On the day which Dora had named, Mrs Herbert and Amy were established at
the Hall. Amy, in great delight, looked round upon the preparations that
had been made for her mamma's comfort; and could not doubt, as she felt
that some of her first wishes were realised in the prospect of spending
so many days at Emmerton together, that Mrs Herbert would enjoy it
equally with herself. And certainly, if luxury could constitute a
person's happiness, there would have been nothing to desire. "Oh mamma!"
she said, drawing the easy chair close to the fire, "there is everything
we want here, just the same as at the cottage; I can make you so
comfortable when you are tired; and you can lie down, and look out
at that beautiful view. There is the spire of Emmerton church just in
front; it seems almost prettier now, when the snow is on the ground,
than it was in the summer."
"Your aunt has been very thoughtful," replied Mrs Herbert; "but I hope
I shall feel well enough to be much with her; only we can spend the
morning together, just as if we were at home."
"Yes," said Amy; "and you will be able to see Miss Morton whenever
you wish it; and perhaps Margaret and Dora will come and sit with us
sometimes. Oh mamma! it will be so nice!"
"Look, Amy," said Mrs Herbert, pointing to the well-filled book-shelves:
"there will be occupation for us both, when we have nothing else to do."
Amy began examining the books with interest, and suddenly exclaimed,
"Mamma, it must be Dora who has made everything so comfortable for us;
here are all the books that I like best; and I remember the last day I
came to Emmerton she made me tell her the names of a great many, and I
could not imagine why."
"And these flowers, are they the result of Dora's care, do you think?"
said Mrs Herbert; "she must have gathered all there were in the
conservatory; it is quite strange to see them when the snow is on the
ground."
"It must be Dora," replied Amy; "I don't think aunt Harrington or
Margaret ever even look at flowers. I never saw Margaret take one in her
hand, except to pull it to pieces; and there is Dora's own letter case,
and the beautiful inkstand her uncle Henry gave her."
"I wish Dora would come and see the pleasure she has given us," said Mrs
Herbert.
"I think she went away," answered Amy, "because she fancied you were
tired, and would rather be alone with me at first; for she begged I
would come to her in the schoolroom when I left you."
"I should like to rest now," replied Mrs Herbert; "so you may go and
tell her how comfortable I am, and then, by and by, I will thank her
myself."
Amy quitted the room, and Mrs Herbert endeavoured to compose herself to
sleep; but her thoughts were too busy. Whatever might be Amy's pleasure
at coming to Emmerton, she could not, herself, entirely sympathise with
it; and yet, with her perfect freedom from selfishness, she would
have imposed any restraint upon her own feelings rather then mar the
enjoyment of her child. Dora's thoughtfulness brought vividly to her
remembrance the days of her childhood, when she and her sister Edith had
delighted in attending to the comfort of others in a similar manner;
and visions of those sunny days passed before her, one after the other,
recalling forms and faces, even voices and words, which had since been
almost forgotten. A gentle knock at the door interrupted her reverie,
and Mr Harrington begged for admittance. He came to see that everything
had been provided for his sister's comfort, and expressed great
satisfaction at Dora's care; and then seating himself by her side, they
enjoyed for the next half-hour the pleasure of talking together of
their early days; and notwithstanding the melancholy reflections which
naturally arose from the conversation, the relief of his sympathy with
her present feelings was so great, that Mrs Herbert felt more comforted
and refreshed when he left her, than she could have been by any other
means.
Amy, during this time, had found her way to the schoolroom, and
expressed her gratitude to Dora in the warmest terms; but the subject
did not appear quite agreeable to her, for she turned it off quickly,
though a close observer might have discovered, from the expression
of her countenance, that she really felt extreme pleasure. Margaret
welcomed her cousin most affectionately, as she always did when no
one else was near to attract her attention; but, by this time, Amy had
learned the true value of her words and caresses, and withdrew herself
as soon as possible, feeling that Dora's coldness, even if it were real,
was infinitely preferable to Margaret's warmth.
"I have been begging mamma to have all the stupid people together next
week," said Dora, when Amy began inquiring what had been decided on
since she was last there, "and she is almost inclined to do it; if they
would come on Monday, and stay till Thursday, it would not be so bad;
and if she would ask two or three more, I am sure we should get on
better."
"I will tell you who is coming on Saturday," said Margaret; "somebody
you will be delighted to see."
"Me!" exclaimed Amy, in astonishment. "Why, I don't know any one."
"Oh! but you do. What do you say to your friend, Mr Cunningham." Poor
Amy looked very uncomfortable. "Yes," continued Margaret, laughing; "and
you will have to talk to him all day long, for Lucy says he has taken
such a fancy to you; he declares you are the best-mannered little thing
he ever met with; and, you know, it is so rare a thing for him to see
any one who is well mannered to him, that he will be sure to seize upon
you all the time he is here."
"And how long does he stay?" asked Amy.
"As long as Lord Rochford does; it will be a week at least."
"You had better go back to the cottage, Amy," said Dora; "there will be
no comfort for you here. I can just imagine how Mr Cunningham will pet
you, and talk to you, and how frightened you will look. If it were not
for your annoyance, I should quite enjoy the thoughts of seeing you
together."
"One thing I like him for," said Amy, "he has so much good nature."
"Yes," replied Dora; "he seems to have taken so much, that there is none
left for his sister; and now, Amy, she will be worse than ever to you,
for she hates you cordially, because her brother said, after you were
gone, that he thought being with you would do her a great deal of good."
"I don't see what business Mr Cunningham has to think anything of the
kind," said Margaret. "I don't mean to be ill-natured, Amy; but really
the idea of your being of use to Miss Cunningham is rather too absurd."
"I think so, too," replied Amy; "but I dare say he was only in joke."
"Oh no! he was not; he was quite sincere; and he told Lucy that if the
London plan came to anything, he hoped an arrangement would be made for
you to be of the party."
"And so Miss Cunningham is your enemy for life," said Dora; "not that
there is any fear of the London plan, for mamma is more strongly set
against it than ever."
"It is half your fault, Dora," observed Margaret; "I am sure there would
be less difficulty, if you were to say you liked it; but you are always
speaking against it, and lately, too, you have taken to upholding Emily
Morton."
"I don't see," replied Dora, "why I should say what is not true for any
one, least of all for Miss Cunningham, who knows quite well how to do it
for herself." Amy looked vexed, and Dora's conscience immediately told
her she was wrong. "I don't mean to say," she continued, "that Lucy
Cunningham tells stories exactly, but she often twists and turns things
to suit her own purpose, and she can exaggerate without the smallest
difficulty."
"Lucy Cunningham is very much obliged to you for your opinion of her,"
said Margaret, sharply; "and I shall take care to tell her what a friend
she has in you."
"As you please; but she is not worth quarrelling about. I shall be quite
glad when she is gone to London, and then we shall hear no more about
her. I hate having nothing but Lucy Cunningham dinned into my ears from
morning till night."
"It is better than Emily Morton, at any rate," said Margaret, with a
half contemptuous glance at Amy. "_One_ is a lady."
"Oh Margaret!" exclaimed Amy, while the colour rushed to her face; "you
don't mean to say that Miss Morton is not a lady?"
"I mean that she is not half so much of a lady as Lucy Cunningham; of
course she must be something like one, or mamma would not let her be
with us."
"But indeed, Margaret," replied Amy, trying to speak calmly, "I do think
you must be wrong. I am sure if a stranger saw them together, they would
say directly there was no comparison between them."
"But what has that to do with it?" said Margaret, "It cannot alter the
case. Lucy Cunningham is the daughter of a nobleman."
"Yes, but that is not everything."
"And Emily Morton is a governess," continued Margaret, in a decided
tone, as if there could be no arguing against such a truth.
"Yes," again repeated Amy; "and yet, if Miss Cunningham were a princess,
it would make no difference in my feelings."
"Then your feelings must be wrong, and all the world would say the
same."
"I am sure Miss Morton is more of a lady, because she is so gentle and
kind," said Amy; "and she always thinks of other people before herself,
and never gets out of temper, and never boasts of anything."
"Well! but those are virtues; you talk so foolishly, Amy. Susan Reynolds
or Morris may be all that, but they would not be at all the more
ladies."
"No," said Dora, coming to Amy's assistance; "they would not be ladies,
because they would still have clumsy, awkward ways of doing things, and
of speaking."
"Of course, that is just what I was saying!" exclaimed Margaret,
triumphantly.
"No; but Margaret," persisted Amy, "indeed that is not what you were
saying; for I am sure Miss Cunningham is much more awkward than Miss
Morton, and yet you say that all the world would consider her superior."
"So they would," replied Margaret.
Amy was silent for a few minutes; at length she said, "Mamma told me one
day that we ought not to think as the world thinks, because the world
means generally a great many vain, silly persons."
"Then you would set up to be wiser and better than everybody else, I
suppose," said Margaret.
Dora again interposed, for she thought she saw what her cousin meant.
"Amy is right, I am sure; it would be only silly people who would think
so much more of Lucy Cunningham's birth than of other things. Not all
the rank in the world will make persons ladies and gentlemen without
manners."
"But I mean something besides manners," said Amy; "because, what I like
in Miss Morton is not quite manner; it is her being good that helps to
make her a lady, I think."
Dora laughed. "That is one of your strange notions, Amy. I believe
you think, that what you call being good is to make a person
everything--rich, and happy, and ladylike, and beautiful."
"No, not beautiful," replied Amy; "and yet," she added, "I remember
once going with mamma to see a poor woman who was very ill; and she was
almost ugly, till she began to talk, and thank mamma for being kind to
her, and then her face quite changed; and mamma told me it was her being
so grateful and contented that made her look so nice."
"I do think, Amy, you will go out of your senses some day," said
Margaret. "You talk so differently from every one else."
"Do I? That is very strange; for all the persons I care for tell me the
same things."
"Does Emily Morton?" asked Dora.
"Yes, whenever I am quite alone with her, and ask her about
anything--grave things, I mean."
"Well, Amy," said Dora, "I must say that you are the merriest grave girl
I ever met with. I don't think any one who heard you laugh would fancy
you really so demure as you are."
"No one ever said I was grave, except you," answered Amy. "I am sure I
don't know what I am myself; but I must not stay here now, for I want so
much to see Miss Morton, and then I must go back to mamma."
"Always Emily Morton," said Margaret, as Amy ran out of the room.
"Always Lucy Cunningham," retorted Dora.
"No more of that, pray, Dora. You know very well that the reason you
laugh is because you are jealous of her being fonder of me than of you."
"Jealous! Me jealous of her! with her sandy hair and freckled----" but
here Dora stopped.
"Well," exclaimed Margaret, who always felt a secret satisfaction at
Miss Cunningham's plain face, though she would not acknowledge it to
herself; "I thought you professed not to care about beauty--to be sure,
Lucy is not lovely."
"I do not wish to say anything more about her," said Dora; "for I
generally get angry; only I would give something if she were not coming
here on Saturday."
Margaret had not time to reply before Dora was gone, for she had lately
learned to distrust her powers of self-command, and to think silence
preferable to argument. The next few days were spent by Amy in great
enjoyment--everything went smoothly and pleasantly. Dora was thoughtful
and kind, Margaret in good humour, her uncle affectionate, and her aunt
seldom in her way; and, above all, Emily Morton was admitted to her
mamma's room, and from their long conversations, and Emily's expressions
of gratitude and interest, it was quite evident that she began to
consider Mrs Herbert in the light of a real friend. Not that the
conversations which passed between them were at all such as Amy
imagined. There was very little said about Emmerton, still less about
Mrs Harrington; but Mrs Herbert led Emily to talk of her father and
mother, her aunt, her early home, and her childish days; and gave her
some valuable advice as to the manner in which persons in her position
should conduct themselves, without obliging her to make complaints which
considering her own near connection with Mrs Harrington, would have been
awkward and wrong.
Amongst Amy's pleasures during this happy time, one of the greatest
was a visit to the rectory with Miss Morton, on the afternoon preceding
Christmas-day. Their reception was even more affectionate than usual;
and as they walked home, the distance seemed only too short, whilst she
listened to Emily's praises of the persons whom, next to her mamma, she
most loved and venerated.
"To-morrow will be Christmas-day," she said, as she lingered in Miss
Morton's room on her return; "and the next day Miss Cunningham will be
here; so I suppose we shall not be able to get a walk to the rectory
again, yet; but if you would tell me when you go out, that I may be
with you if I can, I should be so very glad. You know I like you so much
better than Miss Cunningham."
"I doubt if Miss Cunningham is a favourite with any one but your cousin
Margaret," was the reply; "but she has so much to spoil her, that I do
not think we ought to be hard upon her."
"It is so odd that you should pity her, as you always do," said Amy.
"Now I should like so much to be her,--that is, not herself, but to
be my own self, with her rank and fortune; and then I would get such a
pretty little room for you, and you should come and live with me, if you
would."
"And do nothing all day but amuse myself?"
"No, not that. I know you never would bear to do nothing; but you should
teach me music and drawing as you do now, and we might have Rose with us
too--it would be so nice."
"And it is so nice to teach you music and drawing, and to have Rose with
me, and to live in a comfortable little room. You see, I have it all."
"Ah, yes!" said Amy; "but then there are some things, now--tiresome,
dreadful things--which you never should have to bear if you lived with
me. And I would love you so dearly, so very dearly."
Miss Morton drew Amy more closely to her, and gave her one of those
kisses which she had lately begun to value far more than words.
"I should grieve very much," she said, "if I did not think you loved me
dearly now--there are but few left in the world who do."
"But you have mamma to love you besides," said Amy; "and Mrs Walton, I
am sure she must be fond of you; and sometimes, perhaps, she will ask
you to stay at the rectory; and mamma and I can go there too, and then
there will be no one to interrupt. I am so glad Miss Cunningham does not
know Mrs Walton."
"Perhaps, so am I too," said Emily, smiling; "but we must try and be
agreeable to her on Saturday."
"Ah! Saturday," repeated Amy, sighing; "all my pleasure will be over
then--real, quiet pleasure, I mean. On Monday the other people come,
and Dora says, that as I am her cousin, I shall be expected to help to
entertain them. But I never did entertain any one in my life; I don't
quite know what it means. I suppose it is talking and showing pictures;
but one can't do that all day."
"Your cousin Frank comes to-night," replied Emily, laughing; "and he is
so merry, that he will take half the trouble off your hands."
Amy's face brightened. "I forgot that; but then they are girls--boys
cannot entertain girls. I do think, if I had but a fairy's wand, I
should strike them all as they came into the house, and change them into
boys, and set them to play at football and leapfrog, and all the trouble
would be over. But I am not Dora; and if they are dull they will not
complain of me."
Susan Reynolds here interrupted them with a message from Mrs Herbert;
and Amy left Miss Morton with her mind in an uncomfortable state, having
forgotten the pleasure of her visit to the rectory, and thinking only of
the difficulties of the next week, and of all the strange faces she was
to see.