Читать книгу Amy Herbert - Elizabeth Missing Sewell - Страница 6

Table of Contents

As they entered the house, Amy's quick eye soon discovered the changes that had taken place since she was last there. A detachment of servants and a large quantity of furniture had arrived three days before; and Mrs Bridget was now in all her glory, putting the finishing stroke to everything, moving tables and chairs to suit her own taste, carefully effacing every symptom of dust, and ordering servants in all directions, partly because she thought they might as well be actively employed, and partly because she felt it was so grand to command tall men in livery. Her smart silk gown seemed to Amy's ears to rustle more audibly than ever as she met her in the hall, and there was a greater profusion of frills and ribbons about her wide-spreading cap, and, above all, a mixture of importance and bustle in her step, which, with the shrill voice and up-turned nose and chin, showed that she felt herself, for the time being, the superior of every one about her. Nevertheless, she received Amy most graciously, told her that she had persuaded Mrs Herbert to rest in the great drawing-room, and endeavoured to induce her to do the same; but this was quite contrary to Amy's inclinations, and the moment she could escape from Mrs Bridget's fine words, she ran off to see that her mamma was comfortable, and the next minute her light step was heard as she danced along the galleries exploring every room, new and old, to see what alterations were made in them. This was not quite according to Bridget's notions of propriety, and she muttered to herself that it would not do by and by,—Miss Amy would soon find out that the house was not hers; but her partiality got the better of her dignity, and Amy continued the search, till, having satisfied her curiosity, she stationed herself half way between the lodge and the house to watch for the carriage. Every moment seemed now an age; but she was not long kept in suspense; after about ten minutes, the rumbling of wheels was distinctly heard, and almost immediately afterwards the gates were thrown open, and a carriage and four drove rapidly down the avenue. Amy's heart beat quickly; she stood for a few moments looking at it, and then, half frightened as it came nearer and nearer, she ran at full speed towards the house that she might be the first to give the joyful intelligence to her mother. But Mrs Herbert's anxious ear had already caught the sound, and she was standing on the steps when her child flew to her almost breathless. Even in that moment of excitement, Amy could not help noticing the deadly paleness of her mother's face; but there was now no time for words, the carriage stopped at the door, and Mrs Herbert making a great effort to command her feelings, with a firm voice welcomed her brother and his family to Emmerton. Amy shrank behind her mamma, with but one wish, to avoid being observed by the tall grave-looking gentleman, whom she thought she never could call uncle; and Mrs Herbert, considering only her brother's painful feelings, suffered him to pass with but very few words. Mrs Harrington followed, and Amy scarcely remarked what her aunt was like, her whole mind being occupied with wondering whether the two fashionable-looking young ladies, who remained in the carriage searching for their baskets and books, could possibly be her own cousins.

"Which is Dora, mamma?" she whispered.

But Mrs Herbert moved forward, as her nieces ran up the steps, saying, "Your mamma has left me to introduce myself, my dear girls. I can hardly imagine you have any remembrance of your aunt Herbert and your cousin Amy. I suppose I shall not be mistaken in calling you Dora," she added, as she kissed the one who, from her height and general appearance, was evidently the eldest.

Amy's first curiosity was thus set at rest, but in its stead she was seized with an overpowering feeling of shyness. Dora looked almost as awful a person as her papa, whom she very much resembled. There was the same high forehead, dark eye, rather large nose, and haughty curl of the lip; and her height, which was unusual at her age, gave the idea of her being at least two years older than she really was; and Amy turned to Margaret in despair of finding anything like a companion; but Margaret had a much younger face, and slighter figure, though she also was tall; and if her dress and manner had been less like those of a grown-up person, Amy might, perhaps, have felt more comfortable.

"You are quite right, aunt," said Dora, in a sharp, loud voice, which sounded disagreeably in Amy's ears, after the gentle tones to which she had listened from her infancy; "I am Dora, and this is Margaret, and there is little Rose behind."

"I begin to think," said Mrs Herbert, "that, after all, Rose will be Amy's best playfellow; we were neither of us quite prepared for anything so tall and womanly, and Amy is such a tiny child, you will think her more fit for the nursery than the school-room, I suspect."

"Is this Amy?" said Dora, giving her first a patronising tap on the shoulder, and then a hasty kiss; "I dare say we shall be very good friends." And without another word she ran into the house.

"I am sure we shall," said Margaret, in a more affectionate tone, and Amy, who had been chilled by Dora's manner, returned her embrace most cordially.

"I must give little Rose a kiss before we go into the drawing-room," said Mrs Herbert, "and perhaps, Margaret, you will introduce me to Miss Morton."

Margaret stared, as if she did not quite understand her aunt's meaning. "Oh!" she said, "there is no occasion for that, we never do it with her; but, to be sure," she continued, seeing that Mrs Herbert looked grave, "if you like it. Simmons, help Miss Morton down."

The footman moved forward a few steps, lifted little Rose from the carriage, and then held out his hand to Miss Morton, who was seated by the side of the lady's maid.

"Which is Miss Morton?" asked Mrs Herbert, in a low voice, much puzzled between two silk gowns, two silk bonnets, and two lace veils.

"Well, that is amusing!" exclaimed Margaret, pertly, and bursting into a short, conceited laugh. "Certainly Morris is the nicest-looking of the two. Morris, my aunt did not know you and Emily Morton apart."

Amy felt very uncomfortable at this speech, though she scarcely knew why; and even Margaret, when the words were uttered, seemed conscious they were wrong; for, with a heightened colour, and without waiting to introduce Mrs Herbert, she seized Amy's hand, and turned quickly away.

"Miss Morton will, I am sure, willingly pardon a mistake which only distance could have caused," said Mrs Herbert, as she looked with interest at the delicate features and sweet expression of the peculiarly lady-like young girl, whose face had become like crimson on hearing Margaret's thoughtless speech. "I ought to know you; for I well remember seeing you some years ago, when I was staying with my brother at Wayland Court; but you were then such a child, that I confess I find a considerable alteration."

The answer to this was given in a low, hurried tone, for Emily Morton had lately been so little accustomed to civility, that it confused her almost as much as neglect. She seemed only anxious to divert Mrs Herbert's attention from herself to little Rose as soon as possible; and whispering to the child to go with her aunt into the drawing-room, she herself followed the lady's-maid in a different direction. Amy was by this time rather more at her ease; and when Mrs Herbert entered, she was standing by her uncle, and had found courage to say a few words. Mrs Harrington was leaning back on the sofa, taking but slight notice of anything; and Dora and Margaret were examining the furniture, and making remarks which were far from pleasing to Amy's ears. The room was so dark, and the windows were so deep, and the furniture was so very old-fashioned, they were quite sure they never could be happy in such a strange place; and after the first observations about the journey were over, Amy began to feel still more uncomfortable; for she fancied that her mamma wished her to be away, that she might talk to her uncle and aunt, and yet her cousins showed no intention of leaving the room. At last, surprised at her own boldness, she whispered to Dora, who was standing next her, "Should you not like to see the house up-stairs?"

Dora turned sharply round, and Amy could not quite understand the tone of her voice, as she said, "I suppose you wish to do the honours."

"Amy, my love," said Mrs Herbert, who had overheard the question and answer, "you must recollect that your cousins are at home; they will go up-stairs when they please."

Poor Amy felt puzzled and vexed; she had meant no harm, and yet both her mamma and Dora seemed annoyed. She did not, however, venture to say anything further, and was quite relieved when Mr Harrington remarked that it was a good notion, the girls had better go and choose their rooms at once, and settle themselves a little; and by that time they would be ready, perhaps, for their tea, as they had all dined on the road quite early.

Amy hung back, afraid of again doing something which her cousin might not like; but Margaret called to her to follow them, and in a few moments she had forgotten her discomfort in the pleasure of showing the different apartments, and pointing out all their several advantages. But Dora and Margaret were very difficult to please: one room was too small, another too large; one looked out at the back, and another at the side; one was too near the drawing-room, and another too far off. Still Amy did not care; for she had determined in her own mind that they would decide upon the bedroom oriel, which was just over the old schoolroom.

"Well! this really does seem as if it would do," said Margaret, as they entered. "Do look, Dora; it is the prettiest room in the whole house, and has the prettiest view, too; and the dressing-room is so large and nice."

"I care very little which room I have," said Dora, who was looking grave and unhappy. "The house is so sad and melancholy, it is all much the same; we shall never be happy here."

"Not happy!" said Amy. "Oh yes! by and by you will; it never seems gloomy to me."

"That is because you have always been accustomed to it," replied Dora.

"If you had seen Wayland Court, you would think nothing of this."

"Dora is determined not to be happy," said Margaret; and then she added, in a whisper to Amy, "She was so very fond of poor Edward."

Dora evidently heard the words; for the tears rushed to her eyes, and she bit her lip and began walking about examining the pictures; but the painting which hung over the mantel-piece quite overcame all attempt at composure. It was the picture of Mr Harrington's grandfather, taken when a boy. He was represented riding in the park, on a spirited pony; and both Dora and Margaret saw in a moment the likeness to their brother. It was not natural for Dora to give way to any display of feeling; but she had suffered very much during her brother's illness,—and this, with her regret at leaving Wayland, the fatigue of the journey, and what she considered to be the gloom of the house, entirely overpowered her; and Amy, who had never been accustomed to the sight of any grief, except her mamma's quiet tears, became frightened. Margaret, too, looked astonished, but neither said nor did anything to assist or comfort her sister; and Amy, having exhausted all the kind expressions she could think of, at last remembered Mrs Herbert's infallible remedy of a glass of water, which soon enabled Dora, in some degree, to recover herself. At first she took but little notice of Amy, who stood by her side, begging her to try and be happy; in fact, like many other proud persons, she felt annoyed that she had given way so much before a mere child, as she considered her cousin to be; but there was no withstanding the winning tones of Amy's voice, and the perfect sincerity of her manner; and when, at last, she became silent, and looked almost as unhappy as herself, Dora's haughtiness was quite subdued, and she exclaimed, "I must love you, Amy; for no one else would care whether I were miserable or not."

Amy was surprised at the idea of any person's seeing others suffer and not feeling for them; but, rejoicing in the success of her efforts, she now tried to divert Dora's attention, by talking of the conveniences of the room, and the view from the window. It was, at length, quite decided that they should occupy it, and the bell was forthwith rung to summon Morris. But the summons was given in vain; no Morris appeared. Again and again the rope was pulled, but no footsteps were heard in answer. Dora became irritated and Margaret fretful; and, after a considerable delay, Amy proposed that, as she knew the way to the housekeeper's room, she should try and find out Morris, who was very probably there. The thought of the strange servants was certainly alarming; but then her cousins were in distress, and she could help them; and, overcoming her timidity, she set off on what appeared to her quite an expedition. Boldly and quickly she threaded her way through the dark, winding passages, every turn of which had been familiar to her from her childhood. But when she stopped at the head of the back staircase, and listened to the hubbub of voices in the servants' hall, her first fears returned. Even Bridget's shrill tones were drowned in the medley of sound, and Amy looked in vain, in the hope of seeing her cross the passage. After a few moments, however, she felt inclined to laugh at her own shyness, and ran quickly down, determining to inquire for Morris of the first person she met. The servants were rushing to and fro in every direction, in all the important bustle of a first arrival, and one or two pushed by without taking any notice of her; but Amy, having resolved not to be daunted, still went on; and, as a door suddenly opened immediately at her side, and a tall female servant (as she imagined), dressed in deep mourning, entered the passage, she turned eagerly to her, pulled her gown, and begged to know where Morris was to be found. To her extreme consternation, her aunt's voice answered quickly and angrily—"Who is this? Amy here! how very improper, amongst all the servants! Why did you not ring the bell, child? Go away, this moment."

Amy's first impulse was to obey as fast as possible; but she knew she was doing no harm; and a few words, which her fright, however, made it difficult to utter, soon explained to Mrs Harrington the cause of her appearance there. Morris was instantly summoned, and Amy returned to her cousins to recount her adventure.

"You don't mean to say mamma saw you amongst all the servants?" exclaimed Margaret. "Well! I would not have been you for something; it is just the very thing she most objects to. I have heard her lecture by the hour about it; we have never been allowed to go within a mile of the kitchen; and even little Rose, though she is such a baby, is kept just as strict."

"Well, but," said Amy, "why did you let me go, if you knew my aunt would object?"

"Oh!" said Margaret, "you offered, and I thought mamma was safe in the drawing-room."

"And we wanted Morris," interrupted Dora, "I hate false excuses."

Amy felt rather angry, and thought she should not have done the same by them; but everything this evening was so very new and strange, that she kept all her feelings to herself for the present, to be talked over with her mamma when they got home.

"But were you not very much frightened?" continued Margaret. "What did you say when mamma spoke to you?"

"I was frightened just at first," replied Amy; "but then I knew I was not doing anything wrong, and so I did not really care."

"Well, if you are not the boldest little thing I ever met with," said

Margaret; "even Dora would have cared, if she had been you."

"It is no use to say any more," exclaimed Dora, in rather an irritated voice, for she prided herself upon caring for nobody; "we must leave off talking now, and proceed to work. I am resolved to have all my things unpacked, and settled to-night; so I shall choose my drawers and closets, and say where I will have them put, and then Morris may as well begin."

"But it is so late. Miss," said poor Morris, who was quite exhausted with the packing of the previous night, and the fatigue of the long day's journey; "and yours and Miss Margaret's things are mixed, many of them."

Dora coloured, and said angrily, "You forget yourself, Morris; I have told you that I choose to have my boxes unpacked to-night."

Amy longed to petition for a little mercy; but she was beginning to learn not to interfere where she had no power, and Dora immediately walked round the room to examine drawers and closets, and to give directions, while Morris stood by, the picture of despairing fatigue. Margaret was too indolent to give herself much trouble about the matter, and Amy was rather astonished to see that Dora did not consult her in the least. She chose the best of everything for herself; and when Morris inquired what Miss Margaret wished to have done, the only answer she could get was, that it did not signify; at any rate, to-morrow would be quite soon enough to settle, for she was far too tired to think about it now; and Morris, thankful for even a partial respite, asked for no more orders, but hastened away to make the proper selection of trunks and imperials. Dora and Margaret then arranged their dress and went down-stairs to tea, followed by Amy, who felt alarmed as she thought of encountering her aunt's eye after her misdemeanour. Mrs Harrington, however, took but little notice of her; she had in some degree recovered her energy, and was able to exert herself at the tea-table: and as whatever she did always occupied her whole attention, she seemed to be quite engrossed in cups and saucers, milk and cream; and Amy placed herself at the farthest distance from her, taking care to have the urn between them, and reserving a place at her side for her mamma, who was standing at the window, talking in a low voice to Mr Harrington. But when the labour of tea-making was over, Mrs Harrington was able to think of other things, and her first inquiry was, what the girls thought of their rooms, and why they had been obliged to send Amy into the servants' hall.

"I suppose there is no bell, mamma," said Dora; "for we rang a great many times, but no one came."

"Where was Miss Morton?" said Mrs Harrington; "she ought to have been with you; it would not signify her going amongst the servants, but it was highly improper for your cousin."

"Emily Morton always thinks she has enough to do to take care of herself," said Margaret; "she is not over-fond of helping any one."

This struck Amy as very unjust; for Miss Morton had not been told where they were, and, of course, was not to blame. She was not aware that it was usual with Mrs Harrington to put upon Miss Morton everything that went wrong; and that she was expected to be at hand to assist Dora and Margaret on all occasions, no one considering for an instant whether the expectation were reasonable or unreasonable.

"But, mamma," said Dora, "I must tell you that Emily did not know we were gone to our rooms, so we ought not to find fault with her."

"But I do find fault with her, Dora," replied Mrs Harrington; "she knows very well what is expected of her, and she ought to have inquired whether she could be of any use to you."

"But, mamma,"—persisted Dora.

"I will not hear any buts, Dora; I must be the best judge of what Miss

Morton's duties are; you are not generally so apt to take her part."

"Only I hate injustice," muttered Dora, in a sulky tone.

"And I can't bear Emily Morton," whispered Margaret, who was sitting next Amy.

"Can't bear her!" exclaimed Amy.

"Hush! hush!" said Margaret; "I don't want every one to hear."

Amy would have repeated her exclamation in a lower voice, but Mrs Herbert now approached the tea-table, and began asking questions of her nieces, and trying as much as possible to make herself at home with them. Dora's answers were rather pert, and Margaret's rather affected; but neither Mr nor Mrs Harrington checked them in the least, and Amy felt annoyed at hearing them speak to her mamma almost as familiarly as if she had been of their own age. She herself sat perfectly silent, too much in awe of her aunt's grave looks to venture an observation, and quite amused with watching what passed, and remarking to herself upon the magnificence of the silver tea-urn and its appendages, and the profusion of things with which the table was covered, so different from what she was accustomed to see at the cottage. She was not sorry, however, when her mamma proposed ordering the carriage; for the novelty of everything did not quite make up for the restraint she was under. She was afraid not only of her uncle and aunt, but even of the footmen when they came near, and she anxiously observed Dora and Margaret, thinking she could not do wrong in imitating them.

"We shall see you to-morrow at the cottage, I hope," said Mrs Herbert to her brother, when the carriage was announced.

Mrs Harrington answered for him in a short, ungracious manner—"I don't know, indeed, there will be so much to arrange; perhaps the girls may manage it; but Mr Harrington's time and mine will be completely occupied."

"I shall come and see you as soon as possible, you may be quite sure," said Mr Harrington; "it is too great a pleasure to talk over everything with you, for me not to seize all opportunities of doing so; though perhaps to-morrow, as Charlotte says, I may be very busy."

"Then we will expect the girls alone," replied Mrs Herbert. "Amy is longing to do the honours of the cottage; and, if they come about one o'clock, they can have their luncheon with us."

Amy added her entreaties, and Margaret, with a great many kisses, declared it would be the thing of all others she should most enjoy: while Dora simply said, "Good night," and expressed no pleasure about the matter. When Amy found herself alone with her mamma, her first wish was to talk over all that had passed, but Mrs Herbert was looking very pale and exhausted, and her child had lately learned to watch every change in her countenance, and to understand in a moment when it was necessary for her to be silent; she therefore said but little during their drive home; and it was not till Mrs Herbert was seated in the arm-chair in her own room, that Amy ventured to express her feelings. "I may talk to you now, mamma," she said, "for there is no rumbling of the carriage to worry you; but you did look so ill when we left Emmerton, that I did not like to do it."

"Yes, my dear," said Mrs Herbert, "it has been a very trying day; but you shall ease your mind before you go to sleep, and tell me how you like your cousins, and everything you have been doing, and saying, and feeling."

"The doing and saying will be easy enough," replied Amy; "but, dear mamma, it was all so strange, I cannot tell at all what I have been feeling; and then I cannot make up my mind about anything, and that puzzles me. I always fancied I should be able to tell at once what I liked and disliked; but all the way home I have been trying to find out which of my cousins is the nicest; and one moment I think one thing, and the next another. And then the house was so changed with the different furniture, that it seemed quite like another place; only not quite another either, more like what the cottage seems to me in my dreams; and then I am so afraid of my aunt, and I think I made her angry—but I must tell you about that presently. I was so frightened at the men-servants too, there were such a number; and that one with the black hair, who was not in livery, is so like Mr Saville of Colworth, that I thought at first he was going to speak to me."

Mrs Herbert smiled. "You have certainly contrived to get a curious medley in your head, Amy; but you will never be able to talk over all these things to-night, it is getting so late."

"No, mamma," said Amy, "I feel as if there would be something to say if I were to go on till to-morrow; but I should care for nothing else if I could only make out which of my cousins I like best."

"But," said Mrs Herbert, "it is hardly possible to settle such a weighty matter, on so short an acquaintance; probably if you decided it to-night, you would change again to-morrow. I dare say it will take some time before you can know them sufficiently well, really to make up your mind."

"Well," sighed Amy, "I suppose I must leave it. I think, though, I like Margaret, because she is affectionate; and Dora, because she seems to speak just what she means; but I liked Margaret much better when we were alone, than when she was talking to you, mamma; her voice and all seemed quite different."

"And what did you think of Rose?" asked Mrs Herbert.

"Oh! I only saw her for a moment; she looked as if she must be a darling little thing, she is so very pretty; but, mamma, I cannot understand about Miss Morton. Is she a lady?"

"Yes, my dear, certainly; she is the daughter of a clergyman."

"But, then, where was she all the evening? She did not come in at tea-time."

"I believe she generally spends the evenings alone," replied Mrs

Herbert, "as I told you the other day."

"It seems so strange," said Amy; "and Margaret told me she could not bear her, so I suppose she must be very disagreeable."

"You must not judge of people merely from what you hear, but from what you see of them too," said Mrs Herbert; "so don't determine upon poor Miss Morton's being disagreeable till you are more acquainted with her; she seemed to me to be very gentle and ladylike."

"I feel as if I never should be able to decide about any one now," sighed Amy, "I am so very puzzled; and I am not quite sure whether I have been happy to-night."

"My dear child," said Mrs Herbert, "I must send you to bed, for I am sure if you sit up thinking and talking any more you will be unfit for everything to-morrow. I only wish you to tell me what you could have done to make your aunt angry with you."

Amy repeated the history of her adventure, but Mrs Herbert made no observation upon it; and she was then sent to her room to prepare for bed.

"You will come back to me when you are ready to read," said Mrs Herbert.

And in about half an hour's time Amy reappeared with her Bible.

"It seems so nice and quiet," she said, "to be able to sit down with you quite alone, mamma, after seeing so many people; and I think I shall go to sleep better when I have read my psalm as usual."

"I hope you will always find it a blessing to read your Bible, my dear; and I know myself that it is peculiarly so when we have been much excited; there is something so calm and soothing in it."

Amy read her psalm, and did not attempt to say anything more about Emmerton, for she had always been taught that her last thoughts, before she slept, should be of God and heaven rather than of the things of earth; only, as Mrs Herbert bent over her, to give her the last kiss, she said, "Mamma, may I tell you one thing which came into my head to-night? You know I have read in the Bible, and have heard people talk about the world, and that there are temptations in it, and that we ought to avoid it; and I never could quite understand this, because it seemed that I had no world, for you always do what is right, and there is no evil in the trees and flowers; and one day you said that the world was different to everybody, and that it meant the things which tempted us to do wrong; and to-night, when I was saying my prayers, I recollected that I had felt angry with my cousins, and that you had said, 'that perhaps being with them would make me envious;' and then it came into my head, that perhaps Emmerton will be my world—do you think it will?"

"Most probably it may be," said Mrs Herbert.

"But then, mamma, will it be right to go there?"

"It is not right to shut ourselves up from our relations, and so lose opportunities of learning good from them, or setting them a good example," replied her mother. "If your cousins are better than yourself, they will, I hope, be of great use to you; and if they are not, you may try and benefit them. Your being envious and angry is your fault, not theirs; and if you were never to see them again, you would still have the same bad feelings in your mind. Renouncing the world does not mean shutting ourselves up and never seeing any one, but it does mean trying to avoid unnecessary occasions of temptation, as well as to overcome sin; and you will avoid the world, not by keeping away from your cousins, but by striving against evil feelings and actions when you are with them, and not allowing yourself to envy them because they are richer, and live in a larger house."

"I should like to talk a great deal more, mamma," said Amy, "only I am so sleepy."

"We must have some more conversation to-morrow," said Mrs Herbert, as she left the room. And in two minutes Amy had forgotten all her difficulties and all her pleasures, in the deep, calm repose which few but children can enjoy.