Several days passed before Amy again saw her cousins--there were so many
arrangements to be made in their new home, that no convenient moment
could be found for paying a visit to the cottage; and during this time
Mrs Herbert had very much recovered her tranquillity, and began even
to hope that the war, terrible though it seemed, might be the means of
bringing her some tidings of Colonel Herbert.
The last letter she had received from him had mentioned his intention of
making an expedition into the interior of the country; and a friend,
who had returned to England soon afterwards, confirmed the fact of his
departure. His silence might be accounted for, by his having entrusted
letters to private hands, and by the difficulty of communication in the
distant province to which he had gone; but now that the war had again
broken out, she could not avoid hoping that he would make every effort
to return, and that she should see his name in the public despatches,
if anything should occur to prevent his writing. The dangers to which he
might be exposed, and which had at first so startled her, seemed nothing
to the wearying anxiety she had lately suffered; and even the mention of
him in the list of the wounded, she felt, would be a relief.
Amy could not entirely enter into all her mother's solicitude, but she
loved to hear her talk of Colonel Herbert, and to fancy what he must be
like from the miniature which had been taken before he left England; and
she remarked, also, that it was a relief to her mamma to speak of him;
and she seldom appeared so cheerful as when she had been either spending
half an hour alone in her own chamber, or answering the questions which
Amy was never tired of asking. An accidental allusion, indeed, would
often bring the tears into Mrs Herbert's eyes, but a lengthened
conversation had a very different effect, for the thought of her husband
was associated with all that was excellent and noble; and as she dwelt
upon his high character, and the principles with which all the actions
of his life were imbued, she could not doubt that the blessing of Heaven
would attend him wherever he might be.
The constant pressure of anxiety rendered the presence of strangers
in general very painful to Mrs Herbert; and the only person who was
admitted to see her at all times was Mr Walton. Whatever, therefore,
might be the interest felt in her brother's family, she did not regret
that the distance from the Hall was likely to prevent anything like
daily intercourse; and Amy, too, was not sorry, for her cousins did not
quite please her; and, though she had been very much amused by them,
she was conscious that only with her mamma could she feel perfectly safe
from harm. There was, in consequence, a mixture of alarm and pleasure
in her mind upon being told, about three days after her visit to the
rectory, that she was to spend the next day at the Hall, going quite
early and returning late; and the alarm was not a little increased
when her mamma read the postscript of the note:--"I am anxious that
Amy should become acquainted with Miss Morton, and get rid of her fears
before she begins taking lessons."
"What do you say to that, Amy?" asked Mrs Herbert. "Do you think you
shall be able to go twice a week, sometimes, perhaps, without me, to
learn music and drawing of a stranger?"
"Oh mamma! indeed I don't know. But when did you settle it? You never
told me. Is it really to be so? I don't think I can go without you."
"And I think," said Mrs Herbert, "that you can and will do everything
that is thought right. Is not that the proper way of looking at it?
It does not sound very agreeable at first, but, by and by, you will be
sorry when the day comes to stay at home."
"Oh no, mamma! never. I shall always dislike learning of Miss Morton; my
cousins have said so much against her."
"It is rather hard to make up your mind beforehand," said Mrs Herbert;
"you must try and judge for yourself whether she is really everything
they represent; you know it is possible they may be in the wrong."
Amy recollected Margaret's complaint about the picture, and felt that
this was quite true, but her prejudice still remained; and when, on
their arrival at the Hall, she was told to find her way by herself to
the oriel-room, which was now converted into a schoolroom, she hung back
in some fear; and though at length obliged to go, it was with reluctant
steps; and for several moments she stood with the handle of the door in
her hand, unable to summon courage to enter the room alone.
"Who can that be fidgeting at the door?" was exclaimed by some one
inside; and Amy in despair opened it.
Dora was seated at the window reading, Margaret was drawing, and Miss
Morton writing, with little Rose on a high stool by her side, intently
occupied with a sum in subtraction.
The appearance of the room was totally changed since Amy had last seen
it. Books, music, drawings, prints, and work, were to be seen in every
direction; the old damask chairs had been removed, and lighter ones
introduced; the table had been covered with a handsome cloth, and the
floor with a new carpet; a cabinet piano had taken the place of the
oak chiffonier; and the only thing that Amy fully recognised as an old
acquaintance was her aunt Edith's picture, which still hung over the
mantel-shelf. Miss Morton came forward to meet her, and shook hand;
so kindly that Amy's prejudice was for the instant shaken. Margaret
overpowered her with kisses; and Dora, in her usual indifferent manner,
just spoke, and then again took up her book; while little Rose quite
forgot the difficult sum, as she sat with her eyes fixed upon her new
cousin.
Amy felt very awkward, and as if she had intruded where she had no
business; but Miss Morton soon relieved her embarrassment by giving her
a portfolio of drawings to look at, and asking some questions about her
own occupations, in a voice which sounded more like her mamma's than any
she had yet heard at Emmerton.
"You must not mind our being rather silent now," she said, at length,
when Amy seemed more comfortable, "for Miss Harrington is reading for
her mamma, and talking interrupts her."
"Come and sit by me, Amy," said Margaret; "and see how I am getting on
with my drawing."
"It would be better not," observed Miss Morton; "whispering is quite as
likely to distract your sister's attention as talking out loud."
Margaret did not take any notice of this advice, but made a sign to her
cousin to come to the table.
"Not now, Margaret," said Amy; "I shall be quite well amused with these
drawings."
A cloud passed over Margaret's very pretty face, and, for the moment,
she looked positively ugly, while she muttered, "How unkind! cross
thing! I knew she would always interfere."
Amy was vexed, but did not move, and soon became interested in watching
Miss Morton's manner to little Rose. It was very quiet and very gentle,
but it was quite clear that her will was law; for Rose, whose thoughts
had been diverted by the unusual visitor, found great difficulty in
finishing her task, and was turned back several times without daring to
make a complaint, though a few tears filled her bright hazel eyes, when,
after three attempts, the sum was again pronounced incorrect. Margaret,
forgetting that she had accused Miss Morton of spoiling Rose, and
only anxious to prove her in the wrong, cast a look of triumph at Amy,
certain that she would agree with her in thinking it very harsh. But
Amy, though so young, was quite capable of discovering the difference
between firmness and severity, and did not at all dislike Miss Morton
for being particular.
"Indeed, you must be quick, Rose," said Miss Morton, as Dora closed her
book, and Margaret prepared to put up her drawing; "you see your sisters
are ready for dinner, and we are to have it to-day half an hour earlier
than usual, that we may walk to Colworth; you would not like to stay at
home."
Poor little Rose looked very unhappy, and began counting the figures
again; but her haste only made her the more confused.
"It is very hard," she said, as she offered the slate again to Miss
Morton, "and Amy is here."
Miss Morton smiled, and so sweetly, that it seemed impossible to be
afraid of her.
"Well! that is an excuse, I will allow, only it must not be made often;
but come and stand by me, and we will do it together."
Rose dried her eyes; and in a very short time the sum was finished, and
she went with Miss Morton to get ready for dinner.
"What do you think of her?" asked Dora and Margaret in one breath,
almost before Miss Morton was out of the room.
"She seems rather strict," replied Amy; "but I don't think I should be
very much afraid of her."
"But do you think she is pretty?" inquired Margaret, eagerly.
"Oh yes!" answered Amy, "very pretty; prettier than almost any person I
ever saw before."
Margaret's lip curled, and, in a short, contemptuous tone, she said,
"There is no accounting for taste. To be sure, you have not seen many
people in your life; but, for my part, I can't say I like such black
beauties."
"Nor white ones either," said Dora. "I never heard you praise a pretty
person yet. I don't think Emily Morton such an angel as most people do;
but she is twenty times prettier than you are, Margaret, or ever will
be."
"That is as others think," said Margaret, casting a self-satisfied look
at herself in the glass. "We must go and prepare for dinner now." And
she ran out of the room.
Dora was about to follow, but, recollecting her cousin, she stopped,
and said, "You will not mind staying here for a few minutes by yourself,
shall you, dear, while the servants are bringing the dinner?"
Amy thought she should have preferred going with her cousins to
being alone in the room with the tall men-servants; but she made no
objections, and Dora left her.
During the short interval that elapsed before their return, she amused
herself by endeavouring to fancy what Emmerton used to be, and comparing
it with its present condition; but she had chosen a difficult task. All
was so changed within a few days, that it seemed as if months had
gone by since her last visit with her mamma; and when at last she had
succeeded in recollecting exactly the position of the chairs and tables,
and the cold, desolate look of the oriel-room, she was startled from her
dream by the voice of the gray-haired butler, who, in a very respectful
manner, begged pardon for disturbing her, but wished to know if Miss
Harrington were ready for dinner; and, after such an interruption, a
further effort was useless.
Dora sat at the head of the table, though she could not carve, which
appeared very strange to Amy; and she remarked, too, that her cousins
addressed Miss Morton by her Christian name, but that she in reply
always spoke of Miss Harrington and Miss Margaret; indeed, in every
possible way, there seemed to be a determination to show her that she
was considered quite an inferior person.
"Will you all walk to Colworth this afternoon?" asked Miss Morton. "Rose
and I are going on a little business to Mrs Saville."
"I thought it was settled," replied Dora; "we said we would at
breakfast-time."
"Yes," answered Miss Morton; "but I fancied I had heard something about
a wish of your mamma's, that you should go in the carriage with her."
"Oh! for a stupid drive. I believe there was something said; but I had
much rather go to Colworth."
"But what will your mamma wish?" inquired Miss Morton, very gently.
"I can arrange with mamma myself, I hope," was the reply; "I prefer
going to Colworth."
"You must allow me to beg that you will mention it to Mrs Harrington
first," said Miss Morton; "she was very much annoyed with me for walking
with you yesterday, when she wanted you."
Dora's only answer was, what she considered a very dignified look; and
at this moment a servant entered with a message, desiring that Miss
Harrington would be ready to go out with her mamma at three o'clock.
"I know what it is for!" exclaimed Dora; "we are to call at Rochford
Park. Mamma wants me to gel acquainted with Miss Cunningham, and I am
sure I don't want to know her."
"Is not Lady Rochford a great invalid?" asked Miss Morton, anxious to
divert Dora's attention.
"Yes, and that is the reason mamma is going to see her. I believe they
were at school together, or something of that kind."
"I have heard it is such a beautiful place," said Amy; "I should so like
to see it."
"Then I wish you would go instead of me," replied Dora; "I am sick of
beautiful places. What is the use of going six miles to see what you
have just as well at home! It is all very natural for people who live in
cottages to wish to look at fine houses; but really it is far too much
trouble for me."
"It is not merely the seeing fine houses," said Miss Morton, "but the
grounds and the scenery may be very different. I should soon get tired
of looking at large rooms and gilt furniture; but trees and flowers must
always give one pleasure."
"There cannot be any better flowers at Rochford Park than we had at
Wayland," persisted Dora; "every one said the conservatory was the
finest in the county."
"Yes," replied Miss Morton; "but now you are at Emmerton, it may be
different."
"I never could see any great pleasure in looking at other persons'
beautiful things," continued Dora; "and really I don't know what right
Lord Rochford has to have anything better than papa. I heard mamma say
yesterday, that our family was much older than his, and yet people make
such a fuss about him; and he is going to be an earl soon, and then Miss
Cunningham will be lady something."
"Lady Lucy Cunningham," said Margaret. "Morris told me about it this
morning, and Bridget told her. I must say I should like to be called
'lady' of all things; should not you, Amy?"
"Yes," answered Amy, "I think,--I am sure I should."
Miss Morton smiled. "It would not make you at all happier, my dear,"
she said; "because, if you cared about it, you would be proud and
disagreeable, and few persons would love you; and if you did not, you
might just as well be Miss Herbert."
"But is there any harm in wishing it?" asked Amy.
"We can scarcely help wishing for things," replied Miss Morton; "I mean
we can scarcely help the wish coming into our minds; but I think it is
wrong not to try and get rid of it, and be contented with the situation
in which we are placed."
Amy felt that this was exactly what her mamma would have said, and she
began to forget all that had been told her against Miss Morton, and to
wish she would go on talking; but it seemed quite an effort to her to
say so much, for she spoke in a very low, timid voice, and when she had
finished, looked at Dora, as if expecting that something impertinent
would follow.
Dora, however, took no notice of her observation, but declared she would
rather be Miss Harrington than anything else. "I heard papa talking to
some people the other day," she said; "and he told them he would much
prefer being an old country gentleman to a new-made nobleman. And I am
sure I agree with him; it must be all pride and nonsense to wish for a
title."
Miss Morton roused herself again to speak. "I am afraid," she said,
"there is just as much pride, my dear Miss Harrington, in your caring
about belonging to an old family, and living in a large house, and
having money, and servants, and carriages, as in considering it a great
thing to have a title. Everything of the kind tempts us to be proud."
"Then it is happy for those who have no such temptation," said Dora,
scornfully.
"Yes, indeed, it is," replied Miss Morton, so meekly, and yet so
earnestly, that any one less haughty than Dora must have been touched.
But Dora was perfectly insensible; she did not, however, continue the
subject; and finishing her dinner quickly, saying she had several things
to do before three o'clock, without making any apology to Miss Morton,
left the room directly the dessert was placed on the table.
Margaret expressed satisfaction at her sister's absence, as she declared
it was much more agreeable to her to have her cousin all to herself
during their walk; but Amy would willingly have lingered by Miss
Morton's side, to hear something of her conversation with Rose.
Margaret, however, insisted upon her keeping at a considerable distance,
whilst she again repeated the history of all she had been accustomed to
do at Wayland, adding to it a description of her last new dresses, and
the beautiful presents she had received on her birthday, until Amy's
curiosity was greatly excited, and once more a feeling of envy arose as
she thought of the difference between herself and her cousin. But she
was just beginning to be aware of this fault; and although the wish to
have similar presents returned again and again, as Margaret eagerly told
over all her treasures, it was accompanied each time by the knowledge
that it was wrong; and she felt sorry and vexed with herself, as she
remembered how little her mamma would approve of what was passing in her
mind. Still the conversation was very amusing, and the time passed so
quickly that Amy was quite surprised when she found herself at the lane
leading to Colworth parsonage. A girl, whom she immediately recognised
as Susan Reynolds, was standing by the shrubbery gate; and Amy's first
impulse was to speak to her: but she was crying bitterly; and Amy,
though longing to know the cause of her tears, was too timid to
interrupt her, and, without making any remark, followed Miss Morton and
her cousins into the house. When, however, the first restraint of
the visit had a little diminished, and Mrs Saville began asking some
questions about her mamma, she ventured to inquire whether Susan's
mother was worse, and whether this had occasioned her distress.
"Poor Susan has enough to make her unhappy," said Mrs Saville. "Her
mother died last night; and though there is in fact nothing to grieve
for, as she was a truly religious person, yet it is a dreadful trial
to her children; and Susan is left with the sole charge of her little
brothers and sisters; but she is an extremely well-disposed girl, and I
hope we shall manage to do something for her by and by."
"I believe you have a very good school in the village," said Miss
Morton. "Mrs Harrington is anxious to take a young girl into her
service, to be under the lady's maid; and she thought you would excuse
her troubling you with asking whether you could recommend one. I rather
think several of her best servants were educated at Colworth."
"I am afraid," said Mrs Saville, "that it will be rather a difficult
thing to find one suited to the situation. The girl I should have chosen
has just left us, and the others are all too young."
Amy thought of Susan Reynolds, but she did not like to name her. Mrs
Saville, however, did, to her great satisfaction. "I can answer," she
said, "for her good principles, cleverness, and sweet temper, though
I know nothing of her capabilities in other ways; of course, she would
have everything to learn--but I think you would find her very docile.
It would be an admirable thing if you can answer for her being kept
strictly under the eye of the lady's maid; for she must do something for
herself, as the grandmother, who will take care of the younger children,
will find them quite a sufficient charge; and if she should not suit Mrs
Harrington, she can return to me at any moment. What she will say to the
notion herself, I cannot tell, for just now she is so overpowered with
grief, that she can think of nothing but her mother. But I will take her
to Emmerton in about a week, or ten days' time, if Mrs Harrington would
like to see her."
"Do have her," whispered Amy to Miss Morton, feeling extremely anxious
that the affair should be settled at once, and, in her eagerness,
forgetting her shyness.
"It is not for me to decide, my dear," said Miss Morton. "I am afraid
your aunt will hardly be inclined to have a stranger."
"But she is so good," continued Amy; "and she has such a nice manner."
Miss Morton smiled, and said, that "even these qualifications might not
be all that would be required." And then, turning to Mrs Saville, she
added, "If you could bring the little girl to Emmerton, you would, I am
sure, confer a favour on Mrs Harrington, for her time, at present, is
very much occupied."
Mrs Saville willingly agreed to this; and Amy left the parsonage in
great delight, having fully settled in her own mind, that Susan Reynolds
would soon be established at Emmerton, and fancying what a happy change
it would be, from the miserable hovel in which she had last seen her.
She did not know that no earthly comforts could make amends for the
loss of her home; and no earthly friend, even if she should find one at
Emmerton, could be to her as her mother; for no one can fully understand
the blessing of a mother's love, till it is taken away for ever.
As they passed the shrubbery gate, they perceived Susan standing in the
same position in which they had left her, and still crying, as if her
heart would break.
"Do you think I might speak to her?" asked Amy of Miss Morton. "I should
like to tell her how sorry I am about her mother."
Miss Morton hesitated. "Perhaps," she said, "the poor girl would rather
not be noticed; but, if you wish it very much, you may just speak, and
pass on."
"I should like to do it, if you would go with me," replied Amy. "But I
never saw any one so unhappy before."
Emily Morton sighed as she thought of Mrs Herbert's pale face, and how
soon poor Amy might be called to grieve from the same cause; and then,
in an instant, a scene which was never entirely banished from her mind,
came vividly before her,--the darkened chamber, the anxious faces, the
tears of overpowering sorrow, which were ever associated in her mind,
with the recollection of her own mother's deathbed; and, without making
any further objection, she followed Amy to the spot where Susan was
standing, with a feeling of sympathy, which can only be experienced by
those who have shared the same grief. Susan was too much absorbed to
notice their approach, and Amy scarcely knew what to say; she could only
repeat,--"Don't cry so, Susan, I am very sorry for you," besides asking
a few questions about the other children, which Susan was quite unable
to answer. But Miss Morton understood better what was to be done. She
took the poor girl's hand in hers, and spoke so kindly, that Susan
forgot that she was listening to the voice of a stranger; and she said
what Amy could not say. She told her that she had suffered the same
loss, and therefore knew well how great it was, and that it must seem
now, as if she never could be happy again; and then she reminded her of
her mother's goodness, and that, if she endeavoured to exert herself,
and do her duty, she would live with her for ever, in a world, where
there was no more sorrow. And, as she went on, Susan's sobs became
fainter and fainter; and at last she was able to thank Miss Morton and
Amy for their kindness, and to say that she would try to do what was
right--she would do anything to be with her mother again. Amy listened,
with the hope that she should, one day, be able to talk in the same
way, and with an increased feeling of respect for Miss Morton, which
she could not avoid expressing to Margaret when she returned to her. But
Margaret was not willing to agree in any praise of which Emily was
the object; and only expressed her wonder, that Amy could take so much
interest in a girl whom she had hardly ever seen before. "As for her
being unhappy, she was sorry for it, but she could not help it; and
there were a great many people in the world in the same situation. She
was not worse off than others; and in a short time, there was no doubt,
she would get comfortable again, especially if she went to the Hall
to live." And so Margaret remained in contented indifference; and
Amy wondered how her cousin could have learned such a strange way of
thinking, and determined that she would be the last person to whom she
herself would go for comfort in suffering.
Dora returned from her drive soon after they reached home, and was
immediately assailed by a host of questions as to what she had done,
and whom she had seen, and whether Rochford Park was more beautiful
than Wayland, But Dora was not in a communicative mood; she could make
herself very agreeable when she chose, and could describe things in a
very amusing manner; but this day her whim was to be silent; and all
the information obtained was, that Rochford Park was a very good sort of
place, that Miss Cunningham was like the rest of the world, only not so
tall as she was, and that Lord Rochford talked of bringing her over to
Emmerton soon, to spend the day, and then they would be able to judge
for themselves.
"How stupid you are, Dora!" said Margaret, when this most unsatisfactory
account had been given. "I thought you would entertain us all by telling
us what you had seen; but you might just as well have stayed at home."
"I am sure I wish I had," replied Dora. "It was very hot and very
dusty, and I am very tired; so, now, I hope we shall have tea as soon as
possible. Do, Emily, look into Morris's room, when you go up-stairs, and
tell her I am waiting to be dressed."
"Can't I go?" asked Amy, feeling instantly that the request was not a
proper one.
Dora stared. She was not accustomed to see any one put themselves out
of their way to help another, and she was conscious that Amy's offer was
almost a reproach to her, for there were times when she was aware of
her want of consideration for Miss Morton. "It will be no trouble," she
said; "Emily has done it a hundred times before."
"I would rather go," persisted Amy; "I know very well where the room
is." And without waiting for an answer, she ran upstairs.
"It may be very good-natured," muttered Dora to Margaret; "but I don't
see why she should interfere." And, with a pouting lip and her usual
scornful toss of the head, she followed her cousin.
The rest of the evening was not agreeable to Amy, for Dora's ill-humour
exhibited itself very plainly; and neither Emily Morton's kindness
nor Margaret's kisses could make her forget that one of the party was
discontented; and she was not sorry when her mamma appeared in the
schoolroom, prepared to return home. Mrs Harrington accompanied her in
a more gracious mood than ordinary; she even patted Amy on the shoulder,
and called her "dear;" but the next moment the harshness of her voice,
as she remarked something that was amiss in Margaret's manner, recalled
all Amy's fears, and she shrank away from her aunt with a feeling of
even greater awe than at their first meeting.