Nothing more was said about the proposed visit to Rochford Park on Amy's
two following visits to Emmerton; and though her anxiety was great to
know if she were to be included in the party, she only ventured once to
ask Margaret two or three questions, and then received a short, abrupt
answer, that nothing was settled, and that it could not be any concern
of hers. The fact was, that Margaret disliked the notice which Lord
Rochford had taken of Amy, on the day he had spent at Emmerton; for she
had resolved in her own mind that she would be Miss Cunningham's friend
and companion, and her fears of a rival were considerably excited. Of
this, however, there was no occasion to be afraid. Amy felt not the
smallest inclination to be intimate with her new acquaintance; and her
only wish for being of the party was, that she might see Rochford Park,
which had always been described to her as one of the finest places in
England. Mrs Harrington did not appear at all likely to give her any
information, for whenever they met, which was but seldom, she only said
a few words more hastily and sharply than she had done before, in order
to show that she had not quite forgotten Amy's offence; and it was not
till the evening previous to the day which was at last fixed for going,
that any hope was given her of accompanying them.
"Take this note to your mamma," said Mrs Harrington, coming to the
hall-door just as Amy was about to set off; "and if she should say yes
to what I have asked, the carriage shall call for you at eleven; if not,
you had better come here by yourself, as usual; and you shall go with us
to Lord Rochford's; and we will take you home at night, though it will
be considerably out of our way."
Amy's gratitude even was subdued in her aunt's presence; but she did
manage to say something about being delighted; and then, carefully
depositing the precious note in the pocket of her saddle, she made her
donkey move at its quickest pace down the road.
Mrs Harrington turned away with the consciousness of having done a
disagreeable thing in a disagreeable manner. She had fully determined
upon not taking Amy, it would only crowd the carriage; and she did not
wish it to be considered a necessary thing, that where her daughters
went, her niece should go too; but a note, which she had that morning
received from Lord Rochford, expressly mentioning Amy, and adding a hope
that Mrs Herbert would be prevailed on to comply with Lady Rochford's
wishes, and join the party, left her no choice; and it was happy for Amy
that she did not know how very little her aunt desired her presence.
Mrs Harrington's note enclosed Lady Rochford's invitation, which Mrs
Herbert decided at once it would be better not to accept for herself;
but she did not object to Amy's going, though she feared that if
Emmerton in its quietness, and almost solemnity, excited her longings
after riches and grandeur, Rochford Park would probably have a still
greater effect. Yet, even if this were the case, she trusted that
she should be able to check the feeling; and she knew that the same
temptations were nearly certain to arise in after-years, when she would
not be at hand to put Amy on her guard against them.
Amy's delight was unmeasured. Her aunt's harsh looks, and Miss
Cunningham's disagreeable manners, were quite forgotten in the pleasure
she anticipated in going to a new place; and long before her usual hour
of rising she had been to the window several times to see if the weather
promised to be fine. The calm, gray mist of the morning was hardly what
she would have desired; but there was a joyousness in her own spirit
which made almost everything appear bright, and when at length the sun
broke slowly through its veil of clouds, shedding a clear line of light
over the distant hills, and then bursting forth in full radiance over
the richly-wooded country, and the cheerful village, Amy's heart bounded
within her, and again, as she recollected her feelings of envy on her
return from Emmerton, she sighed to think that she should have been so
ungrateful as to wish for anything beyond the enjoyments which God had
given her.
Punctuality was one of the virtues which Mrs Harrington strictly
enforced; and Amy almost trembled when she heard the clock strike eleven
as she rode up to the lodge. She knew also, that on this point her mamma
and aunt entirely agreed; and she had received many injunctions on
no account to delay on the road, and so be the means of keeping the
carriage waiting--and to have vexed her mother would have been even
worse than to have excited Mrs Harrington's anger. Happily, however,
there were some last orders to be given, which caused a delay of about
five minutes, and Amy had time to dismount, and join her cousins in the
schoolroom, before her aunt appeared.
She seemed more inclined to be kind than before; and Amy felt so much
reassured by her change of manner, that, although placed in the middle
of the back seat, between Dora and Margaret, and having Mrs Harrington's
face nearly opposite, she contrived to be extremely happy. It was only
necessary to be quite still and silent, to avoid giving offence; and
this to her was no punishment.
From being so much alone, she had learned the secret of amusing herself
with her own thoughts, and found them far more agreeable than the
effort of talking in a constrained way to her cousins. Dora and Margaret
willingly followed her example; the former from being rather in a sulky
mood, and the latter from finding her attempts at conversation useless.
The drive was consequently a quiet, but not a dull one; and the distance
appeared very short to Amy, though Dora had yawned at least four times,
and at last muttered that she could never think Miss Cunningham was
worth coming so far to see.
"I cannot say I want very much to see her either," replied Amy; "only
the place,--I would give anything to see that."
"Then look," said Dora, pointing to a long white building on the nearest
hill, "there it is, just to your right."
Amy looked eagerly, and fancied she saw something very grand, though
only the general outline could be discovered; but as she came nearer,
still keeping her eyes fixed upon it, she was quite satisfied that it
must be what it had been described--the most splendid nobleman's seat
in the county. "Oh!" she exclaimed, jumping up in the carriage; "it is,
yes, it really is more beautiful than Emmerton."
"Sit still, pray," said Dora; "you nearly trod upon my foot."
Amy reseated herself, and felt rebuked; but the next moment, as she
caught the full front of the house through an opening in the trees, she
forgot everything but her admiration, and again began expatiating upon
its beauty.
"Look, Dora! is it not lovely? it is so large, so much larger than
Emmerton, and then those beautiful pillars, and the broad steps with the
figures in front; it is just like a palace."
"A palace!" replied Dora; "what nonsense you talk, only because you have
never seen anything else like it. It is a very good gentleman's house;
but there are hundreds in England just as fine."
"I beg your pardon," said Mr Harrington; "there are very few places
which can in any degree compare with it."
"Wayland was nearly as large, papa," answered Dora, more gently than
usual; for her father's mildness had a much greater effect upon her than
her mother's sharpness.
Mr Harrington smiled. "Your affection for Wayland," he said, "causes you
to magnify it in a strange manner. I suppose it is scarcely more than
half the size."
Amy felt rather triumphant, and a little inclined to show it, but she
checked herself; and as they had now reached the park gate, a fresh
interest was excited in her mind, and she had no inclination to continue
the discussion.
If the exterior of the house had appeared imposing at a distance, it
lost none of its effect upon a nearer approach; and when, after driving
a considerable way through the park, the carriage at length stopped at
the side front, Amy's expectations were raised to the highest pitch,
though something of fear mingled with her pleasure as she thought of the
strangers she should probably see, and wondered whether she knew exactly
how it would be proper to behave.
Lord Rochford met them at the door, and expressed great pleasure at
their arrival; but Amy felt a little disappointed that he did not say
anything in particular to her, as her mamma had told her that he had
sent her a special invitation; but Lord Rochford was at that moment
too much occupied in doing the honours of his house to Mr and Mrs
Harrington, and too anxious to point out the improvements he had made,
and hear them pronounced perfect, to think of her.
Poor Amy felt lost and bewildered as they entered the splendid hall,
with its painted ceiling, and pillars of Italian marble, and then passed
on through long suites of rooms furnished in the most sumptuous manner,
some hung with delicate silk, and glittering with gilded cornices and
costly ornaments, and others crowded with rare pictures and richly-bound
books, while sofas, ottomans, cabinets, and tables of the most exquisite
workmanship gave an air of comfort to what would otherwise have appeared
only desolate grandeur. It seemed to her like fairyland. Emmerton, and
its deep windows, and handsome but sombre furniture, at once sank into
insignificance; and she no longer wondered that Miss Cunningham had been
little inclined to admire anything there, when she could compare with it
the gorgeousness of her own home.
It seemed strange, too, that her uncle and aunt could see it all without
apparently noticing it. They walked quickly on, as if only wishing
that there were fewer rooms to go through; Dora followed, looking round
certainly, but not giving any symptoms of admiration; and Amy found that
her feelings were shared by no one excepting Margaret, who, however,
was more engaged in spying out what she called "odd things," and peeping
into the books which lay on the table, than in anything else.
"I think I must leave you young ones here," said Lord Rochford, opening
a door which led into a small hall with French windows fronting the
pleasure-ground. "These are Lucy's own rooms; and she and madame will
take great care of you, while Mrs Harrington pays a visit to Lady
Rochford. I am afraid she is not well enough this morning to receive you
all."
Amy wondered for an instant who madame could be; but she was not left
long in doubt: for immediately behind Miss Cunningham, who came
forward to receive them, appeared her French governess, a tall, thin,
inelegant-looking person, with a good-natured, merry face, a dress made
in the newest Parisian fashion, and a cap which seemed formed rather
for the purpose of receiving a certain quantity of ribbon and artificial
flowers, than as any covering to the black wig which it only half
concealed. Amy felt very much amused, and would perhaps have smiled, had
she not remembered that there was something unfeeling, independent
of its being unladylike, in turning a foreigner into ridicule; but
Margaret's merriment was almost audible, as madame placed chairs for
them, hoped in broken English they were not fatigued with their drive,
and then, with a swimming French curtsey, vanished from the room.
"That is your governess, is it?" said Dora, almost before the door was
closed, in a tone which plainly spoke her opinion of her.
"Yes," replied Miss Cunningham, "she is the most good-natured creature
in the world; and I am so fond of her. She speaks French beautifully."
"Not a first-rate qualification for a native," said Dora.
"Oh! but she paints flowers, too, and sings."
"Sings!" repeated Margaret; "but she is so old."
"Indeed! no, she is not. She sings and plays the guitar; and she is
teaching me--papa has just bought me a new one." And Miss Cunningham
took up a richly-inlaid instrument, with a long blue ribbon attached to
it, and began striking some false notes which she called chords.
"I don't like the guitar," said Dora, "unless it is played beautifully."
"Oh! but madame is quite a superior performer; and she says I have made
a wonderful proficiency, considering the few lessons I have had. She
practises a great deal, not in this room, for I can't bear the twang,
but in the next, which is her own. This is my study, and the little one
within I call my boudoir." Here Miss Cunningham looked round, apparently
expecting some flattering observation to be made; and of course all eyes
were immediately directed to the room and its furniture. Dora's gaze was
the most fixed and earnest, and when it was ended, she played with her
parasol, and was silent; but Margaret declared that everything she saw
was delightful--the chintz furniture such an extremely pretty pattern,
the tables so well placed, the piano so very handsome, and the view from
the window so lovely--that Amy found there was nothing left for her to
say; and feeling a great dislike to merely echoing Margaret's words,
she contented herself with expressing what she really thought--"that
it looked very pretty and comfortable"--and then amused herself with
Margaret's panegyrics. Miss Cunningham probably would have talked long
without weariness on this favourite topic; but Dora's patience was soon
exhausted; and she at last interrupted a question of Margaret's, which
she foresaw would lead to one of Miss Cunningham's long dissertations
upon herself and the splendour of her family mansion, by asking whether
they were to go out before dinner.
"We dine at four, altogether," replied Miss Cunningham; "so we had
better, I suppose." And then, turning to Margaret, she began, as Dora
had feared, not merely an answer, but a history. There was no resource
but to sit still and endure it; and when at length it ended, to Dora's
great relief, Miss Cunningham prepared to show them through the grounds.
Amy soon found that the uncomfortable feelings she had experienced at
Emmerton were beginning to return. She almost envied Dora her proud
indifference; for though Miss Cunningham took little notice of her, it
was quite evident that she did not wish for attention; but Amy could not
be happy as one of the party, when no one spoke to her, or even appeared
to recollect that she was present. The grounds were very extensive, and
something lovely opened at every turn; but she felt neglected, and not
all the costly flowers and shrubs in the garden, or the beautiful birds
in the aviary, nor even the bright sunshine itself, could make her
forget that she was with persons who did not think it worth while to
interest themselves about her.
Perhaps the very charm of the place only increased her uneasiness. It
was so rich and brilliant, that it seemed more than to realise all she
could possibly desire; but there was no hope that her father would
ever possess anything like it--it was to be looked upon, but not to be
enjoyed; and as she remembered the tale of Aladdin's lamp, she longed
that it could be hers but for one moment, that she might raise a palace,
not for herself but her mamma, which should be in every respect like
Rochford Park. These dreams so absorbed Amy's mind that she paid but
little attention to what passed between Margaret and Miss Cunningham;
for they were the only two who conversed, Dora being too grand to make
any remarks beyond what were absolutely necessary. At length, however,
she was struck by Miss Cunningham's exclaiming, in rather a more
energetic tone than usual, "Pray, has your mamma mentioned anything to
you about the new plan?"
"Plan," repeated Margaret. "No. What do you mean?"
"Oh! the plan about our going to London."
"We can have nothing to do with that," said Margaret.
"Yes, you have; it is your plan as well as ours."
"But what do you mean," continued Margaret; "I never heard a word about
it before."
"Why, you know," said Miss Cunningham, "that papa and my brother
generally go to town in the spring, and leave mamma, and me, and madame,
here, because there is some fancy about its suiting mamma better; and
dreadfully dull it is. But now I am growing so old, they think it quite
right that I should have some one better to teach me than poor madame;
and mamma has promised to let me go to London after Easter, and one of
my aunts is to be with me, and I am to see everything, and have lessons
in everything."
"But that is no concern of ours," said Margaret; "and Easter is so far
off."
"It does concern you, though," replied Miss Cunningham, "for papa has
got it into his head that I shall learn much better if I can get some
other girls to have lessons with me. He says it will be much more
amusing, and I shall like it better; and so be has been trying to
persuade your mamma to let you go up too, and then the same masters will
do for all."
"Then that is what Lord Rochford meant the other day," said Amy, "when
he talked about a plan, and begged aunt Harrington to mention it to
mamma."
"Did he wish you to go too?" asked Miss Cunningham.
The words of this question were very simple; but the tone of it showed
plainly that the idea was not agreeable; and Amy felt quite abashed, and
answered hurriedly, that she did not know what was wished, for that no
more had been said upon the subject.
"Won't it be delightful?" said Miss Cunningham to Margaret; "We shall be
together so much, and shall go to the theatre; and, perhaps there will
be some parties for girls of our age; you know there are such things."
"It would be all very nice if there were any chance of it," replied
Margaret.
"And why should there not be?" exclaimed Miss Cunningham, who had never
dreamt of any obstacle to a wish of her father's.
"Because," said Margaret, "mamma will not allow it."
"And why not? what objection can she have?"
"She will not let us go while Emily Morton is with us," said Margaret,
"because she does not think it necessary. Before she came, I often used
to hear her talk of taking us to London for masters, but now she never
mentions it; and it was only yesterday I heard her say that we had
greater advantages at present than we possibly could have by any other
means."
"Oh! but that is all nonsense," said Miss Cunningham, "Just let papa
talk to her for ten minutes, and she will soon come round."
"You don't know mamma," replied Dora, who, being very firm and decided
herself, particularly admired decision in others. "If she does not
approve of the plan, all the world might talk to her, and it would have
no effect."
"But why does Miss Morton stay with you?" asked Miss Cunningham. "Are
you very fond of her?"
"Fond of her!" exclaimed Margaret. "No, indeed; it would rejoice my
heart to see her fairly out of the house."
"It would not mine," said Amy, whose spirit was roused at hearing a
person she loved so mentioned.
A moment before Dora would have taken Miss Morton's part, but she
could not bear Amy to interfere as if it were her business; and, in an
irritated voice, she asked, what it could possibly signify whether she
liked Miss Morton or not.
"Nothing," replied Amy, gently; "only I am very fond of her?"
"Then I wish you would keep her," said Margaret. "I shall dislike her
more than ever, now; for I shall always think she is preventing us from
going to London."
"But why don't you persuade your mamma to get rid of her?" exclaimed
Miss Cunningham. "Madame would not stay an hour in the house if I did
not like her."
"Ah, but it is very different with us," replied Margaret. "Mamma will
have her own way about it; she knows very well that we dislike Emily,
and she is always finding fault with her, herself; but when it came to
the point I am certain she would say no. And then, too, both papa and
mamma hate London, and would be very glad of an excuse for not going."
"But do you really think," asked Miss Cunningham, "that if it were not
for Miss Morton they would be obliged to do it?"
"Yes; at least they always said so before Emily came."
"Well! if you are quite sure of that, I can see no reason why we should
not try and manage the matter between us."
"Hush!" exclaimed Margaret, who observed that Amy seemed quite aghast at
the cool way in which this was said; "there is no use in speaking about
it now. Is that your dinner-bell?"
"Yes; but there is no hurry; do promise to talk to your mamma. I am sure
papa will do all he can--we should be so happy together in London."
"Without Emily Morton," said Margaret; "it would drive me wild to feel
she was always tacked on to me."
"Oh Margaret! how unkind you are!" exclaimed Amy. "You know Miss Morton
is always trying to please every one, and she never gets out of temper."
"Miss Morton pets you till she makes you as disagreeable as she is
herself," said Margaret, angrily.
Amy for an instant was strongly inclined to retort; but she did not give
way to the feeling, and, preferring to walk behind with Dora, did not
speak again till they reached the house. Margaret and Miss Cunningham
immediately began a low, and apparently a very interesting conversation;
for it was continued at intervals even when they were dressing for
dinner, though, whenever Dora or Amy approached them, they broke off
abruptly, looking very mysterious, as if the fate of the world depended
on no person's knowing what they were talking of. But Amy thought little
about them, being entirely engrossed with the dread of dining for the
first time at what appeared to her a regular party. The feeling had been
lurking in her mind during the whole day, but the novelty of all she had
seen had distracted her attention. Now, however, the awful moment was
drawing near; and even her desire to see everything, and her admiration
of the house and furniture, could not prevent her from wishing that she
could transport herself back to the cottage just till dinner was over.
She felt also quite overpowered by Miss Cunningham's dress, and the
profusion of brooches and chains, with which she adorned herself,
turning them over one by one, with an air of the utmost indifference;
and then, finding that her visitors did not make any observation,
calling to them to ask their opinion as to which suited her best. Dora
took care to object to almost all, or to compare them with something
more splendid belonging to other people; but Amy, who had never yet
seen such beautiful things worn by a person so young, expressed her
admiration very openly; and then, as she caught sight of her plain silk
frock in the large looking-glass, wondered whether Lady Rochford would
think it very strange that she was not dressed equally well.
"May I sit by you, Dora?" she whispered, as they went down-stairs.
"I can't tell," replied Dora; "it will depend upon how we go in to
dinner."
"But what shall I do?" asked Amy. "Do you think any one will speak to
me?" Dora laughed; but when she looked at her cousin, she saw that her
eyes were almost filled with tears. "I am so frightened," continued Amy,
"I know I shall do something very wrong, and then every one will stare
at me. If I might only stay in the drawing-room----"
"Every one would stare at you a great deal more then," replied Dora;
"besides, there is no party; there will be only Lord and Lady Rochford,
and Mr Cunningham and ourselves."
"Mr Cunningham!" said Amy. "Is he very old?"
"Oh yes, quite grown up," replied Dora. "But you need not trouble
yourself about him, for I daresay he will not speak to you; and, if he
does, you won't understand him."
Amy recollected having heard Dora mention Mr Cunningham's peculiar voice
before; and she was on the point of asking her to explain what was the
matter with it, but they were standing at the drawing-room door, and
there was no time.
Lady Rochford was seated on the sofa, talking to Mrs Harrington; and
Amy was instantly struck with the likeness between her and her daughter.
There was the same sandy hair, the same dull eye, the same fair
complexion, the only difference being in the greater softness of
expression, and the lines which continual illness and additional years
had worn in her face. Her dress, too, was very youthful; and it was
difficult for a stranger to believe that she could possibly be the
mother of the tall, gentlemanly young man, who stood by her side,
apparently intent upon examining the ornaments on the mantelpiece. Lady
Rochford's manner, however, had none of Miss Cunningham's scornfulness;
her temper was very sweet, and it was her wish to make everyone
about her happy; and if she did sometimes fail, it was more from over
attention, and insisting upon their enjoying themselves in her way
rather than in their own, than from any other cause. Amy felt relieved
by the kindness with which she spoke to her, and almost happy when she
had contrived to hide herself behind Dora, and could look at what was
going on without being observed; and dinner being announced almost
immediately, she kept close by her side, hoping that, after all, she
might not find it as terrible as she had expected. But her hope was soon
crushed. There was a slight confusion as they went into the dining-room;
no one seemed to know exactly where to place themselves; and Amy
was obliged to leave Dora, and take the vacant seat between her aunt
Harrington and Mr Cunningham.
"George, you will take care of your little neighbour," said Lord
Rochford; "do find out what she would like to have."
The silent Mr Cunningham turned to Amy, and spoke; but whether his words
were English, French, or German, it would have been impossible for her
in her fright to have told. By persons who were well acquainted with
him, he was very easily understood; but, in consequence of a defect in
the formation of his mouth, his articulation was so indistinct, as to be
almost unintelligible to strangers; and Amy looked at him, with mingled
fear and surprise. Again he endeavoured to render his meaning clear; but
not a word could Amy comprehend, though, guessing what he would say,
she faltered, "Chicken, if you please," and then looked at her aunt,
and blushed painfully, from the idea that she had done exactly the
very thing she ought not. Mr Cunningham apparently was very desirous of
seeing her comfortable; for, during dinner, he made a point of offering
her everything on the table which he thought she might like; and each
time he opened his lips Amy's distress revived. But the climax of
misery was, when, after the dessert being placed on the table, he seemed
inclined to enter into conversation with her. Happily she caught the
words, "live at Emmerton," in his first sentence, and contrived
to answer it correctly; but as he went on, the confusion of sound
increased, and, perfectly bewildered between endeavouring to make out
the meaning of the last question and the dread of hearing a new one, she
continued to repeat "Yes" and "No," at regular intervals, resolving
in her own mind that it would be better to live at the cottage all her
life, even if it were twice as small, and she were never to see any one,
than be condemned to the penance of talking to Mr Cunningham.
Her cousins, from the opposite side of the table, watched her with
considerable amusement, though, after a short time, Dora's compassion
was much excited, and once or twice she attempted to help her, by partly
repeating the question when she understood it better than Amy; but
this only served to increase Mr Cunningham's desire to make himself
intelligible, and the eagerness with which he went over the ground
again, rendered the sounds only the more perplexing, so that Dora was
obliged to resign Amy to her fate, and wait with patience till Lady
Rochford should move.
The looked-for moment did at last arrive, and Amy's spirits rose like
those of a prisoner released from captivity; for nearly at the last
moment, having answered "Yes," when she ought to have said "No," she
found a large bunch of grapes placed upon her plate, and, not liking to
confess she had misunderstood, and still less liking to eat them, she
was obliged to leave them, and went out, wondering whether Mr Cunningham
would remark it, and, if he did, what he would think of her.
The evening was but short, and to Amy it was rather stupid. Margaret
and Miss Cunningham left the room together soon after dinner, and only
appeared again when they were summoned to tea. Lady Rochford talked a
good deal to Dora, and asked her to play and sing; but she said very
little to Amy, except that observing her interested in a book of prints,
which Miss Cunningham had brought before dinner for Margaret to see, she
declared that it must be much more agreeable to her to look at a cabinet
of minerals; and, taking the book away, Amy was obliged, for the next
half hour, to turn over a number of drawers filled with odd-shaped
stones, and pieces of iron and copper, about which she knew nothing, and
cared less.
There was some pleasure, notwithstanding, for there was no necessity
to admire them, and she could stand with them in her hand, and amuse
herself with the other things in the room, since no one took any notice
of her; but the marked difference between herself and her cousins, had
never been so observable before. Even the servants overlooked her, and
forgot to offer her any coffee; and her wishes of the morning returned
with redoubled vigour. Not that she would have been Miss Cunningham, for
her own mother was a treasure beyond all price; she would only willingly
have given her an equal share of the world's riches and grandeur. Mr
Cunningham did not come into the drawing-room till tea was nearly over;
but Lord Rochford and Mr Harrington soon joined them, and the former
immediately began urging upon Mrs Harrington the importance of acceding
to the plan he had mentioned at Emmerton.
Amy saw that her aunt was annoyed by the subject being named so openly,
for she remarked immediately that it was time for them to prepare for
returning; and though Dora and Margaret lingered as long as they could
to hear what was said, she preserved perfect silence until they were
gone.
"Mamma will say no," exclaimed Margaret; "I could see it by the way she
bit her lip."
"And papa will make her say yes," replied Miss Cunningham. "He never
gives up anything he has set his heart on."
"Then there is one good thing," said Dora; "they will have a subject of
interest to discuss for the remainder of their lives. You might just as
easily move this wall as mamma."
"I shall never rest till it is settled," continued Miss Cunningham;
"fancy the delight of being in London, and driving about in the parks,
and seeing all the shops, and buying whatever one likes. I shall give
all my old dresses to my maid; for I am determined to have quite a new
set of my own choosing."
"It would be very nice," said Margaret, with a sigh of hopeless regret;
"and to think that that pale-faced, black-haired Emily Morton should be
the only thing to stand in the way."
"Ah!" said Miss Cunningham, significantly, "we will see about that," and
some more whispering went on between her and Margaret.
Amy did not remark this conversation; but she said in a low voice to
Dora, "Does Mr Cunningham go to town with them always?"
"Yes," answered Dora, laughing; "and you must go to town too, to learn
his language. French, Italian, German, and double-Dutch,--what an
accomplished person you will be!"
"I don't mean to be unkind to him," said Amy; "but it would take off a
great deal of my pleasure."
"Oh no, it would not; it is only because you are not accustomed to
him--every one in the house understands him."
"Do they? but then they are older. Oh Dora! you cannot think how
frightened I was. I was so afraid he would think me rude and unfeeling."
"I should have been afraid of laughing," said Dora; "I never heard such
an extraordinary voice in my life."
"Perhaps I might have laughed if he had not been so kind; and then it
vexes mamma so, if I ever ridicule a person's misfortunes; she says that
we never can tell when the same things may be sent to ourselves."
Dora was thoughtful for a minute; at length she said, "You are so
grave about things, Amy; it is not human nature not to laugh at such
oddities."
"But," replied Amy, "mamma says we have two natures, a good one and a
bad one, and that human nature is the bad one."
"Two natures!" exclaimed Dora, "what can you mean?"
"I wish you would ask mamma some day," answered Amy; "she would tell you
so much better than I can."
"She would find it so much trouble," said Dora, sadly; "I have not been
taught like you." And she turned hastily away, and, scolding Margaret
for being so slow in getting ready, declared it would not do to wait any
longer, and ran down-stairs.
It was a happy thing for Amy that her dread of Mr Cunningham prevented
her from indulging to its full extent the wish of accompanying her
cousins to London, if Mr Harrington should consent to their going;
but the incidents of the day had been quite sufficient to excite
her imagination to the utmost. The magnificence of Rochford Park had
realised many of her gayest dreams; and while her uncle and aunt, and
her cousins, giving way to the weariness consequent on a long day,
composed themselves to sleep, she felt quite at liberty to build a
castle in the air, which should have all the splendour of the princely
mansion they had left, without the drawback of its inhabitants. In a few
moments she was living at a park, with her father returned from India,
her mother in perfect health and happiness, and her cousins and Emily
Morton on a visit to them. The house was filled with company; there were
pleasant drives and rides, a pony for herself and a pony-chaise for her
mamma, handsome dinners, and amusements of every kind for her father's
visitors; and the chapel was also thought of, but it seemed inconsistent
with her other dreams, and she could not decide upon its being used
every day--perhaps once a-week would be sufficient. Then again the scene
changed to London--to handsome shops, and beautiful dresses, and rich
ornaments, just like Miss Cunningham's; and the delight of going to a
play when she liked, having constantly new books, and being able to
make presents to all her friends; and in the midst of this vision of
grandeur, the carriage stopped at the little white gate of Emmerton
cottage. Her mother's voice recalled her to herself; but even its
much-loved gentle tone could not at that instant entirely content her.
A feeling of dissatisfaction with everything had taken possession of her
mind, and the gaiety of her spirit was fled.
But few words passed between Mrs Herbert and her brother, Mrs Harrington
complaining of being extremely cold, and objecting to the horses being
kept standing; and Amy was not sorry for this, as she longed to be quiet
with her mamma after the excitement of the day. Her spirits, however,
were too much depressed to be again roused even by the interest of
talking over all she had done and seen; and after a few attempts at
answering her mamma's questions, she gave it up in despair, and burst
into tears. Mrs Herbert guessed directly what was the matter, on finding
that Amy could assign no reason for her distress. Her cousins had not
been unkind, her aunt had not been angry, she had seen everything she
expected; but she was quite tired, and this was the only account she
could give. "I suspect a night's rest will be the most certain means of
making you feel happy again, my love," said Mrs Herbert; "suppose you
prepare to go to bed, and I will hear all you can tell me to-morrow."
"I should like very much to talk to you to-night," replied Amy, almost
sobbing; "I am very unhappy, but I cannot tell why."
"At any rate," continued her mother, "it would be better to wait a
little while, and when you are ready to read, you shall come to my room,
and then you can say all you wish, and go to bed afterwards with your
mind at ease."
"But I would rather say it now," answered Amy, "if I only knew how to
begin. I don't think, mamma, it makes me happy seeing fine places."
"Because you wish they were your own; is that the reason?"
"I long for them very much," replied Amy; "but, mamma, I have told you
all about it before."
"Yes, my dear child, so you have; but knowing that you have told me
before, will not ease your mind now."
"Only that I don't like repeating it all over again," said Amy; "it
seems as if all you had said had done me no good."
"It takes a very long time to make any one good," answered her mother,
"so you must not be disheartened even if you do find the same bad
feelings returning again and again. I daresay you have been dreaming
of having a large house like Rochford Park, and quantities of money to
spend just as you please; and now, when you find you must be contented
with a small house, and very little money, you are unhappy."
"I don't want it all for myself," said Amy.
"But even for others," replied Mrs Herbert; "you desire to give them
something that God has thought fit they should not have; which do you
think knows best what is good?"
"Oh mamma! indeed I am sure that God is wiser than any one; but I cannot
help wishing."
"Do you remember, Amy, the promise you have so often repeated to me; I
mean the promise made for you at your baptism; that you would renounce
'the pomps and vanities of this wicked world?'"
"But, mamma, I do not want any pomp; I should not care to be a queen;
and it would make me miserable to have anything to do with what was
wicked."
"My dear," said Mrs Herbert, "the pomps and vanities of the world are
different to different people. If Susan Reynolds, for instance, were
anxious to live in this cottage, and wear a silk dress like yours, she
would be longing for pomps and vanities, because she would be coveting
something beyond her station; and so, when you are desiring to live at
Emmerton or Rochford Park, you are equally wrong."
"Then why does my uncle live at such a large place, and have so many
servants and carriages, if he has promised to renounce them?" asked Amy.
"Is it wicked?"
"No," answered Mrs Herbert, "it is not wicked in him, because they are
things proper to the station in which God has placed him. A king must
live in grandeur, so must a nobleman,--it is befitting their dignity;
and private gentlemen, when they have large fortunes, are obliged to do
the same, only in a less degree. But such persons have a very difficult
task assigned them, as it is almost incumbent upon them to maintain a
certain degree of splendour in their style of living; and yet God
will assuredly one day call them strictly to account for any wilful
extravagance or self-indulgence."
"But why was the promise made for them, if they never can keep it?" said
Amy.
"Because," replied her mother, "renouncing does not mean that we are to
give up all the blessings which God has bestowed upon us; but it does
mean that we are not to pride ourselves upon them, or rest our happiness
on them, or covet more than we possess. It means that we should use
them entirely for the benefit of our fellow-creatures, that we should
be perfectly willing to part with them if God were to require it, and
should be as happy in a cottage with only bread to eat, as we should be
in a palace."
"Oh mamma! no one can feel so."
"Look, Amy," said Mrs Herbert, taking up the Bible which she had been
reading during her child's absence; "have you never seen this before?
'How hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom of God!'
and 'It is easier for a camel to go through a needle's eye, than for a
rich man to enter into the kingdom of God' (Luke xviii. 24, 25). These
are our Saviour's words; do you think that any one who really believed
they were true could wish for riches?"
Amy hid her face on her mother's shoulder, and her tears again fell
fast. Mrs Herbert went on. "It is quite necessary, my dear child," she
said, "that you should learn what you wish for, before you indulge in
any dreams of greatness. You are desiring what, our Saviour says, makes
it almost impossible for a person to enter into heaven; and you
yourself have just acknowledged that it must be the case. I told you the
disposition of mind which God requires of us; that, if we have riches,
we should be ready in a moment to part with them, and be quite contented
without them, and you immediately exclaimed that it could not be; and
yet God will not own us as His children unless we have this spirit, or
at least strive very hard to obtain it."
"Mamma," said Amy, in a low voice, "indeed, I will try not to wish any
more."
"I am sure you will, my love," replied her mother; "and I am sure, also,
that if you pray to God, He will assist you; but it will require very
many attempts before you can succeed. And will you remember, also, how
vain and foolish it is for those who are the children of God, and look
forward to living with Him in heaven, to set their hearts upon anything
this world can give? You would laugh if you saw a person who was one day
to possess a kingdom, sighing for a little cottage, or a small garden;
but the most glorious kingdom that could be given us here, even the
world itself, is nothing when compared with what God has promised us
hereafter."
"If I could but see it for one moment," said Amy, "I should never wish
again."
"Yes," answered her mother, "if we were to see it, our difficulty would
be at an end; but God has placed us here to try us, to prove whether we
will believe that we shall have what He has promised, though whilst
we are on earth it is hidden from us. If I told you that to-morrow you
would have a splendid present made you, but that I could not show it to
you to-day, would you not believe me?"
"Oh yes," replied Amy, "you always keep your word."
"And if I read to you in God's Word, the description of the beautiful
home in which, our Saviour tells us, we shall one day live, will you not
believe Him?" But Amy did not answer, for her heart was full. "I will
not talk any more to you now, my dear child," continued Mrs Herbert:
"but I will read to you presently those two concluding chapters in the
last book in the Bible, which you have only occasionally heard. They
will do far more to calm your mind than anything I can say."
Amy went to her room; and the last sound that mingled with her dreams,
was her mother's gentle voice, as she sat by the bedside, describing to
her, in the words of the Bible, the blessedness of that glorious city,
which shall have no "need of the sun, neither of the moon, to shine in
it; for the glory of God shall lighten it, and the Lamb shall be the
light thereof."