Nothing more was said about the proposed visit to Rochford Park on Amy's two following visits to Emmerton; and though her anxiety was great to know if she were to be included in the party, she only ventured once to ask Margaret two or three questions, and then received a short, abrupt answer, that nothing was settled, and that it could not be any concern of hers. The fact was, that Margaret disliked the notice which Lord Rochford had taken of Amy, on the day he had spent at Emmerton; for she had resolved in her own mind that she would be Miss Cunningham's friend and companion, and her fears of a rival were considerably excited. Of this, however, there was no occasion to be afraid. Amy felt not the smallest inclination to be intimate with her new acquaintance; and her only wish for being of the party was, that she might see Rochford Park, which had always been described to her as one of the finest places in England. Mrs Harrington did not appear at all likely to give her any information, for whenever they met, which was but seldom, she only said a few words more hastily and sharply than she had done before, in order to show that she had not quite forgotten Amy's offence; and it was not till the evening previous to the day which was at last fixed for going, that any hope was given her of accompanying them.
"Take this note to your mamma," said Mrs Harrington, coming to the hall-door just as Amy was about to set off; "and if she should say yes to what I have asked, the carriage shall call for you at eleven; if not, you had better come here by yourself, as usual; and you shall go with us to Lord Rochford's; and we will take you home at night, though it will be considerably out of our way."
Amy's gratitude even was subdued in her aunt's presence; but she did manage to say something about being delighted; and then, carefully depositing the precious note in the pocket of her saddle, she made her donkey move at its quickest pace down the road.
Mrs Harrington turned away with the consciousness of having done a disagreeable thing in a disagreeable manner. She had fully determined upon not taking Amy, it would only crowd the carriage; and she did not wish it to be considered a necessary thing, that where her daughters went, her niece should go too; but a note, which she had that morning received from Lord Rochford, expressly mentioning Amy, and adding a hope that Mrs Herbert would be prevailed on to comply with Lady Rochford's wishes, and join the party, left her no choice; and it was happy for Amy that she did not know how very little her aunt desired her presence.
Mrs Harrington's note enclosed Lady Rochford's invitation, which Mrs Herbert decided at once it would be better not to accept for herself; but she did not object to Amy's going, though she feared that if Emmerton in its quietness, and almost solemnity, excited her longings after riches and grandeur, Rochford Park would probably have a still greater effect. Yet, even if this were the case, she trusted that she should be able to check the feeling; and she knew that the same temptations were nearly certain to arise in after-years, when she would not be at hand to put Amy on her guard against them.
Amy's delight was unmeasured. Her aunt's harsh looks, and Miss Cunningham's disagreeable manners, were quite forgotten in the pleasure she anticipated in going to a new place; and long before her usual hour of rising she had been to the window several times to see if the weather promised to be fine. The calm, gray mist of the morning was hardly what she would have desired; but there was a joyousness in her own spirit which made almost everything appear bright, and when at length the sun broke slowly through its veil of clouds, shedding a clear line of light over the distant hills, and then bursting forth in full radiance over the richly-wooded country, and the cheerful village, Amy's heart bounded within her, and again, as she recollected her feelings of envy on her return from Emmerton, she sighed to think that she should have been so ungrateful as to wish for anything beyond the enjoyments which God had given her.
Punctuality was one of the virtues which Mrs Harrington strictly enforced; and Amy almost trembled when she heard the clock strike eleven as she rode up to the lodge. She knew also, that on this point her mamma and aunt entirely agreed; and she had received many injunctions on no account to delay on the road, and so be the means of keeping the carriage waiting—and to have vexed her mother would have been even worse than to have excited Mrs Harrington's anger. Happily, however, there were some last orders to be given, which caused a delay of about five minutes, and Amy had time to dismount, and join her cousins in the schoolroom, before her aunt appeared.
She seemed more inclined to be kind than before; and Amy felt so much reassured by her change of manner, that, although placed in the middle of the back seat, between Dora and Margaret, and having Mrs Harrington's face nearly opposite, she contrived to be extremely happy. It was only necessary to be quite still and silent, to avoid giving offence; and this to her was no punishment.
From being so much alone, she had learned the secret of amusing herself with her own thoughts, and found them far more agreeable than the effort of talking in a constrained way to her cousins. Dora and Margaret willingly followed her example; the former from being rather in a sulky mood, and the latter from finding her attempts at conversation useless. The drive was consequently a quiet, but not a dull one; and the distance appeared very short to Amy, though Dora had yawned at least four times, and at last muttered that she could never think Miss Cunningham was worth coming so far to see.
"I cannot say I want very much to see her either," replied Amy; "only the place,—I would give anything to see that."
"Then look," said Dora, pointing to a long white building on the nearest hill, "there it is, just to your right."
Amy looked eagerly, and fancied she saw something very grand, though only the general outline could be discovered; but as she came nearer, still keeping her eyes fixed upon it, she was quite satisfied that it must be what it had been described—the most splendid nobleman's seat in the county. "Oh!" she exclaimed, jumping up in the carriage; "it is, yes, it really is more beautiful than Emmerton."
"Sit still, pray," said Dora; "you nearly trod upon my foot."
Amy reseated herself, and felt rebuked; but the next moment, as she caught the full front of the house through an opening in the trees, she forgot everything but her admiration, and again began expatiating upon its beauty.
"Look, Dora! is it not lovely? it is so large, so much larger than Emmerton, and then those beautiful pillars, and the broad steps with the figures in front; it is just like a palace."
"A palace!" replied Dora; "what nonsense you talk, only because you have never seen anything else like it. It is a very good gentleman's house; but there are hundreds in England just as fine."
"I beg your pardon," said Mr Harrington; "there are very few places which can in any degree compare with it."
"Wayland was nearly as large, papa," answered Dora, more gently than usual; for her father's mildness had a much greater effect upon her than her mother's sharpness.
Mr Harrington smiled. "Your affection for Wayland," he said, "causes you to magnify it in a strange manner. I suppose it is scarcely more than half the size."
Amy felt rather triumphant, and a little inclined to show it, but she checked herself; and as they had now reached the park gate, a fresh interest was excited in her mind, and she had no inclination to continue the discussion.
If the exterior of the house had appeared imposing at a distance, it lost none of its effect upon a nearer approach; and when, after driving a considerable way through the park, the carriage at length stopped at the side front, Amy's expectations were raised to the highest pitch, though something of fear mingled with her pleasure as she thought of the strangers she should probably see, and wondered whether she knew exactly how it would be proper to behave.
Lord Rochford met them at the door, and expressed great pleasure at their arrival; but Amy felt a little disappointed that he did not say anything in particular to her, as her mamma had told her that he had sent her a special invitation; but Lord Rochford was at that moment too much occupied in doing the honours of his house to Mr and Mrs Harrington, and too anxious to point out the improvements he had made, and hear them pronounced perfect, to think of her.
Poor Amy felt lost and bewildered as they entered the splendid hall, with its painted ceiling, and pillars of Italian marble, and then passed on through long suites of rooms furnished in the most sumptuous manner, some hung with delicate silk, and glittering with gilded cornices and costly ornaments, and others crowded with rare pictures and richly-bound books, while sofas, ottomans, cabinets, and tables of the most exquisite workmanship gave an air of comfort to what would otherwise have appeared only desolate grandeur. It seemed to her like fairyland. Emmerton, and its deep windows, and handsome but sombre furniture, at once sank into insignificance; and she no longer wondered that Miss Cunningham had been little inclined to admire anything there, when she could compare with it the gorgeousness of her own home.
It seemed strange, too, that her uncle and aunt could see it all without apparently noticing it. They walked quickly on, as if only wishing that there were fewer rooms to go through; Dora followed, looking round certainly, but not giving any symptoms of admiration; and Amy found that her feelings were shared by no one excepting Margaret, who, however, was more engaged in spying out what she called "odd things," and peeping into the books which lay on the table, than in anything else.
"I think I must leave you young ones here," said Lord Rochford, opening a door which led into a small hall with French windows fronting the pleasure-ground. "These are Lucy's own rooms; and she and madame will take great care of you, while Mrs Harrington pays a visit to Lady Rochford. I am afraid she is not well enough this morning to receive you all."
Amy wondered for an instant who madame could be; but she was not left long in doubt: for immediately behind Miss Cunningham, who came forward to receive them, appeared her French governess, a tall, thin, inelegant-looking person, with a good-natured, merry face, a dress made in the newest Parisian fashion, and a cap which seemed formed rather for the purpose of receiving a certain quantity of ribbon and artificial flowers, than as any covering to the black wig which it only half concealed. Amy felt very much amused, and would perhaps have smiled, had she not remembered that there was something unfeeling, independent of its being unladylike, in turning a foreigner into ridicule; but Margaret's merriment was almost audible, as madame placed chairs for them, hoped in broken English they were not fatigued with their drive, and then, with a swimming French curtsey, vanished from the room.
"That is your governess, is it?" said Dora, almost before the door was closed, in a tone which plainly spoke her opinion of her.
"Yes," replied Miss Cunningham, "she is the most good-natured creature in the world; and I am so fond of her. She speaks French beautifully."
"Not a first-rate qualification for a native," said Dora.
"Oh! but she paints flowers, too, and sings."
"Sings!" repeated Margaret; "but she is so old."
"Indeed! no, she is not. She sings and plays the guitar; and she is teaching me—papa has just bought me a new one." And Miss Cunningham took up a richly-inlaid instrument, with a long blue ribbon attached to it, and began striking some false notes which she called chords.
"I don't like the guitar," said Dora, "unless it is played beautifully."
"Oh! but madame is quite a superior performer; and she says I have made a wonderful proficiency, considering the few lessons I have had. She practises a great deal, not in this room, for I can't bear the twang, but in the next, which is her own. This is my study, and the little one within I call my boudoir." Here Miss Cunningham looked round, apparently expecting some flattering observation to be made; and of course all eyes were immediately directed to the room and its furniture. Dora's gaze was the most fixed and earnest, and when it was ended, she played with her parasol, and was silent; but Margaret declared that everything she saw was delightful—the chintz furniture such an extremely pretty pattern, the tables so well placed, the piano so very handsome, and the view from the window so lovely—that Amy found there was nothing left for her to say; and feeling a great dislike to merely echoing Margaret's words, she contented herself with expressing what she really thought—"that it looked very pretty and comfortable"—and then amused herself with Margaret's panegyrics. Miss Cunningham probably would have talked long without weariness on this favourite topic; but Dora's patience was soon exhausted; and she at last interrupted a question of Margaret's, which she foresaw would lead to one of Miss Cunningham's long dissertations upon herself and the splendour of her family mansion, by asking whether they were to go out before dinner.
"We dine at four, altogether," replied Miss Cunningham; "so we had better, I suppose." And then, turning to Margaret, she began, as Dora had feared, not merely an answer, but a history. There was no resource but to sit still and endure it; and when at length it ended, to Dora's great relief, Miss Cunningham prepared to show them through the grounds.
Amy soon found that the uncomfortable feelings she had experienced at Emmerton were beginning to return. She almost envied Dora her proud indifference; for though Miss Cunningham took little notice of her, it was quite evident that she did not wish for attention; but Amy could not be happy as one of the party, when no one spoke to her, or even appeared to recollect that she was present. The grounds were very extensive, and something lovely opened at every turn; but she felt neglected, and not all the costly flowers and shrubs in the garden, or the beautiful birds in the aviary, nor even the bright sunshine itself, could make her forget that she was with persons who did not think it worth while to interest themselves about her.
Perhaps the very charm of the place only increased her uneasiness. It was so rich and brilliant, that it seemed more than to realise all she could possibly desire; but there was no hope that her father would ever possess anything like it—it was to be looked upon, but not to be enjoyed; and as she remembered the tale of Aladdin's lamp, she longed that it could be hers but for one moment, that she might raise a palace, not for herself but her mamma, which should be in every respect like Rochford Park. These dreams so absorbed Amy's mind that she paid but little attention to what passed between Margaret and Miss Cunningham; for they were the only two who conversed, Dora being too grand to make any remarks beyond what were absolutely necessary. At length, however, she was struck by Miss Cunningham's exclaiming, in rather a more energetic tone than usual, "Pray, has your mamma mentioned anything to you about the new plan?"
"Plan," repeated Margaret. "No. What do you mean?"
"Oh! the plan about our going to London."
"We can have nothing to do with that," said Margaret.
"Yes, you have; it is your plan as well as ours."
"But what do you mean," continued Margaret; "I never heard a word about it before."
"Why, you know," said Miss Cunningham, "that papa and my brother generally go to town in the spring, and leave mamma, and me, and madame, here, because there is some fancy about its suiting mamma better; and dreadfully dull it is. But now I am growing so old, they think it quite right that I should have some one better to teach me than poor madame; and mamma has promised to let me go to London after Easter, and one of my aunts is to be with me, and I am to see everything, and have lessons in everything."
"But that is no concern of ours," said Margaret; "and Easter is so far off."
"It does concern you, though," replied Miss Cunningham, "for papa has got it into his head that I shall learn much better if I can get some other girls to have lessons with me. He says it will be much more amusing, and I shall like it better; and so be has been trying to persuade your mamma to let you go up too, and then the same masters will do for all."
"Then that is what Lord Rochford meant the other day," said Amy, "when he talked about a plan, and begged aunt Harrington to mention it to mamma."
"Did he wish you to go too?" asked Miss Cunningham.
The words of this question were very simple; but the tone of it showed plainly that the idea was not agreeable; and Amy felt quite abashed, and answered hurriedly, that she did not know what was wished, for that no more had been said upon the subject.
"Won't it be delightful?" said Miss Cunningham to Margaret; "We shall be together so much, and shall go to the theatre; and, perhaps there will be some parties for girls of our age; you know there are such things."
"It would be all very nice if there were any chance of it," repliedMargaret.
"And why should there not be?" exclaimed Miss Cunningham, who had never dreamt of any obstacle to a wish of her father's.
"Because," said Margaret, "mamma will not allow it."
"And why not? what objection can she have?"
"She will not let us go while Emily Morton is with us," said Margaret, "because she does not think it necessary. Before she came, I often used to hear her talk of taking us to London for masters, but now she never mentions it; and it was only yesterday I heard her say that we had greater advantages at present than we possibly could have by any other means."
"Oh! but that is all nonsense," said Miss Cunningham, "Just let papa talk to her for ten minutes, and she will soon come round."
"You don't know mamma," replied Dora, who, being very firm and decided herself, particularly admired decision in others. "If she does not approve of the plan, all the world might talk to her, and it would have no effect."
"But why does Miss Morton stay with you?" asked Miss Cunningham. "Are you very fond of her?"
"Fond of her!" exclaimed Margaret. "No, indeed; it would rejoice my heart to see her fairly out of the house."
"It would not mine," said Amy, whose spirit was roused at hearing a person she loved so mentioned.
A moment before Dora would have taken Miss Morton's part, but she could not bear Amy to interfere as if it were her business; and, in an irritated voice, she asked, what it could possibly signify whether she liked Miss Morton or not.
"Nothing," replied Amy, gently; "only I am very fond of her?"
"Then I wish you would keep her," said Margaret. "I shall dislike her more than ever, now; for I shall always think she is preventing us from going to London."
"But why don't you persuade your mamma to get rid of her?" exclaimed Miss Cunningham. "Madame would not stay an hour in the house if I did not like her."
"Ah, but it is very different with us," replied Margaret. "Mamma will have her own way about it; she knows very well that we dislike Emily, and she is always finding fault with her, herself; but when it came to the point I am certain she would say no. And then, too, both papa and mamma hate London, and would be very glad of an excuse for not going."
"But do you really think," asked Miss Cunningham, "that if it were not for Miss Morton they would be obliged to do it?"
"Yes; at least they always said so before Emily came."
"Well! if you are quite sure of that, I can see no reason why we should not try and manage the matter between us."
"Hush!" exclaimed Margaret, who observed that Amy seemed quite aghast at the cool way in which this was said; "there is no use in speaking about it now. Is that your dinner-bell?"
"Yes; but there is no hurry; do promise to talk to your mamma. I am sure papa will do all he can—we should be so happy together in London."
"Without Emily Morton," said Margaret; "it would drive me wild to feel she was always tacked on to me."
"Oh Margaret! how unkind you are!" exclaimed Amy. "You know Miss Morton is always trying to please every one, and she never gets out of temper."
"Miss Morton pets you till she makes you as disagreeable as she is herself," said Margaret, angrily.
Amy for an instant was strongly inclined to retort; but she did not give way to the feeling, and, preferring to walk behind with Dora, did not speak again till they reached the house. Margaret and Miss Cunningham immediately began a low, and apparently a very interesting conversation; for it was continued at intervals even when they were dressing for dinner, though, whenever Dora or Amy approached them, they broke off abruptly, looking very mysterious, as if the fate of the world depended on no person's knowing what they were talking of. But Amy thought little about them, being entirely engrossed with the dread of dining for the first time at what appeared to her a regular party. The feeling had been lurking in her mind during the whole day, but the novelty of all she had seen had distracted her attention. Now, however, the awful moment was drawing near; and even her desire to see everything, and her admiration of the house and furniture, could not prevent her from wishing that she could transport herself back to the cottage just till dinner was over. She felt also quite overpowered by Miss Cunningham's dress, and the profusion of brooches and chains, with which she adorned herself, turning them over one by one, with an air of the utmost indifference; and then, finding that her visitors did not make any observation, calling to them to ask their opinion as to which suited her best. Dora took care to object to almost all, or to compare them with something more splendid belonging to other people; but Amy, who had never yet seen such beautiful things worn by a person so young, expressed her admiration very openly; and then, as she caught sight of her plain silk frock in the large looking-glass, wondered whether Lady Rochford would think it very strange that she was not dressed equally well.
"May I sit by you, Dora?" she whispered, as they went down-stairs.
"I can't tell," replied Dora; "it will depend upon how we go in to dinner."
"But what shall I do?" asked Amy. "Do you think any one will speak to me?" Dora laughed; but when she looked at her cousin, she saw that her eyes were almost filled with tears. "I am so frightened," continued Amy, "I know I shall do something very wrong, and then every one will stare at me. If I might only stay in the drawing-room——"
"Every one would stare at you a great deal more then," replied Dora; "besides, there is no party; there will be only Lord and Lady Rochford, and Mr Cunningham and ourselves."
"Mr Cunningham!" said Amy. "Is he very old?"
"Oh yes, quite grown up," replied Dora. "But you need not trouble yourself about him, for I daresay he will not speak to you; and, if he does, you won't understand him."
Amy recollected having heard Dora mention Mr Cunningham's peculiar voice before; and she was on the point of asking her to explain what was the matter with it, but they were standing at the drawing-room door, and there was no time.
Lady Rochford was seated on the sofa, talking to Mrs Harrington; and Amy was instantly struck with the likeness between her and her daughter. There was the same sandy hair, the same dull eye, the same fair complexion, the only difference being in the greater softness of expression, and the lines which continual illness and additional years had worn in her face. Her dress, too, was very youthful; and it was difficult for a stranger to believe that she could possibly be the mother of the tall, gentlemanly young man, who stood by her side, apparently intent upon examining the ornaments on the mantelpiece. Lady Rochford's manner, however, had none of Miss Cunningham's scornfulness; her temper was very sweet, and it was her wish to make everyone about her happy; and if she did sometimes fail, it was more from over attention, and insisting upon their enjoying themselves in her way rather than in their own, than from any other cause. Amy felt relieved by the kindness with which she spoke to her, and almost happy when she had contrived to hide herself behind Dora, and could look at what was going on without being observed; and dinner being announced almost immediately, she kept close by her side, hoping that, after all, she might not find it as terrible as she had expected. But her hope was soon crushed. There was a slight confusion as they went into the dining-room; no one seemed to know exactly where to place themselves; and Amy was obliged to leave Dora, and take the vacant seat between her aunt Harrington and Mr Cunningham.
"George, you will take care of your little neighbour," said LordRochford; "do find out what she would like to have."
The silent Mr Cunningham turned to Amy, and spoke; but whether his words were English, French, or German, it would have been impossible for her in her fright to have told. By persons who were well acquainted with him, he was very easily understood; but, in consequence of a defect in the formation of his mouth, his articulation was so indistinct, as to be almost unintelligible to strangers; and Amy looked at him, with mingled fear and surprise. Again he endeavoured to render his meaning clear; but not a word could Amy comprehend, though, guessing what he would say, she faltered, "Chicken, if you please," and then looked at her aunt, and blushed painfully, from the idea that she had done exactly the very thing she ought not. Mr Cunningham apparently was very desirous of seeing her comfortable; for, during dinner, he made a point of offering her everything on the table which he thought she might like; and each time he opened his lips Amy's distress revived. But the climax of misery was, when, after the dessert being placed on the table, he seemed inclined to enter into conversation with her. Happily she caught the words, "live at Emmerton," in his first sentence, and contrived to answer it correctly; but as he went on, the confusion of sound increased, and, perfectly bewildered between endeavouring to make out the meaning of the last question and the dread of hearing a new one, she continued to repeat "Yes" and "No," at regular intervals, resolving in her own mind that it would be better to live at the cottage all her life, even if it were twice as small, and she were never to see any one, than be condemned to the penance of talking to Mr Cunningham.
Her cousins, from the opposite side of the table, watched her with considerable amusement, though, after a short time, Dora's compassion was much excited, and once or twice she attempted to help her, by partly repeating the question when she understood it better than Amy; but this only served to increase Mr Cunningham's desire to make himself intelligible, and the eagerness with which he went over the ground again, rendered the sounds only the more perplexing, so that Dora was obliged to resign Amy to her fate, and wait with patience till Lady Rochford should move.
The looked-for moment did at last arrive, and Amy's spirits rose like those of a prisoner released from captivity; for nearly at the last moment, having answered "Yes," when she ought to have said "No," she found a large bunch of grapes placed upon her plate, and, not liking to confess she had misunderstood, and still less liking to eat them, she was obliged to leave them, and went out, wondering whether Mr Cunningham would remark it, and, if he did, what he would think of her.
The evening was but short, and to Amy it was rather stupid. Margaret and Miss Cunningham left the room together soon after dinner, and only appeared again when they were summoned to tea. Lady Rochford talked a good deal to Dora, and asked her to play and sing; but she said very little to Amy, except that observing her interested in a book of prints, which Miss Cunningham had brought before dinner for Margaret to see, she declared that it must be much more agreeable to her to look at a cabinet of minerals; and, taking the book away, Amy was obliged, for the next half hour, to turn over a number of drawers filled with odd-shaped stones, and pieces of iron and copper, about which she knew nothing, and cared less.
There was some pleasure, notwithstanding, for there was no necessity to admire them, and she could stand with them in her hand, and amuse herself with the other things in the room, since no one took any notice of her; but the marked difference between herself and her cousins, had never been so observable before. Even the servants overlooked her, and forgot to offer her any coffee; and her wishes of the morning returned with redoubled vigour. Not that she would have been Miss Cunningham, for her own mother was a treasure beyond all price; she would only willingly have given her an equal share of the world's riches and grandeur. Mr Cunningham did not come into the drawing-room till tea was nearly over; but Lord Rochford and Mr Harrington soon joined them, and the former immediately began urging upon Mrs Harrington the importance of acceding to the plan he had mentioned at Emmerton.
Amy saw that her aunt was annoyed by the subject being named so openly, for she remarked immediately that it was time for them to prepare for returning; and though Dora and Margaret lingered as long as they could to hear what was said, she preserved perfect silence until they were gone.
"Mamma will say no," exclaimed Margaret; "I could see it by the way she bit her lip."
"And papa will make her say yes," replied Miss Cunningham. "He never gives up anything he has set his heart on."
"Then there is one good thing," said Dora; "they will have a subject of interest to discuss for the remainder of their lives. You might just as easily move this wall as mamma."
"I shall never rest till it is settled," continued Miss Cunningham; "fancy the delight of being in London, and driving about in the parks, and seeing all the shops, and buying whatever one likes. I shall give all my old dresses to my maid; for I am determined to have quite a new set of my own choosing."
"It would be very nice," said Margaret, with a sigh of hopeless regret; "and to think that that pale-faced, black-haired Emily Morton should be the only thing to stand in the way."
"Ah!" said Miss Cunningham, significantly, "we will see about that," and some more whispering went on between her and Margaret.
Amy did not remark this conversation; but she said in a low voice toDora, "Does Mr Cunningham go to town with them always?"
"Yes," answered Dora, laughing; "and you must go to town too, to learn his language. French, Italian, German, and double-Dutch,—what an accomplished person you will be!"
"I don't mean to be unkind to him," said Amy; "but it would take off a great deal of my pleasure."
"Oh no, it would not; it is only because you are not accustomed to him—every one in the house understands him."
"Do they? but then they are older. Oh Dora! you cannot think how frightened I was. I was so afraid he would think me rude and unfeeling."
"I should have been afraid of laughing," said Dora; "I never heard such an extraordinary voice in my life."
"Perhaps I might have laughed if he had not been so kind; and then it vexes mamma so, if I ever ridicule a person's misfortunes; she says that we never can tell when the same things may be sent to ourselves."
Dora was thoughtful for a minute; at length she said, "You are so grave about things, Amy; it is not human nature not to laugh at such oddities."
"But," replied Amy, "mamma says we have two natures, a good one and a bad one, and that human nature is the bad one."
"Two natures!" exclaimed Dora, "what can you mean?"
"I wish you would ask mamma some day," answered Amy; "she would tell you so much better than I can."
"She would find it so much trouble," said Dora, sadly; "I have not been taught like you." And she turned hastily away, and, scolding Margaret for being so slow in getting ready, declared it would not do to wait any longer, and ran down-stairs.
It was a happy thing for Amy that her dread of Mr Cunningham prevented her from indulging to its full extent the wish of accompanying her cousins to London, if Mr Harrington should consent to their going; but the incidents of the day had been quite sufficient to excite her imagination to the utmost. The magnificence of Rochford Park had realised many of her gayest dreams; and while her uncle and aunt, and her cousins, giving way to the weariness consequent on a long day, composed themselves to sleep, she felt quite at liberty to build a castle in the air, which should have all the splendour of the princely mansion they had left, without the drawback of its inhabitants. In a few moments she was living at a park, with her father returned from India, her mother in perfect health and happiness, and her cousins and Emily Morton on a visit to them. The house was filled with company; there were pleasant drives and rides, a pony for herself and a pony-chaise for her mamma, handsome dinners, and amusements of every kind for her father's visitors; and the chapel was also thought of, but it seemed inconsistent with her other dreams, and she could not decide upon its being used every day—perhaps once a-week would be sufficient. Then again the scene changed to London—to handsome shops, and beautiful dresses, and rich ornaments, just like Miss Cunningham's; and the delight of going to a play when she liked, having constantly new books, and being able to make presents to all her friends; and in the midst of this vision of grandeur, the carriage stopped at the little white gate of Emmerton cottage. Her mother's voice recalled her to herself; but even its much-loved gentle tone could not at that instant entirely content her. A feeling of dissatisfaction with everything had taken possession of her mind, and the gaiety of her spirit was fled.
But few words passed between Mrs Herbert and her brother, Mrs Harrington complaining of being extremely cold, and objecting to the horses being kept standing; and Amy was not sorry for this, as she longed to be quiet with her mamma after the excitement of the day. Her spirits, however, were too much depressed to be again roused even by the interest of talking over all she had done and seen; and after a few attempts at answering her mamma's questions, she gave it up in despair, and burst into tears. Mrs Herbert guessed directly what was the matter, on finding that Amy could assign no reason for her distress. Her cousins had not been unkind, her aunt had not been angry, she had seen everything she expected; but she was quite tired, and this was the only account she could give. "I suspect a night's rest will be the most certain means of making you feel happy again, my love," said Mrs Herbert; "suppose you prepare to go to bed, and I will hear all you can tell me to-morrow."
"I should like very much to talk to you to-night," replied Amy, almost sobbing; "I am very unhappy, but I cannot tell why."
"At any rate," continued her mother, "it would be better to wait a little while, and when you are ready to read, you shall come to my room, and then you can say all you wish, and go to bed afterwards with your mind at ease."
"But I would rather say it now," answered Amy, "if I only knew how to begin. I don't think, mamma, it makes me happy seeing fine places."
"Because you wish they were your own; is that the reason?"
"I long for them very much," replied Amy; "but, mamma, I have told you all about it before."
"Yes, my dear child, so you have; but knowing that you have told me before, will not ease your mind now."
"Only that I don't like repeating it all over again," said Amy; "it seems as if all you had said had done me no good."
"It takes a very long time to make any one good," answered her mother, "so you must not be disheartened even if you do find the same bad feelings returning again and again. I daresay you have been dreaming of having a large house like Rochford Park, and quantities of money to spend just as you please; and now, when you find you must be contented with a small house, and very little money, you are unhappy."
"I don't want it all for myself," said Amy.
"But even for others," replied Mrs Herbert; "you desire to give them something that God has thought fit they should not have; which do you think knows best what is good?"
"Oh mamma! indeed I am sure that God is wiser than any one; but I cannot help wishing."
"Do you remember, Amy, the promise you have so often repeated to me; I mean the promise made for you at your baptism; that you would renounce 'the pomps and vanities of this wicked world?'"
"But, mamma, I do not want any pomp; I should not care to be a queen; and it would make me miserable to have anything to do with what was wicked."
"My dear," said Mrs Herbert, "the pomps and vanities of the world are different to different people. If Susan Reynolds, for instance, were anxious to live in this cottage, and wear a silk dress like yours, she would be longing for pomps and vanities, because she would be coveting something beyond her station; and so, when you are desiring to live at Emmerton or Rochford Park, you are equally wrong."
"Then why does my uncle live at such a large place, and have so many servants and carriages, if he has promised to renounce them?" asked Amy. "Is it wicked?"
"No," answered Mrs Herbert, "it is not wicked in him, because they are things proper to the station in which God has placed him. A king must live in grandeur, so must a nobleman,—it is befitting their dignity; and private gentlemen, when they have large fortunes, are obliged to do the same, only in a less degree. But such persons have a very difficult task assigned them, as it is almost incumbent upon them to maintain a certain degree of splendour in their style of living; and yet God will assuredly one day call them strictly to account for any wilful extravagance or self-indulgence."
"But why was the promise made for them, if they never can keep it?" saidAmy.
"Because," replied her mother, "renouncing does not mean that we are to give up all the blessings which God has bestowed upon us; but it does mean that we are not to pride ourselves upon them, or rest our happiness on them, or covet more than we possess. It means that we should use them entirely for the benefit of our fellow-creatures, that we should be perfectly willing to part with them if God were to require it, and should be as happy in a cottage with only bread to eat, as we should be in a palace."
"Oh mamma! no one can feel so."
"Look, Amy," said Mrs Herbert, taking up the Bible which she had been reading during her child's absence; "have you never seen this before? 'How hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom of God!' and 'It is easier for a camel to go through a needle's eye, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God' (Luke xviii. 24, 25). These are our Saviour's words; do you think that any one who really believed they were true could wish for riches?"
Amy hid her face on her mother's shoulder, and her tears again fell fast. Mrs Herbert went on. "It is quite necessary, my dear child," she said, "that you should learn what you wish for, before you indulge in any dreams of greatness. You are desiring what, our Saviour says, makes it almost impossible for a person to enter into heaven; and you yourself have just acknowledged that it must be the case. I told you the disposition of mind which God requires of us; that, if we have riches, we should be ready in a moment to part with them, and be quite contented without them, and you immediately exclaimed that it could not be; and yet God will not own us as His children unless we have this spirit, or at least strive very hard to obtain it."
"Mamma," said Amy, in a low voice, "indeed, I will try not to wish any more."
"I am sure you will, my love," replied her mother; "and I am sure, also, that if you pray to God, He will assist you; but it will require very many attempts before you can succeed. And will you remember, also, how vain and foolish it is for those who are the children of God, and look forward to living with Him in heaven, to set their hearts upon anything this world can give? You would laugh if you saw a person who was one day to possess a kingdom, sighing for a little cottage, or a small garden; but the most glorious kingdom that could be given us here, even the world itself, is nothing when compared with what God has promised us hereafter."
"If I could but see it for one moment," said Amy, "I should never wish again."
"Yes," answered her mother, "if we were to see it, our difficulty would be at an end; but God has placed us here to try us, to prove whether we will believe that we shall have what He has promised, though whilst we are on earth it is hidden from us. If I told you that to-morrow you would have a splendid present made you, but that I could not show it to you to-day, would you not believe me?"
"Oh yes," replied Amy, "you always keep your word."
"And if I read to you in God's Word, the description of the beautiful home in which, our Saviour tells us, we shall one day live, will you not believe Him?" But Amy did not answer, for her heart was full. "I will not talk any more to you now, my dear child," continued Mrs Herbert: "but I will read to you presently those two concluding chapters in the last book in the Bible, which you have only occasionally heard. They will do far more to calm your mind than anything I can say."
Amy went to her room; and the last sound that mingled with her dreams, was her mother's gentle voice, as she sat by the bedside, describing to her, in the words of the Bible, the blessedness of that glorious city, which shall have no "need of the sun, neither of the moon, to shine in it; for the glory of God shall lighten it, and the Lamb shall be the light thereof."
The autumn months passed quickly away, and brought but little change in Amy's life, except that her visits to Emmerton became less frequent, as the uncertainty of the weather obliged her to depend more upon her uncle's carriage; but she still practised her music under her mother's direction, and copied Miss Morton's drawings at home, and made up by diligence for the superior advantages which her cousins enjoyed. The London plan had been often mentioned, but, as Margaret foretold, Mrs Harrington was decidedly opposed to it, and became at last quite annoyed whenever any reference was made to it; and the idea would probably have completely died away, had it not been for Miss Cunningham, who, notwithstanding the distance between Emmerton and the Park, contrived to be a very constant visitor; and whenever she appeared, London was invariably the theme of conversation. There needed no description, however, to excite Margaret's wishes, and Dora would have been equally anxious, if her dislike to Miss Cunningham had not prevented her from entering into any scheme of enjoyment in which she was to participate. But Miss Cunningham's earnestness on the subject did not exhaust itself in mere words. Her first object had been to induce her papa to urge the scheme on Mrs Harrington as often as they met, and when, after many trials, this was found to fail, the only thing that remained was to get rid of the one great obstacle, Emily Morton. Lord Rochford was persuaded to criticise her drawings, to find fault with her style of playing, and to declare that her voice was extremely indifferent, in the hope that Mrs Harrington might at last yield to the necessity of having better instruction for her daughters. But Mrs Harrington was not so easily deceived; she was far too good a judge of both music and drawing, to be influenced by what Lord Rochford said, and only answered him with cool indifference in public, and laughed at his ignorance in private. Yet Margaret and her friend did not despair. There was one resource left; though Mrs Harrington could not be persuaded to part with Miss Morton, Miss Morton might be induced to leave Mrs Harrington; and when this notion entered their heads, a series of petty persecutions commenced according to a plan that had been determined on at Rochford Park, which, with any other disposition, could hardly have failed of success. But Miss Morton was invulnerable; she felt that it was her duty to remain at Emmerton; and without paying any attention to looks and inuendoes, or even open words, she pursued her round of daily duties with the same unruffled temper, the same cheerful smile, as if her life had been one of uninterrupted happiness. The only difference observable was during Miss Cunningham's visits, when she generally spent as much of her time with Rose in her own room as was possible; and this, quite as much on the little girl's account as on her own; for Miss Cunningham, having just cleverness sufficient to discover that Rose was Miss Morton's great interest and anxiety, endeavoured to interfere with her in every possible way, distracting her attention from anything in which she might be engaged, and teazing her so much, that even Dora's indignation was at length roused. Of all this, Amy saw but little. The days were now so short that she had only time to take her lesson and return home; but she could not help observing it occasionally, and then longed to be Miss Morton's friend, and to be a comfort to her; and still more did she wish that Emily could be often with her mamma, and be enabled to tell her all she was suffering. But to this there was an obstacle, which Miss Morton would have felt, though Amy was not sensible of it. To have repeated all that passed at Emmerton, would have been in her eyes betraying the secrecy in some degree necessary in private life, and to Mrs Harrington's sister it would have been quite impossible. If there was a complaint to be made, Mrs Harrington was the person to whom to apply for the remedy; and if she did not choose to do this, it could not be right to seek assistance from any other person; and thus, day after day, Emily bore silently and meekly the scorn of folly and ignorance, with but one Friend to guide her, one hope to cheer her, and yet feeling that that Friend and that hope were sufficient in all things for her comfort. Mrs Herbert's interest in Miss Morton had been much excited by Amy's account, and she was induced to think over many plans that might render her life happier. The undertaking, however, was a difficult one, for it was impossible to intrude on her confidence; and there were few opportunities for gaining it, as Mrs Harrington always made some objection to her going to the cottage. Perhaps she feared that Miss Morton's history of her life at Emmerton might not sound favourably in her sister's ears; but, whatever might be the cause, the dislike became so apparent, that Mrs Herbert gave up all hope of being useful, until the idea of an introduction to Mrs Walton suggested itself to her mind. In her Miss Morton would find everything that she could require; warm affection, superior judgment, and the advice and sympathy which Mrs Herbert's position rendered it impossible to give; and with such a friend at hand, there would be comparatively little to fear for Emily's comfort.
Of Mrs Walton's willingness to cultivate the acquaintance, Mrs Herbert had no doubt. It seemed impossible, indeed, that any one could look at Emily Morton without feeling the deepest interest in her; yet the charm was not that of mere personal beauty; many might have criticised the colour of her hair and eyes, and found fault with her pale, transparent complexion, but none could be insensible to the simple grace of her manner, the musical sweetness of her voice, and, above all, the calm, soft, expression of countenance, which was but the outward sign of that "meek and quiet spirit," which, the Bible says, "is in the sight of God of great price." Without Mrs Herbert's recommendation Emily would have been a welcome visitor at the rectory; but with it, Mrs Walton's feelings were so much excited in her favour, that even Amy was quite satisfied as to her being properly appreciated, though she still longed that her mamma could know her more intimately.
But Miss Morton was not Amy's only object of compassion at the Hall. As Christmas approached, Dora's spirits evidently sank; she became more silent and abstracted, took little interest in what was passing, and, if any remark was made upon her low spirits, either roused herself to a forced gaiety, or shut herself up in her own room, and remained there for a considerable time. Amy longed to ask what was the matter, but she did not dare; and they now met so seldom, that the hope of discovering it seemed vain. It was therefore a cause of satisfaction to her, independent of her own enjoyment, to hear that it was Mr Harrington's wish, that the week before and the week after Christmas should be spent by her mamma and herself at Emmerton, as she was certain the arrangement would give pleasure to Emily Morton, and thought it possible that her mamma might be some comfort to her cousin. Dora was the first to give her the intelligence; but although she declared it would be very nice to have Amy staying there, and expressed a hope that her aunt would be comfortable, she did not really seem to care much about it.
"It will not be gay as it used to be at Wayland," she said; "there we always had the house full of people, but now there are only a few coming, whom I know nothing about. I believe we are to have some boys and two or three girls, but we have scarcely ever seen them. Two of the boys are the young Dornfords, and, besides, there will be the Miss Stanleys, and Mary Warner, and the little Danvers; but I shall hate it, for I don't know what we shall do with them."
"Frank will amuse Mr Dornford's boys," said Amy, who knew all their names, though she had never been accustomed to visit in the neighbourhood.
"Yes! but Frank is not used to it."
"Don't look so very unhappy, dear Dora," replied Amy, "I cannot bear to see it; you always seem out of spirits now, and I would give anything in the world if I could help you."
"Would you?" said Dora, looking at her earnestly; "that is more than half the people I know would say."
"But it is true; only, of course, I cannot be any good to you."
"No one can be any good to me now; I knew I should be wretched whenChristmas came."
"But why?" asked Amy.
"Oh! never mind," said Dora, rather hastily, "I cannot talk about it; please don't say anything to anybody."
"But if you would talk to some one else, would not that help you?"
"Whom should I talk to?" said Dora.
"Do you never tell your mamma when you are unhappy?" continued Amy, though she felt that to have asked for sympathy from Mrs Harrington in her own case would have been impossible.
"Talk to mamma!" exclaimed Dora; "why, I could more easily be miserable all the days of my life; besides," she added, "I said no one could help me; no one can bring back——," the sentence remained unfinished, for her voice was choked, and her eyes were blinded with tears.
Amy had always hitherto felt in a certain degree afraid of showing any affection to Dora—her manner was in general so cold, that she never knew how far it would be returned; but the sight of her present distress was quite sufficient to overcome every feeling of the kind, and, putting her arm round her cousin's neck, she said very gently, "But he is so happy now."
Dora hid her face in her hands, and did not answer for several minutes; at last, rousing herself with a great effort, she said, "Amy, I am very cross to you sometimes."
"Oh no!" replied Amy, "don't think about that; you know we are all cross occasionally."
"He was never cross to any one," said Dora, in a voice so low, that it sounded as if she were speaking to herself.
"Miss Morton told me how good and kind he was," replied Amy, "and how miserable you were when he was taken ill."
"Did she?" exclaimed Dora, with interest; "I did not know she ever thought about me."
"Oh Dora! indeed, I am sure she does think about you a great deal, and would love you very much, if——"
"If what? why should you be afraid of speaking out?"
"If you would love her," continued Amy, hesitatingly.
"It would be no use if I did," replied Dora; "she is as cold as a stone to every one but Rose and you, and as proud as a queen."
"But she spoke of you so kindly the other day, and said that she could not bear to see you in such bad spirits, and that she was so sorry about poor Edward; and then she told me that in some things she thought you were like him."
"Me! no indeed, nobody could think that; he was like no one else."
"Not Frank?" asked Amy, anxious to make her cousin converse upon the subject she knew was uppermost in her thoughts.
"No," replied Dora; "Frank is thoughtless and hasty, but he never said a harsh word to any one, not to me even!"
"It would have been hard to speak crossly to you, when you were so fond of him," said Amy.
"Ah! you don't know," answered Dora, while a host of recollections flashed across her mind, of taunting looks, and angry words, and selfish actions, which at the time were thought of as nothing, but which now stood forth in their true light. For a short time she was silent; and then, turning abruptly to Amy, she said, "Then you will come next Monday—aunt Herbert is to have the green room and the boudoir, and you are to have the dressing-room."
Amy was vexed; she longed to continue the conversation about Edward, and she was always pleased and interested when Dora spoke of her own feelings, for it seemed as if she were then admitted to a secret which no one else was allowed to share. "I shall like it very much if mamma will consent, and if you will be happy," she said; "only I wish there were to be no strangers."
"Don't think about me," replied Dora, "and pray don't say anything about my being out of spirits; I shall do very well by and by."
"I wish Frank were here," said Amy.
"Frank will do no good, only make a noise; but I shall be happy again after Christmas. I did not think half so much about it a month ago, and not even when first I came here, because everything was new; but he always came home about this time, and I used to look forward to it so—at last I quite counted the days."
Amy saw how hopeless it was to attempt to comfort her cousin. She could only show by looks and manner the pain she felt at her unhappiness; and with this Dora was quite satisfied. Amy's silent sympathy was consoling, where words would have distressed her; but it was not natural to her to speak much of her own feelings, and again she turned the conversation to the intended visit.
"If you come on Monday," she said, "we shall have a few days to ourselves, for no one is to be here till after Friday, which is Christmas-day."
"And will they all come together?" asked Amy.
"No; that is what provokes me so. If there were a good many, they would entertain each other; but I can't imagine what we shall do with two or three. I think I shall try again to make mamma alter the plan."
"But you will have Margaret to help you."
"She will be worse than nothing; for Lord Rochford and Miss Cunningham are to come on Saturday, and you know very well that, when they are here, Margaret will think of nothing else."
"Is Miss Cunningham really coming?" asked Amy, looking very blank.
Dora laughed. "You should not let your face tell such tales, Amy; now I speak out at once, and say, I can't endure her, and you had much better do the same."
"No," replied Amy, "I don't like to do it unless I am obliged, and I dare say a great deal of the fault is my own; but I care much more about Miss Morton than anything else—Miss Cunningham treats her so ill."
"Yes, she makes even me angry sometimes, and you know I am not in love with your dear Emily."
"You like her better than you will own, though," said Amy, looking gaily in her cousin's face, "and a great deal better than you did."
"I don't know; I don't dislike her always; and I cannot bear to see thatLucy Cunningham tormenting her so."
"And to-morrow you will not dislike her at all," continued Amy; "and the next day you will take her part, and the day after you will quite love her."
"No, I shall never love her. I am sure I am much more given to hating than loving. I am not like you, Amy, who seem to care for everything, and everybody."
"Not everything," said Amy, laughing; "your ugly tabby cat, for instance, Dora, I never could love that."
"Oh! that is compassion; I only pet her because all the rest abuse her."
"And Miss Morton, it is just the same with her."
Dora shook her head. "It is no use, Amy," she answered. "You know very well, that if I were to begin loving Emily Morton now, and to go on for the rest of my life, she never could like me in return."
"And why not?"
"Because—because—I cannot tell why; but I am sure she could not."
"Oh Dora!" said Amy, "I do not think you can guess how good Miss Morton is, or how easily she would forgive."
"Forgive!" exclaimed Dora, quickly, "what should she forgive?"
Amy blushed deeply; "I beg your pardon, Dora, only I thought you meant——"
"Well! go on; meant what?"
"Don't be angry with me, dear Dora, only I thought, perhaps, you fancied that Miss Morton would not like you, because sometimes, you know, you show that you do not like her."
"You had better say it in plain words," exclaimed Dora, whilst the working of her forehead showed the storm that was gathering; "because sometimes—no—very often, you know you are very cross."
"No, Dora," replied Amy, gently; "I do not wish to say it in any other words; it would be wrong in me, for you know it is not my place to tell you you are cross; and, besides, I am often cross myself."
"But you meant it, I know you meant it; just say now whether you did."
"I wish you would not ask me anything about it; I did not mean to vex you, and I was careless when I spoke."
"You were, indeed," said Dora; "and, perhaps, the next time, you will think twice before you accuse persons who are older than yourself."
Amy was about to vindicate herself, but she had learned from Miss Morton to bear an unjust accusation patiently, when she knew that excuses would only increase anger; and again begging Dora's pardon, and saying she was very sorry for having annoyed her, she began putting her drawing materials together, and preparing to return home. Dora's first impulse was to leave the room; but she was so well aware of having been harsh, that she could not quite make up her mind to go, and she lingered about, first taking up a book, and then looking out of the window, and longing for Amy to say something, though it was too great an effort to do so herself. Amy, however, still continued silent; and at length, when everything was collected, went up-stairs to put on her bonnet and cloak. Dora, lately, had been in the habit of assisting her; but now, instead of accompanying her, she seated herself by the fire, and tried to read, though without being able to fix her attention. In a few minutes Amy reappeared, and holding out her hand to her cousin, told her that her donkey was at the door, and she must go directly.
"Good-bye," said Dora, in a cold, constrained voice, which gave no symptom of the struggle within.
Amy looked distressed. "Are you angry with me, still?" she asked.
"Angry! why should I be angry?"
"Because I spoke so thoughtlessly."
"Oh!" said Dora, "it is not worth while to be angry at such a trifle.Good-bye."
"I cannot go in this way; it makes me so unhappy not to be forgiven," said Amy.
"Well!" replied Dora, "I forgive you; are you satisfied now?"
"No," said Amy, sadly, "because I don't think it is real forgiveness; I wish I could do anything to show you that I am sorry."
"Will you kiss me?" asked Dora, whose proud spirit was almost entirely subdued by her cousin's meekness, though she could not yet bring herself to confess she had been in fault. Amy's answer was a kiss, so hearty, that Dora's impulse was to return it equally; and then, for almost the first time in her life, she said voluntarily, "Amy, you were right and I was wrong."
Amy felt this was true, though she would not say so at such a moment; it would have seemed too much like a triumph. "We can settle that next time I come," she answered, smiling; "I care for nothing now, but keeping Stephen and my donkey waiting in the cold; give me one more kiss." The kiss was given, and Amy ran off quite happy, whilst Dora, though not equally light-hearted, felt as if a burden had been taken from her mind; and after waiting for a few moments enjoying the unusual luxury of humility, she followed her cousin to see that she was carefully protected against the cold. Mrs Bridget came forward to offer her services, but Dora wished to do everything herself; and Amy declared herself so comfortable, she thought her ride would be really enjoyable, notwithstanding the north wind. There was one disappointment, however, awaiting her. Stephen had been attacked by his old enemy, the gout, and was kept a prisoner to his cottage, so that she had no resource but her own thoughts, the man servant who attended, keeping at a distance, and only approaching to open the gates, move away the straggling boughs of the trees in the forest, or help to wrap the cloak more closely around her, when the keen blast, which seemed to meet them in every direction, blew with more than ordinary violence.