Miss Cunningham looked, in answer, astonished at hearing such an observation from Emily Morton in her presence. She did not, however, think the remark worthy of reply in words, and continued her account of what she thought ought to be done, and then again repeated her intentions with regard to her dress, ending by saying to Amy, "I suppose you have a white muslin; that will be well enough, as you are such a child."
Dora's amazement at Miss Cunningham's boldness was so great that she made no attempt to prevent her following her own inclinations; besides, she rather enjoyed the thought of her being put down by Mrs Harrington, and therefore ate her dinner in dignified silence; whilst Amy, whose astonishment was not less than her cousin's, felt she had no right to interfere, though she did hope something would be said to induce Miss Cunningham to refrain from taking so great a liberty.
But, perhaps, Margaret was the person who felt most uncomfortable. At first the notion of a dance had been so agreeable that every objection was overlooked; but Dora's manner had recalled her to herself, and she began heartily to wish that the thing had never been mentioned; for if her mamma were spoken to, her name was sure to be brought forward; and when dinner was over, she endeavoured most anxiously to inspire her friend with a little awe, by hinting at her own fears, and Mrs Harrington's particularities. But she hinted in vain. Nothing but the plainest meaning in the plainest language could ever be understood by Miss Cunningham; and Margaret was at last obliged to beg that she would speak to her papa, and get the plan suggested by him.
Dora was in the room whilst this was passing, and still secretly desired that the original intention might be persisted in; and at first there appeared every probability of it; for Miss Cunningham stared, pouted, and seemed quite puzzled at the idea that anything she could say could be taken amiss. However, if Margaret were really silly enough to be afraid about such a trifle, she would do as she wished, but merely to please her; she only rejoiced that she was not kept in such leading-strings herself.
"It would be a good thing if you were," muttered Dora, as she sat by the window, looking with a careless eye upon the quiet, wintry beauty of the garden.
It would have appeared lovely and peaceful had the tone of her mind been the same; but the contrast was too great to please her. The bright sky brought no cheerfulness to a heart discontented with itself; it only caused a sigh for the vanished pleasures of the summer; and the white frost, which still hung on the evergreens, called forth nothing but an exclamation against the miserable cold weather, and the desolation, wretchedness, and dulness of everything and everybody in the month of December. Amy was gone for her walk with Miss Morton; Frank had set out for a ramble with his papa; they were stupid and disagreeable, and to be pardoned for leaving her behind, after she had refused the entreaties of both to go with them, only when they were compared with Margaret and Miss Cunningham, who was at that moment more unendurable than ever. She really could not remain any longer listening to her never-ending chattering; and in the most desperate fit of ill-humour, with which she had been afflicted for weeks, Dora put on her bonnet and cloak, and sallied forth for a solitary walk. In which direction to go she was undecided; the shrubbery was dull, the hill was cold, the park not fit for a winter's walk, and the terrace far too near the house to be agreeable; and, as a last resource, she determined on finding her way to Stephen's cottage, in the hope of meeting Amy, though she had never before taken the trouble to visit it.
The path led along the side of the hill, which was covered by the Emmerton plantations, and then emerged into some open fields, though one of which flowed the deep, rapid stream, which at Emmerton almost expanded into a lake. A wooden bridge across the water, and a narrow lane, then led to Stephen's cottage, which stood alone in its small, neat garden, showing, even in winter, symptoms of the care and taste bestowed upon it. The beauty of the walk was, however, wholly lost upon Dora; she only felt that it was very cold, and would have returned home could anything have been found within doors at all more alluring than the severity of the weather without. The sound of approaching voices first roused her from her discontented reverie; and, as she looked hastily round, she perceived her papa and Frank coming down the hill.
Mr Harrington expressed surprise at finding her alone so far from the house, and objected to her proceeding farther, laying some blame on Miss Morton for not having accompanied her. Dora's ill-humour did not interfere with her usual quick sense of justice; and lately she had become peculiarly sensible to the habit which prevailed at Emmerton, of making Miss Morton bear the burden of other people's faults; perhaps, too, some compunction for having occasionally been guilty of the same offence, though not in an equal degree, made her now very desirous of explaining the truth. Mr Harrington was easily satisfied; he had rather an interest in Miss Morton; she was so quiet and unobtrusive and lady-like, and never troubled him with complaints; but he insisted upon Frank's accompanying his sister, if she still wished to go farther; and though Dora declared there was no doubt of meeting Miss Morton in a few minutes, he would not hear of her being left alone—and Frank, much against his inclination, was obliged to remain.
CHAPTER XV.
"We had better go at once to the cottage, Frank," said Dora, when her father was gone; "we shall be sure to find them there; and I dare say they have been kept longer than they intended, talking to old Stephen."