The first impression on Amy's mind, after her introduction to her
cousins, on their arrival at Emmerton, was that of disappointment. The
long-looked-for event had come and passed, but it had not brought with
it the pleasure that had been anticipated. Her cousins were not at all
what she had expected to see; and she felt as if they were more like
strangers now than when she had only pictured them to herself such
as she desired. And yet it was so strange to her to be unhappy or
discontented, that she did not long dwell upon the things which had
annoyed her in them, but turned with pleasure to the hope that it was
her own fault they did not seem more kind and agreeable, and that when
she knew them better she should find them all she could wish. There
was great enjoyment, too, in talking over everything with her mamma at
breakfast, which she could easily do now that the fatigue and excitement
were gone; and so fully did Emmerton engross her thoughts that she
entirely forgot Susan Reynolds, and the promised frock, till Mrs Herbert
produced it, ready prepared, after the lessons were finished, and begged
her to do as much as she could before her cousins' arrival.
"It will not be much, I am afraid, mamma," said Amy, "for it is getting
late, and they agreed to be here by one; but I must do more this
evening."
"Yes," said Mrs Herbert, "I should be sorry if the poor child were
disappointed."
"So should I too, mamma. Now I have seen her, I really do feel it will
be a pleasure to help her. And will you tell me, whilst I am working,
what you had not time to speak about yesterday? I mean, why it never
does people any good to go and see others suffer merely from curiosity."
"It not only does them no good, but it does them harm," replied Mrs
Herbert, "and for this reason: God gives to almost every one, and
especially to young people, many kind, amiable feelings, as a sort of
treasure which they are carefully to keep. Now, these kind feelings,
as people grow older, gradually die away as they get accustomed to the
sight of suffering, and so at last they are likely to become cold and
hard-hearted; and there is only one sure way of preventing this,--by
doing kind actions whenever we are blessed with kind feelings. Perhaps
you would rather I should explain myself more clearly," added Mrs
Herbert, as Amy laid down her work, and looked thoughtfully in her
mother's face. "When you saw Susan Reynolds yesterday you had compassion
for her, and a great wish to help her: this was the good feeling given
you by God. But supposing you had thought that, after all, it was too
much trouble to work for her, you would soon have forgotten her, and the
next time you saw her you would probably have pitied her less, and the
next time less still; and if you had gone on so, you might have ended in
becoming perfectly cold and selfish. But by determining to do something,
you have kept up your interest; and you will find that your kind feeling
will continue and increase, not only for her, but for other persons you
may see in distress."
"But, then, I have heard you say, mamma, that we ought not to follow our
feelings entirely."
"No," replied Mrs Herbert; "because very often our feelings are wrong,
and therefore we must have some other rule to go by, or we shall
continually mistake our duties; but when they are right they are given
us by God to make those duties easy and pleasant; and if we do not
encourage them, we shall find when we grow old that it will be very
difficult, if not almost impossible, to do right, however we may wish
it."
"Then, mamma, if we had always good feelings there would be no occasion
to do anything but just what we felt inclined; how very nice that would
be!"
"There is but one way of getting these good feelings," said Mrs Herbert,
"and that is by doing what we know we ought, whether we like it or not;
and only one way of keeping them when we have got them, by taking
care always to act upon them; and if we begin when we are young, it
is astonishing how easy it will soon become. I know you like an
illustration, Amy, to make you remember things; so now I will give you
one, to teach you the difference between feelings and duty. Feelings are
like the horses which carry us quickly and easily along the road, only
sometimes they stumble, and sometimes they go wrong, and now and then
they will not move at all; but duty is like the coachman who guides
them, and spurs them up when they are too slow, and brings them back
when they go out of the way."
"Thank you, mamma," said Amy, as she ran to the window at the sound of
approaching wheels; "I think I shall always remember now. And here come
my uncle's feelings down the lane,--beautiful gray ones; and there is
duty on the coach-box driving them."
"Well," observed Mrs Herbert, smiling, "I hope duty will guide the
feelings properly round the corner, for it is a very awkward turn."
Amy looked anxiously into the carriage as it drove up, and with great
delight saw that it contained only her two cousins, for her aunt's stern
look was sufficiently impressed upon her recollection to make the idea
of meeting her again disagreeable. "I am so glad you are come!" she
exclaimed to Margaret, who was the first to alight; "I have finished all
my lessons, and dinner will very soon be ready, and afterwards, if you
like, we can go all over the garden."
"I should not think that would take very long," said Dora, casting a
contemptuous glance around.
Amy, for a moment, felt almost ashamed, as if there were something
disgraceful in not having a large garden; but she did not make any
reply, and led her cousins into the house, with a secret dislike of
their seeing how different it was from Emmerton, and a dread lest Dora
should make some more observations. In her aunt's presence, however,
Dora was rather subdued, and did not venture to remark upon anything,
though Amy, who watched her carefully, noticed the inquisitive look she
gave to the furniture, as if she were determined to know exactly what
everything was made of; and when Mrs Herbert left them, her first
question was, "So this is your largest room, Amy, is it?"
"Yes," said Amy; "and we have a dining-room and study besides."
"And is that all?" added Margaret.
"All but the bedrooms," replied Amy.
"Well! how odd it must be to live in such a tiny house!" continued
Margaret. "I should get so tired of it. To have lived all one's life in
three rooms! Fancy, Dora, how strange it must be!"
"But," said Amy, "it does very well for mamma and me. You know many poor
people have only one."
"That may be all right for poor people; but _you_ are a lady--you are
our cousin."
"Oh!" said Dora, "it does not signify when people are accustomed to it.
And now Amy will be able to come and see us at Emmerton; and she can
walk about the grounds; and sometimes, I daresay, mamma will let her
have a drive in the carriage, which will make a nice change."
Amy was extremely inclined to say that she never wished to do anything
of the kind, for she remembered that only a week before she was able
to walk all over Emmerton, both in the house and the park, without any
person's permission being required but her mamma's.
"You will like that very much, shan't you, dear?" said Margaret, giving
her a kiss.
The kiss was not returned; but Amy coloured, and only replied, that she
did not want any change.
"I declare you look quite offended," exclaimed Margaret; "doesn't she,
Dora? Well! I would not be so touchy for a great deal."
"I don't wish to be offended, and I am sure I could not bear to be
touchy," said Amy, with tears in her eyes; "only I am very happy with
mamma."
"Of course," said Margaret; "but then you need not be angry with us
merely because we wish to give you a little pleasure; besides, it is so
unkind. I thought you would be fond of us, instead of getting so cross
in a minute."
This was rather more than poor Amy could bear, for she had never been
blamed unjustly in her life, and believed that she must be in the wrong
whenever any fault was found with her. She was conscious, too, of having
felt angry; and sorrow for this, added to a slight remaining irritation
against her cousins, made her tears flow fast.
"How silly!" exclaimed Dora. "We never meant to vex you; you will get us
all into a scrape if you cry, for my aunt will be back in a moment."
"No one gets into a scrape with mamma," said Amy; "but I am sure it
would be me she would blame now; and I am so sorry I was cross."
"Never mind anything more about it," said Margaret; "just look natural
again, and then we shall not care."
Amy did her best to look natural, but her mamma's quick eye soon
perceived on her return that there had been something amiss; however,
she asked no questions, knowing that she should hear everything when
they were alone; and both Dora and Margaret were considerably relieved
when they found themselves seated at the dining-table, with Amy looking
as bright and happy as usual.
"You must make a good luncheon, my dears," said Mrs Herbert; "for I
suppose you dine very late."
"Oh no!" replied Dora, "this will be our dinner; mamma always dislikes
our being late."
"She says it makes us ill, and spoils our complexions," added Margaret,
casting, at the same time, a glance at her white neck in the glass which
hung opposite to her; "so we always dine about two with Emily Morton and
Rose in the schoolroom."
"Is Miss Morton very strict?" asked Amy.
"Strict!" answered Dora, with a toss of her head, "Who should she be
strict with? She is not our governess."
"But then she teaches you some things," said Amy.
"Oh yes, music and drawing; but that any one can do. I should just as
soon think of attending to Morris as to her."
"Only," said Mrs Herbert, in a quiet, grave tone, "that she is older
than you are, and is a lady by birth and education."
Dora pouted and bit her lip, but she did not dare to make any pert
reply, and only showed her displeasure by the sulky way in which she
answered her aunt's further questions. Margaret was more communicative;
and Amy soon became amused with her account of Wayland, and all they
had been accustomed to do: but there was no interest shown for her in
return, for Margaret seemed to find every subject dull which did not
immediately relate to herself. She appeared unwilling, also, to mention
Miss Morton again, though Amy wished more to hear of her than of any
other person or thing; and when, after the dinner was ended, Mrs Herbert
suggested they should go into the garden, she determined to ask them why
they disliked her.
"Do let me know," she said to Margaret, as they seated themselves in
the arbour, after exploring the not very spacious domain, "why you don't
like Miss Morton. I told mamma, last night, that you said you could not
bear her."
"How ill-natured!" exclaimed Margaret; "I declare I never will tell you
anything again. Unless you promise not to repeat to aunt Herbert what we
say, I can assure you we shall take special care not to talk to you."
"Oh Margaret!" said Amy, looking very much distressed; "indeed I meant
no harm. But I cannot make such a promise; for I always do tell mamma
everything, and she is never angry."
"That won't do," replied Margaret: "you must, or we shall not talk to
you."
"But if there is no harm in what you say," asked Amy, "why must I not
repeat it?"
"It is no use arguing," replied Margaret. "I never could bear the notion
that every word I said would be told over again; and therefore, if you
will not promise, I will not talk, that is all." And she threw herself
back, and began picking flowers to pieces. Then, alter a few moments'
pause, she turned to Dora, and said, "That was a very ill-natured trick
she played on papa's birthday,--was it not?"
Dora nodded assent; and Margaret looked at Amy, hoping to excite her
curiosity, for she was longing above all things to find some excuse
for breaking her resolution. But Amy sat immovable, only appearing
thoughtful and unhappy. A second silence ensued, which was broken again
by Margaret, who exclaimed, in a pettish tone, that the sun was so hot
it was not to be borne; she wondered how any one could have built an
arbour in such a position.
Dora, though screened by the projecting branch of a tree, immediately
took up the parasol at her side; and Margaret began lamenting that she
had left hers in the house.
"Can't you spare me yours, Dora?" she said; "you never remembered you
had it till I complained of the heat."
"You always leave everything behind you," was Dora's answer; "and I am
sure I shall be burnt as brown as a berry if I don't shade myself. You
had better go in and fetch your own parasol, and that will make you
recollect it another time."
"I know who left their handkerchief behind them only this morning,"
retorted Margaret; "and I know who sent Emily Morton all over the house
to look for it."
"That was only once in a way," said Dora. And here a long bickering
dialogue was carried on between the sisters, at the commencement of
which Amy disappeared; and before it had been decided which possessed
most disagreeable qualities, a subject that was discussed with great
warmth and earnestness, Margaret found herself sheltered from the sun by
the intervention of a parasol.
"Where did you get it?" she exclaimed to Amy: "you did not bring it with
you."
"No," replied Amy; "I got it from the house just now."
"And did you really go in on purpose! Well, that was very good-natured,
I must say; and now I do think, as a reward, I will tell you about Emily
Morton."
"A reward to herself, not to you, Amy," said Dora; "she has been dying
to tell you all the time. I would have done it, only I knew it would
come out if you had patience to wait."
"But," replied Amy, in rather a timid voice, "I hope you understand,
Margaret, that I cannot make any promise about mamma."
"Why don't you hear what she has to say first," said Dora, "and then
talk about the promise afterwards?"
"I would rather settle it first," answered Amy, firmly; "I should not
have any pleasure in knowing it if I thought Margaret were mistaken
about me."
"Well I never mind now," said Margaret, "I am not going to speak
treason; and you are so good-natured, Amy, I am sure you will never
repeat anything to get us into a scrape."
"Perhaps I am not good-natured," persisted Amy; "so pray don't tell me
unless you quite like it."
"But I do quite like it, now; and I am sure you are good-natured, and
so you shall hear. I want to tell you what Emily Morton did last year on
papa's birthday, and then I know you will hate her as much as we do. We
have always had quite a _fete_ given then; for papa says it was begun
when he came of age, and he does not like to give it up."
"Oh!" said Amy, "that must have been what mamma was telling me about the
other day; she gave me a long account of it."
"And did not aunt Herbert think it very delightful?" asked Dora. "Papa
always speaks of it with such pleasure."
"Yes," answered Amy; "she says it was one of the happiest days of her
life."
"It must be very nice," continued Dora, "to have every one looking up to
one and envying one. I dare say aunt Herbert wished she had been papa."
"She said she wished it then," replied Amy; "but I am sure she does not
now."
"What!--not to have two great houses, and heaps of servants, and plenty
of money?" said Margaret.
"But," replied Amy, "mamma, when she told me the story, said that we all
had the promise of much greater things given us at our baptism, and so
it did not signify."
"What do you mean, Amy?" asked Dora, in a tone of extreme surprise.
"Great things promised us at our baptism! I never knew anything I had
either given or promised me then, excepting my name, and my old purple
Bible and Prayer-book."
"Oh Dora!" exclaimed Amy, "pray do not talk so; I am sure it must be
very wrong; for mamma says that it has been the greatest thing in all my
life, and that if I do as I promised I would then, I shall be quite sure
of being happy when I die: and every year, on the day of my baptism, she
makes me read over the service, and talks to me about it."
"Then it is very strange, that is all I can say," replied Dora, "I never
in my life before heard any one say that baptism was any good besides
giving a child a name."
Amy looked still more shocked. "Oh! but Dora," she said, very gravely,
"indeed, it must be a great good; for you know when we were baptized,
God gave us His Holy Spirit, that we might be able to do our duty."
"I don't understand what you mean, Amy," said Dora, hastily, "and I
don't think you understand yourself, so we will not talk any more about
it. Do, Margaret, go on about Emily Morton."
"I will," said Margaret, "if you will not interrupt me so. It was
last year, Amy, on the day of the _fete;_ and two of my aunts, mamma's
sisters, and my uncle, Sir Henry Charlton, came to Wayland to keep it.
Uncle Henry knows a great deal about drawing, and he always likes to see
ours; and he had promised us a long time before, that if we could
show him six good drawings on papa's birthday, he would give us each a
beautiful picture done by one of the first artists in London. I worked
very hard at first, and then I got a little tired, but I made sure I
should be able to finish them in time; only, somehow or other, I was so
hurried at last, for we had some new dresses to be tried on, and there
were some songs to be practised, and there were a good many people
staying in the house, that I had only five finished. I was in a great
fright, and my only hope was that uncle Henry would not count them;
but, in the morning, after he had looked at Dora's, I watched him count
_them,_ and then I thought I had no chance; but when I came to show
mine, I found that by mistake one of Emily Morton's had got amongst
them, which made them just right, and she was not in the room, so I had
no fear of anything being said; and it was such a beauty I was sure my
uncle would be pleased. Well! he looked at them all, and said they were
very good, and was admiring Emily Morton's especially, when, to my great
horror, in she came, and he immediately called out to her to look at the
drawings with him. I could not imagine what to do; and at last I thought
perhaps she would be good-natured for once in her life, so I went to her
directly, and whispered all about it, and asked her to let it pass, or I
should lose my beautiful picture; and really, Amy, it was worth a great
deal of money; and, do you know, she actually declared she would not do
it. I know I looked miserable, and I never begged so hard for anything
in my life; and at last I was obliged to give it up, for uncle Henry
began to wonder what we were talking about, and so I ran out of the
room, and then it all came out. And there was such a great fuss; uncle
Henry preached me a sermon, and papa and mamma were so cross; in fact, I
never got into such a scrape in my life before, and all because of Emily
Morton. Now, shouldn't you hate her, Amy, if you were me?"
Amy was silent.
"Oh!" continued Margaret, "you could not be so unkind as to take her
part."
"But," said Amy, "it seems as if she were right."
"How can that be? I am sure no one can be right who is unkind."
"No," said Amy, looking a little perplexed; "but then it would have been
deceit."
"Deceit! what deceit?" asked Margaret; "she had nothing to do with it;
all I wanted was for her to hold her tongue."
"But your uncle would have thought the drawing was yours, when it was
not."
"And what harm would that have done? I will venture to say I could have
finished just as good a one if I had tried; it was only a sketch. No,
no, it was mere ill-nature--she wished for the picture herself."
"I tell you what, Margaret," said Dora, "she did not wish any such
thing, because uncle Henry pressed her to have it, and she refused, and
made him put it by till this year, that you might try again."
"I hate such hypocrites," said Margaret, "and she is so cold-hearted
too. I used to kiss her and love her when first she came, but she never
seemed to care a bit about it; and now I never go near her, if I can
help it."
"I should not mind anything," said Dora, "if she did not put one down
so; but she has such a way of saying things are right, I can't bear
it--as if we did not know what was right as well as she does. I shall
teach her the difference between Miss Harrington and Miss Morton, I can
tell her, when I come out."
"And then, people call her pretty," interrupted Margaret. "It makes me
so angry, sometimes, to hear them go on about her beautiful eyes, and
her black hair. She need have some beauty, for she spends quite enough
time in dressing herself, I know."
Amy listened to these remarks in silent astonishment, and with an
increasing feeling of dislike to Miss Morton. Not that she agreed with
Margaret as to her unkindness in the affair of the picture, for her
strict sense of what was right and sincere told her, in a moment, that
she could not have acted otherwise; but it was impossible to hear so
much said against a perfect stranger, without thinking that there must
be some foundation for it, especially as Amy was accustomed to be very
particular herself in everything she said, and had not yet learned to
suspect her cousins of exaggeration.
"How very sorry you must be," she exclaimed, at length, "that Miss
Morton ever came to you!"
"Sorry!" repeated Margaret. "Yes, I think we are sorry; but one thing I
can tell you, Amy, she will not stay with us long. I resolved, directly
after that business of the picture, that I would never rest till I got
her out of the house; and Dora feels the same."
"I beg your pardon," replied Dora; "I do not care enough about her;
as long as she keeps to her own room, and does not plague me with
constantly ringing in my ears that things are right, she may stay or
not, as she likes."
"But," said Amy, "you cannot send her away; it must be your mamma."
"What a simpleton you are!" exclaimed Margaret, laughing. "There are a
hundred ways of getting rid of a person you don't like; and I tell you
I should have done it long ago, if it had not been for Rose, who is
so fond of her, and such a pet of mamma's, that she is humoured in
everything. Why, how surprised you look, and frightened too."
"Only," said Amy, "I thought that my aunt would do just as she pleased,
without asking any one."
"I can't explain," said Margaret, "if you cannot understand; but you
will learn all about it when you have been a little at Emmerton with us;
and you will see, too, how she spoils Rose; she makes her so foolish,
that she cannot bear to go to any one else, except mamma, when she is in
the room."
"Then Miss Morton must be very kind to her," said Amy.
"Kind! Yes, to be sure, she is; she knows quite well that if it were not
for Rose, she would not stay long in our family."
"And does she teach Rose entirely?" asked Amy.
"Yes, now she does, though, I believe, mamma never intended it at first.
But there was so much to be done with us, that it was very inconvenient
having so young a child at the same time; and so Emily Morton offered to
take the charge of her, and she has gone on ever since. It is very odd
of mamma allowing it, when she dislikes governesses so; but I think it
would break Rose's heart if there were to be any alteration."
"And what have you to do with her, then?"
"Oh! we have regular music and drawing lessons twice a-week, and she
attends to us, at other times, besides; and then we breakfast, and dine,
and drink tea with her, and make her useful when we want her. She does
everything almost for Rose; but that is her own choice. But I daresay
you will know all about her ways soon; for when papa and mamma were
talking of coming to Emmerton, I heard them say it would be a great
advantage for you to learn of her; and I daresay they will arrange for
you to have music and drawing lessons with us. It will be so nice being
together often."
And Margaret gave Amy a kiss, which was very heartily returned. Amy
looked at Dora, expecting something of the same kind from her; but Dora
was playing with her watch-chain, and appeared to be taking no notice.
"I shall like being with you," replied Amy, "but I shall not like to
learn of Miss Morton. Mamma is so kind, I don't know what I should do if
any one were cross to me."
"But is your mamma quite regular with you?" asked Margaret.
"She used to be," said Amy; "but lately she has been very often ill--she
gets so unhappy about papa."
"Oh!" observed Margaret, "I heard papa and mamma talking about her last
night, after you were gone, and they said----"
"Hush, Margaret!" said Dora, turning suddenly round; "it does not
signify what they said. How can you be so thoughtless!" she added, in a
lower tone.
Margaret was about to make an angry reply, but she was prevented by Amy,
who anxiously begged to be told everything. Again Margaret would have
spoken, but Dora a second time interposed; and at the same moment Mrs
Herbert appeared, and the conversation was interrupted. As they returned
to the house, however, Amy remarked that Dora contrived to speak a
few words to her sister alone; and, when she afterwards repeated her
entreaty, Margaret's reply was, that Dora and she thought it better not
to tell. This did not satisfy Amy; but she could not urge Margaret to
do anything she felt was wrong; and, after pondering in her own mind
for some minutes what Mrs Harrington could possibly have said, she, as
usual, quieted her uneasiness by determining to talk to her mamma in the
evening.
"The carriage is waiting for you, my dears," said Mrs Herbert, as they
walked towards the house; "and, if you could find room in it for Amy and
me, I should like to go with you as far as the rectory; for Mrs Walton
has asked us to spend the evening with her, and I am always glad to be
saved a walk."
Amy looked delighted, and ran up-stairs with great glee to get ready;
and Margaret followed, offering to help her.
"Whom shall you see at the rectory?" she said, as Amy was expressing
her happiness in rather ecstatic terms. "Are there children of your own
age?"
"No," replied Amy; "no one but Mr and Mrs Walton; they had one child,
but it died."
"But what shall you do? It must be so dreadfully dull with only old
people."
"Oh no! it is never dull,--they are so kind, and the place is so pretty;
and sometimes Mrs Walton tells me stories about what she did when she
was a little girl; or, if they talk about things I don't care for,
there is a beautiful large book of fairy tales, and I sit up in a little
window, away by myself, and fancy that all the things I read about
happened in the forest. I sometimes make out all the places just as if
they were real. You know one can fancy almost anything in a wood; there
are so many little winding walks and odd places, and there are some
green spots of turf, with large trees all round, which look just like
the fairies' homes. I have named them all after the stories, and when I
read I can see them quite plainly in my mind."
"Well! that is a strange way of amusing yourself," exclaimed Margaret,
in a tone of astonishment; "though, to be sure, I can understand
the pleasure of reading a story, but then it must be about real
people,--lords and ladies, I like! I never cared in the least about
fairies and such unnatural things; and I quite wonder to see Rose so
pleased with a little book she has about them."
Amy was in too great a hurry to reply, but dressed herself as quickly as
possible, and in a few minutes was ready for her visit. The old rector
was standing at the door as Mr Harrington's carriage drove up, and
looked rather alarmed at the sight of such an unexpected number of
visitors; but Mrs Herbert soon relieved his mind by introducing her
nieces to him; and, if Dora had not been occupied with the contrast
between the simplicity of the rectory and the grandeur of Emmerton, and
Margaret with ridiculing the curiously-cut coat, brown wig, and gold
shoe-buckles, which had been Mr Walton's constant style of dress for
the last forty years, both might have been pleased with the affectionate
interest expressed for them, and the many inquiries which were made for
every member of the family. As it was, Mrs Herbert was hurt at their
careless replies, and felt as angry as was possible for one so gentle,
when she heard Margaret's loud whisper to her sister, "Did you ever see
such a quiz?"
Apparently Mr Walton did not observe this, for he still continued
entreating them to come in, and assuring them that Mrs Walton would
never forgive him if he allowed them to depart without her seeing them.
Dora, who was always an inch taller and several years older, in her own
estimation, whenever she found herself mistress of her father's handsome
carriage, drew herself up with a consequential air, and regretted that
it would not be in their power to stop, for they wished to be home by a
certain hour.
"Is that really the case, my love?" said Mrs Herbert. "Could you not
spare one moment for Mrs Walton? She knew your mother when she was a
child, and she has been longing to see you."
"I dare say mamma will call in a day or two," said Dora; "we really are
in a hurry now."
"I will undertake to make your peace with your mamma," said Mrs Herbert.
"You would not be detained five minutes."
"I really am sorry," persisted Dora, quite proud of the power of saying
"No" to persons older than herself; "but I am afraid we must go home."
Mr Walton, who had been listening to the debate with a mixed expression
of amusement and regret in his countenance, now came forward, and,
laying his hand on Dora's arm, said, "My dear young lady, you are not
accustomed to have a will of your own, I can quite see, because you are
so glad to exercise it. Now, I never like to prevent young people from
pleasing themselves, so you shall follow your inclination, and go home;
but whenever this same inclination shall take another turn and bring
you to the rectory, I will promise you a sincere welcome for the sake of
your father and mother, and auld lang syne; and, now, good-bye."
Dora felt abashed by the kindness with which this was said, as well
as by the reproof which she knew was intended; but she put on an
indifferent air, and, giving a hasty nod to Amy, and a few parting words
to her aunt, reassured her offended dignity by calling out "home," in
a loud voice, to the footman, who was standing at the door, and the
carriage drove off. For a moment a slight pang of envy crossed
Amy's mind, as her cousins' grandeur was contrasted with her own
insignificance; but it was soon forgotten when she found herself seated,
as usual, on a low stool by the side of Mrs Walton, who, with one hand
placed upon hers, and the other fondly smoothing her dark hair, heard
with real pleasure her description of all she had been doing since her
last visit; and, as Amy became more and more animated, the old rector
himself was attracted to the window, and for a few moments, while
watching the bright eyes and sweet smile of his young favourite, could
almost have imagined he was again listening to the voice of his own
child. Mrs Walton was several years younger than her husband, but
rheumatic attacks of a very painful kind had rendered her nearly
helpless, so that the difference between them appeared much less than
it really was. Age and infirmity had subdued her naturally quick, eager
disposition, into a calm and almost heavenly peace, without in the least
diminishing her interest in everything that was passing around her. Her
mind, like her dress, seemed to be totally different from that of the
everyday world; the dress--was fashioned according to the custom of
years gone by; the mind--of those which were to come; and few could
converse with her without feelings of respect, almost amounting to
awe, for her goodness, her patience, her meekness, her charity,
her abstraction from all earthly cares. Amy could not as yet fully
appreciate all her excellence, though she could understand it in some
degree. She had never heard Mrs Walton spoken of but with reverence;
and, perhaps, half the pleasure she felt in talking so freely to her
arose from the consciousness of being petted and loved by one to whom
persons so much older than herself agreed in looking up. There was
an additional reason for Amy's enjoyment on this evening; she had,
willingly and unknown to her mother, resolved to give up her favourite
volume of fairy tales, that she might go on with the frock for Susan
Reynolds; and even before the tea-things were brought in, she produced
her basket, and began working industriously; and from having thus denied
her own inclination in one instance, everything else appeared doubly
delightful.
"Why, my little woman," said the rector, as he remarked her unusual
occupation, "what makes your fingers so busy to-night? I thought you
always studied the lives of the fairies whenever you came here."
Mrs Herbert, who had been talking at the other end of the room, turned
to see what Amy was about; and her smile was quite a sufficient reward
for the sacrifice which had been made. "I did not think of reminding you
of your work, my darling," she said; "but you will not regret giving up
your pleasure for one evening for the sake of another."
"And who is this other?" asked the rector.
Mrs Herbert told the story; and spoke highly in praise of Susan, and her
attention to her mother.
"She is in good hands," said Mr Walton, "I never knew either Mr or
Mrs Saville take up a case of the kind without managing to be of great
service; and whether the poor woman should live or die, you may depend
upon the children having found a friend for life."
"And, my dear child," added Mrs Walton, "you will not forget you have a
second purse at Emmerton rectory if it should be needed."
"I should be very ungrateful if I were to forget it," replied Mrs
Herbert, as she pressed the worn but delicate hand which was held out
to her; "though, now that my brother is at the Hall, I think my first
appeal must be to him."
"I suspect I shall have a regular jubilee celebrated in the parish,"
said the rector. "Do you remember the first we ever had, some twenty
years ago, when your brother came of age? We have not had such another
since."
"There was one other great day, surely," said Mrs Walton. "My memory
sometimes seems to get sadly confused even about things which passed
years ago, and which, they say, are always remembered the best; but,
surely, there was one other _fete_--what was it for?"
Amy looked up from her work, and whispered in Mrs Walton's ear--"Mamma
and aunt Edith's wedding-day."
Mrs Herbert caught the words, and the tears started to her eyes. She
turned away, and, taking up a newspaper which lay upon the table, began
looking over the contents.
"Ah! yes, my love, you are right," said Mrs Walton, in a low tone. And
Mr Walton, anxious to change the subject, made some remarks upon a great
fire which had taken place in a neighbouring village, and the account of
which was in that day's paper.
"Amy," said Mrs Herbert, "there is a very interesting story of the
conduct of a little girl during the fire; you may read it if you like."
Amy took the paper and read what her mother pointed out; and as she came
to the end her eye caught the first words of another paragraph, and she
exclaimed, "Dear mamma, here is something about India."
Mr Walton looked very grave. "It is nothing good I am afraid," he said;
"I was in hopes you would have heard it before you came here: they say
the war has broken out again."
"The war!" repeated Mrs Herbert, in a suppressed tone of deep anxiety,
as she seized the paper; "but it may be nothing to me."
The paragraph was short, but decisive. There was no doubt the war had
recommenced, and that the chance of obtaining tidings of Colonel Herbert
was less than ever,--at least such was Mrs Herbert's fear, though Mr
Walton did his utmost to convince her it could make no difference; but
whilst she listened to his words, they did not sink into her heart;
and she turned from the thought of her increased anxiety if her husband
continued silent, to the danger of the war should he return into it,
till it seemed impossible to find comfort in anything. Amy stood by her
mother in silent suffering; she felt as if she had been the cause of
inflicting the pain by calling her attention to the paper; but she could
do nothing to relieve her, and was obliged to wait patiently, though
sorrowfully, till her usual self-command was restored. After some time,
Mrs Herbert was again able to allude to the subject of the war, and she
then spoke of the probabilities and dangers which it involved, without
hesitation; but she was so much shaken by the unexpected news, that,
notwithstanding the disappointment to all parties, no objection was
made when she proposed returning home much earlier than usual. It was
a melancholy conclusion to Amy's evening; but Mr Walton endeavoured to
comfort her by promising, if possible, to call very early the next day
to see her; and Mrs Walton held out the hope of another visit very soon.
Amy's chief thought, however, was for her mamma; and a wish arose in her
mind, which she had often felt before, that she were a few years older,
and could be of greater service; and it was not till she had again
received the often-repeated assurance of being now Mrs Herbert's
greatest earthly treasure, and a real comfort to her in her distress,
that she could lie down happily to sleep, even though she had unburdened
her mind of the chief events of the day, and of the secret between her
cousins. Amy was not aware that, by doing this, she added to her mamma's
anxiety, for everything convinced Mrs Herbert, more and more, that Dora
and Margaret were very different companions from those she would have
chosen for her child. But there was little to be feared while Amy
continued so perfectly open; and at any rate, it was better that she
should be with them, whilst her mother was near to warn her against
evil, than become acquainted with them, for the first time, when she
might be obliged to live with them entirely. The secret, too, gave Mrs
Herbert a pang, though she tried to persuade herself of what, in fact,
was nearly the truth, that Dora had heard of the renewal of the war, and
of the increased anxiety which it would bring; happily she did not know
that Mr Harrington had also expressed his opinion, that it would have
been useless to expect any further tidings of Colonel Herbert, even if
the peace had continued; for he firmly believed that nothing but some
dreadful event could have occasioned their total ignorance of his
movements. Mrs Herbert, indeed, could hardly give Dora credit for so
much thoughtfulness; but in this she did her injustice. Dora could often
be thoughtful and kind when her pride did not stand in the way; and she
could be sorry for the sufferings of others, when they were forced upon
her notice, though she had never been taught to be upon the watch for
them; whilst even her haughtiness did not prevent her from feeling an
interest in the quiet grief which was expressed in every feature of her
aunt's countenance, and which seemed constantly to check every happier
feeling.