Chapter XXIV…

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.