Amy stole quietly to her side, and, with a look and voice which were fully understood, asked if she might be allowed to stand by her and turn over the leaves. There was a tear in Miss Morton's eye, though she smiled and thanked her, but Amy's attention gave her at that moment all that she required—the consciousness that some one was near who could feel for her; and in a short time she had recovered her self-command.
"Who was it I heard playing the airs in the last new opera, this morning?" said Mr Harrington, when Miss Morton had finished her piece. "Whoever it was seemed to me to be getting on extremely well."
Amy was going to answer, but Miss Cunningham prevented her. "I was trying them over after dinner," she said; "but I had never seen them before, and therefore, of course, I made one or two false notes."
"Oh!" exclaimed Dora, "there must be some mistake; for if you remember, you were at the piano just before I went out for my walk, and I heard you say you found them so difficult, you wondered any one could take the trouble to learn them. It must have been Amy—she has been regularly practising them."
"I don't know, indeed," replied Miss Cunningham, angrily; "I never heard her."
"I dare say Dora may be wrong," said Mr Harrington; "suppose you were to favour us now."
Miss Cunningham hesitated a little; but her self-confidence induced her to make the attempt, though it did not prevent her from blundering so sadly, that Mr Cunningham, in despair at the discordant sounds, at length walked to the piano, closed the book, and said in a low, stern voice, "Pray, Lucy, spare us any more; you must have known you could not play it in the least." There was no reply; for Miss Cunningham feared and respected her brother more than any one in the world, and saw that he was very much annoyed. Mr Harrington began to make excuses for her, and was unwilling that Amy should play instead; but he was forced to yield to Mr Cunningham's wish, and she was sent to the instrument; and, notwithstanding her alarm, satisfied every one that her talent for music was of a very superior kind. Even Lord Rochford, though vexed at his daughter's failure, could not help exclaiming, "Very good, very good, indeed—very correct time—who taught her, Harrington?"
"Her mamma was her only instructress for several years," replied Mr Harrington; "but latterly Miss Morton has taken her in hand, and I must say she does her infinite credit."
"Yes, certainly," said Lord Rochford, "very great credit indeed. What should you say, Lucy, to persuading Mrs Harrington to let you benefit a little by Miss Morton now, as a preparation for London? She would improve you, I dare say, even in these few days, and then when we were in London she might give you some hints as she saw you wanted them."
"Really," said Mrs Harrington, who thought this a very strange mode of appropriating the time and talents which were intended for the benefit of her own children, "it is quite useless to form any plans for London; I have every reason to be satisfied with the progress my children are making in the country, and shall not think of London masters at present; I have expressed my determination to your lordship in a very decided way from the first."