When Amy met her new acquaintance the next morning, after having thought
them over attentively while she was dressing, she had quite decided on
the one she liked best. Julia Stanley had at first amused her so much,
and was so very lively and good-tempered, that it seemed impossible not
to give the preference to her; but even then there was something in her
quick manner and hasty expressions which rather annoyed Amy's feelings,
when contrasted with Miss Morton's gentleness and refinement; and in the
course of the evening, as she observed her more narrowly, her conduct to
Miss Cunningham had struck her as peculiarly disagreeable. It required
but very little time to perceive Miss Cunningham's deficiencies; and
Julia, who was remarkably quick and clever, had not been in her company
for half an hour before she had discovered them; and her great amusement
was to turn everything she said into ridicule. For the first few minutes
Amy had been amused; but afterwards an endeavour of Emily Morton's to
check some satirical observations, had shown her that she was wrong; and
a sense of politeness soon made her aware that Julia allowed cleverness
and high spirits to carry her beyond the bounds of propriety. When Dora
gave Miss Cunningham what Frank would have called "a set down," it was
done in a lady-like way, as far as manner was concerned. She delighted
in saying the most pointed things in the most pointed tone, yet she
would on no account have neglected the little attentions which Miss
Cunningham's position demanded; but Julia Stanley, feeling herself
infinitely superior to Lord Rochford's daughter in intellect and
accomplishments, considered that she was, on this account, freed from
any demands upon her politeness; and had made no scruple of pushing into
a room before her, interrupting her when speaking, and endeavouring
to show that she did not consider her as entitled to any respect or
attention. All this was peculiarly disagreeable to Amy, who, having
always lived with persons who were polite upon Christian principles,
could not in the least comprehend the rudeness of self-conceit; and if
Julia had offended her in one way, her sister's manner had been equally
unpleasant in another. She had been Miss Cunningham's shadow and echo;
she had followed her from place to place, admiring her dress and her
ornaments, and begging her to describe Rochford Park, and hinting how
much she should like to see it; and once or twice she had turned to Amy
to extort her admiration also, when sincerity had obliged her entirely
to differ.
A little of the same flattery had also been bestowed upon Dora, but
it was received so coolly, that there was no temptation to repeat it
a second time; for Dora, though she loved praise and flattery, still
required it to be administered delicately, through the medium of a
third person; and fancied herself insensible to it, because she never
encouraged any one to tell her, in direct terms, that she was beautiful
and clever. Mary Warner's manner resembled neither; it was not quite so
polished as Amy would have liked, but it was simple and straightforward.
She had never seen any place so beautiful as Emmerton, and she said so
plainly; but she also said that she thought there were too many trees
about it, and she should have preferred the house being built higher. It
was the same with everything else--she expressed her opinion when asked
without reserve; but she did not, like Julia, intrude disagreeable
observations uncalled for, nor, like Hester, pretend to see beauties
where there was nothing to admire. The uprightness of her father's
character seemed to have descended to her; and Amy willingly forgave
any little awkwardness of manner when she saw Mary's firmness and
simplicity; while even Dora was rather won by the unconcern with which
she listened to Miss Cunningham's impertinences, and the openness
with which she acknowledged the inferiority of her own home to
Emmerton--apparently thinking it a matter of indifference whether she
lived in a large house or a small one. It was a point of character which
Dora could appreciate and admire, though it was not one she thought it
necessary to imitate. But Miss Cunningham felt very differently; and her
good-humour was not at all increased by the failure of her endeavours to
inspire both Julia and Mary with awe and admiration; and to complete
her discomfort, when breakfast was over, Miss Morton gently proposed
her practising for half-an-hour; adding that Lord Rochford had
again mentioned the subject, and begged that she would assist her in
perfecting the piece she had been trying, so that it might be played in
the evening. Miss Cunningham did not speak, but she looked her thoughts,
and yet she did not venture to rebel; for Lord Rochford, with all his
fondness, had some peculiarities; and the arrangement of his daughter's
studies was his peculiar hobby. It seemed, however, as if she had
secretly resolved that the pleasures of a London journey should not be
marred by any progress she might make under Miss Morton's tuition; and
bad as her performance had been before, it was much worse this morning.
Miss Morton, with unwearied patience, corrected her false notes, asked
her to repeat the difficult passages, and showed her again and again how
they were to be played; but the long, stiff fingers appeared to possess
some innate spirit of obstinacy; they would move exactly in the way in
which they should not have moved; they would play sharps for flats, and
turn crotchets into quavers, and minims into crotchets; until Amy,
who, with the exception of Julia Stanley, was the only person present
besides, wondered how it was possible for Miss Morton to persevere,
and Julia, after a pretended attempt to conceal her amusement, laughed
aloud. Miss Cunningham heard the laugh, and felt it keenly, and
forgetting everything but her annoyance, she jumped up from her seat,
closed the book, and without speaking, rushed out of the room.
"Well! that is delightful," exclaimed Julia; "I would have laughed
before, if I had thought it would bring matters to a conclusion."
Amy wished to say something, but she felt painfully shy, for she had
begun to dread Julia's satire; and, happily for her, Emily Morton spoke
instead.
"I should be very sorry," she said, "to believe you in earnest, you
would hardly acknowledge so openly that you took pleasure in hurting the
feelings of another."
"Only she took pleasure in hurting my ears," replied Julia.
"Not intentionally," said Miss Morton; "but I am sure you cannot really
mean what you say; you must be sorry for having given pain."
"Miss Cunningham is so very silly," persisted Julia, who was never
willing to confess herself in the wrong; "it really is impossible to
help laughing at her. You know there can be no harm in being amused at
people's folly."
"I cannot agree with you at all," said Emily; "and as to Miss
Cunningham's sense, it is not her own choice to be less clever than
others."
"To be sure not," exclaimed Julia, pertly; "who would be stupid if
they could help it? But it does not make people at all the less absurd,
because it is not their own fault."
"There again I must differ from you," replied Emily. "It makes all
the difference possible. Self-conceit, and vanity, and pride may
be ridiculous, but not mere deficiency of understanding; it is the
appointment of God, just as much as poverty or illness may be; and I
think, from something I heard you say yesterday, you would not be at all
inclined to laugh at any one who had less money than yourself."
"Oh no! certainly not," said Julia; "but cleverness is quite a different
thing. I do so like bright, clever people; and I do so delight in
laughing at stupid ones. All the world thinks more of cleverness than of
anything else."
"But it does not follow that all the world are right," replied Emily.
"But a great many strict people that I know think so," said Julia. "I
very often hear some friends of ours say--such a person is not quite
right, but then he is so clever; and it does make up for a great many
things; you must own that."
"Indeed I cannot own it," replied Emily: "I do not see that it makes up
for anything."
"But don't you like it?" asked Julia, in a tone of great surprise.
"Yes, very much--just as I like to see a pretty face, or to listen to
beautiful music; but I do not esteem it. I mean," she added, observing
that Julia continued silent from astonishment, "that I do not think
it forms part of a person's character, any more than his houses or his
clothes do."
"But have you no value at all for it?" said Julia,
"Yes," replied Emily; "and so I have for riches--both may be made the
instruments of good; but I do not value a person who is rich, because
he is rich--neither do I value a person who is clever, because he is
clever. If the rich man turns his riches to good account, I value him
for his generosity and self-denial; and if the clever man uses his
talents well, I value him because I see he is trying to serve God; but
I should have just as much esteem for a poor man, or a man with inferior
understanding, if they were equally good."
"But," said Julia, "all the celebrated people one reads of were not
good, and yet there is just as much fuss made about them now as if they
were angels--every one talks of them and praises them."
"Yes," replied Miss Morton, gravely, and then paused as if lost in her
own thoughts.
"What were you going to say?" asked Amy.
"I did not like to say what was in my mind," replied Emily; "it is so
very painful; but, you know, the opinions of men can be nothing when a
person is dead."
Julia seemed struck with the observation, but did not speak, for she
began to feel ashamed, and was endeavouring to summon courage to confess
herself in the wrong. "I wish you would go on talking," she said, after
the silence had continued for several minutes; "but then you think me so
rude that perhaps you will not take the trouble."
"It is not what I think, but what Miss Cunningham thinks, which is of
importance," replied Miss Morton; "you have not been rude to me."
"Well! I was not quite polite perhaps, only really I could not help it.
Shall I beg her pardon?"
"No!" exclaimed Emily, "pray do not do that; it would only make matters
worse, because you must own then that you thought her ridiculous."
"But what shall I do?" asked Julia.
"Will you let me tell you without thinking I am interfering?" said
Emily.
"Oh yes, pray do. You know, at school every one speaks their mind, so I
am quite accustomed to it."
"Well, then! I should recommend you to begin by keeping a strict guard
over yourself for the rest of the day, that you may not be guilty of the
same fault again, and not to force yourself upon Miss Cunningham, but
to show her quietly a few little attentions; and if she is proud and
annoyed, to try and feel that it is only what you have brought upon
yourself, and therefore not to be angry with her."
"But that is not the least in my way," said Julia; "I could go just at
this minute and say I am sorry, because I am in the humour; and I should
be rather glad to make it up and be friends again, though she is so
silly; but as for going on all day paying little attentions to a person
who has not a single idea in her head, is what I never did and never can
do."
"Never will, you mean," replied Miss Morton. "We often say _can_, when
we ought to say _will_."
"Well! can or will," exclaimed Julia; "it is all the same. Only if I
may beg Miss Cunningham's pardon now, I don't care; but if I must not do
that, she must take her chance; and if she makes herself ridiculous, I
must laugh at her."
"Because you think yourself cleverer," said Miss Morton; "is not that
the reason?"
Julia blushed deeply. She was not accustomed to have her self-conceit
brought before her so plainly, and yet she was too candid not to see the
truth of what was said.
"I do not mean to pain you," continued Miss Morton, very kindly.
"Perhaps it is not my place to interfere; but you promised not to be
annoyed; and you must forgive me if I remind you, that in the sight of
God the most trifling act of self-denial from a really high motive--I
mean, of course, from a wish to please Him--is infinitely more valuable
than the cleverest thing that has ever been said or done since the world
was made."
Still Julia was silent--her cleverness did not at that moment come to
her aid; and after gazing attentively upon the fire, playing with the
ornaments on the mantelpiece, and turning over the leaves of one or two
books, she found herself so very uncomfortable, that, hastily exclaiming
she must go and look for her sister, she left Amy and Miss Morton alone.
"Are you vexed?" asked Amy, as soon as the door was closed. "You look
so."
"I am rather," said Miss Morton, "for I am half afraid I have done more
harm than good; and I am hurt especially about Miss Cunningham, because
I know it was very disagreeable to her to have any lesson at all, and
such a one as this will make her dislike it more than ever."
"But not you," observed Amy; "she cannot blame you for another person's
rudeness."
"Only it is difficult," said Miss Morton, "to feel kindly towards those
who have been the cause of placing us in awkward situations; and I do
not suspect I have ever been a favourite with Miss Cunningham."
"I wish Miss Stanley had kept to her own room this morning," said Amy.
"I am afraid she will spoil our pleasure all day."
"Oh no! she will soon forget it all; and I do not think she will take
Miss Cunningham's anger much to heart; it will rather amuse her than
otherwise."
"I should not like her to be amused at me," said Amy; "she frightens
me dreadfully. I felt just now as if I could not have ventured to speak
before her."
"I must give you a lecture too," said Emily, smiling. "Why should you be
afraid of people merely because they are clever, and say sharp things?
It is making cleverness of as much consequence as Miss Stanley does;
besides being a dangerous feeling, and one which often prevents us from
doing our duty."
"Ah! but," said Amy, "I cannot feel quite as you do. I always have
thought a great deal about it, and longed to be very clever myself, and
for every one to admire me, and look up to me."
"And I have done the same," said Emily. "I will not say that I never do
so now; but it is very contrary to what the Bible commands."
"Do you really think so?" inquired Amy, looking much distressed. "Yet it
seems so natural; and cleverness is different from riches, or rank, or
anything of that kind."
"Can you recollect any part of the Bible in which it is said that God
takes pleasure in it?" asked Emily.
"There is a great deal about wisdom in the Book of Proverbs," answered
Amy; "and it is said to be better than anything else."
"Yes," replied Emily; "but then, you know, we ought to compare different
parts of the Bible together, if we wish to know its real meaning. And
there is a verse at the end of a very beautiful chapter in the Book of
Job, which tells us what wisdom really is. Perhaps you may remember it.
It says, 'The fear of the Lord, that is wisdom; and to depart from evil
is understanding.' Now, a poor man, who cannot even read, may have just
as much of this wisdom as the most learned man that ever lived."
"Then," said Amy, "there is no use in trying to learn things."
"Indeed," replied Miss Morton, "there is. It is our duty to improve the
understanding God has given us to the utmost, by exercising it in every
right way. Our Saviour's parable of the talents gives a most impressive
warning to us on this point, though talents there mean likewise
advantages of every kind; and besides, the more we know, the more we are
able to teach others."
Amy still looked unconvinced, and Emily continued, "You will see what
I mean, if you will think of being clever in the same way as you do of
being rich. We all know that it is the way of the world to value people
for their money, but common sense tells us that it is very absurd;
and yet no one would deny that riches may be made of great use to our
fellow-creatures, though they do not make us in the smallest degree
more acceptable in the eye of God. I wish I could explain myself more
clearly. Perhaps, if I were very clever, I might be able to do it; and
then, you see, my knowledge would be of use to you, though it would not
make me either better or worse in myself."
"I think that is clever," said Amy, laughing; "for I can understand you
much better now, though I am afraid I shall never learn to think rightly
about everything."
"You must not say that," said Emily. "You know you are not very old yet;
and if we thought about everything rightly at the beginning of our life,
it would not be necessary for us to have so many years to learn in. As
long as we are not standing still, we may be tolerably happy, though we
do happen to blunder in the dark way."
"I think I am always blundering," said Amy; "at least I know I am always
wishing for something which mamma and you tell me I ought not to
wish for. But I think it is because I hear Dora and Margaret and Miss
Cunningham talking so much about such things. You know Dora makes a
great deal of being clever, and Miss Cunningham is always speaking of
rank and riches, and Margaret is so pleased to be pretty. I know it is
really all nothing; but when I hear them I cannot help longing for it
all, and thinking that it must be of consequence."
"Yes," said Miss Morton, "it is very natural. This place is to you just
what the world is to grown-up people."
"I remember," replied Amy, "thinking something just like that the very
first night my cousins came; but I did not imagine," she added, "that
there would be any one in my world like you."
Miss Morton could have answered, with truth, that she had never expected
to meet with any one like Amy at Emmerton; but at that moment Dora and
the rest of the party entered, and Miss Cunningham with them.
"Must you go?" whispered Amy, as Miss Morton prepared to leave the room.
Emily replied that she had letters to write, which would keep her
engaged the whole morning; and Amy scarcely wished her to remain, when
she observed the expression of Miss Cunningham's face, and saw that her
good-humour was by no means restored.
It was not indeed a very easy task at any time; and Julia Stanley seemed
resolved that this morning it should be more difficult than ever.
She had given up the idea of confessing her fault, and trying to make
amends, because she could not have her own way as to the manner in which
it should be done, and had become angry with herself, and, as a natural
consequence, angry with every one else. There was, in fact, a regular
feud between her and Miss Cunningham; and Dora soon saw that to preserve
peace would be a difficult matter. Julia's manner was more sharp and
abrupt than ever, as she took every opportunity of repeating Miss
Cunningham's words, and turning them into ridicule; while Miss
Cunningham, on her part, endeavoured to make sneers and scornful looks
as effective as words. Amy was very uncomfortable, and once or twice
tried to divert their attention by talking to the younger children,
and making them bring their dolls and playthings to the table where the
elder girls were working. But her efforts were in vain; and, as a last
hope, she ventured to suggest to Dora, that perhaps it might be pleasant
if some one were to read out. The idea was the greatest possible relief
to poor Dora, for all her antipathy to strange school-girls, and three
days' visits, was returning in full force; and having asked, as a
matter of form, whether any one would dislike it, she quickly produced
half-a-dozen volumes to choose from.
The choice being settled, the next question to be decided was, who
should read. There was a general burst of excuses as the inquiry
was made. Every one would read, only there was a piece of work to be
finished, or a drawing to be begun, or some beads to be threaded, or
they were so soon tired that it was quite useless to begin, or they were
suffering from a cold and hoarseness, which would make it disagreeable
for the rest to listen. Dora put down the book on the table, considering
it, as a matter of course, that she should not be obliged to do it. She
had seldom been called on to give up her own will for others, but had
always ordered and managed, and told others their duty; and when this
was done, her part was considered finished. So, in the present instance,
she had decided it would be a good thing to read, and had chosen the
book, and supposed that some one would easily be found willing to amuse
the rest. But Dora was mistaken.
The only person who had not excused herself was the only one whose
excuse would have been really a good one. Poor Amy's heart beat fast as
she thought that it might fall to her lot to read. She had never read
aloud to any one but her mamma; and she was the youngest of the party;
and, moreover, she knew that in the book which had been fixed on
there were some long French quotations, which must be pronounced or
translated, either alternative being equally disagreeable. "I wish I
could read," she whispered to Margaret, who was sitting next her; "but I
am so frightened."
"Oh! it does not signify," answered Margaret, aloud; "there is no
occasion for us to trouble ourselves--Emily Morton will come directly; I
have known her go on for hours when mamma has been ill."
"Yes," said Dora, feeling slightly uncomfortable as she spoke, "she is
much more used to it than we are. Rose, go and tell Emily Morton that
we should be very much obliged if she could read out to us this morning
whilst we are working."
The message was more civil than it would have been some months before;
and Dora's conscience was rather relieved; but to Amy it seemed only
selfish and thoughtless.
"Miss Morton told me she had letters to write, Dora," she said, timidly.
"Don't you think reading to us would be an interruption to her?"
"Not more than giving us our usual lessons," observed Margaret; "it is
only occupying the same time in a different way."
"But," replied Amy, "indeed I think the letters are of consequence; and
the post goes out so early."
"Well, then, Amy," said Dora, rather sharply, "if you will insist upon
our not sending for Emily, you must read yourself, for you are the only
one of us all who is not busy."
Amy was busy finishing a purse to be given to Mrs Walton on her
birthday; but anything was better than to allow Miss Morton's time to
be intruded on; and although the slight trembling of her hand, and the
bright crimson spot on her cheek, showed the greatness of the effort,
she did manage to begin, and even to get through the first long French
sentence without breaking down. Dora listened to the words, but they
made very little impression; she was thinking all the time of her own
selfishness, and how easy it was to make good resolutions, and how very
difficult to keep them. It was only on that very day that she had been
reflecting on her conduct to Miss Morton, and had determined to be more
thoughtful for her comfort; and now, on the first temptation, she had
weakly given way, and, but for Amy, would have sacrificed Miss Morton's
whole morning merely to gratify her own fancy for work. Happily, Dora's
was not a mind to be contented with the bare acknowledgment of having
been wrong; it was too active and energetic to rest in fruitless wishes
for amendment; and now, finding that Amy's voice was becoming weak, and
that she read with difficulty, she threw down her work just as she was
about to put the finishing stroke to it, and offered to read instead.
It was but a trifling action, but it made Dora feel happier than she had
been before; it proved to herself that she was in earnest; and when she
had made one endeavour it was much easier to make another. Her manner
grew softer, her thoughtfulness for others increased; and before the
morning was over, she had even taken Miss Cunningham's part against
Julia Stanley, when she had made an observation on the book they were
reading, and had given up her seat near the fire, fearing she might be
cold. The book was so interesting, and the oriel-room so comfortable,
that no one thought of the time or the weather; and when Mrs Harrington
made her appearance with Mrs Danvers, and begged them all to go out
before dinner that they might not lose the best part of the day, there
was a slight murmur of disapprobation. Mrs Danvers sympathised, and
pitied, and declared the room looked so warm and cheerful, it was almost
impossible to leave it; now she had once found her way there, she should
be a frequent visitor.
"I always think young people manage best when left to themselves," said
Mrs Harrington. "Dora, you must be quick, and go out; and as many of
your young friends as choose to go with you had better get ready also."
The sending them out did not seem like leaving them to themselves; but
Mrs Harrington's manner prevented almost every one from differing from
her; and Mrs Danvers, who was rather young, and soon awed, said nothing,
but began fondling her little girls, and proposing to stay and play with
them if they liked it better than going for a walk; whilst Dora, who
knew the exact meaning of every word and tone of her mother's, hastily
put up her work, and prepared to obey.