‘You have been spending a great deal of time with him of late, very sensibly and pleasantly, I know; I don’t blame you at all, my dear, so you need not look distressed. I only want you to be careful. You know, though we call him cousin, he is scarcely a relation at all.’
‘O mamma, don’t go on,’ said poor little Amy, hurriedly; ‘indeed I am very sorry!’
For Amy understood that it was imputed to her that she had been forward and unmaidenly. Mrs. Edmonstone saw her extreme distress, and, grieved at the pain she had inflicted, tried to reassure her as much as might be safe.
‘Indeed, my dear, you have done nothing amiss. I only intended to tell you to be cautious for fear you should get into a way of going on which might not look well. Don’t make any great difference, I only meant that there should not be quite so much singing and gardening alone with him, or walking in the garden in the evening. You can manage to draw back a little, so as to keep more with me or with Laura, and I think that will be the best way.’
Every word, no matter what, increased the burning of poor Amy’s cheeks. A broad accusation of flirting would have been less distressing to many girls than this mild and delicate warning was to one of such shrinking modesty and maidenly feeling. She had a sort of consciousness that she enjoyed partaking in his pursuits, and this made her sense of confusion and shame overwhelming. What had she been thoughtlessly doing? She could not speak, she could not look. Her mother put her arm round her, and Amy hid her head on her shoulder, and held her fast. Mrs. Edmonstone kissed and caressed the little fluttering bird, then saying, ‘Good night, my own dear child,’ unloosed her embrace.
‘Good night, dear mamma,’ whispered Amy. ‘I am very sorry.’
‘You need not be sorry, my dear, only be careful. Good night.’ And it would be hard to say whether the mother or the daughter had the hottest cheeks.
Poor little Amy! what was her dismay as she asked herself, again and again, what she had been doing and what she was to do? The last was plain,—she knew what was right, and do it she must. There would be an end of much that was pleasant, and a fresh glow came over her as she owned how very, very pleasant; but if it was not quite the thing,—if mamma did not approve, so it must be. True, all her doings received their zest from Guy,—her heart bounded at the very sound of his whistle, she always heard his words through all the din of a whole party,—nothing was complete without him, nothing good without his without his approval,—but so much the more shame for her. It was a kind of seeking him which was of all things the most shocking. So there should be an end of it,—never mind the rest! Amy knelt down, and prayed that she might keep her resolution.
She did not know how much of her severity towards herself was learned from the example that had been two years before her. Nor did she think whether the seeking had been mutual; she imagined it all her own doing, and did not guess that she would give pain to Guy by withdrawing herself from him.
The morning gave vigour to her resolution, and when Laura came to ask what mamma thought of their project, Amy looked confused—said she did not know—she believed it would not do. But just then in came her mother, to say she had been considering of the expedition, and meant to join it herself. Amy understood, blushed, and was silently grateful.