"And I don't expect it," said Stephen; "I only tell her so now, that she may think of my words when I am gone; and I know that they are true, for I have felt it. I had four once, and I loved them all as my own life. The master himself and the family were not nearer to me, nor so near as they were; and when the first of them was carried to his grave, I thought that my heart would have broke; but God gave me to think better afterwards, for He sent me many a hard trial; and so, when my spirit was turned in a manner from the earth, He called for all the rest, one after another; and I watched them till the hour of their death, and heard that their trust was in Him; and then I laid them to their rest, and blessed Him for His mercy, for I knew that sickness and sorrow might knock at my door, but they could never knock at theirs."
There was a moment's pause after the old steward had spoken, for none but Miss Morton entirely understood his meaning—even Amy, though she had often heard him talk in the same way before, thought it strange; and she stood looking in his face, and wondering whether it could be possible for herself or her cousins ever to feel like him. Stephen smiled as he watched the expression of her countenance. "You don't half believe me, Miss Amy," he said, "any more than I believed you when you said the young gentleman was come to see me; and, perhaps, 'tis as well you don't; only 'tis fit for us all to think betimes that we are not to stay here for ever, and to expect to find things hard as we grow old; for so we learn to look above, and then it may be God may see good to spare us a long trial, and call us early to Himself."
"To die!" exclaimed Amy, in a half-frightened tone.
"It sounds hard," said Stephen; "and yet God only knows how great a blessing it may be. But you need not look so sad, Miss Amy, the time may be very far off; and, when it comes, you may have learned to think like me; and there may be many a happy day in store for you all, only it may be near too,—aye, near even to that little one there, who looks as if she had never known what sickness was."
Amy looked at Rose; and certainly it did seem more difficult than ever to believe the truth of Stephen's words. She had left the rest of the party, not caring for what was passing, and was standing by the door, amusing herself with the antics of a young kitten, as it tried to catch the piece of cork which she held just out of its reach. Her bonnet had fallen back, and her bright, chestnut hair hung in clustering ringlets about her neck; the glow of health and happiness was on her cheek, and her dark eyes sparkled with delight, and her little hands were clapped in ecstasy at every fresh movement of the kitten; and, as Stephen spoke, she burst into a merry laugh, when the tiny animal, showing unusual agility, seized upon the cork, and, to her great surprise, carried it off in triumph.
"You will make us all melancholy, Stephen," said Miss Morton, as she watched the thoughtful expression of Dora's face. "My little pet has never known an hour's real illness from the day of her birth, so we will not begin fearing for her now."
"No, not fear," replied Stephen; "only," he added, in a lower tone, "'tis an angel's face; and at times I have thought that it was fitter for heaven than for earth. But I didn't mean," he continued, aloud, "to talk about such grave things just the first day of the young gentleman's visit. It isn't my way, Master Frank, in general, and so you shall know if you will come and see me again; and please God I get strong upon my legs, I shall hope to show you a good many things I've got together down here. There's the goats, that are as tame as children, and the old hunter that's been turned out to grass for these half-dozen years,—there isn't such another beauty in all the country round; and then there are the ponies that I had brought from the hills to train for the young ladies,—maybe you'd like to see them now; my grand-daughter will show you where they are."
Frank, who had felt strange and uncomfortable during the last quarter of an hour, gladly seized upon the idea, and the whole party immediately proceeded to inspect the ponies, followed by Stephen's lamentations that he could not exhibit them himself. Frank was just beginning to fancy he understood the merits and demerits of horses, and therefore examined them with a critical eye, and with every wish to show his knowledge by finding fault; but there was very little to be said against them—in colour and shape, they were almost perfect of their kind; and Frank's admiration, and Dora's earnest entreaties that they might be sent immediately to the Hall to be tried, soon recompensed Stephen for the disappointment he had at first felt respecting them. "To be sure, they are very well," was his reply to Amy's question, if he did not think them more beautiful than any he had ever seen before; "but they don't come up to the old ones, Miss Amy. There was the chestnut, that your own mamma used to ride when she was no bigger than you; that was worth looking at; not but what these are very well,—very well, indeed, for those who never saw any better."
"Ah! Stephen, that is so tiresome of you," exclaimed Amy, half laughing and half vexed; "you always will bring up something or other to make one discontented; you never can think that anything now is as good as it used to be."
"Well, so it is," said Stephen; "and when you come to my age, Miss Amy, you'll feel the same; not but what there is one thing which I like better now than all, and that's your own dear little merry face; 'tis always a comfort to look at it; and in the old times I didn't want comfort as I do now."
"And Dora, and Frank, and Margaret, will all come and see you now," said Amy, "and Miss Morton and Rose too. You will have so many visitors, Stephen, I am afraid you will get tired of them."
"They'll be welcome—all welcome, at all hours," answered Stephen, "any of the family; and if, please God, the Colonel should come back, as they say he will, why I think I shall begin my life over again,—'twill all seem so old and natural."
Amy's eyes brightened at the idea. "I want some one to tell me how long it will be before he can be here," she said, "that I may count the days; but they all say it is uncertain, and I must not think about it; but I do think about it all day long, and so does mamma, though she does not say much."
"'Twill be a blessed day," said Stephen, "when it does come; and if it please God, I pray that I may live to see it. Sometimes I have thought I could die more happy if I could see young madam smile as she used to do."
"Well, Stephen," interrupted Frank, who was becoming impatient, "you will send the ponies up the first thing to-morrow, won't you? No, not to-morrow though; to-morrow is Sunday; let them come up to-night."
"Why, Frank," said Dora, "what good can that do? Monday morning will be quite early enough; you cannot possibly try them before."
"But 'tis his wish. Miss Harrington," said Stephen, "and 'tis the first thing he has asked of me; so, if there's no offence to you, 'twould be a pleasure to me to have them up at the Hall to-night, and one of the grooms can quite easily come to fetch them."
Frank's smile spoke his thanks; and Dora, pleased at anything which made his holidays happier than she had feared they would be, took a most cordial leave of Stephen, and left his cottage in a much better mood than she had entered it.
"I think," she said to Amy, as they walked home, "that there must be something very pleasant in going to visit poor people when they are comfortably off, like Stephen; they must be so glad to see one, and there is nothing to make one melancholy; but I can't say I should like getting into those dirty holes which some people have such a fancy for."
"Oh Dora!" exclaimed Amy, "I can't think any one really likes dirty holes, as you call them; but, you know, if no one were to look after them, there would be nothing done for the people who live in them."
"But why do they live there?" said Dora; "why don't they have neat cottages like Stephen's, and look cheerful and be grateful for what is given them? I have heard people say that it is all their own fault being so miserably off, and that there is no good in doing anything for them."
"Only," replied Amy, "a good many people have no work, and then of course they have nothing to live on."
"How do you know?" asked Dora; "do you ever go and see any of them butStephen?"
"Oh dear, yes!" replied Amy, in a tone of surprise; "all the people in the village I know quite well; mamma always takes me with her to their cottages."
"And does aunt Herbert like going?" said Dora.
"Yes, very much, except when she is tired and ill; but she goes just the same; and they are so fond of her."
Dora looked thoughtful, and said that it must be a great deal of trouble.
"Sometimes it is," said Amy; "but mamma always seems better when she comes back."
"There is not anything done for rich people when they are unhappy," saidDora; "no one thinks of trying to give them pleasure."
"Do you think that is quite the case?" asked Miss Morton. "I should have said that there was care and kindness shown to every one every day of their lives."
"Not to me," said Dora, "excepting, of course, from papa and mamma."
"I fear," said Miss Morton, "we should be very badly off if our parents' care were all that we had to depend on."
"I know what you mean." replied Dora, thinking for a moment; "but then the blessings which God sends are so different from the trouble which people say rich persons ought to take about the poor. Of course, He can do everything."
"Yes," said Miss Morton; "and when we think of His infinite power, we can hardly imagine that His actions can be any example for us; but there was a time when He condescended to live upon the earth; and we do not find then that He shrunk from taking trouble, as we call it, to do good."
Dora was silent and uncomfortable; she was beginning to get a faint notion of the extent of her duties, and of the care and thought which she ought to bestow upon her fellow-creatures as well as herself; and she turned from the idea in something like despair, fearing that it would be quite useless to attempt fulfilling them.
Amy watched her, and saw that something was amiss; and leaving Miss Morton, she went to the other side, and put her hand within her cousin's without speaking.
The action was understood; and again Dora felt self-reproach, as she noticed the gentle consideration of one so young, and thought of her own pride and selfishness. "I should like to go with you some day," she said, "when aunt Herbert takes you amongst the cottagers, just to know what you say to them, and how you behave."
"I never say anything," replied Amy, "except, perhaps, just to ask them if they are better; but I like hearing mamma talk to them."
"But there can be nothing said that you can care about," observed Dora.
"Yes, indeed, there is, generally," answered Amy. "I like to hear about all their children, and I like to hear them tell mamma about their being ill and poor. I don't mean that I wish them to be ill and poor, but it is very nice to see how mamma comforts them, and it gives me pleasure to hear her talk to Mr Walton about them; and when I go home, the cottage always seems so much larger and more comfortable than it did before. I never wish then that we had a larger house and more servants."
"And do you ever wish so now?" asked Dora.
Amy blushed, but answered without hesitation: "I am afraid I do wish it very often; but I know it is so wrong that it makes me very unhappy."
"Wrong!" exclaimed Dora; "how can it be wrong? Every one in the world wishes for something or another; not that you would be one bit better off, Amy, if you were to live at Emmerton to-morrow; at least, I think you are much happier than I am."
"Mamma says the same," replied Amy, "and of course she knows best; only it does not seem so—but I know it is wicked in me to indulge such feelings."
"That is so silly," said Dora; "how can it be wicked when everybody has them? Don't you think now, Emily, that every one wishes for something better than what they possess?"
"Yes," replied Miss Morton, "but some persons wish for things that are right and good, and others for those which are wrong, and this makes all the difference."
"There can be no harm in houses and servants," said Dora.
"Only," said Miss Morton, "that they are apt to make us think proudly of ourselves, and despise those who are without them; and that at our baptism we promised to renounce the pomps and vanities of the world."
"Then what would you have people think of and long for?" asked Dora.
Amy looked at her cousin with a slight feeling of surprise at the question; but Miss Morton did not appear to consider it strange, for she answered immediately: "I think if persons were quite good as they ought to be, all their wishes would be for the blessings which are promised us in the Bible, and that they would care no more for earthly grandeur than a person who is passing through a foreign country does for what he may see there, when he has much better things at home."
"What," exclaimed Dora, "not think about having comfortable houses, and pretty places, and plenty of money! we might just as well all be poor at once."
"Perhaps," said Miss Morton, "you may remember a verse in the New Testament, which says that the poor are blessed. It is very hard to believe, but if the Bible tells us so, it must be true."
"That is just what mamma would say," observed Amy; "but I don't think I quite like to hear grown-up people talk so, because I am sure it is right to think it; and yet it seems quite impossible, and as if it would make one always melancholy; only you are not melancholy," she added, looking at Miss Morton.
"It would not be possible for any one at your age to feel like a grown-up person who has had a great many trials," replied Emily; "but it is quite right for you to try at once to overcome your longing for grandeur and riches, because it is one of the lessons which we are sent into the world to learn, and one of the best ways of learning it, is by doing what Miss Harrington mentioned just now,—going amongst poor people, I mean."
"I don't see what that has to do with it," said Dora.
"If the poor people we visit are happy," replied Emily, "we shall see that God has given them pleasures quite independent of those we value so much, and we shall learn to think them of less importance; and if they are unhappy, we shall thank God for having placed us in a different situation; and whatever may be our trials, we shall bear them with far greater patience, when we see what the poor are forced to endure. A visit to a sick person, in want, will often do more to make us contented and grateful than all the sermons that ever were preached."
"Do you really think so?" said Dorn, gravely; "I wonder whether it would make me happier."
"Will you try?" asked Miss Morton, eagerly. "Will you, if Mrs Harrington has no objection, go with me some day, and see the poor people? Mr Walton has often said he wished you would."
"Oh Dora! do go," exclaimed Amy; "I should be so delighted if you knew them all, as mamma and I do."
"I don't know," answered Dora; "mamma will object, I am sure."
"But just try," persisted Amy; "never mind if she does say No; there is no harm in asking."
"Ah! but mamma's 'No' is different from aunt Herbert's," replied Dora; "it always means she is angry."
Amy felt this was true, and could not urge her cousin to do what she knew would be so alarming to herself; and Miss Morton's experience of Dora's disposition was sufficient to render her aware, that to urge anything was the most certain method of making her determine upon not doing it. She, therefore, was silent, and the conversation dropped, for they had now nearly reached the Hall; but it did not pass from Dora's mind. It had given her a new idea of duty, and a hope of increased pleasure and interest, in a way which was not only innocent but good; and before she again met Miss Morton she had determined upon making the request to her mamma, that she might be allowed to go into the village, even at the risk of encountering her awful frown, and very decided "No."
The visit to Stephen's cottage had so engrossed Amy's mind, that she had for the time entirely forgotten Miss Cunningham and the dance, and even the dread of Mr Cunningham's conversation; but when the evening came, and they were to appear in the drawing-room, she felt a considerable degree of trepidation, and dressed herself much more reluctantly than usual, lingering in her room, in her anxiety to delay the awful moment, till she found that her cousins had left her to go down stairs alone. Mrs Herbert was tired, and proposed remaining by herself all the evening; and there was, therefore, no alternative for Amy, but to summon all her courage, and earnestly hope that no one would take any notice of her. This hope, however, was vain, for Mr Cunningham perceived her instantly, and seemed as much determined as before to enter into conversation. Perhaps he might have had more compassion, had he known what was passing in Amy's mind, and how anxiously she longed to be seated by Dora, at the other end of the room; but he was so accustomed to be understood by his own family, that he was not aware of the pain he inflicted upon strangers, especially upon a shy, timid child, and his only wish was to take notice of one whom he fancied others, and especially his sister, were inclined to neglect. Amy stood by his side, blushing and trembling, and trying to understand, and feeling really grateful for his kindness in troubling himself about her, but, at the same time, strongly inclined to laugh, as she watched his strange grimaces. Once, however, she caught Margaret's eye, and saw her slily attempting to imitate him, and in an instant she recovered herself, and making a greater effort to comprehend what he was saying, soon found it comparatively easy. After a few observations on indifferent subjects, Mr Cunningham made some inquiries about Colonel Herbert; and Amy's heart was quite won when he told her that he recollected him before he went to India, and that every one loved and esteemed him, and that he looked forward now with much pleasure to his return; and she then ventured to ask the question to which she had not been able hitherto to obtain an answer—how long it would be before her papa could arrive. Mr Cunningham, with great good-nature, began calculating probabilities; and Amy was more than recompensed for her previous attention, when he said that, now the insurrection was over, there was no doubt Colonel Herbert would be able to leave India immediately, and that, probably, he would be with them almost as soon as a letter could reach them to announce his return; he might even be in England before they heard from him; and as he spoke, Amy turned to the door on the entrance of a servant, with a vague fancy that even then her father might be near. Her cousins observed, with surprise, the notice that was taken of her; Dora felt pleasure, and Margaret envy; for she recollected her conversation in the morning, and already began to imagine that Amy would be put before her in everything; but Miss Cunningham would have disliked it more than any one, if she had not been occupied in watching for an opportunity to speak to her papa upon the subject of the dance. Margaret had suggested that it would be an inconvenient moment; but Miss Cunningham never allowed time or propriety to interfere with her wishes, and eagerly seizing Lord Rochford's arm as he finished his conversation with Mr Harrington, she drew him aside, and in an audible whisper commenced her entreaties. Lord Rochford listened, and smiled, and patted her shoulder, and called her his pet and his darling, but at first did not seem quite inclined to agree with her, and all that she could obtain was the promise that he would think about it. This, however, did not satisfy her impatience, and she declared she would not let him go till he had really promised to mention it. Lord Rochford saw the impropriety of the idea, and the objections which Mr and Mrs Harrington might very naturally make to it; but his daughter's will was all-powerful with him, and he hesitated, and half consented, and then looked at Mrs Harrington, and retracted, till Miss Cunningham, seeing her advantage, became so very urgent that the attention of every one was directed to her. Mrs Harrington could not help perceiving that the subject under discussion was one in which she was interested, yet she sat immovable, with her eyes fixed upon her work, thinking it contrary to all the rules of propriety to interfere; but Mr Harrington was not so particular.
"You have a most indefatigable petitioner there," he said, as he caught Lord Rochford's eye. "I wonder you have not yielded long ago, from mere weariness."
"Clever girl, clever girl," said Lord Rochford; "knows her own power; but it is not my affair, or she would have had her own way before this, I am afraid."
"Miss Cunningham looks as if it were something in which I am concerned," said Mr Harrington. "I should be most happy to give her pleasure."
"Yes, now, did I not say so, papa?" exclaimed Miss Cunningham. "I knew Mr Harrington could have no objection. It is only that we all want a dance this Christmas, like every one else. There is the hall, which will do so beautifully for it, and every one will enjoy it so much; and I brought a dress here on purpose."
Dora's countenance betrayed her vexation, when she found herself included in the general "we," and she turned with anxiety to her mother's, when the proposition was made. Mrs Harrington still kept her eyes on her embroidery, and appeared not to remark what was passing; but Dora saw that she bit her lip, and contracted her brow, and she well knew that a storm was at hand. Mr Harrington only looked grave and pained.
"I do not think," he said, "this is quite the time for such an entertainment; and I should have hoped that Dora and Margaret's feelings would have prevented their wishing it. It is a different thing having a few friends in the house, to whom we are desirous of showing a little attention, and giving such a party as you mention. Even if we felt the inclination, which we are very far from doing, common propriety would be against it."
This was rather too long a speech for Miss Cunningham to listen to attentively; but she discovered that it meant "no;" and, unmindful of the annoyance expressed in Lord Rochford's face, and his muttered "Yes, yes, to be sure, I told her so—girls are so obstinate," she hardly waited till it was ended, before she was at Mrs Harrington's side, asking her most earnestly to consent.
Mrs Harrington slowly raised her eyes from her work, and, in a voice which sounded in Dora's ears like the murmuring roll of distant thunder, begged to be informed what it was she wished her to do.
"To have a dance," exclaimed Miss Cunningham, even then feeling but little doubt of her success: "a delightful dance in the hall; just such a one as Sir Francis Egerton gave at Tweeddale Park last year."
"And may I ask," inquired Mrs Harrington, calmly, "who Sir FrancisEgerton is, and why his actions are to be an example to me?"
"Oh, he is a cousin of ours," replied Miss Cunningham. "Mary Egerton is just my age; and she opened the ball."
"Indeed! then, in my opinion, she would have been much better employed with her studies in the schoolroom."
"You cannot really be in earnest," persisted Miss Cunningham; "it was the most charming thing in the world; and every one was so happy."
"Very probably," replied Mrs Harrington, again returning to her work.
"That is so kind of you," said Miss Cunningham; "then you will have no objection. When shall it be?"
"Never, with my consent," answered Mrs Harrington, rising in extreme indignation at what she considered impertinence and want of feeling. "My daughters have been strangely forgetful to allow such a thing to be mentioned. Dora, at your age, I should have thought you would have known better."
Dora instantly commenced an excuse, but stopped short in the middle, feeling the awkwardness of laying all the blame upon her sister, and her visitor; and Mrs Harrington, who had at first listened with the quiet determined air of a person resolved beforehand to accept no apology, turned from her, and began assuring Lord Rochford that she was quite aware that Miss Cunningham had nothing really to do with the business—she merely acted as spokeswoman for the rest. Of course, no young lady of her age would venture to make suggestions of the kind without being supported by others; adding, "I blame my own children, not her."
This was more than Amy could endure. She had been standing by Mr Cunningham's side during the discussion, with all the unpleasant sensations of being herself guilty; and her colour went and came, in the dread every moment that her aunt would include her in the reprimand. Margaret had quitted the room upon the first symptom of a storm; and there was no one but herself to vindicate Dora. It was a great effort, but she felt that it must be made; and, walking up to Mrs Harrington, she said, in a low frightened voice, "Indeed, aunt, I heard Dora, at dinner-time, telling them you would not like it."
"That is right," said Mr Harrington; "never let anyone be accused unjustly. I was sure Dora could not wish it. As for Margaret, she is so young and thoughtless, that it is not to be wondered at."
"It is all very well," said Mrs Harrington, who was far too angry to allow of any justification; "but Dora should have prevented its being named. She is the eldest; and Amy, too, though so much younger, is quite old enough to know better."
Poor Amy, for the moment, heartily repented having spoken, and returned to her former position with the thought that she had only made matters worse by interfering; but she remembered afterwards that she meant to do rightly, and that it was better to be blamed wrongly than really to be in fault. Miss Cunningham, in the meanwhile, satisfied with finding that she had escaped censure, cared little what any one else might be feeling, and carelessly taking up a book of prints which lay upon the table, began turning over the leaves with an indifferent air, much to the increase of Mrs Harrington's anger, which was in reality as much directed against her as against her own daughters, though politeness had induced her to conceal it.
The pause that ensued was felt by every one to be extremely awkward. Mr Cunningham wished to make some excuse for his sister; but his nervous anxiety rendered his articulation more difficult than usual, and after several efforts he coloured deeply, and gave up the attempt.
Lord Rochford fidgeted, first on one foot and then on the other, and at last walked across the room to get out of the reach of Mrs Harrington, who still stood looking as if she considered some one ought to make apologies; and seeing that something was expected from him, returned again to say that it was a thoughtless thing, perhaps, of the young people, but it would not do to be too hard upon them; they meant no harm.
"The excuse for everything," was all Mrs Harrington's reply; and Lord Rochford moved away with thoughts which it would have been uncivil to utter.
"Come," exclaimed Mr Harrington, feeling rather ashamed that so much had been said; "I quite agree with Lord Rochford, that no harm was intended. You know, Charlotte, they could not be expected to feel as you and I do; and besides, after all, we had thought of giving them something like an evening's amusement, though not quite what Miss Cunningham proposed. There is a celebrated conjurer just arrived in the neighbourhood, and we had settled that he should come here on Wednesday to exhibit, if the young people fancied it; and then afterwards, if they choose to get up a quadrille just among themselves, I daresay Miss Morton will play to them."
Amy felt very much relieved at the turn which this was likely to give to the conversation, though she little cared what amusement was proposed, if she could only see her aunt resume her seat and her work; but Mrs Harrington appeared to be struck by the idea of a fresh person with whom to find fault, for she repeated quickly to herself "Emily Morton! yes, she ought to have prevented it," and immediately left the room. Her absence at once caused a sensation of freedom and relief. Miss Cunningham, though inclined to imagine that conjuring tricks were rather vulgar, still felt sufficient curiosity to make some inquiries about them; and Amy, to whom all things of the kind were entirely new, began expressing her pleasure to Dora, and when Mrs Harrington returned, followed by Miss Morton, the storm had apparently passed away. Miss Morton's countenance was as gentle and calm as usual; but there was a slight nervous agitation in her manner, which Amy had learned to notice as the consequence of one of Mrs Harrington's lectures; and, when at Lord Rochford's request, she sat down to the piano, to perform her thankless task of playing and singing for the general amusement, her voice trembled so much as to oblige her to give up the song which had been asked for, and only attempt an instrumental piece.
Amy stole quietly to her side, and, with a look and voice which were fully understood, asked if she might be allowed to stand by her and turn over the leaves. There was a tear in Miss Morton's eye, though she smiled and thanked her, but Amy's attention gave her at that moment all that she required—the consciousness that some one was near who could feel for her; and in a short time she had recovered her self-command.
"Who was it I heard playing the airs in the last new opera, this morning?" said Mr Harrington, when Miss Morton had finished her piece. "Whoever it was seemed to me to be getting on extremely well."
Amy was going to answer, but Miss Cunningham prevented her. "I was trying them over after dinner," she said; "but I had never seen them before, and therefore, of course, I made one or two false notes."
"Oh!" exclaimed Dora, "there must be some mistake; for if you remember, you were at the piano just before I went out for my walk, and I heard you say you found them so difficult, you wondered any one could take the trouble to learn them. It must have been Amy—she has been regularly practising them."
"I don't know, indeed," replied Miss Cunningham, angrily; "I never heard her."
"I dare say Dora may be wrong," said Mr Harrington; "suppose you were to favour us now."
Miss Cunningham hesitated a little; but her self-confidence induced her to make the attempt, though it did not prevent her from blundering so sadly, that Mr Cunningham, in despair at the discordant sounds, at length walked to the piano, closed the book, and said in a low, stern voice, "Pray, Lucy, spare us any more; you must have known you could not play it in the least." There was no reply; for Miss Cunningham feared and respected her brother more than any one in the world, and saw that he was very much annoyed. Mr Harrington began to make excuses for her, and was unwilling that Amy should play instead; but he was forced to yield to Mr Cunningham's wish, and she was sent to the instrument; and, notwithstanding her alarm, satisfied every one that her talent for music was of a very superior kind. Even Lord Rochford, though vexed at his daughter's failure, could not help exclaiming, "Very good, very good, indeed—very correct time—who taught her, Harrington?"
"Her mamma was her only instructress for several years," replied Mr Harrington; "but latterly Miss Morton has taken her in hand, and I must say she does her infinite credit."
"Yes, certainly," said Lord Rochford, "very great credit indeed. What should you say, Lucy, to persuading Mrs Harrington to let you benefit a little by Miss Morton now, as a preparation for London? She would improve you, I dare say, even in these few days, and then when we were in London she might give you some hints as she saw you wanted them."
"Really," said Mrs Harrington, who thought this a very strange mode of appropriating the time and talents which were intended for the benefit of her own children, "it is quite useless to form any plans for London; I have every reason to be satisfied with the progress my children are making in the country, and shall not think of London masters at present; I have expressed my determination to your lordship in a very decided way from the first."
"True, quite true," replied Lord Rochford, feeling that the refusal had been very decided; "only people change; but we won't talk of London, you don't wish it, I see; but I should like this young lady to hear Lucy play over a piece or two while we are here."
Miss Cunningham's countenance expressed anything but amiability; and she gave her father a look which had often been found efficacious in preventing disagreeable plans, but his head was turned away, and she looked in vain; and the next moment he was at Miss Morton's side, praising her music, and begging, as a great favour, that she would take a little pains with Lucy, and hear her play occasionally; in fact, as Mr Harrington had said, take her in hand for a few days.
Dora could scarcely forbear smiling, as she observed the expression of Miss Cunningham's face—it told of pride, mortification, and anger; and Amy noticed it also, but she was not amused; she was sorry for both parties; for whatever might be Lucy Cunningham's disinclination to become Miss Morton's pupil, it certainly could not exceed Emily Morton's unwillingness to become her instructress. Lord Rochford shared his daughter's dulness of perception; and to complete the unpleasantness of the proposition, he spoke to Amy, hoping that she and Miss Cunningham would learn a few duets together. Poor Amy blushed, and tried, though with difficulty, to express acquiescence; and Mrs Harrington, observing her hesitation, reproved her for her rudeness, and assured Lord Rochford that Dora and Margaret would practise with Miss Cunningham whenever she wished it. It would be a more convenient arrangement, as Amy was only an occasional visitor; and though she had played tolerably well once, she had not received by any means the same advantages as her cousins. Amy could almost have cried with annoyance, but painful as it was to be so undervalued and misunderstood on every occasion, it was, in this instance, a very useful lesson to her, for it prevented the indulgence of vanity at being brought forward in so unusual a manner; and when she saw how Emily Morton was slighted, and remembered her meek, uncomplaining temper, she could only feel vexed with herself for caring so much about it, and long to possess a spirit as humble as hers. The events of the evening, though trifling in themselves, were not so in their consequence. Miss Cunningham went to bed angry with her father, angry with herself, and, above all, angry with Emily Morton and Amy. Of the affair of the dance, she thought but little, for she was not aware that any blame had been attached to her; but she had been foolish in attempting to play, and her father still more so, she decided, in teasing her with lessons, and making a fuss about Miss Morton, instead of depreciating her, and so increasing the difficulties in the way of the London expedition. Amy had been made her rival, and had gained approbation which might have been hers, and, above all, had been noticed by Mr Cunningham, whose last words, as he wished his sister good-night, were, that it would make him entirely contented to see her as sweet-tempered, humble, and unaffected as Amy Herbert. With these feelings the idea of their both going with the rest of the family to London, in case Lord Rochford gained his point, was most provoking; and very earnestly did Miss Cunningham hope that something might occur within the next two months to remove Emily Morton from Emmerton. In her absence, Amy was too much of a child to be cared for, but together they would form a very considerable drawback to the pleasure she expected; and she thought it would be preferable to give up the journey at once, than to be continually troubled with Miss Morton as an instructress, and Amy Herbert as an example. Amy went to her mother as usual, not quite satisfied with herself. The first elation had subsided, and she was aware of the evil feeling that had arisen in her mind, and at once acknowledged it to Mrs Herbert; and then, referring to the dance, she wondered that Miss Cunningham could have been so blind to the impropriety of the suggestion.
"I should have thought, mamma," she said, "that Dora's face would have shown her she was wrong."
"It does not surprise me," replied Mrs Herbert, "because the same thing happens continually with every one. Whatever we wish for we easily persuade ourselves is allowable."
"But there cannot really be any harm in wishing, can there?" said Amy.
"Only so far harm as it is the seed of all evil," answered her mother."If our wishes were good, our actions would be good also."
"But there are a great many wishes which are neither good nor bad, mamma—wishes, I mean, that are of no consequence."
"I think that is a mistake, my dear; we are so ignorant that we never can tell whether even a passing thought may not be of consequence; and, with regard to our wishes, the moment we see that we shall not be permitted to indulge them, we must try and get rid of them."
"I do not quite see why it is necessary," said Amy.
"Because," replied her mother, "our will ceases then to be the same as the will of God. There is a very fearful lesson given us in the Bible on this subject in the history of Balaam. He wished to go with the prince of Moab in the expectation of receiving a great reward, and God forbade him. His duty then was to conquer his inclination; but, instead of this, he only obeyed outwardly and still continued to wish, and at last he was permitted to follow his own way; but we are told that the anger of God was kindled against him."
"I see that he was wrong," said Amy, "but must we not wish for little things?"
"If we were quite good, we should never do so, my love; we should see plainly that even the smallest events of our lives are ordered for our good; and it is better to begin with controlling our wishes in trifles, and then we shall not be led astray by them in great things. Of course there is no harm in wishing for innocent things, as long as it is permitted us to enjoy them; but when they are put beyond our reach our wishes must cease."
Amy was too tired to converse more; but, although she felt that the idea was a difficult one to realise, she did not the less resolve on putting it in practice.
"I wish Frank would not make such a fuss about those stupid boys who are coming to-day," said Dora, as he left the room when breakfast was ended, expressing his great delight that Monday morning was at length arrived, and begging them all to make a point of coming down to the lake in the afternoon to see the skating; "it is bad enough to have a number of strange girls here, but really to be worried with rude boys is more than any one can bear."
"Perhaps they are not rude," said Amy.
"Yes, but they are," replied Dora. "I am sure they must be rude and awkward; I cannot bear them."
"But Frank, you can bear him."
"Oh, that is quite a different thing—not but what he is a torment sometimes; but I do not want to talk about them now. Margaret, please, don't go away; just help me to settle how we are to amuse ourselves when the people come. I have had such a lecture from mamma this morning about making ourselves agreeable."
"Dear me, I don't know," said Margaret; "let them take care of themselves; I daresay they will find something to do."
"There is the conjurer for Wednesday," observed Dora, thoughtfully; "but there are two days to that, and what shall we do with them till then?"
"Really," said Miss Cunningham, "I should think there would be quite sufficient amusement in being here and seeing the house; for you told me the other day they none of them lived in such a large place."
"Yes," said Margaret, "to be sure they can go over the house, and round the grounds."
"Round the grounds!" exclaimed Dora; "why it is going to snow hard."
"Well," replied Margaret, "I should never trouble myself about it beforehand; when they come they will amuse themselves, and if they do not like it they need not come again."
"That is not my way," continued Dora; "it would not be very agreeable to be told they had had a stupid visit at the house of the first gentleman in the county. We must have more ways of entertaining them than they can have at home."
"I can't think, though, what they are," said Amy; "but I daresay you will recollect something when the time comes; and you know, Dora, though I could not talk to any one of them as you can, I could play with the little ones."
"Ah! but I do not mind the little ones," said Dora; "they will be very happy with a doll, and Emily Morton will take care of them; but there are two or three great ones, the Miss Stanleys and Miss Warner, who have always been at school; I have not seen them, and I know they are coming early; people always do come early when one does not want them;" and Dora looked at Miss Cunningham, and thought of the last Saturday morning.
"We might talk for ever," said Margaret, "and it would be no good, and really I have no time to think about it now. Do, Lucy, come to my room, and look at that dress which you said could be altered like yours. Morris will have no time if it is not given her this morning, and I must go and talk to mamma before it is begun."
"That is just like you, Margaret," said Dora, "you never will help me; but mamma says you must try this afternoon, so it will be no use for you and Lucy to shut yourselves up in your room; you must come down, or she will be very angry."
Amy saw that Dora was gradually becoming extremely annoyed, and earnestly longed to soothe her, but she was rather afraid to interfere; she did, however, venture to say, that perhaps some of them might be fond of reading, and then there would be less trouble.
"Oh yes!" exclaimed Margaret, who did not quite like to go and yet was very unwilling to stay, "that will just do, Amy; they shall read, and then they will all be quite comfortable, and we may go our own way; I am so glad that matter is settled, I do so hate trouble and fuss."
"So we do all," said Dora, angrily, as Margaret hastily ran out of the room; "only some people are forced to take it. That plan of yours will not do at all, Amy, and I cannot think how you could be so silly as to propose it. School-girls never like reading, and if they do, they can have enough of it at home. What they ought to have here should be something to mark the place, something they should remember, something, in short, quite different from what they could find anywhere else."
Amy did her best to think, but it was all to no purpose; and Dora at last could only sigh and moan, and walk to the window and watch the weather, and wish that the snow would come down and keep them all at home.
"And snow Miss Cunningham in," said Amy, laughing.
"To be sure," answered Dora, "that would be rather odious. What a goose she made of herself last night, Amy, and how delighted I was when you had all the praise."
"So was I too," said Amy; "but I don't think I was right. I am sure, indeed, I was not; for I spoke to mamma about it afterwards, and she told me it was vanity."
"As for that," said Dora, "every one is vain."
"But then," said Amy, "we promised at our baptism that we would not be so; and mamma says that persons who are vain soon become envious, and that envy leads to very great crimes, and that if we indulge in vanity, we can never tell how wicked we shall become by and by."
"I cannot understand why you are always talking of baptism, Amy," said Dora; "it seems as if it had something to do with everything, according to your notions."
"According to mamma's notions, you mean; she reminds me of it so often that I cannot possibly forget it."
"But there is no one in the world who has kept the promise," said Dora; "and then they say we have such a wicked nature; what is the use of thinking about being good when we have no power to be so?"
"I do not think I understand it quite," replied Amy, "and I am sure,Dora, I cannot teach you, but I could tell you what mamma tells me."
"And what is that?" asked Dora.
"Mamma says," answered Amy, "that when we are born we all have very wicked natures; but that, when we are baptized, God gives us a new nature which is good; and that, when we grow up, we can do right if we really wish to do it, because we have the Holy Spirit always to help us; and once, when I made an excuse for something I had done wrong, by saying that it was natural, and I could not help it, she told me that it might have been an excuse if I had not been baptized, but that now it was no excuse at all."
"Then what are we to do?" said Dora; "no person really keeps their promise. How wicked we must all be!"
"Mamma says we are," replied Amy; "and that we ought to be so very careful about our smallest actions, and our words and thoughts, because it is so dangerous to do wrong now."
"But," said Dora, "I cannot see why people should be baptized, if it only makes them worse off than they were before."
"Oh! but indeed, Dora," exclaimed Amy, looking rather shocked, "it makes us better off than we were before,—a great deal better off; for you know the service about baptism says that we are made God's children, really His children; and that, when we die, we shall go to heaven, if we try and do right now, and beg Him to forgive us when we do wrong, for our Saviour's sake."
"I do not understand it," said Dora; "and I never heard any one talk about it till I came to Emmerton."
"I did not understand it half as well," replied Amy, "till mamma told me a story about uncle Harrington's birthday, and said that, when we were baptized, we were made heirs of heaven, just as he was heir to this place and all the property; and even now it puzzles me very much, and very often I cannot believe that it is all true; but I try to do so, because mamma says it is, and shows me where it is written in the Bible."
"But how can we tell that we have a good nature given us at our baptism?" said Dora; "I never feel it; I don't think I do anything that is right all day long; you may have a good nature, Amy, and I think you have, but I know I have not."
"Mamma says," answered Amy, "that being sorry for our faults and wishing to do better is a sign of it; and you know, Dora, you often tell me how much you wish to do right, and sometimes, when I have had a great many wrong feelings—vain feelings, I mean, and angry and envious ones—the only thing that makes me at all happy again, is because I feel sorry for it."
Dora sighed deeply. "I wish," she said, "that the bad nature would go all at once, I am so tired of wishing to do good, and always doing wrong, and then I begin to think there is no use in trying. It would be easier if I could believe that it was true about baptism, because then it would appear as if there was something to help me; but I have always heard people talk about having such a very wicked nature, till at last it seemed foolish to hope to be good, as if it were impossible; not but what I do try sometimes, Amy," she continued, with a sudden impulse to be unreserved, which she had occasionally felt when talking to her cousin since their little disagreement; "I do try sometimes, though I daresay you will not believe it, because I am so cross. I meant to have tried this morning, only Lucy Cunningham made me so angry by the way she twisted her head about, and the nonsense she talked at breakfast, that I could not help becoming out of humour with every one; and when once I am annoyed in the morning, I go on so all day; but you cannot understand that, it is so unlike you."
"I can, though," replied Amy, "for I very often am provoked when I watch Miss Cunningham, and hear her talk; but I try not to look at her, and to think of something else."
"I cannot do that," said Dora; "when she is in the room, I find myself watching her and listening to her, though I would give the world not to do it; for I am always longing to stop her, or say something sharp; and yet, when I do, I am so vexed with myself for it. I know nothing will ever go right while she is with us."
"Then you will not be uncomfortable long," replied Amy.
"But," said Dora, "I know very well that it is no use feeling properly only when everything goes as you like; what I wish is to have the power of being good always. There are some people who are never put out of humour—aunt Herbert for one; I long to be like her."
"So do I," exclaimed Amy, eagerly; "but then she is so very, very good; I don't think it is possible to be what she is; Mrs Walton says she never met with any one like her."
"That is what disheartens me; good people are so up in the clouds, where one can never get at them."
"I suppose, though," answered Amy, "they were not always so good. Mamma often says she did a great many naughty things when she was my age."
"I wish she would tell me what made her better, then," said Dora. "Did she ever tell you?"
"No," replied Amy; "all that she ever told me was what I ought to do myself to cure my faults; and she said that she would pray to God to help me."
"No one will ever promise that for me," observed Dora, sighing.
"But mamma will, I am sure," exclaimed Amy, eagerly; "and I——"
"Why do you stop?" said Dora.
"Mamma tells me to mention all your names in my prayers," replied Amy; "but I don't mean that that would be the same as her doing so, because she is so much better."
"I cannot see what difference that can make. I should like very much to think you did it always for me; but it must be such a trouble to remember."
"Oh no, Dora, it would seem so unkind not to do it; and if I thought you cared, I never could forget; but some day or other, when I am quite good, it will be of much more use."
"Does aunt Herbert think that no one must pray for others but those who never do anything wrong?" asked Dora, in a tone of surprise.
"No; she says we all ought to pray for each other, and that it is quite our duty. But we are told in the Bible that very good persons' prayers are heard particularly; and so mamma says that is one reason for trying to conquer our faults; because God will be more likely to attend to us then."
"I cannot think you ever had any faults to cure; you never could have been ill-tempered."
"Oh Dora! pray don't say so; it makes me think I must be so deceitful, for I am often ill-tempered, and I used to be so every day at my lessons."
"Then," said Dora, "you can tell me just what I want to know. What did you do to make yourself better?"
"I used to talk about it to mamma," replied Amy; "and one day particularly, I remember, I was very unhappy, and thought I should be cross all my life; and then she showed me a prayer which she had written out for me. It was taken from the Collects and the Psalms; and she begged me to repeat it every morning and evening, and once in the middle of the day, too, and try to think about it; and she marked some verses in the Bible, and gave me a short prayer besides—just a few words to say to myself when I felt that I was becoming out of temper; and she advised me, when I knew I had been doing wrong, in that or anything else, to go to my room instantly, and pray to God to forgive me; and after I had done as she desired for some time, and really tried very hard not to speak when I was angry, and to give up to whatever mamma wished, I found it much easier to be good-tempered."
"But," said Dora, "that is so much to do. I never heard before of any one saying their prayers in the middle of the day. Why should it be necessary?"
"Oh!" replied Amy, "if people do not pray, they never can have any help from God; and the Holy Spirit, which was given them at their baptism, will go away from them, and they will become dreadfully wicked."
"It is right for people to say their prayers every morning and evening, of course," said Dora; "but I must say again, I never heard of any persons doing it in the middle of the day."
"I thought a great many people did; at least I know I have read in the old times of some who said them seven times, and in the Bible it is mentioned. Don't you remember one of the lessons they read in the church about Daniel, and how he prayed three times every day?"
"Ah, yes! in the Bible; but then in the Bible every one does what is right. I never think the persons we read of there could be like us."
"They did not always do right, though," answered Amy, "because it very often says that God was displeased with them. You know how angry Moses was once, and how he was not allowed to go with the Israelites. Whenever I read that, I always think that I should have felt exactly like him."
"I cannot say I ever thought much about it," said Dora. "One hears it all in church; but I always am so sleepy on a Sunday, that I cannot attend."
"But I suppose you are not always sleepy when you read at home."
"I never do read at home now; we used to do it when we were children, for mamma taught us to read like every one else out of the Bible, but I thought of nothing but the hard words, and it always appeared a lesson book, and so I never looked at it afterwards. I forgot, though, on a Sunday we were accustomed to read a chapter, but we have left off that lately—I don't quite know why, except that we are too old."
"Too old to read the Bible!" repeated Amy, with a feeling of painful surprise that her cousin should have such ideas.
"I don't mean too old to read it at all," replied Dora, "but too old to be forced to do it."
"Mamma does not force me to do it," said Amy; "but it seems to come naturally; the day would be quite strange if we missed it."
"Do you mean to say that you read it every day, or only on Sundays?"
"Every day," replied Amy. "We always read the psalms and lessons the first thing after breakfast, except on Wednesdays and Fridays, and Saints' days, when we go to church."
"Go to church on the week-days!" exclaimed Dora; "who ever heard of such a thing?"
"I thought it was what almost every one did," replied Amy; "and I always fancied you would if you were not so far from the church."
"I cannot imagine what the good of it all is," said Dora.
"But it is ordered," replied Amy, "in the Prayer Book."
"I do not see that is any reason for it; its being ordered does not make it good."
"I once asked mamma some questions about it," said Amy, "and she told me that the Prayer Book was put together by very good men, who know a great deal better than we do what was right; and that it was composed from the prayers which were used a great, great many years before, just in the time after our Saviour died, and that they had made all the rules about the service and the Saints' days, according to the old customs; and so now, it was the law of the Church in England, and every one ought to attend to it."
"Every one does not attend to it, though," replied Dora; "at Wayland, no person ever thought of going to church except on Sundays."
"I believe," said Amy, "the Prayer Book says there ought to be service every day; and there are regular psalms and lessons marked in the calendar."
"Perhaps so; but I am sure if people were to go to church as often as you say, there would be no time for anything else."
"We generally manage to do very much the same on Wednesdays and Fridays as on other days; it is merely doing things at different hours."
"If I could only see the good of it, I should not care," said Dora; "but it is so strange to be always thinking so much of one thing; prayers at home, and reading the Bible, and going to church every day—I should get so tired of it."
"You would not be tired if you were accustomed to it, because it would come to you naturally, like eating, and drinking, and sleeping; and, besides, it prevents one from going on wrong all day."
"How do you mean?" asked Dora.
"Don't you know," replied Amy, "that when things are disagreeable in the morning, and one is put out of temper, it seems as if nothing would put one right again?"
"Well, yes!" said Dora, rather impatiently; "go on."
"Then," continued Amy, "if I am cross, and the time comes for reading the psalms and lessons, or going to church, or saying the prayer mamma gave me for the middle of the day, it stops me; because it seems so much more wicked to be cross in church, or when one is reading the Bible, than at any other time; and then I get better, and set off again fresh."
"That is the reason, I suppose," said Dora, "that you are never angry a whole day together, as a great many people are; but I cannot understand where you get the time for it all; does it never interfere with your walking or your lessons?"
"No," replied Amy, "because we reckon upon it beforehand; and when we are thinking of what is to be done in the day, we always remember that we shall be sometime in church or reading the psalms and lessons; and mamma arranges so as not to let it interfere."
"But still you must be tired of it," persisted Dora; "it is quite impossible that you should go on, day after day, and not wish for a change. I am sure I get quite tired of going to church on Sundays; and I do not know what I should do if I were obliged to go every day."
"I don't like it always," replied Amy, while the colour mounted to her cheek; "and I know I do not attend half as I ought; but I am sure it makes the day go right, and mamma tells me it will be pleasanter to me every year; besides, I know that if it were not for going to church and reading with mamma, and all that sort of thing, I should be so much more ill-tempered, and envious, and vain, than I am now, and then I should be wretched; for you don't know, Dora, what very bad feelings I have sometimes;" and the tears started into Amy's eyes as she spoke, at the recollection of the last Saturday evening.
Dora was silent; her own faults were so much greater than her cousin's, that Amy's self-reproach was more bitter than any reproof could possibly have been. If Amy were so grieved at the remembrance of an impatient word, or a passing thought of vanity, what ought she to feel whose whole life had been one of pride and self-will? She felt, too, as if she had no right to attempt to comfort one who was so much better than herself; and stood for several moments looking at Amy with wonder and interest, till the striking of the clock recalled her to herself, and, starting at the time they had spent together, she declared the day was half gone already, and there were a hundred things to be done before the people came.
"I had quite forgotten them," said Amy; "I think, Dora, I forget a great many things when I am talking to you."
"Do you?" said Dora, turning suddenly round to kiss her; "it cannot be any use to you to talk to me, because you have aunt Herbert to go to."
"I do like it, though, so very much," answered Amy, "and I think about it afterwards; but I wish I could help you in amusing every one."
"I must leave them to their fate," said Dora, preparing to leave the room, "for mamma wants me, I know; but Amy," she added, stopping, and apparently desirous, yet unwilling to say more; "I wish——no, never mind now."
"Oh! do tell it me," said Amy; "is it anything I can do for you? I should be so glad."
"No, nothing, nothing," hastily repeated Dora, though her manner was at variance with her words.
"But you must tell me," said Amy, seizing her dress to prevent her going; "I am sure you mean something; can I look out some books, or put the room in order, or get anything for you?"
"No, nothing of that kind; but, Amy, should you—should you very much mind letting me see the prayer aunt Herbert gave you?"
"Oh! if you would but let me give it you," exclaimed Amy, "for it is in mamma's handwriting; and I think you would like it all the better for that, and it is such a nice one; shall I go and fetch it?"
"I must not wait now," said Dora, "for I am after my time with mamma; but if you will put it in my room by and by, I should thank you so very much; and I shall always think of you when I look at it."
"And of mamma," said Amy; "and some day, perhaps, Dora, you will be able to talk to her as I do, and ask her anything you want to know."
Dora shook her head, for she believed she never could be unreserved with any one but her cousin, and hastened to her mamma's room, with a longing desire that she could go to her for advice as Amy did to Mrs Herbert.