WANDERING EYES.
"I ASSURE you he said he had never seen a place with more pretty young
ladies in it."
"Who?" said Jessie, coming suddenly into the light closet of the
work-room, where Florence Cray was taking off her hat, and Amy Lee
seemed to be helping her.
"Why, Mr. Wingfield, Mr. Holdaway's head groom, who has come over with
another man and a boy, and three of the loveliest horses you ever did
see."
"Oh, yes, I heard," said Jessie; "and how he stared about at Church! He
ought to be ashamed of himself."
"Oh! that's what Grace says, of course," said Florence; "and she's a
regular old maid. She needn't fear that he'll stare at her."
Wherewith both Florence and Amy giggled, and before Jessie's hot answer
was out of her mouth, one of the aunts called out--
"Girls, girls, what are you doing? No gossiping there."
Florence came out looking cross, and observing in a marked manner that
Miss Fuller, at Ellerby, always spoke of her young ladies.
"I like using right names," said Aunt Rose in her decided voice.
Florence was silenced for the time, but at the dinner hour she contrived
to get Amy alone. Jessie was in haste to get home to see if there were
an answer from Miss Needwood, and also to try to get enough sewing done
to pacify Grace, and purchase a little leisure for her mother. And
Florence, instead of going home, stood with Amy, who had sauntered into
the garden to refresh herself and gather some parsley.
"I assure you, Amy, he was quite struck. He said yours was such a style
that he would hardly believe me when I said you belonged to Mr. Lee, the
baker. It was the refinement, he said."
"Nonsense, Florence; don't," said Amy, blushing as crimson as the rose
she tried to gather.
"I'm not talking nonsense; I never did see a poor man so smitten."
"Now, Florence, you shouldn't say such things; father and aunts would
not like it. I shall go in."
"Fathers and aunts are all alike; they never do like such things.
But----"
However, Amy was safe indoors by this time, all in a glow, very much
ashamed that such things should have been said to her, and yet not a
little fluttered and pleased. She had been most carefully brought up
and watched over, and she had come to the age of sixteen without hearing
more about herself than that a young lady, who once came into the school
with Miss Agnes Manners, said something that sounded like lovely, and
was speedily hushed up and silenced.
All the other girls thought the young lady meant Henrietta Coles, who
was tall, with bright dark eyes, red cheeks, and black hair, under a
round comb; but Amy had always been sure that the speaker's eyes were
upon her, though she had been ashamed of the belief, and indeed had
nearly forgotten all about it, till it was stirred up by Florence's
talk.
She went up to her room to smooth her hair before dinner. Yes, it was
very nice light-brown hair, with a golden shine; and her eyes were very
clear and blue, and her skin very white, with a rosy flush; and her
nose was straight, and the shape was a pretty delicate one. Amy really
did think Mr. Wingfield was right, and had better taste than the people
who thought her a poor washy, peaky thing, as she had more than once
heard herself called.
She put her head on one side, smirked a little, half shut her eyes, and
studied herself in different positions, till she heard one of her aunts
on the stairs; and then, in a desperate fright lest she should be
caught, she darted out so fast as to run against Aunt Charlotte coming
up stairs with a basket of clean linen from the wash. There were three
pairs of stockings rolled up on the top, and these tumbled out, and one
pair went hop, hop, from step to step all the way down stairs, just as
Father was coming in, and he caught it up and threw it like a ball
straight up at his sister.
The confusion drove the nonsense out of Amy's head for the present. She
ate her dinner, and then went off as usual for her visit to little Edwin
Smithers, carrying him only a few strawberries, as she knew he always
had soup from the Hall on a Monday.
For Edwin had not died. He had rather grown better than worse, and if
the truth must be told, Amy had begun to get a little tired of him. He
was not a quick child, and in this hot weather he often failed to do the
sums or learn the verses that Amy set him.
To-day he was nursing a great piece of stick-liquorice with which he had
painted a dirty spot on the central face in the picture of the number of
the _Chatterbox_ which she had lent him. She scolded him for it, and he
turned sulky, and would not try to repeat his hymn, nor answer any
questions, and looked at his book as if he had never seen one before.
Amy grew angry, told him he was a naughty boy, and she should not stay
with him nor give him any strawberries; and off she went, carrying away
the injured _Chatterbox_, and never bethinking herself that the hot day
and the weariness of the dull untidy room might not be the cause of the
naughty fit, and whether it would not have been kinder and better to try
to soothe him out of it.
But instead of this she paused to hear Mrs. Rowe declare he was a bad
'un, with a nasty sulky temper that no one could do nothing with, and
just then she saw Florence Cray crossing the village green.
"I've just been to get a little red pepper at Hollis's," she said, as
she put her arm fondly into Amy's. "Mr. Wingfield do like something
tasty for his breakfast, and ma is going to do him some devilled kidneys
to-morrow morning. He is quite the gentleman in all his tastes, you
see! I wanted Jessie to walk back with me, but they are all so terrible
busy over that there wedding order, that she could not come till the
last minute."
"Working all through the dinner hour!" said Amy. "What a shame!"
"So I say. But that Grace Hollis is a one! I wouldn't have her for my
sister. Here, come in, Amy, I must just give mother the pepper."
"No, I can't do that," said Amy, uneasily, for she knew her father would
be displeased if she went into a public-house; though as Florence said,
"Gracious! You needn't go near the bar. It's only the back door! As if I
would ask you to do anything you ought not! But I suppose our house
ain't good enough for you."
"Oh! don't be angry, Florence dear, I'll come some day when I've got
leave."
"Leave indeed, at your age; but you're a poor-spirited thing, Amy, to
be so kept down by a couple of old aunts."
Amy was flurried at the displeasure, and wanted to make it up. "Oh!
don't be offended, Florence. Look here."
"Strawberries! oh my! already! Thank you," and Florence had soon
swallowed up poor little Edwin's strawberries.
"Wait here one moment then," she said, "and I'll be back with you in an
instant."
Amy stood under her parasol, trying to make the most of the small
shelter afforded by Mr. Cray's garden hedge, and recollecting rather
uncomfortably something she had once been told about the loitering of
the disobedient Prophet being what brought him into temptation. But,
having promised to wait, she could not move away, though she had to stay
longer than she liked, especially as the children were going by to
afternoon school, and some of her own class began to stare at her.
However, at last Florence came out, quite excited. "Oh, Amy, if you'll
only wait a minute, you'll see him come out."
"I can't! I can't! Let us go," cried Amy, quite shocked and shy.
"Nonsense! Poor man, he need never see you. He is just going to take the
horses up for his master to ride out with Miss Robson. Such sweet
horses! Mr. Holdaway gave 120 guineas for his. Think of that, Amy! Here
now, come round the corner of the hedge, and he'll never see you."
So Amy followed and peeped, very shy and frightened, like a guilty
thing, and she did see two horses, much more beautiful than she knew,
one ridden by a common-looking groom, the other by a very smart, well
set-up person, with a belt round his waist. That was all she saw, for
they were gone in a flash, and she was too uncomfortable to see much, or
to do more than hurriedly answer Florence's exclamation--
"Ain't he quite the gentleman? Bain't his horses real darlings?" before
Jessie's voice was heard--
"Why, whatever are you two doing here?"
The two girls both giggled, and each pushed the other to make her tell,
and Florence laughed out--
"Oh, 'twas Amy wanted to see Mr. Wingfield pass by."
"No, 'twasn't. 'Twas you," said Amy.
"I don't see why you should get into a corner about it," said Jessie,
rather gravely. "I've just met him straight upon the road, horses and
all."
"O yes, _you_!" said Florence.
"Well, why not me?"
"O, you know, you'll soon be an old maid like your sister."
Jessie had not grown so wise as not to be nettled at this silly
impertinent speech, but she was much more vexed to see that Florence was
teaching Amy her own follies--Amy, who had always seemed like a pure
little innocent wild rose-bud in its modest green leaves. So she
answered, rather shortly--
"If you mean that I don't want to be right down ridiculous, I hope I am
an old maid."
This seemed to be very funny, for Florence went off in fits of laughing,
and kept shouldering Amy to make her see the joke, but Amy had by this
time grown ashamed and frightened and only answered, "Don't."
So the three girls went in together, and no one took any special notice
of Amy's hot face and uncomfortable gestures. It was the first time
since she had been a very little child that she had shrunk from her
aunts' eyes, or feared that they should ask her questions; and the
sense that she had been undeserving of the trust they placed in her made
her very ill at ease, though the silly girl did not do the only thing
that would have set her right again, and made her safer for the future.
Jessie meanwhile had forgotten the little vexation. She had something to
brighten her up in Miss Needwood's little note.
It was written on pink paper, edged with blue, as if nothing could be
too good for Jessie; and it said no words could tell how glad she was,
and what a comfort it was to have this real work to do. "It is really
like a ray of hope in the darkness," said poor Bessie, in her little
thin weak writing, with a very hard steel pen.
But that note warmed up Jessie's heart, although her finger was getting
severely ploughed up with the stitching she had been doing to save her
mother's eyes.
"There was not to be an inch of machine work," Mrs. Robson had said, and
the Hollises were people who fulfilled all they undertook.
But Jessie's hour at home had helped and freshened her mother, who
looked much less worn and worried than she had done the day before.
Jessie felt she had done well to send away the handkerchiefs, and lessen
the burthen Grace had taken upon the family.