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diff --git a/3610-0.txt b/3610-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0fdf3b2 --- /dev/null +++ b/3610-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,34922 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Daisy Chain, by Charlotte Yonge + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Daisy Chain + or Aspirations + +Author: Charlotte Yonge + +Release Date: January, 2003 [Etext #3610] +Posting Date: February 2, 2010 +Last Updated: July 28, 2017 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DAISY CHAIN *** + + + + +Produced by Sandra Laythorpe + + + + + +THE DAISY CHAIN, OR ASPIRATIONS + +By Charlotte Yonge + + + + +PREFACE. + + +No one can be more sensible than is the Author that the present is an +overgrown book of a nondescript class, neither the “tale” for the young, +nor the novel for their elders, but a mixture of both. + +Begun as a series of conversational sketches, the story outran both +the original intention and the limits of the periodical in which it was +commenced; and, such as it has become, it is here presented to those who +have already made acquaintance with the May family, and may be willing +to see more of them. It would beg to be considered merely as what it +calls itself, a Family Chronicle--a domestic record of home events, +large and small, during those years of early life when the character +is chiefly formed, and as an endeavour to trace the effects of those +aspirations which are a part of every youthful nature. That the young +should take one hint, to think whether their hopes and upward-breathings +are truly upwards, and founded in lowliness, may be called the moral of +the tale. + +For those who may deem the story too long, and the characters too +numerous, the Author can only beg their pardon for any tedium that they +may have undergone before giving it up. Feb. 22nd, 1856. + + + + + +THE DAISY CHAIN + + + + +PART 1. + + + +CHAPTER I. + + + + Si douce est la Marguerite.--CHAUCER. + + + +“Miss Winter, are you busy? Do you want this afternoon? Can you take a +good long walk?” + +“Ethel, my dear, how often have I told you of your impetuosity--you have +forgotten.” + +“Very well”--with an impatient twist--“I beg your pardon. Good-morning, +Miss Winter,” said a thin, lank, angular, sallow girl, just fifteen, +trembling from head to foot with restrained eagerness, as she tried to +curb her tone into the requisite civility. + +“Good-morning, Ethel, good-morning, Flora,” said the prim, middle-aged +daily governess, taking off her bonnet, and arranging the stiff little +rolls of curl at the long, narrow looking-glass, the border of which +distorted the countenance. + +“Good-morning,” properly responded Flora, a pretty, fair girl, nearly +two years older than her sister. + +“Will you--” began to burst from Etheldred’s lips again, but was stifled +by Miss Winter’s inquiry, “Is your mamma pretty well to-day?” + +“Oh! very well,” said both at once; “she is coming to the reading.” And +Flora added, “Papa is going to drive her out to-day.” + +“I am very glad. And the baby?” + +“I do believe she does it on purpose!” whispered Ethel to herself, +wriggling fearfully on the wide window-seat on which she had +precipitated herself, and kicking at the bar of the table, by which +manifestation she of course succeeded in deferring her hopes, by a +reproof which caused her to draw herself into a rigid, melancholy +attitude, a sort of penance of decorum, but a rapid motion of the +eyelids, a tendency to crack the joints of the fingers, and an +unquietness at the ends of her shoes, betraying the restlessness of the +digits therein contained. + +It was such a room as is often to be found in old country town houses, +the two large windows looking out on a broad old-fashioned street, +through heavy framework, and panes of glass scratched with various names +and initials. The walls were painted blue, the skirting almost a third +of the height, and so wide at the top as to form a narrow shelf. The +fireplace, constructed in the days when fires were made to give as +little heat as possible, was ornamented with blue and white Dutch +tiles bearing marvellous representations of Scripture history, and was +protected by a very tall green guard; the chairs were much of the same +date, solid and heavy, the seats in faded carpet-work, but there was a +sprinkling of lesser ones and of stools; a piano; a globe; a large table +in the middle of the room, with three desks on it; a small one, and a +light cane chair by each window; and loaded book-cases. Flora began, “If +you don’t want this afternoon to yourself--” + +Ethel was on her feet, and open-mouthed. “Oh, Miss Winter, if you would +be so kind as to walk to Cocksmoor with us!” + +“To Cocksmoor, my dear!” exclaimed the governess in dismay. + +“Yes, yes, but hear,” cried Ethel. “It is not for nothing. Yesterday--” + +“No, the day before,” interposed Flora. + +“There was a poor man brought into the hospital. He had been terribly +hurt in the quarry, and papa says he’ll die. He was in great distress, +for his wife has just got twins, and there were lots of children before. +They want everything--food and clothes--and we want to walk and take +it.” + +“We had a collection of clothes ready, luckily,” said Flora; “and we +have a blanket, and some tea and some arrowroot, and a bit of bacon, and +mamma says she does not think it too far for us to walk, if you will be +so kind as to go with us.” + +Miss Winter looked perplexed. “How could you carry the blanket, my +dear?” + +“Oh, we have settled that,” said Ethel, “we mean to make the donkey a +sumpter-mule, so, if you are tired, you may ride home on her.” + +“But, my dear, has your mamma considered? They are such a set of wild +people at Cocksmoor; I don’t think we could walk there alone.” + +“It is Saturday,” said Ethel, “we can get the boys.” + +“If you would reflect a little! They would be no protection. Harry would +be getting into scrapes, and you and Mary running wild.” + +“I wish Richard was at home!” said Flora. + +“I know!” cried Ethel. “Mr. Ernescliffe will come. I am sure he can walk +so far now. I’ll ask him.” + +Ethel had clapped after her the heavy door with its shining brass lock, +before Miss Winter well knew what she was about, and the governess +seemed annoyed. “Ethel does not consider,” said she. “I don’t think your +mamma will be pleased.” + +“Why not?” said Flora. + +“My dear--a gentleman walking with you, especially if Margaret is +going!” + +“I don’t think he is strong enough,” said Flora; “but I can’t think +why there should be any harm. Papa took us all out walking with him +yesterday--little Aubrey and all, and Mr. Ernescliffe went.” + +“But, my dear--” + +She was interrupted by the entrance of a fine tall blooming girl +of eighteen, holding in her hand a pretty little maid of five. +“Good-morning. Miss Winter. I suppose Flora has told you the request we +have to make to you?” + +“Yes, my dear Margaret, but did your mamma consider what a lawless place +Cocksmoor is?” + +“That was the doubt,” said Margaret, “but papa said he would answer for +it nothing would happen to us, and mamma said if you would be so kind.” + +“It is unlucky,” began the governess, but stopped at the incursion of +some new-comers, nearly tumbling over each other, Ethel at the head +of them. “Oh, Harry!” as the gathers of her frock gave way in the +rude grasp of a twelve-year-old boy. “Miss Winter, ‘tis all right--Mr. +Ernescliffe says he is quite up to the walk, and will like it very much, +and he will undertake to defend you from the quarrymen.” + +“Is Miss Winter afraid of the quarrymen?” hallooed Harry. “Shall I take +a club?” + +“I’ll take my gun and shoot them,” valiantly exclaimed Tom; and while +threats were passing among the boys, Margaret asked, in a low voice, +“Did you ask him to come with us?” + +“Yes, he said he should like it of all things. Papa was there, and said +it was not too far for him--besides, there’s the donkey. Papa says it, +so we must go, Miss Winter.” + +Miss Winter glanced unutterable things at Margaret, and Ethel began to +perceive she had done something wrong. Flora was going to speak, when +Margaret, trying to appear unconscious of a certain deepening colour in +her own cheeks, pressed a hand on her shoulder, and whispering, “I’ll +see about it. Don’t say any more, please,” glided out of the room. + +“What’s in the wind?” said Harry. “Are many of your reefs out there, +Ethel?” + +“Harry can talk nothing but sailors’ language,” said Flora, “and I am +sure he did not learn that of Mr. Ernescliffe. You never hear slang from +him.” + +“But aren’t we going to Cocksmoor?” asked Mary, a blunt downright girl +of ten. + +“We shall know soon,” said Ethel. “I suppose I had better wait till +after the reading to mend that horrid frock?” + +“I think so, since we are so nearly collected,” said Miss Winter; and +Ethel, seating herself on the corner of the window-seat, with one leg +doubled under her, took up a Shakespeare, holding it close to her +eyes, and her brother Norman, who, in age, came between her and Flora, +kneeling on one knee on the window-seat, and supporting himself with one +arm against the shutter, leaned over her, reading it too, disregarding a +tumultuous skirmish going on in that division of the family collectively +termed “the boys,” namely, Harry, Mary, and Tom, until Tom was suddenly +pushed down, and tumbled over into Ethel’s lap, thereby upsetting +her and Norman together, and there was a general downfall, and a loud +scream, “The sphynx!” + +“You’ve crushed it,” cried Harry, dealing out thumps indiscriminately. + +“No, here ‘tis,” said Mary, rushing among them, and bringing out a green +sphynx caterpillar on her finger--“‘tis not hurt.” + +“Pax! Pax!” cried Norman, over all, with the voice of an authority, +as he leaped up lightly and set Tom on his legs again. “Harry! you had +better do that again,” he added warningly. “Be off, out of this window, +and let Ethel and me read in peace.” + +“Here’s the place,” said Ethel--“Crispin, Crispian’s day. How I do like +Henry V.” + +“It is no use to try to keep those boys in order!” sighed Miss Winter. + +“Saturnalia, as papa calls Saturday,” replied Flora. + +“Is not your eldest brother coming home to-day?” said Miss Winter in a +low voice to Flora, who shook her head, and said confidentially, “He +is not coming till he has passed that examination. He thinks it better +not.” + +Here entered, with a baby in her arms, a lady with a beautiful +countenance of calm sweetness, looking almost too young to be the mother +of the tall Margaret, who followed her. There was a general hush as she +greeted Miss Winter, the girls crowding round to look at their little +sister, not quite six weeks old. + +“Now, Margaret, will you take her up to the nursery?” said the +mother, while the impatient speech was repeated, “Mamma, can we go to +Cocksmoor?” + +“You don’t think it will be too far for you?” said the mother to Miss +Winter as Margaret departed. + +“Oh, no, not at all, thank you, that was not--But Margaret has +explained.” + +“Yes, poor Margaret,” said Mrs. May, smiling. “She has settled it by +choosing to stay at home with me. It is no matter for the others, and he +is going on Monday, so that it will not happen again.” + +“Margaret has behaved very well,” said Miss Winter. + +“She has indeed,” said her mother, smiling. “Well, Harry, how is the +caterpillar?” + +“They’ve just capsized it, mamma,” answered Harry, “and Mary is making +all taut.” + +Mrs. May laughed, and proceeded to advise Ethel and Norman to put away +Henry V., and find the places in their Bibles, “or you will have the +things mixed together in your heads,” said she. + +In the meantime Margaret, with the little babe, to-morrow to be her +godchild, lying gently in her arms, came out into the matted hall, and +began to mount the broad shallow-stepped staircase, protected by low +stout balusters, with a very thick, flat, and solid mahogany hand-rail, +polished by the boys’ constant riding up and down upon it. She was only +on the first step, when the dining-room door opened, and there came out +a young man, slight, and delicate-looking, with bright blue eyes, and +thickly-curling light hair. “Acting nurse?” he said, smiling. “What +an odd little face it is! I didn’t think little white babies were so +pretty! Well, I shall always consider myself as the real godfather--the +other is all a sham.” + +“I think so,” said Margaret; “but I must not stand with her in a +draught,” and on she went, while he called after her. “So we are to have +an expedition to-day.” + +She did not gainsay it, but there was a little sigh of disappointment, +and when she was out of hearing, she whispered, “Oh! lucky baby, to +have so many years to come before you are plagued with troublesome +propriety!” + +Then depositing her little charge with the nurse, and trying to cheer up +a solemn-looking boy of three, who evidently considered his deposition +from babyhood as a great injury, she tripped lightly down again, to take +part in the Saturday’s reading and catechising. + +It was pleasant to see that large family in the hush and reverence of +such teaching, the mother’s gentle power preventing the outbreaks of +restlessness to which even at such times the wild young spirits were +liable. Margaret and Miss Winter especially rejoiced in it on this +occasion, the first since the birth of the baby, that she had been able +to preside. Under her, though seemingly without her taking any trouble, +there was none of the smothered laughing at the little mistakes, the +fidgeting of the boys, or Harry’s audacious impertinence to Miss Winter; +and no less glad was Harry to have his mother there, and be guarded from +himself. + +The Catechism was repeated, and a comment on the Sunday Services read +aloud. The Gospel was that on the taking the lowest place, and when they +had finished, Ethel said, “I like the verse which explains that: + + + ‘They who now sit lowest here, + When their Master shall appear, + He shall bid them higher rise, + And be highest in the skies.’” + + +“I did not think of that being the meaning of ‘when He that bade thee +cometh,’” said Norman thoughtfully. + +“It seemed to be only our worldly advantage that was meant before,” said +Ethel. + +“Well, it means that too,” said Flora. + +“I suppose it does,” said Mrs. May; “but the higher sense is the +one chiefly to be dwelt on. It is a lesson how those least known and +regarded here, and humblest in their own eyes, shall be the highest +hereafter.” + +And Margaret looked earnestly at her mother, but did not speak. + +“May we go, mamma?” said Mary. + +“Yes, you three--all of you, indeed, unless you wish to say any more.” + +The “boys” availed themselves of the permission. Norman tarried to put +his books into a neat leather case, and Ethel stood thinking. “It means +altogether--it is a lesson against ambition,” said she. + +“True,” said her mother, “the love of eminence for its own sake.” + +“And in so many different ways!” said Margaret. + +“Ay, worldly greatness, riches, rank, beauty,” said Flora. + +“All sorts of false flash and nonsense, and liking to be higher than one +ought to be,” said Norman. “I am sure there is nothing lower, or more +mean and shabby, than getting places and praise a fellow does not +deserve.” + +“Oh, yes!” cried Ethel, “but no one fit to speak to would do that!” + +“Plenty of people do, I can tell you,” said Norman. + +“Then I hope I shall never know who they are!” exclaimed Ethel. “But +I’ll tell you what I was thinking of, mamma. Caring to be clever, and +get on, only for the sake of beating people.” + +“I think that might be better expressed.” + +“I know,” said Ethel, bending her brow, with the fullness of her +thought--“I mean caring to do a thing only because nobody else can do +it--wanting to be first more than wanting to do one’s best.” + +“You are quite right, my dear Ethel,” said her mother; “and I am glad +you have found in the Gospel a practical lesson, that should be useful +to you both. I had rather you did so than that you read it in Greek, +though that is very nice too,” she added, smiling, as she put her hand +on a little Greek Testament, in which Ethel had been reading it, within +her English Bible. “Now, go and mend that deplorable frock, and if you +don’t dream over it, you won’t waste too much of your holiday.” + +“I’ll get it done in no time!” cried Ethel, rushing headlong upstairs, +twice tripping in it before she reached the attic, where she slept, as +well as Flora and Mary--a large room in the roof, the windows gay with +bird-cages and flowers, a canary singing loud enough to deafen any one +but girls to whom headaches were unknown, plenty of books and treasures, +and a very fine view, from the dormer window, of the town sloping +downwards, and the river winding away, with some heathy hills in the +distance. Poking and peering about with her short-sighted eyes, Ethel +lighted on a work-basket in rare disorder, pulled off her frock, threw +on a shawl, and sat down cross-legged on her bed, stitching vigorously, +while meantime she spouted with great emphasis an ode of Horace, which +Norman having learned by heart, she had followed his example; it being +her great desire to be even with him in all his studies, and though +eleven months younger, she had never yet fallen behind him. On Saturday, +he showed her what were his tasks for the week, and as soon as her rent +was repaired, she swung herself downstairs in search of him for this +purpose. She found him in the drawing-room, a pretty, pleasant room--its +only fault that it was rather too low. It had windows opening down to +the lawn, and was full of pretty things, works and knick-knacks. Ethel +found the state of affairs unfavourable to her. Norman was intent on +a book on the sofa, and at the table sat Mr. Ernescliffe, hard at work +with calculations and mathematical instruments. Ethel would not for the +world that any one should guess at her classical studies--she scarcely +liked to believe that even her father knew of them, and to mention them +before Mr. Ernescliffe would have been dreadful. So she only shoved +Norman, and asked him to come. + +“Presently,” he said. + +“What have you here?” said she, poking her head into the book. “Oh! no +wonder you can’t leave off. I’ve been wanting you to read it all the +week.” + +She read over him a few minutes, then recoiled: “I forgot, mamma told me +not to read those stories in the morning. Only five minutes, Norman.” + +“Wait a bit, I’ll come.” + +She fidgeted, till Mr. Ernescliffe asked Norman if there was a table of +logarithms in the house. + +“Oh, yes,” she answered; “don’t you know, Norman? In a brown book on the +upper shelf in the dining-room. Don’t you remember papa’s telling us the +meaning of them, when we had the grand book-dusting?” + +He was conscious of nothing but his book; however, she found the +logarithms, and brought them to Mr. Ernescliffe, staying to look at his +drawing, and asking what he was making out. He replied, smiling at the +impossibility of her understanding, but she wrinkled her brown forehead, +hooked her long nose, and spent the next hour in amateur navigation. + +Market Stoneborough was a fine old town. The Minster, grand with the +architecture of the time of Henry III., stood beside a broad river, and +round it were the buildings of a convent, made by a certain good Bishop +Whichcote, the nucleus of a grammar school, which had survived the +Reformation, and trained up many good scholars; among them, one of +England’s princely merchants, Nicholas Randall, whose effigy knelt in +a niche in the chancel wall, scarlet-cloaked, white-ruffed, and black +doubletted, a desk bearing an open Bible before him, and a twisted +pillar of Derbyshire spar on each side. He was the founder of thirteen +almshouses, and had endowed two scholarships at Oxford, the object of +ambition of the Stoneborough boys, every eighteen months. + +There were about sixty or seventy boarders, and the town boys slept at +home, and spent their weekly holiday there on Saturday--the happiest +day in the week to the May family, when alone, they had the company at +dinner of Norman and Harry, otherwise known by their school names of +June and July, given them because their elder brother had begun the +series of months as May. + +Some two hundred years back, a Dr. Thomas May had been headmaster, but +ever since that time there had always been an M. D., not a D. D., in +the family, owning a comfortable demesne of spacious garden, and field +enough for two cows, still green and intact, among modern buildings and +improvements. + +The present Dr. May stood very high in his profession, and might soon +have made a large fortune in London, had he not held fast to his +home attachments. He was extremely skilful and clever, with a boyish +character that seemed as if it could never grow older; ardent, +sensitive, and heedless, with a quickness of sympathy and tenderness of +heart that was increased, rather than blunted, by exercise in scenes of +suffering. + +At the end of the previous summer holidays, Dr. May had been called one +morning to attend a gentleman who had been taken very ill, at the Swan +Inn. + +He was received by a little boy of ten years old, in much grief, +explaining that his brother had come two days ago from London, to bring +him to school here; he had seemed unwell ever since they met, and last +night had become much worse. And extremely ill the doctor found him; +a youth of two or three and twenty, suffering under a severe attack of +fever, oppressed, and scarcely conscious, so as quite to justify his +little brother’s apprehensions. He advised the boy to write to his +family, but was answered by a look that went to his heart--“Alan” + was all he had in the world--father and mother were dead, and their +relations lived in Scotland, and were hardly known to them. + +“Where have you been living, then?” + +“Alan sent me to school at Miss Lawler’s when my mother died, and there +I have been ever since, while he has been these three years and a half +on the African station.” + +“What, is he in the navy?” + +“Yes,” said the boy proudly, “Lieutenant Ernescliffe. He got his +promotion last week. My father was in the battle of Trafalgar; and +Alan has been three years in the West Indies, and then he was in the +Mediterranean, and now on the coast of Africa, in the Atalantis. You +must have heard about him, for it was in the newspaper, how, when he was +mate, he had the command of the Santa Isabel, the slaver they captured.” + +The boy would have gone on for ever, if Dr. May had not recalled him to +his brother’s present condition, and proceeded to take every measure +for the welfare and comfort of the forlorn pair. He learned from other +sources that the Ernescliffes were well connected. The father had been +a distinguished officer, but had been ill able to provide for his sons; +indeed, he died, without ever having seen little Hector, who was born +during his absence on a voyage--his last, and Alan’s first. Alan, the +elder by thirteen years, had been like a father to the little boy, +showing judgment and self-denial that marked him of a high cast of +character. He had distinguished himself in encounters with slave ships, +and in command of a prize that he had had to conduct to Sierra Leone, +he had shown great coolness and seamanship, in several perilous +conjunctures, such as a sudden storm, and an encounter with another +slaver, when his Portuguese prisoners became mutinous, and nothing but +his steadiness and intrepidity had saved the lives of himself and his +few English companions. He was, in fact, as Dr. May reported, pretty +much of a hero. He had not, at the time, felt the effects of the +climate, but, owing to sickness and death among the other officers, he +had suffered much fatigue and pressure of mind and body. Immediately on +his return, had followed his examination, and though he had passed with +great credit, and it had been at once followed by well-earned promotion, +his nervous excitable frame had been overtasked, and the consequence was +a long and severe illness. + +The Swan Inn was not forty yards from Dr. May’s back gate, and, at +every spare moment, he was doing the part of nurse as well as doctor, +professionally obliged to Alan Ernescliffe for bringing him a curious +exotic specimen of fever, and requiting him by the utmost care and +attention, while, for their own sakes, he delighted in the two boys with +all the enthusiasm of his warm heart. Before the first week was at +an end, they had learned to look on the doctor as one of the kindest +friends it had been their lot to meet with, and Alan knew that if he +died, he should leave his little brother in the hands of one who would +comfort him as a father. + +No sooner was young Ernescliffe able to sit up, than Dr. May insisted on +conveying him to his own house, as his recovery was likely to be tedious +in solitude at the Swan. It was not till he had been drawn in a chair +along the sloping garden, and placed on the sofa to rest, that he +discovered that the time the good doctor had chosen for bringing a +helpless convalescent to his house, was two days after an eleventh child +had been added to his family. + +Mrs. May was too sorry for the solitary youth, and too sympathising +with her husband, to make any objection, though she was not fond of +strangers, and had some anxieties. She had the utmost dependence on +Margaret’s discretion, but there was a chance of awkward situations, +which papa was not likely to see or guard against. However, all seemed +to do very well, and no one ever came into her room without some degree +of rapture about Mr. Ernescliffe. The doctor reiterated praises of his +excellence, his principle, his ability and talent, his amusing talk; the +girls were always bringing reports of his perfections; Norman retracted +his grumbling at having his evenings spoiled; and “the boys” were +bursting with the secret that he was teaching them to rig a little ship +that was to astonish mamma on her first coming downstairs, and to be +named after the baby; while Blanche did all the coquetry with him, from +which Margaret abstained. The universal desire was for mamma to see him, +and when the time came, she owned that papa’s swan had not turned out a +goose. + +There were now no grounds for prolonging his stay; but it was very hard +to go, and he was glad to avail himself of the excuse of remaining for +the christening, when he was to represent the absent godfather. After +that, he must go; he had written to his Scottish cousins to offer a +visit, and he had a promise that he should soon be afloat again. No +place would ever seem to him so like home as Market Stoneborough. He was +quite like one of themselves, and took a full share in the discussions +on the baby’s name, which, as all the old family appellations had been +used up, was an open question. The doctor protested against Alice and +Edith, which he said were the universal names in the present day. The +boys hissed every attempt of their sisters at a romantic name, and +then Harry wanted it to be Atalantis! At last Dr. May announced that +he should have her named Dowsabel if they did not agree, and Mrs. May +advised all the parties concerned to write their choice on a slip of +paper, and little Aubrey should draw two out of her bag, trusting that +Atalantis Dowsabel would not come out, as Harry confidently predicted. + +However, it was even worse, Aubrey’s two lots were Gertrude and +Margaret. Ethel and Mary made a vehement uproar to discover who could +have written Margaret, and at last traced it home to Mr. Ernescliffe, +who replied that Flora, without saying why, had desired him to set down +his favourite name. He was much disconcerted, and did not materially +mend the matter by saying it was the first name that came into his head. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + + + Meadows trim with daisies pied.--MILTON. + + +Ethel’s navigation lesson was interrupted by the dinner-bell. That long +table was a goodly sight. Few ever looked happier than Dr. and Mrs. May, +as they sat opposite to each other, presenting a considerable contrast +in appearance as in disposition. She was a little woman, with that +smooth pleasant plumpness that seems to belong to perfect content and +serenity, her complexion fair and youthful, her face and figure very +pretty, and full of quiet grace and refinement, and her whole air and +expression denoting a serene, unruffled, affectionate happiness, yet +with much authority in her mildness--warm and open in her own family, +but reserved beyond it, and shrinking from general society. + +The doctor, on the contrary, had a lank, bony figure, nearly six feet +high, and looking more so from his slightness; a face sallow, thin, +and strongly marked, an aquiline nose, highly developed forehead, and +peculiar temples, over which the hair strayed in thin curling flakes. +His eyes were light coloured, and were seldom seen without his +near-sighted spectacles, but the expressions of the mouth were +everything--so varying, so bright, and so sweet were his smiles that +showed beautiful white teeth--moreover, his hand was particularly well +made, small and delicate; and it always turned out that no one ever +recollected that Dr. May was plain, who had heard his kindly greeting. + +The sons and daughters were divided in likeness to father and mother; +Ethel was almost an exaggeration of the doctor’s peculiarities, +especially at the formed, but unsoftened age of fifteen; Norman had his +long nose, sallow complexion, and tall figure, but was much improved by +his mother’s fine blue eyes, and was a very pleasant-looking boy, though +not handsome; little Tom was a thin, white, delicate edition of his +father; and Blanche contrived to combine great likeness to him with a +great deal of prettiness. Of those that, as nurse said, favoured their +mamma, Margaret was tall and blooming, with the same calm eyes, but with +the brilliance of her father’s smile; Flora had greater regularity of +feature, and was fast becoming a very pretty girl, while Mary and +Harry could not boast of much beauty, but were stout sturdy pictures of +health; Harry’s locks in masses of small tight yellow curls, much given +to tangling and matting, unfit to be seen all the week, till nurse put +him to torture every Saturday, by combing them out so as, at least, to +make him for once like, she said, a gentleman, instead of a young lion. + +Little Aubrey was said by his papa to be like nothing but the full moon. +And there he shone on them, by his mamma’s side, announcing in language +few could understand, where he had been with papa. + +“He has been a small doctor,” said his father, beginning to cut the +boiled beef as fast as if his hands had been moved by machinery. “He has +been with me to see old Mrs. Robins, and she made so much of him, that +if I take him again he’ll be regularly spoiled.” + +“Poor old woman, it must have been a pleasure to her,” said Mrs. +May--“it is so seldom she has any change.” + +“Who is she?” asked Mr. Ernescliffe. + +“The butcher’s old mother,” said Margaret, who was next to him. “She +is one of papa’s pet patients, because he thinks her desolate and +ill-used.” + +“Her sons bully her,” said the doctor, too intent on carving to perceive +certain deprecatory glances of caution cast at him by his wife, to +remind him of the presence of man and maid--“and that smart daughter is +worse still. She never comes to see the old lady but she throws her into +an agitated state, fit to bring on another attack. A meek old soul, not +fit to contend with them!” + +“Why do they do it?” said Ethel. + +“For the cause of all evil! That daughter marries a grazier, and wants +to set up for gentility; she comes and squeezes presents out of her +mother, and the whole family are distrusting each other, and squabbling +over the spoil before the poor old creature is dead! It makes one sick! +I gave that Mrs. Thorn a bit of my mind at last; I could not stand the +sight any longer. Madam, said I, you’ll have to answer for your mother’s +death, as sure as my name’s Dick May--a harpy dressed up in feathers and +lace.” + +There was a great laugh, and an entreaty to know whether this was really +his address--Ethel telling him she knew he had muttered it to himself +quite audibly, for which she was rewarded by a pretended box on the ear. +It certainly was vain to expect order at dinner on Saturday, for the +doctor was as bad as the boys, and Mrs. May took it with complete +composure, hardly appearing sensible of the Babel which would sometimes +almost deafen its promoter, papa; and yet her interference was +all-powerful, as now when Harry and Mary were sparring over the salt, +with one gentle “Mary!” and one reproving glance, they were reduced to +quiescence. + +Meanwhile Dr. May, in a voice above the tumult, was telling “Maggie,” as +he always called his wife, some piece of news about Mr. Rivers, who had +bought Abbotstoke Grange; and Alan Ernescliffe, in much lower tones, +saying to Margaret how he delighted in the sight of these home scenes, +and this free household mirth. + +“It is the first time you have seen us in perfection,” said Margaret, +“with mamma at the head of the table--no, not quite perfection either, +without Richard.” + +“I am very glad to have seen it,” repeated Alan. “What a blessing it +must be to your brothers to have such a home!” + +“Yes, indeed,” said Margaret earnestly. + +“I cannot fancy any advantage in life equal to it. Your father and +mother so entirely one with you all.” + +Margaret smiled, too much pleased to speak, and glanced at her mother’s +sweet face. + +“You can’t think how often I shall remember it, or how rejoiced I--” He +broke off, for the noise subsided, and his speech was not intended for +the public ear, so he dashed into the general conversation, and catching +his own name, exclaimed, “What’s that base proposal, Ethel?” + +“To put you on the donkey,” said Norman. + +“They want to see a sailor riding,” interposed the doctor. + +“Dr. May!” cried the indignant voice of Hector Ernescliffe, as his +honest Scottish face flushed like a turkey cock, “I assure you that Alan +rides like--” + +“Like a horse marine,” said Norman. + +Hector and Harry both looked furious, but “June” was too great a man in +their world for them to attempt any revenge, and it was left for Mary +to call out, “Why, Norman, nonsense! Mr. Ernescliffe rode the new black +kicking horse till he made it quite steady.” + +“Made it steady! No, Mary, that is saying too much for it,” said Mr. +Ernescliffe. + +“It has no harm in it--capital horse--splendid,” said the doctor; “I +shall take you out with it this afternoon, Maggie.” + +“You have driven it several times?” said Alan. + +“Yes, I drove him to Abbotstoke yesterday--never started, except at a +fool of a woman with an umbrella, and at the train--and we’ll take care +not to meet that.” + +“It is only to avoid the viaduct at half-past four,” said Mrs. May, “and +that is easily done.” + +“So you are bound for Cocksmoor?” said the doctor. “I told the poor +fellow you were going to see his wife, and he was so thankful, that it +did one’s heart good.” + +“Is he better? I should like to tell his wife,” said Flora. + +The doctor screwed up his face. “A bad business,” he said; “he is a shade +better to-day; he may get through yet; but he is not my patient. I only +saw him because I happened to be there when he was brought in, and Ward +was not in the way.” + +“And what’s his name?” + +“I can’t tell--don’t think I ever heard.” + +“We ought to know,” said Miss Winter; “it would be awkward to go +without.” + +“To go roaming about Cocksmoor asking where the man in the hospital +lives!” said Flora. “We can’t wait till Monday.” + +“I’ve done,” said Norman; “I’ll run down to the hospital and find out. +May I, mamma?” + +“Without your pudding, old fellow?” + +“I don’t want pudding,” said Norman, slipping back his chair. “May I, +mamma?” + +“To be sure you may;” and Norman, with a hand on the back of Ethel’s +chair, took a flying leap over his own, that set all the glasses +ringing. + +“Stop, stop! know what you are going after, sir,” cried his father. +“What will they know there of Cocksmoor, or the man whose wife has +twins? You must ask for the accident in number five.” + +“And oh, Norman, come back in time!” said Ethel. + +“I’ll be bound I’m back before Etheldred the Unready wants me,” he +answered, bounding off with an elasticity that caused his mother to say +the boy was made of india-rubber; and then putting his head in by the +window to say, “By-the-bye, if there’s any pudding owing to me, that +little chorister fellow of ours, Bill Blake, has got a lot of voracious +brothers that want anything that’s going. Tom and Blanche might take it +down to ‘em; I’m off! Hooray!” and he scampered headlong up the garden, +prolonging his voice into a tremendous shout as he got farther off, +leaving every one laughing, and his mother tenderly observing that he +was going to run a quarter of a mile and back, and lose his only chance +of pudding for the week--old Bishop Whichcote’s rules contemplating no +fare but daily mutton, to be bought at a shilling per sheep. A little +private discussion ensued between Harry and Hector on the merits of the +cakes at Ballhatchet’s gate, and old Nelly’s pies, which led the doctor +to mourn over the loss of the tarts of the cranberries, that used to +grow on Cocksmoor, before it was inhabited, and to be the delight of the +scholars of Stoneborough, when he was one of them--and then to enchant +the boys by relations of ancient exploits, especially his friend Spencer +climbing up, and engraving a name on the top of the market cross, now no +more--swept away by the Town Council in a fit of improvement, which had +for the last twenty years enraged the doctor at every remembrance of +it. Perhaps at this moment his wife could hardly sympathise, when she +thought of her boys emulating such deeds. + +“Papa,” said Ethel, “will you lend me a pair of spectacles for the +walk?” + +“And make yourself one, Ethel,” said Flora. + +“I don’t care--I want to see the view.” + +“It is very bad for you, Ethel,” further added her mother; “you will +make your sight much shorter if you accustom your eyes to them.” + +“Well, mamma, I never do wear them about the house.” + +“For a very good reason,” said Margaret; “because you haven’t got them.” + +“No, I believe Harry stole them in the holidays.” + +“Stole them!” said the doctor; “as if they weren’t my property, +unjustifiably appropriated by her!” + +“They were that pair that you never could keep on, papa,” said +Ethel--“no use at all to you. Come, do lend me them.” + +“I’m sure I shan’t let you wear them,” said Harry. “I shan’t go, if you +choose to make yourself such an object.” + +“Ah!” said the father, “the boys thought it time to put a stop to it +when it came to a caricature of the little doctor in petticoats.” + +“Yes, in Norman’s Lexicon,” said Ethel, “a capital likeness of you, +papa; but I never could get him to tell me who drew it.” + +Nor did Ethel know that that caricature had been the cause of the black +eye that Harry had brought home last summer. Harry returned, to +protest that he would not join the walk, if she chose to be seen in +the spectacles, while she undauntedly continued her petition, though +answered that she would attract the attacks of the quarrymen, who would +take her for an attenuated owl. + +“I wish you were obliged to go about without them yourself, papa!” cried +Ethel, “and then you would know how tiresome it is not to see twice the +length of your own nose.” + +“Not such a very short allowance either,” said the doctor quaintly, and +therewith the dinner concluded. There was apt to be a race between the +two eldest girls for the honour of bringing down the baby; but this time +their father strode up three steps at once, turned at the top of the +first flight, made his bow to them, and presently came down with his +little daughter in his arms, nodded triumphantly at the sisters, and set +her down on her mother’s lap. + +“There, Maggie, you are complete, you old hen-and-chicken daisy. Can’t +you take her portrait in the character, Margaret?” + +“With her pink cap, and Blanche and Aubrey as they are now, on each +side?” said Flora. + +“Margaret ought to be in the picture herself,” said Ethel. “Fetch the +artist in Norman’s Lexicon, Harry.” + +“Since he has hit off one of us so well,” said the doctor. “Well! I’m +off. I must see old Southern. You’ll be ready by three? Good-bye, hen +and chicken.” + +“And I may have the spectacles?” said Ethel, running after him; “you +know I am an injured individual, for mamma won’t let me carry baby about +the house because I am so blind.” + +“You are welcome to embellish yourself, as far as I am concerned.” + +A general dispersion ensued, and only Mrs. May, Margaret, and the baby, +remained. + +“Oh, no!” sighed Margaret; “you can’t be the hen-and-chicken daisy +properly, without all your chickens. It is the first christening we ever +had without our all being there.” + +“It was best not to press it, my dear,” said her mother. “Your papa +would have had his thoughts turned to the disappointment again and it +makes Richard himself so unhappy to see his vexation, that I believe it +is better not to renew it.” + +“But to miss him for so long!” said Margaret. “Perhaps it is best, for +it is very miserable when papa is sarcastic and sharp, and he cannot +understand it, and takes it as meaning so much more than it really does, +and grows all the more frightened and diffident. I cannot think what he +would do without you to encourage him.” + +“Or you, you good sister,” said her mother, smiling. “If we could only +teach him not to mind being laughed at, and to have some confidence in +himself, he and papa would get on together.” + +“It is very hard,” cried Margaret, almost indignantly, “that papa won’t +believe it, when he does his best.” + +“I don’t think papa can bear to bring himself to believe that it is his +best.” + +“He is too clever himself to see how other people can be slow,” said +Margaret; “and yet”--the tears came into her eyes--“I cannot bear +to think of his telling Richard it was no use to think of being a +clergyman, and he had better turn carpenter at once, just because he +failed in his examination.” + +“My dear, I wish you would forget that,” said Mrs. May. “You know papa +sometimes says more than he means, and he was excessively vexed and +disappointed. I know he was pleased with Ritchie’s resolve not to come +home again till he had passed, and it is best that it should not be +broken.” + +“The whole vacation, studying so hard, and this christening!” said +Margaret; “it is treating him as if he had done wrong. I do believe Mr. +Ernescliffe thinks he has--for papa always turns away the conversation +if his name is mentioned! I wish you would explain it, mamma; I can’t +bear that.” + +“If I can,” said Mrs. May, rather pleased that Margaret had taken on +herself this vindication of her favourite brother her father’s expense. +“But, after all, Margaret, I never feel quite sure that poor Ritchie +does exert himself to the utmost, he is too desponding to make the most +of himself.” + +“And the more vexed papa is, the worse it grows!” said Margaret. “It is +provoking, though. How I do wish sometimes to give Ritchie a jog, when +there is some stumbling-block that he sticks fast at. Don’t you remember +those sums, and those declensions? When he is so clear and sensible +about practical matters too--anything but learning--I cannot think +why--and it is very mortifying!” + +“I dare say it is very good for us not to have our ambition gratified,” + said her mother. “There are so many troubles worse than these failures, +that it only shows how happy we are that we should take them so much to +heart.” + +“They are a very real trouble!” said Margaret. “Don’t smile, mamma. Only +remember how wretched his schooldays were, when papa could not see any +difficulty in what to him was so hard, and how all papa’s eagerness only +stupified him the more.” + +“They are a comfort not to have that over again! Yet,” said the mother, +“I often think there is more fear for Norman. I dread his talent and +success being snares.” + +“There is no self-sufficiency about him,” said Margaret. + +“I hope not, and he is so transparent, that it would be laughed down at +the first bud: but the universal good report, and certainty of success, +and being so often put in comparison with Richard, is hardly safe. I was +very glad he heard what Ethel said to-day.” + +“Ethel spoke very deeply,” said Margaret; “I was a good deal struck by +it--she often comes out with such solid thoughts.” + +“She is an excellent companion for Norman.” + +“The desire of being first!” said Margaret, “I suppose that is a form +of caring for oneself! It set me thinking a good deal, mamma, how many +forms of ambition there are. The craving for rank, or wealth, or beauty, +are so clearly wrong, that one does not question about them; but I +suppose, as Ethel said, the caring to be first in attainments is as +bad.” + +“Or in affection,” said Mrs. May. + +“In affection--oh, mamma, there is always some one person with whom one +is first!” said Margaret eagerly; and then, her colour deepening, as +she saw her mother looking at her, she said hastily, “Ritchie--I never +considered it--but I know--it is my great pleasure--oh, mamma!” + +“Well, my dear, I do not say but that you are the first with Richard, +and that you well deserve to be so; but is the seeking to be the first +even in that way safe? Is it not self-seeking again?” + +“Well, perhaps it is. I know it is what makes jealousy.” + +“The only plan is not to think about ourselves at all,” said Mrs. May. +“Affection is round us like sunshine, and there is no use in measuring +and comparing. We must give it out freely ourselves, hoping for nothing +again.” + +“Oh, mamma, you don’t mean that!” + +“Perhaps I should have said, bargaining for nothing again. It will +come of itself, if we don’t exact it; but rivalry is the sure means of +driving it away, because that is trying to get oneself worshipped.” + +“I suppose, then, you have never thought of it,” said Margaret, smiling. + +“Why, it would have been rather absurd,” said Mrs. May, laughing, “to +begin to torment myself whether you were all fond of me! You all have +just as much affection for me, from beginning to end, as is natural, +and what’s the use of thinking about it? No, no, Margaret, don’t go +and protest that you love me, more than is natural,” as Margaret looked +inclined to say something very eager, “that would be in the style of +Regan and Goneril. It will be natural by-and-by that you should, some +of you, love some one else better, and if I cared for being first, what +should I do then?” + +“Oh, mamma! But,” said Margaret suddenly, “you are always sure of papa.” + +“In one way, yes,” said Mrs. May; “but how do I know how long--” Calm as +she was, she could not finish that sentence. “No, Margaret, depend upon +it, the only security is not to think about ourselves at all, and not +to fix our mind on any affection on earth. The least share of the Love +above is the fullness of all blessing, and if we seek that first, all +these things will be added unto us, and are,” she whispered, more to +herself than to Margaret. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + + + Wee modest crimson-tipped flower, + Thou’st met me in an evil hour, + For I maun crush amang the stoure + Thy slender stem. + To spare thee now is past my power, + Thou bonnie gem. + BURNS. + + +“Is this all the walking party?” exclaimed Mr. Ernescliffe, as Miss +Winter, Flora, and Norman gathered in the hall. + +“Harry won’t go because of Ethel’s spectacles,” answered Flora; “and +Mary and he are inseparable, so they are gone with Hector to have a +shipwreck in the field.” + +“And your other sisters?” + +“Margaret has ratted--she is going to drive out with mamma,” said +Norman; “as to Etheldred the Unready, I’ll run up and hurry her.” + +In a moment he was at her door. “Oh! Norman, come in. Is it time?” + +“I should think so! You’re keeping every one waiting.” + +“Oh, dear! go on; only just tell me the past participle of ‘offero’, and +I’ll catch you up.” + +“‘Oblatus.’” + +“Oh, yes, how stupid. The ‘a’ long or short? Then that’s right. I had +such a line in my head, I was forced to write it down. Is not it a +capital subject this time?” + +“The devotion of Decius? Capital. Let me see!” said Norman, taking up +a paper scribbled in pencil, with Latin verses. “Oh, you have taken up +quite a different line from mine. I began with Mount Vesuvius spouting +lava like anything.” + +“But Mount Vesuvius didn’t spout till it overthrew Pompeii.” + +“Murder!” cried Norman, “I forgot! It’s lucky you put me in mind. I must +make a fresh beginning. There go my six best lines! However, it was +an uncanny place, fit for hobgoblins, and shades, and funny customers, +which will do as well for my purpose. Ha! that’s grand about its being +so much better than the vana gloria triumphalis--only take care of the +scanning there--” + +“If it was but English. Something like this: + + + “For what is equal to the fame + Of forgetting self in the aim? + + +That’s not right, but--” + +“Ethel, Norman, what are you about?” cried Flora. “Do you mean to go to +Cocksmoor to-day?” + +“Oh, yes!” cried Ethel, flying into vehement activity; “only I’ve lost +my blue-edged handkerchief--Flora, have you seen it?” + +“No; but here is your red scarf.” + +“Thank you, there is a good Flora. And oh! I finished a frock all but +two stitches. Where is it gone? Go on, all of you, I’ll overtake you: + + + “Purer than breath of earthly fame, + Is losing self in a glorious aim. + + +“Is that better, Norman?” + +“You’ll drive us out of patience,” said Flora, tying the handkerchief +round Ethel’s throat, and pulling out the fingers of her gloves, which, +of course, were inside out; “are you ready?” + +“Oh, my frock! my frock! There ‘tis--three stitches--go on, and I’ll +come,” said Ethel, seizing a needle, and sewing vehemently at a little +pink frock. “Go on, Miss Winter goes slowly up the hill, and I’ll +overtake you.” + +“Come, Norman, then; it is the only way to make her come at all.” + +“I shall wait for her,” said Norman. “Go on, Flora, we shall catch you +up in no time;” and, as Flora went, he continued, “Never mind your aims +and fames and trumpery English rhymes. Your verses will be much the +best, Ethel; I only went on a little about Mount Vesuvius and the +landscape, as Alan described it the other day, and Decius taking a last +look, knowing he was to die. I made him beg his horse’s pardon, and say +how they will both be remembered, and their self-devotion would inspire +Romans to all posterity, and shout with a noble voice!” said Norman, +repeating some of his lines, correcting them as he proceeded. + +“Oh! yes; but oh, dear, I’ve done! Come along,” said Ethel, crumpling +her work into a bundle, and snatching up her gloves; then, as they ran +downstairs, and emerged into the street, “It is a famous subject.” + +“Yes, you have made a capital beginning. If you won’t break down +somewhere, as you always do, with some frightful false quantity, that +you would get an imposition for, if you were a boy. I wish you were. I +should like to see old Hoxton’s face, if you were to show him up some of +these verses.” + +“I’ll tell you what, Norman, if I was you, I would not make Decius +flatter himself with the fame he was to get--it is too like the +stuff every one talks in stupid books. I want him to say--Rome--my +country--the eagles--must win, if they do--never mind what becomes of +me.” + +“But why should he not like to get the credit of it, as he did? Fame and +glory--they are the spirit of life, the reward of such a death.” + +“Oh, no, no,” said Ethel. “Fame is coarse and vulgar--blinder than +ever they draw Love or Fortune--she is only a personified newspaper, +trumpeting out all that is extraordinary, without minding whether it +is good or bad. She misses the delicate and lovely--I wished they would +give us a theme to write about her. I should like to abuse her well.” + +“It would make a very good theme, in a new line,” said Norman; “but I +don’t give into it, altogether. It is the hope and the thought of fame, +that has made men great, from first to last. It is in every one that +is not good for nothing, and always will be! The moving spirit of man’s +greatness!” + +“I’m not sure,” said Ethel; “I think looking for fame is like wanting +a reward at once. I had rather people forgot themselves. Do you think +Arnold von Winkelried thought about fame when he threw himself on the +spears?” + +“He got it,” said Norman. + +“Yes; he got it for the good of other people, not to please himself. +Fame does those that admire it good, not those that win it.” + +“But!” said Norman, and both were silent for some short interval, as +they left the last buildings of the town, and began to mount a steep +hill. Presently Norman slackened his pace, and driving his stick +vehemently against a stone, exclaimed, “It is no use talking, Ethel, it +is all a fight and a race. One is always to try to be foremost. That’s +the spirit of the thing--that’s what the great, from first to last, have +struggled, and fought, and lived, and died for.” + +“I know it is a battle, I know it is a race. The Bible says so,” replied +Ethel; “but is not there the difference, that here all may win--not +only one? One may do one’s best, not care whether one is first or last. +That’s what our reading to-day said.” + +“That was against trumpery vanity--false elevation--not what one has +earned for oneself, but getting into other people’s places that one +never deserved. That every one despises!” + +“Of course! That they do. I say, Norman, didn’t you mean Harvey +Anderson?” + +Instead of answering, Norman exclaimed, “It is pretension that is +hateful--true excelling is what one’s life is for. No, no, I’ll never be +beat, Ethel--I never have been beat by any one, except by you, when you +take pains,” he added, looking exultingly at his sister, “and I never +will be.” + +“Oh, Norman!” + +“I mean, of course, while I have senses. I would not be like Richard for +all the world.” + +“Oh, no, no, poor Richard!” + +“He is an excellent fellow in everything else,” said Norman; “I could +sometimes wish I was more like him--but how he can be so amazingly slow, +I can’t imagine. That examination paper he broke down in--I could have +done it as easily as possible.” + +“I did it all but one question,” said Ethel, “but so did he, you know, +and we can’t tell whether we should have it done well enough.” + +“I know I must do something respectable when first I go to Oxford, if +I don’t wish to be known as the man whose brother was plucked,” said +Norman. + +“Yes,” said Ethel; “if papa will but let you try for the Randall +scholarship next year, but he says it is not good to go to Oxford so +young.” + +“And I believe I had better not be there with Richard,” added Norman. “I +don’t like coming into contrast with him, and I don’t think he can like +it, poor fellow, and it isn’t his fault. I had rather stay another year +here, get one of the open scholarships, and leave the Stoneborough ones +for those who can do no better.” + +In justice to Norman, we must observe that this was by no means said as +a boast. He would scarcely have thus spoken to any one but Etheldred, to +whom, as well as to himself, it seemed mere matter-of-fact. The others +had in the meantime halted at the top of the hill, and were looking back +at the town--the great old Minster, raising its twin towers and long +roof, close to the river, where rich green meadows spread over the +valley, and the town rising irregularly on the slope above, plentifully +interspersed with trees and gardens, and one green space on the banks +of the river, speckled over with a flock of little black dots in rapid +motion. + +“Here you are!” exclaimed Flora. “I told them it was of no use to wait +when you and Norman had begun a dissertation.” + +“Now, Mr. Ernescliffe, I should like you to say,” cried Ethel, “which +do you think is the best, the name of it, or the thing?” Her eloquence +always broke down with any auditor but her brother, or, perhaps, +Margaret. + +“Ethel!” said Norman, “how is any one to understand you? The argument is +this: Ethel wants people to do great deeds, and be utterly careless of +the fame of them; I say, that love of glory is a mighty spring.” + +“A mighty one!” said Alan: “but I think, as far as I understand the +question, that Ethel has the best of it.” + +“I don’t mean that people should not serve the cause first of all,” said +Norman, “but let them have their right place and due honour.” + +“They had better make up their minds to do without it,” said Alan. +“Remember-- + + + ‘The world knows nothing of its greatest men.’” + + +“Then it is a great shame,” said Norman. + +“But do you think it right,” said Ethel, “to care for distinction? It +is a great thing to earn it, but I don’t think one should care for the +outer glory.” + +“I believe it is a great temptation,” said Alan. “The being over-elated +or over-depressed by success or failure in the eyes of the world, +independently of the exertion we have used.” + +“You call it a temptation?” said Ethel. + +“Decidedly so.” + +“But one can’t live or get on without it,” said Norman. + +There they were cut short. There was a plantation to be crossed, with a +gate that would not open, and that seemed an effectual barrier against +both Miss Winter and the donkey, until by persuasive eloquence and great +gallantry, Mr. Ernescliffe performed the wonderful feat of getting the +former over the tall fence, while Norman conducted the donkey a long way +round, undertaking to meet them at the other side of the plantation. + +The talk became desultory, as they proceeded for at least a mile along +a cart-track through soft-tufted grass and heath and young fir-trees. +It ended in a broad open moor, stony; and full of damp boggy hollows, +forlorn and desolate under the autumn sky. Here they met Norman again, +and walked on along a very rough and dirty road, the ground growing +more decidedly into hills and valleys as they advanced, till they found +themselves before a small, but very steep hillock, one side of which was +cut away into a slate quarry. Round this stood a colony of roughly-built +huts, of mud, turf, or large blocks of the slate. Many workmen were +engaged in splitting up the slates, or loading wagons with them, rude +wild-looking men, at the sight of whom the ladies shrank up to their +protectors, but who seemed too busy even to spare time for staring at +them. + +They were directed to John Taylor’s house, a low mud cottage, very +wretched looking, and apparently so smoky that Mr. Ernescliffe and +Norman were glad to remain outside and survey the quarry, while the +ladies entered. + +Inside they found more cleanliness and neatness than they had expected, +but there was a sad appearance of poverty, insufficient furniture, and +the cups and broken tea-pot on the table, holding nothing but toast and +water, as a substitute for their proper contents. The poor woman was +sitting by the fire with one twin on her lap, and the other on a chair +by her side, and a larger child was in the corner by the fire, looking +heavy and ill, while others of different ages lounged about listlessly. +She was not untidy, but very pale, and she spoke in a meek, subdued way, +as if the ills of life were so heavy on her that she had no spirit even +to complain. She thanked them for their gifts but languidly, and did not +visibly brighten when told that her husband was better. + +Flora asked when the babes would be christened. + +“I can’t hardly tell, Miss--‘tis so far to go.” + +“I suppose none of the children can go to school? I don’t know their +faces there,” said Flora, looking at a nice tall, smooth-haired girl of +thirteen or fourteen. + +“No, Miss--‘tis so far. I am sorry they should not, for they always was +used to it where we lived before, and my oldest girl she can work very +nicely. I wish I could get a little place for her.” + +“You would hardly know what to do without her,” said Miss Winter. + +“No, ma’am; but she wants better food than I can give her, and it is a +bad wild place for a girl to grow up. It is not like what I was used to, +ma’am; I was always used to keep to my school and to my church--but it +is a bad place to live in here.” + +No one could deny it, and the party left the cottage gravely. Alan and +Norman joined them, having heard a grievous history of the lawlessness +of the people from a foreman with whom they had met. There seemed to be +no visible means of improvement. The parish church was Stoneborough, and +there the living was very poor, the tithes having been appropriated +to the old Monastery, and since its dissolution having fallen into +possession of a Body that never did anything for the town. The +incumbent, Mr. Ramsden, had small means, and was not a high stamp of +clergyman, seldom exerting himself, and leaving most of his parish work +to the two under masters of the school, Mr. Wilmot and Mr. Harrison, who +did all they had time and strength for, and more too, within the town +itself. There was no hope for Cocksmoor! + +“There would be a worthy ambition!” said Etheldred, as they turned their +steps homeward. “Let us propose that aim to ourselves, to build a church +on Cocksmoor!” + +“How many years do you give us to do it in?” said Norman. + +“Few or many, I don’t care. I’ll never leave off thinking about it till +it is done.” + +“It need not be long,” said Flora, “if one could get up a subscription.” + +“A penny subscription?” said Norman. “I’d rather have it my own doing.” + +“You agree then,” said Ethel; “do you, Mr. Ernescliffe?” + +“I may safely do so,” he answered, smiling. Miss Winter looked at +Etheldred reprovingly, and she shrank into herself, drew apart, and +indulged in a reverie. She had heard in books of girls writing poetry, +romance, history--gaining fifties and hundreds. Could not some of the +myriads of fancies floating in her mind thus be made available? She +would compose, publish, earn money--some day call papa, show him her +hoard, beg him to take it, and, never owning whence it came, raise the +building. Spire and chancel, pinnacle and buttress, rose before her +eyes, and she and Norman were standing in the porch with an orderly, +religious population, blessing the unknown benefactor, who had caused +the news of salvation to be heard among them. + +They were almost at home, when the sight of a crowd in the main street +checked them. Norman and Mr. Ernescliffe went forward to discover the +cause, and spoke to some one on the outskirts--then Mr. Ernescliffe +hurried back to the ladies. + +“There’s been an accident,” he said hastily--“you had better go down the +lane and in by the garden.” + +He was gone in an instant, and they obeyed in silence. Whence came +Ethel’s certainty that the accident concerned themselves? In an agony +of apprehension, though without one outward sign of it, she walked home. +They were in the garden--all was apparently as usual, but no one was in +sight. Ethel had been first, but she held back, and let Miss Winter go +forward into the house. The front door was open--servants were standing +about in confusion, and one of the maids, looking dreadfully frightened, +gave a cry, “Oh! Miss--Miss--have you heard?” + +“No--what? What has happened? Not Mrs. May--” exclaimed Miss Winter. + +“Oh, ma’am! it is all of them. The carriage is overturned, and--” + +“Who’s hurt? Mamma! papa! Oh, tell me!” cried Flora. + +“There’s nurse,” and Ethel flew up to her. “What is it? Oh, nurse!” + +“My poor, poor children,” said old nurse, passionately kissing Ethel. +Harry and Mary were on the stairs behind her, clinging together. + +A stranger looked into the house, followed by Adams, the stableman. +“They are going to bring Miss May in,” some one said. + +Ethel could bear it no longer. As if she could escape, she fled upstairs +into her room, and, falling on her knees, hid her face on her bed. + +There were heavy steps in the house, then a sound of hasty feet coming +up to her. Norman dashed into the room, and threw himself on a chair. He +was ghastly pale, and shuddered all over. + +“Oh, Norman, Norman, speak! What is it?” He groaned, but could not +speak; he rested his head against her, and gasped. She was terribly +frightened. “I’ll call--” and she would have gone, but he held her. +“No--no--they can’t!” He was prevented from saying more, by chattering +teeth and deadly faintness. She tried to support him, but could only +guide him as he sank, till he lay at full length on the floor, where she +put a pillow under his head, and gave him some water. “Is it--oh, tell +me! Are they much hurt? Oh, try to say!” + +“They say Margaret is alive,” said Norman, in gasps; “but--And papa--he +stood up--sat--walked--was better-” + +“Is he hurt--much hurt?” + +“His arm--” and the tremor and fainting stopped him again. + +“Mamma?” whispered Ethel; but Norman only pressed his face into the +pillow. + +She was so bewildered as to be more alive to the present distress of his +condition than to the vague horrors downstairs. Some minutes passed in +silence, Norman lying still, excepting a nervous trembling that agitated +his whole frame. Again was heard the strange tread, doors opening and +shutting, and suppressed voices, and he turned his face upwards, and +listened with his hand pressed to his forehead, as if to keep himself +still enough to listen. + +“Oh! what is the matter? What is it?” cried Ethel, startled and recalled +to the sense of what was passing. + +“Oh, Norman!” Then springing up, with a sudden thought, “Mr. Ward! Oh! +is he there?” + +“Yes,” said Norman, in a low hopeless tone, “he was at the place. He +said it--” + +“What?” + +Again Norman’s face was out of sight. + +“Mamma?” Ethel’s understanding perceived, but her mind refused to grasp +the extent of the calamity. There was no answer, save a convulsive +squeezing of her hand. + +Fresh sounds below recalled her to speech and action. + +“Where is she? What are they doing for her? What--” + +“There’s nothing to be done. She--when they lifted her up, she was--” + +“Dead?” + +“Dead.” + +The boy lay with his face hidden, the girl sat by him on the floor, too +much crushed for even the sensations belonging to grief, neither moving +nor looking. After an interval Norman spoke again, “The carriage turned +right over--her head struck on the kerb stone--” + +“Did you see?” said Ethel presently. + +“I saw them lift her up.” He spoke at intervals, as he could get breath +and bear to utter the words. “And papa--he was stunned--but soon he +sat up, said he would go to her--he looked at her--felt her pulse, and +then--sank down over her!” + +“And did you say--I can’t remember--was he hurt?” + +The shuddering came again, “His arm--all twisted--broken,” and his voice +sank into a faint whisper; Ethel was obliged to sprinkle him again +with water. “But he won’t die?” said she, in a tone calm from its +bewilderment. + +“Oh! no, no, no--” + +“And Margaret?” + +“They were bringing her home. I’ll go and see. Oh! what’s the meaning of +this?” exclaimed he, scolding himself, as, sitting up, he was forced to +rest his head on his shaking hand. + +“You are still faint, dear Norman; you had better lie still, and I’ll go +and see.” + +“Faint--stuff--how horridly stupid!” but he was obliged to lay his head +down again; and Ethel, scarcely less trembling, crept carefully towards +the stairs, but a dread of what she might meet came over her, and she +turned towards the nursery. + +The younger ones sat there in a frightened huddle. Mary was on a low +chair by the infant’s cot, Blanche in her lap, Tom and Harry leaning +against her, and Aubrey almost asleep. Mary held up her finger as Ethel +entered, and whispered, “Hush! don’t wake baby for anything!” + +The first true pang of grief shot through Ethel like a dart, stabbing +and taking away her breath, “Where are they?” she said; “how is papa? +who is with him?” + +“Mr. Ward and Alan Ernescliffe,” said Harry. “Nurse came up just now, +and said they were setting his arm.” + +“Where is he?” + +“On the bed in his dressing-room,” said Harry. + +“Has he come to himself--is he better?” + +They did not seem to know, and Ethel asked where to find Flora. “With +Margaret,” she was told, and she was thinking whether she could venture +to seek her, when she herself came fast up the stairs. Ethel and +Harry both darted out. “Don’t stop me,” said Flora--“they want some +handkerchiefs.” + +“What, is not she in her own room?” + +“No,” said Harry, “in mamma’s;” and then his face quivered all over, +and he turned away. Ethel ran after her sister, and pulling out drawers +without knowing what she sought, begged to hear how papa and Margaret +were. + +“We can’t judge of Margaret--she has moved, and made a little +moaning--there are no limbs broken, but we are afraid for her head. Oh! +if papa could but--” + +“And papa?” + +“Mr. Ward is with him now--his arm is terribly hurt.” + +“But oh! Flora--one moment--is he sensible?” + +“Hardly; he does not take any notice--but don’t keep me.” + +“Can I do anything?” following her to the head of the stairs. + +“No; I don’t see what you can do. Miss Winter and I are with Margaret; +there’s nothing to do for her.” + +It was a relief. Etheldred shrank from what she might have to behold, +and Flora hastened down, too busy and too useful to have time to think. +Harry had gone back to his refuge in the nursery, and Ethel returned to +Norman. There they remained for a long time, both unwilling to speak +or stir, or even to observe to each other on the noises that came in to +them, as their door was left ajar, though in those sounds they were so +absorbed, that they did not notice the cold of a frosty October evening, +or the darkness that closed in on them. + +They heard the poor babe crying, one of the children going down to call +nurse, and nurse coming up; then Harry, at the door of the room where +the boys slept, calling Norman in a low voice. Norman, now nearly +recovered, went and brought him into his sister’s room, and his tidings +were, that their father’s arm had been broken in two places, and the +elbow frightfully injured, having been crushed and twisted by the wheel. +He was also a good deal bruised, and though Mr. Ward trusted there was +no positive harm to the head, he was in an unconscious state, from +which the severe pain of the operation had only roused him, so far as to +evince a few signs of suffering. Margaret was still insensible. + +The piteous sound of the baby’s wailing almost broke their hearts. +Norman walked about the room in the dark, and said he should go down, +he could not bear it; but he could not make up his mind to go, and after +about a quarter of an hour, to their great relief, it ceased. + +Next Mary opened the door, saying, “Norman, here’s Mr. Wilmot come to +ask if he can do anything--Miss Winter sent word that you had better go +to him.” + +“How is baby?” asked Harry. + +“Nurse has fed her, and is putting her to bed; she is quiet now,” said +Mary; “will you go down, Norman?” + +“Where is he?” + +“In the drawing-room.” + +Norman paused to ask what he was to say. + +“Nothing,” said Mary, “nobody can do anything. Make haste. Don’t you +want a candle?” + +“No, thank you, I had rather be in the dark. Come up as soon as you have +seen him,” said Etheldred. + +Norman went slowly down, with failing knees, hardly able to conquer the +shudder that came over him, as he passed those rooms. There were +voices in the drawing-room, and he found a sort of council there, Alan +Ernescliffe, the surgeon, and Mr. Wilmot. They turned as he came in, and +Mr. Wilmot held out his hand with a look of affection and kindness that +went to his heart, making room for him on the sofa, while going on with +what he was saying. “Then you think it would be better for me not to sit +up with him.” + +“I should decidedly say so,” replied Mr. Ward. “He has recognised +Mr. Ernescliffe, and any change might excite him, and lead him to ask +questions. The moment of his full consciousness is especially to be +dreaded.” + +“But you do not call him insensible?” + +“No, but he seems stunned--stupified by the shock, and by pain. He spoke +to Miss Flora when she brought him some tea.” + +“And admirably she managed,” said Alan Ernescliffe. “I was much afraid +of some answer that would rouse him, but she kept her self-possession +beautifully, and seemed to compose him in a moment.” + +“She is valuable indeed--so much judgment and activity,” said Mr. Ward. +“I don’t know what we should have done without her. But we ought to have +Mr. Richard--has no one sent to him?” + +Alan Ernescliffe and Norman looked at each other. + +“Is he at Oxford, or at his tutor’s?” asked Mr. Wilmot. + +“At Oxford; he was to be there to-day, was he not, Norman?” + +“What o’clock is it? Is the post gone--seven--no; it is all safe,” said +Mr. Ward. + +Poor Norman! he knew he was the one who ought to write, but his icy +trembling hand seemed to shake more helplessly than ever, and a piteous +glance fell upon Mr. Wilmot. + +“The best plan would be,” said Mr. Wilmot, “for me to go to him at once +and bring him home. If I go by the mail-train, I shall get to him sooner +than a letter could.” + +“And it will be better for him,” said Mr. Ward. “He will feel it +dreadfully, poor boy. But we shall all do better when we have him. You +can get back to-morrow evening.” + +“Sunday,” said Mr. Wilmot, “I believe there is a train at four.” + +“Oh! thank you, sir,” said Norman. + +“Since that is settled, perhaps I had better go up to the doctor,” said +Alan; “I don’t like leaving Flora alone with him,” and he was gone. + +“How fortunate that that youth is here,” said Mr. Wilmot--“he seems to +be quite taking Richard’s place.” + +“And to feel it as much,” said Mr. Ward. “He has been invaluable with +his sailor’s resources and handiness.” + +“Well, what shall I tell poor Richard?” asked Mr. Wilmot. + +“Tell him there is no reason his father should not do very well, if +we can keep him from agitation--but there’s the point. He is of so +excitable a constitution, that his faculties being so far confused is +the best thing, perhaps, that could be. Mr. Ernescliffe manages him very +well--used to illness on that African coast, and the doctor is very +fond of him. As to Miss May, one can’t tell what to say about her +yet--there’s no fracture, at least--it must be a work of time to judge.” + +Flora at that moment half-opened the door, and called Mr. Ward, stopping +for a moment to say it was for nothing of any consequence. Mr. Wilmot +and Norman were left together. Norman put his hands over his face and +groaned--his master looked at him with kind anxiety, but did not feel as +if it were yet time to speak of consolation. + +“God bless and support you, and turn this to your good, my dear boy,” + said he affectionately, as he pressed his hand; “I hope to bring your +brother to-morrow.” + +“Thank you, sir,” was all Norman could say; and as Mr. Wilmot went +out by the front door, he slowly went up again, and, lingering on the +landing-place, was met by Mr. Ward, who told him to his relief--for the +mere thinking of it renewed the faint sensation--that he had better not +go to his father’s room. + +There was nothing to be done but to return to Ethel and Harry, and tell +them all; with some humiliation at being helpless, where Flora was doing +so much, and to leave their father to be watched by a stranger. If he +had been wanted, Norman might have made the effort, but being told that +he would be worse than useless, there was nothing for him but to give +way. + +They sat together in Ethel’s room till somewhere between eight and nine +o’clock, when good old nurse, having put her younger ones to bed, came +in search of them. “Dear, dear! poor darlings,” said she, as she found +them sitting in the dark; she felt their cold hands, and made them all +come into the nursery, where Mary was already, and, fondling them, one +by one, as they passively obeyed her, she set them down on their little +old stools round the fire, took away the high fender, and gave them each +a cup of tea. Harry and Mary ate enough to satisfy her, from a weary +craving feeling, and for want of employment; Norman sat with his elbow +on his knee, and a very aching head resting on his hand, glad of drink, +but unable to eat; Ethel could be persuaded to do neither, till she +found old nurse would let her have no peace. + +The nurse sent them all to bed, taking the two girls to their own room, +undressing them, and never leaving them until Mary was in a fair way of +crying herself to sleep--for saying her prayers had brought the tears; +while Ethel lay so wide awake that it was of no use to wait for her, and +then she went to the boys, tucked them each in, as when they were little +children, and saying, “Bless your dear hearts!” bestowed on each of them +a kiss which came gratefully to Norman’s burning brow, and which even +Harry’s boyish manliness could not resist. + +Flora was in Margaret’s room, too useful to be spared. + +So ended that dreadful Saturday. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + + + They may not mar the deep repose + Of that immortal flower: + Though only broken hearts are found + To watch her cradle by, + No blight is on her slumbers found, + No touch of harmful eye. + LYRA INNOCENTIUM. + + +Such a strange sad Sunday! No going to church, but all the poor children +moving in awe and oppression about the house, speaking under their +breath, as they gathered in the drawing-room. Into the study they might +not go, and when Blanche would have asked why, Tom pressed her hand and +shuddered. + +Etheldred was allowed to come and look at Margaret, and even to sit in +the room for a little while, to take the place of Miss Winter; but she +was not sensible of sufficient usefulness to relieve the burden of fear +and bewilderment in the presence of that still, pale form; and, what was +almost worse, the sight of the familiar objects, the chair by the fire, +the sofa, the books, the work-basket, the letter-case, the dressing +things, all these were too oppressive. She sat crouched up, with her +face hidden in her hands, and the instant she was released, hastened +back to Norman. She was to tell him that he might go into the room, but +he did not move, and Mary alone went in and out with messages. + +Dr. May was not to be visited, for he was in the same half-conscious +state, apparently sensible only of bodily suffering, though he answered +when addressed, and no one was trusted to speak to him but Flora and +Ernescliffe. + +The rest wore through the day as best they might. Harry slept a good +deal, Ethel read to herself, and tried to get Norman to look at passages +which she liked, Mary kept the little ones from being troublesome, and +at last took them to peep behind the school-room blinds for Richard’s +coming. + +There was a simultaneous shout when, at four o’clock, they caught sight +of him, and though, at Ethel’s exclamation of wonder, Mary and Tom hung +their heads at having forgotten themselves, the association of gladness +in seeing Richard was refreshing; the sense of being desolate and +forsaken was relieved, and they knew that now they had one to rely on +and to comfort them. + +Harry hastened to open the front door, and Richard, with his small +trim figure, and fresh, fair young face, flushed, though not otherwise +agitated, was among them, almost devoured by the younger ones, and +dealing out quiet caresses to them, as he caught from the words and +looks of the others that at least his father and sister were no worse. +Mr. Wilmot had come with him, but only stayed to hear the tidings. + +“Can I see papa?” were Richard’s first audible words--all the rest had +been almost dumb show. + +Ethel thought not, but took him to Margaret’s room, where he stood for +many minutes without speaking; then whispered to Flora that he must go +to the others, she should call him if--and went down, followed by Ethel. + +Tom and Blanche had fallen into teasing tricks, a sort of melancholy +play to relieve the tedium. They grew cross. Norman was roused to +reprove sharply, and Blanche was beginning to cry. But Richard’s +entrance set all at peace--he sat down among them, and, with soft voice +and arm round Blanche, as she leaned against him, made her good in a +moment; and she listened while he talked over with Norman and Ethel all +they could bear to speak of. + +Late in the day Flora came into her father’s room, and stood gazing +at him, as he lay with eyes closed, breathing heavily, and his brows +contracted by pain. She watched him with piteous looks, as if imploring +him to return to his children. Poor girl, to-day’s quiet, after the last +evening’s bustle, was hard to bear. She had then been distracted from +thought by the necessity of exertion, but it now repaid itself, and she +knew not how to submit to do nothing but wait and watch. + +“No change?” enquired Alan Ernescliffe; looking kindly in her face. + +“No,” replied she in a low, mournful tone. “She only once said, thank +you.” + +A voice which she did not expect, asked inquiringly, “Margaret?” and her +heart beat as if it would take away her breath, as she saw her father’s +eyes intently fixed on her. “Did you speak of her?” he repeated. + +“Yes, dear papa,” said Flora, not losing presence of mind, though in +extreme fear of what the next question might be. “She is quiet and +comfortable, so don’t be uneasy, pray.” + +“Let me hear,” he said, and his whole voice and air showed him to be +entirely roused. “There is injury? What is it--” + +He continued his inquiries till Flora was obliged fully to explain her +sister’s condition, and then he dismayed her by saying he would get up +and go to see her. Much distressed, she begged him not to think of it, +and appealed to Alan, who added his entreaties that he would at least +wait for Mr. Ward; but the doctor would not relinquish his purpose, and +sent her to give notice that he was coming. + +Mr. Ernescliffe followed her out of the room, and tried to console her, +as she looked at him in despair. + +“You see he is quite himself, quite collected,” he said; “you heard now +clear and coherent his questions were.” + +“Can’t it be helped? Do try to stop him till I can send to Mr. Ward.” + +“I will try, but I think he is in a state to judge for himself. I do, +upon my word; and I believe trying to prevent him would be more likely +to do him harm than letting him satisfy himself. I really think you need +not be alarmed.” + +“But you know,” said Flora, coming nearer, and almost gasping as she +whispered and signed towards the door, “she is there--it is mamma’s +room, that will tell all.” + +“I believe he knows,” said Alan. “It was that which made him faint +after the accident, for he had his perceptions fully at first. I have +suspected all day that he was more himself than he seemed, but I think +he could not bear to awaken his mind to understand it, and that he was +afraid to hear about her--your sister, so that our mention of her was a +great relief, and did him good. I am convinced he knows the rest. Only +go on, be calm, as you have been, and we shall do very well.” + +Flora went to prepare. Ethel eagerly undertook to send to Mr. Ward, and +hastened from the room, as if in a sort of terror, shrinking perhaps +from what might lead to an outburst of grief. She longed to have seen +her father, but was frightened at the chance of meeting him. When she +had sent her message, and told her brothers what was passing, she went +and lingered on the stairs and in the passage for tidings. After what +seemed a long time, Flora came out, and hastened to the nursery, giving +her intelligence on the way. + +“Better than could be hoped, he walked alone into the room, and was +quite calm and composed. Oh! if this will not hurt him, if the seeing +baby was but over!” + +“Does he want her?” + +“Yes, he would have come up here himself, but I would not let him. +Nurse, do you hear? Papa wants baby; let me have her.” + +“Bless me, Miss Flora, you can’t hold her while you are all of a +tremble! And he has been to Miss Margaret?” + +“Yes, nurse, and he was only rather stiff and lame.” + +“Did Margaret seem to know him?” said Ethel. + +“She just answered in that dreamy way when he spoke to her. He says +he thinks it is as Mr. Ward believes, and that she will soon come to +herself. He is quite able to consider--” + +“And he knows all?” + +“I am sure he does. He desired to see baby, and he wants you, nurse. +Only mind you command yourself--don’t say a word you can help--do +nothing to agitate him.” + +Nurse promised, but the tears came so fast, and sobs with them, as +she approached her master’s room, that Flora saw no composure could +be expected from her; and taking the infant from her, carried it in, +leaving the door open for her to follow when wanted. Ethel stood by +listening. There was silence at first, then some sounds from the baby, +and her father’s voice soothing it, in his wonted caressing phrases and +tones, so familiar that they seemed to break the spell, drive away her +vague terrors, and restore her father. Her heart bounded, and a sudden +impulse carried her to the bedside, at once forgetting all dread of +seeing him, and chance of doing him harm. He lay, holding the babe close +to him, and his face was not altered, so that there was nothing in the +sight to impress her with the need of caution, and, to the consternation +of the anxious Flora, she exclaimed, abruptly and vehemently, “Papa! +should not she be christened?” + +Dr. May looked up at Ethel, then at the infant; “Yes,” he said, “at +once.” Then added feebly and languidly, “Some one must see to it.” + +There was a pause, while Flora looked reproachfully at her sister, and +Ethel became conscious of her imprudence, but in a few moments Dr. May +spoke again, first to the baby, and then asking, “Is Richard here?” + +“Yes, papa.” + +“Send him up presently. Where’s nurse?” + +Ethel retreated, much alarmed at her rash measure, and when she related +it she saw that Richard and Mr. Ernescliffe both thought it had been a +great hazard. + +“Papa wants you,” was a welcome sound to the ears of Richard, and +brought a pink glow into his face. He was never one who readily showed +his feelings, and there was no danger of his failing in self-command, +though grievously downcast, not only at the loss of the tender mother, +who had always stood between him and his father’s impatience, but by +the dread that he was too dull and insignificant to afford any help or +comfort in his father’s dire affliction. + +Yet there was something in the gentle sad look that met him, and in the +low tone of the “How d’ye do, Ritchie?” that drove off a thought of not +being loved; and when Dr. May further added, “You’ll see about it all--I +am glad you are come,” he knew he was of use, and was encouraged and +cheered. That his father had full confidence and reliance in him, and +that his presence was a satisfaction and relief he could no longer +doubt; and this was a drop of balm beyond all his hopes; for loving +and admiring his father intensely, and with depressed spirits and a low +estimate of himself, he had begun to fancy himself incapable of being +anything but a vexation and burden. + +He sat with his father nearly all the evening, and was to remain with +him at night. The rest were comforted by the assurance that Dr. May was +still calm, and did not seem to have been injured by what had passed. +Indeed, it seemed as if the violence and suddenness of the shock, +together with his state of suffering, had deadened his sensations; for +there was far less agitation about him than could have been thought +possible in a man of such strong, warm affections and sensitive +temperament. + +Ethel and Norman went up arm-in-arm at bedtime. + +“I am going to ask if I may wish papa good-night,” said Ethel. “Shall I +say anything about your coming?” + +Norman hesitated, but his cheeks blanched; he shuddered, shook his head +without speaking, ran up after Harry, and waved her back when she would +have followed. + +Richard told her that she might come in, and, as she slowly advanced, +she thought she had never seen anything so ineffably mournful as +the affectionate look on her father’s face. She held his hand and +ventured--for it was with difficulty she spoke--to hope he was not in +pain. + +“Better than it was, thank you, my dear,” he said, in a soft weak tone: +then, as she bent down to kiss his brow; “you must take care of the +little ones.” + +“Yes, papa,” she could hardly answer, and a large drop gathered slowly +in each eye, long in coming, as if the heart ached too much for them to +flow freely. + +“Are they all well?” + +“Yes, papa.” + +“And good?” He held her hand, as if lengthening the interview. + +“Yes, very good all day.” + +A long deep sigh. Ethel’s two tears stood on her cheeks. + +“My love to them all. I hope I shall see them to-morrow. God bless you, +my dear, good-night.” + +Ethel went upstairs, saddened and yet soothed. The calm silent sorrow, +too deep for outward tokens, was so unlike her father’s usually +demonstrative habits, as to impress her all the more, yet those two +tears were followed by no more; there was much strangeness and confusion +in her mind in the newness of grief. + +She found poor Flora, spent with exertion, under the reaction of all she +had undergone, lying on her bed, sobbing as if her heart would break, +calling in gasps of irrepressible agony on “mamma! mamma!” yet with +her face pressed down on the pillow that she might not be heard. Ethel, +terrified and distressed, timidly implored her to be comforted, but it +seemed as if she were not even heard; she would have fetched some one, +but whom? Alas! alas! it brought back the sense that no mother would +ever soothe them--Margaret, papa, both so ill, nurse engaged with +Margaret! Ethel stood helpless and despairing, and Flora sobbed on, so +that Mary awakened to burst out in a loud frightened fit of crying; but +in a few moments a step was at the door, a knock, and Richard asked, “Is +anything the matter?” + +He was in the room in a moment, caressing and saying affectionate things +with gentleness and fondling care, like his mother, and which recalled +the days when he had been proud to be left for a little while the small +nurse and guardian of the lesser ones. Mary was hushed in a moment, and +Flora’s exhausted weeping was gradually soothed, when she was able +to recollect that she was keeping him from her father; with kind +good-nights, he left Ethel to read to her till she could sleep. Long did +Ethel read, after both her sisters were slumbering soundly; she went on +in a sort of dreamy grief, almost devoid of pain, as if all this was too +terrible to be true: and she had imagined herself into a story, which +would give place at dawn to her ordinary life. + +At last she went to bed, and slept till wakened by the return of Flora, +who had crept down in her dressing-gown to see how matters were going. +Margaret was in the same state, papa was asleep, after a restless +distressing night, with much pain and some fever; and whenever Richard +had begun to hope from his tranquillity, that he was falling asleep, +he was undeceived by hearing an almost unconsciously uttered sigh of +“Maggie, my Maggie!” and then the head turned wearily on the pillow, +as if worn out with the misery from which there was no escape. Towards +morning the pain had lessened, and, as he slept, he seemed much less +feverish than they could have ventured to expect. + +Norman looked wan and wretched, and could taste no breakfast; indeed +Harry reported that he had been starting and talking in his sleep half +the night, and had proceeded to groaning and crying out till, when it +could be borne no longer, Harry waked him, and finished his night’s rest +in peace. + +The children were kept in the drawing-room that morning, and there were +strange steps in the house; but only Richard and Mr. Ernescliffe knew +the reason. Happily there had been witnesses enough of the overturn to +spare any reference to Dr. May--the violent start of the horses had been +seen, and Adams and Mr. Ernescliffe agreed, under their breath, that the +new black one was not fit to drive, while the whole town was so used to +Dr. May’s headlong driving, that every one was recollecting their +own predictions of accidents. There needed little to account for the +disaster--the only wonder was that it had not happened sooner. + +“I say,” announced Harry, soon after they were released again, “I’ve +been in to papa. His door was open, and he heard me, and called me. He +says he should like any of us to come in and see him. Hadn’t you better +go, Norman?” + +Norman started up, and walked hastily out of the room, but his hand +shook so, that he could hardly open the door; and Ethel, seeing how it +was with him, followed him quickly, as he dashed, at full speed, up the +stairs. At the top, however, he was forced to cling to the rail, gasping +for breath, while the moisture started on his forehead. + +“Dear Norman,” she said, “there’s nothing to mind. He looks just as +usual. You would not know there was anything the matter.” But he rested +his head on his hand, and looked as if he could not stir. “I see it +won’t do,” said Ethel--“don’t try--you will be better by-and-by, and he +has not asked for you in particular.” + +“I won’t be beat by such stuff,” said Norman, stepping hastily forwards, +and opening the door suddenly. He got through the greeting pretty well, +there was no need for him to speak, he only gave his hand and looked +away, unable to bring himself to turn his eyes on his father, and afraid +of letting his own face be seen. Almost at the same moment, nurse +came to say something about Margaret, and he seized the opportunity of +withdrawing his hand, and hurrying away, in good time, for he was pale +as death, and was obliged to sit down on the head of the stairs, and +lean his head against Etheldred. + +“What does make me so ridiculous?” he exclaimed faintly, but very +indignantly. + +The first cure was the being forced to clear out of Mr. Ward’s way, +which he could not effect without being seen; and Ethel though she knew +that he would be annoyed, was not sorry to be obliged to remain, and +tell what was the matter with him. “Oh,” said Mr. Ward, turning and +proceeding to the dining-room, “I’ll set that to rights in a minute, if +you will ask for a tumbler of hot water Miss Ethel.” + +And armed with the cordial he had prepared, Ethel hunted up her brother, +and persuaded him, after scolding her a little, to swallow it, and take +a turn in the garden; after which he made a more successful attempt at +visiting his father. + +There was another room whither both Norman and Etheldred wished to go, +though they dared not hint at their desire. At last Richard came +to them, as they were wandering in the garden, and, with his usual +stillness of manner, shaded with additional seriousness, said, “Would +you like to come into the study?” + +Etheldred put one hand into his, Norman took the other, and soon +they stood in that calm presence. Fair, cold, white, and intensely +still--that face brought home to them the full certainty that the warm +brightening look would never beam on them, the soft blue eyes never +guide, check, and watch them, the smile never approve or welcome them. +To see her unconscious of their presence was too strange and sad, +and all were silent, till, as they left the room, Ethel looked out at +Blanche and Aubrey in the garden. “They will never remember her! Oh! why +should it be?” + +Richard would fain have moralised and comforted, but she felt as if she +knew it all before, and heard with languid attention. She had rather +read than talk, and he sat down to write letters. + +There were no near relations to be sent for. Dr. May was an only son, +and his wife’s sister, Mrs. Arnott, was in New Zealand; her brother +had long been dead, and his widow, who lived in Edinburgh, was scarcely +known to the May family. Of friends there were many, fast bound by +affection and gratitude, and notes, inquiries, condolences, and offers +of service came in thickly, and gave much occupation to Flora, Richard, +and Alan Ernescliffe, in turn. No one from without could do anything for +them--they had all the help they wanted in Miss Winter and in Alan, who +was invaluable in sharing with Richard the care of the doctor, as well +as in giving him the benefit of his few additional years’ experience, +and relieving him of some of his tasks. He was indeed like one of +themselves, and a most valuable help and comforter. Mr. Wilmot gave them +all the time he could, and on this day saw the doctor, who seemed to +find some solace in his visit, though saying very little. + +On this day the baby was to be baptized. The usual Stoneborough fashion +was to collect all the christenings for the month into one Sunday, +except those for such persons as thought themselves too refined to see +their children christened before the congregation, and who preferred +an empty church and a week-day. The little one had waited till she was +nearly six weeks old for “a Christening Sunday,” and since that had been +missed, she could not be kept unbaptized for another month; so, late in +the day, she was carried to church. + +Richard had extremely gratified old nurse, by asking her to represent +poor Margaret; Mrs. Hoxton stood for the other godmother, and Alan +Ernescliffe was desired to consider himself absolutely her sponsor, not +merely a proxy. The younger children alone were to go with them: it +was too far off, and the way lay too much through the town for it to +be thought proper for the others to go. Ethel wished it very much, and +thought it nonsense to care whether people looked at her; and in spite +of Miss Winter’s seeming shocked at her proposing it, had a great mind +to persist. She would even have appealed to her papa, if Flora had +not stopped her, exclaiming, “Really, Ethel, I think there never was a +person so entirely without consideration as you are.” + +Much abashed, Ethel humbly promised that if she might go into papa’s +room, she would not say one word about the christening, unless he should +begin, and, to her great satisfaction, he presently asked her to read +the service to him. Flora came to the doorway of Margaret’s room, and +listened; when she had finished, all were silent. + +“How shall we, how can we virtuously bring up our motherless little +sister?” was the thought with each of the girls. The answers were, in +one mind, “I trust we shall do well by her, dear little thing. I see, on +an emergency, that I know how to act. I never thought I was capable of +being of so much use, thanks to dear, dear mamma’s training. I shall +manage, I am sure, and so they will all depend on me, and look up to me. +How nice it was to hear dear papa say what he did about the comfort of +my being able to look after Margaret.” + +In the other, “Poor darling, it is saddest of all for her, because she +knows nothing, and will never remember her mamma! But if Margaret is but +better, she will take care of her, and oh how we ought to try--and I, +such a naughty wild thing--if I should hurt the dear little ones by +carelessness, or by my bad example! Oh! what shall I do, for want of +some one to keep me in order? If I should vex papa by any of my wrong +ways!” + +They heard the return of the others, and the sisters both sprang up, +“May we bring her to you?” said Flora. + +“Yes, do, my dears.” + +The sisters all came down together with the little one, and Flora put +her down within the arm her father stretched out for her. He gazed into +the baby face, which, in its expressionless placidity, almost recalled +her mother’s tranquil sweetness. + +“Gertrude Margaret,” said Flora, and with a look that had more of +tenderness than grief, he murmured, “My Daisy blossom, my little +Maggie.” + +“Might we?” said Ethel, when Flora took her again, “might we take her to +her godmother to see if she would notice her?” + +He looked as if he wished it; but said, “No, I think not, better not +rouse her,” and sighed heavily; then, as they stood round his bed, +unwilling to go, he added, “Girls, we must learn carefulness and +thoughtfulness. We have no one to take thought for us now.” + +Flora pressed the babe in her arms, Ethel’s two reluctant tears stood +on her cheeks, Mary exclaimed, “I’ll try not to be naughty;” and Blanche +climbed up to kiss him, saying, “I will be always good papa.” + +“Daisy--papa’s Daisy--your vows are made,” whispered Ethel, gaining sole +possession of the babe for a minute. “You have promised to be good and +holy. We have the keeping of you, mamma’s precious flower, her pearl +of truth! Oh, may God guard you to be an unstained jewel, till you come +back to her again--and a blooming flower, till you are gathered into the +wreath that never fades--my own sweet poor little motherless Daisy!” + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + + + “Through lawless camp, through ocean wild, + Her prophet eye pursues her child; + Scans mournfully her poet’s strain, + Fears for her merchant, loss alike and gain.” + LYRA INNOCENTIUM. + + +Dr. May took the management of himself into his own hands, and paid +so little attention to Mr. Ward’s recommendations that his sons and +daughters were in continual dread of his choosing to do something that +might cause injurious agitation. + +However, he did not go further than Margaret’s bedroom where he sat +hour after hour his eyes fixed upon her, as she continued in a state +bordering on insensibility. He took little notice of anything else, +and hardly spoke. There were heavy sighs now and then, but Richard and +Flora, one or other of whom were always watching him, could hardly tell +whether to ascribe them to the oppression of sorrow or of suffering. +Their great fear was of his insisting on seeing his wife’s face, and it +was a great relief that he never alluded to her, except once, to desire +Richard to bring him her ring. Richard silently obeyed, and, without a +word, he placed it on his little finger. Richard used to read the Psalms +to him in the morning, before he was up, and Flora would bring little +Daisy and lay her by his side. + +To the last moment they dreaded his choosing to attend the funeral, and +Flora had decided on remaining at home, though trembling at the thought +of what there might be to go through. They tried to let him hear nothing +about it, but he seemed to know everything; and when Flora came into +Margaret’s room without her bonnet, he raised his head, and said, “I +thought you were all going.” + +“The others are--but may I not stay with you and her, papa?” + +“I had rather be alone, my dears. I will take care of her. I should wish +you all to be there.” + +They decided that his wishes ought to be followed, and that the patients +must be entrusted to old nurse. Richard told Flora, who looked very +pale, that she would be glad of it afterwards, and she had his arm to +lean upon. + +The grave was in the cloister attached to the minster, a smooth green +square of turf, marked here and there with small flat lozenges of stone, +bearing the date and initials of those who lay there, and many of them +recording former generations of Mays, to whom their descent from the +headmaster had given a right of burial there. Dr. Hoxton, Mr. Wilmot, +and the surgeon, were the only friends whom Richard had asked to be +with them, but the minster was nearly full, for there was a very +strong attachment and respect for Dr. and Mrs. May throughout the +neighbourhood, and every one’s feelings were strongly excited. + +“In the midst of life, we are in death--” There was a universal sound +as of a sort of sob, that Etheldred never disconnected from those words. +Yet hardly one tear was shed by the young things who stood as close as +they could round the grave. Harry and Mary did indeed lock their hands +together tightly, and the shoulders of the former shook as he stood, +bowing down his head, but the others were still and quiet, in part from +awe and bewilderment, but partly, too, from a sense that it was against +her whole nature that there should be clamorous mourning for her. The +calm still day seemed to tell them the same, the sun beaming softly on +the gray arches and fresh grass, the sky clear and blue, and the trees +that showed over the walls bright with autumn colouring, all suitable to +the serenity of a life unclouded to its last moment. Some of them felt +as if it were better to be there than in their saddened desolate home. + +But home they must go, and, before going upstairs, as Flora and +Etheldred stood a moment or two with Norman, Ethel said in a tone of +resolution, and of some cheerfulness, “Well, we have to begin afresh.” + +“Yes,” said Flora, “it is a great responsibility. I do trust we may be +enabled to do as we ought.” + +“And now Margaret is getting better, she will be our stay,” said Ethel. + +“I must go to her,” and Flora went upstairs. + +“I wish I could be as useful as Flora,” said Ethel; but I mean to try, +and if I can but keep out of mischief, it will be something. + +“There is an object for all one does, in trying to be a comfort to +papa.” + +“That’s no use,” said Norman, listlessly. “We never can.” + +“Oh, but, Norman, he won’t be always as he is now--I am sure he cares +for us enough to be pleased, if we do right and get on.” + +“We used to be so happy!” said Norman. + +Ethel hesitated a little, and presently answered, “I don’t think it can +be right to lament for our own sakes so much, is it?” + +“I don’t want to do so,” said Norman, in the same dejected way. + +“I suppose we ought not to feel it either.” Norman only shook his head. +“We ought to think of her gain. You can’t? Well, I am glad, for no more +can I. I can’t think of her liking for papa and baby and all of us to +be left to ourselves. But that’s not right of me, and of course it all +comes right where she is; so I always put that out of my head, and think +what is to come next in doing, and pleasing papa, and learning.” + +“That’s grown horrid,” said Norman. “There’s no pleasure in getting on, +nor in anything.” + +“Don’t you care for papa and all of us being glad, Norman?” As Norman +could not just then say that he did, he would not answer. + +“I wish--” said Ethel, disappointed, but cheering up the next minute. “I +do believe it is having nothing to do. You will be better when you get +back to school on Monday.” + +“That is worst of all!” + +“You don’t like going among the boys again? But that must be done some +time or other. Or shall I get Richard to speak to Dr. Hoxton to let you +have another week’s leave?” + +“No, no, don’t be foolish. It can’t be helped.” + +“I am very sorry, but I think you will be better for it.” + +She almost began to fancy herself unfeeling, when she found him so much +more depressed than she was herself, and unable to feel it a relief to +know that the time of rest and want of occupation was over. She thought +it light-minded, though she could not help it, to look forward to +the daily studies where she might lose her sad thoughts and be as if +everything were as usual. But suppose she should be to blame, where +would now be the gentle discipline? Poor Ethel’s feelings were not such +as to deserve the imputation of levity, when this thought came over +her; but her buoyant mind, always seeking for consolation, recurred to +Margaret’s improvement, and she fixed her hopes on her. + +Margaret was more alive to surrounding objects, and, when roused, she +knew them all, answered clearly when addressed, had even, more than +once, spoken of her own accord, and shown solicitude at the sight of her +father’s bandaged, helpless arm, but he soon soothed this away. He was +more than ever watchful over her, and could scarcely be persuaded to +leave her for one moment, in his anxiety to be at hand to answer, when +first she should speak of her mother, a moment apprehended by all the +rest, almost as much for his sake as for hers. + +So clear had her perceptions been, and so much more awake did she +appear, on this evening, that he expected the inquiry to come every +moment, and lingered in her room; till she asked the hour, and begged +him to go to bed. + +As he bent over her, she looked up in his face, and said softly, “Dear +papa.” + +There was that in her tone which showed she perceived the truth, and he +knelt by her side kissing her, but not daring to relax his restraint of +feeling. + +“Dear papa,” she said again, “I hope I shall soon be better, and be some +comfort to you.” + +“My best--my own--my comfort,” he murmured, all he could say without +giving way. + +“Baby--is she well?” + +“Yes, thank Heaven, she has not suffered at all.” + +“I heard her this morning, I must see her to-morrow. But don’t stay, +dear, dear papa, it is late, and I am sure you are not at all well. Your +arm--is it very much hurt?” + +“It is nothing you need think about, my dear. I am much better than I +could have imagined possible.” + +“And you have been nursing me all the time! Papa, you must let me take +care of you now. Do pray go to bed at once, and get up late. Nurse will +take good care of me. Good-night, dear papa.” + +When Dr. May had left her, and tried to tell Richard how it had been, +the tears cut him short, and had their free course; but there was much +of thankfulness, for it might be looked on as the restoration of his +daughter; the worst was over, and the next day he was able to think of +other things, had more attention to spare for the rest, and when the +surgeon came, took some professional interest in the condition of his +own arm, inquired after his patients, and even talked of visiting them. + +In the meantime, Margaret sent for her eldest brother, begging him to +tell her the whole, and it was heard as calmly and firmly as it was +told. Her bodily state lulled her mind; and besides it was not new; she +had observed much while her faculties were still too much benumbed for +her to understand all, or to express her feelings. Her thoughts seemed +chiefly occupied with her father. She made Richard explain to her +the injury he had suffered, and begged to know whether his constant +attendance on her could do him harm. She was much rejoiced when her +brother assured her that nothing could be better for him, and she +began to say, with a smile, that very likely her being hurt had been +fortunate. She asked who had taken care of him before Richard’s arrival, +and was pleased to hear that it was Mr. Ernescliffe. A visit from the +little Gertrude Margaret was happily accomplished, and, on the whole, +the day was most satisfactory--she herself declaring that she could not +see that there was anything the matter with her, except that she felt +lazy, and did not seem able to move. + +Thus the next Sunday morning dawned with more cheerfulness. Dr. May came +downstairs for the first time, in order to go to church with his whole +flock, except the two Margarets. He looked very wan and shattered, but +they clustered gladly round him, when he once more stood among them, +little Blanche securing his hand, and nodding triumphantly to Mr. +Ernescliffe, as much as to say, “Now I have him, I don’t want you.” + +Norman alone was missing; but he was in his place at church among the +boys. Again, in returning, he slipped out of the party, and was at +home the first, and when this recurred in the afternoon Ethel began +to understand his motive. The High Street led past the spot where the +accident had taken place, though neither she nor any of the others knew +exactly where it was, except Norman, on whose mind the scene was branded +indelibly; she guessed that it was to avoid it that he went along what +was called Randall’s Alley, his usual short cut to school. + +The Sunday brought back to the children that there was no one to hear +their hymns; but Richard was a great comfort, watching over the little +ones more like a sister than a brother. Ethel was ashamed of herself +when she saw him taking thought for them, tying Blanche’s bonnet, +putting Aubrey’s gloves on, teaching them to put away their Sunday toys, +as if he meant them to be as neat and precise as himself. + +Dr. May did not encounter the family dinner, nor attempt a second going +to church; but Blanche was very glorious as she led him down to drink +tea, and, before going up again, he had a conversation with Alan +Ernescliffe, who felt himself obliged to leave Stoneborough early on the +morrow. + +“I can endure better to go now,” said he, “and I shall hear of you +often; Hector will let me know, and Richard has promised to write.” + +“Ay, you must let us often have a line. I should guess you were a +letter-writing man.” + +“I have hitherto had too few friends who cared to hear of me to write +much, but the pleasure of knowing that any interest is taken in me +here--” + +“Well,” said the doctor, “mind that a letter will always be welcome, and +when you are coming southwards, here are your old quarters. We cannot +lose sight of you anyway, especially”--and his voice quivered--“after +the help you gave my poor boys and girls in their distress.” + +“It would be the utmost satisfaction to think I had been of the smallest +use,” said Alan, hiding much under these commonplace words. + +“More than I know,” said Dr. May; “too much to speak of. Well, we shall +see you again, though it is a changed place, and you must come and see +your god-daughter--poor child--may she only be brought up as her sisters +were! They will do their best, poor things, and so must I, but it is sad +work!” + +Both were too much overcome for words, but the doctor was the first to +continue, as he took off his dimmed spectacles. He seemed to wish to +excuse himself for giving way; saying, with a look that would fain have +been a smile, “The world has run so light and easy with me hitherto, +that you see I don’t know how to bear with trouble. All thinking and +managing fell to my Maggie’s share, and I had as little care on my hands +as one of my own boys--poor fellows. I don’t know how it is to turn out, +but of all the men on earth to be left with eleven children, I should +choose myself as the worst.” + +Alan tried to say somewhat of “Confidence--affection--daughters,” and +broke down, but it did as well as if it had been connected. + +“Yes, yes,” said the doctor, “they are good children every one of them. +There’s much to be thankful for, if one could only pluck up heart to +feel it.” + +“And you are convinced that Marga--that Miss May is recovering.” + +“She has made a great advance today. The head is right, at least,” but +the doctor looked anxious and spoke low as he said, “I am not satisfied +about her yet. That want of power over the limbs, is more than the mere +shock and debility, as it seems to me, though Ward thinks otherwise, +and I trust he is right, but I cannot tell yet as to the spine. If +this should not soon mend I shall have Fleet to see her. He was a +fellow-student of mine very clever, and I have more faith in him than in +any one else in that line.” + +“By all means--Yes,” said Alan, excessively shocked. “But you will let +me know how she goes on--Richard will be so kind.” + +“We will not fail,” said Dr May more and more touched at the sight of +the young sailor struggling in vain to restrain his emotion, “you shall +hear. I’ll write myself as soon as I can use my hand, but I hope she may +be all right long before that is likely to be.” + +“Your kindness--” Alan attempted to say, but began again. “Feeling as I +must--” then interrupting himself. “I beg your pardon, ‘tis no fit time, +nor fit--But you’ll let me hear.” + +“That I will,” said Dr May, and as Alan hastily left the room, he +continued, half aloud, to himself, “Poor boy! poor fellow. I see. No +wonder! Heaven grant I have not been the breaking of their two young +hearts, as well as my own! Maggie looked doubtful--as much as she ever +did when my mind was set on a thing, when I spoke of bringing him here. +But after all, she liked him as much as the rest of us did--she could +not wish it otherwise--he is one of a thousand, and worthy of our +Margaret. That he is! and Maggie thinks so. If he gets on in his +profession, why then we shall see--” but the sigh of anguish of mind +here showed that the wound had but been forgotten for one moment. + +“Pshaw! What am I running on to? I’m all astray for want of her! My poor +girl--” + +Mr Ernescliffe set out before sunrise. The boys were up to wish him +good-bye, and so were Etheldred and Mary, and some one else, for while +the shaking of hands was going on in the hall there was a call, “Mr +Ernthcliffe,” and over the balusters peeped a little rough curly head, a +face glowing with carnation deepened by sleep, and a round, plump, bare +arm and shoulder, and down at Alan’s feet there fell a construction of +white and pink paper, while a voice lisped out, “Mr Ernthcliffe, there’s +a white rothe for you.” + +An indignant “Miss Blanche!” was heard behind and there was no certainty +that any thanks reached the poor little heroine, who was evidently borne +off summarily to the nursery, while Ethel gave way to a paroxysm of +suppressed laughter, joined in, more or less, by all the rest, and thus +Alan, promising faithfully to preserve the precious token, left Dr May’s +door, not in so much outward sorrow as he had expected. + +Even their father laughed at the romance of the white “rothe,” and +declared Blanche was a dangerous young lady; but the story was less +successful with Miss Winter, who gravely said it was no wonder since +Blanche’s elder sister had been setting her the example of forwardness +in coming down in this way after Mr. Ernescliffe. Ethel was very angry, +and was only prevented from vindicating herself by remembering there +was no peacemaker now, and that she had resolved only to think of Miss +Winter’s late kindness, and bear with her tiresome ways. + +Etheldred thought herself too sorrowful to be liable to her usual faults +which would seem so much worse now; but she found herself more irritable +than usual, and doubly heedless, because her mind was preoccupied. She +hated herself, and suffered more from sorrow than even at the first +moment, for now she felt what it was to have no one to tame her, no eye +over her; she found herself going a tort et a travers all the morning, +and with no one to set her right. Since it was so the first day, what +would follow? + +Mary was on the contrary so far subdued, as to be exemplary in goodness +and diligence, and Blanche was always steady. Flora was too busy to +think of the school-room, for the whole house was on her hands, besides +the charge of Margaret, while Dr. May went to the hospital, and +to sundry patients, and they thought he seemed the better for the +occupation, as well as gratified and affected by the sympathy he +everywhere met with from high and low. + +The boys were at school, unseen except when at the dinner play-hour +Norman ran home to ask after his father and sister; but the most trying +time was at eight in the evening, when they came home. That was wont to +be the merriest part of the whole day, the whole family collected, +papa at leisure and ready for talk or for play, mamma smiling over her +work-basket, the sisters full of chatter, the brothers full of fun, all +the tidings of the day discussed, and nothing unwelcome but bedtime. How +different now! The doctor was with Margaret, and though Richard tried to +say something cheerful as his brothers entered, there was no response, +and they sat down on the opposite sides of the fire, forlorn and silent, +till Richard, who was printing some letters on card-board to supply the +gaps in Aubrey’s ivory Alphabet, called Harry to help him; but Ethel, +as she sat at work, could only look at Norman, and wish she could devise +anything likely to gratify him. + +After a time Flora came down, and laying some sheets of closely written +note-paper before her sister, said, “Here is dear mamma’s unfinished +letter to Aunt Flora. Papa says we elder ones are to read it. It is a +description of us all, and very much indeed we ought to learn from it. I +shall keep a copy of it.” + +Flora took up her work, and began to consult with Richard, while Ethel +moved to Norman’s side, and kneeling so as to lean against his shoulder, +as he sat on a low cushion, they read their mother’s last letter by +the fire-light, with indescribable feelings, as they went through the +subjects that had lately occupied them, related by her who would never +be among them again. After much of this kind, for her letters to Mrs. +Arnott were almost journals, came, + + +“You say it is long since you had a portrait gallery of the chicken +daisies, and if I do not write in these leisure days, you will hardly +get it after I am in the midst of business again. The new Daisy is like +Margaret at the same age--may she continue like her! Pretty creature, +she can hardly be more charming than at present. Aubrey, the moon-faced, +is far from reconciled to his disposition from babyhood; he is a sober, +solemn gentleman, backward in talking, and with such a will of his own, +as will want much watching; very different from Blanche, who is Flora +over again, perhaps prettier and more fairy-like, unless this is only +one’s admiration for the buds of the present season. None of them has +ever been so winning as this little maid, who even attracts Dr. Hoxton +himself, and obtains sugar-plums and kisses. ‘Rather she than I,’ says +Harry, but notice is notice to the white Mayflower, and there is my +anxiety--I am afraid it is not wholesome to be too engaging ever to get +a rebuff. I hope having a younger sister, and outgrowing baby charms may +be salutary. Flora soon left off thinking about her beauty, and the fit +of vanity does less harm at five than fifteen. My poor Tom has not such +a happy life as Blanche, he is often in trouble at lessons, and bullied +by Harry at play, in spite of his champion, Mary; and yet I cannot +interfere, for it is good for him to have all this preparatory teasing +before he goes into school. He has good abilities, but not much +perseverance or energy, and I must take the teaching of him into my +own hands till his school-days begin, in hopes of instilling them. +The girlishness and timidity will be knocked out of him by the boys, +I suppose; Harry is too kind and generous to do more than tease him +moderately, and Norman will see that it does not go too far. It is a +common saying that Tom and Mary made a mistake, that he is the girl, +and she the boy, for she is a rough, merry creature, the noisiest in the +house, always skirmishing with Harry in defence of Tom, and yet devoted +to him, and wanting to do everything he does. Those two, Harry and Mary, +are exactly alike, except for Harry’s curly mane of lion-coloured wig. +The yellow-haired laddie, is papa’s name for Harry, which he does not +mind from him, though furious if the girls attempt to call him so. +Harry is the thorough boy of the family, all spirit, recklessness, and +mischief, but so true, and kind, and noble-hearted, that one loves him +the better after every freely confessed scrape. I cannot tell you how +grateful I am to my boy for his perfect confidence, the thing that +chiefly lessens my anxiety for him in his half-school, half-home life, +which does not seem to me to work quite well with him. There are two +sons of Mrs. Anderson’s at the school, who are more his friends than I +like, and he is too easily led by the desire not to be outdone, and to +show that he fears nothing. Lately, our sailor-guest has inspired him +with a vehement wish to go to sea; I wish it was not necessary that the +decision should be made so early in life, for this fault is just what +would make us most fear to send him into the world very young, though in +some ways it might not do amiss for him. + +“So much for the younger bairns, whom you never beheld, dear Flora. +The three whom you left, when people used to waste pity on me for their +being all babies together, now look as if any pair of them were twins, +for Norman is the tallest, almost outgrowing his strength, and Ethel’s +sharp face, so like her papa’s, makes her look older than Flora. Norman +and Ethel do indeed take after their papa, more than any of the others, +and are much alike. There is the same brilliant cleverness, the same +strong feeling, not easy of demonstration, though impetuous in action; +but poor Ethel’s old foibles, her harum-scarum nature, quick temper, +uncouth manners, and heedlessness of all but one absorbing object, have +kept her back, and caused her much discomfort; yet I sometimes think +these manifest defects have occasioned a discipline that is the +best thing for the character in the end. They are faults that show +themselves, and which one can tell how to deal with, and I have full +confidence that she has the principle within her that will conquer +them.” + +“If--” mournfully sighed Ethel; but her brother pointed on further. + +“My great hope is her entire indifference to praise--not approval, but +praise. If she has not come up to her own standard, she works on, not +always with good temper, but perseveringly, and entirely, unheeding of +commendation till she has satisfied herself, only thinking it stupid not +to see the faults. It is this independence of praise that I want to see +in her brother and sister. They justly earn it, and are rightly pleased +with it; but I cannot feel sure whether they do not depend on it too +much. Norman lives, like all school-boys, a life of emulation, and has +never met with anything but success. I do believe Dr. Hoxton and +Mr. Wilmot are as proud of him as we are; and he has never shown any +tendency to conceit, but I am afraid he has the love of being foremost, +and pride in his superiority, caring for what he is, compared with +others, rather than what he is himself.” + + +“I know,” said Norman; “I have done so, but that’s over. I see what it +is worth. I’d give all the quam optimes I ever got in my life to be the +help Richard is to papa.” + +“You would if you were his age.” + +“Not I, I’m not the sort. I’m not like her. But are we to go on about +the elders?” + +“Oh! yes, don’t let us miss a word. There can’t be anything but praise +of them.” + + +“Your sweet goddaughter. I almost feel as if I had spoken in +disparagement of her, but I meant no such thing, dear girl. It would be +hard to find a fault in her, since the childish love of admiration was +subdued. She is so solid and steady, as to be very valuable with the +younger ones, and is fast growing so lovely, that I wish you could +behold her. I do not see any vanity, but there lies my dread, not +of beauty--vanity, but that she will find temptation in the being +everywhere liked and sought after. As to Margaret, my precious companion +and friend, you have heard enough of her to know her, and, as to telling +you what she is like, I could as soon set about describing her papa. +When I thought of not being spared to them this time, it was happiness +indeed to think of her at their head, fit to be his companion, with so +much of his own talent as to be more up to conversation with him, than +he could ever have found his stupid old Maggie. It was rather a trial +of her discretion to have Mr. Ernescliffe here while I was upstairs, +and very well she seems to have come out of it. Poor Richard’s last +disappointment is still our chief trouble. He has been working hard with +a tutor all through the vacation, and has not even come home to see his +new sister, on his way to Oxford. He had made a resolution that he would +not come to us till he had passed, and his father thought it best that +it should be kept. I hope he will succeed next time, but his nervousness +renders it still more doubtful. With him it is the very reverse of +Norman. He suffers too much for want of commendation, and I cannot +wonder at it, when I see how much each failure vexes his father, and +Richard little knows how precious is our perfect confidence in him, how +much more valuable than any honours he could earn. You would be amused +to see how little he is altered from the pretty little fair fellow, +that you used to say was so like my old portrait, even the wavy rings of +light glossy hair sit on his forehead, just as you liked to twist them; +and his small trim figure is a fine contrast to Norman’s long legs and +arms, which--” + + +There the letter broke off, the playful affection of the last words +making it almost more painful to think that the fond hand would never +finish the sentence. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + + + A drooping daisy changed into a cup, + In which her bright-eyed beauty is shut up. + WORDSWORTH. + + +“So there you are up for the day--really you look very comfortable,” + said Ethel, coming into the room where Margaret lay on her bed, +half-raised by pillows, supported by a wooden frame. + +“Yes, is not it a charming contrivance of Richard’s? It quite gives me +the use of my hands,” said Margaret. + +“I think he is doing something else for you,” said Ethel; “I heard him +carpentering at six o’clock this morning, but I suppose it is to be a +secret.” + +“And don’t you admire her night-cap?” said Flora. + +“Is it anything different?” said Ethel, peering closer. “Oh, I see--so +she has a fine day night-cap. Is that your taste, Flora?” + +“Partly,” said Margaret, “and partly my own. I put in all these little +white puffs, and I hope you think they do me credit. Wasn’t it grand of +me?” + +“She only despises you for them,” said Flora. + +“I’m very glad you could,” said Ethel, gravely; “but do you know? it +is rather like that horrid old lady in some book, who had a paralytic +stroke, and the first thing she did that showed she had come to her +senses was to write, ‘Rose-coloured curtains for the doctors.’” + +“Well, it was for the doctor,” said Margaret, “and it had its effect. He +told me I looked much better when he found me trying it on.” + +“And did you really have the looking-glass and try it on?” cried Ethel. + +“Yes, really,” said Flora. “Don’t you think one may as well be fit to be +seen if one is ill? It is no use to depress one’s friends by being more +forlorn and disconsolate than one can help.” + +“No--not disconsolate,” said Ethel; “but the white puffiness--and the +hemming--and the glass!” + +“Poor Ethel can’t get over it,” said Margaret. “But, Ethel, do you think +there is nothing disconsolate in untidiness?” + +“You could be tidy without the little puffs! Your first bit of work too! +Don’t think I’m tiresome. If they were an amusement to you, I am sure I +am very glad of them, but I can’t see the sense of them.” + +“Poor little things!” said Margaret laughing. “It is only my foible for +making a thing look nice. And, Ethel,” she added, drawing her down close +over her, “I did not think the trouble wasted, if seeing me look fresher +cheered up dear papa a moment.” + +“I spoke to papa about nurse’s proposal,” said Margaret presently to +Flora, “and he quite agrees to it. Indeed it is impossible that Anne +should attend properly to all the children while nurse is so much +engaged with me.” + +“I think so,” said Flora; “and it does not answer to bring Aubrey into +the school-room. It only makes Mary and Blanche idle, and Miss Winter +does not like it.” + +“Then the question is, who shall it be? Nurse has no one in view, and +only protests against ‘one of the girls out of the school here.’” + +“That’s a great pity,” said Flora. “Don’t you think we could make her +take to Jane White, she is so very nice.” + +“I thought of her, but it will never answer if we displease nurse. +Besides, I remember at the time Anne came, dear mamma thought there was +danger of a girl’s having too many acquaintances, especially taking the +children out walking. We cannot always be sure of sending her out with +Anne.” + +“Do you remember--” said Ethel, there stopping. + +“Well,” said both sisters. + +“Don’t you recollect, Flora, that girl whose father was in the +hospital--that girl at Cocksmoor?” + +“I do,” said Flora. “She was a very nice girl; I wonder whether nurse +would approve of her.” + +“How old?” said Margaret. “Fourteen, and tall. Such a clean cottage!” + +The girls went on, and Margaret began to like the idea very much, and +consider whether the girl could be brought for inspection, before nurse +was prejudiced by hearing of her Cocksmoor extraction. At that moment +Richard knocked at the door, and entered with Tom, helping him to bring +a small short-legged table, such as could stand on the bed at the right +height for Margaret’s meals or employments. + +There were great exclamations of satisfaction, and gratitude; “it was +the very thing wanted, only how could he have contrived it?” + +“Don’t you recognise it?” said he. + +“Oh, I see; it is the old drawing-desk that no one used. And you have +put legs to it--how famous! You are the best contriver, Richard!” + +“Then see, you can raise it up for reading or writing; here’s a corner +for your ink to stand flat; and there it is down for your dinner.” + +“Charming, you have made it go so easily, when it used to be so stiff. +There--give me my work-basket, please, Ethel; I mean to make some more +white puffs.” + +“What’s the matter now, Ethel?” said Flora; “you look as if you did not +approve of the table.” + +“I was only thinking it was as if she was settling herself to lie in bed +for a very long time,” said Ethel. + +“I hope not,” said Richard; “but I don’t see why she should not be as +comfortable as she can, while she is there.” + +“I am sure I hope you will never be ill, Ethel,” said Flora. “You would +be horrid to nurse!” + +“She will know how to be grateful when she is,” said Margaret. + +“I say, Richard,” exclaimed Ethel, “this is hospital-meeting day, so you +won’t be wanted to drive papa.” + +“No, I am at your service; do you want a walk?” + +So it was determined that Richard and Ethel should walk together to +Cocksmoor. + +No two people could be much more unlike than Richard and Etheldred May; +but they were very fond of each other. Richard was sometimes seriously +annoyed by Ethel’s heedlessness, and did not always understand her +sublimities, but he had a great deal of admiration for one who partook +so much of his father’s nature; and Ethel had a due respect for her +eldest brother, gratitude and strong affection for many kindnesses, +a reverence for his sterling goodness, and his exemption from her own +besetting failings, only a little damped by compassionate wonder at +his deficiency in talent, and by her vexation at not being always +comprehended. + +They went by the road, for the plantation gate was far too serious an +undertaking for any one not in the highest spirits for enterprise. On +the way there was a good deal of that desultory talk, very sociable and +interesting, that is apt to prevail between two people, who would never +have chosen each other for companions, if they were not of the same +family, but who are nevertheless very affectionate and companionable. +Ethel was anxious to hear what her brother thought of papa’s spirits, +and whether he talked in their drives. + +“Sometimes,” said Richard. “It is just as it happens. Now and then he +goes on just like himself, and then at other times he will not speak for +three or four miles.” + +“And he sighs?” said Ethel. “Those sighs are so very sad, and long, and +deep! They seem to have whole volumes in them, as if there was such a +weight on him.” + +“Some people say he is not as much altered as they expected,” said +Richard. + +“Oh! do they? Well! I can’t fancy any one feeling it more. He can’t +leave off his old self, of course, but--” Ethel stopped short. + +“Margaret is a great comfort to him,” said Richard. + +“That she is. She thinks of him all day long, and I don’t think either +of them is ever so happy as in the evening, when he sits with her. They +talk about mamma then--” + +It was just what Richard could not do, and he made some observation to +change the subject, but Ethel returned to it, so far as to beg to know +how the arm was going on, for she did not like to say anything about it +to papa. + +“It will be a long business, I am afraid,” said Richard. “Indeed, he +said the other day, he thought he should never have the free use of the +elbow.” + +“And do you think it is very painful? I saw the other day, when Aubrey +was sitting on his knee and fidgeting, he shrank whenever he even came +towards it, and yet it seemed as if he could not bear to put him down.” + +“Yes it is excessively tender, and sometimes gets very bad at night.” + +“Ah,” said Ethel; “there’s a line--here--round his eyes, that there +never used to be, and when it deepens, I am sure he is in pain, or has +been kept awake.” + +“You are very odd, Ethel; how do you see things in people’s faces, when +you miss so much at just the same distance?” + +“I look after what I care about,” said Ethel. “One sees more with one’s +mind than one’s eyes. The best sight is inside.” + +“But do you always see the truth?” said Richard gravely. + +“Quite enough. What is less common than the ordinary world?” said Ethel. + +Richard shook his head, not quite satisfied, but not sure enough that he +entered into her meaning to question it. + +“I wonder you don’t wear spectacles,” was the result of his meditation, +and it made her laugh by being so inapposite to her own reflections: but +the laugh ended in a melancholy look. “Dear mamma did not like me to use +them,” she said, in a low voice. + +Thus they talked till they arrived at Cocksmoor, where poor Mrs. Taylor, +inspirited by better reports of her husband and the hopes for her +daughter, was like another woman. Richard was very careful not to raise +false expectations, saying it all depended on Miss May and nurse, and +what they thought of her strength and steadiness, but these cautions +did not seem capable of damping the hopes of the smooth-haired Lucy, +who stood smiling and curtseying. The twins were grown and improved, and +Ethel supposed they would be brought to church on the next christening +Sunday, but their mother looked helpless and hopeless about getting +them so far, and how was she to get gossips? Ethel began to grow very +indignant, but she was always shy of finding fault with poor people +to their faces when she would not have done so to persons in her own +station, and so she was silent, while Richard hoped they would be able +to manage, and said it would be better not to wait another month for +still worse weather and shorter days. + +As they were coming out of the house, a big, rough-looking, uncivilised +boy came up before them, and called out, “I say--ben’t you the young +doctor up at Stoneborough?” + +“I am Dr. May’s son,” said Richard; while Ethel, startled, clung to his +arm, in dread of some rudeness. + +“Granny’s bad,” said the boy; proceeding without further explanation to +lead the way to another hovel, though Richard tried to explain that the +knowledge of medicine was not in his case hereditary. A poor old woman +sat groaning over the fire, and two children crouched, half-clothed, on +the bare floor. + +Richard’s gentle voice and kind manner drew forth some wonderful +descriptions--“her head was all of a goggle, her legs all of a fur, she +felt as if some one was cutting right through her.” + +“Well,” said Richard kindly, “I am no doctor myself, but I’ll ask +my father about you, and perhaps he can give you an order for the +hospital.” + +“No, no, thank ye, sir; I can’t go to the hospital, I can’t leave these +poor children; they’ve no father nor mother, sir, and no one to do for +them but me.” + +“What do you live on, then?” said Richard, looking round the desolate +hut. + +“On Sam’s wages, sir; that’s that boy. He is a good boy to me, sir, and +his little sisters; he brings it, all he gets, home to me, rig’lar, but +‘tis but six shillings a week, and they makes ‘em take half of it out in +goods and beer, which is a bad thing for a boy like him, sir.” + +“How old are you, Sam?” + +Sam scratched his head, and answered nothing. His grandmother knew he +was the age of her black bonnet, and as he looked about fifteen, Ethel +honoured him and the bonnet accordingly, while Richard said he must be +very glad to be able to maintain them all, at his age, and, promising to +try to bring his father that way, since prescribing at second hand +for such curious symptoms was more than could be expected, he took his +leave. + +“A wretched place,” said Richard, looking round. “I don’t know what help +there is for the people. There’s no one to do any thing for them, and it +is of no use to tell them to come to church when it it so far off, and +there is so little room for them.” + +“It is miserable,” said Ethel; and all her thoughts during her last walk +thither began to rush over her again, not effaced, but rather burned in, +by all that had subsequently happened. She had said it should be her aim +and effort to make Cocksmoor a Christian place. Such a resolve must not +pass away lightly; she knew it must be acted on, but how? What would her +present means--one sovereign--effect? Her fancies, rich and rare, +had nearly been forgotten of late, but she might make them of use in +time--in time, and here were hives of children growing up in heathenism. +Suddenly an idea struck her--Richard, when at home, was a very diligent +teacher in the Sunday-school at Stoneborough, though it was a thankless +task, and he was the only gentleman so engaged, except the two +clergymen--the other male teachers being a formal, grave, little baker, +and one or two monitors. + +“Richard,” said Ethel, “I’ll tell you what. Suppose we were to get up +a Sunday-school at Cocksmoor. We could get a room, and walk there every +Sunday afternoon, and go to church in the evening instead.” + +He was so confounded by the suddenness of the project, that he did not +answer, till she had time for several exclamations and “Well, Richard?” + +“I cannot tell,” he said. “Going to church in the evening would +interfere with tea-time--put out all the house--make the evening +uncomfortable.” + +“The evenings are horrid now, especially Sundays,” said Ethel. + +“But missing two more would make them worse for the others.” + +“Papa is always with Margaret,” said Ethel. “We are of no use to him. +Besides these poor children--are not they of more importance?” + +“And, then, what is to become of Stoneborough school?” + +“I hate it,” exclaimed Ethel; then seeing Richard shocked, and finding +she had spoken more vehemently than she intended--“It is not as bad +for you among the boys, but, while that committee goes on it is not +the least use to try to teach the girls right. Oh! the fusses about the +books, and one’s way of teaching! And fancy how Mrs Ledwich used us. +You know I went again last Sunday, for the first time, and there I found +that class of Margaret’s, that she had just managed to get into some +degree of nice order, taken so much pains with, taught so well. She +had been telling me what to hear them--there it is given away to +Fanny Anderson, who is no more fit to teach than that stick, and all +Margaret’s work will be undone. No notice to us--not even the civility +to wait and see when she gets better.” + +“If we left them now for Cocksmoor, would it not look as it we were +affronted?” + +Ethel was slightly taken aback, but only said, “Papa would be very angry +if he knew it.” + +“I am glad you did not tell him,” said Richard. + +“I thought it would only tease him,” said Ethel, “and that he might +call it a petty female squabble; and when Margaret is well, it will come +right, if Fanny Anderson has not spoiled the girls in the meantime. It +is all Mrs. Ledwich’s doing. How I did hate it when every one came up +and shook hands with me, and asked after Margaret and papa, only just +out of curiosity!” + +“Hush, hush, Ethel, what’s the use of thinking such things?” + +A silence,--then she exclaimed, “But, indeed, Richard, you don’t +fancy that I want to teach at Cocksmoor, because it is disagreeable at +Stoneborough?” + +“No, indeed.” + +The rendering of full justice conveyed in his tone so opened Ethel’s +heart that she went on eagerly:--“The history of it is this. Last time +we walked here, that day, I said, and I meant it, that I would never put +it out of my head; I would go on doing and striving, and trying, till +this place was properly cared for, and has a church and a clergyman. I +believe it was a vow, Richard, I do believe it was,--and if one makes +one, one must keep it. There it is. So, I can’t give money, I have but +one pound in the world, but I have time, and I would make that useful, +if you would help me.” + +“I don’t see how,” was the answer, and there was a fragment of a smile +on Richard’s face, as if it struck him as a wild scheme, that Ethel +should undertake, single handed, to evangelise Cocksmoor. + +It was such a damper as to be most mortifying to an enthusiastic girl, +and she drew into herself in a moment. + +They walked home in silence, and when Richard warned her that she was +not keeping her dress out of the dirt, it sounded like a sarcasm on +her projects, and, with a slightly pettish manner, she raised the +unfortunate skirt, its crape trimmings greatly bespattered with ruddy +mud. Then recollecting how mamma would have shaken her head at that very +thing, she regretted the temper she had betrayed, and in a larmoyante +voice, sighed, “I wish I could pick my way better. Some people have the +gift, you have hardly a splash, and I’m up to the ankles in mud.” + +“It is only taking care,” said Richard; “besides your frock is so long, +and full. Can’t you tuck it up and pin it?” + +“My pins always come out,” said Ethel, disconsolately, crumpling the +black folds into one hand, while she hunted for a pin with the other. + +“No wonder, if you stick them in that way,” said Richard. “Oh! you’ll +tear that crape. Here, let me help you. Don’t you see, make it go in and +out, that way; give it something to pull against.” + +Ethel laughed. “That’s the third thing you have taught me--to thread a +needle, tie a bow, and stick in a pin! I never could learn those things +of any one else; they show, but don’t explain the theory.” + +They met Dr. May at the entrance of the town, very tired, and saying +he had been a long tramp, all over the place, and Mrs. Hoxton had been +boring him with her fancies. As he took Richard’s arm he gave the long +heavy sigh that always fell so painfully on Ethel’s ear. + +“Dear, dear, dear papa!” thought she, “my work must also be to do all I +can to comfort him.” + +Her reflections were broken off. Dr. May exclaimed, “Ethel, don’t make +such a figure of yourself. Those muddy ankles and petticoats are not +fit to be seen--there, now you are sweeping the pavement. Have you no +medium? One would think you had never worn a gown in your life before!” + +Poor Ethel stepped on before with mud-encrusted heels, and her father +speaking sharply in the weariness and soreness of his heart; her +draggle-tailed petticoats weighing down at once her missionary projects +at Cocksmoor, and her tender visions of comforting her widowed father; +her heart was full to overflowing, and where was the mother to hear her +troubles? + +She opened the hall door, and would have rushed upstairs, but nurse +happened to be crossing the hall. “Miss Ethel! Miss Ethel, you aren’t +going up with them boots on! I do declare you are just like one of the +boys. And your frock!” + +Ethel sat submissively down on the lowest step, and pulled off her +boots. As she did so, her father and brother came in--the former +desiring Richard to come with him to the study, and write a note for +him. She hoped that thus she might have Margaret to herself, and hurried +into her room. Margaret was alone, maids and children at tea, and Flora +dressing. The room was in twilight, with the red gleam of the fire +playing cheerfully over it. + +“Well, Ethel, have you had a pleasant walk?” + +“Yes--no--Oh, Margaret!” and throwing herself across the bottom of the +bed, she burst into tears. + +“Ethel, dear, what is the matter? Papa--” + +“No--no--only I draggled my frock, and Richard threw cold water. And I +am good for nothing! Oh! if mamma was but here!” + +“Darling Ethel, dear Ethel, I wish I could comfort you. Come a little +nearer to me, I can’t reach you! Dear Ethel, what has gone wrong?” + +“Everything,” said Ethel. “No--I’m too dirty to come on your white bed; +I forgot, you won’t like it,” added she, in an injured tone. + +“You are wet, you are cold, you are tired,” said Margaret. “Stay here +and dress, don’t go up in the cold. There, sit by the fire pull off your +frock and stockings, and we will send for the others. Let me see you +look comfortable--there. Now tell me who threw cold water.” + +“It was figurative cold water,” said Ethel, smiling for a moment. “I was +only silly enough to tell Richard my plan, and it’s horrid to talk to +a person who only thinks one high-flying and nonsensical--and then came +the dirt.” + +“But what was the scheme, Ethel?” + +“Cocksmoor,” said Ethel, proceeding to unfold it. + +“I wish we could,” said Margaret. “It would be an excellent thing. But +how did Richard vex you?” + +“I don’t know,” said Ethel, “only he thought it would not do. Perhaps he +said right, but it was coldly, and he smiled.” + +“He is too sober-minded for our flights,” said Margaret. “I know the +feeling of it, Ethel dear; but you know if he did see that some of +your plans might not answer, it is no reason you should not try to do +something at once. You have not told me about the girl.” + +Ethel proceeded to tell the history. “There!” said Margaret cheerfully, +“there are two ways of helping Cocksmoor already. Could you not make +some clothes for the two grandchildren? I could help you a little, +and then, if they were well clothed, you might get them to come to the +Sunday-school. And as to the twins, I wonder what the hire of a cart +would be to bring the christening party? It is just what Richard could +manage.” + +“Yes,” said Ethel; “but those are only little isolated individual +things!” + +“But one must make a beginning.” + +“Then, Margaret, you think it was a real vow? You don’t think it silly +of me?” said Ethel wistfully. + +“Ethel, dear, I don’t think dear mamma would say we ought to make vows, +except what the church decrees for us. I don’t think she would like the +notion of your considering yourself pledged; but I do think, that, after +all you have said and felt about Cocksmoor, and being led there on that +day, it does seem as if we might be intended to make it our especial +charge.” + +“Oh, Margaret, I am glad you say so. You always understand.” + +“But you know we are so young, that now we have not her to judge for us, +we must only do little things that we are quite sure of, or we shall get +wrong.” + +“That’s not the way great things were done.” + +“I don’t know, Ethel; I think great things can’t be good unless they +stand on a sure foundation of little ones.” + +“Well, I believe Richard was right, and it would not do to begin on +Sunday, but he was so tame; and then my frock, and the horrid deficiency +in those little neatnesses.” + +“Perhaps that is good for you in one way; you might get very high-flying +if you had not the discipline of those little tiresome things, +correcting them will help you, and keep your high things from being all +romance. I know dear mamma used to say so; that the trying to conquer +them was a help to you. Oh, here’s Mary! Mary, will you get Ethel’s +dressing things? She has come home wet-footed and cold, and has been +warming herself by my fire.” + +Mary was happy to help, and Ethel was dressed and cheered by the time +Dr. May came in, for a hurried visit and report of his doings; Flora +followed on her way from her room. Then all went to tea, leaving +Margaret to have a visit from the little ones under charge of nurse. Two +hours’ stay with her, that precious time when she knew that sad as the +talk often was, it was truly a comfort to him. It ended when ten o’clock +struck, and he went down--Margaret hearing the bell, the sounds of +the assembling servants, the shutting of the door, the stillness +of prayer-time, the opening again, the feet moving off in different +directions, then brothers and sisters coming in to kiss her and bid her +good-night, nurse and Flora arranging her for the night, Flora coming +to sleep in her little bed in the corner of the room, and, lastly, her +father’s tender good-night, and melancholy look at her, and all was +quiet, except the low voices and movements as Richard attended him in +his own room. + +Margaret could think: “Dear, dear Ethel, how noble and high she is! But +I am afraid! It is what people call a difficult, dangerous age, and the +grander she is, the greater danger of not managing her rightly. If those +high purposes should run only into romance like mine, or grow out into +eccentricities and unfemininesses, what a grievous pity it would be! And +I, so little older, so much less clever, with just sympathy enough not +to be a wise restraint--I am the person who has the responsibility, and +oh, what shall I do? Mamma trusted to me to be a mother to them, papa +looks to me, and I so unfit, besides this helplessness. But God sent it, +and put me in my place. He made me lie here, and will raise me up if it +is good, so I trust He will help me with my sisters.” + +“Grant me to have a right judgment in all things, and evermore to +rejoice in Thy holy comfort.” + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + + + Something between a hindrance and a help. + WORDSWORTH. + + +Etheldred awoke long before time for getting up, and lay pondering over +her visions. Margaret had sympathised, and therefore they did not seem +entirely aerial. To earn money by writing was her favourite plan, and +she called her various romances in turn before her memory, to judge +which might be brought down to sober pen and ink. She considered till it +became not too unreasonably early to get up. It was dark, but there was +a little light close to the window: she had no writing-paper, but she +would interline her old exercise-book. Down she ran, and crouching +in the school-room window-seat, she wrote on in a trance of eager +composition, till Norman called her, as he went to school, to help him +to find a book. + +This done, she went up to visit Margaret, to tell her the story, and +consult her. But this was not so easy. She found Margaret with little +Daisy lying by her, and Tom sitting by the fire over his Latin. + +“Oh, Ethel, good-morning, dear! you are come just in time.” + +“To take baby?” said Ethel, as the child was fretting a little. + +“Yes, thank you, she has been very good, but she was tired of lying +here, and I can’t move her about,” said Margaret. + +“Oh, Margaret, I have such a plan,” said Ethel, as she walked about with +little Gertrude; but Tom interrupted. + +“Margaret, will you see if I can say my lesson?” and the thumbed Latin +grammar came across her just as Dr. May’s door opened, and he came in +exclaiming, “Latin grammar! Margaret, this is really too much for you. +Good-morning, my dears. Ha! Tommy, take your book away, my boy. You must +not inflict that on sister now. There’s your regular master, Richard, in +my room, if it is fit for his ears yet. What, the little one here too?” + +“How is your arm, papa?” said Margaret. “Did it keep you awake?” + +“Not long--it set me dreaming though, and a very romantic dream it was, +worthy of Ethel herself.” + +“What was it, papa?” + +“Oh, it was an odd thing, joining on strangely enough with one I had +three or four and twenty years ago, when I was a young man, hearing +lectures at Edinburgh, and courting--” he stopped, and felt Margaret’s +pulse, asked her a few questions, and talked to the baby. Ethel longed +to hear his dream, but thought he would not like to go on; however, he +did presently. + +“The old dream was the night after a picnic on Arthur’s Seat with the +Mackenzies; mamma and Aunt Flora were there. ‘Twas a regular boy’s +dream, a tournament, or something of that nature, where I was victor, +the queen--you know who she was--giving me her token--a Daisy Chain.” + +“That is why you like to call us your Daisy Chain,” said Ethel. + +“Did you write it in verse?” said Margaret. “I think I once saw some +verses like it in her desk.” + +“I was in love, and three-and-twenty,” said the doctor, looking drolly +guilty in the midst of his sadness. “Ay, those fixed it in my memory, +perhaps my fancy made it more distinct than it really was. An evening +or two ago I met with them, and that stirred it up I suppose. Last +night came the tournament again, but it was the melee, a sense of being +crushed down, suffocated by the throng of armed knights and horses--pain +and wounds--and I looked in vain through the opposing overwhelming +host for my--my Maggie. Well, I got the worst of it, my sword arm was +broken--I fell, was stifled--crushed--in misery--all I could do was to +grasp my token--my Daisy Chain,” and he pressed Margaret’s hand as he +said so. “And, behold, the tumult and despair were passed. I lay on the +grass in the cloisters, and the Daisy Chain hung from the sky, and was +drawing me upwards. There--it is a queer dream for a sober old country +doctor. I don’t know why I told you, don’t tell any one again.” + +And he walked away, muttering. “For he told me his dreams, talked of +eating and drinking,” leaving Margaret with her eyes full of tears, and +Ethel vehemently caressing the baby. + +“How beautiful!” said Ethel. + +“It has been a comfort to him, I am sure,” said Margaret. + +“You don’t think it ominous,” said Ethel with a slight tremulous voice. + +“More soothing than anything else. It is what we all feel, is it not? +that this little daisy bud is the link between us and heaven?” + +“But about him. He was victor at first--vanquished the next time.” + +“I think--if it is to have an interpretation, though I am not sure we +ought to take it so seriously, it would only mean that in younger days +people care for victory and distinction in this world, like Norman, or +as papa most likely did then; but, as they grow older, they care less, +and others pass them, and they know it does not signify, for in our race +all may win.” + +“But he has a great name. How many people come from a distance to +consult him! he is looked upon, too, in other ways! he can do anything +with the corporation.” + +Margaret smiled. “All this does not sound grand--it is not as if he had +set up in London.” + +“Oh, dear, I am so glad he did not.” + +“Shall I tell you what mamma told me he said about it, when Uncle +Mackenzie said he ought? He answered that he thought health and happy +home attachments were a better provision for us to set out in life with +than thousands.” + +“I am sure he was right!” said Ethel earnestly. “Then you don’t think +the dream meant being beaten, only that our best things are not gained +by successes in this world?” + +“Don’t go and let it dwell on your mind as a vision,” said Margaret. “I +think dear mamma would call that silly.” + +An interruption occurred, and Ethel had to go down to breakfast with a +mind floating between romance, sorrow, and high aspirations, very unlike +the actual world she had to live in. First, there was a sick man walking +into the study, and her father, laying down his letters, saying, “I must +despatch him before prayers, I suppose. I’ve a great mind to say I never +will see any one who won’t keep to my days.” + +“I can’t imagine why they don’t,” said Flora, as he went. “He is always +saying so, but never acting on it. If he would once turn one away, the +rest would mind.” + +Richard went on in silence, cutting bread and butter. + +“There’s another ring,” said Mary. + +“Yes, he is caught now, they’ll go on in a stream. I shall not keep +Margaret waiting for her breakfast, I shall take it up.” + +The morning was tiresome; though Dr. May had two regular days for seeing +poor people at his house, he was too good-natured to keep strictly to +them, and this day, as Flora had predicted, there was a procession of +them not soon got rid of, even by his rapid queries and the talismanic +figures made by his left hand on scraps of paper, with which he sent +them off to the infirmary. Ethel tried to read; the children lingered +about; it was a trial of temper to all but Tom, who obtained Richard’s +attention to his lessons. He liked to say them to his brother, and was +an incentive to learn them quickly, that none might remain for Miss +Winter when Richard went out with his father. If mamma had been there, +she would have had prayers; but now no one had authority enough, though +they did at last even finish breakfast. Just as the gig came to the +door, Dr. May dismissed his last patient, rang the bell in haste, and +as soon as prayers were over, declared he had an appointment, and had no +time to eat. There was a general outcry that it was bad enough when he +was well, and now he must not take liberties; Flora made him drink some +tea; and Richard placed morsels in his way, while he read his letters. +He ran up for a final look at Margaret, almost upset the staid Miss +Winter as he ran down again, called Richard to take the reins, and was +off. + +It was French day, always a trial to Ethel. M. Ballompre, the master, +knew what was good and bad French, but could not render a reason, +and Ethel, being versed in the principles of grammar, from her Latin +studies, chose to know the why and wherefore of his corrections--she did +not like to see her pages defaced, and have no security against future +errors; while he thought her a troublesome pupil, and was put out by +her questions. They wrangled, Miss Winter was displeased, and Ethel felt +injured. + +Mary’s inability to catch the pronunciation, and her hopeless dull look +when she found that coeur must not be pronounced cour, nor cur, but +something between, to which her rosy English lips could never come--all +this did not tease M. Ballompre, for he was used to it. + +His mark for Ethel’s lesson was “de l’humeur.” + +“I am sorry,” said Miss Winter, when he was gone. “I thought you had +outgrown that habit of disputing over every phrase.” + +“I can’t tell how a language is to be learned without knowing the +reasons of one’s mistakes,” said Ethel. + +“That is what you always say, my dear. It is of no use to renew it all, +but I wish you would control yourself. Now, Mary, call Blanche, and you +and Ethel take your arithmetic.” + +So Flora went to read to Margaret, while Blanche went lightly and +playfully through her easy lessons, and Mary floundered piteously over +the difficulties of Compound Long Division. Ethel’s mind was in too +irritated and tumultuous a state for her to derive her usual solace from +Cube Root. Her sum was wrong, and she wanted to work it right, but Miss +Winter, who had little liking for the higher branches of arithmetic, +said she had spent time enough over it, and summoned her to an +examination such as the governess was very fond of and often practised. +Ethel thought it useless, and was teased by it; and though her answers +were chiefly correct, they were given in an irritated tone. It was of +this kind:-- + + + What is the date of the invention of paper? + What is the latitude and longitude of Otaheite? + What are the component parts of brass? + Whence is cochineal imported? + + +When this was over, Ethel had to fetch her mending-basket, and Mary her +book of selections; the piece for to-day’s lesson was the quarrel of +Brutus and Cassius; and Mary’s dull droning tone was a trial to her +ears; she presently exclaimed, “Oh, Mary, don’t murder it!” + +“Murder what?” said Mary, opening wide her light blue eyes. + +“That use of exaggerated language,--” began Miss Winter. + +“I’ve heard papa say it,” said Ethel, only wanting to silence Miss +Winter. In a cooler moment she would not have used the argument. + +“All that a gentleman may say, may not be a precedent for a young lady; +but you are interrupting Mary.” + +“Only let me show her. I can’t bear to hear her, listen, Mary. + + + “What shall one of us + That struck the foremost”-- + + +“That is declaiming,” said Miss Winter. “It is not what we wish for in a +lady. You are neglecting your work and interfering.” + +Ethel made a fretful contortion, and obeyed. So it went on all the +morning, Ethel’s eagerness checked by Miss Winter’s dry manner, +producing pettishness, till Ethel, in a state between self-reproach +and a sense of injustice, went up to prepare for dinner, and to visit +Margaret on the way. + +She found her sister picking a merino frock to pieces. “See here,” she +said eagerly, “I thought you would like to make up this old frock for +one of the Cocksmoor children; but what is the matter?” as Ethel did not +show the lively interest that she expected. + +“Oh, nothing, only Miss Winter is so tiresome.” + +“What was it?” + +“Everything, it was all horrid. I was cross, I know, but she and M. +Ballompre made me so;” and Ethel was in the midst of the narration of +her grievances, when Norman came in. The school was half a mile off, but +he had not once failed to come home, in the interval allowed for play +after dinner, to inquire for his sister. + +“Well, Norman, you are out of breath, sit down and rest. What is doing +at school; are you dux of your class?” + +“Yes,” said the boy wearily. + +“What mark for the verses?” said Ethel. + +“Quam bene.” + +“Not optime?” + +“No, they were tame,” Dr. Hoxton said. + +“What is Harry doing?” said Margaret. + +“He is fourth in his form. I left him at football.” + +“Dinner!” said Flora at the door. “What will you have, Margaret?” + +“I’ll fetch it,” said Norman, who considered it his privilege to wait +on Margaret at dinner. When he had brought the tray, he stood leaning +against the bed-post, musing. Suddenly, there was a considerable clatter +of fire-irons, and his violent start surprised Margaret. + +“Ethel has been poking the fire,” she said, as if no more was needed to +account for their insecurity. Norman put them up again, but a ringing +sound betrayed that it was not with a firm touch, and when, a minute +after, he came to take her plate, she saw that he was trying with effort +to steady his hand. + +“Norman, dear, are you sure you are well?” + +“Yes, very well,” said he, as if vexed that she had taken any notice. + +“You had better not come racing home. I’m not worth inquiries now, I am +so much better,” said she, smiling. + +He made no reply, but this was not consenting silence. + +“I don’t like you to lose your football,” she proceeded. + +“I could not--” and he stopped short. + +“It would be much better for you,” said she, looking up in his face with +anxious affectionate eyes, but he shunned her glance and walked away +with her plate. + +Flora had been in such close attendance upon Margaret, that she needed +some cheerful walks, and though she had some doubts how affairs at +home would go on without her, she was overruled, and sent on a long +expedition with Miss Winter and Mary, while Ethel remained with +Margaret. + +The only delay before setting out, was that nurse came in, saying, “If +you please, Miss Margaret, there is a girl come to see about the place.” + +The sisters looked at each other and smiled, while Margaret asked whence +she came, and who she was. + +“Her name is Taylor, and she comes from Cocksmoor, but she is a nice, +tidy, strong-looking girl, and she says she has been used to children.” + +Nurse had fallen into the trap most comfortably, and seemed bent upon +taking this girl as a choice of her own. She wished to know if Miss +Margaret would like to see her. + +“If you please, nurse, but if you think she will do, that is enough.” + +“Yes, Miss, but you should look to them things yourself. If you please, +I’ll bring her up.” So nurse departed. + +“Charming!” cried Ethel, “that’s your capital management, Flora; nurse +thinks she has done it all herself.” + +“She is your charge though,” said Flora, “coming from your own beloved +Cocksmoor.” + +Lucy Taylor came in, looking very nice, and very shy, curtseying low, in +extreme awe of the pale lady in bed. Margaret was much pleased with her, +and there was no more to be done but to settle that she should come on +Saturday, and to let nurse take her into the town to invest her with the +universal blackness of the household, where the two Margarets were the +only white things. + +This arranged, and the walking party set forth, Ethel sat down by her +sister’s bed, and began to assist in unpicking the merino, telling +Margaret how much obliged she was to her for thinking of it, and how +grieved at having been so ungrateful in the morning. She was very happy +over her contrivances, cutting out under her sister’s superintendence. +She had forgotten the morning’s annoyance, till Margaret said, “I have +been thinking of what you said about Miss Winter, and really I don’t +know what is to be done.” + +“Oh, Margaret, I did not mean to worry you,” said Ethel, sorry to see +her look uneasy. + +“I like you to tell me everything, dear Ethel; but I don’t see clearly +the best course. We must go on with Miss Winter.” + +“Of course,” said Ethel, shocked at her murmurs having even suggested +the possibility of a change, and having, as well as all the others, a +great respect and affection for her governess. + +“We could not get on without her even if I were well,” continued +Margaret; “and dear mamma had such perfect trust in her, and we all know +and love her so well--it would make us put up with a great deal.” + +“It is all my own fault,” said Ethel, only anxious to make amends to +Miss Winter. “I wish you would not say anything about it.” + +“Yes, it does seem wrong even to think of it,” said Margaret, “when she +has been so very kind. It is a blessing to have any one to whom Mary and +Blanche may so entirely be trusted. But for you--” + +“It is my own fault,” repeated Ethel. + +“I don’t think it is quite all your own fault,” said Margaret, “and that +is the difficulty. I know dear mamma thought Miss Winter an excellent +governess for the little ones, but hardly up to you, and she saw that +you worried and fidgeted each other, so, you know, she used to keep the +teaching of you a good deal in her own hands.” + +“I did not know that was the reason,” said Ethel, overpowered by the +recollection of the happy morning’s work she had often done in that +very room, when her mother had not been equal to the bustle of the +whole school-room. That watchful, protecting, guarding, mother’s love, +a shadow of Providence, had been round them so constantly on every side, +that they had been hardly conscious of it till it was lost to them. + +“Was it not like her?” said Margaret, “but now, my poor Ethel, I don’t +think it would be right by you or by Miss Winter, to take you out of the +school-room. I think it would grieve her.” + +“I would not do that for the world.” + +“Especially after her kind nursing of me, and even, with more reason, it +would not be becoming in us to make changes. Besides, King Etheldred,” + said Margaret, smiling, “we all know you are a little bit of a sloven, +and, as nurse says, some one must be always after you, and do you know? +even if I were well, I had rather it was Miss Winter than me.” + +“Oh, no, you would not be formal and precise--you would not make me +cross.” + +“Perhaps you might make me so,” said Margaret, “or I should let you +alone, and leave you a slattern. We should both hate it so! No, don’t +make me your mistress, Ethel dear--let me be your sister and play-fellow +still, as well as I can.” + +“You are, you are. I don’t care half so much when I have got you.” + +“And will you try to bear with her, and remember it is right in the +main, though it is troublesome?” + +“That I will. I won’t plague you again. I know it is bad for you, you +look tired.” + +“Pray don’t leave off telling me,” said Margaret--“it is just what I +wish on my own account, and I know it is comfortable to have a good +grumble.” + +“If it does not hurt you, but I am sure you are not easy now--are you?” + +“Only my back,” said Margaret. “I have been sitting up longer than +usual, and it is tired. Will you call nurse to lay me flat again?” + +The nursery was deserted--all were out, and Ethel came back in +trepidation at the notion of having to do it herself, though she knew +it was only to put one arm to support her sister, while, with the other, +she removed the pillows; but Ethel was conscious of her own awkwardness +and want of observation, nor had Margaret entire trust in her. Still she +was too much fatigued to wait, so Ethel was obliged to do her best. She +was careful and frightened, and therefore slow and unsteady. She trusted +that all was right, and Margaret tried to believe so, though still +uneasy. + +Ethel began to read to her, and Dr. May came home. She looked up +smiling, and asked where he had been, but it was vain to try to keep him +from reading her face. He saw in an instant that something was amiss, +and drew from her a confession that her back was aching a little. He +knew she might have said a great deal--she was not in a comfortable +position--she must be moved. She shook her head--she had rather +wait--there was a dread of being again lifted by Ethel that she could +not entirely hide. Ethel was distressed, Dr. May was angry, and, no +wonder, when he saw Margaret suffer, felt his own inability to help, +missed her who had been wont to take all care from his hands, and was +vexed to see a tall strong girl of fifteen, with the full use of both +arms, and plenty of sense, incapable of giving any assistance, and only +doing harm by trying. + +“It is of no use,” said he. “Ethel will give no attention to anything +but her books! I’ve a great mind to put an end to all the Latin and +Greek! She cares for nothing else.” + +Ethel could little brook injustice, and much as she was grieving, she +exclaimed, “Papa, papa, I do care--now don’t I, Margaret? I did my +best!” + +“Don’t talk nonsense. Your best, indeed! If you had taken the most +moderate care--” + +“I believe Ethel took rather too much care,” said Margaret, much +more harassed by the scolding than by the pain. “It will be all right +presently. Never mind, dear papa.” + +But he was not only grieved for the present, but anxious for the future; +and, though he knew it was bad for Margaret to manifest his displeasure, +he could not restrain it, and continued to blame Ethel with enough +of injustice to set her on vindication, whereupon he silenced her, by +telling her she was making it worse by self-justification when Margaret +ought to be quiet. Margaret tried to talk of other things, but was in +too much discomfort to exert herself enough to divert his attention. + +At last Flora returned, and saw in an instant what was wanted. Margaret +was settled in the right posture, but the pain would not immediately +depart, and Dr. May soon found out that she had a headache, of which he +knew he was at least as guilty as Etheldred could be. + +Nothing could be done but keep her quiet, and Ethel went away to be +miserable; Flora tried to comfort her by saying it was unfortunate, but +no doubt there was a knack, and everyone could not manage those things; +Margaret was easier now, and as to papa’s anger, he did not always mean +all he said. + +But consolation came at bedtime; Margaret received her with open arms +when she went to wish her goodnight. “My poor Ethel,” she said, holding +her close, “I am sorry I have made such a fuss.” + +“Oh, you did not, it was too bad of me--I am grieved; are you quite +comfortable now?” + +“Yes, quite, only a little headache, which I shall sleep off. It has +been so nice and quiet. Papa took up George Herbert, and has been +reading me choice bits. I don’t think I have enjoyed anything so much +since I have been ill.” + +“I am glad of that, but I have been unhappy all the evening. I wish I +knew what to do. I am out of heart about everything!” + +“Only try to mind and heed, and you will learn. It will be a step if you +will only put your shoes side by side when you take them off.” + +Ethel smiled and sighed, and Margaret whispered, “Don’t grieve about me, +but put your clever head to rule your hands, and you will do for home +and Cocksmoor too. Good-night, dearest.” + +“I’ve vexed papa,” sighed Ethel--and just then he came into the room. + +“Papa,” said Margaret, “here’s poor Ethel, not half recovered from her +troubles.” + +He was now at ease about Margaret, and knew he had been harsh to another +of his motherless girls. + +“Ah! we must send her to the infant-school, to learn ‘this is my right +hand, and this is my left,’” said he, in his half-gay, half-sad manner. + +“I was very stupid,” said Ethel. + +“Poor child!” said her papa, “she is worse off than I am. If I have but +one hand left, she has two left hands.” + +“I do mean to try, papa.” + +“Yes, you must, Ethel. I believe I was hasty with you, my poor girl. I +was vexed, and we have no one to smooth us down. I am sorry, my dear, +but you must bear with me, for I never learned her ways with you when I +might. We will try to have more patience with each other.” + +What could Ethel do but hang round his neck and cry, till he said, but +tenderly, that they had given Margaret quite disturbance enough to-day, +and sent her to bed, vowing to watch each little action, lest she should +again give pain to such a father and sister. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + + + “Tis not enough that Greek or Roman page + At stated hours, his freakish thoughts engage, + Even in his pastimes he requires a friend + To warn and teach him safely to unbend, + O’er all his pleasures gently to preside, + Watch his emotions, and control their tide.”--COWPER. + + +The misfortunes of that day disheartened and disconcerted Etheldred. To +do mischief where she most wished to do good, to grieve where she longed +to comfort, seemed to be her fate; it was vain to attempt anything for +anyone’s good, while all her warm feelings and high aspirations were +thwarted by the awkward ungainly hands and heedless eyes that Nature had +given her. Nor did the following day, Saturday, do much for her +comfort, by giving her the company of her brothers. That it was Norman’s +sixteenth birthday seemed only to make it worse. Their father had +apparently forgotten it, and Norman stopped Blanche when she was going +to put him in mind of it; stopped her by such a look as the child never +forgot, though there was no anger in it. In reply to Ethel’s inquiry +what he was going to do that morning, he gave a yawn and stretch, and +said, dejectedly, that he had got some Euripides to look over, and some +verses to finish. + +“I am sorry; this is the first time you ever have not managed so as to +make a real holiday of your Saturday!” + +“I could not help it, and there’s nothing to do,” said Norman wearily. + +“I promised to go and read to Margaret while Flora does her music,” said +Ethel; “I shall come after that and do my Latin and Greek with you.” + +Margaret would not keep her long, saying she liked her to be with +Norman, but she found him with his head sunk on his open book, fast +asleep. At dinner-time, Harry and Tom, rushing in, awoke him with a +violent start. + +“Halloo! Norman, that was a jump!” said Harry, as his brother stretched +and pinched himself. “You’ll jump out of your skin some of these days, +if you don’t take care!” + +“It’s enough to startle any one to be waked up with such a noise,” said +Ethel. + +“Then he ought to sleep at proper times,” said Harry, “and not be waking +me up with tumbling about, and hallooing out, and talking in his sleep +half the night.” + +“Talking in his sleep! why, just now, you said he did not sleep,” said +Ethel. + +“Harry knows nothing about it,” said Norman. + +“Don’t I? Well, I only know, if you slept in school, and were a junior, +you would get a proper good licking for going on as you do at night.” + +“And I think you might chance to get a proper good licking for not +holding your tongue,” said Norman, which hint reduced Harry to silence. + +Dr. May was not come home; he had gone with Richard far into the +country, and was to return to tea. He was thought to be desirous of +avoiding the family dinners that used to be so delightful. Harry was +impatient to depart, and when Mary and Tom ran after him, he ordered +them back. + +“Where can he be going?” said Mary, as she looked wistfully after him. + +“I know,” said Tom. + +“Where? Do tell me.” + +“Only don’t tell papa. I went down with him to the playground this +morning, and there they settled it. The Andersons, and Axworthy, and he, +are going to hire a gun, and shoot pee-wits on Cocksmoor.” + +“But they ought not; should they?” said Mary. “Papa would be very +angry.” + +“Anderson said there was no harm in it, but Harry told me not to tell. +Indeed, Anderson would have boxed my ears for hearing, when I could not +help it.” + +“But Harry would not let him?” + +“Ay. Harry is quite a match for Harvey Anderson, though he is so much +younger; and he said he would not have me bullied.” + +“That’s a good Harry! But I wish he would not go out shooting!” said +Mary. + +“Mind, you don’t tell.” + +“And where’s Hector Ernescliffe? Would not he go?” + +“No. I like Hector. He did not choose to go, though Anderson teased him, +and said he was a poor Scot, and his brother didn’t allow him tin enough +to buy powder and shot. If Harry would have stayed at home, he would +have come up here, and we might have had some fun in the garden.” + +“I wish he would. We never have any fun now,” said Mary; “but oh! there +he is,” as she spied Hector peeping over the gate which led from the +field into the garden. It was the first time that he had been to Dr. +May’s since his brother’s departure, and he was rather shy, but the +joyful welcome of Mary and Tom took off all reluctance, and they claimed +him for a good game at play in the wood-house. Mary ran upstairs to beg +to be excused the formal walk, and, luckily for her, Miss Winter was +in Margaret’s room. Margaret asked if it was very wet and dirty, and +hearing “not very,” gave gracious permission, and off went Mary and +Blanche to construct some curious specimens of pottery, under the +superintendence of Hector and Tom. There was a certain ditch where +yellow mud was attainable, whereof the happy children concocted marbles +and vases, which underwent a preparatory baking in the boys’ pockets, +that they might not crack in the nursery fire. Margaret only stipulated +that her sisters should be well fenced in brown holland, and when Miss +Winter looked grave, said, “Poor things, a little thorough play will do +them a great deal of good.” + +Miss Winter could not see the good of groping in the dirt; and Margaret +perceived that it would be one of her difficulties to know how to +follow out her mother’s views for the children, without vexing the good +governess by not deferring to her. + +In the meantime, Norman had disconsolately returned to his Euripides, +and Ethel, who wanted to stay with him and look out his words, was +ordered out by Miss Winter, because she had spent all yesterday indoors. +Miss Winter was going to stay with Margaret, and Ethel and Flora coaxed +Norman to come with them, “just one mile on the turnpike road and back +again; he would be much fresher for his Greek afterwards.” + +He came, but he did not enliven his sisters. The three plodded on, +taking a diligent constitutional walk, exchanging very few words, and +those chiefly between the girls. Flora gathered some hoary clematis, +and red berries, and sought in the hedge-sides for some crimson “fairy +baths” to carry home; and, at the sight of the amusement Margaret +derived from the placing the beauteous little Pezizas in a saucer of +damp green moss, so as to hide the brown sticks on which they grew, +Ethel took shame to herself for want of perception of little attentions. +When she told Norman so, he answered, “There’s no one who does see what +is the right thing. How horrid the room looks! Everything is nohow!” + added he, looking round at the ornaments and things on the tables, which +had lost their air of comfort and good taste. It was not disorder, and +Ethel could not see what he meant. “What’s wrong?” said she. + +“Oh, never mind--you can’t do it. Don’t try--you’ll only make it worse. +It will never be the same as long as we live.” + +“I wish you would not be so unhappy!” said Ethel. + +“Never mind,” again said Norman, but he put his arm round her. + +“Have you done your Euripides? Can I help you? Will you construe it with +me, or shall I look out your words?” + +“Thank you, I don’t mind that. It is the verses! I want some sense!” + said Norman, running his fingers through his hair till it stood on end. +“‘Tis such a horrid subject, Coral Islands! As if there was anything to +be said about them.” + +“Dear me, Norman, I could say ten thousand things, only I must not tell +you what mine are, as yours are not done.” + +“No, don’t,” said Norman decidedly. + +“Did you read the description of them in the Quarterly? I am sure you +might get some ideas there. Shall I find it for you? It is in an old +number.” + +“Well, do; thank you.” + +He rested listlessly on the sofa while his sister rummaged in a +chiffonier. At last she found the article, and eagerly read him the +description of the strange forms of the coral animals, and the beauties +of their flower-like feelers and branching fabrics. It would once +have delighted him, but his first comment was, “Nasty little brutes!” + However, the next minute he thanked her, took the book, and said he +could hammer something out of it, though it was too bad to give such an +unclassical subject. At dusk he left off, saying he should get it done +at night, his senses would come then, and he should be glad to sit up. + +“Only three weeks to the holidays,” said Ethel, trying to be cheerful; +but his assent was depressing, and she began to fear that Christmas +would only make them more sad. + +Mary did not keep Tom’s secret so inviolably, but that, while they were +dressing for tea, she revealed to Ethel where Harry was gone. He was +not yet returned, though his father and Richard were come in, and the +sisters were at once in some anxiety on his account, and doubt whether +they ought to let papa know of his disobedience. + +Flora and Ethel, who were the first in the drawing-room, had a +consultation. + +“I should have told mamma directly,” said Flora. + +“He never did so,” sighed Ethel; “things never went wrong then.” + +“Oh, yes, they did; don’t you remember how naughty Harry was about +climbing the wall, and making faces at Mrs. Richardson’s servants?” + +“And how ill I behaved the first day of last Christmas holidays?” + +“She knew, but I don’t think she told papa.” + +“Not that we knew of, but I believe she did tell him everything, and I +think, Flora, he ought to know everything, especially now. I never could +bear the way the Mackenzies used to have of thinking their parents must +be like enemies, and keeping secrets from them.” + +“They were always threatening each other, ‘I’ll tell mamma,’” said +Flora, “and calling us tell-tales because we told our own dear mamma +everything. But it is not like that now--I neither like to worry papa, +nor to bring Harry into disgrace--besides, Tom and Mary meant it for a +secret.” + +“Papa would not be angry with him if we told him it was a secret,” said +Ethel; “I wish Harry would come in. There’s the door--oh! it is only +you.” + +“Whom did you expect?” said Richard, entering. + +The sisters looked at each other, and Ethel, after an interval, +explained their doubts about Harry. + +“He is come in,” said Richard; “I saw him running up to his own room, +very muddy.” + +“Oh, I’m glad! But do you think papa ought to hear it? I don’t know +what’s to be done. ‘Tis the children’s secret,” said Flora. + +“It will never do to have him going out with those boys continually,” + said Ethel--“Harvey Anderson close by all the holidays!” + +“I’ll try what I can do with him,” said Richard. “Papa had better not +hear it now, at any rate. He is very tired and sad this evening! and +his arm is painful again, so we must not worry him with histories of +naughtiness among the children.” + +“No,” said Ethel decidedly, “I am glad you were there, Ritchie; I never +should have thought of one time being better than another.” + +“Just like Ethel!” said Flora, smiling. + +“Why should not you learn?” said Richard gently. + +“I can’t,” said Ethel, in a desponding way. + +“Why not? You are much sharper than most people, and, if you tried, you +would know those things much better than I do, as you know how to learn +history.” + +“It is quite a different sort of cleverness,” said Flora. “Recollect Sir +Isaac Newton, or Archimedes.” + +“Then you must have both sorts,” said Ethel, “for you can do things +nicely, and yet you learn very fast.” + +“Take care, Ethel, you are singeing your frock! Well, I really don’t +think you can help those things!” said Flora. “Your short sight is the +reason of it, and it is of no use to try to mend it.” + +“Don’t tell her so,” said Richard. “It can’t be all short sight--it is +the not thinking. I do believe that if Ethel would think, no one would +do things so well. Don’t you remember the beautiful perspective drawing +she made of this room for me to take to Oxford? That was very difficult, +and wanted a great deal of neatness and accuracy, so why should she not +be neat and accurate in other things? And I know you can read faces, +Ethel--why don’t you look there before you speak?” + +“Ah! before instead of after, when I only see I have said something +malapropos,” said Ethel. + +“I must go and see about the children,” said Flora; “if the tea comes +while I am gone, will you make it, Ritchie?” + +“Flora despairs of me,” said Ethel. + +“I don’t,” said Richard. “Have you forgotten how to put in a pin yet?” + +“No; I hope not.” + +“Well, then, see if you can’t learn to make tea; and, by-the-bye, Ethel, +which is the next christening Sunday?” + +“The one after next, surely. The first of December is Monday--yes, +to-morrow week is the next.” + +“Then I have thought of something; it would cost eighteenpence to hire +Joliffe’s spring-cart, and we might have Mrs. Taylor and the twins +brought to church in it. Should you like to walk to Cocksmoor and settle +it?” + +“Oh yes, very much indeed. What a capital thought. Margaret said you +would know how to manage.” + +“Then we will go the first fine day papa does not want me.” + +“I wonder if I could finish my purple frocks. But here’s the tea. Now, +Richard, don’t tell me to make it. I should do something wrong, and +Flora will never forgive you.” + +Richard would not let her off. He stood over her, counted her shovelfuls +of tea, and watched the water into the teapot--he superintended her +warming the cups, and putting a drop into each saucer. “Ah!” said Ethel, +with a concluding sigh, “it makes one hotter than double equations!” + +It was all right, as Flora allowed with a slightly superior smile. She +thought Richard would never succeed in making a notable or elegant woman +of Ethel, and it was best that the two sisters should take different +lines. Flora knew that, though clever and with more accomplishments, +she could not surpass Ethel in intellectual attainments, but she was +certainly far more valuable in the house, and had been proved to have +just the qualities in which her sister was most deficient. She did not +relish hearing that Ethel wanted nothing but attention to be more than +her equal, and she thought Richard mistaken. Flora’s remembrance of +their time of distress was less unmixedly wretched than it was with the +others, for she knew she had done wonders. + +The next day Norman told Ethel that he had got on very well with the +verses, and finished them off late at night. He showed them to her +before taking them to school on Monday morning, and Ethel thought +they were the best he had ever written. There was too much spirit and +poetical beauty for a mere schoolboy task, and she begged for the foul +copy to show it to her father. “I have not got it,” said Norman. “The +foul copy was not like these; but when I was writing them out quite +late, it was all I don’t know how. Flora’s music was in my ears, and the +room seemed to get larger, and like an ocean cave; and when the candle +flickered, ‘twas like the green glowing light of the sun through the +waves.” + +“As it says here,” said Ethel. + +“And the words all came to me of themselves in beautiful flowing Latin, +just right, as if it was anybody but myself doing it, and they ran off +my pen in red and blue and gold, and all sorts of colours; and fine +branching zig-zagging stars, like what the book described, only +stranger, came dancing and radiating round my pen and the candle. I +could hardly believe the verses would scan by daylight, but I can’t find +a mistake. Do you try them again.” + +Ethel scanned. “I see nothing wrong,” she said, “but it seems a shame to +begin scanning Undine’s verses, they are too pretty. I wish I could copy +them. It must have been half a dream.” + +“I believe it was; they don’t seem like my own.” + +“Did you dream afterwards?” + +He shivered. “They had got into my head too much; my ears sang like the +roaring of the sea, and I thought my feet were frozen on to an iceberg: +then came darkness, and sea monsters, and drowning--it was too horrid!” + and his face expressed all, and more than all, he said. “But ‘tis a +quarter to seven--we must go,” said he, with a long yawn, and rubbing +his eyes. “You are sure they are right, Ethel? Harry, come along.” + +Ethel thought those verses ought to make a sensation, but all that +came of them was a Quam optime, and when she asked Norman if no special +notice had been taken of them, he said, in his languid way, “No; only +Dr. Hoxton said they were better than usual.” + +Ethel did not even have the satisfaction of hearing that Mr. Wilmot, +happening to meet Dr. May, said to him, “Your boy has more of a poet +in him than any that has come in my way. He really sometimes makes very +striking verses.” + +Richard watched for an opportunity of speaking to Harry, which did not +at once occur, as the boy spent very little of his time at home, and, as +if by tacit consent, he and Norman came in later every evening. At last, +on Thursday, in the additional two hours’ leisure allowed to the boys, +when the studious prepared their tasks, and the idle had some special +diversion, Richard encountered him running up to his own room to fetch a +newly-invented instrument for projecting stones. + +“I’ll walk back to school with you,” said Richard. “I mean to run,” + returned Harry. + +“Is there so much hurry?” said Richard. “I am sorry for it, for I wanted +to speak to you, Harry; I have something to show you.” + +His manner conveyed that it related to their mother, and the sobering +effect was instantaneous. “Very well,” said he, forgetting his haste. +“I’ll come into your room.” + +The awe-struck, shy, yet sorrowful look on his rosy face showed +preparation enough, and Richard’s only preface was to say, “It is a +bit of a letter that she was in course of writing to Aunt Flora, a +description of us all. The letter itself is gone, but here is a copy of +it. I thought you would like to read what relates to yourself.” + +Richard laid before him the sheet of notepaper on which this portion of +the letter was written, and left him alone with it, while he set out on +the promised walk with Ethel. + +They found the old woman, Granny Hall, looking like another creature, +smoke-dried and withered indeed, but all briskness and animation. + +“Well! be it you, sir, and the young lady?” + +“Yes; here we are come to see you again,” said Richard. “I hope you are +not disappointed that I’ve brought my sister this time instead of the +doctor.” + +“No, no, sir; I’ve done with the doctor for this while,” said the old +woman, to Ethel’s great amusement. “He have done me a power of good, and +thank him for it heartily; but the young lady is right welcome here--but +‘tis a dirty walk for her.” + +“Never mind that,” said Ethel, a little shyly, “I came--where are your +grandchildren?” + +“Oh, somewhere out among the blocks. They gets out with the other +children; I can’t be always after them.” + +“I wanted to know if these would fit them,” said Ethel, beginning to +undo her basket. + +“Well, ‘pon my word! If ever I see! Here!” stepping out to the door, +“Polly--Jenny! come in, I say, this moment! Come in, ye bad girls, or +I’ll give you the stick; I’ll break every bone of you, that I will!” all +which threats were bawled out in such a good-natured, triumphant voice, +and with such a delighted air, that Richard and Ethel could not help +laughing. + +After a few moments, Polly and Jenny made their appearance, extremely +rough and ragged, but compelled by their grandmother to duck down, by +way of courtesies, and, with finger in mouth, they stood, too shy to +show their delight, as the garments were unfolded; Granny talking so +fast that Ethel would never have brought in the stipulation, that the +frocks should be worn to school and church, if Richard, in his mild, but +steady way, had not brought the old woman to listen to it. She was full +of asseverations that they should go; she took them to church sometimes +herself, when it was fine weather and they had clothes, and they could +say their catechiz as well as anybody already; yes, they should come, +that they should, and next Sunday. Ethel promised to be there to +introduce them to the chief lady, the president of the Committee, Mrs. +Ledwich, and, with a profusion of thanks, they took leave. + +They found John Taylor, just come out of the hospital, looking weak and +ill, as he smoked his pipe over the fire, his wife bustling about at +a great rate, and one of the infants crying. It seemed to be a great +relief that they were not come to complain of Lucy, and there were many +looks of surprise on hearing what their business really was. Mrs. Taylor +thanked them, and appeared not to know whether she was glad or sorry; +and her husband, pipe in hand, gazed at the young gentleman as if he +did not comprehend the species, since he could not be old enough to be a +clergyman. + +Richard hoped they would find sponsors by that time; and there Mrs. +Taylor gave little hope; it was a bad lot--there was no one she liked to +ask to stand, she said, in a dismal voice; but there her husband put in, +“I’ll find some one if that’s all; my missus always thinks nobody can’t +do nothing.” + +“To be sure,” said the lamentable Mrs. Taylor, “all the elder ones was +took to church, and I’m loath the little ones shouldn’t; but you see, +sir, we are poor people, and it’s a long way, and they was set down in +the gentleman’s register book.” + +“But you know that is not the same, Mrs. Taylor. Surely Lucy could have +told you that, when she went to school.” + +“No, sir, ‘tis not the same--I knows that; but this is a bad place to +live in--” + +“Always the old song, missus!” exclaimed her husband. “Thank you kindly, +sir--you have been a good friend to us, and so was Dr. May, when I was +up to the hospital, through the thick of his own troubles. I believe you +are in the right of it, sir, and thank you. The children shall be ready, +and little Jack too, and I’ll find gossips, and let ‘em christened on +Sunday.” + +“I believe you will be glad of it,” said Richard; and he went on to +speak of the elder children coming to school on Sunday, thus causing +another whining from the wife about distance and bad weather, and no +one else going that way. He said the little Halls were coming, but Mrs. +Taylor begun saying she disliked their company for the children--granny +let them get about so much, and they said bad words. The father again +interfered. Perhaps Mr. Wilmot, who acted as chaplain at the hospital, +had been talking to him, for he declared at once that they should come; +and Richard suggested that he might see them home when he came from +church; then, turning to the boy and girl, told them they would meet +their sister Lucy, and asked them if they would not like that. + +On the whole, the beginning was not inauspicious, though there might be +a doubt whether old Mrs. Hall would keep all her promises. Ethel was so +much diverted and pleased as to be convinced she would; Richard was a +little doubtful as to her power over the wild girls. There could not be +any doubt that John Taylor was in earnest, and had been worked upon just +at the right moment; but there was danger that the impression would +not last. “And his wife is such a horrible whining dawdle!” said +Ethel--“there will be no good to be done if it depends on her.” + +Richard made no answer, and Ethel presently felt remorseful for her +harsh speech about a poor ignorant woman, overwhelmed with poverty, +children, and weak health. + +“I have been thinking a great deal about what you said last time we took +this walk,” said Richard, after a considerable interval. + +“Oh, have you!” cried Ethel eagerly; and the black peaty pond she was +looking at seemed to sparkle with sunlight. + +“Do you really mean it?” said Richard deliberately. + +“Yes, to be sure;” she said, with some indignation. + +“Because I think I see a way to make a beginning, but you must make +up your mind to a great deal of trouble, and dirty walks, and you must +really learn not to draggle your frock.” + +“Well, well; but tell me.” + +“This is what I was thinking. I don’t think I can go back to Oxford +after Christmas. It is not fit to leave you while papa is so disabled.” + +“Oh no, he could not get on at all. I heard him tell Mr. Wilmot the +other day that you were his right hand.” + +Ethel was glad she had repeated this, for there was a deepening colour +and smiling glow of pleasure on her brother’s face, such as she had +seldom seen on his delicate, but somewhat impassive features. + +“He is very kind!” he said warmly. “No, I am sure I cannot be spared +till he is better able to use his arm, and I don’t see any chance +of that just yet. Then if I stay at home, Friday is always at my own +disposal, while papa is at the hospital meeting.” + +“Yes, yes, and we could go to Cocksmoor, and set up a school. How +delightful!” + +“I don’t think you would find it quite so delightful as you fancy,” said +Richard; “the children will be very wild and ignorant, and you don’t +like that at the National School.” + +“Oh, but they are in such need, besides there will be no Mrs. Ledwich +over me. It is just right--I shan’t mind anything. You are a capital +Ritchie, for having thought of it!” + +“I don’t think--if I am ever to be what I wish, that is, if I can get +through at Oxford--I don’t think it can be wrong to begin this, if Mr. +Ramsden does not object.” + +“Oh, Mr. Ramsden never objects to anything.” + +“And if Mr. Wilmot will come and set us off. You know we cannot begin +without that, or without my father’s fully liking it.” + +“Oh! there can be no doubt of that!” + +“This one thing, Ethel, I must stipulate. Don’t you go and tell it all +out at once to him. I cannot have him worried about our concerns.” + +“But how--no one can question that this is right. I am sure he won’t +object.” + +“Stop, Ethel, don’t you see, it can’t be done for nothing? If we +undertake it, we must go on with it, and when I am away it will fall on +you and Flora. Well, then, it ought to be considered whether you are +old enough and steady enough; and if it can be managed for you to go +continually all this way, in this wild place. There will be expense +too.” + +Ethel looked wild with impatience, but could not gainsay these scruples, +otherwise than by declaring they ought not to weigh against the good of +Cocksmoor. + +“It will worry him to have to consider all this,” said Richard, “and it +must not be pressed upon him.” + +“No,” said Ethel sorrowfully; “but you don’t mean to give it up.” + +“You are always in extremes, Ethel. All I want is to find a good time +for proposing it.” + +She fidgeted and gave a long sigh. + +“Mind,” said Richard, stopping short, “I’ll have nothing to do with it +except on condition you are patient, and hold your tongue about it.” + +“I think I can, if I may talk to Margaret.” + +“Oh yes, to Margaret of course. We could not settle anything without her +help.” + +“And I know what she will say,” said Ethel. “Oh, I am so glad,” and she +jumped over three puddles in succession. + +“And, Ethel, you must learn to keep your frock out of the dirt.” + +“I’ll do anything, if you’ll help me at Cocksmoor.” + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + + + For the structure that we raise, + Time is with materials filled; + Our to-days and yesterdays, + Are the blocks which we build. + + Truly shape and fashion these, + Leave no yawning gaps between; + Think not, because no man sees, + Such things will remain unseen.--LONGFELLOW. + + +When Ethel came home, burning with the tidings of the newly-excited +hopes for Cocksmoor, they were at once stopped by Margaret eagerly +saying, “Is Richard come in? pray call him;” then on his entrance, “Oh, +Richard, would you be so kind as to take this to the bank. I don’t like +to send it by any one else--it is so much;” and she took from under her +pillows a velvet bag, so heavy, that it weighed down her slender white +hand. + +“What, he has given you the care of his money?” said Ethel. + +“Yes; I saw him turning something out of his waistcoat-pocket into the +drawer of the looking-glass, and sighing in that very sad way. He said +his fees had come to such an accumulation that he must see about sending +them to the bank; and then he told me of the delight of throwing his +first fee into dear mamma’s lap, when they were just married, and his +old uncle had given up to him, and how he had brought them to her ever +since; he said she had spoiled him by taking all trouble off his hands. +He looked at it, as if it was so sorrowful to him to have to dispose +of it, that I begged him not to plague himself any more, but let me see +about it, as dear mamma used to do; so he said I was spoiling him too, +but he brought me the drawer, and emptied it out here: when he was gone, +I packed it up, and I have been waiting to ask Richard to take it all to +the bank, out of his sight.” + +“You counted it?” said Richard. + +“Yes--there’s fifty--I kept seventeen towards the week’s expenses. Just +see that it is right,” said Margaret, showing her neat packets. + +“Oh, Ritchie,” said Ethel, “what can expense signify, when all that has +been kicking about loose in an open drawer? What would not one of those +rolls do?” + +“I think I had better take them out of your way,” said Richard quietly. +“Am I to bring back the book to you, Margaret?” + +“Yes, do,” said Margaret; “pray do not tease him with it.” And as her +brother left the room, she continued, “I wish he was better. I think he +is more oppressed now than even at first. The pain of his arm, going on +so long, seems to me to have pulled him down; it does not let him sleep, +and, by the end of the day, he gets worn and fagged by seeing so many +people, and exerting himself to talk and think; and often, when there is +something that must be asked, I don’t know how to begin, for it seems as +if a little more would be too much for him.” + +“Yes, Richard is right,” said Ethel mournfully; “it will not do to press +him about our concerns; but do you think him worse to-day?” + +“He did not sleep last night, and he is always worse when he does not +drive out into the country; the fresh air, and being alone with Richard, +are a rest for him. To-day is especially trying; he does not think poor +old Mr. Southern will get through the evening, and he is so sorry for +the daughter.” + +“Is he there now?” + +“Yes; he thought of something that might be an alleviation, and he would +go, though he was tired. I am afraid the poor daughter will detain him, +and he is not fit to go through such things now.” + +“No, I hope he will soon come; perhaps Richard will meet him. But, oh, +Margaret, what do you think Richard and I have been talking of?” and, +without perception of fit times and seasons, Ethel would have told her +story, but Margaret, too anxious to attend to her, said, “Hark! was not +that his step?” and Dr. May came in, looking mournful and fatigued. + +“Well,” said he, “I was just too late. He died as I got there, and I +could not leave the daughter till old Mrs. Bowers came.” + +“Poor thing,” said Margaret. “He was a good old man.” + +“Yes,” said Dr. May, sitting wearily down, and speaking in a worn-out +voice. “One can’t lightly part with a man one has seen at church every +Sunday of one’s life, and exchanged so many friendly words with over +his counter. ‘Tis a strong bond of neighbourliness in a small place like +this, and, as one grows old, changes come heavier--‘the clouds return +again after the rain.’ Thank you, my dear,” as Ethel fetched his +slippers, and placed a stool for his feet, feeling somewhat ashamed of +thinking it an achievement to have, unbidden, performed a small act of +attention which would have come naturally from any of the others. + +“Papa, you will give me the treat of drinking tea with me?” said +Margaret, who saw the quiet of her room would suit him better than the +bustle of the children downstairs. “Thank you,” as he gave a smile of +assent. + +That Margaret could not be made to listen this evening was plain, and +all that Ethel could do, was to search for some books on schools. In +seeking for them, she displayed such confusion in the chiffonier, that +Flora exclaimed, “Oh, Ethel, how could you leave it so?” + +“I was in a hurry, looking for something for Norman. I’ll set it to +rights,” said Ethel, gulping down her dislike of being reproved by +Flora, with the thought that mamma would have said the same. + +“My dear!” cried Flora presently, jumping up, “what are you doing? +piling up those heavy books on the top of the little ones; how do you +think they will ever stand? let me do it.” + +“No, no, Flora;” and Richard, in a low voice, gave Ethel some advice, +which she received, seated on the floor, in a mood between temper and +despair. + +“He is going to teach her to do it on the principles of gravitation,” + said Flora. + +Richard did not do it himself, but, by his means, Ethel, without being +in the least irritated, gave the chiffonier a thorough dusting and +setting-to-rights, sorting magazines, burning old catalogues, and +finding her own long-lost ‘Undine’, at which she was so delighted that +she would have forgotten all; in proceeding to read it, curled up on +the floor amongst the heaps of pamphlets, if another gentle hint from +Richard had not made her finish her task so well, as to make Flora +declare it was a pleasure to look in, and Harry pronounce it to be all +neat and ship-shape. + +There was no speaking to Margaret the next morning--it was French +day--and Ethel had made strong resolutions to behave better; and whether +there were fewer idioms, or that she was trying to understand, instead +of carping at the master’s explanations, they came to no battle; Flora +led the conversation, and she sustained her part with credit, and gained +an excellent mark. + +Flora said afterwards to Margaret, “I managed nicely for her. I would +not let M. Ballompre blunder upon any of the subjects Ethel feels too +deeply to talk of in good French, and really Ethel has a great talent +for languages. How fast she gets on with Italian!” + +“That she does,” said Margaret. “Suppose you send her up, Flora--you +must want to go and draw or practice, and she may do her arithmetic +here, or read to me.” + +It was the second time Margaret had made this proposal, and it did not +please Flora, who had learned to think herself necessary to her sister, +and liked to be the one to do everything for her. She was within six +weeks of seventeen, and surely she need not be sent down again to the +school-room, when she had been so good a manager of the whole family. +She was fond of study and of accomplishments, but she thought she might +be emancipated from Miss Winter; and it was not pleasant to her that a +sister, only eighteen months older, and almost dependant on her, should +have authority to dispose of her time. + +“I practise in the evening,” she said, “and I could draw here, if I +wished, but I have some music to copy.” + +Margaret was concerned at the dissatisfaction, though not understanding +the whole of it: “You know, dear Flora,” she said, “I need not take up +all your time now.” + +“Don’t regret that,” said Flora. “I like nothing so well as waiting on +you, and I can attend to my own affairs very well here.” + +“I’ll tell you why I proposed it,” said Margaret. “I think it would be a +relief for Ethel to escape from Miss Winter’s beloved Friday questions.” + +“Great nonsense they are,” said Flora. “Why don’t you tell Miss Winter +they are of no use?” + +“Mamma never interfered with them,” said Margaret. “She only kept Ethel +in her own hands, and if you would be so kind as to change sometimes +and sit in the school-room, we could spare Ethel, without hurting Miss +Winter’s feelings.” + +“Well, I’ll call Ethel, if you like, but I shall go and practise in the +drawing-room. The old school-room piano is fit for nothing but Mary to +hammer upon.” + +Flora went away, evidently annoyed, and Margaret’s conjectures on the +cause of it were cut short by Ethel running in with a slate in one hand +and two books in the other, the rest having all tumbled down on the +stairs. + +“Oh, Margaret, I am so glad to come to you. Miss Winter has set Mary to +read ‘To be, or not to be,’ and it would have driven me distracted +to have stayed there. I have got a most beautiful sum in Compound +Proportion, about a lion, a wolf, and a bear eating up a carcase, and as +soon as they have done it, you shall hear me say my ancient geography, +and then we will do a nice bit of Tasso; and if we have any time after +that, I have got such a thing to tell you--only I must not tell you now, +or I shall go on talking and not finish my lessons.” + +It was not till all were done, that Ethel felt free to exclaim, “Now +for what I have been longing to tell you--Richard is going to--” But the +fates were unpropitious. Aubrey trotted in, expecting to be amused; next +came Norman, and Ethel gave up in despair; and, after having affronted +Flora in the morning, Margaret was afraid of renewing the offence, by +attempting to secure Ethel as her companion for the afternoon; so not +till after the walk could Margaret contrive to claim the promised +communication, telling Ethel to come and settle herself cosily by her. + +“I should have been very glad of you last evening,” said she, “for papa +went to sleep, and my book was out of reach.” + +“Oh, I am sorry; how I pity you, poor Margaret!” + +“I suppose I have grown lazy,” said Margaret, “for I don’t mind +those things now. I am never sorry for a quiet time to recollect and +consider.” + +“It must be like the waiting in the dark between the slides of a magic +lantern,” said Ethel; “I never like to be quiet. I get so unhappy.” + +“I am glad of resting and recollecting,” said Margaret. “It has all been +so like a dream, that merry morning, and then, slowly waking to find +myself here in dear mamma’s place, and papa watching over me. Sometimes +I think I have not half understood what it really is, and that I don’t +realise, that if I was up and about, I should find the house without +her.” + +“Yes; that is the aching part!” said Ethel. “I am happy, sitting on her +bed here with you. You are a little of her, besides being my own dear +Peg-top! You are very lucky to miss the mealtimes and the evenings.” + +“That is the reason I don’t feel it wrong to like to have papa sitting +with me all the evening,” said Margaret, “though it may make it worse +for you to have him away. I don’t think it selfish in me to keep him. He +wants quiet so much, or to talk a little when it suits him; we are too +many now, when he is tired.” + +“Oh, it is best,” said Ethel. “Nothing that you do is selfish--don’t +talk of it, dear Margaret. It will be something like old times when you +come down again.” + +“But all this time you are not telling me what I want so much to hear,” + said Margaret, “about Cocksmoor. I am so glad Richard has taken it up.” + +“That he has. We are to go every Friday, and hire a room, and teach the +children. Once a week will do a great deal, if we can but make them wish +to learn. It is a much better plan than mine; for if they care about it, +they can come to school here on Sunday.” + +“It is excellent,” said Margaret, “and if he is at home till Easter, it +will give it a start, and put you in the way of it, and get you through +the short days and dark evenings, when you could not so well walk home +without him.” + +“Yes, and then we can all teach; Flora, and Mary, and you, when you +are well again. Richard says it will be disagreeable, but I don’t think +so--they are such unsophisticated people. That Granny Hall is such a +funny old woman; and the whole place wants nothing but a little care, to +do very well.” + +“You must prepare for disappointments, dear Ethel.” + +“I know; I know nothing is done without drawbacks; but I am so glad to +make some beginning.” + +“So am I. Do you know, mamma and I were one day talking over those kind +of things, and she said she had always regretted that she had so many +duties at home, that she could not attend as much to the poor as she +would like; but she hoped now we girls were growing up, we should be +able to do more. + +“Did she?” was all Ethel said, but she was deeply gratified. + +“I’ve been wanting to tell you. I knew you would like to hear it. It +seems to set us to work so happily.” + +“I only wish we could begin,” said Ethel, “but Richard is so slow! Of +course we can’t act without papa’s consent and Mr. Wilmot’s help, and he +says papa must not be worried about it, he must watch for his own time +to speak about it.” + +“Yes” said Margaret. + +“I know--I would not have it otherwise; but what is tiresome is this. +Richard is very good, but he is so dreadfully hard to stir up, and +what’s worse, so very much afraid of papa, that while he is thinking +about opportunities, they will all go by, and then it will be Easter, +and nothing done!” + +“He is not so much afraid of papa as he was,” said Margaret. “He has +felt himself useful and a comfort, and papa is gentler; and that has +cheered him out of the desponding way that kept him back from proposing +anything.” + +“Perhaps,” said Ethel; “but I wish it was you. Can’t you? you always +know how to manage.” + +“No; it is Richard’s affair, and he must do as he thinks fit. Don’t +sigh, dear Ethel--perhaps he may soon speak, and, if not, you can be +preparing in a quiet way all the time. Don’t you remember how dear mamma +used to tell us that things, hastily begun, never turn out well?” + +“But this is not hasty. I’ve been thinking about it these six weeks,” + said Ethel. “If one does nothing but think, it is all no better than a +vision. I want to be doing.” + +“Well, you can be doing--laying a sound foundation,” said Margaret. “The +more you consider, and the wiser you make yourself, the better it will +be when you do set to work.” + +“You mean by curing myself of my slovenly ways and impatient temper?” + +“I don’t know that I was exactly thinking of that,” said Margaret, “but +that ought to be the way. If we are not just the thing in our niche at +home, I don’t think we can do much real good elsewhere.” + +“It would be hollow, show-goodness,” said Ethel. “Yes, that is true; +and it comes across me now, and then what a horrid wretch I am, to be +wanting to undertake so much, when I leave so much undone. But, do you +know, Margaret, there’s no one such a help in those ways as Richard. +Though he is so precise, he is never tiresome. He makes me see things, +and do them neatly, without plaguing me, and putting me in a rage. I’m +not ready to bite off my own fingers, or kick all the rattle-traps over +and leave them, as I am when Miss Winter scolds me, or nurse, or even +Flora sometimes; but it is as if I was gratifying him, and his funny +little old bachelor tidyisms divert me; besides, he teaches me the +theory, and never lays hold of my poor fingers, and, when they won’t +bend the wrong way, calls them frogs.” + +“He is a capital master for you,” said Margaret, much amused and +pleased, for Richard was her especial darling, and she triumphed in any +eulogy from those who ordinarily were too apt to regard his dullness +with superior compassion. + +“If he would only read our books, and enter into poetry and delight +in it; but it is all nonsense to him,” said Ethel. “I can’t think how +people can be so different; but, oh! here he comes. Ritchie, you should +not come upon us before we are aware.” + +“What? I should have heard no good of myself?” + +“Great good,” said Margaret--“she was telling me you would make a +neat-handed woman of her in time.” + +“I don’t see why she should not be as neat as other people,” said +Richard gravely. “Has she been telling you our plan?” + +And it was again happily discussed; Ethel, satisfied by finding him +fully set upon the design, and Margaret giving cordial sympathy and +counsel. When Ethel was called away, Margaret said, “I am so glad you +have taken it up, not only for the sake of Cocksmoor, but of Ethel. It +is good for her not to spend her high soul in dreams.” + +“I am afraid she does not know what she undertakes,” said Richard. + +“She does not; but you will keep her from being turned back. It is just +the thing to prevent her energies from running to waste, and her being +so much with you, and working under you, is exactly what one would have +chosen.” + +“By contraries!” said Richard, smiling. “That is what I was afraid of. I +don’t half understand or follow her, and when I think a thing nonsense, +I see you all calling it very fine, and I don’t know what to make of +it--” + +“You are making yourself out more dull than you are,” said Margaret +affectionately. + +“I know I am stupid, and seem tame and cold,” said Richard, “and you +are the only one that does not care about it. That is what makes me wish +Norman was the eldest. If I were as clever as he, I could do so much +with Ethel, and be so much more to papa.” + +“No, you would not. You would have other things in your head. You would +not be the dear, dear old Ritchie that you are. You would not be a calm, +cautious, steady balance to the quicksilver heads some of us have got. +No, no, Norman’s a very fine fellow, a very dear fellow, but he would +not do half so well for our eldest--he is too easily up, and down +again.” + +“And I am getting into my old way of repining,” said Richard. “I don’t +mind so much, since my father has at least one son to be proud of, and I +can be of some use to him now.” + +“Of the greatest, and to all of us. I am so glad you can stay after +Christmas, and papa was pleased at your offering, and said he could not +spare you at all, though he would have tried, if it had been any real +advantage to you.” + +“Well, I hope he will approve. I must speak to him as soon as I can find +him with his mind tolerably disengaged.” + +The scene that ensued that evening in the magic lantern before +Margaret’s bed, did not promise much for the freedom of her father’s +mind. Harry entered with a resolute manner. “Margaret, I wanted to speak +to you,” said he, spreading himself out, with an elbow on each arm of +the chair. “I want you to speak to papa about my going to sea. It is +high time to see about it--I shall be thirteen on the fourth of May.” + +“And you mean it seriously, Harry?” + +“Yes, of course I do, really and truly; and if it is to come to pass, it +is time to take measures. Don’t you see, Margaret?” + +“It is time, as you say,” answered Margaret reflectingly, and sadly +surveying the bright boy, rosy cheeked, round faced, and blue eyed, with +the childish gladsomeness of countenance, that made it strange that his +lot in life should be already in the balance. + +“I know what you will all tell me, that it is a hard life, but I must +get my own living some way or other, and I should like that way the +best,” said he earnestly. + +“Should you like to be always far from home?” + +“I should come home sometimes, and bring such presents to Mary, and +baby, and all of you; and I don’t know what else to be, Margaret. I +should hate to be a doctor--I can’t abide sick people; and I couldn’t +write sermons, so I can’t be a clergyman; and I won’t be a lawyer, I +vow, for Harvey Anderson is to be a lawyer--so there’s nothing left but +soldiers and sailors, and I mean to be a sailor!” + +“Well, Harry, you may do your duty, and try to do right, if you are a +sailor, and that is the point.” + +“Ay, I was sure you would not set your face against it, now you know +Alan Ernescliffe.” + +“If you were to be like him--” Margaret found herself blushing, and +broke off. + +“Then you will ask papa about it?” + +“You had better do so yourself. Boys had better settle such serious +affairs with their fathers, without setting their sisters to interfere. +What’s the matter, Harry--you are not afraid to speak to papa?” + +“Only for one thing,” said Harry. “Margaret, I went out to shoot +pee-wits last Saturday with two fellows, and I can’t speak to papa while +that’s on my mind.” + +“Then you had better tell him at once.” + +“I knew you would say so; but it would be like a girl, and it would be +telling of the two fellows.” + +“Not at all; papa would not care about them.” + +“You see,” said Harry, twisting a little, “I knew I ought not; but they +said I was afraid of a gun, and that I had no money. Now I see that was +chaff, but I didn’t then, and Norman wasn’t there.” + +“I am so glad you have told me all this, Harry dear, for I knew you had +been less at home of late, and I was almost afraid you were not going on +quite well.” + +“That’s what it is,” said Harry. “I can’t stand things at all, and I +can’t go moping about as Norman does. I can’t live without fun, and now +Norman isn’t here, half the time it turns to something I am sorry for +afterwards.” + +“But, Harry, if you let yourself be drawn into mischief here for want of +Norman, what would you do at sea?” + +“I should be an officer!” + +“I am afraid,” said Margaret, smiling, “that would not make much +difference inside, though it might outside. You must get the +self-control, and leave off being afraid to be said to be afraid.” + +Harry fidgeted. “I should start fresh, and be out of the way of the +Andersons,” he said. “That Anderson junior is a horrid fellow--he spites +Norman, and he bullied me, till I was big enough to show him that it +would not do--and though I am so much younger, he is afraid of me. +He makes up to me, and tries to get me into all the mischief that is +going.” + +“And you know that, and let him lead you? Oh, Harry!” + +“I don’t let him lead me,” said Harry indignantly, “but I won’t have +them say I can’t do things.” + +Margaret laughed, and Harry presently perceived what she meant, but +instead of answering, he began to boast, “There never was a May in +disgrace yet, and there never shall be.” + +“That is a thing to be very thankful for,” said Margaret, “but you know +there may be much harm without public disgrace. I never heard of one of +the Andersons being in disgrace yet.” + +“No--shabby fellows, that just manage to keep fair with old Hoxton, and +make a show,” said Harry. “They look at translations, and copy old stock +verses. Oh, it was such fun the other day. What do you think? Norman +must have been dreaming, for he had taken to school, by mistake, +Richard’s old Gradus that Ethel uses, and there were ever so many rough +copies of hers sticking in it.” + +“Poor Ethel! What consternation she would be in! I hope no one found it +out.” + +“Why, Anderson junior was gaping about in despair for sense for his +verses--he comes on that, and slyly copies a whole set of her old ones, +done when she--Norman, I mean--was in the fifth form. His subject was +a river, and hers Babylon; but, altering a line or two, it did just as +well. He never guessed I saw him, and thought he had done it famously. +He showed them up, and would have got some noted good mark, but that, by +great good luck, Ethel had made two of her pentameters too short, which +he hadn’t the wit to find out, thinking all Norman did must be right. So +he has shown up a girl’s verses--isn’t that rare?” cried Harry, dancing +on his chair with triumph. + +“I hope no one knows they were hers?” + +“Bless you, no!” said Harry, who regarded Ethel’s attainments as +something contraband. “D’ye think I could tell? No, that’s the only +pity, that he can’t hear it; but, after all, I don’t care for anything +he does, now I know he has shown up a girl’s verses.” + +“Are these verses of poor Ethel’s safe at home?” + +“Yes, I took care of that. Mind you don’t tell anyone, Margaret; I never +told even Norman.” + +“But all your school-fellows aren’t like these? You have Hector +Ernescliffe.” + +“He’s a nice fellow enough, but he is little, and down in the school. +‘Twould be making a fourth form of myself to be after him. The fact is, +Margaret, they are a low, ungentlemanly lot just now, about sixth +and upper fifth form,” said Harry, lowering his voice into an anxious +confidential tone; “and since Norman has been less amongst them, they’ve +got worse; and you see, now home is different, and he isn’t like what he +was, I’m thrown on them, and I want to get out of it. I didn’t know that +was it before, but Richard showed me what set me on thinking of it, and +I see she knew all about it.” + +“That she did! There is a great deal in what you say, Harry, but you +know she thought nothing would be of real use but changing within. +If you don’t get a root of strength in yourself, your ship will be no +better to you than school--there will be idle midshipmen as well as idle +school-boys.” + +“Yes, I know,” said Harry; “but do you think papa will consent? She +would not have minded.” + +“I can’t tell. I should think he would; but if any scheme is to come to +good, it must begin by your telling him of the going out shooting.” + +Harry sighed. “I’d have done it long ago if she was here,” he said. “I +never did anything so bad before without telling, and I don’t like it at +all. It seems to come between him and me when I wish him good-night.” + +“Then, Harry, pray do tell him. You’ll have no comfort if you don’t.” + +“I know I shan’t; but then he’ll be so angry! And, do you know, +Margaret, ‘twas worse than I told you, for a covey of partridges got up, +and unluckily I had got the gun, and I fired and killed one, and that +was regular poaching, you know! And when we heard some one coming, how +we did cut! Ax--the other fellow, I mean, got it, and cooked it in his +bedroom, and ate it for supper; and he laughs about it, but I have felt +so horrid all the week! Suppose a keeper had got a summons!” + +“I can only say again, the only peace will be in telling.” + +“Yes; but he will be so angry. When that lot of fellows a year or two +ago did something like it, and shot some of the Abbotstoke rabbits, +don’t you remember how much he said about its being disgraceful, and +ordering us never to have anything to do with their gunnery? And he will +think it so very bad to have gone out on a lark just now! Oh, I wish I +hadn’t done it.” + +“So do I, indeed, Harry! but I am sure, even it he should be angry at +first, he will be pleased with your confessing.” + +Harry looked very reluctant and disconsolate, and his sister did +not wonder for Dr. May’s way of hearing of a fault was never to be +calculated on. “Come, Harry,” said she, “if he is ever so angry, though +I don’t think he will be, do you think that will be half as bad as this +load at your heart? Besides, if you are not bold enough to speak to him, +do you think you can ever be brave enough for a sailor?” + +“I will,” said Harry, and the words were hardly spoken, before his +father’s hand was on the door. He was taken by surprise at the moment +of trial coming so speedily, and had half a mind to retreat by the other +door; he was stayed by the reflection that Margaret would think him a +coward, unfit for a sailor, and he made up his mind to endure whatever +might betide. + +“Harry here? This is company I did not expect.” + +“Harry has something to say to you, papa.” + +“Eh! my boy, what is it?” said he kindly. + +“Papa, I have killed a partridge. Two fellows got me to hire a gun, and +go out shooting with them last Saturday,” said Harry, speaking firmly +and boldly now he had once begun. “We meant only to go after pee-wits, +but a partridge got up, and I killed it.” + +Then came a pause. Harry stopped, and Dr. May waited, half expecting to +hear that the boy was only brought to confession by finding himself in +a scrape. Margaret spoke. “And he could not be happy till he had told +you.” + +“Is it so? Is that the whole?” said the doctor, looking at his son with +a keen glance, between affection and inquiry, as if only waiting to be +sure the confession was free, before he gave his free forgiveness. + +“Yes, papa,” said Harry, his voice and lip losing their firmness, as the +sweetness of expression gained the day on his father’s face. “Only that +I know--‘twas very wrong--especially now--and I am very sorry--and I beg +your pardon.” + +The latter words came between sighs, fast becoming sobs, in spite of +Harry’s attempts to control them, as his father held out his arm, and +drew him close to him. + +“That’s mamma’s own brave boy,” he said in his ear--in a voice which +strong feeling had reduced to such a whisper, that even Margaret could +not hear--she only saw how Harry, sobbing aloud, clung tighter and +tighter to him, till he said “Take care of my arm!” and Harry sprang +back at least a yard, with such a look of dismay, that the doctor +laughed. “No harm done!” said he. “I was only a little in dread of such +a young lion! Comeback, Harry,” and he took his hand. “It was a bad +piece of work, and it will never do for you to let yourself be drawn +into every bit of mischief that is on foot; I believe I ought to +give you a good lecture on it, but I can’t do it, after such a +straightforward confession. You must have gone through enough in the +last week, not to be likely to do it again.” + +“Yes, papa--thank you.” + +“I suppose I must not ask you any questions about it, for fear of +betraying the fellows,” said Dr. May, half smiling. + +“Thank you, papa,” said Harry, infinitely relieved and grateful, and +quite content for some space to lean in silence against the chair, with +that encircling arm round him, while some talk passed between his father +and Margaret. + +What a world of thought passed through the boy’s young soul in that +space! First, there was a thrill of intense, burning love to his father, +scarcely less fondness to his sweet motherly sister; a clinging feeling +to every chair and table of that room, which seemed still full of +his mother’s presence; a numbering over of all the others with ardent +attachment, and a flinging from him with horror the notion of asking to +be far away from that dearest father, that loving home, that arm that +was round him. Anything rather than be without them in the dreary +world! But then came the remembrance of cherished visions, the shame of +relinquishing a settled purpose, the thought of weary morrows, with the +tempters among his playmates, and his home blank and melancholy; and +the roaming spirit of enterprise stirred again, and reproached him with +being a baby, for fancying he could stay at home for ever. He would come +back again with such honours as Alan Ernescliffe had brought, and oh! +if his father so prized them in a stranger, what would it be in his +own son? Come home to such a greeting as would make up for the parting! +Harry’s heart throbbed again for the boundless sea, the tall ship, +and the wondrous foreign climes, where he had so often lived in fancy. +Should he, could he speak: was this the moment? and he stood gazing at +the fire, oppressed with the weighty reality of deciding his destiny. +At last Dr. May looked in his face, “Well, what now, boy? You have your +head full of something--what’s coming next?” + +Out it came, “Papa will you let me be a sailor?” + +“Oh!” said Dr. May, “that is come on again, is it? I thought that you +had forgotten all that.” + +“No, papa,” said Harry, with the manly coolness that the sense of his +determination gave him--“it was not a mere fancy, and I have never had +it out of my head. I mean it quite in earnest--I had rather be a sailor. +I don’t wish to get away from Latin and Greek, I don’t mind them; but +I think I could be a better sailor than anything. I know it is not all +play, but I am willing to rough it; and I am getting so old, it is time +to see about it, so will you consent to it, papa?” + +“Well! there’s some sense in your way of putting it,” said Dr. May. “You +have it strong in your head then, and you know ‘tis not all fair-weather +work!” + +“That I do; Alan told me histories, and I’ve read all about it; but one +must rough it anywhere, and if I am ever so far away, I’ll try not to +forget what’s right. I’ll do my duty, and not care for danger.” + +“Well said, my man; but remember ‘tis easier talking by one’s own +fireside than doing when the trial comes.” + +“And will you let me, papa?” + +“I’ll think about it. I can’t make up my mind as ‘quick as directly,’ +you know, Harry,” said his father, smiling kindly, “but I won’t treat +it as a boy’s fancy, for you’ve spoken in a manly way, and deserve to +be attended to. Now run down, and tell the girls to put away their work, +for I shall come down in a minute to read prayers.” + +Harry went, and his father sighed and mused! “That’s a fine fellow! So +this is what comes of bringing sick sailors home--one’s own boys must be +catching the infection. Little monkey, he talks as wisely as if he were +forty! He is really set on it, do you think, Margaret? I’m afraid so!” + +“I think so,” said Margaret; “I don’t think he ever has it out of his +mind!” + +“And when the roving spirit once lays hold of a lad, he must have his +way--he is good for nothing else,” said Dr. May. + +“I suppose a man may keep from evil in that profession as well as in any +other,” said Margaret. + +“Aha! you are bit too, are you?” said the doctor; “‘tis the husbandman +and viper, is it?” Then his smile turned into a heavy sigh, as he saw +he had brought colour to Margaret’s pale cheek, but she answered calmly, +“Dear mamma did not think it would be a bad thing for him.” + +“I know,” said the doctor, pausing; “but it never came to this with +her.” + +“I wish he had chosen something else; but--” and Margaret thought it +right to lay before her father some part of what he had said of the +temptations of the school at Stoneborough. The doctor listened and +considered at last he rose, and said, “Well, I’ll set Ritchie to write +to Ernescliffe, and hear what he says. What must be, must be. ‘Tis only +asking me to give up the boy, that’s all;” and as he left the room, +his daughter again heard his sigh and half-uttered words, “Oh, Maggie, +Maggie!” + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + + + A tale + Would rouse adventurous courage in a boy, + And make him long to be a mariner, + That he might rove the main.--SOUTHEY. + + +Etheldred had the satisfaction of seeing the Taylors at school on +Sunday, but no Halls made their appearance, and, on inquiry, she was +told, “Please ma’am, they said they would not come;” so Ethel condemned +Granny Hall as “a horrid, vile, false, hypocritical old creature! It was +no use having anything more to do with her.” + +“Very well,” said Richard; “then I need not speak to my father.” + +“Ritchie now! you know I meant no such thing!” + +“You know, it is just what will happen continually.” + +“Of course there will be failures, but this is so abominable, when they +had those nice frocks, and those two beautiful eighteen-penny shawls! +There are three shillings out of my pound thrown away!” + +“Perhaps there was some reason to prevent them. We will go and see.” + +“We shall only hear some more palavering. I want to have no more to say +to--” but here Ethel caught herself up, and began to perceive what +a happiness it was that she had not the power of acting on her own +impulses. + +The twins and their little brother of two years old were christened +in the afternoon, and Flora invited the parents to drink tea in the +kitchen, and visit Lucy, while Ethel and Mary each carried a baby +upstairs to exhibit to Margaret. + +Richard, in the meantime, had a conversation with John Taylor, and +learned a good deal about the district, and the number of the people. At +tea, he began to rehearse his information, and the doctor listened with +interest, which put Ethel in happy agitation, believing that the moment +was come, and Richard seemed to be only waiting for the conclusion of a +long tirade against those who ought to do something for the place, when +behold! Blanche was climbing on her father’s knee, begging for one of +his Sunday stories. + +Etheldred was cruelly disappointed, and could not at first rejoice to +see her father able again to occupy himself with his little girl. The +narration, in his low tones, roused her from her mood of vexation. +It was the story of David, which he told in language scriptural and +poetical, so pretty and tender in its simplicity, that she could not +choose but attend. Ever and anon there was a glance towards Harry, as +if he were secretly likening his own “yellow-haired laddie” to the +“shepherd boy, ruddy, and of a fair countenance.” + +“So Tom and Blanche,” he concluded, “can you tell me how we may be like +the shepherd-boy, David?” + +“There aren’t giants now,” said Tom. + +“Wrong is a giant,” said his little sister. + +“Right, my white May-flower, and what then?” + +“We are to fight,” said Tom. + +“Yes, and mind, the giant with all his armour may be some great thing we +have to do: but what did David begin with when he was younger?” + +“The lion and the bear.” + +“Ay, and minding his sheep. Perhaps little things, now you are little +children, may be like the lion and the bear--so kill them off--get rid +of them--cure yourself of whining or dawdling, or whatever it be, +and mind your sheep well,” said he, smiling sweetly in answer to the +children’s earnest looks as they caught his meaning, “and if you do, +you will not find it near so hard to deal with your great giant struggle +when it comes.” + +Ah! thought Ethel, it suits me as well as the children. I have a great +giant on Cocksmoor, and here I am, not allowed to attack him, because, +perhaps, I am not minding my sheep, and letting my lion and my bear run +loose about the house. + +She was less impatient this week, partly from the sense of being on +probation, and partly because she, in common with all the rest, was much +engrossed with Harry’s fate. He came home every day at dinner-time with +Norman to ask if Alan Ernescliffe’s letter had come; and at length Mary +and Tom met them open-mouthed with the news that Margaret had it in her +room. + +Thither they hastened. Margaret held it out with a smile of +congratulation. “Here it is, Harry; papa said you were to have it, and +consider it well, and let him know, when you had taken time. You must do +it soberly. It is once for all.” + +Harry’s impetuosity was checked, and he took the letter quietly. His +sister put her hand on his shoulder, “Would you mind my kissing you, +dear Harry?” and as he threw his arms round her neck, she whispered, +“Pray that you may choose right.” + +He went quietly away, and Norman begged to know what had been Alan +Ernescliffe’s advice. + +“I can scarcely say he gave any direct advice,” said Margaret; “He would +not have thought that called for. He said, no doubt there were hardships +and temptations, more or less, according to circumstances; but weighing +one thing with another, he thought it gave as fair a chance of happiness +as other professions, and the discipline and regularity had been very +good for himself, as well as for many others he had known. He said, when +a man is willing to go wrong there is much to help him, but when he is +resolved on doing right, he need not be prevented.” + +“That is what you may say of anything,” said Norman. + +“Just so; and it answered papa’s question, whether it was exposing Harry +to more temptation than he must meet with anywhere. That was the reason +it was such a comfort to have anyone to write to, who understands it so +well.” + +“Yes, and knows Harry’s nature.” + +“He said he had been fortunate in his captains, and had led, on the +whole, a happy life at sea; and he thought if it was so with him, Harry +was likely to enjoy it more, being of a hardy adventurous nature, and a +sailor from choice, not from circumstances.” + +“Then he advised for it? I did not think he would; you know he will not +let Hector be a sailor.” + +“He told me he thought only a strong natural bent that way made it +desirable, and that he believed Hector only wished it from imitation of +him. He said too, long ago, that he thought Harry cut out for a sailor. + +“A spirited fellow!” said Norman, with a look of saddened pride and +approval, not at all like one so near the same age. “He is up to +anything, afraid of nothing, he can lick any boy in the school already. +It will be worse than ever without him!” + +“Yes, you will miss your constant follower. He has been your shadow +ever since he could walk. But there’s the clock, I must not keep you any +longer; good-bye, Norman.” + +Harry gave his brother the letter as soon as they were outside the +house, and, while he read it, took his arm and guided him. “Well,” said +Norman as he finished. + +“It is all right,” said Harry; and the two brothers said no more; there +was something rising up in their throats at the thought that they had +very few more walks to take together to Bishop Whichcote’s school; +Norman’s heart was very full at the prospect of another vacancy in his +home, and Harry’s was swelling between the ardour of enterprise and the +thought of bidding good-bye to each familiar object, and, above all, to +the brother who had been his model and admiration from babyhood. + +“June!” at length he broke out, “I wish you were going too. I should not +mind it half so much if you were.” + +“Nonsense, Harry! you want to be July after June all your life, do you? +You’ll be much more of a man without me.” + +That evening Dr. May called Harry into his study to ask him if his mind +was made up; he put the subject fairly before him, and told him not to +be deterred from choosing what he thought would be for the best by any +scruples about changing his mind. “We shall not think a bit the worse of +you; better now, than too late.” + +There was that in his face and tone that caused Harry to say, in a +stifled voice, “I did not think you would care so much, papa; I won’t +go, if you do.” + +Dr. May put his hand on his shoulder, and was silent. Harry felt a +strange mixture of hope and fear, joy and grief, disappointment and +relief. “You must not give it up on that account, my dear,” he said at +length; “I should not let you see this, if it did not happen at a time +when I can’t command myself as I ought. If you were an only son, it +might be your duty to stay; being one of many, ‘tis nonsense to make a +rout about parting with you. If it is better for you, it is better for +all of us; and we shall do very well when you are once fairly gone. +Don’t let that influence you for a moment.” + +Harry paused, not that he doubted, but he was collecting his +energies--“Then, papa, I choose the navy.” + +“Then it is done, Harry. You have chosen in a dutiful, unselfish spirit, +and I trust it will prosper with you; for I am sure your father’s +blessing--aye, and your mother’s too, go with you! Now then,” after a +pause, “go and call Richard. I want him to write to Ernescliffe about +that naval school. You must take your leave of the Whichcote foundation +on Friday. I shall go and give Dr. Hoxton notice tomorrow, and get Tom’s +name down instead.” + +And when the name of Thomas May was set down, Dr. Hoxton expressed his +trust that it would pass through the school as free from the slightest +blemish as those of Richard, Norman, and Harry May. + +Now that Harry’s destiny was fixed, Ethel began to think of Cocksmoor +again, and she accomplished another walk there with Richard, Flora, and +Mary, to question Granny Hall about the children’s failure. + +The old woman’s reply was a tissue of contradictions: the girls were +idle hussies, all contrary: they plagued the very life out of her, and +she represented herself as using the most frightful threats, if they +would not go to school. Breaking every bone in their skin was the least +injury she promised them; till Mary, beginning to think her a cruel old +woman, took hold of her brother’s coat-tails for protection. + +“But I am afraid, Mrs. Hall,” said Richard, in that tone which might be +either ironical or simple, “if you served them so, they would never be +able to get to school at all, poor things.” + +“Bless you, sir, d’ye think I’d ever lay a finger near them; it’s only +the way one must talk to children, you see,” said she, patronising his +inexperience. + +“Perhaps they have found that out,” said Richard. Granny looked much +entertained, and laughed triumphantly and shrewdly, “ay, ay, that they +have, the lasses--they be sharp enough for anything, that they be. Why, +when I tell little Jenny that there’s the black man coming after her, +what does she do but she ups and says, ‘Granny, I know ‘tis only the +wind in the chimney.’” + +“Then I don’t think it seems to answer,” said Richard. “Just suppose you +were to try for once, really punishing them when they won’t obey you, +perhaps they would do it next time.” + +“Why, sir, you see I don’t like to take the stick to them; they’ve got +no mother, you see, sir.” + +Mary thought her a kind grandmother, and came out from behind her +brother. + +“I think it would be kinder to do it for once. What do you think they +will do as they grow older, if you don’t keep them in order when they +are little?” + +This was foresight beyond Granny Hall, who began to expatiate on the +troubles she had undergone in their service, and the excellence of Sam. +There was certainly a charm in her manners, for Ethel forgot her charge +of ingratitude, the other sisters were perfectly taken with her, nor +could they any of them help giving credence to her asseverations that +Jenny and Polly should come to school next Sunday. + +They soon formed another acquaintance; a sharp-faced woman stood in +their path, with a little girl in her hand, and arrested them with a low +curtsey, and not a very pleasant voice, addressing herself to Flora, +who was quite as tall as Richard, and appeared the person of most +consequence. + +“If you please, miss, I wanted to speak to you. I have got a little girl +here, and I want to send her to school, only I have no shoes for her.” + +“Why, surely, if she can run about here on the heath, she can go to +school,” said Flora. + +“Oh! but there is all the other children to point at her. The poor thing +would be daunted, you see, miss; if I could but get some friend to give +her a pair of shoes, I’d send her in a minute. I want her to get some +learning; as I am always saying, I’d never keep her away, if I had +but got the clothes to send her in. I never lets her be running on the +common, like them Halls, as it’s a shame to see them in nice frocks, as +Mrs. Hall got by going hypercriting about.” + +“What is your name?” said Richard, cutting her short. + +“Watts, if you please, sir; we heard there was good work up here, sir, +and so we came; but I’d never have set foot in it if I had known what a +dark heathenish place it is, with never a Gospel minister to come near +it,” and a great deal more to the same purpose. + +Mary whispered to Flora something about having outgrown her boots, but +Flora silenced her by a squeeze of the hand, and the two friends of +Cocksmoor felt a good deal puzzled. + +At last Flora said, “You will soon get her clothed if she comes +regularly to school on Sundays, for she will be admitted into the club; +I will recommend her if she has a good character and comes regularly. +Good-morning, Mrs. Watts. Now we must go, or it will be dark before we +get home.” And they walked hastily away. + +“Horrid woman!” was Ethel’s exclamation. + +“But Flora,” said innocent Mary, “why would you not let me give the +little girl my boots?” + +“Perhaps I may, if she is good and comes to school, said Flora. + +“I think Margaret ought to settle what you do with your boots,” said +Richard, not much to Flora’s satisfaction. + +“It is the same,” she said. “If I approve, Margaret will not object.” + +“How well you helped us out, Flora,” said Ethel; “I did not know in the +least what to say.” + +“It will be the best way of testing her sincerity, said Flora; and at +least it will do the child good; but I congratulate you on the promising +aspect of Cocksmoor.” + +“We did not expect to find a perfect place,” said Ethel; “if it were, it +would be of no use to go to it.” + +Ethel could answer with dignity, but her heart sank at the aspect of +what she had undertaken. She knew there would be evil, but she had +expected it in a more striking and less disagreeable form. + +That walk certainly made her less impatient, though it did not relax her +determination, nor the guard over her lion and bear, which her own +good feeling, aided by Margaret’s council, showed her were the greatest +hindrances to her doing anything good and great. + +Though she was obliged to set to work so many principles and reflections +to induce herself to wipe a pen, or to sit straight on her chair, that +it was like winding up a steam-engine to thread a needle; yet the work +was being done--she was struggling with her faults, humbled by them, +watching them, and overcoming them. + +Flora, meanwhile, was sitting calmly down in the contemplation of the +unexpected services she had rendered, confident that her character for +energy and excellence was established, believing it herself, and looking +back on her childish vanity and love of domineering as long past and +conquered. She thought her grown-up character had begun, and was too +secure to examine it closely. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + + + One thing is wanting in the beamy cup + Of my young life! one thing to be poured in; + Ay, and one thing is wanting to fill up + The measure of proud joy, and make it sin.--F. W. F. + + +Hopes that Dr. May would ever have his mind free, seemed as fallacious +as mamma’s old promise to Margaret, to make doll’s clothes for her +whenever there should be no live dolls to be worked for in the nursery. + +Richard and Ethel themselves had their thoughts otherwise engrossed. +The last week before the holidays was an important one. There was +an examination, by which the standing of the boys in the school was +determined, and this time it was of more than ordinary importance, as +the Randall scholarship of £100 a year for three years would be open in +the summer to the competition of the first six boys. Richard had never +come within six of the top, but had been past at every examination by +younger boys, till his father could bear it no longer; and now Norman +was too young to be likely to have much chance of being of the number. +There were eight decidedly his seniors, and Harvey Anderson, a small, +quick-witted boy, half a year older, who had entered school at the same +time, and had always been one step below him, had, in the last three +months, gained fast upon him. + +Harry, however, meant Norman to be one of the six, and declared all the +fellows thought he would be, except Andersen’s party. Mr. Wilmot, in a +call on Ethel and Flora, told them that he thought their brother had a +fair chance, but he feared he was over-working himself, and should tell +the doctor so, whenever he could catch him; but this was difficult, as +there was a great deal of illness just then, and he was less at home +than usual. + +All this excited the home party, but Norman only seemed annoyed by talk +about it, and though always with a book in his hand, was so dreamy and +listless, that Flora declared that there was no fear of his doing too +much--she thought he would fail for want of trying. + +“I mean to try,” said Norman; “say no more about it, pray.” + +The great day was the 20th of December, and Ethel ran out, as the boys +went to school, to judge of Norman’s looks, which were not promising. +“No wonder,” said Harry, since he had stayed up doing Euripides and +Cicero the whole length of a candle that had been new at bedtime. “But +never mind, Ethel, if he only beats Anderson, I don’t care for anything +else.” + +“Oh, it will be unbearable if he does not! Do try, Norman, dear.” + +“Never you mind.” + +“He’ll light up at the last moment,” said Ethel, consolingly, to Harry; +but she was very uneasy herself, for she had set her heart on his +surpassing Harvey Anderson. No more was heard all day. Tom went at +dinner-time to see if he could pick up any news; but he was shy, or +was too late, and gained no intelligence. Dr. May and Richard talked +of going to hear the speeches and viva voce examination in the +afternoon--objects of great interest to all Stoneborough men--but just +as they came home from a long day’s work, Dr. May was summoned to the +next town, by an electric telegraph, and, as it was to a bad case, he +did not expect to be at home till the mail-train came in at one o’clock +at night. Richard begged to go with him, and he consented, unwillingly, +to please Margaret, who could not bear to think of his “fending for +himself” in the dark on the rail-road. + +Very long did the evening seem to the listening sisters. Eight, and +no tidings; nine, the boys not come; Tom obliged to go to bed by sheer +sleepiness, and Ethel unable to sit still, and causing Flora demurely to +wonder at her fidgeting so much, it would be so much better to fix her +attention to some employment; while Margaret owned that Flora was right, +but watched, and started at each sound, almost as anxiously as Ethel. + +It was ten, when there was a sharp pull at the bell, and down flew the +sisters; but old James was beforehand, and Harry was exclaiming, “Dux! +James, he is Dux! Hurrah! Flossy, Ethel, Mary! There stands the Dux of +Stoneborough! Where’s papa?” + +“Sent for to Whitford. But oh! Norman, Dux! Is he really?” + +“To be sure, but I must tell Margaret,” and up he rushed, shouted the +news to her, but could not stay for congratulation; broke Tom’s slumber +by roaring it in his ear, and dashed into the nursery, where nurse for +once forgave him for waking the baby. Norman, meanwhile, followed his +eager sisters into the drawing-room, putting up his hand as if the +light dazzled him, and looking, by no means, as it he had just achieved +triumphant success. + +Ethel paused in her exultation: “But is it, is it true, Norman?” + +“Yes,” he said wearily, making his way to his dark corner. + +“But what was it for? How is it?” + +“I don’t know,” he answered. + +“What’s the matter?” said Flora. “Are you tired, Norman, dear, does your +head ache?” + +“Yes;” and the pain was evidently severe. + +“Won’t you come to Margaret?” said Ethel, knowing what was the greater +suffering; but he did not move, and they forbore to torment him with +questions. The next moment Harry came down in an ecstacy, bringing in, +from the hall, Norman’s beautiful prize books, and showing off their +Latin inscription. + +“Ah!” said he, looking at his brother, “he is regularly done for. +He ought to turn in at once. That Everard is a famous fellow for an +examiner. He said he never had seen such a copy of verses sent up by a +school-boy, and could hardly believe June was barely sixteen. Old Hoxton +says he is the youngest Dux they have had these fifty years that he +has known the school, and Mr. Wilmot said ‘twas the most creditable +examination he had ever known, and that I might tell papa so. What did +possess that ridiculous old landlubber at Whitford, to go and get on the +sick-list on this, of all the nights of the year? June, how can you go +on sitting there, when you know you ought to be in your berth?” + +“I wish he was,” said Flora, “but let him have some tea first.” + +“And tell us more, Harry,” said Ethel. “Oh! it is famous! I knew he +would come right at last. It is too delightful, if papa was but here!” + +“Isn’t it? You should have seen how Anderson grinned--he is only +fourth--down below Forder, and Cheviot, and Ashe.” + +“Well, I did not think Norman would have been before Forder and Cheviot. +That is grand.” + +“It was the verses that did it,” said Harry; “they had an hour to do +Themistocles on the hearth of Admetus, and there he beat them all to +shivers. ‘Twas all done smack, smooth, without a scratch, in Alcaics, +and Cheviot heard Wilmot saying, ‘twas no mere task, but had poetry, and +all that sort of thing in it. But I don’t know whether that would have +done, if he had not come out so strong in the recitation; they put him +on in Priam’s speech to Achilles, and he said it--Oh it was too bad papa +did not hear him! Every one held their breath and listened.” + +“How you do go on!” muttered Norman; but no one heeded, and Harry +continued. “He construed a chorus in Sophocles without a blunder, but +what did the business was this, I believe. They asked all manner of +out-of-the-way questions--history and geography, what no one expected, +and the fellows who read nothing they can help, were thoroughly posed. +Forder had not a word to say, and the others were worse, for Cheviot +thought Queen Elizabeth’s Earl of Leicester was Simon de Montfort; and +didn’t know when that battle was, beginning with an E.--was it Evesham, +or Edgehill?” + +“O Harry, you are as bad yourself?” + +“But any one would know Leicester, because of Kenilworth,” said Harry; +“and I’m not sixth form. If papa had but been there! Every one was +asking for him, and wishing it. For Dr. Hoxton called me--they shook +hands with me, and wished me joy of it, and told me to tell my father +how well Norman had done.” + +“I suppose you looked so happy, they could not help it,” said Flora, +smiling at that honest beaming face of joy. + +“Ay,” said Norman, looking up; “they had something to say to him on his +own score, which he has forgotten.” + +“I should think not,” said Harry. “Why, what d’ye think they said? That +I had gone on as well as all the Mays, and they trusted I should still, +and be a credit to my profession.” + +“Oh! Harry! why didn’t you tell us?” + +“Oh! that is grand!” and, as the two elder girls made this exclamation, +Mary proceeded to a rapturous embrace. “Get along, Mary, you are +throttling one. Mr. Everard inquired for my father and Margaret, and +said he’d call to-morrow, and Hoxton and Wilmot kept on wishing he was +there.” + +“I wish he had been!” said Ethel; “he would have taken such delight in +it; but, even if he could have gone, he doubted whether it would not +have made Norman get on worse from anxiety.” + +“Well, Cheviot wanted me to send up for him at dinner-time,” said Harry; +“for as soon as we sat down in the hall, June turned off giddy, and +could not stay, and looked so horrid, we thought it was all over with +him, and he would not be able to go up at all.” + +“And Cheviot thought you ought to send for papa!” + +“Yes, I knew he would not be in, and so we left him lying down on the +bench in the cloister till dinner was over.” + +“What a place for catching cold!” said Flora. + +“So Cheviot said, but I couldn’t help it; and when we went to call him +afterwards, he was all right. Wasn’t it fun, when the names were called +over, and May senior at the head! I don’t think it will be better when I +am a post-captain myself! But Margaret has not heard half yet.” + +After telling it once in her room, once in the nursery, in whispers +like gusts of wind, and once in the pantry, Harry employed himself in +writing--“Norman is Dux!” in immense letters, on pieces of paper, which +he disposed all over the house, to meet the eyes of his father and +Richard on their return. + +Ethel’s joy was sadly damped by Norman’s manner. He hardly spoke--only +just came in to wish Margaret good-night, and shrank from her +affectionate sayings, departing abruptly to his own room. + +“Poor fellow! he is sadly overdone,” said she, as he went. + +“Oh!” sighed Ethel, nearly ready to cry, “‘tis not like what I used to +fancy it would be when he came to the head of the school!” + +“It will be different to-morrow,” said Margaret, trying to console +herself as well as Ethel. “Think how he has been on the strain this +whole day, and long before, doing so much more than older boys. No +wonder he is tired and worn out.” + +Ethel did not understand what mental fatigue was, for her active, +vigorous spirit had never been tasked beyond its powers. + +“I hope he will be like himself to-morrow!” said she disconsolately. “I +never saw him rough and hasty before. It was even with you, Margaret.” + +“No, no, Ethel you aren’t going to blame your own Norman for unkindness +on this of all days in the year. You know how it was; you love him +better; just as I do, for not being able to bear to stay in this room, +where--” + +“Yes,” said Ethel, mournfully; “it was a great shame of me! How could I? +Dear Norman! how he does grieve--what love his must have been! But yet, +Margaret,” she said impatiently, and the hot tears breaking out, “I +cannot--cannot bear it! To have him not caring one bit for all of us! I +want him to triumph! I can’t without him!” + +“What, Ethel, you, who said you didn’t care for mere distinction and +praise? Don’t you think dear mamma would say it was safer for him not to +be delighted and triumphant?” + +“It is very tiresome,” said Ethel, nearly convinced, but in a slightly +petulant voice. + +“And does not one love those two dear boys to-night!” said Margaret. +“Norman not able to rejoice in his victory without her, and Harry in +such an ecstacy with Norman’s honours. I don’t think I ever was so fond +of my two brothers.” + +Ethel smiled, and drew up her head, and said no boys were like them +anywhere, and papa would be delighted, and so went to bed happier in her +exultation, and in hoping that the holidays would make Norman himself +again. + +Nothing could be better news for Dr. May, who had never lost a grain +of the ancient school-party-loyalty that is part of the nature of the +English gentleman. He was a thorough Stoneborough boy, had followed +the politics of the Whichcote foundation year by year all his life, and +perhaps, in his heart, regarded no honour as more to be prized than that +of Dux and Randall scholar. Harry was in his room the next morning as +soon as ever he was stirring, a welcome guest--teased a little at first, +by his pretending to take it all as a sailor’s prank to hoax him and +Richard, and then free to pour out to delighted ears the whole history +of the examination, and of every one’s congratulations. + +Norman himself was asleep when Harry went to give this narration. He +came down late, and his father rose to meet him as he entered. “My boy,” + he said, “I had not expected this of you. Well done, Norman!” and the +whole tone and gesture had a heartfelt approval and joy in them, that +Ethel knew her brother was deeply thrilled by, for his colour deepened, +and his lips quivered into something like a smile, though he did not +lift his eyes. + +Then came Richard’s warm greeting and congratulation, he, too, showing +himself as delighted as if the honours were his own; and then Dr. May +again, in lively tones, like old times, laughing at Norman for sleeping +late, and still not looking well awake, asking him if he was quite sure +it was not all a dream. + +“Well,” said Norman, “I should think it was, if it were not that you all +believe it.” + +“Harry had better go to sleep next,” said Dr. May, “and see what +dreaming will make him. If it makes Dux of Norman, who knows but it may +make Drakes of him? Ha! Ethel-- + + + “Oh, give us for our Kings such Queens, + And for our Ducks such Drakes.” + + +There had not been such a merry breakfast for months. There was the old +confusion of voices; the boys, Richard, and the doctor had much to talk +over of the school doings of this week, and there was nearly as much +laughing as in days past. Ethel wondered whether any one but herself +observed that the voice most seldom heard was Norman’s. + +The promised call was made by Dr. Hoxton, and Mr. Everard, an old +friend, and after their departure Dr. May came to Margaret’s room with +fresh accounts, corroborating what Harry had said of the clear knowledge +and brilliant talent that Norman had displayed, to a degree that +surprised his masters, almost as much as the examiners. The copy +of verses Dr. May brought with him, and construed them to Margaret, +commenting all the way on their ease, and the fullness of thought, +certainly remarkable in a boy of sixteen. + +They were then resigned to Ethel’s keeping, and she could not help +imparting her admiration to their author, with some apology for vexing +him again. + +“I don’t want to be cross,” said Norman, whom these words roused to a +sense that he had been churlish last night; “but I cannot help it. I +wish people would not make such a fuss about it.” + +“I don’t think you can be well, Norman.” + +“Nonsense. There’s nothing the matter with me.” + +“But I don’t understand your not caring at all, and not being the least +pleased.” + +“It only makes it worse,” said Norman; “I only feel as if I wanted to be +out of the way. My only comfortable time yesterday was on that bench in +the cool quiet cloister. I don’t think I could have got through without +that, when they left me in peace, till Cheviot and Harry came to rout me +up, and I knew it was all coming.” + +“Ah! you have overworked yourself, but it was for something. You have +given papa such pleasure and comfort, as you can’t help being glad of. +That is very different from us foolish young ones and our trumpeting.” + +“What comfort can it be? I’ve not been the smallest use all this time. +When he was ill, I left him to Ernescliffe, and lay on the floor like +an ass; and if he were to ask me to touch his arm, I should be as bad +again. A fine thing for me to have talked all that arrogant stuff about +Richard! I hate the thought of it; and, as if to make arrows and barbs +of it, here’s Richard making as much of this as if it was a double first +class! He afraid to be compared with me, indeed!” + +“Norman, indeed, this is going too far. We can’t be as useful as the +elder ones; and when you know how papa was vexed about Richard, you must +be glad to have pleased him.” + +“If I were he, it would only make me miss her more. I believe he only +makes much of me that he may not disappoint me.” + +“I don’t think so. He is really glad, and the more because she would +have been so pleased. He said it would have been a happy day for her, +and there was more of the glad look than the sorry one. It was the +glistening look that comes when he is watching baby, or hearing Margaret +say pretty things to her. You see it is the first bright morning we have +had.” + +“Yes,” said Norman; “perhaps it was, but I don’t know. I thought half of +it was din.” + +“Oh, Norman!” + +“And another thing, Ethel, I don’t feel as if I had fairly earned it. +Forder or Cheviot ought to have had it. They are both more really good +scholars than I am, and have always been above me. There was nothing +I really knew better, except those historical questions that no one +reckoned on; and not living at home with their sisters and books, they +had no such chance, and it is very hard on them, and I don’t like it.” + +“Well, but you really and truly beat them in everything.” + +“Ay, by chance. There were lots of places in construing, where I should +have broken down if I had happened to be set on in them; it was only a +wonder I did not in that chorus, for I had only looked at it twice; but +Everard asked me nothing but what I knew; and now and then I get into +a funny state, when nothing is too hard for me, and that was how it was +yesterday evening. Generally, I feel as dull as a post,” said Norman, +yawning and stretching; “I could not make a nonsense hexameter this +minute, if I was to die for it.” + +“A sort of Berserkar fury!” said Ethel, “like that night you did the +coral-worm verses. It’s very odd. Are you sure you are well, dear +Norman?” + +To which he answered, with displeasure, that he was as well as possible, +ordered her not to go and make any more fuss, and left her hastily. She +was unhappy, and far from satisfied; she had never known his temper +so much affected, and was much puzzled; but she was too much afraid of +vexing him, to impart her perplexity even to Margaret. However, the next +day, Sunday, as she was reading to Margaret after church, her father +came in, and the first thing he said was, “I want to know what you think +of Norman.” + +“How do you mean?” said Margaret; “in health or spirits?” + +“Both,” said Dr. May. “Poor boy! he has never held up his head since +October, and, at his age, that is hardly natural. He goes moping about, +has lost flesh and appetite, and looks altogether out of order, shooting +up like a Maypole too.” + +“Mind and body,” said Margaret, while Ethel gazed intently at her +father, wondering whether she ought to speak, for Margaret did not know +half what she did; nothing about the bad nights, nor what he called the +“funny state.” + +“Yes, both. I fancied it was only his rapid growth, and the excitement +of this examination, and that it would go off, but I think there’s more +amiss. He was lounging about doing nothing, when the girls were gone +to school after dinner, and I asked him to walk down with me to the +Almshouses. He did not seem very willing, but he went, and presently, as +I had hold of his arm, I felt him shivering, and saw him turn as pale as +a sheet. As soon as I noticed it, he flushed crimson, and would not hear +of turning back, stoutly protesting he was quite well, but I saw his +hand was quivering even when I got into church. Why, Ethel, you have +turned as red as he did.” + +“Then he has done it!” exclaimed Ethel, in a smothered voice. + +“What do you mean? Speak, Ethel.” + +“He has gone past it--the place,” whispered she. + +The doctor made a sound of sorrowful assent, as if much struck; then +said, “you don’t mean he has never been there since?” + +“Yes,” said Ethel, “he has always gone round Randall’s alley or the +garden; he has said nothing, but has contrived to avoid it.” + +“Well,” said Dr. May, after a pause, “I hoped none of us knew the exact +spot.” + +“We don’t; he never told us, but he was there.” + +“Was he?” exclaimed her father; “I had no notion of that. How came he +there?” + +“He went on with Mr. Ernescliffe, and saw it all,” said Ethel, as her +father drew out her words, apparently with his eye; “and then came up to +my room so faint that he was obliged to lie on the floor ever so long.” + +“Faint--how long did it last?” said her father, examining her without +apparent emotion, as if it had been an indifferent patient. + +“I don’t know, things seemed so long that evening. Till after dark at +least, and it came on in the morning--no, the Monday. I believe it was +your arm--for talking of going to see you always brought it on, till Mr. +Ward gave him a dose of brandy-and-water, and that stopped it.” + +“I wish I had known this before. Derangement of the nervous system, no +doubt--a susceptible boy like that--I wonder what sort of nights he has +been having.” + +“Terrible ones,” said Ethel; “I don’t think he ever sleeps quietly till +morning; he has dreams, and he groans and talks in his sleep; Harry can +tell you all that.” + +“Bless me!” cried Dr. May, in some anger; “what have you all been +thinking about to keep this to yourselves all this time?” + +“He could not bear to have it mentioned,” said Ethel timidly; “and I +didn’t know that it signified so much; does it?” + +“It signifies so much, that I had rather have given a thousand pounds +than have let him go on all this time, to be overworked at school, and +wound up to that examination!” + +“Oh, dear! I am sorry!” said Ethel, in great dismay. “If you had but +been at home when Cheviot wanted Harry to have sent for you--because he +did not think him fit for it!” And Ethel was much relieved by pouring +out all she knew, though her alarm was by no means lessened by the +effect it produced on her father, especially when he heard of the “funny +state.” + +“A fine state of things,” he said; “I wonder it has not brought on a +tremendous illness by this time. A boy of that sensitive temperament +meeting with such a shock--never looked after--the quietest and most +knocked down of all, and therefore the most neglected--his whole system +disordered--and then driven to school to be harassed and overworked; if +we had wanted to occasion brain fever we could not have gone a better +way to set about it. I should not wonder if health and nerves were +damaged for life!” + +“Oh! papa, papa!” cried Ethel, in extreme distress, “what shall I do! I +wish I had told you, but--” + +“I’m not blaming you, Ethel, you knew no better, but it has been +grievous neglect. It is plain enough there is no one to see after you,” + said the doctor, with a low groan. + +“We may be taking it in time,” said Margaret’s soft voice--“it is very +well it has gone on no longer.” + +“Three months is long enough,” said Dr. May. + +“I suppose,” continued Margaret, “it will be better not to let dear +Norman know we are uneasy about him.” + +“No, no, certainly not. Don’t say a word of this to him. I shall +find Harry, and ask about these disturbed nights, and then watch him, +trusting it may not have gone too far; but there must be dreadful +excitability of brain!” + +He went away, leaving Margaret to comfort Ethel as well as she could, by +showing her that he had not said the mischief was done, putting her in +mind that he was wont to speak strongly; and trying to make her thankful +that her brother would now have such care as might avert all evil +results. + +“But, oh,” said Ethel, “his success has been dearly purchased!” + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + + + “It hath do me mochil woe.” + “Yea hath it? Use,” quod he, “this medicine; + Every daie this Maie or that thou dine, + Go lokin in upon the freshe daisie, + And though thou be for woe in poinct to die, + That shall full gretly lessen thee of thy pine.” + CHAUCER. + + +That night Norman started from, what was not so much sleep, as a trance +of oppression and suffering, and beheld his father’s face watching him +attentively. + +“Papa! What’s the matter?” said he, starting up. “Is any one ill?” + +“No; no one, lie down again,” said Dr. May, possessing himself of a +hand, with a burning spot in the palm, and a throbbing pulse. + +“But what made you come here? Have I disturbed any one? Have I been +talking?” + +“Only mumbling a little, but you looked very uncomfortable.” + +“But I’m not ill--what are you feeling my pulse for?” said Norman +uneasily. + +“To see whether that restless sleep has quickened it.” + +Norman scarcely let his father count for a moment, before he asked, +“What o’clock is it?” + +“A little after twelve.” + +“What does make you stay up so late, papa?” + +“I often do when my arm seems likely to keep me awake. Richard has done +all I want.” + +“Pray don’t stay here in the cold,” said Norman, with feverish +impatience, as he turned upwards the cool side of his pillow. +“Good-night!” + +“No hurry,” said his father, still watching him. + +“There’s nothing the matter,” repeated the boy. + +“Do you often have such unquiet nights?” + +“Oh, it does not signify. Good-night,” and he tried to look settled and +comfortable. + +“Norman,” said his father, in a voice betraying much grief, “it will not +do to go on in this way. If your mother was here, you would not close +yourself against her.” + +Norman interrupted him in a voice strangled with sobs: “It is no good +saying it--I thought it would only make it worse for you; but that’s it. +I cannot bear the being without her.” + +Dr. May was glad to see that a gush of tears followed this exclamation, +as Norman hid his face under the coverings. + +“My poor boy,” said he, hardly able to speak, “only One can comfort you +truly; but you must not turn from me; you must let me do what I can for +you, though it is not the same.” + +“I thought it would grieve you more,” said Norman, turning his face +towards him again. + +“What, to find my children, feeling with me, and knowing what they have +lost? Surely not, Norman.” + +“And it is of no use,” added Norman, hiding his face again, “no one can +comfort--” + +“There you are wrong,” said Dr. May, with deep feeling, “there is much +comfort in everything, in everybody, in kindness, in all around, if one +can only open one’s mind to it. But I did not come to keep you awake +with such talk: I saw you were not quite well, so I came up to see about +you; and now, Norman, you will not refuse to own that something is the +matter.” + +“I did not know it,” said Norman, “I really believe I am well, if I +could get rid of these horrible nights. I either lie awake, tumbling and +tossing, or I get all sorts of unbearable dreams.” + +“Ay, when I asked master Harry about you, all the answer I could get +was, that he was quite used to it, and did not mind it at all. As if +I asked for his sake! How fast that boy sleeps--he is fit for a +midshipman’s berth!” + +“But do you think there is anything amiss with me?” + +“I shall know more about that to-morrow morning. Come to my room as +soon as you are up, unless I come to you. Now, I have something to read +before I go to bed, and I may as well try if it will put you to sleep.” + +Norman’s last sight that night was of the outline of his father’s +profile, and he was scarcely awake the next morning before Dr. May was +there again. + +Unwilling as he had been to give way, it was a relief to relinquish the +struggle to think himself well, and to venture to lounge and dawdle, +rest his heavy head, and stretch his inert limbs without fear of +remark. His father found him after breakfast lying on the sofa in the +drawing-room with a Greek play by his side, telling Ethel what words to +look out. + +“At it again!” exclaimed Dr. May. “Carry it away, Ethel. I will have no +Latin or Greek touched these holidays.” + +“You know,” said Norman, “if I don’t sap, I shall have no chance of +keeping up.” + +“You’ll keep nowhere if you don’t rest.” + +“It is only Euripides, and I can’t do anything else,” said Norman +languidly. + +“Very likely, I don’t care. You have to get well first of all, and the +Greek will take care of itself. Go up to Margaret. I put you in her +keeping, while I am gone to Whitford. After that, I dare say +Richard will be very glad to have a holiday, and let you drive me to +Abbotstoke.” + +Norman rose, and wearily walked upstairs, while his sister lingered +to excuse herself. “Papa, I did not think Euripides would hurt him--he +knows it all so well, and he said he could not read anything else.” + +“Just so, Ethel. Poor fellow, he has not spirits or energy for anything: +his mind was forced into those classicalities when it wanted rest, and +now it has not spring enough to turn back again.” + +“Do you think him so very ill?” + +“Not exactly, but there’s low fever hanging about him, and we must look +after him well, and I hope we may get him right. I have told Margaret +about him; I can’t stop any longer now.” + +Norman found the baby in his sister’s room, and this was just what +suited him. The Daisy showed a marked preference for her brothers; and +to find her so merry and good with him, pleased and flattered him far +more than his victory at school. He carried her about, danced her, +whistled to her, and made her admire her pretty blue eyes in the glass +most successfully, till nurse carried her off. But perhaps he had been +sent up rather too soon, for as he sat in the great chair by the fire, +he was teased by the constant coming and going, all the petty cares of +a large household transacted by Margaret--orders to butcher and +cook--Harry racing in to ask to take Tom to the river--Tom, who was to +go when his lesson was done, coming perpetually to try to repeat the +same unhappy bit of ‘As in Proesenti’, each time in a worse whine. + +“How can you bear it, Margaret?” said Norman, as she finally dismissed +Tom, and laid down her account-book, taking up some delicate fancy work. +“Mercy, here’s another,” as enter a message about lamp oil, in the midst +of which Mary burst in to beg Margaret to get Miss Winter to let her go +to the river with Harry and Tom. + +“No, indeed, Mary, I could not think of such a thing. You had better go +back to your lessons, and don’t be silly,” as she looked much disposed +to cry. + +“No one but a Tom-boy would dream of it,” added Norman; and Mary +departed disconsolate, while Margaret gave a sigh of weariness, and +said, as she returned to her work, “There, I believe I have done. I hope +I was not cross with poor Mary, but it was rather too much to ask.” + +“I can’t think how you can help being cross to every one,” said Norman, +as he took away the books she had done with. + +“I am afraid I am,” said Margaret sadly. “It does get trying at times.” + +“I should think so! This eternal worrying must be more than any one can +bear, always lying there too.” + +“It is only now and then that it grows tiresome,” said Margaret. “I am +too happy to be of some use, and it is too bad to repine, but sometimes +a feeling comes of its being always the same, as if a little change +would be such a treat.” + +“Aren’t you very tired of lying in bed?” + +“Yes, very, sometimes. I fancy, but it is only fancy, that I could move +better if I was up and dressed. It has seemed more so lately, since I +have been stronger.” + +“When do you think they will let you get up?” + +“There’s the question. I believe papa thinks I might be lifted to the +sofa now--and oh! how I long for it--but then Mr. Ward does not approve +of my sitting up, even as I am doing now, and wants to keep me flat. +Papa thinks that of no use, and likely to hurt my general health, and +I believe the end of it will be that he will ask Sir Matthew Fleet’s +opinion.” + +“Is that the man he calls Mat?” + +“Yes, you know they went through the university together, and were at +Edinburgh and Paris, but they have never met since he set up in London, +and grew so famous. I believe it would be a great treat to papa to have +him, and it would be a good thing for papa too; I don’t think his arm is +going on right--he does not trust to Mr. Ward’s treatment, and I am sure +some one else ought to see it.” + +“Did you know, Margaret, that he sits up quite late, because he cannot +sleep for it?” + +“Yes, I hear him moving about, but don’t tell him so; I would not have +him guess for the world, that it kept me awake.” + +“And does it?” + +“Why, if I think he is awake and in pain I cannot settle myself to +sleep; but that is no matter; having no exercise, of course I don’t +sleep so much. But I am very anxious about him--he looks so thin, and +gets so fagged--and no wonder.” + +“Ah! Mr. Everard told me he was quite shocked to see him, and would +hardly have known him,” and Norman groaned from the bottom of his heart. + +“Well, I shall hope much from Sir Matthew’s taking him in hand,” said +Margaret cheerfully; “he will mind him, though he will not Mr. Ward.” + +“I wish the holidays were over!” said Norman, with a yawn, as expressive +as a sigh. + +“That’s not civil, on the third day,” said Margaret, smiling, “when I am +so glad to have you to look after me, so as to set Flora at liberty.” + +“What, can I do you any good?” said Norman, with a shade of his former +alacrity. + +“To be sure you can, a great deal. Better not come near me otherwise, +for I make every one into a slave. I want my morning reading now--that +book on Advent, there.” + +“Shall I read it to you?” + +“Thank you, that’s nice, and I shall get on with baby’s frock.” + +Norman read, but, ere long, took to yawning; Margaret begged for the +book, which he willingly resigned, saying, however, that he liked it, +only he was stupid. She read on aloud, till she heard a succession of +heavy breathings, and saw him fast asleep, and so he continued till +waked by his father’s coming home. + +Richard and Ethel were glad of a walk, for Margaret had found them a +pleasant errand. Their Cocksmoor children could not go home to dinner +between service and afternoon school, and Margaret had desired the cook +to serve them up some broth in the back kitchen, to which the brother +and sister were now to invite them. Mary was allowed to take her boots +to Rebekah Watts, since Margaret held that goodness had better be +profitable, at least at the outset; and Harry and Tom joined the party. + +Norman, meantime, was driving his father--a holiday preferment highly +valued in the days when Dr. May used only to assume the reins, when his +spirited horses showed too much consciousness that they had a young +hand over them, or when the old hack took a fit of laziness. Now, Norman +needed Richard’s assurance that the bay was steady, so far was he from +being troubled with his ancient desire, that the steed would rear right +up on his hind legs. + +He could neither talk nor listen till he was clear out of the town, and +found himself master of the animal, and even then the words were few, +and chiefly spoken by Dr. May, until after going along about three miles +of the turnpike road, he desired Norman to turn down a cross-country +lane. + +“Where does this lead?” + +“It comes out at Abbotstoke, but I have to go to an outlying farm.” + +“Papa,” said Norman, after a few minutes, “I wish you would let me do my +Greek.” + +“Is that what you have been pondering all this time? What, may not the +bonus Homerus slumber sometimes?” + +“It is not Homer, it is Euripides. I do assure you, papa, it is no +trouble, and I get much worse without it.” + +“Well, stop here, the road grows so bad that we will walk, and let the +boy lead the horse to meet us at Woodcote.” + +Norman followed his father down a steep narrow lane, little better than +a stony water-course, and began to repeat, “If you would but let me do +my work! I’ve got nothing else to do, and now they have put me up, I +should not like not to keep my place.” + +“Very likely, but--hollo--how swelled this is!” said Dr. May, as they +came to the bottom of the valley, where a stream rushed along, coloured +with a turbid creamy yellow, making little whirlpools where it crossed +the road, and brawling loudly just above where it roared and foamed +between two steep banks of rock, crossed by a foot-bridge of planks, +guarded by a handrail of rough poles. The doctor had traversed it, and +gone a few paces beyond, when, looking back, he saw Norman very pale, +with one foot on the plank, and one hand grasping the rail. He came +back, and held out his hand, which Norman gladly caught at, but no +sooner was the other side attained, than the boy, though he gasped with +relief, exclaimed, “This is too bad! Wait one moment, please, and let me +go back.” + +He tried, but the first touch of the shaking rail, and glance at the +chasm, disconcerted him, and his father, seeing his white cheeks and +rigid lips, said, “Stop, Norman, don’t try it. You are not fit,” he +added, as the boy came to him reluctantly. + +“I can’t bear to be such a wretch!” said he. “I never used to be. I will +not--let me conquer it;” and he was turning back, but the doctor took +his arm, saying decidedly, “No, I won’t have it done. You are only +making it worse by putting a force on yourself.” But the farther Norman +was from the bridge, the more displeased he was with himself, and more +anxious to dare it again. “There’s no bearing it,” he muttered; “let me +only run back. I’ll overtake you. I must do it if no one looks on.” + +“No such thing,” said the doctor, holding him fast. “If you do, you’ll +have it all over again at night.” + +“That’s better than to know I am worse than Tom.” + +“I tell you, Norman, it is no such thing. You will recover your tone +if you will only do as you are told, but your nerves have had a severe +shock, and when you force yourself in this way, you only increase the +mischief.” + +“Nerves,” muttered Norman disdainfully. “I thought they were only fit +for fine ladies.” + +Dr. May smiled. “Well, will it content you if I promise that as soon as +I see fit, I’ll bring you here, and let you march over that bridge as +often as you like?” + +“I suppose I must be contented, but I don’t like to feel like a fool.” + +“You need not, while the moral determination is sound.” + +“But my Greek, papa.” + +“At it again--I declare, Norman, you are the worst patient I ever had!” + +Norman made no answer, and Dr. May presently said, “Well, let me hear +what you have to say about it. I assure you it is not that I don’t want +you to get on, but that I see you are in great need of rest.” + +“Thank you, papa. I know you mean it for my good, but I don’t think +you do know how horrid it is. I have got nothing on earth to do or care +for--the school work comes quite easy to me, and I’m sure thinking is +worse; and then”--Norman spoke vehemently--“now they have put me up, it +will never do to be beaten, and all the four others ought to be able to +do it. I did not want or expect to be dux, but now I am, you could not +bear me not to keep my place, and to miss the Randall scholarship, as I +certainly shall, if I do not work these whole holidays.” + +“Norman, I know it,” said his father kindly. “I am very sorry for +you, and I know I am asking of you what I could not have done at your +age--indeed, I don’t believe I could have done it for you a few months +ago. It is my fault that you have been let alone, to have an overstrain +and pressure on your mind, when you were not fit for it, and I cannot +see any remedy but complete freedom from work. At the same time, if you +fret and harass yourself about being surpassed, that is, as you say, +much worse for you than Latin and Greek. Perhaps I may be wrong, and +study might not do you the harm I think it would; at any rate, it is +better than tormenting yourself about next half year, so I will not +positively forbid it, but I think you had much better let it alone. I +don’t want to make it a matter of duty. I only tell you this, that you +may set your mind at rest as far as I am concerned. If you do lose your +place, I will consider it as my own doing, and not be disappointed. I +had rather see you a healthy, vigorous, useful man, than a poor puling +nervous wretch of a scholar, if you were to get all the prizes in the +university.” + +Norman made a little murmuring sound of assent, and both were silent for +some moments, then he said, “Then you will not be displeased, papa, if I +do read, as long as I feel it does me no harm.” + +“I told you I don’t mean to make it a matter of obedience. Do as you +please--I had rather you read than vexed yourself.” + +“I am glad of it. Thank you, papa,” said Norman, in a much cheered +voice. + +They had, in the meantime, been mounting a rising ground, clothed with +stunted wood, and came out on a wide heath, brown with dead bracken; a +hollow, traced by the tops of leafless trees, marked the course of the +stream that traversed it, and the inequalities of ground becoming more +rugged in outlines and grayer in colouring as they receded, till they +were closed by a dark fir wood, beyond which rose in extreme distance +the grand mass of Welsh mountain heads, purpled against the evening sky, +except where the crowning peaks bore a veil of snow. Behind, the sky was +pure gold, gradually shading into pale green, and then into clear light +wintry blue, while the sun sitting behind two of the loftiest, seemed +to confound their outlines, and blend them in one flood of soft hazy +brightness. Dr. May looked at his son, and saw his face clear up, his +brow expand, and his lips unclose with admiration. + +“Yes,” said the doctor, “it is very fine, is it not? I used to bring +mamma here now and then for a treat, because it put her in mind of her +Scottish hills. Well, your’s are the golden hills of heaven, now, my +Maggie!” he added, hardly knowing that he spoke aloud. Norman’s throat +swelled, as he looked up in his face, then cast down his eyes hastily to +hide the tears that had gathered on his eyelashes. + +“I’ll leave you here,” said Dr. May; “I have to go to a farmhouse close +by, in the hollow behind us; there’s a girl recovering from a fever. +I’ll not be ten minutes, so wait here.” + +When he came back, Norman was still where he had left him, gazing +earnestly, and the tears standing on his cheeks. He did not move till +his father laid his hand on his shoulder--they walked away together +without a word, and scarcely spoke all the way home. + +Dr. May went to Margaret and talked to her of Norman’s fine character, +and intense affection for his mother, the determined temper, and quietly +borne grief, for which the doctor seemed to have worked himself into a +perfect enthusiasm of admiration; but lamenting that he could not tell +what to do with him--study or no study hurt him alike--and he dreaded to +see health and spirits shattered for ever. They tried to devise change +of scene, but it did not seem possible just at present; and Margaret, +besides her fears for Norman, was much grieved to see this added to her +father’s troubles. + +At night Dr. May again went up to see whether Norman, whom he had moved +into Margaret’s former room, were again suffering from fever. He found +him asleep in a restless attitude, as if he had just dropped off, and +waking almost at the instant of his entrance, he exclaimed, “Is it you? +I thought it was mamma. She said it was all ambition.” + +Then starting, and looking round the room, and at his father, he +collected himself, and said, with a slight smile, “I didn’t know I had +been asleep. I was awake just now, thinking about it. Papa, I’ll give +it up. I’ll try to put next half out of my head, and not mind if they do +pass me.” + +“That’s right, my boy,” said the doctor. + +“At least if Cheviot and Forder do, for they ought. I only hope Anderson +won’t. I can stand anything but that. But that is nonsense too.” + +“You are quite right, Norman,” said the doctor, “and it is a great +relief to me that you see the thing so sensibly.” + +“No, I don’t see it sensibly at all, papa. I hate it all the time, and +I don’t know whether I can keep from thinking of it, when I have nothing +to do; but I see it is wrong; I thought all ambition and nonsense was +gone out of me, when I cared so little for the examination; but now +I see, though I did not want to be made first, I can’t bear not to be +first; and that’s the old story, just as she used to tell me to guard +against ambition. So I’ll take my chance, and if I should get put down, +why, ‘twas not fair that I should be put up, and it is what I ought to +be, and serves me right into the bargain--” + +“Well, that’s the best sort of sense, your mother’s sense,” said the +doctor, more affected than he liked to show. “No wonder she came to you +in your dream, Norman, my boy, if you had come to such a resolution. +I was half in hopes you had some such notion when I came upon you, on +Far-view down.” + +“I think that sky did it,” said Norman, in a low voice; “it made me +think of her in a different way--and what you said too.” + +“What did I say? I don’t remember.” + +But Norman could not repeat the words, and only murmured, “Golden +hills.” It was enough. + +“I see,” said the doctor, “you had dwelt on the blank here, not taken +home what it is to her.” + +“Ay,” almost sobbed Norman, “I never could before--that made me,” after +a long silence, “and then I know how foolish I was, and how she would +say it was wrong to make this fuss, when you did not like it, about my +place, and that it was not for the sake of my duty, but of ambition. I +knew that, but till I went to bed to-night, I could not tell whether I +could make up my mind, so I would say nothing.” + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + + + + The days are sad, it is the Holy tide, + When flowers have ceased to blow and birds to sing. + F. TENNYSON. + + +It had been a hard struggle to give up all thoughts of study, and Norman +was not at first rewarded for it, but rather exemplified the truth of +his own assertion, that he was worse without it; for when this sole +occupation for his mind was taken away, he drooped still more. He would +willingly have shown his father that he was not discontented, but he was +too entirely unnerved to be either cheerful or capable of entering with +interest into any occupation. If he had been positively ill, the task +would have been easier, but the low intermittent fever that hung about +him did not confine him to bed, only kept him lounging, listless and +forlorn, through the weary day, not always able to go out with his +father, and on Christmas Day unfit even for church. + +All this made the want of his mother, and the vacancy in his home, still +more evident, and nothing was capable of relieving his sadness but his +father’s kindness, which was a continual surprise to him. Dr. May was a +parent who could not fail to be loved and honoured; but, as a busy man, +trusting all at home to his wife, he had only appeared to his children +either as a merry playfellow, or as a stern paternal authority, not +often in the intermediate light of guiding friend, or gentle guardian; +and it affected Norman exceedingly to find himself, a tall schoolboy, +watched and soothed with motherly tenderness and affection; with +complete comprehension of his feelings, and delicate care of them. His +father’s solicitude and sympathy were round him day and night, and this, +in the midst of so much toil, pain, grief, and anxiety of his own, that +Norman might well feel overwhelmed with the swelling, inexpressible +feelings of grateful affection. + +How could his father know exactly what he would like--say the very +things he was thinking--see that his depression was not wilful +repining--find exactly what best soothed him! He wondered, but he +could not have said so to any one, only his eye brightened, and, as his +sisters remarked, he never seemed half so uncomfortable when papa was +in the room. Indeed, the certainty that his father felt the sorrow as +acutely as himself, was one reason of his opening to him. He could not +feel that his brothers and sisters did so, for, outwardly, their habits +were unaltered, their spirits not lowered, their relish for things +around much the same as before, and this had given Norman a sense of +isolation. With his father it was different. Norman knew he could never +appreciate what the bereavement was to him--he saw its traces in almost +every word and look, and yet perceived that something sustained and +consoled him, though not in the way of forgetfulness. Now and then +Norman caught at what gave this comfort, and it might be hoped he would +do so increasingly; though, on this Christmas Day, Margaret felt very +sad about him, as she watched him sitting over the fire, cowering with +chilliness and headache, while every one was gone to church, and saw +that the reading of the service with her had been more of a trouble than +a solace. + +She tried to think it bodily ailment, and strove hard not to pine for +her mother, to comfort them both, and say the fond words of refreshing +cheering pity that would have made all light to bear. Margaret’s home +Christmas was so spent in caring for brother, father, and children, +that she had hardly time to dwell on the sad change that had befallen +herself. + +Christmas was a season that none of them knew well how to meet: Blanche +was overheard saying to Mary that she wished it would not come, and +Mary, shaking her head, and answering that she was afraid that was +naughty, but it was very tiresome to have no fun. Margaret did her best +upstairs, and Richard downstairs, by the help of prints and hymns, to +make the children think of the true joy of Christmas, and in the evening +their father gathered them round, and told them the stories of the +Shepherds and of the Wise Men, till Mary and Blanche agreed, as they +went up to bed, that it had been a very happy evening. + +The next day Harry discomfited the schoolroom by bursting in with the +news that “Louisa and Fanny Anderson were bearing down on the front +door.” Ethel and Flora were obliged to appear in the drawing-room, where +they were greeted by two girls, rather older than themselves. A whole +shower of inquiries for Dr. May, for Margaret, and for the dear little +baby, were first poured out; then came hopes that Norman was well, as +they had not seen him at church yesterday. + +“Thank you, he was kept at home by a bad headache, but it is better +to-day.” + +“We came to congratulate you on his success--we could not help it--it +must have been such a pleasure to you.” + +“That it was!” exclaimed Ethel, pleased at participation in her +rejoicing. “We were so surprised.” + +Flora gave a glance of warning, but Ethel’s short-sighted eyes were +beyond the range of correspondence, and Miss Anderson continued. “It +must have been a delightful surprise. We could hardly believe it when +Harvey came in and told us. Every one thought Forder was sure, but they +all were put out by the questions of general information--those were all +Mr. Everard’s doing.” + +“Mr. Everard was very much struck with Norman’s knowledge and +scholarship too,” said Flora. + +“So every one says. It was all Mr. Everard’s doing. Miss Harrison told +mamma, but, for my part, I am very glad for the sake of Stoneborough; I +like a town boy to be at the head.” + +“Norman was sorry for Forder and Cheviot,” began Ethel. Flora tried +to stop her, but Louisa Anderson caught at what she said, and looked +eagerly for more. “He felt,” said she, only thinking of exalting her +generous brother, “as if it was hardly right, when they are so much his +seniors, that he could scarcely enjoy it.” + +“Ah! that is just what people say,” replied Louisa. “But it must be very +gratifying to you, and it makes him certain of the Randal scholarship +too, I suppose. It is a great thing for him! He must have worked very +hard.” + +“Yes, that he has,” said Flora; “he is so fond of study, and that goes +halfway.” + +“So is dear Harvey. How earnest he is over his books! Mamma sometimes +says, ‘Now Harvey, dear, you’ll be quite stupified, you’ll be ill; I +really shall get Dr. May to forbid you.’ I suppose Norman is very busy +too; it is quite the fashion for boys not to be idle now.” + +“Poor Norman can’t help it,” said Ethel piteously. “Papa will not hear +of his doing any Latin or Greek these whole holidays.” + +“He thinks he will come to it better again for entire rest,” said Flora, +launching another look at her sister, which again fell short. + +A great deal of polite inquiry whether they were uneasy about him +followed, mixed with a little boasting of dear Harvey’s diligence. + +“By-the-bye, Ethel, it is you that are the great patroness of the wild +Cocksmoor children--are not you?” + +Ethel coloured, and mumbled, and Flora answered for her, “Richard and +Ethel have been there once or twice. You know our under nursery-maid is +a Cocksmoor girl.” + +“Well, mamma said she could not think how Miss May could take one from +thence. The whole place is full of thieves, and do you know, Bessie +Boulder has lost her gold pencil-case.” + +“Has she?” said Flora. + +“And she had it on Sunday when she was teaching her class.” + +“Oh!” cried Ethel vehemently; “surely she does not suspect any of those +poor children!” + +“I only know such a thing never happened at school before,” said Fanny, +“and I shall never take anything valuable there again.” + +“But is she sure she lost it at school?” + +“Oh, yes, quite certain. She will not accuse any one, but it is not +comfortable. And how those children do behave at church!” + +“Poor things! they have been sadly neglected,” said Flora. + +“They are quite spoiling the rest, and they are such figures! Why don’t +you, at least, make them cut their hair? You know it is the rule of the +school.” + +“I know, but half the girls in the first class wear it long.” + +“Oh, yes, but those are the superior people, that one would not be +strict with, and they dress it so nicely too. Now these are like little +savages.” + +“Richard thinks it might drive them away to insist at first,” said +Ethel; “we will try to bring it about in time.” + +“Well, Mrs. Ledwich is nearly resolved to insist, so you had better be +warned, Ethel. She cannot suffer such untidiness and rags to spoil the +appearance of the school, and, I assure you, it is quite unpleasant to +the teachers.” + +“I wish they would give them all to me!” said Ethel. “But I do hope Mrs. +Ledwich will have patience with them, for they are only to be gained +gently.” + +The visitors took their leave, and the two sisters began +exclaiming--Ethel at their dislike of her proteges, and Flora at what +they had said of Norman. “And you, Ethel, how could you go and tell them +we were surprised, and Norman thought it was hard on the other boys? +They’ll have it all over the town that he got it unjustly, and knows it, +as they say already it was partiality of Mr. Everard’s.” + +“Oh, no, no, they never can be so bad!” cried Ethel; “they must have +understood better that it was his noble humility and generosity.” + +“They understand anything noble! No, indeed! They think every one like +their own beautiful brother! I knew what they came for all the time; +they wanted to know whether Norman was able to work these holidays, and +you told them the very thing they wanted to hear. How they will rejoice +with that Harvey, and make sure of the Randall!” + +“Oh, no, no!” cried Ethel; “Norman must get that!” + +“I don’t think he will,” said Flora, “losing all this time, while they +are working. It cannot be helped, of course, but it is a great pity.” + +“I almost wish he had not been put up at all, if it is to end in this +way,” said Ethel. “It is very provoking, and to have them triumphing as +they will! There’s no bearing it!” + +“Norman, certainly, is not at all well, poor fellow,” said Flora, “and I +suppose he wants rest, but I wish papa would let him do what he can. +It would be much better for him than moping about as he is always doing +now; and the disappointment of losing his place will be grievous, though +now he fancies he does not care for it.” + +“I wonder when he will ever care for anything again. All I read and tell +him only seems to tease him, though he tries to thank me.” + +“There is a strange apathy about him,” said Flora, “but I believe it is +chiefly for want of exertion. I should like to rouse him if papa would +let me; I know I could, by telling him how these Andersons are reckoning +on his getting down. If he does, I shall be ready to run away, that I +may never meet any one here again.” + +Ethel was very unhappy till she was able to pour all this trouble out +to Margaret, and worked herself almost into crying about Norman’s being +passed by “that Harvey,” and his sisters exulting, and papa being vexed, +and Norman losing time and not caring. + +“There you are wrong,” said Margaret, “Norman did care very much, and it +was not till he had seen clearly that it was a matter of duty to do +as papa thought right, and not agitate his mind about his chances of +keeping up, that he could bear to give up his work;” and she told Ethel +a little of what had passed. + +Ethel was much struck. “But oh, Margaret, it is very hard, just to have +him put up for the sake of being put down, and pleasing the Andersons!” + +“Dear Ethel, why should you mind so much about the Andersons? May they +not care about their brother as we do for ours?” + +“Such a brother to care about!” said Ethel. + +“But I suppose they may like him the best,” said Margaret, smiling. + +“I suppose they do,” said Ethel grudgingly; “but still I cannot bear to +see Norman doing nothing, and I know Harvey Anderson will beat him.” + +“Surely you had rather he did nothing than made himself ill!” + +“To be sure, but I wish it wasn’t so.” + +“Yes; but, Ethel, whose doing is his getting into this state?” + +Ethel looked grave. “It was wrong of me,” said she, “but then papa is +not sure that Greek would hurt him.” + +“Not sure, but he thinks it not wise to run the risk. But, Ethel, dear, +why are you so bent on his being dux at all costs?” + +“It would be horrid if he was not.” + +“Don’t you remember you used to say that outward praise or honour was +not to be cared for as long as one did one’s duty, and that it might be +a temptation?” + +“Yes, I know I did,” said Ethel, faltering, “but that was for oneself.” + +“It is harder, I think, to feel so about those we care for,” said +Margaret; “but after all, this is just what will show whether our pride +in Norman is the right true loving pride, or whether it is only the +family vanity of triumphing over the Andersons.” + +Ethel hung her head. “There’s some of that,” she said, “but it is not +all. No--I don’t want to triumph over them, nobody would do that.” + +“Not outwardly perhaps, but in their hearts.” + +“I can’t tell,” said Ethel, “but it is the being triumphed over that I +cannot bear.” + +“Perhaps this is all a lesson in humility for us,” said Margaret “It is +teaching us, ‘Whosoever exalteth himself shall be abased, and he that +humbleth himself shall be exalted.’” + +Ethel was silent for some little space, then suddenly exclaimed, “And +you think he will really be put down?” + +Margaret seemed to have been talking with little effect, but she kept +her patience, and answered, “I cannot guess, Ethel, but I’ll tell you +one thing--I think there’s much more chance if he comes to his work +fresh and vigorous after a rest, than if he went on dulling himself with +it all this time.” + +With which Ethel was so far appeased that she promised to think as +little as she could of the Andersons, and a walk with Richard to +Cocksmoor turned the current of her thoughts. They had caught some +more Sunday-school children by the help of Margaret’s broth, but it was +uphill work; the servants did not like such guests in the kitchen, and +they were still less welcome at school. + +“What do you think I heard, Ethel?” said Flora, the next Sunday, as +they joined each other in the walk from school to church; “I heard Miss +Graves say to Miss Boulder, ‘I declare I must remonstrate. I undertook +to instruct a national, not a ragged school;’ and then Miss Boulder +shook out her fine watered silk and said, ‘It positively is improper to +place ladies in contact with such squalid objects.’” + +“Ladies!” cried Ethel. “A stationer’s daughter and a banker’s clerk’s! +Why do they come to teach at school at all?” + +“Because our example makes it genteel,” said Flora. + +“I hope you did something more in hopes of making it genteel.” + +“I caught one of your ragged regiment with her frock gaping behind, and +pinned it up. Such rags as there were under it! Oh, Ethel!” + +“Which was it?” + +“That merry Irish-looking child. I don’t know her name.” + +“Oh! it is a real charming Irish name, Una M’Carthy. I am so glad you +did it, Flora. I hope they were ashamed.” + +“I doubt whether it will do good. We are sure of our station and can do +anything--they are struggling to be ladies.” + +“But we ought not to talk of them any more, Flora; here we are almost at +the churchyard.” + +The Tuesday of this week was appointed for the visit of the London +surgeon, Sir Matthew Fleet, and the expectation caused Dr. May to talk +much to Margaret of old times, and the days of his courtship, when it +had been his favourite project that his friend and fellow-student should +marry Flora Mackenzie, and there had been a promising degree of liking, +but “Mat” had been obliged to be prudent, and had ended by never +marrying at all. This the doctor, as well as his daughters, believed was +for the sake of Aunt Flora, and thus the girls were a good deal excited +about his coming, almost as much on his own account, as because they +considered him as the arbiter of Margaret’s fate. He only came in time +for a seven o’clock dinner, and Margaret did not see him that night, but +heard enough from her sisters, when they came up to tell the history of +their guest, and of the first set dinner when Flora had acted as lady +of the house. The dinner it appeared had gone off very well. Flora +had managed admirably, and the only mishap was some awkward carving of +Ethel’s which had caused the dish to be changed with Norman. As to the +guest, Flora said he was very good-looking and agreeable. Ethel abruptly +pronounced, “I am very glad Aunt Flora married Uncle Arnott instead.” + +“I can’t think why,” said Flora. “I never saw a person of pleasanter +manners.” + +“Did they talk of old times?” said Margaret. + +“No,” said Ethel; “that was the thing.” + +“You would not have them talk of those matters in the middle of dinner,” + said Flora. + +“No,” again said Ethel; “but papa has a way--don’t you know, Margaret, +how one can tell in a moment if it is company talk.” + +“What was the conversation about?” said Margaret. + +“They talked over some of their fellow-students,” said Flora. + +“Yes,” said Ethel; “and then when papa told him that beautiful history +of Dr. Spencer going to take care of those poor emigrants in the fever, +what do you think he said? ‘Yes, Spencer was always doing extravagant +things.’ Fancy that to papa, who can hardly speak of it without having +to wipe his spectacles, and who so longs to hear of Dr. Spencer.” + +“And what did he say?” + +“Nothing; so Flora and Sir Matthew got to pictures and all that sort of +thing, and it was all company talk after that.” + +“Most entertaining in its kind,” said Flora: “but--oh, Norman!” as he +entered--“why, they are not out of the dining-room yet!” + +“No; they are talking of some new invention, and most likely will not +come for an hour.” + +“Are you going to bed?” + +“Papa followed me out of the dining-room to tell me to do so after tea.” + +“Then sit down there, and I’ll go and make some, and let it come up +with Margaret’s. Come, Ethel. Good-night, Norman. Is your head aching +to-night?” + +“Not much, now I have got out of the dining-room.” + +“It would have been wiser not to have gone in,” said Flora, leaving the +room. + +“It was not the dinner, but the man,” said Norman. “It is +incomprehensible to me how my father could take to him. I’d as soon have +Harvey Anderson for a friend!” + +“You are like me,” said Ethel, “in being glad he is not our uncle.” + +“He presume to think of falling in love with Aunt Flora!” cried Norman +indignantly. + +“Why, what is the matter with him?” asked Margaret. “I can’t find much +ground for Ethel’s dislike, and Flora is pleased.” + +“She did not hear the worst, nor you either, Ethel,” said Norman. “I +could not stand the cold hard way he spoke of hospital patients. I am +sure he thinks poor people nothing but a study, and rich ones nothing +but a profit. And his half sneers! But what I hated most was his way +of avoiding discussions. When he saw he had said what would not go down +with papa, he did not honestly stand up to the point, and argue it out, +but seemed to have no mind of his own, and to be only talking to please +papa--but not knowing how to do it. He understand my father indeed!” + +Norman’s indignation had quite revived him, and Margaret was much +entertained with the conflicting opinions. The next was Richard’s, when +he came in late to wish her good-night, after he had been attending on +Sir Matthew’s examination of his father’s arm. He did nothing but admire +the surgeon’s delicacy of touch and understanding of the case, his view +agreeing much better with Dr. May’s own than that with Mr. Ward’s. +Dr. May had never been entirely satisfied with the present mode of +treatment, and Richard was much struck by hearing him say, in answer to +Sir Matthew, that he knew his recovery might have been more speedy and +less painful if he had been able to attend to it at first, or to afford +time for being longer laid up. A change of treatment was now to be made, +likely soon to relieve the pain, to be less tedious and troublesome, +and to bring about a complete cure in three or four months at latest. +In hearing such tidings, there could be little thought of the person +who brought them, and Margaret did not, till the last moment, learn that +Richard thought Sir Matthew very clever and sensible, and certain to +understand her case. Her last visitor was her father: “Asleep, Margaret? +I thought I had better go to Norman first in case he should be awake.” + +“Was he?” + +“Yes, but his pulse is better to-night. He was lying awake to hear what +Fleet thought of me. I suppose Richard told you?” + +“Yes, dear papa; what a comfort it is!” + +“Those fellows in London do keep up to the mark! But I would not be +there for something. I never saw a man so altered. However, if he can +only do for you as well--but it is of no use talking about it. I may +trust you to keep yourself calm, my dear?” + +“I am trying--indeed I am, dear papa. If you could help being anxious +for me--though I know it is worse for you, for I only have to lie still, +and you have to settle for me. But I have been thinking how well off I +am, able to enjoy so much, and be employed all day long. It is nothing +to compare with that poor girl you told me of, and you need not be +unhappy for me. I have some verses to say over to myself to-night: + + + “O Lord my God, do Thou Thy holy will, + I will lie still, + I will not stir, lest I forsake Thine arm + And break the charm + That lulls me, clinging to my Father’s breast + In perfect rest.” + + +“Is not that comfortable?” + +“My child--my dear child--I will say no more, lest I should break your +sweet peace with my impatience. I will strive for the same temper, my +Margaret. Bless you, dearest, good-night.” + +After a night spent in waking intervals of such thoughts, Margaret +found the ordinary morning, and the talk she could not escape, somewhat +oppressive. Her brothers and sisters disturbed her by their open +expressions of hope and anxiety; she dreaded to have the balance of +tranquillity overset; and then blamed herself for selfishness in not +being as ready to attend to them as usual. Ethel and Norman came +up after breakfast, their aversion by no means decreased by further +acquaintance. Ethel was highly indignant at the tone in which he had +exclaimed, “What, May, have you one as young as this?” on discovering +the existence of the baby; and when Norman observed that was not so +atrocious either, she proceeded, “You did not hear the contemptuous, +compassionate tone when he asked papa what he meant to do with all these +boys.” + +“I’m glad he has not to settle,” said Norman. + +“Papa said Harry was to be a sailor, and he said it was a good way to +save expenses of education--a good thing.” + +“No doubt,” said Norman, “he thinks papa only wants to get rid of us, or +if not, that it is an amiable weakness.” + +“But I can’t see anything so shocking in this,” said Margaret. + +“It is not the words,” said Norman, “the look and tone convey it; but +there are different opinions. Flora is quite smitten with him, he talks +so politely to her.” + +“And Blanche!” said Ethel. “The little affected pussy-cat made a set +at him, bridled and talked in her mincing voice, with all her airs, and +made him take a great deal of notice of her.” + +Nurse here came to prepare for the surgeon’s visit. + +It was over, and Margaret awaited the judgment. Sir Matthew had spoken +hopefully to her, but she feared to fasten hopes on what might have no +meaning, and could rely on nothing, till she had seen her father, who +never kept back his genuine opinion, and would least of all from her. She +found her spirits too much agitated to talk to her sisters, and quietly +begged them to let her be quite alone till the consultation was over, +and she lay trying to prepare herself to submit thankfully, whether she +might be bidden to resign herself to helplessness, or to let her mind +open once more to visions of joyous usefulness. Every step she hoped +would prove to be her father’s approach, and the longest hour of her +life was that before he entered her room. His face said that the tidings +were good, and yet she could not ask. + +“Well, Margaret, I am glad we had him down. He thinks you may get about +again, though it may be a long time first.” + +“Does he?--oh, papa!” and the colour spread over her face, as she +squeezed his hand very fast. + +“He has known the use of the limbs return almost suddenly after even a +year or two,” and Dr. May gave her the grounds of the opinion, and an +account of other like cases, which he said had convinced him, “though, +my poor child,” he said, “I feared the harm I had done you was +irremediable, but thanks--” He turned away his face, and the clasp of +their hands spoke the rest. + +Presently he told Margaret that she was no longer to be kept prostrate, +but she was to do exactly as was most comfortable to her, avoiding +nothing but fatigue. She might be lifted to the sofa the next day, and +if that agreed with her, she might be carried downstairs. + +This, in itself, after she had been confined to her bed for three +months, was a release from captivity, and all the brothers and sisters +rejoiced as if she was actually on her feet again. Richard betook +himself to constructing a reading-frame for the sofa; Harry tormented +Miss Winter by insisting on a holiday for the others, and gained the +day by an appeal to his father; then declared he should go and tell Mr. +Wilmot the good news; and Norman, quite enlivened, took up his hat, and +said he would come too. + +In all his joy, however, Dr. May could not cease bewailing the +alteration in his old friend, and spent half the evening in telling +Margaret how different he had once been, in terms little less measured +than Ethel’s: “I never saw such a change. Mat Fleet was one of the most +warm, open-hearted fellows in the world, up to anything. I can hardly +believe he is the same--turned into a mere machine, with a moving spring +of self-interest! I don’t believe he cares a rush for any living thing! +Except for your sake, Margaret, I wish I had never seen him again, and +only remembered him as he was at Edinburgh, as I remembered dear old +Spencer. It is a grievous thing! Ruined entirely! No doubt that London +life must be trying--the constant change and bewilderment of patients +preventing much individual care and interest. It must be very hardening. +No family ties either, nothing to look to but pushing his way. Yes! +there’s great excuse for poor Mat. I never knew fully till now the +blessing it was that your dear mother was willing to take me so early, +and that this place was open to me with all its home connections and +interests. I am glad I never had anything to do with London!” + +And when he was alone with Norman, he could not help saying, “Norman, +my boy, I’m more glad than ever you yielded to me about your Greek these +holidays, and for the reason you did. Take care the love of rising and +pushing never gets hold of you; there’s nothing that faster changes a +man from his better self.” + +Meanwhile, Sir Matthew Fleet had met another old college friend in +London, and was answering his inquiries for the Dick May of ancient +times. + +“Poor May! I never saw a man so thrown away. With his talent and +acuteness, he might be the most eminent man of his day, if he had only +known how to use them. But he was always the same careless, soft-hearted +fellow, never knowing how to do himself any good, and he is the same +still, not a day older nor wiser. It was a fatal thing for him that +there was that country practice ready for him to step into, and even of +that he does not make as good a thing as he might. Of course, he +married early, and there he is, left a widower with a house full of +children--screaming babies, and great tall sons growing up, and he +without a notion what he shall do with them, as heedless as ever--saving +nothing, of course. I always knew it was what he would come to, if he +would persist in burying himself in that wretched little country town, +but I hardly thought, after all he has gone through, to find him such a +mere boy still. And yet he is one of the cleverest men I ever met--with +such talent, and such thorough knowledge of his profession, that it does +one good to hear him talk. Poor May! I am sorry for him, he might have +been anything, but that early marriage and country practice were the +ruin of him.” + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + + + + To thee, dear maid, each kindly wile + Was known, that elder sisters know, + To check the unseasonable smile, + With warning hand and serious brow. + + From dream to dream with her to rove, + Like fairy nurse with hermit child; + Teach her to think, to pray, to love, + Make grief less bitter, joy less wild. + LINES ON A MONUMENT AT LICHFIELD. + + +Sir Matthew Fleet’s visit seemed like a turning-point with the May +family, rousing and giving them revived hopes. Norman began to shake off +his extreme languor and depression, the doctor was relieved from much +of the wearing suffering from his hurt, and his despondency as to +Margaret’s ultimate recovery had been driven away. The experiment of +taking her up succeeded so well, that on Sunday she was fully attired, +“fit to receive company.” As she lay on the sofa there seemed an advance +toward recovery. Much sweet coquetry was expended in trying to look +her best for her father; and her best was very well, for though the +brilliant bloom of health was gone, her cheeks had not lost their pretty +rounded contour, and still had some rosiness, while her large bright +blue eyes smiled and sparkled. A screen shut out the rest of the room, +making a sort of little parlour round the fire, where sundry of the +family were visiting her after coming home from church in the afternoon. +Ethel was in a vehement state of indignation at what had that day +happened at school. “Did you ever hear anything like it! When the point +was, to teach the poor things to be Christians, to turn them back, +because their hair was not regulation length!” + +“What’s that! Who did?” said Dr. May, coming in from his own room, where +he had heard a few words. + +“Mrs. Ledwich. She sent back three of the Cocksmoor children this +morning. It seems she warned them last Sunday without saying a word to +us.” + +“Sent them back from church!” said the doctor. + +“Not exactly from church,” said Margaret. + +“It is the same in effect,” said Ethel, “to turn them from school; for +if they did try to go alone, the pew-openers would drive them out.” + +“It is a wretched state of things!” said Dr. May, who never wanted +much provocation to begin storming about parish affairs. “When I am +churchwarden again, I’ll see what can be done about the seats; but it’s +no sort of use, while Ramsden goes on as he does.” + +“Now my poor children are done for!” said Ethel. “They will never come +again. And it’s horrid, papa; there are lots of town children who wear +immense long plaits of hair, and Mrs. Ledwich never interferes with +them. It is entirely to drive the poor Cocksmoor ones away--for nothing +else, and all out of Fanny Anderson’s chatter.” + +“Ethel, my dear,” said Margaret pleadingly. + +“Didn’t I tell you, Margaret, how, as soon as Flora knew what Mrs. +Ledwich was going to do, she went and told her this was the children’s +only chance, and if we affronted them for a trifle, there would be no +hope of getting them back. She said she was sorry, if we were interested +for them, but rules must not be broken; and when Flora spoke of all who +do wear long hair unmolested, she shuffled and said, for the sake of +the teachers, as well as the other children, rags and dirt could not be +allowed; and then she brought up the old story of Miss Boulder’s pencil, +though she has found it again, and ended by saying Fanny Anderson told +her it was a serious annoyance to the teachers, and she was sure we +should agree with her, that something was due to voluntary assistants +and subscribers.” + +“I am afraid there has been a regular set at them,” said Margaret, “and +perhaps they are troublesome, poor things.” + +“As if school-keeping were for luxury!” said Dr. May. “It is the worst +thing I have heard of Mrs. Ledwich yet! One’s blood boils to think of +those poor children being cast off because our fine young ladies are +too grand to teach them! The clergyman leaving his work to a set of +conceited women, and they turning their backs on ignorance, when it +comes to their door! Voluntary subscribers, indeed! I’ve a great mind +I’ll be one no longer.” + +“Oh, papa, that would not be fair--” began Ethel; but Margaret knew he +would not act on this, squeezed her hand, and silenced her. + +“One thing I’ve said, and I’ll hold to it,” continued Dr. May; “if they +outvote Wilmot again in your Ladies’ Committee, I’ll have no more to do +with them, as sure as my name’s Dick May. It is a scandal the way things +are done here!” + +“Papa,” said Richard, who had all the time been standing silent, “Ethel +and I have been thinking, if you approved, whether we could not do +something towards teaching the Cocksmoor children, and breaking them in +for the Sunday-school.” + +What a bound Ethel’s heart gave, and how full of congratulation and +sympathy was the pressure of Margaret’s hand! + +“What did you think of doing?” said the doctor. Ethel burned to reply, +but her sister’s hand admonished her to remember her compact. Richard +answered, “We thought of trying to get a room, and going perhaps once or +twice a week to give them a little teaching. It would be little enough, +but it might do something towards civilising them, and making them wish +for more.” + +“How do you propose to get a room?” + +“I have reconnoitred, and I think I know a cottage with a tolerable +kitchen, which I dare say we might hire for an afternoon for sixpence.” + +Ethel, unable to bear it any longer, threw herself forward, and sitting +on the ground at her father’s feet, exclaimed, “Oh, papa! papa! do say +we may!” + +“What’s all this about?” said the doctor, surprised. + +“Oh! you don’t know how I have thought of it day and night these two +months!” + +“What! Ethel, have a fancy for two whole months, and the whole house +not hear of it!” said her father, with a rather provoking look of +incredulity. + +“Richard was afraid of bothering you, and wouldn’t let me. But do speak, +papa. May we?” + +“I don’t see any objection.” + +She clasped her hands in ecstasy. “Thank you! thank you, papa! Oh, +Ritchie! Oh, Margaret!” cried she, in a breathless voice of transport. + +“You have worked yourself up to a fine pass,” said the doctor, patting +the agitated girl fondly as she leaned against his knee. “Remember, slow +and steady.” + +“I’ve got Richard to help me,” said Ethel. + +“Sufficient guarantee,” said her father, smiling archly as he looked up +to his son, whose fair face had coloured deep red. “You will keep the +Unready in order, Ritchie.” + +“He does,” said Margaret; “he has taken her education into his hands, +and I really believe he has taught her to hold up her frock and stick in +pins.” + +“And to know her right hand from her left, eh, Ethel? Well, you deserve +some credit, then. Suppose we ask Mr. Wilmot to tea, and talk it over.” + +“Oh, thank you, papa! When shall it be? To-morrow?” + +“Yes, if you like. I have to go to the town-council meeting, and am not +going into the country, so I shall be in early.” + +“Thank you. Oh, how very nice!” + +“And what about cost? Do you expect to rob me?” + +“If you would help us,” said Ethel, with an odd shy manner; “we meant +to make what we have go as far as may be, but mine is only fifteen and +sixpence.” + +“Well, you must make interest with Margaret for the turn-out of my +pocket to-morrow.” + +“Thank you, we are very much obliged,” said the brother and sister +earnestly, “that is more than we expected.” + +“Ha! don’t thank too soon. Suppose to-morrow should be a blank day!” + +“Oh, it won’t!” said Ethel. “I shall tell Norman to make you go to +paying people.” + +“There’s avarice!” said the doctor. “But look you here, Ethel, if you’ll +take my advice, you’ll make your bargain for Tuesday. I have a note +appointing me to call at Abbotstoke Grange on Mr. Rivers, at twelve +o’clock, on Tuesday. What do you think of that, Ethel? An old banker, +rich enough for his daughter to curl her hair in bank-notes. If I were +you, I’d make a bargain for him.” + +“If he had nothing the matter with him, and I only got one guinea out of +him!” + +“Prudence! Well, it may be wiser.” + +Ethel ran up to her room, hardly able to believe that the mighty +proposal was made; and it had been so readily granted, that it seemed +as if Richard’s caution had been vain in making such a delay, that even +Margaret had begun to fear that the street of by-and-by was leading to +the house of never. Now, however, it was plain that he had been wise. +Opportunity was everything; at another moment, their father might have +been harassed and oppressed, and unable to give his mind to concerns, +which now he could think of with interest, and Richard could not have +caught a more favourable conjuncture. + +Ethel was in a wild state of felicity all that evening and the next day, +very unlike her brother, who, dismayed at the open step he had taken, +shrank into himself, and in his shyness dreaded the discussion in the +evening, and would almost have been relieved, if Mr. Wilmot had been +unable to accept the invitation. So quiet and grave was he, that Ethel +could not get him to talk over the matter at all with her, and she was +obliged to bestow all her transports and grand projects on Flora or +Margaret, when she could gain their ears, besides conning them over to +herself, as an accompaniment to her lessons, by which means she tried +Miss Winter’s patience almost beyond measure. But she cared not--she +saw a gathering school and rising church, which eclipsed all thought +of present inattentions and gaucheries. She monopolised Margaret in the +twilight, and rhapsodised to her heart’s content, talking faster and +faster, and looking more and more excited. Margaret began to feel +a little overwhelmed, and while answering “yes” at intervals, was +considering whether Ethel had not been flying about in an absent +inconsiderate mood all day, and whether it would seem unkind to damp +her ardour, by giving her a hint that she was relaxing her guard over +herself. Before Margaret had steeled herself, Ethel was talking of a +story she had read, of a place something like Cocksmoor. Margaret was +not ready with her recollection, and Ethel, saying it was in a magazine +in the drawing-room chiffonier, declared she would fetch it. + +Margaret knew what it was to expect her visitors to return “in one +moment,” and with a “now-or-never” feeling she began, “Ethel, dear, +wait,” but Ethel was too impetuous to attend. “I’ll be back in a +twinkling,” she called out, and down she flew, in her speed whisking +away, without seeing it, the basket with Margaret’s knitting and all +her notes and papers, which lay scattered on the floor far out of +reach, vexing Margaret at first, and then making her grieve at her own +impatient feeling. + +Ethel was soon in the drawing-room, but the right number of the magazine +was not quickly forthcoming, and in searching she became embarked in +another story. Just then, Aubrey, whose stout legs were apt to carry him +into every part of the house where he was neither expected nor wanted, +marched in at the open door, trying by dint of vehement gestures to make +her understand, in his imperfect speech, something that he wanted. Very +particularly troublesome she thought him, more especially as she could +not make him out, otherwise than that he wanted her to do something +with the newspaper and the fire. She made a boat for him with an old +newspaper, a very hasty and frail performance, and told him to sail it +on the carpet, and be Mr. Ernescliffe going away; and she thought him +thus safely disposed of. Returning to her book and her search, with her +face to the cupboard, and her book held up to catch the light, she was +soon lost in her story, and thought of nothing more till suddenly roused +by her father’s voice in the hall, loud and peremptory with alarm, +“Aubrey! put that down!” She looked, and beheld Aubrey brandishing a +great flaming paper--he dropped it at the exclamation--it fell burning +on the carpet. Aubrey’s white pinafore! Ethel was springing up, but in +her cramped, twisted position she could not do so quickly, and even as +he called, her father strode by her, snatched at Aubrey’s merino frock, +which he crushed over the scarcely lighted pinafore, and trampled out +the flaming paper with his foot. It was a moment of dreadful fright, but +the next assured them that no harm was done. + +“Ethel!” cried the doctor, “Are you mad? What were you thinking of?” + +Aubrey, here recollecting himself enough to be frightened at his +father’s voice and manner, burst into loud cries; the doctor pressed him +closer on his breast, caressed and soothed him. Ethel stood by, pale and +transfixed with horror. Her father was more angry with her than she +had ever seen him, and with reason, as she knew, as she smelled the +singeing, and saw a large burnt hole in Aubrey’s pinafore, while the +front of his frock was scorched and brown. Dr. May’s words were not +needed, “What could make you let him?” + +“I didn’t see--” she faltered. + +“Didn’t see! Didn’t look, didn’t think, didn’t care! That’s it, Ethel. +‘Tis very hard one can’t trust you in a room with the child any more +than the baby himself. His frock perfect tinder! He would have been +burned to a cinder, if I had not come in!” + + +Aubrey roared afresh, and Dr. May, kissing and comforting him, gathered +him up in his left arm, and carried him away, looking back at the door +to say, “There’s no bearing it! I’ll put a stop to all schools and +Greek, if it is to lead to this, and make you good for nothing!” + +Ethel was too much terrified to know where she was, or anything, +but that she had let her little brother run into fearful peril, and +grievously angered her father; she was afraid to follow him, and stood +still, annihilated, and in despair, till roused by his return; then, +with a stifled sob, she exclaimed, “Oh, papa!” and could get no further +for a gush of tears. + +But the anger of the shock of terror was over, and Dr. May was sorry +for her tears, though still he could not but manifest some displeasure. +“Yes, Ethel,” he said, “it was a frightful thing,” and he could not +but shudder again. “One moment later! It is an escape to be for ever +thankful for--poor little fellow!--but, Ethel, Ethel, do let it be a +warning to you.” + +“Oh, I hope--I’ll try--” sobbed Ethel. + +“You have said you would try before.” + +“I know I have,” said Ethel, choked. “If I could but--” + +“Poor child,” said Dr. May sadly; then looking earnestly at her, “Ethel, +my dear, I am afraid of its being with you as--as it has been with me;” + he spoke very low, and drew her close to him. “I grew up, thinking +my inbred heedlessness a sort of grace, so to say, rather manly--the +reverse of finikin. I was spoiled as a boy, and my Maggie carried on the +spoiling, by never letting me feel its effects. By the time I had sense +enough to regret this as a fault, I had grown too old for changing of +ingrain, long-nurtured habits--perhaps I never wished it really. You +have seen,” and his voice was nearly inaudible, “what my carelessness +has come to--let that suffice at least, as a lesson that may spare +you--what your father must feel as long as he lives.” + +He pressed his hand tightly on her shoulder, and left her, without +letting her see his face. Shocked and bewildered, she hurried upstairs +to Margaret. She threw herself on her knees, felt her arms round +her, and heard her kind soothing, and then, in broken words, told how +dreadful it had been, and how kind papa had been, and what he had said, +which was now the uppermost thought. “Oh, Margaret, Margaret, how very +terrible it is! And does papa really think so?” + +“I believe he does,” whispered Margaret. + +“How can he, can he bear it!” said Ethel, clasping her hands. “Oh! it is +enough to kill one--I can’t think why it did not!” + +“He bears it,” said Margaret, “because he is so very good, that help and +comfort do come to him. Dear papa! He bears up because it is right, and +for our sakes, and he has a sort of rest in that perfect love they had +for each other. He knows how she would wish him to cheer up and look to +the end, and support and comfort are given to him, I know they are; but +oh, Ethel! it does make one tremble and shrink, to think what he has +been going through this autumn, especially when I hear him moving +about late at night, and now and then comes a heavy groan--whenever any +especial care has been on his mind.” + +Ethel was in great distress. “To have grieved him again!” said she, “and +just as he seemed better and brighter! Everything I do turns out wrong, +and always will; I can’t do anything well by any chance.” + +“Yes you can, when you mind what you are about.” + +“But I never can--I’m like him, every one says so, and he says the +heedlessness is ingrain, and can’t be got rid of.” + +“Ethel, I don’t really think he could have told you so.” + +“I’m sure he said ingrain.” + +“Well, I suppose it is part of his nature, and that you have inherited +it, but--” Margaret paused, and Ethel exclaimed: + +“He said his was long-nurtured; yes, Margaret, you guessed right, and he +said he could not change it, and no more can I.” + +“Surely, Ethel, you have not had so many years. You are fifteen instead +of forty-six, and it is more a woman’s work than a man’s to be careful. +You need not begin to despair. You were growing much better; Richard +said so, and so did Miss Winter.” + +“What’s the use of it, if in one moment it is as bad as ever? And +to-day, of all days in the year, just when papa had been so very, very +kind, and given me more than I asked.” + +“Do you know, Ethel, I was thinking whether dear mamma would not say +that was the reason. You were so happy, that perhaps you were thrown off +your guard.” + +“I should not wonder if that was it,” said Ethel thoughtfully. “You know +it was a sort of probation that Richard put me on. I was to learn to be +steady before he spoke to papa, and now it seemed to be all settled and +right, and perhaps I forgot I was to be careful still.” + +“I think it was something of the kind. I was a little afraid before, and +I wish I had tried to caution you, but I did not like to seem unkind.” + +“I wish you had,” said Ethel. “Dear little Aubrey! Oh, if papa had not +been there! And I cannot think how, as it was, he could contrive to put +the fire out, with his one hand, and not hurt himself. Margaret it was +terrible. How could I mind so little! Did you see how his frock was +singed?” + +“Yes, papa showed it to me. How can we be thankful enough! One thing I +hope, that Aubrey was well frightened, poor little boy.” + +“I know! I see now!” cried Ethel; “he must have wanted me to make the +fire blaze up, as Richard did one evening when we came in and found it +low; I remember Aubrey clapping his hands and shouting at the flame; +but my head was in that unhappy story, and I never had sense to put the +things together, and reflect that he would try to do it himself. I only +wanted to get him out of my way, dear little fellow. Oh, dear, how bad +it was of me! All from being uplifted, and my head turned, as it used to +be when we were happier. Oh! I wish Mr. Wilmot was not coming!” + +Ethel sat for a long time with her head hidden in Margaret’s pillows, +and her hand clasped by her good elder sister. At last she looked up and +said, “Oh, Margaret, I am so unhappy. I see the whole meaning of it now. +Do you not? When papa gave his consent at last, I was pleased and set +up, and proud of my plans. I never recollected what a silly, foolish +girl I am, and how unfit. I thought Mr. Wilmot would think great things +of it--it was all wrong and self-satisfied. I never prayed at all that +it might turn out well, and so now it won’t.” + +“Dearest Ethel, I don’t see that. Perhaps it will do all the better for +your being humbled about it now. If you were wild and high flying, it +would never go right.” + +“Its hope is in Richard,” said Ethel. + +“So it is,” said Margaret. + +“I wish Mr. Wilmot was not coming to-night,” said Ethel again. “It would +serve me right if papa were to say nothing about it.” + +Ethel lingered with her sister till Harry and Mary came up with +Margaret’s tea, and summoned her, and she crept downstairs, and entered +the room so quietly, that she was hardly perceived behind her boisterous +brother. She knew her eyes were in no presentable state, and cast them +down, and shrank back as Mr. Wilmot shook her hand and greeted her +kindly. + +Mr. Wilmot had been wont to come to tea whenever he had anything to say +to Dr. or Mrs. May, which was about once in ten or twelve days. He was +Mary’s godfather, and their most intimate friend in the town, and he +had often been with them, both as friend and clergyman, through their +trouble--no later than Christmas Day, he had come to bring the feast of +that day to Margaret in her sick-room. Indeed, it had been chiefly +for the sake of the Mays that he had resolved to spend the holidays +at Stoneborough, taking the care of Abbotstoke, while his brother, the +vicar, went to visit their father. This was, however, the first time +he had come in his old familiar way to spend an evening, and there was +something in the resumption of former habits that painfully marked the +change. + +Ethel, on coming in, found Flora making tea, her father leaning back +in his great chair in silence, Richard diligently cutting bread, +and Blanche sitting on Mr. Wilmot’s knee, chattering fast and +confidentially. Flora made Harry dispense the cups, and called every one +to their places; Ethel timidly glanced at her father’s face, as he rose +and came into the light. She thought the lines and hollows were more +marked than ever, and that he looked fatigued and mournful, and she +felt cut to the heart; but he began to exert himself, and to make +conversation, not, however, about Cocksmoor, but asking Mr. Wilmot what +his brother thought of his new squire, Mr. Rivers. + +“He likes him very much,” said Mr. Wilmot. “He is a very pleasing +person, particularly kind-hearted and gentle, and likely to do a great +deal for the parish. They have been giving away beef and blankets at a +great rate this Christmas.” + +“What family is there?” asked Flora. + +“One daughter, about Ethel’s age, is there with her governess. He +has been twice married, and the first wife left a son, who is in the +Dragoons, I believe. This girl’s mother was Lord Cosham’s daughter.” + +So the talk lingered on, without much interest or life. It was rather +keeping from saying nothing than conversation, and no one was without +the sensation that she was missing, round whom all had been free and +joyous--not that she had been wont to speak much herself, but nothing +would go on smoothly or easily without her. So long did this last, that +Ethel began to think her father meant to punish her by not beginning the +subject that night, and though she owned that she deserved it, she could +not help being very much disappointed. + +At length, however, her father began: “We wanted you to talk over a +scheme that these young ones have been concocting. You see, I am obliged +to keep Richard at home this next term--it won’t do to have no one in +the house to carry poor Margaret. We can’t do without him anyway, so +he and Ethel have a scheme of seeing what can be done for that wretched +place, Cocksmoor.” + +“Indeed!” said Mr. Wilmot, brightening and looking interested. “It is +sadly destitute. It would be a great thing if anything could be done +for it. You have brought some children to school already, I think. I saw +some rough-looking boys, who said they came from Cocksmoor.” + +This embarked the doctor in the history of the ladies being too fine to +teach the poor Cocksmoor girls, which he told with kindling vehemence +and indignation, growing more animated every moment, as he stormed over +the wonted subject of the bad system of management--ladies’ committee, +negligent incumbent, insufficient clergy, misappropriated tithes--while +Mr. Wilmot, who had mourned over it, within himself, a hundred times +already, and was doing a curate’s work on sufferance, with no pay, and +little but mistrust from Mr. Ramsden, and absurd false reports among the +more foolish part of the town, sat listening patiently, glad to hear +the doctor in his old strain, though it was a hopeless matter for +discussion, and Ethel dreaded that the lamentation would go on till +bedtime, and Cocksmoor be quite forgotten. + +After a time they came safely back to the project, and Richard was +called on to explain. Ethel left it all to him, and he with rising +colour, and quiet, unhesitating, though diffident manner, detailed +designs that showed themselves to have been well matured. Mr. Wilmot +heard, cordially approved, and, as all agreed that no time was to be +lost, while the holidays lasted, he undertook to speak to Mr. Ramsden on +the subject the next morning, and if his consent to their schemes could +be gained, to come in the afternoon to walk with Richard and Ethel to +Cocksmoor, and set their affairs in order. All the time Ethel said not +a word, except when referred to by her brother; but when Mr. Wilmot took +leave, he shook her hand warmly, as if he was much pleased with her. +“Ah!” she thought, “if he knew how ill I have behaved! It is all show +and hollowness with me.” + +She did not know that Mr. Wilmot thought her silence one of the best +signs for the plan, nor how much more doubtful he would have thought her +perseverance, if he had seen her wild and vehement. As it was, he was +very much pleased, and when the doctor came out with him into the hall, +he could not help expressing his satisfaction in Richard’s well-judged +and sensibly-described project. + +“Ay, ay!” said the doctor, “there’s much more in the boy than I used +to think. He’s a capital fellow, and more like his mother than any of +them.” + +“He is,” said Mr. Wilmot; “there was a just, well-weighed sense and +soberness in his plans that put me in mind of her every moment.” + +Dr. May gave his hand a squeeze, full of feeling, and went up to tell +Margaret. She, on the first opportunity, told Richard, and made him +happier than he had been for months, not so much in Mr. Wilmot’s words, +as in his father’s assent to, and pleasure in them. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + + + + Pitch thy behaviour low, thy projects high, + So shalt thou humble and magnanimous be; + Sink not in spirit; who aimeth at the sky + Shoots higher much than he that means a tree. + A grain of glory mixed with humbleness, + Cures both a fever and lethargicness. + HERBERT. + + +“Norman, do you feel up to a long day’s work?” said Dr. May, on the +following morning. “I have to set off after breakfast to see old Mrs. +Gould, and to be at Abbotstoke Grange by twelve; then I thought of going +to Fordholm, and getting Miss Cleveland to give us some luncheon--there +are some poor people on the way to look at; and that girl on Far-view +Hill; and there’s another place to call in at coming home. You’ll have a +good deal of sitting in the carriage, holding Whitefoot, so if you think +you shall be cold or tired, don’t scruple to say so, and I’ll take Adams +to drive me.” + +“No, thank you,” said Norman briskly. “This frost is famous.” + +“It will turn to rain, I expect--it is too white,” said the doctor, +looking out at the window. “How will you get to Cocksmoor, good people?” + +“Ethel won’t believe it rains unless it is very bad,” said Richard. + +Norman set out with his father, and prosperously performed the +expedition, arriving at Abbotstoke Grange at the appointed hour. + +“Ha!” said the doctor, as the iron gates of ornamental scrollwork were +swung back, “there’s a considerable change in this place since I was +here last. Well kept up indeed! Not a dead leaf left under the old +walnuts, and the grass looks as smooth as if they had a dozen gardeners +rolling it every day.” + +“And the drive,” said Norman, “more like a garden walk than a road! But +oh! what a splendid cedar!” + +“Isn’t it! I remember that as long as I remember anything. All this +fine rolling of turf, and trimming up of the place, does not make much +difference to you, old fellow, does it? You don’t look altered since I +saw you last, when old Jervis was letting the place go to rack and ruin. +So they have a new entrance--very handsome conservatory--flowers--the +banker does things in style. There,” as Norman helped him off with his +plaid, “wrap yourself up well, don’t get cold. The sun is gone in, and I +should not wonder if the rain were coming after all. I’ll not be longer +than I can help.” + +Dr. May disappeared from his son’s sight through the conservatory, +where, through the plate-glass, the exotics looked so fresh and perfumy, +that Norman almost fancied that the scent reached him. “How much poor +Margaret would enjoy one of those camellias,” thought he, “and these +people have bushels of them for mere show. If I were papa, I should be +tempted to be like Beauty’s father, and carry off one. How she would +admire it!” + +Norman had plenty of time to meditate on the camellias, and then to +turn and speculate on the age of the cedar, whether it could have been +planted by the monks of Stoneborough Abbey, to whom the Grange had +belonged, brought from Lebanon by a pilgrim, perhaps; and then he tried +to guess at the longevity of cedars, and thought of asking Margaret, the +botanist of the family. Then he yawned, moved the horse a little +about, opined that Mr. Rivers must be very prosy, or have some abstruse +complaint, considered the sky, and augured rain, buttoned another button +of his rough coat, and thought of Miss Cleveland’s dinner. Then he +thought there was a very sharp wind, and drove about till he found a +sheltered place on the lee side of the great cedar, looked up at it, and +thought it would be a fine subject for verses, if Mr. Wilmot knew of it, +and then proceeded to consider what he should make of them. + +In the midst he was suddenly roused by the deep-toned note of a dog, and +beheld a large black Newfoundland dog leaping about the horse in great +indignation. “Rollo! Rollo!” called a clear young voice, and he saw two +ladles returning from a walk. Rollo, at the first call, galloped back to +his mistress, and was evidently receiving an admonition, and promising +good behaviour. The two ladies entered the house, while he lay down on +the step, with his lion-like paw hanging down, watching Norman with a +brilliant pair of hazel eyes. Norman, after a little more wondering +when Mr. Rivers would have done with his father, betook himself to civil +demonstrations to the creature, who received them with dignity, and +presently, after acknowledging with his tail, various whispers of “Good +old fellow,” and “Here, old Rollo!” having apparently satisfied himself +that the young gentleman was respectable, he rose, and vouchsafed to +stand up with his forepaws in the gig, listening amiably to Norman’s +delicate flatteries. Norman even began to hope to allure him into +jumping on the seat: but a great bell rang, and Rollo immediately turned +round, and dashed off, at full speed, to some back region of the house. +“So, old fellow, you know what the dinner-bell means,” thought Norman. +“I hope Mr. Rivers is hungry too. Miss Cleveland will have eaten up her +whole luncheon, if this old bore won’t let my father go soon! I hope he +is desperately ill--‘tis his only excuse! Heigh ho! I must jump out to +warm my feet soon! There, there’s a drop of rain! Well, there’s no end +to it! I wonder what Ethel is doing about Cocksmoor! It is setting in +for a wet afternoon!” and Norman disconsolately put up his umbrella. + +At last Dr. May and another gentleman were seen in the conservatory, and +Norman gladly proceeded to clear the seat; but Dr. May called out, “Jump +out, Norman, Mr. Rivers is so kind as to ask us to stay to luncheon.” + +With boyish shrinking from strangers, Norman privately wished Mr. +Rivers at Jericho, as he gave the reins to a servant, and entered the +conservatory, where a kindly hand was held out to him by a gentleman +of about fifty, with a bald smooth forehead, soft blue eyes, and gentle +pleasant face. “Is this your eldest son?” said he, turning to Dr. +May--and the manner of both was as if they were already well acquainted. +“No, this is my second. The eldest is not quite such a long-legged +fellow,” said Dr. May. And then followed the question addressed to +Norman himself, where he was at school. + +“At Stoneborough,” said Norman, a little amused at the thought how angry +Ethel and Harry would be that the paragraph of the county paper, where +“N. W. May” was recorded as prizeman and foremost in the examination, +had not penetrated even to Abbotstoke Grange, or rather to its owner’s +memory. + +However, his father could not help adding, “He is the head of the +school--a thing we Stoneborough men think much of.” + +This, and Mr. Rivers’s civil answer, made Norman so hot, that he did not +notice much in passing through a hall full of beautiful vases, stuffed +birds, busts, etc., tastefully arranged, and he did not look up till +they were entering a handsome dining-room, where a small square table +was laid out for luncheon near a noble fire. + +The two ladies were there, and Mr. Rivers introduced them as his +daughter and Mrs. Larpent. It was the most luxurious meal that Norman +had ever seen, the plate, the porcelain, and all the appointments of +the table so elegant, and the viands, all partaking of the Christmas +character, and of a recherche delicate description quite new to him. +He had to serve as his father’s right hand, and was so anxious to put +everything as Dr. May liked it, and without attracting notice, that he +hardly saw or listened till Dr. May began to admire a fine Claude on the +opposite wall, and embarked in a picture discussion. The doctor had +much taste for art, and had made the most of his opportunities of seeing +paintings during his time of study at Paris, and in a brief tour to +Italy. Since that time, few good pictures had come in his way, and these +were a great pleasure to him, while Mr. Rivers, a regular connoisseur, +was delighted to meet with one who could so well appreciate them. Norman +perceived how his father was enjoying the conversation, and was much +interested both by the sight of the first fine paintings he had ever +seen, and by the talk about their merits; but the living things in the +room had more of his attention and observation, especially the young +lady who sat at the head of the table; a girl about his own age; she +was on a very small scale, and seemed to him like a fairy, in the airy +lightness and grace of her movements, and the blithe gladsomeness of her +gestures and countenance. Form and features, though perfectly healthful +and brisk, had the peculiar finish and delicacy of a miniature painting, +and were enhanced by the sunny glance of her dark soft smiling eyes. +Her hair was in black silky braids, and her dress, with its gaiety of +well-assorted colour, was positively refreshing to his eye, so long +accustomed to the deep mourning of his sisters. A little Italian +greyhound, perfectly white, was at her side, making infinite variations +of the line of beauty and grace, with its elegant outline, and S-like +tail, as it raised its slender nose in hopes of a fragment of bread +which she from time to time dispensed to it. + +Luncheon over, Mr. Rivers asked Dr. May to step into his library, and +Norman guessed that they had been talking all this time, and had never +come to the medical opinion. However, a good meal and a large fire made +a great difference in his toleration, and it was so new a scene, that +he had no objection to a prolonged waiting, especially when Mrs. Larpent +said, in a very pleasant tone, “Will you come into the drawing-room with +us?” + +He felt somewhat as if he was walking in enchanted ground as he followed +her into the large room, the windows opening into the conservatory, +the whole air fragrant with flowers, the furniture and ornaments so +exquisite of their kind, and all such a fit scene for the beautiful +little damsel, who, with her slender dog by her side, tripped on +demurely, and rather shyly, but with a certain skipping lightness in her +step. A very tall overgrown schoolboy did Norman feel himself for one +bashful moment, when he found himself alone with the two ladies; but he +was ready to be set at ease by Mrs. Larpent’s good-natured manner, when +she said something of Rollo’s discourtesy. He smiled, and answered +that he had made great friends with the fine old dog, and spoke of his +running off to the dinner, at which little Miss Rivers laughed, +and looked delighted, and began to tell of Rollo’s perfections and +intelligence. Norman ventured to inquire the name of the little Italian, +and was told it was Nipen, because it had once stolen a cake, much like +the wind-spirit in Feats on the Fiord. Its beauty and tricks were duly +displayed, and a most beautiful Australian parrot was exhibited, Mrs. +Larpent taking full interest in the talk, in so lively and gentle a +manner, and she and her pretty pupil evidently on such sister-like +terms, that Norman could hardly believe her to be the governess, when he +thought of Miss Winter. + +Miss Rivers took up some brown leaves which she was cutting out with +scissors, and shaping. “Our holiday work,” said Mrs. Larpent, in answer +to the inquiring look of Norman’s eyes. “Meta has been making a drawing +for her papa, and is framing it in leather-work. Have you ever seen +any?” + +“Never!” and Norman looked eagerly, asking questions, and watching while +Miss Rivers cut out her ivy leaf and marked its veins, and showed how +she copied it from nature. He thanked her, saying, “I wanted to learn +all about it, for I thought it would be such nice work for my eldest +sister.” + +A glance of earnest interest from little Meta’s bright eyes at her +governess, and Mrs. Larpent, in a kind, soft tone that quite gained his +heart, asked, “Is she the invalid?” + +“Yes,” said Norman. “New fancy work is a great gain to her.” + +Mrs. Larpent’s sympathetic questions, and Meta’s softening eyes, +gradually drew from him a great deal about Margaret’s helpless state, +and her patience, and capabilities, and how every one came to her with +all their cares; and Norman, as he spoke, mentally contrasted the life, +untouched by trouble and care, led by the fair girl before him, with +that atmosphere of constant petty anxieties round her namesake’s couch, +at years so nearly the same. + +“How very good she must be,” said little Meta, quickly and softly; and a +tear was sparkling on her eyelashes. + +“She is indeed,” said Norman earnestly. “I don’t know what papa would do +but for her.” + +Mrs. Larpent asked kind questions whether his father’s arm was very +painful, and the hopes of its cure; and he felt as if she was a great +friend already. Thence they came to books. Norman had not read for +months past, but it happened that Meta was just now reading Woodstock, +with which he was of course familiar; and both grew eager in discussing +that and several others. Of one, Meta spoke in such terms of delight, +that Norman thought it had been very stupid of him to let it lie on the +table for the last fortnight without looking into it. + +He was almost sorry to see his father and Mr. Rivers come in, and hear +the carriage ordered, but they were not off yet, though the rain was now +only Scotch mist. Mr. Rivers had his most choice little pictures +still to display, his beautiful early Italian masters, finished like +illuminations, and over these there was much lingering and admiring. +Meta had whispered something to her governess, who smiled, and advanced +to Norman. “Meta wishes to know if your sister would like to have a few +flowers?” said she. + +No sooner said than done; the door into the conservatory was opened, +and Meta, cutting sprays of beautiful geranium, delicious heliotrope, +fragrant calycanthus, deep blue tree violet, and exquisite hothouse +ferns; perfect wonders to Norman, who, at each addition to the bouquet, +exclaimed by turns, “Oh, thank you!” and, “How she will like it!” + +Her father reached a magnolia blossom from on high, and the quick warm +grateful emotion trembled in Dr. May’s features and voice, as he said, +“It is very kind in you; you have given my poor girl a great treat. +Thank you with all my heart.” + +Margaret Rivers cast down her eyes, half smiled, and shrank back, +thinking she had never felt anything like the left-handed grasp, so full +of warmth and thankfulness. It gave her confidence to venture on the +one question on which she was bent. Her father was in the hall, showing +Norman his Greek nymph; and lifting her eyes to Dr. May’s face, then +casting them down, she coloured deeper than ever, as she said, in a +stammering whisper, “Oh, please--if you would tell me--do you think--is +papa very ill?” + +Dr. May answered in his softest, most reassuring tones: “You need not +be alarmed about him, I assure you. You must keep him from too much +business,” he added, smiling; “make him ride with you, and not let him +tire himself, and I am sure you can be his best doctor.” + +“But do you think,” said Meta, earnestly looking up--“do you think he +will be quite well again?” + +“You must not expect doctors to be absolute oracles,” said he. “I will +tell you what I told him--I hardly think his will ever be sound health +again, but I see no reason why he should not have many years of comfort, +and there is no cause for you to disquiet yourself on his account--you +have only to be careful of him.” + +Meta tried to say “thank you,” but not succeeding, looked imploringly +at her governess, who spoke for her. “Thank you, it is a great relief to +have an opinion, for we were not at all satisfied about Mr. Rivers.” + +A few words more, and Meta was skipping about like a sprite finding +a basket for the flowers--she had another shake of the hand, another +grateful smile, and “thank you,” from the doctor; and then, as the +carriage disappeared, Mrs. Larpent exclaimed, “What a very nice +intelligent boy that was.” + +“Particularly gentlemanlike,” said Mr. Rivers. “Very clever--the head of +the school, as his father tells me--and so modest and unassuming--though +I see his father is very proud of him.” + +“Oh, I am sure they are so fond of each other,” said Meta: “didn’t you +see his attentive ways to his father at luncheon! And, papa, I am +sure you must like Dr. May, Mr. Wilmot’s doctor, as much as I said you +would.” + +“He is the most superior man I have met with for a long time,” said +Mr. Rivers. “It is a great acquisition to find a man of such taste and +acquirements in this country neighbourhood, when there is not another +who can tell a Claude from a Poussin. I declare, when once we began +talking, there was no leaving off--I have not met a person of so much +conversation since I left town. I thought you would like to see him, +Meta.” + +“I hope I shall know the Miss Mays some time or other.” + +“That is the prettiest little fairy I ever did see!” was Dr. May’s +remark, as Norman drove from the door. + +“How good-natured they are!” said Norman; “I just said something about +Margaret, and she gave me all these flowers. How Margaret will be +delighted! I wish the girls could see it all!” + +“So you got on well with the ladies, did you?” + +“They were very kind to me. It was very pleasant!” said Norman, with a +tone of enjoyment that did his father’s heart good. + +“I was glad you should come in. Such a curiosity shop is a sight, and +those pictures were some of them well worth seeing. That was a splendid +Titian.” + +“That cast of the Pallas of the Parthenon--how beautiful it was--I knew +it from the picture in Smith’s dictionary. Mr. Rivers said he would show +me all his antiques if you would bring me again.” + +“I saw he liked your interest in them. He is a good, kind-hearted +dilettante sort of old man; he has got all the talk of the literary, +cultivated society in London, and must find it dullish work here.” + +“You liked him, didn’t you?” + +“He is very pleasant; I found he knew my old friend, Benson, whom I had +not seen since we were at Cambridge together, and we got on that and +other matters; London people have an art of conversation not learned +here, and I don’t know how the time slipped away; but you must have been +tolerably tired of waiting.” + +“Not to signify,” said Norman. “I only began to think he must be very +ill; I hope there is not much the matter with him.” + +“I can’t say. I am afraid there is organic disease, but I think it may +be kept quiet a good while yet, and he may have a pleasant life for some +time to come, arranging his prints, and petting his pretty daughter. He +has plenty to fall back upon.” + +“Do you go there again?” + +“Yes, next week. I am glad of it. I shall like to have another look at +that little Madonna of his--it is the sort of picture that does one good +to carry away in one’s eye. Whay! Stop. There’s an old woman in here. It +is too late for Fordholm, but these cases won’t wait.” + +He went into the cottage, and soon returned, saying, “Fine new blankets, +and a great kettle of soup, and such praises of the ladies at the +Grange!” And, at the next house, it was the same story. “Well, ‘tis no +mockery now to tell the poor creatures they want nourishing food. Slices +of meat and bottles of port wine rain down on Abbotstoke.” + +A far more talkative journey than usual ensued; the discussion of the +paintings and antiques was almost equally delightful to the father and +son, and lasted till, about a mile from Stoneborough, they descried +three figures in the twilight. + +“Ha! How are you, Wilmot? So you braved the rain, Ethel. Jump in,” + called the doctor, as Norman drew up. + +“I shall crowd you--I shall hurt your arm, papa; thank you.” + +“No, you won’t--jump in--there’s room for three thread-papers in one +gig. Why, Wilmot, your brother has a very jewel of a squire! How did you +fare?” + +“Very well on the whole,” was Mr. Wllmot’s answer, while Ethel scrambled +in, and tried to make herself small, an art in which she was not very +successful; and Norman gave an exclamation of horrified warning, as she +was about to step into the flower-basket; then she nearly tumbled out +again in dismay, and was relieved to find herself safely wedged in, +without having done any harm, while her father called out to Mr. Wilmot, +as they started, “I say! You are coming back to tea with us.” + +That cheerful tone, and the kindness to herself, were a refreshment and +revival to Ethel, who was still sobered and shocked by her yesterday’s +adventure, and by the sense of her father’s sorrowful displeasure. +Expecting further to be scolded for getting in so awkwardly, she did not +venture to volunteer anything, and even when he kindly said, “I hope +you were prosperous in your expedition,” she only made answer, in a very +grave voice, “Yes, papa, we have taken a very nice tidy room.” + +“What do you pay for it?” + +“Fourpence for each time.” + +“Well, here’s for you,” said Dr. May. “It is only two guineas to-day; +that banker at the Grange beguiled us of our time, but you had better +close the bargain for him, Ethel--he will be a revenue for you, for this +winter at least.” + +“Oh, thank you, papa,” was all Ethel could say; overpowered by his +kindness, and more repressed by what she felt so unmerited, than she +would have been by coldness, she said few words, and preferred listening +to Norman, who began to describe their adventures at the Grange. + +All her eagerness revived, however, as she sprang out of the carriage, +full of tidings for Margaret; and it was almost a race between her and +Norman to get upstairs, and unfold their separate budgets. + +Margaret’s lamp had just been lighted, when they made their entrance, +Norman holding the flowers on high. + +“Oh, how beautiful! how delicious! For me? Where did you get them?” + +“From Abbotstoke Grange; Miss Rivers sent them to you.” + +“How very kind! What a lovely geranium, and oh, that fern! I never saw +anything so choice. How came she to think of me?” + +“They asked me in because it rained, and she was making the prettiest +things, leather leaves and flowers for picture frames. I thought it was +work that would just suit you, and learned how to do it. That made them +ask about you, and it ended by her sending you this nosegay.” + +“How very kind everybody is! Well, Ethel, are you come home too?” + +“Papa picked me up. Oh, Margaret, we have found such a nice room, a +clean sanded kitchen--” + +“You never saw such a conservatory--” + +“And it is to be let to us for fourpence a time--” + +“The house is full of beautiful things, pictures and statues. Only think +of a real Titian, and a cast of the Apollo!” + +“Twenty children to begin with, and Richard is going to make some +forms.” + +“Mr. Rivers is going to show me all his casts.” + +“Oh, is he? But only think how lucky we were to find such a nice woman; +Mr. Wilmot was so pleased with her.” + +Norman found one story at a time was enough, and relinquished the +field, contenting himself with silently helping Margaret to arrange the +flowers, holding the basket for her, and pleased with her gestures of +admiration. Ethel went on with her history. “The first place we thought +of would not do at all; the woman said she would not take half-a-crown a +week to have a lot of children stabbling about, as she called it; so +we went to another house, and there was a very nice woman indeed, Mrs. +Green, with one little boy, whom she wanted to send to school, only it +is too far. She says she always goes to church at Fordholm because it is +nearer, and she is quite willing to let us have the room. So we settled +it, and next Friday we are to begin. Papa has given us two guineas, and +that will pay for, let me see, a hundred and twenty-six times, and +Mr. Wilmot is going to give us some books, and Ritchie will print some +alphabets. We told a great many of the people, and they are so glad. +Old Granny Hall said, ‘Well, I never!’ and told the girls they must be +as good as gold now the gentlefolks was coming to teach them. Mr. Wilmot +is coming with us every Friday as long as the holidays last.” + +Ethel departed on her father’s coming in to ask Margaret if she would +like to have a visit from Mr. Wilmot. She enjoyed this very much, and +he sat there nearly an hour, talking of many matters, especially the +Cocksmoor scheme, on which she was glad to hear his opinion at first +hand. + +“I am very glad you think well of it,” she said. “It is most desirable +that something should be done for those poor people, and Richard would +never act rashly; but I have longed for advice whether it was right to +promote Ethel’s undertaking. I suppose Richard told you how bent on it +she was, long before papa was told of it.” + +“He said it was her great wish, and had been so for a long time past.” + +Margaret, in words more adequate to express the possession the project +had gained of Ethel’s ardent mind, explained the whole history of it. +“I do believe she looks on it as a sort of call,” said she, “and I have +felt as if I ought not to hinder her, and yet I did not know whether it +was right, at her age, to let her undertake so much.” + +“I understand,” said Mr. Wilmot, “but, from what I have seen of Ethel, +I should think you had decided rightly. There seems to me to be such +a spirit of energy in her, that if she does not act, she will either +speculate and theorise, or pine and prey on herself. I do believe that +hard homely work, such as this school-keeping, is the best outlet for +what might otherwise run to extravagance--more especially as you say the +hope of it has already been an incentive to improvement in home duties.” + +“That I am sure it has,” said Margaret. + +“Moreover,” said Mr. Wilmot, “I think you were quite right in thinking +that to interfere with such a design was unsafe. I do believe that a +great deal of harm is done by prudent friends, who dread to let young +people do anything out of the common way, and so force their aspirations +to ferment and turn sour, for want of being put to use.” + +“Still girls are told they ought to wait patiently, and not to be eager +for self-imposed duties.” + +“I am not saying that it is not the appointed discipline for the girls +themselves,” said Mr. Wilmot. “If they would submit, and do their best, +it would doubtless prove the most beneficial thing for them; but it is a +trial in which they often fail, and I had rather not be in the place of +such friends.” + +“It is a great puzzle!” said Margaret, sighing. + +“Ah! I dare say you are often perplexed,” said her friend kindly. + +“Indeed I am. There are so many little details that I cannot be always +teasing papa with, and yet which I do believe form the character more +than the great events, and I never know whether I act for the best. And +there are so many of us, so many duties, I cannot half attend to any. +Lately, I have been giving up almost everything to keep this room quiet +for Norman in the morning, because he was so much harassed and hurt by +bustle and confusion, and I found to-day that things have gone wrong in +consequence.” + +“You must do the best you can, and try to trust that while you work in +the right spirit, your failures will be compensated,” said Mr. Wilmot. +“It is a hard trial.” + +“I like your understanding it,” said Margaret, smiling sadly. “I don’t +know whether it is silly, but I don’t like to be pitied for the wrong +thing. My being so helpless is what every one laments over; but, after +all, that is made up to me by the petting and kindness I get from all +of them; but it is the being mistress of the house, and having to settle +for every one, without knowing whether I do right or wrong, that is my +trouble.” + +“I am not sure, however, that it is right to call it a trouble, though +it is a trial.” + +“I see what you mean,” said Margaret. “I ought to be thankful. I know +it is an honour, and I am quite sure I should be grieved if they did +not all come to me and consult me as they do. I had better not have +complained, and yet I am glad I did, for I like you to understand my +difficulties.” + +“And, indeed, I wish to enter into them, and do or say anything in my +power to help you. But I don’t know anything that can be of so much +comfort as the knowledge that He who laid the burden on you, will help +you to bear it.” + +“Yes,” said Margaret, pausing; and then, with a sweet look, though a +heavy sigh, she said, “It is very odd how things turn out! I always +had a childish fancy that I would be useful and important, but I little +thought how it would be! However, as long as Richard is in the house, +I always feel secure about the others, and I shall soon be downstairs +myself. Don’t you think dear papa in better spirits?” + +“I thought so to-day,”--and here the doctor returned, talking of +Abbotstoke Grange, where he had certainly been much pleased. “It was +a lucky chance,” he said, “that they brought Norman in. It was exactly +what I wanted to rouse and interest him, and he took it all in so well, +that I am sure they were pleased with him. I thought he looked a very +lanky specimen of too much leg and arm when I called him in, but he has +such good manners, and is so ready and understanding, that they +could not help liking him. It was fortunate I had him instead of +Richard--Ritchie is a very good fellow, certainly, but he had rather +look at a steam-engine, any day, than at Raphael himself.” + +Norman had his turn by-and-by. He came up after tea, reporting that papa +was fast asleep in his chair, and the others would go on about Cocksmoor +till midnight, if they were let alone; and made up for his previous +yielding to Ethel, by giving, with much animation, and some excitement, +a glowing description of the Grange, so graphic, that Margaret said she +could almost fancy she had been there. + +“Oh, Margaret, I wonder if you ever will! I would give something for you +to see the beautiful conservatory. It is a real bower for a maiden of +romance, with its rich green fragrance in the midst of winter. It is +like a picture in a dream. One could imagine it a fairy land, where no +care, or grief, or weariness could come, all choice beauty and sweetness +waiting on the creature within. I can hardly believe that it is a real +place, and that I have seen it.” + +“Though you have brought these pretty tokens that your fairy is as good +as she is fair!” said Margaret, smiling. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + + + + EVANS. Peace your tattlings. What is fair, William? + WILLIAM. PULCHER. + QUICKLY. Poulcats! there are fairer things than poulcats sure! + EVANS. I pray you have your remembrance, child, accusative + HING HANG HOG. + QUICKLY. HANG HOG is Latin for bacon, I warrant you. + SHAKESPEARE. + + +In a large family it must often happen, that since every member of it +cannot ride the same hobby, nor at the same time, their several steeds +must sometimes run counter to each other; and so Ethel found it, one +morning when Miss Winter, having a bad cold, had given her an unwonted +holiday. + +Mr. Wilmot had sent a large parcel of books for her to choose from for +Cocksmoor, but this she could not well do without consultation. The +multitude bewildered her, she was afraid of taking too many or too few, +and the being brought to these practical details made her sensible that +though her schemes were very grand and full for future doings, they +passed very lightly over the intermediate ground. The Paulo post fulurum +was a period much more developed in her imagination than the future, +that the present was flowing into. + +Where was her coadjutor, Richard? Writing notes for papa, and not to +be disturbed. She had better have waited tranquilly, but this would not +suit her impatience, and she ran up to Margaret’s room. There she found +a great display of ivy leaves, which Norman, who had been turning +half the shops in the town upside down in search of materials, was +instructing her to imitate in leather-work--a regular mania with him, +and apparently the same with Margaret. + +In came Ethel. “Oh, Margaret, will you look at these ‘First Truths?’ Do +you think they would be easy enough? Shall I take some of the Parables +and Miracles at once, or content myself with the book about ‘Jane +Sparks?’” + +“There’s some very easy reading in ‘Jane Sparks’, isn’t there? I would +not make the little books from the New Testament too common.” + +“Take care, that leaf has five points,” said Norman. + +“Shall I bring you up ‘Jane Sparks’ to see? Because then you can judge,” + said Ethel. + +“There, Norman, is that right?--what a beauty! I should like to look +over them by-and-by, dear Ethel, very much.” + +Ethel gazed and went away, more put out than was usual with her. “When +Margaret has a new kind of fancy work,” she thought, “she cares for +nothing else! as if my poor children did not signify more than trumpery +leather leaves!” She next met Flora. + +“Oh, Flora, see here, what a famous parcel of books Mr. Wilmot has sent +us to choose from.” + +“All those!” said Flora, turning them over as they lay heaped on the +drawing-room sofa; “what a confusion!” + +“See, such a parcel of reading books. I want to know what you think of +setting them up with ‘Jane Sparks’, as it is week-day teaching.” + +“You will be very tired of hearing those spelled over for ever; they +have some nicer books at the national school.” + +“What is the name of them? Do you see any of them here?” + +“No, I don’t think I do, but I can’t wait to look now. I must write some +letters. You had better put them together a little. If you were to sort +them, you would know what is there. Now, what a mess they are in.” + +Ethel could not deny it, and began to deal them out in piles, looking +somewhat more fitting, but still felt neglected and aggrieved, at no one +being at leisure but Harry, who was not likely to be of any use to her. + +Presently she heard the study door open, and hoped; but though it was +Richard who entered the room, he was followed by Tom, and each held +various books that boded little good to her. Miss Winter had, much +to her own satisfaction, been relieved from the charge of Tom, whose +lessons Richard had taken upon himself; and thus Ethel had heard so +little about them for a long time past, that even in her vexation and +desire to have them over, she listened with interest, desirous to judge +what sort of place Tom might be likely to take in school. + +She did not perceive that this made Richard nervous and uneasy. He had a +great dislike to spectators of Latin lessons; he never had forgotten an +unlucky occasion, some years back, when his father was examining him +in the Georgics, and he, dull by nature, and duller by confusion and +timidity, had gone on rendering word for word--enim for, seges a crop, +lini of mud, urit burns, campum the field, avenae a crop of pipe, urit +burns it; when Norman and Ethel had first warned him of the beauty of +his translation by an explosion of laughing, when his father had shut +the book with a bounce, shaken his head in utter despair, and told him +to give up all thoughts of doing anything--and when Margaret had cried +with vexation. Since that time, he had never been happy when any one was +in earshot of a lesson; but to-day he had no escape--Harry lay on the +rug reading, and Ethel sat forlorn over her books on the sofa. Tom, +however, was bright enough, declined his Greek nouns irreproachably, and +construed his Latin so well, that Ethel could not help putting in a word +or two of commendation, and auguring the third form. “Do let him off the +parsing, Ritchie,” said she coaxingly--“he has said it so well, and I +want you so much.” + +“I am afraid I must not,” said Richard; who, to her surprise, did not +look pleased or satisfied with the prosperous translation; “but come, +Tom, you shan’t have many words, if you really know them.” + +Tom twisted and looked rather cross, but when asked to parse the word +viribus, answered readily and correctly. + +“Very well, only two more--affuit?” + +“Third person singular, praeter perfect tense of the verb affo, affis, +affui, affere,” gabbled off Tom with such confidence, that though Ethel +gave an indignant jump, Richard was almost startled into letting it +pass, and disbelieving himself. He remonstrated in a somewhat hesitating +voice. “Did you find that in the dictionary?” said he; “I thought affui +came from adsum.” + +“Oh, to be sure, stupid fool of a word, so it does!” said Tom hastily. +“I had forgot--adsum, ades, affui, adesse.” + +Richard said no more, but proposed the word oppositus. + +“Adjective.” + +Ethel was surprised, for she remembered that it was, in this passage, +part of a passive verb, which Tom had construed correctly, “it was +objected,” and she had thought this very creditable to him, whereas he +now evidently took it for opposite; however, on Richard’s reading the +line, he corrected himself and called it a participle, but did not +commit himself further, till asked for its derivation. + +“From oppositor.” + +“Hallo!” cried Harry, who hitherto had been abstracted in his book, but +now turned, raised himself on his elbow, and, at the blunder, shook his +thick yellow locks, and showed his teeth like a young lion. + +“No, now, Tom, pay attention,” said Richard resignedly. “If you found +out its meaning, you must have seen its derivation.” + +“Oppositus,” said Tom, twisting his fingers, and gazing first at Ethel, +then at Harry, in hopes of being prompted, then at the ceiling and +floor, the while he drawled out the word with a whine, “why, oppositus +from op-posor.” + +“A poser! ain’t it?” said Harry. + +“Don’t, Harry, you distract him,” said Richard. “Come, Tom, say at once +whether you know it or not--it is of no use to invent.” + +“From op-” and a mumble. + +“What? I don’t hear--op--” + +Tom again looked for help to Harry, who made a mischievous movement of +his lips, as if prompting, and, deceived by it, he said boldly, “From +op-possum.” + +“That’s right! let us hear him decline it!” cried Harry, in an ecstasy. +“Oppossum, opottis, opposse, or oh-pottery!” + +“Harry,” said Richard, in a gentle reasonable voice, “I wish you would +be so kind as not to stay, if you cannot help distracting him.” + +And Harry, who really had a tolerable share of forbearance and +consideration, actually obeyed, contenting himself with tossing his book +into the air and catching it again, while he paused at the door to give +his last unsolicited assistance. “Decline oppossum you say. I’ll tell +you how: O-possum re-poses up a gum tree. O-pot-you-I will, says the +O-posse of Yankees, come out to ketch him. Opossum poses them and +declines in O-pot-esse by any manner of means of o-potting-di-do-dum, +was quite oppositum-oppotitu, in fact, quite contrairy.” + +Richard, with the gravity of a victim, heard this sally of schoolboy +wit, which threw Ethel back on the sofa in fits of laughing, and +declaring that the Opossum declined, not that he was declined; but, in +the midst of the disturbance thus created, Tom stepped up to her, and +whispered, “Do tell me, Ethel!” + +“Indeed I shan’t,” said she. “Why don’t you say fairly if you don’t +know?” + +He was obliged to confess his ignorance, and Richard made him conjugate +the whole verb opponor from beginning to end, in which he wanted a good +deal of help. + +Ethel could not help saying, “How did you find out the meaning of that +word, Tom, if you didn’t look out the verb?” + +“I--don’t know,” drawled Tom, in the voice, half sullen, half piteous, +which he always assumed when out of sorts. + +“It is very odd,” she said decidedly; but Richard took no notice, and +proceeded to the other lessons, which went off tolerably well, except +the arithmetic, where there was some great misunderstanding, into which +Ethel did not enter for some time. When she did attend, she perceived +that Tom had brought a right answer, without understanding the working +of the sum, and that Richard was putting him through it. She began to +be worked into a state of dismay and indignation at Tom’s behaviour, and +Richard’s calm indifference, which made her almost forget ‘Jane Sparks’, +and long to be alone with Richard; but all the world kept coming into +the room, and going out, and she could not say what was in her mind till +after dinner, when, seeing Richard go up into Margaret’s room, she ran +after him, and entering it, surprised Margaret, by not beginning on her +books, but saying at once, “Ritchie, I wanted to speak to you about Tom. +I am sure he shuffled about those lessons.” + +“I am afraid he does,” said Richard, much concerned. + +“What, do you mean that it is often so?” + +“Much too often,” said Richard; “but I have never been able to detect +him; he is very sharp, and has some underhand way of preparing his +lessons that I cannot make out.” + +“Did you know it, Margaret?” said Ethel, astonished not to see her +sister looked shocked as well as sorry. + +“Yes,” said Margaret, “Ritchie and I have often talked it over, and +tried to think what was to be done.” + +“Dear me! why don’t you tell papa? It is such a terrible thing!” + +“So it is,” said Margaret, “but we have nothing positive or tangible +to accuse Tom of; we don’t know what he does, and have never caught him +out.” + +“I am sure he must have found out the meaning of that oppositum in some +wrong way--if he had looked it out, he would only have found opposite. +Nothing but opponor could have shown him the rendering which he made.” + +“That’s like what I have said almost every day,” said Richard, “but +there we are--I can’t get any further.” + +“Perhaps he guesses by the context,” said Margaret. + +“It would be impossible to do so always,” said both the Latin scholars +at once. + +“Well, I can’t think how you can take it so quietly,” said Ethel. “I +would have told papa the first moment, and put a stop to it. I have a +great mind to do so, if you won’t. + +“Ethel, Ethel, that would never do!” exclaimed Margaret, “pray don’t. +Papa would be so dreadfully grieved and angry with poor Tom.” + +“Well, so he deserves,” said Ethel. + +“You don’t know what it is to see papa angry,” said Richard. + +“Dear me, Richard!” cried Ethel, who thought she knew pretty well what +his sharp words were. “I’m sure papa never was angry with me, without +making me love him more, and, at least, want to be better.” + +“You are a girl,” said Richard. + +“You are higher spirited, and shake off things faster,” said Margaret. + +“Why, what do you think he would do to Tom?” + +“I think he would be so very angry, that Tom, who, you know, is timid +and meek, would be dreadfully frightened,” said Richard. + +“That’s just what he ought to be, frightened out of these tricks.” + +“I am afraid it would frighten him into them still more,” said Richard, +“and perhaps give him such a dread of my father as would prevent him +from ever being open with him.” + +“Besides, it would make papa so very unhappy,” added Margaret. “Of +course, if poor dear Tom had been found out in any positive deceit, we +ought to mention it at once, and let him be punished; but while it is +all vague suspicion, and of what papa has such a horror of, it would +only grieve him, and make him constantly anxious, without, perhaps, +doing Tom any good.” + +“I think all that is expediency,” said Ethel, in her bluff, abrupt way. + +“Besides,” said Richard, “we have nothing positive to accuse him of, and +if we had, it would be of no use. He will be at school in three weeks, +and there he would be sure to shirk, even if he left it off here. Every +one does, and thinks nothing of it.” + +“Richard!” cried both sisters, shocked. “You never did?” + +“No, we didn’t, but most others do, and not bad fellows either. It is +not the way of boys to think much of those things.” + +“It is mean--it is dishonourable--it is deceitful!” cried Ethel. + +“I know it is very wrong, but you’ll never get the general run of boys +to think so,” said Richard. + +“Then Tom ought not to go to school at all till he is well armed against +it,” said Ethel. + +“That can’t be helped,” said Richard. “He will get clear of it in time, +when he knows better.” + +“I will talk to him,” said Margaret, “and, indeed, I think it would be +better than worrying papa.” + +“Well,” said Ethel, “of course I shan’t tell, because it is not my +business, but I think papa ought to know everything about us, and I +don’t like your keeping anything back. It is being almost as bad as Tom +himself.” + +With which words, as Flora entered, Ethel marched out of the room in +displeasure, and went down, resolved to settle Jane Sparks by herself. + +“Ethel is out of sorts to-day,” said Flora. “What’s the matter?” + +“We have had a discussion,” said Margaret. “She has been terribly +shocked by finding out what we have often thought about poor little Tom, +and she thinks we ought to tell papa. Her principle is quite right, but +I doubt--” + +“I know exactly how Ethel would do it!” cried Flora; “blurt out all on +a sudden, ‘Papa, Tom cheats at his lessons!’ then there would be a +tremendous uproar, papa would scold Tom till he almost frightened him +out of his wits, and then find out it was only suspicion.” + +“And never have any comfort again,” said Margaret. “He would always +dread that Tom was deceiving him, and then think it was all for want +of--Oh, no, it will never do to speak of it, unless we find out some +positive piece of misbehaviour.” + +“Certainly,” said Flora. + +“And it would do Tom no good to make him afraid of papa,” said Richard. + +“Ethel’s rule is right in principle,” said Margaret thoughtfully, “that +papa ought to know all without reserve, and yet it will hardly do in +practice. One must use discretion, and not tease him about every +little thing. He takes them so much to heart, that he would be almost +distracted; and, with so much business abroad, I think at home he should +have nothing but rest, and, as far as we can, freedom from care and +worry. Anything wrong about the children brings on the grief so much, +that I cannot bear to mention it.” + +Richard and Flora agreed with her, admiring the spirit which made her, +in her weakness and helplessness, bear the whole burden of family cares +alone, and devote herself entirely to spare her father. He was, indeed, +her first object, and she would have sacrificed anything to give him +ease of mind; but, perhaps, she regarded him more as a charge of +her own, than as, in very truth, the head of the family. She had the +government in her hands, and had never been used to see him exercise it +much in detail (she did not know how much her mother had referred to +him in private), and had succeeded to her authority at a time when his +health and spirits were in such a state as to make it doubly needful to +spare him. It was no wonder that she sometimes carried her consideration +beyond what was strictly right, and forgot that he was the real +authority, more especially as his impulsive nature sometimes carried him +away, and his sound judgment was not certain to come into play at +the first moment, so that it required some moral courage to excite +displeasure, so easy of manifestation; and of such courage there was, +perhaps, a deficiency in her character. Nor had she yet detected her own +satisfaction in being the first with every one in the family. + +Ethel was put out, as Flora had discovered, and when she was downstairs +she found it out, and accused herself of having been cross to Margaret, +and unkind to Tom--of wishing to be a tell-tale. But still, though +displeased with herself, she was dissatisfied with Margaret; it might +be right, but it did not agree with her notions. She wanted to see every +one uncompromising, as girls of fifteen generally do; she had an intense +disgust and loathing of underhand ways, could not bear to think of +Tom’s carrying them on, and going to a place of temptation with them +uncorrected; and she looked up to her father with the reverence and +enthusiasm of one like minded. + +She was vexed on another score. Norman came home from Abbotstoke Grange +without having seen Miss Rivers, but with a fresh basket of choice +flowers, rapturous descriptions of Mr. Rivers’s prints, and a present +of an engraving, in shading, such as to give the effect of a cast, of +a very fine head of Alexander. Nothing was to be thought of but a frame +for this--olive, bay, laurel, everything appropriate to the conqueror. +Margaret and Norman were engrossed in the subject, and, to Ethel, who +had no toleration for fancy work, who expected everything to be either +useful or intellectual, this seemed very frivolous. She heard her +father say how glad he was to see Norman interested and occupied, and +certainly, though it was only in leather leaves, it was better than +drooping and attending to nothing. She knew, too, that Margaret did it +for his sake, but, said Ethel to herself, “It was very odd that people +should find amusement in such things. Margaret always had a turn for +them, but it was very strange in Norman.” + +Then came the pang of finding out that this was aggravated by the +neglect of herself; she called it all selfishness, and felt that she had +had an uncomfortable, unsatisfactory day, with everything going wrong. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + + + + Gently supported by the ready aid + Of loving hands, whose little work of toil + Her grateful prodigality repaid + With all the benediction of her smile, + She turned her failing feet + To the softly cushioned seat, + Dispensing kindly greetings all the time. + R. M. MILNES. + + +Three great events signalised the month of January. The first was, the +opening of the school at Cocksmoor, whither a cart transported half +a dozen forms, various books, and three dozen plum-buns, Margaret’s +contribution, in order that the school might begin with eclat. There +walked Mr. Wilmot, Richard, and Flora, with Mary, in a jumping, capering +state of delight, and Ethel, not knowing whether she rejoiced. She +kept apart from the rest, and hardly spoke, for this long probation had +impressed her with a sense of responsibility, and she knew that it was +a great work to which she had set her hand--a work in which she must +persevere, and in which she could not succeed in her own strength. + +She took hold of Flora’s hand, and squeezed it hard, in a fit of +shyness, when they came upon the hamlet, and saw the children watching +for them; and when they reached the house, she would fain have shrank +into nothing; there was a swelling of heart that seemed to overwhelm and +stifle her, and the effect of which was to keep her standing unhelpful, +when the others were busy bringing in the benches and settling the room. + +It was a tidy room, but it seemed very small when they ranged the +benches, and opened the door to the seven-and-twenty children, and the +four or five women who stood waiting. Ethel felt some dismay when they +all came pushing in, without order or civility, and would have been +utterly at a loss what to do with her scholars now she had got them, if +Richard and Flora had not marshalled them to the benches. + +Rough heads, torn garments, staring vacant eyes, and mouths gaping in +shy rudeness--it was a sight to disenchant her of visions of pleasure in +the work she had set herself. It was well that she had not to take the +initiative. + +Mr. Wilmot said a few simple words to the mothers about the wish to +teach their children what was right, and to do the best at present +practicable; and then told the children that he hoped they would take +pains to be good, and mind what they were taught. Then he desired all +to kneel down; he said the Collect, “Prevent us, O Lord, in all our +doings,” and then the Lord’s Prayer. + +Ethel felt as if she could bear it better, and was more up to the work +after this. Next, the children were desired to stand round the room, and +Mr. Wilmot tried who could say the Catechism--the two biggest, a boy and +a girl, had not an idea of it, and the boy looked foolish, and grinned +at being asked what was his name. One child was tolerably perfect, and +about half a dozen had some dim notions. Three were entirely ignorant of +the Lord’s Prayer, and many of the others did not by any means pronounce +the words of it. Jane and Fanny Taylor, Rebekah Watts, and Mrs. Green’s +little boy, were the only ones who, by their own account, used morning +and evening prayers, though, on further examination, it appeared that +Polly and Jenny Hall, and some others, were accustomed to repeat the old +rhyme about “Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John,” and Una M’Carthy and her +little brother Fergus said something that nobody could make out, but +which Mr. Wilmot thought had once been an “Ave Maria.” + +Some few of the children could read, and several more knew their +letters. The least ignorant were selected to form a first class, and Mr. +Wilmot promised a Prayer-book to the first who should be able to repeat +the Catechism without a mistake, and a Bible to the first who could read +a chapter in it. + +Then followed a setting of tasks, varying from a verse of a Psalm, or +the first answer in the Catechism, down to the distinction between A, +B, and C; all to be ready by next Tuesday, when, weather permitting, +a second lesson was to be given. Afterwards, a piece of advice of +Margaret’s was followed, and Flora read aloud to the assembly the story +of “Margaret Fletcher.” To some this seemed to give great satisfaction, +especially to Una, but Ethel was surprised to see that many, and those +not only little ones, talked and yawned. They had no power of attention +even to a story, and the stillness was irksome to such wild colts. It +was plain that it was time to leave off, and there was no capacity there +which did not find the conclusion agreeable, when the basket was opened, +and Ethel and Mary distributed the buns, with instructions to say, +“thank you.” + +The next Tuesday, some of the lessons were learned, Una’s perfectly, the +big ignorant boy came no more; and some of the children had learned to +behave better, while others behaved worse; Ethel began to know what she +was about; Richard’s gentleness was eminently successful with the little +girls, impressing good manners on them in a marvellous way; and Mary’s +importance and happiness with alphabet scholars, some bigger than +herself, were edifying. Cocksmoor was fairly launched. + +The next memorable day was that of Margaret’s being first carried +downstairs. She had been willing to put it off as long as she could, +dreading to witness the change below-stairs, and feeling, too, that in +entering on the family room, without power of leaving it, she was losing +all quiet and solitude, as well as giving up that monopoly of her father +in his evenings, which had been her great privilege. + +However, she tried to talk herself into liking it; and was rewarded +by the happy commotion it caused, though Dr. May was in a state of +excitement and nervousness at the prospect of seeing her on the stairs, +and his attempts to conceal it only made it worse, till Margaret knew +she should be nervous herself, and wished him out of sight and out of +the house till it was over, for without him she had full confidence in +the coolness and steadiness of Richard, and by him it was safely and +quietly accomplished. She was landed on the sofa, Richard and Flora +settling her, and the others crowding round and exclaiming, while the +newness of the scene and the change gave her a sense of confusion, and +she shut her eyes to recover her thoughts, but opened them the next +instant at her father’s exclamation that she was overcome, smiled to +reassure him, and declared herself not tired, and to be very glad to be +among them again. But the bustle was oppressive, and her cheerful manner +was an effort; she longed to see them all gone, and Flora found it +out, sent the children for their walk, and carried off Ethel and the +brothers. + +Dr. May was called out of the room at the same time, and she was left +alone. She gazed round her, at the room where, four months before, she +had seen her mother with the babe in her arms, the children clustered +round her, her father exulting in his hen-and-chicken daisies, herself +full of bright undefined hope, radiant with health and activity, and her +one trouble such that she now knew the force of her mother’s words, that +it only proved her happiness. It was not till that moment that Margaret +realised the change; found her eyes filling with tears, as she looked +round, and saw the familiar furniture and ornaments. + +They were instantly checked as she heard her father returning, but not +so that he did not perceive them, and exclaim that it had been too much +for her. “Oh, no--it was only the first time,” said Margaret, losing the +sense of the painful vacancy in her absorbing desire not to distress her +father, and thinking only of him as she watched him standing for some +minutes leaning on the mantel-shelf with his hand shading his forehead. + +She began to speak as soon as she thought he was ready to have his mind +turned away: “How nicely Ritchie managed! He carried me so comfortably +and easily. It is enough to spoil me to be so deftly waited on.” + +“I’m glad of it,” said Dr. May; “I am sure the change is better for +you;” but he came and looked at her still with great solicitude. + +“Ritchie can take excellent care of me,” she continued, most anxious +to divert his thoughts. “You see it will do very well indeed for you to +take Harry to school.” + +“I should like to do so. I should like to see his master, and to take +Norman with me,” said the doctor. “It would be just the thing for him +now--we would show him the dockyard, and all those matters, and such a +thorough holiday would set him up again.” + +“He is very much better.” + +“Much better--he is recovering spirits and tone very fast. That +leaf-work of yours came at a lucky time. I like to see him looking out +for a curious fern in the hedgerows--the pursuit has quite brightened +him up.” + +“And he does it so thoroughly,” said Margaret. “Ethel fancies it is +rather frivolous of him, I believe; but it amuses me to see how men give +dignity to what women make trifling. He will know everything about the +leaves, hunts up my botany books, and has taught me a hundred times more +of the construction and wonders of them than I ever learned.” + +“Ay,” said the doctor, “he has been talking a good deal to me about +vegetable chemistry. He would make a good scientific botanist, if +he were to be nothing else. I should be glad if he sticks to it as a +pursuit--‘tis pretty work, and I should like to have gone further with +it, if I had ever had time for it.” + +“I dare say he will,” said Margaret. “It will be very pleasant if he can +go with you. How he would enjoy the British Museum, if there was time +for him to see it! Have you said anything to him yet?” + +“No; I waited to see how you were, as it all depends on that.” + +“I think it depends still more on something else; whether Norman is as +fit to take care of you as Richard is.” + +“That’s another point. There’s nothing but what he could manage now, but +I don’t like saying anything to him. I know he would undertake anything +I wished, without a word, and then, perhaps, dwell on it in fancy, and +force himself, till it would turn to a perfect misery, and upset his +nerves again. I’m sorry for it. I meant him to have followed my trade, +but he’ll never do for that. However, he has wits enough to make himself +what he pleases, and I dare say he will keep at the head of the school +after all.” + +“How very good he has been in refraining from restlessness!” + +“It’s beautiful!” said Dr. May, with strong emotion. “Poor boy! I trust +he’ll not be disappointed, and I don’t think he will; but I’ve promised +him I won’t be annoyed if he should lose his place--so we must take +especial care not to show any anxiety. However, for this matter, +Margaret, I wish you would sound him, and see whether it would be more +pleasure or pain. Only mind you don’t let him think that I shall be +vexed, if he feels that he can’t make up his mind; I would not have him +fancy that, for more than I can tell.” + +This consultation revived the spirits of both; and the others returning, +found Margaret quite disposed for companionship. If to her the evening +was sad and strange, like a visit in a dream to some old familiar haunt, +finding all unnatural, to the rest it was delightful. The room was no +longer dreary, now that there was a centre for care and attentions, and +the party was no longer broken up--the sense of comfort, cheerfulness, +and home-gathering had returned, and the pleasant evening household +gossip went round the table almost as it used to do. Dr. May resumed +his old habit of skimming a club book, and imparting the cream to the +listeners; and Flora gave them some music, a great treat to Margaret, +who had long only heard its distant sounds. + +Margaret found an opportunity of talking to Norman, and judged +favourably. He was much pleased at the prospect of the journey, and of +seeing a ship, so as to have a clearer notion of the scene where Harry’s +life was to be spent, and though the charge of the arm was a drawback, +he did not treat it as insurmountable. + +A few days’ attendance in his father’s room gave him confidence in +taking Richard’s place, and, accordingly, the third important measure +was decided on, namely, that he and his father should accompany Harry +to the naval school, and be absent three nights. Some relations would be +glad to receive them in London, and Alan Ernescliffe, who was studying +steam navigation at Woolwich, volunteered to meet them, and go with them +to Portsmouth. + +It was a wonderful event; Norman and Harry had never been beyond +Whitford in their lives, and none of the young ones could recollect +their papa’s ever going from home for more than one night. Dr. May +laughed at Margaret for her anxiety and excitement on the subject, and +was more amused at overhearing Richard’s precise directions to Norman +over the packing up. + +“Ay, Ritchie,” said the doctor, as he saw his portmanteau locked, and +the key given to Norman, “you may well look grave upon it. You won’t see +it look so tidy when it comes back again, and I believe you are thinking +it will be lucky if you see it at all.” + +There was a very affectionate leave-taking of Harry, who, growing rather +soft-hearted, thought it needful to be disdainful, scolded Mary and +Blanche for “lugging off his figure-head,” and assured them they made +as much work about it as if he was going to sea at once. Then, to put +an end to any more embraces, he marched off to the station with Tom, +and nearly caused the others to be too late, by the search for him that +ensued. + +In due time, Dr. May and Norman returned, looking the better for the +journey. There was, first, to tell of Harry’s school and its master, and +Alan Ernescliffe’s introduction of him to a nice-looking boy of his +own age; then they were eloquent on the wonders of the dockyard, the +Victory, the block machinery. And London--while Dr. May went to transact +some business, Norman had been with Alan at the British Museum, and +though he had intended to see half London besides, there was no tearing +him away from the Elgin marbles; and nothing would serve him, but +bringing Dr. May the next morning to visit the Ninevite bulls. Norman +further said, that whereas papa could never go out of his house +without meeting people who had something to say to him, it was the same +elsewhere. Six acquaintances he had met unexpectedly in London, and two +at Portsmouth. + +So the conversation went on all the evening, to the great delight of +all. It was more about things than people, though Flora inquired after +Mr. Ernescliffe, and was told he had met them at the station, had been +everywhere with them, and had dined at the Mackenzies’ each day. “How +was he looking?” Ethel asked; and was told pretty much the same as when +he went away; and, on a further query from Flora, it appeared that an +old naval friend of his father’s had hopes of a ship, and had promised +to have him with him, and thereupon warm hopes were expressed that Harry +might have a berth in the same. + +“And when is he coming here again, papa?” said Ethel. + +“Eh! oh! I can’t tell. I say, isn’t it high time to ring?” + +When they went up at night, every one felt that half the say had +not been said, and there were fresh beginnings on the stairs. Norman +triumphantly gave the key to Richard, and then called to Ethel, “I say, +won’t you come into my room while I unpack?” + +“Oh, yes, I should like it very much.” + +Ethel sat on the bed, rolled up in a cloak, while Norman undid his bag, +announcing at the same time, “Well, Ethel, papa says I may get to my +Euripides to-morrow, if I please, and only work an hour at a time!” + +“Oh, I am so glad. Then he thinks you quite well?” + +“Yes, I am quite well. I hope I’ve done with nonsense.” + +“And how did you get on with his arm?” + +“Very well--he was so patient, and told me how to manage. You heard that +Sir Matthew said it had got much better in these few weeks. Oh, here it +is! There’s a present for you.” + +“Oh, thank you. From you, or from papa?” + +“This is mine. Papa has a present for every one in his bag. He said, at +last, that a man with eleven children hadn’t need to go to London very +often.” + +“And you got this beautiful ‘Lyra Innocentium’ for me? How very kind +of you, Norman. It is just what I wished for. Such lovely binding--and +those embossed edges to the leaves. Oh! they make a pattern as they +open! I never saw anything like it.” + +“I saw such a one on Miss Rivers’s table, and asked Ernescliffe where to +get one like it. See, here’s what my father gave me.” + +“‘Bishop Ken’s Manual’. That is in readiness for the Confirmation.” + +“Look. I begged him to put my name, though he said it was a pity to do +it with his left hand; I didn’t like to wait, so I asked him at least to +write N. W. May, and the date.” + +“And he has added Prov. xxiii. 24, 25. Let me look it out.” She did +so, and instead of reading it aloud, looked at Norman full of +congratulation. + +“How it ought to make one--” and there Norman broke off from the +fullness of his heart. + +“I’m glad he put both verses” said Ethel presently. “How pleased with +you he must be!” + +A silence while brother and sister both gazed intently at the crooked +characters, till at last Ethel, with a long breath, resumed her ordinary +tone, and said, “How well he has come to write with his left hand now.” + +“Yes. Did you know that he wrote himself to tell Ernescliffe Sir +Matthew’s opinion of Margaret?” + +“No: did he?” + +“Do you know, Ethel,” said Norman, as he knelt on the floor, and tumbled +miscellaneous articles out of his bag, “it is my belief that Ernescliffe +is in love with her, and that papa thinks so.” + +“Dear me!” cried Ethel, starting up. “That is famous. We should always +have Margaret at home when he goes to sea!” + +“But mind, Ethel, for your life you must not say one word to any living +creature.” + +“Oh, no, I promise you I won’t, Norman, if you’ll only tell me how you +found it out.” + +“What first put it in my head was the first evening, while I was undoing +the portmanteau; my father leaned on the mantel-shelf, and sighed and +muttered, ‘Poor Ernescliffe! I wish it may end well.’ I thought he +forgot that I was there, so I would not seem to notice, but I soon saw +it was that he meant.” + +“How?” cried Ethel eagerly. + +“Oh, I don’t know--by Alan’s way.” + +“Tell me--I want to know what people do when they are in love.” + +“Nothing particular,” said Norman, smiling. + +“Did you hear him inquire for her? How did he look?” + +“I can’t tell. That was when he met us at the station before I thought +of it, and I had to see to the luggage. But I’ll tell you one thing, +Ethel; when papa was talking of her to Mrs. Mackenzie, at the other end +of the room, all his attention went away in an instant from what he was +saying. And once, when Harry said something to me about her, he started, +and looked round so earnestly.” + +“Oh, yes--that’s like people in books. And did he colour?” + +“No; I don’t recollect that he did,” said Norman; “but I observed he +never asked directly after her if he could help it, but always was +trying to lead, in some round-about way, to hearing what she was doing.” + +“Did he call her Margaret?” + +“I watched; but to me he always said, ‘Your sister,’ and if he had to +speak of her to papa, he said, ‘Miss May.’ And then you should have seen +his attention to papa. I could hardly get a chance of doing anything for +papa.” + +“Oh, sure of it!” cried Ethel, clasping her hands. “But, poor man, how +unhappy he must have been at having to go away when she was so ill!” + +“Ay, the last time he saw her was when he carried her upstairs.” + +“Oh, dear! I hope he will soon come here again!” + +“I don’t suppose he will. Papa did not ask him.” + +“Dear me, Norman! Why not? Isn’t papa very fond of him? Why shouldn’t he +come?” + +“Don’t you see, Ethel, that would be of no use while poor Margaret is no +better. If he gained her affections, it would only make her unhappy.” + +“Oh, but she is much better. She can raise herself up now without +help, and sat up ever so long this morning, without leaning back on her +cushions. She is getting well--you know Sir Matthew said she would.” + +“Yes; but I suppose papa thinks they had better say nothing till she is +quite well.” + +“And when she is! How famous it will be.” + +“Then there’s another thing; he is very poor, you know.” + +“I am sure papa doesn’t care about people being rich.” + +“I suppose Alan thinks he ought not to marry, unless he could make his +wife comfortable.” + +“Look here--it would be all very easy: she should stay with us, and be +comfortable here, and he go to sea, and get lots of prize money.” + +“And that’s what you call domestic felicity!” said Norman, laughing. + +“He might have her when he was at home,” said Ethel. + +“No, no; that would never do,” said Norman. “Do you think Ernescliffe’s +a man that would marry a wife for her father to maintain her?” + +“Why, papa would like it very much. He is not a mercenary father in a +book.” + +“Hey! what’s that?” said a voice Ethel little expected. “Contraband talk +at contraband times? What’s this!” + +“Did you hear, papa?” said Ethel, looking down. + +“Only your last words, as I came up to ask Norman what he had done with +my pocket-book. Mind, I ask no impertinent questions; but, if you have +no objection, I should like to know what gained me the honour of that +compliment.” + +“Norman?” said Ethel interrogatively, and blushing in emulation of her +brother, who was crimson. + +“I’ll find it,” said he, rushing off with a sort of nod and sign, that +conveyed to Ethel that there was no help for it. + +So, with much confusion, she whispered into her papa’s ear that Norman +had been telling her something he guessed about Mr. Ernescliffe. + +Her father at first smiled, a pleased amused smile. “Ah! ha! so Master +June has his eyes and ears open, has he? A fine bit of gossip to regale +you with on his return!” + +“He told me to say not one word,” said Ethel. + +“Right--mind you don’t,” said Dr. May, and Ethel was surprised to see +how sorrowful his face became. At the same moment Norman returned, +still very red, and said, “I’ve put out the pocket-book, papa. I think +I should tell you I repeated what, perhaps, you did not mean me to +hear--you talked to yourself something of pitying Ernescliffe.” The +doctor smiled again at the boy’s high-minded openness, which must have +cost an effort of self-humiliation. “I can’t say little pitchers have +long ears, to a May-pole like you, Norman,” said he; “I think I ought +rather to apologise for having inadvertently tumbled in among your +secrets; I assure you I did not come to spy you.” + +“Oh, no, no, no, no!” repeated Ethel vehemently. “Then you didn’t mind +our talking about it?” + +“Of course not, as long as it goes no further. It is the use of sisters +to tell them one’s private sentiments. Is not it, Norman?” + +“And do you really think it is so, papa?” Ethel could not help +whispering. + +“I’m afraid it is”, said Dr. May, sighing; then, as he caught her +earnest eyes, “The more I see of Alan, the finer fellow I think him, +and the more sorry I am for him. It seems presumptuous, almost wrong, to +think of the matter at all while my poor Margaret is in this state; and, +if she were well, there are other difficulties which would, perhaps, +prevent his speaking, or lead to long years of waiting and wearing out +hope.” + +“Money?” said Ethel. + +“Ay! Though I so far deserve your compliment, miss, that should be +foolish enough, if she were but well, to give my consent to-morrow, +because I could not help it; yet one can’t live forty-six years in +this world without seeing it is wrong to marry without a reasonable +dependence--and there won’t be much among eleven of you. It makes my +heart ache to think of it, come what may, as far as I can see, and +without her to judge. The only comfort is, that poor Margaret herself +knows nothing of it, and is at peace so far. It will be ordered for +them, anyhow. Good-night, my dear.” + +Ethel sought her room, with graver, deeper thoughts of life than she had +carried upstairs. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + + + + Saw ye never in the meadows, + Where your little feet did pass, + Down below, the sweet white daisies + Growing in the long green grass? + + Saw you never lilac blossoms, + Or acacia white and red, + Waving brightly in the sunshine, + On the tall trees over head? + HYMNS FOR CHILDREN, C. F. A. + + +“My dear child, what a storm you have had! how wet you must be!” + exclaimed Mrs. Larpent, as Meta Rivers came bounding up the broad +staircase at Abbotstoke Grange. + +“Oh no; I am quite dry; feel.” + +“Are you sure?” said Mrs. Larpent, drawing her darling into a luxurious +bedroom, lighted up by a glowing fire, and full of pretty things. “Here, +come and take off your wet things, my dear, and Bellairs shall bring you +some tea.” + +“I’m dry. I’m warm,” said Meta, tossing off her plumy hat, as she +established herself, with her feet on the fender. “But where do you +think I have been? You have so much to hear. But first--three guesses +where we were in the rain!” + +“In the Stoneborough Cloisters, that you wanted to see? My dear, you did +not keep your papa in the cold there?” + +“No, no; we never got there at all; guess again.” + +“At Mr. Edward Wilmot’s?” + +“No!” + +“Could it have been at Dr. May’s? Really, then, you must tell me.” + +“There! you deserve a good long story; beginning at the beginning,” said +Meta, clapping her hands, “wasn’t it curious? as we were coming up the +last hill, we met some girls in deep mourning, with a lady who looked +like their governess. I wondered whether they could be Dr. May’s +daughters, and so it turned out they were. + +“Presently there began to fall little square lumps, neither hail, nor +snow, nor rain; it grew very cold, and rain came on. It would have been +great fun, if I had not been afraid papa would catch cold, and he said +we would canter on to the inn. But, luckily, there was Dr. May walking +up the street, and he begged us to come into his house. I was so glad! +We were tolerably wet, and Dr. May said something about hoping the girls +were at home; well, when he opened the drawing-room door, there was the +poor daughter lying on the sofa.” + +“Poor girl! tell me of her.” + +“Oh! you must go and see her; you won’t look at her without losing your +heart. Papa liked her so much--see if he does not talk of her all the +evening. She looks the picture of goodness and sweetness. Only think +of her having some of the maidenhair and cape jessamine still in water, +that we sent her so long ago. She shall have some flowers every three +days. Well, Dr. May said, ‘There is one at least, that is sure to be +at home.’ She felt my habit, and said I must go and change it, and +she called to a little thing of six, telling her to show me the way to +Flora. She smiled, and said she wished she could go herself, but Flora +would take care of me. Little Blanche came and took hold of my hand, +chattering away, up we went, up two staircases, and at the top of the +last stood a girl about seventeen, so pretty! such deep blue eyes, and +such a complexion! ‘That’s Flora,’ little Blanche said; ‘Flora, this is +Miss Rivers, and she’s wet, and Margaret says you are to take care of +her.’” + +“So that was your introduction?” + +“Yes; we got acquainted in a minute. She took me into her room--such a +room! I believe Bellairs would be angry if she had such a one; all up +in the roof, no fire, no carpet, except little strips by the beds; there +were three beds. Flora used to sleep there till Miss May was ill, and +now she dresses there. Yet I am sure they are as much ladies as I am.” + +“You are an only daughter, my dear, and a petted one,” said Mrs. +Larpent, smiling. “There are too many of them to make much of, as we do +of our Meta.” + +“I suppose so; but I did not know gentlewomen lived in such a way,” + said Meta. “There were nice things about, a beautiful inlaid work-box of +Flora’s, and a rosewood desk, and plenty of books, and a Greek book and +dictionary were spread open. I asked Flora if they were hers, and she +laughed and said no; and that Ethel would be much discomposed that I had +see them. Ethel keeps up with her brother Norman--only fancy! and he at +the head of the school. How clever she must be!” + +“But, my dear, were you standing in your wet things all this time!” + +“No; I was trying on their frocks, but they trailed on the ground upon +me, so she asked if I would come and sit by the nursery fire till my +habit was dry; and there was a dear little good-humoured baby, so fair +and pretty. She is not a bit shy, will go to anybody, but, they say, she +likes no one so well as her brother Norman.” + +“So you had a regular treat of baby-nursing.” + +“That I had; I could not part with her, the darling. Flora thought we +might take her down, and I liked playing with her in the drawing-room +and talking to Miss May, till the fly came to take us home. I wanted to +have seen Ethel; but, only think, papa has asked Dr. May to bring Flora +some day; how I hope he will!” + +Little Meta having told her story, and received plenty of sympathy, +proceeded to dress, and, while her maid braided her hair, a musing fit +fell upon her. “I have seen something of life to-day,” thought she. “I +had thought of the great difference between us and the poor, but I did +not know ladies lived in such different ways. I should be very miserable +without Bellairs, or without a fire in my room. I don’t know what I +should do if I had to live in that cold, shabby den, and do my own hair, +yet they think nothing of it, and they are cultivated and ladylike! Is +it all fancy, and being brought up to it? I wonder if it is right? Yet +dear papa likes me to have these things, and can afford them. I never +knew I was luxurious before, and yet I think I must be! One thing I do +wish, and that is, that I was of as much use as those girls. I ought to +be. I am a motherless girl like them, and I ought to be everything to +papa, just as Miss May is, even lying on the sofa there, and only two +years older than I am. I don’t think I am of any use at all; he is fond +of me, of course, dear papa; and if I died, I don’t know what would +become of him; but that’s only because I am his daughter--he has only +George besides to care for. But, really and truly, he would get on as +well without me. I never do anything for him, but now and then playing +to him in the evening, and that not always, I am afraid, when I want +to be about anything else. He is always petting me, and giving me all I +want, but I never do anything but my lessons, and going to the school, +and the poor people, and that is all pleasure. I have so much that I +never miss what I give away. I wonder whether it is all right! Leonora +and Agatha have not so much money to do as they please with--they are +not so idolised. George said, when he was angry, that papa idolises +me; but they have all these comforts and luxuries, and never think of +anything but doing what they like. They never made me consider as these +Mays do. I should like to know them more. I do so much want a friend of +my own age. It is the only want I have. I have tried to make a friend of +Leonora, but I cannot; she never cares for what I do. If she saw these +Mays she would look down on them. Dear Mrs. Larpent is better than any +one, but then she is so much older. Flora May shall be my friend. I’ll +make her call me Meta as soon as she comes. When will it be? The day +after tomorrow?” + +But little Meta watched in vain. Dr. May always came with either Richard +or the groom, to drive him, and if Meta met him and hoped he would bring +Flora next time, he only answered that Flora would like it very much, +and he hoped soon to do so. + +The truth was, it was no such everyday matter as Meta imagined. The +larger carriage had been broken, and the only vehicle held only the +doctor--his charioteer--and in a very minute appendage behind, a small +son of the gardener, to open gates, and hold the horse. + +The proposal had been one of those general invitations to be fulfilled +at any time, and therefore easily set aside; and Dr. May, though +continually thinking he should like to take his girls to Abbotstoke, +never saw the definite time for so doing; and Flora herself, though +charmed with Miss Rivers, and delighted with the prospect of visiting +her, only viewed it as a distant prospect. + +There was plenty of immediate interest to occupy them at home, to say +nothing of the increasing employment that Cocksmoor gave to thoughts, +legs, and needles. There was the commencement of the half-year, when +Tom’s schoolboy life was to begin, and when it would be proved whether +Norman were able to retain his elevation. + +Margaret had much anxiety respecting the little boy about to be sent +into a scene of temptation. Her great confidence was in Richard, who +told her that boys did many more wrong things than were known at home, +and yet turned out very well, and that Tom would be sure to right +himself in the end. Richard had been blameless in his whole school +course, but though never partaking of the other boys’ evil practices, +he could not form an independent estimate of character, and his tone had +been a little hurt, by sharing the school public opinion of morality. He +thought Stoneborough and its temptations inevitable, and only wished to +make the best of it. Margaret was afraid to harass her father by laying +the case before him. All her brothers had gone safely through the +school, and it never occurred to her that it was possible that, if her +father knew the bias of Tom’s disposition, he might choose, for the +present, at least, some other mode of education. + +She talked earnestly to Tom, and he listened impatiently. There is an +age when boys rebel against female rule, and are not yet softened by the +chivalry of manhood, and Tom was at this time of life. He did not like +to be lectured by a sister, secretly disputed her right, and, proud of +becoming a schoolboy, had not the generous deference for her weakness +felt by his elder brothers; he was all the time peeling a stick, as +if to show that he was not attending, and he raised up his shoulder +pettishly whenever she came to a mention of the religious duty of +sincerity. She did not long continue her advice, and, much disappointed +and concerned, tried to console herself with hoping that he might have +heeded more than he seemed to do. + +He was placed tolerably high in the school, and Norman, who had the +first choice of fags, took him instead of Hector Ernescliffe, who had +just passed beyond the part of the school liable to be fagged. He said +he liked school, looked bright when he came home in the evenings, and +the sisters hoped all was right. + +Every one was just now anxiously watching Norman, especially his father, +who strove in vain to keep back all manifestation of his earnest desire +to see him retain his post. Resolutely did the doctor refrain from +asking any questions, when the boys came in, but he could not keep his +eyes from studying the face, to see whether it bore marks of mental +fatigue, and from following him about the room, to discover whether he +found it necessary, as he had done last autumn, to spend the evening in +study. It was no small pleasure to see him come in with his hand full of +horse-chestnut and hazel-buds, and proceed to fetch the microscope and +botany books, throwing himself eagerly into the study of the wonders +of their infant forms, searching deeply into them with Margaret, and +talking them over with his father, who was very glad to promote the +pursuit--one in which he had always taken great interest. + +Another night Dr. May was for a moment disturbed by seeing the +school-books put out, but Norman had only some notes to compare, and +while he did so, he was remarking on Flora’s music, and joining in the +conversation so freely as to prove it was no labour to him. In truth, +he was evidently quite recovered, entirely himself again, except that he +was less boyish. He had been very lively and full of merry nonsense; but +his ardour for play had gone off with his high spirits, and there was +a manliness of manner, and tone of mind, that made him appear above his +real age. + +At the end of a fortnight he volunteered to tell his father that all +was right. “I am not afraid of not keeping my place,” he said; “you were +quite right, papa. I am more up to my work than I was ever before, and +it comes to me quite fresh and pleasant. I don’t promise to get the +Randall scholarship, if Forder and Cheviot stay on, but I can quite keep +up to the mark in school work.” + +“That’s right,” said Dr. May, much rejoiced. “Are you sure you do it +with ease, and without its haunting you at night?” + +“Oh, yes; quite sure. I can’t think what has made Dr. Hoxton set us on +in such easy things this time. It is very lucky for me, for one gets so +much less time to oneself as dux.” + +“What! with keeping order?” + +“Ay,” said Norman. “I fancy they think they may take liberties because I +am new and young. I must have my eye in all corners of the hall at once, +and do my own work by snatches, as I can.” + +“Can you make them attend to you?” + +“Why, yes, pretty well, when it comes to the point--‘will you, or will +you not?’ Cheviot is a great help, too, and has all the weight of being +the eldest fellow amongst us.” + +“But still you find it harder work than learning? You had rather have to +master the dead language than the live tongues?” + +“A pretty deal,” said Norman; then added, “One knows what to be at with +the dead, better than with the living; they don’t make parties against +one. I don’t wonder at it. It was very hard on some of those great +fellows to have me set before them, but I do not think it is fair to +visit it by putting up the little boys to all sorts of mischief.” + +“Shameful!” said the doctor warmly; “but never mind, Norman, keep your +temper, and do your own duty, and you are man enough to put down such +petty spite.” + +“I hope I shall manage rightly,” said Norman; “but I shall be glad if I +can get the Randall and get away to Oxford; school is not what it used +to be, and if you don’t think me too young--” + +“No, I don’t; certainly not. Trouble has made a man of you, Norman, and +you are fitter to be with men than boys. In the meantime, if you can +be patient with these fellows, you’ll be of great use where you are. If +there had been any one like you at the head of the school in my time, it +would have kept me out of no end of scrapes. How does Tom get on? he is +not likely to fall into this set, I trust.” + +“I am not sure,” said Norman; “he does pretty well on the whole. Some +of them began by bullying him, and that made him cling to Cheviot and +Ernescliffe, and the better party; but lately I have thought Anderson, +junior, rather making up to him, and I don’t know whether they don’t +think that tempting him over to them would be the surest way of vexing +me. I have an eye over him, and I hope he may get settled into the +steadier sort before next half.” + +After a silence, Norman said, “Papa, there is a thing I can’t settle in +my own mind. Suppose there had been wrong things done when older boys, +and excellent ones too, were at the head of the school, yet they never +interfered, do you think I ought to let it go on?” + +“Certainly not, or why is power given to you?” + +“So I thought,” said Norman; “I can’t see it otherwise. I wish I could, +for it will be horrid to set about it, and they’ll think it a regular +shame in me to meddle. Oh! I know what I came into the study for; I +want you to be so kind as to lend me your pocket Greek Testament. I gave +Harry my little one.” + +“You are very welcome. What do you want it for?” + +Norman coloured. “I met with a sermon the other day that recommended +reading a bit of it every day, and I thought I should like to try, now +the Confirmation is coming. One can always have some quiet by getting +away into the cloister.” + +“Bless you, my boy! while you go on in this way, I have not much fear +but that you’ll know how to manage.” + +Norman’s rapid progress affected another of the household in an +unexpected way. + +“Margaret, my dear, I wish to speak to you,” said Miss Winter, +reappearing when Margaret thought every one was gone out walking. +She would have said, “I am very sorry for it”--so ominous was the +commencement--and her expectations were fulfilled when Miss Winter had +solemnly seated herself, and taken out her netting. “I wished to speak +to you about dear Ethel,” said the governess; “you know how unwilling +I always am to make any complaint, but I cannot be satisfied with her +present way of going on.” + +“Indeed,” said Margaret. “I am much grieved to hear this. I thought she +had been taking great pains to improve.” + +“So she was at one time. I would not by any means wish to deny it, and +it is not of her learning that I speak, but of a hurried, careless way +of doing everything, and an irritability at being interfered with.” + +Margaret knew how Miss Winter often tried Ethel’s temper, and was +inclined to take her sister’s part. “Ethel’s time is so fully occupied,” + she said. + +“That is the very thing that I was going to observe, my dear. Her time +is too much occupied, and my conviction is, that it is hurtful to a girl +of her age.” + +This was a new idea to Margaret, who was silent, longing to prove +Miss Winter wrong, and not have to see poor Ethel pained by having to +relinquish any of her cherished pursuits. + +“You see there is that Cocksmoor,” said Miss Winter. “You do not know +how far off it is, my dear; much too great a distance for a young girl +to be walking continually in all weathers.” + +“That’s a question for papa,” thought Margaret. + +“Besides,” continued Miss Winter, “those children engross almost all her +time and thoughts. She is working for them, preparing lessons, running +after them continually. It takes off her whole mind from her proper +occupations, unsettles her, and I do think it is beyond what befits a +young lady of her age.” + +Margaret was silent. + +“In addition,” said Miss Winter, “she is at every spare moment busy +with Latin and Greek, and I cannot think that to keep pace with a boy of +Norman’s age and ability can be desirable for her.” + +“It is a great deal,” said Margaret, “but--” + +“I am convinced that she does more than is right,” continued Miss +Winter. “She may not feel any ill effects at present, but you may depend +upon it, it will tell on her by-and-by. Besides, she does not attend to +anything properly. At one time she was improving in neatness and orderly +habits. Now, you surely must have seen how much less tidy her hair and +dress have been.” + +“I have thought her hair looking rather rough,” said Margaret +disconsolately. + +“No wonder,” said Miss Winter, “for Flora and Mary tell me she hardly +spends five minutes over it in the morning, and with a book before her +the whole time. If I send her up to make it fit to be seen, I meet with +looks of annoyance. She leaves her books in all parts of the school-room +for Mary to put away, and her table drawer is one mass of confusion. Her +lessons she does well enough, I own, though what I should call much too +fast; but have you looked at her work lately?” + +“She does not work very well,” said Margaret, who was at that moment, +though Miss Winter did not know it, re-gathering a poor child’s frock +that Ethel had galloped through with more haste than good speed. + +“She works a great deal worse than little Blanche,” said Miss Winter, +“and though it may not be the fashion to say so in these days, I +consider good needlework far more important than accomplishments. Well, +then, Margaret, I should wish you only just to look at her writing.” + +And Miss Winter opened a French exercise-book, certainly containing +anything but elegant specimens of penmanship. Ethel’s best writing was +an upright, disjointed niggle, looking more like Greek than anything +else, except where here and there it made insane efforts to become +running-hand, and thereby lost its sole previous good quality of +legibility, while the lines waved about the sheet in almost any +direction but the horizontal. The necessity she believed herself under +of doing what Harry called writing with the end of her nose, and +her always holding her pen with her fingers almost in the ink, added +considerably to the difficulty of the performance. This being at her +best, the worst may be supposed to be indescribable, when dashed off in +a violent hurry, and considerably garnished with blots. Margaret thought +she had seen the worst, and was sighing at being able to say nothing for +it, when Miss Winter confounded her by turning a leaf, and showing it +was possible to make a still wilder combination of scramble, niggle, +scratch, and crookedness--and this was supposed to be an amended +edition! Miss Winter explained that Ethel had, in an extremely short +time, performed an exercise in which no fault could be detected except +the writing, which was pronounced to be too atrocious to be shown up to +M. Ballompre. On being desired to write it over again, she had obeyed +with a very bad grace, and some murmurs about Cocksmoor, and produced +the second specimen, which, in addition to other defects, had some +elisions from arrant carelessness, depriving it of its predecessor’s +merits of being good French. + +Miss Winter had been so provoked that she believed this to be an effect +of ill temper, and declared that she should certainly have kept Ethel at +home to write it over again, if it had not so happened that Dr. May had +proposed to walk part of the way with her and Richard, and the governess +was unwilling to bring her into disgrace with him. Margaret was so +grateful to her for this forbearance, that it disposed her to listen +the more patiently to the same representations put in, what Miss Winter +fancied, different forms. Margaret was much perplexed. She could not but +see much truth in what Miss Winter said, and yet she could not bear +to thwart Ethel, whom she admired with her whole heart; and that dry +experience, and prejudiced preciseness, did not seem capable of entering +into her sister’s thirst for learning and action. When Miss Winter said +Ethel would grow up odd, eccentric, and blue, Margaret was ready to +answer that she would be superior to every one; and when the governess +urged her to insist on Cocksmoor being given up, she felt impatient of +that utter want of sympathy for the good work. + +All that evening Margaret longed for a quiet time to reflect, but it +never came till she was in bed; and when she had made up her mind how to +speak to Ethel, it was five times harder to secure her alone. Even when +Margaret had her in the room by herself, she looked wild and eager, and +said she could not stay, she had some Thucydides to do. + +“Won’t you stay with me a little while, quietly?” said Margaret; “we +hardly ever have one of our talks.” + +“I didn’t mean to vex you, dear Margaret; I like nothing so well, only +we are never alone, and I’ve no time.” + +“Pray do spare me a minute, Ethel, for I have something that I must say +to you, and I am afraid you won’t like it--so do listen kindly.” + +“Oh!” said Ethel, “Miss Winter has been talking to you. I know she said +she would tell you that she wants me to give up Cocksmoor. You aren’t +dreaming of it, Margaret?” + +“Indeed, dear Ethel, I should be very sorry, but one thing I am sure of, +that there is something amiss in your way of going on.” + +“Did she show you that horrid exercise?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well, I know it was baddish writing, but just listen, Margaret. We +promised six of the children to print them each a verse of a hymn on a +card to learn. Ritchie did three, and then could not go on, for the +book that the others were in was lost till last evening, and then he +was writing for papa. So I thought I would do them before we went to +Cocksmoor, and that I should squeeze time out of the morning; but I got +a bit of Sophocles that was so horridly hard it ate up all my time, and +I don’t understand it properly now; I must get Norman to tell me. And +that ran in my head and made me make a mistake in my sum, and have +to begin it again. Then, just as I thought I had saved time over the +exercise, comes Miss Winter and tells me I must do it over again, and +scolds me besides about the ink on my fingers. She would send me up at +once to get it off, and I could not find nurse and her bottle of stuff +for it, so that wasted ever so much more time, and I was so vexed that, +really and truly, my hand shook and I could not write any better.” + +“No, I thought it looked as if you had been in one of your agonies.” + +“And she thought I did it on purpose, and that made me angry, and so +we got into a dispute, and away went all the little moment I might have +had, and I was forced to go to Cocksmoor as a promise breaker!” + +“Don’t you think you had better have taken pains at first?” + +“Well, so I did with the sense, but I hadn’t time to look at the writing +much.” + +“You would have made better speed if you had.” + +“Oh, yes, I know I was wrong, but it is a great plague altogether. +Really, Margaret, I shan’t get Thucydides done.” + +“You must wait a little longer, please, Ethel, for I want to say to +you that I am afraid you are doing too much, and that prevents you from +doing things well, as you were trying to do last autumn.” + +“You are not thinking of my not going to Cocksmoor?” cried Ethel +vehemently. + +“I want you to consider what is to be done, dear Ethel. You thought, +last autumn, a great deal of curing your careless habits, now you seem +not to have time to attend. You can do a great deal very fast, I know, +but isn’t it a pity to be always in a hurry?” + +“It isn’t Cocksmoor that is the reason,” said Ethel. + +“No; you did pretty well when you began, but you know that was in the +holidays, when you had no Latin and Greek to do.” + +“Oh, but, Margaret, they won’t take so much time when I have once got +over the difficulties, and see my way, but just now they have put Norman +into such a frightfully difficult play, that I can hardly get on at all +with it, and there’s a new kind of Greek verses, too, and I don’t make +out from the book how to manage them. Norman showed me on Saturday, but +mine won’t be right. When I’ve got over that, I shan’t be so hurried.” + +“But Norman will go on to something harder, I suppose.” + +“I dare say I shall be able to do it.” + +“Perhaps you might, but I want you to consider if you are not working +beyond what can be good for anybody. You see Norman is much cleverer +than most boys, and you are a year younger; and besides doing all his +work at the head of the school, his whole business of the day, you have +Cocksmoor to attend to, and your own lessons, besides reading all the +books that come into the house. Now isn’t that more than is reasonable +to expect any head and hands to do properly?” + +“But if I can do it?” + +“But can you, dear Ethel? Aren’t you always racing from one thing to +another, doing them by halves, feeling hunted, and then growing vexed?” + +“I know I have been cross lately,” said Ethel, “but it’s the being so +bothered.” + +“And why are you bothered? Isn’t it that you undertake too much?” + +“What would you have me do?” said Ethel, in an injured, unconvinced +voice. “Not give up my children?” + +“No,” said Margaret; “but don’t think me very unkind if I say, suppose +you left off trying to keep up with Norman.” + +“Oh, Margaret! Margaret!” and her eyes filled with tears. “We have +hardly missed doing the same every day since the first Latin grammar was +put into his hands!” + +“I know it would be very hard,” said Margaret; but Ethel continued, in a +piteous tone, a little sentimental, “From hie haec hoc up to Alcaics and +beta Thukididou we have gone on together, and I can’t bear to give it +up. I’m sure I can--” + +“Stop, Ethel, I really doubt whether you can. Do you know that Norman +was telling papa the other day that it was very odd Dr. Hoxton gave them +such easy lessons.” + +Ethel looked very much mortified. + +“You see,” said Margaret kindly, “we all know that men have more power +than women, and I suppose the time has come for Norman to pass beyond +you. He would not be cleverer than any one, if he could not do more than +a girl at home.” + +“He has so much more time for it,” said Ethel. + +“That’s the very thing. Now consider, Ethel. His work, after he goes to +Oxford, will be doing his very utmost--and you know what an utmost that +is. If you could keep up with him at all, you must give your whole time +and thoughts to it, and when you had done so--if you could get all +the honours in the University--what would it come to? You can’t take a +first-class.” + +“I don’t want one,” said Ethel; “I only can’t bear not to do as Norman +does, and I like Greek so much.” + +“And for that would you give up being a useful, steady daughter and +sister at home? The sort of woman that dear mamma wished to make you, +and a comfort to papa.” + +Ethel was silent, and large tears were gathering. + +“You own that that is the first thing?” + +“Yes,” said Ethel faintly. + +“And that it is what you fail in most?” + +“Yes.” + +“Then, Ethel dearest, when you made up your mind to Cocksmoor, you knew +those things could not be done without a sacrifice?” + +“Yes, but I didn’t think it would be this.” + +Margaret was wise enough not to press her, and she sat down and sighed +pitifully. Presently she said, “Margaret, if you would only let me leave +off that stupid old French, and horrid dull reading with Miss Winter, +I should have plenty of time for everything; and what does one learn by +hearing Mary read poetry she can’t understand?” + +“You work, don’t you? But indeed, Ethel, don’t say that I can let you +leave off anything. I don’t feel as if I had that authority. If it be +done at all, it must be by papa’s consent, and if you wish me to ask +him about it, I will, only I think it would vex Miss Winter; and I don’t +think dear mamma would have liked Greek and Cocksmoor to swallow up all +the little common ladylike things.” + +Ethel made two or three great gulps; “Margaret, must I give up +everything, and forget all my Latin and Greek?” + +“I should think that would be a great pity,” said Margaret. “If you were +to give up the verse-making, and the trying to do as much as Norman, and +fix some time in the day--half an hour, perhaps--for your Greek, I think +it might do very well.” + +“Thank you,” said Ethel, much relieved; “I’m glad you don’t want me to +leave it all off. I hope Norman won’t be vexed,” she added, looking a +little melancholy. + +But Norman had not by any means the sort of sentiment on the subject +that she had. “Of course, you know, Ethel,” said he, “it must have come +to this some time or other, and if you find those verses too hard, and +that they take up too much of your time, you had better give them up.” + +Ethel did not like anything to be said to be too hard for her, and was +very near pleading she only wanted time, but some recollection came +across her, and presently she said, “I suppose it is a wrong sort of +ambition to want to learn more, in one’s own way, when one is told it +is not good for one. I was just going to say I hated being a woman, +and having these tiresome little trifles--my duty--instead of learning, +which is yours, Norman.” + +“I’m glad you did not,” said Norman, “for it would have been very silly +of you; and I assure you, Ethel, it is really time for you to stop, or +you would get into a regular learned lady, and be good for nothing. I +don’t mean that knowing more than other people would make you so, but +minding nothing else would.” + +This argument from Norman himself did much to reconcile Ethel’s mind to +the sacrifice she had made; and when she went to bed, she tried to work +out the question in her own mind, whether her eagerness for classical +learning was a wrong sort of ambition, to know what other girls did not, +and whether it was right to crave for more knowledge than was thought +advisable for her. She only bewildered herself, and went to sleep before +she had settled anything, but that she knew she must make all give way +to papa first, and, secondly, to Cocksmoor. + +Meanwhile Margaret had told her father all that had passed. He was +only surprised to hear that Ethel had kept up so long with Norman, and +thought that it was quite right that she should not undertake so much, +agreeing more entirely than Margaret had expected with Miss Winter’s +view, that it would be hurtful to body as well as mind. + +“It is perfectly ridiculous to think of her attempting it!” he said. “I +am glad you have put a stop to it.” + +“I am glad I have,” said Margaret; “and dear Ethel behaved so very well. +If she had resisted, it would have puzzled me very much, I must have +asked you to settle it. But it is very odd, papa, Ethel is the one of +them all who treats me most as if I had real authority over her; she +lets me scold her, asks my leave, never seems to recollect for a moment +how little older I am, and how much cleverer she is. I am sure I +never should have submitted so readily. And that always makes it more +difficult to me to direct her; I don’t like to take upon me with her, +because it seems wrong to have her obeying me as if she were a mere +child.” + +“She is a fine creature,” said Dr. May emphatically. “It just shows the +fact, the higher the mind the readier the submission. But you don’t mean +that you have any difficulty with the others?” + +“Oh, no, no. Flora never could need any interference, especially from +me, and Mary is a thorough good girl. I only meant that Ethel lays +herself out to be ruled in quite a remarkable way. I am sure, though she +does love learning, her real love is for goodness and for you, papa.” + +Ethel would have thought her sacrifice well paid for, had she seen her +father’s look of mournful pleasure. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + + + + O ruthful scene! when from a nook obscure, + His little sister doth his peril see, + All playful as she sate, she grows demure, + She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee, + She meditates a prayer to set him free. + SHENSTONE. + + +The setting sun shone into the great west window of the school at +Stoneborough, on its bare walls, the masters’ desks, the forms polished +with use, and the square, inky, hacked and hewed chests, carved with the +names of many generations of boys. + +About six or eight little boys were clearing away the books or papers +that they, or those who owned them as fags, had left astray, and a good +deal of talk and laughing was going on among them. “Ha!” exclaimed one, +“here has Harrison left his book behind him that he was showing us the +gladiators in!” and, standing by the third master’s desk, he turned +over a page or two of Smith’s ‘Antiquities’, exclaiming, “It is full of +pictures--here’s an old man blowing the bellows--” + +“Let me see!” cried Tom May, precipitating himself across the benches +and over the desk, with so little caution, that there was an outcry; +and, to his horror, he beheld the ink spilled over Mr. Harrison’s book, +while, “There, August! you’ve been and done it!” “You’ll catch it!” + resounded on all sides. + +“What good will staring with your mouth open do!” exclaimed Edward +Anderson, the eldest present. “Here! a bit of blotting-paper this +moment!” + +Tom, dreadfully frightened, handed a sheet torn from an old paper-case +that he had inherited from Harry, saying despairingly, “It won’t take it +out, will it?” + +“No, little stupid head, but don’t you see, I’m stopping it from running +down the edges, or soaking in. He won’t be the wiser till he opens it +again at that place.” + +“When he does, he will,” said the bewildered Tom. + +“Let him. It won’t tell tales.” + +“He’s coming!” cried another boy, “he is close at the door.” + +Anderson hastily shut the book over the blotting-paper, which he did not +venture to retain in his hand, dragged Tom down from the desk, and +was apparently entirely occupied with arranging his own box, when Mr. +Harrison came in. Tom crouched behind the raised lid, quaking in every +limb, conscious he ought to confess, but destitute of resolution to do +so, and, in a perfect agony as the master went to his desk, took up the +book, and carried it away, so unconscious, that Larkins, a great wag, +only waited till his back was turned, to exclaim, “Ha! old fellow, you +don’t know what you’ve got there!” + +“Hallo! May junior, will you never leave off staring? you won’t see a +bit farther for it,” said Edward Anderson, shaking him by the ear; “come +to your senses, and know your friends.” + +“He’ll open it!” gasped Tom. + +“So he will, but I’d bet ninety to one, it is not at that page, or if +he does, it won’t tell tales, unless, indeed, he happened to see you +standing there, crouching and shaking. That’s the right way to bring him +upon you.” + +“But suppose he opens it, and knows who was in school?” + +“What then? D’ye think we can’t stand by each other, and keep our own +counsel?” + +“But the blotting-paper--suppose he knows that!” + +There was a laugh all round at this, “as if Harrison knew everyone’s +blotting-paper!” + +“Yes, but Harry used to write his name all over his--see--and draw Union +Jacks on it.” + +“If he did, the date is not there. Do you think the ink is going to say +March 2nd? Why should not July have done it last half?” + +“July would have told if he had,” said Larkins. “That’s no go.” + +“Ay! That’s the way--the Mays are all like girls--can’t keep a +secret--not one of them. There, I’ve done more for you than ever one of +them would have done--own it--and he strode up to Tom, and grasped his +wrists, to force the confession from him.” + +“But--but he’ll ask when he finds it out--” + +“Let him. We know nothing about it. Don’t be coming the good boy over +me like your brothers. That won’t do--I know whose eyes are not too +short-sighted to read upside down.” + +Tom shrank and looked abject, clinging to the hope that Mr. Harrison +would not open the book for weeks, months, or years. + +But the next morning his heart died within him, when he beheld the +unfortunate piece of blotting-paper, displayed by Mr. Harrison, with the +inquiry whether any one knew to whom it belonged, and what made it worse +was, that his sight would not reach far enough to assure him whether +Harry’s name was on it, and he dreaded that Norman or Hector Ernescliffe +should recognise the nautical designs. However, both let it pass, and +no one through the whole school attempted to identify it. One danger was +past, but the next minute Mr. Harrison opened his Smith’s ‘Antiquities’ +at the page where stood the black witness. Tom gazed round in despair, +he could not see his brother’s face, but Edward Anderson, from the +second form, returned him a glance of contemptuous encouragement. + +“This book,” said Mr. Harrison, “was left in school for a quarter of an +hour yesterday. When I opened it again, it was in this condition. Do any +of you know how it happened?” A silence, and he continued, “Who was in +school at this time? Anderson junior, can you tell me anything of it?” + +“No, sir.” + +“You know nothing of it?” + +“No, sir.” + +Cold chills crept over Tom, as Mr. Harrison looked round to refresh his +memory. “Larkins, do you know how this happened?” + +“No, sir,” said Larkins boldly, satisfying his conscience because he had +not seen the manner of the overthrow. + +“Ernescliffe, were you there?” + +“No, sir.” + +Tom’s timid heart fluttered in dim hope that he had been overlooked, as +Mr. Harrison paused, then said, “Remember, it is concealment that is the +evil, not the damage to the book. I shall have a good opinion ever after +of a boy honest enough to confess, May junior, I saw you,” he added, +hopefully and kindly. “Don’t be afraid to speak out if you did meet with +a mischance.” + +Tom coloured and turned pale. Anderson and Larkins grimaced at him, to +remind him that they had told untruths for his sake, and that he must +not betray them. It was the justification he wanted; he was relieved +to fancy himself obliged to tell the direct falsehood, for which a long +course of petty acted deceits had paved the way, for he was in deadly +terror of the effects of truth. + +“No, sir.” He could hardly believe he had said the words, or that they +would be so readily accepted, for Mr. Harrison had only the impression +that he knew who the guilty person was, and would not tell, and, +therefore, put no more questions to him, but, after a few more vain +inquiries, was baffled, and gave up the investigation. + +Tom thought he should have been very unhappy; he had always heard that +deceit was a heavy burden, and would give continual stings, but he was +surprised to find himself very comfortable on the whole, and able to +dismiss repentance as well as terror. His many underhand ways with +Richard had taken away the tenderness of his conscience, though his +knowledge of what was right was clear; and he was quite ready to accept +the feeling prevalent at Stoneborough, that truth was not made for +schoolboys. + +The axiom was prevalent, but not universal, and parties were +running high. Norman May, who as head boy had, in play-hours, the +responsibility, and almost the authority of a master, had taken higher +ground than was usual even with the well-disposed; and felt it his duty +to check abuses and malpractices that his predecessors had allowed. His +friend, Cheviot, and the right-minded set, maintained his authority +with all their might; but Harvey Anderson regarded his interference as +vexatious, always took the part of the offenders, and opposed him in +every possible way, thus gathering as his adherents not only the idle +and mischievous, but the weak and mediocre, and, among this set, +there was a positive bitterness of feeling to May, and all whom they +considered as belonging to him. + +In shielding Tom May and leading him to deceive, the younger Anderson +had gained a conquest--in him the Mays had fallen from that pinnacle +of truth which was a standing reproach to the average Stoneborough +code--and, from that time, he was under the especial patronage of his +friend. He was taught the most ingenious arts of saying a lesson without +learning it, and of showing up other people’s tasks; whispers and signs +were directed to him to help him out of difficulties, and he was sought +out and put forward whenever a forbidden pleasure was to be enjoyed by +stealth. These were his stimulants under a heavy bondage; he was teased +and frightened, bullied and tormented, whenever it was the fancy of Ned +Anderson and his associates to make his timidity their sport; he +was scorned and ill-treated, and driven, by bodily terror, into acts +alarming to his conscience, dangerous in their consequences, and painful +in the perpetration; and yet, among all his sufferings, the little +coward dreaded nothing so much as truth, though it would have set him +free at once from this wretched tyranny. + +Excepting on holidays, and at hours when the town-boys were allowed to +go home, there were strict rules confining all except the sixth form +to their bounds, consisting of two large courts, and an extensive field +bordered by the river and the road. On the opposite side of the +bridge was a turnpike gate, where the keeper exposed stalls of various +eatables, very popular among the boys, chiefly because they were not +allowed to deal there. Ginger-beer could also be procured, and +there were suspicions that the bottles so called contained something +contraband. + +“August,” said Norman, as they were coming home from school one evening, +“did I see you coming over the bridge?” + +Tom would not answer. + +“So you have been at Ballhatchet’s gate? I can’t think what could take +you there. If you want tarts, I am sure poor old Betty’s are just as +good. What made you go there?” + +“Nothing,” said Tom. + +“Well, mind you don’t do it again, or I shall have to take you in hand, +which I shall be very sorry to do. That man is a regular bad character, +and neither my father nor Dr. Hoxton would have one of us have anything +to do with him, as you know.” + +Tom was in hopes it was over, but Norman went on. “I am afraid you are +getting into a bad way. Why won’t you mind what I have told you plenty +of times before, that no good comes of going after Ned Anderson, and +Axworthy, and that set. What were you doing with them to-day?” But, +receiving no answer, he went on. “You always sulk when I speak to you. +I suppose you think I have no right to row you, but I do it to save you +from worse. You can’t never be found out.” This startled Tom, but Norman +had no suspicion. “If you go on, you will get into some awful scrape, +and papa will be grieved. I would not, for all the world, have him put +out of heart about you. Think of him, Tom, and try to keep straight.” + Tom would say nothing, only reflecting that his elder brother was harder +upon him than any one else would be, and Norman grew warmer. “If you let +Anderson junior get hold of you, and teach you his tricks, you’ll +never be good for anything. He seems good-natured now, but he will turn +against you, as he did with Harry. I know how it is, and you had better +take my word, and trust to me and straightforwardness, when you get into +a mess.” + +“I’m in no scrape,” said Tom, so doggedly, that Norman lost patience, +and spoke with more displeasure. “You will be then, if you go out of +bounds, and run Anderson’s errands, and shirk work. You’d better take +care. It is my place to keep order, and I can’t let you off for being my +brother; so remember, if I catch you going to Ballhatchet’s again, you +may make sure of a licking.” + +So the warning closed--Tom more alarmed at the aspect of right, which he +fancied terrific, and Norman with some compunction at having lost temper +and threatened, when he meant to have gained him by kindness. + +Norman recollected his threat with a qualm of dismay when, at the end of +the week, as he was returning from a walk with Cheviot, Tom darted out +of the gate-house. He was flying across the bridge, with something under +his arm, when Norman laid a detaining hand on his collar, making a sign +at the same time to Cheviot to leave them. + +“What are you doing here?” said Norman sternly, marching Tom into the +field. “So you’ve been there again. What’s that under your jacket?” + +“Only--only what I was sent for,” and he tried to squeeze it under the +flap. + +“What is it? a bottle--” + +“Only--only a bottle of ink.” + +Norman seized it, and gave Tom a fierce angry shake, but the indignation +was mixed with sorrow. “Oh, Tom, Tom, these fellows have brought you a +pretty pass. Who would have thought of such a thing from us!” + +Tom cowered, but felt only terror. + +“Speak truth,” said Norman, ready to shake it out of him; “is this for +Anderson junior?” + +Under those eyes, flashing with generous, sorrowful wrath, he dared +not utter another falsehood, but Anderson’s threats chained him, and he +preferred his thraldom to throwing himself on the mercy of his brother +who loved him. He would not speak. + +“I am glad it is not for yourself,” said Norman; “but do you remember +what I said, in case I found you there again?” + +“Oh! don’t, don’t!” cried the boy. “I would never have gone if they had +not made me.” + +“Made you?” said Norman, disdainfully, “how?” + +“They would have thrashed me--they pinched my fingers in the box--they +pulled my ears--oh, don’t--” + +“Poor little fellow!” said Norman; “but it is your own fault. If you +won’t keep with me, or Ernescliffe, of course they will bully you. But +I must not let you off--I must keep my word!” Tom cried, sobbed, and +implored in vain. “I can’t help it,” he said, “and now, don’t howl! I +had rather no one knew it. It will soon be over. I never thought to have +this to do to one of us.” Tom roared and struggled, till, releasing +him, he said, “There, that will do. Stop bellowing, I was obliged, and I +can’t have hurt you much, have I?” he added more kindly, while Tom went +on crying, and turning from him. “It is nothing to care about, I am +sure; look up;” and he pulled down his hands. “Say you are sorry--speak +the truth--keep with me, and no one shall hurt you again.” + +Very different this from Tom’s chosen associates; but he was still +obdurate, sullen, and angry, and would not speak, nor open his heart to +those kind words. After one more, “I could not help it, Tom, you’ve no +business to be sulky,” Norman took up the bottle, opened it, smelled, +and tasted, and was about to throw it into the river; when Tom +exclaimed, “Oh, don’t, don’t! what will they do to me? give it to me!” + +“Did they give you the money to pay for it?” + +“Yes; let me have it.” + +“How much was it?” + +“Fourpence.” + +“I’ll settle that,” and the bottle splashed in the river. “Now then, +Tom, don’t brood on it any more. Here’s a chance for you of getting quit +of their errands. If you will keep in my sight. I’ll take care no one +bullies you, and you may still leave off these disgraceful tricks, and +do well.” + +But Tom’s evil spirit whispered that Norman had beaten him, that he +should never have any diversion again, and that Anderson would punish +him; and there was a sort of satisfaction in seeing that his perverse +silence really distressed his brother. + +“If you will go on in this way, I can’t help it, but you’ll be sorry +some day,” said Norman, and he walked thoughtfully on, looking back to +see whether Tom was following, as he did slowly, meditating on the way +how he should avert his tyrant’s displeasure. + +Norman stood for a moment at the door, surveying the court, then walked +up to a party of boys, and laid his hand on the shoulder of one, holding +a silver fourpence to him. “Anderson Junior,” said he, “there’s your +money. I am not going to let Stoneborough School be turned into a gin +palace. I give you notice, it is not to be. Now you are not to bully May +junior for telling me. He did not, I found him out.” + +Leaving Anderson to himself he looked for Tom, but not seeing him, +he entered the cloister, for it was the hour when he was used to read +there, but he could not fix his mind. He went to the bench where he had +lain on the examination day, and kneeling on it, looked out on the green +grass where the graves were. “Mother! mother!” he murmured, “have I been +harsh to your poor little tender sickly boy? I couldn’t help it. Oh! if +you were but here! We are all going wrong! What shall I do? How should +Tom be kept from this evil?--it is ruining him! mean, false, cowardly, +sullen--all that is worst--and your son--oh! mother! and all I do only +makes him shrink more from me. It will break my father’s heart, and you +will not be there to comfort him.” + +Norman covered his face with his hands, and a fit of bitter grief +came over him. But his sorrow was now not what it had been before his +father’s resignation had tempered it, and soon it turned to prayer, +resolution, and hope. + +He would try again to reason quietly with him, when the alarm of +detection and irritation should have gone off, and he sought for the +occasion; but, alas! Tom had learned to look on all reproof as “rowing,” + and considered it as an additional injury from a brother, who, according +to the Anderson view, should have connived at his offences, and turned +a deafened ear and dogged countenance to all he said. The foolish boy +sought after the Andersons still more, and Norman became more dispirited +about him, greatly missing Harry, that constant companion and follower, +who would have shared his perplexities, and removed half of them, in his +own part of the school, by the influence of his high, courageous, and +truthful spirit. + +In the meantime Richard was studying hard at home, with greater +hopefulness and vigour than he had ever thrown into his work before. +“Suppose,” Ethel had once said to him, “that when you are a clergyman, +you could be Curate of Cocksmoor, when there is a church there.” + +“When?” said Richard, smiling at the presumption of the scheme, and +yet it formed itself into a sort of definite hope. Perhaps they might +persuade Mr. Ramsden to take him as a curate with a view to Cocksmoor, +and this prospect, vague as it was, gave an object and hope to his +studies. Every one thought the delay of his examination favourable +to him, and he now read with a determination to succeed. Dr. May had +offered to let him read with Mr. Harrison but Richard thought he was +getting on pretty well, with the help Norman gave him; for it appeared +that ever since Norman’s return from London, he had been assisting +Richard, who was not above being taught by a younger brother; while, on +the other hand, Norman, much struck by his humility, would not for the +world have published that he was fit to act as his elder’s tutor. + +One evening, when the two boys came in from school, Tom gave a great +start, and, pulling Mary by the sleeve, whispered, “How came that book +here?” + +“It is Mr. Harrison’s.” + +“Yes, I know, but how came it here?” + +“Richard borrowed it to look out something, and Ethel brought it down.” + +A little reassured, Tom took up an exciting story-book, and ensconced +himself by the fire, but his agonies were great during the ensuing +conversation. + +“Norman,” Ethel was exclaiming in delight, “do you know this book?” + +“Smith? Yes, it is in the school library.” + +“There’s everything in it that one wants, I do believe. Here is such an +account of ancient galleys--I never knew how they managed their banks of +rowers before--oh! and the Greek houses--look at the pictures too.” + +“Some of them are the same as Mr. Rivers’s gems,” said Norman, standing +behind her, and turning the leaves, in search of a favourite. + +“Oh! what did I see? is that ink?” said Flora, from the opposite side of +the table. + +“Yes, didn’t you hear?” said Ethel. “Mr. Harrison told Ritchie when he +borrowed it, that unluckily one day this spring he left it in school, +and some of the boys must have upset an inkstand over it; but, though he +asked them all round, each denied it. How I should hate for such things +to happen! and it was a prize-book too.” + +While Ethel spoke she opened the marked page, to show the extent of the +calamity, and as she did so Mary exclaimed, “Dear me! how funny! why, +how did Harry’s blotting-paper get in there?” + +Tom shrank into nothing, set his teeth, and pinched his fingers, ready +to wish they were on Mary’s throat, more especially as the words made +some sensation. Richard and Margaret exchanged looks, and their father, +who had been reading, sharply raised his eyes and said, “Harry’s +blotting-paper! How do you know that, Mary?” + +“It is Harry’s,” said she, all unconscious, “because of that anchor up +in one corner, and the Union Jack in the other. Don’t you see, Ethel?” + +“Yes,” said Ethel; “nobody drew that but Harry.” + +“Ay, and there are his buttons,” said Mary, much amused and delighted +with these relics of her beloved Harry. “Don’t you remember one day +last holidays, papa desired Harry to write and ask Mr. Ernescliffe what +clothes he ought to have for the naval school, and all the time he +was writing the letter, he was drawing sailors’ buttons on his +blotting-paper. I wonder how ever it got into Mr. Harrison’s book!” + +Poor Mary’s honest wits did not jump to a conclusion quite so fast as +other people’s, and she little knew what she was doing when, as a great +discovery, she exclaimed, “I know! Harry gave his paper-case to Tom. +That’s the way it got to school!” + +“Tom!” exclaimed his father, suddenly and angrily, “where are you +going?” + +“To bed,” muttered the miserable Tom, twisting his hands. A dead silence +of consternation fell on all the room. Mary gazed from one to the other, +mystified at the effect of her words, frightened at her father’s loud +voice, and at Tom’s trembling confusion. The stillness lasted for +some moments, and was first broken by Flora, as if she had caught at +a probability. “Some one might have used the first blotting-paper that +came to hand.” + +“Come here, Tom,” said the doctor, in a voice not loud, but trembling +with anxiety; then laying his hand on his shoulder, “Look in my face.” + Tom hung his head, and his father put his hand under his chin, and +raised the pale terrified face. “Don’t be afraid to tell us the meaning +of this. If any of your friends have done it, we will keep your secret. +Look up, and speak out. How did your blotting-paper come there?” + +Tom had been attempting his former system of silent sullenness, but +there was anger at Mary, and fear of his father to agitate him, and in +his impatient despair at thus being held and questioned, he burst out +into a violent fit of crying. + +“I can’t have you roaring here to distress Margaret,” said Dr. May. +“Come into the study with me.” + +But Tom, who seemed fairly out of himself, would not stir, and a +screaming and kicking scene took place, before he was carried into the +study by his brothers, and there left with his father. Mary, meantime, +dreadfully alarmed, and perceiving that, in some way, she was the cause, +had thrown herself upon Margaret, sobbing inconsolably, as she begged to +know what was the matter, and why papa was angry with Tom--had she made +him so? + +Margaret caressed and soothed her to the best of her ability, trying +to persuade her that, if Tom had done wrong, it was better for him it +should be known, and assuring her that no one could think her unkind, +nor a tell-tale; then dismissing her to bed, and Mary was not unwilling +to go, for she could not bear to meet Tom again, only begging in a +whisper to Ethel, “that, if dear Tom had not done it, she would come and +tell her.” + +“I am afraid there is no hope of that!” sighed Ethel, as the door closed +on Mary. + +“After all,” said Flora, “he has not said anything. If he has only done +it, and not confessed, that is not so bad--it is only the usual fashion +of boys.” + +“Has he been asked? Did he deny it?” said Ethel, looking in Norman’s +face, as if she hardly ventured to put the question, and she only +received sorrowful signs as answers. At the same moment Dr. May called +him. No one spoke. Margaret rested her head on the sofa, and looked +very mournful, Richard stood by the fire without moving limb or feature, +Flora worked fast, and Ethel leaned back on an arm-chair, biting the end +of a paper-knife. + +The doctor and Norman came back together. “I have sent him up to bed,” + said Dr. May. “I must take him to Harrison to-morrow morning. It is a +terrible business!” + +“Has he confessed it?” said Margaret. + +“I can hardly call such a thing a confession--I wormed it out bit by +bit--I could not tell whether he was telling truth or not, till I called +Norman in.” + +“But he has not said anything more untrue--” + +“Yes, he has though!” said Dr. May indignantly. “He said Ned Anderson +put the paper there, and had been taking up the ink with it--‘twas +his doing--then when I came to cross-examine him I found that though +Anderson did take up the ink, it was Tom himself who knocked it down--I +never heard anything like it--I never could have believed it!” + +“It must all be Ned Anderson’s doing!” cried Flora. “They are enough to +spoil anybody.” + +“I am afraid they have done him a great deal of harm,” said Norman. + +“And what have you been about all the time?” exclaimed the doctor, too +keenly grieved to be just. “I should have thought that with you at the +head of the school, the child might have been kept out of mischief; but +there have you been going your own way, and leaving him to be ruined by +the very worst set of boys!” + +Norman’s colour rose with the extreme pain this unjust accusation caused +him, and his voice, though low, was not without irritation, “I have +tried. I have not done as much as I ought, perhaps, but--” + +“No, I think not, indeed!” interrupted his father. “Sending a boy there, +brought up as he had been, without the least tendency to deceit--” + +Here no one could see Norman’s burning cheeks, and brow bent downwards +in the effort to keep back an indignant reply, without bursting out in +exculpation; and Richard looked up, while the three sisters all at once +began, “Oh, no, no, papa”--and left Margaret to finish--“Poor little Tom +had not always been quite sincere.” + +“Indeed! and why was I left to send him to school without knowing it? +The place of all others to foster deceit.” + +“It was my fault, papa,” said Margaret. + +“And mine,” put in Richard; and she continued, “Ethel told us we were +very wrong, and I wish we had followed her advice. It was by far the +best, but we were afraid of vexing you.” + +“Every one seems to have been combined to hide what they ought not!” + said Dr. May, though speaking to her much more softly than to Norman, to +whom he turned angrily again. “Pray, how came you not to identify this +paper?” + +“I did not know it,” said Norman, speaking with difficulty. “He ought +never to have been sent to school,” said the doctor--“that tendency was +the very worst beginning.” + +“It was a great pity; I was very wrong,” said Margaret, in great +concern. + +“I did not mean to blame you, my dear,” said her father affectionately. +“I know you only meant to act for the best, but--” and he put his hand +over his face, and then came the sighing groan, which pained Margaret +ten thousand times more than reproaches, and which, in an instant, +dispersed all the indignation burning within Norman, though the pain +remained at his father’s thinking him guilty of neglect, but he did not +like, at that moment, to speak in self-justification. + +After a short space, Dr. May desired to hear what were the deceptions +to which Margaret had alluded, and made Norman tell what he knew of the +affair of the blotted book. Ethel spoke hopefully when she had heard it. +“Well, do you know, I think he will do better now. You see, Edward made +him conceal it, and he has been going on with it on his mind, and in +that boy’s power ever since; but now it is cleared up and confessed, he +will begin afresh and do better. Don’t you think so, Norman? don’t you, +papa?” + +“I should have more hope if I had seen anything like confession or +repentance,” said Dr. May; “but that provoked me more than all--I +could only perceive that he was sorry to be found out, and afraid of +punishment.” + +“Perhaps, when he has recovered the first fright, he will come to his +better self,” said Margaret; for she guessed, what indeed was the case, +that the doctor’s anger on this first shock of the discovery of the +fault he most abhorred had been so great, that a fearful cowering spirit +would be completely overwhelmed; and, as there had been no sorrow shown +for the fault, there had been none of that softening and relenting that +won so much love and confidence. + +Every one felt that talking only made them more unhappy, they tried to +return to their occupations, and so passed the time till night. Then, as +Richard was carrying Margaret upstairs, Norman lingered to say, “Papa, I +am very sorry you should think I neglected Tom. I dare say I might have +done better for him, but, indeed, I have tried.” + +“I am sure you have, Norman. I spoke hastily, my boy--you will not think +more of it. When a thing like this comes on a man, he hardly knows what +he says.” + +“If Harry were here,” said Norman, anxious to turn from the real loss +and grief, as well as to talk away that feeling of being apologised to, +“it would all do better. He would make a link with Tom, but I have so +little, naturally, to do with the second form, that it is not easy to +keep him in sight.” + +“Yes, yes, I know that very well. It is no one’s fault but my own; I +should not have sent him there without knowing him better. But you see +how it is, Norman--I have trusted to her, till I have grown neglectful, +and it is well if it is not the ruin of him!” + +“Perhaps he will take a turn, as Ethel says,” answered Norman +cheerfully. “Good-night, papa.” + +“I have a blessing to be thankful for in you, at least,” murmured the +doctor to himself. “What other young fellow of that age and spirit would +have borne so patiently with my injustice? Not I, I am sure! a fine +father I show myself to these poor children--neglect, helplessness, +temper--Oh, Maggie!” + +Margaret had so bad a headache the next day that she could not come +downstairs. The punishment was, they heard, a flogging at the time, and +an imposition so long, that it was likely to occupy a large portion +of the play-hours till the end of the half-year. His father said, and +Norman silently agreed, “a very good thing, it will keep him out of +mischief;” but Margaret only wished she could learn it for him, and took +upon herself all the blame from beginning to end. She said little to her +father, for it distressed him to see her grieved; he desired her not to +dwell on the subject, caressed her, called her his comfort and support, +and did all he could to console her, but it was beyond his power; her +sisters, by listening to her, only made her worse. “Dear, dear papa,” + she exclaimed, “how kind he is! But he can never depend upon me again--I +have been the ruin of my poor little Tom.” + +“Well,” said Richard quietly, “I can’t see why you should put yourself +into such a state about it.” + +This took Margaret by surprise. “Have not I done very wrong, and perhaps +hurt Tom for life?” + +“I hope not,” said Richard. “You and I made a mistake, but it does not +follow that Tom would have kept out of this scrape, if we had told my +father our notion.” + +“It would not have been on my conscience,” said Margaret--“he would not +have sent him to school.” + +“I don’t know that,” said Richard. “At any rate we meant to do right, +and only made a mistake. It was unfortunate, but I can’t tell why you go +and make yourself ill, by fancying it worse than it is. The boy has +done very wrong, but people get cured of such things in time, and it is +nonsense to fret as if he were not a mere child of eight years old. You +did not teach him deceit.” + +“No, but I concealed it--papa is disappointed, when he thought he could +trust me.” + +“Well! I suppose no one could expect never to make mistakes,” said +Richard, in his sober tone. + +“Self-sufficiency!” exclaimed Margaret, “that has been the root of all! +Do you know, Ritchie, I believe I was expecting that I could always +judge rightly.” + +“You generally do,” said Richard; “no one else could do half what you +do.” + +“So you have said, papa, and all of you, till you have spoilt me. I have +thought it myself, Ritchie.” + +“It is true,” said Richard. + +“But then,” said Margaret, “I have grown to think much of it, and not +like to be interfered with. I thought I could manage by myself, and when +I said I would not worry papa, it was half because I liked the doing +and settling all about the children myself. Oh! if it could have been +visited in any way but by poor Tom’s faults!” + +“Well,” said Richard, “if you felt so, it was a pity, though I never +should have guessed it. But you see you will never feel so again, and as +Tom is only one, and there are nine to govern, it is all for the best.” + +His deliberate common-sense made her laugh a little, and she owned he +might be right. “It is a good lesson against my love of being first. But +indeed it is difficult--papa can so little bear to be harassed.” + +“He could not at first, but now he is strong and well, it is different.” + +“He looks terribly thin and worn still,” sighed Margaret, “so much +older!” + +“Ay, I think he will never get back his young looks; but except his weak +arm, he is quite well.” + +“And then his--his quick way of speaking may do harm.” + +“Yes, that was what I feared for Tom,” said Richard, “and there was the +mistake. I see it now. My father always is right in the main, though +he is apt to frighten one at first, and it is what ought to be that he +should rule his own house. But now, Margaret, it is silly to worry about +it any more--let me fetch baby, and don’t think of it.” + +And Margaret allowed his reasonableness, and let herself be comforted. +After all, Richard’s solid soberness had more influence over her than +anything else. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + + + + Think how simple things and lowly, + Have a part in Nature’s plan, + How the great hath small beginnings, + And the child will be a man. + Little efforts work great actions, + Lessons in our childhood taught + Mould the spirit of that temper + Whereby blessed deeds are wrought. + Cherish, then, the gifts of childhood, + Use them gently, guard them well, + For their future growth and greatness + Who can measure, who can tell! + MORAL SONGS. + + +The first shock of Tom’s misdemeanour passed away, though it still gave +many an anxious thought to such of the family as felt responsible for +him. + +The girls were busily engaged in preparing an Easter feast for +Cocksmoor. Mr. Wilmot was to examine the scholars, and buns and tea were +provided, in addition to which Ethel designed to make a present to every +one--a great task, considering that the Cocksmoor funds were reserved +for absolute necessaries, and were at a very low ebb. So that +twenty-five gifts were to be composed out of nothing! + +There was a grand turn-out of drawers of rubbish, all over Margaret, +raising such a cloud of dust as nearly choked her. What cannot rubbish +and willing hands effect! Envelopes and wafer boxes were ornamented with +pictures, bags, needle-cases, and pincushions, beautiful balls, tippets, +both of list and gay print, and even sun-bonnets and pinafores were +contrived, to the supreme importance and delight of Mary and Blanche, +who found it as good or better than play, and ranged their performances +in rows, till the room looked like a bazaar. To provide for boys was +more difficult; but Richard mended old toys, and repaired the frames of +slates, and Norman’s contribution of half-a-crown bought mugs, marbles, +and penny knives, and there were even hopes that something would remain +for bodkins, to serve as nozzles to the bellows, which were the pride of +Blanche’s heart. + +Never were Easter gifts the source of more pleasure to the givers, +especially when the nursery establishment met Dr. Hoxton near the +pastrycook’s shop, and he bestowed on Blanche a packet of variegated +sugar-plums, all of which she literally poured out at Ethel’s feet, +saying, “I don’t want them. Only let me have one for Aubrey, because he +is so little. All the rest are for the poor children at Cocksmoor.” + +After this, Margaret declared that Blanche must be allowed to buy the +bodkin, and give her bellows to Jane Taylor, the only Cocksmoor child +she knew, and to whom she always destined in turn every gift that she +thought most successful. + +So Blanche went with Flora to the toy-shop, and there fell in love with +a little writing-box, that so eclipsed the bellows, that she tried to +persuade Flora to buy it for Jane Taylor, to be kept till she could +write, and was much disappointed to hear that it was out of the +question. Just then a carriage stopped, and from it stepped the pretty +little figure of Meta Rivers. + +“Oh! how do you do? How delightful to meet you! I was wondering if we +should! Little Blanche too!” kissing her, “and here’s Mrs. Larpent--Mrs. +Larpent--Miss Flora May. How is Miss May?” + +This was all uttered in eager delight, and Flora, equally pleased, +answered the inquiries. “I hope you are not in a hurry,” proceeded Meta; +“I want your advice. You know all about schools, don’t you? I am come +to get some Easter presents for our children, and I am sure you can help +me.” + +“Are the children little or big?” asked Flora. + +“Oh! all sorts and sizes. I have some books for the great sensible ones, +and some stockings and shoes for the tiresome stupid ones, but there are +some dear little pets that I want nice things for. There--there’s a doll +that looks just fit for little curly-headed Annie Langley, don’t you +think so, Mrs. Larpent?” + +The price of the doll was a shilling, and there were quickly added to +it, boxes of toys, elaborate bead-work pincushions, polished blue and +green boxes, the identical writing-case--even a small Noah’s ark. Meta +hardly asked the prices, which certainly were not extravagant, since she +had nearly twenty articles for little more than a pound. + +“Papa has given me a benefaction of £5 for my school-gifts,” said she, +“is not that charming? I wish you would come to the feast. Now, do! It +is on Easter Tuesday. Won’t you come?” + +“Thank you, I am afraid we can’t. I should like it very much.” + +“You never will come to me. You have no compassion.” + +“We should enjoy coming very much. Perhaps, in the summer, when Margaret +is better.” + +“Could not she spare any of you? Well, I shall talk to papa, and make +him talk to Dr. May. Mrs. Larpent will tell you I always get my way. +Don’t I? Good-bye. See if I don’t.” + +She departed, and Flora returned to her own business; but Blanche’s +interest was gone. Dazzled by the more lavish gifts, she looked +listlessly and disdainfully at bodkins, three for twopence. “I wish I +might have bought the writing-box for Janet Taylor! Why does not papa +give us money to get pretty things for the children?” said she, as soon +as they came out. + +“Because he is not so rich as Miss Rivers’s papa.” + +Flora was interrupted by meeting the Misses Anderson, who asked, “Was +not that carriage Mr. Rivers’s of Abbotstoke Grange?” + +“Yes. We like Miss Rivers very much,” said Flora, resolved to show that +she was acquainted. + +“Oh! do you visit her? I knew he was a patient of Dr. May.” Flora +thought there was no need to tell that the only call had been owing to +the rain, and continued, “She has been begging us to come to her school +feast, but I do not think we can manage it.” + +“Oh, indeed! the Grange is very beautiful, is it not?” + +“Very,” said Flora. “Good-morning.” + +Flora had a little uneasiness in her conscience, but it was satisfactory +to have put down Louisa Anderson, who never could aspire to an intimacy +with Miss Rivers. Her little sister looked up--“Why, Flora, have you +seen the Grange?” + +“No, but papa and Norman said so.” + +And Blanche showed that the practical lesson on the pomps of the world +was not lost on her, by beginning to wish they were as rich as Miss +Rivers. Flora told her it was wrong to be discontented, but the answer +was, “I don’t want it for myself, I want to have pretty things to give +away.” + +And her mind could not be turned from the thought by any attempt of her +sister. Even when they met Dr. May coming out of the hospital, Blanche +renewed the subject. She poured out the catalogue of Miss Rivers’s +purchases, making appealing attempts at looking under his spectacles +into his eyes, and he perfectly understood the tenor of her song. + +“I have had a sight, too, of little maidens preparing Easter gifts,” + said he. + +“Have you, papa? What were they? Were they as nice as Miss Rivers’s?” + +“I don’t know, but I thought they were the best sort of gifts, for I saw +that plenty of kind thought and clever contrivance went to them, ay, and +some little self-denial too.” + +“Papa, you look as if you meant something; but ours are nothing but +nasty old rubbish.” + +“Perhaps some fairy, or something better, has brought a wand to touch +the rubbish, Blanche; for I think that the maidens gave what would have +been worthless kept, but became precious as they gave it.” + +“Do you mean the list of our flannel petticoats, papa, that Mary has +made into a tippet?” + +“Perhaps I meant Mary’s own time and pains, as well as the tippet. Would +she have done much good with them otherwise?” + +“No, she would have played. Oh! then you like the presents because they +are our own making? I never thought of that. Was that the reason you did +not give us any of your sovereigns to buy things with?” + +“Perhaps I want my sovereigns for the eleven gaping mouths at home, +Blanche. But would not it be a pity to spoil your pleasure? You would +have lost all the chattering and laughing and buzzing I have heard round +Margaret of late, and I am quite sure Miss Rivers can hardly be as happy +in the gifts that cost her nothing, as one little girl who gives her +sugar-plums out of her own mouth!” + +Blanche clasped her papa’s hand tight, and bounded five or six times. +“They are our presents, not yours,” said she. “Yes, I see. I like them +better now.” + +“Ay, ay,” said the doctor. “Seeing Miss Rivers’s must not take the shine +out of yours, my little maids; for if you can’t give much, you have the +pleasure of giving the best of all, your labour of love.” Then thinking +on, and speaking to Flora, “The longer I live, the more I see the +blessing of being born in a state of life where you can’t both eat your +cake and give it away.” + +Flora never was at ease in a conversation with her father; she could +not follow him, and did not like to show it. She answered aside from the +mark, “You would not have Blanche underrate Miss Rivers?” + +“No, indeed, she is as good and sweet a creature as ever came across +me--most kind to Margaret, and loving to all the world. I like to see +one whom care and grief have never set their grip upon. Most likely she +would do like Ethel, if she had the opportunity, but she has not.” + +“So she has not the same merit?” said Flora. + +“We don’t talk of merit. I mean that the power of sacrifice is a great +advantage. The habit of small sacrifice that is made necessary in a +large family is a discipline that only-children are without: and so, +with regard to wealth, I think people are to be pitied who can give +extensively out of such abundance that they can hardly feel the want.” + +“In effect, they can do much more,” said Flora. + +“I am not sure of that. They can, of course, but it must be at the cost +of personal labour and sacrifice. I have often thought of the words, +‘Silver and gold have I none, but such as I have give I thee.’ And ‘such +as we have’ it is that does the good; the gold, if we have it, but, at +any rate, the personal influence; the very proof of sincerity, shown by +the exertion and self-denial, tells far more than money lightly come by, +lightly spent.” + +“Do you mean that a person who maintained a whole school would do less +good than one who taught one child?” + +“If the rich person take no pains, and leave the school to take care +of itself--nay, if he only visit it now and then, and never let it +inconvenience him, has he the least security that the scholars are +obtaining any real good from it? If the teacher of the one child is +doing his utmost, he is working for himself at least.” + +“Suppose we could build, say our church and school, on Cocksmoor at +once, and give our superintendence besides?” + +“If things were ripe for it, the means would come. As it is, it is a +fine field for Ethel and Richard. I believe it will be the making of +them both. I am sure it is training Ethel, or making her train herself, +as we could never have done without it. But here, come in and see old +Mrs. Robins. A visit from you will cheer her up.” + +Flora was glad of the interruption, the conversation was uncomfortable +to her. She almost fancied her papa was moralising for their good, but +that he carried it too far, for wealthy people assuredly had it in their +power to do great things, and might work as hard themselves; besides, it +was finer in them, there was so much eclat in their stooping to charity. +But her knowledge of his character would not allow her to think for a +moment that he could say aught but from the bottom of his heart--no, it +was one of his one-sided views that led him into paradox. “It was just +like papa,” and so there was no need to attend to it. It was one of +his enthusiasms, he was so very fond of Ethel, probably because of her +likeness to himself. Flora thought Ethel put almost too forward--they +all helped at Cocksmoor, and Ethel was very queer and unformed, and +could do nothing by herself. The only thing Flora did keep in her mind +was, that her papa had spoken to her, as if she were a woman compared +with Ethel. + +Little Blanche made her report of the conversation to Mary, “that it was +so nice; and now she did not care about Miss Rivers’s fine presents at +all, for papa said what one made oneself was better to give than what +one bought. And papa said, too, that it was a good thing not to be rich, +for then one never felt the miss of what one gave away.” + +Margaret, who overheard the exposition, thought it so much to Blanche’s +credit, that she could not help repeating it in the evening, after the +little girl was gone to bed, when Mr. Wilmot had come in to arrange +the programme for Cocksmoor. So the little fit of discontent and its +occasion, the meeting with Meta Rivers, were discussed. + +“Yes,” said Mr. Wilmot, “those Riverses are open-handed. They really +seem to have so much money, that they don’t know what to do with it. My +brother is ready to complain that they spoil his parish. It is all meant +so well, and they are so kind-hearted and excellent, that it is a shame +to find fault, and I tell Charles and his wife that their grumbling at +such a squire proves them the most spoiled of all.” + +“Indiscriminate liberality?” asked the doctor. “I should guess the old +gentleman to be rather soft!” + +“That’s one thing. The parish is so small, and there are so few to +shower all this bounty on, and they are so utterly unused to country +people. They seem to think by laying out money they can get a show set +of peasants in rustic cottages, just as they have their fancy cows and +poultry--all that offends the eye out of the way.” + +“Making it a matter of taste,” said the doctor. + +“I’m sure I would,” said Norman aside to Ethel. “What’s the use of +getting oneself disgusted?” + +“One must not begin with showing dislike,” began Ethel, “or--” + +“Ay--you like rags, don’t you? but hush!” + +“That is just what I should expect of Mr. Rivers,” said Dr. May; “he +has cultivated his taste till it is getting to be a disease, but his +daughter has no lack of wit.” + +“Perhaps not. Charles and Mary are very fond of her, but she is entirely +inexperienced, and that is a serious thing with so much money to throw +about. She pays people for sending their children to school, and keeping +their houses tidy; and there is so much given away, that it is enough to +take away all independence and motive for exertion. The people speculate +on it, and take it as a right; by-and-by there will be a reaction--she +will find out she is imposed upon, take offence, and for the rest of her +life will go about saying how ungrateful the poor are!” + +“It is a pity good people won’t have a little common-sense,” said Dr. +May. “But there’s something so bewitching in that little girl, that I +can’t give her up. I verily believe she will right herself.” + +“I have scarcely seen her,” said Mr. Wilmot. “She has won papa’s heart +by her kindness to me,” said Margaret, smiling. “You see her beautiful +flowers? She seems to me made to lavish pleasures on others wherever she +goes.” + +“Oh, yes, they are most kind-hearted,” said Mr. Wilmot. “It is only +the excess of a virtue that could be blamed in them, and they are most +valuable to the place. She will learn experience in time--I only hope +she will not be spoiled.” + +Flora felt as if her father must be thinking his morning’s argument +confirmed, and she was annoyed. But she thought there was no reason why +wealth should not be used sensibly, and if she were at the head of such +an establishment as the Grange, her charity should be so well regulated +as to be the subject of general approbation. + +She wanted to find some one else on her side, and, as they went to bed, +she said to Ethel, “Don’t you wish we had some of this superfluity of +the Riverses for poor Cocksmoor?” + +“I wish we had anything for Cocksmoor! Here’s a great hole in my boot, +and nurse says I must get a new pair, that is seven-and-sixpence gone! I +shall never get the first pound made up towards building!” + +“And pounds seem nothing to them,” said Flora. + +“Yes, but if they don’t manage right with them! I’ll tell you, Flora, +I got into a fit of wishing the other day; it does seem such a grievous +pity to see those children running to waste for want of daily teaching, +and Jenny Hall had forgotten everything. I was vexed, and thought it was +all no use while we could not do more; but just then I began to look out +the texts Ritchie had marked for me to print for them to learn, and the +first was, ‘Be thou faithful over a few things, and I will make thee +ruler over many things,’ and then I thought perhaps we were learning to +be faithful with a few things. I am sure what they said to-night showed +it was lucky we have not more in our hands. I should do wrong for ever +with the little we have if it were not for Ritchie and Margaret. By the +time we have really got the money together for the school, perhaps I +shall have more sense.” + +“Got the money! As if we ever could!” + +“Oh, yes! we shall and will. It need not be more than £70, Ritchie says, +and I have twelve shillings for certain, put out from the money for hire +of the room, and the books and clothes, and, in spite of these horrid +boots, I shall save something out of this quarter, half-a-crown at +least. And I have another plan besides--” + +But Flora had to go down to Margaret’s room to bed. Flora was always +ready to throw herself into the present, and liked to be the most +useful person in all that went forward, so that no thoughts of greatness +interfered with her enjoyment at Cocksmoor. + +The house seemed wild that Easter Monday morning. Ethel, Mary, and +Blanche, flew about in all directions, and in spite of much undoing of +their own arrangements, finished their preparations so much too early, +that, at half-past eleven, Mary complained that she had nothing to do, +and that dinner would never come. + +Many were the lamentations at leaving Margaret behind, but she answered +them by talking of the treat of having papa all to herself, for he had +lent them the gig, and promised to stay at home all the afternoon with +her. + +The first division started on foot directly after dinner, the real +Council of education, as Norman called them, namely, Mr. Wilmot, +Richard, Ethel, and Mary; Flora, the other member, waited to take care +of Blanche and Aubrey, who were to come in the gig, with the cakes, +tea-kettles, and prizes, driven by Norman. Tom and Hector Ernescliffe +were invited to join the party, and many times did Mary wish for Harry. + +Supremely happy were the young people as they reached the common, and +heard the shout of tumultuous joy, raised by their pupils, who were on +the watch for them. All was now activity. Everybody tripped into Mrs. +Green’s house, while Richard and Ethel ran different ways to secure that +the fires were burning, which they had hired, to boil their kettles, +with the tea in them. + +Then when the kitchen was so full that it seemed as if it could hold no +more, some kind of order was produced, the children were seated on their +benches, and, while the mothers stood behind to listen, Mr. Wilmot began +to examine, as well as he could in so crowded an audience. + +There was progress. Yes, there was. Only three were as utterly rude +and idealess as they used to be at Christmas. Glimmerings had dawned +on most, and one--Una M’Carthy--was fit to come forward to claim Mr. +Wilmot’s promise of a Prayer-book. She could really read and say the +Catechism--her Irish wit and love of learning had outstripped all the +rest--and she was the pride of Ethel’s heart, fit, now, to present +herself on equal terms with the Stoneborough set, as far as her sense +was concerned--though, alas! neither present nor exhortation had +succeeded in making her anything, in looks, but a picturesque +tatterdemalion, her sandy elf locks streaming over a pair of eyes, so +dancing and gracieuses, that it was impossible to scold her. + +With beating heart, as if her own success in life depended for ever +on the way her flock acquitted themselves, Ethel stood by Mr. Wilmot, +trying to read answers coming out of the dull mouths of her children, +and looking exultingly at Richard whenever some good reply was made, +especially when Una answered an unexpected question. It was too +delightful to hear how well she remembered all the history up to the +flood, and how prettily it came out in her Irish accent! That made up +for all the atrocious stupidity of others, who, after being told every +time since they had begun who gave their names, now chose to forget. + +In the midst, while the assembly were listening with admiration to the +reading of the scholar next in proficiency to Una, a boy who could read +words of five letters without spelling, there was a fresh squeezing at +the door, and, the crowd opening as well as it could, in came Flora and +Blanche, while Norman’s head was seen for a moment in the doorway. + +Flora’s whisper to Ethel was her first discovery that the closeness and +the heat of the room was nearly overpowering. Her excitement had made +all be forgotten. “Could not a window be opened?” + +Mrs. Green interfered--it had been nailed up because her husband had the +rheumatiz! + +“Where’s Aubrey?” asked Mary. + +“With Norman. Norman said he would not let him go into the black-hole, +so he has got him out of doors. Ethel, we must come out! You don’t know +what an atmosphere it is! Blanche, go out to Norman!” + +“Flora, Flora! you don’t consider,” said Ethel, in an agony. + +“Yes, yes. It is not at all cold. Let them have their presents out of +doors and eat their buns.” + +Richard and Mr. Wilmot agreed with Flora, and the party were turned out. +Ethel did own, when she was in the open air, “that it had been rather +hot.” + +Norman’s face was a sight, as he stood holding Aubrey in his arms, to +gratify the child’s impatience. The stifling den, the uncouth aspect +of the children, the head girl so very ragged a specimen, thoroughly +revolted his somewhat fastidious disposition. This was Ethel’s delight! +to this she made so many sacrifices! this was all that her time and +labour had effected! He did not wish to vex her but it was more than he +could stand. + +However, Ethel was too much engrossed to look for sympathy. It was a +fine spring day, and on the open space of the common the arrangements +were quickly made. The children stood in a long line, and the baskets +were unpacked. Flora and Ethel called the names, Mary and Blanche gave +the presents, and assuredly the grins, courtesies, and pulls of the +forelock they elicited, could not have been more hearty for any of Miss +Rivers’s treasures. The buns and the kettles of tea followed--it was +perfect delight to entertainers and entertained, except when Mary’s +dignity was cruelly hurt by Norman’s authoritatively taking a kettle out +of her hands, telling her she would be the death of herself or somebody +else, and reducing her to the mere rank of a bun distributor, which +Blanche and Aubrey could do just as well; while he stalked along with a +grave and resigned countenance, filling up the cups held out to him by +timid-looking children. Mary next fell in with Granny Hall, who had gone +into such an ecstasy over Blanche and Aubrey, that Blanche did not know +which way to look; and Aubrey, in some fear that the old woman might +intend to kiss him, returned the compliments by telling her she was +“ugly up in her face,” at which she laughed heartily, and uttered more +vehement benedictions. + +Finally, the three best children, boys and girls, were to be made fit +to be seen, and recommended by Mr. Wilmot to the Sunday-school and +penny club at Stoneborough, and, this being proclaimed and the children +selected, the assembly dispersed, Mr. Wilmot rejoicing Ethel and +Richard by saying, “Well, really, you have made a beginning. There is an +improvement in tone among those children, that is more satisfactory than +any progress they may have made.” + +Ethel’s eyes beamed, and she hurried to tell Flora. Richard coloured +and gave his quiet smile, then turned to put things in order for their +return. + +“Will you drive home, Richard?” said Norman, coming up to him. + +“Don’t you wish it?” said Richard, who had many minor arrangements to +make, and would have preferred walking home independently. + +“No, thank you, I have a headache, and walking may take it off,” said +Norman, taking off his hat and passing his fingers through his hair. + +“A headache again--I am sorry to hear it.” + +“It is only that suffocating den of yours. My head ached from the moment +I looked into it. How can you take Ethel into such a hole, Richard? It +is enough to kill her to go on with it for ever.” + +“It is not so every day,” said the elder brother quietly. “It is a warm +day, and there was an unusual crowd.” + +“I shall speak to my father,” exclaimed Norman, with somewhat of the +supercilious tone that he had now and then been tempted to address to +his brother. “It is not fit that Ethel should give up everything, health +and all, to such a set as these. They look as if they had been picked +out of the gutter--dirt, squalor, everything disgusting, and summer +coming on, too, and that horrid place with no window to open! It is +utterly unbearable!” + +Richard stooped to pick up a heavy basket, then smiled and said, “You +must get over such things as these if you mean to be a clergyman, +Norman.” + +“Whatever I am to be, it does not concern the girls being in such a +place as this. I am surprised that you could suffer it.” + +There was no answer--Richard was walking off with his basket, and +putting it into the carriage. Norman was not pleased with himself, but +thought it his duty to let his father know his opinion of Ethel’s weekly +resort. All he wished was to avoid Ethel herself, not liking to show her +his sentiments, and he was glad to see her put into the gig with Aubrey +and Mary. + +They rushed into the drawing-room, full of glee, when they came home, +all shouting their news together, and had not at first leisure to +perceive that Margaret had some tidings for them in return. Mr. +Rivers had been there, with a pressing invitation to his daughter’s +school-feast, and it had been arranged that Flora and Ethel should go +and spend the day at the Grange, and their father come to dine, and +fetch them home in the evening. Margaret had been much pleased with the +manner in which the thing was done. When Dr. May, who seemed reluctant +to accept the proposal that related to himself, was called out of the +room, Mr. Rivers had, in a most kind manner, begged her to say whether +she thought it would be painful to him, or whether it might do +his spirits good. She decidedly gave her opinion in favour of the +invitation, Mr. Rivers gained his point, and she had ever since been +persuading her father to like the notion, and assuring him it need not +be made a precedent for the renewal of invitations to dine out in the +town. He thought the change would be pleasant for his girls, and had, +therefore, consented. + +“Oh, papa, papa! thank you!” cried Ethel, enraptured, as soon as he +came into the room. “How very kind of you! How I have wished to see the +Grange, and all Norman talks about! Oh, dear! I am so glad you are going +there too!” + +“Why, what should you do with me?” said Dr. May, who felt and looked +depressed at this taking up of the world again. + +“Oh, dear! I should not like it at all without you! It would be no fun +at all by ourselves. I wish Flora would come home. How pleased she will +be! Papa, I do wish you would look as if you didn’t mind it! I can’t +enjoy it if you don’t like going.” + +“I shall when I am there, my dear,” said the doctor affectionately, +putting his arm around her as she stood by him. “It will be a fine day’s +sport for you.” + +“But can’t you like it beforehand, papa?” + +“Not just this minute, Ethel,” said he, with his bright, sad smile. “All +I like just now is my girl’s not being able to do without me; but we’ll +do the best we can. So your flock acquitted themselves brilliantly? Who +is your Senior Wrangler?” + +Ethel threw herself eagerly into the history of the examination, and had +almost forgotten the invitation till she heard the front door open. Then +it was not she, but Margaret, who told Flora--Ethel could not, as she +said, enjoy what seemed to sadden her father. Flora received it much +more calmly. “It will be very pleasant,” said she; “it was very kind of +papa to consent. You will have Richard and Norman, Margaret, to be with +you in the evening.” + +And, as soon as they went upstairs, Ethel began to write down the list +of prizes in her school journal, while Flora took out the best evening +frocks, to study whether the crape looked fresh enough. + +The invitation was a convenient subject of conversation, for Norman had +so much to tell his sisters of the curiosities they must look for at the +Grange, that he was not obliged to mention Cocksmoor. He did not like +to mortify Ethel by telling her his intense disgust, and he knew he +was about to do what she would think a great injury by speaking to his +father on the subject; but he thought it for her real welfare, and +took the first opportunity of making to his father and Margaret a most +formidable description of Ethel’s black-hole. It quite alarmed Margaret, +but the doctor smiled, saying, “Ay, ay, I know the face Norman puts on +if he looks into a cottage.” + +“Well,” said Norman, with some mortification, “all I know is, that my +head ached all the rest of the day.” + +“Very likely, but your head is not Ethel’s, and there were twice as many +people as the place was intended to hold.” + +“A stuffy hole, full of peat-smoke, and with a window that can’t open at +the best of times.” + +“Peat-smoke is wholesome,” said Dr. May, looking provoking. + +“You don’t know what it is, papa, or you would never let Ethel spend her +life there. It is poisonous!” + +“I’ll take care of Ethel,” said Dr. May, walking off, and leaving Norman +in a state of considerable annoyance at being thus treated. He broke +out into fresh exclamations against the horrors of Cocksmoor, telling +Margaret she had no idea what a den it was. + +“But, Norman, it can’t be so very bad, or Richard would not allow it.” + +“Richard is deluded!” said Norman; “but if he chooses to run after dirty +brats, why should he take Ethel there?” + +“My dear Norman, you know it is all Ethel’s doing.” + +“Yes, I know she has gone crazy after them, and given up all her Greek +for it. It is past endurance!” said Norman, who had worked himself up +into great indignation. + +“Well, but surely, Norman, it is better they should do what they can for +those poor creatures, than for Ethel to learn Greek.” + +“I don’t know that. Let those who are fit for nothing else go and +drone over A B C with ragged children, if they like. It is just their +vocation; but there is an order in everything, Margaret, and minds of a +superior kind are intended for higher purposes, not to be wasted in this +manner.” + +“I don’t know whether they are wasted,” said Margaret, not quite liking +Norman’s tone, though she had not much to say to his arguments. + +“Not wasted? Not in doing what any one can do? I know what you’ll +say about the poor. I grant it, but high ability must be given for a +purpose, not to be thrown away. It is common-sense, that some one must +be meant to do the dirty work.” + +“I see what you mean, Norman, but I don’t quite like that to be called +by such a name. I think--” she hesitated. “Don’t you think you dislike +such things more than--” + +“Any one must abominate dirt and slovenliness. I know what you mean. My +father thinks ‘tis all nonsense in me, but his profession has made him +insensible to such things, and he fancies every one else is the same! +Now, Margaret, am I unreasonable?” + +“I am sure I don’t know, dear Norman,” said Margaret, hesitating, +and feeling it her duty to say something; “I dare say it was very +disagreeable.” + +“And you think, too, that I made a disturbance for nothing?” + +“No, indeed I don’t, nor does dear papa. I have no doubt he will see +whether it is proper for Ethel. All I think he meant is, that perhaps +your not being well last winter has made you a little more sensitive in +such things.” + +Norman paused, and coloured. He remembered the pain it had given him to +find himself incapable of being of use to his father, and that he had +resolved to conquer the weakness of nerve of which he was ashamed; +but he did not like to connect this with his fastidious feelings of +refinement. He would not own to himself that they were over nice, and, +at the bottom of all this justification, rankled Richard’s saying, that +he who cared for such things was unfit for a clergyman. Norman’s secret +thought was, it was all very well for those who could only aspire +to parish work in wretched cottages--people who could distinguish +themselves were more useful at the university, forming minds, and +opening new discoveries in learning. + +Was Norman quite proof against the consciousness of daily excelling +all his competitors? His superiority had become even more manifest +this Easter, when Cheviot and Forder, the two elder boys whom he had +outstripped, left the school, avowedly, because it was not worth +while for them to stay, since they had so little chance of the Randall +scholarship. Norman had now only to walk over the course, no one even +approaching him but Harvey Anderson. + +Meta Rivers always said that fine weather came at her call, and so it +did--glowing sunshine streaming over the shaven turf, and penetrating +even the solid masses of the great cedar. + +The carriage was sent for the Misses May, and at two o’clock they +arrived. Flora, extremely anxious that Ethel should comport herself +discreetly; and Ethel full of curiosity and eagerness, the only drawback +her fears that her papa was doing what he disliked. She was not in the +least shy, and did not think about her manner enough to be troubled by +the consciousness that it had a good deal of abruptness and eagerness, +and that her short sight made her awkward. Meta met them with +outstretched hands and a face beaming with welcome. “I told you I should +get my way!” she said triumphantly, and, after her warm greeting, she +looked with some respect at the face of the Miss May who was so very +clever. It certainly was not what she expected, not at all like either +of the four sisters she had already seen--brown, sallow, and with that +sharp long nose, and the eager eyes, and brow a little knit by the +desire to see as far as she could. It was pleasanter to look at Flora. + +Ethel left the talk chiefly to Flora--there was wonder and study enough +for her in the grounds and garden, and when Mrs. Larpent tried to enter +into conversation with her, she let it drop two or three times while +she was peering hard at a picture and trying to make out its subject. +However, when they all went out to walk to church, Ethel lighted up, +and talked, admired, and asked questions in her quick, eager way, which +interested Mrs. Larpent greatly. The governess asked after Norman, and +no more was wanted to produce a volume of histories of his successes, +till Flora turned as she walked before with Meta, saying, “Why, Ethel, +you are quite overwhelming Mrs. Larpent.” + +But some civil answer convinced Ethel that what she said was +interesting, and she would not be stopped in her account of their +anxieties on the day of the examination. Flora was pleased that Meta, +catching some words, begged to hear more, and Flora gave an account +of the matter, soberer in terms, but quietly setting Norman at a much +greater distance from all his competitors. + +After church came the feast in the school. It was a large commodious +building. Meta declared it was very tiresome that it was so good inside, +it was so ugly, she should never rest till papa had built her a real +beauty. They found Mr. and Mrs. Charles Wilmot in the school, with a +very nice well-dressed set of boys and girls, and--But there is no need +to describe the roast-beef and plum-pudding, “the feast ate merrily,” + and Ethel was brilliantly happy waiting on the children, and so was +sunny-hearted Meta. Flora was too busy in determining what the Riverses +might be thinking of her and her sister to give herself up to the +enjoyment. + +Ethel found a small boy looking ready to cry at an untouched slice of +beef. She examined him whether he could cut it, and at last discovered +that, as had been the case with one or two of her own brothers at the +same age, meat was repugnant to him. In her vehement manner she flew +off to fetch him some pudding, and hurrying up, as she thought, to Mr. +Charles Wilmot, who had been giving it out, she thrust her plate between +him and the dish, and had begun her explanation when she perceived it +was a stranger, and she stood, utterly discomfited, not saying, “I beg +your pardon,” but only blushing, awkward and confused, as he spoke to +her, in a good-natured, hospitable manner, which showed her it must be +Mr. Rivers. She obtained her pudding, and, turning hastily, retreated. + +“Meta,” said Mr. Rivers, as his daughter came out of the school with +him, for, open and airy as it was, the numbers and the dinner made him +regard it as Norman had viewed the Cocksmoor room, “was that one of the +Miss Mays?” + +“Yes, papa, Ethel, the third, the clever one.” + +“I thought she must be one of them from her dress; but what a difference +between her and the others!” + +Mr. Rivers was a great admirer of beauty, and Meta, brought up to be the +same, was disappointed, but consoled herself by admiring Flora. Ethel, +after the awkwardness was over, thought no more of the matter, but went +on in full enjoyment of the feast. The eating finished, the making of +presents commenced, and choice ones they were. The smiles of Meta and of +the children were a pretty sight, and Ethel thought she had never seen +anything so like a beneficent fairy. Mr. and Mrs. Wilmot said their +words of counsel and encouragement, and, by five o’clock, all was over. + +“Oh, I am sorry!” said Meta, “Easter won’t come again for a whole year, +and it has been so delightful. How that dear little Annie smiled and +nursed her doll! I wish I could see her show it to her mother! Oh, how +nice it is! I am so glad papa brought me to live in the country. I don’t +think anything can be so charming in all the world as seeing little +children happy!” + +Ethel could not think how the Wilmots could have found it in their heart +to regret the liberality of this sweet damsel, on whom she began to look +with Norman’s enthusiastic admiration. + +There was time for a walk round the grounds, Meta doing the honours to +Flora, and Ethel walking with Mrs. Larpent. Both pairs were very good +friends, and the two sisters admired and were charmed with the beauty +of the gardens and conservatories--Ethel laying up a rich store of +intelligence for Margaret; but still she was not entirely happy; +her papa was more and more on her mind. He had looked dispirited +at breakfast; he had a long hard day’s work before him, and she was +increasingly uneasy at the thought that it would be a painful effort to +him to join them in the evening. Her mind was full of it when she was +conducted, with Flora, to the room where they were to dress; and when +Flora began to express her delight, her answer was only that she hoped +it was not very unpleasant to papa. + +“It is not worth while to be unhappy about that, Ethel. If it is an +effort, it will be good for him when he is once here. I know he will +enjoy it.” + +“Yes, I should think he would--I hope he will. He must like you to have +such a friend as Miss Rivers. How pretty she is!” + +“Now, Ethel, it is high time to dress. Pray make yourself look +nice--don’t twist up your hair in that any-how fashion.” + +Ethel sighed, then began talking fast about some hints on school-keeping +which she had picked up for Cocksmoor. + +Flora’s glossy braids were in full order, while Ethel was still +struggling to get her plait smooth, and was extremely beholden to her +sister for taking it into her own hands and doing the best with it that +its thinness and roughness permitted. And then Flora pinched and pulled +and arranged Ethel’s frock, in vain attempts to make it sit like her +own--those sharp high bones resisted all attempts to disguise them. +“Never mind, Flora, it is quite tidy, I am sure, there--do let me be in +peace. You are like old nurse.” + +“So those are all the thanks I get?” + +“Well, thank you very much, dear Flora. You are a famous person. How I +wish Margaret could see that lovely mimosa!” + +“And, Ethel, do take care. Pray don’t poke and spy when you come into +the room, and don’t frown when you are trying to see. I hope you won’t +have anything to help at dinner. Take care how you manage.” + +“I’ll try,” said Ethel meekly, though a good deal tormented, as Flora +went on with half a dozen more injunctions, closed by Meta’s coming to +fetch them. Little Meta did not like to show them her own bedroom--she +pitied them so much when she thought of the contrast. She would have +liked to put Flora’s arm through her’s, but she thought, it would look +neglectful of Ethel; so she only showed the way downstairs. Ethel forgot +all her sister’s orders; for there stood her father, and she looked +most earnestly at his face. It was cheerful, and his voice sounded +well pleased as he greeted Meta; then resumed an animated talk with +Mr. Rivers. Ethel drew as near him as she could; she had a sense of +protection, and could open to full enjoyment when she saw him bright. At +the first pause in the conversation, the gentlemen turned to the young +ladies. Mr. Rivers began talking to Flora, and Dr. May, after a few +pleasant words to Meta, went back to Ethel. He wanted her to see +his favourite pictures--he led her up to them, made her put on his +spectacles to see them better, and showed her their special merits. Mr. +Rivers and the others joined them; Ethel said little, except a remark +or two in answer to her papa, but she was very happy--she felt that he +liked to have her with him; and Meta, too, was struck by the soundness +of her few sayings, and the participation there seemed to be in all +things between the father and daughter. + +At dinner Ethel went on pretty well. She was next to her father, and was +very glad to find the dinner so grand, that no side-dish fell to her lot +to be carved. There was a great deal of pleasant talk, such as the girls +could understand, though they did not join much in it, except that now +and then Dr. May turned to Ethel as a reference for names and dates. To +make up for silence at dinner, there was a most confidential chatter in +the drawing-room. Flora and Meta on one side, hand in hand, calling each +other by their Christian names, Mrs. Larpent and Ethel on the other. +Flora dreaded only that Ethel was talking too much, and revealing too +much in how different style they lived. Then came the gentlemen, Dr. May +begging Mr. Rivers to show Ethel one of his prints, when Ethel stooped +more than ever, as if her eyelashes were feelers, but she was in +transports of delight, and her embarrassment entirely at an end in her +admiration, as she exclaimed and discussed with her papa, and by her +hearty appreciation made Mr. Rivers for the time forget her plainness. +Music followed; Flora played nicely, Meta like a well-taught girl; Ethel +went on musing over the engravings. The carriage was announced, and +so ended the day in Norman’s fairy-land. Ethel went home, leaning hard +against her papa, talking to him of Raphael’s Madonnas; and looking out +at the stars, and thinking how the heavenly beauty of those faces that, +in the prints she had been turning over, seemed to be connected with the +glories of the dark-blue sky and glowing stars. “As one star differeth +from another star in glory,” murmured she; “that was the lesson to-day, +papa;” and when she felt him press her hand, she knew he was thinking of +that last time she had heard the lesson, when he had not been with her, +and her thoughts went with his, though not another word was spoken. + +Flora hardly knew when they ceased to talk. She had musings equally +engrossing of her own. She saw she was likely to be very intimate with +Meta Rivers, and she was roaming away into schemes for not letting the +intercourse drop, and hopes of being admitted to many a pleasure as yet +little within her reach--parties, balls, London, itself, and, above all, +the satisfaction of being admired. The certainty that Mr. Rivers thought +her pretty and agreeable had gratified her all the evening, and if he, +with his refined taste, thought so, what would others think? Her +only fear was, that Ethel’s awkwardness might make an unfavourable +impression, but, at least, she said to herself, it was anything but +vulgar awkwardness. + +Their reflections were interrupted by the fly stopping. It was at a +little shop in the outskirts of the town, and Dr. May, explained that he +wanted to inquire for a patient. He went in for a moment, then came back +to desire that they would go home, for he should be detained some little +time. No one need sit up for him--he would let himself in. + +It seemed a comment on Ethel’s thoughts, bringing them back to the +present hour. That daily work of homely mercy, hoping for nothing again, +was surely the true way of doing service. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + + + WATCHMAN. How, if he will not stand? + DOGBERRY. Why, then, take no note of him, but let him go. + Much Ado about Nothing. + + +Dr. May promised Margaret that he would see whether the black-hole of +Cocksmoor was all that Norman depicted it, and, accordingly, he came +home that way on Tuesday evening the next week, much to the astonishment +of Richard, who was in the act of so mending the window that it might +let in air when open, and keep it out when shut, neither of which +purposes had it ever yet answered. + +Dr. May walked in, met his daughter’s look of delight and surprise, +spoke cheerfully to Mrs. Green, a hospital acquaintance of his, like +half the rest of the country, and made her smile and curtsey by asking +if she was not surprised at such doings in her house; then looked at the +children, and patted the head that looked most fit to pat, inquired who +was the best scholar, and offered a penny to whoever could spell copper +tea-kettle, which being done by three merry mortals, and having made him +extremely popular, he offered Ethel a lift, and carried her off between +him and Adams, on whom he now depended for driving him, since Richard +was going to Oxford at once. + +It was possible to spare him now. Dr. May’s arm was as well as he +expected it ever would be; he had discarded the sling, and could use his +hand again, but the arm was still stiff and weak--he could not stretch +it out, nor use it for anything requiring strength; it soon grew tired +with writing, and his daughters feared that it ached more than he chose +to confess, when they saw it resting in the breast of his waistcoat. +Driving he never would have attempted again, even if he could, and he +had quite given up carving--he could better bear to sit at the side than +at the bottom of the dinner-table. + +Means of carrying Margaret safely had been arranged by Richard, and +there was no necessity for longer delaying his going to Oxford, but he +was so unwillingly spared by all, as to put him quite into good spirits. +Ethel was much concerned to lose him from Cocksmoor, and dreaded +hindrances to her going thither without his escort; but she had much +trust in having her father on her side, and meant to get authority from +him for the propriety of going alone with Mary. + +She did not know how Norman had jeopardised her projects, but the danger +blew over. Dr. May told Margaret that the place was clean and wholesome, +and though more smoky than might be preferred, there was nothing to do +any one in health any harm, especially when the walk there and back was +over the fresh moor. He lectured Ethel herself on opening the window, +now that she could; and advised Norman to go and spend an hour in the +school, that he might learn how pleasant peat-smoke was--a speech Norman +did not like at all. The real touchstone of temper is ridicule on a +point where we do not choose to own ourselves fastidious, and if it and +been from any one but his father, Norman would not have so entirely kept +down his irritation. + +Richard passed his examination successfully, and Dr. May wrote himself +to express his satisfaction. Nothing went wrong just now except little +Tom, who seemed to be justifying Richard’s fears of the consequence of +exciting his father’s anger. At home, he shrank and hesitated at the +simplest question if put by his father suddenly; and the appearance of +cowardice and prevarication displeasing Dr. May further, rendered his +tone louder, and frightened Tom the more, giving his manner an air +of sullen reserve that was most unpleasant. At school it was much +the same--he kept aloof from Norman, and threw himself more into the +opposite faction, by whom he was shielded from all punishment, except +what they chose themselves to inflict on him. + +Norman’s post as head of the school was rendered more difficult by the +departure of his friend Cheviot, who had always upheld his authority; +Harvey Anderson did not openly transgress, for he had a character to +maintain, but it was well known throughout the school that there was a +wide difference between the boys, and that Anderson thought it absurd, +superfluous, and troublesome in May not to wink at abuses which appeared +to be licensed by long standing. When Edward Anderson, Axworthy, and +their set, broke through rules, it was with the understanding that the +second boy in the school would support them, if he durst. + +The summer and the cricket season brought the battle of Ballhatchet’s +house to issue. The cricket ground was the field close to it, and +for the last two or three years there had been a frequent custom of +despatching juniors to his house for tarts and ginger-beer bottles. +Norman knew of instances last year in which this had led to serious +mischief, and had made up his mind that, at whatever loss of popularity, +it was his duty to put a stop to the practice. + +He was an ardent cricketer himself, and though the game did not, in +anticipation, seem to him to have all the charms of last year, he +entered into it with full zest when once engaged. But his eye was on all +parts of the field, and especially on the corner by the bridge, and the +boys knew him well enough to attempt nothing unlawful within the range +of that glance. However, the constant vigilance was a strain too great +to be always kept up, and he had reason to believe he was eluded more +than once. + +At last came a capture, something like that of Tom, one which he could +not have well avoided making. The victim was George Larkins, the son +of a clergyman in the neighbourhood, a wild, merry varlet, who got into +mischief rather for the sake of the fun than from any bad disposition. + +His look of consternation was exaggerated into a most comical +caricature, in order to hide how much of it was real. + +“So you are at that trick, Larkins.” + +“There! that bet is lost!” exclaimed Larkins. “I laid Hill half-a-crown +that you would not see me when you were mooning over your verses!” + +“Well, I have seen you. And now--” + +“Come, you would not thrash a fellow when you have just lost him +half-a-crown! Single misfortunes never come alone, they say; so +there’s my money and my credit gone, to say nothing of Ballhatchet’s +ginger-beer!” + +The boy made such absurd faces, that Norman could hardly help laughing, +though he wished to make it a serious affair. “You know, Larkins, I have +given out that such things are not to be. It is a melancholy fact.” + +“Ay, so you must make an example of me!” said Larkins, pretending to +look resigned. “Better call all the fellows together, hadn’t you, and +make it more effective? It would be grateful to one’s feelings, you +know; and June,” added he, with a ridiculous confidential air, “if +you’ll only lay it on soft, I’ll take care it makes noise enough. Great +cry, little wool, you know.” + +“Come with me,” said Norman. “I’ll take care you are example enough. +What did you give for those articles?” + +“Fifteen-pence halfpenny. Rascally dear, isn’t it? but the old rogue +makes one pay double for the risk! You are making his fortune, you have +raised his prices fourfold.” + +“I’ll take care of that.” + +“Why, where are you taking me? Back to him?” + +“I am going to gratify your wish to be an example.” + +“A gibbet! a gibbet” cried Larkins. “I’m to be turned off on the spot +where the crime took place--a warning to all beholders. Only let me send +home for old Neptune’s chain, if you please, sir--if you hang me in +the combined watch-chains of the school, I fear they would give way and +defeat the purposes of justice.” + +They were by this time at the bridge. “Come in,” said Norman to his +follower, as he crossed the entrance of the little shop, the first time +he had ever been there. A little cringing shrivelled old man stood up in +astonishment. + +“Mr. May! can I have the pleasure, sir?” + +“Mr. Ballhatchet, you know that it is contrary to the rules that there +should be any traffic with the school without special permission?” + +“Yes, sir--just nothing, sir--only when the young gentlemen come +here, sir--I’m an old man, sir, and I don’t like not to oblige a young +gentleman, sir,” pleaded the old man, in a great fright. + +“Very likely,” said Norman, “but I am come to give you fair notice. I +am not going to allow the boys here to be continually smuggling spirits +into the school.” + +“Spirits! bless you, sir, I never thought of no sich a thing! ‘Tis +nothing in life but ginger-beer--very cooling drink, sir, of my wife’s +making; she had the receipt from her grandmother up in Leicestershire. +Won’t you taste a bottle, sir?” and he hastily made a cork bounce, and +poured it out. + +That, of course, was genuine, but Norman was “up to him,” in schoolboy +phrase. + +“Give me yours, Larkins.” + +No pop ensued. Larkins, enjoying the detection, put his hands on his +knees and looked wickedly up in the old man’s face to see what was +coming. + +“Bless me! it is a little flat. I wonder how that happened? I’ll be +most happy to change it, sir. Wife! what’s the meaning of Mr. Larkins’s +ginger-pop being so flat?” + +“It is very curious ginger-beer indeed, Mr. Ballhatchet,” said Norman; +“and since it is liable to have such strange properties, I cannot allow +it to be used any more at the school.” + +“Very well, sir-as you please, sir. You are the first gentleman as has +objected, sir.” + +“And, once for all, I give you warning,” added Norman, “that if I +have reason to believe you have been obliging the young gentlemen, the +magistrates and the trustees of the road shall certainly hear of it.” + +“You would not hurt a poor man, sir, as is drove to it--you as has such +a name for goodness!” + +“I have given you warning,” said Norman. “The next time I find any of +your bottles in the school fields, your licence goes. Now, there are +your goods. Give Mr. Larkins back the fifteen-pence. I wonder you are +not ashamed of such a charge!” + +Having extracted the money, Norman turned to leave the shop. Larkins, +triumphant, “Ha! there’s Harrison!” as the tutor rode by, and they +touched their caps. “How he stared! My eyes! June, you’ll be had up for +dealing with old Ball!” and he went into an ecstasy of laughing. “You’ve +settled him, I believe. Well, is justice satisfied?” + +“It would be no use thrashing you,” said Norman, laughing, as he leaned +against the parapet of the bridge, and pinched the boy’s ear. “There’s +nothing to be got out of you but chaff.” + +Larkins was charmed with the compliment. + +“But I’ll tell you what, Larkins, I can’t think how a fellow like you +can go and give in to these sneaking, underhand tricks that make you +ashamed to look one in the face.” + +“It is only for the fun of it.” + +“Well, I wish you would find your fun some other way. Come, Larkins, +recollect yourself a little--you have a home not so far off. How do you +think your father and mother would fancy seeing you reading the book you +had yesterday, or coming out of Ballhatchet’s with a bottle of spirits, +called by a false name?” + +Larkins pinched his fingers; home was a string that could touch him, but +it seemed beneath him to own it. At that moment a carriage approached, +the boy’s whole face lighted up, and he jumped forward. “Our own!” he +cried. “There she is!” + +She was, of course, his mother; and Norman, though turning hastily away +that his presence might prove no restraint, saw the boy fly over the +door of the open carriage, and could have sobbed at the thought of what +that meeting was. + +“Who was that with you?” asked Mrs. Larkins, when she had obtained leave +to have her boy with her, while she did her shopping. + +“That was May senior, our dux.” + +“Was it? I am very glad you should be with him, my dear George. He is +very kind to you, I hope?” + +“He is a jolly good fellow,” said Larkins sincerely, though by no means +troubling himself as to the appropriateness of the eulogy, nor thinking +it necessary to explain to his mother the terms of the conversation. + +It was not fruitless; Larkins did avoid mischief when it was not +extremely inviting, was more amenable to May senior, and having been put +in mind by him of his home, was not ashamed to bring the thought to the +aid of his eyes, when, on Sunday, during a long sermon of Mr. Ramsden’s, +he knew that Axworthy was making the grimace which irresistibly incited +him to make a still finer one. + +And Ballhatchet was so much convinced of “that there young May” being in +earnest, that he assured his persuasive customers that it was as much as +his licence was worth to supply them. + +Evil and insubordination were more easily kept under than Norman had +expected, when he first made up his mind to the struggle. Firmness had +so far carried the day, and the power of manful assertion of the right +had been proved, contrary to Cheviot’s parting auguries, that he would +only make himself disliked, and do no good. + +The whole of the school was extremely excited this summer by a +proceeding of Mr. Tomkins, the brewer, who suddenly closed up the +footway called Randall’s Alley, declaring that there was no right of +passage through a certain field at the back of his brewery. Not only the +school, but the town was indignant, and the Mays especially so. It +had been the doctor’s way to school forty years ago, and there were +recollections connected with it that made him regard it with personal +affection. Norman, too, could not bear to lose it; he had not entirely +conquered his reluctance to pass that spot in the High Street, and the +loss of the alley would be a positive deprivation to him. Almost every +native of Stoneborough felt strongly the encroachment of the brewer, and +the boys, of course, carried the sentiment to exaggeration. + +The propensity to public speaking perhaps added to the excitement, for +Norman May and Harvey Anderson, for once in unison, each made a vehement +harangue in the school-court--Anderson’s a fine specimen of the village +Hampden style, about Britons never suffering indignities, and free-born +Englishmen swelling at injuries. + +“That they do, my hearty,” interjected Larkins, pointing to an inflamed +eye that had not returned to its right dimensions. However, Anderson +went on unmoved by the under titter, and demonstrated, to the full +satisfaction of all the audience, that nothing could be more illegal and +unfounded than the brewer’s claims. + +Then came a great outburst from Norman, with all his father’s headlong +vehemence; the way was the right of the town, the walk had been trodden +by their forefathers for generations past--it had been made by the good +old generous-hearted man who loved his town and townspeople, and would +have heard with shame and anger of a stranger, a new inhabitant, a +grasping radical, caring, as radicals always did, for no rights, but +for their own chance of unjust gains, coming here to Stoneborough to cut +them off from their own path. He talk of liberalism and the rights of +the poor! He who cut off Randall’s poor old creatures in the almshouses +from their short way! and then came some stories of his oppression as a +poor-law guardian, which greatly aggravated the wrath of the speaker and +audience, though otherwise they did not exactly bear on the subject. + +“What would old Nicholas Randall say to these nineteenth-century +doings?” finished Norman. + +“Down, with them!” cried a voice from the throng, probably Larkins’s; +but there was no desire to investigate, it was the universal sentiment. +“Down with it! Hurrah, we’ll have our footpath open again! Down with the +fences! Britons never shall be slaves!” as Larkins finally ejaculated. + +“That’s the way to bring it to bear!” said Harvey Anderson, “See if he +dares to bring an action against us. Hurrah!” + +“Yes, that’s the way to settle it,” said Norman. “Let’s have it down. It +is an oppressive, arbitrary, shameful proceeding, and we’ll show him we +won’t submit to it!” + +Carried along by the general feeling, the whole troop of boys dashed +shouting up to the barricade at the entrance of the field, and levelled +it with the ground. A handkerchief was fastened to the top of one of the +stakes, and waved over the brewhouse wall, and some of the boys were +for picking up stones and dirt, and launching them over, in hopes of +spoiling the beer; but Norman put a stop to this, and brought them back +to the school-yard, still in a noisy state of exultation. + +It cooled a little by-and-by under the doubt how their exploit would be +taken. At home, Norman found it already known, and his father half glad, +half vexed, enjoying the victory over Tomkins, yet a little uneasy on +his son’s behalf. “What will Dr. Hoxton say to the dux?” said he. “I +didn’t know he was to be dux in mischief as well as out of it.” + +“You can’t call it mischief, papa, to resent an unwarranted encroachment +of our rights by such an old ruffian as that. One’s blood is up to think +of the things he has done!” + +“He richly deserves it, no doubt,” said the doctor, “and yet I wish you +had been out of the row. If there is any blame, you will be the first it +will light on.” + +“I am glad of it, that is but just. Anderson and I seem to have stirred +it up--if it wanted stirring--for it was in every fellow there; indeed, +I had no notion it was coming to this when I began.” + +“Oratory,” said the doctor, smiling. “Ha, Norman! Think a little another +time, my boy, before you take the law into your own hands, or, what is +worse, into a lot of hands you can’t control for good, though you may +excite them to harm.” + +Dr. Hoxton did not come into school at the usual hour, and, in the +course of the morning, sent for May senior, to speak to him in his +study. + +He looked very broad, awful, and dignified, as he informed him that Mr. +Tomkins had just been with him to complain of the damage that had been +done, and he appeared extremely displeased that the dux should have been +no check on such proceedings. + +“I am sorry, sir,” said Norman, “but I believe it was the general +feeling that he had no right to stop the alley, and, therefore, that it +could not be wrong to break it down.” + +“Whether he has a right or not is not a question to be settled by you. +So I find that you, whose proper office it is to keep order, have been +inflaming the mischievous and aggressive spirit amongst the others. I am +surprised at you; I thought you were more to be depended upon, May, in +your position.” + +Norman coloured a good deal, and simply answered, “I am sorry, sir.” + +“Take care, then, that nothing of the kind happens again,” said Dr. +Hoxton, who was very fond of him, and did not find fault with him +willingly. + +That the first inflammatory discourse had been made by Anderson did not +appear to be known--he only came in for the general reprimand given to +the school. + +It was reported the following evening, just as the town boys turned +out to go to their homes, that “old Tomkins had his fence up five times +higher than before.” + +“Have at him again, say I!” exclaimed Axworthy. “What business has he +coming stopping up ways that were made before he was born?” + +“We shall catch it from the doctor if we do,” said Edward Anderson, “He +looked in no end of a rage yesterday when he talked about the credit of +the school.” + +“Who cares for the credit of the school?” said the elder Anderson; “we +are out of the school now--we are townsmen--Stoneborough boys--citizens +not bound to submit to injustice. No, no, the old rogue knew it would +not stand if it was brought into court, so he brings down old Hoxton on +us instead--a dirty trick he deserves to be punished for.” + +And there was a general shout and yell in reply. + +“Anderson,” said Norman, “you had better not excite them again, they are +ripe for mischief. It will go further than it did yesterday--don’t you +see?” + +Anderson could not afford to get into a scrape without May to stand +before him, and rather sulkily he assented. + +“It is of no use to rave about old Tomkins,” proceeded Norman, in his +style of popular oratory. “If it is illegal, some one will go to law +about it, and we shall have our alley again. We have shown him our mind +once, and that is enough; if we let him alone now, he will see ‘tis only +because we are ordered, not for his sake. It would be just putting +him in the right, and maybe winning his cause for him, to use any more +violence. There’s law for you, Anderson. So now no more about it--let us +all go home like rational fellows. August, where’s August?” + +Tom was not visible--he generally avoided going home with his brother; +and Norman having seen the boys divide into two or three little parties, +as their roads lay homewards, found he had an hour of light for an +expedition of his own, along the bank of the river. He had taken up +botany with much ardour, and sharing the study with Margaret was a great +delight to both. There was a report that the rare yellow bog-bean grew +in a meadow about a mile and a half up the river, and thither he was +bound, extremely enjoying the summer evening walk, as the fresh dewy +coolness sunk on all around, and the noises of the town were mellowed by +distance, and the sun’s last beams slanted on the green meadows, and the +May-flies danced, and dragon-flies darted, and fish rose or leaped high +in the air, or showed their spotted sides, and opened and shut their +gills, as they rested in the clear water, and the evening breeze rustled +in the tall reeds, and brought fragrance from the fresh-mown hay. + +It was complete enjoyment to Norman after his day’s study and the rule +and watch over the unruly crowd of boys, and he walked and wandered +and collected plants for Margaret till the sun was down, and the +grasshoppers chirped clamorously, while the fern-owl purred, and +the beetle hummed, and the skimming swallows had given place to the +soft-winged bat, and the large white owl floating over the fields as it +moused in the long grass. + +The summer twilight was sobering every tint, when, as Norman crossed the +cricket-field, he heard, in the distance, a loud shout. He looked +up, and it seemed to him that he saw some black specks dancing in the +forbidden field, and something like the waving of a flag, but it was not +light enough to be certain, and he walked quickly home. + +The front door was fastened, and, while he was waiting to be let in, Mr. +Harrison walked by, and called out, “You are late at home to-night--it +is half-past nine.” + +“I have been taking a walk, sir.” + +A good-night was the answer, as he was admitted. Every one in the +drawing-room looked up, and exclaimed as he entered, “Where’s Tom?” + +“What! he is not come home?” + +“No! Was he not with you?” + +“I missed him after school. I was persuaded he was come home. I have +been to look for the yellow bog-bean. There, Margaret. Had not I better +go and look for him?” + +“Yes, do,” said Dr. May. “The boy is never off one’s mind.” + +A sort of instinctive dread directed Norman’s steps down the open +portion of Randall’s Alley, and, voices growing louder as he came +nearer, confirmed his suspicions. The fence at this end was down, and, +on entering the field, a gleam of light met his eye on the ground--a +cloud of smoke, black figures were flitting round it, pushing brands +into red places, and feeding the bonfire. + +“What have you been doing?” exclaimed Norman. “You have got yourselves +into a tremendous scrape!” + +A peal of laughter, and shout of “Randall and Stoneborough for ever!” + was the reply. + +“August! May junior! Tom! answer me! Is he here?” asked Norman, not +solicitous to identify any one. + +But gruff voices broke in upon them. “There they are, nothing like ‘em +for mischief.” + +“Come, young gentlemen,” said a policeman, “be off, if you please. We +don’t want to have none of you at the station to-night.” + +A general hurry-skurry ensued. Norman alone, strong in innocence, walked +quietly away, and, as he came forth from the darkness of the alley, +beheld something scouring away before him, in the direction of home. It +popped in at the front door before him, but was not in the drawing-room. +He strode upstairs, called, but was not answered, and found, under the +bedclothes, a quivering mass, consisting of Tom, with all his clothes +on, fully persuaded that it was the policeman who was pursuing him. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + + + + Oh Life, without thy chequered scene, + Of right and wrong, of weal and woe, + Success and failure, could a ground + For magnanimity be found? + WORDSWORTH. + + +Dr. May was called for late the next day, Friday, and spent some time +in one of the houses near the river. It was nearly eight o’clock when +he came away, and he lingered, looking towards the school, in hopes of a +walk home with his boys. + +Presently he saw Norman coming out from under the archway, his cap drawn +over his face, and step, gesture, and manner betraying that something +was seriously wrong. He came up almost to his father without seeing +him, until startled by his exclamation, “Norman--why, Norman, what’s the +matter?” + +Norman’s lips quivered, and his face was pale--he seemed as if he could +not speak. + +“Where’s Tom?” said the doctor, much alarmed. “Has he got into disgrace +about this business of Tomkins? That boy--” + +“He has only got an imposition,” interrupted Norman. “No, it is not +that--it is myself”--and it was only with a gulp and struggle that he +brought out the words, “I am turned down in the school.” + +The doctor started back a step or two, aghast. “What-how--speak, Norman. +What have you done?” + +“Nothing!” said Norman, recovering in the desire to reassure his +father--“nothing!” + +“That’s right,” said the doctor, breathing freely. “What’s the meaning +of it...a misunderstanding?” + +“Yes,” said Norman, with bitterness. “It is all Anderson’s doing--a word +from him would have set all straight--but he would not; I believe, from +my heart, he held his tongue to get me down, that he might have the +Randall!” + +“We’ll see you righted,” said the doctor eagerly. “Come, tell me the +whole story, Norman. Is it about this unlucky business?” + +“Yes. The town-fellows were all up about it last evening, when we came +out of school. Anderson senior himself began to put them up to having +the fence down again. Yes, that he did--I remember his very words--that +Tomkins could not bring it into court, and so set old Hoxton at us. +Well, I told them it would not do--thought I had settled them--saw them +off home--yes, Simpson, and Benson, and Grey, up the High Street, and +the others their way. I only left Axworthy going into a shop when I set +off on my walk. What could a fellow do more? How was I to know that +that Axworthy would get them together again, and take them to this +affair--pull up the stakes--saw them down--for they were hard to get +down--shy all sorts of things over into the court--hoot at old Tomkins’s +man, when he told them to be off--and make a bonfire of the sticks at +last?” + +“And Harvey Anderson was there?” + +“No--not he. He is too sharp--born and bred attorney as he is--he +talked them up to the mischief when my back was turned, and then sneaked +quietly home, quite innocent, and out of the scrape.” + +“But Dr. Hoxton can never entertain a suspicion that you had anything to +do with it!” + +“Yes, he does though. He thinks I incited them, and Tomkins and the +policeman declare I was there in the midst of the row--and not one of +these fellows will explain how I came at the last to look for Tom.” + +“Not Tom himself?” + +“He did try to speak, poor little fellow, but, after the other affair, +his word goes for nothing, and so, it seems, does mine. I did think +Hoxton would have trusted me!” + +“And did not he?” exclaimed Dr. May. + +“He did not in so many words accuse me of--of--but he told me he +had serious charges brought against me--Mr. Harrison had seen me at +Ballhatchet’s, setting an example of disregard to rules--and, again, Mr. +Harrison saw me coming in at a late hour last night. ‘I know he did,’ +I said, and I explained where I had been, and they asked for proofs! I +could hardly answer, from surprise, at their not seeming to believe me, +but I said you could answer for my having come in with the flowers for +my sister.” + +“To be sure I will--I’ll go this instant--” he was turning. + +“It is of no use, papa, to-night; Dr. Hoxton has a dinner-party.” + +“He is always having parties. I wish he would mind them less, and his +business more. You disbelieved! but I’ll see justice done you, Norman, +the first thing to-morrow. Well--” + +“Well then, I said, old Ballhatchet could tell that I crossed the bridge +at the very time they were doing this pretty piece of work, for he was +sitting smoking in his porch when I went home, and, would you believe +it? the old rascal would not remember who passed that evening! It is all +his malice and revenge--nothing else!” + +“Why--what have you been doing to him?” + +Norman shortly explained the ginger-beer story, and adding, “Cheviot +told me I should get nothing but ill-will, and so I have--all those town +fellows turn against me now, and though they know as well as possible +how it was, they won’t say a word to right me, just out of spite, +because I have stopped them from all the mischief I could!” + +“Well, then--” + +“They asked me whether--since I allowed that I had been there at last--I +had dispersed the boys. I said no, I had no time. Then they desired to +know who was there, and that I had not seen; it was all dark, and there +had not been a moment, and if I guessed, it was no affair of mine to +say. So they ordered me down, and had up Ned Anderson, and one or two +more who were known to have been in the riot, and then they consulted +a good while, and sent for me; Mr. Wilmot was for me, I am sure, but +Harrison was against me. Dr. Hoxton sat there, and made me one of his +addresses. He said he would not enter on the question whether I had been +present at the repetition of the outrage, as he called it, but what was +quite certain was, that I had abused my authority and influence in the +school; I had been setting a bad example, and breaking the rules +about Ballhatchet, and so far from repressing mischief, I had been the +foremost in it, making inflammatory harangues, leading them to commit +violence the first time, and the next, if not actually taking part in +it personally, at any rate not preventing it. In short, he said it was +clear I had not weight enough for my post--it was some excuse I had been +raised to it so young--but it was necessary to show that proficiency in +studies did not compensate for disregard of discipline, and so he turned +me down below the first six! So there’s another May in disgrace!” + +“It shall not last--it shall not last, my boy,” said Dr. May, pressing +Norman’s arm; “I’ll see you righted. Dr. Hoxton shall hear the whole +story. I am not for fathers interfering in general, but if ever there +was a case, this is! Why, it is almost actionable--injuring your whole +prospects in life, and all because he will not take the trouble to make +an investigation! It is a crying shame.” + +“Every fellow in the school knows how it was,” said Norman; “and plenty +of them would be glad to tell, if they had only the opportunity; but he +asked no one but those two or three worst fellows that were at the fire, +and they would not tell, on purpose. The school will go to destruction +now--they’ll get their way, and all I have been striving for is utterly +undone.” + +“You setting a bad example! Dr. Hoxton little knows what you have been +doing. It is a mockery, as I have always said, to see that old fellow +sit wrapped up in his pomposity, eating his good dinners, and knowing no +more what goes on among his boys than this umbrella! But he will listen +to me--and we’ll make those boys confess the whole--ay, and have up +Ballhatchet himself, to say what your traffic with him was; and we will +see what old Hoxton says to you then, Norman.” + +Dr. May and his son felt keenly and spoke strongly. There was so much of +sympathy and fellow-feeling between them, that there was no backwardness +on Norman’s part in telling his whole trouble, with more confidence than +schoolboys often show towards their fathers, and Dr. May entered into +the mortification as if he were still at school. They did not go into +the house, but walked long up and down the garden, working themselves up +into, if possible, stronger indignation, and concerting the explanation +for to-morrow, when Dr. May meant to go at once to the head-master, and +make him attend to the true version of the story, appealing to Harvey +Anderson himself, Larkins, and many others, for witnesses. There could +be hardly a doubt that Norman would be thus exculpated; but, if Dr. +Hoxton would not see things in their true light, Dr. May was ready to +take him away at once, rather than see him suffer injustice. + +Still, though comforted by his father’s entire reliance, Norman was +suffering severely under the sense of indignity, and grieved that Dr. +Hoxton and the other masters should have believed him guilty--that +name of May could never again boast of being without reproach. To be in +disgrace stung him to the quick, even though undeservedly, and he could +not bear to go in, meet his sisters, and be pitied. “There’s no need +they should know of it,” said he, when the Minster clock pealing ten +obliged them to go indoors, and his father agreed. They bade each other +good-night, with the renewal of the promise that Dr. Hoxton should be +forced to hear Norman’s vindication the first thing to-morrow, Harvey +Anderson be disappointed of what he meanly triumphed in, and Norman +be again in his post at the head of the school, in more honour and +confidence than ever, putting down evil, and making Stoneborough what it +ought to be. + +As Dr. May lay awake in the summer’s morning, meditating on his address +to Dr. Hoxton, he heard the unwelcome sound of a ring at the bell, and, +in a few minutes, a note was brought to him. + +“Tell Adams to get the gig ready--I’ll let him know whether he is to go +with me.” + +And, in a few minutes, the doctor opened Norman’s door, and found him +dressed, and standing by the window, reading. “What, up already, Norman? +I came to tell you that our affairs must wait till the afternoon. It +is very provoking, for Hoxton may be gone out, but Mr. Lake’s son, at +Groveswood, has an attack on the head, and I must go at once. It is a +couple of dozen miles off or more. I have hardly ever been there, and it +may keep me all day.” + +“Shall you go in the gig? Shall I drive you?” said Norman, looking +rather blank. + +“That’s what I thought of, if you like it. I thought you would sooner be +out of the way.” + +“Thank you--yes, papa. Shall I come and help you to finish dressing?” + +“Yes, do, thank you; it will hasten matters. Only, first order in some +breakfast. What makes you up so early? Have not you slept?” + +“Not much--it has been such a hot night.” + +“And you have a headache. Well, we will find a cure for that before the +day is over. I have settled what to say to old Hoxton.” + +Before another quarter of an hour had passed, they were driving through +the deep lanes, the long grass thickly laden with morning dew, which +beaded the webs of the spiders and rose in clouds of mist under the +influence of the sun’s rays. There was stillness in the air at first, +then the morning sounds, the labourer going forth, the world wakening to +life, the opening houses, the children coming out to school. In spite of +the tumult of feeling, Norman could not but be soothed and refreshed +by the new and fair morning scene, and both minds quitted the school +politics, as Dr. May talked of past enjoyment of walks or drives home +in early dawn, the more delicious after a sad watch in a sick-room, and +told of the fair sights he had seen at such unwonted hours. + +They had far to go, and the heat of the day had come on before they +entered the place of their destination. It was a woodland village, built +on a nook in the side of the hill, sloping greenly to the river, and +shut in by a white gate, which seemed to gather all in one the little +old-fashioned church, its yard, shaded with trees, and enclosed by long +white rails; the parsonage, covered with climbing plants and in the +midst of a gay garden; and one or two cottages. The woods cast a cool +shadow, and, in the meadows by the river rose cocks of new-made hay; +there was an air of abiding serenity about the whole place, save +that there stood an old man by the gate, evidently watching for the +physician’s carriage; and where the sun fell on that parsonage-house was +a bedroom window wide open, with the curtains drawn. + +“Thank Heaven you are come, sir,” said the old man; “he is fearfully +bad.” + +Norman knew young Lake, who had been a senior boy when he first went to +school, was a Randall scholar, and had borne an excellent character, +and highly distinguished himself at the university. And now, by all +accounts, he seemed to be dying--in the height of honour and general +esteem. Dr. May went into the house, the old man took the horse, and +Norman lingered under the trees in the churchyard, watching the white +curtains now and then puffed by the fitful summer breeze, as he lay on +the turf in the shade, under the influence of the gentle sadness +around, resting, mind and body, from the tossing tumultuous passionate +sensations that had kept him restless and miserable through the hot +night. + +He waited long--one hour, two hours had passed away, but he was not +impatient, and hardly knew how long the time had been before his father +and Mr. Lake came out of the house together, and, after they parted, Dr. +May summoned him. He of course asked first for the patient. “Not quite +so hopeless as at first,” and the reasons for having been kept so long +were detailed, with many circumstances of the youth’s illness, and the +parents’ resignation, by which Dr. May was still too deeply touched to +have room in his mind for anything besides. + +They were more than half-way home, and a silence had succeeded the +conversation about the Lake family, when Norman spoke: + +“Papa, I have been thinking about it, and I believe it would be better +to let it alone, if you please.” + +“Not apply to Dr. Hoxton!” exclaimed his father. + +“Well, I think not. I have been considering it, and it does hardly seem +to me the right thing. You see, if I had not you close at hand, this +could never be explained, and it seems rather hard upon Anderson, who +has no father, and the other fellows, who have theirs farther off--” + +“Right, Norman, that is what my father before me always said, and the +way I have always acted myself; much better let a few trifles go on not +just as one would wish, than be for ever interfering. But I really think +this is a case for it, and I don’t think you ought to let yourself be +influenced by the fear of any party-spirit.” + +“It is not only that, papa--I have been thinking a good deal to-day, and +there are other reasons. Of course I should wish Dr. Hoxton to know that +I spoke the truth about that walk, and I hope you will let him know, as +I appealed to you. But, on cooler thoughts, I don’t believe Dr. Hoxton +could seriously suspect me of such a thing as that, and it was not on +that ground that I am turned down, but that I did not keep up sufficient +discipline, and allowed the outrage, as he calls it. Now, you know, that +is, after a fashion, true. If I had not gone on like an ass the other +day, and incited them to pull down the fences, they would not have done +it afterwards, and perhaps I ought to have kept on guard longer. It was +my fault, and we can’t deny it.” + +Dr. May made a restless, reluctant movement. “Well, well, I suppose it +was--but it was just as much Harvey Anderson’s--and is he to get the +scholarship because he has added meanness to the rest?” + +“He was not dux,” said Norman, with a sigh. “It was more shabby than I +thought was even in him. But I don’t know that the feeling about him is +not one reason. There has always been a rivalry and bitterness between +us two, and if I were to get the upper hand now, by means not in the +usual course, such as the fellows would think ill of, it would be worse +than ever, and I should always feel guilty and ashamed to look at him.” + +“Over-refining, Norman,” muttered Dr. May. + +“Besides, don’t you remember, when his father died, how glad you and +everyone were to get him a nomination, and it was said that if he gained +a scholarship it would be such a relief to poor Mrs. Anderson? Now he +has this chance, it does seem hard to deprive her of it. I should not +like to know that I had done so.” + +“Whew!” the doctor gave a considering whistle. + +“You could not make it straight, papa, without explaining about the +dealing with Ballhatchet, and that would be unfair to them all, even the +old rogue himself; for I promised to say nothing about former practices, +as long as he did not renew them.” + +“Well! I don’t want to compromise you, Norman. You know your own ground +best, but I don’t like it at all. You don’t know the humiliation +of disgrace. Those who have thought highly of you, now thinking you +changed--I don’t know how to bear it for you.” + +“I don’t mind anything while you trust me,” said Norman, eagerly; “not +much I mean, except Mr. Wilmot. You must judge, papa, and do as you +please.” + +“No, you must judge, Norman. Your confidence in me ought not to be a +restraint. It has always been an understood thing that what you say +at home is as if it had not been said, as regards my dealings with the +masters.” + +“I know, papa. Well, I’ll tell you what brought me to this. I tumbled +about all night in a rage, when I thought how they had served me, and +of Hoxton’s believing it all, and how he might only half give in to your +representation, and then I gloried in Anderson’s coming down from his +height, and being seen in his true colours. So it went on till morning +came, and I got up. You know you gave me my mother’s little ‘Thomas +a Kempis’. I always read a bit every morning. To-day it was, ‘Of four +things that bring much inward peace’. And what do you think they were?-- + + + “‘Be desirous, my son, to do the will of another + rather than thine own. + Choose always to have less rather than more. + Seek always the lowest place, and to be inferior + to everyone. + Wish always and pray that the will of God may be + wholly fulfilled in thee.’ + + +“I liked them the more, because it was just like her last reading with +us, and like that letter. Well, then I wondered as I lay on the grass +at Groveswood, whether she would have thought it best for me to be +reinstated, and I found out that I should have been rather afraid of +what you might say when she had talked it over with you.” + +Dr. May smiled a little at the simplicity with which this last was said, +but his smile ended in one of his heavy sighs. “So you took her for your +counsellor, my boy. That was the way to find out what was right.” + +“Well, there was something in the place and, in watching poor Lake’s +windows, that made me not able to dwell so much on getting on, and +having prizes and scholarships. I thought that caring for those had been +driven out of me, and you know I never felt as if it were my right when +I was made dux; but now I find it is all come back. It does not do +for me to be first; I have been what she called elated, and been more +peremptory than need with the lower boys, and gone on in my old way with +Richard, and so I suppose this disgrace has come to punish me. I wish +it were not disgrace, because of our name at school, and because it +will vex Harry so much; but since it is come, considering all things, +I suppose I ought not to struggle to justify myself at other people’s +expense.” + +His eyes were so dazzled with tears that he could hardly see to drive, +nor did his father speak at first. “I can’t say anything against it, +Norman, but I am sorry, and one thing more you should consider. If Dr. +Hoxton should view this absurd business in the way he seems to do, it +will stand in your way for ever in testimonials, if you try for anything +else.” + +“Do you think it will interfere with my having a Confirmation ticket?” + +“Why no, I should not think--such a boyish escapade could be no reason +for refusing you one.” + +“Very well then, it had better rest. If there should be any difficulty +about my being confirmed, of course we will explain it.” + +“I wish every one showed themselves as well prepared!” half muttered +the doctor; then, after long musing, “Well, Norman, I give up the +scholarship. Poor Mrs. Anderson wants it more than we do, and if the boy +is a shabby fellow the more he wants a decent education. But what do +you say to this? I make Hoxton do you full justice, and reinstate you +in your proper place, and then I take you away at once--send you to a +tutor--anything, till the end of the long vacation.” + +“Thank you,” said Norman, pausing. “I don’t know, papa. I am very +much obliged to you, but I think it would hardly do. You would be +uncomfortable at seeming to quarrel with Dr. Hoxton, and it would be +hardly creditable for me to go off in anger.” + +“You are right, I believe,” said Dr. May. “You judge wisely, though I +should not have ventured to ask it of you. But what is to become of the +discipline of the school? Is that all to go to the dogs?” + +“I could not do anything with them if I were restored in this way; they +would be more set against me. It is bad enough as it is, but, even for +my own peace, I believe it is better to leave it alone. All my comfort +in school is over, I know!” and he sighed deeply. + +“It is a most untoward business!” said the doctor. “I am very sorry your +schooldays should be clouded--but it can’t be helped, and you will work +yourself into a character again. You are full young, and can stay for +the next Randall.” + +Norman felt as if, while his father looked at him as he now did, the +rest of the world were nothing to him; but, perhaps, the driving past +the school brought him to a different mind, for he walked into the house +slowly and dejectedly. + +He told his own story to Ethel, in the garden, not without much +difficulty, so indignant were her exclamations; and it was impossible to +make her see that his father’s interference would put him in an awkward +position among the boys. She would argue vehemently that she could not +bear Mr. Wilmot to think ill of him, that it was a great shame of Dr. +Hoxton, and that it was dreadful to let such a boy as Harvey Anderson go +unpunished. “I really do think it is quite wrong of you to give up your +chance of doing good, and leave him in his evil ways!” That was all +the comfort she gave Norman, and she walked in to pour out a furious +grumbling upon Margaret. + +Dr. May had been telling the elder ones, and they were in conversation +after he had left them--Margaret talking with animation, and Flora +sitting over her drawing, uttering reluctant assents. “Has he told you, +poor fellow?” asked Margaret. + +“Yes,” said Ethel. “Was there ever such a shame?” + +“That is just what I say,” observed Flora. “I cannot see why the +Andersons are to have a triumph over all of us.” + +“I used to think Harvey the best of the two,” said Ethel. “Now I think +he is a great deal the worst. Taking advantage of such a mistake as +this! How will he ever look Norman in the face!” + +“Really,” said Margaret, “I see no use in aggravating ourselves by +talking of the Andersons.” + +“I can’t think how papa can consent,” proceeded Flora. “I am sure, if I +were in his place, I should not!” + +“Papa is so much pleased with dear Norman’s behaviour that it quite +makes up for all the disappointment,” said Margaret. “Besides, he is +very much obliged to him in one way; he would not have liked to have +to battle the matter with Dr. Hoxton. He spoke of Norman’s great good +judgment.” + +“Yes, Norman can persuade papa to anything,” said Flora. + +“Yes, I wish papa had not yielded,” said Ethel. “It would have been just +as noble in dear Norman, and we should not have the apparent disgrace.” + +“Perhaps it is best as it is, after all,” said Flora. + +“Why, how do you mean?” said Ethel. + +“I think very likely things might have come out. Now don’t look +furious, Ethel. Indeed, I can’t help it, but really I don’t think it +is explicable why Norman should wish to hush it up, unless there were +something behind!” + +“Flora!” cried Ethel, too much shocked to bring out another word. + +“If you are unfortunate enough to have such suspicions,” said Margaret +quietly, “I think it would be better to be silent.” + +“As if you did not know Norman!” stammered Ethel. + +“Well,” said Flora, “I don’t wish to think so. You know I did not hear +Norman himself, and when papa gives his vehement accounts of things, it +always puzzles us of the cooler-minded sort.” + +“It is as great a shame as ever I heard!” cried Ethel, recovering her +utterance. “Who would you trust, if not your own father and brother?” + +“Yes, yes,” said Flora, not by any means wishing to displease her +sisters. “If there is such a thing as an excess of generosity, it is +sure to be among ourselves. I only know it does not suit me. It will +make us all uncomfortable whenever we meet the Andersons or Mr. Wilmot, +or any one else, and as to such tenderness to Harvey Anderson, I think +it is thrown away.” + +“Thrown away on the object, perhaps,” said Margaret, “but not in +Norman.” + +“To be sure,” broke out Ethel. “Better be than seem! Oh, dear! I am +sorry I was vexed with dear old June when he told me. I had rather have +him now than if he had gained everything, and every one was praising +him--that I had! Harvey Anderson is welcome to be dux and Randall +scholar for what I care, while Norman is--while he is, just what we +thought of the last time we read that Gospel--you know, Margaret?” + +“He is--that he is,” said Margaret, “and, indeed, it is most beautiful +to see how what has happened has brought him at once to what she wished, +when, perhaps, otherwise it would have been a work of long time.” + +Ethel was entirely consoled. Flora thought of the words “tete exaltee” + and considered herself alone to have sober sense enough to see things in +a true light--not that she went the length of believing that Norman had +any underhand motives, but she thought it very discreet in her to think +a prudent father would not have been satisfied with such a desire to +avoid investigation. + +Dr. May would not trust himself to enter on the subject with Dr. Hoxton +in conversation; he only wrote a note. + + + “June 16th. + +“Dear Dr. Hoxton, + +“My son has appealed to me to confirm his account of himself on Thursday +evening last. I therefore distinctly state that he came in at half-past +nine, with his hands full of plants from the river, and that he then +went out again, by my desire, to look for his little brother. + + --Yours very truly, + R. May.” + + +A long answer came in return, disclaiming all doubt of Norman’s +veracity, and explaining Dr. Hoxton’s grounds for having degraded him. +There had been misconduct in the school, he said, for some time past, +and he did not consider that it was any very serious reproach, to a +boy of Norman’s age, that he had not had weight enough to keep up his +authority, and had been carried away by the general feeling. It had been +necessary to make an example for the sake of principle, and though very +sorry it should have fallen on one of such high promise and general good +conduct, Dr. Hoxton trusted that it would not be any permanent injury to +his prospects, as his talents had raised him to his former position in +the school so much earlier than usual. + +“The fact was,” said Dr. May, “that old Hoxton did it in a passion, +feeling he must punish somebody, and now, finding there’s no uproar +about it, he begins to be sorry. I won’t answer this note. I’ll stop +after church to-morrow and shake hands, and that will show we don’t bear +malice.” + +What Mr. Wilmot might think was felt by all to affect them more nearly. +Ethel wanted to hear that he declared his complete conviction of +Norman’s innocence, and was disappointed to find that he did not once +allude to the subject. She was only consoled by Margaret’s conjecture +that, perhaps, he thought the headmaster had been hasty, and could not +venture to say so--he saw into people’s characters, and it was notorious +that it was just what Dr. Hoxton did not. + +Tom had spent the chief of that Saturday in reading a novel borrowed +from Axworthy, keeping out of sight of every one. All Sunday he avoided +Norman more scrupulously than ever, and again on Monday. That day was a +severe trial to Norman; the taking the lower place, and the sense that, +excel as much as ever he might in his studies, it would not avail to +restore him to his former place, were more unpleasant, when it came to +the point, than he had expected. + +He saw the cold manner, so different from the readiness with which his +tasks had always been met, certain as they were of being well done; he +found himself among the common herd whom he had passed so triumphantly, +and, for a little while, he had no heart to exert himself. + +This was conquered by the strong will and self-rebuke for having merely +craved for applause, but, in the play-ground, he found himself still +alone--the other boys who had been raised by his fall shrank from +intercourse with one whom they had injured by their silence, and the +Andersons, who were wont to say the Mays carried every tale home, and +who still almost expected interference from Dr. May, hardly believed +their victory secure, and the younger one, at least, talked spitefully, +and triumphed in the result of May’s meddling and troublesome over +strictness. “Such prigs always come to a downfall,” was the sentiment. + +Norman found himself left out of everything, and stood dispirited and +weary on the bank of the river, wishing for Harry, wishing for Cheviot, +wishing that he had been able to make a friend who would stand by +him, thinking it could not be worse if he had let his father reinstate +him--and a sensation of loneliness and injustice hung heavy at his +heart. + +His first interruption was a merry voice. “I say, June, there’s no +end of river cray-fish under that bank,” and Larkins’s droll face was +looking up at him, from that favourite position, half stooping, his +hands on his knees, his expression of fun trying to conceal his real +anxiety and sympathy. + +Norman turned and smiled, and looked for the cray-fish, and, at the same +time, became aware of Hector Ernescliffe, watching for an opportunity to +say, “I have a letter from Alan.” He knew they wanted, as far as little +boys ventured to seek after one so much their elder, to show themselves +his friends, and he was grateful; he roused himself to hear about Alan’s +news, and found it was important--his great friend, Captain Gordon, had +got a ship, and hoped to be able to take him, and this might lead to +Harry’s going with him. Then Norman applied himself to the capture of +cray-fish, and Larkins grew so full of fun and drollery, that the hours +of recreation passed off less gloomily than they had begun. + +If only his own brother would have been his adherent! But he saw almost +nothing of Tom. Day after day he missed him, he was off before him in +going and returning from school, and when he caught a sight of his face, +it looked harassed, pale, and miserable, stealing anxious glances after +him, yet shrinking from his eye. But, at the same time, Norman did not +see him mingling with his former friends, and could not make out how he +disposed of himself. To be thus continually shunned by his own brother, +even when the general mass were returning to ordinary terms, became +so painful, that Norman was always on the watch to seek for one more +conversation with him. + +He caught him at last in the evening, just as they were going home. +“Tom, why are you running away? Come with me,” said he authoritatively; +and Tom obeyed in trembling. + +Norman led the way to the meads. “Tom,” said he, “do not let this go on. +Why do you serve me in this way? You surely need not turn against me,” + he said, with pleading melancholy in his voice. + +It was not needed. Tom had flung himself upon the grass, and was in an +agony of crying, even before he had finished the words. + +“Tom, Tom! what is the matter? Have they been bullying you again? Look +up, and tell me--what is it? You know I can stand by you still, if +you’ll only let me;” and Norman sat by him on the grass, and raised his +face by a sort of force, but the kind words only brought more piteous +sobs. It was a long time before they diminished enough to let him utter +a word, but Norman went on patiently consoling and inquiring, sure, at +least, that here had broken down the sullenness that had always repelled +him. + +At last came the words, “Oh! I cannot bear it. It is all my doing!” + +“What--how--you don’t mean this happening to me? It is not your doing, +August--what fancy is this?” + +“Oh, yes, it is,” said Tom, his voice cut short by gasps, the remains +of the sobs. “They would not hear me! I tried to tell them how you +told them not, and sent them home. I tried to tell about +Ballhatchet--but--but they wouldn’t--they said if it had been Harry, +they would have attended--but they would not believe me. Oh! if Harry +was but here!” + +“I wish he was,” said Norman, from the bottom of his heart; “but you +see, Tom, if this sets you on always telling truth, I shan’t think any +great harm done.” + +A fresh burst, “Oh, they are all so glad! They say such things! And the +Mays were never in disgrace before. Oh, Norman, Norman!” + +“Never mind about that--” began Norman. + +“But you would mind,” broke in the boy passionately, “if you knew what +Anderson junior and Axworthy say! They say it serves you right, and they +were going to send me to old Ballhatchet’s to get some of his stuff to +drink confusion to the mouth of June, and all pragmatical meddlers; and +when I said I could not go, they vowed if I did not, I should eat the +corks for them! And Anderson junior called me names, and licked me. Look +there.” He showed a dark blue-and-red stripe raised on the palm of his +hand. “I could not write well for it these three days, and Hawes gave me +double copies!” + +“The cowardly fellows!” exclaimed Norman indignantly. “But you did not +go?” + +“No, Anderson senior stopped them. He said he would not have the +Ballhatchet business begin again.” + +“That is one comfort,” said Norman. “I see he does not dare not to keep +order. But if you’ll only stay with me, August, I’ll take care they +don’t hurt you.” + +“Oh, June! June!” and he threw himself across his kind brother. “I am so +very sorry! Oh! to see you put down--and hear them! And you to lose the +scholarship! Oh, dear! oh, dear! and be in disgrace with them all!” + +“But, Tom, do cheer up. It is nothing to be in such distress at. Papa +knows all about it, and while he does, I don’t care half so much.” + +“Oh, I wish--I wish--” + +“You see, Tom,” said Norman, “after all, though it is very kind of you +to be sorry for not being able to get me out of this scrape, the thing +one wants you to be sorry about is your own affair.” + +“I wish I had never come to school! I wish Anderson would leave me +alone! It is all his fault! A mean-spirited, skulking, bullying--” + +“Hush, hush, Tom, he is bad enough, but now you know what he is, you +can keep clear of him for the future. Now listen. You and I will make +a fresh start, and try if we can’t get the Mays to be looked on as they +were when Harry was here. Let us mind the rules, and get into no more +mischief.” + +“You’ll keep me from Ned Anderson and Axworthy?” whispered Tom. + +“Yes, that I will. And you’ll try and speak the truth, and be +straightforward?” + +“I will, I will,” said Tom, worn out in spirits by his long bondage, and +glad to catch at the hope of relief and protection. + +“Then let us come home,” and Tom put his hand into his brother’s, as a +few weeks back would have seemed most unworthy of schoolboy dignity. + +Thenceforth Tom was devoted to Norman, and kept close to him, sure that +the instant he was from under his wing his former companions would fall +on him to revenge his defection, but clinging to him also from real +affection and gratitude. Indolence and timidity were the true root of +what had for a time seemed like a positively bad disposition; beneath, +there was a warm heart, and sense of right, which had been almost +stifled for the time, in the desire, from moment to moment, to avoid +present trouble or fear. Under Norman’s care his better self had +freer scope, he was guarded from immediate terror, and kept from the +suggestions of the worse sort of boys, as much as was in his brother’s +power; and the looks they cast towards him, and the sly torments they +attempted to inflict, by no means invited him back to them. The lessons, +where he had a long inveterate habit of shuffling, came under Norman’s +eye at the same time. He always prepared them in his presence, +instead of in the most secret manner possible, and with all Anderson’s +expeditious modes of avoiding the making them of any use. Norman sat by, +and gave such help as was fair and just, showed him how to learn, and +explained difficulties, and the ingenuity hitherto spent in eluding +learning being now directed to gaining it, he began to make real +progress and find satisfaction in it. The comfort of being good dawned +upon him once more, but still there was much to contend with; he had +acquired such a habit of prevarication that, if by any means taken by +surprise, his impulse was to avoid giving a straightforward answer, +and when he recollected his sincerity, the truth came with the air of +falsehood. Moreover, he was an arrant coward, and provoked tricks by his +manifest and unreasonable terrors. It was no slight exercise of patience +that Norman underwent, but this was the interest he had made for +himself; and the recovery of the boy’s attachment, and his improvement, +though slow, were a present recompense. + +Ernescliffe, Larkins, and others of the boys, held fast to him, and +after the first excitement was past, all the rest returned to their +former tone. He was decidedly as much respected as ever, and, at the +same time, regarded with more favour than when his strictness was +resented. And as for the discipline of the school, that did not suffer. +Anderson felt that, for his own credit, he must not allow the rules +to be less observed than in May’s reign, and he enforced them upon the +reluctant and angry boys with whom he had been previously making common +cause. Dr. Hoxton boasted to the under-masters that the school had never +been in such good order as under Anderson, little guessing that this was +but reaping the fruits of a past victory, or that every boy in the whole +school gave the highest place in their esteem to the deposed dux. + +To Anderson, Norman’s cordial manner and ready support were the +strangest part of all, only explained by thinking that he deemed it, as +he tried to do himself, merely the fortune of war, and was sensible of +no injury. + +And, for Norman himself, when the first shock was over, and he was +accustomed to the change, he found the cessation of vigilance a relief, +and carried a lighter heart than any time since his mother’s death. +His sisters could not help observing that there was less sadness in the +expression of his eyes, that he carried his head higher, walked with +freedom and elasticity of step, tossed and flourished the Daisy till she +shouted and crowed, while Margaret shrank at such freaks; and, though he +was not much of a laugher himself, contributed much sport in the way of +bright apposite sayings to the home circle. + +It was a very unexpected mode of cure for depression of spirits, but +there could be no question that it succeeded; and when, a few Saturdays +after, he drove Dr. May again to Groveswood to see young Mr. Lake, +who was recovering, he brought Margaret home a whole pile of botanical +curiosities, and drew his father into an animated battle over natural +and Linnaean systems, which kept the whole party merry with the pros and +cons every evening for a week. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + + + + Oh! the golden-hearted daisies, + Witnessed there before my youth, + To the truth of things, with praises + Of the beauty of the truth.--E. B. BROWNING. + + +“Margaret, see here.” + +The doctor threw into her lap a letter, which made her cheeks light up. + +Mr. Ernescliffe wrote that his father’s friend, Captain Gordon, having +been appointed to the frigate Alcestis, had chosen him as one of his +lieutenants, and offered a nomination as naval cadet for his brother. He +had replied that the navy was not Hector’s destination, but, as Captain +Gordon had no one else in view, had prevailed on him to pass on the +proposal to Harry May. + +Alan wrote in high terms of his captain, declaring that he esteemed the +having sailed with him as one of the greatest advantages he had ever +received, and adding that, for his own part, Dr. May needed no promise +from him to be assured that he would watch over Harry like his own +brother. It was believed that the Alcestis was destined for the South +American station. + +“A three years’ business,” said Dr. May, with a sigh. “But the thing is +done, and this is as good as we can hope.” + +“Far better!” said Margaret. “What pleasure it must have given him! Dear +Harry could not sail under more favourable circumstances.” + +“No, I would trust to Ernescliffe as I would to Richard. It is kindly +done, and I will thank him at once. Where does he date from?” + +“From Portsmouth. He does not say whether he has seen Harry.” + +“I suppose he waited for my answer. Suppose I enclose a note for him to +give to Harry. There will be rapture enough, and it is a pity he should +not have the benefit of it.” + +The doctor sat down to write, while Margaret worked and mused, perhaps +on outfits and new shirts--perhaps on Harry’s lion-locks, beneath a blue +cap and gold band, or, perchance, on the coral shoals of the Pacific. + +It was one of the quiet afternoons, when all the rest were out, and +which the doctor and his daughter especially valued, when they were able +to spend one together without interruption. Soon, however, a ring at +the door brought an impatient exclamation from the doctor; but his smile +beamed out at the words, “Miss Rivers.” They were great friends; in +fact, on terms of some mutual sauciness, though Meta was, as yet, far +less at home with his daughters, and came in, looking somewhat shy. + +“Ah, your congeners are gone out!” was the doctor’s reception. “You must +put up with our sober selves.” + +“Is Flora gone far?” asked Meta. + +“To Cocksmoor,” said Margaret. “I am very sorry she has missed you.” + +“Shall I be in your way?” said Meta timidly. “Papa has several things to +do, and said he would call for me here.” + +“Good luck for Margaret,” said Dr. May. + +“So they are gone to Cocksmoor!” said Meta. “How I envy them!” + +“You would not if you saw the place,” said Dr. May. “I believe Norman is +very angry with me for letting them go near it.” + +“Ah! but they are of real use there!” + +“And Miss Meta is obliged to take to envying the black-hole of +Cocksmoor, instead of being content with the eglantine bowers of +Abbotstoke! I commiserate her!” said the doctor. + +“If I did any good instead of harm at Abbotstoke!” + +“Harm!” exclaimed Margaret. + +“They went on very well without me,” said Meta; “but ever since I have +had the class they have been getting naughtier and noisier every Sunday; +and, last Sunday, the prettiest of all--the one I liked best, and had +done everything for--she began to mimic me--held up her finger, as I +did, and made them all laugh!” + +“Well, that is very bad!” said Margaret; “but I suppose she was a very +little one.” + +“No, a quick clever one, who knew much better, about nine years old. She +used to be always at home in the week, dragging about a great baby; and +we managed that her mother should afford to stay at home and send her to +school. It seemed such a pity her cleverness should be wasted.” + +The doctor smiled. “Ah! depend upon it, the tyrant-baby was the best +disciplinarian.” + +Meta looked extremely puzzled. + +“Papa means,” said Margaret, “that if she was inclined to be conceited, +the being teased at home might do her more good than being brought +forward at school.” + +“I have done everything wrong, it seems,” said Meta, with a shade of +what the French call depit. “I thought it must be right and good--but +it has only done mischief; and now papa says they are an ungrateful set, +and that, if it vexes me, I had better have no more to do with them!” + +“It does not vex you so much as that, I hope,” said Margaret. + +“Oh, I could not bear that!” said Meta; “but it is so different from +what I thought!” + +“Ah! you had an Arcadia of good little girls in straw hats, such as I +see in Blanche’s little books,” said the doctor, “all making the young +lady an oracle, and doing wrong--if they do it at all--in the simplest +way, just for an example to the others.” + +“Dr. May! How can you know so well? But do you really think it is their +fault, or mine?” + +“Do you think me a conjurer?” + +“Well, but what do you think?” + +“What do Mr. and Mrs. Charles Wilmot think?” + +“I know Mrs. Wilmot thinks I spoil my class. She spoke to me about +making favourites, and sometimes has seemed surprised at things which +I have done. Last Sunday she told me she thought I had better have a +steadier class, and I know whom she will give me--the great big, stupid +ones, at the bottom of the first class! I do believe it is only out +of good-nature that she does not tell me not to teach at all. I have a +great mind I will not; I know I do nothing but harm.” + +“What shall you say if I tell you I think so too?” asked the doctor. + +“Oh, Dr. May, you don’t really? Now, does he, Miss May? I am sure I only +want to do them good. I don’t know what I can have done.” + +Margaret made her perceive that the doctor was smiling, and she changed +her tone, and earnestly begged to be told what they thought of the case; +for if she should show her concern at home, her father and governess +would immediately beg her to cease from all connection with the school, +and she did not feel at all convinced that Mrs. Wilmot liked to have her +there. Feeling injured by the implied accusation of mismanagement, yet, +with a sense of its truth, used to be petted, and new to rebuffs, yet +with a sincere wish to act rightly, she was much perplexed by this, her +first reverse, and had come partly with the view of consulting Flora, +though she had fallen on other counsellors. + +“Margaret, our adviser general,” said the doctor, “what do you say? Put +yourself in the place of Mrs. Charles Wilmot, and say, shall Miss Rivers +teach or not?” + +“I had rather you would, papa.” + +“Not I--I never kept school.” + +“Well, then, I being Mrs. Wilmot, should certainly be mortified if Miss +Rivers deserted me because the children were naughty. I think, I think I +had rather she came and asked me what she had better do.” + +“And you would answer ‘teach,’ for fear of vexing her,” said Meta. + +“I should, and also for the sake of letting her learn to teach.” + +“The point where only trial shows one’s ignorance,” said Dr. May. + +“But I don’t want to do it for my own sake,” said Meta. “I do everything +for my own sake already.” + +“For theirs, then,” said the doctor. “If teaching will not come by +nature, you must serve an apprenticeship, if you mean to be of service +in that line. Perhaps it was the gift that the fairies omitted.” + +“But will it do any good to them?” + +“I can’t tell; but I am sure it would do them harm for you to give it +up, because it is disagreeable.” + +“Well,” said Meta, with a sigh, “I’ll go and talk to Mrs. Wilmot. I +could not bear to give up anything that seems right just now, because of +the Confirmation.” + +Margaret eagerly inquired, and it appeared that the bishop had given +notice for a Confirmation in August, and that Mr. Wilmot was already +beginning to prepare his candidates, whilst Mr. Ramsden, always tardy, +never gave notice till the last moment possible. The hope was expressed +that Harry might be able to profit by this opportunity; and Harry’s +prospects were explained to Meta; then the doctor, recollecting +something that he wished to say to Mr. Rivers, began to ask about the +chance of his coming before the time of an engagement of his own. + +“He said he should be here at about half-past four,” said Meta. “He is +gone to the station to inquire about the trains. Do you know what time +the last comes in?” + +“At nine forty-five,” said the doctor. + +“That is what we were afraid of. It is for Bellairs, my maid. Her mother +is very ill, and she is afraid she is not properly nursed. It is about +five miles from the Milbury Station, and we thought of letting her go +with a day-ticket to see about her. She could go in the morning, after +I am up; but I don’t know what is to be done, for she could not get back +before I dress for dinner.” + +Margaret felt perfectly aghast at the cool tone, especially after what +had passed. + +“It would be quite impossible,” said the doctor. “Even going by the +eight o’clock train, and returning by the last, she would only have two +hours to spare--short enough measure for a sick mother.” + +“Papa means to give her whatever she wants for any nurse she may get.” + +“Is there no one with her mother now?” + +“A son’s wife, who, they think, is not kind. Poor Bellairs was so +grateful for being allowed to go home. I wonder if I could dress for +once without her?” + +“Do you know old Crabbe?” said the doctor. + +“The dear old man at Abbotstoke? Oh, yes, of course.” + +“There was a very sad case in his family. The mother was dying of +a lingering illness, when the son met with a bad accident. The only +daughter was a lady’s-maid, and could not be spared, though the brother +was half crazy to see her, and there was no one to tend them but a +wretch of a woman, paid by the parish. The poor fellow kept calling for +his sister in his delirium, and, at last, I could not help writing to +the mistress.” + +“Did she let her come?” said Meta, her cheek glowing. + +“As a great favour, she let her set out by the mail train, after +dressing her for a ball, with orders to return in time for her toilette +for an evening party the next day.” + +“Oh, I remember,” said Margaret, “her coming here at five in the +morning, and your taking her home.” + +“And when we got to Abbotstoke the brother was dead. That parish nurse +had not attended to my directions, and, I do believe, was the cause of +it. The mother had had a seizure, and was in the most precarious state.” + +“Surely she stayed!” + +“It was as much as her place was worth,” said the doctor; “and her wages +were the chief maintenance of the family. So she had to go back to dress +her mistress, while the old woman lay there, wailing after Betsy. She +did give warning then, but, before the month was out, the mother was +dead.” + +Meta did not speak, and Dr. May presently rose, saying he should try to +meet Mr. Rivers in the town, and went out. Meta sat thoughtful, and at +last, sighing, said, “I wonder whether Bellairs’s mother is so very ill? +I have a great mind to let Susan try to do my hair, and let Bellairs +stay a little longer. I never thought of that.” + +“I do not think you will be sorry,” said Margaret. + +“Yes, I shall, for if my hair does not look nice, papa will not be +pleased, and there is Aunt Leonora coming. How odd it will be to be +without Bellairs! I will ask Mrs. Larpent.” + +“Oh, yes!” said Margaret. “You must not think we meant to advise; but +papa has seen so many instances of distress, from servants not spared to +their friends in illness, that he feels strongly on the subject.” + +“And I really might have been as cruel as that woman!” said Meta. “Well, +I hope Mrs. Bellairs may be better, and able to spare her daughter. I +don’t know what will become of me without her.” + +“I think it will have been a satisfaction in one way,” said Margaret. + +“In what way?” + +“Don’t you remember what you began by complaining of, that you could not +be of use? Now, I fancy this would give you the pleasure of undergoing a +little personal inconvenience for the good of another.” + +Meta looked half puzzled, half thoughtful, and Margaret, who was a +little uneasy at the style of counsel she found herself giving, changed +the conversation. + +It was a memorable one to little Miss Rivers, opening out to her, as did +almost all her meetings with that family, a new scope for thought and +for duty. The code to which she had been brought up taught that +servants were the machines of their employer’s convenience. Good-nature +occasioned much kindliness of manner and intercourse, and every luxury +and indulgence was afforded freely; but where there was any want of +accordance between the convenience of the two parties, there was no +question. The master must be the first object, the servants’ remedy was +in their own hands. + +Amiable as was Mr. Rivers, this, merely from indulgence and want of +reflection, was his principle; and his daughter had only been acting +on it, though she did not know it, till the feelings that she had +never thought of were thus displayed before her. These were her first +practical lessons that life was not meant to be passed in pleasing +ourselves, and being good-natured at small cost. + +It was an effort. Meta was very dependent, never having been encouraged +to be otherwise, and Bellairs was like a necessary of life in her +estimation; but strength of principle came to aid her naturally +kind-hearted feeling, and she was pleased by the idea of voluntarily +undergoing a privation so as to test her sincerity. + +So when her father told her of the inconvenient times of the trains, and +declared that Bellairs must give it up, she answered by proposing to let +her sleep a night or two there, gaily promised to manage very well, and +satisfied him. + +Her maid’s grateful looks and thanks recompensed her when she made +the offer to her, and inspirited her to an energetic coaxing of Mrs. +Larpent, who, being more fully aware than her father of the needfulness +of the lady’s-maid, and also very anxious that her darling should appear +to the best advantage before the expected aunt, Lady Leonora Langdale, +was unwilling to grant more than one night at the utmost. + +Meta carried the day, and her last assurance to Bellairs was that she +might stay as long as seemed necessary to make her mother comfortable. + +Thereupon Meta found herself more helpful in some matters than she +had expected, but at a loss in others. Susan, with all Mrs. Larpent’s +supervision, could not quite bring her dress to the air that was so +peculiarly graceful and becoming; and she often caught her papa’s eye +looking at her as if he saw something amiss, and could not discover what +it was. Then came Aunt Leonora, always very kind to Meta, but the dread +of the rest of the household, whom she was wont to lecture on the +proper care of her niece. Miss Rivers was likely to have a considerable +fortune, and Lady Leonora intended her to be a very fashionable and much +admired young lady, under her own immediate protection. + +The two cousins, Leonora and Agatha, talked to her; the one of her +balls, the other of her music--patronised her, and called her their good +little cousin--while they criticised the stiff set of those unfortunate +plaits made by Susan, and laughed, as if it was an unheard-of +concession, at Bellairs’s holiday. + +Nevertheless, when “Honoured Miss” received a note, begging for three +days’ longer grace, till a niece should come, in whom Bellairs could +place full confidence, she took it on herself to return free consent. +Lady Leonora found out what she had done, and reproved her, telling her +it was only the way to make “those people” presume, and Mrs. Larpent +was also taken to task; but, decidedly, Meta did not regret what she had +done, though she felt as if she had never before known how to appreciate +comfort, when she once more beheld Bellairs stationed at her toilette +table. + +Meta was asked about her friends. She could not mention any one but Mrs. +Charles Wilmot and the Misses May. + +“Physician’s daughters; oh!” said Lady Leonora. + +And she proceeded to exhort Mr. Rivers to bring his daughter to London, +or its neighbourhood, where she might have masters, and be in the way of +forming intimacies suited to her connections. + +Mr. Rivers dreaded London--never was well there, and did not like the +trouble of moving--while Meta was so attached to the Grange, that she +entreated him not to think of leaving it, and greatly dreaded her aunt’s +influence. Lady Leonora did, indeed, allow that the Grange was a very +pretty place; her only complaint was the want of suitable society for +Meta; she could not bear the idea of her growing accustomed--for want of +something better--to the vicar’s wife and the pet doctor’s daughters. + +Flora had been long desirous to effect a regular call at Abbotstoke, and +it was just now that she succeeded. Mrs. Charles Wilmot’s little girl +was to have a birthday feast, at which Mary, Blanche, and Aubrey were +to appear. Flora went in charge of them, and as soon as she had safely +deposited them, and appointed Mary to keep Aubrey out of mischief, she +walked up to the Grange, not a whit daunted by the report of the very +fine ladies who were astonishing the natives of Abbotstoke. + +She was admitted, and found herself in the drawing-room, with a quick +lively-looking lady, whom she perceived to be Lady Leonora, and who +instantly began talking to her very civilly. Flora was never at a loss, +and they got on extremely well; her ease and self-possession, without +forwardness, telling much to her advantage. Meta came in, delighted to +see her, but, of course, the visit resulted in no really intimate talk, +though it was not without effect. Flora declared Lady Leonora Langdale +to be a most charming person; and Lady Leonora, on her side, asked +Meta who was that very elegant conversible girl. “Flora May,” was +the delighted answer, now that the aunt had committed herself by +commendation. And she did not retract it; she pronounced Flora to be +something quite out of the common way, and supposed that she had had +unusual advantages. + +Mr. Rivers took care to introduce to his sister-in-law Dr. May (who +would fain have avoided it), but ended by being in his turn pleased and +entertained by her brilliant conversation, which she put forth for +him, as her instinct showed her that she was talking to a man of high +ability. A perfect gentleman she saw him to be, and making out some +mutual connections far up in the family tree of the Mackenzies, +she decided that the May family were an acquisition, and very good +companions for her niece at present, while not yet come out. So ended +the visit, with this great triumph for Meta, who had a strong belief in +Aunt Leonora’s power and infallibility, and yet had not consulted her +about Bellairs, nor about the school question. + +She had missed one Sunday’s school on account of her aunt’s visit, but +the resolution made beside Margaret’s sofa had not been forgotten. She +spent her Saturday afternoon in a call on Mrs. Wilmot, ending with a +walk through the village; she confessed her ignorance, apologised for +her blunders, and put herself under the direction which once she had +fancied too strict and harsh to be followed. + +And on Sunday she was content to teach the stupid girls, and abstain +from making much of the smooth-faced engaging set. She thought it very +dull work, but she could feel that it was something not done to please +herself; and whereas her father had feared she would be dull when her +cousins were gone, he found her more joyous than ever. + +There certainly was a peculiar happiness about Margaret Rivers; her +vexations were but ripples, rendering the sunny course of her life more +sparkling, and each exertion in the way of goodness was productive of so +much present joy that the steps of her ladder seemed, indeed, to be of +diamonds. + +Her ladder--for she was, indeed, mounting upwards. She was very earnest +in her Confirmation preparation, most anxious to do right and to contend +with her failings; but the struggle at present was easy; and the hopes, +joys, and incentives shone out more and more upon her in this blithe +stage of her life. + +She knew there was a dark side, but hope and love were more present to +her than was fear. Happy those to whom such young days are granted. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + + + + It is the generous spirit, who, when brought + Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought + Upon the plan that pleased his childish thought, + Whose high endeavours are an inward light, + Making the path before him always bright. + WORDSWORTH. + + +The holidays had commenced about a week when Harry, now duly appointed +to H. M. S. Alcestis, was to come home on leave, as he proudly expressed +it. + +A glad troop of brothers and sisters, with the doctor himself, walked up +to the station to meet him, and who was happiest when, from the window, +was thrust out the rosy face, with the gold band? Mary gave such a +shriek and leap, that two passengers and one guard turned round to look +at her, to the extreme discomfiture of Flora and Norman, evidenced by +one by a grave “Mary! Mary!” by the other, by walking off to the extreme +end of the platform, and trying to look as if he did not belong to them, +in which he was imitated by his shadow, Tom. + +Sailor already, rather than schoolboy, Harry cared not for spectators; +his bound from the carriage, and the hug between him, and Mary would +have been worthy of the return from the voyage. The next greeting was +for his father, and the sisters had had their share by the time the two +brothers thought fit to return from their calm walk on the platform. + +Grand was it to see that party return to the town--the naval cadet, +with his arm linked in Mary’s, and Aubrey clinging to his hand, and the +others walking behind, admiring him as he turned his bright face every +moment with some glad question or answer, “How was Margaret?” Oh, so +much better; she had been able to walk across the room, with Norman’s +arm round her--they hoped she would soon use crutches--and she sat up +more. “And the baby?” More charming than ever--four teeth--would soon +walk--such a darling! Then came “my dirk, the ship, our berth.” “Papa, +do ask Mr. Ernescliffe to come here. I know he could get leave.” + +“Mr. Ernescliffe! You used to call him Alan!” said Mary. + +“Yes, but that is all over now. You forget what we do on board. Captain +Gordon himself calls me Mr. May!” + +Some laughed, others were extremely impressed. + +“Ha! There’s Ned Anderson coming,” cried Mary. “Now! Let him see you, +Harry.” + +“What matters Ned Anderson to me?” said Harry; and, with an odd +mixture of shamefacedness and cordiality, he marched full up to his old +school-fellow, and shook hands with him, as if able, in the plenitude of +his officership, to afford plenty of good-humoured superiority. Tom had +meantime subsided out of all view. But poor Harry’s exultation had a +fall. + +“Well!” graciously inquired ‘Mr. May’, “and how is Harvey?” + +“Oh, very well. We are expecting him home to-morrow.” + +“Where has he been?” + +“To Oxford, about the Randall.” + +Harry gave a disturbed, wondering look round, on seeing Edward’s air of +malignant satisfaction. He saw nothing that reassured him, except the +quietness of Norman’s own face, but even that altered as their eyes met. +Before another word could be said, however, the doctor’s hand was on +Harry’s shoulder. + +“You must not keep him now, Ned,” said he--“his sister has not seen him +yet.” + +And he moved his little procession onwards, still resting on Harry’s +shoulder, while a silence had fallen on all, and even the young sailor +ventured no question. Only Tom’s lips were quivering, and Ethel had +squeezed Norman’s hand. “Poor Harry!” he muttered, “this is worst of +all! I wish we had written it to him.” + +“So do I now, but we always trusted it would come right. Oh! if I were +but a boy to flog that Edward!” + +“Hush, Ethel, remember what we resolved.” + +They were entering their own garden, where, beneath the shade of the +tulip-tree, Margaret lay on her couch. Her arms were held out, and Harry +threw himself upon her, but when he rose from her caress, Norman and Tom +were gone. + +“What is this?” he now first ventured to ask. + +“Come with me,” said Dr. May, leading the way to his study, where he +related the whole history of the suspicion that Norman had incurred. +He was glad that he had done so in private, for Harry’s indignation and +grief went beyond his expectations; and when at last it appeared that +Harvey Anderson was actually Randall-scholar, after opening his +eyes with the utmost incredulity, and causing it to be a second time +repeated, he gave a gulp or two, turned very red, and ended by laying +his head on the table, and fairly sobbing and crying aloud, in spite of +dirk, uniform, and manhood. + +“Harry! why, Harry, my boy! We should have prepared you for this,” said +the doctor affectionately. “We have left off breaking our hearts about +it. I don’t want any comfort now for having gold instead of glitter; +though at first I was as bad as you.” + +“Oh, if I had but been there!” said Harry, combating unsuccessfully with +his tears. + +“Ah! so we all said, Norman and all. Your word would have cleared +him--that is, if you had not been in the thick of the mischief. Ha! +July, should not you have been on the top of the wall?” + +“I would have stood by him, at least. Would not I have given Axworthy +and Anderson two such black eyes as they could not have shown in school +for a week? They had better look out!” cried Harry savagely. + +“What! An officer in her Majesty’s service! Eh, Mr. May?” + +“Don’t, papa, don’t. Oh! I thought it would have been so happy, when I +came home, to see Norman Randall-scholar. Oh! now I don’t care for the +ship, nor anything.” Again Harry’s face went down on the table. + +“Come, come, Harry,” said Dr. May, pulling off the spectacles that had +become very dewy, “don’t let us make fools of ourselves, or they will +think we are dying for the scholarship.” + +“I don’t care for the scholarship, but to have June turned down--and +disgrace--” + +“What I care for, Harry, is having June what he is, and that I know +better now.” + +“He is! he is--he is June himself, and no mistake!” cried Harry, with +vehemence. + +“The prime of the year, is not it?” said the doctor, smiling, as he +stroked down the blue sleeve, as if he thought that generous July did +not fall far short of it. + +“That he is!” exclaimed Harry. “I have never met one fellow like him.” + +“It will be a chance if you ever do,” said Dr. May. “That is better than +scholarships!” + +“It should have been both,” said Harry. + +“Norman thinks the disappointment has been very good for him,” said the +doctor. + +“Perhaps it made him what he is now. All success is no discipline, you +know.” + +Harry looked as if he did not know. + +“Perhaps you will understand better by-and-by, but this I can tell you, +Harry, that the patient bearing of his vexation has done more to renew +Norman’s spirits than all his prosperity. See if if has not. I believe +it is harder to every one of us, than to him. To Ethel, especially, it +is a struggle to be in charity with the Andersons.” + +“In charity!” repeated Harry. “Papa! you don’t want us to like a horrid, +sneaking, mean-spirited pair like those, that have used Norman in that +shameful way?” + +“No, certainly not; I only want you to feel no more personal anger +than if it had been Cheviot, or some indifferent person, that had been +injured.” + +“I should have hated them all the same!” cried Harry. + +“If it is all the same, and it is the treachery you hate, I ask no +more,” said the doctor. + +“I can’t help it, papa, I can’t! If I were to meet those fellows, do +you think I could shake hands with them? If I did not lick Ned all down +Minster Street, he might think himself lucky.” + +“Well, Harry, I won’t argue any more. I have no right to preach +forbearance. Your brother’s example is better worth than my precept. +Shall we go back to Margaret, or have you anything to say to me?” + +Harry made no positive answer, but pressed close to his father, who +put his arm round him, while the curly head was laid on his shoulder. +Presently he said, with a great sigh, “There’s nothing like home.” + +“Was that what you wanted to say?” asked Dr. May, smiling, as he held +the boy more closely to him. + +“No; but it will be a long time before I come back. They think we shall +have orders for the Pacific.” + +“You will come home our real lion,” said the doctor. “How much you will +have to tell!” + +“Yes,” said Harry; “but oh! it is very different from coming home every +night, not having any one to tell a thing to.” + +“Do you want to say anything now?” + +“I don’t know. I told you in my letter about the half-sovereign.” + +“Ay, never mind that.” + +“And there was one night, I am afraid, I did not stand by a little +fellow that they bullied about his prayers. Perhaps he would have gone +on, if I had helped him!” + +“Does he sail with you?” + +“No, he was at school. If I had told him that he and I would stand by +each other--but he looked so foolish, and began to cry! I am sorry now.” + +“Weak spirits have much to bear,” said the doctor, “and you stronger +ones, who don’t mind being bullied, are meant, I suppose, to help them, +as Norman has been doing by poor little Tommy.” + +“It was thinking of Norman--that made me sorry. I knew there was +something else, but you see I forget when I don’t see you and Margaret +every day.” + +“You have One always near, my boy.” + +“I know, but I cannot always recollect. And there is such a row at night +on board, I cannot think or attend as I ought,” murmured Harry. + +“Yes, your life, sleeping at home in quiet, has not prepared you for +that trial,” said the doctor. “But others have kept upright habits under +the same, you know--and God helps those who are doing their best.” + +Harry sighed. + +“I mean to do my best,” he added; “and if it was not for feeling bad, +I should like it. I do like it”--and his eye sparkled, and his smile +beamed, though the tear was undried. + +“I know you do!” said Dr. May, smiling, “and for feeling bad, my Harry, +I fear you must do that by sea, or land, as long as you are in this +world. God be thanked that you grieve over the feeling. But He is ready +to aid, and knows the trial, and you will be brought nearer to Him +before you leave us.” + +“Margaret wrote about the Confirmation. Am I old enough?” + +“If you wish it, Harry, under these circumstances.” + +“I suppose I do,” said Harry, uneasily twirling a button. + +“But then, if I’ve got to forgive the Andersons--” + +“We won’t talk any more of that,” said the doctor; “here is poor Mary, +reconnoitring, to know why I am keeping you from her.” + +Then began the scampering up and down the house, round and round the +garden, visiting every pet or haunt or contrivance; Mary and Harry at +the head, Blanche and Tom in full career after them, and Aubrey stumping +and scrambling at his utmost speed, far behind. + +Not a word passed between Norman and Harry on the school misadventure, +but, after the outbreak of the latter, he treated it as a thing +forgotten, and brought all his high spirits to enliven the family party. +Richard, too, returned later on the same day, and though not received +with the same uproarious joy as Harry, the elder section of the family +were as happy in their way as what Blanche called the middle-aged. The +Daisy was brought down, and the eleven were again all in the same room, +though there were suppressed sighs from some, who reflected how long it +might be before they could again assemble. + +Tea went off happily in the garden, with much laughing and talking. +“Pity to leave such good company!” said the doctor, unwillingly rising +at last--“but I must go to the Union--I promised Ward to meet him +there.” + +“Oh, let me walk with you!” cried Harry. + +“And me!” cried other voices, and the doctor proposed that they should +wait for him in the meads, and extend the walk after the visit. Richard +and Ethel both expressing their intention of adhering to Margaret--the +latter observing how nice it would be to get rid of everybody, and have +a talk. + +“What have we been doing all this time?” said Dr. May, laughing. + +“Chattering, not conversing,” said Ethel saucily. + +“Ay! the Cocksmoor board is going to sit,” said Dr. May. + +“What is a board?” inquired Blanche, who had just come down prepared for +her walk. + +“Richard, Margaret, and Ethel, when they sit upon Cocksmoor,” said Dr. +May. + +“But Margaret never does sit on Cocksmoor, papa.” + +“Only allegorically, Blanche,” said Norman. + +“But I don’t understand what is a board?” pursued Blanche. + +“Mr. May in his ship,” was Norman’s suggestion. + +Poor Blanche stood in perplexity. “What is it really?” + +“Something wooden headed,” continued the provoking papa. + +“A board is all wooden, not only its head,” said Blanche. + +“Exactly so, especially at Stoneborough!” said the doctor. + +“It is what papa is when he comes out of the council-room,” added Ethel. + +“Or what every one is while the girls are rigging themselves,” sighed +Harry. “Ha! here’s Polly--now we only want Flora.” + +“And my stethoscope! Has any one seen my stethoscope!” exclaimed the +doctor, beginning to rush frantically into the study, dining-room, +and his own room; but failing, quietly took up a book, and gave up the +search, which was vigorously pursued by Richard, Flora, and Mary, until +the missing article was detected, where Aubrey had left it in the nook +on the stairs, after using it for a trumpet and a telescope. + +“Ah! now my goods will have a chance!” said Dr. May, as he took it, and +patted Richard’s shoulder. “I have my best right hand, and Margaret will +be saved endless sufferings.” + +“Papa!” + +“Ay! poor dear! don’t I see what she undergoes, when nobody will +remember that useful proverb, ‘A place for everything, and everything in +its place.’ I believe one use of her brains is to make an inventory of +all the things left about the drawing-room; but, beyond it, it is past +her power.” + +“Yes,” said Flora, rather aggrieved; “I do the best I can, but, when +nobody ever puts anything into its place, what can I do, single-handed? +So no one ever goes anywhere without first turning the house upside down +for their property; and Aubrey, and now even baby, are always carrying +whatever they can lay hands on into the nursery. I can’t bear it; and +the worst of it is that,” she added, finishing her lamentation, after +the others were out at the door, “papa and Ethel have neither of them +the least shame about it.” + +“No, no, Flora, that is not fair!” exclaimed Margaret--but Flora was +gone. + +“I have shame,” sighed Ethel, walking across the room disconsolately, to +put a book into a shelf. + +“And you don’t leave things trainants as you used,” said Margaret. “That is +what I meant.” + +“I wish I did not,” said Ethel; “I was thinking whether I had better not +make myself pay a forfeit. Suppose you keep a book for me, Margaret, +and make a mark against me at everything I leave about, and if I pay +a farthing for each, it will be so much away from Cocksmoor, so I must +cure myself!” + +“And what shall become of the forfeits?” asked Richard. + +“Oh, they won’t be enough to be worth having, I hope,” said Margaret. + +“Give them to the Ladies’ Committee,” said Ethel, making a face. “Oh, +Ritchie! they are worse than ever. We are so glad that Flora is going to +join it, and see whether she can do any good.” + +“We?” said Margaret, hesitating. + +“Ah! I know you aren’t, but papa said she might--and you know she has so +much tact and management--” + +“As Norman says,” observed Margaret doubtfully. “I cannot like the +notion of Flora going and squabbling with Mrs. Ledwich and Louisa +Anderson!” + +“What do you think, Ritchie?” asked Ethel. “Is it not too bad that they +should have it all their own way, and spoil the whole female population? +Why, the last thing they did was to leave off reading the Prayer-book +prayers morning and evening! And it is much expected that next they will +attack all learning by heart.” + +“It is too bad,” said Richard, “but Flora can hardly hinder them.” + +“It will be one voice,” said Ethel; “but oh! if I could only say half +what I have in my mind, they must see the error. Why, these, these--what +they call formal--these the ties--links on to the Church--on to what is +good--if they don’t learn them soundly--rammed down hard--you know what +I mean--so that they can’t remember the first--remember when they did +not know them--they will never get to learn--know--understand when they +can understand!” + +“My dear Ethel, don’t frown so horribly, or it will spoil your +eloquence,” said Margaret. + +“I don’t understand either,” said Richard gravely. “Not understand when +they can understand? What do you mean?” + +“Why, Ritchie, don’t you see? If they don’t learn them--hard, firm, by +rote when they can’t--they won’t understand when they can.” + +“If they don’t learn when they can’t, they won’t understand when they +can?” puzzled Richard, making Margaret laugh; but Ethel was too much in +earnest for amusement. + +“If they don’t learn them by rote when they have strong memories. Yes, +that’s it!” she continued; “they will not know them well enough to +understand them when they are old enough!” + +“Who won’t learn and understand what?” said Richard. + +“Oh, Ritchie, Ritchie! Why the children--the Psalms--the Gospels--the +things. They ought to know them, love them, grow up to them, before they +know the meaning, or they won’t care. Memory, association, affection, +all those come when one is younger than comprehension!” + +“Younger than one’s own comprehension?” + +“Richard, you are grown more tiresome than ever. Are you laughing at +me?” + +“Indeed, I beg your pardon--I did not mean it,” said Richard. “I am very +sorry to be so stupid.” + +“My dear Ritchie, it was only my blundering--never mind.” + +“But what did you mean? I want to know, indeed, Ethel.” + +“I mean that memory and association come before comprehension, so that +one ought to know all good things--fa--with familiarity before one can +understand, because understanding does not make one love. Oh! one does +that before, and, when the first little gleam, little bit of a sparklet +of the meaning does come, then it is so valuable and so delightful.” + +“I never heard of a little bit of a sparklet before,” said Richard, “but +I think I do see what Ethel means; and it is like what I heard and liked +in a university sermon some Sundays ago, saying that these lessons and +holy words were to be impressed on us here from infancy on earth, that +we might be always unravelling their meaning, and learn it fully at +last--where we hope to be.” + +“The very same thought!” exclaimed Margaret, delighted; “but,” after +a pause, “I am afraid the Ladies’ Committee might not enter into it in +plain English, far less in Ethel’s language.” + +“Now, Margaret! You know I never meant myself. I never can get the right +words for what I mean.” + +“And you leave about your faux commencements, as M. Ballompre would call +them, for us to stumble over,” said Margaret. + +“But Flora would manage!” said Ethel. “She has power over people, and +can influence them. Oh, Ritchie, don’t persuade papa out of letting her +go.” + +“Does Mr. Wilmot wish it?” asked Richard. + +“I have not heard him say, but he was very much vexed about the +prayers,” said Ethel. + +“Will he stay here for the holidays?” + +“No, his father has not been well, and he is gone to take his duty. He +walked with us to Cocksmoor before he went, and we did so wish for you.” + +“How have you been getting on?” + +“Pretty well, on the whole,” said Ethel, “but, oh, dear! oh, dear, +Richard, the M’Carthys are gone!” + +“Gone, where?” + +“Oh, to Wales. I knew nothing of it till they were off. Una and Fergus +were missing, and Jane Taylor told me they were all gone. Oh, it is so +horrid! Una had really come to be so good and so much in earnest. She +behaved so well at school and church, that even Mrs. Ledwich liked +her, and she used to read her Testament half the day, and bring her +Sunday-school lessons to ask me about! Oh! I was so fond of her, and it +really seemed to have done some good with her. And now it is all lost! +Oh, I wish I knew what would become of my poor child!” + +“The only hope is that it may not be all lost,” said Margaret. + +“With such a woman for a mother!” said Ethel; “and going to some +heathenish place again! If I could only have seen her first, and begged +her to go to church and say her prayers. If I only knew where she is +gone! but I don’t. I did think Una would have come to wish me good-bye!” + +“I am very sorry to lose her,” said Richard. + +“Mr. Wilmot says it is bread cast on the waters,” said Margaret--“he was +very kind in consoling Ethel, who came home quite in despair.” + +“Yes, he said it was one of the trials,” said Ethel, “and that it might +be better for Una as well as for me. And I am trying to care for the +rest still, but I cannot yet as I did for her. There are none of the +eyes that look as if they were eating up one’s words before they come, +and that smile of comprehension! Oh, they all are such stupid little +dolts, and so indifferent!” + +“Why, Ethel!” + +“Fancy last Friday--Mary and I found only eight there--” + +“Do you remember what a broiling day Friday was?” interrupted Margaret. +“Miss Winter and Norman both told me I ought not to let them go, and I +began to think so when they came home. Mary was the colour of a peony!” + +“Oh! it would not have signified if the children had been good for +anything, but all their mothers were out at work, and, of those that +did come, hardly one had learned their lessons--Willy Blake had lost his +spelling-card; Anne Harris kicked Susan Pope, and would not say she was +sorry; Mary Hale would not know M from N, do all our Mary would; and +Jane Taylor, after all the pains I have taken with her, when I asked how +the Israelites crossed the Red Sea, seemed never to have heard of them.” + +Margaret could have said that Ethel had come in positively crying with +vexation, but with no diminution of the spirit of perseverance. + +“I am so glad you are come, Richard!” she continued. “You will put a +little new life into them. They all looked so pleased when we told them +Mr. Richard was coming.” + +“I hope we shall get on,” said Richard. + +“I want you to judge whether the Popes are civilised enough to +be dressed for Sunday-school. Oh, and the money! Here is the +account-book--” + +“How neatly you have kept it, Ethel.” + +“Ah! it was for you, you know. Receipts--see, aren’t you surprised?” + +“Four pounds eighteen and eightpence! That is a great deal!” + +“The three guineas were Mr. Rivers’s fees, you know; then, Margaret +gave us half-a-sovereign, and Mary a shilling, and there was one that +we picked up, tumbling about the house, and papa said we might have, and +the twopence were little Blanche’s savings. Oh, Ritchie!” as a bright +coin appeared on the book. + +“That is all I could save this term,” he said. + +“Oh, it is famous! Now, I do think I may put another whole sovereign +away into the purse for the church. See, here is what we have paid. +Shoes--those did bring our money very low, and then I bought a piece of +print which cost sixteen shillings, but it will make plenty of frocks. +So, you see, the balance is actually two pounds nine! That is something. +The nine shillings will go on till we get another fee; for I have two +frocks ready made for the Popes, so the two pounds are a real nest-egg +towards the church.” + +“The church!” repeated Rlchard, half smiling. + +“I looked in the paper the other day, and saw that a chapel had been +built for nine hundred pounds,” said Ethel. + +“And you have two!” + +“Two in eight months, Ritchie, and more will come as we get older. I +have a scheme in my head, but I won’t tell you now.” + +“Nine hundred! And a church has to be endowed as well as built, you +know, Ethel.” + +“Oh! never mind that now. If we can begin and build, some good person +will come and help. I’ll run and fetch it, Ritchie. I drew out a sketch +of what I want it to be.” + +“What a girl that is!” said Richard, as Ethel dashed away. + +“Is not she?” said Margaret. “And she means all so heartily. Do you know +she has spent nothing on her own pleasures, not a book, not a thing has +she bought this year, except a present for Blanche’s birthday, and some +silk to net a purse for Harry.” + +“I cannot help being sometimes persuaded that she will succeed,” said +Richard. + +“Faith, energy, self-denial, perseverance, they go a great way,” said +Margaret. “And yet when we look at poor dear Ethel, and her queer +ungainly ways, and think of her building a church!” + +Neither Richard nor Margaret could help laughing, but they checked it at +once, and the former said, “That brave spirit is a reproof to us all.” + +“Yes,” said Margaret; “and so is the resolution to mend her little +faults.” + +Ethel came back, having, of course, mislaid her sketch, and, much vexed, +wished to know if it ought to cause her first forfeit, but Margaret +thought these should not begin till the date of the agreement, and the +three resumed the Cocksmoor discussion. + +It lasted till the return of the walking party, so late, that they had +been star-gazing, and came in, in full dispute as to which was Cygnus +and which Aquila, while Blanche was talking very grandly of Taurus +Poniatouski, and Harry begging to be told which constellations he should +still see in the southern hemisphere. Dr. May was the first to rectify +the globe for the southern latitudes, and fingers were affectionately +laid on Orion’s studded belt, as though he were a friend who would +accompany the sailor-boy. Voices grew loud and eager in enumerating the +stars common to both; and so came bedtime, and the globe stood on the +table in danger of being forgotten. Ethel diligently lifted it up; and +while Norman exclaimed at her tidiness, Margaret told how a new leaf was +to be turned, and of her voluntary forfeits. + +“A very good plan,” cried the doctor. “We can’t do better than follow +her example.” + +“What you, papa? Oh, what fun!” exclaimed Harry. + +“So you think I shall be ruined, Mr. Monkey. How do you know I shall +not be the most orderly of all? A penny for everything left about, +confiscated for the benefit of Cocksmoor, eh?” + +“And twopence for pocket-handkerchiefs, if you please,” said Norman, +with a gesture of disgust. + +“Very well. From Blanche, upwards. Margaret shall have a book, and set +down marks against us--hold an audit every Saturday night. What say you, +Blanche?” + +“Oh, I hope Flora will leave something about!” cried Blanche, dancing +with glee. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + + + + Oh, no, we never mention her, + We never breathe her name.--SONG. + + +A great deal of merriment had come home with Harry, who never was grave +for ten minutes without a strong reaction, and distracted the house with +his noise and his antics, in proportion, as it sometimes seemed, to the +spaces of serious thought and reading spent in the study, where Dr. +May did his best to supply Mr. Ramsden’s insufficient attention to his +Confirmation candidates, by giving an hour every day to Norman, Ethel, +and Harry. He could not lecture, but he read with them, and his own +earnestness was very impressive. + +The two eldest felt deeply, but Harry often kept it in doubt, whether he +were not as yet too young and wild for permanent impressions, so rapid +were his transitions, and so overpowering his high spirits. Not that +these were objected to; but there was a feeling that there might as well +be moderation in all things, and that it would have been satisfactory +if, under present circumstances, he had been somewhat more subdued and +diligent. + +“There are your decimals not done yet, Harry.” + +For Harry, being somewhat deficient in arithmetic, had been recommended +to work in that line during his visit at home--an operation usually +deferred, as at present, to the evening. + +“I am going to do my sums now, Flora,” said Harry, somewhat annoyed. + +He really fetched his arithmetic, and his voice was soon heard asking +how he was ever to put an end to a sum that would turn to nothing but +everlasting threes. + +“What have you been doing, young ladies?” asked Dr. May. “Did you call +on Miss Walkingham?” + +“Flora and Blanche did,” said Ethel; “I thought you did not want me to +go, and I had not time. Besides, a London grand young lady--oh!” and +Ethel shook her head in disgust. + +“That is not the way you treat Meta Rivers.” + +“Oh, Meta is different! She has never been out!” + +“I should have been glad for you to have seen Miss Walkingham,” said +her father. “Pretty manners are improving; besides, old Lady Walkingham +begged me to send my daughters.” + +“I should not have seen her,” said Ethel, “for she was not well enough +to let us in.” + +“Was it not pushing?” said Flora. “There were the Andersons leaving +their card!” + +“Those Andersons!” exclaimed the doctor; “I am sick of the very sound of +the name. As sure as my name is Dick May, I’ll include it in Margaret’s +book of fines.” + +Flora looked dignified. + +“They are always harping on that little trumpery girl’s nonsense,” said +Harry. “Aught, aught, eight, that is eight thousandths, eh, Norman! If +it was about those two fellows, the boys--” + +“You would harp only on what affects you?” said the doctor. + +“No, I don’t; men never do. That is one hundred and twenty-fifth.” + +“One man does it to an hundred and twenty-five women?” said Dr. May. + +“It is rather a female defect, indeed,” said Margaret. + +“Defect!” said Flora. + +“Yes,” said Dr. May, “since it is not only irksome to the hearers, but +leads to the breaking of the ninth commandment.” + +Many voices declared, in forms of varying severity, that it was +impossible to speak worse of the Andersons than they deserved. + +“Andersons again!” cried Dr. May. “One, two, three, four, five, six +forfeits!” + +“Papa himself, for he said the name,” saucily put in Blanche. + +“I think I should like the rule to be made in earnest,” said Ethel. + +“What! in order to catch Flora’s pence for Cocksmoor?” suggested Harry. + +“No, but because it is malice. I mean, that is, if there is dislike, +or a grudge in our hearts at them--talking for ever of nasty little +miserable irritations makes it worse.” + +“Then why do you do it?” asked Flora. “I heard you only on Sunday +declaiming about Fanny Anderson.” + +“Ha!” cried out all at once. “There goes Flora.” + +She looked intensely serious and innocent. + +“I know,” said Ethel. “It is the very reason I want the rule to be made, +just to stop us, for I am sure we must often say more than is right.” + +“Especially when we come to the pass of declaring that the ninth +commandment cannot be broken in regard to them,” observed the doctor. + +“Most likely they are saying much the same of us,” said Richard. + +“Or worse,” rejoined Dr. May. “The injured never hates as much as the +injurer.” + +“Now papa has said the severest thing of all!” whispered Ethel. + +“Proving the inexpedience of personalities,” said Dr. May, “and in good +time enter the evening post.--Why! how now, Mr. May, are you gone mad?” + +“Hallo! why ho! ha! hurrah!” and up went Harry’s book of decimals to the +ceiling, coming down upon a candle, which would have been overturned on +Ethel’s work, if it had not been dexterously caught by Richard. + +“Harry!” indignantly cried Ethel and Flora, “see what you have done;” + and the doctor’s voice called to order, but Harry could not heed. “Hear! +hear! he has a fortune, an estate.” + +“Who? Tell us--don’t be so absurd. Who?” + +“Who, Mr. Ernescliffe. Here is a letter from Hector. Only listen: + +“‘Did you know we had an old far-away English cousin, one Mr. Halliday? +I hardly did, though Alan was named after him, and he belonged to my +mother. He was a cross old fellow, and took no notice of us, but within +the last year or two, his nephew, or son, or something, died, and now he +is just dead, and the lawyer wrote to tell Alan he is heir-at-law. Mr. +Ernescliffe of Maplewood! Does it not sound well? It is a beautiful +great place in Shropshire, and Alan and I mean to run off to see it as +soon as he can have any time on shore.’” + +Ethel could not help looking at Margaret, but was ashamed of her +impertinence, and coloured violently, whereas her sister did not colour +at all, and Norman, looking down, wondered whether Alan would make the +voyage. + +“Oh, of course he will; he must!” said Harry. “He would never give up +now.” + +Norman further wondered whether Hector would remain on the Stoneborough +foundation, and Mary hoped they should not lose him; but there was no +great readiness to talk over the event, and there soon was a silence +broken by Flora saying, “He is no such nobody, as Louisa Anderson said, +when we--” + +Another shout, which caused Flora to take refuge in playing waltzes for +the rest of the evening. Moreover, to the extreme satisfaction of Mary, +she left her crochet-needle on the floor at night. While a tumultuous +party were pursuing her with it to claim the penny, and Richard was +conveying Margaret upstairs, Ethel found an opportunity of asking her +father if he were not very glad of Mr. Ernescliffe’s good fortune. + +“Yes, very. He is a good fellow, and will make a good use of it.” + +“And now, papa, does it not make--You won’t say now you are sorry he +came here.” + +She had no answer but a sigh, and a look that made her blush for having +ventured so far. She was so much persuaded that great events must ensue, +that, all the next day, she listened to every ring of the bell, and when +one at last was followed by a light, though, to her ears, manly sounding +tread, she looked up flushing with expectation. + +Behold, she was disappointed. “Miss Walkingham” was announced, and she +rose surprised, for the lady in question had only come to Stoneborough +for a couple of days with an infirm mother, who, having known Dr. May +in old times, had made it her especial request that he would let her see +his daughters. She was to proceed on her journey to-day, and the return +of the visit had been by no means expected. + +Flora went forward to receive her, wondering to see her so young +looking, and so unformed. She held out her hand, with a red wrist, and, +as far as could be seen under her veil, coloured when presented to the +recumbent Margaret. How she got into her chair, they hardly knew, for +Flora was at that moment extremely annoyed by hearing an ill-bred peal +of Mary’s laughter in the garden, close to the window; but she thought +it best to appear unconscious, since she had no power to stop it. + +Margaret thought the stranger embarrassed, and kindly inquired for Lady +Walkingham. + +“Much the same, thank you,” mumbled a voice down in the throat. + +A silence, until Margaret tried another question, equally briefly +answered; and, after a short interval, the young lady contrived to make +her exit, with the same amount of gaucherie as had marked her entrance. + +Expressions of surprise at once began, and were so loud, that when Harry +entered the room, his inquiry was, “What’s the row?” + +“Miss Walkingham,” said Ethel, “but you won’t understand. She seemed +half wild! Worse than me!” + +“How did you like the pretty improving manners?” asked Harry. + +“Manners! she had none,” said Flora. “She, highly connected! used to the +best society!” + +“How do you know what the best society do?” asked Harry. + +“The poor thing seemed very shy,” said Margaret. + +“I don’t know about shyness,” said Flora. + +“She was stifling a laugh all the time, like a rude schoolboy. And I +thought papa said she was pretty!” + +“Ay? Did you think her so?” asked Harry. + +“A great broad red face--and so awkward!” cried Flora indignantly. + +“If one could have seen her face, I think she might have been +nice-looking,” said Margaret. “She had pretty golden curls, and merry +blue eyes, rather like Harry’s.” + +“Umph!” said Flora; “beauty and manners seemed to me much on a par. This +is one of papa’s swans, indeed!” + +“I can’t believe it was Miss Walkingham at all,” said Ethel. “It must +have been some boy in disguise.” + +“Dear me!” cried Margaret, starting with the painful timidity of +helplessness. + +“Do look whether anything is gone. Where’s the silver inkstand?” + +“You don’t think she could put that into her pocket,” said Ethel, +laughing as she held it up. + +“I don’t know. Do, Harry, see if the umbrellas are safe in the hall. I +wish you would, for now I come to remember, the Walkinghams went at nine +this morning. Miss Winter said that she saw the old lady helped into +the carriage, as she passed.” Margaret’s eyes looked quite large and +terrified. “She must have been a spy--the whole gang will come at night. +I wish Richard was here. Harry, it really is no laughing matter. You had +better give notice to the police.” + +The more Margaret was alarmed, the more Harry laughed. “Never mind, +Margaret, I’ll take care of you! Here’s my dirk. I’ll stick all the +robbers.” + +“Harry! Harry! Oh, don’t!” cried Margaret, raising herself up in an +agony of nervous terror. “Oh, where is papa? Will nobody ring the bell, +and send George for the police?” + +“Police, police! Thieves! Murder! Robbers! Fire! All hands ahoy!” + shouted Harry, his hands making a trumpet over his mouth. + +“Harry, how can you?” said Ethel, hastily; “don’t you see that Margaret +is terribly frightened. Can’t you say at once that it was you?” + +“You!” and Margaret sank back, as there was a general outcry of laughter +and wonder. + +“Did you know it, Ethel?” asked Flora severely. + +“I only guessed at this moment,” said Ethel. “How well you did it, +Harry!” + +“Well!” said Flora, “I did think her dress very like Margaret’s shot +silk. I hope you did not do that any harm.” + +“But how did you manage?” said Ethel. “Where did your bonnet come from?” + +“It was a new one of Adams’s wife. Mary got it for me. Come in, Polly, +they have found it out. Did you not hear her splitting with laughing +outside the window? I would not let her come in for fear she should +spoil all.” + +“And I was just going to give her such a scolding for giggling in the +garden,” said Flora, “and to say we had been as bad as Miss Walkingham. +You should not have been so awkward, Harry; you nearly betrayed +yourself.” + +“He had nobody to teach him but Mary,” said Ethel. + +“Ah! you should have seen me at my ease in Minster Street. No one +suspected me there.” + +“In Minster Street. Oh, Harry, you don’t really mean it!” + +“I do. That was what I did it for. I was resolved to know what the +nameless ones said of the Misses May.” + +Hasty and eager inquiries broke out from Flora and Ethel. + +“Oh, Dr. May was very clever, certainly, very clever. Had I seen the +daughters? I said I was going to call there, and they said--” + +“What, oh, what, Harry?” + +“They said Flora was thought pretty, but--and as to Ethel, now, how do +you think you came off, Unready?” + +“Tell me. They could not say the same of me, at any rate.” + +“Quite the reverse! They called Ethel very odd, poor girl.” + +“I don’t mind,” said Ethel. “They may say what they please of me; +besides that, I believe it is all Harry’s own invention.” + +“Nay, that is a libel on my invention!” exclaimed Harry. “If I had drawn +on that, could I not have told you something much droller?” + +“And was that really all?” said Flora. + +“They said--let me see--that all our noses were too long, and, that as +to Flora’s being a beauty! when their brothers called her--so droll +of them--but Harvey called her a stuck-up duchess. In fact, it was the +fashion to make a great deal of those Mays.” + +“I hope they said something of the sailor brother,” said Ethel. + +“No; I found if I stayed to hear much more, I should be knocking Ned +down, so I thought it time to take leave before he suspected.” + +All this had passed very quickly, with much laughter, and numerous +interjections of amusement, and reprobation, or delight. So excited were +the young people, that they did not perceive a step on the gravel, +till Dr. May entered by the window, and stood among them. His first +exclamation was of consternation. “Margaret, my dear child, what is the +matter?” + +Only then did her brother and sisters perceive that Margaret was lying +back on her cushions, very pale, and panting for breath. She tried to +smile and say, “it was nothing,” and “she was silly,” but the words were +faint, from the palpitation of her heart. + +“It was Harry’s trick,” said Flora indignantly, as she flew for the +scent-bottle, while her father bent over Margaret. “Harry dressed +himself up, and she was frightened.” + +“Oh, no--no--he did not mean it,” gasped Margaret; “don’t.” + +“Harry, I did not think you could be so cowardly and unfeeling!” and Dr. +May’s look was even more reproachful than his words. + +Harry was dismayed at his sister’s condition, but the injustice of the +wholesale reproach chased away contrition. “I did nothing to frighten +any one,” he said moodily. + +“Now, Harry, you know how you kept on,” said Flora, “and when you saw +she was frightened--” + +“I can have no more of this,” said Dr. May, seeing that the discussion +was injuring Margaret more and more. “Go away to my study, sir, and wait +till I come to you. All of you out of the room. Flora, fetch the sal +volatile.” + +“Let me tell you,” whispered Margaret. “Don’t be angry with Harry. It +was--” + +“Not now, not now, my dear. Lie quite still.” She obeyed, took the +sal volatile, and shut her eyes, while he sat leaning anxiously over, +watching her. Presently she opened them, and, looking up, said rather +faintly, and trying to smile, “I don’t think I can be better till you +have heard the rights of it. He did not mean it.” + +“Boys never do mean it,” was the doctor’s answer. “I hoped better things +of Harry.” + +“He had no intention--” began Margaret, but she still was unfit to talk, +and her father silenced her, by promising to go and hear the boy’s own +account. + +In the hall, he was instantly beset by Ethel and Mary, the former +exclaiming, “Papa, you are quite mistaken! It was very foolish of +Margaret to be so frightened. He did nothing at all to frighten any +one.” + +Ethel’s mode of pleading was unfortunate; the “very foolish of Margaret” + were the very words to displease. + +“Do not interfere!” said her father sternly. “You only encourage him in +his wanton mischief, and no one takes any heed how he torments my poor +Margaret.” + +“Papa,” cried Harry, passionately bursting open the study door, +“tormenting Margaret was the last thing I would do!” + +“That is not the way to speak, Harry. What have you been doing?” + +With rapid agitated utterance, Harry made his confession. At another +time the doctor would have treated the matter as a joke carried too far, +but which, while it called for censure, was very amusing; but now +the explanation that the disguise had been assumed to impose on the +Andersons, only added to his displeasure. + +“You seem to think you have a licence to play off any impertinent freaks +you please, without consideration for any one,” he said; “but I tell +you it is not so. As long as you are under my roof, you shall feel my +authority, and you shall spend the rest of the day in your room. I hope +quietness there will bring you to a better mind, but I am disappointed +in you. A boy who can choose such a time, and such subjects, for +insolent, unfeeling, practical jokes, cannot be in a fit state for +Confirmation.” + +“Oh, papa! papa!” cried the two girls, in tones of entreaty--while +Harry, with a burning face and hasty step, dashed upstairs without a +word. + +“You have been as bad!” said Dr. May. “I say nothing to you, Mary, you +knew no better; but, to see you, Ethel, first encouraging him in his +impertinence, and terrifying Margaret so, that I dare say she may be a +week getting over it, and now defending him, and calling her silly, is +unbearable. I cannot trust one of you!” + +“Only listen, papa!” + +“I will have no altercation; I must go back to Margaret, since no one +else has the slightest consideration for her.” + +An hour had passed away, when Richard knocked at Ethel’s door to tell +her that tea was ready. + +“I have a great mind not to go down,” said Ethel, as he looked in, and +saw her seated with a book. + +“What do you mean?” + +“I cannot bear to go down while poor Harry is so unjustly used.” + +“Hush, Ethel!” + +“I cannot hush. Just because Margaret fancies robbers and murderers, and +all sorts of nonsense, as she always did, is poor Harry to be accused of +wantonly terrifying her, and shut up, and cut off from Confirmation? and +just when he is going away, too! It is unkind, and unjust, and--” + +“Ethel, you will be sorry--” + +“Papa will be sorry,” continued Ethel, disregarding the caution. “It is +very unfair, that I will say so. It was all nonsense of Margaret’s, +but he will always make everything give way to her. And poor Harry +just going to sea! No, Ritchie, I cannot come down; I cannot behave as +usual.” + +“You will grieve Margaret much more,” said Richard. + +“I can’t help that--she should not have made such a fuss.” + +Richard was somewhat in difficulties how to answer, but at that moment +Harry’s door, which was next, was slightly opened, and his voice said, +“Go down, Ethel. The captain may punish any one he pleases, and it is +mutiny in the rest of the crew to take his part.” + +“Harry is in the right,” said Richard. “It is our duty not to question +our father’s judgments. It would be wrong of you to stay up.” + +“Wrong?” said Ethel. + +“Of course. It would be against the articles of war,” said Harry, +opening his door another inch. “But, Ritchie, I say, do tell me whether +it has hurt Margaret.” + +“She is better now,” said Richard, “but she has a headache, chiefly, I +believe, from distress at having brought this on you. She is very sorry +for her fright.” + +“I had not the least intention of frightening the most fearsome little +tender mouse on earth,” said Harry. + +“No, indeed!” said Ethel. + +“And at another time it would not have signified,” said Richard; “but, +you know, Margaret always was timid, and now, the not being able to +move, and the being out of health, has made her nerves weak, so that she +cannot help it.” + +“The fault was in our never heeding her when we were so eager to hear +Harry’s story,” said Ethel. “That was what made the palpitation so bad. +But, now papa knows all, does he not understand about Harry?” + +“He was obliged to go out as soon as Margaret was better,” said Richard, +“and was scarcely come in when I came up.” + +“Go down, Ethel,” repeated Harry. “Never mind me. Norman told me that +sort of joke never answered, and I might have minded him.” + +The voice was very much troubled, and it brought back that burning +sensation of indignant tears to Ethel’s eyes. + +“Oh, Harry! you did not deserve to be so punished for it.” + +“That is what you are not to say,” returned Harry. “I ought not to have +played the trick, and--and just now too--but I always forget things--” + +The door shut, and they fancied they heard sobs. Ethel groaned, but made +no opposition to following her brother down to tea. Margaret lay, wan +and exhausted, on the sofa--the doctor looked very melancholy and rather +stern, and the others were silent. Ethel had begun to hope for the +warm reaction she had so often known after a hasty fit, but it did +not readily come; Harry was boy instead of girl--the fault and its +consequence had been more serious--and the anxiety for the future +was greater. Besides, he had not fully heard the story; Harry, in his +incoherent narration, had not excused himself, and Margaret’s panic had +appeared more as if inspired by him, than, as it was, in fact, the work +of her fancy. + +Thus the evening passed gloomily away, and it was not till the others +had said good-night that Dr. May began to talk over the affair with his +eldest son, who then was able to lay before him the facts of the case, +as gathered from his sisters. He listened with a manner as though it +were a reproof, and then said sadly, “I am afraid I was in a passion.” + +“It was very wrong in Harry,” said Richard, “and particularly unlucky it +should happen with the Andersons.” + +“Very thoughtless,” said the doctor, “no more, even as regarded +Margaret; but thoughtlessness should not have been treated as a crime.” + +“I wish we could see him otherwise,” said Richard. + +“He wants--” and there Dr. May stopped short, and, taking up his candle, +slowly mounted the stairs, and looked into Harry’s room. The boy was in +bed, but started up on hearing his father’s step, and exclaimed, “Papa, +I am very sorry! Is Margaret better?” + +“Yes, she is; and I understand now, Harry, that her alarm was an +accident. I beg your pardon for thinking for a moment that it was +otherwise--” + +“No,” interrupted Harry, “of course I could never mean to frighten her; +but I did not leave off the moment I saw she was afraid, because it was +so very ridiculous, and I did not guess it would hurt her.” + +“I see, my honest boy. I do not blame you, for you did not know how +much harm a little terror does to a person in her helpless state. But, +indeed, Harry, though you did not deserve such anger as mine was, it is +a serious thing that you should be so much set on fun and frolic as to +forget all considerations, especially at such a time as this. It takes +away from much of my comfort in sending you into the world; and for +higher things--how can I believe you really impressed and reverent, if +the next minute--” + +“I’m not fit! I’m not fit!” sobbed Harry, hiding his face. + +“Indeed, I hardly know whether it is not so,” said the doctor. “You are +under the usual age, and, though I know you wish to be a good boy, yet +I don’t feel sure that these wild spirits do not carry away everything +serious, and whether it is right to bring one so thoughtless to--” + +“No, no,” and Harry cried bitterly, and his father was deeply grieved; +but no more could then be said, and they parted for the night--Dr. May +saying, as he went away, “You understand, that it is not as punishment +for your trick, if I do not take you to Mr. Ramsden for a ticket, but +that I cannot be certain whether it is right to bring you to such solemn +privileges while you do not seem to me to retain steadily any grave or +deep feelings. Perhaps your mother would have better helped you.” + +And Dr. May went away to mourn over what he viewed as far greater sins +than those of his son. + +Anger had, indeed, given place to sorrow, and all were grave the next +morning, as if each had something to be forgiven. + +Margaret, especially, felt guilty of the fears which, perhaps, had not +been sufficiently combated in her days of health, and now were beyond +control, and had occasioned so much pain. Ethel grieved over the words +she had yesterday spoken in haste of her father and sister; Mary knew +herself to have been an accomplice in the joke; and Norman blamed +himself for not having taken the trouble to perceive that Harry had not +been talking rhodomontade, when he had communicated “his capital scheme” + the previous morning. + +The decision as to the Confirmation was a great grief to all. Flora +consoled herself by observing that, as he was so young, no one need know +it, nor miss him; and Ethel, with a trembling, almost sobbing voice, +enumerated all Harry’s excellences, his perfect truth, his kindness, his +generosity, his flashes of intense feeling--declared that nobody might +be confirmed if he were not, and begged and entreated that Mr. Wilmot +might be written to, and consulted. She would almost have done so +herself, if Richard had not shown her it would be undutiful. + +Harry himself was really subdued. He made no question as to the +propriety of the decision, but rather felt his own unworthiness, and was +completely humbled and downcast. When a note came from Mrs. Anderson, +saying that she was convinced that it could not have been Dr. May’s wish +that she should be exposed to the indignity of a practical joke, and +that a young lady of the highest family should have been insulted, no +one had spirits to laugh at the terms; and when Dr. May said, “What is +to be done?” Harry turned crimson, and was evidently trying to utter +something. + +“I see nothing for it but for him to ask their pardon,” said Dr. May; +and a sound was heard, not very articulate, but expressing full assent. + +“That is right,” said the doctor. “I’ll come with you.” + +“Oh, thank you!” cried Harry, looking up. + +They set off at once. Mrs. Anderson was neither an unpleasing nor +unkind person--her chief defect being a blind admiration of her sons +and daughters, which gave her, in speaking of them, a tone of pretension +that she would never have shown on her own account. + +Her displeasure was pacified in a moment by the sight of the confused +contrition of the culprit, coupled with his father’s frank and kindly +tone of avowal, that it had been a foolish improper frolic, and that he +had been much displeased with him for it. + +“Say no more--pray, say no more, Dr. May. We all know how to overlook a +sailor’s frolic, and, I am sure, Master Harry’s present behaviour; but +you’ll take a bit of luncheon,” and, as something was said of going home +to the early dinner, “I am sure you will wait one minute. Master Harry +must have a piece of my cake, and allow me to drink to his success.” + +Poor Mr. May! to be called Master Harry, and treated to sweet cake! But +he saw his father thought he ought to endure, and he even said, “Thank +you.” + +The cake stuck in his throat, however, when Mrs. Anderson and her +daughters opened their full course of praise on their dear Harvey and +dearest Edward, telling all the flattering things Dr. Hoxton had said of +the order into which Harvey had brought the school, and insisting on Dr. +May’s reading the copy of the testimonial that he had carried to Oxford. +“I knew you would be kind enough to rejoice,” said Mrs. Anderson, “and +that you would have no--no feeling about Mr. Norman; for, of course, at +his age, a little matter is nothing, and it must be better for the dear +boy himself to be a little while under a friend like Harvey, than to +have authority while so young.” + +“I believe it has done him no harm,” was all that the doctor could +bring himself to say; and thinking that he and his son had endured quite +enough, he took his leave as soon as Harry had convulsively bolted the +last mouthful. + +Not a word was spoken all the way home. Harry’s own trouble had +overpowered even this subject of resentment. On Sunday, the notice +of the Confirmation was read. It was to take place on the following +Thursday, and all those who had already given in their names were to +come to Mr. Ramsden to apply for their tickets. While this was read, +large tear-drops were silently falling on poor Harry’s book. + +Ethel and Norman walked together in the twilight, in deep lamentation +over their brother’s deprivation, which seemed especially to humble +them; “for,” said Norman, “I am sure no one can be more resolved on +doing right than July, and he has got through school better than I did.” + +“Yes,” said Ethel; “if we don’t get into his sort of scrape, it is only +that we are older, not better. I am sure mine are worse, my letting +Aubrey be nearly burned--my neglects.” + +“Papa must be doing right,” said Norman, “but for July to be turned +back when we are taken, makes me think of man judging only by outward +appearance.” + +“A few outrageous-looking acts of giddiness that are so much grieved +over, may not be half so bad as the hundreds of wandering thoughts that +one forgets, because no one else can see them!” said Ethel. + +Meanwhile, Harry and Mary were sitting twisted together into a sort of +bundle, on the same footstool, by Margaret’s sofa. Harry had begged of +her to hear him say the Catechism once more, and Mary had joined with +him in the repetition. There was to be only one more Sunday at home. +“And that!” he said, and sighed. + +Margaret knew what he meant, for the Feast was to be spread for those +newly admitted to share it. She only said a caressing word of affection. + +“I wonder when I shall have another chance,” said Harry. “If we should +get to Australia, or New Zealand--but then, perhaps, there would be no +Confirmation going on, and I might be worse by that time.” + +“Oh, you must not let that be!” + +“Why, you see, if I can’t be good here, with all this going on, what +shall I do among those fellows, away from all?” + +“You will have one friend!” + +“Mr. Ernescliffe! You are always thinking of him, Margaret; but perhaps +he may not go, and if he should, a lieutenant cannot do much for a +midshipman. No, I thought, when I was reading with my father, that +somehow it might help me to do what it called putting away childish +things--don’t you know? I might be able to be stronger and steadier, +somehow. And then, if--if--you know, if I did tumble overboard, or +anything of that sort, there is that about the--what they will go to +next Sunday, being necessary to salvation.” + +Harry laid down his head and cried; Margaret could not speak for tears; +and Mary was incoherently protesting against any notion of his falling +overboard. + +“It is generally necessary, Harry,” Margaret said at last--“not in +impossible cases.” + +“Yes if it had been impossible, but it was not; if I had not been a +mad goose all this time, but when a bit of fun gets hold of me, I can’t +think. And if I am too bad for that, I am too bad for--for--and I shall +never see mamma again! Margaret, it almost makes me af--afraid to sail.” + +“Harry, don’t, don’t talk so!” sobbed Mary. “Oh, do come to papa, and +let us beg and pray. Take hold of my hand, and Margaret will beg too, +and when he sees how sorry you are, I am sure he will forgive, and let +you be confirmed.” She would have dragged him after her. + +“No, Mary,” said Harry, resisting her. “It is not that he does not +forgive. You don’t understand. It is what is right. And he cannot help +it, or make it right for me, if I am such a horrid wretch that I can’t +keep grave thoughts in my head. I might do it again after that, just the +same.” + +“You have been grave enough of late,” said Mary. + +“This was enough to make me so,” said Harry; “but even at church, since +I came home, I have behaved ill! I kicked Tom, to make him look at old +Levitt asleep, and then I went on, because he did not like it. I know I +am too idle.” + +On the Tuesday, Dr. May had said he would take Norman and Etheldred to +Mr. Ramsden. Ethel was gravely putting on her walking dress, when she +heard her father’s voice calling Harry, and she started with a joyful +hope. + +There, indeed, when she came downstairs, stood Harry, his cap in his +hand, and his face serious, but with a look on it that had as much +subdued joy as awe. + +“Dear, dear Harry! you are going with us then?” + +“Yes, papa wrote to ask what Mr. Wilmot thought, and he said--” + +Harry broke off as his father advanced, and gave her the letter itself +to read. Mr. Wilmot answered that he certainly should not refuse such +a boy as Harry, on the proof of such entire penitence and deep feeling. +Whether to bring him to the further privilege might be another question; +but, as far as the Confirmation was concerned, the opinion was decided. + +Norman and Ethel were too happy for words, as they went arm in arm along +the street, leaving their dear sailor to be leaned on by his father. + +Harry’s sadness was gone, but he still was guarded and gentle during the +few days that followed; he seemed to have learned thought, and in his +gratitude for the privileges he had so nearly missed, to rate them more +highly than he might otherwise have done. Indeed, the doubt for the +Sunday gave him a sense of probation. + +The Confirmation day came. Mr. Rivers had asked that his daughter +might be with Miss May, and Ethel had therefore to be called for in the +Abbotstoke carriage, quite contrary to her wishes, as she had set her +heart on the walk to church with her father and brothers. Flora would +not come, for fear of crowding Mr. Rivers, who, with Mrs. Larpent, +accompanied his darling. + +“Oh, Margaret,” said Flora, after putting her sister into the carriage, +“I wish we had put Ethel into a veil! There is Meta all white from head +to foot, with such a veil! and Ethel, in her little white cap, looks as +if she might be Lucy Taylor, only not so pretty.” + +“Mamma thought the best rule was to take the dress that needs least +attention from ourselves, and will be least noticed,” said Margaret. + +“There is Fanny Anderson gone by in the fly with a white veil on!” cried +Mary, dashing in. + +“Then I am glad Ethel has not one,” said Flora. Margaret looked annoyed, +but she had not found the means of checking Flora without giving +offence; and she could only call Mary and Blanche to order, beg them to +think of what the others were doing, and offer to read to them a little +tale on Confirmation. + +Flora sat and worked, and Margaret, stealing a glance at her, understood +that, in her quiet way, she resented the implied reproof. “Making the +children think me worldly and frivolous!” she thought; “as if Margaret +did not know that I think and feel as much as any reasonable person!” + +The party came home in due time, and after one kiss to Margaret, given +in silence, dispersed, for they could not yet talk of what had passed. + +Only Ethel, as she met Richard on the stairs, said, “Ritchie, do you +know what the bishop’s text was? ‘No man having put his hand to the +plough, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God.’” + +“Yes?” said Richard interrogatively. + +“I thought it might be a voice to me,” said Ethel; “besides what it says +to all, about our Christian course. It seems to tell me not to be out +of heart about all those vexations at Cocksmoor. Is it not a sort of +putting our hand to the plough?” + +Dr. May gave his own history of the Confirmation to Margaret. “It was +a beautiful thing to watch,” he said, “the faces of our own set. +Those four were really like a poem. There was little Meta in her snowy +whiteness, looking like innocence itself, hardly knowing of evil, or +pain, or struggle, as that soft earnest voice made her vow to be ready +for it all, almost as unscathed and unconscious of trial, as when they +made it for her at her baptism; pretty little thing--may she long be as +happy. And for our own Ethel, she looked as if she was promising on and +on, straight into eternity. I heard her ‘I do,’ dear child, and it was +in such a tone as if she meant to be ever doing.” + +“And for the boys?” + +“There was Norman grave and steadfast, as if he knew what he was about, +and was manfully and calmly ready--he might have been a young knight, +watching his armour.” + +“And so he is,” said Margaret softly. “And poor Harry?” + +The doctor could hardly command voice to tell her. “Poor Harry, he was +last of all, he turned his back and looked into the corner of the seat, +till all the voices had spoken, and then turned about in haste, and the +two words came on the end of a sob.” + +“You will not keep him away on Sunday?” said Margaret. + +“Far be it from me. I know not who should come, if he should not.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + + + + What matter, whether through delight, + Or led through vale of tears, + Or seen at once, or hid from sight, + The glorious way appears? + If step by step the path we see, + That leads, my Saviour, up to Thee! + + +“I could not help it,” said Dr. May; “that little witch--” + +“Meta Rivers? Oh! what, papa?” + +“It seems that Wednesday is her birthday, and nothing will serve her but +to eat her dinner in the old Roman camp.” + +“And are we to go? Oh, which of us?” + +“Every one of anything like rational years. Blanche is especially +invited.” + +There were transports till it was recollected that on Thursday morning +school would recommence, and that on Friday Harry must join his ship. + +However, the Roman camp had long been an object of their desires, and +Margaret was glad that the last day should have a brilliancy, so she +would not hear of any one remaining to keep her company, talked of the +profit she should gain by a leisure day, and took ardent interest in +every one’s preparations and expectations, in Ethel’s researches +into county histories and classical dictionaries, Flora’s sketching +intentions, Norman’s promises of campanula glomerata, and a secret +whispered into her ear by Mary and Harry. + +“Meta’s weather,” as they said, when the August sun rose fresh and +joyous; and great was the unnecessary bustle, and happy confusion from +six o’clock till eleven, when Dr. May, who was going to visit patients +some way farther on the same road, carried off Harry and Mary, to set +them down at the place. + +The rest were called for by Mr. Rivers’s carriage and brake. Mrs. +Charles Wilmot and her little girl were the only additions to the party, +and Meta, putting Blanche into the carriage to keep company with her +contemporary, went herself in the brake. What a brilliant little fairy +she was, in her pink summer robes, fluttering like a butterfly, and +with the same apparent felicity in basking in joy, all gaiety, glee, +and light-heartedness in making others happy. On they went, through +honeysuckled lanes, catching glimpses of sunny fields of corn falling +before the reaper, and happy knots of harvest folks dining beneath the +shelter of their sheaves, with the sturdy old green umbrella sheltering +them from the sun. + +Snatches of song, peals of laughter, merry nonsense, passed from one to +the other; Norman, roused into blitheness, found wit, the young ladies +found laughter, and Richard’s eyes and mouth looked very pretty, as they +smiled their quiet diversion. + +At last, his face drawn all into one silent laugh, he directed the eyes +of the rest to a high green mound, rising immediately before them, where +stood two little figures, one with a spy-glass, intently gazing the +opposite way. + +At the same time came the halt, and Norman, bounding out, sprang lightly +and nimbly up the side of the mound, and, while the spy-glass was yet +pointed full at Wales, had hold of a pair of stout legs, and with the +words, “Keep a good lockout!” had tumbled Mr. May headforemost down the +grassy slope, with Mary rolling after. + +Harry’s first outcry was for his precious glass--his second was, not +at his fall, but that they should have come from the east, when, by the +compass, Stoneborough was north-north-west. And then the boys took to +tumbling over one another, while Meta frolicked joyously, with Nipen +after her, up and down the mounds, chased by Mary and Blanche, who were +wild with glee. + +By-and-by she joined Ethel, and Norman was summoned to help them to +trace out the old lines of encampment, ditch, rampart, and gates--happy +work on those slopes of fresh turf, embroidered with every minute +blossom of the moor--thyme, birdsfoot, eyebright, and dwarf purple +thistle, buzzed and hummed over by busy, black-tailed, yellow-banded +dumbledores, the breezy wind blowing softly in their faces, and the +expanse of country--wooded hill, verdant pasture, amber harvest-field, +winding river, smoke-canopied town, and brown moor, melting grayly away +to the mountain heads. + +Now in sun, now in shade, the bright young antiquaries surveyed the old +banks, and talked wisely of vallum and fossa, of legion and cohort, of +Agricola and Suetonius, and discussed the delightful probability, that +this might have been raised in the war with Caractacus, whence, argued +Ethel, since Caractacus was certainly Arviragus, it must have been the +very spot where Imogen met Posthumus again. Was not yonder the very +high-road to Milford Haven, and thus must not “fair Fidele’s grassy +tomb” be in the immediate neighbourhood? + +Then followed the suggestion that the mound in the middle was a good +deal like an ancient tomb, where, as Blanche interposed with some of the +lore lately caught from Ethel’s studies, “they used to bury their tears +in wheelbarrows,” while Norman observed it was the more probable, as +fair Fidele never was buried at all. + +The idea of a search enchanted the young ladies. “It was the right sort +of vehicle, evidently,” said Norman, looking at Harry, who had been +particularly earnest in recommending that it should be explored; and +Meta declared that if they could but find the least trace, her +papa would be delighted to go regularly to work, and reveal all the +treasures. + +Richard seemed a little afraid of the responsibility of treasure-trove, +but he was overruled by a chorus of eager voices, and dispossessed of +the trowel, which he had brought to dig up some down-gentians for the +garden. While Norman set to work as pioneer, some skipped about in wild +ecstasy, and Ethel knelt down to peer into the hole. + +Very soon there was a discovery--an eager outcry--some pottery! Roman +vessels--a red thing that might have been a lamp, another that might +have been a lachrymatory. + +“Well,” said Ethel, “you know, Norman, I always told you that the +children’s pots and pans in the clay ditch were very like Roman +pottery.” + +“Posthumus’s patty pan!” said Norman, holding it up. “No doubt this was +the bottle filled with the old queen’s tears when Cloten was killed.” + +“You see it is very small,” added Harry; “she could not squeeze out +many.” + +“Come now, I do believe you are laughing at it!” said Meta, taking the +derided vessels into her hands. “Now, they really are genuine, and very +curious things, are not they, Flora?” + +Flora and Ethel admired and speculated till there was a fresh, and still +more exciting discovery--a coin, actually a medal, with the head of +an emperor upon it--not a doubt of his high nose being Roman. Meta was +certain that she knew one exactly like him among her father’s gems. +Ethel was resolved that he should be Claudius, and began decyphering the +defaced inscription THVRVS. She tried Claudius’s whole torrent of names, +and, at last, made it into a contraction of Tiberius, which highly +satisfied her. + +Then Meta, in her turn, read D.V.X., which, as Ethel said, was all she +could wish--of course it was dux et imperator, and Harry muttered into +Norman’s ear, “ducks and geese!” and then heaved a sigh, as he thought +of the dux no longer. “V.V.,” continued Meta; “what can that mean?” + +“Five, five, of course,” said Flora. + +“No, no! I have it, Venus Victrix” said Ethel, “the ancestral Venus! Ha! +don’t you see? there she is on the other side, crowning Claudius.” + +“Then there is an E.” + +“Something about Aeneas,” suggested Norman gravely. But Ethel was sure +that could not be, because there was no diphthong; and a fresh theory +was just being started, when Blanche’s head was thrust in to know what +made them all so busy. + +“Why, Ethel, what are you doing with Harry’s old medal of the Duke of +Wellington?” + +Poor Meta and Ethel, what a downfall! Meta was sure that Norman had +known it the whole time, and he owned to having guessed it from Harry’s +importunity for the search. Harry and Mary had certainly made good +use of their time, and great was the mirth over the trap so cleverly +set--the more when it was disclosed that Dr. May had been a full +participator in the scheme, had suggested the addition of the pottery, +had helped Harry to some liquid to efface part of the inscription, and +had even come up with them to plant the snare in the most plausible +corner for researches. + +Meta, enchanted with the joke, flew off to try to take in her governess +and Mrs. Wilmot, whom she found completing their leisurely promenade, +and considering where they should spread the dinner. + +The sight of those great baskets of good fare was appetising, and the +company soon collected on the shady turf, where Richard made himself +extremely useful, and the feast was spread without any worse mishap than +Nipen’s running away with half a chicken, of which he was robbed, as Tom +reported, by a surly-looking dog that watched in the outskirts of the +camp, and caused Tom to return nearly as fast as the poor little white +marauder. + +Meta “very immorally,” as Norman told her, comforted Nipen with a large +share of her sandwiches. Harry armed himself with a stick and Mary with +a stone, and marched off to the attack, but saw no signs of the enemy, +and had begun to believe him a figment of Tom’s imagination, when Mary +spied him under a bush, lying at the feet of a boy, with whom he was +sharing the spoil. + +Harry called out rather roughly, “Hallo! what are you doing there?” + +The boy jumped up, the dog growled, Mary shrank behind her brother, +and begged him not to be cross to the poor boy, but to come away. Harry +repeated his question. + +“Please, sir, Toby brought it to me.” + +“What, is Toby your dog?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Are you so hungry as to eat dog’s meat?” + +“I have not had nothing before to-day, sir.” + +“Why, where do you live? hereabouts?” + +“Oh, no, sir; I lived with grandmother up in Cheshire, but she is dead +now, and father is just come home from sea, and he wrote down I was to +be sent to him at Portsmouth, to go to sea with him.” + +“How do you live? do you beg your way?” + +“No, sir; father sent up a pound in a letter, only Nanny Brooks said I +owed some to her for my victuals, and I have not much of it left, and +bread comes dear, so when Toby brought me this bit of meat I was glad of +it, sir, but I would not have taken it--” + +The boy was desired to wait while the brother and sister, in breathless +excitement, rushed back with their story. + +Mrs. Wilmot was at first inclined to fear that the naval part of it had +been inspired by Harry’s uniform, but the examination of Jem Jennings +put it beyond a doubt that he spoke nothing but the truth; and the +choicest delight of the feast was the establishing him and Toby behind +the barrow, and feeding them with such viands as they had probably never +seen before. + +The boy could not read writing, but he had his father’s letter in his +pocket, and Mary capered at the delightful coincidence, on finding that +Jem Jennings was actually a quarter-master on board the Alcestis. It +gave a sort of property in the boy, and she almost grudged Meta the +having been first to say that she would pay for the rest of his journey, +instead of doing it by subscription. + +However, Mary had a consolation, she would offer to take charge of Toby, +who, as Harry observed, would otherwise have been drowned--he could not +be taken on board. To be sure, he was a particularly ugly animal, rough, +grisly, short-legged, long-backed, and with an apology for a tail--but +he had a redeeming pair of eyes, and he and Jem lived on terms of such +close friendship, that he would have been miserable in leaving him to +the mercy of Nanny Brooks. + +So, after their meal, Jem and Toby were bidden to wait for Dr. May’s +coming, and fell asleep together on the green bank, while the rest +either sketched, or wandered, or botanised. Flora acted the grown-up +lady with Mrs. Wilmot, and Meta found herself sitting by Ethel, asking +her a great many questions about Margaret, and her home, and what it +could be like to be one of such a numerous family. Flora had always +turned aside from personal matters, as uninteresting to her companion, +and, in spite of Meta’s admiration, and the mutual wish to be intimate, +confidence did not spring up spontaneously, as it had done with the +doctor, and, in that single hour, with Margaret. Blunt as Ethel was, her +heartiness of manner gave a sense of real progress in friendship. Their +Confirmation vows seemed to make a link, and Meta’s unfeigned enthusiasm +for the doctor was the sure road to Ethel’s heart. She was soon telling +how glad Margaret was that he had been drawn into taking pleasure in +to-day’s scheme, since, not only were his spirits tried by the approach +of Harry’s departure, but he had, within the last few days, been made +very sad by reading and answering Aunt Flora’s first letter on the news +of last October’s misfortune. + +“My aunt in New Zealand,” explained Ethel. + +“Have you an aunt in New Zealand?” cried Meta. “I never heard of her!” + +“Did not you? Oh! she does write such charming long letters!” + +“Is she Dr. May’s sister?” + +“No; he was an only child. She is dear mamma’s sister. I don’t remember +her, for she went out when I was a baby, but Richard and Margaret were +so fond of her. They say she used to play with them, and tell them +stories, and sing Scotch songs to them. Margaret says the first sorrow +of her life was Aunt Flora’s going away.” + +“Did she live with them?” + +“Yes; after grandpapa died, she came to live with them, but then Mr. +Arnott came about. I ought not to speak evil of him, for he is my +godfather, but we do wish he had not carried off Aunt Flora! That letter +of hers showed me what a comfort it would be to papa to have her here.” + +“Perhaps she will come.” + +“No; Uncle Arnott has too much to do. It was a pretty story altogether. +He was an officer at Edinburgh, and fell in love with Aunt Flora, but my +grandfather Mackenzie thought him too poor to marry her, and it was all +broken off, and they tried to think no more of it. But grandpapa died, +and she came to live here, and somehow Mr. Arnott turned up again, +quartered at Whitford, and papa talked over my Uncle Mackenzie, and +helped them--and Mr. Arnott thought the best way would be to go out to +the colonies. They went when New Zealand was very new, and a very funny +life they had! Once they had their house burned in Heki’s rebellion--and +Aunt Flora saw a Maori walking about in her best Sunday bonnet; but, +in general, everything has gone on very well, and he has a great farm, +besides an office under government.” + +“Oh, so he went out as a settler! I was in hopes it was as a +missionary.” + +“I fancy Aunt Flora has done a good deal that may be called missionary +work,” said Ethel, “teaching the Maori women and girls. They call her +mother, and she has quite a doctor’s shop for them, and tries hard to +teach them to take proper care of their poor little children when +they are ill; and she cuts out clothes for the whole pah, that is, the +village.” + +“And are they Christians?” + +“Oh! to be sure they are now! They meet in the pah for prayers every +morning and evening--they used to have a hoe struck against a bit of +metal for a signal, and when papa heard of it, he gave them a bell, and +they were so delighted. Now there comes a clergyman every fourth Sunday, +and, on the others, Uncle Arnott reads part of the service to the +English near, and the Maori teacher to his people.” + +Meta asked ravenously for more details, and when she had pretty well +exhausted Ethel’s stock, she said, “How nice it must be! Ethel, did you +ever read the ‘Faithful Little Girl?’” + +“Yes; it was one of Margaret’s old Sunday books. I often recollected it +before I was allowed to begin Cocksmoor.” + +“I’m afraid I am very like Lucilla!” said Meta. + +“What? In wishing to be a boy, that you might be a missionary?” said +Ethel. “Not in being quite so cross at home?” she added, laughing. + +“I am not cross, because I have no opportunity,” said Meta. + +“No opportunity. Oh, Meta, if people wish to be cross, it is easy enough +to find grounds for it. There is always the moon to cry for.” + +“Really and truly,” said Meta thoughtfully, “I never do meet with any +reasonable trial of temper, and I am often afraid it cannot be right or +safe to live so entirely at ease, and without contradictions.” + +“Well, but,” said Ethel, “it is the state of life in which you are +placed.” + +“Yes; but are we meant never to have vexations?” + +“I thought you had them,” said Ethel. “Margaret told me about your maid. +That would have worried some people, and made them horridly cross.” + +“Oh, no rational person,” cried Meta. “It was so nice to think of her +being with the poor mother, and I was quite interested in managing for +myself; besides, you know, it was just a proof how one learns to be +selfish, that it had never occurred to me that I ought to spare her.” + +“And your school children--you were in some trouble about them?” + +“Oh, that is pleasure.” + +“I thought you had a class you did not like?” + +“I like them now--they are such steady plodding girls, so much in +earnest, and one, that has been neglected, is so pleased and touched by +kindness. I would not give them up for anything now--they are just fit +for my capacity.” + +“Do you mean that nothing ever goes wrong with you, or that you do not +mind anything--which?” + +“Nothing goes wrong enough with me to give me a handsome excuse for +minding it.” + +“Then it must be all your good temper.” + +“I don’t think so,” said Meta; “it is that nothing is ever disagreeable +to me.” + +“Stay,” said Ethel, “if the ill-temper was in you, you would only be the +crosser for being indulged--at least, so books say. And I am sure myself +that it is not whether things are disagreeable or not, but whether one’s +will is with them, that signifies.” + +“I don’t quite understand.” + +“Why--I have seen the boys do for play, and done myself, what would have +been a horrid hardship if one had been made to do it. I never liked any +lessons as well as those I did without being obliged, and always, when +there is a thing I hate very much in itself, I can get up an interest in +it, by resolving that I will do it well, or fast, or something--if I can +stick my will to it, it is like a lever, and it is done. Now, I think it +must be the same with you, only your will is more easily set at it than +mine.” + +“What makes me uncomfortable is, that I feel as if I never followed +anything but my will.” + +Ethel screwed up her face, as if the eyes of her mind were pursuing some +thought almost beyond her. “If our will and our duty run the same,” she +said, “that can’t be wrong. The better people are, the more they ‘love +what He commands,’ you know. In heaven they have no will but His.” + +“Oh! but Ethel,” cried Meta, distressed, “that is putting it too high. +Won’t you understand what I mean? We have learned so much lately about +self-denial, and crossing one’s own inclinations, and enduring hardness. +And here I live with two dear kind people, who only try to keep every +little annoyance from my path. I can’t wish for a thing without getting +it--I am waited on all day long, and I feel like one of the women that +are at ease--one of the careless daughters.” + +“I think still papa would say it was your happy contented temper that +made you find no vexation.” + +“But that sort of temper is not goodness. I was born with it; I never +did mind anything, not even being punished, they say, unless I knew papa +was grieved, which always did make me unhappy enough. I laughed, and +went to play most saucily, whatever they did to me. If I had striven for +the temper, it would be worth having, but it is my nature. And Ethel,” + she added, in a low voice, as the tears came into her eyes, “don’t you +remember last Sunday? I felt myself so vain and petted a thing! as if I +had no share in the Cup of suffering, and did not deserve to call myself +a member--it seemed ungrateful.” + +Ethel felt ashamed, as she heard of warmer feelings than her own had +been, expressed in that lowered trembling voice, and she sought for the +answer that would only come to her mind in sense, not at first in words. +“Discipline,” said she, “would not that show the willingness to have the +part? Taking the right times for refusing oneself some pleasant thing.” + +“Would not that be only making up something for oneself?” said Meta. + +“No, the Church orders it. It is in the Prayer-book,” said Ethel. “I +mean one can do little secret things--not read storybooks on those days, +or keep some tiresome sort of work for them. It is very trumpery, but it +keeps the remembrance, and it is not so much as if one did not heed.” + +“I’ll think,” said Meta, sighing. “If only I felt myself at work, not +to please myself, but to be of use. Ha!” she cried, springing up, “I do +believe I see Dr. May coming!” + +“Let us run and meet him,” said Ethel. + +They did so, and he called out his wishes of many happy returns of +blithe days to the little birthday queen, then added, “You both look +grave, though--have they deserted you?” + +“No, papa, we have been having a talk,” said Ethel. “May I tell him, +Meta? I want to know what he says.” + +Meta had not bargained for this, but she was very much in earnest, and +there was nothing formidable in Dr. May, so she assented. + +“Meta is longing to be at work--she thinks she is of no use,” said +Ethel; “she says she never does anything but please herself.” + +“Pleasing oneself is not the same as trying to please oneself,” said Dr. +May kindly. + +“And she thinks it cannot be safe or right,” added Ethel, “to live that +happy bright life, as if people without care or trouble could not be +living as Christians are meant to live. Is that it, Meta?” + +“Yes, I think it is,” said Meta. “I seem to be only put here to be made +much of!” + +“What did David say, Meta?” returned Dr. May. + + + “My Shepherd is the living Lord, + Nothing therefore I need; + In pastures fair, near pleasant streams, + He setteth me to feed.” + + +“Then you think,” said Meta, much touched, “that I ought to look on this +as ‘the pastures fair,’ and be thankful. I hope I was not unthankful.” + +“Oh, no,” said Ethel. “It was the wish to bear hardness, and be a good +soldier, was it not?” + +“Ah! my dear,” he said, “the rugged path and dark valley will come in +His own fit time. Depend upon it, the good Shepherd is giving you what +is best for you in the green meadow, and if you lay hold on His rod +and staff in your sunny days--” He stopped short, and turned to his +daughter. “Ethel, they sang that psalm the first Sunday I brought your +mamma home!” + +Meta was much affected, and began to put together what the father and +daughter had said. Perhaps the little modes of secret discipline, +of which Ethel had spoken, might be the true means of clasping the +staff--perhaps she had been impatient, and wanting in humility in +craving for the strife, when her armour was scarce put on. + +Dr. May spoke once again. “Don’t let any one long for external trial. +The offering of a free heart is the thing. To offer praise is the great +object of all creatures in heaven and earth. If the happier we are, the +more we praise, then all is well.” + +But the serious discussion was suddenly broken off. + +Others had seen Dr. May’s approach, and Harry and Mary rushed down +in dismay at their story having, as they thought, been forestalled. +However, they had it all to themselves, and the doctor took up the +subject as keenly as could have been hoped, but the poor boy being still +fast asleep, after, probably, much fatigue, he would not then waken him +to examine him, but came and sat down in the semicircle, formed by a +terraced bank of soft turf, where Mrs. Larpent, Mrs. Wilmot, Richard, +and Flora, had for some time taken up their abode. Meta brought him +the choice little basket of fruit which she had saved for him, and all +delighted in having him there, evidently enjoying the rest and sport +very much, as he reposed on the fragrant slope, eating grapes, and +making inquiries as to the antiquities lately discovered. + +Norman gave an exceedingly droll account of the great Roman Emperor, +Tiberius V.V., and Meta correcting it, there was a regular gay skirmish +of words, which entertained every one extremely--above all, Meta’s +indignation when the charge was brought home to her of having declared +the “old Duke” exactly like in turns to Domitian and Tiberius--his +features quite forbidding. + +This lasted till the younger ones, who had been playing and rioting till +they were tired, came up, and throwing themselves down on the grass, +Blanche petitioned for something that every one could play at. + +Meta proposed what she called the story play. One was to be sent out of +earshot, and the rest to agree upon a word, which was then to be guessed +by each telling a story, and introducing the word into it, not too +prominently. Meta volunteered to guess, and Harry whispered to Mary it +would be no go, but, in the meantime, the word was found, and Blanche +eagerly recalled Meta, and sat in the utmost expectation and delight. +Meta turned first to Richard, but he coloured distressfully, and begged +that Flora might tell his story for him--he should only spoil the game. +Flora, with a little tinge of graceful reluctance, obeyed. “No woman had +been to the summit of Mont Blanc,” she said, “till one young girl, named +Marie, resolved to have this glory. The guides told her it was madness, +but she persevered. She took the staff, and everything requisite, +and, following a party, began the ascent. She bravely supported every +fatigue, climbed each precipice, was undaunted by the giddy heights she +attained, bravely crossed the fields of snow, supported the bitter cold, +and finally, though suffering severely, arrived at the topmost peak, +looked forth where woman had never looked before, felt her heart swell +at the attainment of her utmost ambition, and the name of Marie was +inscribed as that of the woman who alone has had the glory of standing +on the summit of the Giant of the Alps.” + +It was prettily enunciated, and had a pleasing effect. Meta stood +conning the words--woman--giant--mountain--glory--and begged for another +tale. + +“Mine shall not be so stupid as Flora’s,” said Harry. “We have an old +sailor on board the Alcestis--a giant he might be for his voice--but he +sailed once in the Glory of the West, and there they had a monkey that +was picked up in Africa, and one day this old fellow found his queer +messmate, as he called him, spying through a glass, just like the +captain. The captain had a glorious collection of old coins, and the +like, dug up in some of the old Greek colonies, and whenever Master +Monkey saw him overhauling them, he would get out a brass button, or +a card or two, and turn ‘em over, and chatter at them, and glory over +them, quite knowing,” said Harry, imitating the gesture, “and I dare say +he saw V.V., and Tiberius Caesar, as well as the best of them.” + +“Thank you, Mr. Harry,” said Meta. “I think we are at no loss for +monkeys here. But I have not the word yet. Who comes next? Ethel--” + +“I shall blunder, I forewarn you,” said Ethel, “but this is mine: There +was a young king who had an old tutor, whom he despised because he was +so strict, so he got rid of him, and took to idle sport. One day, when +he was out hunting in a forest, a white hind came and ran before him, +till she guided him to a castle, and there he found a lady all dressed +in white, with a beamy crown on head, and so nobly beautiful that he +fell in love with her at once, and was only sorry to see another prince +who was come to her palace too. She told them her name was Gloria, +and that she had had many suitors, but the choice did not depend on +herself--she could only be won by him who deserved her, and for three +years they were to be on their probation, trying for her. So she +dismissed them, only burning to gain her, and telling them to come back +in three years’ time. But they had not gone far before they saw another +palace, much finer, all glittering with gold and silver, and their Lady +Gloria came out to meet them, not in her white dress, but in one all +gay and bright with fine colours, and her crown they now saw was of +diamonds. She told them they had only seen her everyday dress and house, +this was her best; and she showed them about the castle, and all the +pictures of her former lovers. There was Alexander, who had been nearer +retaining her than any one, only the fever prevented it; there +was Pyrrhus, always seeking her, but slain by a tile; Julius +Caesar--Tamerlane--all the rest, and she hoped that one of these two +would really prove worthy and gain her, by going in the same path as +these great people. + +“So our prince went home; his head full of being like Alexander and all +the rest of them, and he sent for his good old tutor to reckon up his +armies, and see whom he could conquer in order to win her. But the old +tutor told him he was under a mistake; the second lady he had seen was a +treacherous cousin of Gloria, who drew away her suitors by her deceits, +and whose real name was Vana Gloria. If he wished to earn the true +Gloria, he must set to work to do his subjects good, and to be virtuous. +And he did; he taught them, and he did justice to them, and he bore it +patiently and kindly when they did not understand. But by-and-by the +other king, who had no good tutor to help him, had got his armies +together, and conquered ever so many people, and drawn off their men to +be soldiers; and now he attacked the good prince, and was so strong that +he gained the victory, though both prince and subjects fought manfully +with heart and hand; but the battle was lost, and the faithful prince +wounded and made prisoner, but bearing it most patiently, till he was +dragged behind the other’s triumphal car with all the rest, when the +three years were up, to be presented to Vana Gloria. And so he was +carried into the forest, bleeding and wounded, and his enemy drove the +car over his body, and stretched out his arms to Vana Gloria, and found +her a vain, ugly wretch, who grew frightful as soon as he grasped her. +But the good dying prince saw the beautiful beamy face of his lady--love +bending over him. ‘Oh!’ he said, ‘vision of my life, hast thou come to +lighten my dying eyes? Never--never, even in my best days, did I deem +that I could be worthy of thee; the more I strove, the more I knew that +Gloria is for none below--for me less than all.’ + +“And then the lady came and lifted him up, and she said, ‘Gloria is +given to all who do and suffer truly in a good cause, for faithfulness +is glory, and that is thine.’” + +Ethel’s language had become more flowing as she grew more eager in the +tale, and they all listened with suspended interest. Norman asked +where she got the story. “Out of an old French book, the ‘Magazin des +enfans,’” was the answer. + +“But why did you alter the end?” said Flora, “why kill the poor man? He +used to be prosperous, why not?” + +“Because I thought,” said Ethel, “that glory could not properly belong +to any one here, and if he was once conscious of it, it would be all +spoiled. Well, Meta, do you guess?” + +“Oh! the word! I had forgotten all about it. I think I know what it must +be, but I should so like another story. May I not have one?” said Meta +coaxingly. “Mary, it is you.” + +Mary fell back on her papa, and begged him to take hers. Papa told the +best stories of all, she said, and Meta looked beseeching. + +“My story will not be as long as Ethel’s,” said the doctor, yielding +with a half-reluctant smile. “My story is of a humming-bird, a little +creature that loved its master with all its strength, and longed to do +somewhat for him. It was not satisfied with its lot, because it seemed +merely a vain and profitless creature. The nightingale sang praise, and +the woods sounded with the glory of its strains; the fowl was valued +for its flesh, the ostrich for its plume, but what could the little +humming-bird do, save rejoice in the glory of the flood of sunbeams, and +disport itself over the flowers, and glance in the sunny light, as its +bright breastplate flashed from rich purple to dazzling flame-colour, +and its wings supported it, fluttering so fast that the eye could hardly +trace them, as it darted its slender beak into the deep-belled blossoms. +So the little bird grieved, and could not rest, for thinking that it was +useless in this world, that it sought merely its own gratification, and +could do nothing that could conduce to the glory of its master. But +one night a voice spoke to the little bird, ‘Why hast thou been placed +here,’ it said, ‘but at the will of thy master? Was it not that he might +delight himself in thy radiant plumage, and see thy joy in the sunshine? +His gifts are thy buoyant wing, thy beauteous colours, the love of all +around, the sweetness of the honey-drop in the flowers, the shade of the +palm leaf. Esteem them, then, as his; value thine own bliss, while it +lasts, as the token of his care and love; and while thy heart praises +him for them, and thy wings quiver and dance to the tune of that praise, +then, indeed, thy gladness conduces to no vain-glory of thine own, in +beauty, or in graceful flight, but thou art a creature serving--as best +thou canst to his glory.’” + +“I know the word,” half whispered Meta, not without a trembling of the +lip. “I know why you told the story, Dr. May, but one is not as good as +the humming-birds.” + +The elder ladies had begun to look at watches, and talk of time to go +home; and Jem Jemmings having been seen rearing himself up from behind +the barrow, the doctor proceeded to investigate his case, was perfectly +satisfied of the boy’s truth, and as ready as the young ones to befriend +him. A letter should be written at once, desiring his father to look out +for him on Friday, when he should go by the same train as Harry, who +was delighted at the notion of protecting him so far, and begged to be +allowed to drive him home to Stoneborough in the gig. + +Consent was given; and Richard being added to give weight and +discretion, the gig set out at once--the doctor, much to Meta’s delight, +took his place in the brake. Blanche, who, in the morning, had been +inclined to despise it as something akin to a cart, now finding it a +popular conveyance, was urgent to return in it; and Flora was made over +to the carriage, not at all unwillingly, for, though it separated her +from Meta, it made a senior of her. + +Norman’s fate conveyed him to the exalted seat beside the driver of the +brake, where he could only now and then catch the sounds of mirth from +below. He had enjoyed the day exceedingly, with that sort of abandon +more than ordinarily delicious to grave or saddened temperaments, when +roused or drawn out for a time. Meta’s winning grace and sweetness had +a peculiar charm for him, and, perhaps, his having been originally +introduced to her as ill, and in sorrow, had given her manner towards +him a sort of kindness which was very gratifying. + +And now he felt as if he was going back to a very dusky dusty world; the +last and blithest day of his holidays was past, and he must return to +the misapprehensions and injustice that had blighted his school career, +be kept beneath boys with half his ability, and without generous +feeling, and find all his attainments useless in restoring his +position. Dr. Hoxton’s dull scholarship would chill all pleasure in +his studies--there would be no companionship among the boys--even his +supporters, Ernescliffe and Larkins, were gone, and Harry would leave +him still under a cloud. + +Norman felt it more as disgrace than he had done since the first, and +wished he had consented to quit the school when it had been offered--be +made a man, instead of suffering these doubly irksome provocations, +which rose before him in renewed force. “And what would that little +humming-bird think of me if she knew me disgraced?” thought he. “But it +is of no use to think of it. I must go through with it, and as I always +am getting vain-glorious, I had better have no opportunity. I did not +declare I renounced vain pomp and glory last week, to begin coveting +them now again.” + +So Norman repressed the sigh as he looked at the school buildings, which +never could give him the pleasures of memory they afforded to others. + +The brake had set out before the carriage, so that Meta had to come in +and wait for her governess. Before the vehicle had disgorged half its +contents, Harry had rushed out to meet them. “Come in, come in, Norman! +Only hear. Margaret shall tell you herself! Hurrah!” + +Is Mr. Ernescliffe come? crossed Ethel’s mind, but Margaret was alone, +flushed, and holding out her hands. “Norman! where is he? Dear Norman, +here is good news! Papa, Dr. Hoxton has been here, and he knows all +about it--and oh! Norman, he is very sorry for the injustice, and you +are dux again!” + +Norman really trembled so much that he could neither speak nor stand, +but sat down on the window-seat, while a confusion of tongues asked +more. + +Dr. Hoxton and Mr. Larkins had come to call--heard no one was at home +but Miss May--had, nevertheless, come in--and Margaret had heard +that Mr. Larkins, who had before intended to remove his son from +Stoneborough, had, in the course of the holidays, made discoveries from +him, which he could not feel justified in concealing from Dr. Hoxton. + +The whole of the transactions with Ballhatchet, and Norman’s part in +them, had been explained, as well as the true history of the affray in +Randall’s Alley--how Norman had dispersed the boys, how they had again +collected, and, with the full concurrence of Harvey Anderson, renewed +the mischief, how the Andersons had refused to bear witness in his +favour, and how Ballhatchet’s ill-will had kept back the evidence which +would have cleared him. + +Little Larkins had told all, and his father had no scruple in repeating +it, and causing the investigation to be set on foot. Nay, he deemed that +Norman’s influence had saved his son, and came, as anxious to thank +him, as Dr. Hoxton, warm-hearted, though injudicious, was to repair his +injustice. They were much surprised and struck by finding that Dr. May +had been aware of the truth the whole time, and had patiently put up +with the injustice, and the loss of the scholarship--a loss which Dr. +Hoxton would have given anything to repair, so as to have sent up a +scholar likely to do him so much credit; but it was now too late, and he +had only been able to tell Margaret how dismayed he was at finding out +that the boy to whom all the good order in his school was owing had been +so ill-used. Kind Dr. May’s first feeling really seemed to be pity and +sympathy for his old friend, the head-master, in the shock of such a +discovery. Harry was vociferously telling his version of the story to +Ethel and Mary. Tom stood transfixed in attention. Meta, forgotten and +bewildered, was standing near Norman, whose colour rapidly varied, +and whose breath came short and quick as he listened. A quick half +interrogation passed Meta’s lips, heard by no one else. + +“It is only that it is all right,” he answered, scarcely audibly; “they +have found out the truth.” + +“What?--who?--you?” said Meta, as she heard words that implied the past +suspicion. + +“Yes,” said Norman, “I was suspected, but never at home.” + +“And is it over now?” + +“Yes, yes,” he whispered huskily, “all is right, and Harry will not +leave me in disgrace.” + +Meta did not speak, but she held out her hand in hearty congratulation; +Norman, scarce knowing what he did, grasped and wrung it so tight +that it was positive pain, as he turned away his head to the window to +struggle with those irrepressible tears. Meta’s colour flushed into her +cheek as she found it still held, almost unconsciously, perhaps, in his +agitation, and she heard Margaret’s words, that both gentlemen had said +Norman had acted nobly, and that every revelation made in the course of +their examination had only more fully established his admirable conduct. + +“Oh, Norman, Norman, I am so glad!” cried Mary’s voice in the first +pause, and, Margaret asking where he was, he suddenly turned round, +recollected himself, and found it was not the back of the chair that he +had been squeezing, blushed intensely, but made no attempt at apology, +for indeed he could not speak--he only leaned down over Margaret, to +receive her heartfelt embrace; and, as he stood up again, his father +laid his hand on his shoulder, “My boy, I am glad;” but the words were +broken, and, as if neither could bear more, Norman hastily left the +room, Ethel rushing after him. + +“Quite overcome!” said the doctor, “and no wonder. He felt it cruelly, +though he bore up gallantly. Well, July?” + +“I’ll go down to school with him to-morrow, and see him dux again! I’ll +have three-times-three!” shouted Harry; “hip! hip! hurrah!” and Tom and +Mary joined in chorus. + +“What is all this?” exclaimed Flora, opening the door, “--is every one +gone mad?” + +Many were the voices that answered. + +“Well, I am glad, and I hope the Andersons will make an apology. But +where is poor Meta? Quite forgotten?” + +“Meta would not wonder if she knew all,” said the doctor, turning, with +a sweet smile that had in it something, nevertheless, of apology. + +“Oh, I am so glad--so glad!” said Meta, her eyes full of tears, as she +came forward. + +And there was no helping it; the first kiss between Margaret May +and Margaret Rivers was given in that overflowing sympathy of +congratulation. + +The doctor gave her his arm to take her to the carriage, and, on the +way, his quick warm words filled up the sketch of Norman’s behaviour; +Meta’s eyes responded better than her tongue, but, to her good-bye, she +could not help adding, “Now I have seen true glory.” + +His answer was much such a grip as her poor little fingers had already +received, but though they felt hot and crushed all the way home, the +sensation seemed to cause such throbs of joy, that she would not have +been without it. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + + + + And full of hope, day followed day, + While that stout ship at anchor lay + Beside the shores of Wight. + The May had then made all things green, + And floating there, in pomp serene, + That ship was goodly to be seen, + His pride and his delight. + + Yet then when called ashore, he sought + The tender peace of rural thought, + In more than happy mood. + To your abodes, bright daisy flowers, + He then would steal at leisure hours, + And loved you, glittering in your bowers, + A starry multitude. + WORDSWORTH. + + +Harry’s last home morning was brightened by going to the school to see +full justice done to Norman, and enjoying the scene for him. It was +indeed a painful ordeal to Norman himself, who could, at the moment, +scarcely feel pleasure in his restoration, excepting for the sake of his +father, Harry, and his sisters. To find the head-master making apologies +to him was positively painful and embarrassing, and his countenance +would have been fitter for a culprit receiving a lecture. It was +pleasanter when the two other masters shook hands with him, Mr. Harrison +with a free confession that he had done him injustice, and Mr. Wilmot +with a glad look of congratulation, that convinced Harry he had never +believed Norman to blame. + +Harry himself was somewhat of a hero; the masters all spoke to him, bade +him good speed, and wished him a happy voyage, and all the boys were +eager to admire his uniform, and wish themselves already men and +officers like Mr. May. He had his long-desired three cheers for “May +senior!” shouted with a thorough goodwill by the united lungs of the +Whichcote foundation, and a supplementary cheer arose for the good ship +Alcestis, while hands were held out on every side; and the boy arrived +at such a pitch of benevolence and good humour, as actually to volunteer +a friendly shake of the hand to Edward Anderson, whom he encountered +skulking apart. + +“Never mind, Ned, we have often licked each other before now, and don’t +let us bear a grudge now I am going away. We are Stoneborough fellows +both, you know, after all.” + +Edward did not refuse the offered grasp, and though his words were only, +“Good-bye, I hope you will have plenty of fun!” Harry went away with a +lighter heart. + +The rest of the day Harry adhered closely to his father, though chiefly +in silence; Dr. May had intended much advice and exhortation for his +warm-hearted, wild-spirited son, but words would not come, not even when +in the still evening twilight they walked down alone together to the +cloister, and stood over the little stone marked M. M. After standing +there for some minutes, Harry knelt to collect some of the daisies in +the grass. + +“Are those to take with you?” + +“Margaret is going to make a cross of them for my Prayerbook.” + +“Ay, they will keep it in your mind--say it all to you, Harry. She +may be nearer to you everywhere, though you are far from us. Don’t put +yourself from her.” + +That was all Dr. May contrived to say to his son, nor could Margaret do +much more than kiss him, while tears flowed one by one over her cheeks, +as she tried to whisper that he must remember and guard himself, and +that he was sure of being thought of, at least, in every prayer; and +then she fastened into his book the cross, formed of flattened daisies, +gummed upon a framework of paper. He begged her to place it at the +Baptismal Service, for he said, “I like that about fighting--and I +always did like the church being like a ship--don’t you? I only found +that prayer out the day poor little Daisy was christened.” + +Margaret had indeed a thrill of melancholy pleasure in this task, when +she saw how it was regarded. Oh, that her boy might not lose these +impressions amid the stormy waves he was about to encounter! + +That last evening of home good-nights cost Harry many a choking sob +ere he could fall asleep; but the morning of departure had more +cheerfulness; the pleasure of patronising Jem Jennings was as consoling +to his spirits, as was to Mary the necessity of comforting Toby. + +Toby’s tastes were in some respects vulgar, as he preferred the stable, +and Will Adams, to all Mary’s attentions; but he attached himself +vehemently to Dr. May, followed him everywhere, and went into raptures +at the slightest notice from him. The doctor said it was all homage to +the master of the house. Margaret held that the dog was a physiognomist. + +The world was somewhat flat after the loss of Harry--that element of +riot and fun; Aubrey was always playing at “poor Harry sailing away,” + Mary looked staid and sober, and Norman was still graver, and more +devoted to books, while Ethel gave herself up more completely to the +thickening troubles of Cocksmoor. + +Jealousies had arisen there, and these, with some rebukes for failures +in sending children to be taught, had led to imputations on the +character of Mrs. Green, in whose house the school was kept. Ethel +was at first vehement in her defence; then when stronger evidence was +adduced of the woman’s dishonesty, she was dreadfully shocked, and +wanted to give up all connection with her, and in both moods was equally +displeased with Richard for pausing, and not going all lengths with her. + +Mr. Wilmot was appealed to, and did his best to investigate, but the +only result was to discover that no one interrogated had any notion of +truth, except John Taylor, and he knew nothing of the matter. The mass +of falsehood, spite, violence, and dishonesty, that became evident, +was perfectly appalling, and not a clue was to be found to the +truth--scarcely a hope that minds so lost to honourable feeling were +open to receive good impressions. It was a great distress to Ethel--it +haunted her night and day--she lay awake pondering on the vain hopes +for her poor children, and slept to dream of the angry faces and rude +accusations. Margaret grew quite anxious about her, and her elders were +seriously considering the propriety of her continuing her labours at +Cocksmoor. + +Mr. Wilmot would not be at Stoneborough after Christmas. His father’s +declining health made him be required at home, and since Richard was so +often absent, it became matter of doubt whether the Misses May ought to +be allowed to persevere, unassisted by older heads, in such a locality. + +This doubt put Ethel into an agony. Though she had lately been declaring +that it made her very unhappy to go--she could not bear the sight of +Mrs. Green, and that she knew all her efforts were vain while the poor +children had such homes; she now only implored to be allowed to go on; +she said that the badness of the people only made it more needful to +do their utmost for them; there were no end to the arguments that she +poured forth upon her ever kind listener, Margaret. + +“Yes, dear Ethel, yes, but pray be calm; I know papa and Mr. Wilmot +would not put a stop to it if they could possibly help it, but if it is +not proper--” + +“Proper! that is as bad as Miss Winter!” + +“Ethel, you and I cannot judge of these things--you must leave them to +our elders--” + +“And men always are so fanciful about ladies--” + +“Indeed, if you speak in that way, I shall think it is really hurting +you.” + +“I did not mean it, dear Margaret,” said Ethel, “but if you knew what I +feel for poor Cocksmoor, you would not wonder that I cannot bear it.” + +“I do not wonder, dearest; but if this trial is sent you, perhaps it is +to train you for better things.” + +“Perhaps it is for my fault,” said Ethel. “Oh, oh, if it be that I am +too unworthy! And it is the only hope; no one will do anything to teach +these poor creatures if I give it up. What shall I do, Margaret?” + +Margaret drew her down close to her, and whispered, “Trust them Ethel, +dear. The decision will be whatever is the will of God. If He thinks fit +to give you the work, it will come; if not, He will give you some other, +and provide for them.” + +“If I have been too neglectful of home, too vain of persevering when no +one but Richard would!” sighed Ethel. + +“I cannot see that you have, dearest,” said Margaret fondly, “but your +own heart must tell you that. And now, only try to be calm and patient. +Getting into these fits of despair is the very thing to make people +decide against you.” + +“I will! I will! I will try to be patient,” sobbed Ethel; “I know to be +wayward and set on it would only hurt. I might only do more harm--I’ll +try. But oh, my poor children!” + +Margaret gave a little space for the struggle with herself, then advised +her resolutely to fix her attention on something else. It was a Saturday +morning, and time was more free than usual, so Margaret was able to +persuade her to continue a half-forgotten drawing, while listening to an +interesting article in a review, which opened to her that there were too +many Cocksmoors in the world. + +The dinner-hour sounded too soon, and as she was crossing the hall to +put away her drawing materials, the front door gave the click peculiar +to Dr. May’s left-handed way of opening it. She paused, and saw him +enter, flushed, and with a look that certified her that something had +happened. + +“Well, Ethel, he is come.” + +“Oh, papa, Mr. Ernes--” + +He held up his finger, drew her into the study, and shut the door. The +expression of mystery and amusement gave way to sadness and gravity as +he sat down in his arm-chair, and sighed as if much fatigued. She was +checked and alarmed, but she could not help asking, “Is he here?” + +“At the Swan. He came last night, and watched for me this morning as +I came out of the hospital. We have been walking over the meadows to +Fordholm.” + +No wonder Dr. May was hot and tired. + +“But is he not coming?” asked Ethel. + +“Yes, poor fellow; but hush, stop, say nothing to the others. I must not +have her agitated till she has had her dinner in peace, and the house is +quiet. You know she cannot run away to her room as you would.” + +“Then he is really come for that?” cried Ethel breathlessly; and, +perceiving the affirmative, added, “But why did he wait so long?” + +“He wished to see his way through his affairs, and also wanted to hear +of her from Harry. I am afraid poor July’s colours were too bright.” + +“And why did he come to the Swan instead of to us?” + +“That was his fine, noble feeling. He thought it right to see me first, +that if I thought the decision too trying for Margaret, in her present +state, or if I disapproved of the long engagement, I might spare her all +knowledge of his coming.” + +“Oh, papa, you won’t!” + +“I don’t know but that I ought; but yet, the fact is, that I cannot. +With that fine young fellow so generously, fondly attached I cannot find +it in my heart to send him away for four years without seeing her, and +yet, poor things, it might be better for them both. Oh, Ethel, if your +mother were but here!” + +He rested his forehead on his hands, and Ethel stood aghast at his +unexpected reception of the addresses for which she had so long hoped. +She did not venture to speak, and presently he roused himself as the +dinner-bell rang. “One comfort is,” he said, “that Margaret has more +composure than I. Do you go to Cocksmoor this afternoon?” + +“I wished it.” + +“Take them all with you. You may tell them why when you are out. I +must have the house quiet. I shall get Margaret out into the shade, and +prepare her, as best I can, before he comes at three o’clock.” + +It was not flattering to be thus cleared out of the way, especially when +full of excited curiosity, but any such sensation was quite overborne by +sympathy in his great anxiety, and Ethel’s only question was, “Had not +Flora better stay to keep off company?” + +“No, no,” said Dr. May impatiently, “the fewer the better;” and hastily +passing her, he dashed up to his room, nearly running over the nursery +procession, and, in a very few seconds, was seated at table, eating and +speaking by snatches, and swallowing endless draughts of cold water. + +“You are going to Cocksmoor!” said he, as they were finishing. + +“It is the right day,” said Richard. “Are you coming, Flora?” + +“Not to-day, I have to call on Mrs. Hoxton.” + +“Never mind Mrs. Hoxton,” said the doctor; “you had better go to-day, a +fine cool day for a walk.” + +He did not look as if he had found it so. + +“Oh, yes, Flora, you must come,” said Ethel, “we want you.” + +“I have engagements at home,” replied Flora. + +“And it really is a trying walk,” said Miss Winter. + +“You must,” reiterated Ethel. “Come to our room, and I will tell you +why.” + +“I do not mean to go to Cocksmoor till something positive is settled. I +cannot have anything to do with that woman.” + +“If you would only come upstairs,” implored Ethel, at the door, “I have +something to tell you alone.” + +“I shall come up in due time. I thought you had outgrown closetings and +foolish secrets,” said Flora. + +Her movements were quickened, however, by her father, who, finding her +with Margaret in the drawing-room, ordered her upstairs in a peremptory +manner, which she resented, as treating her like a child, and therefore +proceeded in no amiable mood to the room, where Ethel awaited her in +wild tumultuous impatience. + +“Well, Ethel, what is this grand secret?” + +“Oh, Flora! Mr. Ernescliffe is at the Swan! He has been speaking to papa +about Margaret.” + +“Proposing for her, do you mean?” said Flora. + +“Yes, he is coming to see her this afternoon, and that is the reason +that papa wants us to be all out of the way.” + +“Did papa tell you this?” + +“Yes,” said Ethel, beginning to perceive the secret of her displeasure, +“but only because I was the first person he met; and Norman guessed it +long ago. Do put on your things! I’ll tell you all I know when we are +out. Papa is so anxious to have the coast clear.” + +“I understand,” said Flora; “but I shall not go with you. Do not be +afraid of my interfering with any one. I shall sit here.” + +“But papa said you were to go.” + +“If he had done me the favour of speaking to me himself,” said Flora, “I +should have shown him that it is not right that Margaret should be left +without any one at hand in case she should be overcome. He is of no use +in such cases, only makes things worse. I should not feel justified +in leaving Margaret with no one else, but he is in one of those +hand-over-head moods, when it is not of the least use to say a word to +him.” + +“Flora, how can you, when he expressly ordered you?” + +“All he meant was, do not be in the way, and I shall not show myself +unless I am needed, when he would be glad enough of me. I am not bound +to obey the very letter, like Blanche or Mary.” + +Ethel looked horrified by the assertion of independence, but Richard +called her from below, and, with one more fruitless entreaty, she ran +downstairs. + +Richard had been hearing all from his father, and it was comfortable +to talk the matter over with him, and hear explained the anxiety which +frightened her, while she scarcely comprehended it; how Dr. May could +not feel certain whether it was right or expedient to promote an +engagement which must depend on health so uncertain as poor Margaret’s, +and how he dreaded the effect on the happiness of both. + +Ethel’s romance seemed to be turning to melancholy, and she walked on +gravely and thoughtfully, though repeating that there could be no +doubt of Margaret’s perfect recovery by the time of the return from the +voyage. + +Her lessons were somewhat nervous and flurried, and even the sight of +two very nice neat new scholars, of very different appearance from the +rest, and of much superior attainments, only half interested her. Mary +was enchanted at them as a pair of prodigies, actually able to read! and +had made out their names, and their former abodes, and how they had been +used to go to school, and had just come to live in the cottage deserted +by the lamented Una. + +Ethel thought it quite provoking in her brother to accede to Mary’s +entreaties that they should go and call on this promising importation. +Even the children’s information that they were taught now by “Sister +Cherry” failed to attract her; but Richard looked at his watch, and +decided that it was too soon to go home, and she had to submit to her +fate. + +Very different was the aspect of the house from the wild Irish cabin +appearance that it had in the M’Carthy days. It was the remains of +an old farm-house that had seen better days, somewhat larger than the +general run of the Cocksmoor dwellings. Respectable furniture had taken +up its abode against the walls, the kitchen was well arranged, and, +in spite of the wretched flooring and broken windows, had an air of +comfort. A very tidy woman was bustling about, still trying to get rid +of the relics of her former tenants, who might, she much feared, have +left a legacy of typhus fever. The more interesting person was, however, +a young woman of three or four and twenty, pale, and very lame, and with +the air of a respectable servant, her manners particularly pleasing. +It appeared that she was the daughter of a first wife, and, after the +period of schooling, had been at service, but had been lamed by a fall +downstairs, and had been obliged to come home, just as scarcity of work +had caused her father to leave his native parish, and seek employment at +other quarries. She had hoped to obtain plain work, but all the family +were dismayed and disappointed at the wild spot to which they had come, +and anxiously availed themselves of this introduction to beg that the +elder boy and girl might be admitted into the town school, distant as it +was. At another time, the thought of Charity Elwood would have engrossed +Ethel’s whole mind, now she could hardly attend, and kept looking +eagerly at Richard as he talked endlessly with the good mother. When, +at last, they did set off, he would not let her gallop home like a +steam-engine, but made her take his arm, when he found that she could +not otherwise moderate her steps. At the long hill a figure appeared, +and, as soon as Richard was certified of its identity, he let her fly, +like a bolt from a crossbow, and she stood by Dr. May’s side. + +A little ashamed, she blushed instead of speaking, and waited for +Richard to come up and begin. Neither did he say anything, and they +paused till, the silence disturbing her, she ventured a “Well, papa!” + +“Well, poor things. She was quite overcome when first I told her--said +it would be hard on him, and begged me to tell him that he would be much +happier if he thought no more of her.” + +“Did Margaret?” cried Ethel. “Oh! could she mean it?” + +“She thought she meant it, poor dear, and repeated such things again and +again; but when I asked whether I should send him away without seeing +her, she cried more than ever, and said, ‘You are tempting me! It would +be selfishness.’” + +“Oh, dear! she surely has seen him!” + +“I told her that I would be the last person to wish to tempt her to +selfishness, but that I did not think that either could be easy in +settling such a matter through a third person.” + +“It would have been very unkind,” said Ethel; “I wonder she did not +think so.” + +“She did at last. I saw it could not be otherwise, and she said, poor +darling, that when he had seen her, he would know the impossibility; but +she was so agitated that I did not know how it could be.” + +“Has she?” + +“Ay, I told him not to stay too long, and left him under the tulip-tree +with her. I found her much more composed--he was so gentle and +considerate. Ah! he is the very man! Besides, he has convinced her now +that affection brings him, not mere generosity, as she fancied.” + +“Oh, then it is settled!” cried Ethel joyously. + +“I wish it were! She has owned that if--if she were in health--but that +is all, and he is transported with having gained so much! Poor fellow. +So far, I trust, it is better for them to know each other’s minds, but +how it is to be--” + +“But, papa, you know Sir Matthew Fleet said she was sure to get well; +and in three years’ time--” + +“Yes, yes, that is the best chance. But it is a dreary lookout for two +young things. That is in wiser hands, however! If only I saw what +was right to do! My miserable carelessness has undone you all!” he +concluded, almost inaudibly. + +It was indeed, to him, a time of great distress and perplexity, wishing +to act the part of father and mother both towards his daughter, acutely +feeling his want of calm decision, and torn to pieces at once by +sympathy with the lovers, and by delicacy that held him back from +seeming to bind the young man to an uncertain engagement, above all, +tortured by self-reproach for the commencement of the attachment, and +for the misfortune that had rendered its prosperity doubtful. + +Ethel could find no words of comfort in the bewildered glimpse at his +sorrow and agitation. Richard spoke with calmness and good sense, and +his replies, though brief and commonplace, were not without effect in +lessening the excitement and despondency which the poor doctor’s present +mood had been aggravating. + +At the door, Dr. May asked for Flora, and Ethel explained. If Flora had +obtruded herself, he would have been irritated, but, as it was, he had +no time to observe the disobedience, and saying that he hoped she was +with Margaret, sent Ethel into the drawing-room. + +Flora was not there, only Margaret lay on her sofa, and Ethel hesitated, +shy, curious, and alarmed; but, as she approached, she was relieved to +see the blue eyes more serene even than usual, while a glow of colour +spread over her face, making her like the blooming Margaret of old +times; her expression was full of peace, but became somewhat amused +at Ethel’s timid, awkward pauses, as she held out her hands, and said, +“Come, dear Ethel.” + +“Oh, Margaret, Margaret!” + +And Ethel was drawn into her sister’s bosom. Presently she drew back, +gazed at her sister inquiringly, and said in an odd, doubtful voice, +“Then you are glad?” + +Margaret nearly laughed at the strange manner, but spoke with a +sorrowful tone, “Glad in one way, dearest, almost too glad, and +grateful.” + +“Oh, I am so glad!” again said Ethel; “I thought it was making everybody +unhappy.” + +“I don’t believe I could be that, now he has come, now I know;” and her +voice trembled. “There must be doubt and uncertainty,” she added, “but +I cannot dwell on them just yet. They will settle what is right, I know, +and, happen what may, I have always this to remember.” + +“Oh, that is right! Papa will be so relieved! He was afraid it had only +been distress.” + +“Poor papa! Yes, I did not command myself at first; I was not sure +whether it was right to see him at all.” + +“Oh, Margaret, that was too bad!” + +“It did not seem right to encourage any such--such,” the word was lost, +“to such a poor helpless thing as I am. I did not know what to do, and I +am afraid I behaved like a silly child, and did not think of dear papa’s +feelings. But I will try to be good, and leave it all to them.” + +“And you are going to be happy?” said Ethel wistfully. + +“For the present, at least. I cannot help it,” said Margaret. “Oh, he +is so kind, and so unselfish, and so beautifully gentle--and to think of +his still caring! But there, dear Ethel, I am not going to cry; do call +papa, or he will think me foolish again. I want him to be quite at ease +about me before he comes.” + +“Then he is coming?” + +“Yes, at tea-time--so run, dear Ethel, and tell Jane to get his room +ready.” + +The message quickened Ethel, and after giving it, and reporting +consolingly to her father, she went up to Flora, who had been a +voluntary prisoner upstairs all this time, and was not peculiarly +gratified at such tidings coming only through the medium of Ethel. She +had before been sensible that, superior in discretion and effectiveness +as she was acknowledged to be, she did not share so much of the +confidence and sympathy as some of the others, and she felt mortified +and injured, though in this case it was entirely her own fault. The +sense of alienation grew upon her. + +She dressed quickly, and hurried down, that she might see Margaret +alone; but the room was already prepared for tea, and the children were +fast assembling. Ethel came down a few minutes after, and found Blanche +claiming Alan Ernescliffe as her lawful property, dancing round him, +chattering, and looking injured if he addressed a word to any one else. + +How did lovers look? was a speculation which had, more than once, +occupied Ethel, and when she had satisfied herself that her father was +at ease, she began to study it, as soon as a shamefaced consciousness +would allow her, after Alan’s warm shake of the hand. + +Margaret looked much as usual, only with more glow and brightness--Mr. +Ernescliffe, not far otherwise; he was as pale and slight as on his last +visit, with the same soft blue eyes, capable, however, of a peculiar, +keen, steady glance when he was listening, and which now seemed to be +attending to Margaret’s every word or look, through all the delighted +uproar which Aubrey, Blanche, and Mary kept up round him, or while +taking his share in the general conversation, telling of Harry’s +popularity and good conduct on board the Alcestis, or listening to the +history of Norman’s school adventures, which he had heard, in part, from +Harry, and how young Jennings was entered in the flag-ship, as a boy, +though not yet to sail with his father. + +After the storm of the day the sky seemed quite clear, and Ethel +could not see that being lovers made much difference; to be sure papa +displeased Blanche, by calling her away to his side, when she would +squeeze her chair in between Alan’s and the sofa; and Alan took all the +waiting on Margaret exclusively to himself. Otherwise, there was nothing +remarkable, and he was very much the same Mr. Ernescliffe whom they had +received a year ago. + +In truth, the next ten days were very happy. The future was left +to rest, and Alan spent his mornings in the drawing-room alone with +Margaret, and looked ever more brightly placid, while, with the rest, he +was more than the former kind playfellow, for he now took his place as +the affectionate elder brother, entering warmly into all their schemes +and pleasures, and winning for himself a full measure of affection from +all; even his little god-daughter began to know him, and smile at +his presence. Margaret and Ethel especially delighted in the look of +enjoyment with which their father sat down to enter on the evening’s +conversation after the day’s work; and Flora was well pleased that Mrs. +Hoxton should find Alan in the drawing-room, and ask afterwards about +his estate; and that Meta Rivers, after being certified that this was +their Mr. Ernescliffe, pronounced that her papa thought him particularly +pleasing and gentlemanlike. There was something dignified in having a +sister on the point of being engaged. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + + + + Sail forth into the sea, thou ship, + Through breeze and cloud, right onward steer; + The moistened eye, the trembling lip, + Are not the signs of doubt or fear!--LONGFELLOW. + + +Tranquility only lasted until Mr. Ernescliffe found it necessary to +understand on what terms he was to stand. Every one was tender of +conscience, anxious to do right, and desirous to yield to the opinion +that nobody could, or would give. While Alan begged for a positive +engagement, Margaret scrupled to exchange promises that she might never +be able to fulfil, and both agreed to leave all to her father, who, in +every way, ought to have the best ability to judge whether there was +unreasonable presumption in such a betrothal; but this very ability only +served to perplex the poor doctor more and more. It is far easier for a +man to decide when he sees only one bearing of a case, than when, like +Dr. May, he not only sees them, but is rent by them in his inmost +heart. Sympathising in turn with each lover, bitterly accusing his own +carelessness as the cause of all their troubles, his doubts contending +with his hopes, his conviction clashing with Sir Matthew Fleet’s +opinion, his conscientious sincerity and delicacy conflicting with +his affection and eagerness, he was perfectly incapable of coming to a +decision, and suffered so cruelly, that Margaret was doubly distressed +for his sake, and Alan felt himself guilty of having rendered everybody +miserable. + +Dr. May could not conceal his trouble, and rendered Ethel almost as +unhappy as himself, after each conversation with her, though her hopes +usually sprang up again, and she had a happy conviction that this was +only the second volume of the novel. Flora was not often called into his +councils; confidence never came spontaneously from Dr. May to her; there +was something that did not draw it forth towards her, whether it resided +in that half-sarcastic corner of her steady blue eye, or in the grave +common-sense of her gentle voice. Her view of the case was known to be +that there was no need for so much perplexity--why should not Alan be +the best judge of his own happiness? If Margaret were to be delicate for +life, it would be better to have such a home to look to; and she soothed +and comforted Margaret, and talked in a strain of unmixed hope and +anticipation that often drew a smile from her sister, though she feared +to trust to it. + +Flora’s tact and consideration in keeping the children away when the +lovers could best be alone, and letting them in when the discussion was +becoming useless and harassing, her cheerful smiles, her evening music +that covered all sounds, her removal of all extra annoyances, were +invaluable, and Margaret appreciated them, as, indeed, Flora took care +that she should. + +Margaret begged to know her eldest brother’s judgment, but had great +difficulty in dragging it out. Diffidently as it was proposed, it +was clear and decided. He thought that his father had better send Sir +Matthew Fleet a statement of Margaret’s present condition, and abide +by his answer as to whether her progress warranted the hope of her +restoration. + +Never was Richard more surprised than by the gratitude with which his +suggestion was hailed, simple as it was, so that it seemed obvious +that others should have already thought of it. After the tossings of +uncertainty, it was a positive relief to refer the question to some +external voice, and only Ethel and Norman expressed strong dislike to +Sir Matthew becoming the arbiter of Margaret’s fate, and were scarcely +pacified by Dr. May’s assurance that he had not revealed the occasion of +his inquiry. The letter was sent, and repose returned, but hearts beat +high on the morning when the answer was expected. + +Dr. May watched the moment when his daughter was alone, carried the +letter to her, and kissing her, said, with an oppressed voice, “I give +you joy, my dear.” + +She read with suspended breath and palpitating heart. Sir Matthew +thought her improvement sure, though slow, and had barely a doubt that, +in a year, she would have regained her full strength and activity. + +“You will show it to Alan,” said Dr. May, as Margaret lifted her eyes to +his face inquiringly. + +“Will not you?” she said. + +“I cannot,” he answered. “I wish I was more helpful to you, my child,” + he added wistfully, “but you will rest on him, and be happy together +while he stays, will you not?” + +“Indeed I will, dear papa.” + +Mr. Ernescliffe was with her as the doctor quitted her. She held the +letter to him, “But,” she said slowly, “I see that papa does not believe +it.” + +“You promised to abide by it!” he exclaimed, between entreaty and +authority. + +“I do; if you choose so to risk your hopes.” + +“But,” cried he, as he glanced hastily over the letter, “there can be +no doubt! These words are as certain as language can make them. Why will +you not trust them?” + +“I see that papa does not.” + +“Despondency and self-reproach made him morbidly anxious. Believe so, my +Margaret! You know he is no surgeon!” + +“His education included that line,” said Margaret. “I believe he has +all but the manual dexterity. However, I would fain have faith in Sir +Matthew,” she added, smiling, “and perhaps I am only swayed by the habit +of thinking that papa must know best.” + +“He does in indifferent cases; but it is an old axiom, that a medical +man should not prescribe for his own family; above all, in such a case, +where it is but reasonable to believe an unprejudiced stranger, who +alone is cool enough to be relied on. I absolutely depend on him!” + +Margaret absolutely depended on the bright cheerful look of conviction. +“Yes,” she said, “we will try to make papa take pleasure in the +prospect. Perhaps I could do more if I made the attempt.” + +“I am sure you could, if you would let me give you more support. If I +were but going to remain with you!” + +“Don’t let us be discontented,” said Margaret, smiling, “when so much +more has been granted than I dare to hope. Be it as it may, let us be +happy in what we have.” + +“It makes you happy?” said he, archly reading her face to draw out the +avowal, but he only made her hide it, with a mute caress of the hand +that held hers. She was glad enough to rest in the present, now that +everything concurred to satisfy her conscience in so doing, and come +what might, the days now spent together would be a possession of joy for +ever. + +Captain Gordon contrived to afford his lieutenant another fortnight’s +leave, perhaps because he was in dread of losing him altogether, for +Alan had some doubts, and many longings to remain. Had it been possible +to marry at once, he would have quitted the navy immediately; and he +would have given worlds to linger beside Margaret’s couch, and claim her +the first moment possible, believing his care more availing than all. He +was, however, so pledged to Captain Gordon, that, without strong cause, +he would not have been justified in withdrawing; besides, Harry was +under his charge, and Dr. May and Margaret both thought, with the +captain, that an active life would be a better occupation for him than +watching her. He would never be able to settle down at his new home +comfortably without her, and he would be more in the way of duty while +pursuing his profession, so Margaret nerved herself against using her +influence to detain him, and he thanked her for it. + +Though hope and affection could not an once repair an injured spine, +they had wonderful powers in inciting Margaret to new efforts. Alan +was as tender and ready of hand as Richard, and more clever and +enterprising; and her unfailing trust in him prevented all alarms and +misgivings, so that wonders were effected, and her father beheld her +standing with so little support, looking so healthful and so blithe, +that his forebodings melted away, and he talked joyously of the future. + +The great achievement was taking her round the garden. She could not +bear the motion of wheels, but Alan adopted the hammock principle, and, +with the aid of Richard and his crony, the carpenter, produced a machine +in which no other power on earth could have prevailed on her to trust +herself, but in which she was carried round the garden so successfully, +that there was even a talk of next Sunday, and of the Minster. + +It was safely accomplished, and tired as she was, Margaret felt, as +she whispered to Alan, that he had now crowned all the joy that he had +brought to her. + +Ethel used to watch them, and think how beautiful their countenances +were, and talk them over with her father, who was quite happy about them +now. She gave assistance, which Alan never once called unhandy, to all +his contrivances, and often floundered in upon his conferences with +Margaret, in a way that would have been very provoking, if she had not +always blushed and looked so excessively discomfited, and they had only +to laugh and reassure her. + +Alan was struck by finding that the casual words spoken on the way from +Cocksmoor had been so strenuously acted on, and he brought on himself +a whole torrent of Ethel’s confused narratives, which Richard and Flora +would fain have checked; but Margaret let them continue, as she saw him +a willing listener, and was grateful to him for comprehending the ardent +girl. + +He declared himself to have a share in the matter, reminding Ethel of +her appeal to him to bind himself to the service of Cocksmoor. He sent +a sovereign at once, to aid in a case of the sudden death of a pig; and +when securely established in his brotherly right, he begged Ethel to +let him know what would help her most. She stood colouring, twisting +her hands, and wondering what to say, whereupon he relieved her by a +proposal to leave an order for ten pounds, to be yearly paid into her +hands, as a fixed income for her school. + +A thousand a year could hardly have been so much to Ethel. “Thank you! +Oh, this is charming! We could set up a regular school! Cherry Elwood is +the very woman! Alan, you have made our fortune! Oh, Margaret, Margaret! +I must go and tell Ritchie and Mary! This is the first real step to our +church and all!” + +“May I do it?” said Alan, turning to Margaret, as Ethel frantically +burst out of the room; “perhaps I should have asked leave?” + +“I was going to thank you,” said Margaret. “It is the very kindest thing +you could have done by dear Ethel! the greatest comfort to us. She will +be at peace now, when anything hinders her from going to Cocksmoor.” + +“I wonder,” said Alan, musing, “whether we shall ever be able to help +her more substantially. I cannot do anything hastily, for you know +Maplewood is still in the hands of the executors, and I cannot tell what +claims there may be upon me; but by-and-by, when I return, if I find no +other pressing duty, might not a church at Cocksmoor be a thankoffering +for all I have found here?” + +“Oh, Alan, what joy it would be!” + +“It is a long way off,” he said sadly; “and perhaps her force of +perseverance will have prevailed alone.” + +“I suppose I must not tell her, even as a vision.” + +“It is too uncertain; I do not know the wants of the Maplewood people, +and I must provide for Hector. I would not let these vague dreams +interfere with her resolute work; but, Margaret, what a vision it is! I +can see you laying the first stone on that fine heathy brow.” + +“Oh, your godchild should lay the first stone!” + +“She shall, and you shall lead her. And there shall be Ethel’s sharp +face full of indescribable things as she marshals her children, and +Richard shall be curate, and read in his steady soft tone, and your +father shall look sunny with his boys around him, and you--” + +“Oh, Alan,” said Margaret, who had been listening with a smile, “it is, +indeed, a long way off!” + +“I shall look to it as the haven where I would be,” said the sailor. + +They often spoke together of this scheme, ever decking it in brighter +colours. The topic seemed to suit them better than their own future, for +there was no dwelling on that without an occasional misgiving, and +the more glad the anticipation, the deeper the sigh that followed on +Margaret’s part, till Mr. Ernescliffe followed her lead, and they seldom +spoke of these uncertainties, but outwardly smiled over the present, +inwardly dwelt on the truly certain hopes. There were readings shared +together, made more precious than all, by the conversations that ensued. + +The hour for parting came at last. Ethel never knew what passed in the +drawing-room, whence every one was carefully excluded. Dr. May wandered +about, keeping guard over the door, and watching the clock, till, at the +last moment, he knocked, and called in a trembling voice, “Ernescliffe! +Alan! it is past the quarter! You must not stay!” + +The other farewells were hurried; Alan seemed voiceless, only nodding in +reply to Mary’s vociferous messages to Harry, and huskily whispering to +Ethel, “Good luck to Cocksmoor!” + +The next moment the door had shut on him, and Dr. May and Flora had gone +to her sister, whom she found not tearful, but begging to be left alone. + +When they saw her again, she was cheerful; she kept up her composure and +animation without flagging, nor did she discontinue her new exertions, +but seemed decidedly the happier for all that had passed. + +Letters came every day for her, and presents to every one. Ethel had a +gold chain and eyeglass, which, it was hoped, might cure her of frowning +and stooping, though her various ways of dangling her new possession +caused her to be so much teased by Flora and Norman, that, but for +regard to Margaret’s feelings, she would not have worn it for three +days. + +To Mary was sent a daguerreotype of Harry, her glory and delight. Say, +who would, that it had pig’s eyes, a savage frown, a pudding chin, +there were his own tight rings of hair, his gold-banded cap, his bright +buttons, how could she prize it enough? She exhibited it to the little +ones ten times a day, she kissed it night and morning, and registered +her vow always to sleep with it under her “pilow,” in a letter of +thanks, which Margaret defended and despatched, in spite of Miss +Winter’s horrors at its disregard of orthography. + +It was nearly the last letter before the Alcestis was heard of at +Spithead. Then she sailed; she sent in her letters to Plymouth, and her +final greetings by a Falmouth cutter--poor Harry’s wild scrawl in pencil +looking very sea-sick. + + +“Dear papa and all, good-bye. We are out of sight of land. Three years, +and keep up a good heart. I shall soon be all right. + + “Your H. MAY.” + + +It was enclosed in Mr. Ernescliffe’s envelope, and with it came +tidings that Harry’s brave spirit was not failing, even under untoward +circumstances, but he had struggled on deck, and tried to write, +when all his contemporaries had given in; in fact, he was a fine +fellow--every one liked him, and Captain Gordon, though chary of +commendation, had held him up to the other youngsters as an example of +knowing what a sailor was meant to be like. + +Margaret smiled, and cried over the news when she imparted it--but all +serenely--and though she was glad to be alone, and wrote journals for +Alan, when she could not send letters, she exerted herself to be the +same sister as usual to the rest of the household, and not to give way +to her wandering musings. + +From one subject her attention never strayed. Ethel had never found any +lack of sympathy in her for her Cocksmoor pursuits; but the change now +showed that, where once Margaret had been interested merely as a kind +sister, she now had a personal concern, and she threw herself into all +that related to it as her own chief interest and pursuit--becoming the +foremost in devising plans, and arranging the best means of using Mr. +Ernescliffe’s benefaction. + +The Elwood family had grown in the good opinion of the Mays. Charity +had hobbled to church, leaning on her father’s arm, and being invited +to dinner in the kitchen, the acquaintance had been improved, and nurse +herself had pronounced her such a tidy, good sort of body, that it was +a pity she had met with such a misfortune. If Miss Ethel brought in +nothing but the like of her, they should be welcome; poor thing, how +tired she was! + +Nurse’s opinions were apt to be sagacious, especially when in the face +of her prejudices, and this gave Margaret confidence. Cherry proved to +have been carefully taught by a good clergyman and his wife, and to +be of very different stamp from the persons to whom the girls were +accustomed. They were charmed with her, and eagerly offered to supply +her with books--respecting her the more when they found that Mr. +Hazlewood had already lent her their chief favourites. Other and greater +needs they had no power to fill up. + +“It is so lone without the church bells, you see, miss,” said Mrs. +Elwood. “Our tower had a real fine peal, and my man was one of the +ringers. I seems quite lost without them, and there was Cherry, went +a’most every day with the children.” + +“Every day!” cried Mary, looking at her with respect. + +“It was so near,” said Cherry, “I could get there easy, and I got used +to it when I was at school.” + +“Did it not take up a great deal of time?” said Ethel. + +“Why, you see, ma’am, it came morning and night, out of working times, +and I can’t be stirring much.” + +“Then you miss it sadly?” said Ethel. + +“Yes, ma’am, it made the day go on well like, and settled a body’s mind, +when I fretted for what could not be helped. But I try not to fret after +it now, and Mr. Hazlewood said, if I did my best wherever I was, the +Lord would still join our prayers together.” + +Mr. Hazlewood was recollected by Mr. Wilmot as an old college friend, +and a correspondence with him fully confirmed the favourable estimate of +the Elwoods, and was decisive in determining that the day-school, with +Alan’s ten pounds as salary, and a penny a week from each child, should +be offered to Cherry. + +Mr. Hazlewood answered for her sound excellence, and aptitude for +managing little children, though he did not promise genius, such as +should fulfil the requirements of modern days. With these Cocksmoor +could dispense at present; Cherry was humbly gratified, and her parents +delighted with the honour and profit; there was a kitchen which afforded +great facilities, and Richard and his carpenter managed the fitting to +admiration; Margaret devised all manner of useful arrangements, settled +matters with great earnestness, saw Cherry frequently, discussed plans, +and learned the history and character of each child, as thoroughly as +Ethel herself. Mr. Ramsden himself came to the opening of the school, +and said so much of the obligations of Cocksmoor to the young ladies, +that Ethel would not have known which way to look, if Flora had not +kindly borne the brunt of his compliments. + +Every one was pleased, except Mrs. Green, who took upon herself to set +about various malicious reports of Cherry Elwood; but nobody cared for +them, except Mrs. Elwood, who flew into such passions, that Ethel was +quite disappointed in her, though not in Cherry, who meekly tried to +silence her mother, begged the young ladies not to be vexed, and showed +a quiet dignity that soon made the shafts of slander fall inoffensively. + +All went well; there was a school instead of a hubbub, clean faces +instead of dirty, shining hair instead of wild elf-locks, orderly +children instead of little savages. The order and obedience that Ethel +could not gain in six months, seemed impressed in six days by Cherry; +the neat work made her popular with the mothers, her firm gentleness +won the hearts of the children, and the kitchen was filled not only with +boys and girls from the quarry, but with some little ones from outlying +cottages of Fordholm and Abbotstoke, and there was even a smart little +farmer, who had been unbearable at home. + +Margaret’s unsuccessful bath-chair was lent to Cherry, and in it her +scholars drew her to Stoneborough every Sunday, and slowly began to +redeem their character with the ladies, who began to lose the habit of +shrinking out of their way--the Stoneborough children did so instead; +and Flora and Ethel were always bringing home stories of injustice +to their scholars, fancied or real, and of triumphs in their having +excelled any national school girl. The most stupid children at Cocksmoor +always seemed to them wise in comparison with the Stoneborough girls, +and the Sunday-school might have become to Ethel a school of rivalry, +if Richard had not opened her eyes by a quiet observation, that the town +girls seemed to fare as ill with her, as the Cocksmoor girls did with +the town ladies. Then she caught herself up, tried to be candid, and +found that she was not always impartial in her judgments. Why would +competition mingle even in the best attempts? + +Cherry did not so bring forward her scholars that Ethel could have many +triumphs of this dangerous kind. Indeed, Ethel was often vexed with +her; for though she taught needlework admirably, and enforced correct +reading, and reverent repetition, her strong provincial dialect was a +stumbling-block; she could not put questions without book, and nothing +would teach her Ethel’s rational system of arithmetic. That she was a +capital dame, and made the children very good, was allowed; but now and +then, when mortified by hearing what was done at Stoneborough, Fordholm, +or Abbotstoke, Ethel would make vigorous efforts, which resulted only in +her coming home fuming at Cherry’s “outrageous dullness.” + +These railings always hurt Margaret, who had made Cherry almost into a +friend, and generally liked to have a visit from her during the +Sunday, when she always dined with the servants. Then school questions, +Cocksmoor news, and the tempers of the children, were talked over, and +Cherry was now and then drawn into home reminiscences, and descriptions +of the ways of her former school. There was no fear of spoiling +her--notice from her superiors was natural to her, and she had the +lady-likeness of womanly goodness, so as never to go beyond her own +place. She had had many trials too, and Margaret learned the true +history of them, as she won Cherry’s confidence, and entered into them, +feeling their likeness, yet dissimilarity, to her own. + +Cherry had been a brisk happy girl in a good place, resting in one of +the long engagements that often extend over half the life of a servant, +enjoying the nod of her baker as he left his bread, and her walk from +church with him on alternate Sundays. But poor Cherry had been exposed +to the perils of window-cleaning; and, after a frightful fall, had +wakened to find herself in a hospital, and her severe sufferings had +left her a cripple for life. + +And the baker had not been an Alan Ernescliffe! She did not complain of +him--he had come to see her, and had been much grieved, but she had +told him she could never be a useful wife; and, before she had used her +crutches, he was married to her pretty fellow-servant. + +Cherry spoke very simply; she hoped it was better for Long, and believed +Susan would make him a good wife. Ethel would have thought she did not +feel, but Margaret knew better. + +She stroked the thin slight fingers, and gently said, “Poor Cherry!” and +Cherry wiped away a tear, and said, “Yes, ma’am, thank you, it is best +for him. I should not have wished him to grieve for what cannot be +helped.” + +“Resignation is the great comfort.” + +“Yes, ma’am. I have a great deal to be thankful for. I don’t blame no +one, but I do see how some, as are married, seem to get to think more of +this world; and now and then I fancy I can see how it is best for me as +it is.” + +Margaret sighed, as she remembered certain thoughts before Alan’s +return. + +“Then, ma’am, there has been such goodness! I did vex at being a poor +helpless thing, nothing but a burden on father; and when we had to go +from home, and Mr. and Mrs. Hazlewood and all, I can’t tell you how bad +it was, ma’am.” + +“Then you are comforted now?” + +“Yes, ma’am,” said Cherry, brightening. “It seems as if He had given me +something to do, and there are you, and Mr. Richard, and Miss Ethel, +to help. I should like, please God, to be of some good to those poor +children.” + +“I am sure you will, Cherry; I wish I could do as much.” + +Cherry’s tears had come again. “Ah! ma’am, you--” and she stopped short, +and rose to depart. Margaret held out her hand to wish her good-bye. +“Please, miss, I was thinking how Mr. Hazlewood said that God fits our +place to us, and us to our place.” + +“Thank you, Cherry, you are leaving me something to remember.” + +And Margaret lay questioning with herself, whether the schoolmistress +had not been the most self-denying of the two; but withal gazing on the +hoop of pearls which Alan had chosen as the ring of betrothal. + +“The pearl of great price,” murmured she to herself; “if we hold that, +the rest will soon matter but little. It remaineth that both they that +have wives, be as they that have none, and they that weep, as though +they wept not, and they that rejoice, as though they rejoiced not! If +ever Alan and I have a home together upon earth, may all too confident +joy be tempered by the fears that we have begun with! I hope this +probation may make me less likely to be taken up with the cares and +pleasures of his position than I might have been last year. He is one +who can best help the mind to go truly upward. But oh, that voyage!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. + + + + Heart affluence in household talk, + From social fountains never dry.--TENNYSON. + + +“What a bore!” + +“What’s the matter now?” + +“Here has this old fellow asked me to dinner again!” + +“A fine pass we are come to!” cried Dr. May, half amused, half irate. +“I should like to know what I should have said at your age if the +head-master had asked me to dinner.” + +“Papa is not so very fond of dining at Dr. Hoxton’s,” said Ethel. “A +whipper-snapper schoolboy, who might be thankful to dine anywhere!” + continued Dr. May, while the girls burst out laughing, and Norman looked +injured. + +“It is very ungrateful of Norman,” said Flora; “I cannot see what he +finds to complain of.” + +“You would know,” said Norman, “if, instead of playing those perpetual +tunes of yours, you had to sit it out in that perfumy drawing-room, +without anything to listen to worth hearing. If I have looked over that +court album once, I have a dozen times, and there is not another book in +the place.” + +“I am glad there is not,” said Flora. “I am quite ashamed to see you for +ever turning over those old pictures. You cannot guess how stupid you +look. I wonder Mrs. Hoxton likes to have you,” she added, patting his +shoulders between jest and earnest. + +“I wish she would not, then. It is only to escort you.” + +“Nonsense, Norman, you know better,” cried Ethel. “You know it is for +your own sake, and to make up for their injustice, that he invites you, +or Flora either.” + +“Hush, Ethel! he gives himself quite airs enough already,” said the +doctor. + +“Papa!” said Ethel, in vexation, though he gave her a pinch to show it +was all in good humour, while he went on, “I am glad to hear they do +leave him to himself in a corner. A very good thing too! Where else +should a great gawky schoolboy be?” + +“Safe at home, where I wish he would let me be,” muttered Norman, though +he contrived to smile, and followed Flora out of the room, without +subjecting himself to the imputation of offended dignity. + +Ethel was displeased, and began her defence: “Papa, I wish--” and there +she checked herself. + +“Eh! Miss Ethel’s bristles up!” said her father, who seemed in a +somewhat mischievous mood of teasing. + +“How could you, papa?” cried she. + +“How could I what, Miss Etheldred?” + +“Plague Norman,”--the words would come. “Accuse him of airs.” + +“I hate to see young fellows above taking an honour from their elders,” + said Dr. May. + +“Now, papa, papa, you know it is no such thing. Dr. Hoxton’s parties are +very dull--you know they are, and it is not fair on Norman. If he +was set up and delighted at going so often, then you would call him +conceited.” + +“Conceit has a good many lurking-places,” said Dr. May. “It is harder to +go and be overlooked, than to stay at home.” + +“Now, papa, you are not to call Norman conceited,” cried Ethel. “You +don’t believe that he is any such thing.” + +“Why, not exactly,” said Dr. May, smiling. “The boy has missed it +marvellously; but, you see, he has everything that subtle imp would wish +to feed upon, and it is no harm to give him a lick with the rough side +of the tongue, as your canny Scots grandfather used to say.” + +“Ah! if you knew, papa--” began Ethel. + +“If I knew?” + +“No, no, I must not tell.” + +“What, a secret, is there?” + +“I wish it was not; I should like to tell you very much, but then, you +see, it is Norman’s, and you are to be surprised.” + +“Your surprise is likely to be very much like Blanche’s birthday +presents, a stage aside.” + +“No, I am going to keep it to myself.” + +Two or three days after, as Ethel was going to the schoolroom after +breakfast, Dr. May beckoned her back to the dining-room, and, with his +merry look of significance, said, “Well, ma’am, I have found out your +mystery!” + +“About Norman? Oh, papa! Did he tell you?” + +“When I came home from the hospital last night, at an hour when all +respectable characters, except doctors and police, should be in their +warm beds, I beheld a light in Norman’s window, so methought I would see +what Gravity was doing out of his bed at midnight--” + +“And you found him at his Greek--” + +“So that was the meaning of his looking so lank and careworn, just as he +did last year, and he the prince of the school! I could have found it in +my heart to fling the books at his head!” + +“But you consent, don’t you, to his going up for the scholarship?” + +“I consent to anything, as long as he keeps within due bounds, and does +not work himself to death. I am glad of knowing it, for now I can put a +moderate check upon it.” + +“And did he tell you all about it?” + +“He told me he felt as if he owed it to us to gain something for +himself, since I had given up the Randall to gratify him--a pretty sort +of gratification.” + +“Yes, and he will be glad to get away from school. He says he knows it +is bad for him--as it is uncomfortable to be singled out in the way Dr. +Hoxton does now. You know,” pleaded Ethel, “it is not ingratitude or +elation, but it is, somehow, not nice to be treated as he is, set apart +from the rest.” + +“True; Dr. Hoxton never had taste or judgment. If Norman were not a +lusus naturae,” said Dr. May, hesitating for a word, “his head would +have been turned long ago. And he wants companions too--he has been +forced out of boyhood too soon, poor fellow--and Harry gone too. He +does not get anything like real relaxation, and he will be better among +youths than boys. Stoneborough will never be what it was in my time!” + added the doctor mournfully. “I never thought to see the poor old place +come to this; but there--when all the better class send their sons to +the great public schools, and leave nothing but riff-raff here, one is +forced, for a boy’s own sake, to do the same.” + +“Oh, I am so glad! Then you have consented to the rest of Norman’s +scheme, and will not keep poor little Tom at school here without him?” + +“By what he tells me it would be downright ruin to the boy. I little +thought to have to take a son of mine away from Stoneborough; but Norman +is the best judge, and he is the only person who seems to have made +any impression on Tom, so I shall let it be. In fact,” he added, half +smiling, “I don’t know what I could refuse old June.” + +“That’s right!” cried Ethel. “That is so nice! Then, if Norman gets the +scholarship, Tom is to go to Mr. Wilmot first, and then to Eton!” + +“If Norman gains the scholarship, but that is an if,” said Dr. May, as +though hoping for a loop-hole to escape offending the shade of Bishop +Whichcote. + +“Oh, papa, you cannot doubt of that!” + +“I cannot tell, Ethel. He is facile princeps here in his own world, but +we do not know how it may be when he is measured with public schoolmen, +who have had more first-rate tutorship than poor old Hoxton’s.” + +“Ah! he says so, but I thought that was all his humility.” + +“Better he should be prepared. If he had had all those advantages--but +it may be as well after all. I always had a hankering to have sent him +to Eton, but your dear mother used to say it was not fair on the others. +And now, to see him striving in order to give the advantage of it to his +little brother! I only hope Master Thomas is worthy of it--but it is a +boy I can’t understand.” + +“Nor I,” said Ethel; “he never seems to say anything he can help, and +goes after Norman without talking to any one else.” + +“I give him up to Norman’s management,” said Dr. May. “He says the +boy is very clever, but I have not seen it; and, as to more serious +matters--However, I must take it on Norman’s word that he is wishing to +learn truth. We made an utter mistake about him; I don’t know who is to +blame for it.” + +“Have you told Margaret about Norman’s plan?” asked Ethel. + +“No; he desired me to say nothing. Indeed, I should not like Tom’s +leaving school to be talked of beforehand.” + +“Norman said he did not want Flora to hear, because she is so much with +the Hoxton’s, and he said they would all watch him.” + +“Ay, ay, and we must keep his secret. What a boy it is! But it is not +safe to say conceited things. We shall have a fall yet, Ethel. Not +seventeen, remember, and brought up at a mere grammar-school.” + +“But we shall still have the spirit that made him try,” said Ethel, “and +that is the thing.” + +“And, to tell the truth,” said the doctor, lingering, “for my own part, +I don’t care a rush for it!” and he dashed off to his work, while Ethel +stood laughing. + +“Papa was so very kind,” said Norman tremulously, when Ethel followed +him to his room, to congratulate him on having gained his father’s +assent, of which he had been more in doubt than she. + +“And you see he quite approves of the scheme for Tom, except for +thinking it disrespect to Bishop Whichcote. He said he only hoped Tom +was worthy of it.” + +“Tom!” cried Norman. “Take my word for it, Ethel, Tom will surprise you +all. He will beat us all to nothing, I know!” + +“If only he can be cured of--” + +“He will,” said Norman, “when once he has outgrown his frights, and that +he may do at Mr. Wilmot’s, apart from those fellows. When I go up for +this scholarship, you must look after his lessons, and see if you are +not surprised at his construing!” + +“When you go. It will be in a month!” + +“He has told no one, I hope.” + +“No; but I hardly think he will bear not telling Margaret.” + +“Well--I hate a thing being out of one’s own keeping. I should not so +much dislike Margaret’s knowing, but I won’t have Flora know--mind that, +Ethel,” he said, with disproportionate vehemence. + +“I only hope Flora will not be vexed. But oh, dear! how nice it will be +when you have it, telling Meta Rivers, and all!” + +“And this is a fine way of getting it, standing talking here. Not that I +shall--you little know what public schools can do! But that is no reason +against trying.” + +“Good-night, then. Only one thing more. You mean that, till further +orders, Margaret should not know?” + +“Of course,” said Norman impatiently. “She won’t take any of Flora’s +silly affronts, and, what is more, she would not care half so much as +before Alan Ernescliffe came.” + +“Oh, Norman, Norman! I’m sure--” + +“Why, it is what they always say. Everybody can’t be first, and +Ernescliffe has the biggest half of her, I can see.” + +“I am sure I did not,” said Ethel, in a mortified voice. + +“Why, of course, it always comes of people having lovers.” + +“Then I am sure I won’t!” exclaimed Ethel. + +Norman went into a fit of laughing. + +“You may laugh, Norman, but I will never let papa or any of you be +second to any one!” she cried vehemently. + +A brotherly home-truth followed: “Nobody asked you, sir, she said!” was +muttered by Norman, still laughing heartily. + +“I know,” said Ethel, not in the least offended, “I am very ugly, and +very awkward, but I don’t care. There never can be anybody in all the +world that I shall like half as well as papa, and I am glad no one is +ever likely to make me care less for him and Cocksmoor.” + +“Stay till you are tried,” said Norman. + +Ethel squeezed up her eyes, curled up her nose, showed her teeth in +a horrible grimace, and made a sort of snarl: “Yah! That’s the face I +shall make at them!” and then, with another good-night, ran to her own +room. + +Norman was, to a certain extent, right with regard to Margaret--her +thoughts and interest had been chiefly engrossed by Alan Ernescliffe, +and so far drawn away from her own family, that when the Alcestis was +absolutely gone beyond all reach of letters for the present, Margaret +could not help feeling somewhat of a void, and as if the home concerns +were not so entire an occupation for her mind as formerly. + +She would fain have thrown herself into them again, but she became +conscious that there was a difference. She was still the object of her +father’s intense tenderness and solicitude, indeed she could not be +otherwise, but it came over her sometimes that she was less necessary +to him than in the first year. He was not conscious of any change, and, +indeed, it hardly amounted to a change, and yet Margaret, lying inactive +and thoughtful, began to observe that the fullness of his confidence was +passing to Ethel. Now and then it would appear that he fancied he had +told Margaret little matters, when he had really told them to Ethel; +and it was Ethel who would linger with him in the drawing-room after +the others had gone up at night, or who would be late at the morning’s +reading, and disarm Miss Winter, by pleading that papa had been talking +to her. The secret they shared together was, of course, the origin of +much of this; but also Ethel was now more entirely the doctor’s own than +Margaret could be after her engagement; and there was a likeness of mind +between the father and daughter that could not but develop more in +this year, than in all Ethel’s life, when she had made the most rapid +progress. Perhaps, too, the doctor looked on Margaret rather as +the authority and mistress of his house, while Ethel was more of a +playfellow; and thus, without either having the least suspicion that +the one sister was taking the place of the other, and without any actual +neglect of Margaret, Ethel was his chief companion. + +“How excited and anxious Norman looks!” said Margaret, one day, when he +had rushed in at the dinner-hour, asking for his father, and, when he +could not find him, shouting out for Ethel. “I hope there is nothing +amiss. He has looked thin and worn for some time, and yet his work at +school is very easy to him.” + +“I wish there maybe nothing wrong there again,” said Flora. “There! +there’s the front door banging! He is off! Ethel!--” stepping to the +door, and calling in her sister, who came from the street door, her hair +blowing about with the wind. “What did Norman want?” + +“Only to know whether papa had left a note for Dr. Hoxton,” said Ethel, +looking very confused and very merry. + +“That was not all,” said Flora. “Now don’t be absurd, Ethel--I hate +mysteries.” + +“Last time I had a secret you would not believe it,” said Ethel, +laughing. + +“Come!” exclaimed Flora, “why cannot you tell us at once what is going +on?” + +“Because I was desired not,” said Ethel. “You will hear it soon enough,” + and she capered a little. + +“Let her alone, Flora,” said Margaret. “I see there is nothing wrong.” + +“If she is desired to be silent, there is nothing to be said,” replied +Flora, sitting down again, while Ethel ran away to guard her secret. + +“Absurd!” muttered Flora. “I cannot imagine why Ethel is always making +mysteries!” + +“She cannot help other people having confidence in her,” said Margaret +gently. + +“She need not be so important, then,” said Flora--“always having private +conferences with papa! I do not think it is at all fair on the rest.” + +“Ethel is a very superior person,” said Margaret, with half a sigh. + +Flora might toss her head, but she attempted no denial in words. “And,” + continued Margaret, “if papa does find her his best companion and friend +we ought to be glad of it.” + +“I do not call it just,” said Flora. + +“I do not think it can be helped,” said Margaret: “the best must be +preferred. + +“As to that, Ethel is often very ridiculous and silly.” + +“She is improving every day; and you know dear mamma always thought her +the finest character amongst us.” + +“Then you are ready to be left out, and have your third sister always +put before you?” + +“No, Flora, that is not the case. Neither she nor papa would ever be +unfair; but, as she would say herself, what they can’t help, they can’t +help; and, as she grows older, she must surpass me more and more.” + +“And you like it?” + +“I like it--when--when I think of papa, and of his dear, noble Ethel. I +do like it, when I am not selfish.” + +Margaret turned away her head, but presently looked up again. + +“Only, Flora,” she said, “pray do not say one word of this, on any +account, to Ethel. She is so happy with papa, and I would not for +anything have her think I feel neglected, or had any jealousy.” + +“Ah,” thought Flora, “you can give up sweetly, but you have Alan to fall +back upon. Now I, who certainly have the best right, and a great deal +more practical sense--” + +Flora took Margaret’s advice, and did not reproach Ethel, for a little +reflection convinced her that she should make a silly figure in so +doing, and she did not like altercations. + +It was the same evening that Norman came in from school with his hands +full of papers, and, with one voice, his father and Ethel exclaimed, +“You have them?” + +“Yes;” and he gave the letter to his father, while Blanche, who had a +very inquisitive pair of eyes, began to read from a paper he placed on +the table. + +“‘Norman Walter, son of Richard and Margaret May, High Street, Doctor of +Medicine, December 21st, 18--. Thomas Ramsden.’” + +“What is that for, Norman?” and, as he did not attend, she called Mary +to share her speculations, and spell out the words. + +“Ha!” cried Dr. May, “this is capital! The old doctor seems not to know +how to say enough for you. Have you read it?” + +“No, he only told me he had said something in my favour, and wished me +all success.” + +“Success!” cried Mary. “Oh, Norman, you are not going to sea too?” + +“No, no!” interposed Blanche knowingly--“he is going to be married. +I heard nurse wish her brother success when he was going to marry the +washerwoman with a red face.” + +“No,” said Mary, “people never are married till they are twenty.” + +“But I tell you,” persisted Blanche, “people always write like this, in +a great book in church, when they are married. I know, for we always go +into church with Lucy and nurse when there is a wedding.” + +“Well, Norman, I wish you success with the bride you are to court,” said +Dr. May, much diverted with the young ladies’ conjectures. + +“But is it really?” said Mary, making her eyes as round as full moons. + +“Is it really?” repeated Blanche. “Oh, dear! is Norman going to be +married? I wish it was to be Meta Rivers, for then I could always ride +her dear little white pony.” + +“Tell them,” whispered Norman, a good deal out of countenance, as he +leaned over Ethel, and quitted the room. + +Ethel cried, “Now then!” and looked at her father, while Blanche and +Mary reiterated inquiries--marriage, and going to sea, being the only +events that, in their imagination, the world could furnish. Going to +try for a Balliol scholarship! It was a sad falling off, even if they +understood what it meant. The doctor’s explanations to Margaret had a +tone of apology for having kept her in ignorance, and Flora said few +words, but felt herself injured; she had nearly gone to Mrs. Hoxton that +afternoon, and how strange it would have been if anything had been said +to her of her own brother’s projects, when she was in ignorance. + +Ethel slipped away to her brother, who was in his own room, surrounded +with books, flushed and anxious, and trying to glance over each subject +on which he felt himself weak. + +“I shall fail! I know I shall!” was his exclamation. “I wish I had never +thought of it!” + +“What? did Dr. Hoxton think you not likely to succeed?” cried Ethel, in +consternation. + +“Oh! he said I was certain, but what is that? We Stoneborough men only +compare ourselves with each other. I shall break down to a certainty, +and my father will be disappointed.” + +“You will do your best?” + +“I don’t know that. My best will all go away when it comes to the +point.” + +“Surely not. It did not go away last time you were examined, and why +should it now?” + +“I tell you, Ethel, you know nothing about it. I have not got up half +what I meant to have done. Here, do take this book--try me whether I +know this properly.” + +So they went on, Ethel doing her best to help and encourage, and Norman +in an excited state of restless despair, which drove away half his +senses and recollection, and his ideas of the superior powers of public +schoolboys magnifying every moment. They were summoned downstairs to +prayers, but went up again at once, and more than an hour subsequently, +when their father paid one of his domiciliary visits, there they still +were, with their Latin and Greek spread out, Norman trying to strengthen +all doubtful points, but in a desperate desultory manner, that only +confused him more and more, till he was obliged to lay his head down on +the table, shut his eyes, and run his fingers through his hair, before +he could recollect the simplest matter; his renderings alternated with +groans, and, cold as was the room, his cheeks and brow were flushed and +burning. + +The doctor checked all this, by saying, gravely and sternly, “This is +not right, Norman. Where are all your resolutions?” + +“I shall never do it. I ought never to have thought of it! I shall never +succeed!” + +“What if you do not?” said Dr. May, laying his hand on his shoulder. + +“What? why, Tom’s chance lost--you will all be mortified,” said Norman, +hesitating in some confusion. + +“I will take care of Tom,” said Dr. May. + +“And he will have been foiled!” said Ethel + +“If he is?” + +The boy and girl were both silent. + +“Are you striving for mere victory’s sake, Norman?” continued his +father. + +“I thought not,” murmured Norman. + +“Successful or not, you will have done your utmost for us. You would +not lose one jot of affection or esteem, and Tom shall not suffer. Is it +worth this agony?” + +“No, it is foolish,” said Norman, with trembling voice, almost as if he +could have burst into tears. He was quite unnerved by the anxiety +and toil with which he had overtasked himself, beyond his father’s +knowledge. + +“Oh, papa!” pleaded Ethel, who could not bear to see him pained. + +“It is foolish,” continued Dr. May, who felt it was the moment for +bracing severity. “It is rendering you unmanly. It is wrong.” + +Again Ethel made an exclamation of entreaty. + +“It is wrong, I know,” repeated Norman; “but you don’t know what it is +to get into the spirit of the thing.” + +“Do you think I do not?” said the doctor; “I can tell exactly what you +feel now. If I had not been an idle dog, I should have gone through it +all many more times.” + +“What shall I do?” asked Norman, in a worn-out voice. + +“Put all this out of your mind, sleep quietly, and don’t open another +book.” + +Norman moved his head, as if sleep were beyond his power. + +“I will read you something to calm your tone,” said Dr. May, and he took +up a Prayer-book. “‘Know ye not, that they which run in a race, run all, +but one receiveth the prize? So run that ye may obtain. And every man +that striveth for the mastery is temperate in all things. Now they do +it to obtain a corruptible crown, but we an incorruptible.’ And, Norman, +that is not the struggle where the race is not to the swift, nor the +battle to the strong; nor the contest, where the conqueror only wins +vanity and vexation of spirit.” + +Norman had cast down his eyes, and hardly made answer, but the words +had evidently taken effect. The doctor only further bade him good-night, +with a whispered blessing, and, taking Ethel by the hand, drew her away. +When they met the next morning, the excitement had passed from Norman’s +manner, but he looked dejected and resigned. He had made up his mind +to lose, and was not grateful for good wishes; he ought never to have +thought, he said, of competing with men from public schools, and he knew +his return of love of vain-glory deserved that he should fail. However, +he was now calm enough not to be likely to do himself injustice by +nervousness, and Margaret hid hopes that Richard’s steady equable mind +would have a salutary influence. So, commending Tom’s lessons to Ethel, +and hearing, but not marking, countless messages to Richard, he set +forth upon his emprise, while his anxiety seemed to remain as a legacy +for those at home. + +Poor Dr. May confessed that his practice by no means agreed with his +precept, for he could think of nothing else, and was almost as bad as +Norman, in his certainty that the boy would fail from mere nervousness. +Margaret was the better companion for him now, attaching less intensity +of interest to Norman’s success than did Ethel; she was the more able to +compose him, and cheer his hopes. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. + + + + Weary soul, and burdened sore, + Labouring with thy secret load, + Fear not all thy griefs to pour + In this heart, love’s true abode. + Lyra Innocentium. + + +Tea had just been brought in on the eighth evening from Norman’s +departure, when there was a ring at the bell. There was a start, and +look of expectation. “Only a patient,” said the doctor; but it surely +was not for that reason that he rose with so much alacrity and opened +the door, nor was “Well, old fellow?” the greeting for his patients--so +everybody sprang after him, and beheld something tall taking off a coat, +while a voice said, “I have got it.” + +The mass of children rushed back to Margaret, screaming, “He has got +it!” and then Aubrey trotted out into the hall again to see what Norman +had got. + +“A happy face at least,” said Margaret, as he came to her. And that was +not peculiar to Norman. The radiance had shone out upon every one +in that moment, and it was one buzz of happy exclamation, query, and +answer--the only tone of regret when Mary spoke of Harry, and all +at once took up the strain--how glad poor Harry would be. As to the +examination, that had been much less difficult than Norman had expected; +in fact, he said, it was lucky for him that the very subjects had been +chosen in which he was most up--luck which, as the doctor could not help +observing, generally did attend Norman. And Norman had been so happy +with Richard; the kind, wise elder brother had done exactly what was +best for him in soothing his anxiety, and had fully shared his feelings, +and exulted in his success. Margaret had a most triumphant letter, +dwelling on the abilities of the candidates whom Norman had outstripped, +and the idea that every one had conceived of his talent. “Indeed,” wrote +Richard, “I fancy the men had never believed that I could have a clever +brother. I am glad they have seen what Norman can do.” + +Margaret could not help reading this aloud, and it made Norman blush +with the compunction that Richard’s unselfish pride in him always +excited. He had much to tell of his ecstasy with Oxford. Stoneborough +Minster had been a training in appreciation of its hoary beauty, but the +essentially prosaic Richard had never prepared him for the impression +that the reverend old university made on him, and he was already, heart +and soul, one of her most loyal and loving sons, speaking of his college +and of the whole university as one who had a right of property in them, +and looking, all the time, not elated, but contented, as if he had found +his sphere and was satisfied. He had seen Cheviot, too, and had been +very happy in the renewed friendship; and had been claimed as a cousin +by a Balliol man, a certain Norman Ogilvie, a name well known among the +Mays. “And how has Tom been getting on?” he asked, when he returned to +home affairs. + +“Oh, I don’t know,” said Ethel. “He will not have my help.” + +“Not let you help him!” exclaimed Norman. + +“No. He says he wants no girls,” said Ethel, laughing. + +“Foolish fellow!” said Norman. “I wonder what sort of work he has made!” + +“Very funny, I should think,” said Ethel, “judging by the verses I could +see.” + +The little, pale, rough-haired Tom, in his perpetual coating of dust, +softly crept into the room, as if he only wanted to elude observation; +but Mary and Blanche were at once vociferating their news in his ears, +though with little encouragement--he only shook them off abruptly, and +would not answer when they required him to be glad. + +Norman stretched out his arm, intercepting him as he was making for his +hiding-place behind Dr. May’s arm-chair. + +“Come, August, how have things gone on?” + +“Oh! I don’t know.” + +“What’s your place?” + +“Thirteenth!” muttered Tom in his throat, and well he might, for two +or three voices cried out that was too bad, and that it was all his own +fault, for not accepting Ethel’s help. He took little heed, but crept to +his corner without another word, and Mary knew she should be thumped if +she should torment him there. + +Norman left him alone, but the coldness of the little brother for whom +he had worked gave a greater chill to his pleasure than he could have +supposed possible. He would rather have had some cordiality on Tom’s +part, than all the congratulations that met him the next day. + +He could not rest contented while Tom continued to shrink from him, and +he was the more uneasy when, on Saturday morning, no calls from Mary +availed to find the little boy, and bring him to the usual reading and +Catechism. + +Margaret decided that they must begin without him, and poor Mary’s verse +was read, in consequence, with a most dolorous tone. As soon as the +books were shut, she ran off, and a few words passed among the elder +ones about the truant--Flora opining that the Andersons had led him +away; Ethel suggesting that his gloom must arise from his not being +well; and Margaret looking wistfully at Norman, and saying she feared +they had judged much amiss last spring. Norman heard in silence, and +walked thoughtfully into the garden. Presently he caught Mary’s voice in +expostulation: “How could you not come to read?” + +“Girls’ work!” growled another voice, out of sight. + +“But Norman, and Richard, and Harry, always come to the reading. +Everybody ought.” + +Norman, who was going round the shrubs that concealed the speakers from +him, here lost their voices, but, as he emerged in front of the old +tool-house, he heard a little scream from Mary, and, at the same moment, +she darted back, and fell over a heap of cabbage-stumps in front of the +old tool-house. It was no small surprise to her to be raised by him, and +tenderly asked whether she were hurt. She was not hurt, but she could +not speak without crying, and when Norman begged to hear what was the +matter, and where Tom was, she would only plead for him--that he did not +intend to hurt her, and that she had been teasing him. What had he done +to frighten her? Oh! he had only run at her with a hoe, because she was +troublesome; she did not mind it, and Norman must not--and she clung +to him as if to keep him back, while he pursued his researches in the +tool-house, where, nearly concealed by a great bushel-basket, lurked +Master Thomas, crouching down, with a volume of Gil Blas in his hand. + +“You here, Tom! What have you hidden yourself here for? What can make +you so savage to Mary?” + +“She should not bother me,” said Tom sulkily. + +Norman sent Mary away, pacifying her by promises that he would not +revenge her quarrel upon Tom, and then, turning the basket upside down, +and perching himself astride on it, he began: “That is the kindest, most +forgiving little sister I ever did see. What possesses you to treat her +so ill?” + +“I wasn’t going to hurt her.” + +“But why drive her away? Why don’t you come to read?” No answer; +and Norman, for a moment, felt as if Tom were really hopelessly +ill-conditioned and sullen, but he persevered in restraining his +desire to cuff the ill-humour out of him, and continued, “Come! there’s +something wrong, and you will never be better till it is out. Tell +me--don’t be afraid. Those fellows have been at you again?” + +He took Tom by the arm to draw him nearer, but a cry and start of pain +were the result. “So they have licked you? Eh? What have they been +doing?” + +“They said they would spiflicate me if I told!” sighed Tom. + +“They shall never do anything to you;” and, by-and-by, a sobbing +confession was drawn forth, muttered at intervals, as low as if Tom +expected the strings of onions to hear and betray him to his foes. +Looking on him as a deserter, these town-boys had taken advantage of his +brother’s absence to heap on him every misery they could inflict. There +had been a wager between Edward Anderson and Sam Axworthy as to what +Tom could be made to do, and his personal timidity made him a miserable +victim, not merely beaten and bruised, but forced to transgress every +rule of right and wrong that had been enforced on his conscience. +On Sunday, they had profited by the absence of their dux to have a +jollification at a little public-house, not far from the playing-fields; +and here had Tom been dragged in, forced to partake with them, and +frightened with threats that he had treated them all, and was liable +to pay the whole bill, which, of course, he firmly believed, as well +as that he should be at least half murdered if he gave his father any +suspicion that the whole had not been consumed by himself. Now, though +poor Tom’s conscience had lost many scruples during the last spring, +the offence, into which he had been forced, was too heinous to a child +brought up as he had been to be palliated even in his own eyes. The +profanation of Sunday, and the carousal in a public-house, had combined +to fill him with a sense of shame and degradation, which was the real +cause that he felt himself unworthy to come and read with his sisters. +His grief and misery were extreme, and Norman’s indignation was such +as could find no utterance. He sat silent, quivering with anger, and +clenching his fingers over the handle of the hoe. + +“I knew it!” sighed Tom. “None of you will ever speak to me again!” + +“You! Why, August, man, I have better hopes of you than ever. You are +more really sorry now than ever you were before.” + +“I had never been at the Green Man before,” said poor Tom, feeling his +future life stained. + +“You never will again!” + +“When you are gone--” and the poor victim’s voice died away. + +“Tom, you will not stay after me. It is settled that when I go to +Balliol, you leave Stoneborough, and go to Mr. Wilmot as pupil. Those +scamps shall never have you in their clutches again.” + +It did not produce the ecstasy Norman had expected. The boy still sat +on the ground, staring at his brother, as if the good news hardly +penetrated the gloom; and, after a disappointing silence, recurred to +the most immediate cause of distress: “Eight shillings and tenpence +halfpenny! Norman, if you would only lend it to me, you shall have all +my tin till I have made it up--sixpence a week, and half-a-crown on New +Year’s Day.” + +“I am not going to pay Mr. Axworthy’s reckoning,” said Norman, rather +angrily. “You will never be better till you have told my father the +whole.” + +“Do you think they will send in the bill to my father?” asked Tom, in +alarm. + +“No, indeed! that is the last thing they will do,” said Norman; “but I +would not have you come to him only for such a sneaking reason.” + +“But the girls would hear it. Oh, if I thought Mary and Margaret would +ever hear it--Norman, I can’t--” + +Norman assured him that there was not the slightest reason that these +passages should ever come to the knowledge of his sisters. Tom was +excessively afraid of his father, but he could not well be more wretched +than he was already; and he was brought to assent when Norman showed +him that he had never been happy since the affair of the blotting-paper, +when his father’s looks and tones had become objects of dread to his +guilty conscience. Was not the only means of recovering a place in +papa’s esteem to treat him with confidence? + +Tom answered not, and would only shudder when his brother took upon him +to declare that free confession would gain pardon even for the doings at +the Green Man. + +Tom had grown stupefied and passive, and his sole dependence was on +Norman, so, at last, he made no opposition when his brother offered to +conduct him to his father and speak for him. The danger now was that +Dr. May should not be forthcoming, and the elder brother was as much +relieved, as the younger was dismayed, to see, through the drawing-room +window, that he was standing beside Margaret. + +“Papa, can you come and speak to me,” said Norman, “at the door?” + +“Coming! What now?” said the doctor, entering the hall. “What, Tom, my +boy, what is it?” as he saw the poor child, white, cold, almost sick +with apprehension, with every pulse throbbing, and looking positively +ill. He took the chilly, damp hand, which shook nervously, and would +fain have withdrawn itself. + +“Come, my dear, let us see what is amiss;” and before Tom knew what he +was doing, he had seated him on his knee, in the arm-chair in the study, +and was feeling his pulse. “There, rest your head! Has it not been +aching all day?” + +“I do not think he is ill,” said Norman; “but there is something he +thinks I had better tell you.” + +Tom would fain have been on his feet, yet the support of that shoulder +was inexpressibly comfortable to his aching temples, and he could not +but wait for the shock of being roughly shaken and put down. So, as his +brother related what had occurred, he crouched and trembled more and +more on his father’s breast, till, to his surprise, he found the other +arm passed round him in support, drawing him more tenderly close. + +“My poor little fellow!” said Dr. May, trying to look into the drooping +face, “I grieve to have exposed you to such usage as this! I little +thought it of Stoneborough fellows!” + +“He is very sorry,” said Norman, much distressed by the condition of the +culprit. + +“I see it--I see it plainly,” said Dr. May. “Tommy, my boy, why should +you tremble when you are with me?” + +“He has been in great dread of your being displeased.” + +“My boy, do you not know how I forgive you?” Tom clung round his neck, +as if to steady himself. + +“Oh, papa! I thought you would never--” + +“Nay, you need never have thought so, my boy! What have I done that you +should fear me?” + +Tom did not speak, but nestled up to him with more confidence. “There! +that’s better! Poor child! what he must have suffered! He was not fit +for the place! I had thought him looking ill. Little did I guess the +cause.” + +“He says his head has ached ever since Sunday,” said Norman; “and I +believe he has hardly eaten or slept properly since.” + +“He shall never be under their power again! Thanks to you, Norman. Do +you hear that, Tommy?” + +The answer was hardly audible. The little boy was already almost asleep, +worn out with all he had undergone. Norman began to clear the sofa, that +they might lay him down, but his father would not hear of disturbing +him, and, sending Norman away, sat still for more than an hour, until +the child slowly awoke, and scarcely recalling what had happened, stood +up between his father’s knees, rubbing his eyes, and looking bewildered. + +“You are better now, my boy?” + +“I thought you would be very angry,” slowly murmured Tom, as the past +returned on him. + +“Never, while you are sorry for your faults, and own them freely.” + +“I’m glad I did,” said the boy, still half asleep. “I did not know you +would be so kind.” + +“Ah! Tom, I fear it was as much my fault as yours that you did not know +it. But, my dear, there is a pardon that can give you better peace than +mine.” + +“I think,” muttered Tom, looking down--“I think I could say my prayers +again now, if--” + +“If what, my dear?” + +“If you would help me, as mamma used--” + +There could be but one response to this speech. + +Tom was still giddy and unwell, his whole frame affected by the troubles +of the last week, and Dr. May arranged him on the sofa, and desired +him to be quiet, offering to send Mary to be his companion. Tom was +languidly pleased, but renewed his entreaty, that his confession +might be a secret from his sisters. Dr. May promised, and Mary, quite +satisfied at being taken into favour, asked no questions, but spent +the rest of the morning in playing at draughts with him, and in having +inflicted on her the history of the Bloody Fire King’s Ghost--a work +of Tom’s imagination, which he was wont to extemporise, to the extreme +terror of much enduring Mary. + +When Dr. May had called Mary, he next summoned Norman, who found him in +the hall, putting on his hat, and looking very stern and determined. + +“Norman!” said he hastily, “don’t say a word--it must be done--Hoxton +must hear of this.” + +Norman’s face expressed utter consternation. + +“It is not your doing. It is no concern of yours,” said Dr. May, +walking impetuously into the garden. “I find my boy ill, broken down, +shattered--it is the usage of this crew of fellows--what right have I to +conceal it--leave other people’s sons to be so served?” + +“I believe they did so to Tom out of ill-will to me,” said Norman, “and +because they thought he had ratted.” + +“Hush! don’t argue against it,” said Dr. May, almost petulantly. “I have +stood a great deal to oblige you, but I cannot stand this. When it is +a matter of corruption, base cruelty--no, Norman, it is not right--not +another word!” + +Norman’s words had not been many, but he felt a conviction that, in +spite of the dismay and pain to himself, Dr. May ought to meet with +submission to his judgment, and he acquiesced by silence. + +“Don’t you see,” continued the doctor, “if they act thus, when your back +is turned, what is to happen next half? ‘Tis not for Tom’s sake, but how +could we justify it to ourselves, to expose other boys to this usage?” + +“Yes,” said Norman, not without a sigh. “I suppose it must be.” + +“That is right,” said Dr. May, as if much relieved. “I knew you must see +it in that light. I do not mean to abuse your confidence.” + +“No, indeed,” answered Norman warmly. + +“But you see yourself, that where the welfare of so many is at stake, +it would be wickedness--yes, wickedness--to be silent. Could I see +that little fellow prostrated, trembling in my arms, and think of those +scamps inflicting the same on other helpless children--away from their +homes!” + +“I see, I see!” said Norman, carried along by the indignation and +tenderness that agitated his father’s voice in his vehemence--“it is the +only thing to be done.” + +“It would be sharing the guilt to hide it,” said Dr. May. + +“Very well,” said Norman, still reluctantly. “What do you wish me to do? +You see, as dux, I know nothing about it. It happened while I was away.” + +“True, true,” said his father. “You have learned it as brother, not as +senior boy. Yes, we had better have you out of the matter. It is I who +complain of their usage of my son.” + +“Thank you,” said Norman, with gratitude. + +“You have not told me the names of these fellows! No, I had best not +know them.” + +“I think it might make a difference,” hesitated Norman. + +“No, no, I will not hear them. It ought to make none. The fact is the +same, be they who they may.” + +The doctor let himself out at the garden gate, and strode off at a rapid +pace, conscious perhaps, in secret, that if he did not at once yield +to the impulse of resentment, good nature would overpower the sense of +justice. His son returned to the house with a heavy sigh, yet honouring +the generosity that had respected his scruples, when merely his own +worldly loss was involved, but set them aside when the good of others +was concerned. By-and-by Dr. May reappeared. The head-master had been +thoroughly roused to anger, and had begged at once to examine May +junior, for whom his father was now come. + +Tom was quite unprepared for such formidable consequences of his +confession, and began by piteous tears and sobs, and when these had, +with some difficulty, been pacified, he proved to be really so unwell +and exhausted, that his father could not take him to Minster Street, and +was obliged to leave him to his brother’s keeping, while he returned to +the school. + +Upon this, Dr. Hoxton came himself, and the sisters were extremely +excited and alarmed by the intelligence that he was in the study with +papa and Tom. + +Then away went the gentlemen; and Mary was again called to comfort Tom, +who, broken down into the mere longing for sympathy, sobbed out all his +troubles to her, while her eyes expanded more and more in horror, and +her soft heart giving way, she cried quite as pitifully, and a great +deal more loudly; and so the other sisters learned the whole, and +Margaret was ready for her father when he came in, in the evening, +harassed and sorrowful. His anger was all gone now, and he was +excessively grieved at finding that the ringleaders, Samuel Axworthy and +Edward Anderson, could, in Dr. Hoxton’s opinion, receive no sentence but +expulsion, which was to be pronounced on them on Monday. + +Sam Axworthy was the son of a low, uneducated man, and his best chance +had been the going to this school; but he was of a surly, obstinate +temper, and showed so little compunction, that even such superabundant +kindness as Dr. May’s could not find compassion for him; especially +since it had appeared that Tom had been by no means the only victim, and +that he had often been the promoter of the like malpractices, which many +boys were relieved to be forced to expose. + +For Edward Anderson, however, or rather for his mother, Dr. May was very +sorry, and had even interceded for his pardon; but Dr. Hoxton, though +slow to be roused, was far less placable than the other doctor, and +would not hear of anything but the most rigorous justice. + +“Poor Mrs. Anderson, with her pride in her children!” Flora spoke it +with a shade of contemptuous pity, but it made her father groan. + +“I shall never be able to look in her face again! I shall never see that +boy without feeling that I have ruined him!” + +“He needed nobody to do that for him,” said Flora. + +“With every disadvantage!” continued Dr. May; “unable even to remember +his father! Why could I not be more patient and forbearing?” + +“Oh, papa!” was the general cry--Norman’s voice giving decision to the +sisters’ exclamation. + +“Perhaps,” said Margaret, “the shock may be the best thing for him.” + +“Right, Margaret,” said her father. “Sometimes such a thing is the first +that shows what a course of evil really is.” + +“They are an affectionate family too,” said Margaret, “and his mother’s +grief may have an effect on him.” + +“If she does not treat him as an injured hero,” said Flora; “besides, I +see no reason for regret. These are but two, and the school is not to be +sacrificed to them.” + +“Yes,” said Norman; “I believe that Ashe will be able to keep much +better order without Axworthy. It is much better as it is, but Harry +will be very sorry to hear it, and I wish this half was over.” + +Poor Mrs. Anderson! her shower of notes rent the heart of the one +doctor, but were tossed carelessly aside by the other. On that Sunday, +Norman held various conversations with his probable successor, Ashe, +a gentle, well-disposed boy, hitherto in much dread of the post of +authority, but owning that, in Axworthy’s absence, the task would be +comparatively easy, and that Anderson would probably originate far less +mischief. + +Edward Anderson himself fell in Norman’s way in the street, and was +shrinking aside, when a word, of not unfriendly greeting, caused him to +quicken his steps, and say, hesitatingly, “I say, how is August?” + +“Better, thank you; he will be all right in a day or two.” + +“I say, we would not have bullied him so, if he had not been in such a +fright at nothing.” + +“I dare say not.” + +“I did not mean it all, but that sort of thing makes a fellow go on,” + continued Edward, hanging down his head, very sorrowful and downcast. + +“If it had only been fair bullying; but to take him to that place--to +teach him falsehood--” said Norman. + +Edward’s eyes were full of tears; he almost owned the whole. He had +not thought of such things, and then Axworthy--It was more evident from +manner than words that the boy did repent and was greatly overcome, +both by his own disgrace and his mother’s distress, wishing earnestly to +redeem his character, and declaring, from the bottom of his heart, that +he would avoid his former offences. He was emboldened at last to say, +with hesitation, “Could not you speak to Dr. Hoxton for me?” + +“My father has said all he could in your behalf.” + +Edward’s eye glanced towards Norman in wonder, as he recollected that +the Mays must know that a word from him would have saved Norman +from unjust punishment and the loss of the scholarship, and he said, +“Good-night,” and turned aside to his own home, with a heavy sigh. + +Norman took another turn, looked up at the sky, twisted his hands +together in perplexity, mumbled something about hating to do a thing +when it was all for no use, and then marched off towards Minster Street, +with a pace like his father’s the day before. + +When he came forth again from Dr. Hoxton’s study, he did not believe +that his intercession had produced the least effect, and there was a +sense of vexation at the position which he had assumed. He went home, +and said nothing on the subject; but when, on Monday, the school was +assembled, and the judgment announced, it was Axworthy alone whose +friends had been advised to remove him. + +Anderson received a severe punishment, as did all those who had shared +in the revel at the Green Man. Even Tom, and another little boy, who had +been likewise drawn in, were obliged to stay within narrow bounds, and +to learn heavy impositions; and a stern reprimand and exhortation were +given to the school collectively. Anderson, who had seen from the window +that turn towards Minster Street, drew his own conclusions, and was not +insensible to the generosity that had surpassed his hopes, though to his +faltering attempt at thanks, Norman replied that he did not believe +it was owing to him, and never exposed himself to Flora’s wonder by +declaring at home what he had done. + +So the last weeks of the half-year passed away with the boys in a +subdued, but hopeful manner, and the reformation, under Norman’s +auspices, progressed so well, that Ashe might fairly expect to reap the +benefit of the discipline, established at so much cost. + +Mr. Wilmot had looked on, and given his help, but he was preparing to +leave Stoneborough, and there was great concern at the parting with such +a friend. Ethel, especially, mourned the loss to Cocksmoor, and, for +though hers had been the executive part, his had been the head, and he +was almost equally grieved to go from the newly-begun work. + +Margaret lamented the loss of her kind counsellor, and the ready hearer +of her anxieties for the children. Writing could ill supply the place of +their conversations, and she feared likewise that her father would +feel the want of his companionship. The promise of visits, and +the intercourse kept up by Tom’s passing to and fro, was the best +consolation. + +Poor Margaret had begun to flag, both in strength and spirits, as winter +approached, but there came a revival in the shape of “Ship Letters!” + Alan wrote cheerfully and graphically, with excellent accounts of Harry, +who, on his side, sent very joyous and characteristic despatches, only +wishing that he could present Mary with all the monkeys and parrots he +had seen at Rio, as well as the little ruby-crested humming-birds, that +always reminded him of Miss Rivers. + +With the Christmas holidays, Hector Ernescliffe came from Eton, as to a +home, and was received by Margaret as a sort of especial charge. It was +pretty to see how he turned to her as something peculiarly his own, +and would sit on a footstool by her, letting himself be drawn into +confidence, and dwelling on his brother’s past doings, and on future +schemes for Maplewood. For the rest, he restored to the house the +atmosphere of boy, which had somewhat departed with Harry. Mary, who had +begun to be tamed down, ran more wild than ever, to the utter despair +of Miss Winter; and Tom, now that his connection with the Whichcote +foundation was over, and he was no more cowed by the sight of his +tyrants, came out in a new light. He put on his boy-nature, rioted +like the rest, acquired colour in his cheeks, divested his jacket of +perpetual dust, had his hair cut, brushed up a crest on his head, and +ran about no longer a little abject, but a merry lad. + +Ethel said it was a change from Horrid-locks to Harfagre; Margaret said +little, but, like her father, she blessed Norman in her heart for having +given back the boy to his father’s confidence, and saved him so far from +the terrible course of deceit and corruption. She could not much take +to heart the mad exploits of the so-called boys, even though she spent +three hours in heart-beatings on Christmas Eve, when Hector, Mary, Tom, +Blanche, and the dog Toby, were lost the whole day. However, they did +come back at six o’clock, having been deluded by an old myth of George +Larkins, into starting for a common, three miles beyond Cocksmoor, in +search of mistletoe, with scarlet berries, and yellow holly, with +leaves like a porcupine! Failing these wonders, they had been contenting +themselves with scarlet holly, in the Drydale plantations, when a rough +voice exclaimed, “Who gave you leave to take that?” whereupon Tom had +plunged into a thicket, and nearly “scratched out both his eyes”; but +Hector boldly standing his ground, with Blanche in his hand, the woodman +discovered that here was the Miss Mary, of whom his little girls talked +so much, thereupon cut down the choicest boughs, and promised to leave +a full supply at Dr. May’s. Margaret could have been angry at the taking +the young ladies on so mad a scheme, but then Mary was so happy, and as +to Hector, how scold him, when he had lifted Blanche over every +ditch, and had carried her home one mile on his back, and another, +queen’s-cushion fashion, between him and Mary? + +Flora, meanwhile, went her own way. The desire of compensating for +what had passed with Norman, led to great civilities from Dr. and Mrs. +Hoxton, which nobody was at liberty to receive except Flora. Pretty, +graceful, and pleasing, she was a valuable companion to a gentle little, +inane lady, with more time and money than she knew what to do with; and +Mrs. Hoxton, who was of a superior grade to the Stoneborough ladies in +general, was such a chaperon as Flora was glad to secure. Dr. May’s old +loyal feelings could not help regarding her notice of his daughter as a +favour and kindness, and Margaret could find no tangible objections, nor +any precedent from her mother’s conduct, even had any one had the power +to interfere with one so quiet, reasonable, and determined as Flora. + +So the intimacy became closer and closer, and as the winter passed on, +Flora gradually became established as the dear friend and assistant, +without whom Mrs. Hoxton could give no party. Further, Flora took the +grand step of setting up a copper-plate and cards of “Miss Flora May,” + went out frequently on morning calls with Mrs. Hoxton and her bay +horses, and when Dr. May refused his share of invitations to dinner with +the neighbours in the county, Flora generally found that she could go +under the Hoxtons’ guardianship. + + + + + +PART II + + + + +CHAPTER I. + + + + Now have I then eke this condicion + That above all the flouris in the mede; + Then love I most these flouris white and rede, + Soche that men callin daisies in our town. + To them have I so great affection, + As I said erst, when comin is the Maie, + That in my bed there dawith me no daie + That I am up and walking in the mede, + To see this floure agenst the sunne sprede.--CHAUCER. + + +“That is better!” said Margaret, contemplating a butterfly of the +penwiper class, whose constitution her dexterous needle had been +rendering less rickety than Blanche had left it. + +Margaret still lay on the sofa, and her complexion had assumed the dead +white of habitual ill-health. There was more languor of manner, and her +countenance, when at rest, and not under the eye of her father, had +a sadness of expression, as if any hopes that she might once have +entertained were fading away. The years of Alan Ernescliffe’s absence +that had elapsed had rather taken from her powers than added to them. +Nevertheless, the habit of cheerfulness and sympathy had not deserted +her, and it was with a somewhat amused glance that she turned towards +Ethel, as she heard her answer by a sigh. + +These years had dealt more kindly with Etheldred’s outward appearance. +They had rounded her angles, softened her features, and tinged +her cheeks with a touch of red, that took off from the surrounding +sallowness. She held herself better, had learned to keep her hair in +order, and the more womanly dress, plain though it was, improved her +figure more than could have been hoped in the days of her lank, +gawky girlhood. No one could call her pretty, but her countenance +had something more than ever pleasing in the animated and thoughtful +expression on those marked features. She was sitting near the window, +with a book, a dictionary, and pencil, as she replied to Margaret, with +the sigh that made her sister smile. + +“Poor Ethel! I condole with you.” + +“And I wonder at you!” said Ethel, “especially as Flora and Mrs. Hoxton +say it is all for your sake;” then, nettled by Margaret’s laugh, “Such a +nice occupation for her, poor thing, as if you were Mrs. Hoxton, and had +no resource but fancy-work.” + +“You know I am base enough to be so amused,” said Margaret; “but, +seriously, Ethel dear, I cannot bear to see you so much hurt by it. I +did not know you were really grieved.” + +“Grieved! I am ashamed--sickened!” cried Ethel vehemently. “Poor +Cocksmoor! As soon as anything is done there, Flora must needs go +about implying that we have set some grand work in hand, and want only +means--” + +“Stop, Ethel; Flora does not boast.” + +“No, she does not boast. I wish she did! That would be straightforward +and simple; but she has too good taste for that--so she does worse--she +tells a little, and makes that go a long way, as if she were keeping +back a great deal! You don’t know how furious it makes me!” + +“Ethel!” + +“So,” said Ethel, disregarding, “she stirs up all Stoneborough to hear +what the Miss Mays are doing at Cocksmoor. So the Ladies’ Committee must +needs have their finger in! Much they cared for the place when it was +wild and neglected! But they go to inspect Cherry and her school--Mrs. +Ledwich and all--and, back they come, shocked--no system, no order, the +mistress untrained, the school too small, with no apparatus! They all +run about in despair, as if we had ever asked them to help us. And so +Mrs. Hoxton, who cares for poor children no more than for puppy-dogs, +but who can’t live without useless work, and has filled her house as +full of it as it can hold, devises a bazaar--a field for her trumpery, +and a show-off for all the young ladies; and Flora treats it like an +inspiration! Off they trot, to the old Assembly Rooms. I trusted that +the smallness of them would have knocked it on the head; but, still +worse, Flora’s talking of it makes Mr. Rivers think it our pet scheme; +so, what does he do but offer his park, and so we are to have a +regular fancy fair, and Cocksmoor School will be founded in vanity and +frivolity! But I believe you like it!” + +“I am not sure of my own feeling,” said Margaret. “It has been settled +without our interposition, and I have never been able to talk it over +calmly with you. Papa does not seem to disapprove.” + +“No,” said Ethel. “He will only laugh, and say it will spare him a great +many of Mrs. Hoxton’s nervous attacks. He thinks of it nearly as I do, +at the bottom, but I cannot get him to stop it, nor even to say he does +not wish Flora to sell.” + +“I did not understand that you really had such strong objections,” said +Margaret. “I thought it was only as a piece of folly, and--” + +“And interference with my Cocksmoor?” said Ethel. “I had better own to +what may be wrong personal feeling at first.” + +“I can hardly call it wrong,” said Margaret tenderly, “considering what +Cocksmoor is to you, and what the Ladies’ Committee is.” + +“Oh, Margaret, if the lawful authority--if a good clergyman would only +come, how willingly would I work under him! But Mrs. Ledwich and--it +is like having all the Spaniards and savages spoiling Robinson Crusoe’s +desert island!” + +“It is not come to that yet,” said Margaret; “but about the fancy fair. +We all know that the school is very much wanted.” + +“Yes, but I hoped to wait in patience and perseverance, and do it at +last.” + +“All yourself?” + +“Now, Margaret! you know I was glad of Alan’s help.” + +“I should think so!” said Margaret. “You need not make a favour of +that!” + +“Yes, but, don’t you see, that came as almsgiving, in the way which +brings a blessing. We want nothing to make us give money and work to +Cocksmoor. We do all we can already; and I don’t want to get a fine bag +or a ridiculous pincushion in exchange!” + +“Not you, but--” + +“Well, for the rest. If they like to offer their money, well and good, +the better for them; but why must they not give it to Cocksmoor--but for +that unnatural butterfly of Blanche’s, with black pins for horns, that +they will go and sell at an extortionate rate.” + +“The price will be given for Cocksmoor’s sake!” + +“Pooh! Margaret. Do you think it is for Cocksmoor’s sake that Lady +Leonora Langdale and her fine daughter come down from London? Would Mrs. +Hoxton spend the time in making frocks for Cocksmoor children that +she does in cutting out paper, and stuffing glass bottles with it? Let +people be honest--alms, or pleasure, or vanity! let them say which they +mean; but don’t make charity the excuse for the others; and, above all, +don’t make my poor Cocksmoor the victim of it.” + +“This is very severe,” said Margaret, pausing, almost confounded. “Do +you think no charity worth having but what is given on unmixed motives? +Who, then, could give?” + +“Margaret--we see much evil arise in the best-planned institutions; nay, +in what are not human. Don’t you think we ought to do our utmost to have +no flaw in the foundation? Schools are not such perfect places that we +can build them without fear, and, if the means are to be raised by a +bargain for amusement--if they are to come from frivolity instead of +self-denial, I am afraid of them. I do not mean that Cocksmoor has not +been the joy of my life, and of Mary’s, but that was not because we did +it for pleasure.” + +“No!” said Margaret, sighing, “you found pleasure by the way. But why +did you not say all this to Flora?” + +“It is of no use to talk to Flora,” said Ethel; “she would say it was +high-flown and visionary. Oh! she wants it for the bazaar’s own sake, +and that is one reason why I hate it.” + +“Now, Ethel!” + +“I do believe it was very unfortunate for Flora that the Hoxtons took to +patronising her, because Norman would not be patronised. Ever since +it began, her mind has been full of visitings, and parties, and county +families, and she has left off the home usefulness she used to care +about.” + +“But you are old enough for that,” said Margaret. “It would be hard to +keep Flora at home, now that you can take her place, and do not care for +going out. One of us must be the representative Miss May, you know, and +keep up the civilities; and you may think yourself lucky it is not you.” + +“If it was only that, I should not care, but I may as well tell you, +Margaret, for it is a weight to me. It is not the mere pleasure in +gaieties--Flora cares for them, in themselves, as little as I do--nor +is it neighbourliness, as a duty to others, for, you may observe, she +always gets off any engagement to the Wards, or any of the town folk, to +whom it would be a gratification to have her--she either eludes them, or +sends me. The thing is, that she is always trying to be with the great +people, the county set, and I don’t think that is the safe way of going +on.” + +Margaret mused sadly. “You frighten me, Ethel! I cannot say it is not +so, and these are so like the latent faults that dear mamma’s letter +spoke of--” + +Ethel sat meditating, and at last said, “I wish I had not told you! I +don’t always believe it myself, and it is so unkind, and you will make +yourself unhappy too. I ought not to have thought it of her! Think of +her ever-ready kindness and helpfulness; her pretty courteous ways to +the very least; her obligingness and tact!” + +“Yes,” said Margaret, “she is one of the kindest people there is, and +I am sure that she thought the gaining funds for Cocksmoor was the +best thing to be done, that you would be pleased, and a great deal of +pleasant occupation provided for us all.” + +“That is the bright side, the surface side,” said Ethel. + +“And not an untrue one,” said Margaret; “Meta will not be vain, and will +work the more happily for Cocksmoor’s sake. Mary and Blanche, poor Mrs. +Boulder, and many good ladies who hitherto have not known how to help +Cocksmoor, will do so now with a good will, and though it is not what we +should have chosen, I think we had better take it in good part.” + +“You think so?” + +“Yes, indeed I do. If you go about with that dismal face and strong +disapproval, it will really seem as if it was the having your dominion +muddled with that you dislike. Besides, it is putting yourself forward +to censure what is not absolutely wrong in itself, and that cannot be +desirable.” + +“No,” said Ethel, “but I cannot help being sorry for Cocksmoor. I +thought patience would prepare the way, and the means be granted in good +time, without hastiness--only earnestness.” + +“You had made a picture for yourself,” said Margaret gently. “Yes, we +all make pictures for ourselves, and we are the foremost figures in +them; but they are taken out of our hands, and we see others putting +in rude touches, and spoiling our work, as it seems; but, by-and-by, we +shall see that it is all guided.” + +Ethel sighed. “Then having protested to my utmost against this concern, +you think I ought to be amiable about it.” + +“And to let poor Mary enjoy it. She would be so happy, if you would not +bewilder her by your gloomy looks, and keep her to the hemming of your +endless glazed calico bonnet strings.” + +“Poor old Mary! I thought that was by her own desire.” + +“Only her dutiful allegiance to you; and, as making pincushions is +nearly her greatest delight, it is cruel to make her think it, in some +mysterious way, wrong and displeasing to you.” + +Ethel laughed, and said, “I did not think Mary was in such awe of me. +I’ll set her free, then. But, Margaret, do you really think I ought to +give up my time to it?” + +“Could you not just let them have a few drawings, or a little bit of +your company work--just enough for you not to annoy every one, and seem +to be testifying against them? You would not like to vex Meta.” + +“It will go hard, if I do not tell Meta my mind. I cannot bear to see +her deluded.” + +“I don’t think she is,” said Margaret; “but she does not set her face +against what others wish. As papa says of his dear little humming-bird, +she takes the honey, and leaves the poison.” + +“Yes; amid all that enjoyment, she is always choosing the good, and +leaving the evil; always sacrificing something, and then being happy in +the sacrifice!” + +“No one would guess it was a sacrifice, it is so joyously done--least of +all Meta herself.” + +“Her coming home from London was exactly a specimen of that +sacrifice--and no sacrifice,” said Ethel. + +“What was that?” said Norman, who had come up to the window unobserved, +and had been listening to their few last sentences. + +“Did not you hear of it? It was a sort of material turning away from +vanity that made me respect the little rival Daisy, as much as I always +admired her. + +“Tell me,” said Norman. “When was it?” + +“Last spring. You know Mr. Rivers is always ill in London: indeed, papa +says it would be the death of him; but Lady Leonora Langdale thinks it +dreadful that Meta should not go to all the gaieties; and last year, +when Mrs. Larpent was gone, she insisted on her coming to stay with her +for the season. Now Meta thought it wrong to leave her father alone, and +wanted not to have gone at all, but, to my surprise, Margaret advised +her to yield, and go for some short fixed time.” + +“Yes,” said Margaret; “as all her elders thought it right, I did not +think we could advise her to refuse absolutely. Besides, it was a +promise.” + +“She declared she would only stay three weeks, and the Langdales were +satisfied, thinking that, once in London, they should keep her. They +little knew Meta, with her pretty ways of pretending that her resolution +is only spoiled-child wilfulness. None of you quite trusted her, did +you, Margaret? Even papa was almost afraid, though he wanted her very +much to be at home; for poor Mr. Rivers was so low and forlorn without +her, though he would not let her know, because Lady Leonora had +persuaded him to think it was all for her good.” + +“What did they do with her in London?” asked Norman. + +“They did their utmost,” said Ethel. “They made engagements for her, and +took her to parties and concerts--those she did enjoy very much and she +had lessons in drawing and music, but whenever she wanted to see any +exhibitions, or do anything, they always said there was time to spare. I +believe it was very charming, and she would have been very glad to stay, +but she never would promise, and she was always thinking of her positive +duty at home. She seemed afterwards to think of her wishes to remain +almost as if they had been a sin; but she said--dear little Meta--that +nothing had ever helped her so much as that she used to say to herself, +whenever she was going out, ‘I renounce the world.’ It came to a crisis +at last, when Lady Leonora wanted her to be presented--the Drawing-Room +was after the end of her three weeks--and she held out against it; +though her aunt laughed at her, and treated her as if she was a silly, +shy child. At last, what do you think Meta did? She went to her uncle, +Lord Cosham, and appealed to him to say whether there was the least +necessity for her to go to court.” + +“Then she gained the day?” said Norman. + +“He was delighted with that spirited, yet coaxing way of hers, and +admired her determination. He told papa so himself--for you must know, +when he heard all Meta had to say, he called her a very good girl, and +said he would take her home himself on the Saturday she had fixed, and +spend Sunday at Abbotstoke. Oh! he was perfectly won by her sweet +ways. Was not it lucky? for before this Lady Leonora had written to Mr. +Rivers, and obtained from him a letter, which Meta had the next day, +desiring her to stay for the Drawing-Room. But Meta knew well enough how +it was, and was not to be conquered that way; so she said she must go +home to entertain her uncle, and that if her papa really wished it, she +would return on Monday.” + +“Knowing well that Mr. Rivers would be only too glad to keep her.” + +“Just so. How happy they both did look, when they came in here on their +way from the station where he had met her! How she danced in, and how +she sparkled with glee!” said Margaret, “and poor Mr. Rivers was quite +tremulous with the joy of having her back, hardly able to keep from +fondling her every minute, and coming again into the room after they had +taken leave, to tell me that his little girl had preferred her home, and +her poor old father, to all the pleasures in London. Oh, I was so glad +they came! That was a sight that did one good! And then, I fancy Mr. +Rivers is a wee bit afraid of his brother-in-law, for he begged papa +and Flora to come home and dine with them, but Flora was engaged to Mrs. +Hoxton.” + +“Ha! Flora!” said Norman, as if he rather enjoyed her losing something +through her going to Mrs. Hoxton. “I suppose she would have given the +world to go!” + +“I was so sorry,” said Ethel; “but I had to go instead, and it was +delightful. Papa made great friends with Lord Cosham, while Mr. Rivers +went to sleep after dinner, and I had such a delightful wandering with +Meta, listening to the nightingales, and hearing all about it. I never +knew Meta so well before.” + +“And there was no more question of her going back?” said Norman. + +“No, indeed! She said, when her uncle asked in joke, on Monday morning, +whether she had packed up to return with him, Mr. Rivers was quite +nervously alarmed the first moment, lest she should intend it.” + +“That little Meta,” said Margaret. “Her wishes for substantial use have +been pretty well realised!” + +“Um!” said Ethel. + +“What do you mean?” said Norman sharply. “I should call her present +position the perfection of feminine usefulness.” + +“So perhaps it is,” said Ethel; “but though she does it beautifully, +and is very valuable, to be the mistress of a great luxurious house like +that does not seem to me the subject of aspirations like Meta’s.” + +“Think of the contrast with what she used to be,” said Margaret gently, +“the pretty, gentle, playful toy that her father brought her up to +be, living a life of mere accomplishments and self-indulgence; kind +certainly, but never so as to endure any disagreeables, or make any +exertion. But as soon as she entered into the true spirit of our +calling, did she not begin to seek to live the sterner life, and train +herself in duty? The quiet way she took always seemed to me the great +beauty of it. She makes duties of her accomplishments by making them +loving obedience to her father.” + +“Not that they are not pleasant to her?” interposed Norman. + +“Certainly,” said Margaret, “but it gives them the zest, and confidence +that they are right, which one could not have in such things merely for +one’s own amusement.” + +“Yes,” said Ethel, “she does more; she told me one day that one reason +she liked sketching was, that looking into nature always made psalms and +hymns sing in her ears, and so with her music and her beautiful copies +from the old Italian devotional pictures. She says our papa taught her +to look at them so as to see more than the mere art and beauty.” + +“Think how diligently she measures out her day,” said Margaret; “getting +up early, to be sure of time for reading her serious books, and working +hard at her tough studies.” + +“And what I care for still more,” said Ethel, “her being bent on +learning plain needlework and doing it for her poor people. She is so +useful amongst the cottagers at Abbotstoke!” + +“And a famous little mistress of the house,” added Margaret. “When the +old housekeeper went away two years ago, she thought she ought to know +something about the government of the house; so she asked me about +it, and proposed to her father that the new one should come to her for +orders, and that she should pay the wages and have the accounts in +her hands. Mr. Rivers thought it was only a freak, but she has gone on +steadily; and I assure you, she has had some difficulties, for she has +come to me about them. Perhaps Ethel does not believe in them?” + +“No, I was only thinking how I should hate ordering those fanciful +dinners for Mr. Rivers. I know what you mean, and how she had +difficulties about sending the maids to church, and in dealing with the +cook, who did harm to the other servants, and yet sent up dinners that +he liked, and how puzzled she was to avoid annoying him. Oh! she has got +into a peck of troubles by making herself manager.” + +“And had she not been the Meta she is, she would either have fretted, or +thrown it all up, instead of humming briskly through all. She never +was afraid to speak to any one,” said Margaret, “that is one thing; I +believe every difficulty makes the spirit bound higher, till she springs +over it, and finds it, as she says, only a pleasure.” + +“She need not be afraid to speak,” said Ethel, “for she always does it +well and winningly. I have seen her give a reproof in so firm and kind a +way, and so bright in the instant of forgiveness.” + +“Yes,” said Margaret, “she does those disagreeable things as well as +Flora does in her way.” + +“And yet,” said Ethel, “doing things well does not seem to be a snare to +her.” + +“Because,” whispered Margaret, “she fulfils more than almost any +one--the--‘Whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God.’” + +“Do you know,” said Norman suddenly, “the derivation of Margarita?” + +“No further than those two pretty meanings, the pearl and the daisy,” + said Ethel. + +“It is from the Persian Mervarid, child of light,” said Norman; and, +with a sudden flush of colour, he returned to the garden. + +“A fit meaning for one who carries sunshine with her,” said Margaret. +“I feel in better tune for a whole day after her bright eyes have been +smiling on me.” + +“You want no one to put you in tune,” said Ethel fondly--“you, our own +pearl of light.” + +“No, call me only an old faded daisy,” said Margaret sadly. + +“Not a bit, only our moon, la gran Margarita” said Ethel. + +“I hear the real Daisy coming!” exclaimed Margaret, her face lighting up +with pleasure as the two youngest children entered, and, indeed, little +Gertrude’s golden hair, round open face, fresh red and white complexion, +and innocent looks, had so much likeness to the flower, as to promote +the use of the pet name, though protests were often made in favour +of her proper appellation. Her temper was daisy-like too, serene and +loving, and able to bear a great deal of spoiling, and resolve as they +might, who was not her slave? + +Miss Winter no longer ruled the schoolroom. Her sway had been brought +to a happy conclusion by a proposal from a widowed sister to keep house +with her; and Ethel had reason to rejoice that Margaret had kept her +submissive under authority, which, if not always judicious, was both +kind and conscientious. + +Upon the change, Ethel had thought that the lessons could easily +be managed by herself and Flora; while Flora was very anxious for a +finishing governess, who might impart singing to herself, graces to +Ethel, and accomplishments to Mary and Blanche. + +Dr. May, however, took them both by surprise. He met with a family of +orphans, the eldest of whom had been qualifying herself for a governess, +and needed nothing but age and finish; and in ten minutes after the +project had been conceived, he had begun to put it in execution, in +spite of Flora’s prudent demurs. + +Miss Bracy was a gentle, pleasing young person, pretty to look at, +with her soft olive complexion, and languid pensive eyes, obliging and +intelligent; and the change from the dry, authoritative Miss Winter was +so delightful, that unedifying contrasts were continually being drawn. +Blanche struck up a great friendship for her at once; Mary, always +docile, ceased to be piteous at her lessons, and Ethel moralised on the +satisfaction of having sympathy needed instead of repelled, and did her +utmost to make Miss Bracy feel at home--and like a friend--in her new +position. + +For herself, Ethel had drawn up a beautiful time-table, with all her +pursuits and duties most carefully balanced, after the pattern of that +which Margaret Rivers had made by her advice, on the departure of Mrs. +Larpent, who had been called away by the ill-health of her son. Meta had +adhered to hers in an exemplary manner, but she was her own mistress in +a manner that could hardly be the lot of one of a large family. + +Margaret had become subject to languor and palpitations, and the head +of the household had fallen entirely upon Flora, who, on the other hand, +was a person of multifarious occupations, and always had a great number +of letters to write, or songs to copy and practise, which, together with +her frequent visits to Mrs. Hoxton, made her glad to devolve, as much as +she could, upon her younger sister; and, “Oh, Ethel, you will not mind +just doing this for me,” was said often enough to be a tax upon her +time. + +Moreover, Ethel perceived that Aubrey’s lessons were in an +unsatisfactory state. Margaret could not always attend to them, and +suffered from them when she did; and he was bandied about between his +sisters and Miss Bracy in a manner that made him neither attentive nor +obedient. + +On her own principle, that to embrace a task heartily renders it no +longer irksome, she called on herself to sacrifice her studies and +her regularity, as far as was needful, to make her available for home +requirements. She made herself responsible for Aubrey, and, after a +few battles with his desultory habits, made him a very promising +pupil, inspiring so much of herself into him, that he was, if anything, +overfull of her classical tastes. In fact, he had such an appetite for +books, and dealt so much in precocious wisdom, that his father was heard +to say, “Six years old! It is a comfort that he will soon forget the +whole.” + +Gertrude was also Ethel’s pupil, but learning was not at all in her +line; and the sight of “Cobwebs to catch Flies,” or of the venerated +“Little Charles,” were the most serious clouds, that made the Daisy +pucker up her face, and infuse a whine into her voice. + +However, to-day, as usual, she was half dragged, half coaxed, through +her day’s portion of the discipline of life, and then sent up for her +sleep, while Aubrey’s two hours were spent in more agreeable work, such +as Margaret could not but enjoy hearing--so spirited was Ethel’s mode of +teaching--so eager was her scholar. + +His play afterwards consisted in fighting o’er again the siege of Troy +on the floor, with wooden bricks, shells, and the survivors of a Noah’s +ark, while Ethel read to Margaret until Gertrude’s descent from the +nursery, when the only means of preventing a dire confusion in Aubrey’s +camp was for her elder sisters to become her playfellows, and so spare +Aubrey’s temper. Ethel good-humouredly gave her own time, till their +little tyrant trotted out to make Norman carry her round the garden on +his back. + +So sped the morning till Flora came home, full of the intended bazaar, +and Ethel would fain have taken refuge in puzzling out her Spanish, had +she not remembered her recent promise to be gracious. + +The matter had been much as she had described it. Flora had a way of +hinting at anything she thought creditable, and thus the Stoneborough +public had become aware of the exertions of the May family on behalf of +Cocksmoor. + +The plan of a fancy fair was started. Mrs. Hoxton became more interested +than was her wont, and Flora was enchanted at the opening it gave for +promoting the welfare of the forlorn district. She held a position which +made her hope to direct the whole. As she had once declared, with truth, +it only had depended on themselves, whether she and her sisters should +sink to the level of the Andersons and their set, or belong to the +county society; and her tact had resulted in her being decidedly--as the +little dressmaker’s apprentice amused Ethel by saying--“One of our most +distinguished patronesses”--a name that had stuck by her ever since. + +Margaret looked on passively, inclined to admire Flora in everything, +yet now and then puzzled; and her father, in his simple-hearted way, +felt only gratitude and exultation in the kindness that his daughter +met with. As to the bazaar, if it had been started in his own family, he +might have weighed the objections, but, as it was not his daughter’s own +concern, he did not trouble himself about it, only regarding it as one +of the many vagaries of the ladies of Stoneborough. + +So the scheme had been further developed, till now Flora came in with +much to tell. The number of stalls had been finally fixed. Mrs. Hoxton +undertook one, with Flora as an aide-de-camp, and some nieces to assist; +Lady Leonora was to chaperon Miss Rivers; and a third, to Flora’s +regret, had been allotted to Miss Cleveland, a good-natured, merry, +elderly heiress, who would, Flora feared, bring on them the whole +“Stoneborough crew.” And then she began to reckon up the present +resources--drawings, bags, and pincushions. “That chip hat you plaited +for Daisy, Margaret, you must let us have that. It will be lovely, +trimmed with pink.” + +“Do you wish for this?” said Ethel, heaving up a mass of knitting. + +“Thank you,” said Flora; “so ornamental, especially the original +performance in the corner, which you would perpetrate, in spite of my +best efforts.” + +“I shall not be offended if you despise it. I only thought you might +have no more scruple in robbing Granny Hall than in robbing Daisy.” + +“Pray, send it. Papa will buy it as your unique performance.” + +“No; you shall tell me what I am to do.” + +“Does she mean it?” said Flora, turning to Margaret. “Have you converted +her? Well done! Then, Ethel, we will get some pretty batiste, and you +and Mary shall make some of those nice sun-bonnets, which you really do +to perfection.” + +“Thank you. That is a more respectable task than I expected. People may +have something worth buying,” said Ethel, who, like all the world, felt +the influence of Flora’s tact. + +“I mean to study the useful,” said Flora. “The Cleveland set will be +sure to deal in frippery, and I have been looking over Mrs. Hoxton’s +stores, where I see quite enough for mere decoration. There are two +splendid vases in potichomanie, in an Etruscan pattern, which are coming +for me to finish.” + +“Mrs. Taylor, at Cocksmoor, could do that for you,” said Ethel. “Her two +phials, stuffed with chintz patterns and flour, are quite as original +and tasteful.” + +“Silly work,” said Flora, “but it makes a fair show.” + +“The essence of Vanity Fair,” said Ethel. + +“It won’t do to be satirical over much,” said Flora. “You won’t get on +without humouring your neighbours’ follies.” + +“I don’t want to get on.” + +“But you want--or, at least, I want--Cocksmoor to get on.” + +Ethel saw Margaret looking distressed, and, recalling her resolution +she said, “Well, Flora, I don’t mean to say any more about it. I see it +can’t be helped, and you all think you intend it for good; so there’s an +end of the matter, and I’ll do anything for you in reason.” + +“Poor old King Ethel!” said Flora, smiling in an elder-sisterly +manner. “You will see, my dear, your views are very pretty, but very +impracticable, and it is a work-a-day world after all--even papa would +tell you so. When Cocksmoor school is built, then you may thank me. I do +not look for it before.” + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + + + Knowledge is second, not the first; + A higher Hand must make her mild, + If all be not in vain, and guide + Her footsteps, moving side by side, + With wisdom; like the younger child, + For she is earthly of the mind, + But knowledge heavenly of the soul.--In Memoriam. + + +Etheldred had not answered her sister, but she did not feel at all +secure that she should have anything to be thankful for, even if the +school were built. + +The invasion of Cocksmoor was not only interference with her own field +of action, but it was dangerous to the improvement of her scholars. +Since the departure of Mr. Wilmot, matters at Stoneborough National +School had not improved, though the Misses Anderson talked a great deal +about progress, science, and lectures. + +The Ladies’ Committee were constantly at war with the mistresses, and +that one was a veteran who endured them, or whom they could endure +beyond her first half-year. No mistress had stayed a year within the +memory of any girl now at school. Perpetual change prevented any real +education, and, as each lady held different opinions and proscribed all +books not agreeing thereto, everything “dogmatical” was excluded; and, +as Ethel said, the children learned nothing but facts about lions and +steam-engines, while their doctrine varied with that of the visitor for +the week. If the ten generals could only have given up to Miltiades, +but, alas! there was no Miltiades. Mr. Ramsden’s health was failing, +and his neglect told upon the parish in the dreadful evils reigning +unchecked, and engulfing many a child whom more influential teaching +might have saved. Mental arithmetic, and the rivers of Africa, had +little power to strengthen the soul against temptation. + +The scanty attendance at the National School attested the indifference +with which it was regarded, and the borderers voluntarily patronised +Cherry Elwood, and thus had, perhaps, first aroused the emulation that +led Mrs. Ledwich on a visit of inspection, to what she chose to consider +as an offshoot of the National School. + +The next day she called upon the Misses May. It was well that Ethel was +not at home. Margaret received the lady’s horrors at the sight of the +mere crowded cottage kitchen, the stupid untrained mistress, without an +idea of method, and that impertinent woman, her mother! Miss Flora and +Miss Ethel must have had a great deal to undergo, and she would lose no +time in convening the Ladies’ Committee, and appointing a successor to +“that Elwood,” as soon as a fit room could be erected for her use. If +Margaret had not known that Mrs. Ledwich sometimes threatened more than +she could accomplish, she would have been in despair. She tried to say +a good word for Cherry, but was talked down, and had reason to believe +that Mrs. Elwood had mortally offended Mrs. Ledwich. + +The sisters had heard the other side of the story at Cocksmoor. Mrs. +Elwood would not let them enter the school till she had heard how that +there Mrs. Ledwich had come in, and treated them all as if it was her +own place--how she had found fault with Cherry before all the children, +and as good as said she was not fit to keep a school. She had even laid +hands on one of the books, and said that she should take it home, and +see whether it were a fit one for them to use; whereupon Mrs. Elwood had +burst out in defence--it was Miss Ethel May’s book, and should not be +taken away--it was Miss Ethel as she looked to; and when it seemed that +Mrs. Ledwich had said something disparaging of Miss Ethel, either as +to youth, judgment, or doctrine, Mrs. Elwood had fired up into a +declaration that “Miss Ethel was a real lady--that she was! and that +no real lady would ever come prying into other folk’s work and finding +fault with what wasn’t no business of theirs,” with more of a personal +nature, which Flora could not help enjoying, even while she regretted +it. + +Cherry was only too meek, as her mother declared. She had said not a +word, except in quiet reply, and being equally terrified by the attack +and defence, had probably seemed more dull than was her wont. Her real +feelings did not appear till the next Sunday, when, in her peaceful +conference with Margaret, far from the sound of storms, she expressed +that she well knew that she was a poor scholar, and that she hoped the +young ladies would not let her stand in the children’s light, when a +better teacher could be found for them. + +“I am sure!” cried Ethel, as she heard of this, “it would be hard to +find such a teacher in humility! Cherry bears it so much better than I, +that it is a continual reproof!” + +As to the dullness, against which Ethel used to rail, the attacks upon +it had made her erect it into a positive merit; she was always comparing +the truth, honesty, and respectful demeanour of Cherry’s scholars with +the notorious faults of the National School girls, as if these defects +had been implanted either by Mrs. Ledwich, or by geography. It must be +confessed that the violence of partisanship did not make her a pleasant +companion. + +However, the interest of the bazaar began somewhat to divert the current +of the ladies’ thoughts, and Ethel found herself walking day after +day to Cocksmoor, unmolested by further reports of Mrs. Ledwich’s +proceedings. Richard was absent, preparing for ordination, but Norman +had just returned home for the Long Vacation, and, rather than lose the +chance of a conversation with her, had joined her and Mary in a walk to +Cocksmoor. + +His talk was chiefly of Settlesham, old Mr. Wilmot’s parish, where +he had been making a visit to his former tutor, and talking over the +removal to Eton of Tom, who had well responded to the care taken of him, +and with his good principles confirmed, and his character strengthened, +might be, with less danger, exposed to trial. + +It had been a visit such as to leave a deep impression on Norman’s mind. +Sixty years ago, old Mr. Wilmot had been what he now was himself--an +enthusiastic and distinguished Balliol man, and he had kept up a +warm, clear-sighted interest in Oxford throughout his long life. His +anecdotes, his recollections, and comments on present opinions had been +listened to with great eagerness, and Norman had felt it an infinite +honour to give the venerable old man his arm, as to be shown by him his +curious collection of books. His parish, carefully watched for so many +years, had been a study not lost upon Norman, who detailed particulars +of the doings there, which made Ethel sigh to think of the contrast +with Stoneborough. In such conversation they came to the entrance of +the hamlet, and Mary, with a scream of joy, declared that she really +believed that he was going to help them! He did not turn away. + +“Thank you!” said Ethel, in a low voice, from the bottom of her heart. + +She used him mercifully, and made the lessons shorter than usual, but +when they reached the open air again, he drew a long breath; and when +Mary eagerly tried for a compliment to their scholars, asked if they +could not be taught the use of eyelids. + +“Did they stare?” said Ethel. “That’s one advantage of being blind. No +one can stare me out of countenance.” + +“Why were you answering all your questions yourself?” asked Mary. + +“Because no one else would,” said Norman. + +“You used such hard words,” replied Ethel. + +“Indeed! I thought I was very simple.” + +“Oh!” cried Mary, “there were derive, and instruction, and implicate, +and--oh, so many.” + +“Never mind,” said Ethel, seeing him disconcerted. “It is better for +them to be drawn up, and you will soon learn their language. If we only +had Una M’Carthy here!” + +“Then you don’t like it?” said Mary, disappointed. + +“It is time to learn not to be fastidious,” he answered. “So, if you +will help me--” + +“Norman, I am so glad!” said Ethel. + +“Yes,” said Norman, “I see now that these things that puff us up, and +seem the whole world to us now, all end in nothing but such as this! +Think of old Mr. Wilmot, once carrying all before him, but deeming all +his powers well bestowed in fifty years’ teaching of clowns!” + +“Yes,” replied Ethel, very low. “One soul is worth--” and she paused +from the fullness of thought. + +“And these things, about which we are so elated, do not render us so fit +to teach--as you, Mary, or as Richard.” + +“They do,” said Ethel. “The ten talents were doubled. Strength tells in +power. The more learning, the fitter to teach the simplest thing.” + +“You remind me of old Mr. Wilmot saying that the first thing he learned +at his parish was, how little his people knew; the second, how little he +himself knew.” + +So Norman persevered in the homely discipline that he had chosen for +himself, which brought out his deficiency in practical work in a manner +which lowered him in his own eyes, to a degree almost satisfactory +to himself. He was not, indeed, without humility, but his nature was +self-contemplative and self-conscious enough to perceive his superiority +of talent, and it had been the struggle of his life to abase this +perception, so that it was actually a relief not to be obliged to fight +with his own complacency in his powers. He had learned not to think too +highly of himself--he had yet to learn to “think soberly.” His aid was +Ethel’s chief pleasure through this somewhat trying summer, it might be +her last peaceful one at Cocksmoor. + +That bazaar! How wild it had driven the whole town, and even her own +home! + +Margaret herself, between good nature and feminine love of pretty +things, had become ardent in the cause. In her unvaried life, it was a +great amusement to have so many bright elegant things exhibited to her, +and Ethel was often mortified to find her excited about some new device, +or drawn off from “rational employments,” to complete some trifle. + +Mary and Blanche were far worse. From the time that consent had been +given to the fancy-work being carried on in the schoolroom, all interest +in study was over. Thenceforth, lessons were a necessary form, gone +through without heart or diligence. These were reserved for paste-board +boxes, beplastered with rice and sealing-wax, for alum baskets, dressed +dolls, and every conceivable trumpery; and the governess was as eager as +the scholars. + +If Ethel remonstrated, she hurt Miss Bracy’s feelings, and this was a +very serious matter to both parties. + +The governess was one of those morbidly sensitive people, who cannot +be stopped when once they have begun arguing that they are injured. +Two women together, each with the last-word instinct, have no power +to cease; and, when the words are spent in explaining--not in +scolding--conscience is not called in to silence them, and nothing but +dinner or a thunder-storm can check them. All Ethel’s good sense was of +no avail; she could not stop Miss Bracy, and, though she might resolve +within herself that real kindness would be to make one reasonable reply, +and then quit the subject, yet, on each individual occasion, such a +measure would have seemed mere impatience and cruelty. She found that if +Miss Winter had been too dry, Miss Bracy went to the other extreme, +and demanded a manifestation of sympathy, and return to her passionate +attachment that perplexed Ethel’s undemonstrative nature. Poor good Miss +Bracy, she little imagined how often she added to the worries of her +dear Miss Ethel, all for want of self-command. + +Finally, as the lessons were less and less attended to, and the needs +of the stall became more urgent, Dr. May and Margaret concurred in a +decision, that it was better to yield to the mania, and give up the +studies till they could be pursued with a willing mind. + +Ethel submitted, and only laughed with Norman at the display of +treasures, which the girls went over daily, like the “House that Jack +built,” always starting from “the box that Mary made.” Come when Dr. May +would into the drawing-room, there was always a line of penwipers laid +out on the floor, bags pendent to all the table-drawers, antimacassars +laid out everywhere. + +Ethel hoped that the holidays would create a diversion, but Mary was too +old to be made into a boy, and Blanche drew Hector over to the feminine +party, setting him to gum, gild, and paste all the contrivances which, +in their hands, were mere feeble gimcracks, but which now became fairly +sound, or, at least, saleable. + +The boys also constructed a beautiful little ship from a print of the +Alcestis, so successfully, that the doctor promised to buy it; and Ethel +grudged the very sight of it to the bazaar. + +Tom, who, in person, was growing like a little shadow or model of +Norman, had, unlike him, a very dexterous pair of hands, and made +himself extremely useful in all such works. On the other hand, the +Cleveland stall seemed chiefly to rely for brilliance on the wit of +Harvey Anderson, who was prospering at his college, and the pride of his +family. A great talker, and extremely gallant, he was considered a far +greater acquisition to a Stoneborough drawing-room than was the silent, +bashful Norman May, and rather looked down on his brother Edward, who, +having gone steadily through the school, was in the attorney’s office, +and went on quietly and well, colouring up gratefully whenever one of +the May family said a kind word to him. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + + + Any silk, any thread, + Any toys for your head, + Of the newest and finest wear-a? + Come to the pedlar, + Money’s a medlar. + That doth utter all men’s ware-a. + Winter’s Tale. + + +“This one day and it will be over, and we shall be rational again,” + thought Ethel, as she awoke. + +Flora was sleeping at the Grange, to be ready for action in the morning, +and Ethel was to go early with Mary and Blanche, who were frantic to +have a share in the selling. Norman and the boys were to walk at their +own time, and the children to be brought later by Miss Bracy. The doctor +would be bound by no rules. + +It was a pattern day, bright, clear, warm, and not oppressive, perfect +for an out-of-doors fete; and Ethel had made up her mind to fulfil her +promise to Margaret of enjoying herself. In the brilliant sunshine, and +between two such happy sisters, it would have been surly, indeed, not to +enter into the spirit of the day; and Ethel laughed gaily with them, +and at their schemes and hopes; Blanche’s heart being especially set on +knowing the fate of a watch-guard of her own construction. + +Hearing that the ladies were in the gardens, they repaired thither at +once. The broad, smooth bowling-green lay before them; a marquee, almost +converted into a bower, bounding it on either side, while in the midst +arose, gorgeous and delicious, a pyramid of flowers--contributions from +all the hot-houses in the neighbourhood--to be sold for the benefit of +the bazaar. Their freshness and fragrance gave a brightness to the whole +scene, while shrinking from such light, as only the beauteous works of +nature could bear, was the array accomplished by female fingers. + +Under the wreathed canopies were the stalls, piled up with bright +colours, most artistically arranged. Ethel, with her over-minute +knowledge of every article, could hardly believe that yonder glowing +Eastern pattern of scarlet, black, and blue, was, in fact, a judicious +mosaic of penwipers that she remembered, as shreds begged from the +tailor, that the delicate lace-work consisted of Miss Bracy’s perpetual +antimacassars, and that the potichomanie could look so dignified and +Etruscan. + +“Here you are!” cried Meta Rivers, springing to meet them. “Good girls, +to come early. Where’s my little Daisy?” + +“Coming in good time,” said Ethel. “How pretty it all looks!” + +“But where’s Flora?--where’s my watch-guard?” anxiously asked Blanche. + +“She was here just now,” said Meta, looking round. “What a genius she +is, Ethel! She worked wonders all yesterday, and let the Miss Hoxtons +think it was all their own doing, and she was out before six this +morning, putting finishing touches.” + +“Is this your stall?” said Ethel. + +“Yes, but it will not bear a comparison with hers. It has a lady’s-maid +look by the side of hers. In fact, Bellairs and my aunt’s maid did it +chiefly, for papa was rather ailing yesterday, and I could not be out +much.” + +“How is he now?” + +“Better; he will walk round by-and-by. I hope it will not be too much +for him.” + +“Oh, what beautiful things!” cried Mary, in ecstasy, at what she was +forced to express by the vague substantive, for her imagination had +never stretched to the marvels she beheld. + +“Ay, we have been lazy, you see, and so Aunt Leonora brought down all +these smart concerns. It is rather like Howell and James’s, isn’t it?” + +In fact, Lady Leonora’s marquee was filled with costly knick-knacks, +which, as Meta justly said, had not half the grace and appropriate air +that reigned where Flora had arranged, and where Margaret had worked, +with the peculiar freshness and finish that distinguished everything to +which she set her hand. + +Miss Cleveland’s counter was not ill set-out, but it wanted the air of +ease and simplicity, which was even more noticeable than the perfect +taste of Flora’s wares. If there had been nothing facetious, the effect +would have been better, but there was nothing to regret, and the whole +was very bright and gay. + +Blanche could hardly look; so anxious was she for Flora to tell her the +locality of her treasure. + +“There she is,” said Meta at last. “George is fixing that branch of +evergreen for her.” + +“Flora! I did not know her,” cried each sister amazed; while Mary added, +“Oh, how nice she looks!” + +It was the first time of seeing her in the white muslin, and broad chip +hat--which all the younger saleswomen of the bazaar had agreed to wear. +It was a most becoming dress, and she did, indeed, look strikingly +elegant and well dressed. It occurred to Ethel, for the first time, that +Flora was decidedly the reigning beauty of the bazaar--no one but Meta +Rivers could be compared to her, and that little lady was on so small +a scale of perfect finish, that she seemed fit to act the fairy, where +Flora was the enchanted princess. + +Flora greeted her sisters eagerly, while Meta introduced her brother--a +great contrast to herself, though not without a certain comeliness, +tall and large, with ruddy complexion, deep lustreless black eyes, and +a heavy straight bush of black moustache, veiling rather thick lips. +Blanche reiterated inquiries for her watch-guard. + +“I don’t know,”--said Flora. “Somewhere among the rest.” + +Blanche was in despair. + +“You may look for it,” said Flora, who, however hurried, never failed in +kindness, “if you will touch nothing.” + +So Blanche ran from place to place in restless dismay, that caused Mr. +George Rivers to ask what was the matter. + +“The guards! the guards!” cried Blanche; whereupon he fell into a fit of +laughter, which disconcerted her, because she could not understand him, +and made Ethel take an aversion to him on the spot. + +However, he was very good-natured; he took Blanche’s reluctant hand, and +conducted her all along the stall, even proceeding to lift her up where +she could not command a view of the whole, thus exciting her extreme +indignation. She shook herself out when he set her down, surveyed her +crumpled muslin, and believed he took her for a little girl! She ought +to have been flattered when the quest was successful, and he insisted +on knowing which was the guard, and declared that he should buy it. She +begged him to do no such thing, and he desired to know why--insisting +that he would give five shillings--fifteen--twenty-five for that one! +till she did not know whether he was in earnest, and she doing an injury +to the bazaar. + +Meantime, the hour had struck, and Flora had placed Mrs. Hoxton in a +sheltered spot, where she could take as much or as little trouble as she +pleased. Lady Leonora and Miss Langdale came from the house, and, with +the two ladies’-maids in the background, took up their station with +Miss Rivers. Miss Cleveland called her party to order, and sounds of +carriages were heard approaching. + +Mary and Blanche disbursed the first money spent in the “fancy fair;” + Mary, on a blotting-book for Harry, to be placed among the presents, to +which she added on every birthday, while Blanche bought a sixpenny gift +for every one, with more attention to the quantity than the quality. +Then came a revival of her anxieties for the guards, and while Mary was +simply desirous of the fun of being a shopwoman, and was made happy by +Meta Rivers asking her help, Blanche was in despair, till she had sidled +up to their neighbourhood, and her piteous looks had caused good-natured +Mrs. Hoxton to invite her to assist, when she placed herself close to +the precious object. + +A great fluttering of heart went to that manoeuvre, but still felicity +could not be complete. That great troublesome Mr. George Rivers had +actually threatened to buy nothing but that one watch-chain, and +Blanche’s eye followed him everywhere with fear, lest he should come +that way. And there were many other gentlemen--what could they want but +watch-guards, and of them--what--save this paragon? + +Poor Blanche; what did she not undergo whenever any one cast his eye +over her range of goods? and this was not seldom, for there was an +attraction in the pretty little eager girl, glowing and smiling. One +old gentleman actually stopped, handled the guards themselves, and asked +their price. + +“Eighteen-pence,” said Blanche, colouring and faltering, as she held up +one in preference. + +“Eh! is not this the best?” said he, to the lady on his arm. + +“Oh! please, take that instead?” exclaimed Blanche, in extremity. + +“And why?” asked the gentleman, amused. + +“I made this,” she answered. + +“Is that the reason I must not have it?” + +“No, don’t tease her,” the lady said kindly; and the other was taken. + +“I wonder for what it is reserved!” the lady could not help saying, as +she walked away. + +“Let us watch her for a minute or two. What an embellishment +children are! Ha! don’t you see--the little maid is fluttering and +reddening--now! How pretty she looks! Ah! I see! here’s the favoured! +Don’t you see that fine bronzed lad--Eton--one can see at a glance! It +is a little drama. They are pretending to be strangers. He is turning +over the goods with an air, she trying to look equally careless, but +what a pretty carnation it is! Ha! ha! he has come to it--he has it! Now +the acting is over, and they are having their laugh out! How joyously! +What next! Oh! she begs off from keeping shop--she darts out to him, +goes off in his hand--I declare that is the prettiest sight in the whole +fair! I wonder who the little demoiselle can be?” + +The great event of the day was over now with Blanche, and she greatly +enjoyed wandering about with Hector and Tom. There was a post-office +at Miss Cleveland’s stall, where, on paying sixpence, a letter could be +obtained to the address of the inquirer. Blanche had been very anxious +to try, but Flora had pronounced it nonsense; however, Hector declared +that Flora was not his master, tapped at the sliding panel, and charmed +Blanche by what she thought a most witty parody of his name as Achilles +Lionsrock, Esquire. When the answer came from within, “Ship letter, sir, +double postage,” they thought it almost uncanny; and Hector’s shilling +was requited by something so like a real ship letter, that they had +some idea that the real post had somehow transported itself thither. The +interior was decidedly oracular, consisting of this one line, “I counsel +you to persevere in your laudable undertaking.” + +Hector said he wished he had any laudable undertaking, and Blanche tried +to persuade Tom to try his fortune, but he pronounced that he did +not care to hear Harvey Anderson’s trash--he knew his writing, though +disguised, and had detected his shining boots below the counter. There +Mr. George Rivers came up, and began to tease Blanche about the guards, +asking her to take his fifteen shillings--or five-and-twenty, and who +had got that one, which alone he wanted; till the poor child, after +standing perplexed for some moments, looked up with spirit, and said, +“You have no business to ask,” and, running away, took refuge in the +back of Mrs. Hoxton’s marquee, where she found Ethel packing up for Miss +Hoxton’s purchasers, and confiding to her that Mr. George Rivers was a +horrid man, she ventured no more from her protection. She did, indeed, +emerge, when told that papa was coming with Aubrey and Daisy and Miss +Bracy, and she had the pleasure of selling to them some of her wares. +Dr. May bargaining with her to her infinite satisfaction; and little +Gertrude’s blue eyes opened to their full width, not understanding what +could have befallen her sisters. + +“And what is Ethel doing?” asked the doctor. + +“Packing up parcels, papa,” and Ethel’s face was raised, looking very +merry. + +“Packing parcels! How long will they last tied up?” said Dr. May, +laughing. + +“Lasting is the concern of nothing in the fair, papa,” answered she, in +the same tone. + +For Ethel was noted as the worst packer in the house; but, having +offered to wrap up a pincushion, sold by a hurried Miss Hoxton, she +became involved in the office for the rest of the day--the same which +Bellairs and her companion performed at the Langdale counter. Flora was +too ready and dexterous to need any such aid, but the Misses Hoxton +were glad to be spared the trouble; and Blanche, whose fingers were far +neater than Ethel’s, made the task much easier, and was kept constant +to it by her dread of the dark moustache, which was often visible near +their tent, searching, she thought, for her. + +Their humble employment was no sinecure; for this was the favourite +stall with the purchasers of better style, since the articles were, in +general, tasteful, and fairly worth the moderate price set on them. At +Miss Cleveland’s counter there was much noisy laughter--many jocular +cheats--tricks for gaining money, and refusals to give change; and it +seemed to be very popular with the Stoneborough people, and to carry +on a brisk trade. The only languor was in Lady Leonora’s quarter--the +articles were too costly, and hung on hand; nor were the ladies +sufficiently well known, nor active enough, to gain custom, excepting +Meta, who drove a gay traffic at her end of the stall, which somewhat +redeemed the general languor. + +Her eyes were, all the time, watching for her father, and, suddenly +perceiving him, she left her trade in charge of the delighted and +important Mary, and hastened to walk round with him, and show him the +humours of the fair. + +Mary, in her absence, had the supreme happiness of obtaining Norman as +a customer. He wanted a picture for his rooms at Oxford, and +water-coloured drawings were, as Tom had observed, suitable staple +commodities for Miss Rivers. Mary tried to make him choose a +brightly-coloured pheasant, with a pencil background; and, then, a fine +foaming sea-piece, by some unknown Lady Adelaide, that much dazzled her +imagination; but nothing would serve him but a sketch of an old cedar +tree, with Stoneborough Minster in the distance, and the Welsh hills +beyond, which Mary thought a remarkable piece of bad taste, since--could +he not see all that any day of his life? and was it worth while to give +fourteen shillings and sixpence for it? But he said it was all for the +good of Cocksmoor, and Mary was only too glad to add to her hoard of +coin; so she only marvelled at his extravagance, and offered to take +care of it for him; but, to this, he would not consent. He made her pack +it up for him, and had just put the whitey-brown parcel under his arm, +when Mr. Rivers and his daughter came up, before he was aware. Mary +proudly advertised Meta that she had sold something for her. + +“Indeed! What was it?” + +“Your great picture of Stoneborough!” said Mary. + +“Is that gone? I am sorry you have parted with that, my dear; it was one +of your best,” said Mr. Rivers, in his soft, sleepy, gentle tone. + +“Oh, papa, I can do another. But, I wonder! I put that extortionate +price on it, thinking no one would give it, and so that I should keep it +for you. Who has it, Mary?” + +“Norman, there. He would have it, though I told him it was very dear.” + +Norman, pressed near them by the crowd, had been unable to escape, and +stood blushing, hesitating, and doubting whether he ought to restore the +prize, which he had watched so long, and obtained so eagerly. + +“Oh! it is you?” said Mr. Rivers politely. “Oh, no, do not think of +exchanging it. I am rejoiced that one should have it who can appreciate +it. It was its falling into the hands of a stranger that I disliked. You +think with me, that it is one of her best drawings?” + +“Yes, I do,” said Norman, still rather hesitating. “She did that with +C--, when he was here last year. He taught her very well. Have you that +other here, that you took with him, my dear? The view from the gate, I +mean.” + +“No, dear papa. You told me not to sell that.” + +“Ah! I remember; that is right. But there are some very pretty copies +from Prout here.” + +While he was seeking them, Meta contrived to whisper, “If you could +persuade him to go indoors--this confusion of people is so bad for him, +and I must not come away. I was in hopes of Dr. May, but he is with the +little ones.” + +Norman signed comprehension, and Meta said, “Those copies are not worth +seeing, but you know, papa, you have the originals in the library.” + +Mr. Rivers looked pleased, but was certain that Norman could not prefer +the sketches to this gay scene. However, it took very little persuasion +to induce him to do what he wished, and he took Norman’s arm, crossed +the lawn, and arrived in his own study, where it was a great treat +to him to catch any one who would admire his accumulation of prints, +drawings, coins, etc.; and his young friend was both very well amused +and pleased to be setting Miss Rivers’s mind at ease on her father’s +account. It was not till half-past four that Dr. May knocked at the +door, and stood surprised at finding his son there. Mr. Rivers spoke +warmly of the young Oxonian’s kindness in leaving the fair for an old +man, and praised Norman’s taste in art. Norman rose to take leave, but +still thought it incumbent on him to offer to give up the picture, +if Mr. Rivers set an especial value on it. But Mr. Rivers went to the +length of being very glad that it was in his possession, and added to +it a very pretty drawing of the same size, by a noted master, which had +been in the water-colour exhibition, and, while Norman walked away, well +pleased, Mr. Rivers began to extol him to his father, as a very superior +and sensible young man, of great promise, and began to wish George had +the same turn. + +Norman, on returning to the fancy fair, found the world in all the +ardour of raffles. Lady Leonora’s contributions were the chief prizes, +which attracted every one, and, of course, the result was delightfully +incongruous. Poor Ethel, who had been persuaded to venture a shilling +to please Blanche, who had spent all her own, obtained the two jars in +potichomanie, and was regarding them with a face worth painting. Harvey +Anderson had a doll, George Rivers a wooden monkey, that jumped over a +stick; and, if Hector Ernescliffe was enchanted at winning a beautiful +mother-of-pearl inlaid workbox, which he had vainly wished to buy for +Margaret, Flora only gained a match-box of her own, well known always to +miss fire, but which had been decided to be good enough for the bazaar. + +By fair means or foul, the commodities were cleared off, and, while the +sunbeams faded from the trodden grass, the crowds disappeared, and +the vague compliment, “a very good bazaar,” was exchanged between the +lingering sellers and their friends. + +Flora was again to sleep at the Grange, and return the next day, for +a committee to be held over the gains, which were not yet fully +ascertained. So Dr. May gathered his flock together, and packed them, +boys and all, into the two conveyances, and Ethel bade Meta good-night, +almost wondering to hear her merry voice say, “It has been a delightful +day, has it not? It was so kind of your brother to take care of papa.” + +“Oh, it was delightful!” echoed Mary, “and I took one pound fifteen and +sixpence!” + +“I hope it will do great good to Cocksmoor,” added Meta, “but, if you +want real help, you know, you must come to us.” + +Ethel smiled, but hurried her departure, for she saw Blanche again +tormented by Mr. George Rivers, to know what had become of the guard, +telling her that, if she would not say, he should be furiously jealous. + +Blanche hid her face on Ethel’s arm, when they were in the carriage, and +almost cried with indignant “shamefastness.” That long-desired day had +not been one of unmixed happiness to her, poor child, and Ethel doubted +whether it had been so to any one, except, indeed, to Mary, whose +desires never soared so high but that they were easily fulfilled, and +whose placid content was not easily wounded. All she was wishing now +was, that Harry were at home to receive his paper-case. + +The return to Margaret was real pleasure. The narration of all that had +passed was an event to her. She was so charmed with her presents, of +every degree; things, unpleasant at the time, could, by drollery in the +relating, be made mirthful fun ever after; Dr. May and the boys were so +comical in their observations--Mary’s wonder and simplicity came in so +amazingly--and there was such merriment at Ethel’s two precious jars, +that she could hardly wish they had not come to her. On one head they +were all agreed, in dislike of George Rivers, whom Mary pronounced to be +a detestable man, and, when gently called to order by Margaret, defended +it, by saying that Miss Bracy said it was better to detest than to +hate, while Blanche coloured up to the ears, and hid herself behind +the arm-chair; and Dr. May qualified the censure by saying, he believed +there was no great harm in the youth, but that he was shallow-brained +and extravagant, and, having been born in the days when Mr. Rivers had +been working himself up in the world, had not had so good an education +as his little half-sister. + +“Well, what are you thinking of?” said her father, laying his hand +on Ethel’s arm, as she was wearily and pensively putting together the +scattered purchases before going up to bed. + +“I was thinking, papa, that there is a great deal of trouble taken in +this world for a very little pleasure.” + +“The trouble is the pleasure, in most cases, most misanthropical miss!” + +“Yes, that is true; but, if so, why cannot it be taken for some good?” + +“They meant it to be good,” said Dr. May. “Come, I cannot have you +severe and ungrateful.” + +“So I have been telling myself, papa, all along; but, now that the +day has come, and I have seen what jealousies, and competitions, and +vanities, and disappointments it has produced--not even poor little +Blanche allowed any comfort--I am almost sick at heart with thinking +Cocksmoor was the excuse!” + +“Spectators are more philosophical than actors, Ethel. Others have not +been tying parcels all day.” + +“I had rather do that than--But that is the ‘Fox and the Grapes,’” said +Ethel, smiling. “What I mean is, that the real gladness of life is not +in these great occasions of pleasure, but in the little side delights +that come in the midst of one’s work, don’t they, papa? Why is it worth +while to go and search for a day’s pleasuring?” + +“Ethel, my child! I don’t like to hear you talk so,” said Dr. May, +looking anxiously at her. “It may be too true, but it is not youthful +nor hopeful. It is not as your mother or I felt in our young days, when +a treat was a treat to us, and gladdened our hearts long before and +after. I am afraid you have been too much saddened with loss and care--” + +“Oh, no, papa!” said Ethel, rousing herself, though speaking huskily. +“You know I am your merry Ethel. You know I can be happy enough--only at +home--” + +And Ethel, though she had tried to be cheerful, leaned against his arm, +and shed a few tears. + +“The fact is, she is tired out,” said Dr. May soothingly, yet half +laughing. “She is not a beauty or a grace, and she is thoughtful and +quiet, and so she moralises, instead of enjoying, as the world goes by. +I dare say a night’s rest will make all the difference in the world.” + +“Ah! but there is more to come. That Ladies’ Committee at Cocksmoor!” + +“They are not there yet, Ethel. Good-night, you tired little cynic.” + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + + + Back then, complainer... + Go, to the world return, nor fear to cast + Thy bread upon the waters, sure at last + In joy to find it after many days.--Christian Year. + + +The next day Ethel had hoped for a return to reason, but behold, the +world was cross! The reaction of the long excitement was felt, Gertrude +fretted, and was unwell; Aubrey was pettish at his lessons; and Mary and +Blanche were weary, yawning and inattentive; every straw was a burden, +and Miss Bracy had feelings. + +Ethel had been holding an interminable conversation with her in the +schoolroom, interrupted at last by a summons to speak to a Cocksmoor +woman at the back door, and she was returning from the kitchen, when the +doctor called her into his study. + +“Ethel! what is all this? Mary has found Miss Bracy in floods of tears +in the schoolroom, because she says you told her she was ill-tempered.” + +“I am sure you will be quite as much surprised,” said Ethel, somewhat +exasperated, “when you hear that you lacerated her feelings yesterday.” + +“I? Why, what did I do?” exclaimed Dr. May. + +“You showed your evident want of confidence in her.” + +“I? What can I have done?” + +“You met Aubrey and Gertrude in her charge, and you took them away at +once to walk with you.” + +“Well?” + +“Well, that was it. She saw you had no confidence in her.” + +“Ethel, what on earth can you mean? I saw the two children dragging on +her, and I thought she would see nothing that was going on, and would be +glad to be released; and I wanted them to go with me and see Meta’s gold +pheasants.” + +“That was the offence. She has been breaking her heart all this time, +because she was sure, from your manner, that you were displeased to see +them alone with her--eating bon-bons, I believe, and therefore took them +away.” + +“Daisy is the worse for her bon-bons, I believe, but the overdose of +them rests on my shoulders. I do not know how to believe you, Ethel. Of +course you told her nothing of the kind crossed my mind, poor thing!” + +“I told her so, over and over again, as I have done forty times before +but her feelings are always being hurt.” + +“Poor thing, poor thing! no doubt it is a trying situation, and she is +sensitive. Surely you are all forbearing with her?” + +“I hope we are,” said Ethel; “but how can we tell what vexes her?” + +“And what is this, of your telling her she was ill-tempered?” asked Dr. +May incredulously. + +“Well, papa,” said Ethel, softened, yet wounded by his thinking it +so impossible. “I had often thought I ought to tell her that these +sensitive feelings of hers were nothing but temper; and perhaps--indeed +I know I do--I partake of the general fractiousness of the house to-day, +and I did not bear it so patiently as usual. I did say that I thought it +wrong to foster her fancies; for if she looked at them coolly, she would +find they were only a form of pride and temper.” + +“It did not come well from you, Ethel,” said the doctor, looking vexed. + +“No, I know it did not,” said Ethel meekly; “but oh! to have these +janglings once a week, and to see no end to them!” + +“Once a week?” + +“It is really as often, or more often,” said Ethel. “If any of us +criticise anything the girls have done, if there is a change in any +arrangement, if she thinks herself neglected--I can’t tell you what +little matters suffice; she will catch me, and argue with me, till--oh, +till we are both half dead, and yet cannot stop ourselves.” + +“Why do you argue?” + +“If I could only help it!” + +“Bad management,” said the doctor, in a low, musing tone. “You want a +head!” and he sighed. + +“Oh, papa, I did not mean to distress you. I would not have told you if +I had remembered--but I am worried to-day, and off my guard--” + +“Ethel, I thought you were the one on whom I could depend for bearing +everything.” + +“These were such nonsense!” + +“What may seem nonsense to you is not the same to her. You must +be forbearing, Ethel. Remember that dependence is prone to morbid +sensitiveness, especially in those who have a humble estimate of +themselves.” + +“It seems to me that touchiness is more pride than humility,” said +Ethel, whose temper, already not in the smoothest state, found it hard +that, after having long borne patiently with these constant arguments, +she should find Miss Bracy made the chief object of compassion. + +Dr. May’s chivalrous feeling caused him to take the part of the weak, +and he answered, “You know nothing about it. Among our own kith and kin +we can afford to pass over slights, because we are sure the heart is +right--we do not know what it is to be among strangers, uncertain of +any claim to their esteem or kindness. Sad! sad!” he continued, as the +picture wrought on him. “Each trifle seems a token one way or the other! +I am very sorry I grieved the poor thing yesterday. I must go and tell +her so at once.” + +He put Ethel aside, and knocked at the schoolroom door, while Ethel +stood, mortified. “He thinks I have been neglecting, or speaking harshly +to her! For fifty times that I have borne with her maundering, I have, +at last, once told her the truth; and for that I am accused of want of +forbearance! Now he will go and make much of her, and pity her, till she +will think herself an injured heroine, and be worse than ever; and he +will do away with all the good of my advice, and want me to ask her +pardon for it--but that I never will. It was only the truth, and I will +stick to it.” + +“Ethel!” cried Mary, running up to her, then slackening her pace, and +whispering, “you did not tell Miss Bracy she was ill-tempered.” + +“No--not exactly. How could you tell papa I did?” + +“She said so. She was crying, and I asked what was the matter, and she +said my sister Ethel said she was ill-tempered.” + +“She made a great exaggeration then,” said Ethel. + +“I am sure she was very cross all day,” said Mary. + +“Well, that is no business of yours,” said Ethel pettishly. “What now? +Mary, don’t look out at the street window.” + +“It is Flora--the Grange carriage,” whispered Mary, as the two sisters +made a precipitate retreat into the drawing-room. + +Meanwhile, Dr. May had been in the schoolroom. Miss Bracy had ceased her +tears before he came--they had been her retort on Ethel, and she had not +intended the world to know of them. Half disconcerted, half angry, she +heard the doctor approach. She was a gentle, tearful woman, one of +those who are often called meek, under an erroneous idea that meekness +consists in making herself exceedingly miserable under every kind +of grievance; and she now had a sort of melancholy satisfaction in +believing that the young ladies had fabricated an exaggerated complaint +of her temper, and that she was going to become injured innocence. To +think herself accused of a great wrong, excused her from perceiving +herself guilty of a lesser one. + +“Miss Bracy,” said Dr. May, entering with his frank, sweet look, “I +am concerned that I vexed you by taking the children to walk with me +yesterday. I thought such little brats would be troublesome to any but +their spoiling papa, but they would have been in safer hands with you. +You would not have been as weak as I was, in regard to sugar-plums.” + Such amends as these confused Miss Bracy, who found it pleasanter to be +lamentable with Ethel, than to receive a full apology for her imagined +offence from the master of the house. Feeling both small and absurd, +she murmured something of “oh, no,” and “being sure,” and hoped he +was going, so that she might sit down to pity herself, for those girls +having made her appear so ridiculous. + +No such thing! Dr. May put a chair for her, and sat down himself, +saying, with a smile, “You see, you must trust us sometimes, and +overlook it, if we are less considerate than we might be. We have rough, +careless habits with each other, and forget that all are not used to +them.” + +Miss Bracy exclaimed, “Oh, no, never, they were most kind.” + +“We wish to be,” said Dr. May, “but there are little neglects--or +you think there are. I will not say there are none, for that would be +answering too much for human nature, or that they are fanciful--for that +would be as little comfort as to tell a patient that the pain is only +nervous--” + +Miss Bracy smiled, for she could remember instances when, after +suffering much at the time, she had found the affront imaginary. + +He was glad of that smile, and proceeded. “You will let me speak to +you, as to one of my own girls? To them, I should say, use the only true +cure. Don’t brood over vexations, small or great, but think of them as +trials that, borne bravely, become blessings.” + +“Oh! but Dr. May!” she exclaimed, shocked; “nothing in your house could +call for such feelings.” + +“I hope we are not very savage,” he said, smiling; “but, indeed, I still +say it is the safest rule. It would be the only one if you were really +among unkind people; and, if you take so much to heart an unlucky +neglect of mine, what would you do if the slight were a true one?” + +“You are right; but my feelings were always over-sensitive;” and this +she said with a sort of complacency. + +“Well, we must try to brace them,” said Dr. May, much as if prescribing +for her. “Will not you believe in our confidence and esteem, and harden +yourself against any outward unintentional piece of incivility?” + +She felt as if she could at that moment. + +“Or at least, try to forgive and forget them. Talking them over only +deepens the sense of them, and discussions do no good to any one. My +daughters are anxious to be your best friends, as I hope you know.” + +“Oh! they are most kind--” + +“But, you see, I must say this,” added Dr. May, somewhat hesitating, “as +they have no mother to--to spare all this,” and then, growing clearer, +he proceeded, “I must beg you to be forbearing with them, and not +perplex yourself and them with arguing on what cannot be helped. +They have not the experience that could enable them to finish such a +discussion without unkindness; and it can only waste the spirits, and +raise fresh subjects of regret. I must leave you--I hear myself called.” + +Miss Bracy began to be sensible that she had somewhat abused +Ethel’s patience; and the unfortunate speech about the source of her +sensitiveness did not appear to her so direfully cruel as at first. +She hoped every one would forget all about it, and resolved not to take +umbrage so easily another time, or else be silent about it, but she was +not a person of much resolution. + +The doctor found that Meta Rivers and her brother had brought Flora +home, and were in the drawing-room, where Margaret was hearing another +edition of the history of the fair, and a by-play was going on, of +teasing Blanche about the chain. + +George Rivers was trying to persuade her to make one for him; and her +refusal came out at last, in an almost passionate key, in the midst of +the other conversation--“No! I say-no!” + +“Another no, and that will be yes.” + +“No! I won’t! I don’t like you well enough!” + +Margaret gravely sent Blanche and the other children away to take their +walk, and the brother and sister soon after took leave, when Flora +called Ethel to hasten to the Ladies’ Committee, that they might arrange +the disposal of the one hundred and fifty pounds, the amount of their +gains. + +“To see the fate of Cocksmoor,” said Ethel. + +“Do you think I cannot manage the Stoneborough folk?” said Flora, +looking radiant with good humour, and conscious of power. “Poor Ethel! +I am doing you good against your will! Never mind, here is wherewith to +build the school, and the management will be too happy to fall into +our hands. Do you think every one is as ready as you are, to walk three +miles and back continually?” + +There was sense in this; there always was sense in what Flora said, but +it jarred on Ethel; and it seemed almost unsympathising in her to be so +gay, when the rest were wearied or perturbed. Ethel would have been very +glad of a short space to recollect herself, and recover her good temper; +but it was late, and Flora hurried her to put on her bonnet, and come to +the committee. “I’ll take care of your interests,” she said, as they +set out. “You look as doleful as if you thought you should be robbed of +Cocksmoor; but that is the last thing that will happen, you will see.” + +“It would not be acting fairly to let them build for us, and then for us +to put them out of the management,” said Ethel. + +“My dear, they want importance, not action. They will leave the real +power to us of themselves.” + +“You like to build Cocksmoor with such instruments,” said Ethel, whose +ruffled condition made her forget her resolution not to argue with +Flora. + +“Bricks are made of clay!” said Flora. “There, that was said like Norman +himself! On your plan, we might have gone on for forty years, saving +seven shillings a year, and spending six, whenever there was an illness +in the place.” + +“You, who used to dislike these people more than even I did!” said +Ethel. + +“That was when I was an infant, my dear, and did not know how to deal +with them. I will take care--I will even save Cherry Elwood for you, if +I can. Alan Ernescliffe’s ten pounds is a noble weapon.” + +“You always mean to manage everything, and then you have no time!” said +Ethel, sensible all the time of her own ill-humour, and of her sister’s +patience and amiability, yet propelled to speak the unpleasant truths +that in her better moods were held back. + +Still Flora was good-tempered, though Ethel would almost have preferred +her being provoked; “I know,” she said, “I have been using you ill, and +leaving the world on your shoulders, but it was all in your service and +Cocksmoor’s; and now we shall begin to be reasonable and useful again.” + +“I hope so,” said Ethel. + +“Really, Ethel, to comfort you, I think I shall send you with Norman to +dine at Abbotstoke Grange on Wednesday. Mr. Rivers begged us to come; he +is so anxious to make it lively for his son.” + +“Thank you, I do not think Mr. George Rivers and I should be likely to +get on together. What a bad style of wit! You heard what Mary said about +him? and Ethel repeated the doubt between hating and detesting. + +“Young men never know how to talk to little girls,” was Flora’s reply. + +At this moment they came up with one of the Miss Andersons, and Flora +began to exchange civilities, and talk over yesterday’s events with +great animation. Her notice always gave pleasure, brightened as it was +by the peculiarly engaging address which she had inherited from her +father, and which, therefore, was perfectly easy and natural. Fanny +Anderson was flattered and gratified, rather by the manner than the +words, and, on excellent terms, they entered the committee-room, namely, +the schoolmistress’s parlour. + +There were nine ladies on the committee--nine muses, as the doctor +called them, because they produced anything but harmony. Mrs. Ledwich +was in the chair; Miss Rich was secretary, and had her pen and ink, and +account-book ready. Flora came in, smiling and greeting; Ethel, grave, +earnest, and annoyed, behind her, trying to be perfectly civil, but not +at all enjoying the congratulations on the successful bazaar. The ladies +all talked and discussed their yesterday’s adventures, gathering in +little knots, as they traced the fate of favourite achievements of their +skill, while Ethel, lugubrious and impatient, beside Flora, the only +one not engaged, and, therefore, conscious of the hubbub of clacking +tongues. + +At last Mrs. Ledwich glanced at the mistress’s watch, in its pasteboard +tower, in Gothic architecture, and insisted on proceeding to business. +So they all sat down round a circular table, with a very fine red, blue, +and black oilcloth, whose pattern was inseparably connected, in Ethel’s +mind, with absurdity, tedium, and annoyance. + +The business was opened by the announcement of what they all knew +before, that the proceeds of the fancy fair amounted to one hundred and +forty-nine pounds fifteen shillings and tenpence. + +Then came a pause, and Mrs. Ledwich said that next they had to consider +what was the best means of disposing of the sum gained in this most +gratifying manner. Every one except Flora, Ethel, and quiet Mrs. +Ward, began to talk at once. There was a great deal about Elizabethan +architecture, crossed by much more, in which normal, industrial, +and common things, most often met Ethel’s ear, with some stories, +second-hand, from Harvey Anderson, of marvellous mistakes; and, on the +opposite side of the table, there was Mrs. Ledwich, impressively saying +something to the silent Mrs. Ward, marking her periods with emphatic +beats with her pencil, and each seemed to close with “Mrs. Perkinson’s +niece,” whom Ethel knew to be Cherry’s intended supplanter. She looked +piteously at Flora, who only smiled and made a sign with her hand to her +to be patient. Ethel fretted inwardly at that serene sense of power; but +she could not but admire how well Flora knew how to bide her time, when, +having waited till Mrs. Ledwich had nearly wound up her discourse on +Mrs. Elwood’s impudence, and Mrs. Perkinson’s niece, she leaned towards +Miss Boulder, who sat between, and whispered to her, “Ask Mrs. Ledwich +if we should not begin with some steps for getting the land.” + +Miss Boulder, having acted as conductor, the president exclaimed, “Just +so, the land is the first consideration. We must at once take steps +for obtaining it.” Thereupon Mrs. Ledwich, who “always did things +methodically,” moved, and Miss Anderson seconded, that the land +requisite for the school must be obtained, and the nine ladies held up +their hands, and resolved it. + +Miss Rich duly recorded the great resolution, and Miss Boulder suggested +that, perhaps, they might write to the National Society, or Government, +or something; whereat Miss Rich began to flourish one of the very long +goose quills which stood in the inkstand before her, chiefly as insignia +of office, for she always wrote with a small, stiff metal pen. + +Flora here threw in a query, whether the National Society, or +Government, or something, would give them a grant, unless they had the +land to build upon? + +The ladies all started off hereupon, and all sorts of instances of +hardness of heart were mentioned, the most relevant of which was, that +the Church Building Society would not give a grant to Mr. Holloway’s +proprietary chapel at Whitford, when Mrs. Ledwich was suddenly struck +with the notion that dear Mr. Holloway might be prevailed on to come +to Stoneborough to preach a sermon in the Minster, for the benefit of +Cocksmoor, when they would all hold plates at the door. Flora gave Ethel +a tranquillising pat, and, as Mrs. Ledwich turned to her, asking whether +she thought Dr. May, or Dr. Hoxton, would prevail on him to come, she +said, with her winning look, “I think that consideration had better wait +till we have some more definite view. Had we not better turn to this +land question?” + +“Quite true!” they all agreed, but to whom did the land belong?--and +what a chorus arose! Miss Anderson thought it belonged to Mr. Nicolson, +because the wagons of slate had James Nicolson on them, and, if so, they +had no chance, for he was an old miser--and six stories illustrative +thereof ensued. Miss Rich was quite sure some Body held it, and +Bodies were slow of movement. Mrs. Ledwich remembered some question of +enclosing, and thought all waste lands were under the Crown; she knew +that the Stoneborough people once had a right to pasture their cattle, +because Mr. Southron’s cow had tumbled down a loam-pit when her mother +was a girl. No, that was on Far-view down, out the other way! Miss +Harrison was positive that Sir Henry Walkinghame had some right there, +and would not Dr. May apply to him? Mrs. Grey thought it ought to +be part of the Drydale estate, and Miss Boulder was certain that Mr. +Bramshaw knew all about it. + +Flora’s gentle voice carried conviction that she knew what she was +saying, when, at last, they left a moment for her to speak--(Ethel would +have done so long ago). “If I am not mistaken, the land is a copyhold of +Sir Henry Walkinghame, held under the manor of Drydale, which belongs to +M---- College, and is underlet to Mr. Nicolson.” + +Everybody, being partially right, was delighted, and had known it all +before; Miss Boulder agreed with Miss Anderson that Miss May had stated +it as lucidly as Mr. Bramshaw could. The next question was, to whom to +apply? and, after as much as was expedient had been said in favour of +each, it was decided that, as Sir Henry Walkinghame was abroad, no one +knew exactly where, it would be best to go to the fountain-head, and +write at once to the principal of the college. But who was to write? +Flora proposed Mr. Ramsden as the fittest person, but this was +negatived. Every one declared that he would never take the trouble, and +Miss Rich began to agitate her pens. By this time, however, Mrs. Ward, +who was opposite to the Gothic clock-tower, began to look uneasy, and +suggested, in a nervous manner, that it was half-past five, and she was +afraid Mr. Ward would be kept waiting for his dinner. Mrs. Grey began +to have like fears, that Mr. Grey would be come in from his ride after +banking hours. The other ladies began to think of tea, and the meeting +decided on adjourning till that day next week, when the committee would +sit upon Miss Rich’s letter. + +“My dear Miss Flora!” began Miss Rich, adhering to her as they parted +with the rest at the end of the street, “how am I to write to a +principal? Am I to begin Reverend Sir, or My Lord, or is he Venerable, +like an archdeacon? What is his name, and what am I to say?” + +“Why, it is not a correspondence much in my line,” said Flora, laughing. + +“Ah! but you are so intimate with Dr. Hoxton, and your brothers at +Oxford! You must know--” + +“I’ll take advice,” said Flora good-naturedly. “Shall I come, and call +before Friday, and tell you the result?” + +“Oh, pray! It will be a real favour! Good-morning--” + +“There,” said Flora, as the sisters turned homewards, “Cherry is not +going to be turned out just yet!” + +“How could you, Flora? Now they will have that man from Whitford, and +you said not a word against it!” + +“What was the use of adding to the hubbub? A little opposition would +make them determined on having him. You will see, Ethel, we shall get +the ground on our own terms, and then it will be time to settle about +the mistress. If the harvest holidays were not over, we would try to +send Cherry to a training-school, so as to leave them no excuse.” + +“I hate all this management and contrivance. It would be more honest to +speak our minds, and not pretend to agree with them.” + +“My dear Ethel! have I spoken a word contrary to my opinion? It is not +fit for me, a girl of twenty, to go disputing and dragooning as you +would have me; but a little savoir faire, a grain of common sense, +thrown in among the babble, always works. Don’t you remember how Mrs. +Ward’s sister told us that a whole crowd of tottering Chinese ladies +would lean on her, because they felt her firm support, though it was out +of sight?” + +Ethel did not answer; she had self-control enough left not to retort +upon Flora’s estimate of herself, but the irritation was strong; she +felt as if her cherished views for Cocksmoor were insulted, as well as +set aside, by the place being made the occasion of so much folly and +vain prattle, the sanctity of her vision of self-devotion destroyed +by such interference, and Flora’s promises did not reassure her. She +doubted Flora’s power, and had still more repugnance to the means +by which her sister tried to govern; they did not seem to her +straightforward, and she could not endure Flora’s complacency in their +success. Had it not been for her real love for the place and people, as +well as the principle which prompted that love, she could have found +it in her heart to throw up all concern with it, rather than become a +fellow-worker with such a conclave. + +Such were Ethel’s feelings as the pair walked down the street; the one +sister bright and smiling with the good humour that had endured many +shocks all that day, all good nature and triumph, looking forward to +success, great benefit to Cocksmoor, and plenty of management, with +credit and praise to herself; the other, downcast and irritable, with +annoyance at the interference with her schemes, at the prospects of her +school, and at herself for being out of temper, prone to murmur or to +reply tartly, and not able to recover from her mood, but only, as she +neared the house, lapsing into her other trouble, and preparing to +resist any misjudged, though kind attempt of her father, to make her +unsay her rebuke to Miss Bracy. Pride and temper! Ah! Etheldred! where +were they now? + +Dr. May was at his study door as his daughters entered the hall, and +Ethel expected the order which she meant to question; but, instead of +this, after a brief inquiry after the doings of the nine muses, which +Flora answered, so as to make him laugh, he stopped Ethel, as she +was going upstairs, by saying, “I do not know whether this letter is +intended for Richard, or for me. At any rate, it concerns you most.” + +The envelope was addressed to the Reverend Richard May, D. D., Market +Stoneborough, and the letter began, “Reverend Sir.” So far Ethel saw, +and exclaimed, with amusement, then, with a long-drawn “Ah!” and +an interjection, “My poor dear Una!” she became absorbed, the large +tears--yes, Ethel’s reluctant tears gathering slowly and dropping. + +The letter was from a clergyman far away in the north of England, who +said he could not, though a stranger, resist the desire to send to +Dr. May an account of a poor girl, who seemed to have received great +benefits from him, or from some of his family, especially as she had +shown great eagerness on his proposing to write. + +He said it was nearly a year since there had come into his parish a +troop of railwaymen and their families. For the most part, they were +completely wild and rude, unused to any pastoral care; but, even on +the first Sunday, he had noticed a keen-looking, freckled, ragged, +unmistakably Irish girl, creeping into church with a Prayer-book in her +hand, and had afterwards found her hanging about the door of the school. +“I never saw a more engaging, though droll, wild expression, than that +with which she looked up to me.” (Ethel’s cry of delight was at that +sentence--she knew that look too well, and had yearned after it so +often!) “I found her far better instructed than her appearance had led +me to expect, and more truly impressed with the spirit of what she had +learned than it has often been my lot to find children. She was perfect +in the New Testament history”--(“Ah! that she was not, when she went +away!”)--“and was in the habit of constantly attending church, and using +morning and evening prayers.” (“Oh! how I longed, when she went away, to +beg her to keep them up! Dear Una.”) “On my questions, as to how she had +been taught, she always replied, ‘Mr. Richard May,’ or ‘Miss Athel.’ You +must excuse me if I have not correctly caught the name from her Irish +pronunciation.” (“I am afraid he thinks my name is Athaliah! But oh! +this dear girl! How I have wished to hear of her!”) “Everything was +answered with ‘Mr. Richard,’ or ‘Miss Athel’; and, if I inquired +further, her face would light up with a beam of gratitude, and she would +run on, as long as I could listen, with instances of their kindness. It +was the same with her mother, a wild, rude specimen of an Irishwoman, +whom I never could bring to church herself, but who ran on loudly with +their praises, usually ending with ‘Heavens be their bed,’ and saying +that Una had been quite a different girl since the young ladies and +gentleman found her out, and put them parables in her head. + +“For my own part, I can testify that, in the seven months that she +attended my school, I never had a serious fault to find with her, but +far more often to admire the earnestness and devout spirit, as well as +the kindness and generosity apparent in all her conduct. Bad living, and +an unwholesome locality, have occasioned a typhus fever among the poor +strangers in this place, and Una was one of the first victims. Her +mother, almost from the first, gave her up, saying she knew she was one +marked for glory; and Una has been lying, day after day, in a sort +of half-delirious state, constantly repeating hymns and psalms, and +generally, apparently very happy, except when one distress occurred +again and again, whether delirious or sensible, namely, that she had +never gone to wish Miss May good-bye, and thank her; and that maybe she +and Mr. Richard thought her ungrateful; and she would sometimes beg, in +her phraseology, to go on her bare knees to Stoneborough, only to see +Miss Athel again. + +“Her mother, I should say, told me the girl had been half mad at not +being allowed to go and take leave of Miss May; and she had been sorry +herself, but her husband had come home suddenly from the search for +work, and, having made his arrangements, removed them at once, early the +next morning--too early to go to the young lady; though, she said, Una +did--as they passed through Stoneborough--run down the street before she +was aware, and she found her sobbing, fit to break her heart, before the +house.” (“Oh, why, why was I not up, and at the window! Oh, my Una! to +think of that!”) “When I spoke of writing to let Miss May hear how +it was, the poor girl caught at the idea with the utmost delight. Her +weakness was too great to allow her to utter many words distinctly, +when I asked her what she would have me say, but these were as well as +I could understand:--‘The blessing of one, that they have brought peace +unto. Tell them I pray, and will pray, that they may walk in the robe +of glory--and tell Mr. Richard that I mind what he said to me, of taking +hold on the sure hope. God crown all their crosses unto them, and fulfil +all their desires unto everlasting life.’ I feel that I am not rendering +her words with all their fervour and beauty of Irish expression, but I +would that I could fully retain and transmit them, for those who have so +led her must, indeed, be able to feel them precious. I never saw a +more peaceful frame of penitence and joy. She died last night, sleeping +herself away, without more apparent suffering, and will be committed +to the earth on Sunday next, all her fellow-scholars attending; and, I +hope, profiting by the example she has left. + +“I have only to add my most earnest congratulations to those whose +labour of love has borne such blessed fruit; and, hoping you will pardon +the liberty, etc.” + +Etheldred finished the letter through blinding tears, while rising sobs +almost choked her. She ran away to her own room, bolted the door, and +threw herself on her knees, beside her bed--now confusedly giving thanks +for such results--now weeping bitterly over her own unworthiness. Oh! +what was she in the sight of Heaven, compared with what this poor girl +had deemed her--with what this clergyman thought her? She, the teacher, +taught, trained, and guarded, from her infancy, by her wise mother, and +by such a father! She, to have given way all day to pride, jealousy, +anger, selfish love of her own will; when this poor girl had embraced, +and held fast, the blessed hope, from the very crumbs they had brought +her! Nothing could have so humbled the distrustful spirit that had been +working in Ethel, which had been scotched into silence--not killed--when +she endured the bazaar, and now had been indemnifying itself by repining +at every stumbling-block. Her own scholar’s blessing was the rebuke that +went most home to her heart, for having doubted whether good could be +worked in any way, save her own. + +She was interrupted by Mary trying to open the door, and, admitting +her, heard her wonder at the traces of her tears, and ask what there +was about Una. Ethel gave her the letter, and Mary’s tears showered very +fast--they always came readily. “Oh, Ethel, how glad Richard will be!” + +“Yes; it is all Richard’s doing. So much more good, and wise, and +humble, as he is. No wonder his teaching--” and Ethel sat down and cried +again. + +Mary pondered. “It makes me very glad,” she said; “and yet I don’t know +why one cries. Ethel, do you think”--she came near, and whispered--“that +Una has met dear mamma there?” + +Ethel kissed her. It was almost the first time Mary had spoken of her +mother; and she answered, “Dear Mary, we cannot tell--we may think. It +is all one communion, you know.” + +Mary was silent, and, next time she spoke, it was to hope that Ethel +would tell the Cocksmoor children about Una. + +Ethel was obliged to dress, and go downstairs to tea. Her father seemed +to have been watching for her, with his study door open, for he came +to meet her, took her hand, and said, in a low voice, “My dear child, I +wish you joy. This will be a pleasant message, to bid poor Ritchie good +speed for his ordination, will it not?” + +“That it will, papa--” + +“Why, Ethel, have you been crying over it all this time?” said he, +struck by the sadness of her voice. + +“Many other things, papa. I am so unworthy--but it was not our +doing--but the grace--” + +“No, but thankful you may be, to have been the means of awakening the +grace!” + +Ethel’s lips trembled. “And oh, papa! coming to-day, when I have been +behaving so ill to you, and Miss Bracy, and Flora, and all. + +“Have you? I did not know you had behaved ill to me.” + +“About Miss Bracy--I thought wrong things, if I did not say them. To +her, I believe, I said what was true, though it was harsh of me to say +it, and--” + +“What? about pride and temper? It was true, and I hope it will do her +good. Cure a piping turkey with a peppercorn sometimes. I have spoken to +her, and told her to pluck up a little spirit; not fancy affronts, and +not to pester you with them. Poor child! you have been sadly victimised +to-day and yesterday. No wonder you were bored past patience, with that +absurd rabble of women!” + +“It was all my own selfish, distrustful temper, wanting to have +Cocksmoor taken care of in my own way, and angry at being interfered +with. I see it now--and here this poor girl, that I thought thrown +away--” + +“Ay, Ethel, you will often see the like. The main object may fail or +fall short, but the earnest painstaking will always be blessed some way +or other, and where we thought it most wasted, some fresh green shoot +will spring up, to show it is not we that give the increase. I suppose +you will write to Richard with this?” + +“That I shall.” + +“Then you may send this with it. Tell him my arm is tired and stiff +to-day, or I would have said more. He must answer the clergyman’s +letter.” + +Dr. May gave Ethel his sheet not folded. His written words were now so +few as to be cherished amongst his children. + + +“Dear Richard,-- + +“May all your ministerial works be as blessed as this, your first labour +of love. I give you hearty joy of this strengthening blessing. Mine goes +with it--‘Only be strong and of a good courage!’ + + “Your affectionate father, + R. May. + +“PS.--Margaret does not gain ground this summer; you must soon come home +and cheer her.” + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + + + As late, engaged by fancy’s dream, + I lay beside a rapid stream, + I saw my first come gliding by, + Its airy form soon caught my eye; + Its texture frail, and colour various, + Like human hopes, and life precarious. + Sudden, my second caught my ear, + And filled my soul with constant fear; + I quickly rose, and home I ran, + My whole was hissing in the pan.--Riddle. + + +Flora revised the letter to the principal, and the Ladies’ Committee +approved, after having proposed seven amendments, all of which Flora +caused to topple over by their own weakness. + +After interval sufficient to render the nine ladies very anxious, the +principal wrote from Scotland, where he was spending the Long Vacation, +and informed them that their request should be laid before the next +college meeting. + +After the committee had sat upon this letter, the two sisters walked +home in much greater harmony than after the former meeting. Etheldred +had recovered her candour, and was willing to own that it was not art, +but good sense, that gave her sister so much ascendancy. She began to be +hopeful, and to declare that Flora might yet do something even with the +ladies. Flora was gratified by the approval that no one in the house +could help valuing; “Positively,” said Flora, “I believe I may in time. +You see there are different ways of acting, as an authority, or as an +equal.” + +“The authority can move from without, the equal must from within,” said +Ethel. + +“Just so. We must circumvent their prejudices, instead of trying to beat +them down.” + +“If you only could have the proper catechising restored!” + +“Wait; you will see. Let me feel my ground.” + +“Or if we could only abdicate into the hands of the rightful power!” + +“The rightful power would not be much obliged to you.” + +“That is the worst of it,” said Ethel. “It is sad to hear the sick +people say that Dr. May is more to them than any parson; it shows that +they have so entirely lost the notion of what their clergyman should +be.” + +“Dr. May is the man most looked up to in this town,” said Flora, “and +that gives weight to us in the committee, but it is all in the using.” + +“Yes,” said Ethel hesitatingly. + +“You see, we have the prestige of better birth, and better education, +as well as of having the chief property in the town, and of being the +largest subscribers, added to his personal character,” said Flora; +“so that everything conspires to render us leaders, and our age alone +prevented us from assuming our post sooner.” + +They were at home by this time, and entering the hall, perceived that +the whole party were in the lawn. The consolation of the children +for the departure of Hector and Tom, was a bowl of soap-suds and some +tobacco pipes, and they had collected the house to admire and assist, +even Margaret’s couch being drawn close to the window. + +Bubbles is one of the most fascinating of sports. There is the soft +foamy mass, like driven snow, or like whipped cream. Blanche bends down +to blow “a honeycomb,” holding the bowl of the pipe in the water; at her +gurgling blasts there slowly heaves upwards the pile of larger, clearer +bubbles, each reflecting the whole scene, and sparkling with rainbow +tints, until Aubrey ruthlessly dashes all into fragments with his hand, +and Mary pronounces it stiff enough, and presents a pipe to little +Daisy, who, drawing the liquid into her mouth, throws it away with a +grimace, and declares that she does not like bubbles! But Aubrey stands +with swelled cheeks, gravely puffing at the sealing-waxed extremity. +Out pours a confused assemblage of froth, but the glassy globe slowly +expands the little branching veins, flowing down on either side, bearing +an enlarging miniature of the sky, the clouds, the tulip-tree. Aubrey +pauses to exclaim! but where is it? Try again! A proud bubble, as Mary +calls it, a peacock, in blended pink and green, is this transparent +sphere, reflecting and embellishing house, wall, and shrubs! It is +too beautiful! It is gone! Mary undertakes to give a lesson, and +blows deliberately without the slightest result. Again! She waves +her disengaged hand in silent exultation as the airy balls detach +themselves, and float off on the summer breeze, with a tardy, graceful, +uncertain motion. Daisy rushes after them, catches at them, and looks +at her empty fingers with a puzzled “All gone!” as plainly expressed by +Toby, who snaps at them, and shakes his head with offended dignity at +the shock of his meeting teeth, while the kitten frisks after them, +striking at them with her paw, amazed at meeting vacancy. + +Even the grave Norman is drawn in. He agrees with Mary that bubbles +used to fly over the wall, and that one once went into Mrs. Richardson’s +garret window, when her housemaid tried to catch it with a pair of +tongs, and then ran downstairs screaming that there was a ghost in her +room; but that was in Harry’s time, the heroic age of the May nursery. + +He accepts a pipe, and his greater height raises it into a favourable +current of air--the glistening balloon sails off. It flies, it soars; +no, it is coming down! The children shout at it, as if to drive it up, +but it wilfully descends--they rush beneath, they try to waft it on high +with their breath--there is a collision between Mary and Blanche--Aubrey +perceives a taste of soapy water--the bubble is no more--it is vanished +in his open mouth! + +Papa himself has taken a pipe, and the little ones are mounted on +chairs, to be on a level with their tall elders. A painted globe is +swimming along, hesitating at first, but the dancing motion is tending +upwards, the rainbow tints glisten in the sunlight--all rush to assist +it; if breath of the lips can uphold it, it should rise, indeed! +Up! above the wall! over Mrs. Richardson’s elm, over the topmost +branch--hurrah! out of sight! Margaret adds her voice to the +acclamations. Beat that if you can, Mary! That doubtful wind keeps yours +suspended in a graceful minuet; its pace is accelerated--but earthwards! +it has committed self-destruction by running foul of a rose-bush. A +general blank! + +“You here, Ethel?” said Norman, as the elders laughed at each other’s +baffled faces. + +“I am more surprised to find you here,” she answered. + +“Excitement!” said Norman, smiling; “one cause is as good as another for +it.” + +“Very pretty sport,” said Dr. May. “You should write a poem on it, +Norman.” + +“It is an exhausted subject,” said Norman; “bubble and trouble are too +obvious a rhyme.” + +“Ha! there it goes! It will be over the house! That’s right!” Every one +joined in the outcry. + +“Whose is it?” + +“Blanche’s--” + +“Hurrah for Blanche! Well done, white Mayflower, there!” said the +doctor, “that is what I meant. See the applause gained by a proud bubble +that flies! Don’t we all bow down to it, and waft it up with the whole +force of our lungs, air as it is; and when it fairly goes out of sight, +is there any exhilaration or applause that surpasses ours?” + +“The whole world being bent on making painted bubbles fly over the +house,” said Norman, far more thoughtfully than his father. “It is a +fair pattern of life and fame.” + +“I was thinking,” continued Dr. May, “what was the most unalloyed +exultation I remember.” + +“Harry’s, when you were made dux,” whispered Ethel to her brother. + +“Not mine,” said Norman briefly. + +“I believe,” said Dr. May, “I never knew such glorification as when +Aubrey Spencer climbed the poor old market-cross. We all felt ourselves +made illustrious for ever in his person.” + +“Nay, papa, when you got that gold medal must have been the grandest +time?” said Blanche, who had been listening. + +Dr. May laughed, and patted her. “I, Blanche? Why, I was excessively +amazed, that is all, not in Norman’s way, but I had been doing next to +nothing to the very last, then fell into an agony, and worked like a +horse, thinking myself sure of failure, and that my mother and my uncle +would break their hearts.” + +“But when you heard that you had it?” persisted Blanche. + +“Why, then I found I must be a much cleverer fellow than I thought for!” + said he, laughing; “but I was ashamed of myself, and of the authorities, +for choosing such an idle dog, and vexed that other plodding lads missed +it, who deserved it more than I.” + +“Of course,” said Norman, in a low voice, “that is what one always +feels. I had rather blow soap-bubbles!” + +“Where was Dr. Spencer?” asked Ethel. + +“Not competing. He had been ready a year before, and had gained it, or +I should have had no chance. Poor Spencer! what would I not give to see +him, or hear of him?” + +“The last was--how long ago?” said Ethel. + +“Six years, when he was setting off, to return from Poonshedagore,” said +Dr. May, sighing. “I gave him up; his health was broken, and there was +no one to look after him. He was the sort of man to have a nameless +grave, and a name too blessed for fame.” + +Ethel would have asked further of her father’s dear old friend, but +there were sounds, denoting an arrival, and Margaret beckoned to them +as Miss Rivers and her brother were ushered into the drawing-room; and +Blanche instantly fled away, with her basin, to hide herself in the +schoolroom. + +Meta skipped out, and soon was established on the grass, an attraction +to all the live creatures, as it seemed; for the kitten came, and was +caressed till her own graceful Nipen was ready to fight with the uncouth +Toby for the possession of a resting-place on the skirt of her habit, +while Daisy nestled up to her, as claiming a privilege, and Aubrey kept +guard over the dogs. + +Meta inquired after a huge doll--Dr. Hoxton’s gift to Daisy, at the +bazaar. + +“She is in Margaret’s wardrobe,” was the answer, “because Aubrey tied +her hands behind her, and was going to offer her up on the nursery +grate.” + +“Oh, Aubrey, that was too cruel!” + +“No,” returned Aubrey; “she was Iphigenia, going to be sacrificed.” + +“Mary unconsciously acted Diana,” said Ethel, “and bore the victim +away.” + +“Pray, was Daisy a willing Clytemnestra?” asked Meta. + +“Oh, yes, she liked it,” said Aubrey, while Meta looked discomfited. + +“I never could get proper respect paid to dolls,” said Margaret; “we +deal too much in their natural enemies.” + +“Yes,” said Ethel, “my only doll was like a heraldic lion, couped in all +her parts.” + +“Harry and Tom once made a general execution,” said Flora; “there was a +doll hanging to every baluster--the number made up with rag.” + +George Rivers burst out laughing--his first sign of life; and Meta +looked as if she had heard of so many murders. + +“I can’t help feeling for a doll!” she said. “They used to be like +sisters to me. I feel as if they were wasted on children, that see no +character in them, and only call them Dolly.” + +“I agree with you,” said Margaret. “If there had been no live dolls, +Richard and I should have reared our doll family as judiciously as +tenderly. There are treasures of carpentry still extant, that he made +for them.” + +“Oh, I am so glad!” cried Meta, as if she had found another point of +union. “If I were to confess--there is a dear old Rose in the secret +recesses of my wardrobe. I could as soon throw away my sister--” + +“Ha!” cried her brother, laying hold of the child, “here, little Daisy, +will you give your doll to Meta?” + +“My name is Gertrude Margaret May,” said the little round mouth. The +fat arm was drawn back, with all a baby’s dignity, and the rosy face was +hidden in Dr. May’s breast, at the sound of George Rivers’s broad laugh +and “Well done, little one!” + +Dr. May put his arm round her, turned aside from him, and began talking +to Meta about Mr. Rivers. + +Flora and Norman made conversation for the brother; and he presently +asked Norman to go out shooting with him, but looked so amazed on +hearing that Norman was no sportsman that Flora tried to save the family +credit by mentioning Hector’s love of a gun, which caused their guest to +make a general tender of sporting privileges; “Though,” added he, with a +drawl, “shooting is rather a nuisance, especially alone.” + +Meta told Ethel, a little apart, that he was so tired of going out +alone, that he had brought her here, in search of a companion. + +“He comes in at eleven o’clock, poor fellow, quite tired with solitude,” + said she, “and comes to me to be entertained.” + +“Indeed,” exclaimed Ethel. “What can you do?” + +“What I can,” said Meta, laughing. “Whatever is not ‘a horrid nuisance’ +to him.” + +“It would be a horrid nuisance to me,” said Ethel bluntly, “if my +brothers wanted me to amuse them all the morning.” + +“Your brothers, oh!” said Meta, as if that were very different; +“besides, you have so much more to do. I am only too glad and grateful +when George will come to me at all. You see I have always been too young +to be his companion, or find out what suited him, and now he is so very +kind and good-natured to me.” + +“But what becomes of your business?” + +“I get time, one way or another. There is the evening, very often, when +I have sung both him and papa to sleep. I had two hours, all to myself, +yesterday night,” said Meta, with a look of congratulation, “and I had a +famous reading of Thirlwall’s ‘Greece.’” + +“I should think that such evenings were as bad as the mornings.” + +“Come, Ethel, don’t make me naughty. Large families, like yours, may +have merry, sociable evenings; but, I do assure you, ours are very +pleasant. We are so pleased to have George at home; and we really +hope that he is taking a fancy to the dear Grange. You can’t think how +delighted papa is to have him content to stay quietly with us so long. I +must call him to go back now, though, or papa will be kept waiting.” + +When Ethel had watched the tall, ponderous brother help the bright fairy +sister to fly airily into her saddle, and her sparkling glance, and wave +of the hand, as she cantered off, contrasting with his slow bend, +and immobility of feature, she could not help saying that Meta’s life +certainly was not too charming, with her fanciful, valetudinarian +father, and that stupid, idealess brother. + +“He is very amiable and good-natured,” interposed Norman. + +“Ha! Norman, you are quite won by his invitation to shoot! How he +despised you for refusing--as much as you despised him.” + +“Speak for yourself,” said Norman. “You fancy no sensible man likes +shooting, but you are all wrong. Some of our best men are capital +sportsmen. Why, there is Ogilvie--you know what he is. When I bring him +down here, you will see that there is no sort of sport that he is not +keen after.” + +“This poor fellow will never be keen after anything,” said Dr. May. “I +pity him! Existence seems hard work to him!” + +“We shall have baby calling him ‘the detestable’ next,” said Ethel. +“What a famous set down she gave him.” + +“She is a thorough lady, and allows no liberties,” said Dr. May. + +“Ah!” said Margaret, “it is a proof of what I want to impression you. We +really must leave off calling her Daisy when strangers are there.” + +“It is so much nicer,” pleaded Mary. + +“The very reason,” said Margaret, “fondling names should be kept for our +innermost selves, not spread abroad, and made common. I remember when I +used to be called Peg-top--and Flora, Flossy--we were never allowed to +use the names when any visitor was near; and we were asked if we could +not be as fond of each other by our proper names. I think it was felt +that there was a want of reserve in publishing our pet words to other +people.” + +“Quite true,” said Dr. May; “baby-names never ought to go beyond home. +It is the fashion to use them now; and, besides the folly, it seems, to +me, an absolute injury to a girl, to let her grow up, with a nickname +attached to her.” + +“Ay!” chimed in Norman, “I hear men talking of Henny, and Loo, and the +like; and you can’t think how glad I have been that my sisters could not +be known by any absurd word!” + +“It is a case where self-respect would make others behave properly,” + said Flora. + +“True,” said Dr. May; “but if girls won’t keep up their own dignity, +their friends’ duty is to do it for them. The mischief is in the +intimate friends, who blazon the words to every one.” + +“And then they call one formal, for trying to protect the right +name,” said Flora. “It is, one-half of it, silliness, and, the other, +affectation of intimacy.” + +“Now, I know,” said Mary, “why you are so careful to call Meta Miss +Rivers, to all the people here.” + +“I should hope so!” cried Norman indignantly. + +“Why, yes, Mary,” said Margaret, “I should hope lady-like feelings would +prevent you from calling her Meta before--” + +“The Andersons!” cried Ethel, laughing. “Margaret was just going to +say it. We only want Harry, to exact the forfeit! Poor dear little +humming-bird! It gives one an oppression on the chest, to think of her +having that great do-nothing brother on her hands all day.” + +“Thank you,” said Norman, “I shall know where I am not to look when I +want a sister.” + +“Ay,” said Ethel, “when you come yawning to me to find amusement for +you, you will see what I shall do!” + +“Stand over me with a stick while I print A B C for Cocksmoor, I +suppose,” said Norman. + +“Well! why not? People are much better doing something than nothing.” + +“What, you won’t even let me blow bubbles!” said Norman. + +“That is too intellectual, as papa makes it,” said Ethel. “By the bye, +Norman,” she added, as she had now walked with him a little apart, “it +always was a bubble of mine that you should try for the Newdigate prize. +Ha!” as the colour rushed into his cheeks, “you really have begun!” + +“I could not help it, when I heard the subject given out for next year. +Our old friend, Decius Mus.” + +“Have you finished?” + +“By no means, but it brought a world of notions into my head, such as I +could not but set down. Now, Ethel, do oblige me, do write another, as +we used in old times.” + +“I had better not,” said Ethel, standing thoughtful. “If I throw +myself into it, I shall hate everything else, and my wits will be +woolgathering. I have neither time nor poetry enough.” + +“You used to write English verse.” + +“I was cured of it.” + +“How?” + +“I wanted money for Cocksmoor, and after persuading papa, I got leave +to send a ballad about a little girl and a white rose to that school +magazine. I don’t think papa liked it, but there were some verses that +touched him, and one had seen worse. It was actually inserted, and I was +in high feather, till, oh, Norman! imagine Richard getting hold of this +unlucky thing, without a notion where it came from! Margaret put it +before him, to see what he would say to it.” + +“I am afraid it was not like a young lady’s anonymous composition in a +story.” + +“By no means. Imagine Ritchie picking my poor metaphors to pieces, and +weighing every sentimental line! And all in his dear old simplicity, +because he wanted to understand it, seeing that Margaret liked it. He +had not the least intention of hurting my feelings, but never was I +so annihilated! I thought he was doing it on purpose, till I saw how +distressed he was when he found it out; and worse than all was, his +saying at the end that he supposed it was very fine, but he could not +understand it.” + +“Let me see it.” + +“Some time or other; but let me see Decius.” + +“Did you give up verses because Richard could not understand them?” + +“No; because I had other fish to fry. And I have not given them up +altogether. I do scrabble down things that tease me by running in my +head, when I want to clear my brains, and know what I mean; but I +can’t do it without sitting up at night, and that stupefies me before +breakfast. And as to making bubbles of them, Ritchie has cured me of +that!” + +“It is a pity!” said Norman. + +“Nonsense, let me see Decius. I know he is splendid.” + +“I wish you would have tried, for all my best ideas are stolen from +you.” + +Ethel prevailed by following her brother to his room, and perching +herself on the window-sill, while he read his performance from many +slips of paper. The visions of those boyish days had not been forgotten, +the Vesuvius scenery was much as Ethel had once described it, but with +far more force and beauty; there was Decius’s impassioned address to the +beauteous land he was about to leave, and the remembrances of his Roman +hearth, his farm, his children, whom he quitted for the pale shadows of +an uncertain Elysium. There was a great hiatus in the middle, and Norman +had many more authorities to consult, but the summing-up was nearly +complete, and Ethel thought the last lines grand, as they spoke of the +noble consul’s name living for evermore, added to the examples that +nerve ardent souls to devote life, and all that is precious, to the call +of duty. Fame is not their object. She may crown their pale brows, but +for the good of others, not their own, a beacon light to the world. Self +is no object of theirs, and it is the casting self behind that wins--not +always the visible earthly strife, but the combat between good and evil. +They are the true victors, and, whether chronicled or forgotten, true +glory rests on their heads, the sole true glory that man can attain, +namely, the reflected beams that crown them as shadowy types of Him whom +Decius knew not--the Prince who gave Himself for His people, and thus +rendered death, for Truth’s sake, the highest boon to mortal man. + +“Norman, you must finish it! When will it be given in?” + +“Next spring, if at all, but keep the secret, Ethel. I cannot have my +father’s hopes raised.” + +“I’ll tell you of a motto,” said Ethel. “Do you remember Mrs. Hemans’ +mention of a saying of Sir Walter Scott--‘Never let me hear that brave +blood has been shed in vain. It sends a roaring voice down through all +time.’” + +“If,” said Norman, rather ashamed of the enthusiasm which, almost +approaching to the so-called “funny state” of his younger days, had +trembled in his voice, and kindled his eye--“if you won’t let me put +‘nascitur ridiculus mus.’” + +“Too obvious,” said Ethel. “Depend upon it, every undergraduate has +thought of it already.” + +Ethel was always very happy over Norman’s secrets, and went about +smiling over Decius, and comparing her brother with such a one as poor +Meta was afflicted with; wasting some superfluous pity and contempt on +the weary weight that was inflicted on the Grange. + +“What do you think of me?” said Margaret, one afternoon. “I have had Mr. +George Rivers here for two hours.” + +“Alone! what could bring him here?” + +“I told him that every one was out, but he chose to sit down, and seemed +to be waiting.” + +“How could you get on?” + +“Oh! we asked a few questions, and brought out remarks, with great +difficulty, at long intervals. He asked me if lying here was not a great +nuisance, and, at last, he grew tired of twisting his moustache, and +went away.” + +“I trust it was a call to take leave.” + +“No, he thinks he shall sell out, for the army is a great nuisance.” + +“You seem to have got into his confidence.” + +“Yes, he said he wanted to settle down, but living with one’s father was +such a nuisance.” + +“By the bye,” cried Ethel, laughing, “Margaret, it strikes me that this +is a Dumbiedikes’ courtship!” + +“Of yourself?” said Margaret slyly. + +“No, of Flora. You know, she has often met him at the Grange and +other places, and she does contrive to amuse him, and make him almost +animated. I should not think he found her a great nuisance.” + +“Poor man! I am sorry for him!” said Margaret. + +“Oh! rejection will be very good for him, and give him something to +think of.” + +“Flora will never let it come to that,” said Margaret. “But not one word +about it, Ethel!” + +Margaret and Etheldred kept their eyes open, and sometimes imagined, +sometimes laughed at themselves for their speculations, and so October +began; and Ethel laughed, as she questioned whether the Grange would +feel the Hussar’s return to his quarters, as much as home would the +departure of their scholar for Balliol. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + + + So, Lady Flora, take my lay, + And if you find a meaning there, + Oh! whisper to your glass, and say, + What wonder, if he thinks me fair.--Tennyson. + + +Flora and Norman were dining with one of their county acquaintance, and +Dr. May had undertaken to admit them on their return. The fire shone red +and bright, as it sank calmly away, and the timepiece and clock on the +stairs had begun their nightly duet of ticking, the crickets chirped in +the kitchen, and the doctor sat alone. His book lay with unturned pages, +as he sat musing, with eyes fixed on the fire, living over again his own +life, the easy bright days of his youth, when, without much pains on his +own part, the tendencies of his generous affectionate disposition, +and the influences of a warm friendship, and an early attachment, had +guarded him from evil--then the period when he had been perfectly happy, +and the sobering power of his position had been gradually working +on him; but though always religious and highly principled, the very +goodness of his natural character preventing him from perceiving the +need of self-control, until the shock that changed the whole tenor +of his life, and left him, for the first time, sensible of his own +responsibility, but with inveterate habits of heedlessness and hastiness +that love alone gave him force to combat. He was now a far gentler man. +His younger children had never seen, his elder had long since forgotten, +his occasional bursts of temper, but he suffered keenly from their +effects, especially as regarded some of his children. Though Richard’s +timidity had been overcome, and Tom’s more serious failures had been +remedied, he was not without anxiety, and had a strange unsatisfactory +feeling as regarded Flora. He could not feel that he fathomed her! She +reminded him of his old Scottish father-in-law, Professor Mackenzie, +whom he had never understood, nor, if the truth were known, liked. Her +dealings with the Ladies’ Committee were so like her grandfather’s canny +ways in a public meeting, that he laughed over them--but they were +not congenial to him. Flora was a most valuable person; all that she +undertook prospered, and he depended entirely on her for household +affairs, and for the care of Margaret; but, highly as he esteemed her, +he was a little afraid of her cool prudence; she never seemed to be +in any need of him, nor to place any confidence in him, and seemed +altogether so much older and wiser than he could feel himself--pretty +girl as she was--and very pretty were her fine blue eyes and clear skin, +set off by her dark brown hair. There arose the vision of eyes as blue, +skin as clear, but of light blonde locks, and shorter, rounder, more +dove-like form, open, simple, loving face, and serene expression, that +had gone straight to his heart, when he first saw Maggie Mackenzie +making tea. + +He heard the wheels, and went out to unbolt the door. Those were a pair +for a father to be proud of--Norman, of fine stature and noble looks, +with his high brow, clear thoughtful eye, and grave intellectual eagle +face, lighting into animation with his rare, sweet smile; and Flora, so +tall and graceful, and in her white dress, picturesquely half concealed +by her mantle, with flowers in her hair, and a deepened colour in her +cheek, was a fair vision, as she came in from the darkness. + +“Well! was it a pleasant party?” + +Norman related the circumstances, while his sister remained silently +leaning against the mantel-piece, looking into the fire, until he took +up his candle, and bade them good-night. Dr. May was about to do the +same, when she held out her hand. “One moment, if you please, dear +papa,” she said; “I think you ought to know it.” + +“What, my dear?” + +“Mr. George Rivers, papa--” + +“Ha!” said Dr. May, beginning to smile. “So that is what he is at, is +it? But what an opportunity to take.” + +“It was in the conservatory,” said Flora, a little hurt, as her father +discovered by her tone. “The music was going on, and I don’t know that +there could have been--” + +“A better opportunity, eh?” said Dr. May, laughing; “well, I should have +thought it awkward; was he very much discomposed?” + +“I thought,” said Flora, looking down and hesitating, “that he had +better come to you.” + +“Indeed! so you shifted the ungracious office to me. I am very glad to +spare you, my dear; but it was hard on him to raise his hopes.” + +“I thought,” faltered Flora, “that you could not disapprove--” + +“Flora--” and he paused, completely confounded, while his daughter was +no less surprised at the manner in which her news was received. Each +waited for the other to speak, and Flora turned away, resting her head +against the mantel-piece. + +“Surely,” said he, laying his hand on her shoulder, “you do not mean +that you like this man?” + +“I did not think that you would be against it,” said Flora, in a choked +voice, her face still averted. + +“Heaven knows, I would not be against anything for your happiness, my +dear,” he answered; “but have you considered what it would be to spend +your life with a man that has not three ideas! not a resource for +occupying himself--a regular prey to ennui--one whom you could never +respect!” He had grown more and more vehement, and Flora put her +handkerchief to her eyes, for tears of actual disappointment were +flowing. + +“Come, come,” he said, touched, but turning it off by a smile, “we will +not talk of it any more to-night. It is your first offer, and you are +flattered, but we know + + “‘Colours seen by candle-light, + Will not bear the light of day.’ + +“There, good-night, Flora, my dear--we will have a-tete-a-tete in the +study before breakfast, when you have had time to look into your own +mind.” + +He kissed her affectionately, and went upstairs with her, stopping at +her door to give her another embrace, and to say “Bless you, my dear +child, and help you to come to a right decision--” + +Flora was disappointed. She had been too highly pleased at her conquest +to make any clear estimation of the prize, individually considered. Her +vanity magnified her achievement, and she had come home in a flutter of +pleasure, at having had such a position in society offered to her, and +expecting that her whole family would share her triumph. Gratified +by George Rivers’s admiration, she regarded him with favour and +complacency; and her habit of considering herself as the most sensible +person in her sphere made her so regard his appreciation of her, that +she was blinded to his inferiority. It must be allowed that he was less +dull with her than with most others. + +And, in the midst of her glory, when she expected her father to be +delighted and grateful--to be received as a silly girl, ready to accept +any proposal, her lover spoken of with scorn, and the advantages of the +match utterly passed over, was almost beyond endurance. A physician, +with eleven children dependent on his practice, to despise an offer +from the heir of such a fortune! But that was his customary romance! +She forgave him, when it occurred to her that she was too important, and +valuable, to be easily spared; and a tenderness thrilled through her, +as she looked at the sleeping Margaret’s pale face, and thought of +surrendering her and little Daisy to Ethel’s keeping. And what would +become of the housekeeping? She decided, however, that feelings must not +sway her--out of six sisters some must marry, for the good of the rest. +Blanche and Daisy should come and stay with her, to be formed by the +best society; and, as to poor dear Ethel, Mrs. Rivers would rule the +Ladies’ Committee for her with a high hand, and, perhaps, provide +Cocksmoor with a school at her sole expense. What a useful, admirable +woman she would be! The doctor would be the person to come to his senses +in the morning, when he remembered Abbotstoke, Mr. Rivers, and Meta. + +So Flora met her father, the next morning, with all her ordinary +composure, in which he could not rival her, after his sleepless, anxious +night. His looks of affectionate solicitude disconcerted what she had +intended to say, and she waited, with downcast eyes, for him to begin. + +“Well, Flora,” he said at last, “have you thought?” + +“Do you know any cause against it?” said Flora, still looking down. + +“I know almost nothing of him. I have never heard anything of his +character or conduct. Those would be a subject of inquiry, if you wish +to carry this on--” + +“I see you are averse,” said Flora. “I would do nothing against your +wishes--” + +“My wishes have nothing to do with it,” said Dr. May. “The point +is--that I must do right, as far as I can, as well as try to secure your +happiness; and I want to be sure that you know what you are about.” + +“I know he is not clever,” said Flora; “but there may be many solid +qualities without talent.” + +“I am the last person to deny it; but where are these solid qualities? I +cannot see the recommendation!” + +“I place myself in your hands,” said Flora, in a submissive tone, which +had the effect of making him lose patience. + +“Flora, Flora! why will you talk as if I were sacrificing you to some +dislike or prejudice of my own! Don’t you think I should only rejoice +to have such a prosperous home offered to you, if only the man were +worthy?” + +“If you do not think him so, of course there is an end of it,” said +Flora, and her voice showed suppressed emotion. + +“It is not what I think, in the absence of proof, but what you think, +Flora. What I want you to do is this--to consider the matter fairly. +Compare him with--I’ll not say with Norman--but with Richard, Alan, Mr. +Wilmot. Do you think you could rely on him--come to him for advice?” + (Flora never did come to any one for advice.) “Above all--do you think +him likely to be a help, or a hindrance, in doing right?” + +“I think you underrate him,” said Flora steadily; “but, of course, if +you dislike it--though, I think, you would change your mind if you knew +him better--” + +“Well,” he said, as if to himself, “it is not always the most worthy;” + then continued, “I have no dislike to him. Perhaps I may find that you +are right. Since your mind is made up, I will do this: first, we must be +assured of his father’s consent, for they may very fairly object, since +what I can give you is a mere nothing to them. Next, I shall find out +what character he bears in his regiment, and watch him well myself; and, +if nothing appear seriously amiss, I will not withhold my consent. But, +Flora, you should still consider whether he shows such principle and +right feeling as you can trust to.” + +“Thank you, papa. I know you will do all that is kind.” + +“Mind, you must not consider it an engagement, unless all be +satisfactory.” + +“I will do as you please.” + +Ethel perceived that something was in agitation, but the fact did not +break upon her till she came to Margaret, after the schoolroom reading, +and heard Dr. May declaiming away in the vehement manner that always +relieved him. + +“Such a cub!” These were the words that met her ear; and she would have +gone away, but he called her. “Come in, Ethel; Margaret says you guessed +at this affair!” + +“At what affair!” exclaimed Ethel. “Oh, it is about Flora. Poor man; has +he done it?” + +“Poor! He is not the one to be pitied!” said her father. + +“You don’t mean that she likes him?” + +“She does though! A fellow with no more brains than a turnip lantern!” + +“She does not mean it?” said Ethel. + +“Yes, she does! Very submissive, and proper spoken, of course, but bent +on having him; so there is nothing left for me but to consent--provided +Mr. Rivers does, and he should turn out not to have done anything +outrageous; but there’s no hope of that--he has not the energy. What can +possess her? What can she see to admire?” + +“He is good-natured,” said Margaret, “and rather good-looking--” + +“Flora has more sense. What on earth can be the attraction?” + +“I am afraid it is partly the grandeur--” said Ethel. She broke off +short, quite dismayed at the emotion she had excited. Dr. May stepped +towards her, almost as if he could have shaken her. + +“Ethel,” he cried, “I won’t have such motives ascribed to your sister!” + +Ethel tried to recollect what she had said that was so shocking, for the +idea of Flora’s worldly motives was no novelty to her. They had appeared +in too many instances; and, though frightened at his anger, she stood +still, without unsaying her words. + +Margaret began to explain away. “Ethel did not mean, dear papa--” + +“No,” said Dr. May, his passionate manner giving way to dejection. “The +truth is, that I have made home so dreary, that my girls are ready to +take the first means of escaping.” + +Poor Margaret’s tears sprang forth, and, looking up imploringly, she +exclaimed, “Oh, papa, papa! it was no want of happiness! I could not +help it. You know he had come before--” + +Any reproach to her had been entirely remote from his thoughts, and he +was at once on his knee beside her, soothing and caressing, begging +her pardon, and recalling whatever she could thus have interpreted. +Meanwhile, Ethel stood unnoticed and silent, making no outward +protestation, but with lips compressed, as in her heart of hearts she +passed the resolution--that her father should never feel this pain on +her account. Leave him who might, she would never forsake him; +nothing but the will of Heaven should part them. It might be hasty and +venturesome. She knew not what it might cost her; but, where Ethel had +treasured her resolve to work for Cocksmoor, there she also laid up her +secret vow--that no earthly object should be placed between her and her +father. + +The ebullition of feeling seemed to have restored Dr. May’s calmness, +and he rose, saying, “I must go to my work; the man is coming here this +afternoon.” + +“Where shall you see him?” Margaret asked. + +“In my study, I suppose. I fear there is no chance of Flora’s changing +her mind first. Or do you think one of you could talk to her, and get +her fairly to contemplate the real bearings of the matter?” And, with +these words, he left the room. + +Margaret and Ethel glanced at each other; and both felt the +impenetrability of Flora’s nature, so smooth, that all thrusts glided +off. + +“It will be of no use,” said Ethel; “and, what is more, she will not +have it done.” + +“Pray try; a few of your forcible words would set it in a new light.” + +“Why! Do you think she will attend to me, when she has not chosen to +heed papa?” said Ethel, with an emphasis of incredulity. “No; whatever +Flora does, is done deliberately, and unalterably.” + +“Still, I don’t know whether it is not our duty,” said Margaret. + +“More yours than mine,” said Ethel. + +Margaret flushed up. “Oh, no, I cannot!” she said, always timid, and +slightly defective in moral courage. She looked so nervous and shaken by +the bare idea of a remonstrance with Flora, that Ethel could not press +her; and, though convinced that her representation would be useless, she +owned that her conscience would rest better after she had spoken. “But +there is Flora, walking in the garden with Norman,” she said. “No doubt +he is doing it.” + +So Ethel let it rest, and attended to the children’s lessons, during +which Flora came into the drawing-room, and practised her music, as if +nothing had happened. + +Before the morning was over, Ethel contrived to visit Norman in the +dining-room, where he was wont to study, and asked him whether he had +made any impression on Flora. + +“What impression do you mean?” + +“Why, about this concern,” said Ethel; “this terrible man, that makes +papa so unhappy.” + +“Papa unhappy! Why, what does he know against him? I thought the +Riverses were his peculiar pets.” + +“The Riverses! As if, because one liked the sparkling stream, one must +like a muddy ditch.” + +“What harm do you know of him?” said Norman, with much surprise and +anxiety, as if he feared that he had been doing wrong, in ignorance. + +“Harm! Is he not a regular oaf?” + +“My dear Ethel, if you wait to marry till you find some one as clever as +yourself, you will wait long enough.” + +“I don’t think it right for a woman to marry a man decidedly her +inferior.” + +“We have all learned to think much too highly of talent,” said Norman +gravely. + +“I don’t care for mere talent--people are generally more sensible +without it; but, one way or other, there ought to be superiority on the +man’s side.” + +“Well, who says there is not?” + +“My dear Norman! Why, this George Rivers is really below the average! +you cannot deny that! Did you ever meet any one so stupid?” + +“Really!” said Norman, considering; and, speaking very innocently, “I +cannot see why you think so. I do not see that he is at all less capable +of sustaining a conversation than Richard.” + +Ethel sat down, perfectly breathless with amazement and indignation. + +Norman saw that he had shocked her very much. “I do not mean,” he said, +“that we have not much more to say to Richard; all I meant to say was, +merely as to the intellect.” + +“I tell you,” said Ethel, “it is not the intellect. Richard! why, you +know how we respect, and look up to him. Dear old Ritchie! with his +goodness, and earnestness, and right judgment--to compare him to that +man! Norman, Norman, I never thought it of you!” + +“You do not understand me, Ethel. I only cited Richard, as a person who +proves how little cleverness is needed to insure respect.” + +“And, I tell you, that cleverness is not the point.” + +“It is the only objection you have put forward.” + +“I did wrong,” said Ethel. “It is not the real one. It is earnest +goodness that one honours in Richard. Where do we find it in this man, +who has never done anything but yawn over his self indulgence?” + +“Now, Ethel, you are working yourself up into a state of foolish +prejudice. You and papa have taken a dislike to him; and you are +overlooking a great deal of good safe sense and right thinking. I +know his opinions are sound, and his motives right. He has been +undereducated, we all see, and is not very brilliant or talkative; but I +respect Flora for perceiving his solid qualities.” + +“Very solid and weighty, indeed!” said Ethel ironically. “I wonder if +she would have seen them in a poor curate.” + +“Ethel, you are allowing yourself to be carried, by prejudice, a +great deal too far. Are such imputations to be made, wherever there is +inequality of means? It is very wrong! very unjust!” + +“So papa said,” replied Ethel, as she looked sorrowfully down. “He was +very angry with me for saying so. I wish I could help feeling as if that +were the temptation.” + +“You ought,” said Norman. “You will be sorry, if you set yourself, and +him, against it.” + +“I only wish you to know what I feel; and, I think, Margaret and papa +do,” said Ethel humbly; “and then you will not think us more unjust than +we are. We cannot see anything so agreeable or suitable in this man as +to account for Flora’s liking, and we do not feel convinced of his being +good for much. That makes papa greatly averse to it, though he does not +know any positive reason for refusing; and we cannot feel certain that +she is doing quite right, or for her own happiness.” + +“You will be convinced,” said Norman cheerfully. “You will find out the +good that is under the surface when you have seen more of him. I have +had a good deal of talk with him.” + +A good deal of talk to him would have been more correct, if Norman +had but been aware of it. He had been at the chief expense of the +conversation with George Rivers, and had taken the sounds of assent, +which he obtained, as evidences of his appreciation of all his views. +Norman had been struggling so long against his old habit of looking down +on Richard, and exalting intellect; and had seen, in his Oxford life, so +many ill-effects of the knowledge that puffeth up, that he had come +to have a certain respect for dullness, per se, of which George Rivers +easily reaped the benefit, when surrounded by the halo, which everything +at Abbotstoke Grange bore in the eyes of Norman. + +He was heartily delighted at the proposed connection, and his genuine +satisfaction not only gratified Flora, and restored the equanimity that +had been slightly disturbed by her father, but it also reassured Ethel +and Margaret, who could not help trusting in his judgment, and began to +hope that George might be all he thought him. + +Ethel, finding that there were two ways of viewing the gentleman, +doubted whether she ought to express her opinion. It was Flora’s +disposition, and the advantages of the match, that weighed most upon +her, and, in spite of her surmise having been treated as so injurious, +she could not rid herself of the burden. + +Dr. May was not so much consoled by Norman’s opinion as Ethel expected. +The corners of his mouth curled up a little with diversion, and though +he tried to express himself glad, and confident in his son’s judgment, +there was the same sort of involuntary lurking misgiving with which he +had accepted Sir Matthew Fleet’s view of Margaret’s case. + +There was no danger that Dr. May would not be kind and courteous to the +young man himself. It was not his fault if he were a dunce, and Dr. May +perceived that his love for Flora was real, though clumsily expressed. +He explained that he could not sanction the engagement till he should +be better informed of the young gentleman’s antecedents; this was, as +George expressed it, a great nuisance, but his father agreed that it +was quite right, in some doubt, perhaps, as to how Dr. May might be +satisfied. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + + + Ye cumbrous fashions, crowd not on my head. + Mine be the chip of purest white, + Swan-like; and, as her feathers light, + When on the still wave spread; + And let it wear the graceful dress + Of unadorned simpleness. + Catherine Fanshaw’s ‘Parody on Grey’. + + +Nothing transpired to the discredit of Lieutenant Rivers. He had spent a +great deal of money, but chiefly for want of something else to do, +and, though he was not a subject for high praise, there was no vice +in him--no more than in an old donkey--as Dr. May declared, in his +concluding paroxysm of despair, on finding that, though there was little +to reconcile him to the engagement, there was no reasonable ground for +thwarting his daughter’s wishes. He argued the matter once more with +her, and, finding her purpose fixed, he notified his consent, and the +rest of the family were admitted to a knowledge of the secret which they +had never suspected. + +Etheldred could not help being gratified with the indignation it +excited. With one voice, Mary and Blanche declared that they would +never give up the title of “the detestable,” and would not make him +any presents; certainly not watch-chains! Miss Bracy, rather alarmed, +lectured them just enough to make them worse; and Margaret, overhearing +Blanche instructing Aubrey in her own impertinences, was obliged to call +her to her sofa, and assure her that she was unkind to Flora, and that +she must consider Mr. George Rivers as her brother. + +“Never my brother like Harry!” exclaimed Mary indignantly. + +“No, indeed; nor like Alan!” exclaimed Blanche. “And I won’t call him +George, I am determined, if it is ever so!” + +“It will not matter to him what such little girls call him,” said +Margaret. + +Blanche was so annihilated, that the sound of a carriage, and of the +door bell, was a great satisfaction to her. + +Meta Rivers came flying into the room, her beautiful eyes dancing, +and her cheeks glowing with pleasure, as, a little timidly, she kissed +Margaret; while Ethel, in a confused way, received Mr. Rivers, in +pain for her own cold, abrupt manner, in contrast with his gentle, +congratulating politeness. + +Meta asked, blushing, and with a hesitating voice, for their dear Flora; +Mary offered to call her, but Meta begged to go herself, and thus was +spared the awkwardness that ensued. Ethel was almost vexed with herself, +as ungrateful, when she saw Mr. Rivers so mildly kind, and so delighted, +with the bland courtesy that seemed fully conscious of the favour that +Flora had conferred on his son, and thankful to the Mays for accepting +him. + +Margaret answered with more expression of gratification than would have +been sincere in Ethel; but it was a relief when Flora and Meta came in +together, as pretty a contrast as could be seen; the little dark-eyed +fairy, all radiant with joy, clinging to the slender waist of Flora, +whose quiet grace and maidenly dignity were never more conspicuous than +as, with a soft red mantling in her fair cheek, her eyes cast down, but +with a simple, unaffected warmth of confidence and gratitude, she came +forward to receive Mr. Rivers’s caressing affectionate greeting. + +Stiffness was over when she came in, and Dr. May, who presently made his +appearance, soon was much more at his ease than could have been hoped, +after his previous declarations that he should never be able to be +moderately civil about it to Mr. Rivers. People of ready sympathy, such +as Dr. May and Margaret, have a great deal of difficulty with their +sincerity spared them, by being carried along with the feelings of +others. Ethel could not feel the same, and was bent on avoiding any +expression of opinion; she hoped that Meta’s ecstasies would all be +bestowed upon her future sister-in-law; but Meta was eager for an +interview with Ethel herself, and, as usual, gained her point. + +“Now then, you are property of my own!” she cried. “May I not take you +all for sisters?” + +Ethel had not thought of this as a convenience of the connection, and +she let Meta kiss her, and owned that it was very nice. + +“Ethel,” said Meta, “I see, and I wanted to talk to you. You don’t think +poor George good enough for Flora.” + +“I never meant to show it,” said Ethel. + +“You need not mind,” said Meta, smiling. “I was very much surprised +myself, and thought it all a mistake. But I am so very glad, for I know +it will make such a difference to him, poor fellow. I should like to +tell you all about him, for no one else can very well, and you will like +him better, perhaps. You know my grandfather made his own fortune, and +you would think some of our relations very queer. My Aunt Dorothy once +told me all about it--papa was made to marry the partner’s daughter, and +I fancy she could not have been much of a lady. I don’t think he could +have been very happy with her, but she soon died, and left him with this +one son, whom those odd old aunts brought up their own way. By and by, +you know, papa came to be in quite another line of society, but when he +married again, poor George had been so spoiled by these aunts, and was +so big, and old, that my mother did not know what to make of him.” + +“A great lubberly boy,” Ethel said, rather repenting the next moment. + +“He is thirteen years older than I am,” said Meta, “and you see it has +been hard on him altogether; he had not the education that papa would +have given him if he had been born later: and he can’t remember his +mother, and has always been at a loss when with clever people. I never +understood it till within the last two or three years, nor knew +how trying it must be to see such a little chit as me made so much +of--almost thrusting him aside. But you cannot think what a warm-hearted +good fellow he is--he has never been otherwise than so very kind to +me, and he was so very fond of his old aunt. Hitherto, he has had such +disadvantages, and no real, sensible woman has taken him in hand; he +does not care for papa’s tastes, and I am so much younger, that I never +could get on with him at all, till this time; but I do know that he has +a real good temper, and all sorts of good qualities, and that he only +needs to be led right, to go right. Oh! Flora may make anything of him, +and we are so thankful to her for having found it out!” + +“Thank you for telling me,” said Ethel. “It is much more satisfactory to +have no shamming.” + +Meta laughed, for Ethel’s sham was not too successful; she continued, +“Dear Dr. May, I thought he would think his beautiful Flora not exactly +matched--but tell him, Ethel, for if he once is sorry for poor George, +he will like him. And it will really be the making of George, to be +thrown with him and your brothers. Oh! we are so glad! But I won’t tease +you to be so.” + +“I can like it better now,” said Ethel. “You know Norman thinks very +highly of your brother, and declares that it will all come out by and +by.” + +Meta clapped her hands, and said that she should tell her father, and +Ethel parted with her, liking her, at least, better than ever. There +was a comical scene between her and the doctor, trying to define what +relations they should become to each other, which Ethel thought did a +good deal to mollify her father. + +The history of George’s life did more; he took to pitying him, and pity +was, indeed, akin to love in the good doctor’s mind. In fact, George +was a man who could be liked, when once regarded as a belonging--a +necessity, not a choice; for it was quite true that there was no harm in +him, and a great deal of good nature. His constant kindness, and evident +liking for Margaret, stood him in good stead; he made her a sort of +confidante, bestowing on her his immeasurable appreciation of Flora’s +perfections, and telling her how well he was getting on with “the old +gentleman”--a name under which she failed to recognise her father. + +As to Tom, he wrote his congratulations to Ethel, that she might make +a wedding present of her Etruscan vases, the Cupids on which must have +been put there by anticipation. Richard heard none of the doubts, +and gave kind, warm congratulations, promising to return home for +the wedding; and Mary and Blanche no sooner heard a whisper about +bride’s-maids than all their opposition faded away, in a manner that +quite scandalised Ethel, while it set Margaret on reminiscences of +her having been a six-year-old bride’s-maid to Flora’s godmother, Mrs. +Arnott. + +As to the gossip in the town, Ethel quite dreaded the sight of every one +without Flora to protect her, and certainly, Flora’s unaffected, quiet +manner was perfection, and kept off all too forward congratulations, +while it gratified those whom she was willing to encourage. + +There was no reason for waiting, and Mr. Rivers was as impatient as his +son, so an understanding arose that the wedding, should take place near +the end of the Christmas holidays. + +Flora showed herself sensible and considerate. Always open-handed, her +father was inclined to do everything liberally, and laid no restrictions +on her preparations, but she had too much discretion to be profuse, and +had a real regard for the welfare of the rest. She laughed with Ethel at +the anticipations of the Stoneborough ladies that she must be going +to London, and, at the requests, as a great favour, that they might be +allowed the sight of her trousseau. Her wedding-dress, white silk, +with a white cashmere mantle, was, indeed, ordered from Meta’s London +dressmaker; but, for the rest, she contented herself with an expedition +to Whitford, accompanied by Miss Bracy and her two enchanted pupils, +and there laid in a stock of purchases, unpretending and in good +taste, aiming only at what could be well done, and not attempting the +decorative wardrobe of a great lady. Ethel was highly amused when +the Misses Anderson came for their inspection, to see their concealed +disappointment at finding no under garments trimmed with Brussels lace, +nor pocket-handkerchiefs all open-work, except a centre of the size of +a crown-piece, and the only thing remarkable was Margaret’s beautiful +marking in embroidery. There was some compensation in the costly wedding +presents--Flora had reaped a whole harvest from friends of her own, +grateful patients of her father, and the whole Rivers and Langdale +connection; but, in spite of the brilliant uselessness of most of these, +the young ladies considered themselves ill-used, thought Dr. May never +would have been shabby, and were of opinion that when Miss Ward had +married her father’s surgical pupil, her outfit had been a far more +edifying spectacle. + +The same moderation influenced Flora’s other arrangements. Dr. May was +resigned to whatever might be thought most proper, stipulating only +that he should not have to make a speech; but Flora felt that, in their +house, a grand breakfast would be an unsuccessful and melancholy affair. +If the bride had been any one else, she could have enjoyed making all +go off well, but, under present circumstances, it would be great pain to +her father and Margaret, a misery to Ethel, and something she dared not +think of to the guests. She had no difficulty in having it dispensed +with. George was glad to avoid “a great nuisance.” Mr. Rivers feared the +fatigue, and, with his daughter, admired Flora for her amiability, and, +as to the home party, no words could express their gratitude to her for +letting them off. Mary and Blanche did, indeed, look rather blank, but +Blanche was consoled, by settling with Hector the splendours in store +for Alan and Margaret, and Mary cared the less, as there would be no +Harry to enjoy the fun. + +The bride-maiden’s glory was theirs by right, though Ethel was an +unsatisfactory chief for such as desired splendour. She protested +against anything incongruous with January, or that could not be useful +afterwards, and Meta took her part, laughing at the cruel stroke they +were preparing for Bellairs. Ethel begged for dark silks and straw +bonnets, and Flora said that she had expected to hear of brown stuff +and gray duffle, but owned that they had better omit the ordinary muslin +garb in the heart of winter. The baby bride’s-maid was, at last, the +chief consideration. Margaret suggested how pretty she and Blanche would +look in sky-blue merino, trimmed with swan’s-down. Meta was charmed with +the idea, and though Ethel stuck out her shoulder-blades and poked +out her head, and said she should look like the ugly duckling, she was +clamorously reminded that the ugly duckling ended by being a swan, +and promised that she should be allowed a bonnet of a reasonable size, +trimmed with white, for Mr. Rivers’s good taste could endure, as little +as Dr. May’s sense of propriety, the sight of a daughter without shade +to her face, Ethel, finally, gave in, on being put in mind that her papa +had a penchant for swan’s-down, and on Margaret’s promising to wear a +dress of the same as theirs. + +Ethel was pleased and satisfied by Flora’s dislike of parade, and +attention to the feelings of all. Passing over the one great fact, +the two sisters were more of one mind than usual, probably because all +latent jealousy of Ethel had ceased in Flora’s mind. Hitherto, she had +preferred the being the only practically useful person in the family, +and had encouraged the idea of Ethel’s gaucherie but now she desired to +render her sister able to take her place, and did all in her power to +put her in good heart. + +For Etheldred was terrified at the prospect of becoming responsible +housekeeper. Margaret could only serve as an occasional reference. Her +morning powers became too uncertain to be depended on for any regular, +necessary duty, and it would have oppressed her so much to order the +dinners, which she never saw, that, though she offered to resume the +office, Flora would not hear of Ethel’s consenting. If it were her +proper business, Ethel supposed she could do it, but another hour of her +leisure was gone, and what would become of them all, with her, a proverb +for heedlessness, and ignorance of ordinary details. She did not know +that these were more proverbial than actual, and, having a bad name, she +believed in it herself. However, Flora made it her business to persuade +her that her powers were as good for household matters, as for books, or +Cocksmoor; instructed her in her own methodical plans, and made her +keep house for a fortnight, with so much success that she began to be +hopeful. + +In the attendance on Margaret, the other great charge, old nurse was +the security; and Ethel, who had felt her self much less unhandy +than before, was, to succeed to the abode, in her room--Blanche +being promoted from the nursery to the old attic. “And,” said Flora +consolingly, “if dear Margaret ever should be ill, you may reckon on +me.” + +Miss Flora May made her last appearance at the Ladies’ Committee to hear +the reply from the principal of the college. It was a civil letter, +but declined taking any steps in the matter without more certain +intelligence of the wishes of the incumbent of the parish or of the +holders of the land in question. + +The ladies abused all colleges--as prejudiced old Bodies, and feared +that it would be impossible to ask Mrs. Perkinson’s niece to take the +school while there was neither room nor lodging. So Miss Rich recorded +the correspondence, and the vote of censure, by which it was to be hoped +the Ladies’ Committee of Market Stoneborough inflicted a severe blow on +the principal and fellows of M---- College. + +“Never mind, Ethel,” said Flora. “I shall meet Sir Henry Walkinghame in +London, and will talk to him. We shall yet astonish the muses. If we can +get the land without them, we shall be able to manage it our own way, +without obligations.” + +“You forget the money!” + +“We will keep them from dissipating it--or that might be no harm! A +hundred pounds will be easily found, and we should then have it in our +own hands. Besides, you know, I don’t mean to give up. I shall write a +polite note to Mrs. Ledwich, begging to subscribe on my own account, and +to retain my seat! and you will see what we shall do.” + +“You mean to come down with the external authority,” said Ethel, +smiling. + +“True! and though my driving in with a pair of horses may make little +difference to you, Ethel, depend upon it, Mrs. Ledwich will be the more +amenable. Whenever I want to be particularly impressive, I shall bring +in that smelling-bottle, with the diamond stopper that won’t come out, +and you will find that carries all before it.” + +“A talisman!” said Ethel, laughing. “But I had rather they yielded to a +sense of right!” + +“So had I,” said Flora. “Perhaps you will rule them that way?” + +“Not I!” cried Ethel, terrified. + +“Then you must come to me, and secondary motives. Seriously--I do mean +that George should do something for Stoneborough; and, in a position of +influence, I hope to be able to be useful to my poor old town. Perhaps +we shall have the minster restored.” + +Flora did wish it. She did love Stoneborough, and was sincerely +interested for Cocksmoor. She thought she worked earnestly for them, +and that her situation would be turned to their profit; but there was +something for which she worked more earnestly. Had Flora never heard of +the two masters whom we cannot serve at the same time? + +Richard came home for “a parson’s week,” so as to include the wedding. +He looked very fresh and youthful; but his manner, though still gentle +and retiring, had lost all that shrinking diffidence, and had, now, a +very suitable grave composure. Everybody was delighted to have him; +and Ethel, more than any one, except Margaret. What floods of Cocksmoor +histories were poured upon him; and what comparing of notes about his +present school-children! He could not enter into the refinements of her +dread of the Ladies’ Committee, and thought she might be thankful if +the school were built by any proper means; for, if Cherry Elwood +were retained, and the ladies prevented from doing harm, he did not +understand why Ethel should wish to reject all assistance that did not +come in a manner she admired. He never would comprehend--so Ethel gave +it up--feared she was again jealous and self-sufficient, and contented +herself with the joy that his presence produced at Cocksmoor, where the +children smiled, blushed, and tittered, with ecstasy, whenever he even +looked at one of them. + +Richard was not allowed to have a Sunday of rest. His father apologised +for having made an engagement for him--as Mr. Ramsden was unwell, and +the school clergy were all absent, so that he could do no otherwise than +assist in the service. Richard coloured, and said that he had brought no +sermon; and he was, in fact, deprived of much of his sister’s company, +for composition was not easy to him, and the quantity of time he spent +on it, quite alarmed Norman and Ethel, who both felt rather nervous on +the Sunday morning, but agreed that preaching was not everything. + +Ethel could not see well as far as the reading-desk, but she saw her +father glance up, take off his spectacles, wipe them, and put them away; +and she could not be displeased, though she looked reproof at Blanche’s +breathless whisper, “Oh, he looks so nice!” Those white folds did truly +suit well with the meek, serious expression of the young deacon’s fair +face, and made him, as his sisters afterwards said, like one of the +solemnly peaceful angel-carvings of the earlier ages. + +His voice was sweet and clear, and his reading full of quiet simplicity +and devotion, such as was not often heard by that congregation, who were +too much used either to carelessness or to pomposity. The sermon made +his brother and sister ashamed of their fears. It was an exposition of +the Gospel for the day, practical and earnest, going deep, and rising +high, with a clearness and soberness, yet with a beauty and elevation, +such as Norman and Ethel had certainly not expected--or, rather, +they forgot all their own expectations and Richard himself, and only +recollected their own hearts and the great future before them. + +Even Blanche and Aubrey told Margaret a great deal about it, and +declared that, if Richard preached every Sunday, they should like going +to church much better. + +When Dr. May came in, some time after, he was looking much pleased. +“So, Mr. Ritchie,” he said, “you have made quite a sensation--every one +shaking me by the hand, and thanking me for my son’s sermon. You will be +a popular preacher at last!” + +Richard blushed distressfully, and quoted the saying, that it would be +the true comfort to hear that people went home, thinking of themselves +rather than of the sermon. This put an end to the subject; but the +doctor went over it again, most thoroughly, with his other children, who +were greatly delighted. + +Flora’s last home Sunday! She was pale and serious, evidently feeling +much, though seeking no tete-a-tetes; and chiefly engrossed with waiting +on Margaret, or fondling little Gertrude. No one saw the inside of her +mind--probably, she did not herself. On the outside was a very suitable +pensiveness, and affection for all that she was leaving. The only one in +the family to whom she talked much was Norman, who continued to see many +perfections in George, and contrived, by the force of his belief, to +impress the same on the others, and to make them think his great +talent for silence such a proof of his discretion, that they were not +staggered, even by his shy blundering exclamation that his wedding would +be a great nuisance--a phrase which, as Dr. May observed, was, to him, +what Est-il-possible was to his namesake of Denmark. + +Nobody wished for any misgivings, so Richard was never told of any, +though there was a careful watch kept to see what were his first +impressions. None transpired, except something about good nature, but it +was shrewdly believed that Richard and George, being much alike in +shy unwillingness to speak, had been highly satisfied with the little +trouble they had caused to each other, and so had come to a tacit +esteem. + +There was very little bustle of preparation. Excepting the packing, +everything went on much as usual, till the Thursday morning, and then +the children were up early, refreshing the Christmas hollies, and +working up their excitement, only to have it damped by the suppressed +agitation of their elders at the breakfast-table. + +Dr. May did not seem to know what he was about; and Flora looked paler +and paler. She went away before the meal was over, and when Ethel went +to the bedroom, shortly after, she found that she had fairly broken +down, and was kneeling beside Margaret’s sofa, resting her head on her +sister’s bosom, and sobbing--as Ethel had never seen her weep, except on +that dreadful night, after their mother’s death. + +In a person ordinarily of such self-command as Flora, weeping was a +terrible thing, and Margaret was much distressed and alarmed; but the +worst had passed before Ethel came up, and Flora was able to speak. “Oh! +Margaret! I cannot leave you! Oh! how happy we have been--” + +“You are going to be happier, we trust, dearest,” said Margaret fondly. + +“Oh! what have I done? It is not worth it!” + +Ethel thought she caught those words, but no more. Mary’s step was +heard, and Flora was on her feet, instantly, composing herself rapidly. +She shed no more tears, but her eyelids were very heavy, and her face +softened, in a manner that, though she was less pretty than usual, was +very becoming under her bridal veil. She recovered calmness and even +cheerfulness, while reversing the usual order of things, and dressing +her bride’s-maids, who would never have turned out fit to be seen, but +for the exertions of herself, Margaret, and Miss Bracy. Ethel’s long +Scotch bones and Mary’s round, dumpy shapelessness were, in their +different ways, equally hard to overcome; and the one was swelled out +with a fabulous number of petticoats, and the other pinched in, till she +gasped and screamed for mercy, while Blanche and Gertrude danced about, +beautiful to behold, under their shady hats; and presently, with a light +tap at the door, Meta Rivers stepped in, looking so pretty, that all +felt that to try to attain to such an appearance was vain. + +Timid in her affection, she hardly dared to do more than kiss them, and +whisper her pretty caressing words to each. There was no more time--Dr. +Hoxton’s carriage was come to take up the bride. + +Ethel did as she was told, without much volition of her own; and she +quitted the carriage, and was drawn into her place by Norman, trusting +that Meta would not let her do wrong, and relieved that just in front +of her were the little ones, over whose heads she could see her father, +with Flora’s veiled bending figure. + +That pause while the procession was getting into order, the slow +movement up the centre aisle, the week-day atmosphere of the church, +brought back to her thoughts a very different time, and one of those +strange echoings on the mind repeated in her ears the words, “For man +walketh in a vain shadow, and disquieteth himself in vain--” + +There was a little pause--George did not seem to be forthcoming, and +Meta turned round, rather uneasily, and whispered something about his +having been so nervous. However, there he was, looking exceedingly red, +and very sheepish, and disposed to fall back on his best man, Norman, +whose countenance was at the brightest--and almost handsome. + +Dr. Hoxton performed the ceremony, “assisted by” Richard. It had been +Flora’s choice; and his loud sonorous voice was thought very impressive. +Blanche stood the nearest, and looked happy and important, with Flora’s +glove. Gertrude held Mary’s hand, and gazed straight up into the fretted +roof, as if that were to her the chief marvel. Ethel stood and knelt, +but did not seem, to herself, to have the power of thinking or feeling. +She saw and heard--that was all; she could not realise. + +They drew her forward, when it was over, to sign her name, as witness. +She took up the pen, looked at the Flora May, written for the last time, +and found her hand so trembling, that she said, half smiling, that +she could not write. Mary was only too well pleased to supply the +deficiency. Dr. May looked at her anxiously, and asked whether she felt +overcome. + +“No, papa. I did not know my hand was shaky.” + +He took it into his, and pressed it. Ethel knew, then, how much had been +undeveloped in her own mind, catching it, as it were, from his touch +and look. The thought of his past joy--the sad fading of hope for +Margaret--the fear and doubt for their present bride--above all, the +sense that the fashion of this world passeth away; and that it is not +the outward scene, but our bearing in it, that is to last for ever. + +The bells struck up, each peal ending with a crash that gave Ethel +some vague idea of fatality; and they all came back to the house, where +Margaret was ready, in the drawing-room, to receive them, looking +very pretty, in her soft blue dress, which especially became her fair +complexion and light brown hair. Ethel did not quite like the pink +colour on her cheeks, and feared that she had been shaken by Flora’s +agitation in the morning; but she was very calm and bright, in the +affectionate greeting with which she held out her hands to the bride and +bridegroom, as they came in. + +Mr. Rivers and Meta were the only guests, and, while Meta was seized +by the children, Margaret lay talking to Mr. Rivers, George standing +upright and silent behind her sofa, like a sentinel. Flora was gone +to change her dress, not giving way, but nervous and hurried, as she +reiterated parting directions about household comforts to Ethel, who +stood by the toilette-table, sticking a pin into the pincushion and +drawing it out again, as if solely intent on making it always fit into +the same hole, while Mary dressed Flora, packed, flew about, and was +useful. + +As they came downstairs, Ethel found that Flora was trembling from head +to foot, and leaning on her; Dr. May stood at the foot of the stairs, +and folded his daughter in a long embrace; Flora gave herself up to it +as if she would never bear to leave it. Did a flash come over her then, +what the father was, whom she had held cheaply? what was the worth of +that for which she had exchanged such a home? She spoke not a word, she +only clung tightly--if her heart failed her--it was too late. “Bless +you! my child!” he said at last. “Only be what your mother was!” + +A coming tread warned them to part. There was a tray of luncheon for the +two who were about to depart, and the great snow-white cake was waiting +for Flora to cut it. She smiled, accomplished that feat steadily, and +Norman continuing the operation, Aubrey guided Gertrude in handing round +the slices. George did full justice thereto, as well as to the more +solid viands. Flora could taste nothing, but she contrived to smile and +say it was too early. She was in haste to have it over now, and, as soon +as George had finished, she rose up, still composed and resolved, the +last kisses were given--Gertrude was lifted up to her, after she was in +the carriage for the very last, when George proposed to run away with +her also, whereupon Daisy kicked and screamed, and was taken back in +haste. The door was shut, and they drove off, bound for the Continent, +and then Mary, as if the contingency of losing Flora had only for the +first time occurred to her as the consequence of the wedding, broke out +into a piteous fit of sobbing--rather too unrestrained, considering her +fourteen years. + +Poor Mary, she was a very child still! They pulled her into the study, +out of the way of Mr. Rivers, and Meta had no sooner said how Flora +would soon come home and live at the Grange, and talked of the grand +school-feast to which she was at once going to take her friends, than +the round rosy face drew out of its melancholy puckers into smiles, as +Mary began to tell the delight caused by the invitations which she +had conveyed. That was to be a feast indeed--all the Abbotstoke +children--all Flora’s class at Stoneborough, and as many Cocksmoor +scholars as could walk so far, were to dine on Christmas fare, at +one o’clock, at the Grange, and Meta was in haste to be at home to +superintend the feast. + +Mary, Blanche, and Aubrey, went with her, under the keeping of Miss +Bracy, the boys were to follow. She had hoped for Ethel, but on looking +at her, ceased her coaxing importunity. + +“I see,” she said kindly; “even schoolchildren will not be so good for +you as peace.” + +“Thank you,” said Ethel, “I should like to be quiet till the evening, if +you will let me off. It is very kind in you.” + +“I ought to know how to pity you,” said Meta, “I who have gained what +you have lost.” + +“I want to think too,” said Ethel. “It is the beginning to me of a new +life, and I have not been able to look at it yet.” + +“Besides, Margaret will want you. Poor Margaret--has it been very trying +to her?” + +“I fear so, but I shall keep out of her way, and leave her to a quiet +afternoon with Richard. It will be the greatest treat to those two to be +together.” + +“Very well, I will carry off the children, and leave the house quiet.” + +And quiet it was in another hour--Gertrude walking with the nurses, Dr. +May gone to his patients, and all the rest at Abbotstoke, except Richard +and Margaret downstairs; and Ethel, who, while arranging her properties +in her new room, had full leisure to lay out before herself the duties +that had devolved on her and to grapple with them. She recalled the +many counsels that she had received from Flora, and they sounded so +bewildering that she wished it had been Conic sections, and then she +looked at a Hebrew grammar that Norman had given her, and gave a sigh as +she slipped it into the shelf of the seldom used. She looked about the +room, cleared out the last piece of brown paper, and burned the last +torn envelope, that no relic of packing and change might distress +Margaret’s eyes for order; then feeling at once desolate and intrusive, +she sat down in Flora’s fireside chair, opened her desk, and took out +her last time-table. She looked at it for some minutes, laid it aside, +and rising, knelt down. Again seating herself, she resumed her paper, +took a blank one, ruled it, and wrote her rules for each hour of each +day in the week. That first hour after breakfast, when hitherto she had +been free, was one sacrifice; it must go now, to ordering dinner, +seeing after stores, watching over the children’s clothes, and the +other nondescripts, which, happily for her, Flora had already reduced to +method. The other loss was the spare time between the walk and tea; she +must not spend that in her own room now, or there would be no one to sit +with Margaret, or keep the little ones from being troublesome to her. +Ethel had often had to give up this space before, when Flora went out in +the evening, and she had seldom felt otherwise than annoyed. Give it +up for good! that was the cure for temper, but it had been valuable as +something of her own. She would have been thankful could she have +hoped to keep regularly to her own rules, but that she knew was utterly +improbable--boys, holidays, callers, engagements, Dr. May, would all +conspire to turn half her days upside down, and Cocksmoor itself must +often depend not only on the weather, but on home doings. Two or three +notes she wrote at the foot of her paper. + + + ‘N. B. These are a standard--not a bed of Procrustes. + MUSTS--To be first consulted.--Mays--last. Ethel May’s + last of all. + If I cannot do everything--omit the self-chosen. + MEM-- Neither hurry when it depends on myself, + nor fidget when it depends on others. + Keep a book going to pacify myself.’ + + +Her rules drawn up, Ethel knelt once more. Then she drew a long sigh, +and wondered where Flora was; and next, as she was fairly fagged, mind +and body, she threw herself back in the armchair, took up a railway +novel that Hector had brought home, and which they had hidden from the +children, and repaired herself with the luxury of an idle reading. + +Margaret and Richard likewise spent a peaceful, though pensive +afternoon. Margaret had portions of letters from Alan to read to him, +and a consultation to hold. The hope of her full recovery had so melted +away, that she had, in every letter, striven to prepare Mr. Ernescliffe +for the disappointment, and each that she received in return was so +sanguine and affectionate, that the very fondness was as much grief as +joy. She could not believe that he took in the true state of the case, +or was prepared to perceive that she could never be his wife, and she +wanted Richard to write one of his clear, dispassionate statements, +such as carried full conviction, and to help to put a final end to the +engagement. + +“But why,” said Richard--“why should you wish to distress him?” + +“Because I cannot bear that he should be deceived, and should feed on +false hopes. Do you think it right, Richard?” + +“I will write to him, if you like,” said Richard; “but I think he +must pretty well know the truth from all the letters to Harry and to +himself.” + +“It would be so much better for him to settle his mind at once,” said +Margaret. + +“Perhaps he would not think so--” + +There was a pause, while Margaret saw that her brother was thinking. At +last he said, “Margaret, will you pardon me? I do think that this is a +little restlessness. The truth has not been kept from him, and I do +not see that we are called to force it on him. He is sensible and +reasonable, and will know how to judge when he comes home.” + +“It was to try to save him the pang,” murmured Margaret. + +“Yes; but it will be worse far away than near. I do not mean that we +should conceal the fact, but you have no right to give him up before he +comes home. The whole engagement was for the time of his voyage.” + +“Then you think I ought not to break it off before his return?” + +“Certainly not.” + +“It will be pain spared--unless it should be worse by and by.” + +“I do not suppose we ought to look to by and by,” said Richard. + +“How so?” + +“Do the clearly right thing for the present, I mean,” he said, “without +anxiety for the rest. How do we--any of us--know what may be the case in +another year?” + +“Do not flatter me with hopes,” said Margaret, sadly smiling; “I have +had too many of them.” + +“No,” said Richard; “I do not think you will ever get well. But so much +may happen--” + +“I had rather have my mind made up once for all, and resign myself,” + said Margaret. + +“His will is sometimes that we should be uncertain,” said Richard. + +“And that is the most trying,” said Margaret. + +“Just so--” and he paused tenderly. + +“I feel how much has been right,” said Margaret. “This wedding has +brought my real character before me. I feel what I should have been. You +have no notion how excited and elated I can get about a little bit of +dress out of the common way for myself or others,” said she, smiling; +“and then all the external show and things belonging to station--I +naturally care much more for them than even Flora does. Ethel would bear +all those things as if they did not exist--I could not.” + +“They would be a temptation?” + +“They would once have been. Yes, they would now,” said Margaret. “And +government, and management, and influence--you would not guess what +dreams I used to waste on them, and now here am I set aside from it all, +good for nothing but for all you dear ones to be kind to.” + +“They would not say so,” said Richard kindly. + +“Not say it, but I feel it. Papa and Ethel are all the world to each +other--Richard, I may say it to you. There has been only one thing more +hard to bear than that--don’t suppose there was a moment’s neglect or +disregard; but when first I understood that Ethel could be more to him +than I, then I could not always feel rightly. It was the punishment for +always wanting to be first.” + +“My father would be grieved that you had the notion. You should not keep +it.” + +“He does not know it is so,” said Margaret; “I am his first care, I +fear, his second grief; but it is not in the nature of things that Ethel +should not be more his comfort and companion. Oh! I am glad it was not +she who married! What shall we do when she goes?” + +This came from Margaret’s heart, so as to show that if there had once +been a jealous pang of mortification, it had been healed by overflowing, +unselfish affection and humility. + +They went off to praise Ethel, and thence to praise Norman, and the +elder brother and sister, who might have had some jealousy of the +superiority of their juniors, spent a good happy hour in dwelling on the +shining qualities they loved so heartily. + +And Richard was drawn into talking of his own deeper thoughts, and +Margaret had again the comfort of clerical counsel--and now from her own +most dear brother! So they sat till darkness closed in, when Ethel came +down, bringing Gertrude and her great favour, very full of chatter, only +not quite sure whether she had been bride, bride’s-maid, or bridegroom. + +The schoolroom set, with Tom and Aubrey, came home soon after, and +tongues went fast with stories of roast-beef, plum-pudding, and +blind-man’s-buff. How the dear Meta had sent a cart to Cocksmoor to +bring Cherry herself, and how many slices everybody had eaten, and how +the bride’s health had been drunk by the children in real wine, and how +they had all played, Norman and all, and how Hector had made Blanche +bold enough to extract a raisin from the flaming snap-dragon. It was +not half told when Dr. May came home, and Ethel went up to dress for +her dinner at Abbotstoke, Mary following to help her and continue her +narration, which bade fair to entertain Margaret the whole evening. + +Dr. May, Richard, and Ethel had a comfortable dark drive to the Grange, +and, on arriving, found Hector deep in ‘Wild Sports of the West’, while +Norman and Meta were sitting over the fire talking, and Mr. Rivers was +resting in his library. + +And when Ethel and Meta spent the time before the gentlemen came in +from the dining-room, in a happy tete-a-tete, Ethel learned that the +fire-light dialogue had been the pleasantest part of the whole day, and +that Meta had had confided to her the existence of Decius Mus--a secret +which Ethel had hitherto considered as her own peculiar property, but +she supposed it was a pledge of the sisterhood, which Meta professed +with all the house of May. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + + + The rest all accepted the kind invitation, + And much bustle it caused in the plumed creation; + Such ruffling of feathers, such pruning of coats, + Such chirping, such whistling, such clearing of throats, + Such polishing bills, and such oiling of pinions, + Had never been known in the biped dominions. + Peacock at Home. + + +Etheldred was thankful for that confidence to Meta Rivers, for without +it, she would hardly have succeeded in spurring Norman up to give the +finishing touches to Decius, and to send him in. If she talked of the +poem as the devotion of Decius, he was willing enough, and worked with +spirit, for he liked the ideas, and enjoyed the expressing them, and +trying to bring his lines to his notion of perfection, but if she called +it the “Newdigate,” or the “Prize Poem,” and declared herself sure it +would be successful, he yawned, slackened, leaned back in his chair, +and began to read other people’s poetry, which Ethel was disrespectful +enough not to think nearly as good as his own. + +It was completed at last, and Ethel stitched it up with a narrow red and +white ribbon--the Balliol colours; and set Meta at him till a promise +was extorted that he would send it in. + +And, in due time, Ethel received the following note: + + +“My Dear Ethel,-- + +“My peacock bubble has flown over the house. +Tell them all about it. + +Your affectionate, + N. W. M.” + + +They were too much accustomed to Norman’s successes to be +extraordinarily excited; Ethel would have been much mortified if the +prize had been awarded to any one else, but, as it was, it came rather +as a matter of course. The doctor was greatly pleased, and said he +should drive round by Abbotstoke to tell the news there, and then +laughed beyond measure to hear that Meta had been in the plot, saying +he should accuse the little humming-bird of being a magpie, stealing +secrets. + +By this time the bride and bridegroom were writing that they thought of +soon returning; they had spent the early spring at Paris, had wandered +about in the south of France, and now were at Paris again. Flora’s +letters were long, descriptive, and affectionate, and she was eager to +be kept fully informed of everything at home. As soon as she heard of +Norman’s success, she wrote a whole budget of letters, declaring that +she and George would hear of no refusal; they were going to spend a +fortnight at Oxford for the Commemoration, and must have Meta and Ethel +with them to hear Norman’s poem in the theatre. + +Dr. May, who already had expressed a hankering to run up for the day and +take Ethel with him, was perfectly delighted at the proposal, and so was +Mr. Rivers, but the young ladies made many demurs. Ethel wanted Mary to +go in her stead, and had to be told that this would not be by any means +the same to the other parties--she could not bear to leave Margaret; it +was a long time since there had been letters from the Alcestis, and she +did not like to miss being at home when they should come; and Meta, on +her side, was so unwilling to leave her father that, at last, Dr. May +scolded them both for a pair of conceited, self-important damsels, who +thought nothing could go on without them; and next, compared them to +young birds, obliged to be shoved by force into flying. + +Meta consented first, on condition that Ethel would; and Ethel found +that her whole house would be greatly disappointed if she refused, +so she proceeded to be grateful, and then discovered how extremely +delightful the plan was. Oxford, of which she had heard so much, and +which she had always wished to see! And Norman’s glory--and Meta’s +company--nay, the very holiday, and going from home, were charms enough +for a girl of eighteen, who had never been beyond Whitford in her life. +Besides, to crown all, papa promised that, if his patients would behave +well, and not want him too much, he would come up for the one great day. + +Mr. and Mrs. George Rivers came to Abbotstoke to collect their party. +They arrived by a railroad, whose station was nearer to Abbotstoke than +to Stoneborough, therefore, instead of their visiting the High Street +by the way, Dr. May, with Ethel and Mary, were invited to dine at the +Grange, the first evening--a proposal, at least, as new and exciting to +Mary as was the journey to Oxford to her sister. + +The two girls went early, as the travellers had intended to arrive +before luncheon, and, though Ethel said few words, but let Mary rattle +on with a stream of conjectures and questions, her heart was full of +longings for her sister, as well as of strange doubts and fears, as to +the change that her new life might have made in her. + +“There! there!” cried Mary. “Yes! it is Flora! Only she has her hair +done in a funny way!” + +Flora and Meta were both standing on the steps before the conservatory, +and Mary made but one bound before she was hugging Flora. Ethel kissed +her without so much violence, and then saw that Flora was looking very +well and bright, more decidedly pretty and elegant than ever, and with +certainly no diminution of affection; it was warmer, though rather more +patronising. + +“How natural you look!” was her first exclamation, as she held Mary’s +hand, and drew Ethel’s arm into hers. “And how is Margaret?” + +“Pretty well-but the heat makes her languid--” + +“Is there any letter yet?” + +“No--” + +“I do not see any cause for alarm--letters are so often detained, but, +of course, she will be anxious. Has she had pain in the back again?” + +“Sometimes, but summer always does her good--” + +“I shall see her to-morrow--and the Daisy. How do you all get on? Have +you broken down yet, Ethel?” + +“Oh! we do go on,” said Ethel, smiling; “the worst thing I have done was +expecting James to dress the salads with lamp-oil.” + +“A Greenland salad! But don’t talk of oil--I have the taste still in my +mouth after the Pyrennean cookery! Oh! Ethel, you would have been wild +with delight in those places!” + +“Snowy mountains! Are they not like a fairy-dream to you now? You must +have felt at home, as a Scotchwoman’s daughter.” + +“Think of the peaks in the sunrise! Oh! I wanted you in the pass of +Roncevalles, to hear the echo of Roland’s horn. And we saw the cleft +made by Roland’s sword in the rocks.” + +“Oh! how delightful--and Spain too!” + +“Ay, the Isle of Pheasants, where all the conferences took place.” + +“Where Louis XIV. met his bride, and Francois I. sealed his treason with +his empty flourish--” + +“Well, don’t let us fight about Francois I. now; I want to know how Tom +likes Eton.” + +“He gets on famously. I am so glad he is in the same house with Hector.” + +“Mr. Ramsden--how is he?” + +“No better; he has not done any duty for weeks. Tomkins and his set want +to sell the next presentation, but papa hopes to stave that off, for +there is a better set than usual in the Town Council this year.” + +“Cocksmoor? And how are our friends the muses? I found a note from the +secretary telling me that I am elected again. How have they behaved?” + +“Pretty well,” said Ethel. “Mrs. Ledwich has been away, so we have had +few meetings, and have been pretty quiet, except for an uproar about +the mistress beating that Franklin’s girl--and what do you think I did, +Flora? I made bold to say the woman should show her to papa, to see if +she had done her any harm, and he found that it was all a fabrication +from one end to the other. So it ended in the poor girl being expelled, +and Mary and I have her twice a week, to see if there is any grace in +her.” + +“To reward her!” said Flora. “That is always your way--” + +“Why, one cannot give the poor thing quite up,” said Ethel. + +“You will manage the ladies at last!” cried Flora. + +“Not while Mrs. Ledwich is there!” + +“I’ll cope with her! But, come, I want you in my room--” + +“May not I come?” said Meta. “I must see when--” + +Flora held up her hand, and, while signing invitation, gave an arch look +to Meta to be silent. Ethel here bethought herself of inquiring after +Mr. Rivers, and then for George. + +Mr. Rivers was pretty well--George, quite well, and somewhere in the +garden; and Meta said that he had such a beard that they would hardly +know him; while Flora added that he was delighted with the Oxford +scheme. Flora’s rooms had been, already, often shown to her sisters, +when Mr. Rivers had been newly furnishing them, with every luxury and +ornament that taste could devise. Her dressing-room, with the large bay +window, commanding a beautiful view of Stoneborough, and filled, but not +crowded, with every sort of choice article, was a perfect exhibition to +eyes unaccustomed to such varieties. + +Mary could have been still amused by the hour, in studying the devices +and ornaments on the shelves and chiffonieres; and Blanche had romanced +about it to the little ones, till they were erecting it into a mythical +palace. + +And Flora, in her simple, well-chosen dress, looked, and moved, as if +she had been born and bred in the like. + +There were signs of unpacking about the room-Flora’s dressing-case on +the table, and some dresses lying on the sofa and ottoman. + +Mary ran up to them eagerly, and exclaimed at the beautiful shot blue +and white silk. + +“Paris fashions?” said Ethel carelessly. + +“Yes; but I don’t parade my own dresses here,” said Flora. + +“Whose are they then? Your commissions, Meta?” + +“No!” and Meta laughed heartily. + +“Your French maid’s then?” said Ethel. “I dare say she dresses quite as +well; and the things are too really pretty and simple for an English +maid’s taste.” + +“I am glad you like them,” said Flora maliciously. “Now, please to be +good.” + +“Who are they for then?” said Ethel, beginning to be frightened. + +“For a young lady, whose brother has got the Newdigate prize, and who is +going to Oxford.” + +“Me! Those! But I have not got four backs,” as Ethel saw Meta in fits +of laughing, and Flora making affirmative signs. Mary gave a ponderous +spring of ecstasy. + +“Come!” said Flora, “you may as well be quiet. Whatever you may like, +I am not going to have the Newdigate prizeman shown as brother to a +scarecrow. I knew what you would come to, without me to take care of +you. Look at yourself in the glass.” + +“I’m sure I see no harm in myself,” said Ethel, turning towards the +pier-glass, and surveying herself--in a white muslin, made high, a black +silk mantle, and a brown hat. She had felt very respectable when she set +out, but she could not avoid a lurking conviction that, beside Flora and +Meta, it had a scanty, schoolgirl effect. “And,” she continued quaintly, +“besides, I have really got a new gown on purpose--a good useful silk, +that papa chose at Whitford--just the colour of a copper tea-kettle, +where it turns purple.” + +“Ethel! you will kill me!” said Meta, sinking back on the sofa. + +“And I suppose,” continued Flora, “that you have sent it to +Miss Broad’s, without any directions, and she will trim it with +flame-coloured gimp, and glass buttons; and, unless Margaret catches +you, you will find yourself ready to set the Thames on fire. No, my dear +tea-kettle, I take you to Oxford on my own terms, and you had better +submit, without a fuss, and be thankful it is no worse. George wanted me +to buy you a white brocade, with a perfect flower-garden on it, that you +could have examined with a microscope. I was obliged to let him buy that +lace mantle, to make up to him. Now then, Meta, the scene opens, and +discovers--” + +Meta opened the folding-doors into Flora’s bedroom, and thence came +forward Bellairs and a little brisk Frenchwoman, whom Flora had acquired +at Paris. The former, who was quite used to adorning Miss Ethel against +her will, looked as amused as her mistresses; and, before Ethel knew +what was going on, her muslin was stripped off her back, and that +instrument of torture, a half made body, was being tried upon her. She +made one of her most wonderful grimaces of despair, and stood still. The +dresses were not so bad after all; they were more tasteful than costly, +and neither in material nor ornament were otherwise than suitable to the +occasion and the wearer. It was very kind and thoughtful of Flora--that +she could not but feel--nothing had been forgotten, but when Ethel saw +the mantles, the ribbons, the collars, the bonnet, all glistening with +the French air of freshness and grace, she began to feel doubts and +hesitations, whether she ought to let her sister go to such an expense +on her account, and privately resolved that the accepting thanks should +not be spoken till she should have consulted her father. + +In the meantime, she could only endure, be laughed at by her elders, and +entertained by Mary’s extreme pleasure in her array. Good Mary--it +was more than any comedy to her; she had not one moment’s thought +of herself, till, when Flora dived into her box, produced a pair of +bracelets, and fastened them on her comfortable plump arms, her eyes +grew wide with wonder, and she felt, at least, two stages nearer +womanhood. + +Flora had omitted no one. There was a Paris present for every servant at +home, and a needle-case even for Cherry Elwood, for which Ethel thanked +her with a fervency wanting in her own case. + +She accomplished consulting her father on her scruples, and he set her +mind at rest. He knew that the outlay was a mere trifle to the Riverses, +and was greatly pleased and touched with the affection that Flora +showed; so he only smiled at Ethel’s doubts, and dwelt with heartfelt +delight on the beautiful print that she had brought him, from Ary +Scheffer’s picture of the Great Consoler. + +Flora was in her glory. To be able to bestow benefits on those whom she +loved, had been always a favourite vision, and she had the full pleasure +of feeling how much enjoyment she was causing. They had a very pleasant +evening; she gave interesting accounts of their tour, and by her appeals +to her husband, made him talk also. He was much more animated and +agreeable than Ethel had ever seen him, and was actually laughing, +and making Mary laugh heartily with his histories of the inns in the +Pyrennees. Old Mr. Rivers looked as proud and happy as possible, and +was quite young and gay, having evidently forgotten all his maladies, in +paying elaborate attention to his daughter-in-law. + +Ethel told Margaret, that night, that she was quite satisfied about +Flora--she was glad to own that she had done her injustice, and that +Norman was right in saying there was more in George Rivers than met the +eye. + +The morning spent at home was equally charming. Flora came back, with +love strengthened by absence. She was devoted to Margaret--caressing to +all; she sat in her old places; she fulfilled her former offices; she +gratified Miss Bracy by visiting her in the schoolroom, and talking of +French books; and won golden opinions, by taking Gertrude in her hand, +and walking to Minster Street to call on Mrs. Hoxton, as in old times, +and take her the newest foreign device of working to kill time. + +So a few days passed merrily away, and the great journey commenced. +Ethel met the Abbotstoke party at the station, and, with a parting +injunction to her father, that he was to give all his patients a +sleeping potion, that they might not miss him, she was carried away from +Stoneborough. + +Meta was in her gayest mood; Ethel full of glee and wonder, for once +beyond Whitford, the whole world was new to her; Flora more quiet, but +greatly enjoying their delight, and George not saying much, but smiling +under his beard, as if well pleased to be so well amused with so little +trouble. + +He took exceeding care of them, and fed them with everything he could +make them eat at the Swindon Station, asking for impossible things, and +wishing them so often to change for something better, that, if they had +been submissive, they would have had no luncheon at all; and, as it was, +Flora was obliged to whisk into the carriage with her last sandwich in +her hand. + +“I am the more sorry,” said he, after grumbling at the allotted ten +minutes, “as we shall dine so late. You desired Norman to bring any +friend he liked, did you not, Flora?” + +“Yes, and he spoke of bringing our old friend, Charles Cheviot, and Mr. +Ogilvie,” said Flora. + +“Mr. Ogilvie!” said Ethel, “the Master of Glenbracken! Oh! I am so glad! +I have wanted so much to see him!” + +“Ah! he is a great hero of yours?” said Flora. + +“Do you know him?” said Meta. + +“No; but he is a great friend of Norman’s, and a Scottish cousin--Norman +Ogilvie. Norman has his name from the Ogilvies.” + +“Our grandmother, Mrs. Mackenzie, was a daughter of Lord Glenbracken,” + said Flora. + +“This man might be called the Master of Glenbracken at home,” said +Ethel. “It is such a pretty title, and there is a beautiful history +belonging to them. There was a Master of Glenbracken who carried James +IV.’s standard at Flodden, and would not yield, and was killed with it +wrapped round his body, and the Lion was dyed with his blood. Mamma knew +some scraps of a ballad about him. Then they were out with Montrose, +and had their castle burned by the Covenanters, and since that they have +been Jacobites, and one barely escaped being beheaded at Carlisle! I +want to hear the rights of it. Norman is to go, some time or other, to +stay at Glenbracken.” + +“Yes,” said Flora, “coming down to times present, this young heir seems +worthy of his race. They are pattern people--have built a church, and +have all their tenantry in excellent order. This is the only son, and +very good and clever--he preferred going to Balliol, that he might work; +but he is a great sportsman, George,” added she; “you will get on with +him very well, about fishing, and grouse shooting, I dare say.” + +Norman met them at the station, and there was great excitement at seeing +his long nose under his college cap. He looked rather thin and worn, but +brightened at the sight of the party. After the question--whether +there had been any letters from Harry? he asked whether his father +were coming?--and Ethel thought he seemed nervous at the idea of this +addition to his audience. He saw them to their hotel, and, promising +them his two guests, departed. + +Ethel watched collegiate figures passing in the street, and recollected +the gray buildings, just glimpsed at in her drive--it was dreamy and +confused, and she stood musing, not discovering that it was time to +dress, till Flora and her Frenchwoman came in, and laid violent hands on +her. + +The effect of their manipulations was very successful. Ethel was made to +look well-dressed, and, still more, distinguished. Her height told well, +when her lankiness was overcome, and her hair was disposed so as to set +off her features to advantage. The glow of amusement and pleasure did +still more for her; and Norman, who was in the parlour when the sisters +appeared, quite started with surprise and satisfaction at her aspect. + +“Well done. Flora!” he said. “Why! I have been telling Ogilvie that one +of my sisters was very plain!” + +“Then, I hope we have been preparing an agreeable surprise for him,” + said Flora. “Ethel is very much obliged to you. By the bye,” she said, +in her universal amity, “I must ask Harvey Anderson to dinner one of +these days?” Norman started, and his face said “Don’t.” + +“Oh, very well; it is as you please. I thought it would please +Stoneborough, and that Edward was a protege of yours. What has he been +doing? Did we not hear he had been distinguishing himself? Dr. Hoxton +was boasting of his two scholars.” + +“Ask him,” said Norman hurriedly. “At least,” said he, “do not let +anything from me prevent you.” + +“Has he been doing anything wrong?” reiterated Flora. + +“Not that I know of,” was the blunt answer; and, at the same instant, +Mr. Ogilvie arrived. He was a pleasant, high-bred looking gentleman, +brown-complexioned, and dark-eyed, with a brisk and resolute cast +of countenance, that, Ethel thought, might have suited the Norman of +Glenbracken, who died on the ruddy Lion of Scotland, and speaking with +the very same slight degree of Scottish intonation as she remembered in +her mother, making a most home-like sound in her ears. + +Presently, the rest of their own party came down, and, soon after, +Charles Cheviot appeared, looking as quiet and tame, as he used to be in +the schoolboy days, when Norman would bring him home, and he used to be +too shy to speak a word. + +However, he had learned the use of his tongue by this time, though it +was a very soft one; and he stood by Ethel, asking many questions about +Stoneborough, while something, apparently very spirited and amusing, was +going on between the others. + +The dinner went off well--there were few enough for the conversation to +be general. The young men began to strike out sparks of wit against each +other--Flora put in a word or two--Ethel grew so much interested in the +discussion, that her face lighted up, and she joined in it, as if it had +been only between her father and brother--keen, clear, and droll. After +that, she had her full share in the conversation, and enjoyed it so much +that, when she left the dinner-table, she fetched her writing-case to +sketch the colloquy for Margaret and her father. + +Flora exclaimed at her for never allowing any one to think of rest. Meta +said she should like to do the same, but it was impossible now; she did +not know how she should ever settle down to write a letter. Ethel was +soon interrupted--the gentlemen entered, and Mr. Ogilvie came to the +window, where she was sitting, and began to tell her how much obliged +to her he and his college were, for having insisted on her brother’s +sending in his poem. “Thanks are due, for our being spared an infliction +next week,” he said. + +“Have you seen it?” she asked, and she was amused by the quick negative +movement of his head. + +“I read my friend’s poems? But our lungs are prepared! Will you give +me my cue--it is of no use to ask him when we are to deafen you. One +generally knows the crack passages--something beginning with ‘Oh, +woman!’ but it is well to be in readiness--if you would only forewarn me +of the telling hits?” + +“If they cannot tell themselves,” said Ethel, smiling, “I don’t think +they deserve the name.” + +“Perhaps you think what does tell on the undergraduates, collectively, +is not always what ought to tell on them.” + +“I don’t know. I dare say the same would not be a favourite with them +and with me.” + +“I should like to know which are your favourites. No doubt you have a +copy here--made by yourself;” and he looked towards her paper-case. + +There was the copy, and she took it out, peering to see whether Norman +were looking. + +“Let me see,” he said, as she paused to open the MS., “he told me the +thoughts were more yours than his own.” + +“Did he? That was not fair. One thought was an old one, long ago talked +over between us; the rest is all his own.” + +Here Mr. Ogilvie took the paper, and Ethel saw his countenance show +evident tokens of surprise and feeling. + +“Yes,” he said presently, “May goes deep--deeper than most men--though I +doubt whether they will applaud this.” + +“I should like it better if they did not,” said Ethel. “It is rather to +be felt than shouted at.” + +“And I don’t know how the world would go on if it were felt. Few men +would do much without the hope of fame,” said Norman Ogilvie. + +“Is it the question what they would do?” said Ethel. + +“So you call fame a low motive? I see where your brother’s philosophy +comes from.” + +“I do not call it a low motive--” Her pause was expressive. + +“Nor allow that the Non omnis moriar of Horace has in it something +divine?” + +“For a heathen--yes.” + +“And pray, what would you have the moving spring?” + +“Duty.” + +“Would not that end in ‘Mine be a cot, beside the rill’?” said he, with +an intonation of absurd sentiment. + +“Well, and suppose an enemy came, would duty prompt not the Hay with the +joke--or Winkelried on the spears?” + +“Nay, why not--‘It is my duty to take care of Lucy.’” + +“Then Lucy ought to be broken on her own wheel.” + +“Not at all! It is Lucy’s duty to keep her Colin from running into +danger.” + +“I hope there are not many Lucies who would think so.” + +“I agree with you. Most would rather have Colin killed than disgraced.” + +“To be sure!” then, perceiving a knowing twinkle, as if he thought she +had made an admission, she added, “but what is disgrace?” + +“Some say it is misfortune,” said Mr. Ogilvie. + +“Is it not failure in duty?” said Ethel. + +“Well!” + +“Colin’s first duty is to his king and country. If he fail in that, he +is disgraced, in his own eyes, before Heaven and men. If he does it, +there is a reward, which seems to me a better, more powerful motive +for Lucy to set before him than ‘My dear, I hope you will distinguish +yourself,’ when the fact is, + + + “‘England has forty thousand men, + We trust, as good as he.’ + + +“‘Victory or Westminster Abbey!’ is a tolerable war-cry,” said Mr. +Ogilvie. + +“Not so good as ‘England expects every man to do his duty.’ That serves +for those who cannot look to Westminster Abbey.” + +“Ah! you are an English woman!” + +“Only by halves. I had rather have been the Master of Glenbracken at +Flodden than King James, or”--for she grew rather ashamed of having +been impelled to utter the personal allusion--“better to have been the +Swinton or the Gordon at Homildon than all the rest put together.” + +“I always thought Swinton a pig-headed old fellow, and I have little +doubt that my ancestor was a young ruffian,” coolly answered the Master +of Glenbracken. + +“Why?” was all that Ethel could say in her indignation. + +“It was the normal state of Scottish gentlemen,” he answered. + +“If I thought you were in earnest, I should say you did not deserve to +be a Scot.” + +“And so you wish to make me out a fause Scot!” + +“Ogilvie!” called Norman, “are you fighting Scottish and English battles +with Ethel there? We want you to tell us which will be the best day for +going to Blenheim.” + +The rest of the evening was spent in arranging the programme of their +lionising, in which it appeared that the Scottish cousin intended to +take his full share. Ethel was not sorry, for he interested her much, +while provoking her. She was obliged to put out her full strength in +answering him, and felt, at the same time, that he was not making any +effort in using the arguments that puzzled her--she was in earnest, +while he was at play; and, though there was something teasing in this, +and she knew it partook of what her brothers called chaffing, it gave +her that sense of power on his side, which is always attractive to +women. With the knowledge that, through Norman, she had of his real +character, she understood that half, at least, of what he said was jest; +and the other half was enough in earnest to make it exciting to argue +with him. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + + + While I, thy dearest, sat apart, + And felt thy triumphs were as mine, + And lov’d them more than they were thine. + TENNYSON. + + +That was a week of weeks; the most memorable week in Ethel’s life, spent +in indefatigable sight-seeing. College Chapels, Bodleian Library, Taylor +Gallery, the Museum, all were thoroughly studied, and, if Flora had not +dragged the party on, in mercy to poor George’s patience, Ethel would +never have got through a day’s work. + +Indeed, Mr. Ogilvie, when annoyed at being hurried in going over +Merton Chapel with her, was heard to whisper that he acted the part of +policeman, by a perpetual “move on”; and as Ethel recollected the portly +form and wooden face of the superintendent at Stoneborough, she was +afraid that the comparison would not soon be forgotten. Norman Ogilvie +seemed to consider himself bound to their train as much as his namesake, +or, as on the second morning, Norman reported his reasoning, it was that +a man must walk about with somebody on Commemoration week, and that it +was a comfort to do so with ladies who wore their bonnets upon their +heads, instead of, like most of those he met, remind him of what Cock +Robin said to Jenny Wren in that matrimonial quarrel, when + + + Robin, he grew angry, + Hopped upon a twig-- + + +Flora was extremely delighted, and, in matronly fashion, told her sister +that people were always respected and admired who had the strength of +mind to resist unsuitable customs. Ethel laughed in answer, and said +she thought it would take a great deal more strength of mind to go about +with her whole visage exposed to the universal gaze; and, woman-like, +they had a thorough gossip over the evils of the “backsliding” + head-gear. + +Norman had retreated from it into the window, when Flora returned to the +charge about Harvey Anderson. She had been questioning their old friend +Mr. Everard, and had learned from him that the cause of the hesitation +with which his name had been received was that he had become imbued with +some of the Rationalistic ideas current in some quarters. He seldom met +Norman May without forcing on him debates, which were subjects of great +interest to the hearers, as the two young men were considered as the +most distinguished representatives of their respective causes, among +their own immediate contemporaries. Norman’s powers of argument, his +eloquence, readiness, and clearness, were thought to rank very high, +and, in the opinion of Mr. Everard, had been of great effect in +preventing other youths from being carried away by the specious +brilliancy of his rival. + +Ethel valued this testimony far above the Newdigate prize, and she was +extremely surprised by hearing Flora declare her intention of still +asking Mr. Anderson to dinner, only consulting her brother as to the +day. + +“Why, Flora! ask him! Norman--” + +Norman had turned away with the simple answer, “any day.” + +“Norman is wiser than you are, Ethel,” said Flora. “He knows that +Stoneborough would be up in arms at any neglect from us to one of the +Andersons, and, considering the rivalship, it is the more graceful, and +becoming.” + +“I do not think it right,” said Ethel stoutly; “I believe that a line +ought to be drawn, and that we ought not to associate with people who +openly tamper with their faith.” + +“Never fear,” smiled Flora; “I promise you that there shall be no +debates at my table.” + +Ethel felt the force of the pronoun, and, as Flora walked out of the +room, she went up to Norman, who had been resting his brow against the +window. + +“It is vain to argue with her,” she said; “but, Norman, do not you think +it is clearly wrong to seek after men who desert and deny--” + +She stopped short, frightened at his pale look. + +He spoke in a low clear tone that seemed to thrill her with a sort of +alarm. “If the secrets of men’s hearts were probed, who could cast the +first stone?” + +“I don’t want to cast stones,” she began; but he made a gesture as if he +would not hear, and, at the same moment, Mr. Ogilvie entered the room. + +Had Ethel been at home, she would have pondered much over her brother’s +meaning--here she had no leisure. Not only was she fully occupied with +the new scenes around her, but her Scottish cousin took up every moment +open to conversation. He was older than Norman, and had just taken +his degree, and he talked with that superior aplomb, which a few years +bestow at their time of life, without conceit, but more hopeful and +ambitious, and with higher spirits than his cousin. + +Though industrious and distinguished, he had not avoided society or +amusement, was a great cricketer and tennis-player, one of the “eight” + whose success in the boat races was one of Norman’s prime interests, +and he told stories of frolics that reminded Ethel of her father’s old +Cambridge adventures. + +He was a new variety in her eyes, and entertained her greatly. Where the +bounds of banter ended, was not easy to define, but whenever he tried +a little mystification, she either entered merrily into the humour, or +threw it over with keen wit that he kept constantly on the stretch. They +were always discovering odd, unexpected bits of knowledge in each other, +and a great deal more accordance in views and opinions than appeared on +the surface, for his enthusiasm usually veiled itself in persiflage on +hers, though he was too good and serious to carry it too far. + +At Blenheim, perhaps he thought he had given an overdose of nonsense, +and made her believe, as Meta really did, that the Duchess Sarah was +his model woman; for as they walked in the park in search of Phoebe +Mayflower’s well, he gathered a fern leaf, to show her the Glenbracken +badge, and talked to her of his home, his mother, and his sister +Marjorie, and the little church in the rocky glen. He gave the history +of the stolen meetings of the little knot of churchmen during the days +of persecution, and showed a heart descended straight from the Ogilvie +who was “out with Montrose,” now that the upper structure of young +England was for a little while put aside. + +After this, she took his jokes much more coolly, and made thrusts +beneath them, which he seemed to enjoy, and caused him to unfold himself +the more. She liked him all the better for finding that he thought +Norman had been a very good friend to him, and that he admired her +brother heartily, watching tenderly over his tendencies to make himself +unhappy. He confided to her that, much as he rejoiced in the defeats +of Anderson, he feared that the reading and thought consequent on the +discussions, had helped to overstrain Norman’s mind, and he was very +anxious to carry him away from all study, and toil, and make his brains +rest, and his eyes delight themselves upon Scottish mountains. + +Thereupon came vivid descriptions of the scenery, especially his own +glen with the ruined tower, and ardent wishes that his cousin Ethel +could see them also, and know Marjorie. She could quite echo the wish, +Edinburgh and Loch Katrine had been the visions of her life, and now +that she had once taken the leap and left home, absence did not seem +impossible, and, with a start of delight, she hailed her own conviction +that he intended his mother to invite the party to Glenbracken. + +After Norman’s visit, Mr. Ogilvie declared that he must come home with +him and pay his long-promised visit to Stoneborough. He should have come +long ago. He had been coming last winter, but the wedding had prevented +him; he had always wished to know Dr. May, whom his father well +remembered, and now nothing should keep him away! + +Flora looked on amused and pleased at Ethel’s development--her +abruptness softened into piquancy, and her countenance so embellished, +that the irregularity only added to the expressiveness. There was no +saying what Ethel would come to! She had not said that she would not go +to the intended ball, and her grimaces at the mention of it were growing +fainter every day. + +The discussion about Harvey Anderson was never revived; Flora sent +the invitation without another word--he came with half a dozen other +gentlemen--Ethel made him a civil greeting, but her head was full of +boats and the procession day, about which Mr. Ogilvie was telling her, +and she thought of him no more. + +“A lucky step!” thought Flora. “A grand thing for Ethel--a capital +connection for us all. Lady Glenbracken will not come too much into my +sphere either. Yes, I am doing well by my sisters.” + +It would make stay-at-home people giddy to record how much pleasure, +how much conversation and laughter were crowded into those ten days, and +with much thought and feeling beside them, for these were not girls on +whom grave Oxford could leave no impression but one of gaiety. + +The whole party was very full of merriment. Norman May, especially, on +whom Flora contrived to devolve that real leadership of conversation +that should rightly have belonged to George Rivers, kept up the ball +with wit and drollery far beyond what he usually put forth; enlivened +George into being almost an agreeable man, and drew out little Meta’s +vivacity into sunny sparkles. + +Meta generally had Norman for her share, and seemed highly contented +with his lionisings, which were given much more quietly and copiously +than those which his cousin bestowed upon his sister. Or if there were +anything enterprising to be done, any tower to be mounted, or anything +with the smallest spice of danger in it, Meta was charmed, and with her +lightness and airiness of foot and figure, and perfectly feminine ways, +showed a spirit of adventure that added to the general diversion. But if +she were to be helped up or down anywhere, she certainly seemed to +find greater security in Norman May’s assistance, though it was but a +feather-like touch that she ever used to aid her bounding step. + +Both as being diffident, and, in a manner at home, Norman was not as +constantly her cavalier as was Mr. Ogilvie to his sister; and, when +supplanted, his wont was either to pioneer for Flora, or, if she did not +need him, to walk alone, grave and abstracted. There was a weight on his +brow, when nothing was going on to drive it away, and whether it were +nervousness as to the performance in store for him, anxiety about Harry, +or, as Mr. Ogilvie said, too severe application; some burden hung upon +him, that was only lightened for the time by his participation in the +enjoyment of the party. + +On Sunday evening, when they had been entering into the almost +vision-like delight of the choicest of music, and other accompaniments +of church service, they went to walk in Christchurch Meadows. They +had begun altogether by comparing feelings--Ethel wondering whether +Stoneborough Minster would ever be used as it might be, and whether, if +so, they should be practically the better for it; and proceeding with +metaphysics on her side, and satire on Norman Ogilvie’s, to speculate +whether that which is, is best, and the rights and wrongs of striving +for change and improvements, what should begin from above, and what from +beneath--with illustrations often laughter-moving, though they were +much in earnest, as the young heir of Glenbracken looked into his future +life. + +Flora had diverged into wondering who would have the living after poor +old Mr. Ramsden, and walked, keeping her husband amused with instances +of his blunders. + +Meta, as with Norman she parted from the rest, thought her own dear +Abbotstoke church, and Mr Charles Wilmot, great subjects for content and +thanksgiving, though it was a wonderful treat to see and hear such as +she had enjoyed to-day; and she thought it was a joy, to carry away +abidingly, to know that praise and worship, as near perfection as this +earth could render them, were being offered up. + +Norman understood her thought, but responded by more of a sigh than was +quite comfortable. + +Meta went on with her own thoughts, on the connection between worship +and good works, how the one leads to the other, and how praise with pure +lips is, after all, the great purpose of existence.--Her last thought +she spoke aloud. + +“I suppose everything, our own happiness and all, are given to us to +turn into praise,” she said. + +“Yes--” echoed Norman; but as if his thoughts were not quite with hers, +or rather in another part of the same subject; then recalling himself, +“Happy such as can do so.” + +“If one only could--” said Meta. + +“You can--don’t say otherwise,” exclaimed Norman; “I know, at least, +that you and my father can.” + +“Dr. May does so, more than any one I know,” said Meta. + +“Yes,” said Norman again; “it is his secret of joy. To him, it is never, +‘I am half sick of shadows’.” + +“To him they are not shadows, but foretastes,” said Meta. Silence again; +and when she spoke, she said, “I have always thought it must be such a +happiness to have power of any kind that can be used in direct service, +or actual doing good.” + +“No,” said Norman. “Whatever becomes a profession, becomes an +unreality.” + +“Surely not, in becoming a duty,” said Meta. + +“Not for all,” he answered; “but where the fabric erected by ourselves, +in the sight of the world, is but an outer case, a shell of mere words, +blown up for the occasion, strung together as mere language; +then, self-convicted, we shrink within the husk, and feel our own +worthlessness and hypocrisy.” + +“As one feels in reproving the school children for behaving ill at +church?” said Meta. + +“You never felt anything approaching to it!” said Norman. “To know +oneself to be such a deception, that everything else seems a delusion +too!” + +“I don’t know whether that is metaphysical,” said Meta, “but I am sure +I don’t understand it. One must know oneself to be worse than one knows +any one else to be.” + +“I could not wish you to understand,” said Norman; and yet he seemed +impelled to go on; for, after a hesitating silence, he added, “When the +wanderer in the desert fears that the spring is but a mirage; or when +all that is held dear is made hazy or distorted by some enchanter, what +do you think are the feelings, Meta?” + +“It must be dreadful,” she said, rather bewildered; “but he may know +it is a delusion, if he can but wake. Has he not always a spell, a +charm?--” + +“What is the spell?” eagerly said Norman, standing still. + +“Believe--” said Meta, hardly knowing how she came to choose the words. + +“I believe!” he repeated. “What--when we go beyond the province of +reason--human, a thing of sense after all! How often have I so answered. +But Meta, when a man has been drawn, in self-sufficient security, to +look into a magic mirror, and cannot detach his eyes from the confused, +misty scene--where all that had his allegiance appears shattered, +overthrown, like a broken image, or at least unable to endure +examination, then--” + +“Oh, Norman, is that the trial to any one here? I thought old Oxford was +the great guardian nurse of truth! I am sure she cannot deal in magic +mirrors or such frightful things. Do you know you are talking like a +very horrible dream?” + +“I believe I am in one,” said Norman. + +“To be sure you are. Wake!” said Meta, looking up, smiling in his +face. “You have read yourself into a maze, that’s all--what Mary calls, +muzzling your head; you don’t really think all this, and when you get +into the country, away from books, you will forget it. One look at our +dear old purple Welsh hills will blow away all the mists!” + +“I ought not to have spoken in this manner,” said Norman sadly. “Forget +it, Meta.” + +“Forget it! Of course I will. It is all nonsense, and meant to be +forgotten,” said Meta, laughing. “You will own that it is by-and-by.” + +He gave a deep sigh. + +“Don’t think I am unfeeling,” she said; “but I know it is all a fog +up from books, books, books--I should like to drive it off with a good +fresh gust of wind! Oh! I wish those yellow lilies would grow in our +river!” + +Meta talked away gaily for the rest of the walk. She was anything but +unfeeling, but she had a confidence in Norman that forbade her to see +anything here but one of his variations of spirits, which always sank in +the hour of triumph. She put forth her brightness to enliven him, and, +in their subsequent tete-a-tetes, she avoided all that could lead to a +renewal of this conversation. Ethel would not have rested till it had +been fought out. Meta thought it so imaginary, that it had better die +for want of the aliment of words; certainly, hers could not reach an +intellect like his, and she would only soothe and amuse him. Dr. May, +mind-curer as well as body-curer, would soon be here, to put the climax +to the general joy and watch his own son. + +He did arrive; quite prepared to enjoy, giving an excellent account of +both homes; Mr. Rivers very well, and the Wilmots taking care of him, +and Margaret as comfortable as usual, Mary making a most important and +capable little housekeeper, Miss Bracy as good as possible. He talked +as if they had all flourished the better for Ethel’s absence, but he had +evidently missed her greatly, as he showed, without knowing it, by his +instant eagerness to have her to himself. Even Norman, prizeman as he +was, was less wanted. There was proud affection, eager congratulation, +for him, but it was Ethel to whom he wanted to tell everything that had +passed during her absence--whom he treated as if they were meeting after +a tedious separation. + +They dined rather early, and went out afterwards, to walk down the High +Street to Christchurch Meadow. Norman and Ethel had been anxious for +this; they thought it would give their father the best idea of the tout +ensemble of Oxford, and were not without hopes of beating him by his own +confession, in that standing fight between him and his sons, as to the +beauties of Oxford and Cambridge--a fight in which, hitherto, they had +been equally matched--neither partisan having seen the rival University. + +Flora stayed at home; she owned herself fairly tired by her arduous +duties of following the two young ladies about, and was very glad +to give her father the keeping of them. Dr. May held out his arm to +Ethel--Norman secured his peculiar property. Ethel could have preferred +that it should be otherwise--Norman would have no companion but George +Rivers; how bored he would be! + +All through the streets, while she was telling her father the names of +the buildings, she was not giving her whole attention; she was trying +to guess, from the sounds behind, whether Mr. Ogilvie were accompanying +them. They entered the meadows--Norman turned round, with a laugh, to +defy the doctor to talk of the Cam, on the banks of the Isis. The +party stood still--the other two gentlemen came up. They amalgamated +again--all the Oxonians conspiring to say spiteful things of the Cam, +and Dr. May making a spirited defence, in which Ethel found herself +impelled to join. + +In the wide gravelled path, they proceeded in threes; George attached +himself to his sister and Norman. Mr. Ogilvie came to Ethel’s other +side, and began to point out all the various notabilities. Ethel was +happy again; her father was so much pleased and amused, with him, and he +with her father, that it was a treat to look on. + +Presently Dr. May, as usual, always meeting with acquaintances, fell in +with a county neighbour, and Ethel had another pleasant aside, until her +father claimed her, and Mr. Ogilvie was absorbed among another party, +and lost to her sight. + +He came to tea, but, by that time, Dr. May had established himself in +the chair which had hitherto been appropriated to her cousin, a chair +that cut her nook off from the rest of the world, and made her the +exclusive possession of the occupant. There was a most interesting +history for her to hear, of a meeting with the Town Council, which +she had left pending, when Dr. May had been battling to save the next +presentation of the living from being sold. + +Few subjects could affect Ethel more nearly, yet she caught herself +missing the thread of his discourse, in trying to hear what Mr. Ogilvie +was saying to Flora about a visit to Glenbracken. + +The time came for the two Balliol men to take their leave. Norman May +had been sitting very silent all the evening, and Meta, who was near +him, respected his mood. When he said good-night, he drew Ethel outside +the door. “Ethel,” he said, “only one thing: do ask my father not to put +on his spectacles to-morrow.” + +“Very well,” said Ethel, half smiling; “Richard did not mind them.” + +“Richard has more humility--I shall break down if he looks at me! I wish +you were all at home.” + +“Thank you.” + +The other Norman came out of the sitting-room at the moment, and heard +the last words. + +“Never mind,” said he to Ethel, “I’ll take care of him. He shall comport +himself as if you were all at Nova Zembla. A pretty fellow to talk of +despising fame, and then get a fit of stage-fright!” + +“Well, good-night,” said Norman, sighing. “It will be over to-morrow; +only remember the spectacles.” + +Dr. May laughed a good deal at the request, and asked if the rest of +the party were to be blindfolded. Meta wondered that Ethel should have +mentioned the request so publicly; she was a good deal touched by it, +and she thought Dr. May ought to be so. + +Good-night was said, and Dr. May put his arm round Ethel, and gave her +the kiss that she had missed for seven nights. It was very homelike, +and it brought a sudden flash of thought across Ethel! What had she been +doing? She had been impatient of her father’s monopoly of her! + +She parted with Flora, and entered the room she shared with Meta, where +Bellairs waited to attend her little mistress. Few words passed between +the two girls, and those chiefly on the morrow’s dress. Meta had some +fixed ideas--she should wear pink. Norman had said he liked her pink +bonnet, and then she could put down her white veil, so that he could be +certain that she was not looking; Ethel vaguely believed Flora meant to +wear--something-- + +Bellairs went away, and Meta gave expression to her eager hope that +Norman would go through it well. If he would only read it as he did last +Easter to her and Ethel. + +“He will,” said Ethel. “This nervousness always wears off when it comes +to the point, and he warms with his subject.” + +“Oh! but think of all the eyes looking at him!” + +“Our’s are all that he really cares for, and he will think of none of +them, when he begins. No, Meta, you must not encourage him in it. Papa +says, if he did not think it half morbid--the result of the shock to his +nerves--he should be angry with it as a sort of conceit!” + +“I should have thought that the last thing to be said of Norman!” said +Meta, with a little suppressed indignation. + +“It was once in his nature,” said Ethel; “and I think it is the fault +he most beats down. There was a time, before you knew him, when he would +have been vain and ambitious.” + +“Then it is as they say, conquered faults grow to be the opposite +virtues!” said Meta. “How very good he is, Ethel; one sees it more when +he is with other people, and one hears all these young men’s stories!” + +“Everything Norman does not do, is not therefore wrong,” said Ethel, +with her usual lucidity of expression. + +“Don’t you like him the better for keeping out of all these follies?” + +“Norman does not call them so, I am sure.” + +“No, he is too good to condemn--” + +“It is not only that,” said Ethel. “I know papa thinks that the first +grief, coming at his age, and in the manner it did, checked and subdued +his spirits, so that he has little pleasure in those things. And he +always meant to be a clergyman, which acted as a sort of consecration on +him; but many things are innocent; and I do believe papa would like it +better, if Norman were less grave.” + +“Yes,” said Meta, remembering the Sunday talk, “but still, he would not +be all he is--so different from others--” + +“Of course, I don’t mean less good, only, less grave,” said Ethel, “and +certainly less nervous. But, perhaps, it is a good thing; dear mamma +thought his talents would have been a greater temptation than they seem +to be, subdued as he has been. I only meant that you must not condemn +all that Norman does not do. Now, goodnight.” + +Very different were the feelings with which those two young girls +stretched themselves in their beds that night. Margaret Rivers’s +innocent, happy little heart was taken up in one contemplation. +Admiration, sympathy, and the exultation for him, which he would not +feel for himself, drew little Meta entirely out of herself--a self that +never held her much. She was proud of the slender thread of connection +between them; she was confident that his vague fancies were but the +scruples of a sensitive mind, and, as she fell sound asleep, she +murmured broken lines of Decius, mixed with promises not to look. + +Etheldred heard them, for there was no sleep for her. She had a parley +to hold with herself, and to accuse her own feelings of having been +unkind, ungrateful, undutiful towards her father. What had a fit of +vanity brought her to? that she should have been teased by what would +naturally have been her greatest delight! her father’s pleasure in being +with her. Was this the girl who had lately vowed within herself that her +father should be her first earthly object? + +At first, Ethel blamed herself for her secret impatience, but another +conviction crossed her, and not an unpleasing one, though it made her +cheeks tingle with maidenly shame, at having called it up. Throughout +this week, Norman Ogilvie had certainly sought her out. He had looked +disappointed this evening--there was no doubt that he was attracted by +her--by her, plain, awkward Ethel! Such a perception assuredly never +gave so much pleasure to a beauty as it did to Ethel, who had always +believed herself far less good-looking than she really was. It was a +gleam of delight, and, though she set herself to scold it down, the +conviction was elastic, and always leaped up again. + +That resolution came before her, but it had been unspoken; it could not +be binding, and, if her notion were really right, the misty brilliant +future of mutual joy dazzled her! But there was another side: her father +oppressed and lonely, Margaret ill and pining, Mary, neither companion +nor authority, the children running wild; and she, who had mentally +vowed never to forsake her father, far away, enjoying her own happiness. +“Ah! that resolve had seemed easy enough when it was made, when,” + thought Ethel, “I fancied no one could care for me! Shame on me! Now is +the time to test it! I must go home with papa.” + +It was a great struggle--on one side there was the deceitful guise of +modesty, telling her it was absurd to give so much importance to the +kindness of the first cousin with whom she had ever been thrown; there +was the dislike to vex Flora to make a discussion, and break up the +party. There was the desire to hear the concert, to go to the breakfast +at ---- College, to return round by Warwick Castle, and Kenilworth, as +designed. Should she lose all this for a mere flattering fancy? She, who +had laughed at Miss Boulder, for imagining every one who spoke to +her was smitten. What reason could she assign? It would be simply +ridiculous, and unkind--and it was so very pleasant. Mr. Ogilvie would +be too wise to think of so incongruous a connection, which would be so +sure to displease his parents. It was more absurd than ever to think of +it. The heir of Glenbracken, and a country physician’s daughter! + +That was a candid heart which owned that its own repugnance to accept +this disparity as an objection, was an additional evidence that she +ought to flee from further intercourse. She believed that no harm was +done yet; she was sure that she loved her father better than anything +else in the world, and whilst she did so, it was best to preserve her +heart for him. Widowed as he was, she knew that he would sorely miss +her, and that for years to come, she should be necessary at home. She +had better come away while it would cost only a slight pang, for that it +was pain to leave Norman Ogilvie, was symptom enough of the need of not +letting her own silly heart go further. However it might be with him, +another week would only make it worse with her. + +“I will go home with papa!” was the ultimatum reached by each chain of +mental reasonings, and borne in after each short prayer for guidance, as +Ethel tossed about listening to the perpetual striking of all the Oxford +clocks, until daylight had begun to shine in; when she fell asleep, and +was only waked by Meta, standing over her with a sponge, looking very +mischievous, as she reminded her of their appointment with Dr. May, to +go to the early service in New College Chapel. + +The world looked different that morning with Ethel, but the +determination was fixed, and the service strengthened it. She was so +silent during the walk, that her companions rallied her, and they both +supposed she was anxious about Norman; but taking her opportunity, when +Meta was gone to prepare for breakfast, she rushed, in her usual +way, into the subject. “Papa! if you please, I should like to go home +to-morrow with you.” + +“Eh?” said the doctor, amazed. “How is this? I told you that Miss Bracy +and Mary are doing famously.” + +“Yes, but I had rather go back.” + +“Indeed!” and Dr. May looked at the door, and spoke low. “They make you +welcome, I hope--” + +“Oh, yes! nothing can be kinder.” + +“I am glad to hear it. This Rivers is such a lout, that I could not tell +how it might be. I did not look to see you turn homesick all at once.” + +Ethel smiled. “Yes, I have been very happy; but please, papa, ask no +questions--only take me home.” + +“Come! it is all a homesick fit, Ethel--never fear the ball. Think of +the concert. If it were not for that poor baby of Mrs. Larkins, I should +stay myself to hear Sonntag again. You won’t have such another chance.” + +“I know, but I think I ought to go--” + +George came in, and they could say no more. Both were silent on the +subject at breakfast, but when afterwards Flora seized on Ethel, to +array her for the theatre, she was able to say, “Flora, please don’t be +angry with me--you have been very kind to me, but I mean to go home with +papa to-morrow.” + +“I declare!” said Flora composedly, “you are as bad as the children +at the infant school, crying to go home the instant they see their +mothers!” + +“No, Flora, but I must go. Thank you for all this pleasure, but I shall +have heard Norman’s poem, and then I must go.” + +Flora turned her round, looked in her face kindly, kissed her, and said, +“My dear, never mind, it will all come right again--only, don’t run +away.” + +“What will come right?” + +“Any little misunderstanding with Norman Ogilvie.” + +“I don’t know what you mean,” said Ethel, becoming scarlet. + +“My dear, you need not try to hide it. I see that you have got into a +fright. You have made a discovery, but that is no reason for running +away.” + +“Yes it is!” said Ethel firmly, not denying the charge, though reddening +more than ever at finding her impression confirmed. + +“Poor child! she is afraid!” said Flora tenderly; “but I will take care +of you, Ethel. It is everything delightful. You are the very girl for +such a heros de Roman, and it has embellished you more than all my Paris +fineries.” + +“Hush, Flora! We ought not to talk in this way, as if--” + +“As if he had done more than walk with, and talk with, nobody else! How +he did hate papa last night. I had a great mind to call papa off, in +pity to him.” + +“Don’t, Flora. If there were anything in it, it would not be proper to +think of it, so I am going home to prevent it.” The words were spoken +with averted face and heaving breath. + +“Proper?” said Flora. “The Mays are a good old family, and our own +grandmother was an honourable Ogilvie herself. A Scottish baron, very +poor too, has no right to look down--” + +“They shall not look down. Flora, it is of no use to talk. I cannot be +spared from home, and I will not put myself in the way of being tempted +to forsake them all.” + +“Tempted!” said Flora, laughing. “Is it such a wicked thing?” + +“Not in others, but it would be wrong in me, with such a state of things +as there is at home.” + +“I do not suppose he would want you for some years to come. He is only +two-and-twenty. Mary will grow older.” + +“Margaret will either be married, or want constant care. Flora, I will +not let myself be drawn from them.” + +“You may think so now; but it would be for their real good to relieve +papa of any of us. If we were all to think as you do, how should we +live? I don’t know--for papa told me there will be barely ten thousand +pounds, besides the houses, and what will that be among ten? I am not +talking of yourself, but think of the others!” + +“I know papa will not be happy without me, and I will not leave him,” + repeated Ethel, not answering the argument. + +Flora changed her ground, and laughed. “We are getting into the +heroics,” she said, “when it would be very foolish to break up our +plans, only because we have found a pleasant cousin. There is nothing +serious in it, I dare say. How silly of us to argue on such an idea!” + +Meta came in before Flora could say more, but Ethel, with burning +cheeks, repeated, “It will be safer!” + +Ethel had, meantime, been dressed by her sister; and, as Bellairs came +to adorn Meta, and she could have no solitude, she went downstairs, +thinking she heard Norman’s step, and hoping to judge of his mood. + +She entered the room with an exclamation, “Oh, Norman!” + +“At your service!” said the wrong Norman, looking merrily up from behind +a newspaper. + +“Oh, I beg your pardon; I thought--” + +“Your thoughts were quite right,” he said, smiling. “Your brother +desires me to present his respects to his honoured family, and to inform +them that his stock of assurance is likely to be diminished by the +pleasure of their company this morning.” + +“How is he?” asked Ethel anxiously. + +“Pretty fair. He has blue saucers round his eyes, as he had before he +went up for his little go.” + +“Oh, I know them,” said Ethel. + +“Very odd,” continued her cousin; “when the end always is, that he says +he has the luck of being set on in the very place he knows best. But I +think it has expended itself in a sleepless night, and I have no fears, +when he comes to the point.” + +“What is he doing?” + +“Writing to his brother Harry. He said it was the day for the Pacific +mail, and that Harry’s pleasure would be the best of it.” + +“Ah!” said Ethel, glancing towards the paper, “is there any naval +intelligence?” + +He looked; and while she was thinking whether she ought not to depart, +he exclaimed, in a tone that startled her, “Ha! No. Is your brother’s +ship the Alcestis?” + +“Yes! Oh, what?” + +“Nothing then, I assure you. See, it is merely this--she has not come +into Sydney so soon as expected, which you knew before. That is all.” + +“Let me see,” said the trembling Ethel. + +It was no more than an echo of their unconfessed apprehensions, yet it +seemed to give them a body; and Ethel’s thoughts flew to Margaret. Her +going home would be absolutely necessary now. Mr. Ogilvie kindly began +to talk away her alarm, saying that there was still no reason for +dread, mentioning the many causes that might have delayed the ship, and +reassuring her greatly. + +“But Norman!” she said. + +“Ah! true. Poor May! He will break down to a certainty if he hears it. I +will go at once, and keep guard over him, lest he should meet with this +paper. But pray, don’t be alarmed. I assure you there is no cause. You +will have letters to-morrow.” + +Ethel would fain have thrown off her finery and hurried home at once, +but no one regarded the matter as she did. Dr. May agreed with Flora +that it was no worse than before, and though they now thought Ethel’s +return desirable, on Margaret’s account, it would be better not to add +to the shock by a sudden arrival, especially as they took in no daily +paper at home. So the theatre was not to be given up, nor any of the +subsequent plans, except so far as regarded Ethel; and, this agreed, +they started for the scene of action. + +They were hardly in the street before they met the ubiquitous Mr. +Ogilvie, saying that Cheviot, Norman’s prompter, was aware of the +report, and was guarding him, while he came to escort the ladies, +through what he expressively called “the bear fight.” Ethel resolutely +adhered to her father, and her cousin took care of Meta, who had been +clinging in a tiptoe manner to the point of her brother’s high elbow, +looking as if the crowd might easily brush off such a little fly, +without his missing her. + +Inch by inch, a step at a time, the ladies were landed in a crowd of +their own sex, where Flora bravely pioneered; they emerged on their +benches, shook themselves out, and seated themselves. There was the +swarm of gay ladies around them, and beneath the area, fast being paved +with heads, black, brown, gray, and bald, a surging living sea, where +Meta soon pointed out Dr. May and George; the mere sight of such masses +of people was curious and interesting, reminding Ethel of Cherry Elwood +having once shocked her by saying the Whit-Monday club was the most +beautiful sight in the whole year. And above! that gallery of trampling +undergraduates, and more than trampling! Ethel and Meta could, at first, +have found it in their hearts to be frightened at those thundering +shouts, but the young ladies were usually of opinions so similar, +that the louder grew the cheers, the more they laughed and exulted, so +carried along that no cares could be remembered. + +Making a way through the thronged area, behold the procession of +scarlet doctors, advancing through the midst, till the red and black +vice-chancellor sat enthroned in the centre, and the scarlet line became +a semicircle, dividing the flower-garden of ladies from the black mass +below. + +Then came the introduction of the honorary doctors, one by one, with +the Latin speech, which Ethel’s companions unreasonably required her to +translate to them, while she was using all her ears to catch a word or +two, and her eyes to glimpse at the features of men of note. + +By-and-by a youth made his appearance in the rostrum, and a good deal of +Latin ensued, of which Flora hoped Ethel was less tired than she was. +In time, however, Meta saw the spectacles removed, and George looking +straight up, and she drew down her veil, and took hold of Flora’s hand, +and Ethel flushed like a hot coal. Nevertheless, all contrived to see +a tall figure, with face much flushed, and hands moving nervously. The +world was tired, and people were departing, so that the first lines were +lost, perhaps a satisfaction to Norman; but his voice soon cleared and +became louder, his eyes lighted, and Ethel knew the “funny state” had +come to his relief--people’s attention was arrested--there was no more +going away. + +It was well that Norman was ignorant of the fears for Harry, for +four lines had been added since Ethel had seen the poem, saying how +self-sacrifice sent forth the sailor-boy from home, to the lone watch, +the wave and storm, his spirit rising high, ere manhood braced his form. + +Applause did not come where Ethel had expected it, and, at first, +there was silence at the close, but suddenly the acclamations rose with +deafening loudness, though hardly what greets some poems with more to +catch the popular ear. + +Ethel’s great excitement was over, and presently she found herself +outside of the theatre, a shower falling, and an umbrella held over +her by Mr. Ogilvie, who was asking her if it was not admirable, and +declaring the poem might rank with Heber’s ‘Palestine’, or Milman’s +‘Apollo’. + +They were bound for a great luncheon at one of the colleges, where Ethel +might survey the Principal with whom Miss Rich had corresponded. +Mr. Ogilvie sat next to her, told her all the names, and quizzed the +dignitaries, but she had a sense of depression, and did not wish to +enter into the usual strain of banter. He dropped his lively tone, +and drew her out about Harry, till she was telling eagerly of her dear +sailor brother, and found him so sympathising and considerate, that she +did not like him less; though she felt her intercourse with him a sort +of intoxication, that would only make it the worse for her by-and-by. + +During that whole luncheon, and their walk through the gardens, where +there was a beautiful horticultural show, something was always prompting +her to say, while in this quasi-privacy, that she was on the eve of +departure, but she kept her resolution against it--she thought it would +have been an unwarrantable experiment. When they returned to their inn +they found Norman looking fagged, but relieved, half asleep on the sofa, +with a novel in his hand. He roused himself as they came in, and, to +avoid any compliments on his own performance, began, “Well, Ethel, are +you ready for the ball?” + +“We shall spare her the ball,” said Dr. May; “there is a report about +the Alcestis in the newspaper that may make Margaret uncomfortable, and +this good sister will not stay away from her.” + +Norman started up crying, “What, papa?” + +“It is a mere nothing in reality,” said Dr. May, “only what we knew +before;” and he showed his son the paragraph, which Norman read as a +death warrant; the colour ebbed from his lips and cheeks; he trembled so +that he was obliged to sit down, and, without speaking, he kept his eyes +fixed on the words, “Serious apprehensions are entertained with regard +to H. M. S. Alcestis, Captain Gordon--” + +“If you had seen as many newspaper reports come to nothing, as I have, +you would not take this so much to heart,” said Dr. May. “I expect to +hear that this very mail has brought letters.” + +And Meta added that, at luncheon, she had been seated next to one of the +honorary doctors--a naval captain--who had been making discoveries in +the South Sea, and that he had scouted the notion of harm befalling +the Alcestis, and given all manner of reassuring suppositions as to her +detention, adding besides, that no one believed the Australian paper +whence the report was taken. He had seen the Alcestis, knew Captain +Gordon, and spoke of him as one of the safest people in the world. Had +his acquaintance extended to lieutenants and midshipmen, it would have +been perfect; as it was, the tidings brought back the blood to Norman’s +cheek, and the light to his eye. + +“When do we set off?” was Norman’s question. + +“At five,” said Ethel. “You mean it, papa?” + +“I did intend it, if I had gone alone, but I shall not take you till +eight; nor you, Norman, at all.” + +Norman was bent on returning, but his father and Flora would not hear of +it. Flora could not spare him, and Dr. May was afraid of the effect of +anxiety on nerves and spirits so sensitive. While this was going on, +Mr. Ogilvie looked at Ethel in consternation, and said, “Are you really +going home?” + +“Yes, my eldest sister must not be left alone when she hears this.” + +He looked down--Ethel had the resolution to walk away. Flora could not +give up the ball, and Meta found that she must go; but both the Normans +spent a quiet evening with Dr. May and Ethel. Norman May had a bad +headache, which he was allowed to have justly earned; Dr. May was very +happy reviving all his Scottish recollections, and talking to young +Ogilvie about Edinburgh. Once, there was a private consultation. Ethel +was provoked and ashamed at the throbs that it would excite. What! on a +week’s acquaintance? + +When alone with her father, she began to nerve herself for something +heroic, and great was her shame when she heard only of her cousin’s kind +consideration for her brother, whom he wished to take home with him, and +thence to see the Highlands, so as to divert his anxiety for Harry, as +well as to call him off from the studies with which he had this term +overworked himself even more than usual. Dr. May had given most grateful +consent, and he spoke highly in praise of the youth; but there was no +more to come, and Ethel could have beaten herself for the moment of +anticipation. + +Meta came home, apologising for wakening Ethel; but Ethel had not been +asleep. The ball had not, it seemed, been as charming to her as most +events were, and Ethel heard a sigh as the little lady lay down in her +bed. + +Late as it was when she went to rest, Meta rose to see the travellers +off; she sent hosts of messages to her father, and wished she might go +with them. George and Flora were not visible, and Dr. May was leaving +messages for them, and for Norman, in her charge, when the two Balliol +men walked in. + +Ethel had hoped it was over, yet she could not be sorry that the two +youths escorted them to the station, and, as Ethel was placed in +the carriage, she believed that she heard something of never +forgetting--happiest week--but in the civilities which the other +occupant of the carriage was offering for the accommodation of their +lesser luggage, she lost the exact words, and the last she heard were, +“Good-bye; I hope you will find letters at home.” + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + + + True to the kindred points of Heaven and home. + WORDSWORTH. + + +Etheldred’s dream was over. She had wakened to the inside of a +Great Western carriage, her father beside her, and opposite a thin, +foreign-looking gentleman. Her father, to whom her life was to be +devoted! She looked at his profile, defined against the window, and did +not repent. In a sort of impulse to do something for him, she took his +hat from his hand, and was going to dispose of it in the roof, when he +turned, smiling his thanks, but saying, “it was not worth while--this +carriage was a very transitory resting-place.” + +The stranger at that moment sprang to his feet, exclaiming, “Dick +himself!” + +“Spencer, old fellow, is it you?” cried Dr. May, in a voice of equal +amazement and joy, holding out his hand, which was grasped and wrung +with a force that made Ethel shrink for the poor maimed arm. + +“Ha! what is amiss with your arm?” was the immediate question. Three +technical words were spoken in a matter-of-fact way, as Dr. May replaced +his hand in his bosom, and then, with an eager smile, said, “Ethel, +here! You have heard of him!” + +Ethel had indeed, and gave her hand cordially, surprised by the bow and +air of deferential politeness with which it was received, like a favour, +while Dr. Spencer asked her whether she had been staying in Oxford. + +“Ay; and what for, do you think?” said Dr. May joyously. + +“You don’t say that was your son who held forth yesterday! I thought his +voice had a trick of yours--but then I thought you would have held by +old Cambridge.” + +“What could I do?” said Dr. May deprecatingly; “the boy would go and get +a Balliol scholarship--” + +“Why! the lad is a genius! a poet--no mistake about it! but I scarcely +thought you could have one of such an age.” + +“Of his age! His brother is in Holy Orders--one of his sisters is +married. There’s for you, Spencer!” + +“Bless me, Dick! I thought myself a young man!” + +“What! with hair of that colour?” said Dr. May, looking at his friend’s +milk-white locks. + +“Bleached by that frightful sickly season at Poonshedagore, when I +thought I was done for. But you! you--the boy of the whole lot! You +think me very disrespectful to your father,” added he, turning to Ethel, +“but you see what old times are.” + +“I know,” said Ethel, with a bright look. + +“So you were in the theatre yesterday,” continued Dr. May; “but there is +no seeing any one in such a throng. How long have you been in England?” + +“A fortnight. I went at once to see my sister, at Malvern; there I fell +in with Rudden, the man I was with in New Guinea. He was going up to be +made an honorary doctor, and made me come with him.” + +“And where are you bound for?” as the train showed signs of a halt. + +“For London. I meant to hunt up Mat. Fleet, and hear of you, and other +old friends.” + +“Does he expect you?” + +“No one expects me. I am a regular vagabond.” + +“Come home with us,” said Dr. May, laying his hand on his arm. “I cannot +part with you so soon. Come, find your luggage. Take your ticket for +Gloucester.” + +“So suddenly! Will it not be inconvenient?” said he, looking tempted, +but irresolute. + +“Oh, no, no; pray come!” said Ethel eagerly. “We shall be so glad.” + +He looked his courteous thanks, and soon was with them en-route for +Stoneborough. + +Ethel’s thoughts were diverted from all she had left at Oxford. She +could not but watch those two old friends. She knew enough of the +traveller to enter into her father’s happiness, and to have no fears is +of another Sir Matthew. + +They had been together at Stoneborough, at Cambridge, at Paris, at +Edinburgh, always linked in the closest friendship; but, by Dr. May’s +own account, his friend had been the diligent one of the pair, a bright +compound of principle and spirit, and highly distinguished in all his +studies, and Dr. May’s model of perfection. Their paths had since lain +far apart, and they had not seen each other since, twenty-six years ago, +they had parted in London--the one to settle at his native town, while +the other accepted a situation as travelling physician. On his return, +he had almost sacrificed his life, by self-devoted attendance on a +fever-stricken emigrant-ship. He had afterwards received an appointment +in India, and there the correspondence had died away, and Dr. May had +lost traces of him, only knowing that, in a visitation of cholera, he +had again acted with the same carelessness of his own life, and a +severe illness, which had broken up his health, had occasioned him to +relinquish his post. + +It now appeared that he had thought himself coming home ever since. +He had gone to recruit in the Himalayas, and had become engrossed in +scientific observations on their altitudes, as well as investigations in +natural history. Going to Calcutta, he had fallen in with a party about +to explore the Asiatic islands and he had accompanied them, as well +as going on an expedition into the interior of Australia. He had been +employed in various sanitary arrangements there and in India, and +had finally worked his way slowly home, overland, visiting Egypt and +Palestine, and refreshing his memory with every Italian, German, or +French Cathedral, or work of art, that had delighted him in early days. + +He was a slight small man, much sunburned, nearly bald, and his hair +snowy, but his eyes were beautiful, very dark, soft, and smiling, +and yet their gaze peculiarly keen and steady, as if ready for any +emergency, and his whole frame was full of alertness and vigour. His +voice was clear and sweet, and his manner most refined and polished, +indeed, his courtesy to Ethel, whenever there was a change of carriage, +was so exemplary, that she understood it as the effect on a chivalrous +mind, of living where a lady was a rare and precious article. It +frightened Ethel a little at first, but, before the end of the journey, +she had already begun to feel towards him like an old friend--one of +those inheritances who are so much valued and loved, like a sort of +uncles-in-friendship. She had an especial grateful honour for the +delicate tact which asked no questions, as she saw his eye often falling +anxiously on her father’s left hand, where the wedding ring shone upon +the little finger. + +There was talk enough upon his travels, on public changes, and on +old friends; but, after those first few words, home had never been +mentioned. + +When, at five o’clock, the engine blew its whistle, at the old familiar +station, Dr. May had scarcely put his head out before Adams hastened up +to him with a note. + +“All well at home?” + +“Yes, sir, Miss Margaret sent up the gig.” + +“I must go at once,” said Dr May hastily--“the Larkins’ child is worse. +Ethel, take care of him, and introduce him. Love to Margaret. I’ll be at +home before tea.” + +He was driven off at speed, and Ethel proposed to walk home. Dr Spencer +gave her his arm, and was silent, but presently said, in a low, anxious +voice, “My dear, you must forgive me, I have heard nothing for many +years. Your mother--” + +“It was an accident,” said Ethel looking straight before her. “It was +when papa’s arm was hurt. The carriage was over-turned.” + +“And--” repeated Dr Spencer earnestly + +“She was killed on the spot,” said Ethel, speaking shortly, and +abruptly. If she was to say it at all, she could not do so otherwise. + +He was dreadfully shocked--she knew it by the shudder of his arm, and a +tight suppressed groan. He did not speak, and Ethel, as if a relief from +the silence must be made, said what was not very consoling, and equally +blunt. “Margaret had some harm done to her spine--she cannot walk.” + +He did not seem to hear, but walked on, as in a dream, where Ethel +guided him, and she would not interrupt him again. + +They had just passed Mr Bramshaw’s office, when a voice was heard +behind, calling, “Miss Ethel! Miss Ethel!” and Edward Anderson, now +articled to Mr. Bramshaw, burst out, pen in hand, and looking shabby and +inky. + +“Miss Ethel!” he said breathlessly, “I beg your pardon, but have you +heard from Harry?” + +“No!” said Ethel. “Have they had that paper at home?” + +“Not that I know of,” said Edward. “My mother wanted to send it, but I +would not take it--not while Dr. May was away.” + +“Thank you--that was very kind of you.” + +“And oh! Miss Ethel, do you think it is true?” + +“We hope not,” said Ethel kindly--“we saw a Captain at Oxford who +thought it not at all to be depended on.” + +“I am so glad,” said Edward; and, shaking hands, he went back to his +high stool, Ethel feeling that he deserved the pains that Norman +had taken to spare and befriend him. She spoke to her companion in +explanation. “We are very anxious for news of my next brother’s ship, +Alcestis, in the Pacific--” + +“More!” exclaimed poor Dr. Spencer, almost overpowered; “Good Heavens! I +thought May, at least, was happy!” + +“He is not unhappy,” said Ethel, not sorry that they had arrived at the +back entrance of the shrubbery. + +“How long ago was this?” said he, standing still, as soon as they had +passed into the garden. + +“Four years, next October. I assure you, his spirits are almost always +good.” + +“When I was at Adelaide, little thinking!” he sighed, then recollecting +himself. “Forgive me, I have given you pain.” + +“No,” she said, “or rather, I gave you more.” + +“I knew her--” and there he broke off, paused for a minute, then +collecting himself, seemed resolutely to turn away from the subject, and +said, walking on, “This garden is not much altered.” + +At that moment, a little shrill voice broke out in remonstrance among +the laurels--“But you know, Daisy, you are the captain of the forty +thieves!” + +“A startling announcement!” said Dr. Spencer, looking at Ethel, and the +next two steps brought them in view of the play-place in the laurels, +where Aubrey lay on the ground, feigning sleep, but keeping a watchful +eye over Blanche, who was dropping something into the holes of inverted +flower-pots, Gertrude dancing about in a way that seemed to have called +for the reproof of the more earnest actors. + +“Ethel! Ethel!” screamed the children, with one voice, and, while the +two girls stood in shyness at her companion, Aubrey had made a dart at +her neck, and hung upon her, arms, legs, body, and all, like a wild cat. + +“That will do! that will do, old man--let go! Speak to Dr. Spencer, my +dear.” + +Blanche did so demurely, and asked where was papa? + +“Coming, as soon as he has been to Mrs. Larkins’s poor baby.” + +“George Larkins has been here,” said Aubrey. “And I have finished +‘Vipera et lima’, Ethel, but Margaret makes such false quantities!” + +“What is your name, youngster?” said Dr. Spencer, laying his hand on +Aubrey’s head. + +“Aubrey Spencer May,” was the answer. + +“Hey day! where did you steal my name?” exclaimed Dr. Spencer, while +Aubrey stood abashed at so mysterious an accusation. + +“Oh!” exclaimed Blanche, seizing on Ethel, and whispering, “is it really +the boy that climbed the market cross?” + +“You see your fame lives here,” said Ethel, smiling, as Dr. Spencer +evidently heard. + +“He was a little boy!” said Aubrey indignantly, looking at the +gray-haired man. + +“There!” said Ethel to Dr. Spencer. + +“The tables turned!” he said, laughing heartily. “But do not let me keep +you. You would wish to prepare your sister for a stranger, and I shall +improve my acquaintance here. Where are the forty thieves?” + +“I am all of them,” said the innocent, daisy-faced Gertrude; and Ethel +hastened towards the house, glad of the permission granted by his true +good-breeding. + +There was a shriek of welcome from Mary, who sat working beside +Margaret. Ethel was certain that no evil tidings had come to her eldest +sister, so joyous was her exclamation of wonder and rebuke to her +home-sick Ethel. “Naughty girl! running home at once! I did think you +would have been happy there!” + +“So I was,” said Ethel hastily; “but who do you think I have brought +home?” Margaret flushed with such a pink, that Ethel resolved never to +set her guessing again, and hurried to explain; and having heard that +all was well, and taken her housekeeping measures, she proceeded to +fetch the guest; but Mary, who had been unusually silent all this time, +ran after her, and checked her. + +“Ethel, have you heard?” she said. + +“Have you?” said Ethel. + +“George Larkins rode in this morning to see when papa would come home, +and he told me. He said I had better not tell Margaret, for he did not +believe it.” + +“And you have not! That is very good of you, Mary.” + +“Oh! I am glad you are come! I could not have helped telling, if you had +been away a whole week! But, Ethel, does papa believe it?” Poor Mary’s +full lip swelled, and her eyes swam, ready to laugh or weep, in full +faith in her sister’s answer. + +Ethel told of Meta’s captain, and the smile predominated, and settled +down into Mary’s usual broad beamy look, like a benignant rising sun +on the sign of an inn, as Ethel praised her warmly for a fortitude and +consideration of which she had not thought her capable. + +Dr. Spencer was discovered full in the midst of the comedy of the forty +thieves, alternating, as required, between the robber-captain and the +ass, and the children in perfect ecstasies with him. + +They all followed in his train to the drawing-room, and were so +clamorous, that he could have no conversation with Margaret. He +certainly made them so, but Ethel, remembering what a blow her +disclosures had been, thought it would be only a kindness to send Aubrey +to show him to his room, where he might have some peace. + +She was not sorry to be very busy, so as to have little time to reply +to the questions on the doings at Oxford, and the cause of her sudden +return; and yet it would have been a comfort to be able to sit down +to understand herself, and recall her confused thoughts. But solitary +reflection was a thing only to be hoped for in that house in bed, and +Ethel was obliged to run up and down, and attend to everybody, under +an undefined sense that she had come home to a dull, anxious world of +turmoil. + +Margaret seemed to guess nothing, that was one comfort; she evidently +thought that her return was fully accounted for by the fascination of +her papa’s presence in a strange place. She gave Ethel no credit for +the sacrifice, naturally supposing that she could not enjoy herself +away from home. Ethel did not know whether to be glad or not; she was +relieved, but it was flat. As to Norman Ogilvie, one or two inquiries +whether she liked him, and if Norman were going to Scotland with him, +were all that passed, and it was very provoking to be made so hot and +conscious by them. + +She could not begin to dress till late, and while she was unpacking, she +heard her father come home, among the children’s loud welcomes, and +go to the drawing-room. He presently knocked at the door between their +rooms. + +“So Margaret does not know?” he said. + +“No, Mary has been so very good;” and she told what had passed. + +“Well done, Mary, I must tell her so. She is a good girl on a pinch, you +see!” + +“And we don’t speak of it now? Or will it hurt Margaret more to think we +keep things from her?” + +“That is the worst risk of the two. I have seen great harm done in that +way. Mention it, but without seeming to make too much of it.” + +“Won’t you, papa?” + +“You had better--it will seem of less importance. I think nothing of it +myself.” + +Nevertheless, Ethel saw that he could not trust himself to broach the +subject to Margaret. + +“How was the Larkins’ baby?” + +“Doing better. What have you done with Spencer?” + +“I put him into Richard’s room. The children were eating him up! He is +so kind to them.” + +“Ay! I say, Ethel, that was a happy consequence of your coming home with +me.” + +“What a delightful person he is!” + +“Is he not? A true knight errant, as he always was! I could not tell you +what I owed to him as a boy--all my life, I may say. Ethel,” he added +suddenly: “we must do our best to make him happy here. I know it now--I +never guessed it then, but one is very hard and selfish when one is +happy--” + +“What do you mean, papa?” + +“I see it now,” continued Dr. May incoherently; “the cause of his +wandering life--advantages thrown aside. He! the most worthy. Things +I little heeded at the time have come back on me! I understand why he +banished himself!” + +“Why?” asked Ethel bewildered. + +“She never had an idea of it; but I might have guessed from what fell +from him unconsciously, for not a word would he have said--nor did he +say, to show how he sacrificed himself!” + +“Who was it? Aunt Flora?” said Ethel, beginning to collect his meaning. + +“No, Ethel, it was your own dear mother! You will think this another +romantic fancy of mine, but I am sure of it.” + +“So am I,” said Ethel. + +“How--what? Ah! I remembered after we parted that he might know +nothing--” + +“He asked me,” said Ethel. + +“And how did he bear it?” + +Ethel told, and the tears filled her father’s eyes. + +“It was wrong and cruel in me to bring him home unprepared! and then to +leave it to you. I always forget other people’s feelings. Poor Spencer! +And now, Ethel, you see what manner of man we have here, and how we +ought to treat him.” + +“Indeed I do!” + +“The most unselfish--the most self-sacrificing--” continued Dr. May. +“And to see what it all turned on! I happened to have this place open to +me--the very cause, perhaps, of my having taken things easy--and so the +old Professor threw opportunities in my way; while Aubrey Spencer, with +every recommendation that man could have, was set aside, and exiled +himself, leaving the station, and all he might so easily have gained. +Ah, Ethel, Sir Matthew Fleet never came near him in ability. But not one +word to interfere with me would he say, and--how I have longed to meet +him again, after parting in my selfish, unfeeling gladness; and now I +have nothing to do for him, but show him how little I was to be trusted +with her.” + +Ethel never knew how to deal with these occasional bursts of grief, but +she said that she thought Dr. Spencer was very much pleased to have met +with him, and delighted with the children. + +“Ah! well, you are her children,” said Dr. May, with his hand on Ethel’s +shoulder. + +So they went downstairs, and found Mary making tea; and Margaret, +fearing Dr. Spencer was overwhelmed with his young admirers--for Aubrey +and Gertrude were one on each knee, and Blanche standing beside him, +inflicting on him a catalogue of the names and ages of all the eleven. + +“Ethel has introduced you, I see,” said Dr. May. + +“Ay, I assure you, it was an alarming introduction. No sooner do I enter +your garden, than I hear that I am in the midst of the Forty Thieves. +I find a young lady putting the world to death, after the fashion of +Hamlet--and, looking about to find what I have lost, I find this urchin +has robbed me of my name--a property I supposed was always left to +unfortunate travellers, however small they might be chopped themselves.” + +“Well, Aubrey boy, will you make restitution?” + +“It is my name,” said Aubrey positively; for, as his father added, “He +is not without dread of the threat being fulfilled, and himself left to +be that Anon who, Blanche says, writes so much poetry.” + +Aubrey privately went to Ethel, to ask her if this were possible; and +she had to reassure him, by telling him that they were “only in fun.” + +It was fun with a much deeper current though; for Dr. Spencer was +saying, with a smile, between gratification and sadness, “I did not +think my name would have been remembered here so long.” + +“We had used up mine, and the grandfathers’, and the uncles’, and began +to think we might look a little further a-field,” said Dr. May. “If I +had only known where you were, I would have asked you to be the varlet’s +godfather; but I was much afraid you were nowhere in the land of the +living.” + +“I have but one godson, and he is coffee-coloured! I ought to have +written; but, you see, for seven years I thought I was coming home.” + +Aubrey had recovered sufficiently to observe to Blanche, “That was +almost as bad as Ulysses,” which, being overheard and repeated, led to +the information that he was Ethel’s pupil, whereupon Dr. Spencer began +to inquire after the school, and to exclaim at his friend for having +deserted it in the person of Tom. Dr. May looked convicted, but said it +was all Norman’s fault; and Dr. Spencer, shaking his head at Blanche, +opined that the young gentleman was a great innovater, and that he was +sure he was at the bottom of the pulling down the Market Cross, and the +stopping up Randall’s Alley--iniquities of the “nasty people,” of which +she already had made him aware. + +“Poor Norman, he suffered enough anent Randall’s Alley,” said Dr. May; +“but as to the Market Cross, that came down a year before he was born.” + +“It was the Town Council!” said Ethel. + +“One of the ordinary stultifications of Town Councils?” + +“Take care, Spencer,” said Dr. May. “I am a Town Council man my-self--” + +“You, Dick!” and he turned with a start of astonishment, and went into +a fit of laughing, re-echoed by all the young ones, who were especially +tickled by hearing, from another, the abbreviation that had, hitherto, +only lived in the favourite expletive, “As sure as my name is Dick May.” + +“Of course,” said Dr. May. “‘Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou +not suspect my years? One that hath two gowns, and everything handsome +about him!’” + +His friend laughed the more, and they betook themselves to the College +stories, of which the quotation from Dogberry seemed to have reminded +them. + +There was something curious and affecting in their manner to each other. +Often it was the easy bantering familiarity of the two youths they had +once been together, with somewhat of elder brotherhood on Dr. Spencer’s +side--and of looking up on Dr. May’s--and just as they had recurred to +these terms, some allusion would bring back to Dr. Spencer, that the +heedless, high-spirited “Dick,” whom he had always had much ado to keep +out of scrapes, was a householder, a man of weight and influence; a +light which would at first strike him as most ludicrous, and then mirth +would end in a sigh, for there was yet another aspect! After having +thought of him so long as the happy husband of Margaret Mackenzie, he +found her place vacant, and the trace of deep grief apparent on the +countenance, once so gay--the oppression of anxiety marked on the brow, +formerly so joyous, the merriment almost more touching than gravity +would have been, for the former nature seemed rather shattered than +altered. In merging towards this side, there was a tender respect in +Dr. Spencer’s manner that was most beautiful, though this evening such +subjects were scrupulously kept at the utmost distance, by the constant +interchange of new and old jokes and stories. + +Only when bed-time had come, and Margaret had been carried off--did a +silence fall on the two friends, unbroken till Dr. May rose and proposed +going upstairs. When he gave his hand to wish good-night, Dr. Spencer +held it this time most carefully, and said, “Oh, May! I did not expect +this!” + +“I should have prepared you,” said his host, “but I never recollected +that you knew nothing--” + +“I had dwelt on your happiness!” + +“There never were two happier creatures for twenty-two years,” said Dr. +May, his voice low with emotion. “Sorrow spared her! Yes, think of her +always in undimmed brightness--always smiling as you remember her. She +was happy. She is,” he concluded. His friend had turned aside and hidden +his face with his hands, then looked up for a moment, “And you, Dick,” + he said briefly. + +“Sorrow spared her,” was Dr. May’s first answer. “And hers are very good +children!” + +There was a silence again, ending in Dr. May’s saying, “What do you +think of my poor girl?” + +They discussed the nature of the injury: Dr. Spencer could not feel +otherwise than that it was a very hopeless matter. Her father owned +that he had thought so from the first, and had wondered at Sir Matthew +Fleet’s opinion. His subdued tone of patience and resignation, struck +his guest above all, as changed from what he had once been. + +“You have been sorely tried,” he said, when they parted at his room +door. + +“I have received much good!” simply answered Dr. May. “Goodnight! I am +glad to have you here--if you can bear it.” + +“Bear it? Dick! how like that girl is to you! She is yourself!” + +“Such a self as I never was! Good-night.” + +Ethel overcame the difficulty of giving the account of the newspaper +alarm with tolerable success, by putting the story of Meta’s +conversation foremost. Margaret did not take it to heart as much as she +had feared, nor did she appear to dwell on it afterwards. The truth was +perhaps that Dr. Spencer’s visit was to every one more of an excitement +and amusement than it was to Ethel. Not that she did not like him +extremely, but after such a week as she had been spending, the +home-world seemed rather stale and unprofitable. + +Miss Bracy relapsed into a state of “feelings,” imagining that Ethel had +distrusted her capabilities, and therefore returned; or as Ethel herself +sometimes feared, there might be irritability in her own manner that +gave cause of annoyance. The children were inclined to be riotous with +their new friend, who made much of them continually, and especially +patronised Aubrey; Mary was proud of showing how much she had learned +to do for Margaret in her sister’s absence; Dr. May was so much taken up +with his friend, that Ethel saw less of him than usual, and she began to +believe that it had been all a mistake that every one was so dependent +on her, for, in fact, they did much better without her. + +Meantime, she heard of the gaieties which the others were enjoying, and +she could not feel heroic when they regretted her. At the end of a week, +Meta Rivers was escorted home from Warwick by two servants, and came +to Stoneborough, giving a lively description of all the concluding +pleasures, but declaring that Ethel’s departure had taken away the zest +of the whole, and Mr. Ogilvie had been very disconsolate. Margaret +had not been prepared to hear that Mr. Ogilvie had been so constant a +companion, and was struck by finding that Ethel had passed over one +who had evidently been so great an ingredient in the delights of the +expedition. Meta had, however observed nothing--she was a great deal too +simple and too much engrossed for such notions to have crossed her mind; +but Margaret inferred something, and hoped to learn more when she should +see Flora. This would not be immediately. George and his wife were gone +to London, and thence intended to pay a round of visits; and Norman had +accompanied his namesake to Glenbracken. + +Ethel fought hard with her own petulance and sense of tedium at home, +which was, as she felt, particularly uncalled for at present; when Dr. +Spencer was enlivening them so much. He was never in the way, he was +always either busy in the dining-room in the morning with books and +papers, or wandering about his old school-boy haunts in the town, or +taking Adam’s place, and driving out Dr. May, or sometimes joining the +children in a walk, to their supreme delight. His sketches, for he +drew most beautifully, were an endless pleasure to Margaret, with his +explanations of them--she even tried to sit up to copy them, and he +began to teach Blanche to draw. The evenings, when there was certain to +be some entertaining talk going on between the two doctors, were very +charming, and Margaret seemed quite revived by seeing her father so +happy with his friend. Ethel knew she ought to be happy also, and if +attention could make her so, she had it, for kind and courteous as Dr. +Spencer was to all, she seemed to have a double charm for him. It was +as if he found united in her the quaint brusquerie, that he had loved +in her father, with somewhat of her mother; for though Ethel had less +personal resemblance to Mrs. May than any other of the family, Dr. +Spencer transferred to her much of the chivalrous distant devotion, with +which he had regarded her mother. Ethel was very little conscious of it, +but he was certainly her sworn knight, and there was an eagerness in his +manner of performing every little service for her, a deference in his +way of listening to her, over and above his ordinary polish of manner. + +Ethel lighted up, and enjoyed herself when talking was going +on--her periods of ennui were when she had to set about any home +employment--when Aubrey’s lessons did not go well--when she wanted to +speak to her father, and could not catch him; and even when she had to +go to Cocksmoor. + +She did not seem to make any progress there--the room was very full, +and very close, the children were dull, and she began to believe she was +doing no good--it was all a weariness. But she was so heartily ashamed +of her feelings, that she worked the more vehemently for them, and the +utmost show that they outwardly made was, that Margaret thought her less +vivacious than her wont, and she was a little too peremptory at times +with Mary and Blanche. She had so much disliked the display that Flora +had made about Cocksmoor, that she had imposed total silence on it +upon her younger sisters, and Dr. Spencer had spent a fortnight at +Stoneborough without being aware of their occupation; when there +occurred such an extremely sultry day, that Margaret remonstrated +with Ethel on her intention of broiling herself and Mary by walking to +Cocksmoor, when the quicksilver stood at 80° in the shade. + +Ethel was much inclined to stay at home, but she did not know whether +this was from heat or from idleness, and her fretted spirits took the +turn of determination--so she posted off at a galloping pace, that her +brothers called her “Cocksmoor speed,” and Mary panted by her side, +humbly petitioning for the plantation path, when she answered “that it +was as well to be hot in the sun as in the shade.” + +The school-room was unusually full, all the haymaking mothers made it +serve as an infant school, and though as much window was opened as there +could be, the effect was not coolness. Nevertheless, Ethel sat down and +gathered her class round her, and she had just heard the chapter once +read, when there was a little confusion, a frightened cry of “Ethel!” + and before she could rise to her feet--a flump upon the floor--poor Mary +had absolutely fainted dead away. + +Ethel was much terrified, and very angry with herself; Mary was no light +weight, but Mrs. Elwood coming at their cry, helped Ethel to drag +her into the outer room, where she soon began to recover, and to be +excessively puzzled as to what had happened to her. She said the sea was +roaring, and where was Harry? and then she looked much surprised to +find herself lying on Mrs. Elwood’s damp flags--a circumstance extremely +distressing to Mrs. Elwood, who wanted to carry her upstairs into +Cherry’s room, very clean and very white, but with such a sun shining +full into it! + +Ethel lavished all care, and reproached herself greatly, though to be +sure nothing had ever been supposed capable of hurting Mary, and Mary +herself protested that nothing at all had ailed her till the children’s +voices began to sound funny, and turned into the waves of the sea, and +therewith poor Mary burst into a great flood of tears, and asked whether +Harry would ever come back. The tears did her a great deal of good, +though not so much as the being petted by Ethel, and she soon declared +herself perfectly well; but Ethel could not think of letting her walk +home, and sent off a boy--who she trusted would not faint--with a note +to Margaret, desiring her to send the gig, which fortunately was at home +to-day. + +Mary had partaken of some of Mrs. Elwood’s tea, which, though extremely +bitter, seemed a great cordial, and was sitting, quite revived, in the +arbour at the door, when the gig stopped, and Dr. Spencer walked in. + +“Well, and how are you?” + +“Quite well now, thank you. Was Margaret frightened? Why did you come?” + +“I thought it would make her happier, as your father was not at home. +Here, let me feel your pulse. Do you think no one is a doctor but your +papa? There’s not much the matter with you, however. Where is Ethel?” + +“In the school,” and Mary opened the door. Dr. Spencer looked in, as +Ethel came out, and his face put her in mind of Norman’s look. + +“No wonder!” was all he said. + +Ethel was soon satisfied that he did not think Mary ill. In fact, he +said fainting was the most natural and justifiable measure, under the +circumstances. “How many human creatures do you keep there?” he asked. + +“Forty-seven to-day,” said Mary proudly. + +“I shall indict you for cruelty to animals! I think I have known it +hotter at Poonshedagore, but there we had punkahs!” + +“It was very wrong of me,” said Ethel. “I should have thought of poor +Mary, in that sunny walk, but Mary never complains.” + +“Oh, never mind,” said Mary, “it did not hurt.” + +“I’m not thinking of Mary,” said Dr. Spencer, “but of the wretched +beings you are leaving shut up there. I wonder what the mercury would be +there.” + +“We cannot help it,” said Mary. “We cannot get the ground.” + +And Mary, having been voted into the seat of honour and comfort by his +side in the carriage, told her version of Cocksmoor and the Committee; +while Ethel sat up in the little narrow seat behind, severely +reproaching herself for her want of consideration towards one so good +and patient as Mary, who proved to have been suffering far more on +Harry’s account than they had guessed, and who was so simple and +thorough-going in doing her duty. This was not being a good elder +sister, and, when they came home, she confessed it, and showed so much +remorse that poor Mary was quite shocked, and cried so bitterly that it +was necessary to quit the subject. + +“Ethel, dearest,” said Margaret that night, after they were in bed, “is +there anything the matter?” + +“No, nothing, but that Oxford has spoiled me,” said Ethel, resolutely. +“I am very cross and selfish!” + +“It will be better by-and-by,” said Margaret, “if only you are sure you +have nothing to make you unhappy.” + +“Nothing,” said Ethel. She was becoming too much ashamed of her fancy +to breathe one word about it, and she had spoken the truth. Pleasure had +spoiled her. + +“If only we could do something for Cocksmoor!” she sighed, presently, +“with that one hundred and fifty pounds lying idle.” + +Margaret was very glad that her thoughts were taking this channel, but +it was not a promising one, for there seemed to be nothing practicable, +present or future. The ground could not be had--the pig would not get +over the stile--the old woman could not get home to-night. Cocksmoor +must put up with its present school, and Mary must not be walked to +death. + +Or, as Ethel drew her own moral, sacrifice must not be selfish. One +great resolution that has been costly, must not blunt us in the daily +details of life. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + + + If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, Chapels had + been Churches, and poor men’s cottages, princes’ palaces. + MERCHANT OF VENICE. + + +“Dick,” said Dr. Spencer, as the friends sat together in the evening, +after Mary’s swoon, “you seem to have found an expedient for making +havoc among your daughters.” + +“It does not hurt them,” said Dr. May carelessly. + +“Pretty well, after the specimen of to-day.” + +“That was chance.” + +“If you like it, I have no more to say; but I should like to make you +sit for two hours in such a temperature. If they were mine--” + +“Very fine talking, but I would not take the responsibility of hindering +the only pains that have ever been taken with that unlucky place. You +don’t know that girl Ethel. She began at fifteen, entirely of her own +accord, and has never faltered. If any of the children there are saved +from perdition, it is owing to her, and I am not going to be the man to +stop her. They are strong, healthy girls, and I cannot see that it does +them any harm--rather good.” + +“Have you any special predilection for a room eight feet by nine?” + +“Can’t be helped. What would you have said if you had seen the last?” + +“What is this about one hundred and fifty pounds in hand?” + +“The ladies here chose to have a fancy fair, the only result of which, +hitherto, has been the taking away my Flora. There is the money, but the +land can’t be had.” + +“Why not?” + +“Tied up between the Drydale Estate and ---- College, and in the hands +of the quarry master, Nicolson. There was an application made to the +College, but they did not begin at the right end.” + +“Upon my word, Dick, you take it easy!” cried his friend, rather +indignantly. + +“I own I have not stirred in the matter,” said Dr. May. “I knew nothing +would come to good under the pack of silly women that our schools +are ridden with--” and, as he heard a sound a little like “pish!” he +continued, “and that old Ramsden, it is absolutely useless to work with +such a head--or no head. There’s nothing for it but to wait for better +times, instead of setting up independent, insubordinate action.” + +“You are the man to leave venerable abuses undisturbed!” + +“The cure is worse than the disease!” + +“There spoke the Corporation!” + +“Ah! it was not the way you set to work in Poonshedagore.” + +“Why, really, when the venerable abuses consisted of Hindoos praying to +their own three-legged stools, and keeping sacred monkeys in honour of +the ape Hanyuman, it was a question whether one could be a Christian +oneself, and suffer it undisturbed. It was coming it too strong, when +I was requested to lend my own step-ladder for the convenience of an +exhibition of a devotee swinging on hooks in his sides.” + +Dr. Spencer had, in fact, never rested till he had established a mission +in his former remote station; and his brown godson, once a Brahmin, +now an exemplary clergyman, traced his conversion to the friendship and +example of the English physician. + +“Well, I have lashed about me at abuses, in my time,” said Dr. May. + +“I dare say you have, Dick!” and they both laughed--the inconsiderate +way was so well delineated. + +“Just so,” replied Dr. May; “and I made enemies enough to fetter me now. +I do not mean that I have done right--I have not; but there is a good +deal on my hands, and I don’t write easily. I have been slower to take +up new matters than I ought to have been.” + +“I see, I see!” said Dr. Spencer, rather sorry for his implied reproach, +“but must Cocksmoor be left to its fate, and your gallant daughter to +hers?” + +“The vicar won’t stir. He is indolent enough by nature, and worse with +gout; and I do not see what good I could do. I once offended the tenant, +Nicolson, by fining him for cheating his unhappy labourers, on the +abominable truck system; and he had rather poison me than do anything to +oblige me. And, as to the copyholder, he is a fine gentleman, who never +comes near the place, nor does anything for it.” + +“Who is he?” + +“Sir Henry Walkinghame.” + +“Sir Henry Walkinghame! I know the man. I found him in one of the caves +at Thebes, among the mummies, laid up with a fever, nearly ready to be +a mummy himself! I remember bleeding him--irregular, was not it? but one +does not stand on ceremony in Pharaoh’s tomb. I got him through with +it; we came up the Nile together, and the last I saw of him was at +Alexandria. He is your man! something might be done with him!” + +“I believe Flora promises to ask him if she should ever meet him in +London, but he is always away. If ever we should be happy enough to get +an active incumbent, we shall have a chance.” + +Two days after, Ethel came down equipped for Cocksmoor. It was as hot as +ever, and Mary was ordered to stay at home, being somewhat pacified by +a promise that she should go again as soon as the weather was fit for +anything but a salamander. + +Dr. Spencer was in the hall, with his bamboo, his great Panama hat, and +gray loose coat, for he entirely avoided, except on Sundays, the medical +suit of black. He offered to relieve Ethel of her bag of books. + +“No thank you.” (He had them by this time). “But I am going to +Cocksmoor.” + +“Will you allow me to be your companion?” + +“I shall be very glad of the pleasure of your company, but I am not in +the least afraid of going alone,” said she, smiling, however, so as to +show she was glad of such pleasant company. “I forewarn you though that +I have business there.” + +“I will find occupation.” + +“And you must promise not to turn against me. I have undergone a great +deal already about that place. Norman was always preaching against it, +and now that he has become reasonable, I can’t have papa set against it +again--besides, he would mind you more.” + +Dr. Spencer promised to do nothing but what was quite reasonable. Ethel +believed that he accompanied her merely because his gallantry would not +suffer her to go unescorted, and she was not sorry, for it was too long +a walk for solitude to be very agreeable, when strange wagoners might be +on the road, though she had never let them be “lions in the path.” + +The walk was as pleasant as a scorching sun would allow, and by the +time they arrived at the scattered cottages, Ethel had been drawn into +explaining many of her Cocksmoor perplexities. + +“If you could get the land granted, where should you choose to have it?” + he asked. “You know it will not do to go and say, ‘Be pleased to give me +a piece of land,’ without specifying what, or you might chance to have +one at the Land’s End.” + +“I see, that was one of the blunders,” said Ethel. “But I had often +thought of this nice little square place, between two gardens, and +sheltered by the old quarry.” + +“Ha! hardly space enough, I should say,” replied Dr. Spencer, stepping +it out. “No, that won’t do, so confined by the quarry. Let us look +farther.” + +A surmise crossed Ethel. Could he be going to take the work on himself, +but that was too wild a supposition--she knew he had nothing of his own, +only a moderate pension from the East India Company. + +“What do you think of this?” he said, coming to the slope of a knoll, +commanding a pretty view of the Abbotstoke woods, clear from houses, and +yet not remote from the hamlet. She agreed that it would do well, and +he kicked up a bit of turf, and pryed into the soil, pronouncing it dry, +and fit for a good foundation. Then he began to step it out, making +a circuit that amazed her, but he said, “It is of no use to do it at +twice. Your school can be only the first step towards a church, and you +had better have room--enough at once. It will serve as an endowment in +the meantime.” + +He would not let her remain in the sun, and she went into school. +She found him, when she came out, sitting in the arbour smoking a +cigar-rather a shock to her feelings, though he threw it away the +instant she appeared, and she excused him for his foreign habits. + +In the evening, he brought down a traveller’s case of instruments, and +proceeded to draw a beautiful little map of Cocksmoor, where it seemed +that he had taken all his measurements, whilst she was in school. He +ended by an imaginary plan and elevation for the school, with a pretty +oriel window and bell-gable, that made Ethel sigh with delight at the +bare idea. + +Next day, he vanished after dinner, but this he often did; he used to +say he must go and have a holiday of smoking--he could not bear too much +civilised society. He came back for tea, however, and had not sat down +long before he said, “Now, I know all about it. I shall pack up my +goods, and be off for Vienna to-morrow.” + +“To Vienna!” was the general and dolorous outcry, and Gertrude laid hold +of him and said he should not go. + +“I am coming back,” he said, “if you will have me. The college holds a +court at Fordholm on the 3rd, and on the last of this month, I hope to +return.” + +“College! Court! What are you going to do at Vienna? Where have you left +your senses?” asked Dr. May. + +“I find Sir Henry Walkinghame is there. I have been on an exploring +expedition to Drydale, found out his man of business, and where he is to +be written to. The college holds a court at Fordholm, and I hope to have +our business settled.” + +Ethel was too much confounded to speak. Her father was exclaiming on the +shortness of the time. + +“Plenty of time,” said Dr. Spencer, demonstrating that he should be able +to travel comfortably, and have four days to spare at Vienna--a journey +which he seemed to think less of, than did Dr. May of going to London. + +As to checking him, of that there was no possibility, nor, indeed, +notion, though Ethel did not quite know how to believe in it, nor that +the plan could come to good. Ethel was much better by this time: by her +vigorous efforts, she had recovered her tone of mind and interest in +what was passing; and though now and then Norman’s letters, carrying +sentences of remembrance, made her glow a little, she was so steady +to her resolution that she averted all traffic in messages through her +brother’s correspondence, and, in that fear, allowed it to lapse into +Margaret’s hands more than she had ever done. Indeed, no one greatly +liked writing from home, it was heartless work to say always, “No news +from the Alcestis” and yet they all declared they were not anxious. + +Hector Ernescliffe knelt a great while beside Margaret’s sofa, on the +first evening of his holidays, and there was a long low-voiced talk +between them. Ethel wished that she had warned him off, for Margaret +looked much more harassed and anxious, after having heard the outpouring +of all that was on his mind. + +Dr. Spencer thought her looking worse, when he came, as come he did, on +the appointed day. He had brought Sir Henry Walkinghame’s full consent +to the surrender of the land; drawn up in such form as could be acted +upon, and a letter to his man of business. But Nicolson! He was a worse +dragon nearer home, hating all schools, especially hating Dr. May. + +However, said Dr. Spencer, in eastern form, “Have I encountered Rajahs, +and smoked pipes with three-tailed Pachas, that I should dread the face +of the father of quarrymen.” + +What he did with the father of quarrymen was not known, whether he +talked him over, or bought him off--Margaret hoped the former; Dr. May +feared the latter; the results were certain; Mr. Nicolson had agreed +that the land should be given up. + +The triumphant Dr. Spencer sat down to write a statement to be shown to +the college authorities, when they should come to hold their court. + +“The land must be put into the hands of trustees,” he said. “The +incumbent of course?” + +“Then yourself; and we must have another. Your son-in-law?” + +“You, I should think,” said Dr. May. + +“I! Why, I am going.” + +“Going, but not gone,” said his friend. + +“I must go! I tell you, Dick; I must have a place of my own to smoke my +pipe in.” + +“Is that all?” said Dr. May. “I think you might be accommodated here, +unless you wished to be near your sister.” + +“My sister is always resorting to watering-places. My nieces do nothing +but play on the piano. No, I shall perhaps go off to America, the only +place I have not seen yet, and I more than half engaged to go and help +at Poonshedagore.” + +“Better order your coffin then,” muttered Dr. May. + +“I shall try lodgings in London, near the old hospital, perhaps--and go +and turn over the British Museum library.” + +“Look you here, Spencer, I have a much better plan. Do you know that +scrap of a house of mine, by the back gate, just big enough for you +and your pipe? Set up your staff there. Ethel will never get her school +built without you.” + +“Oh! that would be capital!” cried Ethel. + +“It would be the best speculation for me. You would pay rent, and the +last old woman never did,” continued Dr. May. “A garden the length of +this one--” + +“But I say--I want to be near the British Museum.” + +“Take a season-ticket, and run up once a week.” + +“I shall teach your boys to smoke!” + +“I’ll see to that!” + +“You have given Cocksmoor one lift,” said Ethel, “and it will never go +on without you.” + +“It is such a nice house!” added the children, in chorus; “it would be +such fun to have you there.” + +“Daisy will never be able to spare her other doctor,” said Margaret, +smiling. + +“Run to Mrs. Adams, Tom, and get the key,” said Dr. May. + +There was a putting on of hats and bonnets, and the whole party walked +down the garden to inspect the house--a matter of curiosity to some--for +it was where the old lady had resided on whom Harry had played so many +tricks, and the subject of many myths hatched between him and George +Larkins. + +It was an odd, little narrow slip of a house, four stories, of two rooms +all the way up, each with a large window, with a marked white eyebrow. +Dr. May eagerly pointed out all the conveniences, parlour, museum, +smoking den, while Dr. Spencer listened, and answered doubtfully; and +the children’s clamorous anxiety seemed to render him the more silent. + +Hector Ernescliffe discovered a jackdaw’s nest in the chimney, whereupon +the whole train rushed off to investigate, leaving the two doctors and +Ethel standing together in the empty parlour, Dr. May pressing, Dr. +Spencer raising desultory objections; but so evidently against his own +wishes, that Ethel said, “Now, indeed, you must not disappoint us all.” + +“No,” said Dr. May, “it is a settled thing.” + +“No, no, thanks, thanks to you all, but it cannot be. Let me go;” and he +spoke with emotion. “You are very kind, but it is not to be thought of.” + +“Why not?” said Dr. May. “Spencer, stay with me;” and he spoke with a +pleading, almost dependent air. “Why should you go?” + +“It is of no use to talk about it. You are very kind, but it will not do +to encumber you with a lone man, growing old.” + +“We have been young together,” said Dr. May. + +“And you must not leave papa,” added Ethel. + +“No,” said Dr. May. “Trouble may be at hand. Help us through with it. +Remember, these children have no uncles.” + +“You will stay?” said Ethel. + +He made a sign of assent--he could do no more, and just then Gertrude +came trotting back, so exceedingly smutty, as to call everybody’s +attention. Hector had been shoving Tom half-way up the chimney, in +hopes of reaching the nest; and the consequences of this amateur +chimney-sweeping had been a plentiful bespattering of all the spectators +with soot, that so greatly distressed the young ladies, that Mary and +Blanche had fled away from public view. + +Dr. Spencer’s first act of possession was to threaten to pull Tom down +by the heels for disturbing his jackdaws, whereupon there was a general +acclamation; and Dr. May began to talk of marauding times, when the +jackdaws in the Minster tower had been harried. + +“Ah!” said Dr. Spencer, as Tom emerged, blacker than the outraged +jackdaws, and half choked, “what do you know about jackdaws’ nests? You +that are no Whichcote scholars.” + +“Don’t we?” cried Hector, “when there is a jackdaw’s nest in Eton +Chapel, twenty feet high.” + +“Old Grey made that!” said Tom, who usually acted the part of esprit +fort to Hector’s credulity. + +“Why, there is a picture of it on Jesse’s book,” said Hector. + +“But may not we get up on the roof, to see if we can get at the nest, +papa?” said Tom. + +“You must ask Dr. Spencer. It is his house.” + +Dr. Spencer did not gainsay it, and proceeded even to show the old +Whichcote spirit, by leading the assault, and promising to take care of +Aubrey, while Ethel retained Gertrude, and her father too; for Dr. May +had such a great inclination to scramble up the ladder after them, that +she, thinking it a dangerous experiment for so helpless an arm, was +obliged to assure him that it would create a sensation among the +gossiphood of Stoneborough, if their physician were seen disporting +himself on the top of the house. + +“Ah! I’m not a physician unattached, like him,” said Dr. May, laughing. +“Hullo! have you got up, Tom? There’s a door up there. I’ll show you--” + +“No, don’t papa. Think of Mrs. Ledwich; and asking her to see two +trustees up there!” said Ethel. + +“Ah! Mrs. Ledwich; what is to be done with her, Ethel?” + +“I am sure I can’t tell. If Flora were but at home, she would manage +it.” + +“Spencer can manage anything!” was the answer. “That was the happiest +chance imaginable that you came home with me, and so we came to go by +the same train.” + +Ethel was only afraid that time was being cruelly wasted; but the best +men, and it is emphatically the best that generally are so--have the +boy strong enough on one side or other of their natures, to be a great +provocation to womankind; and Dr. Spencer did not rest from his pursuit +till the brood of the jackdaws had been discovered, and two gray-headed +nestlings kidnapped, which were destined to a wicker cage and education. +Little Aubrey was beyond measure proud, and was suggesting all sorts of +outrageous classical names for them, till politely told by Tom that he +would make them as great prigs as himself, and that their names should +be nothing but Jack and Jill. + +“There’s nothing for it but for Aubrey to go to school,” cried Tom, +sententiously turning round to Ethel. + +“Ay, to Stoneborough,” said Dr. Spencer. + +Tom coloured, as if sorry for his movement, and hastened away to make +himself sufficiently clean to go in quest of a prison for his captives. + +Dr. Spencer began to bethink him of the paper that he had been so +eagerly drawing up, and looking at his own begrimed hands, asked Ethel +whether she would have him for a trustee. + +“Will the other eight ladies?” said Ethel, “that’s the point.” + +“Ha, Spencer! you did not know what you were undertaking. Do you wish to +be let off?” said Dr. May. + +“Not I,” said the undaunted doctor. “Come, Ethel, let us hear what +should be done.” + +“There’s no time,” said Ethel, bewildered. “The court will be only on +the day after to-morrow.” + +“Ample time!” said Dr. Spencer, who seemed ready to throw himself into +it with all his might. “What we have to do is this. The ladies to be +propitiated are--” + +“Nine Muses, to whom you will have to act Apollo,” said Dr. May, who, +having put his friend into the situation, had a mischievous delight in +laughing at him, and watching what he would do. + +“One and two, Ethel, and Mrs. Rivers!” + +“Rather eight and nine,” said Ethel, “though Flora may be somebody now.” + +“Seven then,” said Dr. Spencer. “Well then, Ethel, suppose we set out +on our travels this afternoon. Visit these ladies, get them to call a +meeting to-morrow, and sanction their three trustees.” + +“You little know what a work it is to call a meeting, or how many notes +Miss Rich sends out before one can be accomplished.” + +“Faint heart--you know the proverb, Ethel. Allons. I’ll call on Mrs. +Ledwich--” + +“Stay,” said Dr. May. “Let Ethel do that, and ask her to tea, and we +will show her your drawing of the school.” + +So the remaining ladies were divided--Ethel was to visit Miss Anderson, +Miss Boulder, and Mrs. Ledwich; Dr. Spencer, the rest, and a meeting, if +possible, be appointed for the next day. + +Ethel did as she was told, though rather against the grain, and her +short, abrupt manner was excused the more readily, that Dr. Spencer had +been a subject of much mysterious speculation in Stoneborough, and to +gain any intelligence respecting him, was a great object; so that she +was extremely welcome wherever she called. + +Mrs. Ledwich promised to come to tea, and instantly prepared to walk +to Miss Rich, and authorise her to send out the notes of summons to the +morrow’s meeting. Ethel offered to walk with her, and found Mrs. and +Miss Rich in a flutter, after Dr. Spencer’s call; the daughter just +going to put on her bonnet and consult Mrs. Ledwich, and both extremely +enchanted with Dr. Spencer, who “would be such an acquisition.” + +The hour was fixed and the notes sent out, and Ethel met Dr. Spencer at +the garden gate. + +“Well!” he said, smiling, “I think we have fixed them off--have not we?” + +“Yes; but is it not heartless that everything should be done through so +much nonsense?” + +“Did you ever hear why the spire of Ulm Cathedral was never finished?” + said Dr. Spencer. + +“No; why not?” + +“Because the citizens would accept no help from their neighbours.” + +“I am glad enough of help when it comes in the right way, and from good +motives.” + +“There are more good motives in the world than you give people credit +for, Ethel. You have a good father, good sense, and a good education; +and you have some perception of the system by which things like this +should be done. Unfortunately, the system is in bad hands here, and +these good ladies have been left to work for themselves, and it is no +wonder that there is plenty of little self-importance, nonsense, and the +like, among them; but for their own sakes we should rather show them the +way, than throw them overboard.” + +“If they will be shown,” said Ethel. + +“I can’t say they seemed to me so very formidable,” said Dr. Spencer. +“Gentle little women.” + +“Oh! it is only Mrs. Ledwich that stirs them up. I hope you are prepared +for that encounter.” + +Mrs. Ledwich came to tea, sparkling with black bugles, and was very +patronising and amiable. Her visits were generally subjects of great +dread, for she talked unceasingly, laid down the law, and overwhelmed +Margaret with remedies; but to-night Dr. Spencer took her in hand. It +was not that he went out of his ordinary self, he was always the same +simple-mannered, polished gentleman; but it was this that told--she was +evidently somewhat in awe of him--the refinement kept her in check. She +behaved very quietly all the evening, admired the plans, consented to +everything, and was scarcely Mrs. Ledwich! + +“You will get on now, Ethel,” said Dr. May afterwards. “Never fear but +that he will get the Ladies’ Committee well in hand.” + +“Why do you think so, papa?” + +“Never you fear.” + +That was all she could extract from him, though he looked very arch. The +Ladies’ Committee accepted of their representatives with full consent; +and the indefatigable Dr. Spencer next had to hunt up the fellow +trustee. He finally contrived to collect every one he wanted at +Fordholm, the case was laid before the College--the College was +propitious, and by four o’clock in the evening, Dr. Spencer laid before +Ethel the promise of the piece of land. + +Mary’s joy was unbounded, and Ethel blushed, and tried to thank. This +would have been the summit of felicity a year ago, and she was vexed +with herself for feeling that though land and money were both in such +safe hands, she could not care sufficiently to feel the ecstasy the +attainment of her object would once have given to her. Then she would +have been frantic with excitement, and heedless of everything; now she +took it so composedly as to annoy herself. + +“To think of that one week at Oxford having so entirely turned this head +of mine!” + +Perhaps it was the less at home, because she had just heard that George +and Flora had accepted an invitation to Glenbracken, but though the zest +of Cocksmoor might be somewhat gone, she called herself to order, and +gave her full attention to all that was planned by her champion. + +Never did man plunge into business more thoroughly than he, when he +had once undertaken it. He was one of those men who, from gathering +particulars of every practical matter that comes under their notice, are +able to accomplish well whatever they set their hand to; and building +was not new to him, though his former subjects--a church and mission +station in India--bore little remembrance to the present. + +He bought a little round dumpling of a white pony, and trotted all over +the country in search of building materials and builders, he discovered +trees in distant timber-yards, he brought home specimens of stone, one +in each pocket, to compare and analyse, he went to London to look at +model schools, he drew plans each more neat and beautiful than the +last, he compared builders’ estimates, and wrote letters to the National +Society, so as to be able to begin in the spring. + +In the meantime he was settling himself, furnishing his new house with +great precision and taste. He would have no assistance in his choice, +either of servants or furniture, but made numerous journeys of +inspection to Whitford, to Malvern, and to London, and these seemed +to make him the more content with Stoneborough. Sir Matthew Fleet had +evidently chilled him, and as he found his own few remaining relations +uncongenial, he became the more ready to find a resting-place in the +gray old town, the scene of his school life, beside the friend of his +youth, and the children of her, for whose sake he had never sought a +home of his own. Though he now and then talked of seeing America, or +of going back to India, in hopes of assisting his beloved mission at +Poonshedagore, these plans were fast dying away, as he formed habits and +attachments, and perceived the sphere of usefulness open to him. + +It was a great step when his packages arrived, and his beautiful Indian +curiosities were arranged, making his drawing-room as pretty a room as +could anywhere be seen; in readiness, as he used to tell Ethel, for a +grand tea-party for all the Ladies’ Committee, when he should borrow +her and the best silver teapot to preside. Moreover, he had a chemical +apparatus, a telescope, and microscope, of great power, wherewith he +tried experiments that were the height of felicity to Tom and Ethel, +and much interested their father. He made it his business to have full +occupation for himself, with plans, books, or correspondence, so as not +to be a charge on the hands of the May family, with whom he never spent +an evening without special and earnest invitation. + +He gave attendance at the hospital on alternate days, as well as taking +off Dr. May’s hands such of his gratuitous patients as were not averse +to quit their old doctor, and could believe in a physician in shepherd’s +plaid, and Panama hat. Exceedingly sociable, he soon visited every one +far and wide, and went to every sort of party, from the grand dinners +of the “county families,” to the tea-drinkings of the Stoneborough +ladies--a welcome guest at all, and enjoying each in his own way. +English life was so new to him that he entered into the little +accessories with the zest of a youth; and there seemed to be a curious +change between the two old fellow students, the elder and more staid of +former days having come back with unencumbered freshness to enliven his +friend, just beginning to grow aged under the wear of care and sorrows. + +It was very droll to hear Dr. May laughing at Dr. Spencer’s histories +of his adventures, and at the new aspects in which his own well-trodden +district appeared to travelled eyes; and not less amusing was Dr. +Spencer’s resolute defence of all the nine muses, generally and +individually. + +He certainly had no reason to think ill of them. As one woman, they were +led by him, and conformed their opinions. The only seceder was Louisa +Anderson, who had her brother for her oracle; and, indeed, the more +youthful race, to whom Harvey was the glass of fashion, uttered +disrespectful opinions as to the doctor’s age, and would not accede to +his being, as Mrs. Ledwich declared, “much younger than Dr. May.” + +Harvey Anderson had first attempted patronage, then argument, with Dr. +Spencer, but found him equally impervious to both. “Very clever, but an +old world man,” said Harvey. “He has made up his bundle of prejudices.” + +“Clever sort of lad!” said Dr. Spencer, “a cool hand, but very +shallow--” + +Ethel wondered to hear thus lightly disposed of, the powers of argument +that had been thought fairly able to compete with Norman, and which +had taxed him so severely. She did not know how differently abstract +questions appear to a mature mind, confirmed in principle by practice; +and to one young, struggling in self-formation, and more used to +theories than to realities. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + + + The heart may ache, but may not burst; + Heaven will not leave thee, nor forsake. + Christian Year. + + +Hector and Tom finished their holidays by a morning’s shooting at the +Grange, Dr. May promising to meet them, and let them drive him home. + +Meta was out when he arrived; and, repairing to the library, he found +Mr. Rivers sitting by a fire, though it was early in September, with the +newspaper before him, but not reading. He looked depressed, and seemed +much disappointed at having heard that George and Flora had accepted +some further invitations in Scotland, and did not intend to return for +another month. Dr. May spoke cheerfully of the hospitality and kindness +they had met, but failed to enliven him, and, as if trying to assign +some cause for his vexation, he lamented over fogs and frosts, and began +to dread an October in Scotland for Flora, almost as if it were the +Arctic regions. + +He grew somewhat more animated in praising Flora, and speaking of the +great satisfaction he had in seeing his son married to so admirable a +person. He only wished it could be the same with his daughter. + +“You are a very unselfish father,” said Dr. May. “I cannot imagine you +without your little fairy.” + +“It would be hard to part,” said Mr. Rivers, sighing; “yet I should be +relieved to see her in good hands, so pretty and engaging as she is, and +something of an heiress. With our dear Flora, she is secure of a happy +home when I am gone, but still I should be glad to have seen--” and he +broke off thoughtfully. + +“She is so sensible, that we shall see her make a good choice,” said Dr. +May, smiling; “that is, if she choose at all, for I do not know who is +worthy of her.” + +“I am quite indifferent as to fortune,” continued Mr. Rivers. “She will +have enough of her own.” + +“Enough not to be dependent, which is the point,” said Dr. May, “though +I should have few fears for her any way.” + +“It would be a comfort,” harped on Mr. Rivers, dwelling on the subject, +as if he wanted to say something, “if she were only safe with a man +who knew how to value her and make her happy. Such a young man as your +Norman, now--I have often thought--” + +Dr. May would not seem to hear, but he could not prevent himself from +blushing as crimson as if he had been the very Norman, as he answered, +going on with his own speech, as if Mr. Rivers’s had been unmade, “She +is the brightest little creature under the sun, and the sparkle is down +so deep within, that however it may turn out, I should never fear for +her happiness.” + +“Flora is my great reliance,” proceeded Mr. Rivers. “Her aunt, Lady +Leonora, is very kind, but somehow she does not seem to suit with Meta.” + +“Oh, ho,” thought the doctor, “have you made that discovery, my good +friend?” + +The voices of the two boys were heard in the hall, explaining their +achievements to Meta, and Dr. May took his departure, Hector driving +him, and embarking in a long discourse on his own affairs as if he +had quite forgotten that the doctor was not his father, and going on +emphatically, in spite of the absence of mind now and then betrayed by +his auditor, who, at Dr. Spencer’s door, exclaimed, “Stop, Hector, let +me out here--thank you;” and presently brought out his friend into the +garden, and sat down on the grass, talking low and earnestly over the +disease with which Mr. Rivers had been so long affected; for though Dr. +May could not perceive any positively unfavourable symptom, he had +been rendered vaguely uneasy by the unusual heaviness and depression +of manner. So long did they sit conversing, that Blanche was sent out, +primed with an impertinent message, that two such old doctors ought to +be ashamed of themselves for sitting so late in the dew. + +Dr. Spencer was dragged in to drink tea, and the meal had just been +merrily concluded, when the door bell rang, and a message was brought +in. “The carriage from the Grange, sir; Miss Rivers would be much +obliged if you would come directly.” + +“There!” said Dr. May, looking at Dr. Spencer, as if to say, I told you +so, in the first triumph of professional sagacity; but the next moment +exclaiming, “Poor little Meta!” he hurried away. + +A gloom fell on those who remained, for, besides their sympathy for +Meta, and their liking for her kind old father, there was that one +unacknowledged heartache, which, though in general bravely combated, +lay in wait always ready to prey on them. Hector stole round to sit by +Margaret, and Dr. Spencer muttered, “This will never do,” and sent +Tom to fetch some papers lying on his table, whence he read them some +curious accounts that he had just received from his missionary friends +in India. + +They were interested, but in a listening mood, that caused a universal +start when the bell again sounded. This time, James reported that the +servant from the Grange said his master was very ill--he had brought +a letter to post for Mr. George Rivers, and here was a note for Miss +Ethel. It was the only note Ethel had ever received from her father, and +contained these few words: + + +“DEAR E.--, + +“I believe this attack will be the last. Come to Meta, and bring my +things. R. M.” + + +Ethel put her hands to her forehead. It was as if she had been again +plunged into the stunned dream of misery of four years ago, and her +sensation was of equal bewilderment and uselessness; but it was but for +a moment--the next she was in a state of over-bustle and eagerness. She +wanted to fly about and hasten to help Meta, and could hardly obey the +word and gesture by which Margaret summoned her to her side. + +“Dear Ethel, you must calm yourself, or you will not be of use.” + +“I? I can’t be of any use! Oh, if you could go! If Flora were but here! +But I must go, Margaret.” + +“I will put up your father’s things,” said Dr. Spencer, in a soothing +tone. “The carriage cannot be ready in a moment, so that there will be +full time.” + +Mary and Miss Bracy prepared Ethel’s own goods, which she would +otherwise have forgotten; and Margaret, meanwhile, detained her by her +side, trying to calm and encourage her with gentle words of counsel, +that might hinder her from giving way to the flurry of emotion that had +seized her, and prevent her from thinking herself certain to be useless. + +Adams was to drive her thither in the gig, and it presently came to the +door. Dr. Spencer wrapped her up well in cloaks and shawls, and spoke +words of kindly cheer in her ear as she set off. The fresh night air +blew pleasantly on her, the stars glimmered in full glory overhead, +and now and then her eye was caught by the rocket-like track of a +shooting-star. Orion was rising slowly far in the east, and bringing to +her mind the sailor-boy under the southern sky; if, indeed, he were +not where sun and stars no more are the light. It was strange that the +thought came more as soothing than as acute pain; she could bear to +think of him thus in her present frame, as long as she had not to +talk of him. Under those solemn stars, the life everlasting seemed +to overpower the sense of this mortal life, and Ethel’s agitation was +calmed away. + +The old cedar-tree stood up in stately blackness against the sky, and +the lights in the house glanced behind it. The servants looked rather +surprised to see Ethel, as if she were not expected, and conducted her +to the great drawing-room, which looked the more desolate and solitary, +from the glare of lamplight, falling on the empty seats which Ethel +had lately seen filled with a glad home party. She was looking round, +thinking whether to venture up to Meta’s room, and there summon +Bellairs, when Meta came gliding in, and threw her arms round her. +Ethel could not speak, but Meta’s voice was more cheerful than she had +expected. “How kind of you, dear Ethel!” + +“Papa sent for me,” said Ethel. + +“He is so kind! Can Margaret spare you?” + +“Oh, yes; but you must leave me. You must want to be with him.” + +“He never lets me come in when he has these attacks,” said Meta. “If he +only would! But will you come up to my room? That is nearer.” + +“Is papa with him?” + +“Yes.” + +Meta wound her arms round Ethel, and led her up to her sitting-room, +where a book lay on the table. She said that her father had seemed weary +and torpid, and had sat still until almost their late dinner-hour, when +he seemed to bethink himself of dressing, and had risen. She thought +he walked weakly, and rather tottering, and had run to make him lean on +her, which he did, as far as his own room door. There he had kissed +her, and thanked her, and murmured a word like blessing. She had not, +however, been alarmed, until his servant had come to tell her that he +had another seizure. + +Ethel asked whether she had seen Dr. May since he had been with her +father. She had; but Ethel was surprised to find that she had not taken +in the extent of his fears. She had become so far accustomed to these +attacks, that, though anxious and distressed, she did not apprehend more +than a few days’ weakness, and her chief longing was to be of use. She +was speaking cheerfully of beginning her nursing to-morrow, and of her +great desire that her papa would allow her to sit up with him, when +there was a slow, reluctant movement of the lock of the door, and the +two girls sprang to their feet, as Dr. May opened it; and Ethel read his +countenance at once. + +Not so Meta. “How is he? May I go to him?” cried she. + +“Not now, my dear,” said Dr. May, putting his hand on her shoulder, in +a gentle, detaining manner, that sent a thrill of trembling through her +frame, though she did not otherwise move. She only clasped her hands +together, and looked up into his face. He answered the look. “Yes, my +dear, the struggle is over.” + +Ethel came near, and put her arm round Meta’s waist, as if to strengthen +her, as she stood quite passive and still. + +Dr. May seemed to think it best that all should be told; but, though +intently watching Meta, he directed his words to his own daughter. +“Thank Heaven, it has been shorter, and less painful, than I had dared +to hope.” + +Meta tried to speak, but could not bring out the words, and, with an +imploring look at Ethel, as if to beg her to make them clear for her, +she inarticulately murmured, “Oh! why did you not call me?” + +“I could not. He would not let me. His last conscious word to me was not +to let you see him suffer.” + +Meta wrung her clasped hands together in mute anguish. Dr. May signed to +Ethel to guide her back to the sofa, but the movement seemed so far to +rouse her, that she said, “I should like to go to bed.” + +“Right--the best thing,” said Dr. May; and he whispered to Ethel, “Go +with her, but don’t try to rouse her--don’t talk to her. Come back to +me, presently.” + +He did not even shake hands with Meta, nor wish her good-night, as she +disappeared into her own room. + +Bellairs undressed her, and Ethel stood watching, till the young head, +under the load of sorrow, so new to it, was laid on the pillow. Bellairs +asked her if she would have a light. + +“No, no, thank you--the dark and alone. Good-night,” said Meta. Ethel +went back to the sitting-room, where her father was standing at the +window, looking out into the night. He turned as she came in, folded her +in his arms, and kissed her forehead. “And how is the poor little dear?” + he asked. + +“The same,” said Ethel. “I can’t bear to leave her alone, and to have +said nothing to comfort her.” + +“It is too soon as yet,” said Dr. May--“her mind has not taken it in. I +hope she will sleep all night, and have more strength to look at it when +she wakens.” + +“She was utterly unprepared.” + +“I could not make her understand me,” said Dr. May. + +“And, oh, papa, what a pity she was not there!” + +“It was no sight for her, till the last few minutes; and his whole mind +seemed bent on sparing her. What tenderness it has been.” + +“Must we leave her to herself all night?” + +“Better so,” said Dr. May. “She has been used to loneliness; and to +thrust companionship on her would be only harassing.” + +Ethel, who scarcely knew what it was to be alone, looked as if she did +not understand. + +“I used to try to force consolation on people,” said Dr. May, “but I +know, now, that it can only be done by following their bent.” + +“You have seen so many sorrows,” said Ethel. + +“I never understood till I felt,” said Dr. May. “Those few first days +were a lesson.” + +“I did not think you knew what was passing,” said Ethel. + +“I doubt whether any part of my life is more distinctly before me than +those two days,” said Dr. May. “Flora coming in and out, and poor Alan +sitting by me; but I don’t believe I had any will. I could no more have +moved my mind than my broken arm; and I verily think, Ethel, that, but +for that merciful torpor, I should have been frantic. It taught me never +to disturb grief.” + +“And what shall we do?” + +“You must stay with her till Flora comes. I will be here as much as I +can. She is our charge, till they come home. I told him, between the +spasms, that I had sent for you, and he seemed pleased.” + +“If only I were anybody else!” + +Dr. May again threw his arm round her, and looked into her face. He felt +that he had rather have her, such as she was, than anybody else; and, +together, they sat down, and talked of what was to be done, and what +was best for Meta, and of the solemnity of being in the house of death. +Ethel felt and showed it so much, in her subdued, awe-struck manner, +that her father felt checked whenever he was about to return to his +ordinary manner, familiarised, as he necessarily was, with the like +scenes. It drew him back to the thought of their own trouble, and their +conversation recurred to those days, so that each gained a more full +understanding of the other, and they at length separated, certainly with +the more peaceful and soft feelings for being in the abode of mourning. + +Bellairs promised to call Ethel, to be with her young lady as early as +might be, reporting that she was sound asleep. And sleep continued to +shield her till past her usual hour, so that Ethel was up, and had been +with Dr. May, before she was summoned to her, and then she found her +half dressed, and hastening that she might not make Dr. May late for +breakfast, and in going to his patients. There was an elasticity in the +happily constituted young mind that could not be entirely struck down, +nor deprived of power of taking thought for others. Yet her eyes looked +wandering, and unlike themselves, and her words, now and then, faltered, +as if she was not sure what she was doing or saying. Ethel told her not +to mind--Dr. Spencer would take care of the patients; but she did not +seem to recollect, at first, who Dr. Spencer was, nor to care for being +reminded. + +Breakfast was laid out in the little sitting-room. Ethel wanted to take +the trouble off her hands, but she would not let her. She sat behind her +urn, and asked about tea or coffee, quite accurately, in a low, subdued +voice, that nearly overcame Dr. May. When the meal was over, and she had +rung the bell, and risen up, as if to her daily work, she turned +round, with that piteous, perplexed air, and stood for a moment, as if +confused. + +“Cannot we help you?” said Ethel. + +“I don’t know. Thank you. But, Dr. May, I must not keep you from other +people--” + +“I have no one to go to this morning,” said Dr. May. “I am ready to stay +with you, my dear.” + +Meta came closer to him, and murmured, “Thank you!” + +The breakfast things had, by this time, been taken away, and Meta, +looking to see that the door had shut for the last time, said, in a low +voice, “Now tell me--” + +Dr. May drew her down to sit on the sofa beside him, and, in his soft, +sweet voice, told her all that she wished to learn of her father’s last +hours, and was glad to see showers of quiet, wholesome tears drop freely +down, but without violence, and she scarcely attempted to speak. There +was a pause at the end, and then she said gently, “Thank you, for it +all. Dear papa!” And she rose up, and went back to her room. + +“She has learned to dwell apart,” said Dr. May, much moved. + +“How beautiful she bears up!” said Ethel. + +“It has been a life which, as she has used it, has taught her strength +and self-dependence in the midst of prosperity.” + +“Yes,” said Ethel, “she has trained herself by her dread of +self-indulgence, and seeking after work. But oh! what a break up it is +for her! I cannot think how she holds up. Shall I go to her?” + +“I think not. She knows the way to the only Comforter. I am not afraid +of her after those blessed tears.” + +Dr. May was right; Meta presently returned to them, in the same gentle +subdued sadness, enfolding her, indeed, as a flower weighed down by +mist, but not crushing nor taking away her powers. It was as if she were +truly upheld; and thankful to her friends as she was, she did not throw +herself on them in utter dependence or self-abandonment. + +She wrote needful letters, shedding many tears over them, and often +obliged to leave off to give the blinding weeping its course, but +refusing to impose any unnecessary task upon Dr. May’s lame arm. All +that was right, she strove to do; she saw Mr. Charles Wilmot, and +was refreshed by his reading to her; and when Dr. May desired it, she +submissively put on her bonnet, and took several turns with Ethel in the +shrubbery, though it made her cry heartily to look into the downstairs +rooms. And she lay on the sofa at last, owning herself strangely tired, +she did not know why, and glad that Ethel should read to her. By and by, +she went to dress for the evening, and came back, full of the tidings +that one of the children in the village had been badly burned. It +occupied her very much--she made Ethel promise to go and see about her +to-morrow, and sent Bellairs at once with every comfort that she could +devise. + +On the whole, those two days were to Ethel a peaceful and comfortable +time. She saw more than usual of her father, and had such conversations +with him as were seldom practicable at home, and that chimed in with the +unavowed care which hung on their minds; while Meta was a most sweet and +loving charge, without being a burden, and often saying such beautiful +things in her affectionate resignation, that Ethel could only admire +and lay them up in her mind. Dr. May went backwards and forwards, and +brought good accounts of Margaret and fond messages; he slept at the +Grange each night, and Meta used to sit in the corner of the sofa and +work, or not, as best suited her, while she listened to his talk with +Ethel, and now and then herself joined. + +George Rivers’s absence was a serious inconvenience in all arrangements; +but his sister dreaded his grief as much as she wished for his return; +and often were the posts and the journeys reckoned over, without a +satisfactory conclusion, as to when he could arrive from so remote a +part of Scotland. + +At last, as the two girls had finished their early dinner, the butler +brought in word that Mr. Norman May was there. Meta at once begged that +he would come in, and Ethel went into the hall to meet him. He looked +very wan, with the dark rings round his eyes a deeper purple than ever, +and he could hardly find utterance to ask, “How is she?” + +“As good and sweet as she can be,” said Ethel warmly; but no more, for +Meta herself had come to the dining-room door, and was holding out her +hand. Norman took it in both his, but could not speak; Meta’s own soft +voice was the first. “I thought you would come--he was so fond of you.” + +Poor Norman quite gave way, and Meta was the one to speak gentle words +of soothing. “There is so much to be thankful for,” she said. “He has +been spared so much of the suffering Dr. May feared for him; and he was +so happy about George.” + +Norman made a great effort to recover himself. Ethel asked for Flora and +George. It appeared that they had been on an excursion when the first +letter arrived at Glenbracken, and thus had received both together in +the evening, on their return. George had been greatly overcome, and they +had wished to set off instantly; but Lady Glenbracken would not hear +of Flora’s travelling night and day, and it had at length been arranged +that Norman Ogilvie should drive Norman across the country that evening, +to catch the mail for Edinburgh, and he had been on the road ever since. +George was following with his wife more slowly, and would be at home +to-morrow evening. Meantime, he sent full authority to his father-in-law +to make arrangements. + +Ethel went to see the burned child, leaving Meta to take her walk in the +garden under Norman’s charge. He waited on her with a sort of distant +reverence for a form of grief, so unlike what he had dreaded for +her, when the first shock of the tidings had brought back to him the +shattered bewildered feelings to which he dared not recur. + +To dwell on the details was, to her, a comfort, knowing his sympathy and +the affection there had been between him and her father; nor had they +parted in such absolute brightness, as to make them unprepared for such +a meeting as the present. The cloud of suspense was brooding lower and +lower over the May family, and the need of faith and submission was as +great with them as with the young orphan herself. Norman said little, +but that little was so deep and fervent, that after a time Meta could +not help saying, when Ethel was seen in the distance, and their talk was +nearly over, “Oh, Norman, these things are no mirage!” + +“It is the world that is the mirage,” he answered. Ethel came up, and +Dr. May also, in good time for the post. He was obliged to become very +busy, using Norman for his secretary, till he saw his son’s eyes so +heavy, that he remembered the two nights that he had been up, and +ordered him to go home and go to bed as soon as tea was over. + +“May I come back to-morrow?” + +“Why--yes--I think you may. No, no,” he added, recollecting himself, “I +think you had better not,” and he did not relent, though Norman looked +disappointed. + +Meta had already expressed her belief that her father would be buried +at the suburban church, where lay her mother; and Dr. May, having been +desired to seek out the will and open it, found it was so; and fixed +the day and hour with Meta, who was as submissive and reasonable as +possible, though much grieved that he thought she could not be present. + +Ethel, after going with Meta to her room at night, returned as usual to +talk matters over with him, and again say how good Meta was. + +“And I think Norman’s coming did her a great deal of good,” said Ethel. + +“Ha! yes,” said the doctor thoughtfully. + +“She thinks so much of Mr. Rivers having been fond of him.” + +“Yes,” said the doctor, “he was. I find, in glancing over the will, +which was newly made on Flora’s marriage, that he has remembered +Norman--left him £100 and his portfolio of prints by Raffaelle.” + +“Has he, indeed?--how very kind, how much Norman will value it.” + +“It is remarkable,” said Dr. May; and then, as if he could not help it, +told Ethel what Mr. Rivers had said of his wishes with regard to his +daughter. Ethel blushed and smiled, and looked so much touched and +delighted, that he grew alarmed and said, “You know, Ethel, this must be +as if it never had been mentioned.” + +“What! you will not tell Norman?” + +“No, certainly not, unless I see strong cause. They are very fond of +each other, certainly, but they don’t know, and I don’t know, whether it +is not like brother and sister. I would not have either of them guess +at this, or feel bound in any way. Why, Ethel, she has thirty thousand +pounds, and I don’t know how much more.” + +“Thirty thousand!” said Ethel, her tone one of astonishment, while his +had been almost of objection. + +“It would open a great prospect,” continued Dr. May complacently; “with +Norman’s talents, and such a lift as that, he might be one of the first +men in England, provided he had nerve and hardness enough, which I +doubt.” + +“He would not care for it,” said Ethel. + +“No; but the field of usefulness; but what an old fool I am, after all +my resolutions not to be ambitious for that boy; to be set a-going by +such a thing as this! Still Norman is something out of the common way. I +wonder what Spencer thinks of him.” + +“And you never mean them to hear of it?” + +“If they settle it for themselves,” said Dr. May, “that sanction will +come in to give double value to mine; or if I should see poor Norman +hesitating as to the inequality, I might smooth the way; but you see, +Ethel, this puts us in a most delicate situation towards this pretty +little creature. What her father wanted was only to guard her from +fortune-hunters, and if she should marry suitably elsewhere--why, we +will be contented.” + +“I don’t think I should be,” said Ethel. + +“She is the most winning of humming-birds, and what we see of her now, +gives one double confidence in her. She is so far from the petted, +helpless girl that he, poor man, would fain have made her! And she has +a bright, brave temper and elastic spirits that would be the very thing +for him, poor boy, with that morbid sensitiveness--he would not hurt +her, and she would brighten him. It would be a very pretty thing--but we +must never think about it again.” + +“If we can help it,” said Ethel. + +“Ah! I am sorry I have put it into your head too. We shall not so easily +be unconscious now, when they talk about each other in the innocent way +they do. We have had a lesson against being pleased at match-making!” + But, turning away from the subject, “You shall not lose your Cocksmoor +income, Ethel--” + +“I had never thought of that. You have taken no fees here since we have +been all one family.” + +“Well, he has been good enough to leave me £500, and Cocksmoor can have +the interest, if you like.” + +“Oh, thank you, papa.” + +“It is only its due, for I suppose that is for attendance. Personally, +to myself, he has left that beautiful Claude which he knew I admired so +much. He has been very kind! But, after all, we ought not to be talking +of all this--I should not have known it, if I had not been forced to +read the will. Well, so we are in Flora’s house, Ethel! I wonder how +poor dear little Meta will feel the being a guest here, instead of the +mistress. I wish that boy were three or four years older! I should +like to take her straight home with us--I should like to have her for a +daughter. I shall always look on her as one.” + +“As a Daisy!” said Ethel. + +“Don’t talk of it!” said Dr. May hastily; “this is no time for such +things. After all, I am glad that the funeral is not here--Flora and +Meta might be rather overwhelmed with these three incongruous sets of +relations. By their letters, those Riverses must be quite as queer a +lot as George’s relations. After all, if we have nothing else, Ethel, we +have the best of it, in regard to such relations as we have.” + +“There is Lord Cosham,” said Ethel. + +“Yes, he is Meta’s guardian, as well as her brother; but he could not +have her to live with him. She must depend upon Flora. But we shall +see.” + +Ethel felt confident that Flora would be very kind to her little +sister-in-law, and yet one of those gleams of doubt crossed her, whether +Flora would not be somewhat jealous of her own authority. + +Late the next evening, the carriage drove to the door, and George and +Flora appeared in the hall. Their sisters went out to meet them, and +George folded Meta in his arms, and kissing her again and again, called +her his poor dear little sister, and wept bitterly, and even violently. +Flora stood beside Ethel, and said, in a low voice, that poor George +felt it dreadfully; and then came forward, touched him gently, and told +him that he must not overset Meta; and, drawing her from him, kissed +her, and said what a grievous time this had been for her, and how sorry +they had been to leave her so long, but they knew she was in the best +hands. + +“Yes, I should have been so sorry you had been over-tired. I was quite +well off,” said Meta. + +“And you must look on us as your home,” added Flora. + +“How can she?” thought Ethel. “This is taking possession, and making +Meta a guest already!” + +However, Meta did not seem so to feel it--she replied by caresses, and +turned again to her brother. Poor George was by far the most struck down +of all the mourners, and his whole demeanour gave his new relations +a much warmer feeling towards him than they could ever have hoped to +entertain. His gentle refined father had softly impressed his duller +nature; and his want of attention and many extravagances came back upon +him acutely now, in his changed home. He could hardly bear to look at +his little orphan sister, and lavished every mark of fondness upon her; +nor could he endure to sit at the bottom of his table; but when they had +gone in to dinner, he turned away from the chair and hid his face. He +was almost like a child in his want of self-restraint; and with all Dr. +May’s kind soothing manner, he could not bring him to attend to any of +the necessary questions as to arrangements, and was obliged to refer to +Flora, whose composed good sense was never at fault. + +Ethel was surprised to find that it would be a great distress to Meta +to part with her until the funeral was over, though she would hardly +express a wish lest Ethel should be needed at home. As soon as Flora +perceived this, she begged her sister to stay, and again Ethel felt +unpleasantly that Meta might have seen, if she had chosen, that Flora +took the invitation upon herself. + +So, while Dr. May, with George, Norman, and Tom, went to London, she +remained, though not exactly knowing what good she was doing, unless by +making the numbers rather less scanty; but both sisters declared her to +be the greatest comfort possible; and when Meta shut herself up in her +own room, where she had long learned to seek strength in still communing +with her own heart, Flora seemed to find it a relief to call her sister +to hers, and talk over ordinary subjects, in a tone that struck on +Ethel’s ear as a little incongruous--but then Flora had not been here +from the first, and the impression could not be as strong. She was very +kind, and her manner, when with others, was perfect, from its complete +absence of affectation; but, alone with Ethel, there was a little +complacency sometimes betrayed, and some curiosity whether her father +had read the will. Ethel allowed what she had heard of the contents to +be extracted from her, and it certainly did not diminish Flora’s secret +satisfaction in being ‘somebody’. + +She told the whole history of her visits; first, how cordial Lady +Leonora Langdale had been, and then, how happy she had been at +Glenbracken. The old Lord and Lady, and Marjorie, all equally charming +in their various ways; and Norman Ogilvie so good a son, and so highly +thought of in his own country. + +“Did I tell you, Ethel, that he desired to be remembered to you?” + +“Yes, you said so.” + +“What has Coralie done with it?” continued Flora, seeking in her +dressing-case. “She must have put it away with my brooches. Oh, no, here +it is. I had been looking for Cairngorm specimens in a shop, saying I +wanted a brooch that you would wear, when Norman Ogilvie came riding +after the carriage, looking quite hot and eager. He had been to some +other place, and hunted this one up. Is it not a beauty?” + +It was one of the round Bruce brooches, of dark pebble, with a silver +fern-leaf lying across it, the dots of small Cairngorm stones. “The +Glenbracken badge, you know,” continued Flora. + +Ethel twisted it about in her fingers, and said, “Was not it meant for +you?” + +“It was to oblige me, if you choose so to regard it,” said Flora, +smiling. “He gave me no injunctions; but, you see, you must wear it now. +I shall not wear coloured brooches for a year.” + +Ethel sighed. She felt as if her black dress ought, perhaps, to be worn +for a nearer cause. She had a great desire to keep that Glenbracken +brooch; and surely it could not be wrong. To refuse it would be much +worse, and would only lead to Flora’s keeping it, and not caring for it. + +“Then it is your present, Flora?” + +“If you like better to call it so, my dear. I find Norman Ogilvie is +going abroad in a few months. I think we ought to ask him here on his +way.” + +“Flora, I wish you would not talk about such things!” + +“Do you really and truly, Ethel?” + +“Certainly not, at such a time as this,” said Ethel. + +Flora was checked a little, and sat down to write to Marjorie Ogilvie. +“Shall I say you like the brooch, Ethel?” she asked presently. + +“Say what is proper,” said Ethel impatiently. “You know what I mean, in +the fullest sense of the word.” + +“Do I?” said Flora. + +“I mean,” said Ethel, “that you may say, simply and rationally, that I +like the thing, but I won’t have it said as a message, or that I take it +as his present.” + +“Very well,” said Flora, “the whole affair is simple enough, if you +would not be so conscious, my dear.” + +“Flora, I can’t stand your calling me my dear!” + +“I am very much obliged to you,” said Flora, laughing, more than she +would have liked to be seen, but recalled by her sister’s look. Ethel +was sorry at once. + +“Flora, I beg your pardon; I did not mean to be cross, only please don’t +begin about that; indeed, I think you had better leave out about the +brooch altogether. No one will wonder at your passing it over in such a +return as this.” + +“You are right,” said Flora thoughtfully. + +Ethel carried the brooch to her own room, and tried to keep herself +from speculating what had been Mr. Ogllvie’s views in procuring it, and +whether he remembered showing her, at Woodstock, which sort of fern was +his badge, and how she had abstained from preserving the piece shut up +in her guide-book. + +Meta’s patient sorrow was the best remedy for proneness to such musings. +How happy poor little Meta had been! The three sisters sat together that +long day, and Ethel read to the others, and by and by went to walk in +the garden with them, till, as Flora was going in, Meta asked, “Do you +think it would be wrong for me to cross the park to see that little +burned girl, as Mr. Wilmot is away to-day, and she has no one to go to +her?” + +Flora could see no reason against it, and Meta and Ethel left the +garden, and traversed the green park, in its quiet home beauty, not +talking much, except that Meta said, “Well! I think there is quite as +much sweetness as sadness in this evening.” + +“Because of this calm autumn sunset beauty?” said Ethel. “Look at the +golden light coming in under the branches of the trees.” + +“Yes,” said Meta, “one cannot help thinking how much more beautiful it +must be--” + +The two girls said no more, and came to the cottage, where so much +gratitude was expressed at seeing Miss Rivers, that it was almost too +much for her. She left Ethel to talk, and only said a few soft little +words to her sick scholar, who seemed to want her voice and smile to +convince her that the small mournful face, under all that black crape, +belonged to her own dear bright teacher. + +“It is odd,” said Meta, as they went back; “it is seeing other people +that makes one know it is all sad and altered--it seems so bewildering, +though they are so kind.” + +“I know what you mean,” said Ethel. + +“One ought not to wish it to go on, because there are other people and +other duties,” said Meta, “but quietness is so peaceful. Do you know, +Ethel, I shall always think of those two first days, before anybody +came, with you and Dr. May, as something very--very--precious,” she said +at last, with the tears rising. + +“I am sure I shall,” said Ethel. + +“I don’t know how it is, but there is something even in this affliction +that makes it like--a strange sort of happiness,” said Meta musingly. + +“I know what it is!” said Ethel. + +“That He is so very good?” said Meta reverently. + +“Yes,” said Ethel, almost rebuked for the first thought, namely, that it +was because Meta was so very good. + +“It does make one feel more confidence,” said Meta. + +“‘It is good for me to have been in trouble,’” repeated Ethel. + +“Yes,” said Meta. “I hope it is not wrong or unkind in me to feel it, +for I think dear papa would wish it; but I do not feel as if--miss him +always as I shall--the spring of life were gone from me. I don’t think +it can, for I know no more pain or trouble can reach him, and there +is--don’t you think, Ethel, that I may think so?--especial care for the +orphan, like a compensation. And there is hope, and work here. And I am +very thankful! How much worse it would have been, if George had not been +married! Dear Flora! Will you tell her, Ethel, how really I do wish her +to take the command of me? Tell her it will be the greatest kindness in +the world to make me useful to her.” + +“I will,” said Ethel. + +“And please tell her that I am afraid I may forget, and take upon me, as +if I were still lady of the house. Tell her I do not mean it, and I hope +that she will check it.” + +“I think there is no fear of her forgetting that,” said Ethel, +regretting the words before they were out of her mouth. + +“I hope I shall not,” said Meta. “If I do, I shall drive myself away to +stay with Aunt Leonora, and I don’t want to do that at all. So please +to make Flora understand that she is head, and I am ready to be hand and +foot;” and Meta’s bright smile shone out, with the pleasure of a fresh +and loving service. + +Ethel understood the force of her father’s words, that it was a brave, +vigorous spirit. + +Dr. May came back with George, and stayed to dinner, after which he +talked over business with Flora, whose sagacity continually amazed +him, and who undertook to make her husband understand, and do what was +needed. + +Meta meanwhile cross-questioned her brother on the pretty village by the +Thames, of which she had a fond, childish remembrance, and heard from +him of the numerous kind messages from all her relations. There were +various invitations, but George repeated them unwillingly. + +“You won’t go, Meta,” he said. “It would be a horrid nuisance to part +with you.” + +“As long as you think so, dear George. When I am in your way, or +Flora’s--” + +“That will never be! I say, Flora, will she ever be in our way?” + +“No, indeed! Meta and I understand that,” said Flora, looking up. “Well, +I suppose Bruce can’t be trusted to value the books and prints.” + +Dr. May thought it a great relief that Meta had a home with Flora, for, +as he said to Ethel as they went home together, “Certainly, except Lord +Cosham, I never saw such an unpresentable crew as their relations. You +should have heard the boys afterwards! There was Master Tom turning up +his Eton nose at them, and pronouncing that there never were such a +set of snobs, and Norman taking him to task as I never heard him do +before--telling him that he would never have urged his going to Eton, +if he had thought it would make him despise respectable folks, probably +better than himself, and that this was the last time in the world for +such observations--whereat poor Tommy was quite annihilated; for a word +from Norman goes further with him than a lecture from any one else.” + +“Well, I think Norman was right as to the unfitness of the time.” + +“So he was. But we had a good deal of them, waiting in the inn parlour. +People make incongruities when they will have such things done in state. +It could not be helped here, to be sure; but I always feel, at a grand +undertaker’s display like this, that, except the service itself, there +is little to give peace or soothing. I hate what makes a talk! Better be +little folk.” + +“One would rather think of our own dear cloister, and those who cared so +much,” said Ethel. + +“Ah! you were happy to be there!” said Dr. May. “But it all comes to the +same.” Pausing, he looked from the window, then signed to Ethel to do +the same--Orion glittered in the darkness. + +“One may sleep sound without the lullaby,” said Dr. May, “and the +waves--” + +“Oh! don’t, papa. You don’t give up hope!” + +“I believe we ought, Ethel. Don’t tell her, but I went to the Admirality +to-day.” + +“And what did you hear there?” + +“Great cause for fear--but they do not give up. My poor Margaret! But +those stars tell us they are in the same Hand.” + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + + + + Shall I sit alone in my chamber, + And set the chairs by the wall, + While you sit with lords and princes, + Yet have not a thought at all? + + Shall I sit alone in my chamber, + And duly the table lay, + Whilst you stand up in the diet, + And have not a word to say?--Old Danish Ballad. + + +“Oh, Norman, are you come already?” exclaimed Margaret, as her brother +opened the door, bringing in with him the crisp breath of December. + +“Yes, I came away directly after collections. How are you, Margaret?” + +“Pretty brave, thank you;” but the brother and sister both read on each +other’s features that the additional three months of suspense had told. +There were traces of toil and study on Norman’s brow; the sunken look +about his eyes, and the dejected outline of his cheek, Margaret knew +betokened discouragement; and though her mild serenity was not changed, +she was almost transparently thin and pale. They had long ago left off +asking whether there were tidings, and seldom was the subject adverted +to, though the whole family seemed to be living beneath a dark shadow. + +“How is Flora?” he next asked. + +“Going on beautifully, except that papa thinks she does too much in +every way. She declares that she shall bring the baby to show me in +another week, but I don’t think it will be allowed.” + +“And the little lady prospers?” + +“Capitally, though I get rather contradictory reports of her. First, +papa declared her something surpassing--exactly like Flora, and so I +suppose she is; but Ethel and Meta will say nothing for her beauty, and +Blanche calls her a fright. But papa is her devoted admirer--he does so +enjoy having a sort of property again in a baby!” + +“And George Rivers?” said Norman, smiling. + +“Poor George! he is very proud of her in his own way. He has just been +here with a note from Flora, and actually talked! Between her and the +election, he is wonderfully brilliant.” + +“The election? Has Mr. Esdaile resigned?” + +“Have you not heard? He intends it, and George himself is going to +stand. The only danger is that Sir Henry Walkinghame should think of +it.” + +“Rivers in Parliament! Well, sound men are wanted.” + +“Fancy Flora, our member’s wife. How well she will become her position.” + +“How soon is it likely to be?” + +“Quickly, I fancy. Dr. Spencer, who knows all kinds of news (papa says +he makes a scientific study of gossip, as a new branch of comparative +anatomy), found out from the Clevelands that Mr. Esdaile meant to +retire, and happened to mention it the last time that Flora came to see +me. It was like firing a train. You would have wondered to see how it +excited her, who usually shows her feelings so little. She has been so +much occupied with it, and so anxious that George should be ready to +take the field at once, that papa was afraid of its hurting her, and +Ethel comes home declaring that the election is more to her than her +baby.” + +“Ethel is apt to be a little hard on Flora. They are too unlike to +understand each other.” + +“Ethel is to be godmother though, and Flora means to ask Mr. Ogilvie to +come and stand.” + +“I think he will be gone abroad, or I should have asked him to fulfil +his old promise of coming to us.” + +“I believe he must be lodged here, if he should come. Flora will have +her house full, for Lady Leonora is coming. The baby is to be called +after her.” + +“Indeed!” exclaimed Norman. + +“Yes; I thought it unnecessary, as she is not George’s aunt, but Flora +is grateful to her for much kindness, and she is coming to see Meta. I +am afraid papa is a little hurt, that any name but one should have been +chosen.” + +“Has Meta been comfortable?” + +“Dear little thing! Every one says how beautifully she has behaved. She +brought all her housekeeping books to Flora at once, and only begged to +be made helpful in whatever way might be most convenient. She explained, +what we never knew before, how she had the young maids in to read with +her, and asked leave to go on. Very few could have been set aside so +simply and sweetly in their own house.” + +“Flora was sensible of it, I hope.” + +“Oh, yes. She took the management of course, but Meta is charmed with +her having the girls in from the village, in turn, to help in the +scullery. They have begun family prayers too, and George makes the +stablemen go to church--a matter which had been past Meta, as you may +guess, though she had been a wonderful little manager, and Flora owned +herself quite astonished.” + +“I wonder only at her being astonished.” + +“Meta owned to Ethel that what had been worst of all to her was the +heart sinking, at finding herself able to choose her occupations, with +no one to accommodate them to. But she would not give way--she set up +more work for herself at the school, and has been talking of giving +singing lessons at Cocksmoor; and she forced herself to read, though it +was an effort. She has been very happy lately in nursing Flora.” + +“Is Ethel there?” + +“No; she is, as usual, at Cocksmoor. There are great councils about +sending Cherry to be trained for her new school.” + +“Would Flora be able to see me, if I were to ride over to the Grange?” + +“You may try; and, if papa is not there, I dare say she will.” + +“At least, I shall see Meta, and she may judge. I want to see Rivers +too, so I will ask if the bay is to be had. Ah! you have the Claude, I +see.” + +“Yes, it is too large for this room; but papa put it here that I might +enjoy it, and it is almost a companion. The sky improves so in the +sunset light.” + +Norman was soon at Abbotstoke; and, as he drew his rein, Meta’s bright +face nodded to him from Flora’s sitting-room window; and, as he passed +the conservatory, the little person met him, with a summons, at once, to +his sister. + +He found Flora on the sofa, with a table beside her, covered with notes +and papers. She was sitting up writing; and, though somewhat pale, was +very smiling and animated. + +“Norman, how kind to come to me the first thing!” + +“Margaret encouraged me to try whether you would be visible.” + +“They want to make a regular prisoner of me,” said Flora, laughing. +“Papa is as bad as the old nurse! But he has not been here to-day, so I +have had my own way. Did you meet George?” + +“No; but Margaret said he had been with her.” + +“I wish he would come. We expect the second post to bring the news that +Mr. Esdaile has accepted the Chiltern Hundreds. If he found it so, he +meant to go and talk to Mr. Bramshaw; for, though he is so dull, we must +make him agent.” + +“Is there any danger of opposition?” + +“None at all, if we are soon enough in the field. Papa’s name will +secure us, and there is no one else on the right side to come forward, +so that it is an absolute rescue of the seat.” + +“It is the very moment when men of principle are most wanted,” said +Norman. “The questions of the day are no light matters; and it is an +immense point to save Stoneborough from being represented by one of the +Tomkins’ set.” + +“Exactly so,” said Flora. “I should feel it a crime to say one word to +deter George, at a time when every effort must be made to support the +right cause. One must make sacrifices when the highest interests are at +stake.” + +Flora seemed to thrive upon her sacrifice--she had never appeared more +brilliant and joyous. Her brother saw, in her, a Roman matron; and the +ambition that was inherent in his nature, began to find compensation for +being crushed, as far as regarded himself, by soaring for another. He +eagerly answered that he fully agreed with her, and that she would never +repent urging her husband to take on himself the duties incumbent on all +who had the power. + +Highly gratified, she asked him to look at a copy of George’s intended +address, which was lying on the table. He approved of the tenor, but +saw a few phrases susceptible of a better point. “Give it,” she said, +putting a pen into his hand; and he began to interline and erase her +fair manuscript, talking earnestly, and working up himself and the +address at the same time, till it had grown into a composition far +superior to the merely sensible affair it had been. Eloquence and +thought were now in the language, and substance--and Flora was +delighted. + +“I have been very disrespectful to my niece all this time,” said Norman, +descending from the clouds of patriotism. + +“I do not mean to inflict her mercilessly on her relations,” said Flora, +“but I should like you to see her. She is so like Blanche.” + +The little girl was brought in, and Flora made a very pretty young +mother, as she held her in her arms, with so much graceful pride. Norman +was perfectly entranced--he had never seen his sister so charming or so +admirable, between her delight in her infant, and her self-devotion to +the good of her husband and her country--acting so wisely, and speaking +so considerately; and praising her dear Meta with so much warmth. He +would never have torn himself away, had not the nurse hinted that Mrs. +Rivers had had too much excitement and fatigue already to-day; and, +besides, he suspected that he might find Meta in the drawing-room, where +he might discuss the whole with her, and judge for himself of her state +of spirits. + +Flora’s next visitor was her father, who came as the twilight was +enhancing the comfortable red brightness of the fire. He was very happy +in these visits--mother and child had both prospered so well, and it was +quite a treat to be able to expend his tenderness on Flora. His little +grandchild seemed to renew his own happy days, and he delighted to take +her from her mother and fondle her. No sooner was the baby in his arms +than Flora’s hands were busy among the papers, and she begged him to +ring for lights. + +“Not yet,” he said. “Why can’t you sit in the dark, and give yourself a +little rest?” + +“I want you to hear George’s address. Norman has been looking at it, and +I hope you will not think it too strong,” and she turned, so that the +light might fall on the paper. + +“Let me see,” said Dr. May, holding out his hand for it. + +“This is a rough copy, too much scratched for you to make out.” + +She read it accordingly, and her father admired it exceedingly--Norman’s +touches, above all; and Flora’s reading had dovetailed all so neatly +together that no one knew where the joins were. “I will copy it fairly,” + she said, “if you will show it to Dr. Spencer, and ask whether he thinks +it too strong. Mr. Dodsley too; he would be more gratified if he saw it +first, in private, and thought himself consulted.” + +Dr. May was dismayed at seeing her take up her pen, make a desk of her +blotting-book, and begin her copy by firelight. + +“Flora, my dear,” he said, “this must not be. Have I not told you that +you must be content to rest?” + +“I did not get up till ten o’clock, and have been lying here ever +since.” + +“But what has this head of yours been doing? Has it been resting for ten +minutes together? Now I know what I am saying, Flora--I warn you, that +if you will not give yourself needful quiet now, you will suffer for it +by and by.” + +Flora smiled, and said, “I thought I had been very good. But, what is to +be done when one’s wits will work, and there is work for them to do?” + +“Is not there work enough for them here?” said Dr. May, looking at the +babe. “Your mother used to value such a retirement from care.” + +Flora was silent for a minute, then said, “Mr. Esdaile should have +put off his resignation to suit me. It is an unfortunate time for the +election.” + +“And you can’t let the election alone?” + +She shook her head, and smiled a negative, as if she would, but that she +was under a necessity. + +“My dear, if the election cannot go on without you, it had better not go +on at all.” + +She looked very much hurt, and turned away her head. + +Her father was grieved. “My dear,” he added, “I know you desire to be of +use, especially to George; but do you not believe that he would rather +fail, than that you, or his child, should suffer?” + +No answer. + +“Does he stand by his own wish, or yours, Flora?” + +“He wishes it. It is his duty,” said Flora, collecting her dignity. + +“I can say no more, except to beg him not to let you exert yourself.” + +Accordingly, when George came home, the doctor read him a lecture on his +wife’s over-busy brain; and was listened to, as usual, with gratitude +and deference. He professed that he only wished to do what was best for +her, but she never would spare herself; and, going to her side, with his +heavy, fond solicitude, he made her promise not to hurt herself, and she +laughed and consented. + +The promise was easily given, for she did not believe she was hurting +herself; and, as to giving up the election, or ceasing secretly to +prompt George, that was absolutely out of the question. What could be a +greater duty than to incite her husband to usefulness? + +Moreover it was but proper to invite Meta’s aunt and cousin to see +her, and to project a few select dinners for their amusement and the +gratification of her neighbours. It was only grateful and cousinly +likewise, to ask the “Master of Glenbracken”; and as she saw the +thrill of colour on Ethel’s cheeks, at the sight of the address to the +Honourable Norman Ogilvie, she thought herself the best of sisters. She +even talked of Ogilvie as a second Christian name, but Meta observed +that old Aunt Dorothy would call it Leonorar Rogilvie Rivers, and thus +averted it, somewhat to Ethel’s satisfaction. + +Ethel scolded herself many times for wondering whether Mr. Ogilvie would +come. What was it to her? Suppose he should; suppose the rest. What a +predicament! How unreasonable and conceited, even to think of such a +thing, when her mind was made up. What could result, save tossings to +and fro, a passing gratification set against infinite pain, and strife +with her own heart and with her father’s unselfishness! Had he but come +before Flora’s marriage! No; Ethel hated herself for the wish that arose +for the moment. Far better he should keep away, if, perhaps, without the +slightest inclination towards her, his mere name could stir up such a +tumult--all, it might be, founded in vanity. Rebellious feelings and +sense of tedium had once been subdued--why should they be roused again? + +The answer came. Norman Ogilvie was setting off for Italy, and regretted +that he could not take Abbotstoke on his way. He desired his kind +remembrances and warm Christmas wishes to all his cousins. + +If Ethel breathed more freely, there was a sense that tranquillity is +uninteresting. It was, it must be confessed, a flat end to a romance, +that all the permanent present effect was a certain softening, and a +degree more attention to her appearance; and after all, this might, as +Flora averred, be ascribed to the Paris outfit having taught her to wear +clothes; as well as to that which had awakened the feminine element, and +removed that sense of not being like other women, which sometimes hangs +painfully about girls who have learned to think themselves plain or +awkward. + +There were other causes why it should be a dreary winter to Ethel, under +the anxiety that strengthened by duration, and the strain of acting +cheerfulness for Margaret’s sake. Even Mary was a care. Her round rosy +childhood had worn into height and sallowness, and her languor and +indifference fretted Miss Bracy, and was hunted down by Ethel, till +Margaret convinced her that it was a case for patience and tenderness, +which, thenceforth, she heartily gave, even encountering a scene +with Miss Bracy, who was much injured by the suggestion that Mary was +oppressed by perspective. Poor Mary, no one guessed the tears nightly +shed over Harry’s photograph. + +Nor could Ethel quite fathom Norman. He wore the dispirited, burdened +expression that she knew too well, but he would not, as formerly, seek +relief in confidence to her, shunning the being alone with her, and far +too much occupied to offer to walk to Cocksmoor. When the intelligence +came that good old Mr. Wilmot of Settlesham had peacefully gone to his +rest, after a short and painless illness, Tom was a good deal affected, +in his peculiar silent and ungracious fashion; but Norman did not seek +to talk over the event, and the feelings he had entertained two years +ago--he avoided the subject, and threw himself into the election matters +with an excitement foreign to his nature. + +He was almost always at Abbotstoke, or attending George Rivers at the +committee-room at the Swan, talking, writing, or consulting, concocting +squibs, and perpetrating bons mots, that were the delight of friends and +the confusion of foes. Flora was delighted, George adored him, Meta’s +eyes danced whenever he came near, Dr. Spencer admired him, and Dr. +Hoxton prophesied great things of him; but Ethel did not feel as if he +were the veritable Norman, and had an undefined sensation of discomfort, +when she heard his brilliant repartees, and the laughter with which he +accompanied them, so unlike his natural rare and noiseless laugh. She +knew it was false excitement, to drive away the suspense that none dared +to avow, but which did not press on them the less heavily for being +endured in silence. Indeed, Dr. May could not help now and then giving +way to outbursts of despondency, of which his friend, Dr. Spencer, who +made it his special charge to try to lighten his troubles, was usually +the kind recipient. + +And though the bustle of the election was incongruous, and seemed to +make the leaden weight the more heavy, there was a compensation in +the tone of feeling that it elicited, which gave real and heartfelt +pleasure. + +Dr. May had undergone numerous fluctuations of popularity. He had always +been the same man, excellent in intention, though hasty in action, and +heeding neither praise nor censure; and while the main tenor of his +course never varied, making many deviations by flying to the reverse +of the wrong, most immediately before him, still his personal character +gained esteem every year; and though sometimes his merits, and sometimes +his failings, gave violent umbrage, he had steadily risen in the +estimation of his fellow-townsmen, as much as his own inconsistencies +and theirs would allow, and every now and then was the favourite with +all, save with the few who abused him for tyranny, because he prevented +them from tyrannising. + +He was just now on the top of the wave, and his son-in-law had nothing +to do but to float in on the tide of his favour. The opposite faction +attempted a contest, but only rendered the triumph more complete, +and gave the gentlemen the pleasure of canvassing, and hearing, times +without number, that the constituents only wished the candidate were +Dr. May himself. His sons and daughters were full of exultation--Dr. +Spencer, much struck, rallied “Dick” on his influence--and Dr. May, the +drops of warm emotion trembling on his eyelashes, smiled, and bade his +friend see him making a church-rate. + +The addresses and letters that came from the Grange were so admirable, +that Dr. May often embraced Norman’s steady opinion that George was +a very wise man. If Norman was unconscious how much he contributed +to these compositions, he knew far less how much was Flora’s. In his +ardour, he crammed them both, and conducted George when Flora could not +be at his side. George himself was a personable man, wrote a good +bold hand, would do as he was desired, and was not easily put out of +countenance; he seldom committed himself by talking; and when a speech +was required, was brief, and to the purpose. He made a very good figure, +and in the glory of victory, Ethel herself began to grow proud of him, +and the children’s great object in life was to make the jackdaws cry, +“Rivers for ever!” + +Flora had always declared that she would be at Stoneborough for the +nomination. No one believed her, until three days before, she presented +herself and her daughter before the astonished Margaret, who was +too much delighted to be able to scold. She had come away on her own +responsibility, and was full of triumph. To come home in this manner, +after having read “Rivers for ever!” on all the dead walls, might be +called that for which she had lived. She made no stay--she had only +come to show her child, and establish a precedent for driving out, and +Margaret had begun to believe the apparition a dream, when the others +came in, some from Cocksmoor, others from the committee-room at the +Swan. + +“So she brought the baby,” exclaimed Ethel. “I should have thought she +would not have taken her out before her christening.” + +“Ethel,” said Dr. Spencer, “permit me to make a suggestion. When +relations live in the same neighbourhood, there is no phrase to be more +avoided than ‘I should have thought--’” + +The nomination-day brought Flora, Meta, baby and all to be very quiet, +as was said; but how could that be? when every boy in the house was +frantic, and the men scarcely less so. Aubrey and Gertrude, and the two +jackdaws, each had a huge blue and orange rosette, and the two former +went about roaring “Rivers for ever!” without the least consideration +for the baby, who would have been decked in the same manner, if Ethel +would have heard of it without indignation, at her wearing any colour +before her christening white; as to Jack and Jill, though they could +say their lesson, they were too much distressed by their ornaments to do +ought but lurk in corners, and strive to peck them off. + +Flora comported herself in her usual quiet way, and tried to talk of +other things, though a carnation spot in each cheek showed her anxiety +and excitement. She went with her sisters to look out from Dr. Spencer’s +windows towards the Town Hall. Her husband gave her his arm as they +went down the garden, and Ethel saw her talking earnestly to him, and +pressing his arm with her other hand to enforce her words, but if she +did tutor him, it was hardly visible, and he was very glad of whatever +counsel she gave. + +She spoke not a word after the ladies were left with Aubrey, who was in +despair at not being allowed to follow Hector and Tom, but was left, as +his prematurely classical mind expressed it, like the Gaulish women with +the impedimenta in the marshes--whereas Tom had added insult to injury, +by a farewell to “Jack among the maidens.” + +Meta tried to console him, by persuading him that he was their +protector, and he began to think there was need of a guard, when a +mighty cheer caused him to take refuge behind Ethel. Even when assured +that it was anything but terrific, he gravely declared that he thought +Margaret would want him, but he could not cross the garden without Meta +to protect him. + +She would not allow any one else to relieve her from the doughty +champion, and thereby she missed the spectacle. It might be that she did +not regret it, for though it would have been unkind to refuse to come in +with her brother and sister, her wound was still too fresh for crowds, +turmoil, and noisy rejoicing to be congenial. She did not withdraw her +hand, which Aubrey squeezed harder at each resounding shout, nor object +to his conducting her to see his museum in the dark corner of the +attics, most remote from the tumult. + +The loss was not great. The others could hear nothing distinctly, and +see only a wilderness of heads; but the triumph was complete. Dr. May +had been cheered enough to satisfy even Hector; George Rivers had made +a very fair speech, and hurrahs had covered all deficiencies; Hector had +shouted till he was as hoarse as the jackdaws; the opposite candidate +had never come forward at all; Tomkins was hiding his diminished head; +and the gentlemen had nothing to report but success, and were in the +highest spirits. + +By and by Blanche was missing, and Ethel, going in quest of her, spied +a hem of blue merino peeping out under all the cloaks in the hall +cupboard, and found the poor little girl sobbing in such distress, that +it was long before any explanation could be extracted, but at last it +was revealed--when the door had been shut, and they stood in the dark, +half stifled among the cloaks, that George’s spirits had taken his old +facetious style with Blanche, and in the very hearing of Hector! +The misery of such jokes to a sensitive child, conscious of not +comprehending their scope, is incalculable, and Blanche having been a +baby-coquette, was the more susceptible. She hid her face again from the +very sound of her own confession, and resisted Ethel’s attempts to draw +her out of the musty cupboard, declaring that she could never see either +of them again. Ethel, in vain, assured her that George was gone to the +dinner at the Swan; nothing was effectual but being told that for her +to notice what had passed was the sure way to call Hector’s attention +thereto, when she bridled, emerged, and begged to know whether she +looked as if she had been crying. Poor child, she could never again +be unconscious, but, at least, she was rendered peculiarly afraid of a +style of notice, that might otherwise have been a temptation. + +Ethel privately begged Flora to hint to George to alter his style of +wit, and the suggestion was received better than the blundering manner +deserved; Flora was too exulting to take offence, and her patronage of +all the world was as full-blown as her ladylike nature allowed. Ethel, +she did not attempt to patronise, but she promised all the sights +in London to the children, and masters to Mary and Blanche, and she +perfectly overwhelmed Miss Bracy with orphan asylums for her sisters. +She would have liked nothing better than dispersing cards, with Mrs. +Rivers prominent among the recommenders of the case. + +“A fine coming-out for you, little lady,” said she to her baby, when +taking leave that evening. “If it was good luck for you to make your +first step in life upwards, what is this?” + +“Excelsior?” said Ethel, and Flora smiled, well pleased, but she had not +caught half the meaning. “May it be the right excelsior” added Ethel, in +a low voice that no one heard, and she was glad they did not. They were +all triumphant, and she could not tell why she had a sense of sadness, +and thought of Flora’s story long ago, of the girl who ascended Mont +Blanc, and for what? + +All she had to do at present was to listen to Miss Bracy, who was sure +that Mrs. Rivers thought Mary and Blanche were not improved, and was +afraid she was ungrateful for all the intended kindness to her sister. + +Ethel had more sympathy here, for she had thought that Flora was giving +herself airs, and she laughed and said her sister was pleased to be in +a position to help her friends; and tried to turn it off, but ended +by stumbling into allowing that prosperity was apt to make people +over-lavish of offers of kindness. + +“Dear Miss Ethel, you understand so perfectly. There is no one like +you!” cried Miss Bracy, attempting to kiss her hand. + +If Ethel had not spoken rightly of her sister, she was sufficiently +punished. + +What she did was to burst into a laugh, and exclaim, “Miss Bracy! Miss +Bracy! I can’t have you sentimental. I am the worst person in the world +for it.” + +“I have offended. You cannot feel with me!” + +“Yes, I can, when it is sense; but please don’t treat me like a heroine. +I am sure there is quite enough in the world that is worrying, without +picking shades of manner to pieces. It is the sure way to make an old +crab of me, and so I am going off. Only, one parting piece of advice, +Miss Bracy--read ‘Frank Fairlegh’, and put everybody out of your head.” + +And, thinking she had been savage about her hand, Ethel turned back, and +kissed the little governess’s forehead, wished her goodnight, and ran +away. + +She had learned that, to be rough and merry, was the best way of doing +Miss Bracy good in the end; and so she often gave herself the present +pain of knowing that she was being supposed careless and hard-hearted; +but the violent affection for her proved that the feeling did not last. + +Ethel was glad to sit by the fire at bed-time, and think over the day, +outwardly so gay, inwardly so fretting and perplexing. + +It was the first time that she had seen much of her little niece. She +was no great baby-handler, nor had she any of the phrases adapted to the +infant mind; but that pretty little serene blue-eyed girl had been her +chief thought all day, and she was abashed by recollecting how little +she had dwelt on her own duties as her sponsor, in the agitations +excited by the doubts about her coadjutor. + +She took out her Prayer-book, and read the Service for Baptism, +recollecting the thoughts that had accompanied her youngest sister’s +orphaned christening, “The vain pomp and glory of the world, and all +covetous desires of the same.” They seemed far enough off then, and +now--poor little Leonora! + +Ethel knew that she judged her sister hardly; yet she could not help +picturing to herself the future--a young lady, trained for fashionable +life, serious teaching not omitted, but right made the means of +rising in the world; taught to strive secretly, but not openly, for +admiration--a scheming for her marriage--a career like Flora’s own. +Ethel could scarcely feel that it would not be a mockery to declare, on +her behalf, that she renounced the world. But, alas! where was not the +world? Ethel blushed at having censured others, when, so lately, she had +herself been oblivious of the higher duty. She thought of the prayer, +including every Christian in holy and loving intercession--“I pray not +that Thou wouldest take them out of the world, but that Thou wouldest +keep them from the evil.” + +“Keep her from the evil--that shall be my prayer for my poor little +Leonora. His grace can save her, were the surrounding evil far worse +than ever it is likely to be. The intermixture with good is the trial, +and is it not so everywhere--ever since the world and the Church have +seemed fused together? But she will soon be the child of a Father who +guards His own; and, at least, I can pray for her, and her dear mother. +May I only live better, that so I may pray better, and act better, if +ever I should have to act.” + +There was a happy family gathering on the New Year’s Day, and Flora, who +had kindly felt her way with Meta, finding her not yet ready to enjoy +a public festivity for the village, added a supplement to the Christmas +beef, that a second dinner might be eaten at home, in honour of Miss +Leonora Rivers. + +Lady Leonora was highly satisfied with her visit, which impressed her +far more in favour of the Abbotstoke neighbourhood than in the days +of poor old Mr. Rivers. Flora knew every one, and gave little select +dinner-parties, which, by her good management, even George, at the +bottom of the table, could not make heavy. Dr. Spencer enjoyed them +greatly, and was an unfailing resource for conversation; and as to the +Hoxtons, Flora felt herself amply repaying the kindness she had received +in her young lady days, when she walked down to the dining-room with +the portly headmaster, or saw his good lady sit serenely admiring +the handsome rooms. “A very superior person, extremely pleasing and +agreeable,” was the universal verdict on Mrs. Rivers. Lady Leonora +struck up a great friendship with her, and was delighted that she meant +to take Meta to London. The only fault that could be found with her was +that she had so many brothers; and Flora, recollecting that her ladyship +mistrusted those brothers, avoided encouraging their presence at the +Grange, and took every precaution against any opening for the suspicion +that she threw them in the way of her little sister-in-law. + +Nor had Flora forgotten the Ladies’ Committee, or Cocksmoor. As to the +muses, they gave no trouble at all. Exemplary civilities about the chair +passed between the Member’s lady and Mrs. Ledwich, ending in Flora’s +insisting that priority in office should prevail, feeling that she could +well afford to yield the post of honour, since anywhere she was the +leader. She did not know how much more conformable the ladies had +been ever since they had known Dr. Spencer’s opinion; and yet he only +believed that they were grateful for good advice, and went about among +them, easy, good-natured, and utterly unconscious that for him sparkled +Mrs. Ledwich’s bugles, and for him waved every spinster’s ribbon, from +Miss Rich down to Miss Boulder. + +The point carried by their united influence was Charity Elwood’s being +sent for six months’ finish at the Diocesan Training School; while a +favourite pupil-teacher from Abbotstoke took her place at Cocksmoor. +Dr. Spencer looked at the Training School, and talked Mrs. Ledwich into +magnanimous forgiveness of Mrs. Elwood. Cherry dreaded the ordeal, but +she was willing to do anything that was thought right, and likely to +make her fitter for her office. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + + + + ‘Twas a long doubt; we never heard + Exactly how the ship went down.--ARCHER GURNEY. + + +The tidings came at last, came when the heart-sickness of hope deferred +had faded into the worse heart-sickness of fear deferred, and when +spirits had been fain to rebel, and declare that they would be almost +glad to part with the hope that but kept alive despair. + +The Christmas holidays had come to an end, and the home party were again +alone, when early in the forenoon, there was a tap at the drawing-room +door, and Dr. Spencer called, “Ethel, can you come and speak to me?” + +Margaret started as if those gentle tones had been a thunderclap. “Go! +go, Ethel,” she said, “don’t keep me waiting.” + +Dr. Spencer stood in the hall with a newspaper in his hand. Ethel said, +“Is it?” and he made a sorrowful gesture. “Both?” she asked. + +“Both,” he repeated. “The ship burned--the boat lost.” + +“Ethel, come!” hoarsely called Margaret. + +“Take it,” said Dr. Spencer, putting the paper into her hand; “I will +wait.” + +She obeyed. She could not speak, but kneeling down by her sister, they +read the paragraph together; Ethel, with one eye on the words, the other +on Margaret. + +No doubt was left. Captain Gordon had returned, and this was his +official report. The names of the missing stood below, and the list +began thus:-- + + Lieutenant A. H. Ernescliffe. + Mr. Charles Owen, Mate. + Mr. Harry May, Midshipman. + +The Alcestis had taken fire on the 12th of April of the former year. +There had been much admirable conduct, and the intrepid coolness of Mr. +Ernescliffe was especially recorded. The boats had been put off without +loss, but they were scantily provisioned, and the nearest land was far +distant. For five days the boats kept together, then followed a night +of storms, and, when morning dawned, the second cutter, under command of +Mr. Ernescliffe, had disappeared. There could be no doubt that she had +sunk, and the captain could only record his regrets for the loss the +service had experienced in the three brave young officers and their +gallant seamen. After infinite toil and suffering, the captain, with the +other boats’ crews, had reached Tahiti, whence they had made their way +home. + +“Oh, Margaret, Margaret!” cried Ethel. + +Margaret raised herself, and the colour came into her face. + +“I did not write the letter!” she said. + +“What letter?” said Ethel, alarmed. + +“Richard prevented me. The letter that would have parted us. Now all is +well.” + +“All is well, I know, if we could but feel it.” + +“He never had the pain. It is unbroken!” continued Margaret, her eyes +brightening, but her breath, in long-drawn gasps that terrified Ethel +into calling Dr. Spencer. + +Mary was standing before him, with bloodless face and dilated eyes; but, +as Ethel approached, she turned and rushed upstairs. + +Dr. Spencer entered the drawing-room with Ethel, who tried to read his +face as he saw Margaret--restored, as it seemed, to all her girlish +bloom, and her eyes sparkling as they were lifted up, far beyond the +present scene. Ethel had a moment’s sense that his expression was as +if he had seen a death-blow struck, but it was gone in a moment, as +he gently shook Margaret by the hand, and spoke a word of greeting, as +though to recall her. + +“Thank you,” she said, with her own grateful smile. + +“Where is your father?” he asked of Ethel. + +“Either at the hospital, or at Mr. Ramsden’s,” said Ethel, with a +ghastly suspicion that he thought Margaret in a state to require him. + +“Papa!” said Margaret. “If he were but here! But--ah! I had forgotten.” + +She turned aside her head, and hid her face. Dr. Spencer signed Ethel +nearer to him. “This is a more natural state,” he said. “Don’t be afraid +for her. I will find your father, and bring him home.” Pressing her hand +he departed. + +Margaret was weeping tranquilly--Ethel knelt down beside her, without +daring at first to speak, but sending up intense mental prayers to Him, +who alone could bear her or her dear father through their affliction. +Then she ventured to take her hand, and Margaret returned the caress, +but began to blame herself for the momentary selfishness that had +allowed her brother’s loss and her father’s grief to have been forgotten +in her own. Ethel’s “oh! no! no!” did not console her for this which +seemed the most present sorrow, but the flow of tears was so gentle, +that Ethel trusted that they were a relief. Ethel herself seemed only +able to watch her, and to fear for her father, not to be able to think +for herself. + +The front door opened, and they heard Dr. May’s step hesitating in the +hall, as if he could not bear to come in. + +“Go to him!” cried Margaret, wiping off her tears. Ethel stood a moment +in the doorway, then sprang to him, and was clasped in his arms. + +“You know it?” he whispered. + +“Dr. Spencer told us. Did not you meet him?” + +“No. I read it at Bramshaw’s office. How--” He could not say the words, +but he looked towards the room, and wrung the hand he held. + +“Quiet. Like herself. Come.” + +He threw one arm round Ethel, and laid his hand on her head. “How much +there is to be thankful for!” he said, then advancing, he hung over +Margaret, calling her his own poor darling. + +“Papa, you must forgive me. You said sending him to sea was giving him +up.” + +“Did I. Well, Margaret, he did his duty. That is all we have to live +for. Our yellow-haired laddie made a gallant sailor, and--” + +Tears choked his utterance--Margaret gently stroked his hand. + +“It falls hard on you, my poor girl,” he said. + +“No, papa,” said Margaret, “I am content and thankful. He is spared pain +and perplexity.” + +“You are right, I believe,” said Dr. May. “He would have been grieved +not to find you better.” + +“I ought to grieve for my own selfishness,” said Margaret. “I cannot +help it! I cannot be sorry the link is unbroken, and that he had not to +turn to any one else.” + +“He never would!” cried Dr. May, almost angrily. + +“I tried to think he ought,” said Margaret. “His life would have been +too dreary. But it is best as it is.” + +“It must be,” said the doctor. “Where are the rest, Ethel? Call them all +down.” + +Poor Mary, Ethel felt as if she had neglected her! She found her hanging +over the nursery fire, alternating with old nurse in fond reminiscences +of Harry’s old days, sometimes almost laughing at his pranks, then +crying again, while Aubrey sat between them, drinking in each word. + +Blanche and Gertrude came from the schoolroom, where Miss Bracy seemed +to have been occupying them, with much kindness and judgment. She came +to the door to ask Ethel anxiously for the doctor and Miss May, and +looked so affectionate and sympathising, that Ethel gave her a hearty +kiss. + +“Dear Miss Ethel! if you can only let me help you.” + +“Thank you,” said Ethel with all her heart, and hurried away. Nothing +was more in favour of Miss Bracy, than that there should be a hurry. +Then she could be warm, and not morbid. + +Dr. May gathered his children round him, and took out the great +Prayer-book. He read a psalm and a prayer from the Burial Service, and +the sentence for funerals at sea. Then he touched each of their heads, +and, in short broken sentences, gave thanks for those still left to him, +and for the blessed hope they could feel for those who were gone; and he +prayed that they might so follow in their footsteps, as to come to the +same holy place, and in the meantime realise the Communion of Saints. +Then they said the Lord’s Prayer, he blessed them, and they arose. + +“Mary, my dear,” he said, “you have a photograph.” + +She put the case into his hands, and ran away. + +He went to the study, where he found Dr. Spencer awaiting him. + +“I am only come to know where I shall go for you.” + +“Thank you, Spencer. Thank you for taking care of my poor girls.” + +“They took care of themselves. They have the secret of strength.” + +“They have--” He turned aside, and burst out, “Oh, Spencer! you have +been spared a great deal. If you missed a great deal of joy, you have +missed almost as much sorrow!” And, covering his face, he let his grief +have a free course. + +“Dick! dear old Dick, you must bear up. Think what treasures you have +left.” + +“I do. I try to do so,” said poor Dr. May; “but, Spencer, you never saw +my yellow-haired laddie, with his lion look! He was the flower of them +all! Not one of these other boys came near him in manliness, and with +such a loving heart! An hour ago, I thought any certainty would be gain, +but now I would give a lifetime to have back the hope that I might see +my boy’s face again! Oh, Spencer! this is the first time I could rejoice +that his mother is not here!” + +“She would have been your comforter,” sighed his friend, as he felt his +inability to contend with such grief. + +“There, I can be thankful,” Dr. May said, and he looked so. “She has +had her brave loving boy with her all this time, while we little +thought--but there are others. My poor Margaret--” + +“Her patience must be blessed,” said Dr. Spencer. “I think she will be +better. Now that the suspense no longer preys on her, there will be more +rest.” + +“Rest,” repeated Dr. May, supporting his head on his hand; and, looking +up dreamily--“there remaineth a rest--” + +The large Bible lay beside him on the table, and Dr. Spencer thought +that he would find more rest there than in his words. Leaving him, +therefore, his friend went to undertake his day’s work, and learn, once +more, in the anxious inquiries and saddened countenances of the patients +and their friends, how great an amount of love and sympathy that Dr. May +had won by his own warmth of heart. The patients seemed to forget their +complaints in sighs for their kind doctor’s troubles; and the gouty +Mayor of Stoneborough kept Dr. Spencer half an hour to listen to his +recollections of the bright-faced boy’s droll tricks, and then to the +praises of the whole May family, and especially of the mother. + +Poor Dr. Spencer! he heard her accident described so many times in the +course of the day, that his visits were one course of shrinking and +suffering; and his only satisfaction was in knowing how his friend would +be cheered by hearing of the universal feeling for him and his children. + +Ethel wrote letters to her brothers; and Dr. May added a few lines, +begging Richard to come home, if only for a few days. Margaret would +not be denied writing to Hector Ernescliffe, though she cried over her +letter so much that her father could almost have taken her pen away; but +she said it did her good. + +When Flora came in the afternoon, Ethel was able to leave Margaret +to her, and attend to Mary, with whom Miss Bracy’s kindness had been +inefficacious. If she was cheered for a few minutes, some association, +either with the past or the vanished future, soon set her off sobbing +again. “If I only knew where dear, dear Harry is lying,” she sobbed, +“and that it had not been very bad indeed, I could bear it better.” + +The ghastly uncertainty was too terrible for Ethel to have borne to +contemplate it. She knew that it would haunt their pillows, and she was +trying to nerve herself by faith. + +“Mary,” she said, “that is the worst; but, after all, God willed that +we should not know. We must bear it like His good children. It makes no +differences to them now--” + +“I know,” said Mary, trying to check her sobs. + +“And, you know, we are all in the same keeping. The sea is a glorious +great pure thing, you know, that man cannot hurt or defile. It seems to +me,” said Ethel, looking up, “as if resting there was like being buried +in our baptism-tide over again, till the great new birth. It must be the +next best place to a churchyard. Anywhere, they are as safe as among the +daisies in our own cloister.” + +“Say it again--what you said about the sea,” said Mary, more comforted +than if Ethel had been talking down to her. + +By and by Ethel discovered that the sharpest trouble to the fond simple +girl was the deprivation of her precious photograph. It was like losing +Harry over again, to go to bed without it, though she would not for the +world seem to grudge it to her father. + +Ethel found an opportunity of telling him of this distress, and it +almost made him smile. “Poor Mary,” he said, “is she so fond of it? It +is rather a libel than a likeness.” + +“Don’t say so to her, pray, papa. It is all the world to her. Three +strokes on paper would have been the same, if they had been called by +his name.” + +“Yes; a loving heart has eyes of its own, and she is a dear girl!” + +He did not forget to restore the treasure with gratitude proportionate +to what the loan had cost Mary. With a trembling voice, she proffered +it to him for the whole day, and every day, if she might only have it at +night; and she even looked black when he did not accept the proposal. + +“It is exactly like--” said she. + +“It can’t help being so, in a certain sense,” he answered kindly, “but +after all, Mary dear, he did not pout out his chin in that way.” + +Mary was somewhat mortified, but she valued her photograph more than +ever, because no one else would admire it, except Daisy, whom she had +taught to regard it with unrivalled veneration. + +A letter soon arrived from Captain Gordon, giving a fuller account of +the loss of his ship, and of the conduct of his officers, speaking in +the highest terms of Alan Ernescliffe, for whom he said he mourned as +for his own son, and, with scarcely less warmth, of Harry, mentioning +the high esteem all had felt for the boy, and the good effect which +the influence of his high and truthful spirit had produced on the other +youngsters, who keenly regretted him. + +Captain Gordon added that the will of the late Captain Ernescliffe had +made him guardian of his sons, and that he believed poor Alan had died +intestate. He should therefore take upon himself the charge of young +Hector, and he warmly thanked Dr. May and his family for all the +kindness that the lad had received. + +Though the loss of poor Hector’s visits was regretted, it was, on the +whole, a comforting letter, and would give still more comfort in future +time. + +Richard contrived to come home through Oxford and see Norman, whom he +found calm, and almost relieved by the cessation from suspense; not +inclined, as his father had feared, to drown sorrow in labour, +but regarding his grief as an additional call to devote himself to +ministerial work. In fact, the blow had fallen when he first heard the +rumour of danger, and could not recur with the same force. + +Richard was surprised to find that Margaret was less cast down than he +could have dared to hope. It did not seem like an affliction to her. +Her countenance wore the same gentle smile, and she was as ready +to participate in all that passed, finding sympathy for the little +pleasures of Aubrey and Gertrude, and delighting in Flora’s baby; as +well as going over Cocksmoor politics with a clearness and accuracy that +astonished him, and asking questions about his parish and occupations, +so as fully to enjoy his short visit, which she truly called the +greatest possible treat. + +If it had not been for the momentary consternation that she had seen +upon Dr. Spencer’s face, Ethel would have been perfectly satisfied; +but she could not help sometimes entertaining a dim fancy that this +composure came from a sense that she was too near Alan to mourn for him. +Could it be true that her frame was more wasted, that there was less +capability of exertion, that her hours became later in the morning, and +that her nights were more wakeful? Would she fade away? Ethel longed to +know what her father thought, but she could neither bear to inspire him +with the apprehension, nor to ask Dr. Spencer’s opinion, lest she should +be confirmed in her own. + +The present affliction altered Dr. May more visibly than the death of +his wife, perhaps, because there was not the same need of exertion. If +he often rose high in faith and resignation, he would also sink very low +under the sense of bereavement and disappointment. Though Richard +was his stay, and Norman his pride, there was something in Harry more +congenial to his own temper, and he could not but be bowed down by the +ruin of such bright hopes. With all his real submission, he was weak, +and gave way to outbursts of grief, for which he blamed himself as +unthankful; and his whole demeanour was so saddened and depressed, +that Ethel and Dr. Spencer consulted mournfully over him, whenever they +walked to Cocksmoor together. + +This was not as often as usual, though the walls of the school were +rising, for Dr. Spencer had taken a large share of his friend’s work for +the present, and both physicians were much occupied by the condition of +Mr. Ramsden who was fast sinking, and, for some weeks, seemed only kept +alive by their skill. The struggle ended at last, and his forty +years’ cure of Stoneborough was closed. It made Dr. May very sad--his +affections had tendrils for anything that he had known from boyhood; +and though he had often spoken strong words of the vicar, he now sat +sorrowfully moralising and making excuses. “People in former times had +not so high an estimate of pastoral duty--poor Mr. Ramsden had not much +education--he was already old when better times came in--he might have +done better in a less difficult parish with better laity to support him, +etc.” Yet after all, he exclaimed with one of his impatient gestures, +“Better have my Harry’s seventeen years than his sixty-seven!” + +“Better improve a talent than lay it by!” said Ethel. + +“Hush! Ethel. How do you know what he may have done? If he acted up to +his own standard, he did more than most of us.” + +“Which is best,” said Ethel, “a high standard, not acted up to, or a +lower one fulfilled?” + +“I think it depends on the will,” said Margaret. + +“Some people are angry with those whose example would show that there is +a higher standard,” said Ethel. + +“And,” said Margaret, “some who have the high one set before them +content themselves with knowing that it cannot be fully attained, and +will not try.” + +“The standard is the effect of early impression,” said Dr. May. “I +should be very sorry to think it could not be raised.” + +“Faithful in a little--” said Ethel. “I suppose all good people’s +standard is always going higher.” + +“As they comprehend more of absolute perfection,” said Margaret. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + + + + The city’s golden spire it was, + When hope and health were strongest; + But now it is the churchyard grass, + We look upon the longest.--E. B. BROWNING. + + +A disinclination for exertion or going into public hung upon Dr. May, +but he was obliged to rouse himself to attend the Town Council meeting, +which was held a few days after the vicar’s funeral, to decide on the +next appointment. If it had depended on himself alone, his choice would +have been Mr. Edward Wilmot, whom the death of his good old father had +uprooted from Settlesham; and the girls had much hope, but he was too +much out of spirits to be sanguine. He said that he should only hear a +great deal of offensive stuff from Tomkins the brewer; and that, in +the desire to displease nobody, the votes should settle down on some +nonentity, was the best which was likely to happen. Thus, grumbling, he +set off, and his daughters watched anxiously for his return. They saw +him come through the garden with a quick, light step, that made them +augur well, and he entered the room with the corners of his mouth +turning up. “I see,” said Ethel, “it is all right.” + +“They were going to have made a very absurd choice.” + +“But you prevented it? Who was it?” + +“Ah! I told you Master Ritchie was turning out a popular preacher.” + +“You don’t mean that they chose Richard!” cried Margaret breathlessly. + +“As sure as my name is Dick May, they did, every man of them, except +Tomkins, and even he held his tongue; I did not think it of them,” said +the doctor, almost overcome; “but there is much more goodness of heart +in the world than one gives it credit for.” + +And good Dr. May was not one to give the least credit for all that was +like himself. + +“But it was Richard’s own doing,” he continued. “Those sermons made a +great impression, and they love the boy, because he has grown up among +them. The old mayor waddled up to me, as I came in, telling me that they +had been talking it over, and they were unanimously agreed that they +could not have a parson they should like better than Mr. Richard.” + +“Good old Mr. Doddesley! I can see him!” cried Ethel. + +“I expected it so little, that I thought he meant some Richards; but no, +he said Mr. Richard May, if he had nothing better in view--they liked +him, and knew he was a very steady, good young gentleman, and if he took +after his fathers that went before him--and they thought we might like +to have him settled near!” + +“How very kind!” said Margaret, as the tears came. “We shall love our +own townsfolk better than ever!” + +“I always told you so, if you would but believe it. They have warm, +sound hearts, every one of them! I declare, I did not know which way to +look, I was so sorry to disappoint them.” + +“Disappoint them!” cried Margaret, in consternation. + +“I was thinking,” said Ethel. “I do not believe Richard would think +himself equal to this place in such a state as it is. He is so +diffident.” + +“Yes,” said Dr. May, “if he were ten or twelve years older, it would be +another thing; but here, where everything is to be done, he would not +bring weight or force enough. He would only work himself to death, for +individuals, without going to the root. Margaret, my darling, I am very +sorry to have disappointed you so much--it would have been as great a +pleasure as we could have had in this world to have the lad here--” + +“And Cocksmoor,” sighed Ethel. + +“I shall be grateful all my life to those good people for thinking of +it,” continued the doctor; “but look you here, it was my business to get +the best man chosen in my power and, though as to goodness, I +believe the dear Ritchie has not many equals; I don’t think we can +conscientiously say he would be, at present, the best vicar for +Stoneborough.” + +Ethel would not say no, for fear she should pain Margaret. + +“Besides,” continued Dr. May, “after having staved off the sale of the +presentation as a sin, it would hardly have been handsome to have let +my own son profit by it. It would have seemed as if we had our private +ends, when Richard helped poor old Mr. Ramsden.” + +Margaret owned this, and Ethel said Richard would be glad to be spared +the refusal. + +“I was sure of it. The poor fellow would have been perplexed between the +right and consideration for us. A vicar here ought to carry things with +a high hand, and that is hardest to do at a man’s own home, especially +for a quiet lad like him.” + +“Yes, papa, it was quite right,” said Margaret, recovering herself; “it +has spared Richard a great deal.” + +“But are we to have Mr. Wilmot?” said Ethel. “Think of our not having +heard!” + +“Ay. If they would not have had Wilmot, or a man of his calibre, perhaps +I might have let them offer it to Richard. I almost wish I had. With +help, and Ethel--” + +“No, no, papa,” said Margaret. “You are making me angry with myself for +my folly. It is much better for Richard himself, and for us all, as well +as the town. Think how long we have wished for Mr. Wilmot!” + +“He will be in time for the opening of Cocksmoor school!” cried Ethel. +“How did you manage it?” + +“I did not manage at all,” said the doctor. “I told them exactly my +mind, that Richard was not old enough for such arduous work; and though +no words could tell how obliged I was, if they asked me who was the best +man for it I knew, I should say Edward Wilmot, and I thought he deserved +something from us, for the work he did gratis, when he was second +master. Tomkins growled a little, but, fortunately, no one was prepared +with another proposal, so they all came round, and the mayor is to write +by this evening’s post, and so shall I. If we could only have given +Richard a dozen more years!” + +Margaret was somewhat comforted to find that the sacrifice had cost her +father a good deal; she was always slightly jealous for Richard, and +now that Alan was gone, she clung to him more than ever. His soft calm +manner supported her more than any other human comforter, and she always +yearned after him when absent, more than for all the other brothers; but +her father’s decision had been too high-minded for her to dare to wish +it recalled, and she could not but own that Richard would have had +to undergo more toil and annoyance than perhaps his health would have +endured. + +Flora had discontinued comments to her sisters on her father’s +proceedings, finding that observations mortified Margaret, and did not +tend to peace with Ethel; but she told her husband that she did not +regret it much, for Richard would have exhausted his own income, and his +father’s likewise, in paying curates, and raising funds for charities. +She scarcely expected Mr. Edward Wilmot to accept the offer, aware as +he was, of the many disadvantages he should have to contend with, and +unsuccessful as he had been in dealing with the Ladies’ Committee. + +However, Mr. Wilmot signified his thankful acceptance, and, in due time, +his familiar tap was heard at the drawing-room door, at tea-time, as if +he had just returned after the holidays. He was most gladly welcomed, +and soon was installed in his own place, with his goddaughter, Mary, +blushing with pleasure at pouring out his coffee. + +“Well, Ethel, how is Cocksmoor? How like old times!” + +“Oh,” cried Ethel, “we are so glad you will see the beginning of the +school!” + +“I hear you are finishing Cherry Elwood, too.” + +“Much against Ethel’s will,” said Margaret; “but we thought Cherry not +easily spoiled. And Whitford school seems to be in very good order. Dr. +Spencer went and had an inspection of it, and conferred with all the +authorities.” + +“Ah! we have a jewel of a parishioner for you,” said Dr. May. “I have +some hopes of Stoneborough now.” + +Mr. Wilmot did not look too hopeful, but he smiled, and asked after +Granny Hall, and the children. + +“Polly grew up quite civilised,” said Ethel. “She lives at Whitford, +with some very respectable people, and sends granny presents, which make +her merrier than ever. Last time it was a bonnet, and Jenny persuaded +her to go to church in it, though, she said, what she called the moon of +it was too small.” + +“How do the people go on?” + +“I cannot say much for them. It is disheartening. We really have done +nothing. So very few go to church regularly.” + +“None at all went in my time,” said Mr. Wilmot. + +“Elwood always goes,” said Mary, “and Taylor; yes, and Sam Hall, very +often, and many of the women, in the evening, because they like to walk +home with the children.” + +“The children? the Sunday scholars?” + +“Oh, every one that is big enough comes to school now, here, on Sunday. +If only the teaching were better--” + +“Have you sent out any more pupils to service?” + +“Not many. There is Willie Brown, trying to be Dr. Spencer’s little +groom,” said Ethel. + +“But I am afraid it will take a great deal of the doctor’s patience to +train him,” added Margaret. + +“It is hard,” said Dr. May. “He did it purely to oblige Ethel; and, I +tell her, when he lames the pony, I shall expect her to buy another for +him, out of the Cocksmoor funds.” + +Ethel and Mary broke out in a chorus of defence of Willie Brown. + +“There was Ben Wheeler,” said Mary, “who went to work in the quarries; +and the men could not teach him to say bad words, because the young +ladies told him not.” + +“The young ladies have not quite done nothing,” said Dr. May, smiling. + +“These are only little stray things, and Cherry has done the chief of +them,” said Ethel. “Oh, it is grievously bad still,” she added, +sighing. “Such want of truth, such ungoverned tongues and tempers, such +godlessness altogether! It is only surface-work, taming the children at +school, while they have such homes; and their parents, even if they do +come where they might learn better, are always liable to be upset, as +they call it--turned out of their places in church, and they will not +run the chance.” + +“The church must come to them,” said Mr. Wilmot. “Could the school be +made fit to be licensed for service.” + +“Ask our architect,” said Dr. May. “There can be little doubt.” + +“I have been settling that I must have a curate specially for +Cocksmoor,” said Mr. Wilmot. “Can you tell me of one, Ethel--or perhaps +Margaret could?” + +Margaret could only smile faintly, for her heart was beating. + +“Seriously,” said Mr. Wilmot, turning to Dr. May, “do you think Richard +would come and help us here?” + +“This seems to be his destiny,” said the doctor, smiling, “only it +would not be fair to tell you, lest you should be jealous--that the Town +Council had a great mind for him.” + +The matter was explained, and Mr. Wilmot was a great deal more struck +by Dr. May’s conduct than the good doctor thought it deserved. Every +one was only too glad that Richard should come as Cocksmoor curate; and, +though the stipend was very small--since Mr. Wilmot meant to have other +assistance--yet, by living at home, it might be feasible. + +Margaret’s last words that night to Ethel were, “The last wish I had +dared to make is granted!” + +Mr. Wilmot wrote to Richard, who joyfully accepted his proposal, +and engaged to come home as soon as his present rector could find a +substitute. + +Dr. Spencer was delighted, and, it appeared, had already had a view to +such possibilities in designing the plan of the school. + +The first good effect of Mr. Wilmot’s coming was, that Dr. Spencer +was cured of the vagrant habits of going to church at Abbotstoke or +Fordholm, that had greatly concerned his friend. Dr. May, who could +never get any answer from him except that he was not a Town Councillor, +and, as to example, it was no way to set that to sleep through the +sermon. + +To say that Dr. May never slept under the new dynasty would be an +over-statement, but slumber certainly prevailed in the minster to a far +less degree than formerly. One cause might be that it was not shut up +unaired from one Sunday to another, but that the chime of the bells +was no longer an extraordinary sound on a week-day. It was at first +pronounced that time could not be found for going to church on week-days +without neglecting other things, but Mary, who had lately sat very loose +to the schoolroom, began gradually to slip down to church whenever the +service was neither too early nor too late; and Gertrude was often found +trotting by her side--going to mamma, as the little Daisy called it, +from some confusion between the church and the cloister, which Ethel was +in no hurry to disturb. + +Lectures in Lent filled the church a good deal, as much perhaps from the +novelty as from better motives, and altogether there was a renewal +of energy in parish work. The poor had become so little accustomed to +pastoral care, that the doctors and the district visitors were obliged +to report cases of sickness to the clergy, and vainly tried to rouse the +people to send of their own accord. However, the better leaven began +to work, and, of course, there was a ferment, though less violent than +Ethel had expected. + +Mr. Wilmot set more cautiously to work than he had done in his younger +days, and did not attack prejudices so openly, and he had an admirable +assistant in Dr. Spencer. Every one respected the opinion of the +travelled doctor, and he had a courteous clever process of the reduction +to the absurd, which seldom failed to tell, while it never gave offence. +As to the Ladies’ Committee, though there had been expressions of +dismay, when the tidings of the appointment first went abroad, not one +of the whole “Aonian choir” liked to dissent from Dr. Spencer, and he +talked them over, individually, into a most conformable state, merely by +taking their compliance for granted, and showing that he deemed it +only the natural state of things, that the vicar should reign over the +charities of the place. + +The committee was not dissolved--that would have been an act of +violence--but it was henceforth subject to Mr. Wilmot, and he and his +curates undertook the religious instruction in the week, and chose the +books--a state of affairs brought about with so much quietness, that +Ethel knew not whether Flora, Dr. Spencer, or Mr. Wilmot had been the +chief mover. + +Mrs. Ledwich was made treasurer of a new coal club, and Miss Rich keeper +of the lending-library, occupations which delighted them greatly; and +Ethel was surprised to find how much unity of action was springing up, +now that the period was over, of each “doing right in her own eyes.” + +“In fact,” said Dr. Spencer, “when women have enough to do, they are +perfectly tractable.” + +The Cocksmoor accounts were Ethel’s chief anxiety. It seemed as if now +there might be a school-house, but with little income to depend upon, +since poor Alan Ernescliffe’s annual ten pounds was at an end. However, +Dr. May leaned over her as she was puzzling over her pounds, shillings, +and pence, and laid a cheque upon her desk. She looked up in his face. +“We must make Cocksmoor Harry’s heir,” he said. + +By and by it appeared that Cocksmoor was not out of Hector Ernescliffe’s +mind. The boy’s letters to Margaret had been brief, matter-of-fact, and +discouraging, as long as the half-year lasted, and there was not much to +be gathered about him from Tom, on his return for the Easter holidays, +but soon poor Hector wrote a long dismal letter to Margaret. + +Captain Gordon had taken him to Maplewood, where the recollection of his +brother, and the happy hopes with which they had taken possession, came +thronging upon him. The house was forlorn, and the corner that had been +unpacked for their reception, was as dreary a contrast to the bright +home at Stoneborough, as was the dry, stern captain, to the fatherly +warm-hearted doctor. Poor Hector had little or nothing to do, and the +pleasure of possession had not come yet; he had no companion of his own +age, and bashfulness made him shrink with dislike from introduction to +his tenants and neighbours. + +There was not an entertaining book in the house, he declared, and the +captain snubbed him, if he bought anything he cared to read. The captain +was always at him to read musty old improving books, and talking about +the position he would occupy. The evenings were altogether unbearable, +and if it were not for rabbit shooting now, and the half-year soon +beginning again, Hector declared he should be ready to cut and run, and +leave Captain Gordon and Maplewood to each other--and very well matched +too! He was nearly in a state of mind to imitate that unprecedented boy, +who wrote a letter to ‘The Times’, complaining of extra weeks. + +As to Cocksmoor, Ethel must not think it forgotten; he had spoken to the +captain about it, and the old wooden-head had gone and answered that it +was not incumbent on him, that Cocksmoor had no claims upon him, and he +could not make it up out of his allowance; for the old fellow would not +give him a farthing more than he had before, and had said that was too +much. + +There was a great blur over the words “wooden-head,” as if Hector had +known that Margaret would disapprove, and had tried to scratch it +out. She wrote all the consolation in her power, and exhorted him +to patience, apparently without much effect. She would not show his +subsequent letters, and the reading and answering them fatigued her so +much, that Hector’s writing was an unwelcome sight at Stoneborough. Each +letter, as Ethel said, seemed so much taken out of her, and she begged +her not to think about them. + +“Nothing can do me much good or harm now,” said Margaret; and seeing +Ethel’s anxious looks, “Is it not my greatest comfort that Hector can +still treat me as his sister, or, if I can only be of any use in keeping +him patient? Only think of the danger of a boy, in his situation, being +left without sympathy!” + +There was nothing more to be said. They all felt it was good for them +that the building at Cocksmoor gave full occupation to thoughts and +conversation; indeed, Tom declared they never walked in any other +direction, nor talked of anything else, and that without Hector, or +George Rivers, he had nobody to speak to. However, he was a good deal +tranquillised by an introduction to Dr. Spencer’s laboratory, where he +compounded mixtures that Dr. Spencer promised should do no more harm +than was reasonable to himself, or any one else. Ethel suspected that, +if Tom had chanced to singe his eyebrows, his friend would not have +regretted a blight to his nascent coxcombry, but he was far too careful +of his own beauty to do any such thing. + +Richard was set at liberty just before Easter, and came home to his new +charge. He was aware of what had taken place, and heartily grateful for +the part his father had taken. To work at Cocksmoor, under Mr. Wilmot, +and to live at home, was felicity; and he fitted at once into his old +place, and resumed all the little home services for which he had been +always famed. Ethel was certain that Margaret was content, when she saw +her brother bending over her, and the sense of reliance and security +that the presence of the silent Richard imparted to the whole family was +something very peculiar, especially as they were so much more active and +demonstrative than he was. + +Mr. Wilmot put him at once in charge of the hamlet. The inhabitants were +still a hard, rude, unpromising race, and there were many flagrant +evils amongst them, but the last few years had not been without some +effect--some were less obdurate, a few really touched, and, almost all, +glad of instruction for their children. If Ethel’s perseverance had +done nothing else, it had, at least, been a witness, and her immediate +scholars showed the influence of her lessons. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + + + + Then out into the world, my course I did determine; + Though, to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming. + My talents they were not the worst, nor yet my education; + Resolved was I, at least to try, to mend my situation.--BURNS. + + +In the meantime, the session of Parliament had begun, and the Rivers’ +party had, since February, inhabited Park Lane. Meta had looked pale +and pensive, as she bade her friends at Stoneborough good-bye; but only +betrayed that she had rather have stayed at home, by promising herself +great enjoyment in meeting them again at Easter. + +Flora was, on the other hand, in the state of calm patronage that +betokened perfect satisfaction. She promised wonders for Miss Bracy’s +sisters--talked of inviting Mary and Blanche to see sights and take +lessons; and undertook to send all the apparatus needed by Cocksmoor +school; and she did, accordingly, send down so many wonderful articles, +that curate and schoolmistress were both frightened; Mrs. Taylor thought +the easels were new-fashioned instruments of torture; and Ethel found +herself in a condition to be liberal to Stoneborough National School. + +Flora was a capital correspondent, and made it her business to keep +Margaret amused, so that the home-party were well informed of the doings +of each of her days--and very clever her descriptions were. She had +given herself a dispensation from general society until after Easter; +but, in the meantime, both she and Meta seemed to find great enjoyment +in country rides and drives, and in quiet little dinners at home, to +George’s agreeable political friends. With the help of two such ladies +as Mrs. and Miss Rivers, Ethel could imagine George’s house pleasant +enough to attract clever people; but she was surprised to find how full +her sister’s letters were of political news. + +It was a period when great interests were in agitation; and the details +of London talk and opinions were extremely welcome. Dr. Spencer used to +come in to ask after “Mrs. Rivers’s Intelligencer”; and, when he heard +the lucid statements, would say, she ought to have been a “special +correspondent.” And her father declared that her news made him twice +as welcome to his patients; but her cleverest sentences always were +prefaced with “George says,” or “George thinks,” in a manner that made +her appear merely the dutiful echo of his sentiments. + +In an early letter, Flora mentioned how she had been reminded of poor +Harry, by finding Miss Walkinghame’s card. That lady lived with her +mother at Richmond, and, on returning the visit, Flora was warmly +welcomed by the kind old Lady Walkinghame, who insisted on her bringing +her baby and spending a long day. The sisters-in-law had been enchanted +with Miss Walkinghame, whose manners, wrote Flora, certainly merited +papa’s encomium. + +On the promised “long day,” they found an unexpected addition to the +party, Sir Henry Walkinghame, who had newly returned from the continent. +“A fine-looking, agreeable man, about five-and-thirty,” Flora described +him, “very lively and entertaining. He talked a great deal of Dr. +Spencer, and of the life in the caves at Thebes; and he asked me whether +that unfortunate place, Cocksmoor, did not owe a great deal to me, or to +one of my sisters. I left Meta to tell him that story, and they became +very sociable over it.” + +A day or two after--“Sir Henry Walkinghame has been dining with us. He +has a very good voice, and we had some delightful music in the evening.” + +By and by Sir Henry was the second cavalier, when they went to an +oratorio, and Meta’s letter overflowed with the descriptions she had +heard from him of Italian church music. He always went to Rome for +Easter, and had been going as usual, this spring, but he lingered, and, +for once, remained in England, where he had only intended to spend a few +days on necessary business. + +The Easter recess was not spent at the Grange, but at Lady Leonora’s +pretty house in Surrey. She had invited the party in so pressing a +manner that Flora did not think it right to decline. Meta expressed some +disappointment at missing Easter among her school-children, but she +said a great deal about the primroses and the green corn-fields, and +nightingales--all which Ethel would have set down to her trick of +universal content, if it had not appeared that Sir Henry was there too, +and shared in all the delicious rides. + +“What would Ethel say,” wrote Flora, “to have our little Meta as Lady +of the Manor of Cocksmoor? He has begun to talk about Drydale, and there +are various suspicious circumstances that Lady Leonora marks with the +eyes of a discreet dowager. It was edifying to see how, from smiles, we +came to looks, and by and by to confidential talks, which have made her +entirely forgive me for having so many tall brothers. Poor dear old Mr. +Rivers! Lady Leonora owns that it was the best thing possible for that +sweet girl that he did not live any longer to keep her in seclusion; it +is so delightful to see her appreciated as she deserves, and with her +beauty and fortune, she might make any choice she pleases. In fact, I +believe Lady Leonora would like to look still higher for her, but this +would be mere ambition, and we should be far better satisfied with such +a connection as this, founded on mutual and increasing esteem, with a +man so well suited to her, and fixing her so close to us. You must not, +however, launch out into an ocean of possibilities, for the good aunt +has only infected me with the castle-building propensities of chaperons, +and Meta is perfectly unconscious, looking on him as too hopelessly +middle-aged, to entertain any such evil designs, avowing freely that +she likes him, and treating him very nearly as she does papa. It is +my business to keep ‘our aunt,’ who, between ourselves, has, below the +surface, the vulgarity of nature that high-breeding cannot eradicate, +from startling the little humming-bird, before the net has been properly +twined round her bright little heart. As far as I can see, he is much +smitten, but very cautious in his approaches, and he is wise.” + +Margaret did not know what dismay she conveyed, as she handed this +letter to her sister. There was no rest for Ethel till she could be +alone with her father. “Could nothing prevent it? Could not Flora be +told of Mr. Rivers’s wishes?” she asked. + +“His wishes would have lain this way.” + +“I do not know that.” + +“It is no concern of ours. There is nothing objectionable here, and +though I can’t say it is not a disappointment, it ought not to be. The +long and short of it is, that I never ought to have told you anything +about it.” + +“Poor Norman!” + +“Absurd! The lad is hardly one-and-twenty. Very few marry a first +love.” (Ah, Ethel!) “Poor old Rivers only mentioned it as a refuge from +fortune-hunters, and it stands to reason that he would have preferred +this. Anyway, it is awkward for a man with empty pockets to marry an +heiress, and it is wholesomer for him to work for his living. Better +that it should be out of his head at once, if it were there at all. I +trust it was all our fancy. I would not have him grieved now for worlds, +when his heart is sore.” + +“Somehow,” said Ethel, “though he is depressed and silent, I like it +better than I did last Christmas.” + +“Of course, when we were laughing out of the bitterness of our hearts,” + said Dr. May, sighing. “It is a luxury to let oneself alone to be +sorrowful.” + +Ethel did not know whether she desired a tete-a-tete with Norman or not. +She was aware that he had seen Flora’s letter, and she did not believe +that he would ever mention the hopes that must have been dashed by it; +or, if he should do so, how could she ever guard her father’s secret? At +least, she had the comfort of recognising the accustomed Norman in his +manner, low-spirited, indeed, and more than ever dreamy and melancholy, +but not in the unnatural and excited state that had made her unhappy +about him. She could not help telling Dr. Spencer that this was much +more the real brother. + +“I dare say,” was the answer, not quite satisfactory in tone. + +“I thought you would like it better.” + +“Truth is better than fiction, certainly. But I am afraid he has a +tendency to morbid self-contemplation, and you ought to shake him out of +it.” + +“What is the difference between self-contemplation and +self-examination?” + +“The difference between your brother and yourself. Ah! you think that +no answer. Will you have a medical simile? Self-examination notes the +symptoms and combats them; self-contemplation does as I did when I was +unstrung by that illness at Poonshedagore, and was always feeling my +own pulse. It dwells on them, and perpetually deplores itself. Oh, +dear! this is no better--what a wretch I am. It is always studying its +deformities in a moral looking-glass.” + +“Yes, I think poor Norman does that, but I thought it right and humble.” + +“The humility of a self-conscious mind. It is the very reverse of your +father, who is the most really humble man in existence.” + +“Do you call self-consciousness a fault?” + +“No. I call it a misfortune. In the vain, it leads to prudent vanity; in +the good, to a painful effort of humility.” + +“I don’t think I quite understand what it is.” + +“No, and you have so much of your father in you, that you never will. +But take care of your brother, and don’t let his brains work.” + +How Ethel was to take care of him she did not know; she could only +keep a heedful eye on him, and rejoice when he took Tom out for a long +walk--a companion certainly not likely to promote the working of the +brain--but though it was in the opposite direction to Cocksmoor, Tom +came home desperately cross, snubbed Gertrude, and fagged Aubrey; but, +then, as Blanche observed, perhaps that was only because his trousers +were splashed. + +In her next solitary walk to Cocksmoor, Norman joined Ethel. She was +gratified, but she could not think of one safe word worth saying to him, +and for a mile they preserved an absolute silence, until he first began, +“Ethel, I have been thinking--” + +“That you have!” said she, between hope and dread, and the thrill of +being again treated as his friend. + +“I want to consult you. Don’t you think now that Richard is settled at +home, and if Tom will study medicine, that I could be spared.” + +“Spared!” exclaimed Ethel. “You are not much at home.” + +“I meant more than my present absences. It is my earnest wish--” he +paused, and the continuation took her by surprise. “Do you think it +would give my father too much pain to part with me as a missionary to +New Zealand?” + +She could only gaze at him in mute amazement. + +“Do you think he could bear it?” said Norman hastily. + +“He would consent,” she replied. “Oh, Norman, it is the most glorious +thing man can do! How I wish I could go with you.” + +“Your mission is here,” said Norman affectionately. + +“I know it is--I am contented with it,” said Ethel; “but oh! Norman, +after all our talks about races and gifts, you have found the more +excellent way.” + +“Hush! Charity finds room at home, and mine are not such unmixed motives +as yours.” + +She made a sound of inquiry. + +“I cannot tell you all. Some you shall hear. I am weary of this feverish +life of competition and controversy--” + +“I thought you were so happy with your fellowship. I thought Oxford was +your delight.” + +“She will always be nearer my heart than any place, save this. It is not +her fault that I am not like the simple and dutiful, who are not fretted +or perplexed.” + +“Perplexed?” repeated Ethel. + +“It is not so now,” he replied. “God forbid! But where better men have +been led astray, I have been bewildered; till, Ethel, I have felt as if +the ground were slipping from beneath my feet, and I have only been able +to hide my eyes, and entreat that I might know the truth.” + +“You knew it!” said Ethel, looking pale, and gazing searchingly at him. + +“I did, I do; but it was a time of misery when, for my presumption, I +suppose, I was allowed to doubt whether it were the truth.” + +Ethel recoiled, but came nearer, saying, very low, “It is past.” + +“Yes, thank Him who is Truth. You all saved me, though you did not know +it.” + +“When was this?” she asked timidly. + +“The worst time was before the Long Vacation. They told me I ought +to read this book and that. Harvey Anderson used to come primed with +arguments. I could always overthrow them, but when I came to glory in +doing so, perhaps I prayed less. Anyway, they left a sting. It might be +that I doubted my own sincerity, from knowing that I had got to argue, +chiefly because I liked to be looked on as a champion.” + +Ethel saw the truth of what her friend had said of the morbid habit of +self-contemplation. + +“I read, and I mystified myself. The better I talked, the more my own +convictions failed me; and, by the time you came up to Oxford, I knew +how you would have shrunk from him who was your pride, if you could have +seen into the secrets beneath.” + +Ethel took hold of his hand. “You seemed bright,” she said. + +“It melted like a bad dream before--before the humming-bird, and with my +father. It was weeks ere I dared to face the subject again.” + +“How could you? Was it safe?” + +“I could not have gone on as I was. Sometimes the sight of my father, or +the mountains and lakes in Scotland, or--or--things at the Grange, would +bring peace back; but there were dark hours, and I knew that there could +be no comfort till I had examined and fought it out.” + +“I suppose examination was right,” said Ethel, “for a man, and defender +of the faith. I should only have tried to pray the terrible thought +away. But I can’t tell how it feels.” + +“Worse than you have power to imagine,” said Norman, shuddering. “It is +over now. I worked out their fallacies, and went over the reasoning on +our side.” + +“And prayed--” said Ethel. + +“Indeed I did; and the confidence returned, firmer, I hope, than ever. +It had never gone for a whole day.” + +Ethel breathed freely. “It was life or death,” she said, “and we never +knew it!” + +“Perhaps not; but I know your prayers were angel-wings ever round me. +And far more than argument, was the thought of my father’s heart-whole +Christian love and strength.” + +“Norman, you believed, all the time, with your heart. This was only a +bewilderment of your intellect.” + +“I think you are right,” said Norman. “To me the doubt was cruel +agony--not the amusement it seems to some.” + +“Because our dear home has made the truth, our joy, our union,” said +Ethel. “And you are sure the cloud is gone, and for ever?” she still +asked anxiously. + +He stood still. “For ever, I trust,” he said. “I hold the faith of my +childhood in all its fullness as surely as--as ever I loved my mother +and Harry.” + +“I know you do,” said Ethel. “It was only a bad dream.” + +“I hope I may be forgiven for it,” said Norman. “I do not know how +far it was sin. It was gone so far as that my mind was convinced last +Christmas, but the shame and sting remained. I was not at peace again +till the news of this spring came, and brought, with the grief, this +compensation--that I could cast behind me and forget the criticisms and +doubts that those miserable debates had connected with sacred words.” + +“You will be the sounder for having fought the fight,” said Ethel. + +“I do not dread the like shocks,” said her brother, “but I long to leave +this world of argument and discussion. It is right that there should be +a constant defence and battle, but I am not fit for it. I argue for my +own triumph, and, in heat and harassing, devotion is lost. Besides, the +comparison of intellectual power has been my bane all my life.” + +“I thought ‘praise was your penance here.’” + +“I would fain render it so, but--in short, I must be away from it all, +and go to the simplest, hardest work, beginning from the rudiments, and +forgetting subtle arguments.” + +“Forgetting yourself,” said Ethel. + +“Right. I want to have no leisure to think about myself,” said Norman. +“I am never so happy as at such times.” + +“And you want to find work so far away?” + +“I cannot help feeling drawn towards those southern seas. I am glad you +can give me good-speed. But what do you think about my father?” + +Ethel thought and thought. “I know he would not hinder you,” she +repeated. + +“But you dread the pain for him? I had talked to Tom about taking his +profession; but the poor boy thinks he dislikes it greatly, though, I +believe, his real taste lies that way, and his aversion only arises a +few grand notions he has picked up, out of which I could soon talk him.” + +“Tom will not stand in your place,” said Ethel. + +“He will be more equable and more to be depended upon,” said Norman. +“None of you appreciate Tom. However, you must hear my alternative. If +you think my going would be too much grief for papa, or if Tom be set +against helping him in his practice, there is an evident leading of +Providence, showing that I am unworthy of this work. In that case I +would go abroad and throw myself, at once, with all my might, into the +study of medicine, and get ready to give my father some rest. It is a +shame that all his sons should turn away from his profession.” + +“I am more than ever amazed!” cried Ethel. “I thought you detested it. I +thought papa never wished it for you. He said you had not nerve.” + +“He was always full of the tenderest consideration for me,” said Norman. +“With Heaven to help him, a man may have nerve for whatever is his +duty.” + +“How he would like to have you to watch and help. But New Zealand would +be so glorious!” + +“Glory is not for me,” said Norman. “Understand, Ethel, the choice is +New Zealand, or going at once--at once, mind--to study at Edinburgh or +Paris.” + +“New Zealand at once?” said Ethel. + +“I suppose I mast stay for divinity lectures, but my intention must +be avowed,” said Norman hastily. “And now, will you sound my father? I +cannot.” + +“I can’t sound,” said Ethel. “I can only do things point-blank.” + +“Do then,” said Norman, “any way you can! Only let me know which is best +for him. You get all the disagreeable things to do, good old unready +one,” he added kindly. “I believe you are the one who would be shoved in +front, if we were obliged to face a basilisk.” + +The brightness that had come over Norman, when he had discharged his +cares upon her, was encouragement enough for Ethel. She only asked how +much she was to repeat of their conversation. + +“Whatever you think best. I do not want to grieve him, but he must not +think it fine in me.” + +Ethel privately thought that no power on earth could prevent him from +doing that. + +It was not consistent with cautious sounding, that Norman was always +looking appealingly towards her; and, indeed, she could not wait long +with such a question on her mind. She remained with her father in the +drawing-room, when the rest were gone upstairs, and, plunging at once +into the matter, she said, “Papa, there is something that Norman cannot +bear to say to you himself.” + +“Humming-birds to wit?” said Dr. May. + +“No, indeed, but he wants to be doing something at once. What should you +think of--of--there are two things; one is--going out as a missionary--” + +“Humming-birds in another shape,” said the doctor, startled, but +smiling, so as to pique her. + +“You mean to treat it as a boy’s fancy!” said she. + +“It is rather suspicious,” he said. “Well, what is the other of his two +things?” + +“The other is, to begin studying medicine at once, so as to help you.” + +“Heyday!” cried Dr. May, drawing up his tall vigorous figure, “does he +think me so very ancient and superannuated?” + +What could possess him to be so provoking and unsentimental to-night? +Was it her own bad management? She longed to put an end to the +conversation, and answered, “No, but he thinks it hard that none of your +sons should be willing to relieve you.” + +“It won’t be Norman,” said Dr. May. “He is not made of the stuff. If +he survived the course of study, every patient he lost, he would bring +himself in guilty of murder, and there would soon be an end of him!” + +“He says that a man can force himself to anything that is his duty.” + +“This is not going to be his duty, if I can make it otherwise. What is +the meaning of all this? No, I need not ask, poor boy, it is what I was +afraid of!” + +“It is far deeper,” said Ethel; and she related great part of what +she had heard in the afternoon. It was not easy to make her father +listen--his line was to be positively indignant, rather than +compassionate, when he heard of the doubts that had assailed poor +Norman. “Foolish boy, what business had he to meddle with those accursed +books, when he knew what they were made of--it was tasting poison, +it was running into temptation! He had no right to expect to come out +safe--” and then he grasped tightly hold of Ethel’s hands, and, as if +the terror had suddenly flashed on him, asked her, with dilated eye and +trembling voice, whether she were sure that he was safe, and held the +faith. + +Ethel repeated his asseveration, and her father covered his face with +his hands in thanksgiving. + +After this, he seemed somewhat inclined to hold poor Oxford in horror, +only, as he observed, it would be going out of the frying-pan into the +fire, to take refuge at Paris--a recurrence to the notion of Norman’s +medical studies, that showed him rather enticed by the proposal. + +He sent Ethel to bed, saying he should talk to Norman and find out what +was the meaning of it, and she walked upstairs, much ashamed of having +so ill served her brother, as almost to have made him ridiculous. + +Dr May and Norman never failed to come to an understanding, and after +they had had a long drive into the country together, Dr May told Ethel +that he was afraid, of what he ought not to be afraid of, that she was +right, that the lad was very much in earnest now at any rate, and if he +should continue in the same mind, he hoped he should not be so weak as +to hold him from a blessed work. + +From Norman, Ethel heard the warmest gratitude for his father’s +kindness. Nothing could be done yet, he must wait patiently for the +present, but he was to write to his uncle, Mr. Arnott, in New Zealand, +and, without pledging himself, to make inquiries as to the mission; and +in the meantime, return to Oxford, where, to his other studies, he was +to add a course of medical lectures, which, as Dr. May said, would do +him no harm, would occupy his mind, and might turn to use wherever he +was. + +Ethel was surprised to find that Norman wrote to Flora an expression of +his resolution, that, if he found he could be spared from assisting his +father as a physician, he would give himself up to the mission in New +Zealand. Why should he tell any one so unsympathetic as Flora, who would +think him wasted in either case? + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + + + + Do not fear: Heaven is as near, + By water, as by land.--LONGFELLOW. + + +The fifth of May was poor Harry’s eighteenth birthday, and, as usual, +was a holiday. Etheldred privately thought his memory more likely to be +respected, if Blanche and Aubrey were employed, than if they were left +in idleness; but Mary would have been wretched had the celebration been +omitted, and a leisure day was never unwelcome. + +Dr. Spencer carried off Blanche and Aubrey for a walk, and Ethel found +Mary at her great resort--Harry’s cupboard--dusting and arranging his +books, and the array of birthday gifts, to which, even to-day, she had +not failed to add the marker that had been in hand at Christmas. Ethel +entreated her to come down, and Mary promised, and presently appeared, +looking so melancholy, that, as a sedative, Ethel set her down to +the basket of scraps to find materials for a tippet for some one at +Cocksmoor, intending, as soon as Margaret should be dressed, to resign +her morning to the others, invite Miss Bracy to the drawing-room, and +read aloud. + +Gertrude was waiting for her walk, till nurse should have dressed +Margaret, and was frisking about the lawn, sometimes looking in at the +drawing-room window at her sisters, sometimes chattering to Adams at his +work, or laughing to herself and the flowers, in that overflow of mirth, +that seemed always bubbling up within her. + +She was standing in rapt contemplation of a pear-tree in full blossom, +her hands tightly clasped behind the back, for greater safety from the +temptation, when, hearing the shrubbery gate open, she turned, expecting +to see her papa, but was frightened at the sight of two strangers, and +began to run off at full speed. + +“Stop! Blanche! Blanche, don’t you know me?” The voice was that tone of +her brother’s, and she stood and looked, but it came from a tall, ruddy +youth, in a shabby rough blue coat, followed by a grizzled old seaman. +She was too much terrified and perplexed even to run. + +“What’s the matter! Blanche, it is I! Why, don’t you know me--Harry?” + +“Poor brother Harry is drowned,” she answered; and, with one bound, he +was beside her, and, snatching her up, devoured her with kisses. + +“Put me down--put me down, please,” was all she could say. + +“It is not Blanche! What? the little Daisy, I do believe!” + +“Yes, I am Gertrude, but please let me go;” and, at the same time, Adams +hurried up, as if he thought her being kidnapped, but his aspect changed +at the glad cry, “Ha! Adams’ how are you? Are they all well?” + +“‘Tisn’t never Master Harry! Bless me!” as Harry’s hand gave him +sensible proof; “when we had given you up for lost!” + +“My father well?” Harry asked, hurrying the words one over the other. + +“Quite well, sir, but he never held up his head since he heard it, and +poor Miss Mary has so moped about. If ever I thought to see the like--” + +“So they did not get my letter, but I can’t stop. Jennings will tell +you. Take care of him. Come, Daisy--” for he had kept her unwilling hand +all the time. “But what’s that for?” pointing to the black ribbons, and, +stopping short, startled. + +“Because of poor Harry,” said the bewildered child. + +“Oh, that’s right!” cried he, striding on, and dragging her in a +breathless run, as he threw open the well-known doors; and, she escaping +from him, hid her face in Mary’s lap, screaming, “He says he is Harry! +he says he is not drowned!” + +At the same moment Ethel was in his arms, and his voice was sobbing, +“Ethel! Mary! home! Where’s papa?” One moment’s almost agonising joy in +the certainty of his identity! but ere she could look or think, he was +crying, “Mary! oh, Ethel, see--” + +Mary had not moved, but sat as if turned to stone, with breath +suspended, wide-stretched eyes, and death-like cheeks--Ethel sprang to +her, “Mary, Mary dear, it is Harry! It is himself! Don’t you see? Speak +to her, Harry.” + +He seemed almost afraid to do so, but, recovering himself, exclaimed, +“Mary, dear old Polly, here I am! Oh, won’t you speak to me?” he added +piteously, as he threw his arm round her and kissed her, startled at the +cold touch of her cheek. + +The spell seemed broken, and, with a wild hoarse shriek that rang +through the house, she struggled to regain her breath, but it would only +come in painful, audible catches, as she held Harry’s hand convulsively. + +“What have I done?” he exclaimed, in distress. + +“What’s this! Who is this frightening my dear?” was old nurse’s +exclamation, as she and James came at the outcry. + +“Oh, nurse, what have I done to her?” repeated Harry. + +“It is joy--it is sudden joy!” said Ethel. “See, she is better now--” + +“Master Harry! Well, I never!” and James, “with one wring of the hand, +retreated, while old nurse was nearly hugged to death, declaring all the +time that he didn’t ought to have come in such a way, terrifying every +one out of their senses! and as for poor Miss May-- + +“Where is she?” cried Harry, starting at the sight of the vacant sofa. + +“Only upstairs,” said Ethel; “but where’s Alan? Is not he come?” + +“Oh, Ethel, don’t you know?” His face told but too plainly. + +“Nurse! nurse, how shall we tell her?” said Ethel. + +“Poor dear!” exclaimed nurse, sounding her tongue on the roof of her +mouth. “She’ll never abear it without her papa. Wait for him, I should +say. But bless me, Miss Mary, to see you go on like that, when Master +Harry is come back such a bonny man!” + +“I’m better now,” said Mary, with an effort. “Oh, Harry! speak to me +again.” + +“But Margaret!” said Ethel, while the brother was holding Mary in +his embrace, and she lay tremulous with the new ecstasy upon his +breast--“but Margaret. Nurse, you must go up, or she will suspect. I’ll +come when I can; speak quietly. Oh! poor Margaret! If Richard would but +come in!” + +Ethel walked up and down the room, divided between a tumult of joy, +grief, dread, and perplexity. At that moment a little voice said at the +door, “Please, Margaret wants Harry to come up directly.” + +They looked one upon another in consternation. They had never thought of +the child, who, of course, had flown up at once with the tidings. + +“Go up, Miss Ethel,” said nurse. + +“Oh! nurse, I can’t be the first. Come, Harry, come.” + +Hand-in-hand, they silently ascended the stairs, and Ethel pushed open +the door. Margaret was on her couch, her whole form and face in one +throb of expectation. + +She looked into Harry’s face--the eagerness flitted like sunshine on the +hillside, before a cloud, and, without a word, she held out her arms. + +He threw himself on his knees, and her fingers were clasped among his +thick curls, while his frame heaved with suppressed sobs, “Oh, if he +could only have come back to you.” + +“Thank God,” she said; then slightly pushing him back, she lay holding +his hand in one of hers, and resting the other on his shoulder, and +gazing in silence into his face. Each was still--she was gathering +strength--he dreaded word or look. + +“Tell me how and where;” she said at last. + +“It was in the Loyalty Isles; it was fever--the exertions for us. His +head was lying here,” and he pointed to his own breast. “He sent his +love to you--he bade me tell you there would be meeting by and by, in +the haven where he would be.--I laid his head in the grave--under the +great palm--I said some of the prayers--there are Christians round it.” + +He said this in short disconnected phrases, often pausing to gather +voice, but forced to resume, by her inquiring looks and pressure of his +hand. + +She asked no more. “Kiss me,” she said, and when he had done so, “Thank +you, go down, please, all of you. You have brought great relief. Thank +you. But I can’t talk yet. You shall tell me the rest by and by.” + +She sent them all away, even Ethel, who would have lingered. + +“Go to him, dearest. Let me be alone. Don’t be uneasy. This is +peace--but go.” + +Ethel found Mary and Harry interlaced into one moving figure, and Harry +greedily asking for his father and Norman, as if famishing for the sight +of them. He wanted to set out to seek the former in the town, but his +movements were too uncertain, and the girls clung to the newly-found, +as if they could not trust him away from them. They wandered about, +speaking, all three at random, without power of attending to the +answers. It was enough to see him, and touch him; they could not yet +care where he had been. + +Dr. May was in the midst of them ere they were aware. One look, and he +flung his arms round his son, but, suddenly letting him go, he burst +away, and banged his study door. Harry would have followed. + +“No, don’t,” said Ethel; then, seeing him disappointed, she came nearer, +and murmured, “‘He entered into his chamber and--’” + +Harry silenced her with another embrace, but their father was with them +again, to verify that he had really seen his boy, and ask, alas! whether +Alan were with Margaret. The brief sad answer sent him to see how it was +with her. She would not let him stay; she said it was infinite comfort, +and joy was coming, but she would rather be still, and not come down +till evening. + +Perhaps others would fain have been still, could they have borne an +instant’s deprivation of the sight of their dear sailor, while greetings +came thickly on him. The children burst in, having heard a report in the +town, and Dr. Spencer waited at the door for the confirmation; but when +Ethel would have flown out to him, he waved his hand, shut the door, and +hurried away, as if a word to her would have been an intrusion. + +The brothers had been summoned by a headlong apparition of Will Adams in +Cocksmoor school, shouting that Master Harry was come home; and Norman’s +long legs out-speeding Richard, had brought him back, flushed, and too +happy for one word, while, “Well, Harry,” was Richard’s utmost, and his +care for Margaret seemed to overpower everything else, as he went up, +and was not so soon sent away. + +Words were few downstairs. Blanche and Aubrey agreed that they +thought people would have been much happier, but, in fact, the joy was +oppressive from very newness. Ethel roamed about, she could not sit +still without feeling giddy, in the strangeness of the revulsion. Her +father sat, as if a word would break the blest illusion; and Harry +stood before each of them in turn, as if about to speak, but turned +his address into a sudden caress, or blow on the shoulder, and tried to +laugh. Little Gertrude, not understanding; the confusion, had taken up +her station under the table, and peeped out from beneath the cover. + +There was more composure as they sat at dinner, and yet there was very +little talking or eating. Afterwards Dr. May and Norman exultingly +walked away, to show their Harry to Dr. Spencer and Mr. Wilmot; and +Ethel would gladly have tried to calm herself, and recover the balance +of her mind, by giving thanks where they were due; but she did not know +what to do with her sisters. Blanche was wild, and Mary still in so +shaky a state of excitement, that she went off into mad laughing, when +Blanche discovered that they were in mourning for Harry. + +Nothing would satisfy Blanche but breaking in on Margaret, and climbing +to the top of the great wardrobe to disinter the coloured raiment, +beseeching that each favourite might be at once put on, to do honour +to Harry. Mary chimed in with her, in begging for the wedding +merinos--would not Margaret wear her beautiful blue? + +“No, my dear, I cannot,” said Margaret gently. + +Mary looked at her and was again in a flood of tears, incoherently +protesting, together with Ethel, that they would not change. + +“No, dears,” said Margaret. “I had rather you did so. You must not be +unkind to Harry. He will not think I do not welcome him. I am only too +glad that Richard would not let my impatience take away my right to wear +this.” + +Ethel knew that it was for life. + +Mary could not check her tears, and would go on making heroic protests +against leaving off her black, sobbing the more at each. Margaret’s +gentle caresses seemed to make her worse, and Ethel, afraid that +Margaret’s own composure would be overthrown, exclaimed, “How can you +be so silly? Come away!” and rather roughly pulled her out of the room, +when she collapsed entirely at the top of the stairs, and sat crying +helplessly. + +“I can’t think what’s the use of Harry’s coming home,” Gertrude was +heard saying to Richard. “It is very disagreeable;” whereat Mary +relapsed into a giggle, and Ethel felt frantic. + +“Richard! Richard! what is to be done with Mary? She can’t help it, I +believe, but this is not the way to treat the mercy that--” + +“Mary had better go and lie down in her own room,” said Richard, +tenderly and gravely. + +“Oh, please! please!” began Mary, “I shall not see him when he comes +back!” + +“If you can’t behave properly when he does come,” said Richard, “there +is no use in being there.” + +“Remember, Ritchie,” said Ethel, thinking him severe, “she has not been +well this long time.” + +Mary began to plead, but, with his own pretty persuasive manner, he +took her by the hand, and drew her into his room; and when he came down, +after an interval, it was to check Blanche, who would have gone up to +interrupt her with queries about the perpetual blue merino. He sat down +with Blanche on the staircase window-seat, and did not let her go till +he had gently talked her out of flighty spirits into the soberness of +thankfulness. + +Ethel, meanwhile, had still done nothing but stray about, long for +loneliness, find herself too unsteady to finish her letters to Flora +and Tom; and, while she tried to make Gertrude think Harry a pleasant +acquisition, she hated her own wild heart, that could not rejoice, nor +give thanks, aright. + +By and by Mary came down, with her bonnet on, quite quiet now. “I am +going to church with Ritchie,” she said. Ethel caught at the notion, and +it spread through the house. Dr May, who just then came in with his two +sons, looked at Harry, saying, “What do you think of it? Shall we go, my +boy?” And Harry, as soon as he understood, declared that he should like +nothing better. It seemed what they all needed, even Aubrey and Gertrude +begged to come, and, when the solemn old minster was above their +heads, and the hallowed stillness around them, the tightened sense of +half-realised joy began to find relief in the chant of glory. The voices +of the sanctuary, ever uplifting notes of praise, seemed to gather +together and soften their emotions; and agitation was soothed away, and +all that was oppressive and tumultuous gave place to sweet peace and +thankfulness. Ethel dimly remembered the like sense of relief, when her +mother had hushed her wild ecstasy, while sympathising with her joy. +Richard could not trust his voice, but Mr. Wilmot offered the special +thanksgiving. + +Harry was, indeed, “at home,” and his tears fell fast over his book, as +he heard his father’s “Amen,” so fervent and so deep; and he gazed up +and around, with fond and earnest looks, as thoughts and resolutions, +formed there of old, came gathering thick upon him. And there little +Gertrude seemed first to accept him. She whispered to her papa, as they +stood up to go away, that it was very good in God Almighty to have sent +Harry home; and, as they left the cloister, she slipped into Harry’s +hand a daisy from the grave, such a gift as she had never carried to any +one else, save her father and Margaret, and she shrank no longer from +being lifted up in his arms, and carried home through the twilight +street. + +He hurried into the drawing-room, and was heard declaring that all was +right, for Margaret was on the sofa; but he stopped short, grieved at +her altered looks. She smiled as he stooped to kiss her, and then made +him stand erect, and measure himself against Norman, whose height he +had almost reached. The little curly midshipman had come back, as nurse +said, “a fine-growed young man,” his rosy cheeks, brown and ruddy, and +his countenance-- + +“You are much more like papa and Norman than I thought you would be,” + said Margaret. + +“He has left his snub nose and yellow locks behind,” said his father; +“though the shaggy mane seems to remain. I believe lions grow darker +with age. So there stand June and July together again!” + +Dr. May walked backwards to look at them. It was good to see his face. + +“I shall see Flora and Tom to-morrow!” said Harry, after nodding with +satisfaction, as they all took their wonted places. + +“Going!” exclaimed Richard. + +“Why, don’t you know?” said Ethel; “it is current in the nursery that +he is going to be tried by court-martial for living with the King of the +Cannibal Islands.” + +“Aubrey says he had a desert island, with Jennings for his man Friday,” + said Blanche. + +“Harry,” said little Gertrude, who had established herself on his knee, +“did you really poke out the giant’s eye with the top of a fir-tree?” + +“Who told you so, Daisy?” was the general cry; but she became shy, and +would not answer more than by a whisper about Aubrey, who indignantly +declared that he never said so, only Gertrude was so foolish that she +did not know Harry from Ulysses. + +“After all,” said Ethel, “I don’t think our notions are much more +defined. Papa and Norman may know more, but we have heard almost +nothing. I have been waiting to hear more to close up my letters to +Flora and Tom. What a shame that has not been done!” + +“I’ll finish,” said Mary, running to the side-table. + +“And tell her I’ll be there to-morrow,” said Harry. “I must report +myself; and what fun to see Flora a member of Parliament! Come with me, +June; I’ll be back next day. I wish you all would come.” + +“Yes, I must come with you,” said Norman. “I shall have to go to Oxford +on Thursday;” and very reluctant he looked. “Tell Flora I am coming, +Mary.” + +“How did you know that Flora was a married lady?” asked Blanche, in her +would-be grown-up manner. + +“I heard that from Aunt Flora. A famous lot of news I picked up there!” + +“Aunt Flora!” + +“Did you not know he had been at Auckland?” said Dr. May. “Aunt Flora +had to nurse him well after all he had undergone. Did you not think her +very like mamma, Harry?” + +“Mamma never looked half so old!” cried Harry indignantly. + +“Flora was five years younger!” + +“She has got her voice and way with her,” said Harry; “but you will soon +see. She is coming home soon.” + +There was a great outcry of delight. + +“Yes, there is some money of Uncle Arnott’s that must be looked after, +but he does not like the voyage, and can’t leave his office, so perhaps +Aunt Flora may come alone. She had a great mind to come with me, but +there was no good berth for her in this schooner, and I could not wait +for another chance. I can’t think what possessed the letters not to +come! She would not write by the first packet, because I was so ill, but +we both wrote by the next, and I made sure you had them, or I would have +written before I came.” + +The words were not out of his mouth before the second post was brought +in, and there were two letters from New Zealand! What would they not +have been yesterday? Harry would have burned his own, but the long +closely-written sheets were eagerly seized, as, affording the best hope +of understanding his adventures, as it had been written at intervals +from Auckland, and the papers, passing from one to the other, formed the +text for interrogations on further details, though much more was gleaned +incidentally in tete-a-tetes, by Margaret, Norman, or his father, and no +one person ever heard the whole connectedly from Harry himself. + +“What was the first you knew of the fire, Harry?” asked Dr. May, looking +up from the letter. + +“Owen shaking me awake; and I thought it was a hoax,” said Harry. “But +it was true enough, and when we got on deck, there were clouds of smoke +coming up the main hatch-way.” + +Margaret’s eyes were upon him, and her lips formed the question, “And +he?” + +“He met us, and told us to be steady--but there was little need for +that! Every man there was as cool and collected as if it had been no +more than the cook’s stove--and we should have scorned to be otherwise! +He put his hand on my shoulder and said, ‘Keep by me,’ and I did.” + +“Then there was never much hope of extinguishing the fire?” + +“No; if you looked down below the forecastle it was like a furnace, and +though the pumps were at work, it was only to gain time while the boats +were lowered. The first lieutenant told off the men, and they went +down the side without one word, only shaking hands with those that were +left.” + +“Oh, Harry! what were you thinking of?” cried Blanche. + +“Of the powder,” said Harry. + +Ethel thought there was more in that answer than met the ear, and that +Harry, at least, had thought of the powder to-night at church. + +“Mr. Ernescliffe had the command of the second cutter. He asked to take +me with him; I was glad enough; and Owen--he is mate, you know--went +with us.” + +As to telling how he felt when he saw the good ship Alcestis blown to +fragments, that was past Harry, and all but Blanche were wise enough not +to ask. She had by way of answer, “Very glad to be safe out of her.” + +Nor was Harry willing to dwell on the subsequent days, when the +unclouded sun had been a cruel foe; and the insufficient stores of food +and water did, indeed, sustain life, but a life of extreme suffering. +What he told was of the kindness that strove to save him, as the +youngest, from all that could be spared him. “If I dropped asleep at the +bottom of the boat, I was sure to find some one shading me from the sun. +If there was an extra drop of water, they wanted me to have it.” + +“Tell me their names, Harry!” cried Dr. May. “If ever I meet one of +them--” + +“But the storm, Harry, the storm?” asked Blanche. “Was that not +terrible?” + +“Very comfortable at first, Blanche,” was the answer. “Oh, that rain!” + +“But when it grew so very bad?” + +“We did not reck much what happened to us,” said Harry. “It could not be +worse than starving. When we missed the others in the morning, most of +us thought them the best off.” + +Mary could not help coming round to kiss him, as if eyes alone were not +enough to satisfy her that here he was. + +Dr. May shuddered, and went on reading, and Margaret drew Harry down to +her, and once more by looks craved for more minute tidings. + +“All that you can think,” murmured Harry; “the very life and soul of us +all--so kind, and yet discipline as perfect as on board. But don’t now, +Margaret--” + +The tone of the don’t, the reddening cheek, liquid eye, and heaving +chest, told enough of what the lieutenant had been to one, at least, of +the desolate boat’s crew. + +“Oh, Harry, Harry! I can’t bear it!” exclaimed Mary. “How long did it +last? How did it end?” + +“Fifteen days,” said Harry. “It was time it should end, for all the +water we had caught in the storm was gone--we gave the last drop to +Jones, for we thought him dying; one’s tongue was like a dry sponge.” + +“How did it end?” repeated Mary, in an agony. + +“Jennings saw a sail. We thought it all a fancy of weakness, but ‘twas +true enough, and they saw our signal of distress!” + +The vessel proved to be an American whaler, which had just parted with +her cargo to a homeward bound ship, and was going to refit, and take in +provisions and water at one of the Milanesian islands, before returning +for further captures. The master was a man of the shrewd, hard +money-making cast; but, at the price of Mr. Ernescliffe’s chronometer, +and of the services of the sailors, he undertook to convey them where +they might fall in with packets bound for Australia. + +The distressed Alcestes at first thought themselves in paradise, but +the vessel, built with no view, save to whales, and, with a considerable +reminiscence of the blubber lately parted with, proved no wholesome +abode, when overcrowded, and in the tropics! Mr. Ernescliffe’s science, +resolution, and constancy, had saved his men so far; but with the need +for exertion his powers gave way, and he fell a prey to a return of the +fever which had been his introduction to Dr. May. + +“There he was,” said Harry, “laid up in a little bit of a stifling +cabin, just like an oven, without the possibility of a breath of air! +The skin-flint skipper carried no medicine; the water--shocking stuff it +was--was getting so low, that there was only a pint a day served out to +each, and though all of us Alcestes clubbed every drop we could spare +for him--it was bad work! Owen and I never were more glad in our lives +than when we heard we were to cast anchor at the Loyalty Isles! Such a +place as it was! You little know what it was to see anything green! And +there was this isle fringed down close to the sea with cocoa-nut trees! +And the bay as clear!--you could see every shell, and wonderful fishes +swimming in it! Well, every one was for going ashore, and some of the +natives swam out to us, and brought things in their canoes, but not +many; it is not encouraged by the mission, nor by David--for those +Yankee traders are not the most edifying society--and the crew vowed +they were cannibals, and had eaten a man three years ago, so they all +went ashore armed.” + +“You stayed with him,” said Margaret. + +“Ay, it was my turn, and I was glad enough to have some fresh fruit and +water for him, but he could not take any notice of it. Did not I want +you, papa? Well, by and by, Owen came back, in a perfect rapture +with the place and the people, and said it was the only hope for Mr. +Ernescliffe, to take him on shore--” + +“Then you did really go amongst the cannibals!” exclaimed Blanche. + +“That is all nonsense,” said Harry. “Some of them may once have been, +and I fancy the heathens might not mind a bit of ‘long pig’ still; but +these have been converted by the Samoans.” + +The Samoans, it was further explained, are the inhabitants of the +Navigator Islands, who, having been converted by the Church Missionary +Society, have sent out great numbers of most active and admirable +teachers among the scattered islands, braving martyrdom and disease, +never shrinking from their work, and, by teaching and example, preparing +the way for fuller doctrine than they can yet impart. A station of these +devoted men had for some years been settled in this island, and had +since been visited by the missions of Newcastle and New Zealand. The +young chief, whom Harry called David, and another youth, had spent two +summers under instruction at New Zealand, and had been baptised. They +were spending the colder part of the year at home, and hoped shortly to +be called for by the mission-ship to return, and resume their course of +instruction. + +Owen had come to an understanding with the chief and the Samoans, and +had decided on landing his lieutenant, and it was accordingly done, with +very little consciousness on the patient’s part. Black figures, with +woolly mop-heads, and sometimes decorated with whitewash of lime, +crowded round to assist in the transport of the sick man through the +surf; and David himself, in a white European garb, met his guests, +with dignified manners that would have suited a prince of any land, and +conducted them through the grove of palms, interspersed with white huts, +to a beautiful house consisting of a central room, with many others +opening from it, floored with white coral lime, and lined with soft +shining mats of Samoan manufacture. This, Harry learned, had been +erected by them in hopes of an English missionary taking up his abode +amongst them. + +They were a kindly people, and had shown hospitality to other +Englishmen, who had less appreciated it than these young officers +could. They lavished every kindness in their power upon them, and +Mr. Ernescliffe, at first, revived so much, that he seemed likely to +recover. + +But the ship had completed her repairs, and was ready to sail. The two +midshipmen thought it would be certain death to their lieutenant to +bring him back to such an atmosphere; “and so,” continued Harry’s letter +to his father, “I thought there was nothing for it but for me to stay +with him, and that you would say so. I got Owen to consent, after some +trouble, as we were sure to be fetched off one time or another. We said +not a word to Mr. Ernescliffe, for he was only sensible now and then, so +that Owen had the command. Owen made the skipper leave me a pistol and +some powder, but I was ashamed David should know it, and stowed it away. +As to the quarter-master, old Jennings, whose boy you remember we +picked up at the Roman camp, he had not forgotten that, and when we were +shaking hands and wishing good-bye, he leaped up, and vowed ‘he would +never leave the young gentleman that had befriended his boy, to be eaten +up by them black savage niggers. If they made roast-pork of Mr. May, he +would be eaten first, though he reckoned they would find him a tougher +morsel.’ I don’t think Owen was sorry he volunteered, and no words can +tell what a blessing the good old fellow was to us both. + +“So there we stayed, and, at first, Mr. Ernescliffe seemed mending. The +delirium went off, he could talk quite clearly and comfortably, and he +used to lie listening, when David and I had our odd sort of talks. I +believe, if you had been there, or we could have strengthened him any +way, he might have got over it; but he never thought he should, and he +used to talk to me about all of you, and said Stoneborough had been the +most blessed spot in his life; he had never had so much of a home, and +that sharing our grief, and knowing you, had done him great good, just +when he might have been getting elated. I cannot recollect it all, +though I tried hard, for Margaret’s sake, but he said Hector would have +a great deal of temptation, and he hoped you would be a father to him, +and Norman an elder brother. You would not think how much he talked of +Cocksmoor, about a church being built there, as Ethel wished, and little +Daisy laying the first stone. I remember one night, I don’t know whether +he was quite himself, for he looked full at me with his eyes, that had +grown so large, till I did not know what was coming, and he said, ‘I +have seen a ship built by a sailor’s vow; the roof was like the timbers +of a ship--that was right. Mind, it is so. That is the ship that bears +through the waves; there is the anchor that enters within the veil.’ I +believe that was what he said. I could not forget that--he looked at me +so; but much more he said, that I dimly remember, and chiefly about poor +dear Margaret. He bade me tell her--his own precious pearl, as he used +to call her--that he was quite content, and believed it was best for her +and him both, that all should be thus settled, for they did not part for +ever, and he trusted--But I can’t write all that.” (There was a great +tear-blot just here). “It is too good to recollect anywhere but at +church. I have been there to-day, with my uncle and aunt, and I thought +I could have told it when I came home, but I was too tired to write +then, and now I don’t seem as if it could be written anyhow. When I come +home, I will try to tell Margaret. The most part was about her; only +what was better seemed to swallow that up.” + +The narrative broke off here, but had been subsequently resumed. + +“For all Mr. Ernescliffe talked as I told you, he was so quiet and +happy, that I made sure he was getting well, but Jennings did not; and +there came an old heathen native once to see us, who asked why we did +not bury him alive, because he got no better, and gave trouble. At last, +one night--it was the third of August--he was very restless, and could +not breathe, nor lie easily; I lifted him up in my arms, for he was very +light and thin, and tried to make him more comfortable. But presently he +said, ‘Is it you, Harry? God bless you;’ and, in a minute, I knew he was +dead. You will tell Margaret all about it. I don’t think she can love +him more than I did; and she did not half know him, for she never saw +him on board, nor in all that dreadful time, nor in his illness. She +will never know what she has lost.” + +There was another break here, and the story was continued. + +“We buried him the next day, where one could see the sea, close under +the great palm, where David hopes to have a church one of these days. +David helped us, and said the Lord’s Prayer and the Glory with us there. +I little thought, when I used to grumble at my two verses of the psalms +every day, when I should want the ninetieth, or how glad I should be to +know so many by heart, for they were such a comfort to Mr. Ernescliffe. + +“David got us a nice bit of wood, and Jennings carved the cross, and +his name, and all about him. I should have liked to have done it, but I +knocked up after that. Jennings thinks I had a sun-stroke. I don’t know, +but my head was so bad, whenever I moved, that I thought only Jennings +would ever have come to tell you about it. Jennings looked after me as +if I had been his own son; and there was David too, as kind as if he had +been Richard himself--always sitting by, to bathe my forehead, or, when +I was a little better, to talk to me, and ask me questions about his +Christian teaching. You must not think of him like a savage, for he is +my friend, and a far more perfect gentleman than I ever saw any one, +but you, papa, holding the command over his people so easily and +courteously, and then coming to me with little easy first questions +about the Belief, and such things, like what we used to ask mamma. He +liked nothing so well as for me to tell him about King David; and we had +learned a good deal of each other’s languages by that time. The notion +of his heart--like Cocksmoor to Ethel--is to get a real English mission, +and have all his people Christians. Ethel talked of good kings being +Davids to their line; I think that is what he will be, if he lives; but +those islanders have been dying off since Europeans came among them.” + +But Harry’s letter could not tell what he confessed, one night, to his +father, the next time he was out with him by starlight, how desolate he +had been, and how he had yearned after his home, and, one evening, he +had been utterly overcome by illness and loneliness, and had cried most +bitterly and uncontrollably; and, though Jennings thought it was for +his friend’s death, it really was homesickness, and the thought of his +father and Mary. Jennings had helped him out to the entrance of the +hut, that the cool night air might refresh his burning brow. Orion shone +clear and bright, and brought back the night when they had chosen the +starry hunter as his friend. “It seemed,” he said, “as if you all +were looking at me, and smiling to me in the stars. And there was +the Southern Cross upright, which was like the minster to me; and +I recollected it was Sunday morning at home, and knew you would be +thinking about me. I was so glad you had let me be confirmed, and be +with you that last Sunday, papa, for it seemed to join me on so much the +more; and when I thought of the words in church, they seemed, somehow, +to float on me so much more than ever before, and it was like the +minster, and your voice. I should not have minded dying so much after +that.” + +At last, Harry’s Black Prince had hurried into the hut with the tidings +that his English father’s ship was in the bay, and soon English voices +again sounded in his ears, bringing the forlorn boy such warmth of +kindness that he could hardly believe himself a mere stranger. If Alan +could but have shared the joy with him! + +He was carried down to the boat in the cool of the evening, and paused +on the way, for a last farewell to the lonely grave under the palm +tree-one of the many sailors’ graves scattered from the tropics to +the poles, and which might be the first seed in a “God’s acre” to that +island, becoming what the graves of holy men of old are to us. + +A short space more of kind care from his new friends and his Christian +chief, and Harry awoke from a feverish doze at sounds that seemed so +like a dream of home, that he was unwilling to break them by rousing +himself; but they approved themselves as real, and he found himself in +the embrace of his mother’s sister. + +And here Mrs. Arnott’s story began, of the note that reached her in the +early morning with tidings that her nephew had been picked up by the +mission-ship, and how she and her husband had hastened at once on board. + +“They sent me below to see a hero,” she wrote. “What I saw was a +scarecrow sort of likeness of you, dear Richard; but, when he opened his +eyes, there was our Maggie smiling at me. I suppose he would not forgive +me for telling how he sobbed and cried, when he had his arms round my +neck, and his poor aching head on my shoulder. Poor fellow, he was very +weak, and I believe he felt, for the moment, as if he had found his +mother. + +“We brought him home with us, but when the next mail went, the fever was +still so high, that I thought it would be only alarm to you to write, +and I had not half a story either, though you may guess how proud I was +of my nephew.” + +Harry’s troubles were all over from that time. He had thenceforth to +recover under his aunt’s motherly care, while talking endlessly over the +home that she loved almost as well as he did. He was well more quickly +than she had ventured to hope, and nothing could check his impatience to +reach his home, not even the hopes of having his aunt for a companion. +The very happiness he enjoyed with her only made him long the more +ardently to be with his own family; and he had taken his leave of her, +and of his dear David, and sailed by the first packet leaving Auckland. + +“I never knew what the old Great Bear was to me till I saw him again!” + said Harry. + +It was late when the elders had finished all that was to be heard at +present, and the clock reminded them that they must part. + +“And you go to-morrow?” sighed Margaret. + +“I must. Jennings has to go on to Portsmouth, and see after his son.” + +“Oh, let me see Jennings!” exclaimed Margaret. “May I not, papa?” + +Richard, who had been making friends with Jennings, whenever he had not +been needed by his sisters that afternoon, went to fetch him from the +kitchen, where all the servants, and all their particular friends, +were listening to the yarn that made them hold their heads higher, as +belonging to Master Harry. + +Harry stepped forward, met Jennings, and said, aside, “My sister, +Jennings; my sister that you have heard of.” + +Dr. May had already seen the sailor, but he could not help addressing +him again. “Come in; come in, and see my boy among us all. Without you, +we never should have had him.” + +“Make him come to me,” said Margaret breathlessly, as the embarrassed +sailor stood, sleeking down his hair; and, when he had advanced to her +couch, she looked up in his face, and put her hand into his great brown +one. + +“I could not help saying thank you,” she said. + +“Mr. May, sir!” cried Jennings, almost crying, and looking round for +Harry, as a sort of protector--“tell them, sir, please, it was only my +duty--I could not do no less, and you knows it, sir,” as if Harry had +been making an accusation against him. + +“We know you could not,” said Margaret, “and that is what we would thank +you for, if we could. I know he--Mr. Ernescliffe--must have been much +more at rest for leaving my brother with so kind a friend, and--” + +“Please, miss, don’t say no more about it. Mr. Ernescliffe was as fine +an officer as ever stepped a quarter-deck, and Mr. May here won’t fall +short of him; and was I to be after leaving the like of them to the +mercy of the black fellows--that was not so bad neither? If it had only +pleased God that we had brought them both back to you, miss; but, you +see, a man can’t be everything at once, and Mr. Ernescliffe was not so +stout as his heart.” + +“You did everything, we know--” began Dr. May. + +“‘Twas a real pleasure,” said Jennings hastily, “for two such real +gentlemen as they was. Mr. May, sir, I beg your pardon if I say it to +your face, never flinched, nor spoke a word of complaint, through it +all; and, as to the other--” + +“Margaret cannot bear this,” said Richard, coming near. “It is too +much.” + +The sailor shook his head, and was retreating, but Margaret signed him +to come near again, and grasped his hand. Harry followed him out of the +room, to arrange their journey, and presently returned. + +“He says he is glad he has seen Margaret; he says she is the right sort +of stuff for Mr. Ernescliffe.” + +Harry had not intended Margaret to hear, but she caught the words, +smiled radiantly, and whispered, “I wish I may be!” + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + + + +Margaret had borne the meeting much too well for her own good, and a +wakeful night of palpitation was the consequence; but she would not +allow any one to take it to heart, and declared that she should be ready +to enjoy Harry by the time he should return, and meantime, she should +dwell on the delight of his meeting Flora. + +No one had rested too soundly that night, and Dr. May had not been +able to help looking in at his sleeping boy at five in the morning, +to certify himself that he had not only figured his present bliss to +himself, in his ten minutes’ dream. And looking in again at half-past +seven, he found Harry half dressed, with his arm round Mary; laughing, +almost sobbing, over the treasures in his cupboard, which he had newly +discovered in their fresh order. + +Dr. May looked like a new man that morning, with his brightened eye and +bearing, as if there were a well-spring of joy within him, ready to brim +over at once in tear and in smile, and finding an outlet in the praise +and thanksgiving that his spirit chanted, and his face expressed, and in +that sunny genial benevolence that must make all share his joy. + +He was going to run over half the town--every one would like to hear +it from him; Ethel and Mary must go to the rest--the old women in the +almshouses, where lived an old cook who used to be fond of Harry--they +should have a feast; all who were well enough in the hospital should +have a tea-drinking; Dr. Hoxton had already granted a holiday to the +school; every boy with whom they had any connection should come to +dinner, and Edward Anderson should be asked to meet Harry on his return, +because, poor fellow, he was so improved. + +Dr. May was in such a transport of kind-hearted schemes, that he was +not easily made to hear that Harry had not a sixpence wherewith to reach +London. + +Ethel, meanwhile, was standing beside her brother tendering to him some +gold, as his last quarter. + +“How did you get it, Ethel? do you keep the purse?” + +“No, but papa took Cocksmoor in your stead, when--” + +“Nonsense, Ethel,” said Harry; “I don’t want it. Have I not all my +pay and allowance for the whole time I was dead? And as to robbing +Cocksmoor--” + +“Yes, keep it, Ethel,” said her father; “do you think I would take it +now, when if there were a thank-offering in the world.--And, by the bye, +your Cocksmoor children must have something to remember this by--” + +Every one could have envied Norman, for travelling to London with Harry, +but that he must proceed to Oxford in two days, when Harry would return +to them. The station-master, thinking he could not do enough for the +returned mariner, put the two brothers into the coupe, as if they had +been a bridal couple, and they were very glad of the privacy, having, as +yet, hardly spoken to each other, when Harry’s attention was dispersed +among so many. + +Norman asked many questions about the mission work in the southern +hemisphere, and ended by telling his brother of his design, which met +with Harry’s hearty approbation. + +“That’s right, old June. There’s nothing they want so much, as such as +you. How glad my aunt will be! Perhaps you will see David! Oh, if you +were to go out to the Loyalty group!” + +“Very possibly I might,” said Norman. + +“Tell them you are my brother, and how they will receive you! I can see +the mop-heads they will dress in honour of you, and what a feast of pork +and yams you will have to eat! But there is plenty of work among the +Maoris for you--they want a clergyman terribly at the next village to +my uncle’s place. I say, Norman, it will go hard if I don’t get a ship +bound for the Pacific, and come and see you.” + +“I shall reckon on you. That is, if I have not to stay to help my +father.” + +“To be sure,” exclaimed Harry; “I thought you would have stayed at home, +and married little Miss Rivers!” + +Thus broadly and boyishly did he plunge into that most tender subject, +making his brother start and wince, as if he had touched a wound. + +“Nonsense!” he cried, almost angrily. + +“Well! you used to seem very much smitten, but so, to be sure, were +some of the Alcestes with the young ladies at Valparaiso. How we used to +roast Owen about that Spanish Donna, and he was as bad at Sydney about +the young lady whose father, we told him, was a convict, though he kept +such a swell carriage. He had no peace about his father-in-law, the +house-breaker! Don’t I remember how you pinched her hand the night you +were righted!” + +“You know nothing about it,” said Norman shortly. “She is far beyond my +reach.” + +“A fine lady? Ha! Well, I should have thought you as good as Flora any +day,” said Harry indignantly. + +“She is what she always was,” said Norman, anxious to silence him; “but +it is unreasonable to think of it. She is all but engaged to Sir Henry +Walkinghame.” + +“Walkinghame!” cried the volatile sailor. “I have half a mind to send in +my name to Flora as Miss Walkinghame!” and he laughed heartily over that +adventure, ending, however, with a sigh, as he said, “It had nearly cost +me a great deal! But tell me, Norman, how has that Meta, as they called +her, turned out? I never saw anything prettier or nicer than she was +that day of the Roman encampment, and I should be sorry if that fine +fashionable aunt of hers, had made her stuck-up and disdainful.” + +“No such thing,” said Norman. + +“Ha!” said Harry to himself, “I see how it is! She has gone and made +poor old June unhappy, with her scornful airs--a little impertinent +puss!--I wonder Flora does not teach her better manners.” + +Norman, meanwhile, as the train sped over roofs, and among chimneys, was +reproaching himself for running into the fascination of her presence, +and then recollecting that her situation, as well as his destiny, both +guaranteed that they could meet only as friendly connections. + +No carriage awaited them at the station, which surprised Norman, till +he recollected that the horses had probably been out all day, and it was +eight o’clock. Going to Park Lane in a cab, the brothers were further +surprised to find themselves evidently not expected. The butler came to +speak to them, saying that Mr. and Mrs. Rivers were gone out to dinner, +but would return, probably, at about eleven o’clock. He conducted +them upstairs, Harry following his brother, in towering vexation and +disappointment, trying to make him turn to hear that they would go +directly--home--to Eton--anywhere--why would he go in at all? + +The door was opened, Mr. May was announced, and they were in a +silk-lined boudoir, where a little slender figure in black started up, +and came forward with outstretched hand. + +“Norman!” she cried, “how are you? Are you come on your way to Oxford?” + +“Has not Flora had Mary’s letter?” + +“Yes, she said she had one. She was keeping it till she had time to read +it.” + +As she spoke, Meta had given her hand to Harry, as it was evidently +expected; she raised her eyes to his face, and said, smiling’ and +blushing, “I am sure I ought to know you, but I am afraid I don’t.” + +“Look again,” said Norman. “See if you have ever seen him before.” + +Laughing, glancing, and casting down her eyes, she raised them with a +sudden start of joy, but colouring more deeply, said, “Indeed, I cannot +remember. I dare say I ought.” + +“I think you see a likeness,” said Norman. + +“Oh, yes, I see,” she answered, faltering; but perceiving how bright +were the looks of both, “No? Impossible! Yes, it is!” + +“Yes, it is,” said both brothers with one voice. She clasped her hands, +absolutely bounded with transport, then grasped both Harry’s hands, +and then Norman’s, her whole countenance radiant with joy and sympathy +beyond expression. + +“Dear, dear Dr. May!” was her first exclamation. “Oh, how happy you must +all be! And Margaret?” She looked up at Norman, and came nearer. “Is not +Mr. Ernescliffe come?” she asked softly, and trembling. + +“No,” was the low answer, which Harry could not bear to hear, and +therefore walked to the window. “No, Meta, but Margaret is much +comforted about him. He died in great peace--in his arms”--as he signed +towards his brother. And as Harry continued to gaze out on the stars of +gas on the opposite side of the park, he was able to add a few of the +particulars. + +Meta’s eyes glistened with tears, as she said, “Perhaps it would have +been too perfect if he had come; but oh, Norman! how good she is to bear +it so patiently! And how gloriously he behaved! How can we make enough +of him! And Flora out! how sorry she will be!” + +“And she never opened Mary’s letter,” said Harry, coming back to them. + +“She little thought what it contained,” said Meta. “Mary’s letters are +apt to bear keeping, you know, and she was so busy, that she laid it +aside for a treat after the day’s work. But there! inhospitable wretch +that I am! you have had no dinner!” + +A refection of tea and cold meat was preferred, and in her own pretty +manner Meta lavished her welcomes, trying to cover any pain given by +Flora’s neglect. + +“What makes her so busy?” asked Harry, looking round on the beautifully +furnished apartment, which, to many eyes besides those fresh from a +Milanesian hut, might have seemed a paradise of luxurious ease. + +“You don’t know what an important lady you have for a sister,” said Meta +merrily. + +“But tell me, what can she have to do? I thought you London ladies +had nothing to do, but to sit with your hands before you entertaining +company.” + +Meta laughed heartily. “Shall I begin at the beginning? I’ll describe +to-day then, and you must understand that this is what Tom would call a +mild specimen--only one evening engagement. Though, perhaps, I ought to +start from last night at twelve o’clock, when she was at the Austrian +Ambassador’s ball, and came home at two; but she was up by eight--she +always manages to get through her housekeeping matters before breakfast. +At nine, breakfast, and baby--by the bye, you have never inquired for +our niece.” + +“I have not come to believe in her yet,” said Harry. + +“Seeing is believing,” said Meta; “but no, I won’t take an unfair +advantage over her mamma; and she will be fast asleep; I never knew a +child sleep as she does. So to go on with our day. The papers come, and +Miss Leonora is given over to me; for you must know we are wonderful +politicians. Flora studies all the debates till George finds out what +he has heard in the House, and baby and I profit. Baby goes out walking, +and the post comes. Flora always goes to the study with George, and +writes, and does all sorts of things for him. She is the most useful +wife in the world. At twelve, we had our singing lesson--” + +“Singing lesson!” exclaimed Harry. + +“Yes, you know she has a pretty voice, and she is glad to cultivate it. +It is very useful at parties, but it takes up a great deal of time, +and with all I can do to save her in note-writing, the morning is gone +directly. After luncheon, she had to ride with George, and came back in +a hurry to make some canvassing calls about the orphan asylum, and Miss +Bracy’s sister. If we get her in at all, it will be Flora’s diplomacy. +And there was shopping to do, and when we came in hoping for time for +our letters, there were the Walkinghames, who stayed a long time, so +that Flora could only despatch the most important notes, before George +came in and wanted her. She was reading something for him all the time +she was dressing, but, as I say, this is quite a quiet day.” + +“Stop!” cried Harry, with a gesture of oppression, “it sounds harder +than cleaning knives, like Aunt Flora! And what is an unquiet day like?” + +“You will see, for we have a great evening party to-morrow.” + +“Do you always stay at home?” asked Harry. + +“Not always, but I do not go to large parties or balls this year,” said +Meta, glancing at her deep mourning; “I am very glad of a little time at +home.” + +“So you don’t like it.” + +“Oh, yes! it is very pleasant,” said Meta. “It is so entertaining when +we talk it over afterwards, and I like to hear how Flora is admired, and +called the beauty of the season. I tell George, and we do so gloat over +it together! There was an old French marquis the other night, a dear +old man, quite of the ancien regime, who said she was exactly like the +portraits of Madame de Maintenon, and produced a beautiful miniature on +a snuff-box, positively like that very pretty form of face of hers. +The old man even declared that Mistress Rivers was worthy to be a +Frenchwoman.” + +“I should like to kick him!” amiably responded Harry. + +“I hope you won’t to-morrow! But don’t let us waste our time over this; +I want so much to hear about New Zealand.” + +Meta was well read in Australasian literature, and drew out a great deal +more information from Harry than Norman had yet heard. She made him talk +about the Maori pah near his uncle’s farm, where the Sunday services +were conducted by an old gentleman tattooed elegantly in the face, but +dressed like an English clergyman; and tell of his aunt’s troubles about +the younger generation, whom their elders, though Christians themselves, +could not educate, and who she feared would relapse into heathenism, for +want of instruction, though with excellent dispositions. + +“How glad you must be that you are likely to go!” exclaimed Meta to +Norman, who had sat silently listening. + +The sound of the door bell was the first intimation that Harry’s +histories had occupied them until long past twelve o’clock. + +“Now, then!” cried Meta, springing forward, as if intending to meet +Flora with the tidings, but checking herself, as if she ought not to +be the first. There was a pause. Flora was hearing downstairs that Mr. +Norman May and another gentleman had arrived, and, while vexed at her +own omission, and annoyed at Norman’s bringing friends without waiting +for permission, she was yet prepared to be courteous and amiable. She +entered in her rich black watered silk, deeply trimmed with lace, +and with silver ornaments in her dark hair, so graceful and +distinguished-looking, that Harry stood suspended, hesitating, for an +instant, whether he beheld his own sister, especially as she made a +dignified inclination towards him, offering her hand to Norman, as she +said, “Meta has told you--” But there she broke off, exclaiming, “Ha! is +it possible! No, surely it cannot be--” + +“Miss Walkinghame?” said the sailor, who had felt at home with her at +the first word, and she flew into his great rough arms. + +“Harry! this is dear Harry! our own dear sailor come back,” cried she, +as her husband stood astonished; and, springing towards him, she put +Harry’s hand into his, “My brother Harry! our dear lost one.” + +“Your--brother--Harry,” slowly pronounced George, as he instinctively +gave the grasp of greeting--“your brother that was lost? Upon my word,” + as the matter dawned fully on him, and he became eager, “I am very glad +to see you. I never was more rejoiced in my life.” + +“When did you come? Have you been at home?” asked Flora. + +“I came home yesterday--Mary wrote to tell you.” + +“Poor dear old Mary! There’s a lesson against taking a letter on trust. +I thought it would be all Cocksmoor, and would wait for a quiet moment! +How good to come to me so soon, you dear old shipwrecked mariner!” + +“I was forced to come to report myself,” said Harry, “or I could not +have come away from my father so soon.” + +The usual questions and their sad answers ensued, and while Flora talked +to Harry, fondly holding his hand, Norman and Meta explained the history +to George, who no sooner comprehended it, that he opined it must have +been a horrid nuisance, and that Harry was a gallant fellow; then +striking him over the shoulder, welcomed him home with all his kind +heart, told him he was proud to receive him, and falling into a state of +rapturous hospitality, rang the bell, and wanted to order all sorts +of eatables and drinkables, but was sadly baffled to find him already +satisfied. + +There was more open joy than even at home, and Flora was supremely happy +as she sat between her brothers, listening and inquiring till far past +one o’clock, when she perceived poor George dozing off, awakened every +now and then by a great nod, and casting a wishful glance of resigned +remonstrance, as if to appeal against sitting up all night. + +The meeting at breakfast was a renewal of pleasure. Flora was proud and +happy in showing off her little girl, a model baby, as she called her, +a perfect doll for quietness, so that she could be brought in at family +prayers; “and,” said Flora, “I am the more glad that she keeps no +one away, because we can only have evening prayers on Sunday. It is a +serious thing to arrange for such a household.” + +“She is equal to anything,” said George. + +The long file of servants marched in, George read sonorously, and Flora +rose from her knees, highly satisfied at the impression produced upon +her brothers. + +“I like to have the baby with us at breakfast,” she said; “it is the +only time of day when we can be sure of seeing anything of her, and I +like her nurse to have some respite. Do you think her grown, Norman?” + +“Not very much,” said Norman, who thought her more inanimate and like +a pretty little waxen toy, than when he had last seen her. “Is she not +rather pale?” + +“London makes children pale. I shall soon take her home to acquire a +little colour. You must know Sir Henry has bitten us with his yachting +tastes, and as soon as we can leave London, we are going to spend six +weeks with the Walkinghames at Ryde, and rival you, Harry. I think Miss +Leonora will be better at home, so we must leave her there. Lodgings and +irregularities don’t suit people of her age.” + +“Does home mean Stoneborough?” asked Norman. + +“No. Old nurse has one of her deadly prejudices against Preston, and I +would not be responsible for the consequences of shutting them up in the +same nursery. Margaret would be distracted between them. No, miss, you +shall make her a visit every day, and be fondled by your grandpapa.” + +George began a conversation with Harry on nautical matters, and Norman +tried to discover how Meta liked the yachting project, and found her +prepared to think it charming. Hopes were expressed that Harry might be +at Portsmouth, and a quantity of gay scheming ensued, with reiterations +of the name of Walkinghame; while Norman had a sense of being wrapped +in some gray mist, excluding him from participation in their enjoyments, +and condemned his own temper as frivolous for being thus excited to +discontent. + +Presently, he heard George insisting that he and Harry should return in +time for the evening party; and, on beginning to refuse, was amazed to +find Harry’s only objection was on the score of lack of uniform. + +“I don’t want you in one, sir,” said Flora. + +“I have only one coat in the world, besides this,” continued Harry, “and +that is all over tar.” + +“George will see to that,” said Flora. “Don’t you think you would be +welcome in matting, with an orange cowry round your neck?” + +Norman, however, took a private opportunity of asking Harry if he was +aware of what he was undertaking, and what kind of people they should +meet. + +“All English people behave much the same in a room,” said Harry, as if +all society, provided it was not cannibal, were alike to him. + +“I should have thought you would prefer finding out Forder in his +chambers, or going to one of the theatres.” + +“As you please,” said Harry; “but Flora seems to want us, and I should +rather like to see what sort of company she keeps.” + +Since Harry was impervious to shyness, Norman submitted, and George took +them to a wonder-worker in cloth, who undertook that full equipments +should await the young gentleman. Harry next despatched his business at +the Admiralty, and was made very happy by tidings of his friend Owen’s +safe arrival in America. + +Thence the brothers went to Eton, where home letters had been more +regarded; and Dr. May having written to secure a holiday for the objects +of their visit, they were met at the station by the two boys. Hector’s +red face and prominent light eyebrows were instantly recognised; but, as +to Tom, Harry could hardly believe that the little, dusty, round-backed +grub be had left had been transformed into the well-made gentlemanlike +lad before him, peculiarly trim and accurate in dress, even to the +extent of as much foppery as Eton taste permitted. + +Ten minutes had not passed before Tom, taking a survey of the newcomer, +began to exclaim at Norman, for letting him go about such a figure; and, +before they knew what was doing, they had all been conducted into the +shop of the “only living man who knew how to cut hair.” Laughing and +good-natured, Harry believed his hair was “rather long,” allowed himself +to be seated, and to be divested of a huge superfluous mass of sun-dried +curls, which Tom, particularly resenting that “rather long,” kept on +taking up, and unrolling from their tight rings, to measure the number +of inches. + +“That is better,” said he, as they issued from the shop; “but, as to +that coat of yours, the rogue who made it should never make another. +Where could you have picked it up?” + +“At a shop at Auckland,” said Harry, much amused. + +“Kept by a savage?” said Tom, to whom it was no laughing matter. “See +that seam!” + +“Have done, May!” exclaimed Hector. “He will think you a tailor’s +apprentice!” + +“Or worse,” said Norman. “Rivers’s tailor kept all strictures to +himself.” + +Tom muttered that he only wanted Harry to be fit to be seen by the +fellows. + +“The fellows are not such asses as you!” cried Hector. “You don’t +deserve that he should come to see you. If my--” + +There poor Hector broke off. If his own only brother had been walking +beside him, how would he not have felt? They had reached their tutor’s +house, and, opening his own door, he made an imploring sign to Harry +to enter with him. On the table lay a letter from Margaret, and another +which Harry had written to him from Auckland. + +“Oh, Harry, you were with him,” he said; “tell me all about him.” + +And he established himself, with his face hidden on the table, +uttering nothing, except, “Go on,” whenever Harry’s voice failed in the +narration. When something was said of “all for the best,” he burst out, +“He might say so. I suppose one ought to think so. But is not it hard, +when I had nobody but him? And there was Maplewood; and I might have +been so happy there, with him and Margaret.” + +“They say nothing could have made Margaret well,” said Harry. + +“I don’t care; he would have married her all the same, and we should +have made her so happy at Maplewood. I hate the place! I wish it were at +Jericho!” + +“You are captain of the ship now,” said Harry, “and you must make the +best of it.” + +“I can’t. It will never be home. Home is with Margaret, and the rest of +them.” + +“So Alan said he hoped you would make it; and you are just like one of +us, you know.” + +“What’s the use of that, when Captain Gordon will not let me go near +you. Taking me to that abominable Maplewood last Easter, with half the +house shut up, and all horrid! And he is as dry as a stick!” + +“The captain!” cried Harry angrily. “There’s not a better captain to +sail with in the whole navy, and your brother would be the first to tell +you so! I’m not discharged yet. Hector--you had better look out what you +say!” + +“Maybe he is the best to sail with, but that is not being the best to +live with,” said the heir of Maplewood disconsolately. “Alan himself +always said he never knew what home was, till he got to your father and +Margaret.” + +“So will you,” said Harry; “why, my father is your master, or whatever +you may call it.” + +“No, Captain Gordon is my guardian.” + +“Eh! what’s become of the will then?” + +“What will?” cried Hector. “Did Alan make one after all?” + +“Ay. At Valparaiso, he had a touch of fever; I went ashore to nurse +him, to a merchant’s, who took us in for love of our Scottish blood. Mr. +Ernescliffe made a will there, and left it in his charge.” + +“Do you think he made Dr. May my guardian?” + +“He asked me whether I thought he would dislike it, and I told him, no.” + +“That’s right!” cried Hector. “That’s like dear old Alan! I shall +get back to the doctor and Margaret after all. Mind you write to the +captain, Harry!” + +Hector was quite inspirited and ready to return to the others, but Harry +paused to express a hope that he did not let Tom make such a fool of +himself as he had done to-day. + +“Not he,” said Hector. “He is liked as much as any one in the house--he +has been five times sent up for good. See there in the Eton list! He is +a real clever fellow.” + +“Ay, but what’s the good of all that, if you let him be a puppy?” + +“Oh, he’ll be cured. A fellow that has been a sloven always is a puppy +for a bit,” said Hector philosophically. + +Norman was meantime taking Tom to task for these same airs, and, hearing +it was from the desire to see his brother respectable--Stoneborough men +never cared for what they looked like, and he must have Harry do himself +credit. + +“You need not fear,” said Norman. “He did not require Eton to make him a +gentleman. How now? Why, Tom, old man, you are not taking that to heart? +That’s all over long ago.” + +For that black spot in his life had never passed out of the lad’s +memory, and it might be from the lurking want of self-respect that there +was about him so much of self-assertion, in attention to trifles. He +was very reserved, and no one except Norman had ever found the way to +anything like confidence, and Norman had vexed him by the proposal he +had made in the holidays. + +He made no answer, but stood looking at Norman with an odd undecided +gaze. + +“Well, what now, old fellow?” said Norman, half fearing “that” might not +be absolutely over. “One would think you were not glad to see Harry.” + +“I suppose he has made you all the more set upon that mad notion of +yours,” said Tom. + +“So far as making me feel that that part of the world has a strong claim +on us,” replied Norman. + +“I’m sure you don’t look as if you found your pleasure in it,” cried +Tom. + +“Pleasure is not what I seek,” said Norman. + +“What is the matter with you?” said Tom. “You said I did not seem +rejoiced--you look worse, I am sure.” Tom put his arm on Norman’s +shoulder, and looked solicitously at him--demonstrations of affection +very rare with him. + +“I wonder which would really make you happiest, to have your own way, +and go to these black villains--” + +“Remember, that but for others who have done so, Harry--” + +“Pshaw,” said Tom, rubbing some invisible dust from his coat sleeve. “If +it would keep you at home, I would say I never would hear of doctoring.” + +“I thought you had said so.” + +“What’s the use of my coming here, if I’m to be a country doctor?” + +“I have told you I do not mean to victimise you. If you have a distaste +to it, there’s an end of it--I am quite ready.” + +Tom gave a great sigh. “No,” he said, “if I must, I must; I don’t mind +the part of it that you do. I only hate the name of it, and the being +tied down to a country place like that, while you go out thousands of +miles off to these savages; but if it is the only thing to content you, +I wont stand in your way. I can’t bear your looking disconsolate.” + +“Don’t think yourself bound, if you really dislike the profession.” + +“I don’t,” said Tom. “It is my free choice. If it were not for horrid +sick people, I should like it.” + +Promising! it must be confessed! + +Perhaps Tom had expected Norman to brighten at once, but it was a +fallacious hope. The gaining his point involved no pleasant prospect, +and his young brother’s moody devotion to him suggested scruples whether +he ought to exact the sacrifice, though, in his own mind, convinced +that it was Tom’s vocation; and knowing that would give him many of the +advantages of an eldest son. + +Eton fully justified Hector’s declaration that it would not regard the +cut of Harry’s coat. The hero of a lost ship and savage isle was the +object of universal admiration and curiosity, and inestimable were the +favours conferred by Hector and Tom in giving introductions to him, till +he had shaken hands with half the school, and departed amid deafening +cheers. + +In spite of Harry, the day had been long and heavy to Norman, and though +he chid himself for his depression, he shrank from the sight of Meta and +Sir Henry Walkinghame together, and was ready to plead an aching head as +an excuse for not appearing at the evening party; but, besides that this +might attract notice, he thought himself bound to take care of Harry in +so new a world, where the boy must be at a great loss. + +“I say, old June,” cried a voice at his door, “are you ready?” + +“I have not begun dressing yet. Will you wait?” + +“Not I. The fun is beginning.” + +Norman heard the light foot scampering downstairs, and prepared to +follow, to assume the protection of him. + +Music sounded as Norman left his room, and he turned aside to avoid the +stream of company flowing up the flower-decked stairs, and made his way +into the rooms through Flora’s boudoir. He was almost dazzled by the +bright lights, and the gay murmurs of the brilliant throng. Young ladies +with flowers and velvet streamers down their backs, old ladies portly +and bejewelled, gentlemen looking civil, abounded wherever he turned his +eyes. He could see Flora’s graceful head bending as she received guest +after guest, and the smile with which she answered congratulations on +her brother’s return; but Harry he did not so quickly perceive, and he +was trying to discover in what corner he might have hidden himself, when +Meta stood beside him, asking whether their Eton journey had prospered, +and how poor Hector was feeling at Harry’s return. + +“Where is Harry?” asked Norman. “Is he not rather out of his element?” + +“No, indeed,” said Meta, smiling. “Why, he is the lion of the night!” + +“Poor fellow, how he must hate it!” + +“Come this way, into the front room. There, look at him--is it not nice +to see him, so perfectly simple and at his ease, neither shy nor elated? +And what a fine-looking fellow he is!” + +Meta might well say so. The trim, well-knit, broad-chested form, the +rosy embrowned honest face, the shining light-brown curly locks, the +dancing well-opened blue eyes, and merry hearty smile showed to the best +advantage, in array that even Tom would not have spurned, put on with +naval neatness; and his attitude and manner were so full of manly ease, +that it was no wonder that every eye rested on him with pleasure. Norman +smiled at his own mistake, and asked who were the lady and gentleman +conversing with him. Meta mentioned one of the most distinguished of +English names, and shared his amusement in seeing Harry talking to +them with the same frank unembarrassed ease as when he had that morning +shaken hands with their son, in the capacity of Hector Ernescliffe’s +fag. No one present inspired him with a tithe of the awe he felt for a +post-captain--it was simply a pleasant assembly of good-natured folks, +glad to welcome home a battered sailor, and of pretty girls, for whom he +had a sailor’s admiration, but without forwardness or presumption--all +in happy grateful simplicity. + +“I suppose you cannot dance?” said Flora to him. + +“I!” was Harry’s interjection; and while she was looking round for a +partner to whom to present him, he had turned to the young daughter of +his new acquaintance, and had her on his arm, unconscious that George +had been making his way to her. + +Flora was somewhat uneasy, but the mother was looking on smiling, and +expressed her delight in the young midshipman; and Mrs. Rivers, while +listening gladly to his praises, watched heedfully, and was reassured +to see that dancing was as natural to him as everything else; his steps +were light as a feather, his movement all freedom and joy, without being +boisterous, and his boyish chivalry as pretty a sight as any one could +wish to see. + +If the rest of the world enjoyed their dances a quarter as much as did +“Mr. May,” they were enviable people, and he contributed not a little +to their pleasure, if merely by the sight of his blithe freshness and +spirited simplicity, as well as the general sympathy with his sister’s +joy, and the interest in his adventures. He would have been a general +favourite, if he had been far less personally engaging; as it was, every +young lady was in raptures at dancing with him, and he did his best to +dance with them all; and to try to stir up Norman, who, after Meta +had been obliged to leave him, and go to act her share of the part of +hostess, had disposed of himself against a wall, where he might live out +the night. + +“Ha! June! what makes you stand sentry there? Come and dance, and have +some of the fun! Some of these girls are the nicest partners in the +world. There’s that Lady Alice, something with the dangling things +in her hair, sitting down now--famous at a polka. Come along, I’ll +introduce you. It will do you good.” + +“I know nothing of dancing,” said Norman, beginning to apprehend that he +might be dragged off, as often he had been to cricket or football, and +by much the same means. + +“Comes by nature, when you hear the music. Ha! what a delicious polka! +Come along, or I must be off! She will be waiting for me, and she is the +second prettiest girl here! Come!” + +“I have been trying to make something of him, Harry,” said the +ubiquitous Flora, “but I don’t know whether it is mauvaise honte, or +headache.” + +“I see! Poor old June!” cried Harry. “I’ll get you an ice at once, old +fellow! Nothing like one for setting a man going!” + +Before Norman could protest, Harry had flown off. + +“Flora,” asked Norman, “is--are the Walkinghames here?” + +“Yes. Don’t you see Sir Henry. That fine-looking man with the black +moustache. I want you to know him. He is a great admirer of your prize +poem and of Dr. Spencer.” + +Harry returning, administered his ice, and then darted off to excuse +himself to his partner, by explanations about his brother, whom +everybody must have heard of, as he was the cleverest fellow living, and +had written the best prize poem ever heard at Oxford. He firmly believed +Norman a much greater lion than himself. + +Norman was forced to leave his friendly corner to dispose of the glass +of his ice, and thus encountered Miss Rivers, of whom Sir Henry was +asking questions about a beautiful collection of cameos, which Flora had +laid out as a company trap. + +“Here is Norman May,” said Meta; “he knows them better than I do. Do you +remember which of these is the head of Diana, Norman?” + +Having set the two gentlemen to discuss them, she glided away on fresh +hospitable duties, while Norman repeated the comments that he had so +enjoyed hearing from poor Mr. Rivers, hoping he was, at least, sparing +Meta some pain, and wondering that Flora should have risked hurting her +feelings by exposing these treasures to the general gaze. + +If Norman were wearied by Sir Henry, it was his own fault, for the +baronet was a very agreeable person, who thought a first-class man worth +cultivation, so that the last half-hour might have compensated for all +the rest, if conversation were always the test. + +“Why, Meta,” cried Harry, coming up to her, “you have not once danced! +We are a sort of brother and sister, to be sure, but that is no +hindrance, is it?” + +“No,” said Meta, smiling, “thank you, Harry, but you must find some one +more worthy. I do not dance this season; at least, not in public. When +we get home, who knows what we may do?” + +“You don’t dance! Poor little Meta! And you don’t go out! What a pity!” + +“I had rather not work quite so hard,” said Meta. “Think what good +fortune I had by staying at home last night!” + +“I declare!” exclaimed Harry, bewitched by the beaming congratulation +of her look, “I can’t imagine why Norman had said you had turned into a +fine lady! I can’t see a bit of it!” + +“Norman said I had turned into a fine lady!” repeated Meta. “Why?” + +“Never mind! I don’t think so; you are just like papa’s humming-bird, as +you always were, not a bit more of a fine lady than any girl here, and I +am sure papa would say so. Only old June had got a bad headache, and is +in one of his old dumps, such as I hoped he had left off. But he can’t +help it, poor fellow, and he will come out of it, by and by--so never +mind. Hallo! why people are going away already. There’s that girl +without any one to hand her downstairs.” + +Away ran Harry, and presently the brothers and sisters gathered round +the fire--George declaring that he was glad that nuisance was so well +over, and Harry exclaiming, “Well done, Flora! It was capital fun! I +never saw a lot of prettier or more good-natured people in my life. If +I am at home for the Stoneborough ball, I wonder whether my father will +let me go to it.” + +This result of Harry’s successful debut in high life struck his sister +and Norman as so absurd that both laughed. + +“What’s the matter now?” asked Harry. + +“Your comparing Flora’s party to a Stoneborough ball,” said Norman. + +“It is all the same, isn’t it?” said Harry. “I’m sure you are equally +disgusted at both!” + +“Much you know about it,” said Flora, patting him gaily. “I’m not going +to put conceit in that lion head of yours, but you were as good as an +Indian prince to my party. Do you know to whom you have been talking so +coolly?” + +“Of course. You see, Norman, it is just as I told you. All civilised +people are just alike when they get into a drawing-room.” + +“Harry takes large views of the Genus homo,” Norman exerted himself to +say. “Being used to the black and brown species, he takes little heed of +the lesser varieties.” + +“It is enough for him that he does not furnish the entertainment in +another way,” said Flora. “But, good-night. Meta, you look tired.” + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + + + + Let none, henceforward, shrink from daring dreams, + For earnest hearts shall find their dreams fulfilled.--FOUQUE. + + +“I have it!” began Harry, as he came down to breakfast. “I don’t +know how I came to forget it. The will was to be sent home to Mr. +Mackintosh’s English partner. I’ll go and overhaul him this very +morning. They won’t mind my coming by a later train, when there is such +a reason.” + +“What is his name? Where shall you find him?” asked Flora. + +“I can’t be sure; but you’ve a navy list of that sort of cattle, have +not you, Flora? I’ll hunt him up.” + +Flora supposed he meant a directory; and all possible South American +merchants having been overlooked, and the Mackintoshes selected, he next +required a chart of London, and wanted to attempt self-navigation, but +was forced to accept of George’s brougham and escort; Flora would not +trust him otherwise; and Norman was obliged to go to Oxford at once, +hurrying off to his train before breakfast was over. + +Flora might have trusted Harry alone. George contributed no more than +the dignity of his presence; and, indeed, would have resigned the +pursuit at the first blunder about the firm; and still more when the +right one had been found, but the partner proved crusty, and would not +believe that any such document was in his hands. George was consenting +to let it rest till Mr. Mackintosh could be written to; but Harry, +outrunning his management, and regardless of rebuffs, fairly teased the +old gentleman into a search, as the only means of getting rid of the +troublesome sailor. + +In the midst of George’s civil regrets at the fruitless trouble they +were causing, forth came a bundle of papers, and forth from the bundle +fell a packet, on which Harry pounced as he read, “Will of Alan Halliday +Ernescliffe, Esquire, of Maplewood, Yorkshire, Lieutenant in H. M. +S. Alcestis,” and, in the corner, the executors’ names, Captain John +Gordon, of H. M. S. Alcestis; and Richard May, Esquire, M. D., Market +Stoneborough. + +As if in revenge, the prudent merchant would not be induced to entrust +him with the document, saying he could not give it up till he had heard +from the executors, and had been certified of the death of the testator. +He withstood both the angry gentlemen, who finally departed in a state +of great resentment--Harry declaring that the old land-lubber would +not believe that he was his own father’s son; and Mr. Rivers, no less +incensed, that the House of Commons had been insulted in his person, +because he did not carry all before him. + +Flora laughed at their story, and told them that she suspected that the +old gentleman was in the right; and she laid plans for having Harry to +teach them yachting at Ryde, while Harry declared he would have nothing +to do with such trumpery. + +Harry found his home in a sort of agony of expectation, for his +non-arrival at the time expected had made his first appearance seem like +an unsubstantial illusion, though Dr. May, or Mary and Aubrey, had been +at the station at the coming in of each train. Margaret had recovered +the effects of the first shock, and the welcome was far more joyous than +the first had been, with the mixed sensations that were now composed, +and showed little, outwardly, but gladness. + +Dr. May took Flora’s view of the case, and declared that, if Harry +had brought home the will, he should not have opened it without his +co-executor. So he wrote to the captain, while Harry made the most of +his time in learning his sisters over again. He spent a short time alone +with Margaret every morning, patiently and gently allowing himself to +be recalled to the sad recollections that were all the world to her. +He kept Ethel and Mary merry with his droll desultory comments; he made +Blanche keep up her dancing; and taught Gertrude to be a thorough little +romp. As to Dr. May, his patients never were so well or so cheerful, +till Dr. Spencer and Ethel suspected that the very sight of his looks +brightened them--how could they help it? Dr. Spencer was as happy as a +king in seeing his friend freed from the heavy weight on his spirits; +and, truly, it was goodly to watch his perfect look of content, as he +leaned on his lion-faced boy’s arm, and walked down to the minster, +whither it seemed to have become possible to go on most evenings. Good +Dr. May was no musician, but Mr. Wilmot could not regret certain tones +that now and then burst out in the chanting, from the very bottom of a +heart that assuredly sang with the full melody of thankfulness, whatever +the voice might do. + +Captain Gordon not only wrote but came to Stoneborough, whence Harry was +to go with him to the court-martial at Portsmouth. + +The girls wondered that, after writing with so much warmth and +affection, both of and to Harry, he met him without any demonstration of +feeling; and his short peremptory manner removed all surprise that poor +Hector had been so forlorn with him at Maplewood, and turned, with all +his heart, to Dr. May. They were especially impressed at the immediate +subsidence of all Harry’s noise and nonsense, as if the drawing-room had +been the quarter-deck of the Alcestis. + +“And yet,” said Margaret, “Harry will not hear a single word in +dispraise of him. I do believe he loves him with all his heart.” + +“I think,” said Ethel, “that in a strong character, there is an exulting +fear in looking up to a superior, in whose justice there is perfect +reliance. It is a germ of the higher feeling.” + +“I believe you are right,” said Margaret; “but it is a serious thing +for a man to have so little sympathy with those below him. You see how +Hector feels it, and I now understand how it told upon Alan, and how +papa’s warmth was like a surprise to him.” + +“Because Captain Gordon had to be a father to them, and that is more +than a captain. I should not wonder if there were more similarity and +fellow-feeling between him and Harry than there could be with either of +them. Harry, though he has all papa’s tenderness, is of a rougher sort +that likes to feel itself mastered. Poor Hector! I wonder if he is to be +given back to us.” + +“Do you know--when--whether they will find out this morning?” said +Margaret, catching her dress nervously, as she was moving away. + +“Yes, I believe so. I was not to have told you, but--” + +“There is no reason that it should do me any harm,” said Margaret, +almost smiling, and looking as if she was putting a restraint on +something she wished to say. “Go down, dear Ethel--Aubrey will be +waiting for you.” + +Ethel went down to the difficult task of hearing Aubrey’s lessons, while +Harry was pretending to write to Mrs. Arnott, but, in reality, teaching +Gertrude the parts of a ship, occasionally acting mast, for her to +climb. + +By and by Dr. May came in. “Margaret not downstairs yet?” he said. + +“She is dressed, but will not come down till the evening,” said Ethel. + +“I’ll go to her. She will be pleased. Come up presently, Ethel. Or, +where’s Richard?” + +“Gone out,” said Harry. “What, is it anything left to her?” + +“The best, the best!” said Dr. May. “Ethel, listen--twenty thousand, to +build and endow a church for Cocksmoor!” + +No need to bid Ethel listen. She gave a sort of leap in her chair, then +looked almost ready to faint. + +“My dear child,” said her father, “This is your wish. I give you joy, +indeed I do!” + +Ethel drew his arm round her, and leaned against him. “My wish! my +wish!” she repeated, as if questioning the drift of the words. + +“I’m glad it is found!” cried Harry. “Now I know why he talked of +Cocksmoor, and seemed to rest in planning for it. You will mind the roof +is as he said.” + +“You must talk to Dr. Spencer about that,” said Dr. May. “The captain +means to leave it entirely in our hands.” + +“Dear Alan!” exclaimed Ethel. “My wish! Oh, yes, but how gained? Yet, +Cocksmoor with a church! I don’t know how to be glad enough, and yet--” + +“You shall read the sentence,” said Dr. May. “‘In testimony of +thankfulness for mercy vouchsafed to him here--’ poor dear boy!” + +“What does the captain say?” asked Harry. + +“He is rather astounded, but he owns that the estate can bear it, for +old Halliday had saved a great deal, and there will be more before +Hector comes of age.” + +“And Hector?” + +“Yes, we get him back. I am fellow-trustee with Captain Gordon, and as +to personal guardianship, I fancy the captain found he could not make +the boy happy, and thinks you no bad specimen of our training.” + +“Famous!” cried Harry. “Hector will hurrah now! Is that all?” + +“Except legacies to Captain Gordon, and some Scottish relations. But +poor Margaret ought to hear it. Ethel, don’t be long in coming.” + +With all Ethel’s reputation for bluntness, it was remarkable how her +force of character made her always called for whenever there was the +least dread of a scene. + +She turned abruptly from Harry; and, going outside the window, tried +to realise and comprehend the tidings, but all she could have time to +discover was that Alan’s memory was dearer to her than ever, and she was +obliged to hasten upstairs. + +Her father quitted the room by one door, as she entered by the other; +she believed that it was to hide his emotion, but Margaret’s fair wan +face was beaming with the sweetest of congratulating smiles. + +“I thought so,” she said, as Ethel came in. “Dear Ethel, are you not +glad?” + +“I think I am,” said Ethel, putting her hands to her brow. + +“You think!” exclaimed Margaret, as if disappointed. + +“I beg your pardon,” said Ethel, with quivering lip. “Dear Margaret, I +am glad--don’t you believe I am, but somehow, it is harder to deal with +joy than grief. It confuses one! Dear Alan--and then to have been set +on it so long--to have prayed so for it, and to have it come in this +way--by your--” + +“Nay, Ethel, had he come home, it was his great wish to have done it. +He used to make projects when he was here, but he would not let me tell +you, lest he should find duties at Maplewood--whereas this would have +been his pleasure.” + +“Dear Alan!” repeated Ethel. “If you are so kind, so dear as to be glad, +Margaret, I think I shall be so presently.” + +Margaret almost grudged the lack of the girlish outbreak of rejoicing +which would once have forgotten everything in the ecstasy of the +fulfilled vision. It did not seem to be what Alan had intended; he had +figured to himself unmixed joy, and she wanted to see it, and something +of the wayward impatience of weakness throbbed at her heart, as Ethel +paced the room, and disappeared in her own curtained recess. + +Presently she came back saying, “You are sure you are glad?” + +“It would be strange if I were not,” said Margaret. “See, Ethel, here +are blessings springing up from what I used to think had served for +nothing but to bring him pain and grief. I am so thankful that he could +express his desire, and so grateful to dear Harry for bringing it to +light. How much better it is than I ever thought it could be! He has +been spared disappointment, and surely the good that he will have done +will follow him.” + +“And you?” said Ethel sadly. + +“I shall lie here and wait,” said Margaret. “I shall see the plans, and +hear all about it, and oh!”--her eyes lighted up--“perhaps some day, I +may hear the bell.” + +Richard’s tap interrupted them. “Had he heard?” + +“I have.” The deepened colour in his cheek betrayed how much he felt, as +he cast an anxious glance towards Margaret--an inquiring one on Ethel. + +“She is so pleased,” was all Ethel could say. + +“I thought she would be,” said Richard, approaching. “Captain Gordon +seemed quite vexed that no special token of remembrance was left to +her.” + +Margaret smiled in a peculiar way. “If he only knew how glad I am there +was not.” And Ethel knew that the church was his token to Margaret, and +that any “fading frail memorial” would have lessened the force of the +signification. + +Ethel could speak better to her brother than to her sister. “Oh, +Richard! Richard! Richard!” she cried, and a most unusual thing with +both, she flung her arms round his neck. “It is come at last! If it +had not been for you, this would never have been. How little likely it +seemed, that dirty day, when I talked wildly, and you checked me!” + +“You had faith and perseverance,” said Richard, “or--” + +“You are right,” said Margaret, as Ethel was about to disclaim. “It +was Ethel’s steadiness that brought it before Alan’s mind. If she had +yielded when we almost wished it, in the time of the distress about Mrs. +Green, I do believe that all would have died away!” + +“I didn’t keep steady--I was only crazy. You and Ritchie and Mr. +Wilmot--” said Ethel, half crying; then, as if unable to stay, she +exclaimed with a sort of petulance, “And there’s Harry playing all sorts +of rigs with Aubrey! I shan’t get any more sense out of him to-day!” + +And away she rushed to the wayfaring dust of her life of labour, to find +Aubrey and Daisy half-way up the tulip tree, and Harry mischievously +unwilling to help them down again, assuring her that such news deserved +a holiday, and that she was growing a worse tartar than Miss Winter. She +had better let the poor children alone, put on her bonnet, and come with +him to tell Mr. Wilmot. + +Whereat Ethel was demurring, when Dr. May came forth, and declared he +should take her himself. + +Poor Mr. Wilmot laboured under a great burden of gratitude, which no one +would receive from him. Dr. May and Ethel repudiated thanks almost with +terror; and, when he tried them with the captain, he found very doubtful +approval of the whole measure, so that Harry alone was a ready acceptant +of a full meed of acknowledgments for his gallant extraction of the +will. + +No one was more obliged to him than Hector Ernescliffe, who wrote to +Margaret that it would be very jolly to come home again, and that he +was delighted that the captain could not hinder either that or Cocksmoor +Church. “And as to Maplewood, I shall not hate it so much, if that +happens which I hope will happen.” Of which oracular sentence, Margaret +could make nothing. + +The house of May felt more at their ease when the uncongenial captain +had departed, although he carried off Harry with him. There was the +better opportunity for a tea-drinking consultation with Dr. Spencer +and Mr. Wilmot, when Margaret lay on her sofa, looking better than for +months past, and taking the keenest interest in every arrangement. + +Dr. Spencer, whose bright eyes glittered at every mention of the +subject, assumed that he was to be the architect, while Dr. May was +assuring him that it was a maxim that no one unpaid could be trusted; +and when he talked of beautiful German churches with pierced spires, +declared that the building must not make too large a hole in the twenty +thousand, at the expense of future curates, because Richard was the +first. + +“I’ll be prudent, Dick,” said Dr. Spencer. “Trust me not to rival the +minster.” + +“We shall find work next for you there,” said Mr. Wilmot. + +“Ay, we shall have May out of his family packing-box before many years +are over his head.” + +“Don’t mention it,” said Dr. May; “I know what I exposed myself to in +bringing Wilmot here.” + +“Yes,” said Dr. Spencer, “we shall put you in the van when we attack the +Corporation pen.” + +“I shall hold by the good old cause. As if the galleries had not been +there before you were born!” + +“As if poor people had a right to sit in their own church!” said Ethel. + +“Sit, you may well say,” said Mr. Wilmot. “As if any one could do +otherwise, with those ingenious traps for hindering kneeling.” + +“Well, well, I know the people must have room,” said Dr. May, cutting +short several further attacks which he saw impending. + +“Yes, you would like to build another blue gallery, blocking up another +window, and with Richard May and Christopher Tomkins, Churchwardens, on +it, in orange-coloured letters--the Rivers’ colours. No disrespect to +your father, Miss May, but, as a general observation, it is a property +of Town Councillors to be conservative only where they ought not.” + +“I brought you here to talk of building a church, not of pulling one to +pieces.” + +Poor Dr. May, he knew it was inevitable and quite right, but his +affectionate heart and spirit of perpetuity, which had an association +connected with every marble cloud, green baize pew, and square-headed +panel, anticipated tortures in the general sweep, for which his +ecclesiastical taste and sense of propriety would not soon compensate. + +Margaret spared his feelings by bringing the Cocksmoor subject back +again; Dr. Spencer seemed to comprehend the ardour with which she +pressed it on, as if it were very near her heart that there should be no +delay. He said he could almost promise her that the first stone should +be laid before the end of the summer, and she thanked him in her own +warm sweet way, hoping that it would be while Hector and Harry were at +home. + +Harry soon returned, having gone through the court-martial with the +utmost credit, been patronised by Captain Gordon in an unheard-of +manner, asked to dine with the admiral, and promised to be quickly +afloat again. Ere many days had passed, he was appointed to one of the +finest vessels in the fleet, commanded by a captain to whom Captain +Gordon had introduced him, and who “seemed to have taken a fancy to +him,” as he said. The Bucephalus, now the object of his pride, was +refitting, and his sisters hoped to see a good deal of him before he +should again sail. Besides, Flora would be at Ryde before the end of +July. + +It was singular that Ethel’s vision should have been fulfilled +simultaneously with Flora’s having obtained a position so far beyond +what could have been anticipated. + +She was evidently extremely happy and valuable, much admired and +respected, and with full exercise for the energy and cleverness, which +were never more gratified than by finding scope for action. Her husband +was devotedly attached to her, and was entirely managed by her, and +though her good judgment kept her from appearing visibly in matters not +pertaining to her own sphere, she was, in fact, his understanding. She +read, listened, and thought for him, imbued him with her own views, and +composed his letters for him; ruling his affairs, both political and +private, and undeniably making him fill a position which, without her, +he would have left vacant; nor was there any doubt that he was far +happier for finding himself of consequence, and being no longer left +a charge upon his own hands. He seemed fully to suffice to her as +a companion, although she was so far superior in power; for it was, +perhaps, her nature to love best that which depended upon her, and gave +her a sense of exercising protection; as she had always loved Margaret +better than Ethel. + +“Mrs. Rivers was an admirable woman.” So every one felt, and her +youthful beauty and success in the fashionable world made her qualities, +as a wife and mistress of a household, the more appreciated. She never +set aside her religious habits or principles, was an active member +of various charitable associations, and found her experience of the +Stoneborough Ladies’ Committee applicable among far greater names. +Indeed, Lady Leonora thought dear Flora Rivers’s only fault, her +over-strictness, which encouraged Meta in the same, but there were +points that Flora could not have yielded on any account, without failing +in her own eyes. + +She made time for everything, and though, between business and fashion, +she seemed to undertake more than mortal could accomplish, it was all +effected, and excellently. She did, indeed, sigh over the briefness of +the time that she could bestow on her child or on home correspondence, +and declared that she should rejoice in rest; but, at the same time, her +achievements were a positive pleasure to her. + +Meta, in the meantime, had been living passively on the most +affectionate terms with her brother and sister, and though often +secretly yearning after the dear old father, whose darling she had +been, and longing for power of usefulness, she took it on trust that her +present lot had been ordered for her, and was thankful, like the bird +of Dr. May’s fable, for the pleasures in her path--culling sweet morals, +and precious thoughts out of book, painting or concert, occasions for +Christian charities in each courtesy of society, and opportunities +for cheerful self-denial and submission, whenever any little wish was +thwarted. + +So Norman said she had turned into a fine lady! It was a sudden and +surprising intimation, and made a change in the usually bright and +calm current of her thoughts. She was not aware that there had been any +alteration in herself, and it was a revelation that set her to examine +where she had changed--poor little thing! She was not angry, she did +not resent the charge, she took it for granted that, coming from such a +source, it must be true and reasonable--and what did it mean? Did they +think her too gay, or neglectful of old friends? What had they been +saying to Harry about her? + +“Ah!” thought Meta, “I understand it. I am living a life of ease and +uselessness, and with his higher aims and nobler purposes, he shrinks +from the frivolities among which I am cast. I saw his saddened +countenance among our gaieties, and I know that to deep minds there is +heaviness in the midst of display. He withdraws from the follies that +have no charms for him, and I--ought I to be able to help being amused? +I don’t seek these things, but, perhaps, I ought to avoid them more than +I do. If I could be quite clear what is right, I should not care what +effort I made. But I was born to be one of those who have trial of +riches, and such blessed tasks are not my portion. But if he sees the +vanities creeping into my heart, I should be grateful for that warning.” + +So meditated Meta, as she copied one of her own drawings of the Grange, +for her dear old governess, Mrs. Larpent, while each line and tint +recalled the comments of her fond amateur father, and the scenery +carried her home, in spite of the street sounds, and the scratching of +Flora’s pen, coursing over note-paper. Presently Sir Henry Walkinghame +called, bringing a beautiful bouquet. + +“Delicious,” cried Meta. “See, Flora, it is in good time, for those +vases were sadly shabby.” + +She began at once to arrange the flowers, a task that seemed what she +was born for, and the choice roses and geraniums acquired fresh grace +as she placed them in the slender glasses and classic vases; but +Flora’s discerning eyes perceived some mortification on the part of +the gentleman, and, on his departure, playfully reproached Meta for +ingratitude. + +“Did we not thank him? I thought I did them all due honour, actually +using the Dresden bowl.” + +“You little wretch! quite insensible to the sentiment of the thing.” + +“Sentiment! One would think you had been reading about the language of +flowers!” + +“Whatever there was, poor Sir Henry did not mean it for the Dresden bowl +or Bohemian glass.” + +“Flora! do pray tell me whether you are in fun?” + +“You ridiculous child!” said Flora, kissing her earnest forehead, +ringing the bell, and gathering up her papers, as she walked out of the +room, and gave her notes to the servant. + +“What does she mean? Is it play? Oh, no, a hint would be far more like +her. But I hope it is nonsense. He is very kind and pleasant, and I +should not know what to do.” + +Instances of his complaisance towards herself rose before her, so as to +excite some warmth and gratitude. Her lonely heart thrilled at the idea +of being again the best beloved, and her energetic spirit bounded at the +thought of being no longer condemned to a life of idle ease. Still it +was too new a light to her to be readily accepted, after she had looked +on him so long, merely as a familiar of the house, attentive to her, +because she fell to his share, when Flora was occupied. She liked him, +decidedly; she could possibly do more; but she was far more inclined +to dread, than to desire, any disturbance of their present terms of +intercourse. + +“However,” thought she, “I must see my way. If he should have any such +thing in his head, to go on as we do now would be committing myself, and +I will not do that, unless I am sure it is right. Oh, papa, you would +settle it for me! But I will have it out with Flora. She will find out +what I cannot--how far he is a man for whom one ought to care. I do +not think Norman liked him, but then Norman has so keen a sense of +the world-touched. I suppose I am that! If any other life did but seem +appointed for me, but one cannot tell what is thwarting providential +leading, and if this be as good a man as--What would Ethel say? If I +could but talk to Dr. May! But Flora I will catch, before I see him +again, that I may know how to behave.” + +Catching Flora was not the easiest thing in the world, among her +multifarious occupations; but Meta was not the damsel to lose an +opportunity for want of decision. + +Flora saw what was coming, and was annoyed with herself for having given +the alarm; but, after all, it must have come some time or other, though +she had rather that Meta had been more involved first. + +It should be premised that Mrs. Rivers had no notion of the degree of +attachment felt by her brother for Meta; she only knew that Lady Leonora +had a general distrust of her family, and she felt it a point of +honour to promote no dangerous meetings, and to encourage Sir Henry--a +connection who would be most valuable, both as conferring importance +upon George in the county, and as being himself related to persons of +high influence, whose interest might push on her brothers. Preferment +for Richard; promotion for Harry; nay, diplomatic appointments for +Tom, came floating before her imagination, even while she smiled at her +Alnaschar visions. + +But the tone of Meta, as she drew her almost forcibly into her room, +showed her that she had given a great shock to her basket. + +“Flora, if you would only give me a minute, and would tell me--” + +“What?” asked Flora, not inclined to spare her blushes. + +“Whether, whether you meant anything in earnest?” + +“My dear little goose, did no one ever make an innocent joke in their +lives before?” + +“It was very silly of me,” said Meta; “but you gave me a terrible +fright.” + +“Was it so very terrible, poor little bird?” said Flora, in +commiseration. “Well then, you may safely think of him as a man tame +about the house. It was much prettier of you not to appropriate the +flowers, as any other damsel would have done.” + +“Do you really and truly think--” began Meta; but, from the colour of +her cheek and the timid resolution of her tone, Flora thought it safest +not to hear the interrogation, and answered, “I know what he comes here +for--it is only as a refuge from his mother’s friend, old Lady Drummond, +who would give the world to catch him for her daughters--that’s all. Put +my nonsense out of your head, and be yourself, my sweet one.” + +Flora had never gone so near an untruth, as when she led Meta to believe +this was the sole reason. But, after all, what did Flora herself know to +the contrary? + +Meta recovered her ease, and Flora marked, as weeks passed on, that she +grew more accustomed to Sir Henry’s attentions. A little while, and she +would find herself so far bound by the encouragement she had given, that +she could not reject him. + +“My dear,” said George, “when do you think of going down to take the +baby to the Grange? She looks dull, I think.” + +“Really, I think it is hardly worth while to go down en masse,” said +Flora. “These last debates may be important, and it is a bad time to +quit one’s post. Don’t you think so?” + +“As you please--the train is a great bore.” + +“And we will send the baby down the last day before we go to Ryde, with +Preston and Butts to take care of her. We can’t spare him to take them +down, till we shut up the house. It is so much easier for us to go to +Portsmouth from hence.” + +The lurking conviction was that one confidential talk with Ethel +would cause the humming-bird to break the toils that were being wound +invisibly round her. Ethel and her father knew nothing of the world, and +were so unreasonable in their requirements! Meta would consult them +all, and all her scruples would awaken, and perhaps Dr. Spencer might +be interrogated on Sir Henry’s life abroad, where Flora had a suspicion +that gossip had best not be raked up. + +Not that she concealed anything positively known to her, or that she +was not acting just as she would have done by her own child. She found +herself happily married to one whom home notions would have rejected, +and she believed Meta would be perfectly happy with a man of decided +talent, honour, and unstained character, even though he should not come +up to her father’s or Ethel’s standard. + +If Meta were to marry as they would approve, she would have far to +seek among “desirable connections.” Meantime, was not Flora acting with +exemplary judgment and self-denial? + +So she wrote that she could not come home; Margaret was much +disappointed, and so was Meta, who had looked to Ethel to unravel the +tangles of her life. + +“No, no, little miss,” said Flora to herself; “you don’t talk to Ethel +till your fate is irrevocable. Why, if I had listened to her, I should +be thankful to be singing at Mrs. Hoxton’s parties at this minute! +and, as for herself, look at Norman Ogilvie! No, no, after six weeks’ +yachting--moonlight, sea, and sympathy--I defy her to rob Sir Henry of +his prize! And, with Meta lady of Cocksmoor, even Ethel herself must be +charmed!” + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + + + + We barter life for pottage, sell true bliss + For wealth or power, for pleasure or renown; + Thus, Esau-like, our Father’s blessing miss, + Then wash with fruitless tears our faded crown. + Christian Year. + + +“Papa, here is a message from Flora for you,” said Margaret, holding up +a letter; “she wants to know whom to consult about the baby.” + +“Ha! what’s the matter?” + +Margaret read--“Will you ask papa whom I had better call in to see the +baby. There does not seem to be anything positively amiss, but I am +not happy about her. There is a sleepiness about her which I do not +understand, and, when roused, she is fretful, and will not be amused. +There is a look in her eyes which I do not like, and I should wish to +have some advice for her. Lady Leonora recommends Mr.--, but I always +distrust people who are very much the rage, and I shall send for no one +without papa’s advice.” + +“Let me see!” said Dr. May, startled, and holding out his hand for the +letter. “A look about the eyes! I shall go up and see her myself. Why +has not she brought her home?” + +“It would have been far better,” said Margaret. + +“Sleepy and dull! She was as lively a child when they took her away as +I ever saw. What! is there no more about her? The letter is crammed with +somebody’s fete--vote of want of confidence--debate last night. What is +she about? She fancies she knows everything, and, the fact is, she knows +no more about infants--I could see that, when the poor little thing was +a day old!” + +“Do you think there is cause for fear?” said Margaret anxiously. + +“I can’t tell. With a first child, one can’t guess what may be mamma’s +fancy, or what may be serious. But Flora is not too fanciful, and I must +see her for my own satisfaction. Let some one write, and say I will +come up to-morrow by the twelve o’clock train--and mind she opens the +letter.” + +Dr. May kept his word, and the letter had evidently not been neglected; +for George was watching for him at the station, and thanked him so +eagerly for coming, that Dr. May feared that he was indeed needed, and +inquired anxiously. + +“Flora is uneasy about her--she seems heavy, and cries when she is +disturbed,” replied George. “Flora has not left her to-day, and hardly +yesterday.” + +“Have you had no advice for her?” + +“Flora preferred waiting till you should come.” + +Dr. May made an impatient movement, and thought the way long, till they +were set down in Park Lane. Meta came to meet them on the stairs, and +said that the baby was just the same, and Flora was in the nursery, and +thither they hastily ascended. + +“Oh, papa! I am so glad you are come!” said Flora, starting up from her +low seat, beside the cradle. + +Dr. May hardly paused to embrace his daughter, and she anxiously led him +to the cradle, and tried to read his expression, as his eyes fell on the +little face, somewhat puffed, but of a waxy whiteness, and the breathing +seeming to come from the lips. + +“How long has she been so?” he asked, in a rapid, professional manner. + +“For about two or three hours. She was very fretful before, but I did +not like to call in any one, as you were coming. Is it from her teeth?” + said Flora, more and more alarmed by his manner. “Her complexion is +always like that--she cannot bear to be disturbed,” added she, as the +child feebly moaned, on Dr. May beginning to take her from her cradle; +but, without attending to the objection, he lifted her up, so that she +lay as quietly as before, on his arm. Flora had trusted that hope and +confidence would come with him; but, on the contrary, every lurking +misgiving began to rush wildly over her, as she watched his countenance, +while he carried his little granddaughter towards the light, studied +her intently, raised her drooping eyelids, and looked into her eyes, +scarcely eliciting another moan. Flora dared not ask a question, but +looked on with eyes open, as it were, stiffened. + +“This is the effect of opium,” were Dr. May’s first words, breaking +on all with startling suddenness; but, before any one could speak, he +added, “We must try some stimulant directly;” then looking round the +room, “What have you nearest?” + +“Godfrey’s Cordial, sir,” quickly suggested the nurse. + +“Ay--anything to save time--she is sinking for want of the drug that +has--” He broke off to apportion the dose, and to hold the child in a +position to administer it--Flora tried to give it--the nurse tried--in +vain. + +“Do not torment her further,” said the doctor, as Flora would have +renewed the trial--“it cannot be done. What have you all been doing?” + cried he, as, looking up, his face changed from the tender compassion +with which he had been regarding his little patient, into a look of +strong indignation, and one of his sentences of hasty condemnation broke +from him, as it would not have done, had Flora been less externally +calm. “I tell you this child has been destroyed with opium!” + +They all recoiled; the father turned fiercely round on the nurse, with a +violent exclamation, but Dr. May checked him. “Hush! This is no presence +for the wrath of man.” The solemn tone seemed to make George shrink +into an awestruck quiescence; he stood motionless and transfixed, as if +indeed conscious of some overwhelming presence. + +Flora had come near, with an imploring gesture, to take the child in +her own arms; but Dr. May, by a look of authority, prevented it; for, +indeed, it would have been harassing and distressing the poor little +sufferer again to move her, as she lay with feeble gasps on his arm. + +So they remained, for what space no one knew--not one word was uttered, +not a limb moved, and the street noises sounded far off. + +Dr. May stooped his head closer to the babe’s face, and seemed listening +for a breath, as he once more touched the little wrist; he took away his +finger, he ceased to listen, he looked up. + +Flora gave one cry--not loud, not sharp, but “an exceeding bitter +cry”--she would have moved forward, but reeled, and her husband’s arms +supported her as she sank into a swoon. + +“Carry her to her room,” said Dr. May. “I will come;” and, when George +had borne her away, he kissed the lifeless cheek, and reverently placed +the little corpse in the cradle; but, as he rose from doing so, the +sobbing nurse exclaimed, “Oh, sir! oh, sir! indeed, I never did--” + +“Never did what?” said Dr. May sternly. + +“I never gave the dear baby anything to do her harm,” cried Preston +vehemently. + +“You gave her this,” said Dr. May, pointing to the bottle of Godfrey’s +Cordial. + +He could say no more, for her master was hurrying back into the room. +Anger was the first emotion that possessed him, and he hardly gave an +answer to Dr. May’s question about Flora. “Meta is with her! Where is +that woman? Have you given her up to the police?” + +Preston shrieked and sobbed, made incoherent exclamations, and was much +disposed to cling to the doctor. + +“Silence!” said Dr. May, lifting his hand, and assuming a tone and +manner that awed them both, by reminding them that death was present in +the chamber; and, taking his son-in-law out, and shutting the door, he +said, in a low voice, + +“I believe this is no case for the police--have mercy on the poor +woman.” + +“Mercy--I’ll have no mercy on my child’s murderer! You said she had +destroyed my child.” + +“Ignorantly.” + +“I don’t care for ignorance! She destroyed her--I’ll have justice,” said +George doggedly. + +“You shall,” said Dr. May, laying his hand on his arm; “but it must be +investigated, and you are in no state to investigate. Go downstairs--do +not do anything till I come to you.” + +His peremptory manner imposed on George, who, nevertheless, turned round +as he went, saying, with a fierce glare in his eyes, “You will not let +her escape.” + +“No. Go down--be quiet.” + +Dr. May returned to Preston, and had to assure her that Mr. Rivers was +not gone to call the police, before he could bring her to any degree of +coherence. She regarded him as her only friend, and soon undertook to +tell the whole truth, and he perceived that it was, indeed, the truth. +She had not known that the cordial was injurious, deeming it a panacea +against fretfulness, precious to nurses, but against which ladies always +had a prejudice, and, therefore, to be kept secret. Poor little Leonora +had been very fretful and uneasy when Flora’s many avocations had first +caused her to be set aside, and Preston had had recourse to the remedy +which, lulling her successfully, was applied with less moderation and +judgment than would have been shown by a more experienced person, till +gradually the poor child became dependent on it for every hour of rest. +When her mother, at last, became aware of her unsatisfactory condition, +and spent her time in watching her, the nurse being prevented from +continuing her drug, she was, of course, so miserable without it, that +Preston had ventured on proposing it, to which Mrs. Rivers had replied +with displeasure sufficient to prevent her from declaring how much she +had previously given. Preston was in an agony of distress for her little +charge, as well as of fear for herself, and could hardly understand what +her error had been. Dr. May soon saw that, though not highly principled, +her sorrow was sincere, and that she still wept bitterly over the +consequences of her treatment, when he told her that she had nothing to +fear from the law, and that he would protect her from Mr. Rivers. + +Her confession was hardly over when Meta knocked at the door, pale and +frightened. “Oh, Dr. May, do come to poor Flora! I don’t know what to +do, and George is in such a state!” + +Dr. May made a sound of sorrow and perplexity, and Meta, as she went +down before him, asked, in a low, horror-stricken whisper, “Did Preston +really--” + +“Not knowingly,” said Dr. May. “It is the way many children have gone; +but I never thought--” + +They had come to Flora’s dressing-room. Her bedroom door was open, and +George was pacing heavily up and down the length of both apartments, +fiercely indignant. “Well!” said he, advancing eagerly on Dr. May, “has +she confessed?” + +“But Flora!” said Dr. May, instead of answering him. Flora lay on her +bed, her face hidden on her pillow, only now and then moaning. + +“Flora, my poor, poor child!” said her father, bending down to raise +her, and taking her hand. + +She moved away, so as to bury her face more completely; but there was +life in the movement, and he was sufficiently reassured on her situation +to be able to attend to George, who was only impatient to rush off +to take his revenge. He led him into the outer room, where Meta was +waiting, and forced upon his unwilling conviction that it was no case +for the law. The child had not been killed by any one dose, but had +rather sunk from the want of stimulus, to which she had been accustomed. +As to any pity for the woman, George would not hear of it. She was +still, in his eyes, the destroyer of his child; and, when he found the +law would afford him no vengeance, he insisted that she should be turned +out of his house at once. + +“George!” called a hollow voice from the next room, and hurrying back, +they saw Flora sitting up, and, as well as trembling limbs allowed, +endeavouring to rise to her feet, while burning spots were in her +cheeks. + +“George, turn me out of the house too! If Preston killed her, I did!” + and she gave a ghastly laugh. + +George threw his arms round her, and laid her on her bed again, with +many fond words, and strength which she had not power to withstand. Dr. +May, in the meantime, spoke quickly to Meta in the doorway. “She must +go. They cannot see her again; but has she any friends in London?” + +“I think not.” + +“Find out. She must not be sent adrift. Send her to the Grange, if +nothing better offers. You must judge.” + +He felt that he could confide in Meta’s discretion and promptitude, and +returned to the parents. + +“Is she gone?” said George, in a whisper, which he meant should be +unheard by his wife, who had sunk her face in her pillows again. + +“Going. Meta is seeing to it.” + +“And that woman gets off free!” cried George, “while my poor little +girl--” and, no longer occupied by the hope of retribution, he gave way +to an overpowering burst of grief. + +His wife did not rouse herself to comfort him, but still lay motionless, +excepting for a convulsive movement that passed over her frame at each +sound from him, and her father felt her pulse bound at the same time +with corresponding violence, as if each of his deep-drawn sobs were +a mortal thrust. Going to him, Dr. May endeavoured to repress his +agitation, and lead him from the room; but he could not, at first, +prevail on him to listen or understand, still less, to quit Flora. The +attempt to force on him the perception that his uncontrolled sorrow +was injuring her, and that he ought to bear up for her sake, only did +further harm; for, when he rose up and tried to caress her, there was +the same torpid, passive resistance, the same burying her face from the +light, and the only betrayal of consciousness in the agonised throbs of +her pulse. + +He became excessively distressed at being thus repelled, and, at last, +yielded to the impatient signals of Dr. May, who drew him into the next +room, and, with brief, strong, though most affectionate and pitying +words, enforced on him that Flora’s brain--nay, her life, was risked, +and that he must leave her alone to his care for the present. Meta +coming back at the same moment, Dr. May put him in her charge, with +renewed orders to impress on him how much depended on tranquillity. + +Dr. May went back, with his soft, undisturbing, physician’s footfall, +and stood at the side of the bed, in such intense anxiety as those only +can endure who know how to pray, and to pray in resignation and faith. + +All was still in the darkening twilight; but the distant roar of the +world surged without, and a gaslight shone flickering through the +branches of the trees, and fell on the rich dress spread on the couch, +and the ornaments on the toilet-table. There was a sense of oppression, +and of being pursued by the incongruous world, and Dr. May sighed to +silence all around, and see his poor daughter in the calm of her own +country air; but she had chosen for herself, and here she lay, stricken +down in the midst of the prosperity that she had sought. + +He could hear every respiration, tightened and almost sobbing, and he +was hesitating whether to run the risk of addressing her; when, as if it +had occurred to her suddenly that she was alone and deserted, she raised +up her head with a startled movement, but, as she saw him, she again hid +her face, as if his presence were still more intolerable than solitude. + +“Flora! my own, my dearest--my poor child! you should not turn from me. +Do I not carry with me the like self-reproachful conviction?” + +Flora let him turn her face towards him and kiss her forehead. It was +burning, and he brought water and bathed it, now and then speaking a few +fond, low, gentle words, which, though she did not respond, evidently +had some soothing effect; for she admitted his services, still, however, +keeping her eyes closed, and her face turned towards the darkest side of +the room. When he went towards the door, she murmured, “Papa!” as if to +detain him. + +“I am not going, darling. I only wanted to speak to George.” + +“Don’t let him come!” said Flora. + +“Not till you wish it, my dear.” + +George’s step was heard; his hand was on the lock, and again Dr. May was +conscious of the sudden rush of blood through all her veins. He +quickly went forward, met him, and shut him out, persuading him, with +difficulty, to remain outside, and giving him the occupation of sending +out for an anodyne--since the best hope, at present, lay in encouraging +the torpor that had benumbed her crushed faculties. + +Her father would not even venture to rouse her to be undressed; he gave +her the medicine, and let her lie still, with as little movement as +possible, standing by till her regular breathings showed that she had +sunk into a sleep; when he went into the other room and found that +George had also forgotten his sorrows in slumber on the sofa, while Meta +sat sadly presiding over the tea equipage. + +She came up to meet him, her question expressed in her looks. + +“Asleep,” he said; “I hope the pulses are quieter. All depends on her +wakening.” + +“Poor, poor Flora!” said Meta, wiping away her tears. + +“What have you done with the woman?” + +“I sent her to Mrs. Larpent’s. I knew she would receive her and keep +her till she could write to her friends. Bellairs took her, but I could +hardly speak to her--” + +“She did it ignorantly,” said Dr. May. + +“I could never be so merciful and forbearing as you,” said Meta. + +“Ah! my dear, you will never have the same cause!” + +They could say no more, for George awoke, and the argument of his +exclusion had to be gone through again. He could not enter into it by +any means; and when Dr. May would have made him understand that poor +Flora could not acquit herself of neglect, and that even his affection +was too painful for her in the present state; he broke into a vehement +angry defence of her devotion to her child, treating Dr. May as if the +accusation came from him; and when the doctor and Meta had persuaded him +out of this, he next imagined that his father-in-law feared that he was +going to reproach his wife, and there was no making him comprehend more +than that, if she were not kept quiet, she might have a serious illness. + +Even then he insisted on going to look at her, and Dr. May could not +prevent him from pressing his lips to her forehead. She half opened her +eyes, and murmured “good-night,” and by this he was a little comforted; +but he would hear of nothing but sitting up, and Meta would have done +the same, but for an absolute decree of the doctor. + +It was a relief to Dr. May that George’s vigil soon became a sound +repose on the sofa in the dressing-room; and he was left to read and +muse uninterruptedly. + +It was far past two o’clock before there was any movement; then Flora +drew a long breath, stirred, and, as her father came and drew her hand +into his, before she was well awake, she gave a long, wondering whisper, +“Oh, papa! papa!” then sitting up, and passing her hand over her eyes, +“Is it all true?” + +“It is true, my own poor dear,” said Dr. May, supporting her, as she +rested against his arm, and hid her face on his shoulder, while her +breath came short, and she shivered under the renewed perception--“she +is gone to wait for you.” + +“Hush! Oh, don’t! papa!” said Flora, her voice shortened by anguish. +“Oh, think why--” + +“Nay, Flora, do not, do not speak as if that should exclude peace +or hope!” said Dr. May entreatingly. “Besides, it was no wilful +neglect--you had other duties--” + +“You don’t know me, papa,” said Flora, drawing her hands away from him, +and tightly clenching them in one another, as thoughts far too terrible +for words swept over her. + +“If I do not, the most Merciful Father does,” said Dr. May. Flora sat +for a minute or two, her hands locked together round her knees, her head +bowed down, her lips compressed. Her father was so far satisfied that +the bodily dangers he had dreaded were averted; but the agony of mind +was far more terrible, especially in one who expressed so little, and in +whom it seemed, as it were, pent up. + +“Papa!” said Flora presently, with a resolution of tone as if she would +prevent resistance; “I must see her!” + +“You shall, my dear,” said the doctor at once; and she seemed grateful +not to be opposed, speaking more gently, as she said, “May it be +now--while there is no daylight?” + +“If you wish it,” said Dr. May. + +The dawn, and a yellow waning moon, gave sufficient light for moving +about, and Flora gained her feet; but she was weak and trembling, and +needed the support of her father’s arm, though hardly conscious of +receiving it, as she mounted the same stairs, that she had so often +lightly ascended in the like doubtful morning light; for never, after +any party, had she omitted her visit to the nursery. + +The door was locked, and she looked piteously at her father as her weak +push met the resistance, and he was somewhat slow in turning the key +with his left hand. The whitewashed, slightly furnished room reflected +the light, and the moonbeams showed the window-frame in pale and dim +shades on the blinds, the dewy air breathed in coolly from the park, +and there was a calm solemnity in the atmosphere--no light, no watcher +present to tend the babe. Little Leonora needed such no more; she was +with the Keeper, who shall neither slumber nor sleep. + +So it thrilled across her grandfather, as he saw the little cradle +drawn into the middle of the room, and, on the coverlet, some pure white +rosebuds and lilies of the valley, gathered in the morning by Mary +and Blanche, little guessing the use that Meta would make of them ere +nightfall. + +The mother sank on her knees, her hands clasped over her breast, and +rocking herself to and fro uneasily, with a low, irrepressible moaning. + +“Will you not see her face?” whispered Dr. May. + +“I may not touch her,” was the answer, in the hollow voice, and with the +wild eye that had before alarmed him; but trusting to the soothing power +of the mute face of the innocent, he drew back the covering. + +The sight was such as he anticipated, sadly lovely, smiling and +tranquil--all oppression and suffering fled away for ever. + +It stilled the sounds of pain, and the restless motion; the compression +of the hands became less tight, and he began to hope that the look was +passing into her heart. He let her kneel on without interruption, only +once he said, “Of such is the kingdom of Heaven!” + +She made no immediate answer, and he had had time to doubt whether he +ought to let her continue in that exhausting attitude any longer, when +she looked up and said, “You will all be with her there.” + +“She has flown on to point your aim more steadfastly,” said Dr. May. + +Flora shuddered, but spoke calmly--“No, I shall not meet her.” + +“My child!” he exclaimed, “do you know what you are saying?” + +“I know, I am not in the way,” said Flora, still in the same fearfully +quiet, matter-of-fact tone. “I never have been”--and she bent over her +child, as if taking her leave for eternity. + +His tongue almost clave to the roof of his mouth, as he heard the +words--words elicited by one of those hours of true reality that, +like death, rend aside every wilful cloak of self-deceit, and +self-approbation. He had no power to speak at first; when he recovered +it, his reply was not what his heart had, at first, prompted. + +“Flora! How has this dear child been saved?” he said. “What has released +her from the guilt she inherited through you, through me, through all? +Is not the Fountain open?” + +“She never wasted grace,” said Flora. + +“My child! my Flora!” he exclaimed, losing the calmness he had gained +by such an effort; “you must not talk thus--it is wrong! Only your own +morbid feeling can treat this--this--as a charge against you, and if +it were, indeed”--he sank his voice--“that such consequences destroyed +hope, oh, Flora! where should I be?” + +“No,” said Flora, “this is not what I meant. It is that I have never +set my heart right. I am not like you nor my sisters. I have seemed to +myself, and to you, to be trying to do right, but it was all hollow, for +the sake of praise and credit. I know it, now it is too late; and He +has let me destroy my child here, lest I should have destroyed her +everlasting life, like my own.” + +The most terrible part of this sentence was to Dr. May, that Flora spoke +as if she knew it all as a certainty, and without apparent emotion, with +all the calmness of despair. What she had never guessed before had +come clearly and fully upon her now, and without apparent novelty, +or, perhaps, there had been misgivings in the midst of her complacent +self-satisfaction. She did not even seem to perceive how dreadfully +she was shocking her father, whose sole comfort was in believing her +language the effect of exaggerated self-reproach. His profession had +rendered him not new to the sight of despondency, and, dismayed as he +was, he was able at once to speak to the point. + +“If it were indeed so, her removal would be the greatest blessing.” + +“Yes,” said her mother, and her assent was in the same tone of resigned +despair, owning it best for her child to be spared a worldly education, +and loving her truly enough to acquiesce. + +“I meant the greatest blessing to you,” continued Dr. May, “if it be +sent to open your eyes, and raise your thoughts upwards. Oh, Flora, are +not afflictions tokens of infinite love?” + +She could not accept the encouragement, and only formed, with her lips, +the words, “Mercy to her--wrath to me!” + +The simplicity and hearty piety which, with all Dr. May’s faults, had +always been part of his character, and had borne him, in faith and +trust, through all his trials, had never belonged to her. Where he had +been sincere, erring only from impulsiveness, she had been double-minded +and calculating; and, now that her delusion had been broken down, she +had nothing to rest upon. Her whole religious life had been mechanical, +deceiving herself more than even others, and all seemed now swept away, +except the sense of hypocrisy, and of having cut herself off, for ever, +from her innocent child. Her father saw that it was vain to argue with +her, and only said, “You will think otherwise by and by, my dear. Now +shall I say a prayer before we go down?” + +As she made no reply, he repeated the Lord’s Prayer, but she did not +join; and then he added a broken, hesitating intercession for the +mourners, which caused her to bury her face deeper in her hands, but her +dull wretchedness altered not. + +Rising, he said authoritatively, “Come, Flora, you must go to bed. See, +it is morning.” + +“You have sat up all night with me!” said Flora, with somewhat of her +anxious, considerate self. + +“So has George. He had just dropped asleep on the sofa when you awoke.” + +“I thought he was in anger,” said she. + +“Not with you, dearest.” + +“No, I remember now, not where it was justly due. Papa,” she said, +pausing, as to recall her recollection, “what did I do? I must have done +something very unkind to make him go away and leave me.” + +“I insisted on his leaving you, my dear. You seemed oppressed, and his +affectionate ways were doing you harm; so I was hardhearted, and turned +him out, sadly against his will.” + +“Poor George!” said Flora, “has he been left to bear it alone all this +time? How much distressed he must have been. I must have vexed him +grievously. You don’t guess how fond he was of her. I must go to him at +once.” + +“That is right, my dear.” + +“Don’t praise me,” said she, as if she could not bear it. “All that is +left for me is to do what I can for him.” + +Dr. May felt cheered. He was sure that hope must again rise out of +unselfish love and duty. + +Their return awoke George, who started, half sitting up, wondering why +he was spending the night in so unusual a manner, and why Flora looked +so pale, in the morning light, with her loosened, drooping hair. + +She went straight to him, and, kneeling by his side, said, “George, +forgive!” The same moment he had caught her to his bosom; but so +impressed was his tardy mind with the peril of talking to her, that he +held her in his arms without a single word, till Dr. May had unclosed +his lips--a sign would not suffice--he must have a sentence to assure +him; and then it was such joy to have her restored, and his fondness +and solicitude were so tender and eager in their clumsiness, that his +father-in-law was touched to the heart. + +Flora was quite herself again, in presence of mind and power of dealing +with him; and Dr. May left them to each other, and went to his own room, +for such rest as sorrow, sympathy, and the wakening city, would permit +him. + +When the house was astir in the morning, and the doctor had met Meta in +the breakfast-room, and held with her a sad, affectionate conversation, +George came down with a fair report of his wife, and took her father to +see her. + +That night had been like an illness to her, and, though perfectly +composed, she was feeble and crushed, keeping the room darkened, and +reluctant to move or speak. Indeed, she did not seem able to give her +attention to any one’s voice, except her husband’s. When Dr. May, or +Meta, spoke to her, she would miss what they said, beg their pardon, and +ask them to repeat it; and sometimes, even then, become bewildered. +They tried reading to her, but she did not seem to listen, and her +half-closed eye had the expression of listless dejection, that her +father knew betokened that, even as last night, her heart refused to +accept promises of comfort as meant for her. + +For George, however, her attention was always ready, and was perpetually +claimed. He was forlorn and at a loss without her, every moment; and, +in the sorrow which he too felt most acutely, could not have a minute’s +peace unless soothed by her presence; he was dependent on her to a +degree which amazed and almost provoked the doctor, who could not +bear to have her continually harassed and disturbed, and yet was much +affected by witnessing so much tenderness, especially in Flora, always +the cold utilitarian member of his family. + +In the middle of the day she rose and dressed, because George was +unhappy at having to sit without her, though only in the next room. She +sat in the large arm-chair, turned away from the blinded windows, never +speaking nor moving, save when he came to her, to make her look at +his letters and notes, when she would, with the greatest patience and +sweetness, revise them, suggest word or sentence, rouse herself to +consider each petty detail, and then sink back into her attitude of +listless dejection. To all besides, she appeared totally indifferent; +gently courteous to Meta and to her father, when they addressed her, but +otherwise showing little consciousness whether they were in the room; +and yet, when something was passing about her father’s staying or +returning, she rose from her seat, came up to him before he was aware, +and said, “Papa! papa! you will not leave me!” in such an imploring +tone, that if he had ever thought of quitting her, he could not have +done so. + +He longed to see her left to perfect tranquillity, but such could not be +in London. Though theirs was called a quiet house, the rushing stream +of traffic wearied his country ears, the door bell seemed ceaselessly +ringing, and though Meta bore the brunt of the notes and messages, great +numbers necessarily came up to Mr. Rivers, and of these Flora was not +spared one. Dr. May had his share too of messages and business, and +friends and relations, the Rivers’ kindred, always ready to take +offence with their rich connections, and who would not be satisfied with +inquiries, at the door, but must see Meta, and would have George fetched +down to them--old aunts, who wanted the whole story of the child’s +illness, and came imagining there was something to be hushed up; Lady +Leonora extremely polite, but extremely disgusted at the encounter with +them; George ready to be persuaded to take every one up to see his wife, +and the prohibition to be made by Dr. May over and over again--it was +a most tedious, wearing afternoon, and at last, when the visitors had +gone, and George had hurried back to his wife, Dr. May threw himself +into an arm-chair and said, “Oh, Meta, sorrow weighs more heavily in +town than in the country!” + +“Yes!” said Meta. “If one only could go out and look at the flowers, and +take poor Flora up a nosegay!” + +“I don’t think it would make much difference to her,” sighed the doctor. + +“Yes, I think it would,” said Meta; “it did to me. The sights there +speak of the better sights.” + +“The power to look must come from within,” said Dr. May, thinking of his +poor daughter. + +“Ay,” said Meta, “as Mr. Ernescliffe said, ‘heaven is as near--!’ But +the skirts of heaven are more easily traced in our mountain view than +here, where, if I looked out of window, I should only see that giddy +string of carriages and people pursuing each other!” + +“Well, we shall get her home as soon as she is able to move, and I hope +it may soothe her. What a turmoil it is! There has not been one moment +without noise in the twenty-two hours I have been here!” + +“What would you say if you were in the city?” + +“Ah! there’s no talking of it; but if I had been a fashionable London +physician, as my father-in-law wanted to make me, I should have been +dead long ago!” + +“No, I think you would have liked it very much.” + +“Why?” + +“Love’s a flower that will not die,” repeated Meta, half smiling. “You +would have found so much good to do--” + +“And so much misery to rend one’s heart,” said Dr. May. “But, after all, +I suppose there is only a certain capacity of feeling.” + +“It is within, not without, as you said,” returned Meta. + +“Ha, there’s another!” cried Dr. May, almost petulant at the sound +of the bell again, breaking into the conversation that was a great +refreshment. + +“It was Sir Henry Walkinghame’s ring,” said Meta. “It is always his time +of day.” + +The doctor did not like it the better. + +Sir Henry sent up a message to ask whether he could see Mr. or Miss +Rivers. + +“I suppose we must,” said Meta, looking at the doctor. “Lady Walkinghame +must be anxious about Flora.” + +She blushed greatly, fancying that Dr. May was putting his own +construction on the heightened colour which she could not control. +Sir Henry came in, just what he ought to be, kindly anxious, but not +overwhelming, and with a ready, pleased recognition of the doctor, as an +old acquaintance of his boyhood. He did not stay many minutes; but there +was a perceptible difference between his real sympathy and friendly +regard only afraid of obtruding, and the oppressive curiosity of their +former visitors. Dr. May felt it due, both from kindness and candour, to +say something in his praise when he was gone. + +“That is a sensible superior man,” he said. “He will be an acquisition +when he takes up his abode at Drydale.” + +“Yes,” said Meta; a very simple yes, from which nothing could be +gathered. + +The funeral was fixed for Monday, the next day but one, at the church +where Mr. Rivers had been buried. No one was invited to be present; +Ethel wrote that, much as she wished it, she could not leave Margaret, +and, as the whole party were to return home on the following day, they +should soon see Flora. + +Flora had laid aside all privileges of illness after the first day; she +came downstairs to breakfast and dinner, and though looking wretchedly +ill, and speaking very low and feebly, she was as much as ever the +mistress of her house. Her father could never draw her into conversation +again on the subject nearest his heart, and could only draw the sad +conclusion that her state of mind was unchanged, from the dreary +indifference with which she allowed every word of cheer to pass by +unheeded, as if she could not bear to look beyond the grave. He had some +hope in the funeral, which she was bent on attending, and more in the +influence of Margaret, and the counsel of Richard, or of Mr. Wllmot. + +The burial, however, failed to bring any peaceful comfort to the +mourning mother. Meta’s tears flowed freely, as much for her father +as for her little niece; and George’s sobs were deep and choking; but +Flora, externally, only seemed absorbed in helping him to go through +with it; she, herself, never lost her fixed, composed, hopeless look. + +After her return, she went up to the nursery, and deliberately set +apart and locked up every possession of her child’s, then, coming down, +startled Meta by laying her hand on her shoulder and saying, “Meta, +dear, Preston is in the housekeeper’s room. Will you go and speak to her +for a moment, to reassure her before I come?” + +“Oh, Flora!” + +“I sent for her,” said Flora, in answer. “I thought it would be a good +opportunity while George is out. Will you be kind enough to prepare her, +my dear?” + +Meta wondered how Flora had known whither to send, but she could not but +obey. Poor Preston was an ordinary sort of woman, kind-hearted, and not +without a conscience; but her error had arisen from the want of any high +religious principle to teach her obedience, or sincerity. Her grief was +extreme, and she had been so completely overcome by the forbearance and +consideration shown to her, that she was even more broken-hearted by the +thought of them, than by the terrible calamity she had occasioned. + +Kind-hearted Mrs. Larpent had tried to console her, as well as to turn +the misfortune to the best account, and Dr. May had once seen her, and +striven gently to point out the true evil of the course she had pursued. +She was now going to her home, and they augured better of her, that +she had been as yet too utterly downcast to say one word of that first +thought with a servant, her character. + +Meta found her sobbing uncontrollably at the associations of her +master’s house, and dreadfully frightened at hearing that she was to see +Mrs. Rivers; she began to entreat to the contrary with the vehemence of +a person unused to any self-government; but, in the midst, the low +calm tones were heard, and her mistress stood before her--her perfect +stillness of demeanour far more effective in repressing agitation, than +had been Meta’s coaxing attempts to soothe. + +“You need not be afraid to see me, Preston,” said Flora kindly. “I am +very sorry for you--you knew no better, and I should not have left so +much to you.” + +“Oh, ma’am--so kind--the dear, dear little darling--I shall never +forgive myself.” + +“I know you did love her,” continued Flora. “I am sure you intended no +harm, and it was my leaving her that made her fretful.” + +Preston tried to thank. + +“Only remember henceforth”--and the clear tone grew fainter than ever +with internal anguish, though still steady--“remember strict obedience +and truth henceforth; the want of them will have worse results by and by +than even this. Now, Preston, I shall always wish you well. I ought not, +I believe, to recommend you to the like place, without saying why you +left me, but for any other I will give you a fair character. I will see +what I can do for you, and if you are ever in any distress, I hope you +will let me know. Have your wages been paid?” + +There was a sound in the affirmative, but poor Preston could not speak. +“Good-bye, then,” and Flora took her hand and shook it. “Mind you let me +hear if you want help. Keep this.” + +Meta was a little disappointed to see sovereigns instead of a book. +Flora turned to go, and put her hand out to lean on her sister as for +support; she stood still to gather strength before ascending the stairs, +and a groan of intense misery was wrung from her. + +“Dearest Flora, it has been too much!” + +“No,” said Flora gently. + +“Poor thing, I am glad for her sake. But might she not have a book--a +Bible?” + +“You may give her one, if you like. I could not.” + +Flora reached her own room, went in, and bolted the door. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + + + + Oh, where dwell ye, my ain sweet bairns? + I’m woe and weary grown! + Oh, Lady, we live where woe never is, + In a land to flesh unknown.--ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. + + +It had been with a gentle sorrow that Etheldred had expected to go and +lay in her resting-place, the little niece, who had been kept from the +evil of the world, in a manner of which she had little dreamt. Poor +Flora! she must be ennobled, she thought, by having a child where hers +is, when she is able to feel anything but the first grief; and Ethel’s +heart yearned to be trying, at least, to comfort her, and to be with her +father, who had loved his grandchild so fondly. + +It was not to be. Margaret had borne so many shocks with such calmness, +that Ethel had no especial fears for her; but there are some persons who +have less fortitude for others than for themselves, and she was one of +these. Ethel had been her own companion-sister, and the baby had been +the sunbeam of her life, during the sad winter and spring. + +In the middle of the night, Ethel knocked at Richard’s door. Margaret +had been seized with faintness, from which they could not bring her +back; and, even when Richard had summoned Dr. Spencer, it was long ere +his remedies took effect; but, at last, she revived enough to thank +them, and say she was glad that papa was not there. + +Dr. Spencer sent them all to bed, and the rest of the night was quiet; +but Margaret could not deny, in the morning, that she felt terribly +shattered, and she was depressed in spirits to a degree such as they +had never seen in her before. Her whole heart was with Flora; she was +unhappy at being at a distance from her, almost fretfully impatient for +letters, and insisting vehemently on Ethel’s going to London. + +Ethel had never felt so helpless and desolate, as with Margaret thus +changed and broken, and her father absent. + +“My dear,” said Dr. Spencer, “nothing can be better for both parties +than that he should be away. If he were here, he ought to leave all +attendance to me, and she would suffer from the sight of his distress.” + +“I cannot think what he will do or feel!” sighed Ethel. + +“Leave it to me. I will write to him, and we shall see her better before +post time.” + +“You will tell him exactly how it was, or I shall,” said Ethel abruptly, +not to say fiercely. + +“Ho! you don’t trust me?” said Dr. Spencer, smiling, so that she was +ashamed of her speech. “You shall speak for yourself, and I for myself; +and I shall say that nothing would so much hurt her as to have others +sacrificed to her.” + +“That is true,” said Ethel; “but she misses papa.” + +“Of course she does; but, depend on it, she would not have him leave +your sister, and she is under less restraint without him.” + +“I never saw her like this!” + +“The drop has made it overflow. She has repressed more than was good +for her, and now that her guard is broken down, she gives way under the +whole weight.” + +“Poor Margaret! I am pertinacious; but, if she is not better by post +time, papa will not bear to be away.” + +“I’ll tell you what I think of her by that time. Send up your brother +Richard, if you wish to do her good. Richard would be a much better +person to write than yourself. I perceive that he is the reasonable +member of the family.” + +“Did not you know that before?” + +“All I knew of him, till last night, was, that no one could, by any +possibility, call him Dick.” + +Dr. Spencer was glad to have dismissed Ethel smiling; and she was the +better able to bear with poor Margaret’s condition of petulance. She had +never before experienced the effects of bodily ailments on the temper, +and she was slow to understand the change in one usually so patient and +submissive. She was, by turns, displeased with her sister and with her +own abruptness; but, though she knew it not, her bluntness had a bracing +effect. She thought she had been cross in declaring it was nonsense to +harp on her going to London; but it made Margaret feel that she had been +unreasonable, and keep silence. + +Richard managed her much better, being gentle and firm, and less ready +to speak than Ethel, and he succeeded in composing her into a sleep, +which restored her balance, and so relieved Ethel, that she not only +allowed Dr. Spencer to say what he pleased, but herself made light of +the whole attack, little knowing how perilous was any shock to that +delicate frame. + +Margaret’s whole purpose was to wind herself up for the first interview +with Flora; and though she had returned to her usual state, she would +not go downstairs on the evening the party were expected, believing +it would be more grateful to her sister’s feelings to meet her without +witnesses. + +The travellers arrived, and Dr. May hurried up to her. She barely +replied to his caresses and inquiries in her eagerness to hear of Flora, +and to convince him that he must not forbid the meeting. Nor had he any +mind so to do. “Surely,” said he, when he had seen the spiritualised +look of her glistening blue eyes, the flush on her transparent cheeks, +and her hands clasped over her breast--“surely poor Flora must feel as +though an angel were waiting to comfort her.” + +Flora came, but there was sore disappointment. Fond and tender she +was as ever, but, neither by word or gesture, would she admit the most +remote allusion to her grief. She withdrew her hand when Margaret’s +pressure became expressive; she avoided her eye, and spoke incessantly +of different subjects. All the time, her voice was low and hollow, her +face had a settled expression of wretchedness, and her glances wandered +drearily and restlessly anywhere but to Margaret’s face; but her +steadiness of manner was beyond her sister’s power to break, and her +visit was shortened on account of her husband. Poor George had quite +given way at the sight of Gertrude, whom his little girl had been +thought to resemble; and, though Dr. May had soothed him almost like +a child, no one put any trust in his self-control, and all sat round, +fearing each word or look, till Flora came downstairs, and they +departed. + +Richard and Ethel each offered to go with them; they could not bear to +think of their spending that first evening in their childless home; but +Flora gently, but decidedly, refused; and Dr. May said that, much as he +wished to be with them, he believed that Flora preferred having no one +but Meta. “I hope I have done Margaret no harm,” were Flora’s last words +to him, and they seemed to explain her guarded manner; but he found +Margaret weeping as she had never wept for herself, and palpitation and +faintness were the consequence. + +Ethel looked on at Flora as a sad and perplexing mystery during the +weeks that ensued. There were few opportunities of being alone together, +and Flora shrank from such as they were--nay, she checked all expression +of solicitude, and made her very kisses rapid and formal. + +The sorrow that had fallen on the Grange seemed to have changed none of +the usual habits there--visiting, riding, driving, dinners, and music, +went on with little check. Flora was sure to be found the animated, +attentive lady of the house, or else sharing her husband’s pursuits, +helping him with his business, or assisting him in seeking pleasure, +spending whole afternoons at the coachmaker’s over a carriage that they +were building, and, it was reported, playing ecarte in the evening. + +Had grief come to be forgotten and cast aside without effecting any +mission? Yet Ethel could not believe that the presence of the awful +messenger was unfelt, when she heard poor George’s heavy sigh, or when +she looked at Flora’s countenance, and heard the peculiar low, subdued +tone of her voice, which, when her words were most cheerful, always +seemed to Ethel the resigned accent of despair. + +Ethel could not talk her over with Margaret, for all seemed to make it +a point that Margaret should believe the best. Dr. May turned from the +subject with a sort of shuddering grief, and said, “Don’t talk of her, +poor child--only pray for her!” + +Ethel, though shocked by the unwonted manner of his answer, was somewhat +consoled by perceiving that a double measure of tenderness had sprung +up between her father and his poor daughter. If Flora had seemed, in her +girlhood, to rate him almost cheaply, this was at an end now; she met +him as if his embrace were peace, the gloom was lightened, the attention +less strained, when he was beside her, and she could not part with him +without pressing for a speedy meeting. Yet she treated him with the same +reserve; since that one ghastly revelation of the secrets of her heart, +the veil had been closely drawn, and he could not guess whether it had +been but a horrible thought, or were still an abiding impression. Ethel +could gather no more than that her father was very unhappy about Flora, +and that Richard understood why; for Richard had told her that he had +written to Flora, to try to persuade her to cease from this reserve, but +that he had no reply. + +Norman was not at home; he had undertaken the tutorship of two +schoolboys for the holidays; and his father owned, with a sigh, that he +was doing wisely. + +As to Meta, she was Ethel’s chief consolation, by the redoubled +assurances, directed to Ethel’s unexpressed dread, lest Flora should be +rejecting the chastening Hand. Meta had the most absolute certainty that +Flora’s apparent cheerfulness was all for George’s sake, and that it was +a most painful exertion. “If Ethel could only see how she let herself +sink together, as it were, and her whole countenance relax, as soon as +he was out of sight,” Meta said, “she could not doubt what misery these +efforts were to her.” + +“Why does she go on with them?” said Ethel. + +“George,” said Meta. “What would become of him without her? If he misses +her for ten minutes he roams about lost, and he cannot enjoy anything +without her. I cannot think how he can help seeing what hard work it is, +and how he can be contented with those dreadful sham smiles; but as long +as she can give him pleasure, poor Flora will toil for him.” + +“It is very selfish,” Ethel caught herself saying. + +“No, no, it is not,” cried Meta. “It is not that he will not see, but +that he cannot see. Good honest fellow, he really thinks it does her +good and pleases her. I was so sorry one evening when I tried to take +her place at that perpetual ecarte, and told him it teased her; he went +so wistfully to her, and asked whether it did, and she exerted herself +into such painful enjoyment to persuade him to the contrary; and +afterwards she said to me, ‘Let me alone, dearest--it is the only thing +left me.’” + +“There is something in being husband and wife that one cannot +understand,” slowly said Ethel, so much in her quaint way that Meta +laughed. + +Had it not been for Norman’s absence, Ethel would, in the warm sympathy +and accustomed manner of Meta Rivers, have forgotten all about the hopes +and fears that, in brighter days, had centred on that small personage; +until one day, as she came home from Cocksmoor, she found “Sir Henry +Walkinghame’s” card on the drawing-room table. “I should like to bite +you! Coming here, are you?” was her amiable reflection. + +Meta, in her riding-habit, peeped out of Margaret’s room. “Oh, Ethel, +there you are! It is such a boon that you did not come home sooner, or +we should have had to ride home with him! I heard him asking for the +Miss Mays! And now I am in hopes that he will go home without falling in +with Flora and George.” + +“I did not know he was in these parts.” + +“He came to Drydale last week, but the place is forlorn, and George gave +him a general invitation to the Grange.” + +“Do you like him?” said Ethel, while Margaret looked on, amazed at her +audacity. + +“I liked him very much in London,” said Meta; “he is pleasant enough to +talk to, but somehow, he is not congruous here--if you understand me. +And I think his coming oppresses Flora--she turned quite pale when he +was announced, and her voice was lower than ever when she spoke to him.” + +“Does he come often?” said Ethel. + +“I don’t think he has anything else to do,” returned Meta, “for our +house cannot be as pleasant as it was; but he is very kind to George, +and for that we must be grateful. One thing I am afraid of, that he will +persuade us off to the yachting after all.” + +“Oh!” was the general exclamation. + +“Yes,” said Meta. “George seemed to like the plan, and I very much fear +that he is taking a dislike to the dear old Grange. I heard him say, +‘Anything to get away.’” + +“Poor George, I know he is restless,” said Margaret. + +“At least,” said Ethel, “you can’t go till after your birthday, Miss +Heiress.” + +“No, Uncle Cosham is coming,” said Meta. “Margaret, you must have your +stone laid before we go!” + +“Dr. Spencer promises it before Hector’s holidays are over,” said +Margaret, blushing, as she always did, with pleasure, when they talked +of the church. + +Hector Ernescliffe had revived Margaret wonderfully. She was seldom +downstairs before the evening, and Ethel thought his habit of making her +apartment his sitting-room must be as inconvenient to her as it was +to herself; but Hector could not be de trop for Margaret. She exerted +herself to fulfil for him all the little sisterly offices that, with her +brothers, had been transferred to Ethel and Mary; she threw herself into +all his schemes, tried to make him endure Captain Gordon, and she +even read his favourite book of Wild Sports, though her feelings were +constantly lacerated by the miseries of the slaughtered animals. +Her couch was to him as a home, and he had awakened her bright soft +liveliness which had been only dimmed for a time. + +The church was her other great interest, and Dr. Spencer humoured her +by showing her all his drawings, consulting her on every ornament, +and making many a perspective elevation, merely that she might see the +effect. + +Richard and Tom made it their recreation to construct a model of the +church as a present for her, and Tom developed a genius for carving, +which proved a beneficial interest to keep him from surliness. He had +voluntarily propounded his intended profession to his father, who had +been so much pleased by his choice, that he could not but be gratified; +though now and then ambitious fancies, and discontent with Stoneborough, +combined to bring on his ordinary moody fits, the more, because his +habitual reserve prevented any one from knowing what was working in his +mind. + +Finally the Rivers’ party announced their intention of going to the Isle +of Wight as soon as Meta had come of age; and the council of Cocksmoor, +meeting at tea at Dr. May’s house, decided that the foundation stone +of the church should be laid on the day after her birthday, when there +would be a gathering of the whole family, as Margaret wished. Dr. +Spencer had worked incredibly hard to bring it forward, and Margaret’s +sweet smiles, and liquid eyes, expressed how personally thankful she +felt. + +“What a blessing this church has been to that poor girl,” said Dr. +Spencer, as he left the house with Mr. Wilmot. “How it beguiles her out +of her grief! I am glad she has the pleasure of the foundation; I doubt +if she will see the consecration.” + +“Indeed!” said Mr. Wilmot, shocked. “Was that attack so serious?” + +“That recumbent position and want of exercise were certain to produce +organic disease, and suspense and sorrow have hastened it. The death of +Mrs. Rivers’s poor child was the blow that called it into activity, and, +if it last more than a year, I shall be surprised.” + +“For such as she is, one cannot presume to wish, but her father--is he +aware of this?” + +“He knows there is extensive damage; I think he does not open his eyes +to the result, but he will bear it. Never was there a man to whom it +came so naturally to live like the fowls of the air, or the lilies of +the field, as it does to dear Dick May,” said Dr. Spencer, his voice +faltering. + +“There is a strength of faith and love in him that carries him +through all,” said Mr. Wilmot. “His childlike nature seems to have the +trustfulness that is, in itself, consolation. You said how Cocksmoor had +been blessed to Margaret--I think it is the same with them all--not only +Ethel and Richard, who have been immediately concerned; but that one +object has been a centre and aim to elevate the whole family, and give +force and unity to their efforts. Even the good doctor, much as I +always looked up to him--much good as he did me in my young days--I must +confess that he was sometimes very provoking.” + +“If you had tried to be his keeper at Cambridge, you might say so!” + rejoined Dr. Spencer. + +“He is so much less impetuous--more consistent--less desultory; I dare +say you understand me,” said Mr. Wilmot. “His good qualities do not +entangle one another as they used to do.” + +“Exactly so. He was far more than I looked for when I came home, though +I might have guessed that such a disposition, backed by such principles +and such--could not but shake off all the dross.” + +“One thing was,” said Mr. Wilmot, smiling, “that a man must take himself +in hand at some time in his life, and Dr. May only began to think +himself responsible for himself when he lost his wife, who was wise for +both. She was an admirable person, but not easy to know well. I think +you knew her at--” + +“I say,” interrupted Dr. Spencer, “it strikes me that we could not do +better than get up our S. P. G. demonstration on the day of the stone--” + +Hitherto the Stoneborough subscribers to the Society for the Propagation +of the Gospel had been few and far between; but, under the new dynasty, +there was a talk of forming an association, and having a meeting to +bring the subject forward. Dr. Spencer’s proposal, however, took the +vicar by surprise. + +“Never could there be a better time,” he argued. “You have naturally +a gathering of clergy--people ought to be liberal on such an occasion, +and, as Cocksmoor is provided for, why not give the benefit to the +missions, in their crying need!” + +“True, but there is no time to send for any one to make a speech.” + +“Husband your resources. What could you have better than young Harry and +his islanders?” + +“Harry would never make a speech.” + +“Let him cram Norman. Young Lake tells me Norman made a great sensation +at the Union at Oxford, and if his heart is in the work, he must not +shrink from the face of his townsmen.” + +“No doubt he had rather they were savages,” said the vicar. “And +yourself--you will tell them of the Indian missions.” + +“With all my heart,” said Dr. Spencer. “When my Brahminhee godson--the +deacon I told you of, comes to pay me his promised visit, what doings we +shall have! Seriously, I have just had letters from him and from others, +that speak of such need, that I could feel every moment wasted that is +not spent on their behalf.” + +Mr. Wilmot was drawn into Dr. Spencer’s house, and heard the letters, +till his heart burned within him. + +The meeting was at once decided upon, though Ethel could not see why +people could not give without speechifying, and her two younger brothers +declared it was humbug--Tom saying, he wished all blackamoors were out +of creation, and Harry, that he could not stand palaver about his friend +David. Dr. May threatened him with being displayed on the platform as a +living instance of the effects of missions, at which he took alarm, and +so seriously declared that he should join the Bucephalus at once, that +they pacified him by promising that he should do as he pleased. + +The archdeacon promised a sermon, and the active Dr Spencer worked the +nine muses and all the rest of the town and neighbourhood into a state +of great enthusiasm and expectation. He went to the Grange, as he said, +to collect his artillery; primed Flora that she might prime the M. P.; +made the willing Meta promise to entrap the uncle, who was noted for +philanthropical speeches; and himself captured Sir Henry Walkinghame, +who looked somewhat rueful at what he found incumbent on him as a +country gentleman, though there might be some compensation in the +eagerness of Miss Rivers. + +Norman had hardly set foot in Stoneborough before he was told what was +in store for him, and, to the general surprise, submitted as if it were +a very simple matter. As Dr. Spencer told him, it was only a foretaste +of the penalty which every missionary has to pay for coming to England. +Norman was altogether looking much better than when he had been last at +home, and his spirits were more even. He had turned his whole soul to +the career he had chosen, cast his disappointment behind him, or, more +truly, made it his offering, and gathered strength and calmness, with +which to set out on tasks of working for others, with thoughts too much +absorbed on them, to give way to the propensity of making himself the +primary object of study and contemplation. The praise of God, and love +of man, were the best cures for tendencies like his, and he had found it +out. His calm, though grave cheerfulness, came as a refreshment to those +who had been uneasy about him, and mournfully watching poor Flora. + +“Yes,” said Dr. Spencer, “you have taken the best course for your own +happiness.” + +Norman coloured, as if he understood more than met the ear. Mary and +Blanche were very busy preparing presents for Meta Rivers, and every one +was anxious to soften to her the thought of this first birthday without +her father. Each of the family contributed some pretty little trifle, +choice in workmanship or kind in device, and each was sealed and marked +with the initials of the giver, and packed up by Mary, to be committed +to Flora’s charge. Blanche had, however, much trouble in extracting a +gift from Norman, and he only yielded at last, on finding that all his +brothers had sent something, so that his omission would be marked. Then +he dived into the recesses of his desk, and himself sealed up a little +parcel, of which he would not allow his sisters to inspect the contents. + +Ethel had a shrewd guess. She remembered his having, in the flush of +joy at Margaret’s engagement, rather prematurely caused a seal to be +cut with a daisy, and “Pearl of the meadow” as the motto; and his having +said that he should keep it as a wedding present. She could understand +that he was willing to part with it without remark. + +Flora met Meta in her sitting-room, on the morning of the day, which +rose somewhat sadly upon the young girl, as she thought of past +affection and new responsibilities. If the fondness of a sister could +have compensated for what she had lost, Meta received it in no scanty +measure from Flora, who begged to call George, because he would be +pleased to see the display of gifts. + +His own was the only costly one--almost all the rest were homemade +treasures of the greater price, because the skill and fondness of +the maker were evident in their construction; and Meta took home the +kindness as it was meant, and felt the affection that would not let her +feel herself lonely. She only wished to go and thank them all at once. + +“Do then,” said Flora. “If Lord Cosham will spare you, and your business +should be over in time, you could drive in, and try to bring papa home +with you.” + +“Oh, thank you, Flora. That is a kind treat, in case the morning should +be very awful!” + +Margaret Agatha Rivers signed her documents, listened to explanations, +and was complimented by her uncle on not thinking it necessary to be +senseless on money matters, like her cousin, Agatha Langdale. + +Still she looked a little oppressed, as she locked up the tokens of her +wealth, and the sunshine of her face did not beam out again till she +arrived at Stoneborough, and was dispensing her pretty thanks to the few +she found at home. + +“Ethel out and Norman? His seal is only too pretty--” + +“They are all helping Dr. Spencer at Cocksmoor.” + +“What a pity! But it is so very kind of him to treat me as a daisy. In +some ways I like his present for that the best of all,” said Meta. + +“I will tell him so,” said Mary. + +“Yes, no,” said Meta. “I am not pretending to be anything half so nice.” + +Mary and Blanche fell upon her for calling herself anything but the +nicest flower in the world; and she contended that she was nothing +better than a parrot-tulip, stuck up in a parterre; and just as the +discussion was becoming a game at romps, Dr. May came in, and the +children shouted to him to say whether his humming-bird were a daisy or +a tulip. + +“That is as she comports herself,” he said playfully. + +“Which means that you don’t think her quite done for,” said Meta. + +“Not quite,” said the doctor, with a droll intonation; “but I have not +seen what this morning may have done to her.” + +“Come and see, then,” said Meta. “Flora told me to bring you home--and +it is my birthday, you know. Never mind waiting to tell Ethel. Margaret +will let her know that I’ll keep you out of mischief.” + +As usual, Dr. May could not withstand her, and she carried him off in +triumph in her pony carriage. + +“Then you don’t give me up yet?” was the first thing she said, as they +were off the stones. + +“What have you been doing to make me?” said he. + +“Doing or not doing--one or the other,” she said. “But indeed I wanted +to have you to myself. I am in a great puzzle!” + +“Sir Henry! I hope she won’t consult me!” thought Dr. May, as he +answered, “Well, my dear.” + +“I fear it is a lasting puzzle,” she said. “What shall I do with all +this money?” + +“Keep it in the bank, or buy railway shares!” said Dr. May, looking +arch. + +“Thank you. That’s a question for my cousins in the city. I want you to +answer me as no one else can do. I want to know what is my duty now that +I have my means in my own hands?” + +“There is need enough around--” + +“I do not mean only giving a little here and there, but I want you to +hear a few of my thoughts. Flora and George are kindness itself--but, +you see, I have no duties. They are obliged to live a gay sort of +life--it is their position; but I cannot make out whether it is mine. I +don’t see that I am like those girls who have to go out as a matter of +obedience.” + +Dr. May considered, but could only say, “You are very young.” + +“Too young to be independent,” sighed Meta. “I must grow old enough to +be trusted alone, and in the meantime--” + +“Probably an answer will be found,” said the doctor. “You and your means +will find their--their vocation.” + +“Marriage,” said Meta, calmly speaking the word that he had avoided. “I +think not.” + +“Why--” he began. + +“I do not think good men like heiresses.” + +He became strongly interested in a corn-field, and she resumed, + +“Perhaps I should only do harm. It may be my duty to wait. All I wish to +know is, whether it is?” + +“I see you are not like girls who know their duty, and are restless, +because it is not the duty they like.” + +“Oh! I like everything. It is my liking it so much that makes me +afraid.” + +“Even going to Ryde?” + +“Don’t I like the sailing? and seeing Harry too? I don’t feel as if that +were waste, because I can sometimes spare poor Flora a little. We could +not let her go alone.” + +“You need never fear to be without a mission of comfort,” said Dr. May. +“Your ‘spirit full of glee’ was given you for something. Your presence +is far more to my poor Flora than you or she guess.” + +“I never meant to leave her now,” said Meta earnestly. “I only wished to +be clear whether I ought to seek for my work.” + +“It will seek you, when the time comes.” + +“And meantime I must do what comes to hand, and take it as humiliation +that it is not in the more obviously blessed tasks! A call might come, +as Cocksmoor did to Ethel. But oh! my money! Ought it to be laid up for +myself?” + +“For your call, when it comes,” said Dr. May, smiling; then gravely, +“There are but too many calls for the interest. The principal is your +trust, till the time comes.” + +Meta smiled, and was pleased to think that her first-fruits would be +offered to-morrow. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + + + +“Oh, dear!” sighed Etheldred, as she fastened her white muslin, “I’m +afraid it is my nature to hate my neighbour.” + +“My dear Ethel, what is coming next?” said Margaret. + +“I like my neighbour at home, and whom I have to work for, very much,” + said Ethel, “but oh! my neighbour that I have to be civil to!” + +“Poor old King! I am afraid your day will be spoiled with all your toils +as lady of the house. I wish I could help you.” + +“Let me have my grumble out, and you will!” said Ethel. + +“Indeed I am sorry you have this bustle, and so many to entertain, when +I know you would rather have the peaceful feelings belonging to the day +undisturbed. I should like to shelter you up here.” + +“It is very ungrateful of me,” said Ethel, “when Dr. Spencer works so +hard for us, not to be willing to grant anything to him.” + +“And--but then I have none of the trouble of it--I can’t help liking the +notion of sending out the Church to the island whence the Church came +home to us.” + +“Yes--” said Ethel, “if we could do it without holding forth!” + +“Come, Ethel, it is much better than the bazaar--it is no field for +vanity.” + +“Certainly not,” said Ethel. “What a mess every one will make! Oh, if I +could but stay away, like Harry! There will be Dr. Hoxton being sonorous +and prosy, and Mr. Lake will stammer, and that will be nothing to the +misery of our own people’s work. George will flounder, and look at +Flora, and she will sit with her eyes on the ground, and Dr. Spencer +will come out of his proper self, and be complimentary to people who +deserve it no more!--And Norman! I wish I could run away!” + +“Richard says we do not guess how well Norman speaks.” + +“Richard thinks Norman can do anything he can’t do himself! It is all +chance--he may do very well, if he gets into his ‘funny state’, but he +always suffers for that, and he will certainly put one into an agony at +the outset. I wish Dr. Spencer would have let him alone! And then there +will be that Sir Henry, whom I can’t abide! Oh, I wish I were more +charitable, like Miss Bracy and Mary, who will think all so beautiful!” + +“So will you, when you come home,” said Margaret. + +“If I could only be talking to Cherry, and Dame Hall! I think the school +children enter into it very nicely, Margaret. Did I tell you how nicely +Ellen Reid answered about the hymn, ‘From Greenland’s icy mountains’? +She did not seem to have made it a mere geographical lesson, like Fanny +Grigg--” + +Ethel’s misanthropy was happily conducted off via the Cocksmoor +children, and any lingering remains were dissipated by her amusement at +Dr. Spencer’s ecstasy on seeing Dr. May assume his red robe of office, +to go to the minster in state, with the Town Council. He walked round +and round his friend, called him Nicholas Randall redivivus, quoted +Dogberry, and affronted Gertrude, who had a dim idea that he was making +game of papa. + +Ethel was one of those to whom representation was such a penance, that +a festival, necessitating hospitality to guests of her own rank, was +burden enough seriously to disturb the repose of thankfulness for the +attainment of her object, and to render difficult the recueillement +which she needed for the praise and prayer that she felt due from her, +and which seemed to oppress her heart, by a sense of inadequacy of her +partial expression. It was well for her that the day began with the calm +service in the minster, where it was her own fault if cares haunted her, +and she could confess the sin of her irritated sensations, and wishes to +have all her own way, and then, as ever, be led aright into thanksgiving +for the unlooked-for crowning of her labours. + +The archdeacon’s sermon amplified what Margaret had that morning +expressed, so as to carry on her sense of appropriateness in the +offerings of the day being bestowed on distant lands. + +But the ordeal was yet to come, and though blaming herself, she was +anything but comfortable, as the world repaired to the Town Hall, the +room where the same faces so often met for such diverse purposes--now an +orrery displayed by a conceited lecturer, now a ball, now a magistrates’ +meeting, a concert or a poultry show, where rival Hamburg and Dorking +uplifted their voices in the places of Mario and Grisi, all beneath the +benignant portrait of Nicholas Randall, ruffed, robed, square-toed, his +endowment of the scholarship in his hand, and a chequered pavement at +his feet. + +Who knows not an S. P. G. meeting?--the gaiety of the serious, and the +first public spectacle to the young, who, like Blanche and Aubrey, gaze +with admiration at the rows of bonnets, and with awe at the black coats +on the platform, while the relations of the said black coats suffer, +like Ethel, from nervous dread of the public speaking of their best +friends. + +Her expectations were realised by the archdeacon’s speech, which went +round in a circle, as if he could not find his way out of it. Lord +Cosham was fluent, but a great many words went to very small substance; +and no wonder, thought Ethel, when all they had to propose and second +was the obvious fact that missions were very good things. + +Dr. Hoxton pompously, Sir Henry Walkinghame creditably, assisted the +ladies and gentlemen to resolve that the S. P. G. wanted help; Mr. Lake +made a stammering, and Mr. Rivers, with his good-natured face, hearty +manner, and good voice, came in well after him with a straightforward, +speech, so brief, that Ethel gave Flora credit for the best she had yet +heard. + +Mr. Wilmot said something which the sharpest ears in the front row +might, perhaps, have heard, and which resulted in Dr. Spencer standing +up. Ethel hardly would have known who was speaking had her eyes been +shut. His voice was so different, when raised and pitched, so as to show +its power and sweetness; the fine polish of his manner was redoubled, +and every sentence had the most graceful turn. It was like listening to +a well-written book, so smooth and so fluent, and yet so earnest--his +pictures of Indian life so beautiful, and his strong affection for the +converts he described now and then making his eyes fill, and his voice +falter, as if losing the thread of his studied composition--a true and +dignified work of art, that made Dr. May whisper to Flora, “You see +what he can do. They would have given anything to have had him for a +lecturer.” + +With half a sigh, Ethel saw Norman rise, and step forward. He began, +with eyes fixed on the ground, and in a low modest tone, to speak of +the islands that Harry had visited; but gradually the poetic nature, +inherent in him, gained the mastery; and though his language was +strikingly simple, in contrast with Dr. Spencer’s ornate periods, and +free from all trace of “the lamp,” it rose in beauty and fervour at +every sentence. The feelings that had decided his lot gave energy to his +discourse, and repressed as they had been by reserve and diffidence, now +flowed forth, and gave earnestness to natural gifts of eloquence of the +highest order. After his quiet, unobtrusive beginning, there was the +more wonder to find how he seemed to raise up the audience with him, +in breathless attention, as to a strain of sweet music, carrying them +without thought of the scene, or of the speaker, to the lovely isles, +and the inhabitants of noble promise, but withering for lack of +knowledge; and finally closing his speech, when they were wrought up to +the highest pitch, by an appeal that touched them all home; “for well +did he know,” said he, “that the universal brotherhood was drawn +closest in circles nearer home, that beneath the shadow of their own old +minster, gladness and mourning floated alike for all; and that all those +who had shared in the welcome to one, given back as it were from +the grave, would own the same debt of gratitude to the hospitable +islanders.” + +He ceased. His father wiped his spectacles, and almost audibly murmured, +“Bless him!” Ethel, who had sat like one enchanted, forgetting who +spoke, forgetting all save the islanders, half turned, and met Richard’s +smiling eyes, and his whisper, “I told you so.” + +The impress of a man of true genius and power had been made throughout +the whole assembly; the archdeacon put Norman out of countenance by +the thanks of the meeting for his admirable speech, and all the world, +except the Oxford men, were in a state of as much surprise as pleasure. + +“Splendid speaker, Norman May, if he would oftener put himself out,” + Harvey Anderson commented. “Pity he has so many of the good doctor’s +prejudices!” + +“Well, to be sure!” quoth Mrs. Ledwich. “I knew Mr. Norman was very +clever, but I declare I never thought of such as this! I will try my +poor utmost for those interesting natives.” + +“That youth has first-rate talents,” said Lord Cosham. “Do you know what +he is designed for? I should like to bring him forward.” + +“Ah!” said Dr. Hoxton. “The year I sent off May and Anderson was the +proudest year of my life!” + +“Upon my word!” declared Mrs. Elwood. “That Dr. Spencer is as good as a +book, but Mr. Norman--I say, father, we will go without the new clock, +but we’ll send somewhat to they men that built up the church, and has no +minister.” + +“A good move that,” said Dr. Spencer. “Worth at least twenty pounds. +That boy has the temperament of an orator, if the morbid were but a +grain less.” + +“Oh, Margaret,” exclaimed Blanche. “Dr. Spencer made the finest speech +you ever heard, only it was rather tiresome; and Norman made everybody +cry--and Mary worse than all!” + +“There is no speaking of it. One should live such things, not talk over +them,” said Meta Rivers. + +Margaret received the reports of the select few, who visited her +upstairs, where she was kept quiet, and only heard the hum of the swarm, +whom Dr. May, in vehement hospitality, had brought home to luncheon, to +Ethel’s great dread, lest there should not be enough for them to eat. + +Margaret pitied her sisters, but heard that all was going well; that +Flora was taking care of the elders, and Harry and Mary were making the +younger fry very merry at the table on the lawn. Dr. May had to start +early to see a sick gardener at Drydale before coming on to Cocksmoor, +and came up to give his daughter a few minutes. + +“We get on famously,” he said. “Ethel does well when she is in for it, +like Norman. I had no notion what was in the lad. They are perfectly +amazed with his speech. It seems hard to give such as he is up to +those outlandish places; but there, his speech should have taught me +better--one’s best--and, now and then, he seems my best.” + +“One comfort is,” said Margaret, smiling, “you would miss Ethel more.” + +“Gallant old King! I am glad she has had her wish. Good-bye, my +Margaret, we will think of you. I wish--” + +“I am very happy,” was Margaret’s gentle reassurance. “The dear little +Daisy looks just as her godfather imagined her;” and happy was her face +when her father quitted her. + +Margaret’s next visitor was Meta, who came to reclaim her bonnet, and, +with a merry smile, to leave word that she was walking on to Cocksmoor. +Margaret remonstrated on the heat. + +“Let me alone,” said she, making her pretty wilful gesture. “Ethel and +Mary ought to have a lift, and I have had no walking to-day.” + +“My dear, you don’t know how far it is. You can’t go alone.” + +“I am lying in wait for Miss Bracy, or something innocent,” said Meta. +“In good time--here comes Tom.” + +Tom entered, declaring that he had come to escape from the clack +downstairs. + +“I’ll promise not to clack if you will be so kind as to take care of me +to Cocksmoor,” said Meta. + +“Do you intend to walk?” + +“If you will let me be your companion.” + +“I shall be most happy,” said Tom, colouring with gratification, such +as he might not have felt, had he known that he was chosen for his +innocence. + +He took a passing glimpse at his neck-tie, screwed up the nap of his +glossy hat to the perfection of its central point, armed himself with +a knowing little stick, and hurried his fair companion out by the back +door, as much afraid of losing the glory of being her sole protector as +she was of falling in with an escort of as much consequence, in other +eyes, as was Mr. Thomas in his own. + +She knew him less than any of the rest, and her first amusement was +keeping silence to punish him for complaining of clack; but he explained +that he did not mean quiet, sensible conversation--he only referred to +those foolish women’s raptures over the gabble they had been hearing at +the Town Hall. + +She exclaimed, whereupon he began to criticise the speakers with a good +deal of acuteness, exposing the weak points, but magnanimously owning +that it was tolerable for the style of thing, and might go down at +Stoneborough. + +“I wonder you did not stay away as Harry did.” + +“I thought it would be marked,” observed the thread-paper Tom, as if he +had been at least county member. + +“You did quite right,” said Meta, really thinking so. + +“I wished to hear Dr. Spencer, too,” said Tom. “There is a man who does +know how to speak! He has seen something of the world, and knows what he +is talking of.” + +“But he did not come near Norman.” + +“I hated listening to Norman,” said Tom. “Why should he go and set his +heart on those black savages?” + +“They are not savages in New Zealand.” + +“They are all niggers together,” said Tom vehemently. “I cannot think +why Norman should care for them more than for his own brothers and +sisters. All I know is, that if I were my father, I would never give my +consent.” + +“It is lucky you are not,” said Meta, smiling defiance, though a tear +shone in her eye. “Dr. May makes the sacrifice with a free heart and +willing mind.” + +“Everybody goes and sacrifices somebody else,” grumbled Tom. + +“Who are the victims now?” + +“All of us. What are we to do without Norman? He is worth all of us +put together; and I--” Meta was drawn to the boy as she had never been +before, as he broke off short, his face full of emotion, that made him +remind her of his father. + +“You might go out and follow in his steps,” said she, as the most +consoling hope she could suggest. + +“Not I. Don’t you know what is to happen to me? Ah! Flora has not told +you. I thought she would not think it grand enough. She talked about +diplomacy--” + +“But what?” asked Meta anxiously. + +“Only that I am to stick to the old shop,” said Tom. “Don’t tell any +one; I would not have the fellows know it.” + +“Do you mean your father’s profession?” + +“Ay!” + +“Oh, Tom! you don’t talk of that as if you despised it?” + +“If it is good enough for him, it is good enough for me, I suppose,” + said Tom. “I hate everything when I think of my brothers going over the +world, while I, do what I will, must be tied down to this slow place all +the rest of my days.” + +“If you were away, you would be longing after it.” + +“Yes; but I can’t get away.” + +“Surely, if the notion is so unpleasant to you, Dr. May would never +insist?” + +“It is my free choice, and that’s the worst of it.” + +“I don’t understand.” + +“Don’t you see? Norman told me it would be a great relief to him if I +would turn my mind that way--and I can’t go against Norman. I found he +thought he must if I did not; and, you know, he is fit for all sorts of +things that--Besides, he has a squeamishness about him, that makes him +turn white, if one does but cut one’s finger, and how he would ever go +through the hospitals--” + +Meta suspected that Tom was inclined to launch into horrors. “So you +wanted to spare him,” she said. + +“Ay! and papa was so pleased by my offering that I can’t say a word of +the bore it is. If I were to back out, it would come upon Aubrey, and +he is weakly, and so young, that he could not help my father for many +years.” + +Meta was much struck at the motives that actuated the self-sacrifice, +veiled by the sullen manner which she almost began to respect. “What is +done for such reasons must make you happy,” she said; “though there may +be much that is disagreeable.” + +“Not the study,” said Tom. “The science is famous work. I like what I +see of it in my father’s books, and there’s a splendid skeleton at the +hospital that I long to be at. If it were not for Stoneborough, it +would be all very well; but, if I should get on ever so well at the +examinations, it all ends there! I must come back, and go racing about +this miserable circuit, just like your gold pheasant rampaging in his +cage, seeing the same stupid people all my days.” + +“I think,” said Meta, in a low, heartfelt voice, “it is a noble, +beautiful thing to curb down your ambition for such causes. Tom, I like +you for it.” + +The glance of those beautiful eyes was worth having. Tom coloured a +little, but assumed his usual gruffness. “I can’t bear sick people,” he +said. + +“It has always seemed to me,” said Meta, “that few lives could come up +to Dr. May’s. Think of going about, always watched for with hope, often +bringing gladness and relief; if nothing else, comfort and kindness, his +whole business doing good.” + +“One is paid for it,” said Tom. + +“Nothing could ever repay Dr. May,” said Meta. “Can any one feel the fee +anything but a mere form? Besides, think of the numbers and numbers that +he takes nothing from; and oh! to how many he has brought the most real +good, when they would have shut their doors against it in any other +form! Oh, Tom, I think none of you guess how every one feels about your +father. I recollect one poor woman saying, after he had attended her +brother, ‘He could not save his body, but, surely, ma’am, I think he was +the saving of his soul.’” + +“It is of no use to talk of my being like my father,” said Tom. + +Meta thought perhaps not, but she was full of admiration of his +generosity, and said, “You will make it the same work of love, and +charity is the true glory.” + +Any inroad on Tom’s reserved and depressed nature was a benefit; and he +was of an age to be susceptible of the sympathy of one so pretty and +so engaging. He had never been so much gratified or encouraged, and, +wishing to prolong the tete-a-tete, he chose to take the short +cut through the fir-plantations, unfrequented on account of the +perpendicular, spiked railings that divided it from the lane. + +Meta was humming-bird enough to be undismayed. She put hand and foot +wherever he desired, flattered him by letting him handily help her up, +and bounded light as a feather down on the other side, congratulating +herself on the change from the dusty lane to the whispering pine +woods, between which wound the dark path, bestrewn with brown slippery +needle-leaves, and edged with the delicate feathering ling and tufts of +soft grass. + +Tom had miscalculated the chances of interruption. Meta was lingering +to track the royal highway of some giant ants to their fir-leaf hillock, +when they were hailed from behind, and her squire felt ferocious at the +sight of Norman and Harry closing the perspective of fir-trunks. + +“Hallo! Tom, what a guide you are!” exclaimed Norman. “That fence which +even Ethel and Mary avoid!” + +“Mary climbs like a cow, and Ethel like a father-long-legs,” said Tom. +“Now Meta flies like a bird.” + +“And Tom helped me so cleverly,” said Meta. “It was an excellent move, +to get into the shade and this delicious pine tree fragrance.” + +“Halt!” said Norman--“this is too fast for Meta.” + +“I cannot,” said Harry. “I must get there in time to set Dr. Spencer’s +tackle to rights. He is tolerably knowing about knots, but there is a +dodge beyond him. Come on, Tom.” + +He drew on the reluctant Etonian, who looked repiningly back at the +increasing distance between him and the other pair, till a turn in the +path cut off his view. + +“I am afraid you do not know what you have undertaken,” said Norman. + +“I am a capital walker. And I know, or do not know, how often Ethel +takes the same walk.” + +“Ethel is no rule.” + +“She ought to be,” said Meta. “To be like her has always been my +ambition.” + +“Circumstances have formed Ethel.” + +“Circumstances! What an ambiguous word! Either Providence pointing to +duty, or the world drawing us from it.” + +“Stepping-stones, or stumbling-blocks.” + +“And, oh! the difficult question, when to bend them, or to bend to +them!” + +“There must be always some guiding,” said Norman. + +“I believe there is,” said Meta, “but when trumpet-peals are ringing +around, it is hard to know whether one is really ‘waiting beside the +tent,’ or only dawdling.” + +“It is great self-denial in the immovable square not to join the +charge,” said Norman. + +“Yes; but they, being shot at, are not deceiving themselves.” + +“I suppose self-deception on those points is very common.” + +“Especially among young ladies,” said Meta. “I hear so much of what +girls would do, if they might, or could, that I long to see them like +Ethel--do what they can. And then it strikes me that I am doing the +same, living wilfully in indulgence, and putting my trust in my own +misgivings and discontent.” + +“I should have thought that discontent had as little to do with you as +with any living creature.” + +“You don’t know how I could growl!” said Meta, laughing. “Though +less from having anything to complain of, than from having nothing to +complain of.” + +“You mean,” he said, pausing, with a seriousness and hesitation that +startled her--“do you mean that this is not the course of life that you +would choose?” + +A sort of bashfulness made her put her answer playfully-- + + + “All play and no work makes Jack a mere toy. + + +“Toys have a kindly mission, and I may be good for nothing else; but I +would have rather been a coffee-pot than a china shepherdess.” + +The gaiety disconcerted him, and he seemed to try to be silent, or to +reply in the same tone, but he could not help returning to the subject. +“Then you find no charm in the refinements to which you have been +brought up?” + +“Only too much,” said Meta. + +He was silent, and fearing to have added to his fine-lady impression, +she resumed. “I mean that I never could dislike anything, and kindness +gives these things a soul; but, of course, I should be better satisfied, +if I lived harder, and had work to do.” + +“Meta!” he exclaimed, “you tempt me very much! Would you?--No, it is too +unreasonable. Would you share--share the work that I have undertaken?” + +He turned aside and leaned against a tree, as if not daring to watch the +effect of the agitated words that had broken from him. She had little +imagined whither his last sayings had been tending, and stood still, +breathless with the surprise. + +“Forgive me,” he said hastily. “It was very wrong. I never meant to have +vexed you by the betrayal of my vain affection.” + +He seemed to be going, and this roused her. “Stay, Norman,” exclaimed +she. “Why should it vex me? I should like it very much indeed.” + +He faced suddenly towards her--“Meta, Meta! is it possible? Do you know +what you are saying?” + +“I think I do.” + +“You must understand me,” said Norman, striving to speak calmly. “You +have been--words will not express what you have been to me for years +past, but I thought you too far beyond my hopes. I knew I ought to be +removed from you--I believed that those who are debarred from earthly +happiness are marked for especial tasks. I never intended you to know +what actuated me, and now the work is undertaken, and--and I cannot turn +back,” he added quickly, as if fearing himself. + +“No indeed,” was her steady reply. + +“Then I may believe it!” cried Norman. “You do--you will--you +deliberately choose to share it with me?” + +“I will try not to be a weight on you,” answered the young girl, with +a sweet mixture of resolution and humility. “It would be the greatest +possible privilege. I really do not think I am a fine lady ingrain, and +you will teach me not to be too unworthy.” + +“I? Oh, Meta, you know not what I am! Yet with you, with you to inspire, +to strengthen, to cheer--Meta, Meta, life is so much changed before me, +that I cannot understand it yet--after the long dreary hopelessness--” + +“I can’t think why--” Meta had half said, when feminine dignity checked +the words, consciousness and confusion suddenly assailed her, dyed her +cheeks crimson, and stifled her voice. + +It was the same with Norman, and bashfulness making a sudden prey of +both--on they went under its dominion, in a condition partaking equally +of discomfort and felicity; dreading the sound of their own voices, +afraid of each other’s faces, feeling they were treating each other very +strangely and ungratefully, yet without an idea what to say next, or the +power of speaking first; and therefore pacing onwards, looking gravely +straight along the path, as if to prevent the rabbits and foxgloves from +guessing that anything had been passing between them. + +Dr. May had made his call at Drydale, and was driving up a rough lane, +between furzy banks, leading to Cocksmoor, when he was aware of a tall +gentleman on one side of the road and a little lady on the other, +with the whole space of the cart-track between them, advancing soberly +towards him. + +“Hallo! Why, Meta! Norman! what brings you here? Where are you going?” + +Norman perceived that he had turned to the left instead of to the right, +and was covered with shame. + +“That is all your wits are good for. It is well I met you, or you would +have led poor Meta a pretty dance! You will know better than to trust +yourself to the mercies of a scholar another time. Let me give you a +lift.” + +The courteous doctor sprang out to hand Meta in, but something made him +suddenly desire Adams to drive on, and then turning round to the two +young people, he said, “Oh!” + +“Yes,” said Norman, taking her hand, and drawing her towards him. + +“What, Meta, my pretty one, is it really so? Is he to be happy after +all? Are you to be a Daisy of my own?” + +“If you will let me,” murmured Meta, clinging to her kind old friend. + +“No flower on earth could come so naturally to us,” said Dr. May. “And, +dear child, at last I may venture to tell you that you have a sanction +that you will value more than mine. Yes, my dear, on the last day of +your dear father’s life, when some foreboding hung upon him, he spoke +to me of your prospects, and singled out this very Norman as such as he +would prefer.” + +Meta’s tears prevented all, save the two little words, “thank you;” but +she put out her hand to Norman, as she still rested on the doctor’s arm, +more as if he had been her mother than Norman’s father. + +“Did he?” from Norman, was equally inexpressive of the almost +incredulous gratitude and tenderness of his feeling. + +It would not bear talking over at that moment, and Dr. May presently +broke the silence in a playful tone. “So, Meta, good men don’t like +heiresses?” + +“Quite true,” said Meta, “it was very much against me.” + +“Or it may be the other way,” said Norman. + +“Eh? Good men don’t like heiresses--here’s a man who likes an +heiress--therefore here’s a man that is not good? Ah, ha! Meta, you can +see that is false logic, though I’ve forgotten mine. And pray, miss, +what are we to say to your uncle?” + +“He cannot help it,” said Meta quickly. + +“Ha!” said the doctor, laughing, “we remember our twenty-one years, do +we?” + +“I did not mean--I hope I said nothing wrong,” said Meta, in blushing +distress. “Only after what you said, I can care for nothing else.” + +“If I could only thank him,” said Norman fervently. + +“I believe you know how to do that, my boy,” said Dr. May, looking +tenderly at the fairy figure between them, and ending with a sigh, +remembering, perhaps, the sense of protection with which he had felt +another Margaret lean on his arm. + +The clatter of horses’ hoofs caused Meta to withdraw her hand, and +Norman to retreat to his own side of the lane, as Sir Henry Walkinghame +and his servant overtook them. + +“We will be in good time for the proceedings,” called out the doctor. +“Tell them we are coming.” + +“I did not know you were walking,” said Sir Henry to Meta. + +“It is pleasant in the plantations,” Dr. May answered for her; “but I +am afraid we are late, and our punctual friends will be in despair. Will +you kindly say we are at hand?” + +Sir Henry rode on, finding that he was not to be allowed to walk his +horse with them, and that Miss Rivers had never looked up. + +“Poor Sir Henry!” said Dr. May. + +“He has no right to be surprised,” said Meta, very low. + +“And so you were marching right upon Drydale!” continued Dr. May, not +able to help laughing. “It was a happy dispensation that I met you.” + +“Oh, I am so glad of it!” said Meta. + +“Though to be sure you were disarming suspicion by so cautiously keeping +the road between you. I should never have guessed what you had been at.” + +There was a little pause, then Meta said, rather tremulously, “Please--I +think it should be known at once.” + +“Our idle deeds confessed without loss of time, miss?” + +Norman came across the path, saying, “Meta is right--it should be +known.” + +“I don’t think Uncle Cosham would object, especially hearing it while he +is here,” said Meta--“and if he knew what you told us.” + +“He goes to-morrow, does he not?” said Dr. May. + +A silence of perplexity ensued. Meta, brave as she was, hardly knew her +uncle enough to volunteer, and Norman was privately devising a beginning +by the way of George, when Dr. May said, “Well, since it is not a case +for putting Ethel in the forefront, I must e’en get it over for you, I +suppose.” + +“Oh, thank you,” they cried both at once, feeling that he was the +proper person in every way, and Norman added, “The sooner the better, if +Meta--” + +“Oh, yes, yes, the sooner the better,” exclaimed Meta. “And let me tell +Flora--poor dear Flora--she is always so kind.” + +A testimony that was welcome to Dr. May, who had once, at least, been +under the impression that Flora courted Sir Henry’s attentions to her +sister-in-law. + +Further consultation was hindered by Tom and Blanche bursting upon them +from the common, both echoing Norman’s former reproach of “A pretty +guide!” and while Blanche explained the sufferings of all the assembly +at their tardiness, Tom, without knowing it, elucidated what had been a +mystery to the doctor, namely, how they ever met, by his indignation at +Norman’s having assumed the guidance for which he was so unfit. + +“A shocking leader; Meta will never trust him again,” said Dr. May. + +Still Blanche thought them not nearly sufficiently sensible of +their enormities, and preached eagerly about their danger of losing +standing-room, when they emerged on the moor, and beheld a crowd, +above whose heads rose the apex of a triangle, formed by three poles, +sustaining a rope and huge stone. + +“Here comes Dr. Spencer,” she said. “I hope he will scold you.” + +Whatever Dr. Spencer might have suffered, he was far too polite to +scold, and a glance between the two physicians ended in a merry twinkle +of his bright eyes. + +“This way,” he said; “we are all ready.” + +“But where’s my little Daisy?” said Dr. May. + +“You’ll see her in a minute. She is as good as gold.” + +He drew them on up the bank--people making way for them--till he had +stationed them among the others of their own party, beside the deep +trench that traced the foundation, around a space that seemed far too +small. + +Nearly at the same moment began the soft clear sound of chanting wafted +upon the wind, then dying away--carried off by some eddying breeze, then +clear, and coming nearer and nearer. + + + I will not suffer mine eyes to sleep, + Nor mine eye-lids to slumber: + Neither the temples of my head to take any rest; + Until I find out a place for the temple of the Lord: + An habitation for the mighty God of Jacob. + + +Few, who knew the history of Cocksmoor, could help glancing towards the +slight girl, who stood, with bent head, her hand clasped over little +Aubrey’s; while, all that was not prayer and thanksgiving in her mind, +was applying the words to him, whose head rested in the Pacific isle, +while, in the place which he had chosen, was laid the foundation of the +temple that he had given unto the Lord. + +There came forth the procession: the minster choristers, Dr. Spencer as +architect, and, in her white dress, little Gertrude, led between Harry +and Hector, Margaret’s special choice for the occasion, and followed by +the Stoneborough clergy. + + + Let thy priests be clothed with righteousness. + + +It came in well with the gentle, meek, steadfast face of the young +curate of Cocksmoor, as he moved on in his white robe, and the sunlight +shone upon his fair hair, and calm brow, thankful for the past, and +hoping, more than fearing, for the future. + +The prayers were said, and there was a pause, while Dr. Spencer and the +foreman advanced to the machine and adjusted it. The two youths then led +forward the little girl, her innocent face and large blue eyes wearing +a look of childish obedient solemnity, only half understanding what she +did, yet knowing it was something great. + +It was very pretty to see her in the midst of the little gathering round +the foundation, the sturdy workman smiling over his hod of mortar, Dr. +Spencer’s silver locks touching her flaxen curls as he held the shining +trowel to her, and Harry’s bright head and hardy face, as he knelt on +one knee to guide the little soft hand, while Hector stood by, still and +upright, his eyes fixed far away, as if his thoughts were roaming to the +real founder. + +The Victoria coins were placed--Gertrude scooped up the mass of mortar, +and spread it about with increasing satisfaction, as it went so smoothly +and easily, prolonging the operation, till Harry drew her back, while, +slowly down creaked the ponderous corner-stone into the bed that she had +prepared for it, and, with a good will, she gave three taps on it with +her trowel. + +Harry had taken her hand, when, at the sight of Dr. May, she broke from +him, and, as if taking sudden fright at her own unwonted part, ran, at +full speed, straight up to her father, and clung to him, hiding her face +as he raised her in his arms and kissed her. + +Meanwhile the strain arose: + + + Thou heavenly, new Jerusalem, + Vision of peace, in Prophet’s dream; + With living stones, built up on high, + And rising to the starry sky-- + + +The blessing of peace seemed to linger softly and gently in the fragrant +summer breeze, and there was a pause ere the sounds of voices awoke +again. + +“Etheldred--” Mr. Wilmot stood beside her, ere going to unrobe in the +school--“Etheldred, you must once let me say, God bless you for this.” + +As she knelt beside her sister’s sofa, on her return home, Margaret +pressed something into her hand. “If you please, dearest, give this +to Dr. Spencer, and ask him to let it be set round the stem of the +chalice,” she whispered. + +Ethel recognised Alan Ernescliffe’s pearl hoop, the betrothal ring, and +looked at her sister without a word. + +“I wish it,” said Margaret gently. “I shall like best to know it there.” + +So Margaret joined in Alan’s offering, and Ethel dared say no more, as +she thought how the “relic of a frail love lost” was becoming the “token +of endless love begun.” There was more true union in this, than in +clinging to the mere tangible emblem--for broken and weak is all +affection that is not knit together above in the One Infinite Love. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + + + + Of lowly fields you think no scorn, + Yet gayest gardens would adorn, + And grace wherever set; + Home, seated in your lowly bower, + Or wedded, a transplanted flower, + I bless you, Margaret.--CHARLES LAMB. + + +George Rivers had an antipathy to ladies’ last words keeping the horses +standing, and his wife and sister dutifully seated themselves in the +carriage at once, without an attempt to linger. + +Four of the young gentlemen were to walk across to Abbotstoke and dine +at the Grange; and Tom, who, reasoning from analogy, had sent on his +black tie and agate studs, was so dismally disconcerted on finding that +Norman treated his own going as a matter of course, that Richard, +whose chief use of his right of primogeniture was to set himself aside, +discovered that he was wanted at home, and that Tom would be much better +at the Grange, offering, at the same time, to send Norman’s dressing +things by Dr. Spencer. + +“Which,” observed Thomas, “he would never have recollected for himself.” + +“Tom would have had to lend him the precious studs.”--“He would not have +had them; who would wear imitation?” “I say, Tom, what did you give +for them?” “Better ask what the Jew gave for them, that bought them at +Windsor Fair; not a bad imitation, either--pity they weren’t Malachite; +but, no doubt, the Jew thought green would be personal.” “As if they had +any business to talk, who didn’t know a respectable stud when they saw +it--Harry, especially, with his hat set on the back of his head, like a +sailor on the stage”--(a leap to set it to rights--a skirmish, knocking +Tom nearly into the ditch). “Fine experience of the stage--all came from +Windsor Fair.” “Ay, Hector might talk, but didn’t he pay a shilling +to see the Irish giant. He wouldn’t confess, but it was a famous take +in--giant had potatoes in his shoes.” “Not he; he was seven feet +ten high.” “Ay, when he stood upon a stool--Hector would swallow +anything--even the lady of a million postage stamps had not stuck in +his throat--he had made Margaret collect for her.” “And, had not +Tom, himself, got a bottle of ointment to get the red out of his +hair?”--(great fury). “His hair wasn’t red--didn’t want to change the +colour--not half so red as Hector’s own.” “What was it then? lively +auburn?” But for fear of Norman’s losing his bearings, Harry would fetch +a carrot, to compare. “Better colour than theirs could ever be.” “Then +what was the ointment for? to produce whiskers? that was the reason Tom +oiled himself like a Loyalty islander--his hair was so shiny, that Harry +recommended a top-knot, like theirs, etc.” + +Norman was, like the others, in such towering glee, and took so full a +share of the witticisms, that were the more noisily applauded, the worse +they were, that Harry suggested that “old June had lost his way, and +found his spirits in Drydale--he must have met with a private grog-shop +in the plantations--would not Tom confess”--“not he; it was all in +private. He thought it was laughing-gas, or the reaction of being fried +all the morning, holding forth in that Town Hall. He had longed to make +a speech himself--no end of the good it would have done the old stagers +to come out with something to the purpose. What would old Hoxton have +thought of it? + + + “They shall dive for alligators, catch the wild goats by the beard; + Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy-faced baboon; + Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo in the mountains of the moon. + I myself, in far Timbuctoo, leopard’s blood shall daily quaff; + Ride a tiger hunting, mounted on a thoroughbred giraffe.” + + +“Not you, Tom!” cried Hector. + + + “You, the swell, the Eton fellow! You, to seek such horrid places. + You to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber lips, and monkey faces. + Fool, again the dream, the fancy; don’t I know the words are mad, + For you count the gray barbarian lower than the Brocas cad!” + + +“Nay, it is the consequence of misanthropy at the detection of the +frauds of unsophisticated society,” said Norman. + + + The edge of life is rusted; + The agate studs and whisker ointment left him very much disgusted. + + +“Perhaps it was Miss Rivers forsaking him. Was not that rather +spider-hearted, Tom?” + +“Come, Harry, it is time to have done. We are getting into civilised +society--here’s Abbotstoke.” + +“Poor Norman, he is very far gone! He takes that scarecrow for civilised +society!” + +“Much better clothed than the society you have been accustomed to, +July.” “What a prize his wardrobe would be to the Black Prince!” “Don’t +insult your betters!” “Which? The scarecrow, or the Black Prince?” + +Norman tried to call his companions to order, for they were close upon +the village, and he began to tax himself with unbecoming levity; the +effect of spirits pitched rather low, which did not easily find their +balance, under unwonted exhilaration, but Harry’s antics were less +easily repressed than excited, and if Tom had not heard the Grange clock +strike half-past six, and had not been afraid of not having time to +array himself, and watch over Harry’s neckcloth, they would hardly have +arrived in reasonable time. Dr. May had gone home, and there was no one +in the drawing-room; but, as Norman was following the boys upstairs, +Flora opened her sitting-room door, and attracted his attention by +silently putting her cold fingers into his hand, and drawing him into +the room. + +“Dear Norman, this is pleasant,” she said affectionately; but in a voice +so sunken, that all gladness seemed to be dead within, and the +effect was far more mournful than if she had not attempted to smile +congratulation. + +“I will give you till Dr. Spencer comes,” she said. “Then Norman can +dress, and you must be a good child, and come down to me.” + +The playfulness ill suited the wan, worn face that seemed to have caught +a gray tint from her rich poplin, her full toilet making the contrast +almost more painful; and, as she closed the door, her brother could only +exclaim, “Poor Flora!” + +“She is so kind,” said the voice of the white figure that moved towards +him. “Oh, if we could comfort her!” + +“I trust to her own kindness working comfort to her, at last,” said +Norman. “But is she often thus?” + +“Whenever she is not bearing up for George’s sake,” said Meta. “She +never says anything when she is alone with me, only she does not +struggle with her looks.” + +“It must be very trying for you.” + +“Nay, I feel grateful to her for even so far relaxing the restraint. If +I could but do her any good.” + +“You cannot help doing her good,” said Norman. + +Meta sighed, and shook her head slightly, as she said, “She is so gentle +and considerate. I think this has been no fresh pain to her to-day, but +I cannot tell. The whole day has been a strange intermixture.” + +“The two strands of joy and grief have been very closely twisted,” said +Norman. “That rose is shedding its fragrant leaves in its glory, and +there is much that should have chastened the overflowing gladness of +to-day.” + +“As I was thinking,” whispered Meta, venturing nearer to him, and +looking into his face with the sweet reliance of union in thought. She +meant him to proceed, but he paused, saying, “You were thinking-” + +“I had rather hear it from you.” + +“Was it not that we were taught to-day what is enduring, and gives +true permanence and blessedness to such--to what there was between +Ernescliffe and Margaret?” + +Her dewy eyes, and face of deep emotion, owned that he had interpreted +her thought. + +“Theirs would, indeed, be a disheartening example,” he said, “if it did +not show the strength and peace that distance, sickness, death, cannot +destroy.” + +“Yes. To see that church making Margaret happy as she lies smiling on +her couch, is a lesson of lessons.” + +“That what is hallowed must be blest,” said Norman; “whatever the sundry +and manifold changes.” + +Each was far too humble to deny aloud any inequality with the goodness +of Alan and Margaret, knowing that it would be at once disputed, +trusting to time to prevent the over-estimate, and each believing the +other was the one to bring the blessing. + +“But, Meta,” said Norman, “have you heard nothing of--of the elders?” + +“Oh, yes,” said Meta, smiling, “have not you?” + +“I have seen no one.” + +“I have!” said Meta merrily. “Uncle Cosham is delighted. That speech of +yours has captivated him. He calls me a wise little woman to have found +out your first-rate abilities. There’s for you, sir.” + +“I don’t understand it! Surely he must be aware of my intentions?” + +“He said nothing about them; but, of course, Dr. May must have mentioned +them.” + +“I should have thought so, but I cannot suppose--” + +“That he would be willing to let me go,” said Meta. “But then you know +he cannot help it,” added she, with a roguish look, at finding herself +making one of her saucy independent speeches. + +“I believe you are taking a would-be missionary instead of Norman May!” + he answered, with a sort of teasing sweetness. + +“All would-be missionaries did not make dear papa so fond of them,” said +Meta, very low; “and you would not be Norman May without such purposes.” + +“The purpose was not inspired at first by the highest motive,” said +Norman; “but it brought me peace, and, after the kind of dedication +that I inwardly made of myself in my time of trouble, it would take some +weighty reason, amounting to a clear duty, or physical impossibility, +to make me think I ought to turn back. I believe”--the tears rose to +his eyes, and he brought out the words with difficulty--“that, if this +greatest of all joys were likely to hinder me from my calling, I ought +to seek strength to regard it as a temptation, and to forgo it.” + +“You ought, if it were so,” said Meta, nevertheless holding him tighter. +“I could not bear to keep back a soldier. If this were last year, and +I had any tie or duty here, it would be very hard. But no one needs me, +and if the health I have always had be continued to me, I don’t think I +shall be much in the way. There,”--drawing back a little, and trying to +laugh off her feeling--“only tell me at once if you think me still too +much of a fine lady.” + +“I--you--a fine lady! Did anything ever give you the impression that I +did?” + +“I shall not get poor Harry into a scrape, shall I? He told me that you +said so, last spring, and I feared you judged me too truly.” + +After a few exclamations of utter surprise, it flashed on Norman. “I +know, I know--Harry interpreted my words in his own blunt fashion!” + +“Then you did say something like it?” + +“No, but--but--In short, Meta, these sailors’ imaginations go to great +lengths. Harry had guessed more than I knew myself, before he had +sailed, and taxed me with it. It was a subject I could not bear then, +and I answered that you were too far beyond my hopes.” + +“Six years ago!” said Meta slowly, blushing deeper and deeper. “Some +eyes saw it all that time, and you--and,” she added, laughing, though +rather tearfully, “I should never have known it, if Tom had not taken me +through the plantations!” + +“Not if I had not discovered that your preferences did not lie--” + +“Among boudoirs and balls?” said Meta. “Harry was right. You thought me +a fine lady after all.” + +The gay taunt was cut short by a tap at the door, and Flora looked in. + +“Dr. Spencer has brought your things, Norman. I am sorry to disturb +you--but come down, Meta--I ran away very uncivilly to fetch you. I hope +it is not too cruel,” as she drew Meta’s arm into her own, and added, “I +have not been able speak to George.” + +Meta suspected that, in the wish to spare her, Flora had abstained from +seeking him. + +The evening went off like any other evening--people ate and talked, +thought Mrs. Rivers looking very ill, and Miss Rivers very pretty--Flora +forced herself into being very friendly to Sir Henry, commiserating the +disappointment to which she had led him; and she hoped that he suspected +the state of affairs, though Tom, no longer supplanted by his elder +brother, pursued Meta into the sheltered nook, where Flora had favoured +her seclusion, to apologise for having left her to the guidance of poor +Norman, whose head was with the blackamoors. It was all Harry’s fault. + +“Nonsense, Tom,” said Harry; “don’t you think Norman is better company +than you any day?” + +“Then why did you not walk him off instead of me?” said Tom, turning +round sharply. + +“Out of consideration for Meta. She will tell you that she was very much +obliged to me--” + +Harry checked himself, for Meta was colouring so painfully that his own +sunburned face caught the glow. He pushed Tom’s slight figure aside with +a commanding move of his broad hand, and said, “I beg your pardon, upon +my word, though I don’t know what for.” + +“Nor I,” said Meta, rallying herself, and smiling. “You have no pardon +to beg. You will know it all to-morrow.” + +“Then I know it now,” said Harry, sheltering his face by leaning over +the back of a chair, and taming the hearty gaiety of his voice. “Well +done, Meta; there’s nothing like old June in all the world! You may take +my word for it, and I knew you would have the sense to find it out.” + +They were well out of sight, and Meta only answered by a good tight +squeeze of his kind hand between both her own. Tom, suddenly recovering +from his displeasure at being thrust aside, whisked round, dropped on a +footstool before Meta, looked up in her face, and said, “Hallo!” in +such utter amazement that there was nothing for it but to laugh more +uncontrollably than was convenient. “Come along, Tom,” said Harry, +pulling him up by force, “she does not want any of your nonsense. We +will not plague her now.” + +“Thank you, Harry,” said Meta. “I cannot talk rationally just yet. Don’t +think me unkind, Tom.” + +Tom sat in a sort of trance all the rest of the evening. + +Lord Cosham talked to Norman, who felt as if he were being patronised +on false pretences, drew into his shell, and displayed none of his +“first-rate abilities.” + +Dr. Spencer discussed his architecture with the archdeacon; but his +black eyes roamed heedfully after the young gentleman and lady, in the +opposite corners of the room; and, as he drove home afterwards with +the youths, he hummed scraps of Scottish songs, and indulged in silent +smiles. + +Those at home had been far more demonstrative. Dr. May had arrived, +declaring himself the proudest doctor in her Majesty’s dominions, and +Ethel needed nothing but his face to explain why, and tell her that dear +old June’s troubles were over, and their pretty little Meta was their +own--a joy little looked for to attend their foundation-stone. + +The dreaded conference with Lord Cosham had proved highly gratifying. +There might be something in the fact that he could not help it, +which assisted in his ready acquiescence, but he was also a sensible +right-minded man, who thought that the largeness of Meta’s fortune was +no reason that it should be doubled; considered that, in the matter of +connection, the May family had the advantage, and saw in Norman; a young +man whom any one might have pleasure in bringing forward. Oxford had +established confidence both in his character and talents, and his speech +had been such as to impress an experienced man, like Lord Cosham, with +an opinion of his powers, that prepared a welcome for him, such as no +one could have dared to expect. His lordship thought his niece not only +likely to be happier, but to occupy a more distinguished position with +such a man as Norman May, than with most persons of ready-made rank and +fortune. + +The blushing and delighted Dr. May had thought himself bound to speak of +his son’s designs, but he allowed that the project had been formed under +great distress of mind, and when he saw it treated by so good a man, +as a mere form of disappointed love, he felt himself reprieved from the +hardest sacrifice that he had ever been called on to make, loved little +Meta the better for restoring his son, and once more gave a free course +to the aspirations that Norman’s brilliant boyhood had inspired. Richard +took the same view, and the evening passed away in an argument--as if +any one had been disputing with them--the father reasoning loud, the son +enforcing it low, that it had become Norman’s duty to stay at home to +take care of Meta, whose father would have been horrified at his taking +her to the Antipodes. They saw mighty tasks for her fortune to effect +in England, they enhanced each other’s anticipations of Norman’s career, +overthrew abuses before him, heaped distinctions upon him, and had made +him Prime Minister and settled his policy, before ten o’clock brought +their schemes to a close. + +Mary gazed and believed; Margaret lay still and gently assented; Ethel +was silent at first, and only when the fabric became extremely airy and +magnificent, put in her word with a vehement dash at the present abuses, +which grieved her spirit above all, and, whether vulnerable or not, +Norman was to dispose of, like so many giants before Mr. Great-heart. + +She went upstairs, unable to analyse her sentiments. To be spared +the separation would be infinite relief--all this prosperity made her +exult--the fair girl at the Grange was the delight of her heart, and yet +there was a sense of falling off; she disliked herself for being either +glad or sorry, and could have quarrelled with the lovers for perplexing +her feelings so uncomfortably. + +Though she sat up till the party returned, she was inclined to be +supposed in bed, so as to put off the moment of meeting; but Margaret, +who she hoped was asleep, said from her pillow, “Ask dear Norman to let +me give him one kiss.” + +She ran down headlong, clutched Norman as he was taking off his +greatcoat, told him that Margaret wanted him, and dragged him up without +letting him go, till she reached the first landing, where she stood +still, saying breathlessly, “New Zealand.” + +“If I wished to fail, she would keep me to it.” + +“I beg your pardon,” said Ethel, claiming heartily his caress. “I was +wrong to doubt either of you. Now, I know how to feel! But Margaret must +not wait.” + +The happy youth, in the flush of love and joy, bent gently, almost +tearfully, down in silence to the white form, half seen in the twilight, +whose hopes had fleeted away from earth, and who was calmly, softly +gliding after them. Hardly a word was uttered, but of all the many +heartfelt thoughts that had passed while the face was pressed into +Margaret’s pillow, and her sympathising arms round the neck, surely none +was ever deeper, than was his prayer and vow that his affection should +be like hers, unearthly, and therefore enduring. + +The embrace was all; Margaret must not be agitated, and, indeed, the +events of the day had been too much for her, and the ensuing morning +brought the fluttering of heart and prostration of strength, no longer +a novelty and occasion of immediate terror, but the token of the waning +power of life. + +Till she was better, her father had no thoughts for aught else, but, +as with many another invalid, the relief from present distress was as +cheering as if it had been recovery, and ere night, her placid look +of repose had returned, and she was devising pretty greetings for her +newest Daisy. + +Perhaps the sobering effect of these hours of anxiety was in Norman’s +favour, on entering into conversation with his father. Those visions, +which had had their swing the night before, belonged to the earlier, +more untamed period of Dr. May’s life, and had melted away in the dim +room, made sacred by lingering mementos of his wife, and in the sound of +that panting breath and throbbing heart. His vehemence had been, after +all, chiefly against his own misgivings, and when he heard of his son’s +resolution, and Meta’s more than acquiescence, he was greatly touched, +and recurred to his kind, sorrowful promise, that he would never be +a stumbling-block in the path of his children. Still he owned himself +greatly allured by the career proposed by Lord Cosham, and thought +Norman should consider the opportunities of doing good in, perhaps, a +still more important and extensive field than that which he had chosen. + +“Time was that I should have grasped at such a prospect,” said Norman; +“but I am not the man for it. I have too much ambition, and too little +humility. You know, father, how often you have had to come to my rescue, +when I was running after success as my prime object.” + +“Vanity fair is a dangerous place, but you who have sound principles and +pure motives--” + +“How long would my motives be pure?” said Norman. “Rivalry and +party-spirit make me distrust my motives, and then my principles feel +the shock. Other men are marked by station for such trials, and may be +carried through them, but I am not.” + +“Yet some of these men are far from your equals.” + +“Not perhaps in speechifying,” said Norman, smiling; “but in steadiness +of aim, in patience, in callousness, in seeing one side of the question +at once.” + +“You judge rightly for your own peace; you will be the happier; I always +doubted whether you had nerve to make your wits available.” + +“It may be cowardice,” said Norman, “but I think not. I could burn for +the combat; and if I had no scruples, I could enjoy bearing down such +as--” + +Of course Dr. May burst in with a political name, and--“I wish you were +at him!” + +“Whether I could is another matter,” said Norman, laughing; “but the +fact is, that I stand pledged; and if I embraced what to me would be +a worldly career, I should be running into temptation, and could not +expect to be shielded from it.” + +“Your old rule,” said Dr. May. “Seek to be less rather than more. But +there is another choice. Why not a parsonage at home?” + +“Pleasant parishes are not in the same need,” said Norman. + +“I wonder what poor old Rivers would say to you, if he knew what you +want to do with his daughter! Brought up as she has been--to expose her +to the roughness of a colonial life, such as I should hesitate about for +your sisters.” + +“It is her own ardent desire.” + +“True, but are girlish enthusiasms to be trusted? Take care, Norman, +take care of her--she is a bit of the choicest porcelain of human kind, +and not to be rudely dealt with.” + +“No, indeed, but she has the brave enterprising temper, to which I fully +believe that actual work, in a good cause, is far preferable to what she +calls idleness. I do not believe that we are likely to meet with more +hardship than she would gladly encounter, and would almost--nay, quite +enjoy.” + +“You do not know what your aunt has had to go through.” + +“A few years make a great difference in a colony. Still, it may be right +for me to go out alone and judge for her; but we shall know more if my +aunt comes home.” + +“Yes, I could trust a good deal to her. She has much of your mother’s +sense. Well, you must settle it as you can with Meta’s people! I do not +think they love the pretty creature better than I have done from the +first minute we saw her--don’t you remember it, Norman?” + +“Remember it? Do I not? From the frosted cedar downwards! It was the +first gem of spring in that dreary winter. What a Fairyland the Grange +was to me!” + +“You may nearly say the same of me,” confessed Dr. May, smiling; “the +sight of that happy little sunny spirit, full of sympathy and sweetness, +always sent me brighter on my way. Wherever you may be, Norman, I am +glad you have her, being one apt to need a pocket sunbeam.” + +“I hope my tendencies are in no danger of depressing her!” said Norman, +startled. “If so--” + +“No such thing--she will make a different man of you. You have been +depressed by--that early shock, and the gap at our own fireside--all +that we have shared together, Norman. To see you begin on a new score, +with a bright home of your own, is the best in this world that I could +wish for you, though I shall live over my own twenty-two years in +thinking of you, and that sweet little fairy. But now go, Norman--she +will be watching for you and news of Margaret. Give her all sorts of +love from me.” + +Norman fared better with the uncle than he had expected. Lord Cosham, as +a philanthropist, could not, with any consistency, set his face against +missions, even when the cost came so near home; and he knew that +opposition made the like intentions assume a heroic aspect that +maintained them in greater force. He therefore went over the subject +in a calm dispassionate manner, which exacted full and grateful +consideration from the young man. + +The final compromise was, that nothing should be settled for a year, +during which Norman would complete his course of study, and the matter +might be more fully weighed. Mrs. Arnott would probably return, and +bring experience and judgment, which would, or ought to, decide the +question--though Meta had a secret fear that it might render it more +complicated than ever. However, the engagement and the mission views had +both been treated so much more favourably than could have been hoped, +that they felt themselves bound to be patient and forbearing. As Meta +said, “If they showed themselves wilful children, they certainly did not +deserve to be trusted anywhere.” + +Lord Cosham made his niece listen to a kind exhortation not to press her +influence towards a decision that might be repented, when too late to be +repaired, without a degrading sense of failure--putting her in mind of +the privations that would lose romance by their pettiness, and which +money could not remedy; and very sensibly representing that the effect +of these on temper and health was to be duly considered as a serious +impediment to usefulness. + +“It would be worse for him alone,” said Meta. + +“That is not certain,” said her uncle. “A broken-down wife is a terrible +drag.” + +“I know it is so,” said Meta firmly, “but risks must be run, and he is +willing to take the chance. I do not think it can be presumption, for, +you know, I am strong; and Dr. May would say if he could not warrant me. +I fancy household work would be more satisfactory and less tiring than +doing a season thoroughly, and I mean to go through a course of Finchley +manuals in preparation.” + +“I hope you know what you are doing,” sighed her uncle. “You see it all +couleur de rose.” + +“I think not. It is because it is not couleur de rose that I am so much +bent upon it. I have had plenty of that all my life. I expect much that +will be very disagreeable and not at all heroic; but if I can only make +Norman think it fun, that will be one purpose answered. I do believe he +will do his work better for having me, and, at least, I shall pay his +passage.” + +Her uncle shook his head, but did not try to say any more. George +had begun by loud exclamations against the project, in which he was +vehemently abetted by Tom, who primed him with all sorts of outrageous +abuse of the niggers and cannibals, who would make Norman’s coats out of +all shape, and devour little Meta at a mouthful--predictions which Meta +accepted most merrily, talking of herself so resignedly, as bound upon +a spit, and calling out to be roasted slower and faster, that she safely +conducted off their opposition by way of a standing joke. As to Norman’s +coats, she threatened to make them herself, and silenced Tom for ever +by supposing, in malicious simplicity, that he must be able to teach her +the most unexceptional cut. + +Flora kept her opinions to herself. Only once, when urged to +remonstrate, she said, “I could not--I would not.” + +She was gently and touchingly considerate towards the lovers, silently +but unobtrusively obviating all that could jar on their feelings, and +employing her exquisite tact in the kindest manner. + +She released Meta from the expedition to Ryde, silencing scruples on +the one hand, by a suggestion of “poor Sir Henry,” and, on the other, +by offering to exchange her for Mary. The first proposal made Mary take +such a spring in her chair, with eyes so round, and cheeks so red, and +such a shriek about Harry and the Bucephalus, that no one could have +borne to say one word in opposition, even if it had not been the opinion +of the Council that sea air would best repair Mary’s strength. + +Ethel had some private fears of a scene, since it was one of Miss +Bracy’s idiosyncrasies to be hurt whenever Mary was taken out of her +hands; and she went to announce the design, in dread lest this shock +should destroy the harmony that had prevailed for many months; nay, she +almost believed, since the loss of the Alcestis had been known. + +She was agreeably surprised. Miss Bracy thought Mary in need of the +change, and discussed both her and Blanche in so pleasant and sensible +a manner, that Ethel was quite relieved. She partook in Mary’s +anticipations of pleasure, forwarded her preparations, and was delighted +with her promise of letters--promises that Mary bestowed so largely, +in the fullness of her heart, that there were fears lest her whole time +should be spent in writing. + +Her soft heart indulged in a shower of tears when she wished them all +good-bye; and Ethel and Blanche found the house was very empty without +her; but that was only till Meta came in from a walk with Norman, and, +under the plea of trying to supply Mary’s place, did the work of five +Maries, and a great deal besides. + +Nothing could be happier than Meta’s visit, brightening the house so +that the Mays thought they had never known half her charms, helping +whatever was going on, yet ready to play with Daisy, tell stories to +Aubrey, hear Tom’s confidences, talk to Margaret, read with Norman, and +teach Richard singing for his school children. The only vexation was, +that every one could not always engross her entirely; and Dr. May used +to threaten that they should never spare her to that long-legged fellow, +Norman. + +She had persuaded Bellairs to go and take care of Flora and Mary, +instead of the French maid--a plan which greatly satisfied Margaret, who +had never liked the looks of Coralie, and which Meta held to be a grand +emancipation. She persuaded old nurse to teach her to be useful, and +Margaret used to declare that she witnessed scenes as good as a play in +her room, where the little dexterous scholar, apparently in jest, but +really in sober, earnest, wiled instruction from the old woman; and made +her experiments, between smiles and blushes, and merrily glorying in +results that promised that she would be a notable housewife. Whether +it were novelty or not, she certainly had an aptitude and delight in +domestic details, such as Ethel never could attain; and, as Dr. May +said, the one performed by a little finger what the other laboured at +with a great mind. + +In the schoolroom, Meta was as highly appreciated. She found an hour +for helping Blanche in her music, and for giving, what was still more +useful, an interest and spirit to studies, where, it must be owned, poor +good Mary had been a dead weight. She enlivened Miss Bracy so much, and +so often contrived a walk or a talk with her, that the saucy Blanche +told Hector that she thought Ethel would be quite second-fiddle with +Miss Bracy. + +No such thing. Miss Bracy’s great delight was in having a listener +for her enthusiasm about Miss Ethel. She had been lately having a +correspondence with a former school-fellow, who was governess in a +family less considerate than the Mays, and who poured out, in her +letters, feelings much like those with which Miss Bracy had begun. + +Nothing could be more salutary than to find herself repeating all +Ethel’s pieces of advice; and, one day, when her friend had been more +distressed than usual, she called Ethel herself, to consult on her +answer, owning how much she was reminded of herself. + +“Indeed,” she added, “I am afraid it would only tease you to hear how +much I am indebted to your decision and kindness--” + +“Nay,” said Ethel, laughing her awkward laugh. “You have often had to +forget my savage ways.” + +“Pray don’t say that--” + +“I think,” said Ethel, breaking in, “the philosophy is this: I believe +that it is a trying life. I know teaching takes a great deal out of +one; and loneliness may cause tendencies to dwell on fancied slights in +trifles, that might otherwise be hurried over. But I think the thing +is, to pass them over, and make a conscience of turning one’s mind to +something fresh--” + +“As you made me do, when you brought me amusing books, and taught me +botany--” + +“And, still more, when you took to working for the infant school. Yes, I +think the way to be happy and useful is to get up many interests, so as +to be fresh and vigorous, and think not at all of personalities. There’s +a truism!” + +“Very true, though,” said Miss Bracy. “Indeed, all your kindness and +consideration would never have done me half the good they have, dear +Miss Ethel, if you had not taught me that referring all to one’s own +feelings and self is the way to be unhappy.” + +“Just so,” said Ethel. “It is the surest way for any one to be +miserable.” + +“If I could only persuade poor dear Ellen to think that even if a slight +were real, it ought to be borne forgivingly, and not brooded over. Ah! +you are laughing; perhaps you have said the same about me.” + +“You would forgive it now, I think,” said Ethel. + +“I never thought I did not forgive. I did not see that brooding over +vexations was not pardoning them. I have told her so now; and, oh! if +she could but have seen how true sorrows are borne here, she would be +cured, like me, of making imaginary ones.” + +“None could help being better for living with papa,” said Ethel. + +Ethel made Miss Bracy happy by a kiss before she left her. It was a +cheering belief that, whatever the future trials of her life might +be, the gentle little lady would meet them with a healthier mind, more +vigorous in overlooking troubles and without punctilious sensitiveness +on the lookout for affronts. “Believing all things, bearing all things, +hoping all things, enduring all things,” would be to her the true secret +of serenity of spirits. + +Ethel might not have been blameless or consistent in her dealings in +this difficult intercourse, but her kind heart, upright intention, and +force of character, had influence far beyond her own perception. Indeed, +she knew not that she had personal influence at all, but went on in her +own straightforward humility. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + + + + “Enough of foresight sad, too much + Of retrospect have I; + And well for me, that I, sometimes, + Can put those feelings by. + + There speaks the man we knew of yore, + Well pleased, I hear them say; + Such was he, in his lighter moods, + Before our heads were gray. + + Buoyant he was in spirit, quick + Of fancy, light of heart; + And care, and time, and change have left + Untouch’d his better part.”--SOUTHEY. + + +Etheldred May and Meta Rivers were together in the drawing-room. The +timepiece pointed towards ten o’clock, but the tea-things were on the +table, prepared for a meal, the lamp shone with a sort of consciousness, +and Ethel moved restlessly about, sometimes settling her tea equipage, +sometimes putting away a stray book, or resorting by turns to her book, +or to work a red and gold scroll on coarse canvas, on the other end of +which Meta was employed. + +“Nervous, Ethel?” said Meta, looking up with a merry provoking smile, +knowing how much the word would displease. + +“That is for you,” retorted Ethel, preferring to carry the war into the +enemy’s quarters. “What, don’t you know that prudent people say that +your fate depends on her report?” + +“At least,” said Meta, laughing; “she is a living instance that every +one is not eaten up, and we shall see if she fulfils Tom’s prediction +of being tattooed, or of having a slice out of the fattest part of her +cheek.” + +“I know very well,” said Ethel, “the worst she said it would be, the +more you would go.” + +“Not quite that,” said Meta, blushing, and looking down. + +“Come, don’t be deceitful!” said Ethel. “You know very well that you are +still more bent on it than you were last year.” + +“To be sure I am!” said Meta, looking up with a sudden beamy flash of +her dark eyes. “Norman and I know each other so much better now,” she +added, rather falteringly. + +“Ay! I know you are ready to go through thick and thin, and that is +why I give my consent and approbation. You are not to be stopped for +nonsense.” + +“Not for nonsense, certainly,” said Meta, “but”--and her voice became +tremulous--“if Dr. May deliberately said it would be wrong, and that I +should be an encumbrance and perplexity, I am making up my mind to the +chance.” + +“But what would you do?” asked Ethel. + +“I don’t know. You should not ask such questions, Ethel.” + +“Well! it won’t happen, so it is no use to talk about it,” said Ethel. +“Fancy my having made you cry.” + +“Very silly of me,” said Meta, brightening and laughing, but sighing. “I +am only afraid Mrs. Arnott may think me individually unfit for the kind +of life, as if I could not do what other women can. Do I look so?” + +“You look as if you were meant to be put under a glass case!” said +Ethel, surveying the little elegant figure, whose great characteristic +was a look of exquisite finish, not only in the features and colouring, +the turn of the head, and the shape of the small rosy-tipped fingers, +but in everything she wore, from the braids of black silk hair, to the +little shoe on her foot, and even in the very lightness and gaiety of +her movements. + +“Oh, Ethel!” cried Meta, springing up in dismay, and looking at herself +in the glass. “What is the matter with me? Do tell me!” + +“You’ll never get rid of it,” said Ethel, “unless you get yourself +tattooed! Even separation from Bellairs hasn’t answered. And, after all, +I don’t think it would be any satisfaction to Norman or papa. I assure +you, Meta, whatever you may think of it, it is not so much bother to be +prettier than needful, as it is to be uglier than needful.” + +“What is needful?” said Meta, much amused. + +“I suppose to be like Mary, so that nobody should take notice of one, +but that one’s own people may have the satisfaction of saying, ‘she +is pleasing,’ or ‘she is in good looks.’ I think Gertrude will come to +that. That’s one comfort.” + +“That is your own case, Ethel. I have heard those very things said of +you.” + +“Of my hatchet face!” said Ethel contemptuously. “Some one must have +been desperately bent on flattering the Member’s family.” + +“I could repeat more,” said Meta, “if I were to go back to the +Commemoration, and to the day you went home.” + +Ethel crimsoned, and made a sign with her hand, exclaiming, “Hark!” + +“It went past.” + +“It was the omnibus. She must be walking down!” Ethel breathed short, +and wandered aimlessly about; Meta put her arm round her waist. + +“I did not think this would be so much to you,” she said. + +“Oh, Meta, it seems like dear mamma coming to see how we have been going +on. And then papa! I wish I had gone up to the station with him.” + +“He has Richard.” + +“Ay, but I am afraid Margaret is listening and will be restless, and +have a palpitation; and I can’t go and see, or I shall disturb her. Oh, +I wish it were over.” + +Meta stroked her, and soothed her, and assured her that all would do +well, and presently they heard the click of the door. Ethel flew into +the hall, where she stopped short, her heart beating high at the sound +of overpoweringly familiar accents. + +She was almost relieved by detecting otherwise little resemblance; the +height was nearly the same, but there was not the plump softness of +outline. Mrs. Arnott was small, thin, brisk and active, with a vivacious +countenance, once evidently very fair and pretty, but aged and worn by +toil, not trouble, for the furrows were the traces of smiles around her +merry mouth, and beautiful blue eyes, that had a tendency lo laugh and +cry both at once. Dr. May who had led her into the light, seemed to be +looking her all over, while Richard was taking the wraps from her, and +Ethel tried to encourage herself to go forward. + +“Ay!” said the doctor, kissing her. “I see you, Flora, now. I have found +you again.” + +“I found you as soon as I heard your voice, Richard,” said she. “And now +for the bairnies.” + +“Here is one, but there is but a poor show forthcoming to-night. Do you +know her?” + +There was an unspeakable joy in being pressed in Aunt Flora’s arms, like +a returning beam from the sunshine of seven years ago. + +“This must be Ethel! My dear, how you tower above me--you that I left in +arms! And,” as she advanced into the drawing-room--“why, surely this is +not Margaret!” + +“A Margaret--not the Margaret. I wish I were,” said Meta, as Mrs. Arnott +stood with an arm on her shoulder, in the midst of an embrace, Dr. May +enjoying her perplexity and Meta’s blushes. “See, Flora, these black +locks never belonged to Calton Hill daisies, yet a daisy of my own she +is. Can’t you guess?” + +“Miss Rivers!” exclaimed Mrs. Arnott; and though she kissed her +cordially, Meta suspected a little doubt and disappointment. + +“Yes,” said Dr. May. “We change Mary for this little woman as Flora’s +lady-in-waiting, when she and her husband go out yachting and shooting.” + +“Flora and her husband! There’s a marvellous sound! Where are they?” + +“They are staying at Eccleswood Castle,” said Ethel; “and Mary with +them. They would have been at home to receive you, but your note +yesterday took us all by surprise. Norman is away too, at a college +meeting.” + +“And Margaret--my Margaret! Does not she come downstairs?” + +“Ah! poor dear,” said Dr. May, “she has not been in this room since that +sultry day in July.” + +“The eighteenth,” said Richard; the precision of the date marking but +too well the consciousness that it was an epoch. + +“We can keep her quieter upstairs,” said Dr. May; “but you must not see +her to-night. She will enjoy you very much to-morrow; but excitement at +night always does her harm, so we put her to bed, and told her to think +about no one.” + +Mrs. Arnott looked at him as if longing, but dreading, to ask further, +and allowed her nephew and niece to seat her at the table, and attend to +her wants, before she spoke again. “Then the babies.” + +“We don’t keep babies, Gertrude would tell you,” said Dr. May. “There +are three great creatures, whom Ethel barbarously ordered off to bed. +Ethel is master here, you must know, Flora--we all mind what she says.” + +“Oh, papa,” pleaded Ethel, distressed, “you know it was because I +thought numbers might be oppressive.” + +“I never dispute,” said Dr. May. “We bow to a beneficial despotism, and +never rebel, do we, Meta?” + +Seeing that Ethel took the imputation to heart, Meta rejoined, “You are +making Mrs. Arnott think her the strong-minded woman of the family, who +winds up the clock and cuts the bread.” + +“No; that she makes you do, when the boys are away.” + +“Of course,” said Ethel, “I can’t be vituperated about hunches of bread. +I have quite enough to bear on the score of tea.” + +“Your tea is very good,” said Richard. + +“See how they propitiate her,” maliciously observed the doctor. + +“Not at all; it is Richard standing up for his pupil,” said Ethel. “It +is all very well now, with people who know the capacities of mortal tea; +but the boys expect it to last from seven o’clock to ten, through an +unlimited number of cups, till I have announced that a teapot must +be carved on my tombstone, with an epitaph, ‘Died of unreasonable +requirements.’” + +Mrs. Arnott looked from one to the other, amused, observant, and +perceiving that they were all under that form of shyness which brings up +family wit to hide embarrassment or emotion. + +“Is Harry one of these unreasonable boys?” she asked. “My dear Harry--I +presume Ethel has not sent him to bed. Is there any hope of my seeing +him?” + +“Great hope,” said Dr. May. “He has been in the Baltic fleet, a pretty +little summer trip, from which we expect him to return any day. My old +Lion! I am glad you had him for a little while, Flora. + +“Dear fellow! his only fault was being homesick, and making me catch the +infection.” + +“I am glad you did not put off your coming,” said Dr. May gravely. + +“You are in time for the consecration,” said Richard. + +“Ah! Cocksmoor! When will it take place?” + +“On St. Andrew’s Day. It is St. Andrew’s Church, and the bishop +fixed the day, otherwise it is a disappointment that Hector cannot be +present.” + +“Hector?” + +“Hector Ernescliffe--poor Alan’s brother, whom we don’t well know from +ourselves.” + +“And you are curate, Ritchie?” said his aunt--“if I may still call you +so. You are not a bit altered from the mouse you used to be.” + +“Church mouse to Cocksmoor,” said Dr. May, “nearly as poor. We are to +invest his patrimony in a parsonage as soon as our architect in ordinary +can find time for it. Spencer--you remember him?” + +“I remember how you and he used to be inseparable! And he has settled +down, at last, by your side?” + +“The two old doctors hope to bolster each other up till Mr. Tom +comes down with modern science in full force. That boy will do great +things--he has as clear a head as I ever knew.” + +“And more--” said Ethel. + +“Ay, as sound a heart. I must find you his tutor’s letter, Flora. They +have had a row in his tutor’s house at Eton, and our boys made a gallant +stand for the right, Tom especially, guarding the little fellows in a +way that does one good to hear of.” + +“‘I must express my strong sense of gratitude for his truth, +uprightness, and moral courage,’” quoted Meta. + +“Ah, ha! you have learned it by heart! I know you copied it out for +Norman, who has the best right to rejoice.” + +“You have a set of children to be proud of, Richard!” exclaimed Mrs. +Arnott. + +“To be surprised at--to be thankful for,” said Dr. May, almost +inarticulately. + +To see her father so happy with Mrs. Arnott necessarily drew Ethel’s +heart towards her; and, when they had bidden him goodnight, the aunt +instantly assumed a caressing confidence towards Ethel, particularly +comfortable to one consciously backward and awkward, and making her feel +as intimate as if the whole space of her rational life had not elapsed +since their last meeting. + +“Must you go, my dear?” said her aunt, detaining her over her fire. +“I can’t tell how to spare you. I want to hear of your dear father. He +looks aged and thin, Ethel, and yet that sweet expression is the same as +ever. Is he very anxious about poor Margaret?” + +“Not exactly anxious,” said Ethel mournfully--“there is not much room +for that.” + +“My dear Ethel--you don’t mean?--I thought--” + +“I suppose we ought to have written more fully,” said Ethel; “but it has +been very gradual, and we never say it to ourselves. She is as bright, +and happy, and comfortable as ever, in general, and, perhaps, may be so +for a long time yet, but each attack weakens her.” + +“What kind of attack?” + +“Faintness-sinking. It is suspended action of the heart. The injury +to the spine deranged the system, and then the long suspense, and the +shock--It is not one thing more than another, but it must go on. Dr. +Spencer will tell you. You won’t ask papa too much about it?” + +“No, indeed. And he bears it--” + +“He bears everything. Strength comes up out of his great lovingness. +But, oh! I sometimes long that he may never have any more sorrows.” + +“My poor child!” said Mrs. Arnott, putting her arm round her niece’s +waist. + +Ethel rested her head on her shoulder. “Aunt Flora! Aunt Flora! If any +words could tell what Margaret has been ever since we were left. Oh, +don’t make me talk or think of ourselves without her. It is wrong to +wish. And when you see her, that dear face of hers will make you happy +in the present. Then,” added Ethel, not able to leave off with such a +subject, “you have our Norman to see.” + +“Ah! Norman’s project is too delightful to us; but I fear what it may be +to your father.” + +“He gives dear Norman, as his most precious gift, the flower and pride +of us all.” + +“But, Ethel, I am quite frightened at Miss Rivers’s looks. Is it +possible that--” + +“Aunt Flora,” broke in Ethel, “don’t say a word against it. The choicest +goods wear the best; and whatever woman can do, Meta Rivers can. Norman +is a great tall fellow, as clever as possible, but perfectly feckless. +If you had him there alone, he would be a bee without a queen.” + +“Well, but--” + +“Listen,” continued Ethel. “Meta is a concentration of spirit and +energy, delights in practical matters, is twice the housewife I am, and +does all like an accomplishment. Between them, they will make a noble +missionary--” + +“But she looks--” + +“Hush,” continued the niece. “You will think me domineering; but please +don’t give any judgment without seeing; for they look to you as an +arbitrator, and casual words will weigh.” + +“Thank you, Ethel; perhaps you are right. When does he think of coming +out?” + +“When he is ordained--some time next year.” + +“Does she live with you?” + +“I suppose she lives with Flora; but we always manage to get her when +Norman is at home.” + +“You have told me nothing of Flora or Mary.” + +“I have little real to tell. Good old Mary! I dare say Harry talked +to you plentifully of her. She is a--a nice old darling,” said Ethel +fondly. “We want her again very much, and did not quite bargain for the +succession of smart visits that she has been paying.” + +“With Flora?” + +“Yes. Unluckily George Rivers has taken an aversion to the Grange, and I +have not seen Flora this whole year.” + +Ethel stopped short, and said that she must not keep Margaret expecting +her. Perhaps her aunt guessed that she had touched the true chord of +anxiety. + +The morning brought a cheering account of Margaret; and Mrs. Arnott was +to see her directly after breakfast. In the meantime, the firm limbs, +blue eyes, and rosy face of Gertrude seemed a fair representation of the +little bride’s-maid, whom she remembered. + +A very different niece did she find upstairs, though the smiling, +overflowing eyes, and the fond, eager look of recognition, as if +asking to be taken to her bosom, had in them all the familiarity of old +tenderness. “Auntie! dear auntie! that you should have come back to me +again!” + +Mrs. Arnott fondly caressed her, but could not speak at first, for +even her conversation with Ethel had not prepared her for so wasted and +broken an appearance. Dr. May spoke briskly of Margaret’s having behaved +very well and slept like a good child, told Margaret where he had to +go that morning, and pointed out to Mrs. Arnott some relics of herself +still remaining; but the nervous tremulousness of manner did not much +comfort her, although Margaret answered cheerfully. Nothing was so +effectual in composing the aunt as Aubrey’s coming headlong in to +announce the gig, and to explain to Margaret his last design for a +cathedral--drawing plans being just now his favourite sport. + +“Architecture is all our rage at present,” said Margaret, as her father +hurried away. + +“I am so glad to have come in time for the consecration!” said Mrs. +Arnott, following her niece’s lead. “Is that a model of the church?” + +“Oh, yes!” cried Margaret, lighting up. “Richard made it for me.” + +“May I show it to Aunt Flora?” said Aubrey. + +“Bring it here, if you can lift it,” said Margaret; and, Aunt Flora +helping, the great cumbersome thing was placed beside her, whilst she +smiled and welcomed it like a child, and began an eager exhibition. Was +it not a beautiful little pierced spire?--that was an extravagance of +Dr. Spencer’s own. Papa said he could not ask Captain Gordon to sanction +it--the model did it no justice, but it was so very beautiful in the +rich creamy stone rising up on the moor, and the blue sky looking +through, and it caught the sunset lights so beautifully. So animated was +her description, that Mrs. Arnott could not help asking, “Why, my dear, +when have you seen it?” + +“Never,” said Margaret, with her sweet smile. “I have never seen +Cocksmoor; but Dr. Spencer and Meta are always sketching it for me, and +Ethel would not let an effect pass without telling me. I shall hear how +it strikes you next.” + +“I hope to see it by and by. What a comfortable deep porch! If we could +build such churches in the colonies, Margaret!” + +“See what little Meta will do for you! Yes, we had the porch deep for a +shelter--that is copied from the west door of the minster, and is it +not a fine high-pitched roof? John Taylor, who is to be clerk, could not +understand its being open; he said, when he saw the timbers, that a man +and his family might live up among them. They are noble oak beams; we +would not have any sham--here, Aubrey, take off the roof, and auntie +will see the shape.” + +“Like the ribs of a ship,” explained Aubrey, unconscious that the +meaning was deeper than his sister could express, and he continued: +“Such fine oak beams! I rode with Dr. Spencer one day last year to +choose them. It is a two-aisled church, you see, that a third may be +added.” + +Ethel came up as Aubrey began to absorb the conversation. “Lessons, +Aubrey,” she said. “So, Margaret, you are over your dear model?” + +“Not forestalling you too much I hope, Ethel dear,” said Margaret; “as +you will show her the church itself.” + +“You have the best right,” said Ethel; “but come, Aubrey, we must not +dawdle.” + +“I will show you the stones I laid myself, Aunt Flora,” said Aubrey, +running off without much reluctance. + +“Ethel has him in excellent order,” said Mrs. Arnott. + +“That she has; she brings him on beautifully, and makes him enjoy it. +She teaches him arithmetic in some wonderful scientific way that nobody +can understand but Norman, and he not the details; but he says it is all +coming right, and will make him a capital mathematical scholar, though +he cannot add up pounds, shillings, and pence.” + +“I expected to be struck with Ethel,” said Mrs. Arnott; “and--” + +“Well,” said Margaret, waiting. + +“Yes, she does exceed my expectations. There is something curiously +winning in that quaint, quick, decisive manner of hers. There is so much +soul in the least thing she does, as if she could not be indifferent for +a moment.” + +“Exactly--exactly so,” said Margaret, delighted. “It is really doing +everything with all her might. Little, simple, everyday matters did not +come naturally to her as to other people, and the having had to make +them duties has taught her to do them with that earnest manner, as +if there were a right and a wrong to her in each little mechanical +household office.” + +“Harry described her to me thus,” said Mrs. Arnott, smiling: “‘As to +Ethel, she is an odd fish; but Cocksmoor will make a woman of her after +all.’” + +“Quite true!” cried Margaret. “I should not have thought Harry had so +much discernment in those days. Cocksmoor gave the stimulus, and made +Ethel what she is. Look there--over the mantelpiece, are the designs for +the painted glass, all gifts, except the east window. That one of St. +Andrew introducing the lad with the loaves and fishes is Ethel’s window. +It is the produce of the hoard she began this time seven years, when +she had but one sovereign in the world. She kept steadily on with it, +spending nothing on herself that she could avoid, always intending it +for the church, and it was just enough to pay for this window.” + +“Most suitable,” said Mrs. Arnott. + +“Yes; Mr. Wilmot and I persuaded her into it; but I do not think she +would have allowed it, if she had seen the application we made of +it--the gift of her girlhood blessed and extended. Dear King Etheldred, +it is the only time I ever cheated her.” + +“This is a beautiful east window. And this little one--St. Margaret I +see.” + +“Ah! papa would not be denied choosing that for his subject. We +reproached him with legendary saints, and overwhelmed him with +antiquarianism, to show that the Margaret of the dragon was not the +Margaret of the daisy; but he would have it; and said we might thank him +for not setting his heart on St. Etheldreda.” + +“This one?” + +“That is mine,” said Margaret, very low; and her aunt abstained from +remark, though unable to look, without tears, at the ship of the +Apostles, the calming of the storm, and the scroll, with the verse: + + + He bringeth them unto the haven where they would be. + + +Beneath were the initials, “A. H. E.,” and the date of the year, the +only memorials of the founder. + +Margaret next drew attention to St. Andrew with his cross--Meta’s gift. +“And, besides,” she said, “George Rivers made us a beautiful present, +which Meta hunted up. Old Mr. Rivers, knowing no better, once bought all +the beautiful carved fittings of a chapel in France, meaning to fit up +a library with them; but, happily, he never did, and a happy notion came +into Meta’s head, so she found them out, and Dr. Spencer has adapted +them, and set them all to rights; and they are most exquisite. You never +saw such foliage.” + +Thus Margaret proceeded with the description of everything in the +church, and all the little adventures of the building, as if she could +not turn away from the subject; and her aunt listened and wondered, and, +when called away, that Margaret might rest before nurse came to dress +her, she expressed her wonder to Meta. + +“Yes,” was the answer; “it is her chief occupation and interest. I do +not mean that she has not always her own dear full sympathy for every +one’s concerns, but Cocksmoor is her concern, almost more than even +Ethel’s. I think she could chronicle every stage in the building better +than Dr. Spencer himself, and it is her daily delight to hear his +histories of his progress. And not only with the church but the people; +she knows all about every family; Richard and Ethel tell her all their +news; she talks over the school with the mistress every Sunday, and +you cannot think what a feeling there is for her at Cocksmoor. A kind +message from Miss May has an effect that the active workers cannot +always produce.” + +Mrs. Arnott saw that Meta was right, when, in the afternoon, she walked +with her nieces to see Cocksmoor. It was not a desolate sight as in +old times, for the fair edifice, rising on the slope, gave an air of +protection to the cottages, which seemed now to have a centre of unity, +instead of lying forlorn and scattered. Nor were they as wretched in +themselves, for the impulse of civilisation had caused windows to be +mended and railings to be tidied, and Richard promoted, to the utmost, +cottage gardening, so that, though there was an air of poverty, there +was no longer an appearance of reckless destitution and hopeless +neglect. + +In the cottages, Mrs. Taylor had not entirely ceased to speak with a +piteous voice, even though she told of the well-doing of her girls at +service; but Granny Hall’s merry content had in it something now of +principle, and Sam had married a young Fordholm wife, who promised to +be a pattern for Cocksmoor. Every one asked after Miss May, with a +tenderness and affection that Mrs. Arnott well appreciated; and when +they went into the large fresh school, where Richard was hearing a +class, Cherry Elwood looked quite cheered and enlivened by hearing +that she had been able to enjoy seeing her aunt. Mrs. Arnott was set to +enlighten the children about the little brown girls whom she was wont +to teach, and came away with a more brilliant impression of their +intelligence than she might have had, if she had not come to them fresh +from the Antipodes. + +She had to tell Margaret all her impressions on her return, and very +pretty smiles repaid her commendations. She understood better the +constant dwelling on the subject, as she perceived how little capable +Margaret was of any employment. The book, the writing materials, and +work-basket were indeed placed by her side, but very seldom did the +feeble fingers engage in any of the occupations once so familiar--now +and then a pencilled note would be sent to Flora, or to Hector +Ernescliffe, or a few stitches be set in her work, or a page or two +turned of a book, but she was far more often perfectly still, living, +assuredly in no ordinary sphere of human life, but never otherwise than +cheerful, and open to the various tidings and interests which, as Ethel +had formerly said, shifted before her like scenes in a magic lantern, +and, perhaps, with less of substance than in those earlier days, when +her work among them was not yet done, and she was not, as it were, set +aside from them. They were now little more than shadows reflected from +the world whence she was passing. + +Yet her home was not sad. When Dr. Spencer came in the evening, and +old Edinburgh stories were discussed, Dr. May talked with spirit, and +laughed with the merry note that Mrs. Amott so well remembered, and Meta +Rivers chimed in with her gay, saucy repartees, nor, though Richard was +always silent, and Ethel’s brow seemed to bear a weight of thought, did +it seem as if their spirits were depressed; while there was certainly no +restraint on the glee of Blanche, Aubrey, and Gertrude, who were running +into Margaret’s room, and making as much noise there as they chose. + +Mrs. Arnott was at home with the whole family from the first, and in +every one’s confidence; but what she enjoyed above all was, the +sitting in Margaret’s room in the morning, when there was no danger +of interruption, the three children being all safe captives to their +lessons, and Meta, in Richard’s workshop, illuminating texts on zinc +scrolls for the church. + +Margaret came out more in these interviews. It had been a kind of +shyness that made her talk so exclusively of the church at the first +meeting; she had now felt her way, and knew again--and realised--the +same kind aunt with whom she had parted in her childhood, and now far +dearer, since she herself was better able to appreciate her, and with +a certain resemblance to her mother, that was unspeakably precious and +soothing to one deprived, as Margaret had been, at the commencement of +her illness and anxiety. + +She could hardly see her aunt come near her, without thanking her for +having come home, and saying how every time she awoke it was with the +sense that something was comfortable, then remembering it was Aunt +Flora’s being in the house. She seemed to have a feeling, as if telling +everything to her aunt were like rendering up her account to her mother, +and, at different times, she related the whole, looking back on the +various decisions she had had to make or to influence, and reviewing +her own judgments, though often with self-blame, not with acuteness +of distress, but rather with a humble trust in the Infinite Mercy that +would atone for all shortcomings and infirmities, truly sorrowed for. + +On the whole it was a peaceful and grateful retrospect; the brothers all +doing so well in their several ways, and such a comfort to their father. +Tom, concerning whom she had made the greatest mistake, might be looked +upon as rescued by Norman. Aubrey, Margaret said, smiling, was Ethel’s +child, and had long been off her mind; Hector, to her quite a brother, +would miss her almost more than her own brothers, but good honest +fellow, he had a home here; and, whispered Margaret, smiling and glowing +a little, “don’t tell any one, for it is a secret of secrets. Hector +told me one evening that, if he could be very steady, he hoped he might +yet have Blanche at Maplewood. Poor little White Mayflower, it won’t +be for want of liking on her part, and she so blushes and watches +when Hector comes near, that I sometimes think that he might have said +something like it to her.” + +Mrs. Arnott gave no opinion on the plan for Norman and Meta; but +Margaret, however, took all for granted, and expressed warm hopes for +their sakes, that they would go out with Mrs. Arnott; then, when the +suggestion seemed to astonish her aunt, who thought they were waiting +for his ordination, she said, “The fact is, that he would like to be +ordained where he is to work; but I believe they do not like to say +anything about the wedding because of me. Now, of all persons, I must +chiefly rejoice in what may help to teach in those islands. I cannot +bear to be a hindrance. Whatever happens, Aunt Flora, will you take care +that they know this?” + +As to her father, Margaret was at rest. He had much more calmness than +when he was more new to grief, and could bear far more patiently and +hopefully than at first. He lived more on his affections above, and +much as he loved those below, he did not rest in them as once, and could +better afford to have been removed. “Besides,” said Margaret serenely, +“it has been good for him to have been gradually weaned from depending +on me, so that it is Ethel who is really necessary to him.” + +For herself, Margaret was perfectly content and happy. She knew the +temptation of her character had been to be the ruler and manager of +everything, and she saw it had been well for her to have been thus +assigned the part of Mary rather than of Martha. She remembered with +thankful joy the engagement with Alan Ernescliffe, and though she still +wore tokens of mourning for him, it was with a kind of pleasure in them. +There had been so little promise of happiness from the first, that there +was far more peace in thinking of him as sinking into rest in Harry’s +arms, than as returning to grieve over her decline; and that last gift +of his, the church, had afforded her continual delight, and above all +other earthly pursuits, smoothed away the languor and weariness of +disease, as she slowly sank to join him. Now that her aunt had come to +bring back a sunbeam of her childhood, Margaret declared that she had no +more grief or care, except one, and that a very deep and sad one--namely +poor Flora. + +Mrs. Arnott had at first been inclined to fear that her goddaughter was +neglecting her own family, since she had not been at home this whole +year, but the slightest betrayal of this suspicion roused Margaret to +an eager defence. She had not a doubt that Flora would gladly have been +with her, but she believed that she was not acting by her own choice, +or more truly, that her husband was so devoted to her, that she felt the +more bound to follow his slightest wishes, however contrary to her own. +The season had been spent in the same whirl that had, last year, +been almost beyond human power, even when stimulated by enjoyment +and success; and now, when her spirits were lowered, and her health +weakened, Meta had watched and trembled for her, though never able +to obtain an avowal that it was an overstrain, and while treated most +affectionately, never admitted within her barrier of reserve. + +“If I could see poor Flora comforted, or if even she would only let me +enter into her troubles,” Margaret said, sighing, “I should be content.” + +The consecration day came near, and the travellers began to return. Meta +was in a state of restlessness, which in her was very pretty, under the +disguise of a great desire to be useful. She fluttered about the house, +visited Margaret, played with Gertrude, set the drawing-room ornaments +to rights--a task which Ethel was very glad to depute to her, and made +a great many expeditions into the garden to put together autumn nosegays +for the vases--finally discovering that Ethel’s potichomanie vases on +the staircase window must have some red and brown leaves. + +She did not come back quite so soon with them, and Mrs. Arnott, slyly +looking out of window, reported, “Ha! he is come then! At least, I see +the little thing has found--” + +“Something extremely unlike itself,” said Dr. May, laughing. “Something +I could easily set down as a student at Edinburgh; thirty years ago. +That’s the very smile! I remember dear Maggie being more angry than I +ever saw her before, because Mr. Fleet said that you smiled to show your +white teeth.” + +“That is the best shadow of Maggie I ever saw,” said Dr. May. “She has +taught the lad to smile. That is what I call a pretty sight!” + +“Come, Richard, it is a shame for old folks like us to stand spying +them!” + +“They care very little for me,” said Dr. May, “but I shall have them +in. Cold winds blowing about that little head! Ah! here they are. Fine +leaves you gather, miss! Very red and brown.” + +Meta rather liked, than otherwise, those pretty teasings of Dr. May, +but they always made Norman colour extremely, and he parried them by +announcing news. “No, not the Bucephalus, a marriage in high life, a +relation.” + +“Not poor Mary!” cried Ethel. + +“Mary! what could make you think of her?” + +“As a hen thinks of her ducklings when they go into waters beyond her +ken,” said Ethel. “Well, as long as it is not Mary, I don’t care!” + +“High life!” repeated Meta. “Oh, it can be only Agatha Langdale.” + +“There’s only Lord Cosham further to guess,” said Ethel. + +“Eh! why not young Ogilvie?” said Dr. May. “I am right, I see. Well, who +is the lady?” + +“A Miss Dunbar--a nice girl that I met at Glenbracken. Her property fits +in with theirs, and I believe his father has been wishing it for a long +time.” + +“It does not sound too romantic,” said Meta. + +“He writes as if he had the sense of having been extremely dutiful,” + said Norman. + +“No doubt thinking it needful in addressing a namesake, who has had an +eye to the main chance,” said the doctor. “Don’t throw stones, young +people.” + +“Well!” exclaimed Meta; “he did not look as if he would go and do such a +stupid thing as that!” + +“Probably, it is anything but a stupid thing,” said Dr. May. + +“You are using him very ill among you,” said Norman eagerly. “I believe +her to be excellent in every way; he has known her from childhood; +he writes as if he were perfectly contented, and saw every chance of +happiness.” + +“None the less for having followed his father’s wishes--I am glad he +did,” said Ethel, coming to her brother’s side. + +“I dare say you are right,” was Meta’s answer; “but I am disappointed in +him. He always promised to come and stay with you, and made such friends +at Oxford, and he never came.” + +“I fancy there was a good deal to hinder him,” said Norman; and, as Mrs. +Arnott proceeded to inquiries after the Ogilvies in general, the master +of Glenbracken was allowed to drop. + +Meta, however, renewed the subject when walking to the minster that +evening with Norman. + +“You may defend Mr. Ogilvie, Norman, but it is not what I should have +expected from him. Why did he make promises, and then neglect his +relations?” + +“I believe that conscientiously he did not dare to come,” said Norman. +“I know that he was greatly struck with Ethel at the time of the +Commemoration, and therefore I could never again press him to come +here.” + +“Oh, Norman, you hard-hearted monster! What a bad conductor!” + +“I do not wish to be a conductor,” said Norman. “If you had seen +Glenbracken and the old people, you would perceive that it would not +have been suitable on our part to promote anything of the kind.” + +“Would they have been so violent?” + +“Not violent, but it would have been a severe struggle. They are good, +kind people, but with strong prejudices; and, though I have no doubt +they would have yielded to steady attachment on their son’s part, +and such conduct as Ethel’s would have been, I could not lead in that +direction.” + +“Is that pride, Norman?” + +“I hope not.” + +“It is doing by others as you were doing by yourself,” half whispered +Meta; “but, after all, if he had no constancy, Ethel had an escape.” + +“I was afraid that she had been rather touched, but I am glad to find +myself mistaken.” + +“If you thought so, how could you make such a public announcement?” + +He laughed. “I had made myself so nervous as to the effect, that, +in desperation, I took her own way, and came out at once with it as +unconsciously as I could.” + +“Very naturally you acted unconsciousness! It was better than insulting +her by seeming to condole. Not that I do, though, for she deserves more +steadiness than he has shown! If a man could appreciate her at all, I +should have thought that it would have been once and for ever.” + +“Remember, he had barely known her a fortnight, and probably had no +reason to believe that he had made any impression on her. He knew how +such an attachment would grieve his parents, and, surely, he was acting +dutifully, and with self-denial and consideration, in not putting +himself in the way of being further attracted.” + +“Umph! You make a good defence, Norman, but I cannot forgive him for +marrying somebody else, who cannot be Ethel’s equal.” + +“She is a good little girl; he will form her, and be very happy; perhaps +more so than with a great soul and strong nature like Ethel’s.” + +“Only he is a canny Scot, and not a Dr. Spencer!” + +“Too short acquaintance! besides, there were the parents. Moreover, what +would become of home without Ethel?” + +“The unanswerable argument to make one contented,” said Meta. “And, +certainly, to be wife to a Member of Parliament is not so very +delightful that one would covet it for her.” + +“Any more than she does for herself.” + +Norman was right in his view of his friend’s motives, as well as of +Ethel’s present feelings. If there had ever been any disappointment +about Norman Ogilvie, it had long since faded away. She had never given +away the depths of her heart, though the upper surface had been stirred. +All had long subsided, and she could think freely of him as an +agreeable cousin, in whose brilliant public career she should always be +interested, without either a wish to partake it, or a sense of injury +or neglect. She had her vocation, in her father, Margaret, the children, +home, and Cocksmoor; her mind and affections were occupied, and she +never thought of wishing herself elsewhere. + +The new church and the expected return of her sisters engrossed many +more of her thoughts than did anything relating to Glenbracken. + +She could not bear to talk of Flora, though almost as uneasy as was +Margaret; and not able to lay aside misgivings, lest even her good +simple Mary might have had her head turned by gaiety. + +Mr. and Mrs. Rivers arrived on the Saturday before the Tuesday fixed +for the consecration, and stopped on their way, that they might see +Margaret, deposit Mary, and resume Meta. + +It was a short visit, and all that Ethel could discover was, that Flora +was looking very ill, no longer able to conceal the worn and fagged +expression of her countenance, and evidently dreadfully shocked by the +sight of the havoc made by disease on Margaret’s frame. Yet she talked +with composure of indifferent subjects--the yacht, the visits, the +Bucephalus, the church, and the arrangements for St. Andrew’s Day. She +owned herself overworked, and in need of rest, and, as she was not well +enough to venture on being present at the consecration, she undertook +to spend the day with Margaret, thus setting the others at liberty. This +settled, she took her leave, for the journey had fatigued her greatly. + +During the short visit, Mary had moved and spoken so quietly, and looked +so well-dressed and young-lady-like, that, in spite of her comfortable +plump cheeks, Ethel felt quite afraid! + +But the instant the carriage had driven off, there was a skipping, a +hugging, a screaming, “Oh, it is so nice to be at home again!”--and +Ethel knew she had her own Mary. It was only a much better looking +and more mannerly Mary, in the full bloom of seventeen, open and +honest-faced, her profuse light hair prettily disposed, her hands and +arms more civilised, and her powers of conversation and self-possession +developed. Mary-like were her caresses of Gertrude, Mary-like her +inquiries for Cocksmoor, Mary-like her insisting on bringing her boxes +into Margaret’s room, her exulting exhibition of all the pretty things +that Flora and George had given to her, and the still more joyous +bestowal of presents upon everybody. + +Her tastes were not a whit altered, nor her simplicity diminished. If +she was pleased by joining a large dinner-party, her satisfaction was +in the amusement of seeing well-dressed people, and a grand table; her +knowledge of the world only reached to pronouncing everything unlike +home, “so funny;” she had relished most freshly and innocently every +pleasure that she could understand, she had learned every variety of +fancy work to teach Blanche and Miss Bracy, had been the delight +of every schoolroom and nursery, had struck up numberless eternal +friendships, and correspondences with girls younger and shyer than +herself, and her chief vexations seemed to have been first, that Flora +insisted on her being called Miss May, secondly, that all her delights +could not be shared by every one at home, and thirdly, that poor Flora +could not bear to look at little children. + +Grievous complaints were preferred by the dwellers in the attics the +next morning, that Mary and Blanche had talked to an unmentionable hour +of the night; but, on the whole, Blanche was rather doubtful whether +Mary had made the most of her opportunities of observation. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + + + + Behold, with pearls they glittering stand, + Thy peaceful gates to all expand, + By grace and strength divinely shed, + Each mortal thither may be led; + Who, kindled by Christ’s love, will dare + All earthly sufferings now to bear. + + By many a salutary stroke, + By many a weary blow, that broke, + Or polished, with a workman’s skill, + The stones that form that glorious pile; + They all are fitly framed to lie + In their appointed place on high. + Ancient Hymn for the Dedication of a Church. + + +The thirtieth of November dawned with the grave brightness of an autumn +day, as the sun slowly mounted from the golden east, drinking up the +mists that rose tardily, leaving the grass thickly bedewed. + +The bells of Stoneborough Minster were ringing gladsome peals, and the +sunshine had newly touched the lime trees, whose last bright yellow +leaves were gently floating down, as the carriage, from the Grange, drew +up at Dr. May’s door. + +Norman opened it, to claim Meta at once for the walk; Mrs. Arnott and +Mary had gone on to assist Richard in his final arrangements, but even +before Cocksmoor, with Ethel, was now the care of Margaret; and she had +waited with her father to keep all bustle from her room, and to commit +her into the charge of Flora and of nurse. Ethel seemed quite unwilling +to go. There was that strange oppressed feeling on her as if the +attainment of her wishes were joy too great to be real--as if she would +fain hold off from it at the climax, and linger with the sister who +had shared all with her, and to whom that church was even more than +to herself. She came back, and back again, with fresh injunctions, +sometimes forgetting the very purpose of her return, as if it had been +only an excuse for looking at Margaret’s countenance, and drinking in +her sympathy from her face; but she was to go in George’s carriage, +and he was not a man to allow of loitering. He became so impatient of +Ethel’s delays, that she perceived that he could bear them no longer, +gave her final kiss, and whispered, “In spirit with us!” then ran down +and was seized on by George, who had already packed in the children and +Miss Bracy, and was whirled away. + +“Flora dear,” said Margaret, “do you dislike having the window opened?” + +Flora threw it up, protesting, in reply to her sister’s scruples, that +she liked the air. “You always spoiled me,” said Margaret fondly. “Come +and lie down by me. It is very nice to have you here,” she added, as +Flora complied; and she took her hand and fondled it, “It is like the +old times to have you here taking care of me.” + +“Very unlike them in some ways,” said Flora. + +“It has been a great renewal of still older times,” said Margaret, “to +have Aunt Flora here. I hope you will get to know her, Flora, it is +so like having mamma here,” and she looked in her sister’s face as she +spoke. + +Flora did not reply, but she lay quite still, as if there were a charm +in the perfect rest of being alone with Margaret, making no effort, and +being able to be silent. Time passed on, how long they knew not, but, +suddenly, a thrill shot through Margaret’s frame; she raised her hand +and lifted her head, with an eager “Hark!” + +Flora could hear nothing. + +“The bells--his bells!” said Margaret, all one radiant look of +listening, as Flora opened the window further, and the breeze wafted in +the chime, softened by distance. The carnation tinted those thin white +cheeks, eyes and smile beamed with joy, and uplifted finger and parted +lips seemed marking every note of the cadence. + +It ceased. “Alan! Alan!” said she. “It is enough! I am ready!” + +The somewhat alarmed look on Flora’s face recalled her, and, smiling, +she held out her hands for the consecration books, saying, “Let us +follow the service. It will be best for us both.” + +Slowly, softly, and rather monotonously, Flora read on, till she had +come more than half through the first lesson. Her voice grew husky, and +she sometimes paused as if she could not easily proceed. Margaret begged +her to stop, but she would not cease, and went on reading, though almost +whispering, till she came to, “If they return to Thee with all their +heart and with all their soul in the land of their captivity, whither +they have carried them captives, and pray toward their land, which Thou +gavest unto their fathers, and toward the City which Thou hast chosen, +and toward the House which I have built for Thy Name; then hearing from +the Heavens, even from Thy dwelling-place--” + +Flora could go no further; she strove, but one of her tearless sobs +cut her short. She turned her face aside, and, as Margaret began to say +something tender, she exclaimed, with low, hasty utterance, “Margaret! +Margaret! pray for me, for it is a hard captivity, and my heart is very, +very sore. Oh! pray for me, that it may all be forgiven me--and that I +may see my child again!” + +“My Flora; my own poor, dear Flora! do I not pray? Oh! look up, look up. +Think how He loves you. If I love you so much, how much more does not +He? Come near me, Flora. Be patient, and I know peace will come!” + +The words had burst from Flora uncontrollably. She was aware, the next +instant, that she had given way to harmful agitation, and, resuming her +quiescence, partly by her own will, partly from the soothing effect of +Margaret’s words and tone, she allowed herself to be drawn close to +her sister, and hid her face in the pillow, while Margaret’s hands were +folded over her, and words of blessing and prayer were whispered with a +fervency that made them broken. + +Ethel, meanwhile, stood between Aubrey and Gertrude, hardly able to +believe it was not a dream, as she beheld the procession enter the +aisle, and heard the psalm that called on those doors to lift up +their heads for Him who should enter. There was an almost bewildered +feeling--could it indeed be true, as she followed the earlier part +of the service, which set apart that building as a temple for ever, +separate from all common uses. She had imagined the scene so often +that she could almost have supposed the present, one of her many +imaginations; but, by and by, the strangeness passed off, and she was +able to enter into, not merely to follow, the prayers, and to feel the +deep thanksgiving that such had been the crown of her feeble efforts. +Margaret was in her mind the whole time, woven, as it were, into +every supplication and every note of praise; and when there came the +intercession for those in sickness and suffering, flowing into the +commemoration of those departed in faith and fear, Ethel’s spirit sank +for a moment at the conviction that soon Margaret, like him, whom all +must bear in mind on that day, might be included in that thanksgiving; +yet, as the service proceeded, leaving more and more of earth behind, +and the voices joined with angel and archangel, Ethel could lose the +present grief, and only retain the certainty that, come what might, +there was joy and union amid those who sung that hymn of praise. Never +had Ethel been so happy--not in the sense of the finished work--no, she +had lost all that, but in being more carried out of herself than ever +she had been before, the free spirit of praise so bearing up her heart +that the cry of glory came from her with such an exultant gladness, as +might surely be reckoned as one of those foretastes of our everlasting +life, not often vouchsafed even to the faithful, and usually sent to +prepare strength for what may be in store. + +The blessing brought the sense of peace, which hung on her even while +the sounds of movement began, and the congregation were emerging. As +she came out, greetings, sentences of admiration of the church, and of +inquiry for her absent sisters, were crowded upon her, as people moved +towards the school, where a luncheon was provided for them, to pass away +the interval until evening service. The half-dozen oldest Cocksmoorites +were, meantime, to have a dinner in the former schoolroom, at the +Elwoods’ house, and Ethel was anxious so see that all was right there; +so, while the rest of her party were doing civil things, she gave her +arm to Cherry, whose limping walk showed her to be very tired. + +“Oh, Miss Ethel!” said Cherry, “if Miss May could only have been here!” + +“Her heart is,” said Ethel. + +“Well, ma’am, I believe it is. You would not think, ma’am, how all the +children take heed to anything about her. If I only begin to say ‘Miss +May told me--’ they are all like mice.” + +“She has done more for the real good of Cocksmoor than any one else,” + said Ethel. + +More might have been said, but they perceived that they were being +overtaken by the body of clergy, who had been unrobing in the vestry. +Ethel hastened to retreat within Mrs. Elwood’s wicket gate, but she was +arrested by Richard, and found herself being presented to the bishop, +and the bishop shaking hands with her, and saying that he had much +wished to be introduced to her. + +Of course, that was because she was her father’s daughter, and by way +of something to say. She mentioned what was going on at the cottage, +whereupon the bishop wished to go in and see the old people; and, +entering, they found the very comfortable-looking party just sitting +down to roast-beef and goose. John Taylor, in a new black coat, on +account of his clerkship, presiding at one end, and Mr. Elwood at the +other, and Dame Hall finding conversation for the whole assembly; while +Blanche, Aubrey, Gertrude, the little Larkinses, and the Abbotstoke +Wilmots were ready to act as waiters with infinite delight. Not a bit +daunted by the bishop, who was much entertained by her merry manner, old +granny told him “she had never seen nothing like it since the Jubilee, +when the squire roasted an ox whole, and there wasn’t none of it fit to +eat; and when her poor father got his head broken. Well, to be sure, +who would have thought what would come of Sam’s bringing in the young +gentleman and lady to see her the day her back was so bad!” + +The bishop said grace, and left granny to the goose, while he gave Ethel +his arm, which she would have thought an unaccountable proceeding if she +had not recollected that Richard might be considered as host, and that +she was his eldest sister forthcoming. + + +No sooner, however, had they come beyond the wicket than she saw her +father speaking to Will Adams, and there was that in the air of both +which made it no surprise when Dr. May came up, saying, “Ethel, I must +carry you away;” and, in explanation to the bishop, “my poor girl at +home is not so well.” + +All was inquiry and sympathy. Ethel was frantic to be at home, and would +have rushed off at once, if Richard had not held her fast, asking what +good she would do by hurrying in, breathless and exhausted, so as to add +to Flora’s fright and distress, the anxiety which was most upon their +minds, since she had never before witnessed one of the seizures, that +were only too ordinary matters in the eyes of the home party. No one but +Dr. May and Ethel should go. Richard undertook to tell the rest, and the +gig making its appearance, Ethel felt that the peculiarly kind manner +with which the bishop pressed her hand, and gave them all good wishes, +was like a continuation of his blessing to aid her in her home scene of +trial. + +Perhaps, it was well for her that her part in the consecration +festivities should end here; at least so thought Mr. Wilmot, who, though +very sorry for the cause, could not wish her to have been present at the +luncheon. She had not thought of self hitherto, the church was the gift +of Alan and Margaret, the work of preparing the people belonged to all +alike, and she did not guess that, in the sight of others, she was not +the nobody that she believed herself. Her share in the work at Cocksmoor +was pretty well known, and Dr. Hoxton could not allow a public occasion +to pass without speeches, such as must either have been very painful, +or very hurtful to her. The absence of herself and her father, however, +permitted a more free utterance to the general feeling; and things were +said, that did indeed make the rest of the family extremely hot and +uncomfortable, but which gave them extreme pleasure. Norman was obliged +to spare Richard the answer, and said exactly what he ought, and so +beautifully, that Meta could not find it in her heart to echo the +fervent wish, which he whispered as he sat down, that speechifying could +be abolished by Act of Parliament. + +Mrs. Arnott began to perceive that her nephew was something to be proud +of, and to understand how much was sacrificed, while George Rivers +expressed his opinion to her that Norman would be a crack speaker in the +House, and he hoped she would say everything to hinder his going out, +for it was a regular shame to waste him on the niggers. + +Owing to George having constituted himself her squire, Mrs. Arnott had +not arrived at an understanding of the state of affairs at home; but, +as soon as they rose up from luncheon, and she learned the truth from +Richard and Mary, nothing would hinder her from walking home at once to +see whether she could be useful. Mary was easily persuaded to remain, +for she was accustomed to Margaret’s having these attacks, and had +always been kept out of her room the while, so she had little uneasiness +to prevent her from being very happy, in receiving in her own simple, +good-humoured way all the attentions that lapsed upon her in the place +of her elder sisters. + +“Cocksmoor really has a church!” was note enough of joy for her, and +no one could look at her round face without seeing perfect happiness. +Moreover, when after evening service, the November mist turned into +decided rain, she was as happy as a queen in her foresight, which had +provided what seemed an unlimited supply of cloaks and umbrellas. She +appeared to have an original genius for making the right people give a +lift in their carriages to the distressed; and, regarding the Abbotstoke +britska as her own, packed in Mrs. Anderson and Fanny, in addition +to all their own little ones, Meta thrusting Miss Bracy into the +demi-corner destined for herself at the last minute, and, remaining with +Mary, the only ladies obliged to walk back to Stoneborough. So delighted +were they “at the fun,” that it might have been thought the most +charming of adventures, and they laughed all the more at the lack +of umbrellas. They went to Mrs. Elwood’s, divested themselves of all +possible finery, and tucked up the rest; Meta was rolled up from head to +foot in a great old plaid shawl of Mrs. Elwood’s, and Mary had a cloak +of Richard’s, the one took Norman’s arm, the other Dr. Spencer’s, and +they trudged home through the darkness and the mud in the highest glee, +quite sorry when the carriage met them half-way. + +It was the last mirth that they enjoyed for many weeks. When they +reached home, a sense of self-reproach for their glee thrilled over +them, when they found a sort of hush pervading the drawing-room, and saw +the faces of awe and consternation, worn by Blanche and George Rivers. + +“It was a much worse attack than usual, and it did not go off,” was +all that Blanche knew, but her father had desired to be told when Dr. +Spencer came home, and she went up with the tidings. + +This brought Flora down, looking dreadfully pale, and with her voice +sunk away as it had been when she lost her child. Her husband started +up, exclaiming at her aspect; she let him support her to the sofa, and +gave the few particulars. Margaret had been as placid and comfortable as +usual, till nurse came to dress her, but the first move had brought on +the faintness and loss of breath. It did not yield to remedies, and +she had neither looked nor spoken since, only moaned. Flora thought her +father much alarmed; and then, after an interval, she began to entreat +that they might stay there, sending Miss Bracy and the children to the +Grange to make room. + +Meantime, Dr. Spencer had come to the sick-room, but he could only +suggest remedies that were already in course of application to the +insensible sufferer. Mrs. Arnott and Ethel were watching, and trying +everything to relieve her, but with little effect, and Ethel presently +stood by the fire with her father, as Dr. Spencer turned towards him, +and he said, in a very low, but calm voice, “It won’t do--I believe it +is the death-stroke.” + +“Not immediate,” said Dr. Spencer. + +“No,” said Dr. May; and he quietly spoke of what the disease had +effected, and what yet remained for it to do, ere the silver bowl should +be broken. + +Dr. Spencer put in a word of agreement. + +“Will there be no rally?” said Ethel, in the same tone. + +“Probably not,” said Dr. May; “the brain is generally reached at this +stage. I have seen it coming for a long time. The thing was done seven +years ago. There was a rally for a time when youth was strong; but +suspense and sorrow accelerated what began from the injury to the +spine.” + +Dr. Spencer bowed his head, and looked at him anxiously, saying, “I do +not think there will be much acute suffering.” + +“I fear it may be as trying,” said Dr. May, sighing; and then turning to +Ethel, and throwing his arm round her, “May God make it easy to her, and +grant us ‘patient hearts.’ We will not grudge her to all that she loves +best, my Ethel.” + +Ethel clung to him, as if to derive strength from him. But the strength +that was in them then did not come from earth. Dr. Spencer wrung his +hand, and stepped back to the bed to try another resource. Vain again, +they only seemed to be tormenting her, and the silent helplessness +prevailed again. Then Dr. May went down to Flora, told her the true +state of the case, and urged on her to give up her plan of remaining. +George joined with him, and she yielded submissively, but would not be +refused going up once again and kissing her sister, standing beside her +gazing at her, till her father came softly and drew her away. “I shall +be here to-morrow,” she said to Ethel, and went. + +The morrow, however, brought no Flora. The agitation and distress of +that day had broken her down completely, and she was so ill as to be +unable to move. Her aunt went at once to see her, and finding that her +presence at the Grange relieved some of Dr. May’s anxieties, chiefly +devoted herself to her. Flora was grateful and gentle, but as silent +and impenetrable as ever, while day after day she lay on her couch, +uncomplaining and undemonstrative, visited by her father, and watched +over by her aunt and sister-in-law, who began to know each other much +better, though Flora less than ever, in that deep fixed grief. She only +roused herself to return her husband’s affection, or to listen to the +daily reports of Margaret. Poor George, he was very forlorn, though Meta +did her best to wait on him, and he rode over twice a day to inquire at +Stoneborough. + +The doctors were right, and the consecration morning was her last of +full consciousness. From the hour when she had heard the sound of Alan’s +bells, her ears were closed to earthly sounds. There was very little +power of intercourse with her, as she lingered on the borders of the +land very far away, where skill and tenderness could not either reach +body or spirit. Often the watchers could not tell whether she was +conscious, or only incapacitated from expression, by the fearful weight +on her breath, which caused a restlessness most piteous in the exhausted +helpless frame, wasted till the softest touch was anguish. Now and +then came precious gleams when a familiar voice, or some momentary +alleviation would gain a smile, or thanks, and they thought her less +restless when Richard read prayers beside her, but words were very rare, +only now and then a name, and when in most distress, “it will be soon +over,” “it will soon be over,” occurred so often, that they began to +think it once her solace, and now repeated habitually without a meaning. + +They could not follow her into the valley of the shadow of death, but +could only watch the frail earthly prison-house being broken down, as if +the doom of sin must be borne, though faith could trust that it was but +her full share in the Cross. Calmly did those days pass. Ethel, Richard, +and Mary divided between them the watching and the household cares, +and their father bore up bravely in the fullness of his love and faith, +resigning her daughter to the Hands which were bearing her whither her +joys had long since departed. + +Hector Ernescliffe arrived when the holidays began; and his agony of +sorrow, when she failed to recognise him, moved Dr. May to exert himself +earnestly for his consolation; and, at the same time, Tom, in a gentle, +almost humble manner, paid a sort of daughter-like attention to the +smallest services for his father, as if already accepting him as his +especial charge. + +It was midnight, on the longest night of the year; Ethel was lying on +her bed, and had fallen into a brief slumber, when her father’s low, +clear voice summoned her: “Ethel, she is going!” + +There was a change on the face, and the breath came in labouring gasps. +Richard lifted her head, and her eyes once more opened; she smiled once +more. + +“Papa!” she said, “dear papa!” + +He threw himself on his knees beside her, but she looked beyond him, +“Mamma! Alan! oh, there they are! More! more!” and, as though the +unspeakable dawned on her, she gasped for utterance, then looked, with +a consoling smile, on her father. “Over now!” she said--and the last +struggle was ended. That which Richard laid down was no longer Margaret +May. + +Over now! The twenty-five years’ life, the seven years’ captivity on her +couch, the anxious headship of the motherless household, the hopeless +betrothal, the long suspense, the efforts for resignation, the widowed +affections, the slow decay, the tardy, painful death agony--all was +over; nothing left, save what they had rendered the undying spirit, and +the impress her example had left on those around her. + +The long continuance of the last suffering had softened the actual +parting; and it was with thankfulness for the cessation of her pain that +they turned away, and bade each other good-night. + +Ethel would not have believed that her first wakening to the knowledge +that Margaret was gone could have been more fraught with relief than +with misery. And, for her father, it seemed as if it were a home-like, +comfortable thought to him, that her mother had one of her children with +her. He called her the first link of his Daisy Chain drawn up out of +sight; and, during the quiet days that ensued, he seemed as it were to +be lifted above grief, dwelling upon hope. His calmness impressed the +same on his children, as they moved about in the solemn stillness of the +house; and when Harry, pale, and shocked at the blow to him so sudden, +came home, the grave silence soothed his violence of grief; and he sat +beside his, father or Mary, speaking in undertones of what Margaret had +loved to hear from him, of Alan Ernescliffe’s last moments. + +Mary gave way to a burst of weeping when she sought, in vain, for +daisies in the wintry garden; but Hector Ernescliffe went down to the +cloisters, and brought back the lingering blossoms to be placed on +Margaret’s bosom. + +The dog Toby had followed him, unseen, to the cloister; and he was +entering the garden, when he was struck by seeing the animal +bounding, in irrepressible ecstasy, round a lad, whose tarpaulin hat, +blue-bordered collar, and dark blue dress, showed him to be a sailor, +as well as the broad-shouldered, grizzled, elderly man, who stood beside +him. + +“I say, sir,” said the latter, as Hector’s hand was on the door, “do you +belong to Dr. May?” + +Hector unhesitatingly answered that he did. + +“Then, maybe, sir, you have heard of one Bill Jennings.” + +Hector was all in one flush, almost choking, as he told that he was Mr. +Ernescliffe’s brother, and gave his hand to the sailor. “What could he +do for him?” + +Jennings had heard from one of the crew of the Bucephalus that Mr. May +had been met, on his return to Portsmouth, by the news of his sister’s +death. The Mays had helped his boy; he had been with Mr. May in the +island; he had laid Mr. Ernescliffe in his grave; and some notion had +crossed the sailor that he must be at Miss Margaret’s funeral--it might +be they would let him lend a hand--and, in this expedition, he was +spending his time on shore. + +How he was welcomed need not be told, nor how the tears came forth from +full hearts, as Dr. May granted his wish, and thanked him for doing what +Margaret herself would indeed have chosen; and, in his blue sailor garb, +was Jennings added to the bearers, their own men, and two Cocksmoor +labourers, who, early on Christmas Eve, carried her to the minster. Last +time she had been there, Alan Ernescliffe had supported her. Now, what +was mortal of him lay beneath the palm tree, beneath the glowing summer +sky, while the first snow-flakes hung like pearls on her pall. But +as they laid her by her mother’s side, who could doubt that they were +together? + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + + + + At length I got unto the gladsome hill, + Where lay my hope; + Where lay my heart; and, climbing still, + When I had gained the brow and top, + A lake of brackish waters on the ground, + Was all I found. + --GEORGE HERBERT. + + +Late in the evening of the same snowy 24th of December, a little +daughter awoke to life at Abbotstoke Grange, and, not long after, Mrs. +Arnott came to summon Dr May from the anxious vigil in the sitting-room. +“Come and see if you can do anything to soothe her,” she said, with much +alarm. “The first sight of the baby has put her into such a state of +agitation, that we do not know what to do with her.” + +It was so, when he came to her bedside; that fixed stony look of despair +was gone; the source of tears, so long dried up, had opened again; and +there she lay, weeping quietly indeed, but profusely, and with deep +heaving sobs. To speak, or to leave her alone, seemed equally perilous, +but he chose the first--he kissed and blessed her, and gave her joy. She +looked up at him as if his blessing once more brought peace, and said +faintly, “Now it is pardon--now I can die!” + +“The cloud is gone! Thanks for that above all!” said Dr. May fervently. +“Now, my dear, rest in thankful gladness--you are too weak to talk or +think.” + +“I am weak--I am tired of it all,” said Flora. “I am glad to be going +while I am so happy--there are Margaret--my own darling--rest--peace--” + +“You are not going, dearest,” said her father; “at least, I trust not, +if you will not give way; here is a darling given to you, instead of the +first, who needs you more.” + +He would have taken the infant from the nurse and held her to her +mother, but, recollecting how little Leonora had drawn her last breath +in his arms, he feared the association, and signed to Mrs. Arnott to +show her the child; but she seemed as yet only able to feel that it was +not Leonora, and the long sealed-up grief would have its way. The tears +burst out again. “Tell Ethel she will be the best mother to her. Name +her Margaret--make her a Daisy of your own--don’t call her after me,” + she said, with such passionate caresses, that Mrs. Arnott was glad to +take the babe away. + +Dr. May’s next expedient was to speak to her of her husband, who needed +her more than all, and to call him in. There seemed to be something +tranquillising in his wistful manner of repeating, “Don’t cry, Flora;” + and she was at last reduced, by her extreme exhaustion, to stillness; +but there were still many fears for her. + +Dr. May’s prediction was accomplished--that she would suffer for having +over-exerted herself. Her constitution had been severely tried by the +grief and despondency that she had so long endured in silence, and the +fresh sorrow for her favourite sister coming at such a crisis. There +was a weariness of life, and an unwillingness to resume her ordinary +routine, that made her almost welcome her weakness and sinking; and now +that the black terror had cleared away from the future, she seemed to +long to follow Margaret at once, and to yearn after her lost child; +while appeals to the affection that surrounded her often seemed to +oppress her, as if there were nothing but weariness and toil in store. + +The state of her mind made her father very anxious, though it was but +too well accounted for. Poor Flora had voluntarily assumed the trammels +that galled her; worldly motives had prompted her marriage, and though +she faithfully loved her husband, he was a heavy weight on her hands, +and she had made it more onerous by thrusting him into a position for +which he was not calculated, and inspiring him with a self-consequence +that would not recede from it. The shock of her child’s death had taken +away the zest and energy which had rejoiced in her chosen way of life, +and opened her eyes to see what Master she had been serving; and the +perception of the hollowness of all that had been apparently good in +her, had filled her with remorse and despair. Her sufferings had been +the more bitter because she had not parted with her proud reserve. She +had refused council, and denied her confidence to those who could have +guided her repentance. Her natural good sense, and the sound principle +in which she had been brought up, had taught her to distrust her gloomy +feelings as possibly morbid; and she had prayed, keeping her hold of +faith in the Infinite Mercy, though she could not feel her own part in +it; and thus that faith was beginning at last to clear her path. + +It was the harder to deal with her, because her hysterical agitation was +so easily excited, that her father hardly dared to let a word be spoken +to her; and she was allowed to see no one else except her aunt and the +dear old nurse, whose tears for her child Margaret had been checked by +the urgent requirements of another of her nurslings; and whom George +Rivers would have paid with her weight in gold, for taking care of his +new daughter, regarding her as the only woman in the world that could be +trusted. + +Those were heavy days with every one, though each brought some shade of +improvement. They were harder to bear than the peaceful days that had +immediately followed the loss of Margaret; and Ethel was especially +unhappy and forlorn under the new anxiety, where she could be of no +service; and with her precious occupation gone; her father absent, +instead of resting upon her; and her room deserted. She was grieved +with herself, because her feelings were unable to soar at the Christmas +Feast, as erst on St. Andrew’s Day; and she was bewildered and +distressed by the fear that she had then been only uplifted by vanity +and elation. + +She told Richard so, and he said, kindly, that he thought a good deal of +that she complained of arose from bodily weariness. + +This hurt her a little; but when he said, “I think that the blessings of +St. Andrew’s Day helped us through what was to follow,” she owned that +it had indeed been so, and added, “I am going to work again! Tell me +what will be most useful to you at Cocksmoor.” + +Sick at heart as she was, she bravely set herself to appropriate the +hours now left vacant; and manfully walked with Richard and Harry to +church at Cocksmoor on St. Stephen’s Day; but the church brought back +the sense of contrast. Next, she insisted on fulfilling their +intention of coming home by Abbotstoke to hear how Flora was, when the +unfavourable account only added lead to the burden that weighed her +down. Though they were sent home in the carriage, she was so completely +spent, that the effect of returning home to her room, without its dear +inhabitant, was quite overwhelming, and she sat on her bed for half +an hour, struggling with repinings. She came downstairs without having +gained the victory, and was so physically overcome with lassitude, that +Richard insisted on her lying on the sofa, and leaving everything to him +and Mary. + +Richard seemed to make her his object in life, and was an unspeakable +help and comforter to her, not only by taking every care for her for her +sake, but by turning to her as his own friend and confidante, the best +able to replace what they had lost. There were many plans to be put in +operation for Cocksmoor, on which much consultation was needed, though +every word reminded them sadly of Margaret’s ever ready interest in +those schemes. It was very unlike Ethel’s vision of the first weeks +of St. Andrew’s Church; but it might be safer for her than that aught +should tempt her to say, “See what my perseverance has wrought!” + Perhaps her Margaret had begun to admire her too much to be her safest +confidante--at any rate, it was good still to sow in tears, rather than +on earth to reap in confident joy. + +Norman was as brotherly and kind as possible; but it was one of the +dreary feelings of those days, that Ethel then first became aware of +the difference that his engagement had made, and saw that he resorted +elsewhere for sympathy. She was not jealous, and acquiesced submissively +and resolutely; but they had been so much to each other, that it was +a trial, especially at such a time as this, when freshly deprived of +Margaret. + +Norman’s own prospect was not cheerful. He had received a letter +from New Zealand, begging him to hasten his coming out, as there was +educational work much wanting him, and, according to his original wish, +he could be ordained there in the autumnal Ember Week. + +He was in much perplexity, since, according to this request, he ought to +sail with his aunt in the last week of February, and he knew not how to +reconcile the conflicting claims. + +Meta was not long in finding out the whole of his trouble, as they paced +up and down the terrace together on a frosty afternoon. + +“You will go!” was her first exclamation. + +“I ought,” said Norman, “I believe I ought, and if it had only been at +any other time, it would have been easy. My aunt’s company would have +been such a comfort for you.” + +“It cannot be helped,” said Meta. + +“Considering the circumstances,” began Norman, with lingering looks at +the little humming-bird on his arm, “I believe I should be justified +in waiting till such time as you could go with me. I could see what Mr. +Wilmot thinks.” + +“You don’t think so yourself,” said Meta. “Nobody else can give a +judgment. In a thing like this, asking is, what you once called, seeking +opinions as Balaam inquired.” + +“Turning my words against me?” said Norman, smiling. “Still, Meta, +perhaps older heads would be fitter to judge what would be right for a +little person not far off.” + +“She can be the best judge of that herself,” said Meta. “Norman,” and +her dark eyes were steadfastly fixed, “I always resolved that, with +God’s help, I would not be a stumbling-block in the way of your call +to your work. I will not. Go out now--perhaps you will be freer for it +without me, and I suppose I have a longer apprenticeship to serve to all +sorts of things before I come to help you.” + +“Oh, Meta, you are a rebuke to me!” + +“What? when I am going to stay by my own fireside?” said Meta, trying +to laugh, but not very successfully. “Seriously, I have much to do here. +When poor Flora gets well, she must be spared all exertion for a long +time to come; and I flatter myself that they want me at Stoneborough +sometimes. If your father can bear to spare you, there is no doubt that +you ought to go.” + +“My father is as unselfish as you are, Meta. But I cannot speak to +him until he is more easy about Flora. We always think the required +sacrifice the hardest, but I must own that I could not grieve if he laid +his commands on me to wait till the autumn.” + +“Oh, that would make it a duty and all easy,” said Meta, smiling; “but +I don’t think he will; and Aunt Flora will be only too glad to carry you +out without encumbrance.” + +“Has not Aunt Flora come to her senses about you?” + +“I believe she would rather I belonged to any of her nephews but +you. She is such a dear, sincere, kind-hearted person, and we are so +comfortable together, that it will be quite like home to come out to +her! I mean there, to convince her that I can be of something like use.” + +Meta talked so as to brighten and invigorate Norman when they were +together, but they both grew low-spirited when apart. The humming-bird +had hardly ever been so downcast as at present--that is, whenever she +was not engaged in waiting on her brother, or in cheering up Dr. May, or +in any of the many gentle offices that she was ever fulfilling. She was +greatly disappointed, and full of fears for Norman, and dread of the +separation, but she would not give way; and only now and then, when off +her guard, would the sadness reign on her face without an effort. Alone, +she fought and prayed for resignation for herself, and protection and +strength for him, and chid herself for the foolish feeling that he would +be safer with her. + +She told Aunt Flora how it was one evening, as they sat over the fire +together, speaking with a would-be tone of congratulation. + +“Indeed!” exclaimed Mrs. Arnott. “But that is a great pity!” + +Meta looked quite brightened by her saying so. “I thought you would be +glad,” she rejoined. + +“Did you think me so hard-hearted?” + +“I thought you believed he would be better without me.” + +“My dear, we have not kept house and nursed together for a month for +nothing,” said Mrs. Arnott, smiling. + +“Thank you,” said Meta, trying to answer the smile. “You have taken a +load off me!” + +“I don’t like it at all,” said Mrs. Arnott. “It is a very uncomfortable +plan for every one. And yet when I know how great is the want of him out +there, I can say nothing against it without high treason. Well, my dear, +I’ll take all the care I can of Norman, and when you come, I shall be +almost as glad as if we were coming home for good. Poor Flora! she is +one person who will not regret the arrangement.” + +“Poor Flora!--you think her really better this evening?” + +“Much better, indeed; if we could only raise her spirits, I think she +would recover very well; but she is so sadly depressed. I must try to +talk to Ethel--she may better understand her.” + +“I have never understood Flora,” said Meta. “She has been as kind to +me as possible, and I very soon came to a certain point with her, but +I never have known her thoroughly. I doubt whether any one did but dear +Margaret.” + +Flora was, however, much softened and less reserved than she had been. +She found great repose in her aunt’s attendance, retracing, as it +did, her mother’s presence, and she responded to her tenderness with +increasing reliance and comfort; while as her strength began to revive, +and there was more disposition to talk, she became gradually drawn into +greater confidence. + +The seeing of Ethel was one of the difficult questions. Flora had begun +to wish it very much, and yet the bare idea threw her into a nervous +tremor, that caused it to be put off again and again. Her aunt found her +one day almost faint with agitation--she had heard Ethel’s voice in the +next room, and had been winding up her expectations, and now was as much +grieved as relieved, to find that she had been there seeing the baby, +but was now gone. + +“How does the dear Ethel look?” asked Flora presently. + +“She is looking better to-day; she has looked very worn and harassed, +but I thought her brighter to-day. She walked over by Aubrey on his +pony, and I think it did her good.” + +“Dear old Ethel! Aunt, it is a thing that no one has told me yet. Can +you tell me how she bore the news of Norman Ogilvie’s engagement?” + +“Do you mean--” and Mrs. Arnott stopped short in her interrogation. + +“Yes,” said Flora, answering the pause. + +“But I thought young Ogilvie a most unexceptionable person.” + +“So he is,” said Flora. “I was much annoyed at the time, but she was +resolute.” + +“In rejecting him?” + +“In running away as soon as she found what was likely to happen;” and +Flora, in a few words, told what had passed at Oxford. + +“Then it was entirely out of devotion to your father?” + +“Entirely,” said Flora. “No one could look at her without seeing that +she liked him. I had left her to be the only effective one at home, and +she sacrificed herself.” + +“I am glad that I have seen her,” said Mrs. Arnott. “I should never have +understood her by description. I always said that I must come home to +set my correspondence going rightly.” + +“Aunt Flora,” said her niece, “do you remember my dear mother’s +unfinished letter to you?” + +“To be sure I do, my dear.” + +“Nothing ever was more true,” said Flora. “I read it over some little +time ago, when I set my papers in order, and understood it then. I never +did before. I used to think it very good for the others.” + +“It is what one generally does with good advice.” + +“Do you recollect the comparison between Norman, Ethel, and me? It is +so curious. Norman, who was ambitious and loved praise, but now dreads +nothing so much; Ethel, who never cared for anything of the kind, but +went straight on her own brave way; and oh! Aunt Flora--me--” + +“Indeed, my dear, I should have thought you had her most full +approbation.” + +“Ah! don’t you see the tone, as if she were not fully satisfied, as if +she only could not see surface faults in me,” said Flora; “and how she +said she dreaded my love of praise, and of being liked. I wonder how +it would have been if she had lived. I have looked back so often in the +past year, and I think the hollowness began from that time. It might +have been there before, but I am not so sure. You see, at that dreadful +time, after the accident, I was the eldest who was able to be efficient, +and much more useful than poor Ethel. I think the credit I gained made +me think myself perfection, and I never did anything afterwards but seek +my own honour.” + +Mrs. Arnott began better to understand Flora’s continued depression, but +she thought her self-reproach exaggerated, and said something at once +soothing and calculated to encourage her to undraw the curtain of +reserve. + +“You do not know,” continued Flora, “how greedy I was of credit and +affection. It made me jealous of Ethel herself, as long as we were in +the same sphere; and when I felt that she was more to papa than I could +be, I looked beyond home for praise. I don’t think the things I did were +bad in themselves--brought up as I have been, they could hardly be so. I +knew what merits praise and blame too well for that--but oh! the motive. +I do believe I cared very much for Cocksmoor. I thought it would be a +grand thing to bring about; but, you see, as it has turned out, all +I thought I had done for it was in vain; and Ethel has been the real +person and does not know it. I used to think Ethel so inferior to me. +I left her all my work at home. If it had not been for that, she might +have been happy with Norman Ogilvie--for never were two people better +matched, and now she has done what I never thought to have left to +another--watched over our own Margaret. Oh! how shall I ever bear to see +her?” + +“My dear, I am sure nothing can be more affectionate than Ethel. She +does not think these things.” + +“She does,” said Flora. “She always knew me better than I did myself. +Her straightforward words should often have been rebukes to me. I shall +see in every look and tone the opinion I have deserved. I have shrunk +from her steadfast looks ever since I myself learned what I was. I could +not bear them now--and yet--oh, aunt, you must bring her! Ethel! my +dear, dear old King--my darling’s godmother--the last who was with +Margaret!” + +She had fallen into one of those fits of weeping when it was impossible +to attempt anything but soothing her; but, though she was so much +exhausted that Mrs. Arnott expected to be in great disgrace with Dr. May +for having let her talk herself into this condition, she found that +he was satisfied to find that she had so far relieved her mind, and +declared that she would be better now. + +The effect of the conversation was, that the next day, the last of the +twelve Christmas days, when Ethel, whose yearning after her sister was +almost equally divided between dread and eagerness--eagerness for her +embrace, and dread of the chill of her reserve, came once again in +hopes of an interview. Dr. May called her at once. “I shall take you +in without any preparation,” he said, “that she may not have time to be +flurried. Only, be quiet and natural.” + +Did he know what a mountain there was in her throat when he seemed to +think it so easy to be natural? + +She found him leading her into a darkened room, and heard his cheerful +tones saying, “I have brought Ethel to you!” + +“Ethel! oh!” said a low, weak voice, with a sound as of expecting a +treat, and Ethel was within a curtain, where she began, in the dimness, +to see something white moving, and her hands were clasped by two long +thin ones. “There!” said Dr. May, “now, if you will be good, I will +leave you alone. Nurse is by to look after you, and you know she always +separates naughty children.” + +Either the recurrence to nursery language, or the mere sisterly touch +after long separation, seemed to annihilate all the imaginary mutual +dread, and, as Ethel bent lower and lower, and Flora’s arms were round +her, the only feeling was of being together again, and both at once made +the childish gesture of affection, and murmured the old pet names of +“Flossy,” and “King,” that belonged to almost forgotten days, when they +were baby sisters, then kissed each other again. + +“I can’t see you,” said Ethel, drawing herself up a little. “Why, Flora, +you look like a little white shadow!” + +“I have had such weak eyes,” said Flora, “and this dim light is +comfortable. I see your old sharp face quite plain.” + +“But what can you do here?” + +“Do? Oh, dear Ethel, I have not had much of doing. Papa says I have +three years’ rest to make up.” + +“Poor Flora!” said Ethel; “but I should have thought it tiresome, +especially for you.” + +“I have only now been able to think again,” said Flora; “and you will +say I am taking to quoting poetry. Do you remember some lines in that +drama that Norman admired so much?” + +“Philip von Artevelde?” + +“Yes. I can’t recollect them now, though they used to be always running +in my head--something about time to mend and time to mourn.” + +“These?” said Ethel-- + + + “He that lacks time to mourn, lacks time to mend. + Eternity mourns that.” + + +“I never had time before for either,” said Flora. “You cannot think +how I used to be haunted by those, when I was chased from one thing to +another, all these long, long eighteen months. I am in no haste to take +up work again.” + +“Mending as well as mourning,” said Ethel thoughtfully. + +Flora sighed. + +“And now you have that dear little Christmas gift to--” Ethel paused. + +“She is not nearly so fine and healthy as her sister was,” said Flora, +“poor little dear. You know, Ethel, even now, I shall have very little +time with her in that London life. Her papa wants me so much, and I must +leave her to--to the nurses.” Flora’s voice trembled again. + +“Our own dear old nurse,” said Ethel. + +“Oh! I wanted to thank you all for sparing her to us,” said Flora. +“George wished it so much. But how does poor little Daisy bear it?” + +“Very magnanimously,” said Ethel, smiling. “In fact, nurse has had but +little to do with Daisy of late, and would have been very forlorn at +home. It is better for Aubrey and for her, not to return to be babies +to comfort poor nurse. I have been breaking up the nursery, and taking +Gertrude to live with me.” + +“Have you gone back there again?” + +“It would not have been better for waiting,” said Ethel; “and Gertrude +was so proud to come to me. I could not have done it without her, but +papa must not have vacancy next to him.” + +“It has been hard on you for me to engross him,” said Flora; “but oh, +Ethel, I could not spare him. I don’t think even you can tell what papa +is.” + +“You have found it out,” said Ethel, in an odd, dry manner; which in +sound, though not in feeling, was a contrast to the soft, whispering, +tearful murmurs of her sister. + +“And my aunt!” continued Flora--“that I should have taken up such a +great piece of her short visit!” + +“Ah! it is coming to an end very fast,” said Ethel, sighing; “but you +had the best right to her, and she and Meta have seen so much of each +other. She tells me she is quite satisfied about Meta now.” + +“I am sorry to see Meta looking out of spirits,” said Flora. “I almost +made her cry by saying something about Norman. Is there anything going +wrong?” + +Ethel, as usual, blundered into the subject. “Only about Norman’s going +out.” + +Flora asked further questions, and she was obliged to explain. It roused +Flora’s energies at once. + +“This will never do!” she said. “They must marry, and go with my aunt.” + +Ethel was aghast. “They would not hear of it now!” + +“They must. It is the only reasonable thing. Why, Norman would be +miserable, and as to Meta--Imagine his going out and returning--a year’s +work, such an expense and loss of time, besides the missing Aunt Flora.” + +“If it were not wrong--” + +“The waste would be the wrong thing. Besides--” and she told of +Margaret’s wishes. + +“But, Flora, think--the last week in February--and you so ill!” + +“I am not to marry them,” said Flora, smiling. “If it could be in a +fortnight, they could go and get their outfit afterwards, and come +back to us when I am stronger. Let me see--there need be no fuss about +settlements--Mr. Rivers’s will arranges everything for her.” + +“It would be a good thing to get rid of a fine wedding,” said Ethel; +“but they will never consent!” + +“Yes, they will, and be grateful.” + +“Papa would be happier about Norman,” said Ethel; “but I cannot fancy +his liking it. And you--you can’t spare Meta, for Aunt Flora must go to +the Arnotts’ in a week or two more.” + +“Suppose papa was to let me have you,” said Flora. “If he wants you, he +must come after you.” + +Ethel gasped at the thought that her occupation at home was gone, but +she said, “If I am not too awkward for you, dear Flora. You will miss +Meta terribly.” + +“I can’t keep the humming-bird caged, with her heart far away,” said +Flora. + +Dr. May came in to break up the conversation, and Ethel quickly guessed +from his manner that Norman had been talking to him. Flora told him that +she had been agreeing with Ethel that Meta had much better not miss this +opportunity. He was far less startled than Ethel had expected; indeed, +the proposal was rather a relief to his mind, and his chief objection +was the fear that Flora would be fatigued by the extra bustle; but she +promised not to trouble herself about it, otherwise than that if Norman +could not persuade Meta, she would. The sisters parted, much more +comfortable than before. Ethel felt as if she had found something like a +dim reflection of Margaret, and Flora’s fear of Ethel had fled away from +the mere force of sisterhood. + +As to Norman, he declared that he had not the audacity to make the +proposal to Meta, though he was only too grateful; so his father carried +it to the humming-bird; and, as soon as she found that it was +not improper, nor would hurt any one’s feelings, she gave ready +consent--only begging that it might be as best suited every one, +especially Flora; and ending by a whisper to her dear fatherly friend, +owning that she was “very glad--she meant she was very glad there would +be nobody there.” + +So Norman and Meta settled their plans as they walked home together from +evening service, after listening to the prophecies of the blessings to +be spread into the waste and desolate places, which should yet become +the heritage of the Chosen, and with the evening star shining on them, +like a faint reflex of the Star of the East, Who came to be a Light to +lighten the Gentiles. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + + + + Euna delle facolta singolari ed incommunicabili della religione + Cristiana questa, di poter dare indirizzo e quiete a chiunoque, in + qualsivoglia congiuntura, a qualsivoglia termine, ricorra ad essa. + Se al passato v’e rimedio, essa lo prescrive, lo somministra, presta + lume e vigore per metterlo in opera a qualunque costo; se non v’e, + essa da il, modo di fare realmento e in effeto, cio che 1’ uom dice + in proverbio, della necessita virtu. Insegna a continuare con + sapienza cio che e stato intrapreso per leggerezza, piega l’animo ad + abbracciare con propensione cio che e stato imposto dalla prepotenza, + e da ad un elezione che fu temeraria, ma che e irrevocabile, tutta la + santita, tutto il consiglio, diciamolo pur francamenta, tutte le + gioje della vocazione.--MANZONI. + + +The wedding-day was fixed for the 20th of January, since it was less +risk to Flora as an absolute invalid, than as convalescent enough to +take any share in the doings. + +Meta managed her correspondence with her own relatives, and obtained her +uncle’s kind approval, since he saw there could be nothing else; while +her aunt treated her as an infatuated victim, but wished, for her +mother’s sake, to meet her in London before she sailed. + +The worst stroke of all was to Bellairs, who had never chosen to believe +that her mistress could move without her, and though mortally afraid in +crossing to the Isle of Wight, and utterly abhorring all “natives,” went +into hysterics on finding that her young lady would take out no maid but +a little hard-working village girl; and though transferred in the most +flattering manner to Mrs. Rivers’s service, shed a tear for every stitch +she set in the trousseau, and assured her betrothed butler that, if Miss +Rivers would only have heard reason, she would have followed her to the +world’s end, rather than that her beautiful hair should never look like +anything again. + +So the wedding-day came, and grass and trees wore a fitting suit of +crisp hoariness. Nothing could be quieter. Meta was arrayed by the +sobbing Bellairs in her simple bridal white, wrapped herself in a large +shawl, took her brother’s arm, and walked down the frosty path with him +and Mrs. Arnott, as if going merely to the daily service. + +The time had not been made known, and there was hardly an addition to +the ordinary congregation, except the May family and Dr. Spencer; but +the Christmas evergreens still adorned aisle and chancel, and over the +altar stood the motto that Meta herself had woven of holly, on that +Christmas Eve of grief and anxiety, without knowing how it would speak +to her. + + + Fear not, for behold I bring unto you glad tidings of great joy, + that shall be unto you and to all people. + + +Fear not, for length of voyage, for distance from kindred, for hardship, +privation, misunderstanding, disappointment. The glad tidings are to all +people, even to the utmost parts of the earth. Ye have your portion in +the great joy--ye have freely cast in your lot with those, whose feet +are beautiful on the mountains, who bear the good tidings. Fear not, for +He is with you, who will never forsake. + +Thus Dr. May read the words with swelling heart, as he looked at his +son’s clear, grave, manful look, even as it had been when he made his +Confirmation vow--his natural nervous excitability quelled by a spirit +not his own, and chastened into strong purpose; and the bride, her young +face the more lovely for the depth of enthusiasm restrained by awe and +humility, as she stood without trembling or faltering, the strength of +innocence expressed in the whole bearing of her slight figure in her +white drapery. Around were the four sisterly bride’s-maids, their black +dresses showing that these were still the twilight days of mourning, and +that none would forget her, whose prayers might still bless their labour +of love. + +When Margaret Agatha May, on her husband’s arm, turned for a last look +at the altar of her own church, “Fear not,” in evergreen letters, was +the greeting she bore away. + +Ethel was left at the Grange for the ensuing fortnight--a time of +unusual leisure both to her and to Flora, which they both prized highly, +for it taught them to know each other as they had never done before. +Flora’s confidence to her aunt had been a good thing for her, though +so partial; it opened the way for further unreserve to one who knew +the circumstances better, and, as to dread of Ethel, that could seldom +prevail in her presence, partly from long habit, partly from her +deficiency of manner, and still more from her true humility and +affection. Gradually she arrived at the perception of the history of her +sister’s mind; understood what gloom had once overshadowed it; and how, +since light had once shone upon her, she shrank not merely from the +tasks that had become wearisome to her, but from the dread of losing +among them her present peace. + +“They are your duty,” argued Ethel. “Duty brings peace.” + +“They were not,” said Flora. + +“They are now,” said Ethel. + +“Dinners and parties, empty talk and vain show,” said Flora languidly. +“Are you come to their defence, Ethel? If you could guess how sick one +gets of them, and how much worse it is for them not to be hateful! +And to think of bringing my poor little girl up to the like, if she is +spared!” + +“If they are not duties, I would not do them,” said Ethel. + +“Ethel,” cried her sister, raising herself from her couch eagerly, “I +will say it to you! What should you think of George resigning his seat, +and living in peace here?” + +“Would he?” said Ethel. + +“If I wished it.” + +“But what would he do with himself?” said Ethel, not in too +complimentary a strain. + +“Yachting, farming, Cochin-Chinese--or something,” said Flora. “Anything +not so wearing as this!” + +“That abominable candidate of Tomkins’s would come in!” exclaimed Ethel. +“Oh, Flora, that would be horrid!” + +“That might be guarded against,” said Flora. “Perhaps Sir Henry--But oh! +let us leave politics in peace while we can. I thought we should do some +great good, but it is all a maze of confusion. It is so hard to know +principles from parties, and everything goes wrong! It is of no use to +contend with it!” + +“It is never vain to contend with evil,” said Ethel. + +“We are not generalising,” said Flora. “There is evil nearer home +than the state of parties, and I can’t see that George’s being in +Parliament--being what he is--is anything like the benefit to things +in general--that it is temptation and plague to me, besides the risk of +London life for the baby, now and hereafter.” + +“I can’t say that I think it is,” said Ethel. “How nice it would be to +have you here! I am so glad you are willing to give it up.” + +“It would have been better to have given it up untasted--like Norman,” + sighed Flora. “I will talk to George.” + +“But, Flora,” said Ethel, a little startled, “you ought not to do such a +thing without advice.” + +“There will be worry enough before it is done!” sighed Flora. “No fear +of that!” + +“Stop a minute,” said Ethel, as if poor Flora could have done anything +but lie still on her sofa. “I think you ought to consider well before +you set it going.” + +“Have not I longed for it day and night? It is an escape from peril for +ourselves and our child.” + +“I can’t be sure!” said Ethel. “It may be more wrong to make George +desert the post which--” + +“Which I thrust him into,” said Flora. “My father told me as much.” + +“I did not mean you to say that! But it is a puzzle. It seems as if it +were right to give up such things; yet, when I recollect the difficulty +of carrying an election right at Stoneborough, I think papa would be +very sorry. I don’t think his interest would bring in any sound man but +his son-in-law; and George himself seems to like his parliamentary life +better than anything else.” + +“Yes,” said Flora hesitatingly; for she knew it was true--he liked to +think himself important, and it gave him something to think of, and +regular occupation--not too active or onerous; but she could not tell +Ethel what she herself felt; that all she could do for him could not +prevent him from being held cheap by the men among whom she had placed +him. + +“Then,” said Ethel, as she heard her affirmative, “I don’t think it is +for his dignity, for you to put him into Parliament to please you and +then take him out to please you.” + +“I’ll take care of his dignity,” said Flora shortly. + +“I know you would do it well--” + +“I am sick of doing things well!” said poor Flora. “You little know how +I dread reading up all I must read presently! I shall lose all I have +scarcely gained. I cannot find peace any way, but by throwing down the +load I gave my peace for.” + +“Whether this is truth or fancy,” said Ethel thoughtfully. “If you would +ask some one competent.” + +“Don’t you know there are some things one cannot ask?” said Flora. “I +don’t know why I spoke to you! Ah! come in! Why, George, that is a finer +egg than ever,” as he entered with a Shanghai egg in each hand, for her +to mark with the date when it had been laid. Poultry was a new hobby, +and Ethel had been hearing, in her tete-a-tete dinners with George, +a great deal about the perfections of the hideous monsters that +had obtained fabulous prices. They had been the best resource for +conversation; but she watched, with something between vexation and +softness, how Flora roused herself to give her full attention and +interest to his prosing about his pets, really pleased as it seemed; +and, at last, encouraging him actually to fetch his favourite cock to +show her; when she went through the points of perfection of the ungainly +mass of feathers, and did not at all allow Ethel to laugh at the +unearthly sounds of disapproval which handling elicited. + +“And this is our senator!” thought Ethel. “I wonder whether Honorius’s +hen was a Shanghai! Poor Flora is right--it is poor work to make a silk +purse out of a sow’s ear! but, putting him into the place is one thing, +taking him out another. I wish she would take advice; but I never knew +her do that, except as a civil way of communicating her intentions. +However, she is not quite what she was! Poor dear! Aunt Flora will never +believe what a beautiful creature she used to be! It seems wrong to +think of her going back to that horrid London; but I can’t judge. For +my part, I’d rather do work, than no work for George, and he is a good, +kind-hearted fellow after all! I won’t be a crab!” + +So Ethel did her best, and said the cock had a bright eye--all she could +say for him--and George instructed her to admire the awkward legs, and +invited her to a poultry show, at Whitford, in two days’ time--and they +sent him away to continue his consultations with the poultry woman, +which pullets should be preferred as candidates for a prize. + +“Meta set him upon this,” said Flora. “I hope you will go, Ethel. You +see he can be very happy here.” + +“Still,” said Ethel, “the more I think, the more sure I am that you +ought to ask advice.” + +“I have asked yours,” said Flora, as if it were a great effort. “You +don’t know what to say--I shall do what I see to be the only way to +rest.” + +“I do know what to say,” said Ethel; “and that is, do as the Prayer-book +tells you, in any perplexity.” + +“I am not perplexed,” said Flora. + +“Don’t say so. This is either the station to which God has called you, +or it is not.” + +“He never called me to it.” + +“But you don’t know whether you ought to leave it. If you ought not, you +would be ten times more miserable. Go to Richard, Flora--he belongs to +you as much as I--he has authority besides.” + +“Richard!” + +“He is the clearest of us all in practical matters,” said Ethel, +preventing what she feared would be disparaging. “I don’t mean only that +you should ask him about this Parliament matter alone; but I am sure +you would be happier and more settled if you talked things over with him +before--before you go to church.” + +“You don’t know what you propose.” + +“I do,” said Ethel, growing bolder. “You have been going all this time +by feeling. You have never cleared up, and got to the bottom of, your +troubles.” + +“I could not talk to any one.” + +“Not to any one but a clergyman. Now, to enter on such a thing is most +averse to your nature; and I do believe that, for that very reason, it +would be what would do you most good. You say you have recovered sense +of--Oh, Flora! I can’t talk of what you have gone through; but if you +have only a vague feeling that seems as if lying still would be the only +way to keep it, I don’t think it can be altogether sound, or the ‘quiet +conscience’ that is meant.” + +“Oh, Ethel! Ethel! I have never told you what I have undergone, since I +knew my former quietness of conscience was but sleep! I have gone on in +agony, with the sense of hypocrisy and despair, because I was afraid, +for George’s sake, to do otherwise.” + +Ethel felt herself utterly powerless to advise; and, after a kind sound +of sympathy, sat shocked, pondering on what none could answer; whether +this were, indeed, what poor Flora imagined, or whether it had been a +holding-fast to the thread through the darkness. The proud reserve was +the true evil, and Ethel prayed and trusted it might give way. + +She went very amiably to Whitford with George, and gained great credit +with him, for admiring the prettiest speckled Hamburgh present; indeed, +George was becoming very fond of “poor Ethel,” as he still called her, +and sometimes predicted that she would turn out a fine figure of a woman +after all. + +Ethel heard, on her return, that Richard had been there; and three days +after, when Flora was making arrangements for going to church, a moment +of confidence came over her, and she said, “I did it, Ethel! I have +spoken to Richard.” + +“I am so glad!” + +“You were right. He is as clear as he is kind,” said Flora; “he showed +me that, for George’s sake, I must bear with my present life, and do the +best I can with it, unless some leading comes for an escape; and that +the glare, and weariness, and being spoken well of, must be taken as +punishment for having sought after these things.” + +“I was afraid he would say so,” said Ethel. “But you will find happiness +again, Flora dear.” + +“Scarcely--before I come to Margaret and to my child,” sighed Flora. “I +suppose it was Mercy that would not let me follow when I wished it. I +must work till the time of rest comes!” + +“And your own little Margaret will cheer you!” said Ethel, more +hopefully, as she saw Flora bend over her baby with a face that might +one day be bright. + +She trusted that patient continuance in well-doing would one day win +peace and joy, even in the dreary world that poor Flora had chosen. + +For her own part, Ethel found Flora’s practical good sense and sympathy +very useful, in her present need of the counsel she had always had from +Margaret. + +The visit to Flora lasted a fortnight, and Ethel was much benefited by +the leisure for reading and the repose after the long nursing; though, +before the end, her refreshed energies began to pine for Daisy and her +hymns, for Aubrey and his Virgil, for Cherry and her scholars, and, +above all, for her father; for, come as often as he would, it was not +papa at home. + +On the other hand, Mary was at a loss for Ethel every hour; Richard +was putting off his affairs till Ethel should come home; Miss Bracy +and Blanche longed for her to relieve the schoolroom from the children; +Aubrey could not perform a lesson in comfort with any one else--never +ended a sum without groaning for Ethel, and sometimes rode to Abbotstoke +for the mere purpose of appealing to her; in short, no one could get on +without her, and the doctor least of all. + +Dr. Spencer, and Mr. Wilmot, and all his sons and daughters, had done +their best for him; but, in spite of his satisfaction at seeing the two +sisters so happy together, he could not help missing Ethel every minute, +as the very light of his home; and when, at last, Flora brought her +back, she was received with uproarious joy by Aubrey and Daisy, while +the rest of the household felt a revival and refreshment of spirits--the +first drawing aside of the cloud that had hung over the winter. +The pearl of their home might be missed every hour, but they could +thankfully rest in the trust that she was a jewel stored up in safety +and peace, to shine as a star for evermore. + +A few weeks more, and there were other partings, sad indeed, yet cheery. +Dr. May told Mrs. Arnott that, though he grieved that so much of sorrow +had come to dim her visit, he could not but own that it was the very +time when her coming could be most comforting; and this, as she truly +said, was satisfaction enough for her, besides that she could not +rejoice enough that her arrival had been in time to see their dear +Margaret. She should carry away most precious recollections; and she +further told Dr. Spencer that she was far more comfortable about +her brother-in-law, than if she had only known him in his youthful +character, which had seemed so little calculated to bear sorrow or care. +She looked at him now only to wonder at, and reverence the change that +had been gradually wrought by the affections placed above. + +Norman and his wife went with her--the one grave but hopeful, the other +trying to wile away the pain of parting, by her tearful mirth--making +all sorts of odd promises and touching requests, between jest and +earnest, and clinging to the last to her dear father-in-law, as if the +separation from him were the hardest of all. + +“Well, humming-birds must be let fly!” said he at last. “Ah! ha! Meta, +are they of no use?” + +“Stay till you hear!” said Meta archly--then turning back once more. +“Oh! how I have thanked you, Ethel, for those first hints you gave me +how to make my life real. If I had only sat still and wished, instead of +trying what could be done as I was, how unhappy I should have been!” + +“Come, take your sprite away, Norman, if you don’t want me to keep her +for good! God bless you, my dear children! Good-bye! Who knows but when +Doctor Tom sets up in my place, Ethel and I may come out and pay you a +visit?” + +It had all been over for some weeks, and the home-party had settled down +again into what was likely to be their usual course, excepting in the +holidays, to which the doctor looked forward with redoubled interest, as +Tom was fast becoming a very agreeable and sensible companion; for his +moodiness had been charmed away by Meta, and principle was teaching +him true command of temper. He seemed to take his father as a special +charge, bequeathed to him by Norman, and had already acquired that +value and importance at home which comes of the laying aside of all +self-importance. + +It was a clear evening in March, full of promise of spring, and Ethel +was standing in the church porch at Cocksmoor, after making some visits +in the parish, waiting for Richard, while the bell was ringing for the +Wednesday evening service, and the pearly tints of a cloudless sunset +were fading into the western sky. + +Ethel began to wonder where Norman might be looking at the sun dipping +into the western sea, and thence arose before her the visions of her +girlhood, when she had first dreamt of a church on Cocksmoor, and of +Richard ministering before a willing congregation. So strange did the +accomplishment seem, that she even touched the stone to assure herself +of the reality; and therewith came intense thanksgiving that the work +had been taken out of her hands, to be the more fully blessed and +accomplished--that is, as far as the building went; as to the people, +there was far more labour in store, and the same Hand must be looked to +for the increase. + +For herself, Ethel looked back and looked on. Norman Ogilvie’s marriage +seemed to her to have fixed her lot in life, and what was that lot? Home +and Cocksmoor had been her choice, and they were before her. Home! but +her eyes had been opened to see that earthly homes may not endure, nor +fill the heart. Her dear father might, indeed, claim her full-hearted +devotion, but, to him, she was only one of many. Norman was no longer +solely hers; and she had begun to understand that the unmarried woman +must not seek undivided return of affection, and must not set her love, +with exclusive eagerness, on aught below, but must be ready to cease in +turn to be first with any. Ethel was truly a mother to the younger ones; +but she faced the probability that they would find others to whom she +would have the second place. To love each heartily, to do her utmost for +each in turn, and to be grateful for their fondness, was her call; but +never to count on their affection as her sole right and inalienable +possession. She felt that this was the probable course, and that +she might look to becoming comparatively solitary in the course of +years--then tried to realise what her lonely life might be, but broke +off smiling at herself, “What is that to me? What will it be when it is +over? My course and aim are straight on, and He will direct my paths. +I don’t know that I shall be alone, and I shall have the memory--the +communion with them, if not their presence. Some one there must be to be +loved and helped, and the poor for certain. Only I must have my treasure +above, and when I think what is there, and of--Oh! that bliss of being +perfectly able to praise--with no bad old self to mar the full joy of +giving thanks, and blessing, and honour, and power! Need I dread a few +short years?--and they have not begun yet--perhaps they won’t--Oh! here +is actually papa coming home this way! how delightful! Papa, are you +coming to church here?” + +“Ay, Ethel. That weathercock of Spencer’s is a magnet, I believe! It +draws me from all parts of the country to hear Richard in St. Andrew’s +Church.” + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Daisy Chain, by Charlotte Yonge + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DAISY CHAIN *** + +***** This file should be named 3610-0.txt or 3610-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/6/1/3610/ + +Produced by Sandra Laythorpe + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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