There was a strange mixture of feeling in Amy's mind, on the following
morning, when she thought of all that had lately occurred. It was
impossible to forget Rose, but it was equally impossible to avoid
thinking of Emily; and she immediately began to anticipate the pleasure
of living with her, and exerting herself for her happiness. The new
arrangement was satisfactory to every one, though when named to Mrs
Harrington, she merely said, "Yes, certainly, it would do very well;"
and then appeared to take no further interest in it. Even Dora and
Margaret felt it a comfort that Emily would be near them; for now that
they were about to lose her, they first began to be sensible of her
value. Little unthought-of kindnesses and daily self-denials were
remembered with regret that they had been so lightly appreciated: and
Dora looked at her music-books, and Margaret at her portfolio, and
sighed as they thought that they should have no one for the future to
take an interest in them as Emily had done.
"I shall envy you more than ever, Amy," said Dora, as they walked
together in the garden a few days afterwards. "I always thought you were
happier than we were; and lately, I am sure of it."
"You will get better by and by," said Amy. "I know how you must
feel,--the place is so altered."
"Yes," observed Margaret; "and it will never be what it was again. It
does not look the same."
"I think even the blue sky has grown dim," said Dora; "yet I like to
look at it, because I can think that little Rose is there. But the sky
will never be dim to you, Amy."
"Why not?" asked Amy. "I know I must have a great many sorrows, just as
other people have."
"But," replied Dora, "I am sure it is something in one's own mind which
causes it. The earth often looks gloomy when there is really nothing
the matter; but I do not think the sky would, if we never did wrong: and
that is the reason why I do not think it ever will to you."
"Indeed, Dora," exclaimed Amy; "you don't know anything about me; and
you will find out some day how bad I am."
"I dont wish to find it out," said Dora. "It pleases me to believe there
are some people in the world who always do right."
"Then you shall believe it of mamma, and Mrs Walton, and Miss Morton,"
said Amy.
"I don't like to think of Emily," replied Dora. "When will she let us go
and talk to her."
"I hope she will soon," said Margaret. "It quite weighs upon my mind."
"I told her yesterday that you wished it," answered Amy; "and then she
said you thought a great deal more about things than herself, and she
did not like you to be distressed; and that she had thought you would
have understood her feelings by her manner at breakfast and dinner."
"That will not quite please my aunt," said Margaret. "I promised her
I would speak to Emily myself; and I do wish very much to do what she
likes."
"There is Miss Morton just coming down the steps," said Amy; "perhaps if
I were to go away, you would like to say something now."
Margaret rather hesitated, feeling half ashamed when the opportunity
was given her; but Dora urged that there might be no delay: and Amy went
into another walk.
"I fancied," said Emily, as she came up to them, "that Amy was with you.
Mr Walton is in the house, and wishes to see her."
"I will go and call her," said Dora; "she is only gone into one of the
back walks."
Emily begged she would not trouble herself; but Dora felt quite pleased
with the opportunity of showing her a little attention; and Margaret
and Emily were left alone. Margaret was extremely embarrassed; and
Emily perceiving that something was the matter, made a few passing
observations on the beauty of the weather.
Margaret's answers were short, for her mind was pre-occupied; and it was
not till she saw Dora returning that she summoned courage to say, "You
would not let me speak to you before; but I must tell you now, I am so
very sorry,--and I have wished so much that you should know it."
"Indeed, I have known it," replied Emily; "and I hoped you would have
understood from my manner how little I have thought about it. We have
both been suffering too much not to feel for each other; and I have had
you in my mind very often, and wished that I could have comforted you."
"But it was not only that," continued Margaret; "I wanted to say, and
so did Dora too, that we know we have often been very unkind, and done a
great many wrong things; and we should be much happier if you would say
that you forgive us."
"Will you?" said Dora, who had been walking a few paces by their side.
"I do not like to say it," replied Emily; "it seems now as if I had no
right to do it. All the pleasure I have known for the last two years has
been found in your family; and what I feel now is thankfulness that it
has been so much greater than I deserve."
"But we did not make you happy," said Dora. "You would have been
miserable if it had not been----'
"For Rose," continued Emily, firmly. "I do not know, indeed, how I
should have felt without her; but with her I had, at times, all that I
dared desire; and now God has given me blessings for which I can never
be sufficiently grateful."
"Yes," said Dora; "Amy is a blessing to every one."
"And you are blessings too," replied Emily, in a tone of deep interest
and kindness. "You do not know the satisfaction you are affording me
now; and you may be unspeakable blessings to your parents."
"We shall not know what to do when you are gone," said Margaret; "and my
aunt and Amy also."
"Your mamma will recover herself by and by, I have no doubt; and then we
shall be so near, it will be scarcely like a separation."
"There was one thing," said Dora, "which I thought I would ask you: but
I am afraid you will not tell me if you had rather not."
"I will tell you really, though," replied Emily. "I always try to say
exactly what I mean."
"Then do you think, sometimes, if we go to the cottage, you would be
able to hear us play, and look at our drawings? We shall be so very much
at a loss without you."
"I trust," said Emily, "that my being away will make but very little
difference to you in those things; you know I shall not be so far off
but that I can come to you, or assist you whenever it will give you the
smallest pleasure."
Dora expressed her thanks, and felt how little she deserved such
kindness; and Margaret hoped that she would not leave them yet.
"Everything will seem a great deal worse then," she said.
"Mrs Herbert intends staying with your mamma while she continues so
ill, I believe," replied Emily; "but when she is better, I heard Colonel
Herbert say, he should like to go directly to the cottage."
"Do you know what Dr Bailey thinks about mamma?" asked Margaret.
"He says that she requires change, but she is not equal to the exertion
of moving."
"I wish we might go somewhere before Frank returns to school," observed
Dora. "He has had such melancholy holidays."
"Should you like to go to London?" said Emily.
Margaret started at the idea. "Oh no!--not to London; any place but
that."
"I thought you wished it once," said Emily.
"Yes; but things are altered since then. I shall never wish to go
there."
Emily looked surprised; but she did not inquire the reason of Margaret's
sudden alteration of feeling, thinking it was most probably caused by
the loss they had all sustained; and remarking that Mr Walton might
perhaps wish to see them before he went away, she proposed that they
should go into the house. The mention of London brought many sad
reflections to Margaret's mind; and while slowly following her sister
and Emily, she began to think of Miss Cunningham, and to wonder what her
feelings had been upon learning all that had happened, and whether the
idea that she had been the origin of it had occurred to distress her.
"Do you think Lucy will go to London without us?" she said to Dora.
"She will never go at all, if she does not," replied Dora. "Papa will
not consent to her being with us again as she used to be."
"She will be very sorry about it," said Margaret.
"Oh! it will not signify to her. She will find other persons to suit
her just as well; and she will go to gay parties, and drive about in the
parks, and forget us, and everything about us."
"Not everything," said Margaret. "I am sure she cannot forget
everything. She must feel for us."
"Perhaps she may care for a day or two; but it is not her way to think
on any subject long. Do you think it is?" added Dora, turning to Emily,
and moving aside to allow her to pass before her into the house.
"I hope it may be, by and by," was the reply; "but I am afraid she has
not been taught to think much as yet."
"There is one of the Rochford servants coming down the avenue now," said
Dora. "Perhaps he has brought a note or a message."
"I suppose he is only come as usual to inquire for mamma," said
Margaret. "Morris says Lord Rochford has sent nearly every day."
There was, however, a note for Margaret, which was given her just as she
was about to go into the drawing-room, but there was no time to read it
till Mr Walton was gone.
He did not stay long, for he had seen Mrs Harrington, and was anxious
to return home to keep an engagement; but he was very much pressed to
repeat his visit, especially by Mrs Herbert, who hoped that seeing him
might be effectual in exciting Mrs Harrington's interest. "I think,"
she said, "that my sister will take more notice of you another time;
I remarked to-day that she listened more than usual to what you were
saying."
Mr Walton promised to return, if possible, the next day; and then,
taking his leave, Margaret was at liberty to read Miss Cunningham's
note. It was short, and Margaret thought cool, although there were many
expressions of sympathy for the family. "Her brother," she said,
"had begged her to write, but she had not much to say, though she was
extremely sorry for them, and hoped that Mrs Harrington had not been
very angry with Margaret. She expected soon to be able to drive over
to Emmerton, and, in the meantime, should be very glad to hear of them
all."
"I would not give much for Miss Cunningham's affection after such a note
as that," said Dora.
"What did you expect from her?" asked Emily.
"I don't know, exactly; but any one might have written it; and after
being with us so much, I think she might have said something more. I did
not imagine she cared for me at all, but I thought she had some feeling
for Margaret."
"Do you think it cool?" said Margaret, turning to Emily.
"Rather," she replied: "but you could scarcely have supposed she would
have written in any other way."
"Why not?" asked Amy.
"Because it is seldom people feel much for sorrows that are not present
to them. If Miss Cunningham had been with us for the last ten days she
would probably have cared very much more."
"She is so selfish," observed Dora; "she never can sympathise with any
one."
"Indeed," replied Emily, "I think she would if she were taught to do
it."
"How can persons be taught to feel?" said Dora; "it must come naturally
to them."
"Not quite. The feelings are certainly given to us originally, but
they may be very much increased by action. If Miss Cunningham were once
taught to do little trifling kindnesses for her friends she would soon
feel for them. You know it is almost a proverb that benefactors are fond
of those on whom they confer favours."
"I dare say you may be right," said Dora; "but I cannot imagine
that Lucy Cunningham will ever be anything but a cold, hard-hearted,
disagreeable girl. Margaret perhaps may find out her virtues some day or
other, but I am afraid I never shall."
Margaret was silent:--she was vexed and disappointed, but did not like
to own it; and she was so fully aware of her unkindness to Emily, that
she expected Lucy to be the same, forgetting how differently they had
been circumstanced. Miss Cunningham's preference had flattered her,
while she believed it real; but she was now beginning to perceive that,
where selfishness is the foundation of the character, no trust can be
placed in any professions of affection.