Produced by Sandra Laythorpe





THE DAISY CHAIN, OR ASPIRATIONS

By Charlotte Yonge




PREFACE.


No one can be more sensible than is the Author that the present is an
overgrown book of a nondescript class, neither the “tale” for the young,
nor the novel for their elders, but a mixture of both.

Begun as a series of conversational sketches, the story outran both
the original intention and the limits of the periodical in which it was
commenced; and, such as it has become, it is here presented to those who
have already made acquaintance with the May family, and may be willing
to see more of them. It would beg to be considered merely as what it
calls itself, a Family Chronicle--a domestic record of home events,
large and small, during those years of early life when the character
is chiefly formed, and as an endeavour to trace the effects of those
aspirations which are a part of every youthful nature. That the young
should take one hint, to think whether their hopes and upward-breathings
are truly upwards, and founded in lowliness, may be called the moral of
the tale.

For those who may deem the story too long, and the characters too
numerous, the Author can only beg their pardon for any tedium that they
may have undergone before giving it up. Feb. 22nd, 1856.





THE DAISY CHAIN




PART 1.



CHAPTER I.



     Si douce est la Marguerite.--CHAUCER.



“Miss Winter, are you busy? Do you want this afternoon? Can you take a
good long walk?”

“Ethel, my dear, how often have I told you of your impetuosity--you have
forgotten.”

“Very well”--with an impatient twist--“I beg your pardon. Good-morning,
Miss Winter,” said a thin, lank, angular, sallow girl, just fifteen,
trembling from head to foot with restrained eagerness, as she tried to
curb her tone into the requisite civility.

“Good-morning, Ethel, good-morning, Flora,” said the prim, middle-aged
daily governess, taking off her bonnet, and arranging the stiff little
rolls of curl at the long, narrow looking-glass, the border of which
distorted the countenance.

“Good-morning,” properly responded Flora, a pretty, fair girl, nearly
two years older than her sister.

“Will you--” began to burst from Etheldred’s lips again, but was stifled
by Miss Winter’s inquiry, “Is your mamma pretty well to-day?”

“Oh! very well,” said both at once; “she is coming to the reading.” And
Flora added, “Papa is going to drive her out to-day.”

“I am very glad. And the baby?”

“I do believe she does it on purpose!” whispered Ethel to herself,
wriggling fearfully on the wide window-seat on which she had
precipitated herself, and kicking at the bar of the table, by which
manifestation she of course succeeded in deferring her hopes, by a
reproof which caused her to draw herself into a rigid, melancholy
attitude, a sort of penance of decorum, but a rapid motion of the
eyelids, a tendency to crack the joints of the fingers, and an
unquietness at the ends of her shoes, betraying the restlessness of the
digits therein contained.

It was such a room as is often to be found in old country town houses,
the two large windows looking out on a broad old-fashioned street,
through heavy framework, and panes of glass scratched with various names
and initials. The walls were painted blue, the skirting almost a third
of the height, and so wide at the top as to form a narrow shelf. The
fireplace, constructed in the days when fires were made to give as
little heat as possible, was ornamented with blue and white Dutch
tiles bearing marvellous representations of Scripture history, and was
protected by a very tall green guard; the chairs were much of the same
date, solid and heavy, the seats in faded carpet-work, but there was a
sprinkling of lesser ones and of stools; a piano; a globe; a large table
in the middle of the room, with three desks on it; a small one, and a
light cane chair by each window; and loaded book-cases. Flora began, “If
you don’t want this afternoon to yourself--”

Ethel was on her feet, and open-mouthed. “Oh, Miss Winter, if you would
be so kind as to walk to Cocksmoor with us!”

“To Cocksmoor, my dear!” exclaimed the governess in dismay.

“Yes, yes, but hear,” cried Ethel. “It is not for nothing. Yesterday--”

“No, the day before,” interposed Flora.

“There was a poor man brought into the hospital. He had been terribly
hurt in the quarry, and papa says he’ll die. He was in great distress,
for his wife has just got twins, and there were lots of children before.
They want everything--food and clothes--and we want to walk and take
it.”

“We had a collection of clothes ready, luckily,” said Flora; “and we
have a blanket, and some tea and some arrowroot, and a bit of bacon, and
mamma says she does not think it too far for us to walk, if you will be
so kind as to go with us.”

Miss Winter looked perplexed. “How could you carry the blanket, my
dear?”

“Oh, we have settled that,” said Ethel, “we mean to make the donkey a
sumpter-mule, so, if you are tired, you may ride home on her.”

“But, my dear, has your mamma considered? They are such a set of wild
people at Cocksmoor; I don’t think we could walk there alone.”

“It is Saturday,” said Ethel, “we can get the boys.”

“If you would reflect a little! They would be no protection. Harry would
be getting into scrapes, and you and Mary running wild.”

“I wish Richard was at home!” said Flora.

“I know!” cried Ethel. “Mr. Ernescliffe will come. I am sure he can walk
so far now. I’ll ask him.”

Ethel had clapped after her the heavy door with its shining brass lock,
before Miss Winter well knew what she was about, and the governess
seemed annoyed. “Ethel does not consider,” said she. “I don’t think your
mamma will be pleased.”

“Why not?” said Flora.

“My dear--a gentleman walking with you, especially if Margaret is
going!”

“I don’t think he is strong enough,” said Flora; “but I can’t think
why there should be any harm. Papa took us all out walking with him
yesterday--little Aubrey and all, and Mr. Ernescliffe went.”

“But, my dear--”

She was interrupted by the entrance of a fine tall blooming girl
of eighteen, holding in her hand a pretty little maid of five.
“Good-morning. Miss Winter. I suppose Flora has told you the request we
have to make to you?”

“Yes, my dear Margaret, but did your mamma consider what a lawless place
Cocksmoor is?”

“That was the doubt,” said Margaret, “but papa said he would answer for
it nothing would happen to us, and mamma said if you would be so kind.”

“It is unlucky,” began the governess, but stopped at the incursion of
some new-comers, nearly tumbling over each other, Ethel at the head
of them. “Oh, Harry!” as the gathers of her frock gave way in the
rude grasp of a twelve-year-old boy. “Miss Winter, ‘tis all right--Mr.
Ernescliffe says he is quite up to the walk, and will like it very much,
and he will undertake to defend you from the quarrymen.”

“Is Miss Winter afraid of the quarrymen?” hallooed Harry. “Shall I take
a club?”

“I’ll take my gun and shoot them,” valiantly exclaimed Tom; and while
threats were passing among the boys, Margaret asked, in a low voice,
“Did you ask him to come with us?”

“Yes, he said he should like it of all things. Papa was there, and said
it was not too far for him--besides, there’s the donkey. Papa says it,
so we must go, Miss Winter.”

Miss Winter glanced unutterable things at Margaret, and Ethel began to
perceive she had done something wrong. Flora was going to speak, when
Margaret, trying to appear unconscious of a certain deepening colour in
her own cheeks, pressed a hand on her shoulder, and whispering, “I’ll
see about it. Don’t say any more, please,” glided out of the room.

“What’s in the wind?” said Harry. “Are many of your reefs out there,
Ethel?”

“Harry can talk nothing but sailors’ language,” said Flora, “and I am
sure he did not learn that of Mr. Ernescliffe. You never hear slang from
him.”

“But aren’t we going to Cocksmoor?” asked Mary, a blunt downright girl
of ten.

“We shall know soon,” said Ethel. “I suppose I had better wait till
after the reading to mend that horrid frock?”

“I think so, since we are so nearly collected,” said Miss Winter; and
Ethel, seating herself on the corner of the window-seat, with one leg
doubled under her, took up a Shakespeare, holding it close to her
eyes, and her brother Norman, who, in age, came between her and Flora,
kneeling on one knee on the window-seat, and supporting himself with one
arm against the shutter, leaned over her, reading it too, disregarding a
tumultuous skirmish going on in that division of the family collectively
termed “the boys,” namely, Harry, Mary, and Tom, until Tom was suddenly
pushed down, and tumbled over into Ethel’s lap, thereby upsetting
her and Norman together, and there was a general downfall, and a loud
scream, “The sphynx!”

“You’ve crushed it,” cried Harry, dealing out thumps indiscriminately.

“No, here ‘tis,” said Mary, rushing among them, and bringing out a green
sphynx caterpillar on her finger--“‘tis not hurt.”

“Pax! Pax!” cried Norman, over all, with the voice of an authority,
as he leaped up lightly and set Tom on his legs again. “Harry! you had
better do that again,” he added warningly. “Be off, out of this window,
and let Ethel and me read in peace.”

“Here’s the place,” said Ethel--“Crispin, Crispian’s day. How I do like
Henry V.”

“It is no use to try to keep those boys in order!” sighed Miss Winter.

“Saturnalia, as papa calls Saturday,” replied Flora.

“Is not your eldest brother coming home to-day?” said Miss Winter in a
low voice to Flora, who shook her head, and said confidentially, “He
is not coming till he has passed that examination. He thinks it better
not.”

Here entered, with a baby in her arms, a lady with a beautiful
countenance of calm sweetness, looking almost too young to be the mother
of the tall Margaret, who followed her. There was a general hush as she
greeted Miss Winter, the girls crowding round to look at their little
sister, not quite six weeks old.

“Now, Margaret, will you take her up to the nursery?” said the
mother, while the impatient speech was repeated, “Mamma, can we go to
Cocksmoor?”

“You don’t think it will be too far for you?” said the mother to Miss
Winter as Margaret departed.

“Oh, no, not at all, thank you, that was not--But Margaret has
explained.”

“Yes, poor Margaret,” said Mrs. May, smiling. “She has settled it by
choosing to stay at home with me. It is no matter for the others, and he
is going on Monday, so that it will not happen again.”

“Margaret has behaved very well,” said Miss Winter.

“She has indeed,” said her mother, smiling. “Well, Harry, how is the
caterpillar?”

“They’ve just capsized it, mamma,” answered Harry, “and Mary is making
all taut.”

Mrs. May laughed, and proceeded to advise Ethel and Norman to put away
Henry V., and find the places in their Bibles, “or you will have the
things mixed together in your heads,” said she.

In the meantime Margaret, with the little babe, to-morrow to be her
godchild, lying gently in her arms, came out into the matted hall, and
began to mount the broad shallow-stepped staircase, protected by low
stout balusters, with a very thick, flat, and solid mahogany hand-rail,
polished by the boys’ constant riding up and down upon it. She was only
on the first step, when the dining-room door opened, and there came out
a young man, slight, and delicate-looking, with bright blue eyes, and
thickly-curling light hair. “Acting nurse?” he said, smiling. “What
an odd little face it is! I didn’t think little white babies were so
pretty! Well, I shall always consider myself as the real godfather--the
other is all a sham.”

“I think so,” said Margaret; “but I must not stand with her in a
draught,” and on she went, while he called after her. “So we are to have
an expedition to-day.”

She did not gainsay it, but there was a little sigh of disappointment,
and when she was out of hearing, she whispered, “Oh! lucky baby, to
have so many years to come before you are plagued with troublesome
propriety!”

Then depositing her little charge with the nurse, and trying to cheer up
a solemn-looking boy of three, who evidently considered his deposition
from babyhood as a great injury, she tripped lightly down again, to take
part in the Saturday’s reading and catechising.

It was pleasant to see that large family in the hush and reverence of
such teaching, the mother’s gentle power preventing the outbreaks of
restlessness to which even at such times the wild young spirits were
liable. Margaret and Miss Winter especially rejoiced in it on this
occasion, the first since the birth of the baby, that she had been able
to preside. Under her, though seemingly without her taking any trouble,
there was none of the smothered laughing at the little mistakes, the
fidgeting of the boys, or Harry’s audacious impertinence to Miss Winter;
and no less glad was Harry to have his mother there, and be guarded from
himself.

The Catechism was repeated, and a comment on the Sunday Services read
aloud. The Gospel was that on the taking the lowest place, and when they
had finished, Ethel said, “I like the verse which explains that:


       ‘They who now sit lowest here,
        When their Master shall appear,
        He shall bid them higher rise,
        And be highest in the skies.’”


“I did not think of that being the meaning of ‘when He that bade thee
cometh,’” said Norman thoughtfully.

“It seemed to be only our worldly advantage that was meant before,” said
Ethel.

“Well, it means that too,” said Flora.

“I suppose it does,” said Mrs. May; “but the higher sense is the
one chiefly to be dwelt on. It is a lesson how those least known and
regarded here, and humblest in their own eyes, shall be the highest
hereafter.”

And Margaret looked earnestly at her mother, but did not speak.

“May we go, mamma?” said Mary.

“Yes, you three--all of you, indeed, unless you wish to say any more.”

The “boys” availed themselves of the permission. Norman tarried to put
his books into a neat leather case, and Ethel stood thinking. “It means
altogether--it is a lesson against ambition,” said she.

“True,” said her mother, “the love of eminence for its own sake.”

“And in so many different ways!” said Margaret.

“Ay, worldly greatness, riches, rank, beauty,” said Flora.

“All sorts of false flash and nonsense, and liking to be higher than one
ought to be,” said Norman. “I am sure there is nothing lower, or more
mean and shabby, than getting places and praise a fellow does not
deserve.”

“Oh, yes!” cried Ethel, “but no one fit to speak to would do that!”

“Plenty of people do, I can tell you,” said Norman.

“Then I hope I shall never know who they are!” exclaimed Ethel. “But
I’ll tell you what I was thinking of, mamma. Caring to be clever, and
get on, only for the sake of beating people.”

“I think that might be better expressed.”

“I know,” said Ethel, bending her brow, with the fullness of her
thought--“I mean caring to do a thing only because nobody else can do
it--wanting to be first more than wanting to do one’s best.”

“You are quite right, my dear Ethel,” said her mother; “and I am glad
you have found in the Gospel a practical lesson, that should be useful
to you both. I had rather you did so than that you read it in Greek,
though that is very nice too,” she added, smiling, as she put her hand
on a little Greek Testament, in which Ethel had been reading it, within
her English Bible. “Now, go and mend that deplorable frock, and if you
don’t dream over it, you won’t waste too much of your holiday.”

“I’ll get it done in no time!” cried Ethel, rushing headlong upstairs,
twice tripping in it before she reached the attic, where she slept, as
well as Flora and Mary--a large room in the roof, the windows gay with
bird-cages and flowers, a canary singing loud enough to deafen any one
but girls to whom headaches were unknown, plenty of books and treasures,
and a very fine view, from the dormer window, of the town sloping
downwards, and the river winding away, with some heathy hills in the
distance. Poking and peering about with her short-sighted eyes, Ethel
lighted on a work-basket in rare disorder, pulled off her frock, threw
on a shawl, and sat down cross-legged on her bed, stitching vigorously,
while meantime she spouted with great emphasis an ode of Horace, which
Norman having learned by heart, she had followed his example; it being
her great desire to be even with him in all his studies, and though
eleven months younger, she had never yet fallen behind him. On Saturday,
he showed her what were his tasks for the week, and as soon as her rent
was repaired, she swung herself downstairs in search of him for this
purpose. She found him in the drawing-room, a pretty, pleasant room--its
only fault that it was rather too low. It had windows opening down to
the lawn, and was full of pretty things, works and knick-knacks. Ethel
found the state of affairs unfavourable to her. Norman was intent on
a book on the sofa, and at the table sat Mr. Ernescliffe, hard at work
with calculations and mathematical instruments. Ethel would not for the
world that any one should guess at her classical studies--she scarcely
liked to believe that even her father knew of them, and to mention them
before Mr. Ernescliffe would have been dreadful. So she only shoved
Norman, and asked him to come.

“Presently,” he said.

“What have you here?” said she, poking her head into the book. “Oh! no
wonder you can’t leave off. I’ve been wanting you to read it all the
week.”

She read over him a few minutes, then recoiled: “I forgot, mamma told me
not to read those stories in the morning. Only five minutes, Norman.”

“Wait a bit, I’ll come.”

She fidgeted, till Mr. Ernescliffe asked Norman if there was a table of
logarithms in the house.

“Oh, yes,” she answered; “don’t you know, Norman? In a brown book on the
upper shelf in the dining-room. Don’t you remember papa’s telling us the
meaning of them, when we had the grand book-dusting?”

He was conscious of nothing but his book; however, she found the
logarithms, and brought them to Mr. Ernescliffe, staying to look at his
drawing, and asking what he was making out. He replied, smiling at the
impossibility of her understanding, but she wrinkled her brown forehead,
hooked her long nose, and spent the next hour in amateur navigation.

Market Stoneborough was a fine old town. The Minster, grand with the
architecture of the time of Henry III., stood beside a broad river, and
round it were the buildings of a convent, made by a certain good Bishop
Whichcote, the nucleus of a grammar school, which had survived the
Reformation, and trained up many good scholars; among them, one of
England’s princely merchants, Nicholas Randall, whose effigy knelt in
a niche in the chancel wall, scarlet-cloaked, white-ruffed, and black
doubletted, a desk bearing an open Bible before him, and a twisted
pillar of Derbyshire spar on each side. He was the founder of thirteen
almshouses, and had endowed two scholarships at Oxford, the object of
ambition of the Stoneborough boys, every eighteen months.

There were about sixty or seventy boarders, and the town boys slept at
home, and spent their weekly holiday there on Saturday--the happiest
day in the week to the May family, when alone, they had the company at
dinner of Norman and Harry, otherwise known by their school names of
June and July, given them because their elder brother had begun the
series of months as May.

Some two hundred years back, a Dr. Thomas May had been headmaster, but
ever since that time there had always been an M. D., not a D. D., in
the family, owning a comfortable demesne of spacious garden, and field
enough for two cows, still green and intact, among modern buildings and
improvements.

The present Dr. May stood very high in his profession, and might soon
have made a large fortune in London, had he not held fast to his
home attachments. He was extremely skilful and clever, with a boyish
character that seemed as if it could never grow older; ardent,
sensitive, and heedless, with a quickness of sympathy and tenderness of
heart that was increased, rather than blunted, by exercise in scenes of
suffering.

At the end of the previous summer holidays, Dr. May had been called one
morning to attend a gentleman who had been taken very ill, at the Swan
Inn.

He was received by a little boy of ten years old, in much grief,
explaining that his brother had come two days ago from London, to bring
him to school here; he had seemed unwell ever since they met, and last
night had become much worse. And extremely ill the doctor found him;
a youth of two or three and twenty, suffering under a severe attack of
fever, oppressed, and scarcely conscious, so as quite to justify his
little brother’s apprehensions. He advised the boy to write to his
family, but was answered by a look that went to his heart--“Alan”
 was all he had in the world--father and mother were dead, and their
relations lived in Scotland, and were hardly known to them.

“Where have you been living, then?”

“Alan sent me to school at Miss Lawler’s when my mother died, and there
I have been ever since, while he has been these three years and a half
on the African station.”

“What, is he in the navy?”

“Yes,” said the boy proudly, “Lieutenant Ernescliffe. He got his
promotion last week. My father was in the battle of Trafalgar; and
Alan has been three years in the West Indies, and then he was in the
Mediterranean, and now on the coast of Africa, in the Atalantis. You
must have heard about him, for it was in the newspaper, how, when he was
mate, he had the command of the Santa Isabel, the slaver they captured.”

The boy would have gone on for ever, if Dr. May had not recalled him to
his brother’s present condition, and proceeded to take every measure
for the welfare and comfort of the forlorn pair. He learned from other
sources that the Ernescliffes were well connected. The father had been
a distinguished officer, but had been ill able to provide for his sons;
indeed, he died, without ever having seen little Hector, who was born
during his absence on a voyage--his last, and Alan’s first. Alan, the
elder by thirteen years, had been like a father to the little boy,
showing judgment and self-denial that marked him of a high cast of
character. He had distinguished himself in encounters with slave ships,
and in command of a prize that he had had to conduct to Sierra Leone,
he had shown great coolness and seamanship, in several perilous
conjunctures, such as a sudden storm, and an encounter with another
slaver, when his Portuguese prisoners became mutinous, and nothing but
his steadiness and intrepidity had saved the lives of himself and his
few English companions. He was, in fact, as Dr. May reported, pretty
much of a hero. He had not, at the time, felt the effects of the
climate, but, owing to sickness and death among the other officers, he
had suffered much fatigue and pressure of mind and body. Immediately on
his return, had followed his examination, and though he had passed with
great credit, and it had been at once followed by well-earned promotion,
his nervous excitable frame had been overtasked, and the consequence was
a long and severe illness.

The Swan Inn was not forty yards from Dr. May’s back gate, and, at
every spare moment, he was doing the part of nurse as well as doctor,
professionally obliged to Alan Ernescliffe for bringing him a curious
exotic specimen of fever, and requiting him by the utmost care and
attention, while, for their own sakes, he delighted in the two boys with
all the enthusiasm of his warm heart. Before the first week was at
an end, they had learned to look on the doctor as one of the kindest
friends it had been their lot to meet with, and Alan knew that if he
died, he should leave his little brother in the hands of one who would
comfort him as a father.

No sooner was young Ernescliffe able to sit up, than Dr. May insisted on
conveying him to his own house, as his recovery was likely to be tedious
in solitude at the Swan. It was not till he had been drawn in a chair
along the sloping garden, and placed on the sofa to rest, that he
discovered that the time the good doctor had chosen for bringing a
helpless convalescent to his house, was two days after an eleventh child
had been added to his family.

Mrs. May was too sorry for the solitary youth, and too sympathising
with her husband, to make any objection, though she was not fond of
strangers, and had some anxieties. She had the utmost dependence on
Margaret’s discretion, but there was a chance of awkward situations,
which papa was not likely to see or guard against. However, all seemed
to do very well, and no one ever came into her room without some degree
of rapture about Mr. Ernescliffe. The doctor reiterated praises of his
excellence, his principle, his ability and talent, his amusing talk; the
girls were always bringing reports of his perfections; Norman retracted
his grumbling at having his evenings spoiled; and “the boys” were
bursting with the secret that he was teaching them to rig a little ship
that was to astonish mamma on her first coming downstairs, and to be
named after the baby; while Blanche did all the coquetry with him, from
which Margaret abstained. The universal desire was for mamma to see him,
and when the time came, she owned that papa’s swan had not turned out a
goose.

There were now no grounds for prolonging his stay; but it was very hard
to go, and he was glad to avail himself of the excuse of remaining for
the christening, when he was to represent the absent godfather. After
that, he must go; he had written to his Scottish cousins to offer a
visit, and he had a promise that he should soon be afloat again. No
place would ever seem to him so like home as Market Stoneborough. He was
quite like one of themselves, and took a full share in the discussions
on the baby’s name, which, as all the old family appellations had been
used up, was an open question. The doctor protested against Alice and
Edith, which he said were the universal names in the present day. The
boys hissed every attempt of their sisters at a romantic name, and
then Harry wanted it to be Atalantis! At last Dr. May announced that
he should have her named Dowsabel if they did not agree, and Mrs. May
advised all the parties concerned to write their choice on a slip of
paper, and little Aubrey should draw two out of her bag, trusting that
Atalantis Dowsabel would not come out, as Harry confidently predicted.

However, it was even worse, Aubrey’s two lots were Gertrude and
Margaret. Ethel and Mary made a vehement uproar to discover who could
have written Margaret, and at last traced it home to Mr. Ernescliffe,
who replied that Flora, without saying why, had desired him to set down
his favourite name. He was much disconcerted, and did not materially
mend the matter by saying it was the first name that came into his head.




CHAPTER II.



    Meadows trim with daisies pied.--MILTON.


Ethel’s navigation lesson was interrupted by the dinner-bell. That long
table was a goodly sight. Few ever looked happier than Dr. and Mrs. May,
as they sat opposite to each other, presenting a considerable contrast
in appearance as in disposition. She was a little woman, with that
smooth pleasant plumpness that seems to belong to perfect content and
serenity, her complexion fair and youthful, her face and figure very
pretty, and full of quiet grace and refinement, and her whole air and
expression denoting a serene, unruffled, affectionate happiness, yet
with much authority in her mildness--warm and open in her own family,
but reserved beyond it, and shrinking from general society.

The doctor, on the contrary, had a lank, bony figure, nearly six feet
high, and looking more so from his slightness; a face sallow, thin,
and strongly marked, an aquiline nose, highly developed forehead, and
peculiar temples, over which the hair strayed in thin curling flakes.
His eyes were light coloured, and were seldom seen without his
near-sighted spectacles, but the expressions of the mouth were
everything--so varying, so bright, and so sweet were his smiles that
showed beautiful white teeth--moreover, his hand was particularly well
made, small and delicate; and it always turned out that no one ever
recollected that Dr. May was plain, who had heard his kindly greeting.

The sons and daughters were divided in likeness to father and mother;
Ethel was almost an exaggeration of the doctor’s peculiarities,
especially at the formed, but unsoftened age of fifteen; Norman had his
long nose, sallow complexion, and tall figure, but was much improved by
his mother’s fine blue eyes, and was a very pleasant-looking boy, though
not handsome; little Tom was a thin, white, delicate edition of his
father; and Blanche contrived to combine great likeness to him with a
great deal of prettiness. Of those that, as nurse said, favoured their
mamma, Margaret was tall and blooming, with the same calm eyes, but with
the brilliance of her father’s smile; Flora had greater regularity of
feature, and was fast becoming a very pretty girl, while Mary and
Harry could not boast of much beauty, but were stout sturdy pictures of
health; Harry’s locks in masses of small tight yellow curls, much given
to tangling and matting, unfit to be seen all the week, till nurse put
him to torture every Saturday, by combing them out so as, at least, to
make him for once like, she said, a gentleman, instead of a young lion.

Little Aubrey was said by his papa to be like nothing but the full moon.
And there he shone on them, by his mamma’s side, announcing in language
few could understand, where he had been with papa.

“He has been a small doctor,” said his father, beginning to cut the
boiled beef as fast as if his hands had been moved by machinery. “He has
been with me to see old Mrs. Robins, and she made so much of him, that
if I take him again he’ll be regularly spoiled.”

“Poor old woman, it must have been a pleasure to her,” said Mrs.
May--“it is so seldom she has any change.”

“Who is she?” asked Mr. Ernescliffe.

“The butcher’s old mother,” said Margaret, who was next to him. “She
is one of papa’s pet patients, because he thinks her desolate and
ill-used.”

“Her sons bully her,” said the doctor, too intent on carving to perceive
certain deprecatory glances of caution cast at him by his wife, to
remind him of the presence of man and maid--“and that smart daughter is
worse still. She never comes to see the old lady but she throws her into
an agitated state, fit to bring on another attack. A meek old soul, not
fit to contend with them!”

“Why do they do it?” said Ethel.

“For the cause of all evil! That daughter marries a grazier, and wants
to set up for gentility; she comes and squeezes presents out of her
mother, and the whole family are distrusting each other, and squabbling
over the spoil before the poor old creature is dead! It makes one sick!
I gave that Mrs. Thorn a bit of my mind at last; I could not stand the
sight any longer. Madam, said I, you’ll have to answer for your mother’s
death, as sure as my name’s Dick May--a harpy dressed up in feathers and
lace.”

There was a great laugh, and an entreaty to know whether this was really
his address--Ethel telling him she knew he had muttered it to himself
quite audibly, for which she was rewarded by a pretended box on the ear.
It certainly was vain to expect order at dinner on Saturday, for the
doctor was as bad as the boys, and Mrs. May took it with complete
composure, hardly appearing sensible of the Babel which would sometimes
almost deafen its promoter, papa; and yet her interference was
all-powerful, as now when Harry and Mary were sparring over the salt,
with one gentle “Mary!” and one reproving glance, they were reduced to
quiescence.

Meanwhile Dr. May, in a voice above the tumult, was telling “Maggie,” as
he always called his wife, some piece of news about Mr. Rivers, who had
bought Abbotstoke Grange; and Alan Ernescliffe, in much lower tones,
saying to Margaret how he delighted in the sight of these home scenes,
and this free household mirth.

“It is the first time you have seen us in perfection,” said Margaret,
“with mamma at the head of the table--no, not quite perfection either,
without Richard.”

“I am very glad to have seen it,” repeated Alan. “What a blessing it
must be to your brothers to have such a home!”

“Yes, indeed,” said Margaret earnestly.

“I cannot fancy any advantage in life equal to it. Your father and
mother so entirely one with you all.”

Margaret smiled, too much pleased to speak, and glanced at her mother’s
sweet face.

“You can’t think how often I shall remember it, or how rejoiced I--” He
broke off, for the noise subsided, and his speech was not intended for
the public ear, so he dashed into the general conversation, and catching
his own name, exclaimed, “What’s that base proposal, Ethel?”

“To put you on the donkey,” said Norman.

“They want to see a sailor riding,” interposed the doctor.

“Dr. May!” cried the indignant voice of Hector Ernescliffe, as his
honest Scottish face flushed like a turkey cock, “I assure you that Alan
rides like--”

“Like a horse marine,” said Norman.

Hector and Harry both looked furious, but “June” was too great a man in
their world for them to attempt any revenge, and it was left for Mary
to call out, “Why, Norman, nonsense! Mr. Ernescliffe rode the new black
kicking horse till he made it quite steady.”

“Made it steady! No, Mary, that is saying too much for it,” said Mr.
Ernescliffe.

“It has no harm in it--capital horse--splendid,” said the doctor; “I
shall take you out with it this afternoon, Maggie.”

“You have driven it several times?” said Alan.

“Yes, I drove him to Abbotstoke yesterday--never started, except at a
fool of a woman with an umbrella, and at the train--and we’ll take care
not to meet that.”

“It is only to avoid the viaduct at half-past four,” said Mrs. May, “and
that is easily done.”

“So you are bound for Cocksmoor?” said the doctor. “I told the poor
fellow you were going to see his wife, and he was so thankful, that it
did one’s heart good.”

“Is he better? I should like to tell his wife,” said Flora.

The doctor screwed up his face. “A bad business,” he said; “he is a shade
better to-day; he may get through yet; but he is not my patient. I only
saw him because I happened to be there when he was brought in, and Ward
was not in the way.”

“And what’s his name?”

“I can’t tell--don’t think I ever heard.”

“We ought to know,” said Miss Winter; “it would be awkward to go
without.”

“To go roaming about Cocksmoor asking where the man in the hospital
lives!” said Flora. “We can’t wait till Monday.”

“I’ve done,” said Norman; “I’ll run down to the hospital and find out.
May I, mamma?”

“Without your pudding, old fellow?”

“I don’t want pudding,” said Norman, slipping back his chair. “May I,
mamma?”

“To be sure you may;” and Norman, with a hand on the back of Ethel’s
chair, took a flying leap over his own, that set all the glasses
ringing.

“Stop, stop! know what you are going after, sir,” cried his father.
“What will they know there of Cocksmoor, or the man whose wife has
twins? You must ask for the accident in number five.”

“And oh, Norman, come back in time!” said Ethel.

“I’ll be bound I’m back before Etheldred the Unready wants me,” he
answered, bounding off with an elasticity that caused his mother to say
the boy was made of india-rubber; and then putting his head in by the
window to say, “By-the-bye, if there’s any pudding owing to me, that
little chorister fellow of ours, Bill Blake, has got a lot of voracious
brothers that want anything that’s going. Tom and Blanche might take it
down to ‘em; I’m off! Hooray!” and he scampered headlong up the garden,
prolonging his voice into a tremendous shout as he got farther off,
leaving every one laughing, and his mother tenderly observing that he
was going to run a quarter of a mile and back, and lose his only chance
of pudding for the week--old Bishop Whichcote’s rules contemplating no
fare but daily mutton, to be bought at a shilling per sheep. A little
private discussion ensued between Harry and Hector on the merits of the
cakes at Ballhatchet’s gate, and old Nelly’s pies, which led the doctor
to mourn over the loss of the tarts of the cranberries, that used to
grow on Cocksmoor, before it was inhabited, and to be the delight of the
scholars of Stoneborough, when he was one of them--and then to enchant
the boys by relations of ancient exploits, especially his friend Spencer
climbing up, and engraving a name on the top of the market cross, now no
more--swept away by the Town Council in a fit of improvement, which had
for the last twenty years enraged the doctor at every remembrance of
it. Perhaps at this moment his wife could hardly sympathise, when she
thought of her boys emulating such deeds.

“Papa,” said Ethel, “will you lend me a pair of spectacles for the
walk?”

“And make yourself one, Ethel,” said Flora.

“I don’t care--I want to see the view.”

“It is very bad for you, Ethel,” further added her mother; “you will
make your sight much shorter if you accustom your eyes to them.”

“Well, mamma, I never do wear them about the house.”

“For a very good reason,” said Margaret; “because you haven’t got them.”

“No, I believe Harry stole them in the holidays.”

“Stole them!” said the doctor; “as if they weren’t my property,
unjustifiably appropriated by her!”

“They were that pair that you never could keep on, papa,” said
Ethel--“no use at all to you. Come, do lend me them.”

“I’m sure I shan’t let you wear them,” said Harry. “I shan’t go, if you
choose to make yourself such an object.”

“Ah!” said the father, “the boys thought it time to put a stop to it
when it came to a caricature of the little doctor in petticoats.”

“Yes, in Norman’s Lexicon,” said Ethel, “a capital likeness of you,
papa; but I never could get him to tell me who drew it.”

Nor did Ethel know that that caricature had been the cause of the black
eye that Harry had brought home last summer. Harry returned, to
protest that he would not join the walk, if she chose to be seen in
the spectacles, while she undauntedly continued her petition, though
answered that she would attract the attacks of the quarrymen, who would
take her for an attenuated owl.

“I wish you were obliged to go about without them yourself, papa!” cried
Ethel, “and then you would know how tiresome it is not to see twice the
length of your own nose.”

“Not such a very short allowance either,” said the doctor quaintly, and
therewith the dinner concluded. There was apt to be a race between the
two eldest girls for the honour of bringing down the baby; but this time
their father strode up three steps at once, turned at the top of the
first flight, made his bow to them, and presently came down with his
little daughter in his arms, nodded triumphantly at the sisters, and set
her down on her mother’s lap.

“There, Maggie, you are complete, you old hen-and-chicken daisy. Can’t
you take her portrait in the character, Margaret?”

“With her pink cap, and Blanche and Aubrey as they are now, on each
side?” said Flora.

“Margaret ought to be in the picture herself,” said Ethel. “Fetch the
artist in Norman’s Lexicon, Harry.”

“Since he has hit off one of us so well,” said the doctor. “Well! I’m
off. I must see old Southern. You’ll be ready by three? Good-bye, hen
and chicken.”

“And I may have the spectacles?” said Ethel, running after him; “you
know I am an injured individual, for mamma won’t let me carry baby about
the house because I am so blind.”

“You are welcome to embellish yourself, as far as I am concerned.”

A general dispersion ensued, and only Mrs. May, Margaret, and the baby,
remained.

“Oh, no!” sighed Margaret; “you can’t be the hen-and-chicken daisy
properly, without all your chickens. It is the first christening we ever
had without our all being there.”

“It was best not to press it, my dear,” said her mother. “Your papa
would have had his thoughts turned to the disappointment again and it
makes Richard himself so unhappy to see his vexation, that I believe it
is better not to renew it.”

“But to miss him for so long!” said Margaret. “Perhaps it is best, for
it is very miserable when papa is sarcastic and sharp, and he cannot
understand it, and takes it as meaning so much more than it really does,
and grows all the more frightened and diffident. I cannot think what he
would do without you to encourage him.”

“Or you, you good sister,” said her mother, smiling. “If we could only
teach him not to mind being laughed at, and to have some confidence in
himself, he and papa would get on together.”

“It is very hard,” cried Margaret, almost indignantly, “that papa won’t
believe it, when he does his best.”

“I don’t think papa can bear to bring himself to believe that it is his
best.”

“He is too clever himself to see how other people can be slow,” said
Margaret; “and yet”--the tears came into her eyes--“I cannot bear
to think of his telling Richard it was no use to think of being a
clergyman, and he had better turn carpenter at once, just because he
failed in his examination.”

“My dear, I wish you would forget that,” said Mrs. May. “You know papa
sometimes says more than he means, and he was excessively vexed and
disappointed. I know he was pleased with Ritchie’s resolve not to come
home again till he had passed, and it is best that it should not be
broken.”

“The whole vacation, studying so hard, and this christening!” said
Margaret; “it is treating him as if he had done wrong. I do believe Mr.
Ernescliffe thinks he has--for papa always turns away the conversation
if his name is mentioned! I wish you would explain it, mamma; I can’t
bear that.”

“If I can,” said Mrs. May, rather pleased that Margaret had taken on
herself this vindication of her favourite brother her father’s expense.
“But, after all, Margaret, I never feel quite sure that poor Ritchie
does exert himself to the utmost, he is too desponding to make the most
of himself.”

“And the more vexed papa is, the worse it grows!” said Margaret. “It is
provoking, though. How I do wish sometimes to give Ritchie a jog, when
there is some stumbling-block that he sticks fast at. Don’t you remember
those sums, and those declensions? When he is so clear and sensible
about practical matters too--anything but learning--I cannot think
why--and it is very mortifying!”

“I dare say it is very good for us not to have our ambition gratified,”
 said her mother. “There are so many troubles worse than these failures,
that it only shows how happy we are that we should take them so much to
heart.”

“They are a very real trouble!” said Margaret. “Don’t smile, mamma. Only
remember how wretched his schooldays were, when papa could not see any
difficulty in what to him was so hard, and how all papa’s eagerness only
stupified him the more.”

“They are a comfort not to have that over again! Yet,” said the mother,
“I often think there is more fear for Norman. I dread his talent and
success being snares.”

“There is no self-sufficiency about him,” said Margaret.

“I hope not, and he is so transparent, that it would be laughed down at
the first bud: but the universal good report, and certainty of success,
and being so often put in comparison with Richard, is hardly safe. I was
very glad he heard what Ethel said to-day.”

“Ethel spoke very deeply,” said Margaret; “I was a good deal struck by
it--she often comes out with such solid thoughts.”

“She is an excellent companion for Norman.”

“The desire of being first!” said Margaret, “I suppose that is a form
of caring for oneself! It set me thinking a good deal, mamma, how many
forms of ambition there are. The craving for rank, or wealth, or beauty,
are so clearly wrong, that one does not question about them; but I
suppose, as Ethel said, the caring to be first in attainments is as
bad.”

“Or in affection,” said Mrs. May.

“In affection--oh, mamma, there is always some one person with whom one
is first!” said Margaret eagerly; and then, her colour deepening, as
she saw her mother looking at her, she said hastily, “Ritchie--I never
considered it--but I know--it is my great pleasure--oh, mamma!”

“Well, my dear, I do not say but that you are the first with Richard,
and that you well deserve to be so; but is the seeking to be the first
even in that way safe? Is it not self-seeking again?”

“Well, perhaps it is. I know it is what makes jealousy.”

“The only plan is not to think about ourselves at all,” said Mrs. May.
“Affection is round us like sunshine, and there is no use in measuring
and comparing. We must give it out freely ourselves, hoping for nothing
again.”

“Oh, mamma, you don’t mean that!”

“Perhaps I should have said, bargaining for nothing again. It will
come of itself, if we don’t exact it; but rivalry is the sure means of
driving it away, because that is trying to get oneself worshipped.”

“I suppose, then, you have never thought of it,” said Margaret, smiling.

“Why, it would have been rather absurd,” said Mrs. May, laughing, “to
begin to torment myself whether you were all fond of me! You all have
just as much affection for me, from beginning to end, as is natural,
and what’s the use of thinking about it? No, no, Margaret, don’t go
and protest that you love me, more than is natural,” as Margaret looked
inclined to say something very eager, “that would be in the style of
Regan and Goneril. It will be natural by-and-by that you should, some
of you, love some one else better, and if I cared for being first, what
should I do then?”

“Oh, mamma! But,” said Margaret suddenly, “you are always sure of papa.”

“In one way, yes,” said Mrs. May; “but how do I know how long--” Calm as
she was, she could not finish that sentence. “No, Margaret, depend upon
it, the only security is not to think about ourselves at all, and not
to fix our mind on any affection on earth. The least share of the Love
above is the fullness of all blessing, and if we seek that first, all
these things will be added unto us, and are,” she whispered, more to
herself than to Margaret.




CHAPTER III.



     Wee modest crimson-tipped flower,
     Thou’st met me in an evil hour,
     For I maun crush amang the stoure
       Thy slender stem.
     To spare thee now is past my power,
       Thou bonnie gem.
                               BURNS.


“Is this all the walking party?” exclaimed Mr. Ernescliffe, as Miss
Winter, Flora, and Norman gathered in the hall.

“Harry won’t go because of Ethel’s spectacles,” answered Flora; “and
Mary and he are inseparable, so they are gone with Hector to have a
shipwreck in the field.”

“And your other sisters?”

“Margaret has ratted--she is going to drive out with mamma,” said
Norman; “as to Etheldred the Unready, I’ll run up and hurry her.”

In a moment he was at her door. “Oh! Norman, come in. Is it time?”

“I should think so! You’re keeping every one waiting.”

“Oh, dear! go on; only just tell me the past participle of ‘offero’, and
I’ll catch you up.”

“‘Oblatus.’”

“Oh, yes, how stupid. The ‘a’ long or short? Then that’s right. I had
such a line in my head, I was forced to write it down. Is not it a
capital subject this time?”

“The devotion of Decius? Capital. Let me see!” said Norman, taking up
a paper scribbled in pencil, with Latin verses. “Oh, you have taken up
quite a different line from mine. I began with Mount Vesuvius spouting
lava like anything.”

“But Mount Vesuvius didn’t spout till it overthrew Pompeii.”

“Murder!” cried Norman, “I forgot! It’s lucky you put me in mind. I must
make a fresh beginning. There go my six best lines! However, it was
an uncanny place, fit for hobgoblins, and shades, and funny customers,
which will do as well for my purpose. Ha! that’s grand about its being
so much better than the vana gloria triumphalis--only take care of the
scanning there--”

“If it was but English. Something like this:


        “For what is equal to the fame
         Of forgetting self in the aim?


That’s not right, but--”

“Ethel, Norman, what are you about?” cried Flora. “Do you mean to go to
Cocksmoor to-day?”

“Oh, yes!” cried Ethel, flying into vehement activity; “only I’ve lost
my blue-edged handkerchief--Flora, have you seen it?”

“No; but here is your red scarf.”

“Thank you, there is a good Flora. And oh! I finished a frock all but
two stitches. Where is it gone? Go on, all of you, I’ll overtake you:


        “Purer than breath of earthly fame,
         Is losing self in a glorious aim.


“Is that better, Norman?”

“You’ll drive us out of patience,” said Flora, tying the handkerchief
round Ethel’s throat, and pulling out the fingers of her gloves, which,
of course, were inside out; “are you ready?”

“Oh, my frock! my frock! There ‘tis--three stitches--go on, and I’ll
come,” said Ethel, seizing a needle, and sewing vehemently at a little
pink frock. “Go on, Miss Winter goes slowly up the hill, and I’ll
overtake you.”

“Come, Norman, then; it is the only way to make her come at all.”

“I shall wait for her,” said Norman. “Go on, Flora, we shall catch you
up in no time;” and, as Flora went, he continued, “Never mind your aims
and fames and trumpery English rhymes. Your verses will be much the
best, Ethel; I only went on a little about Mount Vesuvius and the
landscape, as Alan described it the other day, and Decius taking a last
look, knowing he was to die. I made him beg his horse’s pardon, and say
how they will both be remembered, and their self-devotion would inspire
Romans to all posterity, and shout with a noble voice!” said Norman,
repeating some of his lines, correcting them as he proceeded.

“Oh! yes; but oh, dear, I’ve done! Come along,” said Ethel, crumpling
her work into a bundle, and snatching up her gloves; then, as they ran
downstairs, and emerged into the street, “It is a famous subject.”

“Yes, you have made a capital beginning. If you won’t break down
somewhere, as you always do, with some frightful false quantity, that
you would get an imposition for, if you were a boy. I wish you were. I
should like to see old Hoxton’s face, if you were to show him up some of
these verses.”

“I’ll tell you what, Norman, if I was you, I would not make Decius
flatter himself with the fame he was to get--it is too like the
stuff every one talks in stupid books. I want him to say--Rome--my
country--the eagles--must win, if they do--never mind what becomes of
me.”

“But why should he not like to get the credit of it, as he did? Fame and
glory--they are the spirit of life, the reward of such a death.”

“Oh, no, no,” said Ethel. “Fame is coarse and vulgar--blinder than
ever they draw Love or Fortune--she is only a personified newspaper,
trumpeting out all that is extraordinary, without minding whether it
is good or bad. She misses the delicate and lovely--I wished they would
give us a theme to write about her. I should like to abuse her well.”

“It would make a very good theme, in a new line,” said Norman; “but I
don’t give into it, altogether. It is the hope and the thought of fame,
that has made men great, from first to last. It is in every one that
is not good for nothing, and always will be! The moving spirit of man’s
greatness!”

“I’m not sure,” said Ethel; “I think looking for fame is like wanting
a reward at once. I had rather people forgot themselves. Do you think
Arnold von Winkelried thought about fame when he threw himself on the
spears?”

“He got it,” said Norman.

“Yes; he got it for the good of other people, not to please himself.
Fame does those that admire it good, not those that win it.”

“But!” said Norman, and both were silent for some short interval, as
they left the last buildings of the town, and began to mount a steep
hill. Presently Norman slackened his pace, and driving his stick
vehemently against a stone, exclaimed, “It is no use talking, Ethel, it
is all a fight and a race. One is always to try to be foremost. That’s
the spirit of the thing--that’s what the great, from first to last, have
struggled, and fought, and lived, and died for.”

“I know it is a battle, I know it is a race. The Bible says so,” replied
Ethel; “but is not there the difference, that here all may win--not
only one? One may do one’s best, not care whether one is first or last.
That’s what our reading to-day said.”

“That was against trumpery vanity--false elevation--not what one has
earned for oneself, but getting into other people’s places that one
never deserved. That every one despises!”

“Of course! That they do. I say, Norman, didn’t you mean Harvey
Anderson?”

Instead of answering, Norman exclaimed, “It is pretension that is
hateful--true excelling is what one’s life is for. No, no, I’ll never be
beat, Ethel--I never have been beat by any one, except by you, when you
take pains,” he added, looking exultingly at his sister, “and I never
will be.”

“Oh, Norman!”

“I mean, of course, while I have senses. I would not be like Richard for
all the world.”

“Oh, no, no, poor Richard!”

“He is an excellent fellow in everything else,” said Norman; “I could
sometimes wish I was more like him--but how he can be so amazingly slow,
I can’t imagine. That examination paper he broke down in--I could have
done it as easily as possible.”

“I did it all but one question,” said Ethel, “but so did he, you know,
and we can’t tell whether we should have it done well enough.”

“I know I must do something respectable when first I go to Oxford, if
I don’t wish to be known as the man whose brother was plucked,” said
Norman.

“Yes,” said Ethel; “if papa will but let you try for the Randall
scholarship next year, but he says it is not good to go to Oxford so
young.”

“And I believe I had better not be there with Richard,” added Norman. “I
don’t like coming into contrast with him, and I don’t think he can like
it, poor fellow, and it isn’t his fault. I had rather stay another year
here, get one of the open scholarships, and leave the Stoneborough ones
for those who can do no better.”

In justice to Norman, we must observe that this was by no means said as
a boast. He would scarcely have thus spoken to any one but Etheldred, to
whom, as well as to himself, it seemed mere matter-of-fact. The others
had in the meantime halted at the top of the hill, and were looking back
at the town--the great old Minster, raising its twin towers and long
roof, close to the river, where rich green meadows spread over the
valley, and the town rising irregularly on the slope above, plentifully
interspersed with trees and gardens, and one green space on the banks
of the river, speckled over with a flock of little black dots in rapid
motion.

“Here you are!” exclaimed Flora. “I told them it was of no use to wait
when you and Norman had begun a dissertation.”

“Now, Mr. Ernescliffe, I should like you to say,” cried Ethel, “which
do you think is the best, the name of it, or the thing?” Her eloquence
always broke down with any auditor but her brother, or, perhaps,
Margaret.

“Ethel!” said Norman, “how is any one to understand you? The argument is
this: Ethel wants people to do great deeds, and be utterly careless of
the fame of them; I say, that love of glory is a mighty spring.”

“A mighty one!” said Alan: “but I think, as far as I understand the
question, that Ethel has the best of it.”

“I don’t mean that people should not serve the cause first of all,” said
Norman, “but let them have their right place and due honour.”

“They had better make up their minds to do without it,” said Alan.
“Remember--


       ‘The world knows nothing of its greatest men.’”


“Then it is a great shame,” said Norman.

“But do you think it right,” said Ethel, “to care for distinction? It
is a great thing to earn it, but I don’t think one should care for the
outer glory.”

“I believe it is a great temptation,” said Alan. “The being over-elated
or over-depressed by success or failure in the eyes of the world,
independently of the exertion we have used.”

“You call it a temptation?” said Ethel.

“Decidedly so.”

“But one can’t live or get on without it,” said Norman.

There they were cut short. There was a plantation to be crossed, with a
gate that would not open, and that seemed an effectual barrier against
both Miss Winter and the donkey, until by persuasive eloquence and great
gallantry, Mr. Ernescliffe performed the wonderful feat of getting the
former over the tall fence, while Norman conducted the donkey a long way
round, undertaking to meet them at the other side of the plantation.

The talk became desultory, as they proceeded for at least a mile along
a cart-track through soft-tufted grass and heath and young fir-trees.
It ended in a broad open moor, stony; and full of damp boggy hollows,
forlorn and desolate under the autumn sky. Here they met Norman again,
and walked on along a very rough and dirty road, the ground growing
more decidedly into hills and valleys as they advanced, till they found
themselves before a small, but very steep hillock, one side of which was
cut away into a slate quarry. Round this stood a colony of roughly-built
huts, of mud, turf, or large blocks of the slate. Many workmen were
engaged in splitting up the slates, or loading wagons with them, rude
wild-looking men, at the sight of whom the ladies shrank up to their
protectors, but who seemed too busy even to spare time for staring at
them.

They were directed to John Taylor’s house, a low mud cottage, very
wretched looking, and apparently so smoky that Mr. Ernescliffe and
Norman were glad to remain outside and survey the quarry, while the
ladies entered.

Inside they found more cleanliness and neatness than they had expected,
but there was a sad appearance of poverty, insufficient furniture, and
the cups and broken tea-pot on the table, holding nothing but toast and
water, as a substitute for their proper contents. The poor woman was
sitting by the fire with one twin on her lap, and the other on a chair
by her side, and a larger child was in the corner by the fire, looking
heavy and ill, while others of different ages lounged about listlessly.
She was not untidy, but very pale, and she spoke in a meek, subdued way,
as if the ills of life were so heavy on her that she had no spirit even
to complain. She thanked them for their gifts but languidly, and did not
visibly brighten when told that her husband was better.

Flora asked when the babes would be christened.

“I can’t hardly tell, Miss--‘tis so far to go.”

“I suppose none of the children can go to school? I don’t know their
faces there,” said Flora, looking at a nice tall, smooth-haired girl of
thirteen or fourteen.

“No, Miss--‘tis so far. I am sorry they should not, for they always was
used to it where we lived before, and my oldest girl she can work very
nicely. I wish I could get a little place for her.”

“You would hardly know what to do without her,” said Miss Winter.

“No, ma’am; but she wants better food than I can give her, and it is a
bad wild place for a girl to grow up. It is not like what I was used to,
ma’am; I was always used to keep to my school and to my church--but it
is a bad place to live in here.”

No one could deny it, and the party left the cottage gravely. Alan and
Norman joined them, having heard a grievous history of the lawlessness
of the people from a foreman with whom they had met. There seemed to be
no visible means of improvement. The parish church was Stoneborough, and
there the living was very poor, the tithes having been appropriated
to the old Monastery, and since its dissolution having fallen into
possession of a Body that never did anything for the town. The
incumbent, Mr. Ramsden, had small means, and was not a high stamp of
clergyman, seldom exerting himself, and leaving most of his parish work
to the two under masters of the school, Mr. Wilmot and Mr. Harrison, who
did all they had time and strength for, and more too, within the town
itself. There was no hope for Cocksmoor!

“There would be a worthy ambition!” said Etheldred, as they turned their
steps homeward. “Let us propose that aim to ourselves, to build a church
on Cocksmoor!”

“How many years do you give us to do it in?” said Norman.

“Few or many, I don’t care. I’ll never leave off thinking about it till
it is done.”

“It need not be long,” said Flora, “if one could get up a subscription.”

“A penny subscription?” said Norman. “I’d rather have it my own doing.”

“You agree then,” said Ethel; “do you, Mr. Ernescliffe?”

“I may safely do so,” he answered, smiling. Miss Winter looked at
Etheldred reprovingly, and she shrank into herself, drew apart, and
indulged in a reverie. She had heard in books of girls writing poetry,
romance, history--gaining fifties and hundreds. Could not some of the
myriads of fancies floating in her mind thus be made available? She
would compose, publish, earn money--some day call papa, show him her
hoard, beg him to take it, and, never owning whence it came, raise the
building. Spire and chancel, pinnacle and buttress, rose before her
eyes, and she and Norman were standing in the porch with an orderly,
religious population, blessing the unknown benefactor, who had caused
the news of salvation to be heard among them.

They were almost at home, when the sight of a crowd in the main street
checked them. Norman and Mr. Ernescliffe went forward to discover the
cause, and spoke to some one on the outskirts--then Mr. Ernescliffe
hurried back to the ladies.

“There’s been an accident,” he said hastily--“you had better go down the
lane and in by the garden.”

He was gone in an instant, and they obeyed in silence. Whence came
Ethel’s certainty that the accident concerned themselves? In an agony
of apprehension, though without one outward sign of it, she walked home.
They were in the garden--all was apparently as usual, but no one was in
sight. Ethel had been first, but she held back, and let Miss Winter go
forward into the house. The front door was open--servants were standing
about in confusion, and one of the maids, looking dreadfully frightened,
gave a cry, “Oh! Miss--Miss--have you heard?”

“No--what? What has happened? Not Mrs. May--” exclaimed Miss Winter.

“Oh, ma’am! it is all of them. The carriage is overturned, and--”

“Who’s hurt? Mamma! papa! Oh, tell me!” cried Flora.

“There’s nurse,” and Ethel flew up to her. “What is it? Oh, nurse!”

“My poor, poor children,” said old nurse, passionately kissing Ethel.
Harry and Mary were on the stairs behind her, clinging together.

A stranger looked into the house, followed by Adams, the stableman.
“They are going to bring Miss May in,” some one said.

Ethel could bear it no longer. As if she could escape, she fled upstairs
into her room, and, falling on her knees, hid her face on her bed.

There were heavy steps in the house, then a sound of hasty feet coming
up to her. Norman dashed into the room, and threw himself on a chair. He
was ghastly pale, and shuddered all over.

“Oh, Norman, Norman, speak! What is it?” He groaned, but could not
speak; he rested his head against her, and gasped. She was terribly
frightened. “I’ll call--” and she would have gone, but he held her.
“No--no--they can’t!” He was prevented from saying more, by chattering
teeth and deadly faintness. She tried to support him, but could only
guide him as he sank, till he lay at full length on the floor, where she
put a pillow under his head, and gave him some water. “Is it--oh, tell
me! Are they much hurt? Oh, try to say!”

“They say Margaret is alive,” said Norman, in gasps; “but--And papa--he
stood up--sat--walked--was better-”

“Is he hurt--much hurt?”

“His arm--” and the tremor and fainting stopped him again.

“Mamma?” whispered Ethel; but Norman only pressed his face into the
pillow.

She was so bewildered as to be more alive to the present distress of his
condition than to the vague horrors downstairs. Some minutes passed in
silence, Norman lying still, excepting a nervous trembling that agitated
his whole frame. Again was heard the strange tread, doors opening and
shutting, and suppressed voices, and he turned his face upwards, and
listened with his hand pressed to his forehead, as if to keep himself
still enough to listen.

“Oh! what is the matter? What is it?” cried Ethel, startled and recalled
to the sense of what was passing.

“Oh, Norman!” Then springing up, with a sudden thought, “Mr. Ward! Oh!
is he there?”

“Yes,” said Norman, in a low hopeless tone, “he was at the place. He
said it--”

“What?”

Again Norman’s face was out of sight.

“Mamma?” Ethel’s understanding perceived, but her mind refused to grasp
the extent of the calamity. There was no answer, save a convulsive
squeezing of her hand.

Fresh sounds below recalled her to speech and action.

“Where is she? What are they doing for her? What--”

“There’s nothing to be done. She--when they lifted her up, she was--”

“Dead?”

“Dead.”

The boy lay with his face hidden, the girl sat by him on the floor, too
much crushed for even the sensations belonging to grief, neither moving
nor looking. After an interval Norman spoke again, “The carriage turned
right over--her head struck on the kerb stone--”

“Did you see?” said Ethel presently.

“I saw them lift her up.” He spoke at intervals, as he could get breath
and bear to utter the words. “And papa--he was stunned--but soon he
sat up, said he would go to her--he looked at her--felt her pulse, and
then--sank down over her!”

“And did you say--I can’t remember--was he hurt?”

The shuddering came again, “His arm--all twisted--broken,” and his voice
sank into a faint whisper; Ethel was obliged to sprinkle him again
with water. “But he won’t die?” said she, in a tone calm from its
bewilderment.

“Oh! no, no, no--”

“And Margaret?”

“They were bringing her home. I’ll go and see. Oh! what’s the meaning of
this?” exclaimed he, scolding himself, as, sitting up, he was forced to
rest his head on his shaking hand.

“You are still faint, dear Norman; you had better lie still, and I’ll go
and see.”

“Faint--stuff--how horridly stupid!” but he was obliged to lay his head
down again; and Ethel, scarcely less trembling, crept carefully towards
the stairs, but a dread of what she might meet came over her, and she
turned towards the nursery.

The younger ones sat there in a frightened huddle. Mary was on a low
chair by the infant’s cot, Blanche in her lap, Tom and Harry leaning
against her, and Aubrey almost asleep. Mary held up her finger as Ethel
entered, and whispered, “Hush! don’t wake baby for anything!”

The first true pang of grief shot through Ethel like a dart, stabbing
and taking away her breath, “Where are they?” she said; “how is papa?
who is with him?”

“Mr. Ward and Alan Ernescliffe,” said Harry. “Nurse came up just now,
and said they were setting his arm.”

“Where is he?”

“On the bed in his dressing-room,” said Harry.

“Has he come to himself--is he better?”

They did not seem to know, and Ethel asked where to find Flora. “With
Margaret,” she was told, and she was thinking whether she could venture
to seek her, when she herself came fast up the stairs. Ethel and
Harry both darted out. “Don’t stop me,” said Flora--“they want some
handkerchiefs.”

“What, is not she in her own room?”

“No,” said Harry, “in mamma’s;” and then his face quivered all over,
and he turned away. Ethel ran after her sister, and pulling out drawers
without knowing what she sought, begged to hear how papa and Margaret
were.

“We can’t judge of Margaret--she has moved, and made a little
moaning--there are no limbs broken, but we are afraid for her head. Oh!
if papa could but--”

“And papa?”

“Mr. Ward is with him now--his arm is terribly hurt.”

“But oh! Flora--one moment--is he sensible?”

“Hardly; he does not take any notice--but don’t keep me.”

“Can I do anything?” following her to the head of the stairs.

“No; I don’t see what you can do. Miss Winter and I are with Margaret;
there’s nothing to do for her.”

It was a relief. Etheldred shrank from what she might have to behold,
and Flora hastened down, too busy and too useful to have time to think.
Harry had gone back to his refuge in the nursery, and Ethel returned to
Norman. There they remained for a long time, both unwilling to speak
or stir, or even to observe to each other on the noises that came in to
them, as their door was left ajar, though in those sounds they were so
absorbed, that they did not notice the cold of a frosty October evening,
or the darkness that closed in on them.

They heard the poor babe crying, one of the children going down to call
nurse, and nurse coming up; then Harry, at the door of the room where
the boys slept, calling Norman in a low voice. Norman, now nearly
recovered, went and brought him into his sister’s room, and his tidings
were, that their father’s arm had been broken in two places, and the
elbow frightfully injured, having been crushed and twisted by the wheel.
He was also a good deal bruised, and though Mr. Ward trusted there was
no positive harm to the head, he was in an unconscious state, from
which the severe pain of the operation had only roused him, so far as to
evince a few signs of suffering. Margaret was still insensible.

The piteous sound of the baby’s wailing almost broke their hearts.
Norman walked about the room in the dark, and said he should go down,
he could not bear it; but he could not make up his mind to go, and after
about a quarter of an hour, to their great relief, it ceased.

Next Mary opened the door, saying, “Norman, here’s Mr. Wilmot come to
ask if he can do anything--Miss Winter sent word that you had better go
to him.”

“How is baby?” asked Harry.

“Nurse has fed her, and is putting her to bed; she is quiet now,” said
Mary; “will you go down, Norman?”

“Where is he?”

“In the drawing-room.”

Norman paused to ask what he was to say.

“Nothing,” said Mary, “nobody can do anything. Make haste. Don’t you
want a candle?”

“No, thank you, I had rather be in the dark. Come up as soon as you have
seen him,” said Etheldred.

Norman went slowly down, with failing knees, hardly able to conquer the
shudder that came over him, as he passed those rooms. There were
voices in the drawing-room, and he found a sort of council there, Alan
Ernescliffe, the surgeon, and Mr. Wilmot. They turned as he came in, and
Mr. Wilmot held out his hand with a look of affection and kindness that
went to his heart, making room for him on the sofa, while going on with
what he was saying. “Then you think it would be better for me not to sit
up with him.”

“I should decidedly say so,” replied Mr. Ward. “He has recognised
Mr. Ernescliffe, and any change might excite him, and lead him to ask
questions. The moment of his full consciousness is especially to be
dreaded.”

“But you do not call him insensible?”

“No, but he seems stunned--stupified by the shock, and by pain. He spoke
to Miss Flora when she brought him some tea.”

“And admirably she managed,” said Alan Ernescliffe. “I was much afraid
of some answer that would rouse him, but she kept her self-possession
beautifully, and seemed to compose him in a moment.”

“She is valuable indeed--so much judgment and activity,” said Mr. Ward.
“I don’t know what we should have done without her. But we ought to have
Mr. Richard--has no one sent to him?”

Alan Ernescliffe and Norman looked at each other.

“Is he at Oxford, or at his tutor’s?” asked Mr. Wilmot.

“At Oxford; he was to be there to-day, was he not, Norman?”

“What o’clock is it? Is the post gone--seven--no; it is all safe,” said
Mr. Ward.

Poor Norman! he knew he was the one who ought to write, but his icy
trembling hand seemed to shake more helplessly than ever, and a piteous
glance fell upon Mr. Wilmot.

“The best plan would be,” said Mr. Wilmot, “for me to go to him at once
and bring him home. If I go by the mail-train, I shall get to him sooner
than a letter could.”

“And it will be better for him,” said Mr. Ward. “He will feel it
dreadfully, poor boy. But we shall all do better when we have him. You
can get back to-morrow evening.”

“Sunday,” said Mr. Wilmot, “I believe there is a train at four.”

“Oh! thank you, sir,” said Norman.

“Since that is settled, perhaps I had better go up to the doctor,” said
Alan; “I don’t like leaving Flora alone with him,” and he was gone.

“How fortunate that that youth is here,” said Mr. Wilmot--“he seems to
be quite taking Richard’s place.”

“And to feel it as much,” said Mr. Ward. “He has been invaluable with
his sailor’s resources and handiness.”

“Well, what shall I tell poor Richard?” asked Mr. Wilmot.

“Tell him there is no reason his father should not do very well, if
we can keep him from agitation--but there’s the point. He is of so
excitable a constitution, that his faculties being so far confused is
the best thing, perhaps, that could be. Mr. Ernescliffe manages him very
well--used to illness on that African coast, and the doctor is very
fond of him. As to Miss May, one can’t tell what to say about her
yet--there’s no fracture, at least--it must be a work of time to judge.”

Flora at that moment half-opened the door, and called Mr. Ward, stopping
for a moment to say it was for nothing of any consequence. Mr. Wilmot
and Norman were left together. Norman put his hands over his face and
groaned--his master looked at him with kind anxiety, but did not feel as
if it were yet time to speak of consolation.

“God bless and support you, and turn this to your good, my dear boy,”
 said he affectionately, as he pressed his hand; “I hope to bring your
brother to-morrow.”

“Thank you, sir,” was all Norman could say; and as Mr. Wilmot went
out by the front door, he slowly went up again, and, lingering on the
landing-place, was met by Mr. Ward, who told him to his relief--for the
mere thinking of it renewed the faint sensation--that he had better not
go to his father’s room.

There was nothing to be done but to return to Ethel and Harry, and tell
them all; with some humiliation at being helpless, where Flora was doing
so much, and to leave their father to be watched by a stranger. If he
had been wanted, Norman might have made the effort, but being told that
he would be worse than useless, there was nothing for him but to give
way.

They sat together in Ethel’s room till somewhere between eight and nine
o’clock, when good old nurse, having put her younger ones to bed, came
in search of them. “Dear, dear! poor darlings,” said she, as she found
them sitting in the dark; she felt their cold hands, and made them all
come into the nursery, where Mary was already, and, fondling them, one
by one, as they passively obeyed her, she set them down on their little
old stools round the fire, took away the high fender, and gave them each
a cup of tea. Harry and Mary ate enough to satisfy her, from a weary
craving feeling, and for want of employment; Norman sat with his elbow
on his knee, and a very aching head resting on his hand, glad of drink,
but unable to eat; Ethel could be persuaded to do neither, till she
found old nurse would let her have no peace.

The nurse sent them all to bed, taking the two girls to their own room,
undressing them, and never leaving them until Mary was in a fair way of
crying herself to sleep--for saying her prayers had brought the tears;
while Ethel lay so wide awake that it was of no use to wait for her, and
then she went to the boys, tucked them each in, as when they were little
children, and saying, “Bless your dear hearts!” bestowed on each of them
a kiss which came gratefully to Norman’s burning brow, and which even
Harry’s boyish manliness could not resist.

Flora was in Margaret’s room, too useful to be spared.

So ended that dreadful Saturday.




CHAPTER IV.



     They may not mar the deep repose
       Of that immortal flower:
     Though only broken hearts are found
       To watch her cradle by,
     No blight is on her slumbers found,
       No touch of harmful eye.
                                    LYRA INNOCENTIUM.


Such a strange sad Sunday! No going to church, but all the poor children
moving in awe and oppression about the house, speaking under their
breath, as they gathered in the drawing-room. Into the study they might
not go, and when Blanche would have asked why, Tom pressed her hand and
shuddered.

Etheldred was allowed to come and look at Margaret, and even to sit in
the room for a little while, to take the place of Miss Winter; but she
was not sensible of sufficient usefulness to relieve the burden of fear
and bewilderment in the presence of that still, pale form; and, what was
almost worse, the sight of the familiar objects, the chair by the fire,
the sofa, the books, the work-basket, the letter-case, the dressing
things, all these were too oppressive. She sat crouched up, with her
face hidden in her hands, and the instant she was released, hastened
back to Norman. She was to tell him that he might go into the room, but
he did not move, and Mary alone went in and out with messages.

Dr. May was not to be visited, for he was in the same half-conscious
state, apparently sensible only of bodily suffering, though he answered
when addressed, and no one was trusted to speak to him but Flora and
Ernescliffe.

The rest wore through the day as best they might. Harry slept a good
deal, Ethel read to herself, and tried to get Norman to look at passages
which she liked, Mary kept the little ones from being troublesome, and
at last took them to peep behind the school-room blinds for Richard’s
coming.

There was a simultaneous shout when, at four o’clock, they caught sight
of him, and though, at Ethel’s exclamation of wonder, Mary and Tom hung
their heads at having forgotten themselves, the association of gladness
in seeing Richard was refreshing; the sense of being desolate and
forsaken was relieved, and they knew that now they had one to rely on
and to comfort them.

Harry hastened to open the front door, and Richard, with his small
trim figure, and fresh, fair young face, flushed, though not otherwise
agitated, was among them, almost devoured by the younger ones, and
dealing out quiet caresses to them, as he caught from the words and
looks of the others that at least his father and sister were no worse.
Mr. Wilmot had come with him, but only stayed to hear the tidings.

“Can I see papa?” were Richard’s first audible words--all the rest had
been almost dumb show.

Ethel thought not, but took him to Margaret’s room, where he stood for
many minutes without speaking; then whispered to Flora that he must go
to the others, she should call him if--and went down, followed by Ethel.

Tom and Blanche had fallen into teasing tricks, a sort of melancholy
play to relieve the tedium. They grew cross. Norman was roused to
reprove sharply, and Blanche was beginning to cry. But Richard’s
entrance set all at peace--he sat down among them, and, with soft voice
and arm round Blanche, as she leaned against him, made her good in a
moment; and she listened while he talked over with Norman and Ethel all
they could bear to speak of.

Late in the day Flora came into her father’s room, and stood gazing
at him, as he lay with eyes closed, breathing heavily, and his brows
contracted by pain. She watched him with piteous looks, as if imploring
him to return to his children. Poor girl, to-day’s quiet, after the last
evening’s bustle, was hard to bear. She had then been distracted from
thought by the necessity of exertion, but it now repaid itself, and she
knew not how to submit to do nothing but wait and watch.

“No change?” enquired Alan Ernescliffe; looking kindly in her face.

“No,” replied she in a low, mournful tone. “She only once said, thank
you.”

A voice which she did not expect, asked inquiringly, “Margaret?” and her
heart beat as if it would take away her breath, as she saw her father’s
eyes intently fixed on her. “Did you speak of her?” he repeated.

“Yes, dear papa,” said Flora, not losing presence of mind, though in
extreme fear of what the next question might be. “She is quiet and
comfortable, so don’t be uneasy, pray.”

“Let me hear,” he said, and his whole voice and air showed him to be
entirely roused. “There is injury? What is it--”

He continued his inquiries till Flora was obliged fully to explain her
sister’s condition, and then he dismayed her by saying he would get up
and go to see her. Much distressed, she begged him not to think of it,
and appealed to Alan, who added his entreaties that he would at least
wait for Mr. Ward; but the doctor would not relinquish his purpose, and
sent her to give notice that he was coming.

Mr. Ernescliffe followed her out of the room, and tried to console her,
as she looked at him in despair.

“You see he is quite himself, quite collected,” he said; “you heard now
clear and coherent his questions were.”

“Can’t it be helped? Do try to stop him till I can send to Mr. Ward.”

“I will try, but I think he is in a state to judge for himself. I do,
upon my word; and I believe trying to prevent him would be more likely
to do him harm than letting him satisfy himself. I really think you need
not be alarmed.”

“But you know,” said Flora, coming nearer, and almost gasping as she
whispered and signed towards the door, “she is there--it is mamma’s
room, that will tell all.”

“I believe he knows,” said Alan. “It was that which made him faint
after the accident, for he had his perceptions fully at first. I have
suspected all day that he was more himself than he seemed, but I think
he could not bear to awaken his mind to understand it, and that he was
afraid to hear about her--your sister, so that our mention of her was a
great relief, and did him good. I am convinced he knows the rest. Only
go on, be calm, as you have been, and we shall do very well.”

Flora went to prepare. Ethel eagerly undertook to send to Mr. Ward, and
hastened from the room, as if in a sort of terror, shrinking perhaps
from what might lead to an outburst of grief. She longed to have seen
her father, but was frightened at the chance of meeting him. When she
had sent her message, and told her brothers what was passing, she went
and lingered on the stairs and in the passage for tidings. After what
seemed a long time, Flora came out, and hastened to the nursery, giving
her intelligence on the way.

“Better than could be hoped, he walked alone into the room, and was
quite calm and composed. Oh! if this will not hurt him, if the seeing
baby was but over!”

“Does he want her?”

“Yes, he would have come up here himself, but I would not let him.
Nurse, do you hear? Papa wants baby; let me have her.”

“Bless me, Miss Flora, you can’t hold her while you are all of a
tremble! And he has been to Miss Margaret?”

“Yes, nurse, and he was only rather stiff and lame.”

“Did Margaret seem to know him?” said Ethel.

“She just answered in that dreamy way when he spoke to her. He says
he thinks it is as Mr. Ward believes, and that she will soon come to
herself. He is quite able to consider--”

“And he knows all?”

“I am sure he does. He desired to see baby, and he wants you, nurse.
Only mind you command yourself--don’t say a word you can help--do
nothing to agitate him.”

Nurse promised, but the tears came so fast, and sobs with them, as
she approached her master’s room, that Flora saw no composure could
be expected from her; and taking the infant from her, carried it in,
leaving the door open for her to follow when wanted. Ethel stood by
listening. There was silence at first, then some sounds from the baby,
and her father’s voice soothing it, in his wonted caressing phrases and
tones, so familiar that they seemed to break the spell, drive away her
vague terrors, and restore her father. Her heart bounded, and a sudden
impulse carried her to the bedside, at once forgetting all dread of
seeing him, and chance of doing him harm. He lay, holding the babe close
to him, and his face was not altered, so that there was nothing in the
sight to impress her with the need of caution, and, to the consternation
of the anxious Flora, she exclaimed, abruptly and vehemently, “Papa!
should not she be christened?”

Dr. May looked up at Ethel, then at the infant; “Yes,” he said, “at
once.” Then added feebly and languidly, “Some one must see to it.”

There was a pause, while Flora looked reproachfully at her sister, and
Ethel became conscious of her imprudence, but in a few moments Dr. May
spoke again, first to the baby, and then asking, “Is Richard here?”

“Yes, papa.”

“Send him up presently. Where’s nurse?”

Ethel retreated, much alarmed at her rash measure, and when she related
it she saw that Richard and Mr. Ernescliffe both thought it had been a
great hazard.

“Papa wants you,” was a welcome sound to the ears of Richard, and
brought a pink glow into his face. He was never one who readily showed
his feelings, and there was no danger of his failing in self-command,
though grievously downcast, not only at the loss of the tender mother,
who had always stood between him and his father’s impatience, but by
the dread that he was too dull and insignificant to afford any help or
comfort in his father’s dire affliction.

Yet there was something in the gentle sad look that met him, and in the
low tone of the “How d’ye do, Ritchie?” that drove off a thought of not
being loved; and when Dr. May further added, “You’ll see about it all--I
am glad you are come,” he knew he was of use, and was encouraged and
cheered. That his father had full confidence and reliance in him, and
that his presence was a satisfaction and relief he could no longer
doubt; and this was a drop of balm beyond all his hopes; for loving
and admiring his father intensely, and with depressed spirits and a low
estimate of himself, he had begun to fancy himself incapable of being
anything but a vexation and burden.

He sat with his father nearly all the evening, and was to remain with
him at night. The rest were comforted by the assurance that Dr. May was
still calm, and did not seem to have been injured by what had passed.
Indeed, it seemed as if the violence and suddenness of the shock,
together with his state of suffering, had deadened his sensations; for
there was far less agitation about him than could have been thought
possible in a man of such strong, warm affections and sensitive
temperament.

Ethel and Norman went up arm-in-arm at bedtime.

“I am going to ask if I may wish papa good-night,” said Ethel. “Shall I
say anything about your coming?”

Norman hesitated, but his cheeks blanched; he shuddered, shook his head
without speaking, ran up after Harry, and waved her back when she would
have followed.

Richard told her that she might come in, and, as she slowly advanced,
she thought she had never seen anything so ineffably mournful as
the affectionate look on her father’s face. She held his hand and
ventured--for it was with difficulty she spoke--to hope he was not in
pain.

“Better than it was, thank you, my dear,” he said, in a soft weak tone:
then, as she bent down to kiss his brow; “you must take care of the
little ones.”

“Yes, papa,” she could hardly answer, and a large drop gathered slowly
in each eye, long in coming, as if the heart ached too much for them to
flow freely.

“Are they all well?”

“Yes, papa.”

“And good?” He held her hand, as if lengthening the interview.

“Yes, very good all day.”

A long deep sigh. Ethel’s two tears stood on her cheeks.

“My love to them all. I hope I shall see them to-morrow. God bless you,
my dear, good-night.”

Ethel went upstairs, saddened and yet soothed. The calm silent sorrow,
too deep for outward tokens, was so unlike her father’s usually
demonstrative habits, as to impress her all the more, yet those two
tears were followed by no more; there was much strangeness and confusion
in her mind in the newness of grief.

She found poor Flora, spent with exertion, under the reaction of all she
had undergone, lying on her bed, sobbing as if her heart would break,
calling in gasps of irrepressible agony on “mamma! mamma!” yet with
her face pressed down on the pillow that she might not be heard. Ethel,
terrified and distressed, timidly implored her to be comforted, but it
seemed as if she were not even heard; she would have fetched some one,
but whom? Alas! alas! it brought back the sense that no mother would
ever soothe them--Margaret, papa, both so ill, nurse engaged with
Margaret! Ethel stood helpless and despairing, and Flora sobbed on, so
that Mary awakened to burst out in a loud frightened fit of crying; but
in a few moments a step was at the door, a knock, and Richard asked, “Is
anything the matter?”

He was in the room in a moment, caressing and saying affectionate things
with gentleness and fondling care, like his mother, and which recalled
the days when he had been proud to be left for a little while the small
nurse and guardian of the lesser ones. Mary was hushed in a moment, and
Flora’s exhausted weeping was gradually soothed, when she was able
to recollect that she was keeping him from her father; with kind
good-nights, he left Ethel to read to her till she could sleep. Long did
Ethel read, after both her sisters were slumbering soundly; she went on
in a sort of dreamy grief, almost devoid of pain, as if all this was too
terrible to be true: and she had imagined herself into a story, which
would give place at dawn to her ordinary life.

At last she went to bed, and slept till wakened by the return of Flora,
who had crept down in her dressing-gown to see how matters were going.
Margaret was in the same state, papa was asleep, after a restless
distressing night, with much pain and some fever; and whenever Richard
had begun to hope from his tranquillity, that he was falling asleep,
he was undeceived by hearing an almost unconsciously uttered sigh of
“Maggie, my Maggie!” and then the head turned wearily on the pillow,
as if worn out with the misery from which there was no escape. Towards
morning the pain had lessened, and, as he slept, he seemed much less
feverish than they could have ventured to expect.

Norman looked wan and wretched, and could taste no breakfast; indeed
Harry reported that he had been starting and talking in his sleep half
the night, and had proceeded to groaning and crying out till, when it
could be borne no longer, Harry waked him, and finished his night’s rest
in peace.

The children were kept in the drawing-room that morning, and there were
strange steps in the house; but only Richard and Mr. Ernescliffe knew
the reason. Happily there had been witnesses enough of the overturn to
spare any reference to Dr. May--the violent start of the horses had been
seen, and Adams and Mr. Ernescliffe agreed, under their breath, that the
new black one was not fit to drive, while the whole town was so used to
Dr. May’s headlong driving, that every one was recollecting their
own predictions of accidents. There needed little to account for the
disaster--the only wonder was that it had not happened sooner.

“I say,” announced Harry, soon after they were released again, “I’ve
been in to papa. His door was open, and he heard me, and called me. He
says he should like any of us to come in and see him. Hadn’t you better
go, Norman?”

Norman started up, and walked hastily out of the room, but his hand
shook so, that he could hardly open the door; and Ethel, seeing how it
was with him, followed him quickly, as he dashed, at full speed, up the
stairs. At the top, however, he was forced to cling to the rail, gasping
for breath, while the moisture started on his forehead.

“Dear Norman,” she said, “there’s nothing to mind. He looks just as
usual. You would not know there was anything the matter.” But he rested
his head on his hand, and looked as if he could not stir. “I see it
won’t do,” said Ethel--“don’t try--you will be better by-and-by, and he
has not asked for you in particular.”

“I won’t be beat by such stuff,” said Norman, stepping hastily forwards,
and opening the door suddenly. He got through the greeting pretty well,
there was no need for him to speak, he only gave his hand and looked
away, unable to bring himself to turn his eyes on his father, and afraid
of letting his own face be seen. Almost at the same moment, nurse
came to say something about Margaret, and he seized the opportunity of
withdrawing his hand, and hurrying away, in good time, for he was pale
as death, and was obliged to sit down on the head of the stairs, and
lean his head against Etheldred.

“What does make me so ridiculous?” he exclaimed faintly, but very
indignantly.

The first cure was the being forced to clear out of Mr. Ward’s way,
which he could not effect without being seen; and Ethel though she knew
that he would be annoyed, was not sorry to be obliged to remain, and
tell what was the matter with him. “Oh,” said Mr. Ward, turning and
proceeding to the dining-room, “I’ll set that to rights in a minute, if
you will ask for a tumbler of hot water Miss Ethel.”

And armed with the cordial he had prepared, Ethel hunted up her brother,
and persuaded him, after scolding her a little, to swallow it, and take
a turn in the garden; after which he made a more successful attempt at
visiting his father.

There was another room whither both Norman and Etheldred wished to go,
though they dared not hint at their desire. At last Richard came
to them, as they were wandering in the garden, and, with his usual
stillness of manner, shaded with additional seriousness, said, “Would
you like to come into the study?”

Etheldred put one hand into his, Norman took the other, and soon
they stood in that calm presence. Fair, cold, white, and intensely
still--that face brought home to them the full certainty that the warm
brightening look would never beam on them, the soft blue eyes never
guide, check, and watch them, the smile never approve or welcome them.
To see her unconscious of their presence was too strange and sad,
and all were silent, till, as they left the room, Ethel looked out at
Blanche and Aubrey in the garden. “They will never remember her! Oh! why
should it be?”

Richard would fain have moralised and comforted, but she felt as if she
knew it all before, and heard with languid attention. She had rather
read than talk, and he sat down to write letters.

There were no near relations to be sent for. Dr. May was an only son,
and his wife’s sister, Mrs. Arnott, was in New Zealand; her brother
had long been dead, and his widow, who lived in Edinburgh, was scarcely
known to the May family. Of friends there were many, fast bound by
affection and gratitude, and notes, inquiries, condolences, and offers
of service came in thickly, and gave much occupation to Flora, Richard,
and Alan Ernescliffe, in turn. No one from without could do anything for
them--they had all the help they wanted in Miss Winter and in Alan, who
was invaluable in sharing with Richard the care of the doctor, as well
as in giving him the benefit of his few additional years’ experience,
and relieving him of some of his tasks. He was indeed like one of
themselves, and a most valuable help and comforter. Mr. Wilmot gave them
all the time he could, and on this day saw the doctor, who seemed to
find some solace in his visit, though saying very little.

On this day the baby was to be baptized. The usual Stoneborough fashion
was to collect all the christenings for the month into one Sunday,
except those for such persons as thought themselves too refined to see
their children christened before the congregation, and who preferred
an empty church and a week-day. The little one had waited till she was
nearly six weeks old for “a Christening Sunday,” and since that had been
missed, she could not be kept unbaptized for another month; so, late in
the day, she was carried to church.

Richard had extremely gratified old nurse, by asking her to represent
poor Margaret; Mrs. Hoxton stood for the other godmother, and Alan
Ernescliffe was desired to consider himself absolutely her sponsor, not
merely a proxy. The younger children alone were to go with them: it
was too far off, and the way lay too much through the town for it to
be thought proper for the others to go. Ethel wished it very much, and
thought it nonsense to care whether people looked at her; and in spite
of Miss Winter’s seeming shocked at her proposing it, had a great mind
to persist. She would even have appealed to her papa, if Flora had
not stopped her, exclaiming, “Really, Ethel, I think there never was a
person so entirely without consideration as you are.”

Much abashed, Ethel humbly promised that if she might go into papa’s
room, she would not say one word about the christening, unless he should
begin, and, to her great satisfaction, he presently asked her to read
the service to him. Flora came to the doorway of Margaret’s room, and
listened; when she had finished, all were silent.

“How shall we, how can we virtuously bring up our motherless little
sister?” was the thought with each of the girls. The answers were, in
one mind, “I trust we shall do well by her, dear little thing. I see, on
an emergency, that I know how to act. I never thought I was capable of
being of so much use, thanks to dear, dear mamma’s training. I shall
manage, I am sure, and so they will all depend on me, and look up to me.
How nice it was to hear dear papa say what he did about the comfort of
my being able to look after Margaret.”

In the other, “Poor darling, it is saddest of all for her, because she
knows nothing, and will never remember her mamma! But if Margaret is but
better, she will take care of her, and oh how we ought to try--and I,
such a naughty wild thing--if I should hurt the dear little ones by
carelessness, or by my bad example! Oh! what shall I do, for want of
some one to keep me in order? If I should vex papa by any of my wrong
ways!”

They heard the return of the others, and the sisters both sprang up,
“May we bring her to you?” said Flora.

“Yes, do, my dears.”

The sisters all came down together with the little one, and Flora put
her down within the arm her father stretched out for her. He gazed into
the baby face, which, in its expressionless placidity, almost recalled
her mother’s tranquil sweetness.

“Gertrude Margaret,” said Flora, and with a look that had more of
tenderness than grief, he murmured, “My Daisy blossom, my little
Maggie.”

“Might we?” said Ethel, when Flora took her again, “might we take her to
her godmother to see if she would notice her?”

He looked as if he wished it; but said, “No, I think not, better not
rouse her,” and sighed heavily; then, as they stood round his bed,
unwilling to go, he added, “Girls, we must learn carefulness and
thoughtfulness. We have no one to take thought for us now.”

Flora pressed the babe in her arms, Ethel’s two reluctant tears stood
on her cheeks, Mary exclaimed, “I’ll try not to be naughty;” and Blanche
climbed up to kiss him, saying, “I will be always good papa.”

“Daisy--papa’s Daisy--your vows are made,” whispered Ethel, gaining sole
possession of the babe for a minute. “You have promised to be good and
holy. We have the keeping of you, mamma’s precious flower, her pearl
of truth! Oh, may God guard you to be an unstained jewel, till you come
back to her again--and a blooming flower, till you are gathered into the
wreath that never fades--my own sweet poor little motherless Daisy!”




CHAPTER V.



     “Through lawless camp, through ocean wild,
     Her prophet eye pursues her child;
     Scans mournfully her poet’s strain,
     Fears for her merchant, loss alike and gain.”
                                           LYRA INNOCENTIUM.


Dr. May took the management of himself into his own hands, and paid
so little attention to Mr. Ward’s recommendations that his sons and
daughters were in continual dread of his choosing to do something that
might cause injurious agitation.

However, he did not go further than Margaret’s bedroom where he sat
hour after hour his eyes fixed upon her, as she continued in a state
bordering on insensibility. He took little notice of anything else,
and hardly spoke. There were heavy sighs now and then, but Richard and
Flora, one or other of whom were always watching him, could hardly tell
whether to ascribe them to the oppression of sorrow or of suffering.
Their great fear was of his insisting on seeing his wife’s face, and it
was a great relief that he never alluded to her, except once, to desire
Richard to bring him her ring. Richard silently obeyed, and, without a
word, he placed it on his little finger. Richard used to read the Psalms
to him in the morning, before he was up, and Flora would bring little
Daisy and lay her by his side.

To the last moment they dreaded his choosing to attend the funeral, and
Flora had decided on remaining at home, though trembling at the thought
of what there might be to go through. They tried to let him hear nothing
about it, but he seemed to know everything; and when Flora came into
Margaret’s room without her bonnet, he raised his head, and said, “I
thought you were all going.”

“The others are--but may I not stay with you and her, papa?”

“I had rather be alone, my dears. I will take care of her. I should wish
you all to be there.”

They decided that his wishes ought to be followed, and that the patients
must be entrusted to old nurse. Richard told Flora, who looked very
pale, that she would be glad of it afterwards, and she had his arm to
lean upon.

The grave was in the cloister attached to the minster, a smooth green
square of turf, marked here and there with small flat lozenges of stone,
bearing the date and initials of those who lay there, and many of them
recording former generations of Mays, to whom their descent from the
headmaster had given a right of burial there. Dr. Hoxton, Mr. Wilmot,
and the surgeon, were the only friends whom Richard had asked to be
with them, but the minster was nearly full, for there was a very
strong attachment and respect for Dr. and Mrs. May throughout the
neighbourhood, and every one’s feelings were strongly excited.

“In the midst of life, we are in death--” There was a universal sound
as of a sort of sob, that Etheldred never disconnected from those words.
Yet hardly one tear was shed by the young things who stood as close as
they could round the grave. Harry and Mary did indeed lock their hands
together tightly, and the shoulders of the former shook as he stood,
bowing down his head, but the others were still and quiet, in part from
awe and bewilderment, but partly, too, from a sense that it was against
her whole nature that there should be clamorous mourning for her. The
calm still day seemed to tell them the same, the sun beaming softly on
the gray arches and fresh grass, the sky clear and blue, and the trees
that showed over the walls bright with autumn colouring, all suitable to
the serenity of a life unclouded to its last moment. Some of them felt
as if it were better to be there than in their saddened desolate home.

But home they must go, and, before going upstairs, as Flora and
Etheldred stood a moment or two with Norman, Ethel said in a tone of
resolution, and of some cheerfulness, “Well, we have to begin afresh.”

“Yes,” said Flora, “it is a great responsibility. I do trust we may be
enabled to do as we ought.”

“And now Margaret is getting better, she will be our stay,” said Ethel.

“I must go to her,” and Flora went upstairs.

“I wish I could be as useful as Flora,” said Ethel; but I mean to try,
and if I can but keep out of mischief, it will be something.

“There is an object for all one does, in trying to be a comfort to
papa.”

“That’s no use,” said Norman, listlessly. “We never can.”

“Oh, but, Norman, he won’t be always as he is now--I am sure he cares
for us enough to be pleased, if we do right and get on.”

“We used to be so happy!” said Norman.

Ethel hesitated a little, and presently answered, “I don’t think it can
be right to lament for our own sakes so much, is it?”

“I don’t want to do so,” said Norman, in the same dejected way.

“I suppose we ought not to feel it either.” Norman only shook his head.
“We ought to think of her gain. You can’t? Well, I am glad, for no more
can I. I can’t think of her liking for papa and baby and all of us to
be left to ourselves. But that’s not right of me, and of course it all
comes right where she is; so I always put that out of my head, and think
what is to come next in doing, and pleasing papa, and learning.”

“That’s grown horrid,” said Norman. “There’s no pleasure in getting on,
nor in anything.”

“Don’t you care for papa and all of us being glad, Norman?” As Norman
could not just then say that he did, he would not answer.

“I wish--” said Ethel, disappointed, but cheering up the next minute. “I
do believe it is having nothing to do. You will be better when you get
back to school on Monday.”

“That is worst of all!”

“You don’t like going among the boys again? But that must be done some
time or other. Or shall I get Richard to speak to Dr. Hoxton to let you
have another week’s leave?”

“No, no, don’t be foolish. It can’t be helped.”

“I am very sorry, but I think you will be better for it.”

She almost began to fancy herself unfeeling, when she found him so much
more depressed than she was herself, and unable to feel it a relief to
know that the time of rest and want of occupation was over. She thought
it light-minded, though she could not help it, to look forward to
the daily studies where she might lose her sad thoughts and be as if
everything were as usual. But suppose she should be to blame, where
would now be the gentle discipline? Poor Ethel’s feelings were not such
as to deserve the imputation of levity, when this thought came over
her; but her buoyant mind, always seeking for consolation, recurred to
Margaret’s improvement, and she fixed her hopes on her.

Margaret was more alive to surrounding objects, and, when roused, she
knew them all, answered clearly when addressed, had even, more than
once, spoken of her own accord, and shown solicitude at the sight of her
father’s bandaged, helpless arm, but he soon soothed this away. He was
more than ever watchful over her, and could scarcely be persuaded to
leave her for one moment, in his anxiety to be at hand to answer, when
first she should speak of her mother, a moment apprehended by all the
rest, almost as much for his sake as for hers.

So clear had her perceptions been, and so much more awake did she
appear, on this evening, that he expected the inquiry to come every
moment, and lingered in her room; till she asked the hour, and begged
him to go to bed.

As he bent over her, she looked up in his face, and said softly, “Dear
papa.”

There was that in her tone which showed she perceived the truth, and he
knelt by her side kissing her, but not daring to relax his restraint of
feeling.

“Dear papa,” she said again, “I hope I shall soon be better, and be some
comfort to you.”

“My best--my own--my comfort,” he murmured, all he could say without
giving way.

“Baby--is she well?”

“Yes, thank Heaven, she has not suffered at all.”

“I heard her this morning, I must see her to-morrow. But don’t stay,
dear, dear papa, it is late, and I am sure you are not at all well. Your
arm--is it very much hurt?”

“It is nothing you need think about, my dear. I am much better than I
could have imagined possible.”

“And you have been nursing me all the time! Papa, you must let me take
care of you now. Do pray go to bed at once, and get up late. Nurse will
take good care of me. Good-night, dear papa.”

When Dr. May had left her, and tried to tell Richard how it had been,
the tears cut him short, and had their free course; but there was much
of thankfulness, for it might be looked on as the restoration of his
daughter; the worst was over, and the next day he was able to think of
other things, had more attention to spare for the rest, and when the
surgeon came, took some professional interest in the condition of his
own arm, inquired after his patients, and even talked of visiting them.

In the meantime, Margaret sent for her eldest brother, begging him to
tell her the whole, and it was heard as calmly and firmly as it was
told. Her bodily state lulled her mind; and besides it was not new; she
had observed much while her faculties were still too much benumbed for
her to understand all, or to express her feelings. Her thoughts seemed
chiefly occupied with her father. She made Richard explain to her
the injury he had suffered, and begged to know whether his constant
attendance on her could do him harm. She was much rejoiced when her
brother assured her that nothing could be better for him, and she
began to say, with a smile, that very likely her being hurt had been
fortunate. She asked who had taken care of him before Richard’s arrival,
and was pleased to hear that it was Mr. Ernescliffe. A visit from the
little Gertrude Margaret was happily accomplished, and, on the whole,
the day was most satisfactory--she herself declaring that she could not
see that there was anything the matter with her, except that she felt
lazy, and did not seem able to move.

Thus the next Sunday morning dawned with more cheerfulness. Dr. May came
downstairs for the first time, in order to go to church with his whole
flock, except the two Margarets. He looked very wan and shattered, but
they clustered gladly round him, when he once more stood among them,
little Blanche securing his hand, and nodding triumphantly to Mr.
Ernescliffe, as much as to say, “Now I have him, I don’t want you.”

Norman alone was missing; but he was in his place at church among the
boys. Again, in returning, he slipped out of the party, and was at
home the first, and when this recurred in the afternoon Ethel began
to understand his motive. The High Street led past the spot where the
accident had taken place, though neither she nor any of the others knew
exactly where it was, except Norman, on whose mind the scene was branded
indelibly; she guessed that it was to avoid it that he went along what
was called Randall’s Alley, his usual short cut to school.

The Sunday brought back to the children that there was no one to hear
their hymns; but Richard was a great comfort, watching over the little
ones more like a sister than a brother. Ethel was ashamed of herself
when she saw him taking thought for them, tying Blanche’s bonnet,
putting Aubrey’s gloves on, teaching them to put away their Sunday toys,
as if he meant them to be as neat and precise as himself.

Dr. May did not encounter the family dinner, nor attempt a second going
to church; but Blanche was very glorious as she led him down to drink
tea, and, before going up again, he had a conversation with Alan
Ernescliffe, who felt himself obliged to leave Stoneborough early on the
morrow.

“I can endure better to go now,” said he, “and I shall hear of you
often; Hector will let me know, and Richard has promised to write.”

“Ay, you must let us often have a line. I should guess you were a
letter-writing man.”

“I have hitherto had too few friends who cared to hear of me to write
much, but the pleasure of knowing that any interest is taken in me
here--”

“Well,” said the doctor, “mind that a letter will always be welcome, and
when you are coming southwards, here are your old quarters. We cannot
lose sight of you anyway, especially”--and his voice quivered--“after
the help you gave my poor boys and girls in their distress.”

“It would be the utmost satisfaction to think I had been of the smallest
use,” said Alan, hiding much under these commonplace words.

“More than I know,” said Dr. May; “too much to speak of. Well, we shall
see you again, though it is a changed place, and you must come and see
your god-daughter--poor child--may she only be brought up as her sisters
were! They will do their best, poor things, and so must I, but it is sad
work!”

Both were too much overcome for words, but the doctor was the first to
continue, as he took off his dimmed spectacles. He seemed to wish to
excuse himself for giving way; saying, with a look that would fain have
been a smile, “The world has run so light and easy with me hitherto,
that you see I don’t know how to bear with trouble. All thinking and
managing fell to my Maggie’s share, and I had as little care on my hands
as one of my own boys--poor fellows. I don’t know how it is to turn out,
but of all the men on earth to be left with eleven children, I should
choose myself as the worst.”

Alan tried to say somewhat of “Confidence--affection--daughters,” and
broke down, but it did as well as if it had been connected.

“Yes, yes,” said the doctor, “they are good children every one of them.
There’s much to be thankful for, if one could only pluck up heart to
feel it.”

“And you are convinced that Marga--that Miss May is recovering.”

“She has made a great advance today. The head is right, at least,” but
the doctor looked anxious and spoke low as he said, “I am not satisfied
about her yet. That want of power over the limbs, is more than the mere
shock and debility, as it seems to me, though Ward thinks otherwise,
and I trust he is right, but I cannot tell yet as to the spine. If
this should not soon mend I shall have Fleet to see her. He was a
fellow-student of mine very clever, and I have more faith in him than in
any one else in that line.”

“By all means--Yes,” said Alan, excessively shocked. “But you will let
me know how she goes on--Richard will be so kind.”

“We will not fail,” said Dr May more and more touched at the sight of
the young sailor struggling in vain to restrain his emotion, “you shall
hear. I’ll write myself as soon as I can use my hand, but I hope she may
be all right long before that is likely to be.”

“Your kindness--” Alan attempted to say, but began again. “Feeling as I
must--” then interrupting himself. “I beg your pardon, ‘tis no fit time,
nor fit--But you’ll let me hear.”

“That I will,” said Dr May, and as Alan hastily left the room, he
continued, half aloud, to himself, “Poor boy! poor fellow. I see. No
wonder! Heaven grant I have not been the breaking of their two young
hearts, as well as my own! Maggie looked doubtful--as much as she ever
did when my mind was set on a thing, when I spoke of bringing him here.
But after all, she liked him as much as the rest of us did--she could
not wish it otherwise--he is one of a thousand, and worthy of our
Margaret. That he is! and Maggie thinks so. If he gets on in his
profession, why then we shall see--” but the sigh of anguish of mind
here showed that the wound had but been forgotten for one moment.

“Pshaw! What am I running on to? I’m all astray for want of her! My poor
girl--”

Mr Ernescliffe set out before sunrise. The boys were up to wish him
good-bye, and so were Etheldred and Mary, and some one else, for while
the shaking of hands was going on in the hall there was a call, “Mr
Ernthcliffe,” and over the balusters peeped a little rough curly head, a
face glowing with carnation deepened by sleep, and a round, plump, bare
arm and shoulder, and down at Alan’s feet there fell a construction of
white and pink paper, while a voice lisped out, “Mr Ernthcliffe, there’s
a white rothe for you.”

An indignant “Miss Blanche!” was heard behind and there was no certainty
that any thanks reached the poor little heroine, who was evidently borne
off summarily to the nursery, while Ethel gave way to a paroxysm of
suppressed laughter, joined in, more or less, by all the rest, and thus
Alan, promising faithfully to preserve the precious token, left Dr May’s
door, not in so much outward sorrow as he had expected.

Even their father laughed at the romance of the white “rothe,” and
declared Blanche was a dangerous young lady; but the story was less
successful with Miss Winter, who gravely said it was no wonder since
Blanche’s elder sister had been setting her the example of forwardness
in coming down in this way after Mr. Ernescliffe. Ethel was very angry,
and was only prevented from vindicating herself by remembering there
was no peacemaker now, and that she had resolved only to think of Miss
Winter’s late kindness, and bear with her tiresome ways.

Etheldred thought herself too sorrowful to be liable to her usual faults
which would seem so much worse now; but she found herself more irritable
than usual, and doubly heedless, because her mind was preoccupied. She
hated herself, and suffered more from sorrow than even at the first
moment, for now she felt what it was to have no one to tame her, no eye
over her; she found herself going a tort et a travers all the morning,
and with no one to set her right. Since it was so the first day, what
would follow?

Mary was on the contrary so far subdued, as to be exemplary in goodness
and diligence, and Blanche was always steady. Flora was too busy to
think of the school-room, for the whole house was on her hands, besides
the charge of Margaret, while Dr. May went to the hospital, and
to sundry patients, and they thought he seemed the better for the
occupation, as well as gratified and affected by the sympathy he
everywhere met with from high and low.

The boys were at school, unseen except when at the dinner play-hour
Norman ran home to ask after his father and sister; but the most trying
time was at eight in the evening, when they came home. That was wont to
be the merriest part of the whole day, the whole family collected,
papa at leisure and ready for talk or for play, mamma smiling over her
work-basket, the sisters full of chatter, the brothers full of fun, all
the tidings of the day discussed, and nothing unwelcome but bedtime. How
different now! The doctor was with Margaret, and though Richard tried to
say something cheerful as his brothers entered, there was no response,
and they sat down on the opposite sides of the fire, forlorn and silent,
till Richard, who was printing some letters on card-board to supply the
gaps in Aubrey’s ivory Alphabet, called Harry to help him; but Ethel,
as she sat at work, could only look at Norman, and wish she could devise
anything likely to gratify him.

After a time Flora came down, and laying some sheets of closely written
note-paper before her sister, said, “Here is dear mamma’s unfinished
letter to Aunt Flora. Papa says we elder ones are to read it. It is a
description of us all, and very much indeed we ought to learn from it. I
shall keep a copy of it.”

Flora took up her work, and began to consult with Richard, while Ethel
moved to Norman’s side, and kneeling so as to lean against his shoulder,
as he sat on a low cushion, they read their mother’s last letter by
the fire-light, with indescribable feelings, as they went through the
subjects that had lately occupied them, related by her who would never
be among them again. After much of this kind, for her letters to Mrs.
Arnott were almost journals, came,


“You say it is long since you had a portrait gallery of the chicken
daisies, and if I do not write in these leisure days, you will hardly
get it after I am in the midst of business again. The new Daisy is like
Margaret at the same age--may she continue like her! Pretty creature,
she can hardly be more charming than at present. Aubrey, the moon-faced,
is far from reconciled to his disposition from babyhood; he is a sober,
solemn gentleman, backward in talking, and with such a will of his own,
as will want much watching; very different from Blanche, who is Flora
over again, perhaps prettier and more fairy-like, unless this is only
one’s admiration for the buds of the present season. None of them has
ever been so winning as this little maid, who even attracts Dr. Hoxton
himself, and obtains sugar-plums and kisses. ‘Rather she than I,’ says
Harry, but notice is notice to the white Mayflower, and there is my
anxiety--I am afraid it is not wholesome to be too engaging ever to get
a rebuff. I hope having a younger sister, and outgrowing baby charms may
be salutary. Flora soon left off thinking about her beauty, and the fit
of vanity does less harm at five than fifteen. My poor Tom has not such
a happy life as Blanche, he is often in trouble at lessons, and bullied
by Harry at play, in spite of his champion, Mary; and yet I cannot
interfere, for it is good for him to have all this preparatory teasing
before he goes into school. He has good abilities, but not much
perseverance or energy, and I must take the teaching of him into my
own hands till his school-days begin, in hopes of instilling them.
The girlishness and timidity will be knocked out of him by the boys,
I suppose; Harry is too kind and generous to do more than tease him
moderately, and Norman will see that it does not go too far. It is a
common saying that Tom and Mary made a mistake, that he is the girl,
and she the boy, for she is a rough, merry creature, the noisiest in the
house, always skirmishing with Harry in defence of Tom, and yet devoted
to him, and wanting to do everything he does. Those two, Harry and Mary,
are exactly alike, except for Harry’s curly mane of lion-coloured wig.
The yellow-haired laddie, is papa’s name for Harry, which he does not
mind from him, though furious if the girls attempt to call him so.
Harry is the thorough boy of the family, all spirit, recklessness, and
mischief, but so true, and kind, and noble-hearted, that one loves him
the better after every freely confessed scrape. I cannot tell you how
grateful I am to my boy for his perfect confidence, the thing that
chiefly lessens my anxiety for him in his half-school, half-home life,
which does not seem to me to work quite well with him. There are two
sons of Mrs. Anderson’s at the school, who are more his friends than I
like, and he is too easily led by the desire not to be outdone, and to
show that he fears nothing. Lately, our sailor-guest has inspired him
with a vehement wish to go to sea; I wish it was not necessary that the
decision should be made so early in life, for this fault is just what
would make us most fear to send him into the world very young, though in
some ways it might not do amiss for him.

“So much for the younger bairns, whom you never beheld, dear Flora.
The three whom you left, when people used to waste pity on me for their
being all babies together, now look as if any pair of them were twins,
for Norman is the tallest, almost outgrowing his strength, and Ethel’s
sharp face, so like her papa’s, makes her look older than Flora. Norman
and Ethel do indeed take after their papa, more than any of the others,
and are much alike. There is the same brilliant cleverness, the same
strong feeling, not easy of demonstration, though impetuous in action;
but poor Ethel’s old foibles, her harum-scarum nature, quick temper,
uncouth manners, and heedlessness of all but one absorbing object, have
kept her back, and caused her much discomfort; yet I sometimes think
these manifest defects have occasioned a discipline that is the
best thing for the character in the end. They are faults that show
themselves, and which one can tell how to deal with, and I have full
confidence that she has the principle within her that will conquer
them.”

“If--” mournfully sighed Ethel; but her brother pointed on further.

“My great hope is her entire indifference to praise--not approval, but
praise. If she has not come up to her own standard, she works on, not
always with good temper, but perseveringly, and entirely, unheeding of
commendation till she has satisfied herself, only thinking it stupid not
to see the faults. It is this independence of praise that I want to see
in her brother and sister. They justly earn it, and are rightly pleased
with it; but I cannot feel sure whether they do not depend on it too
much. Norman lives, like all school-boys, a life of emulation, and has
never met with anything but success. I do believe Dr. Hoxton and
Mr. Wilmot are as proud of him as we are; and he has never shown any
tendency to conceit, but I am afraid he has the love of being foremost,
and pride in his superiority, caring for what he is, compared with
others, rather than what he is himself.”


“I know,” said Norman; “I have done so, but that’s over. I see what it
is worth. I’d give all the quam optimes I ever got in my life to be the
help Richard is to papa.”

“You would if you were his age.”

“Not I, I’m not the sort. I’m not like her. But are we to go on about
the elders?”

“Oh! yes, don’t let us miss a word. There can’t be anything but praise
of them.”


“Your sweet goddaughter. I almost feel as if I had spoken in
disparagement of her, but I meant no such thing, dear girl. It would be
hard to find a fault in her, since the childish love of admiration was
subdued. She is so solid and steady, as to be very valuable with the
younger ones, and is fast growing so lovely, that I wish you could
behold her. I do not see any vanity, but there lies my dread, not
of beauty--vanity, but that she will find temptation in the being
everywhere liked and sought after. As to Margaret, my precious companion
and friend, you have heard enough of her to know her, and, as to telling
you what she is like, I could as soon set about describing her papa.
When I thought of not being spared to them this time, it was happiness
indeed to think of her at their head, fit to be his companion, with so
much of his own talent as to be more up to conversation with him, than
he could ever have found his stupid old Maggie. It was rather a trial
of her discretion to have Mr. Ernescliffe here while I was upstairs,
and very well she seems to have come out of it. Poor Richard’s last
disappointment is still our chief trouble. He has been working hard with
a tutor all through the vacation, and has not even come home to see his
new sister, on his way to Oxford. He had made a resolution that he would
not come to us till he had passed, and his father thought it best that
it should be kept. I hope he will succeed next time, but his nervousness
renders it still more doubtful. With him it is the very reverse of
Norman. He suffers too much for want of commendation, and I cannot
wonder at it, when I see how much each failure vexes his father, and
Richard little knows how precious is our perfect confidence in him, how
much more valuable than any honours he could earn. You would be amused
to see how little he is altered from the pretty little fair fellow,
that you used to say was so like my old portrait, even the wavy rings of
light glossy hair sit on his forehead, just as you liked to twist them;
and his small trim figure is a fine contrast to Norman’s long legs and
arms, which--”


There the letter broke off, the playful affection of the last words
making it almost more painful to think that the fond hand would never
finish the sentence.




CHAPTER VI.



     A drooping daisy changed into a cup,
     In which her bright-eyed beauty is shut up.
                                          WORDSWORTH.


“So there you are up for the day--really you look very comfortable,”
 said Ethel, coming into the room where Margaret lay on her bed,
half-raised by pillows, supported by a wooden frame.

“Yes, is not it a charming contrivance of Richard’s? It quite gives me
the use of my hands,” said Margaret.

“I think he is doing something else for you,” said Ethel; “I heard him
carpentering at six o’clock this morning, but I suppose it is to be a
secret.”

“And don’t you admire her night-cap?” said Flora.

“Is it anything different?” said Ethel, peering closer. “Oh, I see--so
she has a fine day night-cap. Is that your taste, Flora?”

“Partly,” said Margaret, “and partly my own. I put in all these little
white puffs, and I hope you think they do me credit. Wasn’t it grand of
me?”

“She only despises you for them,” said Flora.

“I’m very glad you could,” said Ethel, gravely; “but do you know? it
is rather like that horrid old lady in some book, who had a paralytic
stroke, and the first thing she did that showed she had come to her
senses was to write, ‘Rose-coloured curtains for the doctors.’”

“Well, it was for the doctor,” said Margaret, “and it had its effect. He
told me I looked much better when he found me trying it on.”

“And did you really have the looking-glass and try it on?” cried Ethel.

“Yes, really,” said Flora. “Don’t you think one may as well be fit to be
seen if one is ill? It is no use to depress one’s friends by being more
forlorn and disconsolate than one can help.”

“No--not disconsolate,” said Ethel; “but the white puffiness--and the
hemming--and the glass!”

“Poor Ethel can’t get over it,” said Margaret. “But, Ethel, do you think
there is nothing disconsolate in untidiness?”

“You could be tidy without the little puffs! Your first bit of work too!
Don’t think I’m tiresome. If they were an amusement to you, I am sure I
am very glad of them, but I can’t see the sense of them.”

“Poor little things!” said Margaret laughing. “It is only my foible for
making a thing look nice. And, Ethel,” she added, drawing her down close
over her, “I did not think the trouble wasted, if seeing me look fresher
cheered up dear papa a moment.”

“I spoke to papa about nurse’s proposal,” said Margaret presently to
Flora, “and he quite agrees to it. Indeed it is impossible that Anne
should attend properly to all the children while nurse is so much
engaged with me.”

“I think so,” said Flora; “and it does not answer to bring Aubrey into
the school-room. It only makes Mary and Blanche idle, and Miss Winter
does not like it.”

“Then the question is, who shall it be? Nurse has no one in view, and
only protests against ‘one of the girls out of the school here.’”

“That’s a great pity,” said Flora. “Don’t you think we could make her
take to Jane White, she is so very nice.”

“I thought of her, but it will never answer if we displease nurse.
Besides, I remember at the time Anne came, dear mamma thought there was
danger of a girl’s having too many acquaintances, especially taking the
children out walking. We cannot always be sure of sending her out with
Anne.”

“Do you remember--” said Ethel, there stopping.

“Well,” said both sisters.

“Don’t you recollect, Flora, that girl whose father was in the
hospital--that girl at Cocksmoor?”

“I do,” said Flora. “She was a very nice girl; I wonder whether nurse
would approve of her.”

“How old?” said Margaret. “Fourteen, and tall. Such a clean cottage!”

The girls went on, and Margaret began to like the idea very much, and
consider whether the girl could be brought for inspection, before nurse
was prejudiced by hearing of her Cocksmoor extraction. At that moment
Richard knocked at the door, and entered with Tom, helping him to bring
a small short-legged table, such as could stand on the bed at the right
height for Margaret’s meals or employments.

There were great exclamations of satisfaction, and gratitude; “it was
the very thing wanted, only how could he have contrived it?”

“Don’t you recognise it?” said he.

“Oh, I see; it is the old drawing-desk that no one used. And you have
put legs to it--how famous! You are the best contriver, Richard!”

“Then see, you can raise it up for reading or writing; here’s a corner
for your ink to stand flat; and there it is down for your dinner.”

“Charming, you have made it go so easily, when it used to be so stiff.
There--give me my work-basket, please, Ethel; I mean to make some more
white puffs.”

“What’s the matter now, Ethel?” said Flora; “you look as if you did not
approve of the table.”

“I was only thinking it was as if she was settling herself to lie in bed
for a very long time,” said Ethel.

“I hope not,” said Richard; “but I don’t see why she should not be as
comfortable as she can, while she is there.”

“I am sure I hope you will never be ill, Ethel,” said Flora. “You would
be horrid to nurse!”

“She will know how to be grateful when she is,” said Margaret.

“I say, Richard,” exclaimed Ethel, “this is hospital-meeting day, so you
won’t be wanted to drive papa.”

“No, I am at your service; do you want a walk?”

So it was determined that Richard and Ethel should walk together to
Cocksmoor.

No two people could be much more unlike than Richard and Etheldred May;
but they were very fond of each other. Richard was sometimes seriously
annoyed by Ethel’s heedlessness, and did not always understand her
sublimities, but he had a great deal of admiration for one who partook
so much of his father’s nature; and Ethel had a due respect for her
eldest brother, gratitude and strong affection for many kindnesses,
a reverence for his sterling goodness, and his exemption from her own
besetting failings, only a little damped by compassionate wonder at
his deficiency in talent, and by her vexation at not being always
comprehended.

They went by the road, for the plantation gate was far too serious an
undertaking for any one not in the highest spirits for enterprise. On
the way there was a good deal of that desultory talk, very sociable and
interesting, that is apt to prevail between two people, who would never
have chosen each other for companions, if they were not of the same
family, but who are nevertheless very affectionate and companionable.
Ethel was anxious to hear what her brother thought of papa’s spirits,
and whether he talked in their drives.

“Sometimes,” said Richard. “It is just as it happens. Now and then he
goes on just like himself, and then at other times he will not speak for
three or four miles.”

“And he sighs?” said Ethel. “Those sighs are so very sad, and long, and
deep! They seem to have whole volumes in them, as if there was such a
weight on him.”

“Some people say he is not as much altered as they expected,” said
Richard.

“Oh! do they? Well! I can’t fancy any one feeling it more. He can’t
leave off his old self, of course, but--” Ethel stopped short.

“Margaret is a great comfort to him,” said Richard.

“That she is. She thinks of him all day long, and I don’t think either
of them is ever so happy as in the evening, when he sits with her. They
talk about mamma then--”

It was just what Richard could not do, and he made some observation to
change the subject, but Ethel returned to it, so far as to beg to know
how the arm was going on, for she did not like to say anything about it
to papa.

“It will be a long business, I am afraid,” said Richard. “Indeed, he
said the other day, he thought he should never have the free use of the
elbow.”

“And do you think it is very painful? I saw the other day, when Aubrey
was sitting on his knee and fidgeting, he shrank whenever he even came
towards it, and yet it seemed as if he could not bear to put him down.”

“Yes it is excessively tender, and sometimes gets very bad at night.”

“Ah,” said Ethel; “there’s a line--here--round his eyes, that there
never used to be, and when it deepens, I am sure he is in pain, or has
been kept awake.”

“You are very odd, Ethel; how do you see things in people’s faces, when
you miss so much at just the same distance?”

“I look after what I care about,” said Ethel. “One sees more with one’s
mind than one’s eyes. The best sight is inside.”

“But do you always see the truth?” said Richard gravely.

“Quite enough. What is less common than the ordinary world?” said Ethel.

Richard shook his head, not quite satisfied, but not sure enough that he
entered into her meaning to question it.

“I wonder you don’t wear spectacles,” was the result of his meditation,
and it made her laugh by being so inapposite to her own reflections: but
the laugh ended in a melancholy look. “Dear mamma did not like me to use
them,” she said, in a low voice.

Thus they talked till they arrived at Cocksmoor, where poor Mrs. Taylor,
inspirited by better reports of her husband and the hopes for her
daughter, was like another woman. Richard was very careful not to raise
false expectations, saying it all depended on Miss May and nurse, and
what they thought of her strength and steadiness, but these cautions
did not seem capable of damping the hopes of the smooth-haired Lucy,
who stood smiling and curtseying. The twins were grown and improved, and
Ethel supposed they would be brought to church on the next christening
Sunday, but their mother looked helpless and hopeless about getting
them so far, and how was she to get gossips? Ethel began to grow very
indignant, but she was always shy of finding fault with poor people
to their faces when she would not have done so to persons in her own
station, and so she was silent, while Richard hoped they would be able
to manage, and said it would be better not to wait another month for
still worse weather and shorter days.

As they were coming out of the house, a big, rough-looking, uncivilised
boy came up before them, and called out, “I say--ben’t you the young
doctor up at Stoneborough?”

“I am Dr. May’s son,” said Richard; while Ethel, startled, clung to his
arm, in dread of some rudeness.

“Granny’s bad,” said the boy; proceeding without further explanation to
lead the way to another hovel, though Richard tried to explain that the
knowledge of medicine was not in his case hereditary. A poor old woman
sat groaning over the fire, and two children crouched, half-clothed, on
the bare floor.

Richard’s gentle voice and kind manner drew forth some wonderful
descriptions--“her head was all of a goggle, her legs all of a fur, she
felt as if some one was cutting right through her.”

“Well,” said Richard kindly, “I am no doctor myself, but I’ll ask
my father about you, and perhaps he can give you an order for the
hospital.”

“No, no, thank ye, sir; I can’t go to the hospital, I can’t leave these
poor children; they’ve no father nor mother, sir, and no one to do for
them but me.”

“What do you live on, then?” said Richard, looking round the desolate
hut.

“On Sam’s wages, sir; that’s that boy. He is a good boy to me, sir, and
his little sisters; he brings it, all he gets, home to me, rig’lar, but
‘tis but six shillings a week, and they makes ‘em take half of it out in
goods and beer, which is a bad thing for a boy like him, sir.”

“How old are you, Sam?”

Sam scratched his head, and answered nothing. His grandmother knew he
was the age of her black bonnet, and as he looked about fifteen, Ethel
honoured him and the bonnet accordingly, while Richard said he must be
very glad to be able to maintain them all, at his age, and, promising to
try to bring his father that way, since prescribing at second hand
for such curious symptoms was more than could be expected, he took his
leave.

“A wretched place,” said Richard, looking round. “I don’t know what help
there is for the people. There’s no one to do any thing for them, and it
is of no use to tell them to come to church when it it so far off, and
there is so little room for them.”

“It is miserable,” said Ethel; and all her thoughts during her last walk
thither began to rush over her again, not effaced, but rather burned in,
by all that had subsequently happened. She had said it should be her aim
and effort to make Cocksmoor a Christian place. Such a resolve must not
pass away lightly; she knew it must be acted on, but how? What would her
present means--one sovereign--effect? Her fancies, rich and rare,
had nearly been forgotten of late, but she might make them of use in
time--in time, and here were hives of children growing up in heathenism.
Suddenly an idea struck her--Richard, when at home, was a very diligent
teacher in the Sunday-school at Stoneborough, though it was a thankless
task, and he was the only gentleman so engaged, except the two
clergymen--the other male teachers being a formal, grave, little baker,
and one or two monitors.

“Richard,” said Ethel, “I’ll tell you what. Suppose we were to get up
a Sunday-school at Cocksmoor. We could get a room, and walk there every
Sunday afternoon, and go to church in the evening instead.”

He was so confounded by the suddenness of the project, that he did not
answer, till she had time for several exclamations and “Well, Richard?”

“I cannot tell,” he said. “Going to church in the evening would
interfere with tea-time--put out all the house--make the evening
uncomfortable.”

“The evenings are horrid now, especially Sundays,” said Ethel.

“But missing two more would make them worse for the others.”

“Papa is always with Margaret,” said Ethel. “We are of no use to him.
Besides these poor children--are not they of more importance?”

“And, then, what is to become of Stoneborough school?”

“I hate it,” exclaimed Ethel; then seeing Richard shocked, and finding
she had spoken more vehemently than she intended--“It is not as bad
for you among the boys, but, while that committee goes on it is not
the least use to try to teach the girls right. Oh! the fusses about the
books, and one’s way of teaching! And fancy how Mrs Ledwich used us.
You know I went again last Sunday, for the first time, and there I found
that class of Margaret’s, that she had just managed to get into some
degree of nice order, taken so much pains with, taught so well. She
had been telling me what to hear them--there it is given away to
Fanny Anderson, who is no more fit to teach than that stick, and all
Margaret’s work will be undone. No notice to us--not even the civility
to wait and see when she gets better.”

“If we left them now for Cocksmoor, would it not look as it we were
affronted?”

Ethel was slightly taken aback, but only said, “Papa would be very angry
if he knew it.”

“I am glad you did not tell him,” said Richard.

“I thought it would only tease him,” said Ethel, “and that he might
call it a petty female squabble; and when Margaret is well, it will come
right, if Fanny Anderson has not spoiled the girls in the meantime. It
is all Mrs. Ledwich’s doing. How I did hate it when every one came up
and shook hands with me, and asked after Margaret and papa, only just
out of curiosity!”

“Hush, hush, Ethel, what’s the use of thinking such things?”

A silence,--then she exclaimed, “But, indeed, Richard, you don’t
fancy that I want to teach at Cocksmoor, because it is disagreeable at
Stoneborough?”

“No, indeed.”

The rendering of full justice conveyed in his tone so opened Ethel’s
heart that she went on eagerly:--“The history of it is this. Last time
we walked here, that day, I said, and I meant it, that I would never put
it out of my head; I would go on doing and striving, and trying, till
this place was properly cared for, and has a church and a clergyman. I
believe it was a vow, Richard, I do believe it was,--and if one makes
one, one must keep it. There it is. So, I can’t give money, I have but
one pound in the world, but I have time, and I would make that useful,
if you would help me.”

“I don’t see how,” was the answer, and there was a fragment of a smile
on Richard’s face, as if it struck him as a wild scheme, that Ethel
should undertake, single handed, to evangelise Cocksmoor.

It was such a damper as to be most mortifying to an enthusiastic girl,
and she drew into herself in a moment.

They walked home in silence, and when Richard warned her that she was
not keeping her dress out of the dirt, it sounded like a sarcasm on
her projects, and, with a slightly pettish manner, she raised the
unfortunate skirt, its crape trimmings greatly bespattered with ruddy
mud. Then recollecting how mamma would have shaken her head at that very
thing, she regretted the temper she had betrayed, and in a larmoyante
voice, sighed, “I wish I could pick my way better. Some people have the
gift, you have hardly a splash, and I’m up to the ankles in mud.”

“It is only taking care,” said Richard; “besides your frock is so long,
and full. Can’t you tuck it up and pin it?”

“My pins always come out,” said Ethel, disconsolately, crumpling the
black folds into one hand, while she hunted for a pin with the other.

“No wonder, if you stick them in that way,” said Richard. “Oh! you’ll
tear that crape. Here, let me help you. Don’t you see, make it go in and
out, that way; give it something to pull against.”

Ethel laughed. “That’s the third thing you have taught me--to thread a
needle, tie a bow, and stick in a pin! I never could learn those things
of any one else; they show, but don’t explain the theory.”

They met Dr. May at the entrance of the town, very tired, and saying
he had been a long tramp, all over the place, and Mrs. Hoxton had been
boring him with her fancies. As he took Richard’s arm he gave the long
heavy sigh that always fell so painfully on Ethel’s ear.

“Dear, dear, dear papa!” thought she, “my work must also be to do all I
can to comfort him.”

Her reflections were broken off. Dr. May exclaimed, “Ethel, don’t make
such a figure of yourself. Those muddy ankles and petticoats are not
fit to be seen--there, now you are sweeping the pavement. Have you no
medium? One would think you had never worn a gown in your life before!”

Poor Ethel stepped on before with mud-encrusted heels, and her father
speaking sharply in the weariness and soreness of his heart; her
draggle-tailed petticoats weighing down at once her missionary projects
at Cocksmoor, and her tender visions of comforting her widowed father;
her heart was full to overflowing, and where was the mother to hear her
troubles?

She opened the hall door, and would have rushed upstairs, but nurse
happened to be crossing the hall. “Miss Ethel! Miss Ethel, you aren’t
going up with them boots on! I do declare you are just like one of the
boys. And your frock!”

Ethel sat submissively down on the lowest step, and pulled off her
boots. As she did so, her father and brother came in--the former
desiring Richard to come with him to the study, and write a note for
him. She hoped that thus she might have Margaret to herself, and hurried
into her room. Margaret was alone, maids and children at tea, and Flora
dressing. The room was in twilight, with the red gleam of the fire
playing cheerfully over it.

“Well, Ethel, have you had a pleasant walk?”

“Yes--no--Oh, Margaret!” and throwing herself across the bottom of the
bed, she burst into tears.

“Ethel, dear, what is the matter? Papa--”

“No--no--only I draggled my frock, and Richard threw cold water. And I
am good for nothing! Oh! if mamma was but here!”

“Darling Ethel, dear Ethel, I wish I could comfort you. Come a little
nearer to me, I can’t reach you! Dear Ethel, what has gone wrong?”

“Everything,” said Ethel. “No--I’m too dirty to come on your white bed;
I forgot, you won’t like it,” added she, in an injured tone.

“You are wet, you are cold, you are tired,” said Margaret. “Stay here
and dress, don’t go up in the cold. There, sit by the fire pull off your
frock and stockings, and we will send for the others. Let me see you
look comfortable--there. Now tell me who threw cold water.”

“It was figurative cold water,” said Ethel, smiling for a moment. “I was
only silly enough to tell Richard my plan, and it’s horrid to talk to
a person who only thinks one high-flying and nonsensical--and then came
the dirt.”

“But what was the scheme, Ethel?”

“Cocksmoor,” said Ethel, proceeding to unfold it.

“I wish we could,” said Margaret. “It would be an excellent thing. But
how did Richard vex you?”

“I don’t know,” said Ethel, “only he thought it would not do. Perhaps he
said right, but it was coldly, and he smiled.”

“He is too sober-minded for our flights,” said Margaret. “I know the
feeling of it, Ethel dear; but you know if he did see that some of
your plans might not answer, it is no reason you should not try to do
something at once. You have not told me about the girl.”

Ethel proceeded to tell the history. “There!” said Margaret cheerfully,
“there are two ways of helping Cocksmoor already. Could you not make
some clothes for the two grandchildren? I could help you a little,
and then, if they were well clothed, you might get them to come to the
Sunday-school. And as to the twins, I wonder what the hire of a cart
would be to bring the christening party? It is just what Richard could
manage.”

“Yes,” said Ethel; “but those are only little isolated individual
things!”

“But one must make a beginning.”

“Then, Margaret, you think it was a real vow? You don’t think it silly
of me?” said Ethel wistfully.

“Ethel, dear, I don’t think dear mamma would say we ought to make vows,
except what the church decrees for us. I don’t think she would like the
notion of your considering yourself pledged; but I do think, that, after
all you have said and felt about Cocksmoor, and being led there on that
day, it does seem as if we might be intended to make it our especial
charge.”

“Oh, Margaret, I am glad you say so. You always understand.”

“But you know we are so young, that now we have not her to judge for us,
we must only do little things that we are quite sure of, or we shall get
wrong.”

“That’s not the way great things were done.”

“I don’t know, Ethel; I think great things can’t be good unless they
stand on a sure foundation of little ones.”

“Well, I believe Richard was right, and it would not do to begin on
Sunday, but he was so tame; and then my frock, and the horrid deficiency
in those little neatnesses.”

“Perhaps that is good for you in one way; you might get very high-flying
if you had not the discipline of those little tiresome things,
correcting them will help you, and keep your high things from being all
romance. I know dear mamma used to say so; that the trying to conquer
them was a help to you. Oh, here’s Mary! Mary, will you get Ethel’s
dressing things? She has come home wet-footed and cold, and has been
warming herself by my fire.”

Mary was happy to help, and Ethel was dressed and cheered by the time
Dr. May came in, for a hurried visit and report of his doings; Flora
followed on her way from her room. Then all went to tea, leaving
Margaret to have a visit from the little ones under charge of nurse. Two
hours’ stay with her, that precious time when she knew that sad as the
talk often was, it was truly a comfort to him. It ended when ten o’clock
struck, and he went down--Margaret hearing the bell, the sounds of
the assembling servants, the shutting of the door, the stillness
of prayer-time, the opening again, the feet moving off in different
directions, then brothers and sisters coming in to kiss her and bid her
good-night, nurse and Flora arranging her for the night, Flora coming
to sleep in her little bed in the corner of the room, and, lastly, her
father’s tender good-night, and melancholy look at her, and all was
quiet, except the low voices and movements as Richard attended him in
his own room.

Margaret could think: “Dear, dear Ethel, how noble and high she is! But
I am afraid! It is what people call a difficult, dangerous age, and the
grander she is, the greater danger of not managing her rightly. If those
high purposes should run only into romance like mine, or grow out into
eccentricities and unfemininesses, what a grievous pity it would be! And
I, so little older, so much less clever, with just sympathy enough not
to be a wise restraint--I am the person who has the responsibility, and
oh, what shall I do? Mamma trusted to me to be a mother to them, papa
looks to me, and I so unfit, besides this helplessness. But God sent it,
and put me in my place. He made me lie here, and will raise me up if it
is good, so I trust He will help me with my sisters.”

“Grant me to have a right judgment in all things, and evermore to
rejoice in Thy holy comfort.”




CHAPTER VII.



     Something between a hindrance and a help.
                                    WORDSWORTH.


Etheldred awoke long before time for getting up, and lay pondering over
her visions. Margaret had sympathised, and therefore they did not seem
entirely aerial. To earn money by writing was her favourite plan, and
she called her various romances in turn before her memory, to judge
which might be brought down to sober pen and ink. She considered till it
became not too unreasonably early to get up. It was dark, but there was
a little light close to the window: she had no writing-paper, but she
would interline her old exercise-book. Down she ran, and crouching
in the school-room window-seat, she wrote on in a trance of eager
composition, till Norman called her, as he went to school, to help him
to find a book.

This done, she went up to visit Margaret, to tell her the story, and
consult her. But this was not so easy. She found Margaret with little
Daisy lying by her, and Tom sitting by the fire over his Latin.

“Oh, Ethel, good-morning, dear! you are come just in time.”

“To take baby?” said Ethel, as the child was fretting a little.

“Yes, thank you, she has been very good, but she was tired of lying
here, and I can’t move her about,” said Margaret.

“Oh, Margaret, I have such a plan,” said Ethel, as she walked about with
little Gertrude; but Tom interrupted.

“Margaret, will you see if I can say my lesson?” and the thumbed Latin
grammar came across her just as Dr. May’s door opened, and he came in
exclaiming, “Latin grammar! Margaret, this is really too much for you.
Good-morning, my dears. Ha! Tommy, take your book away, my boy. You must
not inflict that on sister now. There’s your regular master, Richard, in
my room, if it is fit for his ears yet. What, the little one here too?”

“How is your arm, papa?” said Margaret. “Did it keep you awake?”

“Not long--it set me dreaming though, and a very romantic dream it was,
worthy of Ethel herself.”

“What was it, papa?”

“Oh, it was an odd thing, joining on strangely enough with one I had
three or four and twenty years ago, when I was a young man, hearing
lectures at Edinburgh, and courting--” he stopped, and felt Margaret’s
pulse, asked her a few questions, and talked to the baby. Ethel longed
to hear his dream, but thought he would not like to go on; however, he
did presently.

“The old dream was the night after a picnic on Arthur’s Seat with the
Mackenzies; mamma and Aunt Flora were there. ‘Twas a regular boy’s
dream, a tournament, or something of that nature, where I was victor,
the queen--you know who she was--giving me her token--a Daisy Chain.”

“That is why you like to call us your Daisy Chain,” said Ethel.

“Did you write it in verse?” said Margaret. “I think I once saw some
verses like it in her desk.”

“I was in love, and three-and-twenty,” said the doctor, looking drolly
guilty in the midst of his sadness. “Ay, those fixed it in my memory,
perhaps my fancy made it more distinct than it really was. An evening
or two ago I met with them, and that stirred it up I suppose. Last
night came the tournament again, but it was the melee, a sense of being
crushed down, suffocated by the throng of armed knights and horses--pain
and wounds--and I looked in vain through the opposing overwhelming
host for my--my Maggie. Well, I got the worst of it, my sword arm was
broken--I fell, was stifled--crushed--in misery--all I could do was to
grasp my token--my Daisy Chain,” and he pressed Margaret’s hand as he
said so. “And, behold, the tumult and despair were passed. I lay on the
grass in the cloisters, and the Daisy Chain hung from the sky, and was
drawing me upwards. There--it is a queer dream for a sober old country
doctor. I don’t know why I told you, don’t tell any one again.”

And he walked away, muttering. “For he told me his dreams, talked of
eating and drinking,” leaving Margaret with her eyes full of tears, and
Ethel vehemently caressing the baby.

“How beautiful!” said Ethel.

“It has been a comfort to him, I am sure,” said Margaret.

“You don’t think it ominous,” said Ethel with a slight tremulous voice.

“More soothing than anything else. It is what we all feel, is it not?
that this little daisy bud is the link between us and heaven?”

“But about him. He was victor at first--vanquished the next time.”

“I think--if it is to have an interpretation, though I am not sure we
ought to take it so seriously, it would only mean that in younger days
people care for victory and distinction in this world, like Norman, or
as papa most likely did then; but, as they grow older, they care less,
and others pass them, and they know it does not signify, for in our race
all may win.”

“But he has a great name. How many people come from a distance to
consult him! he is looked upon, too, in other ways! he can do anything
with the corporation.”

Margaret smiled. “All this does not sound grand--it is not as if he had
set up in London.”

“Oh, dear, I am so glad he did not.”

“Shall I tell you what mamma told me he said about it, when Uncle
Mackenzie said he ought? He answered that he thought health and happy
home attachments were a better provision for us to set out in life with
than thousands.”

“I am sure he was right!” said Ethel earnestly. “Then you don’t think
the dream meant being beaten, only that our best things are not gained
by successes in this world?”

“Don’t go and let it dwell on your mind as a vision,” said Margaret. “I
think dear mamma would call that silly.”

An interruption occurred, and Ethel had to go down to breakfast with a
mind floating between romance, sorrow, and high aspirations, very unlike
the actual world she had to live in. First, there was a sick man walking
into the study, and her father, laying down his letters, saying, “I must
despatch him before prayers, I suppose. I’ve a great mind to say I never
will see any one who won’t keep to my days.”

“I can’t imagine why they don’t,” said Flora, as he went. “He is always
saying so, but never acting on it. If he would once turn one away, the
rest would mind.”

Richard went on in silence, cutting bread and butter.

“There’s another ring,” said Mary.

“Yes, he is caught now, they’ll go on in a stream. I shall not keep
Margaret waiting for her breakfast, I shall take it up.”

The morning was tiresome; though Dr. May had two regular days for seeing
poor people at his house, he was too good-natured to keep strictly to
them, and this day, as Flora had predicted, there was a procession of
them not soon got rid of, even by his rapid queries and the talismanic
figures made by his left hand on scraps of paper, with which he sent
them off to the infirmary. Ethel tried to read; the children lingered
about; it was a trial of temper to all but Tom, who obtained Richard’s
attention to his lessons. He liked to say them to his brother, and was
an incentive to learn them quickly, that none might remain for Miss
Winter when Richard went out with his father. If mamma had been there,
she would have had prayers; but now no one had authority enough, though
they did at last even finish breakfast. Just as the gig came to the
door, Dr. May dismissed his last patient, rang the bell in haste, and
as soon as prayers were over, declared he had an appointment, and had no
time to eat. There was a general outcry that it was bad enough when he
was well, and now he must not take liberties; Flora made him drink some
tea; and Richard placed morsels in his way, while he read his letters.
He ran up for a final look at Margaret, almost upset the staid Miss
Winter as he ran down again, called Richard to take the reins, and was
off.

It was French day, always a trial to Ethel. M. Ballompre, the master,
knew what was good and bad French, but could not render a reason,
and Ethel, being versed in the principles of grammar, from her Latin
studies, chose to know the why and wherefore of his corrections--she did
not like to see her pages defaced, and have no security against future
errors; while he thought her a troublesome pupil, and was put out by
her questions. They wrangled, Miss Winter was displeased, and Ethel felt
injured.

Mary’s inability to catch the pronunciation, and her hopeless dull look
when she found that coeur must not be pronounced cour, nor cur, but
something between, to which her rosy English lips could never come--all
this did not tease M. Ballompre, for he was used to it.

His mark for Ethel’s lesson was “de l’humeur.”

“I am sorry,” said Miss Winter, when he was gone. “I thought you had
outgrown that habit of disputing over every phrase.”

“I can’t tell how a language is to be learned without knowing the
reasons of one’s mistakes,” said Ethel.

“That is what you always say, my dear. It is of no use to renew it all,
but I wish you would control yourself. Now, Mary, call Blanche, and you
and Ethel take your arithmetic.”

So Flora went to read to Margaret, while Blanche went lightly and
playfully through her easy lessons, and Mary floundered piteously over
the difficulties of Compound Long Division. Ethel’s mind was in too
irritated and tumultuous a state for her to derive her usual solace from
Cube Root. Her sum was wrong, and she wanted to work it right, but Miss
Winter, who had little liking for the higher branches of arithmetic,
said she had spent time enough over it, and summoned her to an
examination such as the governess was very fond of and often practised.
Ethel thought it useless, and was teased by it; and though her answers
were chiefly correct, they were given in an irritated tone. It was of
this kind:--


        What is the date of the invention of paper?
        What is the latitude and longitude of Otaheite?
        What are the component parts of brass?
        Whence is cochineal imported?


When this was over, Ethel had to fetch her mending-basket, and Mary her
book of selections; the piece for to-day’s lesson was the quarrel of
Brutus and Cassius; and Mary’s dull droning tone was a trial to her
ears; she presently exclaimed, “Oh, Mary, don’t murder it!”

“Murder what?” said Mary, opening wide her light blue eyes.

“That use of exaggerated language,--” began Miss Winter.

“I’ve heard papa say it,” said Ethel, only wanting to silence Miss
Winter. In a cooler moment she would not have used the argument.

“All that a gentleman may say, may not be a precedent for a young lady;
but you are interrupting Mary.”

“Only let me show her. I can’t bear to hear her, listen, Mary.


        “What shall one of us
         That struck the foremost”--


“That is declaiming,” said Miss Winter. “It is not what we wish for in a
lady. You are neglecting your work and interfering.”

Ethel made a fretful contortion, and obeyed. So it went on all the
morning, Ethel’s eagerness checked by Miss Winter’s dry manner,
producing pettishness, till Ethel, in a state between self-reproach
and a sense of injustice, went up to prepare for dinner, and to visit
Margaret on the way.

She found her sister picking a merino frock to pieces. “See here,” she
said eagerly, “I thought you would like to make up this old frock for
one of the Cocksmoor children; but what is the matter?” as Ethel did not
show the lively interest that she expected.

“Oh, nothing, only Miss Winter is so tiresome.”

“What was it?”

“Everything, it was all horrid. I was cross, I know, but she and M.
Ballompre made me so;” and Ethel was in the midst of the narration of
her grievances, when Norman came in. The school was half a mile off, but
he had not once failed to come home, in the interval allowed for play
after dinner, to inquire for his sister.

“Well, Norman, you are out of breath, sit down and rest. What is doing
at school; are you dux of your class?”

“Yes,” said the boy wearily.

“What mark for the verses?” said Ethel.

“Quam bene.”

“Not optime?”

“No, they were tame,” Dr. Hoxton said.

“What is Harry doing?” said Margaret.

“He is fourth in his form. I left him at football.”

“Dinner!” said Flora at the door. “What will you have, Margaret?”

“I’ll fetch it,” said Norman, who considered it his privilege to wait
on Margaret at dinner. When he had brought the tray, he stood leaning
against the bed-post, musing. Suddenly, there was a considerable clatter
of fire-irons, and his violent start surprised Margaret.

“Ethel has been poking the fire,” she said, as if no more was needed to
account for their insecurity. Norman put them up again, but a ringing
sound betrayed that it was not with a firm touch, and when, a minute
after, he came to take her plate, she saw that he was trying with effort
to steady his hand.

“Norman, dear, are you sure you are well?”

“Yes, very well,” said he, as if vexed that she had taken any notice.

“You had better not come racing home. I’m not worth inquiries now, I am
so much better,” said she, smiling.

He made no reply, but this was not consenting silence.

“I don’t like you to lose your football,” she proceeded.

“I could not--” and he stopped short.

“It would be much better for you,” said she, looking up in his face with
anxious affectionate eyes, but he shunned her glance and walked away
with her plate.

Flora had been in such close attendance upon Margaret, that she needed
some cheerful walks, and though she had some doubts how affairs at
home would go on without her, she was overruled, and sent on a long
expedition with Miss Winter and Mary, while Ethel remained with
Margaret.

The only delay before setting out, was that nurse came in, saying, “If
you please, Miss Margaret, there is a girl come to see about the place.”

The sisters looked at each other and smiled, while Margaret asked whence
she came, and who she was.

“Her name is Taylor, and she comes from Cocksmoor, but she is a nice,
tidy, strong-looking girl, and she says she has been used to children.”

Nurse had fallen into the trap most comfortably, and seemed bent upon
taking this girl as a choice of her own. She wished to know if Miss
Margaret would like to see her.

“If you please, nurse, but if you think she will do, that is enough.”

“Yes, Miss, but you should look to them things yourself. If you please,
I’ll bring her up.” So nurse departed.

“Charming!” cried Ethel, “that’s your capital management, Flora; nurse
thinks she has done it all herself.”

“She is your charge though,” said Flora, “coming from your own beloved
Cocksmoor.”

Lucy Taylor came in, looking very nice, and very shy, curtseying low, in
extreme awe of the pale lady in bed. Margaret was much pleased with her,
and there was no more to be done but to settle that she should come on
Saturday, and to let nurse take her into the town to invest her with the
universal blackness of the household, where the two Margarets were the
only white things.

This arranged, and the walking party set forth, Ethel sat down by her
sister’s bed, and began to assist in unpicking the merino, telling
Margaret how much obliged she was to her for thinking of it, and how
grieved at having been so ungrateful in the morning. She was very happy
over her contrivances, cutting out under her sister’s superintendence.
She had forgotten the morning’s annoyance, till Margaret said, “I have
been thinking of what you said about Miss Winter, and really I don’t
know what is to be done.”

“Oh, Margaret, I did not mean to worry you,” said Ethel, sorry to see
her look uneasy.

“I like you to tell me everything, dear Ethel; but I don’t see clearly
the best course. We must go on with Miss Winter.”

“Of course,” said Ethel, shocked at her murmurs having even suggested
the possibility of a change, and having, as well as all the others, a
great respect and affection for her governess.

“We could not get on without her even if I were well,” continued
Margaret; “and dear mamma had such perfect trust in her, and we all know
and love her so well--it would make us put up with a great deal.”

“It is all my own fault,” said Ethel, only anxious to make amends to
Miss Winter. “I wish you would not say anything about it.”

“Yes, it does seem wrong even to think of it,” said Margaret, “when she
has been so very kind. It is a blessing to have any one to whom Mary and
Blanche may so entirely be trusted. But for you--”

“It is my own fault,” repeated Ethel.

“I don’t think it is quite all your own fault,” said Margaret, “and that
is the difficulty. I know dear mamma thought Miss Winter an excellent
governess for the little ones, but hardly up to you, and she saw that
you worried and fidgeted each other, so, you know, she used to keep the
teaching of you a good deal in her own hands.”

“I did not know that was the reason,” said Ethel, overpowered by the
recollection of the happy morning’s work she had often done in that
very room, when her mother had not been equal to the bustle of the
whole school-room. That watchful, protecting, guarding, mother’s love,
a shadow of Providence, had been round them so constantly on every side,
that they had been hardly conscious of it till it was lost to them.

“Was it not like her?” said Margaret, “but now, my poor Ethel, I don’t
think it would be right by you or by Miss Winter, to take you out of the
school-room. I think it would grieve her.”

“I would not do that for the world.”

“Especially after her kind nursing of me, and even, with more reason, it
would not be becoming in us to make changes. Besides, King Etheldred,”
 said Margaret, smiling, “we all know you are a little bit of a sloven,
and, as nurse says, some one must be always after you, and do you know?
even if I were well, I had rather it was Miss Winter than me.”

“Oh, no, you would not be formal and precise--you would not make me
cross.”

“Perhaps you might make me so,” said Margaret, “or I should let you
alone, and leave you a slattern. We should both hate it so! No, don’t
make me your mistress, Ethel dear--let me be your sister and play-fellow
still, as well as I can.”

“You are, you are. I don’t care half so much when I have got you.”

“And will you try to bear with her, and remember it is right in the
main, though it is troublesome?”

“That I will. I won’t plague you again. I know it is bad for you, you
look tired.”

“Pray don’t leave off telling me,” said Margaret--“it is just what I
wish on my own account, and I know it is comfortable to have a good
grumble.”

“If it does not hurt you, but I am sure you are not easy now--are you?”

“Only my back,” said Margaret. “I have been sitting up longer than
usual, and it is tired. Will you call nurse to lay me flat again?”

The nursery was deserted--all were out, and Ethel came back in
trepidation at the notion of having to do it herself, though she knew
it was only to put one arm to support her sister, while, with the other,
she removed the pillows; but Ethel was conscious of her own awkwardness
and want of observation, nor had Margaret entire trust in her. Still she
was too much fatigued to wait, so Ethel was obliged to do her best. She
was careful and frightened, and therefore slow and unsteady. She trusted
that all was right, and Margaret tried to believe so, though still
uneasy.

Ethel began to read to her, and Dr. May came home. She looked up
smiling, and asked where he had been, but it was vain to try to keep him
from reading her face. He saw in an instant that something was amiss,
and drew from her a confession that her back was aching a little. He
knew she might have said a great deal--she was not in a comfortable
position--she must be moved. She shook her head--she had rather
wait--there was a dread of being again lifted by Ethel that she could
not entirely hide. Ethel was distressed, Dr. May was angry, and, no
wonder, when he saw Margaret suffer, felt his own inability to help,
missed her who had been wont to take all care from his hands, and was
vexed to see a tall strong girl of fifteen, with the full use of both
arms, and plenty of sense, incapable of giving any assistance, and only
doing harm by trying.

“It is of no use,” said he. “Ethel will give no attention to anything
but her books! I’ve a great mind to put an end to all the Latin and
Greek! She cares for nothing else.”

Ethel could little brook injustice, and much as she was grieving, she
exclaimed, “Papa, papa, I do care--now don’t I, Margaret? I did my
best!”

“Don’t talk nonsense. Your best, indeed! If you had taken the most
moderate care--”

“I believe Ethel took rather too much care,” said Margaret, much
more harassed by the scolding than by the pain. “It will be all right
presently. Never mind, dear papa.”

But he was not only grieved for the present, but anxious for the future;
and, though he knew it was bad for Margaret to manifest his displeasure,
he could not restrain it, and continued to blame Ethel with enough
of injustice to set her on vindication, whereupon he silenced her, by
telling her she was making it worse by self-justification when Margaret
ought to be quiet. Margaret tried to talk of other things, but was in
too much discomfort to exert herself enough to divert his attention.

At last Flora returned, and saw in an instant what was wanted. Margaret
was settled in the right posture, but the pain would not immediately
depart, and Dr. May soon found out that she had a headache, of which he
knew he was at least as guilty as Etheldred could be.

Nothing could be done but keep her quiet, and Ethel went away to be
miserable; Flora tried to comfort her by saying it was unfortunate, but
no doubt there was a knack, and everyone could not manage those things;
Margaret was easier now, and as to papa’s anger, he did not always mean
all he said.

But consolation came at bedtime; Margaret received her with open arms
when she went to wish her goodnight. “My poor Ethel,” she said, holding
her close, “I am sorry I have made such a fuss.”

“Oh, you did not, it was too bad of me--I am grieved; are you quite
comfortable now?”

“Yes, quite, only a little headache, which I shall sleep off. It has
been so nice and quiet. Papa took up George Herbert, and has been
reading me choice bits. I don’t think I have enjoyed anything so much
since I have been ill.”

“I am glad of that, but I have been unhappy all the evening. I wish I
knew what to do. I am out of heart about everything!”

“Only try to mind and heed, and you will learn. It will be a step if you
will only put your shoes side by side when you take them off.”

Ethel smiled and sighed, and Margaret whispered, “Don’t grieve about me,
but put your clever head to rule your hands, and you will do for home
and Cocksmoor too. Good-night, dearest.”

“I’ve vexed papa,” sighed Ethel--and just then he came into the room.

“Papa,” said Margaret, “here’s poor Ethel, not half recovered from her
troubles.”

He was now at ease about Margaret, and knew he had been harsh to another
of his motherless girls.

“Ah! we must send her to the infant-school, to learn ‘this is my right
hand, and this is my left,’” said he, in his half-gay, half-sad manner.

“I was very stupid,” said Ethel.

“Poor child!” said her papa, “she is worse off than I am. If I have but
one hand left, she has two left hands.”

“I do mean to try, papa.”

“Yes, you must, Ethel. I believe I was hasty with you, my poor girl. I
was vexed, and we have no one to smooth us down. I am sorry, my dear,
but you must bear with me, for I never learned her ways with you when I
might. We will try to have more patience with each other.”

What could Ethel do but hang round his neck and cry, till he said, but
tenderly, that they had given Margaret quite disturbance enough to-day,
and sent her to bed, vowing to watch each little action, lest she should
again give pain to such a father and sister.




CHAPTER VIII.



     “Tis not enough that Greek or Roman page
      At stated hours, his freakish thoughts engage,
      Even in his pastimes he requires a friend
      To warn and teach him safely to unbend,
      O’er all his pleasures gently to preside,
      Watch his emotions, and control their tide.”--COWPER.


The misfortunes of that day disheartened and disconcerted Etheldred. To
do mischief where she most wished to do good, to grieve where she longed
to comfort, seemed to be her fate; it was vain to attempt anything for
anyone’s good, while all her warm feelings and high aspirations were
thwarted by the awkward ungainly hands and heedless eyes that Nature had
given her. Nor did the following day, Saturday, do much for her
comfort, by giving her the company of her brothers. That it was Norman’s
sixteenth birthday seemed only to make it worse. Their father had
apparently forgotten it, and Norman stopped Blanche when she was going
to put him in mind of it; stopped her by such a look as the child never
forgot, though there was no anger in it. In reply to Ethel’s inquiry
what he was going to do that morning, he gave a yawn and stretch, and
said, dejectedly, that he had got some Euripides to look over, and some
verses to finish.

“I am sorry; this is the first time you ever have not managed so as to
make a real holiday of your Saturday!”

“I could not help it, and there’s nothing to do,” said Norman wearily.

“I promised to go and read to Margaret while Flora does her music,” said
Ethel; “I shall come after that and do my Latin and Greek with you.”

Margaret would not keep her long, saying she liked her to be with
Norman, but she found him with his head sunk on his open book, fast
asleep. At dinner-time, Harry and Tom, rushing in, awoke him with a
violent start.

“Halloo! Norman, that was a jump!” said Harry, as his brother stretched
and pinched himself. “You’ll jump out of your skin some of these days,
if you don’t take care!”

“It’s enough to startle any one to be waked up with such a noise,” said
Ethel.

“Then he ought to sleep at proper times,” said Harry, “and not be waking
me up with tumbling about, and hallooing out, and talking in his sleep
half the night.”

“Talking in his sleep! why, just now, you said he did not sleep,” said
Ethel.

“Harry knows nothing about it,” said Norman.

“Don’t I? Well, I only know, if you slept in school, and were a junior,
you would get a proper good licking for going on as you do at night.”

“And I think you might chance to get a proper good licking for not
holding your tongue,” said Norman, which hint reduced Harry to silence.

Dr. May was not come home; he had gone with Richard far into the
country, and was to return to tea. He was thought to be desirous of
avoiding the family dinners that used to be so delightful. Harry was
impatient to depart, and when Mary and Tom ran after him, he ordered
them back.

“Where can he be going?” said Mary, as she looked wistfully after him.

“I know,” said Tom.

“Where? Do tell me.”

“Only don’t tell papa. I went down with him to the playground this
morning, and there they settled it. The Andersons, and Axworthy, and he,
are going to hire a gun, and shoot pee-wits on Cocksmoor.”

“But they ought not; should they?” said Mary. “Papa would be very
angry.”

“Anderson said there was no harm in it, but Harry told me not to tell.
Indeed, Anderson would have boxed my ears for hearing, when I could not
help it.”

“But Harry would not let him?”

“Ay. Harry is quite a match for Harvey Anderson, though he is so much
younger; and he said he would not have me bullied.”

“That’s a good Harry! But I wish he would not go out shooting!” said
Mary.

“Mind, you don’t tell.”

“And where’s Hector Ernescliffe? Would not he go?”

“No. I like Hector. He did not choose to go, though Anderson teased him,
and said he was a poor Scot, and his brother didn’t allow him tin enough
to buy powder and shot. If Harry would have stayed at home, he would
have come up here, and we might have had some fun in the garden.”

“I wish he would. We never have any fun now,” said Mary; “but oh! there
he is,” as she spied Hector peeping over the gate which led from the
field into the garden. It was the first time that he had been to Dr.
May’s since his brother’s departure, and he was rather shy, but the
joyful welcome of Mary and Tom took off all reluctance, and they claimed
him for a good game at play in the wood-house. Mary ran upstairs to beg
to be excused the formal walk, and, luckily for her, Miss Winter was
in Margaret’s room. Margaret asked if it was very wet and dirty, and
hearing “not very,” gave gracious permission, and off went Mary and
Blanche to construct some curious specimens of pottery, under the
superintendence of Hector and Tom. There was a certain ditch where
yellow mud was attainable, whereof the happy children concocted marbles
and vases, which underwent a preparatory baking in the boys’ pockets,
that they might not crack in the nursery fire. Margaret only stipulated
that her sisters should be well fenced in brown holland, and when Miss
Winter looked grave, said, “Poor things, a little thorough play will do
them a great deal of good.”

Miss Winter could not see the good of groping in the dirt; and Margaret
perceived that it would be one of her difficulties to know how to
follow out her mother’s views for the children, without vexing the good
governess by not deferring to her.

In the meantime, Norman had disconsolately returned to his Euripides,
and Ethel, who wanted to stay with him and look out his words, was
ordered out by Miss Winter, because she had spent all yesterday indoors.
Miss Winter was going to stay with Margaret, and Ethel and Flora coaxed
Norman to come with them, “just one mile on the turnpike road and back
again; he would be much fresher for his Greek afterwards.”

He came, but he did not enliven his sisters. The three plodded on,
taking a diligent constitutional walk, exchanging very few words, and
those chiefly between the girls. Flora gathered some hoary clematis,
and red berries, and sought in the hedge-sides for some crimson “fairy
baths” to carry home; and, at the sight of the amusement Margaret
derived from the placing the beauteous little Pezizas in a saucer of
damp green moss, so as to hide the brown sticks on which they grew,
Ethel took shame to herself for want of perception of little attentions.
When she told Norman so, he answered, “There’s no one who does see what
is the right thing. How horrid the room looks! Everything is nohow!”
 added he, looking round at the ornaments and things on the tables, which
had lost their air of comfort and good taste. It was not disorder, and
Ethel could not see what he meant. “What’s wrong?” said she.

“Oh, never mind--you can’t do it. Don’t try--you’ll only make it worse.
It will never be the same as long as we live.”

“I wish you would not be so unhappy!” said Ethel.

“Never mind,” again said Norman, but he put his arm round her.

“Have you done your Euripides? Can I help you? Will you construe it with
me, or shall I look out your words?”

“Thank you, I don’t mind that. It is the verses! I want some sense!”
 said Norman, running his fingers through his hair till it stood on end.
“‘Tis such a horrid subject, Coral Islands! As if there was anything to
be said about them.”

“Dear me, Norman, I could say ten thousand things, only I must not tell
you what mine are, as yours are not done.”

“No, don’t,” said Norman decidedly.

“Did you read the description of them in the Quarterly? I am sure you
might get some ideas there. Shall I find it for you? It is in an old
number.”

“Well, do; thank you.”

He rested listlessly on the sofa while his sister rummaged in a
chiffonier. At last she found the article, and eagerly read him the
description of the strange forms of the coral animals, and the beauties
of their flower-like feelers and branching fabrics. It would once
have delighted him, but his first comment was, “Nasty little brutes!”
 However, the next minute he thanked her, took the book, and said he
could hammer something out of it, though it was too bad to give such an
unclassical subject. At dusk he left off, saying he should get it done
at night, his senses would come then, and he should be glad to sit up.

“Only three weeks to the holidays,” said Ethel, trying to be cheerful;
but his assent was depressing, and she began to fear that Christmas
would only make them more sad.

Mary did not keep Tom’s secret so inviolably, but that, while they were
dressing for tea, she revealed to Ethel where Harry was gone. He was
not yet returned, though his father and Richard were come in, and the
sisters were at once in some anxiety on his account, and doubt whether
they ought to let papa know of his disobedience.

Flora and Ethel, who were the first in the drawing-room, had a
consultation.

“I should have told mamma directly,” said Flora.

“He never did so,” sighed Ethel; “things never went wrong then.”

“Oh, yes, they did; don’t you remember how naughty Harry was about
climbing the wall, and making faces at Mrs. Richardson’s servants?”

“And how ill I behaved the first day of last Christmas holidays?”

“She knew, but I don’t think she told papa.”

“Not that we knew of, but I believe she did tell him everything, and I
think, Flora, he ought to know everything, especially now. I never could
bear the way the Mackenzies used to have of thinking their parents must
be like enemies, and keeping secrets from them.”

“They were always threatening each other, ‘I’ll tell mamma,’” said
Flora, “and calling us tell-tales because we told our own dear mamma
everything. But it is not like that now--I neither like to worry papa,
nor to bring Harry into disgrace--besides, Tom and Mary meant it for a
secret.”

“Papa would not be angry with him if we told him it was a secret,” said
Ethel; “I wish Harry would come in. There’s the door--oh! it is only
you.”

“Whom did you expect?” said Richard, entering.

The sisters looked at each other, and Ethel, after an interval,
explained their doubts about Harry.

“He is come in,” said Richard; “I saw him running up to his own room,
very muddy.”

“Oh, I’m glad! But do you think papa ought to hear it? I don’t know
what’s to be done. ‘Tis the children’s secret,” said Flora.

“It will never do to have him going out with those boys continually,”
 said Ethel--“Harvey Anderson close by all the holidays!”

“I’ll try what I can do with him,” said Richard. “Papa had better not
hear it now, at any rate. He is very tired and sad this evening! and
his arm is painful again, so we must not worry him with histories of
naughtiness among the children.”

“No,” said Ethel decidedly, “I am glad you were there, Ritchie; I never
should have thought of one time being better than another.”

“Just like Ethel!” said Flora, smiling.

“Why should not you learn?” said Richard gently.

“I can’t,” said Ethel, in a desponding way.

“Why not? You are much sharper than most people, and, if you tried, you
would know those things much better than I do, as you know how to learn
history.”

“It is quite a different sort of cleverness,” said Flora. “Recollect Sir
Isaac Newton, or Archimedes.”

“Then you must have both sorts,” said Ethel, “for you can do things
nicely, and yet you learn very fast.”

“Take care, Ethel, you are singeing your frock! Well, I really don’t
think you can help those things!” said Flora. “Your short sight is the
reason of it, and it is of no use to try to mend it.”

“Don’t tell her so,” said Richard. “It can’t be all short sight--it is
the not thinking. I do believe that if Ethel would think, no one would
do things so well. Don’t you remember the beautiful perspective drawing
she made of this room for me to take to Oxford? That was very difficult,
and wanted a great deal of neatness and accuracy, so why should she not
be neat and accurate in other things? And I know you can read faces,
Ethel--why don’t you look there before you speak?”

“Ah! before instead of after, when I only see I have said something
malapropos,” said Ethel.

“I must go and see about the children,” said Flora; “if the tea comes
while I am gone, will you make it, Ritchie?”

“Flora despairs of me,” said Ethel.

“I don’t,” said Richard. “Have you forgotten how to put in a pin yet?”

“No; I hope not.”

“Well, then, see if you can’t learn to make tea; and, by-the-bye, Ethel,
which is the next christening Sunday?”

“The one after next, surely. The first of December is Monday--yes,
to-morrow week is the next.”

“Then I have thought of something; it would cost eighteenpence to hire
Joliffe’s spring-cart, and we might have Mrs. Taylor and the twins
brought to church in it. Should you like to walk to Cocksmoor and settle
it?”

“Oh yes, very much indeed. What a capital thought. Margaret said you
would know how to manage.”

“Then we will go the first fine day papa does not want me.”

“I wonder if I could finish my purple frocks. But here’s the tea. Now,
Richard, don’t tell me to make it. I should do something wrong, and
Flora will never forgive you.”

Richard would not let her off. He stood over her, counted her shovelfuls
of tea, and watched the water into the teapot--he superintended her
warming the cups, and putting a drop into each saucer. “Ah!” said Ethel,
with a concluding sigh, “it makes one hotter than double equations!”

It was all right, as Flora allowed with a slightly superior smile. She
thought Richard would never succeed in making a notable or elegant woman
of Ethel, and it was best that the two sisters should take different
lines. Flora knew that, though clever and with more accomplishments,
she could not surpass Ethel in intellectual attainments, but she was
certainly far more valuable in the house, and had been proved to have
just the qualities in which her sister was most deficient. She did not
relish hearing that Ethel wanted nothing but attention to be more than
her equal, and she thought Richard mistaken. Flora’s remembrance of
their time of distress was less unmixedly wretched than it was with the
others, for she knew she had done wonders.

The next day Norman told Ethel that he had got on very well with the
verses, and finished them off late at night. He showed them to her
before taking them to school on Monday morning, and Ethel thought
they were the best he had ever written. There was too much spirit and
poetical beauty for a mere schoolboy task, and she begged for the foul
copy to show it to her father. “I have not got it,” said Norman. “The
foul copy was not like these; but when I was writing them out quite
late, it was all I don’t know how. Flora’s music was in my ears, and the
room seemed to get larger, and like an ocean cave; and when the candle
flickered, ‘twas like the green glowing light of the sun through the
waves.”

“As it says here,” said Ethel.

“And the words all came to me of themselves in beautiful flowing Latin,
just right, as if it was anybody but myself doing it, and they ran off
my pen in red and blue and gold, and all sorts of colours; and fine
branching zig-zagging stars, like what the book described, only
stranger, came dancing and radiating round my pen and the candle. I
could hardly believe the verses would scan by daylight, but I can’t find
a mistake. Do you try them again.”

Ethel scanned. “I see nothing wrong,” she said, “but it seems a shame to
begin scanning Undine’s verses, they are too pretty. I wish I could copy
them. It must have been half a dream.”

“I believe it was; they don’t seem like my own.”

“Did you dream afterwards?”

He shivered. “They had got into my head too much; my ears sang like the
roaring of the sea, and I thought my feet were frozen on to an iceberg:
then came darkness, and sea monsters, and drowning--it was too horrid!”
 and his face expressed all, and more than all, he said. “But ‘tis a
quarter to seven--we must go,” said he, with a long yawn, and rubbing
his eyes. “You are sure they are right, Ethel? Harry, come along.”

Ethel thought those verses ought to make a sensation, but all that
came of them was a Quam optime, and when she asked Norman if no special
notice had been taken of them, he said, in his languid way, “No; only
Dr. Hoxton said they were better than usual.”

Ethel did not even have the satisfaction of hearing that Mr. Wilmot,
happening to meet Dr. May, said to him, “Your boy has more of a poet
in him than any that has come in my way. He really sometimes makes very
striking verses.”

Richard watched for an opportunity of speaking to Harry, which did not
at once occur, as the boy spent very little of his time at home, and, as
if by tacit consent, he and Norman came in later every evening. At last,
on Thursday, in the additional two hours’ leisure allowed to the boys,
when the studious prepared their tasks, and the idle had some special
diversion, Richard encountered him running up to his own room to fetch a
newly-invented instrument for projecting stones.

“I’ll walk back to school with you,” said Richard. “I mean to run,”
 returned Harry.

“Is there so much hurry?” said Richard. “I am sorry for it, for I wanted
to speak to you, Harry; I have something to show you.”

His manner conveyed that it related to their mother, and the sobering
effect was instantaneous. “Very well,” said he, forgetting his haste.
“I’ll come into your room.”

The awe-struck, shy, yet sorrowful look on his rosy face showed
preparation enough, and Richard’s only preface was to say, “It is a
bit of a letter that she was in course of writing to Aunt Flora, a
description of us all. The letter itself is gone, but here is a copy of
it. I thought you would like to read what relates to yourself.”

Richard laid before him the sheet of notepaper on which this portion of
the letter was written, and left him alone with it, while he set out on
the promised walk with Ethel.

They found the old woman, Granny Hall, looking like another creature,
smoke-dried and withered indeed, but all briskness and animation.

“Well! be it you, sir, and the young lady?”

“Yes; here we are come to see you again,” said Richard. “I hope you are
not disappointed that I’ve brought my sister this time instead of the
doctor.”

“No, no, sir; I’ve done with the doctor for this while,” said the old
woman, to Ethel’s great amusement. “He have done me a power of good, and
thank him for it heartily; but the young lady is right welcome here--but
‘tis a dirty walk for her.”

“Never mind that,” said Ethel, a little shyly, “I came--where are your
grandchildren?”

“Oh, somewhere out among the blocks. They gets out with the other
children; I can’t be always after them.”

“I wanted to know if these would fit them,” said Ethel, beginning to
undo her basket.

“Well, ‘pon my word! If ever I see! Here!” stepping out to the door,
“Polly--Jenny! come in, I say, this moment! Come in, ye bad girls, or
I’ll give you the stick; I’ll break every bone of you, that I will!” all
which threats were bawled out in such a good-natured, triumphant voice,
and with such a delighted air, that Richard and Ethel could not help
laughing.

After a few moments, Polly and Jenny made their appearance, extremely
rough and ragged, but compelled by their grandmother to duck down, by
way of courtesies, and, with finger in mouth, they stood, too shy to
show their delight, as the garments were unfolded; Granny talking so
fast that Ethel would never have brought in the stipulation, that the
frocks should be worn to school and church, if Richard, in his mild, but
steady way, had not brought the old woman to listen to it. She was full
of asseverations that they should go; she took them to church sometimes
herself, when it was fine weather and they had clothes, and they could
say their catechiz as well as anybody already; yes, they should come,
that they should, and next Sunday. Ethel promised to be there to
introduce them to the chief lady, the president of the Committee, Mrs.
Ledwich, and, with a profusion of thanks, they took leave.

They found John Taylor, just come out of the hospital, looking weak and
ill, as he smoked his pipe over the fire, his wife bustling about at
a great rate, and one of the infants crying. It seemed to be a great
relief that they were not come to complain of Lucy, and there were many
looks of surprise on hearing what their business really was. Mrs. Taylor
thanked them, and appeared not to know whether she was glad or sorry;
and her husband, pipe in hand, gazed at the young gentleman as if he
did not comprehend the species, since he could not be old enough to be a
clergyman.

Richard hoped they would find sponsors by that time; and there Mrs.
Taylor gave little hope; it was a bad lot--there was no one she liked to
ask to stand, she said, in a dismal voice; but there her husband put in,
“I’ll find some one if that’s all; my missus always thinks nobody can’t
do nothing.”

“To be sure,” said the lamentable Mrs. Taylor, “all the elder ones was
took to church, and I’m loath the little ones shouldn’t; but you see,
sir, we are poor people, and it’s a long way, and they was set down in
the gentleman’s register book.”

“But you know that is not the same, Mrs. Taylor. Surely Lucy could have
told you that, when she went to school.”

“No, sir, ‘tis not the same--I knows that; but this is a bad place to
live in--”

“Always the old song, missus!” exclaimed her husband. “Thank you kindly,
sir--you have been a good friend to us, and so was Dr. May, when I was
up to the hospital, through the thick of his own troubles. I believe you
are in the right of it, sir, and thank you. The children shall be ready,
and little Jack too, and I’ll find gossips, and let ‘em christened on
Sunday.”

“I believe you will be glad of it,” said Richard; and he went on to
speak of the elder children coming to school on Sunday, thus causing
another whining from the wife about distance and bad weather, and no
one else going that way. He said the little Halls were coming, but Mrs.
Taylor begun saying she disliked their company for the children--granny
let them get about so much, and they said bad words. The father again
interfered. Perhaps Mr. Wilmot, who acted as chaplain at the hospital,
had been talking to him, for he declared at once that they should come;
and Richard suggested that he might see them home when he came from
church; then, turning to the boy and girl, told them they would meet
their sister Lucy, and asked them if they would not like that.

On the whole, the beginning was not inauspicious, though there might be
a doubt whether old Mrs. Hall would keep all her promises. Ethel was so
much diverted and pleased as to be convinced she would; Richard was a
little doubtful as to her power over the wild girls. There could not be
any doubt that John Taylor was in earnest, and had been worked upon just
at the right moment; but there was danger that the impression would
not last. “And his wife is such a horrible whining dawdle!” said
Ethel--“there will be no good to be done if it depends on her.”

Richard made no answer, and Ethel presently felt remorseful for her
harsh speech about a poor ignorant woman, overwhelmed with poverty,
children, and weak health.

“I have been thinking a great deal about what you said last time we took
this walk,” said Richard, after a considerable interval.

“Oh, have you!” cried Ethel eagerly; and the black peaty pond she was
looking at seemed to sparkle with sunlight.

“Do you really mean it?” said Richard deliberately.

“Yes, to be sure;” she said, with some indignation.

“Because I think I see a way to make a beginning, but you must make
up your mind to a great deal of trouble, and dirty walks, and you must
really learn not to draggle your frock.”

“Well, well; but tell me.”

“This is what I was thinking. I don’t think I can go back to Oxford
after Christmas. It is not fit to leave you while papa is so disabled.”

“Oh no, he could not get on at all. I heard him tell Mr. Wilmot the
other day that you were his right hand.”

Ethel was glad she had repeated this, for there was a deepening colour
and smiling glow of pleasure on her brother’s face, such as she had
seldom seen on his delicate, but somewhat impassive features.

“He is very kind!” he said warmly. “No, I am sure I cannot be spared
till he is better able to use his arm, and I don’t see any chance
of that just yet. Then if I stay at home, Friday is always at my own
disposal, while papa is at the hospital meeting.”

“Yes, yes, and we could go to Cocksmoor, and set up a school. How
delightful!”

“I don’t think you would find it quite so delightful as you fancy,” said
Richard; “the children will be very wild and ignorant, and you don’t
like that at the National School.”

“Oh, but they are in such need, besides there will be no Mrs. Ledwich
over me. It is just right--I shan’t mind anything. You are a capital
Ritchie, for having thought of it!”

“I don’t think--if I am ever to be what I wish, that is, if I can get
through at Oxford--I don’t think it can be wrong to begin this, if Mr.
Ramsden does not object.”

“Oh, Mr. Ramsden never objects to anything.”

“And if Mr. Wilmot will come and set us off. You know we cannot begin
without that, or without my father’s fully liking it.”

“Oh! there can be no doubt of that!”

“This one thing, Ethel, I must stipulate. Don’t you go and tell it all
out at once to him. I cannot have him worried about our concerns.”

“But how--no one can question that this is right. I am sure he won’t
object.”

“Stop, Ethel, don’t you see, it can’t be done for nothing? If we
undertake it, we must go on with it, and when I am away it will fall on
you and Flora. Well, then, it ought to be considered whether you are
old enough and steady enough; and if it can be managed for you to go
continually all this way, in this wild place. There will be expense
too.”

Ethel looked wild with impatience, but could not gainsay these scruples,
otherwise than by declaring they ought not to weigh against the good of
Cocksmoor.

“It will worry him to have to consider all this,” said Richard, “and it
must not be pressed upon him.”

“No,” said Ethel sorrowfully; “but you don’t mean to give it up.”

“You are always in extremes, Ethel. All I want is to find a good time
for proposing it.”

She fidgeted and gave a long sigh.

“Mind,” said Richard, stopping short, “I’ll have nothing to do with it
except on condition you are patient, and hold your tongue about it.”

“I think I can, if I may talk to Margaret.”

“Oh yes, to Margaret of course. We could not settle anything without her
help.”

“And I know what she will say,” said Ethel. “Oh, I am so glad,” and she
jumped over three puddles in succession.

“And, Ethel, you must learn to keep your frock out of the dirt.”

“I’ll do anything, if you’ll help me at Cocksmoor.”




CHAPTER IX.



     For the structure that we raise,
       Time is with materials filled;
     Our to-days and yesterdays,
       Are the blocks which we build.

     Truly shape and fashion these,
       Leave no yawning gaps between;
     Think not, because no man sees,
       Such things will remain unseen.--LONGFELLOW.


When Ethel came home, burning with the tidings of the newly-excited
hopes for Cocksmoor, they were at once stopped by Margaret eagerly
saying, “Is Richard come in? pray call him;” then on his entrance, “Oh,
Richard, would you be so kind as to take this to the bank. I don’t like
to send it by any one else--it is so much;” and she took from under her
pillows a velvet bag, so heavy, that it weighed down her slender white
hand.

“What, he has given you the care of his money?” said Ethel.

“Yes; I saw him turning something out of his waistcoat-pocket into the
drawer of the looking-glass, and sighing in that very sad way. He said
his fees had come to such an accumulation that he must see about sending
them to the bank; and then he told me of the delight of throwing his
first fee into dear mamma’s lap, when they were just married, and his
old uncle had given up to him, and how he had brought them to her ever
since; he said she had spoiled him by taking all trouble off his hands.
He looked at it, as if it was so sorrowful to him to have to dispose
of it, that I begged him not to plague himself any more, but let me see
about it, as dear mamma used to do; so he said I was spoiling him too,
but he brought me the drawer, and emptied it out here: when he was gone,
I packed it up, and I have been waiting to ask Richard to take it all to
the bank, out of his sight.”

“You counted it?” said Richard.

“Yes--there’s fifty--I kept seventeen towards the week’s expenses. Just
see that it is right,” said Margaret, showing her neat packets.

“Oh, Ritchie,” said Ethel, “what can expense signify, when all that has
been kicking about loose in an open drawer? What would not one of those
rolls do?”

“I think I had better take them out of your way,” said Richard quietly.
“Am I to bring back the book to you, Margaret?”

“Yes, do,” said Margaret; “pray do not tease him with it.” And as her
brother left the room, she continued, “I wish he was better. I think he
is more oppressed now than even at first. The pain of his arm, going on
so long, seems to me to have pulled him down; it does not let him sleep,
and, by the end of the day, he gets worn and fagged by seeing so many
people, and exerting himself to talk and think; and often, when there is
something that must be asked, I don’t know how to begin, for it seems as
if a little more would be too much for him.”

“Yes, Richard is right,” said Ethel mournfully; “it will not do to press
him about our concerns; but do you think him worse to-day?”

“He did not sleep last night, and he is always worse when he does not
drive out into the country; the fresh air, and being alone with Richard,
are a rest for him. To-day is especially trying; he does not think poor
old Mr. Southern will get through the evening, and he is so sorry for
the daughter.”

“Is he there now?”

“Yes; he thought of something that might be an alleviation, and he would
go, though he was tired. I am afraid the poor daughter will detain him,
and he is not fit to go through such things now.”

“No, I hope he will soon come; perhaps Richard will meet him. But, oh,
Margaret, what do you think Richard and I have been talking of?” and,
without perception of fit times and seasons, Ethel would have told her
story, but Margaret, too anxious to attend to her, said, “Hark! was not
that his step?” and Dr. May came in, looking mournful and fatigued.

“Well,” said he, “I was just too late. He died as I got there, and I
could not leave the daughter till old Mrs. Bowers came.”

“Poor thing,” said Margaret. “He was a good old man.”

“Yes,” said Dr. May, sitting wearily down, and speaking in a worn-out
voice. “One can’t lightly part with a man one has seen at church every
Sunday of one’s life, and exchanged so many friendly words with over
his counter. ‘Tis a strong bond of neighbourliness in a small place like
this, and, as one grows old, changes come heavier--‘the clouds return
again after the rain.’ Thank you, my dear,” as Ethel fetched his
slippers, and placed a stool for his feet, feeling somewhat ashamed of
thinking it an achievement to have, unbidden, performed a small act of
attention which would have come naturally from any of the others.

“Papa, you will give me the treat of drinking tea with me?” said
Margaret, who saw the quiet of her room would suit him better than the
bustle of the children downstairs. “Thank you,” as he gave a smile of
assent.

That Margaret could not be made to listen this evening was plain, and
all that Ethel could do, was to search for some books on schools. In
seeking for them, she displayed such confusion in the chiffonier, that
Flora exclaimed, “Oh, Ethel, how could you leave it so?”

“I was in a hurry, looking for something for Norman. I’ll set it to
rights,” said Ethel, gulping down her dislike of being reproved by
Flora, with the thought that mamma would have said the same.

“My dear!” cried Flora presently, jumping up, “what are you doing?
piling up those heavy books on the top of the little ones; how do you
think they will ever stand? let me do it.”

“No, no, Flora;” and Richard, in a low voice, gave Ethel some advice,
which she received, seated on the floor, in a mood between temper and
despair.

“He is going to teach her to do it on the principles of gravitation,”
 said Flora.

Richard did not do it himself, but, by his means, Ethel, without being
in the least irritated, gave the chiffonier a thorough dusting and
setting-to-rights, sorting magazines, burning old catalogues, and
finding her own long-lost ‘Undine’, at which she was so delighted that
she would have forgotten all; in proceeding to read it, curled up on
the floor amongst the heaps of pamphlets, if another gentle hint from
Richard had not made her finish her task so well, as to make Flora
declare it was a pleasure to look in, and Harry pronounce it to be all
neat and ship-shape.

There was no speaking to Margaret the next morning--it was French
day--and Ethel had made strong resolutions to behave better; and whether
there were fewer idioms, or that she was trying to understand, instead
of carping at the master’s explanations, they came to no battle; Flora
led the conversation, and she sustained her part with credit, and gained
an excellent mark.

Flora said afterwards to Margaret, “I managed nicely for her. I would
not let M. Ballompre blunder upon any of the subjects Ethel feels too
deeply to talk of in good French, and really Ethel has a great talent
for languages. How fast she gets on with Italian!”

“That she does,” said Margaret. “Suppose you send her up, Flora--you
must want to go and draw or practice, and she may do her arithmetic
here, or read to me.”

It was the second time Margaret had made this proposal, and it did not
please Flora, who had learned to think herself necessary to her sister,
and liked to be the one to do everything for her. She was within six
weeks of seventeen, and surely she need not be sent down again to the
school-room, when she had been so good a manager of the whole family.
She was fond of study and of accomplishments, but she thought she might
be emancipated from Miss Winter; and it was not pleasant to her that a
sister, only eighteen months older, and almost dependant on her, should
have authority to dispose of her time.

“I practise in the evening,” she said, “and I could draw here, if I
wished, but I have some music to copy.”

Margaret was concerned at the dissatisfaction, though not understanding
the whole of it: “You know, dear Flora,” she said, “I need not take up
all your time now.”

“Don’t regret that,” said Flora. “I like nothing so well as waiting on
you, and I can attend to my own affairs very well here.”

“I’ll tell you why I proposed it,” said Margaret. “I think it would be a
relief for Ethel to escape from Miss Winter’s beloved Friday questions.”

“Great nonsense they are,” said Flora. “Why don’t you tell Miss Winter
they are of no use?”

“Mamma never interfered with them,” said Margaret. “She only kept Ethel
in her own hands, and if you would be so kind as to change sometimes
and sit in the school-room, we could spare Ethel, without hurting Miss
Winter’s feelings.”

“Well, I’ll call Ethel, if you like, but I shall go and practise in the
drawing-room. The old school-room piano is fit for nothing but Mary to
hammer upon.”

Flora went away, evidently annoyed, and Margaret’s conjectures on the
cause of it were cut short by Ethel running in with a slate in one hand
and two books in the other, the rest having all tumbled down on the
stairs.

“Oh, Margaret, I am so glad to come to you. Miss Winter has set Mary to
read ‘To be, or not to be,’ and it would have driven me distracted
to have stayed there. I have got a most beautiful sum in Compound
Proportion, about a lion, a wolf, and a bear eating up a carcase, and as
soon as they have done it, you shall hear me say my ancient geography,
and then we will do a nice bit of Tasso; and if we have any time after
that, I have got such a thing to tell you--only I must not tell you now,
or I shall go on talking and not finish my lessons.”

It was not till all were done, that Ethel felt free to exclaim, “Now
for what I have been longing to tell you--Richard is going to--” But the
fates were unpropitious. Aubrey trotted in, expecting to be amused; next
came Norman, and Ethel gave up in despair; and, after having affronted
Flora in the morning, Margaret was afraid of renewing the offence, by
attempting to secure Ethel as her companion for the afternoon; so not
till after the walk could Margaret contrive to claim the promised
communication, telling Ethel to come and settle herself cosily by her.

“I should have been very glad of you last evening,” said she, “for papa
went to sleep, and my book was out of reach.”

“Oh, I am sorry; how I pity you, poor Margaret!”

“I suppose I have grown lazy,” said Margaret, “for I don’t mind
those things now. I am never sorry for a quiet time to recollect and
consider.”

“It must be like the waiting in the dark between the slides of a magic
lantern,” said Ethel; “I never like to be quiet. I get so unhappy.”

“I am glad of resting and recollecting,” said Margaret. “It has all been
so like a dream, that merry morning, and then, slowly waking to find
myself here in dear mamma’s place, and papa watching over me. Sometimes
I think I have not half understood what it really is, and that I don’t
realise, that if I was up and about, I should find the house without
her.”

“Yes; that is the aching part!” said Ethel. “I am happy, sitting on her
bed here with you. You are a little of her, besides being my own dear
Peg-top! You are very lucky to miss the mealtimes and the evenings.”

“That is the reason I don’t feel it wrong to like to have papa sitting
with me all the evening,” said Margaret, “though it may make it worse
for you to have him away. I don’t think it selfish in me to keep him. He
wants quiet so much, or to talk a little when it suits him; we are too
many now, when he is tired.”

“Oh, it is best,” said Ethel. “Nothing that you do is selfish--don’t
talk of it, dear Margaret. It will be something like old times when you
come down again.”

“But all this time you are not telling me what I want so much to hear,”
 said Margaret, “about Cocksmoor. I am so glad Richard has taken it up.”

“That he has. We are to go every Friday, and hire a room, and teach the
children. Once a week will do a great deal, if we can but make them wish
to learn. It is a much better plan than mine; for if they care about it,
they can come to school here on Sunday.”

“It is excellent,” said Margaret, “and if he is at home till Easter, it
will give it a start, and put you in the way of it, and get you through
the short days and dark evenings, when you could not so well walk home
without him.”

“Yes, and then we can all teach; Flora, and Mary, and you, when you
are well again. Richard says it will be disagreeable, but I don’t think
so--they are such unsophisticated people. That Granny Hall is such a
funny old woman; and the whole place wants nothing but a little care, to
do very well.”

“You must prepare for disappointments, dear Ethel.”

“I know; I know nothing is done without drawbacks; but I am so glad to
make some beginning.”

“So am I. Do you know, mamma and I were one day talking over those kind
of things, and she said she had always regretted that she had so many
duties at home, that she could not attend as much to the poor as she
would like; but she hoped now we girls were growing up, we should be
able to do more.

“Did she?” was all Ethel said, but she was deeply gratified.

“I’ve been wanting to tell you. I knew you would like to hear it. It
seems to set us to work so happily.”

“I only wish we could begin,” said Ethel, “but Richard is so slow! Of
course we can’t act without papa’s consent and Mr. Wilmot’s help, and he
says papa must not be worried about it, he must watch for his own time
to speak about it.”

“Yes” said Margaret.

“I know--I would not have it otherwise; but what is tiresome is this.
Richard is very good, but he is so dreadfully hard to stir up, and
what’s worse, so very much afraid of papa, that while he is thinking
about opportunities, they will all go by, and then it will be Easter,
and nothing done!”

“He is not so much afraid of papa as he was,” said Margaret. “He has
felt himself useful and a comfort, and papa is gentler; and that has
cheered him out of the desponding way that kept him back from proposing
anything.”

“Perhaps,” said Ethel; “but I wish it was you. Can’t you? you always
know how to manage.”

“No; it is Richard’s affair, and he must do as he thinks fit. Don’t
sigh, dear Ethel--perhaps he may soon speak, and, if not, you can be
preparing in a quiet way all the time. Don’t you remember how dear mamma
used to tell us that things, hastily begun, never turn out well?”

“But this is not hasty. I’ve been thinking about it these six weeks,”
 said Ethel. “If one does nothing but think, it is all no better than a
vision. I want to be doing.”

“Well, you can be doing--laying a sound foundation,” said Margaret. “The
more you consider, and the wiser you make yourself, the better it will
be when you do set to work.”

“You mean by curing myself of my slovenly ways and impatient temper?”

“I don’t know that I was exactly thinking of that,” said Margaret, “but
that ought to be the way. If we are not just the thing in our niche at
home, I don’t think we can do much real good elsewhere.”

“It would be hollow, show-goodness,” said Ethel. “Yes, that is true;
and it comes across me now, and then what a horrid wretch I am, to be
wanting to undertake so much, when I leave so much undone. But, do you
know, Margaret, there’s no one such a help in those ways as Richard.
Though he is so precise, he is never tiresome. He makes me see things,
and do them neatly, without plaguing me, and putting me in a rage. I’m
not ready to bite off my own fingers, or kick all the rattle-traps over
and leave them, as I am when Miss Winter scolds me, or nurse, or even
Flora sometimes; but it is as if I was gratifying him, and his funny
little old bachelor tidyisms divert me; besides, he teaches me the
theory, and never lays hold of my poor fingers, and, when they won’t
bend the wrong way, calls them frogs.”

“He is a capital master for you,” said Margaret, much amused and
pleased, for Richard was her especial darling, and she triumphed in any
eulogy from those who ordinarily were too apt to regard his dullness
with superior compassion.

“If he would only read our books, and enter into poetry and delight
in it; but it is all nonsense to him,” said Ethel. “I can’t think how
people can be so different; but, oh! here he comes. Ritchie, you should
not come upon us before we are aware.”

“What? I should have heard no good of myself?”

“Great good,” said Margaret--“she was telling me you would make a
neat-handed woman of her in time.”

“I don’t see why she should not be as neat as other people,” said
Richard gravely. “Has she been telling you our plan?”

And it was again happily discussed; Ethel, satisfied by finding him
fully set upon the design, and Margaret giving cordial sympathy and
counsel. When Ethel was called away, Margaret said, “I am so glad you
have taken it up, not only for the sake of Cocksmoor, but of Ethel. It
is good for her not to spend her high soul in dreams.”

“I am afraid she does not know what she undertakes,” said Richard.

“She does not; but you will keep her from being turned back. It is just
the thing to prevent her energies from running to waste, and her being
so much with you, and working under you, is exactly what one would have
chosen.”

“By contraries!” said Richard, smiling. “That is what I was afraid of. I
don’t half understand or follow her, and when I think a thing nonsense,
I see you all calling it very fine, and I don’t know what to make of
it--”

“You are making yourself out more dull than you are,” said Margaret
affectionately.

“I know I am stupid, and seem tame and cold,” said Richard, “and you
are the only one that does not care about it. That is what makes me wish
Norman was the eldest. If I were as clever as he, I could do so much
with Ethel, and be so much more to papa.”

“No, you would not. You would have other things in your head. You would
not be the dear, dear old Ritchie that you are. You would not be a calm,
cautious, steady balance to the quicksilver heads some of us have got.
No, no, Norman’s a very fine fellow, a very dear fellow, but he would
not do half so well for our eldest--he is too easily up, and down
again.”

“And I am getting into my old way of repining,” said Richard. “I don’t
mind so much, since my father has at least one son to be proud of, and I
can be of some use to him now.”

“Of the greatest, and to all of us. I am so glad you can stay after
Christmas, and papa was pleased at your offering, and said he could not
spare you at all, though he would have tried, if it had been any real
advantage to you.”

“Well, I hope he will approve. I must speak to him as soon as I can find
him with his mind tolerably disengaged.”

The scene that ensued that evening in the magic lantern before
Margaret’s bed, did not promise much for the freedom of her father’s
mind. Harry entered with a resolute manner. “Margaret, I wanted to speak
to you,” said he, spreading himself out, with an elbow on each arm of
the chair. “I want you to speak to papa about my going to sea. It is
high time to see about it--I shall be thirteen on the fourth of May.”

“And you mean it seriously, Harry?”

“Yes, of course I do, really and truly; and if it is to come to pass, it
is time to take measures. Don’t you see, Margaret?”

“It is time, as you say,” answered Margaret reflectingly, and sadly
surveying the bright boy, rosy cheeked, round faced, and blue eyed, with
the childish gladsomeness of countenance, that made it strange that his
lot in life should be already in the balance.

“I know what you will all tell me, that it is a hard life, but I must
get my own living some way or other, and I should like that way the
best,” said he earnestly.

“Should you like to be always far from home?”

“I should come home sometimes, and bring such presents to Mary, and
baby, and all of you; and I don’t know what else to be, Margaret. I
should hate to be a doctor--I can’t abide sick people; and I couldn’t
write sermons, so I can’t be a clergyman; and I won’t be a lawyer, I
vow, for Harvey Anderson is to be a lawyer--so there’s nothing left but
soldiers and sailors, and I mean to be a sailor!”

“Well, Harry, you may do your duty, and try to do right, if you are a
sailor, and that is the point.”

“Ay, I was sure you would not set your face against it, now you know
Alan Ernescliffe.”

“If you were to be like him--” Margaret found herself blushing, and
broke off.

“Then you will ask papa about it?”

“You had better do so yourself. Boys had better settle such serious
affairs with their fathers, without setting their sisters to interfere.
What’s the matter, Harry--you are not afraid to speak to papa?”

“Only for one thing,” said Harry. “Margaret, I went out to shoot
pee-wits last Saturday with two fellows, and I can’t speak to papa while
that’s on my mind.”

“Then you had better tell him at once.”

“I knew you would say so; but it would be like a girl, and it would be
telling of the two fellows.”

“Not at all; papa would not care about them.”

“You see,” said Harry, twisting a little, “I knew I ought not; but they
said I was afraid of a gun, and that I had no money. Now I see that was
chaff, but I didn’t then, and Norman wasn’t there.”

“I am so glad you have told me all this, Harry dear, for I knew you had
been less at home of late, and I was almost afraid you were not going on
quite well.”

“That’s what it is,” said Harry. “I can’t stand things at all, and I
can’t go moping about as Norman does. I can’t live without fun, and now
Norman isn’t here, half the time it turns to something I am sorry for
afterwards.”

“But, Harry, if you let yourself be drawn into mischief here for want of
Norman, what would you do at sea?”

“I should be an officer!”

“I am afraid,” said Margaret, smiling, “that would not make much
difference inside, though it might outside. You must get the
self-control, and leave off being afraid to be said to be afraid.”

Harry fidgeted. “I should start fresh, and be out of the way of the
Andersons,” he said. “That Anderson junior is a horrid fellow--he spites
Norman, and he bullied me, till I was big enough to show him that it
would not do--and though I am so much younger, he is afraid of me.
He makes up to me, and tries to get me into all the mischief that is
going.”

“And you know that, and let him lead you? Oh, Harry!”

“I don’t let him lead me,” said Harry indignantly, “but I won’t have
them say I can’t do things.”

Margaret laughed, and Harry presently perceived what she meant, but
instead of answering, he began to boast, “There never was a May in
disgrace yet, and there never shall be.”

“That is a thing to be very thankful for,” said Margaret, “but you know
there may be much harm without public disgrace. I never heard of one of
the Andersons being in disgrace yet.”

“No--shabby fellows, that just manage to keep fair with old Hoxton, and
make a show,” said Harry. “They look at translations, and copy old stock
verses. Oh, it was such fun the other day. What do you think? Norman
must have been dreaming, for he had taken to school, by mistake,
Richard’s old Gradus that Ethel uses, and there were ever so many rough
copies of hers sticking in it.”

“Poor Ethel! What consternation she would be in! I hope no one found it
out.”

“Why, Anderson junior was gaping about in despair for sense for his
verses--he comes on that, and slyly copies a whole set of her old ones,
done when she--Norman, I mean--was in the fifth form. His subject was
a river, and hers Babylon; but, altering a line or two, it did just as
well. He never guessed I saw him, and thought he had done it famously.
He showed them up, and would have got some noted good mark, but that, by
great good luck, Ethel had made two of her pentameters too short, which
he hadn’t the wit to find out, thinking all Norman did must be right. So
he has shown up a girl’s verses--isn’t that rare?” cried Harry, dancing
on his chair with triumph.

“I hope no one knows they were hers?”

“Bless you, no!” said Harry, who regarded Ethel’s attainments as
something contraband. “D’ye think I could tell? No, that’s the only
pity, that he can’t hear it; but, after all, I don’t care for anything
he does, now I know he has shown up a girl’s verses.”

“Are these verses of poor Ethel’s safe at home?”

“Yes, I took care of that. Mind you don’t tell anyone, Margaret; I never
told even Norman.”

“But all your school-fellows aren’t like these? You have Hector
Ernescliffe.”

“He’s a nice fellow enough, but he is little, and down in the school.
‘Twould be making a fourth form of myself to be after him. The fact is,
Margaret, they are a low, ungentlemanly lot just now, about sixth
and upper fifth form,” said Harry, lowering his voice into an anxious
confidential tone; “and since Norman has been less amongst them, they’ve
got worse; and you see, now home is different, and he isn’t like what he
was, I’m thrown on them, and I want to get out of it. I didn’t know that
was it before, but Richard showed me what set me on thinking of it, and
I see she knew all about it.”

“That she did! There is a great deal in what you say, Harry, but you
know she thought nothing would be of real use but changing within.
If you don’t get a root of strength in yourself, your ship will be no
better to you than school--there will be idle midshipmen as well as idle
school-boys.”

“Yes, I know,” said Harry; “but do you think papa will consent? She
would not have minded.”

“I can’t tell. I should think he would; but if any scheme is to come to
good, it must begin by your telling him of the going out shooting.”

Harry sighed. “I’d have done it long ago if she was here,” he said. “I
never did anything so bad before without telling, and I don’t like it at
all. It seems to come between him and me when I wish him good-night.”

“Then, Harry, pray do tell him. You’ll have no comfort if you don’t.”

“I know I shan’t; but then he’ll be so angry! And, do you know,
Margaret, ‘twas worse than I told you, for a covey of partridges got up,
and unluckily I had got the gun, and I fired and killed one, and that
was regular poaching, you know! And when we heard some one coming, how
we did cut! Ax--the other fellow, I mean, got it, and cooked it in his
bedroom, and ate it for supper; and he laughs about it, but I have felt
so horrid all the week! Suppose a keeper had got a summons!”

“I can only say again, the only peace will be in telling.”

“Yes; but he will be so angry. When that lot of fellows a year or two
ago did something like it, and shot some of the Abbotstoke rabbits,
don’t you remember how much he said about its being disgraceful, and
ordering us never to have anything to do with their gunnery? And he will
think it so very bad to have gone out on a lark just now! Oh, I wish I
hadn’t done it.”

“So do I, indeed, Harry! but I am sure, even it he should be angry at
first, he will be pleased with your confessing.”

Harry looked very reluctant and disconsolate, and his sister did
not wonder for Dr. May’s way of hearing of a fault was never to be
calculated on. “Come, Harry,” said she, “if he is ever so angry, though
I don’t think he will be, do you think that will be half as bad as this
load at your heart? Besides, if you are not bold enough to speak to him,
do you think you can ever be brave enough for a sailor?”

“I will,” said Harry, and the words were hardly spoken, before his
father’s hand was on the door. He was taken by surprise at the moment
of trial coming so speedily, and had half a mind to retreat by the other
door; he was stayed by the reflection that Margaret would think him a
coward, unfit for a sailor, and he made up his mind to endure whatever
might betide.

“Harry here? This is company I did not expect.”

“Harry has something to say to you, papa.”

“Eh! my boy, what is it?” said he kindly.

“Papa, I have killed a partridge. Two fellows got me to hire a gun, and
go out shooting with them last Saturday,” said Harry, speaking firmly
and boldly now he had once begun. “We meant only to go after pee-wits,
but a partridge got up, and I killed it.”

Then came a pause. Harry stopped, and Dr. May waited, half expecting to
hear that the boy was only brought to confession by finding himself in
a scrape. Margaret spoke. “And he could not be happy till he had told
you.”

“Is it so? Is that the whole?” said the doctor, looking at his son with
a keen glance, between affection and inquiry, as if only waiting to be
sure the confession was free, before he gave his free forgiveness.

“Yes, papa,” said Harry, his voice and lip losing their firmness, as the
sweetness of expression gained the day on his father’s face. “Only that
I know--‘twas very wrong--especially now--and I am very sorry--and I beg
your pardon.”

The latter words came between sighs, fast becoming sobs, in spite of
Harry’s attempts to control them, as his father held out his arm, and
drew him close to him.

“That’s mamma’s own brave boy,” he said in his ear--in a voice which
strong feeling had reduced to such a whisper, that even Margaret could
not hear--she only saw how Harry, sobbing aloud, clung tighter and
tighter to him, till he said “Take care of my arm!” and Harry sprang
back at least a yard, with such a look of dismay, that the doctor
laughed. “No harm done!” said he. “I was only a little in dread of such
a young lion! Comeback, Harry,” and he took his hand. “It was a bad
piece of work, and it will never do for you to let yourself be drawn
into every bit of mischief that is on foot; I believe I ought to
give you a good lecture on it, but I can’t do it, after such a
straightforward confession. You must have gone through enough in the
last week, not to be likely to do it again.”

“Yes, papa--thank you.”

“I suppose I must not ask you any questions about it, for fear of
betraying the fellows,” said Dr. May, half smiling.

“Thank you, papa,” said Harry, infinitely relieved and grateful, and
quite content for some space to lean in silence against the chair, with
that encircling arm round him, while some talk passed between his father
and Margaret.

What a world of thought passed through the boy’s young soul in that
space! First, there was a thrill of intense, burning love to his father,
scarcely less fondness to his sweet motherly sister; a clinging feeling
to every chair and table of that room, which seemed still full of
his mother’s presence; a numbering over of all the others with ardent
attachment, and a flinging from him with horror the notion of asking to
be far away from that dearest father, that loving home, that arm that
was round him. Anything rather than be without them in the dreary
world! But then came the remembrance of cherished visions, the shame of
relinquishing a settled purpose, the thought of weary morrows, with the
tempters among his playmates, and his home blank and melancholy; and
the roaming spirit of enterprise stirred again, and reproached him with
being a baby, for fancying he could stay at home for ever. He would come
back again with such honours as Alan Ernescliffe had brought, and oh!
if his father so prized them in a stranger, what would it be in his
own son? Come home to such a greeting as would make up for the parting!
Harry’s heart throbbed again for the boundless sea, the tall ship,
and the wondrous foreign climes, where he had so often lived in fancy.
Should he, could he speak: was this the moment? and he stood gazing at
the fire, oppressed with the weighty reality of deciding his destiny.
At last Dr. May looked in his face, “Well, what now, boy? You have your
head full of something--what’s coming next?”

Out it came, “Papa will you let me be a sailor?”

“Oh!” said Dr. May, “that is come on again, is it? I thought that you
had forgotten all that.”

“No, papa,” said Harry, with the manly coolness that the sense of his
determination gave him--“it was not a mere fancy, and I have never had
it out of my head. I mean it quite in earnest--I had rather be a sailor.
I don’t wish to get away from Latin and Greek, I don’t mind them; but
I think I could be a better sailor than anything. I know it is not all
play, but I am willing to rough it; and I am getting so old, it is time
to see about it, so will you consent to it, papa?”

“Well! there’s some sense in your way of putting it,” said Dr. May. “You
have it strong in your head then, and you know ‘tis not all fair-weather
work!”

“That I do; Alan told me histories, and I’ve read all about it; but one
must rough it anywhere, and if I am ever so far away, I’ll try not to
forget what’s right. I’ll do my duty, and not care for danger.”

“Well said, my man; but remember ‘tis easier talking by one’s own
fireside than doing when the trial comes.”

“And will you let me, papa?”

“I’ll think about it. I can’t make up my mind as ‘quick as directly,’
you know, Harry,” said his father, smiling kindly, “but I won’t treat
it as a boy’s fancy, for you’ve spoken in a manly way, and deserve to
be attended to. Now run down, and tell the girls to put away their work,
for I shall come down in a minute to read prayers.”

Harry went, and his father sighed and mused! “That’s a fine fellow! So
this is what comes of bringing sick sailors home--one’s own boys must be
catching the infection. Little monkey, he talks as wisely as if he were
forty! He is really set on it, do you think, Margaret? I’m afraid so!”

“I think so,” said Margaret; “I don’t think he ever has it out of his
mind!”

“And when the roving spirit once lays hold of a lad, he must have his
way--he is good for nothing else,” said Dr. May.

“I suppose a man may keep from evil in that profession as well as in any
other,” said Margaret.

“Aha! you are bit too, are you?” said the doctor; “‘tis the husbandman
and viper, is it?” Then his smile turned into a heavy sigh, as he saw
he had brought colour to Margaret’s pale cheek, but she answered calmly,
“Dear mamma did not think it would be a bad thing for him.”

“I know,” said the doctor, pausing; “but it never came to this with
her.”

“I wish he had chosen something else; but--” and Margaret thought it
right to lay before her father some part of what he had said of the
temptations of the school at Stoneborough. The doctor listened and
considered at last he rose, and said, “Well, I’ll set Ritchie to write
to Ernescliffe, and hear what he says. What must be, must be. ‘Tis only
asking me to give up the boy, that’s all;” and as he left the room,
his daughter again heard his sigh and half-uttered words, “Oh, Maggie,
Maggie!”




CHAPTER X.



                                   A tale
     Would rouse adventurous courage in a boy,
     And make him long to be a mariner,
     That he might rove the main.--SOUTHEY.


Etheldred had the satisfaction of seeing the Taylors at school on
Sunday, but no Halls made their appearance, and, on inquiry, she was
told, “Please ma’am, they said they would not come;” so Ethel condemned
Granny Hall as “a horrid, vile, false, hypocritical old creature! It was
no use having anything more to do with her.”

“Very well,” said Richard; “then I need not speak to my father.”

“Ritchie now! you know I meant no such thing!”

“You know, it is just what will happen continually.”

“Of course there will be failures, but this is so abominable, when they
had those nice frocks, and those two beautiful eighteen-penny shawls!
There are three shillings out of my pound thrown away!”

“Perhaps there was some reason to prevent them. We will go and see.”

“We shall only hear some more palavering. I want to have no more to say
to--” but here Ethel caught herself up, and began to perceive what
a happiness it was that she had not the power of acting on her own
impulses.

The twins and their little brother of two years old were christened
in the afternoon, and Flora invited the parents to drink tea in the
kitchen, and visit Lucy, while Ethel and Mary each carried a baby
upstairs to exhibit to Margaret.

Richard, in the meantime, had a conversation with John Taylor, and
learned a good deal about the district, and the number of the people. At
tea, he began to rehearse his information, and the doctor listened with
interest, which put Ethel in happy agitation, believing that the moment
was come, and Richard seemed to be only waiting for the conclusion of a
long tirade against those who ought to do something for the place, when
behold! Blanche was climbing on her father’s knee, begging for one of
his Sunday stories.

Etheldred was cruelly disappointed, and could not at first rejoice to
see her father able again to occupy himself with his little girl. The
narration, in his low tones, roused her from her mood of vexation.
It was the story of David, which he told in language scriptural and
poetical, so pretty and tender in its simplicity, that she could not
choose but attend. Ever and anon there was a glance towards Harry, as
if he were secretly likening his own “yellow-haired laddie” to the
“shepherd boy, ruddy, and of a fair countenance.”

“So Tom and Blanche,” he concluded, “can you tell me how we may be like
the shepherd-boy, David?”

“There aren’t giants now,” said Tom.

“Wrong is a giant,” said his little sister.

“Right, my white May-flower, and what then?”

“We are to fight,” said Tom.

“Yes, and mind, the giant with all his armour may be some great thing we
have to do: but what did David begin with when he was younger?”

“The lion and the bear.”

“Ay, and minding his sheep. Perhaps little things, now you are little
children, may be like the lion and the bear--so kill them off--get rid
of them--cure yourself of whining or dawdling, or whatever it be,
and mind your sheep well,” said he, smiling sweetly in answer to the
children’s earnest looks as they caught his meaning, “and if you do,
you will not find it near so hard to deal with your great giant struggle
when it comes.”

Ah! thought Ethel, it suits me as well as the children. I have a great
giant on Cocksmoor, and here I am, not allowed to attack him, because,
perhaps, I am not minding my sheep, and letting my lion and my bear run
loose about the house.

She was less impatient this week, partly from the sense of being on
probation, and partly because she, in common with all the rest, was much
engrossed with Harry’s fate. He came home every day at dinner-time with
Norman to ask if Alan Ernescliffe’s letter had come; and at length Mary
and Tom met them open-mouthed with the news that Margaret had it in her
room.

Thither they hastened. Margaret held it out with a smile of
congratulation. “Here it is, Harry; papa said you were to have it, and
consider it well, and let him know, when you had taken time. You must do
it soberly. It is once for all.”

Harry’s impetuosity was checked, and he took the letter quietly. His
sister put her hand on his shoulder, “Would you mind my kissing you,
dear Harry?” and as he threw his arms round her neck, she whispered,
“Pray that you may choose right.”

He went quietly away, and Norman begged to know what had been Alan
Ernescliffe’s advice.

“I can scarcely say he gave any direct advice,” said Margaret; “He would
not have thought that called for. He said, no doubt there were hardships
and temptations, more or less, according to circumstances; but weighing
one thing with another, he thought it gave as fair a chance of happiness
as other professions, and the discipline and regularity had been very
good for himself, as well as for many others he had known. He said, when
a man is willing to go wrong there is much to help him, but when he is
resolved on doing right, he need not be prevented.”

“That is what you may say of anything,” said Norman.

“Just so; and it answered papa’s question, whether it was exposing Harry
to more temptation than he must meet with anywhere. That was the reason
it was such a comfort to have anyone to write to, who understands it so
well.”

“Yes, and knows Harry’s nature.”

“He said he had been fortunate in his captains, and had led, on the
whole, a happy life at sea; and he thought if it was so with him, Harry
was likely to enjoy it more, being of a hardy adventurous nature, and a
sailor from choice, not from circumstances.”

“Then he advised for it? I did not think he would; you know he will not
let Hector be a sailor.”

“He told me he thought only a strong natural bent that way made it
desirable, and that he believed Hector only wished it from imitation of
him. He said too, long ago, that he thought Harry cut out for a sailor.

“A spirited fellow!” said Norman, with a look of saddened pride and
approval, not at all like one so near the same age. “He is up to
anything, afraid of nothing, he can lick any boy in the school already.
It will be worse than ever without him!”

“Yes, you will miss your constant follower. He has been your shadow
ever since he could walk. But there’s the clock, I must not keep you any
longer; good-bye, Norman.”

Harry gave his brother the letter as soon as they were outside the
house, and, while he read it, took his arm and guided him. “Well,” said
Norman as he finished.

“It is all right,” said Harry; and the two brothers said no more; there
was something rising up in their throats at the thought that they had
very few more walks to take together to Bishop Whichcote’s school;
Norman’s heart was very full at the prospect of another vacancy in his
home, and Harry’s was swelling between the ardour of enterprise and the
thought of bidding good-bye to each familiar object, and, above all, to
the brother who had been his model and admiration from babyhood.

“June!” at length he broke out, “I wish you were going too. I should not
mind it half so much if you were.”

“Nonsense, Harry! you want to be July after June all your life, do you?
You’ll be much more of a man without me.”

That evening Dr. May called Harry into his study to ask him if his mind
was made up; he put the subject fairly before him, and told him not to
be deterred from choosing what he thought would be for the best by any
scruples about changing his mind. “We shall not think a bit the worse of
you; better now, than too late.”

There was that in his face and tone that caused Harry to say, in a
stifled voice, “I did not think you would care so much, papa; I won’t
go, if you do.”

Dr. May put his hand on his shoulder, and was silent. Harry felt a
strange mixture of hope and fear, joy and grief, disappointment and
relief. “You must not give it up on that account, my dear,” he said at
length; “I should not let you see this, if it did not happen at a time
when I can’t command myself as I ought. If you were an only son, it
might be your duty to stay; being one of many, ‘tis nonsense to make a
rout about parting with you. If it is better for you, it is better for
all of us; and we shall do very well when you are once fairly gone.
Don’t let that influence you for a moment.”

Harry paused, not that he doubted, but he was collecting his
energies--“Then, papa, I choose the navy.”

“Then it is done, Harry. You have chosen in a dutiful, unselfish spirit,
and I trust it will prosper with you; for I am sure your father’s
blessing--aye, and your mother’s too, go with you! Now then,” after a
pause, “go and call Richard. I want him to write to Ernescliffe about
that naval school. You must take your leave of the Whichcote foundation
on Friday. I shall go and give Dr. Hoxton notice tomorrow, and get Tom’s
name down instead.”

And when the name of Thomas May was set down, Dr. Hoxton expressed his
trust that it would pass through the school as free from the slightest
blemish as those of Richard, Norman, and Harry May.

Now that Harry’s destiny was fixed, Ethel began to think of Cocksmoor
again, and she accomplished another walk there with Richard, Flora, and
Mary, to question Granny Hall about the children’s failure.

The old woman’s reply was a tissue of contradictions: the girls were
idle hussies, all contrary: they plagued the very life out of her, and
she represented herself as using the most frightful threats, if they
would not go to school. Breaking every bone in their skin was the least
injury she promised them; till Mary, beginning to think her a cruel old
woman, took hold of her brother’s coat-tails for protection.

“But I am afraid, Mrs. Hall,” said Richard, in that tone which might be
either ironical or simple, “if you served them so, they would never be
able to get to school at all, poor things.”

“Bless you, sir, d’ye think I’d ever lay a finger near them; it’s only
the way one must talk to children, you see,” said she, patronising his
inexperience.

“Perhaps they have found that out,” said Richard. Granny looked much
entertained, and laughed triumphantly and shrewdly, “ay, ay, that they
have, the lasses--they be sharp enough for anything, that they be. Why,
when I tell little Jenny that there’s the black man coming after her,
what does she do but she ups and says, ‘Granny, I know ‘tis only the
wind in the chimney.’”

“Then I don’t think it seems to answer,” said Richard. “Just suppose you
were to try for once, really punishing them when they won’t obey you,
perhaps they would do it next time.”

“Why, sir, you see I don’t like to take the stick to them; they’ve got
no mother, you see, sir.”

Mary thought her a kind grandmother, and came out from behind her
brother.

“I think it would be kinder to do it for once. What do you think they
will do as they grow older, if you don’t keep them in order when they
are little?”

This was foresight beyond Granny Hall, who began to expatiate on the
troubles she had undergone in their service, and the excellence of Sam.
There was certainly a charm in her manners, for Ethel forgot her charge
of ingratitude, the other sisters were perfectly taken with her, nor
could they any of them help giving credence to her asseverations that
Jenny and Polly should come to school next Sunday.

They soon formed another acquaintance; a sharp-faced woman stood in
their path, with a little girl in her hand, and arrested them with a low
curtsey, and not a very pleasant voice, addressing herself to Flora,
who was quite as tall as Richard, and appeared the person of most
consequence.

“If you please, miss, I wanted to speak to you. I have got a little girl
here, and I want to send her to school, only I have no shoes for her.”

“Why, surely, if she can run about here on the heath, she can go to
school,” said Flora.

“Oh! but there is all the other children to point at her. The poor thing
would be daunted, you see, miss; if I could but get some friend to give
her a pair of shoes, I’d send her in a minute. I want her to get some
learning; as I am always saying, I’d never keep her away, if I had
but got the clothes to send her in. I never lets her be running on the
common, like them Halls, as it’s a shame to see them in nice frocks, as
Mrs. Hall got by going hypercriting about.”

“What is your name?” said Richard, cutting her short.

“Watts, if you please, sir; we heard there was good work up here, sir,
and so we came; but I’d never have set foot in it if I had known what a
dark heathenish place it is, with never a Gospel minister to come near
it,” and a great deal more to the same purpose.

Mary whispered to Flora something about having outgrown her boots, but
Flora silenced her by a squeeze of the hand, and the two friends of
Cocksmoor felt a good deal puzzled.

At last Flora said, “You will soon get her clothed if she comes
regularly to school on Sundays, for she will be admitted into the club;
I will recommend her if she has a good character and comes regularly.
Good-morning, Mrs. Watts. Now we must go, or it will be dark before we
get home.” And they walked hastily away.

“Horrid woman!” was Ethel’s exclamation.

“But Flora,” said innocent Mary, “why would you not let me give the
little girl my boots?”

“Perhaps I may, if she is good and comes to school, said Flora.

“I think Margaret ought to settle what you do with your boots,” said
Richard, not much to Flora’s satisfaction.

“It is the same,” she said. “If I approve, Margaret will not object.”

“How well you helped us out, Flora,” said Ethel; “I did not know in the
least what to say.”

“It will be the best way of testing her sincerity, said Flora; and at
least it will do the child good; but I congratulate you on the promising
aspect of Cocksmoor.”

“We did not expect to find a perfect place,” said Ethel; “if it were, it
would be of no use to go to it.”

Ethel could answer with dignity, but her heart sank at the aspect of
what she had undertaken. She knew there would be evil, but she had
expected it in a more striking and less disagreeable form.

That walk certainly made her less impatient, though it did not relax her
determination, nor the guard over her lion and bear, which her own
good feeling, aided by Margaret’s council, showed her were the greatest
hindrances to her doing anything good and great.

Though she was obliged to set to work so many principles and reflections
to induce herself to wipe a pen, or to sit straight on her chair, that
it was like winding up a steam-engine to thread a needle; yet the work
was being done--she was struggling with her faults, humbled by them,
watching them, and overcoming them.

Flora, meanwhile, was sitting calmly down in the contemplation of the
unexpected services she had rendered, confident that her character for
energy and excellence was established, believing it herself, and looking
back on her childish vanity and love of domineering as long past and
conquered. She thought her grown-up character had begun, and was too
secure to examine it closely.




CHAPTER XI.



     One thing is wanting in the beamy cup
       Of my young life! one thing to be poured in;
     Ay, and one thing is wanting to fill up
       The measure of proud joy, and make it sin.--F. W. F.


Hopes that Dr. May would ever have his mind free, seemed as fallacious
as mamma’s old promise to Margaret, to make doll’s clothes for her
whenever there should be no live dolls to be worked for in the nursery.

Richard and Ethel themselves had their thoughts otherwise engrossed.
The last week before the holidays was an important one. There was
an examination, by which the standing of the boys in the school was
determined, and this time it was of more than ordinary importance, as
the Randall scholarship of £100 a year for three years would be open in
the summer to the competition of the first six boys. Richard had never
come within six of the top, but had been past at every examination by
younger boys, till his father could bear it no longer; and now Norman
was too young to be likely to have much chance of being of the number.
There were eight decidedly his seniors, and Harvey Anderson, a small,
quick-witted boy, half a year older, who had entered school at the same
time, and had always been one step below him, had, in the last three
months, gained fast upon him.

Harry, however, meant Norman to be one of the six, and declared all the
fellows thought he would be, except Andersen’s party. Mr. Wilmot, in a
call on Ethel and Flora, told them that he thought their brother had a
fair chance, but he feared he was over-working himself, and should tell
the doctor so, whenever he could catch him; but this was difficult, as
there was a great deal of illness just then, and he was less at home
than usual.

All this excited the home party, but Norman only seemed annoyed by talk
about it, and though always with a book in his hand, was so dreamy and
listless, that Flora declared that there was no fear of his doing too
much--she thought he would fail for want of trying.

“I mean to try,” said Norman; “say no more about it, pray.”

The great day was the 20th of December, and Ethel ran out, as the boys
went to school, to judge of Norman’s looks, which were not promising.
“No wonder,” said Harry, since he had stayed up doing Euripides and
Cicero the whole length of a candle that had been new at bedtime. “But
never mind, Ethel, if he only beats Anderson, I don’t care for anything
else.”

“Oh, it will be unbearable if he does not! Do try, Norman, dear.”

“Never you mind.”

“He’ll light up at the last moment,” said Ethel, consolingly, to Harry;
but she was very uneasy herself, for she had set her heart on his
surpassing Harvey Anderson. No more was heard all day. Tom went at
dinner-time to see if he could pick up any news; but he was shy, or
was too late, and gained no intelligence. Dr. May and Richard talked
of going to hear the speeches and viva voce examination in the
afternoon--objects of great interest to all Stoneborough men--but just
as they came home from a long day’s work, Dr. May was summoned to the
next town, by an electric telegraph, and, as it was to a bad case, he
did not expect to be at home till the mail-train came in at one o’clock
at night. Richard begged to go with him, and he consented, unwillingly,
to please Margaret, who could not bear to think of his “fending for
himself” in the dark on the rail-road.

Very long did the evening seem to the listening sisters. Eight, and
no tidings; nine, the boys not come; Tom obliged to go to bed by sheer
sleepiness, and Ethel unable to sit still, and causing Flora demurely to
wonder at her fidgeting so much, it would be so much better to fix her
attention to some employment; while Margaret owned that Flora was right,
but watched, and started at each sound, almost as anxiously as Ethel.

It was ten, when there was a sharp pull at the bell, and down flew the
sisters; but old James was beforehand, and Harry was exclaiming, “Dux!
James, he is Dux! Hurrah! Flossy, Ethel, Mary! There stands the Dux of
Stoneborough! Where’s papa?”

“Sent for to Whitford. But oh! Norman, Dux! Is he really?”

“To be sure, but I must tell Margaret,” and up he rushed, shouted the
news to her, but could not stay for congratulation; broke Tom’s slumber
by roaring it in his ear, and dashed into the nursery, where nurse for
once forgave him for waking the baby. Norman, meanwhile, followed his
eager sisters into the drawing-room, putting up his hand as if the
light dazzled him, and looking, by no means, as it he had just achieved
triumphant success.

Ethel paused in her exultation: “But is it, is it true, Norman?”

“Yes,” he said wearily, making his way to his dark corner.

“But what was it for? How is it?”

“I don’t know,” he answered.

“What’s the matter?” said Flora. “Are you tired, Norman, dear, does your
head ache?”

“Yes;” and the pain was evidently severe.

“Won’t you come to Margaret?” said Ethel, knowing what was the greater
suffering; but he did not move, and they forbore to torment him with
questions. The next moment Harry came down in an ecstacy, bringing in,
from the hall, Norman’s beautiful prize books, and showing off their
Latin inscription.

“Ah!” said he, looking at his brother, “he is regularly done for.
He ought to turn in at once. That Everard is a famous fellow for an
examiner. He said he never had seen such a copy of verses sent up by a
school-boy, and could hardly believe June was barely sixteen. Old Hoxton
says he is the youngest Dux they have had these fifty years that he
has known the school, and Mr. Wilmot said ‘twas the most creditable
examination he had ever known, and that I might tell papa so. What did
possess that ridiculous old landlubber at Whitford, to go and get on the
sick-list on this, of all the nights of the year? June, how can you go
on sitting there, when you know you ought to be in your berth?”

“I wish he was,” said Flora, “but let him have some tea first.”

“And tell us more, Harry,” said Ethel. “Oh! it is famous! I knew he
would come right at last. It is too delightful, if papa was but here!”

“Isn’t it? You should have seen how Anderson grinned--he is only
fourth--down below Forder, and Cheviot, and Ashe.”

“Well, I did not think Norman would have been before Forder and Cheviot.
That is grand.”

“It was the verses that did it,” said Harry; “they had an hour to do
Themistocles on the hearth of Admetus, and there he beat them all to
shivers. ‘Twas all done smack, smooth, without a scratch, in Alcaics,
and Cheviot heard Wilmot saying, ‘twas no mere task, but had poetry, and
all that sort of thing in it. But I don’t know whether that would have
done, if he had not come out so strong in the recitation; they put him
on in Priam’s speech to Achilles, and he said it--Oh it was too bad papa
did not hear him! Every one held their breath and listened.”

“How you do go on!” muttered Norman; but no one heeded, and Harry
continued. “He construed a chorus in Sophocles without a blunder, but
what did the business was this, I believe. They asked all manner of
out-of-the-way questions--history and geography, what no one expected,
and the fellows who read nothing they can help, were thoroughly posed.
Forder had not a word to say, and the others were worse, for Cheviot
thought Queen Elizabeth’s Earl of Leicester was Simon de Montfort; and
didn’t know when that battle was, beginning with an E.--was it Evesham,
or Edgehill?”

“O Harry, you are as bad yourself?”

“But any one would know Leicester, because of Kenilworth,” said Harry;
“and I’m not sixth form. If papa had but been there! Every one was
asking for him, and wishing it. For Dr. Hoxton called me--they shook
hands with me, and wished me joy of it, and told me to tell my father
how well Norman had done.”

“I suppose you looked so happy, they could not help it,” said Flora,
smiling at that honest beaming face of joy.

“Ay,” said Norman, looking up; “they had something to say to him on his
own score, which he has forgotten.”

“I should think not,” said Harry. “Why, what d’ye think they said? That
I had gone on as well as all the Mays, and they trusted I should still,
and be a credit to my profession.”

“Oh! Harry! why didn’t you tell us?”

“Oh! that is grand!” and, as the two elder girls made this exclamation,
Mary proceeded to a rapturous embrace. “Get along, Mary, you are
throttling one. Mr. Everard inquired for my father and Margaret, and
said he’d call to-morrow, and Hoxton and Wilmot kept on wishing he was
there.”

“I wish he had been!” said Ethel; “he would have taken such delight in
it; but, even if he could have gone, he doubted whether it would not
have made Norman get on worse from anxiety.”

“Well, Cheviot wanted me to send up for him at dinner-time,” said Harry;
“for as soon as we sat down in the hall, June turned off giddy, and
could not stay, and looked so horrid, we thought it was all over with
him, and he would not be able to go up at all.”

“And Cheviot thought you ought to send for papa!”

“Yes, I knew he would not be in, and so we left him lying down on the
bench in the cloister till dinner was over.”

“What a place for catching cold!” said Flora.

“So Cheviot said, but I couldn’t help it; and when we went to call him
afterwards, he was all right. Wasn’t it fun, when the names were called
over, and May senior at the head! I don’t think it will be better when I
am a post-captain myself! But Margaret has not heard half yet.”

After telling it once in her room, once in the nursery, in whispers
like gusts of wind, and once in the pantry, Harry employed himself in
writing--“Norman is Dux!” in immense letters, on pieces of paper, which
he disposed all over the house, to meet the eyes of his father and
Richard on their return.

Ethel’s joy was sadly damped by Norman’s manner. He hardly spoke--only
just came in to wish Margaret good-night, and shrank from her
affectionate sayings, departing abruptly to his own room.

“Poor fellow! he is sadly overdone,” said she, as he went.

“Oh!” sighed Ethel, nearly ready to cry, “‘tis not like what I used to
fancy it would be when he came to the head of the school!”

“It will be different to-morrow,” said Margaret, trying to console
herself as well as Ethel. “Think how he has been on the strain this
whole day, and long before, doing so much more than older boys. No
wonder he is tired and worn out.”

Ethel did not understand what mental fatigue was, for her active,
vigorous spirit had never been tasked beyond its powers.

“I hope he will be like himself to-morrow!” said she disconsolately. “I
never saw him rough and hasty before. It was even with you, Margaret.”

“No, no, Ethel you aren’t going to blame your own Norman for unkindness
on this of all days in the year. You know how it was; you love him
better; just as I do, for not being able to bear to stay in this room,
where--”

“Yes,” said Ethel, mournfully; “it was a great shame of me! How could I?
Dear Norman! how he does grieve--what love his must have been! But yet,
Margaret,” she said impatiently, and the hot tears breaking out, “I
cannot--cannot bear it! To have him not caring one bit for all of us! I
want him to triumph! I can’t without him!”

“What, Ethel, you, who said you didn’t care for mere distinction and
praise? Don’t you think dear mamma would say it was safer for him not to
be delighted and triumphant?”

“It is very tiresome,” said Ethel, nearly convinced, but in a slightly
petulant voice.

“And does not one love those two dear boys to-night!” said Margaret.
“Norman not able to rejoice in his victory without her, and Harry in
such an ecstacy with Norman’s honours. I don’t think I ever was so fond
of my two brothers.”

Ethel smiled, and drew up her head, and said no boys were like them
anywhere, and papa would be delighted, and so went to bed happier in her
exultation, and in hoping that the holidays would make Norman himself
again.

Nothing could be better news for Dr. May, who had never lost a grain
of the ancient school-party-loyalty that is part of the nature of the
English gentleman. He was a thorough Stoneborough boy, had followed
the politics of the Whichcote foundation year by year all his life, and
perhaps, in his heart, regarded no honour as more to be prized than that
of Dux and Randall scholar. Harry was in his room the next morning as
soon as ever he was stirring, a welcome guest--teased a little at first,
by his pretending to take it all as a sailor’s prank to hoax him and
Richard, and then free to pour out to delighted ears the whole history
of the examination, and of every one’s congratulations.

Norman himself was asleep when Harry went to give this narration. He
came down late, and his father rose to meet him as he entered. “My boy,”
 he said, “I had not expected this of you. Well done, Norman!” and the
whole tone and gesture had a heartfelt approval and joy in them, that
Ethel knew her brother was deeply thrilled by, for his colour deepened,
and his lips quivered into something like a smile, though he did not
lift his eyes.

Then came Richard’s warm greeting and congratulation, he, too, showing
himself as delighted as if the honours were his own; and then Dr. May
again, in lively tones, like old times, laughing at Norman for sleeping
late, and still not looking well awake, asking him if he was quite sure
it was not all a dream.

“Well,” said Norman, “I should think it was, if it were not that you all
believe it.”

“Harry had better go to sleep next,” said Dr. May, “and see what
dreaming will make him. If it makes Dux of Norman, who knows but it may
make Drakes of him? Ha! Ethel--


       “Oh, give us for our Kings such Queens,
          And for our Ducks such Drakes.”


There had not been such a merry breakfast for months. There was the old
confusion of voices; the boys, Richard, and the doctor had much to talk
over of the school doings of this week, and there was nearly as much
laughing as in days past. Ethel wondered whether any one but herself
observed that the voice most seldom heard was Norman’s.

The promised call was made by Dr. Hoxton, and Mr. Everard, an old
friend, and after their departure Dr. May came to Margaret’s room with
fresh accounts, corroborating what Harry had said of the clear knowledge
and brilliant talent that Norman had displayed, to a degree that
surprised his masters, almost as much as the examiners. The copy
of verses Dr. May brought with him, and construed them to Margaret,
commenting all the way on their ease, and the fullness of thought,
certainly remarkable in a boy of sixteen.

They were then resigned to Ethel’s keeping, and she could not help
imparting her admiration to their author, with some apology for vexing
him again.

“I don’t want to be cross,” said Norman, whom these words roused to a
sense that he had been churlish last night; “but I cannot help it. I
wish people would not make such a fuss about it.”

“I don’t think you can be well, Norman.”

“Nonsense. There’s nothing the matter with me.”

“But I don’t understand your not caring at all, and not being the least
pleased.”

“It only makes it worse,” said Norman; “I only feel as if I wanted to be
out of the way. My only comfortable time yesterday was on that bench in
the cool quiet cloister. I don’t think I could have got through without
that, when they left me in peace, till Cheviot and Harry came to rout me
up, and I knew it was all coming.”

“Ah! you have overworked yourself, but it was for something. You have
given papa such pleasure and comfort, as you can’t help being glad of.
That is very different from us foolish young ones and our trumpeting.”

“What comfort can it be? I’ve not been the smallest use all this time.
When he was ill, I left him to Ernescliffe, and lay on the floor like
an ass; and if he were to ask me to touch his arm, I should be as bad
again. A fine thing for me to have talked all that arrogant stuff about
Richard! I hate the thought of it; and, as if to make arrows and barbs
of it, here’s Richard making as much of this as if it was a double first
class! He afraid to be compared with me, indeed!”

“Norman, indeed, this is going too far. We can’t be as useful as the
elder ones; and when you know how papa was vexed about Richard, you must
be glad to have pleased him.”

“If I were he, it would only make me miss her more. I believe he only
makes much of me that he may not disappoint me.”

“I don’t think so. He is really glad, and the more because she would
have been so pleased. He said it would have been a happy day for her,
and there was more of the glad look than the sorry one. It was the
glistening look that comes when he is watching baby, or hearing Margaret
say pretty things to her. You see it is the first bright morning we have
had.”

“Yes,” said Norman; “perhaps it was, but I don’t know. I thought half of
it was din.”

“Oh, Norman!”

“And another thing, Ethel, I don’t feel as if I had fairly earned it.
Forder or Cheviot ought to have had it. They are both more really good
scholars than I am, and have always been above me. There was nothing
I really knew better, except those historical questions that no one
reckoned on; and not living at home with their sisters and books, they
had no such chance, and it is very hard on them, and I don’t like it.”

“Well, but you really and truly beat them in everything.”

“Ay, by chance. There were lots of places in construing, where I should
have broken down if I had happened to be set on in them; it was only a
wonder I did not in that chorus, for I had only looked at it twice; but
Everard asked me nothing but what I knew; and now and then I get into
a funny state, when nothing is too hard for me, and that was how it was
yesterday evening. Generally, I feel as dull as a post,” said Norman,
yawning and stretching; “I could not make a nonsense hexameter this
minute, if I was to die for it.”

“A sort of Berserkar fury!” said Ethel, “like that night you did the
coral-worm verses. It’s very odd. Are you sure you are well, dear
Norman?”

To which he answered, with displeasure, that he was as well as possible,
ordered her not to go and make any more fuss, and left her hastily. She
was unhappy, and far from satisfied; she had never known his temper
so much affected, and was much puzzled; but she was too much afraid of
vexing him, to impart her perplexity even to Margaret. However, the next
day, Sunday, as she was reading to Margaret after church, her father
came in, and the first thing he said was, “I want to know what you think
of Norman.”

“How do you mean?” said Margaret; “in health or spirits?”

“Both,” said Dr. May. “Poor boy! he has never held up his head since
October, and, at his age, that is hardly natural. He goes moping about,
has lost flesh and appetite, and looks altogether out of order, shooting
up like a Maypole too.”

“Mind and body,” said Margaret, while Ethel gazed intently at her
father, wondering whether she ought to speak, for Margaret did not know
half what she did; nothing about the bad nights, nor what he called the
“funny state.”

“Yes, both. I fancied it was only his rapid growth, and the excitement
of this examination, and that it would go off, but I think there’s more
amiss. He was lounging about doing nothing, when the girls were gone
to school after dinner, and I asked him to walk down with me to the
Almshouses. He did not seem very willing, but he went, and presently, as
I had hold of his arm, I felt him shivering, and saw him turn as pale as
a sheet. As soon as I noticed it, he flushed crimson, and would not hear
of turning back, stoutly protesting he was quite well, but I saw his
hand was quivering even when I got into church. Why, Ethel, you have
turned as red as he did.”

“Then he has done it!” exclaimed Ethel, in a smothered voice.

“What do you mean? Speak, Ethel.”

“He has gone past it--the place,” whispered she.

The doctor made a sound of sorrowful assent, as if much struck; then
said, “you don’t mean he has never been there since?”

“Yes,” said Ethel, “he has always gone round Randall’s alley or the
garden; he has said nothing, but has contrived to avoid it.”

“Well,” said Dr. May, after a pause, “I hoped none of us knew the exact
spot.”

“We don’t; he never told us, but he was there.”

“Was he?” exclaimed her father; “I had no notion of that. How came he
there?”

“He went on with Mr. Ernescliffe, and saw it all,” said Ethel, as her
father drew out her words, apparently with his eye; “and then came up to
my room so faint that he was obliged to lie on the floor ever so long.”

“Faint--how long did it last?” said her father, examining her without
apparent emotion, as if it had been an indifferent patient.

“I don’t know, things seemed so long that evening. Till after dark at
least, and it came on in the morning--no, the Monday. I believe it was
your arm--for talking of going to see you always brought it on, till Mr.
Ward gave him a dose of brandy-and-water, and that stopped it.”

“I wish I had known this before. Derangement of the nervous system, no
doubt--a susceptible boy like that--I wonder what sort of nights he has
been having.”

“Terrible ones,” said Ethel; “I don’t think he ever sleeps quietly till
morning; he has dreams, and he groans and talks in his sleep; Harry can
tell you all that.”

“Bless me!” cried Dr. May, in some anger; “what have you all been
thinking about to keep this to yourselves all this time?”

“He could not bear to have it mentioned,” said Ethel timidly; “and I
didn’t know that it signified so much; does it?”

“It signifies so much, that I had rather have given a thousand pounds
than have let him go on all this time, to be overworked at school, and
wound up to that examination!”

“Oh, dear! I am sorry!” said Ethel, in great dismay. “If you had but
been at home when Cheviot wanted Harry to have sent for you--because he
did not think him fit for it!” And Ethel was much relieved by pouring
out all she knew, though her alarm was by no means lessened by the
effect it produced on her father, especially when he heard of the “funny
state.”

“A fine state of things,” he said; “I wonder it has not brought on a
tremendous illness by this time. A boy of that sensitive temperament
meeting with such a shock--never looked after--the quietest and most
knocked down of all, and therefore the most neglected--his whole system
disordered--and then driven to school to be harassed and overworked; if
we had wanted to occasion brain fever we could not have gone a better
way to set about it. I should not wonder if health and nerves were
damaged for life!”

“Oh! papa, papa!” cried Ethel, in extreme distress, “what shall I do! I
wish I had told you, but--”

“I’m not blaming you, Ethel, you knew no better, but it has been
grievous neglect. It is plain enough there is no one to see after you,”
 said the doctor, with a low groan.

“We may be taking it in time,” said Margaret’s soft voice--“it is very
well it has gone on no longer.”

“Three months is long enough,” said Dr. May.

“I suppose,” continued Margaret, “it will be better not to let dear
Norman know we are uneasy about him.”

“No, no, certainly not. Don’t say a word of this to him. I shall
find Harry, and ask about these disturbed nights, and then watch him,
trusting it may not have gone too far; but there must be dreadful
excitability of brain!”

He went away, leaving Margaret to comfort Ethel as well as she could, by
showing her that he had not said the mischief was done, putting her in
mind that he was wont to speak strongly; and trying to make her thankful
that her brother would now have such care as might avert all evil
results.

“But, oh,” said Ethel, “his success has been dearly purchased!”




CHAPTER XII.



                      “It hath do me mochil woe.”
      “Yea hath it?  Use,” quod he, “this medicine;
      Every daie this Maie or that thou dine,
      Go lokin in upon the freshe daisie,
      And though thou be for woe in poinct to die,
      That shall full gretly lessen thee of thy pine.”
                                                    CHAUCER.


That night Norman started from, what was not so much sleep, as a trance
of oppression and suffering, and beheld his father’s face watching him
attentively.

“Papa! What’s the matter?” said he, starting up. “Is any one ill?”

“No; no one, lie down again,” said Dr. May, possessing himself of a
hand, with a burning spot in the palm, and a throbbing pulse.

“But what made you come here? Have I disturbed any one? Have I been
talking?”

“Only mumbling a little, but you looked very uncomfortable.”

“But I’m not ill--what are you feeling my pulse for?” said Norman
uneasily.

“To see whether that restless sleep has quickened it.”

Norman scarcely let his father count for a moment, before he asked,
“What o’clock is it?”

“A little after twelve.”

“What does make you stay up so late, papa?”

“I often do when my arm seems likely to keep me awake. Richard has done
all I want.”

“Pray don’t stay here in the cold,” said Norman, with feverish
impatience, as he turned upwards the cool side of his pillow.
“Good-night!”

“No hurry,” said his father, still watching him.

“There’s nothing the matter,” repeated the boy.

“Do you often have such unquiet nights?”

“Oh, it does not signify. Good-night,” and he tried to look settled and
comfortable.

“Norman,” said his father, in a voice betraying much grief, “it will not
do to go on in this way. If your mother was here, you would not close
yourself against her.”

Norman interrupted him in a voice strangled with sobs: “It is no good
saying it--I thought it would only make it worse for you; but that’s it.
I cannot bear the being without her.”

Dr. May was glad to see that a gush of tears followed this exclamation,
as Norman hid his face under the coverings.

“My poor boy,” said he, hardly able to speak, “only One can comfort you
truly; but you must not turn from me; you must let me do what I can for
you, though it is not the same.”

“I thought it would grieve you more,” said Norman, turning his face
towards him again.

“What, to find my children, feeling with me, and knowing what they have
lost? Surely not, Norman.”

“And it is of no use,” added Norman, hiding his face again, “no one can
comfort--”

“There you are wrong,” said Dr. May, with deep feeling, “there is much
comfort in everything, in everybody, in kindness, in all around, if one
can only open one’s mind to it. But I did not come to keep you awake
with such talk: I saw you were not quite well, so I came up to see about
you; and now, Norman, you will not refuse to own that something is the
matter.”

“I did not know it,” said Norman, “I really believe I am well, if I
could get rid of these horrible nights. I either lie awake, tumbling and
tossing, or I get all sorts of unbearable dreams.”

“Ay, when I asked master Harry about you, all the answer I could get
was, that he was quite used to it, and did not mind it at all. As if
I asked for his sake! How fast that boy sleeps--he is fit for a
midshipman’s berth!”

“But do you think there is anything amiss with me?”

“I shall know more about that to-morrow morning. Come to my room as
soon as you are up, unless I come to you. Now, I have something to read
before I go to bed, and I may as well try if it will put you to sleep.”

Norman’s last sight that night was of the outline of his father’s
profile, and he was scarcely awake the next morning before Dr. May was
there again.

Unwilling as he had been to give way, it was a relief to relinquish the
struggle to think himself well, and to venture to lounge and dawdle,
rest his heavy head, and stretch his inert limbs without fear of
remark. His father found him after breakfast lying on the sofa in the
drawing-room with a Greek play by his side, telling Ethel what words to
look out.

“At it again!” exclaimed Dr. May. “Carry it away, Ethel. I will have no
Latin or Greek touched these holidays.”

“You know,” said Norman, “if I don’t sap, I shall have no chance of
keeping up.”

“You’ll keep nowhere if you don’t rest.”

“It is only Euripides, and I can’t do anything else,” said Norman
languidly.

“Very likely, I don’t care. You have to get well first of all, and the
Greek will take care of itself. Go up to Margaret. I put you in her
keeping, while I am gone to Whitford. After that, I dare say
Richard will be very glad to have a holiday, and let you drive me to
Abbotstoke.”

Norman rose, and wearily walked upstairs, while his sister lingered
to excuse herself. “Papa, I did not think Euripides would hurt him--he
knows it all so well, and he said he could not read anything else.”

“Just so, Ethel. Poor fellow, he has not spirits or energy for anything:
his mind was forced into those classicalities when it wanted rest, and
now it has not spring enough to turn back again.”

“Do you think him so very ill?”

“Not exactly, but there’s low fever hanging about him, and we must look
after him well, and I hope we may get him right. I have told Margaret
about him; I can’t stop any longer now.”

Norman found the baby in his sister’s room, and this was just what
suited him. The Daisy showed a marked preference for her brothers; and
to find her so merry and good with him, pleased and flattered him far
more than his victory at school. He carried her about, danced her,
whistled to her, and made her admire her pretty blue eyes in the glass
most successfully, till nurse carried her off. But perhaps he had been
sent up rather too soon, for as he sat in the great chair by the fire,
he was teased by the constant coming and going, all the petty cares of
a large household transacted by Margaret--orders to butcher and
cook--Harry racing in to ask to take Tom to the river--Tom, who was to
go when his lesson was done, coming perpetually to try to repeat the
same unhappy bit of ‘As in Proesenti’, each time in a worse whine.

“How can you bear it, Margaret?” said Norman, as she finally dismissed
Tom, and laid down her account-book, taking up some delicate fancy work.
“Mercy, here’s another,” as enter a message about lamp oil, in the midst
of which Mary burst in to beg Margaret to get Miss Winter to let her go
to the river with Harry and Tom.

“No, indeed, Mary, I could not think of such a thing. You had better go
back to your lessons, and don’t be silly,” as she looked much disposed
to cry.

“No one but a Tom-boy would dream of it,” added Norman; and Mary
departed disconsolate, while Margaret gave a sigh of weariness, and
said, as she returned to her work, “There, I believe I have done. I hope
I was not cross with poor Mary, but it was rather too much to ask.”

“I can’t think how you can help being cross to every one,” said Norman,
as he took away the books she had done with.

“I am afraid I am,” said Margaret sadly. “It does get trying at times.”

“I should think so! This eternal worrying must be more than any one can
bear, always lying there too.”

“It is only now and then that it grows tiresome,” said Margaret. “I am
too happy to be of some use, and it is too bad to repine, but sometimes
a feeling comes of its being always the same, as if a little change
would be such a treat.”

“Aren’t you very tired of lying in bed?”

“Yes, very, sometimes. I fancy, but it is only fancy, that I could move
better if I was up and dressed. It has seemed more so lately, since I
have been stronger.”

“When do you think they will let you get up?”

“There’s the question. I believe papa thinks I might be lifted to the
sofa now--and oh! how I long for it--but then Mr. Ward does not approve
of my sitting up, even as I am doing now, and wants to keep me flat.
Papa thinks that of no use, and likely to hurt my general health, and
I believe the end of it will be that he will ask Sir Matthew Fleet’s
opinion.”

“Is that the man he calls Mat?”

“Yes, you know they went through the university together, and were at
Edinburgh and Paris, but they have never met since he set up in London,
and grew so famous. I believe it would be a great treat to papa to have
him, and it would be a good thing for papa too; I don’t think his arm is
going on right--he does not trust to Mr. Ward’s treatment, and I am sure
some one else ought to see it.”

“Did you know, Margaret, that he sits up quite late, because he cannot
sleep for it?”

“Yes, I hear him moving about, but don’t tell him so; I would not have
him guess for the world, that it kept me awake.”

“And does it?”

“Why, if I think he is awake and in pain I cannot settle myself to
sleep; but that is no matter; having no exercise, of course I don’t
sleep so much. But I am very anxious about him--he looks so thin, and
gets so fagged--and no wonder.”

“Ah! Mr. Everard told me he was quite shocked to see him, and would
hardly have known him,” and Norman groaned from the bottom of his heart.

“Well, I shall hope much from Sir Matthew’s taking him in hand,” said
Margaret cheerfully; “he will mind him, though he will not Mr. Ward.”

“I wish the holidays were over!” said Norman, with a yawn, as expressive
as a sigh.

“That’s not civil, on the third day,” said Margaret, smiling, “when I am
so glad to have you to look after me, so as to set Flora at liberty.”

“What, can I do you any good?” said Norman, with a shade of his former
alacrity.

“To be sure you can, a great deal. Better not come near me otherwise,
for I make every one into a slave. I want my morning reading now--that
book on Advent, there.”

“Shall I read it to you?”

“Thank you, that’s nice, and I shall get on with baby’s frock.”

Norman read, but, ere long, took to yawning; Margaret begged for the
book, which he willingly resigned, saying, however, that he liked it,
only he was stupid. She read on aloud, till she heard a succession of
heavy breathings, and saw him fast asleep, and so he continued till
waked by his father’s coming home.

Richard and Ethel were glad of a walk, for Margaret had found them a
pleasant errand. Their Cocksmoor children could not go home to dinner
between service and afternoon school, and Margaret had desired the cook
to serve them up some broth in the back kitchen, to which the brother
and sister were now to invite them. Mary was allowed to take her boots
to Rebekah Watts, since Margaret held that goodness had better be
profitable, at least at the outset; and Harry and Tom joined the party.

Norman, meantime, was driving his father--a holiday preferment highly
valued in the days when Dr. May used only to assume the reins, when his
spirited horses showed too much consciousness that they had a young
hand over them, or when the old hack took a fit of laziness. Now, Norman
needed Richard’s assurance that the bay was steady, so far was he from
being troubled with his ancient desire, that the steed would rear right
up on his hind legs.

He could neither talk nor listen till he was clear out of the town, and
found himself master of the animal, and even then the words were few,
and chiefly spoken by Dr. May, until after going along about three miles
of the turnpike road, he desired Norman to turn down a cross-country
lane.

“Where does this lead?”

“It comes out at Abbotstoke, but I have to go to an outlying farm.”

“Papa,” said Norman, after a few minutes, “I wish you would let me do my
Greek.”

“Is that what you have been pondering all this time? What, may not the
bonus Homerus slumber sometimes?”

“It is not Homer, it is Euripides. I do assure you, papa, it is no
trouble, and I get much worse without it.”

“Well, stop here, the road grows so bad that we will walk, and let the
boy lead the horse to meet us at Woodcote.”

Norman followed his father down a steep narrow lane, little better than
a stony water-course, and began to repeat, “If you would but let me do
my work! I’ve got nothing else to do, and now they have put me up, I
should not like not to keep my place.”

“Very likely, but--hollo--how swelled this is!” said Dr. May, as they
came to the bottom of the valley, where a stream rushed along, coloured
with a turbid creamy yellow, making little whirlpools where it crossed
the road, and brawling loudly just above where it roared and foamed
between two steep banks of rock, crossed by a foot-bridge of planks,
guarded by a handrail of rough poles. The doctor had traversed it, and
gone a few paces beyond, when, looking back, he saw Norman very pale,
with one foot on the plank, and one hand grasping the rail. He came
back, and held out his hand, which Norman gladly caught at, but no
sooner was the other side attained, than the boy, though he gasped with
relief, exclaimed, “This is too bad! Wait one moment, please, and let me
go back.”

He tried, but the first touch of the shaking rail, and glance at the
chasm, disconcerted him, and his father, seeing his white cheeks and
rigid lips, said, “Stop, Norman, don’t try it. You are not fit,” he
added, as the boy came to him reluctantly.

“I can’t bear to be such a wretch!” said he. “I never used to be. I will
not--let me conquer it;” and he was turning back, but the doctor took
his arm, saying decidedly, “No, I won’t have it done. You are only
making it worse by putting a force on yourself.” But the farther Norman
was from the bridge, the more displeased he was with himself, and more
anxious to dare it again. “There’s no bearing it,” he muttered; “let me
only run back. I’ll overtake you. I must do it if no one looks on.”

“No such thing,” said the doctor, holding him fast. “If you do, you’ll
have it all over again at night.”

“That’s better than to know I am worse than Tom.”

“I tell you, Norman, it is no such thing. You will recover your tone
if you will only do as you are told, but your nerves have had a severe
shock, and when you force yourself in this way, you only increase the
mischief.”

“Nerves,” muttered Norman disdainfully. “I thought they were only fit
for fine ladies.”

Dr. May smiled. “Well, will it content you if I promise that as soon as
I see fit, I’ll bring you here, and let you march over that bridge as
often as you like?”

“I suppose I must be contented, but I don’t like to feel like a fool.”

“You need not, while the moral determination is sound.”

“But my Greek, papa.”

“At it again--I declare, Norman, you are the worst patient I ever had!”

Norman made no answer, and Dr. May presently said, “Well, let me hear
what you have to say about it. I assure you it is not that I don’t want
you to get on, but that I see you are in great need of rest.”

“Thank you, papa. I know you mean it for my good, but I don’t think
you do know how horrid it is. I have got nothing on earth to do or care
for--the school work comes quite easy to me, and I’m sure thinking is
worse; and then”--Norman spoke vehemently--“now they have put me up, it
will never do to be beaten, and all the four others ought to be able to
do it. I did not want or expect to be dux, but now I am, you could not
bear me not to keep my place, and to miss the Randall scholarship, as I
certainly shall, if I do not work these whole holidays.”

“Norman, I know it,” said his father kindly. “I am very sorry for
you, and I know I am asking of you what I could not have done at your
age--indeed, I don’t believe I could have done it for you a few months
ago. It is my fault that you have been let alone, to have an overstrain
and pressure on your mind, when you were not fit for it, and I cannot
see any remedy but complete freedom from work. At the same time, if you
fret and harass yourself about being surpassed, that is, as you say,
much worse for you than Latin and Greek. Perhaps I may be wrong, and
study might not do you the harm I think it would; at any rate, it is
better than tormenting yourself about next half year, so I will not
positively forbid it, but I think you had much better let it alone. I
don’t want to make it a matter of duty. I only tell you this, that you
may set your mind at rest as far as I am concerned. If you do lose your
place, I will consider it as my own doing, and not be disappointed. I
had rather see you a healthy, vigorous, useful man, than a poor puling
nervous wretch of a scholar, if you were to get all the prizes in the
university.”

Norman made a little murmuring sound of assent, and both were silent for
some moments, then he said, “Then you will not be displeased, papa, if I
do read, as long as I feel it does me no harm.”

“I told you I don’t mean to make it a matter of obedience. Do as you
please--I had rather you read than vexed yourself.”

“I am glad of it. Thank you, papa,” said Norman, in a much cheered
voice.

They had, in the meantime, been mounting a rising ground, clothed with
stunted wood, and came out on a wide heath, brown with dead bracken; a
hollow, traced by the tops of leafless trees, marked the course of the
stream that traversed it, and the inequalities of ground becoming more
rugged in outlines and grayer in colouring as they receded, till they
were closed by a dark fir wood, beyond which rose in extreme distance
the grand mass of Welsh mountain heads, purpled against the evening sky,
except where the crowning peaks bore a veil of snow. Behind, the sky was
pure gold, gradually shading into pale green, and then into clear light
wintry blue, while the sun sitting behind two of the loftiest, seemed
to confound their outlines, and blend them in one flood of soft hazy
brightness. Dr. May looked at his son, and saw his face clear up, his
brow expand, and his lips unclose with admiration.

“Yes,” said the doctor, “it is very fine, is it not? I used to bring
mamma here now and then for a treat, because it put her in mind of her
Scottish hills. Well, your’s are the golden hills of heaven, now, my
Maggie!” he added, hardly knowing that he spoke aloud. Norman’s throat
swelled, as he looked up in his face, then cast down his eyes hastily to
hide the tears that had gathered on his eyelashes.

“I’ll leave you here,” said Dr. May; “I have to go to a farmhouse close
by, in the hollow behind us; there’s a girl recovering from a fever.
I’ll not be ten minutes, so wait here.”

When he came back, Norman was still where he had left him, gazing
earnestly, and the tears standing on his cheeks. He did not move till
his father laid his hand on his shoulder--they walked away together
without a word, and scarcely spoke all the way home.

Dr. May went to Margaret and talked to her of Norman’s fine character,
and intense affection for his mother, the determined temper, and quietly
borne grief, for which the doctor seemed to have worked himself into a
perfect enthusiasm of admiration; but lamenting that he could not tell
what to do with him--study or no study hurt him alike--and he dreaded to
see health and spirits shattered for ever. They tried to devise change
of scene, but it did not seem possible just at present; and Margaret,
besides her fears for Norman, was much grieved to see this added to her
father’s troubles.

At night Dr. May again went up to see whether Norman, whom he had moved
into Margaret’s former room, were again suffering from fever. He found
him asleep in a restless attitude, as if he had just dropped off, and
waking almost at the instant of his entrance, he exclaimed, “Is it you?
I thought it was mamma. She said it was all ambition.”

Then starting, and looking round the room, and at his father, he
collected himself, and said, with a slight smile, “I didn’t know I had
been asleep. I was awake just now, thinking about it. Papa, I’ll give
it up. I’ll try to put next half out of my head, and not mind if they do
pass me.”

“That’s right, my boy,” said the doctor.

“At least if Cheviot and Forder do, for they ought. I only hope Anderson
won’t. I can stand anything but that. But that is nonsense too.”

“You are quite right, Norman,” said the doctor, “and it is a great
relief to me that you see the thing so sensibly.”

“No, I don’t see it sensibly at all, papa. I hate it all the time, and
I don’t know whether I can keep from thinking of it, when I have nothing
to do; but I see it is wrong; I thought all ambition and nonsense was
gone out of me, when I cared so little for the examination; but now
I see, though I did not want to be made first, I can’t bear not to be
first; and that’s the old story, just as she used to tell me to guard
against ambition. So I’ll take my chance, and if I should get put down,
why, ‘twas not fair that I should be put up, and it is what I ought to
be, and serves me right into the bargain--”

“Well, that’s the best sort of sense, your mother’s sense,” said the
doctor, more affected than he liked to show. “No wonder she came to you
in your dream, Norman, my boy, if you had come to such a resolution.
I was half in hopes you had some such notion when I came upon you, on
Far-view down.”

“I think that sky did it,” said Norman, in a low voice; “it made me
think of her in a different way--and what you said too.”

“What did I say? I don’t remember.”

But Norman could not repeat the words, and only murmured, “Golden
hills.” It was enough.

“I see,” said the doctor, “you had dwelt on the blank here, not taken
home what it is to her.”

“Ay,” almost sobbed Norman, “I never could before--that made me,” after
a long silence, “and then I know how foolish I was, and how she would
say it was wrong to make this fuss, when you did not like it, about my
place, and that it was not for the sake of my duty, but of ambition. I
knew that, but till I went to bed to-night, I could not tell whether I
could make up my mind, so I would say nothing.”




CHAPTER XIII.



     The days are sad, it is the Holy tide,
     When flowers have ceased to blow and birds to sing.
                                               F. TENNYSON.


It had been a hard struggle to give up all thoughts of study, and Norman
was not at first rewarded for it, but rather exemplified the truth of
his own assertion, that he was worse without it; for when this sole
occupation for his mind was taken away, he drooped still more. He would
willingly have shown his father that he was not discontented, but he was
too entirely unnerved to be either cheerful or capable of entering with
interest into any occupation. If he had been positively ill, the task
would have been easier, but the low intermittent fever that hung about
him did not confine him to bed, only kept him lounging, listless and
forlorn, through the weary day, not always able to go out with his
father, and on Christmas Day unfit even for church.

All this made the want of his mother, and the vacancy in his home, still
more evident, and nothing was capable of relieving his sadness but his
father’s kindness, which was a continual surprise to him. Dr. May was a
parent who could not fail to be loved and honoured; but, as a busy man,
trusting all at home to his wife, he had only appeared to his children
either as a merry playfellow, or as a stern paternal authority, not
often in the intermediate light of guiding friend, or gentle guardian;
and it affected Norman exceedingly to find himself, a tall schoolboy,
watched and soothed with motherly tenderness and affection; with
complete comprehension of his feelings, and delicate care of them. His
father’s solicitude and sympathy were round him day and night, and this,
in the midst of so much toil, pain, grief, and anxiety of his own, that
Norman might well feel overwhelmed with the swelling, inexpressible
feelings of grateful affection.

How could his father know exactly what he would like--say the very
things he was thinking--see that his depression was not wilful
repining--find exactly what best soothed him! He wondered, but he
could not have said so to any one, only his eye brightened, and, as his
sisters remarked, he never seemed half so uncomfortable when papa was
in the room. Indeed, the certainty that his father felt the sorrow as
acutely as himself, was one reason of his opening to him. He could not
feel that his brothers and sisters did so, for, outwardly, their habits
were unaltered, their spirits not lowered, their relish for things
around much the same as before, and this had given Norman a sense of
isolation. With his father it was different. Norman knew he could never
appreciate what the bereavement was to him--he saw its traces in almost
every word and look, and yet perceived that something sustained and
consoled him, though not in the way of forgetfulness. Now and then
Norman caught at what gave this comfort, and it might be hoped he would
do so increasingly; though, on this Christmas Day, Margaret felt very
sad about him, as she watched him sitting over the fire, cowering with
chilliness and headache, while every one was gone to church, and saw
that the reading of the service with her had been more of a trouble than
a solace.

She tried to think it bodily ailment, and strove hard not to pine for
her mother, to comfort them both, and say the fond words of refreshing
cheering pity that would have made all light to bear. Margaret’s home
Christmas was so spent in caring for brother, father, and children,
that she had hardly time to dwell on the sad change that had befallen
herself.

Christmas was a season that none of them knew well how to meet: Blanche
was overheard saying to Mary that she wished it would not come, and
Mary, shaking her head, and answering that she was afraid that was
naughty, but it was very tiresome to have no fun. Margaret did her best
upstairs, and Richard downstairs, by the help of prints and hymns, to
make the children think of the true joy of Christmas, and in the evening
their father gathered them round, and told them the stories of the
Shepherds and of the Wise Men, till Mary and Blanche agreed, as they
went up to bed, that it had been a very happy evening.

The next day Harry discomfited the schoolroom by bursting in with the
news that “Louisa and Fanny Anderson were bearing down on the front
door.” Ethel and Flora were obliged to appear in the drawing-room, where
they were greeted by two girls, rather older than themselves. A whole
shower of inquiries for Dr. May, for Margaret, and for the dear little
baby, were first poured out; then came hopes that Norman was well, as
they had not seen him at church yesterday.

“Thank you, he was kept at home by a bad headache, but it is better
to-day.”

“We came to congratulate you on his success--we could not help it--it
must have been such a pleasure to you.”

“That it was!” exclaimed Ethel, pleased at participation in her
rejoicing. “We were so surprised.”

Flora gave a glance of warning, but Ethel’s short-sighted eyes were
beyond the range of correspondence, and Miss Anderson continued. “It
must have been a delightful surprise. We could hardly believe it when
Harvey came in and told us. Every one thought Forder was sure, but they
all were put out by the questions of general information--those were all
Mr. Everard’s doing.”

“Mr. Everard was very much struck with Norman’s knowledge and
scholarship too,” said Flora.

“So every one says. It was all Mr. Everard’s doing. Miss Harrison told
mamma, but, for my part, I am very glad for the sake of Stoneborough; I
like a town boy to be at the head.”

“Norman was sorry for Forder and Cheviot,” began Ethel. Flora tried
to stop her, but Louisa Anderson caught at what she said, and looked
eagerly for more. “He felt,” said she, only thinking of exalting her
generous brother, “as if it was hardly right, when they are so much his
seniors, that he could scarcely enjoy it.”

“Ah! that is just what people say,” replied Louisa. “But it must be very
gratifying to you, and it makes him certain of the Randal scholarship
too, I suppose. It is a great thing for him! He must have worked very
hard.”

“Yes, that he has,” said Flora; “he is so fond of study, and that goes
halfway.”

“So is dear Harvey. How earnest he is over his books! Mamma sometimes
says, ‘Now Harvey, dear, you’ll be quite stupified, you’ll be ill; I
really shall get Dr. May to forbid you.’ I suppose Norman is very busy
too; it is quite the fashion for boys not to be idle now.”

“Poor Norman can’t help it,” said Ethel piteously. “Papa will not hear
of his doing any Latin or Greek these whole holidays.”

“He thinks he will come to it better again for entire rest,” said Flora,
launching another look at her sister, which again fell short.

A great deal of polite inquiry whether they were uneasy about him
followed, mixed with a little boasting of dear Harvey’s diligence.

“By-the-bye, Ethel, it is you that are the great patroness of the wild
Cocksmoor children--are not you?”

Ethel coloured, and mumbled, and Flora answered for her, “Richard and
Ethel have been there once or twice. You know our under nursery-maid is
a Cocksmoor girl.”

“Well, mamma said she could not think how Miss May could take one from
thence. The whole place is full of thieves, and do you know, Bessie
Boulder has lost her gold pencil-case.”

“Has she?” said Flora.

“And she had it on Sunday when she was teaching her class.”

“Oh!” cried Ethel vehemently; “surely she does not suspect any of those
poor children!”

“I only know such a thing never happened at school before,” said Fanny,
“and I shall never take anything valuable there again.”

“But is she sure she lost it at school?”

“Oh, yes, quite certain. She will not accuse any one, but it is not
comfortable. And how those children do behave at church!”

“Poor things! they have been sadly neglected,” said Flora.

“They are quite spoiling the rest, and they are such figures! Why don’t
you, at least, make them cut their hair? You know it is the rule of the
school.”

“I know, but half the girls in the first class wear it long.”

“Oh, yes, but those are the superior people, that one would not be
strict with, and they dress it so nicely too. Now these are like little
savages.”

“Richard thinks it might drive them away to insist at first,” said
Ethel; “we will try to bring it about in time.”

“Well, Mrs. Ledwich is nearly resolved to insist, so you had better be
warned, Ethel. She cannot suffer such untidiness and rags to spoil the
appearance of the school, and, I assure you, it is quite unpleasant to
the teachers.”

“I wish they would give them all to me!” said Ethel. “But I do hope Mrs.
Ledwich will have patience with them, for they are only to be gained
gently.”

The visitors took their leave, and the two sisters began
exclaiming--Ethel at their dislike of her proteges, and Flora at what
they had said of Norman. “And you, Ethel, how could you go and tell them
we were surprised, and Norman thought it was hard on the other boys?
They’ll have it all over the town that he got it unjustly, and knows it,
as they say already it was partiality of Mr. Everard’s.”

“Oh, no, no, they never can be so bad!” cried Ethel; “they must have
understood better that it was his noble humility and generosity.”

“They understand anything noble! No, indeed! They think every one like
their own beautiful brother! I knew what they came for all the time;
they wanted to know whether Norman was able to work these holidays, and
you told them the very thing they wanted to hear. How they will rejoice
with that Harvey, and make sure of the Randall!”

“Oh, no, no!” cried Ethel; “Norman must get that!”

“I don’t think he will,” said Flora, “losing all this time, while they
are working. It cannot be helped, of course, but it is a great pity.”

“I almost wish he had not been put up at all, if it is to end in this
way,” said Ethel. “It is very provoking, and to have them triumphing as
they will! There’s no bearing it!”

“Norman, certainly, is not at all well, poor fellow,” said Flora, “and I
suppose he wants rest, but I wish papa would let him do what he can.
It would be much better for him than moping about as he is always doing
now; and the disappointment of losing his place will be grievous, though
now he fancies he does not care for it.”

“I wonder when he will ever care for anything again. All I read and tell
him only seems to tease him, though he tries to thank me.”

“There is a strange apathy about him,” said Flora, “but I believe it is
chiefly for want of exertion. I should like to rouse him if papa would
let me; I know I could, by telling him how these Andersons are reckoning
on his getting down. If he does, I shall be ready to run away, that I
may never meet any one here again.”

Ethel was very unhappy till she was able to pour all this trouble out
to Margaret, and worked herself almost into crying about Norman’s being
passed by “that Harvey,” and his sisters exulting, and papa being vexed,
and Norman losing time and not caring.

“There you are wrong,” said Margaret, “Norman did care very much, and it
was not till he had seen clearly that it was a matter of duty to do
as papa thought right, and not agitate his mind about his chances of
keeping up, that he could bear to give up his work;” and she told Ethel
a little of what had passed.

Ethel was much struck. “But oh, Margaret, it is very hard, just to have
him put up for the sake of being put down, and pleasing the Andersons!”

“Dear Ethel, why should you mind so much about the Andersons? May they
not care about their brother as we do for ours?”

“Such a brother to care about!” said Ethel.

“But I suppose they may like him the best,” said Margaret, smiling.

“I suppose they do,” said Ethel grudgingly; “but still I cannot bear to
see Norman doing nothing, and I know Harvey Anderson will beat him.”

“Surely you had rather he did nothing than made himself ill!”

“To be sure, but I wish it wasn’t so.”

“Yes; but, Ethel, whose doing is his getting into this state?”

Ethel looked grave. “It was wrong of me,” said she, “but then papa is
not sure that Greek would hurt him.”

“Not sure, but he thinks it not wise to run the risk. But, Ethel, dear,
why are you so bent on his being dux at all costs?”

“It would be horrid if he was not.”

“Don’t you remember you used to say that outward praise or honour was
not to be cared for as long as one did one’s duty, and that it might be
a temptation?”

“Yes, I know I did,” said Ethel, faltering, “but that was for oneself.”

“It is harder, I think, to feel so about those we care for,” said
Margaret; “but after all, this is just what will show whether our pride
in Norman is the right true loving pride, or whether it is only the
family vanity of triumphing over the Andersons.”

Ethel hung her head. “There’s some of that,” she said, “but it is not
all. No--I don’t want to triumph over them, nobody would do that.”

“Not outwardly perhaps, but in their hearts.”

“I can’t tell,” said Ethel, “but it is the being triumphed over that I
cannot bear.”

“Perhaps this is all a lesson in humility for us,” said Margaret “It is
teaching us, ‘Whosoever exalteth himself shall be abased, and he that
humbleth himself shall be exalted.’”

Ethel was silent for some little space, then suddenly exclaimed, “And
you think he will really be put down?”

Margaret seemed to have been talking with little effect, but she kept
her patience, and answered, “I cannot guess, Ethel, but I’ll tell you
one thing--I think there’s much more chance if he comes to his work
fresh and vigorous after a rest, than if he went on dulling himself with
it all this time.”

With which Ethel was so far appeased that she promised to think as
little as she could of the Andersons, and a walk with Richard to
Cocksmoor turned the current of her thoughts. They had caught some
more Sunday-school children by the help of Margaret’s broth, but it was
uphill work; the servants did not like such guests in the kitchen, and
they were still less welcome at school.

“What do you think I heard, Ethel?” said Flora, the next Sunday, as
they joined each other in the walk from school to church; “I heard Miss
Graves say to Miss Boulder, ‘I declare I must remonstrate. I undertook
to instruct a national, not a ragged school;’ and then Miss Boulder
shook out her fine watered silk and said, ‘It positively is improper to
place ladies in contact with such squalid objects.’”

“Ladies!” cried Ethel. “A stationer’s daughter and a banker’s clerk’s!
Why do they come to teach at school at all?”

“Because our example makes it genteel,” said Flora.

“I hope you did something more in hopes of making it genteel.”

“I caught one of your ragged regiment with her frock gaping behind, and
pinned it up. Such rags as there were under it! Oh, Ethel!”

“Which was it?”

“That merry Irish-looking child. I don’t know her name.”

“Oh! it is a real charming Irish name, Una M’Carthy. I am so glad you
did it, Flora. I hope they were ashamed.”

“I doubt whether it will do good. We are sure of our station and can do
anything--they are struggling to be ladies.”

“But we ought not to talk of them any more, Flora; here we are almost at
the churchyard.”

The Tuesday of this week was appointed for the visit of the London
surgeon, Sir Matthew Fleet, and the expectation caused Dr. May to talk
much to Margaret of old times, and the days of his courtship, when it
had been his favourite project that his friend and fellow-student should
marry Flora Mackenzie, and there had been a promising degree of liking,
but “Mat” had been obliged to be prudent, and had ended by never
marrying at all. This the doctor, as well as his daughters, believed was
for the sake of Aunt Flora, and thus the girls were a good deal excited
about his coming, almost as much on his own account, as because they
considered him as the arbiter of Margaret’s fate. He only came in time
for a seven o’clock dinner, and Margaret did not see him that night, but
heard enough from her sisters, when they came up to tell the history of
their guest, and of the first set dinner when Flora had acted as lady
of the house. The dinner it appeared had gone off very well. Flora
had managed admirably, and the only mishap was some awkward carving of
Ethel’s which had caused the dish to be changed with Norman. As to the
guest, Flora said he was very good-looking and agreeable. Ethel abruptly
pronounced, “I am very glad Aunt Flora married Uncle Arnott instead.”

“I can’t think why,” said Flora. “I never saw a person of pleasanter
manners.”

“Did they talk of old times?” said Margaret.

“No,” said Ethel; “that was the thing.”

“You would not have them talk of those matters in the middle of dinner,”
 said Flora.

“No,” again said Ethel; “but papa has a way--don’t you know, Margaret,
how one can tell in a moment if it is company talk.”

“What was the conversation about?” said Margaret.

“They talked over some of their fellow-students,” said Flora.

“Yes,” said Ethel; “and then when papa told him that beautiful history
of Dr. Spencer going to take care of those poor emigrants in the fever,
what do you think he said? ‘Yes, Spencer was always doing extravagant
things.’ Fancy that to papa, who can hardly speak of it without having
to wipe his spectacles, and who so longs to hear of Dr. Spencer.”

“And what did he say?”

“Nothing; so Flora and Sir Matthew got to pictures and all that sort of
thing, and it was all company talk after that.”

“Most entertaining in its kind,” said Flora: “but--oh, Norman!” as he
entered--“why, they are not out of the dining-room yet!”

“No; they are talking of some new invention, and most likely will not
come for an hour.”

“Are you going to bed?”

“Papa followed me out of the dining-room to tell me to do so after tea.”

“Then sit down there, and I’ll go and make some, and let it come up
with Margaret’s. Come, Ethel. Good-night, Norman. Is your head aching
to-night?”

“Not much, now I have got out of the dining-room.”

“It would have been wiser not to have gone in,” said Flora, leaving the
room.

“It was not the dinner, but the man,” said Norman. “It is
incomprehensible to me how my father could take to him. I’d as soon have
Harvey Anderson for a friend!”

“You are like me,” said Ethel, “in being glad he is not our uncle.”

“He presume to think of falling in love with Aunt Flora!” cried Norman
indignantly.

“Why, what is the matter with him?” asked Margaret. “I can’t find much
ground for Ethel’s dislike, and Flora is pleased.”

“She did not hear the worst, nor you either, Ethel,” said Norman. “I
could not stand the cold hard way he spoke of hospital patients. I am
sure he thinks poor people nothing but a study, and rich ones nothing
but a profit. And his half sneers! But what I hated most was his way
of avoiding discussions. When he saw he had said what would not go down
with papa, he did not honestly stand up to the point, and argue it out,
but seemed to have no mind of his own, and to be only talking to please
papa--but not knowing how to do it. He understand my father indeed!”

Norman’s indignation had quite revived him, and Margaret was much
entertained with the conflicting opinions. The next was Richard’s, when
he came in late to wish her good-night, after he had been attending on
Sir Matthew’s examination of his father’s arm. He did nothing but admire
the surgeon’s delicacy of touch and understanding of the case, his view
agreeing much better with Dr. May’s own than that with Mr. Ward’s.
Dr. May had never been entirely satisfied with the present mode of
treatment, and Richard was much struck by hearing him say, in answer to
Sir Matthew, that he knew his recovery might have been more speedy and
less painful if he had been able to attend to it at first, or to afford
time for being longer laid up. A change of treatment was now to be made,
likely soon to relieve the pain, to be less tedious and troublesome,
and to bring about a complete cure in three or four months at latest.
In hearing such tidings, there could be little thought of the person
who brought them, and Margaret did not, till the last moment, learn that
Richard thought Sir Matthew very clever and sensible, and certain to
understand her case. Her last visitor was her father: “Asleep, Margaret?
I thought I had better go to Norman first in case he should be awake.”

“Was he?”

“Yes, but his pulse is better to-night. He was lying awake to hear what
Fleet thought of me. I suppose Richard told you?”

“Yes, dear papa; what a comfort it is!”

“Those fellows in London do keep up to the mark! But I would not be
there for something. I never saw a man so altered. However, if he can
only do for you as well--but it is of no use talking about it. I may
trust you to keep yourself calm, my dear?”

“I am trying--indeed I am, dear papa. If you could help being anxious
for me--though I know it is worse for you, for I only have to lie still,
and you have to settle for me. But I have been thinking how well off I
am, able to enjoy so much, and be employed all day long. It is nothing
to compare with that poor girl you told me of, and you need not be
unhappy for me. I have some verses to say over to myself to-night:


        “O Lord my God, do Thou Thy holy will,
                I will lie still,
        I will not stir, lest I forsake Thine arm
                And break the charm
        That lulls me, clinging to my Father’s breast
                In perfect rest.”


“Is not that comfortable?”

“My child--my dear child--I will say no more, lest I should break your
sweet peace with my impatience. I will strive for the same temper, my
Margaret. Bless you, dearest, good-night.”

After a night spent in waking intervals of such thoughts, Margaret
found the ordinary morning, and the talk she could not escape, somewhat
oppressive. Her brothers and sisters disturbed her by their open
expressions of hope and anxiety; she dreaded to have the balance of
tranquillity overset; and then blamed herself for selfishness in not
being as ready to attend to them as usual. Ethel and Norman came
up after breakfast, their aversion by no means decreased by further
acquaintance. Ethel was highly indignant at the tone in which he had
exclaimed, “What, May, have you one as young as this?” on discovering
the existence of the baby; and when Norman observed that was not so
atrocious either, she proceeded, “You did not hear the contemptuous,
compassionate tone when he asked papa what he meant to do with all these
boys.”

“I’m glad he has not to settle,” said Norman.

“Papa said Harry was to be a sailor, and he said it was a good way to
save expenses of education--a good thing.”

“No doubt,” said Norman, “he thinks papa only wants to get rid of us, or
if not, that it is an amiable weakness.”

“But I can’t see anything so shocking in this,” said Margaret.

“It is not the words,” said Norman, “the look and tone convey it; but
there are different opinions. Flora is quite smitten with him, he talks
so politely to her.”

“And Blanche!” said Ethel. “The little affected pussy-cat made a set
at him, bridled and talked in her mincing voice, with all her airs, and
made him take a great deal of notice of her.”

Nurse here came to prepare for the surgeon’s visit.

It was over, and Margaret awaited the judgment. Sir Matthew had spoken
hopefully to her, but she feared to fasten hopes on what might have no
meaning, and could rely on nothing, till she had seen her father, who
never kept back his genuine opinion, and would least of all from her. She
found her spirits too much agitated to talk to her sisters, and quietly
begged them to let her be quite alone till the consultation was over,
and she lay trying to prepare herself to submit thankfully, whether she
might be bidden to resign herself to helplessness, or to let her mind
open once more to visions of joyous usefulness. Every step she hoped
would prove to be her father’s approach, and the longest hour of her
life was that before he entered her room. His face said that the tidings
were good, and yet she could not ask.

“Well, Margaret, I am glad we had him down. He thinks you may get about
again, though it may be a long time first.”

“Does he?--oh, papa!” and the colour spread over her face, as she
squeezed his hand very fast.

“He has known the use of the limbs return almost suddenly after even a
year or two,” and Dr. May gave her the grounds of the opinion, and an
account of other like cases, which he said had convinced him, “though,
my poor child,” he said, “I feared the harm I had done you was
irremediable, but thanks--” He turned away his face, and the clasp of
their hands spoke the rest.

Presently he told Margaret that she was no longer to be kept prostrate,
but she was to do exactly as was most comfortable to her, avoiding
nothing but fatigue. She might be lifted to the sofa the next day, and
if that agreed with her, she might be carried downstairs.

This, in itself, after she had been confined to her bed for three
months, was a release from captivity, and all the brothers and sisters
rejoiced as if she was actually on her feet again. Richard betook
himself to constructing a reading-frame for the sofa; Harry tormented
Miss Winter by insisting on a holiday for the others, and gained the
day by an appeal to his father; then declared he should go and tell Mr.
Wilmot the good news; and Norman, quite enlivened, took up his hat, and
said he would come too.

In all his joy, however, Dr. May could not cease bewailing the
alteration in his old friend, and spent half the evening in telling
Margaret how different he had once been, in terms little less measured
than Ethel’s: “I never saw such a change. Mat Fleet was one of the most
warm, open-hearted fellows in the world, up to anything. I can hardly
believe he is the same--turned into a mere machine, with a moving spring
of self-interest! I don’t believe he cares a rush for any living thing!
Except for your sake, Margaret, I wish I had never seen him again, and
only remembered him as he was at Edinburgh, as I remembered dear old
Spencer. It is a grievous thing! Ruined entirely! No doubt that London
life must be trying--the constant change and bewilderment of patients
preventing much individual care and interest. It must be very hardening.
No family ties either, nothing to look to but pushing his way. Yes!
there’s great excuse for poor Mat. I never knew fully till now the
blessing it was that your dear mother was willing to take me so early,
and that this place was open to me with all its home connections and
interests. I am glad I never had anything to do with London!”

And when he was alone with Norman, he could not help saying, “Norman,
my boy, I’m more glad than ever you yielded to me about your Greek these
holidays, and for the reason you did. Take care the love of rising and
pushing never gets hold of you; there’s nothing that faster changes a
man from his better self.”

Meanwhile, Sir Matthew Fleet had met another old college friend in
London, and was answering his inquiries for the Dick May of ancient
times.

“Poor May! I never saw a man so thrown away. With his talent and
acuteness, he might be the most eminent man of his day, if he had only
known how to use them. But he was always the same careless, soft-hearted
fellow, never knowing how to do himself any good, and he is the same
still, not a day older nor wiser. It was a fatal thing for him that
there was that country practice ready for him to step into, and even of
that he does not make as good a thing as he might. Of course, he
married early, and there he is, left a widower with a house full of
children--screaming babies, and great tall sons growing up, and he
without a notion what he shall do with them, as heedless as ever--saving
nothing, of course. I always knew it was what he would come to, if he
would persist in burying himself in that wretched little country town,
but I hardly thought, after all he has gone through, to find him such a
mere boy still. And yet he is one of the cleverest men I ever met--with
such talent, and such thorough knowledge of his profession, that it does
one good to hear him talk. Poor May! I am sorry for him, he might have
been anything, but that early marriage and country practice were the
ruin of him.”




CHAPTER XIV.



     To thee, dear maid, each kindly wile
       Was known, that elder sisters know,
     To check the unseasonable smile,
       With warning hand and serious brow.

     From dream to dream with her to rove,
       Like fairy nurse with hermit child;
     Teach her to think, to pray, to love,
       Make grief less bitter, joy less wild.
                          LINES ON A MONUMENT AT LICHFIELD.


Sir Matthew Fleet’s visit seemed like a turning-point with the May
family, rousing and giving them revived hopes. Norman began to shake off
his extreme languor and depression, the doctor was relieved from much
of the wearing suffering from his hurt, and his despondency as to
Margaret’s ultimate recovery had been driven away. The experiment of
taking her up succeeded so well, that on Sunday she was fully attired,
“fit to receive company.” As she lay on the sofa there seemed an advance
toward recovery. Much sweet coquetry was expended in trying to look
her best for her father; and her best was very well, for though the
brilliant bloom of health was gone, her cheeks had not lost their pretty
rounded contour, and still had some rosiness, while her large bright
blue eyes smiled and sparkled. A screen shut out the rest of the room,
making a sort of little parlour round the fire, where sundry of the
family were visiting her after coming home from church in the afternoon.
Ethel was in a vehement state of indignation at what had that day
happened at school. “Did you ever hear anything like it! When the point
was, to teach the poor things to be Christians, to turn them back,
because their hair was not regulation length!”

“What’s that! Who did?” said Dr. May, coming in from his own room, where
he had heard a few words.

“Mrs. Ledwich. She sent back three of the Cocksmoor children this
morning. It seems she warned them last Sunday without saying a word to
us.”

“Sent them back from church!” said the doctor.

“Not exactly from church,” said Margaret.

“It is the same in effect,” said Ethel, “to turn them from school; for
if they did try to go alone, the pew-openers would drive them out.”

“It is a wretched state of things!” said Dr. May, who never wanted
much provocation to begin storming about parish affairs. “When I am
churchwarden again, I’ll see what can be done about the seats; but it’s
no sort of use, while Ramsden goes on as he does.”

“Now my poor children are done for!” said Ethel. “They will never come
again. And it’s horrid, papa; there are lots of town children who wear
immense long plaits of hair, and Mrs. Ledwich never interferes with
them. It is entirely to drive the poor Cocksmoor ones away--for nothing
else, and all out of Fanny Anderson’s chatter.”

“Ethel, my dear,” said Margaret pleadingly.

“Didn’t I tell you, Margaret, how, as soon as Flora knew what Mrs.
Ledwich was going to do, she went and told her this was the children’s
only chance, and if we affronted them for a trifle, there would be no
hope of getting them back. She said she was sorry, if we were interested
for them, but rules must not be broken; and when Flora spoke of all who
do wear long hair unmolested, she shuffled and said, for the sake of
the teachers, as well as the other children, rags and dirt could not be
allowed; and then she brought up the old story of Miss Boulder’s pencil,
though she has found it again, and ended by saying Fanny Anderson told
her it was a serious annoyance to the teachers, and she was sure we
should agree with her, that something was due to voluntary assistants
and subscribers.”

“I am afraid there has been a regular set at them,” said Margaret, “and
perhaps they are troublesome, poor things.”

“As if school-keeping were for luxury!” said Dr. May. “It is the worst
thing I have heard of Mrs. Ledwich yet! One’s blood boils to think of
those poor children being cast off because our fine young ladies are
too grand to teach them! The clergyman leaving his work to a set of
conceited women, and they turning their backs on ignorance, when it
comes to their door! Voluntary subscribers, indeed! I’ve a great mind
I’ll be one no longer.”

“Oh, papa, that would not be fair--” began Ethel; but Margaret knew he
would not act on this, squeezed her hand, and silenced her.

“One thing I’ve said, and I’ll hold to it,” continued Dr. May; “if they
outvote Wilmot again in your Ladies’ Committee, I’ll have no more to do
with them, as sure as my name’s Dick May. It is a scandal the way things
are done here!”

“Papa,” said Richard, who had all the time been standing silent, “Ethel
and I have been thinking, if you approved, whether we could not do
something towards teaching the Cocksmoor children, and breaking them in
for the Sunday-school.”

What a bound Ethel’s heart gave, and how full of congratulation and
sympathy was the pressure of Margaret’s hand!

“What did you think of doing?” said the doctor. Ethel burned to reply,
but her sister’s hand admonished her to remember her compact. Richard
answered, “We thought of trying to get a room, and going perhaps once or
twice a week to give them a little teaching. It would be little enough,
but it might do something towards civilising them, and making them wish
for more.”

“How do you propose to get a room?”

“I have reconnoitred, and I think I know a cottage with a tolerable
kitchen, which I dare say we might hire for an afternoon for sixpence.”

Ethel, unable to bear it any longer, threw herself forward, and sitting
on the ground at her father’s feet, exclaimed, “Oh, papa! papa! do say
we may!”

“What’s all this about?” said the doctor, surprised.

“Oh! you don’t know how I have thought of it day and night these two
months!”

“What! Ethel, have a fancy for two whole months, and the whole house
not hear of it!” said her father, with a rather provoking look of
incredulity.

“Richard was afraid of bothering you, and wouldn’t let me. But do speak,
papa. May we?”

“I don’t see any objection.”

She clasped her hands in ecstasy. “Thank you! thank you, papa! Oh,
Ritchie! Oh, Margaret!” cried she, in a breathless voice of transport.

“You have worked yourself up to a fine pass,” said the doctor, patting
the agitated girl fondly as she leaned against his knee. “Remember, slow
and steady.”

“I’ve got Richard to help me,” said Ethel.

“Sufficient guarantee,” said her father, smiling archly as he looked up
to his son, whose fair face had coloured deep red. “You will keep the
Unready in order, Ritchie.”

“He does,” said Margaret; “he has taken her education into his hands,
and I really believe he has taught her to hold up her frock and stick in
pins.”

“And to know her right hand from her left, eh, Ethel? Well, you deserve
some credit, then. Suppose we ask Mr. Wilmot to tea, and talk it over.”

“Oh, thank you, papa! When shall it be? To-morrow?”

“Yes, if you like. I have to go to the town-council meeting, and am not
going into the country, so I shall be in early.”

“Thank you. Oh, how very nice!”

“And what about cost? Do you expect to rob me?”

“If you would help us,” said Ethel, with an odd shy manner; “we meant
to make what we have go as far as may be, but mine is only fifteen and
sixpence.”

“Well, you must make interest with Margaret for the turn-out of my
pocket to-morrow.”

“Thank you, we are very much obliged,” said the brother and sister
earnestly, “that is more than we expected.”

“Ha! don’t thank too soon. Suppose to-morrow should be a blank day!”

“Oh, it won’t!” said Ethel. “I shall tell Norman to make you go to
paying people.”

“There’s avarice!” said the doctor. “But look you here, Ethel, if you’ll
take my advice, you’ll make your bargain for Tuesday. I have a note
appointing me to call at Abbotstoke Grange on Mr. Rivers, at twelve
o’clock, on Tuesday. What do you think of that, Ethel? An old banker,
rich enough for his daughter to curl her hair in bank-notes. If I were
you, I’d make a bargain for him.”

“If he had nothing the matter with him, and I only got one guinea out of
him!”

“Prudence! Well, it may be wiser.”

Ethel ran up to her room, hardly able to believe that the mighty
proposal was made; and it had been so readily granted, that it seemed
as if Richard’s caution had been vain in making such a delay, that even
Margaret had begun to fear that the street of by-and-by was leading to
the house of never. Now, however, it was plain that he had been wise.
Opportunity was everything; at another moment, their father might have
been harassed and oppressed, and unable to give his mind to concerns,
which now he could think of with interest, and Richard could not have
caught a more favourable conjuncture.

Ethel was in a wild state of felicity all that evening and the next day,
very unlike her brother, who, dismayed at the open step he had taken,
shrank into himself, and in his shyness dreaded the discussion in the
evening, and would almost have been relieved, if Mr. Wilmot had been
unable to accept the invitation. So quiet and grave was he, that Ethel
could not get him to talk over the matter at all with her, and she was
obliged to bestow all her transports and grand projects on Flora or
Margaret, when she could gain their ears, besides conning them over to
herself, as an accompaniment to her lessons, by which means she tried
Miss Winter’s patience almost beyond measure. But she cared not--she
saw a gathering school and rising church, which eclipsed all thought
of present inattentions and gaucheries. She monopolised Margaret in the
twilight, and rhapsodised to her heart’s content, talking faster and
faster, and looking more and more excited. Margaret began to feel
a little overwhelmed, and while answering “yes” at intervals, was
considering whether Ethel had not been flying about in an absent
inconsiderate mood all day, and whether it would seem unkind to damp
her ardour, by giving her a hint that she was relaxing her guard over
herself. Before Margaret had steeled herself, Ethel was talking of a
story she had read, of a place something like Cocksmoor. Margaret was
not ready with her recollection, and Ethel, saying it was in a magazine
in the drawing-room chiffonier, declared she would fetch it.

Margaret knew what it was to expect her visitors to return “in one
moment,” and with a “now-or-never” feeling she began, “Ethel, dear,
wait,” but Ethel was too impetuous to attend. “I’ll be back in a
twinkling,” she called out, and down she flew, in her speed whisking
away, without seeing it, the basket with Margaret’s knitting and all
her notes and papers, which lay scattered on the floor far out of
reach, vexing Margaret at first, and then making her grieve at her own
impatient feeling.

Ethel was soon in the drawing-room, but the right number of the magazine
was not quickly forthcoming, and in searching she became embarked in
another story. Just then, Aubrey, whose stout legs were apt to carry him
into every part of the house where he was neither expected nor wanted,
marched in at the open door, trying by dint of vehement gestures to make
her understand, in his imperfect speech, something that he wanted. Very
particularly troublesome she thought him, more especially as she could
not make him out, otherwise than that he wanted her to do something
with the newspaper and the fire. She made a boat for him with an old
newspaper, a very hasty and frail performance, and told him to sail it
on the carpet, and be Mr. Ernescliffe going away; and she thought him
thus safely disposed of. Returning to her book and her search, with her
face to the cupboard, and her book held up to catch the light, she was
soon lost in her story, and thought of nothing more till suddenly roused
by her father’s voice in the hall, loud and peremptory with alarm,
“Aubrey! put that down!” She looked, and beheld Aubrey brandishing a
great flaming paper--he dropped it at the exclamation--it fell burning
on the carpet. Aubrey’s white pinafore! Ethel was springing up, but in
her cramped, twisted position she could not do so quickly, and even as
he called, her father strode by her, snatched at Aubrey’s merino frock,
which he crushed over the scarcely lighted pinafore, and trampled out
the flaming paper with his foot. It was a moment of dreadful fright, but
the next assured them that no harm was done.

“Ethel!” cried the doctor, “Are you mad? What were you thinking of?”

Aubrey, here recollecting himself enough to be frightened at his
father’s voice and manner, burst into loud cries; the doctor pressed him
closer on his breast, caressed and soothed him. Ethel stood by, pale and
transfixed with horror. Her father was more angry with her than she
had ever seen him, and with reason, as she knew, as she smelled the
singeing, and saw a large burnt hole in Aubrey’s pinafore, while the
front of his frock was scorched and brown. Dr. May’s words were not
needed, “What could make you let him?”

“I didn’t see--” she faltered.

“Didn’t see! Didn’t look, didn’t think, didn’t care! That’s it, Ethel.
‘Tis very hard one can’t trust you in a room with the child any more
than the baby himself. His frock perfect tinder! He would have been
burned to a cinder, if I had not come in!”


Aubrey roared afresh, and Dr. May, kissing and comforting him, gathered
him up in his left arm, and carried him away, looking back at the door
to say, “There’s no bearing it! I’ll put a stop to all schools and
Greek, if it is to lead to this, and make you good for nothing!”

Ethel was too much terrified to know where she was, or anything,
but that she had let her little brother run into fearful peril, and
grievously angered her father; she was afraid to follow him, and stood
still, annihilated, and in despair, till roused by his return; then,
with a stifled sob, she exclaimed, “Oh, papa!” and could get no further
for a gush of tears.

But the anger of the shock of terror was over, and Dr. May was sorry
for her tears, though still he could not but manifest some displeasure.
“Yes, Ethel,” he said, “it was a frightful thing,” and he could not
but shudder again. “One moment later! It is an escape to be for ever
thankful for--poor little fellow!--but, Ethel, Ethel, do let it be a
warning to you.”

“Oh, I hope--I’ll try--” sobbed Ethel.

“You have said you would try before.”

“I know I have,” said Ethel, choked. “If I could but--”

“Poor child,” said Dr. May sadly; then looking earnestly at her, “Ethel,
my dear, I am afraid of its being with you as--as it has been with me;”
 he spoke very low, and drew her close to him. “I grew up, thinking
my inbred heedlessness a sort of grace, so to say, rather manly--the
reverse of finikin. I was spoiled as a boy, and my Maggie carried on the
spoiling, by never letting me feel its effects. By the time I had sense
enough to regret this as a fault, I had grown too old for changing of
ingrain, long-nurtured habits--perhaps I never wished it really. You
have seen,” and his voice was nearly inaudible, “what my carelessness
has come to--let that suffice at least, as a lesson that may spare
you--what your father must feel as long as he lives.”

He pressed his hand tightly on her shoulder, and left her, without
letting her see his face. Shocked and bewildered, she hurried upstairs
to Margaret. She threw herself on her knees, felt her arms round
her, and heard her kind soothing, and then, in broken words, told how
dreadful it had been, and how kind papa had been, and what he had said,
which was now the uppermost thought. “Oh, Margaret, Margaret, how very
terrible it is! And does papa really think so?”

“I believe he does,” whispered Margaret.

“How can he, can he bear it!” said Ethel, clasping her hands. “Oh! it is
enough to kill one--I can’t think why it did not!”

“He bears it,” said Margaret, “because he is so very good, that help and
comfort do come to him. Dear papa! He bears up because it is right, and
for our sakes, and he has a sort of rest in that perfect love they had
for each other. He knows how she would wish him to cheer up and look to
the end, and support and comfort are given to him, I know they are; but
oh, Ethel! it does make one tremble and shrink, to think what he has
been going through this autumn, especially when I hear him moving
about late at night, and now and then comes a heavy groan--whenever any
especial care has been on his mind.”

Ethel was in great distress. “To have grieved him again!” said she, “and
just as he seemed better and brighter! Everything I do turns out wrong,
and always will; I can’t do anything well by any chance.”

“Yes you can, when you mind what you are about.”

“But I never can--I’m like him, every one says so, and he says the
heedlessness is ingrain, and can’t be got rid of.”

“Ethel, I don’t really think he could have told you so.”

“I’m sure he said ingrain.”

“Well, I suppose it is part of his nature, and that you have inherited
it, but--” Margaret paused, and Ethel exclaimed:

“He said his was long-nurtured; yes, Margaret, you guessed right, and he
said he could not change it, and no more can I.”

“Surely, Ethel, you have not had so many years. You are fifteen instead
of forty-six, and it is more a woman’s work than a man’s to be careful.
You need not begin to despair. You were growing much better; Richard
said so, and so did Miss Winter.”

“What’s the use of it, if in one moment it is as bad as ever? And
to-day, of all days in the year, just when papa had been so very, very
kind, and given me more than I asked.”

“Do you know, Ethel, I was thinking whether dear mamma would not say
that was the reason. You were so happy, that perhaps you were thrown off
your guard.”

“I should not wonder if that was it,” said Ethel thoughtfully. “You know
it was a sort of probation that Richard put me on. I was to learn to be
steady before he spoke to papa, and now it seemed to be all settled and
right, and perhaps I forgot I was to be careful still.”

“I think it was something of the kind. I was a little afraid before, and
I wish I had tried to caution you, but I did not like to seem unkind.”

“I wish you had,” said Ethel. “Dear little Aubrey! Oh, if papa had not
been there! And I cannot think how, as it was, he could contrive to put
the fire out, with his one hand, and not hurt himself. Margaret it was
terrible. How could I mind so little! Did you see how his frock was
singed?”

“Yes, papa showed it to me. How can we be thankful enough! One thing I
hope, that Aubrey was well frightened, poor little boy.”

“I know! I see now!” cried Ethel; “he must have wanted me to make the
fire blaze up, as Richard did one evening when we came in and found it
low; I remember Aubrey clapping his hands and shouting at the flame;
but my head was in that unhappy story, and I never had sense to put the
things together, and reflect that he would try to do it himself. I only
wanted to get him out of my way, dear little fellow. Oh, dear, how bad
it was of me! All from being uplifted, and my head turned, as it used to
be when we were happier. Oh! I wish Mr. Wilmot was not coming!”

Ethel sat for a long time with her head hidden in Margaret’s pillows,
and her hand clasped by her good elder sister. At last she looked up and
said, “Oh, Margaret, I am so unhappy. I see the whole meaning of it now.
Do you not? When papa gave his consent at last, I was pleased and set
up, and proud of my plans. I never recollected what a silly, foolish
girl I am, and how unfit. I thought Mr. Wilmot would think great things
of it--it was all wrong and self-satisfied. I never prayed at all that
it might turn out well, and so now it won’t.”

“Dearest Ethel, I don’t see that. Perhaps it will do all the better for
your being humbled about it now. If you were wild and high flying, it
would never go right.”

“Its hope is in Richard,” said Ethel.

“So it is,” said Margaret.

“I wish Mr. Wilmot was not coming to-night,” said Ethel again. “It would
serve me right if papa were to say nothing about it.”

Ethel lingered with her sister till Harry and Mary came up with
Margaret’s tea, and summoned her, and she crept downstairs, and entered
the room so quietly, that she was hardly perceived behind her boisterous
brother. She knew her eyes were in no presentable state, and cast them
down, and shrank back as Mr. Wilmot shook her hand and greeted her
kindly.

Mr. Wilmot had been wont to come to tea whenever he had anything to say
to Dr. or Mrs. May, which was about once in ten or twelve days. He was
Mary’s godfather, and their most intimate friend in the town, and he
had often been with them, both as friend and clergyman, through their
trouble--no later than Christmas Day, he had come to bring the feast of
that day to Margaret in her sick-room. Indeed, it had been chiefly
for the sake of the Mays that he had resolved to spend the holidays
at Stoneborough, taking the care of Abbotstoke, while his brother, the
vicar, went to visit their father. This was, however, the first time
he had come in his old familiar way to spend an evening, and there was
something in the resumption of former habits that painfully marked the
change.

Ethel, on coming in, found Flora making tea, her father leaning back
in his great chair in silence, Richard diligently cutting bread,
and Blanche sitting on Mr. Wilmot’s knee, chattering fast and
confidentially. Flora made Harry dispense the cups, and called every one
to their places; Ethel timidly glanced at her father’s face, as he rose
and came into the light. She thought the lines and hollows were more
marked than ever, and that he looked fatigued and mournful, and she
felt cut to the heart; but he began to exert himself, and to make
conversation, not, however, about Cocksmoor, but asking Mr. Wilmot what
his brother thought of his new squire, Mr. Rivers.

“He likes him very much,” said Mr. Wilmot. “He is a very pleasing
person, particularly kind-hearted and gentle, and likely to do a great
deal for the parish. They have been giving away beef and blankets at a
great rate this Christmas.”

“What family is there?” asked Flora.

“One daughter, about Ethel’s age, is there with her governess. He
has been twice married, and the first wife left a son, who is in the
Dragoons, I believe. This girl’s mother was Lord Cosham’s daughter.”

So the talk lingered on, without much interest or life. It was rather
keeping from saying nothing than conversation, and no one was without
the sensation that she was missing, round whom all had been free and
joyous--not that she had been wont to speak much herself, but nothing
would go on smoothly or easily without her. So long did this last, that
Ethel began to think her father meant to punish her by not beginning the
subject that night, and though she owned that she deserved it, she could
not help being very much disappointed.

At length, however, her father began: “We wanted you to talk over a
scheme that these young ones have been concocting. You see, I am obliged
to keep Richard at home this next term--it won’t do to have no one in
the house to carry poor Margaret. We can’t do without him anyway, so
he and Ethel have a scheme of seeing what can be done for that wretched
place, Cocksmoor.”

“Indeed!” said Mr. Wilmot, brightening and looking interested. “It is
sadly destitute. It would be a great thing if anything could be done
for it. You have brought some children to school already, I think. I saw
some rough-looking boys, who said they came from Cocksmoor.”

This embarked the doctor in the history of the ladies being too fine to
teach the poor Cocksmoor girls, which he told with kindling vehemence
and indignation, growing more animated every moment, as he stormed over
the wonted subject of the bad system of management--ladies’ committee,
negligent incumbent, insufficient clergy, misappropriated tithes--while
Mr. Wilmot, who had mourned over it, within himself, a hundred times
already, and was doing a curate’s work on sufferance, with no pay, and
little but mistrust from Mr. Ramsden, and absurd false reports among the
more foolish part of the town, sat listening patiently, glad to hear
the doctor in his old strain, though it was a hopeless matter for
discussion, and Ethel dreaded that the lamentation would go on till
bedtime, and Cocksmoor be quite forgotten.

After a time they came safely back to the project, and Richard was
called on to explain. Ethel left it all to him, and he with rising
colour, and quiet, unhesitating, though diffident manner, detailed
designs that showed themselves to have been well matured. Mr. Wilmot
heard, cordially approved, and, as all agreed that no time was to be
lost, while the holidays lasted, he undertook to speak to Mr. Ramsden on
the subject the next morning, and if his consent to their schemes could
be gained, to come in the afternoon to walk with Richard and Ethel to
Cocksmoor, and set their affairs in order. All the time Ethel said not
a word, except when referred to by her brother; but when Mr. Wilmot took
leave, he shook her hand warmly, as if he was much pleased with her.
“Ah!” she thought, “if he knew how ill I have behaved! It is all show
and hollowness with me.”

She did not know that Mr. Wilmot thought her silence one of the best
signs for the plan, nor how much more doubtful he would have thought her
perseverance, if he had seen her wild and vehement. As it was, he was
very much pleased, and when the doctor came out with him into the hall,
he could not help expressing his satisfaction in Richard’s well-judged
and sensibly-described project.

“Ay, ay!” said the doctor, “there’s much more in the boy than I used
to think. He’s a capital fellow, and more like his mother than any of
them.”

“He is,” said Mr. Wilmot; “there was a just, well-weighed sense and
soberness in his plans that put me in mind of her every moment.”

Dr. May gave his hand a squeeze, full of feeling, and went up to tell
Margaret. She, on the first opportunity, told Richard, and made him
happier than he had been for months, not so much in Mr. Wilmot’s words,
as in his father’s assent to, and pleasure in them.




CHAPTER XV.



     Pitch thy behaviour low, thy projects high,
       So shalt thou humble and magnanimous be;
     Sink not in spirit; who aimeth at the sky
       Shoots higher much than he that means a tree.
         A grain of glory mixed with humbleness,
         Cures both a fever and lethargicness.
                                             HERBERT.


“Norman, do you feel up to a long day’s work?” said Dr. May, on the
following morning. “I have to set off after breakfast to see old Mrs.
Gould, and to be at Abbotstoke Grange by twelve; then I thought of going
to Fordholm, and getting Miss Cleveland to give us some luncheon--there
are some poor people on the way to look at; and that girl on Far-view
Hill; and there’s another place to call in at coming home. You’ll have a
good deal of sitting in the carriage, holding Whitefoot, so if you think
you shall be cold or tired, don’t scruple to say so, and I’ll take Adams
to drive me.”

“No, thank you,” said Norman briskly. “This frost is famous.”

“It will turn to rain, I expect--it is too white,” said the doctor,
looking out at the window. “How will you get to Cocksmoor, good people?”

“Ethel won’t believe it rains unless it is very bad,” said Richard.

Norman set out with his father, and prosperously performed the
expedition, arriving at Abbotstoke Grange at the appointed hour.

“Ha!” said the doctor, as the iron gates of ornamental scrollwork were
swung back, “there’s a considerable change in this place since I was
here last. Well kept up indeed! Not a dead leaf left under the old
walnuts, and the grass looks as smooth as if they had a dozen gardeners
rolling it every day.”

“And the drive,” said Norman, “more like a garden walk than a road! But
oh! what a splendid cedar!”

“Isn’t it! I remember that as long as I remember anything. All this
fine rolling of turf, and trimming up of the place, does not make much
difference to you, old fellow, does it? You don’t look altered since I
saw you last, when old Jervis was letting the place go to rack and ruin.
So they have a new entrance--very handsome conservatory--flowers--the
banker does things in style. There,” as Norman helped him off with his
plaid, “wrap yourself up well, don’t get cold. The sun is gone in, and I
should not wonder if the rain were coming after all. I’ll not be longer
than I can help.”

Dr. May disappeared from his son’s sight through the conservatory,
where, through the plate-glass, the exotics looked so fresh and perfumy,
that Norman almost fancied that the scent reached him. “How much poor
Margaret would enjoy one of those camellias,” thought he, “and these
people have bushels of them for mere show. If I were papa, I should be
tempted to be like Beauty’s father, and carry off one. How she would
admire it!”

Norman had plenty of time to meditate on the camellias, and then to
turn and speculate on the age of the cedar, whether it could have been
planted by the monks of Stoneborough Abbey, to whom the Grange had
belonged, brought from Lebanon by a pilgrim, perhaps; and then he tried
to guess at the longevity of cedars, and thought of asking Margaret, the
botanist of the family. Then he yawned, moved the horse a little
about, opined that Mr. Rivers must be very prosy, or have some abstruse
complaint, considered the sky, and augured rain, buttoned another button
of his rough coat, and thought of Miss Cleveland’s dinner. Then he
thought there was a very sharp wind, and drove about till he found a
sheltered place on the lee side of the great cedar, looked up at it, and
thought it would be a fine subject for verses, if Mr. Wilmot knew of it,
and then proceeded to consider what he should make of them.

In the midst he was suddenly roused by the deep-toned note of a dog, and
beheld a large black Newfoundland dog leaping about the horse in great
indignation. “Rollo! Rollo!” called a clear young voice, and he saw two
ladles returning from a walk. Rollo, at the first call, galloped back to
his mistress, and was evidently receiving an admonition, and promising
good behaviour. The two ladies entered the house, while he lay down on
the step, with his lion-like paw hanging down, watching Norman with a
brilliant pair of hazel eyes. Norman, after a little more wondering
when Mr. Rivers would have done with his father, betook himself to civil
demonstrations to the creature, who received them with dignity, and
presently, after acknowledging with his tail, various whispers of “Good
old fellow,” and “Here, old Rollo!” having apparently satisfied himself
that the young gentleman was respectable, he rose, and vouchsafed to
stand up with his forepaws in the gig, listening amiably to Norman’s
delicate flatteries. Norman even began to hope to allure him into
jumping on the seat: but a great bell rang, and Rollo immediately turned
round, and dashed off, at full speed, to some back region of the house.
“So, old fellow, you know what the dinner-bell means,” thought Norman.
“I hope Mr. Rivers is hungry too. Miss Cleveland will have eaten up her
whole luncheon, if this old bore won’t let my father go soon! I hope he
is desperately ill--‘tis his only excuse! Heigh ho! I must jump out to
warm my feet soon! There, there’s a drop of rain! Well, there’s no end
to it! I wonder what Ethel is doing about Cocksmoor! It is setting in
for a wet afternoon!” and Norman disconsolately put up his umbrella.

At last Dr. May and another gentleman were seen in the conservatory, and
Norman gladly proceeded to clear the seat; but Dr. May called out, “Jump
out, Norman, Mr. Rivers is so kind as to ask us to stay to luncheon.”

With boyish shrinking from strangers, Norman privately wished Mr.
Rivers at Jericho, as he gave the reins to a servant, and entered the
conservatory, where a kindly hand was held out to him by a gentleman
of about fifty, with a bald smooth forehead, soft blue eyes, and gentle
pleasant face. “Is this your eldest son?” said he, turning to Dr.
May--and the manner of both was as if they were already well acquainted.
“No, this is my second. The eldest is not quite such a long-legged
fellow,” said Dr. May. And then followed the question addressed to
Norman himself, where he was at school.

“At Stoneborough,” said Norman, a little amused at the thought how angry
Ethel and Harry would be that the paragraph of the county paper, where
“N. W. May” was recorded as prizeman and foremost in the examination,
had not penetrated even to Abbotstoke Grange, or rather to its owner’s
memory.

However, his father could not help adding, “He is the head of the
school--a thing we Stoneborough men think much of.”

This, and Mr. Rivers’s civil answer, made Norman so hot, that he did not
notice much in passing through a hall full of beautiful vases, stuffed
birds, busts, etc., tastefully arranged, and he did not look up till
they were entering a handsome dining-room, where a small square table
was laid out for luncheon near a noble fire.

The two ladies were there, and Mr. Rivers introduced them as his
daughter and Mrs. Larpent. It was the most luxurious meal that Norman
had ever seen, the plate, the porcelain, and all the appointments of
the table so elegant, and the viands, all partaking of the Christmas
character, and of a recherche delicate description quite new to him.
He had to serve as his father’s right hand, and was so anxious to put
everything as Dr. May liked it, and without attracting notice, that he
hardly saw or listened till Dr. May began to admire a fine Claude on the
opposite wall, and embarked in a picture discussion. The doctor had
much taste for art, and had made the most of his opportunities of seeing
paintings during his time of study at Paris, and in a brief tour to
Italy. Since that time, few good pictures had come in his way, and these
were a great pleasure to him, while Mr. Rivers, a regular connoisseur,
was delighted to meet with one who could so well appreciate them. Norman
perceived how his father was enjoying the conversation, and was much
interested both by the sight of the first fine paintings he had ever
seen, and by the talk about their merits; but the living things in the
room had more of his attention and observation, especially the young
lady who sat at the head of the table; a girl about his own age; she
was on a very small scale, and seemed to him like a fairy, in the airy
lightness and grace of her movements, and the blithe gladsomeness of her
gestures and countenance. Form and features, though perfectly healthful
and brisk, had the peculiar finish and delicacy of a miniature painting,
and were enhanced by the sunny glance of her dark soft smiling eyes.
Her hair was in black silky braids, and her dress, with its gaiety of
well-assorted colour, was positively refreshing to his eye, so long
accustomed to the deep mourning of his sisters. A little Italian
greyhound, perfectly white, was at her side, making infinite variations
of the line of beauty and grace, with its elegant outline, and S-like
tail, as it raised its slender nose in hopes of a fragment of bread
which she from time to time dispensed to it.

Luncheon over, Mr. Rivers asked Dr. May to step into his library, and
Norman guessed that they had been talking all this time, and had never
come to the medical opinion. However, a good meal and a large fire made
a great difference in his toleration, and it was so new a scene, that
he had no objection to a prolonged waiting, especially when Mrs. Larpent
said, in a very pleasant tone, “Will you come into the drawing-room with
us?”

He felt somewhat as if he was walking in enchanted ground as he followed
her into the large room, the windows opening into the conservatory,
the whole air fragrant with flowers, the furniture and ornaments so
exquisite of their kind, and all such a fit scene for the beautiful
little damsel, who, with her slender dog by her side, tripped on
demurely, and rather shyly, but with a certain skipping lightness in her
step. A very tall overgrown schoolboy did Norman feel himself for one
bashful moment, when he found himself alone with the two ladies; but he
was ready to be set at ease by Mrs. Larpent’s good-natured manner, when
she said something of Rollo’s discourtesy. He smiled, and answered
that he had made great friends with the fine old dog, and spoke of his
running off to the dinner, at which little Miss Rivers laughed,
and looked delighted, and began to tell of Rollo’s perfections and
intelligence. Norman ventured to inquire the name of the little Italian,
and was told it was Nipen, because it had once stolen a cake, much like
the wind-spirit in Feats on the Fiord. Its beauty and tricks were duly
displayed, and a most beautiful Australian parrot was exhibited, Mrs.
Larpent taking full interest in the talk, in so lively and gentle a
manner, and she and her pretty pupil evidently on such sister-like
terms, that Norman could hardly believe her to be the governess, when he
thought of Miss Winter.

Miss Rivers took up some brown leaves which she was cutting out with
scissors, and shaping. “Our holiday work,” said Mrs. Larpent, in answer
to the inquiring look of Norman’s eyes. “Meta has been making a drawing
for her papa, and is framing it in leather-work. Have you ever seen
any?”

“Never!” and Norman looked eagerly, asking questions, and watching while
Miss Rivers cut out her ivy leaf and marked its veins, and showed how
she copied it from nature. He thanked her, saying, “I wanted to learn
all about it, for I thought it would be such nice work for my eldest
sister.”

A glance of earnest interest from little Meta’s bright eyes at her
governess, and Mrs. Larpent, in a kind, soft tone that quite gained his
heart, asked, “Is she the invalid?”

“Yes,” said Norman. “New fancy work is a great gain to her.”

Mrs. Larpent’s sympathetic questions, and Meta’s softening eyes,
gradually drew from him a great deal about Margaret’s helpless state,
and her patience, and capabilities, and how every one came to her with
all their cares; and Norman, as he spoke, mentally contrasted the life,
untouched by trouble and care, led by the fair girl before him, with
that atmosphere of constant petty anxieties round her namesake’s couch,
at years so nearly the same.

“How very good she must be,” said little Meta, quickly and softly; and a
tear was sparkling on her eyelashes.

“She is indeed,” said Norman earnestly. “I don’t know what papa would do
but for her.”

Mrs. Larpent asked kind questions whether his father’s arm was very
painful, and the hopes of its cure; and he felt as if she was a great
friend already. Thence they came to books. Norman had not read for
months past, but it happened that Meta was just now reading Woodstock,
with which he was of course familiar; and both grew eager in discussing
that and several others. Of one, Meta spoke in such terms of delight,
that Norman thought it had been very stupid of him to let it lie on the
table for the last fortnight without looking into it.

He was almost sorry to see his father and Mr. Rivers come in, and hear
the carriage ordered, but they were not off yet, though the rain was now
only Scotch mist. Mr. Rivers had his most choice little pictures
still to display, his beautiful early Italian masters, finished like
illuminations, and over these there was much lingering and admiring.
Meta had whispered something to her governess, who smiled, and advanced
to Norman. “Meta wishes to know if your sister would like to have a few
flowers?” said she.

No sooner said than done; the door into the conservatory was opened,
and Meta, cutting sprays of beautiful geranium, delicious heliotrope,
fragrant calycanthus, deep blue tree violet, and exquisite hothouse
ferns; perfect wonders to Norman, who, at each addition to the bouquet,
exclaimed by turns, “Oh, thank you!” and, “How she will like it!”

Her father reached a magnolia blossom from on high, and the quick warm
grateful emotion trembled in Dr. May’s features and voice, as he said,
“It is very kind in you; you have given my poor girl a great treat.
Thank you with all my heart.”

Margaret Rivers cast down her eyes, half smiled, and shrank back,
thinking she had never felt anything like the left-handed grasp, so full
of warmth and thankfulness. It gave her confidence to venture on the
one question on which she was bent. Her father was in the hall, showing
Norman his Greek nymph; and lifting her eyes to Dr. May’s face, then
casting them down, she coloured deeper than ever, as she said, in a
stammering whisper, “Oh, please--if you would tell me--do you think--is
papa very ill?”

Dr. May answered in his softest, most reassuring tones: “You need not
be alarmed about him, I assure you. You must keep him from too much
business,” he added, smiling; “make him ride with you, and not let him
tire himself, and I am sure you can be his best doctor.”

“But do you think,” said Meta, earnestly looking up--“do you think he
will be quite well again?”

“You must not expect doctors to be absolute oracles,” said he. “I will
tell you what I told him--I hardly think his will ever be sound health
again, but I see no reason why he should not have many years of comfort,
and there is no cause for you to disquiet yourself on his account--you
have only to be careful of him.”

Meta tried to say “thank you,” but not succeeding, looked imploringly
at her governess, who spoke for her. “Thank you, it is a great relief to
have an opinion, for we were not at all satisfied about Mr. Rivers.”

A few words more, and Meta was skipping about like a sprite finding
a basket for the flowers--she had another shake of the hand, another
grateful smile, and “thank you,” from the doctor; and then, as the
carriage disappeared, Mrs. Larpent exclaimed, “What a very nice
intelligent boy that was.”

“Particularly gentlemanlike,” said Mr. Rivers. “Very clever--the head of
the school, as his father tells me--and so modest and unassuming--though
I see his father is very proud of him.”

“Oh, I am sure they are so fond of each other,” said Meta: “didn’t you
see his attentive ways to his father at luncheon! And, papa, I am
sure you must like Dr. May, Mr. Wilmot’s doctor, as much as I said you
would.”

“He is the most superior man I have met with for a long time,” said
Mr. Rivers. “It is a great acquisition to find a man of such taste and
acquirements in this country neighbourhood, when there is not another
who can tell a Claude from a Poussin. I declare, when once we began
talking, there was no leaving off--I have not met a person of so much
conversation since I left town. I thought you would like to see him,
Meta.”

“I hope I shall know the Miss Mays some time or other.”

“That is the prettiest little fairy I ever did see!” was Dr. May’s
remark, as Norman drove from the door.

“How good-natured they are!” said Norman; “I just said something about
Margaret, and she gave me all these flowers. How Margaret will be
delighted! I wish the girls could see it all!”

“So you got on well with the ladies, did you?”

“They were very kind to me. It was very pleasant!” said Norman, with a
tone of enjoyment that did his father’s heart good.

“I was glad you should come in. Such a curiosity shop is a sight, and
those pictures were some of them well worth seeing. That was a splendid
Titian.”

“That cast of the Pallas of the Parthenon--how beautiful it was--I knew
it from the picture in Smith’s dictionary. Mr. Rivers said he would show
me all his antiques if you would bring me again.”

“I saw he liked your interest in them. He is a good, kind-hearted
dilettante sort of old man; he has got all the talk of the literary,
cultivated society in London, and must find it dullish work here.”

“You liked him, didn’t you?”

“He is very pleasant; I found he knew my old friend, Benson, whom I had
not seen since we were at Cambridge together, and we got on that and
other matters; London people have an art of conversation not learned
here, and I don’t know how the time slipped away; but you must have been
tolerably tired of waiting.”

“Not to signify,” said Norman. “I only began to think he must be very
ill; I hope there is not much the matter with him.”

“I can’t say. I am afraid there is organic disease, but I think it may
be kept quiet a good while yet, and he may have a pleasant life for some
time to come, arranging his prints, and petting his pretty daughter. He
has plenty to fall back upon.”

“Do you go there again?”

“Yes, next week. I am glad of it. I shall like to have another look at
that little Madonna of his--it is the sort of picture that does one good
to carry away in one’s eye. Whay! Stop. There’s an old woman in here. It
is too late for Fordholm, but these cases won’t wait.”

He went into the cottage, and soon returned, saying, “Fine new blankets,
and a great kettle of soup, and such praises of the ladies at the
Grange!” And, at the next house, it was the same story. “Well, ‘tis no
mockery now to tell the poor creatures they want nourishing food. Slices
of meat and bottles of port wine rain down on Abbotstoke.”

A far more talkative journey than usual ensued; the discussion of the
paintings and antiques was almost equally delightful to the father and
son, and lasted till, about a mile from Stoneborough, they descried
three figures in the twilight.

“Ha! How are you, Wilmot? So you braved the rain, Ethel. Jump in,”
 called the doctor, as Norman drew up.

“I shall crowd you--I shall hurt your arm, papa; thank you.”

“No, you won’t--jump in--there’s room for three thread-papers in one
gig. Why, Wilmot, your brother has a very jewel of a squire! How did you
fare?”

“Very well on the whole,” was Mr. Wllmot’s answer, while Ethel scrambled
in, and tried to make herself small, an art in which she was not very
successful; and Norman gave an exclamation of horrified warning, as she
was about to step into the flower-basket; then she nearly tumbled out
again in dismay, and was relieved to find herself safely wedged in,
without having done any harm, while her father called out to Mr. Wilmot,
as they started, “I say! You are coming back to tea with us.”

That cheerful tone, and the kindness to herself, were a refreshment and
revival to Ethel, who was still sobered and shocked by her yesterday’s
adventure, and by the sense of her father’s sorrowful displeasure.
Expecting further to be scolded for getting in so awkwardly, she did not
venture to volunteer anything, and even when he kindly said, “I hope
you were prosperous in your expedition,” she only made answer, in a very
grave voice, “Yes, papa, we have taken a very nice tidy room.”

“What do you pay for it?”

“Fourpence for each time.”

“Well, here’s for you,” said Dr. May. “It is only two guineas to-day;
that banker at the Grange beguiled us of our time, but you had better
close the bargain for him, Ethel--he will be a revenue for you, for this
winter at least.”

“Oh, thank you, papa,” was all Ethel could say; overpowered by his
kindness, and more repressed by what she felt so unmerited, than she
would have been by coldness, she said few words, and preferred listening
to Norman, who began to describe their adventures at the Grange.

All her eagerness revived, however, as she sprang out of the carriage,
full of tidings for Margaret; and it was almost a race between her and
Norman to get upstairs, and unfold their separate budgets.

Margaret’s lamp had just been lighted, when they made their entrance,
Norman holding the flowers on high.

“Oh, how beautiful! how delicious! For me? Where did you get them?”

“From Abbotstoke Grange; Miss Rivers sent them to you.”

“How very kind! What a lovely geranium, and oh, that fern! I never saw
anything so choice. How came she to think of me?”

“They asked me in because it rained, and she was making the prettiest
things, leather leaves and flowers for picture frames. I thought it was
work that would just suit you, and learned how to do it. That made them
ask about you, and it ended by her sending you this nosegay.”

“How very kind everybody is! Well, Ethel, are you come home too?”

“Papa picked me up. Oh, Margaret, we have found such a nice room, a
clean sanded kitchen--”

“You never saw such a conservatory--”

“And it is to be let to us for fourpence a time--”

“The house is full of beautiful things, pictures and statues. Only think
of a real Titian, and a cast of the Apollo!”

“Twenty children to begin with, and Richard is going to make some
forms.”

“Mr. Rivers is going to show me all his casts.”

“Oh, is he? But only think how lucky we were to find such a nice woman;
Mr. Wilmot was so pleased with her.”

Norman found one story at a time was enough, and relinquished the
field, contenting himself with silently helping Margaret to arrange the
flowers, holding the basket for her, and pleased with her gestures of
admiration. Ethel went on with her history. “The first place we thought
of would not do at all; the woman said she would not take half-a-crown a
week to have a lot of children stabbling about, as she called it; so
we went to another house, and there was a very nice woman indeed, Mrs.
Green, with one little boy, whom she wanted to send to school, only it
is too far. She says she always goes to church at Fordholm because it is
nearer, and she is quite willing to let us have the room. So we settled
it, and next Friday we are to begin. Papa has given us two guineas, and
that will pay for, let me see, a hundred and twenty-six times, and
Mr. Wilmot is going to give us some books, and Ritchie will print some
alphabets. We told a great many of the people, and they are so glad.
Old Granny Hall said, ‘Well, I never!’ and told the girls they must be
as good as gold now the gentlefolks was coming to teach them. Mr. Wilmot
is coming with us every Friday as long as the holidays last.”

Ethel departed on her father’s coming in to ask Margaret if she would
like to have a visit from Mr. Wilmot. She enjoyed this very much, and
he sat there nearly an hour, talking of many matters, especially the
Cocksmoor scheme, on which she was glad to hear his opinion at first
hand.

“I am very glad you think well of it,” she said. “It is most desirable
that something should be done for those poor people, and Richard would
never act rashly; but I have longed for advice whether it was right to
promote Ethel’s undertaking. I suppose Richard told you how bent on it
she was, long before papa was told of it.”

“He said it was her great wish, and had been so for a long time past.”

Margaret, in words more adequate to express the possession the project
had gained of Ethel’s ardent mind, explained the whole history of it.
“I do believe she looks on it as a sort of call,” said she, “and I have
felt as if I ought not to hinder her, and yet I did not know whether it
was right, at her age, to let her undertake so much.”

“I understand,” said Mr. Wilmot, “but, from what I have seen of Ethel,
I should think you had decided rightly. There seems to me to be such
a spirit of energy in her, that if she does not act, she will either
speculate and theorise, or pine and prey on herself. I do believe that
hard homely work, such as this school-keeping, is the best outlet for
what might otherwise run to extravagance--more especially as you say the
hope of it has already been an incentive to improvement in home duties.”

“That I am sure it has,” said Margaret.

“Moreover,” said Mr. Wilmot, “I think you were quite right in thinking
that to interfere with such a design was unsafe. I do believe that a
great deal of harm is done by prudent friends, who dread to let young
people do anything out of the common way, and so force their aspirations
to ferment and turn sour, for want of being put to use.”

“Still girls are told they ought to wait patiently, and not to be eager
for self-imposed duties.”

“I am not saying that it is not the appointed discipline for the girls
themselves,” said Mr. Wilmot. “If they would submit, and do their best,
it would doubtless prove the most beneficial thing for them; but it is a
trial in which they often fail, and I had rather not be in the place of
such friends.”

“It is a great puzzle!” said Margaret, sighing.

“Ah! I dare say you are often perplexed,” said her friend kindly.

“Indeed I am. There are so many little details that I cannot be always
teasing papa with, and yet which I do believe form the character more
than the great events, and I never know whether I act for the best. And
there are so many of us, so many duties, I cannot half attend to any.
Lately, I have been giving up almost everything to keep this room quiet
for Norman in the morning, because he was so much harassed and hurt by
bustle and confusion, and I found to-day that things have gone wrong in
consequence.”

“You must do the best you can, and try to trust that while you work in
the right spirit, your failures will be compensated,” said Mr. Wilmot.
“It is a hard trial.”

“I like your understanding it,” said Margaret, smiling sadly. “I don’t
know whether it is silly, but I don’t like to be pitied for the wrong
thing. My being so helpless is what every one laments over; but, after
all, that is made up to me by the petting and kindness I get from all
of them; but it is the being mistress of the house, and having to settle
for every one, without knowing whether I do right or wrong, that is my
trouble.”

“I am not sure, however, that it is right to call it a trouble, though
it is a trial.”

“I see what you mean,” said Margaret. “I ought to be thankful. I know
it is an honour, and I am quite sure I should be grieved if they did
not all come to me and consult me as they do. I had better not have
complained, and yet I am glad I did, for I like you to understand my
difficulties.”

“And, indeed, I wish to enter into them, and do or say anything in my
power to help you. But I don’t know anything that can be of so much
comfort as the knowledge that He who laid the burden on you, will help
you to bear it.”

“Yes,” said Margaret, pausing; and then, with a sweet look, though a
heavy sigh, she said, “It is very odd how things turn out! I always
had a childish fancy that I would be useful and important, but I little
thought how it would be! However, as long as Richard is in the house,
I always feel secure about the others, and I shall soon be downstairs
myself. Don’t you think dear papa in better spirits?”

“I thought so to-day,”--and here the doctor returned, talking of
Abbotstoke Grange, where he had certainly been much pleased. “It was
a lucky chance,” he said, “that they brought Norman in. It was exactly
what I wanted to rouse and interest him, and he took it all in so well,
that I am sure they were pleased with him. I thought he looked a very
lanky specimen of too much leg and arm when I called him in, but he has
such good manners, and is so ready and understanding, that they
could not help liking him. It was fortunate I had him instead of
Richard--Ritchie is a very good fellow, certainly, but he had rather
look at a steam-engine, any day, than at Raphael himself.”

Norman had his turn by-and-by. He came up after tea, reporting that papa
was fast asleep in his chair, and the others would go on about Cocksmoor
till midnight, if they were let alone; and made up for his previous
yielding to Ethel, by giving, with much animation, and some excitement,
a glowing description of the Grange, so graphic, that Margaret said she
could almost fancy she had been there.

“Oh, Margaret, I wonder if you ever will! I would give something for you
to see the beautiful conservatory. It is a real bower for a maiden of
romance, with its rich green fragrance in the midst of winter. It is
like a picture in a dream. One could imagine it a fairy land, where no
care, or grief, or weariness could come, all choice beauty and sweetness
waiting on the creature within. I can hardly believe that it is a real
place, and that I have seen it.”

“Though you have brought these pretty tokens that your fairy is as good
as she is fair!” said Margaret, smiling.




CHAPTER XVI.



   EVANS.   Peace your tattlings. What is fair, William?
   WILLIAM. PULCHER.
   QUICKLY. Poulcats! there are fairer things than poulcats sure!
   EVANS.   I pray you have your remembrance, child, accusative
            HING HANG HOG.
   QUICKLY. HANG HOG is Latin for bacon, I warrant you.
                                                   SHAKESPEARE.


In a large family it must often happen, that since every member of it
cannot ride the same hobby, nor at the same time, their several steeds
must sometimes run counter to each other; and so Ethel found it, one
morning when Miss Winter, having a bad cold, had given her an unwonted
holiday.

Mr. Wilmot had sent a large parcel of books for her to choose from for
Cocksmoor, but this she could not well do without consultation. The
multitude bewildered her, she was afraid of taking too many or too few,
and the being brought to these practical details made her sensible that
though her schemes were very grand and full for future doings, they
passed very lightly over the intermediate ground. The Paulo post fulurum
was a period much more developed in her imagination than the future,
that the present was flowing into.

Where was her coadjutor, Richard? Writing notes for papa, and not to
be disturbed. She had better have waited tranquilly, but this would not
suit her impatience, and she ran up to Margaret’s room. There she found
a great display of ivy leaves, which Norman, who had been turning
half the shops in the town upside down in search of materials, was
instructing her to imitate in leather-work--a regular mania with him,
and apparently the same with Margaret.

In came Ethel. “Oh, Margaret, will you look at these ‘First Truths?’ Do
you think they would be easy enough? Shall I take some of the Parables
and Miracles at once, or content myself with the book about ‘Jane
Sparks?’”

“There’s some very easy reading in ‘Jane Sparks’, isn’t there? I would
not make the little books from the New Testament too common.”

“Take care, that leaf has five points,” said Norman.

“Shall I bring you up ‘Jane Sparks’ to see? Because then you can judge,”
 said Ethel.

“There, Norman, is that right?--what a beauty! I should like to look
over them by-and-by, dear Ethel, very much.”

Ethel gazed and went away, more put out than was usual with her. “When
Margaret has a new kind of fancy work,” she thought, “she cares for
nothing else! as if my poor children did not signify more than trumpery
leather leaves!” She next met Flora.

“Oh, Flora, see here, what a famous parcel of books Mr. Wilmot has sent
us to choose from.”

“All those!” said Flora, turning them over as they lay heaped on the
drawing-room sofa; “what a confusion!”

“See, such a parcel of reading books. I want to know what you think of
setting them up with ‘Jane Sparks’, as it is week-day teaching.”

“You will be very tired of hearing those spelled over for ever; they
have some nicer books at the national school.”

“What is the name of them? Do you see any of them here?”

“No, I don’t think I do, but I can’t wait to look now. I must write some
letters. You had better put them together a little. If you were to sort
them, you would know what is there. Now, what a mess they are in.”

Ethel could not deny it, and began to deal them out in piles, looking
somewhat more fitting, but still felt neglected and aggrieved, at no one
being at leisure but Harry, who was not likely to be of any use to her.

Presently she heard the study door open, and hoped; but though it was
Richard who entered the room, he was followed by Tom, and each held
various books that boded little good to her. Miss Winter had, much
to her own satisfaction, been relieved from the charge of Tom, whose
lessons Richard had taken upon himself; and thus Ethel had heard so
little about them for a long time past, that even in her vexation and
desire to have them over, she listened with interest, desirous to judge
what sort of place Tom might be likely to take in school.

She did not perceive that this made Richard nervous and uneasy. He had a
great dislike to spectators of Latin lessons; he never had forgotten an
unlucky occasion, some years back, when his father was examining him
in the Georgics, and he, dull by nature, and duller by confusion and
timidity, had gone on rendering word for word--enim for, seges a crop,
lini of mud, urit burns, campum the field, avenae a crop of pipe, urit
burns it; when Norman and Ethel had first warned him of the beauty of
his translation by an explosion of laughing, when his father had shut
the book with a bounce, shaken his head in utter despair, and told him
to give up all thoughts of doing anything--and when Margaret had cried
with vexation. Since that time, he had never been happy when any one was
in earshot of a lesson; but to-day he had no escape--Harry lay on the
rug reading, and Ethel sat forlorn over her books on the sofa. Tom,
however, was bright enough, declined his Greek nouns irreproachably, and
construed his Latin so well, that Ethel could not help putting in a word
or two of commendation, and auguring the third form. “Do let him off the
parsing, Ritchie,” said she coaxingly--“he has said it so well, and I
want you so much.”

“I am afraid I must not,” said Richard; who, to her surprise, did not
look pleased or satisfied with the prosperous translation; “but come,
Tom, you shan’t have many words, if you really know them.”

Tom twisted and looked rather cross, but when asked to parse the word
viribus, answered readily and correctly.

“Very well, only two more--affuit?”

“Third person singular, praeter perfect tense of the verb affo, affis,
affui, affere,” gabbled off Tom with such confidence, that though Ethel
gave an indignant jump, Richard was almost startled into letting it
pass, and disbelieving himself. He remonstrated in a somewhat hesitating
voice. “Did you find that in the dictionary?” said he; “I thought affui
came from adsum.”

“Oh, to be sure, stupid fool of a word, so it does!” said Tom hastily.
“I had forgot--adsum, ades, affui, adesse.”

Richard said no more, but proposed the word oppositus.

“Adjective.”

Ethel was surprised, for she remembered that it was, in this passage,
part of a passive verb, which Tom had construed correctly, “it was
objected,” and she had thought this very creditable to him, whereas he
now evidently took it for opposite; however, on Richard’s reading the
line, he corrected himself and called it a participle, but did not
commit himself further, till asked for its derivation.

“From oppositor.”

“Hallo!” cried Harry, who hitherto had been abstracted in his book, but
now turned, raised himself on his elbow, and, at the blunder, shook his
thick yellow locks, and showed his teeth like a young lion.

“No, now, Tom, pay attention,” said Richard resignedly. “If you found
out its meaning, you must have seen its derivation.”

“Oppositus,” said Tom, twisting his fingers, and gazing first at Ethel,
then at Harry, in hopes of being prompted, then at the ceiling and
floor, the while he drawled out the word with a whine, “why, oppositus
from op-posor.”

“A poser! ain’t it?” said Harry.

“Don’t, Harry, you distract him,” said Richard. “Come, Tom, say at once
whether you know it or not--it is of no use to invent.”

“From op-” and a mumble.

“What? I don’t hear--op--”

Tom again looked for help to Harry, who made a mischievous movement of
his lips, as if prompting, and, deceived by it, he said boldly, “From
op-possum.”

“That’s right! let us hear him decline it!” cried Harry, in an ecstasy.
“Oppossum, opottis, opposse, or oh-pottery!”

“Harry,” said Richard, in a gentle reasonable voice, “I wish you would
be so kind as not to stay, if you cannot help distracting him.”

And Harry, who really had a tolerable share of forbearance and
consideration, actually obeyed, contenting himself with tossing his book
into the air and catching it again, while he paused at the door to give
his last unsolicited assistance. “Decline oppossum you say. I’ll tell
you how: O-possum re-poses up a gum tree. O-pot-you-I will, says the
O-posse of Yankees, come out to ketch him. Opossum poses them and
declines in O-pot-esse by any manner of means of o-potting-di-do-dum,
was quite oppositum-oppotitu, in fact, quite contrairy.”

Richard, with the gravity of a victim, heard this sally of schoolboy
wit, which threw Ethel back on the sofa in fits of laughing, and
declaring that the Opossum declined, not that he was declined; but, in
the midst of the disturbance thus created, Tom stepped up to her, and
whispered, “Do tell me, Ethel!”

“Indeed I shan’t,” said she. “Why don’t you say fairly if you don’t
know?”

He was obliged to confess his ignorance, and Richard made him conjugate
the whole verb opponor from beginning to end, in which he wanted a good
deal of help.

Ethel could not help saying, “How did you find out the meaning of that
word, Tom, if you didn’t look out the verb?”

“I--don’t know,” drawled Tom, in the voice, half sullen, half piteous,
which he always assumed when out of sorts.

“It is very odd,” she said decidedly; but Richard took no notice, and
proceeded to the other lessons, which went off tolerably well, except
the arithmetic, where there was some great misunderstanding, into which
Ethel did not enter for some time. When she did attend, she perceived
that Tom had brought a right answer, without understanding the working
of the sum, and that Richard was putting him through it. She began to
be worked into a state of dismay and indignation at Tom’s behaviour, and
Richard’s calm indifference, which made her almost forget ‘Jane Sparks’,
and long to be alone with Richard; but all the world kept coming into
the room, and going out, and she could not say what was in her mind till
after dinner, when, seeing Richard go up into Margaret’s room, she ran
after him, and entering it, surprised Margaret, by not beginning on her
books, but saying at once, “Ritchie, I wanted to speak to you about Tom.
I am sure he shuffled about those lessons.”

“I am afraid he does,” said Richard, much concerned.

“What, do you mean that it is often so?”

“Much too often,” said Richard; “but I have never been able to detect
him; he is very sharp, and has some underhand way of preparing his
lessons that I cannot make out.”

“Did you know it, Margaret?” said Ethel, astonished not to see her
sister looked shocked as well as sorry.

“Yes,” said Margaret, “Ritchie and I have often talked it over, and
tried to think what was to be done.”

“Dear me! why don’t you tell papa? It is such a terrible thing!”

“So it is,” said Margaret, “but we have nothing positive or tangible
to accuse Tom of; we don’t know what he does, and have never caught him
out.”

“I am sure he must have found out the meaning of that oppositum in some
wrong way--if he had looked it out, he would only have found opposite.
Nothing but opponor could have shown him the rendering which he made.”

“That’s like what I have said almost every day,” said Richard, “but
there we are--I can’t get any further.”

“Perhaps he guesses by the context,” said Margaret.

“It would be impossible to do so always,” said both the Latin scholars
at once.

“Well, I can’t think how you can take it so quietly,” said Ethel. “I
would have told papa the first moment, and put a stop to it. I have a
great mind to do so, if you won’t.

“Ethel, Ethel, that would never do!” exclaimed Margaret, “pray don’t.
Papa would be so dreadfully grieved and angry with poor Tom.”

“Well, so he deserves,” said Ethel.

“You don’t know what it is to see papa angry,” said Richard.

“Dear me, Richard!” cried Ethel, who thought she knew pretty well what
his sharp words were. “I’m sure papa never was angry with me, without
making me love him more, and, at least, want to be better.”

“You are a girl,” said Richard.

“You are higher spirited, and shake off things faster,” said Margaret.

“Why, what do you think he would do to Tom?”

“I think he would be so very angry, that Tom, who, you know, is timid
and meek, would be dreadfully frightened,” said Richard.

“That’s just what he ought to be, frightened out of these tricks.”

“I am afraid it would frighten him into them still more,” said Richard,
“and perhaps give him such a dread of my father as would prevent him
from ever being open with him.”

“Besides, it would make papa so very unhappy,” added Margaret. “Of
course, if poor dear Tom had been found out in any positive deceit, we
ought to mention it at once, and let him be punished; but while it is
all vague suspicion, and of what papa has such a horror of, it would
only grieve him, and make him constantly anxious, without, perhaps,
doing Tom any good.”

“I think all that is expediency,” said Ethel, in her bluff, abrupt way.

“Besides,” said Richard, “we have nothing positive to accuse him of, and
if we had, it would be of no use. He will be at school in three weeks,
and there he would be sure to shirk, even if he left it off here. Every
one does, and thinks nothing of it.”

“Richard!” cried both sisters, shocked. “You never did?”

“No, we didn’t, but most others do, and not bad fellows either. It is
not the way of boys to think much of those things.”

“It is mean--it is dishonourable--it is deceitful!” cried Ethel.

“I know it is very wrong, but you’ll never get the general run of boys
to think so,” said Richard.

“Then Tom ought not to go to school at all till he is well armed against
it,” said Ethel.

“That can’t be helped,” said Richard. “He will get clear of it in time,
when he knows better.”

“I will talk to him,” said Margaret, “and, indeed, I think it would be
better than worrying papa.”

“Well,” said Ethel, “of course I shan’t tell, because it is not my
business, but I think papa ought to know everything about us, and I
don’t like your keeping anything back. It is being almost as bad as Tom
himself.”

With which words, as Flora entered, Ethel marched out of the room in
displeasure, and went down, resolved to settle Jane Sparks by herself.

“Ethel is out of sorts to-day,” said Flora. “What’s the matter?”

“We have had a discussion,” said Margaret. “She has been terribly
shocked by finding out what we have often thought about poor little Tom,
and she thinks we ought to tell papa. Her principle is quite right, but
I doubt--”

“I know exactly how Ethel would do it!” cried Flora; “blurt out all on
a sudden, ‘Papa, Tom cheats at his lessons!’ then there would be a
tremendous uproar, papa would scold Tom till he almost frightened him
out of his wits, and then find out it was only suspicion.”

“And never have any comfort again,” said Margaret. “He would always
dread that Tom was deceiving him, and then think it was all for want
of--Oh, no, it will never do to speak of it, unless we find out some
positive piece of misbehaviour.”

“Certainly,” said Flora.

“And it would do Tom no good to make him afraid of papa,” said Richard.

“Ethel’s rule is right in principle,” said Margaret thoughtfully, “that
papa ought to know all without reserve, and yet it will hardly do in
practice. One must use discretion, and not tease him about every
little thing. He takes them so much to heart, that he would be almost
distracted; and, with so much business abroad, I think at home he should
have nothing but rest, and, as far as we can, freedom from care and
worry. Anything wrong about the children brings on the grief so much,
that I cannot bear to mention it.”

Richard and Flora agreed with her, admiring the spirit which made her,
in her weakness and helplessness, bear the whole burden of family cares
alone, and devote herself entirely to spare her father. He was, indeed,
her first object, and she would have sacrificed anything to give him
ease of mind; but, perhaps, she regarded him more as a charge of
her own, than as, in very truth, the head of the family. She had the
government in her hands, and had never been used to see him exercise it
much in detail (she did not know how much her mother had referred to
him in private), and had succeeded to her authority at a time when his
health and spirits were in such a state as to make it doubly needful to
spare him. It was no wonder that she sometimes carried her consideration
beyond what was strictly right, and forgot that he was the real
authority, more especially as his impulsive nature sometimes carried him
away, and his sound judgment was not certain to come into play at
the first moment, so that it required some moral courage to excite
displeasure, so easy of manifestation; and of such courage there was,
perhaps, a deficiency in her character. Nor had she yet detected her own
satisfaction in being the first with every one in the family.

Ethel was put out, as Flora had discovered, and when she was downstairs
she found it out, and accused herself of having been cross to Margaret,
and unkind to Tom--of wishing to be a tell-tale. But still, though
displeased with herself, she was dissatisfied with Margaret; it might
be right, but it did not agree with her notions. She wanted to see every
one uncompromising, as girls of fifteen generally do; she had an intense
disgust and loathing of underhand ways, could not bear to think of
Tom’s carrying them on, and going to a place of temptation with them
uncorrected; and she looked up to her father with the reverence and
enthusiasm of one like minded.

She was vexed on another score. Norman came home from Abbotstoke Grange
without having seen Miss Rivers, but with a fresh basket of choice
flowers, rapturous descriptions of Mr. Rivers’s prints, and a present
of an engraving, in shading, such as to give the effect of a cast, of
a very fine head of Alexander. Nothing was to be thought of but a frame
for this--olive, bay, laurel, everything appropriate to the conqueror.
Margaret and Norman were engrossed in the subject, and, to Ethel, who
had no toleration for fancy work, who expected everything to be either
useful or intellectual, this seemed very frivolous. She heard her
father say how glad he was to see Norman interested and occupied, and
certainly, though it was only in leather leaves, it was better than
drooping and attending to nothing. She knew, too, that Margaret did it
for his sake, but, said Ethel to herself, “It was very odd that people
should find amusement in such things. Margaret always had a turn for
them, but it was very strange in Norman.”

Then came the pang of finding out that this was aggravated by the
neglect of herself; she called it all selfishness, and felt that she had
had an uncomfortable, unsatisfactory day, with everything going wrong.




CHAPTER XVII.



     Gently supported by the ready aid
       Of loving hands, whose little work of toil
     Her grateful prodigality repaid
       With all the benediction of her smile,
         She turned her failing feet
         To the softly cushioned seat,
       Dispensing kindly greetings all the time.
                                             R. M. MILNES.


Three great events signalised the month of January. The first was, the
opening of the school at Cocksmoor, whither a cart transported half
a dozen forms, various books, and three dozen plum-buns, Margaret’s
contribution, in order that the school might begin with eclat. There
walked Mr. Wilmot, Richard, and Flora, with Mary, in a jumping, capering
state of delight, and Ethel, not knowing whether she rejoiced. She
kept apart from the rest, and hardly spoke, for this long probation had
impressed her with a sense of responsibility, and she knew that it was
a great work to which she had set her hand--a work in which she must
persevere, and in which she could not succeed in her own strength.

She took hold of Flora’s hand, and squeezed it hard, in a fit of
shyness, when they came upon the hamlet, and saw the children watching
for them; and when they reached the house, she would fain have shrank
into nothing; there was a swelling of heart that seemed to overwhelm and
stifle her, and the effect of which was to keep her standing unhelpful,
when the others were busy bringing in the benches and settling the room.

It was a tidy room, but it seemed very small when they ranged the
benches, and opened the door to the seven-and-twenty children, and the
four or five women who stood waiting. Ethel felt some dismay when they
all came pushing in, without order or civility, and would have been
utterly at a loss what to do with her scholars now she had got them, if
Richard and Flora had not marshalled them to the benches.

Rough heads, torn garments, staring vacant eyes, and mouths gaping in
shy rudeness--it was a sight to disenchant her of visions of pleasure in
the work she had set herself. It was well that she had not to take the
initiative.

Mr. Wilmot said a few simple words to the mothers about the wish to
teach their children what was right, and to do the best at present
practicable; and then told the children that he hoped they would take
pains to be good, and mind what they were taught. Then he desired all
to kneel down; he said the Collect, “Prevent us, O Lord, in all our
doings,” and then the Lord’s Prayer.

Ethel felt as if she could bear it better, and was more up to the work
after this. Next, the children were desired to stand round the room, and
Mr. Wilmot tried who could say the Catechism--the two biggest, a boy and
a girl, had not an idea of it, and the boy looked foolish, and grinned
at being asked what was his name. One child was tolerably perfect, and
about half a dozen had some dim notions. Three were entirely ignorant of
the Lord’s Prayer, and many of the others did not by any means pronounce
the words of it. Jane and Fanny Taylor, Rebekah Watts, and Mrs. Green’s
little boy, were the only ones who, by their own account, used morning
and evening prayers, though, on further examination, it appeared that
Polly and Jenny Hall, and some others, were accustomed to repeat the old
rhyme about “Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John,” and Una M’Carthy and her
little brother Fergus said something that nobody could make out, but
which Mr. Wilmot thought had once been an “Ave Maria.”

Some few of the children could read, and several more knew their
letters. The least ignorant were selected to form a first class, and Mr.
Wilmot promised a Prayer-book to the first who should be able to repeat
the Catechism without a mistake, and a Bible to the first who could read
a chapter in it.

Then followed a setting of tasks, varying from a verse of a Psalm, or
the first answer in the Catechism, down to the distinction between A,
B, and C; all to be ready by next Tuesday, when, weather permitting,
a second lesson was to be given. Afterwards, a piece of advice of
Margaret’s was followed, and Flora read aloud to the assembly the story
of “Margaret Fletcher.” To some this seemed to give great satisfaction,
especially to Una, but Ethel was surprised to see that many, and those
not only little ones, talked and yawned. They had no power of attention
even to a story, and the stillness was irksome to such wild colts. It
was plain that it was time to leave off, and there was no capacity there
which did not find the conclusion agreeable, when the basket was opened,
and Ethel and Mary distributed the buns, with instructions to say,
“thank you.”

The next Tuesday, some of the lessons were learned, Una’s perfectly, the
big ignorant boy came no more; and some of the children had learned to
behave better, while others behaved worse; Ethel began to know what she
was about; Richard’s gentleness was eminently successful with the little
girls, impressing good manners on them in a marvellous way; and Mary’s
importance and happiness with alphabet scholars, some bigger than
herself, were edifying. Cocksmoor was fairly launched.

The next memorable day was that of Margaret’s being first carried
downstairs. She had been willing to put it off as long as she could,
dreading to witness the change below-stairs, and feeling, too, that in
entering on the family room, without power of leaving it, she was losing
all quiet and solitude, as well as giving up that monopoly of her father
in his evenings, which had been her great privilege.

However, she tried to talk herself into liking it; and was rewarded
by the happy commotion it caused, though Dr. May was in a state of
excitement and nervousness at the prospect of seeing her on the stairs,
and his attempts to conceal it only made it worse, till Margaret knew
she should be nervous herself, and wished him out of sight and out of
the house till it was over, for without him she had full confidence in
the coolness and steadiness of Richard, and by him it was safely and
quietly accomplished. She was landed on the sofa, Richard and Flora
settling her, and the others crowding round and exclaiming, while the
newness of the scene and the change gave her a sense of confusion, and
she shut her eyes to recover her thoughts, but opened them the next
instant at her father’s exclamation that she was overcome, smiled to
reassure him, and declared herself not tired, and to be very glad to be
among them again. But the bustle was oppressive, and her cheerful manner
was an effort; she longed to see them all gone, and Flora found it
out, sent the children for their walk, and carried off Ethel and the
brothers.

Dr. May was called out of the room at the same time, and she was left
alone. She gazed round her, at the room where, four months before, she
had seen her mother with the babe in her arms, the children clustered
round her, her father exulting in his hen-and-chicken daisies, herself
full of bright undefined hope, radiant with health and activity, and her
one trouble such that she now knew the force of her mother’s words, that
it only proved her happiness. It was not till that moment that Margaret
realised the change; found her eyes filling with tears, as she looked
round, and saw the familiar furniture and ornaments.

They were instantly checked as she heard her father returning, but not
so that he did not perceive them, and exclaim that it had been too much
for her. “Oh, no--it was only the first time,” said Margaret, losing the
sense of the painful vacancy in her absorbing desire not to distress her
father, and thinking only of him as she watched him standing for some
minutes leaning on the mantel-shelf with his hand shading his forehead.

She began to speak as soon as she thought he was ready to have his mind
turned away: “How nicely Ritchie managed! He carried me so comfortably
and easily. It is enough to spoil me to be so deftly waited on.”

“I’m glad of it,” said Dr. May; “I am sure the change is better for
you;” but he came and looked at her still with great solicitude.

“Ritchie can take excellent care of me,” she continued, most anxious
to divert his thoughts. “You see it will do very well indeed for you to
take Harry to school.”

“I should like to do so. I should like to see his master, and to take
Norman with me,” said the doctor. “It would be just the thing for him
now--we would show him the dockyard, and all those matters, and such a
thorough holiday would set him up again.”

“He is very much better.”

“Much better--he is recovering spirits and tone very fast. That
leaf-work of yours came at a lucky time. I like to see him looking out
for a curious fern in the hedgerows--the pursuit has quite brightened
him up.”

“And he does it so thoroughly,” said Margaret. “Ethel fancies it is
rather frivolous of him, I believe; but it amuses me to see how men give
dignity to what women make trifling. He will know everything about the
leaves, hunts up my botany books, and has taught me a hundred times more
of the construction and wonders of them than I ever learned.”

“Ay,” said the doctor, “he has been talking a good deal to me about
vegetable chemistry. He would make a good scientific botanist, if
he were to be nothing else. I should be glad if he sticks to it as a
pursuit--‘tis pretty work, and I should like to have gone further with
it, if I had ever had time for it.”

“I dare say he will,” said Margaret. “It will be very pleasant if he can
go with you. How he would enjoy the British Museum, if there was time
for him to see it! Have you said anything to him yet?”

“No; I waited to see how you were, as it all depends on that.”

“I think it depends still more on something else; whether Norman is as
fit to take care of you as Richard is.”

“That’s another point. There’s nothing but what he could manage now, but
I don’t like saying anything to him. I know he would undertake anything
I wished, without a word, and then, perhaps, dwell on it in fancy, and
force himself, till it would turn to a perfect misery, and upset his
nerves again. I’m sorry for it. I meant him to have followed my trade,
but he’ll never do for that. However, he has wits enough to make himself
what he pleases, and I dare say he will keep at the head of the school
after all.”

“How very good he has been in refraining from restlessness!”

“It’s beautiful!” said Dr. May, with strong emotion. “Poor boy! I trust
he’ll not be disappointed, and I don’t think he will; but I’ve promised
him I won’t be annoyed if he should lose his place--so we must take
especial care not to show any anxiety. However, for this matter,
Margaret, I wish you would sound him, and see whether it would be more
pleasure or pain. Only mind you don’t let him think that I shall be
vexed, if he feels that he can’t make up his mind; I would not have him
fancy that, for more than I can tell.”

This consultation revived the spirits of both; and the others returning,
found Margaret quite disposed for companionship. If to her the evening
was sad and strange, like a visit in a dream to some old familiar haunt,
finding all unnatural, to the rest it was delightful. The room was no
longer dreary, now that there was a centre for care and attentions, and
the party was no longer broken up--the sense of comfort, cheerfulness,
and home-gathering had returned, and the pleasant evening household
gossip went round the table almost as it used to do. Dr. May resumed
his old habit of skimming a club book, and imparting the cream to the
listeners; and Flora gave them some music, a great treat to Margaret,
who had long only heard its distant sounds.

Margaret found an opportunity of talking to Norman, and judged
favourably. He was much pleased at the prospect of the journey, and of
seeing a ship, so as to have a clearer notion of the scene where Harry’s
life was to be spent, and though the charge of the arm was a drawback,
he did not treat it as insurmountable.

A few days’ attendance in his father’s room gave him confidence in
taking Richard’s place, and, accordingly, the third important measure
was decided on, namely, that he and his father should accompany Harry
to the naval school, and be absent three nights. Some relations would be
glad to receive them in London, and Alan Ernescliffe, who was studying
steam navigation at Woolwich, volunteered to meet them, and go with them
to Portsmouth.

It was a wonderful event; Norman and Harry had never been beyond
Whitford in their lives, and none of the young ones could recollect
their papa’s ever going from home for more than one night. Dr. May
laughed at Margaret for her anxiety and excitement on the subject, and
was more amused at overhearing Richard’s precise directions to Norman
over the packing up.

“Ay, Ritchie,” said the doctor, as he saw his portmanteau locked, and
the key given to Norman, “you may well look grave upon it. You won’t see
it look so tidy when it comes back again, and I believe you are thinking
it will be lucky if you see it at all.”

There was a very affectionate leave-taking of Harry, who, growing rather
soft-hearted, thought it needful to be disdainful, scolded Mary and
Blanche for “lugging off his figure-head,” and assured them they made
as much work about it as if he was going to sea at once. Then, to put
an end to any more embraces, he marched off to the station with Tom,
and nearly caused the others to be too late, by the search for him that
ensued.

In due time, Dr. May and Norman returned, looking the better for the
journey. There was, first, to tell of Harry’s school and its master, and
Alan Ernescliffe’s introduction of him to a nice-looking boy of his
own age; then they were eloquent on the wonders of the dockyard, the
Victory, the block machinery. And London--while Dr. May went to transact
some business, Norman had been with Alan at the British Museum, and
though he had intended to see half London besides, there was no tearing
him away from the Elgin marbles; and nothing would serve him, but
bringing Dr. May the next morning to visit the Ninevite bulls. Norman
further said, that whereas papa could never go out of his house
without meeting people who had something to say to him, it was the same
elsewhere. Six acquaintances he had met unexpectedly in London, and two
at Portsmouth.

So the conversation went on all the evening, to the great delight of
all. It was more about things than people, though Flora inquired after
Mr. Ernescliffe, and was told he had met them at the station, had been
everywhere with them, and had dined at the Mackenzies’ each day. “How
was he looking?” Ethel asked; and was told pretty much the same as when
he went away; and, on a further query from Flora, it appeared that an
old naval friend of his father’s had hopes of a ship, and had promised
to have him with him, and thereupon warm hopes were expressed that Harry
might have a berth in the same.

“And when is he coming here again, papa?” said Ethel.

“Eh! oh! I can’t tell. I say, isn’t it high time to ring?”

When they went up at night, every one felt that half the say had
not been said, and there were fresh beginnings on the stairs. Norman
triumphantly gave the key to Richard, and then called to Ethel, “I say,
won’t you come into my room while I unpack?”

“Oh, yes, I should like it very much.”

Ethel sat on the bed, rolled up in a cloak, while Norman undid his bag,
announcing at the same time, “Well, Ethel, papa says I may get to my
Euripides to-morrow, if I please, and only work an hour at a time!”

“Oh, I am so glad. Then he thinks you quite well?”

“Yes, I am quite well. I hope I’ve done with nonsense.”

“And how did you get on with his arm?”

“Very well--he was so patient, and told me how to manage. You heard that
Sir Matthew said it had got much better in these few weeks. Oh, here it
is! There’s a present for you.”

“Oh, thank you. From you, or from papa?”

“This is mine. Papa has a present for every one in his bag. He said, at
last, that a man with eleven children hadn’t need to go to London very
often.”

“And you got this beautiful ‘Lyra Innocentium’ for me? How very kind
of you, Norman. It is just what I wished for. Such lovely binding--and
those embossed edges to the leaves. Oh! they make a pattern as they
open! I never saw anything like it.”

“I saw such a one on Miss Rivers’s table, and asked Ernescliffe where to
get one like it. See, here’s what my father gave me.”

“‘Bishop Ken’s Manual’. That is in readiness for the Confirmation.”

“Look. I begged him to put my name, though he said it was a pity to do
it with his left hand; I didn’t like to wait, so I asked him at least to
write N. W. May, and the date.”

“And he has added Prov. xxiii. 24, 25. Let me look it out.” She did
so, and instead of reading it aloud, looked at Norman full of
congratulation.

“How it ought to make one--” and there Norman broke off from the
fullness of his heart.

“I’m glad he put both verses” said Ethel presently. “How pleased with
you he must be!”

A silence while brother and sister both gazed intently at the crooked
characters, till at last Ethel, with a long breath, resumed her ordinary
tone, and said, “How well he has come to write with his left hand now.”

“Yes. Did you know that he wrote himself to tell Ernescliffe Sir
Matthew’s opinion of Margaret?”

“No: did he?”

“Do you know, Ethel,” said Norman, as he knelt on the floor, and tumbled
miscellaneous articles out of his bag, “it is my belief that Ernescliffe
is in love with her, and that papa thinks so.”

“Dear me!” cried Ethel, starting up. “That is famous. We should always
have Margaret at home when he goes to sea!”

“But mind, Ethel, for your life you must not say one word to any living
creature.”

“Oh, no, I promise you I won’t, Norman, if you’ll only tell me how you
found it out.”

“What first put it in my head was the first evening, while I was undoing
the portmanteau; my father leaned on the mantel-shelf, and sighed and
muttered, ‘Poor Ernescliffe! I wish it may end well.’ I thought he
forgot that I was there, so I would not seem to notice, but I soon saw
it was that he meant.”

“How?” cried Ethel eagerly.

“Oh, I don’t know--by Alan’s way.”

“Tell me--I want to know what people do when they are in love.”

“Nothing particular,” said Norman, smiling.

“Did you hear him inquire for her? How did he look?”

“I can’t tell. That was when he met us at the station before I thought
of it, and I had to see to the luggage. But I’ll tell you one thing,
Ethel; when papa was talking of her to Mrs. Mackenzie, at the other end
of the room, all his attention went away in an instant from what he was
saying. And once, when Harry said something to me about her, he started,
and looked round so earnestly.”

“Oh, yes--that’s like people in books. And did he colour?”

“No; I don’t recollect that he did,” said Norman; “but I observed he
never asked directly after her if he could help it, but always was
trying to lead, in some round-about way, to hearing what she was doing.”

“Did he call her Margaret?”

“I watched; but to me he always said, ‘Your sister,’ and if he had to
speak of her to papa, he said, ‘Miss May.’ And then you should have seen
his attention to papa. I could hardly get a chance of doing anything for
papa.”

“Oh, sure of it!” cried Ethel, clasping her hands. “But, poor man, how
unhappy he must have been at having to go away when she was so ill!”

“Ay, the last time he saw her was when he carried her upstairs.”

“Oh, dear! I hope he will soon come here again!”

“I don’t suppose he will. Papa did not ask him.”

“Dear me, Norman! Why not? Isn’t papa very fond of him? Why shouldn’t he
come?”

“Don’t you see, Ethel, that would be of no use while poor Margaret is no
better. If he gained her affections, it would only make her unhappy.”

“Oh, but she is much better. She can raise herself up now without
help, and sat up ever so long this morning, without leaning back on her
cushions. She is getting well--you know Sir Matthew said she would.”

“Yes; but I suppose papa thinks they had better say nothing till she is
quite well.”

“And when she is! How famous it will be.”

“Then there’s another thing; he is very poor, you know.”

“I am sure papa doesn’t care about people being rich.”

“I suppose Alan thinks he ought not to marry, unless he could make his
wife comfortable.”

“Look here--it would be all very easy: she should stay with us, and be
comfortable here, and he go to sea, and get lots of prize money.”

“And that’s what you call domestic felicity!” said Norman, laughing.

“He might have her when he was at home,” said Ethel.

“No, no; that would never do,” said Norman. “Do you think Ernescliffe’s
a man that would marry a wife for her father to maintain her?”

“Why, papa would like it very much. He is not a mercenary father in a
book.”

“Hey! what’s that?” said a voice Ethel little expected. “Contraband talk
at contraband times? What’s this!”

“Did you hear, papa?” said Ethel, looking down.

“Only your last words, as I came up to ask Norman what he had done with
my pocket-book. Mind, I ask no impertinent questions; but, if you have
no objection, I should like to know what gained me the honour of that
compliment.”

“Norman?” said Ethel interrogatively, and blushing in emulation of her
brother, who was crimson.

“I’ll find it,” said he, rushing off with a sort of nod and sign, that
conveyed to Ethel that there was no help for it.

So, with much confusion, she whispered into her papa’s ear that Norman
had been telling her something he guessed about Mr. Ernescliffe.

Her father at first smiled, a pleased amused smile. “Ah! ha! so Master
June has his eyes and ears open, has he? A fine bit of gossip to regale
you with on his return!”

“He told me to say not one word,” said Ethel.

“Right--mind you don’t,” said Dr. May, and Ethel was surprised to see
how sorrowful his face became. At the same moment Norman returned,
still very red, and said, “I’ve put out the pocket-book, papa. I think
I should tell you I repeated what, perhaps, you did not mean me to
hear--you talked to yourself something of pitying Ernescliffe.” The
doctor smiled again at the boy’s high-minded openness, which must have
cost an effort of self-humiliation. “I can’t say little pitchers have
long ears, to a May-pole like you, Norman,” said he; “I think I ought
rather to apologise for having inadvertently tumbled in among your
secrets; I assure you I did not come to spy you.”

“Oh, no, no, no, no!” repeated Ethel vehemently. “Then you didn’t mind
our talking about it?”

“Of course not, as long as it goes no further. It is the use of sisters
to tell them one’s private sentiments. Is not it, Norman?”

“And do you really think it is so, papa?” Ethel could not help
whispering.

“I’m afraid it is”, said Dr. May, sighing; then, as he caught her
earnest eyes, “The more I see of Alan, the finer fellow I think him,
and the more sorry I am for him. It seems presumptuous, almost wrong, to
think of the matter at all while my poor Margaret is in this state; and,
if she were well, there are other difficulties which would, perhaps,
prevent his speaking, or lead to long years of waiting and wearing out
hope.”

“Money?” said Ethel.

“Ay! Though I so far deserve your compliment, miss, that should be
foolish enough, if she were but well, to give my consent to-morrow,
because I could not help it; yet one can’t live forty-six years in
this world without seeing it is wrong to marry without a reasonable
dependence--and there won’t be much among eleven of you. It makes my
heart ache to think of it, come what may, as far as I can see, and
without her to judge. The only comfort is, that poor Margaret herself
knows nothing of it, and is at peace so far. It will be ordered for
them, anyhow. Good-night, my dear.”

Ethel sought her room, with graver, deeper thoughts of life than she had
carried upstairs.




CHAPTER XVIII.



     Saw ye never in the meadows,
       Where your little feet did pass,
     Down below, the sweet white daisies
       Growing in the long green grass?

     Saw you never lilac blossoms,
       Or acacia white and red,
     Waving brightly in the sunshine,
       On the tall trees over head?
                           HYMNS FOR CHILDREN, C. F. A.


“My dear child, what a storm you have had! how wet you must be!”
 exclaimed Mrs. Larpent, as Meta Rivers came bounding up the broad
staircase at Abbotstoke Grange.

“Oh no; I am quite dry; feel.”

“Are you sure?” said Mrs. Larpent, drawing her darling into a luxurious
bedroom, lighted up by a glowing fire, and full of pretty things. “Here,
come and take off your wet things, my dear, and Bellairs shall bring you
some tea.”

“I’m dry. I’m warm,” said Meta, tossing off her plumy hat, as she
established herself, with her feet on the fender. “But where do you
think I have been? You have so much to hear. But first--three guesses
where we were in the rain!”

“In the Stoneborough Cloisters, that you wanted to see? My dear, you did
not keep your papa in the cold there?”

“No, no; we never got there at all; guess again.”

“At Mr. Edward Wilmot’s?”

“No!”

“Could it have been at Dr. May’s? Really, then, you must tell me.”

“There! you deserve a good long story; beginning at the beginning,” said
Meta, clapping her hands, “wasn’t it curious? as we were coming up the
last hill, we met some girls in deep mourning, with a lady who looked
like their governess. I wondered whether they could be Dr. May’s
daughters, and so it turned out they were.

“Presently there began to fall little square lumps, neither hail, nor
snow, nor rain; it grew very cold, and rain came on. It would have been
great fun, if I had not been afraid papa would catch cold, and he said
we would canter on to the inn. But, luckily, there was Dr. May walking
up the street, and he begged us to come into his house. I was so glad!
We were tolerably wet, and Dr. May said something about hoping the girls
were at home; well, when he opened the drawing-room door, there was the
poor daughter lying on the sofa.”

“Poor girl! tell me of her.”

“Oh! you must go and see her; you won’t look at her without losing your
heart. Papa liked her so much--see if he does not talk of her all the
evening. She looks the picture of goodness and sweetness. Only think
of her having some of the maidenhair and cape jessamine still in water,
that we sent her so long ago. She shall have some flowers every three
days. Well, Dr. May said, ‘There is one at least, that is sure to be
at home.’ She felt my habit, and said I must go and change it, and
she called to a little thing of six, telling her to show me the way to
Flora. She smiled, and said she wished she could go herself, but Flora
would take care of me. Little Blanche came and took hold of my hand,
chattering away, up we went, up two staircases, and at the top of the
last stood a girl about seventeen, so pretty! such deep blue eyes, and
such a complexion! ‘That’s Flora,’ little Blanche said; ‘Flora, this is
Miss Rivers, and she’s wet, and Margaret says you are to take care of
her.’”

“So that was your introduction?”

“Yes; we got acquainted in a minute. She took me into her room--such a
room! I believe Bellairs would be angry if she had such a one; all up
in the roof, no fire, no carpet, except little strips by the beds; there
were three beds. Flora used to sleep there till Miss May was ill, and
now she dresses there. Yet I am sure they are as much ladies as I am.”

“You are an only daughter, my dear, and a petted one,” said Mrs.
Larpent, smiling. “There are too many of them to make much of, as we do
of our Meta.”

“I suppose so; but I did not know gentlewomen lived in such a way,”
 said Meta. “There were nice things about, a beautiful inlaid work-box of
Flora’s, and a rosewood desk, and plenty of books, and a Greek book and
dictionary were spread open. I asked Flora if they were hers, and she
laughed and said no; and that Ethel would be much discomposed that I had
see them. Ethel keeps up with her brother Norman--only fancy! and he at
the head of the school. How clever she must be!”

“But, my dear, were you standing in your wet things all this time!”

“No; I was trying on their frocks, but they trailed on the ground upon
me, so she asked if I would come and sit by the nursery fire till my
habit was dry; and there was a dear little good-humoured baby, so fair
and pretty. She is not a bit shy, will go to anybody, but, they say, she
likes no one so well as her brother Norman.”

“So you had a regular treat of baby-nursing.”

“That I had; I could not part with her, the darling. Flora thought we
might take her down, and I liked playing with her in the drawing-room
and talking to Miss May, till the fly came to take us home. I wanted to
have seen Ethel; but, only think, papa has asked Dr. May to bring Flora
some day; how I hope he will!”

Little Meta having told her story, and received plenty of sympathy,
proceeded to dress, and, while her maid braided her hair, a musing fit
fell upon her. “I have seen something of life to-day,” thought she. “I
had thought of the great difference between us and the poor, but I did
not know ladies lived in such different ways. I should be very miserable
without Bellairs, or without a fire in my room. I don’t know what I
should do if I had to live in that cold, shabby den, and do my own hair,
yet they think nothing of it, and they are cultivated and ladylike! Is
it all fancy, and being brought up to it? I wonder if it is right? Yet
dear papa likes me to have these things, and can afford them. I never
knew I was luxurious before, and yet I think I must be! One thing I do
wish, and that is, that I was of as much use as those girls. I ought to
be. I am a motherless girl like them, and I ought to be everything to
papa, just as Miss May is, even lying on the sofa there, and only two
years older than I am. I don’t think I am of any use at all; he is fond
of me, of course, dear papa; and if I died, I don’t know what would
become of him; but that’s only because I am his daughter--he has only
George besides to care for. But, really and truly, he would get on as
well without me. I never do anything for him, but now and then playing
to him in the evening, and that not always, I am afraid, when I want
to be about anything else. He is always petting me, and giving me all I
want, but I never do anything but my lessons, and going to the school,
and the poor people, and that is all pleasure. I have so much that I
never miss what I give away. I wonder whether it is all right! Leonora
and Agatha have not so much money to do as they please with--they are
not so idolised. George said, when he was angry, that papa idolises
me; but they have all these comforts and luxuries, and never think of
anything but doing what they like. They never made me consider as these
Mays do. I should like to know them more. I do so much want a friend of
my own age. It is the only want I have. I have tried to make a friend of
Leonora, but I cannot; she never cares for what I do. If she saw these
Mays she would look down on them. Dear Mrs. Larpent is better than any
one, but then she is so much older. Flora May shall be my friend. I’ll
make her call me Meta as soon as she comes. When will it be? The day
after tomorrow?”

But little Meta watched in vain. Dr. May always came with either Richard
or the groom, to drive him, and if Meta met him and hoped he would bring
Flora next time, he only answered that Flora would like it very much,
and he hoped soon to do so.

The truth was, it was no such everyday matter as Meta imagined. The
larger carriage had been broken, and the only vehicle held only the
doctor--his charioteer--and in a very minute appendage behind, a small
son of the gardener, to open gates, and hold the horse.

The proposal had been one of those general invitations to be fulfilled
at any time, and therefore easily set aside; and Dr. May, though
continually thinking he should like to take his girls to Abbotstoke,
never saw the definite time for so doing; and Flora herself, though
charmed with Miss Rivers, and delighted with the prospect of visiting
her, only viewed it as a distant prospect.

There was plenty of immediate interest to occupy them at home, to say
nothing of the increasing employment that Cocksmoor gave to thoughts,
legs, and needles. There was the commencement of the half-year, when
Tom’s schoolboy life was to begin, and when it would be proved whether
Norman were able to retain his elevation.

Margaret had much anxiety respecting the little boy about to be sent
into a scene of temptation. Her great confidence was in Richard, who
told her that boys did many more wrong things than were known at home,
and yet turned out very well, and that Tom would be sure to right
himself in the end. Richard had been blameless in his whole school
course, but though never partaking of the other boys’ evil practices,
he could not form an independent estimate of character, and his tone had
been a little hurt, by sharing the school public opinion of morality. He
thought Stoneborough and its temptations inevitable, and only wished to
make the best of it. Margaret was afraid to harass her father by laying
the case before him. All her brothers had gone safely through the
school, and it never occurred to her that it was possible that, if her
father knew the bias of Tom’s disposition, he might choose, for the
present, at least, some other mode of education.

She talked earnestly to Tom, and he listened impatiently. There is an
age when boys rebel against female rule, and are not yet softened by the
chivalry of manhood, and Tom was at this time of life. He did not like
to be lectured by a sister, secretly disputed her right, and, proud of
becoming a schoolboy, had not the generous deference for her weakness
felt by his elder brothers; he was all the time peeling a stick, as
if to show that he was not attending, and he raised up his shoulder
pettishly whenever she came to a mention of the religious duty of
sincerity. She did not long continue her advice, and, much disappointed
and concerned, tried to console herself with hoping that he might have
heeded more than he seemed to do.

He was placed tolerably high in the school, and Norman, who had the
first choice of fags, took him instead of Hector Ernescliffe, who had
just passed beyond the part of the school liable to be fagged. He said
he liked school, looked bright when he came home in the evenings, and
the sisters hoped all was right.

Every one was just now anxiously watching Norman, especially his father,
who strove in vain to keep back all manifestation of his earnest desire
to see him retain his post. Resolutely did the doctor refrain from
asking any questions, when the boys came in, but he could not keep his
eyes from studying the face, to see whether it bore marks of mental
fatigue, and from following him about the room, to discover whether he
found it necessary, as he had done last autumn, to spend the evening in
study. It was no small pleasure to see him come in with his hand full of
horse-chestnut and hazel-buds, and proceed to fetch the microscope and
botany books, throwing himself eagerly into the study of the wonders
of their infant forms, searching deeply into them with Margaret, and
talking them over with his father, who was very glad to promote the
pursuit--one in which he had always taken great interest.

Another night Dr. May was for a moment disturbed by seeing the
school-books put out, but Norman had only some notes to compare, and
while he did so, he was remarking on Flora’s music, and joining in the
conversation so freely as to prove it was no labour to him. In truth,
he was evidently quite recovered, entirely himself again, except that he
was less boyish. He had been very lively and full of merry nonsense; but
his ardour for play had gone off with his high spirits, and there was
a manliness of manner, and tone of mind, that made him appear above his
real age.

At the end of a fortnight he volunteered to tell his father that all
was right. “I am not afraid of not keeping my place,” he said; “you were
quite right, papa. I am more up to my work than I was ever before, and
it comes to me quite fresh and pleasant. I don’t promise to get the
Randall scholarship, if Forder and Cheviot stay on, but I can quite keep
up to the mark in school work.”

“That’s right,” said Dr. May, much rejoiced. “Are you sure you do it
with ease, and without its haunting you at night?”

“Oh, yes; quite sure. I can’t think what has made Dr. Hoxton set us on
in such easy things this time. It is very lucky for me, for one gets so
much less time to oneself as dux.”

“What! with keeping order?”

“Ay,” said Norman. “I fancy they think they may take liberties because I
am new and young. I must have my eye in all corners of the hall at once,
and do my own work by snatches, as I can.”

“Can you make them attend to you?”

“Why, yes, pretty well, when it comes to the point--‘will you, or will
you not?’ Cheviot is a great help, too, and has all the weight of being
the eldest fellow amongst us.”

“But still you find it harder work than learning? You had rather have to
master the dead language than the live tongues?”

“A pretty deal,” said Norman; then added, “One knows what to be at with
the dead, better than with the living; they don’t make parties against
one. I don’t wonder at it. It was very hard on some of those great
fellows to have me set before them, but I do not think it is fair to
visit it by putting up the little boys to all sorts of mischief.”

“Shameful!” said the doctor warmly; “but never mind, Norman, keep your
temper, and do your own duty, and you are man enough to put down such
petty spite.”

“I hope I shall manage rightly,” said Norman; “but I shall be glad if I
can get the Randall and get away to Oxford; school is not what it used
to be, and if you don’t think me too young--”

“No, I don’t; certainly not. Trouble has made a man of you, Norman, and
you are fitter to be with men than boys. In the meantime, if you can
be patient with these fellows, you’ll be of great use where you are. If
there had been any one like you at the head of the school in my time, it
would have kept me out of no end of scrapes. How does Tom get on? he is
not likely to fall into this set, I trust.”

“I am not sure,” said Norman; “he does pretty well on the whole. Some
of them began by bullying him, and that made him cling to Cheviot and
Ernescliffe, and the better party; but lately I have thought Anderson,
junior, rather making up to him, and I don’t know whether they don’t
think that tempting him over to them would be the surest way of vexing
me. I have an eye over him, and I hope he may get settled into the
steadier sort before next half.”

After a silence, Norman said, “Papa, there is a thing I can’t settle in
my own mind. Suppose there had been wrong things done when older boys,
and excellent ones too, were at the head of the school, yet they never
interfered, do you think I ought to let it go on?”

“Certainly not, or why is power given to you?”

“So I thought,” said Norman; “I can’t see it otherwise. I wish I could,
for it will be horrid to set about it, and they’ll think it a regular
shame in me to meddle. Oh! I know what I came into the study for; I
want you to be so kind as to lend me your pocket Greek Testament. I gave
Harry my little one.”

“You are very welcome. What do you want it for?”

Norman coloured. “I met with a sermon the other day that recommended
reading a bit of it every day, and I thought I should like to try, now
the Confirmation is coming. One can always have some quiet by getting
away into the cloister.”

“Bless you, my boy! while you go on in this way, I have not much fear
but that you’ll know how to manage.”

Norman’s rapid progress affected another of the household in an
unexpected way.

“Margaret, my dear, I wish to speak to you,” said Miss Winter,
reappearing when Margaret thought every one was gone out walking.
She would have said, “I am very sorry for it”--so ominous was the
commencement--and her expectations were fulfilled when Miss Winter had
solemnly seated herself, and taken out her netting. “I wished to speak
to you about dear Ethel,” said the governess; “you know how unwilling
I always am to make any complaint, but I cannot be satisfied with her
present way of going on.”

“Indeed,” said Margaret. “I am much grieved to hear this. I thought she
had been taking great pains to improve.”

“So she was at one time. I would not by any means wish to deny it, and
it is not of her learning that I speak, but of a hurried, careless way
of doing everything, and an irritability at being interfered with.”

Margaret knew how Miss Winter often tried Ethel’s temper, and was
inclined to take her sister’s part. “Ethel’s time is so fully occupied,”
 she said.

“That is the very thing that I was going to observe, my dear. Her time
is too much occupied, and my conviction is, that it is hurtful to a girl
of her age.”

This was a new idea to Margaret, who was silent, longing to prove
Miss Winter wrong, and not have to see poor Ethel pained by having to
relinquish any of her cherished pursuits.

“You see there is that Cocksmoor,” said Miss Winter. “You do not know
how far off it is, my dear; much too great a distance for a young girl
to be walking continually in all weathers.”

“That’s a question for papa,” thought Margaret.

“Besides,” continued Miss Winter, “those children engross almost all her
time and thoughts. She is working for them, preparing lessons, running
after them continually. It takes off her whole mind from her proper
occupations, unsettles her, and I do think it is beyond what befits a
young lady of her age.”

Margaret was silent.

“In addition,” said Miss Winter, “she is at every spare moment busy
with Latin and Greek, and I cannot think that to keep pace with a boy of
Norman’s age and ability can be desirable for her.”

“It is a great deal,” said Margaret, “but--”

“I am convinced that she does more than is right,” continued Miss
Winter. “She may not feel any ill effects at present, but you may depend
upon it, it will tell on her by-and-by. Besides, she does not attend to
anything properly. At one time she was improving in neatness and orderly
habits. Now, you surely must have seen how much less tidy her hair and
dress have been.”

“I have thought her hair looking rather rough,” said Margaret
disconsolately.

“No wonder,” said Miss Winter, “for Flora and Mary tell me she hardly
spends five minutes over it in the morning, and with a book before her
the whole time. If I send her up to make it fit to be seen, I meet with
looks of annoyance. She leaves her books in all parts of the school-room
for Mary to put away, and her table drawer is one mass of confusion. Her
lessons she does well enough, I own, though what I should call much too
fast; but have you looked at her work lately?”

“She does not work very well,” said Margaret, who was at that moment,
though Miss Winter did not know it, re-gathering a poor child’s frock
that Ethel had galloped through with more haste than good speed.

“She works a great deal worse than little Blanche,” said Miss Winter,
“and though it may not be the fashion to say so in these days, I
consider good needlework far more important than accomplishments. Well,
then, Margaret, I should wish you only just to look at her writing.”

And Miss Winter opened a French exercise-book, certainly containing
anything but elegant specimens of penmanship. Ethel’s best writing was
an upright, disjointed niggle, looking more like Greek than anything
else, except where here and there it made insane efforts to become
running-hand, and thereby lost its sole previous good quality of
legibility, while the lines waved about the sheet in almost any
direction but the horizontal. The necessity she believed herself under
of doing what Harry called writing with the end of her nose, and
her always holding her pen with her fingers almost in the ink, added
considerably to the difficulty of the performance. This being at her
best, the worst may be supposed to be indescribable, when dashed off in
a violent hurry, and considerably garnished with blots. Margaret thought
she had seen the worst, and was sighing at being able to say nothing for
it, when Miss Winter confounded her by turning a leaf, and showing it
was possible to make a still wilder combination of scramble, niggle,
scratch, and crookedness--and this was supposed to be an amended
edition! Miss Winter explained that Ethel had, in an extremely short
time, performed an exercise in which no fault could be detected except
the writing, which was pronounced to be too atrocious to be shown up to
M. Ballompre. On being desired to write it over again, she had obeyed
with a very bad grace, and some murmurs about Cocksmoor, and produced
the second specimen, which, in addition to other defects, had some
elisions from arrant carelessness, depriving it of its predecessor’s
merits of being good French.

Miss Winter had been so provoked that she believed this to be an effect
of ill temper, and declared that she should certainly have kept Ethel at
home to write it over again, if it had not so happened that Dr. May had
proposed to walk part of the way with her and Richard, and the governess
was unwilling to bring her into disgrace with him. Margaret was so
grateful to her for this forbearance, that it disposed her to listen
the more patiently to the same representations put in, what Miss Winter
fancied, different forms. Margaret was much perplexed. She could not but
see much truth in what Miss Winter said, and yet she could not bear
to thwart Ethel, whom she admired with her whole heart; and that dry
experience, and prejudiced preciseness, did not seem capable of entering
into her sister’s thirst for learning and action. When Miss Winter said
Ethel would grow up odd, eccentric, and blue, Margaret was ready to
answer that she would be superior to every one; and when the governess
urged her to insist on Cocksmoor being given up, she felt impatient of
that utter want of sympathy for the good work.

All that evening Margaret longed for a quiet time to reflect, but it
never came till she was in bed; and when she had made up her mind how to
speak to Ethel, it was five times harder to secure her alone. Even when
Margaret had her in the room by herself, she looked wild and eager, and
said she could not stay, she had some Thucydides to do.

“Won’t you stay with me a little while, quietly?” said Margaret; “we
hardly ever have one of our talks.”

“I didn’t mean to vex you, dear Margaret; I like nothing so well, only
we are never alone, and I’ve no time.”

“Pray do spare me a minute, Ethel, for I have something that I must say
to you, and I am afraid you won’t like it--so do listen kindly.”

“Oh!” said Ethel, “Miss Winter has been talking to you. I know she said
she would tell you that she wants me to give up Cocksmoor. You aren’t
dreaming of it, Margaret?”

“Indeed, dear Ethel, I should be very sorry, but one thing I am sure of,
that there is something amiss in your way of going on.”

“Did she show you that horrid exercise?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I know it was baddish writing, but just listen, Margaret. We
promised six of the children to print them each a verse of a hymn on a
card to learn. Ritchie did three, and then could not go on, for the
book that the others were in was lost till last evening, and then he
was writing for papa. So I thought I would do them before we went to
Cocksmoor, and that I should squeeze time out of the morning; but I got
a bit of Sophocles that was so horridly hard it ate up all my time, and
I don’t understand it properly now; I must get Norman to tell me. And
that ran in my head and made me make a mistake in my sum, and have
to begin it again. Then, just as I thought I had saved time over the
exercise, comes Miss Winter and tells me I must do it over again, and
scolds me besides about the ink on my fingers. She would send me up at
once to get it off, and I could not find nurse and her bottle of stuff
for it, so that wasted ever so much more time, and I was so vexed that,
really and truly, my hand shook and I could not write any better.”

“No, I thought it looked as if you had been in one of your agonies.”

“And she thought I did it on purpose, and that made me angry, and so
we got into a dispute, and away went all the little moment I might have
had, and I was forced to go to Cocksmoor as a promise breaker!”

“Don’t you think you had better have taken pains at first?”

“Well, so I did with the sense, but I hadn’t time to look at the writing
much.”

“You would have made better speed if you had.”

“Oh, yes, I know I was wrong, but it is a great plague altogether.
Really, Margaret, I shan’t get Thucydides done.”

“You must wait a little longer, please, Ethel, for I want to say to
you that I am afraid you are doing too much, and that prevents you from
doing things well, as you were trying to do last autumn.”

“You are not thinking of my not going to Cocksmoor?” cried Ethel
vehemently.

“I want you to consider what is to be done, dear Ethel. You thought,
last autumn, a great deal of curing your careless habits, now you seem
not to have time to attend. You can do a great deal very fast, I know,
but isn’t it a pity to be always in a hurry?”

“It isn’t Cocksmoor that is the reason,” said Ethel.

“No; you did pretty well when you began, but you know that was in the
holidays, when you had no Latin and Greek to do.”

“Oh, but, Margaret, they won’t take so much time when I have once got
over the difficulties, and see my way, but just now they have put Norman
into such a frightfully difficult play, that I can hardly get on at all
with it, and there’s a new kind of Greek verses, too, and I don’t make
out from the book how to manage them. Norman showed me on Saturday, but
mine won’t be right. When I’ve got over that, I shan’t be so hurried.”

“But Norman will go on to something harder, I suppose.”

“I dare say I shall be able to do it.”

“Perhaps you might, but I want you to consider if you are not working
beyond what can be good for anybody. You see Norman is much cleverer
than most boys, and you are a year younger; and besides doing all his
work at the head of the school, his whole business of the day, you have
Cocksmoor to attend to, and your own lessons, besides reading all the
books that come into the house. Now isn’t that more than is reasonable
to expect any head and hands to do properly?”

“But if I can do it?”

“But can you, dear Ethel? Aren’t you always racing from one thing to
another, doing them by halves, feeling hunted, and then growing vexed?”

“I know I have been cross lately,” said Ethel, “but it’s the being so
bothered.”

“And why are you bothered? Isn’t it that you undertake too much?”

“What would you have me do?” said Ethel, in an injured, unconvinced
voice. “Not give up my children?”

“No,” said Margaret; “but don’t think me very unkind if I say, suppose
you left off trying to keep up with Norman.”

“Oh, Margaret! Margaret!” and her eyes filled with tears. “We have
hardly missed doing the same every day since the first Latin grammar was
put into his hands!”

“I know it would be very hard,” said Margaret; but Ethel continued, in a
piteous tone, a little sentimental, “From hie haec hoc up to Alcaics and
beta Thukididou we have gone on together, and I can’t bear to give it
up. I’m sure I can--”

“Stop, Ethel, I really doubt whether you can. Do you know that Norman
was telling papa the other day that it was very odd Dr. Hoxton gave them
such easy lessons.”

Ethel looked very much mortified.

“You see,” said Margaret kindly, “we all know that men have more power
than women, and I suppose the time has come for Norman to pass beyond
you. He would not be cleverer than any one, if he could not do more than
a girl at home.”

“He has so much more time for it,” said Ethel.

“That’s the very thing. Now consider, Ethel. His work, after he goes to
Oxford, will be doing his very utmost--and you know what an utmost that
is. If you could keep up with him at all, you must give your whole time
and thoughts to it, and when you had done so--if you could get all
the honours in the University--what would it come to? You can’t take a
first-class.”

“I don’t want one,” said Ethel; “I only can’t bear not to do as Norman
does, and I like Greek so much.”

“And for that would you give up being a useful, steady daughter and
sister at home? The sort of woman that dear mamma wished to make you,
and a comfort to papa.”

Ethel was silent, and large tears were gathering.

“You own that that is the first thing?”

“Yes,” said Ethel faintly.

“And that it is what you fail in most?”

“Yes.”

“Then, Ethel dearest, when you made up your mind to Cocksmoor, you knew
those things could not be done without a sacrifice?”

“Yes, but I didn’t think it would be this.”

Margaret was wise enough not to press her, and she sat down and sighed
pitifully. Presently she said, “Margaret, if you would only let me leave
off that stupid old French, and horrid dull reading with Miss Winter,
I should have plenty of time for everything; and what does one learn by
hearing Mary read poetry she can’t understand?”

“You work, don’t you? But indeed, Ethel, don’t say that I can let you
leave off anything. I don’t feel as if I had that authority. If it be
done at all, it must be by papa’s consent, and if you wish me to ask
him about it, I will, only I think it would vex Miss Winter; and I don’t
think dear mamma would have liked Greek and Cocksmoor to swallow up all
the little common ladylike things.”

Ethel made two or three great gulps; “Margaret, must I give up
everything, and forget all my Latin and Greek?”

“I should think that would be a great pity,” said Margaret. “If you were
to give up the verse-making, and the trying to do as much as Norman, and
fix some time in the day--half an hour, perhaps--for your Greek, I think
it might do very well.”

“Thank you,” said Ethel, much relieved; “I’m glad you don’t want me to
leave it all off. I hope Norman won’t be vexed,” she added, looking a
little melancholy.

But Norman had not by any means the sort of sentiment on the subject
that she had. “Of course, you know, Ethel,” said he, “it must have come
to this some time or other, and if you find those verses too hard, and
that they take up too much of your time, you had better give them up.”

Ethel did not like anything to be said to be too hard for her, and was
very near pleading she only wanted time, but some recollection came
across her, and presently she said, “I suppose it is a wrong sort of
ambition to want to learn more, in one’s own way, when one is told it
is not good for one. I was just going to say I hated being a woman,
and having these tiresome little trifles--my duty--instead of learning,
which is yours, Norman.”

“I’m glad you did not,” said Norman, “for it would have been very silly
of you; and I assure you, Ethel, it is really time for you to stop, or
you would get into a regular learned lady, and be good for nothing. I
don’t mean that knowing more than other people would make you so, but
minding nothing else would.”

This argument from Norman himself did much to reconcile Ethel’s mind to
the sacrifice she had made; and when she went to bed, she tried to work
out the question in her own mind, whether her eagerness for classical
learning was a wrong sort of ambition, to know what other girls did not,
and whether it was right to crave for more knowledge than was thought
advisable for her. She only bewildered herself, and went to sleep before
she had settled anything, but that she knew she must make all give way
to papa first, and, secondly, to Cocksmoor.

Meanwhile Margaret had told her father all that had passed. He was
only surprised to hear that Ethel had kept up so long with Norman, and
thought that it was quite right that she should not undertake so much,
agreeing more entirely than Margaret had expected with Miss Winter’s
view, that it would be hurtful to body as well as mind.

“It is perfectly ridiculous to think of her attempting it!” he said. “I
am glad you have put a stop to it.”

“I am glad I have,” said Margaret; “and dear Ethel behaved so very well.
If she had resisted, it would have puzzled me very much, I must have
asked you to settle it. But it is very odd, papa, Ethel is the one of
them all who treats me most as if I had real authority over her; she
lets me scold her, asks my leave, never seems to recollect for a moment
how little older I am, and how much cleverer she is. I am sure I
never should have submitted so readily. And that always makes it more
difficult to me to direct her; I don’t like to take upon me with her,
because it seems wrong to have her obeying me as if she were a mere
child.”

“She is a fine creature,” said Dr. May emphatically. “It just shows the
fact, the higher the mind the readier the submission. But you don’t mean
that you have any difficulty with the others?”

“Oh, no, no. Flora never could need any interference, especially from
me, and Mary is a thorough good girl. I only meant that Ethel lays
herself out to be ruled in quite a remarkable way. I am sure, though she
does love learning, her real love is for goodness and for you, papa.”

Ethel would have thought her sacrifice well paid for, had she seen her
father’s look of mournful pleasure.




CHAPTER XIX.



     O ruthful scene! when from a nook obscure,
     His little sister doth his peril see,
     All playful as she sate, she grows demure,
     She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee,
     She meditates a prayer to set him free.
                                          SHENSTONE.


The setting sun shone into the great west window of the school at
Stoneborough, on its bare walls, the masters’ desks, the forms polished
with use, and the square, inky, hacked and hewed chests, carved with the
names of many generations of boys.

About six or eight little boys were clearing away the books or papers
that they, or those who owned them as fags, had left astray, and a good
deal of talk and laughing was going on among them. “Ha!” exclaimed one,
“here has Harrison left his book behind him that he was showing us the
gladiators in!” and, standing by the third master’s desk, he turned
over a page or two of Smith’s ‘Antiquities’, exclaiming, “It is full of
pictures--here’s an old man blowing the bellows--”

“Let me see!” cried Tom May, precipitating himself across the benches
and over the desk, with so little caution, that there was an outcry;
and, to his horror, he beheld the ink spilled over Mr. Harrison’s book,
while, “There, August! you’ve been and done it!” “You’ll catch it!”
 resounded on all sides.

“What good will staring with your mouth open do!” exclaimed Edward
Anderson, the eldest present. “Here! a bit of blotting-paper this
moment!”

Tom, dreadfully frightened, handed a sheet torn from an old paper-case
that he had inherited from Harry, saying despairingly, “It won’t take it
out, will it?”

“No, little stupid head, but don’t you see, I’m stopping it from running
down the edges, or soaking in. He won’t be the wiser till he opens it
again at that place.”

“When he does, he will,” said the bewildered Tom.

“Let him. It won’t tell tales.”

“He’s coming!” cried another boy, “he is close at the door.”

Anderson hastily shut the book over the blotting-paper, which he did not
venture to retain in his hand, dragged Tom down from the desk, and
was apparently entirely occupied with arranging his own box, when Mr.
Harrison came in. Tom crouched behind the raised lid, quaking in every
limb, conscious he ought to confess, but destitute of resolution to do
so, and, in a perfect agony as the master went to his desk, took up the
book, and carried it away, so unconscious, that Larkins, a great wag,
only waited till his back was turned, to exclaim, “Ha! old fellow, you
don’t know what you’ve got there!”

“Hallo! May junior, will you never leave off staring? you won’t see a
bit farther for it,” said Edward Anderson, shaking him by the ear; “come
to your senses, and know your friends.”

“He’ll open it!” gasped Tom.

“So he will, but I’d bet ninety to one, it is not at that page, or if
he does, it won’t tell tales, unless, indeed, he happened to see you
standing there, crouching and shaking. That’s the right way to bring him
upon you.”

“But suppose he opens it, and knows who was in school?”

“What then? D’ye think we can’t stand by each other, and keep our own
counsel?”

“But the blotting-paper--suppose he knows that!”

There was a laugh all round at this, “as if Harrison knew everyone’s
blotting-paper!”

“Yes, but Harry used to write his name all over his--see--and draw Union
Jacks on it.”

“If he did, the date is not there. Do you think the ink is going to say
March 2nd? Why should not July have done it last half?”

“July would have told if he had,” said Larkins. “That’s no go.”

“Ay! That’s the way--the Mays are all like girls--can’t keep a
secret--not one of them. There, I’ve done more for you than ever one of
them would have done--own it--and he strode up to Tom, and grasped his
wrists, to force the confession from him.”

“But--but he’ll ask when he finds it out--”

“Let him. We know nothing about it. Don’t be coming the good boy over
me like your brothers. That won’t do--I know whose eyes are not too
short-sighted to read upside down.”

Tom shrank and looked abject, clinging to the hope that Mr. Harrison
would not open the book for weeks, months, or years.

But the next morning his heart died within him, when he beheld the
unfortunate piece of blotting-paper, displayed by Mr. Harrison, with the
inquiry whether any one knew to whom it belonged, and what made it worse
was, that his sight would not reach far enough to assure him whether
Harry’s name was on it, and he dreaded that Norman or Hector Ernescliffe
should recognise the nautical designs. However, both let it pass, and
no one through the whole school attempted to identify it. One danger was
past, but the next minute Mr. Harrison opened his Smith’s ‘Antiquities’
at the page where stood the black witness. Tom gazed round in despair,
he could not see his brother’s face, but Edward Anderson, from the
second form, returned him a glance of contemptuous encouragement.

“This book,” said Mr. Harrison, “was left in school for a quarter of an
hour yesterday. When I opened it again, it was in this condition. Do any
of you know how it happened?” A silence, and he continued, “Who was in
school at this time? Anderson junior, can you tell me anything of it?”

“No, sir.”

“You know nothing of it?”

“No, sir.”

Cold chills crept over Tom, as Mr. Harrison looked round to refresh his
memory. “Larkins, do you know how this happened?”

“No, sir,” said Larkins boldly, satisfying his conscience because he had
not seen the manner of the overthrow.

“Ernescliffe, were you there?”

“No, sir.”

Tom’s timid heart fluttered in dim hope that he had been overlooked, as
Mr. Harrison paused, then said, “Remember, it is concealment that is the
evil, not the damage to the book. I shall have a good opinion ever after
of a boy honest enough to confess, May junior, I saw you,” he added,
hopefully and kindly. “Don’t be afraid to speak out if you did meet with
a mischance.”

Tom coloured and turned pale. Anderson and Larkins grimaced at him, to
remind him that they had told untruths for his sake, and that he must
not betray them. It was the justification he wanted; he was relieved
to fancy himself obliged to tell the direct falsehood, for which a long
course of petty acted deceits had paved the way, for he was in deadly
terror of the effects of truth.

“No, sir.” He could hardly believe he had said the words, or that they
would be so readily accepted, for Mr. Harrison had only the impression
that he knew who the guilty person was, and would not tell, and,
therefore, put no more questions to him, but, after a few more vain
inquiries, was baffled, and gave up the investigation.

Tom thought he should have been very unhappy; he had always heard that
deceit was a heavy burden, and would give continual stings, but he was
surprised to find himself very comfortable on the whole, and able to
dismiss repentance as well as terror. His many underhand ways with
Richard had taken away the tenderness of his conscience, though his
knowledge of what was right was clear; and he was quite ready to accept
the feeling prevalent at Stoneborough, that truth was not made for
schoolboys.

The axiom was prevalent, but not universal, and parties were
running high. Norman May, who as head boy had, in play-hours, the
responsibility, and almost the authority of a master, had taken higher
ground than was usual even with the well-disposed; and felt it his duty
to check abuses and malpractices that his predecessors had allowed. His
friend, Cheviot, and the right-minded set, maintained his authority
with all their might; but Harvey Anderson regarded his interference as
vexatious, always took the part of the offenders, and opposed him in
every possible way, thus gathering as his adherents not only the idle
and mischievous, but the weak and mediocre, and, among this set,
there was a positive bitterness of feeling to May, and all whom they
considered as belonging to him.

In shielding Tom May and leading him to deceive, the younger Anderson
had gained a conquest--in him the Mays had fallen from that pinnacle
of truth which was a standing reproach to the average Stoneborough
code--and, from that time, he was under the especial patronage of his
friend. He was taught the most ingenious arts of saying a lesson without
learning it, and of showing up other people’s tasks; whispers and signs
were directed to him to help him out of difficulties, and he was sought
out and put forward whenever a forbidden pleasure was to be enjoyed by
stealth. These were his stimulants under a heavy bondage; he was teased
and frightened, bullied and tormented, whenever it was the fancy of Ned
Anderson and his associates to make his timidity their sport; he
was scorned and ill-treated, and driven, by bodily terror, into acts
alarming to his conscience, dangerous in their consequences, and painful
in the perpetration; and yet, among all his sufferings, the little
coward dreaded nothing so much as truth, though it would have set him
free at once from this wretched tyranny.

Excepting on holidays, and at hours when the town-boys were allowed to
go home, there were strict rules confining all except the sixth form
to their bounds, consisting of two large courts, and an extensive field
bordered by the river and the road. On the opposite side of the
bridge was a turnpike gate, where the keeper exposed stalls of various
eatables, very popular among the boys, chiefly because they were not
allowed to deal there. Ginger-beer could also be procured, and
there were suspicions that the bottles so called contained something
contraband.

“August,” said Norman, as they were coming home from school one evening,
“did I see you coming over the bridge?”

Tom would not answer.

“So you have been at Ballhatchet’s gate? I can’t think what could take
you there. If you want tarts, I am sure poor old Betty’s are just as
good. What made you go there?”

“Nothing,” said Tom.

“Well, mind you don’t do it again, or I shall have to take you in hand,
which I shall be very sorry to do. That man is a regular bad character,
and neither my father nor Dr. Hoxton would have one of us have anything
to do with him, as you know.”

Tom was in hopes it was over, but Norman went on. “I am afraid you are
getting into a bad way. Why won’t you mind what I have told you plenty
of times before, that no good comes of going after Ned Anderson, and
Axworthy, and that set. What were you doing with them to-day?” But,
receiving no answer, he went on. “You always sulk when I speak to you.
I suppose you think I have no right to row you, but I do it to save you
from worse. You can’t never be found out.” This startled Tom, but Norman
had no suspicion. “If you go on, you will get into some awful scrape,
and papa will be grieved. I would not, for all the world, have him put
out of heart about you. Think of him, Tom, and try to keep straight.”
 Tom would say nothing, only reflecting that his elder brother was harder
upon him than any one else would be, and Norman grew warmer. “If you let
Anderson junior get hold of you, and teach you his tricks, you’ll
never be good for anything. He seems good-natured now, but he will turn
against you, as he did with Harry. I know how it is, and you had better
take my word, and trust to me and straightforwardness, when you get into
a mess.”

“I’m in no scrape,” said Tom, so doggedly, that Norman lost patience,
and spoke with more displeasure. “You will be then, if you go out of
bounds, and run Anderson’s errands, and shirk work. You’d better take
care. It is my place to keep order, and I can’t let you off for being my
brother; so remember, if I catch you going to Ballhatchet’s again, you
may make sure of a licking.”

So the warning closed--Tom more alarmed at the aspect of right, which he
fancied terrific, and Norman with some compunction at having lost temper
and threatened, when he meant to have gained him by kindness.

Norman recollected his threat with a qualm of dismay when, at the end of
the week, as he was returning from a walk with Cheviot, Tom darted out
of the gate-house. He was flying across the bridge, with something under
his arm, when Norman laid a detaining hand on his collar, making a sign
at the same time to Cheviot to leave them.

“What are you doing here?” said Norman sternly, marching Tom into the
field. “So you’ve been there again. What’s that under your jacket?”

“Only--only what I was sent for,” and he tried to squeeze it under the
flap.

“What is it? a bottle--”

“Only--only a bottle of ink.”

Norman seized it, and gave Tom a fierce angry shake, but the indignation
was mixed with sorrow. “Oh, Tom, Tom, these fellows have brought you a
pretty pass. Who would have thought of such a thing from us!”

Tom cowered, but felt only terror.

“Speak truth,” said Norman, ready to shake it out of him; “is this for
Anderson junior?”

Under those eyes, flashing with generous, sorrowful wrath, he dared
not utter another falsehood, but Anderson’s threats chained him, and he
preferred his thraldom to throwing himself on the mercy of his brother
who loved him. He would not speak.

“I am glad it is not for yourself,” said Norman; “but do you remember
what I said, in case I found you there again?”

“Oh! don’t, don’t!” cried the boy. “I would never have gone if they had
not made me.”

“Made you?” said Norman, disdainfully, “how?”

“They would have thrashed me--they pinched my fingers in the box--they
pulled my ears--oh, don’t--”

“Poor little fellow!” said Norman; “but it is your own fault. If you
won’t keep with me, or Ernescliffe, of course they will bully you. But
I must not let you off--I must keep my word!” Tom cried, sobbed, and
implored in vain. “I can’t help it,” he said, “and now, don’t howl! I
had rather no one knew it. It will soon be over. I never thought to have
this to do to one of us.” Tom roared and struggled, till, releasing
him, he said, “There, that will do. Stop bellowing, I was obliged, and I
can’t have hurt you much, have I?” he added more kindly, while Tom went
on crying, and turning from him. “It is nothing to care about, I am
sure; look up;” and he pulled down his hands. “Say you are sorry--speak
the truth--keep with me, and no one shall hurt you again.”

Very different this from Tom’s chosen associates; but he was still
obdurate, sullen, and angry, and would not speak, nor open his heart to
those kind words. After one more, “I could not help it, Tom, you’ve no
business to be sulky,” Norman took up the bottle, opened it, smelled,
and tasted, and was about to throw it into the river; when Tom
exclaimed, “Oh, don’t, don’t! what will they do to me? give it to me!”

“Did they give you the money to pay for it?”

“Yes; let me have it.”

“How much was it?”

“Fourpence.”

“I’ll settle that,” and the bottle splashed in the river. “Now then,
Tom, don’t brood on it any more. Here’s a chance for you of getting quit
of their errands. If you will keep in my sight. I’ll take care no one
bullies you, and you may still leave off these disgraceful tricks, and
do well.”

But Tom’s evil spirit whispered that Norman had beaten him, that he
should never have any diversion again, and that Anderson would punish
him; and there was a sort of satisfaction in seeing that his perverse
silence really distressed his brother.

“If you will go on in this way, I can’t help it, but you’ll be sorry
some day,” said Norman, and he walked thoughtfully on, looking back to
see whether Tom was following, as he did slowly, meditating on the way
how he should avert his tyrant’s displeasure.

Norman stood for a moment at the door, surveying the court, then walked
up to a party of boys, and laid his hand on the shoulder of one, holding
a silver fourpence to him. “Anderson Junior,” said he, “there’s your
money. I am not going to let Stoneborough School be turned into a gin
palace. I give you notice, it is not to be. Now you are not to bully May
junior for telling me. He did not, I found him out.”

Leaving Anderson to himself he looked for Tom, but not seeing him,
he entered the cloister, for it was the hour when he was used to read
there, but he could not fix his mind. He went to the bench where he had
lain on the examination day, and kneeling on it, looked out on the green
grass where the graves were. “Mother! mother!” he murmured, “have I been
harsh to your poor little tender sickly boy? I couldn’t help it. Oh! if
you were but here! We are all going wrong! What shall I do? How should
Tom be kept from this evil?--it is ruining him! mean, false, cowardly,
sullen--all that is worst--and your son--oh! mother! and all I do only
makes him shrink more from me. It will break my father’s heart, and you
will not be there to comfort him.”

Norman covered his face with his hands, and a fit of bitter grief
came over him. But his sorrow was now not what it had been before his
father’s resignation had tempered it, and soon it turned to prayer,
resolution, and hope.

He would try again to reason quietly with him, when the alarm of
detection and irritation should have gone off, and he sought for the
occasion; but, alas! Tom had learned to look on all reproof as “rowing,”
 and considered it as an additional injury from a brother, who, according
to the Anderson view, should have connived at his offences, and turned
a deafened ear and dogged countenance to all he said. The foolish boy
sought after the Andersons still more, and Norman became more dispirited
about him, greatly missing Harry, that constant companion and follower,
who would have shared his perplexities, and removed half of them, in his
own part of the school, by the influence of his high, courageous, and
truthful spirit.

In the meantime Richard was studying hard at home, with greater
hopefulness and vigour than he had ever thrown into his work before.
“Suppose,” Ethel had once said to him, “that when you are a clergyman,
you could be Curate of Cocksmoor, when there is a church there.”

“When?” said Richard, smiling at the presumption of the scheme, and
yet it formed itself into a sort of definite hope. Perhaps they might
persuade Mr. Ramsden to take him as a curate with a view to Cocksmoor,
and this prospect, vague as it was, gave an object and hope to his
studies. Every one thought the delay of his examination favourable
to him, and he now read with a determination to succeed. Dr. May had
offered to let him read with Mr. Harrison but Richard thought he was
getting on pretty well, with the help Norman gave him; for it appeared
that ever since Norman’s return from London, he had been assisting
Richard, who was not above being taught by a younger brother; while, on
the other hand, Norman, much struck by his humility, would not for the
world have published that he was fit to act as his elder’s tutor.

One evening, when the two boys came in from school, Tom gave a great
start, and, pulling Mary by the sleeve, whispered, “How came that book
here?”

“It is Mr. Harrison’s.”

“Yes, I know, but how came it here?”

“Richard borrowed it to look out something, and Ethel brought it down.”

A little reassured, Tom took up an exciting story-book, and ensconced
himself by the fire, but his agonies were great during the ensuing
conversation.

“Norman,” Ethel was exclaiming in delight, “do you know this book?”

“Smith? Yes, it is in the school library.”

“There’s everything in it that one wants, I do believe. Here is such an
account of ancient galleys--I never knew how they managed their banks of
rowers before--oh! and the Greek houses--look at the pictures too.”

“Some of them are the same as Mr. Rivers’s gems,” said Norman, standing
behind her, and turning the leaves, in search of a favourite.

“Oh! what did I see? is that ink?” said Flora, from the opposite side of
the table.

“Yes, didn’t you hear?” said Ethel. “Mr. Harrison told Ritchie when he
borrowed it, that unluckily one day this spring he left it in school,
and some of the boys must have upset an inkstand over it; but, though he
asked them all round, each denied it. How I should hate for such things
to happen! and it was a prize-book too.”

While Ethel spoke she opened the marked page, to show the extent of the
calamity, and as she did so Mary exclaimed, “Dear me! how funny! why,
how did Harry’s blotting-paper get in there?”

Tom shrank into nothing, set his teeth, and pinched his fingers, ready
to wish they were on Mary’s throat, more especially as the words made
some sensation. Richard and Margaret exchanged looks, and their father,
who had been reading, sharply raised his eyes and said, “Harry’s
blotting-paper! How do you know that, Mary?”

“It is Harry’s,” said she, all unconscious, “because of that anchor up
in one corner, and the Union Jack in the other. Don’t you see, Ethel?”

“Yes,” said Ethel; “nobody drew that but Harry.”

“Ay, and there are his buttons,” said Mary, much amused and delighted
with these relics of her beloved Harry. “Don’t you remember one day
last holidays, papa desired Harry to write and ask Mr. Ernescliffe what
clothes he ought to have for the naval school, and all the time he
was writing the letter, he was drawing sailors’ buttons on his
blotting-paper. I wonder how ever it got into Mr. Harrison’s book!”

Poor Mary’s honest wits did not jump to a conclusion quite so fast as
other people’s, and she little knew what she was doing when, as a great
discovery, she exclaimed, “I know! Harry gave his paper-case to Tom.
That’s the way it got to school!”

“Tom!” exclaimed his father, suddenly and angrily, “where are you
going?”

“To bed,” muttered the miserable Tom, twisting his hands. A dead silence
of consternation fell on all the room. Mary gazed from one to the other,
mystified at the effect of her words, frightened at her father’s loud
voice, and at Tom’s trembling confusion. The stillness lasted for
some moments, and was first broken by Flora, as if she had caught at
a probability. “Some one might have used the first blotting-paper that
came to hand.”

“Come here, Tom,” said the doctor, in a voice not loud, but trembling
with anxiety; then laying his hand on his shoulder, “Look in my face.”
 Tom hung his head, and his father put his hand under his chin, and
raised the pale terrified face. “Don’t be afraid to tell us the meaning
of this. If any of your friends have done it, we will keep your secret.
Look up, and speak out. How did your blotting-paper come there?”

Tom had been attempting his former system of silent sullenness, but
there was anger at Mary, and fear of his father to agitate him, and in
his impatient despair at thus being held and questioned, he burst out
into a violent fit of crying.

“I can’t have you roaring here to distress Margaret,” said Dr. May.
“Come into the study with me.”

But Tom, who seemed fairly out of himself, would not stir, and a
screaming and kicking scene took place, before he was carried into the
study by his brothers, and there left with his father. Mary, meantime,
dreadfully alarmed, and perceiving that, in some way, she was the cause,
had thrown herself upon Margaret, sobbing inconsolably, as she begged to
know what was the matter, and why papa was angry with Tom--had she made
him so?

Margaret caressed and soothed her to the best of her ability, trying
to persuade her that, if Tom had done wrong, it was better for him it
should be known, and assuring her that no one could think her unkind,
nor a tell-tale; then dismissing her to bed, and Mary was not unwilling
to go, for she could not bear to meet Tom again, only begging in a
whisper to Ethel, “that, if dear Tom had not done it, she would come and
tell her.”

“I am afraid there is no hope of that!” sighed Ethel, as the door closed
on Mary.

“After all,” said Flora, “he has not said anything. If he has only done
it, and not confessed, that is not so bad--it is only the usual fashion
of boys.”

“Has he been asked? Did he deny it?” said Ethel, looking in Norman’s
face, as if she hardly ventured to put the question, and she only
received sorrowful signs as answers. At the same moment Dr. May called
him. No one spoke. Margaret rested her head on the sofa, and looked
very mournful, Richard stood by the fire without moving limb or feature,
Flora worked fast, and Ethel leaned back on an arm-chair, biting the end
of a paper-knife.

The doctor and Norman came back together. “I have sent him up to bed,”
 said Dr. May. “I must take him to Harrison to-morrow morning. It is a
terrible business!”

“Has he confessed it?” said Margaret.

“I can hardly call such a thing a confession--I wormed it out bit by
bit--I could not tell whether he was telling truth or not, till I called
Norman in.”

“But he has not said anything more untrue--”

“Yes, he has though!” said Dr. May indignantly. “He said Ned Anderson
put the paper there, and had been taking up the ink with it--‘twas
his doing--then when I came to cross-examine him I found that though
Anderson did take up the ink, it was Tom himself who knocked it down--I
never heard anything like it--I never could have believed it!”

“It must all be Ned Anderson’s doing!” cried Flora. “They are enough to
spoil anybody.”

“I am afraid they have done him a great deal of harm,” said Norman.

“And what have you been about all the time?” exclaimed the doctor, too
keenly grieved to be just. “I should have thought that with you at the
head of the school, the child might have been kept out of mischief; but
there have you been going your own way, and leaving him to be ruined by
the very worst set of boys!”

Norman’s colour rose with the extreme pain this unjust accusation caused
him, and his voice, though low, was not without irritation, “I have
tried. I have not done as much as I ought, perhaps, but--”

“No, I think not, indeed!” interrupted his father. “Sending a boy there,
brought up as he had been, without the least tendency to deceit--”

Here no one could see Norman’s burning cheeks, and brow bent downwards
in the effort to keep back an indignant reply, without bursting out in
exculpation; and Richard looked up, while the three sisters all at once
began, “Oh, no, no, papa”--and left Margaret to finish--“Poor little Tom
had not always been quite sincere.”

“Indeed! and why was I left to send him to school without knowing it?
The place of all others to foster deceit.”

“It was my fault, papa,” said Margaret.

“And mine,” put in Richard; and she continued, “Ethel told us we were
very wrong, and I wish we had followed her advice. It was by far the
best, but we were afraid of vexing you.”

“Every one seems to have been combined to hide what they ought not!”
 said Dr. May, though speaking to her much more softly than to Norman, to
whom he turned angrily again. “Pray, how came you not to identify this
paper?”

“I did not know it,” said Norman, speaking with difficulty. “He ought
never to have been sent to school,” said the doctor--“that tendency was
the very worst beginning.”

“It was a great pity; I was very wrong,” said Margaret, in great
concern.

“I did not mean to blame you, my dear,” said her father affectionately.
“I know you only meant to act for the best, but--” and he put his hand
over his face, and then came the sighing groan, which pained Margaret
ten thousand times more than reproaches, and which, in an instant,
dispersed all the indignation burning within Norman, though the pain
remained at his father’s thinking him guilty of neglect, but he did not
like, at that moment, to speak in self-justification.

After a short space, Dr. May desired to hear what were the deceptions
to which Margaret had alluded, and made Norman tell what he knew of the
affair of the blotted book. Ethel spoke hopefully when she had heard it.
“Well, do you know, I think he will do better now. You see, Edward made
him conceal it, and he has been going on with it on his mind, and in
that boy’s power ever since; but now it is cleared up and confessed, he
will begin afresh and do better. Don’t you think so, Norman? don’t you,
papa?”

“I should have more hope if I had seen anything like confession or
repentance,” said Dr. May; “but that provoked me more than all--I
could only perceive that he was sorry to be found out, and afraid of
punishment.”

“Perhaps, when he has recovered the first fright, he will come to his
better self,” said Margaret; for she guessed, what indeed was the case,
that the doctor’s anger on this first shock of the discovery of the
fault he most abhorred had been so great, that a fearful cowering spirit
would be completely overwhelmed; and, as there had been no sorrow shown
for the fault, there had been none of that softening and relenting that
won so much love and confidence.

Every one felt that talking only made them more unhappy, they tried to
return to their occupations, and so passed the time till night. Then, as
Richard was carrying Margaret upstairs, Norman lingered to say, “Papa, I
am very sorry you should think I neglected Tom. I dare say I might have
done better for him, but, indeed, I have tried.”

“I am sure you have, Norman. I spoke hastily, my boy--you will not think
more of it. When a thing like this comes on a man, he hardly knows what
he says.”

“If Harry were here,” said Norman, anxious to turn from the real loss
and grief, as well as to talk away that feeling of being apologised to,
“it would all do better. He would make a link with Tom, but I have so
little, naturally, to do with the second form, that it is not easy to
keep him in sight.”

“Yes, yes, I know that very well. It is no one’s fault but my own; I
should not have sent him there without knowing him better. But you see
how it is, Norman--I have trusted to her, till I have grown neglectful,
and it is well if it is not the ruin of him!”

“Perhaps he will take a turn, as Ethel says,” answered Norman
cheerfully. “Good-night, papa.”

“I have a blessing to be thankful for in you, at least,” murmured the
doctor to himself. “What other young fellow of that age and spirit would
have borne so patiently with my injustice? Not I, I am sure! a fine
father I show myself to these poor children--neglect, helplessness,
temper--Oh, Maggie!”

Margaret had so bad a headache the next day that she could not come
downstairs. The punishment was, they heard, a flogging at the time, and
an imposition so long, that it was likely to occupy a large portion
of the play-hours till the end of the half-year. His father said, and
Norman silently agreed, “a very good thing, it will keep him out of
mischief;” but Margaret only wished she could learn it for him, and took
upon herself all the blame from beginning to end. She said little to her
father, for it distressed him to see her grieved; he desired her not to
dwell on the subject, caressed her, called her his comfort and support,
and did all he could to console her, but it was beyond his power; her
sisters, by listening to her, only made her worse. “Dear, dear papa,”
 she exclaimed, “how kind he is! But he can never depend upon me again--I
have been the ruin of my poor little Tom.”

“Well,” said Richard quietly, “I can’t see why you should put yourself
into such a state about it.”

This took Margaret by surprise. “Have not I done very wrong, and perhaps
hurt Tom for life?”

“I hope not,” said Richard. “You and I made a mistake, but it does not
follow that Tom would have kept out of this scrape, if we had told my
father our notion.”

“It would not have been on my conscience,” said Margaret--“he would not
have sent him to school.”

“I don’t know that,” said Richard. “At any rate we meant to do right,
and only made a mistake. It was unfortunate, but I can’t tell why you go
and make yourself ill, by fancying it worse than it is. The boy has
done very wrong, but people get cured of such things in time, and it is
nonsense to fret as if he were not a mere child of eight years old. You
did not teach him deceit.”

“No, but I concealed it--papa is disappointed, when he thought he could
trust me.”

“Well! I suppose no one could expect never to make mistakes,” said
Richard, in his sober tone.

“Self-sufficiency!” exclaimed Margaret, “that has been the root of all!
Do you know, Ritchie, I believe I was expecting that I could always
judge rightly.”

“You generally do,” said Richard; “no one else could do half what you
do.”

“So you have said, papa, and all of you, till you have spoilt me. I have
thought it myself, Ritchie.”

“It is true,” said Richard.

“But then,” said Margaret, “I have grown to think much of it, and not
like to be interfered with. I thought I could manage by myself, and when
I said I would not worry papa, it was half because I liked the doing
and settling all about the children myself. Oh! if it could have been
visited in any way but by poor Tom’s faults!”

“Well,” said Richard, “if you felt so, it was a pity, though I never
should have guessed it. But you see you will never feel so again, and as
Tom is only one, and there are nine to govern, it is all for the best.”

His deliberate common-sense made her laugh a little, and she owned he
might be right. “It is a good lesson against my love of being first. But
indeed it is difficult--papa can so little bear to be harassed.”

“He could not at first, but now he is strong and well, it is different.”

“He looks terribly thin and worn still,” sighed Margaret, “so much
older!”

“Ay, I think he will never get back his young looks; but except his weak
arm, he is quite well.”

“And then his--his quick way of speaking may do harm.”

“Yes, that was what I feared for Tom,” said Richard, “and there was the
mistake. I see it now. My father always is right in the main, though
he is apt to frighten one at first, and it is what ought to be that he
should rule his own house. But now, Margaret, it is silly to worry about
it any more--let me fetch baby, and don’t think of it.”

And Margaret allowed his reasonableness, and let herself be comforted.
After all, Richard’s solid soberness had more influence over her than
anything else.




CHAPTER XX.



     Think how simple things and lowly,
       Have a part in Nature’s plan,
     How the great hath small beginnings,
       And the child will be a man.
     Little efforts work great actions,
       Lessons in our childhood taught
     Mould the spirit of that temper
       Whereby blessed deeds are wrought.
     Cherish, then, the gifts of childhood,
       Use them gently, guard them well,
     For their future growth and greatness
       Who can measure, who can tell!
                                    MORAL SONGS.


The first shock of Tom’s misdemeanour passed away, though it still gave
many an anxious thought to such of the family as felt responsible for
him.

The girls were busily engaged in preparing an Easter feast for
Cocksmoor. Mr. Wilmot was to examine the scholars, and buns and tea were
provided, in addition to which Ethel designed to make a present to every
one--a great task, considering that the Cocksmoor funds were reserved
for absolute necessaries, and were at a very low ebb. So that
twenty-five gifts were to be composed out of nothing!

There was a grand turn-out of drawers of rubbish, all over Margaret,
raising such a cloud of dust as nearly choked her. What cannot rubbish
and willing hands effect! Envelopes and wafer boxes were ornamented with
pictures, bags, needle-cases, and pincushions, beautiful balls, tippets,
both of list and gay print, and even sun-bonnets and pinafores were
contrived, to the supreme importance and delight of Mary and Blanche,
who found it as good or better than play, and ranged their performances
in rows, till the room looked like a bazaar. To provide for boys was
more difficult; but Richard mended old toys, and repaired the frames of
slates, and Norman’s contribution of half-a-crown bought mugs, marbles,
and penny knives, and there were even hopes that something would remain
for bodkins, to serve as nozzles to the bellows, which were the pride of
Blanche’s heart.

Never were Easter gifts the source of more pleasure to the givers,
especially when the nursery establishment met Dr. Hoxton near the
pastrycook’s shop, and he bestowed on Blanche a packet of variegated
sugar-plums, all of which she literally poured out at Ethel’s feet,
saying, “I don’t want them. Only let me have one for Aubrey, because he
is so little. All the rest are for the poor children at Cocksmoor.”

After this, Margaret declared that Blanche must be allowed to buy the
bodkin, and give her bellows to Jane Taylor, the only Cocksmoor child
she knew, and to whom she always destined in turn every gift that she
thought most successful.

So Blanche went with Flora to the toy-shop, and there fell in love with
a little writing-box, that so eclipsed the bellows, that she tried to
persuade Flora to buy it for Jane Taylor, to be kept till she could
write, and was much disappointed to hear that it was out of the
question. Just then a carriage stopped, and from it stepped the pretty
little figure of Meta Rivers.

“Oh! how do you do? How delightful to meet you! I was wondering if we
should! Little Blanche too!” kissing her, “and here’s Mrs. Larpent--Mrs.
Larpent--Miss Flora May. How is Miss May?”

This was all uttered in eager delight, and Flora, equally pleased,
answered the inquiries. “I hope you are not in a hurry,” proceeded Meta;
“I want your advice. You know all about schools, don’t you? I am come
to get some Easter presents for our children, and I am sure you can help
me.”

“Are the children little or big?” asked Flora.

“Oh! all sorts and sizes. I have some books for the great sensible ones,
and some stockings and shoes for the tiresome stupid ones, but there are
some dear little pets that I want nice things for. There--there’s a doll
that looks just fit for little curly-headed Annie Langley, don’t you
think so, Mrs. Larpent?”

The price of the doll was a shilling, and there were quickly added to
it, boxes of toys, elaborate bead-work pincushions, polished blue and
green boxes, the identical writing-case--even a small Noah’s ark. Meta
hardly asked the prices, which certainly were not extravagant, since she
had nearly twenty articles for little more than a pound.

“Papa has given me a benefaction of £5 for my school-gifts,” said she,
“is not that charming? I wish you would come to the feast. Now, do! It
is on Easter Tuesday. Won’t you come?”

“Thank you, I am afraid we can’t. I should like it very much.”

“You never will come to me. You have no compassion.”

“We should enjoy coming very much. Perhaps, in the summer, when Margaret
is better.”

“Could not she spare any of you? Well, I shall talk to papa, and make
him talk to Dr. May. Mrs. Larpent will tell you I always get my way.
Don’t I? Good-bye. See if I don’t.”

She departed, and Flora returned to her own business; but Blanche’s
interest was gone. Dazzled by the more lavish gifts, she looked
listlessly and disdainfully at bodkins, three for twopence. “I wish I
might have bought the writing-box for Janet Taylor! Why does not papa
give us money to get pretty things for the children?” said she, as soon
as they came out.

“Because he is not so rich as Miss Rivers’s papa.”

Flora was interrupted by meeting the Misses Anderson, who asked, “Was
not that carriage Mr. Rivers’s of Abbotstoke Grange?”

“Yes. We like Miss Rivers very much,” said Flora, resolved to show that
she was acquainted.

“Oh! do you visit her? I knew he was a patient of Dr. May.” Flora
thought there was no need to tell that the only call had been owing to
the rain, and continued, “She has been begging us to come to her school
feast, but I do not think we can manage it.”

“Oh, indeed! the Grange is very beautiful, is it not?”

“Very,” said Flora. “Good-morning.”

Flora had a little uneasiness in her conscience, but it was satisfactory
to have put down Louisa Anderson, who never could aspire to an intimacy
with Miss Rivers. Her little sister looked up--“Why, Flora, have you
seen the Grange?”

“No, but papa and Norman said so.”

And Blanche showed that the practical lesson on the pomps of the world
was not lost on her, by beginning to wish they were as rich as Miss
Rivers. Flora told her it was wrong to be discontented, but the answer
was, “I don’t want it for myself, I want to have pretty things to give
away.”

And her mind could not be turned from the thought by any attempt of her
sister. Even when they met Dr. May coming out of the hospital, Blanche
renewed the subject. She poured out the catalogue of Miss Rivers’s
purchases, making appealing attempts at looking under his spectacles
into his eyes, and he perfectly understood the tenor of her song.

“I have had a sight, too, of little maidens preparing Easter gifts,”
 said he.

“Have you, papa? What were they? Were they as nice as Miss Rivers’s?”

“I don’t know, but I thought they were the best sort of gifts, for I saw
that plenty of kind thought and clever contrivance went to them, ay, and
some little self-denial too.”

“Papa, you look as if you meant something; but ours are nothing but
nasty old rubbish.”

“Perhaps some fairy, or something better, has brought a wand to touch
the rubbish, Blanche; for I think that the maidens gave what would have
been worthless kept, but became precious as they gave it.”

“Do you mean the list of our flannel petticoats, papa, that Mary has
made into a tippet?”

“Perhaps I meant Mary’s own time and pains, as well as the tippet. Would
she have done much good with them otherwise?”

“No, she would have played. Oh! then you like the presents because they
are our own making? I never thought of that. Was that the reason you did
not give us any of your sovereigns to buy things with?”

“Perhaps I want my sovereigns for the eleven gaping mouths at home,
Blanche. But would not it be a pity to spoil your pleasure? You would
have lost all the chattering and laughing and buzzing I have heard round
Margaret of late, and I am quite sure Miss Rivers can hardly be as happy
in the gifts that cost her nothing, as one little girl who gives her
sugar-plums out of her own mouth!”

Blanche clasped her papa’s hand tight, and bounded five or six times.
“They are our presents, not yours,” said she. “Yes, I see. I like them
better now.”

“Ay, ay,” said the doctor. “Seeing Miss Rivers’s must not take the shine
out of yours, my little maids; for if you can’t give much, you have the
pleasure of giving the best of all, your labour of love.” Then thinking
on, and speaking to Flora, “The longer I live, the more I see the
blessing of being born in a state of life where you can’t both eat your
cake and give it away.”

Flora never was at ease in a conversation with her father; she could
not follow him, and did not like to show it. She answered aside from the
mark, “You would not have Blanche underrate Miss Rivers?”

“No, indeed, she is as good and sweet a creature as ever came across
me--most kind to Margaret, and loving to all the world. I like to see
one whom care and grief have never set their grip upon. Most likely she
would do like Ethel, if she had the opportunity, but she has not.”

“So she has not the same merit?” said Flora.

“We don’t talk of merit. I mean that the power of sacrifice is a great
advantage. The habit of small sacrifice that is made necessary in a
large family is a discipline that only-children are without: and so,
with regard to wealth, I think people are to be pitied who can give
extensively out of such abundance that they can hardly feel the want.”

“In effect, they can do much more,” said Flora.

“I am not sure of that. They can, of course, but it must be at the cost
of personal labour and sacrifice. I have often thought of the words,
‘Silver and gold have I none, but such as I have give I thee.’ And ‘such
as we have’ it is that does the good; the gold, if we have it, but, at
any rate, the personal influence; the very proof of sincerity, shown by
the exertion and self-denial, tells far more than money lightly come by,
lightly spent.”

“Do you mean that a person who maintained a whole school would do less
good than one who taught one child?”

“If the rich person take no pains, and leave the school to take care
of itself--nay, if he only visit it now and then, and never let it
inconvenience him, has he the least security that the scholars are
obtaining any real good from it? If the teacher of the one child is
doing his utmost, he is working for himself at least.”

“Suppose we could build, say our church and school, on Cocksmoor at
once, and give our superintendence besides?”

“If things were ripe for it, the means would come. As it is, it is a
fine field for Ethel and Richard. I believe it will be the making of
them both. I am sure it is training Ethel, or making her train herself,
as we could never have done without it. But here, come in and see old
Mrs. Robins. A visit from you will cheer her up.”

Flora was glad of the interruption, the conversation was uncomfortable
to her. She almost fancied her papa was moralising for their good, but
that he carried it too far, for wealthy people assuredly had it in their
power to do great things, and might work as hard themselves; besides, it
was finer in them, there was so much eclat in their stooping to charity.
But her knowledge of his character would not allow her to think for a
moment that he could say aught but from the bottom of his heart--no, it
was one of his one-sided views that led him into paradox. “It was just
like papa,” and so there was no need to attend to it. It was one of
his enthusiasms, he was so very fond of Ethel, probably because of her
likeness to himself. Flora thought Ethel put almost too forward--they
all helped at Cocksmoor, and Ethel was very queer and unformed, and
could do nothing by herself. The only thing Flora did keep in her mind
was, that her papa had spoken to her, as if she were a woman compared
with Ethel.

Little Blanche made her report of the conversation to Mary, “that it was
so nice; and now she did not care about Miss Rivers’s fine presents at
all, for papa said what one made oneself was better to give than what
one bought. And papa said, too, that it was a good thing not to be rich,
for then one never felt the miss of what one gave away.”

Margaret, who overheard the exposition, thought it so much to Blanche’s
credit, that she could not help repeating it in the evening, after the
little girl was gone to bed, when Mr. Wilmot had come in to arrange
the programme for Cocksmoor. So the little fit of discontent and its
occasion, the meeting with Meta Rivers, were discussed.

“Yes,” said Mr. Wilmot, “those Riverses are open-handed. They really
seem to have so much money, that they don’t know what to do with it. My
brother is ready to complain that they spoil his parish. It is all meant
so well, and they are so kind-hearted and excellent, that it is a shame
to find fault, and I tell Charles and his wife that their grumbling at
such a squire proves them the most spoiled of all.”

“Indiscriminate liberality?” asked the doctor. “I should guess the old
gentleman to be rather soft!”

“That’s one thing. The parish is so small, and there are so few to
shower all this bounty on, and they are so utterly unused to country
people. They seem to think by laying out money they can get a show set
of peasants in rustic cottages, just as they have their fancy cows and
poultry--all that offends the eye out of the way.”

“Making it a matter of taste,” said the doctor.

“I’m sure I would,” said Norman aside to Ethel. “What’s the use of
getting oneself disgusted?”

“One must not begin with showing dislike,” began Ethel, “or--”

“Ay--you like rags, don’t you? but hush!”

“That is just what I should expect of Mr. Rivers,” said Dr. May; “he
has cultivated his taste till it is getting to be a disease, but his
daughter has no lack of wit.”

“Perhaps not. Charles and Mary are very fond of her, but she is entirely
inexperienced, and that is a serious thing with so much money to throw
about. She pays people for sending their children to school, and keeping
their houses tidy; and there is so much given away, that it is enough to
take away all independence and motive for exertion. The people speculate
on it, and take it as a right; by-and-by there will be a reaction--she
will find out she is imposed upon, take offence, and for the rest of her
life will go about saying how ungrateful the poor are!”

“It is a pity good people won’t have a little common-sense,” said Dr.
May. “But there’s something so bewitching in that little girl, that I
can’t give her up. I verily believe she will right herself.”

“I have scarcely seen her,” said Mr. Wilmot. “She has won papa’s heart
by her kindness to me,” said Margaret, smiling. “You see her beautiful
flowers? She seems to me made to lavish pleasures on others wherever she
goes.”

“Oh, yes, they are most kind-hearted,” said Mr. Wilmot. “It is only
the excess of a virtue that could be blamed in them, and they are most
valuable to the place. She will learn experience in time--I only hope
she will not be spoiled.”

Flora felt as if her father must be thinking his morning’s argument
confirmed, and she was annoyed. But she thought there was no reason why
wealth should not be used sensibly, and if she were at the head of such
an establishment as the Grange, her charity should be so well regulated
as to be the subject of general approbation.

She wanted to find some one else on her side, and, as they went to bed,
she said to Ethel, “Don’t you wish we had some of this superfluity of
the Riverses for poor Cocksmoor?”

“I wish we had anything for Cocksmoor! Here’s a great hole in my boot,
and nurse says I must get a new pair, that is seven-and-sixpence gone! I
shall never get the first pound made up towards building!”

“And pounds seem nothing to them,” said Flora.

“Yes, but if they don’t manage right with them! I’ll tell you, Flora,
I got into a fit of wishing the other day; it does seem such a grievous
pity to see those children running to waste for want of daily teaching,
and Jenny Hall had forgotten everything. I was vexed, and thought it was
all no use while we could not do more; but just then I began to look out
the texts Ritchie had marked for me to print for them to learn, and the
first was, ‘Be thou faithful over a few things, and I will make thee
ruler over many things,’ and then I thought perhaps we were learning to
be faithful with a few things. I am sure what they said to-night showed
it was lucky we have not more in our hands. I should do wrong for ever
with the little we have if it were not for Ritchie and Margaret. By the
time we have really got the money together for the school, perhaps I
shall have more sense.”

“Got the money! As if we ever could!”

“Oh, yes! we shall and will. It need not be more than £70, Ritchie says,
and I have twelve shillings for certain, put out from the money for hire
of the room, and the books and clothes, and, in spite of these horrid
boots, I shall save something out of this quarter, half-a-crown at
least. And I have another plan besides--”

But Flora had to go down to Margaret’s room to bed. Flora was always
ready to throw herself into the present, and liked to be the most
useful person in all that went forward, so that no thoughts of greatness
interfered with her enjoyment at Cocksmoor.

The house seemed wild that Easter Monday morning. Ethel, Mary, and
Blanche, flew about in all directions, and in spite of much undoing of
their own arrangements, finished their preparations so much too early,
that, at half-past eleven, Mary complained that she had nothing to do,
and that dinner would never come.

Many were the lamentations at leaving Margaret behind, but she answered
them by talking of the treat of having papa all to herself, for he had
lent them the gig, and promised to stay at home all the afternoon with
her.

The first division started on foot directly after dinner, the real
Council of education, as Norman called them, namely, Mr. Wilmot,
Richard, Ethel, and Mary; Flora, the other member, waited to take care
of Blanche and Aubrey, who were to come in the gig, with the cakes,
tea-kettles, and prizes, driven by Norman. Tom and Hector Ernescliffe
were invited to join the party, and many times did Mary wish for Harry.

Supremely happy were the young people as they reached the common, and
heard the shout of tumultuous joy, raised by their pupils, who were on
the watch for them. All was now activity. Everybody tripped into Mrs.
Green’s house, while Richard and Ethel ran different ways to secure that
the fires were burning, which they had hired, to boil their kettles,
with the tea in them.

Then when the kitchen was so full that it seemed as if it could hold no
more, some kind of order was produced, the children were seated on their
benches, and, while the mothers stood behind to listen, Mr. Wilmot began
to examine, as well as he could in so crowded an audience.

There was progress. Yes, there was. Only three were as utterly rude
and idealess as they used to be at Christmas. Glimmerings had dawned
on most, and one--Una M’Carthy--was fit to come forward to claim Mr.
Wilmot’s promise of a Prayer-book. She could really read and say the
Catechism--her Irish wit and love of learning had outstripped all the
rest--and she was the pride of Ethel’s heart, fit, now, to present
herself on equal terms with the Stoneborough set, as far as her sense
was concerned--though, alas! neither present nor exhortation had
succeeded in making her anything, in looks, but a picturesque
tatterdemalion, her sandy elf locks streaming over a pair of eyes, so
dancing and gracieuses, that it was impossible to scold her.

With beating heart, as if her own success in life depended for ever
on the way her flock acquitted themselves, Ethel stood by Mr. Wilmot,
trying to read answers coming out of the dull mouths of her children,
and looking exultingly at Richard whenever some good reply was made,
especially when Una answered an unexpected question. It was too
delightful to hear how well she remembered all the history up to the
flood, and how prettily it came out in her Irish accent! That made up
for all the atrocious stupidity of others, who, after being told every
time since they had begun who gave their names, now chose to forget.

In the midst, while the assembly were listening with admiration to the
reading of the scholar next in proficiency to Una, a boy who could read
words of five letters without spelling, there was a fresh squeezing at
the door, and, the crowd opening as well as it could, in came Flora and
Blanche, while Norman’s head was seen for a moment in the doorway.

Flora’s whisper to Ethel was her first discovery that the closeness and
the heat of the room was nearly overpowering. Her excitement had made
all be forgotten. “Could not a window be opened?”

Mrs. Green interfered--it had been nailed up because her husband had the
rheumatiz!

“Where’s Aubrey?” asked Mary.

“With Norman. Norman said he would not let him go into the black-hole,
so he has got him out of doors. Ethel, we must come out! You don’t know
what an atmosphere it is! Blanche, go out to Norman!”

“Flora, Flora! you don’t consider,” said Ethel, in an agony.

“Yes, yes. It is not at all cold. Let them have their presents out of
doors and eat their buns.”

Richard and Mr. Wilmot agreed with Flora, and the party were turned out.
Ethel did own, when she was in the open air, “that it had been rather
hot.”

Norman’s face was a sight, as he stood holding Aubrey in his arms, to
gratify the child’s impatience. The stifling den, the uncouth aspect
of the children, the head girl so very ragged a specimen, thoroughly
revolted his somewhat fastidious disposition. This was Ethel’s delight!
to this she made so many sacrifices! this was all that her time and
labour had effected! He did not wish to vex her but it was more than he
could stand.

However, Ethel was too much engrossed to look for sympathy. It was a
fine spring day, and on the open space of the common the arrangements
were quickly made. The children stood in a long line, and the baskets
were unpacked. Flora and Ethel called the names, Mary and Blanche gave
the presents, and assuredly the grins, courtesies, and pulls of the
forelock they elicited, could not have been more hearty for any of Miss
Rivers’s treasures. The buns and the kettles of tea followed--it was
perfect delight to entertainers and entertained, except when Mary’s
dignity was cruelly hurt by Norman’s authoritatively taking a kettle out
of her hands, telling her she would be the death of herself or somebody
else, and reducing her to the mere rank of a bun distributor, which
Blanche and Aubrey could do just as well; while he stalked along with a
grave and resigned countenance, filling up the cups held out to him by
timid-looking children. Mary next fell in with Granny Hall, who had gone
into such an ecstasy over Blanche and Aubrey, that Blanche did not know
which way to look; and Aubrey, in some fear that the old woman might
intend to kiss him, returned the compliments by telling her she was
“ugly up in her face,” at which she laughed heartily, and uttered more
vehement benedictions.

Finally, the three best children, boys and girls, were to be made fit
to be seen, and recommended by Mr. Wilmot to the Sunday-school and
penny club at Stoneborough, and, this being proclaimed and the children
selected, the assembly dispersed, Mr. Wilmot rejoicing Ethel and
Richard by saying, “Well, really, you have made a beginning. There is an
improvement in tone among those children, that is more satisfactory than
any progress they may have made.”

Ethel’s eyes beamed, and she hurried to tell Flora. Richard coloured
and gave his quiet smile, then turned to put things in order for their
return.

“Will you drive home, Richard?” said Norman, coming up to him.

“Don’t you wish it?” said Richard, who had many minor arrangements to
make, and would have preferred walking home independently.

“No, thank you, I have a headache, and walking may take it off,” said
Norman, taking off his hat and passing his fingers through his hair.

“A headache again--I am sorry to hear it.”

“It is only that suffocating den of yours. My head ached from the moment
I looked into it. How can you take Ethel into such a hole, Richard? It
is enough to kill her to go on with it for ever.”

“It is not so every day,” said the elder brother quietly. “It is a warm
day, and there was an unusual crowd.”

“I shall speak to my father,” exclaimed Norman, with somewhat of the
supercilious tone that he had now and then been tempted to address to
his brother. “It is not fit that Ethel should give up everything, health
and all, to such a set as these. They look as if they had been picked
out of the gutter--dirt, squalor, everything disgusting, and summer
coming on, too, and that horrid place with no window to open! It is
utterly unbearable!”

Richard stooped to pick up a heavy basket, then smiled and said, “You
must get over such things as these if you mean to be a clergyman,
Norman.”

“Whatever I am to be, it does not concern the girls being in such a
place as this. I am surprised that you could suffer it.”

There was no answer--Richard was walking off with his basket, and
putting it into the carriage. Norman was not pleased with himself, but
thought it his duty to let his father know his opinion of Ethel’s weekly
resort. All he wished was to avoid Ethel herself, not liking to show her
his sentiments, and he was glad to see her put into the gig with Aubrey
and Mary.

They rushed into the drawing-room, full of glee, when they came home,
all shouting their news together, and had not at first leisure to
perceive that Margaret had some tidings for them in return. Mr.
Rivers had been there, with a pressing invitation to his daughter’s
school-feast, and it had been arranged that Flora and Ethel should go
and spend the day at the Grange, and their father come to dine, and
fetch them home in the evening. Margaret had been much pleased with the
manner in which the thing was done. When Dr. May, who seemed reluctant
to accept the proposal that related to himself, was called out of the
room, Mr. Rivers had, in a most kind manner, begged her to say whether
she thought it would be painful to him, or whether it might do
his spirits good. She decidedly gave her opinion in favour of the
invitation, Mr. Rivers gained his point, and she had ever since been
persuading her father to like the notion, and assuring him it need not
be made a precedent for the renewal of invitations to dine out in the
town. He thought the change would be pleasant for his girls, and had,
therefore, consented.

“Oh, papa, papa! thank you!” cried Ethel, enraptured, as soon as he
came into the room. “How very kind of you! How I have wished to see the
Grange, and all Norman talks about! Oh, dear! I am so glad you are going
there too!”

“Why, what should you do with me?” said Dr. May, who felt and looked
depressed at this taking up of the world again.

“Oh, dear! I should not like it at all without you! It would be no fun
at all by ourselves. I wish Flora would come home. How pleased she will
be! Papa, I do wish you would look as if you didn’t mind it! I can’t
enjoy it if you don’t like going.”

“I shall when I am there, my dear,” said the doctor affectionately,
putting his arm around her as she stood by him. “It will be a fine day’s
sport for you.”

“But can’t you like it beforehand, papa?”

“Not just this minute, Ethel,” said he, with his bright, sad smile. “All
I like just now is my girl’s not being able to do without me; but we’ll
do the best we can. So your flock acquitted themselves brilliantly? Who
is your Senior Wrangler?”

Ethel threw herself eagerly into the history of the examination, and had
almost forgotten the invitation till she heard the front door open. Then
it was not she, but Margaret, who told Flora--Ethel could not, as she
said, enjoy what seemed to sadden her father. Flora received it much
more calmly. “It will be very pleasant,” said she; “it was very kind of
papa to consent. You will have Richard and Norman, Margaret, to be with
you in the evening.”

And, as soon as they went upstairs, Ethel began to write down the list
of prizes in her school journal, while Flora took out the best evening
frocks, to study whether the crape looked fresh enough.

The invitation was a convenient subject of conversation, for Norman had
so much to tell his sisters of the curiosities they must look for at the
Grange, that he was not obliged to mention Cocksmoor. He did not like
to mortify Ethel by telling her his intense disgust, and he knew he
was about to do what she would think a great injury by speaking to his
father on the subject; but he thought it for her real welfare, and
took the first opportunity of making to his father and Margaret a most
formidable description of Ethel’s black-hole. It quite alarmed Margaret,
but the doctor smiled, saying, “Ay, ay, I know the face Norman puts on
if he looks into a cottage.”

“Well,” said Norman, with some mortification, “all I know is, that my
head ached all the rest of the day.”

“Very likely, but your head is not Ethel’s, and there were twice as many
people as the place was intended to hold.”

“A stuffy hole, full of peat-smoke, and with a window that can’t open at
the best of times.”

“Peat-smoke is wholesome,” said Dr. May, looking provoking.

“You don’t know what it is, papa, or you would never let Ethel spend her
life there. It is poisonous!”

“I’ll take care of Ethel,” said Dr. May, walking off, and leaving Norman
in a state of considerable annoyance at being thus treated. He broke
out into fresh exclamations against the horrors of Cocksmoor, telling
Margaret she had no idea what a den it was.

“But, Norman, it can’t be so very bad, or Richard would not allow it.”

“Richard is deluded!” said Norman; “but if he chooses to run after dirty
brats, why should he take Ethel there?”

“My dear Norman, you know it is all Ethel’s doing.”

“Yes, I know she has gone crazy after them, and given up all her Greek
for it. It is past endurance!” said Norman, who had worked himself up
into great indignation.

“Well, but surely, Norman, it is better they should do what they can for
those poor creatures, than for Ethel to learn Greek.”

“I don’t know that. Let those who are fit for nothing else go and
drone over A B C with ragged children, if they like. It is just their
vocation; but there is an order in everything, Margaret, and minds of a
superior kind are intended for higher purposes, not to be wasted in this
manner.”

“I don’t know whether they are wasted,” said Margaret, not quite liking
Norman’s tone, though she had not much to say to his arguments.

“Not wasted? Not in doing what any one can do? I know what you’ll
say about the poor. I grant it, but high ability must be given for a
purpose, not to be thrown away. It is common-sense, that some one must
be meant to do the dirty work.”

“I see what you mean, Norman, but I don’t quite like that to be called
by such a name. I think--” she hesitated. “Don’t you think you dislike
such things more than--”

“Any one must abominate dirt and slovenliness. I know what you mean. My
father thinks ‘tis all nonsense in me, but his profession has made him
insensible to such things, and he fancies every one else is the same!
Now, Margaret, am I unreasonable?”

“I am sure I don’t know, dear Norman,” said Margaret, hesitating,
and feeling it her duty to say something; “I dare say it was very
disagreeable.”

“And you think, too, that I made a disturbance for nothing?”

“No, indeed I don’t, nor does dear papa. I have no doubt he will see
whether it is proper for Ethel. All I think he meant is, that perhaps
your not being well last winter has made you a little more sensitive in
such things.”

Norman paused, and coloured. He remembered the pain it had given him to
find himself incapable of being of use to his father, and that he had
resolved to conquer the weakness of nerve of which he was ashamed;
but he did not like to connect this with his fastidious feelings of
refinement. He would not own to himself that they were over nice, and,
at the bottom of all this justification, rankled Richard’s saying, that
he who cared for such things was unfit for a clergyman. Norman’s secret
thought was, it was all very well for those who could only aspire
to parish work in wretched cottages--people who could distinguish
themselves were more useful at the university, forming minds, and
opening new discoveries in learning.

Was Norman quite proof against the consciousness of daily excelling
all his competitors? His superiority had become even more manifest
this Easter, when Cheviot and Forder, the two elder boys whom he had
outstripped, left the school, avowedly, because it was not worth
while for them to stay, since they had so little chance of the Randall
scholarship. Norman had now only to walk over the course, no one even
approaching him but Harvey Anderson.

Meta Rivers always said that fine weather came at her call, and so it
did--glowing sunshine streaming over the shaven turf, and penetrating
even the solid masses of the great cedar.

The carriage was sent for the Misses May, and at two o’clock they
arrived. Flora, extremely anxious that Ethel should comport herself
discreetly; and Ethel full of curiosity and eagerness, the only drawback
her fears that her papa was doing what he disliked. She was not in the
least shy, and did not think about her manner enough to be troubled by
the consciousness that it had a good deal of abruptness and eagerness,
and that her short sight made her awkward. Meta met them with
outstretched hands and a face beaming with welcome. “I told you I should
get my way!” she said triumphantly, and, after her warm greeting, she
looked with some respect at the face of the Miss May who was so very
clever. It certainly was not what she expected, not at all like either
of the four sisters she had already seen--brown, sallow, and with that
sharp long nose, and the eager eyes, and brow a little knit by the
desire to see as far as she could. It was pleasanter to look at Flora.

Ethel left the talk chiefly to Flora--there was wonder and study enough
for her in the grounds and garden, and when Mrs. Larpent tried to enter
into conversation with her, she let it drop two or three times while
she was peering hard at a picture and trying to make out its subject.
However, when they all went out to walk to church, Ethel lighted up,
and talked, admired, and asked questions in her quick, eager way, which
interested Mrs. Larpent greatly. The governess asked after Norman, and
no more was wanted to produce a volume of histories of his successes,
till Flora turned as she walked before with Meta, saying, “Why, Ethel,
you are quite overwhelming Mrs. Larpent.”

But some civil answer convinced Ethel that what she said was
interesting, and she would not be stopped in her account of their
anxieties on the day of the examination. Flora was pleased that Meta,
catching some words, begged to hear more, and Flora gave an account
of the matter, soberer in terms, but quietly setting Norman at a much
greater distance from all his competitors.

After church came the feast in the school. It was a large commodious
building. Meta declared it was very tiresome that it was so good inside,
it was so ugly, she should never rest till papa had built her a real
beauty. They found Mr. and Mrs. Charles Wilmot in the school, with a
very nice well-dressed set of boys and girls, and--But there is no need
to describe the roast-beef and plum-pudding, “the feast ate merrily,”
 and Ethel was brilliantly happy waiting on the children, and so was
sunny-hearted Meta. Flora was too busy in determining what the Riverses
might be thinking of her and her sister to give herself up to the
enjoyment.

Ethel found a small boy looking ready to cry at an untouched slice of
beef. She examined him whether he could cut it, and at last discovered
that, as had been the case with one or two of her own brothers at the
same age, meat was repugnant to him. In her vehement manner she flew
off to fetch him some pudding, and hurrying up, as she thought, to Mr.
Charles Wilmot, who had been giving it out, she thrust her plate between
him and the dish, and had begun her explanation when she perceived it
was a stranger, and she stood, utterly discomfited, not saying, “I beg
your pardon,” but only blushing, awkward and confused, as he spoke to
her, in a good-natured, hospitable manner, which showed her it must be
Mr. Rivers. She obtained her pudding, and, turning hastily, retreated.

“Meta,” said Mr. Rivers, as his daughter came out of the school with
him, for, open and airy as it was, the numbers and the dinner made him
regard it as Norman had viewed the Cocksmoor room, “was that one of the
Miss Mays?”

“Yes, papa, Ethel, the third, the clever one.”

“I thought she must be one of them from her dress; but what a difference
between her and the others!”

Mr. Rivers was a great admirer of beauty, and Meta, brought up to be the
same, was disappointed, but consoled herself by admiring Flora. Ethel,
after the awkwardness was over, thought no more of the matter, but went
on in full enjoyment of the feast. The eating finished, the making of
presents commenced, and choice ones they were. The smiles of Meta and of
the children were a pretty sight, and Ethel thought she had never seen
anything so like a beneficent fairy. Mr. and Mrs. Wilmot said their
words of counsel and encouragement, and, by five o’clock, all was over.

“Oh, I am sorry!” said Meta, “Easter won’t come again for a whole year,
and it has been so delightful. How that dear little Annie smiled and
nursed her doll! I wish I could see her show it to her mother! Oh, how
nice it is! I am so glad papa brought me to live in the country. I don’t
think anything can be so charming in all the world as seeing little
children happy!”

Ethel could not think how the Wilmots could have found it in their heart
to regret the liberality of this sweet damsel, on whom she began to look
with Norman’s enthusiastic admiration.

There was time for a walk round the grounds, Meta doing the honours to
Flora, and Ethel walking with Mrs. Larpent. Both pairs were very good
friends, and the two sisters admired and were charmed with the beauty
of the gardens and conservatories--Ethel laying up a rich store of
intelligence for Margaret; but still she was not entirely happy;
her papa was more and more on her mind. He had looked dispirited
at breakfast; he had a long hard day’s work before him, and she was
increasingly uneasy at the thought that it would be a painful effort to
him to join them in the evening. Her mind was full of it when she was
conducted, with Flora, to the room where they were to dress; and when
Flora began to express her delight, her answer was only that she hoped
it was not very unpleasant to papa.

“It is not worth while to be unhappy about that, Ethel. If it is an
effort, it will be good for him when he is once here. I know he will
enjoy it.”

“Yes, I should think he would--I hope he will. He must like you to have
such a friend as Miss Rivers. How pretty she is!”

“Now, Ethel, it is high time to dress. Pray make yourself look
nice--don’t twist up your hair in that any-how fashion.”

Ethel sighed, then began talking fast about some hints on school-keeping
which she had picked up for Cocksmoor.

Flora’s glossy braids were in full order, while Ethel was still
struggling to get her plait smooth, and was extremely beholden to her
sister for taking it into her own hands and doing the best with it that
its thinness and roughness permitted. And then Flora pinched and pulled
and arranged Ethel’s frock, in vain attempts to make it sit like her
own--those sharp high bones resisted all attempts to disguise them.
“Never mind, Flora, it is quite tidy, I am sure, there--do let me be in
peace. You are like old nurse.”

“So those are all the thanks I get?”

“Well, thank you very much, dear Flora. You are a famous person. How I
wish Margaret could see that lovely mimosa!”

“And, Ethel, do take care. Pray don’t poke and spy when you come into
the room, and don’t frown when you are trying to see. I hope you won’t
have anything to help at dinner. Take care how you manage.”

“I’ll try,” said Ethel meekly, though a good deal tormented, as Flora
went on with half a dozen more injunctions, closed by Meta’s coming to
fetch them. Little Meta did not like to show them her own bedroom--she
pitied them so much when she thought of the contrast. She would have
liked to put Flora’s arm through her’s, but she thought, it would look
neglectful of Ethel; so she only showed the way downstairs. Ethel forgot
all her sister’s orders; for there stood her father, and she looked
most earnestly at his face. It was cheerful, and his voice sounded
well pleased as he greeted Meta; then resumed an animated talk with
Mr. Rivers. Ethel drew as near him as she could; she had a sense of
protection, and could open to full enjoyment when she saw him bright. At
the first pause in the conversation, the gentlemen turned to the young
ladies. Mr. Rivers began talking to Flora, and Dr. May, after a few
pleasant words to Meta, went back to Ethel. He wanted her to see
his favourite pictures--he led her up to them, made her put on his
spectacles to see them better, and showed her their special merits. Mr.
Rivers and the others joined them; Ethel said little, except a remark
or two in answer to her papa, but she was very happy--she felt that he
liked to have her with him; and Meta, too, was struck by the soundness
of her few sayings, and the participation there seemed to be in all
things between the father and daughter.

At dinner Ethel went on pretty well. She was next to her father, and was
very glad to find the dinner so grand, that no side-dish fell to her lot
to be carved. There was a great deal of pleasant talk, such as the girls
could understand, though they did not join much in it, except that now
and then Dr. May turned to Ethel as a reference for names and dates. To
make up for silence at dinner, there was a most confidential chatter in
the drawing-room. Flora and Meta on one side, hand in hand, calling each
other by their Christian names, Mrs. Larpent and Ethel on the other.
Flora dreaded only that Ethel was talking too much, and revealing too
much in how different style they lived. Then came the gentlemen, Dr. May
begging Mr. Rivers to show Ethel one of his prints, when Ethel stooped
more than ever, as if her eyelashes were feelers, but she was in
transports of delight, and her embarrassment entirely at an end in her
admiration, as she exclaimed and discussed with her papa, and by her
hearty appreciation made Mr. Rivers for the time forget her plainness.
Music followed; Flora played nicely, Meta like a well-taught girl; Ethel
went on musing over the engravings. The carriage was announced, and
so ended the day in Norman’s fairy-land. Ethel went home, leaning hard
against her papa, talking to him of Raphael’s Madonnas; and looking out
at the stars, and thinking how the heavenly beauty of those faces that,
in the prints she had been turning over, seemed to be connected with the
glories of the dark-blue sky and glowing stars. “As one star differeth
from another star in glory,” murmured she; “that was the lesson to-day,
papa;” and when she felt him press her hand, she knew he was thinking of
that last time she had heard the lesson, when he had not been with her,
and her thoughts went with his, though not another word was spoken.

Flora hardly knew when they ceased to talk. She had musings equally
engrossing of her own. She saw she was likely to be very intimate with
Meta Rivers, and she was roaming away into schemes for not letting the
intercourse drop, and hopes of being admitted to many a pleasure as yet
little within her reach--parties, balls, London, itself, and, above all,
the satisfaction of being admired. The certainty that Mr. Rivers thought
her pretty and agreeable had gratified her all the evening, and if he,
with his refined taste, thought so, what would others think? Her
only fear was, that Ethel’s awkwardness might make an unfavourable
impression, but, at least, she said to herself, it was anything but
vulgar awkwardness.

Their reflections were interrupted by the fly stopping. It was at a
little shop in the outskirts of the town, and Dr. May, explained that he
wanted to inquire for a patient. He went in for a moment, then came back
to desire that they would go home, for he should be detained some little
time. No one need sit up for him--he would let himself in.

It seemed a comment on Ethel’s thoughts, bringing them back to the
present hour. That daily work of homely mercy, hoping for nothing again,
was surely the true way of doing service.




CHAPTER XXI.


    WATCHMAN. How, if he will not stand?
    DOGBERRY. Why, then, take no note of him, but let him go.
                                          Much Ado about Nothing.


Dr. May promised Margaret that he would see whether the black-hole of
Cocksmoor was all that Norman depicted it, and, accordingly, he came
home that way on Tuesday evening the next week, much to the astonishment
of Richard, who was in the act of so mending the window that it might
let in air when open, and keep it out when shut, neither of which
purposes had it ever yet answered.

Dr. May walked in, met his daughter’s look of delight and surprise,
spoke cheerfully to Mrs. Green, a hospital acquaintance of his, like
half the rest of the country, and made her smile and curtsey by asking
if she was not surprised at such doings in her house; then looked at the
children, and patted the head that looked most fit to pat, inquired who
was the best scholar, and offered a penny to whoever could spell copper
tea-kettle, which being done by three merry mortals, and having made him
extremely popular, he offered Ethel a lift, and carried her off between
him and Adams, on whom he now depended for driving him, since Richard
was going to Oxford at once.

It was possible to spare him now. Dr. May’s arm was as well as he
expected it ever would be; he had discarded the sling, and could use his
hand again, but the arm was still stiff and weak--he could not stretch
it out, nor use it for anything requiring strength; it soon grew tired
with writing, and his daughters feared that it ached more than he chose
to confess, when they saw it resting in the breast of his waistcoat.
Driving he never would have attempted again, even if he could, and he
had quite given up carving--he could better bear to sit at the side than
at the bottom of the dinner-table.

Means of carrying Margaret safely had been arranged by Richard, and
there was no necessity for longer delaying his going to Oxford, but he
was so unwillingly spared by all, as to put him quite into good spirits.
Ethel was much concerned to lose him from Cocksmoor, and dreaded
hindrances to her going thither without his escort; but she had much
trust in having her father on her side, and meant to get authority from
him for the propriety of going alone with Mary.

She did not know how Norman had jeopardised her projects, but the danger
blew over. Dr. May told Margaret that the place was clean and wholesome,
and though more smoky than might be preferred, there was nothing to do
any one in health any harm, especially when the walk there and back was
over the fresh moor. He lectured Ethel herself on opening the window,
now that she could; and advised Norman to go and spend an hour in the
school, that he might learn how pleasant peat-smoke was--a speech Norman
did not like at all. The real touchstone of temper is ridicule on a
point where we do not choose to own ourselves fastidious, and if it and
been from any one but his father, Norman would not have so entirely kept
down his irritation.

Richard passed his examination successfully, and Dr. May wrote himself
to express his satisfaction. Nothing went wrong just now except little
Tom, who seemed to be justifying Richard’s fears of the consequence of
exciting his father’s anger. At home, he shrank and hesitated at the
simplest question if put by his father suddenly; and the appearance of
cowardice and prevarication displeasing Dr. May further, rendered his
tone louder, and frightened Tom the more, giving his manner an air
of sullen reserve that was most unpleasant. At school it was much
the same--he kept aloof from Norman, and threw himself more into the
opposite faction, by whom he was shielded from all punishment, except
what they chose themselves to inflict on him.

Norman’s post as head of the school was rendered more difficult by the
departure of his friend Cheviot, who had always upheld his authority;
Harvey Anderson did not openly transgress, for he had a character to
maintain, but it was well known throughout the school that there was a
wide difference between the boys, and that Anderson thought it absurd,
superfluous, and troublesome in May not to wink at abuses which appeared
to be licensed by long standing. When Edward Anderson, Axworthy, and
their set, broke through rules, it was with the understanding that the
second boy in the school would support them, if he durst.

The summer and the cricket season brought the battle of Ballhatchet’s
house to issue. The cricket ground was the field close to it, and
for the last two or three years there had been a frequent custom of
despatching juniors to his house for tarts and ginger-beer bottles.
Norman knew of instances last year in which this had led to serious
mischief, and had made up his mind that, at whatever loss of popularity,
it was his duty to put a stop to the practice.

He was an ardent cricketer himself, and though the game did not, in
anticipation, seem to him to have all the charms of last year, he
entered into it with full zest when once engaged. But his eye was on all
parts of the field, and especially on the corner by the bridge, and the
boys knew him well enough to attempt nothing unlawful within the range
of that glance. However, the constant vigilance was a strain too great
to be always kept up, and he had reason to believe he was eluded more
than once.

At last came a capture, something like that of Tom, one which he could
not have well avoided making. The victim was George Larkins, the son
of a clergyman in the neighbourhood, a wild, merry varlet, who got into
mischief rather for the sake of the fun than from any bad disposition.

His look of consternation was exaggerated into a most comical
caricature, in order to hide how much of it was real.

“So you are at that trick, Larkins.”

“There! that bet is lost!” exclaimed Larkins. “I laid Hill half-a-crown
that you would not see me when you were mooning over your verses!”

“Well, I have seen you. And now--”

“Come, you would not thrash a fellow when you have just lost him
half-a-crown! Single misfortunes never come alone, they say; so
there’s my money and my credit gone, to say nothing of Ballhatchet’s
ginger-beer!”

The boy made such absurd faces, that Norman could hardly help laughing,
though he wished to make it a serious affair. “You know, Larkins, I have
given out that such things are not to be. It is a melancholy fact.”

“Ay, so you must make an example of me!” said Larkins, pretending to
look resigned. “Better call all the fellows together, hadn’t you, and
make it more effective? It would be grateful to one’s feelings, you
know; and June,” added he, with a ridiculous confidential air, “if
you’ll only lay it on soft, I’ll take care it makes noise enough. Great
cry, little wool, you know.”

“Come with me,” said Norman. “I’ll take care you are example enough.
What did you give for those articles?”

“Fifteen-pence halfpenny. Rascally dear, isn’t it? but the old rogue
makes one pay double for the risk! You are making his fortune, you have
raised his prices fourfold.”

“I’ll take care of that.”

“Why, where are you taking me? Back to him?”

“I am going to gratify your wish to be an example.”

“A gibbet! a gibbet” cried Larkins. “I’m to be turned off on the spot
where the crime took place--a warning to all beholders. Only let me send
home for old Neptune’s chain, if you please, sir--if you hang me in
the combined watch-chains of the school, I fear they would give way and
defeat the purposes of justice.”

They were by this time at the bridge. “Come in,” said Norman to his
follower, as he crossed the entrance of the little shop, the first time
he had ever been there. A little cringing shrivelled old man stood up in
astonishment.

“Mr. May! can I have the pleasure, sir?”

“Mr. Ballhatchet, you know that it is contrary to the rules that there
should be any traffic with the school without special permission?”

“Yes, sir--just nothing, sir--only when the young gentlemen come
here, sir--I’m an old man, sir, and I don’t like not to oblige a young
gentleman, sir,” pleaded the old man, in a great fright.

“Very likely,” said Norman, “but I am come to give you fair notice. I
am not going to allow the boys here to be continually smuggling spirits
into the school.”

“Spirits! bless you, sir, I never thought of no sich a thing! ‘Tis
nothing in life but ginger-beer--very cooling drink, sir, of my wife’s
making; she had the receipt from her grandmother up in Leicestershire.
Won’t you taste a bottle, sir?” and he hastily made a cork bounce, and
poured it out.

That, of course, was genuine, but Norman was “up to him,” in schoolboy
phrase.

“Give me yours, Larkins.”

No pop ensued. Larkins, enjoying the detection, put his hands on his
knees and looked wickedly up in the old man’s face to see what was
coming.

“Bless me! it is a little flat. I wonder how that happened? I’ll be
most happy to change it, sir. Wife! what’s the meaning of Mr. Larkins’s
ginger-pop being so flat?”

“It is very curious ginger-beer indeed, Mr. Ballhatchet,” said Norman;
“and since it is liable to have such strange properties, I cannot allow
it to be used any more at the school.”

“Very well, sir-as you please, sir. You are the first gentleman as has
objected, sir.”

“And, once for all, I give you warning,” added Norman, “that if I
have reason to believe you have been obliging the young gentlemen, the
magistrates and the trustees of the road shall certainly hear of it.”

“You would not hurt a poor man, sir, as is drove to it--you as has such
a name for goodness!”

“I have given you warning,” said Norman. “The next time I find any of
your bottles in the school fields, your licence goes. Now, there are
your goods. Give Mr. Larkins back the fifteen-pence. I wonder you are
not ashamed of such a charge!”

Having extracted the money, Norman turned to leave the shop. Larkins,
triumphant, “Ha! there’s Harrison!” as the tutor rode by, and they
touched their caps. “How he stared! My eyes! June, you’ll be had up for
dealing with old Ball!” and he went into an ecstasy of laughing. “You’ve
settled him, I believe. Well, is justice satisfied?”

“It would be no use thrashing you,” said Norman, laughing, as he leaned
against the parapet of the bridge, and pinched the boy’s ear. “There’s
nothing to be got out of you but chaff.”

Larkins was charmed with the compliment.

“But I’ll tell you what, Larkins, I can’t think how a fellow like you
can go and give in to these sneaking, underhand tricks that make you
ashamed to look one in the face.”

“It is only for the fun of it.”

“Well, I wish you would find your fun some other way. Come, Larkins,
recollect yourself a little--you have a home not so far off. How do you
think your father and mother would fancy seeing you reading the book you
had yesterday, or coming out of Ballhatchet’s with a bottle of spirits,
called by a false name?”

Larkins pinched his fingers; home was a string that could touch him, but
it seemed beneath him to own it. At that moment a carriage approached,
the boy’s whole face lighted up, and he jumped forward. “Our own!” he
cried. “There she is!”

She was, of course, his mother; and Norman, though turning hastily away
that his presence might prove no restraint, saw the boy fly over the
door of the open carriage, and could have sobbed at the thought of what
that meeting was.

“Who was that with you?” asked Mrs. Larkins, when she had obtained leave
to have her boy with her, while she did her shopping.

“That was May senior, our dux.”

“Was it? I am very glad you should be with him, my dear George. He is
very kind to you, I hope?”

“He is a jolly good fellow,” said Larkins sincerely, though by no means
troubling himself as to the appropriateness of the eulogy, nor thinking
it necessary to explain to his mother the terms of the conversation.

It was not fruitless; Larkins did avoid mischief when it was not
extremely inviting, was more amenable to May senior, and having been put
in mind by him of his home, was not ashamed to bring the thought to the
aid of his eyes, when, on Sunday, during a long sermon of Mr. Ramsden’s,
he knew that Axworthy was making the grimace which irresistibly incited
him to make a still finer one.

And Ballhatchet was so much convinced of “that there young May” being in
earnest, that he assured his persuasive customers that it was as much as
his licence was worth to supply them.

Evil and insubordination were more easily kept under than Norman had
expected, when he first made up his mind to the struggle. Firmness had
so far carried the day, and the power of manful assertion of the right
had been proved, contrary to Cheviot’s parting auguries, that he would
only make himself disliked, and do no good.

The whole of the school was extremely excited this summer by a
proceeding of Mr. Tomkins, the brewer, who suddenly closed up the
footway called Randall’s Alley, declaring that there was no right of
passage through a certain field at the back of his brewery. Not only the
school, but the town was indignant, and the Mays especially so. It
had been the doctor’s way to school forty years ago, and there were
recollections connected with it that made him regard it with personal
affection. Norman, too, could not bear to lose it; he had not entirely
conquered his reluctance to pass that spot in the High Street, and the
loss of the alley would be a positive deprivation to him. Almost every
native of Stoneborough felt strongly the encroachment of the brewer, and
the boys, of course, carried the sentiment to exaggeration.

The propensity to public speaking perhaps added to the excitement, for
Norman May and Harvey Anderson, for once in unison, each made a vehement
harangue in the school-court--Anderson’s a fine specimen of the village
Hampden style, about Britons never suffering indignities, and free-born
Englishmen swelling at injuries.

“That they do, my hearty,” interjected Larkins, pointing to an inflamed
eye that had not returned to its right dimensions. However, Anderson
went on unmoved by the under titter, and demonstrated, to the full
satisfaction of all the audience, that nothing could be more illegal and
unfounded than the brewer’s claims.

Then came a great outburst from Norman, with all his father’s headlong
vehemence; the way was the right of the town, the walk had been trodden
by their forefathers for generations past--it had been made by the good
old generous-hearted man who loved his town and townspeople, and would
have heard with shame and anger of a stranger, a new inhabitant, a
grasping radical, caring, as radicals always did, for no rights, but
for their own chance of unjust gains, coming here to Stoneborough to cut
them off from their own path. He talk of liberalism and the rights of
the poor! He who cut off Randall’s poor old creatures in the almshouses
from their short way! and then came some stories of his oppression as a
poor-law guardian, which greatly aggravated the wrath of the speaker and
audience, though otherwise they did not exactly bear on the subject.

“What would old Nicholas Randall say to these nineteenth-century
doings?” finished Norman.

“Down, with them!” cried a voice from the throng, probably Larkins’s;
but there was no desire to investigate, it was the universal sentiment.
“Down with it! Hurrah, we’ll have our footpath open again! Down with the
fences! Britons never shall be slaves!” as Larkins finally ejaculated.

“That’s the way to bring it to bear!” said Harvey Anderson, “See if he
dares to bring an action against us. Hurrah!”

“Yes, that’s the way to settle it,” said Norman. “Let’s have it down. It
is an oppressive, arbitrary, shameful proceeding, and we’ll show him we
won’t submit to it!”

Carried along by the general feeling, the whole troop of boys dashed
shouting up to the barricade at the entrance of the field, and levelled
it with the ground. A handkerchief was fastened to the top of one of the
stakes, and waved over the brewhouse wall, and some of the boys were
for picking up stones and dirt, and launching them over, in hopes of
spoiling the beer; but Norman put a stop to this, and brought them back
to the school-yard, still in a noisy state of exultation.

It cooled a little by-and-by under the doubt how their exploit would be
taken. At home, Norman found it already known, and his father half glad,
half vexed, enjoying the victory over Tomkins, yet a little uneasy on
his son’s behalf. “What will Dr. Hoxton say to the dux?” said he. “I
didn’t know he was to be dux in mischief as well as out of it.”

“You can’t call it mischief, papa, to resent an unwarranted encroachment
of our rights by such an old ruffian as that. One’s blood is up to think
of the things he has done!”

“He richly deserves it, no doubt,” said the doctor, “and yet I wish you
had been out of the row. If there is any blame, you will be the first it
will light on.”

“I am glad of it, that is but just. Anderson and I seem to have stirred
it up--if it wanted stirring--for it was in every fellow there; indeed,
I had no notion it was coming to this when I began.”

“Oratory,” said the doctor, smiling. “Ha, Norman! Think a little another
time, my boy, before you take the law into your own hands, or, what is
worse, into a lot of hands you can’t control for good, though you may
excite them to harm.”

Dr. Hoxton did not come into school at the usual hour, and, in the
course of the morning, sent for May senior, to speak to him in his
study.

He looked very broad, awful, and dignified, as he informed him that Mr.
Tomkins had just been with him to complain of the damage that had been
done, and he appeared extremely displeased that the dux should have been
no check on such proceedings.

“I am sorry, sir,” said Norman, “but I believe it was the general
feeling that he had no right to stop the alley, and, therefore, that it
could not be wrong to break it down.”

“Whether he has a right or not is not a question to be settled by you.
So I find that you, whose proper office it is to keep order, have been
inflaming the mischievous and aggressive spirit amongst the others. I am
surprised at you; I thought you were more to be depended upon, May, in
your position.”

Norman coloured a good deal, and simply answered, “I am sorry, sir.”

“Take care, then, that nothing of the kind happens again,” said Dr.
Hoxton, who was very fond of him, and did not find fault with him
willingly.

That the first inflammatory discourse had been made by Anderson did not
appear to be known--he only came in for the general reprimand given to
the school.

It was reported the following evening, just as the town boys turned
out to go to their homes, that “old Tomkins had his fence up five times
higher than before.”

“Have at him again, say I!” exclaimed Axworthy. “What business has he
coming stopping up ways that were made before he was born?”

“We shall catch it from the doctor if we do,” said Edward Anderson, “He
looked in no end of a rage yesterday when he talked about the credit of
the school.”

“Who cares for the credit of the school?” said the elder Anderson; “we
are out of the school now--we are townsmen--Stoneborough boys--citizens
not bound to submit to injustice. No, no, the old rogue knew it would
not stand if it was brought into court, so he brings down old Hoxton on
us instead--a dirty trick he deserves to be punished for.”

And there was a general shout and yell in reply.

“Anderson,” said Norman, “you had better not excite them again, they are
ripe for mischief. It will go further than it did yesterday--don’t you
see?”

Anderson could not afford to get into a scrape without May to stand
before him, and rather sulkily he assented.

“It is of no use to rave about old Tomkins,” proceeded Norman, in his
style of popular oratory. “If it is illegal, some one will go to law
about it, and we shall have our alley again. We have shown him our mind
once, and that is enough; if we let him alone now, he will see ‘tis only
because we are ordered, not for his sake. It would be just putting
him in the right, and maybe winning his cause for him, to use any more
violence. There’s law for you, Anderson. So now no more about it--let us
all go home like rational fellows. August, where’s August?”

Tom was not visible--he generally avoided going home with his brother;
and Norman having seen the boys divide into two or three little parties,
as their roads lay homewards, found he had an hour of light for an
expedition of his own, along the bank of the river. He had taken up
botany with much ardour, and sharing the study with Margaret was a great
delight to both. There was a report that the rare yellow bog-bean grew
in a meadow about a mile and a half up the river, and thither he was
bound, extremely enjoying the summer evening walk, as the fresh dewy
coolness sunk on all around, and the noises of the town were mellowed by
distance, and the sun’s last beams slanted on the green meadows, and the
May-flies danced, and dragon-flies darted, and fish rose or leaped high
in the air, or showed their spotted sides, and opened and shut their
gills, as they rested in the clear water, and the evening breeze rustled
in the tall reeds, and brought fragrance from the fresh-mown hay.

It was complete enjoyment to Norman after his day’s study and the rule
and watch over the unruly crowd of boys, and he walked and wandered
and collected plants for Margaret till the sun was down, and the
grasshoppers chirped clamorously, while the fern-owl purred, and
the beetle hummed, and the skimming swallows had given place to the
soft-winged bat, and the large white owl floating over the fields as it
moused in the long grass.

The summer twilight was sobering every tint, when, as Norman crossed the
cricket-field, he heard, in the distance, a loud shout. He looked
up, and it seemed to him that he saw some black specks dancing in the
forbidden field, and something like the waving of a flag, but it was not
light enough to be certain, and he walked quickly home.

The front door was fastened, and, while he was waiting to be let in, Mr.
Harrison walked by, and called out, “You are late at home to-night--it
is half-past nine.”

“I have been taking a walk, sir.”

A good-night was the answer, as he was admitted. Every one in the
drawing-room looked up, and exclaimed as he entered, “Where’s Tom?”

“What! he is not come home?”

“No! Was he not with you?”

“I missed him after school. I was persuaded he was come home. I have
been to look for the yellow bog-bean. There, Margaret. Had not I better
go and look for him?”

“Yes, do,” said Dr. May. “The boy is never off one’s mind.”

A sort of instinctive dread directed Norman’s steps down the open
portion of Randall’s Alley, and, voices growing louder as he came
nearer, confirmed his suspicions. The fence at this end was down, and,
on entering the field, a gleam of light met his eye on the ground--a
cloud of smoke, black figures were flitting round it, pushing brands
into red places, and feeding the bonfire.

“What have you been doing?” exclaimed Norman. “You have got yourselves
into a tremendous scrape!”

A peal of laughter, and shout of “Randall and Stoneborough for ever!”
 was the reply.

“August! May junior! Tom! answer me! Is he here?” asked Norman, not
solicitous to identify any one.

But gruff voices broke in upon them. “There they are, nothing like ‘em
for mischief.”

“Come, young gentlemen,” said a policeman, “be off, if you please. We
don’t want to have none of you at the station to-night.”

A general hurry-skurry ensued. Norman alone, strong in innocence, walked
quietly away, and, as he came forth from the darkness of the alley,
beheld something scouring away before him, in the direction of home. It
popped in at the front door before him, but was not in the drawing-room.
He strode upstairs, called, but was not answered, and found, under the
bedclothes, a quivering mass, consisting of Tom, with all his clothes
on, fully persuaded that it was the policeman who was pursuing him.




CHAPTER XXII.



     Oh Life, without thy chequered scene,
     Of right and wrong, of weal and woe,
     Success and failure, could a ground
     For magnanimity be found?
                                   WORDSWORTH.


Dr. May was called for late the next day, Friday, and spent some time
in one of the houses near the river. It was nearly eight o’clock when
he came away, and he lingered, looking towards the school, in hopes of a
walk home with his boys.

Presently he saw Norman coming out from under the archway, his cap drawn
over his face, and step, gesture, and manner betraying that something
was seriously wrong. He came up almost to his father without seeing
him, until startled by his exclamation, “Norman--why, Norman, what’s the
matter?”

Norman’s lips quivered, and his face was pale--he seemed as if he could
not speak.

“Where’s Tom?” said the doctor, much alarmed. “Has he got into disgrace
about this business of Tomkins? That boy--”

“He has only got an imposition,” interrupted Norman. “No, it is not
that--it is myself”--and it was only with a gulp and struggle that he
brought out the words, “I am turned down in the school.”

The doctor started back a step or two, aghast. “What-how--speak, Norman.
What have you done?”

“Nothing!” said Norman, recovering in the desire to reassure his
father--“nothing!”

“That’s right,” said the doctor, breathing freely. “What’s the meaning
of it...a misunderstanding?”

“Yes,” said Norman, with bitterness. “It is all Anderson’s doing--a word
from him would have set all straight--but he would not; I believe, from
my heart, he held his tongue to get me down, that he might have the
Randall!”

“We’ll see you righted,” said the doctor eagerly. “Come, tell me the
whole story, Norman. Is it about this unlucky business?”

“Yes. The town-fellows were all up about it last evening, when we came
out of school. Anderson senior himself began to put them up to having
the fence down again. Yes, that he did--I remember his very words--that
Tomkins could not bring it into court, and so set old Hoxton at us.
Well, I told them it would not do--thought I had settled them--saw them
off home--yes, Simpson, and Benson, and Grey, up the High Street, and
the others their way. I only left Axworthy going into a shop when I set
off on my walk. What could a fellow do more? How was I to know that
that Axworthy would get them together again, and take them to this
affair--pull up the stakes--saw them down--for they were hard to get
down--shy all sorts of things over into the court--hoot at old Tomkins’s
man, when he told them to be off--and make a bonfire of the sticks at
last?”

“And Harvey Anderson was there?”

“No--not he. He is too sharp--born and bred attorney as he is--he
talked them up to the mischief when my back was turned, and then sneaked
quietly home, quite innocent, and out of the scrape.”

“But Dr. Hoxton can never entertain a suspicion that you had anything to
do with it!”

“Yes, he does though. He thinks I incited them, and Tomkins and the
policeman declare I was there in the midst of the row--and not one of
these fellows will explain how I came at the last to look for Tom.”

“Not Tom himself?”

“He did try to speak, poor little fellow, but, after the other affair,
his word goes for nothing, and so, it seems, does mine. I did think
Hoxton would have trusted me!”

“And did not he?” exclaimed Dr. May.

“He did not in so many words accuse me of--of--but he told me he
had serious charges brought against me--Mr. Harrison had seen me at
Ballhatchet’s, setting an example of disregard to rules--and, again, Mr.
Harrison saw me coming in at a late hour last night. ‘I know he did,’
I said, and I explained where I had been, and they asked for proofs! I
could hardly answer, from surprise, at their not seeming to believe me,
but I said you could answer for my having come in with the flowers for
my sister.”

“To be sure I will--I’ll go this instant--” he was turning.

“It is of no use, papa, to-night; Dr. Hoxton has a dinner-party.”

“He is always having parties. I wish he would mind them less, and his
business more. You disbelieved! but I’ll see justice done you, Norman,
the first thing to-morrow. Well--”

“Well then, I said, old Ballhatchet could tell that I crossed the bridge
at the very time they were doing this pretty piece of work, for he was
sitting smoking in his porch when I went home, and, would you believe
it? the old rascal would not remember who passed that evening! It is all
his malice and revenge--nothing else!”

“Why--what have you been doing to him?”

Norman shortly explained the ginger-beer story, and adding, “Cheviot
told me I should get nothing but ill-will, and so I have--all those town
fellows turn against me now, and though they know as well as possible
how it was, they won’t say a word to right me, just out of spite,
because I have stopped them from all the mischief I could!”

“Well, then--”

“They asked me whether--since I allowed that I had been there at last--I
had dispersed the boys. I said no, I had no time. Then they desired to
know who was there, and that I had not seen; it was all dark, and there
had not been a moment, and if I guessed, it was no affair of mine to
say. So they ordered me down, and had up Ned Anderson, and one or two
more who were known to have been in the riot, and then they consulted
a good while, and sent for me; Mr. Wilmot was for me, I am sure, but
Harrison was against me. Dr. Hoxton sat there, and made me one of his
addresses. He said he would not enter on the question whether I had been
present at the repetition of the outrage, as he called it, but what was
quite certain was, that I had abused my authority and influence in the
school; I had been setting a bad example, and breaking the rules
about Ballhatchet, and so far from repressing mischief, I had been the
foremost in it, making inflammatory harangues, leading them to commit
violence the first time, and the next, if not actually taking part in
it personally, at any rate not preventing it. In short, he said it was
clear I had not weight enough for my post--it was some excuse I had been
raised to it so young--but it was necessary to show that proficiency in
studies did not compensate for disregard of discipline, and so he turned
me down below the first six! So there’s another May in disgrace!”

“It shall not last--it shall not last, my boy,” said Dr. May, pressing
Norman’s arm; “I’ll see you righted. Dr. Hoxton shall hear the whole
story. I am not for fathers interfering in general, but if ever there
was a case, this is! Why, it is almost actionable--injuring your whole
prospects in life, and all because he will not take the trouble to make
an investigation! It is a crying shame.”

“Every fellow in the school knows how it was,” said Norman; “and plenty
of them would be glad to tell, if they had only the opportunity; but he
asked no one but those two or three worst fellows that were at the fire,
and they would not tell, on purpose. The school will go to destruction
now--they’ll get their way, and all I have been striving for is utterly
undone.”

“You setting a bad example! Dr. Hoxton little knows what you have been
doing. It is a mockery, as I have always said, to see that old fellow
sit wrapped up in his pomposity, eating his good dinners, and knowing no
more what goes on among his boys than this umbrella! But he will listen
to me--and we’ll make those boys confess the whole--ay, and have up
Ballhatchet himself, to say what your traffic with him was; and we will
see what old Hoxton says to you then, Norman.”

Dr. May and his son felt keenly and spoke strongly. There was so much of
sympathy and fellow-feeling between them, that there was no backwardness
on Norman’s part in telling his whole trouble, with more confidence than
schoolboys often show towards their fathers, and Dr. May entered into
the mortification as if he were still at school. They did not go into
the house, but walked long up and down the garden, working themselves up
into, if possible, stronger indignation, and concerting the explanation
for to-morrow, when Dr. May meant to go at once to the head-master, and
make him attend to the true version of the story, appealing to Harvey
Anderson himself, Larkins, and many others, for witnesses. There could
be hardly a doubt that Norman would be thus exculpated; but, if Dr.
Hoxton would not see things in their true light, Dr. May was ready to
take him away at once, rather than see him suffer injustice.

Still, though comforted by his father’s entire reliance, Norman was
suffering severely under the sense of indignity, and grieved that Dr.
Hoxton and the other masters should have believed him guilty--that
name of May could never again boast of being without reproach. To be in
disgrace stung him to the quick, even though undeservedly, and he could
not bear to go in, meet his sisters, and be pitied. “There’s no need
they should know of it,” said he, when the Minster clock pealing ten
obliged them to go indoors, and his father agreed. They bade each other
good-night, with the renewal of the promise that Dr. Hoxton should be
forced to hear Norman’s vindication the first thing to-morrow, Harvey
Anderson be disappointed of what he meanly triumphed in, and Norman
be again in his post at the head of the school, in more honour and
confidence than ever, putting down evil, and making Stoneborough what it
ought to be.

As Dr. May lay awake in the summer’s morning, meditating on his address
to Dr. Hoxton, he heard the unwelcome sound of a ring at the bell, and,
in a few minutes, a note was brought to him.

“Tell Adams to get the gig ready--I’ll let him know whether he is to go
with me.”

And, in a few minutes, the doctor opened Norman’s door, and found him
dressed, and standing by the window, reading. “What, up already, Norman?
I came to tell you that our affairs must wait till the afternoon. It
is very provoking, for Hoxton may be gone out, but Mr. Lake’s son, at
Groveswood, has an attack on the head, and I must go at once. It is a
couple of dozen miles off or more. I have hardly ever been there, and it
may keep me all day.”

“Shall you go in the gig? Shall I drive you?” said Norman, looking
rather blank.

“That’s what I thought of, if you like it. I thought you would sooner be
out of the way.”

“Thank you--yes, papa. Shall I come and help you to finish dressing?”

“Yes, do, thank you; it will hasten matters. Only, first order in some
breakfast. What makes you up so early? Have not you slept?”

“Not much--it has been such a hot night.”

“And you have a headache. Well, we will find a cure for that before the
day is over. I have settled what to say to old Hoxton.”

Before another quarter of an hour had passed, they were driving through
the deep lanes, the long grass thickly laden with morning dew, which
beaded the webs of the spiders and rose in clouds of mist under the
influence of the sun’s rays. There was stillness in the air at first,
then the morning sounds, the labourer going forth, the world wakening to
life, the opening houses, the children coming out to school. In spite of
the tumult of feeling, Norman could not but be soothed and refreshed
by the new and fair morning scene, and both minds quitted the school
politics, as Dr. May talked of past enjoyment of walks or drives home
in early dawn, the more delicious after a sad watch in a sick-room, and
told of the fair sights he had seen at such unwonted hours.

They had far to go, and the heat of the day had come on before they
entered the place of their destination. It was a woodland village, built
on a nook in the side of the hill, sloping greenly to the river, and
shut in by a white gate, which seemed to gather all in one the little
old-fashioned church, its yard, shaded with trees, and enclosed by long
white rails; the parsonage, covered with climbing plants and in the
midst of a gay garden; and one or two cottages. The woods cast a cool
shadow, and, in the meadows by the river rose cocks of new-made hay;
there was an air of abiding serenity about the whole place, save
that there stood an old man by the gate, evidently watching for the
physician’s carriage; and where the sun fell on that parsonage-house was
a bedroom window wide open, with the curtains drawn.

“Thank Heaven you are come, sir,” said the old man; “he is fearfully
bad.”

Norman knew young Lake, who had been a senior boy when he first went to
school, was a Randall scholar, and had borne an excellent character,
and highly distinguished himself at the university. And now, by all
accounts, he seemed to be dying--in the height of honour and general
esteem. Dr. May went into the house, the old man took the horse, and
Norman lingered under the trees in the churchyard, watching the white
curtains now and then puffed by the fitful summer breeze, as he lay on
the turf in the shade, under the influence of the gentle sadness
around, resting, mind and body, from the tossing tumultuous passionate
sensations that had kept him restless and miserable through the hot
night.

He waited long--one hour, two hours had passed away, but he was not
impatient, and hardly knew how long the time had been before his father
and Mr. Lake came out of the house together, and, after they parted, Dr.
May summoned him. He of course asked first for the patient. “Not quite
so hopeless as at first,” and the reasons for having been kept so long
were detailed, with many circumstances of the youth’s illness, and the
parents’ resignation, by which Dr. May was still too deeply touched to
have room in his mind for anything besides.

They were more than half-way home, and a silence had succeeded the
conversation about the Lake family, when Norman spoke:

“Papa, I have been thinking about it, and I believe it would be better
to let it alone, if you please.”

“Not apply to Dr. Hoxton!” exclaimed his father.

“Well, I think not. I have been considering it, and it does hardly seem
to me the right thing. You see, if I had not you close at hand, this
could never be explained, and it seems rather hard upon Anderson, who
has no father, and the other fellows, who have theirs farther off--”

“Right, Norman, that is what my father before me always said, and the
way I have always acted myself; much better let a few trifles go on not
just as one would wish, than be for ever interfering. But I really think
this is a case for it, and I don’t think you ought to let yourself be
influenced by the fear of any party-spirit.”

“It is not only that, papa--I have been thinking a good deal to-day, and
there are other reasons. Of course I should wish Dr. Hoxton to know that
I spoke the truth about that walk, and I hope you will let him know, as
I appealed to you. But, on cooler thoughts, I don’t believe Dr. Hoxton
could seriously suspect me of such a thing as that, and it was not on
that ground that I am turned down, but that I did not keep up sufficient
discipline, and allowed the outrage, as he calls it. Now, you know, that
is, after a fashion, true. If I had not gone on like an ass the other
day, and incited them to pull down the fences, they would not have done
it afterwards, and perhaps I ought to have kept on guard longer. It was
my fault, and we can’t deny it.”

Dr. May made a restless, reluctant movement. “Well, well, I suppose it
was--but it was just as much Harvey Anderson’s--and is he to get the
scholarship because he has added meanness to the rest?”

“He was not dux,” said Norman, with a sigh. “It was more shabby than I
thought was even in him. But I don’t know that the feeling about him is
not one reason. There has always been a rivalry and bitterness between
us two, and if I were to get the upper hand now, by means not in the
usual course, such as the fellows would think ill of, it would be worse
than ever, and I should always feel guilty and ashamed to look at him.”

“Over-refining, Norman,” muttered Dr. May.

“Besides, don’t you remember, when his father died, how glad you and
everyone were to get him a nomination, and it was said that if he gained
a scholarship it would be such a relief to poor Mrs. Anderson? Now he
has this chance, it does seem hard to deprive her of it. I should not
like to know that I had done so.”

“Whew!” the doctor gave a considering whistle.

“You could not make it straight, papa, without explaining about the
dealing with Ballhatchet, and that would be unfair to them all, even the
old rogue himself; for I promised to say nothing about former practices,
as long as he did not renew them.”

“Well! I don’t want to compromise you, Norman. You know your own ground
best, but I don’t like it at all. You don’t know the humiliation
of disgrace. Those who have thought highly of you, now thinking you
changed--I don’t know how to bear it for you.”

“I don’t mind anything while you trust me,” said Norman, eagerly; “not
much I mean, except Mr. Wilmot. You must judge, papa, and do as you
please.”

“No, you must judge, Norman. Your confidence in me ought not to be a
restraint. It has always been an understood thing that what you say
at home is as if it had not been said, as regards my dealings with the
masters.”

“I know, papa. Well, I’ll tell you what brought me to this. I tumbled
about all night in a rage, when I thought how they had served me, and
of Hoxton’s believing it all, and how he might only half give in to your
representation, and then I gloried in Anderson’s coming down from his
height, and being seen in his true colours. So it went on till morning
came, and I got up. You know you gave me my mother’s little ‘Thomas
a Kempis’. I always read a bit every morning. To-day it was, ‘Of four
things that bring much inward peace’. And what do you think they were?--


    “‘Be desirous, my son, to do the will of another
        rather than thine own.
     Choose always to have less rather than more.
     Seek always the lowest place, and to be inferior
        to everyone.
     Wish always and pray that the will of God may be
        wholly fulfilled in thee.’


“I liked them the more, because it was just like her last reading with
us, and like that letter. Well, then I wondered as I lay on the grass
at Groveswood, whether she would have thought it best for me to be
reinstated, and I found out that I should have been rather afraid of
what you might say when she had talked it over with you.”

Dr. May smiled a little at the simplicity with which this last was said,
but his smile ended in one of his heavy sighs. “So you took her for your
counsellor, my boy. That was the way to find out what was right.”

“Well, there was something in the place and, in watching poor Lake’s
windows, that made me not able to dwell so much on getting on, and
having prizes and scholarships. I thought that caring for those had been
driven out of me, and you know I never felt as if it were my right when
I was made dux; but now I find it is all come back. It does not do
for me to be first; I have been what she called elated, and been more
peremptory than need with the lower boys, and gone on in my old way with
Richard, and so I suppose this disgrace has come to punish me. I wish
it were not disgrace, because of our name at school, and because it
will vex Harry so much; but since it is come, considering all things,
I suppose I ought not to struggle to justify myself at other people’s
expense.”

His eyes were so dazzled with tears that he could hardly see to drive,
nor did his father speak at first. “I can’t say anything against it,
Norman, but I am sorry, and one thing more you should consider. If Dr.
Hoxton should view this absurd business in the way he seems to do, it
will stand in your way for ever in testimonials, if you try for anything
else.”

“Do you think it will interfere with my having a Confirmation ticket?”

“Why no, I should not think--such a boyish escapade could be no reason
for refusing you one.”

“Very well then, it had better rest. If there should be any difficulty
about my being confirmed, of course we will explain it.”

“I wish every one showed themselves as well prepared!” half muttered
the doctor; then, after long musing, “Well, Norman, I give up the
scholarship. Poor Mrs. Anderson wants it more than we do, and if the boy
is a shabby fellow the more he wants a decent education. But what do
you say to this? I make Hoxton do you full justice, and reinstate you
in your proper place, and then I take you away at once--send you to a
tutor--anything, till the end of the long vacation.”

“Thank you,” said Norman, pausing. “I don’t know, papa. I am very
much obliged to you, but I think it would hardly do. You would be
uncomfortable at seeming to quarrel with Dr. Hoxton, and it would be
hardly creditable for me to go off in anger.”

“You are right, I believe,” said Dr. May. “You judge wisely, though I
should not have ventured to ask it of you. But what is to become of the
discipline of the school? Is that all to go to the dogs?”

“I could not do anything with them if I were restored in this way; they
would be more set against me. It is bad enough as it is, but, even for
my own peace, I believe it is better to leave it alone. All my comfort
in school is over, I know!” and he sighed deeply.

“It is a most untoward business!” said the doctor. “I am very sorry your
schooldays should be clouded--but it can’t be helped, and you will work
yourself into a character again. You are full young, and can stay for
the next Randall.”

Norman felt as if, while his father looked at him as he now did, the
rest of the world were nothing to him; but, perhaps, the driving past
the school brought him to a different mind, for he walked into the house
slowly and dejectedly.

He told his own story to Ethel, in the garden, not without much
difficulty, so indignant were her exclamations; and it was impossible to
make her see that his father’s interference would put him in an awkward
position among the boys. She would argue vehemently that she could not
bear Mr. Wilmot to think ill of him, that it was a great shame of Dr.
Hoxton, and that it was dreadful to let such a boy as Harvey Anderson go
unpunished. “I really do think it is quite wrong of you to give up your
chance of doing good, and leave him in his evil ways!” That was all
the comfort she gave Norman, and she walked in to pour out a furious
grumbling upon Margaret.

Dr. May had been telling the elder ones, and they were in conversation
after he had left them--Margaret talking with animation, and Flora
sitting over her drawing, uttering reluctant assents. “Has he told you,
poor fellow?” asked Margaret.

“Yes,” said Ethel. “Was there ever such a shame?”

“That is just what I say,” observed Flora. “I cannot see why the
Andersons are to have a triumph over all of us.”

“I used to think Harvey the best of the two,” said Ethel. “Now I think
he is a great deal the worst. Taking advantage of such a mistake as
this! How will he ever look Norman in the face!”

“Really,” said Margaret, “I see no use in aggravating ourselves by
talking of the Andersons.”

“I can’t think how papa can consent,” proceeded Flora. “I am sure, if I
were in his place, I should not!”

“Papa is so much pleased with dear Norman’s behaviour that it quite
makes up for all the disappointment,” said Margaret. “Besides, he is
very much obliged to him in one way; he would not have liked to have
to battle the matter with Dr. Hoxton. He spoke of Norman’s great good
judgment.”

“Yes, Norman can persuade papa to anything,” said Flora.

“Yes, I wish papa had not yielded,” said Ethel. “It would have been just
as noble in dear Norman, and we should not have the apparent disgrace.”

“Perhaps it is best as it is, after all,” said Flora.

“Why, how do you mean?” said Ethel.

“I think very likely things might have come out. Now don’t look
furious, Ethel. Indeed, I can’t help it, but really I don’t think it
is explicable why Norman should wish to hush it up, unless there were
something behind!”

“Flora!” cried Ethel, too much shocked to bring out another word.

“If you are unfortunate enough to have such suspicions,” said Margaret
quietly, “I think it would be better to be silent.”

“As if you did not know Norman!” stammered Ethel.

“Well,” said Flora, “I don’t wish to think so. You know I did not hear
Norman himself, and when papa gives his vehement accounts of things, it
always puzzles us of the cooler-minded sort.”

“It is as great a shame as ever I heard!” cried Ethel, recovering her
utterance. “Who would you trust, if not your own father and brother?”

“Yes, yes,” said Flora, not by any means wishing to displease her
sisters. “If there is such a thing as an excess of generosity, it is
sure to be among ourselves. I only know it does not suit me. It will
make us all uncomfortable whenever we meet the Andersons or Mr. Wilmot,
or any one else, and as to such tenderness to Harvey Anderson, I think
it is thrown away.”

“Thrown away on the object, perhaps,” said Margaret, “but not in
Norman.”

“To be sure,” broke out Ethel. “Better be than seem! Oh, dear! I am
sorry I was vexed with dear old June when he told me. I had rather have
him now than if he had gained everything, and every one was praising
him--that I had! Harvey Anderson is welcome to be dux and Randall
scholar for what I care, while Norman is--while he is, just what we
thought of the last time we read that Gospel--you know, Margaret?”

“He is--that he is,” said Margaret, “and, indeed, it is most beautiful
to see how what has happened has brought him at once to what she wished,
when, perhaps, otherwise it would have been a work of long time.”

Ethel was entirely consoled. Flora thought of the words “tete exaltee”
 and considered herself alone to have sober sense enough to see things in
a true light--not that she went the length of believing that Norman had
any underhand motives, but she thought it very discreet in her to think
a prudent father would not have been satisfied with such a desire to
avoid investigation.

Dr. May would not trust himself to enter on the subject with Dr. Hoxton
in conversation; he only wrote a note.


                                “June 16th.

“Dear Dr. Hoxton,

“My son has appealed to me to confirm his account of himself on Thursday
evening last. I therefore distinctly state that he came in at half-past
nine, with his hands full of plants from the river, and that he then
went out again, by my desire, to look for his little brother.

                              --Yours very truly,
                                   R. May.”


A long answer came in return, disclaiming all doubt of Norman’s
veracity, and explaining Dr. Hoxton’s grounds for having degraded him.
There had been misconduct in the school, he said, for some time past,
and he did not consider that it was any very serious reproach, to a
boy of Norman’s age, that he had not had weight enough to keep up his
authority, and had been carried away by the general feeling. It had been
necessary to make an example for the sake of principle, and though very
sorry it should have fallen on one of such high promise and general good
conduct, Dr. Hoxton trusted that it would not be any permanent injury to
his prospects, as his talents had raised him to his former position in
the school so much earlier than usual.

“The fact was,” said Dr. May, “that old Hoxton did it in a passion,
feeling he must punish somebody, and now, finding there’s no uproar
about it, he begins to be sorry. I won’t answer this note. I’ll stop
after church to-morrow and shake hands, and that will show we don’t bear
malice.”

What Mr. Wilmot might think was felt by all to affect them more nearly.
Ethel wanted to hear that he declared his complete conviction of
Norman’s innocence, and was disappointed to find that he did not once
allude to the subject. She was only consoled by Margaret’s conjecture
that, perhaps, he thought the headmaster had been hasty, and could not
venture to say so--he saw into people’s characters, and it was notorious
that it was just what Dr. Hoxton did not.

Tom had spent the chief of that Saturday in reading a novel borrowed
from Axworthy, keeping out of sight of every one. All Sunday he avoided
Norman more scrupulously than ever, and again on Monday. That day was a
severe trial to Norman; the taking the lower place, and the sense that,
excel as much as ever he might in his studies, it would not avail to
restore him to his former place, were more unpleasant, when it came to
the point, than he had expected.

He saw the cold manner, so different from the readiness with which his
tasks had always been met, certain as they were of being well done; he
found himself among the common herd whom he had passed so triumphantly,
and, for a little while, he had no heart to exert himself.

This was conquered by the strong will and self-rebuke for having merely
craved for applause, but, in the play-ground, he found himself still
alone--the other boys who had been raised by his fall shrank from
intercourse with one whom they had injured by their silence, and the
Andersons, who were wont to say the Mays carried every tale home, and
who still almost expected interference from Dr. May, hardly believed
their victory secure, and the younger one, at least, talked spitefully,
and triumphed in the result of May’s meddling and troublesome over
strictness. “Such prigs always come to a downfall,” was the sentiment.

Norman found himself left out of everything, and stood dispirited and
weary on the bank of the river, wishing for Harry, wishing for Cheviot,
wishing that he had been able to make a friend who would stand by
him, thinking it could not be worse if he had let his father reinstate
him--and a sensation of loneliness and injustice hung heavy at his
heart.

His first interruption was a merry voice. “I say, June, there’s no
end of river cray-fish under that bank,” and Larkins’s droll face was
looking up at him, from that favourite position, half stooping, his
hands on his knees, his expression of fun trying to conceal his real
anxiety and sympathy.

Norman turned and smiled, and looked for the cray-fish, and, at the same
time, became aware of Hector Ernescliffe, watching for an opportunity to
say, “I have a letter from Alan.” He knew they wanted, as far as little
boys ventured to seek after one so much their elder, to show themselves
his friends, and he was grateful; he roused himself to hear about Alan’s
news, and found it was important--his great friend, Captain Gordon, had
got a ship, and hoped to be able to take him, and this might lead to
Harry’s going with him. Then Norman applied himself to the capture of
cray-fish, and Larkins grew so full of fun and drollery, that the hours
of recreation passed off less gloomily than they had begun.

If only his own brother would have been his adherent! But he saw almost
nothing of Tom. Day after day he missed him, he was off before him in
going and returning from school, and when he caught a sight of his face,
it looked harassed, pale, and miserable, stealing anxious glances after
him, yet shrinking from his eye. But, at the same time, Norman did not
see him mingling with his former friends, and could not make out how he
disposed of himself. To be thus continually shunned by his own brother,
even when the general mass were returning to ordinary terms, became
so painful, that Norman was always on the watch to seek for one more
conversation with him.

He caught him at last in the evening, just as they were going home.
“Tom, why are you running away? Come with me,” said he authoritatively;
and Tom obeyed in trembling.

Norman led the way to the meads. “Tom,” said he, “do not let this go on.
Why do you serve me in this way? You surely need not turn against me,”
 he said, with pleading melancholy in his voice.

It was not needed. Tom had flung himself upon the grass, and was in an
agony of crying, even before he had finished the words.

“Tom, Tom! what is the matter? Have they been bullying you again? Look
up, and tell me--what is it? You know I can stand by you still, if
you’ll only let me;” and Norman sat by him on the grass, and raised his
face by a sort of force, but the kind words only brought more piteous
sobs. It was a long time before they diminished enough to let him utter
a word, but Norman went on patiently consoling and inquiring, sure, at
least, that here had broken down the sullenness that had always repelled
him.

At last came the words, “Oh! I cannot bear it. It is all my doing!”

“What--how--you don’t mean this happening to me? It is not your doing,
August--what fancy is this?”

“Oh, yes, it is,” said Tom, his voice cut short by gasps, the remains
of the sobs. “They would not hear me! I tried to tell them how you
told them not, and sent them home. I tried to tell about
Ballhatchet--but--but they wouldn’t--they said if it had been Harry,
they would have attended--but they would not believe me. Oh! if Harry
was but here!”

“I wish he was,” said Norman, from the bottom of his heart; “but you
see, Tom, if this sets you on always telling truth, I shan’t think any
great harm done.”

A fresh burst, “Oh, they are all so glad! They say such things! And the
Mays were never in disgrace before. Oh, Norman, Norman!”

“Never mind about that--” began Norman.

“But you would mind,” broke in the boy passionately, “if you knew what
Anderson junior and Axworthy say! They say it serves you right, and they
were going to send me to old Ballhatchet’s to get some of his stuff to
drink confusion to the mouth of June, and all pragmatical meddlers; and
when I said I could not go, they vowed if I did not, I should eat the
corks for them! And Anderson junior called me names, and licked me. Look
there.” He showed a dark blue-and-red stripe raised on the palm of his
hand. “I could not write well for it these three days, and Hawes gave me
double copies!”

“The cowardly fellows!” exclaimed Norman indignantly. “But you did not
go?”

“No, Anderson senior stopped them. He said he would not have the
Ballhatchet business begin again.”

“That is one comfort,” said Norman. “I see he does not dare not to keep
order. But if you’ll only stay with me, August, I’ll take care they
don’t hurt you.”

“Oh, June! June!” and he threw himself across his kind brother. “I am so
very sorry! Oh! to see you put down--and hear them! And you to lose the
scholarship! Oh, dear! oh, dear! and be in disgrace with them all!”

“But, Tom, do cheer up. It is nothing to be in such distress at. Papa
knows all about it, and while he does, I don’t care half so much.”

“Oh, I wish--I wish--”

“You see, Tom,” said Norman, “after all, though it is very kind of you
to be sorry for not being able to get me out of this scrape, the thing
one wants you to be sorry about is your own affair.”

“I wish I had never come to school! I wish Anderson would leave me
alone! It is all his fault! A mean-spirited, skulking, bullying--”

“Hush, hush, Tom, he is bad enough, but now you know what he is, you
can keep clear of him for the future. Now listen. You and I will make
a fresh start, and try if we can’t get the Mays to be looked on as they
were when Harry was here. Let us mind the rules, and get into no more
mischief.”

“You’ll keep me from Ned Anderson and Axworthy?” whispered Tom.

“Yes, that I will. And you’ll try and speak the truth, and be
straightforward?”

“I will, I will,” said Tom, worn out in spirits by his long bondage, and
glad to catch at the hope of relief and protection.

“Then let us come home,” and Tom put his hand into his brother’s, as a
few weeks back would have seemed most unworthy of schoolboy dignity.

Thenceforth Tom was devoted to Norman, and kept close to him, sure that
the instant he was from under his wing his former companions would fall
on him to revenge his defection, but clinging to him also from real
affection and gratitude. Indolence and timidity were the true root of
what had for a time seemed like a positively bad disposition; beneath,
there was a warm heart, and sense of right, which had been almost
stifled for the time, in the desire, from moment to moment, to avoid
present trouble or fear. Under Norman’s care his better self had
freer scope, he was guarded from immediate terror, and kept from the
suggestions of the worse sort of boys, as much as was in his brother’s
power; and the looks they cast towards him, and the sly torments they
attempted to inflict, by no means invited him back to them. The lessons,
where he had a long inveterate habit of shuffling, came under Norman’s
eye at the same time. He always prepared them in his presence,
instead of in the most secret manner possible, and with all Anderson’s
expeditious modes of avoiding the making them of any use. Norman sat by,
and gave such help as was fair and just, showed him how to learn, and
explained difficulties, and the ingenuity hitherto spent in eluding
learning being now directed to gaining it, he began to make real
progress and find satisfaction in it. The comfort of being good dawned
upon him once more, but still there was much to contend with; he had
acquired such a habit of prevarication that, if by any means taken by
surprise, his impulse was to avoid giving a straightforward answer,
and when he recollected his sincerity, the truth came with the air of
falsehood. Moreover, he was an arrant coward, and provoked tricks by his
manifest and unreasonable terrors. It was no slight exercise of patience
that Norman underwent, but this was the interest he had made for
himself; and the recovery of the boy’s attachment, and his improvement,
though slow, were a present recompense.

Ernescliffe, Larkins, and others of the boys, held fast to him, and
after the first excitement was past, all the rest returned to their
former tone. He was decidedly as much respected as ever, and, at the
same time, regarded with more favour than when his strictness was
resented. And as for the discipline of the school, that did not suffer.
Anderson felt that, for his own credit, he must not allow the rules
to be less observed than in May’s reign, and he enforced them upon the
reluctant and angry boys with whom he had been previously making common
cause. Dr. Hoxton boasted to the under-masters that the school had never
been in such good order as under Anderson, little guessing that this was
but reaping the fruits of a past victory, or that every boy in the whole
school gave the highest place in their esteem to the deposed dux.

To Anderson, Norman’s cordial manner and ready support were the
strangest part of all, only explained by thinking that he deemed it, as
he tried to do himself, merely the fortune of war, and was sensible of
no injury.

And, for Norman himself, when the first shock was over, and he was
accustomed to the change, he found the cessation of vigilance a relief,
and carried a lighter heart than any time since his mother’s death.
His sisters could not help observing that there was less sadness in the
expression of his eyes, that he carried his head higher, walked with
freedom and elasticity of step, tossed and flourished the Daisy till she
shouted and crowed, while Margaret shrank at such freaks; and, though he
was not much of a laugher himself, contributed much sport in the way of
bright apposite sayings to the home circle.

It was a very unexpected mode of cure for depression of spirits, but
there could be no question that it succeeded; and when, a few Saturdays
after, he drove Dr. May again to Groveswood to see young Mr. Lake,
who was recovering, he brought Margaret home a whole pile of botanical
curiosities, and drew his father into an animated battle over natural
and Linnaean systems, which kept the whole party merry with the pros and
cons every evening for a week.




CHAPTER XXIII.



     Oh! the golden-hearted daisies,
       Witnessed there before my youth,
     To the truth of things, with praises
       Of the beauty of the truth.--E. B. BROWNING.


“Margaret, see here.”

The doctor threw into her lap a letter, which made her cheeks light up.

Mr. Ernescliffe wrote that his father’s friend, Captain Gordon, having
been appointed to the frigate Alcestis, had chosen him as one of his
lieutenants, and offered a nomination as naval cadet for his brother. He
had replied that the navy was not Hector’s destination, but, as Captain
Gordon had no one else in view, had prevailed on him to pass on the
proposal to Harry May.

Alan wrote in high terms of his captain, declaring that he esteemed the
having sailed with him as one of the greatest advantages he had ever
received, and adding that, for his own part, Dr. May needed no promise
from him to be assured that he would watch over Harry like his own
brother. It was believed that the Alcestis was destined for the South
American station.

“A three years’ business,” said Dr. May, with a sigh. “But the thing is
done, and this is as good as we can hope.”

“Far better!” said Margaret. “What pleasure it must have given him! Dear
Harry could not sail under more favourable circumstances.”

“No, I would trust to Ernescliffe as I would to Richard. It is kindly
done, and I will thank him at once. Where does he date from?”

“From Portsmouth. He does not say whether he has seen Harry.”

“I suppose he waited for my answer. Suppose I enclose a note for him to
give to Harry. There will be rapture enough, and it is a pity he should
not have the benefit of it.”

The doctor sat down to write, while Margaret worked and mused, perhaps
on outfits and new shirts--perhaps on Harry’s lion-locks, beneath a blue
cap and gold band, or, perchance, on the coral shoals of the Pacific.

It was one of the quiet afternoons, when all the rest were out, and
which the doctor and his daughter especially valued, when they were able
to spend one together without interruption. Soon, however, a ring at
the door brought an impatient exclamation from the doctor; but his smile
beamed out at the words, “Miss Rivers.” They were great friends; in
fact, on terms of some mutual sauciness, though Meta was, as yet, far
less at home with his daughters, and came in, looking somewhat shy.

“Ah, your congeners are gone out!” was the doctor’s reception. “You must
put up with our sober selves.”

“Is Flora gone far?” asked Meta.

“To Cocksmoor,” said Margaret. “I am very sorry she has missed you.”

“Shall I be in your way?” said Meta timidly. “Papa has several things to
do, and said he would call for me here.”

“Good luck for Margaret,” said Dr. May.

“So they are gone to Cocksmoor!” said Meta. “How I envy them!”

“You would not if you saw the place,” said Dr. May. “I believe Norman is
very angry with me for letting them go near it.”

“Ah! but they are of real use there!”

“And Miss Meta is obliged to take to envying the black-hole of
Cocksmoor, instead of being content with the eglantine bowers of
Abbotstoke! I commiserate her!” said the doctor.

“If I did any good instead of harm at Abbotstoke!”

“Harm!” exclaimed Margaret.

“They went on very well without me,” said Meta; “but ever since I have
had the class they have been getting naughtier and noisier every Sunday;
and, last Sunday, the prettiest of all--the one I liked best, and had
done everything for--she began to mimic me--held up her finger, as I
did, and made them all laugh!”

“Well, that is very bad!” said Margaret; “but I suppose she was a very
little one.”

“No, a quick clever one, who knew much better, about nine years old. She
used to be always at home in the week, dragging about a great baby; and
we managed that her mother should afford to stay at home and send her to
school. It seemed such a pity her cleverness should be wasted.”

The doctor smiled. “Ah! depend upon it, the tyrant-baby was the best
disciplinarian.”

Meta looked extremely puzzled.

“Papa means,” said Margaret, “that if she was inclined to be conceited,
the being teased at home might do her more good than being brought
forward at school.”

“I have done everything wrong, it seems,” said Meta, with a shade of
what the French call depit. “I thought it must be right and good--but
it has only done mischief; and now papa says they are an ungrateful set,
and that, if it vexes me, I had better have no more to do with them!”

“It does not vex you so much as that, I hope,” said Margaret.

“Oh, I could not bear that!” said Meta; “but it is so different from
what I thought!”

“Ah! you had an Arcadia of good little girls in straw hats, such as I
see in Blanche’s little books,” said the doctor, “all making the young
lady an oracle, and doing wrong--if they do it at all--in the simplest
way, just for an example to the others.”

“Dr. May! How can you know so well? But do you really think it is their
fault, or mine?”

“Do you think me a conjurer?”

“Well, but what do you think?”

“What do Mr. and Mrs. Charles Wilmot think?”

“I know Mrs. Wilmot thinks I spoil my class. She spoke to me about
making favourites, and sometimes has seemed surprised at things which
I have done. Last Sunday she told me she thought I had better have a
steadier class, and I know whom she will give me--the great big, stupid
ones, at the bottom of the first class! I do believe it is only out
of good-nature that she does not tell me not to teach at all. I have a
great mind I will not; I know I do nothing but harm.”

“What shall you say if I tell you I think so too?” asked the doctor.

“Oh, Dr. May, you don’t really? Now, does he, Miss May? I am sure I only
want to do them good. I don’t know what I can have done.”

Margaret made her perceive that the doctor was smiling, and she changed
her tone, and earnestly begged to be told what they thought of the case;
for if she should show her concern at home, her father and governess
would immediately beg her to cease from all connection with the school,
and she did not feel at all convinced that Mrs. Wilmot liked to have her
there. Feeling injured by the implied accusation of mismanagement, yet,
with a sense of its truth, used to be petted, and new to rebuffs, yet
with a sincere wish to act rightly, she was much perplexed by this, her
first reverse, and had come partly with the view of consulting Flora,
though she had fallen on other counsellors.

“Margaret, our adviser general,” said the doctor, “what do you say? Put
yourself in the place of Mrs. Charles Wilmot, and say, shall Miss Rivers
teach or not?”

“I had rather you would, papa.”

“Not I--I never kept school.”

“Well, then, I being Mrs. Wilmot, should certainly be mortified if Miss
Rivers deserted me because the children were naughty. I think, I think I
had rather she came and asked me what she had better do.”

“And you would answer ‘teach,’ for fear of vexing her,” said Meta.

“I should, and also for the sake of letting her learn to teach.”

“The point where only trial shows one’s ignorance,” said Dr. May.

“But I don’t want to do it for my own sake,” said Meta. “I do everything
for my own sake already.”

“For theirs, then,” said the doctor. “If teaching will not come by
nature, you must serve an apprenticeship, if you mean to be of service
in that line. Perhaps it was the gift that the fairies omitted.”

“But will it do any good to them?”

“I can’t tell; but I am sure it would do them harm for you to give it
up, because it is disagreeable.”

“Well,” said Meta, with a sigh, “I’ll go and talk to Mrs. Wilmot. I
could not bear to give up anything that seems right just now, because of
the Confirmation.”

Margaret eagerly inquired, and it appeared that the bishop had given
notice for a Confirmation in August, and that Mr. Wilmot was already
beginning to prepare his candidates, whilst Mr. Ramsden, always tardy,
never gave notice till the last moment possible. The hope was expressed
that Harry might be able to profit by this opportunity; and Harry’s
prospects were explained to Meta; then the doctor, recollecting
something that he wished to say to Mr. Rivers, began to ask about the
chance of his coming before the time of an engagement of his own.

“He said he should be here at about half-past four,” said Meta. “He is
gone to the station to inquire about the trains. Do you know what time
the last comes in?”

“At nine forty-five,” said the doctor.

“That is what we were afraid of. It is for Bellairs, my maid. Her mother
is very ill, and she is afraid she is not properly nursed. It is about
five miles from the Milbury Station, and we thought of letting her go
with a day-ticket to see about her. She could go in the morning, after
I am up; but I don’t know what is to be done, for she could not get back
before I dress for dinner.”

Margaret felt perfectly aghast at the cool tone, especially after what
had passed.

“It would be quite impossible,” said the doctor. “Even going by the
eight o’clock train, and returning by the last, she would only have two
hours to spare--short enough measure for a sick mother.”

“Papa means to give her whatever she wants for any nurse she may get.”

“Is there no one with her mother now?”

“A son’s wife, who, they think, is not kind. Poor Bellairs was so
grateful for being allowed to go home. I wonder if I could dress for
once without her?”

“Do you know old Crabbe?” said the doctor.

“The dear old man at Abbotstoke? Oh, yes, of course.”

“There was a very sad case in his family. The mother was dying of
a lingering illness, when the son met with a bad accident. The only
daughter was a lady’s-maid, and could not be spared, though the brother
was half crazy to see her, and there was no one to tend them but a
wretch of a woman, paid by the parish. The poor fellow kept calling for
his sister in his delirium, and, at last, I could not help writing to
the mistress.”

“Did she let her come?” said Meta, her cheek glowing.

“As a great favour, she let her set out by the mail train, after
dressing her for a ball, with orders to return in time for her toilette
for an evening party the next day.”

“Oh, I remember,” said Margaret, “her coming here at five in the
morning, and your taking her home.”

“And when we got to Abbotstoke the brother was dead. That parish nurse
had not attended to my directions, and, I do believe, was the cause of
it. The mother had had a seizure, and was in the most precarious state.”

“Surely she stayed!”

“It was as much as her place was worth,” said the doctor; “and her wages
were the chief maintenance of the family. So she had to go back to dress
her mistress, while the old woman lay there, wailing after Betsy. She
did give warning then, but, before the month was out, the mother was
dead.”

Meta did not speak, and Dr. May presently rose, saying he should try to
meet Mr. Rivers in the town, and went out. Meta sat thoughtful, and at
last, sighing, said, “I wonder whether Bellairs’s mother is so very ill?
I have a great mind to let Susan try to do my hair, and let Bellairs
stay a little longer. I never thought of that.”

“I do not think you will be sorry,” said Margaret.

“Yes, I shall, for if my hair does not look nice, papa will not be
pleased, and there is Aunt Leonora coming. How odd it will be to be
without Bellairs! I will ask Mrs. Larpent.”

“Oh, yes!” said Margaret. “You must not think we meant to advise; but
papa has seen so many instances of distress, from servants not spared to
their friends in illness, that he feels strongly on the subject.”

“And I really might have been as cruel as that woman!” said Meta. “Well,
I hope Mrs. Bellairs may be better, and able to spare her daughter. I
don’t know what will become of me without her.”

“I think it will have been a satisfaction in one way,” said Margaret.

“In what way?”

“Don’t you remember what you began by complaining of, that you could not
be of use? Now, I fancy this would give you the pleasure of undergoing a
little personal inconvenience for the good of another.”

Meta looked half puzzled, half thoughtful, and Margaret, who was a
little uneasy at the style of counsel she found herself giving, changed
the conversation.

It was a memorable one to little Miss Rivers, opening out to her, as did
almost all her meetings with that family, a new scope for thought and
for duty. The code to which she had been brought up taught that
servants were the machines of their employer’s convenience. Good-nature
occasioned much kindliness of manner and intercourse, and every luxury
and indulgence was afforded freely; but where there was any want of
accordance between the convenience of the two parties, there was no
question. The master must be the first object, the servants’ remedy was
in their own hands.

Amiable as was Mr. Rivers, this, merely from indulgence and want of
reflection, was his principle; and his daughter had only been acting
on it, though she did not know it, till the feelings that she had
never thought of were thus displayed before her. These were her first
practical lessons that life was not meant to be passed in pleasing
ourselves, and being good-natured at small cost.

It was an effort. Meta was very dependent, never having been encouraged
to be otherwise, and Bellairs was like a necessary of life in her
estimation; but strength of principle came to aid her naturally
kind-hearted feeling, and she was pleased by the idea of voluntarily
undergoing a privation so as to test her sincerity.

So when her father told her of the inconvenient times of the trains, and
declared that Bellairs must give it up, she answered by proposing to let
her sleep a night or two there, gaily promised to manage very well, and
satisfied him.

Her maid’s grateful looks and thanks recompensed her when she made
the offer to her, and inspirited her to an energetic coaxing of Mrs.
Larpent, who, being more fully aware than her father of the needfulness
of the lady’s-maid, and also very anxious that her darling should appear
to the best advantage before the expected aunt, Lady Leonora Langdale,
was unwilling to grant more than one night at the utmost.

Meta carried the day, and her last assurance to Bellairs was that she
might stay as long as seemed necessary to make her mother comfortable.

Thereupon Meta found herself more helpful in some matters than she
had expected, but at a loss in others. Susan, with all Mrs. Larpent’s
supervision, could not quite bring her dress to the air that was so
peculiarly graceful and becoming; and she often caught her papa’s eye
looking at her as if he saw something amiss, and could not discover what
it was. Then came Aunt Leonora, always very kind to Meta, but the dread
of the rest of the household, whom she was wont to lecture on the
proper care of her niece. Miss Rivers was likely to have a considerable
fortune, and Lady Leonora intended her to be a very fashionable and much
admired young lady, under her own immediate protection.

The two cousins, Leonora and Agatha, talked to her; the one of her
balls, the other of her music--patronised her, and called her their good
little cousin--while they criticised the stiff set of those unfortunate
plaits made by Susan, and laughed, as if it was an unheard-of
concession, at Bellairs’s holiday.

Nevertheless, when “Honoured Miss” received a note, begging for three
days’ longer grace, till a niece should come, in whom Bellairs could
place full confidence, she took it on herself to return free consent.
Lady Leonora found out what she had done, and reproved her, telling her
it was only the way to make “those people” presume, and Mrs. Larpent
was also taken to task; but, decidedly, Meta did not regret what she had
done, though she felt as if she had never before known how to appreciate
comfort, when she once more beheld Bellairs stationed at her toilette
table.

Meta was asked about her friends. She could not mention any one but Mrs.
Charles Wilmot and the Misses May.

“Physician’s daughters; oh!” said Lady Leonora.

And she proceeded to exhort Mr. Rivers to bring his daughter to London,
or its neighbourhood, where she might have masters, and be in the way of
forming intimacies suited to her connections.

Mr. Rivers dreaded London--never was well there, and did not like the
trouble of moving--while Meta was so attached to the Grange, that she
entreated him not to think of leaving it, and greatly dreaded her aunt’s
influence. Lady Leonora did, indeed, allow that the Grange was a very
pretty place; her only complaint was the want of suitable society for
Meta; she could not bear the idea of her growing accustomed--for want of
something better--to the vicar’s wife and the pet doctor’s daughters.

Flora had been long desirous to effect a regular call at Abbotstoke, and
it was just now that she succeeded. Mrs. Charles Wilmot’s little girl
was to have a birthday feast, at which Mary, Blanche, and Aubrey were
to appear. Flora went in charge of them, and as soon as she had safely
deposited them, and appointed Mary to keep Aubrey out of mischief, she
walked up to the Grange, not a whit daunted by the report of the very
fine ladies who were astonishing the natives of Abbotstoke.

She was admitted, and found herself in the drawing-room, with a quick
lively-looking lady, whom she perceived to be Lady Leonora, and who
instantly began talking to her very civilly. Flora was never at a loss,
and they got on extremely well; her ease and self-possession, without
forwardness, telling much to her advantage. Meta came in, delighted to
see her, but, of course, the visit resulted in no really intimate talk,
though it was not without effect. Flora declared Lady Leonora Langdale
to be a most charming person; and Lady Leonora, on her side, asked
Meta who was that very elegant conversible girl. “Flora May,” was
the delighted answer, now that the aunt had committed herself by
commendation. And she did not retract it; she pronounced Flora to be
something quite out of the common way, and supposed that she had had
unusual advantages.

Mr. Rivers took care to introduce to his sister-in-law Dr. May (who
would fain have avoided it), but ended by being in his turn pleased and
entertained by her brilliant conversation, which she put forth for
him, as her instinct showed her that she was talking to a man of high
ability. A perfect gentleman she saw him to be, and making out some
mutual connections far up in the family tree of the Mackenzies,
she decided that the May family were an acquisition, and very good
companions for her niece at present, while not yet come out. So ended
the visit, with this great triumph for Meta, who had a strong belief in
Aunt Leonora’s power and infallibility, and yet had not consulted her
about Bellairs, nor about the school question.

She had missed one Sunday’s school on account of her aunt’s visit, but
the resolution made beside Margaret’s sofa had not been forgotten. She
spent her Saturday afternoon in a call on Mrs. Wilmot, ending with a
walk through the village; she confessed her ignorance, apologised for
her blunders, and put herself under the direction which once she had
fancied too strict and harsh to be followed.

And on Sunday she was content to teach the stupid girls, and abstain
from making much of the smooth-faced engaging set. She thought it very
dull work, but she could feel that it was something not done to please
herself; and whereas her father had feared she would be dull when her
cousins were gone, he found her more joyous than ever.

There certainly was a peculiar happiness about Margaret Rivers; her
vexations were but ripples, rendering the sunny course of her life more
sparkling, and each exertion in the way of goodness was productive of so
much present joy that the steps of her ladder seemed, indeed, to be of
diamonds.

Her ladder--for she was, indeed, mounting upwards. She was very earnest
in her Confirmation preparation, most anxious to do right and to contend
with her failings; but the struggle at present was easy; and the hopes,
joys, and incentives shone out more and more upon her in this blithe
stage of her life.

She knew there was a dark side, but hope and love were more present to
her than was fear. Happy those to whom such young days are granted.




CHAPTER XXIV.



     It is the generous spirit, who, when brought
     Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought
     Upon the plan that pleased his childish thought,
     Whose high endeavours are an inward light,
     Making the path before him always bright.
                                          WORDSWORTH.


The holidays had commenced about a week when Harry, now duly appointed
to H. M. S. Alcestis, was to come home on leave, as he proudly expressed
it.

A glad troop of brothers and sisters, with the doctor himself, walked up
to the station to meet him, and who was happiest when, from the window,
was thrust out the rosy face, with the gold band? Mary gave such a
shriek and leap, that two passengers and one guard turned round to look
at her, to the extreme discomfiture of Flora and Norman, evidenced by
one by a grave “Mary! Mary!” by the other, by walking off to the extreme
end of the platform, and trying to look as if he did not belong to them,
in which he was imitated by his shadow, Tom.

Sailor already, rather than schoolboy, Harry cared not for spectators;
his bound from the carriage, and the hug between him, and Mary would
have been worthy of the return from the voyage. The next greeting was
for his father, and the sisters had had their share by the time the two
brothers thought fit to return from their calm walk on the platform.

Grand was it to see that party return to the town--the naval cadet,
with his arm linked in Mary’s, and Aubrey clinging to his hand, and the
others walking behind, admiring him as he turned his bright face every
moment with some glad question or answer, “How was Margaret?” Oh, so
much better; she had been able to walk across the room, with Norman’s
arm round her--they hoped she would soon use crutches--and she sat up
more. “And the baby?” More charming than ever--four teeth--would soon
walk--such a darling! Then came “my dirk, the ship, our berth.” “Papa,
do ask Mr. Ernescliffe to come here. I know he could get leave.”

“Mr. Ernescliffe! You used to call him Alan!” said Mary.

“Yes, but that is all over now. You forget what we do on board. Captain
Gordon himself calls me Mr. May!”

Some laughed, others were extremely impressed.

“Ha! There’s Ned Anderson coming,” cried Mary. “Now! Let him see you,
Harry.”

“What matters Ned Anderson to me?” said Harry; and, with an odd
mixture of shamefacedness and cordiality, he marched full up to his old
school-fellow, and shook hands with him, as if able, in the plenitude of
his officership, to afford plenty of good-humoured superiority. Tom had
meantime subsided out of all view. But poor Harry’s exultation had a
fall.

“Well!” graciously inquired ‘Mr. May’, “and how is Harvey?”

“Oh, very well. We are expecting him home to-morrow.”

“Where has he been?”

“To Oxford, about the Randall.”

Harry gave a disturbed, wondering look round, on seeing Edward’s air of
malignant satisfaction. He saw nothing that reassured him, except the
quietness of Norman’s own face, but even that altered as their eyes met.
Before another word could be said, however, the doctor’s hand was on
Harry’s shoulder.

“You must not keep him now, Ned,” said he--“his sister has not seen him
yet.”

And he moved his little procession onwards, still resting on Harry’s
shoulder, while a silence had fallen on all, and even the young sailor
ventured no question. Only Tom’s lips were quivering, and Ethel had
squeezed Norman’s hand. “Poor Harry!” he muttered, “this is worst of
all! I wish we had written it to him.”

“So do I now, but we always trusted it would come right. Oh! if I were
but a boy to flog that Edward!”

“Hush, Ethel, remember what we resolved.”

They were entering their own garden, where, beneath the shade of the
tulip-tree, Margaret lay on her couch. Her arms were held out, and Harry
threw himself upon her, but when he rose from her caress, Norman and Tom
were gone.

“What is this?” he now first ventured to ask.

“Come with me,” said Dr. May, leading the way to his study, where he
related the whole history of the suspicion that Norman had incurred.
He was glad that he had done so in private, for Harry’s indignation and
grief went beyond his expectations; and when at last it appeared that
Harvey Anderson was actually Randall-scholar, after opening his
eyes with the utmost incredulity, and causing it to be a second time
repeated, he gave a gulp or two, turned very red, and ended by laying
his head on the table, and fairly sobbing and crying aloud, in spite of
dirk, uniform, and manhood.

“Harry! why, Harry, my boy! We should have prepared you for this,” said
the doctor affectionately. “We have left off breaking our hearts about
it. I don’t want any comfort now for having gold instead of glitter;
though at first I was as bad as you.”

“Oh, if I had but been there!” said Harry, combating unsuccessfully with
his tears.

“Ah! so we all said, Norman and all. Your word would have cleared
him--that is, if you had not been in the thick of the mischief. Ha!
July, should not you have been on the top of the wall?”

“I would have stood by him, at least. Would not I have given Axworthy
and Anderson two such black eyes as they could not have shown in school
for a week? They had better look out!” cried Harry savagely.

“What! An officer in her Majesty’s service! Eh, Mr. May?”

“Don’t, papa, don’t. Oh! I thought it would have been so happy, when I
came home, to see Norman Randall-scholar. Oh! now I don’t care for the
ship, nor anything.” Again Harry’s face went down on the table.

“Come, come, Harry,” said Dr. May, pulling off the spectacles that had
become very dewy, “don’t let us make fools of ourselves, or they will
think we are dying for the scholarship.”

“I don’t care for the scholarship, but to have June turned down--and
disgrace--”

“What I care for, Harry, is having June what he is, and that I know
better now.”

“He is! he is--he is June himself, and no mistake!” cried Harry, with
vehemence.

“The prime of the year, is not it?” said the doctor, smiling, as he
stroked down the blue sleeve, as if he thought that generous July did
not fall far short of it.

“That he is!” exclaimed Harry. “I have never met one fellow like him.”

“It will be a chance if you ever do,” said Dr. May. “That is better than
scholarships!”

“It should have been both,” said Harry.

“Norman thinks the disappointment has been very good for him,” said the
doctor.

“Perhaps it made him what he is now. All success is no discipline, you
know.”

Harry looked as if he did not know.

“Perhaps you will understand better by-and-by, but this I can tell you,
Harry, that the patient bearing of his vexation has done more to renew
Norman’s spirits than all his prosperity. See if if has not. I believe
it is harder to every one of us, than to him. To Ethel, especially, it
is a struggle to be in charity with the Andersons.”

“In charity!” repeated Harry. “Papa! you don’t want us to like a horrid,
sneaking, mean-spirited pair like those, that have used Norman in that
shameful way?”

“No, certainly not; I only want you to feel no more personal anger
than if it had been Cheviot, or some indifferent person, that had been
injured.”

“I should have hated them all the same!” cried Harry.

“If it is all the same, and it is the treachery you hate, I ask no
more,” said the doctor.

“I can’t help it, papa, I can’t! If I were to meet those fellows, do
you think I could shake hands with them? If I did not lick Ned all down
Minster Street, he might think himself lucky.”

“Well, Harry, I won’t argue any more. I have no right to preach
forbearance. Your brother’s example is better worth than my precept.
Shall we go back to Margaret, or have you anything to say to me?”

Harry made no positive answer, but pressed close to his father, who
put his arm round him, while the curly head was laid on his shoulder.
Presently he said, with a great sigh, “There’s nothing like home.”

“Was that what you wanted to say?” asked Dr. May, smiling, as he held
the boy more closely to him.

“No; but it will be a long time before I come back. They think we shall
have orders for the Pacific.”

“You will come home our real lion,” said the doctor. “How much you will
have to tell!”

“Yes,” said Harry; “but oh! it is very different from coming home every
night, not having any one to tell a thing to.”

“Do you want to say anything now?”

“I don’t know. I told you in my letter about the half-sovereign.”

“Ay, never mind that.”

“And there was one night, I am afraid, I did not stand by a little
fellow that they bullied about his prayers. Perhaps he would have gone
on, if I had helped him!”

“Does he sail with you?”

“No, he was at school. If I had told him that he and I would stand by
each other--but he looked so foolish, and began to cry! I am sorry now.”

“Weak spirits have much to bear,” said the doctor, “and you stronger
ones, who don’t mind being bullied, are meant, I suppose, to help them,
as Norman has been doing by poor little Tommy.”

“It was thinking of Norman--that made me sorry. I knew there was
something else, but you see I forget when I don’t see you and Margaret
every day.”

“You have One always near, my boy.”

“I know, but I cannot always recollect. And there is such a row at night
on board, I cannot think or attend as I ought,” murmured Harry.

“Yes, your life, sleeping at home in quiet, has not prepared you for
that trial,” said the doctor. “But others have kept upright habits under
the same, you know--and God helps those who are doing their best.”

Harry sighed.

“I mean to do my best,” he added; “and if it was not for feeling bad,
I should like it. I do like it”--and his eye sparkled, and his smile
beamed, though the tear was undried.

“I know you do!” said Dr. May, smiling, “and for feeling bad, my Harry,
I fear you must do that by sea, or land, as long as you are in this
world. God be thanked that you grieve over the feeling. But He is ready
to aid, and knows the trial, and you will be brought nearer to Him
before you leave us.”

“Margaret wrote about the Confirmation. Am I old enough?”

“If you wish it, Harry, under these circumstances.”

“I suppose I do,” said Harry, uneasily twirling a button.

“But then, if I’ve got to forgive the Andersons--”

“We won’t talk any more of that,” said the doctor; “here is poor Mary,
reconnoitring, to know why I am keeping you from her.”

Then began the scampering up and down the house, round and round the
garden, visiting every pet or haunt or contrivance; Mary and Harry at
the head, Blanche and Tom in full career after them, and Aubrey stumping
and scrambling at his utmost speed, far behind.

Not a word passed between Norman and Harry on the school misadventure,
but, after the outbreak of the latter, he treated it as a thing
forgotten, and brought all his high spirits to enliven the family party.
Richard, too, returned later on the same day, and though not received
with the same uproarious joy as Harry, the elder section of the family
were as happy in their way as what Blanche called the middle-aged. The
Daisy was brought down, and the eleven were again all in the same room,
though there were suppressed sighs from some, who reflected how long it
might be before they could again assemble.

Tea went off happily in the garden, with much laughing and talking.
“Pity to leave such good company!” said the doctor, unwillingly rising
at last--“but I must go to the Union--I promised Ward to meet him
there.”

“Oh, let me walk with you!” cried Harry.

“And me!” cried other voices, and the doctor proposed that they should
wait for him in the meads, and extend the walk after the visit. Richard
and Ethel both expressing their intention of adhering to Margaret--the
latter observing how nice it would be to get rid of everybody, and have
a talk.

“What have we been doing all this time?” said Dr. May, laughing.

“Chattering, not conversing,” said Ethel saucily.

“Ay! the Cocksmoor board is going to sit,” said Dr. May.

“What is a board?” inquired Blanche, who had just come down prepared for
her walk.

“Richard, Margaret, and Ethel, when they sit upon Cocksmoor,” said Dr.
May.

“But Margaret never does sit on Cocksmoor, papa.”

“Only allegorically, Blanche,” said Norman.

“But I don’t understand what is a board?” pursued Blanche.

“Mr. May in his ship,” was Norman’s suggestion.

Poor Blanche stood in perplexity. “What is it really?”

“Something wooden headed,” continued the provoking papa.

“A board is all wooden, not only its head,” said Blanche.

“Exactly so, especially at Stoneborough!” said the doctor.

“It is what papa is when he comes out of the council-room,” added Ethel.

“Or what every one is while the girls are rigging themselves,” sighed
Harry. “Ha! here’s Polly--now we only want Flora.”

“And my stethoscope! Has any one seen my stethoscope!” exclaimed the
doctor, beginning to rush frantically into the study, dining-room,
and his own room; but failing, quietly took up a book, and gave up the
search, which was vigorously pursued by Richard, Flora, and Mary, until
the missing article was detected, where Aubrey had left it in the nook
on the stairs, after using it for a trumpet and a telescope.

“Ah! now my goods will have a chance!” said Dr. May, as he took it, and
patted Richard’s shoulder. “I have my best right hand, and Margaret will
be saved endless sufferings.”

“Papa!”

“Ay! poor dear! don’t I see what she undergoes, when nobody will
remember that useful proverb, ‘A place for everything, and everything in
its place.’ I believe one use of her brains is to make an inventory of
all the things left about the drawing-room; but, beyond it, it is past
her power.”

“Yes,” said Flora, rather aggrieved; “I do the best I can, but, when
nobody ever puts anything into its place, what can I do, single-handed?
So no one ever goes anywhere without first turning the house upside down
for their property; and Aubrey, and now even baby, are always carrying
whatever they can lay hands on into the nursery. I can’t bear it; and
the worst of it is that,” she added, finishing her lamentation, after
the others were out at the door, “papa and Ethel have neither of them
the least shame about it.”

“No, no, Flora, that is not fair!” exclaimed Margaret--but Flora was
gone.

“I have shame,” sighed Ethel, walking across the room disconsolately, to
put a book into a shelf.

“And you don’t leave things trainants as you used,” said Margaret. “That is
what I meant.”

“I wish I did not,” said Ethel; “I was thinking whether I had better not
make myself pay a forfeit. Suppose you keep a book for me, Margaret,
and make a mark against me at everything I leave about, and if I pay
a farthing for each, it will be so much away from Cocksmoor, so I must
cure myself!”

“And what shall become of the forfeits?” asked Richard.

“Oh, they won’t be enough to be worth having, I hope,” said Margaret.

“Give them to the Ladies’ Committee,” said Ethel, making a face. “Oh,
Ritchie! they are worse than ever. We are so glad that Flora is going to
join it, and see whether she can do any good.”

“We?” said Margaret, hesitating.

“Ah! I know you aren’t, but papa said she might--and you know she has so
much tact and management--”

“As Norman says,” observed Margaret doubtfully. “I cannot like the
notion of Flora going and squabbling with Mrs. Ledwich and Louisa
Anderson!”

“What do you think, Ritchie?” asked Ethel. “Is it not too bad that they
should have it all their own way, and spoil the whole female population?
Why, the last thing they did was to leave off reading the Prayer-book
prayers morning and evening! And it is much expected that next they will
attack all learning by heart.”

“It is too bad,” said Richard, “but Flora can hardly hinder them.”

“It will be one voice,” said Ethel; “but oh! if I could only say half
what I have in my mind, they must see the error. Why, these, these--what
they call formal--these the ties--links on to the Church--on to what is
good--if they don’t learn them soundly--rammed down hard--you know what
I mean--so that they can’t remember the first--remember when they did
not know them--they will never get to learn--know--understand when they
can understand!”

“My dear Ethel, don’t frown so horribly, or it will spoil your
eloquence,” said Margaret.

“I don’t understand either,” said Richard gravely. “Not understand when
they can understand? What do you mean?”

“Why, Ritchie, don’t you see? If they don’t learn them--hard, firm, by
rote when they can’t--they won’t understand when they can.”

“If they don’t learn when they can’t, they won’t understand when they
can?” puzzled Richard, making Margaret laugh; but Ethel was too much in
earnest for amusement.

“If they don’t learn them by rote when they have strong memories. Yes,
that’s it!” she continued; “they will not know them well enough to
understand them when they are old enough!”

“Who won’t learn and understand what?” said Richard.

“Oh, Ritchie, Ritchie! Why the children--the Psalms--the Gospels--the
things. They ought to know them, love them, grow up to them, before they
know the meaning, or they won’t care. Memory, association, affection,
all those come when one is younger than comprehension!”

“Younger than one’s own comprehension?”

“Richard, you are grown more tiresome than ever. Are you laughing at
me?”

“Indeed, I beg your pardon--I did not mean it,” said Richard. “I am very
sorry to be so stupid.”

“My dear Ritchie, it was only my blundering--never mind.”

“But what did you mean? I want to know, indeed, Ethel.”

“I mean that memory and association come before comprehension, so that
one ought to know all good things--fa--with familiarity before one can
understand, because understanding does not make one love. Oh! one does
that before, and, when the first little gleam, little bit of a sparklet
of the meaning does come, then it is so valuable and so delightful.”

“I never heard of a little bit of a sparklet before,” said Richard, “but
I think I do see what Ethel means; and it is like what I heard and liked
in a university sermon some Sundays ago, saying that these lessons and
holy words were to be impressed on us here from infancy on earth, that
we might be always unravelling their meaning, and learn it fully at
last--where we hope to be.”

“The very same thought!” exclaimed Margaret, delighted; “but,” after
a pause, “I am afraid the Ladies’ Committee might not enter into it in
plain English, far less in Ethel’s language.”

“Now, Margaret! You know I never meant myself. I never can get the right
words for what I mean.”

“And you leave about your faux commencements, as M. Ballompre would call
them, for us to stumble over,” said Margaret.

“But Flora would manage!” said Ethel. “She has power over people, and
can influence them. Oh, Ritchie, don’t persuade papa out of letting her
go.”

“Does Mr. Wilmot wish it?” asked Richard.

“I have not heard him say, but he was very much vexed about the
prayers,” said Ethel.

“Will he stay here for the holidays?”

“No, his father has not been well, and he is gone to take his duty. He
walked with us to Cocksmoor before he went, and we did so wish for you.”

“How have you been getting on?”

“Pretty well, on the whole,” said Ethel, “but, oh, dear! oh, dear,
Richard, the M’Carthys are gone!”

“Gone, where?”

“Oh, to Wales. I knew nothing of it till they were off. Una and Fergus
were missing, and Jane Taylor told me they were all gone. Oh, it is so
horrid! Una had really come to be so good and so much in earnest. She
behaved so well at school and church, that even Mrs. Ledwich liked
her, and she used to read her Testament half the day, and bring her
Sunday-school lessons to ask me about! Oh! I was so fond of her, and it
really seemed to have done some good with her. And now it is all lost!
Oh, I wish I knew what would become of my poor child!”

“The only hope is that it may not be all lost,” said Margaret.

“With such a woman for a mother!” said Ethel; “and going to some
heathenish place again! If I could only have seen her first, and begged
her to go to church and say her prayers. If I only knew where she is
gone! but I don’t. I did think Una would have come to wish me good-bye!”

“I am very sorry to lose her,” said Richard.

“Mr. Wilmot says it is bread cast on the waters,” said Margaret--“he was
very kind in consoling Ethel, who came home quite in despair.”

“Yes, he said it was one of the trials,” said Ethel, “and that it might
be better for Una as well as for me. And I am trying to care for the
rest still, but I cannot yet as I did for her. There are none of the
eyes that look as if they were eating up one’s words before they come,
and that smile of comprehension! Oh, they all are such stupid little
dolts, and so indifferent!”

“Why, Ethel!”

“Fancy last Friday--Mary and I found only eight there--”

“Do you remember what a broiling day Friday was?” interrupted Margaret.
“Miss Winter and Norman both told me I ought not to let them go, and I
began to think so when they came home. Mary was the colour of a peony!”

“Oh! it would not have signified if the children had been good for
anything, but all their mothers were out at work, and, of those that
did come, hardly one had learned their lessons--Willy Blake had lost his
spelling-card; Anne Harris kicked Susan Pope, and would not say she was
sorry; Mary Hale would not know M from N, do all our Mary would; and
Jane Taylor, after all the pains I have taken with her, when I asked how
the Israelites crossed the Red Sea, seemed never to have heard of them.”

Margaret could have said that Ethel had come in positively crying with
vexation, but with no diminution of the spirit of perseverance.

“I am so glad you are come, Richard!” she continued. “You will put a
little new life into them. They all looked so pleased when we told them
Mr. Richard was coming.”

“I hope we shall get on,” said Richard.

“I want you to judge whether the Popes are civilised enough to
be dressed for Sunday-school. Oh, and the money! Here is the
account-book--”

“How neatly you have kept it, Ethel.”

“Ah! it was for you, you know. Receipts--see, aren’t you surprised?”

“Four pounds eighteen and eightpence! That is a great deal!”

“The three guineas were Mr. Rivers’s fees, you know; then, Margaret
gave us half-a-sovereign, and Mary a shilling, and there was one that
we picked up, tumbling about the house, and papa said we might have, and
the twopence were little Blanche’s savings. Oh, Ritchie!” as a bright
coin appeared on the book.

“That is all I could save this term,” he said.

“Oh, it is famous! Now, I do think I may put another whole sovereign
away into the purse for the church. See, here is what we have paid.
Shoes--those did bring our money very low, and then I bought a piece of
print which cost sixteen shillings, but it will make plenty of frocks.
So, you see, the balance is actually two pounds nine! That is something.
The nine shillings will go on till we get another fee; for I have two
frocks ready made for the Popes, so the two pounds are a real nest-egg
towards the church.”

“The church!” repeated Rlchard, half smiling.

“I looked in the paper the other day, and saw that a chapel had been
built for nine hundred pounds,” said Ethel.

“And you have two!”

“Two in eight months, Ritchie, and more will come as we get older. I
have a scheme in my head, but I won’t tell you now.”

“Nine hundred! And a church has to be endowed as well as built, you
know, Ethel.”

“Oh! never mind that now. If we can begin and build, some good person
will come and help. I’ll run and fetch it, Ritchie. I drew out a sketch
of what I want it to be.”

“What a girl that is!” said Richard, as Ethel dashed away.

“Is not she?” said Margaret. “And she means all so heartily. Do you know
she has spent nothing on her own pleasures, not a book, not a thing has
she bought this year, except a present for Blanche’s birthday, and some
silk to net a purse for Harry.”

“I cannot help being sometimes persuaded that she will succeed,” said
Richard.

“Faith, energy, self-denial, perseverance, they go a great way,” said
Margaret. “And yet when we look at poor dear Ethel, and her queer
ungainly ways, and think of her building a church!”

Neither Richard nor Margaret could help laughing, but they checked it at
once, and the former said, “That brave spirit is a reproof to us all.”

“Yes,” said Margaret; “and so is the resolution to mend her little
faults.”

Ethel came back, having, of course, mislaid her sketch, and, much vexed,
wished to know if it ought to cause her first forfeit, but Margaret
thought these should not begin till the date of the agreement, and the
three resumed the Cocksmoor discussion.

It lasted till the return of the walking party, so late, that they had
been star-gazing, and came in, in full dispute as to which was Cygnus
and which Aquila, while Blanche was talking very grandly of Taurus
Poniatouski, and Harry begging to be told which constellations he should
still see in the southern hemisphere. Dr. May was the first to rectify
the globe for the southern latitudes, and fingers were affectionately
laid on Orion’s studded belt, as though he were a friend who would
accompany the sailor-boy. Voices grew loud and eager in enumerating the
stars common to both; and so came bedtime, and the globe stood on the
table in danger of being forgotten. Ethel diligently lifted it up; and
while Norman exclaimed at her tidiness, Margaret told how a new leaf was
to be turned, and of her voluntary forfeits.

“A very good plan,” cried the doctor. “We can’t do better than follow
her example.”

“What you, papa? Oh, what fun!” exclaimed Harry.

“So you think I shall be ruined, Mr. Monkey. How do you know I shall
not be the most orderly of all? A penny for everything left about,
confiscated for the benefit of Cocksmoor, eh?”

“And twopence for pocket-handkerchiefs, if you please,” said Norman,
with a gesture of disgust.

“Very well. From Blanche, upwards. Margaret shall have a book, and set
down marks against us--hold an audit every Saturday night. What say you,
Blanche?”

“Oh, I hope Flora will leave something about!” cried Blanche, dancing
with glee.




CHAPTER XXV.



     Oh, no, we never mention her,
     We never breathe her name.--SONG.


A great deal of merriment had come home with Harry, who never was grave
for ten minutes without a strong reaction, and distracted the house with
his noise and his antics, in proportion, as it sometimes seemed, to the
spaces of serious thought and reading spent in the study, where Dr.
May did his best to supply Mr. Ramsden’s insufficient attention to his
Confirmation candidates, by giving an hour every day to Norman, Ethel,
and Harry. He could not lecture, but he read with them, and his own
earnestness was very impressive.

The two eldest felt deeply, but Harry often kept it in doubt, whether he
were not as yet too young and wild for permanent impressions, so rapid
were his transitions, and so overpowering his high spirits. Not that
these were objected to; but there was a feeling that there might as well
be moderation in all things, and that it would have been satisfactory
if, under present circumstances, he had been somewhat more subdued and
diligent.

“There are your decimals not done yet, Harry.”

For Harry, being somewhat deficient in arithmetic, had been recommended
to work in that line during his visit at home--an operation usually
deferred, as at present, to the evening.

“I am going to do my sums now, Flora,” said Harry, somewhat annoyed.

He really fetched his arithmetic, and his voice was soon heard asking
how he was ever to put an end to a sum that would turn to nothing but
everlasting threes.

“What have you been doing, young ladies?” asked Dr. May. “Did you call
on Miss Walkingham?”

“Flora and Blanche did,” said Ethel; “I thought you did not want me to
go, and I had not time. Besides, a London grand young lady--oh!” and
Ethel shook her head in disgust.

“That is not the way you treat Meta Rivers.”

“Oh, Meta is different! She has never been out!”

“I should have been glad for you to have seen Miss Walkingham,” said
her father. “Pretty manners are improving; besides, old Lady Walkingham
begged me to send my daughters.”

“I should not have seen her,” said Ethel, “for she was not well enough
to let us in.”

“Was it not pushing?” said Flora. “There were the Andersons leaving
their card!”

“Those Andersons!” exclaimed the doctor; “I am sick of the very sound of
the name. As sure as my name is Dick May, I’ll include it in Margaret’s
book of fines.”

Flora looked dignified.

“They are always harping on that little trumpery girl’s nonsense,” said
Harry. “Aught, aught, eight, that is eight thousandths, eh, Norman! If
it was about those two fellows, the boys--”

“You would harp only on what affects you?” said the doctor.

“No, I don’t; men never do. That is one hundred and twenty-fifth.”

“One man does it to an hundred and twenty-five women?” said Dr. May.

“It is rather a female defect, indeed,” said Margaret.

“Defect!” said Flora.

“Yes,” said Dr. May, “since it is not only irksome to the hearers, but
leads to the breaking of the ninth commandment.”

Many voices declared, in forms of varying severity, that it was
impossible to speak worse of the Andersons than they deserved.

“Andersons again!” cried Dr. May. “One, two, three, four, five, six
forfeits!”

“Papa himself, for he said the name,” saucily put in Blanche.

“I think I should like the rule to be made in earnest,” said Ethel.

“What! in order to catch Flora’s pence for Cocksmoor?” suggested Harry.

“No, but because it is malice. I mean, that is, if there is dislike,
or a grudge in our hearts at them--talking for ever of nasty little
miserable irritations makes it worse.”

“Then why do you do it?” asked Flora. “I heard you only on Sunday
declaiming about Fanny Anderson.”

“Ha!” cried out all at once. “There goes Flora.”

She looked intensely serious and innocent.

“I know,” said Ethel. “It is the very reason I want the rule to be made,
just to stop us, for I am sure we must often say more than is right.”

“Especially when we come to the pass of declaring that the ninth
commandment cannot be broken in regard to them,” observed the doctor.

“Most likely they are saying much the same of us,” said Richard.

“Or worse,” rejoined Dr. May. “The injured never hates as much as the
injurer.”

“Now papa has said the severest thing of all!” whispered Ethel.

“Proving the inexpedience of personalities,” said Dr. May, “and in good
time enter the evening post.--Why! how now, Mr. May, are you gone mad?”

“Hallo! why ho! ha! hurrah!” and up went Harry’s book of decimals to the
ceiling, coming down upon a candle, which would have been overturned on
Ethel’s work, if it had not been dexterously caught by Richard.

“Harry!” indignantly cried Ethel and Flora, “see what you have done;”
 and the doctor’s voice called to order, but Harry could not heed. “Hear!
hear! he has a fortune, an estate.”

“Who? Tell us--don’t be so absurd. Who?”

“Who, Mr. Ernescliffe. Here is a letter from Hector. Only listen:

“‘Did you know we had an old far-away English cousin, one Mr. Halliday?
I hardly did, though Alan was named after him, and he belonged to my
mother. He was a cross old fellow, and took no notice of us, but within
the last year or two, his nephew, or son, or something, died, and now he
is just dead, and the lawyer wrote to tell Alan he is heir-at-law. Mr.
Ernescliffe of Maplewood! Does it not sound well? It is a beautiful
great place in Shropshire, and Alan and I mean to run off to see it as
soon as he can have any time on shore.’”

Ethel could not help looking at Margaret, but was ashamed of her
impertinence, and coloured violently, whereas her sister did not colour
at all, and Norman, looking down, wondered whether Alan would make the
voyage.

“Oh, of course he will; he must!” said Harry. “He would never give up
now.”

Norman further wondered whether Hector would remain on the Stoneborough
foundation, and Mary hoped they should not lose him; but there was no
great readiness to talk over the event, and there soon was a silence
broken by Flora saying, “He is no such nobody, as Louisa Anderson said,
when we--”

Another shout, which caused Flora to take refuge in playing waltzes for
the rest of the evening. Moreover, to the extreme satisfaction of Mary,
she left her crochet-needle on the floor at night. While a tumultuous
party were pursuing her with it to claim the penny, and Richard was
conveying Margaret upstairs, Ethel found an opportunity of asking her
father if he were not very glad of Mr. Ernescliffe’s good fortune.

“Yes, very. He is a good fellow, and will make a good use of it.”

“And now, papa, does it not make--You won’t say now you are sorry he
came here.”

She had no answer but a sigh, and a look that made her blush for having
ventured so far. She was so much persuaded that great events must ensue,
that, all the next day, she listened to every ring of the bell, and when
one at last was followed by a light, though, to her ears, manly sounding
tread, she looked up flushing with expectation.

Behold, she was disappointed. “Miss Walkingham” was announced, and she
rose surprised, for the lady in question had only come to Stoneborough
for a couple of days with an infirm mother, who, having known Dr. May
in old times, had made it her especial request that he would let her see
his daughters. She was to proceed on her journey to-day, and the return
of the visit had been by no means expected.

Flora went forward to receive her, wondering to see her so young
looking, and so unformed. She held out her hand, with a red wrist, and,
as far as could be seen under her veil, coloured when presented to the
recumbent Margaret. How she got into her chair, they hardly knew, for
Flora was at that moment extremely annoyed by hearing an ill-bred peal
of Mary’s laughter in the garden, close to the window; but she thought
it best to appear unconscious, since she had no power to stop it.

Margaret thought the stranger embarrassed, and kindly inquired for Lady
Walkingham.

“Much the same, thank you,” mumbled a voice down in the throat.

A silence, until Margaret tried another question, equally briefly
answered; and, after a short interval, the young lady contrived to make
her exit, with the same amount of gaucherie as had marked her entrance.

Expressions of surprise at once began, and were so loud, that when Harry
entered the room, his inquiry was, “What’s the row?”

“Miss Walkingham,” said Ethel, “but you won’t understand. She seemed
half wild! Worse than me!”

“How did you like the pretty improving manners?” asked Harry.

“Manners! she had none,” said Flora. “She, highly connected! used to the
best society!”

“How do you know what the best society do?” asked Harry.

“The poor thing seemed very shy,” said Margaret.

“I don’t know about shyness,” said Flora.

“She was stifling a laugh all the time, like a rude schoolboy. And I
thought papa said she was pretty!”

“Ay? Did you think her so?” asked Harry.

“A great broad red face--and so awkward!” cried Flora indignantly.

“If one could have seen her face, I think she might have been
nice-looking,” said Margaret. “She had pretty golden curls, and merry
blue eyes, rather like Harry’s.”

“Umph!” said Flora; “beauty and manners seemed to me much on a par. This
is one of papa’s swans, indeed!”

“I can’t believe it was Miss Walkingham at all,” said Ethel. “It must
have been some boy in disguise.”

“Dear me!” cried Margaret, starting with the painful timidity of
helplessness.

“Do look whether anything is gone. Where’s the silver inkstand?”

“You don’t think she could put that into her pocket,” said Ethel,
laughing as she held it up.

“I don’t know. Do, Harry, see if the umbrellas are safe in the hall. I
wish you would, for now I come to remember, the Walkinghams went at nine
this morning. Miss Winter said that she saw the old lady helped into
the carriage, as she passed.” Margaret’s eyes looked quite large and
terrified. “She must have been a spy--the whole gang will come at night.
I wish Richard was here. Harry, it really is no laughing matter. You had
better give notice to the police.”

The more Margaret was alarmed, the more Harry laughed. “Never mind,
Margaret, I’ll take care of you! Here’s my dirk. I’ll stick all the
robbers.”

“Harry! Harry! Oh, don’t!” cried Margaret, raising herself up in an
agony of nervous terror. “Oh, where is papa? Will nobody ring the bell,
and send George for the police?”

“Police, police! Thieves! Murder! Robbers! Fire! All hands ahoy!”
 shouted Harry, his hands making a trumpet over his mouth.

“Harry, how can you?” said Ethel, hastily; “don’t you see that Margaret
is terribly frightened. Can’t you say at once that it was you?”

“You!” and Margaret sank back, as there was a general outcry of laughter
and wonder.

“Did you know it, Ethel?” asked Flora severely.

“I only guessed at this moment,” said Ethel. “How well you did it,
Harry!”

“Well!” said Flora, “I did think her dress very like Margaret’s shot
silk. I hope you did not do that any harm.”

“But how did you manage?” said Ethel. “Where did your bonnet come from?”

“It was a new one of Adams’s wife. Mary got it for me. Come in, Polly,
they have found it out. Did you not hear her splitting with laughing
outside the window? I would not let her come in for fear she should
spoil all.”

“And I was just going to give her such a scolding for giggling in the
garden,” said Flora, “and to say we had been as bad as Miss Walkingham.
You should not have been so awkward, Harry; you nearly betrayed
yourself.”

“He had nobody to teach him but Mary,” said Ethel.

“Ah! you should have seen me at my ease in Minster Street. No one
suspected me there.”

“In Minster Street. Oh, Harry, you don’t really mean it!”

“I do. That was what I did it for. I was resolved to know what the
nameless ones said of the Misses May.”

Hasty and eager inquiries broke out from Flora and Ethel.

“Oh, Dr. May was very clever, certainly, very clever. Had I seen the
daughters? I said I was going to call there, and they said--”

“What, oh, what, Harry?”

“They said Flora was thought pretty, but--and as to Ethel, now, how do
you think you came off, Unready?”

“Tell me. They could not say the same of me, at any rate.”

“Quite the reverse! They called Ethel very odd, poor girl.”

“I don’t mind,” said Ethel. “They may say what they please of me;
besides that, I believe it is all Harry’s own invention.”

“Nay, that is a libel on my invention!” exclaimed Harry. “If I had drawn
on that, could I not have told you something much droller?”

“And was that really all?” said Flora.

“They said--let me see--that all our noses were too long, and, that as
to Flora’s being a beauty! when their brothers called her--so droll
of them--but Harvey called her a stuck-up duchess. In fact, it was the
fashion to make a great deal of those Mays.”

“I hope they said something of the sailor brother,” said Ethel.

“No; I found if I stayed to hear much more, I should be knocking Ned
down, so I thought it time to take leave before he suspected.”

All this had passed very quickly, with much laughter, and numerous
interjections of amusement, and reprobation, or delight. So excited were
the young people, that they did not perceive a step on the gravel,
till Dr. May entered by the window, and stood among them. His first
exclamation was of consternation. “Margaret, my dear child, what is the
matter?”

Only then did her brother and sisters perceive that Margaret was lying
back on her cushions, very pale, and panting for breath. She tried to
smile and say, “it was nothing,” and “she was silly,” but the words were
faint, from the palpitation of her heart.

“It was Harry’s trick,” said Flora indignantly, as she flew for the
scent-bottle, while her father bent over Margaret. “Harry dressed
himself up, and she was frightened.”

“Oh, no--no--he did not mean it,” gasped Margaret; “don’t.”

“Harry, I did not think you could be so cowardly and unfeeling!” and Dr.
May’s look was even more reproachful than his words.

Harry was dismayed at his sister’s condition, but the injustice of the
wholesale reproach chased away contrition. “I did nothing to frighten
any one,” he said moodily.

“Now, Harry, you know how you kept on,” said Flora, “and when you saw
she was frightened--”

“I can have no more of this,” said Dr. May, seeing that the discussion
was injuring Margaret more and more. “Go away to my study, sir, and wait
till I come to you. All of you out of the room. Flora, fetch the sal
volatile.”

“Let me tell you,” whispered Margaret. “Don’t be angry with Harry. It
was--”

“Not now, not now, my dear. Lie quite still.” She obeyed, took the
sal volatile, and shut her eyes, while he sat leaning anxiously over,
watching her. Presently she opened them, and, looking up, said rather
faintly, and trying to smile, “I don’t think I can be better till you
have heard the rights of it. He did not mean it.”

“Boys never do mean it,” was the doctor’s answer. “I hoped better things
of Harry.”

“He had no intention--” began Margaret, but she still was unfit to talk,
and her father silenced her, by promising to go and hear the boy’s own
account.

In the hall, he was instantly beset by Ethel and Mary, the former
exclaiming, “Papa, you are quite mistaken! It was very foolish of
Margaret to be so frightened. He did nothing at all to frighten any
one.”

Ethel’s mode of pleading was unfortunate; the “very foolish of Margaret”
 were the very words to displease.

“Do not interfere!” said her father sternly. “You only encourage him in
his wanton mischief, and no one takes any heed how he torments my poor
Margaret.”

“Papa,” cried Harry, passionately bursting open the study door,
“tormenting Margaret was the last thing I would do!”

“That is not the way to speak, Harry. What have you been doing?”

With rapid agitated utterance, Harry made his confession. At another
time the doctor would have treated the matter as a joke carried too far,
but which, while it called for censure, was very amusing; but now
the explanation that the disguise had been assumed to impose on the
Andersons, only added to his displeasure.

“You seem to think you have a licence to play off any impertinent freaks
you please, without consideration for any one,” he said; “but I tell
you it is not so. As long as you are under my roof, you shall feel my
authority, and you shall spend the rest of the day in your room. I hope
quietness there will bring you to a better mind, but I am disappointed
in you. A boy who can choose such a time, and such subjects, for
insolent, unfeeling, practical jokes, cannot be in a fit state for
Confirmation.”

“Oh, papa! papa!” cried the two girls, in tones of entreaty--while
Harry, with a burning face and hasty step, dashed upstairs without a
word.

“You have been as bad!” said Dr. May. “I say nothing to you, Mary, you
knew no better; but, to see you, Ethel, first encouraging him in his
impertinence, and terrifying Margaret so, that I dare say she may be a
week getting over it, and now defending him, and calling her silly, is
unbearable. I cannot trust one of you!”

“Only listen, papa!”

“I will have no altercation; I must go back to Margaret, since no one
else has the slightest consideration for her.”

An hour had passed away, when Richard knocked at Ethel’s door to tell
her that tea was ready.

“I have a great mind not to go down,” said Ethel, as he looked in, and
saw her seated with a book.

“What do you mean?”

“I cannot bear to go down while poor Harry is so unjustly used.”

“Hush, Ethel!”

“I cannot hush. Just because Margaret fancies robbers and murderers, and
all sorts of nonsense, as she always did, is poor Harry to be accused of
wantonly terrifying her, and shut up, and cut off from Confirmation? and
just when he is going away, too! It is unkind, and unjust, and--”

“Ethel, you will be sorry--”

“Papa will be sorry,” continued Ethel, disregarding the caution. “It is
very unfair, that I will say so. It was all nonsense of Margaret’s,
but he will always make everything give way to her. And poor Harry
just going to sea! No, Ritchie, I cannot come down; I cannot behave as
usual.”

“You will grieve Margaret much more,” said Richard.

“I can’t help that--she should not have made such a fuss.”

Richard was somewhat in difficulties how to answer, but at that moment
Harry’s door, which was next, was slightly opened, and his voice said,
“Go down, Ethel. The captain may punish any one he pleases, and it is
mutiny in the rest of the crew to take his part.”

“Harry is in the right,” said Richard. “It is our duty not to question
our father’s judgments. It would be wrong of you to stay up.”

“Wrong?” said Ethel.

“Of course. It would be against the articles of war,” said Harry,
opening his door another inch. “But, Ritchie, I say, do tell me whether
it has hurt Margaret.”

“She is better now,” said Richard, “but she has a headache, chiefly, I
believe, from distress at having brought this on you. She is very sorry
for her fright.”

“I had not the least intention of frightening the most fearsome little
tender mouse on earth,” said Harry.

“No, indeed!” said Ethel.

“And at another time it would not have signified,” said Richard; “but,
you know, Margaret always was timid, and now, the not being able to
move, and the being out of health, has made her nerves weak, so that she
cannot help it.”

“The fault was in our never heeding her when we were so eager to hear
Harry’s story,” said Ethel. “That was what made the palpitation so bad.
But, now papa knows all, does he not understand about Harry?”

“He was obliged to go out as soon as Margaret was better,” said Richard,
“and was scarcely come in when I came up.”

“Go down, Ethel,” repeated Harry. “Never mind me. Norman told me that
sort of joke never answered, and I might have minded him.”

The voice was very much troubled, and it brought back that burning
sensation of indignant tears to Ethel’s eyes.

“Oh, Harry! you did not deserve to be so punished for it.”

“That is what you are not to say,” returned Harry. “I ought not to have
played the trick, and--and just now too--but I always forget things--”

The door shut, and they fancied they heard sobs. Ethel groaned, but made
no opposition to following her brother down to tea. Margaret lay, wan
and exhausted, on the sofa--the doctor looked very melancholy and rather
stern, and the others were silent. Ethel had begun to hope for the
warm reaction she had so often known after a hasty fit, but it did
not readily come; Harry was boy instead of girl--the fault and its
consequence had been more serious--and the anxiety for the future
was greater. Besides, he had not fully heard the story; Harry, in his
incoherent narration, had not excused himself, and Margaret’s panic had
appeared more as if inspired by him, than, as it was, in fact, the work
of her fancy.

Thus the evening passed gloomily away, and it was not till the others
had said good-night that Dr. May began to talk over the affair with his
eldest son, who then was able to lay before him the facts of the case,
as gathered from his sisters. He listened with a manner as though it
were a reproof, and then said sadly, “I am afraid I was in a passion.”

“It was very wrong in Harry,” said Richard, “and particularly unlucky it
should happen with the Andersons.”

“Very thoughtless,” said the doctor, “no more, even as regarded
Margaret; but thoughtlessness should not have been treated as a crime.”

“I wish we could see him otherwise,” said Richard.

“He wants--” and there Dr. May stopped short, and, taking up his candle,
slowly mounted the stairs, and looked into Harry’s room. The boy was in
bed, but started up on hearing his father’s step, and exclaimed, “Papa,
I am very sorry! Is Margaret better?”

“Yes, she is; and I understand now, Harry, that her alarm was an
accident. I beg your pardon for thinking for a moment that it was
otherwise--”

“No,” interrupted Harry, “of course I could never mean to frighten her;
but I did not leave off the moment I saw she was afraid, because it was
so very ridiculous, and I did not guess it would hurt her.”

“I see, my honest boy. I do not blame you, for you did not know how
much harm a little terror does to a person in her helpless state. But,
indeed, Harry, though you did not deserve such anger as mine was, it is
a serious thing that you should be so much set on fun and frolic as to
forget all considerations, especially at such a time as this. It takes
away from much of my comfort in sending you into the world; and for
higher things--how can I believe you really impressed and reverent, if
the next minute--”

“I’m not fit! I’m not fit!” sobbed Harry, hiding his face.

“Indeed, I hardly know whether it is not so,” said the doctor. “You are
under the usual age, and, though I know you wish to be a good boy, yet
I don’t feel sure that these wild spirits do not carry away everything
serious, and whether it is right to bring one so thoughtless to--”

“No, no,” and Harry cried bitterly, and his father was deeply grieved;
but no more could then be said, and they parted for the night--Dr. May
saying, as he went away, “You understand, that it is not as punishment
for your trick, if I do not take you to Mr. Ramsden for a ticket, but
that I cannot be certain whether it is right to bring you to such solemn
privileges while you do not seem to me to retain steadily any grave or
deep feelings. Perhaps your mother would have better helped you.”

And Dr. May went away to mourn over what he viewed as far greater sins
than those of his son.

Anger had, indeed, given place to sorrow, and all were grave the next
morning, as if each had something to be forgiven.

Margaret, especially, felt guilty of the fears which, perhaps, had not
been sufficiently combated in her days of health, and now were beyond
control, and had occasioned so much pain. Ethel grieved over the words
she had yesterday spoken in haste of her father and sister; Mary knew
herself to have been an accomplice in the joke; and Norman blamed
himself for not having taken the trouble to perceive that Harry had not
been talking rhodomontade, when he had communicated “his capital scheme”
 the previous morning.

The decision as to the Confirmation was a great grief to all. Flora
consoled herself by observing that, as he was so young, no one need know
it, nor miss him; and Ethel, with a trembling, almost sobbing voice,
enumerated all Harry’s excellences, his perfect truth, his kindness, his
generosity, his flashes of intense feeling--declared that nobody might
be confirmed if he were not, and begged and entreated that Mr. Wilmot
might be written to, and consulted. She would almost have done so
herself, if Richard had not shown her it would be undutiful.

Harry himself was really subdued. He made no question as to the
propriety of the decision, but rather felt his own unworthiness, and was
completely humbled and downcast. When a note came from Mrs. Anderson,
saying that she was convinced that it could not have been Dr. May’s wish
that she should be exposed to the indignity of a practical joke, and
that a young lady of the highest family should have been insulted, no
one had spirits to laugh at the terms; and when Dr. May said, “What is
to be done?” Harry turned crimson, and was evidently trying to utter
something.

“I see nothing for it but for him to ask their pardon,” said Dr. May;
and a sound was heard, not very articulate, but expressing full assent.

“That is right,” said the doctor. “I’ll come with you.”

“Oh, thank you!” cried Harry, looking up.

They set off at once. Mrs. Anderson was neither an unpleasing nor
unkind person--her chief defect being a blind admiration of her sons
and daughters, which gave her, in speaking of them, a tone of pretension
that she would never have shown on her own account.

Her displeasure was pacified in a moment by the sight of the confused
contrition of the culprit, coupled with his father’s frank and kindly
tone of avowal, that it had been a foolish improper frolic, and that he
had been much displeased with him for it.

“Say no more--pray, say no more, Dr. May. We all know how to overlook a
sailor’s frolic, and, I am sure, Master Harry’s present behaviour; but
you’ll take a bit of luncheon,” and, as something was said of going home
to the early dinner, “I am sure you will wait one minute. Master Harry
must have a piece of my cake, and allow me to drink to his success.”

Poor Mr. May! to be called Master Harry, and treated to sweet cake! But
he saw his father thought he ought to endure, and he even said, “Thank
you.”

The cake stuck in his throat, however, when Mrs. Anderson and her
daughters opened their full course of praise on their dear Harvey and
dearest Edward, telling all the flattering things Dr. Hoxton had said of
the order into which Harvey had brought the school, and insisting on Dr.
May’s reading the copy of the testimonial that he had carried to Oxford.
“I knew you would be kind enough to rejoice,” said Mrs. Anderson, “and
that you would have no--no feeling about Mr. Norman; for, of course, at
his age, a little matter is nothing, and it must be better for the dear
boy himself to be a little while under a friend like Harvey, than to
have authority while so young.”

“I believe it has done him no harm,” was all that the doctor could
bring himself to say; and thinking that he and his son had endured quite
enough, he took his leave as soon as Harry had convulsively bolted the
last mouthful.

Not a word was spoken all the way home. Harry’s own trouble had
overpowered even this subject of resentment. On Sunday, the notice
of the Confirmation was read. It was to take place on the following
Thursday, and all those who had already given in their names were to
come to Mr. Ramsden to apply for their tickets. While this was read,
large tear-drops were silently falling on poor Harry’s book.

Ethel and Norman walked together in the twilight, in deep lamentation
over their brother’s deprivation, which seemed especially to humble
them; “for,” said Norman, “I am sure no one can be more resolved on
doing right than July, and he has got through school better than I did.”

“Yes,” said Ethel; “if we don’t get into his sort of scrape, it is only
that we are older, not better. I am sure mine are worse, my letting
Aubrey be nearly burned--my neglects.”

“Papa must be doing right,” said Norman, “but for July to be turned
back when we are taken, makes me think of man judging only by outward
appearance.”

“A few outrageous-looking acts of giddiness that are so much grieved
over, may not be half so bad as the hundreds of wandering thoughts that
one forgets, because no one else can see them!” said Ethel.

Meanwhile, Harry and Mary were sitting twisted together into a sort of
bundle, on the same footstool, by Margaret’s sofa. Harry had begged of
her to hear him say the Catechism once more, and Mary had joined with
him in the repetition. There was to be only one more Sunday at home.
“And that!” he said, and sighed.

Margaret knew what he meant, for the Feast was to be spread for those
newly admitted to share it. She only said a caressing word of affection.

“I wonder when I shall have another chance,” said Harry. “If we should
get to Australia, or New Zealand--but then, perhaps, there would be no
Confirmation going on, and I might be worse by that time.”

“Oh, you must not let that be!”

“Why, you see, if I can’t be good here, with all this going on, what
shall I do among those fellows, away from all?”

“You will have one friend!”

“Mr. Ernescliffe! You are always thinking of him, Margaret; but perhaps
he may not go, and if he should, a lieutenant cannot do much for a
midshipman. No, I thought, when I was reading with my father, that
somehow it might help me to do what it called putting away childish
things--don’t you know? I might be able to be stronger and steadier,
somehow. And then, if--if--you know, if I did tumble overboard, or
anything of that sort, there is that about the--what they will go to
next Sunday, being necessary to salvation.”

Harry laid down his head and cried; Margaret could not speak for tears;
and Mary was incoherently protesting against any notion of his falling
overboard.

“It is generally necessary, Harry,” Margaret said at last--“not in
impossible cases.”

“Yes if it had been impossible, but it was not; if I had not been a
mad goose all this time, but when a bit of fun gets hold of me, I can’t
think. And if I am too bad for that, I am too bad for--for--and I shall
never see mamma again! Margaret, it almost makes me af--afraid to sail.”

“Harry, don’t, don’t talk so!” sobbed Mary. “Oh, do come to papa, and
let us beg and pray. Take hold of my hand, and Margaret will beg too,
and when he sees how sorry you are, I am sure he will forgive, and let
you be confirmed.” She would have dragged him after her.

“No, Mary,” said Harry, resisting her. “It is not that he does not
forgive. You don’t understand. It is what is right. And he cannot help
it, or make it right for me, if I am such a horrid wretch that I can’t
keep grave thoughts in my head. I might do it again after that, just the
same.”

“You have been grave enough of late,” said Mary.

“This was enough to make me so,” said Harry; “but even at church, since
I came home, I have behaved ill! I kicked Tom, to make him look at old
Levitt asleep, and then I went on, because he did not like it. I know I
am too idle.”

On the Tuesday, Dr. May had said he would take Norman and Etheldred to
Mr. Ramsden. Ethel was gravely putting on her walking dress, when she
heard her father’s voice calling Harry, and she started with a joyful
hope.

There, indeed, when she came downstairs, stood Harry, his cap in his
hand, and his face serious, but with a look on it that had as much
subdued joy as awe.

“Dear, dear Harry! you are going with us then?”

“Yes, papa wrote to ask what Mr. Wilmot thought, and he said--”

Harry broke off as his father advanced, and gave her the letter itself
to read. Mr. Wilmot answered that he certainly should not refuse such
a boy as Harry, on the proof of such entire penitence and deep feeling.
Whether to bring him to the further privilege might be another question;
but, as far as the Confirmation was concerned, the opinion was decided.

Norman and Ethel were too happy for words, as they went arm in arm along
the street, leaving their dear sailor to be leaned on by his father.

Harry’s sadness was gone, but he still was guarded and gentle during the
few days that followed; he seemed to have learned thought, and in his
gratitude for the privileges he had so nearly missed, to rate them more
highly than he might otherwise have done. Indeed, the doubt for the
Sunday gave him a sense of probation.

The Confirmation day came. Mr. Rivers had asked that his daughter
might be with Miss May, and Ethel had therefore to be called for in the
Abbotstoke carriage, quite contrary to her wishes, as she had set her
heart on the walk to church with her father and brothers. Flora would
not come, for fear of crowding Mr. Rivers, who, with Mrs. Larpent,
accompanied his darling.

“Oh, Margaret,” said Flora, after putting her sister into the carriage,
“I wish we had put Ethel into a veil! There is Meta all white from head
to foot, with such a veil! and Ethel, in her little white cap, looks as
if she might be Lucy Taylor, only not so pretty.”

“Mamma thought the best rule was to take the dress that needs least
attention from ourselves, and will be least noticed,” said Margaret.

“There is Fanny Anderson gone by in the fly with a white veil on!” cried
Mary, dashing in.

“Then I am glad Ethel has not one,” said Flora. Margaret looked annoyed,
but she had not found the means of checking Flora without giving
offence; and she could only call Mary and Blanche to order, beg them to
think of what the others were doing, and offer to read to them a little
tale on Confirmation.

Flora sat and worked, and Margaret, stealing a glance at her, understood
that, in her quiet way, she resented the implied reproof. “Making the
children think me worldly and frivolous!” she thought; “as if Margaret
did not know that I think and feel as much as any reasonable person!”

The party came home in due time, and after one kiss to Margaret, given
in silence, dispersed, for they could not yet talk of what had passed.

Only Ethel, as she met Richard on the stairs, said, “Ritchie, do you
know what the bishop’s text was? ‘No man having put his hand to the
plough, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God.’”

“Yes?” said Richard interrogatively.

“I thought it might be a voice to me,” said Ethel; “besides what it says
to all, about our Christian course. It seems to tell me not to be out
of heart about all those vexations at Cocksmoor. Is it not a sort of
putting our hand to the plough?”

Dr. May gave his own history of the Confirmation to Margaret. “It was
a beautiful thing to watch,” he said, “the faces of our own set.
Those four were really like a poem. There was little Meta in her snowy
whiteness, looking like innocence itself, hardly knowing of evil, or
pain, or struggle, as that soft earnest voice made her vow to be ready
for it all, almost as unscathed and unconscious of trial, as when they
made it for her at her baptism; pretty little thing--may she long be as
happy. And for our own Ethel, she looked as if she was promising on and
on, straight into eternity. I heard her ‘I do,’ dear child, and it was
in such a tone as if she meant to be ever doing.”

“And for the boys?”

“There was Norman grave and steadfast, as if he knew what he was about,
and was manfully and calmly ready--he might have been a young knight,
watching his armour.”

“And so he is,” said Margaret softly. “And poor Harry?”

The doctor could hardly command voice to tell her. “Poor Harry, he was
last of all, he turned his back and looked into the corner of the seat,
till all the voices had spoken, and then turned about in haste, and the
two words came on the end of a sob.”

“You will not keep him away on Sunday?” said Margaret.

“Far be it from me. I know not who should come, if he should not.”




CHAPTER XXVI.



     What matter, whether through delight,
       Or led through vale of tears,
     Or seen at once, or hid from sight,
       The glorious way appears?
     If step by step the path we see,
       That leads, my Saviour, up to Thee!


“I could not help it,” said Dr. May; “that little witch--”

“Meta Rivers? Oh! what, papa?”

“It seems that Wednesday is her birthday, and nothing will serve her but
to eat her dinner in the old Roman camp.”

“And are we to go? Oh, which of us?”

“Every one of anything like rational years. Blanche is especially
invited.”

There were transports till it was recollected that on Thursday morning
school would recommence, and that on Friday Harry must join his ship.

However, the Roman camp had long been an object of their desires, and
Margaret was glad that the last day should have a brilliancy, so she
would not hear of any one remaining to keep her company, talked of the
profit she should gain by a leisure day, and took ardent interest in
every one’s preparations and expectations, in Ethel’s researches
into county histories and classical dictionaries, Flora’s sketching
intentions, Norman’s promises of campanula glomerata, and a secret
whispered into her ear by Mary and Harry.

“Meta’s weather,” as they said, when the August sun rose fresh and
joyous; and great was the unnecessary bustle, and happy confusion from
six o’clock till eleven, when Dr. May, who was going to visit patients
some way farther on the same road, carried off Harry and Mary, to set
them down at the place.

The rest were called for by Mr. Rivers’s carriage and brake. Mrs.
Charles Wilmot and her little girl were the only additions to the party,
and Meta, putting Blanche into the carriage to keep company with her
contemporary, went herself in the brake. What a brilliant little fairy
she was, in her pink summer robes, fluttering like a butterfly, and
with the same apparent felicity in basking in joy, all gaiety, glee,
and light-heartedness in making others happy. On they went, through
honeysuckled lanes, catching glimpses of sunny fields of corn falling
before the reaper, and happy knots of harvest folks dining beneath the
shelter of their sheaves, with the sturdy old green umbrella sheltering
them from the sun.

Snatches of song, peals of laughter, merry nonsense, passed from one to
the other; Norman, roused into blitheness, found wit, the young ladies
found laughter, and Richard’s eyes and mouth looked very pretty, as they
smiled their quiet diversion.

At last, his face drawn all into one silent laugh, he directed the eyes
of the rest to a high green mound, rising immediately before them, where
stood two little figures, one with a spy-glass, intently gazing the
opposite way.

At the same time came the halt, and Norman, bounding out, sprang lightly
and nimbly up the side of the mound, and, while the spy-glass was yet
pointed full at Wales, had hold of a pair of stout legs, and with the
words, “Keep a good lockout!” had tumbled Mr. May headforemost down the
grassy slope, with Mary rolling after.

Harry’s first outcry was for his precious glass--his second was, not
at his fall, but that they should have come from the east, when, by the
compass, Stoneborough was north-north-west. And then the boys took to
tumbling over one another, while Meta frolicked joyously, with Nipen
after her, up and down the mounds, chased by Mary and Blanche, who were
wild with glee.

By-and-by she joined Ethel, and Norman was summoned to help them to
trace out the old lines of encampment, ditch, rampart, and gates--happy
work on those slopes of fresh turf, embroidered with every minute
blossom of the moor--thyme, birdsfoot, eyebright, and dwarf purple
thistle, buzzed and hummed over by busy, black-tailed, yellow-banded
dumbledores, the breezy wind blowing softly in their faces, and the
expanse of country--wooded hill, verdant pasture, amber harvest-field,
winding river, smoke-canopied town, and brown moor, melting grayly away
to the mountain heads.

Now in sun, now in shade, the bright young antiquaries surveyed the old
banks, and talked wisely of vallum and fossa, of legion and cohort, of
Agricola and Suetonius, and discussed the delightful probability, that
this might have been raised in the war with Caractacus, whence, argued
Ethel, since Caractacus was certainly Arviragus, it must have been the
very spot where Imogen met Posthumus again. Was not yonder the very
high-road to Milford Haven, and thus must not “fair Fidele’s grassy
tomb” be in the immediate neighbourhood?

Then followed the suggestion that the mound in the middle was a good
deal like an ancient tomb, where, as Blanche interposed with some of the
lore lately caught from Ethel’s studies, “they used to bury their tears
in wheelbarrows,” while Norman observed it was the more probable, as
fair Fidele never was buried at all.

The idea of a search enchanted the young ladies. “It was the right sort
of vehicle, evidently,” said Norman, looking at Harry, who had been
particularly earnest in recommending that it should be explored; and
Meta declared that if they could but find the least trace, her
papa would be delighted to go regularly to work, and reveal all the
treasures.

Richard seemed a little afraid of the responsibility of treasure-trove,
but he was overruled by a chorus of eager voices, and dispossessed of
the trowel, which he had brought to dig up some down-gentians for the
garden. While Norman set to work as pioneer, some skipped about in wild
ecstasy, and Ethel knelt down to peer into the hole.

Very soon there was a discovery--an eager outcry--some pottery! Roman
vessels--a red thing that might have been a lamp, another that might
have been a lachrymatory.

“Well,” said Ethel, “you know, Norman, I always told you that the
children’s pots and pans in the clay ditch were very like Roman
pottery.”

“Posthumus’s patty pan!” said Norman, holding it up. “No doubt this was
the bottle filled with the old queen’s tears when Cloten was killed.”

“You see it is very small,” added Harry; “she could not squeeze out
many.”

“Come now, I do believe you are laughing at it!” said Meta, taking the
derided vessels into her hands. “Now, they really are genuine, and very
curious things, are not they, Flora?”

Flora and Ethel admired and speculated till there was a fresh, and still
more exciting discovery--a coin, actually a medal, with the head of
an emperor upon it--not a doubt of his high nose being Roman. Meta was
certain that she knew one exactly like him among her father’s gems.
Ethel was resolved that he should be Claudius, and began decyphering the
defaced inscription THVRVS. She tried Claudius’s whole torrent of names,
and, at last, made it into a contraction of Tiberius, which highly
satisfied her.

Then Meta, in her turn, read D.V.X., which, as Ethel said, was all she
could wish--of course it was dux et imperator, and Harry muttered into
Norman’s ear, “ducks and geese!” and then heaved a sigh, as he thought
of the dux no longer. “V.V.,” continued Meta; “what can that mean?”

“Five, five, of course,” said Flora.

“No, no! I have it, Venus Victrix” said Ethel, “the ancestral Venus! Ha!
don’t you see? there she is on the other side, crowning Claudius.”

“Then there is an E.”

“Something about Aeneas,” suggested Norman gravely. But Ethel was sure
that could not be, because there was no diphthong; and a fresh theory
was just being started, when Blanche’s head was thrust in to know what
made them all so busy.

“Why, Ethel, what are you doing with Harry’s old medal of the Duke of
Wellington?”

Poor Meta and Ethel, what a downfall! Meta was sure that Norman had
known it the whole time, and he owned to having guessed it from Harry’s
importunity for the search. Harry and Mary had certainly made good
use of their time, and great was the mirth over the trap so cleverly
set--the more when it was disclosed that Dr. May had been a full
participator in the scheme, had suggested the addition of the pottery,
had helped Harry to some liquid to efface part of the inscription, and
had even come up with them to plant the snare in the most plausible
corner for researches.

Meta, enchanted with the joke, flew off to try to take in her governess
and Mrs. Wilmot, whom she found completing their leisurely promenade,
and considering where they should spread the dinner.

The sight of those great baskets of good fare was appetising, and the
company soon collected on the shady turf, where Richard made himself
extremely useful, and the feast was spread without any worse mishap than
Nipen’s running away with half a chicken, of which he was robbed, as Tom
reported, by a surly-looking dog that watched in the outskirts of the
camp, and caused Tom to return nearly as fast as the poor little white
marauder.

Meta “very immorally,” as Norman told her, comforted Nipen with a large
share of her sandwiches. Harry armed himself with a stick and Mary with
a stone, and marched off to the attack, but saw no signs of the enemy,
and had begun to believe him a figment of Tom’s imagination, when Mary
spied him under a bush, lying at the feet of a boy, with whom he was
sharing the spoil.

Harry called out rather roughly, “Hallo! what are you doing there?”

The boy jumped up, the dog growled, Mary shrank behind her brother,
and begged him not to be cross to the poor boy, but to come away. Harry
repeated his question.

“Please, sir, Toby brought it to me.”

“What, is Toby your dog?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you so hungry as to eat dog’s meat?”

“I have not had nothing before to-day, sir.”

“Why, where do you live? hereabouts?”

“Oh, no, sir; I lived with grandmother up in Cheshire, but she is dead
now, and father is just come home from sea, and he wrote down I was to
be sent to him at Portsmouth, to go to sea with him.”

“How do you live? do you beg your way?”

“No, sir; father sent up a pound in a letter, only Nanny Brooks said I
owed some to her for my victuals, and I have not much of it left, and
bread comes dear, so when Toby brought me this bit of meat I was glad of
it, sir, but I would not have taken it--”

The boy was desired to wait while the brother and sister, in breathless
excitement, rushed back with their story.

Mrs. Wilmot was at first inclined to fear that the naval part of it had
been inspired by Harry’s uniform, but the examination of Jem Jennings
put it beyond a doubt that he spoke nothing but the truth; and the
choicest delight of the feast was the establishing him and Toby behind
the barrow, and feeding them with such viands as they had probably never
seen before.

The boy could not read writing, but he had his father’s letter in his
pocket, and Mary capered at the delightful coincidence, on finding that
Jem Jennings was actually a quarter-master on board the Alcestis. It
gave a sort of property in the boy, and she almost grudged Meta the
having been first to say that she would pay for the rest of his journey,
instead of doing it by subscription.

However, Mary had a consolation, she would offer to take charge of Toby,
who, as Harry observed, would otherwise have been drowned--he could not
be taken on board. To be sure, he was a particularly ugly animal, rough,
grisly, short-legged, long-backed, and with an apology for a tail--but
he had a redeeming pair of eyes, and he and Jem lived on terms of such
close friendship, that he would have been miserable in leaving him to
the mercy of Nanny Brooks.

So, after their meal, Jem and Toby were bidden to wait for Dr. May’s
coming, and fell asleep together on the green bank, while the rest
either sketched, or wandered, or botanised. Flora acted the grown-up
lady with Mrs. Wilmot, and Meta found herself sitting by Ethel, asking
her a great many questions about Margaret, and her home, and what it
could be like to be one of such a numerous family. Flora had always
turned aside from personal matters, as uninteresting to her companion,
and, in spite of Meta’s admiration, and the mutual wish to be intimate,
confidence did not spring up spontaneously, as it had done with the
doctor, and, in that single hour, with Margaret. Blunt as Ethel was, her
heartiness of manner gave a sense of real progress in friendship. Their
Confirmation vows seemed to make a link, and Meta’s unfeigned enthusiasm
for the doctor was the sure road to Ethel’s heart. She was soon telling
how glad Margaret was that he had been drawn into taking pleasure in
to-day’s scheme, since, not only were his spirits tried by the approach
of Harry’s departure, but he had, within the last few days, been made
very sad by reading and answering Aunt Flora’s first letter on the news
of last October’s misfortune.

“My aunt in New Zealand,” explained Ethel.

“Have you an aunt in New Zealand?” cried Meta. “I never heard of her!”

“Did not you? Oh! she does write such charming long letters!”

“Is she Dr. May’s sister?”

“No; he was an only child. She is dear mamma’s sister. I don’t remember
her, for she went out when I was a baby, but Richard and Margaret were
so fond of her. They say she used to play with them, and tell them
stories, and sing Scotch songs to them. Margaret says the first sorrow
of her life was Aunt Flora’s going away.”

“Did she live with them?”

“Yes; after grandpapa died, she came to live with them, but then Mr.
Arnott came about. I ought not to speak evil of him, for he is my
godfather, but we do wish he had not carried off Aunt Flora! That letter
of hers showed me what a comfort it would be to papa to have her here.”

“Perhaps she will come.”

“No; Uncle Arnott has too much to do. It was a pretty story altogether.
He was an officer at Edinburgh, and fell in love with Aunt Flora, but my
grandfather Mackenzie thought him too poor to marry her, and it was all
broken off, and they tried to think no more of it. But grandpapa died,
and she came to live here, and somehow Mr. Arnott turned up again,
quartered at Whitford, and papa talked over my Uncle Mackenzie, and
helped them--and Mr. Arnott thought the best way would be to go out to
the colonies. They went when New Zealand was very new, and a very funny
life they had! Once they had their house burned in Heki’s rebellion--and
Aunt Flora saw a Maori walking about in her best Sunday bonnet; but,
in general, everything has gone on very well, and he has a great farm,
besides an office under government.”

“Oh, so he went out as a settler! I was in hopes it was as a
missionary.”

“I fancy Aunt Flora has done a good deal that may be called missionary
work,” said Ethel, “teaching the Maori women and girls. They call her
mother, and she has quite a doctor’s shop for them, and tries hard to
teach them to take proper care of their poor little children when
they are ill; and she cuts out clothes for the whole pah, that is, the
village.”

“And are they Christians?”

“Oh! to be sure they are now! They meet in the pah for prayers every
morning and evening--they used to have a hoe struck against a bit of
metal for a signal, and when papa heard of it, he gave them a bell, and
they were so delighted. Now there comes a clergyman every fourth Sunday,
and, on the others, Uncle Arnott reads part of the service to the
English near, and the Maori teacher to his people.”

Meta asked ravenously for more details, and when she had pretty well
exhausted Ethel’s stock, she said, “How nice it must be! Ethel, did you
ever read the ‘Faithful Little Girl?’”

“Yes; it was one of Margaret’s old Sunday books. I often recollected it
before I was allowed to begin Cocksmoor.”

“I’m afraid I am very like Lucilla!” said Meta.

“What? In wishing to be a boy, that you might be a missionary?” said
Ethel. “Not in being quite so cross at home?” she added, laughing.

“I am not cross, because I have no opportunity,” said Meta.

“No opportunity. Oh, Meta, if people wish to be cross, it is easy enough
to find grounds for it. There is always the moon to cry for.”

“Really and truly,” said Meta thoughtfully, “I never do meet with any
reasonable trial of temper, and I am often afraid it cannot be right or
safe to live so entirely at ease, and without contradictions.”

“Well, but,” said Ethel, “it is the state of life in which you are
placed.”

“Yes; but are we meant never to have vexations?”

“I thought you had them,” said Ethel. “Margaret told me about your maid.
That would have worried some people, and made them horridly cross.”

“Oh, no rational person,” cried Meta. “It was so nice to think of her
being with the poor mother, and I was quite interested in managing for
myself; besides, you know, it was just a proof how one learns to be
selfish, that it had never occurred to me that I ought to spare her.”

“And your school children--you were in some trouble about them?”

“Oh, that is pleasure.”

“I thought you had a class you did not like?”

“I like them now--they are such steady plodding girls, so much in
earnest, and one, that has been neglected, is so pleased and touched by
kindness. I would not give them up for anything now--they are just fit
for my capacity.”

“Do you mean that nothing ever goes wrong with you, or that you do not
mind anything--which?”

“Nothing goes wrong enough with me to give me a handsome excuse for
minding it.”

“Then it must be all your good temper.”

“I don’t think so,” said Meta; “it is that nothing is ever disagreeable
to me.”

“Stay,” said Ethel, “if the ill-temper was in you, you would only be the
crosser for being indulged--at least, so books say. And I am sure myself
that it is not whether things are disagreeable or not, but whether one’s
will is with them, that signifies.”

“I don’t quite understand.”

“Why--I have seen the boys do for play, and done myself, what would have
been a horrid hardship if one had been made to do it. I never liked any
lessons as well as those I did without being obliged, and always, when
there is a thing I hate very much in itself, I can get up an interest in
it, by resolving that I will do it well, or fast, or something--if I can
stick my will to it, it is like a lever, and it is done. Now, I think it
must be the same with you, only your will is more easily set at it than
mine.”

“What makes me uncomfortable is, that I feel as if I never followed
anything but my will.”

Ethel screwed up her face, as if the eyes of her mind were pursuing some
thought almost beyond her. “If our will and our duty run the same,” she
said, “that can’t be wrong. The better people are, the more they ‘love
what He commands,’ you know. In heaven they have no will but His.”

“Oh! but Ethel,” cried Meta, distressed, “that is putting it too high.
Won’t you understand what I mean? We have learned so much lately about
self-denial, and crossing one’s own inclinations, and enduring hardness.
And here I live with two dear kind people, who only try to keep every
little annoyance from my path. I can’t wish for a thing without getting
it--I am waited on all day long, and I feel like one of the women that
are at ease--one of the careless daughters.”

“I think still papa would say it was your happy contented temper that
made you find no vexation.”

“But that sort of temper is not goodness. I was born with it; I never
did mind anything, not even being punished, they say, unless I knew papa
was grieved, which always did make me unhappy enough. I laughed, and
went to play most saucily, whatever they did to me. If I had striven for
the temper, it would be worth having, but it is my nature. And Ethel,”
 she added, in a low voice, as the tears came into her eyes, “don’t you
remember last Sunday? I felt myself so vain and petted a thing! as if I
had no share in the Cup of suffering, and did not deserve to call myself
a member--it seemed ungrateful.”

Ethel felt ashamed, as she heard of warmer feelings than her own had
been, expressed in that lowered trembling voice, and she sought for the
answer that would only come to her mind in sense, not at first in words.
“Discipline,” said she, “would not that show the willingness to have the
part? Taking the right times for refusing oneself some pleasant thing.”

“Would not that be only making up something for oneself?” said Meta.

“No, the Church orders it. It is in the Prayer-book,” said Ethel. “I
mean one can do little secret things--not read storybooks on those days,
or keep some tiresome sort of work for them. It is very trumpery, but it
keeps the remembrance, and it is not so much as if one did not heed.”

“I’ll think,” said Meta, sighing. “If only I felt myself at work, not
to please myself, but to be of use. Ha!” she cried, springing up, “I do
believe I see Dr. May coming!”

“Let us run and meet him,” said Ethel.

They did so, and he called out his wishes of many happy returns of
blithe days to the little birthday queen, then added, “You both look
grave, though--have they deserted you?”

“No, papa, we have been having a talk,” said Ethel. “May I tell him,
Meta? I want to know what he says.”

Meta had not bargained for this, but she was very much in earnest, and
there was nothing formidable in Dr. May, so she assented.

“Meta is longing to be at work--she thinks she is of no use,” said
Ethel; “she says she never does anything but please herself.”

“Pleasing oneself is not the same as trying to please oneself,” said Dr.
May kindly.

“And she thinks it cannot be safe or right,” added Ethel, “to live that
happy bright life, as if people without care or trouble could not be
living as Christians are meant to live. Is that it, Meta?”

“Yes, I think it is,” said Meta. “I seem to be only put here to be made
much of!”

“What did David say, Meta?” returned Dr. May.


              “My Shepherd is the living Lord,
                 Nothing therefore I need;
               In pastures fair, near pleasant streams,
                 He setteth me to feed.”


“Then you think,” said Meta, much touched, “that I ought to look on this
as ‘the pastures fair,’ and be thankful. I hope I was not unthankful.”

“Oh, no,” said Ethel. “It was the wish to bear hardness, and be a good
soldier, was it not?”

“Ah! my dear,” he said, “the rugged path and dark valley will come in
His own fit time. Depend upon it, the good Shepherd is giving you what
is best for you in the green meadow, and if you lay hold on His rod
and staff in your sunny days--” He stopped short, and turned to his
daughter. “Ethel, they sang that psalm the first Sunday I brought your
mamma home!”

Meta was much affected, and began to put together what the father and
daughter had said. Perhaps the little modes of secret discipline,
of which Ethel had spoken, might be the true means of clasping the
staff--perhaps she had been impatient, and wanting in humility in
craving for the strife, when her armour was scarce put on.

Dr. May spoke once again. “Don’t let any one long for external trial.
The offering of a free heart is the thing. To offer praise is the great
object of all creatures in heaven and earth. If the happier we are, the
more we praise, then all is well.”

But the serious discussion was suddenly broken off.

Others had seen Dr. May’s approach, and Harry and Mary rushed down
in dismay at their story having, as they thought, been forestalled.
However, they had it all to themselves, and the doctor took up the
subject as keenly as could have been hoped, but the poor boy being still
fast asleep, after, probably, much fatigue, he would not then waken him
to examine him, but came and sat down in the semicircle, formed by a
terraced bank of soft turf, where Mrs. Larpent, Mrs. Wilmot, Richard,
and Flora, had for some time taken up their abode. Meta brought him
the choice little basket of fruit which she had saved for him, and all
delighted in having him there, evidently enjoying the rest and sport
very much, as he reposed on the fragrant slope, eating grapes, and
making inquiries as to the antiquities lately discovered.

Norman gave an exceedingly droll account of the great Roman Emperor,
Tiberius V.V., and Meta correcting it, there was a regular gay skirmish
of words, which entertained every one extremely--above all, Meta’s
indignation when the charge was brought home to her of having declared
the “old Duke” exactly like in turns to Domitian and Tiberius--his
features quite forbidding.

This lasted till the younger ones, who had been playing and rioting till
they were tired, came up, and throwing themselves down on the grass,
Blanche petitioned for something that every one could play at.

Meta proposed what she called the story play. One was to be sent out of
earshot, and the rest to agree upon a word, which was then to be guessed
by each telling a story, and introducing the word into it, not too
prominently. Meta volunteered to guess, and Harry whispered to Mary it
would be no go, but, in the meantime, the word was found, and Blanche
eagerly recalled Meta, and sat in the utmost expectation and delight.
Meta turned first to Richard, but he coloured distressfully, and begged
that Flora might tell his story for him--he should only spoil the game.
Flora, with a little tinge of graceful reluctance, obeyed. “No woman had
been to the summit of Mont Blanc,” she said, “till one young girl, named
Marie, resolved to have this glory. The guides told her it was madness,
but she persevered. She took the staff, and everything requisite,
and, following a party, began the ascent. She bravely supported every
fatigue, climbed each precipice, was undaunted by the giddy heights she
attained, bravely crossed the fields of snow, supported the bitter cold,
and finally, though suffering severely, arrived at the topmost peak,
looked forth where woman had never looked before, felt her heart swell
at the attainment of her utmost ambition, and the name of Marie was
inscribed as that of the woman who alone has had the glory of standing
on the summit of the Giant of the Alps.”

It was prettily enunciated, and had a pleasing effect. Meta stood
conning the words--woman--giant--mountain--glory--and begged for another
tale.

“Mine shall not be so stupid as Flora’s,” said Harry. “We have an old
sailor on board the Alcestis--a giant he might be for his voice--but he
sailed once in the Glory of the West, and there they had a monkey that
was picked up in Africa, and one day this old fellow found his queer
messmate, as he called him, spying through a glass, just like the
captain. The captain had a glorious collection of old coins, and the
like, dug up in some of the old Greek colonies, and whenever Master
Monkey saw him overhauling them, he would get out a brass button, or
a card or two, and turn ‘em over, and chatter at them, and glory over
them, quite knowing,” said Harry, imitating the gesture, “and I dare say
he saw V.V., and Tiberius Caesar, as well as the best of them.”

“Thank you, Mr. Harry,” said Meta. “I think we are at no loss for
monkeys here. But I have not the word yet. Who comes next? Ethel--”

“I shall blunder, I forewarn you,” said Ethel, “but this is mine: There
was a young king who had an old tutor, whom he despised because he was
so strict, so he got rid of him, and took to idle sport. One day, when
he was out hunting in a forest, a white hind came and ran before him,
till she guided him to a castle, and there he found a lady all dressed
in white, with a beamy crown on head, and so nobly beautiful that he
fell in love with her at once, and was only sorry to see another prince
who was come to her palace too. She told them her name was Gloria,
and that she had had many suitors, but the choice did not depend on
herself--she could only be won by him who deserved her, and for three
years they were to be on their probation, trying for her. So she
dismissed them, only burning to gain her, and telling them to come back
in three years’ time. But they had not gone far before they saw another
palace, much finer, all glittering with gold and silver, and their Lady
Gloria came out to meet them, not in her white dress, but in one all
gay and bright with fine colours, and her crown they now saw was of
diamonds. She told them they had only seen her everyday dress and house,
this was her best; and she showed them about the castle, and all the
pictures of her former lovers. There was Alexander, who had been nearer
retaining her than any one, only the fever prevented it; there
was Pyrrhus, always seeking her, but slain by a tile; Julius
Caesar--Tamerlane--all the rest, and she hoped that one of these two
would really prove worthy and gain her, by going in the same path as
these great people.

“So our prince went home; his head full of being like Alexander and all
the rest of them, and he sent for his good old tutor to reckon up his
armies, and see whom he could conquer in order to win her. But the old
tutor told him he was under a mistake; the second lady he had seen was a
treacherous cousin of Gloria, who drew away her suitors by her deceits,
and whose real name was Vana Gloria. If he wished to earn the true
Gloria, he must set to work to do his subjects good, and to be virtuous.
And he did; he taught them, and he did justice to them, and he bore it
patiently and kindly when they did not understand. But by-and-by the
other king, who had no good tutor to help him, had got his armies
together, and conquered ever so many people, and drawn off their men to
be soldiers; and now he attacked the good prince, and was so strong that
he gained the victory, though both prince and subjects fought manfully
with heart and hand; but the battle was lost, and the faithful prince
wounded and made prisoner, but bearing it most patiently, till he was
dragged behind the other’s triumphal car with all the rest, when the
three years were up, to be presented to Vana Gloria. And so he was
carried into the forest, bleeding and wounded, and his enemy drove the
car over his body, and stretched out his arms to Vana Gloria, and found
her a vain, ugly wretch, who grew frightful as soon as he grasped her.
But the good dying prince saw the beautiful beamy face of his lady--love
bending over him. ‘Oh!’ he said, ‘vision of my life, hast thou come to
lighten my dying eyes? Never--never, even in my best days, did I deem
that I could be worthy of thee; the more I strove, the more I knew that
Gloria is for none below--for me less than all.’

“And then the lady came and lifted him up, and she said, ‘Gloria is
given to all who do and suffer truly in a good cause, for faithfulness
is glory, and that is thine.’”

Ethel’s language had become more flowing as she grew more eager in the
tale, and they all listened with suspended interest. Norman asked
where she got the story. “Out of an old French book, the ‘Magazin des
enfans,’” was the answer.

“But why did you alter the end?” said Flora, “why kill the poor man? He
used to be prosperous, why not?”

“Because I thought,” said Ethel, “that glory could not properly belong
to any one here, and if he was once conscious of it, it would be all
spoiled. Well, Meta, do you guess?”

“Oh! the word! I had forgotten all about it. I think I know what it must
be, but I should so like another story. May I not have one?” said Meta
coaxingly. “Mary, it is you.”

Mary fell back on her papa, and begged him to take hers. Papa told the
best stories of all, she said, and Meta looked beseeching.

“My story will not be as long as Ethel’s,” said the doctor, yielding
with a half-reluctant smile. “My story is of a humming-bird, a little
creature that loved its master with all its strength, and longed to do
somewhat for him. It was not satisfied with its lot, because it seemed
merely a vain and profitless creature. The nightingale sang praise, and
the woods sounded with the glory of its strains; the fowl was valued
for its flesh, the ostrich for its plume, but what could the little
humming-bird do, save rejoice in the glory of the flood of sunbeams, and
disport itself over the flowers, and glance in the sunny light, as its
bright breastplate flashed from rich purple to dazzling flame-colour,
and its wings supported it, fluttering so fast that the eye could hardly
trace them, as it darted its slender beak into the deep-belled blossoms.
So the little bird grieved, and could not rest, for thinking that it was
useless in this world, that it sought merely its own gratification, and
could do nothing that could conduce to the glory of its master. But
one night a voice spoke to the little bird, ‘Why hast thou been placed
here,’ it said, ‘but at the will of thy master? Was it not that he might
delight himself in thy radiant plumage, and see thy joy in the sunshine?
His gifts are thy buoyant wing, thy beauteous colours, the love of all
around, the sweetness of the honey-drop in the flowers, the shade of the
palm leaf. Esteem them, then, as his; value thine own bliss, while it
lasts, as the token of his care and love; and while thy heart praises
him for them, and thy wings quiver and dance to the tune of that praise,
then, indeed, thy gladness conduces to no vain-glory of thine own, in
beauty, or in graceful flight, but thou art a creature serving--as best
thou canst to his glory.’”

“I know the word,” half whispered Meta, not without a trembling of the
lip. “I know why you told the story, Dr. May, but one is not as good as
the humming-birds.”

The elder ladies had begun to look at watches, and talk of time to go
home; and Jem Jemmings having been seen rearing himself up from behind
the barrow, the doctor proceeded to investigate his case, was perfectly
satisfied of the boy’s truth, and as ready as the young ones to befriend
him. A letter should be written at once, desiring his father to look out
for him on Friday, when he should go by the same train as Harry, who
was delighted at the notion of protecting him so far, and begged to be
allowed to drive him home to Stoneborough in the gig.

Consent was given; and Richard being added to give weight and
discretion, the gig set out at once--the doctor, much to Meta’s delight,
took his place in the brake. Blanche, who, in the morning, had been
inclined to despise it as something akin to a cart, now finding it a
popular conveyance, was urgent to return in it; and Flora was made over
to the carriage, not at all unwillingly, for, though it separated her
from Meta, it made a senior of her.

Norman’s fate conveyed him to the exalted seat beside the driver of the
brake, where he could only now and then catch the sounds of mirth from
below. He had enjoyed the day exceedingly, with that sort of abandon
more than ordinarily delicious to grave or saddened temperaments, when
roused or drawn out for a time. Meta’s winning grace and sweetness had
a peculiar charm for him, and, perhaps, his having been originally
introduced to her as ill, and in sorrow, had given her manner towards
him a sort of kindness which was very gratifying.

And now he felt as if he was going back to a very dusky dusty world; the
last and blithest day of his holidays was past, and he must return to
the misapprehensions and injustice that had blighted his school career,
be kept beneath boys with half his ability, and without generous
feeling, and find all his attainments useless in restoring his
position. Dr. Hoxton’s dull scholarship would chill all pleasure in
his studies--there would be no companionship among the boys--even his
supporters, Ernescliffe and Larkins, were gone, and Harry would leave
him still under a cloud.

Norman felt it more as disgrace than he had done since the first, and
wished he had consented to quit the school when it had been offered--be
made a man, instead of suffering these doubly irksome provocations,
which rose before him in renewed force. “And what would that little
humming-bird think of me if she knew me disgraced?” thought he. “But it
is of no use to think of it. I must go through with it, and as I always
am getting vain-glorious, I had better have no opportunity. I did not
declare I renounced vain pomp and glory last week, to begin coveting
them now again.”

So Norman repressed the sigh as he looked at the school buildings, which
never could give him the pleasures of memory they afforded to others.

The brake had set out before the carriage, so that Meta had to come in
and wait for her governess. Before the vehicle had disgorged half its
contents, Harry had rushed out to meet them. “Come in, come in, Norman!
Only hear. Margaret shall tell you herself! Hurrah!”

Is Mr. Ernescliffe come? crossed Ethel’s mind, but Margaret was alone,
flushed, and holding out her hands. “Norman! where is he? Dear Norman,
here is good news! Papa, Dr. Hoxton has been here, and he knows all
about it--and oh! Norman, he is very sorry for the injustice, and you
are dux again!”

Norman really trembled so much that he could neither speak nor stand,
but sat down on the window-seat, while a confusion of tongues asked
more.

Dr. Hoxton and Mr. Larkins had come to call--heard no one was at home
but Miss May--had, nevertheless, come in--and Margaret had heard
that Mr. Larkins, who had before intended to remove his son from
Stoneborough, had, in the course of the holidays, made discoveries from
him, which he could not feel justified in concealing from Dr. Hoxton.

The whole of the transactions with Ballhatchet, and Norman’s part in
them, had been explained, as well as the true history of the affray in
Randall’s Alley--how Norman had dispersed the boys, how they had again
collected, and, with the full concurrence of Harvey Anderson, renewed
the mischief, how the Andersons had refused to bear witness in his
favour, and how Ballhatchet’s ill-will had kept back the evidence which
would have cleared him.

Little Larkins had told all, and his father had no scruple in repeating
it, and causing the investigation to be set on foot. Nay, he deemed that
Norman’s influence had saved his son, and came, as anxious to thank
him, as Dr. Hoxton, warm-hearted, though injudicious, was to repair his
injustice. They were much surprised and struck by finding that Dr. May
had been aware of the truth the whole time, and had patiently put up
with the injustice, and the loss of the scholarship--a loss which Dr.
Hoxton would have given anything to repair, so as to have sent up a
scholar likely to do him so much credit; but it was now too late, and he
had only been able to tell Margaret how dismayed he was at finding out
that the boy to whom all the good order in his school was owing had been
so ill-used. Kind Dr. May’s first feeling really seemed to be pity and
sympathy for his old friend, the head-master, in the shock of such a
discovery. Harry was vociferously telling his version of the story to
Ethel and Mary. Tom stood transfixed in attention. Meta, forgotten and
bewildered, was standing near Norman, whose colour rapidly varied,
and whose breath came short and quick as he listened. A quick half
interrogation passed Meta’s lips, heard by no one else.

“It is only that it is all right,” he answered, scarcely audibly; “they
have found out the truth.”

“What?--who?--you?” said Meta, as she heard words that implied the past
suspicion.

“Yes,” said Norman, “I was suspected, but never at home.”

“And is it over now?”

“Yes, yes,” he whispered huskily, “all is right, and Harry will not
leave me in disgrace.”

Meta did not speak, but she held out her hand in hearty congratulation;
Norman, scarce knowing what he did, grasped and wrung it so tight
that it was positive pain, as he turned away his head to the window to
struggle with those irrepressible tears. Meta’s colour flushed into her
cheek as she found it still held, almost unconsciously, perhaps, in his
agitation, and she heard Margaret’s words, that both gentlemen had said
Norman had acted nobly, and that every revelation made in the course of
their examination had only more fully established his admirable conduct.

“Oh, Norman, Norman, I am so glad!” cried Mary’s voice in the first
pause, and, Margaret asking where he was, he suddenly turned round,
recollected himself, and found it was not the back of the chair that he
had been squeezing, blushed intensely, but made no attempt at apology,
for indeed he could not speak--he only leaned down over Margaret, to
receive her heartfelt embrace; and, as he stood up again, his father
laid his hand on his shoulder, “My boy, I am glad;” but the words were
broken, and, as if neither could bear more, Norman hastily left the
room, Ethel rushing after him.

“Quite overcome!” said the doctor, “and no wonder. He felt it cruelly,
though he bore up gallantly. Well, July?”

“I’ll go down to school with him to-morrow, and see him dux again! I’ll
have three-times-three!” shouted Harry; “hip! hip! hurrah!” and Tom and
Mary joined in chorus.

“What is all this?” exclaimed Flora, opening the door, “--is every one
gone mad?”

Many were the voices that answered.

“Well, I am glad, and I hope the Andersons will make an apology. But
where is poor Meta? Quite forgotten?”

“Meta would not wonder if she knew all,” said the doctor, turning, with
a sweet smile that had in it something, nevertheless, of apology.

“Oh, I am so glad--so glad!” said Meta, her eyes full of tears, as she
came forward.

And there was no helping it; the first kiss between Margaret May
and Margaret Rivers was given in that overflowing sympathy of
congratulation.

The doctor gave her his arm to take her to the carriage, and, on the
way, his quick warm words filled up the sketch of Norman’s behaviour;
Meta’s eyes responded better than her tongue, but, to her good-bye, she
could not help adding, “Now I have seen true glory.”

His answer was much such a grip as her poor little fingers had already
received, but though they felt hot and crushed all the way home, the
sensation seemed to cause such throbs of joy, that she would not have
been without it.




CHAPTER XXVII.



     And full of hope, day followed day,
     While that stout ship at anchor lay
        Beside the shores of Wight.
     The May had then made all things green,
     And floating there, in pomp serene,
     That ship was goodly to be seen,
        His pride and his delight.

     Yet then when called ashore, he sought
     The tender peace of rural thought,
        In more than happy mood.
     To your abodes, bright daisy flowers,
     He then would steal at leisure hours,
     And loved you, glittering in your bowers,
        A starry multitude.
                                         WORDSWORTH.


Harry’s last home morning was brightened by going to the school to see
full justice done to Norman, and enjoying the scene for him. It was
indeed a painful ordeal to Norman himself, who could, at the moment,
scarcely feel pleasure in his restoration, excepting for the sake of his
father, Harry, and his sisters. To find the head-master making apologies
to him was positively painful and embarrassing, and his countenance
would have been fitter for a culprit receiving a lecture. It was
pleasanter when the two other masters shook hands with him, Mr. Harrison
with a free confession that he had done him injustice, and Mr. Wilmot
with a glad look of congratulation, that convinced Harry he had never
believed Norman to blame.

Harry himself was somewhat of a hero; the masters all spoke to him, bade
him good speed, and wished him a happy voyage, and all the boys were
eager to admire his uniform, and wish themselves already men and
officers like Mr. May. He had his long-desired three cheers for “May
senior!” shouted with a thorough goodwill by the united lungs of the
Whichcote foundation, and a supplementary cheer arose for the good ship
Alcestis, while hands were held out on every side; and the boy arrived
at such a pitch of benevolence and good humour, as actually to volunteer
a friendly shake of the hand to Edward Anderson, whom he encountered
skulking apart.

“Never mind, Ned, we have often licked each other before now, and don’t
let us bear a grudge now I am going away. We are Stoneborough fellows
both, you know, after all.”

Edward did not refuse the offered grasp, and though his words were only,
“Good-bye, I hope you will have plenty of fun!” Harry went away with a
lighter heart.

The rest of the day Harry adhered closely to his father, though chiefly
in silence; Dr. May had intended much advice and exhortation for his
warm-hearted, wild-spirited son, but words would not come, not even when
in the still evening twilight they walked down alone together to the
cloister, and stood over the little stone marked M. M. After standing
there for some minutes, Harry knelt to collect some of the daisies in
the grass.

“Are those to take with you?”

“Margaret is going to make a cross of them for my Prayerbook.”

“Ay, they will keep it in your mind--say it all to you, Harry. She
may be nearer to you everywhere, though you are far from us. Don’t put
yourself from her.”

That was all Dr. May contrived to say to his son, nor could Margaret do
much more than kiss him, while tears flowed one by one over her cheeks,
as she tried to whisper that he must remember and guard himself, and
that he was sure of being thought of, at least, in every prayer; and
then she fastened into his book the cross, formed of flattened daisies,
gummed upon a framework of paper. He begged her to place it at the
Baptismal Service, for he said, “I like that about fighting--and I
always did like the church being like a ship--don’t you? I only found
that prayer out the day poor little Daisy was christened.”

Margaret had indeed a thrill of melancholy pleasure in this task, when
she saw how it was regarded. Oh, that her boy might not lose these
impressions amid the stormy waves he was about to encounter!

That last evening of home good-nights cost Harry many a choking sob
ere he could fall asleep; but the morning of departure had more
cheerfulness; the pleasure of patronising Jem Jennings was as consoling
to his spirits, as was to Mary the necessity of comforting Toby.

Toby’s tastes were in some respects vulgar, as he preferred the stable,
and Will Adams, to all Mary’s attentions; but he attached himself
vehemently to Dr. May, followed him everywhere, and went into raptures
at the slightest notice from him. The doctor said it was all homage to
the master of the house. Margaret held that the dog was a physiognomist.

The world was somewhat flat after the loss of Harry--that element of
riot and fun; Aubrey was always playing at “poor Harry sailing away,”
 Mary looked staid and sober, and Norman was still graver, and more
devoted to books, while Ethel gave herself up more completely to the
thickening troubles of Cocksmoor.

Jealousies had arisen there, and these, with some rebukes for failures
in sending children to be taught, had led to imputations on the
character of Mrs. Green, in whose house the school was kept. Ethel
was at first vehement in her defence; then when stronger evidence was
adduced of the woman’s dishonesty, she was dreadfully shocked, and
wanted to give up all connection with her, and in both moods was equally
displeased with Richard for pausing, and not going all lengths with her.

Mr. Wilmot was appealed to, and did his best to investigate, but the
only result was to discover that no one interrogated had any notion of
truth, except John Taylor, and he knew nothing of the matter. The mass
of falsehood, spite, violence, and dishonesty, that became evident,
was perfectly appalling, and not a clue was to be found to the
truth--scarcely a hope that minds so lost to honourable feeling were
open to receive good impressions. It was a great distress to Ethel--it
haunted her night and day--she lay awake pondering on the vain hopes
for her poor children, and slept to dream of the angry faces and rude
accusations. Margaret grew quite anxious about her, and her elders were
seriously considering the propriety of her continuing her labours at
Cocksmoor.

Mr. Wilmot would not be at Stoneborough after Christmas. His father’s
declining health made him be required at home, and since Richard was so
often absent, it became matter of doubt whether the Misses May ought to
be allowed to persevere, unassisted by older heads, in such a locality.

This doubt put Ethel into an agony. Though she had lately been declaring
that it made her very unhappy to go--she could not bear the sight of
Mrs. Green, and that she knew all her efforts were vain while the poor
children had such homes; she now only implored to be allowed to go on;
she said that the badness of the people only made it more needful to
do their utmost for them; there were no end to the arguments that she
poured forth upon her ever kind listener, Margaret.

“Yes, dear Ethel, yes, but pray be calm; I know papa and Mr. Wilmot
would not put a stop to it if they could possibly help it, but if it is
not proper--”

“Proper! that is as bad as Miss Winter!”

“Ethel, you and I cannot judge of these things--you must leave them to
our elders--”

“And men always are so fanciful about ladies--”

“Indeed, if you speak in that way, I shall think it is really hurting
you.”

“I did not mean it, dear Margaret,” said Ethel, “but if you knew what I
feel for poor Cocksmoor, you would not wonder that I cannot bear it.”

“I do not wonder, dearest; but if this trial is sent you, perhaps it is
to train you for better things.”

“Perhaps it is for my fault,” said Ethel. “Oh, oh, if it be that I am
too unworthy! And it is the only hope; no one will do anything to teach
these poor creatures if I give it up. What shall I do, Margaret?”

Margaret drew her down close to her, and whispered, “Trust them Ethel,
dear. The decision will be whatever is the will of God. If He thinks fit
to give you the work, it will come; if not, He will give you some other,
and provide for them.”

“If I have been too neglectful of home, too vain of persevering when no
one but Richard would!” sighed Ethel.

“I cannot see that you have, dearest,” said Margaret fondly, “but your
own heart must tell you that. And now, only try to be calm and patient.
Getting into these fits of despair is the very thing to make people
decide against you.”

“I will! I will! I will try to be patient,” sobbed Ethel; “I know to be
wayward and set on it would only hurt. I might only do more harm--I’ll
try. But oh, my poor children!”

Margaret gave a little space for the struggle with herself, then advised
her resolutely to fix her attention on something else. It was a Saturday
morning, and time was more free than usual, so Margaret was able to
persuade her to continue a half-forgotten drawing, while listening to an
interesting article in a review, which opened to her that there were too
many Cocksmoors in the world.

The dinner-hour sounded too soon, and as she was crossing the hall to
put away her drawing materials, the front door gave the click peculiar
to Dr. May’s left-handed way of opening it. She paused, and saw him
enter, flushed, and with a look that certified her that something had
happened.

“Well, Ethel, he is come.”

“Oh, papa, Mr. Ernes--”

He held up his finger, drew her into the study, and shut the door. The
expression of mystery and amusement gave way to sadness and gravity as
he sat down in his arm-chair, and sighed as if much fatigued. She was
checked and alarmed, but she could not help asking, “Is he here?”

“At the Swan. He came last night, and watched for me this morning as
I came out of the hospital. We have been walking over the meadows to
Fordholm.”

No wonder Dr. May was hot and tired.

“But is he not coming?” asked Ethel.

“Yes, poor fellow; but hush, stop, say nothing to the others. I must not
have her agitated till she has had her dinner in peace, and the house is
quiet. You know she cannot run away to her room as you would.”

“Then he is really come for that?” cried Ethel breathlessly; and,
perceiving the affirmative, added, “But why did he wait so long?”

“He wished to see his way through his affairs, and also wanted to hear
of her from Harry. I am afraid poor July’s colours were too bright.”

“And why did he come to the Swan instead of to us?”

“That was his fine, noble feeling. He thought it right to see me first,
that if I thought the decision too trying for Margaret, in her present
state, or if I disapproved of the long engagement, I might spare her all
knowledge of his coming.”

“Oh, papa, you won’t!”

“I don’t know but that I ought; but yet, the fact is, that I cannot.
With that fine young fellow so generously, fondly attached I cannot find
it in my heart to send him away for four years without seeing her, and
yet, poor things, it might be better for them both. Oh, Ethel, if your
mother were but here!”

He rested his forehead on his hands, and Ethel stood aghast at his
unexpected reception of the addresses for which she had so long hoped.
She did not venture to speak, and presently he roused himself as the
dinner-bell rang. “One comfort is,” he said, “that Margaret has more
composure than I. Do you go to Cocksmoor this afternoon?”

“I wished it.”

“Take them all with you. You may tell them why when you are out. I
must have the house quiet. I shall get Margaret out into the shade, and
prepare her, as best I can, before he comes at three o’clock.”

It was not flattering to be thus cleared out of the way, especially when
full of excited curiosity, but any such sensation was quite overborne by
sympathy in his great anxiety, and Ethel’s only question was, “Had not
Flora better stay to keep off company?”

“No, no,” said Dr. May impatiently, “the fewer the better;” and hastily
passing her, he dashed up to his room, nearly running over the nursery
procession, and, in a very few seconds, was seated at table, eating and
speaking by snatches, and swallowing endless draughts of cold water.

“You are going to Cocksmoor!” said he, as they were finishing.

“It is the right day,” said Richard. “Are you coming, Flora?”

“Not to-day, I have to call on Mrs. Hoxton.”

“Never mind Mrs. Hoxton,” said the doctor; “you had better go to-day, a
fine cool day for a walk.”

He did not look as if he had found it so.

“Oh, yes, Flora, you must come,” said Ethel, “we want you.”

“I have engagements at home,” replied Flora.

“And it really is a trying walk,” said Miss Winter.

“You must,” reiterated Ethel. “Come to our room, and I will tell you
why.”

“I do not mean to go to Cocksmoor till something positive is settled. I
cannot have anything to do with that woman.”

“If you would only come upstairs,” implored Ethel, at the door, “I have
something to tell you alone.”

“I shall come up in due time. I thought you had outgrown closetings and
foolish secrets,” said Flora.

Her movements were quickened, however, by her father, who, finding her
with Margaret in the drawing-room, ordered her upstairs in a peremptory
manner, which she resented, as treating her like a child, and therefore
proceeded in no amiable mood to the room, where Ethel awaited her in
wild tumultuous impatience.

“Well, Ethel, what is this grand secret?”

“Oh, Flora! Mr. Ernescliffe is at the Swan! He has been speaking to papa
about Margaret.”

“Proposing for her, do you mean?” said Flora.

“Yes, he is coming to see her this afternoon, and that is the reason
that papa wants us to be all out of the way.”

“Did papa tell you this?”

“Yes,” said Ethel, beginning to perceive the secret of her displeasure,
“but only because I was the first person he met; and Norman guessed it
long ago. Do put on your things! I’ll tell you all I know when we are
out. Papa is so anxious to have the coast clear.”

“I understand,” said Flora; “but I shall not go with you. Do not be
afraid of my interfering with any one. I shall sit here.”

“But papa said you were to go.”

“If he had done me the favour of speaking to me himself,” said Flora, “I
should have shown him that it is not right that Margaret should be left
without any one at hand in case she should be overcome. He is of no use
in such cases, only makes things worse. I should not feel justified
in leaving Margaret with no one else, but he is in one of those
hand-over-head moods, when it is not of the least use to say a word to
him.”

“Flora, how can you, when he expressly ordered you?”

“All he meant was, do not be in the way, and I shall not show myself
unless I am needed, when he would be glad enough of me. I am not bound
to obey the very letter, like Blanche or Mary.”

Ethel looked horrified by the assertion of independence, but Richard
called her from below, and, with one more fruitless entreaty, she ran
downstairs.

Richard had been hearing all from his father, and it was comfortable
to talk the matter over with him, and hear explained the anxiety which
frightened her, while she scarcely comprehended it; how Dr. May could
not feel certain whether it was right or expedient to promote an
engagement which must depend on health so uncertain as poor Margaret’s,
and how he dreaded the effect on the happiness of both.

Ethel’s romance seemed to be turning to melancholy, and she walked on
gravely and thoughtfully, though repeating that there could be no
doubt of Margaret’s perfect recovery by the time of the return from the
voyage.

Her lessons were somewhat nervous and flurried, and even the sight of
two very nice neat new scholars, of very different appearance from the
rest, and of much superior attainments, only half interested her. Mary
was enchanted at them as a pair of prodigies, actually able to read! and
had made out their names, and their former abodes, and how they had been
used to go to school, and had just come to live in the cottage deserted
by the lamented Una.

Ethel thought it quite provoking in her brother to accede to Mary’s
entreaties that they should go and call on this promising importation.
Even the children’s information that they were taught now by “Sister
Cherry” failed to attract her; but Richard looked at his watch, and
decided that it was too soon to go home, and she had to submit to her
fate.

Very different was the aspect of the house from the wild Irish cabin
appearance that it had in the M’Carthy days. It was the remains of
an old farm-house that had seen better days, somewhat larger than the
general run of the Cocksmoor dwellings. Respectable furniture had taken
up its abode against the walls, the kitchen was well arranged, and,
in spite of the wretched flooring and broken windows, had an air of
comfort. A very tidy woman was bustling about, still trying to get rid
of the relics of her former tenants, who might, she much feared, have
left a legacy of typhus fever. The more interesting person was, however,
a young woman of three or four and twenty, pale, and very lame, and with
the air of a respectable servant, her manners particularly pleasing.
It appeared that she was the daughter of a first wife, and, after the
period of schooling, had been at service, but had been lamed by a fall
downstairs, and had been obliged to come home, just as scarcity of work
had caused her father to leave his native parish, and seek employment at
other quarries. She had hoped to obtain plain work, but all the family
were dismayed and disappointed at the wild spot to which they had come,
and anxiously availed themselves of this introduction to beg that the
elder boy and girl might be admitted into the town school, distant as it
was. At another time, the thought of Charity Elwood would have engrossed
Ethel’s whole mind, now she could hardly attend, and kept looking
eagerly at Richard as he talked endlessly with the good mother. When,
at last, they did set off, he would not let her gallop home like a
steam-engine, but made her take his arm, when he found that she could
not otherwise moderate her steps. At the long hill a figure appeared,
and, as soon as Richard was certified of its identity, he let her fly,
like a bolt from a crossbow, and she stood by Dr. May’s side.

A little ashamed, she blushed instead of speaking, and waited for
Richard to come up and begin. Neither did he say anything, and they
paused till, the silence disturbing her, she ventured a “Well, papa!”

“Well, poor things. She was quite overcome when first I told her--said
it would be hard on him, and begged me to tell him that he would be much
happier if he thought no more of her.”

“Did Margaret?” cried Ethel. “Oh! could she mean it?”

“She thought she meant it, poor dear, and repeated such things again and
again; but when I asked whether I should send him away without seeing
her, she cried more than ever, and said, ‘You are tempting me! It would
be selfishness.’”

“Oh, dear! she surely has seen him!”

“I told her that I would be the last person to wish to tempt her to
selfishness, but that I did not think that either could be easy in
settling such a matter through a third person.”

“It would have been very unkind,” said Ethel; “I wonder she did not
think so.”

“She did at last. I saw it could not be otherwise, and she said, poor
darling, that when he had seen her, he would know the impossibility; but
she was so agitated that I did not know how it could be.”

“Has she?”

“Ay, I told him not to stay too long, and left him under the tulip-tree
with her. I found her much more composed--he was so gentle and
considerate. Ah! he is the very man! Besides, he has convinced her now
that affection brings him, not mere generosity, as she fancied.”

“Oh, then it is settled!” cried Ethel joyously.

“I wish it were! She has owned that if--if she were in health--but that
is all, and he is transported with having gained so much! Poor fellow.
So far, I trust, it is better for them to know each other’s minds, but
how it is to be--”

“But, papa, you know Sir Matthew Fleet said she was sure to get well;
and in three years’ time--”

“Yes, yes, that is the best chance. But it is a dreary lookout for two
young things. That is in wiser hands, however! If only I saw what
was right to do! My miserable carelessness has undone you all!” he
concluded, almost inaudibly.

It was indeed, to him, a time of great distress and perplexity, wishing
to act the part of father and mother both towards his daughter, acutely
feeling his want of calm decision, and torn to pieces at once by
sympathy with the lovers, and by delicacy that held him back from
seeming to bind the young man to an uncertain engagement, above all,
tortured by self-reproach for the commencement of the attachment, and
for the misfortune that had rendered its prosperity doubtful.

Ethel could find no words of comfort in the bewildered glimpse at his
sorrow and agitation. Richard spoke with calmness and good sense, and
his replies, though brief and commonplace, were not without effect in
lessening the excitement and despondency which the poor doctor’s present
mood had been aggravating.

At the door, Dr. May asked for Flora, and Ethel explained. If Flora had
obtruded herself, he would have been irritated, but, as it was, he had
no time to observe the disobedience, and saying that he hoped she was
with Margaret, sent Ethel into the drawing-room.

Flora was not there, only Margaret lay on her sofa, and Ethel hesitated,
shy, curious, and alarmed; but, as she approached, she was relieved to
see the blue eyes more serene even than usual, while a glow of colour
spread over her face, making her like the blooming Margaret of old
times; her expression was full of peace, but became somewhat amused
at Ethel’s timid, awkward pauses, as she held out her hands, and said,
“Come, dear Ethel.”

“Oh, Margaret, Margaret!”

And Ethel was drawn into her sister’s bosom. Presently she drew back,
gazed at her sister inquiringly, and said in an odd, doubtful voice,
“Then you are glad?”

Margaret nearly laughed at the strange manner, but spoke with a
sorrowful tone, “Glad in one way, dearest, almost too glad, and
grateful.”

“Oh, I am so glad!” again said Ethel; “I thought it was making everybody
unhappy.”

“I don’t believe I could be that, now he has come, now I know;” and her
voice trembled. “There must be doubt and uncertainty,” she added, “but
I cannot dwell on them just yet. They will settle what is right, I know,
and, happen what may, I have always this to remember.”

“Oh, that is right! Papa will be so relieved! He was afraid it had only
been distress.”

“Poor papa! Yes, I did not command myself at first; I was not sure
whether it was right to see him at all.”

“Oh, Margaret, that was too bad!”

“It did not seem right to encourage any such--such,” the word was lost,
“to such a poor helpless thing as I am. I did not know what to do, and I
am afraid I behaved like a silly child, and did not think of dear papa’s
feelings. But I will try to be good, and leave it all to them.”

“And you are going to be happy?” said Ethel wistfully.

“For the present, at least. I cannot help it,” said Margaret. “Oh, he
is so kind, and so unselfish, and so beautifully gentle--and to think of
his still caring! But there, dear Ethel, I am not going to cry; do call
papa, or he will think me foolish again. I want him to be quite at ease
about me before he comes.”

“Then he is coming?”

“Yes, at tea-time--so run, dear Ethel, and tell Jane to get his room
ready.”

The message quickened Ethel, and after giving it, and reporting
consolingly to her father, she went up to Flora, who had been a
voluntary prisoner upstairs all this time, and was not peculiarly
gratified at such tidings coming only through the medium of Ethel. She
had before been sensible that, superior in discretion and effectiveness
as she was acknowledged to be, she did not share so much of the
confidence and sympathy as some of the others, and she felt mortified
and injured, though in this case it was entirely her own fault. The
sense of alienation grew upon her.

She dressed quickly, and hurried down, that she might see Margaret
alone; but the room was already prepared for tea, and the children were
fast assembling. Ethel came down a few minutes after, and found Blanche
claiming Alan Ernescliffe as her lawful property, dancing round him,
chattering, and looking injured if he addressed a word to any one else.

How did lovers look? was a speculation which had, more than once,
occupied Ethel, and when she had satisfied herself that her father was
at ease, she began to study it, as soon as a shamefaced consciousness
would allow her, after Alan’s warm shake of the hand.

Margaret looked much as usual, only with more glow and brightness--Mr.
Ernescliffe, not far otherwise; he was as pale and slight as on his last
visit, with the same soft blue eyes, capable, however, of a peculiar,
keen, steady glance when he was listening, and which now seemed to be
attending to Margaret’s every word or look, through all the delighted
uproar which Aubrey, Blanche, and Mary kept up round him, or while
taking his share in the general conversation, telling of Harry’s
popularity and good conduct on board the Alcestis, or listening to the
history of Norman’s school adventures, which he had heard, in part, from
Harry, and how young Jennings was entered in the flag-ship, as a boy,
though not yet to sail with his father.

After the storm of the day the sky seemed quite clear, and Ethel
could not see that being lovers made much difference; to be sure papa
displeased Blanche, by calling her away to his side, when she would
squeeze her chair in between Alan’s and the sofa; and Alan took all the
waiting on Margaret exclusively to himself. Otherwise, there was nothing
remarkable, and he was very much the same Mr. Ernescliffe whom they had
received a year ago.

In truth, the next ten days were very happy. The future was left
to rest, and Alan spent his mornings in the drawing-room alone with
Margaret, and looked ever more brightly placid, while, with the rest, he
was more than the former kind playfellow, for he now took his place as
the affectionate elder brother, entering warmly into all their schemes
and pleasures, and winning for himself a full measure of affection from
all; even his little god-daughter began to know him, and smile at
his presence. Margaret and Ethel especially delighted in the look of
enjoyment with which their father sat down to enter on the evening’s
conversation after the day’s work; and Flora was well pleased that Mrs.
Hoxton should find Alan in the drawing-room, and ask afterwards about
his estate; and that Meta Rivers, after being certified that this was
their Mr. Ernescliffe, pronounced that her papa thought him particularly
pleasing and gentlemanlike. There was something dignified in having a
sister on the point of being engaged.




CHAPTER XXVIII.



     Sail forth into the sea, thou ship,
       Through breeze and cloud, right onward steer;
     The moistened eye, the trembling lip,
       Are not the signs of doubt or fear!--LONGFELLOW.


Tranquility only lasted until Mr. Ernescliffe found it necessary to
understand on what terms he was to stand. Every one was tender of
conscience, anxious to do right, and desirous to yield to the opinion
that nobody could, or would give. While Alan begged for a positive
engagement, Margaret scrupled to exchange promises that she might never
be able to fulfil, and both agreed to leave all to her father, who, in
every way, ought to have the best ability to judge whether there was
unreasonable presumption in such a betrothal; but this very ability only
served to perplex the poor doctor more and more. It is far easier for a
man to decide when he sees only one bearing of a case, than when, like
Dr. May, he not only sees them, but is rent by them in his inmost
heart. Sympathising in turn with each lover, bitterly accusing his own
carelessness as the cause of all their troubles, his doubts contending
with his hopes, his conviction clashing with Sir Matthew Fleet’s
opinion, his conscientious sincerity and delicacy conflicting with
his affection and eagerness, he was perfectly incapable of coming to a
decision, and suffered so cruelly, that Margaret was doubly distressed
for his sake, and Alan felt himself guilty of having rendered everybody
miserable.

Dr. May could not conceal his trouble, and rendered Ethel almost as
unhappy as himself, after each conversation with her, though her hopes
usually sprang up again, and she had a happy conviction that this was
only the second volume of the novel. Flora was not often called into his
councils; confidence never came spontaneously from Dr. May to her; there
was something that did not draw it forth towards her, whether it resided
in that half-sarcastic corner of her steady blue eye, or in the grave
common-sense of her gentle voice. Her view of the case was known to be
that there was no need for so much perplexity--why should not Alan be
the best judge of his own happiness? If Margaret were to be delicate for
life, it would be better to have such a home to look to; and she soothed
and comforted Margaret, and talked in a strain of unmixed hope and
anticipation that often drew a smile from her sister, though she feared
to trust to it.

Flora’s tact and consideration in keeping the children away when the
lovers could best be alone, and letting them in when the discussion was
becoming useless and harassing, her cheerful smiles, her evening music
that covered all sounds, her removal of all extra annoyances, were
invaluable, and Margaret appreciated them, as, indeed, Flora took care
that she should.

Margaret begged to know her eldest brother’s judgment, but had great
difficulty in dragging it out. Diffidently as it was proposed, it
was clear and decided. He thought that his father had better send Sir
Matthew Fleet a statement of Margaret’s present condition, and abide
by his answer as to whether her progress warranted the hope of her
restoration.

Never was Richard more surprised than by the gratitude with which his
suggestion was hailed, simple as it was, so that it seemed obvious
that others should have already thought of it. After the tossings of
uncertainty, it was a positive relief to refer the question to some
external voice, and only Ethel and Norman expressed strong dislike to
Sir Matthew becoming the arbiter of Margaret’s fate, and were scarcely
pacified by Dr. May’s assurance that he had not revealed the occasion of
his inquiry. The letter was sent, and repose returned, but hearts beat
high on the morning when the answer was expected.

Dr. May watched the moment when his daughter was alone, carried the
letter to her, and kissing her, said, with an oppressed voice, “I give
you joy, my dear.”

She read with suspended breath and palpitating heart. Sir Matthew
thought her improvement sure, though slow, and had barely a doubt that,
in a year, she would have regained her full strength and activity.

“You will show it to Alan,” said Dr. May, as Margaret lifted her eyes to
his face inquiringly.

“Will not you?” she said.

“I cannot,” he answered. “I wish I was more helpful to you, my child,”
 he added wistfully, “but you will rest on him, and be happy together
while he stays, will you not?”

“Indeed I will, dear papa.”

Mr. Ernescliffe was with her as the doctor quitted her. She held the
letter to him, “But,” she said slowly, “I see that papa does not believe
it.”

“You promised to abide by it!” he exclaimed, between entreaty and
authority.

“I do; if you choose so to risk your hopes.”

“But,” cried he, as he glanced hastily over the letter, “there can be
no doubt! These words are as certain as language can make them. Why will
you not trust them?”

“I see that papa does not.”

“Despondency and self-reproach made him morbidly anxious. Believe so, my
Margaret! You know he is no surgeon!”

“His education included that line,” said Margaret. “I believe he has
all but the manual dexterity. However, I would fain have faith in Sir
Matthew,” she added, smiling, “and perhaps I am only swayed by the habit
of thinking that papa must know best.”

“He does in indifferent cases; but it is an old axiom, that a medical
man should not prescribe for his own family; above all, in such a case,
where it is but reasonable to believe an unprejudiced stranger, who
alone is cool enough to be relied on. I absolutely depend on him!”

Margaret absolutely depended on the bright cheerful look of conviction.
“Yes,” she said, “we will try to make papa take pleasure in the
prospect. Perhaps I could do more if I made the attempt.”

“I am sure you could, if you would let me give you more support. If I
were but going to remain with you!”

“Don’t let us be discontented,” said Margaret, smiling, “when so much
more has been granted than I dare to hope. Be it as it may, let us be
happy in what we have.”

“It makes you happy?” said he, archly reading her face to draw out the
avowal, but he only made her hide it, with a mute caress of the hand
that held hers. She was glad enough to rest in the present, now that
everything concurred to satisfy her conscience in so doing, and come
what might, the days now spent together would be a possession of joy for
ever.

Captain Gordon contrived to afford his lieutenant another fortnight’s
leave, perhaps because he was in dread of losing him altogether, for
Alan had some doubts, and many longings to remain. Had it been possible
to marry at once, he would have quitted the navy immediately; and he
would have given worlds to linger beside Margaret’s couch, and claim her
the first moment possible, believing his care more availing than all. He
was, however, so pledged to Captain Gordon, that, without strong cause,
he would not have been justified in withdrawing; besides, Harry was
under his charge, and Dr. May and Margaret both thought, with the
captain, that an active life would be a better occupation for him than
watching her. He would never be able to settle down at his new home
comfortably without her, and he would be more in the way of duty while
pursuing his profession, so Margaret nerved herself against using her
influence to detain him, and he thanked her for it.

Though hope and affection could not an once repair an injured spine,
they had wonderful powers in inciting Margaret to new efforts. Alan
was as tender and ready of hand as Richard, and more clever and
enterprising; and her unfailing trust in him prevented all alarms and
misgivings, so that wonders were effected, and her father beheld her
standing with so little support, looking so healthful and so blithe,
that his forebodings melted away, and he talked joyously of the future.

The great achievement was taking her round the garden. She could not
bear the motion of wheels, but Alan adopted the hammock principle, and,
with the aid of Richard and his crony, the carpenter, produced a machine
in which no other power on earth could have prevailed on her to trust
herself, but in which she was carried round the garden so successfully,
that there was even a talk of next Sunday, and of the Minster.

It was safely accomplished, and tired as she was, Margaret felt, as
she whispered to Alan, that he had now crowned all the joy that he had
brought to her.

Ethel used to watch them, and think how beautiful their countenances
were, and talk them over with her father, who was quite happy about them
now. She gave assistance, which Alan never once called unhandy, to all
his contrivances, and often floundered in upon his conferences with
Margaret, in a way that would have been very provoking, if she had not
always blushed and looked so excessively discomfited, and they had only
to laugh and reassure her.

Alan was struck by finding that the casual words spoken on the way from
Cocksmoor had been so strenuously acted on, and he brought on himself
a whole torrent of Ethel’s confused narratives, which Richard and Flora
would fain have checked; but Margaret let them continue, as she saw him
a willing listener, and was grateful to him for comprehending the ardent
girl.

He declared himself to have a share in the matter, reminding Ethel of
her appeal to him to bind himself to the service of Cocksmoor. He sent
a sovereign at once, to aid in a case of the sudden death of a pig; and
when securely established in his brotherly right, he begged Ethel to
let him know what would help her most. She stood colouring, twisting
her hands, and wondering what to say, whereupon he relieved her by a
proposal to leave an order for ten pounds, to be yearly paid into her
hands, as a fixed income for her school.

A thousand a year could hardly have been so much to Ethel. “Thank you!
Oh, this is charming! We could set up a regular school! Cherry Elwood is
the very woman! Alan, you have made our fortune! Oh, Margaret, Margaret!
I must go and tell Ritchie and Mary! This is the first real step to our
church and all!”

“May I do it?” said Alan, turning to Margaret, as Ethel frantically
burst out of the room; “perhaps I should have asked leave?”

“I was going to thank you,” said Margaret. “It is the very kindest thing
you could have done by dear Ethel! the greatest comfort to us. She will
be at peace now, when anything hinders her from going to Cocksmoor.”

“I wonder,” said Alan, musing, “whether we shall ever be able to help
her more substantially. I cannot do anything hastily, for you know
Maplewood is still in the hands of the executors, and I cannot tell what
claims there may be upon me; but by-and-by, when I return, if I find no
other pressing duty, might not a church at Cocksmoor be a thankoffering
for all I have found here?”

“Oh, Alan, what joy it would be!”

“It is a long way off,” he said sadly; “and perhaps her force of
perseverance will have prevailed alone.”

“I suppose I must not tell her, even as a vision.”

“It is too uncertain; I do not know the wants of the Maplewood people,
and I must provide for Hector. I would not let these vague dreams
interfere with her resolute work; but, Margaret, what a vision it is! I
can see you laying the first stone on that fine heathy brow.”

“Oh, your godchild should lay the first stone!”

“She shall, and you shall lead her. And there shall be Ethel’s sharp
face full of indescribable things as she marshals her children, and
Richard shall be curate, and read in his steady soft tone, and your
father shall look sunny with his boys around him, and you--”

“Oh, Alan,” said Margaret, who had been listening with a smile, “it is,
indeed, a long way off!”

“I shall look to it as the haven where I would be,” said the sailor.

They often spoke together of this scheme, ever decking it in brighter
colours. The topic seemed to suit them better than their own future, for
there was no dwelling on that without an occasional misgiving, and
the more glad the anticipation, the deeper the sigh that followed on
Margaret’s part, till Mr. Ernescliffe followed her lead, and they seldom
spoke of these uncertainties, but outwardly smiled over the present,
inwardly dwelt on the truly certain hopes. There were readings shared
together, made more precious than all, by the conversations that ensued.

The hour for parting came at last. Ethel never knew what passed in the
drawing-room, whence every one was carefully excluded. Dr. May wandered
about, keeping guard over the door, and watching the clock, till, at the
last moment, he knocked, and called in a trembling voice, “Ernescliffe!
Alan! it is past the quarter! You must not stay!”

The other farewells were hurried; Alan seemed voiceless, only nodding in
reply to Mary’s vociferous messages to Harry, and huskily whispering to
Ethel, “Good luck to Cocksmoor!”

The next moment the door had shut on him, and Dr. May and Flora had gone
to her sister, whom she found not tearful, but begging to be left alone.

When they saw her again, she was cheerful; she kept up her composure and
animation without flagging, nor did she discontinue her new exertions,
but seemed decidedly the happier for all that had passed.

Letters came every day for her, and presents to every one. Ethel had a
gold chain and eyeglass, which, it was hoped, might cure her of frowning
and stooping, though her various ways of dangling her new possession
caused her to be so much teased by Flora and Norman, that, but for
regard to Margaret’s feelings, she would not have worn it for three
days.

To Mary was sent a daguerreotype of Harry, her glory and delight. Say,
who would, that it had pig’s eyes, a savage frown, a pudding chin,
there were his own tight rings of hair, his gold-banded cap, his bright
buttons, how could she prize it enough? She exhibited it to the little
ones ten times a day, she kissed it night and morning, and registered
her vow always to sleep with it under her “pilow,” in a letter of
thanks, which Margaret defended and despatched, in spite of Miss
Winter’s horrors at its disregard of orthography.

It was nearly the last letter before the Alcestis was heard of at
Spithead. Then she sailed; she sent in her letters to Plymouth, and her
final greetings by a Falmouth cutter--poor Harry’s wild scrawl in pencil
looking very sea-sick.


“Dear papa and all, good-bye. We are out of sight of land. Three years,
and keep up a good heart. I shall soon be all right.

                                       “Your H. MAY.”


It was enclosed in Mr. Ernescliffe’s envelope, and with it came
tidings that Harry’s brave spirit was not failing, even under untoward
circumstances, but he had struggled on deck, and tried to write,
when all his contemporaries had given in; in fact, he was a fine
fellow--every one liked him, and Captain Gordon, though chary of
commendation, had held him up to the other youngsters as an example of
knowing what a sailor was meant to be like.

Margaret smiled, and cried over the news when she imparted it--but all
serenely--and though she was glad to be alone, and wrote journals for
Alan, when she could not send letters, she exerted herself to be the
same sister as usual to the rest of the household, and not to give way
to her wandering musings.

From one subject her attention never strayed. Ethel had never found any
lack of sympathy in her for her Cocksmoor pursuits; but the change now
showed that, where once Margaret had been interested merely as a kind
sister, she now had a personal concern, and she threw herself into all
that related to it as her own chief interest and pursuit--becoming the
foremost in devising plans, and arranging the best means of using Mr.
Ernescliffe’s benefaction.

The Elwood family had grown in the good opinion of the Mays. Charity
had hobbled to church, leaning on her father’s arm, and being invited
to dinner in the kitchen, the acquaintance had been improved, and nurse
herself had pronounced her such a tidy, good sort of body, that it was
a pity she had met with such a misfortune. If Miss Ethel brought in
nothing but the like of her, they should be welcome; poor thing, how
tired she was!

Nurse’s opinions were apt to be sagacious, especially when in the face
of her prejudices, and this gave Margaret confidence. Cherry proved to
have been carefully taught by a good clergyman and his wife, and to
be of very different stamp from the persons to whom the girls were
accustomed. They were charmed with her, and eagerly offered to supply
her with books--respecting her the more when they found that Mr.
Hazlewood had already lent her their chief favourites. Other and greater
needs they had no power to fill up.

“It is so lone without the church bells, you see, miss,” said Mrs.
Elwood. “Our tower had a real fine peal, and my man was one of the
ringers. I seems quite lost without them, and there was Cherry, went
a’most every day with the children.”

“Every day!” cried Mary, looking at her with respect.

“It was so near,” said Cherry, “I could get there easy, and I got used
to it when I was at school.”

“Did it not take up a great deal of time?” said Ethel.

“Why, you see, ma’am, it came morning and night, out of working times,
and I can’t be stirring much.”

“Then you miss it sadly?” said Ethel.

“Yes, ma’am, it made the day go on well like, and settled a body’s mind,
when I fretted for what could not be helped. But I try not to fret after
it now, and Mr. Hazlewood said, if I did my best wherever I was, the
Lord would still join our prayers together.”

Mr. Hazlewood was recollected by Mr. Wilmot as an old college friend,
and a correspondence with him fully confirmed the favourable estimate of
the Elwoods, and was decisive in determining that the day-school, with
Alan’s ten pounds as salary, and a penny a week from each child, should
be offered to Cherry.

Mr. Hazlewood answered for her sound excellence, and aptitude for
managing little children, though he did not promise genius, such as
should fulfil the requirements of modern days. With these Cocksmoor
could dispense at present; Cherry was humbly gratified, and her parents
delighted with the honour and profit; there was a kitchen which afforded
great facilities, and Richard and his carpenter managed the fitting to
admiration; Margaret devised all manner of useful arrangements, settled
matters with great earnestness, saw Cherry frequently, discussed plans,
and learned the history and character of each child, as thoroughly as
Ethel herself. Mr. Ramsden himself came to the opening of the school,
and said so much of the obligations of Cocksmoor to the young ladies,
that Ethel would not have known which way to look, if Flora had not
kindly borne the brunt of his compliments.

Every one was pleased, except Mrs. Green, who took upon herself to set
about various malicious reports of Cherry Elwood; but nobody cared for
them, except Mrs. Elwood, who flew into such passions, that Ethel was
quite disappointed in her, though not in Cherry, who meekly tried to
silence her mother, begged the young ladies not to be vexed, and showed
a quiet dignity that soon made the shafts of slander fall inoffensively.

All went well; there was a school instead of a hubbub, clean faces
instead of dirty, shining hair instead of wild elf-locks, orderly
children instead of little savages. The order and obedience that Ethel
could not gain in six months, seemed impressed in six days by Cherry;
the neat work made her popular with the mothers, her firm gentleness
won the hearts of the children, and the kitchen was filled not only with
boys and girls from the quarry, but with some little ones from outlying
cottages of Fordholm and Abbotstoke, and there was even a smart little
farmer, who had been unbearable at home.

Margaret’s unsuccessful bath-chair was lent to Cherry, and in it her
scholars drew her to Stoneborough every Sunday, and slowly began to
redeem their character with the ladies, who began to lose the habit of
shrinking out of their way--the Stoneborough children did so instead;
and Flora and Ethel were always bringing home stories of injustice
to their scholars, fancied or real, and of triumphs in their having
excelled any national school girl. The most stupid children at Cocksmoor
always seemed to them wise in comparison with the Stoneborough girls,
and the Sunday-school might have become to Ethel a school of rivalry,
if Richard had not opened her eyes by a quiet observation, that the town
girls seemed to fare as ill with her, as the Cocksmoor girls did with
the town ladies. Then she caught herself up, tried to be candid, and
found that she was not always impartial in her judgments. Why would
competition mingle even in the best attempts?

Cherry did not so bring forward her scholars that Ethel could have many
triumphs of this dangerous kind. Indeed, Ethel was often vexed with
her; for though she taught needlework admirably, and enforced correct
reading, and reverent repetition, her strong provincial dialect was a
stumbling-block; she could not put questions without book, and nothing
would teach her Ethel’s rational system of arithmetic. That she was a
capital dame, and made the children very good, was allowed; but now and
then, when mortified by hearing what was done at Stoneborough, Fordholm,
or Abbotstoke, Ethel would make vigorous efforts, which resulted only in
her coming home fuming at Cherry’s “outrageous dullness.”

These railings always hurt Margaret, who had made Cherry almost into a
friend, and generally liked to have a visit from her during the
Sunday, when she always dined with the servants. Then school questions,
Cocksmoor news, and the tempers of the children, were talked over, and
Cherry was now and then drawn into home reminiscences, and descriptions
of the ways of her former school. There was no fear of spoiling
her--notice from her superiors was natural to her, and she had the
lady-likeness of womanly goodness, so as never to go beyond her own
place. She had had many trials too, and Margaret learned the true
history of them, as she won Cherry’s confidence, and entered into them,
feeling their likeness, yet dissimilarity, to her own.

Cherry had been a brisk happy girl in a good place, resting in one of
the long engagements that often extend over half the life of a servant,
enjoying the nod of her baker as he left his bread, and her walk from
church with him on alternate Sundays. But poor Cherry had been exposed
to the perils of window-cleaning; and, after a frightful fall, had
wakened to find herself in a hospital, and her severe sufferings had
left her a cripple for life.

And the baker had not been an Alan Ernescliffe! She did not complain of
him--he had come to see her, and had been much grieved, but she had
told him she could never be a useful wife; and, before she had used her
crutches, he was married to her pretty fellow-servant.

Cherry spoke very simply; she hoped it was better for Long, and believed
Susan would make him a good wife. Ethel would have thought she did not
feel, but Margaret knew better.

She stroked the thin slight fingers, and gently said, “Poor Cherry!” and
Cherry wiped away a tear, and said, “Yes, ma’am, thank you, it is best
for him. I should not have wished him to grieve for what cannot be
helped.”

“Resignation is the great comfort.”

“Yes, ma’am. I have a great deal to be thankful for. I don’t blame no
one, but I do see how some, as are married, seem to get to think more of
this world; and now and then I fancy I can see how it is best for me as
it is.”

Margaret sighed, as she remembered certain thoughts before Alan’s
return.

“Then, ma’am, there has been such goodness! I did vex at being a poor
helpless thing, nothing but a burden on father; and when we had to go
from home, and Mr. and Mrs. Hazlewood and all, I can’t tell you how bad
it was, ma’am.”

“Then you are comforted now?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Cherry, brightening. “It seems as if He had given me
something to do, and there are you, and Mr. Richard, and Miss Ethel,
to help. I should like, please God, to be of some good to those poor
children.”

“I am sure you will, Cherry; I wish I could do as much.”

Cherry’s tears had come again. “Ah! ma’am, you--” and she stopped short,
and rose to depart. Margaret held out her hand to wish her good-bye.
“Please, miss, I was thinking how Mr. Hazlewood said that God fits our
place to us, and us to our place.”

“Thank you, Cherry, you are leaving me something to remember.”

And Margaret lay questioning with herself, whether the schoolmistress
had not been the most self-denying of the two; but withal gazing on the
hoop of pearls which Alan had chosen as the ring of betrothal.

“The pearl of great price,” murmured she to herself; “if we hold that,
the rest will soon matter but little. It remaineth that both they that
have wives, be as they that have none, and they that weep, as though
they wept not, and they that rejoice, as though they rejoiced not! If
ever Alan and I have a home together upon earth, may all too confident
joy be tempered by the fears that we have begun with! I hope this
probation may make me less likely to be taken up with the cares and
pleasures of his position than I might have been last year. He is one
who can best help the mind to go truly upward. But oh, that voyage!”




CHAPTER XXIX.



     Heart affluence in household talk,
     From social fountains never dry.--TENNYSON.


“What a bore!”

“What’s the matter now?”

“Here has this old fellow asked me to dinner again!”

“A fine pass we are come to!” cried Dr. May, half amused, half irate.
“I should like to know what I should have said at your age if the
head-master had asked me to dinner.”

“Papa is not so very fond of dining at Dr. Hoxton’s,” said Ethel. “A
whipper-snapper schoolboy, who might be thankful to dine anywhere!”
 continued Dr. May, while the girls burst out laughing, and Norman looked
injured.

“It is very ungrateful of Norman,” said Flora; “I cannot see what he
finds to complain of.”

“You would know,” said Norman, “if, instead of playing those perpetual
tunes of yours, you had to sit it out in that perfumy drawing-room,
without anything to listen to worth hearing. If I have looked over that
court album once, I have a dozen times, and there is not another book in
the place.”

“I am glad there is not,” said Flora. “I am quite ashamed to see you for
ever turning over those old pictures. You cannot guess how stupid you
look. I wonder Mrs. Hoxton likes to have you,” she added, patting his
shoulders between jest and earnest.

“I wish she would not, then. It is only to escort you.”

“Nonsense, Norman, you know better,” cried Ethel. “You know it is for
your own sake, and to make up for their injustice, that he invites you,
or Flora either.”

“Hush, Ethel! he gives himself quite airs enough already,” said the
doctor.

“Papa!” said Ethel, in vexation, though he gave her a pinch to show it
was all in good humour, while he went on, “I am glad to hear they do
leave him to himself in a corner. A very good thing too! Where else
should a great gawky schoolboy be?”

“Safe at home, where I wish he would let me be,” muttered Norman, though
he contrived to smile, and followed Flora out of the room, without
subjecting himself to the imputation of offended dignity.

Ethel was displeased, and began her defence: “Papa, I wish--” and there
she checked herself.

“Eh! Miss Ethel’s bristles up!” said her father, who seemed in a
somewhat mischievous mood of teasing.

“How could you, papa?” cried she.

“How could I what, Miss Etheldred?”

“Plague Norman,”--the words would come. “Accuse him of airs.”

“I hate to see young fellows above taking an honour from their elders,”
 said Dr. May.

“Now, papa, papa, you know it is no such thing. Dr. Hoxton’s parties are
very dull--you know they are, and it is not fair on Norman. If he
was set up and delighted at going so often, then you would call him
conceited.”

“Conceit has a good many lurking-places,” said Dr. May. “It is harder to
go and be overlooked, than to stay at home.”

“Now, papa, you are not to call Norman conceited,” cried Ethel. “You
don’t believe that he is any such thing.”

“Why, not exactly,” said Dr. May, smiling. “The boy has missed it
marvellously; but, you see, he has everything that subtle imp would wish
to feed upon, and it is no harm to give him a lick with the rough side
of the tongue, as your canny Scots grandfather used to say.”

“Ah! if you knew, papa--” began Ethel.

“If I knew?”

“No, no, I must not tell.”

“What, a secret, is there?”

“I wish it was not; I should like to tell you very much, but then, you
see, it is Norman’s, and you are to be surprised.”

“Your surprise is likely to be very much like Blanche’s birthday
presents, a stage aside.”

“No, I am going to keep it to myself.”

Two or three days after, as Ethel was going to the schoolroom after
breakfast, Dr. May beckoned her back to the dining-room, and, with his
merry look of significance, said, “Well, ma’am, I have found out your
mystery!”

“About Norman? Oh, papa! Did he tell you?”

“When I came home from the hospital last night, at an hour when all
respectable characters, except doctors and police, should be in their
warm beds, I beheld a light in Norman’s window, so methought I would see
what Gravity was doing out of his bed at midnight--”

“And you found him at his Greek--”

“So that was the meaning of his looking so lank and careworn, just as he
did last year, and he the prince of the school! I could have found it in
my heart to fling the books at his head!”

“But you consent, don’t you, to his going up for the scholarship?”

“I consent to anything, as long as he keeps within due bounds, and does
not work himself to death. I am glad of knowing it, for now I can put a
moderate check upon it.”

“And did he tell you all about it?”

“He told me he felt as if he owed it to us to gain something for
himself, since I had given up the Randall to gratify him--a pretty sort
of gratification.”

“Yes, and he will be glad to get away from school. He says he knows it
is bad for him--as it is uncomfortable to be singled out in the way Dr.
Hoxton does now. You know,” pleaded Ethel, “it is not ingratitude or
elation, but it is, somehow, not nice to be treated as he is, set apart
from the rest.”

“True; Dr. Hoxton never had taste or judgment. If Norman were not a
lusus naturae,” said Dr. May, hesitating for a word, “his head would
have been turned long ago. And he wants companions too--he has been
forced out of boyhood too soon, poor fellow--and Harry gone too. He
does not get anything like real relaxation, and he will be better among
youths than boys. Stoneborough will never be what it was in my time!”
 added the doctor mournfully. “I never thought to see the poor old place
come to this; but there--when all the better class send their sons to
the great public schools, and leave nothing but riff-raff here, one is
forced, for a boy’s own sake, to do the same.”

“Oh, I am so glad! Then you have consented to the rest of Norman’s
scheme, and will not keep poor little Tom at school here without him?”

“By what he tells me it would be downright ruin to the boy. I little
thought to have to take a son of mine away from Stoneborough; but Norman
is the best judge, and he is the only person who seems to have made
any impression on Tom, so I shall let it be. In fact,” he added, half
smiling, “I don’t know what I could refuse old June.”

“That’s right!” cried Ethel. “That is so nice! Then, if Norman gets the
scholarship, Tom is to go to Mr. Wilmot first, and then to Eton!”

“If Norman gains the scholarship, but that is an if,” said Dr. May, as
though hoping for a loop-hole to escape offending the shade of Bishop
Whichcote.

“Oh, papa, you cannot doubt of that!”

“I cannot tell, Ethel. He is facile princeps here in his own world, but
we do not know how it may be when he is measured with public schoolmen,
who have had more first-rate tutorship than poor old Hoxton’s.”

“Ah! he says so, but I thought that was all his humility.”

“Better he should be prepared. If he had had all those advantages--but
it may be as well after all. I always had a hankering to have sent him
to Eton, but your dear mother used to say it was not fair on the others.
And now, to see him striving in order to give the advantage of it to his
little brother! I only hope Master Thomas is worthy of it--but it is a
boy I can’t understand.”

“Nor I,” said Ethel; “he never seems to say anything he can help, and
goes after Norman without talking to any one else.”

“I give him up to Norman’s management,” said Dr. May. “He says the
boy is very clever, but I have not seen it; and, as to more serious
matters--However, I must take it on Norman’s word that he is wishing to
learn truth. We made an utter mistake about him; I don’t know who is to
blame for it.”

“Have you told Margaret about Norman’s plan?” asked Ethel.

“No; he desired me to say nothing. Indeed, I should not like Tom’s
leaving school to be talked of beforehand.”

“Norman said he did not want Flora to hear, because she is so much with
the Hoxton’s, and he said they would all watch him.”

“Ay, ay, and we must keep his secret. What a boy it is! But it is not
safe to say conceited things. We shall have a fall yet, Ethel. Not
seventeen, remember, and brought up at a mere grammar-school.”

“But we shall still have the spirit that made him try,” said Ethel, “and
that is the thing.”

“And, to tell the truth,” said the doctor, lingering, “for my own part,
I don’t care a rush for it!” and he dashed off to his work, while Ethel
stood laughing.

“Papa was so very kind,” said Norman tremulously, when Ethel followed
him to his room, to congratulate him on having gained his father’s
assent, of which he had been more in doubt than she.

“And you see he quite approves of the scheme for Tom, except for
thinking it disrespect to Bishop Whichcote. He said he only hoped Tom
was worthy of it.”

“Tom!” cried Norman. “Take my word for it, Ethel, Tom will surprise you
all. He will beat us all to nothing, I know!”

“If only he can be cured of--”

“He will,” said Norman, “when once he has outgrown his frights, and that
he may do at Mr. Wilmot’s, apart from those fellows. When I go up for
this scholarship, you must look after his lessons, and see if you are
not surprised at his construing!”

“When you go. It will be in a month!”

“He has told no one, I hope.”

“No; but I hardly think he will bear not telling Margaret.”

“Well--I hate a thing being out of one’s own keeping. I should not so
much dislike Margaret’s knowing, but I won’t have Flora know--mind that,
Ethel,” he said, with disproportionate vehemence.

“I only hope Flora will not be vexed. But oh, dear! how nice it will be
when you have it, telling Meta Rivers, and all!”

“And this is a fine way of getting it, standing talking here. Not that I
shall--you little know what public schools can do! But that is no reason
against trying.”

“Good-night, then. Only one thing more. You mean that, till further
orders, Margaret should not know?”

“Of course,” said Norman impatiently. “She won’t take any of Flora’s
silly affronts, and, what is more, she would not care half so much as
before Alan Ernescliffe came.”

“Oh, Norman, Norman! I’m sure--”

“Why, it is what they always say. Everybody can’t be first, and
Ernescliffe has the biggest half of her, I can see.”

“I am sure I did not,” said Ethel, in a mortified voice.

“Why, of course, it always comes of people having lovers.”

“Then I am sure I won’t!” exclaimed Ethel.

Norman went into a fit of laughing.

“You may laugh, Norman, but I will never let papa or any of you be
second to any one!” she cried vehemently.

A brotherly home-truth followed: “Nobody asked you, sir, she said!” was
muttered by Norman, still laughing heartily.

“I know,” said Ethel, not in the least offended, “I am very ugly, and
very awkward, but I don’t care. There never can be anybody in all the
world that I shall like half as well as papa, and I am glad no one is
ever likely to make me care less for him and Cocksmoor.”

“Stay till you are tried,” said Norman.

Ethel squeezed up her eyes, curled up her nose, showed her teeth in
a horrible grimace, and made a sort of snarl: “Yah! That’s the face I
shall make at them!” and then, with another good-night, ran to her own
room.

Norman was, to a certain extent, right with regard to Margaret--her
thoughts and interest had been chiefly engrossed by Alan Ernescliffe,
and so far drawn away from her own family, that when the Alcestis was
absolutely gone beyond all reach of letters for the present, Margaret
could not help feeling somewhat of a void, and as if the home concerns
were not so entire an occupation for her mind as formerly.

She would fain have thrown herself into them again, but she became
conscious that there was a difference. She was still the object of her
father’s intense tenderness and solicitude, indeed she could not be
otherwise, but it came over her sometimes that she was less necessary
to him than in the first year. He was not conscious of any change, and,
indeed, it hardly amounted to a change, and yet Margaret, lying inactive
and thoughtful, began to observe that the fullness of his confidence was
passing to Ethel. Now and then it would appear that he fancied he had
told Margaret little matters, when he had really told them to Ethel;
and it was Ethel who would linger with him in the drawing-room after
the others had gone up at night, or who would be late at the morning’s
reading, and disarm Miss Winter, by pleading that papa had been talking
to her. The secret they shared together was, of course, the origin of
much of this; but also Ethel was now more entirely the doctor’s own than
Margaret could be after her engagement; and there was a likeness of mind
between the father and daughter that could not but develop more in
this year, than in all Ethel’s life, when she had made the most rapid
progress. Perhaps, too, the doctor looked on Margaret rather as
the authority and mistress of his house, while Ethel was more of a
playfellow; and thus, without either having the least suspicion that
the one sister was taking the place of the other, and without any actual
neglect of Margaret, Ethel was his chief companion.

“How excited and anxious Norman looks!” said Margaret, one day, when he
had rushed in at the dinner-hour, asking for his father, and, when he
could not find him, shouting out for Ethel. “I hope there is nothing
amiss. He has looked thin and worn for some time, and yet his work at
school is very easy to him.”

“I wish there maybe nothing wrong there again,” said Flora. “There!
there’s the front door banging! He is off! Ethel!--” stepping to the
door, and calling in her sister, who came from the street door, her hair
blowing about with the wind. “What did Norman want?”

“Only to know whether papa had left a note for Dr. Hoxton,” said Ethel,
looking very confused and very merry.

“That was not all,” said Flora. “Now don’t be absurd, Ethel--I hate
mysteries.”

“Last time I had a secret you would not believe it,” said Ethel,
laughing.

“Come!” exclaimed Flora, “why cannot you tell us at once what is going
on?”

“Because I was desired not,” said Ethel. “You will hear it soon enough,”
 and she capered a little.

“Let her alone, Flora,” said Margaret. “I see there is nothing wrong.”

“If she is desired to be silent, there is nothing to be said,” replied
Flora, sitting down again, while Ethel ran away to guard her secret.

“Absurd!” muttered Flora. “I cannot imagine why Ethel is always making
mysteries!”

“She cannot help other people having confidence in her,” said Margaret
gently.

“She need not be so important, then,” said Flora--“always having private
conferences with papa! I do not think it is at all fair on the rest.”

“Ethel is a very superior person,” said Margaret, with half a sigh.

Flora might toss her head, but she attempted no denial in words. “And,”
 continued Margaret, “if papa does find her his best companion and friend
we ought to be glad of it.”

“I do not call it just,” said Flora.

“I do not think it can be helped,” said Margaret: “the best must be
preferred.

“As to that, Ethel is often very ridiculous and silly.”

“She is improving every day; and you know dear mamma always thought her
the finest character amongst us.”

“Then you are ready to be left out, and have your third sister always
put before you?”

“No, Flora, that is not the case. Neither she nor papa would ever be
unfair; but, as she would say herself, what they can’t help, they can’t
help; and, as she grows older, she must surpass me more and more.”

“And you like it?”

“I like it--when--when I think of papa, and of his dear, noble Ethel. I
do like it, when I am not selfish.”

Margaret turned away her head, but presently looked up again.

“Only, Flora,” she said, “pray do not say one word of this, on any
account, to Ethel. She is so happy with papa, and I would not for
anything have her think I feel neglected, or had any jealousy.”

“Ah,” thought Flora, “you can give up sweetly, but you have Alan to fall
back upon. Now I, who certainly have the best right, and a great deal
more practical sense--”

Flora took Margaret’s advice, and did not reproach Ethel, for a little
reflection convinced her that she should make a silly figure in so
doing, and she did not like altercations.

It was the same evening that Norman came in from school with his hands
full of papers, and, with one voice, his father and Ethel exclaimed,
“You have them?”

“Yes;” and he gave the letter to his father, while Blanche, who had a
very inquisitive pair of eyes, began to read from a paper he placed on
the table.

“‘Norman Walter, son of Richard and Margaret May, High Street, Doctor of
Medicine, December 21st, 18--. Thomas Ramsden.’”

“What is that for, Norman?” and, as he did not attend, she called Mary
to share her speculations, and spell out the words.

“Ha!” cried Dr. May, “this is capital! The old doctor seems not to know
how to say enough for you. Have you read it?”

“No, he only told me he had said something in my favour, and wished me
all success.”

“Success!” cried Mary. “Oh, Norman, you are not going to sea too?”

“No, no!” interposed Blanche knowingly--“he is going to be married.
I heard nurse wish her brother success when he was going to marry the
washerwoman with a red face.”

“No,” said Mary, “people never are married till they are twenty.”

“But I tell you,” persisted Blanche, “people always write like this, in
a great book in church, when they are married. I know, for we always go
into church with Lucy and nurse when there is a wedding.”

“Well, Norman, I wish you success with the bride you are to court,” said
Dr. May, much diverted with the young ladies’ conjectures.

“But is it really?” said Mary, making her eyes as round as full moons.

“Is it really?” repeated Blanche. “Oh, dear! is Norman going to be
married? I wish it was to be Meta Rivers, for then I could always ride
her dear little white pony.”

“Tell them,” whispered Norman, a good deal out of countenance, as he
leaned over Ethel, and quitted the room.

Ethel cried, “Now then!” and looked at her father, while Blanche and
Mary reiterated inquiries--marriage, and going to sea, being the only
events that, in their imagination, the world could furnish. Going to
try for a Balliol scholarship! It was a sad falling off, even if they
understood what it meant. The doctor’s explanations to Margaret had a
tone of apology for having kept her in ignorance, and Flora said few
words, but felt herself injured; she had nearly gone to Mrs. Hoxton that
afternoon, and how strange it would have been if anything had been said
to her of her own brother’s projects, when she was in ignorance.

Ethel slipped away to her brother, who was in his own room, surrounded
with books, flushed and anxious, and trying to glance over each subject
on which he felt himself weak.

“I shall fail! I know I shall!” was his exclamation. “I wish I had never
thought of it!”

“What? did Dr. Hoxton think you not likely to succeed?” cried Ethel, in
consternation.

“Oh! he said I was certain, but what is that? We Stoneborough men only
compare ourselves with each other. I shall break down to a certainty,
and my father will be disappointed.”

“You will do your best?”

“I don’t know that. My best will all go away when it comes to the
point.”

“Surely not. It did not go away last time you were examined, and why
should it now?”

“I tell you, Ethel, you know nothing about it. I have not got up half
what I meant to have done. Here, do take this book--try me whether I
know this properly.”

So they went on, Ethel doing her best to help and encourage, and Norman
in an excited state of restless despair, which drove away half his
senses and recollection, and his ideas of the superior powers of public
schoolboys magnifying every moment. They were summoned downstairs to
prayers, but went up again at once, and more than an hour subsequently,
when their father paid one of his domiciliary visits, there they still
were, with their Latin and Greek spread out, Norman trying to strengthen
all doubtful points, but in a desperate desultory manner, that only
confused him more and more, till he was obliged to lay his head down on
the table, shut his eyes, and run his fingers through his hair, before
he could recollect the simplest matter; his renderings alternated with
groans, and, cold as was the room, his cheeks and brow were flushed and
burning.

The doctor checked all this, by saying, gravely and sternly, “This is
not right, Norman. Where are all your resolutions?”

“I shall never do it. I ought never to have thought of it! I shall never
succeed!”

“What if you do not?” said Dr. May, laying his hand on his shoulder.

“What? why, Tom’s chance lost--you will all be mortified,” said Norman,
hesitating in some confusion.

“I will take care of Tom,” said Dr. May.

“And he will have been foiled!” said Ethel

“If he is?”

The boy and girl were both silent.

“Are you striving for mere victory’s sake, Norman?” continued his
father.

“I thought not,” murmured Norman.

“Successful or not, you will have done your utmost for us. You would
not lose one jot of affection or esteem, and Tom shall not suffer. Is it
worth this agony?”

“No, it is foolish,” said Norman, with trembling voice, almost as if he
could have burst into tears. He was quite unnerved by the anxiety
and toil with which he had overtasked himself, beyond his father’s
knowledge.

“Oh, papa!” pleaded Ethel, who could not bear to see him pained.

“It is foolish,” continued Dr. May, who felt it was the moment for
bracing severity. “It is rendering you unmanly. It is wrong.”

Again Ethel made an exclamation of entreaty.

“It is wrong, I know,” repeated Norman; “but you don’t know what it is
to get into the spirit of the thing.”

“Do you think I do not?” said the doctor; “I can tell exactly what you
feel now. If I had not been an idle dog, I should have gone through it
all many more times.”

“What shall I do?” asked Norman, in a worn-out voice.

“Put all this out of your mind, sleep quietly, and don’t open another
book.”

Norman moved his head, as if sleep were beyond his power.

“I will read you something to calm your tone,” said Dr. May, and he took
up a Prayer-book. “‘Know ye not, that they which run in a race, run all,
but one receiveth the prize? So run that ye may obtain. And every man
that striveth for the mastery is temperate in all things. Now they do
it to obtain a corruptible crown, but we an incorruptible.’ And, Norman,
that is not the struggle where the race is not to the swift, nor the
battle to the strong; nor the contest, where the conqueror only wins
vanity and vexation of spirit.”

Norman had cast down his eyes, and hardly made answer, but the words
had evidently taken effect. The doctor only further bade him good-night,
with a whispered blessing, and, taking Ethel by the hand, drew her away.
When they met the next morning, the excitement had passed from Norman’s
manner, but he looked dejected and resigned. He had made up his mind
to lose, and was not grateful for good wishes; he ought never to have
thought, he said, of competing with men from public schools, and he knew
his return of love of vain-glory deserved that he should fail. However,
he was now calm enough not to be likely to do himself injustice by
nervousness, and Margaret hid hopes that Richard’s steady equable mind
would have a salutary influence. So, commending Tom’s lessons to Ethel,
and hearing, but not marking, countless messages to Richard, he set
forth upon his emprise, while his anxiety seemed to remain as a legacy
for those at home.

Poor Dr. May confessed that his practice by no means agreed with his
precept, for he could think of nothing else, and was almost as bad as
Norman, in his certainty that the boy would fail from mere nervousness.
Margaret was the better companion for him now, attaching less intensity
of interest to Norman’s success than did Ethel; she was the more able to
compose him, and cheer his hopes.




CHAPTER XXX.



     Weary soul, and burdened sore,
       Labouring with thy secret load,
     Fear not all thy griefs to pour
       In this heart, love’s true abode.
                                   Lyra Innocentium.


Tea had just been brought in on the eighth evening from Norman’s
departure, when there was a ring at the bell. There was a start, and
look of expectation. “Only a patient,” said the doctor; but it surely
was not for that reason that he rose with so much alacrity and opened
the door, nor was “Well, old fellow?” the greeting for his patients--so
everybody sprang after him, and beheld something tall taking off a coat,
while a voice said, “I have got it.”

The mass of children rushed back to Margaret, screaming, “He has got
it!” and then Aubrey trotted out into the hall again to see what Norman
had got.

“A happy face at least,” said Margaret, as he came to her. And that was
not peculiar to Norman. The radiance had shone out upon every one
in that moment, and it was one buzz of happy exclamation, query, and
answer--the only tone of regret when Mary spoke of Harry, and all
at once took up the strain--how glad poor Harry would be. As to the
examination, that had been much less difficult than Norman had expected;
in fact, he said, it was lucky for him that the very subjects had been
chosen in which he was most up--luck which, as the doctor could not help
observing, generally did attend Norman. And Norman had been so happy
with Richard; the kind, wise elder brother had done exactly what was
best for him in soothing his anxiety, and had fully shared his feelings,
and exulted in his success. Margaret had a most triumphant letter,
dwelling on the abilities of the candidates whom Norman had outstripped,
and the idea that every one had conceived of his talent. “Indeed,” wrote
Richard, “I fancy the men had never believed that I could have a clever
brother. I am glad they have seen what Norman can do.”

Margaret could not help reading this aloud, and it made Norman blush
with the compunction that Richard’s unselfish pride in him always
excited. He had much to tell of his ecstasy with Oxford. Stoneborough
Minster had been a training in appreciation of its hoary beauty, but the
essentially prosaic Richard had never prepared him for the impression
that the reverend old university made on him, and he was already, heart
and soul, one of her most loyal and loving sons, speaking of his college
and of the whole university as one who had a right of property in them,
and looking, all the time, not elated, but contented, as if he had found
his sphere and was satisfied. He had seen Cheviot, too, and had been
very happy in the renewed friendship; and had been claimed as a cousin
by a Balliol man, a certain Norman Ogilvie, a name well known among the
Mays. “And how has Tom been getting on?” he asked, when he returned to
home affairs.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Ethel. “He will not have my help.”

“Not let you help him!” exclaimed Norman.

“No. He says he wants no girls,” said Ethel, laughing.

“Foolish fellow!” said Norman. “I wonder what sort of work he has made!”

“Very funny, I should think,” said Ethel, “judging by the verses I could
see.”

The little, pale, rough-haired Tom, in his perpetual coating of dust,
softly crept into the room, as if he only wanted to elude observation;
but Mary and Blanche were at once vociferating their news in his ears,
though with little encouragement--he only shook them off abruptly, and
would not answer when they required him to be glad.

Norman stretched out his arm, intercepting him as he was making for his
hiding-place behind Dr. May’s arm-chair.

“Come, August, how have things gone on?”

“Oh! I don’t know.”

“What’s your place?”

“Thirteenth!” muttered Tom in his throat, and well he might, for two
or three voices cried out that was too bad, and that it was all his own
fault, for not accepting Ethel’s help. He took little heed, but crept to
his corner without another word, and Mary knew she should be thumped if
she should torment him there.

Norman left him alone, but the coldness of the little brother for whom
he had worked gave a greater chill to his pleasure than he could have
supposed possible. He would rather have had some cordiality on Tom’s
part, than all the congratulations that met him the next day.

He could not rest contented while Tom continued to shrink from him, and
he was the more uneasy when, on Saturday morning, no calls from Mary
availed to find the little boy, and bring him to the usual reading and
Catechism.

Margaret decided that they must begin without him, and poor Mary’s verse
was read, in consequence, with a most dolorous tone. As soon as the
books were shut, she ran off, and a few words passed among the elder
ones about the truant--Flora opining that the Andersons had led him
away; Ethel suggesting that his gloom must arise from his not being
well; and Margaret looking wistfully at Norman, and saying she feared
they had judged much amiss last spring. Norman heard in silence, and
walked thoughtfully into the garden. Presently he caught Mary’s voice in
expostulation: “How could you not come to read?”

“Girls’ work!” growled another voice, out of sight.

“But Norman, and Richard, and Harry, always come to the reading.
Everybody ought.”

Norman, who was going round the shrubs that concealed the speakers from
him, here lost their voices, but, as he emerged in front of the old
tool-house, he heard a little scream from Mary, and, at the same moment,
she darted back, and fell over a heap of cabbage-stumps in front of the
old tool-house. It was no small surprise to her to be raised by him, and
tenderly asked whether she were hurt. She was not hurt, but she could
not speak without crying, and when Norman begged to hear what was the
matter, and where Tom was, she would only plead for him--that he did not
intend to hurt her, and that she had been teasing him. What had he done
to frighten her? Oh! he had only run at her with a hoe, because she was
troublesome; she did not mind it, and Norman must not--and she clung
to him as if to keep him back, while he pursued his researches in the
tool-house, where, nearly concealed by a great bushel-basket, lurked
Master Thomas, crouching down, with a volume of Gil Blas in his hand.

“You here, Tom! What have you hidden yourself here for? What can make
you so savage to Mary?”

“She should not bother me,” said Tom sulkily.

Norman sent Mary away, pacifying her by promises that he would not
revenge her quarrel upon Tom, and then, turning the basket upside down,
and perching himself astride on it, he began: “That is the kindest, most
forgiving little sister I ever did see. What possesses you to treat her
so ill?”

“I wasn’t going to hurt her.”

“But why drive her away? Why don’t you come to read?” No answer;
and Norman, for a moment, felt as if Tom were really hopelessly
ill-conditioned and sullen, but he persevered in restraining his
desire to cuff the ill-humour out of him, and continued, “Come! there’s
something wrong, and you will never be better till it is out. Tell
me--don’t be afraid. Those fellows have been at you again?”

He took Tom by the arm to draw him nearer, but a cry and start of pain
were the result. “So they have licked you? Eh? What have they been
doing?”

“They said they would spiflicate me if I told!” sighed Tom.

“They shall never do anything to you;” and, by-and-by, a sobbing
confession was drawn forth, muttered at intervals, as low as if Tom
expected the strings of onions to hear and betray him to his foes.
Looking on him as a deserter, these town-boys had taken advantage of his
brother’s absence to heap on him every misery they could inflict. There
had been a wager between Edward Anderson and Sam Axworthy as to what
Tom could be made to do, and his personal timidity made him a miserable
victim, not merely beaten and bruised, but forced to transgress every
rule of right and wrong that had been enforced on his conscience.
On Sunday, they had profited by the absence of their dux to have a
jollification at a little public-house, not far from the playing-fields;
and here had Tom been dragged in, forced to partake with them, and
frightened with threats that he had treated them all, and was liable
to pay the whole bill, which, of course, he firmly believed, as well
as that he should be at least half murdered if he gave his father any
suspicion that the whole had not been consumed by himself. Now, though
poor Tom’s conscience had lost many scruples during the last spring,
the offence, into which he had been forced, was too heinous to a child
brought up as he had been to be palliated even in his own eyes. The
profanation of Sunday, and the carousal in a public-house, had combined
to fill him with a sense of shame and degradation, which was the real
cause that he felt himself unworthy to come and read with his sisters.
His grief and misery were extreme, and Norman’s indignation was such
as could find no utterance. He sat silent, quivering with anger, and
clenching his fingers over the handle of the hoe.

“I knew it!” sighed Tom. “None of you will ever speak to me again!”

“You! Why, August, man, I have better hopes of you than ever. You are
more really sorry now than ever you were before.”

“I had never been at the Green Man before,” said poor Tom, feeling his
future life stained.

“You never will again!”

“When you are gone--” and the poor victim’s voice died away.

“Tom, you will not stay after me. It is settled that when I go to
Balliol, you leave Stoneborough, and go to Mr. Wilmot as pupil. Those
scamps shall never have you in their clutches again.”

It did not produce the ecstasy Norman had expected. The boy still sat
on the ground, staring at his brother, as if the good news hardly
penetrated the gloom; and, after a disappointing silence, recurred to
the most immediate cause of distress: “Eight shillings and tenpence
halfpenny! Norman, if you would only lend it to me, you shall have all
my tin till I have made it up--sixpence a week, and half-a-crown on New
Year’s Day.”

“I am not going to pay Mr. Axworthy’s reckoning,” said Norman, rather
angrily. “You will never be better till you have told my father the
whole.”

“Do you think they will send in the bill to my father?” asked Tom, in
alarm.

“No, indeed! that is the last thing they will do,” said Norman; “but I
would not have you come to him only for such a sneaking reason.”

“But the girls would hear it. Oh, if I thought Mary and Margaret would
ever hear it--Norman, I can’t--”

Norman assured him that there was not the slightest reason that these
passages should ever come to the knowledge of his sisters. Tom was
excessively afraid of his father, but he could not well be more wretched
than he was already; and he was brought to assent when Norman showed
him that he had never been happy since the affair of the blotting-paper,
when his father’s looks and tones had become objects of dread to his
guilty conscience. Was not the only means of recovering a place in
papa’s esteem to treat him with confidence?

Tom answered not, and would only shudder when his brother took upon him
to declare that free confession would gain pardon even for the doings at
the Green Man.

Tom had grown stupefied and passive, and his sole dependence was on
Norman, so, at last, he made no opposition when his brother offered to
conduct him to his father and speak for him. The danger now was that
Dr. May should not be forthcoming, and the elder brother was as much
relieved, as the younger was dismayed, to see, through the drawing-room
window, that he was standing beside Margaret.

“Papa, can you come and speak to me,” said Norman, “at the door?”

“Coming! What now?” said the doctor, entering the hall. “What, Tom, my
boy, what is it?” as he saw the poor child, white, cold, almost sick
with apprehension, with every pulse throbbing, and looking positively
ill. He took the chilly, damp hand, which shook nervously, and would
fain have withdrawn itself.

“Come, my dear, let us see what is amiss;” and before Tom knew what he
was doing, he had seated him on his knee, in the arm-chair in the study,
and was feeling his pulse. “There, rest your head! Has it not been
aching all day?”

“I do not think he is ill,” said Norman; “but there is something he
thinks I had better tell you.”

Tom would fain have been on his feet, yet the support of that shoulder
was inexpressibly comfortable to his aching temples, and he could not
but wait for the shock of being roughly shaken and put down. So, as his
brother related what had occurred, he crouched and trembled more and
more on his father’s breast, till, to his surprise, he found the other
arm passed round him in support, drawing him more tenderly close.

“My poor little fellow!” said Dr. May, trying to look into the drooping
face, “I grieve to have exposed you to such usage as this! I little
thought it of Stoneborough fellows!”

“He is very sorry,” said Norman, much distressed by the condition of the
culprit.

“I see it--I see it plainly,” said Dr. May. “Tommy, my boy, why should
you tremble when you are with me?”

“He has been in great dread of your being displeased.”

“My boy, do you not know how I forgive you?” Tom clung round his neck,
as if to steady himself.

“Oh, papa! I thought you would never--”

“Nay, you need never have thought so, my boy! What have I done that you
should fear me?”

Tom did not speak, but nestled up to him with more confidence. “There!
that’s better! Poor child! what he must have suffered! He was not fit
for the place! I had thought him looking ill. Little did I guess the
cause.”

“He says his head has ached ever since Sunday,” said Norman; “and I
believe he has hardly eaten or slept properly since.”

“He shall never be under their power again! Thanks to you, Norman. Do
you hear that, Tommy?”

The answer was hardly audible. The little boy was already almost asleep,
worn out with all he had undergone. Norman began to clear the sofa, that
they might lay him down, but his father would not hear of disturbing
him, and, sending Norman away, sat still for more than an hour, until
the child slowly awoke, and scarcely recalling what had happened, stood
up between his father’s knees, rubbing his eyes, and looking bewildered.

“You are better now, my boy?”

“I thought you would be very angry,” slowly murmured Tom, as the past
returned on him.

“Never, while you are sorry for your faults, and own them freely.”

“I’m glad I did,” said the boy, still half asleep. “I did not know you
would be so kind.”

“Ah! Tom, I fear it was as much my fault as yours that you did not know
it. But, my dear, there is a pardon that can give you better peace than
mine.”

“I think,” muttered Tom, looking down--“I think I could say my prayers
again now, if--”

“If what, my dear?”

“If you would help me, as mamma used--”

There could be but one response to this speech.

Tom was still giddy and unwell, his whole frame affected by the troubles
of the last week, and Dr. May arranged him on the sofa, and desired
him to be quiet, offering to send Mary to be his companion. Tom was
languidly pleased, but renewed his entreaty, that his confession
might be a secret from his sisters. Dr. May promised, and Mary, quite
satisfied at being taken into favour, asked no questions, but spent
the rest of the morning in playing at draughts with him, and in having
inflicted on her the history of the Bloody Fire King’s Ghost--a work
of Tom’s imagination, which he was wont to extemporise, to the extreme
terror of much enduring Mary.

When Dr. May had called Mary, he next summoned Norman, who found him in
the hall, putting on his hat, and looking very stern and determined.

“Norman!” said he hastily, “don’t say a word--it must be done--Hoxton
must hear of this.”

Norman’s face expressed utter consternation.

“It is not your doing. It is no concern of yours,” said Dr. May,
walking impetuously into the garden. “I find my boy ill, broken down,
shattered--it is the usage of this crew of fellows--what right have I to
conceal it--leave other people’s sons to be so served?”

“I believe they did so to Tom out of ill-will to me,” said Norman, “and
because they thought he had ratted.”

“Hush! don’t argue against it,” said Dr. May, almost petulantly. “I have
stood a great deal to oblige you, but I cannot stand this. When it is
a matter of corruption, base cruelty--no, Norman, it is not right--not
another word!”

Norman’s words had not been many, but he felt a conviction that, in
spite of the dismay and pain to himself, Dr. May ought to meet with
submission to his judgment, and he acquiesced by silence.

“Don’t you see,” continued the doctor, “if they act thus, when your back
is turned, what is to happen next half? ‘Tis not for Tom’s sake, but how
could we justify it to ourselves, to expose other boys to this usage?”

“Yes,” said Norman, not without a sigh. “I suppose it must be.”

“That is right,” said Dr. May, as if much relieved. “I knew you must see
it in that light. I do not mean to abuse your confidence.”

“No, indeed,” answered Norman warmly.

“But you see yourself, that where the welfare of so many is at stake,
it would be wickedness--yes, wickedness--to be silent. Could I see
that little fellow prostrated, trembling in my arms, and think of those
scamps inflicting the same on other helpless children--away from their
homes!”

“I see, I see!” said Norman, carried along by the indignation and
tenderness that agitated his father’s voice in his vehemence--“it is the
only thing to be done.”

“It would be sharing the guilt to hide it,” said Dr. May.

“Very well,” said Norman, still reluctantly. “What do you wish me to do?
You see, as dux, I know nothing about it. It happened while I was away.”

“True, true,” said his father. “You have learned it as brother, not as
senior boy. Yes, we had better have you out of the matter. It is I who
complain of their usage of my son.”

“Thank you,” said Norman, with gratitude.

“You have not told me the names of these fellows! No, I had best not
know them.”

“I think it might make a difference,” hesitated Norman.

“No, no, I will not hear them. It ought to make none. The fact is the
same, be they who they may.”

The doctor let himself out at the garden gate, and strode off at a rapid
pace, conscious perhaps, in secret, that if he did not at once yield
to the impulse of resentment, good nature would overpower the sense of
justice. His son returned to the house with a heavy sigh, yet honouring
the generosity that had respected his scruples, when merely his own
worldly loss was involved, but set them aside when the good of others
was concerned. By-and-by Dr. May reappeared. The head-master had been
thoroughly roused to anger, and had begged at once to examine May
junior, for whom his father was now come.

Tom was quite unprepared for such formidable consequences of his
confession, and began by piteous tears and sobs, and when these had,
with some difficulty, been pacified, he proved to be really so unwell
and exhausted, that his father could not take him to Minster Street, and
was obliged to leave him to his brother’s keeping, while he returned to
the school.

Upon this, Dr. Hoxton came himself, and the sisters were extremely
excited and alarmed by the intelligence that he was in the study with
papa and Tom.

Then away went the gentlemen; and Mary was again called to comfort Tom,
who, broken down into the mere longing for sympathy, sobbed out all his
troubles to her, while her eyes expanded more and more in horror, and
her soft heart giving way, she cried quite as pitifully, and a great
deal more loudly; and so the other sisters learned the whole, and
Margaret was ready for her father when he came in, in the evening,
harassed and sorrowful. His anger was all gone now, and he was
excessively grieved at finding that the ringleaders, Samuel Axworthy and
Edward Anderson, could, in Dr. Hoxton’s opinion, receive no sentence but
expulsion, which was to be pronounced on them on Monday.

Sam Axworthy was the son of a low, uneducated man, and his best chance
had been the going to this school; but he was of a surly, obstinate
temper, and showed so little compunction, that even such superabundant
kindness as Dr. May’s could not find compassion for him; especially
since it had appeared that Tom had been by no means the only victim, and
that he had often been the promoter of the like malpractices, which many
boys were relieved to be forced to expose.

For Edward Anderson, however, or rather for his mother, Dr. May was very
sorry, and had even interceded for his pardon; but Dr. Hoxton, though
slow to be roused, was far less placable than the other doctor, and
would not hear of anything but the most rigorous justice.

“Poor Mrs. Anderson, with her pride in her children!” Flora spoke it
with a shade of contemptuous pity, but it made her father groan.

“I shall never be able to look in her face again! I shall never see that
boy without feeling that I have ruined him!”

“He needed nobody to do that for him,” said Flora.

“With every disadvantage!” continued Dr. May; “unable even to remember
his father! Why could I not be more patient and forbearing?”

“Oh, papa!” was the general cry--Norman’s voice giving decision to the
sisters’ exclamation.

“Perhaps,” said Margaret, “the shock may be the best thing for him.”

“Right, Margaret,” said her father. “Sometimes such a thing is the first
that shows what a course of evil really is.”

“They are an affectionate family too,” said Margaret, “and his mother’s
grief may have an effect on him.”

“If she does not treat him as an injured hero,” said Flora; “besides, I
see no reason for regret. These are but two, and the school is not to be
sacrificed to them.”

“Yes,” said Norman; “I believe that Ashe will be able to keep much
better order without Axworthy. It is much better as it is, but Harry
will be very sorry to hear it, and I wish this half was over.”

Poor Mrs. Anderson! her shower of notes rent the heart of the one
doctor, but were tossed carelessly aside by the other. On that Sunday,
Norman held various conversations with his probable successor, Ashe,
a gentle, well-disposed boy, hitherto in much dread of the post of
authority, but owning that, in Axworthy’s absence, the task would be
comparatively easy, and that Anderson would probably originate far less
mischief.

Edward Anderson himself fell in Norman’s way in the street, and was
shrinking aside, when a word, of not unfriendly greeting, caused him to
quicken his steps, and say, hesitatingly, “I say, how is August?”

“Better, thank you; he will be all right in a day or two.”

“I say, we would not have bullied him so, if he had not been in such a
fright at nothing.”

“I dare say not.”

“I did not mean it all, but that sort of thing makes a fellow go on,”
 continued Edward, hanging down his head, very sorrowful and downcast.

“If it had only been fair bullying; but to take him to that place--to
teach him falsehood--” said Norman.

Edward’s eyes were full of tears; he almost owned the whole. He had
not thought of such things, and then Axworthy--It was more evident from
manner than words that the boy did repent and was greatly overcome,
both by his own disgrace and his mother’s distress, wishing earnestly to
redeem his character, and declaring, from the bottom of his heart, that
he would avoid his former offences. He was emboldened at last to say,
with hesitation, “Could not you speak to Dr. Hoxton for me?”

“My father has said all he could in your behalf.”

Edward’s eye glanced towards Norman in wonder, as he recollected that
the Mays must know that a word from him would have saved Norman
from unjust punishment and the loss of the scholarship, and he said,
“Good-night,” and turned aside to his own home, with a heavy sigh.

Norman took another turn, looked up at the sky, twisted his hands
together in perplexity, mumbled something about hating to do a thing
when it was all for no use, and then marched off towards Minster Street,
with a pace like his father’s the day before.

When he came forth again from Dr. Hoxton’s study, he did not believe
that his intercession had produced the least effect, and there was a
sense of vexation at the position which he had assumed. He went home,
and said nothing on the subject; but when, on Monday, the school was
assembled, and the judgment announced, it was Axworthy alone whose
friends had been advised to remove him.

Anderson received a severe punishment, as did all those who had shared
in the revel at the Green Man. Even Tom, and another little boy, who had
been likewise drawn in, were obliged to stay within narrow bounds, and
to learn heavy impositions; and a stern reprimand and exhortation were
given to the school collectively. Anderson, who had seen from the window
that turn towards Minster Street, drew his own conclusions, and was not
insensible to the generosity that had surpassed his hopes, though to his
faltering attempt at thanks, Norman replied that he did not believe
it was owing to him, and never exposed himself to Flora’s wonder by
declaring at home what he had done.

So the last weeks of the half-year passed away with the boys in a
subdued, but hopeful manner, and the reformation, under Norman’s
auspices, progressed so well, that Ashe might fairly expect to reap the
benefit of the discipline, established at so much cost.

Mr. Wilmot had looked on, and given his help, but he was preparing to
leave Stoneborough, and there was great concern at the parting with such
a friend. Ethel, especially, mourned the loss to Cocksmoor, and, for
though hers had been the executive part, his had been the head, and he
was almost equally grieved to go from the newly-begun work.

Margaret lamented the loss of her kind counsellor, and the ready hearer
of her anxieties for the children. Writing could ill supply the place of
their conversations, and she feared likewise that her father would
feel the want of his companionship. The promise of visits, and
the intercourse kept up by Tom’s passing to and fro, was the best
consolation.

Poor Margaret had begun to flag, both in strength and spirits, as winter
approached, but there came a revival in the shape of “Ship Letters!”
 Alan wrote cheerfully and graphically, with excellent accounts of Harry,
who, on his side, sent very joyous and characteristic despatches, only
wishing that he could present Mary with all the monkeys and parrots he
had seen at Rio, as well as the little ruby-crested humming-birds, that
always reminded him of Miss Rivers.

With the Christmas holidays, Hector Ernescliffe came from Eton, as to a
home, and was received by Margaret as a sort of especial charge. It was
pretty to see how he turned to her as something peculiarly his own,
and would sit on a footstool by her, letting himself be drawn into
confidence, and dwelling on his brother’s past doings, and on future
schemes for Maplewood. For the rest, he restored to the house the
atmosphere of boy, which had somewhat departed with Harry. Mary, who had
begun to be tamed down, ran more wild than ever, to the utter despair
of Miss Winter; and Tom, now that his connection with the Whichcote
foundation was over, and he was no more cowed by the sight of his
tyrants, came out in a new light. He put on his boy-nature, rioted
like the rest, acquired colour in his cheeks, divested his jacket of
perpetual dust, had his hair cut, brushed up a crest on his head, and
ran about no longer a little abject, but a merry lad.

Ethel said it was a change from Horrid-locks to Harfagre; Margaret said
little, but, like her father, she blessed Norman in her heart for having
given back the boy to his father’s confidence, and saved him so far from
the terrible course of deceit and corruption. She could not much take
to heart the mad exploits of the so-called boys, even though she spent
three hours in heart-beatings on Christmas Eve, when Hector, Mary, Tom,
Blanche, and the dog Toby, were lost the whole day. However, they did
come back at six o’clock, having been deluded by an old myth of George
Larkins, into starting for a common, three miles beyond Cocksmoor, in
search of mistletoe, with scarlet berries, and yellow holly, with
leaves like a porcupine! Failing these wonders, they had been contenting
themselves with scarlet holly, in the Drydale plantations, when a rough
voice exclaimed, “Who gave you leave to take that?” whereupon Tom had
plunged into a thicket, and nearly “scratched out both his eyes”; but
Hector boldly standing his ground, with Blanche in his hand, the woodman
discovered that here was the Miss Mary, of whom his little girls talked
so much, thereupon cut down the choicest boughs, and promised to leave
a full supply at Dr. May’s. Margaret could have been angry at the taking
the young ladies on so mad a scheme, but then Mary was so happy, and as
to Hector, how scold him, when he had lifted Blanche over every
ditch, and had carried her home one mile on his back, and another,
queen’s-cushion fashion, between him and Mary?

Flora, meanwhile, went her own way. The desire of compensating for
what had passed with Norman, led to great civilities from Dr. and Mrs.
Hoxton, which nobody was at liberty to receive except Flora. Pretty,
graceful, and pleasing, she was a valuable companion to a gentle little,
inane lady, with more time and money than she knew what to do with; and
Mrs. Hoxton, who was of a superior grade to the Stoneborough ladies in
general, was such a chaperon as Flora was glad to secure. Dr. May’s old
loyal feelings could not help regarding her notice of his daughter as a
favour and kindness, and Margaret could find no tangible objections, nor
any precedent from her mother’s conduct, even had any one had the power
to interfere with one so quiet, reasonable, and determined as Flora.

So the intimacy became closer and closer, and as the winter passed on,
Flora gradually became established as the dear friend and assistant,
without whom Mrs. Hoxton could give no party. Further, Flora took the
grand step of setting up a copper-plate and cards of “Miss Flora May,”
 went out frequently on morning calls with Mrs. Hoxton and her bay
horses, and when Dr. May refused his share of invitations to dinner with
the neighbours in the county, Flora generally found that she could go
under the Hoxtons’ guardianship.





PART II




CHAPTER I.



     Now have I then eke this condicion
     That above all the flouris in the mede;
     Then love I most these flouris white and rede,
     Soche that men callin daisies in our town.
     To them have I so great affection,
     As I said erst, when comin is the Maie,
     That in my bed there dawith me no daie
     That I am up and walking in the mede,
     To see this floure agenst the sunne sprede.--CHAUCER.


“That is better!” said Margaret, contemplating a butterfly of the
penwiper class, whose constitution her dexterous needle had been
rendering less rickety than Blanche had left it.

Margaret still lay on the sofa, and her complexion had assumed the dead
white of habitual ill-health. There was more languor of manner, and her
countenance, when at rest, and not under the eye of her father, had
a sadness of expression, as if any hopes that she might once have
entertained were fading away. The years of Alan Ernescliffe’s absence
that had elapsed had rather taken from her powers than added to them.
Nevertheless, the habit of cheerfulness and sympathy had not deserted
her, and it was with a somewhat amused glance that she turned towards
Ethel, as she heard her answer by a sigh.

These years had dealt more kindly with Etheldred’s outward appearance.
They had rounded her angles, softened her features, and tinged
her cheeks with a touch of red, that took off from the surrounding
sallowness. She held herself better, had learned to keep her hair in
order, and the more womanly dress, plain though it was, improved her
figure more than could have been hoped in the days of her lank,
gawky girlhood. No one could call her pretty, but her countenance
had something more than ever pleasing in the animated and thoughtful
expression on those marked features. She was sitting near the window,
with a book, a dictionary, and pencil, as she replied to Margaret, with
the sigh that made her sister smile.

“Poor Ethel! I condole with you.”

“And I wonder at you!” said Ethel, “especially as Flora and Mrs. Hoxton
say it is all for your sake;” then, nettled by Margaret’s laugh, “Such a
nice occupation for her, poor thing, as if you were Mrs. Hoxton, and had
no resource but fancy-work.”

“You know I am base enough to be so amused,” said Margaret; “but,
seriously, Ethel dear, I cannot bear to see you so much hurt by it. I
did not know you were really grieved.”

“Grieved! I am ashamed--sickened!” cried Ethel vehemently. “Poor
Cocksmoor! As soon as anything is done there, Flora must needs go
about implying that we have set some grand work in hand, and want only
means--”

“Stop, Ethel; Flora does not boast.”

“No, she does not boast. I wish she did! That would be straightforward
and simple; but she has too good taste for that--so she does worse--she
tells a little, and makes that go a long way, as if she were keeping
back a great deal! You don’t know how furious it makes me!”

“Ethel!”

“So,” said Ethel, disregarding, “she stirs up all Stoneborough to hear
what the Miss Mays are doing at Cocksmoor. So the Ladies’ Committee must
needs have their finger in! Much they cared for the place when it was
wild and neglected! But they go to inspect Cherry and her school--Mrs.
Ledwich and all--and, back they come, shocked--no system, no order, the
mistress untrained, the school too small, with no apparatus! They all
run about in despair, as if we had ever asked them to help us. And so
Mrs. Hoxton, who cares for poor children no more than for puppy-dogs,
but who can’t live without useless work, and has filled her house as
full of it as it can hold, devises a bazaar--a field for her trumpery,
and a show-off for all the young ladies; and Flora treats it like an
inspiration! Off they trot, to the old Assembly Rooms. I trusted that
the smallness of them would have knocked it on the head; but, still
worse, Flora’s talking of it makes Mr. Rivers think it our pet scheme;
so, what does he do but offer his park, and so we are to have a
regular fancy fair, and Cocksmoor School will be founded in vanity and
frivolity! But I believe you like it!”

“I am not sure of my own feeling,” said Margaret. “It has been settled
without our interposition, and I have never been able to talk it over
calmly with you. Papa does not seem to disapprove.”

“No,” said Ethel. “He will only laugh, and say it will spare him a great
many of Mrs. Hoxton’s nervous attacks. He thinks of it nearly as I do,
at the bottom, but I cannot get him to stop it, nor even to say he does
not wish Flora to sell.”

“I did not understand that you really had such strong objections,” said
Margaret. “I thought it was only as a piece of folly, and--”

“And interference with my Cocksmoor?” said Ethel. “I had better own to
what may be wrong personal feeling at first.”

“I can hardly call it wrong,” said Margaret tenderly, “considering what
Cocksmoor is to you, and what the Ladies’ Committee is.”

“Oh, Margaret, if the lawful authority--if a good clergyman would only
come, how willingly would I work under him! But Mrs. Ledwich and--it
is like having all the Spaniards and savages spoiling Robinson Crusoe’s
desert island!”

“It is not come to that yet,” said Margaret; “but about the fancy fair.
We all know that the school is very much wanted.”

“Yes, but I hoped to wait in patience and perseverance, and do it at
last.”

“All yourself?”

“Now, Margaret! you know I was glad of Alan’s help.”

“I should think so!” said Margaret. “You need not make a favour of
that!”

“Yes, but, don’t you see, that came as almsgiving, in the way which
brings a blessing. We want nothing to make us give money and work to
Cocksmoor. We do all we can already; and I don’t want to get a fine bag
or a ridiculous pincushion in exchange!”

“Not you, but--”

“Well, for the rest. If they like to offer their money, well and good,
the better for them; but why must they not give it to Cocksmoor--but for
that unnatural butterfly of Blanche’s, with black pins for horns, that
they will go and sell at an extortionate rate.”

“The price will be given for Cocksmoor’s sake!”

“Pooh! Margaret. Do you think it is for Cocksmoor’s sake that Lady
Leonora Langdale and her fine daughter come down from London? Would Mrs.
Hoxton spend the time in making frocks for Cocksmoor children that
she does in cutting out paper, and stuffing glass bottles with it? Let
people be honest--alms, or pleasure, or vanity! let them say which they
mean; but don’t make charity the excuse for the others; and, above all,
don’t make my poor Cocksmoor the victim of it.”

“This is very severe,” said Margaret, pausing, almost confounded. “Do
you think no charity worth having but what is given on unmixed motives?
Who, then, could give?”

“Margaret--we see much evil arise in the best-planned institutions; nay,
in what are not human. Don’t you think we ought to do our utmost to have
no flaw in the foundation? Schools are not such perfect places that we
can build them without fear, and, if the means are to be raised by a
bargain for amusement--if they are to come from frivolity instead of
self-denial, I am afraid of them. I do not mean that Cocksmoor has not
been the joy of my life, and of Mary’s, but that was not because we did
it for pleasure.”

“No!” said Margaret, sighing, “you found pleasure by the way. But why
did you not say all this to Flora?”

“It is of no use to talk to Flora,” said Ethel; “she would say it was
high-flown and visionary. Oh! she wants it for the bazaar’s own sake,
and that is one reason why I hate it.”

“Now, Ethel!”

“I do believe it was very unfortunate for Flora that the Hoxtons took to
patronising her, because Norman would not be patronised. Ever since
it began, her mind has been full of visitings, and parties, and county
families, and she has left off the home usefulness she used to care
about.”

“But you are old enough for that,” said Margaret. “It would be hard to
keep Flora at home, now that you can take her place, and do not care for
going out. One of us must be the representative Miss May, you know, and
keep up the civilities; and you may think yourself lucky it is not you.”

“If it was only that, I should not care, but I may as well tell you,
Margaret, for it is a weight to me. It is not the mere pleasure in
gaieties--Flora cares for them, in themselves, as little as I do--nor
is it neighbourliness, as a duty to others, for, you may observe, she
always gets off any engagement to the Wards, or any of the town folk, to
whom it would be a gratification to have her--she either eludes them, or
sends me. The thing is, that she is always trying to be with the great
people, the county set, and I don’t think that is the safe way of going
on.”

Margaret mused sadly. “You frighten me, Ethel! I cannot say it is not
so, and these are so like the latent faults that dear mamma’s letter
spoke of--”

Ethel sat meditating, and at last said, “I wish I had not told you! I
don’t always believe it myself, and it is so unkind, and you will make
yourself unhappy too. I ought not to have thought it of her! Think of
her ever-ready kindness and helpfulness; her pretty courteous ways to
the very least; her obligingness and tact!”

“Yes,” said Margaret, “she is one of the kindest people there is, and
I am sure that she thought the gaining funds for Cocksmoor was the
best thing to be done, that you would be pleased, and a great deal of
pleasant occupation provided for us all.”

“That is the bright side, the surface side,” said Ethel.

“And not an untrue one,” said Margaret; “Meta will not be vain, and will
work the more happily for Cocksmoor’s sake. Mary and Blanche, poor Mrs.
Boulder, and many good ladies who hitherto have not known how to help
Cocksmoor, will do so now with a good will, and though it is not what we
should have chosen, I think we had better take it in good part.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, indeed I do. If you go about with that dismal face and strong
disapproval, it will really seem as if it was the having your dominion
muddled with that you dislike. Besides, it is putting yourself forward
to censure what is not absolutely wrong in itself, and that cannot be
desirable.”

“No,” said Ethel, “but I cannot help being sorry for Cocksmoor. I
thought patience would prepare the way, and the means be granted in good
time, without hastiness--only earnestness.”

“You had made a picture for yourself,” said Margaret gently. “Yes, we
all make pictures for ourselves, and we are the foremost figures in
them; but they are taken out of our hands, and we see others putting
in rude touches, and spoiling our work, as it seems; but, by-and-by, we
shall see that it is all guided.”

Ethel sighed. “Then having protested to my utmost against this concern,
you think I ought to be amiable about it.”

“And to let poor Mary enjoy it. She would be so happy, if you would not
bewilder her by your gloomy looks, and keep her to the hemming of your
endless glazed calico bonnet strings.”

“Poor old Mary! I thought that was by her own desire.”

“Only her dutiful allegiance to you; and, as making pincushions is
nearly her greatest delight, it is cruel to make her think it, in some
mysterious way, wrong and displeasing to you.”

Ethel laughed, and said, “I did not think Mary was in such awe of me.
I’ll set her free, then. But, Margaret, do you really think I ought to
give up my time to it?”

“Could you not just let them have a few drawings, or a little bit of
your company work--just enough for you not to annoy every one, and seem
to be testifying against them? You would not like to vex Meta.”

“It will go hard, if I do not tell Meta my mind. I cannot bear to see
her deluded.”

“I don’t think she is,” said Margaret; “but she does not set her face
against what others wish. As papa says of his dear little humming-bird,
she takes the honey, and leaves the poison.”

“Yes; amid all that enjoyment, she is always choosing the good, and
leaving the evil; always sacrificing something, and then being happy in
the sacrifice!”

“No one would guess it was a sacrifice, it is so joyously done--least of
all Meta herself.”

“Her coming home from London was exactly a specimen of that
sacrifice--and no sacrifice,” said Ethel.

“What was that?” said Norman, who had come up to the window unobserved,
and had been listening to their few last sentences.

“Did not you hear of it? It was a sort of material turning away from
vanity that made me respect the little rival Daisy, as much as I always
admired her.

“Tell me,” said Norman. “When was it?”

“Last spring. You know Mr. Rivers is always ill in London: indeed, papa
says it would be the death of him; but Lady Leonora Langdale thinks it
dreadful that Meta should not go to all the gaieties; and last year,
when Mrs. Larpent was gone, she insisted on her coming to stay with her
for the season. Now Meta thought it wrong to leave her father alone, and
wanted not to have gone at all, but, to my surprise, Margaret advised
her to yield, and go for some short fixed time.”

“Yes,” said Margaret; “as all her elders thought it right, I did not
think we could advise her to refuse absolutely. Besides, it was a
promise.”

“She declared she would only stay three weeks, and the Langdales were
satisfied, thinking that, once in London, they should keep her. They
little knew Meta, with her pretty ways of pretending that her resolution
is only spoiled-child wilfulness. None of you quite trusted her, did
you, Margaret? Even papa was almost afraid, though he wanted her very
much to be at home; for poor Mr. Rivers was so low and forlorn without
her, though he would not let her know, because Lady Leonora had
persuaded him to think it was all for her good.”

“What did they do with her in London?” asked Norman.

“They did their utmost,” said Ethel. “They made engagements for her, and
took her to parties and concerts--those she did enjoy very much and she
had lessons in drawing and music, but whenever she wanted to see any
exhibitions, or do anything, they always said there was time to spare. I
believe it was very charming, and she would have been very glad to stay,
but she never would promise, and she was always thinking of her positive
duty at home. She seemed afterwards to think of her wishes to remain
almost as if they had been a sin; but she said--dear little Meta--that
nothing had ever helped her so much as that she used to say to herself,
whenever she was going out, ‘I renounce the world.’ It came to a crisis
at last, when Lady Leonora wanted her to be presented--the Drawing-Room
was after the end of her three weeks--and she held out against it;
though her aunt laughed at her, and treated her as if she was a silly,
shy child. At last, what do you think Meta did? She went to her uncle,
Lord Cosham, and appealed to him to say whether there was the least
necessity for her to go to court.”

“Then she gained the day?” said Norman.

“He was delighted with that spirited, yet coaxing way of hers, and
admired her determination. He told papa so himself--for you must know,
when he heard all Meta had to say, he called her a very good girl, and
said he would take her home himself on the Saturday she had fixed, and
spend Sunday at Abbotstoke. Oh! he was perfectly won by her sweet
ways. Was not it lucky? for before this Lady Leonora had written to Mr.
Rivers, and obtained from him a letter, which Meta had the next day,
desiring her to stay for the Drawing-Room. But Meta knew well enough how
it was, and was not to be conquered that way; so she said she must go
home to entertain her uncle, and that if her papa really wished it, she
would return on Monday.”

“Knowing well that Mr. Rivers would be only too glad to keep her.”

“Just so. How happy they both did look, when they came in here on their
way from the station where he had met her! How she danced in, and how
she sparkled with glee!” said Margaret, “and poor Mr. Rivers was quite
tremulous with the joy of having her back, hardly able to keep from
fondling her every minute, and coming again into the room after they had
taken leave, to tell me that his little girl had preferred her home, and
her poor old father, to all the pleasures in London. Oh, I was so glad
they came! That was a sight that did one good! And then, I fancy Mr.
Rivers is a wee bit afraid of his brother-in-law, for he begged papa
and Flora to come home and dine with them, but Flora was engaged to Mrs.
Hoxton.”

“Ha! Flora!” said Norman, as if he rather enjoyed her losing something
through her going to Mrs. Hoxton. “I suppose she would have given the
world to go!”

“I was so sorry,” said Ethel; “but I had to go instead, and it was
delightful. Papa made great friends with Lord Cosham, while Mr. Rivers
went to sleep after dinner, and I had such a delightful wandering with
Meta, listening to the nightingales, and hearing all about it. I never
knew Meta so well before.”

“And there was no more question of her going back?” said Norman.

“No, indeed! She said, when her uncle asked in joke, on Monday morning,
whether she had packed up to return with him, Mr. Rivers was quite
nervously alarmed the first moment, lest she should intend it.”

“That little Meta,” said Margaret. “Her wishes for substantial use have
been pretty well realised!”

“Um!” said Ethel.

“What do you mean?” said Norman sharply. “I should call her present
position the perfection of feminine usefulness.”

“So perhaps it is,” said Ethel; “but though she does it beautifully,
and is very valuable, to be the mistress of a great luxurious house like
that does not seem to me the subject of aspirations like Meta’s.”

“Think of the contrast with what she used to be,” said Margaret gently,
“the pretty, gentle, playful toy that her father brought her up to
be, living a life of mere accomplishments and self-indulgence; kind
certainly, but never so as to endure any disagreeables, or make any
exertion. But as soon as she entered into the true spirit of our
calling, did she not begin to seek to live the sterner life, and train
herself in duty? The quiet way she took always seemed to me the great
beauty of it. She makes duties of her accomplishments by making them
loving obedience to her father.”

“Not that they are not pleasant to her?” interposed Norman.

“Certainly,” said Margaret, “but it gives them the zest, and confidence
that they are right, which one could not have in such things merely for
one’s own amusement.”

“Yes,” said Ethel, “she does more; she told me one day that one reason
she liked sketching was, that looking into nature always made psalms and
hymns sing in her ears, and so with her music and her beautiful copies
from the old Italian devotional pictures. She says our papa taught her
to look at them so as to see more than the mere art and beauty.”

“Think how diligently she measures out her day,” said Margaret; “getting
up early, to be sure of time for reading her serious books, and working
hard at her tough studies.”

“And what I care for still more,” said Ethel, “her being bent on
learning plain needlework and doing it for her poor people. She is so
useful amongst the cottagers at Abbotstoke!”

“And a famous little mistress of the house,” added Margaret. “When the
old housekeeper went away two years ago, she thought she ought to know
something about the government of the house; so she asked me about
it, and proposed to her father that the new one should come to her for
orders, and that she should pay the wages and have the accounts in
her hands. Mr. Rivers thought it was only a freak, but she has gone on
steadily; and I assure you, she has had some difficulties, for she has
come to me about them. Perhaps Ethel does not believe in them?”

“No, I was only thinking how I should hate ordering those fanciful
dinners for Mr. Rivers. I know what you mean, and how she had
difficulties about sending the maids to church, and in dealing with the
cook, who did harm to the other servants, and yet sent up dinners that
he liked, and how puzzled she was to avoid annoying him. Oh! she has got
into a peck of troubles by making herself manager.”

“And had she not been the Meta she is, she would either have fretted, or
thrown it all up, instead of humming briskly through all. She never
was afraid to speak to any one,” said Margaret, “that is one thing; I
believe every difficulty makes the spirit bound higher, till she springs
over it, and finds it, as she says, only a pleasure.”

“She need not be afraid to speak,” said Ethel, “for she always does it
well and winningly. I have seen her give a reproof in so firm and kind a
way, and so bright in the instant of forgiveness.”

“Yes,” said Margaret, “she does those disagreeable things as well as
Flora does in her way.”

“And yet,” said Ethel, “doing things well does not seem to be a snare to
her.”

“Because,” whispered Margaret, “she fulfils more than almost any
one--the--‘Whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God.’”

“Do you know,” said Norman suddenly, “the derivation of Margarita?”

“No further than those two pretty meanings, the pearl and the daisy,”
 said Ethel.

“It is from the Persian Mervarid, child of light,” said Norman; and,
with a sudden flush of colour, he returned to the garden.

“A fit meaning for one who carries sunshine with her,” said Margaret.
“I feel in better tune for a whole day after her bright eyes have been
smiling on me.”

“You want no one to put you in tune,” said Ethel fondly--“you, our own
pearl of light.”

“No, call me only an old faded daisy,” said Margaret sadly.

“Not a bit, only our moon, la gran Margarita” said Ethel.

“I hear the real Daisy coming!” exclaimed Margaret, her face lighting up
with pleasure as the two youngest children entered, and, indeed, little
Gertrude’s golden hair, round open face, fresh red and white complexion,
and innocent looks, had so much likeness to the flower, as to promote
the use of the pet name, though protests were often made in favour
of her proper appellation. Her temper was daisy-like too, serene and
loving, and able to bear a great deal of spoiling, and resolve as they
might, who was not her slave?

Miss Winter no longer ruled the schoolroom. Her sway had been brought
to a happy conclusion by a proposal from a widowed sister to keep house
with her; and Ethel had reason to rejoice that Margaret had kept her
submissive under authority, which, if not always judicious, was both
kind and conscientious.

Upon the change, Ethel had thought that the lessons could easily
be managed by herself and Flora; while Flora was very anxious for a
finishing governess, who might impart singing to herself, graces to
Ethel, and accomplishments to Mary and Blanche.

Dr. May, however, took them both by surprise. He met with a family of
orphans, the eldest of whom had been qualifying herself for a governess,
and needed nothing but age and finish; and in ten minutes after the
project had been conceived, he had begun to put it in execution, in
spite of Flora’s prudent demurs.

Miss Bracy was a gentle, pleasing young person, pretty to look at,
with her soft olive complexion, and languid pensive eyes, obliging and
intelligent; and the change from the dry, authoritative Miss Winter was
so delightful, that unedifying contrasts were continually being drawn.
Blanche struck up a great friendship for her at once; Mary, always
docile, ceased to be piteous at her lessons, and Ethel moralised on the
satisfaction of having sympathy needed instead of repelled, and did her
utmost to make Miss Bracy feel at home--and like a friend--in her new
position.

For herself, Ethel had drawn up a beautiful time-table, with all her
pursuits and duties most carefully balanced, after the pattern of that
which Margaret Rivers had made by her advice, on the departure of Mrs.
Larpent, who had been called away by the ill-health of her son. Meta had
adhered to hers in an exemplary manner, but she was her own mistress in
a manner that could hardly be the lot of one of a large family.

Margaret had become subject to languor and palpitations, and the head
of the household had fallen entirely upon Flora, who, on the other hand,
was a person of multifarious occupations, and always had a great number
of letters to write, or songs to copy and practise, which, together with
her frequent visits to Mrs. Hoxton, made her glad to devolve, as much as
she could, upon her younger sister; and, “Oh, Ethel, you will not mind
just doing this for me,” was said often enough to be a tax upon her
time.

Moreover, Ethel perceived that Aubrey’s lessons were in an
unsatisfactory state. Margaret could not always attend to them, and
suffered from them when she did; and he was bandied about between his
sisters and Miss Bracy in a manner that made him neither attentive nor
obedient.

On her own principle, that to embrace a task heartily renders it no
longer irksome, she called on herself to sacrifice her studies and
her regularity, as far as was needful, to make her available for home
requirements. She made herself responsible for Aubrey, and, after a
few battles with his desultory habits, made him a very promising
pupil, inspiring so much of herself into him, that he was, if anything,
overfull of her classical tastes. In fact, he had such an appetite for
books, and dealt so much in precocious wisdom, that his father was heard
to say, “Six years old! It is a comfort that he will soon forget the
whole.”

Gertrude was also Ethel’s pupil, but learning was not at all in her
line; and the sight of “Cobwebs to catch Flies,” or of the venerated
“Little Charles,” were the most serious clouds, that made the Daisy
pucker up her face, and infuse a whine into her voice.

However, to-day, as usual, she was half dragged, half coaxed, through
her day’s portion of the discipline of life, and then sent up for her
sleep, while Aubrey’s two hours were spent in more agreeable work, such
as Margaret could not but enjoy hearing--so spirited was Ethel’s mode of
teaching--so eager was her scholar.

His play afterwards consisted in fighting o’er again the siege of Troy
on the floor, with wooden bricks, shells, and the survivors of a Noah’s
ark, while Ethel read to Margaret until Gertrude’s descent from the
nursery, when the only means of preventing a dire confusion in Aubrey’s
camp was for her elder sisters to become her playfellows, and so spare
Aubrey’s temper. Ethel good-humouredly gave her own time, till their
little tyrant trotted out to make Norman carry her round the garden on
his back.

So sped the morning till Flora came home, full of the intended bazaar,
and Ethel would fain have taken refuge in puzzling out her Spanish, had
she not remembered her recent promise to be gracious.

The matter had been much as she had described it. Flora had a way of
hinting at anything she thought creditable, and thus the Stoneborough
public had become aware of the exertions of the May family on behalf of
Cocksmoor.

The plan of a fancy fair was started. Mrs. Hoxton became more interested
than was her wont, and Flora was enchanted at the opening it gave for
promoting the welfare of the forlorn district. She held a position which
made her hope to direct the whole. As she had once declared, with truth,
it only had depended on themselves, whether she and her sisters should
sink to the level of the Andersons and their set, or belong to the
county society; and her tact had resulted in her being decidedly--as the
little dressmaker’s apprentice amused Ethel by saying--“One of our most
distinguished patronesses”--a name that had stuck by her ever since.

Margaret looked on passively, inclined to admire Flora in everything,
yet now and then puzzled; and her father, in his simple-hearted way,
felt only gratitude and exultation in the kindness that his daughter
met with. As to the bazaar, if it had been started in his own family, he
might have weighed the objections, but, as it was not his daughter’s own
concern, he did not trouble himself about it, only regarding it as one
of the many vagaries of the ladies of Stoneborough.

So the scheme had been further developed, till now Flora came in with
much to tell. The number of stalls had been finally fixed. Mrs. Hoxton
undertook one, with Flora as an aide-de-camp, and some nieces to assist;
Lady Leonora was to chaperon Miss Rivers; and a third, to Flora’s
regret, had been allotted to Miss Cleveland, a good-natured, merry,
elderly heiress, who would, Flora feared, bring on them the whole
“Stoneborough crew.” And then she began to reckon up the present
resources--drawings, bags, and pincushions. “That chip hat you plaited
for Daisy, Margaret, you must let us have that. It will be lovely,
trimmed with pink.”

“Do you wish for this?” said Ethel, heaving up a mass of knitting.

“Thank you,” said Flora; “so ornamental, especially the original
performance in the corner, which you would perpetrate, in spite of my
best efforts.”

“I shall not be offended if you despise it. I only thought you might
have no more scruple in robbing Granny Hall than in robbing Daisy.”

“Pray, send it. Papa will buy it as your unique performance.”

“No; you shall tell me what I am to do.”

“Does she mean it?” said Flora, turning to Margaret. “Have you converted
her? Well done! Then, Ethel, we will get some pretty batiste, and you
and Mary shall make some of those nice sun-bonnets, which you really do
to perfection.”

“Thank you. That is a more respectable task than I expected. People may
have something worth buying,” said Ethel, who, like all the world, felt
the influence of Flora’s tact.

“I mean to study the useful,” said Flora. “The Cleveland set will be
sure to deal in frippery, and I have been looking over Mrs. Hoxton’s
stores, where I see quite enough for mere decoration. There are two
splendid vases in potichomanie, in an Etruscan pattern, which are coming
for me to finish.”

“Mrs. Taylor, at Cocksmoor, could do that for you,” said Ethel. “Her two
phials, stuffed with chintz patterns and flour, are quite as original
and tasteful.”

“Silly work,” said Flora, “but it makes a fair show.”

“The essence of Vanity Fair,” said Ethel.

“It won’t do to be satirical over much,” said Flora. “You won’t get on
without humouring your neighbours’ follies.”

“I don’t want to get on.”

“But you want--or, at least, I want--Cocksmoor to get on.”

Ethel saw Margaret looking distressed, and, recalling her resolution
she said, “Well, Flora, I don’t mean to say any more about it. I see it
can’t be helped, and you all think you intend it for good; so there’s an
end of the matter, and I’ll do anything for you in reason.”

“Poor old King Ethel!” said Flora, smiling in an elder-sisterly
manner. “You will see, my dear, your views are very pretty, but very
impracticable, and it is a work-a-day world after all--even papa would
tell you so. When Cocksmoor school is built, then you may thank me. I do
not look for it before.”




CHAPTER II.



     Knowledge is second, not the first;
     A higher Hand must make her mild,
     If all be not in vain, and guide
     Her footsteps, moving side by side,
     With wisdom; like the younger child,
     For she is earthly of the mind,
     But knowledge heavenly of the soul.--In Memoriam.


Etheldred had not answered her sister, but she did not feel at all
secure that she should have anything to be thankful for, even if the
school were built.

The invasion of Cocksmoor was not only interference with her own field
of action, but it was dangerous to the improvement of her scholars.
Since the departure of Mr. Wilmot, matters at Stoneborough National
School had not improved, though the Misses Anderson talked a great deal
about progress, science, and lectures.

The Ladies’ Committee were constantly at war with the mistresses, and
that one was a veteran who endured them, or whom they could endure
beyond her first half-year. No mistress had stayed a year within the
memory of any girl now at school. Perpetual change prevented any real
education, and, as each lady held different opinions and proscribed all
books not agreeing thereto, everything “dogmatical” was excluded; and,
as Ethel said, the children learned nothing but facts about lions and
steam-engines, while their doctrine varied with that of the visitor for
the week. If the ten generals could only have given up to Miltiades,
but, alas! there was no Miltiades. Mr. Ramsden’s health was failing,
and his neglect told upon the parish in the dreadful evils reigning
unchecked, and engulfing many a child whom more influential teaching
might have saved. Mental arithmetic, and the rivers of Africa, had
little power to strengthen the soul against temptation.

The scanty attendance at the National School attested the indifference
with which it was regarded, and the borderers voluntarily patronised
Cherry Elwood, and thus had, perhaps, first aroused the emulation that
led Mrs. Ledwich on a visit of inspection, to what she chose to consider
as an offshoot of the National School.

The next day she called upon the Misses May. It was well that Ethel was
not at home. Margaret received the lady’s horrors at the sight of the
mere crowded cottage kitchen, the stupid untrained mistress, without an
idea of method, and that impertinent woman, her mother! Miss Flora and
Miss Ethel must have had a great deal to undergo, and she would lose no
time in convening the Ladies’ Committee, and appointing a successor to
“that Elwood,” as soon as a fit room could be erected for her use. If
Margaret had not known that Mrs. Ledwich sometimes threatened more than
she could accomplish, she would have been in despair. She tried to say
a good word for Cherry, but was talked down, and had reason to believe
that Mrs. Elwood had mortally offended Mrs. Ledwich.

The sisters had heard the other side of the story at Cocksmoor. Mrs.
Elwood would not let them enter the school till she had heard how that
there Mrs. Ledwich had come in, and treated them all as if it was her
own place--how she had found fault with Cherry before all the children,
and as good as said she was not fit to keep a school. She had even laid
hands on one of the books, and said that she should take it home, and
see whether it were a fit one for them to use; whereupon Mrs. Elwood had
burst out in defence--it was Miss Ethel May’s book, and should not be
taken away--it was Miss Ethel as she looked to; and when it seemed that
Mrs. Ledwich had said something disparaging of Miss Ethel, either as
to youth, judgment, or doctrine, Mrs. Elwood had fired up into a
declaration that “Miss Ethel was a real lady--that she was! and that
no real lady would ever come prying into other folk’s work and finding
fault with what wasn’t no business of theirs,” with more of a personal
nature, which Flora could not help enjoying, even while she regretted
it.

Cherry was only too meek, as her mother declared. She had said not a
word, except in quiet reply, and being equally terrified by the attack
and defence, had probably seemed more dull than was her wont. Her real
feelings did not appear till the next Sunday, when, in her peaceful
conference with Margaret, far from the sound of storms, she expressed
that she well knew that she was a poor scholar, and that she hoped the
young ladies would not let her stand in the children’s light, when a
better teacher could be found for them.

“I am sure!” cried Ethel, as she heard of this, “it would be hard to
find such a teacher in humility! Cherry bears it so much better than I,
that it is a continual reproof!”

As to the dullness, against which Ethel used to rail, the attacks upon
it had made her erect it into a positive merit; she was always comparing
the truth, honesty, and respectful demeanour of Cherry’s scholars with
the notorious faults of the National School girls, as if these defects
had been implanted either by Mrs. Ledwich, or by geography. It must be
confessed that the violence of partisanship did not make her a pleasant
companion.

However, the interest of the bazaar began somewhat to divert the current
of the ladies’ thoughts, and Ethel found herself walking day after
day to Cocksmoor, unmolested by further reports of Mrs. Ledwich’s
proceedings. Richard was absent, preparing for ordination, but Norman
had just returned home for the Long Vacation, and, rather than lose the
chance of a conversation with her, had joined her and Mary in a walk to
Cocksmoor.

His talk was chiefly of Settlesham, old Mr. Wilmot’s parish, where
he had been making a visit to his former tutor, and talking over the
removal to Eton of Tom, who had well responded to the care taken of him,
and with his good principles confirmed, and his character strengthened,
might be, with less danger, exposed to trial.

It had been a visit such as to leave a deep impression on Norman’s mind.
Sixty years ago, old Mr. Wilmot had been what he now was himself--an
enthusiastic and distinguished Balliol man, and he had kept up a
warm, clear-sighted interest in Oxford throughout his long life. His
anecdotes, his recollections, and comments on present opinions had been
listened to with great eagerness, and Norman had felt it an infinite
honour to give the venerable old man his arm, as to be shown by him his
curious collection of books. His parish, carefully watched for so many
years, had been a study not lost upon Norman, who detailed particulars
of the doings there, which made Ethel sigh to think of the contrast
with Stoneborough. In such conversation they came to the entrance of
the hamlet, and Mary, with a scream of joy, declared that she really
believed that he was going to help them! He did not turn away.

“Thank you!” said Ethel, in a low voice, from the bottom of her heart.

She used him mercifully, and made the lessons shorter than usual, but
when they reached the open air again, he drew a long breath; and when
Mary eagerly tried for a compliment to their scholars, asked if they
could not be taught the use of eyelids.

“Did they stare?” said Ethel. “That’s one advantage of being blind. No
one can stare me out of countenance.”

“Why were you answering all your questions yourself?” asked Mary.

“Because no one else would,” said Norman.

“You used such hard words,” replied Ethel.

“Indeed! I thought I was very simple.”

“Oh!” cried Mary, “there were derive, and instruction, and implicate,
and--oh, so many.”

“Never mind,” said Ethel, seeing him disconcerted. “It is better for
them to be drawn up, and you will soon learn their language. If we only
had Una M’Carthy here!”

“Then you don’t like it?” said Mary, disappointed.

“It is time to learn not to be fastidious,” he answered. “So, if you
will help me--”

“Norman, I am so glad!” said Ethel.

“Yes,” said Norman, “I see now that these things that puff us up, and
seem the whole world to us now, all end in nothing but such as this!
Think of old Mr. Wilmot, once carrying all before him, but deeming all
his powers well bestowed in fifty years’ teaching of clowns!”

“Yes,” replied Ethel, very low. “One soul is worth--” and she paused
from the fullness of thought.

“And these things, about which we are so elated, do not render us so fit
to teach--as you, Mary, or as Richard.”

“They do,” said Ethel. “The ten talents were doubled. Strength tells in
power. The more learning, the fitter to teach the simplest thing.”

“You remind me of old Mr. Wilmot saying that the first thing he learned
at his parish was, how little his people knew; the second, how little he
himself knew.”

So Norman persevered in the homely discipline that he had chosen for
himself, which brought out his deficiency in practical work in a manner
which lowered him in his own eyes, to a degree almost satisfactory
to himself. He was not, indeed, without humility, but his nature was
self-contemplative and self-conscious enough to perceive his superiority
of talent, and it had been the struggle of his life to abase this
perception, so that it was actually a relief not to be obliged to fight
with his own complacency in his powers. He had learned not to think too
highly of himself--he had yet to learn to “think soberly.” His aid was
Ethel’s chief pleasure through this somewhat trying summer, it might be
her last peaceful one at Cocksmoor.

That bazaar! How wild it had driven the whole town, and even her own
home!

Margaret herself, between good nature and feminine love of pretty
things, had become ardent in the cause. In her unvaried life, it was a
great amusement to have so many bright elegant things exhibited to her,
and Ethel was often mortified to find her excited about some new device,
or drawn off from “rational employments,” to complete some trifle.

Mary and Blanche were far worse. From the time that consent had been
given to the fancy-work being carried on in the schoolroom, all interest
in study was over. Thenceforth, lessons were a necessary form, gone
through without heart or diligence. These were reserved for paste-board
boxes, beplastered with rice and sealing-wax, for alum baskets, dressed
dolls, and every conceivable trumpery; and the governess was as eager as
the scholars.

If Ethel remonstrated, she hurt Miss Bracy’s feelings, and this was a
very serious matter to both parties.

The governess was one of those morbidly sensitive people, who cannot
be stopped when once they have begun arguing that they are injured.
Two women together, each with the last-word instinct, have no power
to cease; and, when the words are spent in explaining--not in
scolding--conscience is not called in to silence them, and nothing but
dinner or a thunder-storm can check them. All Ethel’s good sense was of
no avail; she could not stop Miss Bracy, and, though she might resolve
within herself that real kindness would be to make one reasonable reply,
and then quit the subject, yet, on each individual occasion, such a
measure would have seemed mere impatience and cruelty. She found that if
Miss Winter had been too dry, Miss Bracy went to the other extreme,
and demanded a manifestation of sympathy, and return to her passionate
attachment that perplexed Ethel’s undemonstrative nature. Poor good Miss
Bracy, she little imagined how often she added to the worries of her
dear Miss Ethel, all for want of self-command.

Finally, as the lessons were less and less attended to, and the needs
of the stall became more urgent, Dr. May and Margaret concurred in a
decision, that it was better to yield to the mania, and give up the
studies till they could be pursued with a willing mind.

Ethel submitted, and only laughed with Norman at the display of
treasures, which the girls went over daily, like the “House that Jack
built,” always starting from “the box that Mary made.” Come when Dr. May
would into the drawing-room, there was always a line of penwipers laid
out on the floor, bags pendent to all the table-drawers, antimacassars
laid out everywhere.

Ethel hoped that the holidays would create a diversion, but Mary was too
old to be made into a boy, and Blanche drew Hector over to the feminine
party, setting him to gum, gild, and paste all the contrivances which,
in their hands, were mere feeble gimcracks, but which now became fairly
sound, or, at least, saleable.

The boys also constructed a beautiful little ship from a print of the
Alcestis, so successfully, that the doctor promised to buy it; and Ethel
grudged the very sight of it to the bazaar.

Tom, who, in person, was growing like a little shadow or model of
Norman, had, unlike him, a very dexterous pair of hands, and made
himself extremely useful in all such works. On the other hand, the
Cleveland stall seemed chiefly to rely for brilliance on the wit of
Harvey Anderson, who was prospering at his college, and the pride of his
family. A great talker, and extremely gallant, he was considered a far
greater acquisition to a Stoneborough drawing-room than was the silent,
bashful Norman May, and rather looked down on his brother Edward, who,
having gone steadily through the school, was in the attorney’s office,
and went on quietly and well, colouring up gratefully whenever one of
the May family said a kind word to him.




CHAPTER III.



       Any silk, any thread,
       Any toys for your head,
     Of the newest and finest wear-a?
       Come to the pedlar,
       Money’s a medlar.
     That doth utter all men’s ware-a.
                                Winter’s Tale.


“This one day and it will be over, and we shall be rational again,”
 thought Ethel, as she awoke.

Flora was sleeping at the Grange, to be ready for action in the morning,
and Ethel was to go early with Mary and Blanche, who were frantic to
have a share in the selling. Norman and the boys were to walk at their
own time, and the children to be brought later by Miss Bracy. The doctor
would be bound by no rules.

It was a pattern day, bright, clear, warm, and not oppressive, perfect
for an out-of-doors fete; and Ethel had made up her mind to fulfil her
promise to Margaret of enjoying herself. In the brilliant sunshine, and
between two such happy sisters, it would have been surly, indeed, not to
enter into the spirit of the day; and Ethel laughed gaily with them,
and at their schemes and hopes; Blanche’s heart being especially set on
knowing the fate of a watch-guard of her own construction.

Hearing that the ladies were in the gardens, they repaired thither at
once. The broad, smooth bowling-green lay before them; a marquee, almost
converted into a bower, bounding it on either side, while in the midst
arose, gorgeous and delicious, a pyramid of flowers--contributions from
all the hot-houses in the neighbourhood--to be sold for the benefit of
the bazaar. Their freshness and fragrance gave a brightness to the whole
scene, while shrinking from such light, as only the beauteous works of
nature could bear, was the array accomplished by female fingers.

Under the wreathed canopies were the stalls, piled up with bright
colours, most artistically arranged. Ethel, with her over-minute
knowledge of every article, could hardly believe that yonder glowing
Eastern pattern of scarlet, black, and blue, was, in fact, a judicious
mosaic of penwipers that she remembered, as shreds begged from the
tailor, that the delicate lace-work consisted of Miss Bracy’s perpetual
antimacassars, and that the potichomanie could look so dignified and
Etruscan.

“Here you are!” cried Meta Rivers, springing to meet them. “Good girls,
to come early. Where’s my little Daisy?”

“Coming in good time,” said Ethel. “How pretty it all looks!”

“But where’s Flora?--where’s my watch-guard?” anxiously asked Blanche.

“She was here just now,” said Meta, looking round. “What a genius she
is, Ethel! She worked wonders all yesterday, and let the Miss Hoxtons
think it was all their own doing, and she was out before six this
morning, putting finishing touches.”

“Is this your stall?” said Ethel.

“Yes, but it will not bear a comparison with hers. It has a lady’s-maid
look by the side of hers. In fact, Bellairs and my aunt’s maid did it
chiefly, for papa was rather ailing yesterday, and I could not be out
much.”

“How is he now?”

“Better; he will walk round by-and-by. I hope it will not be too much
for him.”

“Oh, what beautiful things!” cried Mary, in ecstasy, at what she was
forced to express by the vague substantive, for her imagination had
never stretched to the marvels she beheld.

“Ay, we have been lazy, you see, and so Aunt Leonora brought down all
these smart concerns. It is rather like Howell and James’s, isn’t it?”

In fact, Lady Leonora’s marquee was filled with costly knick-knacks,
which, as Meta justly said, had not half the grace and appropriate air
that reigned where Flora had arranged, and where Margaret had worked,
with the peculiar freshness and finish that distinguished everything to
which she set her hand.

Miss Cleveland’s counter was not ill set-out, but it wanted the air of
ease and simplicity, which was even more noticeable than the perfect
taste of Flora’s wares. If there had been nothing facetious, the effect
would have been better, but there was nothing to regret, and the whole
was very bright and gay.

Blanche could hardly look; so anxious was she for Flora to tell her the
locality of her treasure.

“There she is,” said Meta at last. “George is fixing that branch of
evergreen for her.”

“Flora! I did not know her,” cried each sister amazed; while Mary added,
“Oh, how nice she looks!”

It was the first time of seeing her in the white muslin, and broad chip
hat--which all the younger saleswomen of the bazaar had agreed to wear.
It was a most becoming dress, and she did, indeed, look strikingly
elegant and well dressed. It occurred to Ethel, for the first time, that
Flora was decidedly the reigning beauty of the bazaar--no one but Meta
Rivers could be compared to her, and that little lady was on so small
a scale of perfect finish, that she seemed fit to act the fairy, where
Flora was the enchanted princess.

Flora greeted her sisters eagerly, while Meta introduced her brother--a
great contrast to herself, though not without a certain comeliness,
tall and large, with ruddy complexion, deep lustreless black eyes, and
a heavy straight bush of black moustache, veiling rather thick lips.
Blanche reiterated inquiries for her watch-guard.

“I don’t know,”--said Flora. “Somewhere among the rest.”

Blanche was in despair.

“You may look for it,” said Flora, who, however hurried, never failed in
kindness, “if you will touch nothing.”

So Blanche ran from place to place in restless dismay, that caused Mr.
George Rivers to ask what was the matter.

“The guards! the guards!” cried Blanche; whereupon he fell into a fit of
laughter, which disconcerted her, because she could not understand him,
and made Ethel take an aversion to him on the spot.

However, he was very good-natured; he took Blanche’s reluctant hand, and
conducted her all along the stall, even proceeding to lift her up where
she could not command a view of the whole, thus exciting her extreme
indignation. She shook herself out when he set her down, surveyed her
crumpled muslin, and believed he took her for a little girl! She ought
to have been flattered when the quest was successful, and he insisted
on knowing which was the guard, and declared that he should buy it. She
begged him to do no such thing, and he desired to know why--insisting
that he would give five shillings--fifteen--twenty-five for that one!
till she did not know whether he was in earnest, and she doing an injury
to the bazaar.

Meantime, the hour had struck, and Flora had placed Mrs. Hoxton in a
sheltered spot, where she could take as much or as little trouble as she
pleased. Lady Leonora and Miss Langdale came from the house, and, with
the two ladies’-maids in the background, took up their station with
Miss Rivers. Miss Cleveland called her party to order, and sounds of
carriages were heard approaching.

Mary and Blanche disbursed the first money spent in the “fancy fair;”
 Mary, on a blotting-book for Harry, to be placed among the presents, to
which she added on every birthday, while Blanche bought a sixpenny gift
for every one, with more attention to the quantity than the quality.
Then came a revival of her anxieties for the guards, and while Mary was
simply desirous of the fun of being a shopwoman, and was made happy by
Meta Rivers asking her help, Blanche was in despair, till she had sidled
up to their neighbourhood, and her piteous looks had caused good-natured
Mrs. Hoxton to invite her to assist, when she placed herself close to
the precious object.

A great fluttering of heart went to that manoeuvre, but still felicity
could not be complete. That great troublesome Mr. George Rivers had
actually threatened to buy nothing but that one watch-chain, and
Blanche’s eye followed him everywhere with fear, lest he should come
that way. And there were many other gentlemen--what could they want but
watch-guards, and of them--what--save this paragon?

Poor Blanche; what did she not undergo whenever any one cast his eye
over her range of goods? and this was not seldom, for there was an
attraction in the pretty little eager girl, glowing and smiling. One
old gentleman actually stopped, handled the guards themselves, and asked
their price.

“Eighteen-pence,” said Blanche, colouring and faltering, as she held up
one in preference.

“Eh! is not this the best?” said he, to the lady on his arm.

“Oh! please, take that instead?” exclaimed Blanche, in extremity.

“And why?” asked the gentleman, amused.

“I made this,” she answered.

“Is that the reason I must not have it?”

“No, don’t tease her,” the lady said kindly; and the other was taken.

“I wonder for what it is reserved!” the lady could not help saying, as
she walked away.

“Let us watch her for a minute or two. What an embellishment
children are! Ha! don’t you see--the little maid is fluttering and
reddening--now! How pretty she looks! Ah! I see! here’s the favoured!
Don’t you see that fine bronzed lad--Eton--one can see at a glance! It
is a little drama. They are pretending to be strangers. He is turning
over the goods with an air, she trying to look equally careless, but
what a pretty carnation it is! Ha! ha! he has come to it--he has it! Now
the acting is over, and they are having their laugh out! How joyously!
What next! Oh! she begs off from keeping shop--she darts out to him,
goes off in his hand--I declare that is the prettiest sight in the whole
fair! I wonder who the little demoiselle can be?”

The great event of the day was over now with Blanche, and she greatly
enjoyed wandering about with Hector and Tom. There was a post-office
at Miss Cleveland’s stall, where, on paying sixpence, a letter could be
obtained to the address of the inquirer. Blanche had been very anxious
to try, but Flora had pronounced it nonsense; however, Hector declared
that Flora was not his master, tapped at the sliding panel, and charmed
Blanche by what she thought a most witty parody of his name as Achilles
Lionsrock, Esquire. When the answer came from within, “Ship letter, sir,
double postage,” they thought it almost uncanny; and Hector’s shilling
was requited by something so like a real ship letter, that they had
some idea that the real post had somehow transported itself thither. The
interior was decidedly oracular, consisting of this one line, “I counsel
you to persevere in your laudable undertaking.”

Hector said he wished he had any laudable undertaking, and Blanche tried
to persuade Tom to try his fortune, but he pronounced that he did
not care to hear Harvey Anderson’s trash--he knew his writing, though
disguised, and had detected his shining boots below the counter. There
Mr. George Rivers came up, and began to tease Blanche about the guards,
asking her to take his fifteen shillings--or five-and-twenty, and who
had got that one, which alone he wanted; till the poor child, after
standing perplexed for some moments, looked up with spirit, and said,
“You have no business to ask,” and, running away, took refuge in the
back of Mrs. Hoxton’s marquee, where she found Ethel packing up for Miss
Hoxton’s purchasers, and confiding to her that Mr. George Rivers was a
horrid man, she ventured no more from her protection. She did, indeed,
emerge, when told that papa was coming with Aubrey and Daisy and Miss
Bracy, and she had the pleasure of selling to them some of her wares.
Dr. May bargaining with her to her infinite satisfaction; and little
Gertrude’s blue eyes opened to their full width, not understanding what
could have befallen her sisters.

“And what is Ethel doing?” asked the doctor.

“Packing up parcels, papa,” and Ethel’s face was raised, looking very
merry.

“Packing parcels! How long will they last tied up?” said Dr. May,
laughing.

“Lasting is the concern of nothing in the fair, papa,” answered she, in
the same tone.

For Ethel was noted as the worst packer in the house; but, having
offered to wrap up a pincushion, sold by a hurried Miss Hoxton, she
became involved in the office for the rest of the day--the same which
Bellairs and her companion performed at the Langdale counter. Flora was
too ready and dexterous to need any such aid, but the Misses Hoxton
were glad to be spared the trouble; and Blanche, whose fingers were far
neater than Ethel’s, made the task much easier, and was kept constant
to it by her dread of the dark moustache, which was often visible near
their tent, searching, she thought, for her.

Their humble employment was no sinecure; for this was the favourite
stall with the purchasers of better style, since the articles were, in
general, tasteful, and fairly worth the moderate price set on them. At
Miss Cleveland’s counter there was much noisy laughter--many jocular
cheats--tricks for gaining money, and refusals to give change; and it
seemed to be very popular with the Stoneborough people, and to carry
on a brisk trade. The only languor was in Lady Leonora’s quarter--the
articles were too costly, and hung on hand; nor were the ladies
sufficiently well known, nor active enough, to gain custom, excepting
Meta, who drove a gay traffic at her end of the stall, which somewhat
redeemed the general languor.

Her eyes were, all the time, watching for her father, and, suddenly
perceiving him, she left her trade in charge of the delighted and
important Mary, and hastened to walk round with him, and show him the
humours of the fair.

Mary, in her absence, had the supreme happiness of obtaining Norman as
a customer. He wanted a picture for his rooms at Oxford, and
water-coloured drawings were, as Tom had observed, suitable staple
commodities for Miss Rivers. Mary tried to make him choose a
brightly-coloured pheasant, with a pencil background; and, then, a fine
foaming sea-piece, by some unknown Lady Adelaide, that much dazzled her
imagination; but nothing would serve him but a sketch of an old cedar
tree, with Stoneborough Minster in the distance, and the Welsh hills
beyond, which Mary thought a remarkable piece of bad taste, since--could
he not see all that any day of his life? and was it worth while to give
fourteen shillings and sixpence for it? But he said it was all for the
good of Cocksmoor, and Mary was only too glad to add to her hoard of
coin; so she only marvelled at his extravagance, and offered to take
care of it for him; but, to this, he would not consent. He made her pack
it up for him, and had just put the whitey-brown parcel under his arm,
when Mr. Rivers and his daughter came up, before he was aware. Mary
proudly advertised Meta that she had sold something for her.

“Indeed! What was it?”

“Your great picture of Stoneborough!” said Mary.

“Is that gone? I am sorry you have parted with that, my dear; it was one
of your best,” said Mr. Rivers, in his soft, sleepy, gentle tone.

“Oh, papa, I can do another. But, I wonder! I put that extortionate
price on it, thinking no one would give it, and so that I should keep it
for you. Who has it, Mary?”

“Norman, there. He would have it, though I told him it was very dear.”

Norman, pressed near them by the crowd, had been unable to escape, and
stood blushing, hesitating, and doubting whether he ought to restore the
prize, which he had watched so long, and obtained so eagerly.

“Oh! it is you?” said Mr. Rivers politely. “Oh, no, do not think of
exchanging it. I am rejoiced that one should have it who can appreciate
it. It was its falling into the hands of a stranger that I disliked. You
think with me, that it is one of her best drawings?”

“Yes, I do,” said Norman, still rather hesitating. “She did that with
C--, when he was here last year. He taught her very well. Have you that
other here, that you took with him, my dear? The view from the gate, I
mean.”

“No, dear papa. You told me not to sell that.”

“Ah! I remember; that is right. But there are some very pretty copies
from Prout here.”

While he was seeking them, Meta contrived to whisper, “If you could
persuade him to go indoors--this confusion of people is so bad for him,
and I must not come away. I was in hopes of Dr. May, but he is with the
little ones.”

Norman signed comprehension, and Meta said, “Those copies are not worth
seeing, but you know, papa, you have the originals in the library.”

Mr. Rivers looked pleased, but was certain that Norman could not prefer
the sketches to this gay scene. However, it took very little persuasion
to induce him to do what he wished, and he took Norman’s arm, crossed
the lawn, and arrived in his own study, where it was a great treat
to him to catch any one who would admire his accumulation of prints,
drawings, coins, etc.; and his young friend was both very well amused
and pleased to be setting Miss Rivers’s mind at ease on her father’s
account. It was not till half-past four that Dr. May knocked at the
door, and stood surprised at finding his son there. Mr. Rivers spoke
warmly of the young Oxonian’s kindness in leaving the fair for an old
man, and praised Norman’s taste in art. Norman rose to take leave, but
still thought it incumbent on him to offer to give up the picture,
if Mr. Rivers set an especial value on it. But Mr. Rivers went to the
length of being very glad that it was in his possession, and added to
it a very pretty drawing of the same size, by a noted master, which had
been in the water-colour exhibition, and, while Norman walked away, well
pleased, Mr. Rivers began to extol him to his father, as a very superior
and sensible young man, of great promise, and began to wish George had
the same turn.

Norman, on returning to the fancy fair, found the world in all the
ardour of raffles. Lady Leonora’s contributions were the chief prizes,
which attracted every one, and, of course, the result was delightfully
incongruous. Poor Ethel, who had been persuaded to venture a shilling
to please Blanche, who had spent all her own, obtained the two jars in
potichomanie, and was regarding them with a face worth painting. Harvey
Anderson had a doll, George Rivers a wooden monkey, that jumped over a
stick; and, if Hector Ernescliffe was enchanted at winning a beautiful
mother-of-pearl inlaid workbox, which he had vainly wished to buy for
Margaret, Flora only gained a match-box of her own, well known always to
miss fire, but which had been decided to be good enough for the bazaar.

By fair means or foul, the commodities were cleared off, and, while the
sunbeams faded from the trodden grass, the crowds disappeared, and
the vague compliment, “a very good bazaar,” was exchanged between the
lingering sellers and their friends.

Flora was again to sleep at the Grange, and return the next day, for
a committee to be held over the gains, which were not yet fully
ascertained. So Dr. May gathered his flock together, and packed them,
boys and all, into the two conveyances, and Ethel bade Meta good-night,
almost wondering to hear her merry voice say, “It has been a delightful
day, has it not? It was so kind of your brother to take care of papa.”

“Oh, it was delightful!” echoed Mary, “and I took one pound fifteen and
sixpence!”

“I hope it will do great good to Cocksmoor,” added Meta, “but, if you
want real help, you know, you must come to us.”

Ethel smiled, but hurried her departure, for she saw Blanche again
tormented by Mr. George Rivers, to know what had become of the guard,
telling her that, if she would not say, he should be furiously jealous.

Blanche hid her face on Ethel’s arm, when they were in the carriage, and
almost cried with indignant “shamefastness.” That long-desired day had
not been one of unmixed happiness to her, poor child, and Ethel doubted
whether it had been so to any one, except, indeed, to Mary, whose
desires never soared so high but that they were easily fulfilled, and
whose placid content was not easily wounded. All she was wishing now
was, that Harry were at home to receive his paper-case.

The return to Margaret was real pleasure. The narration of all that had
passed was an event to her. She was so charmed with her presents, of
every degree; things, unpleasant at the time, could, by drollery in the
relating, be made mirthful fun ever after; Dr. May and the boys were so
comical in their observations--Mary’s wonder and simplicity came in so
amazingly--and there was such merriment at Ethel’s two precious jars,
that she could hardly wish they had not come to her. On one head they
were all agreed, in dislike of George Rivers, whom Mary pronounced to be
a detestable man, and, when gently called to order by Margaret, defended
it, by saying that Miss Bracy said it was better to detest than to
hate, while Blanche coloured up to the ears, and hid herself behind
the arm-chair; and Dr. May qualified the censure by saying, he believed
there was no great harm in the youth, but that he was shallow-brained
and extravagant, and, having been born in the days when Mr. Rivers had
been working himself up in the world, had not had so good an education
as his little half-sister.

“Well, what are you thinking of?” said her father, laying his hand
on Ethel’s arm, as she was wearily and pensively putting together the
scattered purchases before going up to bed.

“I was thinking, papa, that there is a great deal of trouble taken in
this world for a very little pleasure.”

“The trouble is the pleasure, in most cases, most misanthropical miss!”

“Yes, that is true; but, if so, why cannot it be taken for some good?”

“They meant it to be good,” said Dr. May. “Come, I cannot have you
severe and ungrateful.”

“So I have been telling myself, papa, all along; but, now that the
day has come, and I have seen what jealousies, and competitions, and
vanities, and disappointments it has produced--not even poor little
Blanche allowed any comfort--I am almost sick at heart with thinking
Cocksmoor was the excuse!”

“Spectators are more philosophical than actors, Ethel. Others have not
been tying parcels all day.”

“I had rather do that than--But that is the ‘Fox and the Grapes,’” said
Ethel, smiling. “What I mean is, that the real gladness of life is not
in these great occasions of pleasure, but in the little side delights
that come in the midst of one’s work, don’t they, papa? Why is it worth
while to go and search for a day’s pleasuring?”

“Ethel, my child! I don’t like to hear you talk so,” said Dr. May,
looking anxiously at her. “It may be too true, but it is not youthful
nor hopeful. It is not as your mother or I felt in our young days, when
a treat was a treat to us, and gladdened our hearts long before and
after. I am afraid you have been too much saddened with loss and care--”

“Oh, no, papa!” said Ethel, rousing herself, though speaking huskily.
“You know I am your merry Ethel. You know I can be happy enough--only at
home--”

And Ethel, though she had tried to be cheerful, leaned against his arm,
and shed a few tears.

“The fact is, she is tired out,” said Dr. May soothingly, yet half
laughing. “She is not a beauty or a grace, and she is thoughtful and
quiet, and so she moralises, instead of enjoying, as the world goes by.
I dare say a night’s rest will make all the difference in the world.”

“Ah! but there is more to come. That Ladies’ Committee at Cocksmoor!”

“They are not there yet, Ethel. Good-night, you tired little cynic.”




CHAPTER IV.



     Back then, complainer...
     Go, to the world return, nor fear to cast
     Thy bread upon the waters, sure at last
        In joy to find it after many days.--Christian Year.


The next day Ethel had hoped for a return to reason, but behold, the
world was cross! The reaction of the long excitement was felt, Gertrude
fretted, and was unwell; Aubrey was pettish at his lessons; and Mary and
Blanche were weary, yawning and inattentive; every straw was a burden,
and Miss Bracy had feelings.

Ethel had been holding an interminable conversation with her in the
schoolroom, interrupted at last by a summons to speak to a Cocksmoor
woman at the back door, and she was returning from the kitchen, when the
doctor called her into his study.

“Ethel! what is all this? Mary has found Miss Bracy in floods of tears
in the schoolroom, because she says you told her she was ill-tempered.”

“I am sure you will be quite as much surprised,” said Ethel, somewhat
exasperated, “when you hear that you lacerated her feelings yesterday.”

“I? Why, what did I do?” exclaimed Dr. May.

“You showed your evident want of confidence in her.”

“I? What can I have done?”

“You met Aubrey and Gertrude in her charge, and you took them away at
once to walk with you.”

“Well?”

“Well, that was it. She saw you had no confidence in her.”

“Ethel, what on earth can you mean? I saw the two children dragging on
her, and I thought she would see nothing that was going on, and would be
glad to be released; and I wanted them to go with me and see Meta’s gold
pheasants.”

“That was the offence. She has been breaking her heart all this time,
because she was sure, from your manner, that you were displeased to see
them alone with her--eating bon-bons, I believe, and therefore took them
away.”

“Daisy is the worse for her bon-bons, I believe, but the overdose of
them rests on my shoulders. I do not know how to believe you, Ethel. Of
course you told her nothing of the kind crossed my mind, poor thing!”

“I told her so, over and over again, as I have done forty times before
but her feelings are always being hurt.”

“Poor thing, poor thing! no doubt it is a trying situation, and she is
sensitive. Surely you are all forbearing with her?”

“I hope we are,” said Ethel; “but how can we tell what vexes her?”

“And what is this, of your telling her she was ill-tempered?” asked Dr.
May incredulously.

“Well, papa,” said Ethel, softened, yet wounded by his thinking it
so impossible. “I had often thought I ought to tell her that these
sensitive feelings of hers were nothing but temper; and perhaps--indeed
I know I do--I partake of the general fractiousness of the house to-day,
and I did not bear it so patiently as usual. I did say that I thought it
wrong to foster her fancies; for if she looked at them coolly, she would
find they were only a form of pride and temper.”

“It did not come well from you, Ethel,” said the doctor, looking vexed.

“No, I know it did not,” said Ethel meekly; “but oh! to have these
janglings once a week, and to see no end to them!”

“Once a week?”

“It is really as often, or more often,” said Ethel. “If any of us
criticise anything the girls have done, if there is a change in any
arrangement, if she thinks herself neglected--I can’t tell you what
little matters suffice; she will catch me, and argue with me, till--oh,
till we are both half dead, and yet cannot stop ourselves.”

“Why do you argue?”

“If I could only help it!”

“Bad management,” said the doctor, in a low, musing tone. “You want a
head!” and he sighed.

“Oh, papa, I did not mean to distress you. I would not have told you if
I had remembered--but I am worried to-day, and off my guard--”

“Ethel, I thought you were the one on whom I could depend for bearing
everything.”

“These were such nonsense!”

“What may seem nonsense to you is not the same to her. You must
be forbearing, Ethel. Remember that dependence is prone to morbid
sensitiveness, especially in those who have a humble estimate of
themselves.”

“It seems to me that touchiness is more pride than humility,” said
Ethel, whose temper, already not in the smoothest state, found it hard
that, after having long borne patiently with these constant arguments,
she should find Miss Bracy made the chief object of compassion.

Dr. May’s chivalrous feeling caused him to take the part of the weak,
and he answered, “You know nothing about it. Among our own kith and kin
we can afford to pass over slights, because we are sure the heart is
right--we do not know what it is to be among strangers, uncertain of
any claim to their esteem or kindness. Sad! sad!” he continued, as the
picture wrought on him. “Each trifle seems a token one way or the other!
I am very sorry I grieved the poor thing yesterday. I must go and tell
her so at once.”

He put Ethel aside, and knocked at the schoolroom door, while Ethel
stood, mortified. “He thinks I have been neglecting, or speaking harshly
to her! For fifty times that I have borne with her maundering, I have,
at last, once told her the truth; and for that I am accused of want of
forbearance! Now he will go and make much of her, and pity her, till she
will think herself an injured heroine, and be worse than ever; and he
will do away with all the good of my advice, and want me to ask her
pardon for it--but that I never will. It was only the truth, and I will
stick to it.”

“Ethel!” cried Mary, running up to her, then slackening her pace, and
whispering, “you did not tell Miss Bracy she was ill-tempered.”

“No--not exactly. How could you tell papa I did?”

“She said so. She was crying, and I asked what was the matter, and she
said my sister Ethel said she was ill-tempered.”

“She made a great exaggeration then,” said Ethel.

“I am sure she was very cross all day,” said Mary.

“Well, that is no business of yours,” said Ethel pettishly. “What now?
Mary, don’t look out at the street window.”

“It is Flora--the Grange carriage,” whispered Mary, as the two sisters
made a precipitate retreat into the drawing-room.

Meanwhile, Dr. May had been in the schoolroom. Miss Bracy had ceased her
tears before he came--they had been her retort on Ethel, and she had not
intended the world to know of them. Half disconcerted, half angry, she
heard the doctor approach. She was a gentle, tearful woman, one of
those who are often called meek, under an erroneous idea that meekness
consists in making herself exceedingly miserable under every kind
of grievance; and she now had a sort of melancholy satisfaction in
believing that the young ladies had fabricated an exaggerated complaint
of her temper, and that she was going to become injured innocence. To
think herself accused of a great wrong, excused her from perceiving
herself guilty of a lesser one.

“Miss Bracy,” said Dr. May, entering with his frank, sweet look, “I
am concerned that I vexed you by taking the children to walk with me
yesterday. I thought such little brats would be troublesome to any but
their spoiling papa, but they would have been in safer hands with you.
You would not have been as weak as I was, in regard to sugar-plums.”
 Such amends as these confused Miss Bracy, who found it pleasanter to be
lamentable with Ethel, than to receive a full apology for her imagined
offence from the master of the house. Feeling both small and absurd,
she murmured something of “oh, no,” and “being sure,” and hoped he
was going, so that she might sit down to pity herself, for those girls
having made her appear so ridiculous.

No such thing! Dr. May put a chair for her, and sat down himself,
saying, with a smile, “You see, you must trust us sometimes, and
overlook it, if we are less considerate than we might be. We have rough,
careless habits with each other, and forget that all are not used to
them.”

Miss Bracy exclaimed, “Oh, no, never, they were most kind.”

“We wish to be,” said Dr. May, “but there are little neglects--or
you think there are. I will not say there are none, for that would be
answering too much for human nature, or that they are fanciful--for that
would be as little comfort as to tell a patient that the pain is only
nervous--”

Miss Bracy smiled, for she could remember instances when, after
suffering much at the time, she had found the affront imaginary.

He was glad of that smile, and proceeded. “You will let me speak to
you, as to one of my own girls? To them, I should say, use the only true
cure. Don’t brood over vexations, small or great, but think of them as
trials that, borne bravely, become blessings.”

“Oh! but Dr. May!” she exclaimed, shocked; “nothing in your house could
call for such feelings.”

“I hope we are not very savage,” he said, smiling; “but, indeed, I still
say it is the safest rule. It would be the only one if you were really
among unkind people; and, if you take so much to heart an unlucky
neglect of mine, what would you do if the slight were a true one?”

“You are right; but my feelings were always over-sensitive;” and this
she said with a sort of complacency.

“Well, we must try to brace them,” said Dr. May, much as if prescribing
for her. “Will not you believe in our confidence and esteem, and harden
yourself against any outward unintentional piece of incivility?”

She felt as if she could at that moment.

“Or at least, try to forgive and forget them. Talking them over only
deepens the sense of them, and discussions do no good to any one. My
daughters are anxious to be your best friends, as I hope you know.”

“Oh! they are most kind--”

“But, you see, I must say this,” added Dr. May, somewhat hesitating, “as
they have no mother to--to spare all this,” and then, growing clearer,
he proceeded, “I must beg you to be forbearing with them, and not
perplex yourself and them with arguing on what cannot be helped.
They have not the experience that could enable them to finish such a
discussion without unkindness; and it can only waste the spirits, and
raise fresh subjects of regret. I must leave you--I hear myself called.”

Miss Bracy began to be sensible that she had somewhat abused
Ethel’s patience; and the unfortunate speech about the source of her
sensitiveness did not appear to her so direfully cruel as at first.
She hoped every one would forget all about it, and resolved not to take
umbrage so easily another time, or else be silent about it, but she was
not a person of much resolution.

The doctor found that Meta Rivers and her brother had brought Flora
home, and were in the drawing-room, where Margaret was hearing another
edition of the history of the fair, and a by-play was going on, of
teasing Blanche about the chain.

George Rivers was trying to persuade her to make one for him; and her
refusal came out at last, in an almost passionate key, in the midst of
the other conversation--“No! I say-no!”

“Another no, and that will be yes.”

“No! I won’t! I don’t like you well enough!”

Margaret gravely sent Blanche and the other children away to take their
walk, and the brother and sister soon after took leave, when Flora
called Ethel to hasten to the Ladies’ Committee, that they might arrange
the disposal of the one hundred and fifty pounds, the amount of their
gains.

“To see the fate of Cocksmoor,” said Ethel.

“Do you think I cannot manage the Stoneborough folk?” said Flora,
looking radiant with good humour, and conscious of power. “Poor Ethel!
I am doing you good against your will! Never mind, here is wherewith to
build the school, and the management will be too happy to fall into
our hands. Do you think every one is as ready as you are, to walk three
miles and back continually?”

There was sense in this; there always was sense in what Flora said, but
it jarred on Ethel; and it seemed almost unsympathising in her to be so
gay, when the rest were wearied or perturbed. Ethel would have been very
glad of a short space to recollect herself, and recover her good temper;
but it was late, and Flora hurried her to put on her bonnet, and come to
the committee. “I’ll take care of your interests,” she said, as they
set out. “You look as doleful as if you thought you should be robbed of
Cocksmoor; but that is the last thing that will happen, you will see.”

“It would not be acting fairly to let them build for us, and then for us
to put them out of the management,” said Ethel.

“My dear, they want importance, not action. They will leave the real
power to us of themselves.”

“You like to build Cocksmoor with such instruments,” said Ethel, whose
ruffled condition made her forget her resolution not to argue with
Flora.

“Bricks are made of clay!” said Flora. “There, that was said like Norman
himself! On your plan, we might have gone on for forty years, saving
seven shillings a year, and spending six, whenever there was an illness
in the place.”

“You, who used to dislike these people more than even I did!” said
Ethel.

“That was when I was an infant, my dear, and did not know how to deal
with them. I will take care--I will even save Cherry Elwood for you, if
I can. Alan Ernescliffe’s ten pounds is a noble weapon.”

“You always mean to manage everything, and then you have no time!” said
Ethel, sensible all the time of her own ill-humour, and of her sister’s
patience and amiability, yet propelled to speak the unpleasant truths
that in her better moods were held back.

Still Flora was good-tempered, though Ethel would almost have preferred
her being provoked; “I know,” she said, “I have been using you ill, and
leaving the world on your shoulders, but it was all in your service and
Cocksmoor’s; and now we shall begin to be reasonable and useful again.”

“I hope so,” said Ethel.

“Really, Ethel, to comfort you, I think I shall send you with Norman to
dine at Abbotstoke Grange on Wednesday. Mr. Rivers begged us to come; he
is so anxious to make it lively for his son.”

“Thank you, I do not think Mr. George Rivers and I should be likely to
get on together. What a bad style of wit! You heard what Mary said about
him? and Ethel repeated the doubt between hating and detesting.

“Young men never know how to talk to little girls,” was Flora’s reply.

At this moment they came up with one of the Miss Andersons, and Flora
began to exchange civilities, and talk over yesterday’s events with
great animation. Her notice always gave pleasure, brightened as it was
by the peculiarly engaging address which she had inherited from her
father, and which, therefore, was perfectly easy and natural. Fanny
Anderson was flattered and gratified, rather by the manner than the
words, and, on excellent terms, they entered the committee-room, namely,
the schoolmistress’s parlour.

There were nine ladies on the committee--nine muses, as the doctor
called them, because they produced anything but harmony. Mrs. Ledwich
was in the chair; Miss Rich was secretary, and had her pen and ink, and
account-book ready. Flora came in, smiling and greeting; Ethel, grave,
earnest, and annoyed, behind her, trying to be perfectly civil, but not
at all enjoying the congratulations on the successful bazaar. The ladies
all talked and discussed their yesterday’s adventures, gathering in
little knots, as they traced the fate of favourite achievements of their
skill, while Ethel, lugubrious and impatient, beside Flora, the only
one not engaged, and, therefore, conscious of the hubbub of clacking
tongues.

At last Mrs. Ledwich glanced at the mistress’s watch, in its pasteboard
tower, in Gothic architecture, and insisted on proceeding to business.
So they all sat down round a circular table, with a very fine red, blue,
and black oilcloth, whose pattern was inseparably connected, in Ethel’s
mind, with absurdity, tedium, and annoyance.

The business was opened by the announcement of what they all knew
before, that the proceeds of the fancy fair amounted to one hundred and
forty-nine pounds fifteen shillings and tenpence.

Then came a pause, and Mrs. Ledwich said that next they had to consider
what was the best means of disposing of the sum gained in this most
gratifying manner. Every one except Flora, Ethel, and quiet Mrs.
Ward, began to talk at once. There was a great deal about Elizabethan
architecture, crossed by much more, in which normal, industrial,
and common things, most often met Ethel’s ear, with some stories,
second-hand, from Harvey Anderson, of marvellous mistakes; and, on the
opposite side of the table, there was Mrs. Ledwich, impressively saying
something to the silent Mrs. Ward, marking her periods with emphatic
beats with her pencil, and each seemed to close with “Mrs. Perkinson’s
niece,” whom Ethel knew to be Cherry’s intended supplanter. She looked
piteously at Flora, who only smiled and made a sign with her hand to her
to be patient. Ethel fretted inwardly at that serene sense of power; but
she could not but admire how well Flora knew how to bide her time, when,
having waited till Mrs. Ledwich had nearly wound up her discourse on
Mrs. Elwood’s impudence, and Mrs. Perkinson’s niece, she leaned towards
Miss Boulder, who sat between, and whispered to her, “Ask Mrs. Ledwich
if we should not begin with some steps for getting the land.”

Miss Boulder, having acted as conductor, the president exclaimed, “Just
so, the land is the first consideration. We must at once take steps
for obtaining it.” Thereupon Mrs. Ledwich, who “always did things
methodically,” moved, and Miss Anderson seconded, that the land
requisite for the school must be obtained, and the nine ladies held up
their hands, and resolved it.

Miss Rich duly recorded the great resolution, and Miss Boulder suggested
that, perhaps, they might write to the National Society, or Government,
or something; whereat Miss Rich began to flourish one of the very long
goose quills which stood in the inkstand before her, chiefly as insignia
of office, for she always wrote with a small, stiff metal pen.

Flora here threw in a query, whether the National Society, or
Government, or something, would give them a grant, unless they had the
land to build upon?

The ladies all started off hereupon, and all sorts of instances of
hardness of heart were mentioned, the most relevant of which was, that
the Church Building Society would not give a grant to Mr. Holloway’s
proprietary chapel at Whitford, when Mrs. Ledwich was suddenly struck
with the notion that dear Mr. Holloway might be prevailed on to come
to Stoneborough to preach a sermon in the Minster, for the benefit of
Cocksmoor, when they would all hold plates at the door. Flora gave Ethel
a tranquillising pat, and, as Mrs. Ledwich turned to her, asking whether
she thought Dr. May, or Dr. Hoxton, would prevail on him to come, she
said, with her winning look, “I think that consideration had better wait
till we have some more definite view. Had we not better turn to this
land question?”

“Quite true!” they all agreed, but to whom did the land belong?--and
what a chorus arose! Miss Anderson thought it belonged to Mr. Nicolson,
because the wagons of slate had James Nicolson on them, and, if so, they
had no chance, for he was an old miser--and six stories illustrative
thereof ensued. Miss Rich was quite sure some Body held it, and
Bodies were slow of movement. Mrs. Ledwich remembered some question of
enclosing, and thought all waste lands were under the Crown; she knew
that the Stoneborough people once had a right to pasture their cattle,
because Mr. Southron’s cow had tumbled down a loam-pit when her mother
was a girl. No, that was on Far-view down, out the other way! Miss
Harrison was positive that Sir Henry Walkinghame had some right there,
and would not Dr. May apply to him? Mrs. Grey thought it ought to
be part of the Drydale estate, and Miss Boulder was certain that Mr.
Bramshaw knew all about it.

Flora’s gentle voice carried conviction that she knew what she was
saying, when, at last, they left a moment for her to speak--(Ethel would
have done so long ago). “If I am not mistaken, the land is a copyhold of
Sir Henry Walkinghame, held under the manor of Drydale, which belongs to
M---- College, and is underlet to Mr. Nicolson.”

Everybody, being partially right, was delighted, and had known it all
before; Miss Boulder agreed with Miss Anderson that Miss May had stated
it as lucidly as Mr. Bramshaw could. The next question was, to whom to
apply? and, after as much as was expedient had been said in favour of
each, it was decided that, as Sir Henry Walkinghame was abroad, no one
knew exactly where, it would be best to go to the fountain-head, and
write at once to the principal of the college. But who was to write?
Flora proposed Mr. Ramsden as the fittest person, but this was
negatived. Every one declared that he would never take the trouble, and
Miss Rich began to agitate her pens. By this time, however, Mrs. Ward,
who was opposite to the Gothic clock-tower, began to look uneasy, and
suggested, in a nervous manner, that it was half-past five, and she was
afraid Mr. Ward would be kept waiting for his dinner. Mrs. Grey began
to have like fears, that Mr. Grey would be come in from his ride after
banking hours. The other ladies began to think of tea, and the meeting
decided on adjourning till that day next week, when the committee would
sit upon Miss Rich’s letter.

“My dear Miss Flora!” began Miss Rich, adhering to her as they parted
with the rest at the end of the street, “how am I to write to a
principal? Am I to begin Reverend Sir, or My Lord, or is he Venerable,
like an archdeacon? What is his name, and what am I to say?”

“Why, it is not a correspondence much in my line,” said Flora, laughing.

“Ah! but you are so intimate with Dr. Hoxton, and your brothers at
Oxford! You must know--”

“I’ll take advice,” said Flora good-naturedly. “Shall I come, and call
before Friday, and tell you the result?”

“Oh, pray! It will be a real favour! Good-morning--”

“There,” said Flora, as the sisters turned homewards, “Cherry is not
going to be turned out just yet!”

“How could you, Flora? Now they will have that man from Whitford, and
you said not a word against it!”

“What was the use of adding to the hubbub? A little opposition would
make them determined on having him. You will see, Ethel, we shall get
the ground on our own terms, and then it will be time to settle about
the mistress. If the harvest holidays were not over, we would try to
send Cherry to a training-school, so as to leave them no excuse.”

“I hate all this management and contrivance. It would be more honest to
speak our minds, and not pretend to agree with them.”

“My dear Ethel! have I spoken a word contrary to my opinion? It is not
fit for me, a girl of twenty, to go disputing and dragooning as you
would have me; but a little savoir faire, a grain of common sense,
thrown in among the babble, always works. Don’t you remember how Mrs.
Ward’s sister told us that a whole crowd of tottering Chinese ladies
would lean on her, because they felt her firm support, though it was out
of sight?”

Ethel did not answer; she had self-control enough left not to retort
upon Flora’s estimate of herself, but the irritation was strong; she
felt as if her cherished views for Cocksmoor were insulted, as well as
set aside, by the place being made the occasion of so much folly and
vain prattle, the sanctity of her vision of self-devotion destroyed
by such interference, and Flora’s promises did not reassure her. She
doubted Flora’s power, and had still more repugnance to the means
by which her sister tried to govern; they did not seem to her
straightforward, and she could not endure Flora’s complacency in their
success. Had it not been for her real love for the place and people, as
well as the principle which prompted that love, she could have found
it in her heart to throw up all concern with it, rather than become a
fellow-worker with such a conclave.

Such were Ethel’s feelings as the pair walked down the street; the one
sister bright and smiling with the good humour that had endured many
shocks all that day, all good nature and triumph, looking forward to
success, great benefit to Cocksmoor, and plenty of management, with
credit and praise to herself; the other, downcast and irritable, with
annoyance at the interference with her schemes, at the prospects of her
school, and at herself for being out of temper, prone to murmur or to
reply tartly, and not able to recover from her mood, but only, as she
neared the house, lapsing into her other trouble, and preparing to
resist any misjudged, though kind attempt of her father, to make her
unsay her rebuke to Miss Bracy. Pride and temper! Ah! Etheldred! where
were they now?

Dr. May was at his study door as his daughters entered the hall, and
Ethel expected the order which she meant to question; but, instead of
this, after a brief inquiry after the doings of the nine muses, which
Flora answered, so as to make him laugh, he stopped Ethel, as she
was going upstairs, by saying, “I do not know whether this letter is
intended for Richard, or for me. At any rate, it concerns you most.”

The envelope was addressed to the Reverend Richard May, D. D., Market
Stoneborough, and the letter began, “Reverend Sir.” So far Ethel saw,
and exclaimed, with amusement, then, with a long-drawn “Ah!” and
an interjection, “My poor dear Una!” she became absorbed, the large
tears--yes, Ethel’s reluctant tears gathering slowly and dropping.

The letter was from a clergyman far away in the north of England, who
said he could not, though a stranger, resist the desire to send to
Dr. May an account of a poor girl, who seemed to have received great
benefits from him, or from some of his family, especially as she had
shown great eagerness on his proposing to write.

He said it was nearly a year since there had come into his parish a
troop of railwaymen and their families. For the most part, they were
completely wild and rude, unused to any pastoral care; but, even on
the first Sunday, he had noticed a keen-looking, freckled, ragged,
unmistakably Irish girl, creeping into church with a Prayer-book in her
hand, and had afterwards found her hanging about the door of the school.
“I never saw a more engaging, though droll, wild expression, than that
with which she looked up to me.” (Ethel’s cry of delight was at that
sentence--she knew that look too well, and had yearned after it so
often!) “I found her far better instructed than her appearance had led
me to expect, and more truly impressed with the spirit of what she had
learned than it has often been my lot to find children. She was perfect
in the New Testament history”--(“Ah! that she was not, when she went
away!”)--“and was in the habit of constantly attending church, and using
morning and evening prayers.” (“Oh! how I longed, when she went away, to
beg her to keep them up! Dear Una.”) “On my questions, as to how she had
been taught, she always replied, ‘Mr. Richard May,’ or ‘Miss Athel.’ You
must excuse me if I have not correctly caught the name from her Irish
pronunciation.” (“I am afraid he thinks my name is Athaliah! But oh!
this dear girl! How I have wished to hear of her!”) “Everything was
answered with ‘Mr. Richard,’ or ‘Miss Athel’; and, if I inquired
further, her face would light up with a beam of gratitude, and she would
run on, as long as I could listen, with instances of their kindness. It
was the same with her mother, a wild, rude specimen of an Irishwoman,
whom I never could bring to church herself, but who ran on loudly with
their praises, usually ending with ‘Heavens be their bed,’ and saying
that Una had been quite a different girl since the young ladies and
gentleman found her out, and put them parables in her head.

“For my own part, I can testify that, in the seven months that she
attended my school, I never had a serious fault to find with her, but
far more often to admire the earnestness and devout spirit, as well as
the kindness and generosity apparent in all her conduct. Bad living, and
an unwholesome locality, have occasioned a typhus fever among the poor
strangers in this place, and Una was one of the first victims. Her
mother, almost from the first, gave her up, saying she knew she was one
marked for glory; and Una has been lying, day after day, in a sort
of half-delirious state, constantly repeating hymns and psalms, and
generally, apparently very happy, except when one distress occurred
again and again, whether delirious or sensible, namely, that she had
never gone to wish Miss May good-bye, and thank her; and that maybe she
and Mr. Richard thought her ungrateful; and she would sometimes beg, in
her phraseology, to go on her bare knees to Stoneborough, only to see
Miss Athel again.

“Her mother, I should say, told me the girl had been half mad at not
being allowed to go and take leave of Miss May; and she had been sorry
herself, but her husband had come home suddenly from the search for
work, and, having made his arrangements, removed them at once, early the
next morning--too early to go to the young lady; though, she said, Una
did--as they passed through Stoneborough--run down the street before she
was aware, and she found her sobbing, fit to break her heart, before the
house.” (“Oh, why, why was I not up, and at the window! Oh, my Una! to
think of that!”) “When I spoke of writing to let Miss May hear how
it was, the poor girl caught at the idea with the utmost delight. Her
weakness was too great to allow her to utter many words distinctly,
when I asked her what she would have me say, but these were as well as
I could understand:--‘The blessing of one, that they have brought peace
unto. Tell them I pray, and will pray, that they may walk in the robe
of glory--and tell Mr. Richard that I mind what he said to me, of taking
hold on the sure hope. God crown all their crosses unto them, and fulfil
all their desires unto everlasting life.’ I feel that I am not rendering
her words with all their fervour and beauty of Irish expression, but I
would that I could fully retain and transmit them, for those who have so
led her must, indeed, be able to feel them precious. I never saw a
more peaceful frame of penitence and joy. She died last night, sleeping
herself away, without more apparent suffering, and will be committed
to the earth on Sunday next, all her fellow-scholars attending; and, I
hope, profiting by the example she has left.

“I have only to add my most earnest congratulations to those whose
labour of love has borne such blessed fruit; and, hoping you will pardon
the liberty, etc.”

Etheldred finished the letter through blinding tears, while rising sobs
almost choked her. She ran away to her own room, bolted the door, and
threw herself on her knees, beside her bed--now confusedly giving thanks
for such results--now weeping bitterly over her own unworthiness. Oh!
what was she in the sight of Heaven, compared with what this poor girl
had deemed her--with what this clergyman thought her? She, the teacher,
taught, trained, and guarded, from her infancy, by her wise mother, and
by such a father! She, to have given way all day to pride, jealousy,
anger, selfish love of her own will; when this poor girl had embraced,
and held fast, the blessed hope, from the very crumbs they had brought
her! Nothing could have so humbled the distrustful spirit that had been
working in Ethel, which had been scotched into silence--not killed--when
she endured the bazaar, and now had been indemnifying itself by repining
at every stumbling-block. Her own scholar’s blessing was the rebuke that
went most home to her heart, for having doubted whether good could be
worked in any way, save her own.

She was interrupted by Mary trying to open the door, and, admitting
her, heard her wonder at the traces of her tears, and ask what there
was about Una. Ethel gave her the letter, and Mary’s tears showered very
fast--they always came readily. “Oh, Ethel, how glad Richard will be!”

“Yes; it is all Richard’s doing. So much more good, and wise, and
humble, as he is. No wonder his teaching--” and Ethel sat down and cried
again.

Mary pondered. “It makes me very glad,” she said; “and yet I don’t know
why one cries. Ethel, do you think”--she came near, and whispered--“that
Una has met dear mamma there?”

Ethel kissed her. It was almost the first time Mary had spoken of her
mother; and she answered, “Dear Mary, we cannot tell--we may think. It
is all one communion, you know.”

Mary was silent, and, next time she spoke, it was to hope that Ethel
would tell the Cocksmoor children about Una.

Ethel was obliged to dress, and go downstairs to tea. Her father seemed
to have been watching for her, with his study door open, for he came
to meet her, took her hand, and said, in a low voice, “My dear child, I
wish you joy. This will be a pleasant message, to bid poor Ritchie good
speed for his ordination, will it not?”

“That it will, papa--”

“Why, Ethel, have you been crying over it all this time?” said he,
struck by the sadness of her voice.

“Many other things, papa. I am so unworthy--but it was not our
doing--but the grace--”

“No, but thankful you may be, to have been the means of awakening the
grace!”

Ethel’s lips trembled. “And oh, papa! coming to-day, when I have been
behaving so ill to you, and Miss Bracy, and Flora, and all.

“Have you? I did not know you had behaved ill to me.”

“About Miss Bracy--I thought wrong things, if I did not say them. To
her, I believe, I said what was true, though it was harsh of me to say
it, and--”

“What? about pride and temper? It was true, and I hope it will do her
good. Cure a piping turkey with a peppercorn sometimes. I have spoken to
her, and told her to pluck up a little spirit; not fancy affronts, and
not to pester you with them. Poor child! you have been sadly victimised
to-day and yesterday. No wonder you were bored past patience, with that
absurd rabble of women!”

“It was all my own selfish, distrustful temper, wanting to have
Cocksmoor taken care of in my own way, and angry at being interfered
with. I see it now--and here this poor girl, that I thought thrown
away--”

“Ay, Ethel, you will often see the like. The main object may fail or
fall short, but the earnest painstaking will always be blessed some way
or other, and where we thought it most wasted, some fresh green shoot
will spring up, to show it is not we that give the increase. I suppose
you will write to Richard with this?”

“That I shall.”

“Then you may send this with it. Tell him my arm is tired and stiff
to-day, or I would have said more. He must answer the clergyman’s
letter.”

Dr. May gave Ethel his sheet not folded. His written words were now so
few as to be cherished amongst his children.


“Dear Richard,--

“May all your ministerial works be as blessed as this, your first labour
of love. I give you hearty joy of this strengthening blessing. Mine goes
with it--‘Only be strong and of a good courage!’

                    “Your affectionate father,
                             R. May.

“PS.--Margaret does not gain ground this summer; you must soon come home
and cheer her.”




CHAPTER V.



     As late, engaged by fancy’s dream,
     I lay beside a rapid stream,
     I saw my first come gliding by,
     Its airy form soon caught my eye;
     Its texture frail, and colour various,
     Like human hopes, and life precarious.
     Sudden, my second caught my ear,
     And filled my soul with constant fear;
     I quickly rose, and home I ran,
     My whole was hissing in the pan.--Riddle.


Flora revised the letter to the principal, and the Ladies’ Committee
approved, after having proposed seven amendments, all of which Flora
caused to topple over by their own weakness.

After interval sufficient to render the nine ladies very anxious, the
principal wrote from Scotland, where he was spending the Long Vacation,
and informed them that their request should be laid before the next
college meeting.

After the committee had sat upon this letter, the two sisters walked
home in much greater harmony than after the former meeting. Etheldred
had recovered her candour, and was willing to own that it was not art,
but good sense, that gave her sister so much ascendancy. She began to be
hopeful, and to declare that Flora might yet do something even with the
ladies. Flora was gratified by the approval that no one in the house
could help valuing; “Positively,” said Flora, “I believe I may in time.
You see there are different ways of acting, as an authority, or as an
equal.”

“The authority can move from without, the equal must from within,” said
Ethel.

“Just so. We must circumvent their prejudices, instead of trying to beat
them down.”

“If you only could have the proper catechising restored!”

“Wait; you will see. Let me feel my ground.”

“Or if we could only abdicate into the hands of the rightful power!”

“The rightful power would not be much obliged to you.”

“That is the worst of it,” said Ethel. “It is sad to hear the sick
people say that Dr. May is more to them than any parson; it shows that
they have so entirely lost the notion of what their clergyman should
be.”

“Dr. May is the man most looked up to in this town,” said Flora, “and
that gives weight to us in the committee, but it is all in the using.”

“Yes,” said Ethel hesitatingly.

“You see, we have the prestige of better birth, and better education,
as well as of having the chief property in the town, and of being the
largest subscribers, added to his personal character,” said Flora;
“so that everything conspires to render us leaders, and our age alone
prevented us from assuming our post sooner.”

They were at home by this time, and entering the hall, perceived that
the whole party were in the lawn. The consolation of the children
for the departure of Hector and Tom, was a bowl of soap-suds and some
tobacco pipes, and they had collected the house to admire and assist,
even Margaret’s couch being drawn close to the window.

Bubbles is one of the most fascinating of sports. There is the soft
foamy mass, like driven snow, or like whipped cream. Blanche bends down
to blow “a honeycomb,” holding the bowl of the pipe in the water; at her
gurgling blasts there slowly heaves upwards the pile of larger, clearer
bubbles, each reflecting the whole scene, and sparkling with rainbow
tints, until Aubrey ruthlessly dashes all into fragments with his hand,
and Mary pronounces it stiff enough, and presents a pipe to little
Daisy, who, drawing the liquid into her mouth, throws it away with a
grimace, and declares that she does not like bubbles! But Aubrey stands
with swelled cheeks, gravely puffing at the sealing-waxed extremity.
Out pours a confused assemblage of froth, but the glassy globe slowly
expands the little branching veins, flowing down on either side, bearing
an enlarging miniature of the sky, the clouds, the tulip-tree. Aubrey
pauses to exclaim! but where is it? Try again! A proud bubble, as Mary
calls it, a peacock, in blended pink and green, is this transparent
sphere, reflecting and embellishing house, wall, and shrubs! It is
too beautiful! It is gone! Mary undertakes to give a lesson, and
blows deliberately without the slightest result. Again! She waves
her disengaged hand in silent exultation as the airy balls detach
themselves, and float off on the summer breeze, with a tardy, graceful,
uncertain motion. Daisy rushes after them, catches at them, and looks
at her empty fingers with a puzzled “All gone!” as plainly expressed by
Toby, who snaps at them, and shakes his head with offended dignity at
the shock of his meeting teeth, while the kitten frisks after them,
striking at them with her paw, amazed at meeting vacancy.

Even the grave Norman is drawn in. He agrees with Mary that bubbles
used to fly over the wall, and that one once went into Mrs. Richardson’s
garret window, when her housemaid tried to catch it with a pair of
tongs, and then ran downstairs screaming that there was a ghost in her
room; but that was in Harry’s time, the heroic age of the May nursery.

He accepts a pipe, and his greater height raises it into a favourable
current of air--the glistening balloon sails off. It flies, it soars;
no, it is coming down! The children shout at it, as if to drive it up,
but it wilfully descends--they rush beneath, they try to waft it on high
with their breath--there is a collision between Mary and Blanche--Aubrey
perceives a taste of soapy water--the bubble is no more--it is vanished
in his open mouth!

Papa himself has taken a pipe, and the little ones are mounted on
chairs, to be on a level with their tall elders. A painted globe is
swimming along, hesitating at first, but the dancing motion is tending
upwards, the rainbow tints glisten in the sunlight--all rush to assist
it; if breath of the lips can uphold it, it should rise, indeed!
Up! above the wall! over Mrs. Richardson’s elm, over the topmost
branch--hurrah! out of sight! Margaret adds her voice to the
acclamations. Beat that if you can, Mary! That doubtful wind keeps yours
suspended in a graceful minuet; its pace is accelerated--but earthwards!
it has committed self-destruction by running foul of a rose-bush. A
general blank!

“You here, Ethel?” said Norman, as the elders laughed at each other’s
baffled faces.

“I am more surprised to find you here,” she answered.

“Excitement!” said Norman, smiling; “one cause is as good as another for
it.”

“Very pretty sport,” said Dr. May. “You should write a poem on it,
Norman.”

“It is an exhausted subject,” said Norman; “bubble and trouble are too
obvious a rhyme.”

“Ha! there it goes! It will be over the house! That’s right!” Every one
joined in the outcry.

“Whose is it?”

“Blanche’s--”

“Hurrah for Blanche! Well done, white Mayflower, there!” said the
doctor, “that is what I meant. See the applause gained by a proud bubble
that flies! Don’t we all bow down to it, and waft it up with the whole
force of our lungs, air as it is; and when it fairly goes out of sight,
is there any exhilaration or applause that surpasses ours?”

“The whole world being bent on making painted bubbles fly over the
house,” said Norman, far more thoughtfully than his father. “It is a
fair pattern of life and fame.”

“I was thinking,” continued Dr. May, “what was the most unalloyed
exultation I remember.”

“Harry’s, when you were made dux,” whispered Ethel to her brother.

“Not mine,” said Norman briefly.

“I believe,” said Dr. May, “I never knew such glorification as when
Aubrey Spencer climbed the poor old market-cross. We all felt ourselves
made illustrious for ever in his person.”

“Nay, papa, when you got that gold medal must have been the grandest
time?” said Blanche, who had been listening.

Dr. May laughed, and patted her. “I, Blanche? Why, I was excessively
amazed, that is all, not in Norman’s way, but I had been doing next to
nothing to the very last, then fell into an agony, and worked like a
horse, thinking myself sure of failure, and that my mother and my uncle
would break their hearts.”

“But when you heard that you had it?” persisted Blanche.

“Why, then I found I must be a much cleverer fellow than I thought for!”
 said he, laughing; “but I was ashamed of myself, and of the authorities,
for choosing such an idle dog, and vexed that other plodding lads missed
it, who deserved it more than I.”

“Of course,” said Norman, in a low voice, “that is what one always
feels. I had rather blow soap-bubbles!”

“Where was Dr. Spencer?” asked Ethel.

“Not competing. He had been ready a year before, and had gained it, or
I should have had no chance. Poor Spencer! what would I not give to see
him, or hear of him?”

“The last was--how long ago?” said Ethel.

“Six years, when he was setting off, to return from Poonshedagore,” said
Dr. May, sighing. “I gave him up; his health was broken, and there was
no one to look after him. He was the sort of man to have a nameless
grave, and a name too blessed for fame.”

Ethel would have asked further of her father’s dear old friend, but
there were sounds, denoting an arrival, and Margaret beckoned to them
as Miss Rivers and her brother were ushered into the drawing-room; and
Blanche instantly fled away, with her basin, to hide herself in the
schoolroom.

Meta skipped out, and soon was established on the grass, an attraction
to all the live creatures, as it seemed; for the kitten came, and was
caressed till her own graceful Nipen was ready to fight with the uncouth
Toby for the possession of a resting-place on the skirt of her habit,
while Daisy nestled up to her, as claiming a privilege, and Aubrey kept
guard over the dogs.

Meta inquired after a huge doll--Dr. Hoxton’s gift to Daisy, at the
bazaar.

“She is in Margaret’s wardrobe,” was the answer, “because Aubrey tied
her hands behind her, and was going to offer her up on the nursery
grate.”

“Oh, Aubrey, that was too cruel!”

“No,” returned Aubrey; “she was Iphigenia, going to be sacrificed.”

“Mary unconsciously acted Diana,” said Ethel, “and bore the victim
away.”

“Pray, was Daisy a willing Clytemnestra?” asked Meta.

“Oh, yes, she liked it,” said Aubrey, while Meta looked discomfited.

“I never could get proper respect paid to dolls,” said Margaret; “we
deal too much in their natural enemies.”

“Yes,” said Ethel, “my only doll was like a heraldic lion, couped in all
her parts.”

“Harry and Tom once made a general execution,” said Flora; “there was a
doll hanging to every baluster--the number made up with rag.”

George Rivers burst out laughing--his first sign of life; and Meta
looked as if she had heard of so many murders.

“I can’t help feeling for a doll!” she said. “They used to be like
sisters to me. I feel as if they were wasted on children, that see no
character in them, and only call them Dolly.”

“I agree with you,” said Margaret. “If there had been no live dolls,
Richard and I should have reared our doll family as judiciously as
tenderly. There are treasures of carpentry still extant, that he made
for them.”

“Oh, I am so glad!” cried Meta, as if she had found another point of
union. “If I were to confess--there is a dear old Rose in the secret
recesses of my wardrobe. I could as soon throw away my sister--”

“Ha!” cried her brother, laying hold of the child, “here, little Daisy,
will you give your doll to Meta?”

“My name is Gertrude Margaret May,” said the little round mouth. The
fat arm was drawn back, with all a baby’s dignity, and the rosy face was
hidden in Dr. May’s breast, at the sound of George Rivers’s broad laugh
and “Well done, little one!”

Dr. May put his arm round her, turned aside from him, and began talking
to Meta about Mr. Rivers.

Flora and Norman made conversation for the brother; and he presently
asked Norman to go out shooting with him, but looked so amazed on
hearing that Norman was no sportsman that Flora tried to save the family
credit by mentioning Hector’s love of a gun, which caused their guest to
make a general tender of sporting privileges; “Though,” added he, with a
drawl, “shooting is rather a nuisance, especially alone.”

Meta told Ethel, a little apart, that he was so tired of going out
alone, that he had brought her here, in search of a companion.

“He comes in at eleven o’clock, poor fellow, quite tired with solitude,”
 said she, “and comes to me to be entertained.”

“Indeed,” exclaimed Ethel. “What can you do?”

“What I can,” said Meta, laughing. “Whatever is not ‘a horrid nuisance’
to him.”

“It would be a horrid nuisance to me,” said Ethel bluntly, “if my
brothers wanted me to amuse them all the morning.”

“Your brothers, oh!” said Meta, as if that were very different;
“besides, you have so much more to do. I am only too glad and grateful
when George will come to me at all. You see I have always been too young
to be his companion, or find out what suited him, and now he is so very
kind and good-natured to me.”

“But what becomes of your business?”

“I get time, one way or another. There is the evening, very often, when
I have sung both him and papa to sleep. I had two hours, all to myself,
yesterday night,” said Meta, with a look of congratulation, “and I had a
famous reading of Thirlwall’s ‘Greece.’”

“I should think that such evenings were as bad as the mornings.”

“Come, Ethel, don’t make me naughty. Large families, like yours, may
have merry, sociable evenings; but, I do assure you, ours are very
pleasant. We are so pleased to have George at home; and we really
hope that he is taking a fancy to the dear Grange. You can’t think how
delighted papa is to have him content to stay quietly with us so long. I
must call him to go back now, though, or papa will be kept waiting.”

When Ethel had watched the tall, ponderous brother help the bright fairy
sister to fly airily into her saddle, and her sparkling glance, and wave
of the hand, as she cantered off, contrasting with his slow bend,
and immobility of feature, she could not help saying that Meta’s life
certainly was not too charming, with her fanciful, valetudinarian
father, and that stupid, idealess brother.

“He is very amiable and good-natured,” interposed Norman.

“Ha! Norman, you are quite won by his invitation to shoot! How he
despised you for refusing--as much as you despised him.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Norman. “You fancy no sensible man likes
shooting, but you are all wrong. Some of our best men are capital
sportsmen. Why, there is Ogilvie--you know what he is. When I bring him
down here, you will see that there is no sort of sport that he is not
keen after.”

“This poor fellow will never be keen after anything,” said Dr. May. “I
pity him! Existence seems hard work to him!”

“We shall have baby calling him ‘the detestable’ next,” said Ethel.
“What a famous set down she gave him.”

“She is a thorough lady, and allows no liberties,” said Dr. May.

“Ah!” said Margaret, “it is a proof of what I want to impression you. We
really must leave off calling her Daisy when strangers are there.”

“It is so much nicer,” pleaded Mary.

“The very reason,” said Margaret, “fondling names should be kept for our
innermost selves, not spread abroad, and made common. I remember when I
used to be called Peg-top--and Flora, Flossy--we were never allowed to
use the names when any visitor was near; and we were asked if we could
not be as fond of each other by our proper names. I think it was felt
that there was a want of reserve in publishing our pet words to other
people.”

“Quite true,” said Dr. May; “baby-names never ought to go beyond home.
It is the fashion to use them now; and, besides the folly, it seems, to
me, an absolute injury to a girl, to let her grow up, with a nickname
attached to her.”

“Ay!” chimed in Norman, “I hear men talking of Henny, and Loo, and the
like; and you can’t think how glad I have been that my sisters could not
be known by any absurd word!”

“It is a case where self-respect would make others behave properly,”
 said Flora.

“True,” said Dr. May; “but if girls won’t keep up their own dignity,
their friends’ duty is to do it for them. The mischief is in the
intimate friends, who blazon the words to every one.”

“And then they call one formal, for trying to protect the right
name,” said Flora. “It is, one-half of it, silliness, and, the other,
affectation of intimacy.”

“Now, I know,” said Mary, “why you are so careful to call Meta Miss
Rivers, to all the people here.”

“I should hope so!” cried Norman indignantly.

“Why, yes, Mary,” said Margaret, “I should hope lady-like feelings would
prevent you from calling her Meta before--”

“The Andersons!” cried Ethel, laughing. “Margaret was just going to
say it. We only want Harry, to exact the forfeit! Poor dear little
humming-bird! It gives one an oppression on the chest, to think of her
having that great do-nothing brother on her hands all day.”

“Thank you,” said Norman, “I shall know where I am not to look when I
want a sister.”

“Ay,” said Ethel, “when you come yawning to me to find amusement for
you, you will see what I shall do!”

“Stand over me with a stick while I print A B C for Cocksmoor, I
suppose,” said Norman.

“Well! why not? People are much better doing something than nothing.”

“What, you won’t even let me blow bubbles!” said Norman.

“That is too intellectual, as papa makes it,” said Ethel. “By the bye,
Norman,” she added, as she had now walked with him a little apart, “it
always was a bubble of mine that you should try for the Newdigate prize.
Ha!” as the colour rushed into his cheeks, “you really have begun!”

“I could not help it, when I heard the subject given out for next year.
Our old friend, Decius Mus.”

“Have you finished?”

“By no means, but it brought a world of notions into my head, such as I
could not but set down. Now, Ethel, do oblige me, do write another, as
we used in old times.”

“I had better not,” said Ethel, standing thoughtful. “If I throw
myself into it, I shall hate everything else, and my wits will be
woolgathering. I have neither time nor poetry enough.”

“You used to write English verse.”

“I was cured of it.”

“How?”

“I wanted money for Cocksmoor, and after persuading papa, I got leave
to send a ballad about a little girl and a white rose to that school
magazine. I don’t think papa liked it, but there were some verses that
touched him, and one had seen worse. It was actually inserted, and I was
in high feather, till, oh, Norman! imagine Richard getting hold of this
unlucky thing, without a notion where it came from! Margaret put it
before him, to see what he would say to it.”

“I am afraid it was not like a young lady’s anonymous composition in a
story.”

“By no means. Imagine Ritchie picking my poor metaphors to pieces, and
weighing every sentimental line! And all in his dear old simplicity,
because he wanted to understand it, seeing that Margaret liked it. He
had not the least intention of hurting my feelings, but never was I
so annihilated! I thought he was doing it on purpose, till I saw how
distressed he was when he found it out; and worse than all was, his
saying at the end that he supposed it was very fine, but he could not
understand it.”

“Let me see it.”

“Some time or other; but let me see Decius.”

“Did you give up verses because Richard could not understand them?”

“No; because I had other fish to fry. And I have not given them up
altogether. I do scrabble down things that tease me by running in my
head, when I want to clear my brains, and know what I mean; but I
can’t do it without sitting up at night, and that stupefies me before
breakfast. And as to making bubbles of them, Ritchie has cured me of
that!”

“It is a pity!” said Norman.

“Nonsense, let me see Decius. I know he is splendid.”

“I wish you would have tried, for all my best ideas are stolen from
you.”

Ethel prevailed by following her brother to his room, and perching
herself on the window-sill, while he read his performance from many
slips of paper. The visions of those boyish days had not been forgotten,
the Vesuvius scenery was much as Ethel had once described it, but with
far more force and beauty; there was Decius’s impassioned address to the
beauteous land he was about to leave, and the remembrances of his Roman
hearth, his farm, his children, whom he quitted for the pale shadows of
an uncertain Elysium. There was a great hiatus in the middle, and Norman
had many more authorities to consult, but the summing-up was nearly
complete, and Ethel thought the last lines grand, as they spoke of the
noble consul’s name living for evermore, added to the examples that
nerve ardent souls to devote life, and all that is precious, to the call
of duty. Fame is not their object. She may crown their pale brows, but
for the good of others, not their own, a beacon light to the world. Self
is no object of theirs, and it is the casting self behind that wins--not
always the visible earthly strife, but the combat between good and evil.
They are the true victors, and, whether chronicled or forgotten, true
glory rests on their heads, the sole true glory that man can attain,
namely, the reflected beams that crown them as shadowy types of Him whom
Decius knew not--the Prince who gave Himself for His people, and thus
rendered death, for Truth’s sake, the highest boon to mortal man.

“Norman, you must finish it! When will it be given in?”

“Next spring, if at all, but keep the secret, Ethel. I cannot have my
father’s hopes raised.”

“I’ll tell you of a motto,” said Ethel. “Do you remember Mrs. Hemans’
mention of a saying of Sir Walter Scott--‘Never let me hear that brave
blood has been shed in vain. It sends a roaring voice down through all
time.’”

“If,” said Norman, rather ashamed of the enthusiasm which, almost
approaching to the so-called “funny state” of his younger days, had
trembled in his voice, and kindled his eye--“if you won’t let me put
‘nascitur ridiculus mus.’”

“Too obvious,” said Ethel. “Depend upon it, every undergraduate has
thought of it already.”

Ethel was always very happy over Norman’s secrets, and went about
smiling over Decius, and comparing her brother with such a one as poor
Meta was afflicted with; wasting some superfluous pity and contempt on
the weary weight that was inflicted on the Grange.

“What do you think of me?” said Margaret, one afternoon. “I have had Mr.
George Rivers here for two hours.”

“Alone! what could bring him here?”

“I told him that every one was out, but he chose to sit down, and seemed
to be waiting.”

“How could you get on?”

“Oh! we asked a few questions, and brought out remarks, with great
difficulty, at long intervals. He asked me if lying here was not a great
nuisance, and, at last, he grew tired of twisting his moustache, and
went away.”

“I trust it was a call to take leave.”

“No, he thinks he shall sell out, for the army is a great nuisance.”

“You seem to have got into his confidence.”

“Yes, he said he wanted to settle down, but living with one’s father was
such a nuisance.”

“By the bye,” cried Ethel, laughing, “Margaret, it strikes me that this
is a Dumbiedikes’ courtship!”

“Of yourself?” said Margaret slyly.

“No, of Flora. You know, she has often met him at the Grange and
other places, and she does contrive to amuse him, and make him almost
animated. I should not think he found her a great nuisance.”

“Poor man! I am sorry for him!” said Margaret.

“Oh! rejection will be very good for him, and give him something to
think of.”

“Flora will never let it come to that,” said Margaret. “But not one word
about it, Ethel!”

Margaret and Etheldred kept their eyes open, and sometimes imagined,
sometimes laughed at themselves for their speculations, and so October
began; and Ethel laughed, as she questioned whether the Grange would
feel the Hussar’s return to his quarters, as much as home would the
departure of their scholar for Balliol.




CHAPTER VI.



     So, Lady Flora, take my lay,
       And if you find a meaning there,
     Oh! whisper to your glass, and say,
       What wonder, if he thinks me fair.--Tennyson.


Flora and Norman were dining with one of their county acquaintance, and
Dr. May had undertaken to admit them on their return. The fire shone red
and bright, as it sank calmly away, and the timepiece and clock on the
stairs had begun their nightly duet of ticking, the crickets chirped in
the kitchen, and the doctor sat alone. His book lay with unturned pages,
as he sat musing, with eyes fixed on the fire, living over again his own
life, the easy bright days of his youth, when, without much pains on his
own part, the tendencies of his generous affectionate disposition,
and the influences of a warm friendship, and an early attachment, had
guarded him from evil--then the period when he had been perfectly happy,
and the sobering power of his position had been gradually working
on him; but though always religious and highly principled, the very
goodness of his natural character preventing him from perceiving the
need of self-control, until the shock that changed the whole tenor
of his life, and left him, for the first time, sensible of his own
responsibility, but with inveterate habits of heedlessness and hastiness
that love alone gave him force to combat. He was now a far gentler man.
His younger children had never seen, his elder had long since forgotten,
his occasional bursts of temper, but he suffered keenly from their
effects, especially as regarded some of his children. Though Richard’s
timidity had been overcome, and Tom’s more serious failures had been
remedied, he was not without anxiety, and had a strange unsatisfactory
feeling as regarded Flora. He could not feel that he fathomed her! She
reminded him of his old Scottish father-in-law, Professor Mackenzie,
whom he had never understood, nor, if the truth were known, liked. Her
dealings with the Ladies’ Committee were so like her grandfather’s canny
ways in a public meeting, that he laughed over them--but they were
not congenial to him. Flora was a most valuable person; all that she
undertook prospered, and he depended entirely on her for household
affairs, and for the care of Margaret; but, highly as he esteemed her,
he was a little afraid of her cool prudence; she never seemed to be
in any need of him, nor to place any confidence in him, and seemed
altogether so much older and wiser than he could feel himself--pretty
girl as she was--and very pretty were her fine blue eyes and clear skin,
set off by her dark brown hair. There arose the vision of eyes as blue,
skin as clear, but of light blonde locks, and shorter, rounder, more
dove-like form, open, simple, loving face, and serene expression, that
had gone straight to his heart, when he first saw Maggie Mackenzie
making tea.

He heard the wheels, and went out to unbolt the door. Those were a pair
for a father to be proud of--Norman, of fine stature and noble looks,
with his high brow, clear thoughtful eye, and grave intellectual eagle
face, lighting into animation with his rare, sweet smile; and Flora, so
tall and graceful, and in her white dress, picturesquely half concealed
by her mantle, with flowers in her hair, and a deepened colour in her
cheek, was a fair vision, as she came in from the darkness.

“Well! was it a pleasant party?”

Norman related the circumstances, while his sister remained silently
leaning against the mantel-piece, looking into the fire, until he took
up his candle, and bade them good-night. Dr. May was about to do the
same, when she held out her hand. “One moment, if you please, dear
papa,” she said; “I think you ought to know it.”

“What, my dear?”

“Mr. George Rivers, papa--”

“Ha!” said Dr. May, beginning to smile. “So that is what he is at, is
it? But what an opportunity to take.”

“It was in the conservatory,” said Flora, a little hurt, as her father
discovered by her tone. “The music was going on, and I don’t know that
there could have been--”

“A better opportunity, eh?” said Dr. May, laughing; “well, I should have
thought it awkward; was he very much discomposed?”

“I thought,” said Flora, looking down and hesitating, “that he had
better come to you.”

“Indeed! so you shifted the ungracious office to me. I am very glad to
spare you, my dear; but it was hard on him to raise his hopes.”

“I thought,” faltered Flora, “that you could not disapprove--”

“Flora--” and he paused, completely confounded, while his daughter was
no less surprised at the manner in which her news was received. Each
waited for the other to speak, and Flora turned away, resting her head
against the mantel-piece.

“Surely,” said he, laying his hand on her shoulder, “you do not mean
that you like this man?”

“I did not think that you would be against it,” said Flora, in a choked
voice, her face still averted.

“Heaven knows, I would not be against anything for your happiness, my
dear,” he answered; “but have you considered what it would be to spend
your life with a man that has not three ideas! not a resource for
occupying himself--a regular prey to ennui--one whom you could never
respect!” He had grown more and more vehement, and Flora put her
handkerchief to her eyes, for tears of actual disappointment were
flowing.

“Come, come,” he said, touched, but turning it off by a smile, “we will
not talk of it any more to-night. It is your first offer, and you are
flattered, but we know

             “‘Colours seen by candle-light,
              Will not bear the light of day.’

“There, good-night, Flora, my dear--we will have a-tete-a-tete in the
study before breakfast, when you have had time to look into your own
mind.”

He kissed her affectionately, and went upstairs with her, stopping at
her door to give her another embrace, and to say “Bless you, my dear
child, and help you to come to a right decision--”

Flora was disappointed. She had been too highly pleased at her conquest
to make any clear estimation of the prize, individually considered. Her
vanity magnified her achievement, and she had come home in a flutter of
pleasure, at having had such a position in society offered to her, and
expecting that her whole family would share her triumph. Gratified
by George Rivers’s admiration, she regarded him with favour and
complacency; and her habit of considering herself as the most sensible
person in her sphere made her so regard his appreciation of her, that
she was blinded to his inferiority. It must be allowed that he was less
dull with her than with most others.

And, in the midst of her glory, when she expected her father to be
delighted and grateful--to be received as a silly girl, ready to accept
any proposal, her lover spoken of with scorn, and the advantages of the
match utterly passed over, was almost beyond endurance. A physician,
with eleven children dependent on his practice, to despise an offer
from the heir of such a fortune! But that was his customary romance!
She forgave him, when it occurred to her that she was too important, and
valuable, to be easily spared; and a tenderness thrilled through her,
as she looked at the sleeping Margaret’s pale face, and thought of
surrendering her and little Daisy to Ethel’s keeping. And what would
become of the housekeeping? She decided, however, that feelings must not
sway her--out of six sisters some must marry, for the good of the rest.
Blanche and Daisy should come and stay with her, to be formed by the
best society; and, as to poor dear Ethel, Mrs. Rivers would rule the
Ladies’ Committee for her with a high hand, and, perhaps, provide
Cocksmoor with a school at her sole expense. What a useful, admirable
woman she would be! The doctor would be the person to come to his senses
in the morning, when he remembered Abbotstoke, Mr. Rivers, and Meta.

So Flora met her father, the next morning, with all her ordinary
composure, in which he could not rival her, after his sleepless, anxious
night. His looks of affectionate solicitude disconcerted what she had
intended to say, and she waited, with downcast eyes, for him to begin.

“Well, Flora,” he said at last, “have you thought?”

“Do you know any cause against it?” said Flora, still looking down.

“I know almost nothing of him. I have never heard anything of his
character or conduct. Those would be a subject of inquiry, if you wish
to carry this on--”

“I see you are averse,” said Flora. “I would do nothing against your
wishes--”

“My wishes have nothing to do with it,” said Dr. May. “The point
is--that I must do right, as far as I can, as well as try to secure your
happiness; and I want to be sure that you know what you are about.”

“I know he is not clever,” said Flora; “but there may be many solid
qualities without talent.”

“I am the last person to deny it; but where are these solid qualities? I
cannot see the recommendation!”

“I place myself in your hands,” said Flora, in a submissive tone, which
had the effect of making him lose patience.

“Flora, Flora! why will you talk as if I were sacrificing you to some
dislike or prejudice of my own! Don’t you think I should only rejoice
to have such a prosperous home offered to you, if only the man were
worthy?”

“If you do not think him so, of course there is an end of it,” said
Flora, and her voice showed suppressed emotion.

“It is not what I think, in the absence of proof, but what you think,
Flora. What I want you to do is this--to consider the matter fairly.
Compare him with--I’ll not say with Norman--but with Richard, Alan, Mr.
Wilmot. Do you think you could rely on him--come to him for advice?”
 (Flora never did come to any one for advice.) “Above all--do you think
him likely to be a help, or a hindrance, in doing right?”

“I think you underrate him,” said Flora steadily; “but, of course, if
you dislike it--though, I think, you would change your mind if you knew
him better--”

“Well,” he said, as if to himself, “it is not always the most worthy;”
 then continued, “I have no dislike to him. Perhaps I may find that you
are right. Since your mind is made up, I will do this: first, we must be
assured of his father’s consent, for they may very fairly object, since
what I can give you is a mere nothing to them. Next, I shall find out
what character he bears in his regiment, and watch him well myself; and,
if nothing appear seriously amiss, I will not withhold my consent. But,
Flora, you should still consider whether he shows such principle and
right feeling as you can trust to.”

“Thank you, papa. I know you will do all that is kind.”

“Mind, you must not consider it an engagement, unless all be
satisfactory.”

“I will do as you please.”

Ethel perceived that something was in agitation, but the fact did not
break upon her till she came to Margaret, after the schoolroom reading,
and heard Dr. May declaiming away in the vehement manner that always
relieved him.

“Such a cub!” These were the words that met her ear; and she would have
gone away, but he called her. “Come in, Ethel; Margaret says you guessed
at this affair!”

“At what affair!” exclaimed Ethel. “Oh, it is about Flora. Poor man; has
he done it?”

“Poor! He is not the one to be pitied!” said her father.

“You don’t mean that she likes him?”

“She does though! A fellow with no more brains than a turnip lantern!”

“She does not mean it?” said Ethel.

“Yes, she does! Very submissive, and proper spoken, of course, but bent
on having him; so there is nothing left for me but to consent--provided
Mr. Rivers does, and he should turn out not to have done anything
outrageous; but there’s no hope of that--he has not the energy. What can
possess her? What can she see to admire?”

“He is good-natured,” said Margaret, “and rather good-looking--”

“Flora has more sense. What on earth can be the attraction?”

“I am afraid it is partly the grandeur--” said Ethel. She broke off
short, quite dismayed at the emotion she had excited. Dr. May stepped
towards her, almost as if he could have shaken her.

“Ethel,” he cried, “I won’t have such motives ascribed to your sister!”

Ethel tried to recollect what she had said that was so shocking, for the
idea of Flora’s worldly motives was no novelty to her. They had appeared
in too many instances; and, though frightened at his anger, she stood
still, without unsaying her words.

Margaret began to explain away. “Ethel did not mean, dear papa--”

“No,” said Dr. May, his passionate manner giving way to dejection. “The
truth is, that I have made home so dreary, that my girls are ready to
take the first means of escaping.”

Poor Margaret’s tears sprang forth, and, looking up imploringly, she
exclaimed, “Oh, papa, papa! it was no want of happiness! I could not
help it. You know he had come before--”

Any reproach to her had been entirely remote from his thoughts, and he
was at once on his knee beside her, soothing and caressing, begging
her pardon, and recalling whatever she could thus have interpreted.
Meanwhile, Ethel stood unnoticed and silent, making no outward
protestation, but with lips compressed, as in her heart of hearts she
passed the resolution--that her father should never feel this pain on
her account. Leave him who might, she would never forsake him;
nothing but the will of Heaven should part them. It might be hasty and
venturesome. She knew not what it might cost her; but, where Ethel had
treasured her resolve to work for Cocksmoor, there she also laid up her
secret vow--that no earthly object should be placed between her and her
father.

The ebullition of feeling seemed to have restored Dr. May’s calmness,
and he rose, saying, “I must go to my work; the man is coming here this
afternoon.”

“Where shall you see him?” Margaret asked.

“In my study, I suppose. I fear there is no chance of Flora’s changing
her mind first. Or do you think one of you could talk to her, and get
her fairly to contemplate the real bearings of the matter?” And, with
these words, he left the room.

Margaret and Ethel glanced at each other; and both felt the
impenetrability of Flora’s nature, so smooth, that all thrusts glided
off.

“It will be of no use,” said Ethel; “and, what is more, she will not
have it done.”

“Pray try; a few of your forcible words would set it in a new light.”

“Why! Do you think she will attend to me, when she has not chosen to
heed papa?” said Ethel, with an emphasis of incredulity. “No; whatever
Flora does, is done deliberately, and unalterably.”

“Still, I don’t know whether it is not our duty,” said Margaret.

“More yours than mine,” said Ethel.

Margaret flushed up. “Oh, no, I cannot!” she said, always timid, and
slightly defective in moral courage. She looked so nervous and shaken by
the bare idea of a remonstrance with Flora, that Ethel could not press
her; and, though convinced that her representation would be useless, she
owned that her conscience would rest better after she had spoken. “But
there is Flora, walking in the garden with Norman,” she said. “No doubt
he is doing it.”

So Ethel let it rest, and attended to the children’s lessons, during
which Flora came into the drawing-room, and practised her music, as if
nothing had happened.

Before the morning was over, Ethel contrived to visit Norman in the
dining-room, where he was wont to study, and asked him whether he had
made any impression on Flora.

“What impression do you mean?”

“Why, about this concern,” said Ethel; “this terrible man, that makes
papa so unhappy.”

“Papa unhappy! Why, what does he know against him? I thought the
Riverses were his peculiar pets.”

“The Riverses! As if, because one liked the sparkling stream, one must
like a muddy ditch.”

“What harm do you know of him?” said Norman, with much surprise and
anxiety, as if he feared that he had been doing wrong, in ignorance.

“Harm! Is he not a regular oaf?”

“My dear Ethel, if you wait to marry till you find some one as clever as
yourself, you will wait long enough.”

“I don’t think it right for a woman to marry a man decidedly her
inferior.”

“We have all learned to think much too highly of talent,” said Norman
gravely.

“I don’t care for mere talent--people are generally more sensible
without it; but, one way or other, there ought to be superiority on the
man’s side.”

“Well, who says there is not?”

“My dear Norman! Why, this George Rivers is really below the average!
you cannot deny that! Did you ever meet any one so stupid?”

“Really!” said Norman, considering; and, speaking very innocently, “I
cannot see why you think so. I do not see that he is at all less capable
of sustaining a conversation than Richard.”

Ethel sat down, perfectly breathless with amazement and indignation.

Norman saw that he had shocked her very much. “I do not mean,” he said,
“that we have not much more to say to Richard; all I meant to say was,
merely as to the intellect.”

“I tell you,” said Ethel, “it is not the intellect. Richard! why, you
know how we respect, and look up to him. Dear old Ritchie! with his
goodness, and earnestness, and right judgment--to compare him to that
man! Norman, Norman, I never thought it of you!”

“You do not understand me, Ethel. I only cited Richard, as a person who
proves how little cleverness is needed to insure respect.”

“And, I tell you, that cleverness is not the point.”

“It is the only objection you have put forward.”

“I did wrong,” said Ethel. “It is not the real one. It is earnest
goodness that one honours in Richard. Where do we find it in this man,
who has never done anything but yawn over his self indulgence?”

“Now, Ethel, you are working yourself up into a state of foolish
prejudice. You and papa have taken a dislike to him; and you are
overlooking a great deal of good safe sense and right thinking. I
know his opinions are sound, and his motives right. He has been
undereducated, we all see, and is not very brilliant or talkative; but I
respect Flora for perceiving his solid qualities.”

“Very solid and weighty, indeed!” said Ethel ironically. “I wonder if
she would have seen them in a poor curate.”

“Ethel, you are allowing yourself to be carried, by prejudice, a
great deal too far. Are such imputations to be made, wherever there is
inequality of means? It is very wrong! very unjust!”

“So papa said,” replied Ethel, as she looked sorrowfully down. “He was
very angry with me for saying so. I wish I could help feeling as if that
were the temptation.”

“You ought,” said Norman. “You will be sorry, if you set yourself, and
him, against it.”

“I only wish you to know what I feel; and, I think, Margaret and papa
do,” said Ethel humbly; “and then you will not think us more unjust than
we are. We cannot see anything so agreeable or suitable in this man as
to account for Flora’s liking, and we do not feel convinced of his being
good for much. That makes papa greatly averse to it, though he does not
know any positive reason for refusing; and we cannot feel certain that
she is doing quite right, or for her own happiness.”

“You will be convinced,” said Norman cheerfully. “You will find out the
good that is under the surface when you have seen more of him. I have
had a good deal of talk with him.”

A good deal of talk to him would have been more correct, if Norman
had but been aware of it. He had been at the chief expense of the
conversation with George Rivers, and had taken the sounds of assent,
which he obtained, as evidences of his appreciation of all his views.
Norman had been struggling so long against his old habit of looking down
on Richard, and exalting intellect; and had seen, in his Oxford life, so
many ill-effects of the knowledge that puffeth up, that he had come
to have a certain respect for dullness, per se, of which George Rivers
easily reaped the benefit, when surrounded by the halo, which everything
at Abbotstoke Grange bore in the eyes of Norman.

He was heartily delighted at the proposed connection, and his genuine
satisfaction not only gratified Flora, and restored the equanimity that
had been slightly disturbed by her father, but it also reassured Ethel
and Margaret, who could not help trusting in his judgment, and began to
hope that George might be all he thought him.

Ethel, finding that there were two ways of viewing the gentleman,
doubted whether she ought to express her opinion. It was Flora’s
disposition, and the advantages of the match, that weighed most upon
her, and, in spite of her surmise having been treated as so injurious,
she could not rid herself of the burden.

Dr. May was not so much consoled by Norman’s opinion as Ethel expected.
The corners of his mouth curled up a little with diversion, and though
he tried to express himself glad, and confident in his son’s judgment,
there was the same sort of involuntary lurking misgiving with which he
had accepted Sir Matthew Fleet’s view of Margaret’s case.

There was no danger that Dr. May would not be kind and courteous to the
young man himself. It was not his fault if he were a dunce, and Dr. May
perceived that his love for Flora was real, though clumsily expressed.
He explained that he could not sanction the engagement till he should
be better informed of the young gentleman’s antecedents; this was, as
George expressed it, a great nuisance, but his father agreed that it
was quite right, in some doubt, perhaps, as to how Dr. May might be
satisfied.




CHAPTER VII.



     Ye cumbrous fashions, crowd not on my head.
     Mine be the chip of purest white,
     Swan-like; and, as her feathers light,
     When on the still wave spread;
     And let it wear the graceful dress
     Of unadorned simpleness.
                            Catherine Fanshaw’s ‘Parody on Grey’.


Nothing transpired to the discredit of Lieutenant Rivers. He had spent a
great deal of money, but chiefly for want of something else to do,
and, though he was not a subject for high praise, there was no vice
in him--no more than in an old donkey--as Dr. May declared, in his
concluding paroxysm of despair, on finding that, though there was little
to reconcile him to the engagement, there was no reasonable ground for
thwarting his daughter’s wishes. He argued the matter once more with
her, and, finding her purpose fixed, he notified his consent, and the
rest of the family were admitted to a knowledge of the secret which they
had never suspected.

Etheldred could not help being gratified with the indignation it
excited. With one voice, Mary and Blanche declared that they would
never give up the title of “the detestable,” and would not make him
any presents; certainly not watch-chains! Miss Bracy, rather alarmed,
lectured them just enough to make them worse; and Margaret, overhearing
Blanche instructing Aubrey in her own impertinences, was obliged to call
her to her sofa, and assure her that she was unkind to Flora, and that
she must consider Mr. George Rivers as her brother.

“Never my brother like Harry!” exclaimed Mary indignantly.

“No, indeed; nor like Alan!” exclaimed Blanche. “And I won’t call him
George, I am determined, if it is ever so!”

“It will not matter to him what such little girls call him,” said
Margaret.

Blanche was so annihilated, that the sound of a carriage, and of the
door bell, was a great satisfaction to her.

Meta Rivers came flying into the room, her beautiful eyes dancing,
and her cheeks glowing with pleasure, as, a little timidly, she kissed
Margaret; while Ethel, in a confused way, received Mr. Rivers, in
pain for her own cold, abrupt manner, in contrast with his gentle,
congratulating politeness.

Meta asked, blushing, and with a hesitating voice, for their dear Flora;
Mary offered to call her, but Meta begged to go herself, and thus was
spared the awkwardness that ensued. Ethel was almost vexed with herself,
as ungrateful, when she saw Mr. Rivers so mildly kind, and so delighted,
with the bland courtesy that seemed fully conscious of the favour that
Flora had conferred on his son, and thankful to the Mays for accepting
him.

Margaret answered with more expression of gratification than would have
been sincere in Ethel; but it was a relief when Flora and Meta came in
together, as pretty a contrast as could be seen; the little dark-eyed
fairy, all radiant with joy, clinging to the slender waist of Flora,
whose quiet grace and maidenly dignity were never more conspicuous than
as, with a soft red mantling in her fair cheek, her eyes cast down, but
with a simple, unaffected warmth of confidence and gratitude, she came
forward to receive Mr. Rivers’s caressing affectionate greeting.

Stiffness was over when she came in, and Dr. May, who presently made his
appearance, soon was much more at his ease than could have been hoped,
after his previous declarations that he should never be able to be
moderately civil about it to Mr. Rivers. People of ready sympathy, such
as Dr. May and Margaret, have a great deal of difficulty with their
sincerity spared them, by being carried along with the feelings of
others. Ethel could not feel the same, and was bent on avoiding any
expression of opinion; she hoped that Meta’s ecstasies would all be
bestowed upon her future sister-in-law; but Meta was eager for an
interview with Ethel herself, and, as usual, gained her point.

“Now then, you are property of my own!” she cried. “May I not take you
all for sisters?”

Ethel had not thought of this as a convenience of the connection, and
she let Meta kiss her, and owned that it was very nice.

“Ethel,” said Meta, “I see, and I wanted to talk to you. You don’t think
poor George good enough for Flora.”

“I never meant to show it,” said Ethel.

“You need not mind,” said Meta, smiling. “I was very much surprised
myself, and thought it all a mistake. But I am so very glad, for I know
it will make such a difference to him, poor fellow. I should like to
tell you all about him, for no one else can very well, and you will like
him better, perhaps. You know my grandfather made his own fortune, and
you would think some of our relations very queer. My Aunt Dorothy once
told me all about it--papa was made to marry the partner’s daughter, and
I fancy she could not have been much of a lady. I don’t think he could
have been very happy with her, but she soon died, and left him with this
one son, whom those odd old aunts brought up their own way. By and by,
you know, papa came to be in quite another line of society, but when he
married again, poor George had been so spoiled by these aunts, and was
so big, and old, that my mother did not know what to make of him.”

“A great lubberly boy,” Ethel said, rather repenting the next moment.

“He is thirteen years older than I am,” said Meta, “and you see it has
been hard on him altogether; he had not the education that papa would
have given him if he had been born later: and he can’t remember his
mother, and has always been at a loss when with clever people. I never
understood it till within the last two or three years, nor knew
how trying it must be to see such a little chit as me made so much
of--almost thrusting him aside. But you cannot think what a warm-hearted
good fellow he is--he has never been otherwise than so very kind to
me, and he was so very fond of his old aunt. Hitherto, he has had such
disadvantages, and no real, sensible woman has taken him in hand; he
does not care for papa’s tastes, and I am so much younger, that I never
could get on with him at all, till this time; but I do know that he has
a real good temper, and all sorts of good qualities, and that he only
needs to be led right, to go right. Oh! Flora may make anything of him,
and we are so thankful to her for having found it out!”

“Thank you for telling me,” said Ethel. “It is much more satisfactory to
have no shamming.”

Meta laughed, for Ethel’s sham was not too successful; she continued,
“Dear Dr. May, I thought he would think his beautiful Flora not exactly
matched--but tell him, Ethel, for if he once is sorry for poor George,
he will like him. And it will really be the making of George, to be
thrown with him and your brothers. Oh! we are so glad! But I won’t tease
you to be so.”

“I can like it better now,” said Ethel. “You know Norman thinks very
highly of your brother, and declares that it will all come out by and
by.”

Meta clapped her hands, and said that she should tell her father, and
Ethel parted with her, liking her, at least, better than ever. There
was a comical scene between her and the doctor, trying to define what
relations they should become to each other, which Ethel thought did a
good deal to mollify her father.

The history of George’s life did more; he took to pitying him, and pity
was, indeed, akin to love in the good doctor’s mind. In fact, George
was a man who could be liked, when once regarded as a belonging--a
necessity, not a choice; for it was quite true that there was no harm in
him, and a great deal of good nature. His constant kindness, and evident
liking for Margaret, stood him in good stead; he made her a sort of
confidante, bestowing on her his immeasurable appreciation of Flora’s
perfections, and telling her how well he was getting on with “the old
gentleman”--a name under which she failed to recognise her father.

As to Tom, he wrote his congratulations to Ethel, that she might make
a wedding present of her Etruscan vases, the Cupids on which must have
been put there by anticipation. Richard heard none of the doubts,
and gave kind, warm congratulations, promising to return home for
the wedding; and Mary and Blanche no sooner heard a whisper about
bride’s-maids than all their opposition faded away, in a manner that
quite scandalised Ethel, while it set Margaret on reminiscences of
her having been a six-year-old bride’s-maid to Flora’s godmother, Mrs.
Arnott.

As to the gossip in the town, Ethel quite dreaded the sight of every one
without Flora to protect her, and certainly, Flora’s unaffected, quiet
manner was perfection, and kept off all too forward congratulations,
while it gratified those whom she was willing to encourage.

There was no reason for waiting, and Mr. Rivers was as impatient as his
son, so an understanding arose that the wedding, should take place near
the end of the Christmas holidays.

Flora showed herself sensible and considerate. Always open-handed, her
father was inclined to do everything liberally, and laid no restrictions
on her preparations, but she had too much discretion to be profuse, and
had a real regard for the welfare of the rest. She laughed with Ethel at
the anticipations of the Stoneborough ladies that she must be going
to London, and, at the requests, as a great favour, that they might be
allowed the sight of her trousseau. Her wedding-dress, white silk,
with a white cashmere mantle, was, indeed, ordered from Meta’s London
dressmaker; but, for the rest, she contented herself with an expedition
to Whitford, accompanied by Miss Bracy and her two enchanted pupils,
and there laid in a stock of purchases, unpretending and in good
taste, aiming only at what could be well done, and not attempting the
decorative wardrobe of a great lady. Ethel was highly amused when
the Misses Anderson came for their inspection, to see their concealed
disappointment at finding no under garments trimmed with Brussels lace,
nor pocket-handkerchiefs all open-work, except a centre of the size of
a crown-piece, and the only thing remarkable was Margaret’s beautiful
marking in embroidery. There was some compensation in the costly wedding
presents--Flora had reaped a whole harvest from friends of her own,
grateful patients of her father, and the whole Rivers and Langdale
connection; but, in spite of the brilliant uselessness of most of these,
the young ladies considered themselves ill-used, thought Dr. May never
would have been shabby, and were of opinion that when Miss Ward had
married her father’s surgical pupil, her outfit had been a far more
edifying spectacle.

The same moderation influenced Flora’s other arrangements. Dr. May was
resigned to whatever might be thought most proper, stipulating only
that he should not have to make a speech; but Flora felt that, in their
house, a grand breakfast would be an unsuccessful and melancholy affair.
If the bride had been any one else, she could have enjoyed making all
go off well, but, under present circumstances, it would be great pain to
her father and Margaret, a misery to Ethel, and something she dared not
think of to the guests. She had no difficulty in having it dispensed
with. George was glad to avoid “a great nuisance.” Mr. Rivers feared the
fatigue, and, with his daughter, admired Flora for her amiability, and,
as to the home party, no words could express their gratitude to her for
letting them off. Mary and Blanche did, indeed, look rather blank, but
Blanche was consoled, by settling with Hector the splendours in store
for Alan and Margaret, and Mary cared the less, as there would be no
Harry to enjoy the fun.

The bride-maiden’s glory was theirs by right, though Ethel was an
unsatisfactory chief for such as desired splendour. She protested
against anything incongruous with January, or that could not be useful
afterwards, and Meta took her part, laughing at the cruel stroke they
were preparing for Bellairs. Ethel begged for dark silks and straw
bonnets, and Flora said that she had expected to hear of brown stuff
and gray duffle, but owned that they had better omit the ordinary muslin
garb in the heart of winter. The baby bride’s-maid was, at last, the
chief consideration. Margaret suggested how pretty she and Blanche would
look in sky-blue merino, trimmed with swan’s-down. Meta was charmed with
the idea, and though Ethel stuck out her shoulder-blades and poked
out her head, and said she should look like the ugly duckling, she was
clamorously reminded that the ugly duckling ended by being a swan,
and promised that she should be allowed a bonnet of a reasonable size,
trimmed with white, for Mr. Rivers’s good taste could endure, as little
as Dr. May’s sense of propriety, the sight of a daughter without shade
to her face, Ethel, finally, gave in, on being put in mind that her papa
had a penchant for swan’s-down, and on Margaret’s promising to wear a
dress of the same as theirs.

Ethel was pleased and satisfied by Flora’s dislike of parade, and
attention to the feelings of all. Passing over the one great fact,
the two sisters were more of one mind than usual, probably because all
latent jealousy of Ethel had ceased in Flora’s mind. Hitherto, she had
preferred the being the only practically useful person in the family,
and had encouraged the idea of Ethel’s gaucherie but now she desired to
render her sister able to take her place, and did all in her power to
put her in good heart.

For Etheldred was terrified at the prospect of becoming responsible
housekeeper. Margaret could only serve as an occasional reference. Her
morning powers became too uncertain to be depended on for any regular,
necessary duty, and it would have oppressed her so much to order the
dinners, which she never saw, that, though she offered to resume the
office, Flora would not hear of Ethel’s consenting. If it were her
proper business, Ethel supposed she could do it, but another hour of her
leisure was gone, and what would become of them all, with her, a proverb
for heedlessness, and ignorance of ordinary details. She did not know
that these were more proverbial than actual, and, having a bad name, she
believed in it herself. However, Flora made it her business to persuade
her that her powers were as good for household matters, as for books, or
Cocksmoor; instructed her in her own methodical plans, and made her
keep house for a fortnight, with so much success that she began to be
hopeful.

In the attendance on Margaret, the other great charge, old nurse was
the security; and Ethel, who had felt her self much less unhandy
than before, was, to succeed to the abode, in her room--Blanche
being promoted from the nursery to the old attic. “And,” said Flora
consolingly, “if dear Margaret ever should be ill, you may reckon on
me.”

Miss Flora May made her last appearance at the Ladies’ Committee to hear
the reply from the principal of the college. It was a civil letter,
but declined taking any steps in the matter without more certain
intelligence of the wishes of the incumbent of the parish or of the
holders of the land in question.

The ladies abused all colleges--as prejudiced old Bodies, and feared
that it would be impossible to ask Mrs. Perkinson’s niece to take the
school while there was neither room nor lodging. So Miss Rich recorded
the correspondence, and the vote of censure, by which it was to be hoped
the Ladies’ Committee of Market Stoneborough inflicted a severe blow on
the principal and fellows of M---- College.

“Never mind, Ethel,” said Flora. “I shall meet Sir Henry Walkinghame in
London, and will talk to him. We shall yet astonish the muses. If we can
get the land without them, we shall be able to manage it our own way,
without obligations.”

“You forget the money!”

“We will keep them from dissipating it--or that might be no harm! A
hundred pounds will be easily found, and we should then have it in our
own hands. Besides, you know, I don’t mean to give up. I shall write a
polite note to Mrs. Ledwich, begging to subscribe on my own account, and
to retain my seat! and you will see what we shall do.”

“You mean to come down with the external authority,” said Ethel,
smiling.

“True! and though my driving in with a pair of horses may make little
difference to you, Ethel, depend upon it, Mrs. Ledwich will be the more
amenable. Whenever I want to be particularly impressive, I shall bring
in that smelling-bottle, with the diamond stopper that won’t come out,
and you will find that carries all before it.”

“A talisman!” said Ethel, laughing. “But I had rather they yielded to a
sense of right!”

“So had I,” said Flora. “Perhaps you will rule them that way?”

“Not I!” cried Ethel, terrified.

“Then you must come to me, and secondary motives. Seriously--I do mean
that George should do something for Stoneborough; and, in a position of
influence, I hope to be able to be useful to my poor old town. Perhaps
we shall have the minster restored.”

Flora did wish it. She did love Stoneborough, and was sincerely
interested for Cocksmoor. She thought she worked earnestly for them,
and that her situation would be turned to their profit; but there was
something for which she worked more earnestly. Had Flora never heard of
the two masters whom we cannot serve at the same time?

Richard came home for “a parson’s week,” so as to include the wedding.
He looked very fresh and youthful; but his manner, though still gentle
and retiring, had lost all that shrinking diffidence, and had, now, a
very suitable grave composure. Everybody was delighted to have him;
and Ethel, more than any one, except Margaret. What floods of Cocksmoor
histories were poured upon him; and what comparing of notes about his
present school-children! He could not enter into the refinements of her
dread of the Ladies’ Committee, and thought she might be thankful if
the school were built by any proper means; for, if Cherry Elwood
were retained, and the ladies prevented from doing harm, he did not
understand why Ethel should wish to reject all assistance that did not
come in a manner she admired. He never would comprehend--so Ethel gave
it up--feared she was again jealous and self-sufficient, and contented
herself with the joy that his presence produced at Cocksmoor, where the
children smiled, blushed, and tittered, with ecstasy, whenever he even
looked at one of them.

Richard was not allowed to have a Sunday of rest. His father apologised
for having made an engagement for him--as Mr. Ramsden was unwell, and
the school clergy were all absent, so that he could do no otherwise than
assist in the service. Richard coloured, and said that he had brought no
sermon; and he was, in fact, deprived of much of his sister’s company,
for composition was not easy to him, and the quantity of time he spent
on it, quite alarmed Norman and Ethel, who both felt rather nervous on
the Sunday morning, but agreed that preaching was not everything.

Ethel could not see well as far as the reading-desk, but she saw her
father glance up, take off his spectacles, wipe them, and put them away;
and she could not be displeased, though she looked reproof at Blanche’s
breathless whisper, “Oh, he looks so nice!” Those white folds did truly
suit well with the meek, serious expression of the young deacon’s fair
face, and made him, as his sisters afterwards said, like one of the
solemnly peaceful angel-carvings of the earlier ages.

His voice was sweet and clear, and his reading full of quiet simplicity
and devotion, such as was not often heard by that congregation, who were
too much used either to carelessness or to pomposity. The sermon made
his brother and sister ashamed of their fears. It was an exposition of
the Gospel for the day, practical and earnest, going deep, and rising
high, with a clearness and soberness, yet with a beauty and elevation,
such as Norman and Ethel had certainly not expected--or, rather,
they forgot all their own expectations and Richard himself, and only
recollected their own hearts and the great future before them.

Even Blanche and Aubrey told Margaret a great deal about it, and
declared that, if Richard preached every Sunday, they should like going
to church much better.

When Dr. May came in, some time after, he was looking much pleased.
“So, Mr. Ritchie,” he said, “you have made quite a sensation--every one
shaking me by the hand, and thanking me for my son’s sermon. You will be
a popular preacher at last!”

Richard blushed distressfully, and quoted the saying, that it would be
the true comfort to hear that people went home, thinking of themselves
rather than of the sermon. This put an end to the subject; but the
doctor went over it again, most thoroughly, with his other children, who
were greatly delighted.

Flora’s last home Sunday! She was pale and serious, evidently feeling
much, though seeking no tete-a-tetes; and chiefly engrossed with waiting
on Margaret, or fondling little Gertrude. No one saw the inside of her
mind--probably, she did not herself. On the outside was a very suitable
pensiveness, and affection for all that she was leaving. The only one in
the family to whom she talked much was Norman, who continued to see many
perfections in George, and contrived, by the force of his belief, to
impress the same on the others, and to make them think his great
talent for silence such a proof of his discretion, that they were not
staggered, even by his shy blundering exclamation that his wedding would
be a great nuisance--a phrase which, as Dr. May observed, was, to him,
what Est-il-possible was to his namesake of Denmark.

Nobody wished for any misgivings, so Richard was never told of any,
though there was a careful watch kept to see what were his first
impressions. None transpired, except something about good nature, but it
was shrewdly believed that Richard and George, being much alike in
shy unwillingness to speak, had been highly satisfied with the little
trouble they had caused to each other, and so had come to a tacit
esteem.

There was very little bustle of preparation. Excepting the packing,
everything went on much as usual, till the Thursday morning, and then
the children were up early, refreshing the Christmas hollies, and
working up their excitement, only to have it damped by the suppressed
agitation of their elders at the breakfast-table.

Dr. May did not seem to know what he was about; and Flora looked paler
and paler. She went away before the meal was over, and when Ethel went
to the bedroom, shortly after, she found that she had fairly broken
down, and was kneeling beside Margaret’s sofa, resting her head on her
sister’s bosom, and sobbing--as Ethel had never seen her weep, except on
that dreadful night, after their mother’s death.

In a person ordinarily of such self-command as Flora, weeping was a
terrible thing, and Margaret was much distressed and alarmed; but the
worst had passed before Ethel came up, and Flora was able to speak. “Oh!
Margaret! I cannot leave you! Oh! how happy we have been--”

“You are going to be happier, we trust, dearest,” said Margaret fondly.

“Oh! what have I done? It is not worth it!”

Ethel thought she caught those words, but no more. Mary’s step was
heard, and Flora was on her feet, instantly, composing herself rapidly.
She shed no more tears, but her eyelids were very heavy, and her face
softened, in a manner that, though she was less pretty than usual, was
very becoming under her bridal veil. She recovered calmness and even
cheerfulness, while reversing the usual order of things, and dressing
her bride’s-maids, who would never have turned out fit to be seen, but
for the exertions of herself, Margaret, and Miss Bracy. Ethel’s long
Scotch bones and Mary’s round, dumpy shapelessness were, in their
different ways, equally hard to overcome; and the one was swelled out
with a fabulous number of petticoats, and the other pinched in, till she
gasped and screamed for mercy, while Blanche and Gertrude danced about,
beautiful to behold, under their shady hats; and presently, with a light
tap at the door, Meta Rivers stepped in, looking so pretty, that all
felt that to try to attain to such an appearance was vain.

Timid in her affection, she hardly dared to do more than kiss them, and
whisper her pretty caressing words to each. There was no more time--Dr.
Hoxton’s carriage was come to take up the bride.

Ethel did as she was told, without much volition of her own; and she
quitted the carriage, and was drawn into her place by Norman, trusting
that Meta would not let her do wrong, and relieved that just in front
of her were the little ones, over whose heads she could see her father,
with Flora’s veiled bending figure.

That pause while the procession was getting into order, the slow
movement up the centre aisle, the week-day atmosphere of the church,
brought back to her thoughts a very different time, and one of those
strange echoings on the mind repeated in her ears the words, “For man
walketh in a vain shadow, and disquieteth himself in vain--”

There was a little pause--George did not seem to be forthcoming, and
Meta turned round, rather uneasily, and whispered something about his
having been so nervous. However, there he was, looking exceedingly red,
and very sheepish, and disposed to fall back on his best man, Norman,
whose countenance was at the brightest--and almost handsome.

Dr. Hoxton performed the ceremony, “assisted by” Richard. It had been
Flora’s choice; and his loud sonorous voice was thought very impressive.
Blanche stood the nearest, and looked happy and important, with Flora’s
glove. Gertrude held Mary’s hand, and gazed straight up into the fretted
roof, as if that were to her the chief marvel. Ethel stood and knelt,
but did not seem, to herself, to have the power of thinking or feeling.
She saw and heard--that was all; she could not realise.

They drew her forward, when it was over, to sign her name, as witness.
She took up the pen, looked at the Flora May, written for the last time,
and found her hand so trembling, that she said, half smiling, that
she could not write. Mary was only too well pleased to supply the
deficiency. Dr. May looked at her anxiously, and asked whether she felt
overcome.

“No, papa. I did not know my hand was shaky.”

He took it into his, and pressed it. Ethel knew, then, how much had been
undeveloped in her own mind, catching it, as it were, from his touch
and look. The thought of his past joy--the sad fading of hope for
Margaret--the fear and doubt for their present bride--above all, the
sense that the fashion of this world passeth away; and that it is not
the outward scene, but our bearing in it, that is to last for ever.

The bells struck up, each peal ending with a crash that gave Ethel
some vague idea of fatality; and they all came back to the house, where
Margaret was ready, in the drawing-room, to receive them, looking
very pretty, in her soft blue dress, which especially became her fair
complexion and light brown hair. Ethel did not quite like the pink
colour on her cheeks, and feared that she had been shaken by Flora’s
agitation in the morning; but she was very calm and bright, in the
affectionate greeting with which she held out her hands to the bride and
bridegroom, as they came in.

Mr. Rivers and Meta were the only guests, and, while Meta was seized
by the children, Margaret lay talking to Mr. Rivers, George standing
upright and silent behind her sofa, like a sentinel. Flora was gone
to change her dress, not giving way, but nervous and hurried, as she
reiterated parting directions about household comforts to Ethel, who
stood by the toilette-table, sticking a pin into the pincushion and
drawing it out again, as if solely intent on making it always fit into
the same hole, while Mary dressed Flora, packed, flew about, and was
useful.

As they came downstairs, Ethel found that Flora was trembling from head
to foot, and leaning on her; Dr. May stood at the foot of the stairs,
and folded his daughter in a long embrace; Flora gave herself up to it
as if she would never bear to leave it. Did a flash come over her then,
what the father was, whom she had held cheaply? what was the worth of
that for which she had exchanged such a home? She spoke not a word, she
only clung tightly--if her heart failed her--it was too late. “Bless
you! my child!” he said at last. “Only be what your mother was!”

A coming tread warned them to part. There was a tray of luncheon for the
two who were about to depart, and the great snow-white cake was waiting
for Flora to cut it. She smiled, accomplished that feat steadily, and
Norman continuing the operation, Aubrey guided Gertrude in handing round
the slices. George did full justice thereto, as well as to the more
solid viands. Flora could taste nothing, but she contrived to smile and
say it was too early. She was in haste to have it over now, and, as soon
as George had finished, she rose up, still composed and resolved, the
last kisses were given--Gertrude was lifted up to her, after she was in
the carriage for the very last, when George proposed to run away with
her also, whereupon Daisy kicked and screamed, and was taken back in
haste. The door was shut, and they drove off, bound for the Continent,
and then Mary, as if the contingency of losing Flora had only for the
first time occurred to her as the consequence of the wedding, broke out
into a piteous fit of sobbing--rather too unrestrained, considering her
fourteen years.

Poor Mary, she was a very child still! They pulled her into the study,
out of the way of Mr. Rivers, and Meta had no sooner said how Flora
would soon come home and live at the Grange, and talked of the grand
school-feast to which she was at once going to take her friends, than
the round rosy face drew out of its melancholy puckers into smiles, as
Mary began to tell the delight caused by the invitations which she
had conveyed. That was to be a feast indeed--all the Abbotstoke
children--all Flora’s class at Stoneborough, and as many Cocksmoor
scholars as could walk so far, were to dine on Christmas fare, at
one o’clock, at the Grange, and Meta was in haste to be at home to
superintend the feast.

Mary, Blanche, and Aubrey, went with her, under the keeping of Miss
Bracy, the boys were to follow. She had hoped for Ethel, but on looking
at her, ceased her coaxing importunity.

“I see,” she said kindly; “even schoolchildren will not be so good for
you as peace.”

“Thank you,” said Ethel, “I should like to be quiet till the evening, if
you will let me off. It is very kind in you.”

“I ought to know how to pity you,” said Meta, “I who have gained what
you have lost.”

“I want to think too,” said Ethel. “It is the beginning to me of a new
life, and I have not been able to look at it yet.”

“Besides, Margaret will want you. Poor Margaret--has it been very trying
to her?”

“I fear so, but I shall keep out of her way, and leave her to a quiet
afternoon with Richard. It will be the greatest treat to those two to be
together.”

“Very well, I will carry off the children, and leave the house quiet.”

And quiet it was in another hour--Gertrude walking with the nurses, Dr.
May gone to his patients, and all the rest at Abbotstoke, except Richard
and Margaret downstairs; and Ethel, who, while arranging her properties
in her new room, had full leisure to lay out before herself the duties
that had devolved on her and to grapple with them. She recalled the
many counsels that she had received from Flora, and they sounded so
bewildering that she wished it had been Conic sections, and then she
looked at a Hebrew grammar that Norman had given her, and gave a sigh as
she slipped it into the shelf of the seldom used. She looked about the
room, cleared out the last piece of brown paper, and burned the last
torn envelope, that no relic of packing and change might distress
Margaret’s eyes for order; then feeling at once desolate and intrusive,
she sat down in Flora’s fireside chair, opened her desk, and took out
her last time-table. She looked at it for some minutes, laid it aside,
and rising, knelt down. Again seating herself, she resumed her paper,
took a blank one, ruled it, and wrote her rules for each hour of each
day in the week. That first hour after breakfast, when hitherto she had
been free, was one sacrifice; it must go now, to ordering dinner,
seeing after stores, watching over the children’s clothes, and the
other nondescripts, which, happily for her, Flora had already reduced to
method. The other loss was the spare time between the walk and tea; she
must not spend that in her own room now, or there would be no one to sit
with Margaret, or keep the little ones from being troublesome to her.
Ethel had often had to give up this space before, when Flora went out in
the evening, and she had seldom felt otherwise than annoyed. Give it
up for good! that was the cure for temper, but it had been valuable as
something of her own. She would have been thankful could she have
hoped to keep regularly to her own rules, but that she knew was utterly
improbable--boys, holidays, callers, engagements, Dr. May, would all
conspire to turn half her days upside down, and Cocksmoor itself must
often depend not only on the weather, but on home doings. Two or three
notes she wrote at the foot of her paper.


  ‘N. B.  These are a standard--not a bed of Procrustes.
   MUSTS--To be first consulted.--Mays--last.  Ethel May’s
          last of all.
          If I cannot do everything--omit the self-chosen.
   MEM--  Neither hurry when it depends on myself,
          nor fidget when it depends on others.
   Keep a book going to pacify myself.’


Her rules drawn up, Ethel knelt once more. Then she drew a long sigh,
and wondered where Flora was; and next, as she was fairly fagged, mind
and body, she threw herself back in the armchair, took up a railway
novel that Hector had brought home, and which they had hidden from the
children, and repaired herself with the luxury of an idle reading.

Margaret and Richard likewise spent a peaceful, though pensive
afternoon. Margaret had portions of letters from Alan to read to him,
and a consultation to hold. The hope of her full recovery had so melted
away, that she had, in every letter, striven to prepare Mr. Ernescliffe
for the disappointment, and each that she received in return was so
sanguine and affectionate, that the very fondness was as much grief as
joy. She could not believe that he took in the true state of the case,
or was prepared to perceive that she could never be his wife, and she
wanted Richard to write one of his clear, dispassionate statements,
such as carried full conviction, and to help to put a final end to the
engagement.

“But why,” said Richard--“why should you wish to distress him?”

“Because I cannot bear that he should be deceived, and should feed on
false hopes. Do you think it right, Richard?”

“I will write to him, if you like,” said Richard; “but I think he
must pretty well know the truth from all the letters to Harry and to
himself.”

“It would be so much better for him to settle his mind at once,” said
Margaret.

“Perhaps he would not think so--”

There was a pause, while Margaret saw that her brother was thinking. At
last he said, “Margaret, will you pardon me? I do think that this is a
little restlessness. The truth has not been kept from him, and I do
not see that we are called to force it on him. He is sensible and
reasonable, and will know how to judge when he comes home.”

“It was to try to save him the pang,” murmured Margaret.

“Yes; but it will be worse far away than near. I do not mean that we
should conceal the fact, but you have no right to give him up before he
comes home. The whole engagement was for the time of his voyage.”

“Then you think I ought not to break it off before his return?”

“Certainly not.”

“It will be pain spared--unless it should be worse by and by.”

“I do not suppose we ought to look to by and by,” said Richard.

“How so?”

“Do the clearly right thing for the present, I mean,” he said, “without
anxiety for the rest. How do we--any of us--know what may be the case in
another year?”

“Do not flatter me with hopes,” said Margaret, sadly smiling; “I have
had too many of them.”

“No,” said Richard; “I do not think you will ever get well. But so much
may happen--”

“I had rather have my mind made up once for all, and resign myself,”
 said Margaret.

“His will is sometimes that we should be uncertain,” said Richard.

“And that is the most trying,” said Margaret.

“Just so--” and he paused tenderly.

“I feel how much has been right,” said Margaret. “This wedding has
brought my real character before me. I feel what I should have been. You
have no notion how excited and elated I can get about a little bit of
dress out of the common way for myself or others,” said she, smiling;
“and then all the external show and things belonging to station--I
naturally care much more for them than even Flora does. Ethel would bear
all those things as if they did not exist--I could not.”

“They would be a temptation?”

“They would once have been. Yes, they would now,” said Margaret. “And
government, and management, and influence--you would not guess what
dreams I used to waste on them, and now here am I set aside from it all,
good for nothing but for all you dear ones to be kind to.”

“They would not say so,” said Richard kindly.

“Not say it, but I feel it. Papa and Ethel are all the world to each
other--Richard, I may say it to you. There has been only one thing more
hard to bear than that--don’t suppose there was a moment’s neglect or
disregard; but when first I understood that Ethel could be more to him
than I, then I could not always feel rightly. It was the punishment for
always wanting to be first.”

“My father would be grieved that you had the notion. You should not keep
it.”

“He does not know it is so,” said Margaret; “I am his first care, I
fear, his second grief; but it is not in the nature of things that Ethel
should not be more his comfort and companion. Oh! I am glad it was not
she who married! What shall we do when she goes?”

This came from Margaret’s heart, so as to show that if there had once
been a jealous pang of mortification, it had been healed by overflowing,
unselfish affection and humility.

They went off to praise Ethel, and thence to praise Norman, and the
elder brother and sister, who might have had some jealousy of the
superiority of their juniors, spent a good happy hour in dwelling on the
shining qualities they loved so heartily.

And Richard was drawn into talking of his own deeper thoughts, and
Margaret had again the comfort of clerical counsel--and now from her own
most dear brother! So they sat till darkness closed in, when Ethel came
down, bringing Gertrude and her great favour, very full of chatter, only
not quite sure whether she had been bride, bride’s-maid, or bridegroom.

The schoolroom set, with Tom and Aubrey, came home soon after, and
tongues went fast with stories of roast-beef, plum-pudding, and
blind-man’s-buff. How the dear Meta had sent a cart to Cocksmoor to
bring Cherry herself, and how many slices everybody had eaten, and how
the bride’s health had been drunk by the children in real wine, and how
they had all played, Norman and all, and how Hector had made Blanche
bold enough to extract a raisin from the flaming snap-dragon. It was
not half told when Dr. May came home, and Ethel went up to dress for
her dinner at Abbotstoke, Mary following to help her and continue her
narration, which bade fair to entertain Margaret the whole evening.

Dr. May, Richard, and Ethel had a comfortable dark drive to the Grange,
and, on arriving, found Hector deep in ‘Wild Sports of the West’, while
Norman and Meta were sitting over the fire talking, and Mr. Rivers was
resting in his library.

And when Ethel and Meta spent the time before the gentlemen came in
from the dining-room, in a happy tete-a-tete, Ethel learned that the
fire-light dialogue had been the pleasantest part of the whole day, and
that Meta had had confided to her the existence of Decius Mus--a secret
which Ethel had hitherto considered as her own peculiar property, but
she supposed it was a pledge of the sisterhood, which Meta professed
with all the house of May.




CHAPTER VIII.



     The rest all accepted the kind invitation,
     And much bustle it caused in the plumed creation;
     Such ruffling of feathers, such pruning of coats,
     Such chirping, such whistling, such clearing of throats,
     Such polishing bills, and such oiling of pinions,
     Had never been known in the biped dominions.
                                       Peacock at Home.


Etheldred was thankful for that confidence to Meta Rivers, for without
it, she would hardly have succeeded in spurring Norman up to give the
finishing touches to Decius, and to send him in. If she talked of the
poem as the devotion of Decius, he was willing enough, and worked with
spirit, for he liked the ideas, and enjoyed the expressing them, and
trying to bring his lines to his notion of perfection, but if she called
it the “Newdigate,” or the “Prize Poem,” and declared herself sure it
would be successful, he yawned, slackened, leaned back in his chair,
and began to read other people’s poetry, which Ethel was disrespectful
enough not to think nearly as good as his own.

It was completed at last, and Ethel stitched it up with a narrow red and
white ribbon--the Balliol colours; and set Meta at him till a promise
was extorted that he would send it in.

And, in due time, Ethel received the following note:


“My Dear Ethel,--

“My peacock bubble has flown over the house.
Tell them all about it.

Your affectionate,
                                          N. W. M.”


They were too much accustomed to Norman’s successes to be
extraordinarily excited; Ethel would have been much mortified if the
prize had been awarded to any one else, but, as it was, it came rather
as a matter of course. The doctor was greatly pleased, and said he
should drive round by Abbotstoke to tell the news there, and then
laughed beyond measure to hear that Meta had been in the plot, saying
he should accuse the little humming-bird of being a magpie, stealing
secrets.

By this time the bride and bridegroom were writing that they thought of
soon returning; they had spent the early spring at Paris, had wandered
about in the south of France, and now were at Paris again. Flora’s
letters were long, descriptive, and affectionate, and she was eager to
be kept fully informed of everything at home. As soon as she heard of
Norman’s success, she wrote a whole budget of letters, declaring that
she and George would hear of no refusal; they were going to spend a
fortnight at Oxford for the Commemoration, and must have Meta and Ethel
with them to hear Norman’s poem in the theatre.

Dr. May, who already had expressed a hankering to run up for the day and
take Ethel with him, was perfectly delighted at the proposal, and so was
Mr. Rivers, but the young ladies made many demurs. Ethel wanted Mary to
go in her stead, and had to be told that this would not be by any means
the same to the other parties--she could not bear to leave Margaret; it
was a long time since there had been letters from the Alcestis, and she
did not like to miss being at home when they should come; and Meta, on
her side, was so unwilling to leave her father that, at last, Dr. May
scolded them both for a pair of conceited, self-important damsels, who
thought nothing could go on without them; and next, compared them to
young birds, obliged to be shoved by force into flying.

Meta consented first, on condition that Ethel would; and Ethel found
that her whole house would be greatly disappointed if she refused,
so she proceeded to be grateful, and then discovered how extremely
delightful the plan was. Oxford, of which she had heard so much, and
which she had always wished to see! And Norman’s glory--and Meta’s
company--nay, the very holiday, and going from home, were charms enough
for a girl of eighteen, who had never been beyond Whitford in her life.
Besides, to crown all, papa promised that, if his patients would behave
well, and not want him too much, he would come up for the one great day.

Mr. and Mrs. George Rivers came to Abbotstoke to collect their party.
They arrived by a railroad, whose station was nearer to Abbotstoke than
to Stoneborough, therefore, instead of their visiting the High Street
by the way, Dr. May, with Ethel and Mary, were invited to dine at the
Grange, the first evening--a proposal, at least, as new and exciting to
Mary as was the journey to Oxford to her sister.

The two girls went early, as the travellers had intended to arrive
before luncheon, and, though Ethel said few words, but let Mary rattle
on with a stream of conjectures and questions, her heart was full of
longings for her sister, as well as of strange doubts and fears, as to
the change that her new life might have made in her.

“There! there!” cried Mary. “Yes! it is Flora! Only she has her hair
done in a funny way!”

Flora and Meta were both standing on the steps before the conservatory,
and Mary made but one bound before she was hugging Flora. Ethel kissed
her without so much violence, and then saw that Flora was looking very
well and bright, more decidedly pretty and elegant than ever, and with
certainly no diminution of affection; it was warmer, though rather more
patronising.

“How natural you look!” was her first exclamation, as she held Mary’s
hand, and drew Ethel’s arm into hers. “And how is Margaret?”

“Pretty well-but the heat makes her languid--”

“Is there any letter yet?”

“No--”

“I do not see any cause for alarm--letters are so often detained, but,
of course, she will be anxious. Has she had pain in the back again?”

“Sometimes, but summer always does her good--”

“I shall see her to-morrow--and the Daisy. How do you all get on? Have
you broken down yet, Ethel?”

“Oh! we do go on,” said Ethel, smiling; “the worst thing I have done was
expecting James to dress the salads with lamp-oil.”

“A Greenland salad! But don’t talk of oil--I have the taste still in my
mouth after the Pyrennean cookery! Oh! Ethel, you would have been wild
with delight in those places!”

“Snowy mountains! Are they not like a fairy-dream to you now? You must
have felt at home, as a Scotchwoman’s daughter.”

“Think of the peaks in the sunrise! Oh! I wanted you in the pass of
Roncevalles, to hear the echo of Roland’s horn. And we saw the cleft
made by Roland’s sword in the rocks.”

“Oh! how delightful--and Spain too!”

“Ay, the Isle of Pheasants, where all the conferences took place.”

“Where Louis XIV. met his bride, and Francois I. sealed his treason with
his empty flourish--”

“Well, don’t let us fight about Francois I. now; I want to know how Tom
likes Eton.”

“He gets on famously. I am so glad he is in the same house with Hector.”

“Mr. Ramsden--how is he?”

“No better; he has not done any duty for weeks. Tomkins and his set want
to sell the next presentation, but papa hopes to stave that off, for
there is a better set than usual in the Town Council this year.”

“Cocksmoor? And how are our friends the muses? I found a note from the
secretary telling me that I am elected again. How have they behaved?”

“Pretty well,” said Ethel. “Mrs. Ledwich has been away, so we have had
few meetings, and have been pretty quiet, except for an uproar about
the mistress beating that Franklin’s girl--and what do you think I did,
Flora? I made bold to say the woman should show her to papa, to see if
she had done her any harm, and he found that it was all a fabrication
from one end to the other. So it ended in the poor girl being expelled,
and Mary and I have her twice a week, to see if there is any grace in
her.”

“To reward her!” said Flora. “That is always your way--”

“Why, one cannot give the poor thing quite up,” said Ethel.

“You will manage the ladies at last!” cried Flora.

“Not while Mrs. Ledwich is there!”

“I’ll cope with her! But, come, I want you in my room--”

“May not I come?” said Meta. “I must see when--”

Flora held up her hand, and, while signing invitation, gave an arch look
to Meta to be silent. Ethel here bethought herself of inquiring after
Mr. Rivers, and then for George.

Mr. Rivers was pretty well--George, quite well, and somewhere in the
garden; and Meta said that he had such a beard that they would hardly
know him; while Flora added that he was delighted with the Oxford
scheme. Flora’s rooms had been, already, often shown to her sisters,
when Mr. Rivers had been newly furnishing them, with every luxury and
ornament that taste could devise. Her dressing-room, with the large bay
window, commanding a beautiful view of Stoneborough, and filled, but not
crowded, with every sort of choice article, was a perfect exhibition to
eyes unaccustomed to such varieties.

Mary could have been still amused by the hour, in studying the devices
and ornaments on the shelves and chiffonieres; and Blanche had romanced
about it to the little ones, till they were erecting it into a mythical
palace.

And Flora, in her simple, well-chosen dress, looked, and moved, as if
she had been born and bred in the like.

There were signs of unpacking about the room-Flora’s dressing-case on
the table, and some dresses lying on the sofa and ottoman.

Mary ran up to them eagerly, and exclaimed at the beautiful shot blue
and white silk.

“Paris fashions?” said Ethel carelessly.

“Yes; but I don’t parade my own dresses here,” said Flora.

“Whose are they then? Your commissions, Meta?”

“No!” and Meta laughed heartily.

“Your French maid’s then?” said Ethel. “I dare say she dresses quite as
well; and the things are too really pretty and simple for an English
maid’s taste.”

“I am glad you like them,” said Flora maliciously. “Now, please to be
good.”

“Who are they for then?” said Ethel, beginning to be frightened.

“For a young lady, whose brother has got the Newdigate prize, and who is
going to Oxford.”

“Me! Those! But I have not got four backs,” as Ethel saw Meta in fits
of laughing, and Flora making affirmative signs. Mary gave a ponderous
spring of ecstasy.

“Come!” said Flora, “you may as well be quiet. Whatever you may like,
I am not going to have the Newdigate prizeman shown as brother to a
scarecrow. I knew what you would come to, without me to take care of
you. Look at yourself in the glass.”

“I’m sure I see no harm in myself,” said Ethel, turning towards the
pier-glass, and surveying herself--in a white muslin, made high, a black
silk mantle, and a brown hat. She had felt very respectable when she set
out, but she could not avoid a lurking conviction that, beside Flora and
Meta, it had a scanty, schoolgirl effect. “And,” she continued quaintly,
“besides, I have really got a new gown on purpose--a good useful silk,
that papa chose at Whitford--just the colour of a copper tea-kettle,
where it turns purple.”

“Ethel! you will kill me!” said Meta, sinking back on the sofa.

“And I suppose,” continued Flora, “that you have sent it to
Miss Broad’s, without any directions, and she will trim it with
flame-coloured gimp, and glass buttons; and, unless Margaret catches
you, you will find yourself ready to set the Thames on fire. No, my dear
tea-kettle, I take you to Oxford on my own terms, and you had better
submit, without a fuss, and be thankful it is no worse. George wanted me
to buy you a white brocade, with a perfect flower-garden on it, that you
could have examined with a microscope. I was obliged to let him buy that
lace mantle, to make up to him. Now then, Meta, the scene opens, and
discovers--”

Meta opened the folding-doors into Flora’s bedroom, and thence came
forward Bellairs and a little brisk Frenchwoman, whom Flora had acquired
at Paris. The former, who was quite used to adorning Miss Ethel against
her will, looked as amused as her mistresses; and, before Ethel knew
what was going on, her muslin was stripped off her back, and that
instrument of torture, a half made body, was being tried upon her. She
made one of her most wonderful grimaces of despair, and stood still. The
dresses were not so bad after all; they were more tasteful than costly,
and neither in material nor ornament were otherwise than suitable to the
occasion and the wearer. It was very kind and thoughtful of Flora--that
she could not but feel--nothing had been forgotten, but when Ethel saw
the mantles, the ribbons, the collars, the bonnet, all glistening with
the French air of freshness and grace, she began to feel doubts and
hesitations, whether she ought to let her sister go to such an expense
on her account, and privately resolved that the accepting thanks should
not be spoken till she should have consulted her father.

In the meantime, she could only endure, be laughed at by her elders, and
entertained by Mary’s extreme pleasure in her array. Good Mary--it
was more than any comedy to her; she had not one moment’s thought
of herself, till, when Flora dived into her box, produced a pair of
bracelets, and fastened them on her comfortable plump arms, her eyes
grew wide with wonder, and she felt, at least, two stages nearer
womanhood.

Flora had omitted no one. There was a Paris present for every servant at
home, and a needle-case even for Cherry Elwood, for which Ethel thanked
her with a fervency wanting in her own case.

She accomplished consulting her father on her scruples, and he set her
mind at rest. He knew that the outlay was a mere trifle to the Riverses,
and was greatly pleased and touched with the affection that Flora
showed; so he only smiled at Ethel’s doubts, and dwelt with heartfelt
delight on the beautiful print that she had brought him, from Ary
Scheffer’s picture of the Great Consoler.

Flora was in her glory. To be able to bestow benefits on those whom she
loved, had been always a favourite vision, and she had the full pleasure
of feeling how much enjoyment she was causing. They had a very pleasant
evening; she gave interesting accounts of their tour, and by her appeals
to her husband, made him talk also. He was much more animated and
agreeable than Ethel had ever seen him, and was actually laughing,
and making Mary laugh heartily with his histories of the inns in the
Pyrennees. Old Mr. Rivers looked as proud and happy as possible, and
was quite young and gay, having evidently forgotten all his maladies, in
paying elaborate attention to his daughter-in-law.

Ethel told Margaret, that night, that she was quite satisfied about
Flora--she was glad to own that she had done her injustice, and that
Norman was right in saying there was more in George Rivers than met the
eye.

The morning spent at home was equally charming. Flora came back, with
love strengthened by absence. She was devoted to Margaret--caressing to
all; she sat in her old places; she fulfilled her former offices; she
gratified Miss Bracy by visiting her in the schoolroom, and talking of
French books; and won golden opinions, by taking Gertrude in her hand,
and walking to Minster Street to call on Mrs. Hoxton, as in old times,
and take her the newest foreign device of working to kill time.

So a few days passed merrily away, and the great journey commenced.
Ethel met the Abbotstoke party at the station, and, with a parting
injunction to her father, that he was to give all his patients a
sleeping potion, that they might not miss him, she was carried away from
Stoneborough.

Meta was in her gayest mood; Ethel full of glee and wonder, for once
beyond Whitford, the whole world was new to her; Flora more quiet, but
greatly enjoying their delight, and George not saying much, but smiling
under his beard, as if well pleased to be so well amused with so little
trouble.

He took exceeding care of them, and fed them with everything he could
make them eat at the Swindon Station, asking for impossible things, and
wishing them so often to change for something better, that, if they had
been submissive, they would have had no luncheon at all; and, as it was,
Flora was obliged to whisk into the carriage with her last sandwich in
her hand.

“I am the more sorry,” said he, after grumbling at the allotted ten
minutes, “as we shall dine so late. You desired Norman to bring any
friend he liked, did you not, Flora?”

“Yes, and he spoke of bringing our old friend, Charles Cheviot, and Mr.
Ogilvie,” said Flora.

“Mr. Ogilvie!” said Ethel, “the Master of Glenbracken! Oh! I am so glad!
I have wanted so much to see him!”

“Ah! he is a great hero of yours?” said Flora.

“Do you know him?” said Meta.

“No; but he is a great friend of Norman’s, and a Scottish cousin--Norman
Ogilvie. Norman has his name from the Ogilvies.”

“Our grandmother, Mrs. Mackenzie, was a daughter of Lord Glenbracken,”
 said Flora.

“This man might be called the Master of Glenbracken at home,” said
Ethel. “It is such a pretty title, and there is a beautiful history
belonging to them. There was a Master of Glenbracken who carried James
IV.’s standard at Flodden, and would not yield, and was killed with it
wrapped round his body, and the Lion was dyed with his blood. Mamma knew
some scraps of a ballad about him. Then they were out with Montrose,
and had their castle burned by the Covenanters, and since that they have
been Jacobites, and one barely escaped being beheaded at Carlisle! I
want to hear the rights of it. Norman is to go, some time or other, to
stay at Glenbracken.”

“Yes,” said Flora, “coming down to times present, this young heir seems
worthy of his race. They are pattern people--have built a church, and
have all their tenantry in excellent order. This is the only son, and
very good and clever--he preferred going to Balliol, that he might work;
but he is a great sportsman, George,” added she; “you will get on with
him very well, about fishing, and grouse shooting, I dare say.”

Norman met them at the station, and there was great excitement at seeing
his long nose under his college cap. He looked rather thin and worn, but
brightened at the sight of the party. After the question--whether
there had been any letters from Harry? he asked whether his father
were coming?--and Ethel thought he seemed nervous at the idea of this
addition to his audience. He saw them to their hotel, and, promising
them his two guests, departed.

Ethel watched collegiate figures passing in the street, and recollected
the gray buildings, just glimpsed at in her drive--it was dreamy and
confused, and she stood musing, not discovering that it was time to
dress, till Flora and her Frenchwoman came in, and laid violent hands on
her.

The effect of their manipulations was very successful. Ethel was made to
look well-dressed, and, still more, distinguished. Her height told well,
when her lankiness was overcome, and her hair was disposed so as to set
off her features to advantage. The glow of amusement and pleasure did
still more for her; and Norman, who was in the parlour when the sisters
appeared, quite started with surprise and satisfaction at her aspect.

“Well done. Flora!” he said. “Why! I have been telling Ogilvie that one
of my sisters was very plain!”

“Then, I hope we have been preparing an agreeable surprise for him,”
 said Flora. “Ethel is very much obliged to you. By the bye,” she said,
in her universal amity, “I must ask Harvey Anderson to dinner one of
these days?” Norman started, and his face said “Don’t.”

“Oh, very well; it is as you please. I thought it would please
Stoneborough, and that Edward was a protege of yours. What has he been
doing? Did we not hear he had been distinguishing himself? Dr. Hoxton
was boasting of his two scholars.”

“Ask him,” said Norman hurriedly. “At least,” said he, “do not let
anything from me prevent you.”

“Has he been doing anything wrong?” reiterated Flora.

“Not that I know of,” was the blunt answer; and, at the same instant,
Mr. Ogilvie arrived. He was a pleasant, high-bred looking gentleman,
brown-complexioned, and dark-eyed, with a brisk and resolute cast
of countenance, that, Ethel thought, might have suited the Norman of
Glenbracken, who died on the ruddy Lion of Scotland, and speaking with
the very same slight degree of Scottish intonation as she remembered in
her mother, making a most home-like sound in her ears.

Presently, the rest of their own party came down, and, soon after,
Charles Cheviot appeared, looking as quiet and tame, as he used to be in
the schoolboy days, when Norman would bring him home, and he used to be
too shy to speak a word.

However, he had learned the use of his tongue by this time, though it
was a very soft one; and he stood by Ethel, asking many questions about
Stoneborough, while something, apparently very spirited and amusing, was
going on between the others.

The dinner went off well--there were few enough for the conversation to
be general. The young men began to strike out sparks of wit against each
other--Flora put in a word or two--Ethel grew so much interested in the
discussion, that her face lighted up, and she joined in it, as if it had
been only between her father and brother--keen, clear, and droll. After
that, she had her full share in the conversation, and enjoyed it so much
that, when she left the dinner-table, she fetched her writing-case to
sketch the colloquy for Margaret and her father.

Flora exclaimed at her for never allowing any one to think of rest. Meta
said she should like to do the same, but it was impossible now; she did
not know how she should ever settle down to write a letter. Ethel was
soon interrupted--the gentlemen entered, and Mr. Ogilvie came to the
window, where she was sitting, and began to tell her how much obliged
to her he and his college were, for having insisted on her brother’s
sending in his poem. “Thanks are due, for our being spared an infliction
next week,” he said.

“Have you seen it?” she asked, and she was amused by the quick negative
movement of his head.

“I read my friend’s poems? But our lungs are prepared! Will you give
me my cue--it is of no use to ask him when we are to deafen you. One
generally knows the crack passages--something beginning with ‘Oh,
woman!’ but it is well to be in readiness--if you would only forewarn me
of the telling hits?”

“If they cannot tell themselves,” said Ethel, smiling, “I don’t think
they deserve the name.”

“Perhaps you think what does tell on the undergraduates, collectively,
is not always what ought to tell on them.”

“I don’t know. I dare say the same would not be a favourite with them
and with me.”

“I should like to know which are your favourites. No doubt you have a
copy here--made by yourself;” and he looked towards her paper-case.

There was the copy, and she took it out, peering to see whether Norman
were looking.

“Let me see,” he said, as she paused to open the MS., “he told me the
thoughts were more yours than his own.”

“Did he? That was not fair. One thought was an old one, long ago talked
over between us; the rest is all his own.”

Here Mr. Ogilvie took the paper, and Ethel saw his countenance show
evident tokens of surprise and feeling.

“Yes,” he said presently, “May goes deep--deeper than most men--though I
doubt whether they will applaud this.”

“I should like it better if they did not,” said Ethel. “It is rather to
be felt than shouted at.”

“And I don’t know how the world would go on if it were felt. Few men
would do much without the hope of fame,” said Norman Ogilvie.

“Is it the question what they would do?” said Ethel.

“So you call fame a low motive? I see where your brother’s philosophy
comes from.”

“I do not call it a low motive--” Her pause was expressive.

“Nor allow that the Non omnis moriar of Horace has in it something
divine?”

“For a heathen--yes.”

“And pray, what would you have the moving spring?”

“Duty.”

“Would not that end in ‘Mine be a cot, beside the rill’?” said he, with
an intonation of absurd sentiment.

“Well, and suppose an enemy came, would duty prompt not the Hay with the
joke--or Winkelried on the spears?”

“Nay, why not--‘It is my duty to take care of Lucy.’”

“Then Lucy ought to be broken on her own wheel.”

“Not at all! It is Lucy’s duty to keep her Colin from running into
danger.”

“I hope there are not many Lucies who would think so.”

“I agree with you. Most would rather have Colin killed than disgraced.”

“To be sure!” then, perceiving a knowing twinkle, as if he thought she
had made an admission, she added, “but what is disgrace?”

“Some say it is misfortune,” said Mr. Ogilvie.

“Is it not failure in duty?” said Ethel.

“Well!”

“Colin’s first duty is to his king and country. If he fail in that, he
is disgraced, in his own eyes, before Heaven and men. If he does it,
there is a reward, which seems to me a better, more powerful motive
for Lucy to set before him than ‘My dear, I hope you will distinguish
yourself,’ when the fact is,


                “‘England has forty thousand men,
                   We trust, as good as he.’


“‘Victory or Westminster Abbey!’ is a tolerable war-cry,” said Mr.
Ogilvie.

“Not so good as ‘England expects every man to do his duty.’ That serves
for those who cannot look to Westminster Abbey.”

“Ah! you are an English woman!”

“Only by halves. I had rather have been the Master of Glenbracken at
Flodden than King James, or”--for she grew rather ashamed of having
been impelled to utter the personal allusion--“better to have been the
Swinton or the Gordon at Homildon than all the rest put together.”

“I always thought Swinton a pig-headed old fellow, and I have little
doubt that my ancestor was a young ruffian,” coolly answered the Master
of Glenbracken.

“Why?” was all that Ethel could say in her indignation.

“It was the normal state of Scottish gentlemen,” he answered.

“If I thought you were in earnest, I should say you did not deserve to
be a Scot.”

“And so you wish to make me out a fause Scot!”

“Ogilvie!” called Norman, “are you fighting Scottish and English battles
with Ethel there? We want you to tell us which will be the best day for
going to Blenheim.”

The rest of the evening was spent in arranging the programme of their
lionising, in which it appeared that the Scottish cousin intended to
take his full share. Ethel was not sorry, for he interested her much,
while provoking her. She was obliged to put out her full strength in
answering him, and felt, at the same time, that he was not making any
effort in using the arguments that puzzled her--she was in earnest,
while he was at play; and, though there was something teasing in this,
and she knew it partook of what her brothers called chaffing, it gave
her that sense of power on his side, which is always attractive to
women. With the knowledge that, through Norman, she had of his real
character, she understood that half, at least, of what he said was jest;
and the other half was enough in earnest to make it exciting to argue
with him.




CHAPTER IX.



     While I, thy dearest, sat apart,
     And felt thy triumphs were as mine,
     And lov’d them more than they were thine.
                                            TENNYSON.


That was a week of weeks; the most memorable week in Ethel’s life, spent
in indefatigable sight-seeing. College Chapels, Bodleian Library, Taylor
Gallery, the Museum, all were thoroughly studied, and, if Flora had not
dragged the party on, in mercy to poor George’s patience, Ethel would
never have got through a day’s work.

Indeed, Mr. Ogilvie, when annoyed at being hurried in going over
Merton Chapel with her, was heard to whisper that he acted the part of
policeman, by a perpetual “move on”; and as Ethel recollected the portly
form and wooden face of the superintendent at Stoneborough, she was
afraid that the comparison would not soon be forgotten. Norman Ogilvie
seemed to consider himself bound to their train as much as his namesake,
or, as on the second morning, Norman reported his reasoning, it was that
a man must walk about with somebody on Commemoration week, and that it
was a comfort to do so with ladies who wore their bonnets upon their
heads, instead of, like most of those he met, remind him of what Cock
Robin said to Jenny Wren in that matrimonial quarrel, when


             Robin, he grew angry,
             Hopped upon a twig--


Flora was extremely delighted, and, in matronly fashion, told her sister
that people were always respected and admired who had the strength of
mind to resist unsuitable customs. Ethel laughed in answer, and said
she thought it would take a great deal more strength of mind to go about
with her whole visage exposed to the universal gaze; and, woman-like,
they had a thorough gossip over the evils of the “backsliding”
 head-gear.

Norman had retreated from it into the window, when Flora returned to the
charge about Harvey Anderson. She had been questioning their old friend
Mr. Everard, and had learned from him that the cause of the hesitation
with which his name had been received was that he had become imbued with
some of the Rationalistic ideas current in some quarters. He seldom met
Norman May without forcing on him debates, which were subjects of great
interest to the hearers, as the two young men were considered as the
most distinguished representatives of their respective causes, among
their own immediate contemporaries. Norman’s powers of argument, his
eloquence, readiness, and clearness, were thought to rank very high,
and, in the opinion of Mr. Everard, had been of great effect in
preventing other youths from being carried away by the specious
brilliancy of his rival.

Ethel valued this testimony far above the Newdigate prize, and she was
extremely surprised by hearing Flora declare her intention of still
asking Mr. Anderson to dinner, only consulting her brother as to the
day.

“Why, Flora! ask him! Norman--”

Norman had turned away with the simple answer, “any day.”

“Norman is wiser than you are, Ethel,” said Flora. “He knows that
Stoneborough would be up in arms at any neglect from us to one of the
Andersons, and, considering the rivalship, it is the more graceful, and
becoming.”

“I do not think it right,” said Ethel stoutly; “I believe that a line
ought to be drawn, and that we ought not to associate with people who
openly tamper with their faith.”

“Never fear,” smiled Flora; “I promise you that there shall be no
debates at my table.”

Ethel felt the force of the pronoun, and, as Flora walked out of the
room, she went up to Norman, who had been resting his brow against the
window.

“It is vain to argue with her,” she said; “but, Norman, do not you think
it is clearly wrong to seek after men who desert and deny--”

She stopped short, frightened at his pale look.

He spoke in a low clear tone that seemed to thrill her with a sort of
alarm. “If the secrets of men’s hearts were probed, who could cast the
first stone?”

“I don’t want to cast stones,” she began; but he made a gesture as if he
would not hear, and, at the same moment, Mr. Ogilvie entered the room.

Had Ethel been at home, she would have pondered much over her brother’s
meaning--here she had no leisure. Not only was she fully occupied with
the new scenes around her, but her Scottish cousin took up every moment
open to conversation. He was older than Norman, and had just taken
his degree, and he talked with that superior aplomb, which a few years
bestow at their time of life, without conceit, but more hopeful and
ambitious, and with higher spirits than his cousin.

Though industrious and distinguished, he had not avoided society or
amusement, was a great cricketer and tennis-player, one of the “eight”
 whose success in the boat races was one of Norman’s prime interests,
and he told stories of frolics that reminded Ethel of her father’s old
Cambridge adventures.

He was a new variety in her eyes, and entertained her greatly. Where the
bounds of banter ended, was not easy to define, but whenever he tried
a little mystification, she either entered merrily into the humour, or
threw it over with keen wit that he kept constantly on the stretch. They
were always discovering odd, unexpected bits of knowledge in each other,
and a great deal more accordance in views and opinions than appeared on
the surface, for his enthusiasm usually veiled itself in persiflage on
hers, though he was too good and serious to carry it too far.

At Blenheim, perhaps he thought he had given an overdose of nonsense,
and made her believe, as Meta really did, that the Duchess Sarah was
his model woman; for as they walked in the park in search of Phoebe
Mayflower’s well, he gathered a fern leaf, to show her the Glenbracken
badge, and talked to her of his home, his mother, and his sister
Marjorie, and the little church in the rocky glen. He gave the history
of the stolen meetings of the little knot of churchmen during the days
of persecution, and showed a heart descended straight from the Ogilvie
who was “out with Montrose,” now that the upper structure of young
England was for a little while put aside.

After this, she took his jokes much more coolly, and made thrusts
beneath them, which he seemed to enjoy, and caused him to unfold himself
the more. She liked him all the better for finding that he thought
Norman had been a very good friend to him, and that he admired her
brother heartily, watching tenderly over his tendencies to make himself
unhappy. He confided to her that, much as he rejoiced in the defeats
of Anderson, he feared that the reading and thought consequent on the
discussions, had helped to overstrain Norman’s mind, and he was very
anxious to carry him away from all study, and toil, and make his brains
rest, and his eyes delight themselves upon Scottish mountains.

Thereupon came vivid descriptions of the scenery, especially his own
glen with the ruined tower, and ardent wishes that his cousin Ethel
could see them also, and know Marjorie. She could quite echo the wish,
Edinburgh and Loch Katrine had been the visions of her life, and now
that she had once taken the leap and left home, absence did not seem
impossible, and, with a start of delight, she hailed her own conviction
that he intended his mother to invite the party to Glenbracken.

After Norman’s visit, Mr. Ogilvie declared that he must come home with
him and pay his long-promised visit to Stoneborough. He should have come
long ago. He had been coming last winter, but the wedding had prevented
him; he had always wished to know Dr. May, whom his father well
remembered, and now nothing should keep him away!

Flora looked on amused and pleased at Ethel’s development--her
abruptness softened into piquancy, and her countenance so embellished,
that the irregularity only added to the expressiveness. There was no
saying what Ethel would come to! She had not said that she would not go
to the intended ball, and her grimaces at the mention of it were growing
fainter every day.

The discussion about Harvey Anderson was never revived; Flora sent
the invitation without another word--he came with half a dozen other
gentlemen--Ethel made him a civil greeting, but her head was full of
boats and the procession day, about which Mr. Ogilvie was telling her,
and she thought of him no more.

“A lucky step!” thought Flora. “A grand thing for Ethel--a capital
connection for us all. Lady Glenbracken will not come too much into my
sphere either. Yes, I am doing well by my sisters.”

It would make stay-at-home people giddy to record how much pleasure,
how much conversation and laughter were crowded into those ten days, and
with much thought and feeling beside them, for these were not girls on
whom grave Oxford could leave no impression but one of gaiety.

The whole party was very full of merriment. Norman May, especially, on
whom Flora contrived to devolve that real leadership of conversation
that should rightly have belonged to George Rivers, kept up the ball
with wit and drollery far beyond what he usually put forth; enlivened
George into being almost an agreeable man, and drew out little Meta’s
vivacity into sunny sparkles.

Meta generally had Norman for her share, and seemed highly contented
with his lionisings, which were given much more quietly and copiously
than those which his cousin bestowed upon his sister. Or if there were
anything enterprising to be done, any tower to be mounted, or anything
with the smallest spice of danger in it, Meta was charmed, and with her
lightness and airiness of foot and figure, and perfectly feminine ways,
showed a spirit of adventure that added to the general diversion. But if
she were to be helped up or down anywhere, she certainly seemed to
find greater security in Norman May’s assistance, though it was but a
feather-like touch that she ever used to aid her bounding step.

Both as being diffident, and, in a manner at home, Norman was not as
constantly her cavalier as was Mr. Ogilvie to his sister; and, when
supplanted, his wont was either to pioneer for Flora, or, if she did not
need him, to walk alone, grave and abstracted. There was a weight on his
brow, when nothing was going on to drive it away, and whether it were
nervousness as to the performance in store for him, anxiety about Harry,
or, as Mr. Ogilvie said, too severe application; some burden hung upon
him, that was only lightened for the time by his participation in the
enjoyment of the party.

On Sunday evening, when they had been entering into the almost
vision-like delight of the choicest of music, and other accompaniments
of church service, they went to walk in Christchurch Meadows. They
had begun altogether by comparing feelings--Ethel wondering whether
Stoneborough Minster would ever be used as it might be, and whether, if
so, they should be practically the better for it; and proceeding with
metaphysics on her side, and satire on Norman Ogilvie’s, to speculate
whether that which is, is best, and the rights and wrongs of striving
for change and improvements, what should begin from above, and what from
beneath--with illustrations often laughter-moving, though they were
much in earnest, as the young heir of Glenbracken looked into his future
life.

Flora had diverged into wondering who would have the living after poor
old Mr. Ramsden, and walked, keeping her husband amused with instances
of his blunders.

Meta, as with Norman she parted from the rest, thought her own dear
Abbotstoke church, and Mr Charles Wilmot, great subjects for content and
thanksgiving, though it was a wonderful treat to see and hear such as
she had enjoyed to-day; and she thought it was a joy, to carry away
abidingly, to know that praise and worship, as near perfection as this
earth could render them, were being offered up.

Norman understood her thought, but responded by more of a sigh than was
quite comfortable.

Meta went on with her own thoughts, on the connection between worship
and good works, how the one leads to the other, and how praise with pure
lips is, after all, the great purpose of existence.--Her last thought
she spoke aloud.

“I suppose everything, our own happiness and all, are given to us to
turn into praise,” she said.

“Yes--” echoed Norman; but as if his thoughts were not quite with hers,
or rather in another part of the same subject; then recalling himself,
“Happy such as can do so.”

“If one only could--” said Meta.

“You can--don’t say otherwise,” exclaimed Norman; “I know, at least,
that you and my father can.”

“Dr. May does so, more than any one I know,” said Meta.

“Yes,” said Norman again; “it is his secret of joy. To him, it is never,
‘I am half sick of shadows’.”

“To him they are not shadows, but foretastes,” said Meta. Silence again;
and when she spoke, she said, “I have always thought it must be such a
happiness to have power of any kind that can be used in direct service,
or actual doing good.”

“No,” said Norman. “Whatever becomes a profession, becomes an
unreality.”

“Surely not, in becoming a duty,” said Meta.

“Not for all,” he answered; “but where the fabric erected by ourselves,
in the sight of the world, is but an outer case, a shell of mere words,
blown up for the occasion, strung together as mere language;
then, self-convicted, we shrink within the husk, and feel our own
worthlessness and hypocrisy.”

“As one feels in reproving the school children for behaving ill at
church?” said Meta.

“You never felt anything approaching to it!” said Norman. “To know
oneself to be such a deception, that everything else seems a delusion
too!”

“I don’t know whether that is metaphysical,” said Meta, “but I am sure
I don’t understand it. One must know oneself to be worse than one knows
any one else to be.”

“I could not wish you to understand,” said Norman; and yet he seemed
impelled to go on; for, after a hesitating silence, he added, “When the
wanderer in the desert fears that the spring is but a mirage; or when
all that is held dear is made hazy or distorted by some enchanter, what
do you think are the feelings, Meta?”

“It must be dreadful,” she said, rather bewildered; “but he may know
it is a delusion, if he can but wake. Has he not always a spell, a
charm?--”

“What is the spell?” eagerly said Norman, standing still.

“Believe--” said Meta, hardly knowing how she came to choose the words.

“I believe!” he repeated. “What--when we go beyond the province of
reason--human, a thing of sense after all! How often have I so answered.
But Meta, when a man has been drawn, in self-sufficient security, to
look into a magic mirror, and cannot detach his eyes from the confused,
misty scene--where all that had his allegiance appears shattered,
overthrown, like a broken image, or at least unable to endure
examination, then--”

“Oh, Norman, is that the trial to any one here? I thought old Oxford was
the great guardian nurse of truth! I am sure she cannot deal in magic
mirrors or such frightful things. Do you know you are talking like a
very horrible dream?”

“I believe I am in one,” said Norman.

“To be sure you are. Wake!” said Meta, looking up, smiling in his
face. “You have read yourself into a maze, that’s all--what Mary calls,
muzzling your head; you don’t really think all this, and when you get
into the country, away from books, you will forget it. One look at our
dear old purple Welsh hills will blow away all the mists!”

“I ought not to have spoken in this manner,” said Norman sadly. “Forget
it, Meta.”

“Forget it! Of course I will. It is all nonsense, and meant to be
forgotten,” said Meta, laughing. “You will own that it is by-and-by.”

He gave a deep sigh.

“Don’t think I am unfeeling,” she said; “but I know it is all a fog
up from books, books, books--I should like to drive it off with a good
fresh gust of wind! Oh! I wish those yellow lilies would grow in our
river!”

Meta talked away gaily for the rest of the walk. She was anything but
unfeeling, but she had a confidence in Norman that forbade her to see
anything here but one of his variations of spirits, which always sank in
the hour of triumph. She put forth her brightness to enliven him, and,
in their subsequent tete-a-tetes, she avoided all that could lead to a
renewal of this conversation. Ethel would not have rested till it had
been fought out. Meta thought it so imaginary, that it had better die
for want of the aliment of words; certainly, hers could not reach an
intellect like his, and she would only soothe and amuse him. Dr. May,
mind-curer as well as body-curer, would soon be here, to put the climax
to the general joy and watch his own son.

He did arrive; quite prepared to enjoy, giving an excellent account of
both homes; Mr. Rivers very well, and the Wilmots taking care of him,
and Margaret as comfortable as usual, Mary making a most important and
capable little housekeeper, Miss Bracy as good as possible. He talked
as if they had all flourished the better for Ethel’s absence, but he had
evidently missed her greatly, as he showed, without knowing it, by his
instant eagerness to have her to himself. Even Norman, prizeman as he
was, was less wanted. There was proud affection, eager congratulation,
for him, but it was Ethel to whom he wanted to tell everything that had
passed during her absence--whom he treated as if they were meeting after
a tedious separation.

They dined rather early, and went out afterwards, to walk down the High
Street to Christchurch Meadow. Norman and Ethel had been anxious for
this; they thought it would give their father the best idea of the tout
ensemble of Oxford, and were not without hopes of beating him by his own
confession, in that standing fight between him and his sons, as to the
beauties of Oxford and Cambridge--a fight in which, hitherto, they had
been equally matched--neither partisan having seen the rival University.

Flora stayed at home; she owned herself fairly tired by her arduous
duties of following the two young ladies about, and was very glad
to give her father the keeping of them. Dr. May held out his arm to
Ethel--Norman secured his peculiar property. Ethel could have preferred
that it should be otherwise--Norman would have no companion but George
Rivers; how bored he would be!

All through the streets, while she was telling her father the names of
the buildings, she was not giving her whole attention; she was trying
to guess, from the sounds behind, whether Mr. Ogilvie were accompanying
them. They entered the meadows--Norman turned round, with a laugh, to
defy the doctor to talk of the Cam, on the banks of the Isis. The
party stood still--the other two gentlemen came up. They amalgamated
again--all the Oxonians conspiring to say spiteful things of the Cam,
and Dr. May making a spirited defence, in which Ethel found herself
impelled to join.

In the wide gravelled path, they proceeded in threes; George attached
himself to his sister and Norman. Mr. Ogilvie came to Ethel’s other
side, and began to point out all the various notabilities. Ethel was
happy again; her father was so much pleased and amused, with him, and he
with her father, that it was a treat to look on.

Presently Dr. May, as usual, always meeting with acquaintances, fell in
with a county neighbour, and Ethel had another pleasant aside, until her
father claimed her, and Mr. Ogilvie was absorbed among another party,
and lost to her sight.

He came to tea, but, by that time, Dr. May had established himself in
the chair which had hitherto been appropriated to her cousin, a chair
that cut her nook off from the rest of the world, and made her the
exclusive possession of the occupant. There was a most interesting
history for her to hear, of a meeting with the Town Council, which
she had left pending, when Dr. May had been battling to save the next
presentation of the living from being sold.

Few subjects could affect Ethel more nearly, yet she caught herself
missing the thread of his discourse, in trying to hear what Mr. Ogilvie
was saying to Flora about a visit to Glenbracken.

The time came for the two Balliol men to take their leave. Norman May
had been sitting very silent all the evening, and Meta, who was near
him, respected his mood. When he said good-night, he drew Ethel outside
the door. “Ethel,” he said, “only one thing: do ask my father not to put
on his spectacles to-morrow.”

“Very well,” said Ethel, half smiling; “Richard did not mind them.”

“Richard has more humility--I shall break down if he looks at me! I wish
you were all at home.”

“Thank you.”

The other Norman came out of the sitting-room at the moment, and heard
the last words.

“Never mind,” said he to Ethel, “I’ll take care of him. He shall comport
himself as if you were all at Nova Zembla. A pretty fellow to talk of
despising fame, and then get a fit of stage-fright!”

“Well, good-night,” said Norman, sighing. “It will be over to-morrow;
only remember the spectacles.”

Dr. May laughed a good deal at the request, and asked if the rest of
the party were to be blindfolded. Meta wondered that Ethel should have
mentioned the request so publicly; she was a good deal touched by it,
and she thought Dr. May ought to be so.

Good-night was said, and Dr. May put his arm round Ethel, and gave her
the kiss that she had missed for seven nights. It was very homelike,
and it brought a sudden flash of thought across Ethel! What had she been
doing? She had been impatient of her father’s monopoly of her!

She parted with Flora, and entered the room she shared with Meta, where
Bellairs waited to attend her little mistress. Few words passed between
the two girls, and those chiefly on the morrow’s dress. Meta had some
fixed ideas--she should wear pink. Norman had said he liked her pink
bonnet, and then she could put down her white veil, so that he could be
certain that she was not looking; Ethel vaguely believed Flora meant to
wear--something--

Bellairs went away, and Meta gave expression to her eager hope that
Norman would go through it well. If he would only read it as he did last
Easter to her and Ethel.

“He will,” said Ethel. “This nervousness always wears off when it comes
to the point, and he warms with his subject.”

“Oh! but think of all the eyes looking at him!”

“Our’s are all that he really cares for, and he will think of none of
them, when he begins. No, Meta, you must not encourage him in it. Papa
says, if he did not think it half morbid--the result of the shock to his
nerves--he should be angry with it as a sort of conceit!”

“I should have thought that the last thing to be said of Norman!” said
Meta, with a little suppressed indignation.

“It was once in his nature,” said Ethel; “and I think it is the fault
he most beats down. There was a time, before you knew him, when he would
have been vain and ambitious.”

“Then it is as they say, conquered faults grow to be the opposite
virtues!” said Meta. “How very good he is, Ethel; one sees it more when
he is with other people, and one hears all these young men’s stories!”

“Everything Norman does not do, is not therefore wrong,” said Ethel,
with her usual lucidity of expression.

“Don’t you like him the better for keeping out of all these follies?”

“Norman does not call them so, I am sure.”

“No, he is too good to condemn--”

“It is not only that,” said Ethel. “I know papa thinks that the first
grief, coming at his age, and in the manner it did, checked and subdued
his spirits, so that he has little pleasure in those things. And he
always meant to be a clergyman, which acted as a sort of consecration on
him; but many things are innocent; and I do believe papa would like it
better, if Norman were less grave.”

“Yes,” said Meta, remembering the Sunday talk, “but still, he would not
be all he is--so different from others--”

“Of course, I don’t mean less good, only, less grave,” said Ethel, “and
certainly less nervous. But, perhaps, it is a good thing; dear mamma
thought his talents would have been a greater temptation than they seem
to be, subdued as he has been. I only meant that you must not condemn
all that Norman does not do. Now, goodnight.”

Very different were the feelings with which those two young girls
stretched themselves in their beds that night. Margaret Rivers’s
innocent, happy little heart was taken up in one contemplation.
Admiration, sympathy, and the exultation for him, which he would not
feel for himself, drew little Meta entirely out of herself--a self that
never held her much. She was proud of the slender thread of connection
between them; she was confident that his vague fancies were but the
scruples of a sensitive mind, and, as she fell sound asleep, she
murmured broken lines of Decius, mixed with promises not to look.

Etheldred heard them, for there was no sleep for her. She had a parley
to hold with herself, and to accuse her own feelings of having been
unkind, ungrateful, undutiful towards her father. What had a fit of
vanity brought her to? that she should have been teased by what would
naturally have been her greatest delight! her father’s pleasure in being
with her. Was this the girl who had lately vowed within herself that her
father should be her first earthly object?

At first, Ethel blamed herself for her secret impatience, but another
conviction crossed her, and not an unpleasing one, though it made her
cheeks tingle with maidenly shame, at having called it up. Throughout
this week, Norman Ogilvie had certainly sought her out. He had looked
disappointed this evening--there was no doubt that he was attracted by
her--by her, plain, awkward Ethel! Such a perception assuredly never
gave so much pleasure to a beauty as it did to Ethel, who had always
believed herself far less good-looking than she really was. It was a
gleam of delight, and, though she set herself to scold it down, the
conviction was elastic, and always leaped up again.

That resolution came before her, but it had been unspoken; it could not
be binding, and, if her notion were really right, the misty brilliant
future of mutual joy dazzled her! But there was another side: her father
oppressed and lonely, Margaret ill and pining, Mary, neither companion
nor authority, the children running wild; and she, who had mentally
vowed never to forsake her father, far away, enjoying her own happiness.
“Ah! that resolve had seemed easy enough when it was made, when,”
 thought Ethel, “I fancied no one could care for me! Shame on me! Now is
the time to test it! I must go home with papa.”

It was a great struggle--on one side there was the deceitful guise of
modesty, telling her it was absurd to give so much importance to the
kindness of the first cousin with whom she had ever been thrown; there
was the dislike to vex Flora to make a discussion, and break up the
party. There was the desire to hear the concert, to go to the breakfast
at ---- College, to return round by Warwick Castle, and Kenilworth, as
designed. Should she lose all this for a mere flattering fancy? She, who
had laughed at Miss Boulder, for imagining every one who spoke to
her was smitten. What reason could she assign? It would be simply
ridiculous, and unkind--and it was so very pleasant. Mr. Ogilvie would
be too wise to think of so incongruous a connection, which would be so
sure to displease his parents. It was more absurd than ever to think of
it. The heir of Glenbracken, and a country physician’s daughter!

That was a candid heart which owned that its own repugnance to accept
this disparity as an objection, was an additional evidence that she
ought to flee from further intercourse. She believed that no harm was
done yet; she was sure that she loved her father better than anything
else in the world, and whilst she did so, it was best to preserve her
heart for him. Widowed as he was, she knew that he would sorely miss
her, and that for years to come, she should be necessary at home. She
had better come away while it would cost only a slight pang, for that it
was pain to leave Norman Ogilvie, was symptom enough of the need of not
letting her own silly heart go further. However it might be with him,
another week would only make it worse with her.

“I will go home with papa!” was the ultimatum reached by each chain of
mental reasonings, and borne in after each short prayer for guidance, as
Ethel tossed about listening to the perpetual striking of all the Oxford
clocks, until daylight had begun to shine in; when she fell asleep, and
was only waked by Meta, standing over her with a sponge, looking very
mischievous, as she reminded her of their appointment with Dr. May, to
go to the early service in New College Chapel.

The world looked different that morning with Ethel, but the
determination was fixed, and the service strengthened it. She was so
silent during the walk, that her companions rallied her, and they both
supposed she was anxious about Norman; but taking her opportunity, when
Meta was gone to prepare for breakfast, she rushed, in her usual
way, into the subject. “Papa! if you please, I should like to go home
to-morrow with you.”

“Eh?” said the doctor, amazed. “How is this? I told you that Miss Bracy
and Mary are doing famously.”

“Yes, but I had rather go back.”

“Indeed!” and Dr. May looked at the door, and spoke low. “They make you
welcome, I hope--”

“Oh, yes! nothing can be kinder.”

“I am glad to hear it. This Rivers is such a lout, that I could not tell
how it might be. I did not look to see you turn homesick all at once.”

Ethel smiled. “Yes, I have been very happy; but please, papa, ask no
questions--only take me home.”

“Come! it is all a homesick fit, Ethel--never fear the ball. Think of
the concert. If it were not for that poor baby of Mrs. Larkins, I should
stay myself to hear Sonntag again. You won’t have such another chance.”

“I know, but I think I ought to go--”

George came in, and they could say no more. Both were silent on the
subject at breakfast, but when afterwards Flora seized on Ethel, to
array her for the theatre, she was able to say, “Flora, please don’t be
angry with me--you have been very kind to me, but I mean to go home with
papa to-morrow.”

“I declare!” said Flora composedly, “you are as bad as the children
at the infant school, crying to go home the instant they see their
mothers!”

“No, Flora, but I must go. Thank you for all this pleasure, but I shall
have heard Norman’s poem, and then I must go.”

Flora turned her round, looked in her face kindly, kissed her, and said,
“My dear, never mind, it will all come right again--only, don’t run
away.”

“What will come right?”

“Any little misunderstanding with Norman Ogilvie.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Ethel, becoming scarlet.

“My dear, you need not try to hide it. I see that you have got into a
fright. You have made a discovery, but that is no reason for running
away.”

“Yes it is!” said Ethel firmly, not denying the charge, though reddening
more than ever at finding her impression confirmed.

“Poor child! she is afraid!” said Flora tenderly; “but I will take care
of you, Ethel. It is everything delightful. You are the very girl for
such a heros de Roman, and it has embellished you more than all my Paris
fineries.”

“Hush, Flora! We ought not to talk in this way, as if--”

“As if he had done more than walk with, and talk with, nobody else! How
he did hate papa last night. I had a great mind to call papa off, in
pity to him.”

“Don’t, Flora. If there were anything in it, it would not be proper to
think of it, so I am going home to prevent it.” The words were spoken
with averted face and heaving breath.

“Proper?” said Flora. “The Mays are a good old family, and our own
grandmother was an honourable Ogilvie herself. A Scottish baron, very
poor too, has no right to look down--”

“They shall not look down. Flora, it is of no use to talk. I cannot be
spared from home, and I will not put myself in the way of being tempted
to forsake them all.”

“Tempted!” said Flora, laughing. “Is it such a wicked thing?”

“Not in others, but it would be wrong in me, with such a state of things
as there is at home.”

“I do not suppose he would want you for some years to come. He is only
two-and-twenty. Mary will grow older.”

“Margaret will either be married, or want constant care. Flora, I will
not let myself be drawn from them.”

“You may think so now; but it would be for their real good to relieve
papa of any of us. If we were all to think as you do, how should we
live? I don’t know--for papa told me there will be barely ten thousand
pounds, besides the houses, and what will that be among ten? I am not
talking of yourself, but think of the others!”

“I know papa will not be happy without me, and I will not leave him,”
 repeated Ethel, not answering the argument.

Flora changed her ground, and laughed. “We are getting into the
heroics,” she said, “when it would be very foolish to break up our
plans, only because we have found a pleasant cousin. There is nothing
serious in it, I dare say. How silly of us to argue on such an idea!”

Meta came in before Flora could say more, but Ethel, with burning
cheeks, repeated, “It will be safer!”

Ethel had, meantime, been dressed by her sister; and, as Bellairs came
to adorn Meta, and she could have no solitude, she went downstairs,
thinking she heard Norman’s step, and hoping to judge of his mood.

She entered the room with an exclamation, “Oh, Norman!”

“At your service!” said the wrong Norman, looking merrily up from behind
a newspaper.

“Oh, I beg your pardon; I thought--”

“Your thoughts were quite right,” he said, smiling. “Your brother
desires me to present his respects to his honoured family, and to inform
them that his stock of assurance is likely to be diminished by the
pleasure of their company this morning.”

“How is he?” asked Ethel anxiously.

“Pretty fair. He has blue saucers round his eyes, as he had before he
went up for his little go.”

“Oh, I know them,” said Ethel.

“Very odd,” continued her cousin; “when the end always is, that he says
he has the luck of being set on in the very place he knows best. But I
think it has expended itself in a sleepless night, and I have no fears,
when he comes to the point.”

“What is he doing?”

“Writing to his brother Harry. He said it was the day for the Pacific
mail, and that Harry’s pleasure would be the best of it.”

“Ah!” said Ethel, glancing towards the paper, “is there any naval
intelligence?”

He looked; and while she was thinking whether she ought not to depart,
he exclaimed, in a tone that startled her, “Ha! No. Is your brother’s
ship the Alcestis?”

“Yes! Oh, what?”

“Nothing then, I assure you. See, it is merely this--she has not come
into Sydney so soon as expected, which you knew before. That is all.”

“Let me see,” said the trembling Ethel.

It was no more than an echo of their unconfessed apprehensions, yet it
seemed to give them a body; and Ethel’s thoughts flew to Margaret. Her
going home would be absolutely necessary now. Mr. Ogilvie kindly began
to talk away her alarm, saying that there was still no reason for
dread, mentioning the many causes that might have delayed the ship, and
reassuring her greatly.

“But Norman!” she said.

“Ah! true. Poor May! He will break down to a certainty if he hears it. I
will go at once, and keep guard over him, lest he should meet with this
paper. But pray, don’t be alarmed. I assure you there is no cause. You
will have letters to-morrow.”

Ethel would fain have thrown off her finery and hurried home at once,
but no one regarded the matter as she did. Dr. May agreed with Flora
that it was no worse than before, and though they now thought Ethel’s
return desirable, on Margaret’s account, it would be better not to add
to the shock by a sudden arrival, especially as they took in no daily
paper at home. So the theatre was not to be given up, nor any of the
subsequent plans, except so far as regarded Ethel; and, this agreed,
they started for the scene of action.

They were hardly in the street before they met the ubiquitous Mr.
Ogilvie, saying that Cheviot, Norman’s prompter, was aware of the
report, and was guarding him, while he came to escort the ladies,
through what he expressively called “the bear fight.” Ethel resolutely
adhered to her father, and her cousin took care of Meta, who had been
clinging in a tiptoe manner to the point of her brother’s high elbow,
looking as if the crowd might easily brush off such a little fly,
without his missing her.

Inch by inch, a step at a time, the ladies were landed in a crowd of
their own sex, where Flora bravely pioneered; they emerged on their
benches, shook themselves out, and seated themselves. There was the
swarm of gay ladies around them, and beneath the area, fast being paved
with heads, black, brown, gray, and bald, a surging living sea, where
Meta soon pointed out Dr. May and George; the mere sight of such masses
of people was curious and interesting, reminding Ethel of Cherry Elwood
having once shocked her by saying the Whit-Monday club was the most
beautiful sight in the whole year. And above! that gallery of trampling
undergraduates, and more than trampling! Ethel and Meta could, at first,
have found it in their hearts to be frightened at those thundering
shouts, but the young ladies were usually of opinions so similar,
that the louder grew the cheers, the more they laughed and exulted, so
carried along that no cares could be remembered.

Making a way through the thronged area, behold the procession of
scarlet doctors, advancing through the midst, till the red and black
vice-chancellor sat enthroned in the centre, and the scarlet line became
a semicircle, dividing the flower-garden of ladies from the black mass
below.

Then came the introduction of the honorary doctors, one by one, with
the Latin speech, which Ethel’s companions unreasonably required her to
translate to them, while she was using all her ears to catch a word or
two, and her eyes to glimpse at the features of men of note.

By-and-by a youth made his appearance in the rostrum, and a good deal of
Latin ensued, of which Flora hoped Ethel was less tired than she was.
In time, however, Meta saw the spectacles removed, and George looking
straight up, and she drew down her veil, and took hold of Flora’s hand,
and Ethel flushed like a hot coal. Nevertheless, all contrived to see
a tall figure, with face much flushed, and hands moving nervously. The
world was tired, and people were departing, so that the first lines were
lost, perhaps a satisfaction to Norman; but his voice soon cleared and
became louder, his eyes lighted, and Ethel knew the “funny state” had
come to his relief--people’s attention was arrested--there was no more
going away.

It was well that Norman was ignorant of the fears for Harry, for
four lines had been added since Ethel had seen the poem, saying how
self-sacrifice sent forth the sailor-boy from home, to the lone watch,
the wave and storm, his spirit rising high, ere manhood braced his form.

Applause did not come where Ethel had expected it, and, at first,
there was silence at the close, but suddenly the acclamations rose with
deafening loudness, though hardly what greets some poems with more to
catch the popular ear.

Ethel’s great excitement was over, and presently she found herself
outside of the theatre, a shower falling, and an umbrella held over
her by Mr. Ogilvie, who was asking her if it was not admirable, and
declaring the poem might rank with Heber’s ‘Palestine’, or Milman’s
‘Apollo’.

They were bound for a great luncheon at one of the colleges, where Ethel
might survey the Principal with whom Miss Rich had corresponded.
Mr. Ogilvie sat next to her, told her all the names, and quizzed the
dignitaries, but she had a sense of depression, and did not wish to
enter into the usual strain of banter. He dropped his lively tone,
and drew her out about Harry, till she was telling eagerly of her dear
sailor brother, and found him so sympathising and considerate, that she
did not like him less; though she felt her intercourse with him a sort
of intoxication, that would only make it the worse for her by-and-by.

During that whole luncheon, and their walk through the gardens, where
there was a beautiful horticultural show, something was always prompting
her to say, while in this quasi-privacy, that she was on the eve of
departure, but she kept her resolution against it--she thought it would
have been an unwarrantable experiment. When they returned to their inn
they found Norman looking fagged, but relieved, half asleep on the sofa,
with a novel in his hand. He roused himself as they came in, and, to
avoid any compliments on his own performance, began, “Well, Ethel, are
you ready for the ball?”

“We shall spare her the ball,” said Dr. May; “there is a report about
the Alcestis in the newspaper that may make Margaret uncomfortable, and
this good sister will not stay away from her.”

Norman started up crying, “What, papa?”

“It is a mere nothing in reality,” said Dr. May, “only what we knew
before;” and he showed his son the paragraph, which Norman read as a
death warrant; the colour ebbed from his lips and cheeks; he trembled so
that he was obliged to sit down, and, without speaking, he kept his eyes
fixed on the words, “Serious apprehensions are entertained with regard
to H. M. S. Alcestis, Captain Gordon--”

“If you had seen as many newspaper reports come to nothing, as I have,
you would not take this so much to heart,” said Dr. May. “I expect to
hear that this very mail has brought letters.”

And Meta added that, at luncheon, she had been seated next to one of the
honorary doctors--a naval captain--who had been making discoveries in
the South Sea, and that he had scouted the notion of harm befalling
the Alcestis, and given all manner of reassuring suppositions as to her
detention, adding besides, that no one believed the Australian paper
whence the report was taken. He had seen the Alcestis, knew Captain
Gordon, and spoke of him as one of the safest people in the world. Had
his acquaintance extended to lieutenants and midshipmen, it would have
been perfect; as it was, the tidings brought back the blood to Norman’s
cheek, and the light to his eye.

“When do we set off?” was Norman’s question.

“At five,” said Ethel. “You mean it, papa?”

“I did intend it, if I had gone alone, but I shall not take you till
eight; nor you, Norman, at all.”

Norman was bent on returning, but his father and Flora would not hear of
it. Flora could not spare him, and Dr. May was afraid of the effect of
anxiety on nerves and spirits so sensitive. While this was going on,
Mr. Ogilvie looked at Ethel in consternation, and said, “Are you really
going home?”

“Yes, my eldest sister must not be left alone when she hears this.”

He looked down--Ethel had the resolution to walk away. Flora could not
give up the ball, and Meta found that she must go; but both the Normans
spent a quiet evening with Dr. May and Ethel. Norman May had a bad
headache, which he was allowed to have justly earned; Dr. May was very
happy reviving all his Scottish recollections, and talking to young
Ogilvie about Edinburgh. Once, there was a private consultation. Ethel
was provoked and ashamed at the throbs that it would excite. What! on a
week’s acquaintance?

When alone with her father, she began to nerve herself for something
heroic, and great was her shame when she heard only of her cousin’s kind
consideration for her brother, whom he wished to take home with him, and
thence to see the Highlands, so as to divert his anxiety for Harry, as
well as to call him off from the studies with which he had this term
overworked himself even more than usual. Dr. May had given most grateful
consent, and he spoke highly in praise of the youth; but there was no
more to come, and Ethel could have beaten herself for the moment of
anticipation.

Meta came home, apologising for wakening Ethel; but Ethel had not been
asleep. The ball had not, it seemed, been as charming to her as most
events were, and Ethel heard a sigh as the little lady lay down in her
bed.

Late as it was when she went to rest, Meta rose to see the travellers
off; she sent hosts of messages to her father, and wished she might go
with them. George and Flora were not visible, and Dr. May was leaving
messages for them, and for Norman, in her charge, when the two Balliol
men walked in.

Ethel had hoped it was over, yet she could not be sorry that the two
youths escorted them to the station, and, as Ethel was placed in
the carriage, she believed that she heard something of never
forgetting--happiest week--but in the civilities which the other
occupant of the carriage was offering for the accommodation of their
lesser luggage, she lost the exact words, and the last she heard were,
“Good-bye; I hope you will find letters at home.”




CHAPTER X.



     True to the kindred points of Heaven and home.
                                             WORDSWORTH.


Etheldred’s dream was over. She had wakened to the inside of a
Great Western carriage, her father beside her, and opposite a thin,
foreign-looking gentleman. Her father, to whom her life was to be
devoted! She looked at his profile, defined against the window, and did
not repent. In a sort of impulse to do something for him, she took his
hat from his hand, and was going to dispose of it in the roof, when he
turned, smiling his thanks, but saying, “it was not worth while--this
carriage was a very transitory resting-place.”

The stranger at that moment sprang to his feet, exclaiming, “Dick
himself!”

“Spencer, old fellow, is it you?” cried Dr. May, in a voice of equal
amazement and joy, holding out his hand, which was grasped and wrung
with a force that made Ethel shrink for the poor maimed arm.

“Ha! what is amiss with your arm?” was the immediate question. Three
technical words were spoken in a matter-of-fact way, as Dr. May replaced
his hand in his bosom, and then, with an eager smile, said, “Ethel,
here! You have heard of him!”

Ethel had indeed, and gave her hand cordially, surprised by the bow and
air of deferential politeness with which it was received, like a favour,
while Dr. Spencer asked her whether she had been staying in Oxford.

“Ay; and what for, do you think?” said Dr. May joyously.

“You don’t say that was your son who held forth yesterday! I thought his
voice had a trick of yours--but then I thought you would have held by
old Cambridge.”

“What could I do?” said Dr. May deprecatingly; “the boy would go and get
a Balliol scholarship--”

“Why! the lad is a genius! a poet--no mistake about it! but I scarcely
thought you could have one of such an age.”

“Of his age! His brother is in Holy Orders--one of his sisters is
married. There’s for you, Spencer!”

“Bless me, Dick! I thought myself a young man!”

“What! with hair of that colour?” said Dr. May, looking at his friend’s
milk-white locks.

“Bleached by that frightful sickly season at Poonshedagore, when I
thought I was done for. But you! you--the boy of the whole lot! You
think me very disrespectful to your father,” added he, turning to Ethel,
“but you see what old times are.”

“I know,” said Ethel, with a bright look.

“So you were in the theatre yesterday,” continued Dr. May; “but there is
no seeing any one in such a throng. How long have you been in England?”

“A fortnight. I went at once to see my sister, at Malvern; there I fell
in with Rudden, the man I was with in New Guinea. He was going up to be
made an honorary doctor, and made me come with him.”

“And where are you bound for?” as the train showed signs of a halt.

“For London. I meant to hunt up Mat. Fleet, and hear of you, and other
old friends.”

“Does he expect you?”

“No one expects me. I am a regular vagabond.”

“Come home with us,” said Dr. May, laying his hand on his arm. “I cannot
part with you so soon. Come, find your luggage. Take your ticket for
Gloucester.”

“So suddenly! Will it not be inconvenient?” said he, looking tempted,
but irresolute.

“Oh, no, no; pray come!” said Ethel eagerly. “We shall be so glad.”

He looked his courteous thanks, and soon was with them en-route for
Stoneborough.

Ethel’s thoughts were diverted from all she had left at Oxford. She
could not but watch those two old friends. She knew enough of the
traveller to enter into her father’s happiness, and to have no fears is
of another Sir Matthew.

They had been together at Stoneborough, at Cambridge, at Paris, at
Edinburgh, always linked in the closest friendship; but, by Dr. May’s
own account, his friend had been the diligent one of the pair, a bright
compound of principle and spirit, and highly distinguished in all his
studies, and Dr. May’s model of perfection. Their paths had since lain
far apart, and they had not seen each other since, twenty-six years ago,
they had parted in London--the one to settle at his native town, while
the other accepted a situation as travelling physician. On his return,
he had almost sacrificed his life, by self-devoted attendance on a
fever-stricken emigrant-ship. He had afterwards received an appointment
in India, and there the correspondence had died away, and Dr. May had
lost traces of him, only knowing that, in a visitation of cholera, he
had again acted with the same carelessness of his own life, and a
severe illness, which had broken up his health, had occasioned him to
relinquish his post.

It now appeared that he had thought himself coming home ever since.
He had gone to recruit in the Himalayas, and had become engrossed in
scientific observations on their altitudes, as well as investigations in
natural history. Going to Calcutta, he had fallen in with a party about
to explore the Asiatic islands and he had accompanied them, as well
as going on an expedition into the interior of Australia. He had been
employed in various sanitary arrangements there and in India, and
had finally worked his way slowly home, overland, visiting Egypt and
Palestine, and refreshing his memory with every Italian, German, or
French Cathedral, or work of art, that had delighted him in early days.

He was a slight small man, much sunburned, nearly bald, and his hair
snowy, but his eyes were beautiful, very dark, soft, and smiling,
and yet their gaze peculiarly keen and steady, as if ready for any
emergency, and his whole frame was full of alertness and vigour. His
voice was clear and sweet, and his manner most refined and polished,
indeed, his courtesy to Ethel, whenever there was a change of carriage,
was so exemplary, that she understood it as the effect on a chivalrous
mind, of living where a lady was a rare and precious article. It
frightened Ethel a little at first, but, before the end of the journey,
she had already begun to feel towards him like an old friend--one of
those inheritances who are so much valued and loved, like a sort of
uncles-in-friendship. She had an especial grateful honour for the
delicate tact which asked no questions, as she saw his eye often falling
anxiously on her father’s left hand, where the wedding ring shone upon
the little finger.

There was talk enough upon his travels, on public changes, and on
old friends; but, after those first few words, home had never been
mentioned.

When, at five o’clock, the engine blew its whistle, at the old familiar
station, Dr. May had scarcely put his head out before Adams hastened up
to him with a note.

“All well at home?”

“Yes, sir, Miss Margaret sent up the gig.”

“I must go at once,” said Dr May hastily--“the Larkins’ child is worse.
Ethel, take care of him, and introduce him. Love to Margaret. I’ll be at
home before tea.”

He was driven off at speed, and Ethel proposed to walk home. Dr Spencer
gave her his arm, and was silent, but presently said, in a low, anxious
voice, “My dear, you must forgive me, I have heard nothing for many
years. Your mother--”

“It was an accident,” said Ethel looking straight before her. “It was
when papa’s arm was hurt. The carriage was over-turned.”

“And--” repeated Dr Spencer earnestly

“She was killed on the spot,” said Ethel, speaking shortly, and
abruptly. If she was to say it at all, she could not do so otherwise.

He was dreadfully shocked--she knew it by the shudder of his arm, and a
tight suppressed groan. He did not speak, and Ethel, as if a relief from
the silence must be made, said what was not very consoling, and equally
blunt. “Margaret had some harm done to her spine--she cannot walk.”

He did not seem to hear, but walked on, as in a dream, where Ethel
guided him, and she would not interrupt him again.

They had just passed Mr Bramshaw’s office, when a voice was heard
behind, calling, “Miss Ethel! Miss Ethel!” and Edward Anderson, now
articled to Mr. Bramshaw, burst out, pen in hand, and looking shabby and
inky.

“Miss Ethel!” he said breathlessly, “I beg your pardon, but have you
heard from Harry?”

“No!” said Ethel. “Have they had that paper at home?”

“Not that I know of,” said Edward. “My mother wanted to send it, but I
would not take it--not while Dr. May was away.”

“Thank you--that was very kind of you.”

“And oh! Miss Ethel, do you think it is true?”

“We hope not,” said Ethel kindly--“we saw a Captain at Oxford who
thought it not at all to be depended on.”

“I am so glad,” said Edward; and, shaking hands, he went back to his
high stool, Ethel feeling that he deserved the pains that Norman
had taken to spare and befriend him. She spoke to her companion in
explanation. “We are very anxious for news of my next brother’s ship,
Alcestis, in the Pacific--”

“More!” exclaimed poor Dr. Spencer, almost overpowered; “Good Heavens! I
thought May, at least, was happy!”

“He is not unhappy,” said Ethel, not sorry that they had arrived at the
back entrance of the shrubbery.

“How long ago was this?” said he, standing still, as soon as they had
passed into the garden.

“Four years, next October. I assure you, his spirits are almost always
good.”

“When I was at Adelaide, little thinking!” he sighed, then recollecting
himself. “Forgive me, I have given you pain.”

“No,” she said, “or rather, I gave you more.”

“I knew her--” and there he broke off, paused for a minute, then
collecting himself, seemed resolutely to turn away from the subject, and
said, walking on, “This garden is not much altered.”

At that moment, a little shrill voice broke out in remonstrance among
the laurels--“But you know, Daisy, you are the captain of the forty
thieves!”

“A startling announcement!” said Dr. Spencer, looking at Ethel, and the
next two steps brought them in view of the play-place in the laurels,
where Aubrey lay on the ground, feigning sleep, but keeping a watchful
eye over Blanche, who was dropping something into the holes of inverted
flower-pots, Gertrude dancing about in a way that seemed to have called
for the reproof of the more earnest actors.

“Ethel! Ethel!” screamed the children, with one voice, and, while the
two girls stood in shyness at her companion, Aubrey had made a dart at
her neck, and hung upon her, arms, legs, body, and all, like a wild cat.

“That will do! that will do, old man--let go! Speak to Dr. Spencer, my
dear.”

Blanche did so demurely, and asked where was papa?

“Coming, as soon as he has been to Mrs. Larkins’s poor baby.”

“George Larkins has been here,” said Aubrey. “And I have finished
‘Vipera et lima’, Ethel, but Margaret makes such false quantities!”

“What is your name, youngster?” said Dr. Spencer, laying his hand on
Aubrey’s head.

“Aubrey Spencer May,” was the answer.

“Hey day! where did you steal my name?” exclaimed Dr. Spencer, while
Aubrey stood abashed at so mysterious an accusation.

“Oh!” exclaimed Blanche, seizing on Ethel, and whispering, “is it really
the boy that climbed the market cross?”

“You see your fame lives here,” said Ethel, smiling, as Dr. Spencer
evidently heard.

“He was a little boy!” said Aubrey indignantly, looking at the
gray-haired man.

“There!” said Ethel to Dr. Spencer.

“The tables turned!” he said, laughing heartily. “But do not let me keep
you. You would wish to prepare your sister for a stranger, and I shall
improve my acquaintance here. Where are the forty thieves?”

“I am all of them,” said the innocent, daisy-faced Gertrude; and Ethel
hastened towards the house, glad of the permission granted by his true
good-breeding.

There was a shriek of welcome from Mary, who sat working beside
Margaret. Ethel was certain that no evil tidings had come to her eldest
sister, so joyous was her exclamation of wonder and rebuke to her
home-sick Ethel. “Naughty girl! running home at once! I did think you
would have been happy there!”

“So I was,” said Ethel hastily; “but who do you think I have brought
home?” Margaret flushed with such a pink, that Ethel resolved never to
set her guessing again, and hurried to explain; and having heard that
all was well, and taken her housekeeping measures, she proceeded to
fetch the guest; but Mary, who had been unusually silent all this time,
ran after her, and checked her.

“Ethel, have you heard?” she said.

“Have you?” said Ethel.

“George Larkins rode in this morning to see when papa would come home,
and he told me. He said I had better not tell Margaret, for he did not
believe it.”

“And you have not! That is very good of you, Mary.”

“Oh! I am glad you are come! I could not have helped telling, if you had
been away a whole week! But, Ethel, does papa believe it?” Poor Mary’s
full lip swelled, and her eyes swam, ready to laugh or weep, in full
faith in her sister’s answer.

Ethel told of Meta’s captain, and the smile predominated, and settled
down into Mary’s usual broad beamy look, like a benignant rising sun
on the sign of an inn, as Ethel praised her warmly for a fortitude and
consideration of which she had not thought her capable.

Dr. Spencer was discovered full in the midst of the comedy of the forty
thieves, alternating, as required, between the robber-captain and the
ass, and the children in perfect ecstasies with him.

They all followed in his train to the drawing-room, and were so
clamorous, that he could have no conversation with Margaret. He
certainly made them so, but Ethel, remembering what a blow her
disclosures had been, thought it would be only a kindness to send Aubrey
to show him to his room, where he might have some peace.

She was not sorry to be very busy, so as to have little time to reply
to the questions on the doings at Oxford, and the cause of her sudden
return; and yet it would have been a comfort to be able to sit down
to understand herself, and recall her confused thoughts. But solitary
reflection was a thing only to be hoped for in that house in bed, and
Ethel was obliged to run up and down, and attend to everybody, under
an undefined sense that she had come home to a dull, anxious world of
turmoil.

Margaret seemed to guess nothing, that was one comfort; she evidently
thought that her return was fully accounted for by the fascination of
her papa’s presence in a strange place. She gave Ethel no credit for
the sacrifice, naturally supposing that she could not enjoy herself
away from home. Ethel did not know whether to be glad or not; she was
relieved, but it was flat. As to Norman Ogilvie, one or two inquiries
whether she liked him, and if Norman were going to Scotland with him,
were all that passed, and it was very provoking to be made so hot and
conscious by them.

She could not begin to dress till late, and while she was unpacking, she
heard her father come home, among the children’s loud welcomes, and
go to the drawing-room. He presently knocked at the door between their
rooms.

“So Margaret does not know?” he said.

“No, Mary has been so very good;” and she told what had passed.

“Well done, Mary, I must tell her so. She is a good girl on a pinch, you
see!”

“And we don’t speak of it now? Or will it hurt Margaret more to think we
keep things from her?”

“That is the worst risk of the two. I have seen great harm done in that
way. Mention it, but without seeming to make too much of it.”

“Won’t you, papa?”

“You had better--it will seem of less importance. I think nothing of it
myself.”

Nevertheless, Ethel saw that he could not trust himself to broach the
subject to Margaret.

“How was the Larkins’ baby?”

“Doing better. What have you done with Spencer?”

“I put him into Richard’s room. The children were eating him up! He is
so kind to them.”

“Ay! I say, Ethel, that was a happy consequence of your coming home with
me.”

“What a delightful person he is!”

“Is he not? A true knight errant, as he always was! I could not tell you
what I owed to him as a boy--all my life, I may say. Ethel,” he added
suddenly: “we must do our best to make him happy here. I know it now--I
never guessed it then, but one is very hard and selfish when one is
happy--”

“What do you mean, papa?”

“I see it now,” continued Dr. May incoherently; “the cause of his
wandering life--advantages thrown aside. He! the most worthy. Things
I little heeded at the time have come back on me! I understand why he
banished himself!”

“Why?” asked Ethel bewildered.

“She never had an idea of it; but I might have guessed from what fell
from him unconsciously, for not a word would he have said--nor did he
say, to show how he sacrificed himself!”

“Who was it? Aunt Flora?” said Ethel, beginning to collect his meaning.

“No, Ethel, it was your own dear mother! You will think this another
romantic fancy of mine, but I am sure of it.”

“So am I,” said Ethel.

“How--what? Ah! I remembered after we parted that he might know
nothing--”

“He asked me,” said Ethel.

“And how did he bear it?”

Ethel told, and the tears filled her father’s eyes.

“It was wrong and cruel in me to bring him home unprepared! and then to
leave it to you. I always forget other people’s feelings. Poor Spencer!
And now, Ethel, you see what manner of man we have here, and how we
ought to treat him.”

“Indeed I do!”

“The most unselfish--the most self-sacrificing--” continued Dr. May.
“And to see what it all turned on! I happened to have this place open to
me--the very cause, perhaps, of my having taken things easy--and so the
old Professor threw opportunities in my way; while Aubrey Spencer, with
every recommendation that man could have, was set aside, and exiled
himself, leaving the station, and all he might so easily have gained.
Ah, Ethel, Sir Matthew Fleet never came near him in ability. But not one
word to interfere with me would he say, and--how I have longed to meet
him again, after parting in my selfish, unfeeling gladness; and now I
have nothing to do for him, but show him how little I was to be trusted
with her.”

Ethel never knew how to deal with these occasional bursts of grief, but
she said that she thought Dr. Spencer was very much pleased to have met
with him, and delighted with the children.

“Ah! well, you are her children,” said Dr. May, with his hand on Ethel’s
shoulder.

So they went downstairs, and found Mary making tea; and Margaret,
fearing Dr. Spencer was overwhelmed with his young admirers--for Aubrey
and Gertrude were one on each knee, and Blanche standing beside him,
inflicting on him a catalogue of the names and ages of all the eleven.

“Ethel has introduced you, I see,” said Dr. May.

“Ay, I assure you, it was an alarming introduction. No sooner do I enter
your garden, than I hear that I am in the midst of the Forty Thieves.
I find a young lady putting the world to death, after the fashion of
Hamlet--and, looking about to find what I have lost, I find this urchin
has robbed me of my name--a property I supposed was always left to
unfortunate travellers, however small they might be chopped themselves.”

“Well, Aubrey boy, will you make restitution?”

“It is my name,” said Aubrey positively; for, as his father added, “He
is not without dread of the threat being fulfilled, and himself left to
be that Anon who, Blanche says, writes so much poetry.”

Aubrey privately went to Ethel, to ask her if this were possible; and
she had to reassure him, by telling him that they were “only in fun.”

It was fun with a much deeper current though; for Dr. Spencer was
saying, with a smile, between gratification and sadness, “I did not
think my name would have been remembered here so long.”

“We had used up mine, and the grandfathers’, and the uncles’, and began
to think we might look a little further a-field,” said Dr. May. “If I
had only known where you were, I would have asked you to be the varlet’s
godfather; but I was much afraid you were nowhere in the land of the
living.”

“I have but one godson, and he is coffee-coloured! I ought to have
written; but, you see, for seven years I thought I was coming home.”

Aubrey had recovered sufficiently to observe to Blanche, “That was
almost as bad as Ulysses,” which, being overheard and repeated, led to
the information that he was Ethel’s pupil, whereupon Dr. Spencer began
to inquire after the school, and to exclaim at his friend for having
deserted it in the person of Tom. Dr. May looked convicted, but said it
was all Norman’s fault; and Dr. Spencer, shaking his head at Blanche,
opined that the young gentleman was a great innovater, and that he was
sure he was at the bottom of the pulling down the Market Cross, and the
stopping up Randall’s Alley--iniquities of the “nasty people,” of which
she already had made him aware.

“Poor Norman, he suffered enough anent Randall’s Alley,” said Dr. May;
“but as to the Market Cross, that came down a year before he was born.”

“It was the Town Council!” said Ethel.

“One of the ordinary stultifications of Town Councils?”

“Take care, Spencer,” said Dr. May. “I am a Town Council man my-self--”

“You, Dick!” and he turned with a start of astonishment, and went into
a fit of laughing, re-echoed by all the young ones, who were especially
tickled by hearing, from another, the abbreviation that had, hitherto,
only lived in the favourite expletive, “As sure as my name is Dick May.”

“Of course,” said Dr. May. “‘Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou
not suspect my years? One that hath two gowns, and everything handsome
about him!’”

His friend laughed the more, and they betook themselves to the College
stories, of which the quotation from Dogberry seemed to have reminded
them.

There was something curious and affecting in their manner to each other.
Often it was the easy bantering familiarity of the two youths they had
once been together, with somewhat of elder brotherhood on Dr. Spencer’s
side--and of looking up on Dr. May’s--and just as they had recurred to
these terms, some allusion would bring back to Dr. Spencer, that the
heedless, high-spirited “Dick,” whom he had always had much ado to keep
out of scrapes, was a householder, a man of weight and influence; a
light which would at first strike him as most ludicrous, and then mirth
would end in a sigh, for there was yet another aspect! After having
thought of him so long as the happy husband of Margaret Mackenzie, he
found her place vacant, and the trace of deep grief apparent on the
countenance, once so gay--the oppression of anxiety marked on the brow,
formerly so joyous, the merriment almost more touching than gravity
would have been, for the former nature seemed rather shattered than
altered. In merging towards this side, there was a tender respect in
Dr. Spencer’s manner that was most beautiful, though this evening such
subjects were scrupulously kept at the utmost distance, by the constant
interchange of new and old jokes and stories.

Only when bed-time had come, and Margaret had been carried off--did a
silence fall on the two friends, unbroken till Dr. May rose and proposed
going upstairs. When he gave his hand to wish good-night, Dr. Spencer
held it this time most carefully, and said, “Oh, May! I did not expect
this!”

“I should have prepared you,” said his host, “but I never recollected
that you knew nothing--”

“I had dwelt on your happiness!”

“There never were two happier creatures for twenty-two years,” said Dr.
May, his voice low with emotion. “Sorrow spared her! Yes, think of her
always in undimmed brightness--always smiling as you remember her. She
was happy. She is,” he concluded. His friend had turned aside and hidden
his face with his hands, then looked up for a moment, “And you, Dick,”
 he said briefly.

“Sorrow spared her,” was Dr. May’s first answer. “And hers are very good
children!”

There was a silence again, ending in Dr. May’s saying, “What do you
think of my poor girl?”

They discussed the nature of the injury: Dr. Spencer could not feel
otherwise than that it was a very hopeless matter. Her father owned
that he had thought so from the first, and had wondered at Sir Matthew
Fleet’s opinion. His subdued tone of patience and resignation, struck
his guest above all, as changed from what he had once been.

“You have been sorely tried,” he said, when they parted at his room
door.

“I have received much good!” simply answered Dr. May. “Goodnight! I am
glad to have you here--if you can bear it.”

“Bear it? Dick! how like that girl is to you! She is yourself!”

“Such a self as I never was! Good-night.”

Ethel overcame the difficulty of giving the account of the newspaper
alarm with tolerable success, by putting the story of Meta’s
conversation foremost. Margaret did not take it to heart as much as she
had feared, nor did she appear to dwell on it afterwards. The truth was
perhaps that Dr. Spencer’s visit was to every one more of an excitement
and amusement than it was to Ethel. Not that she did not like him
extremely, but after such a week as she had been spending, the
home-world seemed rather stale and unprofitable.

Miss Bracy relapsed into a state of “feelings,” imagining that Ethel had
distrusted her capabilities, and therefore returned; or as Ethel herself
sometimes feared, there might be irritability in her own manner that
gave cause of annoyance. The children were inclined to be riotous with
their new friend, who made much of them continually, and especially
patronised Aubrey; Mary was proud of showing how much she had learned
to do for Margaret in her sister’s absence; Dr. May was so much taken up
with his friend, that Ethel saw less of him than usual, and she began to
believe that it had been all a mistake that every one was so dependent
on her, for, in fact, they did much better without her.

Meantime, she heard of the gaieties which the others were enjoying, and
she could not feel heroic when they regretted her. At the end of a week,
Meta Rivers was escorted home from Warwick by two servants, and came
to Stoneborough, giving a lively description of all the concluding
pleasures, but declaring that Ethel’s departure had taken away the zest
of the whole, and Mr. Ogilvie had been very disconsolate. Margaret
had not been prepared to hear that Mr. Ogilvie had been so constant a
companion, and was struck by finding that Ethel had passed over one
who had evidently been so great an ingredient in the delights of the
expedition. Meta had, however observed nothing--she was a great deal too
simple and too much engrossed for such notions to have crossed her mind;
but Margaret inferred something, and hoped to learn more when she should
see Flora. This would not be immediately. George and his wife were gone
to London, and thence intended to pay a round of visits; and Norman had
accompanied his namesake to Glenbracken.

Ethel fought hard with her own petulance and sense of tedium at home,
which was, as she felt, particularly uncalled for at present; when Dr.
Spencer was enlivening them so much. He was never in the way, he was
always either busy in the dining-room in the morning with books and
papers, or wandering about his old school-boy haunts in the town, or
taking Adam’s place, and driving out Dr. May, or sometimes joining the
children in a walk, to their supreme delight. His sketches, for he
drew most beautifully, were an endless pleasure to Margaret, with his
explanations of them--she even tried to sit up to copy them, and he
began to teach Blanche to draw. The evenings, when there was certain to
be some entertaining talk going on between the two doctors, were very
charming, and Margaret seemed quite revived by seeing her father so
happy with his friend. Ethel knew she ought to be happy also, and if
attention could make her so, she had it, for kind and courteous as Dr.
Spencer was to all, she seemed to have a double charm for him. It was
as if he found united in her the quaint brusquerie, that he had loved
in her father, with somewhat of her mother; for though Ethel had less
personal resemblance to Mrs. May than any other of the family, Dr.
Spencer transferred to her much of the chivalrous distant devotion, with
which he had regarded her mother. Ethel was very little conscious of it,
but he was certainly her sworn knight, and there was an eagerness in his
manner of performing every little service for her, a deference in his
way of listening to her, over and above his ordinary polish of manner.

Ethel lighted up, and enjoyed herself when talking was going
on--her periods of ennui were when she had to set about any home
employment--when Aubrey’s lessons did not go well--when she wanted to
speak to her father, and could not catch him; and even when she had to
go to Cocksmoor.

She did not seem to make any progress there--the room was very full,
and very close, the children were dull, and she began to believe she was
doing no good--it was all a weariness. But she was so heartily ashamed
of her feelings, that she worked the more vehemently for them, and the
utmost show that they outwardly made was, that Margaret thought her less
vivacious than her wont, and she was a little too peremptory at times
with Mary and Blanche. She had so much disliked the display that Flora
had made about Cocksmoor, that she had imposed total silence on it
upon her younger sisters, and Dr. Spencer had spent a fortnight at
Stoneborough without being aware of their occupation; when there
occurred such an extremely sultry day, that Margaret remonstrated
with Ethel on her intention of broiling herself and Mary by walking to
Cocksmoor, when the quicksilver stood at 80° in the shade.

Ethel was much inclined to stay at home, but she did not know whether
this was from heat or from idleness, and her fretted spirits took the
turn of determination--so she posted off at a galloping pace, that her
brothers called her “Cocksmoor speed,” and Mary panted by her side,
humbly petitioning for the plantation path, when she answered “that it
was as well to be hot in the sun as in the shade.”

The school-room was unusually full, all the haymaking mothers made it
serve as an infant school, and though as much window was opened as there
could be, the effect was not coolness. Nevertheless, Ethel sat down and
gathered her class round her, and she had just heard the chapter once
read, when there was a little confusion, a frightened cry of “Ethel!”
 and before she could rise to her feet--a flump upon the floor--poor Mary
had absolutely fainted dead away.

Ethel was much terrified, and very angry with herself; Mary was no light
weight, but Mrs. Elwood coming at their cry, helped Ethel to drag
her into the outer room, where she soon began to recover, and to be
excessively puzzled as to what had happened to her. She said the sea was
roaring, and where was Harry? and then she looked much surprised to
find herself lying on Mrs. Elwood’s damp flags--a circumstance extremely
distressing to Mrs. Elwood, who wanted to carry her upstairs into
Cherry’s room, very clean and very white, but with such a sun shining
full into it!

Ethel lavished all care, and reproached herself greatly, though to be
sure nothing had ever been supposed capable of hurting Mary, and Mary
herself protested that nothing at all had ailed her till the children’s
voices began to sound funny, and turned into the waves of the sea, and
therewith poor Mary burst into a great flood of tears, and asked whether
Harry would ever come back. The tears did her a great deal of good,
though not so much as the being petted by Ethel, and she soon declared
herself perfectly well; but Ethel could not think of letting her walk
home, and sent off a boy--who she trusted would not faint--with a note
to Margaret, desiring her to send the gig, which fortunately was at home
to-day.

Mary had partaken of some of Mrs. Elwood’s tea, which, though extremely
bitter, seemed a great cordial, and was sitting, quite revived, in the
arbour at the door, when the gig stopped, and Dr. Spencer walked in.

“Well, and how are you?”

“Quite well now, thank you. Was Margaret frightened? Why did you come?”

“I thought it would make her happier, as your father was not at home.
Here, let me feel your pulse. Do you think no one is a doctor but your
papa? There’s not much the matter with you, however. Where is Ethel?”

“In the school,” and Mary opened the door. Dr. Spencer looked in, as
Ethel came out, and his face put her in mind of Norman’s look.

“No wonder!” was all he said.

Ethel was soon satisfied that he did not think Mary ill. In fact, he
said fainting was the most natural and justifiable measure, under the
circumstances. “How many human creatures do you keep there?” he asked.

“Forty-seven to-day,” said Mary proudly.

“I shall indict you for cruelty to animals! I think I have known it
hotter at Poonshedagore, but there we had punkahs!”

“It was very wrong of me,” said Ethel. “I should have thought of poor
Mary, in that sunny walk, but Mary never complains.”

“Oh, never mind,” said Mary, “it did not hurt.”

“I’m not thinking of Mary,” said Dr. Spencer, “but of the wretched
beings you are leaving shut up there. I wonder what the mercury would be
there.”

“We cannot help it,” said Mary. “We cannot get the ground.”

And Mary, having been voted into the seat of honour and comfort by his
side in the carriage, told her version of Cocksmoor and the Committee;
while Ethel sat up in the little narrow seat behind, severely
reproaching herself for her want of consideration towards one so good
and patient as Mary, who proved to have been suffering far more on
Harry’s account than they had guessed, and who was so simple and
thorough-going in doing her duty. This was not being a good elder
sister, and, when they came home, she confessed it, and showed so much
remorse that poor Mary was quite shocked, and cried so bitterly that it
was necessary to quit the subject.

“Ethel, dearest,” said Margaret that night, after they were in bed, “is
there anything the matter?”

“No, nothing, but that Oxford has spoiled me,” said Ethel, resolutely.
“I am very cross and selfish!”

“It will be better by-and-by,” said Margaret, “if only you are sure you
have nothing to make you unhappy.”

“Nothing,” said Ethel. She was becoming too much ashamed of her fancy
to breathe one word about it, and she had spoken the truth. Pleasure had
spoiled her.

“If only we could do something for Cocksmoor!” she sighed, presently,
“with that one hundred and fifty pounds lying idle.”

Margaret was very glad that her thoughts were taking this channel, but
it was not a promising one, for there seemed to be nothing practicable,
present or future. The ground could not be had--the pig would not get
over the stile--the old woman could not get home to-night. Cocksmoor
must put up with its present school, and Mary must not be walked to
death.

Or, as Ethel drew her own moral, sacrifice must not be selfish. One
great resolution that has been costly, must not blunt us in the daily
details of life.




CHAPTER XI.



  If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, Chapels had
  been Churches, and poor men’s cottages, princes’ palaces.
                                             MERCHANT OF VENICE.


“Dick,” said Dr. Spencer, as the friends sat together in the evening,
after Mary’s swoon, “you seem to have found an expedient for making
havoc among your daughters.”

“It does not hurt them,” said Dr. May carelessly.

“Pretty well, after the specimen of to-day.”

“That was chance.”

“If you like it, I have no more to say; but I should like to make you
sit for two hours in such a temperature. If they were mine--”

“Very fine talking, but I would not take the responsibility of hindering
the only pains that have ever been taken with that unlucky place. You
don’t know that girl Ethel. She began at fifteen, entirely of her own
accord, and has never faltered. If any of the children there are saved
from perdition, it is owing to her, and I am not going to be the man to
stop her. They are strong, healthy girls, and I cannot see that it does
them any harm--rather good.”

“Have you any special predilection for a room eight feet by nine?”

“Can’t be helped. What would you have said if you had seen the last?”

“What is this about one hundred and fifty pounds in hand?”

“The ladies here chose to have a fancy fair, the only result of which,
hitherto, has been the taking away my Flora. There is the money, but the
land can’t be had.”

“Why not?”

“Tied up between the Drydale Estate and ---- College, and in the hands
of the quarry master, Nicolson. There was an application made to the
College, but they did not begin at the right end.”

“Upon my word, Dick, you take it easy!” cried his friend, rather
indignantly.

“I own I have not stirred in the matter,” said Dr. May. “I knew nothing
would come to good under the pack of silly women that our schools
are ridden with--” and, as he heard a sound a little like “pish!” he
continued, “and that old Ramsden, it is absolutely useless to work with
such a head--or no head. There’s nothing for it but to wait for better
times, instead of setting up independent, insubordinate action.”

“You are the man to leave venerable abuses undisturbed!”

“The cure is worse than the disease!”

“There spoke the Corporation!”

“Ah! it was not the way you set to work in Poonshedagore.”

“Why, really, when the venerable abuses consisted of Hindoos praying to
their own three-legged stools, and keeping sacred monkeys in honour of
the ape Hanyuman, it was a question whether one could be a Christian
oneself, and suffer it undisturbed. It was coming it too strong, when
I was requested to lend my own step-ladder for the convenience of an
exhibition of a devotee swinging on hooks in his sides.”

Dr. Spencer had, in fact, never rested till he had established a mission
in his former remote station; and his brown godson, once a Brahmin,
now an exemplary clergyman, traced his conversion to the friendship and
example of the English physician.

“Well, I have lashed about me at abuses, in my time,” said Dr. May.

“I dare say you have, Dick!” and they both laughed--the inconsiderate
way was so well delineated.

“Just so,” replied Dr. May; “and I made enemies enough to fetter me now.
I do not mean that I have done right--I have not; but there is a good
deal on my hands, and I don’t write easily. I have been slower to take
up new matters than I ought to have been.”

“I see, I see!” said Dr. Spencer, rather sorry for his implied reproach,
“but must Cocksmoor be left to its fate, and your gallant daughter to
hers?”

“The vicar won’t stir. He is indolent enough by nature, and worse with
gout; and I do not see what good I could do. I once offended the tenant,
Nicolson, by fining him for cheating his unhappy labourers, on the
abominable truck system; and he had rather poison me than do anything to
oblige me. And, as to the copyholder, he is a fine gentleman, who never
comes near the place, nor does anything for it.”

“Who is he?”

“Sir Henry Walkinghame.”

“Sir Henry Walkinghame! I know the man. I found him in one of the caves
at Thebes, among the mummies, laid up with a fever, nearly ready to be
a mummy himself! I remember bleeding him--irregular, was not it? but one
does not stand on ceremony in Pharaoh’s tomb. I got him through with
it; we came up the Nile together, and the last I saw of him was at
Alexandria. He is your man! something might be done with him!”

“I believe Flora promises to ask him if she should ever meet him in
London, but he is always away. If ever we should be happy enough to get
an active incumbent, we shall have a chance.”

Two days after, Ethel came down equipped for Cocksmoor. It was as hot as
ever, and Mary was ordered to stay at home, being somewhat pacified by
a promise that she should go again as soon as the weather was fit for
anything but a salamander.

Dr. Spencer was in the hall, with his bamboo, his great Panama hat, and
gray loose coat, for he entirely avoided, except on Sundays, the medical
suit of black. He offered to relieve Ethel of her bag of books.

“No thank you.” (He had them by this time). “But I am going to
Cocksmoor.”

“Will you allow me to be your companion?”

“I shall be very glad of the pleasure of your company, but I am not in
the least afraid of going alone,” said she, smiling, however, so as to
show she was glad of such pleasant company. “I forewarn you though that
I have business there.”

“I will find occupation.”

“And you must promise not to turn against me. I have undergone a great
deal already about that place. Norman was always preaching against it,
and now that he has become reasonable, I can’t have papa set against it
again--besides, he would mind you more.”

Dr. Spencer promised to do nothing but what was quite reasonable. Ethel
believed that he accompanied her merely because his gallantry would not
suffer her to go unescorted, and she was not sorry, for it was too long
a walk for solitude to be very agreeable, when strange wagoners might be
on the road, though she had never let them be “lions in the path.”

The walk was as pleasant as a scorching sun would allow, and by the
time they arrived at the scattered cottages, Ethel had been drawn into
explaining many of her Cocksmoor perplexities.

“If you could get the land granted, where should you choose to have it?”
 he asked. “You know it will not do to go and say, ‘Be pleased to give me
a piece of land,’ without specifying what, or you might chance to have
one at the Land’s End.”

“I see, that was one of the blunders,” said Ethel. “But I had often
thought of this nice little square place, between two gardens, and
sheltered by the old quarry.”

“Ha! hardly space enough, I should say,” replied Dr. Spencer, stepping
it out. “No, that won’t do, so confined by the quarry. Let us look
farther.”

A surmise crossed Ethel. Could he be going to take the work on himself,
but that was too wild a supposition--she knew he had nothing of his own,
only a moderate pension from the East India Company.

“What do you think of this?” he said, coming to the slope of a knoll,
commanding a pretty view of the Abbotstoke woods, clear from houses, and
yet not remote from the hamlet. She agreed that it would do well, and
he kicked up a bit of turf, and pryed into the soil, pronouncing it dry,
and fit for a good foundation. Then he began to step it out, making
a circuit that amazed her, but he said, “It is of no use to do it at
twice. Your school can be only the first step towards a church, and you
had better have room--enough at once. It will serve as an endowment in
the meantime.”

He would not let her remain in the sun, and she went into school.
She found him, when she came out, sitting in the arbour smoking a
cigar-rather a shock to her feelings, though he threw it away the
instant she appeared, and she excused him for his foreign habits.

In the evening, he brought down a traveller’s case of instruments, and
proceeded to draw a beautiful little map of Cocksmoor, where it seemed
that he had taken all his measurements, whilst she was in school. He
ended by an imaginary plan and elevation for the school, with a pretty
oriel window and bell-gable, that made Ethel sigh with delight at the
bare idea.

Next day, he vanished after dinner, but this he often did; he used to
say he must go and have a holiday of smoking--he could not bear too much
civilised society. He came back for tea, however, and had not sat down
long before he said, “Now, I know all about it. I shall pack up my
goods, and be off for Vienna to-morrow.”

“To Vienna!” was the general and dolorous outcry, and Gertrude laid hold
of him and said he should not go.

“I am coming back,” he said, “if you will have me. The college holds a
court at Fordholm on the 3rd, and on the last of this month, I hope to
return.”

“College! Court! What are you going to do at Vienna? Where have you left
your senses?” asked Dr. May.

“I find Sir Henry Walkinghame is there. I have been on an exploring
expedition to Drydale, found out his man of business, and where he is to
be written to. The college holds a court at Fordholm, and I hope to have
our business settled.”

Ethel was too much confounded to speak. Her father was exclaiming on the
shortness of the time.

“Plenty of time,” said Dr. Spencer, demonstrating that he should be able
to travel comfortably, and have four days to spare at Vienna--a journey
which he seemed to think less of, than did Dr. May of going to London.

As to checking him, of that there was no possibility, nor, indeed,
notion, though Ethel did not quite know how to believe in it, nor that
the plan could come to good. Ethel was much better by this time: by her
vigorous efforts, she had recovered her tone of mind and interest in
what was passing; and though now and then Norman’s letters, carrying
sentences of remembrance, made her glow a little, she was so steady
to her resolution that she averted all traffic in messages through her
brother’s correspondence, and, in that fear, allowed it to lapse into
Margaret’s hands more than she had ever done. Indeed, no one greatly
liked writing from home, it was heartless work to say always, “No news
from the Alcestis” and yet they all declared they were not anxious.

Hector Ernescliffe knelt a great while beside Margaret’s sofa, on the
first evening of his holidays, and there was a long low-voiced talk
between them. Ethel wished that she had warned him off, for Margaret
looked much more harassed and anxious, after having heard the outpouring
of all that was on his mind.

Dr. Spencer thought her looking worse, when he came, as come he did, on
the appointed day. He had brought Sir Henry Walkinghame’s full consent
to the surrender of the land; drawn up in such form as could be acted
upon, and a letter to his man of business. But Nicolson! He was a worse
dragon nearer home, hating all schools, especially hating Dr. May.

However, said Dr. Spencer, in eastern form, “Have I encountered Rajahs,
and smoked pipes with three-tailed Pachas, that I should dread the face
of the father of quarrymen.”

What he did with the father of quarrymen was not known, whether he
talked him over, or bought him off--Margaret hoped the former; Dr. May
feared the latter; the results were certain; Mr. Nicolson had agreed
that the land should be given up.

The triumphant Dr. Spencer sat down to write a statement to be shown to
the college authorities, when they should come to hold their court.

“The land must be put into the hands of trustees,” he said. “The
incumbent of course?”

“Then yourself; and we must have another. Your son-in-law?”

“You, I should think,” said Dr. May.

“I! Why, I am going.”

“Going, but not gone,” said his friend.

“I must go! I tell you, Dick; I must have a place of my own to smoke my
pipe in.”

“Is that all?” said Dr. May. “I think you might be accommodated here,
unless you wished to be near your sister.”

“My sister is always resorting to watering-places. My nieces do nothing
but play on the piano. No, I shall perhaps go off to America, the only
place I have not seen yet, and I more than half engaged to go and help
at Poonshedagore.”

“Better order your coffin then,” muttered Dr. May.

“I shall try lodgings in London, near the old hospital, perhaps--and go
and turn over the British Museum library.”

“Look you here, Spencer, I have a much better plan. Do you know that
scrap of a house of mine, by the back gate, just big enough for you
and your pipe? Set up your staff there. Ethel will never get her school
built without you.”

“Oh! that would be capital!” cried Ethel.

“It would be the best speculation for me. You would pay rent, and the
last old woman never did,” continued Dr. May. “A garden the length of
this one--”

“But I say--I want to be near the British Museum.”

“Take a season-ticket, and run up once a week.”

“I shall teach your boys to smoke!”

“I’ll see to that!”

“You have given Cocksmoor one lift,” said Ethel, “and it will never go
on without you.”

“It is such a nice house!” added the children, in chorus; “it would be
such fun to have you there.”

“Daisy will never be able to spare her other doctor,” said Margaret,
smiling.

“Run to Mrs. Adams, Tom, and get the key,” said Dr. May.

There was a putting on of hats and bonnets, and the whole party walked
down the garden to inspect the house--a matter of curiosity to some--for
it was where the old lady had resided on whom Harry had played so many
tricks, and the subject of many myths hatched between him and George
Larkins.

It was an odd, little narrow slip of a house, four stories, of two rooms
all the way up, each with a large window, with a marked white eyebrow.
Dr. May eagerly pointed out all the conveniences, parlour, museum,
smoking den, while Dr. Spencer listened, and answered doubtfully; and
the children’s clamorous anxiety seemed to render him the more silent.

Hector Ernescliffe discovered a jackdaw’s nest in the chimney, whereupon
the whole train rushed off to investigate, leaving the two doctors and
Ethel standing together in the empty parlour, Dr. May pressing, Dr.
Spencer raising desultory objections; but so evidently against his own
wishes, that Ethel said, “Now, indeed, you must not disappoint us all.”

“No,” said Dr. May, “it is a settled thing.”

“No, no, thanks, thanks to you all, but it cannot be. Let me go;” and he
spoke with emotion. “You are very kind, but it is not to be thought of.”

“Why not?” said Dr. May. “Spencer, stay with me;” and he spoke with a
pleading, almost dependent air. “Why should you go?”

“It is of no use to talk about it. You are very kind, but it will not do
to encumber you with a lone man, growing old.”

“We have been young together,” said Dr. May.

“And you must not leave papa,” added Ethel.

“No,” said Dr. May. “Trouble may be at hand. Help us through with it.
Remember, these children have no uncles.”

“You will stay?” said Ethel.

He made a sign of assent--he could do no more, and just then Gertrude
came trotting back, so exceedingly smutty, as to call everybody’s
attention. Hector had been shoving Tom half-way up the chimney, in
hopes of reaching the nest; and the consequences of this amateur
chimney-sweeping had been a plentiful bespattering of all the spectators
with soot, that so greatly distressed the young ladies, that Mary and
Blanche had fled away from public view.

Dr. Spencer’s first act of possession was to threaten to pull Tom down
by the heels for disturbing his jackdaws, whereupon there was a general
acclamation; and Dr. May began to talk of marauding times, when the
jackdaws in the Minster tower had been harried.

“Ah!” said Dr. Spencer, as Tom emerged, blacker than the outraged
jackdaws, and half choked, “what do you know about jackdaws’ nests? You
that are no Whichcote scholars.”

“Don’t we?” cried Hector, “when there is a jackdaw’s nest in Eton
Chapel, twenty feet high.”

“Old Grey made that!” said Tom, who usually acted the part of esprit
fort to Hector’s credulity.

“Why, there is a picture of it on Jesse’s book,” said Hector.

“But may not we get up on the roof, to see if we can get at the nest,
papa?” said Tom.

“You must ask Dr. Spencer. It is his house.”

Dr. Spencer did not gainsay it, and proceeded even to show the old
Whichcote spirit, by leading the assault, and promising to take care of
Aubrey, while Ethel retained Gertrude, and her father too; for Dr. May
had such a great inclination to scramble up the ladder after them, that
she, thinking it a dangerous experiment for so helpless an arm, was
obliged to assure him that it would create a sensation among the
gossiphood of Stoneborough, if their physician were seen disporting
himself on the top of the house.

“Ah! I’m not a physician unattached, like him,” said Dr. May, laughing.
“Hullo! have you got up, Tom? There’s a door up there. I’ll show you--”

“No, don’t papa. Think of Mrs. Ledwich; and asking her to see two
trustees up there!” said Ethel.

“Ah! Mrs. Ledwich; what is to be done with her, Ethel?”

“I am sure I can’t tell. If Flora were but at home, she would manage
it.”

“Spencer can manage anything!” was the answer. “That was the happiest
chance imaginable that you came home with me, and so we came to go by
the same train.”

Ethel was only afraid that time was being cruelly wasted; but the best
men, and it is emphatically the best that generally are so--have the
boy strong enough on one side or other of their natures, to be a great
provocation to womankind; and Dr. Spencer did not rest from his pursuit
till the brood of the jackdaws had been discovered, and two gray-headed
nestlings kidnapped, which were destined to a wicker cage and education.
Little Aubrey was beyond measure proud, and was suggesting all sorts of
outrageous classical names for them, till politely told by Tom that he
would make them as great prigs as himself, and that their names should
be nothing but Jack and Jill.

“There’s nothing for it but for Aubrey to go to school,” cried Tom,
sententiously turning round to Ethel.

“Ay, to Stoneborough,” said Dr. Spencer.

Tom coloured, as if sorry for his movement, and hastened away to make
himself sufficiently clean to go in quest of a prison for his captives.

Dr. Spencer began to bethink him of the paper that he had been so
eagerly drawing up, and looking at his own begrimed hands, asked Ethel
whether she would have him for a trustee.

“Will the other eight ladies?” said Ethel, “that’s the point.”

“Ha, Spencer! you did not know what you were undertaking. Do you wish to
be let off?” said Dr. May.

“Not I,” said the undaunted doctor. “Come, Ethel, let us hear what
should be done.”

“There’s no time,” said Ethel, bewildered. “The court will be only on
the day after to-morrow.”

“Ample time!” said Dr. Spencer, who seemed ready to throw himself into
it with all his might. “What we have to do is this. The ladies to be
propitiated are--”

“Nine Muses, to whom you will have to act Apollo,” said Dr. May, who,
having put his friend into the situation, had a mischievous delight in
laughing at him, and watching what he would do.

“One and two, Ethel, and Mrs. Rivers!”

“Rather eight and nine,” said Ethel, “though Flora may be somebody now.”

“Seven then,” said Dr. Spencer. “Well then, Ethel, suppose we set out
on our travels this afternoon. Visit these ladies, get them to call a
meeting to-morrow, and sanction their three trustees.”

“You little know what a work it is to call a meeting, or how many notes
Miss Rich sends out before one can be accomplished.”

“Faint heart--you know the proverb, Ethel. Allons. I’ll call on Mrs.
Ledwich--”

“Stay,” said Dr. May. “Let Ethel do that, and ask her to tea, and we
will show her your drawing of the school.”

So the remaining ladies were divided--Ethel was to visit Miss Anderson,
Miss Boulder, and Mrs. Ledwich; Dr. Spencer, the rest, and a meeting, if
possible, be appointed for the next day.

Ethel did as she was told, though rather against the grain, and her
short, abrupt manner was excused the more readily, that Dr. Spencer had
been a subject of much mysterious speculation in Stoneborough, and to
gain any intelligence respecting him, was a great object; so that she
was extremely welcome wherever she called.

Mrs. Ledwich promised to come to tea, and instantly prepared to walk
to Miss Rich, and authorise her to send out the notes of summons to the
morrow’s meeting. Ethel offered to walk with her, and found Mrs. and
Miss Rich in a flutter, after Dr. Spencer’s call; the daughter just
going to put on her bonnet and consult Mrs. Ledwich, and both extremely
enchanted with Dr. Spencer, who “would be such an acquisition.”

The hour was fixed and the notes sent out, and Ethel met Dr. Spencer at
the garden gate.

“Well!” he said, smiling, “I think we have fixed them off--have not we?”

“Yes; but is it not heartless that everything should be done through so
much nonsense?”

“Did you ever hear why the spire of Ulm Cathedral was never finished?”
 said Dr. Spencer.

“No; why not?”

“Because the citizens would accept no help from their neighbours.”

“I am glad enough of help when it comes in the right way, and from good
motives.”

“There are more good motives in the world than you give people credit
for, Ethel. You have a good father, good sense, and a good education;
and you have some perception of the system by which things like this
should be done. Unfortunately, the system is in bad hands here, and
these good ladies have been left to work for themselves, and it is no
wonder that there is plenty of little self-importance, nonsense, and the
like, among them; but for their own sakes we should rather show them the
way, than throw them overboard.”

“If they will be shown,” said Ethel.

“I can’t say they seemed to me so very formidable,” said Dr. Spencer.
“Gentle little women.”

“Oh! it is only Mrs. Ledwich that stirs them up. I hope you are prepared
for that encounter.”

Mrs. Ledwich came to tea, sparkling with black bugles, and was very
patronising and amiable. Her visits were generally subjects of great
dread, for she talked unceasingly, laid down the law, and overwhelmed
Margaret with remedies; but to-night Dr. Spencer took her in hand. It
was not that he went out of his ordinary self, he was always the same
simple-mannered, polished gentleman; but it was this that told--she was
evidently somewhat in awe of him--the refinement kept her in check. She
behaved very quietly all the evening, admired the plans, consented to
everything, and was scarcely Mrs. Ledwich!

“You will get on now, Ethel,” said Dr. May afterwards. “Never fear but
that he will get the Ladies’ Committee well in hand.”

“Why do you think so, papa?”

“Never you fear.”

That was all she could extract from him, though he looked very arch. The
Ladies’ Committee accepted of their representatives with full consent;
and the indefatigable Dr. Spencer next had to hunt up the fellow
trustee. He finally contrived to collect every one he wanted at
Fordholm, the case was laid before the College--the College was
propitious, and by four o’clock in the evening, Dr. Spencer laid before
Ethel the promise of the piece of land.

Mary’s joy was unbounded, and Ethel blushed, and tried to thank. This
would have been the summit of felicity a year ago, and she was vexed
with herself for feeling that though land and money were both in such
safe hands, she could not care sufficiently to feel the ecstasy the
attainment of her object would once have given to her. Then she would
have been frantic with excitement, and heedless of everything; now she
took it so composedly as to annoy herself.

“To think of that one week at Oxford having so entirely turned this head
of mine!”

Perhaps it was the less at home, because she had just heard that George
and Flora had accepted an invitation to Glenbracken, but though the zest
of Cocksmoor might be somewhat gone, she called herself to order, and
gave her full attention to all that was planned by her champion.

Never did man plunge into business more thoroughly than he, when he
had once undertaken it. He was one of those men who, from gathering
particulars of every practical matter that comes under their notice, are
able to accomplish well whatever they set their hand to; and building
was not new to him, though his former subjects--a church and mission
station in India--bore little remembrance to the present.

He bought a little round dumpling of a white pony, and trotted all over
the country in search of building materials and builders, he discovered
trees in distant timber-yards, he brought home specimens of stone, one
in each pocket, to compare and analyse, he went to London to look at
model schools, he drew plans each more neat and beautiful than the
last, he compared builders’ estimates, and wrote letters to the National
Society, so as to be able to begin in the spring.

In the meantime he was settling himself, furnishing his new house with
great precision and taste. He would have no assistance in his choice,
either of servants or furniture, but made numerous journeys of
inspection to Whitford, to Malvern, and to London, and these seemed
to make him the more content with Stoneborough. Sir Matthew Fleet had
evidently chilled him, and as he found his own few remaining relations
uncongenial, he became the more ready to find a resting-place in the
gray old town, the scene of his school life, beside the friend of his
youth, and the children of her, for whose sake he had never sought a
home of his own. Though he now and then talked of seeing America, or
of going back to India, in hopes of assisting his beloved mission at
Poonshedagore, these plans were fast dying away, as he formed habits and
attachments, and perceived the sphere of usefulness open to him.

It was a great step when his packages arrived, and his beautiful Indian
curiosities were arranged, making his drawing-room as pretty a room as
could anywhere be seen; in readiness, as he used to tell Ethel, for a
grand tea-party for all the Ladies’ Committee, when he should borrow
her and the best silver teapot to preside. Moreover, he had a chemical
apparatus, a telescope, and microscope, of great power, wherewith he
tried experiments that were the height of felicity to Tom and Ethel,
and much interested their father. He made it his business to have full
occupation for himself, with plans, books, or correspondence, so as not
to be a charge on the hands of the May family, with whom he never spent
an evening without special and earnest invitation.

He gave attendance at the hospital on alternate days, as well as taking
off Dr. May’s hands such of his gratuitous patients as were not averse
to quit their old doctor, and could believe in a physician in shepherd’s
plaid, and Panama hat. Exceedingly sociable, he soon visited every one
far and wide, and went to every sort of party, from the grand dinners
of the “county families,” to the tea-drinkings of the Stoneborough
ladies--a welcome guest at all, and enjoying each in his own way.
English life was so new to him that he entered into the little
accessories with the zest of a youth; and there seemed to be a curious
change between the two old fellow students, the elder and more staid of
former days having come back with unencumbered freshness to enliven his
friend, just beginning to grow aged under the wear of care and sorrows.

It was very droll to hear Dr. May laughing at Dr. Spencer’s histories
of his adventures, and at the new aspects in which his own well-trodden
district appeared to travelled eyes; and not less amusing was Dr.
Spencer’s resolute defence of all the nine muses, generally and
individually.

He certainly had no reason to think ill of them. As one woman, they were
led by him, and conformed their opinions. The only seceder was Louisa
Anderson, who had her brother for her oracle; and, indeed, the more
youthful race, to whom Harvey was the glass of fashion, uttered
disrespectful opinions as to the doctor’s age, and would not accede to
his being, as Mrs. Ledwich declared, “much younger than Dr. May.”

Harvey Anderson had first attempted patronage, then argument, with Dr.
Spencer, but found him equally impervious to both. “Very clever, but an
old world man,” said Harvey. “He has made up his bundle of prejudices.”

“Clever sort of lad!” said Dr. Spencer, “a cool hand, but very
shallow--”

Ethel wondered to hear thus lightly disposed of, the powers of argument
that had been thought fairly able to compete with Norman, and which
had taxed him so severely. She did not know how differently abstract
questions appear to a mature mind, confirmed in principle by practice;
and to one young, struggling in self-formation, and more used to
theories than to realities.




CHAPTER XII.



     The heart may ache, but may not burst;
     Heaven will not leave thee, nor forsake.
                                     Christian Year.


Hector and Tom finished their holidays by a morning’s shooting at the
Grange, Dr. May promising to meet them, and let them drive him home.

Meta was out when he arrived; and, repairing to the library, he found
Mr. Rivers sitting by a fire, though it was early in September, with the
newspaper before him, but not reading. He looked depressed, and seemed
much disappointed at having heard that George and Flora had accepted
some further invitations in Scotland, and did not intend to return for
another month. Dr. May spoke cheerfully of the hospitality and kindness
they had met, but failed to enliven him, and, as if trying to assign
some cause for his vexation, he lamented over fogs and frosts, and began
to dread an October in Scotland for Flora, almost as if it were the
Arctic regions.

He grew somewhat more animated in praising Flora, and speaking of the
great satisfaction he had in seeing his son married to so admirable a
person. He only wished it could be the same with his daughter.

“You are a very unselfish father,” said Dr. May. “I cannot imagine you
without your little fairy.”

“It would be hard to part,” said Mr. Rivers, sighing; “yet I should be
relieved to see her in good hands, so pretty and engaging as she is, and
something of an heiress. With our dear Flora, she is secure of a happy
home when I am gone, but still I should be glad to have seen--” and he
broke off thoughtfully.

“She is so sensible, that we shall see her make a good choice,” said Dr.
May, smiling; “that is, if she choose at all, for I do not know who is
worthy of her.”

“I am quite indifferent as to fortune,” continued Mr. Rivers. “She will
have enough of her own.”

“Enough not to be dependent, which is the point,” said Dr. May, “though
I should have few fears for her any way.”

“It would be a comfort,” harped on Mr. Rivers, dwelling on the subject,
as if he wanted to say something, “if she were only safe with a man
who knew how to value her and make her happy. Such a young man as your
Norman, now--I have often thought--”

Dr. May would not seem to hear, but he could not prevent himself from
blushing as crimson as if he had been the very Norman, as he answered,
going on with his own speech, as if Mr. Rivers’s had been unmade, “She
is the brightest little creature under the sun, and the sparkle is down
so deep within, that however it may turn out, I should never fear for
her happiness.”

“Flora is my great reliance,” proceeded Mr. Rivers. “Her aunt, Lady
Leonora, is very kind, but somehow she does not seem to suit with Meta.”

“Oh, ho,” thought the doctor, “have you made that discovery, my good
friend?”

The voices of the two boys were heard in the hall, explaining their
achievements to Meta, and Dr. May took his departure, Hector driving
him, and embarking in a long discourse on his own affairs as if he
had quite forgotten that the doctor was not his father, and going on
emphatically, in spite of the absence of mind now and then betrayed by
his auditor, who, at Dr. Spencer’s door, exclaimed, “Stop, Hector, let
me out here--thank you;” and presently brought out his friend into the
garden, and sat down on the grass, talking low and earnestly over the
disease with which Mr. Rivers had been so long affected; for though Dr.
May could not perceive any positively unfavourable symptom, he had
been rendered vaguely uneasy by the unusual heaviness and depression
of manner. So long did they sit conversing, that Blanche was sent out,
primed with an impertinent message, that two such old doctors ought to
be ashamed of themselves for sitting so late in the dew.

Dr. Spencer was dragged in to drink tea, and the meal had just been
merrily concluded, when the door bell rang, and a message was brought
in. “The carriage from the Grange, sir; Miss Rivers would be much
obliged if you would come directly.”

“There!” said Dr. May, looking at Dr. Spencer, as if to say, I told you
so, in the first triumph of professional sagacity; but the next moment
exclaiming, “Poor little Meta!” he hurried away.

A gloom fell on those who remained, for, besides their sympathy for
Meta, and their liking for her kind old father, there was that one
unacknowledged heartache, which, though in general bravely combated,
lay in wait always ready to prey on them. Hector stole round to sit by
Margaret, and Dr. Spencer muttered, “This will never do,” and sent
Tom to fetch some papers lying on his table, whence he read them some
curious accounts that he had just received from his missionary friends
in India.

They were interested, but in a listening mood, that caused a universal
start when the bell again sounded. This time, James reported that the
servant from the Grange said his master was very ill--he had brought
a letter to post for Mr. George Rivers, and here was a note for Miss
Ethel. It was the only note Ethel had ever received from her father, and
contained these few words:


“DEAR E.--,

“I believe this attack will be the last. Come to Meta, and bring my
things.                                        R. M.”


Ethel put her hands to her forehead. It was as if she had been again
plunged into the stunned dream of misery of four years ago, and her
sensation was of equal bewilderment and uselessness; but it was but for
a moment--the next she was in a state of over-bustle and eagerness. She
wanted to fly about and hasten to help Meta, and could hardly obey the
word and gesture by which Margaret summoned her to her side.

“Dear Ethel, you must calm yourself, or you will not be of use.”

“I? I can’t be of any use! Oh, if you could go! If Flora were but here!
But I must go, Margaret.”

“I will put up your father’s things,” said Dr. Spencer, in a soothing
tone. “The carriage cannot be ready in a moment, so that there will be
full time.”

Mary and Miss Bracy prepared Ethel’s own goods, which she would
otherwise have forgotten; and Margaret, meanwhile, detained her by her
side, trying to calm and encourage her with gentle words of counsel,
that might hinder her from giving way to the flurry of emotion that had
seized her, and prevent her from thinking herself certain to be useless.

Adams was to drive her thither in the gig, and it presently came to the
door. Dr. Spencer wrapped her up well in cloaks and shawls, and spoke
words of kindly cheer in her ear as she set off. The fresh night air
blew pleasantly on her, the stars glimmered in full glory overhead,
and now and then her eye was caught by the rocket-like track of a
shooting-star. Orion was rising slowly far in the east, and bringing to
her mind the sailor-boy under the southern sky; if, indeed, he were
not where sun and stars no more are the light. It was strange that the
thought came more as soothing than as acute pain; she could bear to
think of him thus in her present frame, as long as she had not to
talk of him. Under those solemn stars, the life everlasting seemed
to overpower the sense of this mortal life, and Ethel’s agitation was
calmed away.

The old cedar-tree stood up in stately blackness against the sky, and
the lights in the house glanced behind it. The servants looked rather
surprised to see Ethel, as if she were not expected, and conducted her
to the great drawing-room, which looked the more desolate and solitary,
from the glare of lamplight, falling on the empty seats which Ethel
had lately seen filled with a glad home party. She was looking round,
thinking whether to venture up to Meta’s room, and there summon
Bellairs, when Meta came gliding in, and threw her arms round her.
Ethel could not speak, but Meta’s voice was more cheerful than she had
expected. “How kind of you, dear Ethel!”

“Papa sent for me,” said Ethel.

“He is so kind! Can Margaret spare you?”

“Oh, yes; but you must leave me. You must want to be with him.”

“He never lets me come in when he has these attacks,” said Meta. “If he
only would! But will you come up to my room? That is nearer.”

“Is papa with him?”

“Yes.”

Meta wound her arms round Ethel, and led her up to her sitting-room,
where a book lay on the table. She said that her father had seemed weary
and torpid, and had sat still until almost their late dinner-hour, when
he seemed to bethink himself of dressing, and had risen. She thought
he walked weakly, and rather tottering, and had run to make him lean on
her, which he did, as far as his own room door. There he had kissed
her, and thanked her, and murmured a word like blessing. She had not,
however, been alarmed, until his servant had come to tell her that he
had another seizure.

Ethel asked whether she had seen Dr. May since he had been with her
father. She had; but Ethel was surprised to find that she had not taken
in the extent of his fears. She had become so far accustomed to these
attacks, that, though anxious and distressed, she did not apprehend more
than a few days’ weakness, and her chief longing was to be of use. She
was speaking cheerfully of beginning her nursing to-morrow, and of her
great desire that her papa would allow her to sit up with him, when
there was a slow, reluctant movement of the lock of the door, and the
two girls sprang to their feet, as Dr. May opened it; and Ethel read his
countenance at once.

Not so Meta. “How is he? May I go to him?” cried she.

“Not now, my dear,” said Dr. May, putting his hand on her shoulder, in
a gentle, detaining manner, that sent a thrill of trembling through her
frame, though she did not otherwise move. She only clasped her hands
together, and looked up into his face. He answered the look. “Yes, my
dear, the struggle is over.”

Ethel came near, and put her arm round Meta’s waist, as if to strengthen
her, as she stood quite passive and still.

Dr. May seemed to think it best that all should be told; but, though
intently watching Meta, he directed his words to his own daughter.
“Thank Heaven, it has been shorter, and less painful, than I had dared
to hope.”

Meta tried to speak, but could not bring out the words, and, with an
imploring look at Ethel, as if to beg her to make them clear for her,
she inarticulately murmured, “Oh! why did you not call me?”

“I could not. He would not let me. His last conscious word to me was not
to let you see him suffer.”

Meta wrung her clasped hands together in mute anguish. Dr. May signed to
Ethel to guide her back to the sofa, but the movement seemed so far to
rouse her, that she said, “I should like to go to bed.”

“Right--the best thing,” said Dr. May; and he whispered to Ethel, “Go
with her, but don’t try to rouse her--don’t talk to her. Come back to
me, presently.”

He did not even shake hands with Meta, nor wish her good-night, as she
disappeared into her own room.

Bellairs undressed her, and Ethel stood watching, till the young head,
under the load of sorrow, so new to it, was laid on the pillow. Bellairs
asked her if she would have a light.

“No, no, thank you--the dark and alone. Good-night,” said Meta. Ethel
went back to the sitting-room, where her father was standing at the
window, looking out into the night. He turned as she came in, folded her
in his arms, and kissed her forehead. “And how is the poor little dear?”
 he asked.

“The same,” said Ethel. “I can’t bear to leave her alone, and to have
said nothing to comfort her.”

“It is too soon as yet,” said Dr. May--“her mind has not taken it in. I
hope she will sleep all night, and have more strength to look at it when
she wakens.”

“She was utterly unprepared.”

“I could not make her understand me,” said Dr. May.

“And, oh, papa, what a pity she was not there!”

“It was no sight for her, till the last few minutes; and his whole mind
seemed bent on sparing her. What tenderness it has been.”

“Must we leave her to herself all night?”

“Better so,” said Dr. May. “She has been used to loneliness; and to
thrust companionship on her would be only harassing.”

Ethel, who scarcely knew what it was to be alone, looked as if she did
not understand.

“I used to try to force consolation on people,” said Dr. May, “but I
know, now, that it can only be done by following their bent.”

“You have seen so many sorrows,” said Ethel.

“I never understood till I felt,” said Dr. May. “Those few first days
were a lesson.”

“I did not think you knew what was passing,” said Ethel.

“I doubt whether any part of my life is more distinctly before me than
those two days,” said Dr. May. “Flora coming in and out, and poor Alan
sitting by me; but I don’t believe I had any will. I could no more have
moved my mind than my broken arm; and I verily think, Ethel, that, but
for that merciful torpor, I should have been frantic. It taught me never
to disturb grief.”

“And what shall we do?”

“You must stay with her till Flora comes. I will be here as much as I
can. She is our charge, till they come home. I told him, between the
spasms, that I had sent for you, and he seemed pleased.”

“If only I were anybody else!”

Dr. May again threw his arm round her, and looked into her face. He felt
that he had rather have her, such as she was, than anybody else; and,
together, they sat down, and talked of what was to be done, and what
was best for Meta, and of the solemnity of being in the house of death.
Ethel felt and showed it so much, in her subdued, awe-struck manner,
that her father felt checked whenever he was about to return to his
ordinary manner, familiarised, as he necessarily was, with the like
scenes. It drew him back to the thought of their own trouble, and their
conversation recurred to those days, so that each gained a more full
understanding of the other, and they at length separated, certainly with
the more peaceful and soft feelings for being in the abode of mourning.

Bellairs promised to call Ethel, to be with her young lady as early as
might be, reporting that she was sound asleep. And sleep continued to
shield her till past her usual hour, so that Ethel was up, and had been
with Dr. May, before she was summoned to her, and then she found her
half dressed, and hastening that she might not make Dr. May late for
breakfast, and in going to his patients. There was an elasticity in the
happily constituted young mind that could not be entirely struck down,
nor deprived of power of taking thought for others. Yet her eyes looked
wandering, and unlike themselves, and her words, now and then, faltered,
as if she was not sure what she was doing or saying. Ethel told her not
to mind--Dr. Spencer would take care of the patients; but she did not
seem to recollect, at first, who Dr. Spencer was, nor to care for being
reminded.

Breakfast was laid out in the little sitting-room. Ethel wanted to take
the trouble off her hands, but she would not let her. She sat behind her
urn, and asked about tea or coffee, quite accurately, in a low, subdued
voice, that nearly overcame Dr. May. When the meal was over, and she had
rung the bell, and risen up, as if to her daily work, she turned
round, with that piteous, perplexed air, and stood for a moment, as if
confused.

“Cannot we help you?” said Ethel.

“I don’t know. Thank you. But, Dr. May, I must not keep you from other
people--”

“I have no one to go to this morning,” said Dr. May. “I am ready to stay
with you, my dear.”

Meta came closer to him, and murmured, “Thank you!”

The breakfast things had, by this time, been taken away, and Meta,
looking to see that the door had shut for the last time, said, in a low
voice, “Now tell me--”

Dr. May drew her down to sit on the sofa beside him, and, in his soft,
sweet voice, told her all that she wished to learn of her father’s last
hours, and was glad to see showers of quiet, wholesome tears drop freely
down, but without violence, and she scarcely attempted to speak. There
was a pause at the end, and then she said gently, “Thank you, for it
all. Dear papa!” And she rose up, and went back to her room.

“She has learned to dwell apart,” said Dr. May, much moved.

“How beautiful she bears up!” said Ethel.

“It has been a life which, as she has used it, has taught her strength
and self-dependence in the midst of prosperity.”

“Yes,” said Ethel, “she has trained herself by her dread of
self-indulgence, and seeking after work. But oh! what a break up it is
for her! I cannot think how she holds up. Shall I go to her?”

“I think not. She knows the way to the only Comforter. I am not afraid
of her after those blessed tears.”

Dr. May was right; Meta presently returned to them, in the same gentle
subdued sadness, enfolding her, indeed, as a flower weighed down by
mist, but not crushing nor taking away her powers. It was as if she were
truly upheld; and thankful to her friends as she was, she did not throw
herself on them in utter dependence or self-abandonment.

She wrote needful letters, shedding many tears over them, and often
obliged to leave off to give the blinding weeping its course, but
refusing to impose any unnecessary task upon Dr. May’s lame arm. All
that was right, she strove to do; she saw Mr. Charles Wilmot, and
was refreshed by his reading to her; and when Dr. May desired it, she
submissively put on her bonnet, and took several turns with Ethel in the
shrubbery, though it made her cry heartily to look into the downstairs
rooms. And she lay on the sofa at last, owning herself strangely tired,
she did not know why, and glad that Ethel should read to her. By and by,
she went to dress for the evening, and came back, full of the tidings
that one of the children in the village had been badly burned. It
occupied her very much--she made Ethel promise to go and see about her
to-morrow, and sent Bellairs at once with every comfort that she could
devise.

On the whole, those two days were to Ethel a peaceful and comfortable
time. She saw more than usual of her father, and had such conversations
with him as were seldom practicable at home, and that chimed in with the
unavowed care which hung on their minds; while Meta was a most sweet and
loving charge, without being a burden, and often saying such beautiful
things in her affectionate resignation, that Ethel could only admire
and lay them up in her mind. Dr. May went backwards and forwards, and
brought good accounts of Margaret and fond messages; he slept at the
Grange each night, and Meta used to sit in the corner of the sofa and
work, or not, as best suited her, while she listened to his talk with
Ethel, and now and then herself joined.

George Rivers’s absence was a serious inconvenience in all arrangements;
but his sister dreaded his grief as much as she wished for his return;
and often were the posts and the journeys reckoned over, without a
satisfactory conclusion, as to when he could arrive from so remote a
part of Scotland.

At last, as the two girls had finished their early dinner, the butler
brought in word that Mr. Norman May was there. Meta at once begged that
he would come in, and Ethel went into the hall to meet him. He looked
very wan, with the dark rings round his eyes a deeper purple than ever,
and he could hardly find utterance to ask, “How is she?”

“As good and sweet as she can be,” said Ethel warmly; but no more, for
Meta herself had come to the dining-room door, and was holding out her
hand. Norman took it in both his, but could not speak; Meta’s own soft
voice was the first. “I thought you would come--he was so fond of you.”

Poor Norman quite gave way, and Meta was the one to speak gentle words
of soothing. “There is so much to be thankful for,” she said. “He has
been spared so much of the suffering Dr. May feared for him; and he was
so happy about George.”

Norman made a great effort to recover himself. Ethel asked for Flora and
George. It appeared that they had been on an excursion when the first
letter arrived at Glenbracken, and thus had received both together in
the evening, on their return. George had been greatly overcome, and they
had wished to set off instantly; but Lady Glenbracken would not hear
of Flora’s travelling night and day, and it had at length been arranged
that Norman Ogilvie should drive Norman across the country that evening,
to catch the mail for Edinburgh, and he had been on the road ever since.
George was following with his wife more slowly, and would be at home
to-morrow evening. Meantime, he sent full authority to his father-in-law
to make arrangements.

Ethel went to see the burned child, leaving Meta to take her walk in the
garden under Norman’s charge. He waited on her with a sort of distant
reverence for a form of grief, so unlike what he had dreaded for
her, when the first shock of the tidings had brought back to him the
shattered bewildered feelings to which he dared not recur.

To dwell on the details was, to her, a comfort, knowing his sympathy and
the affection there had been between him and her father; nor had they
parted in such absolute brightness, as to make them unprepared for such
a meeting as the present. The cloud of suspense was brooding lower and
lower over the May family, and the need of faith and submission was as
great with them as with the young orphan herself. Norman said little,
but that little was so deep and fervent, that after a time Meta could
not help saying, when Ethel was seen in the distance, and their talk was
nearly over, “Oh, Norman, these things are no mirage!”

“It is the world that is the mirage,” he answered. Ethel came up, and
Dr. May also, in good time for the post. He was obliged to become very
busy, using Norman for his secretary, till he saw his son’s eyes so
heavy, that he remembered the two nights that he had been up, and
ordered him to go home and go to bed as soon as tea was over.

“May I come back to-morrow?”

“Why--yes--I think you may. No, no,” he added, recollecting himself, “I
think you had better not,” and he did not relent, though Norman looked
disappointed.

Meta had already expressed her belief that her father would be buried
at the suburban church, where lay her mother; and Dr. May, having been
desired to seek out the will and open it, found it was so; and fixed
the day and hour with Meta, who was as submissive and reasonable as
possible, though much grieved that he thought she could not be present.

Ethel, after going with Meta to her room at night, returned as usual to
talk matters over with him, and again say how good Meta was.

“And I think Norman’s coming did her a great deal of good,” said Ethel.

“Ha! yes,” said the doctor thoughtfully.

“She thinks so much of Mr. Rivers having been fond of him.”

“Yes,” said the doctor, “he was. I find, in glancing over the will,
which was newly made on Flora’s marriage, that he has remembered
Norman--left him £100 and his portfolio of prints by Raffaelle.”

“Has he, indeed?--how very kind, how much Norman will value it.”

“It is remarkable,” said Dr. May; and then, as if he could not help it,
told Ethel what Mr. Rivers had said of his wishes with regard to his
daughter. Ethel blushed and smiled, and looked so much touched and
delighted, that he grew alarmed and said, “You know, Ethel, this must be
as if it never had been mentioned.”

“What! you will not tell Norman?”

“No, certainly not, unless I see strong cause. They are very fond of
each other, certainly, but they don’t know, and I don’t know, whether it
is not like brother and sister. I would not have either of them guess
at this, or feel bound in any way. Why, Ethel, she has thirty thousand
pounds, and I don’t know how much more.”

“Thirty thousand!” said Ethel, her tone one of astonishment, while his
had been almost of objection.

“It would open a great prospect,” continued Dr. May complacently; “with
Norman’s talents, and such a lift as that, he might be one of the first
men in England, provided he had nerve and hardness enough, which I
doubt.”

“He would not care for it,” said Ethel.

“No; but the field of usefulness; but what an old fool I am, after all
my resolutions not to be ambitious for that boy; to be set a-going by
such a thing as this! Still Norman is something out of the common way. I
wonder what Spencer thinks of him.”

“And you never mean them to hear of it?”

“If they settle it for themselves,” said Dr. May, “that sanction will
come in to give double value to mine; or if I should see poor Norman
hesitating as to the inequality, I might smooth the way; but you see,
Ethel, this puts us in a most delicate situation towards this pretty
little creature. What her father wanted was only to guard her from
fortune-hunters, and if she should marry suitably elsewhere--why, we
will be contented.”

“I don’t think I should be,” said Ethel.

“She is the most winning of humming-birds, and what we see of her now,
gives one double confidence in her. She is so far from the petted,
helpless girl that he, poor man, would fain have made her! And she has
a bright, brave temper and elastic spirits that would be the very thing
for him, poor boy, with that morbid sensitiveness--he would not hurt
her, and she would brighten him. It would be a very pretty thing--but we
must never think about it again.”

“If we can help it,” said Ethel.

“Ah! I am sorry I have put it into your head too. We shall not so easily
be unconscious now, when they talk about each other in the innocent way
they do. We have had a lesson against being pleased at match-making!”
 But, turning away from the subject, “You shall not lose your Cocksmoor
income, Ethel--”

“I had never thought of that. You have taken no fees here since we have
been all one family.”

“Well, he has been good enough to leave me £500, and Cocksmoor can have
the interest, if you like.”

“Oh, thank you, papa.”

“It is only its due, for I suppose that is for attendance. Personally,
to myself, he has left that beautiful Claude which he knew I admired so
much. He has been very kind! But, after all, we ought not to be talking
of all this--I should not have known it, if I had not been forced to
read the will. Well, so we are in Flora’s house, Ethel! I wonder how
poor dear little Meta will feel the being a guest here, instead of the
mistress. I wish that boy were three or four years older! I should
like to take her straight home with us--I should like to have her for a
daughter. I shall always look on her as one.”

“As a Daisy!” said Ethel.

“Don’t talk of it!” said Dr. May hastily; “this is no time for such
things. After all, I am glad that the funeral is not here--Flora and
Meta might be rather overwhelmed with these three incongruous sets of
relations. By their letters, those Riverses must be quite as queer a
lot as George’s relations. After all, if we have nothing else, Ethel, we
have the best of it, in regard to such relations as we have.”

“There is Lord Cosham,” said Ethel.

“Yes, he is Meta’s guardian, as well as her brother; but he could not
have her to live with him. She must depend upon Flora. But we shall
see.”

Ethel felt confident that Flora would be very kind to her little
sister-in-law, and yet one of those gleams of doubt crossed her, whether
Flora would not be somewhat jealous of her own authority.

Late the next evening, the carriage drove to the door, and George and
Flora appeared in the hall. Their sisters went out to meet them, and
George folded Meta in his arms, and kissing her again and again, called
her his poor dear little sister, and wept bitterly, and even violently.
Flora stood beside Ethel, and said, in a low voice, that poor George
felt it dreadfully; and then came forward, touched him gently, and told
him that he must not overset Meta; and, drawing her from him, kissed
her, and said what a grievous time this had been for her, and how sorry
they had been to leave her so long, but they knew she was in the best
hands.

“Yes, I should have been so sorry you had been over-tired. I was quite
well off,” said Meta.

“And you must look on us as your home,” added Flora.

“How can she?” thought Ethel. “This is taking possession, and making
Meta a guest already!”

However, Meta did not seem so to feel it--she replied by caresses, and
turned again to her brother. Poor George was by far the most struck down
of all the mourners, and his whole demeanour gave his new relations
a much warmer feeling towards him than they could ever have hoped to
entertain. His gentle refined father had softly impressed his duller
nature; and his want of attention and many extravagances came back upon
him acutely now, in his changed home. He could hardly bear to look at
his little orphan sister, and lavished every mark of fondness upon her;
nor could he endure to sit at the bottom of his table; but when they had
gone in to dinner, he turned away from the chair and hid his face. He
was almost like a child in his want of self-restraint; and with all Dr.
May’s kind soothing manner, he could not bring him to attend to any of
the necessary questions as to arrangements, and was obliged to refer to
Flora, whose composed good sense was never at fault.

Ethel was surprised to find that it would be a great distress to Meta
to part with her until the funeral was over, though she would hardly
express a wish lest Ethel should be needed at home. As soon as Flora
perceived this, she begged her sister to stay, and again Ethel felt
unpleasantly that Meta might have seen, if she had chosen, that Flora
took the invitation upon herself.

So, while Dr. May, with George, Norman, and Tom, went to London, she
remained, though not exactly knowing what good she was doing, unless by
making the numbers rather less scanty; but both sisters declared her to
be the greatest comfort possible; and when Meta shut herself up in her
own room, where she had long learned to seek strength in still communing
with her own heart, Flora seemed to find it a relief to call her sister
to hers, and talk over ordinary subjects, in a tone that struck on
Ethel’s ear as a little incongruous--but then Flora had not been here
from the first, and the impression could not be as strong. She was very
kind, and her manner, when with others, was perfect, from its complete
absence of affectation; but, alone with Ethel, there was a little
complacency sometimes betrayed, and some curiosity whether her father
had read the will. Ethel allowed what she had heard of the contents to
be extracted from her, and it certainly did not diminish Flora’s secret
satisfaction in being ‘somebody’.

She told the whole history of her visits; first, how cordial Lady
Leonora Langdale had been, and then, how happy she had been at
Glenbracken. The old Lord and Lady, and Marjorie, all equally charming
in their various ways; and Norman Ogilvie so good a son, and so highly
thought of in his own country.

“Did I tell you, Ethel, that he desired to be remembered to you?”

“Yes, you said so.”

“What has Coralie done with it?” continued Flora, seeking in her
dressing-case. “She must have put it away with my brooches. Oh, no, here
it is. I had been looking for Cairngorm specimens in a shop, saying I
wanted a brooch that you would wear, when Norman Ogilvie came riding
after the carriage, looking quite hot and eager. He had been to some
other place, and hunted this one up. Is it not a beauty?”

It was one of the round Bruce brooches, of dark pebble, with a silver
fern-leaf lying across it, the dots of small Cairngorm stones. “The
Glenbracken badge, you know,” continued Flora.

Ethel twisted it about in her fingers, and said, “Was not it meant for
you?”

“It was to oblige me, if you choose so to regard it,” said Flora,
smiling. “He gave me no injunctions; but, you see, you must wear it now.
I shall not wear coloured brooches for a year.”

Ethel sighed. She felt as if her black dress ought, perhaps, to be worn
for a nearer cause. She had a great desire to keep that Glenbracken
brooch; and surely it could not be wrong. To refuse it would be much
worse, and would only lead to Flora’s keeping it, and not caring for it.

“Then it is your present, Flora?”

“If you like better to call it so, my dear. I find Norman Ogilvie is
going abroad in a few months. I think we ought to ask him here on his
way.”

“Flora, I wish you would not talk about such things!”

“Do you really and truly, Ethel?”

“Certainly not, at such a time as this,” said Ethel.

Flora was checked a little, and sat down to write to Marjorie Ogilvie.
“Shall I say you like the brooch, Ethel?” she asked presently.

“Say what is proper,” said Ethel impatiently. “You know what I mean, in
the fullest sense of the word.”

“Do I?” said Flora.

“I mean,” said Ethel, “that you may say, simply and rationally, that I
like the thing, but I won’t have it said as a message, or that I take it
as his present.”

“Very well,” said Flora, “the whole affair is simple enough, if you
would not be so conscious, my dear.”

“Flora, I can’t stand your calling me my dear!”

“I am very much obliged to you,” said Flora, laughing, more than she
would have liked to be seen, but recalled by her sister’s look. Ethel
was sorry at once.

“Flora, I beg your pardon; I did not mean to be cross, only please don’t
begin about that; indeed, I think you had better leave out about the
brooch altogether. No one will wonder at your passing it over in such a
return as this.”

“You are right,” said Flora thoughtfully.

Ethel carried the brooch to her own room, and tried to keep herself
from speculating what had been Mr. Ogllvie’s views in procuring it, and
whether he remembered showing her, at Woodstock, which sort of fern was
his badge, and how she had abstained from preserving the piece shut up
in her guide-book.

Meta’s patient sorrow was the best remedy for proneness to such musings.
How happy poor little Meta had been! The three sisters sat together that
long day, and Ethel read to the others, and by and by went to walk in
the garden with them, till, as Flora was going in, Meta asked, “Do you
think it would be wrong for me to cross the park to see that little
burned girl, as Mr. Wilmot is away to-day, and she has no one to go to
her?”

Flora could see no reason against it, and Meta and Ethel left the
garden, and traversed the green park, in its quiet home beauty, not
talking much, except that Meta said, “Well! I think there is quite as
much sweetness as sadness in this evening.”

“Because of this calm autumn sunset beauty?” said Ethel. “Look at the
golden light coming in under the branches of the trees.”

“Yes,” said Meta, “one cannot help thinking how much more beautiful it
must be--”

The two girls said no more, and came to the cottage, where so much
gratitude was expressed at seeing Miss Rivers, that it was almost too
much for her. She left Ethel to talk, and only said a few soft little
words to her sick scholar, who seemed to want her voice and smile to
convince her that the small mournful face, under all that black crape,
belonged to her own dear bright teacher.

“It is odd,” said Meta, as they went back; “it is seeing other people
that makes one know it is all sad and altered--it seems so bewildering,
though they are so kind.”

“I know what you mean,” said Ethel.

“One ought not to wish it to go on, because there are other people and
other duties,” said Meta, “but quietness is so peaceful. Do you know,
Ethel, I shall always think of those two first days, before anybody
came, with you and Dr. May, as something very--very--precious,” she said
at last, with the tears rising.

“I am sure I shall,” said Ethel.

“I don’t know how it is, but there is something even in this affliction
that makes it like--a strange sort of happiness,” said Meta musingly.

“I know what it is!” said Ethel.

“That He is so very good?” said Meta reverently.

“Yes,” said Ethel, almost rebuked for the first thought, namely, that it
was because Meta was so very good.

“It does make one feel more confidence,” said Meta.

“‘It is good for me to have been in trouble,’” repeated Ethel.

“Yes,” said Meta. “I hope it is not wrong or unkind in me to feel it,
for I think dear papa would wish it; but I do not feel as if--miss him
always as I shall--the spring of life were gone from me. I don’t think
it can, for I know no more pain or trouble can reach him, and there
is--don’t you think, Ethel, that I may think so?--especial care for the
orphan, like a compensation. And there is hope, and work here. And I am
very thankful! How much worse it would have been, if George had not been
married! Dear Flora! Will you tell her, Ethel, how really I do wish her
to take the command of me? Tell her it will be the greatest kindness in
the world to make me useful to her.”

“I will,” said Ethel.

“And please tell her that I am afraid I may forget, and take upon me, as
if I were still lady of the house. Tell her I do not mean it, and I hope
that she will check it.”

“I think there is no fear of her forgetting that,” said Ethel,
regretting the words before they were out of her mouth.

“I hope I shall not,” said Meta. “If I do, I shall drive myself away to
stay with Aunt Leonora, and I don’t want to do that at all. So please
to make Flora understand that she is head, and I am ready to be hand and
foot;” and Meta’s bright smile shone out, with the pleasure of a fresh
and loving service.

Ethel understood the force of her father’s words, that it was a brave,
vigorous spirit.

Dr. May came back with George, and stayed to dinner, after which he
talked over business with Flora, whose sagacity continually amazed
him, and who undertook to make her husband understand, and do what was
needed.

Meta meanwhile cross-questioned her brother on the pretty village by the
Thames, of which she had a fond, childish remembrance, and heard from
him of the numerous kind messages from all her relations. There were
various invitations, but George repeated them unwillingly.

“You won’t go, Meta,” he said. “It would be a horrid nuisance to part
with you.”

“As long as you think so, dear George. When I am in your way, or
Flora’s--”

“That will never be! I say, Flora, will she ever be in our way?”

“No, indeed! Meta and I understand that,” said Flora, looking up. “Well,
I suppose Bruce can’t be trusted to value the books and prints.”

Dr. May thought it a great relief that Meta had a home with Flora, for,
as he said to Ethel as they went home together, “Certainly, except Lord
Cosham, I never saw such an unpresentable crew as their relations. You
should have heard the boys afterwards! There was Master Tom turning up
his Eton nose at them, and pronouncing that there never were such a
set of snobs, and Norman taking him to task as I never heard him do
before--telling him that he would never have urged his going to Eton,
if he had thought it would make him despise respectable folks, probably
better than himself, and that this was the last time in the world for
such observations--whereat poor Tommy was quite annihilated; for a word
from Norman goes further with him than a lecture from any one else.”

“Well, I think Norman was right as to the unfitness of the time.”

“So he was. But we had a good deal of them, waiting in the inn parlour.
People make incongruities when they will have such things done in state.
It could not be helped here, to be sure; but I always feel, at a grand
undertaker’s display like this, that, except the service itself, there
is little to give peace or soothing. I hate what makes a talk! Better be
little folk.”

“One would rather think of our own dear cloister, and those who cared so
much,” said Ethel.

“Ah! you were happy to be there!” said Dr. May. “But it all comes to the
same.” Pausing, he looked from the window, then signed to Ethel to do
the same--Orion glittered in the darkness.

“One may sleep sound without the lullaby,” said Dr. May, “and the
waves--”

“Oh! don’t, papa. You don’t give up hope!”

“I believe we ought, Ethel. Don’t tell her, but I went to the Admirality
to-day.”

“And what did you hear there?”

“Great cause for fear--but they do not give up. My poor Margaret! But
those stars tell us they are in the same Hand.”




CHAPTER XIII.



     Shall I sit alone in my chamber,
       And set the chairs by the wall,
     While you sit with lords and princes,
       Yet have not a thought at all?

     Shall I sit alone in my chamber,
       And duly the table lay,
     Whilst you stand up in the diet,
       And have not a word to say?--Old Danish Ballad.


“Oh, Norman, are you come already?” exclaimed Margaret, as her brother
opened the door, bringing in with him the crisp breath of December.

“Yes, I came away directly after collections. How are you, Margaret?”

“Pretty brave, thank you;” but the brother and sister both read on each
other’s features that the additional three months of suspense had told.
There were traces of toil and study on Norman’s brow; the sunken look
about his eyes, and the dejected outline of his cheek, Margaret knew
betokened discouragement; and though her mild serenity was not changed,
she was almost transparently thin and pale. They had long ago left off
asking whether there were tidings, and seldom was the subject adverted
to, though the whole family seemed to be living beneath a dark shadow.

“How is Flora?” he next asked.

“Going on beautifully, except that papa thinks she does too much in
every way. She declares that she shall bring the baby to show me in
another week, but I don’t think it will be allowed.”

“And the little lady prospers?”

“Capitally, though I get rather contradictory reports of her. First,
papa declared her something surpassing--exactly like Flora, and so I
suppose she is; but Ethel and Meta will say nothing for her beauty, and
Blanche calls her a fright. But papa is her devoted admirer--he does so
enjoy having a sort of property again in a baby!”

“And George Rivers?” said Norman, smiling.

“Poor George! he is very proud of her in his own way. He has just been
here with a note from Flora, and actually talked! Between her and the
election, he is wonderfully brilliant.”

“The election? Has Mr. Esdaile resigned?”

“Have you not heard? He intends it, and George himself is going to
stand. The only danger is that Sir Henry Walkinghame should think of
it.”

“Rivers in Parliament! Well, sound men are wanted.”

“Fancy Flora, our member’s wife. How well she will become her position.”

“How soon is it likely to be?”

“Quickly, I fancy. Dr. Spencer, who knows all kinds of news (papa says
he makes a scientific study of gossip, as a new branch of comparative
anatomy), found out from the Clevelands that Mr. Esdaile meant to
retire, and happened to mention it the last time that Flora came to see
me. It was like firing a train. You would have wondered to see how it
excited her, who usually shows her feelings so little. She has been so
much occupied with it, and so anxious that George should be ready to
take the field at once, that papa was afraid of its hurting her, and
Ethel comes home declaring that the election is more to her than her
baby.”

“Ethel is apt to be a little hard on Flora. They are too unlike to
understand each other.”

“Ethel is to be godmother though, and Flora means to ask Mr. Ogilvie to
come and stand.”

“I think he will be gone abroad, or I should have asked him to fulfil
his old promise of coming to us.”

“I believe he must be lodged here, if he should come. Flora will have
her house full, for Lady Leonora is coming. The baby is to be called
after her.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Norman.

“Yes; I thought it unnecessary, as she is not George’s aunt, but Flora
is grateful to her for much kindness, and she is coming to see Meta. I
am afraid papa is a little hurt, that any name but one should have been
chosen.”

“Has Meta been comfortable?”

“Dear little thing! Every one says how beautifully she has behaved. She
brought all her housekeeping books to Flora at once, and only begged to
be made helpful in whatever way might be most convenient. She explained,
what we never knew before, how she had the young maids in to read with
her, and asked leave to go on. Very few could have been set aside so
simply and sweetly in their own house.”

“Flora was sensible of it, I hope.”

“Oh, yes. She took the management of course, but Meta is charmed with
her having the girls in from the village, in turn, to help in the
scullery. They have begun family prayers too, and George makes the
stablemen go to church--a matter which had been past Meta, as you may
guess, though she had been a wonderful little manager, and Flora owned
herself quite astonished.”

“I wonder only at her being astonished.”

“Meta owned to Ethel that what had been worst of all to her was the
heart sinking, at finding herself able to choose her occupations, with
no one to accommodate them to. But she would not give way--she set up
more work for herself at the school, and has been talking of giving
singing lessons at Cocksmoor; and she forced herself to read, though it
was an effort. She has been very happy lately in nursing Flora.”

“Is Ethel there?”

“No; she is, as usual, at Cocksmoor. There are great councils about
sending Cherry to be trained for her new school.”

“Would Flora be able to see me, if I were to ride over to the Grange?”

“You may try; and, if papa is not there, I dare say she will.”

“At least, I shall see Meta, and she may judge. I want to see Rivers
too, so I will ask if the bay is to be had. Ah! you have the Claude, I
see.”

“Yes, it is too large for this room; but papa put it here that I might
enjoy it, and it is almost a companion. The sky improves so in the
sunset light.”

Norman was soon at Abbotstoke; and, as he drew his rein, Meta’s bright
face nodded to him from Flora’s sitting-room window; and, as he passed
the conservatory, the little person met him, with a summons, at once, to
his sister.

He found Flora on the sofa, with a table beside her, covered with notes
and papers. She was sitting up writing; and, though somewhat pale, was
very smiling and animated.

“Norman, how kind to come to me the first thing!”

“Margaret encouraged me to try whether you would be visible.”

“They want to make a regular prisoner of me,” said Flora, laughing.
“Papa is as bad as the old nurse! But he has not been here to-day, so I
have had my own way. Did you meet George?”

“No; but Margaret said he had been with her.”

“I wish he would come. We expect the second post to bring the news that
Mr. Esdaile has accepted the Chiltern Hundreds. If he found it so, he
meant to go and talk to Mr. Bramshaw; for, though he is so dull, we must
make him agent.”

“Is there any danger of opposition?”

“None at all, if we are soon enough in the field. Papa’s name will
secure us, and there is no one else on the right side to come forward,
so that it is an absolute rescue of the seat.”

“It is the very moment when men of principle are most wanted,” said
Norman. “The questions of the day are no light matters; and it is an
immense point to save Stoneborough from being represented by one of the
Tomkins’ set.”

“Exactly so,” said Flora. “I should feel it a crime to say one word to
deter George, at a time when every effort must be made to support the
right cause. One must make sacrifices when the highest interests are at
stake.”

Flora seemed to thrive upon her sacrifice--she had never appeared more
brilliant and joyous. Her brother saw, in her, a Roman matron; and the
ambition that was inherent in his nature, began to find compensation for
being crushed, as far as regarded himself, by soaring for another. He
eagerly answered that he fully agreed with her, and that she would never
repent urging her husband to take on himself the duties incumbent on all
who had the power.

Highly gratified, she asked him to look at a copy of George’s intended
address, which was lying on the table. He approved of the tenor, but
saw a few phrases susceptible of a better point. “Give it,” she said,
putting a pen into his hand; and he began to interline and erase her
fair manuscript, talking earnestly, and working up himself and the
address at the same time, till it had grown into a composition far
superior to the merely sensible affair it had been. Eloquence and
thought were now in the language, and substance--and Flora was
delighted.

“I have been very disrespectful to my niece all this time,” said Norman,
descending from the clouds of patriotism.

“I do not mean to inflict her mercilessly on her relations,” said Flora,
“but I should like you to see her. She is so like Blanche.”

The little girl was brought in, and Flora made a very pretty young
mother, as she held her in her arms, with so much graceful pride. Norman
was perfectly entranced--he had never seen his sister so charming or so
admirable, between her delight in her infant, and her self-devotion to
the good of her husband and her country--acting so wisely, and speaking
so considerately; and praising her dear Meta with so much warmth. He
would never have torn himself away, had not the nurse hinted that Mrs.
Rivers had had too much excitement and fatigue already to-day; and,
besides, he suspected that he might find Meta in the drawing-room, where
he might discuss the whole with her, and judge for himself of her state
of spirits.

Flora’s next visitor was her father, who came as the twilight was
enhancing the comfortable red brightness of the fire. He was very happy
in these visits--mother and child had both prospered so well, and it was
quite a treat to be able to expend his tenderness on Flora. His little
grandchild seemed to renew his own happy days, and he delighted to take
her from her mother and fondle her. No sooner was the baby in his arms
than Flora’s hands were busy among the papers, and she begged him to
ring for lights.

“Not yet,” he said. “Why can’t you sit in the dark, and give yourself a
little rest?”

“I want you to hear George’s address. Norman has been looking at it, and
I hope you will not think it too strong,” and she turned, so that the
light might fall on the paper.

“Let me see,” said Dr. May, holding out his hand for it.

“This is a rough copy, too much scratched for you to make out.”

She read it accordingly, and her father admired it exceedingly--Norman’s
touches, above all; and Flora’s reading had dovetailed all so neatly
together that no one knew where the joins were. “I will copy it fairly,”
 she said, “if you will show it to Dr. Spencer, and ask whether he thinks
it too strong. Mr. Dodsley too; he would be more gratified if he saw it
first, in private, and thought himself consulted.”

Dr. May was dismayed at seeing her take up her pen, make a desk of her
blotting-book, and begin her copy by firelight.

“Flora, my dear,” he said, “this must not be. Have I not told you that
you must be content to rest?”

“I did not get up till ten o’clock, and have been lying here ever
since.”

“But what has this head of yours been doing? Has it been resting for ten
minutes together? Now I know what I am saying, Flora--I warn you, that
if you will not give yourself needful quiet now, you will suffer for it
by and by.”

Flora smiled, and said, “I thought I had been very good. But, what is to
be done when one’s wits will work, and there is work for them to do?”

“Is not there work enough for them here?” said Dr. May, looking at the
babe. “Your mother used to value such a retirement from care.”

Flora was silent for a minute, then said, “Mr. Esdaile should have
put off his resignation to suit me. It is an unfortunate time for the
election.”

“And you can’t let the election alone?”

She shook her head, and smiled a negative, as if she would, but that she
was under a necessity.

“My dear, if the election cannot go on without you, it had better not go
on at all.”

She looked very much hurt, and turned away her head.

Her father was grieved. “My dear,” he added, “I know you desire to be of
use, especially to George; but do you not believe that he would rather
fail, than that you, or his child, should suffer?”

No answer.

“Does he stand by his own wish, or yours, Flora?”

“He wishes it. It is his duty,” said Flora, collecting her dignity.

“I can say no more, except to beg him not to let you exert yourself.”

Accordingly, when George came home, the doctor read him a lecture on his
wife’s over-busy brain; and was listened to, as usual, with gratitude
and deference. He professed that he only wished to do what was best for
her, but she never would spare herself; and, going to her side, with his
heavy, fond solicitude, he made her promise not to hurt herself, and she
laughed and consented.

The promise was easily given, for she did not believe she was hurting
herself; and, as to giving up the election, or ceasing secretly to
prompt George, that was absolutely out of the question. What could be a
greater duty than to incite her husband to usefulness?

Moreover it was but proper to invite Meta’s aunt and cousin to see
her, and to project a few select dinners for their amusement and the
gratification of her neighbours. It was only grateful and cousinly
likewise, to ask the “Master of Glenbracken”; and as she saw the
thrill of colour on Ethel’s cheeks, at the sight of the address to the
Honourable Norman Ogilvie, she thought herself the best of sisters. She
even talked of Ogilvie as a second Christian name, but Meta observed
that old Aunt Dorothy would call it Leonorar Rogilvie Rivers, and thus
averted it, somewhat to Ethel’s satisfaction.

Ethel scolded herself many times for wondering whether Mr. Ogilvie would
come. What was it to her? Suppose he should; suppose the rest. What a
predicament! How unreasonable and conceited, even to think of such a
thing, when her mind was made up. What could result, save tossings to
and fro, a passing gratification set against infinite pain, and strife
with her own heart and with her father’s unselfishness! Had he but come
before Flora’s marriage! No; Ethel hated herself for the wish that arose
for the moment. Far better he should keep away, if, perhaps, without the
slightest inclination towards her, his mere name could stir up such a
tumult--all, it might be, founded in vanity. Rebellious feelings and
sense of tedium had once been subdued--why should they be roused again?

The answer came. Norman Ogilvie was setting off for Italy, and regretted
that he could not take Abbotstoke on his way. He desired his kind
remembrances and warm Christmas wishes to all his cousins.

If Ethel breathed more freely, there was a sense that tranquillity is
uninteresting. It was, it must be confessed, a flat end to a romance,
that all the permanent present effect was a certain softening, and a
degree more attention to her appearance; and after all, this might, as
Flora averred, be ascribed to the Paris outfit having taught her to wear
clothes; as well as to that which had awakened the feminine element, and
removed that sense of not being like other women, which sometimes hangs
painfully about girls who have learned to think themselves plain or
awkward.

There were other causes why it should be a dreary winter to Ethel, under
the anxiety that strengthened by duration, and the strain of acting
cheerfulness for Margaret’s sake. Even Mary was a care. Her round rosy
childhood had worn into height and sallowness, and her languor and
indifference fretted Miss Bracy, and was hunted down by Ethel, till
Margaret convinced her that it was a case for patience and tenderness,
which, thenceforth, she heartily gave, even encountering a scene
with Miss Bracy, who was much injured by the suggestion that Mary was
oppressed by perspective. Poor Mary, no one guessed the tears nightly
shed over Harry’s photograph.

Nor could Ethel quite fathom Norman. He wore the dispirited, burdened
expression that she knew too well, but he would not, as formerly, seek
relief in confidence to her, shunning the being alone with her, and far
too much occupied to offer to walk to Cocksmoor. When the intelligence
came that good old Mr. Wilmot of Settlesham had peacefully gone to his
rest, after a short and painless illness, Tom was a good deal affected,
in his peculiar silent and ungracious fashion; but Norman did not seek
to talk over the event, and the feelings he had entertained two years
ago--he avoided the subject, and threw himself into the election matters
with an excitement foreign to his nature.

He was almost always at Abbotstoke, or attending George Rivers at the
committee-room at the Swan, talking, writing, or consulting, concocting
squibs, and perpetrating bons mots, that were the delight of friends and
the confusion of foes. Flora was delighted, George adored him, Meta’s
eyes danced whenever he came near, Dr. Spencer admired him, and Dr.
Hoxton prophesied great things of him; but Ethel did not feel as if he
were the veritable Norman, and had an undefined sensation of discomfort,
when she heard his brilliant repartees, and the laughter with which he
accompanied them, so unlike his natural rare and noiseless laugh. She
knew it was false excitement, to drive away the suspense that none dared
to avow, but which did not press on them the less heavily for being
endured in silence. Indeed, Dr. May could not help now and then giving
way to outbursts of despondency, of which his friend, Dr. Spencer, who
made it his special charge to try to lighten his troubles, was usually
the kind recipient.

And though the bustle of the election was incongruous, and seemed to
make the leaden weight the more heavy, there was a compensation in
the tone of feeling that it elicited, which gave real and heartfelt
pleasure.

Dr. May had undergone numerous fluctuations of popularity. He had always
been the same man, excellent in intention, though hasty in action, and
heeding neither praise nor censure; and while the main tenor of his
course never varied, making many deviations by flying to the reverse
of the wrong, most immediately before him, still his personal character
gained esteem every year; and though sometimes his merits, and sometimes
his failings, gave violent umbrage, he had steadily risen in the
estimation of his fellow-townsmen, as much as his own inconsistencies
and theirs would allow, and every now and then was the favourite with
all, save with the few who abused him for tyranny, because he prevented
them from tyrannising.

He was just now on the top of the wave, and his son-in-law had nothing
to do but to float in on the tide of his favour. The opposite faction
attempted a contest, but only rendered the triumph more complete,
and gave the gentlemen the pleasure of canvassing, and hearing, times
without number, that the constituents only wished the candidate were
Dr. May himself. His sons and daughters were full of exultation--Dr.
Spencer, much struck, rallied “Dick” on his influence--and Dr. May, the
drops of warm emotion trembling on his eyelashes, smiled, and bade his
friend see him making a church-rate.

The addresses and letters that came from the Grange were so admirable,
that Dr. May often embraced Norman’s steady opinion that George was
a very wise man. If Norman was unconscious how much he contributed
to these compositions, he knew far less how much was Flora’s. In his
ardour, he crammed them both, and conducted George when Flora could not
be at his side. George himself was a personable man, wrote a good
bold hand, would do as he was desired, and was not easily put out of
countenance; he seldom committed himself by talking; and when a speech
was required, was brief, and to the purpose. He made a very good figure,
and in the glory of victory, Ethel herself began to grow proud of him,
and the children’s great object in life was to make the jackdaws cry,
“Rivers for ever!”

Flora had always declared that she would be at Stoneborough for the
nomination. No one believed her, until three days before, she presented
herself and her daughter before the astonished Margaret, who was
too much delighted to be able to scold. She had come away on her own
responsibility, and was full of triumph. To come home in this manner,
after having read “Rivers for ever!” on all the dead walls, might be
called that for which she had lived. She made no stay--she had only
come to show her child, and establish a precedent for driving out, and
Margaret had begun to believe the apparition a dream, when the others
came in, some from Cocksmoor, others from the committee-room at the
Swan.

“So she brought the baby,” exclaimed Ethel. “I should have thought she
would not have taken her out before her christening.”

“Ethel,” said Dr. Spencer, “permit me to make a suggestion. When
relations live in the same neighbourhood, there is no phrase to be more
avoided than ‘I should have thought--’”

The nomination-day brought Flora, Meta, baby and all to be very quiet,
as was said; but how could that be? when every boy in the house was
frantic, and the men scarcely less so. Aubrey and Gertrude, and the two
jackdaws, each had a huge blue and orange rosette, and the two former
went about roaring “Rivers for ever!” without the least consideration
for the baby, who would have been decked in the same manner, if Ethel
would have heard of it without indignation, at her wearing any colour
before her christening white; as to Jack and Jill, though they could
say their lesson, they were too much distressed by their ornaments to do
ought but lurk in corners, and strive to peck them off.

Flora comported herself in her usual quiet way, and tried to talk of
other things, though a carnation spot in each cheek showed her anxiety
and excitement. She went with her sisters to look out from Dr. Spencer’s
windows towards the Town Hall. Her husband gave her his arm as they
went down the garden, and Ethel saw her talking earnestly to him, and
pressing his arm with her other hand to enforce her words, but if she
did tutor him, it was hardly visible, and he was very glad of whatever
counsel she gave.

She spoke not a word after the ladies were left with Aubrey, who was in
despair at not being allowed to follow Hector and Tom, but was left, as
his prematurely classical mind expressed it, like the Gaulish women with
the impedimenta in the marshes--whereas Tom had added insult to injury,
by a farewell to “Jack among the maidens.”

Meta tried to console him, by persuading him that he was their
protector, and he began to think there was need of a guard, when a
mighty cheer caused him to take refuge behind Ethel. Even when assured
that it was anything but terrific, he gravely declared that he thought
Margaret would want him, but he could not cross the garden without Meta
to protect him.

She would not allow any one else to relieve her from the doughty
champion, and thereby she missed the spectacle. It might be that she did
not regret it, for though it would have been unkind to refuse to come in
with her brother and sister, her wound was still too fresh for crowds,
turmoil, and noisy rejoicing to be congenial. She did not withdraw her
hand, which Aubrey squeezed harder at each resounding shout, nor object
to his conducting her to see his museum in the dark corner of the
attics, most remote from the tumult.

The loss was not great. The others could hear nothing distinctly, and
see only a wilderness of heads; but the triumph was complete. Dr. May
had been cheered enough to satisfy even Hector; George Rivers had made
a very fair speech, and hurrahs had covered all deficiencies; Hector had
shouted till he was as hoarse as the jackdaws; the opposite candidate
had never come forward at all; Tomkins was hiding his diminished head;
and the gentlemen had nothing to report but success, and were in the
highest spirits.

By and by Blanche was missing, and Ethel, going in quest of her, spied
a hem of blue merino peeping out under all the cloaks in the hall
cupboard, and found the poor little girl sobbing in such distress, that
it was long before any explanation could be extracted, but at last it
was revealed--when the door had been shut, and they stood in the dark,
half stifled among the cloaks, that George’s spirits had taken his old
facetious style with Blanche, and in the very hearing of Hector!
The misery of such jokes to a sensitive child, conscious of not
comprehending their scope, is incalculable, and Blanche having been a
baby-coquette, was the more susceptible. She hid her face again from the
very sound of her own confession, and resisted Ethel’s attempts to draw
her out of the musty cupboard, declaring that she could never see either
of them again. Ethel, in vain, assured her that George was gone to the
dinner at the Swan; nothing was effectual but being told that for her
to notice what had passed was the sure way to call Hector’s attention
thereto, when she bridled, emerged, and begged to know whether she
looked as if she had been crying. Poor child, she could never again
be unconscious, but, at least, she was rendered peculiarly afraid of a
style of notice, that might otherwise have been a temptation.

Ethel privately begged Flora to hint to George to alter his style of
wit, and the suggestion was received better than the blundering manner
deserved; Flora was too exulting to take offence, and her patronage of
all the world was as full-blown as her ladylike nature allowed. Ethel,
she did not attempt to patronise, but she promised all the sights
in London to the children, and masters to Mary and Blanche, and she
perfectly overwhelmed Miss Bracy with orphan asylums for her sisters.
She would have liked nothing better than dispersing cards, with Mrs.
Rivers prominent among the recommenders of the case.

“A fine coming-out for you, little lady,” said she to her baby, when
taking leave that evening. “If it was good luck for you to make your
first step in life upwards, what is this?”

“Excelsior?” said Ethel, and Flora smiled, well pleased, but she had not
caught half the meaning. “May it be the right excelsior” added Ethel, in
a low voice that no one heard, and she was glad they did not. They were
all triumphant, and she could not tell why she had a sense of sadness,
and thought of Flora’s story long ago, of the girl who ascended Mont
Blanc, and for what?

All she had to do at present was to listen to Miss Bracy, who was sure
that Mrs. Rivers thought Mary and Blanche were not improved, and was
afraid she was ungrateful for all the intended kindness to her sister.

Ethel had more sympathy here, for she had thought that Flora was giving
herself airs, and she laughed and said her sister was pleased to be in
a position to help her friends; and tried to turn it off, but ended
by stumbling into allowing that prosperity was apt to make people
over-lavish of offers of kindness.

“Dear Miss Ethel, you understand so perfectly. There is no one like
you!” cried Miss Bracy, attempting to kiss her hand.

If Ethel had not spoken rightly of her sister, she was sufficiently
punished.

What she did was to burst into a laugh, and exclaim, “Miss Bracy! Miss
Bracy! I can’t have you sentimental. I am the worst person in the world
for it.”

“I have offended. You cannot feel with me!”

“Yes, I can, when it is sense; but please don’t treat me like a heroine.
I am sure there is quite enough in the world that is worrying, without
picking shades of manner to pieces. It is the sure way to make an old
crab of me, and so I am going off. Only, one parting piece of advice,
Miss Bracy--read ‘Frank Fairlegh’, and put everybody out of your head.”

And, thinking she had been savage about her hand, Ethel turned back, and
kissed the little governess’s forehead, wished her goodnight, and ran
away.

She had learned that, to be rough and merry, was the best way of doing
Miss Bracy good in the end; and so she often gave herself the present
pain of knowing that she was being supposed careless and hard-hearted;
but the violent affection for her proved that the feeling did not last.

Ethel was glad to sit by the fire at bed-time, and think over the day,
outwardly so gay, inwardly so fretting and perplexing.

It was the first time that she had seen much of her little niece. She
was no great baby-handler, nor had she any of the phrases adapted to the
infant mind; but that pretty little serene blue-eyed girl had been her
chief thought all day, and she was abashed by recollecting how little
she had dwelt on her own duties as her sponsor, in the agitations
excited by the doubts about her coadjutor.

She took out her Prayer-book, and read the Service for Baptism,
recollecting the thoughts that had accompanied her youngest sister’s
orphaned christening, “The vain pomp and glory of the world, and all
covetous desires of the same.” They seemed far enough off then, and
now--poor little Leonora!

Ethel knew that she judged her sister hardly; yet she could not help
picturing to herself the future--a young lady, trained for fashionable
life, serious teaching not omitted, but right made the means of
rising in the world; taught to strive secretly, but not openly, for
admiration--a scheming for her marriage--a career like Flora’s own.
Ethel could scarcely feel that it would not be a mockery to declare, on
her behalf, that she renounced the world. But, alas! where was not the
world? Ethel blushed at having censured others, when, so lately, she had
herself been oblivious of the higher duty. She thought of the prayer,
including every Christian in holy and loving intercession--“I pray not
that Thou wouldest take them out of the world, but that Thou wouldest
keep them from the evil.”

“Keep her from the evil--that shall be my prayer for my poor little
Leonora. His grace can save her, were the surrounding evil far worse
than ever it is likely to be. The intermixture with good is the trial,
and is it not so everywhere--ever since the world and the Church have
seemed fused together? But she will soon be the child of a Father who
guards His own; and, at least, I can pray for her, and her dear mother.
May I only live better, that so I may pray better, and act better, if
ever I should have to act.”

There was a happy family gathering on the New Year’s Day, and Flora, who
had kindly felt her way with Meta, finding her not yet ready to enjoy
a public festivity for the village, added a supplement to the Christmas
beef, that a second dinner might be eaten at home, in honour of Miss
Leonora Rivers.

Lady Leonora was highly satisfied with her visit, which impressed her
far more in favour of the Abbotstoke neighbourhood than in the days
of poor old Mr. Rivers. Flora knew every one, and gave little select
dinner-parties, which, by her good management, even George, at the
bottom of the table, could not make heavy. Dr. Spencer enjoyed them
greatly, and was an unfailing resource for conversation; and as to the
Hoxtons, Flora felt herself amply repaying the kindness she had received
in her young lady days, when she walked down to the dining-room with
the portly headmaster, or saw his good lady sit serenely admiring
the handsome rooms. “A very superior person, extremely pleasing and
agreeable,” was the universal verdict on Mrs. Rivers. Lady Leonora
struck up a great friendship with her, and was delighted that she meant
to take Meta to London. The only fault that could be found with her was
that she had so many brothers; and Flora, recollecting that her ladyship
mistrusted those brothers, avoided encouraging their presence at the
Grange, and took every precaution against any opening for the suspicion
that she threw them in the way of her little sister-in-law.

Nor had Flora forgotten the Ladies’ Committee, or Cocksmoor. As to the
muses, they gave no trouble at all. Exemplary civilities about the chair
passed between the Member’s lady and Mrs. Ledwich, ending in Flora’s
insisting that priority in office should prevail, feeling that she could
well afford to yield the post of honour, since anywhere she was the
leader. She did not know how much more conformable the ladies had
been ever since they had known Dr. Spencer’s opinion; and yet he only
believed that they were grateful for good advice, and went about among
them, easy, good-natured, and utterly unconscious that for him sparkled
Mrs. Ledwich’s bugles, and for him waved every spinster’s ribbon, from
Miss Rich down to Miss Boulder.

The point carried by their united influence was Charity Elwood’s being
sent for six months’ finish at the Diocesan Training School; while a
favourite pupil-teacher from Abbotstoke took her place at Cocksmoor.
Dr. Spencer looked at the Training School, and talked Mrs. Ledwich into
magnanimous forgiveness of Mrs. Elwood. Cherry dreaded the ordeal, but
she was willing to do anything that was thought right, and likely to
make her fitter for her office.




CHAPTER XIV.



     ‘Twas a long doubt; we never heard
       Exactly how the ship went down.--ARCHER GURNEY.


The tidings came at last, came when the heart-sickness of hope deferred
had faded into the worse heart-sickness of fear deferred, and when
spirits had been fain to rebel, and declare that they would be almost
glad to part with the hope that but kept alive despair.

The Christmas holidays had come to an end, and the home party were again
alone, when early in the forenoon, there was a tap at the drawing-room
door, and Dr. Spencer called, “Ethel, can you come and speak to me?”

Margaret started as if those gentle tones had been a thunderclap. “Go!
go, Ethel,” she said, “don’t keep me waiting.”

Dr. Spencer stood in the hall with a newspaper in his hand. Ethel said,
“Is it?” and he made a sorrowful gesture. “Both?” she asked.

“Both,” he repeated. “The ship burned--the boat lost.”

“Ethel, come!” hoarsely called Margaret.

“Take it,” said Dr. Spencer, putting the paper into her hand; “I will
wait.”

She obeyed. She could not speak, but kneeling down by her sister, they
read the paragraph together; Ethel, with one eye on the words, the other
on Margaret.

No doubt was left. Captain Gordon had returned, and this was his
official report. The names of the missing stood below, and the list
began thus:--

        Lieutenant A. H. Ernescliffe.
        Mr. Charles Owen, Mate.
        Mr. Harry May, Midshipman.

The Alcestis had taken fire on the 12th of April of the former year.
There had been much admirable conduct, and the intrepid coolness of Mr.
Ernescliffe was especially recorded. The boats had been put off without
loss, but they were scantily provisioned, and the nearest land was far
distant. For five days the boats kept together, then followed a night
of storms, and, when morning dawned, the second cutter, under command of
Mr. Ernescliffe, had disappeared. There could be no doubt that she had
sunk, and the captain could only record his regrets for the loss the
service had experienced in the three brave young officers and their
gallant seamen. After infinite toil and suffering, the captain, with the
other boats’ crews, had reached Tahiti, whence they had made their way
home.

“Oh, Margaret, Margaret!” cried Ethel.

Margaret raised herself, and the colour came into her face.

“I did not write the letter!” she said.

“What letter?” said Ethel, alarmed.

“Richard prevented me. The letter that would have parted us. Now all is
well.”

“All is well, I know, if we could but feel it.”

“He never had the pain. It is unbroken!” continued Margaret, her eyes
brightening, but her breath, in long-drawn gasps that terrified Ethel
into calling Dr. Spencer.

Mary was standing before him, with bloodless face and dilated eyes; but,
as Ethel approached, she turned and rushed upstairs.

Dr. Spencer entered the drawing-room with Ethel, who tried to read his
face as he saw Margaret--restored, as it seemed, to all her girlish
bloom, and her eyes sparkling as they were lifted up, far beyond the
present scene. Ethel had a moment’s sense that his expression was as
if he had seen a death-blow struck, but it was gone in a moment, as
he gently shook Margaret by the hand, and spoke a word of greeting, as
though to recall her.

“Thank you,” she said, with her own grateful smile.

“Where is your father?” he asked of Ethel.

“Either at the hospital, or at Mr. Ramsden’s,” said Ethel, with a
ghastly suspicion that he thought Margaret in a state to require him.

“Papa!” said Margaret. “If he were but here! But--ah! I had forgotten.”

She turned aside her head, and hid her face. Dr. Spencer signed Ethel
nearer to him. “This is a more natural state,” he said. “Don’t be afraid
for her. I will find your father, and bring him home.” Pressing her hand
he departed.

Margaret was weeping tranquilly--Ethel knelt down beside her, without
daring at first to speak, but sending up intense mental prayers to Him,
who alone could bear her or her dear father through their affliction.
Then she ventured to take her hand, and Margaret returned the caress,
but began to blame herself for the momentary selfishness that had
allowed her brother’s loss and her father’s grief to have been forgotten
in her own. Ethel’s “oh! no! no!” did not console her for this which
seemed the most present sorrow, but the flow of tears was so gentle,
that Ethel trusted that they were a relief. Ethel herself seemed only
able to watch her, and to fear for her father, not to be able to think
for herself.

The front door opened, and they heard Dr. May’s step hesitating in the
hall, as if he could not bear to come in.

“Go to him!” cried Margaret, wiping off her tears. Ethel stood a moment
in the doorway, then sprang to him, and was clasped in his arms.

“You know it?” he whispered.

“Dr. Spencer told us. Did not you meet him?”

“No. I read it at Bramshaw’s office. How--” He could not say the words,
but he looked towards the room, and wrung the hand he held.

“Quiet. Like herself. Come.”

He threw one arm round Ethel, and laid his hand on her head. “How much
there is to be thankful for!” he said, then advancing, he hung over
Margaret, calling her his own poor darling.

“Papa, you must forgive me. You said sending him to sea was giving him
up.”

“Did I. Well, Margaret, he did his duty. That is all we have to live
for. Our yellow-haired laddie made a gallant sailor, and--”

Tears choked his utterance--Margaret gently stroked his hand.

“It falls hard on you, my poor girl,” he said.

“No, papa,” said Margaret, “I am content and thankful. He is spared pain
and perplexity.”

“You are right, I believe,” said Dr. May. “He would have been grieved
not to find you better.”

“I ought to grieve for my own selfishness,” said Margaret. “I cannot
help it! I cannot be sorry the link is unbroken, and that he had not to
turn to any one else.”

“He never would!” cried Dr. May, almost angrily.

“I tried to think he ought,” said Margaret. “His life would have been
too dreary. But it is best as it is.”

“It must be,” said the doctor. “Where are the rest, Ethel? Call them all
down.”

Poor Mary, Ethel felt as if she had neglected her! She found her hanging
over the nursery fire, alternating with old nurse in fond reminiscences
of Harry’s old days, sometimes almost laughing at his pranks, then
crying again, while Aubrey sat between them, drinking in each word.

Blanche and Gertrude came from the schoolroom, where Miss Bracy seemed
to have been occupying them, with much kindness and judgment. She came
to the door to ask Ethel anxiously for the doctor and Miss May, and
looked so affectionate and sympathising, that Ethel gave her a hearty
kiss.

“Dear Miss Ethel! if you can only let me help you.”

“Thank you,” said Ethel with all her heart, and hurried away. Nothing
was more in favour of Miss Bracy, than that there should be a hurry.
Then she could be warm, and not morbid.

Dr. May gathered his children round him, and took out the great
Prayer-book. He read a psalm and a prayer from the Burial Service, and
the sentence for funerals at sea. Then he touched each of their heads,
and, in short broken sentences, gave thanks for those still left to him,
and for the blessed hope they could feel for those who were gone; and he
prayed that they might so follow in their footsteps, as to come to the
same holy place, and in the meantime realise the Communion of Saints.
Then they said the Lord’s Prayer, he blessed them, and they arose.

“Mary, my dear,” he said, “you have a photograph.”

She put the case into his hands, and ran away.

He went to the study, where he found Dr. Spencer awaiting him.

“I am only come to know where I shall go for you.”

“Thank you, Spencer. Thank you for taking care of my poor girls.”

“They took care of themselves. They have the secret of strength.”

“They have--” He turned aside, and burst out, “Oh, Spencer! you have
been spared a great deal. If you missed a great deal of joy, you have
missed almost as much sorrow!” And, covering his face, he let his grief
have a free course.

“Dick! dear old Dick, you must bear up. Think what treasures you have
left.”

“I do. I try to do so,” said poor Dr. May; “but, Spencer, you never saw
my yellow-haired laddie, with his lion look! He was the flower of them
all! Not one of these other boys came near him in manliness, and with
such a loving heart! An hour ago, I thought any certainty would be gain,
but now I would give a lifetime to have back the hope that I might see
my boy’s face again! Oh, Spencer! this is the first time I could rejoice
that his mother is not here!”

“She would have been your comforter,” sighed his friend, as he felt his
inability to contend with such grief.

“There, I can be thankful,” Dr. May said, and he looked so. “She has
had her brave loving boy with her all this time, while we little
thought--but there are others. My poor Margaret--”

“Her patience must be blessed,” said Dr. Spencer. “I think she will be
better. Now that the suspense no longer preys on her, there will be more
rest.”

“Rest,” repeated Dr. May, supporting his head on his hand; and, looking
up dreamily--“there remaineth a rest--”

The large Bible lay beside him on the table, and Dr. Spencer thought
that he would find more rest there than in his words. Leaving him,
therefore, his friend went to undertake his day’s work, and learn, once
more, in the anxious inquiries and saddened countenances of the patients
and their friends, how great an amount of love and sympathy that Dr. May
had won by his own warmth of heart. The patients seemed to forget their
complaints in sighs for their kind doctor’s troubles; and the gouty
Mayor of Stoneborough kept Dr. Spencer half an hour to listen to his
recollections of the bright-faced boy’s droll tricks, and then to the
praises of the whole May family, and especially of the mother.

Poor Dr. Spencer! he heard her accident described so many times in the
course of the day, that his visits were one course of shrinking and
suffering; and his only satisfaction was in knowing how his friend would
be cheered by hearing of the universal feeling for him and his children.

Ethel wrote letters to her brothers; and Dr. May added a few lines,
begging Richard to come home, if only for a few days. Margaret would
not be denied writing to Hector Ernescliffe, though she cried over her
letter so much that her father could almost have taken her pen away; but
she said it did her good.

When Flora came in the afternoon, Ethel was able to leave Margaret
to her, and attend to Mary, with whom Miss Bracy’s kindness had been
inefficacious. If she was cheered for a few minutes, some association,
either with the past or the vanished future, soon set her off sobbing
again. “If I only knew where dear, dear Harry is lying,” she sobbed,
“and that it had not been very bad indeed, I could bear it better.”

The ghastly uncertainty was too terrible for Ethel to have borne to
contemplate it. She knew that it would haunt their pillows, and she was
trying to nerve herself by faith.

“Mary,” she said, “that is the worst; but, after all, God willed that
we should not know. We must bear it like His good children. It makes no
differences to them now--”

“I know,” said Mary, trying to check her sobs.

“And, you know, we are all in the same keeping. The sea is a glorious
great pure thing, you know, that man cannot hurt or defile. It seems to
me,” said Ethel, looking up, “as if resting there was like being buried
in our baptism-tide over again, till the great new birth. It must be the
next best place to a churchyard. Anywhere, they are as safe as among the
daisies in our own cloister.”

“Say it again--what you said about the sea,” said Mary, more comforted
than if Ethel had been talking down to her.

By and by Ethel discovered that the sharpest trouble to the fond simple
girl was the deprivation of her precious photograph. It was like losing
Harry over again, to go to bed without it, though she would not for the
world seem to grudge it to her father.

Ethel found an opportunity of telling him of this distress, and it
almost made him smile. “Poor Mary,” he said, “is she so fond of it? It
is rather a libel than a likeness.”

“Don’t say so to her, pray, papa. It is all the world to her. Three
strokes on paper would have been the same, if they had been called by
his name.”

“Yes; a loving heart has eyes of its own, and she is a dear girl!”

He did not forget to restore the treasure with gratitude proportionate
to what the loan had cost Mary. With a trembling voice, she proffered
it to him for the whole day, and every day, if she might only have it at
night; and she even looked black when he did not accept the proposal.

“It is exactly like--” said she.

“It can’t help being so, in a certain sense,” he answered kindly, “but
after all, Mary dear, he did not pout out his chin in that way.”

Mary was somewhat mortified, but she valued her photograph more than
ever, because no one else would admire it, except Daisy, whom she had
taught to regard it with unrivalled veneration.

A letter soon arrived from Captain Gordon, giving a fuller account of
the loss of his ship, and of the conduct of his officers, speaking in
the highest terms of Alan Ernescliffe, for whom he said he mourned as
for his own son, and, with scarcely less warmth, of Harry, mentioning
the high esteem all had felt for the boy, and the good effect which
the influence of his high and truthful spirit had produced on the other
youngsters, who keenly regretted him.

Captain Gordon added that the will of the late Captain Ernescliffe had
made him guardian of his sons, and that he believed poor Alan had died
intestate. He should therefore take upon himself the charge of young
Hector, and he warmly thanked Dr. May and his family for all the
kindness that the lad had received.

Though the loss of poor Hector’s visits was regretted, it was, on the
whole, a comforting letter, and would give still more comfort in future
time.

Richard contrived to come home through Oxford and see Norman, whom he
found calm, and almost relieved by the cessation from suspense; not
inclined, as his father had feared, to drown sorrow in labour,
but regarding his grief as an additional call to devote himself to
ministerial work. In fact, the blow had fallen when he first heard the
rumour of danger, and could not recur with the same force.

Richard was surprised to find that Margaret was less cast down than he
could have dared to hope. It did not seem like an affliction to her.
Her countenance wore the same gentle smile, and she was as ready
to participate in all that passed, finding sympathy for the little
pleasures of Aubrey and Gertrude, and delighting in Flora’s baby; as
well as going over Cocksmoor politics with a clearness and accuracy that
astonished him, and asking questions about his parish and occupations,
so as fully to enjoy his short visit, which she truly called the
greatest possible treat.

If it had not been for the momentary consternation that she had seen
upon Dr. Spencer’s face, Ethel would have been perfectly satisfied;
but she could not help sometimes entertaining a dim fancy that this
composure came from a sense that she was too near Alan to mourn for him.
Could it be true that her frame was more wasted, that there was less
capability of exertion, that her hours became later in the morning, and
that her nights were more wakeful? Would she fade away? Ethel longed to
know what her father thought, but she could neither bear to inspire him
with the apprehension, nor to ask Dr. Spencer’s opinion, lest she should
be confirmed in her own.

The present affliction altered Dr. May more visibly than the death of
his wife, perhaps, because there was not the same need of exertion. If
he often rose high in faith and resignation, he would also sink very low
under the sense of bereavement and disappointment. Though Richard
was his stay, and Norman his pride, there was something in Harry more
congenial to his own temper, and he could not but be bowed down by the
ruin of such bright hopes. With all his real submission, he was weak,
and gave way to outbursts of grief, for which he blamed himself as
unthankful; and his whole demeanour was so saddened and depressed,
that Ethel and Dr. Spencer consulted mournfully over him, whenever they
walked to Cocksmoor together.

This was not as often as usual, though the walls of the school were
rising, for Dr. Spencer had taken a large share of his friend’s work for
the present, and both physicians were much occupied by the condition of
Mr. Ramsden who was fast sinking, and, for some weeks, seemed only kept
alive by their skill. The struggle ended at last, and his forty
years’ cure of Stoneborough was closed. It made Dr. May very sad--his
affections had tendrils for anything that he had known from boyhood;
and though he had often spoken strong words of the vicar, he now sat
sorrowfully moralising and making excuses. “People in former times had
not so high an estimate of pastoral duty--poor Mr. Ramsden had not much
education--he was already old when better times came in--he might have
done better in a less difficult parish with better laity to support him,
etc.” Yet after all, he exclaimed with one of his impatient gestures,
“Better have my Harry’s seventeen years than his sixty-seven!”

“Better improve a talent than lay it by!” said Ethel.

“Hush! Ethel. How do you know what he may have done? If he acted up to
his own standard, he did more than most of us.”

“Which is best,” said Ethel, “a high standard, not acted up to, or a
lower one fulfilled?”

“I think it depends on the will,” said Margaret.

“Some people are angry with those whose example would show that there is
a higher standard,” said Ethel.

“And,” said Margaret, “some who have the high one set before them
content themselves with knowing that it cannot be fully attained, and
will not try.”

“The standard is the effect of early impression,” said Dr. May. “I
should be very sorry to think it could not be raised.”

“Faithful in a little--” said Ethel. “I suppose all good people’s
standard is always going higher.”

“As they comprehend more of absolute perfection,” said Margaret.




CHAPTER XV.



     The city’s golden spire it was,
       When hope and health were strongest;
     But now it is the churchyard grass,
       We look upon the longest.--E. B. BROWNING.


A disinclination for exertion or going into public hung upon Dr. May,
but he was obliged to rouse himself to attend the Town Council meeting,
which was held a few days after the vicar’s funeral, to decide on the
next appointment. If it had depended on himself alone, his choice would
have been Mr. Edward Wilmot, whom the death of his good old father had
uprooted from Settlesham; and the girls had much hope, but he was too
much out of spirits to be sanguine. He said that he should only hear a
great deal of offensive stuff from Tomkins the brewer; and that, in
the desire to displease nobody, the votes should settle down on some
nonentity, was the best which was likely to happen. Thus, grumbling, he
set off, and his daughters watched anxiously for his return. They saw
him come through the garden with a quick, light step, that made them
augur well, and he entered the room with the corners of his mouth
turning up. “I see,” said Ethel, “it is all right.”

“They were going to have made a very absurd choice.”

“But you prevented it? Who was it?”

“Ah! I told you Master Ritchie was turning out a popular preacher.”

“You don’t mean that they chose Richard!” cried Margaret breathlessly.

“As sure as my name is Dick May, they did, every man of them, except
Tomkins, and even he held his tongue; I did not think it of them,” said
the doctor, almost overcome; “but there is much more goodness of heart
in the world than one gives it credit for.”

And good Dr. May was not one to give the least credit for all that was
like himself.

“But it was Richard’s own doing,” he continued. “Those sermons made a
great impression, and they love the boy, because he has grown up among
them. The old mayor waddled up to me, as I came in, telling me that they
had been talking it over, and they were unanimously agreed that they
could not have a parson they should like better than Mr. Richard.”

“Good old Mr. Doddesley! I can see him!” cried Ethel.

“I expected it so little, that I thought he meant some Richards; but no,
he said Mr. Richard May, if he had nothing better in view--they liked
him, and knew he was a very steady, good young gentleman, and if he took
after his fathers that went before him--and they thought we might like
to have him settled near!”

“How very kind!” said Margaret, as the tears came. “We shall love our
own townsfolk better than ever!”

“I always told you so, if you would but believe it. They have warm,
sound hearts, every one of them! I declare, I did not know which way to
look, I was so sorry to disappoint them.”

“Disappoint them!” cried Margaret, in consternation.

“I was thinking,” said Ethel. “I do not believe Richard would think
himself equal to this place in such a state as it is. He is so
diffident.”

“Yes,” said Dr. May, “if he were ten or twelve years older, it would be
another thing; but here, where everything is to be done, he would not
bring weight or force enough. He would only work himself to death, for
individuals, without going to the root. Margaret, my darling, I am very
sorry to have disappointed you so much--it would have been as great a
pleasure as we could have had in this world to have the lad here--”

“And Cocksmoor,” sighed Ethel.

“I shall be grateful all my life to those good people for thinking of
it,” continued the doctor; “but look you here, it was my business to get
the best man chosen in my power and, though as to goodness, I
believe the dear Ritchie has not many equals; I don’t think we can
conscientiously say he would be, at present, the best vicar for
Stoneborough.”

Ethel would not say no, for fear she should pain Margaret.

“Besides,” continued Dr. May, “after having staved off the sale of the
presentation as a sin, it would hardly have been handsome to have let
my own son profit by it. It would have seemed as if we had our private
ends, when Richard helped poor old Mr. Ramsden.”

Margaret owned this, and Ethel said Richard would be glad to be spared
the refusal.

“I was sure of it. The poor fellow would have been perplexed between the
right and consideration for us. A vicar here ought to carry things with
a high hand, and that is hardest to do at a man’s own home, especially
for a quiet lad like him.”

“Yes, papa, it was quite right,” said Margaret, recovering herself; “it
has spared Richard a great deal.”

“But are we to have Mr. Wilmot?” said Ethel. “Think of our not having
heard!”

“Ay. If they would not have had Wilmot, or a man of his calibre, perhaps
I might have let them offer it to Richard. I almost wish I had. With
help, and Ethel--”

“No, no, papa,” said Margaret. “You are making me angry with myself for
my folly. It is much better for Richard himself, and for us all, as well
as the town. Think how long we have wished for Mr. Wilmot!”

“He will be in time for the opening of Cocksmoor school!” cried Ethel.
“How did you manage it?”

“I did not manage at all,” said the doctor. “I told them exactly my
mind, that Richard was not old enough for such arduous work; and though
no words could tell how obliged I was, if they asked me who was the best
man for it I knew, I should say Edward Wilmot, and I thought he deserved
something from us, for the work he did gratis, when he was second
master. Tomkins growled a little, but, fortunately, no one was prepared
with another proposal, so they all came round, and the mayor is to write
by this evening’s post, and so shall I. If we could only have given
Richard a dozen more years!”

Margaret was somewhat comforted to find that the sacrifice had cost her
father a good deal; she was always slightly jealous for Richard, and
now that Alan was gone, she clung to him more than ever. His soft calm
manner supported her more than any other human comforter, and she always
yearned after him when absent, more than for all the other brothers; but
her father’s decision had been too high-minded for her to dare to wish
it recalled, and she could not but own that Richard would have had
to undergo more toil and annoyance than perhaps his health would have
endured.

Flora had discontinued comments to her sisters on her father’s
proceedings, finding that observations mortified Margaret, and did not
tend to peace with Ethel; but she told her husband that she did not
regret it much, for Richard would have exhausted his own income, and his
father’s likewise, in paying curates, and raising funds for charities.
She scarcely expected Mr. Edward Wilmot to accept the offer, aware as
he was, of the many disadvantages he should have to contend with, and
unsuccessful as he had been in dealing with the Ladies’ Committee.

However, Mr. Wilmot signified his thankful acceptance, and, in due time,
his familiar tap was heard at the drawing-room door, at tea-time, as if
he had just returned after the holidays. He was most gladly welcomed,
and soon was installed in his own place, with his goddaughter, Mary,
blushing with pleasure at pouring out his coffee.

“Well, Ethel, how is Cocksmoor? How like old times!”

“Oh,” cried Ethel, “we are so glad you will see the beginning of the
school!”

“I hear you are finishing Cherry Elwood, too.”

“Much against Ethel’s will,” said Margaret; “but we thought Cherry not
easily spoiled. And Whitford school seems to be in very good order. Dr.
Spencer went and had an inspection of it, and conferred with all the
authorities.”

“Ah! we have a jewel of a parishioner for you,” said Dr. May. “I have
some hopes of Stoneborough now.”

Mr. Wilmot did not look too hopeful, but he smiled, and asked after
Granny Hall, and the children.

“Polly grew up quite civilised,” said Ethel. “She lives at Whitford,
with some very respectable people, and sends granny presents, which make
her merrier than ever. Last time it was a bonnet, and Jenny persuaded
her to go to church in it, though, she said, what she called the moon of
it was too small.”

“How do the people go on?”

“I cannot say much for them. It is disheartening. We really have done
nothing. So very few go to church regularly.”

“None at all went in my time,” said Mr. Wilmot.

“Elwood always goes,” said Mary, “and Taylor; yes, and Sam Hall, very
often, and many of the women, in the evening, because they like to walk
home with the children.”

“The children? the Sunday scholars?”

“Oh, every one that is big enough comes to school now, here, on Sunday.
If only the teaching were better--”

“Have you sent out any more pupils to service?”

“Not many. There is Willie Brown, trying to be Dr. Spencer’s little
groom,” said Ethel.

“But I am afraid it will take a great deal of the doctor’s patience to
train him,” added Margaret.

“It is hard,” said Dr. May. “He did it purely to oblige Ethel; and, I
tell her, when he lames the pony, I shall expect her to buy another for
him, out of the Cocksmoor funds.”

Ethel and Mary broke out in a chorus of defence of Willie Brown.

“There was Ben Wheeler,” said Mary, “who went to work in the quarries;
and the men could not teach him to say bad words, because the young
ladies told him not.”

“The young ladies have not quite done nothing,” said Dr. May, smiling.

“These are only little stray things, and Cherry has done the chief of
them,” said Ethel. “Oh, it is grievously bad still,” she added,
sighing. “Such want of truth, such ungoverned tongues and tempers, such
godlessness altogether! It is only surface-work, taming the children at
school, while they have such homes; and their parents, even if they do
come where they might learn better, are always liable to be upset, as
they call it--turned out of their places in church, and they will not
run the chance.”

“The church must come to them,” said Mr. Wilmot. “Could the school be
made fit to be licensed for service.”

“Ask our architect,” said Dr. May. “There can be little doubt.”

“I have been settling that I must have a curate specially for
Cocksmoor,” said Mr. Wilmot. “Can you tell me of one, Ethel--or perhaps
Margaret could?”

Margaret could only smile faintly, for her heart was beating.

“Seriously,” said Mr. Wilmot, turning to Dr. May, “do you think Richard
would come and help us here?”

“This seems to be his destiny,” said the doctor, smiling, “only it
would not be fair to tell you, lest you should be jealous--that the Town
Council had a great mind for him.”

The matter was explained, and Mr. Wilmot was a great deal more struck
by Dr. May’s conduct than the good doctor thought it deserved. Every
one was only too glad that Richard should come as Cocksmoor curate; and,
though the stipend was very small--since Mr. Wilmot meant to have other
assistance--yet, by living at home, it might be feasible.

Margaret’s last words that night to Ethel were, “The last wish I had
dared to make is granted!”

Mr. Wilmot wrote to Richard, who joyfully accepted his proposal,
and engaged to come home as soon as his present rector could find a
substitute.

Dr. Spencer was delighted, and, it appeared, had already had a view to
such possibilities in designing the plan of the school.

The first good effect of Mr. Wilmot’s coming was, that Dr. Spencer
was cured of the vagrant habits of going to church at Abbotstoke or
Fordholm, that had greatly concerned his friend. Dr. May, who could
never get any answer from him except that he was not a Town Councillor,
and, as to example, it was no way to set that to sleep through the
sermon.

To say that Dr. May never slept under the new dynasty would be an
over-statement, but slumber certainly prevailed in the minster to a far
less degree than formerly. One cause might be that it was not shut up
unaired from one Sunday to another, but that the chime of the bells
was no longer an extraordinary sound on a week-day. It was at first
pronounced that time could not be found for going to church on week-days
without neglecting other things, but Mary, who had lately sat very loose
to the schoolroom, began gradually to slip down to church whenever the
service was neither too early nor too late; and Gertrude was often found
trotting by her side--going to mamma, as the little Daisy called it,
from some confusion between the church and the cloister, which Ethel was
in no hurry to disturb.

Lectures in Lent filled the church a good deal, as much perhaps from the
novelty as from better motives, and altogether there was a renewal
of energy in parish work. The poor had become so little accustomed to
pastoral care, that the doctors and the district visitors were obliged
to report cases of sickness to the clergy, and vainly tried to rouse the
people to send of their own accord. However, the better leaven began
to work, and, of course, there was a ferment, though less violent than
Ethel had expected.

Mr. Wilmot set more cautiously to work than he had done in his younger
days, and did not attack prejudices so openly, and he had an admirable
assistant in Dr. Spencer. Every one respected the opinion of the
travelled doctor, and he had a courteous clever process of the reduction
to the absurd, which seldom failed to tell, while it never gave offence.
As to the Ladies’ Committee, though there had been expressions of
dismay, when the tidings of the appointment first went abroad, not one
of the whole “Aonian choir” liked to dissent from Dr. Spencer, and he
talked them over, individually, into a most conformable state, merely by
taking their compliance for granted, and showing that he deemed it
only the natural state of things, that the vicar should reign over the
charities of the place.

The committee was not dissolved--that would have been an act of
violence--but it was henceforth subject to Mr. Wilmot, and he and his
curates undertook the religious instruction in the week, and chose the
books--a state of affairs brought about with so much quietness, that
Ethel knew not whether Flora, Dr. Spencer, or Mr. Wilmot had been the
chief mover.

Mrs. Ledwich was made treasurer of a new coal club, and Miss Rich keeper
of the lending-library, occupations which delighted them greatly; and
Ethel was surprised to find how much unity of action was springing up,
now that the period was over, of each “doing right in her own eyes.”

“In fact,” said Dr. Spencer, “when women have enough to do, they are
perfectly tractable.”

The Cocksmoor accounts were Ethel’s chief anxiety. It seemed as if now
there might be a school-house, but with little income to depend upon,
since poor Alan Ernescliffe’s annual ten pounds was at an end. However,
Dr. May leaned over her as she was puzzling over her pounds, shillings,
and pence, and laid a cheque upon her desk. She looked up in his face.
“We must make Cocksmoor Harry’s heir,” he said.

By and by it appeared that Cocksmoor was not out of Hector Ernescliffe’s
mind. The boy’s letters to Margaret had been brief, matter-of-fact, and
discouraging, as long as the half-year lasted, and there was not much to
be gathered about him from Tom, on his return for the Easter holidays,
but soon poor Hector wrote a long dismal letter to Margaret.

Captain Gordon had taken him to Maplewood, where the recollection of his
brother, and the happy hopes with which they had taken possession, came
thronging upon him. The house was forlorn, and the corner that had been
unpacked for their reception, was as dreary a contrast to the bright
home at Stoneborough, as was the dry, stern captain, to the fatherly
warm-hearted doctor. Poor Hector had little or nothing to do, and the
pleasure of possession had not come yet; he had no companion of his own
age, and bashfulness made him shrink with dislike from introduction to
his tenants and neighbours.

There was not an entertaining book in the house, he declared, and the
captain snubbed him, if he bought anything he cared to read. The captain
was always at him to read musty old improving books, and talking about
the position he would occupy. The evenings were altogether unbearable,
and if it were not for rabbit shooting now, and the half-year soon
beginning again, Hector declared he should be ready to cut and run, and
leave Captain Gordon and Maplewood to each other--and very well matched
too! He was nearly in a state of mind to imitate that unprecedented boy,
who wrote a letter to ‘The Times’, complaining of extra weeks.

As to Cocksmoor, Ethel must not think it forgotten; he had spoken to the
captain about it, and the old wooden-head had gone and answered that it
was not incumbent on him, that Cocksmoor had no claims upon him, and he
could not make it up out of his allowance; for the old fellow would not
give him a farthing more than he had before, and had said that was too
much.

There was a great blur over the words “wooden-head,” as if Hector had
known that Margaret would disapprove, and had tried to scratch it
out. She wrote all the consolation in her power, and exhorted him
to patience, apparently without much effect. She would not show his
subsequent letters, and the reading and answering them fatigued her so
much, that Hector’s writing was an unwelcome sight at Stoneborough. Each
letter, as Ethel said, seemed so much taken out of her, and she begged
her not to think about them.

“Nothing can do me much good or harm now,” said Margaret; and seeing
Ethel’s anxious looks, “Is it not my greatest comfort that Hector can
still treat me as his sister, or, if I can only be of any use in keeping
him patient? Only think of the danger of a boy, in his situation, being
left without sympathy!”

There was nothing more to be said. They all felt it was good for them
that the building at Cocksmoor gave full occupation to thoughts and
conversation; indeed, Tom declared they never walked in any other
direction, nor talked of anything else, and that without Hector, or
George Rivers, he had nobody to speak to. However, he was a good deal
tranquillised by an introduction to Dr. Spencer’s laboratory, where he
compounded mixtures that Dr. Spencer promised should do no more harm
than was reasonable to himself, or any one else. Ethel suspected that,
if Tom had chanced to singe his eyebrows, his friend would not have
regretted a blight to his nascent coxcombry, but he was far too careful
of his own beauty to do any such thing.

Richard was set at liberty just before Easter, and came home to his new
charge. He was aware of what had taken place, and heartily grateful for
the part his father had taken. To work at Cocksmoor, under Mr. Wilmot,
and to live at home, was felicity; and he fitted at once into his old
place, and resumed all the little home services for which he had been
always famed. Ethel was certain that Margaret was content, when she saw
her brother bending over her, and the sense of reliance and security
that the presence of the silent Richard imparted to the whole family was
something very peculiar, especially as they were so much more active and
demonstrative than he was.

Mr. Wilmot put him at once in charge of the hamlet. The inhabitants were
still a hard, rude, unpromising race, and there were many flagrant
evils amongst them, but the last few years had not been without some
effect--some were less obdurate, a few really touched, and, almost all,
glad of instruction for their children. If Ethel’s perseverance had
done nothing else, it had, at least, been a witness, and her immediate
scholars showed the influence of her lessons.




CHAPTER XVI.



   Then out into the world, my course I did determine;
   Though, to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming.
   My talents they were not the worst, nor yet my education;
   Resolved was I, at least to try, to mend my situation.--BURNS.


In the meantime, the session of Parliament had begun, and the Rivers’
party had, since February, inhabited Park Lane. Meta had looked pale
and pensive, as she bade her friends at Stoneborough good-bye; but only
betrayed that she had rather have stayed at home, by promising herself
great enjoyment in meeting them again at Easter.

Flora was, on the other hand, in the state of calm patronage that
betokened perfect satisfaction. She promised wonders for Miss Bracy’s
sisters--talked of inviting Mary and Blanche to see sights and take
lessons; and undertook to send all the apparatus needed by Cocksmoor
school; and she did, accordingly, send down so many wonderful articles,
that curate and schoolmistress were both frightened; Mrs. Taylor thought
the easels were new-fashioned instruments of torture; and Ethel found
herself in a condition to be liberal to Stoneborough National School.

Flora was a capital correspondent, and made it her business to keep
Margaret amused, so that the home-party were well informed of the doings
of each of her days--and very clever her descriptions were. She had
given herself a dispensation from general society until after Easter;
but, in the meantime, both she and Meta seemed to find great enjoyment
in country rides and drives, and in quiet little dinners at home, to
George’s agreeable political friends. With the help of two such ladies
as Mrs. and Miss Rivers, Ethel could imagine George’s house pleasant
enough to attract clever people; but she was surprised to find how full
her sister’s letters were of political news.

It was a period when great interests were in agitation; and the details
of London talk and opinions were extremely welcome. Dr. Spencer used to
come in to ask after “Mrs. Rivers’s Intelligencer”; and, when he heard
the lucid statements, would say, she ought to have been a “special
correspondent.” And her father declared that her news made him twice
as welcome to his patients; but her cleverest sentences always were
prefaced with “George says,” or “George thinks,” in a manner that made
her appear merely the dutiful echo of his sentiments.

In an early letter, Flora mentioned how she had been reminded of poor
Harry, by finding Miss Walkinghame’s card. That lady lived with her
mother at Richmond, and, on returning the visit, Flora was warmly
welcomed by the kind old Lady Walkinghame, who insisted on her bringing
her baby and spending a long day. The sisters-in-law had been enchanted
with Miss Walkinghame, whose manners, wrote Flora, certainly merited
papa’s encomium.

On the promised “long day,” they found an unexpected addition to the
party, Sir Henry Walkinghame, who had newly returned from the continent.
“A fine-looking, agreeable man, about five-and-thirty,” Flora described
him, “very lively and entertaining. He talked a great deal of Dr.
Spencer, and of the life in the caves at Thebes; and he asked me whether
that unfortunate place, Cocksmoor, did not owe a great deal to me, or to
one of my sisters. I left Meta to tell him that story, and they became
very sociable over it.”

A day or two after--“Sir Henry Walkinghame has been dining with us. He
has a very good voice, and we had some delightful music in the evening.”

By and by Sir Henry was the second cavalier, when they went to an
oratorio, and Meta’s letter overflowed with the descriptions she had
heard from him of Italian church music. He always went to Rome for
Easter, and had been going as usual, this spring, but he lingered, and,
for once, remained in England, where he had only intended to spend a few
days on necessary business.

The Easter recess was not spent at the Grange, but at Lady Leonora’s
pretty house in Surrey. She had invited the party in so pressing a
manner that Flora did not think it right to decline. Meta expressed some
disappointment at missing Easter among her school-children, but she
said a great deal about the primroses and the green corn-fields, and
nightingales--all which Ethel would have set down to her trick of
universal content, if it had not appeared that Sir Henry was there too,
and shared in all the delicious rides.

“What would Ethel say,” wrote Flora, “to have our little Meta as Lady
of the Manor of Cocksmoor? He has begun to talk about Drydale, and there
are various suspicious circumstances that Lady Leonora marks with the
eyes of a discreet dowager. It was edifying to see how, from smiles, we
came to looks, and by and by to confidential talks, which have made her
entirely forgive me for having so many tall brothers. Poor dear old Mr.
Rivers! Lady Leonora owns that it was the best thing possible for that
sweet girl that he did not live any longer to keep her in seclusion; it
is so delightful to see her appreciated as she deserves, and with her
beauty and fortune, she might make any choice she pleases. In fact, I
believe Lady Leonora would like to look still higher for her, but this
would be mere ambition, and we should be far better satisfied with such
a connection as this, founded on mutual and increasing esteem, with a
man so well suited to her, and fixing her so close to us. You must not,
however, launch out into an ocean of possibilities, for the good aunt
has only infected me with the castle-building propensities of chaperons,
and Meta is perfectly unconscious, looking on him as too hopelessly
middle-aged, to entertain any such evil designs, avowing freely that
she likes him, and treating him very nearly as she does papa. It is
my business to keep ‘our aunt,’ who, between ourselves, has, below the
surface, the vulgarity of nature that high-breeding cannot eradicate,
from startling the little humming-bird, before the net has been properly
twined round her bright little heart. As far as I can see, he is much
smitten, but very cautious in his approaches, and he is wise.”

Margaret did not know what dismay she conveyed, as she handed this
letter to her sister. There was no rest for Ethel till she could be
alone with her father. “Could nothing prevent it? Could not Flora be
told of Mr. Rivers’s wishes?” she asked.

“His wishes would have lain this way.”

“I do not know that.”

“It is no concern of ours. There is nothing objectionable here, and
though I can’t say it is not a disappointment, it ought not to be. The
long and short of it is, that I never ought to have told you anything
about it.”

“Poor Norman!”

“Absurd! The lad is hardly one-and-twenty. Very few marry a first
love.” (Ah, Ethel!) “Poor old Rivers only mentioned it as a refuge from
fortune-hunters, and it stands to reason that he would have preferred
this. Anyway, it is awkward for a man with empty pockets to marry an
heiress, and it is wholesomer for him to work for his living. Better
that it should be out of his head at once, if it were there at all. I
trust it was all our fancy. I would not have him grieved now for worlds,
when his heart is sore.”

“Somehow,” said Ethel, “though he is depressed and silent, I like it
better than I did last Christmas.”

“Of course, when we were laughing out of the bitterness of our hearts,”
 said Dr. May, sighing. “It is a luxury to let oneself alone to be
sorrowful.”

Ethel did not know whether she desired a tete-a-tete with Norman or not.
She was aware that he had seen Flora’s letter, and she did not believe
that he would ever mention the hopes that must have been dashed by it;
or, if he should do so, how could she ever guard her father’s secret? At
least, she had the comfort of recognising the accustomed Norman in his
manner, low-spirited, indeed, and more than ever dreamy and melancholy,
but not in the unnatural and excited state that had made her unhappy
about him. She could not help telling Dr. Spencer that this was much
more the real brother.

“I dare say,” was the answer, not quite satisfactory in tone.

“I thought you would like it better.”

“Truth is better than fiction, certainly. But I am afraid he has a
tendency to morbid self-contemplation, and you ought to shake him out of
it.”

“What is the difference between self-contemplation and
self-examination?”

“The difference between your brother and yourself. Ah! you think that
no answer. Will you have a medical simile? Self-examination notes the
symptoms and combats them; self-contemplation does as I did when I was
unstrung by that illness at Poonshedagore, and was always feeling my
own pulse. It dwells on them, and perpetually deplores itself. Oh,
dear! this is no better--what a wretch I am. It is always studying its
deformities in a moral looking-glass.”

“Yes, I think poor Norman does that, but I thought it right and humble.”

“The humility of a self-conscious mind. It is the very reverse of your
father, who is the most really humble man in existence.”

“Do you call self-consciousness a fault?”

“No. I call it a misfortune. In the vain, it leads to prudent vanity; in
the good, to a painful effort of humility.”

“I don’t think I quite understand what it is.”

“No, and you have so much of your father in you, that you never will.
But take care of your brother, and don’t let his brains work.”

How Ethel was to take care of him she did not know; she could only
keep a heedful eye on him, and rejoice when he took Tom out for a long
walk--a companion certainly not likely to promote the working of the
brain--but though it was in the opposite direction to Cocksmoor, Tom
came home desperately cross, snubbed Gertrude, and fagged Aubrey; but,
then, as Blanche observed, perhaps that was only because his trousers
were splashed.

In her next solitary walk to Cocksmoor, Norman joined Ethel. She was
gratified, but she could not think of one safe word worth saying to him,
and for a mile they preserved an absolute silence, until he first began,
“Ethel, I have been thinking--”

“That you have!” said she, between hope and dread, and the thrill of
being again treated as his friend.

“I want to consult you. Don’t you think now that Richard is settled at
home, and if Tom will study medicine, that I could be spared.”

“Spared!” exclaimed Ethel. “You are not much at home.”

“I meant more than my present absences. It is my earnest wish--” he
paused, and the continuation took her by surprise. “Do you think it
would give my father too much pain to part with me as a missionary to
New Zealand?”

She could only gaze at him in mute amazement.

“Do you think he could bear it?” said Norman hastily.

“He would consent,” she replied. “Oh, Norman, it is the most glorious
thing man can do! How I wish I could go with you.”

“Your mission is here,” said Norman affectionately.

“I know it is--I am contented with it,” said Ethel; “but oh! Norman,
after all our talks about races and gifts, you have found the more
excellent way.”

“Hush! Charity finds room at home, and mine are not such unmixed motives
as yours.”

She made a sound of inquiry.

“I cannot tell you all. Some you shall hear. I am weary of this feverish
life of competition and controversy--”

“I thought you were so happy with your fellowship. I thought Oxford was
your delight.”

“She will always be nearer my heart than any place, save this. It is not
her fault that I am not like the simple and dutiful, who are not fretted
or perplexed.”

“Perplexed?” repeated Ethel.

“It is not so now,” he replied. “God forbid! But where better men have
been led astray, I have been bewildered; till, Ethel, I have felt as if
the ground were slipping from beneath my feet, and I have only been able
to hide my eyes, and entreat that I might know the truth.”

“You knew it!” said Ethel, looking pale, and gazing searchingly at him.

“I did, I do; but it was a time of misery when, for my presumption, I
suppose, I was allowed to doubt whether it were the truth.”

Ethel recoiled, but came nearer, saying, very low, “It is past.”

“Yes, thank Him who is Truth. You all saved me, though you did not know
it.”

“When was this?” she asked timidly.

“The worst time was before the Long Vacation. They told me I ought
to read this book and that. Harvey Anderson used to come primed with
arguments. I could always overthrow them, but when I came to glory in
doing so, perhaps I prayed less. Anyway, they left a sting. It might be
that I doubted my own sincerity, from knowing that I had got to argue,
chiefly because I liked to be looked on as a champion.”

Ethel saw the truth of what her friend had said of the morbid habit of
self-contemplation.

“I read, and I mystified myself. The better I talked, the more my own
convictions failed me; and, by the time you came up to Oxford, I knew
how you would have shrunk from him who was your pride, if you could have
seen into the secrets beneath.”

Ethel took hold of his hand. “You seemed bright,” she said.

“It melted like a bad dream before--before the humming-bird, and with my
father. It was weeks ere I dared to face the subject again.”

“How could you? Was it safe?”

“I could not have gone on as I was. Sometimes the sight of my father, or
the mountains and lakes in Scotland, or--or--things at the Grange, would
bring peace back; but there were dark hours, and I knew that there could
be no comfort till I had examined and fought it out.”

“I suppose examination was right,” said Ethel, “for a man, and defender
of the faith. I should only have tried to pray the terrible thought
away. But I can’t tell how it feels.”

“Worse than you have power to imagine,” said Norman, shuddering. “It is
over now. I worked out their fallacies, and went over the reasoning on
our side.”

“And prayed--” said Ethel.

“Indeed I did; and the confidence returned, firmer, I hope, than ever.
It had never gone for a whole day.”

Ethel breathed freely. “It was life or death,” she said, “and we never
knew it!”

“Perhaps not; but I know your prayers were angel-wings ever round me.
And far more than argument, was the thought of my father’s heart-whole
Christian love and strength.”

“Norman, you believed, all the time, with your heart. This was only a
bewilderment of your intellect.”

“I think you are right,” said Norman. “To me the doubt was cruel
agony--not the amusement it seems to some.”

“Because our dear home has made the truth, our joy, our union,” said
Ethel. “And you are sure the cloud is gone, and for ever?” she still
asked anxiously.

He stood still. “For ever, I trust,” he said. “I hold the faith of my
childhood in all its fullness as surely as--as ever I loved my mother
and Harry.”

“I know you do,” said Ethel. “It was only a bad dream.”

“I hope I may be forgiven for it,” said Norman. “I do not know how
far it was sin. It was gone so far as that my mind was convinced last
Christmas, but the shame and sting remained. I was not at peace again
till the news of this spring came, and brought, with the grief, this
compensation--that I could cast behind me and forget the criticisms and
doubts that those miserable debates had connected with sacred words.”

“You will be the sounder for having fought the fight,” said Ethel.

“I do not dread the like shocks,” said her brother, “but I long to leave
this world of argument and discussion. It is right that there should be
a constant defence and battle, but I am not fit for it. I argue for my
own triumph, and, in heat and harassing, devotion is lost. Besides, the
comparison of intellectual power has been my bane all my life.”

“I thought ‘praise was your penance here.’”

“I would fain render it so, but--in short, I must be away from it all,
and go to the simplest, hardest work, beginning from the rudiments, and
forgetting subtle arguments.”

“Forgetting yourself,” said Ethel.

“Right. I want to have no leisure to think about myself,” said Norman.
“I am never so happy as at such times.”

“And you want to find work so far away?”

“I cannot help feeling drawn towards those southern seas. I am glad you
can give me good-speed. But what do you think about my father?”

Ethel thought and thought. “I know he would not hinder you,” she
repeated.

“But you dread the pain for him? I had talked to Tom about taking his
profession; but the poor boy thinks he dislikes it greatly, though, I
believe, his real taste lies that way, and his aversion only arises a
few grand notions he has picked up, out of which I could soon talk him.”

“Tom will not stand in your place,” said Ethel.

“He will be more equable and more to be depended upon,” said Norman.
“None of you appreciate Tom. However, you must hear my alternative. If
you think my going would be too much grief for papa, or if Tom be set
against helping him in his practice, there is an evident leading of
Providence, showing that I am unworthy of this work. In that case I
would go abroad and throw myself, at once, with all my might, into the
study of medicine, and get ready to give my father some rest. It is a
shame that all his sons should turn away from his profession.”

“I am more than ever amazed!” cried Ethel. “I thought you detested it. I
thought papa never wished it for you. He said you had not nerve.”

“He was always full of the tenderest consideration for me,” said Norman.
“With Heaven to help him, a man may have nerve for whatever is his
duty.”

“How he would like to have you to watch and help. But New Zealand would
be so glorious!”

“Glory is not for me,” said Norman. “Understand, Ethel, the choice is
New Zealand, or going at once--at once, mind--to study at Edinburgh or
Paris.”

“New Zealand at once?” said Ethel.

“I suppose I mast stay for divinity lectures, but my intention must
be avowed,” said Norman hastily. “And now, will you sound my father? I
cannot.”

“I can’t sound,” said Ethel. “I can only do things point-blank.”

“Do then,” said Norman, “any way you can! Only let me know which is best
for him. You get all the disagreeable things to do, good old unready
one,” he added kindly. “I believe you are the one who would be shoved in
front, if we were obliged to face a basilisk.”

The brightness that had come over Norman, when he had discharged his
cares upon her, was encouragement enough for Ethel. She only asked how
much she was to repeat of their conversation.

“Whatever you think best. I do not want to grieve him, but he must not
think it fine in me.”

Ethel privately thought that no power on earth could prevent him from
doing that.

It was not consistent with cautious sounding, that Norman was always
looking appealingly towards her; and, indeed, she could not wait long
with such a question on her mind. She remained with her father in the
drawing-room, when the rest were gone upstairs, and, plunging at once
into the matter, she said, “Papa, there is something that Norman cannot
bear to say to you himself.”

“Humming-birds to wit?” said Dr. May.

“No, indeed, but he wants to be doing something at once. What should you
think of--of--there are two things; one is--going out as a missionary--”

“Humming-birds in another shape,” said the doctor, startled, but
smiling, so as to pique her.

“You mean to treat it as a boy’s fancy!” said she.

“It is rather suspicious,” he said. “Well, what is the other of his two
things?”

“The other is, to begin studying medicine at once, so as to help you.”

“Heyday!” cried Dr. May, drawing up his tall vigorous figure, “does he
think me so very ancient and superannuated?”

What could possess him to be so provoking and unsentimental to-night?
Was it her own bad management? She longed to put an end to the
conversation, and answered, “No, but he thinks it hard that none of your
sons should be willing to relieve you.”

“It won’t be Norman,” said Dr. May. “He is not made of the stuff. If
he survived the course of study, every patient he lost, he would bring
himself in guilty of murder, and there would soon be an end of him!”

“He says that a man can force himself to anything that is his duty.”

“This is not going to be his duty, if I can make it otherwise. What is
the meaning of all this? No, I need not ask, poor boy, it is what I was
afraid of!”

“It is far deeper,” said Ethel; and she related great part of what
she had heard in the afternoon. It was not easy to make her father
listen--his line was to be positively indignant, rather than
compassionate, when he heard of the doubts that had assailed poor
Norman. “Foolish boy, what business had he to meddle with those accursed
books, when he knew what they were made of--it was tasting poison,
it was running into temptation! He had no right to expect to come out
safe--” and then he grasped tightly hold of Ethel’s hands, and, as if
the terror had suddenly flashed on him, asked her, with dilated eye and
trembling voice, whether she were sure that he was safe, and held the
faith.

Ethel repeated his asseveration, and her father covered his face with
his hands in thanksgiving.

After this, he seemed somewhat inclined to hold poor Oxford in horror,
only, as he observed, it would be going out of the frying-pan into the
fire, to take refuge at Paris--a recurrence to the notion of Norman’s
medical studies, that showed him rather enticed by the proposal.

He sent Ethel to bed, saying he should talk to Norman and find out what
was the meaning of it, and she walked upstairs, much ashamed of having
so ill served her brother, as almost to have made him ridiculous.

Dr May and Norman never failed to come to an understanding, and after
they had had a long drive into the country together, Dr May told Ethel
that he was afraid, of what he ought not to be afraid of, that she was
right, that the lad was very much in earnest now at any rate, and if he
should continue in the same mind, he hoped he should not be so weak as
to hold him from a blessed work.

From Norman, Ethel heard the warmest gratitude for his father’s
kindness. Nothing could be done yet, he must wait patiently for the
present, but he was to write to his uncle, Mr. Arnott, in New Zealand,
and, without pledging himself, to make inquiries as to the mission; and
in the meantime, return to Oxford, where, to his other studies, he was
to add a course of medical lectures, which, as Dr. May said, would do
him no harm, would occupy his mind, and might turn to use wherever he
was.

Ethel was surprised to find that Norman wrote to Flora an expression of
his resolution, that, if he found he could be spared from assisting his
father as a physician, he would give himself up to the mission in New
Zealand. Why should he tell any one so unsympathetic as Flora, who would
think him wasted in either case?




CHAPTER XVII.



     Do not fear: Heaven is as near,
     By water, as by land.--LONGFELLOW.


The fifth of May was poor Harry’s eighteenth birthday, and, as usual,
was a holiday. Etheldred privately thought his memory more likely to be
respected, if Blanche and Aubrey were employed, than if they were left
in idleness; but Mary would have been wretched had the celebration been
omitted, and a leisure day was never unwelcome.

Dr. Spencer carried off Blanche and Aubrey for a walk, and Ethel found
Mary at her great resort--Harry’s cupboard--dusting and arranging his
books, and the array of birthday gifts, to which, even to-day, she had
not failed to add the marker that had been in hand at Christmas. Ethel
entreated her to come down, and Mary promised, and presently appeared,
looking so melancholy, that, as a sedative, Ethel set her down to
the basket of scraps to find materials for a tippet for some one at
Cocksmoor, intending, as soon as Margaret should be dressed, to resign
her morning to the others, invite Miss Bracy to the drawing-room, and
read aloud.

Gertrude was waiting for her walk, till nurse should have dressed
Margaret, and was frisking about the lawn, sometimes looking in at the
drawing-room window at her sisters, sometimes chattering to Adams at his
work, or laughing to herself and the flowers, in that overflow of mirth,
that seemed always bubbling up within her.

She was standing in rapt contemplation of a pear-tree in full blossom,
her hands tightly clasped behind the back, for greater safety from the
temptation, when, hearing the shrubbery gate open, she turned, expecting
to see her papa, but was frightened at the sight of two strangers, and
began to run off at full speed.

“Stop! Blanche! Blanche, don’t you know me?” The voice was that tone of
her brother’s, and she stood and looked, but it came from a tall, ruddy
youth, in a shabby rough blue coat, followed by a grizzled old seaman.
She was too much terrified and perplexed even to run.

“What’s the matter! Blanche, it is I! Why, don’t you know me--Harry?”

“Poor brother Harry is drowned,” she answered; and, with one bound, he
was beside her, and, snatching her up, devoured her with kisses.

“Put me down--put me down, please,” was all she could say.

“It is not Blanche! What? the little Daisy, I do believe!”

“Yes, I am Gertrude, but please let me go;” and, at the same time, Adams
hurried up, as if he thought her being kidnapped, but his aspect changed
at the glad cry, “Ha! Adams’ how are you? Are they all well?”

“‘Tisn’t never Master Harry! Bless me!” as Harry’s hand gave him
sensible proof; “when we had given you up for lost!”

“My father well?” Harry asked, hurrying the words one over the other.

“Quite well, sir, but he never held up his head since he heard it, and
poor Miss Mary has so moped about. If ever I thought to see the like--”

“So they did not get my letter, but I can’t stop. Jennings will tell
you. Take care of him. Come, Daisy--” for he had kept her unwilling hand
all the time. “But what’s that for?” pointing to the black ribbons, and,
stopping short, startled.

“Because of poor Harry,” said the bewildered child.

“Oh, that’s right!” cried he, striding on, and dragging her in a
breathless run, as he threw open the well-known doors; and, she escaping
from him, hid her face in Mary’s lap, screaming, “He says he is Harry!
he says he is not drowned!”

At the same moment Ethel was in his arms, and his voice was sobbing,
“Ethel! Mary! home! Where’s papa?” One moment’s almost agonising joy in
the certainty of his identity! but ere she could look or think, he was
crying, “Mary! oh, Ethel, see--”

Mary had not moved, but sat as if turned to stone, with breath
suspended, wide-stretched eyes, and death-like cheeks--Ethel sprang to
her, “Mary, Mary dear, it is Harry! It is himself! Don’t you see? Speak
to her, Harry.”

He seemed almost afraid to do so, but, recovering himself, exclaimed,
“Mary, dear old Polly, here I am! Oh, won’t you speak to me?” he added
piteously, as he threw his arm round her and kissed her, startled at the
cold touch of her cheek.

The spell seemed broken, and, with a wild hoarse shriek that rang
through the house, she struggled to regain her breath, but it would only
come in painful, audible catches, as she held Harry’s hand convulsively.

“What have I done?” he exclaimed, in distress.

“What’s this! Who is this frightening my dear?” was old nurse’s
exclamation, as she and James came at the outcry.

“Oh, nurse, what have I done to her?” repeated Harry.

“It is joy--it is sudden joy!” said Ethel. “See, she is better now--”

“Master Harry! Well, I never!” and James, “with one wring of the hand,
retreated, while old nurse was nearly hugged to death, declaring all the
time that he didn’t ought to have come in such a way, terrifying every
one out of their senses! and as for poor Miss May--

“Where is she?” cried Harry, starting at the sight of the vacant sofa.

“Only upstairs,” said Ethel; “but where’s Alan? Is not he come?”

“Oh, Ethel, don’t you know?” His face told but too plainly.

“Nurse! nurse, how shall we tell her?” said Ethel.

“Poor dear!” exclaimed nurse, sounding her tongue on the roof of her
mouth. “She’ll never abear it without her papa. Wait for him, I should
say. But bless me, Miss Mary, to see you go on like that, when Master
Harry is come back such a bonny man!”

“I’m better now,” said Mary, with an effort. “Oh, Harry! speak to me
again.”

“But Margaret!” said Ethel, while the brother was holding Mary in
his embrace, and she lay tremulous with the new ecstasy upon his
breast--“but Margaret. Nurse, you must go up, or she will suspect. I’ll
come when I can; speak quietly. Oh! poor Margaret! If Richard would but
come in!”

Ethel walked up and down the room, divided between a tumult of joy,
grief, dread, and perplexity. At that moment a little voice said at the
door, “Please, Margaret wants Harry to come up directly.”

They looked one upon another in consternation. They had never thought of
the child, who, of course, had flown up at once with the tidings.

“Go up, Miss Ethel,” said nurse.

“Oh! nurse, I can’t be the first. Come, Harry, come.”

Hand-in-hand, they silently ascended the stairs, and Ethel pushed open
the door. Margaret was on her couch, her whole form and face in one
throb of expectation.

She looked into Harry’s face--the eagerness flitted like sunshine on the
hillside, before a cloud, and, without a word, she held out her arms.

He threw himself on his knees, and her fingers were clasped among his
thick curls, while his frame heaved with suppressed sobs, “Oh, if he
could only have come back to you.”

“Thank God,” she said; then slightly pushing him back, she lay holding
his hand in one of hers, and resting the other on his shoulder, and
gazing in silence into his face. Each was still--she was gathering
strength--he dreaded word or look.

“Tell me how and where;” she said at last.

“It was in the Loyalty Isles; it was fever--the exertions for us. His
head was lying here,” and he pointed to his own breast. “He sent his
love to you--he bade me tell you there would be meeting by and by, in
the haven where he would be.--I laid his head in the grave--under the
great palm--I said some of the prayers--there are Christians round it.”

He said this in short disconnected phrases, often pausing to gather
voice, but forced to resume, by her inquiring looks and pressure of his
hand.

She asked no more. “Kiss me,” she said, and when he had done so, “Thank
you, go down, please, all of you. You have brought great relief. Thank
you. But I can’t talk yet. You shall tell me the rest by and by.”

She sent them all away, even Ethel, who would have lingered.

“Go to him, dearest. Let me be alone. Don’t be uneasy. This is
peace--but go.”

Ethel found Mary and Harry interlaced into one moving figure, and Harry
greedily asking for his father and Norman, as if famishing for the sight
of them. He wanted to set out to seek the former in the town, but his
movements were too uncertain, and the girls clung to the newly-found,
as if they could not trust him away from them. They wandered about,
speaking, all three at random, without power of attending to the
answers. It was enough to see him, and touch him; they could not yet
care where he had been.

Dr. May was in the midst of them ere they were aware. One look, and he
flung his arms round his son, but, suddenly letting him go, he burst
away, and banged his study door. Harry would have followed.

“No, don’t,” said Ethel; then, seeing him disappointed, she came nearer,
and murmured, “‘He entered into his chamber and--’”

Harry silenced her with another embrace, but their father was with them
again, to verify that he had really seen his boy, and ask, alas! whether
Alan were with Margaret. The brief sad answer sent him to see how it was
with her. She would not let him stay; she said it was infinite comfort,
and joy was coming, but she would rather be still, and not come down
till evening.

Perhaps others would fain have been still, could they have borne an
instant’s deprivation of the sight of their dear sailor, while greetings
came thickly on him. The children burst in, having heard a report in the
town, and Dr. Spencer waited at the door for the confirmation; but when
Ethel would have flown out to him, he waved his hand, shut the door, and
hurried away, as if a word to her would have been an intrusion.

The brothers had been summoned by a headlong apparition of Will Adams in
Cocksmoor school, shouting that Master Harry was come home; and Norman’s
long legs out-speeding Richard, had brought him back, flushed, and too
happy for one word, while, “Well, Harry,” was Richard’s utmost, and his
care for Margaret seemed to overpower everything else, as he went up,
and was not so soon sent away.

Words were few downstairs. Blanche and Aubrey agreed that they
thought people would have been much happier, but, in fact, the joy was
oppressive from very newness. Ethel roamed about, she could not sit
still without feeling giddy, in the strangeness of the revulsion. Her
father sat, as if a word would break the blest illusion; and Harry
stood before each of them in turn, as if about to speak, but turned
his address into a sudden caress, or blow on the shoulder, and tried to
laugh. Little Gertrude, not understanding; the confusion, had taken up
her station under the table, and peeped out from beneath the cover.

There was more composure as they sat at dinner, and yet there was very
little talking or eating. Afterwards Dr. May and Norman exultingly
walked away, to show their Harry to Dr. Spencer and Mr. Wilmot; and
Ethel would gladly have tried to calm herself, and recover the balance
of her mind, by giving thanks where they were due; but she did not know
what to do with her sisters. Blanche was wild, and Mary still in so
shaky a state of excitement, that she went off into mad laughing, when
Blanche discovered that they were in mourning for Harry.

Nothing would satisfy Blanche but breaking in on Margaret, and climbing
to the top of the great wardrobe to disinter the coloured raiment,
beseeching that each favourite might be at once put on, to do honour
to Harry. Mary chimed in with her, in begging for the wedding
merinos--would not Margaret wear her beautiful blue?

“No, my dear, I cannot,” said Margaret gently.

Mary looked at her and was again in a flood of tears, incoherently
protesting, together with Ethel, that they would not change.

“No, dears,” said Margaret. “I had rather you did so. You must not be
unkind to Harry. He will not think I do not welcome him. I am only too
glad that Richard would not let my impatience take away my right to wear
this.”

Ethel knew that it was for life.

Mary could not check her tears, and would go on making heroic protests
against leaving off her black, sobbing the more at each. Margaret’s
gentle caresses seemed to make her worse, and Ethel, afraid that
Margaret’s own composure would be overthrown, exclaimed, “How can you
be so silly? Come away!” and rather roughly pulled her out of the room,
when she collapsed entirely at the top of the stairs, and sat crying
helplessly.

“I can’t think what’s the use of Harry’s coming home,” Gertrude was
heard saying to Richard. “It is very disagreeable;” whereat Mary
relapsed into a giggle, and Ethel felt frantic.

“Richard! Richard! what is to be done with Mary? She can’t help it, I
believe, but this is not the way to treat the mercy that--”

“Mary had better go and lie down in her own room,” said Richard,
tenderly and gravely.

“Oh, please! please!” began Mary, “I shall not see him when he comes
back!”

“If you can’t behave properly when he does come,” said Richard, “there
is no use in being there.”

“Remember, Ritchie,” said Ethel, thinking him severe, “she has not been
well this long time.”

Mary began to plead, but, with his own pretty persuasive manner, he
took her by the hand, and drew her into his room; and when he came down,
after an interval, it was to check Blanche, who would have gone up to
interrupt her with queries about the perpetual blue merino. He sat down
with Blanche on the staircase window-seat, and did not let her go till
he had gently talked her out of flighty spirits into the soberness of
thankfulness.

Ethel, meanwhile, had still done nothing but stray about, long for
loneliness, find herself too unsteady to finish her letters to Flora
and Tom; and, while she tried to make Gertrude think Harry a pleasant
acquisition, she hated her own wild heart, that could not rejoice, nor
give thanks, aright.

By and by Mary came down, with her bonnet on, quite quiet now. “I am
going to church with Ritchie,” she said. Ethel caught at the notion, and
it spread through the house. Dr May, who just then came in with his two
sons, looked at Harry, saying, “What do you think of it? Shall we go, my
boy?” And Harry, as soon as he understood, declared that he should like
nothing better. It seemed what they all needed, even Aubrey and Gertrude
begged to come, and, when the solemn old minster was above their
heads, and the hallowed stillness around them, the tightened sense of
half-realised joy began to find relief in the chant of glory. The voices
of the sanctuary, ever uplifting notes of praise, seemed to gather
together and soften their emotions; and agitation was soothed away, and
all that was oppressive and tumultuous gave place to sweet peace and
thankfulness. Ethel dimly remembered the like sense of relief, when her
mother had hushed her wild ecstasy, while sympathising with her joy.
Richard could not trust his voice, but Mr. Wilmot offered the special
thanksgiving.

Harry was, indeed, “at home,” and his tears fell fast over his book, as
he heard his father’s “Amen,” so fervent and so deep; and he gazed up
and around, with fond and earnest looks, as thoughts and resolutions,
formed there of old, came gathering thick upon him. And there little
Gertrude seemed first to accept him. She whispered to her papa, as they
stood up to go away, that it was very good in God Almighty to have sent
Harry home; and, as they left the cloister, she slipped into Harry’s
hand a daisy from the grave, such a gift as she had never carried to any
one else, save her father and Margaret, and she shrank no longer from
being lifted up in his arms, and carried home through the twilight
street.

He hurried into the drawing-room, and was heard declaring that all was
right, for Margaret was on the sofa; but he stopped short, grieved at
her altered looks. She smiled as he stooped to kiss her, and then made
him stand erect, and measure himself against Norman, whose height he
had almost reached. The little curly midshipman had come back, as nurse
said, “a fine-growed young man,” his rosy cheeks, brown and ruddy, and
his countenance--

“You are much more like papa and Norman than I thought you would be,”
 said Margaret.

“He has left his snub nose and yellow locks behind,” said his father;
“though the shaggy mane seems to remain. I believe lions grow darker
with age. So there stand June and July together again!”

Dr. May walked backwards to look at them. It was good to see his face.

“I shall see Flora and Tom to-morrow!” said Harry, after nodding with
satisfaction, as they all took their wonted places.

“Going!” exclaimed Richard.

“Why, don’t you know?” said Ethel; “it is current in the nursery that
he is going to be tried by court-martial for living with the King of the
Cannibal Islands.”

“Aubrey says he had a desert island, with Jennings for his man Friday,”
 said Blanche.

“Harry,” said little Gertrude, who had established herself on his knee,
“did you really poke out the giant’s eye with the top of a fir-tree?”

“Who told you so, Daisy?” was the general cry; but she became shy, and
would not answer more than by a whisper about Aubrey, who indignantly
declared that he never said so, only Gertrude was so foolish that she
did not know Harry from Ulysses.

“After all,” said Ethel, “I don’t think our notions are much more
defined. Papa and Norman may know more, but we have heard almost
nothing. I have been waiting to hear more to close up my letters to
Flora and Tom. What a shame that has not been done!”

“I’ll finish,” said Mary, running to the side-table.

“And tell her I’ll be there to-morrow,” said Harry. “I must report
myself; and what fun to see Flora a member of Parliament! Come with me,
June; I’ll be back next day. I wish you all would come.”

“Yes, I must come with you,” said Norman. “I shall have to go to Oxford
on Thursday;” and very reluctant he looked. “Tell Flora I am coming,
Mary.”

“How did you know that Flora was a married lady?” asked Blanche, in her
would-be grown-up manner.

“I heard that from Aunt Flora. A famous lot of news I picked up there!”

“Aunt Flora!”

“Did you not know he had been at Auckland?” said Dr. May. “Aunt Flora
had to nurse him well after all he had undergone. Did you not think her
very like mamma, Harry?”

“Mamma never looked half so old!” cried Harry indignantly.

“Flora was five years younger!”

“She has got her voice and way with her,” said Harry; “but you will soon
see. She is coming home soon.”

There was a great outcry of delight.

“Yes, there is some money of Uncle Arnott’s that must be looked after,
but he does not like the voyage, and can’t leave his office, so perhaps
Aunt Flora may come alone. She had a great mind to come with me, but
there was no good berth for her in this schooner, and I could not wait
for another chance. I can’t think what possessed the letters not to
come! She would not write by the first packet, because I was so ill, but
we both wrote by the next, and I made sure you had them, or I would have
written before I came.”

The words were not out of his mouth before the second post was brought
in, and there were two letters from New Zealand! What would they not
have been yesterday? Harry would have burned his own, but the long
closely-written sheets were eagerly seized, as, affording the best hope
of understanding his adventures, as it had been written at intervals
from Auckland, and the papers, passing from one to the other, formed the
text for interrogations on further details, though much more was gleaned
incidentally in tete-a-tetes, by Margaret, Norman, or his father, and no
one person ever heard the whole connectedly from Harry himself.

“What was the first you knew of the fire, Harry?” asked Dr. May, looking
up from the letter.

“Owen shaking me awake; and I thought it was a hoax,” said Harry. “But
it was true enough, and when we got on deck, there were clouds of smoke
coming up the main hatch-way.”

Margaret’s eyes were upon him, and her lips formed the question, “And
he?”

“He met us, and told us to be steady--but there was little need for
that! Every man there was as cool and collected as if it had been no
more than the cook’s stove--and we should have scorned to be otherwise!
He put his hand on my shoulder and said, ‘Keep by me,’ and I did.”

“Then there was never much hope of extinguishing the fire?”

“No; if you looked down below the forecastle it was like a furnace, and
though the pumps were at work, it was only to gain time while the boats
were lowered. The first lieutenant told off the men, and they went
down the side without one word, only shaking hands with those that were
left.”

“Oh, Harry! what were you thinking of?” cried Blanche.

“Of the powder,” said Harry.

Ethel thought there was more in that answer than met the ear, and that
Harry, at least, had thought of the powder to-night at church.

“Mr. Ernescliffe had the command of the second cutter. He asked to take
me with him; I was glad enough; and Owen--he is mate, you know--went
with us.”

As to telling how he felt when he saw the good ship Alcestis blown to
fragments, that was past Harry, and all but Blanche were wise enough not
to ask. She had by way of answer, “Very glad to be safe out of her.”

Nor was Harry willing to dwell on the subsequent days, when the
unclouded sun had been a cruel foe; and the insufficient stores of food
and water did, indeed, sustain life, but a life of extreme suffering.
What he told was of the kindness that strove to save him, as the
youngest, from all that could be spared him. “If I dropped asleep at the
bottom of the boat, I was sure to find some one shading me from the sun.
If there was an extra drop of water, they wanted me to have it.”

“Tell me their names, Harry!” cried Dr. May. “If ever I meet one of
them--”

“But the storm, Harry, the storm?” asked Blanche. “Was that not
terrible?”

“Very comfortable at first, Blanche,” was the answer. “Oh, that rain!”

“But when it grew so very bad?”

“We did not reck much what happened to us,” said Harry. “It could not be
worse than starving. When we missed the others in the morning, most of
us thought them the best off.”

Mary could not help coming round to kiss him, as if eyes alone were not
enough to satisfy her that here he was.

Dr. May shuddered, and went on reading, and Margaret drew Harry down to
her, and once more by looks craved for more minute tidings.

“All that you can think,” murmured Harry; “the very life and soul of us
all--so kind, and yet discipline as perfect as on board. But don’t now,
Margaret--”

The tone of the don’t, the reddening cheek, liquid eye, and heaving
chest, told enough of what the lieutenant had been to one, at least, of
the desolate boat’s crew.

“Oh, Harry, Harry! I can’t bear it!” exclaimed Mary. “How long did it
last? How did it end?”

“Fifteen days,” said Harry. “It was time it should end, for all the
water we had caught in the storm was gone--we gave the last drop to
Jones, for we thought him dying; one’s tongue was like a dry sponge.”

“How did it end?” repeated Mary, in an agony.

“Jennings saw a sail. We thought it all a fancy of weakness, but ‘twas
true enough, and they saw our signal of distress!”

The vessel proved to be an American whaler, which had just parted with
her cargo to a homeward bound ship, and was going to refit, and take in
provisions and water at one of the Milanesian islands, before returning
for further captures. The master was a man of the shrewd, hard
money-making cast; but, at the price of Mr. Ernescliffe’s chronometer,
and of the services of the sailors, he undertook to convey them where
they might fall in with packets bound for Australia.

The distressed Alcestes at first thought themselves in paradise, but
the vessel, built with no view, save to whales, and, with a considerable
reminiscence of the blubber lately parted with, proved no wholesome
abode, when overcrowded, and in the tropics! Mr. Ernescliffe’s science,
resolution, and constancy, had saved his men so far; but with the need
for exertion his powers gave way, and he fell a prey to a return of the
fever which had been his introduction to Dr. May.

“There he was,” said Harry, “laid up in a little bit of a stifling
cabin, just like an oven, without the possibility of a breath of air!
The skin-flint skipper carried no medicine; the water--shocking stuff it
was--was getting so low, that there was only a pint a day served out to
each, and though all of us Alcestes clubbed every drop we could spare
for him--it was bad work! Owen and I never were more glad in our lives
than when we heard we were to cast anchor at the Loyalty Isles! Such a
place as it was! You little know what it was to see anything green! And
there was this isle fringed down close to the sea with cocoa-nut trees!
And the bay as clear!--you could see every shell, and wonderful fishes
swimming in it! Well, every one was for going ashore, and some of the
natives swam out to us, and brought things in their canoes, but not
many; it is not encouraged by the mission, nor by David--for those
Yankee traders are not the most edifying society--and the crew vowed
they were cannibals, and had eaten a man three years ago, so they all
went ashore armed.”

“You stayed with him,” said Margaret.

“Ay, it was my turn, and I was glad enough to have some fresh fruit and
water for him, but he could not take any notice of it. Did not I want
you, papa? Well, by and by, Owen came back, in a perfect rapture
with the place and the people, and said it was the only hope for Mr.
Ernescliffe, to take him on shore--”

“Then you did really go amongst the cannibals!” exclaimed Blanche.

“That is all nonsense,” said Harry. “Some of them may once have been,
and I fancy the heathens might not mind a bit of ‘long pig’ still; but
these have been converted by the Samoans.”

The Samoans, it was further explained, are the inhabitants of the
Navigator Islands, who, having been converted by the Church Missionary
Society, have sent out great numbers of most active and admirable
teachers among the scattered islands, braving martyrdom and disease,
never shrinking from their work, and, by teaching and example, preparing
the way for fuller doctrine than they can yet impart. A station of these
devoted men had for some years been settled in this island, and had
since been visited by the missions of Newcastle and New Zealand. The
young chief, whom Harry called David, and another youth, had spent two
summers under instruction at New Zealand, and had been baptised. They
were spending the colder part of the year at home, and hoped shortly to
be called for by the mission-ship to return, and resume their course of
instruction.

Owen had come to an understanding with the chief and the Samoans, and
had decided on landing his lieutenant, and it was accordingly done, with
very little consciousness on the patient’s part. Black figures, with
woolly mop-heads, and sometimes decorated with whitewash of lime,
crowded round to assist in the transport of the sick man through the
surf; and David himself, in a white European garb, met his guests,
with dignified manners that would have suited a prince of any land, and
conducted them through the grove of palms, interspersed with white huts,
to a beautiful house consisting of a central room, with many others
opening from it, floored with white coral lime, and lined with soft
shining mats of Samoan manufacture. This, Harry learned, had been
erected by them in hopes of an English missionary taking up his abode
amongst them.

They were a kindly people, and had shown hospitality to other
Englishmen, who had less appreciated it than these young officers
could. They lavished every kindness in their power upon them, and
Mr. Ernescliffe, at first, revived so much, that he seemed likely to
recover.

But the ship had completed her repairs, and was ready to sail. The two
midshipmen thought it would be certain death to their lieutenant to
bring him back to such an atmosphere; “and so,” continued Harry’s letter
to his father, “I thought there was nothing for it but for me to stay
with him, and that you would say so. I got Owen to consent, after some
trouble, as we were sure to be fetched off one time or another. We said
not a word to Mr. Ernescliffe, for he was only sensible now and then, so
that Owen had the command. Owen made the skipper leave me a pistol and
some powder, but I was ashamed David should know it, and stowed it away.
As to the quarter-master, old Jennings, whose boy you remember we
picked up at the Roman camp, he had not forgotten that, and when we were
shaking hands and wishing good-bye, he leaped up, and vowed ‘he would
never leave the young gentleman that had befriended his boy, to be eaten
up by them black savage niggers. If they made roast-pork of Mr. May, he
would be eaten first, though he reckoned they would find him a tougher
morsel.’ I don’t think Owen was sorry he volunteered, and no words can
tell what a blessing the good old fellow was to us both.

“So there we stayed, and, at first, Mr. Ernescliffe seemed mending. The
delirium went off, he could talk quite clearly and comfortably, and he
used to lie listening, when David and I had our odd sort of talks. I
believe, if you had been there, or we could have strengthened him any
way, he might have got over it; but he never thought he should, and he
used to talk to me about all of you, and said Stoneborough had been the
most blessed spot in his life; he had never had so much of a home, and
that sharing our grief, and knowing you, had done him great good, just
when he might have been getting elated. I cannot recollect it all,
though I tried hard, for Margaret’s sake, but he said Hector would have
a great deal of temptation, and he hoped you would be a father to him,
and Norman an elder brother. You would not think how much he talked of
Cocksmoor, about a church being built there, as Ethel wished, and little
Daisy laying the first stone. I remember one night, I don’t know whether
he was quite himself, for he looked full at me with his eyes, that had
grown so large, till I did not know what was coming, and he said, ‘I
have seen a ship built by a sailor’s vow; the roof was like the timbers
of a ship--that was right. Mind, it is so. That is the ship that bears
through the waves; there is the anchor that enters within the veil.’ I
believe that was what he said. I could not forget that--he looked at me
so; but much more he said, that I dimly remember, and chiefly about poor
dear Margaret. He bade me tell her--his own precious pearl, as he used
to call her--that he was quite content, and believed it was best for her
and him both, that all should be thus settled, for they did not part for
ever, and he trusted--But I can’t write all that.” (There was a great
tear-blot just here). “It is too good to recollect anywhere but at
church. I have been there to-day, with my uncle and aunt, and I thought
I could have told it when I came home, but I was too tired to write
then, and now I don’t seem as if it could be written anyhow. When I come
home, I will try to tell Margaret. The most part was about her; only
what was better seemed to swallow that up.”

The narrative broke off here, but had been subsequently resumed.

“For all Mr. Ernescliffe talked as I told you, he was so quiet and
happy, that I made sure he was getting well, but Jennings did not; and
there came an old heathen native once to see us, who asked why we did
not bury him alive, because he got no better, and gave trouble. At last,
one night--it was the third of August--he was very restless, and could
not breathe, nor lie easily; I lifted him up in my arms, for he was very
light and thin, and tried to make him more comfortable. But presently he
said, ‘Is it you, Harry? God bless you;’ and, in a minute, I knew he was
dead. You will tell Margaret all about it. I don’t think she can love
him more than I did; and she did not half know him, for she never saw
him on board, nor in all that dreadful time, nor in his illness. She
will never know what she has lost.”

There was another break here, and the story was continued.

“We buried him the next day, where one could see the sea, close under
the great palm, where David hopes to have a church one of these days.
David helped us, and said the Lord’s Prayer and the Glory with us there.
I little thought, when I used to grumble at my two verses of the psalms
every day, when I should want the ninetieth, or how glad I should be to
know so many by heart, for they were such a comfort to Mr. Ernescliffe.

“David got us a nice bit of wood, and Jennings carved the cross, and
his name, and all about him. I should have liked to have done it, but I
knocked up after that. Jennings thinks I had a sun-stroke. I don’t know,
but my head was so bad, whenever I moved, that I thought only Jennings
would ever have come to tell you about it. Jennings looked after me as
if I had been his own son; and there was David too, as kind as if he had
been Richard himself--always sitting by, to bathe my forehead, or, when
I was a little better, to talk to me, and ask me questions about his
Christian teaching. You must not think of him like a savage, for he is
my friend, and a far more perfect gentleman than I ever saw any one,
but you, papa, holding the command over his people so easily and
courteously, and then coming to me with little easy first questions
about the Belief, and such things, like what we used to ask mamma. He
liked nothing so well as for me to tell him about King David; and we had
learned a good deal of each other’s languages by that time. The notion
of his heart--like Cocksmoor to Ethel--is to get a real English mission,
and have all his people Christians. Ethel talked of good kings being
Davids to their line; I think that is what he will be, if he lives; but
those islanders have been dying off since Europeans came among them.”

But Harry’s letter could not tell what he confessed, one night, to his
father, the next time he was out with him by starlight, how desolate he
had been, and how he had yearned after his home, and, one evening, he
had been utterly overcome by illness and loneliness, and had cried most
bitterly and uncontrollably; and, though Jennings thought it was for
his friend’s death, it really was homesickness, and the thought of his
father and Mary. Jennings had helped him out to the entrance of the
hut, that the cool night air might refresh his burning brow. Orion shone
clear and bright, and brought back the night when they had chosen the
starry hunter as his friend. “It seemed,” he said, “as if you all
were looking at me, and smiling to me in the stars. And there was
the Southern Cross upright, which was like the minster to me; and
I recollected it was Sunday morning at home, and knew you would be
thinking about me. I was so glad you had let me be confirmed, and be
with you that last Sunday, papa, for it seemed to join me on so much the
more; and when I thought of the words in church, they seemed, somehow,
to float on me so much more than ever before, and it was like the
minster, and your voice. I should not have minded dying so much after
that.”

At last, Harry’s Black Prince had hurried into the hut with the tidings
that his English father’s ship was in the bay, and soon English voices
again sounded in his ears, bringing the forlorn boy such warmth of
kindness that he could hardly believe himself a mere stranger. If Alan
could but have shared the joy with him!

He was carried down to the boat in the cool of the evening, and paused
on the way, for a last farewell to the lonely grave under the palm
tree-one of the many sailors’ graves scattered from the tropics to
the poles, and which might be the first seed in a “God’s acre” to that
island, becoming what the graves of holy men of old are to us.

A short space more of kind care from his new friends and his Christian
chief, and Harry awoke from a feverish doze at sounds that seemed so
like a dream of home, that he was unwilling to break them by rousing
himself; but they approved themselves as real, and he found himself in
the embrace of his mother’s sister.

And here Mrs. Arnott’s story began, of the note that reached her in the
early morning with tidings that her nephew had been picked up by the
mission-ship, and how she and her husband had hastened at once on board.

“They sent me below to see a hero,” she wrote. “What I saw was a
scarecrow sort of likeness of you, dear Richard; but, when he opened his
eyes, there was our Maggie smiling at me. I suppose he would not forgive
me for telling how he sobbed and cried, when he had his arms round my
neck, and his poor aching head on my shoulder. Poor fellow, he was very
weak, and I believe he felt, for the moment, as if he had found his
mother.

“We brought him home with us, but when the next mail went, the fever was
still so high, that I thought it would be only alarm to you to write,
and I had not half a story either, though you may guess how proud I was
of my nephew.”

Harry’s troubles were all over from that time. He had thenceforth to
recover under his aunt’s motherly care, while talking endlessly over the
home that she loved almost as well as he did. He was well more quickly
than she had ventured to hope, and nothing could check his impatience to
reach his home, not even the hopes of having his aunt for a companion.
The very happiness he enjoyed with her only made him long the more
ardently to be with his own family; and he had taken his leave of her,
and of his dear David, and sailed by the first packet leaving Auckland.

“I never knew what the old Great Bear was to me till I saw him again!”
 said Harry.

It was late when the elders had finished all that was to be heard at
present, and the clock reminded them that they must part.

“And you go to-morrow?” sighed Margaret.

“I must. Jennings has to go on to Portsmouth, and see after his son.”

“Oh, let me see Jennings!” exclaimed Margaret. “May I not, papa?”

Richard, who had been making friends with Jennings, whenever he had not
been needed by his sisters that afternoon, went to fetch him from the
kitchen, where all the servants, and all their particular friends,
were listening to the yarn that made them hold their heads higher, as
belonging to Master Harry.

Harry stepped forward, met Jennings, and said, aside, “My sister,
Jennings; my sister that you have heard of.”

Dr. May had already seen the sailor, but he could not help addressing
him again. “Come in; come in, and see my boy among us all. Without you,
we never should have had him.”

“Make him come to me,” said Margaret breathlessly, as the embarrassed
sailor stood, sleeking down his hair; and, when he had advanced to her
couch, she looked up in his face, and put her hand into his great brown
one.

“I could not help saying thank you,” she said.

“Mr. May, sir!” cried Jennings, almost crying, and looking round for
Harry, as a sort of protector--“tell them, sir, please, it was only my
duty--I could not do no less, and you knows it, sir,” as if Harry had
been making an accusation against him.

“We know you could not,” said Margaret, “and that is what we would thank
you for, if we could. I know he--Mr. Ernescliffe--must have been much
more at rest for leaving my brother with so kind a friend, and--”

“Please, miss, don’t say no more about it. Mr. Ernescliffe was as fine
an officer as ever stepped a quarter-deck, and Mr. May here won’t fall
short of him; and was I to be after leaving the like of them to the
mercy of the black fellows--that was not so bad neither? If it had only
pleased God that we had brought them both back to you, miss; but, you
see, a man can’t be everything at once, and Mr. Ernescliffe was not so
stout as his heart.”

“You did everything, we know--” began Dr. May.

“‘Twas a real pleasure,” said Jennings hastily, “for two such real
gentlemen as they was. Mr. May, sir, I beg your pardon if I say it to
your face, never flinched, nor spoke a word of complaint, through it
all; and, as to the other--”

“Margaret cannot bear this,” said Richard, coming near. “It is too
much.”

The sailor shook his head, and was retreating, but Margaret signed him
to come near again, and grasped his hand. Harry followed him out of the
room, to arrange their journey, and presently returned.

“He says he is glad he has seen Margaret; he says she is the right sort
of stuff for Mr. Ernescliffe.”

Harry had not intended Margaret to hear, but she caught the words,
smiled radiantly, and whispered, “I wish I may be!”




CHAPTER XVIII.



Margaret had borne the meeting much too well for her own good, and a
wakeful night of palpitation was the consequence; but she would not
allow any one to take it to heart, and declared that she should be ready
to enjoy Harry by the time he should return, and meantime, she should
dwell on the delight of his meeting Flora.

No one had rested too soundly that night, and Dr. May had not been
able to help looking in at his sleeping boy at five in the morning,
to certify himself that he had not only figured his present bliss to
himself, in his ten minutes’ dream. And looking in again at half-past
seven, he found Harry half dressed, with his arm round Mary; laughing,
almost sobbing, over the treasures in his cupboard, which he had newly
discovered in their fresh order.

Dr. May looked like a new man that morning, with his brightened eye and
bearing, as if there were a well-spring of joy within him, ready to brim
over at once in tear and in smile, and finding an outlet in the praise
and thanksgiving that his spirit chanted, and his face expressed, and in
that sunny genial benevolence that must make all share his joy.

He was going to run over half the town--every one would like to hear
it from him; Ethel and Mary must go to the rest--the old women in the
almshouses, where lived an old cook who used to be fond of Harry--they
should have a feast; all who were well enough in the hospital should
have a tea-drinking; Dr. Hoxton had already granted a holiday to the
school; every boy with whom they had any connection should come to
dinner, and Edward Anderson should be asked to meet Harry on his return,
because, poor fellow, he was so improved.

Dr. May was in such a transport of kind-hearted schemes, that he was
not easily made to hear that Harry had not a sixpence wherewith to reach
London.

Ethel, meanwhile, was standing beside her brother tendering to him some
gold, as his last quarter.

“How did you get it, Ethel? do you keep the purse?”

“No, but papa took Cocksmoor in your stead, when--”

“Nonsense, Ethel,” said Harry; “I don’t want it. Have I not all my
pay and allowance for the whole time I was dead? And as to robbing
Cocksmoor--”

“Yes, keep it, Ethel,” said her father; “do you think I would take it
now, when if there were a thank-offering in the world.--And, by the bye,
your Cocksmoor children must have something to remember this by--”

Every one could have envied Norman, for travelling to London with Harry,
but that he must proceed to Oxford in two days, when Harry would return
to them. The station-master, thinking he could not do enough for the
returned mariner, put the two brothers into the coupe, as if they had
been a bridal couple, and they were very glad of the privacy, having, as
yet, hardly spoken to each other, when Harry’s attention was dispersed
among so many.

Norman asked many questions about the mission work in the southern
hemisphere, and ended by telling his brother of his design, which met
with Harry’s hearty approbation.

“That’s right, old June. There’s nothing they want so much, as such as
you. How glad my aunt will be! Perhaps you will see David! Oh, if you
were to go out to the Loyalty group!”

“Very possibly I might,” said Norman.

“Tell them you are my brother, and how they will receive you! I can see
the mop-heads they will dress in honour of you, and what a feast of pork
and yams you will have to eat! But there is plenty of work among the
Maoris for you--they want a clergyman terribly at the next village to
my uncle’s place. I say, Norman, it will go hard if I don’t get a ship
bound for the Pacific, and come and see you.”

“I shall reckon on you. That is, if I have not to stay to help my
father.”

“To be sure,” exclaimed Harry; “I thought you would have stayed at home,
and married little Miss Rivers!”

Thus broadly and boyishly did he plunge into that most tender subject,
making his brother start and wince, as if he had touched a wound.

“Nonsense!” he cried, almost angrily.

“Well! you used to seem very much smitten, but so, to be sure, were
some of the Alcestes with the young ladies at Valparaiso. How we used to
roast Owen about that Spanish Donna, and he was as bad at Sydney about
the young lady whose father, we told him, was a convict, though he kept
such a swell carriage. He had no peace about his father-in-law, the
house-breaker! Don’t I remember how you pinched her hand the night you
were righted!”

“You know nothing about it,” said Norman shortly. “She is far beyond my
reach.”

“A fine lady? Ha! Well, I should have thought you as good as Flora any
day,” said Harry indignantly.

“She is what she always was,” said Norman, anxious to silence him; “but
it is unreasonable to think of it. She is all but engaged to Sir Henry
Walkinghame.”

“Walkinghame!” cried the volatile sailor. “I have half a mind to send in
my name to Flora as Miss Walkinghame!” and he laughed heartily over that
adventure, ending, however, with a sigh, as he said, “It had nearly cost
me a great deal! But tell me, Norman, how has that Meta, as they called
her, turned out? I never saw anything prettier or nicer than she was
that day of the Roman encampment, and I should be sorry if that fine
fashionable aunt of hers, had made her stuck-up and disdainful.”

“No such thing,” said Norman.

“Ha!” said Harry to himself, “I see how it is! She has gone and made
poor old June unhappy, with her scornful airs--a little impertinent
puss!--I wonder Flora does not teach her better manners.”

Norman, meanwhile, as the train sped over roofs, and among chimneys, was
reproaching himself for running into the fascination of her presence,
and then recollecting that her situation, as well as his destiny, both
guaranteed that they could meet only as friendly connections.

No carriage awaited them at the station, which surprised Norman, till
he recollected that the horses had probably been out all day, and it was
eight o’clock. Going to Park Lane in a cab, the brothers were further
surprised to find themselves evidently not expected. The butler came to
speak to them, saying that Mr. and Mrs. Rivers were gone out to dinner,
but would return, probably, at about eleven o’clock. He conducted
them upstairs, Harry following his brother, in towering vexation and
disappointment, trying to make him turn to hear that they would go
directly--home--to Eton--anywhere--why would he go in at all?

The door was opened, Mr. May was announced, and they were in a
silk-lined boudoir, where a little slender figure in black started up,
and came forward with outstretched hand.

“Norman!” she cried, “how are you? Are you come on your way to Oxford?”

“Has not Flora had Mary’s letter?”

“Yes, she said she had one. She was keeping it till she had time to read
it.”

As she spoke, Meta had given her hand to Harry, as it was evidently
expected; she raised her eyes to his face, and said, smiling’ and
blushing, “I am sure I ought to know you, but I am afraid I don’t.”

“Look again,” said Norman. “See if you have ever seen him before.”

Laughing, glancing, and casting down her eyes, she raised them with a
sudden start of joy, but colouring more deeply, said, “Indeed, I cannot
remember. I dare say I ought.”

“I think you see a likeness,” said Norman.

“Oh, yes, I see,” she answered, faltering; but perceiving how bright
were the looks of both, “No? Impossible! Yes, it is!”

“Yes, it is,” said both brothers with one voice. She clasped her hands,
absolutely bounded with transport, then grasped both Harry’s hands,
and then Norman’s, her whole countenance radiant with joy and sympathy
beyond expression.

“Dear, dear Dr. May!” was her first exclamation. “Oh, how happy you must
all be! And Margaret?” She looked up at Norman, and came nearer. “Is not
Mr. Ernescliffe come?” she asked softly, and trembling.

“No,” was the low answer, which Harry could not bear to hear, and
therefore walked to the window. “No, Meta, but Margaret is much
comforted about him. He died in great peace--in his arms”--as he signed
towards his brother. And as Harry continued to gaze out on the stars of
gas on the opposite side of the park, he was able to add a few of the
particulars.

Meta’s eyes glistened with tears, as she said, “Perhaps it would have
been too perfect if he had come; but oh, Norman! how good she is to bear
it so patiently! And how gloriously he behaved! How can we make enough
of him! And Flora out! how sorry she will be!”

“And she never opened Mary’s letter,” said Harry, coming back to them.

“She little thought what it contained,” said Meta. “Mary’s letters are
apt to bear keeping, you know, and she was so busy, that she laid it
aside for a treat after the day’s work. But there! inhospitable wretch
that I am! you have had no dinner!”

A refection of tea and cold meat was preferred, and in her own pretty
manner Meta lavished her welcomes, trying to cover any pain given by
Flora’s neglect.

“What makes her so busy?” asked Harry, looking round on the beautifully
furnished apartment, which, to many eyes besides those fresh from a
Milanesian hut, might have seemed a paradise of luxurious ease.

“You don’t know what an important lady you have for a sister,” said Meta
merrily.

“But tell me, what can she have to do? I thought you London ladies
had nothing to do, but to sit with your hands before you entertaining
company.”

Meta laughed heartily. “Shall I begin at the beginning? I’ll describe
to-day then, and you must understand that this is what Tom would call a
mild specimen--only one evening engagement. Though, perhaps, I ought to
start from last night at twelve o’clock, when she was at the Austrian
Ambassador’s ball, and came home at two; but she was up by eight--she
always manages to get through her housekeeping matters before breakfast.
At nine, breakfast, and baby--by the bye, you have never inquired for
our niece.”

“I have not come to believe in her yet,” said Harry.

“Seeing is believing,” said Meta; “but no, I won’t take an unfair
advantage over her mamma; and she will be fast asleep; I never knew a
child sleep as she does. So to go on with our day. The papers come, and
Miss Leonora is given over to me; for you must know we are wonderful
politicians. Flora studies all the debates till George finds out what
he has heard in the House, and baby and I profit. Baby goes out walking,
and the post comes. Flora always goes to the study with George, and
writes, and does all sorts of things for him. She is the most useful
wife in the world. At twelve, we had our singing lesson--”

“Singing lesson!” exclaimed Harry.

“Yes, you know she has a pretty voice, and she is glad to cultivate it.
It is very useful at parties, but it takes up a great deal of time,
and with all I can do to save her in note-writing, the morning is gone
directly. After luncheon, she had to ride with George, and came back in
a hurry to make some canvassing calls about the orphan asylum, and Miss
Bracy’s sister. If we get her in at all, it will be Flora’s diplomacy.
And there was shopping to do, and when we came in hoping for time for
our letters, there were the Walkinghames, who stayed a long time, so
that Flora could only despatch the most important notes, before George
came in and wanted her. She was reading something for him all the time
she was dressing, but, as I say, this is quite a quiet day.”

“Stop!” cried Harry, with a gesture of oppression, “it sounds harder
than cleaning knives, like Aunt Flora! And what is an unquiet day like?”

“You will see, for we have a great evening party to-morrow.”

“Do you always stay at home?” asked Harry.

“Not always, but I do not go to large parties or balls this year,” said
Meta, glancing at her deep mourning; “I am very glad of a little time at
home.”

“So you don’t like it.”

“Oh, yes! it is very pleasant,” said Meta. “It is so entertaining when
we talk it over afterwards, and I like to hear how Flora is admired, and
called the beauty of the season. I tell George, and we do so gloat over
it together! There was an old French marquis the other night, a dear
old man, quite of the ancien regime, who said she was exactly like the
portraits of Madame de Maintenon, and produced a beautiful miniature on
a snuff-box, positively like that very pretty form of face of hers.
The old man even declared that Mistress Rivers was worthy to be a
Frenchwoman.”

“I should like to kick him!” amiably responded Harry.

“I hope you won’t to-morrow! But don’t let us waste our time over this;
I want so much to hear about New Zealand.”

Meta was well read in Australasian literature, and drew out a great deal
more information from Harry than Norman had yet heard. She made him talk
about the Maori pah near his uncle’s farm, where the Sunday services
were conducted by an old gentleman tattooed elegantly in the face, but
dressed like an English clergyman; and tell of his aunt’s troubles about
the younger generation, whom their elders, though Christians themselves,
could not educate, and who she feared would relapse into heathenism, for
want of instruction, though with excellent dispositions.

“How glad you must be that you are likely to go!” exclaimed Meta to
Norman, who had sat silently listening.

The sound of the door bell was the first intimation that Harry’s
histories had occupied them until long past twelve o’clock.

“Now, then!” cried Meta, springing forward, as if intending to meet
Flora with the tidings, but checking herself, as if she ought not to
be the first. There was a pause. Flora was hearing downstairs that Mr.
Norman May and another gentleman had arrived, and, while vexed at her
own omission, and annoyed at Norman’s bringing friends without waiting
for permission, she was yet prepared to be courteous and amiable. She
entered in her rich black watered silk, deeply trimmed with lace,
and with silver ornaments in her dark hair, so graceful and
distinguished-looking, that Harry stood suspended, hesitating, for an
instant, whether he beheld his own sister, especially as she made a
dignified inclination towards him, offering her hand to Norman, as she
said, “Meta has told you--” But there she broke off, exclaiming, “Ha! is
it possible! No, surely it cannot be--”

“Miss Walkinghame?” said the sailor, who had felt at home with her at
the first word, and she flew into his great rough arms.

“Harry! this is dear Harry! our own dear sailor come back,” cried she,
as her husband stood astonished; and, springing towards him, she put
Harry’s hand into his, “My brother Harry! our dear lost one.”

“Your--brother--Harry,” slowly pronounced George, as he instinctively
gave the grasp of greeting--“your brother that was lost? Upon my word,”
 as the matter dawned fully on him, and he became eager, “I am very glad
to see you. I never was more rejoiced in my life.”

“When did you come? Have you been at home?” asked Flora.

“I came home yesterday--Mary wrote to tell you.”

“Poor dear old Mary! There’s a lesson against taking a letter on trust.
I thought it would be all Cocksmoor, and would wait for a quiet moment!
How good to come to me so soon, you dear old shipwrecked mariner!”

“I was forced to come to report myself,” said Harry, “or I could not
have come away from my father so soon.”

The usual questions and their sad answers ensued, and while Flora talked
to Harry, fondly holding his hand, Norman and Meta explained the history
to George, who no sooner comprehended it, that he opined it must have
been a horrid nuisance, and that Harry was a gallant fellow; then
striking him over the shoulder, welcomed him home with all his kind
heart, told him he was proud to receive him, and falling into a state of
rapturous hospitality, rang the bell, and wanted to order all sorts
of eatables and drinkables, but was sadly baffled to find him already
satisfied.

There was more open joy than even at home, and Flora was supremely happy
as she sat between her brothers, listening and inquiring till far past
one o’clock, when she perceived poor George dozing off, awakened every
now and then by a great nod, and casting a wishful glance of resigned
remonstrance, as if to appeal against sitting up all night.

The meeting at breakfast was a renewal of pleasure. Flora was proud and
happy in showing off her little girl, a model baby, as she called her,
a perfect doll for quietness, so that she could be brought in at family
prayers; “and,” said Flora, “I am the more glad that she keeps no
one away, because we can only have evening prayers on Sunday. It is a
serious thing to arrange for such a household.”

“She is equal to anything,” said George.

The long file of servants marched in, George read sonorously, and Flora
rose from her knees, highly satisfied at the impression produced upon
her brothers.

“I like to have the baby with us at breakfast,” she said; “it is the
only time of day when we can be sure of seeing anything of her, and I
like her nurse to have some respite. Do you think her grown, Norman?”

“Not very much,” said Norman, who thought her more inanimate and like
a pretty little waxen toy, than when he had last seen her. “Is she not
rather pale?”

“London makes children pale. I shall soon take her home to acquire a
little colour. You must know Sir Henry has bitten us with his yachting
tastes, and as soon as we can leave London, we are going to spend six
weeks with the Walkinghames at Ryde, and rival you, Harry. I think Miss
Leonora will be better at home, so we must leave her there. Lodgings and
irregularities don’t suit people of her age.”

“Does home mean Stoneborough?” asked Norman.

“No. Old nurse has one of her deadly prejudices against Preston, and I
would not be responsible for the consequences of shutting them up in the
same nursery. Margaret would be distracted between them. No, miss, you
shall make her a visit every day, and be fondled by your grandpapa.”

George began a conversation with Harry on nautical matters, and Norman
tried to discover how Meta liked the yachting project, and found her
prepared to think it charming. Hopes were expressed that Harry might be
at Portsmouth, and a quantity of gay scheming ensued, with reiterations
of the name of Walkinghame; while Norman had a sense of being wrapped
in some gray mist, excluding him from participation in their enjoyments,
and condemned his own temper as frivolous for being thus excited to
discontent.

Presently, he heard George insisting that he and Harry should return in
time for the evening party; and, on beginning to refuse, was amazed to
find Harry’s only objection was on the score of lack of uniform.

“I don’t want you in one, sir,” said Flora.

“I have only one coat in the world, besides this,” continued Harry, “and
that is all over tar.”

“George will see to that,” said Flora. “Don’t you think you would be
welcome in matting, with an orange cowry round your neck?”

Norman, however, took a private opportunity of asking Harry if he was
aware of what he was undertaking, and what kind of people they should
meet.

“All English people behave much the same in a room,” said Harry, as if
all society, provided it was not cannibal, were alike to him.

“I should have thought you would prefer finding out Forder in his
chambers, or going to one of the theatres.”

“As you please,” said Harry; “but Flora seems to want us, and I should
rather like to see what sort of company she keeps.”

Since Harry was impervious to shyness, Norman submitted, and George took
them to a wonder-worker in cloth, who undertook that full equipments
should await the young gentleman. Harry next despatched his business at
the Admiralty, and was made very happy by tidings of his friend Owen’s
safe arrival in America.

Thence the brothers went to Eton, where home letters had been more
regarded; and Dr. May having written to secure a holiday for the objects
of their visit, they were met at the station by the two boys. Hector’s
red face and prominent light eyebrows were instantly recognised; but, as
to Tom, Harry could hardly believe that the little, dusty, round-backed
grub be had left had been transformed into the well-made gentlemanlike
lad before him, peculiarly trim and accurate in dress, even to the
extent of as much foppery as Eton taste permitted.

Ten minutes had not passed before Tom, taking a survey of the newcomer,
began to exclaim at Norman, for letting him go about such a figure; and,
before they knew what was doing, they had all been conducted into the
shop of the “only living man who knew how to cut hair.” Laughing and
good-natured, Harry believed his hair was “rather long,” allowed himself
to be seated, and to be divested of a huge superfluous mass of sun-dried
curls, which Tom, particularly resenting that “rather long,” kept on
taking up, and unrolling from their tight rings, to measure the number
of inches.

“That is better,” said he, as they issued from the shop; “but, as to
that coat of yours, the rogue who made it should never make another.
Where could you have picked it up?”

“At a shop at Auckland,” said Harry, much amused.

“Kept by a savage?” said Tom, to whom it was no laughing matter. “See
that seam!”

“Have done, May!” exclaimed Hector. “He will think you a tailor’s
apprentice!”

“Or worse,” said Norman. “Rivers’s tailor kept all strictures to
himself.”

Tom muttered that he only wanted Harry to be fit to be seen by the
fellows.

“The fellows are not such asses as you!” cried Hector. “You don’t
deserve that he should come to see you. If my--”

There poor Hector broke off. If his own only brother had been walking
beside him, how would he not have felt? They had reached their tutor’s
house, and, opening his own door, he made an imploring sign to Harry
to enter with him. On the table lay a letter from Margaret, and another
which Harry had written to him from Auckland.

“Oh, Harry, you were with him,” he said; “tell me all about him.”

And he established himself, with his face hidden on the table,
uttering nothing, except, “Go on,” whenever Harry’s voice failed in the
narration. When something was said of “all for the best,” he burst out,
“He might say so. I suppose one ought to think so. But is not it hard,
when I had nobody but him? And there was Maplewood; and I might have
been so happy there, with him and Margaret.”

“They say nothing could have made Margaret well,” said Harry.

“I don’t care; he would have married her all the same, and we should
have made her so happy at Maplewood. I hate the place! I wish it were at
Jericho!”

“You are captain of the ship now,” said Harry, “and you must make the
best of it.”

“I can’t. It will never be home. Home is with Margaret, and the rest of
them.”

“So Alan said he hoped you would make it; and you are just like one of
us, you know.”

“What’s the use of that, when Captain Gordon will not let me go near
you. Taking me to that abominable Maplewood last Easter, with half the
house shut up, and all horrid! And he is as dry as a stick!”

“The captain!” cried Harry angrily. “There’s not a better captain to
sail with in the whole navy, and your brother would be the first to tell
you so! I’m not discharged yet. Hector--you had better look out what you
say!”

“Maybe he is the best to sail with, but that is not being the best to
live with,” said the heir of Maplewood disconsolately. “Alan himself
always said he never knew what home was, till he got to your father and
Margaret.”

“So will you,” said Harry; “why, my father is your master, or whatever
you may call it.”

“No, Captain Gordon is my guardian.”

“Eh! what’s become of the will then?”

“What will?” cried Hector. “Did Alan make one after all?”

“Ay. At Valparaiso, he had a touch of fever; I went ashore to nurse
him, to a merchant’s, who took us in for love of our Scottish blood. Mr.
Ernescliffe made a will there, and left it in his charge.”

“Do you think he made Dr. May my guardian?”

“He asked me whether I thought he would dislike it, and I told him, no.”

“That’s right!” cried Hector. “That’s like dear old Alan! I shall
get back to the doctor and Margaret after all. Mind you write to the
captain, Harry!”

Hector was quite inspirited and ready to return to the others, but Harry
paused to express a hope that he did not let Tom make such a fool of
himself as he had done to-day.

“Not he,” said Hector. “He is liked as much as any one in the house--he
has been five times sent up for good. See there in the Eton list! He is
a real clever fellow.”

“Ay, but what’s the good of all that, if you let him be a puppy?”

“Oh, he’ll be cured. A fellow that has been a sloven always is a puppy
for a bit,” said Hector philosophically.

Norman was meantime taking Tom to task for these same airs, and, hearing
it was from the desire to see his brother respectable--Stoneborough men
never cared for what they looked like, and he must have Harry do himself
credit.

“You need not fear,” said Norman. “He did not require Eton to make him a
gentleman. How now? Why, Tom, old man, you are not taking that to heart?
That’s all over long ago.”

For that black spot in his life had never passed out of the lad’s
memory, and it might be from the lurking want of self-respect that there
was about him so much of self-assertion, in attention to trifles. He
was very reserved, and no one except Norman had ever found the way to
anything like confidence, and Norman had vexed him by the proposal he
had made in the holidays.

He made no answer, but stood looking at Norman with an odd undecided
gaze.

“Well, what now, old fellow?” said Norman, half fearing “that” might not
be absolutely over. “One would think you were not glad to see Harry.”

“I suppose he has made you all the more set upon that mad notion of
yours,” said Tom.

“So far as making me feel that that part of the world has a strong claim
on us,” replied Norman.

“I’m sure you don’t look as if you found your pleasure in it,” cried
Tom.

“Pleasure is not what I seek,” said Norman.

“What is the matter with you?” said Tom. “You said I did not seem
rejoiced--you look worse, I am sure.” Tom put his arm on Norman’s
shoulder, and looked solicitously at him--demonstrations of affection
very rare with him.

“I wonder which would really make you happiest, to have your own way,
and go to these black villains--”

“Remember, that but for others who have done so, Harry--”

“Pshaw,” said Tom, rubbing some invisible dust from his coat sleeve. “If
it would keep you at home, I would say I never would hear of doctoring.”

“I thought you had said so.”

“What’s the use of my coming here, if I’m to be a country doctor?”

“I have told you I do not mean to victimise you. If you have a distaste
to it, there’s an end of it--I am quite ready.”

Tom gave a great sigh. “No,” he said, “if I must, I must; I don’t mind
the part of it that you do. I only hate the name of it, and the being
tied down to a country place like that, while you go out thousands of
miles off to these savages; but if it is the only thing to content you,
I wont stand in your way. I can’t bear your looking disconsolate.”

“Don’t think yourself bound, if you really dislike the profession.”

“I don’t,” said Tom. “It is my free choice. If it were not for horrid
sick people, I should like it.”

Promising! it must be confessed!

Perhaps Tom had expected Norman to brighten at once, but it was a
fallacious hope. The gaining his point involved no pleasant prospect,
and his young brother’s moody devotion to him suggested scruples whether
he ought to exact the sacrifice, though, in his own mind, convinced
that it was Tom’s vocation; and knowing that would give him many of the
advantages of an eldest son.

Eton fully justified Hector’s declaration that it would not regard the
cut of Harry’s coat. The hero of a lost ship and savage isle was the
object of universal admiration and curiosity, and inestimable were the
favours conferred by Hector and Tom in giving introductions to him, till
he had shaken hands with half the school, and departed amid deafening
cheers.

In spite of Harry, the day had been long and heavy to Norman, and though
he chid himself for his depression, he shrank from the sight of Meta and
Sir Henry Walkinghame together, and was ready to plead an aching head as
an excuse for not appearing at the evening party; but, besides that this
might attract notice, he thought himself bound to take care of Harry in
so new a world, where the boy must be at a great loss.

“I say, old June,” cried a voice at his door, “are you ready?”

“I have not begun dressing yet. Will you wait?”

“Not I. The fun is beginning.”

Norman heard the light foot scampering downstairs, and prepared to
follow, to assume the protection of him.

Music sounded as Norman left his room, and he turned aside to avoid the
stream of company flowing up the flower-decked stairs, and made his way
into the rooms through Flora’s boudoir. He was almost dazzled by the
bright lights, and the gay murmurs of the brilliant throng. Young ladies
with flowers and velvet streamers down their backs, old ladies portly
and bejewelled, gentlemen looking civil, abounded wherever he turned his
eyes. He could see Flora’s graceful head bending as she received guest
after guest, and the smile with which she answered congratulations on
her brother’s return; but Harry he did not so quickly perceive, and he
was trying to discover in what corner he might have hidden himself, when
Meta stood beside him, asking whether their Eton journey had prospered,
and how poor Hector was feeling at Harry’s return.

“Where is Harry?” asked Norman. “Is he not rather out of his element?”

“No, indeed,” said Meta, smiling. “Why, he is the lion of the night!”

“Poor fellow, how he must hate it!”

“Come this way, into the front room. There, look at him--is it not nice
to see him, so perfectly simple and at his ease, neither shy nor elated?
And what a fine-looking fellow he is!”

Meta might well say so. The trim, well-knit, broad-chested form, the
rosy embrowned honest face, the shining light-brown curly locks, the
dancing well-opened blue eyes, and merry hearty smile showed to the best
advantage, in array that even Tom would not have spurned, put on with
naval neatness; and his attitude and manner were so full of manly ease,
that it was no wonder that every eye rested on him with pleasure. Norman
smiled at his own mistake, and asked who were the lady and gentleman
conversing with him. Meta mentioned one of the most distinguished of
English names, and shared his amusement in seeing Harry talking to
them with the same frank unembarrassed ease as when he had that morning
shaken hands with their son, in the capacity of Hector Ernescliffe’s
fag. No one present inspired him with a tithe of the awe he felt for a
post-captain--it was simply a pleasant assembly of good-natured folks,
glad to welcome home a battered sailor, and of pretty girls, for whom he
had a sailor’s admiration, but without forwardness or presumption--all
in happy grateful simplicity.

“I suppose you cannot dance?” said Flora to him.

“I!” was Harry’s interjection; and while she was looking round for a
partner to whom to present him, he had turned to the young daughter of
his new acquaintance, and had her on his arm, unconscious that George
had been making his way to her.

Flora was somewhat uneasy, but the mother was looking on smiling, and
expressed her delight in the young midshipman; and Mrs. Rivers, while
listening gladly to his praises, watched heedfully, and was reassured
to see that dancing was as natural to him as everything else; his steps
were light as a feather, his movement all freedom and joy, without being
boisterous, and his boyish chivalry as pretty a sight as any one could
wish to see.

If the rest of the world enjoyed their dances a quarter as much as did
“Mr. May,” they were enviable people, and he contributed not a little
to their pleasure, if merely by the sight of his blithe freshness and
spirited simplicity, as well as the general sympathy with his sister’s
joy, and the interest in his adventures. He would have been a general
favourite, if he had been far less personally engaging; as it was, every
young lady was in raptures at dancing with him, and he did his best to
dance with them all; and to try to stir up Norman, who, after Meta
had been obliged to leave him, and go to act her share of the part of
hostess, had disposed of himself against a wall, where he might live out
the night.

“Ha! June! what makes you stand sentry there? Come and dance, and have
some of the fun! Some of these girls are the nicest partners in the
world. There’s that Lady Alice, something with the dangling things
in her hair, sitting down now--famous at a polka. Come along, I’ll
introduce you. It will do you good.”

“I know nothing of dancing,” said Norman, beginning to apprehend that he
might be dragged off, as often he had been to cricket or football, and
by much the same means.

“Comes by nature, when you hear the music. Ha! what a delicious polka!
Come along, or I must be off! She will be waiting for me, and she is the
second prettiest girl here! Come!”

“I have been trying to make something of him, Harry,” said the
ubiquitous Flora, “but I don’t know whether it is mauvaise honte, or
headache.”

“I see! Poor old June!” cried Harry. “I’ll get you an ice at once, old
fellow! Nothing like one for setting a man going!”

Before Norman could protest, Harry had flown off.

“Flora,” asked Norman, “is--are the Walkinghames here?”

“Yes. Don’t you see Sir Henry. That fine-looking man with the black
moustache. I want you to know him. He is a great admirer of your prize
poem and of Dr. Spencer.”

Harry returning, administered his ice, and then darted off to excuse
himself to his partner, by explanations about his brother, whom
everybody must have heard of, as he was the cleverest fellow living, and
had written the best prize poem ever heard at Oxford. He firmly believed
Norman a much greater lion than himself.

Norman was forced to leave his friendly corner to dispose of the glass
of his ice, and thus encountered Miss Rivers, of whom Sir Henry was
asking questions about a beautiful collection of cameos, which Flora had
laid out as a company trap.

“Here is Norman May,” said Meta; “he knows them better than I do. Do you
remember which of these is the head of Diana, Norman?”

Having set the two gentlemen to discuss them, she glided away on fresh
hospitable duties, while Norman repeated the comments that he had so
enjoyed hearing from poor Mr. Rivers, hoping he was, at least, sparing
Meta some pain, and wondering that Flora should have risked hurting her
feelings by exposing these treasures to the general gaze.

If Norman were wearied by Sir Henry, it was his own fault, for the
baronet was a very agreeable person, who thought a first-class man worth
cultivation, so that the last half-hour might have compensated for all
the rest, if conversation were always the test.

“Why, Meta,” cried Harry, coming up to her, “you have not once danced!
We are a sort of brother and sister, to be sure, but that is no
hindrance, is it?”

“No,” said Meta, smiling, “thank you, Harry, but you must find some one
more worthy. I do not dance this season; at least, not in public. When
we get home, who knows what we may do?”

“You don’t dance! Poor little Meta! And you don’t go out! What a pity!”

“I had rather not work quite so hard,” said Meta. “Think what good
fortune I had by staying at home last night!”

“I declare!” exclaimed Harry, bewitched by the beaming congratulation
of her look, “I can’t imagine why Norman had said you had turned into a
fine lady! I can’t see a bit of it!”

“Norman said I had turned into a fine lady!” repeated Meta. “Why?”

“Never mind! I don’t think so; you are just like papa’s humming-bird, as
you always were, not a bit more of a fine lady than any girl here, and I
am sure papa would say so. Only old June had got a bad headache, and is
in one of his old dumps, such as I hoped he had left off. But he can’t
help it, poor fellow, and he will come out of it, by and by--so never
mind. Hallo! why people are going away already. There’s that girl
without any one to hand her downstairs.”

Away ran Harry, and presently the brothers and sisters gathered round
the fire--George declaring that he was glad that nuisance was so well
over, and Harry exclaiming, “Well done, Flora! It was capital fun! I
never saw a lot of prettier or more good-natured people in my life. If
I am at home for the Stoneborough ball, I wonder whether my father will
let me go to it.”

This result of Harry’s successful debut in high life struck his sister
and Norman as so absurd that both laughed.

“What’s the matter now?” asked Harry.

“Your comparing Flora’s party to a Stoneborough ball,” said Norman.

“It is all the same, isn’t it?” said Harry. “I’m sure you are equally
disgusted at both!”

“Much you know about it,” said Flora, patting him gaily. “I’m not going
to put conceit in that lion head of yours, but you were as good as an
Indian prince to my party. Do you know to whom you have been talking so
coolly?”

“Of course. You see, Norman, it is just as I told you. All civilised
people are just alike when they get into a drawing-room.”

“Harry takes large views of the Genus homo,” Norman exerted himself to
say. “Being used to the black and brown species, he takes little heed of
the lesser varieties.”

“It is enough for him that he does not furnish the entertainment in
another way,” said Flora. “But, good-night. Meta, you look tired.”




CHAPTER XIX.



    Let none, henceforward, shrink from daring dreams,
    For earnest hearts shall find their dreams fulfilled.--FOUQUE.


“I have it!” began Harry, as he came down to breakfast. “I don’t
know how I came to forget it. The will was to be sent home to Mr.
Mackintosh’s English partner. I’ll go and overhaul him this very
morning. They won’t mind my coming by a later train, when there is such
a reason.”

“What is his name? Where shall you find him?” asked Flora.

“I can’t be sure; but you’ve a navy list of that sort of cattle, have
not you, Flora? I’ll hunt him up.”

Flora supposed he meant a directory; and all possible South American
merchants having been overlooked, and the Mackintoshes selected, he next
required a chart of London, and wanted to attempt self-navigation, but
was forced to accept of George’s brougham and escort; Flora would not
trust him otherwise; and Norman was obliged to go to Oxford at once,
hurrying off to his train before breakfast was over.

Flora might have trusted Harry alone. George contributed no more than
the dignity of his presence; and, indeed, would have resigned the
pursuit at the first blunder about the firm; and still more when the
right one had been found, but the partner proved crusty, and would not
believe that any such document was in his hands. George was consenting
to let it rest till Mr. Mackintosh could be written to; but Harry,
outrunning his management, and regardless of rebuffs, fairly teased the
old gentleman into a search, as the only means of getting rid of the
troublesome sailor.

In the midst of George’s civil regrets at the fruitless trouble they
were causing, forth came a bundle of papers, and forth from the bundle
fell a packet, on which Harry pounced as he read, “Will of Alan Halliday
Ernescliffe, Esquire, of Maplewood, Yorkshire, Lieutenant in H. M.
S. Alcestis,” and, in the corner, the executors’ names, Captain John
Gordon, of H. M. S. Alcestis; and Richard May, Esquire, M. D., Market
Stoneborough.

As if in revenge, the prudent merchant would not be induced to entrust
him with the document, saying he could not give it up till he had heard
from the executors, and had been certified of the death of the testator.
He withstood both the angry gentlemen, who finally departed in a state
of great resentment--Harry declaring that the old land-lubber would
not believe that he was his own father’s son; and Mr. Rivers, no less
incensed, that the House of Commons had been insulted in his person,
because he did not carry all before him.

Flora laughed at their story, and told them that she suspected that the
old gentleman was in the right; and she laid plans for having Harry to
teach them yachting at Ryde, while Harry declared he would have nothing
to do with such trumpery.

Harry found his home in a sort of agony of expectation, for his
non-arrival at the time expected had made his first appearance seem like
an unsubstantial illusion, though Dr. May, or Mary and Aubrey, had been
at the station at the coming in of each train. Margaret had recovered
the effects of the first shock, and the welcome was far more joyous than
the first had been, with the mixed sensations that were now composed,
and showed little, outwardly, but gladness.

Dr. May took Flora’s view of the case, and declared that, if Harry
had brought home the will, he should not have opened it without his
co-executor. So he wrote to the captain, while Harry made the most of
his time in learning his sisters over again. He spent a short time alone
with Margaret every morning, patiently and gently allowing himself to
be recalled to the sad recollections that were all the world to her.
He kept Ethel and Mary merry with his droll desultory comments; he made
Blanche keep up her dancing; and taught Gertrude to be a thorough little
romp. As to Dr. May, his patients never were so well or so cheerful,
till Dr. Spencer and Ethel suspected that the very sight of his looks
brightened them--how could they help it? Dr. Spencer was as happy as a
king in seeing his friend freed from the heavy weight on his spirits;
and, truly, it was goodly to watch his perfect look of content, as he
leaned on his lion-faced boy’s arm, and walked down to the minster,
whither it seemed to have become possible to go on most evenings. Good
Dr. May was no musician, but Mr. Wilmot could not regret certain tones
that now and then burst out in the chanting, from the very bottom of a
heart that assuredly sang with the full melody of thankfulness, whatever
the voice might do.

Captain Gordon not only wrote but came to Stoneborough, whence Harry was
to go with him to the court-martial at Portsmouth.

The girls wondered that, after writing with so much warmth and
affection, both of and to Harry, he met him without any demonstration of
feeling; and his short peremptory manner removed all surprise that poor
Hector had been so forlorn with him at Maplewood, and turned, with all
his heart, to Dr. May. They were especially impressed at the immediate
subsidence of all Harry’s noise and nonsense, as if the drawing-room had
been the quarter-deck of the Alcestis.

“And yet,” said Margaret, “Harry will not hear a single word in
dispraise of him. I do believe he loves him with all his heart.”

“I think,” said Ethel, “that in a strong character, there is an exulting
fear in looking up to a superior, in whose justice there is perfect
reliance. It is a germ of the higher feeling.”

“I believe you are right,” said Margaret; “but it is a serious thing
for a man to have so little sympathy with those below him. You see how
Hector feels it, and I now understand how it told upon Alan, and how
papa’s warmth was like a surprise to him.”

“Because Captain Gordon had to be a father to them, and that is more
than a captain. I should not wonder if there were more similarity and
fellow-feeling between him and Harry than there could be with either of
them. Harry, though he has all papa’s tenderness, is of a rougher sort
that likes to feel itself mastered. Poor Hector! I wonder if he is to be
given back to us.”

“Do you know--when--whether they will find out this morning?” said
Margaret, catching her dress nervously, as she was moving away.

“Yes, I believe so. I was not to have told you, but--”

“There is no reason that it should do me any harm,” said Margaret,
almost smiling, and looking as if she was putting a restraint on
something she wished to say. “Go down, dear Ethel--Aubrey will be
waiting for you.”

Ethel went down to the difficult task of hearing Aubrey’s lessons, while
Harry was pretending to write to Mrs. Arnott, but, in reality, teaching
Gertrude the parts of a ship, occasionally acting mast, for her to
climb.

By and by Dr. May came in. “Margaret not downstairs yet?” he said.

“She is dressed, but will not come down till the evening,” said Ethel.

“I’ll go to her. She will be pleased. Come up presently, Ethel. Or,
where’s Richard?”

“Gone out,” said Harry. “What, is it anything left to her?”

“The best, the best!” said Dr. May. “Ethel, listen--twenty thousand, to
build and endow a church for Cocksmoor!”

No need to bid Ethel listen. She gave a sort of leap in her chair, then
looked almost ready to faint.

“My dear child,” said her father, “This is your wish. I give you joy,
indeed I do!”

Ethel drew his arm round her, and leaned against him. “My wish! my
wish!” she repeated, as if questioning the drift of the words.

“I’m glad it is found!” cried Harry. “Now I know why he talked of
Cocksmoor, and seemed to rest in planning for it. You will mind the roof
is as he said.”

“You must talk to Dr. Spencer about that,” said Dr. May. “The captain
means to leave it entirely in our hands.”

“Dear Alan!” exclaimed Ethel. “My wish! Oh, yes, but how gained? Yet,
Cocksmoor with a church! I don’t know how to be glad enough, and yet--”

“You shall read the sentence,” said Dr. May. “‘In testimony of
thankfulness for mercy vouchsafed to him here--’ poor dear boy!”

“What does the captain say?” asked Harry.

“He is rather astounded, but he owns that the estate can bear it, for
old Halliday had saved a great deal, and there will be more before
Hector comes of age.”

“And Hector?”

“Yes, we get him back. I am fellow-trustee with Captain Gordon, and as
to personal guardianship, I fancy the captain found he could not make
the boy happy, and thinks you no bad specimen of our training.”

“Famous!” cried Harry. “Hector will hurrah now! Is that all?”

“Except legacies to Captain Gordon, and some Scottish relations. But
poor Margaret ought to hear it. Ethel, don’t be long in coming.”

With all Ethel’s reputation for bluntness, it was remarkable how her
force of character made her always called for whenever there was the
least dread of a scene.

She turned abruptly from Harry; and, going outside the window, tried
to realise and comprehend the tidings, but all she could have time to
discover was that Alan’s memory was dearer to her than ever, and she was
obliged to hasten upstairs.

Her father quitted the room by one door, as she entered by the other;
she believed that it was to hide his emotion, but Margaret’s fair wan
face was beaming with the sweetest of congratulating smiles.

“I thought so,” she said, as Ethel came in. “Dear Ethel, are you not
glad?”

“I think I am,” said Ethel, putting her hands to her brow.

“You think!” exclaimed Margaret, as if disappointed.

“I beg your pardon,” said Ethel, with quivering lip. “Dear Margaret, I
am glad--don’t you believe I am, but somehow, it is harder to deal with
joy than grief. It confuses one! Dear Alan--and then to have been set
on it so long--to have prayed so for it, and to have it come in this
way--by your--”

“Nay, Ethel, had he come home, it was his great wish to have done it.
He used to make projects when he was here, but he would not let me tell
you, lest he should find duties at Maplewood--whereas this would have
been his pleasure.”

“Dear Alan!” repeated Ethel. “If you are so kind, so dear as to be glad,
Margaret, I think I shall be so presently.”

Margaret almost grudged the lack of the girlish outbreak of rejoicing
which would once have forgotten everything in the ecstasy of the
fulfilled vision. It did not seem to be what Alan had intended; he had
figured to himself unmixed joy, and she wanted to see it, and something
of the wayward impatience of weakness throbbed at her heart, as Ethel
paced the room, and disappeared in her own curtained recess.

Presently she came back saying, “You are sure you are glad?”

“It would be strange if I were not,” said Margaret. “See, Ethel, here
are blessings springing up from what I used to think had served for
nothing but to bring him pain and grief. I am so thankful that he could
express his desire, and so grateful to dear Harry for bringing it to
light. How much better it is than I ever thought it could be! He has
been spared disappointment, and surely the good that he will have done
will follow him.”

“And you?” said Ethel sadly.

“I shall lie here and wait,” said Margaret. “I shall see the plans, and
hear all about it, and oh!”--her eyes lighted up--“perhaps some day, I
may hear the bell.”

Richard’s tap interrupted them. “Had he heard?”

“I have.” The deepened colour in his cheek betrayed how much he felt, as
he cast an anxious glance towards Margaret--an inquiring one on Ethel.

“She is so pleased,” was all Ethel could say.

“I thought she would be,” said Richard, approaching. “Captain Gordon
seemed quite vexed that no special token of remembrance was left to
her.”

Margaret smiled in a peculiar way. “If he only knew how glad I am there
was not.” And Ethel knew that the church was his token to Margaret, and
that any “fading frail memorial” would have lessened the force of the
signification.

Ethel could speak better to her brother than to her sister. “Oh,
Richard! Richard! Richard!” she cried, and a most unusual thing with
both, she flung her arms round his neck. “It is come at last! If it
had not been for you, this would never have been. How little likely it
seemed, that dirty day, when I talked wildly, and you checked me!”

“You had faith and perseverance,” said Richard, “or--”

“You are right,” said Margaret, as Ethel was about to disclaim. “It
was Ethel’s steadiness that brought it before Alan’s mind. If she had
yielded when we almost wished it, in the time of the distress about Mrs.
Green, I do believe that all would have died away!”

“I didn’t keep steady--I was only crazy. You and Ritchie and Mr.
Wilmot--” said Ethel, half crying; then, as if unable to stay, she
exclaimed with a sort of petulance, “And there’s Harry playing all sorts
of rigs with Aubrey! I shan’t get any more sense out of him to-day!”

And away she rushed to the wayfaring dust of her life of labour, to find
Aubrey and Daisy half-way up the tulip tree, and Harry mischievously
unwilling to help them down again, assuring her that such news deserved
a holiday, and that she was growing a worse tartar than Miss Winter. She
had better let the poor children alone, put on her bonnet, and come with
him to tell Mr. Wilmot.

Whereat Ethel was demurring, when Dr. May came forth, and declared he
should take her himself.

Poor Mr. Wilmot laboured under a great burden of gratitude, which no one
would receive from him. Dr. May and Ethel repudiated thanks almost with
terror; and, when he tried them with the captain, he found very doubtful
approval of the whole measure, so that Harry alone was a ready acceptant
of a full meed of acknowledgments for his gallant extraction of the
will.

No one was more obliged to him than Hector Ernescliffe, who wrote to
Margaret that it would be very jolly to come home again, and that he
was delighted that the captain could not hinder either that or Cocksmoor
Church. “And as to Maplewood, I shall not hate it so much, if that
happens which I hope will happen.” Of which oracular sentence, Margaret
could make nothing.

The house of May felt more at their ease when the uncongenial captain
had departed, although he carried off Harry with him. There was the
better opportunity for a tea-drinking consultation with Dr. Spencer
and Mr. Wilmot, when Margaret lay on her sofa, looking better than for
months past, and taking the keenest interest in every arrangement.

Dr. Spencer, whose bright eyes glittered at every mention of the
subject, assumed that he was to be the architect, while Dr. May was
assuring him that it was a maxim that no one unpaid could be trusted;
and when he talked of beautiful German churches with pierced spires,
declared that the building must not make too large a hole in the twenty
thousand, at the expense of future curates, because Richard was the
first.

“I’ll be prudent, Dick,” said Dr. Spencer. “Trust me not to rival the
minster.”

“We shall find work next for you there,” said Mr. Wilmot.

“Ay, we shall have May out of his family packing-box before many years
are over his head.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Dr. May; “I know what I exposed myself to in
bringing Wilmot here.”

“Yes,” said Dr. Spencer, “we shall put you in the van when we attack the
Corporation pen.”

“I shall hold by the good old cause. As if the galleries had not been
there before you were born!”

“As if poor people had a right to sit in their own church!” said Ethel.

“Sit, you may well say,” said Mr. Wilmot. “As if any one could do
otherwise, with those ingenious traps for hindering kneeling.”

“Well, well, I know the people must have room,” said Dr. May, cutting
short several further attacks which he saw impending.

“Yes, you would like to build another blue gallery, blocking up another
window, and with Richard May and Christopher Tomkins, Churchwardens, on
it, in orange-coloured letters--the Rivers’ colours. No disrespect to
your father, Miss May, but, as a general observation, it is a property
of Town Councillors to be conservative only where they ought not.”

“I brought you here to talk of building a church, not of pulling one to
pieces.”

Poor Dr. May, he knew it was inevitable and quite right, but his
affectionate heart and spirit of perpetuity, which had an association
connected with every marble cloud, green baize pew, and square-headed
panel, anticipated tortures in the general sweep, for which his
ecclesiastical taste and sense of propriety would not soon compensate.

Margaret spared his feelings by bringing the Cocksmoor subject back
again; Dr. Spencer seemed to comprehend the ardour with which she
pressed it on, as if it were very near her heart that there should be no
delay. He said he could almost promise her that the first stone should
be laid before the end of the summer, and she thanked him in her own
warm sweet way, hoping that it would be while Hector and Harry were at
home.

Harry soon returned, having gone through the court-martial with the
utmost credit, been patronised by Captain Gordon in an unheard-of
manner, asked to dine with the admiral, and promised to be quickly
afloat again. Ere many days had passed, he was appointed to one of the
finest vessels in the fleet, commanded by a captain to whom Captain
Gordon had introduced him, and who “seemed to have taken a fancy to
him,” as he said. The Bucephalus, now the object of his pride, was
refitting, and his sisters hoped to see a good deal of him before he
should again sail. Besides, Flora would be at Ryde before the end of
July.

It was singular that Ethel’s vision should have been fulfilled
simultaneously with Flora’s having obtained a position so far beyond
what could have been anticipated.

She was evidently extremely happy and valuable, much admired and
respected, and with full exercise for the energy and cleverness, which
were never more gratified than by finding scope for action. Her husband
was devotedly attached to her, and was entirely managed by her, and
though her good judgment kept her from appearing visibly in matters not
pertaining to her own sphere, she was, in fact, his understanding. She
read, listened, and thought for him, imbued him with her own views, and
composed his letters for him; ruling his affairs, both political and
private, and undeniably making him fill a position which, without her,
he would have left vacant; nor was there any doubt that he was far
happier for finding himself of consequence, and being no longer left
a charge upon his own hands. He seemed fully to suffice to her as
a companion, although she was so far superior in power; for it was,
perhaps, her nature to love best that which depended upon her, and gave
her a sense of exercising protection; as she had always loved Margaret
better than Ethel.

“Mrs. Rivers was an admirable woman.” So every one felt, and her
youthful beauty and success in the fashionable world made her qualities,
as a wife and mistress of a household, the more appreciated. She never
set aside her religious habits or principles, was an active member
of various charitable associations, and found her experience of the
Stoneborough Ladies’ Committee applicable among far greater names.
Indeed, Lady Leonora thought dear Flora Rivers’s only fault, her
over-strictness, which encouraged Meta in the same, but there were
points that Flora could not have yielded on any account, without failing
in her own eyes.

She made time for everything, and though, between business and fashion,
she seemed to undertake more than mortal could accomplish, it was all
effected, and excellently. She did, indeed, sigh over the briefness of
the time that she could bestow on her child or on home correspondence,
and declared that she should rejoice in rest; but, at the same time, her
achievements were a positive pleasure to her.

Meta, in the meantime, had been living passively on the most
affectionate terms with her brother and sister, and though often
secretly yearning after the dear old father, whose darling she had
been, and longing for power of usefulness, she took it on trust that her
present lot had been ordered for her, and was thankful, like the bird
of Dr. May’s fable, for the pleasures in her path--culling sweet morals,
and precious thoughts out of book, painting or concert, occasions for
Christian charities in each courtesy of society, and opportunities
for cheerful self-denial and submission, whenever any little wish was
thwarted.

So Norman said she had turned into a fine lady! It was a sudden and
surprising intimation, and made a change in the usually bright and
calm current of her thoughts. She was not aware that there had been any
alteration in herself, and it was a revelation that set her to examine
where she had changed--poor little thing! She was not angry, she did
not resent the charge, she took it for granted that, coming from such a
source, it must be true and reasonable--and what did it mean? Did they
think her too gay, or neglectful of old friends? What had they been
saying to Harry about her?

“Ah!” thought Meta, “I understand it. I am living a life of ease and
uselessness, and with his higher aims and nobler purposes, he shrinks
from the frivolities among which I am cast. I saw his saddened
countenance among our gaieties, and I know that to deep minds there is
heaviness in the midst of display. He withdraws from the follies that
have no charms for him, and I--ought I to be able to help being amused?
I don’t seek these things, but, perhaps, I ought to avoid them more than
I do. If I could be quite clear what is right, I should not care what
effort I made. But I was born to be one of those who have trial of
riches, and such blessed tasks are not my portion. But if he sees the
vanities creeping into my heart, I should be grateful for that warning.”

So meditated Meta, as she copied one of her own drawings of the Grange,
for her dear old governess, Mrs. Larpent, while each line and tint
recalled the comments of her fond amateur father, and the scenery
carried her home, in spite of the street sounds, and the scratching of
Flora’s pen, coursing over note-paper. Presently Sir Henry Walkinghame
called, bringing a beautiful bouquet.

“Delicious,” cried Meta. “See, Flora, it is in good time, for those
vases were sadly shabby.”

She began at once to arrange the flowers, a task that seemed what she
was born for, and the choice roses and geraniums acquired fresh grace
as she placed them in the slender glasses and classic vases; but
Flora’s discerning eyes perceived some mortification on the part of
the gentleman, and, on his departure, playfully reproached Meta for
ingratitude.

“Did we not thank him? I thought I did them all due honour, actually
using the Dresden bowl.”

“You little wretch! quite insensible to the sentiment of the thing.”

“Sentiment! One would think you had been reading about the language of
flowers!”

“Whatever there was, poor Sir Henry did not mean it for the Dresden bowl
or Bohemian glass.”

“Flora! do pray tell me whether you are in fun?”

“You ridiculous child!” said Flora, kissing her earnest forehead,
ringing the bell, and gathering up her papers, as she walked out of the
room, and gave her notes to the servant.

“What does she mean? Is it play? Oh, no, a hint would be far more like
her. But I hope it is nonsense. He is very kind and pleasant, and I
should not know what to do.”

Instances of his complaisance towards herself rose before her, so as to
excite some warmth and gratitude. Her lonely heart thrilled at the idea
of being again the best beloved, and her energetic spirit bounded at the
thought of being no longer condemned to a life of idle ease. Still it
was too new a light to her to be readily accepted, after she had looked
on him so long, merely as a familiar of the house, attentive to her,
because she fell to his share, when Flora was occupied. She liked him,
decidedly; she could possibly do more; but she was far more inclined
to dread, than to desire, any disturbance of their present terms of
intercourse.

“However,” thought she, “I must see my way. If he should have any such
thing in his head, to go on as we do now would be committing myself, and
I will not do that, unless I am sure it is right. Oh, papa, you would
settle it for me! But I will have it out with Flora. She will find out
what I cannot--how far he is a man for whom one ought to care. I do
not think Norman liked him, but then Norman has so keen a sense of
the world-touched. I suppose I am that! If any other life did but seem
appointed for me, but one cannot tell what is thwarting providential
leading, and if this be as good a man as--What would Ethel say? If I
could but talk to Dr. May! But Flora I will catch, before I see him
again, that I may know how to behave.”

Catching Flora was not the easiest thing in the world, among her
multifarious occupations; but Meta was not the damsel to lose an
opportunity for want of decision.

Flora saw what was coming, and was annoyed with herself for having given
the alarm; but, after all, it must have come some time or other, though
she had rather that Meta had been more involved first.

It should be premised that Mrs. Rivers had no notion of the degree of
attachment felt by her brother for Meta; she only knew that Lady Leonora
had a general distrust of her family, and she felt it a point of
honour to promote no dangerous meetings, and to encourage Sir Henry--a
connection who would be most valuable, both as conferring importance
upon George in the county, and as being himself related to persons of
high influence, whose interest might push on her brothers. Preferment
for Richard; promotion for Harry; nay, diplomatic appointments for
Tom, came floating before her imagination, even while she smiled at her
Alnaschar visions.

But the tone of Meta, as she drew her almost forcibly into her room,
showed her that she had given a great shock to her basket.

“Flora, if you would only give me a minute, and would tell me--”

“What?” asked Flora, not inclined to spare her blushes.

“Whether, whether you meant anything in earnest?”

“My dear little goose, did no one ever make an innocent joke in their
lives before?”

“It was very silly of me,” said Meta; “but you gave me a terrible
fright.”

“Was it so very terrible, poor little bird?” said Flora, in
commiseration. “Well then, you may safely think of him as a man tame
about the house. It was much prettier of you not to appropriate the
flowers, as any other damsel would have done.”

“Do you really and truly think--” began Meta; but, from the colour of
her cheek and the timid resolution of her tone, Flora thought it safest
not to hear the interrogation, and answered, “I know what he comes here
for--it is only as a refuge from his mother’s friend, old Lady Drummond,
who would give the world to catch him for her daughters--that’s all. Put
my nonsense out of your head, and be yourself, my sweet one.”

Flora had never gone so near an untruth, as when she led Meta to believe
this was the sole reason. But, after all, what did Flora herself know to
the contrary?

Meta recovered her ease, and Flora marked, as weeks passed on, that she
grew more accustomed to Sir Henry’s attentions. A little while, and she
would find herself so far bound by the encouragement she had given, that
she could not reject him.

“My dear,” said George, “when do you think of going down to take the
baby to the Grange? She looks dull, I think.”

“Really, I think it is hardly worth while to go down en masse,” said
Flora. “These last debates may be important, and it is a bad time to
quit one’s post. Don’t you think so?”

“As you please--the train is a great bore.”

“And we will send the baby down the last day before we go to Ryde, with
Preston and Butts to take care of her. We can’t spare him to take them
down, till we shut up the house. It is so much easier for us to go to
Portsmouth from hence.”

The lurking conviction was that one confidential talk with Ethel
would cause the humming-bird to break the toils that were being wound
invisibly round her. Ethel and her father knew nothing of the world, and
were so unreasonable in their requirements! Meta would consult them
all, and all her scruples would awaken, and perhaps Dr. Spencer might
be interrogated on Sir Henry’s life abroad, where Flora had a suspicion
that gossip had best not be raked up.

Not that she concealed anything positively known to her, or that she
was not acting just as she would have done by her own child. She found
herself happily married to one whom home notions would have rejected,
and she believed Meta would be perfectly happy with a man of decided
talent, honour, and unstained character, even though he should not come
up to her father’s or Ethel’s standard.

If Meta were to marry as they would approve, she would have far to
seek among “desirable connections.” Meantime, was not Flora acting with
exemplary judgment and self-denial?

So she wrote that she could not come home; Margaret was much
disappointed, and so was Meta, who had looked to Ethel to unravel the
tangles of her life.

“No, no, little miss,” said Flora to herself; “you don’t talk to Ethel
till your fate is irrevocable. Why, if I had listened to her, I should
be thankful to be singing at Mrs. Hoxton’s parties at this minute!
and, as for herself, look at Norman Ogilvie! No, no, after six weeks’
yachting--moonlight, sea, and sympathy--I defy her to rob Sir Henry of
his prize! And, with Meta lady of Cocksmoor, even Ethel herself must be
charmed!”




CHAPTER XX.



     We barter life for pottage, sell true bliss
     For wealth or power, for pleasure or renown;
     Thus, Esau-like, our Father’s blessing miss,
     Then wash with fruitless tears our faded crown.
                                          Christian Year.


“Papa, here is a message from Flora for you,” said Margaret, holding up
a letter; “she wants to know whom to consult about the baby.”

“Ha! what’s the matter?”

Margaret read--“Will you ask papa whom I had better call in to see the
baby. There does not seem to be anything positively amiss, but I am
not happy about her. There is a sleepiness about her which I do not
understand, and, when roused, she is fretful, and will not be amused.
There is a look in her eyes which I do not like, and I should wish to
have some advice for her. Lady Leonora recommends Mr.--, but I always
distrust people who are very much the rage, and I shall send for no one
without papa’s advice.”

“Let me see!” said Dr. May, startled, and holding out his hand for the
letter. “A look about the eyes! I shall go up and see her myself. Why
has not she brought her home?”

“It would have been far better,” said Margaret.

“Sleepy and dull! She was as lively a child when they took her away as
I ever saw. What! is there no more about her? The letter is crammed with
somebody’s fete--vote of want of confidence--debate last night. What is
she about? She fancies she knows everything, and, the fact is, she knows
no more about infants--I could see that, when the poor little thing was
a day old!”

“Do you think there is cause for fear?” said Margaret anxiously.

“I can’t tell. With a first child, one can’t guess what may be mamma’s
fancy, or what may be serious. But Flora is not too fanciful, and I must
see her for my own satisfaction. Let some one write, and say I will
come up to-morrow by the twelve o’clock train--and mind she opens the
letter.”

Dr. May kept his word, and the letter had evidently not been neglected;
for George was watching for him at the station, and thanked him so
eagerly for coming, that Dr. May feared that he was indeed needed, and
inquired anxiously.

“Flora is uneasy about her--she seems heavy, and cries when she is
disturbed,” replied George. “Flora has not left her to-day, and hardly
yesterday.”

“Have you had no advice for her?”

“Flora preferred waiting till you should come.”

Dr. May made an impatient movement, and thought the way long, till they
were set down in Park Lane. Meta came to meet them on the stairs, and
said that the baby was just the same, and Flora was in the nursery, and
thither they hastily ascended.

“Oh, papa! I am so glad you are come!” said Flora, starting up from her
low seat, beside the cradle.

Dr. May hardly paused to embrace his daughter, and she anxiously led him
to the cradle, and tried to read his expression, as his eyes fell on the
little face, somewhat puffed, but of a waxy whiteness, and the breathing
seeming to come from the lips.

“How long has she been so?” he asked, in a rapid, professional manner.

“For about two or three hours. She was very fretful before, but I did
not like to call in any one, as you were coming. Is it from her teeth?”
 said Flora, more and more alarmed by his manner. “Her complexion is
always like that--she cannot bear to be disturbed,” added she, as the
child feebly moaned, on Dr. May beginning to take her from her cradle;
but, without attending to the objection, he lifted her up, so that she
lay as quietly as before, on his arm. Flora had trusted that hope and
confidence would come with him; but, on the contrary, every lurking
misgiving began to rush wildly over her, as she watched his countenance,
while he carried his little granddaughter towards the light, studied
her intently, raised her drooping eyelids, and looked into her eyes,
scarcely eliciting another moan. Flora dared not ask a question, but
looked on with eyes open, as it were, stiffened.

“This is the effect of opium,” were Dr. May’s first words, breaking
on all with startling suddenness; but, before any one could speak, he
added, “We must try some stimulant directly;” then looking round the
room, “What have you nearest?”

“Godfrey’s Cordial, sir,” quickly suggested the nurse.

“Ay--anything to save time--she is sinking for want of the drug that
has--” He broke off to apportion the dose, and to hold the child in a
position to administer it--Flora tried to give it--the nurse tried--in
vain.

“Do not torment her further,” said the doctor, as Flora would have
renewed the trial--“it cannot be done. What have you all been doing?”
 cried he, as, looking up, his face changed from the tender compassion
with which he had been regarding his little patient, into a look of
strong indignation, and one of his sentences of hasty condemnation broke
from him, as it would not have done, had Flora been less externally
calm. “I tell you this child has been destroyed with opium!”

They all recoiled; the father turned fiercely round on the nurse, with a
violent exclamation, but Dr. May checked him. “Hush! This is no presence
for the wrath of man.” The solemn tone seemed to make George shrink
into an awestruck quiescence; he stood motionless and transfixed, as if
indeed conscious of some overwhelming presence.

Flora had come near, with an imploring gesture, to take the child in
her own arms; but Dr. May, by a look of authority, prevented it; for,
indeed, it would have been harassing and distressing the poor little
sufferer again to move her, as she lay with feeble gasps on his arm.

So they remained, for what space no one knew--not one word was uttered,
not a limb moved, and the street noises sounded far off.

Dr. May stooped his head closer to the babe’s face, and seemed listening
for a breath, as he once more touched the little wrist; he took away his
finger, he ceased to listen, he looked up.

Flora gave one cry--not loud, not sharp, but “an exceeding bitter
cry”--she would have moved forward, but reeled, and her husband’s arms
supported her as she sank into a swoon.

“Carry her to her room,” said Dr. May. “I will come;” and, when George
had borne her away, he kissed the lifeless cheek, and reverently placed
the little corpse in the cradle; but, as he rose from doing so, the
sobbing nurse exclaimed, “Oh, sir! oh, sir! indeed, I never did--”

“Never did what?” said Dr. May sternly.

“I never gave the dear baby anything to do her harm,” cried Preston
vehemently.

“You gave her this,” said Dr. May, pointing to the bottle of Godfrey’s
Cordial.

He could say no more, for her master was hurrying back into the room.
Anger was the first emotion that possessed him, and he hardly gave an
answer to Dr. May’s question about Flora. “Meta is with her! Where is
that woman? Have you given her up to the police?”

Preston shrieked and sobbed, made incoherent exclamations, and was much
disposed to cling to the doctor.

“Silence!” said Dr. May, lifting his hand, and assuming a tone and
manner that awed them both, by reminding them that death was present in
the chamber; and, taking his son-in-law out, and shutting the door, he
said, in a low voice,

“I believe this is no case for the police--have mercy on the poor
woman.”

“Mercy--I’ll have no mercy on my child’s murderer! You said she had
destroyed my child.”

“Ignorantly.”

“I don’t care for ignorance! She destroyed her--I’ll have justice,” said
George doggedly.

“You shall,” said Dr. May, laying his hand on his arm; “but it must be
investigated, and you are in no state to investigate. Go downstairs--do
not do anything till I come to you.”

His peremptory manner imposed on George, who, nevertheless, turned round
as he went, saying, with a fierce glare in his eyes, “You will not let
her escape.”

“No. Go down--be quiet.”

Dr. May returned to Preston, and had to assure her that Mr. Rivers was
not gone to call the police, before he could bring her to any degree of
coherence. She regarded him as her only friend, and soon undertook to
tell the whole truth, and he perceived that it was, indeed, the truth.
She had not known that the cordial was injurious, deeming it a panacea
against fretfulness, precious to nurses, but against which ladies always
had a prejudice, and, therefore, to be kept secret. Poor little Leonora
had been very fretful and uneasy when Flora’s many avocations had first
caused her to be set aside, and Preston had had recourse to the remedy
which, lulling her successfully, was applied with less moderation and
judgment than would have been shown by a more experienced person, till
gradually the poor child became dependent on it for every hour of rest.
When her mother, at last, became aware of her unsatisfactory condition,
and spent her time in watching her, the nurse being prevented from
continuing her drug, she was, of course, so miserable without it, that
Preston had ventured on proposing it, to which Mrs. Rivers had replied
with displeasure sufficient to prevent her from declaring how much she
had previously given. Preston was in an agony of distress for her little
charge, as well as of fear for herself, and could hardly understand what
her error had been. Dr. May soon saw that, though not highly principled,
her sorrow was sincere, and that she still wept bitterly over the
consequences of her treatment, when he told her that she had nothing to
fear from the law, and that he would protect her from Mr. Rivers.

Her confession was hardly over when Meta knocked at the door, pale and
frightened. “Oh, Dr. May, do come to poor Flora! I don’t know what to
do, and George is in such a state!”

Dr. May made a sound of sorrow and perplexity, and Meta, as she went
down before him, asked, in a low, horror-stricken whisper, “Did Preston
really--”

“Not knowingly,” said Dr. May. “It is the way many children have gone;
but I never thought--”

They had come to Flora’s dressing-room. Her bedroom door was open, and
George was pacing heavily up and down the length of both apartments,
fiercely indignant. “Well!” said he, advancing eagerly on Dr. May, “has
she confessed?”

“But Flora!” said Dr. May, instead of answering him. Flora lay on her
bed, her face hidden on her pillow, only now and then moaning.

“Flora, my poor, poor child!” said her father, bending down to raise
her, and taking her hand.

She moved away, so as to bury her face more completely; but there was
life in the movement, and he was sufficiently reassured on her situation
to be able to attend to George, who was only impatient to rush off
to take his revenge. He led him into the outer room, where Meta was
waiting, and forced upon his unwilling conviction that it was no case
for the law. The child had not been killed by any one dose, but had
rather sunk from the want of stimulus, to which she had been accustomed.
As to any pity for the woman, George would not hear of it. She was
still, in his eyes, the destroyer of his child; and, when he found the
law would afford him no vengeance, he insisted that she should be turned
out of his house at once.

“George!” called a hollow voice from the next room, and hurrying back,
they saw Flora sitting up, and, as well as trembling limbs allowed,
endeavouring to rise to her feet, while burning spots were in her
cheeks.

“George, turn me out of the house too! If Preston killed her, I did!”
 and she gave a ghastly laugh.

George threw his arms round her, and laid her on her bed again, with
many fond words, and strength which she had not power to withstand. Dr.
May, in the meantime, spoke quickly to Meta in the doorway. “She must
go. They cannot see her again; but has she any friends in London?”

“I think not.”

“Find out. She must not be sent adrift. Send her to the Grange, if
nothing better offers. You must judge.”

He felt that he could confide in Meta’s discretion and promptitude, and
returned to the parents.

“Is she gone?” said George, in a whisper, which he meant should be
unheard by his wife, who had sunk her face in her pillows again.

“Going. Meta is seeing to it.”

“And that woman gets off free!” cried George, “while my poor little
girl--” and, no longer occupied by the hope of retribution, he gave way
to an overpowering burst of grief.

His wife did not rouse herself to comfort him, but still lay motionless,
excepting for a convulsive movement that passed over her frame at each
sound from him, and her father felt her pulse bound at the same time
with corresponding violence, as if each of his deep-drawn sobs were
a mortal thrust. Going to him, Dr. May endeavoured to repress his
agitation, and lead him from the room; but he could not, at first,
prevail on him to listen or understand, still less, to quit Flora. The
attempt to force on him the perception that his uncontrolled sorrow
was injuring her, and that he ought to bear up for her sake, only did
further harm; for, when he rose up and tried to caress her, there was
the same torpid, passive resistance, the same burying her face from the
light, and the only betrayal of consciousness in the agonised throbs of
her pulse.

He became excessively distressed at being thus repelled, and, at last,
yielded to the impatient signals of Dr. May, who drew him into the next
room, and, with brief, strong, though most affectionate and pitying
words, enforced on him that Flora’s brain--nay, her life, was risked,
and that he must leave her alone to his care for the present. Meta
coming back at the same moment, Dr. May put him in her charge, with
renewed orders to impress on him how much depended on tranquillity.

Dr. May went back, with his soft, undisturbing, physician’s footfall,
and stood at the side of the bed, in such intense anxiety as those only
can endure who know how to pray, and to pray in resignation and faith.

All was still in the darkening twilight; but the distant roar of the
world surged without, and a gaslight shone flickering through the
branches of the trees, and fell on the rich dress spread on the couch,
and the ornaments on the toilet-table. There was a sense of oppression,
and of being pursued by the incongruous world, and Dr. May sighed to
silence all around, and see his poor daughter in the calm of her own
country air; but she had chosen for herself, and here she lay, stricken
down in the midst of the prosperity that she had sought.

He could hear every respiration, tightened and almost sobbing, and he
was hesitating whether to run the risk of addressing her; when, as if it
had occurred to her suddenly that she was alone and deserted, she raised
up her head with a startled movement, but, as she saw him, she again hid
her face, as if his presence were still more intolerable than solitude.

“Flora! my own, my dearest--my poor child! you should not turn from me.
Do I not carry with me the like self-reproachful conviction?”

Flora let him turn her face towards him and kiss her forehead. It was
burning, and he brought water and bathed it, now and then speaking a few
fond, low, gentle words, which, though she did not respond, evidently
had some soothing effect; for she admitted his services, still, however,
keeping her eyes closed, and her face turned towards the darkest side of
the room. When he went towards the door, she murmured, “Papa!” as if to
detain him.

“I am not going, darling. I only wanted to speak to George.”

“Don’t let him come!” said Flora.

“Not till you wish it, my dear.”

George’s step was heard; his hand was on the lock, and again Dr. May was
conscious of the sudden rush of blood through all her veins. He
quickly went forward, met him, and shut him out, persuading him, with
difficulty, to remain outside, and giving him the occupation of sending
out for an anodyne--since the best hope, at present, lay in encouraging
the torpor that had benumbed her crushed faculties.

Her father would not even venture to rouse her to be undressed; he gave
her the medicine, and let her lie still, with as little movement as
possible, standing by till her regular breathings showed that she had
sunk into a sleep; when he went into the other room and found that
George had also forgotten his sorrows in slumber on the sofa, while Meta
sat sadly presiding over the tea equipage.

She came up to meet him, her question expressed in her looks.

“Asleep,” he said; “I hope the pulses are quieter. All depends on her
wakening.”

“Poor, poor Flora!” said Meta, wiping away her tears.

“What have you done with the woman?”

“I sent her to Mrs. Larpent’s. I knew she would receive her and keep
her till she could write to her friends. Bellairs took her, but I could
hardly speak to her--”

“She did it ignorantly,” said Dr. May.

“I could never be so merciful and forbearing as you,” said Meta.

“Ah! my dear, you will never have the same cause!”

They could say no more, for George awoke, and the argument of his
exclusion had to be gone through again. He could not enter into it by
any means; and when Dr. May would have made him understand that poor
Flora could not acquit herself of neglect, and that even his affection
was too painful for her in the present state; he broke into a vehement
angry defence of her devotion to her child, treating Dr. May as if the
accusation came from him; and when the doctor and Meta had persuaded him
out of this, he next imagined that his father-in-law feared that he was
going to reproach his wife, and there was no making him comprehend more
than that, if she were not kept quiet, she might have a serious illness.

Even then he insisted on going to look at her, and Dr. May could not
prevent him from pressing his lips to her forehead. She half opened her
eyes, and murmured “good-night,” and by this he was a little comforted;
but he would hear of nothing but sitting up, and Meta would have done
the same, but for an absolute decree of the doctor.

It was a relief to Dr. May that George’s vigil soon became a sound
repose on the sofa in the dressing-room; and he was left to read and
muse uninterruptedly.

It was far past two o’clock before there was any movement; then Flora
drew a long breath, stirred, and, as her father came and drew her hand
into his, before she was well awake, she gave a long, wondering whisper,
“Oh, papa! papa!” then sitting up, and passing her hand over her eyes,
“Is it all true?”

“It is true, my own poor dear,” said Dr. May, supporting her, as she
rested against his arm, and hid her face on his shoulder, while her
breath came short, and she shivered under the renewed perception--“she
is gone to wait for you.”

“Hush! Oh, don’t! papa!” said Flora, her voice shortened by anguish.
“Oh, think why--”

“Nay, Flora, do not, do not speak as if that should exclude peace
or hope!” said Dr. May entreatingly. “Besides, it was no wilful
neglect--you had other duties--”

“You don’t know me, papa,” said Flora, drawing her hands away from him,
and tightly clenching them in one another, as thoughts far too terrible
for words swept over her.

“If I do not, the most Merciful Father does,” said Dr. May. Flora sat
for a minute or two, her hands locked together round her knees, her head
bowed down, her lips compressed. Her father was so far satisfied that
the bodily dangers he had dreaded were averted; but the agony of mind
was far more terrible, especially in one who expressed so little, and in
whom it seemed, as it were, pent up.

“Papa!” said Flora presently, with a resolution of tone as if she would
prevent resistance; “I must see her!”

“You shall, my dear,” said the doctor at once; and she seemed grateful
not to be opposed, speaking more gently, as she said, “May it be
now--while there is no daylight?”

“If you wish it,” said Dr. May.

The dawn, and a yellow waning moon, gave sufficient light for moving
about, and Flora gained her feet; but she was weak and trembling, and
needed the support of her father’s arm, though hardly conscious of
receiving it, as she mounted the same stairs, that she had so often
lightly ascended in the like doubtful morning light; for never, after
any party, had she omitted her visit to the nursery.

The door was locked, and she looked piteously at her father as her weak
push met the resistance, and he was somewhat slow in turning the key
with his left hand. The whitewashed, slightly furnished room reflected
the light, and the moonbeams showed the window-frame in pale and dim
shades on the blinds, the dewy air breathed in coolly from the park,
and there was a calm solemnity in the atmosphere--no light, no watcher
present to tend the babe. Little Leonora needed such no more; she was
with the Keeper, who shall neither slumber nor sleep.

So it thrilled across her grandfather, as he saw the little cradle
drawn into the middle of the room, and, on the coverlet, some pure white
rosebuds and lilies of the valley, gathered in the morning by Mary
and Blanche, little guessing the use that Meta would make of them ere
nightfall.

The mother sank on her knees, her hands clasped over her breast, and
rocking herself to and fro uneasily, with a low, irrepressible moaning.

“Will you not see her face?” whispered Dr. May.

“I may not touch her,” was the answer, in the hollow voice, and with the
wild eye that had before alarmed him; but trusting to the soothing power
of the mute face of the innocent, he drew back the covering.

The sight was such as he anticipated, sadly lovely, smiling and
tranquil--all oppression and suffering fled away for ever.

It stilled the sounds of pain, and the restless motion; the compression
of the hands became less tight, and he began to hope that the look was
passing into her heart. He let her kneel on without interruption, only
once he said, “Of such is the kingdom of Heaven!”

She made no immediate answer, and he had had time to doubt whether he
ought to let her continue in that exhausting attitude any longer, when
she looked up and said, “You will all be with her there.”

“She has flown on to point your aim more steadfastly,” said Dr. May.

Flora shuddered, but spoke calmly--“No, I shall not meet her.”

“My child!” he exclaimed, “do you know what you are saying?”

“I know, I am not in the way,” said Flora, still in the same fearfully
quiet, matter-of-fact tone. “I never have been”--and she bent over her
child, as if taking her leave for eternity.

His tongue almost clave to the roof of his mouth, as he heard the
words--words elicited by one of those hours of true reality that,
like death, rend aside every wilful cloak of self-deceit, and
self-approbation. He had no power to speak at first; when he recovered
it, his reply was not what his heart had, at first, prompted.

“Flora! How has this dear child been saved?” he said. “What has released
her from the guilt she inherited through you, through me, through all?
Is not the Fountain open?”

“She never wasted grace,” said Flora.

“My child! my Flora!” he exclaimed, losing the calmness he had gained
by such an effort; “you must not talk thus--it is wrong! Only your own
morbid feeling can treat this--this--as a charge against you, and if
it were, indeed”--he sank his voice--“that such consequences destroyed
hope, oh, Flora! where should I be?”

“No,” said Flora, “this is not what I meant. It is that I have never
set my heart right. I am not like you nor my sisters. I have seemed to
myself, and to you, to be trying to do right, but it was all hollow, for
the sake of praise and credit. I know it, now it is too late; and He
has let me destroy my child here, lest I should have destroyed her
everlasting life, like my own.”

The most terrible part of this sentence was to Dr. May, that Flora spoke
as if she knew it all as a certainty, and without apparent emotion, with
all the calmness of despair. What she had never guessed before had
come clearly and fully upon her now, and without apparent novelty,
or, perhaps, there had been misgivings in the midst of her complacent
self-satisfaction. She did not even seem to perceive how dreadfully
she was shocking her father, whose sole comfort was in believing her
language the effect of exaggerated self-reproach. His profession had
rendered him not new to the sight of despondency, and, dismayed as he
was, he was able at once to speak to the point.

“If it were indeed so, her removal would be the greatest blessing.”

“Yes,” said her mother, and her assent was in the same tone of resigned
despair, owning it best for her child to be spared a worldly education,
and loving her truly enough to acquiesce.

“I meant the greatest blessing to you,” continued Dr. May, “if it be
sent to open your eyes, and raise your thoughts upwards. Oh, Flora, are
not afflictions tokens of infinite love?”

She could not accept the encouragement, and only formed, with her lips,
the words, “Mercy to her--wrath to me!”

The simplicity and hearty piety which, with all Dr. May’s faults, had
always been part of his character, and had borne him, in faith and
trust, through all his trials, had never belonged to her. Where he had
been sincere, erring only from impulsiveness, she had been double-minded
and calculating; and, now that her delusion had been broken down, she
had nothing to rest upon. Her whole religious life had been mechanical,
deceiving herself more than even others, and all seemed now swept away,
except the sense of hypocrisy, and of having cut herself off, for ever,
from her innocent child. Her father saw that it was vain to argue with
her, and only said, “You will think otherwise by and by, my dear. Now
shall I say a prayer before we go down?”

As she made no reply, he repeated the Lord’s Prayer, but she did not
join; and then he added a broken, hesitating intercession for the
mourners, which caused her to bury her face deeper in her hands, but her
dull wretchedness altered not.

Rising, he said authoritatively, “Come, Flora, you must go to bed. See,
it is morning.”

“You have sat up all night with me!” said Flora, with somewhat of her
anxious, considerate self.

“So has George. He had just dropped asleep on the sofa when you awoke.”

“I thought he was in anger,” said she.

“Not with you, dearest.”

“No, I remember now, not where it was justly due. Papa,” she said,
pausing, as to recall her recollection, “what did I do? I must have done
something very unkind to make him go away and leave me.”

“I insisted on his leaving you, my dear. You seemed oppressed, and his
affectionate ways were doing you harm; so I was hardhearted, and turned
him out, sadly against his will.”

“Poor George!” said Flora, “has he been left to bear it alone all this
time? How much distressed he must have been. I must have vexed him
grievously. You don’t guess how fond he was of her. I must go to him at
once.”

“That is right, my dear.”

“Don’t praise me,” said she, as if she could not bear it. “All that is
left for me is to do what I can for him.”

Dr. May felt cheered. He was sure that hope must again rise out of
unselfish love and duty.

Their return awoke George, who started, half sitting up, wondering why
he was spending the night in so unusual a manner, and why Flora looked
so pale, in the morning light, with her loosened, drooping hair.

She went straight to him, and, kneeling by his side, said, “George,
forgive!” The same moment he had caught her to his bosom; but so
impressed was his tardy mind with the peril of talking to her, that he
held her in his arms without a single word, till Dr. May had unclosed
his lips--a sign would not suffice--he must have a sentence to assure
him; and then it was such joy to have her restored, and his fondness
and solicitude were so tender and eager in their clumsiness, that his
father-in-law was touched to the heart.

Flora was quite herself again, in presence of mind and power of dealing
with him; and Dr. May left them to each other, and went to his own room,
for such rest as sorrow, sympathy, and the wakening city, would permit
him.

When the house was astir in the morning, and the doctor had met Meta in
the breakfast-room, and held with her a sad, affectionate conversation,
George came down with a fair report of his wife, and took her father to
see her.

That night had been like an illness to her, and, though perfectly
composed, she was feeble and crushed, keeping the room darkened, and
reluctant to move or speak. Indeed, she did not seem able to give her
attention to any one’s voice, except her husband’s. When Dr. May, or
Meta, spoke to her, she would miss what they said, beg their pardon, and
ask them to repeat it; and sometimes, even then, become bewildered.
They tried reading to her, but she did not seem to listen, and her
half-closed eye had the expression of listless dejection, that her
father knew betokened that, even as last night, her heart refused to
accept promises of comfort as meant for her.

For George, however, her attention was always ready, and was perpetually
claimed. He was forlorn and at a loss without her, every moment; and,
in the sorrow which he too felt most acutely, could not have a minute’s
peace unless soothed by her presence; he was dependent on her to a
degree which amazed and almost provoked the doctor, who could not
bear to have her continually harassed and disturbed, and yet was much
affected by witnessing so much tenderness, especially in Flora, always
the cold utilitarian member of his family.

In the middle of the day she rose and dressed, because George was
unhappy at having to sit without her, though only in the next room. She
sat in the large arm-chair, turned away from the blinded windows, never
speaking nor moving, save when he came to her, to make her look at
his letters and notes, when she would, with the greatest patience and
sweetness, revise them, suggest word or sentence, rouse herself to
consider each petty detail, and then sink back into her attitude of
listless dejection. To all besides, she appeared totally indifferent;
gently courteous to Meta and to her father, when they addressed her, but
otherwise showing little consciousness whether they were in the room;
and yet, when something was passing about her father’s staying or
returning, she rose from her seat, came up to him before he was aware,
and said, “Papa! papa! you will not leave me!” in such an imploring
tone, that if he had ever thought of quitting her, he could not have
done so.

He longed to see her left to perfect tranquillity, but such could not be
in London. Though theirs was called a quiet house, the rushing stream
of traffic wearied his country ears, the door bell seemed ceaselessly
ringing, and though Meta bore the brunt of the notes and messages, great
numbers necessarily came up to Mr. Rivers, and of these Flora was not
spared one. Dr. May had his share too of messages and business, and
friends and relations, the Rivers’ kindred, always ready to take
offence with their rich connections, and who would not be satisfied with
inquiries, at the door, but must see Meta, and would have George fetched
down to them--old aunts, who wanted the whole story of the child’s
illness, and came imagining there was something to be hushed up; Lady
Leonora extremely polite, but extremely disgusted at the encounter with
them; George ready to be persuaded to take every one up to see his wife,
and the prohibition to be made by Dr. May over and over again--it was
a most tedious, wearing afternoon, and at last, when the visitors had
gone, and George had hurried back to his wife, Dr. May threw himself
into an arm-chair and said, “Oh, Meta, sorrow weighs more heavily in
town than in the country!”

“Yes!” said Meta. “If one only could go out and look at the flowers, and
take poor Flora up a nosegay!”

“I don’t think it would make much difference to her,” sighed the doctor.

“Yes, I think it would,” said Meta; “it did to me. The sights there
speak of the better sights.”

“The power to look must come from within,” said Dr. May, thinking of his
poor daughter.

“Ay,” said Meta, “as Mr. Ernescliffe said, ‘heaven is as near--!’ But
the skirts of heaven are more easily traced in our mountain view than
here, where, if I looked out of window, I should only see that giddy
string of carriages and people pursuing each other!”

“Well, we shall get her home as soon as she is able to move, and I hope
it may soothe her. What a turmoil it is! There has not been one moment
without noise in the twenty-two hours I have been here!”

“What would you say if you were in the city?”

“Ah! there’s no talking of it; but if I had been a fashionable London
physician, as my father-in-law wanted to make me, I should have been
dead long ago!”

“No, I think you would have liked it very much.”

“Why?”

“Love’s a flower that will not die,” repeated Meta, half smiling. “You
would have found so much good to do--”

“And so much misery to rend one’s heart,” said Dr. May. “But, after all,
I suppose there is only a certain capacity of feeling.”

“It is within, not without, as you said,” returned Meta.

“Ha, there’s another!” cried Dr. May, almost petulant at the sound
of the bell again, breaking into the conversation that was a great
refreshment.

“It was Sir Henry Walkinghame’s ring,” said Meta. “It is always his time
of day.”

The doctor did not like it the better.

Sir Henry sent up a message to ask whether he could see Mr. or Miss
Rivers.

“I suppose we must,” said Meta, looking at the doctor. “Lady Walkinghame
must be anxious about Flora.”

She blushed greatly, fancying that Dr. May was putting his own
construction on the heightened colour which she could not control.
Sir Henry came in, just what he ought to be, kindly anxious, but not
overwhelming, and with a ready, pleased recognition of the doctor, as an
old acquaintance of his boyhood. He did not stay many minutes; but there
was a perceptible difference between his real sympathy and friendly
regard only afraid of obtruding, and the oppressive curiosity of their
former visitors. Dr. May felt it due, both from kindness and candour, to
say something in his praise when he was gone.

“That is a sensible superior man,” he said. “He will be an acquisition
when he takes up his abode at Drydale.”

“Yes,” said Meta; a very simple yes, from which nothing could be
gathered.

The funeral was fixed for Monday, the next day but one, at the church
where Mr. Rivers had been buried. No one was invited to be present;
Ethel wrote that, much as she wished it, she could not leave Margaret,
and, as the whole party were to return home on the following day, they
should soon see Flora.

Flora had laid aside all privileges of illness after the first day; she
came downstairs to breakfast and dinner, and though looking wretchedly
ill, and speaking very low and feebly, she was as much as ever the
mistress of her house. Her father could never draw her into conversation
again on the subject nearest his heart, and could only draw the sad
conclusion that her state of mind was unchanged, from the dreary
indifference with which she allowed every word of cheer to pass by
unheeded, as if she could not bear to look beyond the grave. He had some
hope in the funeral, which she was bent on attending, and more in the
influence of Margaret, and the counsel of Richard, or of Mr. Wllmot.

The burial, however, failed to bring any peaceful comfort to the
mourning mother. Meta’s tears flowed freely, as much for her father
as for her little niece; and George’s sobs were deep and choking; but
Flora, externally, only seemed absorbed in helping him to go through
with it; she, herself, never lost her fixed, composed, hopeless look.

After her return, she went up to the nursery, and deliberately set
apart and locked up every possession of her child’s, then, coming down,
startled Meta by laying her hand on her shoulder and saying, “Meta,
dear, Preston is in the housekeeper’s room. Will you go and speak to her
for a moment, to reassure her before I come?”

“Oh, Flora!”

“I sent for her,” said Flora, in answer. “I thought it would be a good
opportunity while George is out. Will you be kind enough to prepare her,
my dear?”

Meta wondered how Flora had known whither to send, but she could not but
obey. Poor Preston was an ordinary sort of woman, kind-hearted, and not
without a conscience; but her error had arisen from the want of any high
religious principle to teach her obedience, or sincerity. Her grief was
extreme, and she had been so completely overcome by the forbearance and
consideration shown to her, that she was even more broken-hearted by the
thought of them, than by the terrible calamity she had occasioned.

Kind-hearted Mrs. Larpent had tried to console her, as well as to turn
the misfortune to the best account, and Dr. May had once seen her, and
striven gently to point out the true evil of the course she had pursued.
She was now going to her home, and they augured better of her, that
she had been as yet too utterly downcast to say one word of that first
thought with a servant, her character.

Meta found her sobbing uncontrollably at the associations of her
master’s house, and dreadfully frightened at hearing that she was to see
Mrs. Rivers; she began to entreat to the contrary with the vehemence of
a person unused to any self-government; but, in the midst, the low
calm tones were heard, and her mistress stood before her--her perfect
stillness of demeanour far more effective in repressing agitation, than
had been Meta’s coaxing attempts to soothe.

“You need not be afraid to see me, Preston,” said Flora kindly. “I am
very sorry for you--you knew no better, and I should not have left so
much to you.”

“Oh, ma’am--so kind--the dear, dear little darling--I shall never
forgive myself.”

“I know you did love her,” continued Flora. “I am sure you intended no
harm, and it was my leaving her that made her fretful.”

Preston tried to thank.

“Only remember henceforth”--and the clear tone grew fainter than ever
with internal anguish, though still steady--“remember strict obedience
and truth henceforth; the want of them will have worse results by and by
than even this. Now, Preston, I shall always wish you well. I ought not,
I believe, to recommend you to the like place, without saying why you
left me, but for any other I will give you a fair character. I will see
what I can do for you, and if you are ever in any distress, I hope you
will let me know. Have your wages been paid?”

There was a sound in the affirmative, but poor Preston could not speak.
“Good-bye, then,” and Flora took her hand and shook it. “Mind you let me
hear if you want help. Keep this.”

Meta was a little disappointed to see sovereigns instead of a book.
Flora turned to go, and put her hand out to lean on her sister as for
support; she stood still to gather strength before ascending the stairs,
and a groan of intense misery was wrung from her.

“Dearest Flora, it has been too much!”

“No,” said Flora gently.

“Poor thing, I am glad for her sake. But might she not have a book--a
Bible?”

“You may give her one, if you like. I could not.”

Flora reached her own room, went in, and bolted the door.




CHAPTER XXI.



     Oh, where dwell ye, my ain sweet bairns?
       I’m woe and weary grown!
     Oh, Lady, we live where woe never is,
       In a land to flesh unknown.--ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.


It had been with a gentle sorrow that Etheldred had expected to go and
lay in her resting-place, the little niece, who had been kept from the
evil of the world, in a manner of which she had little dreamt. Poor
Flora! she must be ennobled, she thought, by having a child where hers
is, when she is able to feel anything but the first grief; and Ethel’s
heart yearned to be trying, at least, to comfort her, and to be with her
father, who had loved his grandchild so fondly.

It was not to be. Margaret had borne so many shocks with such calmness,
that Ethel had no especial fears for her; but there are some persons who
have less fortitude for others than for themselves, and she was one of
these. Ethel had been her own companion-sister, and the baby had been
the sunbeam of her life, during the sad winter and spring.

In the middle of the night, Ethel knocked at Richard’s door. Margaret
had been seized with faintness, from which they could not bring her
back; and, even when Richard had summoned Dr. Spencer, it was long ere
his remedies took effect; but, at last, she revived enough to thank
them, and say she was glad that papa was not there.

Dr. Spencer sent them all to bed, and the rest of the night was quiet;
but Margaret could not deny, in the morning, that she felt terribly
shattered, and she was depressed in spirits to a degree such as they
had never seen in her before. Her whole heart was with Flora; she was
unhappy at being at a distance from her, almost fretfully impatient for
letters, and insisting vehemently on Ethel’s going to London.

Ethel had never felt so helpless and desolate, as with Margaret thus
changed and broken, and her father absent.

“My dear,” said Dr. Spencer, “nothing can be better for both parties
than that he should be away. If he were here, he ought to leave all
attendance to me, and she would suffer from the sight of his distress.”

“I cannot think what he will do or feel!” sighed Ethel.

“Leave it to me. I will write to him, and we shall see her better before
post time.”

“You will tell him exactly how it was, or I shall,” said Ethel abruptly,
not to say fiercely.

“Ho! you don’t trust me?” said Dr. Spencer, smiling, so that she was
ashamed of her speech. “You shall speak for yourself, and I for myself;
and I shall say that nothing would so much hurt her as to have others
sacrificed to her.”

“That is true,” said Ethel; “but she misses papa.”

“Of course she does; but, depend on it, she would not have him leave
your sister, and she is under less restraint without him.”

“I never saw her like this!”

“The drop has made it overflow. She has repressed more than was good
for her, and now that her guard is broken down, she gives way under the
whole weight.”

“Poor Margaret! I am pertinacious; but, if she is not better by post
time, papa will not bear to be away.”

“I’ll tell you what I think of her by that time. Send up your brother
Richard, if you wish to do her good. Richard would be a much better
person to write than yourself. I perceive that he is the reasonable
member of the family.”

“Did not you know that before?”

“All I knew of him, till last night, was, that no one could, by any
possibility, call him Dick.”

Dr. Spencer was glad to have dismissed Ethel smiling; and she was the
better able to bear with poor Margaret’s condition of petulance. She had
never before experienced the effects of bodily ailments on the temper,
and she was slow to understand the change in one usually so patient and
submissive. She was, by turns, displeased with her sister and with her
own abruptness; but, though she knew it not, her bluntness had a bracing
effect. She thought she had been cross in declaring it was nonsense to
harp on her going to London; but it made Margaret feel that she had been
unreasonable, and keep silence.

Richard managed her much better, being gentle and firm, and less ready
to speak than Ethel, and he succeeded in composing her into a sleep,
which restored her balance, and so relieved Ethel, that she not only
allowed Dr. Spencer to say what he pleased, but herself made light of
the whole attack, little knowing how perilous was any shock to that
delicate frame.

Margaret’s whole purpose was to wind herself up for the first interview
with Flora; and though she had returned to her usual state, she would
not go downstairs on the evening the party were expected, believing
it would be more grateful to her sister’s feelings to meet her without
witnesses.

The travellers arrived, and Dr. May hurried up to her. She barely
replied to his caresses and inquiries in her eagerness to hear of Flora,
and to convince him that he must not forbid the meeting. Nor had he any
mind so to do. “Surely,” said he, when he had seen the spiritualised
look of her glistening blue eyes, the flush on her transparent cheeks,
and her hands clasped over her breast--“surely poor Flora must feel as
though an angel were waiting to comfort her.”

Flora came, but there was sore disappointment. Fond and tender she
was as ever, but, neither by word or gesture, would she admit the most
remote allusion to her grief. She withdrew her hand when Margaret’s
pressure became expressive; she avoided her eye, and spoke incessantly
of different subjects. All the time, her voice was low and hollow, her
face had a settled expression of wretchedness, and her glances wandered
drearily and restlessly anywhere but to Margaret’s face; but her
steadiness of manner was beyond her sister’s power to break, and her
visit was shortened on account of her husband. Poor George had quite
given way at the sight of Gertrude, whom his little girl had been
thought to resemble; and, though Dr. May had soothed him almost like
a child, no one put any trust in his self-control, and all sat round,
fearing each word or look, till Flora came downstairs, and they
departed.

Richard and Ethel each offered to go with them; they could not bear to
think of their spending that first evening in their childless home; but
Flora gently, but decidedly, refused; and Dr. May said that, much as he
wished to be with them, he believed that Flora preferred having no one
but Meta. “I hope I have done Margaret no harm,” were Flora’s last words
to him, and they seemed to explain her guarded manner; but he found
Margaret weeping as she had never wept for herself, and palpitation and
faintness were the consequence.

Ethel looked on at Flora as a sad and perplexing mystery during the
weeks that ensued. There were few opportunities of being alone together,
and Flora shrank from such as they were--nay, she checked all expression
of solicitude, and made her very kisses rapid and formal.

The sorrow that had fallen on the Grange seemed to have changed none of
the usual habits there--visiting, riding, driving, dinners, and music,
went on with little check. Flora was sure to be found the animated,
attentive lady of the house, or else sharing her husband’s pursuits,
helping him with his business, or assisting him in seeking pleasure,
spending whole afternoons at the coachmaker’s over a carriage that they
were building, and, it was reported, playing ecarte in the evening.

Had grief come to be forgotten and cast aside without effecting any
mission? Yet Ethel could not believe that the presence of the awful
messenger was unfelt, when she heard poor George’s heavy sigh, or when
she looked at Flora’s countenance, and heard the peculiar low, subdued
tone of her voice, which, when her words were most cheerful, always
seemed to Ethel the resigned accent of despair.

Ethel could not talk her over with Margaret, for all seemed to make it
a point that Margaret should believe the best. Dr. May turned from the
subject with a sort of shuddering grief, and said, “Don’t talk of her,
poor child--only pray for her!”

Ethel, though shocked by the unwonted manner of his answer, was somewhat
consoled by perceiving that a double measure of tenderness had sprung
up between her father and his poor daughter. If Flora had seemed, in her
girlhood, to rate him almost cheaply, this was at an end now; she met
him as if his embrace were peace, the gloom was lightened, the attention
less strained, when he was beside her, and she could not part with him
without pressing for a speedy meeting. Yet she treated him with the same
reserve; since that one ghastly revelation of the secrets of her heart,
the veil had been closely drawn, and he could not guess whether it had
been but a horrible thought, or were still an abiding impression. Ethel
could gather no more than that her father was very unhappy about Flora,
and that Richard understood why; for Richard had told her that he had
written to Flora, to try to persuade her to cease from this reserve, but
that he had no reply.

Norman was not at home; he had undertaken the tutorship of two
schoolboys for the holidays; and his father owned, with a sigh, that he
was doing wisely.

As to Meta, she was Ethel’s chief consolation, by the redoubled
assurances, directed to Ethel’s unexpressed dread, lest Flora should be
rejecting the chastening Hand. Meta had the most absolute certainty that
Flora’s apparent cheerfulness was all for George’s sake, and that it was
a most painful exertion. “If Ethel could only see how she let herself
sink together, as it were, and her whole countenance relax, as soon as
he was out of sight,” Meta said, “she could not doubt what misery these
efforts were to her.”

“Why does she go on with them?” said Ethel.

“George,” said Meta. “What would become of him without her? If he misses
her for ten minutes he roams about lost, and he cannot enjoy anything
without her. I cannot think how he can help seeing what hard work it is,
and how he can be contented with those dreadful sham smiles; but as long
as she can give him pleasure, poor Flora will toil for him.”

“It is very selfish,” Ethel caught herself saying.

“No, no, it is not,” cried Meta. “It is not that he will not see, but
that he cannot see. Good honest fellow, he really thinks it does her
good and pleases her. I was so sorry one evening when I tried to take
her place at that perpetual ecarte, and told him it teased her; he went
so wistfully to her, and asked whether it did, and she exerted herself
into such painful enjoyment to persuade him to the contrary; and
afterwards she said to me, ‘Let me alone, dearest--it is the only thing
left me.’”

“There is something in being husband and wife that one cannot
understand,” slowly said Ethel, so much in her quaint way that Meta
laughed.

Had it not been for Norman’s absence, Ethel would, in the warm sympathy
and accustomed manner of Meta Rivers, have forgotten all about the hopes
and fears that, in brighter days, had centred on that small personage;
until one day, as she came home from Cocksmoor, she found “Sir Henry
Walkinghame’s” card on the drawing-room table. “I should like to bite
you! Coming here, are you?” was her amiable reflection.

Meta, in her riding-habit, peeped out of Margaret’s room. “Oh, Ethel,
there you are! It is such a boon that you did not come home sooner, or
we should have had to ride home with him! I heard him asking for the
Miss Mays! And now I am in hopes that he will go home without falling in
with Flora and George.”

“I did not know he was in these parts.”

“He came to Drydale last week, but the place is forlorn, and George gave
him a general invitation to the Grange.”

“Do you like him?” said Ethel, while Margaret looked on, amazed at her
audacity.

“I liked him very much in London,” said Meta; “he is pleasant enough to
talk to, but somehow, he is not congruous here--if you understand me.
And I think his coming oppresses Flora--she turned quite pale when he
was announced, and her voice was lower than ever when she spoke to him.”

“Does he come often?” said Ethel.

“I don’t think he has anything else to do,” returned Meta, “for our
house cannot be as pleasant as it was; but he is very kind to George,
and for that we must be grateful. One thing I am afraid of, that he will
persuade us off to the yachting after all.”

“Oh!” was the general exclamation.

“Yes,” said Meta. “George seemed to like the plan, and I very much fear
that he is taking a dislike to the dear old Grange. I heard him say,
‘Anything to get away.’”

“Poor George, I know he is restless,” said Margaret.

“At least,” said Ethel, “you can’t go till after your birthday, Miss
Heiress.”

“No, Uncle Cosham is coming,” said Meta. “Margaret, you must have your
stone laid before we go!”

“Dr. Spencer promises it before Hector’s holidays are over,” said
Margaret, blushing, as she always did, with pleasure, when they talked
of the church.

Hector Ernescliffe had revived Margaret wonderfully. She was seldom
downstairs before the evening, and Ethel thought his habit of making her
apartment his sitting-room must be as inconvenient to her as it was
to herself; but Hector could not be de trop for Margaret. She exerted
herself to fulfil for him all the little sisterly offices that, with her
brothers, had been transferred to Ethel and Mary; she threw herself into
all his schemes, tried to make him endure Captain Gordon, and she
even read his favourite book of Wild Sports, though her feelings were
constantly lacerated by the miseries of the slaughtered animals.
Her couch was to him as a home, and he had awakened her bright soft
liveliness which had been only dimmed for a time.

The church was her other great interest, and Dr. Spencer humoured her
by showing her all his drawings, consulting her on every ornament,
and making many a perspective elevation, merely that she might see the
effect.

Richard and Tom made it their recreation to construct a model of the
church as a present for her, and Tom developed a genius for carving,
which proved a beneficial interest to keep him from surliness. He had
voluntarily propounded his intended profession to his father, who had
been so much pleased by his choice, that he could not but be gratified;
though now and then ambitious fancies, and discontent with Stoneborough,
combined to bring on his ordinary moody fits, the more, because his
habitual reserve prevented any one from knowing what was working in his
mind.

Finally the Rivers’ party announced their intention of going to the Isle
of Wight as soon as Meta had come of age; and the council of Cocksmoor,
meeting at tea at Dr. May’s house, decided that the foundation stone
of the church should be laid on the day after her birthday, when there
would be a gathering of the whole family, as Margaret wished. Dr.
Spencer had worked incredibly hard to bring it forward, and Margaret’s
sweet smiles, and liquid eyes, expressed how personally thankful she
felt.

“What a blessing this church has been to that poor girl,” said Dr.
Spencer, as he left the house with Mr. Wilmot. “How it beguiles her out
of her grief! I am glad she has the pleasure of the foundation; I doubt
if she will see the consecration.”

“Indeed!” said Mr. Wilmot, shocked. “Was that attack so serious?”

“That recumbent position and want of exercise were certain to produce
organic disease, and suspense and sorrow have hastened it. The death of
Mrs. Rivers’s poor child was the blow that called it into activity, and,
if it last more than a year, I shall be surprised.”

“For such as she is, one cannot presume to wish, but her father--is he
aware of this?”

“He knows there is extensive damage; I think he does not open his eyes
to the result, but he will bear it. Never was there a man to whom it
came so naturally to live like the fowls of the air, or the lilies of
the field, as it does to dear Dick May,” said Dr. Spencer, his voice
faltering.

“There is a strength of faith and love in him that carries him
through all,” said Mr. Wilmot. “His childlike nature seems to have the
trustfulness that is, in itself, consolation. You said how Cocksmoor had
been blessed to Margaret--I think it is the same with them all--not only
Ethel and Richard, who have been immediately concerned; but that one
object has been a centre and aim to elevate the whole family, and give
force and unity to their efforts. Even the good doctor, much as I
always looked up to him--much good as he did me in my young days--I must
confess that he was sometimes very provoking.”

“If you had tried to be his keeper at Cambridge, you might say so!”
 rejoined Dr. Spencer.

“He is so much less impetuous--more consistent--less desultory; I dare
say you understand me,” said Mr. Wilmot. “His good qualities do not
entangle one another as they used to do.”

“Exactly so. He was far more than I looked for when I came home, though
I might have guessed that such a disposition, backed by such principles
and such--could not but shake off all the dross.”

“One thing was,” said Mr. Wilmot, smiling, “that a man must take himself
in hand at some time in his life, and Dr. May only began to think
himself responsible for himself when he lost his wife, who was wise for
both. She was an admirable person, but not easy to know well. I think
you knew her at--”

“I say,” interrupted Dr. Spencer, “it strikes me that we could not do
better than get up our S. P. G. demonstration on the day of the stone--”

Hitherto the Stoneborough subscribers to the Society for the Propagation
of the Gospel had been few and far between; but, under the new dynasty,
there was a talk of forming an association, and having a meeting to
bring the subject forward. Dr. Spencer’s proposal, however, took the
vicar by surprise.

“Never could there be a better time,” he argued. “You have naturally
a gathering of clergy--people ought to be liberal on such an occasion,
and, as Cocksmoor is provided for, why not give the benefit to the
missions, in their crying need!”

“True, but there is no time to send for any one to make a speech.”

“Husband your resources. What could you have better than young Harry and
his islanders?”

“Harry would never make a speech.”

“Let him cram Norman. Young Lake tells me Norman made a great sensation
at the Union at Oxford, and if his heart is in the work, he must not
shrink from the face of his townsmen.”

“No doubt he had rather they were savages,” said the vicar. “And
yourself--you will tell them of the Indian missions.”

“With all my heart,” said Dr. Spencer. “When my Brahminhee godson--the
deacon I told you of, comes to pay me his promised visit, what doings we
shall have! Seriously, I have just had letters from him and from others,
that speak of such need, that I could feel every moment wasted that is
not spent on their behalf.”

Mr. Wilmot was drawn into Dr. Spencer’s house, and heard the letters,
till his heart burned within him.

The meeting was at once decided upon, though Ethel could not see why
people could not give without speechifying, and her two younger brothers
declared it was humbug--Tom saying, he wished all blackamoors were out
of creation, and Harry, that he could not stand palaver about his friend
David. Dr. May threatened him with being displayed on the platform as a
living instance of the effects of missions, at which he took alarm, and
so seriously declared that he should join the Bucephalus at once, that
they pacified him by promising that he should do as he pleased.

The archdeacon promised a sermon, and the active Dr Spencer worked the
nine muses and all the rest of the town and neighbourhood into a state
of great enthusiasm and expectation. He went to the Grange, as he said,
to collect his artillery; primed Flora that she might prime the M. P.;
made the willing Meta promise to entrap the uncle, who was noted for
philanthropical speeches; and himself captured Sir Henry Walkinghame,
who looked somewhat rueful at what he found incumbent on him as a
country gentleman, though there might be some compensation in the
eagerness of Miss Rivers.

Norman had hardly set foot in Stoneborough before he was told what was
in store for him, and, to the general surprise, submitted as if it were
a very simple matter. As Dr. Spencer told him, it was only a foretaste
of the penalty which every missionary has to pay for coming to England.
Norman was altogether looking much better than when he had been last at
home, and his spirits were more even. He had turned his whole soul to
the career he had chosen, cast his disappointment behind him, or, more
truly, made it his offering, and gathered strength and calmness, with
which to set out on tasks of working for others, with thoughts too much
absorbed on them, to give way to the propensity of making himself the
primary object of study and contemplation. The praise of God, and love
of man, were the best cures for tendencies like his, and he had found it
out. His calm, though grave cheerfulness, came as a refreshment to those
who had been uneasy about him, and mournfully watching poor Flora.

“Yes,” said Dr. Spencer, “you have taken the best course for your own
happiness.”

Norman coloured, as if he understood more than met the ear. Mary and
Blanche were very busy preparing presents for Meta Rivers, and every one
was anxious to soften to her the thought of this first birthday without
her father. Each of the family contributed some pretty little trifle,
choice in workmanship or kind in device, and each was sealed and marked
with the initials of the giver, and packed up by Mary, to be committed
to Flora’s charge. Blanche had, however, much trouble in extracting a
gift from Norman, and he only yielded at last, on finding that all his
brothers had sent something, so that his omission would be marked. Then
he dived into the recesses of his desk, and himself sealed up a little
parcel, of which he would not allow his sisters to inspect the contents.

Ethel had a shrewd guess. She remembered his having, in the flush of
joy at Margaret’s engagement, rather prematurely caused a seal to be
cut with a daisy, and “Pearl of the meadow” as the motto; and his having
said that he should keep it as a wedding present. She could understand
that he was willing to part with it without remark.

Flora met Meta in her sitting-room, on the morning of the day, which
rose somewhat sadly upon the young girl, as she thought of past
affection and new responsibilities. If the fondness of a sister could
have compensated for what she had lost, Meta received it in no scanty
measure from Flora, who begged to call George, because he would be
pleased to see the display of gifts.

His own was the only costly one--almost all the rest were homemade
treasures of the greater price, because the skill and fondness of
the maker were evident in their construction; and Meta took home the
kindness as it was meant, and felt the affection that would not let her
feel herself lonely. She only wished to go and thank them all at once.

“Do then,” said Flora. “If Lord Cosham will spare you, and your business
should be over in time, you could drive in, and try to bring papa home
with you.”

“Oh, thank you, Flora. That is a kind treat, in case the morning should
be very awful!”

Margaret Agatha Rivers signed her documents, listened to explanations,
and was complimented by her uncle on not thinking it necessary to be
senseless on money matters, like her cousin, Agatha Langdale.

Still she looked a little oppressed, as she locked up the tokens of her
wealth, and the sunshine of her face did not beam out again till she
arrived at Stoneborough, and was dispensing her pretty thanks to the few
she found at home.

“Ethel out and Norman? His seal is only too pretty--”

“They are all helping Dr. Spencer at Cocksmoor.”

“What a pity! But it is so very kind of him to treat me as a daisy. In
some ways I like his present for that the best of all,” said Meta.

“I will tell him so,” said Mary.

“Yes, no,” said Meta. “I am not pretending to be anything half so nice.”

Mary and Blanche fell upon her for calling herself anything but the
nicest flower in the world; and she contended that she was nothing
better than a parrot-tulip, stuck up in a parterre; and just as the
discussion was becoming a game at romps, Dr. May came in, and the
children shouted to him to say whether his humming-bird were a daisy or
a tulip.

“That is as she comports herself,” he said playfully.

“Which means that you don’t think her quite done for,” said Meta.

“Not quite,” said the doctor, with a droll intonation; “but I have not
seen what this morning may have done to her.”

“Come and see, then,” said Meta. “Flora told me to bring you home--and
it is my birthday, you know. Never mind waiting to tell Ethel. Margaret
will let her know that I’ll keep you out of mischief.”

As usual, Dr. May could not withstand her, and she carried him off in
triumph in her pony carriage.

“Then you don’t give me up yet?” was the first thing she said, as they
were off the stones.

“What have you been doing to make me?” said he.

“Doing or not doing--one or the other,” she said. “But indeed I wanted
to have you to myself. I am in a great puzzle!”

“Sir Henry! I hope she won’t consult me!” thought Dr. May, as he
answered, “Well, my dear.”

“I fear it is a lasting puzzle,” she said. “What shall I do with all
this money?”

“Keep it in the bank, or buy railway shares!” said Dr. May, looking
arch.

“Thank you. That’s a question for my cousins in the city. I want you to
answer me as no one else can do. I want to know what is my duty now that
I have my means in my own hands?”

“There is need enough around--”

“I do not mean only giving a little here and there, but I want you to
hear a few of my thoughts. Flora and George are kindness itself--but,
you see, I have no duties. They are obliged to live a gay sort of
life--it is their position; but I cannot make out whether it is mine. I
don’t see that I am like those girls who have to go out as a matter of
obedience.”

Dr. May considered, but could only say, “You are very young.”

“Too young to be independent,” sighed Meta. “I must grow old enough to
be trusted alone, and in the meantime--”

“Probably an answer will be found,” said the doctor. “You and your means
will find their--their vocation.”

“Marriage,” said Meta, calmly speaking the word that he had avoided. “I
think not.”

“Why--” he began.

“I do not think good men like heiresses.”

He became strongly interested in a corn-field, and she resumed,

“Perhaps I should only do harm. It may be my duty to wait. All I wish to
know is, whether it is?”

“I see you are not like girls who know their duty, and are restless,
because it is not the duty they like.”

“Oh! I like everything. It is my liking it so much that makes me
afraid.”

“Even going to Ryde?”

“Don’t I like the sailing? and seeing Harry too? I don’t feel as if that
were waste, because I can sometimes spare poor Flora a little. We could
not let her go alone.”

“You need never fear to be without a mission of comfort,” said Dr. May.
“Your ‘spirit full of glee’ was given you for something. Your presence
is far more to my poor Flora than you or she guess.”

“I never meant to leave her now,” said Meta earnestly. “I only wished to
be clear whether I ought to seek for my work.”

“It will seek you, when the time comes.”

“And meantime I must do what comes to hand, and take it as humiliation
that it is not in the more obviously blessed tasks! A call might come,
as Cocksmoor did to Ethel. But oh! my money! Ought it to be laid up for
myself?”

“For your call, when it comes,” said Dr. May, smiling; then gravely,
“There are but too many calls for the interest. The principal is your
trust, till the time comes.”

Meta smiled, and was pleased to think that her first-fruits would be
offered to-morrow.




CHAPTER XXII.



“Oh, dear!” sighed Etheldred, as she fastened her white muslin, “I’m
afraid it is my nature to hate my neighbour.”

“My dear Ethel, what is coming next?” said Margaret.

“I like my neighbour at home, and whom I have to work for, very much,”
 said Ethel, “but oh! my neighbour that I have to be civil to!”

“Poor old King! I am afraid your day will be spoiled with all your toils
as lady of the house. I wish I could help you.”

“Let me have my grumble out, and you will!” said Ethel.

“Indeed I am sorry you have this bustle, and so many to entertain, when
I know you would rather have the peaceful feelings belonging to the day
undisturbed. I should like to shelter you up here.”

“It is very ungrateful of me,” said Ethel, “when Dr. Spencer works so
hard for us, not to be willing to grant anything to him.”

“And--but then I have none of the trouble of it--I can’t help liking the
notion of sending out the Church to the island whence the Church came
home to us.”

“Yes--” said Ethel, “if we could do it without holding forth!”

“Come, Ethel, it is much better than the bazaar--it is no field for
vanity.”

“Certainly not,” said Ethel. “What a mess every one will make! Oh, if I
could but stay away, like Harry! There will be Dr. Hoxton being sonorous
and prosy, and Mr. Lake will stammer, and that will be nothing to the
misery of our own people’s work. George will flounder, and look at
Flora, and she will sit with her eyes on the ground, and Dr. Spencer
will come out of his proper self, and be complimentary to people who
deserve it no more!--And Norman! I wish I could run away!”

“Richard says we do not guess how well Norman speaks.”

“Richard thinks Norman can do anything he can’t do himself! It is all
chance--he may do very well, if he gets into his ‘funny state’, but he
always suffers for that, and he will certainly put one into an agony at
the outset. I wish Dr. Spencer would have let him alone! And then there
will be that Sir Henry, whom I can’t abide! Oh, I wish I were more
charitable, like Miss Bracy and Mary, who will think all so beautiful!”

“So will you, when you come home,” said Margaret.

“If I could only be talking to Cherry, and Dame Hall! I think the school
children enter into it very nicely, Margaret. Did I tell you how nicely
Ellen Reid answered about the hymn, ‘From Greenland’s icy mountains’?
She did not seem to have made it a mere geographical lesson, like Fanny
Grigg--”

Ethel’s misanthropy was happily conducted off via the Cocksmoor
children, and any lingering remains were dissipated by her amusement at
Dr. Spencer’s ecstasy on seeing Dr. May assume his red robe of office,
to go to the minster in state, with the Town Council. He walked round
and round his friend, called him Nicholas Randall redivivus, quoted
Dogberry, and affronted Gertrude, who had a dim idea that he was making
game of papa.

Ethel was one of those to whom representation was such a penance, that
a festival, necessitating hospitality to guests of her own rank, was
burden enough seriously to disturb the repose of thankfulness for the
attainment of her object, and to render difficult the recueillement
which she needed for the praise and prayer that she felt due from her,
and which seemed to oppress her heart, by a sense of inadequacy of her
partial expression. It was well for her that the day began with the calm
service in the minster, where it was her own fault if cares haunted her,
and she could confess the sin of her irritated sensations, and wishes to
have all her own way, and then, as ever, be led aright into thanksgiving
for the unlooked-for crowning of her labours.

The archdeacon’s sermon amplified what Margaret had that morning
expressed, so as to carry on her sense of appropriateness in the
offerings of the day being bestowed on distant lands.

But the ordeal was yet to come, and though blaming herself, she was
anything but comfortable, as the world repaired to the Town Hall, the
room where the same faces so often met for such diverse purposes--now an
orrery displayed by a conceited lecturer, now a ball, now a magistrates’
meeting, a concert or a poultry show, where rival Hamburg and Dorking
uplifted their voices in the places of Mario and Grisi, all beneath the
benignant portrait of Nicholas Randall, ruffed, robed, square-toed, his
endowment of the scholarship in his hand, and a chequered pavement at
his feet.

Who knows not an S. P. G. meeting?--the gaiety of the serious, and the
first public spectacle to the young, who, like Blanche and Aubrey, gaze
with admiration at the rows of bonnets, and with awe at the black coats
on the platform, while the relations of the said black coats suffer,
like Ethel, from nervous dread of the public speaking of their best
friends.

Her expectations were realised by the archdeacon’s speech, which went
round in a circle, as if he could not find his way out of it. Lord
Cosham was fluent, but a great many words went to very small substance;
and no wonder, thought Ethel, when all they had to propose and second
was the obvious fact that missions were very good things.

Dr. Hoxton pompously, Sir Henry Walkinghame creditably, assisted the
ladies and gentlemen to resolve that the S. P. G. wanted help; Mr. Lake
made a stammering, and Mr. Rivers, with his good-natured face, hearty
manner, and good voice, came in well after him with a straightforward,
speech, so brief, that Ethel gave Flora credit for the best she had yet
heard.

Mr. Wilmot said something which the sharpest ears in the front row
might, perhaps, have heard, and which resulted in Dr. Spencer standing
up. Ethel hardly would have known who was speaking had her eyes been
shut. His voice was so different, when raised and pitched, so as to show
its power and sweetness; the fine polish of his manner was redoubled,
and every sentence had the most graceful turn. It was like listening to
a well-written book, so smooth and so fluent, and yet so earnest--his
pictures of Indian life so beautiful, and his strong affection for the
converts he described now and then making his eyes fill, and his voice
falter, as if losing the thread of his studied composition--a true and
dignified work of art, that made Dr. May whisper to Flora, “You see
what he can do. They would have given anything to have had him for a
lecturer.”

With half a sigh, Ethel saw Norman rise, and step forward. He began,
with eyes fixed on the ground, and in a low modest tone, to speak of
the islands that Harry had visited; but gradually the poetic nature,
inherent in him, gained the mastery; and though his language was
strikingly simple, in contrast with Dr. Spencer’s ornate periods, and
free from all trace of “the lamp,” it rose in beauty and fervour at
every sentence. The feelings that had decided his lot gave energy to his
discourse, and repressed as they had been by reserve and diffidence, now
flowed forth, and gave earnestness to natural gifts of eloquence of the
highest order. After his quiet, unobtrusive beginning, there was the
more wonder to find how he seemed to raise up the audience with him,
in breathless attention, as to a strain of sweet music, carrying them
without thought of the scene, or of the speaker, to the lovely isles,
and the inhabitants of noble promise, but withering for lack of
knowledge; and finally closing his speech, when they were wrought up to
the highest pitch, by an appeal that touched them all home; “for well
did he know,” said he, “that the universal brotherhood was drawn
closest in circles nearer home, that beneath the shadow of their own old
minster, gladness and mourning floated alike for all; and that all those
who had shared in the welcome to one, given back as it were from
the grave, would own the same debt of gratitude to the hospitable
islanders.”

He ceased. His father wiped his spectacles, and almost audibly murmured,
“Bless him!” Ethel, who had sat like one enchanted, forgetting who
spoke, forgetting all save the islanders, half turned, and met Richard’s
smiling eyes, and his whisper, “I told you so.”

The impress of a man of true genius and power had been made throughout
the whole assembly; the archdeacon put Norman out of countenance by
the thanks of the meeting for his admirable speech, and all the world,
except the Oxford men, were in a state of as much surprise as pleasure.

“Splendid speaker, Norman May, if he would oftener put himself out,”
 Harvey Anderson commented. “Pity he has so many of the good doctor’s
prejudices!”

“Well, to be sure!” quoth Mrs. Ledwich. “I knew Mr. Norman was very
clever, but I declare I never thought of such as this! I will try my
poor utmost for those interesting natives.”

“That youth has first-rate talents,” said Lord Cosham. “Do you know what
he is designed for? I should like to bring him forward.”

“Ah!” said Dr. Hoxton. “The year I sent off May and Anderson was the
proudest year of my life!”

“Upon my word!” declared Mrs. Elwood. “That Dr. Spencer is as good as a
book, but Mr. Norman--I say, father, we will go without the new clock,
but we’ll send somewhat to they men that built up the church, and has no
minister.”

“A good move that,” said Dr. Spencer. “Worth at least twenty pounds.
That boy has the temperament of an orator, if the morbid were but a
grain less.”

“Oh, Margaret,” exclaimed Blanche. “Dr. Spencer made the finest speech
you ever heard, only it was rather tiresome; and Norman made everybody
cry--and Mary worse than all!”

“There is no speaking of it. One should live such things, not talk over
them,” said Meta Rivers.

Margaret received the reports of the select few, who visited her
upstairs, where she was kept quiet, and only heard the hum of the swarm,
whom Dr. May, in vehement hospitality, had brought home to luncheon, to
Ethel’s great dread, lest there should not be enough for them to eat.

Margaret pitied her sisters, but heard that all was going well; that
Flora was taking care of the elders, and Harry and Mary were making the
younger fry very merry at the table on the lawn. Dr. May had to start
early to see a sick gardener at Drydale before coming on to Cocksmoor,
and came up to give his daughter a few minutes.

“We get on famously,” he said. “Ethel does well when she is in for it,
like Norman. I had no notion what was in the lad. They are perfectly
amazed with his speech. It seems hard to give such as he is up to
those outlandish places; but there, his speech should have taught me
better--one’s best--and, now and then, he seems my best.”

“One comfort is,” said Margaret, smiling, “you would miss Ethel more.”

“Gallant old King! I am glad she has had her wish. Good-bye, my
Margaret, we will think of you. I wish--”

“I am very happy,” was Margaret’s gentle reassurance. “The dear little
Daisy looks just as her godfather imagined her;” and happy was her face
when her father quitted her.

Margaret’s next visitor was Meta, who came to reclaim her bonnet, and,
with a merry smile, to leave word that she was walking on to Cocksmoor.
Margaret remonstrated on the heat.

“Let me alone,” said she, making her pretty wilful gesture. “Ethel and
Mary ought to have a lift, and I have had no walking to-day.”

“My dear, you don’t know how far it is. You can’t go alone.”

“I am lying in wait for Miss Bracy, or something innocent,” said Meta.
“In good time--here comes Tom.”

Tom entered, declaring that he had come to escape from the clack
downstairs.

“I’ll promise not to clack if you will be so kind as to take care of me
to Cocksmoor,” said Meta.

“Do you intend to walk?”

“If you will let me be your companion.”

“I shall be most happy,” said Tom, colouring with gratification, such
as he might not have felt, had he known that he was chosen for his
innocence.

He took a passing glimpse at his neck-tie, screwed up the nap of his
glossy hat to the perfection of its central point, armed himself with
a knowing little stick, and hurried his fair companion out by the back
door, as much afraid of losing the glory of being her sole protector as
she was of falling in with an escort of as much consequence, in other
eyes, as was Mr. Thomas in his own.

She knew him less than any of the rest, and her first amusement was
keeping silence to punish him for complaining of clack; but he explained
that he did not mean quiet, sensible conversation--he only referred to
those foolish women’s raptures over the gabble they had been hearing at
the Town Hall.

She exclaimed, whereupon he began to criticise the speakers with a good
deal of acuteness, exposing the weak points, but magnanimously owning
that it was tolerable for the style of thing, and might go down at
Stoneborough.

“I wonder you did not stay away as Harry did.”

“I thought it would be marked,” observed the thread-paper Tom, as if he
had been at least county member.

“You did quite right,” said Meta, really thinking so.

“I wished to hear Dr. Spencer, too,” said Tom. “There is a man who does
know how to speak! He has seen something of the world, and knows what he
is talking of.”

“But he did not come near Norman.”

“I hated listening to Norman,” said Tom. “Why should he go and set his
heart on those black savages?”

“They are not savages in New Zealand.”

“They are all niggers together,” said Tom vehemently. “I cannot think
why Norman should care for them more than for his own brothers and
sisters. All I know is, that if I were my father, I would never give my
consent.”

“It is lucky you are not,” said Meta, smiling defiance, though a tear
shone in her eye. “Dr. May makes the sacrifice with a free heart and
willing mind.”

“Everybody goes and sacrifices somebody else,” grumbled Tom.

“Who are the victims now?”

“All of us. What are we to do without Norman? He is worth all of us
put together; and I--” Meta was drawn to the boy as she had never been
before, as he broke off short, his face full of emotion, that made him
remind her of his father.

“You might go out and follow in his steps,” said she, as the most
consoling hope she could suggest.

“Not I. Don’t you know what is to happen to me? Ah! Flora has not told
you. I thought she would not think it grand enough. She talked about
diplomacy--”

“But what?” asked Meta anxiously.

“Only that I am to stick to the old shop,” said Tom. “Don’t tell any
one; I would not have the fellows know it.”

“Do you mean your father’s profession?”

“Ay!”

“Oh, Tom! you don’t talk of that as if you despised it?”

“If it is good enough for him, it is good enough for me, I suppose,”
 said Tom. “I hate everything when I think of my brothers going over the
world, while I, do what I will, must be tied down to this slow place all
the rest of my days.”

“If you were away, you would be longing after it.”

“Yes; but I can’t get away.”

“Surely, if the notion is so unpleasant to you, Dr. May would never
insist?”

“It is my free choice, and that’s the worst of it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you see? Norman told me it would be a great relief to him if I
would turn my mind that way--and I can’t go against Norman. I found he
thought he must if I did not; and, you know, he is fit for all sorts of
things that--Besides, he has a squeamishness about him, that makes him
turn white, if one does but cut one’s finger, and how he would ever go
through the hospitals--”

Meta suspected that Tom was inclined to launch into horrors. “So you
wanted to spare him,” she said.

“Ay! and papa was so pleased by my offering that I can’t say a word of
the bore it is. If I were to back out, it would come upon Aubrey, and
he is weakly, and so young, that he could not help my father for many
years.”

Meta was much struck at the motives that actuated the self-sacrifice,
veiled by the sullen manner which she almost began to respect. “What is
done for such reasons must make you happy,” she said; “though there may
be much that is disagreeable.”

“Not the study,” said Tom. “The science is famous work. I like what I
see of it in my father’s books, and there’s a splendid skeleton at the
hospital that I long to be at. If it were not for Stoneborough, it
would be all very well; but, if I should get on ever so well at the
examinations, it all ends there! I must come back, and go racing about
this miserable circuit, just like your gold pheasant rampaging in his
cage, seeing the same stupid people all my days.”

“I think,” said Meta, in a low, heartfelt voice, “it is a noble,
beautiful thing to curb down your ambition for such causes. Tom, I like
you for it.”

The glance of those beautiful eyes was worth having. Tom coloured a
little, but assumed his usual gruffness. “I can’t bear sick people,” he
said.

“It has always seemed to me,” said Meta, “that few lives could come up
to Dr. May’s. Think of going about, always watched for with hope, often
bringing gladness and relief; if nothing else, comfort and kindness, his
whole business doing good.”

“One is paid for it,” said Tom.

“Nothing could ever repay Dr. May,” said Meta. “Can any one feel the fee
anything but a mere form? Besides, think of the numbers and numbers that
he takes nothing from; and oh! to how many he has brought the most real
good, when they would have shut their doors against it in any other
form! Oh, Tom, I think none of you guess how every one feels about your
father. I recollect one poor woman saying, after he had attended her
brother, ‘He could not save his body, but, surely, ma’am, I think he was
the saving of his soul.’”

“It is of no use to talk of my being like my father,” said Tom.

Meta thought perhaps not, but she was full of admiration of his
generosity, and said, “You will make it the same work of love, and
charity is the true glory.”

Any inroad on Tom’s reserved and depressed nature was a benefit; and he
was of an age to be susceptible of the sympathy of one so pretty and
so engaging. He had never been so much gratified or encouraged, and,
wishing to prolong the tete-a-tete, he chose to take the short
cut through the fir-plantations, unfrequented on account of the
perpendicular, spiked railings that divided it from the lane.

Meta was humming-bird enough to be undismayed. She put hand and foot
wherever he desired, flattered him by letting him handily help her up,
and bounded light as a feather down on the other side, congratulating
herself on the change from the dusty lane to the whispering pine
woods, between which wound the dark path, bestrewn with brown slippery
needle-leaves, and edged with the delicate feathering ling and tufts of
soft grass.

Tom had miscalculated the chances of interruption. Meta was lingering
to track the royal highway of some giant ants to their fir-leaf hillock,
when they were hailed from behind, and her squire felt ferocious at the
sight of Norman and Harry closing the perspective of fir-trunks.

“Hallo! Tom, what a guide you are!” exclaimed Norman. “That fence which
even Ethel and Mary avoid!”

“Mary climbs like a cow, and Ethel like a father-long-legs,” said Tom.
“Now Meta flies like a bird.”

“And Tom helped me so cleverly,” said Meta. “It was an excellent move,
to get into the shade and this delicious pine tree fragrance.”

“Halt!” said Norman--“this is too fast for Meta.”

“I cannot,” said Harry. “I must get there in time to set Dr. Spencer’s
tackle to rights. He is tolerably knowing about knots, but there is a
dodge beyond him. Come on, Tom.”

He drew on the reluctant Etonian, who looked repiningly back at the
increasing distance between him and the other pair, till a turn in the
path cut off his view.

“I am afraid you do not know what you have undertaken,” said Norman.

“I am a capital walker. And I know, or do not know, how often Ethel
takes the same walk.”

“Ethel is no rule.”

“She ought to be,” said Meta. “To be like her has always been my
ambition.”

“Circumstances have formed Ethel.”

“Circumstances! What an ambiguous word! Either Providence pointing to
duty, or the world drawing us from it.”

“Stepping-stones, or stumbling-blocks.”

“And, oh! the difficult question, when to bend them, or to bend to
them!”

“There must be always some guiding,” said Norman.

“I believe there is,” said Meta, “but when trumpet-peals are ringing
around, it is hard to know whether one is really ‘waiting beside the
tent,’ or only dawdling.”

“It is great self-denial in the immovable square not to join the
charge,” said Norman.

“Yes; but they, being shot at, are not deceiving themselves.”

“I suppose self-deception on those points is very common.”

“Especially among young ladies,” said Meta. “I hear so much of what
girls would do, if they might, or could, that I long to see them like
Ethel--do what they can. And then it strikes me that I am doing the
same, living wilfully in indulgence, and putting my trust in my own
misgivings and discontent.”

“I should have thought that discontent had as little to do with you as
with any living creature.”

“You don’t know how I could growl!” said Meta, laughing. “Though
less from having anything to complain of, than from having nothing to
complain of.”

“You mean,” he said, pausing, with a seriousness and hesitation that
startled her--“do you mean that this is not the course of life that you
would choose?”

A sort of bashfulness made her put her answer playfully--


          “All play and no work makes Jack a mere toy.


“Toys have a kindly mission, and I may be good for nothing else; but I
would have rather been a coffee-pot than a china shepherdess.”

The gaiety disconcerted him, and he seemed to try to be silent, or to
reply in the same tone, but he could not help returning to the subject.
“Then you find no charm in the refinements to which you have been
brought up?”

“Only too much,” said Meta.

He was silent, and fearing to have added to his fine-lady impression,
she resumed. “I mean that I never could dislike anything, and kindness
gives these things a soul; but, of course, I should be better satisfied,
if I lived harder, and had work to do.”

“Meta!” he exclaimed, “you tempt me very much! Would you?--No, it is too
unreasonable. Would you share--share the work that I have undertaken?”

He turned aside and leaned against a tree, as if not daring to watch the
effect of the agitated words that had broken from him. She had little
imagined whither his last sayings had been tending, and stood still,
breathless with the surprise.

“Forgive me,” he said hastily. “It was very wrong. I never meant to have
vexed you by the betrayal of my vain affection.”

He seemed to be going, and this roused her. “Stay, Norman,” exclaimed
she. “Why should it vex me? I should like it very much indeed.”

He faced suddenly towards her--“Meta, Meta! is it possible? Do you know
what you are saying?”

“I think I do.”

“You must understand me,” said Norman, striving to speak calmly. “You
have been--words will not express what you have been to me for years
past, but I thought you too far beyond my hopes. I knew I ought to be
removed from you--I believed that those who are debarred from earthly
happiness are marked for especial tasks. I never intended you to know
what actuated me, and now the work is undertaken, and--and I cannot turn
back,” he added quickly, as if fearing himself.

“No indeed,” was her steady reply.

“Then I may believe it!” cried Norman. “You do--you will--you
deliberately choose to share it with me?”

“I will try not to be a weight on you,” answered the young girl, with
a sweet mixture of resolution and humility. “It would be the greatest
possible privilege. I really do not think I am a fine lady ingrain, and
you will teach me not to be too unworthy.”

“I? Oh, Meta, you know not what I am! Yet with you, with you to inspire,
to strengthen, to cheer--Meta, Meta, life is so much changed before me,
that I cannot understand it yet--after the long dreary hopelessness--”

“I can’t think why--” Meta had half said, when feminine dignity checked
the words, consciousness and confusion suddenly assailed her, dyed her
cheeks crimson, and stifled her voice.

It was the same with Norman, and bashfulness making a sudden prey of
both--on they went under its dominion, in a condition partaking equally
of discomfort and felicity; dreading the sound of their own voices,
afraid of each other’s faces, feeling they were treating each other very
strangely and ungratefully, yet without an idea what to say next, or the
power of speaking first; and therefore pacing onwards, looking gravely
straight along the path, as if to prevent the rabbits and foxgloves from
guessing that anything had been passing between them.

Dr. May had made his call at Drydale, and was driving up a rough lane,
between furzy banks, leading to Cocksmoor, when he was aware of a tall
gentleman on one side of the road and a little lady on the other,
with the whole space of the cart-track between them, advancing soberly
towards him.

“Hallo! Why, Meta! Norman! what brings you here? Where are you going?”

Norman perceived that he had turned to the left instead of to the right,
and was covered with shame.

“That is all your wits are good for. It is well I met you, or you would
have led poor Meta a pretty dance! You will know better than to trust
yourself to the mercies of a scholar another time. Let me give you a
lift.”

The courteous doctor sprang out to hand Meta in, but something made him
suddenly desire Adams to drive on, and then turning round to the two
young people, he said, “Oh!”

“Yes,” said Norman, taking her hand, and drawing her towards him.

“What, Meta, my pretty one, is it really so? Is he to be happy after
all? Are you to be a Daisy of my own?”

“If you will let me,” murmured Meta, clinging to her kind old friend.

“No flower on earth could come so naturally to us,” said Dr. May. “And,
dear child, at last I may venture to tell you that you have a sanction
that you will value more than mine. Yes, my dear, on the last day of
your dear father’s life, when some foreboding hung upon him, he spoke
to me of your prospects, and singled out this very Norman as such as he
would prefer.”

Meta’s tears prevented all, save the two little words, “thank you;” but
she put out her hand to Norman, as she still rested on the doctor’s arm,
more as if he had been her mother than Norman’s father.

“Did he?” from Norman, was equally inexpressive of the almost
incredulous gratitude and tenderness of his feeling.

It would not bear talking over at that moment, and Dr. May presently
broke the silence in a playful tone. “So, Meta, good men don’t like
heiresses?”

“Quite true,” said Meta, “it was very much against me.”

“Or it may be the other way,” said Norman.

“Eh? Good men don’t like heiresses--here’s a man who likes an
heiress--therefore here’s a man that is not good? Ah, ha! Meta, you can
see that is false logic, though I’ve forgotten mine. And pray, miss,
what are we to say to your uncle?”

“He cannot help it,” said Meta quickly.

“Ha!” said the doctor, laughing, “we remember our twenty-one years, do
we?”

“I did not mean--I hope I said nothing wrong,” said Meta, in blushing
distress. “Only after what you said, I can care for nothing else.”

“If I could only thank him,” said Norman fervently.

“I believe you know how to do that, my boy,” said Dr. May, looking
tenderly at the fairy figure between them, and ending with a sigh,
remembering, perhaps, the sense of protection with which he had felt
another Margaret lean on his arm.

The clatter of horses’ hoofs caused Meta to withdraw her hand, and
Norman to retreat to his own side of the lane, as Sir Henry Walkinghame
and his servant overtook them.

“We will be in good time for the proceedings,” called out the doctor.
“Tell them we are coming.”

“I did not know you were walking,” said Sir Henry to Meta.

“It is pleasant in the plantations,” Dr. May answered for her; “but I
am afraid we are late, and our punctual friends will be in despair. Will
you kindly say we are at hand?”

Sir Henry rode on, finding that he was not to be allowed to walk his
horse with them, and that Miss Rivers had never looked up.

“Poor Sir Henry!” said Dr. May.

“He has no right to be surprised,” said Meta, very low.

“And so you were marching right upon Drydale!” continued Dr. May, not
able to help laughing. “It was a happy dispensation that I met you.”

“Oh, I am so glad of it!” said Meta.

“Though to be sure you were disarming suspicion by so cautiously keeping
the road between you. I should never have guessed what you had been at.”

There was a little pause, then Meta said, rather tremulously, “Please--I
think it should be known at once.”

“Our idle deeds confessed without loss of time, miss?”

Norman came across the path, saying, “Meta is right--it should be
known.”

“I don’t think Uncle Cosham would object, especially hearing it while he
is here,” said Meta--“and if he knew what you told us.”

“He goes to-morrow, does he not?” said Dr. May.

A silence of perplexity ensued. Meta, brave as she was, hardly knew her
uncle enough to volunteer, and Norman was privately devising a beginning
by the way of George, when Dr. May said, “Well, since it is not a case
for putting Ethel in the forefront, I must e’en get it over for you, I
suppose.”

“Oh, thank you,” they cried both at once, feeling that he was the
proper person in every way, and Norman added, “The sooner the better, if
Meta--”

“Oh, yes, yes, the sooner the better,” exclaimed Meta. “And let me tell
Flora--poor dear Flora--she is always so kind.”

A testimony that was welcome to Dr. May, who had once, at least, been
under the impression that Flora courted Sir Henry’s attentions to her
sister-in-law.

Further consultation was hindered by Tom and Blanche bursting upon them
from the common, both echoing Norman’s former reproach of “A pretty
guide!” and while Blanche explained the sufferings of all the assembly
at their tardiness, Tom, without knowing it, elucidated what had been a
mystery to the doctor, namely, how they ever met, by his indignation at
Norman’s having assumed the guidance for which he was so unfit.

“A shocking leader; Meta will never trust him again,” said Dr. May.

Still Blanche thought them not nearly sufficiently sensible of
their enormities, and preached eagerly about their danger of losing
standing-room, when they emerged on the moor, and beheld a crowd,
above whose heads rose the apex of a triangle, formed by three poles,
sustaining a rope and huge stone.

“Here comes Dr. Spencer,” she said. “I hope he will scold you.”

Whatever Dr. Spencer might have suffered, he was far too polite to
scold, and a glance between the two physicians ended in a merry twinkle
of his bright eyes.

“This way,” he said; “we are all ready.”

“But where’s my little Daisy?” said Dr. May.

“You’ll see her in a minute. She is as good as gold.”

He drew them on up the bank--people making way for them--till he had
stationed them among the others of their own party, beside the deep
trench that traced the foundation, around a space that seemed far too
small.

Nearly at the same moment began the soft clear sound of chanting wafted
upon the wind, then dying away--carried off by some eddying breeze, then
clear, and coming nearer and nearer.


             I will not suffer mine eyes to sleep,
                Nor mine eye-lids to slumber:
             Neither the temples of my head to take any rest;
             Until I find out a place for the temple of the Lord:
             An habitation for the mighty God of Jacob.


Few, who knew the history of Cocksmoor, could help glancing towards the
slight girl, who stood, with bent head, her hand clasped over little
Aubrey’s; while, all that was not prayer and thanksgiving in her mind,
was applying the words to him, whose head rested in the Pacific isle,
while, in the place which he had chosen, was laid the foundation of the
temple that he had given unto the Lord.

There came forth the procession: the minster choristers, Dr. Spencer as
architect, and, in her white dress, little Gertrude, led between Harry
and Hector, Margaret’s special choice for the occasion, and followed by
the Stoneborough clergy.


             Let thy priests be clothed with righteousness.


It came in well with the gentle, meek, steadfast face of the young
curate of Cocksmoor, as he moved on in his white robe, and the sunlight
shone upon his fair hair, and calm brow, thankful for the past, and
hoping, more than fearing, for the future.

The prayers were said, and there was a pause, while Dr. Spencer and the
foreman advanced to the machine and adjusted it. The two youths then led
forward the little girl, her innocent face and large blue eyes wearing
a look of childish obedient solemnity, only half understanding what she
did, yet knowing it was something great.

It was very pretty to see her in the midst of the little gathering round
the foundation, the sturdy workman smiling over his hod of mortar, Dr.
Spencer’s silver locks touching her flaxen curls as he held the shining
trowel to her, and Harry’s bright head and hardy face, as he knelt on
one knee to guide the little soft hand, while Hector stood by, still and
upright, his eyes fixed far away, as if his thoughts were roaming to the
real founder.

The Victoria coins were placed--Gertrude scooped up the mass of mortar,
and spread it about with increasing satisfaction, as it went so smoothly
and easily, prolonging the operation, till Harry drew her back, while,
slowly down creaked the ponderous corner-stone into the bed that she had
prepared for it, and, with a good will, she gave three taps on it with
her trowel.

Harry had taken her hand, when, at the sight of Dr. May, she broke from
him, and, as if taking sudden fright at her own unwonted part, ran, at
full speed, straight up to her father, and clung to him, hiding her face
as he raised her in his arms and kissed her.

Meanwhile the strain arose:


             Thou heavenly, new Jerusalem,
             Vision of peace, in Prophet’s dream;
             With living stones, built up on high,
             And rising to the starry sky--


The blessing of peace seemed to linger softly and gently in the fragrant
summer breeze, and there was a pause ere the sounds of voices awoke
again.

“Etheldred--” Mr. Wilmot stood beside her, ere going to unrobe in the
school--“Etheldred, you must once let me say, God bless you for this.”

As she knelt beside her sister’s sofa, on her return home, Margaret
pressed something into her hand. “If you please, dearest, give this
to Dr. Spencer, and ask him to let it be set round the stem of the
chalice,” she whispered.

Ethel recognised Alan Ernescliffe’s pearl hoop, the betrothal ring, and
looked at her sister without a word.

“I wish it,” said Margaret gently. “I shall like best to know it there.”

So Margaret joined in Alan’s offering, and Ethel dared say no more, as
she thought how the “relic of a frail love lost” was becoming the “token
of endless love begun.” There was more true union in this, than in
clinging to the mere tangible emblem--for broken and weak is all
affection that is not knit together above in the One Infinite Love.




CHAPTER XXIII.



     Of lowly fields you think no scorn,
     Yet gayest gardens would adorn,
        And grace wherever set;
     Home, seated in your lowly bower,
     Or wedded, a transplanted flower,
        I bless you, Margaret.--CHARLES LAMB.


George Rivers had an antipathy to ladies’ last words keeping the horses
standing, and his wife and sister dutifully seated themselves in the
carriage at once, without an attempt to linger.

Four of the young gentlemen were to walk across to Abbotstoke and dine
at the Grange; and Tom, who, reasoning from analogy, had sent on his
black tie and agate studs, was so dismally disconcerted on finding that
Norman treated his own going as a matter of course, that Richard,
whose chief use of his right of primogeniture was to set himself aside,
discovered that he was wanted at home, and that Tom would be much better
at the Grange, offering, at the same time, to send Norman’s dressing
things by Dr. Spencer.

“Which,” observed Thomas, “he would never have recollected for himself.”

“Tom would have had to lend him the precious studs.”--“He would not have
had them; who would wear imitation?” “I say, Tom, what did you give
for them?” “Better ask what the Jew gave for them, that bought them at
Windsor Fair; not a bad imitation, either--pity they weren’t Malachite;
but, no doubt, the Jew thought green would be personal.” “As if they had
any business to talk, who didn’t know a respectable stud when they saw
it--Harry, especially, with his hat set on the back of his head, like a
sailor on the stage”--(a leap to set it to rights--a skirmish, knocking
Tom nearly into the ditch). “Fine experience of the stage--all came from
Windsor Fair.” “Ay, Hector might talk, but didn’t he pay a shilling
to see the Irish giant. He wouldn’t confess, but it was a famous take
in--giant had potatoes in his shoes.” “Not he; he was seven feet
ten high.” “Ay, when he stood upon a stool--Hector would swallow
anything--even the lady of a million postage stamps had not stuck in
his throat--he had made Margaret collect for her.” “And, had not
Tom, himself, got a bottle of ointment to get the red out of his
hair?”--(great fury). “His hair wasn’t red--didn’t want to change the
colour--not half so red as Hector’s own.” “What was it then? lively
auburn?” But for fear of Norman’s losing his bearings, Harry would fetch
a carrot, to compare. “Better colour than theirs could ever be.” “Then
what was the ointment for? to produce whiskers? that was the reason Tom
oiled himself like a Loyalty islander--his hair was so shiny, that Harry
recommended a top-knot, like theirs, etc.”

Norman was, like the others, in such towering glee, and took so full a
share of the witticisms, that were the more noisily applauded, the worse
they were, that Harry suggested that “old June had lost his way, and
found his spirits in Drydale--he must have met with a private grog-shop
in the plantations--would not Tom confess”--“not he; it was all in
private. He thought it was laughing-gas, or the reaction of being fried
all the morning, holding forth in that Town Hall. He had longed to make
a speech himself--no end of the good it would have done the old stagers
to come out with something to the purpose. What would old Hoxton have
thought of it?


  “They shall dive for alligators, catch the wild goats by the beard;
  Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy-faced baboon;
  Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo in the mountains of the moon.
  I myself, in far Timbuctoo, leopard’s blood shall daily quaff;
  Ride a tiger hunting, mounted on a thoroughbred giraffe.”


“Not you, Tom!” cried Hector.


  “You, the swell, the Eton fellow!  You, to seek such horrid places.
  You to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber lips, and monkey faces.
  Fool, again the dream, the fancy; don’t I know the words are mad,
  For you count the gray barbarian lower than the Brocas cad!”


“Nay, it is the consequence of misanthropy at the detection of the
frauds of unsophisticated society,” said Norman.


                    The edge of life is rusted;
 The agate studs and whisker ointment left him very much disgusted.


“Perhaps it was Miss Rivers forsaking him. Was not that rather
spider-hearted, Tom?”

“Come, Harry, it is time to have done. We are getting into civilised
society--here’s Abbotstoke.”

“Poor Norman, he is very far gone! He takes that scarecrow for civilised
society!”

“Much better clothed than the society you have been accustomed to,
July.” “What a prize his wardrobe would be to the Black Prince!” “Don’t
insult your betters!” “Which? The scarecrow, or the Black Prince?”

Norman tried to call his companions to order, for they were close upon
the village, and he began to tax himself with unbecoming levity; the
effect of spirits pitched rather low, which did not easily find their
balance, under unwonted exhilaration, but Harry’s antics were less
easily repressed than excited, and if Tom had not heard the Grange clock
strike half-past six, and had not been afraid of not having time to
array himself, and watch over Harry’s neckcloth, they would hardly have
arrived in reasonable time. Dr. May had gone home, and there was no one
in the drawing-room; but, as Norman was following the boys upstairs,
Flora opened her sitting-room door, and attracted his attention by
silently putting her cold fingers into his hand, and drawing him into
the room.

“Dear Norman, this is pleasant,” she said affectionately; but in a voice
so sunken, that all gladness seemed to be dead within, and the
effect was far more mournful than if she had not attempted to smile
congratulation.

“I will give you till Dr. Spencer comes,” she said. “Then Norman can
dress, and you must be a good child, and come down to me.”

The playfulness ill suited the wan, worn face that seemed to have caught
a gray tint from her rich poplin, her full toilet making the contrast
almost more painful; and, as she closed the door, her brother could only
exclaim, “Poor Flora!”

“She is so kind,” said the voice of the white figure that moved towards
him. “Oh, if we could comfort her!”

“I trust to her own kindness working comfort to her, at last,” said
Norman. “But is she often thus?”

“Whenever she is not bearing up for George’s sake,” said Meta. “She
never says anything when she is alone with me, only she does not
struggle with her looks.”

“It must be very trying for you.”

“Nay, I feel grateful to her for even so far relaxing the restraint. If
I could but do her any good.”

“You cannot help doing her good,” said Norman.

Meta sighed, and shook her head slightly, as she said, “She is so gentle
and considerate. I think this has been no fresh pain to her to-day, but
I cannot tell. The whole day has been a strange intermixture.”

“The two strands of joy and grief have been very closely twisted,” said
Norman. “That rose is shedding its fragrant leaves in its glory, and
there is much that should have chastened the overflowing gladness of
to-day.”

“As I was thinking,” whispered Meta, venturing nearer to him, and
looking into his face with the sweet reliance of union in thought. She
meant him to proceed, but he paused, saying, “You were thinking-”

“I had rather hear it from you.”

“Was it not that we were taught to-day what is enduring, and gives
true permanence and blessedness to such--to what there was between
Ernescliffe and Margaret?”

Her dewy eyes, and face of deep emotion, owned that he had interpreted
her thought.

“Theirs would, indeed, be a disheartening example,” he said, “if it did
not show the strength and peace that distance, sickness, death, cannot
destroy.”

“Yes. To see that church making Margaret happy as she lies smiling on
her couch, is a lesson of lessons.”

“That what is hallowed must be blest,” said Norman; “whatever the sundry
and manifold changes.”

Each was far too humble to deny aloud any inequality with the goodness
of Alan and Margaret, knowing that it would be at once disputed,
trusting to time to prevent the over-estimate, and each believing the
other was the one to bring the blessing.

“But, Meta,” said Norman, “have you heard nothing of--of the elders?”

“Oh, yes,” said Meta, smiling, “have not you?”

“I have seen no one.”

“I have!” said Meta merrily. “Uncle Cosham is delighted. That speech of
yours has captivated him. He calls me a wise little woman to have found
out your first-rate abilities. There’s for you, sir.”

“I don’t understand it! Surely he must be aware of my intentions?”

“He said nothing about them; but, of course, Dr. May must have mentioned
them.”

“I should have thought so, but I cannot suppose--”

“That he would be willing to let me go,” said Meta. “But then you know
he cannot help it,” added she, with a roguish look, at finding herself
making one of her saucy independent speeches.

“I believe you are taking a would-be missionary instead of Norman May!”
 he answered, with a sort of teasing sweetness.

“All would-be missionaries did not make dear papa so fond of them,” said
Meta, very low; “and you would not be Norman May without such purposes.”

“The purpose was not inspired at first by the highest motive,” said
Norman; “but it brought me peace, and, after the kind of dedication
that I inwardly made of myself in my time of trouble, it would take some
weighty reason, amounting to a clear duty, or physical impossibility,
to make me think I ought to turn back. I believe”--the tears rose to
his eyes, and he brought out the words with difficulty--“that, if this
greatest of all joys were likely to hinder me from my calling, I ought
to seek strength to regard it as a temptation, and to forgo it.”

“You ought, if it were so,” said Meta, nevertheless holding him tighter.
“I could not bear to keep back a soldier. If this were last year, and
I had any tie or duty here, it would be very hard. But no one needs me,
and if the health I have always had be continued to me, I don’t think I
shall be much in the way. There,”--drawing back a little, and trying to
laugh off her feeling--“only tell me at once if you think me still too
much of a fine lady.”

“I--you--a fine lady! Did anything ever give you the impression that I
did?”

“I shall not get poor Harry into a scrape, shall I? He told me that you
said so, last spring, and I feared you judged me too truly.”

After a few exclamations of utter surprise, it flashed on Norman. “I
know, I know--Harry interpreted my words in his own blunt fashion!”

“Then you did say something like it?”

“No, but--but--In short, Meta, these sailors’ imaginations go to great
lengths. Harry had guessed more than I knew myself, before he had
sailed, and taxed me with it. It was a subject I could not bear then,
and I answered that you were too far beyond my hopes.”

“Six years ago!” said Meta slowly, blushing deeper and deeper. “Some
eyes saw it all that time, and you--and,” she added, laughing, though
rather tearfully, “I should never have known it, if Tom had not taken me
through the plantations!”

“Not if I had not discovered that your preferences did not lie--”

“Among boudoirs and balls?” said Meta. “Harry was right. You thought me
a fine lady after all.”

The gay taunt was cut short by a tap at the door, and Flora looked in.

“Dr. Spencer has brought your things, Norman. I am sorry to disturb
you--but come down, Meta--I ran away very uncivilly to fetch you. I hope
it is not too cruel,” as she drew Meta’s arm into her own, and added, “I
have not been able speak to George.”

Meta suspected that, in the wish to spare her, Flora had abstained from
seeking him.

The evening went off like any other evening--people ate and talked,
thought Mrs. Rivers looking very ill, and Miss Rivers very pretty--Flora
forced herself into being very friendly to Sir Henry, commiserating the
disappointment to which she had led him; and she hoped that he suspected
the state of affairs, though Tom, no longer supplanted by his elder
brother, pursued Meta into the sheltered nook, where Flora had favoured
her seclusion, to apologise for having left her to the guidance of poor
Norman, whose head was with the blackamoors. It was all Harry’s fault.

“Nonsense, Tom,” said Harry; “don’t you think Norman is better company
than you any day?”

“Then why did you not walk him off instead of me?” said Tom, turning
round sharply.

“Out of consideration for Meta. She will tell you that she was very much
obliged to me--”

Harry checked himself, for Meta was colouring so painfully that his own
sunburned face caught the glow. He pushed Tom’s slight figure aside with
a commanding move of his broad hand, and said, “I beg your pardon, upon
my word, though I don’t know what for.”

“Nor I,” said Meta, rallying herself, and smiling. “You have no pardon
to beg. You will know it all to-morrow.”

“Then I know it now,” said Harry, sheltering his face by leaning over
the back of a chair, and taming the hearty gaiety of his voice. “Well
done, Meta; there’s nothing like old June in all the world! You may take
my word for it, and I knew you would have the sense to find it out.”

They were well out of sight, and Meta only answered by a good tight
squeeze of his kind hand between both her own. Tom, suddenly recovering
from his displeasure at being thrust aside, whisked round, dropped on a
footstool before Meta, looked up in her face, and said, “Hallo!” in
such utter amazement that there was nothing for it but to laugh more
uncontrollably than was convenient. “Come along, Tom,” said Harry,
pulling him up by force, “she does not want any of your nonsense. We
will not plague her now.”

“Thank you, Harry,” said Meta. “I cannot talk rationally just yet. Don’t
think me unkind, Tom.”

Tom sat in a sort of trance all the rest of the evening.

Lord Cosham talked to Norman, who felt as if he were being patronised
on false pretences, drew into his shell, and displayed none of his
“first-rate abilities.”

Dr. Spencer discussed his architecture with the archdeacon; but his
black eyes roamed heedfully after the young gentleman and lady, in the
opposite corners of the room; and, as he drove home afterwards with
the youths, he hummed scraps of Scottish songs, and indulged in silent
smiles.

Those at home had been far more demonstrative. Dr. May had arrived,
declaring himself the proudest doctor in her Majesty’s dominions, and
Ethel needed nothing but his face to explain why, and tell her that dear
old June’s troubles were over, and their pretty little Meta was their
own--a joy little looked for to attend their foundation-stone.

The dreaded conference with Lord Cosham had proved highly gratifying.
There might be something in the fact that he could not help it,
which assisted in his ready acquiescence, but he was also a sensible
right-minded man, who thought that the largeness of Meta’s fortune was
no reason that it should be doubled; considered that, in the matter of
connection, the May family had the advantage, and saw in Norman; a young
man whom any one might have pleasure in bringing forward. Oxford had
established confidence both in his character and talents, and his speech
had been such as to impress an experienced man, like Lord Cosham, with
an opinion of his powers, that prepared a welcome for him, such as no
one could have dared to expect. His lordship thought his niece not only
likely to be happier, but to occupy a more distinguished position with
such a man as Norman May, than with most persons of ready-made rank and
fortune.

The blushing and delighted Dr. May had thought himself bound to speak of
his son’s designs, but he allowed that the project had been formed under
great distress of mind, and when he saw it treated by so good a man,
as a mere form of disappointed love, he felt himself reprieved from the
hardest sacrifice that he had ever been called on to make, loved little
Meta the better for restoring his son, and once more gave a free course
to the aspirations that Norman’s brilliant boyhood had inspired. Richard
took the same view, and the evening passed away in an argument--as if
any one had been disputing with them--the father reasoning loud, the son
enforcing it low, that it had become Norman’s duty to stay at home to
take care of Meta, whose father would have been horrified at his taking
her to the Antipodes. They saw mighty tasks for her fortune to effect
in England, they enhanced each other’s anticipations of Norman’s career,
overthrew abuses before him, heaped distinctions upon him, and had made
him Prime Minister and settled his policy, before ten o’clock brought
their schemes to a close.

Mary gazed and believed; Margaret lay still and gently assented; Ethel
was silent at first, and only when the fabric became extremely airy and
magnificent, put in her word with a vehement dash at the present abuses,
which grieved her spirit above all, and, whether vulnerable or not,
Norman was to dispose of, like so many giants before Mr. Great-heart.

She went upstairs, unable to analyse her sentiments. To be spared
the separation would be infinite relief--all this prosperity made her
exult--the fair girl at the Grange was the delight of her heart, and yet
there was a sense of falling off; she disliked herself for being either
glad or sorry, and could have quarrelled with the lovers for perplexing
her feelings so uncomfortably.

Though she sat up till the party returned, she was inclined to be
supposed in bed, so as to put off the moment of meeting; but Margaret,
who she hoped was asleep, said from her pillow, “Ask dear Norman to let
me give him one kiss.”

She ran down headlong, clutched Norman as he was taking off his
greatcoat, told him that Margaret wanted him, and dragged him up without
letting him go, till she reached the first landing, where she stood
still, saying breathlessly, “New Zealand.”

“If I wished to fail, she would keep me to it.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Ethel, claiming heartily his caress. “I was
wrong to doubt either of you. Now, I know how to feel! But Margaret must
not wait.”

The happy youth, in the flush of love and joy, bent gently, almost
tearfully, down in silence to the white form, half seen in the twilight,
whose hopes had fleeted away from earth, and who was calmly, softly
gliding after them. Hardly a word was uttered, but of all the many
heartfelt thoughts that had passed while the face was pressed into
Margaret’s pillow, and her sympathising arms round the neck, surely none
was ever deeper, than was his prayer and vow that his affection should
be like hers, unearthly, and therefore enduring.

The embrace was all; Margaret must not be agitated, and, indeed, the
events of the day had been too much for her, and the ensuing morning
brought the fluttering of heart and prostration of strength, no longer
a novelty and occasion of immediate terror, but the token of the waning
power of life.

Till she was better, her father had no thoughts for aught else, but,
as with many another invalid, the relief from present distress was as
cheering as if it had been recovery, and ere night, her placid look
of repose had returned, and she was devising pretty greetings for her
newest Daisy.

Perhaps the sobering effect of these hours of anxiety was in Norman’s
favour, on entering into conversation with his father. Those visions,
which had had their swing the night before, belonged to the earlier,
more untamed period of Dr. May’s life, and had melted away in the dim
room, made sacred by lingering mementos of his wife, and in the sound of
that panting breath and throbbing heart. His vehemence had been, after
all, chiefly against his own misgivings, and when he heard of his son’s
resolution, and Meta’s more than acquiescence, he was greatly touched,
and recurred to his kind, sorrowful promise, that he would never be
a stumbling-block in the path of his children. Still he owned himself
greatly allured by the career proposed by Lord Cosham, and thought
Norman should consider the opportunities of doing good in, perhaps, a
still more important and extensive field than that which he had chosen.

“Time was that I should have grasped at such a prospect,” said Norman;
“but I am not the man for it. I have too much ambition, and too little
humility. You know, father, how often you have had to come to my rescue,
when I was running after success as my prime object.”

“Vanity fair is a dangerous place, but you who have sound principles and
pure motives--”

“How long would my motives be pure?” said Norman. “Rivalry and
party-spirit make me distrust my motives, and then my principles feel
the shock. Other men are marked by station for such trials, and may be
carried through them, but I am not.”

“Yet some of these men are far from your equals.”

“Not perhaps in speechifying,” said Norman, smiling; “but in steadiness
of aim, in patience, in callousness, in seeing one side of the question
at once.”

“You judge rightly for your own peace; you will be the happier; I always
doubted whether you had nerve to make your wits available.”

“It may be cowardice,” said Norman, “but I think not. I could burn for
the combat; and if I had no scruples, I could enjoy bearing down such
as--”

Of course Dr. May burst in with a political name, and--“I wish you were
at him!”

“Whether I could is another matter,” said Norman, laughing; “but the
fact is, that I stand pledged; and if I embraced what to me would be
a worldly career, I should be running into temptation, and could not
expect to be shielded from it.”

“Your old rule,” said Dr. May. “Seek to be less rather than more. But
there is another choice. Why not a parsonage at home?”

“Pleasant parishes are not in the same need,” said Norman.

“I wonder what poor old Rivers would say to you, if he knew what you
want to do with his daughter! Brought up as she has been--to expose her
to the roughness of a colonial life, such as I should hesitate about for
your sisters.”

“It is her own ardent desire.”

“True, but are girlish enthusiasms to be trusted? Take care, Norman,
take care of her--she is a bit of the choicest porcelain of human kind,
and not to be rudely dealt with.”

“No, indeed, but she has the brave enterprising temper, to which I fully
believe that actual work, in a good cause, is far preferable to what she
calls idleness. I do not believe that we are likely to meet with more
hardship than she would gladly encounter, and would almost--nay, quite
enjoy.”

“You do not know what your aunt has had to go through.”

“A few years make a great difference in a colony. Still, it may be right
for me to go out alone and judge for her; but we shall know more if my
aunt comes home.”

“Yes, I could trust a good deal to her. She has much of your mother’s
sense. Well, you must settle it as you can with Meta’s people! I do not
think they love the pretty creature better than I have done from the
first minute we saw her--don’t you remember it, Norman?”

“Remember it? Do I not? From the frosted cedar downwards! It was the
first gem of spring in that dreary winter. What a Fairyland the Grange
was to me!”

“You may nearly say the same of me,” confessed Dr. May, smiling; “the
sight of that happy little sunny spirit, full of sympathy and sweetness,
always sent me brighter on my way. Wherever you may be, Norman, I am
glad you have her, being one apt to need a pocket sunbeam.”

“I hope my tendencies are in no danger of depressing her!” said Norman,
startled. “If so--”

“No such thing--she will make a different man of you. You have been
depressed by--that early shock, and the gap at our own fireside--all
that we have shared together, Norman. To see you begin on a new score,
with a bright home of your own, is the best in this world that I could
wish for you, though I shall live over my own twenty-two years in
thinking of you, and that sweet little fairy. But now go, Norman--she
will be watching for you and news of Margaret. Give her all sorts of
love from me.”

Norman fared better with the uncle than he had expected. Lord Cosham, as
a philanthropist, could not, with any consistency, set his face against
missions, even when the cost came so near home; and he knew that
opposition made the like intentions assume a heroic aspect that
maintained them in greater force. He therefore went over the subject
in a calm dispassionate manner, which exacted full and grateful
consideration from the young man.

The final compromise was, that nothing should be settled for a year,
during which Norman would complete his course of study, and the matter
might be more fully weighed. Mrs. Arnott would probably return, and
bring experience and judgment, which would, or ought to, decide the
question--though Meta had a secret fear that it might render it more
complicated than ever. However, the engagement and the mission views had
both been treated so much more favourably than could have been hoped,
that they felt themselves bound to be patient and forbearing. As Meta
said, “If they showed themselves wilful children, they certainly did not
deserve to be trusted anywhere.”

Lord Cosham made his niece listen to a kind exhortation not to press her
influence towards a decision that might be repented, when too late to be
repaired, without a degrading sense of failure--putting her in mind of
the privations that would lose romance by their pettiness, and which
money could not remedy; and very sensibly representing that the effect
of these on temper and health was to be duly considered as a serious
impediment to usefulness.

“It would be worse for him alone,” said Meta.

“That is not certain,” said her uncle. “A broken-down wife is a terrible
drag.”

“I know it is so,” said Meta firmly, “but risks must be run, and he is
willing to take the chance. I do not think it can be presumption, for,
you know, I am strong; and Dr. May would say if he could not warrant me.
I fancy household work would be more satisfactory and less tiring than
doing a season thoroughly, and I mean to go through a course of Finchley
manuals in preparation.”

“I hope you know what you are doing,” sighed her uncle. “You see it all
couleur de rose.”

“I think not. It is because it is not couleur de rose that I am so much
bent upon it. I have had plenty of that all my life. I expect much that
will be very disagreeable and not at all heroic; but if I can only make
Norman think it fun, that will be one purpose answered. I do believe he
will do his work better for having me, and, at least, I shall pay his
passage.”

Her uncle shook his head, but did not try to say any more. George
had begun by loud exclamations against the project, in which he was
vehemently abetted by Tom, who primed him with all sorts of outrageous
abuse of the niggers and cannibals, who would make Norman’s coats out of
all shape, and devour little Meta at a mouthful--predictions which Meta
accepted most merrily, talking of herself so resignedly, as bound upon
a spit, and calling out to be roasted slower and faster, that she safely
conducted off their opposition by way of a standing joke. As to Norman’s
coats, she threatened to make them herself, and silenced Tom for ever
by supposing, in malicious simplicity, that he must be able to teach her
the most unexceptional cut.

Flora kept her opinions to herself. Only once, when urged to
remonstrate, she said, “I could not--I would not.”

She was gently and touchingly considerate towards the lovers, silently
but unobtrusively obviating all that could jar on their feelings, and
employing her exquisite tact in the kindest manner.

She released Meta from the expedition to Ryde, silencing scruples on
the one hand, by a suggestion of “poor Sir Henry,” and, on the other,
by offering to exchange her for Mary. The first proposal made Mary take
such a spring in her chair, with eyes so round, and cheeks so red, and
such a shriek about Harry and the Bucephalus, that no one could have
borne to say one word in opposition, even if it had not been the opinion
of the Council that sea air would best repair Mary’s strength.

Ethel had some private fears of a scene, since it was one of Miss
Bracy’s idiosyncrasies to be hurt whenever Mary was taken out of her
hands; and she went to announce the design, in dread lest this shock
should destroy the harmony that had prevailed for many months; nay, she
almost believed, since the loss of the Alcestis had been known.

She was agreeably surprised. Miss Bracy thought Mary in need of the
change, and discussed both her and Blanche in so pleasant and sensible
a manner, that Ethel was quite relieved. She partook in Mary’s
anticipations of pleasure, forwarded her preparations, and was delighted
with her promise of letters--promises that Mary bestowed so largely,
in the fullness of her heart, that there were fears lest her whole time
should be spent in writing.

Her soft heart indulged in a shower of tears when she wished them all
good-bye; and Ethel and Blanche found the house was very empty without
her; but that was only till Meta came in from a walk with Norman, and,
under the plea of trying to supply Mary’s place, did the work of five
Maries, and a great deal besides.

Nothing could be happier than Meta’s visit, brightening the house so
that the Mays thought they had never known half her charms, helping
whatever was going on, yet ready to play with Daisy, tell stories to
Aubrey, hear Tom’s confidences, talk to Margaret, read with Norman, and
teach Richard singing for his school children. The only vexation was,
that every one could not always engross her entirely; and Dr. May used
to threaten that they should never spare her to that long-legged fellow,
Norman.

She had persuaded Bellairs to go and take care of Flora and Mary,
instead of the French maid--a plan which greatly satisfied Margaret, who
had never liked the looks of Coralie, and which Meta held to be a grand
emancipation. She persuaded old nurse to teach her to be useful, and
Margaret used to declare that she witnessed scenes as good as a play in
her room, where the little dexterous scholar, apparently in jest, but
really in sober, earnest, wiled instruction from the old woman; and made
her experiments, between smiles and blushes, and merrily glorying in
results that promised that she would be a notable housewife. Whether
it were novelty or not, she certainly had an aptitude and delight in
domestic details, such as Ethel never could attain; and, as Dr. May
said, the one performed by a little finger what the other laboured at
with a great mind.

In the schoolroom, Meta was as highly appreciated. She found an hour
for helping Blanche in her music, and for giving, what was still more
useful, an interest and spirit to studies, where, it must be owned, poor
good Mary had been a dead weight. She enlivened Miss Bracy so much, and
so often contrived a walk or a talk with her, that the saucy Blanche
told Hector that she thought Ethel would be quite second-fiddle with
Miss Bracy.

No such thing. Miss Bracy’s great delight was in having a listener
for her enthusiasm about Miss Ethel. She had been lately having a
correspondence with a former school-fellow, who was governess in a
family less considerate than the Mays, and who poured out, in her
letters, feelings much like those with which Miss Bracy had begun.

Nothing could be more salutary than to find herself repeating all
Ethel’s pieces of advice; and, one day, when her friend had been more
distressed than usual, she called Ethel herself, to consult on her
answer, owning how much she was reminded of herself.

“Indeed,” she added, “I am afraid it would only tease you to hear how
much I am indebted to your decision and kindness--”

“Nay,” said Ethel, laughing her awkward laugh. “You have often had to
forget my savage ways.”

“Pray don’t say that--”

“I think,” said Ethel, breaking in, “the philosophy is this: I believe
that it is a trying life. I know teaching takes a great deal out of
one; and loneliness may cause tendencies to dwell on fancied slights in
trifles, that might otherwise be hurried over. But I think the thing
is, to pass them over, and make a conscience of turning one’s mind to
something fresh--”

“As you made me do, when you brought me amusing books, and taught me
botany--”

“And, still more, when you took to working for the infant school. Yes, I
think the way to be happy and useful is to get up many interests, so as
to be fresh and vigorous, and think not at all of personalities. There’s
a truism!”

“Very true, though,” said Miss Bracy. “Indeed, all your kindness and
consideration would never have done me half the good they have, dear
Miss Ethel, if you had not taught me that referring all to one’s own
feelings and self is the way to be unhappy.”

“Just so,” said Ethel. “It is the surest way for any one to be
miserable.”

“If I could only persuade poor dear Ellen to think that even if a slight
were real, it ought to be borne forgivingly, and not brooded over. Ah!
you are laughing; perhaps you have said the same about me.”

“You would forgive it now, I think,” said Ethel.

“I never thought I did not forgive. I did not see that brooding over
vexations was not pardoning them. I have told her so now; and, oh! if
she could but have seen how true sorrows are borne here, she would be
cured, like me, of making imaginary ones.”

“None could help being better for living with papa,” said Ethel.

Ethel made Miss Bracy happy by a kiss before she left her. It was a
cheering belief that, whatever the future trials of her life might
be, the gentle little lady would meet them with a healthier mind, more
vigorous in overlooking troubles and without punctilious sensitiveness
on the lookout for affronts. “Believing all things, bearing all things,
hoping all things, enduring all things,” would be to her the true secret
of serenity of spirits.

Ethel might not have been blameless or consistent in her dealings in
this difficult intercourse, but her kind heart, upright intention, and
force of character, had influence far beyond her own perception. Indeed,
she knew not that she had personal influence at all, but went on in her
own straightforward humility.




CHAPTER XXIV.



     “Enough of foresight sad, too much
      Of retrospect have I;
     And well for me, that I, sometimes,
      Can put those feelings by.

     There speaks the man we knew of yore,
      Well pleased, I hear them say;
     Such was he, in his lighter moods,
      Before our heads were gray.

     Buoyant he was in spirit, quick
      Of fancy, light of heart;
     And care, and time, and change have left
      Untouch’d his better part.”--SOUTHEY.


Etheldred May and Meta Rivers were together in the drawing-room. The
timepiece pointed towards ten o’clock, but the tea-things were on the
table, prepared for a meal, the lamp shone with a sort of consciousness,
and Ethel moved restlessly about, sometimes settling her tea equipage,
sometimes putting away a stray book, or resorting by turns to her book,
or to work a red and gold scroll on coarse canvas, on the other end of
which Meta was employed.

“Nervous, Ethel?” said Meta, looking up with a merry provoking smile,
knowing how much the word would displease.

“That is for you,” retorted Ethel, preferring to carry the war into the
enemy’s quarters. “What, don’t you know that prudent people say that
your fate depends on her report?”

“At least,” said Meta, laughing; “she is a living instance that every
one is not eaten up, and we shall see if she fulfils Tom’s prediction
of being tattooed, or of having a slice out of the fattest part of her
cheek.”

“I know very well,” said Ethel, “the worst she said it would be, the
more you would go.”

“Not quite that,” said Meta, blushing, and looking down.

“Come, don’t be deceitful!” said Ethel. “You know very well that you are
still more bent on it than you were last year.”

“To be sure I am!” said Meta, looking up with a sudden beamy flash of
her dark eyes. “Norman and I know each other so much better now,” she
added, rather falteringly.

“Ay! I know you are ready to go through thick and thin, and that is
why I give my consent and approbation. You are not to be stopped for
nonsense.”

“Not for nonsense, certainly,” said Meta, “but”--and her voice became
tremulous--“if Dr. May deliberately said it would be wrong, and that I
should be an encumbrance and perplexity, I am making up my mind to the
chance.”

“But what would you do?” asked Ethel.

“I don’t know. You should not ask such questions, Ethel.”

“Well! it won’t happen, so it is no use to talk about it,” said Ethel.
“Fancy my having made you cry.”

“Very silly of me,” said Meta, brightening and laughing, but sighing. “I
am only afraid Mrs. Arnott may think me individually unfit for the kind
of life, as if I could not do what other women can. Do I look so?”

“You look as if you were meant to be put under a glass case!” said
Ethel, surveying the little elegant figure, whose great characteristic
was a look of exquisite finish, not only in the features and colouring,
the turn of the head, and the shape of the small rosy-tipped fingers,
but in everything she wore, from the braids of black silk hair, to the
little shoe on her foot, and even in the very lightness and gaiety of
her movements.

“Oh, Ethel!” cried Meta, springing up in dismay, and looking at herself
in the glass. “What is the matter with me? Do tell me!”

“You’ll never get rid of it,” said Ethel, “unless you get yourself
tattooed! Even separation from Bellairs hasn’t answered. And, after all,
I don’t think it would be any satisfaction to Norman or papa. I assure
you, Meta, whatever you may think of it, it is not so much bother to be
prettier than needful, as it is to be uglier than needful.”

“What is needful?” said Meta, much amused.

“I suppose to be like Mary, so that nobody should take notice of one,
but that one’s own people may have the satisfaction of saying, ‘she
is pleasing,’ or ‘she is in good looks.’ I think Gertrude will come to
that. That’s one comfort.”

“That is your own case, Ethel. I have heard those very things said of
you.”

“Of my hatchet face!” said Ethel contemptuously. “Some one must have
been desperately bent on flattering the Member’s family.”

“I could repeat more,” said Meta, “if I were to go back to the
Commemoration, and to the day you went home.”

Ethel crimsoned, and made a sign with her hand, exclaiming, “Hark!”

“It went past.”

“It was the omnibus. She must be walking down!” Ethel breathed short,
and wandered aimlessly about; Meta put her arm round her waist.

“I did not think this would be so much to you,” she said.

“Oh, Meta, it seems like dear mamma coming to see how we have been going
on. And then papa! I wish I had gone up to the station with him.”

“He has Richard.”

“Ay, but I am afraid Margaret is listening and will be restless, and
have a palpitation; and I can’t go and see, or I shall disturb her. Oh,
I wish it were over.”

Meta stroked her, and soothed her, and assured her that all would do
well, and presently they heard the click of the door. Ethel flew into
the hall, where she stopped short, her heart beating high at the sound
of overpoweringly familiar accents.

She was almost relieved by detecting otherwise little resemblance; the
height was nearly the same, but there was not the plump softness of
outline. Mrs. Arnott was small, thin, brisk and active, with a vivacious
countenance, once evidently very fair and pretty, but aged and worn by
toil, not trouble, for the furrows were the traces of smiles around her
merry mouth, and beautiful blue eyes, that had a tendency lo laugh and
cry both at once. Dr. May who had led her into the light, seemed to be
looking her all over, while Richard was taking the wraps from her, and
Ethel tried to encourage herself to go forward.

“Ay!” said the doctor, kissing her. “I see you, Flora, now. I have found
you again.”

“I found you as soon as I heard your voice, Richard,” said she. “And now
for the bairnies.”

“Here is one, but there is but a poor show forthcoming to-night. Do you
know her?”

There was an unspeakable joy in being pressed in Aunt Flora’s arms, like
a returning beam from the sunshine of seven years ago.

“This must be Ethel! My dear, how you tower above me--you that I left in
arms! And,” as she advanced into the drawing-room--“why, surely this is
not Margaret!”

“A Margaret--not the Margaret. I wish I were,” said Meta, as Mrs. Arnott
stood with an arm on her shoulder, in the midst of an embrace, Dr. May
enjoying her perplexity and Meta’s blushes. “See, Flora, these black
locks never belonged to Calton Hill daisies, yet a daisy of my own she
is. Can’t you guess?”

“Miss Rivers!” exclaimed Mrs. Arnott; and though she kissed her
cordially, Meta suspected a little doubt and disappointment.

“Yes,” said Dr. May. “We change Mary for this little woman as Flora’s
lady-in-waiting, when she and her husband go out yachting and shooting.”

“Flora and her husband! There’s a marvellous sound! Where are they?”

“They are staying at Eccleswood Castle,” said Ethel; “and Mary with
them. They would have been at home to receive you, but your note
yesterday took us all by surprise. Norman is away too, at a college
meeting.”

“And Margaret--my Margaret! Does not she come downstairs?”

“Ah! poor dear,” said Dr. May, “she has not been in this room since that
sultry day in July.”

“The eighteenth,” said Richard; the precision of the date marking but
too well the consciousness that it was an epoch.

“We can keep her quieter upstairs,” said Dr. May; “but you must not see
her to-night. She will enjoy you very much to-morrow; but excitement at
night always does her harm, so we put her to bed, and told her to think
about no one.”

Mrs. Arnott looked at him as if longing, but dreading, to ask further,
and allowed her nephew and niece to seat her at the table, and attend to
her wants, before she spoke again. “Then the babies.”

“We don’t keep babies, Gertrude would tell you,” said Dr. May. “There
are three great creatures, whom Ethel barbarously ordered off to bed.
Ethel is master here, you must know, Flora--we all mind what she says.”

“Oh, papa,” pleaded Ethel, distressed, “you know it was because I
thought numbers might be oppressive.”

“I never dispute,” said Dr. May. “We bow to a beneficial despotism, and
never rebel, do we, Meta?”

Seeing that Ethel took the imputation to heart, Meta rejoined, “You are
making Mrs. Arnott think her the strong-minded woman of the family, who
winds up the clock and cuts the bread.”

“No; that she makes you do, when the boys are away.”

“Of course,” said Ethel, “I can’t be vituperated about hunches of bread.
I have quite enough to bear on the score of tea.”

“Your tea is very good,” said Richard.

“See how they propitiate her,” maliciously observed the doctor.

“Not at all; it is Richard standing up for his pupil,” said Ethel. “It
is all very well now, with people who know the capacities of mortal tea;
but the boys expect it to last from seven o’clock to ten, through an
unlimited number of cups, till I have announced that a teapot must
be carved on my tombstone, with an epitaph, ‘Died of unreasonable
requirements.’”

Mrs. Arnott looked from one to the other, amused, observant, and
perceiving that they were all under that form of shyness which brings up
family wit to hide embarrassment or emotion.

“Is Harry one of these unreasonable boys?” she asked. “My dear Harry--I
presume Ethel has not sent him to bed. Is there any hope of my seeing
him?”

“Great hope,” said Dr. May. “He has been in the Baltic fleet, a pretty
little summer trip, from which we expect him to return any day. My old
Lion! I am glad you had him for a little while, Flora.

“Dear fellow! his only fault was being homesick, and making me catch the
infection.”

“I am glad you did not put off your coming,” said Dr. May gravely.

“You are in time for the consecration,” said Richard.

“Ah! Cocksmoor! When will it take place?”

“On St. Andrew’s Day. It is St. Andrew’s Church, and the bishop
fixed the day, otherwise it is a disappointment that Hector cannot be
present.”

“Hector?”

“Hector Ernescliffe--poor Alan’s brother, whom we don’t well know from
ourselves.”

“And you are curate, Ritchie?” said his aunt--“if I may still call you
so. You are not a bit altered from the mouse you used to be.”

“Church mouse to Cocksmoor,” said Dr. May, “nearly as poor. We are to
invest his patrimony in a parsonage as soon as our architect in ordinary
can find time for it. Spencer--you remember him?”

“I remember how you and he used to be inseparable! And he has settled
down, at last, by your side?”

“The two old doctors hope to bolster each other up till Mr. Tom
comes down with modern science in full force. That boy will do great
things--he has as clear a head as I ever knew.”

“And more--” said Ethel.

“Ay, as sound a heart. I must find you his tutor’s letter, Flora. They
have had a row in his tutor’s house at Eton, and our boys made a gallant
stand for the right, Tom especially, guarding the little fellows in a
way that does one good to hear of.”

“‘I must express my strong sense of gratitude for his truth,
uprightness, and moral courage,’” quoted Meta.

“Ah, ha! you have learned it by heart! I know you copied it out for
Norman, who has the best right to rejoice.”

“You have a set of children to be proud of, Richard!” exclaimed Mrs.
Arnott.

“To be surprised at--to be thankful for,” said Dr. May, almost
inarticulately.

To see her father so happy with Mrs. Arnott necessarily drew Ethel’s
heart towards her; and, when they had bidden him goodnight, the aunt
instantly assumed a caressing confidence towards Ethel, particularly
comfortable to one consciously backward and awkward, and making her feel
as intimate as if the whole space of her rational life had not elapsed
since their last meeting.

“Must you go, my dear?” said her aunt, detaining her over her fire.
“I can’t tell how to spare you. I want to hear of your dear father. He
looks aged and thin, Ethel, and yet that sweet expression is the same as
ever. Is he very anxious about poor Margaret?”

“Not exactly anxious,” said Ethel mournfully--“there is not much room
for that.”

“My dear Ethel--you don’t mean?--I thought--”

“I suppose we ought to have written more fully,” said Ethel; “but it has
been very gradual, and we never say it to ourselves. She is as bright,
and happy, and comfortable as ever, in general, and, perhaps, may be so
for a long time yet, but each attack weakens her.”

“What kind of attack?”

“Faintness-sinking. It is suspended action of the heart. The injury
to the spine deranged the system, and then the long suspense, and the
shock--It is not one thing more than another, but it must go on. Dr.
Spencer will tell you. You won’t ask papa too much about it?”

“No, indeed. And he bears it--”

“He bears everything. Strength comes up out of his great lovingness.
But, oh! I sometimes long that he may never have any more sorrows.”

“My poor child!” said Mrs. Arnott, putting her arm round her niece’s
waist.

Ethel rested her head on her shoulder. “Aunt Flora! Aunt Flora! If any
words could tell what Margaret has been ever since we were left. Oh,
don’t make me talk or think of ourselves without her. It is wrong to
wish. And when you see her, that dear face of hers will make you happy
in the present. Then,” added Ethel, not able to leave off with such a
subject, “you have our Norman to see.”

“Ah! Norman’s project is too delightful to us; but I fear what it may be
to your father.”

“He gives dear Norman, as his most precious gift, the flower and pride
of us all.”

“But, Ethel, I am quite frightened at Miss Rivers’s looks. Is it
possible that--”

“Aunt Flora,” broke in Ethel, “don’t say a word against it. The choicest
goods wear the best; and whatever woman can do, Meta Rivers can. Norman
is a great tall fellow, as clever as possible, but perfectly feckless.
If you had him there alone, he would be a bee without a queen.”

“Well, but--”

“Listen,” continued Ethel. “Meta is a concentration of spirit and
energy, delights in practical matters, is twice the housewife I am, and
does all like an accomplishment. Between them, they will make a noble
missionary--”

“But she looks--”

“Hush,” continued the niece. “You will think me domineering; but please
don’t give any judgment without seeing; for they look to you as an
arbitrator, and casual words will weigh.”

“Thank you, Ethel; perhaps you are right. When does he think of coming
out?”

“When he is ordained--some time next year.”

“Does she live with you?”

“I suppose she lives with Flora; but we always manage to get her when
Norman is at home.”

“You have told me nothing of Flora or Mary.”

“I have little real to tell. Good old Mary! I dare say Harry talked
to you plentifully of her. She is a--a nice old darling,” said Ethel
fondly. “We want her again very much, and did not quite bargain for the
succession of smart visits that she has been paying.”

“With Flora?”

“Yes. Unluckily George Rivers has taken an aversion to the Grange, and I
have not seen Flora this whole year.”

Ethel stopped short, and said that she must not keep Margaret expecting
her. Perhaps her aunt guessed that she had touched the true chord of
anxiety.

The morning brought a cheering account of Margaret; and Mrs. Arnott was
to see her directly after breakfast. In the meantime, the firm limbs,
blue eyes, and rosy face of Gertrude seemed a fair representation of the
little bride’s-maid, whom she remembered.

A very different niece did she find upstairs, though the smiling,
overflowing eyes, and the fond, eager look of recognition, as if
asking to be taken to her bosom, had in them all the familiarity of old
tenderness. “Auntie! dear auntie! that you should have come back to me
again!”

Mrs. Arnott fondly caressed her, but could not speak at first, for
even her conversation with Ethel had not prepared her for so wasted and
broken an appearance. Dr. May spoke briskly of Margaret’s having behaved
very well and slept like a good child, told Margaret where he had to
go that morning, and pointed out to Mrs. Arnott some relics of herself
still remaining; but the nervous tremulousness of manner did not much
comfort her, although Margaret answered cheerfully. Nothing was so
effectual in composing the aunt as Aubrey’s coming headlong in to
announce the gig, and to explain to Margaret his last design for a
cathedral--drawing plans being just now his favourite sport.

“Architecture is all our rage at present,” said Margaret, as her father
hurried away.

“I am so glad to have come in time for the consecration!” said Mrs.
Arnott, following her niece’s lead. “Is that a model of the church?”

“Oh, yes!” cried Margaret, lighting up. “Richard made it for me.”

“May I show it to Aunt Flora?” said Aubrey.

“Bring it here, if you can lift it,” said Margaret; and, Aunt Flora
helping, the great cumbersome thing was placed beside her, whilst she
smiled and welcomed it like a child, and began an eager exhibition. Was
it not a beautiful little pierced spire?--that was an extravagance of
Dr. Spencer’s own. Papa said he could not ask Captain Gordon to sanction
it--the model did it no justice, but it was so very beautiful in the
rich creamy stone rising up on the moor, and the blue sky looking
through, and it caught the sunset lights so beautifully. So animated was
her description, that Mrs. Arnott could not help asking, “Why, my dear,
when have you seen it?”

“Never,” said Margaret, with her sweet smile. “I have never seen
Cocksmoor; but Dr. Spencer and Meta are always sketching it for me, and
Ethel would not let an effect pass without telling me. I shall hear how
it strikes you next.”

“I hope to see it by and by. What a comfortable deep porch! If we could
build such churches in the colonies, Margaret!”

“See what little Meta will do for you! Yes, we had the porch deep for a
shelter--that is copied from the west door of the minster, and is it
not a fine high-pitched roof? John Taylor, who is to be clerk, could not
understand its being open; he said, when he saw the timbers, that a man
and his family might live up among them. They are noble oak beams; we
would not have any sham--here, Aubrey, take off the roof, and auntie
will see the shape.”

“Like the ribs of a ship,” explained Aubrey, unconscious that the
meaning was deeper than his sister could express, and he continued:
“Such fine oak beams! I rode with Dr. Spencer one day last year to
choose them. It is a two-aisled church, you see, that a third may be
added.”

Ethel came up as Aubrey began to absorb the conversation. “Lessons,
Aubrey,” she said. “So, Margaret, you are over your dear model?”

“Not forestalling you too much I hope, Ethel dear,” said Margaret; “as
you will show her the church itself.”

“You have the best right,” said Ethel; “but come, Aubrey, we must not
dawdle.”

“I will show you the stones I laid myself, Aunt Flora,” said Aubrey,
running off without much reluctance.

“Ethel has him in excellent order,” said Mrs. Arnott.

“That she has; she brings him on beautifully, and makes him enjoy it.
She teaches him arithmetic in some wonderful scientific way that nobody
can understand but Norman, and he not the details; but he says it is all
coming right, and will make him a capital mathematical scholar, though
he cannot add up pounds, shillings, and pence.”

“I expected to be struck with Ethel,” said Mrs. Arnott; “and--”

“Well,” said Margaret, waiting.

“Yes, she does exceed my expectations. There is something curiously
winning in that quaint, quick, decisive manner of hers. There is so much
soul in the least thing she does, as if she could not be indifferent for
a moment.”

“Exactly--exactly so,” said Margaret, delighted. “It is really doing
everything with all her might. Little, simple, everyday matters did not
come naturally to her as to other people, and the having had to make
them duties has taught her to do them with that earnest manner, as
if there were a right and a wrong to her in each little mechanical
household office.”

“Harry described her to me thus,” said Mrs. Arnott, smiling: “‘As to
Ethel, she is an odd fish; but Cocksmoor will make a woman of her after
all.’”

“Quite true!” cried Margaret. “I should not have thought Harry had so
much discernment in those days. Cocksmoor gave the stimulus, and made
Ethel what she is. Look there--over the mantelpiece, are the designs for
the painted glass, all gifts, except the east window. That one of St.
Andrew introducing the lad with the loaves and fishes is Ethel’s window.
It is the produce of the hoard she began this time seven years, when
she had but one sovereign in the world. She kept steadily on with it,
spending nothing on herself that she could avoid, always intending it
for the church, and it was just enough to pay for this window.”

“Most suitable,” said Mrs. Arnott.

“Yes; Mr. Wilmot and I persuaded her into it; but I do not think she
would have allowed it, if she had seen the application we made of
it--the gift of her girlhood blessed and extended. Dear King Etheldred,
it is the only time I ever cheated her.”

“This is a beautiful east window. And this little one--St. Margaret I
see.”

“Ah! papa would not be denied choosing that for his subject. We
reproached him with legendary saints, and overwhelmed him with
antiquarianism, to show that the Margaret of the dragon was not the
Margaret of the daisy; but he would have it; and said we might thank him
for not setting his heart on St. Etheldreda.”

“This one?”

“That is mine,” said Margaret, very low; and her aunt abstained from
remark, though unable to look, without tears, at the ship of the
Apostles, the calming of the storm, and the scroll, with the verse:


         He bringeth them unto the haven where they would be.


Beneath were the initials, “A. H. E.,” and the date of the year, the
only memorials of the founder.

Margaret next drew attention to St. Andrew with his cross--Meta’s gift.
“And, besides,” she said, “George Rivers made us a beautiful present,
which Meta hunted up. Old Mr. Rivers, knowing no better, once bought all
the beautiful carved fittings of a chapel in France, meaning to fit up
a library with them; but, happily, he never did, and a happy notion came
into Meta’s head, so she found them out, and Dr. Spencer has adapted
them, and set them all to rights; and they are most exquisite. You never
saw such foliage.”

Thus Margaret proceeded with the description of everything in the
church, and all the little adventures of the building, as if she could
not turn away from the subject; and her aunt listened and wondered, and,
when called away, that Margaret might rest before nurse came to dress
her, she expressed her wonder to Meta.

“Yes,” was the answer; “it is her chief occupation and interest. I do
not mean that she has not always her own dear full sympathy for every
one’s concerns, but Cocksmoor is her concern, almost more than even
Ethel’s. I think she could chronicle every stage in the building better
than Dr. Spencer himself, and it is her daily delight to hear his
histories of his progress. And not only with the church but the people;
she knows all about every family; Richard and Ethel tell her all their
news; she talks over the school with the mistress every Sunday, and
you cannot think what a feeling there is for her at Cocksmoor. A kind
message from Miss May has an effect that the active workers cannot
always produce.”

Mrs. Arnott saw that Meta was right, when, in the afternoon, she walked
with her nieces to see Cocksmoor. It was not a desolate sight as in
old times, for the fair edifice, rising on the slope, gave an air of
protection to the cottages, which seemed now to have a centre of unity,
instead of lying forlorn and scattered. Nor were they as wretched in
themselves, for the impulse of civilisation had caused windows to be
mended and railings to be tidied, and Richard promoted, to the utmost,
cottage gardening, so that, though there was an air of poverty, there
was no longer an appearance of reckless destitution and hopeless
neglect.

In the cottages, Mrs. Taylor had not entirely ceased to speak with a
piteous voice, even though she told of the well-doing of her girls at
service; but Granny Hall’s merry content had in it something now of
principle, and Sam had married a young Fordholm wife, who promised to
be a pattern for Cocksmoor. Every one asked after Miss May, with a
tenderness and affection that Mrs. Arnott well appreciated; and when
they went into the large fresh school, where Richard was hearing a
class, Cherry Elwood looked quite cheered and enlivened by hearing
that she had been able to enjoy seeing her aunt. Mrs. Arnott was set to
enlighten the children about the little brown girls whom she was wont
to teach, and came away with a more brilliant impression of their
intelligence than she might have had, if she had not come to them fresh
from the Antipodes.

She had to tell Margaret all her impressions on her return, and very
pretty smiles repaid her commendations. She understood better the
constant dwelling on the subject, as she perceived how little capable
Margaret was of any employment. The book, the writing materials, and
work-basket were indeed placed by her side, but very seldom did the
feeble fingers engage in any of the occupations once so familiar--now
and then a pencilled note would be sent to Flora, or to Hector
Ernescliffe, or a few stitches be set in her work, or a page or two
turned of a book, but she was far more often perfectly still, living,
assuredly in no ordinary sphere of human life, but never otherwise than
cheerful, and open to the various tidings and interests which, as Ethel
had formerly said, shifted before her like scenes in a magic lantern,
and, perhaps, with less of substance than in those earlier days, when
her work among them was not yet done, and she was not, as it were, set
aside from them. They were now little more than shadows reflected from
the world whence she was passing.

Yet her home was not sad. When Dr. Spencer came in the evening, and
old Edinburgh stories were discussed, Dr. May talked with spirit, and
laughed with the merry note that Mrs. Amott so well remembered, and Meta
Rivers chimed in with her gay, saucy repartees, nor, though Richard was
always silent, and Ethel’s brow seemed to bear a weight of thought, did
it seem as if their spirits were depressed; while there was certainly no
restraint on the glee of Blanche, Aubrey, and Gertrude, who were running
into Margaret’s room, and making as much noise there as they chose.

Mrs. Arnott was at home with the whole family from the first, and in
every one’s confidence; but what she enjoyed above all was, the
sitting in Margaret’s room in the morning, when there was no danger
of interruption, the three children being all safe captives to their
lessons, and Meta, in Richard’s workshop, illuminating texts on zinc
scrolls for the church.

Margaret came out more in these interviews. It had been a kind of
shyness that made her talk so exclusively of the church at the first
meeting; she had now felt her way, and knew again--and realised--the
same kind aunt with whom she had parted in her childhood, and now far
dearer, since she herself was better able to appreciate her, and with
a certain resemblance to her mother, that was unspeakably precious and
soothing to one deprived, as Margaret had been, at the commencement of
her illness and anxiety.

She could hardly see her aunt come near her, without thanking her for
having come home, and saying how every time she awoke it was with the
sense that something was comfortable, then remembering it was Aunt
Flora’s being in the house. She seemed to have a feeling, as if telling
everything to her aunt were like rendering up her account to her mother,
and, at different times, she related the whole, looking back on the
various decisions she had had to make or to influence, and reviewing
her own judgments, though often with self-blame, not with acuteness
of distress, but rather with a humble trust in the Infinite Mercy that
would atone for all shortcomings and infirmities, truly sorrowed for.

On the whole it was a peaceful and grateful retrospect; the brothers all
doing so well in their several ways, and such a comfort to their father.
Tom, concerning whom she had made the greatest mistake, might be looked
upon as rescued by Norman. Aubrey, Margaret said, smiling, was Ethel’s
child, and had long been off her mind; Hector, to her quite a brother,
would miss her almost more than her own brothers, but good honest
fellow, he had a home here; and, whispered Margaret, smiling and glowing
a little, “don’t tell any one, for it is a secret of secrets. Hector
told me one evening that, if he could be very steady, he hoped he might
yet have Blanche at Maplewood. Poor little White Mayflower, it won’t
be for want of liking on her part, and she so blushes and watches
when Hector comes near, that I sometimes think that he might have said
something like it to her.”

Mrs. Arnott gave no opinion on the plan for Norman and Meta; but
Margaret, however, took all for granted, and expressed warm hopes for
their sakes, that they would go out with Mrs. Arnott; then, when the
suggestion seemed to astonish her aunt, who thought they were waiting
for his ordination, she said, “The fact is, that he would like to be
ordained where he is to work; but I believe they do not like to say
anything about the wedding because of me. Now, of all persons, I must
chiefly rejoice in what may help to teach in those islands. I cannot
bear to be a hindrance. Whatever happens, Aunt Flora, will you take care
that they know this?”

As to her father, Margaret was at rest. He had much more calmness than
when he was more new to grief, and could bear far more patiently and
hopefully than at first. He lived more on his affections above, and
much as he loved those below, he did not rest in them as once, and could
better afford to have been removed. “Besides,” said Margaret serenely,
“it has been good for him to have been gradually weaned from depending
on me, so that it is Ethel who is really necessary to him.”

For herself, Margaret was perfectly content and happy. She knew the
temptation of her character had been to be the ruler and manager of
everything, and she saw it had been well for her to have been thus
assigned the part of Mary rather than of Martha. She remembered with
thankful joy the engagement with Alan Ernescliffe, and though she still
wore tokens of mourning for him, it was with a kind of pleasure in them.
There had been so little promise of happiness from the first, that there
was far more peace in thinking of him as sinking into rest in Harry’s
arms, than as returning to grieve over her decline; and that last gift
of his, the church, had afforded her continual delight, and above all
other earthly pursuits, smoothed away the languor and weariness of
disease, as she slowly sank to join him. Now that her aunt had come to
bring back a sunbeam of her childhood, Margaret declared that she had no
more grief or care, except one, and that a very deep and sad one--namely
poor Flora.

Mrs. Arnott had at first been inclined to fear that her goddaughter was
neglecting her own family, since she had not been at home this whole
year, but the slightest betrayal of this suspicion roused Margaret to
an eager defence. She had not a doubt that Flora would gladly have been
with her, but she believed that she was not acting by her own choice,
or more truly, that her husband was so devoted to her, that she felt the
more bound to follow his slightest wishes, however contrary to her own.
The season had been spent in the same whirl that had, last year,
been almost beyond human power, even when stimulated by enjoyment
and success; and now, when her spirits were lowered, and her health
weakened, Meta had watched and trembled for her, though never able
to obtain an avowal that it was an overstrain, and while treated most
affectionately, never admitted within her barrier of reserve.

“If I could see poor Flora comforted, or if even she would only let me
enter into her troubles,” Margaret said, sighing, “I should be content.”

The consecration day came near, and the travellers began to return. Meta
was in a state of restlessness, which in her was very pretty, under the
disguise of a great desire to be useful. She fluttered about the house,
visited Margaret, played with Gertrude, set the drawing-room ornaments
to rights--a task which Ethel was very glad to depute to her, and made
a great many expeditions into the garden to put together autumn nosegays
for the vases--finally discovering that Ethel’s potichomanie vases on
the staircase window must have some red and brown leaves.

She did not come back quite so soon with them, and Mrs. Arnott, slyly
looking out of window, reported, “Ha! he is come then! At least, I see
the little thing has found--”

“Something extremely unlike itself,” said Dr. May, laughing. “Something
I could easily set down as a student at Edinburgh; thirty years ago.
That’s the very smile! I remember dear Maggie being more angry than I
ever saw her before, because Mr. Fleet said that you smiled to show your
white teeth.”

“That is the best shadow of Maggie I ever saw,” said Dr. May. “She has
taught the lad to smile. That is what I call a pretty sight!”

“Come, Richard, it is a shame for old folks like us to stand spying
them!”

“They care very little for me,” said Dr. May, “but I shall have them
in. Cold winds blowing about that little head! Ah! here they are. Fine
leaves you gather, miss! Very red and brown.”

Meta rather liked, than otherwise, those pretty teasings of Dr. May,
but they always made Norman colour extremely, and he parried them by
announcing news. “No, not the Bucephalus, a marriage in high life, a
relation.”

“Not poor Mary!” cried Ethel.

“Mary! what could make you think of her?”

“As a hen thinks of her ducklings when they go into waters beyond her
ken,” said Ethel. “Well, as long as it is not Mary, I don’t care!”

“High life!” repeated Meta. “Oh, it can be only Agatha Langdale.”

“There’s only Lord Cosham further to guess,” said Ethel.

“Eh! why not young Ogilvie?” said Dr. May. “I am right, I see. Well, who
is the lady?”

“A Miss Dunbar--a nice girl that I met at Glenbracken. Her property fits
in with theirs, and I believe his father has been wishing it for a long
time.”

“It does not sound too romantic,” said Meta.

“He writes as if he had the sense of having been extremely dutiful,”
 said Norman.

“No doubt thinking it needful in addressing a namesake, who has had an
eye to the main chance,” said the doctor. “Don’t throw stones, young
people.”

“Well!” exclaimed Meta; “he did not look as if he would go and do such a
stupid thing as that!”

“Probably, it is anything but a stupid thing,” said Dr. May.

“You are using him very ill among you,” said Norman eagerly. “I believe
her to be excellent in every way; he has known her from childhood;
he writes as if he were perfectly contented, and saw every chance of
happiness.”

“None the less for having followed his father’s wishes--I am glad he
did,” said Ethel, coming to her brother’s side.

“I dare say you are right,” was Meta’s answer; “but I am disappointed in
him. He always promised to come and stay with you, and made such friends
at Oxford, and he never came.”

“I fancy there was a good deal to hinder him,” said Norman; and, as Mrs.
Arnott proceeded to inquiries after the Ogilvies in general, the master
of Glenbracken was allowed to drop.

Meta, however, renewed the subject when walking to the minster that
evening with Norman.

“You may defend Mr. Ogilvie, Norman, but it is not what I should have
expected from him. Why did he make promises, and then neglect his
relations?”

“I believe that conscientiously he did not dare to come,” said Norman.
“I know that he was greatly struck with Ethel at the time of the
Commemoration, and therefore I could never again press him to come
here.”

“Oh, Norman, you hard-hearted monster! What a bad conductor!”

“I do not wish to be a conductor,” said Norman. “If you had seen
Glenbracken and the old people, you would perceive that it would not
have been suitable on our part to promote anything of the kind.”

“Would they have been so violent?”

“Not violent, but it would have been a severe struggle. They are good,
kind people, but with strong prejudices; and, though I have no doubt
they would have yielded to steady attachment on their son’s part,
and such conduct as Ethel’s would have been, I could not lead in that
direction.”

“Is that pride, Norman?”

“I hope not.”

“It is doing by others as you were doing by yourself,” half whispered
Meta; “but, after all, if he had no constancy, Ethel had an escape.”

“I was afraid that she had been rather touched, but I am glad to find
myself mistaken.”

“If you thought so, how could you make such a public announcement?”

He laughed. “I had made myself so nervous as to the effect, that,
in desperation, I took her own way, and came out at once with it as
unconsciously as I could.”

“Very naturally you acted unconsciousness! It was better than insulting
her by seeming to condole. Not that I do, though, for she deserves more
steadiness than he has shown! If a man could appreciate her at all, I
should have thought that it would have been once and for ever.”

“Remember, he had barely known her a fortnight, and probably had no
reason to believe that he had made any impression on her. He knew how
such an attachment would grieve his parents, and, surely, he was acting
dutifully, and with self-denial and consideration, in not putting
himself in the way of being further attracted.”

“Umph! You make a good defence, Norman, but I cannot forgive him for
marrying somebody else, who cannot be Ethel’s equal.”

“She is a good little girl; he will form her, and be very happy; perhaps
more so than with a great soul and strong nature like Ethel’s.”

“Only he is a canny Scot, and not a Dr. Spencer!”

“Too short acquaintance! besides, there were the parents. Moreover, what
would become of home without Ethel?”

“The unanswerable argument to make one contented,” said Meta. “And,
certainly, to be wife to a Member of Parliament is not so very
delightful that one would covet it for her.”

“Any more than she does for herself.”

Norman was right in his view of his friend’s motives, as well as of
Ethel’s present feelings. If there had ever been any disappointment
about Norman Ogilvie, it had long since faded away. She had never given
away the depths of her heart, though the upper surface had been stirred.
All had long subsided, and she could think freely of him as an
agreeable cousin, in whose brilliant public career she should always be
interested, without either a wish to partake it, or a sense of injury
or neglect. She had her vocation, in her father, Margaret, the children,
home, and Cocksmoor; her mind and affections were occupied, and she
never thought of wishing herself elsewhere.

The new church and the expected return of her sisters engrossed many
more of her thoughts than did anything relating to Glenbracken.

She could not bear to talk of Flora, though almost as uneasy as was
Margaret; and not able to lay aside misgivings, lest even her good
simple Mary might have had her head turned by gaiety.

Mr. and Mrs. Rivers arrived on the Saturday before the Tuesday fixed
for the consecration, and stopped on their way, that they might see
Margaret, deposit Mary, and resume Meta.

It was a short visit, and all that Ethel could discover was, that Flora
was looking very ill, no longer able to conceal the worn and fagged
expression of her countenance, and evidently dreadfully shocked by the
sight of the havoc made by disease on Margaret’s frame. Yet she talked
with composure of indifferent subjects--the yacht, the visits, the
Bucephalus, the church, and the arrangements for St. Andrew’s Day. She
owned herself overworked, and in need of rest, and, as she was not well
enough to venture on being present at the consecration, she undertook
to spend the day with Margaret, thus setting the others at liberty. This
settled, she took her leave, for the journey had fatigued her greatly.

During the short visit, Mary had moved and spoken so quietly, and looked
so well-dressed and young-lady-like, that, in spite of her comfortable
plump cheeks, Ethel felt quite afraid!

But the instant the carriage had driven off, there was a skipping, a
hugging, a screaming, “Oh, it is so nice to be at home again!”--and
Ethel knew she had her own Mary. It was only a much better looking
and more mannerly Mary, in the full bloom of seventeen, open and
honest-faced, her profuse light hair prettily disposed, her hands and
arms more civilised, and her powers of conversation and self-possession
developed. Mary-like were her caresses of Gertrude, Mary-like her
inquiries for Cocksmoor, Mary-like her insisting on bringing her boxes
into Margaret’s room, her exulting exhibition of all the pretty things
that Flora and George had given to her, and the still more joyous
bestowal of presents upon everybody.

Her tastes were not a whit altered, nor her simplicity diminished. If
she was pleased by joining a large dinner-party, her satisfaction was
in the amusement of seeing well-dressed people, and a grand table; her
knowledge of the world only reached to pronouncing everything unlike
home, “so funny;” she had relished most freshly and innocently every
pleasure that she could understand, she had learned every variety of
fancy work to teach Blanche and Miss Bracy, had been the delight
of every schoolroom and nursery, had struck up numberless eternal
friendships, and correspondences with girls younger and shyer than
herself, and her chief vexations seemed to have been first, that Flora
insisted on her being called Miss May, secondly, that all her delights
could not be shared by every one at home, and thirdly, that poor Flora
could not bear to look at little children.

Grievous complaints were preferred by the dwellers in the attics the
next morning, that Mary and Blanche had talked to an unmentionable hour
of the night; but, on the whole, Blanche was rather doubtful whether
Mary had made the most of her opportunities of observation.




CHAPTER XXV.



     Behold, with pearls they glittering stand,
     Thy peaceful gates to all expand,
     By grace and strength divinely shed,
     Each mortal thither may be led;
     Who, kindled by Christ’s love, will dare
     All earthly sufferings now to bear.

     By many a salutary stroke,
     By many a weary blow, that broke,
     Or polished, with a workman’s skill,
     The stones that form that glorious pile;
     They all are fitly framed to lie
     In their appointed place on high.
             Ancient Hymn for the Dedication of a Church.


The thirtieth of November dawned with the grave brightness of an autumn
day, as the sun slowly mounted from the golden east, drinking up the
mists that rose tardily, leaving the grass thickly bedewed.

The bells of Stoneborough Minster were ringing gladsome peals, and the
sunshine had newly touched the lime trees, whose last bright yellow
leaves were gently floating down, as the carriage, from the Grange, drew
up at Dr. May’s door.

Norman opened it, to claim Meta at once for the walk; Mrs. Arnott and
Mary had gone on to assist Richard in his final arrangements, but even
before Cocksmoor, with Ethel, was now the care of Margaret; and she had
waited with her father to keep all bustle from her room, and to commit
her into the charge of Flora and of nurse. Ethel seemed quite unwilling
to go. There was that strange oppressed feeling on her as if the
attainment of her wishes were joy too great to be real--as if she would
fain hold off from it at the climax, and linger with the sister who
had shared all with her, and to whom that church was even more than
to herself. She came back, and back again, with fresh injunctions,
sometimes forgetting the very purpose of her return, as if it had been
only an excuse for looking at Margaret’s countenance, and drinking in
her sympathy from her face; but she was to go in George’s carriage,
and he was not a man to allow of loitering. He became so impatient of
Ethel’s delays, that she perceived that he could bear them no longer,
gave her final kiss, and whispered, “In spirit with us!” then ran down
and was seized on by George, who had already packed in the children and
Miss Bracy, and was whirled away.

“Flora dear,” said Margaret, “do you dislike having the window opened?”

Flora threw it up, protesting, in reply to her sister’s scruples, that
she liked the air. “You always spoiled me,” said Margaret fondly. “Come
and lie down by me. It is very nice to have you here,” she added, as
Flora complied; and she took her hand and fondled it, “It is like the
old times to have you here taking care of me.”

“Very unlike them in some ways,” said Flora.

“It has been a great renewal of still older times,” said Margaret, “to
have Aunt Flora here. I hope you will get to know her, Flora, it is
so like having mamma here,” and she looked in her sister’s face as she
spoke.

Flora did not reply, but she lay quite still, as if there were a charm
in the perfect rest of being alone with Margaret, making no effort, and
being able to be silent. Time passed on, how long they knew not, but,
suddenly, a thrill shot through Margaret’s frame; she raised her hand
and lifted her head, with an eager “Hark!”

Flora could hear nothing.

“The bells--his bells!” said Margaret, all one radiant look of
listening, as Flora opened the window further, and the breeze wafted in
the chime, softened by distance. The carnation tinted those thin white
cheeks, eyes and smile beamed with joy, and uplifted finger and parted
lips seemed marking every note of the cadence.

It ceased. “Alan! Alan!” said she. “It is enough! I am ready!”

The somewhat alarmed look on Flora’s face recalled her, and, smiling,
she held out her hands for the consecration books, saying, “Let us
follow the service. It will be best for us both.”

Slowly, softly, and rather monotonously, Flora read on, till she had
come more than half through the first lesson. Her voice grew husky, and
she sometimes paused as if she could not easily proceed. Margaret begged
her to stop, but she would not cease, and went on reading, though almost
whispering, till she came to, “If they return to Thee with all their
heart and with all their soul in the land of their captivity, whither
they have carried them captives, and pray toward their land, which Thou
gavest unto their fathers, and toward the City which Thou hast chosen,
and toward the House which I have built for Thy Name; then hearing from
the Heavens, even from Thy dwelling-place--”

Flora could go no further; she strove, but one of her tearless sobs
cut her short. She turned her face aside, and, as Margaret began to say
something tender, she exclaimed, with low, hasty utterance, “Margaret!
Margaret! pray for me, for it is a hard captivity, and my heart is very,
very sore. Oh! pray for me, that it may all be forgiven me--and that I
may see my child again!”

“My Flora; my own poor, dear Flora! do I not pray? Oh! look up, look up.
Think how He loves you. If I love you so much, how much more does not
He? Come near me, Flora. Be patient, and I know peace will come!”

The words had burst from Flora uncontrollably. She was aware, the next
instant, that she had given way to harmful agitation, and, resuming her
quiescence, partly by her own will, partly from the soothing effect of
Margaret’s words and tone, she allowed herself to be drawn close to
her sister, and hid her face in the pillow, while Margaret’s hands were
folded over her, and words of blessing and prayer were whispered with a
fervency that made them broken.

Ethel, meanwhile, stood between Aubrey and Gertrude, hardly able to
believe it was not a dream, as she beheld the procession enter the
aisle, and heard the psalm that called on those doors to lift up
their heads for Him who should enter. There was an almost bewildered
feeling--could it indeed be true, as she followed the earlier part
of the service, which set apart that building as a temple for ever,
separate from all common uses. She had imagined the scene so often
that she could almost have supposed the present, one of her many
imaginations; but, by and by, the strangeness passed off, and she was
able to enter into, not merely to follow, the prayers, and to feel the
deep thanksgiving that such had been the crown of her feeble efforts.
Margaret was in her mind the whole time, woven, as it were, into
every supplication and every note of praise; and when there came the
intercession for those in sickness and suffering, flowing into the
commemoration of those departed in faith and fear, Ethel’s spirit sank
for a moment at the conviction that soon Margaret, like him, whom all
must bear in mind on that day, might be included in that thanksgiving;
yet, as the service proceeded, leaving more and more of earth behind,
and the voices joined with angel and archangel, Ethel could lose the
present grief, and only retain the certainty that, come what might,
there was joy and union amid those who sung that hymn of praise. Never
had Ethel been so happy--not in the sense of the finished work--no, she
had lost all that, but in being more carried out of herself than ever
she had been before, the free spirit of praise so bearing up her heart
that the cry of glory came from her with such an exultant gladness, as
might surely be reckoned as one of those foretastes of our everlasting
life, not often vouchsafed even to the faithful, and usually sent to
prepare strength for what may be in store.

The blessing brought the sense of peace, which hung on her even while
the sounds of movement began, and the congregation were emerging. As
she came out, greetings, sentences of admiration of the church, and of
inquiry for her absent sisters, were crowded upon her, as people moved
towards the school, where a luncheon was provided for them, to pass away
the interval until evening service. The half-dozen oldest Cocksmoorites
were, meantime, to have a dinner in the former schoolroom, at the
Elwoods’ house, and Ethel was anxious so see that all was right there;
so, while the rest of her party were doing civil things, she gave her
arm to Cherry, whose limping walk showed her to be very tired.

“Oh, Miss Ethel!” said Cherry, “if Miss May could only have been here!”

“Her heart is,” said Ethel.

“Well, ma’am, I believe it is. You would not think, ma’am, how all the
children take heed to anything about her. If I only begin to say ‘Miss
May told me--’ they are all like mice.”

“She has done more for the real good of Cocksmoor than any one else,”
 said Ethel.

More might have been said, but they perceived that they were being
overtaken by the body of clergy, who had been unrobing in the vestry.
Ethel hastened to retreat within Mrs. Elwood’s wicket gate, but she was
arrested by Richard, and found herself being presented to the bishop,
and the bishop shaking hands with her, and saying that he had much
wished to be introduced to her.

Of course, that was because she was her father’s daughter, and by way
of something to say. She mentioned what was going on at the cottage,
whereupon the bishop wished to go in and see the old people; and,
entering, they found the very comfortable-looking party just sitting
down to roast-beef and goose. John Taylor, in a new black coat, on
account of his clerkship, presiding at one end, and Mr. Elwood at the
other, and Dame Hall finding conversation for the whole assembly; while
Blanche, Aubrey, Gertrude, the little Larkinses, and the Abbotstoke
Wilmots were ready to act as waiters with infinite delight. Not a bit
daunted by the bishop, who was much entertained by her merry manner, old
granny told him “she had never seen nothing like it since the Jubilee,
when the squire roasted an ox whole, and there wasn’t none of it fit to
eat; and when her poor father got his head broken. Well, to be sure,
who would have thought what would come of Sam’s bringing in the young
gentleman and lady to see her the day her back was so bad!”

The bishop said grace, and left granny to the goose, while he gave Ethel
his arm, which she would have thought an unaccountable proceeding if she
had not recollected that Richard might be considered as host, and that
she was his eldest sister forthcoming.


No sooner, however, had they come beyond the wicket than she saw her
father speaking to Will Adams, and there was that in the air of both
which made it no surprise when Dr. May came up, saying, “Ethel, I must
carry you away;” and, in explanation to the bishop, “my poor girl at
home is not so well.”

All was inquiry and sympathy. Ethel was frantic to be at home, and would
have rushed off at once, if Richard had not held her fast, asking what
good she would do by hurrying in, breathless and exhausted, so as to add
to Flora’s fright and distress, the anxiety which was most upon their
minds, since she had never before witnessed one of the seizures, that
were only too ordinary matters in the eyes of the home party. No one but
Dr. May and Ethel should go. Richard undertook to tell the rest, and the
gig making its appearance, Ethel felt that the peculiarly kind manner
with which the bishop pressed her hand, and gave them all good wishes,
was like a continuation of his blessing to aid her in her home scene of
trial.

Perhaps, it was well for her that her part in the consecration
festivities should end here; at least so thought Mr. Wilmot, who, though
very sorry for the cause, could not wish her to have been present at the
luncheon. She had not thought of self hitherto, the church was the gift
of Alan and Margaret, the work of preparing the people belonged to all
alike, and she did not guess that, in the sight of others, she was not
the nobody that she believed herself. Her share in the work at Cocksmoor
was pretty well known, and Dr. Hoxton could not allow a public occasion
to pass without speeches, such as must either have been very painful,
or very hurtful to her. The absence of herself and her father, however,
permitted a more free utterance to the general feeling; and things were
said, that did indeed make the rest of the family extremely hot and
uncomfortable, but which gave them extreme pleasure. Norman was obliged
to spare Richard the answer, and said exactly what he ought, and so
beautifully, that Meta could not find it in her heart to echo the
fervent wish, which he whispered as he sat down, that speechifying could
be abolished by Act of Parliament.

Mrs. Arnott began to perceive that her nephew was something to be proud
of, and to understand how much was sacrificed, while George Rivers
expressed his opinion to her that Norman would be a crack speaker in the
House, and he hoped she would say everything to hinder his going out,
for it was a regular shame to waste him on the niggers.

Owing to George having constituted himself her squire, Mrs. Arnott had
not arrived at an understanding of the state of affairs at home; but,
as soon as they rose up from luncheon, and she learned the truth from
Richard and Mary, nothing would hinder her from walking home at once to
see whether she could be useful. Mary was easily persuaded to remain,
for she was accustomed to Margaret’s having these attacks, and had
always been kept out of her room the while, so she had little uneasiness
to prevent her from being very happy, in receiving in her own simple,
good-humoured way all the attentions that lapsed upon her in the place
of her elder sisters.

“Cocksmoor really has a church!” was note enough of joy for her, and
no one could look at her round face without seeing perfect happiness.
Moreover, when after evening service, the November mist turned into
decided rain, she was as happy as a queen in her foresight, which had
provided what seemed an unlimited supply of cloaks and umbrellas. She
appeared to have an original genius for making the right people give a
lift in their carriages to the distressed; and, regarding the Abbotstoke
britska as her own, packed in Mrs. Anderson and Fanny, in addition
to all their own little ones, Meta thrusting Miss Bracy into the
demi-corner destined for herself at the last minute, and, remaining with
Mary, the only ladies obliged to walk back to Stoneborough. So delighted
were they “at the fun,” that it might have been thought the most
charming of adventures, and they laughed all the more at the lack
of umbrellas. They went to Mrs. Elwood’s, divested themselves of all
possible finery, and tucked up the rest; Meta was rolled up from head to
foot in a great old plaid shawl of Mrs. Elwood’s, and Mary had a cloak
of Richard’s, the one took Norman’s arm, the other Dr. Spencer’s, and
they trudged home through the darkness and the mud in the highest glee,
quite sorry when the carriage met them half-way.

It was the last mirth that they enjoyed for many weeks. When they
reached home, a sense of self-reproach for their glee thrilled over
them, when they found a sort of hush pervading the drawing-room, and saw
the faces of awe and consternation, worn by Blanche and George Rivers.

“It was a much worse attack than usual, and it did not go off,” was
all that Blanche knew, but her father had desired to be told when Dr.
Spencer came home, and she went up with the tidings.

This brought Flora down, looking dreadfully pale, and with her voice
sunk away as it had been when she lost her child. Her husband started
up, exclaiming at her aspect; she let him support her to the sofa, and
gave the few particulars. Margaret had been as placid and comfortable as
usual, till nurse came to dress her, but the first move had brought on
the faintness and loss of breath. It did not yield to remedies, and
she had neither looked nor spoken since, only moaned. Flora thought her
father much alarmed; and then, after an interval, she began to entreat
that they might stay there, sending Miss Bracy and the children to the
Grange to make room.

Meantime, Dr. Spencer had come to the sick-room, but he could only
suggest remedies that were already in course of application to the
insensible sufferer. Mrs. Arnott and Ethel were watching, and trying
everything to relieve her, but with little effect, and Ethel presently
stood by the fire with her father, as Dr. Spencer turned towards him,
and he said, in a very low, but calm voice, “It won’t do--I believe it
is the death-stroke.”

“Not immediate,” said Dr. Spencer.

“No,” said Dr. May; and he quietly spoke of what the disease had
effected, and what yet remained for it to do, ere the silver bowl should
be broken.

Dr. Spencer put in a word of agreement.

“Will there be no rally?” said Ethel, in the same tone.

“Probably not,” said Dr. May; “the brain is generally reached at this
stage. I have seen it coming for a long time. The thing was done seven
years ago. There was a rally for a time when youth was strong; but
suspense and sorrow accelerated what began from the injury to the
spine.”

Dr. Spencer bowed his head, and looked at him anxiously, saying, “I do
not think there will be much acute suffering.”

“I fear it may be as trying,” said Dr. May, sighing; and then turning to
Ethel, and throwing his arm round her, “May God make it easy to her, and
grant us ‘patient hearts.’ We will not grudge her to all that she loves
best, my Ethel.”

Ethel clung to him, as if to derive strength from him. But the strength
that was in them then did not come from earth. Dr. Spencer wrung his
hand, and stepped back to the bed to try another resource. Vain again,
they only seemed to be tormenting her, and the silent helplessness
prevailed again. Then Dr. May went down to Flora, told her the true
state of the case, and urged on her to give up her plan of remaining.
George joined with him, and she yielded submissively, but would not be
refused going up once again and kissing her sister, standing beside her
gazing at her, till her father came softly and drew her away. “I shall
be here to-morrow,” she said to Ethel, and went.

The morrow, however, brought no Flora. The agitation and distress of
that day had broken her down completely, and she was so ill as to be
unable to move. Her aunt went at once to see her, and finding that her
presence at the Grange relieved some of Dr. May’s anxieties, chiefly
devoted herself to her. Flora was grateful and gentle, but as silent
and impenetrable as ever, while day after day she lay on her couch,
uncomplaining and undemonstrative, visited by her father, and watched
over by her aunt and sister-in-law, who began to know each other much
better, though Flora less than ever, in that deep fixed grief. She only
roused herself to return her husband’s affection, or to listen to the
daily reports of Margaret. Poor George, he was very forlorn, though Meta
did her best to wait on him, and he rode over twice a day to inquire at
Stoneborough.

The doctors were right, and the consecration morning was her last of
full consciousness. From the hour when she had heard the sound of Alan’s
bells, her ears were closed to earthly sounds. There was very little
power of intercourse with her, as she lingered on the borders of the
land very far away, where skill and tenderness could not either reach
body or spirit. Often the watchers could not tell whether she was
conscious, or only incapacitated from expression, by the fearful weight
on her breath, which caused a restlessness most piteous in the exhausted
helpless frame, wasted till the softest touch was anguish. Now and
then came precious gleams when a familiar voice, or some momentary
alleviation would gain a smile, or thanks, and they thought her less
restless when Richard read prayers beside her, but words were very rare,
only now and then a name, and when in most distress, “it will be soon
over,” “it will soon be over,” occurred so often, that they began to
think it once her solace, and now repeated habitually without a meaning.

They could not follow her into the valley of the shadow of death, but
could only watch the frail earthly prison-house being broken down, as if
the doom of sin must be borne, though faith could trust that it was but
her full share in the Cross. Calmly did those days pass. Ethel, Richard,
and Mary divided between them the watching and the household cares,
and their father bore up bravely in the fullness of his love and faith,
resigning her daughter to the Hands which were bearing her whither her
joys had long since departed.

Hector Ernescliffe arrived when the holidays began; and his agony of
sorrow, when she failed to recognise him, moved Dr. May to exert himself
earnestly for his consolation; and, at the same time, Tom, in a gentle,
almost humble manner, paid a sort of daughter-like attention to the
smallest services for his father, as if already accepting him as his
especial charge.

It was midnight, on the longest night of the year; Ethel was lying on
her bed, and had fallen into a brief slumber, when her father’s low,
clear voice summoned her: “Ethel, she is going!”

There was a change on the face, and the breath came in labouring gasps.
Richard lifted her head, and her eyes once more opened; she smiled once
more.

“Papa!” she said, “dear papa!”

He threw himself on his knees beside her, but she looked beyond him,
“Mamma! Alan! oh, there they are! More! more!” and, as though the
unspeakable dawned on her, she gasped for utterance, then looked, with
a consoling smile, on her father. “Over now!” she said--and the last
struggle was ended. That which Richard laid down was no longer Margaret
May.

Over now! The twenty-five years’ life, the seven years’ captivity on her
couch, the anxious headship of the motherless household, the hopeless
betrothal, the long suspense, the efforts for resignation, the widowed
affections, the slow decay, the tardy, painful death agony--all was
over; nothing left, save what they had rendered the undying spirit, and
the impress her example had left on those around her.

The long continuance of the last suffering had softened the actual
parting; and it was with thankfulness for the cessation of her pain that
they turned away, and bade each other good-night.

Ethel would not have believed that her first wakening to the knowledge
that Margaret was gone could have been more fraught with relief than
with misery. And, for her father, it seemed as if it were a home-like,
comfortable thought to him, that her mother had one of her children with
her. He called her the first link of his Daisy Chain drawn up out of
sight; and, during the quiet days that ensued, he seemed as it were to
be lifted above grief, dwelling upon hope. His calmness impressed the
same on his children, as they moved about in the solemn stillness of the
house; and when Harry, pale, and shocked at the blow to him so sudden,
came home, the grave silence soothed his violence of grief; and he sat
beside his, father or Mary, speaking in undertones of what Margaret had
loved to hear from him, of Alan Ernescliffe’s last moments.

Mary gave way to a burst of weeping when she sought, in vain, for
daisies in the wintry garden; but Hector Ernescliffe went down to the
cloisters, and brought back the lingering blossoms to be placed on
Margaret’s bosom.

The dog Toby had followed him, unseen, to the cloister; and he was
entering the garden, when he was struck by seeing the animal
bounding, in irrepressible ecstasy, round a lad, whose tarpaulin hat,
blue-bordered collar, and dark blue dress, showed him to be a sailor,
as well as the broad-shouldered, grizzled, elderly man, who stood beside
him.

“I say, sir,” said the latter, as Hector’s hand was on the door, “do you
belong to Dr. May?”

Hector unhesitatingly answered that he did.

“Then, maybe, sir, you have heard of one Bill Jennings.”

Hector was all in one flush, almost choking, as he told that he was Mr.
Ernescliffe’s brother, and gave his hand to the sailor. “What could he
do for him?”

Jennings had heard from one of the crew of the Bucephalus that Mr. May
had been met, on his return to Portsmouth, by the news of his sister’s
death. The Mays had helped his boy; he had been with Mr. May in the
island; he had laid Mr. Ernescliffe in his grave; and some notion had
crossed the sailor that he must be at Miss Margaret’s funeral--it might
be they would let him lend a hand--and, in this expedition, he was
spending his time on shore.

How he was welcomed need not be told, nor how the tears came forth from
full hearts, as Dr. May granted his wish, and thanked him for doing what
Margaret herself would indeed have chosen; and, in his blue sailor garb,
was Jennings added to the bearers, their own men, and two Cocksmoor
labourers, who, early on Christmas Eve, carried her to the minster. Last
time she had been there, Alan Ernescliffe had supported her. Now, what
was mortal of him lay beneath the palm tree, beneath the glowing summer
sky, while the first snow-flakes hung like pearls on her pall. But
as they laid her by her mother’s side, who could doubt that they were
together?




CHAPTER XXVI.



     At length I got unto the gladsome hill,
             Where lay my hope;
       Where lay my heart; and, climbing still,
       When I had gained the brow and top,
     A lake of brackish waters on the ground,
             Was all I found.
                           --GEORGE HERBERT.


Late in the evening of the same snowy 24th of December, a little
daughter awoke to life at Abbotstoke Grange, and, not long after, Mrs.
Arnott came to summon Dr May from the anxious vigil in the sitting-room.
“Come and see if you can do anything to soothe her,” she said, with much
alarm. “The first sight of the baby has put her into such a state of
agitation, that we do not know what to do with her.”

It was so, when he came to her bedside; that fixed stony look of despair
was gone; the source of tears, so long dried up, had opened again; and
there she lay, weeping quietly indeed, but profusely, and with deep
heaving sobs. To speak, or to leave her alone, seemed equally perilous,
but he chose the first--he kissed and blessed her, and gave her joy. She
looked up at him as if his blessing once more brought peace, and said
faintly, “Now it is pardon--now I can die!”

“The cloud is gone! Thanks for that above all!” said Dr. May fervently.
“Now, my dear, rest in thankful gladness--you are too weak to talk or
think.”

“I am weak--I am tired of it all,” said Flora. “I am glad to be going
while I am so happy--there are Margaret--my own darling--rest--peace--”

“You are not going, dearest,” said her father; “at least, I trust not,
if you will not give way; here is a darling given to you, instead of the
first, who needs you more.”

He would have taken the infant from the nurse and held her to her
mother, but, recollecting how little Leonora had drawn her last breath
in his arms, he feared the association, and signed to Mrs. Arnott to
show her the child; but she seemed as yet only able to feel that it was
not Leonora, and the long sealed-up grief would have its way. The tears
burst out again. “Tell Ethel she will be the best mother to her. Name
her Margaret--make her a Daisy of your own--don’t call her after me,”
 she said, with such passionate caresses, that Mrs. Arnott was glad to
take the babe away.

Dr. May’s next expedient was to speak to her of her husband, who needed
her more than all, and to call him in. There seemed to be something
tranquillising in his wistful manner of repeating, “Don’t cry, Flora;”
 and she was at last reduced, by her extreme exhaustion, to stillness;
but there were still many fears for her.

Dr. May’s prediction was accomplished--that she would suffer for having
over-exerted herself. Her constitution had been severely tried by the
grief and despondency that she had so long endured in silence, and the
fresh sorrow for her favourite sister coming at such a crisis. There
was a weariness of life, and an unwillingness to resume her ordinary
routine, that made her almost welcome her weakness and sinking; and now
that the black terror had cleared away from the future, she seemed to
long to follow Margaret at once, and to yearn after her lost child;
while appeals to the affection that surrounded her often seemed to
oppress her, as if there were nothing but weariness and toil in store.

The state of her mind made her father very anxious, though it was but
too well accounted for. Poor Flora had voluntarily assumed the trammels
that galled her; worldly motives had prompted her marriage, and though
she faithfully loved her husband, he was a heavy weight on her hands,
and she had made it more onerous by thrusting him into a position for
which he was not calculated, and inspiring him with a self-consequence
that would not recede from it. The shock of her child’s death had taken
away the zest and energy which had rejoiced in her chosen way of life,
and opened her eyes to see what Master she had been serving; and the
perception of the hollowness of all that had been apparently good in
her, had filled her with remorse and despair. Her sufferings had been
the more bitter because she had not parted with her proud reserve. She
had refused council, and denied her confidence to those who could have
guided her repentance. Her natural good sense, and the sound principle
in which she had been brought up, had taught her to distrust her gloomy
feelings as possibly morbid; and she had prayed, keeping her hold of
faith in the Infinite Mercy, though she could not feel her own part in
it; and thus that faith was beginning at last to clear her path.

It was the harder to deal with her, because her hysterical agitation was
so easily excited, that her father hardly dared to let a word be spoken
to her; and she was allowed to see no one else except her aunt and the
dear old nurse, whose tears for her child Margaret had been checked by
the urgent requirements of another of her nurslings; and whom George
Rivers would have paid with her weight in gold, for taking care of his
new daughter, regarding her as the only woman in the world that could be
trusted.

Those were heavy days with every one, though each brought some shade of
improvement. They were harder to bear than the peaceful days that had
immediately followed the loss of Margaret; and Ethel was especially
unhappy and forlorn under the new anxiety, where she could be of no
service; and with her precious occupation gone; her father absent,
instead of resting upon her; and her room deserted. She was grieved
with herself, because her feelings were unable to soar at the Christmas
Feast, as erst on St. Andrew’s Day; and she was bewildered and
distressed by the fear that she had then been only uplifted by vanity
and elation.

She told Richard so, and he said, kindly, that he thought a good deal of
that she complained of arose from bodily weariness.

This hurt her a little; but when he said, “I think that the blessings of
St. Andrew’s Day helped us through what was to follow,” she owned that
it had indeed been so, and added, “I am going to work again! Tell me
what will be most useful to you at Cocksmoor.”

Sick at heart as she was, she bravely set herself to appropriate the
hours now left vacant; and manfully walked with Richard and Harry to
church at Cocksmoor on St. Stephen’s Day; but the church brought back
the sense of contrast. Next, she insisted on fulfilling their
intention of coming home by Abbotstoke to hear how Flora was, when the
unfavourable account only added lead to the burden that weighed her
down. Though they were sent home in the carriage, she was so completely
spent, that the effect of returning home to her room, without its dear
inhabitant, was quite overwhelming, and she sat on her bed for half
an hour, struggling with repinings. She came downstairs without having
gained the victory, and was so physically overcome with lassitude, that
Richard insisted on her lying on the sofa, and leaving everything to him
and Mary.

Richard seemed to make her his object in life, and was an unspeakable
help and comforter to her, not only by taking every care for her for her
sake, but by turning to her as his own friend and confidante, the best
able to replace what they had lost. There were many plans to be put in
operation for Cocksmoor, on which much consultation was needed, though
every word reminded them sadly of Margaret’s ever ready interest in
those schemes. It was very unlike Ethel’s vision of the first weeks
of St. Andrew’s Church; but it might be safer for her than that aught
should tempt her to say, “See what my perseverance has wrought!”
 Perhaps her Margaret had begun to admire her too much to be her safest
confidante--at any rate, it was good still to sow in tears, rather than
on earth to reap in confident joy.

Norman was as brotherly and kind as possible; but it was one of the
dreary feelings of those days, that Ethel then first became aware of
the difference that his engagement had made, and saw that he resorted
elsewhere for sympathy. She was not jealous, and acquiesced submissively
and resolutely; but they had been so much to each other, that it was
a trial, especially at such a time as this, when freshly deprived of
Margaret.

Norman’s own prospect was not cheerful. He had received a letter
from New Zealand, begging him to hasten his coming out, as there was
educational work much wanting him, and, according to his original wish,
he could be ordained there in the autumnal Ember Week.

He was in much perplexity, since, according to this request, he ought to
sail with his aunt in the last week of February, and he knew not how to
reconcile the conflicting claims.

Meta was not long in finding out the whole of his trouble, as they paced
up and down the terrace together on a frosty afternoon.

“You will go!” was her first exclamation.

“I ought,” said Norman, “I believe I ought, and if it had only been at
any other time, it would have been easy. My aunt’s company would have
been such a comfort for you.”

“It cannot be helped,” said Meta.

“Considering the circumstances,” began Norman, with lingering looks at
the little humming-bird on his arm, “I believe I should be justified
in waiting till such time as you could go with me. I could see what Mr.
Wilmot thinks.”

“You don’t think so yourself,” said Meta. “Nobody else can give a
judgment. In a thing like this, asking is, what you once called, seeking
opinions as Balaam inquired.”

“Turning my words against me?” said Norman, smiling. “Still, Meta,
perhaps older heads would be fitter to judge what would be right for a
little person not far off.”

“She can be the best judge of that herself,” said Meta. “Norman,” and
her dark eyes were steadfastly fixed, “I always resolved that, with
God’s help, I would not be a stumbling-block in the way of your call
to your work. I will not. Go out now--perhaps you will be freer for it
without me, and I suppose I have a longer apprenticeship to serve to all
sorts of things before I come to help you.”

“Oh, Meta, you are a rebuke to me!”

“What? when I am going to stay by my own fireside?” said Meta, trying
to laugh, but not very successfully. “Seriously, I have much to do here.
When poor Flora gets well, she must be spared all exertion for a long
time to come; and I flatter myself that they want me at Stoneborough
sometimes. If your father can bear to spare you, there is no doubt that
you ought to go.”

“My father is as unselfish as you are, Meta. But I cannot speak to
him until he is more easy about Flora. We always think the required
sacrifice the hardest, but I must own that I could not grieve if he laid
his commands on me to wait till the autumn.”

“Oh, that would make it a duty and all easy,” said Meta, smiling; “but
I don’t think he will; and Aunt Flora will be only too glad to carry you
out without encumbrance.”

“Has not Aunt Flora come to her senses about you?”

“I believe she would rather I belonged to any of her nephews but
you. She is such a dear, sincere, kind-hearted person, and we are so
comfortable together, that it will be quite like home to come out to
her! I mean there, to convince her that I can be of something like use.”

Meta talked so as to brighten and invigorate Norman when they were
together, but they both grew low-spirited when apart. The humming-bird
had hardly ever been so downcast as at present--that is, whenever she
was not engaged in waiting on her brother, or in cheering up Dr. May, or
in any of the many gentle offices that she was ever fulfilling. She was
greatly disappointed, and full of fears for Norman, and dread of the
separation, but she would not give way; and only now and then, when off
her guard, would the sadness reign on her face without an effort. Alone,
she fought and prayed for resignation for herself, and protection and
strength for him, and chid herself for the foolish feeling that he would
be safer with her.

She told Aunt Flora how it was one evening, as they sat over the fire
together, speaking with a would-be tone of congratulation.

“Indeed!” exclaimed Mrs. Arnott. “But that is a great pity!”

Meta looked quite brightened by her saying so. “I thought you would be
glad,” she rejoined.

“Did you think me so hard-hearted?”

“I thought you believed he would be better without me.”

“My dear, we have not kept house and nursed together for a month for
nothing,” said Mrs. Arnott, smiling.

“Thank you,” said Meta, trying to answer the smile. “You have taken a
load off me!”

“I don’t like it at all,” said Mrs. Arnott. “It is a very uncomfortable
plan for every one. And yet when I know how great is the want of him out
there, I can say nothing against it without high treason. Well, my dear,
I’ll take all the care I can of Norman, and when you come, I shall be
almost as glad as if we were coming home for good. Poor Flora! she is
one person who will not regret the arrangement.”

“Poor Flora!--you think her really better this evening?”

“Much better, indeed; if we could only raise her spirits, I think she
would recover very well; but she is so sadly depressed. I must try to
talk to Ethel--she may better understand her.”

“I have never understood Flora,” said Meta. “She has been as kind to
me as possible, and I very soon came to a certain point with her, but
I never have known her thoroughly. I doubt whether any one did but dear
Margaret.”

Flora was, however, much softened and less reserved than she had been.
She found great repose in her aunt’s attendance, retracing, as it
did, her mother’s presence, and she responded to her tenderness with
increasing reliance and comfort; while as her strength began to revive,
and there was more disposition to talk, she became gradually drawn into
greater confidence.

The seeing of Ethel was one of the difficult questions. Flora had begun
to wish it very much, and yet the bare idea threw her into a nervous
tremor, that caused it to be put off again and again. Her aunt found her
one day almost faint with agitation--she had heard Ethel’s voice in the
next room, and had been winding up her expectations, and now was as much
grieved as relieved, to find that she had been there seeing the baby,
but was now gone.

“How does the dear Ethel look?” asked Flora presently.

“She is looking better to-day; she has looked very worn and harassed,
but I thought her brighter to-day. She walked over by Aubrey on his
pony, and I think it did her good.”

“Dear old Ethel! Aunt, it is a thing that no one has told me yet. Can
you tell me how she bore the news of Norman Ogilvie’s engagement?”

“Do you mean--” and Mrs. Arnott stopped short in her interrogation.

“Yes,” said Flora, answering the pause.

“But I thought young Ogilvie a most unexceptionable person.”

“So he is,” said Flora. “I was much annoyed at the time, but she was
resolute.”

“In rejecting him?”

“In running away as soon as she found what was likely to happen;” and
Flora, in a few words, told what had passed at Oxford.

“Then it was entirely out of devotion to your father?”

“Entirely,” said Flora. “No one could look at her without seeing that
she liked him. I had left her to be the only effective one at home, and
she sacrificed herself.”

“I am glad that I have seen her,” said Mrs. Arnott. “I should never have
understood her by description. I always said that I must come home to
set my correspondence going rightly.”

“Aunt Flora,” said her niece, “do you remember my dear mother’s
unfinished letter to you?”

“To be sure I do, my dear.”

“Nothing ever was more true,” said Flora. “I read it over some little
time ago, when I set my papers in order, and understood it then. I never
did before. I used to think it very good for the others.”

“It is what one generally does with good advice.”

“Do you recollect the comparison between Norman, Ethel, and me? It is
so curious. Norman, who was ambitious and loved praise, but now dreads
nothing so much; Ethel, who never cared for anything of the kind, but
went straight on her own brave way; and oh! Aunt Flora--me--”

“Indeed, my dear, I should have thought you had her most full
approbation.”

“Ah! don’t you see the tone, as if she were not fully satisfied, as if
she only could not see surface faults in me,” said Flora; “and how she
said she dreaded my love of praise, and of being liked. I wonder how
it would have been if she had lived. I have looked back so often in the
past year, and I think the hollowness began from that time. It might
have been there before, but I am not so sure. You see, at that dreadful
time, after the accident, I was the eldest who was able to be efficient,
and much more useful than poor Ethel. I think the credit I gained made
me think myself perfection, and I never did anything afterwards but seek
my own honour.”

Mrs. Arnott began better to understand Flora’s continued depression, but
she thought her self-reproach exaggerated, and said something at once
soothing and calculated to encourage her to undraw the curtain of
reserve.

“You do not know,” continued Flora, “how greedy I was of credit and
affection. It made me jealous of Ethel herself, as long as we were in
the same sphere; and when I felt that she was more to papa than I could
be, I looked beyond home for praise. I don’t think the things I did were
bad in themselves--brought up as I have been, they could hardly be so. I
knew what merits praise and blame too well for that--but oh! the motive.
I do believe I cared very much for Cocksmoor. I thought it would be a
grand thing to bring about; but, you see, as it has turned out, all
I thought I had done for it was in vain; and Ethel has been the real
person and does not know it. I used to think Ethel so inferior to me.
I left her all my work at home. If it had not been for that, she might
have been happy with Norman Ogilvie--for never were two people better
matched, and now she has done what I never thought to have left to
another--watched over our own Margaret. Oh! how shall I ever bear to see
her?”

“My dear, I am sure nothing can be more affectionate than Ethel. She
does not think these things.”

“She does,” said Flora. “She always knew me better than I did myself.
Her straightforward words should often have been rebukes to me. I shall
see in every look and tone the opinion I have deserved. I have shrunk
from her steadfast looks ever since I myself learned what I was. I could
not bear them now--and yet--oh, aunt, you must bring her! Ethel! my
dear, dear old King--my darling’s godmother--the last who was with
Margaret!”

She had fallen into one of those fits of weeping when it was impossible
to attempt anything but soothing her; but, though she was so much
exhausted that Mrs. Arnott expected to be in great disgrace with Dr. May
for having let her talk herself into this condition, she found that
he was satisfied to find that she had so far relieved her mind, and
declared that she would be better now.

The effect of the conversation was, that the next day, the last of the
twelve Christmas days, when Ethel, whose yearning after her sister was
almost equally divided between dread and eagerness--eagerness for her
embrace, and dread of the chill of her reserve, came once again in
hopes of an interview. Dr. May called her at once. “I shall take you
in without any preparation,” he said, “that she may not have time to be
flurried. Only, be quiet and natural.”

Did he know what a mountain there was in her throat when he seemed to
think it so easy to be natural?

She found him leading her into a darkened room, and heard his cheerful
tones saying, “I have brought Ethel to you!”

“Ethel! oh!” said a low, weak voice, with a sound as of expecting a
treat, and Ethel was within a curtain, where she began, in the dimness,
to see something white moving, and her hands were clasped by two long
thin ones. “There!” said Dr. May, “now, if you will be good, I will
leave you alone. Nurse is by to look after you, and you know she always
separates naughty children.”

Either the recurrence to nursery language, or the mere sisterly touch
after long separation, seemed to annihilate all the imaginary mutual
dread, and, as Ethel bent lower and lower, and Flora’s arms were round
her, the only feeling was of being together again, and both at once made
the childish gesture of affection, and murmured the old pet names of
“Flossy,” and “King,” that belonged to almost forgotten days, when they
were baby sisters, then kissed each other again.

“I can’t see you,” said Ethel, drawing herself up a little. “Why, Flora,
you look like a little white shadow!”

“I have had such weak eyes,” said Flora, “and this dim light is
comfortable. I see your old sharp face quite plain.”

“But what can you do here?”

“Do? Oh, dear Ethel, I have not had much of doing. Papa says I have
three years’ rest to make up.”

“Poor Flora!” said Ethel; “but I should have thought it tiresome,
especially for you.”

“I have only now been able to think again,” said Flora; “and you will
say I am taking to quoting poetry. Do you remember some lines in that
drama that Norman admired so much?”

“Philip von Artevelde?”

“Yes. I can’t recollect them now, though they used to be always running
in my head--something about time to mend and time to mourn.”

“These?” said Ethel--


              “He that lacks time to mourn, lacks time to mend.
               Eternity mourns that.”


“I never had time before for either,” said Flora. “You cannot think
how I used to be haunted by those, when I was chased from one thing to
another, all these long, long eighteen months. I am in no haste to take
up work again.”

“Mending as well as mourning,” said Ethel thoughtfully.

Flora sighed.

“And now you have that dear little Christmas gift to--” Ethel paused.

“She is not nearly so fine and healthy as her sister was,” said Flora,
“poor little dear. You know, Ethel, even now, I shall have very little
time with her in that London life. Her papa wants me so much, and I must
leave her to--to the nurses.” Flora’s voice trembled again.

“Our own dear old nurse,” said Ethel.

“Oh! I wanted to thank you all for sparing her to us,” said Flora.
“George wished it so much. But how does poor little Daisy bear it?”

“Very magnanimously,” said Ethel, smiling. “In fact, nurse has had but
little to do with Daisy of late, and would have been very forlorn at
home. It is better for Aubrey and for her, not to return to be babies
to comfort poor nurse. I have been breaking up the nursery, and taking
Gertrude to live with me.”

“Have you gone back there again?”

“It would not have been better for waiting,” said Ethel; “and Gertrude
was so proud to come to me. I could not have done it without her, but
papa must not have vacancy next to him.”

“It has been hard on you for me to engross him,” said Flora; “but oh,
Ethel, I could not spare him. I don’t think even you can tell what papa
is.”

“You have found it out,” said Ethel, in an odd, dry manner; which in
sound, though not in feeling, was a contrast to the soft, whispering,
tearful murmurs of her sister.

“And my aunt!” continued Flora--“that I should have taken up such a
great piece of her short visit!”

“Ah! it is coming to an end very fast,” said Ethel, sighing; “but you
had the best right to her, and she and Meta have seen so much of each
other. She tells me she is quite satisfied about Meta now.”

“I am sorry to see Meta looking out of spirits,” said Flora. “I almost
made her cry by saying something about Norman. Is there anything going
wrong?”

Ethel, as usual, blundered into the subject. “Only about Norman’s going
out.”

Flora asked further questions, and she was obliged to explain. It roused
Flora’s energies at once.

“This will never do!” she said. “They must marry, and go with my aunt.”

Ethel was aghast. “They would not hear of it now!”

“They must. It is the only reasonable thing. Why, Norman would be
miserable, and as to Meta--Imagine his going out and returning--a year’s
work, such an expense and loss of time, besides the missing Aunt Flora.”

“If it were not wrong--”

“The waste would be the wrong thing. Besides--” and she told of
Margaret’s wishes.

“But, Flora, think--the last week in February--and you so ill!”

“I am not to marry them,” said Flora, smiling. “If it could be in a
fortnight, they could go and get their outfit afterwards, and come
back to us when I am stronger. Let me see--there need be no fuss about
settlements--Mr. Rivers’s will arranges everything for her.”

“It would be a good thing to get rid of a fine wedding,” said Ethel;
“but they will never consent!”

“Yes, they will, and be grateful.”

“Papa would be happier about Norman,” said Ethel; “but I cannot fancy
his liking it. And you--you can’t spare Meta, for Aunt Flora must go to
the Arnotts’ in a week or two more.”

“Suppose papa was to let me have you,” said Flora. “If he wants you, he
must come after you.”

Ethel gasped at the thought that her occupation at home was gone, but
she said, “If I am not too awkward for you, dear Flora. You will miss
Meta terribly.”

“I can’t keep the humming-bird caged, with her heart far away,” said
Flora.

Dr. May came in to break up the conversation, and Ethel quickly guessed
from his manner that Norman had been talking to him. Flora told him that
she had been agreeing with Ethel that Meta had much better not miss this
opportunity. He was far less startled than Ethel had expected; indeed,
the proposal was rather a relief to his mind, and his chief objection
was the fear that Flora would be fatigued by the extra bustle; but she
promised not to trouble herself about it, otherwise than that if Norman
could not persuade Meta, she would. The sisters parted, much more
comfortable than before. Ethel felt as if she had found something like a
dim reflection of Margaret, and Flora’s fear of Ethel had fled away from
the mere force of sisterhood.

As to Norman, he declared that he had not the audacity to make the
proposal to Meta, though he was only too grateful; so his father carried
it to the humming-bird; and, as soon as she found that it was
not improper, nor would hurt any one’s feelings, she gave ready
consent--only begging that it might be as best suited every one,
especially Flora; and ending by a whisper to her dear fatherly friend,
owning that she was “very glad--she meant she was very glad there would
be nobody there.”

So Norman and Meta settled their plans as they walked home together from
evening service, after listening to the prophecies of the blessings to
be spread into the waste and desolate places, which should yet become
the heritage of the Chosen, and with the evening star shining on them,
like a faint reflex of the Star of the East, Who came to be a Light to
lighten the Gentiles.




CHAPTER XXVII.



  Euna delle facolta singolari ed incommunicabili della religione
  Cristiana questa, di poter dare indirizzo e quiete a chiunoque, in
  qualsivoglia congiuntura, a qualsivoglia termine, ricorra ad essa.
  Se al passato v’e rimedio, essa lo prescrive, lo somministra, presta
  lume e vigore per metterlo in opera a qualunque costo; se non v’e,
  essa da il, modo di fare realmento e in effeto, cio che 1’ uom dice
  in proverbio, della necessita virtu.  Insegna a continuare con
  sapienza cio che e stato intrapreso per leggerezza, piega l’animo ad
  abbracciare con propensione cio che e stato imposto dalla prepotenza,
  e da ad un elezione che fu temeraria, ma che e irrevocabile, tutta la
  santita, tutto il consiglio, diciamolo pur francamenta, tutte le
  gioje della vocazione.--MANZONI.


The wedding-day was fixed for the 20th of January, since it was less
risk to Flora as an absolute invalid, than as convalescent enough to
take any share in the doings.

Meta managed her correspondence with her own relatives, and obtained her
uncle’s kind approval, since he saw there could be nothing else; while
her aunt treated her as an infatuated victim, but wished, for her
mother’s sake, to meet her in London before she sailed.

The worst stroke of all was to Bellairs, who had never chosen to believe
that her mistress could move without her, and though mortally afraid in
crossing to the Isle of Wight, and utterly abhorring all “natives,” went
into hysterics on finding that her young lady would take out no maid but
a little hard-working village girl; and though transferred in the most
flattering manner to Mrs. Rivers’s service, shed a tear for every stitch
she set in the trousseau, and assured her betrothed butler that, if Miss
Rivers would only have heard reason, she would have followed her to the
world’s end, rather than that her beautiful hair should never look like
anything again.

So the wedding-day came, and grass and trees wore a fitting suit of
crisp hoariness. Nothing could be quieter. Meta was arrayed by the
sobbing Bellairs in her simple bridal white, wrapped herself in a large
shawl, took her brother’s arm, and walked down the frosty path with him
and Mrs. Arnott, as if going merely to the daily service.

The time had not been made known, and there was hardly an addition to
the ordinary congregation, except the May family and Dr. Spencer; but
the Christmas evergreens still adorned aisle and chancel, and over the
altar stood the motto that Meta herself had woven of holly, on that
Christmas Eve of grief and anxiety, without knowing how it would speak
to her.


  Fear not, for behold I bring unto you glad tidings of great joy,
  that shall be unto you and to all people.


Fear not, for length of voyage, for distance from kindred, for hardship,
privation, misunderstanding, disappointment. The glad tidings are to all
people, even to the utmost parts of the earth. Ye have your portion in
the great joy--ye have freely cast in your lot with those, whose feet
are beautiful on the mountains, who bear the good tidings. Fear not, for
He is with you, who will never forsake.

Thus Dr. May read the words with swelling heart, as he looked at his
son’s clear, grave, manful look, even as it had been when he made his
Confirmation vow--his natural nervous excitability quelled by a spirit
not his own, and chastened into strong purpose; and the bride, her young
face the more lovely for the depth of enthusiasm restrained by awe and
humility, as she stood without trembling or faltering, the strength of
innocence expressed in the whole bearing of her slight figure in her
white drapery. Around were the four sisterly bride’s-maids, their black
dresses showing that these were still the twilight days of mourning, and
that none would forget her, whose prayers might still bless their labour
of love.

When Margaret Agatha May, on her husband’s arm, turned for a last look
at the altar of her own church, “Fear not,” in evergreen letters, was
the greeting she bore away.

Ethel was left at the Grange for the ensuing fortnight--a time of
unusual leisure both to her and to Flora, which they both prized highly,
for it taught them to know each other as they had never done before.
Flora’s confidence to her aunt had been a good thing for her, though
so partial; it opened the way for further unreserve to one who knew
the circumstances better, and, as to dread of Ethel, that could seldom
prevail in her presence, partly from long habit, partly from her
deficiency of manner, and still more from her true humility and
affection. Gradually she arrived at the perception of the history of her
sister’s mind; understood what gloom had once overshadowed it; and how,
since light had once shone upon her, she shrank not merely from the
tasks that had become wearisome to her, but from the dread of losing
among them her present peace.

“They are your duty,” argued Ethel. “Duty brings peace.”

“They were not,” said Flora.

“They are now,” said Ethel.

“Dinners and parties, empty talk and vain show,” said Flora languidly.
“Are you come to their defence, Ethel? If you could guess how sick one
gets of them, and how much worse it is for them not to be hateful!
And to think of bringing my poor little girl up to the like, if she is
spared!”

“If they are not duties, I would not do them,” said Ethel.

“Ethel,” cried her sister, raising herself from her couch eagerly, “I
will say it to you! What should you think of George resigning his seat,
and living in peace here?”

“Would he?” said Ethel.

“If I wished it.”

“But what would he do with himself?” said Ethel, not in too
complimentary a strain.

“Yachting, farming, Cochin-Chinese--or something,” said Flora. “Anything
not so wearing as this!”

“That abominable candidate of Tomkins’s would come in!” exclaimed Ethel.
“Oh, Flora, that would be horrid!”

“That might be guarded against,” said Flora. “Perhaps Sir Henry--But oh!
let us leave politics in peace while we can. I thought we should do some
great good, but it is all a maze of confusion. It is so hard to know
principles from parties, and everything goes wrong! It is of no use to
contend with it!”

“It is never vain to contend with evil,” said Ethel.

“We are not generalising,” said Flora. “There is evil nearer home
than the state of parties, and I can’t see that George’s being in
Parliament--being what he is--is anything like the benefit to things
in general--that it is temptation and plague to me, besides the risk of
London life for the baby, now and hereafter.”

“I can’t say that I think it is,” said Ethel. “How nice it would be to
have you here! I am so glad you are willing to give it up.”

“It would have been better to have given it up untasted--like Norman,”
 sighed Flora. “I will talk to George.”

“But, Flora,” said Ethel, a little startled, “you ought not to do such a
thing without advice.”

“There will be worry enough before it is done!” sighed Flora. “No fear
of that!”

“Stop a minute,” said Ethel, as if poor Flora could have done anything
but lie still on her sofa. “I think you ought to consider well before
you set it going.”

“Have not I longed for it day and night? It is an escape from peril for
ourselves and our child.”

“I can’t be sure!” said Ethel. “It may be more wrong to make George
desert the post which--”

“Which I thrust him into,” said Flora. “My father told me as much.”

“I did not mean you to say that! But it is a puzzle. It seems as if it
were right to give up such things; yet, when I recollect the difficulty
of carrying an election right at Stoneborough, I think papa would be
very sorry. I don’t think his interest would bring in any sound man but
his son-in-law; and George himself seems to like his parliamentary life
better than anything else.”

“Yes,” said Flora hesitatingly; for she knew it was true--he liked to
think himself important, and it gave him something to think of, and
regular occupation--not too active or onerous; but she could not tell
Ethel what she herself felt; that all she could do for him could not
prevent him from being held cheap by the men among whom she had placed
him.

“Then,” said Ethel, as she heard her affirmative, “I don’t think it is
for his dignity, for you to put him into Parliament to please you and
then take him out to please you.”

“I’ll take care of his dignity,” said Flora shortly.

“I know you would do it well--”

“I am sick of doing things well!” said poor Flora. “You little know how
I dread reading up all I must read presently! I shall lose all I have
scarcely gained. I cannot find peace any way, but by throwing down the
load I gave my peace for.”

“Whether this is truth or fancy,” said Ethel thoughtfully. “If you would
ask some one competent.”

“Don’t you know there are some things one cannot ask?” said Flora. “I
don’t know why I spoke to you! Ah! come in! Why, George, that is a finer
egg than ever,” as he entered with a Shanghai egg in each hand, for her
to mark with the date when it had been laid. Poultry was a new hobby,
and Ethel had been hearing, in her tete-a-tete dinners with George,
a great deal about the perfections of the hideous monsters that
had obtained fabulous prices. They had been the best resource for
conversation; but she watched, with something between vexation and
softness, how Flora roused herself to give her full attention and
interest to his prosing about his pets, really pleased as it seemed;
and, at last, encouraging him actually to fetch his favourite cock to
show her; when she went through the points of perfection of the ungainly
mass of feathers, and did not at all allow Ethel to laugh at the
unearthly sounds of disapproval which handling elicited.

“And this is our senator!” thought Ethel. “I wonder whether Honorius’s
hen was a Shanghai! Poor Flora is right--it is poor work to make a silk
purse out of a sow’s ear! but, putting him into the place is one thing,
taking him out another. I wish she would take advice; but I never knew
her do that, except as a civil way of communicating her intentions.
However, she is not quite what she was! Poor dear! Aunt Flora will never
believe what a beautiful creature she used to be! It seems wrong to
think of her going back to that horrid London; but I can’t judge. For
my part, I’d rather do work, than no work for George, and he is a good,
kind-hearted fellow after all! I won’t be a crab!”

So Ethel did her best, and said the cock had a bright eye--all she could
say for him--and George instructed her to admire the awkward legs, and
invited her to a poultry show, at Whitford, in two days’ time--and they
sent him away to continue his consultations with the poultry woman,
which pullets should be preferred as candidates for a prize.

“Meta set him upon this,” said Flora. “I hope you will go, Ethel. You
see he can be very happy here.”

“Still,” said Ethel, “the more I think, the more sure I am that you
ought to ask advice.”

“I have asked yours,” said Flora, as if it were a great effort. “You
don’t know what to say--I shall do what I see to be the only way to
rest.”

“I do know what to say,” said Ethel; “and that is, do as the Prayer-book
tells you, in any perplexity.”

“I am not perplexed,” said Flora.

“Don’t say so. This is either the station to which God has called you,
or it is not.”

“He never called me to it.”

“But you don’t know whether you ought to leave it. If you ought not, you
would be ten times more miserable. Go to Richard, Flora--he belongs to
you as much as I--he has authority besides.”

“Richard!”

“He is the clearest of us all in practical matters,” said Ethel,
preventing what she feared would be disparaging. “I don’t mean only that
you should ask him about this Parliament matter alone; but I am sure
you would be happier and more settled if you talked things over with him
before--before you go to church.”

“You don’t know what you propose.”

“I do,” said Ethel, growing bolder. “You have been going all this time
by feeling. You have never cleared up, and got to the bottom of, your
troubles.”

“I could not talk to any one.”

“Not to any one but a clergyman. Now, to enter on such a thing is most
averse to your nature; and I do believe that, for that very reason, it
would be what would do you most good. You say you have recovered sense
of--Oh, Flora! I can’t talk of what you have gone through; but if you
have only a vague feeling that seems as if lying still would be the only
way to keep it, I don’t think it can be altogether sound, or the ‘quiet
conscience’ that is meant.”

“Oh, Ethel! Ethel! I have never told you what I have undergone, since I
knew my former quietness of conscience was but sleep! I have gone on in
agony, with the sense of hypocrisy and despair, because I was afraid,
for George’s sake, to do otherwise.”

Ethel felt herself utterly powerless to advise; and, after a kind sound
of sympathy, sat shocked, pondering on what none could answer; whether
this were, indeed, what poor Flora imagined, or whether it had been a
holding-fast to the thread through the darkness. The proud reserve was
the true evil, and Ethel prayed and trusted it might give way.

She went very amiably to Whitford with George, and gained great credit
with him, for admiring the prettiest speckled Hamburgh present; indeed,
George was becoming very fond of “poor Ethel,” as he still called her,
and sometimes predicted that she would turn out a fine figure of a woman
after all.

Ethel heard, on her return, that Richard had been there; and three days
after, when Flora was making arrangements for going to church, a moment
of confidence came over her, and she said, “I did it, Ethel! I have
spoken to Richard.”

“I am so glad!”

“You were right. He is as clear as he is kind,” said Flora; “he showed
me that, for George’s sake, I must bear with my present life, and do the
best I can with it, unless some leading comes for an escape; and that
the glare, and weariness, and being spoken well of, must be taken as
punishment for having sought after these things.”

“I was afraid he would say so,” said Ethel. “But you will find happiness
again, Flora dear.”

“Scarcely--before I come to Margaret and to my child,” sighed Flora. “I
suppose it was Mercy that would not let me follow when I wished it. I
must work till the time of rest comes!”

“And your own little Margaret will cheer you!” said Ethel, more
hopefully, as she saw Flora bend over her baby with a face that might
one day be bright.

She trusted that patient continuance in well-doing would one day win
peace and joy, even in the dreary world that poor Flora had chosen.

For her own part, Ethel found Flora’s practical good sense and sympathy
very useful, in her present need of the counsel she had always had from
Margaret.

The visit to Flora lasted a fortnight, and Ethel was much benefited by
the leisure for reading and the repose after the long nursing; though,
before the end, her refreshed energies began to pine for Daisy and her
hymns, for Aubrey and his Virgil, for Cherry and her scholars, and,
above all, for her father; for, come as often as he would, it was not
papa at home.

On the other hand, Mary was at a loss for Ethel every hour; Richard
was putting off his affairs till Ethel should come home; Miss Bracy
and Blanche longed for her to relieve the schoolroom from the children;
Aubrey could not perform a lesson in comfort with any one else--never
ended a sum without groaning for Ethel, and sometimes rode to Abbotstoke
for the mere purpose of appealing to her; in short, no one could get on
without her, and the doctor least of all.

Dr. Spencer, and Mr. Wilmot, and all his sons and daughters, had done
their best for him; but, in spite of his satisfaction at seeing the two
sisters so happy together, he could not help missing Ethel every minute,
as the very light of his home; and when, at last, Flora brought her
back, she was received with uproarious joy by Aubrey and Daisy, while
the rest of the household felt a revival and refreshment of spirits--the
first drawing aside of the cloud that had hung over the winter.
The pearl of their home might be missed every hour, but they could
thankfully rest in the trust that she was a jewel stored up in safety
and peace, to shine as a star for evermore.

A few weeks more, and there were other partings, sad indeed, yet cheery.
Dr. May told Mrs. Arnott that, though he grieved that so much of sorrow
had come to dim her visit, he could not but own that it was the very
time when her coming could be most comforting; and this, as she truly
said, was satisfaction enough for her, besides that she could not
rejoice enough that her arrival had been in time to see their dear
Margaret. She should carry away most precious recollections; and she
further told Dr. Spencer that she was far more comfortable about
her brother-in-law, than if she had only known him in his youthful
character, which had seemed so little calculated to bear sorrow or care.
She looked at him now only to wonder at, and reverence the change that
had been gradually wrought by the affections placed above.

Norman and his wife went with her--the one grave but hopeful, the other
trying to wile away the pain of parting, by her tearful mirth--making
all sorts of odd promises and touching requests, between jest and
earnest, and clinging to the last to her dear father-in-law, as if the
separation from him were the hardest of all.

“Well, humming-birds must be let fly!” said he at last. “Ah! ha! Meta,
are they of no use?”

“Stay till you hear!” said Meta archly--then turning back once more.
“Oh! how I have thanked you, Ethel, for those first hints you gave me
how to make my life real. If I had only sat still and wished, instead of
trying what could be done as I was, how unhappy I should have been!”

“Come, take your sprite away, Norman, if you don’t want me to keep her
for good! God bless you, my dear children! Good-bye! Who knows but when
Doctor Tom sets up in my place, Ethel and I may come out and pay you a
visit?”

It had all been over for some weeks, and the home-party had settled down
again into what was likely to be their usual course, excepting in the
holidays, to which the doctor looked forward with redoubled interest, as
Tom was fast becoming a very agreeable and sensible companion; for his
moodiness had been charmed away by Meta, and principle was teaching
him true command of temper. He seemed to take his father as a special
charge, bequeathed to him by Norman, and had already acquired that
value and importance at home which comes of the laying aside of all
self-importance.

It was a clear evening in March, full of promise of spring, and Ethel
was standing in the church porch at Cocksmoor, after making some visits
in the parish, waiting for Richard, while the bell was ringing for the
Wednesday evening service, and the pearly tints of a cloudless sunset
were fading into the western sky.

Ethel began to wonder where Norman might be looking at the sun dipping
into the western sea, and thence arose before her the visions of her
girlhood, when she had first dreamt of a church on Cocksmoor, and of
Richard ministering before a willing congregation. So strange did the
accomplishment seem, that she even touched the stone to assure herself
of the reality; and therewith came intense thanksgiving that the work
had been taken out of her hands, to be the more fully blessed and
accomplished--that is, as far as the building went; as to the people,
there was far more labour in store, and the same Hand must be looked to
for the increase.

For herself, Ethel looked back and looked on. Norman Ogilvie’s marriage
seemed to her to have fixed her lot in life, and what was that lot? Home
and Cocksmoor had been her choice, and they were before her. Home! but
her eyes had been opened to see that earthly homes may not endure, nor
fill the heart. Her dear father might, indeed, claim her full-hearted
devotion, but, to him, she was only one of many. Norman was no longer
solely hers; and she had begun to understand that the unmarried woman
must not seek undivided return of affection, and must not set her love,
with exclusive eagerness, on aught below, but must be ready to cease in
turn to be first with any. Ethel was truly a mother to the younger ones;
but she faced the probability that they would find others to whom she
would have the second place. To love each heartily, to do her utmost for
each in turn, and to be grateful for their fondness, was her call; but
never to count on their affection as her sole right and inalienable
possession. She felt that this was the probable course, and that
she might look to becoming comparatively solitary in the course of
years--then tried to realise what her lonely life might be, but broke
off smiling at herself, “What is that to me? What will it be when it is
over? My course and aim are straight on, and He will direct my paths.
I don’t know that I shall be alone, and I shall have the memory--the
communion with them, if not their presence. Some one there must be to be
loved and helped, and the poor for certain. Only I must have my treasure
above, and when I think what is there, and of--Oh! that bliss of being
perfectly able to praise--with no bad old self to mar the full joy of
giving thanks, and blessing, and honour, and power! Need I dread a few
short years?--and they have not begun yet--perhaps they won’t--Oh! here
is actually papa coming home this way! how delightful! Papa, are you
coming to church here?”

“Ay, Ethel. That weathercock of Spencer’s is a magnet, I believe! It
draws me from all parts of the country to hear Richard in St. Andrew’s
Church.”