"May I sit by you, Dora?" she whispered, as they went down-stairs.
"I can't tell," replied Dora; "it will depend upon how we go in to dinner."
"But what shall I do?" asked Amy. "Do you think any one will speak to me?" Dora laughed; but when she looked at her cousin, she saw that her eyes were almost filled with tears. "I am so frightened," continued Amy, "I know I shall do something very wrong, and then every one will stare at me. If I might only stay in the drawing-room——"
"Every one would stare at you a great deal more then," replied Dora; "besides, there is no party; there will be only Lord and Lady Rochford, and Mr Cunningham and ourselves."
"Mr Cunningham!" said Amy. "Is he very old?"
"Oh yes, quite grown up," replied Dora. "But you need not trouble yourself about him, for I daresay he will not speak to you; and, if he does, you won't understand him."
Amy recollected having heard Dora mention Mr Cunningham's peculiar voice before; and she was on the point of asking her to explain what was the matter with it, but they were standing at the drawing-room door, and there was no time.
Lady Rochford was seated on the sofa, talking to Mrs Harrington; and Amy was instantly struck with the likeness between her and her daughter. There was the same sandy hair, the same dull eye, the same fair complexion, the only difference being in the greater softness of expression, and the lines which continual illness and additional years had worn in her face. Her dress, too, was very youthful; and it was difficult for a stranger to believe that she could possibly be the mother of the tall, gentlemanly young man, who stood by her side, apparently intent upon examining the ornaments on the mantelpiece. Lady Rochford's manner, however, had none of Miss Cunningham's scornfulness; her temper was very sweet, and it was her wish to make everyone about her happy; and if she did sometimes fail, it was more from over attention, and insisting upon their enjoying themselves in her way rather than in their own, than from any other cause. Amy felt relieved by the kindness with which she spoke to her, and almost happy when she had contrived to hide herself behind Dora, and could look at what was going on without being observed; and dinner being announced almost immediately, she kept close by her side, hoping that, after all, she might not find it as terrible as she had expected. But her hope was soon crushed. There was a slight confusion as they went into the dining-room; no one seemed to know exactly where to place themselves; and Amy was obliged to leave Dora, and take the vacant seat between her aunt Harrington and Mr Cunningham.
"George, you will take care of your little neighbour," said Lord
Rochford; "do find out what she would like to have."
The silent Mr Cunningham turned to Amy, and spoke; but whether his words were English, French, or German, it would have been impossible for her in her fright to have told. By persons who were well acquainted with him, he was very easily understood; but, in consequence of a defect in the formation of his mouth, his articulation was so indistinct, as to be almost unintelligible to strangers; and Amy looked at him, with mingled fear and surprise. Again he endeavoured to render his meaning clear; but not a word could Amy comprehend, though, guessing what he would say, she faltered, "Chicken, if you please," and then looked at her aunt, and blushed painfully, from the idea that she had done exactly the very thing she ought not. Mr Cunningham apparently was very desirous of seeing her comfortable; for, during dinner, he made a point of offering her everything on the table which he thought she might like; and each time he opened his lips Amy's distress revived. But the climax of misery was, when, after the dessert being placed on the table, he seemed inclined to enter into conversation with her. Happily she caught the words, "live at Emmerton," in his first sentence, and contrived to answer it correctly; but as he went on, the confusion of sound increased, and, perfectly bewildered between endeavouring to make out the meaning of the last question and the dread of hearing a new one, she continued to repeat "Yes" and "No," at regular intervals, resolving in her own mind that it would be better to live at the cottage all her life, even if it were twice as small, and she were never to see any one, than be condemned to the penance of talking to Mr Cunningham.