"That is because you have always been accustomed to it," replied Dora.
"If you had seen Wayland Court, you would think nothing of this."
"Dora is determined not to be happy," said Margaret; and then she added, in a whisper to Amy, "She was so very fond of poor Edward."
Dora evidently heard the words; for the tears rushed to her eyes, and she bit her lip and began walking about examining the pictures; but the painting which hung over the mantel-piece quite overcame all attempt at composure. It was the picture of Mr Harrington's grandfather, taken when a boy. He was represented riding in the park, on a spirited pony; and both Dora and Margaret saw in a moment the likeness to their brother. It was not natural for Dora to give way to any display of feeling; but she had suffered very much during her brother's illness,—and this, with her regret at leaving Wayland, the fatigue of the journey, and what she considered to be the gloom of the house, entirely overpowered her; and Amy, who had never been accustomed to the sight of any grief, except her mamma's quiet tears, became frightened. Margaret, too, looked astonished, but neither said nor did anything to assist or comfort her sister; and Amy, having exhausted all the kind expressions she could think of, at last remembered Mrs Herbert's infallible remedy of a glass of water, which soon enabled Dora, in some degree, to recover herself. At first she took but little notice of Amy, who stood by her side, begging her to try and be happy; in fact, like many other proud persons, she felt annoyed that she had given way so much before a mere child, as she considered her cousin to be; but there was no withstanding the winning tones of Amy's voice, and the perfect sincerity of her manner; and when, at last, she became silent, and looked almost as unhappy as herself, Dora's haughtiness was quite subdued, and she exclaimed, "I must love you, Amy; for no one else would care whether I were miserable or not."
Amy was surprised at the idea of any person's seeing others suffer and not feeling for them; but, rejoicing in the success of her efforts, she now tried to divert Dora's attention, by talking of the conveniences of the room, and the view from the window. It was, at length, quite decided that they should occupy it, and the bell was forthwith rung to summon Morris. But the summons was given in vain; no Morris appeared. Again and again the rope was pulled, but no footsteps were heard in answer. Dora became irritated and Margaret fretful; and, after a considerable delay, Amy proposed that, as she knew the way to the housekeeper's room, she should try and find out Morris, who was very probably there. The thought of the strange servants was certainly alarming; but then her cousins were in distress, and she could help them; and, overcoming her timidity, she set off on what appeared to her quite an expedition. Boldly and quickly she threaded her way through the dark, winding passages, every turn of which had been familiar to her from her childhood. But when she stopped at the head of the back staircase, and listened to the hubbub of voices in the servants' hall, her first fears returned. Even Bridget's shrill tones were drowned in the medley of sound, and Amy looked in vain, in the hope of seeing her cross the passage. After a few moments, however, she felt inclined to laugh at her own shyness, and ran quickly down, determining to inquire for Morris of the first person she met. The servants were rushing to and fro in every direction, in all the important bustle of a first arrival, and one or two pushed by without taking any notice of her; but Amy, having resolved not to be daunted, still went on; and, as a door suddenly opened immediately at her side, and a tall female servant (as she imagined), dressed in deep mourning, entered the passage, she turned eagerly to her, pulled her gown, and begged to know where Morris was to be found. To her extreme consternation, her aunt's voice answered quickly and angrily—"Who is this? Amy here! how very improper, amongst all the servants! Why did you not ring the bell, child? Go away, this moment."
Amy's first impulse was to obey as fast as possible; but she knew she was doing no harm; and a few words, which her fright, however, made it difficult to utter, soon explained to Mrs Harrington the cause of her appearance there. Morris was instantly summoned, and Amy returned to her cousins to recount her adventure.
"You don't mean to say mamma saw you amongst all the servants?" exclaimed Margaret. "Well! I would not have been you for something; it is just the very thing she most objects to. I have heard her lecture by the hour about it; we have never been allowed to go within a mile of the kitchen; and even little Rose, though she is such a baby, is kept just as strict."
"Well, but," said Amy, "why did you let me go, if you knew my aunt would object?"
"Oh!" said Margaret, "you offered, and I thought mamma was safe in the drawing-room."
"And we wanted Morris," interrupted Dora, "I hate false excuses."
Amy felt rather angry, and thought she should not have done the same by them; but everything this evening was so very new and strange, that she kept all her feelings to herself for the present, to be talked over with her mamma when they got home.