Dora was quite satisfied the next morning when she saw the whole party
engaged in decorating the saloon for the evening's amusement. Frank
and his companions, indeed, were at times rather more troublesome than
useful, from the very zeal with which they engaged in the work. They
would put up boughs of evergreens where they were not needed, and insist
on driving in a superabundance of nails; and they would also strew the
floor with enormous branches, which only served as stumbling-blocks for
every one who moved. But these were minor evils; all talked fast, and
laughed merrily, and looked happy; and those who have ever had the
responsibility of entertaining others, must be aware that no symptoms
can be so encouraging as these. Miss Cunningham might perhaps have been
considered an exception; for there was something like a sneer on her
lip, as she seated herself by Margaret's side at the table that had been
placed for the flower-makers, and began turning over the collection of
roses, tulips, and lilies of every form and colour, which far out-shone
in variety any that nature has produced. "I should like to know," she
said, "what is the use of your all wasting time in this way? What will
be the good of it when you have done?"
"It is for our pleasure," replied Julia Stanley, sharply; "and as to
wasting time, why it is better than doing nothing."
"Such common, vulgar work, too," continued Miss Cunningham; "and all for
a conjurer."
"Who said we were working for the conjurer?" asked Julia. "I said we
were working to please ourselves."
"Then it seems to me very absurd to find pleasure in such nonsense,"
said Miss Cunningham.
"That is as people think; I see no difference between cutting out
flowers and threading beads, which I think you were doing all yesterday;
and if you do not like the work, you need not look at it."
"I am sure I do not want to look at that or the conjurer, or anything
else," said Miss Cunningham; "tricks are far too vulgar to please me."
"But what do you mean by vulgar?" asked Dora.
"Vulgar?--why vulgar means--every one knows what it means."
"No," said Mary Warner, in her quick, decided tone; "every one does not
know what it means, because no two people in the world think quite alike
about it."
"Dear me! how silly you are!" exclaimed Miss Cunningham;
"vulgar?--vulgar means common, I suppose."
"Then the conjurer is not vulgar, because his tricks are uncommon," said
Julia.
Miss Cunningham bit her lips and was silent; and Amy, who was becoming
interested in the discussion, turned to Miss Morton, who had just
entered the room, and asked her to tell them what things she thought
were vulgar.
"What a request!" said Julia; "Miss Morton might go on all day, and
she would not be able to answer it. You have not been taught to ask
questions, that is quite clear."
Poor Amy looked confused, and said, timidly, that she thought she had
expressed herself badly.
"I know what you mean, though," replied Miss Morton, who had of late
ventured more openly to express her opinions, especially when called
forth by Amy; "I don't think anything vulgar in itself, but only when it
is not befitting the rank and station of the person concerned."
Miss Cunningham opened her eyes widely, and looked as if she would
willingly have understood; and Amy begged Miss Morton to explain herself
more clearly.
"Conjuring tricks," she asked, "are they vulgar?"
Miss Morton smiled. "I hope," she said, "you are not growing too proud
to be amused; why should such a notion enter your head?"
"Miss Cunningham thinks them so," replied Amy.
"If Miss Cunningham were to exhibit them herself to any people that
might choose to come and look at them," answered Miss Morton, "I should
have reason to think her vulgar; but the poor conjurer is a common
person who gains his livelihood by his ingenuity. There can be nothing
more vulgar in his exhibition of tricks (if they are proper ones, I
mean), than in a carpenter's making a table, or a tailor's making a
coat."
"Really," exclaimed Miss Cunningham, "you have most extraordinary ideas.
I exhibit conjuring tricks, indeed? I wonder how the notion could ever
have entered your head."
"It is strange," said Julia Stanley, quietly: "conjurers are generally
clever."
Miss Cunningham did not immediately perceive what was intended, but
Hester did, and in her endeavour to be polite in contrast to her sister,
contrived to make the meaning perfectly clear. "I do not see why
you should think that, Julia," she said, "of course a person of Miss
Cunningham's rank would never do anything of the kind, but it is wrong
to say she could not do it."
"No one said so, of course," exclaimed Miss Cunningham.
"Oh dear! no," replied Julia; "all that I said was, that conjurers were
clever."
Amy looked at Miss Cunningham, and saw that for once in her life she
understood; and anxious if possible to preserve peace, she returned
again to the subject of vulgarity; saying she wished she could
comprehend it better.
"You will comprehend it very well when you are older and have seen
more of the world," replied Emily; "but I think now if you observe what
things strike you as vulgar in persons, you will find they are always
those which arise from a wish to be thought richer or cleverer, or
higher in rank than they really are, or else from their having the
manners and habits of a class who are inferior to themselves. Bad
grammar is very natural in a labouring man, and very vulgar in a
nobleman; a splendid dress is very proper for a queen, and very vulgar
for the wife of a tradesman. All persons who go out of their station,
or pretend to be what they are not, must be vulgar, whether they are
princes or peasants. You often hear of persons of no education, who have
made great fortunes from a very low beginning, trying to vie with those
born to rank and riches, and then they are laughed at as vulgar. If they
had kept to their own station, they might have had precisely the same
manners; but they would have escaped ridicule, because then there would
have been no pretence about them."
"But it is in little things that I am puzzled," said Amy. "Are persons
vulgar who make pies and puddings, and mend their own clothes?"
"To be sure they are, Amy," said Frank, who had great notions of having
every one belonging to him very refined and superior; "I hope you never
intend to do such things, or you had better set up a dame-school at
once."
"But do you think so, too?" asked Amy, looking earnestly at Miss Morton.
"No! indeed, I do not," replied Emily; "I think the more we know of
common, useful things, the better, as long as we are not ashamed of
them. It is the doing them in private, and pretending to be ignorant of
them in public, which constitutes the vulgarity."
"I am always afraid of not knowing what I ought to do when I am with
people," said Amy, "and I should be so sorry to do vulgar things."
Miss Morton smiled, as she looked at Amy's sweet face, and listened to
her peculiarly ladylike pronunciation, and thought how impossible it
would be for her to appear anything but a lady.
"Oh!" said Miss Cunningham, "it is quite out of the question for people
who live always in the country to understand what things are proper and
fashionable, and what are not. I should never have known myself if my
aunt had not told me; and of course she knows, because she goes out
constantly in London."
"Really," said Julia, satirically, "that quite surprises me; but then I
am very ignorant, I have never even been in London."
"Do you think I shall ever learn to be fashionable?" asked Amy of Miss
Morton.
"I hope not," said Emily, regardless of Miss Cunningham's contemptuous
smile.
"Why?" asked Margaret, "do you not wish her to be ladylike?"
"Yes," replied Emily; "but it does not follow that to be ladylike it is
necessary to be fashionable. A fashionable manner is a manner put on;
a really ladylike manner arises from a really ladylike mind--one is
sincere, the other generally is affected; and when persons strive to be
fashionable, they often end in becoming vulgar."
"Then what do you think we should try to be?" asked Mary Warner.
"Nothing," replied Emily; "those who possess a cultivated mind, and a
gentle, humble disposition, need not try to be anything; they may be
quite sure of not being vulgar; and as for being elegant and graceful,
they will never become so by thinking about it; the very endeavour must
make them constrained."
"But I should so like to be elegant," said Margaret.
"So would many others," answered Emily; "and they would like to be
beautiful too, but they cannot make themselves so. Elegance is a gift as
much as beauty."
A conscious smile passed over Margaret's countenance; she felt that one
gift at least she possessed, and the sight of Miss Cunningham's plain
face was more agreeable to her than ever; she was sure it must be such a
contrast to her own.
"Then," said Mary Warner, "you would not advise any person to imitate
the manners of another?"
"No," replied Emily; "because persons' manners ought to suit with their
minds; and as all persons have different minds, so they must, to a
certain degree, have different manners. Manners should be the veil
through which the mind is seen, not the covering by which it is hidden."
"Come, Frank!" exclaimed Henry Dornford, who was tired of having to
labour alone; "do leave all the young ladies to discuss their manners by
themselves; it can be nothing to you, and I want you dreadfully."
"Coming, coming," said Frank, hastily, "only I must say one thing, that
I know I can see some persons' minds in their manners quite plainly.
Yours, Dora, for instance; any one might see you are as proud as a queen
by the way you march into a room."
"Oh Frank!" half whispered Amy, as she saw the angry flush on Dora's
check, "do not say such things as that; you have vexed Dora, I am sure."
"I did not mean any harm," said Frank, "only it is a truth; now I will
just ask every one, don't you all think I am right?"
Poor Dora's dignity was shocked beyond expression at the idea of this
public criticism; but she tried to laugh as her only resource. Every one
looked and felt awkward; and Frank, who had spoken thoughtlessly from
the impulse of the moment, wished his words unsaid. Happily Henry
Dornford broke the silence by calling again to him to leave them; and
Frank this time had no wish for any more last words. Dora strove to
recover her equanimity, but in vain; she fancied every one must be
thinking of and judging her, and she knew that what Frank had said was
true. Perhaps, if he had expressed himself differently, her annoyance
might have been less; for she had always imagined it dignified and
suitable to her position to have rather proud manners--it kept people
at a distance, and made them recollect who she was, and she fancied that
pride and dignity must go together. But to hear her manners discussed
in her presence by school-girls and school-boys, was a very different
thing; and after a few efforts to appear unconcerned, she left the party
to themselves, and retired to her own room. Amy saw by her countenance
what was passing in her mind; but she did not like to follow her,
for she knew there were times when pity and sympathy would be more
distasteful to Dora than anything. When her cousin was unhappy, Amy
had no hesitation in endeavouring to comfort her; but when she had done
wrong, it would have seemed interfering improperly to take any notice of
it, for Amy never forgot that Dora was her superior in age, and in the
knowledge of many things she had acquired by being the eldest of the
family, and by having been brought forward far beyond her years.
Dora's absence was not much regretted, and the work went on so quickly
and merrily, that the sound of the dinner-bell was pronounced by all
to be very unwelcome; but dinner was quickly ended, and Henry Dornford
again summoned them to put the finishing stroke to the whole, and to say
if anything more were needed. The question went round in rotation;
and, being a little tired, they felt no inclination to suggest further
improvements. But Amy, perceiving that Dora was not there, immediately
proposed that her opinion should be asked.
"Oh, nonsense!" exclaimed Margaret. "What will it signify what Dora
says? We cannot all set to work again to please her. Why will you always
interfere, Amy?"
"I did not mean to interfere indeed, Margaret," replied Amy; "but you
know Dora never likes anything to be decided without her, and she has
been the chief manager of this."
"She is the chief manager of everything, I think," said Miss Cunningham;
"at least, she would be if she could."
"But she is the eldest," said Amy.
"She is not so old as I am; and if she were, I do not see why we are all
to give up our taste to hers. If she wants to give an opinion, why does
she go away?"
"She did not know that it would be all finished so soon, perhaps,"
answered Amy. "I wish I might go and tell her."
"There is no reason against it that I can see," said Frank; "only she
must not expect us to begin working again, merely for her pleasure."
"I daresay," replied Amy, "she will think it does very nicely: but I am
sure she would like to be asked, and it would be a pity she should be
vexed twice in the day."
Frank's good-nature immediately took the hint; and without saying
another word, he ran off himself to find Dora, and, if possible to
soothe her feelings by making her the principal person in the business.
A few months before, Dora's irritation would have continued a whole day
after such a severe trial to her temper, and solitude would only have
increased her annoyance, by giving her more time to reflect upon its
cause; but since she had known Amy, and could contrast her gentleness,
meekness, and constant cheerfulness, with things in her own character
so much the reverse, she had for the first time felt her defects, and
longed to correct them; and having earnestly and resolutely determined
to realise those longings by putting in practice the rules she had
laid down to aid her improvement, she was now beginning to feel all the
benefit of them; for she had learned, as the first step, to distrust her
own powers, and to ask for a higher strength. Happily Dora was gifted
with an energy of mind which prevented her from delaying her duty when
once it had been clearly pointed out; and the time spent by herself had
been so well employed, that all traces of irritation had vanished even
before dinner, very much to Frank's and Margaret's astonishment: and
now, with apparently the most perfect good-humour, she gave her opinion
as to what was required to complete the adornment of the saloon; and
then, finding that no one was disposed to agree with her, relinquished
her own idea, and declared herself willing to abide by the decision of
the majority.
Amy noticed the change, and asked herself whether she could have been
equally good-humoured; and Margaret remarked it also, in so loud a
whisper to Miss Cunningham, that it was impossible for Dora not to
overhear it. The heightened colour told in an instant that she did; but
she had conquered her temper once that day, and the second trial was
comparatively easy; it required but one moment of recollection, and a
slight effort at self-control, and to all appearance she was perfectly
unruffled.
The party separated almost immediately afterwards; and Amy went to her
mother's room. Mr Harrington was with her, and they were talking, as
usual, of India, Colonel Herbert, and the probability of hearing from
him. The same things had been repeated again and again; but this subject
was now the only one in which Mrs Herbert could take any real interest,
and her brother's affection prevented him from ever feeling it
wearisome.
"And do you really think, then," were the words Amy heard as she entered
the room, "do you really think that it is possible there may be a letter
by the last mail?"
"Only just possible," replied Mr Harrington, "as this place is so
retired, and my own letters sometimes go astray; but you must feel that
such a hope as that is a mere shadow. I earnestly wish you could make up
your mind not to think about it. The anxiety is doing you more harm than
you can imagine."
"Dr Bailey will be here this evening, I suppose," said Mrs Herbert, with
a smile; "and then he will set your mind at ease about me. I have felt
so much better since I have had something like a certain hope to build
on, that I have very little fear for myself now."
"But the suspense," replied Mr Harrington; "no mind can bear that, and
the constant dwelling upon one subject. If you could only divert your
thoughts, I am sure it will help you."
"I do try, indeed I do," said Mrs Herbert; "for your sake, and for
Amy's, I make the effort continually; but the one idea will remain; and
even when I believe I am interested in what I am doing, I find that the
slightest unusual sound, or the sudden opening of a door, will make my
heart beat violently, and bring on the faintness to which I am subject,
so as completely to take away my strength. But I am not going to
give way to this, you may be quite sure," she added, seeing that Mr
Harrington looked very grave; "and to prove it, I intend to make Amy
tell me all she has been doing this afternoon."
Mr Harrington went away, and Amy did her utmost to amuse her mother, and
found so much to relate, that she had scarcely time to dress before she
was summoned to tea. The conjurer was expected to arrive about seven
o'clock, and Dora had arranged everything satisfactorily to her own
wishes, with Mrs Harrington's consent, for their having a dance when the
exhibition was over; and even Miss Cunningham condescended to say, on
hearing it, that she expected to have a very pleasant evening.
Amy rather shrank from the idea of dancing before strangers, and wished
that the few persons invited for the evening would find some reason for
staying at home; but her anticipations of pleasure were still great, and
when the party adjourned to the saloon to await the conjurer's arrival,
there were few whose eyes sparkled as brightly, or whose laugh was as
joyous as hers.
"Who has ever seen a conjurer?" asked Henry Dornford, as they stood
round the fire.
Mary Warner was the only one who had been so fortunate, and the
exhibition she had witnessed was but an indifferent one.
"Well, then!" exclaimed Henry, proud of his superior knowledge, "I
advise you all to take care of yourselves, or you will lose your
senses."
"Why should we do that?" said Julia. "Is the conjurer going to steal
them? I shall congratulate him on the treasure he will get from some of
us at least;" and she looked round to see if Miss Cunningham were near;
but she had not yet made her appearance, and Julia's satire was lost.
"I really am afraid for the little ones," continued Henry. "Conjurers
do such wonderful things, and they generally dress themselves up in an
outlandish way; and the one I saw talked a sort of double Dutch, just to
make us think that he came from Timbuctoo."
"If that be a qualification for a conjurer," said Julia, "we had better
get poor Mr Cunningham to exhibit. I defy any one to know what part of
the world he comes from."
"So he would make a capital conjurer," said Henry Dornford; "and he
would not want a mask either; for he can twist his face into a hundred
and twenty different shapes in a minute. Just look, I am sure I can do
it exactly like him."
"Ah: but can you talk too?" said Julia: "it is nothing without the
stammering and stuttering."
"But he does not stammer," observed Mary Warner. "Never mind," said
Henry. "Listen--yet wait--I will go out of the room, and come in again
in his blind way, with a glass to my eye, and then speak, and you shall
tell me if you would have known us apart."
Julia laughed heartily at the idea, and Henry was just going when he was
stopped by Amy.
"I wish," she said, timidly, "you would not do it, because"---- and here
she paused.
"Because what?" asked Henry, in great astonishment.
"Because," said Amy, more firmly, "it is not quite right, is it, to
laugh at people and mimic them?"
"Not right to laugh at people!" exclaimed Henry; "what a girl's notion
that is!--why, half the fun in the world would be gone if we were not
allowed to laugh at any one."
"I don't think that makes it right," said Amy.
"Oh nonsense, nonsense!" was the reply. "I will soon teach you to
think differently from that; now, just look at me, and see if it is not
capital sport."
Henry ran to the door, and then re-entered, with a manner and voice so
exactly like Mr Cunningham's, that all burst into aloud laugh;--all,
except Amy, who tried very hard to prevent even a smile; and when
she found this was impossible, began blaming herself, and anxiously
repeating her request that Henry would not do it.
"It is quite Mr Cunningham's misfortune," she said; "and he is so good
and kind--he has been so very kind to me."
The peculiar sound which always preceded Mr Cunningham's sentences was
heard when Amy had spoken, and some one said "Thank you;" but it was not
Henry Dornford, for he looked completely frightened, and fixed his eyes
on the door. No one ventured to utter another word, and in the silence
retreating foot-steps were heard along the passage.
"Do you think he heard all we were saying?" asked Henry.
"Don't say we," replied Hester Stanley; "you know no one had anything to
do with it but yourself. Why did you not take care to shut the door?"
"I daresay he only caught the last words," said Julia; "and if so, there
is no harm done; besides, listeners never hear any good of themselves.
It is his own fault; people who don't know how to talk should stay at
home."
"I think it served us right," said Mary Warner. "I felt it was wrong all
the time, only it amused me so."
"Well! there is no use in troubling ourselves about it," said Julia; "he
is neither father, brother, nor cousin to any of us, and most probably
we shall never see him again after to-morrow; so do let the matter
rest."
Amy thought that the never seeing him again could not make any
difference in the action; but it was not her place to speak. She only
felt glad that Mr Cunningham would not consider her unfeeling and
forgetful of his kindness, and wondered at Julia's appearing so
indifferent to the thought of having given pain, for she continued
laughing and talking as before, and trying to make the others do the
same. Her efforts, however, were not quite successful; the circumstance
had cast a blank over their enjoyment, and many anxious eyes were turned
to the door to see if Mr Cunningham were likely to appear again, and
all felt relieved when the conjurer was announced, and the rest of
the company came into the room. Mr Cunningham was with them, but their
thoughts were now diverted from him, though they all remarked that he
took especial notice of Amy, and placed her by his side in the best
position for seeing everything.
Amy was grateful for his kindness, but wished it had been differently
shown. At first she felt uneasy in her rather elevated situation, and
she dreaded very much lest he should begin talking, and especially lest
he should refer to what had passed; but this evening he was peculiarly
silent; and Amy soon forgot everything but the delight of seeing flowers
grow out of egg-shells, chickens hatched in a gentleman's hat, rings and
brooches found in the possession of every one but their right owners,
and all the other wonders which made the conjurer appear to possess some
unearthly power. She hardly wished for an explanation of them, and felt
quite vexed when she heard Henry Dornford whisper to Frank that some
of the tricks were quite nonsense--things he could do himself; while Mr
Cunningham rose in her favour when he told her that great part of the
exhibition was beyond his comprehension, and that what Henry had said
was merely a school-boy's boast. It seemed now less difficult to believe
the marvellous stones of fairies and genii which she had so often read,
and she was considering in her own mind whether Aladdin's lamp might not
actually be in existence at that moment, when the green curtain fell,
and they were again left to the realities of every-day life. There was
an exclamation of regret from all the party, with the exception of
Miss Cunningham, who said she was tired of sitting in a dark room. Even
little Rose, though she rubbed her eyes, and was almost inclined to cry
from mere weariness, begged that the funny man might come back again, or
that at least she might have one of the eggs with the pretty flowers in
it; and Amy secretly wished the same thing, though she was ashamed to
own it when she found every body laughing at Rose and promising her
sugar plums and sweetmeats to pacify her.
Miss Cunningham was the first to follow Mrs Harrington to the
drawing-room, and to propose that they should begin dancing
immediately--a proceeding which excited considerable surprise in Amy's
mind, and induced Mr Cunningham to take his sister aside, and beg her to
remember that she was not in her own house, and therefore it could not
be her place to make suggestions. Dancing did, however, commence almost
immediately. Emily Morton was placed at the piano, and no one but Amy
appeared to consider that the trouble given required either thanks or
apology. It was her business and her duty; and whether agreeable or
not, it was a subject of trifling moment. Amy indeed had more leisure to
think about it than the rest; for the number of dancers being unequal,
she was the only one left out. Dora and Margaret had been first thought
of by every one, and Mrs Harrington had taken care of the visitors; but
Amy had no claim; she was looked upon as sufficiently at home to be
left to herself, and not of consequence enough to be noticed; and
the quadrille was formed, and the music had begun, before any one
recollected her. Not to dance was rather a relief, but not to be asked
was a neglect to which poor Amy was peculiarly alive. The occupations of
the last few days had been too varied and interesting to leave much
time for her old feelings to return, and she had fancied that they would
never trouble her again; but now, as she stood by Miss Morton's side,
the only one of the young party who was disengaged, they pressed upon
her mind most painfully. Had her mother been in the room, she would have
felt it much less; but Mrs Herbert seldom came down when so many persons
were present, and Amy in consequence was completely alone. It was the
gayest scene she had ever witnessed, and the bright lights and the
joyous music alone, would at another time have given her thorough
enjoyment; but now they were only a source of discontent, for they were
looked upon as intended for others and not for her. She watched Dora,
and thought how delightful it would be to be like her, the object of
general attention, and she listened to the whispered admiration of
Margaret's beauty, till she fancied for the moment that to be beautiful
must constitute happiness. But Amy's delusion did not last long; she
turned from her cousins to Emily Morton, and the sight of her in some
measure recalled better feelings. With beauty, elegance, and goodness,
she was as unnoticed as herself. She had no mother, no friends; her
daily life was one of wearying mortification and self-denial; and yet
Emily Morton had never been heard to utter a single murmur. She had
never been known to compare her lot with others, or to wonder why
she was deprived of the comforts enjoyed by them; and her heart was a
perpetual well-spring of quiet gratitude, which made the heaviest trials
of her life sources of improvement to herself, and of blessing to those
around her. Even at that moment, her sweet smile and cheerful voice,
as she begged to be told whether she was playing to please them, were a
lesson which Amy could not but profit by, for she knew that in Emily's
place she should have felt very differently; and she sighed, as the
thought crossed her mind how difficult it would be to imitate her. She
did, however, make the effort at once, and, when Dora approached, tried
to speak gaily and to overcome her vexation; but a second and a third
quadrille were formed, and still she was not asked to dance; and then
the tears rushed to her eyes, and she longed to steal away unobserved,
and go to her mamma for the remainder of the evening. Yet she was too
shy to venture across the room by herself, and nothing was to be done
but to sit quietly in the corner, watching the others, and trying not to
be envious of them. Mr Cunningham would willingly have done his utmost
to amuse her; but he was obliged to dance himself to make up the set,
and it was not till the termination of the third quadrille that he came
to her and began talking. Amy was getting accustomed to his voice, and
found his conversation such a relief to her loneliness, that it restored
her to a feeling of something like pleasure. She was certain also, from
his manner, that he had overheard what had passed in the saloon; for,
although his behaviour to Henry Dornford, and the rest of the party, was
exactly the same as usual, yet he was evidently more anxious to please
her than he had ever been before, and she felt his kindness peculiarly
after the disappointment she had suffered. She could not, however, quite
recover her accustomed cheerfulness even when at length she did join the
quadrille; and the enjoyment of the evening was almost lost, especially
when she thought how she had looked forward to it, and compared her
brilliant expectations with the unlooked-for reality.