was the elder branch of our family."
"But there is no title in your family now," observed Miss Cunningham.
"Indeed there is," replied Dora; "Lord Doringford is a cousin of ours."
"Oh! a hundredth cousin, I suppose. Any one may be that; for you know we are all descended from Adam."
"Yes; and of course, that is the reason why people think so much more of a family being an old one, than of a mere title."
Miss Cunningham turned sharply round to Amy.
"Do you live here?" she asked; and at being addressed so unceremoniously, Amy's colour rose, but she tried to answer gently, though she felt a little unwilling to acknowledge that her home was neither a park nor a hall.
"I live about two miles off," she said, "at Emmerton Cottage; but I am here a great deal."
"Oh!" was all the reply; and Amy took up a book, and wished the new visitor had remained at Rochford Park.
"Is not that a very pretty drawing?" said Margaret, finding Dora unwilling to speak again, and feeling very awkward. It was a drawing of Miss Morton's, which she was going to copy.
"Very," replied Miss Cunningham, shortly. "My style is flowers; I learned when I was in Paris, and——"
"But that does not make this drawing pretty or ugly, does it?" interrupted Dora, with a curl of the lip which portended a storm.
Miss Cunningham stared at her, and then went on with her sentence: "And my master told papa that my copies were almost equal to the original."
"I should like to see them very much," said Margaret, wishing as usual to conciliate her last acquaintance. "Will you bring them over to show us some day?"
Dora held up a lovely rose, almost the last of the season. "Look," she said; "who would not rather have that than the most beautiful drawing that ever could be made of it?"
No notice was taken of the question; for by this time Miss Cunningham felt that she was no match for Dora in anything but pretension; and her only resource was indifference. She therefore went on talking to Margaret, who proved herself a willing listener. Drawings, music, lessons, dress, all were mentioned in turn; and Margaret patiently bore the perpetual repetition of "I think this," and "I do that," as she looked at Miss Cunningham's sandy hair and freckled complexion, and felt that in one thing, at least, there could be no comparison between them. Amy for some time stood by, one moment casting a wistful look at her book, and wishing that it were not rude to read, or that she might carry it off to Miss Morton's room, and the next feeling a strong inclination to laugh, as she listened to what was passing. She had never heard anything of the kind before; for Dora did not boast except when she wished to rival some one, and Amy was far too humble to enter into competition with her in anything.
At length, even the delightful subject of self seemed to be exhausted. The visitor paused; and Margaret looking at the time-piece, and remarking that it wanted nearly an hour to dinner, proposed that they should go into the garden.
"Is there anything to be seen there?" asked Miss Cunningham.
"Nothing thatyouwill admire," replied Dora, sarcastically.
But the emphasis on theyouwas quite lost. From her childhood, Miss Cunningham could never be made to understand what was not expressed in plain words.
"I suppose," she said, rather condescendingly, "you think we have such a beautiful place at the Park, that I shall not care about this."
"Oh no!" answered Dora, "such an idea never entered my head; for it struck me when I was there the other day, that it was so like all the other gentlemen's seats I have ever seen, that you would be quite glad to look at something different. There is hardly such another place as Emmerton, I believe, in England."
The meaning of this was certainly quite evident, but Miss Cunningham was not quick at a retort; she could only stare, as she usually did when she had not words at command, and ask Margaret to show her the way into the garden. Dora begged to be excused accompanying them, and Amy would willingly have done the same, but for the fear of appearing rude; and even in such trifles she had learned already to consult the feelings of others.
The morning was so lovely, uniting almost the warmth of summer with the freshness of autumn, that the mere sensation of being in the open air was enjoyable; and it was fortunate for Amy that it was so, as neither of her companions paid any attention to her. Margaret led the way through the winding walks in the shrubbery, and along the terrace, and by the side of the lake; pointing out the different objects which were to be seen, expressing herself extremely delighted at having Miss Cunningham with her, and hoping that they should meet very often, for really there were no people living near Emmerton, and it was dreadfully dull after Wayland; forgetting that only the day before, in one of her fits of extreme affection, she had told Amy they did not regret Wayland in the least, for that being with her made up for everything. Amy, however, did not forget; and it made her doubt, as she had often been inclined to do before, whether her cousin was not sometimes insincere. It was quite possible that Margaret might find Emmerton dull, and there was no harm in her saying so, but there was no occasion to make kind speeches if she did not mean them; and almost involuntarily she turned away, and walked a few paces behind by herself. Miss Cunningham looked at everything that was pointed out, and once or twice said it was pretty; but the chief charm of all consisted in its being like something else which was more beautiful at Rochford Park. The trees were taller, the lake was clearer, the walks were broader, and Amy, as she listened, sometimes forgot her annoyance in amusement, though Margaret's words continually reminded her of it again; and by the time they had gone over the pleasure-grounds, she thought that her society would not have been missed if she had remained in the house. Suddenly, however, as they seated themselves on a bench by the side of the lake, Margaret seemed to recollect that her cousin was present; and, with a half-suppressed yawn, asked her if she could think of anything else they could do before dinner. It was evident that she was tired of her company, and Amy ransacked her brain to discover something else which might be seen.
"I think we have gone over everything except the chapel," she said.
"Oh yes! the chapel," exclaimed Margaret, "that will just do, I am sureMiss Cunningham would like to see it."
"I don't know, indeed," was the reply. "Is it far? I am dreadfully tired."
"It is a part of the house," said Amy, "and you know we must get home. This is the shortest way to it, Margaret," she continued, pointing to a dark overgrown walk; "you know it leads over the wooden bridge to the private garden, without our being obliged to go to the front of the house."
"The shortest way is the best," muttered Miss Cunningham; "I hate being walked to death."
Amy thought it would have been more civil to have kept her remarks to herself; but she supposed the observation was not intended to be heard, and they went on, Miss Cunningham complaining the whole way either of the narrowness of the path, or the inconvenience of the briars, or the heat of the sun, and making both Margaret and Amy very much repent having her with them.
The walk, however, did at last come to an end; and as they turned a sharp angle of the building, and came suddenly upon the chapel, with its gray buttresses half covered with ivy, standing out upon a smooth square of velvet turf, and concealed from the pleasure-ground by a thick shrubbery and one or two splendid chestnut trees, Amy forgot how unlike her companions were to herself, and involuntarily exclaimed, "Is it not beautiful!"
"How odd!" said Miss Cunningham; "why, it is a church."
"It is very gloomy," observed Margaret; "I don't often come here."
"Not gloomy," said Amy, "only grave."
"Well! grave or gloomy, it is all the same. I wish, Amy, you would learn not to take up one's words so. And now we are come here, I don't think we can get in. You should have remembered that this door is always locked; do run into the house, and ask Bridget for the key, and we will wait here."
Amy instantly did as she was desired, but had not gone ten yards before she returned. "You know, Margaret," she said, "that I cannot see Bridget, because I must not go amongst the servants. I never have been since the first night you came, when my aunt was so angry with me."
"But," replied Margaret, "mamma is engaged with Lord Rochford now; you will be sure not to meet her."
"It is not the meeting her, but the doing what she would not like, that I am afraid of; but it will do, perhaps, if I ring the bell in the schoolroom, and then I can ask for it."
"Yes; only run off and be quick, for we have not much time to spare."
And in a moment Amy disappeared; and with the best speed she could make, found her way to the schoolroom, and seizing the bell-rope, without remembering how easily it rang, gave it such a pull that the sound was heard through the whole house. The last tone had but just died away when another was heard, to Amy's ear much more awful. It was her aunt's harsh voice in the passage, exclaiming against such a noise being made, and declaring that Dora or Margaret, whichever it was, should be severely reprimanded. Poor Amy actually trembled, and stood with the bell-rope in her hand, unable to move, when Mrs Harrington entered.
"What, Amy! Amy Herbert! A most extraordinary liberty, I must say! I must beg you to recollect that you are not at home. Pray, did any one give you permission to ring?"
Amy could hardly say "yes," because it was her own proposition; but she stammered out "that Margaret wanted the key of the chapel, and she did not like to go amongst the servants, for fear of displeasing her aunt."
"Then Margaret should have come herself to ask for what she wants; I will have no one but my own family ringing the bell and giving orders in my house. And such a noise!" continued Mrs Harrington, her anger increasing as she remembered how her nerves had been affected by the loud peal.
Amy could only look humble and distressed; and, forgetting the key and everything but her desire to escape from her aunt, she moved as quickly towards the door as she dared. But she had scarcely reached it when a second fright awaited her—a grasp, which seemed almost like that of a giant, stopped her, and the quick, good-humoured voice of a stranger exclaimed, "Why, what's the matter? Who have we got here—a third daughter, Mrs Harrington?"
Amy ventured to look in the face of the speaker, and felt reassured by the kind, open countenance that met her view. She guessed in an instant it must be Lord Rochford.
"Not a daughter," replied Mrs Harrington, in a constrained voice; "MrHarrington's niece, Amy Herbert."
"Ah! well," said Lord Rochford, "it is very nearly a daughter, though. Then this must be the child of my friend Harrington's second sister, Ellen. I could almost have guessed it from the likeness; those black eyes are the very image of her mother's. And what has become of the colonel? any news of him lately?"
Mrs Harrington shook her head.
"Sad, sad, very sad," muttered Lord Rochford to himself; "and the mother, too, so ill, I hear." Then, seeing a tear glistening in Amy's eye, he paused, patted her kindly on the shoulder, and told her he was sure she was a great pet at home, and he should be glad to see her at Rochford Park; "and Lucy will like to see you, too," he continued. "She never meets any one but grown-up people from year's end to year's end. By the by, Mrs Harrington, I dare say Mrs Herbert would be very willing to enter into the plan you and I were talking of just now. I wish some day you would mention it."
"You forget," replied Mrs Harrington, trying to look gracious, "that I said it was quite out of the question at present."
"Oh no! not at all. But, begging your pardon, I never knew a lady yet who was not willing to change her mind when she had a fair excuse given her."
"You may not have met with any one before," said Mrs Harrington, in her haughtiest manner, "but I must assure you, you have met with one now.—What do you want?" she added, for the first time perceiving the footman, who had answered the bell. "Amy, you rang; Jolliffe waits for your orders."
Amy's neck and cheeks in an instant became crimson; but she managed to say, though in a voice scarcely audible, that she wanted the key of the chapel.
"Tell Bridget to send it instantly," said Mrs Harrington; and she did not notice Amy again till the key was brought, when, putting it into her hands without a word, she motioned her to the door. And Amy, enchanted at having at last escaped, returned to her cousin even more quickly than she had left her. "Oh Margaret!" was her exclamation, as she ran up, holding the key in her hand, "here it is; but I have got into a dreadful scrape by ringing the bell, and I don't know what I shall do; my aunt will never forgive me."
"Nonsense," replied Margaret, in a really kind manner; "it is only just for the moment; mamma will soon forget it. You have nothing to do but to keep out of her way for some time."
"I am sure she won't," replied Amy; "she looked so angry, and called meAmy Herbert."
"But your name is Herbert, is it not?" said Miss Cunningham, with a stare.
"Don't you know what Amy means?" asked Margaret, laughing; "people never tack on surnames to Christian names till they are so angry they don't know what else to do. But don't make yourself unhappy, Amy; I know mamma better than you do; she soon forgets—just let me know what she said."
The story was soon told, and Amy's mind considerably eased by her cousin's assurance that she had got into a hundred such scrapes in her life; though there still remained such a recollection of her alarm, that even the quiet beauty of the chapel could not entirely soothe her. Miss Cunningham looked round with curiosity, but with a total want of interest; and Margaret laughed, and said it was a gloomy old place, and then called to her companions to observe the strange little figures which were carved on an ancient monument near the altar, declaring they were the most absurd things she had ever seen. But she could only induce Miss Cunningham to join in the merriment; Amy just smiled, and said, in rather a subdued voice, that they were odd, and she had often wondered at them before.
"What is the matter, Amy?" asked Margaret. "Why don't you speak out; and why are you so grave!"
"I don't quite know," answered Amy, trying to raise her voice; "but I never can laugh or speak loud in a church."
"And why not?" said Miss Cunningham, who had been patting one of the figures with her parasol, and calling it a "little wretch."
"Because," replied Amy, "it is a place where people come to say their prayers and read their Bibles."
"Well! and so they say their prayers and read their Bibles in their bedrooms," observed Margaret; "and yet you would not mind laughing there."
Amy thought for a moment, and then said, "You know bedrooms are never consecrated."
"Consecrated!" repeated Miss Cunningham, her eyes opening to their fullest extent; "What has that to do with it?"
"I don't know that I can quite tell," replied Amy; "but I believe it means making places like Sundays."
"I wish you would talk sense," said Miss Cunningham, sharply; "I can't understand a word you say."
"I know what I mean myself, though I cannot explain it. On Sunday people never work, or ride about, or read the same books as they do on other days—at least mamma never lets me do it; and she makes me say my Catechism, and other things like it—hymns, I mean, and collects."
"That may be your fashion on a Sunday, but it is not mine," said Miss Cunningham. "I used to say my Catechism once a month before I was confirmed, to get it perfect; but since then I have never thought about it."
"Have you been confirmed?" asked Margaret and Amy, in one breath.
"Yes, to be sure. I am quite old enough; I was fifteen last month."
"Then you must feel quite grown up now," said Amy.
"Grown up! why should I? I shall not do that till I come out in London."
"Shall you not?" said Amy, gravely. "I think I should feel quite grown up if I were confirmed."
"I never heard any one yet call a girl only just fifteen grown up," observed Margaret.
"It is not what I should be called, but what I should feel," replied Amy. "People, when they are confirmed, are allowed to do things that they must not before." And as she said this, she walked away, as if afraid of being obliged to explain herself more, and went to the lower end of the chapel to look at her favourite monument of the first baron of Emmerton.
"I never knew any one with such odd notions as Amy," said Margaret, when her cousin was gone. "I never can make out how old she is. Sometimes she seems so much younger than we are, and then again she gets into a grave mood, and talks just as if she were twenty."
"But it is very easy to ask her her age, is it not?" asked the matter-of-fact Miss Cunningham.
"Do you always think persons just the age they call themselves?" saidMargaret, laughing.
"Yes, of course, I do, every one, that is except one of my aunts, who always tells me she is seven-and-twenty, when mamma knows she is five-and-thirty."
"What I mean," said Margaret, "is, that all persons appear different at different times."
"They don't to me," answered Miss Cunningham, shortly. "If I am told a girl is fourteen, I believe her to be fourteen; and if I am told she is twelve, I believe she is twelve. Your cousin is twelve, is she not?"
Margaret saw it was useless to discuss the subject any more; and, calling to Amy that they should be late for dinner if they stayed any longer, hastened out of the chapel. Amy lingered behind, with the uncomfortable feeling of having something disagreeable associated with a place which once had brought before her nothing but what was delightful. Margaret and Miss Cunningham had seemed perfectly indifferent to what she thought so solemn; and although quite aware that their carelessness did not at all take away from the real sacredness of the chapel, yet it was something new and startling to find that it was possible for persons to enter a place peculiarly dedicated to the service of God without any greater awe than they would have felt in their own homes.
If Amy had lived longer and seen more of the world, she would have known that, unhappily, such thoughtlessness is so common as not to be remarkable; but she had passed her life with those who thought very differently; and the first appearance of irreverence was as painful as it was unexpected.
The thought of being probably obliged again to meet Mrs Harrington, soon made Amy forget her painful feelings in the chapel; and during the whole of dinner her eye turned anxiously to the door, and her ear caught every sound in the passage, in the dread lest her aunt should enter; and she ate what was placed before her almost unconsciously, without attending to anything that was said.
Miss Morton was the only person who remarked this; and she had a sufficient opportunity, for no notice was taken of her. She was not introduced to Miss Cunningham; but the young lady cast many curious glances at her as she came into the room, and then a whispered conversation followed between her and Margaret, quite loud enough to be heard. She was described as "the person who teaches us music and drawing," and her birth, parentage, and education were given. And when Miss Cunningham's curiosity was satisfied, she condescended to look at her attentively for nearly a minute, and then appeared entirely to forget that such a being was in existence. Miss Morton bore this gaze without shrinking. There was not a flush on her delicate cheek, or the slightest curl of anger about her gentle mouth; and all that showed she was aware of what was said was the momentary glistening of her eye as she caught the words—"Oh! she is an orphan, is she?" and then Margaret's reply—"Yes; she lost her father and mother both in one month." Amy would have felt very indignant, if she had remarked it, but at that moment she could attend to nothing but the door; and Dora, whose proud, sulky mood had not yet passed away, sat by the window, and did not speak.
The dinner was very dull. Miss Cunningham professed herself so tired with her walk that she could not eat; and looking at everything that was offered her, said "she would try it, but really she had such a delicate appetite she could seldom touch anything;" helping herself, at the same time, to two very good-sized cutlets as a commencement, and finishing with the last piece of apple-tart in the dish near her. Rose fixed her eyes steadily upon her, as she transferred the remains of the tart to her plate; and then turning to Miss Morton, whose seat was always next to hers, said almost aloud, "Why does she not ask first!" Miss Morton looked as grave as she could, and tried to stop her; but although Miss Cunningham heard, it did not at all follow that she understood; and the child's question had no more effect upon her than if it had been put in private.
"Would you let me go with you to your room?" said Amy to Miss Morton, as soon as dinner was over. "I am afraid aunt Harrington will be here presently; and I have got into such a scrape with her."
"But supposing," replied Emily, "that I should think it best for you to stay, what will you do then?"
"Oh! of course," said Amy, "I should do as you thought right; but if you would let me go and tell you all about it, I should be so glad; and I will promise to come back again if you say I ought."
"Well!" replied Emily, "if we make that agreement I shall not care; and we will let Rose and her doll stay behind."
Miss Morton's room was becoming to Amy's feelings almost as delightful as the chapel. It was not often that she was admitted there, but whenever she was, her curiosity and interest were greatly excited. There were, in fact, two rooms, a small ante-room and a rather large bedroom; and they would probably have been considered too good to be appropriated to Miss Morton's use, if it had not been that Rose always shared the same apartment. Emily's taste was so good, that wherever she went, some traces of it appeared; and when Amy first saw these rooms after her uncle's arrival, she scarcely recognised them to be the same which she had before known only as desolate lumber-rooms. Not that there were any symptoms of luxury about them, for there was no furniture beyond what was absolutely required; but there were books and work on the table, pictures on the walls, and flowers in the windows; and to all these Amy guessed some history was attached, for the pictures she had been told were of Emily's friends and relations, and the books had been given her by those she was now parted from, perhaps for ever in this world; and the flowers seemed to possess a value beyond anything they could derive from their own beauty, for they were cherished almost as living beings. Once or twice lately Miss Morton had related to Amy some of the stories relating to these things, and this naturally increased her desire to hear more; but on the present occasion she thought of nothing but the relief of escaping from her aunt; and telling Emily, in a few words, what had occurred, she begged not to be sent back again.
Miss Morton thought for a moment, and then replied, "I am afraid, my dear, that I must be very hard-hearted and say, no. Mrs Harrington is much more likely to be displeased, if she thinks you have hidden yourself. You know you must see her again, and then you will still have the same fear, and you will not be comfortable even at home, unless the meeting is over, but if you face it now, and tell her, if she should say anything, that you are sorry she has been displeased, and ask her to forgive you, you will return home happy. We never lessen our difficulties by putting off the evil day."
"But," replied Amy, "Margaret says she will forget."
"I think your cousin is wrong," answered Miss Morton. "Some things Mrs Harrington does forget, but not what she considers liberties; besides, is it not much better to have our faults forgiven and forgotten?"
"But I don't think I did anything wrong," said Amy.
"No," replied Miss Morton, "it was not wrong in itself; it was only wrong because it was against your aunt's wishes. She is very particular indeed about some things; and this, of ringing the bell and giving orders, is one."
"I can't say I am sorry if I am not," said Amy; "and if I have not done anything wrong, how can I be so?"
"You may be sorry for having vexed your aunt, though it was unintentionally; and this is all I wish you to say."
Amy looked very unhappy. "I wish I had not gone away," she said; "it will be much worse going back again if she is there."
"Yes," replied Miss Morton, "I can quite understand that; but whether it be easy or difficult it does not make any difference in its being right; and I think," she added, as she put her arm affectionately round Amy's waist and kissed her for the first time, "I think there is some one you love very dearly who would say the same."
Perhaps no kiss that Amy had ever before received had been so valuable as this. At the moment it seemed as if she had power to do anything that Miss Morton thought right, and she walked to the door with a firm step. Then once more her resolution failed, and as she stood with the handle in her hand she said, "Do you think my aunt will be there?"
"I do not think about it," replied Miss Morton; "but if you delay, your courage will be quite gone. You will not shrink from doing what is right, will you?"
Amy waited no longer, but with a desperate effort ran down the turret stairs and along the passage, and opened the school-room door without giving herself time to remember what she was about to encounter.
The dessert still remained, but Dora and Margaret were standing at the round table in the oriel window, exhibiting their drawings to Lord Rochford, and Mr and Mrs Harrington were talking together apart. Amy's first impulse was to screen herself from sight; but she remembered Miss Morton's words, and resolving to meet the trial, at once walked up to the table.
"Ah!" said Lord Rochford, as he perceived her, "here is my little runaway friend, whom I have been looking for for some minutes. I am sure there must be some drawings of hers to be seen too."
Mrs Harrington turned round. "Get your drawings, Amy," she said in her coldest manner. Amy willingly obeyed, thinking anything preferable to standing still and doing nothing.
"Very pretty, very pretty, indeed!" exclaimed Lord Rochford, looking at them; "artist-like decidedly; very good that is." And he pointed to one which Amy knew was the worst of all, and which only struck his eye because the shadows were darker and the lights brighter than the rest.
"Has Amy been doing anything wrong?" said Mr Harrington, in a low voice to his wife. "She seems so frightened, yet she always strikes me as being very obedient; and those drawings of hers are admirable."
"She would do very well." answered Mrs Harrington, "if she would but be as attentive to her general conduct as she is to her accomplishments."
"Oh! careless, I suppose," said Mr Harrington. "It is not to be wondered at in such a young thing."
"I can never think any age an excuse for an impertinent liberty," was her reply.
"Amy impertinent! it is quite impossible. Come here, my dear, and tell me what you have been doing."
A cloud gathered on Mrs Harrington's brow; but Amy felt reassured by her uncle's kind manner, and answered as audibly as she could, "I rang the bell, uncle."
Mr Harrington laughed heartily, and Mrs Harrington looked still more annoyed.
"This is not the place to talk about it," she said, quickly. "Amy knows very well that I had full reason to be displeased, but of course she is too proud to own it."
"Oh no, indeed I am not!" exclaimed Amy. "I did not know I was wrong, aunt; but I am very sorry for having vexed you."
"There," said Mr Harrington, "you cannot wish for anything more; she is very sorry, and will not do it again. And now, Charlotte, you must be very sorry and forgive."
Amy felt as if she hardly liked to be forgiven, when she did not think she was in fault; but again she recollected what Miss Morton had said,—that she was to be sorry, not for having been guilty of a fault, but for having annoyed her aunt; and she checked the feeling of pride, and listened patiently and humbly, while Mrs Harrington gave her a tolerably long lecture on the impropriety of taking the same liberties at Emmerton that she would at the cottage, and ended by saying that she hoped, as she grew older, she would know her position better. After which, bestowing upon her a cold, unwilling kiss, she promised that she would try and forget what had passed.
Mr Harrington walked away as the lecture began; disliking so much being said before his visitor, who, he saw, observed what was going on.
Lord Rochford's pity had, indeed, been somewhat excited, and he said good-naturedly, as Amy came up to the table again—"Well! I hope it is right now. I suspected you were not in such a hurry for nothing; but 'all's well that ends well,' you know. I hate scrapes, and always did,—never let Lucy get into any, do I, darling?"
Miss Cunningham either did not hear, or did not think it worth while to answer; taking advantage of her father's principle that she was never to get into scrapes, she always treated him in the most unceremonious manner possible.
"I don't think you and Mrs Harrington would quite agree upon that subject," observed Mr Harrington; "her principle is that storms bring peace."
"Not mine, not mine," said Lord Rochford. "There is nothing in the world that I love like peace; so now, Mrs Harrington, we will be of the same mind about your visit to the Park. You shall come next week, and bring all the young ones, my little friend here included."
"You must excuse my deciding immediately," replied Mrs Harrington; "and I have great doubts whether going about and seeing people is at all good for my niece; even being here upsets her mind."
Poor Amy looked very blank, for it had long been one of her chief wishes to see Rochford Park.
"You must not be out of temper about it," said Mrs Harrington, as she remarked her disappointed countenance; "only try and be more attentive, and then you will be sure to be rewarded."
"I shall not let you off, though, so easily," continued Lord Rochford. "I have set my heart upon your coming, and I must have you all; no exception for good temper or bad. Come, Harrington, interpose your authority."
"I will promise to use my influence," answered Mr Harrington; "and with that you must be satisfied."
Lord Rochford declared he was not at all, but that he had no time to argue the matter, for the carriage had been at the door at least a quarter of an hour, so he should consider the thing as settled.
The parting between Margaret and Miss Cunningham was very affectionate; and Amy, as she looked on, wondered how so much love could have been inspired in so short a time, and felt it quite a relief that Dora was contented with a cold shake of the hand, since it allowed her to follow her example without being particular. To have kissed Miss Cunningham would have been almost as disagreeable as to be kissed by her aunt when she was angry.
"That is the most unpleasant girl I ever saw," exclaimed Dora, when she was left alone with Amy, Margaret having followed Miss Cunningham to the carriage. "A proud, conceited, forward thing, who thinks she may give herself any airs she pleases. Now, Amy, don't look grave; I know you can't endure her."
"I don't like her," said Amy.
"Not like her! You hate her, I am sure you do,—you must."
"I hope not," replied Amy, laughing. "I never hated any one yet."
"Then I am sorry for you," said Dora. "No one can be a good lover who is not a good hater. I would rather have any thing than lukewarmness."
"So would I," replied Amy. "I hope I am not lukewarm; and I am sure I can love some people very dearly,—yes, more than I could ever tell," she added, as she thought of her mamma. "But I don't know whether I could hate; I never met with any one yet to try upon."
"You can't have a better subject than that odious Miss Cunningham. I could not think of her sandy hair, and her ugly unmeaning eyes, for two minutes, without feeling that I hated her."
"Please don't say so, Dora," said Amy, earnestly, "it makes me so sorry."
"Does it? I don't see why you should care what I say; it can make no difference to you."
"Oh yes, but indeed it does, for I think it is not right. I don't mean to vex you," continued Amy, seeing the expression of her cousin's countenance change. "I know you are older than I am, and perhaps I ought not to say it, only I could not help being sorry."
"I am not vexed," said Dora; "but it cannot signify to you whether I am right or wrong. It would be different if it were yourself."
"If it were myself," replied Amy, "I could be sorry for myself, and try not to do wrong any more; but I cannot make you sorry, and so it seems almost worse."
"Make me sorry!" exclaimed Dora, in a tone of surprise. "Of course you can't; but why should you wish it?"
"I always wish every one to be sorry when they do wrong, because, you know, no one is forgiven till they are."
"But supposing they don't think it wrong, you would not have them be sorry then, would you? I see no harm in hating Miss Cunningham."
"It may be wrong," replied Amy, "though you don't think so,"
"Who is to judge?" asked Dora.
Amy was silent for a moment, and then said. "Would you let me show you a verse in the Bible, Dora, about it? Mamma made me read it one day when I said I hated some one, though I know I did not really do it, and I have never forgotten it."
"Well, let me see it," said Dora, almost sulkily. Amy took a Bible from the book-case, and pointed to the fifteenth verse of the third chapter of St John's first epistle:—"Whosoever hateth his brother is a murderer: and ye know that no murderer hath eternal life abiding in him." "Oh!" exclaimed Dora, when she had read it, "that is so shocking. Of course, when I talk about hating, I don't mean such hatred as that."
"So I said," replied Amy; "and then mamma told me that if I did not mean it, I ought not to say it; and that the very fact of my using such expressions showed that I had a great dislike, which I ought not to indulge; and then she made me read a great many more verses in this epistle, about its being our duty to love people. But, Dora, I don't mean to teach you anything, for I am sure you must know it all a great deal better than I do; only I wanted to tell you what mamma said to me."
Amy would probably have been very much surprised if she had known the feelings which passed through her cousin's mind as she spoke. It had never entered her head that she could give advice or instruction; and yet, perhaps, no words from an older person could have had half the effect of hers. Dora, however, was not in the habit of showing what she felt, and Amy was too simple to guess it, even when the exclamation escaped her, "I would give all I am worth to have lived with Aunt Herbert and you all my life, Amy."
"Oh no!" exclaimed Amy, "you cannot be serious. Think of this house, and the beautiful grounds, and Wayland too, where you used to be so happy; you never would bear to live in a cottage."
"I think sometimes it makes no difference where people live," answered Dora. "I don't think I am at all happier for papa's having a fine house."
Amy thought of what Susan Reynolds had said, "that eating, and drinking, and fine clothes, did not make people happy;" and it seemed strange that two persons so differently situated should have thought so much alike; but she had not time to talk any longer to Dora, for the evening was closing in, and she was obliged to return home, and, as she thought, without any attendant except the man servant who usually took charge of her. But just as she was settling herself upon her donkey, Bridget appeared at the hall door with a request that Miss Herbert would be so very kind as to wait one moment longer, for Stephen had been in just before, to know if any of the ladies were going back with her, for he wished very much to walk a little way if he might be allowed. "He is only gone up to the stable, Miss," added Bridget, "if it is not too much trouble for you to stop. I can't think what made him go away."
"Never mind," said Amy, "it is never any trouble to wait for Stephen; but it will not be long now—that must be he coming down the chestnut walk."
Stephen's hobbling pace was exchanged for a species of trot, as he perceived Amy already mounted; and he came up to her with a thousand apologies for the delay. "But you know, Miss Amy, 'tis not very often I can see you now, so I thought I would make bold for once. And please to tell me now how your mamma is, for she doesn't come here as she used; and the folks in the village say she's getting as white as a sheet."
"I don't think mamma is as well or as strong as she used to be, Stephen," replied Amy; "but she does not complain much, only she soon gets tired."
"Oh!" said Stephen, shaking his head, "India, India,—'tis all India, Miss Amy. Why English people shouldn't be contented to stay on English ground is more than I can guess. A nice, comfortable cottage in a good pasture country, such as this, with a few ups and downs in it to make a variety, is all I should ever wish to have. I want nothing that's to be got from foreign parts; for it's always been my maxim that one penny in England is worth twenty out of it."
"But," replied Amy, "some people are obliged to go, Stephen. I am sure papa would not have done it if he could have helped it."
"Help or no help, 'tis what I can't understand," said Stephen. "Not that I mean any disrespect to the colonel, Miss Amy, but it grieves me to hear the people talk about your poor mamma's pale face."
"I don't think she looks so very pale," said Amy, feeling uncomfortable, and yet hardly owning it to herself.
"The dwellers in the same house are not those to see the change," replied the old man; "but I don't mean to be vexing your young heart before its time. Sorrow comes soon enough to all; and," he added, reverently, "He who sends it will send His strength with it."
"That is what mamma says," answered Amy. "She is always begging me not to look forward; but I do long to do it very often; and she would be so happy if she could be sure when papa would come back."
"Look, Miss Amy," said Stephen, gathering a daisy from the grass, "do you see that? Now, you might try, and so might I, and so might all the great folks that ever lived,—we might all try all our lives, and we never could make such a thing as that; and yet, you know, 'tis but a tiny flower that nobody thinks about; and sometimes, when I get wishing that things were different, I take up a daisy and look at it, till it seems most wonderful how it should be made, and how it should live; and then it comes into my head how many millions there are like it, and how many plants, and trees, and insects, and animals, and living souls too, and that God made them all,—all that are here, and all that are up above (for I suppose there is no harm in thinking that there may be such); and so at last, do you see, I don't onlyknow, but I canfeel, that He is wise; and my heart gets quite light again, for I am sure that He knows what is best; and as He has not told us what is to come, 'tis but folly to wish about it."
"Well! Stephen," said Amy, "I really will try; but it is very hard sometimes."
"Ah! yes," replied Stephen, "we all have something hard, Miss Amy; young or old, there is always something. 'Twas hard for me when the master went away and left the old house to itself, as you may say; and there are some things that are hard now."
"What things?" asked Amy, as she almost stopped her donkey, and looked eagerly into the old steward's face. "I thought you never would be unhappy again when uncle Harrington came back."
"'Tis he, and 'tisn't he, that's come," replied Stephen. "There's a change; but 'twas the foolishness of an old man's heart to think that it wouldn't be so."
"But what is changed?" said Amy,
"Everything!" exclaimed Stephen; "the master, and madam, and the young ladies, and all; only Mrs Bridget isn't a bit different."
"Oh, but Stephen, you know my cousins were so young when they went away—of course they are altered."
"To be sure, Miss Amy, I wasn't so foolish as not to expect that; but I did hope that the young ladies wouldn't be above coming to see one, and talking a bit; and that the young gentleman (God bless him and keep him, for he's the only one) would have been here, and that, perhaps, they would have wanted a little teaching about the ponies. I had two of the little Welsh ones brought in from the hills on purpose, and took a pleasure in training them, but no one comes near me to look at them."
"If you would only mention it," said Amy, "I am sure my cousins would be delighted."
"No," replied Stephen, "it's not in my way to put myself forward so, for those who don't care to ask after me. If they had come down to the cottage, and said a word to me or little Nelly, and then noticed that the ponies were about there (for I keep them in the field), 'twould have been all very well, and natural like; but I shall say nothing about it now; only if master should inquire after any, he can have them. And master Frank, too—'twill never be like the old times till there is a young gentleman about the place."
"Frank is expected at Christmas," said Amy; "he went to stay with his uncle, Sir Henry Charlton, after poor Edward died, because it was a change for him; and he was so wretched; and since then he has been at school."
"I'm growing old, Miss Amy," answered Stephen, "and Christmas is a long time to look forward to. I don't mean to complain, only 'twould have been a comfort to have seen him here with the rest, and perhaps have kept me from thinking so much about him that's gone: but it's all right; and," he added, more earnestly, as he brushed his hand hastily across his eyes, "I would not have him back again,—no, not if I could see him a king upon his throne."
"And does no one ever go to visit you, Stephen?" asked Amy, rather sadly.
"Yes," he replied, "the young lady, Miss Morton, comes very often; and though she is not one of the family, yet it does one good to see her, and talk to her; and then, too, she brings the little one with her; and sure enough she's the sweetest little cherub that ever was born."
"What, Rose?" said Amy. "Is she not a darling little thing?"
"I never saw but one before that I thought I could like better," said Stephen, laying his hard sun-burnt hand on Amy's tiny fingers; "and that one, I hope, God will bless, and keep for many a long day. But I must not go on farther, for you don't get on so fast when I am walking with you."
Amy pressed the old man's hand affectionately, begging him to come on only a little way, for she hardly ever saw him now.
But Stephen was firm. He had gone to his usual point, a splendid oak, commonly called the Baron's tree, from a tradition that it had been planted when Emmerton was built; and it seemed almost as if a charm would be broken if he went further. Amy stopped, and watched him till he was out of sight, and then pursued her ride through the forest with a sadder heart than she had begun it.
"You are late to-night, my love," said Mrs Herbert, as her little girl dismounted from her donkey; "you forget that the days are beginning to close in; and what makes you look so unhappy?"
"Oh! not much, mamma; only please don't stand here in the cold."
"You are so very suddenly careful of me," replied Mrs Herbert, smiling; "is this the last thing you learned at the Hall?"
"No," answered Amy; "only Stephen says you look pale, and all the village people say so too; but I don't think you are so now."
"I am much better to-night, my dear child," said Mrs Herbert. "You must not listen to what every one says, and get frightened without reason."
Amy's spirits were revived in a moment, and she ran gaily into the cottage, and in a very short time was seated by the fireside with her mamma, recounting the incidents of the day; Miss Cunningham, and her behaviour, her aunt's anger, and her own conversations with Dora and old Stephen, furnishing quite sufficient materials for a long story. "There were one or two things that my aunt told me, which I could not quite understand," she said, after having repeated a great portion of the lecture she had received. "What did she mean, mamma, by my knowing my position, and speaking of me as if I were not one of the family? I am her niece."
"Yes," replied Mrs Herbert; "but people think differently about their families. Some persons consider that every one who is any relation at all forms one of the family, and others only call those so who are their own children."
"But my position," repeated Amy; "why is my position different from my cousins? You are a lady, and papa is a gentleman."
"Compare this cottage with Emmerton," replied Mrs Herbert, "and then you will see the difference, and why people in general would think more of your cousins than of you."
A sudden pang shot through Amy's heart. "Dear mamma!" she exclaimed, "I wish you would not say so."
"Why not, my dear? why must not that be said which is true?"
"It makes me uncomfortable," said Amy, "and wicked too, I am afraid. If papa were to come home, should we be able to live in a larger house?"
"I do not know," answered her mother; "but if we could, I do not think we should wish it."
"Ah! mamma, that is because you are so much better than I am. I never used to think so till I saw my cousins at Emmerton; but I should like very much to live in a place like that."
Mrs Herbert looked grave, yet she felt thankful that her child spoke openly of her feelings, as it enabled her so much better to guide them.
"It is not only the house that I should enjoy," continued Amy, "but I think people would love me better. Margaret did not seem to think anything of me when Miss Cunningham was by; and when Lord Rochford and my uncle came in, I thought every one had more business there than I had. It was very kind in him to look at my drawings, but still I felt nobody by the side of Dora and Margaret."
The conversation was here stopped by the entrance of Mr Walton, who often came in at this time of the evening, on his return from his visits in the parish. Amy was only half pleased to see him, for she would willingly have talked much longer to her mamma alone; but her mind was partly relieved by the confession she had made of her foolish wishes; and Mrs Herbert's countenance brightened so much at the sight of him, that she was soon reconciled to the interruption.
Mr Walton brought as usual several tales of distress and difficulty, which Mrs Herbert, notwithstanding her limited income, was always the first to relieve; and Amy, as she listened to the account of a widow with six children, unable to pay her rent, a father on his sick bed, totally unable to provide for his family, and other cases of a similar kind, and then looked round upon the comfortable room in which she was silting, with its bright curtains and carpet, its easy sofas and chairs, and the preparations for tea upon the table, felt grieved and ashamed that she should have allowed a pang of envy to render her for a single moment insensible to her many blessings; and perhaps Mr Walton's parish tales produced a greater effect than even her mother's words could have done, for she went to bed that night far more contented than she had been on her return from the Hall.