Dora read the psalm, but she did not make any more observations; and having thought of every little trifle that could contribute to Amy's comfort, she gave her one kiss of the truest affection, and left her to the enjoyment of a calm and innocent repose. Her own thoughts, when she retired to rest, were far from being happy: indeed, she seldom now had any conversation with her cousin, without its being succeeded by a deep consciousness of her own inferiority in those principles which she was just beginning to consider of the utmost importance; and to this was now added a feeling of great loneliness. Colonel Herbert's return would most probably cause a considerable change in Amy's life. She would be far less dependent upon Emmerton than formerly, and Dora found that her cousin was gradually becoming so necessary to her comfort, that the idea of any arrangement which might prevent her from being with them constantly was excessively painful. Yet they might be separated at any moment. Colonel Herbert might leave the cottage: he might choose that Amy should travel, and then all sympathy and consolation would be taken away; and while dwelling sadly upon these probabilities, the image of Emily Morton came before her, and with it the feeling that once she might have been her friend, but that no present attention could atone for the neglect and scorn that had so long been shown her. Dora saw that she had injured her as far as lay in her power, by destroying her comfort for months, and it was vain to hope that now she would be willing to forget it. Amy would have thought differently; but she understood better than Dora what is meant by forgiving our brother "until seventy times seven," and she knew also that there was no Christian virtue, however difficult, which Emily Morton did not endeavour to attain.
The sun was shining brightly into Amy's room when she awoke the next morning—so brightly, that she started up in alarm at what she knew must be the lateness of the hour; but the next moment brought the thought of her father to her mind, and with it a feeling of entire happiness and peace. Her mother's gentleness seemed frequently overpowered by her aunt's sternness, but no one would dare to find fault with her in Colonel Herbert's presence: and for the first time Amy felt sure that she could be perfectly at her ease even if Mrs Harrington were there. Yet, on remembering what had passed, and recalling her father's grave, calm features, she was not entirely free from fear. His height, his voice, his age, his manner, placed him in her imagination at an immeasurable distance from her; she could not believe it possible that he should be satisfied with her; he must expect to see some one taller, and cleverer, and more accomplished: if she could but sing and play like Miss Morton, and speak French and Italian like Dora, she should not care; but as it was, she was convinced he must be disappointed; and as these thoughts crossed her mind, Amy stopped in the middle of her toilette, and began repeating French phrases, and reckoning how many drawings she had to show, and playing over the most difficult passages in her music with her fingers on the table. A knock at the door interrupted her. It was Emily Morton, looking so happy, that Amy fancied for the instant she must have some personal cause for joy. But it had been long since Emily had known what it was to be light-hearted for herself. Peaceful and contented she could always be; but when her countenance was the most brightened by smiles, and her voice sounded the most cheerfully, the happiness of others rather than her own was invariably the cause. She had learned to "weep with those that weep," and now she was learning to "rejoice with those that rejoiced."
"You would have looked more frightened yesterday, Amy," she said, "if I had told you breakfast was ready, and every one wondering at your absence."
"Ah, yes," replied Amy; "but I cannot feel frightened at anything this morning, excepting—I am afraid perhaps you will think it wrong—but do you think papa will be pleased with me? I don't mean exactly with my face, and my manner, because he will not care so much about that, as I am his child; but will he think me very stupid, and dull, and different from everybody else?"
"If he should feel as I do," said Emily, as she fastened Amy's dress, and smoothed her dark ringlets, "he will love you so dearly, that he will not be inclined to criticise anything; but we must not wait to talk now—breakfast is really ready, and your uncle asked me to come for you."
"My uncle!" said Amy; "but shall we not be in the school-room as usual?"
"No," replied Emily; "every one was so late this morning, that MrsHarrington thought it better not."
"And will all the company be in the breakfast-room, then?" said Amy, in great alarm; "and am I the last?"
"Not quite," replied Emily; "Mrs Danvers is not come down yet; and there is a special place left for you at the bottom of the table, between your papa and your uncle."
"I do not think I can go," said Amy, stopping as she was about to leave the room; "there will be so many—and it will be just like seeing papa quite new—I can hardly recollect now what he was like last night."
"But he asked so often if your cousins had seen you, and was so anxious about you," replied Emily, "he could scarcely attend to anything else; and your mamma was obliged to beg him not to have you disturbed, or I am sure he would have sent for you half an hour ago."
"If I thought he would not be disappointed, I should not care," said Amy, as she moved slowly along the gallery; "but I know all my ideas will go when he speaks to me, and then he will think me so dull, and be so vexed."
"Will you, dearest, try and not think of yourself at all?" replied Emily. "It is distrusting your papa's affection to have such fancies, and it will do you harm in every way."
"I would if I could," answered Amy; "but I must wish to please him."
"I do not say there is any harm in it," replied Emily, "only it will make you awkward and uncomfortable if you dwell upon it; whatever you feel, however, it will last but a short time; you will be quite at home with him in a few days."
Amy was very much inclined to pause when they reached the breakfast-room, and continued talking, but Emily hastily opened the door, and she was obliged to enter. The room was quite full, and she did not at first see either her mamma or her cousins; even the persons she knew the best seemed quite strangers to her; but Emily led her to the bottom of the room, and Colonel Herbert came eagerly towards her; and as she seated herself in the vacant chair by his side, looked at her with an expression of such deep, heartfelt satisfaction and love, that she would have been quite satisfied and happy, if bashfulness and humility had not prevented her from understanding its meaning. At first, she was very silent, feeling rather bewildered by the sound of so many voices, and the attention which every one was inclined to bestow upon her, for her father's sudden return had excited a general interest; but by degrees she summoned courage to make a few voluntary observations; and the eagerness with which he answered her so increased her confidence, that before breakfast was ended, she had given him a full description of her life at the cottage, and her studies and amusements. Colonel Herbert listened with unwearied pleasure. In many a solitary hour he had solaced himself by imagining what his child would be like, and now his fondest expectations were realised. By the side of her cousin Margaret, indeed, Amy might have been little regarded, at least by those who cared only for personal beauty; but to this Colonel Herbert was indifferent. One glance was sufficient to show that Amy was a lady in every word and movement, and with this he was satisfied; and even had her eyes sparkled less brightly, and her countenance been less interesting, he would not have been disappointed; for in the expression of every feature, as well as in every sentiment and feeling, he could read the gentleness, meekness, and purity of the spirit within. Once only Amy paused in her account, when her attention was caught by a sound which she had not heard before for many months; it was her mother's laugh—so clear, and sweet, and joyous, that it might almost have been the echo of her own; and when she turned eagerly to look at her, and saw the change that even one night had produced, the last remaining shadow which rested on her mind passed away, and she felt that Dr Bailey's words must be true, and that now there was little cause for fear.
"You will wish to go to the cottage, I suppose, by and by," said Mrs Herbert, before they left the breakfast table, "and Amy can go with you."
"There will be the carriage at your disposal," said Mr Harrington, "if you are not afraid to venture out."
Mrs Herbert was very much inclined to take advantage of the offer, but her husband interfered.
"I have a disappointment in store for you both," he said, "not a very great one, though—so, my darling Amy, you need not look so blank; but I must ride into the town to-day. I have a message from a very great friend of mine, to his mother and sisters, and I promised, if possible, to deliver it personally on my arrival in England; you will not ask me to delay it, I am sure."
"Oh no, no!" exclaimed Mrs Herbert, recollecting her own feelings a short time since, and the relief any intelligence would have afforded her; "but you will pass the cottage—cannot you contrive to take us with you so far?"
"Not you," replied Colonel Herbert; "it would be too great a risk in this weather; for if we were once there together, we should spend hours in wandering about and talking over old times, and I have learned Dr Bailey's opinion by heart—he says there must be no excitement, and no exposure to cold."
Mrs Herbert again urged her wishes, but her husband was inexorable. He prized too dearly his newly-recovered treasure, he said, to allow any risk to be run, but he should like, if possible, for Amy to be with him.
"I could walk, indeed, I could walk quite well, dear papa," said Amy; "I have done it before; and it would seem such a short distance with you."
"There will be no occasion for anything of the kind," said Mr Harrington; "you can easily go with your papa in the carriage, Amy, as far as the cottage, and one of the grooms shall take a horse to meet him there, and then he can go on to the town, and you can return here."
Amy thought the plan delightful, though she wished her mamma could go too, but Colonel Herbert again expressed his fears; and it was agreed that this day at least should be given to perfect rest and quietness. The carriage was ordered almost immediately, and Amy ran up-stairs to prepare, but on her way she was stopped by Mary Warner.
"I am so sorry you are going out this morning, for my own sake," she said, "as we shall be gone probably before you return, and I have seen nothing of you; and besides, I wished very much, if I could, to talk to you about Miss Cunningham. Your cousin tells me that you know how angry I made her last night."
"Yes," replied Amy, "I wish I could help you, but I am afraid it is impossible, and papa will be waiting; can you not come to my room whilst I am dressing?"
"If I may," said Mary, "I should be very glad, for I am not at all happy about it."
"But, indeed," answered Amy, "you must not think I can do anything; you know I am so much younger than Miss Cunningham, and she will never bear my interfering in any way."
"I do not wish you to interfere," said Mary, "only to tell me whether you think I was very wrong, and if I ought to make any more apologies."
Amy led the way to her room, and endeavoured to give Mary her full attention, though her thoughts would frequently wander to the cottage, and the drive with her papa, notwithstanding all her efforts to prevent it.
"You know the beginning of the affair, I suppose," said Mary. "It was merely an observation of mine about the advantage it would be to Miss Cunningham to have music lessons. I know it was foolish in me to say it, because it was just after she had broken down in a piece she was playing; but I am in the habit of saying just what I think, so I often get into scrapes. I cannot tell why she should have been so angry, though; but she declared every one was trying to be impertinent to her, and that it was not my place to say what would be an advantage to her, that I was but a school-girl, and could not possibly know anything about it; and then she went on muttering something to herself about London, and that all the world would be mistaken; but I could not in the least understand what she meant."
"And did you say you were sorry?" asked Amy.
"Yes; I begged her pardon immediately, but that did not satisfy her, and I saw she wished me to retract, or at least to say something in her praise; but that I could not do—I could not tell her anything that was not true, for the world."
"No, of course not," said Amy; "but how can I help you?"
"I don't know," replied Mary, "unless you could make Miss Cunningham less angry; she will scarcely speak to me now, and your cousin Margaret has taken her part; and Hester Stanley declares I was very rude, and has been quite lecturing me this morning, and Julia only laughs, and your cousin Dora says it does not signify."
"I cannot think there is anything to be done," said Amy, "and I wish you would ask some one who knows more about such things than I do."
"I have talked to them all, excepting you," replied Mary, "and I did not come to you for advice exactly, because I do not really think it can be helped; but I am very unhappy, and wanted some one to talk to. I wonder if it was very wrong in me to say what I did: I did not mean any harm; but I always think it right to speak what is strictly the truth. Should you have done the same if you had been in my place?"
"I daresay I should," replied Amy; "but mamma tells me I ought to be very careful always, and not to make hasty remarks, because I may vex people very much without meaning it."
"That is what I do sometimes, I am afraid," said Mary; "and yet I only mean to be sincere."
"Miss Morton is sincere," replied Amy, thoughtfully; "but I do not think any one could be vexed with her. I should like to be able to say straightforward things as she does."
"Miss Morton is so gentle," said Mary; "and once or twice I have noticed her manner when she has differed from any one, and it appeared as if she were so afraid of annoying them, I do not think any one could take offence at her."
"Perhaps," said Amy, hesitatingly, "it is what every one ought to be, and then——"
"I know what you mean," exclaimed Mary. "I know I am abrupt. Mamma is often telling me of it, and I daresay I was wrong last night; but what is to be done now?"
"There is papa calling me," said Amy, "I wish I could stay; but indeed I must not keep him waiting."
Mary looked heartily vexed. "I do not think I shall go down-stairs again," she said. "We are to set off very soon, and I cannot meet Miss Cunningham."
"But she will not think about such a trifle still," said Amy.
"Yes, indeed, she will," replied Mary; "I cannot tell you how she looked this morning at breakfast. I am sure that piece of music must be a tender subject with her."
Colonel Herbert's voice was again heard calling for Amy, and she had no time to attempt comforting poor Mary.
"I must not wait a moment," she said, as she wished her "good-bye," "but I daresay I shall see you at Emmerton again, some day or other; and then, if Miss Cunningham is not here, we shall be able to enjoy ourselves a great deal more."
Mary could hardly say with truth that she ever wished to come to Emmerton again, she was feeling so annoyed with herself, and almost every one about her; but she could and did express a most sincere hope of meeting Amy at some future time, and they parted with mutual feelings of kindness and interest. As they passed through the hall, Miss Cunningham was at the drawing-room door. She did not notice Amy, though she had not spoken to her before that morning, but her contracted brow and curling lip portended no common storm. Amy was too happy to think of her; she was standing by her father's side listening to his parting words to Mrs Herbert, and caring only for the pleasure before her; and when he stopped to give the necessary directions to the coachman, she was still too much occupied to observe the tone in which Miss Cunningham inquired, "whether anyone had seen Margaret lately, as she must speak to her directly."
The carriage drove off, and the footman at the door was despatched in search of Margaret, who soon made her appearance, with a face of eager curiosity, which was quickly clouded when she saw the expression of her friend's countenance.
"What do you want with me?" she asked; "I was very busy in the schoolroom; I hope it is something of consequence."
"Of course it is," was the reply, "or I should not have sent for you.But it will not do to talk about it here; you must come to my room."
"Tell me whom it concerns," said Margaret. "Is it anything aboutLondon?"
But Miss Cunningham either did not hear or would not answer. She led the way to her own apartment, and carefully bolting the door, exclaimed, with a scornful laugh, "Well, Margaret, I wish you joy; it is all settled, and you are going."
"Going! settled!"—repeated Margaret; "it cannot be true; no, I am sure it is not; you would not look in that way, if it were."
"Yes, but I should, though," exclaimed Lucy, "for it is quite true you are going; but you will not have me to go with you; that is all I wished to say."
"Pray, pray, Lucy," said Margaret, "do not tease me in this way. How do you know it is settled?"
"Because," replied Miss Cunningham, rising from the seat on which she had thrown herself, and walking quickly about the room, "because papa, and Mr Harrington, and Colonel Herbert have been talking of it. Papa said he must make one more effort before we went home, and he mentioned the subject directly after breakfast; and when Colonel Herbert heard it, he said he should be obliged to be in London about Easter; and then Mr Harrington turned completely round, and declared his being there would make all the difference in the world, and that he should certainly consent, and so they said it was settled; but they did not ask me," she continued, more vehemently, "and they shall find that I can have a will as well as themselves. I will never, no, never consent to be treated again as I have been treated here. To be taught by that Miss Morton—I would rather stay at home all the days of my life; and those school-girls too—actually Miss Julia Stanley had the impertinence to say, just now, that she should be glad to hear me play after I had had lessons, and see if I were improved; not that there is any chance of our meeting. London is a very different place from the country; and that she will soon know."
"Oh!" said Margaret, soothingly, "she will never come in your way there."
"But Miss Morton, that Miss Morton," exclaimed Lucy. "I am quite in earnest, Margaret; you may talk for ever, you may go down upon your knees to me, and I will never agree to go if she does."
"Dear Lucy," said Margaret, covering her with kisses, and speaking in her most persuasive voice, "you know how much I love you, and how miserable I shall be without you; you are only saying this in joke, I am sure."
"You may be sure of anything you like, it does not signify to me; nothing can make me change."
"But you will not care when those girls are gone away," said Margaret; "you are merely vexed because they are so rude."
"Vexed!" repeated Miss Cunningham; "when did I say I was vexed? who cares for school-girls? how can they know good music from bad?"
"No, to be sure not," said Margaret; "and Julia Stanley cannot tell a note."
"I never knew that," exclaimed Lucy, rather pacified. "How foolish she would have looked, if I had asked her to sit down and play it better."
"I wish you had done it, with all my heart," said Margaret; "but it is not too late now: they are here still,—let us go into the schoolroom and say something. I should enjoy making her ashamed of herself, and we shall not have another opportunity; for, as you observe, there is no chance of meeting her in London."
Margaret waited anxiously to hear what effect her words would have, and to remark whether the mention of London would bring back the thought of Emily Morton. But Miss Cunningham had now seized upon this new idea, and forgot that her indignation had been excited by any one but Julia. "Are they all there?" she said; "half the pleasure would be gone, if there was no one by."
"They were all there when I came to you," replied Margaret; "but we must make haste, for Dora was wishing to take them round to the farther side of the lake this morning, because it is the only part of the grounds they have not seen."
Miss Cunningham hardly waited to hear the end of the sentence; she hastened down-stairs, and to her great delight found the whole party lingering round the fire in the schoolroom, wishing to go out, yet unwilling to brave the cold. If Margaret had been rather quicker in perception, and not quite so anxious, she might have been amused at this moment in watching her friend's manner. Evidently she had determined on saying something very severe, which should put Julia completely to the blush; but in her great eagerness and her extreme dulness, she failed entirely, for she merely walked up to the fire-place, stationed herself immediately in front of Julia, and in a sharp, cross tone, said, "You found fault with my music just now; I should like to know if you can play it better."
Julia stared, and answered, "Oh, dear no; who would attempt to vie with you?"
"You are right, Margaret," exclaimed Miss Cunningham; "she cannot play a note, Margaret told me so, just now," she added, turning to Julia, "and so I was resolved I would ask you."
"You are quite welcome to ask anything you like," replied Julia, coolly."I am not in the least ashamed of not being able to play at all. PerhapsI might be, if I pretended to know what I was ignorant of, and thenbroke down before a large party."
Miss Cunningham's countenance expressed unutterable feelings of anger and disgust; and Dora, really alarmed lest a quarrel should ensue, quickly interposed, and, begging they would prepare for their walk immediately, hastened Julia out of the room.
"It is your fault, it is all your fault, Margaret," exclaimed Lucy, when they were again left together; "you are always getting me into scrapes; and that girl, that odious girl, why did she ever come near the place?"
"Really, Lucy," began Margaret, "I do not see what reason you have to blame me," and then, recollecting how important it was that her friend should be soothed, she added more gently, "I could not have supposed any one would behave so rudely as she has done."
"I shall go home," said Miss Cunningham; "I have had nothing but vexation ever since I came here, and I will not bear it any longer."
"But Lord Rochford has promised to stay till after New Year's day," observed Margaret. "You know we cannot have any one else, because it was poor Edward's birthday."
"Papa will do as I wish him," said Lucy; "if I want to go home he will not prevent me."
"And he will do as you wish about London, you may be sure," continued Margaret, who, in her extreme anxiety, could not avoid recurring to the subject, even at the risk of again exciting Miss Cunningham's vehemence.
"I have told you a hundred and fifty times before," was the reply, "that my lessons are quite different from everything else; you do not think I have been so silly as not to try all I could about it long before this."
"But you will stay over New Year's day," said Margaret, coaxingly: "if we try hard we may be able to manage something together."
The notion seemed rather plausible, and Miss Cunningham condescended to say that she would see about it; perhaps she might, if she were not plagued any more with the school-girls.
"They will be gone soon," said Margaret; "and if you would come with me now, you might get quite out of their way, and not speak to them again."
"Where are you going, then?" asked Lucy.
"I wished very much to walk to our old steward's cottage. He has had a pony training for me some time, just like Dora's. I want to see it, and mamma always scolds us if we go out of the grounds alone; but she will not mind if you are with me."
Miss Cunningham walked to the window to look at the weather, which certainly, but for the cold, would have been very inviting, although the melting of the ice and snow rendered the walks in some places dirty and disagreeable.
"My pony is much more beautiful than Dora's," said Lucy, "and much larger too. I wonder she likes riding such a little thing. Is yours the same size, Margaret?"
"I do not know exactly; but do come and see it, it is not very far. I don't think Dora will be able to get to the other side of the lake, as she wished, and if so, we shall have the girls back again in a minute."
"I shall go away, then," said Lucy.
"Oh, do not do that," exclaimed Margaret. "You will be so dull, for I cannot be with you, because they will all be setting off, and mamma will find out if I am in the house, and make me stay with them. There is no way of avoiding it, unless we go out."
"Is it far?" asked Lucy.
"Oh no, only through the plantations, and then across a field. I do not think we have ever been there with you. The field next to the one we shall go through is very steep indeed, and the river runs at the bottom of it, and I daresay it might be muddy and dirty just by the banks, but our path will not be at all so."
"Well," said Lucy, sulkily, "if we must go, we must; anything is better than those girls."
Margaret thought the same; of all things she dreaded another quarrel, and she hoped, by a little quiet flattery, to bring her friend, when they were alone, into something like good-humour; and without waiting for Lucy to change her mind, she hurried her up-stairs to prepare for the walk.
Amy, in the meanwhile, was enjoying herself to the utmost. A very short time had sufficed to remove almost all dread of her father, and only enough remained to increase the interest of his conversation. At first it was entirely about India and his travels; and Amy listened as she would have done to a romance or a fairy tale, and thought her papa a greater person than ever, as she discovered how much he knew, and the wonders he had seen: and then again he recurred to his long silence, and the uneasiness he knew it must have occasioned them, and spoke of the eagerness with which he always inquired for letters, and the pleasure it had been to hear from her of all she had been doing; "though you did not tell me many of the things you mentioned this morning," he said,—"the little things, I mean."
"I should write differently now, papa," replied Amy. "I did not quite know what to say then, and I always fancied you were a great man, and would not care for little trifles."
"But, Amy," said Colonel Herbert, "if persons are really great, they can care for, and attend to everything. It is only those who think themselves great, when they are not, who despise trifles."
"It is very nice," said Amy; "but I cannot think now that you really like to hear about my donkey, and my flowers, and my lessons."
"I will tell you when I am tired of it all," replied her father; "but now you must talk to me a little about Emmerton, and your cousins. Do you like them very much, and is it very pleasant staying there?"
"I like Dora, papa," exclaimed Amy, "so much—so very much. She is so kind, and so thoughtful; and yet"—she added, pausing—"I do not think she is kind and thoughtful either, not to every one, at least."
Colonel Herbert smiled. "You seem to have made a new discovery," he said. "Is Dora's character such a puzzle to every one?"
"I never thought about it before," replied Amy; "and now I do not think I quite know what she is; but I love her very much, though she is not at all like Miss Morton."
"Miss Morton is the governess, is she not?" said Colonel Herbert; "I used to know her very well as a child."
"She is not exactly the governess," replied Amy; "but she teaches my cousins some things, and she has taught me too. Emmerton would be so different if she was not there."
"I thought," said Colonel Herbert, "that you were always delighted withEmmerton before your uncle came."
"Ah! yes," answered Amy; "but that was before I knew any better; when I only thought about all the old lords and ladies who they said used to live there. There was nothing real then; but I liked to make them out very good and beautiful—and sometimes I wished I had lived in those days, because no one I could ever hear of was quite good, except mamma and Mrs Walton; now, I never care about such things, for Miss Morton is better, I think, than I ever imagined, and prettier too; don't you think she is?"
"She has a very sweet face, certainly," replied Colonel Herbert; "but,Amy, how good you ought to be after being so much with her."
Amy looked rather grave: "I have thought of that sometimes," she said; "but I hope you will not be very much vexed with me, dear papa; indeed I do mean to try so hard."
"You must not think I doubted it, my love," he replied; "but, you know, we shall be obliged to answer for the use we have made of our friends, just as much as for the use we have made of our money or talents. I do not think, though, that Miss Morton has been thrown away upon you."
"It was mamma who made me see Miss Morton's goodness," replied Amy. "I do not think I should have noticed it half as much if she had not been so like her; and that was the first thing which made me love her. Margaret and Dora did not appear to think anything about her for some time."
"And do they now?" asked Colonel Herbert.
"I am not quite sure as to Margaret," replied Amy; "but I think Dora does, though she will not acknowledge it; and, by and by, I dare say, she will love her as I do, and then Miss Morton will be happier; for it must be very dreadful, papa, to live all by one's self, without any person to care for one."
"Who does live so, Amy? Not Miss Morton, I am sure, from your account of her."
"Yes, but indeed she does live alone very much. Rose is a great deal too young to be a companion to her."
"Does she say herself that she has no one to care for her?" said ColonelHerbert, looking rather graver than usual.
Amy thought for an instant, and then answered, "I do not think she would say so, because she told me the other night that wherever God was, was our home; and she is so good, that I daresay loving Him does instead of friends; but, papa, I am afraid I shall never feel like that."
"It is a hard lesson," replied Colonel Herbert, as he looked at his child, and thought what his feelings would be if he were obliged to part from her. "But here we are at the cottage, Amy," he added, after a few moments' silence. "I must go over it quickly, for I have but little time to spare."
Amy eagerly ran into the house, but her father followed more slowly. Every tree and stone served to recall some vision of the past, some walk, or book, or conversation, which at the time he had been hardly conscious of enjoying, but upon which he now looked back with almost melancholy regret. Amy soon noticed the change in his manner; and leaving him to his own reflections, wandered about by herself, finding sufficient occupation in repeating the instructions which Mrs Herbert had sent to the servants, inquiring for the people in the village, whom she had seldom before left for so long a time, and visiting her pet rabbits and her donkey. It was a slight disappointment to see her father so abstracted; but the feeling quickly passed away, when he made her go with him into the drawing-room, and began pointing out a few alterations which he hoped to make in the house, and talking of the new piano he intended to procure for her when next he went to London; and then showed her the books he wished her to read, promising that, if possible, some portion of his time should be given every day solely to her, to perfect her in the knowledge of history and languages, before he took her abroad. Every word realised more fully the blessing of her father's return; and though the time thus spent was but short, it was sufficient to open many new sources of enjoyment; and when at length Colonel Herbert placed her in the carriage by herself, she was so occupied with all he had been saying, that she forgot to give directions for being driven to the rectory, though at another time a visit there would have been her greatest delight. The servants, however, had received previous instructions, and Amy soon found herself in Mrs Walton's drawing-room, recounting to her all the changes of sorrow and of joy which she had experienced since last they met.
Miss Cunningham's temper was not likely to be improved by the pleasures of her wintry walk, and this Margaret quickly perceived, for it required all her powers of flattery and persuasion to prevent her from turning back at every step; and although perfectly sensible of the importance of humouring and soothing her, it was impossible to avoid occasionally showing a dislike to cross looks and harsh words. The walk through the plantation was tolerably firm, for the heat of the sun had not entirely penetrated it, but the open field was in many places very unpleasant, and but for the thought of her pony, Margaret would on no account have attempted to proceed. Miss Cunningham slowly followed her, sighing and muttering, and at length, stopping at a gate leading into the adjoining fields, she protested nothing should induce her to move one step farther.
"It is but a very little way," said Margaret; "you can see the cottage just among the trees; I daresay the lane will not be as bad as this."
"You can go by yourself, can't you?" replied Lucy; "there is no good in both of us getting into a mess."
"But I wanted to know whether you thought the pony as pretty as Dora's.I am not going to have it, if it is not."
"Then we must come another day," was the reply. "I could as soon wade through a pond as this field."
"I do think," said Margaret, looking over the gate, "that it is much drier in this other field, and there is a bridge down at the bottom over the stream; I should not wonder if we could get to the cottage by going over it."
As she spoke, Margaret was about to open the gate, when she heard some one repeating her name, and turning round, saw Rose and Miss Morton, who were hastening towards her from the bottom of the field.
"I have been trying," said Emily, as she came up, "to find my way to Stephen's cottage, but the lane is in such a state, that it is almost impassable—at least for Rose—so I must beg you to take care of her for a few minutes, while I make another attempt. I shall be within sight, and almost within hearing the whole way."
"It is very provoking," observed Margaret; "is there no mode of reaching the cottage by the next field and the bridge? it looks a great deal drier."
"No," replied Emily, "you would find a hedge in your way, unless you went a considerable distance round; but can I say anything to Stephen for you? I must see him to-day, for his daughter is ill; and there are some directions for her medicine which no one can give but myself."
"You may tell him," said Margaret, "that I want very much to see the pony; and that I shall not have it, unless it is quite as pretty as Dora's."
"Shall I say that it is to be sent for?" asked Emily.
"You may if you will—that is, I must speak to papa about it first; butI suppose there will be no objection to my having it to try."
Miss Morton secretly wished that Margaret would learn to be more grateful and courteous in her expressions; and then charging Rose to walk up and down the field in order to keep herself warm, and on no account to give her sister any trouble, she walked towards the cottage. She was hardly beyond hearing, when Miss Cunningham began complaining of the trouble that had been caused, and wishing that they had not met; declaring, at the same time, that she would not stay in such a bog for any one; it would be much better in the other field, and she should go there.
"Come, Rose," said Margaret, opening the gate, "you must go first. I will lift you over the bad places, and then we can keep to the dry part of the path."
"I was told to stay here," said Rose, "and, besides, I am never allowed to walk in that field, it is so steep, and there is water at the bottom."
"You must do as you are told by us now," exclaimed Miss Cunningham, "so come directly."
Still Rose resisted. Emily would not like it, she said, and would not be able to find her.
"It does not signify," observed Margaret, desirous from selfish motives to please her friend in every fancy.
"She can stay here if she wishes it. It can make no difference which side of the gate we are. If you are such a naughty child, Rose, you must remain by yourself, but don't be frightened, we shall not be out of sight."
Rose was half inclined to follow, but Miss Cunningham shut the gate, and she was prevented. The path certainly was much drier and more agreeable; and Margaret and Lucy paced up and down for several minutes, until, catching sight of some animals in a field adjoining the stream, Margaret declared they were horses, and she was sure her pony must be amongst them, and calling to Rose to remain exactly where she was till they came back, she hastened to satisfy her curiosity. Rose begged her not to go out of sight; but Margaret did not think it worth while to attend; and although the distance was not very great, the poor child immediately began to fancy she was left, and stood looking anxiously through the gate, and entreating Margaret to return, till she gradually worked herself into a state of great distress, which was brought to its climax, when, on turning round to see if Miss Morton were coming, she perceived that a few cows had been driven into the field, and that one of them was moving rather quickly in her direction. In an agony of alarm, Rose attempted to open the gate, but it resisted all her endeavours; and then, forgetting everything but her desire to escape from the cows, she made a desperate effort, and succeeded in scrambling over it, and seeing her sister standing by the bridge at the bottom of the field, ran at full speed towards her. Margaret saw, and called loudly to her to be careful, but the poor little girl's fright prevented her from attending, while the swiftness with which she ran, and the steepness of the hill, took from her the power of stopping, and in one moment, while yet unconscious of her danger, her foot slipped; her head struck against the projecting branch of a tree, and she fell with violence into the water. Margaret's scream of horror was echoed by Miss Cunningham, who immediately ran from the spot, calling loudly for assistance, while Margaret, with greater presence of mind, caught hold of a broken bough that lay upon the ground, and bent over the stream, in the hope of reaching her sister's dress, and so being able to save her. But the rapidity with which it flowed frustrated her hopes, and in another minute all probability of rescuing the unfortunate child would have been at an end, when the man whose cows had been the principal cause of the accident came to her assistance, and by the aid of a longer stick, and more powerful arm, succeeded in placing Rose once more in safety.
Margaret's first feeling was one of overpowering relief and gratitude; but when she looked at her sister's face as she lay perfectly senseless in the labourer's arms, her terror returned; and unable to decide upon what was next to be done, she stood by her in silent despair, unconscious of the approach of Miss Morton, who, alarmed by Miss Cunningham's cries, as she was returning from the cottage, had quickly guessed the cause, and was hurrying towards them, followed by another man.
"To the Hall! carry her to the Hall!" were the first words she said; and they were spoken so calmly, that but for the expression of her countenance, no one could have guessed the extent of her feeling.
The man in an instant obeyed, and strode rapidly across the field, but Emily's anxiety gave her for the time a strength far beyond her nature; and she kept pace with him, and even occasionally outstripped him, urging him at every instant to hasten, for that life and death depended on his speed. Margaret and Miss Cunningham were left far behind, and as they drew near to the house, almost unconsciously, Margaret lingered. Neither she nor Lucy had spoken during their walk, and ample time had been given to both for reflection. At first Margaret had felt stunned by the alarm; but as she thought of meeting her mother, the horrible idea crossed her mind, that she had not been entirely guiltless of the accident.
"Oh Lucy!" she exclaimed, when they stopped at the Hall door, "why did we leave her?"
"She will get well soon," said Miss Cunningham; but her manner was subdued, and she spoke less confidently than usual.
Margaret did not wait to reply, but hurried to Miss Morton's room. Rose, however, had not been carried there, and the house was in such commotion, that it was some time before she could obtain any information as to what had been done; but at last she was told that Mr Harrington had ridden off himself for Dr Bailey, and that Mrs Harrington and Miss Morton were together using every means for restoring the poor child to life. Morris named the room to which Rose had been taken, but when Margaret tried the door, it was bolted; and though there were voices within, no attention was paid to her entreaties for admittance. As she turned away in disappointed misery, Dora met her.
"Oh Margaret!" she exclaimed, "is it your doing?"
"No, no," replied Margaret; "why are you so cruel as to say it? Do you know how she is?"
"Better," answered Dora, trying to command herself; "she has shown signs of life, but they will not let you in."
"Who will not?" inquired Margaret.
"Mamma and Emily Morton; they are talking together, and they have fastened the door. Hark! you can hear them now."
Mrs Harrington's voice sounded strangely in the chamber of anxiety and fear. She was evidently in a state of the utmost excitement, and Emily's gentle answers seemed hardly listened to for an instant. Dora and Margaret gazed at each other in silent amazement; in a few minutes the bolt was hastily and angrily withdrawn, and Emily Morton entered the passage. Dora caught her dress, and was about to speak; but when she looked in her face, she felt it was impossible. Such intense suffering was expressed in every feature, in her firmly compressed lip, and the ghastly paleness of her check, and the contraction of her forehead, that Dora did not dare inquire the cause. Yet, even then, Emily had a thought for others. "Rose is better," she said, and pointed to the open door, and then, turning away, she passed in a moment from their sight.
"What can be the matter?" exclaimed Margaret.
"Mamma is angry that Rose was left, I suppose," replied Dora.
"She would have thought nothing about it, but for the accident," said Margaret, with a painful consciousness of being infinitely more to blame than Miss Morton.
"I don't know any of the particulars," observed Dora; "no one has had any time to ask; but I wish you would tell me now."
Margaret was beginning her account, when the door again opened, and Mrs Harrington seeing them in the passage, called Dora into the room, and ordered Margaret to send Morris to her immediately.
Margaret delivered the message, and then went to the school-room, where she found Miss Cunningham seated by the fire, with a book in her hand, and not only composed, but cheerful.
"You are not unhappy now, Margaret, are you?" she said; "I dare say little Rose will be quite well again tomorrow. Susan Reynolds told me just now that she was a great deal better."
"Yes," replied Margaret; "she is better, certainly, she would not be alive else; but it is nonsense to talk of happiness. What will mamma say when she knows how it all occurred?"
"Who is to tell her?" said Lucy. "We need not."
"No," replied Margaret; "but I rather suspect mamma thinks it is owing to some carelessness of Emily Morton's. She was talking to her very angrily a little while ago, and when Emily came away she looked like a frightened ghost."
"But it was careless in her. What business had she to trouble us with the care of such a child? she might have known that it would be very inconvenient.
"If mamma has a notion that it was her fault, she will send her away," said Margaret, while a feeling of satisfaction dawned upon her mind as she thought of the London journey.
"Will she, indeed?" exclaimed Lucy; "then we shall enjoy ourselves after all."
Margaret shrank from having her own idea put into words. "You must not be too sure of that, Lucy," she replied: "I only said that Emily would be sent away if mamma considered the accident her fault, but, in fact, it was no one's fault; and this she will find when inquiries are made."
"Mrs Harrington is coming now," said Lucy: "I am sure that is her voice; she is speaking to Dora."
Margaret trembled extremely. "I hope mamma is not going to ask about it,Lucy."
"What are you afraid of?" replied Lucy: "we had nothing to do with it."
Margaret's conscience did not fully acquit her; but her uneasiness was lessened when her mother entered, still talking to Dora. "I have ordered the carriage, and she shall go," were her first words. "I shall never bear the sight of her again, and she wishes it herself. She says Mrs Walton will receive her."
"But was it really her fault, mamma?" asked Dora.
"Whose could it be?" replied Mrs Harrington. "She left her—left her in that field, notwithstanding my strict charge to the contrary, for such a child could never have opened the gate: and she must have known that there was danger."
"But Margaret and Lucy were near," continued Dora.
"So she says," replied Mrs Harrington; "but they could not have been, or they would have taken care of her."
"Where were you when poor little Rose fell in?" asked Dora, appealing to her sister.
Margaret was about to reply, but a glance from Miss Cunningham stopped her, and she suffered her to speak instead.
"We were standing near the bridge, looking for Margaret's pony; and when we saw what had happened, we ran directly and tried to save her."
"I told you so, Dora," exclaimed Mrs Harrington, in extreme indignation."I knew she equivocated: she shall not remain in my house another hour."
Mrs Harrington rang the bell violently, and Dora felt almost too much alarmed to speak; she did, however, suggest that Margaret and Miss Cunningham should tell the whole story, as she felt certain there must be some mistake. Again Margaret would have replied; but Miss Cunningham, who was standing at her side, pressed her hand as a signal for silence, and at that instant the servant entered.
"Let the pony-carriage be ordered directly," said Mrs Harrington: "I wish it to be at the door in an hour's time. I will not hear another word, Dora," she added: "the case is quite clear. Go immediately, and let Miss Morton know when the carriage will be ready."
"Oh mamma!" exclaimed Dora, while tears rushed to her eyes—"if you would send Morris."
"Dora, I will be obeyed instantly," said Mrs Harrington.
"But Amy is not come home yet, mamma," persisted Dora, seizing eagerly upon any chance of a respite.
"Did you not hear me order the pony-carriage?" was the answer. "Of course, I knew that your cousin was not returned."
Mrs Harrington left the room, and Dora was about reluctantly to follow, when the servant came back to say that the carriage was just coming down the avenue, and to inquire whether it would make any difference in the order.
Dora for once in her life heartily wished that Amy had remained longer away, for she feared that even less time might now be allowed Miss Morton; and she fancied every delay might be of use. "I will ask mamma myself," she said, unwilling that anything should be settled without her knowledge. And after lingering a few minutes longer, she walked slowly away; and Margaret and Miss Cunningham were again left alone.
"I hope you give me credit for my management, Margaret," said Lucy. "We have had a happy escape."
"I don't know," replied Margaret; "it must all come out by and by."
"Why, I should like to know? Why should anything more be said if we keep our own counsel?"
"But Emily Morton," replied Margaret, "she will never allow herself to be sent away without making some defence."
"If she does," answered Lucy, "what will it signify? You may see your mamma does not believe her."
"But if mamma should ask us any more questions, we could not tell a story about it, you know."
"Did I tell one just now?" asked Miss Cunningham. "Was not every word exactly the truth?"
"Yes," said Margaret; "but I think Dora suspects something."
"Never mind Dora," replied Lucy; "she cannot know what we do not choose to tell. It is quite silly of you, Margaret, to be so fidgety; this is just all that we wanted; and if we only take care, we shall go to London, and enjoy ourselves to our hearts' content. You would have been delighted at the idea yesterday; and now that everything has fallen out just as we wished, you look grave."
"It is not just as I wished, though," repeated Margaret, rather angrily; "it is not at all pleasant to have poor little Rose so ill."
"Certainly that is disagreeable," said Lucy; "but it is a mere trifle; she will be quite well to-morrow; besides, what would you do? You would not dare make a great fuss, and complain of yourself to your mamma."
"No, indeed," exclaimed Margaret; "I would suffer anything first. I should say nothing about it, if Emily Morton were not going."
"But that is the very point," urged Miss Cunningham. "It is theprincipal reason we have for being silent. London—think of London,Margaret;—and nothing would induce me to go if Miss Morton went too.How much you would miss me if I were not there."
"To be sure," replied Margaret, after a short pause, "we have not said anything that is not true; and Emily Morton is quite able to defend herself; and if mamma will not believe her, it is not our fault."
"Certainly not; let us leave her to herself; and when she is once out of the house everything will go right."
Margaret's conscience told her that all could not be right; that there was such a thing as a practical falsehood; but she had so long accustomed herself to trifling prevarications, that her self-reproach was not very great. Probably she would not have felt any, if the consequences of her deceit had been less important. Miss Cunningham perceived that she had gained an advantage by the mention of London, and, eagerly pursuing the subject, expatiated in glowing terms upon the amusement they should find there, till Margaret forgot by what means the pleasure was to be obtained; and by the time the conversation was over, was so strengthened in her resolution, that Miss Cunningham's fears were completely at rest.
To Dora's relief—her cousin's return made no difference in Mrs Harrington's plan—there was still nearly an hour before her; and in that time it was barely possible that her papa might return and insist upon Emily's remaining at least another day. It seemed, indeed, the height of cruelty to insist upon her going at such a time, for the state in which poor little Rose continued excited the greatest alarm. She had shown signs of consciousness, but the increasing fever and her continual moanings added every moment to Mrs Harrington's anxiety. She walked from room to room, and from window to window, listening for every sound; now upon the point of setting off herself in search of Dr Bailey; then seating herself by the side of her child's bed, with the determination that nothing should induce her to quit it; and again, as she felt the rapid pulse, and heard the sounds of suffering, starting up with the intention of seeking for some one who might advise her at once what was most necessary to be done. Dora, after remaining a short time, anxious to delay giving the painful information to Emily, went to see her cousin, in the hope of being the first to break to her, gradually, the painful news; but Amy had not been two minutes in the house before she had heard all, and rather more than all, for the news of Miss Morton's intended departure had spread rapidly, and was of course coupled with the accident.
Amy's first intelligence was, that Miss Morton had left Rose playing by the side of the stream; that the child had fallen in, and would have been lost but for Miss Cunningham's screams; that she was not expected to live more than an hour; and that Miss Morton was to go away immediately. The last words were so surprising, that Amy did not at first entirely comprehend them; she was bewildered between her deep sorrow for Rose and her dread of Miss Morton's departure; and stood for a few moments in a state of the most painful indecision, unwilling even to go to her mamma till she had learned the truth more certainly. "Going," she repeated; "do you really mean that Miss Morton is going now?"
"Yes, now, Miss," replied Morris, in a short, pert voice, and rejoicing secretly in the thought of getting rid of any one that patronised Susan Reynolds, who had lately become almost her rival. "The carriage is coming round directly. I think Jolliffe is just gone up to the stable to put the ponies in."
Amy did not wait to hear more. She flew to Emily's room; but just as she reached it, Dora stopped her.
"Oh Amy!" she exclaimed, looking earnestly at her, "I see by your face that you know everything. What is to be done for Emily?"
"I am sure it cannot be true," said Amy. "My aunt would never send her away now."
"But it is quite true," replied Dora; "nothing will have any effect. I have said all I could; and papa is not here."
"Where is she going?" said Amy. "I must run directly, and speak to mamma; she will entreat for her; and my aunt will never be able to refuse her. Has no one told mamma about it?"
Dora was about to reply, when Emily Morton opened the door, and in a voice so totally changed that Amy would scarcely have recognised it, asked them to come in.
The room presented a very different aspect from that which it usually wore. The pictures from the walls were lying about on the table and in the chairs; the floor was covered with trunks, band-boxes, and dresses; and the books had been taken from the shelves, and were piled together in regular order, preparatory to their being packed.
Amy did not speak; but Dora exclaimed instantly, "Oh Emily! why should you do this? you cannot manage it yourself."
"I must be alone," replied Emily; and again her voice sounded so strange, that Amy started. The gentle tone which had once sounded so sweet to her ear was changed for one that was unnaturally deep and hollow. There were no traces of agitation in her face—scarcely even in her manner; but her lips were perfectly colourless, and her eyes were dimmed and sunken.
"You must not,—oh! you must not go," exclaimed Amy, throwing herself into her arms, and bursting into tears.
Emily pointed to the floor, and, with a ghastly smile, said, "Will you help me? The carriage will be here."
Dora knelt down and tried to busy herself with the books, but she could not conceal her emotion; and Emily Morton, as she witnessed for the first time the sympathy of one who had hitherto so painfully neglected her, pressed her lips firmly together, and walked quickly up and down the room.
"I must go to mamma," exclaimed Amy; "she will see my aunt directly; andI am sure she will be able to persuade her."
"No," said Emily, forcing herself to speak, as Amy was about to leave the room; "you must not say anything to Mrs Herbert. I went to her myself just now, before everything was settled, that she might not be shocked suddenly; and even then, though I could speak comfortably to her, I could see how much she suffered. She went immediately to Mrs Harrington, and would have remained with her but for your aunt's insisting to the contrary. I would not for the world that she should be distressed again on my account."
"But she will be so very, very sorry," said Amy: "and I am sure my aunt will listen to her."
"Indeed, it must not be," replied Emily. "Remember what Dr Bailey said; and your mamma will not care so much when she knows where I am going. I have written a note to Mrs Walton, to ask her to receive me for the next few days. I could not go far away whilst——' The sentence remained unfinished; but both Dora and Amy knew well what it meant.
"If you would leave these things," said Dora, "Amy and I could take care of them for you."
"Perhaps it would be best," replied Emily, "I don't think I quite know why they were taken down, for I could not pack them in so short a time."
"Do you know, then, about the carriage?" asked Dora.
"Yes," replied Emily; "Susan Reynolds told me, and offered to help me; but I sent her away. I want nothing now, excepting to know——"
"How Rose is," continued Amy. "I will go directly, and ask."
Amy ran out of the room, and Dora followed her. "Stop one moment, Amy," she said. "I don't think Emily Morton knows about poor little Rose being worse; when she left her, she thought she was better. It will half kill her to go away when she hears it."
"Let us both go to my aunt, and beg," said Amy, "only for one day. If she would just let her stay to-night, I could be happy."
"You don't know mamma," replied Dora; "she thinks Emily Morton has equivocated."
"Oh!" exclaimed Amy, "no one could think so."
"Mamma believes it firmly; and so there would be no hoped persuading her. But, Amy, I think there is something hidden—something which Margaret and Lucy Cunningham know, only they will not tell. I must go back to mamma. But, perhaps, if you were to talk to them, you might find it out; only be quick."
"Will you let Miss Morton know about Rose, then? and I will try; but I don't know what to say. I wish you could be with me."
"Indeed I must go," replied Dora; "but I will see poor little Rose myself, and then return to Emily for a minute. You will find Margaret and Lucy in the schoolroom."
"But what does my aunt say?" continued Amy. "Why does she not ask them about it?"
"She would not listen to me just now," said Dora; "and when I left her she was in such an agony about Rose that I did not dare speak to her; indeed, Amy, you are the only person who can do anything."
Amy did not wait to be again entreated, but went instantly to the schoolroom. Margaret and Lucy were still there, as Dora had told her; and neither of them seemed at all pleased at her interruption.
"Have you seen Rose lately?" asked Amy, hardly knowing how to begin, and yet extremely anxious that no time should be lost.
"No," replied Margaret. "Mamma has sent us word that it is better to keep her quite quiet; and she begs that no one may go to her room except Dora, unless she rings. Morris is there with her too, I believe."
"I should so like to see her," said Amy; "I am afraid she is very ill.Do tell me, Margaret, how it was she fell in."
"She was running fast down the hill," replied Margaret, "and could not stop herself. I shall never forget what I felt when I saw what was going to happen."
"But how did you get into that field? Somebody said just now you were going to Stephen's cottage; that is not the way to it."
"No," interrupted Miss Cunningham, who began to be uneasy at Amy's questions; "we went down to the water to look at the ponies."
"And I suppose Miss Morton sent Rose to you, then," said Amy.
"No," replied Lucy. "Poor child! she came running to us of her own accord."
"I do so wonder at Miss Morton's leaving her," observed Amy; "she is so particular about her in general."
Miss Cunningham made no reply, and Amy felt quite disheartened. In a few moments, however, she began again— "I cannot understand it at all, Margaret. What made Miss Morton and Rose go into that field?"
"You are very stupid this morning, I think," exclaimed Lucy. "How can we know what reasons Miss Morton has for doing strange things? And why should you ask so many questions?"
"Because," replied Amy, summoning up all her courage, "I cannot think that Miss Morton really did leave Rose all by herself in that dangerous field."
"Then what do you think she did?" asked Lucy.
"I don't know; but it would have been much more like her to have leftRose with you."
"Then you think," exclaimed Miss Cunningham, indignantly, "that Margaret and I have been saying what is not true."
"I don't mean to make you angry," replied Amy, whose naturally timid disposition was for the moment overawed; "but if there is any excuse to be made, Margaret, it would be very, very kind in you to say something to my aunt. I am sure you would, if you saw how miserable Miss Morton is at the idea of going away."
"What do you wish me to do?" asked Margaret. "Mamma will not listen to me."
"But she would listen to you," continued Amy, "if you had anything real to tell her,—I mean, not merely an excuse."
"I cannot see," interrupted Miss Cunningham, "why you should interfere and talk to us in this way; you would make out if you could that we had been keeping back something. Miss Morton can tell all there is to be told just as well as we can. Come, Margaret, do let us go up-stairs; I am quite tired of sitting here in my walking things."
"No, no," exclaimed Amy, seizing her cousin by the dress; "pray,Margaret, do not go yet."
"What good can I do you by staying?" said Margaret, whose resolution was somewhat wavering.
"If you would only tell me," persisted Amy, "if there is anything that will make my aunt pleased with Miss Morton, I should be so glad. I am sure you never saw any one before look as wretched as she does now."
Margaret seemed inclined to remain; not that she had any intention of confessing the whole truth, but she was hardly able to resist Amy's earnest looks.
"Come, come, Margaret," said Lucy; "I cannot wait any longer. If you say a word more," she added, in a whisper, "it will all come out."
Amy caught the last words, and eagerly repeated them aloud. "Then there is something. Oh Margaret! you would not be so cruel as to hide it!"
"I think you are very unkind and unjust to suspect me of concealing anything, Amy," replied Margaret, her pride and her fears being awakened by the open accusation, "You may find out what you will, but you will hear nothing from me; I am not going to stay here to be accused of hiding things."
Margaret and Lucy had left the room before Amy could resolve on what was next to be said; and when they were gone she felt for some moments in despair of being able to do anything for Miss Morton. The time was quickly passing away; she did not dare go to her aunt; and she did not know what might be the consequence of applying to her mamma. Dora was not to be seen; and there was but a very slight hope that either her father or her uncle would return before Emily's departure; and yet she was fully convinced there was some secret between Margaret and Lucy, which, for private reasons, they did not choose to confess. At first she felt inclined to give up all idea of discovering it, and go again to Miss Morton's room; but the thought of what her distress would be on learning that poor little Rose was getting worse made it seem cruel to rest without another effort; and in the hope of possibly seeing Dora, and obtaining some advice from her, she went up-stairs, and lingered about in the gallery into which Rose's bedroom opened.
The window at the end fronted the terrace; and when Amy looked out, she saw Lord Rochford and Mr Cunningham pacing up and down in earnest conversation. At first she thought very little about them, but after waiting in vain for Dora, the idea struck her, that if something were said to Mr Cunningham he might be able to prevail on his sister to tell the whole truth. With the idea, however, came also the doubt, whether it would be right in her to mention the subject. She was but a child, and he might naturally be very much annoyed at her expressing any suspicion of his sister; and even if Lucy and Margaret had done wrong, it seemed unkind to be the means of exposing them; perhaps, if she waited, her uncle might return, and Dora might be able to speak to him;—at any rate, it would appear presuming and impertinent; and as Miss Morton was only going to Mrs Walton's, she could return again the next day if Mr Harrington wished it. Of Mr Cunningham's kind feeling towards herself, Amy had little doubt; he had shown it in the most marked way, especially since he had overheard the conversation on the preceding evening; and but for this it would hardly have been possible to think of taking so great a liberty; but with the certainty that he would willingly assist her, if it were in his power, she could not entirely banish from her mind the thought of applying to him. Again and again she endeavoured to decide whether it would be right, but still her mind continued in the same painful state of indecision. The thought of Emily Morton made her determine to go at once and beg him to interfere; and the remembrance that it would appear unkind and unsuited to her age, made her shrink from the idea, and resolve to wait patiently a short time longer in the hope of seeing Dora. Very earnestly she longed to go at once to her mamma; but it would vex Emily, and perhaps might make Mrs Herbert ill, and Lucy and Margaret would consider her very ill-natured. This last argument, however, did not seem a powerful one. If it were unkind to them to mention the subject, it would be still more unkind to Emily Morton to be silent: and again poor Amy began to doubt, and stood at the window looking at Mr Cunningham, and wishing with all her heart that some one would appear to tell her what she ought to do. Whilst still hesitating, Susan Reynolds came into the gallery, followed by Morris, the only one of the servants who had admission into the chamber of the sick child. Amy was going to beg that her cousin Dora might be sent to her, but Morris's movements were too quick; the bedroom door was opened but for one instant; and when it closed, Amy was so vexed and disappointed that her fortitude entirely gave way.