Читать книгу Amy Herbert - Elizabeth Missing Sewell - Страница 5

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"There are only six days now, mamma," said Amy, as she sat at work by her mother's side, about a week after their visit to Emmerton; "only six days, and then my cousins will be come; but they seem dreadfully long; and I have been thinking, too, that perhaps I shall not be liked; and if so, you know all my pleasure will be at an end."

"You had better not think anything about that, my dear," answered Mrs Herbert; "it is nearly the certain way of preventing yourself from being agreeable. If you are good-natured and sweet-tempered, there is very little doubt of your being liked; but if you make any great efforts to please, you will probably be led into saying and doing things that are not quite natural, and you will at once become disagreeable; besides, you may be tempted to act wrongly in order to suit your cousins' inclinations. You know, Amy, we ought to try not to be liked, but to be good."

"But will you just tell me everything about my cousins, mamma, that I may know what to expect? There will be Dora, and Margaret, and Frank, and Rose; four of them. Now, what will Dora be like?"

"I really can tell you very little," replied Mrs Herbert; "it is a long time since I have seen any of them, and you have heard almost as much as I have. Dora, I believe, has been brought forward a good deal, and probably, therefore, considers herself older than she really is; she must be more than fourteen, and I should think would not be so much your companion as Margaret, who is a year younger. Frank you will not see a great deal of, as he is at school the chief part of the year; though, perhaps, now, the difference of his position in the family may make some change in his fathers plans for him. Little Rose, who is not quite six, is the pet of the whole house, and especially doated upon by her mother; and this is nearly all the information I can give you."

"And will the young lady I have so often heard you speak of come with them, or will my aunt teach them as you do me?"

"She will come with them, I have no doubt," replied Mrs Herbert; "for although your aunt objects to a regular governess, and has educated your cousins almost entirely herself, yet, lately, Miss Morton has assisted her very much in their music and drawing."

"Miss Morton is the daughter of a clergyman who lived very near

Wayland—is she not, mamma?" said Amy.

"Yes," answered her mother. "He died suddenly, and his wife only survived him about a month, and this poor girl was left quite unprovided for. Some of her relations interested themselves for her, and placed her at a very excellent school, where she had great advantages; and having a superior talent for music and drawing, she made very rapid progress. When she was nearly nineteen, she entered your uncle's family, and has lived with them now for two years."

"Will she be with them always?" asked Amy, "or will she have separate rooms, as I have heard most governesses have?"

"I believe she has been accustomed to have a sitting-room to herself," said Mrs Herbert; "or, at least the schoolroom has been considered hers, and she seldom joins the rest of the party."

"Poor thing!" said Amy; "without any father or mother, it must be very sad in the long winter evenings."

Mrs Herbert thought the same, but she did not wish to express her opinion; and Amy, having finished her work, was told to go and prepare for a walk, her mother being glad to find an excuse for breaking off the conversation, and so avoiding any further questions.

The arrival of her brother's family was, indeed, a subject of anxious consideration for Mrs Herbert. It must have a great influence on Amy's mind, either for good or evil; and there was much reason to fear that the evil would preponderate. Mr Harrington was a man of high honour and extreme benevolence; but he was constitutionally indolent, and had allowed his wife to gain so much influence over him, that the management of everything was chiefly in her hands. It certainly might have been entrusted to worse, for Mrs Harrington had good judgment, superior sense in all worldly affairs, and a never-failing activity. Her establishment was the best ordered, her dinners were the best dressed, her farm and dairy were the best supplied of any in the county—all was in a style of first-rate elegance, without any pretension or extravagance, but when she attempted to apply her sense and her activity to the management of her children, she failed essentially, for the one thing was wanting—she had no real principle of religion.

She had, it is true, taken care that they should be taught their Catechism, almost as soon as they could speak; but she had never endeavoured to explain to them its meaning; they had been accustomed to repeat a hasty prayer every morning and evening, but they had never learned how solemn a duty they were performing; and every Sunday they had been in the habit of reading a chapter in the Bible, but it was hurried through without the smallest thought, partly as a task, and partly as a means of passing away the time. If it had not been for this great deficiency, Mrs Harrington would have been well calculated for the task of education; caring, however, only for accomplishments which might make a show in the world, she considered the cultivation of her children's minds a matter of secondary importance; and although she was desirous they should be clever and well-read, that they might appear to advantage in society, she thought very little of the effect their studies might have upon their general character.

From these circumstances, as might easily be supposed, Dora and Margaret grew up with all their natural evil inclinations unchecked and the good unimproved. Dora's temper, originally haughty, had become year by year more overbearing, as she found that, from her father's rank and fortune, and from being herself the eldest daughter of the family, she could exact attention, not only from her brothers and sisters, but from most of her playmates, and all the servants and dependents; and if occasionally she excited her mother's displeasure, when a music lesson had been particularly bad, or a drawing very carelessly executed, her talents easily enabled her to regain that place in Mrs Harrington's affection, which depended so much upon external superiority. And yet, under good guidance, Dora Harrington might have become a very admirable person. Her disposition was generous and candid, and her feelings were warm and easily excited; but her pride and self-will had hitherto marred every better quality.

Margaret was very different: she was more inclined to be gentle and yielding, but this rather from indolence than amiability; and her vanity and selfishness rendered her, perhaps, even less agreeable than her sister, when she became more intimately known. There was, indeed, one peculiarity about her, which, on a first acquaintance, was very winning—a great desire of gaining the love of others! and for this purpose she would use the most affectionate expressions, and profess the greatest interest in their happiness; but her young companions soon found that she was seldom willing to make the sacrifice of her own inclinations to theirs; and persons who were older, and could see deeper into her character, discovered that her love of affection differed but little from her love of admiration, as she only valued it because it gained her attention; and the same vanity which made her delight in the praises of her delicate complexion, and fair hair, and bright blue eyes, made her also take pleasure in knowing that she was an object of interest and regard to those around her.

Such were probably to be Amy's companions for the next few years of her life. Rose being too young to be considered of the number; and it was well for Mrs Herbert's happiness that she was little aware of their dispositions. Yet she had some fears as to the principle on which her nieces had been educated; and she could not but be thankful that she should, as she hoped, be at hand for at least some time to come, to watch the effect of the intimacy upon Amy's mind, and to warn her against any evil which might result from it; as she felt that, in the event of her own death and her husband's prolonged absence, it would be upon her brother's family alone that she could depend for friendship and protection to her almost orphan child.

Amy herself, with all the thoughtlessness of her age, looked forward to nothing but enjoyment; and when the first rays of the sun shone through her window, on the morning of the day that was to witness her meeting with her cousins, and awakened her from her quiet sleep and her peaceful dreams, it was only to give her the expectation of a yet brighter reality. For the next hour she lay awake, imagining the grandeur of Emmerton Hall in its best furniture, the delight of driving in her uncle's carriage, and the probability that she might have beautiful presents made her,—new books, or a watch, or a pony, or, what would be still better, a pony-chaise for her mamma, now that she was unable to walk far. She even went on to count up the books she should wish for, and to settle the colour of the pony, not doubting that her uncle would be willing to give her everything; for she had always been told he was very kind; and a person who could live at Emmerton, she was sure, must be able to purchase whatever he desired.

"Oh mamma, I am so happy!" was her first exclamation, as she seated herself at the breakfast-table. "Do see what a beautiful day it is; and I have been awake so long this morning, thinking over what we shall do in the afternoon. I am sure you must be happy too."

"Happy to see you so, my love," said Mrs Herbert, as she kissed her.

"But why not happy in yourself, mamma; are you ill?" and she looked at Mrs Herbert anxiously; then suddenly becoming grave, she said, "Dear mamma, it was very wrong in me, but I did not think about poor Edward."

"It was very natural, my dear, and you need not be distressed because you cannot feel for him as I do, who knew him when he was a healthy, merry child, the delight of every one."

"Then there is no harm in being happy?" said Amy; "but I will try to be so to myself, though I should like you to smile too; but, perhaps, you will when you see them quite settled at Emmerton."

"I hope every one will be reconciled to the loss in time," replied Mrs Herbert; "and, perhaps, Amy, it will be a greater pleasure to me, by and by, to know that your uncle is so near than it will be to you."

"Oh mamma! how can that be? you know you are so much older; and you always tell me that grown-up people do not enjoy things so much as children."

"But supposing, my dear, that your cousins' being at Emmerton should make you envious and discontented with your own home, you would not be happy then?"

For a few moments Amy did not speak; a grave expression came over her face; and, allowing her breakfast to remain untouched, she sat apparently deep in thought. At last she said, "Mamma, people must be very unhappy when they are envious."

"Yes, indeed they must," replied Mrs Herbert; "for they are always longing for things which God has not chosen to give them, and are unthankful for those which they possess; besides, they often dislike the persons whom they fancy more blessed than themselves."

"And should you love me, mamma, if I were envious?" continued Amy, looking intently at her mother as she spoke.

"It would be a dreadful thing indeed, my love, which would prevent me from loving you; but I should be very, very sorry to see you so."

Again Amy was silent, and began eating her breakfast hastily; but it seemed an effort, and Mrs Herbert presently saw that the tears were fast rolling down her cheeks.

"Amy, my dear child, what is the matter?" she exclaimed.

Amy tried to answer, but her voice failed her; and rising from her seat she hid her face on her mother's neck, and then said, in a low tone, "Mamma, I know I have been envious."

"If you have, my dear, you are, I am sure, very sorry for it now; and you must not vex yourself too much when you discover you have a fault, since you know that if you pray to God He will forgive you, and help you to overcome it."

"But, mamma," said Amy, "I did not think it was envy till just now. It was the other evening when we came back from Emmerton, and I was fancying how beautiful the house would be when it was all furnished, and how I should like to live there; and then, when we got near home, I did not like the cottage as much as I used to do, it appeared so small; and I began to think I should be happier if I were one of my cousins, and had a carriage, and horses, and servants. But, Oh mamma! it was very wicked"—and here Amy's tears again fell fast—"for I forgot that I had you."

"The feeling was very natural," said Mrs Herbert, "though I will not say it was right. I have often been afraid lest seeing your nearest relations so much richer than yourself might make you uncomfortable; but you know I told you before, that God sends to each of us some particular trial or temptation, to prove whether we will love and serve Him, or give way to our own evil inclinations; and this will probably be yours through the greater part of your life. But when the feeling of envy arises in your heart, will you, my darling Amy, pray to God to help you, and teach you to remember that at your baptism you received the promise of infinitely greater happiness and glory than any which this world can give? And now you must finish your breakfast, or you will make yourself quite ill and unfit for the day's pleasure; and, after our reading and your morning lessons, we will have a very early dinner, so that we may have time to call at Colworth parsonage before we go to Emmerton. Mrs Saville has sent me word, that the story the poor girl told us the other evening is quite true, and I should like to inquire how her mother is."

Amy reseated herself at the breakfast-table; but she could not easily recover her spirits, and during the whole morning there was a grave tone in her voice, and a slight melancholy in her countenance, which only disappeared when Mr Walton's carriage came to the door at two o'clock, and she found herself actually on the road to Emmerton to receive her cousins. The increased distance by Colworth was about two miles, and, at another time, it would have added to her enjoyment to go by a new road; but every moment's unnecessary delay now made her feel impatient, and she was only quieted by her mamma's reminding her that her uncle could not possibly arrive before half-past four or five o'clock, and therefore it would be a pleasant way of spending the intervening time. "Besides," said Mrs Herbert, "we must not forget others, Amy, because we are happy ourselves; perhaps we may be of use to the poor woman." Amy sighed, and wished she could be like her mother, and never forget what was right; and the consciousness of one fault brought back the remembrance of another, and with it the morning's conversation; and this again reminded her of their last evening at Emmerton, and her mamma's story, till her mind became so occupied that she forgot the novelty of the road, and her impatience to be at the end of her journey; and when the carriage stopped at the gate at Colworth, she was thinking of what Mrs Herbert had said about her uncle Harrington, and the poor woman having the same prospect for the future, and wondering whether they either of them thought of it as her mamma seemed to do.

Mrs Saville was almost a stranger to Amy; but her kind manner quickly made her feel at ease, and she became much interested in the account that was given of the poor woman's sufferings, and the dutiful affection shown by her eldest girl.

"Is it the one, mamma, whom we saw at Emmerton?" whispered Amy.

"Yes," replied Mrs Saville, who had overheard the question; "she came home that evening almost happy, notwithstanding her mother's poverty and illness; for it had been the first time she had ever been obliged to beg, and she had begun to despair of getting anything, when your mamma was so good to her. I learned the whole story when she brought me the note, and scolded her a little for not coming to me at once; but we had done something for her before, and she did not like to ask again. I cannot think," she continued, turning to Mrs Herbert, "what the children will do; for the mother is rapidly sinking in a decline; and she tells me they have no near relation, excepting a grandmother, who is old and in want."

"How far off is their parish?" asked Mrs Herbert.

"About ten miles; it is impossible to think of their being moved now; for the poor woman can scarcely live more than a few days longer; yet the eldest girl seems to have no notion of her danger, and I dread the consequences of telling her, she is so fond of her mother."

"I should like to go to the cottage, if it is near," said Mrs Herbert; "or, at least, I should be glad to see the girl; for I suppose her mother had better not be disturbed."

"It will be very easy, if you desire it," replied Mrs Saville; "for the children are kept in a separate room. I should wish you to see the woman herself, if she were equal to the sight of a stranger, for I am sure you would be pleased with her contentment and resignation."

"May I go too?" asked Amy, when Mrs Saville left the room.

Mrs Herbert thought for a moment, and then replied, "You may, my dear, if you are willing to assist in helping these poor people; I mean by working for them, or doing anything else which may be in your power; but it never does any one good to go and see people who are suffering, merely from curiosity."

"I think, mamma," said Amy, "I should be very willing to do something for them, if you would tell me what it should be."

"We must see them before we are able to decide," replied Mrs Herbert; "but we shall soon know, for here is Mrs Saville ready for her walk."

The cottage was but a short distance from the parsonage, and on the road to Emmerton, and the carriage was ordered to meet them there, that Mrs Herbert might be spared any unnecessary fatigue. Cottage it could not well be called, for it was little more than a hovel, divided into two parts; but it was the only one vacant in the neighbourhood, and the poor woman had gladly availed herself of any shelter when she became so ill; and though Mrs Saville's kindness had made it assume a more comfortable appearance than it had done at first, it was still very destitute of furniture, and, to Amy's eyes, looked the picture of wretchedness. The eldest girl was attending to her mother, and the five younger ones playing before the door. At the appearance of the strangers, they all rushed into the house; but Mrs Saville was an old friend, and, at her order, Amy's former acquaintance, Susan Reynolds, was called in. At first, Amy thought she should scarcely have known her again,—she was looking so much neater than when she had seen her that evening at Emmerton; but she soon remembered her face, and the frightened manner which she still retained.

Mrs Herbert made many inquiries as to the state of the family,—who were their relations, what they intended to do, and whether any of them had ever been to school; and the girl showed by her answers that she had no idea of her mother's danger. When she got well, she said, they should all go home, and live with grandmother, and go to school. She had learned to read and write herself; but the little ones never had, only sometimes she had tried to teach them; but now her whole time was taken up in nursing, and it was all she could do to keep them out of mischief, and mend their clothes.

Amy looked with a wondering eye upon the poor girl, as she gave this account of herself, and thought how impossible it would be for her to do as much; and yet there seemed to be but a slight difference in their ages, and the advantages of health and strength were all on her side. Mrs Herbert also remarked Susan's sickly countenance, and asked some questions as to her general health, but she could get very little information. Susan's care was entirely given to others, and she thought but little of her own feelings. At times, she said, she was very tired, and she did not sleep well at night; but then the baby often cried, and she was anxious about her mother, and so it was very natural. Again Amy felt surprised as she remembered her comfortable bed, and her quiet sleep, and her mamma's watchfulness on the slightest appearance of illness.

"Does it not make you very unhappy," she asked, "to see your mother suffer so much?"

"Yes, Miss," replied the girl; "but then I think of the time when she will get well."

"But supposing she should never get well?" continued Amy.

Poor Susan started, as if the idea had never entered her head before; her eyes filled with tears; and, after a great struggle, she said, in a broken voice: "Mother hopes to go to heaven." As she spoke, Mrs Herbert looked at her child, and Amy knew what the look meant; for it reminded her of the conversation at Emmerton, and she understood how true her mamma's words on that evening had been; for her uncle Harrington, with all his riches, could not expect a greater comfort than this for his death-bed. Conscious, however, that she had been the cause of a great deal of pain, her chief desire now was to make some amends; and, as they were about to go away, she whispered to her mamma, "I should like so much to do something for her."

"I will ask what would be most useful," replied Mrs Herbert. "This young lady," she added, turning to Susan, "wishes to make something which may be of service to you. Should you like it to be a frock for yourself, or for one of the children?"

"For Bessy, ma'am, if you please," said Susan; "her frock is all in rags, and it was quite old when she first had it." Bessy, who had run into the road to avoid the strangers, was summoned, and her measure properly taken; and Mrs Herbert, slipping a shilling into Susan's hand, and telling her she should have the frock in a few days, left the cottage, followed by Mrs Saville and Amy. Mrs Saville promised to send word if any plan were proposed which could be a comfort to the poor woman, or an assistance to her children; and then, wishing her good morning, Mrs Herbert and Amy stepped into the carriage, and were once more on the way to Emmerton.

"My dear child," said Mrs Herbert, finding that Amy made no observation on what had passed, "are you sorry that you went with me?"

"Oh no! mamma," exclaimed Amy; "but I am sorry that I said anything to Susan about her mother not getting well. I am afraid I made her very miserable."

"It was thoughtless, my dear," replied Mrs Herbert; "not but what it is quite necessary that Susan should be prepared, but then it would have been better for Mrs Saville to have broken it to her gently. These things happen to us all, from our not remembering, when we talk to people, to put ourselves in their situation. You would not have said it, if you had called to mind what your own feelings would have been in a similar case."

"But, mamma, it is impossible to be always on the watch."

"It is very difficult, but not impossible," said Mrs Herbert; "habit will do wonders; and the earlier we begin thinking about other persons' feelings, the more easy it will be to us to do so always; and I wish you particularly to be careful now, my love, because you will probably be thrown much more amongst strangers than you have been; and half the quarrels and uncomfortable feelings that we witness in society, arise from some little awkwardness or thoughtlessness in speech without any offence being intended. Though you are so young, Amy, you may soon learn, by a little observation, what things are likely to pain people, and what are not."

"But," said Amy, "I thought it was always necessary to speak the truth."

"Yes," replied her mother, "it certainly is quite necessary whenever you are called upon to do it; for instance, if you had been asked whether you thought it likely that Mrs Reynolds would get well, it would have been quite right in you to say, no, because you had heard so from Mrs Saville; but there was no occasion for you to make the observation of your own accord."

"I think I know what you mean, mamma," said Amy; "but will you tell me one thing more? Why did you say it would do me no good to see the poor woman, if I did not mean to help her? I am sure, whether I could have done anything or not, I should have been very sorry for her."

"I should like to give a long answer to your question, my dear," answered Mrs Herbert; "but here we are at the lodge gate, and there is Stephen ready to welcome us, so we must leave it till another time."

"How quickly we have come!" exclaimed Amy. "Do, mamma, let me get out, and walk up to the house with Stephen; I want to hear what he says, and whether he is as impatient as I am."

But it was only the quick glance of the eye that betrayed Stephen's impatience, as he turned to look up the road by which Mr Harrington's carriage was expected to arrive. He seemed even little inclined for conversation, though Amy did her best to draw him out, as she one moment walked quietly by his side, then ran joyously before him, and then suddenly stopped to ask him some questions about the preparations that had been made. His dress, too, was different from what it usually had been, excepting when he appeared at church on a Sunday; and Amy saw the black crape round his hat, which told that he, like her mamma, could not feel unmixed pleasure in the return of his master's family to their former home.