As they entered the house, Amy's quick eye soon discovered the changes
that had taken place since she was last there. A detachment of servants
and a large quantity of furniture had arrived three days before; and
Mrs Bridget was now in all her glory, putting the finishing stroke to
everything, moving tables and chairs to suit her own taste, carefully
effacing every symptom of dust, and ordering servants in all directions,
partly because she thought they might as well be actively employed, and
partly because she felt it was so grand to command tall men in livery.
Her smart silk gown seemed to Amy's ears to rustle more audibly than
ever as she met her in the hall, and there was a greater profusion
of frills and ribbons about her wide-spreading cap, and, above all, a
mixture of importance and bustle in her step, which, with the shrill
voice and up-turned nose and chin, showed that she felt herself, for
the time being, the superior of every one about her. Nevertheless,
she received Amy most graciously, told her that she had persuaded Mrs
Herbert to rest in the great drawing-room, and endeavoured to induce her
to do the same; but this was quite contrary to Amy's inclinations, and
the moment she could escape from Mrs Bridget's fine words, she ran off
to see that her mamma was comfortable, and the next minute her light
step was heard as she danced along the galleries exploring every room,
new and old, to see what alterations were made in them. This was not
quite according to Bridget's notions of propriety, and she muttered to
herself that it would not do by and by,--Miss Amy would soon find out
that the house was not hers; but her partiality got the better of
her dignity, and Amy continued the search, till, having satisfied her
curiosity, she stationed herself half way between the lodge and the
house to watch for the carriage. Every moment seemed now an age; but she
was not long kept in suspense; after about ten minutes, the rumbling of
wheels was distinctly heard, and almost immediately afterwards the gates
were thrown open, and a carriage and four drove rapidly down the avenue.
Amy's heart beat quickly; she stood for a few moments looking at it,
and then, half frightened as it came nearer and nearer, she ran at full
speed towards the house that she might be the first to give the joyful
intelligence to her mother. But Mrs Herbert's anxious ear had already
caught the sound, and she was standing on the steps when her child flew
to her almost breathless. Even in that moment of excitement, Amy could
not help noticing the deadly paleness of her mother's face; but there
was now no time for words, the carriage stopped at the door, and Mrs
Herbert making a great effort to command her feelings, with a firm voice
welcomed her brother and his family to Emmerton. Amy shrank behind
her mamma, with but one wish, to avoid being observed by the tall
grave-looking gentleman, whom she thought she never could call uncle;
and Mrs Herbert, considering only her brother's painful feelings,
suffered him to pass with but very few words. Mrs Harrington followed,
and Amy scarcely remarked what her aunt was like, her whole mind being
occupied with wondering whether the two fashionable-looking young
ladies, who remained in the carriage searching for their baskets and
books, could possibly be her own cousins.
"Which is Dora, mamma?" she whispered.
But Mrs Herbert moved forward, as her nieces ran up the steps, saying,
"Your mamma has left me to introduce myself, my dear girls. I can hardly
imagine you have any remembrance of your aunt Herbert and your cousin
Amy. I suppose I shall not be mistaken in calling you Dora," she added,
as she kissed the one who, from her height and general appearance, was
evidently the eldest.
Amy's first curiosity was thus set at rest, but in its stead she was
seized with an overpowering feeling of shyness. Dora looked almost as
awful a person as her papa, whom she very much resembled. There was the
same high forehead, dark eye, rather large nose, and haughty curl of the
lip; and her height, which was unusual at her age, gave the idea of her
being at least two years older than she really was; and Amy turned to
Margaret in despair of finding anything like a companion; but Margaret
had a much younger face, and slighter figure, though she also was tall;
and if her dress and manner had been less like those of a grown-up
person, Amy might, perhaps, have felt more comfortable.
"You are quite right, aunt," said Dora, in a sharp, loud voice, which
sounded disagreeably in Amy's ears, after the gentle tones to which she
had listened from her infancy; "I am Dora, and this is Margaret, and
there is little Rose behind."
"I begin to think," said Mrs Herbert, "that, after all, Rose will be
Amy's best playfellow; we were neither of us quite prepared for anything
so tall and womanly, and Amy is such a tiny child, you will think her
more fit for the nursery than the school-room, I suspect."
"Is this Amy?" said Dora, giving her first a patronising tap on the
shoulder, and then a hasty kiss; "I dare say we shall be very good
friends." And without another word she ran into the house.
"I am sure we shall," said Margaret, in a more affectionate tone, and
Amy, who had been chilled by Dora's manner, returned her embrace most
cordially.
"I must give little Rose a kiss before we go into the drawing-room,"
said Mrs Herbert, "and perhaps, Margaret, you will introduce me to Miss
Morton."
Margaret stared, as if she did not quite understand her aunt's meaning.
"Oh!" she said, "there is no occasion for that, we never do it with her;
but, to be sure," she continued, seeing that Mrs Herbert looked grave,
"if you like it. Simmons, help Miss Morton down."
The footman moved forward a few steps, lifted little Rose from the
carriage, and then held out his hand to Miss Morton, who was seated by
the side of the lady's maid.
"Which is Miss Morton?" asked Mrs Herbert, in a low voice, much puzzled
between two silk gowns, two silk bonnets, and two lace veils.
"Well, that is amusing!" exclaimed Margaret, pertly, and bursting into
a short, conceited laugh. "Certainly Morris is the nicest-looking of the
two. Morris, my aunt did not know you and Emily Morton apart."
Amy felt very uncomfortable at this speech, though she scarcely knew
why; and even Margaret, when the words were uttered, seemed conscious
they were wrong; for, with a heightened colour, and without waiting to
introduce Mrs Herbert, she seized Amy's hand, and turned quickly away.
"Miss Morton will, I am sure, willingly pardon a mistake which only
distance could have caused," said Mrs Herbert, as she looked with
interest at the delicate features and sweet expression of the peculiarly
lady-like young girl, whose face had become like crimson on hearing
Margaret's thoughtless speech. "I ought to know you; for I well remember
seeing you some years ago, when I was staying with my brother at
Wayland Court; but you were then such a child, that I confess I find a
considerable alteration."
The answer to this was given in a low, hurried tone, for Emily Morton
had lately been so little accustomed to civility, that it confused
her almost as much as neglect. She seemed only anxious to divert Mrs
Herbert's attention from herself to little Rose as soon as possible; and
whispering to the child to go with her aunt into the drawing-room, she
herself followed the lady's-maid in a different direction. Amy was by
this time rather more at her ease; and when Mrs Herbert entered, she
was standing by her uncle, and had found courage to say a few words.
Mrs Harrington was leaning back on the sofa, taking but slight notice of
anything; and Dora and Margaret were examining the furniture, and making
remarks which were far from pleasing to Amy's ears. The room was so
dark, and the windows were so deep, and the furniture was so very
old-fashioned, they were quite sure they never could be happy in such a
strange place; and after the first observations about the journey were
over, Amy began to feel still more uncomfortable; for she fancied that
her mamma wished her to be away, that she might talk to her uncle and
aunt, and yet her cousins showed no intention of leaving the room. At
last, surprised at her own boldness, she whispered to Dora, who was
standing next her, "Should you not like to see the house up-stairs?"
Dora turned sharply round, and Amy could not quite understand the tone
of her voice, as she said, "I suppose you wish to do the honours."
"Amy, my love," said Mrs Herbert, who had overheard the question and
answer, "you must recollect that your cousins are at home; they will go
up-stairs when they please."
Poor Amy felt puzzled and vexed; she had meant no harm, and yet both
her mamma and Dora seemed annoyed. She did not, however, venture to say
anything further, and was quite relieved when Mr Harrington remarked
that it was a good notion, the girls had better go and choose their
rooms at once, and settle themselves a little; and by that time they
would be ready, perhaps, for their tea, as they had all dined on the
road quite early.
Amy hung back, afraid of again doing something which her cousin might
not like; but Margaret called to her to follow them, and in a few
moments she had forgotten her discomfort in the pleasure of showing the
different apartments, and pointing out all their several advantages. But
Dora and Margaret were very difficult to please: one room was too small,
another too large; one looked out at the back, and another at the side;
one was too near the drawing-room, and another too far off. Still Amy
did not care; for she had determined in her own mind that they would
decide upon the bedroom oriel, which was just over the old schoolroom.
"Well! this really does seem as if it would do," said Margaret, as they
entered. "Do look, Dora; it is the prettiest room in the whole house,
and has the prettiest view, too; and the dressing-room is so large and
nice."
"I care very little which room I have," said Dora, who was looking grave
and unhappy. "The house is so sad and melancholy, it is all much the
same; we shall never be happy here."
"Not happy!" said Amy. "Oh yes! by and by you will; it never seems
gloomy to me."
"That is because you have always been accustomed to it," replied Dora.
"If you had seen Wayland Court, you would think nothing of this."
"Dora is determined not to be happy," said Margaret; and then she added,
in a whisper to Amy, "She was so very fond of poor Edward."
Dora evidently heard the words; for the tears rushed to her eyes, and
she bit her lip and began walking about examining the pictures; but the
painting which hung over the mantel-piece quite overcame all attempt at
composure. It was the picture of Mr Harrington's grandfather, taken when
a boy. He was represented riding in the park, on a spirited pony; and
both Dora and Margaret saw in a moment the likeness to their brother. It
was not natural for Dora to give way to any display of feeling; but she
had suffered very much during her brother's illness,--and this, with
her regret at leaving Wayland, the fatigue of the journey, and what she
considered to be the gloom of the house, entirely overpowered her; and
Amy, who had never been accustomed to the sight of any grief, except
her mamma's quiet tears, became frightened. Margaret, too, looked
astonished, but neither said nor did anything to assist or comfort her
sister; and Amy, having exhausted all the kind expressions she could
think of, at last remembered Mrs Herbert's infallible remedy of a glass
of water, which soon enabled Dora, in some degree, to recover herself.
At first she took but little notice of Amy, who stood by her side,
begging her to try and be happy; in fact, like many other proud persons,
she felt annoyed that she had given way so much before a mere child,
as she considered her cousin to be; but there was no withstanding the
winning tones of Amy's voice, and the perfect sincerity of her manner;
and when, at last, she became silent, and looked almost as unhappy as
herself, Dora's haughtiness was quite subdued, and she exclaimed, "I
must love you, Amy; for no one else would care whether I were miserable
or not."
Amy was surprised at the idea of any person's seeing others suffer and
not feeling for them; but, rejoicing in the success of her efforts, she
now tried to divert Dora's attention, by talking of the conveniences of
the room, and the view from the window. It was, at length, quite decided
that they should occupy it, and the bell was forthwith rung to summon
Morris. But the summons was given in vain; no Morris appeared. Again and
again the rope was pulled, but no footsteps were heard in answer. Dora
became irritated and Margaret fretful; and, after a considerable delay,
Amy proposed that, as she knew the way to the housekeeper's room, she
should try and find out Morris, who was very probably there. The thought
of the strange servants was certainly alarming; but then her cousins
were in distress, and she could help them; and, overcoming her timidity,
she set off on what appeared to her quite an expedition. Boldly and
quickly she threaded her way through the dark, winding passages, every
turn of which had been familiar to her from her childhood. But when she
stopped at the head of the back staircase, and listened to the hubbub of
voices in the servants' hall, her first fears returned. Even Bridget's
shrill tones were drowned in the medley of sound, and Amy looked in
vain, in the hope of seeing her cross the passage. After a few moments,
however, she felt inclined to laugh at her own shyness, and ran quickly
down, determining to inquire for Morris of the first person she met.
The servants were rushing to and fro in every direction, in all the
important bustle of a first arrival, and one or two pushed by without
taking any notice of her; but Amy, having resolved not to be daunted,
still went on; and, as a door suddenly opened immediately at her side,
and a tall female servant (as she imagined), dressed in deep mourning,
entered the passage, she turned eagerly to her, pulled her gown,
and begged to know where Morris was to be found. To her extreme
consternation, her aunt's voice answered quickly and angrily--"Who is
this? Amy here! how very improper, amongst all the servants! Why did you
not ring the bell, child? Go away, this moment."
Amy's first impulse was to obey as fast as possible; but she knew she
was doing no harm; and a few words, which her fright, however, made it
difficult to utter, soon explained to Mrs Harrington the cause of her
appearance there. Morris was instantly summoned, and Amy returned to her
cousins to recount her adventure.
"You don't mean to say mamma saw you amongst all the servants?"
exclaimed Margaret. "Well! I would not have been you for something; it
is just the very thing she most objects to. I have heard her lecture by
the hour about it; we have never been allowed to go within a mile of the
kitchen; and even little Rose, though she is such a baby, is kept just
as strict."
"Well, but," said Amy, "why did you let me go, if you knew my aunt would
object?"
"Oh!" said Margaret, "you offered, and I thought mamma was safe in the
drawing-room."
"And we wanted Morris," interrupted Dora, "I hate false excuses."
Amy felt rather angry, and thought she should not have done the same by
them; but everything this evening was so very new and strange, that she
kept all her feelings to herself for the present, to be talked over with
her mamma when they got home.
"But were you not very much frightened?" continued Margaret. "What did
you say when mamma spoke to you?"
"I was frightened just at first," replied Amy; "but then I knew I was
not doing anything wrong, and so I did not really care."
"Well, if you are not the boldest little thing I ever met with," said
Margaret; "even Dora would have cared, if she had been you."
"It is no use to say any more," exclaimed Dora, in rather an irritated
voice, for she prided herself upon caring for nobody; "we must leave off
talking now, and proceed to work. I am resolved to have all my things
unpacked, and settled to-night; so I shall choose my drawers and
closets, and say where I will have them put, and then Morris may as well
begin."
"But it is so late. Miss," said poor Morris, who was quite exhausted
with the packing of the previous night, and the fatigue of the long
day's journey; "and yours and Miss Margaret's things are mixed, many of
them."
Dora coloured, and said angrily, "You forget yourself, Morris; I have
told you that I choose to have my boxes unpacked to-night."
Amy longed to petition for a little mercy; but she was beginning to
learn not to interfere where she had no power, and Dora immediately
walked round the room to examine drawers and closets, and to give
directions, while Morris stood by, the picture of despairing fatigue.
Margaret was too indolent to give herself much trouble about the matter,
and Amy was rather astonished to see that Dora did not consult her in
the least. She chose the best of everything for herself; and when Morris
inquired what Miss Margaret wished to have done, the only answer she
could get was, that it did not signify; at any rate, to-morrow would be
quite soon enough to settle, for she was far too tired to think about it
now; and Morris, thankful for even a partial respite, asked for no more
orders, but hastened away to make the proper selection of trunks
and imperials. Dora and Margaret then arranged their dress and went
down-stairs to tea, followed by Amy, who felt alarmed as she thought
of encountering her aunt's eye after her misdemeanour. Mrs Harrington,
however, took but little notice of her; she had in some degree recovered
her energy, and was able to exert herself at the tea-table: and as
whatever she did always occupied her whole attention, she seemed to
be quite engrossed in cups and saucers, milk and cream; and Amy placed
herself at the farthest distance from her, taking care to have the urn
between them, and reserving a place at her side for her mamma, who was
standing at the window, talking in a low voice to Mr Harrington. But
when the labour of tea-making was over, Mrs Harrington was able to think
of other things, and her first inquiry was, what the girls thought
of their rooms, and why they had been obliged to send Amy into the
servants' hall.
"I suppose there is no bell, mamma," said Dora; "for we rang a great
many times, but no one came."
"Where was Miss Morton?" said Mrs Harrington; "she ought to have been
with you; it would not signify her going amongst the servants, but it
was highly improper for your cousin."
"Emily Morton always thinks she has enough to do to take care of
herself," said Margaret; "she is not over-fond of helping any one."
This struck Amy as very unjust; for Miss Morton had not been told where
they were, and, of course, was not to blame. She was not aware that it
was usual with Mrs Harrington to put upon Miss Morton everything that
went wrong; and that she was expected to be at hand to assist Dora and
Margaret on all occasions, no one considering for an instant whether the
expectation were reasonable or unreasonable.
"But, mamma," said Dora, "I must tell you that Emily did not know we
were gone to our rooms, so we ought not to find fault with her."
"But I do find fault with her, Dora," replied Mrs Harrington; "she
knows very well what is expected of her, and she ought to have inquired
whether she could be of any use to you."
"But, mamma,"--persisted Dora.
"I will not hear any buts, Dora; I must be the best judge of what Miss
Morton's duties are; you are not generally so apt to take her part."
"Only I hate injustice," muttered Dora, in a sulky tone.
"And I can't bear Emily Morton," whispered Margaret, who was sitting
next Amy.
"Can't bear her!" exclaimed Amy.
"Hush! hush!" said Margaret; "I don't want every one to hear."
Amy would have repeated her exclamation in a lower voice, but Mrs
Herbert now approached the tea-table, and began asking questions of
her nieces, and trying as much as possible to make herself at home with
them. Dora's answers were rather pert, and Margaret's rather affected;
but neither Mr nor Mrs Harrington checked them in the least, and Amy
felt annoyed at hearing them speak to her mamma almost as familiarly as
if she had been of their own age. She herself sat perfectly silent, too
much in awe of her aunt's grave looks to venture an observation, and
quite amused with watching what passed, and remarking to herself upon
the magnificence of the silver tea-urn and its appendages, and the
profusion of things with which the table was covered, so different
from what she was accustomed to see at the cottage. She was not sorry,
however, when her mamma proposed ordering the carriage; for the novelty
of everything did not quite make up for the restraint she was under. She
was afraid not only of her uncle and aunt, but even of the footmen when
they came near, and she anxiously observed Dora and Margaret, thinking
she could not do wrong in imitating them.
"We shall see you to-morrow at the cottage, I hope," said Mrs Herbert to
her brother, when the carriage was announced.
Mrs Harrington answered for him in a short, ungracious manner--"I don't
know, indeed, there will be so much to arrange; perhaps the girls
may manage it; but Mr Harrington's time and mine will be completely
occupied."
"I shall come and see you as soon as possible, you may be quite sure,"
said Mr Harrington; "it is too great a pleasure to talk over everything
with you, for me not to seize all opportunities of doing so; though
perhaps to-morrow, as Charlotte says, I may be very busy."
"Then we will expect the girls alone," replied Mrs Herbert. "Amy is
longing to do the honours of the cottage; and, if they come about one
o'clock, they can have their luncheon with us."
Amy added her entreaties, and Margaret, with a great many kisses,
declared it would be the thing of all others she should most enjoy:
while Dora simply said, "Good night," and expressed no pleasure about
the matter. When Amy found herself alone with her mamma, her first wish
was to talk over all that had passed, but Mrs Herbert was looking very
pale and exhausted, and her child had lately learned to watch every
change in her countenance, and to understand in a moment when it was
necessary for her to be silent; she therefore said but little during
their drive home; and it was not till Mrs Herbert was seated in the
arm-chair in her own room, that Amy ventured to express her feelings. "I
may talk to you now, mamma," she said, "for there is no rumbling of the
carriage to worry you; but you did look so ill when we left Emmerton,
that I did not like to do it."
"Yes, my dear," said Mrs Herbert, "it has been a very trying day; but
you shall ease your mind before you go to sleep, and tell me how you
like your cousins, and everything you have been doing, and saying, and
feeling."
"The doing and saying will be easy enough," replied Amy; "but, dear
mamma, it was all so strange, I cannot tell at all what I have been
feeling; and then I cannot make up my mind about anything, and that
puzzles me. I always fancied I should be able to tell at once what I
liked and disliked; but all the way home I have been trying to find out
which of my cousins is the nicest; and one moment I think one thing, and
the next another. And then the house was so changed with the different
furniture, that it seemed quite like another place; only not quite
another either, more like what the cottage seems to me in my dreams; and
then I am so afraid of my aunt, and I think I made her angry--but I must
tell you about that presently. I was so frightened at the men-servants
too, there were such a number; and that one with the black hair, who
was not in livery, is so like Mr Saville of Colworth, that I thought at
first he was going to speak to me."
Mrs Herbert smiled. "You have certainly contrived to get a curious
medley in your head, Amy; but you will never be able to talk over all
these things to-night, it is getting so late."
"No, mamma," said Amy, "I feel as if there would be something to say if
I were to go on till to-morrow; but I should care for nothing else if I
could only make out which of my cousins I like best."
"But," said Mrs Herbert, "it is hardly possible to settle such a
weighty matter, on so short an acquaintance; probably if you decided it
to-night, you would change again to-morrow. I dare say it will take some
time before you can know them sufficiently well, really to make up your
mind."
"Well," sighed Amy, "I suppose I must leave it. I think, though, I like
Margaret, because she is affectionate; and Dora, because she seems to
speak just what she means; but I liked Margaret much better when we were
alone, than when she was talking to you, mamma; her voice and all seemed
quite different."
"And what did you think of Rose?" asked Mrs Herbert.
"Oh! I only saw her for a moment; she looked as if she must be a darling
little thing, she is so very pretty; but, mamma, I cannot understand
about Miss Morton. Is she a lady?"
"Yes, my dear, certainly; she is the daughter of a clergyman."
"But, then, where was she all the evening? She did not come in at
tea-time."
"I believe she generally spends the evenings alone," replied Mrs
Herbert, "as I told you the other day."
"It seems so strange," said Amy; "and Margaret told me she could not
bear her, so I suppose she must be very disagreeable."
"You must not judge of people merely from what you hear, but from what
you see of them too," said Mrs Herbert; "so don't determine upon poor
Miss Morton's being disagreeable till you are more acquainted with her;
she seemed to me to be very gentle and ladylike."
"I feel as if I never should be able to decide about any one now,"
sighed Amy, "I am so very puzzled; and I am not quite sure whether I
have been happy to-night."
"My dear child," said Mrs Herbert, "I must send you to bed, for I am
sure if you sit up thinking and talking any more you will be unfit for
everything to-morrow. I only wish you to tell me what you could have
done to make your aunt angry with you."
Amy repeated the history of her adventure, but Mrs Herbert made no
observation upon it; and she was then sent to her room to prepare for
bed.
"You will come back to me when you are ready to read," said Mrs Herbert.
And in about half an hour's time Amy reappeared with her Bible.
"It seems so nice and quiet," she said, "to be able to sit down with you
quite alone, mamma, after seeing so many people; and I think I shall go
to sleep better when I have read my psalm as usual."
"I hope you will always find it a blessing to read your Bible, my
dear; and I know myself that it is peculiarly so when we have been much
excited; there is something so calm and soothing in it."
Amy read her psalm, and did not attempt to say anything more about
Emmerton, for she had always been taught that her last thoughts, before
she slept, should be of God and heaven rather than of the things of
earth; only, as Mrs Herbert bent over her, to give her the last kiss,
she said, "Mamma, may I tell you one thing which came into my head
to-night? You know I have read in the Bible, and have heard people talk
about the world, and that there are temptations in it, and that we ought
to avoid it; and I never could quite understand this, because it seemed
that I had no world, for you always do what is right, and there is no
evil in the trees and flowers; and one day you said that the world was
different to everybody, and that it meant the things which tempted us to
do wrong; and to-night, when I was saying my prayers, I recollected that
I had felt angry with my cousins, and that you had said, 'that perhaps
being with them would make me envious;' and then it came into my head,
that perhaps Emmerton will be my world--do you think it will?"
"Most probably it may be," said Mrs Herbert.
"But then, mamma, will it be right to go there?"
"It is not right to shut ourselves up from our relations, and so
lose opportunities of learning good from them, or setting them a good
example," replied her mother. "If your cousins are better than yourself,
they will, I hope, be of great use to you; and if they are not, you may
try and benefit them. Your being envious and angry is your fault, not
theirs; and if you were never to see them again, you would still have
the same bad feelings in your mind. Renouncing the world does not mean
shutting ourselves up and never seeing any one, but it does mean trying
to avoid unnecessary occasions of temptation, as well as to overcome
sin; and you will avoid the world, not by keeping away from your
cousins, but by striving against evil feelings and actions when you
are with them, and not allowing yourself to envy them because they are
richer, and live in a larger house."
"I should like to talk a great deal more, mamma," said Amy, "only I am
so sleepy."
"We must have some more conversation to-morrow," said Mrs Herbert,
as she left the room. And in two minutes Amy had forgotten all her
difficulties and all her pleasures, in the deep, calm repose which few
but children can enjoy.