Dora's time was so fully occupied for the rest of the morning that she was quite unable to form any scheme of amusement; and three o'clock arrived, and with it carriage after carriage, each bringing an importation of visitors, before she had at all decided upon what was to be done with them. Frank had gone out with the young Dornfords, who came early, according to their engagement; and the three boys who arrived afterwards were immediately despatched to the lake to find him, and amuse themselves with skating.
"Boys are no trouble," thought Dora; "they always go out of doors, and take care of themselves; but girls——" and she sighed as she looked upon the five young ladies who, dressed in their best silks and gayest bonnets, stood each by the side of her mamma, very silent, very shy, and very uncomfortable.
"You will take your young friends into the schoolroom, Dora," said Mrs Harrington, in her most gentle tone. "I suppose none of them will like walking such a cold afternoon as this; but you will find plenty of entertainment for them there; and with Margaret, and Miss Cunningham, and Amy, you will make quite a pleasant little party."
"There can be no doubt of that," said a tall, good-natured looking lady, who had brought her two little girls to pay their first visit from home. "In a house like this there is always something agreeable to be done; and then it is so pleasant for young people to be together. My children live in such retirement that it is an especial treat to them to have companions."
The two little girls clung more closely to their mother's side as she spoke, apparently thinking that the greatest treat at that moment would be to remain under her protection; but Dora led the way to the door, and they were obliged to follow, hand in hand, and casting imploring looks upon their mamma to persuade her to go with them. She half rose from her seat, but Mrs Harrington stopped her. "You need not be uneasy, Mrs Danvers," she said; "Dora will take care of them."
"Oh yes! of course, of course," repeated Mrs Danvers; "but they are so shy, poor children; I should just like to see how they manage to go on amongst so many strangers."
"Certainly," replied Mrs Harrington; "we will look in upon them by and by. Would you like to take a little walk before dinner, or should you prefer remaining in the house, as it is so cold?"
"I should be glad to know what the children will do," said poor Mrs Danvers, in a fever of anxiety for their enjoyment, the moment they were out of her sight.
"We will inquire presently," persisted Mrs Harrington, who was always firm, even in trifling matters; and had made up her mind they should be left to themselves at first, to become acquainted with the rest of the party.
"If I could just ask them," said Mrs Danvers; "I dare say I could easily find my way to the schoolroom—where is it?"
"At the other end of the house," replied Mrs Harrington.
"Oh, just along the passages that we passed as we came in, I dare say."
"No, quite in a contrary direction. If you wish to know what your children prefer doing, Thomson shall ask for you."
Mrs Harrington rang the bell, and Thomson was sent to the schoolroom, while Mrs Danvers sat pondering upon the extreme unpleasantness of being a visitor in the house of any lady who was determined to have her own way.
Amy was in the schoolroom, waiting for her cousins, and a little time was spent in introductions, and in discussing whether it was a pleasant afternoon, and whether the snow would be disagreeable if they went out on the terrace; and when at last it was decided to be very cold, and that they had thin shoes on, and that one was rather liable to cold, and another to cough, &c., Dora found they were resolutely bent on an afternoon in the house, and all that was to be done was to show them to their respective apartments to take off their bonnets and shawls, and to wish heartily that they would remain there till summoned to the drawing-room for the evening. Quickly, much more quickly than Dora had supposed possible, they appeared again, full of expectation that something was to happen which was to give them very great pleasure. The visit to Emmerton had been talked of for weeks before; it had been the subject of their thoughts by day and their dreams by night; and the three school-girls (Dora's particular dread) had exulted when they announced to their companions that a portion of the Christmas holidays was to be passed at Emmerton Hall. In former days Mr Harrington's family had been not only the richest, but the gayest in the county, and every one associated with the name of Emmerton visions of breakfast-parties, dinner-parties, riding-parties, music, balls, and every kind of festivity; and though too young to be admitted to all these pleasures, the young ladies had still a bright, but somewhat indistinct notion, that a visit at Emmerton must be the height of human enjoyment; whilst poor Dora was expected to realise all these gay expectations when she was dissatisfied with herself, unhappy at the recollection of Wayland and her brother Edward, and with no one but Amy to assist in making every one comfortable.
A faint, despairing smile passed over her face as they entered, one after the other; and she cast a hopeless glance at Amy. Margaret had promised to appear, but Miss Cunningham considered it necessary to make some change in her dress, and her inseparable companion could not possibly leave her.
"You must have had a very cold drive," said Dora to the eldest Miss Stanley, a girl about her own age,—quiet, timid, and awed by the strangeness of everything about her. It was the fourth time the observation had been made; and for the fourth time the same low, half-hesitating "Yes," was given in reply; and there the conversation ended, and Dora turned to her other visitors, hoping to find them more communicative. Unhappily her manner was such as to repel instead of encouraging them; she really wished to be kind and agreeable, but she did not for a moment forget that she was Miss Harrington of Emmerton Hall; and her efforts to be polite were so evident, and she was so very condescending in everything she did and said, that it was impossible for the poor girls to be at ease.
Amy saw that her cousin was very different from what she usually was, but could not comprehend in what the change consisted, and only longed for her to leave off asking them if they liked music and drawing, and whether they preferred home or school, and how many brothers and sisters they had, and talk of something more interesting. Anything would have been preferable to the formality of asking a string of questions; even she herself was a little chilled by Dora's manner, and only ventured to say a few words in an undertone to a rather pretty, delicate girl, who stood by the fire near her. This most disagreeable constraint had lasted about ten minutes, when, to Amy's extreme satisfaction, Miss Morton's voice was heard in the passage, and almost immediately afterwards she entered, followed by Rose, laden with a doll nearly as large as herself, which she was only allowed to play with occasionally. She ran into the room with great glee, to exhibit her treasure to Amy, but shrank away on seeing so many strange faces; every one, however, seemed to feel her appearance an indescribable relief; the shy Miss Stanley stooped to kiss her, and ask how old she was; her sister begged to know the name of the doll; and Amy's friend was delighted to find in her a resemblance to a sister of about the same age; while the two younger children looked with envy and admiration upon the handsome pink frock and bright blue bonnet, which was always the holiday dress of the beautiful doll. But a greater charm than Rose and her doll was soon found in Emily Morton's manner. She went from one to the other, saying something kind to each, in a voice so sweet that it would have made even a commonplace expression agreeable; and after a few trifling questions, which gave her some idea of their peculiar tastes and dispositions, she managed, by making observations of her own, to induce them to do the same; and listening with real and not forced interest to whatever was said, she led them on to describe their companions and their school life, till Dora found, to her surprise, that Hester Stanley, whom she had decided in her own mind to be almost devoid of intellect, and certainly unutterably dull, was a good French and Italian scholar, very fond of drawing, and farther advanced than herself in her acquaintance with books in general; that her sister was extremely amusing; and that Mary Warner had travelled on the Continent, and had many stories to tell of the peculiarities of foreign manners and customs. The younger children looked at Rose for a few minutes without speaking, then ventured to touch the doll, and at last, with one consent, seemed to resolve on being sociable, and retired into a corner of the room to enact the parts of mamma, nurse, and doctor to the poor doll, who, in spite of her brilliant colour, was pronounced to be in a most dangerous state of health, and to require instant advice; while the party collected round the fire, growing bolder and bolder as the noise in the room increased, began at last so entirely to enjoy themselves, that when the dusk of the evening had stolen on them, and a proposition was made by the children for candles, there was a general petition for a few moments' respite, that they might have the luxury and freedom of talking by firelight prolonged. It was a strange contrast to the stiffness of the first half-hour; and Dora hardly knew whether she quite approved of it; it seemed to throw her so completely in the background; but to Amy it was delightful. It was so new, and so interesting to hear a description of a school life, that she thought she could have listened forever; and even Margaret and Miss Cunningham, who came into the room in the middle of one of Julia Stanley's most amusing stories, appeared to take some pleasure in what was passing. Margaret's interest was real; but Miss Cunningham's satisfaction arose from the comparison which she could make in her own mind between the splendour of Rochford Park and the very ordinary style of living to which her new acquaintances had been accustomed; and at every possible opportunity she broke out into exclamations of "Dear me! how strange! how very shabby! what a wretched place your school must be!" till she hoped she had fully convinced them of the fact, that the habits in which she had been brought up were immeasurably superior to theirs. Julia Stanley, however, was not at all awed by Miss Cunningham's grandeur; she continued her stories, talking very fast, and laughing heartily, and caring little what was thought as long as she could make others laugh also; but her sister was not equally insensible; and every now and then she endeavoured to check the flow of Julia's spirits, and to suggest that the customs of their school were not entirely as she had represented.
"You must not believe everything Julia tells you exactly," she said, turning to Miss Cunningham, who seemed quite unable to comprehend the fact of any young ladies being so ill-treated as to have no second course at dinner, no curtains to their beds, nor fires in their rooms. "She runs on so fast that she forgets. We always have puddings on Saturdays; and we have fires when we are ill; and there are curtains in the largest room, only we have never slept there."
"Well, then, bad is the best, is all that I can say for your school," said Miss Cunningham; "and as for ladies being brought up in such a way, how is it possible for them ever to know how to behave, if they are not taken more care of?"
"It must be very uncomfortable," said Dora; "but really I cannot see what a second course, and curtains, and fires, have to do with manners."
"To be sure not," exclaimed Julia; "what does it signify? It is very hard and disagreeable sometimes, and we cry a good deal when first we go there—that is, some of the little ones do; but after a few weeks it is all right, and we eat our cold rice pudding, and think it delicious."
"Cold rice pudding!" repeated Amy, who had a peculiar dislike to it; "do you never have anything but cold rice pudding?"
"Not very often," replied Julia; "but, as I said before, it really does not signify. I assure you, if you were up at six o'clock every day, as we are, and had nothing but hard lessons from morning till night, you would think cold rice pudding one of the nicest things you had ever tasted. I don't think I ever like anything we have at home half as well."
"Well!" exclaimed Miss Cunningham, "I never heard of such a school before; all my notions were, that young ladies lived together, and learned a few lessons, and had French and drawing masters, and ladies' maids, and carriages—that would be agreeable enough; but you might just as well be cottagers' children, if you live so shabbily; and what a difference it must make after your home! How you must miss your carriage and servants!"
"I do not," said Mary Warner; "we have no carriage."
"Not keep a carriage!" exclaimed Miss Cunningham; "then how do you manage to get from one place to another?"
"Really," interrupted Dora, "I do not think you should cross-question any one in that way. Of course, there are carriages to be had, even if people do not choose to keep them."
"There are coaches always passing near us," said Mary; "and so it is very convenient."
"Coaches!—you mean stage coaches, I suppose," said Miss Cunningham.
"Yes," replied Mary; "one of them goes to Sandham, where our school is; so there is no difficulty about my travelling."
"That is the strangest thing of all," said Miss Cunningham. "Do you mean really that your papa and mamma allow you to travel about the country in a stage coach?"
The tone in which this was said sounded even more disagreeable than the words; and Julia Stanley instantly took offence. "And why not!" she exclaimed; "why should not people ride in stage coaches if they like it?"
"Of course, if they like it," said Margaret, who was always willing to side with her friend; "but liking it is a very different thing from being obliged to do it."
"So it may be," replied Julia; "but almost every one does it now."
"I never do," said Miss Cunningham, pointedly.
"Very likely," answered Julia; "but then you are only one person; and almost all those I know go in stage coaches constantly; so you need not be so much surprised at Mary Warner."
Miss Cunningham pouted and drew up her head, and thought Julia one of the most forward, impertinent girls she had ever met with; and Hester began to fear there must be something very derogatory to the dignity of a lady in travelling by a public conveyance; and yet remembering that once, when their own horses were lame, she had been obliged to avail herself of it, she could not with a clear conscience deny her acquaintance with them; she could, however, abuse them heartily, and lament the necessity which had induced their papa to allow it—quite agreeing with Margaret and Miss Cunningham, that it was not a common thing for people to do.
"Nonsense, Hester," exclaimed Julia; "you know as well as I do, that it is the most probable thing in the world that we shall go back to school by the coach; and what will your pride say to that?"
"Oh, papa mentioned something about it one day," replied Hester; "but of course he was not in earnest."
"But he was," answered Julia. "He said that now our cousins had left school, it would be a great expense for us to travel by ourselves, and that he should certainly put us into the stage coach, and let William take care of us, and then there would be no trouble about the matter. I wish," she added, turning to Amy, who stood next her, "that Hester would not try, as she always does, to make herself as grand and as fine as the people she is with."
Amy felt a slight pang of self-reproach as Julia spoke this; for when the conversation had first begun, she felt she should not like to say, as Mary Warner had done, that her papa and mamma did not keep a carriage; and it appeared almost like deception to blame another for a fault she was conscious of herself. "I think," she said, in reply to Julia's observation, "that it is not right to wish to be just the same as other people; but I am afraid I should like it; and I am sure, indeed," she added, with an effort, "that I should be glad to have a carriage to take me wherever I wanted to go."
"Then you have not one," said Julia; "that seems strange, being MrHarrington's niece."
"My uncle's being rich does not make any difference to us," was the answer, "except when we are staying here, and have the use of his things; but I think I should almost prefer being without them, because then I should not miss them."
"I used to think," said Julia, still speaking in a tone only to be heard by Amy, "that it signified a great deal about the way in which people lived till I knew Mary Warner; but she had such different notions that she made me think differently too."
"What notions?" asked Amy.
"Oh, I cannot tell you all now; but her papa was very rich—very rich indeed, and lived in a beautiful place; but in some way—I cannot quite understand how—he lost all his money, and was obliged to sell his property, and live in a much smaller house. If he had chosen, he might have had it all back again; but he is a very good man, and would not do something which he thought was not quite honourable; and so they continue living in the same inferior way, though no one, of course, thinks the worse of him for it, because every one says he has acted so nobly. This makes Mary care little for the change. She says her papa is so respected, and she is so fond of him, that it seems better to her than if they had all the fine places in the world."
Amy looked with interest at Mary as she heard this; but she was not able to continue the conversation, for the servant entered with candles, and tea immediately followed; and after tea they were all to dress for the evening.
To Dora's satisfaction, it had been decided that the boys were to dine late, so she was spared the task of keeping them in order; and, finding that every one was beginning to feel comfortable and at home, her own dignity a little relaxed, and she began to think that, after all, the infliction of a three days' visit from the school-girls might not be so very unendurable.
Amy hastened to her mother's room as soon as tea was over, in the hope of finding her there; for she had intended dining by herself, and appearing in the drawing-room only in the evening. "I must talk to you one minute, dear mamma," she said, as she entered. "We have been getting on so nicely in the schoolroom—so much better than I expected, only it was dreadful just at first. They were so silent, and Dora looked like a duchess. If I had not been her cousin I should have laughed; but I fancied they would think I ought to entertain them, and that made me feel more shy than ever; and then they all spoke in such a low voice that every word I said was heard."
"Well!" answered Mrs Herbert; "but who broke the spell?"
"Miss Morton, mamma," replied Amy; "and I should like to understand what made her so different from Dora."
"She is much older," said Mrs Herbert; "naturally that would make a difference."
"It was not quite that," continued Amy; "for if it had been my aunt Harrington, I don't think we should have ventured to speak a word; but there was something in Miss Morton's manner that made every one appear at ease. Can you tell me what it was?"
"You must imagine me to be a fairy. How can I possibly judge of whatMiss Morton did when I was not present?"
"But can you not guess from her character?" asked Amy. "You have seen so much more of her lately, that I think you must know."
"At least, you are determined, as usual," said Mrs Herbert, smiling, "that I shall give you a reason for everything which you cannot quite comprehend. I suspect, in the present instance, the secret consisted in Dora's thinking of herself all the time she was talking, and Miss Morton's thinking of others."
"That is not quite clear, mamma," replied Amy. "Does thinking of one's self make one stiff and formal?"
"Generally, either stiff or affected," replied Mrs Herbert; "yet it is very difficult to avoid doing it. You will often hear persons speaking of what are sometimes called 'company manners,'—not meaning exactly affectation, but a manner approaching to it, which is not quite natural; and it almost always arises from this same cause. It is, in fact, very nearly allied to selfishness; for we care so much more for ourselves than others, that we take a greater interest in thinking of ourselves than of them, and so we become disagreeable."
"But how can we help it?" asked Amy.
"By trying, every day of our lives, to consult the happiness of those we live with," answered Mrs Herbert. "I mean, in the merest trifles, such as giving up a pleasant seat, or an amusing book, or fetching things for them to save them trouble, or listening to them when they wish to talk to us. By these means we can acquire a habit of forgetting ourselves which will remain with us whether we are in company, or only with our own family."
Amy listened to her mother with an earnest wish to follow her advice; and when she joined the party in the drawing-room she found immediate opportunities of putting it in practice.
The evening was a cheerful one, for Mr Harrington proposed some Christmas games, and insisted upon every one's joining them; and although Dora and Miss Cunningham held back, and thought themselves too old, and too dignified, they were at length obliged to yield; and the rest of the party were so merry that they did not notice their grave looks and slow movements. Amy enjoyed herself thoroughly; and when her gay laugh caught Mrs Herbert's ear, it gave her more happiness than she had felt for many months, since she could now venture to dwell on the delight which Colonel Herbert would experience on seeing her so entirely what he could most have desired his child to be. Dora was almost jealous as she noticed the regard which Amy attracted, and wondered what the secret could be. Perhaps, if she had followed her cousin's example, and given up a seat to Mary Warner when she was tired, and assisted Hester Stanley when her sandal broke, and soothed one of the children when she fell down and was frightened, she too might have been a favourite; but without intending to be unkind, she managed so openly to show her dislike to what was going on, that every one endeavoured to keep aloof from her; and if they did speak, the answer was so cold, and the manner so proud, that the wish to make another attempt was impossible.
When Amy met her new acquaintance the next morning, after having thought them over attentively while she was dressing, she had quite decided on the one she liked best. Julia Stanley had at first amused her so much, and was so very lively and good-tempered, that it seemed impossible not to give the preference to her; but even then there was something in her quick manner and hasty expressions which rather annoyed Amy's feelings, when contrasted with Miss Morton's gentleness and refinement; and in the course of the evening, as she observed her more narrowly, her conduct to Miss Cunningham had struck her as peculiarly disagreeable. It required but very little time to perceive Miss Cunningham's deficiencies; and Julia, who was remarkably quick and clever, had not been in her company for half an hour before she had discovered them; and her great amusement was to turn everything she said into ridicule. For the first few minutes Amy had been amused; but afterwards an endeavour of Emily Morton's to check some satirical observations, had shown her that she was wrong; and a sense of politeness soon made her aware that Julia allowed cleverness and high spirits to carry her beyond the bounds of propriety. When Dora gave Miss Cunningham what Frank would have called "a set down," it was done in a lady-like way, as far as manner was concerned. She delighted in saying the most pointed things in the most pointed tone, yet she would on no account have neglected the little attentions which Miss Cunningham's position demanded; but Julia Stanley, feeling herself infinitely superior to Lord Rochford's daughter in intellect and accomplishments, considered that she was, on this account, freed from any demands upon her politeness; and had made no scruple of pushing into a room before her, interrupting her when speaking, and endeavouring to show that she did not consider her as entitled to any respect or attention. All this was peculiarly disagreeable to Amy, who, having always lived with persons who were polite upon Christian principles, could not in the least comprehend the rudeness of self-conceit; and if Julia had offended her in one way, her sister's manner had been equally unpleasant in another. She had been Miss Cunningham's shadow and echo; she had followed her from place to place, admiring her dress and her ornaments, and begging her to describe Rochford Park, and hinting how much she should like to see it; and once or twice she had turned to Amy to extort her admiration also, when sincerity had obliged her entirely to differ.
A little of the same flattery had also been bestowed upon Dora, but it was received so coolly, that there was no temptation to repeat it a second time; for Dora, though she loved praise and flattery, still required it to be administered delicately, through the medium of a third person; and fancied herself insensible to it, because she never encouraged any one to tell her, in direct terms, that she was beautiful and clever. Mary Warner's manner resembled neither; it was not quite so polished as Amy would have liked, but it was simple and straightforward. She had never seen any place so beautiful as Emmerton, and she said so plainly; but she also said that she thought there were too many trees about it, and she should have preferred the house being built higher. It was the same with everything else—she expressed her opinion when asked without reserve; but she did not, like Julia, intrude disagreeable observations uncalled for, nor, like Hester, pretend to see beauties where there was nothing to admire. The uprightness of her father's character seemed to have descended to her; and Amy willingly forgave any little awkwardness of manner when she saw Mary's firmness and simplicity; while even Dora was rather won by the unconcern with which she listened to Miss Cunningham's impertinences, and the openness with which she acknowledged the inferiority of her own home to Emmerton—apparently thinking it a matter of indifference whether she lived in a large house or a small one. It was a point of character which Dora could appreciate and admire, though it was not one she thought it necessary to imitate. But Miss Cunningham felt very differently; and her good-humour was not at all increased by the failure of her endeavours to inspire both Julia and Mary with awe and admiration; and to complete her discomfort, when breakfast was over, Miss Morton gently proposed her practising for half-an-hour; adding that Lord Rochford had again mentioned the subject, and begged that she would assist her in perfecting the piece she had been trying, so that it might be played in the evening. Miss Cunningham did not speak, but she looked her thoughts, and yet she did not venture to rebel; for Lord Rochford, with all his fondness, had some peculiarities; and the arrangement of his daughter's studies was his peculiar hobby. It seemed, however, as if she had secretly resolved that the pleasures of a London journey should not be marred by any progress she might make under Miss Morton's tuition; and bad as her performance had been before, it was much worse this morning. Miss Morton, with unwearied patience, corrected her false notes, asked her to repeat the difficult passages, and showed her again and again how they were to be played; but the long, stiff fingers appeared to possess some innate spirit of obstinacy; they would move exactly in the way in which they should not have moved; they would play sharps for flats, and turn crotchets into quavers, and minims into crotchets; until Amy, who, with the exception of Julia Stanley, was the only person present besides, wondered how it was possible for Miss Morton to persevere, and Julia, after a pretended attempt to conceal her amusement, laughed aloud. Miss Cunningham heard the laugh, and felt it keenly, and forgetting everything but her annoyance, she jumped up from her seat, closed the book, and without speaking, rushed out of the room.
"Well! that is delightful," exclaimed Julia; "I would have laughed before, if I had thought it would bring matters to a conclusion."
Amy wished to say something, but she felt painfully shy, for she had begun to dread Julia's satire; and, happily for her, Emily Morton spoke instead.
"I should be very sorry," she said, "to believe you in earnest, you would hardly acknowledge so openly that you took pleasure in hurting the feelings of another."
"Only she took pleasure in hurting my ears," replied Julia.
"Not intentionally," said Miss Morton; "but I am sure you cannot really mean what you say; you must be sorry for having given pain."
"Miss Cunningham is so very silly," persisted Julia, who was never willing to confess herself in the wrong; "it really is impossible to help laughing at her. You know there can be no harm in being amused at people's folly."
"I cannot agree with you at all," said Emily; "and as to Miss Cunningham's sense, it is not her own choice to be less clever than others."
"To be sure not," exclaimed Julia, pertly; "who would be stupid if they could help it? But it does not make people at all the less absurd, because it is not their own fault."
"There again I must differ from you," replied Emily. "It makes all the difference possible. Self-conceit, and vanity, and pride may be ridiculous, but not mere deficiency of understanding; it is the appointment of God, just as much as poverty or illness may be; and I think, from something I heard you say yesterday, you would not be at all inclined to laugh at any one who had less money than yourself."
"Oh no! certainly not," said Julia; "but cleverness is quite a different thing. I do so like bright, clever people; and I do so delight in laughing at stupid ones. All the world thinks more of cleverness than of anything else."
"But it does not follow that all the world are right," replied Emily.
"But a great many strict people that I know think so," said Julia. "I very often hear some friends of ours say—such a person is not quite right, but then he is so clever; and it does make up for a great many things; you must own that."
"Indeed I cannot own it," replied Emily: "I do not see that it makes up for anything."
"But don't you like it?" asked Julia, in a tone of great surprise.
"Yes, very much—just as I like to see a pretty face, or to listen to beautiful music; but I do not esteem it. I mean," she added, observing that Julia continued silent from astonishment, "that I do not think it forms part of a person's character, any more than his houses or his clothes do."
"But have you no value at all for it?" said Julia,
"Yes," replied Emily; "and so I have for riches—both may be made the instruments of good; but I do not value a person who is rich, because he is rich—neither do I value a person who is clever, because he is clever. If the rich man turns his riches to good account, I value him for his generosity and self-denial; and if the clever man uses his talents well, I value him because I see he is trying to serve God; but I should have just as much esteem for a poor man, or a man with inferior understanding, if they were equally good."
"But," said Julia, "all the celebrated people one reads of were not good, and yet there is just as much fuss made about them now as if they were angels—every one talks of them and praises them."
"Yes," replied Miss Morton, gravely, and then paused as if lost in her own thoughts.
"What were you going to say?" asked Amy.
"I did not like to say what was in my mind," replied Emily; "it is so very painful; but, you know, the opinions of men can be nothing when a person is dead."
Julia seemed struck with the observation, but did not speak, for she began to feel ashamed, and was endeavouring to summon courage to confess herself in the wrong. "I wish you would go on talking," she said, after the silence had continued for several minutes; "but then you think me so rude that perhaps you will not take the trouble."
"It is not what I think, but what Miss Cunningham thinks, which is of importance," replied Miss Morton; "you have not been rude to me."
"Well! I was not quite polite perhaps, only really I could not help it.Shall I beg her pardon?"
"No!" exclaimed Emily, "pray do not do that; it would only make matters worse, because you must own then that you thought her ridiculous."
"But what shall I do?" asked Julia.
"Will you let me tell you without thinking I am interfering?" saidEmily.
"Oh yes, pray do. You know, at school every one speaks their mind, so I am quite accustomed to it."
"Well, then! I should recommend you to begin by keeping a strict guard over yourself for the rest of the day, that you may not be guilty of the same fault again, and not to force yourself upon Miss Cunningham, but to show her quietly a few little attentions; and if she is proud and annoyed, to try and feel that it is only what you have brought upon yourself, and therefore not to be angry with her."
"But that is not the least in my way," said Julia; "I could go just at this minute and say I am sorry, because I am in the humour; and I should be rather glad to make it up and be friends again, though she is so silly; but as for going on all day paying little attentions to a person who has not a single idea in her head, is what I never did and never can do."
"Never will, you mean," replied Miss Morton. "We often saycan, when we ought to saywill."
"Well! can or will," exclaimed Julia; "it is all the same. Only if I may beg Miss Cunningham's pardon now, I don't care; but if I must not do that, she must take her chance; and if she makes herself ridiculous, I must laugh at her."
"Because you think yourself cleverer," said Miss Morton; "is not that the reason?"
Julia blushed deeply. She was not accustomed to have her self-conceit brought before her so plainly, and yet she was too candid not to see the truth of what was said.
"I do not mean to pain you," continued Miss Morton, very kindly. "Perhaps it is not my place to interfere; but you promised not to be annoyed; and you must forgive me if I remind you, that in the sight of God the most trifling act of self-denial from a really high motive—I mean, of course, from a wish to please Him—is infinitely more valuable than the cleverest thing that has ever been said or done since the world was made."
Still Julia was silent—her cleverness did not at that moment come to her aid; and after gazing attentively upon the fire, playing with the ornaments on the mantelpiece, and turning over the leaves of one or two books, she found herself so very uncomfortable, that, hastily exclaiming she must go and look for her sister, she left Amy and Miss Morton alone.
"Are you vexed?" asked Amy, as soon as the door was closed. "You look so."
"I am rather," said Miss Morton, "for I am half afraid I have done more harm than good; and I am hurt especially about Miss Cunningham, because I know it was very disagreeable to her to have any lesson at all, and such a one as this will make her dislike it more than ever."
"But not you," observed Amy; "she cannot blame you for another person's rudeness."
"Only it is difficult," said Miss Morton, "to feel kindly towards those who have been the cause of placing us in awkward situations; and I do not suspect I have ever been a favourite with Miss Cunningham."
"I wish Miss Stanley had kept to her own room this morning," said Amy."I am afraid she will spoil our pleasure all day."
"Oh no! she will soon forget it all; and I do not think she will take Miss Cunningham's anger much to heart; it will rather amuse her than otherwise."
"I should not like her to be amused at me," said Amy; "she frightens me dreadfully. I felt just now as if I could not have ventured to speak before her."
"I must give you a lecture too," said Emily, smiling. "Why should you be afraid of people merely because they are clever, and say sharp things? It is making cleverness of as much consequence as Miss Stanley does; besides being a dangerous feeling, and one which often prevents us from doing our duty."
"Ah! but," said Amy, "I cannot feel quite as you do. I always have thought a great deal about it, and longed to be very clever myself, and for every one to admire me, and look up to me."
"And I have done the same," said Emily. "I will not say that I never do so now; but it is very contrary to what the Bible commands."
"Do you really think so?" inquired Amy, looking much distressed. "Yet it seems so natural; and cleverness is different from riches, or rank, or anything of that kind."
"Can you recollect any part of the Bible in which it is said that God takes pleasure in it?" asked Emily.
"There is a great deal about wisdom in the Book of Proverbs," answeredAmy; "and it is said to be better than anything else."
"Yes," replied Emily; "but then, you know, we ought to compare different parts of the Bible together, if we wish to know its real meaning. And there is a verse at the end of a very beautiful chapter in the Book of Job, which tells us what wisdom really is. Perhaps you may remember it. It says, 'The fear of the Lord, that is wisdom; and to depart from evil is understanding.' Now, a poor man, who cannot even read, may have just as much of this wisdom as the most learned man that ever lived."
"Then," said Amy, "there is no use in trying to learn things."
"Indeed," replied Miss Morton, "there is. It is our duty to improve the understanding God has given us to the utmost, by exercising it in every right way. Our Saviour's parable of the talents gives a most impressive warning to us on this point, though talents there mean likewise advantages of every kind; and besides, the more we know, the more we are able to teach others."
Amy still looked unconvinced, and Emily continued, "You will see what I mean, if you will think of being clever in the same way as you do of being rich. We all know that it is the way of the world to value people for their money, but common sense tells us that it is very absurd; and yet no one would deny that riches may be made of great use to our fellow-creatures, though they do not make us in the smallest degree more acceptable in the eye of God. I wish I could explain myself more clearly. Perhaps, if I were very clever, I might be able to do it; and then, you see, my knowledge would be of use to you, though it would not make me either better or worse in myself."
"I think that is clever," said Amy, laughing; "for I can understand you much better now, though I am afraid I shall never learn to think rightly about everything."
"You must not say that," said Emily. "You know you are not very old yet; and if we thought about everything rightly at the beginning of our life, it would not be necessary for us to have so many years to learn in. As long as we are not standing still, we may be tolerably happy, though we do happen to blunder in the dark way."
"I think I am always blundering," said Amy; "at least I know I am always wishing for something which mamma and you tell me I ought not to wish for. But I think it is because I hear Dora and Margaret and Miss Cunningham talking so much about such things. You know Dora makes a great deal of being clever, and Miss Cunningham is always speaking of rank and riches, and Margaret is so pleased to be pretty. I know it is really all nothing; but when I hear them I cannot help longing for it all, and thinking that it must be of consequence."
"Yes," said Miss Morton, "it is very natural. This place is to you just what the world is to grown-up people."
"I remember," replied Amy, "thinking something just like that the very first night my cousins came; but I did not imagine," she added, "that there would be any one in my world like you."
Miss Morton could have answered, with truth, that she had never expected to meet with any one like Amy at Emmerton; but at that moment Dora and the rest of the party entered, and Miss Cunningham with them.
"Must you go?" whispered Amy, as Miss Morton prepared to leave the room.
Emily replied that she had letters to write, which would keep her engaged the whole morning; and Amy scarcely wished her to remain, when she observed the expression of Miss Cunningham's face, and saw that her good-humour was by no means restored.
It was not indeed a very easy task at any time; and Julia Stanley seemed resolved that this morning it should be more difficult than ever. She had given up the idea of confessing her fault, and trying to make amends, because she could not have her own way as to the manner in which it should be done, and had become angry with herself, and, as a natural consequence, angry with every one else. There was, in fact, a regular feud between her and Miss Cunningham; and Dora soon saw that to preserve peace would be a difficult matter. Julia's manner was more sharp and abrupt than ever, as she took every opportunity of repeating Miss Cunningham's words, and turning them into ridicule; while Miss Cunningham, on her part, endeavoured to make sneers and scornful looks as effective as words. Amy was very uncomfortable, and once or twice tried to divert their attention by talking to the younger children, and making them bring their dolls and playthings to the table where the elder girls were working. But her efforts were in vain; and, as a last hope, she ventured to suggest to Dora, that perhaps it might be pleasant if some one were to read out. The idea was the greatest possible relief to poor Dora, for all her antipathy to strange school-girls, and three days' visits, was returning in full force; and having asked, as a matter of form, whether any one would dislike it, she quickly produced half-a-dozen volumes to choose from.
The choice being settled, the next question to be decided was, who should read. There was a general burst of excuses as the inquiry was made. Every one would read, only there was a piece of work to be finished, or a drawing to be begun, or some beads to be threaded, or they were so soon tired that it was quite useless to begin, or they were suffering from a cold and hoarseness, which would make it disagreeable for the rest to listen. Dora put down the book on the table, considering it, as a matter of course, that she should not be obliged to do it. She had seldom been called on to give up her own will for others, but had always ordered and managed, and told others their duty; and when this was done, her part was considered finished. So, in the present instance, she had decided it would be a good thing to read, and had chosen the book, and supposed that some one would easily be found willing to amuse the rest. But Dora was mistaken.
The only person who had not excused herself was the only one whose excuse would have been really a good one. Poor Amy's heart beat fast as she thought that it might fall to her lot to read. She had never read aloud to any one but her mamma; and she was the youngest of the party; and, moreover, she knew that in the book which had been fixed on there were some long French quotations, which must be pronounced or translated, either alternative being equally disagreeable. "I wish I could read," she whispered to Margaret, who was sitting next her; "but I am so frightened."
"Oh! it does not signify," answered Margaret, aloud; "there is no occasion for us to trouble ourselves—Emily Morton will come directly; I have known her go on for hours when mamma has been ill."
"Yes," said Dora, feeling slightly uncomfortable as she spoke, "she is much more used to it than we are. Rose, go and tell Emily Morton that we should be very much obliged if she could read out to us this morning whilst we are working."
The message was more civil than it would have been some months before; and Dora's conscience was rather relieved; but to Amy it seemed only selfish and thoughtless.
"Miss Morton told me she had letters to write, Dora," she said, timidly."Don't you think reading to us would be an interruption to her?"
"Not more than giving us our usual lessons," observed Margaret; "it is only occupying the same time in a different way."
"But," replied Amy, "indeed I think the letters are of consequence; and the post goes out so early."
"Well, then, Amy," said Dora, rather sharply, "if you will insist upon our not sending for Emily, you must read yourself, for you are the only one of us all who is not busy."
Amy was busy finishing a purse to be given to Mrs Walton on her birthday; but anything was better than to allow Miss Morton's time to be intruded on; and although the slight trembling of her hand, and the bright crimson spot on her cheek, showed the greatness of the effort, she did manage to begin, and even to get through the first long French sentence without breaking down. Dora listened to the words, but they made very little impression; she was thinking all the time of her own selfishness, and how easy it was to make good resolutions, and how very difficult to keep them. It was only on that very day that she had been reflecting on her conduct to Miss Morton, and had determined to be more thoughtful for her comfort; and now, on the first temptation, she had weakly given way, and, but for Amy, would have sacrificed Miss Morton's whole morning merely to gratify her own fancy for work. Happily, Dora's was not a mind to be contented with the bare acknowledgment of having been wrong; it was too active and energetic to rest in fruitless wishes for amendment; and now, finding that Amy's voice was becoming weak, and that she read with difficulty, she threw down her work just as she was about to put the finishing stroke to it, and offered to read instead. It was but a trifling action, but it made Dora feel happier than she had been before; it proved to herself that she was in earnest; and when she had made one endeavour it was much easier to make another. Her manner grew softer, her thoughtfulness for others increased; and before the morning was over, she had even taken Miss Cunningham's part against Julia Stanley, when she had made an observation on the book they were reading, and had given up her seat near the fire, fearing she might be cold. The book was so interesting, and the oriel-room so comfortable, that no one thought of the time or the weather; and when Mrs Harrington made her appearance with Mrs Danvers, and begged them all to go out before dinner that they might not lose the best part of the day, there was a slight murmur of disapprobation. Mrs Danvers sympathised, and pitied, and declared the room looked so warm and cheerful, it was almost impossible to leave it; now she had once found her way there, she should be a frequent visitor.
"I always think young people manage best when left to themselves," said Mrs Harrington. "Dora, you must be quick, and go out; and as many of your young friends as choose to go with you had better get ready also."
The sending them out did not seem like leaving them to themselves; but Mrs Harrington's manner prevented almost every one from differing from her; and Mrs Danvers, who was rather young, and soon awed, said nothing, but began fondling her little girls, and proposing to stay and play with them if they liked it better than going for a walk; whilst Dora, who knew the exact meaning of every word and tone of her mother's, hastily put up her work, and prepared to obey.
"Margaret," said Miss Cunningham, who had joined the walking party merely from not knowing how to employ her time satisfactorily while they were away, "I want you to talk to me a little; never mind the rest, they will manage very well; and really what I have to say is of consequence."
"Is it, indeed?" replied Margaret, who dearly loved a little mystery; "but you must be quick, for Dora said so much to me, before we came out, about being attentive to them all."
"It cannot signify what Dora says; she is not to rule every one; at least I am sure she shall not rule me. But what I wanted to say to you was about London. I talked to papa this morning; and he says, after all, he thinks there is a chance of your going."
"Oh no! he cannot really mean it; mamma was so very positive the other night."
"Yes, I know that; but it is something about Mrs Herbert which makes the difference. Your papa thinks her very ill, and he wants to have advice for her; and if Dr Bailey does not give a good report, he will try and persuade her to go, and then all the family are to go too."
"Well, that would be delightful; but the time would not suit you—it will be so soon."
"But if you were to go at once, papa would not object to being there earlier himself, for he is determined that we shall have lessons together."
"So then it is all settled," said Margaret, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. "To be sure, I am sorry for poor Amy, but I daresay there is nothing very much the matter; and with a London physician Aunt Herbert will soon get well."
"I don't think it is settled at all," answered Miss Cunningham; "for I can tell you one thing, Margaret,—I never will go to London to be pestered by Miss Morton; she must stay at home, or I must. If you had only seen how she behaved this morning; she found as much fault with my playing as if I had been a mere baby."
"But," said Margaret, looking much perplexed, "there is no help for it; she must go with us; only it does not follow that you should learn of her."
"It does follow, though," replied Miss Cunningham, angrily; "how can you be so stupid, Margaret? I have told you a hundred and fifty times before, that if papa once has a thing in his head, not all the world can drive it out; and he said this morning that I should have lessons of her besides the other masters; but I won't—no, that I won't."
"That is right," said Margaret; "if you make a fuss about it, you will be sure to have your own way."
"But my way is to stay at home; I can do that if I choose, for mamma will like it; but I will never go near London to be laughed at by rude, vulgar people as I was this morning; so you may manage as well as you can without me."
Miss Cunningham walked on a few steps with her head raised, rapidly twisting the bag she held in her hand—a sure sign that she was working herself into a passion. Margaret followed, appearing very downcast, and feeling that Lucy's determination would prove the destruction of all her bright castles in the air. London, with only her own family, would be nearly as bad as Emmerton. "What do you wish me to do?" she said, anxiously.
"Nothing," was the reply; "but make up your mind to go without me, for I am quite determined; I can be as obstinate as papa, sometimes."
This could not be doubted; but it was no satisfaction to Margaret. "It is very unkind of you, Lucy," she said. "You sometimes tell me you love me; and yet you don't seem inclined to put yourself in the least out of your way to please me. You know very well that there will be no pleasure in London if you are away; we shall go nowhere and see nothing."
"Yes, I know it; but it can't be helped."
"That odious Emily Morton!" exclaimed Margaret; "she has been a torment in one way or another ever since she entered the house."
"And she will never be anything else," said Miss Cunningham; "I wish you joy of her."
"But is there nothing to be done?" again asked Margaret, whilst several most impracticable plans passed quickly through her mind, all having for their object the removal of this serious obstacle to her enjoyment.
"I can see nothing," was the answer; "unless you can make her go and see her friends whilst you are absent."
"I don't think she has any friends," said Margaret, "except an aunt, who is abroad; that is, she has never asked to go away, so I suppose she has no place to go to."
"That makes the case a great deal worse. If she has no friends you may depend upon it you will be burdened with her for ever."
"I believe, though," said Margaret, "there is a Mrs or Miss Somebody, who was her governess once, who could keep her for some time; but then, you know, it is no use talking about it; there is no chance of our being able to do anything."
"The loss will be more yours than mine," replied Miss Cunningham; "it will be just the same to me next year; but you will miss everything."
"Yes, everything," sighed Margaret.
"You would have gone to the opera, certainly; papa would have taken you there, and you would have been out half the day shopping, and driving in the parks; and you would have seen everything, and bought anything you wished,—for, of course, your papa would have given you plenty of money to do as you liked with; and then my aunt would have taken us to some delightful parties. But it is not worth while to think about it now; because if you go for your aunt's illness, and have no one to take you about, you will be at your lessons half the day, and staying at home with her the other half; and there will be nothing to be seen, because you must choose such a very quiet part of the town for an invalid."
"Oh Lucy!" said Margaret, "I wish you would not talk so. It is very unkind; for you know it will be all your doing."
"My doing! No, indeed I can't help it. Get rid of Miss Morton, and I will go directly. And now I have said all I wished, and so I think I shall turn back, for you told me you wanted to go to Dora; and really I have had quite enough of those school-girls this morning."
Margaret did not press her to stay, for she was becoming very indignant; but neither was she inclined to make any exertions to be agreeable; and, soon persuading herself that the walking party had advanced too far for her to overtake them, she rather sulkily turned back and followed Miss Cunningham, keeping, however, at a convenient distance, that she might be able to think over the conversation, and find some arguments which should induce her to break the resolution she had formed.
Amy in the meantime, enjoyed her walk with her companions in perfect unconsciousness that anything was near to disturb her happiness. She laughed at Julia Stanley's strange stories, till she forgot by degrees she had been afraid of her; and although every tree and stone were familiar, there was a pleasure in pointing out to strangers all the beauties of the grounds, even in their wintry dress; and good-humour being proverbially infectious, the whole party returned home in all the better spirits that they had been spared Miss Cunningham's sulkiness and pride. The first news, however, that awaited Amy upon entering the house, was the information from Susan Reynolds that Mr Harrington had prevailed on her mamma to see Dr Bailey. Amy started and turned pale, and anxiously asked if her mamma were very ill.
"Oh, dear! no," replied Susan, frightened in her turn; "but I thought you would be glad to know your mamma was going to see a doctor, because then, perhaps, she will get strong again."
"Yes; but she must be worse, I am sure," said Amy; "she never would send for any one unless she were very ill indeed." And without waiting to hear more, she hastily ran to Mrs Herbert's room. But her fears were soon calmed. Mrs Herbert was looking much the same as usual, and seemed in tolerable spirits, and quite laughed at Amy's alarm.
"I have only consented to see Dr Bailey," she said, "just to satisfy your uncle; and it was very foolish in any one to frighten you, my dear child, so unnecessarily; so now go to your dinner, and forget me, and be happy."
"That would not be the way to be happy, mamma. I never enjoy anything till I have remembered that I can tell you about it. But are you sure you are not very ill?"
"I am quite sure that I am not feeling worse than I have done for the last six weeks," replied Mrs Herbert; "and I suspect the sight of your papa's handwriting would do more towards my cure than all the physicians in the world. I hoped to have heard from him by the same mail which brought the news of peace."
"Perhaps," said Amy, "the letter will come to-morrow."
"Oh no!" replied Mrs Herbert; "it is scarcely possible—I must be contented to wait. But you had better go now, Amy—there is the second dinner-bell."
Amy left the room much relieved. A natural buoyancy of disposition seldom allowed her to be unnecessarily anxious. She was too young to form any judgment of her own respecting the state of her mother's health; and Mrs Herbert's assurances outweighed the passing influence of her uncle's misgivings. She did, however, look oftener than ever to the door during the evening, with a vague expectation that her father would appear: and she persuaded Mr Cunningham to repeat again to her all he had before said of the probability of his arrival at any moment; while Mrs Herbert, also, listened eagerly, and laughed at herself for being as fanciful as Amy, though her heart beat quickly at the slightest unusual sound in the house.
"There is the second day happily over, Amy," said Dora, as she bade her good night: "and now I have no more fears; we shall do very well to-morrow. Frank has been proposing for us all to assist in ornamenting the outer saloon for the conjurer, and Mary Warner can show us how to make artificial flowers—so we shall have plenty of occupation; and in the evening I really think we may make up a quadrille. You know there are several people coming besides; and Emily Morton will play as long as we like. The only thing that worries me is about Julia and Lucy Cunningham; they are exactly like cat and dog."
"I daresay we can manage to keep them separate," replied Amy. "If Margaret will take care of Miss Cunningham, there will be no difficulty at all."
"But they will get together," said Dora. "And really, though I do cordially dislike—not hate, remember, Amy,—though I do cordially dislike Lucy Cunningham, yet I must say Julia behaves infamously; she has been snapping at her the whole evening; and, moreover, almost laughed at Mr Cunningham to her face."
"Oh no!" exclaimed Amy, "she could not do that; it would be so dreadfully unfeeling."
"But she could, though; she could do that or anything else that came to her head. You know she sets up for being clever, and thinks she may have everything her own way. I wish you would talk to her, Amy."
"Me!" repeated Amy, in a tone of the utmost surprise; "you are laughing at me, Dora."
"No, indeed, I never was more in earnest in my life. I heard her say to-day she thought you knew more of what was right than any one else in the house, and had more courage too."
Amy was silent from astonishment.
"It is your quiet way, Amy, which strikes her so, I am sure," continued Dora; "you never make a fuss about being good-natured, and yet you always do everything for everybody; and I am sure they must all see it, and love it too—at least if they are like me. There is always a difficulty when any one else is goodnatured, they seem to have achieved something."
"You know, Dora," replied Amy, gravely, "that I always ask you not to say such things to me, but you will forget. I don't mean that I don't like it, because I do very much; but mamma would rather I should not hear them, and so it vexes me."
"Vex you!" exclaimed Dora, earnestly; "if you knew half I would do to please you, Amy, you would not talk of my vexing you, at least not willingly; I never could have believed, before I came to Emmerton, how painful I should find it to be unkind to any one; but now I can never forgive myself when I have been cross to you."
The tears rose to Amy's eyes as she wished her cousin good night and hastened away; but the expression of Dora's affection amply rewarded her for any impatience she had repressed, or self-denial she had practised.