Saturday came, and with it the expected guests; and at a very awkward
hour, just about twelve o'clock, when there was a long afternoon before
them, with nothing to be done. Amy had made up her mind that they could
not possibly arrive before four or five. It was some distance from
Rochford Park to Emmerton; and she was sure there must be a great deal
to do before they set off, and, in consequence, she had calculated upon
seeing very little of either Mr or Miss Cunningham on that day. Her
dismay, therefore, was extreme, as she watched from the gallery window,
and saw the carriage slowly driving down the avenue. She was not,
however, required to entertain them, for it was her duty to attend upon
her mamma; and in the afternoon there was an engagement to walk with
Miss Morton and Rose to Stephen's cottage, to inquire how he was getting
on after his attack of gout, and carry him a new flannel-waistcoat,
which Rose had taken great delight in helping to make. There was,
therefore, no fear, she thought, of seeing much of Miss Cunningham,
except at dinner-time; and as for her brother, he would probably not
come in the way at all. And having thus relieved her mind, Amy returned
to her mamma's room, delighting more than ever in its quietness and
privacy.
Mrs Herbert was still very unwell; she had passed a sleepless, anxious
night, at one moment anticipating Colonel Herbert's return with the
utmost confidence, and the next picturing to herself all the bitterness
of disappointment; but she made many efforts against this distrust, and
tried to feel, what she knew to be true, that whatever might happen, it
would be for her good, and that she should be supported under it.
Miss Cunningham appeared in the schoolroom in all the splendour of her
new winter dress, made after the last Parisian fashion, and, for the
first time, regretted that Amy was not present to be overpowered by
such magnificence. Dora was the only person there, and it was useless
attempting to make an impression upon her; she had no eyes for anything
belonging to Miss Cunningham; and her arrival at such an early hour was
so unexpected and disagreeable, that it required some effort to be civil
to her. "We did not expect you till dinner-time," she said, after the
first greeting was over, in a tone which plainly meant, "and we did not
want you."
"Oh!" replied Miss Cunningham, "papa had some business in the
neighbourhood, and so he insisted upon our setting off at eleven; and a
great bore it was. I am sure Warren must have spoiled half my dresses by
packing them in such a hurry. My new-worked muslin, I suspect, will be
quite unwearable, and the French gray silk not much better; and as for
the white silk, and the pink crape, and my morning dresses, I am quite
unhappy about them. The only two which I feel at all sure of are the
figured lilac satinet, and the pale green poplin--those I saw her put in
myself."
The tone of pretended indifference in which this was spoken irritated
Dora almost beyond endurance; perhaps the more so, because she was
sensible of having been at times guilty of the same folly. "I have
no doubt the dresses will do very well," she answered. "A lady's-maid
always understands how to pack; and if they should be injured, it will
not signify, as far as the appearance goes, for there is no one coming
here who will take the smallest notice of what you have on."
Miss Cunningham looked and felt extremely mortified, and evidently
showed it by the tone in which she said, "I thought you were going to
have a large party, and a dance, and all sorts of things."
"What a strange idea!" exclaimed Dora. "What should we have a dance
for?"
"I thought everybody had dances when they asked their friends at
Christmas," said Miss Cunningham; "that is to say, we have been
accustomed to it when we have visited people of our own rank in the
county; but I suppose it is not the custom amongst common people."
"Perhaps not," replied Dora. "Of course, we can tell nothing about them;
but whether it is the custom or not, it would make no difference to us.
Papa and mamma generally do as they choose, without caring about the
rest of the world."
"And will there be nobody, then?" asked Miss Cunningham, with a sudden
pang, as she thought of the green poplin, and the white silk, and the
pink crape, wasting their splendour upon Mr and Mrs Harrington.
"Just a few people," was the reply; "the young Dornfords, and their
papa, and one or two others."
"What, boys! school-boys!" exclaimed Miss Cunningham, in horror; and
before Dora could answer, Margaret came into the room in particularly
good spirits, and with a manner which formed a singular contrast to her
sister's. The embraces were so fervent, the expressions of affection so
warm, that a common observer might have supposed, with reason, that this
was the first meeting after an absence of several years, between very
dear friends, while Dora looked on with a curling lip, and a contracted
brow, and a secret rejoicing that she was not in Margaret's place.
"When you have done kissing, Margaret," she said, at length, "perhaps
you will just listen to me. Amy wishes to dine to-day at half-past one;
and mamma has no objection, and so it is to be."
"Really, Dora," replied Margaret, "it is very rude to attend to Amy's
wishes instead of Lucy's. I always thought relations were to be thought
of last."
"Amy wishes to dine at half-past one; and mamma has no objection, and
so it is to be," repeated Dora, with a manner which she intended to be
dignified, though it was only very cross.
"Don't mind her," half whispered Margaret to Miss Cunningham; "it is
only her foolish way; we need not dine earlier than we choose for Amy.
It really is too absurd to think of giving up to her, and I shall speak
to mamma about it."
Dora pretended not to hear this speech, and left the room satisfied with
having exhibited her authority and carelessness of Miss Cunningham's
feelings, and dissatisfied, in her secret heart, by the consciousness
of having been extremely unamiable. She met Amy on the stairs; and the
sight of her gay, innocent face, which seemed quite a reproach, had
seldom been so unwelcome; but it was impossible to vent any anger upon
her, and hastily passing, Dora shut herself up in her own room; while
Amy, who had lately been quite unused to such a manner from her cousin,
could only wonder in silence what had happened to discompose her.
Miss Cunningham, in the meantime, relieved from Dora's presence, felt
no scruple in giving way to her expressions of dislike to Amy; and,
with great earnestness, endeavoured to inspire Margaret with similar
feelings. It was so strange, so unusual--such a very great liberty,
for a cousin to think of choosing what time every one else should dine;
really, she could not have imagined that Mrs Harrington would allow it;
but she had always observed that Amy Herbert was very much at her ease;
in a little time she would have everything her own way. "Of course, I
don't mean to speak against her," she continued; "only I know a family
just like yours, Margaret, where there was a cousin brought up, and at
last her uncle and aunt really became fonder of her than they were of
their own children."
"There is no fear of that with mamma," replied Margaret; "I am sure she
does not care a straw for Amy. Papa is different. I do think, sometimes,
he takes a good deal of notice of her; but then, you know, she is not
brought up with us; she is only here on a visit."
"That does not make any difference; I am quite sure, if you do not take
care she will stand in your way in everything. Papa said, the other
day, that he thought Mrs Harrington would have consented to our going to
London, only she remembered your cousin; and then she declared, as she
should feel obliged to take her, the plan would not do."
Margaret's vexation was very great, yet she could not entirely enter
into her companion's antipathy; she had felt too much the charm of Amy's
sweet temper and obliging disposition to be able cordially to abuse her.
But Miss Cunningham loved the sound of her own voice too well to require
an answer; and the expression of her own likings and dislikings was all
that was important to her. "George provokes me so," she said, "he does
nothing, now, but lecture me from morning till night, and wish I was
like her. Really, I think he might find some one my own equal in rank
for me to imitate, if he is so dissatisfied. I told him, as we were
coming here, that if he said anything about her being with us in London,
I would not go till next year; and I may have quite my own way about it.
So I have put a stop to that."
Margaret was annoyed, though she did not like to appear so. Miss
Cunningham's superior age and rank kept her always considerably in awe;
but she was painfully struck by the want of ladylike feeling, which had
induced her friend to speak in such terms of so near a relation.
Miss Cunningham, however, could never discover when she had said or done
anything amiss. From her childhood her perception on such subjects
had been singularly obtuse; and nothing in her education had served to
quicken her knowledge of character; she went on, therefore, in the
same tone, with the full impression that all her observations must be
agreeable. "Dora tells me that there is no one invited here but a parcel
of school-boys and girls; and really, I must say, it was hardly worth
while to come six miles this cold weather merely for them--of course, I
thought there was to be a dance."
Margaret endeavoured to explain her sister's statement. There were to
be some boys, certainly, as companions for Frank--but there were to
be other people besides; and, indeed, her mamma had sent out some more
notes only this morning, because Dora said that she would rather have a
great many to entertain than a few.
"Then there will be a dance," said Miss Cunningham. "How are you to
amuse yourselves else?"
"It would be very nice," replied Margaret; "but I don't quite think papa
and mamma have any notion of it. You know Christmas is not now what it
was last year, when Edward was alive."
"Oh yes; to be sure--I know all that. Of course, you were all very
miserable, and cried a great deal at the time. I remember I was
dreadfully wretched when my little brother William died. Indeed, mamma
said she never knew any one with such strong feelings in her life. But,
then, it is all past now; and it is right to be cheerful, and try and
forget it."
"I wish you would ask mamma," said Margaret, "She would listen to you,
at any rate; and she could not be angry at any proposal from you. It
certainly would be a good way of amusing them."
"I don't mind, in the least, asking," answered Miss Cunningham. "I never
did mind it, from a child. Mamma says it surprises her to see how little
of the stupid shyness I have, which makes other girls so disagreeable.
Let me see,--I shall wear my white silk, I think; there is a blonde fall
to go with it, which makes it look beautiful. That or the pink crape.
Pink suits my complexion best; but then it is not quite so dressy. There
is a picture of some great lady in the saloon at Rochford, which papa
says is just like me in my pink crape. Mary Queen of Scots, I think it
is, or Queen Elizabeth--I don't know which; only it is a queen of some
kind. What shall you wear?"
"Oh!" said Margaret, sadly, "you know we are not yet out of mourning,
so we can have nothing but white; only I wish mamma would give us new
dresses."
"Of course she will. You can't possibly have a dance without a new
dress; nobody ever heard of such a thing. My white silk is quite new;
and the pink crape I only put on one evening for papa to see. We shall
dance, I suppose, in the hall. And how many persons do you think there
will be?"
Margaret had some difficulty in following the swiftness of her
companion's imagination. It was very delightful to picture the hall,
brilliantly lighted up and filled with company, and herself exciting
every one's admiration by the side of her plain friends But then came
another idea, not quite so agreeable,--Mrs Harrington's stern features
and look of surprise, when the plan should be first proposed.
Margaret trembled as she thought of it; and, but for Miss Cunningham's
unshrinking courage, the wish for the ball would soon have passed away.
When a fancy, however, takes possession of a weak, selfish mind, there
is but little room left for any other consideration. Miss Cunningham's
mind was of this description; it was seldom capable of retaining
more than one idea at a time, and whatever that might be, it was
all-engrossing. A little while ago, the journey to London had occupied
every thought; now, her only wish was, that a dance should be given at
Emmerton; and she was so firmly resolved that it must take place, that
every obstacle, every notion of propriety, sank into nothing.
Margaret listened, and wondered, and wished, and at last ended in
agreeing that a dance was quite necessary for their happiness, and for
the happiness of each of the other members of the family, Mrs Harrington
included; and that the only way to manage it was for Miss Cunningham to
talk to her mamma about it that very day.
The first thing that startled Margaret from her new dream of enjoyment
was Dora's look of astonishment when informed at dinner of their
intentions. "Do you really mean," she said, turning to Miss Cunningham,
"that you are going to tell mamma we ought to have a dance this
Christmas?"
"Yes," was the reply. "I half thought of talking to papa about it first;
but he might make some objection; and George might say no--so it is best
to go at once to Mrs Harrington."
"And do you recommend Miss Cunningham to do it?" asked Dora, looking at
her sister.
"Yes, why should I not?" said Margaret, half frightened. "Do you think
mamma will be angry?"
"Try, that is all," replied Dora.
"Perhaps," said Miss Morton, "Miss Cunningham is not quite aware of the
painful circumstances which might make Mrs Harrington unwilling, at this
time, to give so large a party."
Miss Cunningham looked, in answer, astonished at hearing such an
observation from Emily Morton in her presence. She did not, however,
think the remark worthy of reply in words, and continued her account
of what she thought ought to be done, and then again repeated her
intentions with regard to her dress, ending by saying to Amy, "I suppose
you have a white muslin; that will be well enough, as you are such a
child."
Dora's amazement at Miss Cunningham's boldness was so great that she
made no attempt to prevent her following her own inclinations; besides,
she rather enjoyed the thought of her being put down by Mrs Harrington,
and therefore ate her dinner in dignified silence; whilst Amy, whose
astonishment was not less than her cousin's, felt she had no right to
interfere, though she did hope something would be said to induce Miss
Cunningham to refrain from taking so great a liberty.
But, perhaps, Margaret was the person who felt most uncomfortable. At
first the notion of a dance had been so agreeable that every objection
was overlooked; but Dora's manner had recalled her to herself, and she
began heartily to wish that the thing had never been mentioned; for if
her mamma were spoken to, her name was sure to be brought forward; and
when dinner was over, she endeavoured most anxiously to inspire
her friend with a little awe, by hinting at her own fears, and Mrs
Harrington's particularities. But she hinted in vain. Nothing but the
plainest meaning in the plainest language could ever be understood by
Miss Cunningham; and Margaret was at last obliged to beg that she would
speak to her papa, and get the plan suggested by him.
Dora was in the room whilst this was passing, and still secretly desired
that the original intention might be persisted in; and at first there
appeared every probability of it; for Miss Cunningham stared, pouted,
and seemed quite puzzled at the idea that anything she could say could
be taken amiss. However, if Margaret were really silly enough to be
afraid about such a trifle, she would do as she wished, but merely
to please her; she only rejoiced that she was not kept in such
leading-strings herself.
"It would be a good thing if you were," muttered Dora, as she sat by the
window, looking with a careless eye upon the quiet, wintry beauty of the
garden.
It would have appeared lovely and peaceful had the tone of her mind been
the same; but the contrast was too great to please her. The bright sky
brought no cheerfulness to a heart discontented with itself; it only
caused a sigh for the vanished pleasures of the summer; and the white
frost, which still hung on the evergreens, called forth nothing but
an exclamation against the miserable cold weather, and the desolation,
wretchedness, and dulness of everything and everybody in the month of
December. Amy was gone for her walk with Miss Morton; Frank had set out
for a ramble with his papa; they were stupid and disagreeable, and to be
pardoned for leaving her behind, after she had refused the entreaties
of both to go with them, only when they were compared with Margaret and
Miss Cunningham, who was at that moment more unendurable than ever.
She really could not remain any longer listening to her never-ending
chattering; and in the most desperate fit of ill-humour, with which
she had been afflicted for weeks, Dora put on her bonnet and cloak,
and sallied forth for a solitary walk. In which direction to go she was
undecided; the shrubbery was dull, the hill was cold, the park not
fit for a winter's walk, and the terrace far too near the house to be
agreeable; and, as a last resource, she determined on finding her way
to Stephen's cottage, in the hope of meeting Amy, though she had never
before taken the trouble to visit it.
The path led along the side of the hill, which was covered by the
Emmerton plantations, and then emerged into some open fields, though
one of which flowed the deep, rapid stream, which at Emmerton almost
expanded into a lake. A wooden bridge across the water, and a narrow
lane, then led to Stephen's cottage, which stood alone in its small,
neat garden, showing, even in winter, symptoms of the care and taste
bestowed upon it. The beauty of the walk was, however, wholly lost upon
Dora; she only felt that it was very cold, and would have returned home
could anything have been found within doors at all more alluring than
the severity of the weather without. The sound of approaching voices
first roused her from her discontented reverie; and, as she looked
hastily round, she perceived her papa and Frank coming down the hill.
Mr Harrington expressed surprise at finding her alone so far from the
house, and objected to her proceeding farther, laying some blame on
Miss Morton for not having accompanied her. Dora's ill-humour did not
interfere with her usual quick sense of justice; and lately she had
become peculiarly sensible to the habit which prevailed at Emmerton, of
making Miss Morton bear the burden of other people's faults; perhaps,
too, some compunction for having occasionally been guilty of the same
offence, though not in an equal degree, made her now very desirous of
explaining the truth. Mr Harrington was easily satisfied; he had
rather an interest in Miss Morton; she was so quiet and unobtrusive and
lady-like, and never troubled him with complaints; but he insisted upon
Frank's accompanying his sister, if she still wished to go farther; and
though Dora declared there was no doubt of meeting Miss Morton in a
few minutes, he would not hear of her being left alone--and Frank, much
against his inclination, was obliged to remain.