On the day which Dora had named, Mrs Herbert and Amy were established at the Hall. Amy, in great delight, looked round upon the preparations that had been made for her mamma's comfort; and could not doubt, as she felt that some of her first wishes were realised in the prospect of spending so many days at Emmerton together, that Mrs Herbert would enjoy it equally with herself. And certainly, if luxury could constitute a person's happiness, there would have been nothing to desire. "Oh mamma!" she said, drawing the easy chair close to the fire, "there is everything we want here, just the same as at the cottage; I can make you so comfortable when you are tired; and you can lie down, and look out at that beautiful view. There is the spire of Emmerton church just in front; it seems almost prettier now, when the snow is on the ground, than it was in the summer."
"Your aunt has been very thoughtful," replied Mrs Herbert; "but I hope I shall feel well enough to be much with her; only we can spend the morning together, just as if we were at home."
"Yes," said Amy; "and you will be able to see Miss Morton whenever you wish it; and perhaps Margaret and Dora will come and sit with us sometimes. Oh mamma! it will be so nice!"
"Look, Amy," said Mrs Herbert, pointing to the well-filled book-shelves: "there will be occupation for us both, when we have nothing else to do."
Amy began examining the books with interest, and suddenly exclaimed, "Mamma, it must be Dora who has made everything so comfortable for us; here are all the books that I like best; and I remember the last day I came to Emmerton she made me tell her the names of a great many, and I could not imagine why."
"And these flowers, are they the result of Dora's care, do you think?" said Mrs Herbert; "she must have gathered all there were in the conservatory; it is quite strange to see them when the snow is on the ground."
"It must be Dora," replied Amy; "I don't think aunt Harrington or Margaret ever even look at flowers. I never saw Margaret take one in her hand, except to pull it to pieces; and there is Dora's own letter case, and the beautiful inkstand her uncle Henry gave her."
"I wish Dora would come and see the pleasure she has given us," said MrsHerbert.
"I think she went away," answered Amy, "because she fancied you were tired, and would rather be alone with me at first; for she begged I would come to her in the schoolroom when I left you."
"I should like to rest now," replied Mrs Herbert; "so you may go and tell her how comfortable I am, and then, by and by, I will thank her myself."
Amy quitted the room, and Mrs Herbert endeavoured to compose herself to sleep; but her thoughts were too busy. Whatever might be Amy's pleasure at coming to Emmerton, she could not, herself, entirely sympathise with it; and yet, with her perfect freedom from selfishness, she would have imposed any restraint upon her own feelings rather then mar the enjoyment of her child. Dora's thoughtfulness brought vividly to her remembrance the days of her childhood, when she and her sister Edith had delighted in attending to the comfort of others in a similar manner; and visions of those sunny days passed before her, one after the other, recalling forms and faces, even voices and words, which had since been almost forgotten. A gentle knock at the door interrupted her reverie, and Mr Harrington begged for admittance. He came to see that everything had been provided for his sister's comfort, and expressed great satisfaction at Dora's care; and then seating himself by her side, they enjoyed for the next half-hour the pleasure of talking together of their early days; and notwithstanding the melancholy reflections which naturally arose from the conversation, the relief of his sympathy with her present feelings was so great, that Mrs Herbert felt more comforted and refreshed when he left her, than she could have been by any other means.
Amy, during this time, had found her way to the schoolroom, and expressed her gratitude to Dora in the warmest terms; but the subject did not appear quite agreeable to her, for she turned it off quickly, though a close observer might have discovered, from the expression of her countenance, that she really felt extreme pleasure. Margaret welcomed her cousin most affectionately, as she always did when no one else was near to attract her attention; but, by this time, Amy had learned the true value of her words and caresses, and withdrew herself as soon as possible, feeling that Dora's coldness, even if it were real, was infinitely preferable to Margaret's warmth.
"I have been begging mamma to have all the stupid people together next week," said Dora, when Amy began inquiring what had been decided on since she was last there, "and she is almost inclined to do it; if they would come on Monday, and stay till Thursday, it would not be so bad; and if she would ask two or three more, I am sure we should get on better."
"I will tell you who is coming on Saturday," said Margaret; "somebody you will be delighted to see."
"Me!" exclaimed Amy, in astonishment. "Why, I don't know any one."
"Oh! but you do. What do you say to your friend, Mr Cunningham." Poor Amy looked very uncomfortable. "Yes," continued Margaret, laughing; "and you will have to talk to him all day long, for Lucy says he has taken such a fancy to you; he declares you are the best-mannered little thing he ever met with; and, you know, it is so rare a thing for him to see any one who is well mannered to him, that he will be sure to seize upon you all the time he is here."
"And how long does he stay?" asked Amy.
"As long as Lord Rochford does; it will be a week at least."
"You had better go back to the cottage, Amy," said Dora; "there will be no comfort for you here. I can just imagine how Mr Cunningham will pet you, and talk to you, and how frightened you will look. If it were not for your annoyance, I should quite enjoy the thoughts of seeing you together."
"One thing I like him for," said Amy, "he has so much good nature."
"Yes," replied Dora; "he seems to have taken so much, that there is none left for his sister; and now, Amy, she will be worse than ever to you, for she hates you cordially, because her brother said, after you were gone, that he thought being with you would do her a great deal of good."
"I don't see what business Mr Cunningham has to think anything of the kind," said Margaret. "I don't mean to be ill-natured, Amy; but really the idea of your being of use to Miss Cunningham is rather too absurd."
"I think so, too," replied Amy; "but I dare say he was only in joke."
"Oh no! he was not; he was quite sincere; and he told Lucy that if the London plan came to anything, he hoped an arrangement would be made for you to be of the party."
"And so Miss Cunningham is your enemy for life," said Dora; "not that there is any fear of the London plan, for mamma is more strongly set against it than ever."
"It is half your fault, Dora," observed Margaret; "I am sure there would be less difficulty, if you were to say you liked it; but you are always speaking against it, and lately, too, you have taken to upholding Emily Morton."
"I don't see," replied Dora, "why I should say what is not true for any one, least of all for Miss Cunningham, who knows quite well how to do it for herself." Amy looked vexed, and Dora's conscience immediately told her she was wrong. "I don't mean to say," she continued, "that Lucy Cunningham tells stories exactly, but she often twists and turns things to suit her own purpose, and she can exaggerate without the smallest difficulty."
"Lucy Cunningham is very much obliged to you for your opinion of her," said Margaret, sharply; "and I shall take care to tell her what a friend she has in you."
"As you please; but she is not worth quarrelling about. I shall be quite glad when she is gone to London, and then we shall hear no more about her. I hate having nothing but Lucy Cunningham dinned into my ears from morning till night."
"It is better than Emily Morton, at any rate," said Margaret, with a half contemptuous glance at Amy. "Oneis a lady."
"Oh Margaret!" exclaimed Amy, while the colour rushed to her face; "you don't mean to say that Miss Morton is not a lady?"
"I mean that she is not half so much of a lady as Lucy Cunningham; of course she must be something like one, or mamma would not let her be with us."
"But indeed, Margaret," replied Amy, trying to speak calmly, "I do think you must be wrong. I am sure if a stranger saw them together, they would say directly there was no comparison between them."
"But what has that to do with it?" said Margaret, "It cannot alter the case. Lucy Cunningham is the daughter of a nobleman."
"Yes, but that is not everything."
"And Emily Morton is a governess," continued Margaret, in a decided tone, as if there could be no arguing against such a truth.
"Yes," again repeated Amy; "and yet, if Miss Cunningham were a princess, it would make no difference in my feelings."
"Then your feelings must be wrong, and all the world would say the same."
"I am sure Miss Morton is more of a lady, because she is so gentle and kind," said Amy; "and she always thinks of other people before herself, and never gets out of temper, and never boasts of anything."
"Well! but those are virtues; you talk so foolishly, Amy. Susan Reynolds or Morris may be all that, but they would not be at all the more ladies."
"No," said Dora, coming to Amy's assistance; "they would not be ladies, because they would still have clumsy, awkward ways of doing things, and of speaking."
"Of course, that is just what I was saying!" exclaimed Margaret, triumphantly.
"No; but Margaret," persisted Amy, "indeed that is not what you were saying; for I am sure Miss Cunningham is much more awkward than Miss Morton, and yet you say that all the world would consider her superior."
"So they would," replied Margaret.
Amy was silent for a few minutes; at length she said, "Mamma told me one day that we ought not to think as the world thinks, because the world means generally a great many vain, silly persons."
"Then you would set up to be wiser and better than everybody else, I suppose," said Margaret.
Dora again interposed, for she thought she saw what her cousin meant. "Amy is right, I am sure; it would be only silly people who would think so much more of Lucy Cunningham's birth than of other things. Not all the rank in the world will make persons ladies and gentlemen without manners."
"But I mean something besides manners," said Amy; "because, what I like in Miss Morton is not quite manner; it is her being good that helps to make her a lady, I think."
Dora laughed. "That is one of your strange notions, Amy. I believe you think, that what you call being good is to make a person everything—rich, and happy, and ladylike, and beautiful."
"No, not beautiful," replied Amy; "and yet," she added, "I remember once going with mamma to see a poor woman who was very ill; and she was almost ugly, till she began to talk, and thank mamma for being kind to her, and then her face quite changed; and mamma told me it was her being so grateful and contented that made her look so nice."
"I do think, Amy, you will go out of your senses some day," saidMargaret. "You talk so differently from every one else."
"Do I? That is very strange; for all the persons I care for tell me the same things."
"Does Emily Morton?" asked Dora.
"Yes, whenever I am quite alone with her, and ask her about anything—grave things, I mean."
"Well, Amy," said Dora, "I must say that you are the merriest grave girl I ever met with. I don't think any one who heard you laugh would fancy you really so demure as you are."
"No one ever said I was grave, except you," answered Amy. "I am sure I don't know what I am myself; but I must not stay here now, for I want so much to see Miss Morton, and then I must go back to mamma."
"Always Emily Morton," said Margaret, as Amy ran out of the room.
"Always Lucy Cunningham," retorted Dora.
"No more of that, pray, Dora. You know very well that the reason you laugh is because you are jealous of her being fonder of me than of you."
"Jealous! Me jealous of her! with her sandy hair and freckled——" but here Dora stopped.
"Well," exclaimed Margaret, who always felt a secret satisfaction atMiss Cunningham's plain face, though she would not acknowledge it toherself; "I thought you professed not to care about beauty—to be sure,Lucy is not lovely."
"I do not wish to say anything more about her," said Dora; "for I generally get angry; only I would give something if she were not coming here on Saturday."
Margaret had not time to reply before Dora was gone, for she had lately learned to distrust her powers of self-command, and to think silence preferable to argument. The next few days were spent by Amy in great enjoyment—everything went smoothly and pleasantly. Dora was thoughtful and kind, Margaret in good humour, her uncle affectionate, and her aunt seldom in her way; and, above all, Emily Morton was admitted to her mamma's room, and from their long conversations, and Emily's expressions of gratitude and interest, it was quite evident that she began to consider Mrs Herbert in the light of a real friend. Not that the conversations which passed between them were at all such as Amy imagined. There was very little said about Emmerton, still less about Mrs Harrington; but Mrs Herbert led Emily to talk of her father and mother, her aunt, her early home, and her childish days; and gave her some valuable advice as to the manner in which persons in her position should conduct themselves, without obliging her to make complaints which considering her own near connection with Mrs Harrington, would have been awkward and wrong.
Amongst Amy's pleasures during this happy time, one of the greatest was a visit to the rectory with Miss Morton, on the afternoon preceding Christmas-day. Their reception was even more affectionate than usual; and as they walked home, the distance seemed only too short, whilst she listened to Emily's praises of the persons whom, next to her mamma, she most loved and venerated.
"To-morrow will be Christmas-day," she said, as she lingered in Miss Morton's room on her return; "and the next day Miss Cunningham will be here; so I suppose we shall not be able to get a walk to the rectory again, yet; but if you would tell me when you go out, that I may be with you if I can, I should be so very glad. You know I like you so much better than Miss Cunningham."
"I doubt if Miss Cunningham is a favourite with any one but your cousin Margaret," was the reply; "but she has so much to spoil her, that I do not think we ought to be hard upon her."
"It is so odd that you should pity her, as you always do," said Amy. "Now I should like so much to be her,—that is, not herself, but to be my own self, with her rank and fortune; and then I would get such a pretty little room for you, and you should come and live with me, if you would."
"And do nothing all day but amuse myself?"
"No, not that. I know you never would bear to do nothing; but you should teach me music and drawing as you do now, and we might have Rose with us too—it would be so nice."
"And it is so nice to teach you music and drawing, and to have Rose with me, and to live in a comfortable little room. You see, I have it all."
"Ah, yes!" said Amy; "but then there are some things, now—tiresome, dreadful things—which you never should have to bear if you lived with me. And I would love you so dearly, so very dearly."
Miss Morton drew Amy more closely to her, and gave her one of those kisses which she had lately begun to value far more than words.
"I should grieve very much," she said, "if I did not think you loved me dearly now—there are but few left in the world who do."
"But you have mamma to love you besides," said Amy; "and Mrs Walton, I am sure she must be fond of you; and sometimes, perhaps, she will ask you to stay at the rectory; and mamma and I can go there too, and then there will be no one to interrupt. I am so glad Miss Cunningham does not know Mrs Walton."
"Perhaps, so am I too," said Emily, smiling; "but we must try and be agreeable to her on Saturday."
"Ah! Saturday," repeated Amy, sighing; "all my pleasure will be over then—real, quiet pleasure, I mean. On Monday the other people come, and Dora says, that as I am her cousin, I shall be expected to help to entertain them. But I never did entertain any one in my life; I don't quite know what it means. I suppose it is talking and showing pictures; but one can't do that all day."
"Your cousin Frank comes to-night," replied Emily, laughing; "and he is so merry, that he will take half the trouble off your hands."
Amy's face brightened. "I forgot that; but then they are girls—boys cannot entertain girls. I do think, if I had but a fairy's wand, I should strike them all as they came into the house, and change them into boys, and set them to play at football and leapfrog, and all the trouble would be over. But I am not Dora; and if they are dull they will not complain of me."
Susan Reynolds here interrupted them with a message from Mrs Herbert; and Amy left Miss Morton with her mind in an uncomfortable state, having forgotten the pleasure of her visit to the rectory, and thinking only of the difficulties of the next week, and of all the strange faces she was to see.
The morning of Christmas-day was in every respect as bright and beautiful as Amy could possibly have desired. The clear sky was unclouded, and its brilliant blue was rendered only the more lovely from its contrast with the leafless branches which were pencilled against it. The lawn glittered like a sheet of silver, and the dark hues of the holly and the laurel exhibited in full perfection the richness of the crimson berries, and the delicacy of the pure hoar-frost with which they were covered. There was an elastic feeling in the air, which would have given strength and refreshment even to the weary watcher by the bed of sickness. All nature seemed to rejoice, and Amy awoke to rejoice also. Too young to have anxiety for the future, or sorrow for the past, she felt only that she was in the place she most delighted in, under the care of the mother whose only wish was for her happiness, and surrounded by all the means of enjoyment that wealth could give. True, the wealth was not her own; but it was, at that moment, entirely devoted to her comfort, and the present was too full of pleasure to leave any space for envy and discontent. Even the remembrance of her father could not check the gaiety of her spirit, for she had not yet learned to feel that "hope deferred maketh the heart sick." Every day brought with it the expectation of hearing from him; and when the expectation was disappointed, there was left in its stead, not the wretchedness of doubt, but the blessing of hope for the morrow.
Her first thought on that morning was given to her mother; the next to her cousin Frank. He had arrived late the night before, so late, that she had been only able to remark the mixture of delight at his return home, and sad recollection of the one missing, who ought to have welcomed him, which had been shown by all, and by none more than Dora; and Mrs Herbert, unwilling to be any restraint upon them, had sent Amy to bed, and soon after retired herself.
This had been rather disappointing; but Amy had satisfied herself that he seemed very lively, and was more like Margaret than Dora; and for any further knowledge she was obliged to wait in patience till the breakfast-hour. It was usual for her cousins to breakfast in the schoolroom with Miss Morton; but on Christmas-day there was an exception to almost every general rule, and they were all to be together, even Miss Morton being admitted as one of the party, although the little attention that was shown her, nothing indeed beyond the merest civility, made it an occasion of far more pain than pleasure.
Frank, when he appeared, was in the highest possible spirit, full of his school adventures, and the characters of his playfellows, and told several stories in the regular school-boy slang, which Amy could not at all understand; but his presence took off much of the stiffness and restraint which every one else seemed to feel before Mrs Harrington; and she herself occasionally relaxed into something like a smile as she listened to his merry laugh. Amy had rather dreaded the society of a boy—she had never been accustomed to it, and imagined he must be boisterous and rude; but with all his spirits, Frank Harrington was still so gentlemanly that she soon felt at ease.
"Will the carriage be wanted to go to church this morning?" said Mr Harrington. "Amy, my dear, do you think your mamma will venture out this cold weather?"
Amy was afraid not; she had been to her mamma's room, and had found her so tired and unwell, that it was most probable she would not come down-stairs till the middle of the day.
An expression of anxiety and disappointment came over Mr Harrington's countenance. "That is bad news for Christmas-day," he said. "I would give a great deal, Amy, to procure your dear mamma such a bright colour as you have. I well remember the time when she would have walked to Emmerton church and back twice, and laughed at the notion of being tired afterwards."
"Every one in these days is grown weak and sickly," said Mrs Harrington, in her usual severe manner; "that is, if they are not so really, they fancy it."
Amy thought this might be meant for her mamma: and she would certainly have said something in reply, but for the fear of being disrespectful.
Mr Harrington, however, had no such fear; and answered, that he should be very glad to believe Mrs Herbert's illness imaginary, for it would take a most painful load off his mind.
"But she is better, a great deal, than she was, uncle," said Amy; "she walked several times round the shrubbery at the cottage, the day before we came here, and did not seem at all tired afterwards."
"Several times round a shrubbery, Amy!" exclaimed Frank; "why that must be a walk for a snail. What do you say to a walk of six miles and back before breakfast? I knew a boy who did it just to buy a new cricket-bat; and a fine scrape he got into when he was found out."
Amy looked all proper surprise at such a wonderful feat; and Frank, delighted at finding a new auditor, kept her for the next quarter of an hour, repeating his most extraordinary adventures, with such spirit, that Amy at last began to think there would be more amusement in being a boy, and going to a public school, than even in the possession of all the splendour which usually formed the subject of her day-dreams. The church bells prevented any further conversation, and she was glad to escape from Frank's merriment for the enjoyment of a quiet walk with Miss Morton, who had more than ordinary pleasure in being with her on this morning, from having felt so much alone in the midst of a family party. Christmas-day had never been to her what it is to many, for she had never known the happiness of having all her relations about her; but she could recollect the time when it was spent at home, with her father and mother, and she sighed now to think how little the blessing had then been valued.
Amy was walking with her cousins in the rectory garden, which adjoined the churchyard, when Mr Walton came to her, after the conclusion of the service, to inquire for her mamma.
"And your uncle, too, my dear," he said, "I want very much to see him; what can have become of him?"
"There he is," said Amy, pointing to a group of persons standing by the gate; "he is talking to Mr Dornford, and Frank is with him."
"He must introduce Frank to me," said Mr Walton. "Besides, I have something particular to say to him. How did you tell me your mamma was to-day?"
"Very weak and poorly," replied Amy; "but she seemed better when I left her."
"Ah!" said Mr Walton, half muttering to himself; "I doubt if it will be right; it may only excite a false hope—there will be no harm in delay."
"What?" exclaimed Amy, who just caught the last words, "delay, did you say?—what delay?"
"Nothing, nothing," answered Mr Walton, hastily. "I wish your uncle would not make me delay here; he does not generally speak to any one when he leaves the church, but to-day he is having quite a conversation."
Amy looked earnestly at Mr Walton, with the conviction that this was only said to distract her attention; and an indefinable feeling of mingled dread and curiosity took possession of her mind. But there was nothing to satisfy her. The expression of Mr Walton's countenance was cheerful as usual; and Amy, though very quick in perception, was not quite old enough to perceive a trace of thoughtfulness beneath it. She did notice, however, the quick, impatient glances which he cast towards the churchyard gate, and the restlessness of his manner as he paced up and down the little walk leading to it, venting his uneasiness by kicking away the leaves and broken sticks lying in his path. In another person it would not have been remarkable; but she was so accustomed to see Mr Walton perfectly composed, that in an instant it awakened her attention. The parting words were at last said; Mr Dornford walked away; and Amy hoped that in a few minutes her curiosity might be set at rest. But she was disappointed. Mr Walton eagerly seized her uncle's arm, and drew him aside. A short conversation ensued; and then Mr Harrington called out that they had better not wait for him, but walk home alone, and he would follow. Amy really felt uneasy, and yet she could hardly tell why, but her mamma's constant anxiety had in some degree infected her; and anything like mystery immediately made her think of Colonel Herbert. Miss Morton listened to her fears with interest, and did her utmost to calm her mind, telling her that, in all probability, Mr Walton's business was something connected with his parish, and that it was unlikely, almost impossible, he could have heard anything from India; but she advised her not to mention her notions to her mamma till after her uncle's return, as it would only make her needlessly uncomfortable; and if there were anything to be told, she would not be kept long in suspense. Amy hearkened, and tried to believe; and had been so used to depend upon the opinions of others, as to be almost persuaded she had been fanciful without reason, while she readily promised to say nothing of her anxiety; but she could not recover her usual happy spirits; and when they reached Emmerton, instead of going immediately to Mrs Herbert's room, she petitioned Miss Morton to walk once more with her to the lodge gate, that they might see when her uncle arrived. He waited, however, so long, that Amy herself grew weary of watching, and was the first to propose returning to the house.
"You will be tired," she said to Miss Morton, "and then we shall not be able to go and see Mrs Walton this afternoon. You know, you promised you would, if you could manage it, because you did not like to wait behind after church; and I should be so sorry to miss it, for we always used to dine with her on Christmas-day; and she will be so vexed if she does not see either mamma or me."
Miss Morton acknowledged herself cold, though not tired; and, at any rate, it was useless to stand longer at the gate, for, after all, there might be nothing to hear; and Amy repeated for the twentieth time, that she did not really think there was anything, though, at the same instant, she ran a few steps down the road, just to look once more round the corner.
Mrs Herbert was dressed, and more comfortable, and had many questions to ask, as to whether Amy had had a pleasant walk, whether she had spoken to Mr Walton, and whether Mrs Walton found her rheumatism worse than usual; and Amy, seated by the window, endeavoured to answer them all, with her mind wandering to other things, when the sudden appearance of Mr Walton and her uncle, on the terrace below, made her stop short and exclaim, "There they are, both of them. I think there must be something."
The next moment brought her to recollection; but there was no retracting what had been said,—she was obliged to explain; and the change in her mother's countenance, and the subdued tremulousness of her voice, soon gave her reason to repent her incautiousness.
"This will not do," said Mrs Herbert, endeavouring to command herself. "Amy, my love, tell your uncle I should wish to speak to him immediately."
The message was, however, unnecessary. Mr Harrington had seen Amy at the window, and now, pausing in his walk, begged to know if he might be allowed to come up. "And Mr Walton is with me," he added. "May he come too?"
"Yes, directly," was Amy's reply. Her mamma was just wishing to see them both; and in a few minutes their steps were heard along the gallery.
Mrs Herbert turned very pale; and Amy stood by her, kissing her forehead, and trying to soothe the agitation she had so inconsiderately excited.
"It is quite unnatural," said Mr Walton, as he entered, "to pay you a visit on Christmas-day;—a sad falling off from former times. I have been half quarrelling with Mr Harrington for not allowing you to adhere to the ancient fashion, and dine with us; but he declares I am very unreasonable."
Mrs Herbert attempted to smile, but the effort was too great.
"You are feeling ill to-day, my dear Ellen?" said Mr Harrington, kindly, taking her hand.
"No, not ill," replied Mrs Herbert, faintly; "that is, not worse than usual, but anxious—very anxious. Oh Charles!" she added, looking eagerly in her brother's face, as if wishing to read there all she longed to know, "have you anything to tell me? In pity, do not keep me in suspense."
The tone in which this was spoken prevented anything like further delay.
"It is nothing bad," replied Mr Harrington; "and yet it is not so decidedly good as to allow one to build upon it. Mr Walton has had a letter from a friend in India, in which he says, that the accounts of the war have been greatly exaggerated; for, in fact, there has been nothing more than an insurrection in one of the provinces, which is now quelled; and there was a report that Colonel Herbert had joined his regiment, which had been sent some way up the country."
Mrs Herbert did not speak in answer; she drew one long breath, as if her mind had been relieved from a dreadful weight; a calm, sweet smile of deep happiness passed across her yet beautiful features; and then, covering her face with her hands, she silently blessed God for His great mercy. "May I see the letter?" was the first question she asked when the effect of the intelligence had a little subsided.
Mr Walton produced it instantly, saying that he had brought it for the express purpose of showing it to her. "Not," he continued, "that there is anything in it beyond what Mr Harrington has just told you. The circumstance is mentioned in the light careless way in which we all speak of things of no importance to ourselves, but which may, perhaps, affect even the lives of our fellow-creatures. My friend Campbell had no notion how deeply it would interest me."
Mrs Herbert seized the letter, and read the sentences again and again; but, as Mr Walton had stated, there was nothing further to be gained from them, though every word was examined and weighed; as yet, it was only report; and with this Mrs Herbert was obliged to be contented. "I see," she said, looking at her brother, who was evidently wishing, yet afraid to speak, "you are anxious lest I should build too much upon this; but I hope I shall not. Whatever trial may be in store, it would be almost cruel to deprive me of a few weeks of hope."
"I am only afraid of the consequences of a disappointment," replied Mr Harrington; "but I cannot give sermons to any one, especially to you, so I shall leave you with Mr Walton; his advice will be much more efficacious than mine."
"Here is a better sermon than any words!" said Mr Walton, as he patted Amy's head, when her uncle was gone. "For your child's sake, you will not, I am sure, allow either hope or fear to have too powerful an effect upon you. I do not think either of you is well fitted to bear any great excitement."
Amy's countenance certainly showed that Mr Walton's words were true; every tinge of colour had faded from her cheek, and her bright dark eyes were dimmed with tears, which she was using her utmost efforts to repress. She had been silent, for she felt too much for words; her hope was far more certain than her mother's, since it had not been so often chilled by disappointment; and the dreams of happiness which filled her mind were for the present without a cloud.
"Yes," said Mrs Herbert, in reply to Mr Walton's observation, "Amy is indeed a motive for every exertion; it would be a hard thing to cause her anxiety for both her parents."
Amy tried to speak; and hardly understanding her own feelings, was almost ashamed to find that her tears were more ready than her smiles at this moment of happiness. "Dear, dear mamma," she exclaimed, "we shall never be anxious now. And you think he will be here soon?"
"Wehopeeverything that is delightful," said Mr Walton, "but we do notthink certainlyabout anything; so, my dear child, you must be contented as yet to go on just as you have done for the last twelve months; and you must let me talk a little to your mamma alone. I am sure she will never be able to reason calmly while that little earnest face of yours is before her."
Amy felt slightly inclined to rebel, as it seemed almost wrong that she should be sent away from her mother at such a time; but she had never been accustomed to dispute Mr Walton's wishes; and left the room to make Miss Morton and Dora acquainted with the intelligence her mother had received.
Miss Morton's room was the first place she sought; and the next quarter of an hour was spent in telling her of all that was to be done when Colonel Herbert returned,—how they were to talk, and ride, and walk, and the alterations that were to be made at the cottage, and the places he was to take her to see; and Emily, though feeling that the foundation of all this happiness was insecure, could not make up her mind to check such simple, innocent hopes. The same things were again repeated to Dora in the schoolroom; and Margaret would have had her share also, but the indifferent tone in which she said, "Dear me! how strange!" when informed of the tidings from India, quite chilled Amy's flow of spirits; and she hastened away to find a more sympathising listener. Dora's interest in her cousin, and all that concerned her, had lately so much increased, that it was no effort to her to listen as long as Amy felt inclined to talk; and she was sorry when Miss Morton appeared, to remind her of the intended walk to the rectory, and to ask whether she still wished to go.
"Oh yes!" said Amy, "if mamma does not care about my leaving her. I do so long to see Mrs Walton now more than ever; but I will just go to mamma's room and ask her."
Mrs Herbert's conversation with Mr Walton had been long and engrossing; and this, added to the previous excitement, had so fatigued her, that she was looking much worse than in the morning; and Amy resolved at first not to mention the walk, and took up a book as if not wishing to go out. But Mrs Herbert never forgot the pleasures of others, and would not for an instant allow her to think of remaining at home, declaring that rest and solitude would be better than any society, and that it would be a much greater pleasure to hear an account of the visit on their return than to keep her by her side during the whole afternoon. Amy was only half-satisfied; but it was in vain to say that it was only the thought of the morning, and she was very much pleased with her book, and should be quite happy in reading it. Mrs Herbert insisted, and she went.
Mrs Walton's disposition was more sanguine than her husband's. She had seen less of the world, and had heard and known less of its disappointments; and her fondness for Mrs Herbert made her seize upon every prospect of comfort for her, so eagerly, that there was no fear of Amy's hopes being again damped by any warning; and, perhaps, that hour's visit was as full of delight to her as it was to the happy child, who, seated at her feet, looked up with a face so innocent and gay, that it seemed impossible to dread lest any evil should be near to mar her enjoyment. There was also a charm to Mrs Walton in watching Miss Morton's interest in her little companion. She had a quick perception of character, and was peculiarly sensible of anything like selfishness of feeling; and she had often observed that, when persons have suffered much themselves, they seem unable to enter into the pleasures of others. But affliction had produced a very different effect upon Emily Morton; and now, though she had lost both her parents, had been obliged to leave her home, and had no prospect for the future but one of painful dependence, she still smiled as cheerfully, and spoke as hopefully to Amy, as if no thought of the difference in their situations had ever crossed her mind.
"You must take care of your dear mamma," were Mrs Walton's parting words. "Colonel Herbert will look very blank if he returns to see the pale cheek she has now; for his sake, tell her she must endeavour to get strong."
Amy promised to be very watchful, and had no doubt that everything would be right. But Mrs Walton was not so well satisfied, and drew Miss Morton aside, to ask more particularly how Mrs Herbert had borne the intelligence. Miss Morton could give her little information, but undertook to send a note to the rectory in the evening to ease her mind; though at the time the request was made Mrs Walton acknowledged that it was apparently absurd to be so anxious.
"You would not wonder at it, however," she said, "if you knew all that Mrs Herbert has been to me for many years; even during the lifetime of my own child, she was almost equally dear to me, and since that great loss, I have, felt as if she were left to be my special treasure. I need not say toyouthat she is deserving of all, and more than all, the affection I can give."
"And her child is exactly similar to her," replied Miss Morton.
"Yes," said Mrs Walton; "how could the child of such parents be different? There is but one thing in which she does not resemble her mother—her disposition is naturally more lively and hopeful. It would require, probably, very much affliction to destroy the buoyancy of her spirits; and I would willingly pray that many years may pass before she is so tried, unless it should be required for her good, for it would be a bitter thing to lose the sound of her merry laugh, and the brightness of her smile."
"It would make Emmerton very different to me," said Miss Morton. "As I have often told you, I could hardly have supposed before, how much interest and pleasure may be added to life by one so young;—a mere child, as she really is, and yet with thoughtfulness and consideration which make me fancy her much older. My most earnest wish is, that Rose may one day be like her."
Amy's approach interrupted the conversation; and Mrs Walton parted from Emily Morton with a warmer feeling of affection, from the entire correspondence of their feelings towards her.
The happiness of Amy's mind was a peculiar blessing at Emmerton on that day. It was Christmas-day; and every one knew that it was a time for especial enjoyment, though, perhaps, few of the party could have satisfactorily explained the reason why, and fewer still could have entered into the joy which none but a Christian can feel on the celebration of the Birth of their Redeemer. It was a duty to be cheerful, and yet almost every one had a secret grief which prevented them from being so. Mr and Mrs Harrington could not forget all that had passed within the last twelvemonth; and Dora and Frank sighed many times as they missed their favourite companion;—even Margaret, though she had suffered much less than the others when Edward died, could not be insensible to the change in the family, and wandered about the house complaining that it was not at all what Christmas-day used to be; but Amy had no such recollections to sadden her, and soon enlivened her cousins by the influence of her own gaiety, notwithstanding the shade which was occasionally cast over it, when Dora reminded her that by that time on the following day she would probably be occupied in trying to understand Mr Cunningham's unintelligible language.
Saturday came, and with it the expected guests; and at a very awkward hour, just about twelve o'clock, when there was a long afternoon before them, with nothing to be done. Amy had made up her mind that they could not possibly arrive before four or five. It was some distance from Rochford Park to Emmerton; and she was sure there must be a great deal to do before they set off, and, in consequence, she had calculated upon seeing very little of either Mr or Miss Cunningham on that day. Her dismay, therefore, was extreme, as she watched from the gallery window, and saw the carriage slowly driving down the avenue. She was not, however, required to entertain them, for it was her duty to attend upon her mamma; and in the afternoon there was an engagement to walk with Miss Morton and Rose to Stephen's cottage, to inquire how he was getting on after his attack of gout, and carry him a new flannel-waistcoat, which Rose had taken great delight in helping to make. There was, therefore, no fear, she thought, of seeing much of Miss Cunningham, except at dinner-time; and as for her brother, he would probably not come in the way at all. And having thus relieved her mind, Amy returned to her mamma's room, delighting more than ever in its quietness and privacy.
Mrs Herbert was still very unwell; she had passed a sleepless, anxious night, at one moment anticipating Colonel Herbert's return with the utmost confidence, and the next picturing to herself all the bitterness of disappointment; but she made many efforts against this distrust, and tried to feel, what she knew to be true, that whatever might happen, it would be for her good, and that she should be supported under it.
Miss Cunningham appeared in the schoolroom in all the splendour of her new winter dress, made after the last Parisian fashion, and, for the first time, regretted that Amy was not present to be overpowered by such magnificence. Dora was the only person there, and it was useless attempting to make an impression upon her; she had no eyes for anything belonging to Miss Cunningham; and her arrival at such an early hour was so unexpected and disagreeable, that it required some effort to be civil to her. "We did not expect you till dinner-time," she said, after the first greeting was over, in a tone which plainly meant, "and we did not want you."
"Oh!" replied Miss Cunningham, "papa had some business in the neighbourhood, and so he insisted upon our setting off at eleven; and a great bore it was. I am sure Warren must have spoiled half my dresses by packing them in such a hurry. My new-worked muslin, I suspect, will be quite unwearable, and the French gray silk not much better; and as for the white silk, and the pink crape, and my morning dresses, I am quite unhappy about them. The only two which I feel at all sure of are the figured lilac satinet, and the pale green poplin—those I saw her put in myself."
The tone of pretended indifference in which this was spoken irritated Dora almost beyond endurance; perhaps the more so, because she was sensible of having been at times guilty of the same folly. "I have no doubt the dresses will do very well," she answered. "A lady's-maid always understands how to pack; and if they should be injured, it will not signify, as far as the appearance goes, for there is no one coming here who will take the smallest notice of what you have on."
Miss Cunningham looked and felt extremely mortified, and evidently showed it by the tone in which she said, "I thought you were going to have a large party, and a dance, and all sorts of things."
"What a strange idea!" exclaimed Dora. "What should we have a dance for?"
"I thought everybody had dances when they asked their friends at Christmas," said Miss Cunningham; "that is to say, we have been accustomed to it when we have visited people of our own rank in the county; but I suppose it is not the custom amongst common people."
"Perhaps not," replied Dora. "Of course, we can tell nothing about them; but whether it is the custom or not, it would make no difference to us. Papa and mamma generally do as they choose, without caring about the rest of the world."
"And will there be nobody, then?" asked Miss Cunningham, with a sudden pang, as she thought of the green poplin, and the white silk, and the pink crape, wasting their splendour upon Mr and Mrs Harrington.
"Just a few people," was the reply; "the young Dornfords, and their papa, and one or two others."
"What, boys! school-boys!" exclaimed Miss Cunningham, in horror; and before Dora could answer, Margaret came into the room in particularly good spirits, and with a manner which formed a singular contrast to her sister's. The embraces were so fervent, the expressions of affection so warm, that a common observer might have supposed, with reason, that this was the first meeting after an absence of several years, between very dear friends, while Dora looked on with a curling lip, and a contracted brow, and a secret rejoicing that she was not in Margaret's place.
"When you have done kissing, Margaret," she said, at length, "perhaps you will just listen to me. Amy wishes to dine to-day at half-past one; and mamma has no objection, and so it is to be."
"Really, Dora," replied Margaret, "it is very rude to attend to Amy's wishes instead of Lucy's. I always thought relations were to be thought of last."
"Amy wishes to dine at half-past one; and mamma has no objection, and so it is to be," repeated Dora, with a manner which she intended to be dignified, though it was only very cross.
"Don't mind her," half whispered Margaret to Miss Cunningham; "it is only her foolish way; we need not dine earlier than we choose for Amy. It really is too absurd to think of giving up to her, and I shall speak to mamma about it."
Dora pretended not to hear this speech, and left the room satisfied with having exhibited her authority and carelessness of Miss Cunningham's feelings, and dissatisfied, in her secret heart, by the consciousness of having been extremely unamiable. She met Amy on the stairs; and the sight of her gay, innocent face, which seemed quite a reproach, had seldom been so unwelcome; but it was impossible to vent any anger upon her, and hastily passing, Dora shut herself up in her own room; while Amy, who had lately been quite unused to such a manner from her cousin, could only wonder in silence what had happened to discompose her.
Miss Cunningham, in the meantime, relieved from Dora's presence, felt no scruple in giving way to her expressions of dislike to Amy; and, with great earnestness, endeavoured to inspire Margaret with similar feelings. It was so strange, so unusual—such a very great liberty, for a cousin to think of choosing what time every one else should dine; really, she could not have imagined that Mrs Harrington would allow it; but she had always observed that Amy Herbert was very much at her ease; in a little time she would have everything her own way. "Of course, I don't mean to speak against her," she continued; "only I know a family just like yours, Margaret, where there was a cousin brought up, and at last her uncle and aunt really became fonder of her than they were of their own children."
"There is no fear of that with mamma," replied Margaret; "I am sure she does not care a straw for Amy. Papa is different. I do think, sometimes, he takes a good deal of notice of her; but then, you know, she is not brought up with us; she is only here on a visit."
"That does not make any difference; I am quite sure, if you do not take care she will stand in your way in everything. Papa said, the other day, that he thought Mrs Harrington would have consented to our going to London, only she remembered your cousin; and then she declared, as she should feel obliged to take her, the plan would not do."
Margaret's vexation was very great, yet she could not entirely enter into her companion's antipathy; she had felt too much the charm of Amy's sweet temper and obliging disposition to be able cordially to abuse her. But Miss Cunningham loved the sound of her own voice too well to require an answer; and the expression of her own likings and dislikings was all that was important to her. "George provokes me so," she said, "he does nothing, now, but lecture me from morning till night, and wish I was like her. Really, I think he might find some one my own equal in rank for me to imitate, if he is so dissatisfied. I told him, as we were coming here, that if he said anything about her being with us in London, I would not go till next year; and I may have quite my own way about it. So I have put a stop to that."
Margaret was annoyed, though she did not like to appear so. Miss Cunningham's superior age and rank kept her always considerably in awe; but she was painfully struck by the want of ladylike feeling, which had induced her friend to speak in such terms of so near a relation.
Miss Cunningham, however, could never discover when she had said or done anything amiss. From her childhood her perception on such subjects had been singularly obtuse; and nothing in her education had served to quicken her knowledge of character; she went on, therefore, in the same tone, with the full impression that all her observations must be agreeable. "Dora tells me that there is no one invited here but a parcel of school-boys and girls; and really, I must say, it was hardly worth while to come six miles this cold weather merely for them—of course, I thought there was to be a dance."
Margaret endeavoured to explain her sister's statement. There were to be some boys, certainly, as companions for Frank—but there were to be other people besides; and, indeed, her mamma had sent out some more notes only this morning, because Dora said that she would rather have a great many to entertain than a few.
"Then there will be a dance," said Miss Cunningham. "How are you to amuse yourselves else?"
"It would be very nice," replied Margaret; "but I don't quite think papa and mamma have any notion of it. You know Christmas is not now what it was last year, when Edward was alive."
"Oh yes; to be sure—I know all that. Of course, you were all very miserable, and cried a great deal at the time. I remember I was dreadfully wretched when my little brother William died. Indeed, mamma said she never knew any one with such strong feelings in her life. But, then, it is all past now; and it is right to be cheerful, and try and forget it."
"I wish you would ask mamma," said Margaret, "She would listen to you, at any rate; and she could not be angry at any proposal from you. It certainly would be a good way of amusing them."
"I don't mind, in the least, asking," answered Miss Cunningham. "I never did mind it, from a child. Mamma says it surprises her to see how little of the stupid shyness I have, which makes other girls so disagreeable. Let me see,—I shall wear my white silk, I think; there is a blonde fall to go with it, which makes it look beautiful. That or the pink crape. Pink suits my complexion best; but then it is not quite so dressy. There is a picture of some great lady in the saloon at Rochford, which papa says is just like me in my pink crape. Mary Queen of Scots, I think it is, or Queen Elizabeth—I don't know which; only it is a queen of some kind. What shall you wear?"
"Oh!" said Margaret, sadly, "you know we are not yet out of mourning, so we can have nothing but white; only I wish mamma would give us new dresses."
"Of course she will. You can't possibly have a dance without a new dress; nobody ever heard of such a thing. My white silk is quite new; and the pink crape I only put on one evening for papa to see. We shall dance, I suppose, in the hall. And how many persons do you think there will be?"
Margaret had some difficulty in following the swiftness of her companion's imagination. It was very delightful to picture the hall, brilliantly lighted up and filled with company, and herself exciting every one's admiration by the side of her plain friends But then came another idea, not quite so agreeable,—Mrs Harrington's stern features and look of surprise, when the plan should be first proposed. Margaret trembled as she thought of it; and, but for Miss Cunningham's unshrinking courage, the wish for the ball would soon have passed away. When a fancy, however, takes possession of a weak, selfish mind, there is but little room left for any other consideration. Miss Cunningham's mind was of this description; it was seldom capable of retaining more than one idea at a time, and whatever that might be, it was all-engrossing. A little while ago, the journey to London had occupied every thought; now, her only wish was, that a dance should be given at Emmerton; and she was so firmly resolved that it must take place, that every obstacle, every notion of propriety, sank into nothing.
Margaret listened, and wondered, and wished, and at last ended in agreeing that a dance was quite necessary for their happiness, and for the happiness of each of the other members of the family, Mrs Harrington included; and that the only way to manage it was for Miss Cunningham to talk to her mamma about it that very day.
The first thing that startled Margaret from her new dream of enjoyment was Dora's look of astonishment when informed at dinner of their intentions. "Do you really mean," she said, turning to Miss Cunningham, "that you are going to tell mamma we ought to have a dance this Christmas?"
"Yes," was the reply. "I half thought of talking to papa about it first; but he might make some objection; and George might say no—so it is best to go at once to Mrs Harrington."
"And do you recommend Miss Cunningham to do it?" asked Dora, looking at her sister.
"Yes, why should I not?" said Margaret, half frightened. "Do you think mamma will be angry?"
"Try, that is all," replied Dora.
"Perhaps," said Miss Morton, "Miss Cunningham is not quite aware of the painful circumstances which might make Mrs Harrington unwilling, at this time, to give so large a party."
Miss Cunningham looked, in answer, astonished at hearing such an observation from Emily Morton in her presence. She did not, however, think the remark worthy of reply in words, and continued her account of what she thought ought to be done, and then again repeated her intentions with regard to her dress, ending by saying to Amy, "I suppose you have a white muslin; that will be well enough, as you are such a child."
Dora's amazement at Miss Cunningham's boldness was so great that she made no attempt to prevent her following her own inclinations; besides, she rather enjoyed the thought of her being put down by Mrs Harrington, and therefore ate her dinner in dignified silence; whilst Amy, whose astonishment was not less than her cousin's, felt she had no right to interfere, though she did hope something would be said to induce Miss Cunningham to refrain from taking so great a liberty.
But, perhaps, Margaret was the person who felt most uncomfortable. At first the notion of a dance had been so agreeable that every objection was overlooked; but Dora's manner had recalled her to herself, and she began heartily to wish that the thing had never been mentioned; for if her mamma were spoken to, her name was sure to be brought forward; and when dinner was over, she endeavoured most anxiously to inspire her friend with a little awe, by hinting at her own fears, and Mrs Harrington's particularities. But she hinted in vain. Nothing but the plainest meaning in the plainest language could ever be understood by Miss Cunningham; and Margaret was at last obliged to beg that she would speak to her papa, and get the plan suggested by him.
Dora was in the room whilst this was passing, and still secretly desired that the original intention might be persisted in; and at first there appeared every probability of it; for Miss Cunningham stared, pouted, and seemed quite puzzled at the idea that anything she could say could be taken amiss. However, if Margaret were really silly enough to be afraid about such a trifle, she would do as she wished, but merely to please her; she only rejoiced that she was not kept in such leading-strings herself.
"It would be a good thing if you were," muttered Dora, as she sat by the window, looking with a careless eye upon the quiet, wintry beauty of the garden.
It would have appeared lovely and peaceful had the tone of her mind been the same; but the contrast was too great to please her. The bright sky brought no cheerfulness to a heart discontented with itself; it only caused a sigh for the vanished pleasures of the summer; and the white frost, which still hung on the evergreens, called forth nothing but an exclamation against the miserable cold weather, and the desolation, wretchedness, and dulness of everything and everybody in the month of December. Amy was gone for her walk with Miss Morton; Frank had set out for a ramble with his papa; they were stupid and disagreeable, and to be pardoned for leaving her behind, after she had refused the entreaties of both to go with them, only when they were compared with Margaret and Miss Cunningham, who was at that moment more unendurable than ever. She really could not remain any longer listening to her never-ending chattering; and in the most desperate fit of ill-humour, with which she had been afflicted for weeks, Dora put on her bonnet and cloak, and sallied forth for a solitary walk. In which direction to go she was undecided; the shrubbery was dull, the hill was cold, the park not fit for a winter's walk, and the terrace far too near the house to be agreeable; and, as a last resource, she determined on finding her way to Stephen's cottage, in the hope of meeting Amy, though she had never before taken the trouble to visit it.
The path led along the side of the hill, which was covered by the Emmerton plantations, and then emerged into some open fields, though one of which flowed the deep, rapid stream, which at Emmerton almost expanded into a lake. A wooden bridge across the water, and a narrow lane, then led to Stephen's cottage, which stood alone in its small, neat garden, showing, even in winter, symptoms of the care and taste bestowed upon it. The beauty of the walk was, however, wholly lost upon Dora; she only felt that it was very cold, and would have returned home could anything have been found within doors at all more alluring than the severity of the weather without. The sound of approaching voices first roused her from her discontented reverie; and, as she looked hastily round, she perceived her papa and Frank coming down the hill.
Mr Harrington expressed surprise at finding her alone so far from the house, and objected to her proceeding farther, laying some blame on Miss Morton for not having accompanied her. Dora's ill-humour did not interfere with her usual quick sense of justice; and lately she had become peculiarly sensible to the habit which prevailed at Emmerton, of making Miss Morton bear the burden of other people's faults; perhaps, too, some compunction for having occasionally been guilty of the same offence, though not in an equal degree, made her now very desirous of explaining the truth. Mr Harrington was easily satisfied; he had rather an interest in Miss Morton; she was so quiet and unobtrusive and lady-like, and never troubled him with complaints; but he insisted upon Frank's accompanying his sister, if she still wished to go farther; and though Dora declared there was no doubt of meeting Miss Morton in a few minutes, he would not hear of her being left alone—and Frank, much against his inclination, was obliged to remain.
"We had better go at once to the cottage, Frank," said Dora, when her father was gone; "we shall be sure to find them there; and I dare say they have been kept longer than they intended, talking to old Stephen."
"And who is Stephen?" said Frank.
"Oh! I am sure, I don't know," replied Dora; "only an old sort of servant of grandpapa's, who always has the gout. He was steward, I believe, once. I never trouble my head much about him; but Amy talks a good deal of him."
"And what makes you go and see him, then?" said Frank.
"Nothing at all, but because I wanted something to do, and Amy andMiss Morton were gone, and I could not bear staying at home with MissCunningham."
"How you sigh! Dora," said Frank; "and how grave you look. I don't think you have laughed heartily once since I came home."
"There is nothing to make one laugh that I can see," said Dora, "in this gloomy old place, and the dull, cold weather."
"We were never dull at Wayland," replied Frank; "and the weather was much worse there last winter than it is now."
"Well, I don't know what it is," said Dora; "but everybody is grown so cross here, there is no bearing it; and it is not at all like Christmas time."
"Wait till Monday," answered Frank; "we shall be merry enough then; the young Dornfords are coming here quite early, that we may have some skating on the lake."
"Young Dornfords, indeed!" exclaimed Dora; "what good will that be to me? I shall not skate."
"But you used to like watching us," said Frank, in a disappointed tone.
"Times are changed," answered Dora, shortly; "I shall not like it now."
Frank turned away from his sister, and walked some paces off, thinking all the time how disagreeable she was, and how much pleasanter the walk home with his papa would have been. His own disposition was so happy, that he could neither understand nor endure one which was the reverse, and Dora's age and character made him always feel rather in awe; so that he could not tell her, what he saw was the fact, that the fault of everything lay in herself, and her own discontent. Silently and sulkily Dora walked on to the cottage; as they passed the window, she had a full view of what was going on within—and as she looked, her feeling of dissatisfaction increased. The room was small, but extremely neat, and ornamented with a few prints and pictures, and some wooden shelves, on which were ranged all Stephen's most valuable treasures—a large Bible, in two volumes, which had descended to him from his grandfather, "the Whole Duty of Man," given him by Mrs Herbert's mother, and several other books of a similar kind—all presents from different members of the family; some curious old cups and saucers, presents likewise, a wooden knife, made from the horn of the first buck which he had seen killed, the handle of the first whip he had used when he became coachman at Emmerton, and, above all, the leading rein with which he had taught all the young gentlemen and ladies to ride. There was a story attached to each of these relics—and Amy, though she had heard them a hundred times, still listened with pleasure as they were repeated again and again; and when Dora looked, she saw her seated on a low stool by Stephen's side, with her hand resting on his knee, while he was explaining to Miss Morton how nearly Mr Harrington had met with a serious accident when he first mounted his Shetland pony. There was poverty in the cottage (or what at least seemed such to Dora), and sickness, and pain, for Stephen had been very ill, and was even then suffering considerably; and yet she could not look upon it without something like a feeling of envy. Stephen was resigned to his illness, and grateful for its alleviation. Amy had forgotten herself entirely, and was watching with delight the interest Emily Morton took in hearing her old friend talk; and Emily was thinking of the many blessings which God has granted to soften the trials of life, and was learning a lesson of cheerful resignation, which none but herself would have imagined she required. Dora was young, and she had never been taught to think; but there was something in the general appearance of the cottage, and in the expression of the old man's countenance, which spoke more forcibly than any words. She had youth, health, and riches; he had age, sickness, and poverty—how was it that he could smile while she sighed, that he could be grateful when she was discontented? She did not put the question into words, but the feeling was so painful that she could not wait to think about it, and hastily knocking at the door, hardly awaited for an answer before she entered. Amy uttered an exclamation of surprise and pleasure, and Stephen half rose from his seat to do honour to his unexpected visitor.
"I hardly thought ever to have seen you here, Miss Harrington," he said, trying to be cordial, and yet not able entirely to conceal his sense of the neglect which he had experienced. "'Tis so long since the master came back to the Hall, and none of you young ladies have found your way here before, that I began to think it wasn't the fashion now to go about as it used to be."
"Oh! I don't know," replied Dora, who would willingly have been indifferent to the reproof which she felt was implied; "your cottage is so far off, Stephen, and the days are getting so short."
"So they are, so they are," answered Stephen; "'tis all very true, Miss Harrington; but somehow in the old times people did not think about far off and short days;—not that I mean to complain; for you know the Bible tells us we are not to ask 'why the former days were better than these.'"
"Here is my brother come to see you, too," said Dora, turning to the door to look for Frank, who had lingered on the outside. "You cannot find fault with him, for he only arrived on Thursday."
"Master Frank!" exclaimed the old man, while his clear, gray eyes were lighted up with an unusual expression of pleasure; "but you don't mean he is here, only coming?"
"No, not coming," said Amy; "really here; I saw him just now."
Stephen tried to move from his chair in his impatience to ascertain if her words were true; but he was not able to walk without assistance, and sank back again with a half-uttered expression of regret, which made him the next instant murmur to himself, "'tis God's will; and 'tis fit we should learn to bear it."
"Here he is, really!" exclaimed Amy, as Dora re-entered the cottage, followed by Frank. "I am sure, Stephen, you did not quite believe us."
Stephen only answered by taking Frank's hand in his, while, for a few moments, he fixed a deep, earnest gaze upon every feature of his countenance.
"Yes, it's like, very like," at length he said, in a low voice, as if speaking to himself; "like his mother, like all her family; but I could have loved it better if it had been different."
"Oh Stephen!" exclaimed Amy, who had caught the words, notwithstanding the tone in which they were spoken, "if you say so, Frank will think you are not glad to see him."
"No," replied Stephen, "there was never one of the name of Harrington that could think that yet, Miss Amy. The young gentleman will learn soon enough that it does my very heart good to look at him; but 'tis natural for an old man to think most of them that are gone—and, somehow, 'twas a foolish fancy, but I thought that maybe he might have his father's face too; but he hasn't not half so much as the young lady there; and she must be like Master Edward, for the people at the Hall tell me he was the very image of the master."
Dora had moved to the window on the first allusion to her brother, but, struck with Stephen's manner, she now came forward, and said, "Do you remember what any of us were like, Stephen, when we left Emmerton?"
"Remember!" repeated the old man. "Who wouldn't remember those who were as his own children? Ah! Miss Harrington, 'twas a sad day when the master told me he was going; but 'twould have been still more sad if I had known that there was one who was never to return."
Dora tried to restrain the tears which glistened in her eyes; and again she would have turned away, but Stephen prevented her. "And did you love him then so much," he said, earnestly, forgetting, at the sight of her distress, the neglect and indifference which he had so much felt. "Ah! 'twas right and natural, for he was the flower of all; and bitter it must have been to lose him, for 'twas your first sorrow; but if God should spare you to live as many years as I have done, Miss Harrington, you will learn, when you lay your treasures in the cold earth, to thank God for taking them out of a sinful world."
"It is hard for Miss Harrington to think so now, Stephen," said MissMorton, fearing lest his words and manner might increase Dora's grief."At her age there is so much to hope for, that it is impossible toexpect it."