Susan Reynolds here interrupted them with a message from Mrs Herbert; and Amy left Miss Morton with her mind in an uncomfortable state, having forgotten the pleasure of her visit to the rectory, and thinking only of the difficulties of the next week, and of all the strange faces she was to see.
CHAPTER XIII.
The morning of Christmas-day was in every respect as bright and beautiful as Amy could possibly have desired. The clear sky was unclouded, and its brilliant blue was rendered only the more lovely from its contrast with the leafless branches which were pencilled against it. The lawn glittered like a sheet of silver, and the dark hues of the holly and the laurel exhibited in full perfection the richness of the crimson berries, and the delicacy of the pure hoar-frost with which they were covered. There was an elastic feeling in the air, which would have given strength and refreshment even to the weary watcher by the bed of sickness. All nature seemed to rejoice, and Amy awoke to rejoice also. Too young to have anxiety for the future, or sorrow for the past, she felt only that she was in the place she most delighted in, under the care of the mother whose only wish was for her happiness, and surrounded by all the means of enjoyment that wealth could give. True, the wealth was not her own; but it was, at that moment, entirely devoted to her comfort, and the present was too full of pleasure to leave any space for envy and discontent. Even the remembrance of her father could not check the gaiety of her spirit, for she had not yet learned to feel that "hope deferred maketh the heart sick." Every day brought with it the expectation of hearing from him; and when the expectation was disappointed, there was left in its stead, not the wretchedness of doubt, but the blessing of hope for the morrow.
Her first thought on that morning was given to her mother; the next to her cousin Frank. He had arrived late the night before, so late, that she had been only able to remark the mixture of delight at his return home, and sad recollection of the one missing, who ought to have welcomed him, which had been shown by all, and by none more than Dora; and Mrs Herbert, unwilling to be any restraint upon them, had sent Amy to bed, and soon after retired herself.
This had been rather disappointing; but Amy had satisfied herself that he seemed very lively, and was more like Margaret than Dora; and for any further knowledge she was obliged to wait in patience till the breakfast-hour. It was usual for her cousins to breakfast in the schoolroom with Miss Morton; but on Christmas-day there was an exception to almost every general rule, and they were all to be together, even Miss Morton being admitted as one of the party, although the little attention that was shown her, nothing indeed beyond the merest civility, made it an occasion of far more pain than pleasure.
Frank, when he appeared, was in the highest possible spirit, full of his school adventures, and the characters of his playfellows, and told several stories in the regular school-boy slang, which Amy could not at all understand; but his presence took off much of the stiffness and restraint which every one else seemed to feel before Mrs Harrington; and she herself occasionally relaxed into something like a smile as she listened to his merry laugh. Amy had rather dreaded the society of a boy—she had never been accustomed to it, and imagined he must be boisterous and rude; but with all his spirits, Frank Harrington was still so gentlemanly that she soon felt at ease.
"Will the carriage be wanted to go to church this morning?" said Mr Harrington. "Amy, my dear, do you think your mamma will venture out this cold weather?"
Amy was afraid not; she had been to her mamma's room, and had found her so tired and unwell, that it was most probable she would not come down-stairs till the middle of the day.
An expression of anxiety and disappointment came over Mr Harrington's countenance. "That is bad news for Christmas-day," he said. "I would give a great deal, Amy, to procure your dear mamma such a bright colour as you have. I well remember the time when she would have walked to Emmerton church and back twice, and laughed at the notion of being tired afterwards."
"Every one in these days is grown weak and sickly," said Mrs Harrington, in her usual severe manner; "that is, if they are not so really, they fancy it."