The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations
by Charlotte M. Yonge
PART 1. THE DAISY CHAIN
PART II
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.
PART 1. THE DAISY CHAIN
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 disappoint-
ment, 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 eves, 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 heredity. 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 trom 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 Ethe1 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 te11 me everything, dear Ethel; but I don't see
clearly the best course. We must go on with Miss Winter."
"Of course," said Ethe1, 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 Ethe1 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 in 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 he 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 Allan 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 light 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 saving, '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?"
"0 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
older, 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 more 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 is 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 pinion, 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: 0-possum re-poses up a gum tree. 0-pot-you-I
will, says the 0-posse of Yankees, come out to ketch him. Opossum
poses them and declines in 0-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 and 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, 0 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'11 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 do,
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,
1aughing.
"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.
"0h 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 I 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 ahall 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 be 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 farther 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 f 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, n 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 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 Bias 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-cushlon 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 elasped 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 |