"Margaret," said Miss Cunningham, who had joined the walking party
merely from not knowing how to employ her time satisfactorily while they
were away, "I want you to talk to me a little; never mind the rest, they
will manage very well; and really what I have to say is of consequence."
"Is it, indeed?" replied Margaret, who dearly loved a little mystery;
"but you must be quick, for Dora said so much to me, before we came out,
about being attentive to them all."
"It cannot signify what Dora says; she is not to rule every one; at
least I am sure she shall not rule me. But what I wanted to say to you
was about London. I talked to papa this morning; and he says, after all,
he thinks there is a chance of your going."
"Oh no! he cannot really mean it; mamma was so very positive the other
night."
"Yes, I know that; but it is something about Mrs Herbert which makes the
difference. Your papa thinks her very ill, and he wants to have advice
for her; and if Dr Bailey does not give a good report, he will try and
persuade her to go, and then all the family are to go too."
"Well, that would be delightful; but the time would not suit you--it
will be so soon."
"But if you were to go at once, papa would not object to being there
earlier himself, for he is determined that we shall have lessons
together."
"So then it is all settled," said Margaret, her eyes sparkling with
pleasure. "To be sure, I am sorry for poor Amy, but I daresay there is
nothing very much the matter; and with a London physician Aunt Herbert
will soon get well."
"I don't think it is settled at all," answered Miss Cunningham; "for
I can tell you one thing, Margaret,--I never will go to London to be
pestered by Miss Morton; she must stay at home, or I must. If you had
only seen how she behaved this morning; she found as much fault with my
playing as if I had been a mere baby."
"But," said Margaret, looking much perplexed, "there is no help for it;
she must go with us; only it does not follow that you should learn of
her."
"It does follow, though," replied Miss Cunningham, angrily; "how can
you be so stupid, Margaret? I have told you a hundred and fifty times
before, that if papa once has a thing in his head, not all the world can
drive it out; and he said this morning that I should have lessons of her
besides the other masters; but I won't--no, that I won't."
"That is right," said Margaret; "if you make a fuss about it, you will
be sure to have your own way."
"But my way is to stay at home; I can do that if I choose, for mamma
will like it; but I will never go near London to be laughed at by rude,
vulgar people as I was this morning; so you may manage as well as you
can without me."
Miss Cunningham walked on a few steps with her head raised, rapidly
twisting the bag she held in her hand--a sure sign that she was working
herself into a passion. Margaret followed, appearing very downcast, and
feeling that Lucy's determination would prove the destruction of all her
bright castles in the air. London, with only her own family, would
be nearly as bad as Emmerton. "What do you wish me to do?" she said,
anxiously.
"Nothing," was the reply; "but make up your mind to go without me, for I
am quite determined; I can be as obstinate as papa, sometimes."
This could not be doubted; but it was no satisfaction to Margaret. "It
is very unkind of you, Lucy," she said. "You sometimes tell me you love
me; and yet you don't seem inclined to put yourself in the least out of
your way to please me. You know very well that there will be no pleasure
in London if you are away; we shall go nowhere and see nothing."
"Yes, I know it; but it can't be helped."
"That odious Emily Morton!" exclaimed Margaret; "she has been a torment
in one way or another ever since she entered the house."
"And she will never be anything else," said Miss Cunningham; "I wish you
joy of her."
"But is there nothing to be done?" again asked Margaret, whilst several
most impracticable plans passed quickly through her mind, all having for
their object the removal of this serious obstacle to her enjoyment.
"I can see nothing," was the answer; "unless you can make her go and see
her friends whilst you are absent."
"I don't think she has any friends," said Margaret, "except an aunt, who
is abroad; that is, she has never asked to go away, so I suppose she has
no place to go to."
"That makes the case a great deal worse. If she has no friends you may
depend upon it you will be burdened with her for ever."
"I believe, though," said Margaret, "there is a Mrs or Miss Somebody,
who was her governess once, who could keep her for some time; but then,
you know, it is no use talking about it; there is no chance of our being
able to do anything."
"The loss will be more yours than mine," replied Miss Cunningham; "it
will be just the same to me next year; but you will miss everything."
"Yes, everything," sighed Margaret.
"You would have gone to the opera, certainly; papa would have taken you
there, and you would have been out half the day shopping, and driving in
the parks; and you would have seen everything, and bought anything you
wished,--for, of course, your papa would have given you plenty of money
to do as you liked with; and then my aunt would have taken us to some
delightful parties. But it is not worth while to think about it now;
because if you go for your aunt's illness, and have no one to take you
about, you will be at your lessons half the day, and staying at home
with her the other half; and there will be nothing to be seen, because
you must choose such a very quiet part of the town for an invalid."
"Oh Lucy!" said Margaret, "I wish you would not talk so. It is very
unkind; for you know it will be all your doing."
"My doing! No, indeed I can't help it. Get rid of Miss Morton, and I
will go directly. And now I have said all I wished, and so I think I
shall turn back, for you told me you wanted to go to Dora; and really I
have had quite enough of those school-girls this morning."
Margaret did not press her to stay, for she was becoming very indignant;
but neither was she inclined to make any exertions to be agreeable; and,
soon persuading herself that the walking party had advanced too far for
her to overtake them, she rather sulkily turned back and followed Miss
Cunningham, keeping, however, at a convenient distance, that she might
be able to think over the conversation, and find some arguments which
should induce her to break the resolution she had formed.
Amy in the meantime, enjoyed her walk with her companions in perfect
unconsciousness that anything was near to disturb her happiness. She
laughed at Julia Stanley's strange stories, till she forgot by degrees
she had been afraid of her; and although every tree and stone were
familiar, there was a pleasure in pointing out to strangers all the
beauties of the grounds, even in their wintry dress; and good-humour
being proverbially infectious, the whole party returned home in all the
better spirits that they had been spared Miss Cunningham's sulkiness
and pride. The first news, however, that awaited Amy upon entering the
house, was the information from Susan Reynolds that Mr Harrington had
prevailed on her mamma to see Dr Bailey. Amy started and turned pale,
and anxiously asked if her mamma were very ill.
"Oh, dear! no," replied Susan, frightened in her turn; "but I thought
you would be glad to know your mamma was going to see a doctor, because
then, perhaps, she will get strong again."
"Yes; but she must be worse, I am sure," said Amy; "she never would send
for any one unless she were very ill indeed." And without waiting to
hear more, she hastily ran to Mrs Herbert's room. But her fears were
soon calmed. Mrs Herbert was looking much the same as usual, and seemed
in tolerable spirits, and quite laughed at Amy's alarm.
"I have only consented to see Dr Bailey," she said, "just to satisfy
your uncle; and it was very foolish in any one to frighten you, my dear
child, so unnecessarily; so now go to your dinner, and forget me, and be
happy."
"That would not be the way to be happy, mamma. I never enjoy anything
till I have remembered that I can tell you about it. But are you sure
you are not very ill?"
"I am quite sure that I am not feeling worse than I have done for the
last six weeks," replied Mrs Herbert; "and I suspect the sight of your
papa's handwriting would do more towards my cure than all the physicians
in the world. I hoped to have heard from him by the same mail which
brought the news of peace."
"Perhaps," said Amy, "the letter will come to-morrow."
"Oh no!" replied Mrs Herbert; "it is scarcely possible--I must be
contented to wait. But you had better go now, Amy--there is the second
dinner-bell."
Amy left the room much relieved. A natural buoyancy of disposition
seldom allowed her to be unnecessarily anxious. She was too young
to form any judgment of her own respecting the state of her mother's
health; and Mrs Herbert's assurances outweighed the passing influence of
her uncle's misgivings. She did, however, look oftener than ever to the
door during the evening, with a vague expectation that her father would
appear: and she persuaded Mr Cunningham to repeat again to her all he
had before said of the probability of his arrival at any moment; while
Mrs Herbert, also, listened eagerly, and laughed at herself for being as
fanciful as Amy, though her heart beat quickly at the slightest unusual
sound in the house.
"There is the second day happily over, Amy," said Dora, as she bade
her good night: "and now I have no more fears; we shall do very well
to-morrow. Frank has been proposing for us all to assist in ornamenting
the outer saloon for the conjurer, and Mary Warner can show us how to
make artificial flowers--so we shall have plenty of occupation; and in
the evening I really think we may make up a quadrille. You know there
are several people coming besides; and Emily Morton will play as long
as we like. The only thing that worries me is about Julia and Lucy
Cunningham; they are exactly like cat and dog."
"I daresay we can manage to keep them separate," replied Amy. "If
Margaret will take care of Miss Cunningham, there will be no difficulty
at all."
"But they will get together," said Dora. "And really, though I do
cordially dislike--not hate, remember, Amy,--though I do cordially
dislike Lucy Cunningham, yet I must say Julia behaves infamously;
she has been snapping at her the whole evening; and, moreover, almost
laughed at Mr Cunningham to her face."
"Oh no!" exclaimed Amy, "she could not do that; it would be so
dreadfully unfeeling."
"But she could, though; she could do that or anything else that came to
her head. You know she sets up for being clever, and thinks she may have
everything her own way. I wish you would talk to her, Amy."
"Me!" repeated Amy, in a tone of the utmost surprise; "you are laughing
at me, Dora."
"No, indeed, I never was more in earnest in my life. I heard her say
to-day she thought you knew more of what was right than any one else in
the house, and had more courage too."
Amy was silent from astonishment.
"It is your quiet way, Amy, which strikes her so, I am sure," continued
Dora; "you never make a fuss about being good-natured, and yet you
always do everything for everybody; and I am sure they must all see
it, and love it too--at least if they are like me. There is always a
difficulty when any one else is goodnatured, they seem to have achieved
something."
"You know, Dora," replied Amy, gravely, "that I always ask you not to
say such things to me, but you will forget. I don't mean that I don't
like it, because I do very much; but mamma would rather I should not
hear them, and so it vexes me."
"Vex you!" exclaimed Dora, earnestly; "if you knew half I would do
to please you, Amy, you would not talk of my vexing you, at least not
willingly; I never could have believed, before I came to Emmerton, how
painful I should find it to be unkind to any one; but now I can never
forgive myself when I have been cross to you."
The tears rose to Amy's eyes as she wished her cousin good night and
hastened away; but the expression of Dora's affection amply rewarded her
for any impatience she had repressed, or self-denial she had practised.