Amy Herbert

by Elizabeth Missing Sewell

"I think it served us right," said Mary Warner. "I felt it was wrong all the time, only it amused me so."

"Well! there is no use in troubling ourselves about it," said Julia; "he is neither father, brother, nor cousin to any of us, and most probably we shall never see him again after to-morrow; so do let the matter rest."

Amy thought that the never seeing him again could not make any difference in the action; but it was not her place to speak. She only felt glad that Mr Cunningham would not consider her unfeeling and forgetful of his kindness, and wondered at Julia's appearing so indifferent to the thought of having given pain, for she continued laughing and talking as before, and trying to make the others do the same. Her efforts, however, were not quite successful; the circumstance had cast a blank over their enjoyment, and many anxious eyes were turned to the door to see if Mr Cunningham were likely to appear again, and all felt relieved when the conjurer was announced, and the rest of the company came into the room. Mr Cunningham was with them, but their thoughts were now diverted from him, though they all remarked that he took especial notice of Amy, and placed her by his side in the best position for seeing everything.

Amy was grateful for his kindness, but wished it had been differently shown. At first she felt uneasy in her rather elevated situation, and she dreaded very much lest he should begin talking, and especially lest he should refer to what had passed; but this evening he was peculiarly silent; and Amy soon forgot everything but the delight of seeing flowers grow out of egg-shells, chickens hatched in a gentleman's hat, rings and brooches found in the possession of every one but their right owners, and all the other wonders which made the conjurer appear to possess some unearthly power. She hardly wished for an explanation of them, and felt quite vexed when she heard Henry Dornford whisper to Frank that some of the tricks were quite nonsense—things he could do himself; while Mr Cunningham rose in her favour when he told her that great part of the exhibition was beyond his comprehension, and that what Henry had said was merely a school-boy's boast. It seemed now less difficult to believe the marvellous stones of fairies and genii which she had so often read, and she was considering in her own mind whether Aladdin's lamp might not actually be in existence at that moment, when the green curtain fell, and they were again left to the realities of every-day life. There was an exclamation of regret from all the party, with the exception of Miss Cunningham, who said she was tired of sitting in a dark room. Even little Rose, though she rubbed her eyes, and was almost inclined to cry from mere weariness, begged that the funny man might come back again, or that at least she might have one of the eggs with the pretty flowers in it; and Amy secretly wished the same thing, though she was ashamed to own it when she found every body laughing at Rose and promising her sugar plums and sweetmeats to pacify her.

Miss Cunningham was the first to follow Mrs Harrington to the drawing-room, and to propose that they should begin dancing immediately—a proceeding which excited considerable surprise in Amy's mind, and induced Mr Cunningham to take his sister aside, and beg her to remember that she was not in her own house, and therefore it could not be her place to make suggestions. Dancing did, however, commence almost immediately. Emily Morton was placed at the piano, and no one but Amy appeared to consider that the trouble given required either thanks or apology. It was her business and her duty; and whether agreeable or not, it was a subject of trifling moment. Amy indeed had more leisure to think about it than the rest; for the number of dancers being unequal, she was the only one left out. Dora and Margaret had been first thought of by every one, and Mrs Harrington had taken care of the visitors; but Amy had no claim; she was looked upon as sufficiently at home to be left to herself, and not of consequence enough to be noticed; and the quadrille was formed, and the music had begun, before any one recollected her. Not to dance was rather a relief, but not to be asked was a neglect to which poor Amy was peculiarly alive. The occupations of the last few days had been too varied and interesting to leave much time for her old feelings to return, and she had fancied that they would never trouble her again; but now, as she stood by Miss Morton's side, the only one of the young party who was disengaged, they pressed upon her mind most painfully. Had her mother been in the room, she would have felt it much less; but Mrs Herbert seldom came down when so many persons were present, and Amy in consequence was completely alone. It was the gayest scene she had ever witnessed, and the bright lights and the joyous music alone, would at another time have given her thorough enjoyment; but now they were only a source of discontent, for they were looked upon as intended for others and not for her. She watched Dora, and thought how delightful it would be to be like her, the object of general attention, and she listened to the whispered admiration of Margaret's beauty, till she fancied for the moment that to be beautiful must constitute happiness. But Amy's delusion did not last long; she turned from her cousins to Emily Morton, and the sight of her in some measure recalled better feelings. With beauty, elegance, and goodness, she was as unnoticed as herself. She had no mother, no friends; her daily life was one of wearying mortification and self-denial; and yet Emily Morton had never been heard to utter a single murmur. She had never been known to compare her lot with others, or to wonder why she was deprived of the comforts enjoyed by them; and her heart was a perpetual well-spring of quiet gratitude, which made the heaviest trials of her life sources of improvement to herself, and of blessing to those around her. Even at that moment, her sweet smile and cheerful voice, as she begged to be told whether she was playing to please them, were a lesson which Amy could not but profit by, for she knew that in Emily's place she should have felt very differently; and she sighed, as the thought crossed her mind how difficult it would be to imitate her. She did, however, make the effort at once, and, when Dora approached, tried to speak gaily and to overcome her vexation; but a second and a third quadrille were formed, and still she was not asked to dance; and then the tears rushed to her eyes, and she longed to steal away unobserved, and go to her mamma for the remainder of the evening. Yet she was too shy to venture across the room by herself, and nothing was to be done but to sit quietly in the corner, watching the others, and trying not to be envious of them. Mr Cunningham would willingly have done his utmost to amuse her; but he was obliged to dance himself to make up the set, and it was not till the termination of the third quadrille that he came to her and began talking. Amy was getting accustomed to his voice, and found his conversation such a relief to her loneliness, that it restored her to a feeling of something like pleasure. She was certain also, from his manner, that he had overheard what had passed in the saloon; for, although his behaviour to Henry Dornford, and the rest of the party, was exactly the same as usual, yet he was evidently more anxious to please her than he had ever been before, and she felt his kindness peculiarly after the disappointment she had suffered. She could not, however, quite recover her accustomed cheerfulness even when at length she did join the quadrille; and the enjoyment of the evening was almost lost, especially when she thought how she had looked forward to it, and compared her brilliant expectations with the unlooked-for reality.

CHAPTER XXII.

But there was a greater trial awaiting poor Amy's feelings, on that evening, than any she could suffer from neglect. Tired with dancing, she had seated herself in the most retired part of the room, and was half hidden by the window-curtain, when Mrs Danvers and another lady approached, and, without observing who was near, began to remark aloud upon what was going on. At first Amy was amused; she supposed, from their speaking so openly, that they had no wish for privacy, and all they said was of so trifling a nature, and mentioned so good-naturedly, that no pain could have been excited, even if it had been repeated publicly.

The conversation continued for some time, and Amy, feeling weary of her position, was wishing to move, when there was a general press towards the door near which she was standing, and which led into the library, where refreshments had been prepared; and as she stepped aside to make room for others to pass on, it became necessary for her to remain where she was till they were all gone. Mrs Danvers and her friend were nearly in the same situation, and still continued talking, as if perfectly careless whether they were overheard or not.

"Did you see that little girl," said Mrs Danvers, "who danced the last quadrille with Frank Harrington?"

"Yes," was the reply; "I had not noticed her before all the evening. Who is she?"