Chapter IX…

Chapter IX

While I, thy dearest, sat apart, And felt thy triumphs were as mine, And lov’d them more than they were thine. TENNYSON.

That was a week of weeks; the most memorable week in Ethel’s life, spent in indefatigable sight-seeing. College Chapels, Bodleian Library, Taylor Gallery, the Museum, all were thoroughly studied, and, if Flora had not dragged the party on, in mercy to poor George’s patience, Ethel would never have got through a day’s work.

Indeed, Mr. Ogilvie, when annoyed at being hurried in going over Merton Chapel with her, was heard to whisper that he acted the part of policeman, by a perpetual “move on”; and as Ethel recollected the portly form and wooden face of the superintendent at Stoneborough, she was afraid that the comparison would not soon be forgotten. Norman Ogilvie seemed to consider himself bound to their train as much as his namesake, or, as on the second morning, Norman reported his reasoning, it was that a man must walk about with somebody on Commemoration week, and that it was a comfort to do so with ladies who wore their bonnets upon their heads, instead of, like most of those he met, remind him of what Cock Robin said to Jenny Wren in that matrimonial quarrel, when

Robin, he grew angry, Hopped upon a twig--

Flora was extremely delighted, and, in matronly fashion, told her sister that people were always respected and admired who had the strength of mind to resist unsuitable customs. Ethel laughed in answer, and said she thought it would take a great deal more strength of mind to go about with her whole visage exposed to the universal gaze; and, woman-like, they had a thorough gossip over the evils of the “backsliding” head-gear.

Norman had retreated from it into the window, when Flora returned to the charge about Harvey Anderson. She had been questioning their old friend Mr. Everard, and had learned from him that the cause of the hesitation with which his name had been received was that he had become imbued with some of the Rationalistic ideas current in some quarters. He seldom met Norman May without forcing on him debates, which were subjects of great interest to the hearers, as the two young men were considered as the most distinguished representatives of their respective causes, among their own immediate contemporaries. Norman’s powers of argument, his eloquence, readiness, and clearness, were thought to rank very high, and, in the opinion of Mr. Everard, had been of great effect in preventing other youths from being carried away by the specious brilliancy of his rival.

Ethel valued this testimony far above the Newdigate prize, and she was extremely surprised by hearing Flora declare her intention of still asking Mr. Anderson to dinner, only consulting her brother as to the day.

“Why, Flora! ask him! Norman--”

Norman had turned away with the simple answer, “any day.”

“Norman is wiser than you are, Ethel,” said Flora. “He knows that Stoneborough would be up in arms at any neglect from us to one of the Andersons, and, considering the rivalship, it is the more graceful, and becoming.”

“I do not think it right,” said Ethel stoutly; “I believe that a line ought to be drawn, and that we ought not to associate with people who openly tamper with their faith.”

“Never fear,” smiled Flora; “I promise you that there shall be no debates at my table.”

Ethel felt the force of the pronoun, and, as Flora walked out of the room, she went up to Norman, who had been resting his brow against the window.

“It is vain to argue with her,” she said; “but, Norman, do not you think it is clearly wrong to seek after men who desert and deny--”

She stopped short, frightened at his pale look.

He spoke in a low clear tone that seemed to thrill her with a sort of alarm. “If the secrets of men’s hearts were probed, who could cast the first stone?”

“I don’t want to cast stones,” she began; but he made a gesture as if he would not hear, and, at the same moment, Mr. Ogilvie entered the room.

Had Ethel been at home, she would have pondered much over her brother’s meaning--here she had no leisure. Not only was she fully occupied with the new scenes around her, but her Scottish cousin took up every moment open to conversation. He was older than Norman, and had just taken his degree, and he talked with that superior aplomb, which a few years bestow at their time of life, without conceit, but more hopeful and ambitious, and with higher spirits than his cousin.

Though industrious and distinguished, he had not avoided society or amusement, was a great cricketer and tennis-player, one of the “eight” whose success in the boat races was one of Norman’s prime interests, and he told stories of frolics that reminded Ethel of her father’s old Cambridge adventures.

He was a new variety in her eyes, and entertained her greatly. Where the bounds of banter ended, was not easy to define, but whenever he tried a little mystification, she either entered merrily into the humour, or threw it over with keen wit that he kept constantly on the stretch. They were always discovering odd, unexpected bits of knowledge in each other, and a great deal more accordance in views and opinions than appeared on the surface, for his enthusiasm usually veiled itself in persiflage on hers, though he was too good and serious to carry it too far.

At Blenheim, perhaps he thought he had given an overdose of nonsense, and made her believe, as Meta really did, that the Duchess Sarah was his model woman; for as they walked in the park in search of Phoebe Mayflower’s well, he gathered a fern leaf, to show her the Glenbracken badge, and talked to her of his home, his mother, and his sister Marjorie, and the little church in the rocky glen. He gave the history of the stolen meetings of the little knot of churchmen during the days of persecution, and showed a heart descended straight from the Ogilvie who was “out with Montrose,” now that the upper structure of young England was for a little while put aside.

After this, she took his jokes much more coolly, and made thrusts beneath them, which he seemed to enjoy, and caused him to unfold himself the more. She liked him all the better for finding that he thought Norman had been a very good friend to him, and that he admired her brother heartily, watching tenderly over his tendencies to make himself unhappy. He confided to her that, much as he rejoiced in the defeats of Anderson, he feared that the reading and thought consequent on the discussions, had helped to overstrain Norman’s mind, and he was very anxious to carry him away from all study, and toil, and make his brains rest, and his eyes delight themselves upon Scottish mountains.

Thereupon came vivid descriptions of the scenery, especially his own glen with the ruined tower, and ardent wishes that his cousin Ethel could see them also, and know Marjorie. She could quite echo the wish, Edinburgh and Loch Katrine had been the visions of her life, and now that she had once taken the leap and left home, absence did not seem impossible, and, with a start of delight, she hailed her own conviction that he intended his mother to invite the party to Glenbracken.

After Norman’s visit, Mr. Ogilvie declared that he must come home with him and pay his long-promised visit to Stoneborough. He should have come long ago. He had been coming last winter, but the wedding had prevented him; he had always wished to know Dr. May, whom his father well remembered, and now nothing should keep him away!

Flora looked on amused and pleased at Ethel’s development--her abruptness softened into piquancy, and her countenance so embellished, that the irregularity only added to the expressiveness. There was no saying what Ethel would come to! She had not said that she would not go to the intended ball, and her grimaces at the mention of it were growing fainter every day.

The discussion about Harvey Anderson was never revived; Flora sent the invitation without another word--he came with half a dozen other gentlemen--Ethel made him a civil greeting, but her head was full of boats and the procession day, about which Mr. Ogilvie was telling her, and she thought of him no more.

“A lucky step!” thought Flora. “A grand thing for Ethel--a capital connection for us all. Lady Glenbracken will not come too much into my sphere either. Yes, I am doing well by my sisters.”

It would make stay-at-home people giddy to record how much pleasure, how much conversation and laughter were crowded into those ten days, and with much thought and feeling beside them, for these were not girls on whom grave Oxford could leave no impression but one of gaiety.

The whole party was very full of merriment. Norman May, especially, on whom Flora contrived to devolve that real leadership of conversation that should rightly have belonged to George Rivers, kept up the ball with wit and drollery far beyond what he usually put forth; enlivened George into being almost an agreeable man, and drew out little Meta’s vivacity into sunny sparkles.

Meta generally had Norman for her share, and seemed highly contented with his lionisings, which were given much more quietly and copiously than those which his cousin bestowed upon his sister. Or if there were anything enterprising to be done, any tower to be mounted, or anything with the smallest spice of danger in it, Meta was charmed, and with her lightness and airiness of foot and figure, and perfectly feminine ways, showed a spirit of adventure that added to the general diversion. But if she were to be helped up or down anywhere, she certainly seemed to find greater security in Norman May’s assistance, though it was but a feather-like touch that she ever used to aid her bounding step.

Both as being diffident, and, in a manner at home, Norman was not as constantly her cavalier as was Mr. Ogilvie to his sister; and, when supplanted, his wont was either to pioneer for Flora, or, if she did not need him, to walk alone, grave and abstracted. There was a weight on his brow, when nothing was going on to drive it away, and whether it were nervousness as to the performance in store for him, anxiety about Harry, or, as Mr. Ogilvie said, too severe application; some burden hung upon him, that was only lightened for the time by his participation in the enjoyment of the party.

On Sunday evening, when they had been entering into the almost vision-like delight of the choicest of music, and other accompaniments of church service, they went to walk in Christchurch Meadows. They had begun altogether by comparing feelings--Ethel wondering whether Stoneborough Minster would ever be used as it might be, and whether, if so, they should be practically the better for it; and proceeding with metaphysics on her side, and satire on Norman Ogilvie’s, to speculate whether that which is, is best, and the rights and wrongs of striving for change and improvements, what should begin from above, and what from beneath--with illustrations often laughter-moving, though they were much in earnest, as the young heir of Glenbracken looked into his future life.

Flora had diverged into wondering who would have the living after poor old Mr. Ramsden, and walked, keeping her husband amused with instances of his blunders.

Meta, as with Norman she parted from the rest, thought her own dear Abbotstoke church, and Mr Charles Wilmot, great subjects for content and thanksgiving, though it was a wonderful treat to see and hear such as she had enjoyed to-day; and she thought it was a joy, to carry away abidingly, to know that praise and worship, as near perfection as this earth could render them, were being offered up.

Norman understood her thought, but responded by more of a sigh than was quite comfortable.

Meta went on with her own thoughts, on the connection between worship and good works, how the one leads to the other, and how praise with pure lips is, after all, the great purpose of existence.--Her last thought she spoke aloud.

“I suppose everything, our own happiness and all, are given to us to turn into praise,” she said.

“Yes--” echoed Norman; but as if his thoughts were not quite with hers, or rather in another part of the same subject; then recalling himself, “Happy such as can do so.”

“If one only could--” said Meta.

“You can--don’t say otherwise,” exclaimed Norman; “I know, at least, that you and my father can.”

“Dr. May does so, more than any one I know,” said Meta.

“Yes,” said Norman again; “it is his secret of joy. To him, it is never, ‘I am half sick of shadows’.”

“To him they are not shadows, but foretastes,” said Meta. Silence again; and when she spoke, she said, “I have always thought it must be such a happiness to have power of any kind that can be used in direct service, or actual doing good.”

“No,” said Norman. “Whatever becomes a profession, becomes an unreality.”

“Surely not, in becoming a duty,” said Meta.

“Not for all,” he answered; “but where the fabric erected by ourselves, in the sight of the world, is but an outer case, a shell of mere words, blown up for the occasion, strung together as mere language; then, self-convicted, we shrink within the husk, and feel our own worthlessness and hypocrisy.”

“As one feels in reproving the school children for behaving ill at church?” said Meta.

“You never felt anything approaching to it!” said Norman. “To know oneself to be such a deception, that everything else seems a delusion too!”

“I don’t know whether that is metaphysical,” said Meta, “but I am sure I don’t understand it. One must know oneself to be worse than one knows any one else to be.”

“I could not wish you to understand,” said Norman; and yet he seemed impelled to go on; for, after a hesitating silence, he added, “When the wanderer in the desert fears that the spring is but a mirage; or when all that is held dear is made hazy or distorted by some enchanter, what do you think are the feelings, Meta?”

“It must be dreadful,” she said, rather bewildered; “but he may know it is a delusion, if he can but wake. Has he not always a spell, a charm?--”

“What is the spell?” eagerly said Norman, standing still.

“Believe--” said Meta, hardly knowing how she came to choose the words.

“I believe!” he repeated. “What--when we go beyond the province of reason--human, a thing of sense after all! How often have I so answered. But Meta, when a man has been drawn, in self-sufficient security, to look into a magic mirror, and cannot detach his eyes from the confused, misty scene--where all that had his allegiance appears shattered, overthrown, like a broken image, or at least unable to endure examination, then--”

“Oh, Norman, is that the trial to any one here? I thought old Oxford was the great guardian nurse of truth! I am sure she cannot deal in magic mirrors or such frightful things. Do you know you are talking like a very horrible dream?”

“I believe I am in one,” said Norman.

“To be sure you are. Wake!” said Meta, looking up, smiling in his face. “You have read yourself into a maze, that’s all--what Mary calls, muzzling your head; you don’t really think all this, and when you get into the country, away from books, you will forget it. One look at our dear old purple Welsh hills will blow away all the mists!”

“I ought not to have spoken in this manner,” said Norman sadly. “Forget it, Meta.”

“Forget it! Of course I will. It is all nonsense, and meant to be forgotten,” said Meta, laughing. “You will own that it is by-and-by.”

He gave a deep sigh.

“Don’t think I am unfeeling,” she said; “but I know it is all a fog up from books, books, books--I should like to drive it off with a good fresh gust of wind! Oh! I wish those yellow lilies would grow in our river!”

Meta talked away gaily for the rest of the walk. She was anything but unfeeling, but she had a confidence in Norman that forbade her to see anything here but one of his variations of spirits, which always sank in the hour of triumph. She put forth her brightness to enliven him, and, in their subsequent tete-a-tetes, she avoided all that could lead to a renewal of this conversation. Ethel would not have rested till it had been fought out. Meta thought it so imaginary, that it had better die for want of the aliment of words; certainly, hers could not reach an intellect like his, and she would only soothe and amuse him. Dr. May, mind-curer as well as body-curer, would soon be here, to put the climax to the general joy and watch his own son.

He did arrive; quite prepared to enjoy, giving an excellent account of both homes; Mr. Rivers very well, and the Wilmots taking care of him, and Margaret as comfortable as usual, Mary making a most important and capable little housekeeper, Miss Bracy as good as possible. He talked as if they had all flourished the better for Ethel’s absence, but he had evidently missed her greatly, as he showed, without knowing it, by his instant eagerness to have her to himself. Even Norman, prizeman as he was, was less wanted. There was proud affection, eager congratulation, for him, but it was Ethel to whom he wanted to tell everything that had passed during her absence--whom he treated as if they were meeting after a tedious separation.

They dined rather early, and went out afterwards, to walk down the High Street to Christchurch Meadow. Norman and Ethel had been anxious for this; they thought it would give their father the best idea of the tout ensemble of Oxford, and were not without hopes of beating him by his own confession, in that standing fight between him and his sons, as to the beauties of Oxford and Cambridge--a fight in which, hitherto, they had been equally matched--neither partisan having seen the rival University.

Flora stayed at home; she owned herself fairly tired by her arduous duties of following the two young ladies about, and was very glad to give her father the keeping of them. Dr. May held out his arm to Ethel--Norman secured his peculiar property. Ethel could have preferred that it should be otherwise--Norman would have no companion but George Rivers; how bored he would be!

All through the streets, while she was telling her father the names of the buildings, she was not giving her whole attention; she was trying to guess, from the sounds behind, whether Mr. Ogilvie were accompanying them. They entered the meadows--Norman turned round, with a laugh, to defy the doctor to talk of the Cam, on the banks of the Isis. The party stood still--the other two gentlemen came up. They amalgamated again--all the Oxonians conspiring to say spiteful things of the Cam, and Dr. May making a spirited defence, in which Ethel found herself impelled to join.

In the wide gravelled path, they proceeded in threes; George attached himself to his sister and Norman. Mr. Ogilvie came to Ethel’s other side, and began to point out all the various notabilities. Ethel was happy again; her father was so much pleased and amused, with him, and he with her father, that it was a treat to look on.

Presently Dr. May, as usual, always meeting with acquaintances, fell in with a county neighbour, and Ethel had another pleasant aside, until her father claimed her, and Mr. Ogilvie was absorbed among another party, and lost to her sight.

He came to tea, but, by that time, Dr. May had established himself in the chair which had hitherto been appropriated to her cousin, a chair that cut her nook off from the rest of the world, and made her the exclusive possession of the occupant. There was a most interesting history for her to hear, of a meeting with the Town Council, which she had left pending, when Dr. May had been battling to save the next presentation of the living from being sold.

Few subjects could affect Ethel more nearly, yet she caught herself missing the thread of his discourse, in trying to hear what Mr. Ogilvie was saying to Flora about a visit to Glenbracken.

The time came for the two Balliol men to take their leave. Norman May had been sitting very silent all the evening, and Meta, who was near him, respected his mood. When he said good-night, he drew Ethel outside the door. “Ethel,” he said, “only one thing: do ask my father not to put on his spectacles to-morrow.”

“Very well,” said Ethel, half smiling; “Richard did not mind them.”

“Richard has more humility--I shall break down if he looks at me! I wish you were all at home.”

“Thank you.”

The other Norman came out of the sitting-room at the moment, and heard the last words.

“Never mind,” said he to Ethel, “I’ll take care of him. He shall comport himself as if you were all at Nova Zembla. A pretty fellow to talk of despising fame, and then get a fit of stage-fright!”

“Well, good-night,” said Norman, sighing. “It will be over to-morrow; only remember the spectacles.”

Dr. May laughed a good deal at the request, and asked if the rest of the party were to be blindfolded. Meta wondered that Ethel should have mentioned the request so publicly; she was a good deal touched by it, and she thought Dr. May ought to be so.

Good-night was said, and Dr. May put his arm round Ethel, and gave her the kiss that she had missed for seven nights. It was very homelike, and it brought a sudden flash of thought across Ethel! What had she been doing? She had been impatient of her father’s monopoly of her!

She parted with Flora, and entered the room she shared with Meta, where Bellairs waited to attend her little mistress. Few words passed between the two girls, and those chiefly on the morrow’s dress. Meta had some fixed ideas--she should wear pink. Norman had said he liked her pink bonnet, and then she could put down her white veil, so that he could be certain that she was not looking; Ethel vaguely believed Flora meant to wear--something--

Bellairs went away, and Meta gave expression to her eager hope that Norman would go through it well. If he would only read it as he did last Easter to her and Ethel.

“He will,” said Ethel. “This nervousness always wears off when it comes to the point, and he warms with his subject.”

“Oh! but think of all the eyes looking at him!”

“Our’s are all that he really cares for, and he will think of none of them, when he begins. No, Meta, you must not encourage him in it. Papa says, if he did not think it half morbid--the result of the shock to his nerves--he should be angry with it as a sort of conceit!”

“I should have thought that the last thing to be said of Norman!” said Meta, with a little suppressed indignation.

“It was once in his nature,” said Ethel; “and I think it is the fault he most beats down. There was a time, before you knew him, when he would have been vain and ambitious.”

“Then it is as they say, conquered faults grow to be the opposite virtues!” said Meta. “How very good he is, Ethel; one sees it more when he is with other people, and one hears all these young men’s stories!”

“Everything Norman does not do, is not therefore wrong,” said Ethel, with her usual lucidity of expression.

“Don’t you like him the better for keeping out of all these follies?”

“Norman does not call them so, I am sure.”

“No, he is too good to condemn--”

“It is not only that,” said Ethel. “I know papa thinks that the first grief, coming at his age, and in the manner it did, checked and subdued his spirits, so that he has little pleasure in those things. And he always meant to be a clergyman, which acted as a sort of consecration on him; but many things are innocent; and I do believe papa would like it better, if Norman were less grave.”

“Yes,” said Meta, remembering the Sunday talk, “but still, he would not be all he is--so different from others--”

“Of course, I don’t mean less good, only, less grave,” said Ethel, “and certainly less nervous. But, perhaps, it is a good thing; dear mamma thought his talents would have been a greater temptation than they seem to be, subdued as he has been. I only meant that you must not condemn all that Norman does not do. Now, goodnight.”

Very different were the feelings with which those two young girls stretched themselves in their beds that night. Margaret Rivers’s innocent, happy little heart was taken up in one contemplation. Admiration, sympathy, and the exultation for him, which he would not feel for himself, drew little Meta entirely out of herself--a self that never held her much. She was proud of the slender thread of connection between them; she was confident that his vague fancies were but the scruples of a sensitive mind, and, as she fell sound asleep, she murmured broken lines of Decius, mixed with promises not to look.

Etheldred heard them, for there was no sleep for her. She had a parley to hold with herself, and to accuse her own feelings of having been unkind, ungrateful, undutiful towards her father. What had a fit of vanity brought her to? that she should have been teased by what would naturally have been her greatest delight! her father’s pleasure in being with her. Was this the girl who had lately vowed within herself that her father should be her first earthly object?

At first, Ethel blamed herself for her secret impatience, but another conviction crossed her, and not an unpleasing one, though it made her cheeks tingle with maidenly shame, at having called it up. Throughout this week, Norman Ogilvie had certainly sought her out. He had looked disappointed this evening--there was no doubt that he was attracted by her--by her, plain, awkward Ethel! Such a perception assuredly never gave so much pleasure to a beauty as it did to Ethel, who had always believed herself far less good-looking than she really was. It was a gleam of delight, and, though she set herself to scold it down, the conviction was elastic, and always leaped up again.

That resolution came before her, but it had been unspoken; it could not be binding, and, if her notion were really right, the misty brilliant future of mutual joy dazzled her! But there was another side: her father oppressed and lonely, Margaret ill and pining, Mary, neither companion nor authority, the children running wild; and she, who had mentally vowed never to forsake her father, far away, enjoying her own happiness. “Ah! that resolve had seemed easy enough when it was made, when,” thought Ethel, “I fancied no one could care for me! Shame on me! Now is the time to test it! I must go home with papa.”

It was a great struggle--on one side there was the deceitful guise of modesty, telling her it was absurd to give so much importance to the kindness of the first cousin with whom she had ever been thrown; there was the dislike to vex Flora to make a discussion, and break up the party. There was the desire to hear the concert, to go to the breakfast at ---- College, to return round by Warwick Castle, and Kenilworth, as designed. Should she lose all this for a mere flattering fancy? She, who had laughed at Miss Boulder, for imagining every one who spoke to her was smitten. What reason could she assign? It would be simply ridiculous, and unkind--and it was so very pleasant. Mr. Ogilvie would be too wise to think of so incongruous a connection, which would be so sure to displease his parents. It was more absurd than ever to think of it. The heir of Glenbracken, and a country physician’s daughter!

That was a candid heart which owned that its own repugnance to accept this disparity as an objection, was an additional evidence that she ought to flee from further intercourse. She believed that no harm was done yet; she was sure that she loved her father better than anything else in the world, and whilst she did so, it was best to preserve her heart for him. Widowed as he was, she knew that he would sorely miss her, and that for years to come, she should be necessary at home. She had better come away while it would cost only a slight pang, for that it was pain to leave Norman Ogilvie, was symptom enough of the need of not letting her own silly heart go further. However it might be with him, another week would only make it worse with her.

“I will go home with papa!” was the ultimatum reached by each chain of mental reasonings, and borne in after each short prayer for guidance, as Ethel tossed about listening to the perpetual striking of all the Oxford clocks, until daylight had begun to shine in; when she fell asleep, and was only waked by Meta, standing over her with a sponge, looking very mischievous, as she reminded her of their appointment with Dr. May, to go to the early service in New College Chapel.

The world looked different that morning with Ethel, but the determination was fixed, and the service strengthened it. She was so silent during the walk, that her companions rallied her, and they both supposed she was anxious about Norman; but taking her opportunity, when Meta was gone to prepare for breakfast, she rushed, in her usual way, into the subject. “Papa! if you please, I should like to go home to-morrow with you.”

“Eh?” said the doctor, amazed. “How is this? I told you that Miss Bracy and Mary are doing famously.”

“Yes, but I had rather go back.”

“Indeed!” and Dr. May looked at the door, and spoke low. “They make you welcome, I hope--”

“Oh, yes! nothing can be kinder.”

“I am glad to hear it. This Rivers is such a lout, that I could not tell how it might be. I did not look to see you turn homesick all at once.”

Ethel smiled. “Yes, I have been very happy; but please, papa, ask no questions--only take me home.”

“Come! it is all a homesick fit, Ethel--never fear the ball. Think of the concert. If it were not for that poor baby of Mrs. Larkins, I should stay myself to hear Sonntag again. You won’t have such another chance.”

“I know, but I think I ought to go--”

George came in, and they could say no more. Both were silent on the subject at breakfast, but when afterwards Flora seized on Ethel, to array her for the theatre, she was able to say, “Flora, please don’t be angry with me--you have been very kind to me, but I mean to go home with papa to-morrow.”

“I declare!” said Flora composedly, “you are as bad as the children at the infant school, crying to go home the instant they see their mothers!”

“No, Flora, but I must go. Thank you for all this pleasure, but I shall have heard Norman’s poem, and then I must go.”

Flora turned her round, looked in her face kindly, kissed her, and said, “My dear, never mind, it will all come right again--only, don’t run away.”

“What will come right?”

“Any little misunderstanding with Norman Ogilvie.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Ethel, becoming scarlet.

“My dear, you need not try to hide it. I see that you have got into a fright. You have made a discovery, but that is no reason for running away.”

“Yes it is!” said Ethel firmly, not denying the charge, though reddening more than ever at finding her impression confirmed.

“Poor child! she is afraid!” said Flora tenderly; “but I will take care of you, Ethel. It is everything delightful. You are the very girl for such a heros de Roman, and it has embellished you more than all my Paris fineries.”

“Hush, Flora! We ought not to talk in this way, as if--”

“As if he had done more than walk with, and talk with, nobody else! How he did hate papa last night. I had a great mind to call papa off, in pity to him.”

“Don’t, Flora. If there were anything in it, it would not be proper to think of it, so I am going home to prevent it.” The words were spoken with averted face and heaving breath.

“Proper?” said Flora. “The Mays are a good old family, and our own grandmother was an honourable Ogilvie herself. A Scottish baron, very poor too, has no right to look down--”

“They shall not look down. Flora, it is of no use to talk. I cannot be spared from home, and I will not put myself in the way of being tempted to forsake them all.”

“Tempted!” said Flora, laughing. “Is it such a wicked thing?”

“Not in others, but it would be wrong in me, with such a state of things as there is at home.”

“I do not suppose he would want you for some years to come. He is only two-and-twenty. Mary will grow older.”

“Margaret will either be married, or want constant care. Flora, I will not let myself be drawn from them.”

“You may think so now; but it would be for their real good to relieve papa of any of us. If we were all to think as you do, how should we live? I don’t know--for papa told me there will be barely ten thousand pounds, besides the houses, and what will that be among ten? I am not talking of yourself, but think of the others!”

“I know papa will not be happy without me, and I will not leave him,” repeated Ethel, not answering the argument.

Flora changed her ground, and laughed. “We are getting into the heroics,” she said, “when it would be very foolish to break up our plans, only because we have found a pleasant cousin. There is nothing serious in it, I dare say. How silly of us to argue on such an idea!”

Meta came in before Flora could say more, but Ethel, with burning cheeks, repeated, “It will be safer!”

Ethel had, meantime, been dressed by her sister; and, as Bellairs came to adorn Meta, and she could have no solitude, she went downstairs, thinking she heard Norman’s step, and hoping to judge of his mood.

She entered the room with an exclamation, “Oh, Norman!”

“At your service!” said the wrong Norman, looking merrily up from behind a newspaper.

“Oh, I beg your pardon; I thought--”

“Your thoughts were quite right,” he said, smiling. “Your brother desires me to present his respects to his honoured family, and to inform them that his stock of assurance is likely to be diminished by the pleasure of their company this morning.”

“How is he?” asked Ethel anxiously.

“Pretty fair. He has blue saucers round his eyes, as he had before he went up for his little go.”

“Oh, I know them,” said Ethel.

“Very odd,” continued her cousin; “when the end always is, that he says he has the luck of being set on in the very place he knows best. But I think it has expended itself in a sleepless night, and I have no fears, when he comes to the point.”

“What is he doing?”

“Writing to his brother Harry. He said it was the day for the Pacific mail, and that Harry’s pleasure would be the best of it.”

“Ah!” said Ethel, glancing towards the paper, “is there any naval intelligence?”

He looked; and while she was thinking whether she ought not to depart, he exclaimed, in a tone that startled her, “Ha! No. Is your brother’s ship the Alcestis?”

“Yes! Oh, what?”

“Nothing then, I assure you. See, it is merely this--she has not come into Sydney so soon as expected, which you knew before. That is all.”

“Let me see,” said the trembling Ethel.

It was no more than an echo of their unconfessed apprehensions, yet it seemed to give them a body; and Ethel’s thoughts flew to Margaret. Her going home would be absolutely necessary now. Mr. Ogilvie kindly began to talk away her alarm, saying that there was still no reason for dread, mentioning the many causes that might have delayed the ship, and reassuring her greatly.

“But Norman!” she said.

“Ah! true. Poor May! He will break down to a certainty if he hears it. I will go at once, and keep guard over him, lest he should meet with this paper. But pray, don’t be alarmed. I assure you there is no cause. You will have letters to-morrow.”

Ethel would fain have thrown off her finery and hurried home at once, but no one regarded the matter as she did. Dr. May agreed with Flora that it was no worse than before, and though they now thought Ethel’s return desirable, on Margaret’s account, it would be better not to add to the shock by a sudden arrival, especially as they took in no daily paper at home. So the theatre was not to be given up, nor any of the subsequent plans, except so far as regarded Ethel; and, this agreed, they started for the scene of action.

They were hardly in the street before they met the ubiquitous Mr. Ogilvie, saying that Cheviot, Norman’s prompter, was aware of the report, and was guarding him, while he came to escort the ladies, through what he expressively called “the bear fight.” Ethel resolutely adhered to her father, and her cousin took care of Meta, who had been clinging in a tiptoe manner to the point of her brother’s high elbow, looking as if the crowd might easily brush off such a little fly, without his missing her.

Inch by inch, a step at a time, the ladies were landed in a crowd of their own sex, where Flora bravely pioneered; they emerged on their benches, shook themselves out, and seated themselves. There was the swarm of gay ladies around them, and beneath the area, fast being paved with heads, black, brown, gray, and bald, a surging living sea, where Meta soon pointed out Dr. May and George; the mere sight of such masses of people was curious and interesting, reminding Ethel of Cherry Elwood having once shocked her by saying the Whit-Monday club was the most beautiful sight in the whole year. And above! that gallery of trampling undergraduates, and more than trampling! Ethel and Meta could, at first, have found it in their hearts to be frightened at those thundering shouts, but the young ladies were usually of opinions so similar, that the louder grew the cheers, the more they laughed and exulted, so carried along that no cares could be remembered.

Making a way through the thronged area, behold the procession of scarlet doctors, advancing through the midst, till the red and black vice-chancellor sat enthroned in the centre, and the scarlet line became a semicircle, dividing the flower-garden of ladies from the black mass below.

Then came the introduction of the honorary doctors, one by one, with the Latin speech, which Ethel’s companions unreasonably required her to translate to them, while she was using all her ears to catch a word or two, and her eyes to glimpse at the features of men of note.

By-and-by a youth made his appearance in the rostrum, and a good deal of Latin ensued, of which Flora hoped Ethel was less tired than she was. In time, however, Meta saw the spectacles removed, and George looking straight up, and she drew down her veil, and took hold of Flora’s hand, and Ethel flushed like a hot coal. Nevertheless, all contrived to see a tall figure, with face much flushed, and hands moving nervously. The world was tired, and people were departing, so that the first lines were lost, perhaps a satisfaction to Norman; but his voice soon cleared and became louder, his eyes lighted, and Ethel knew the “funny state” had come to his relief--people’s attention was arrested--there was no more going away.

It was well that Norman was ignorant of the fears for Harry, for four lines had been added since Ethel had seen the poem, saying how self-sacrifice sent forth the sailor-boy from home, to the lone watch, the wave and storm, his spirit rising high, ere manhood braced his form.

Applause did not come where Ethel had expected it, and, at first, there was silence at the close, but suddenly the acclamations rose with deafening loudness, though hardly what greets some poems with more to catch the popular ear.

Ethel’s great excitement was over, and presently she found herself outside of the theatre, a shower falling, and an umbrella held over her by Mr. Ogilvie, who was asking her if it was not admirable, and declaring the poem might rank with Heber’s ‘Palestine’, or Milman’s ‘Apollo’.

They were bound for a great luncheon at one of the colleges, where Ethel might survey the Principal with whom Miss Rich had corresponded. Mr. Ogilvie sat next to her, told her all the names, and quizzed the dignitaries, but she had a sense of depression, and did not wish to enter into the usual strain of banter. He dropped his lively tone, and drew her out about Harry, till she was telling eagerly of her dear sailor brother, and found him so sympathising and considerate, that she did not like him less; though she felt her intercourse with him a sort of intoxication, that would only make it the worse for her by-and-by.

During that whole luncheon, and their walk through the gardens, where there was a beautiful horticultural show, something was always prompting her to say, while in this quasi-privacy, that she was on the eve of departure, but she kept her resolution against it--she thought it would have been an unwarrantable experiment. When they returned to their inn they found Norman looking fagged, but relieved, half asleep on the sofa, with a novel in his hand. He roused himself as they came in, and, to avoid any compliments on his own performance, began, “Well, Ethel, are you ready for the ball?”

“We shall spare her the ball,” said Dr. May; “there is a report about the Alcestis in the newspaper that may make Margaret uncomfortable, and this good sister will not stay away from her.”

Norman started up crying, “What, papa?”

“It is a mere nothing in reality,” said Dr. May, “only what we knew before;” and he showed his son the paragraph, which Norman read as a death warrant; the colour ebbed from his lips and cheeks; he trembled so that he was obliged to sit down, and, without speaking, he kept his eyes fixed on the words, “Serious apprehensions are entertained with regard to H. M. S. Alcestis, Captain Gordon--”

“If you had seen as many newspaper reports come to nothing, as I have, you would not take this so much to heart,” said Dr. May. “I expect to hear that this very mail has brought letters.”

And Meta added that, at luncheon, she had been seated next to one of the honorary doctors--a naval captain--who had been making discoveries in the South Sea, and that he had scouted the notion of harm befalling the Alcestis, and given all manner of reassuring suppositions as to her detention, adding besides, that no one believed the Australian paper whence the report was taken. He had seen the Alcestis, knew Captain Gordon, and spoke of him as one of the safest people in the world. Had his acquaintance extended to lieutenants and midshipmen, it would have been perfect; as it was, the tidings brought back the blood to Norman’s cheek, and the light to his eye.

“When do we set off?” was Norman’s question.

“At five,” said Ethel. “You mean it, papa?”

“I did intend it, if I had gone alone, but I shall not take you till eight; nor you, Norman, at all.”

Norman was bent on returning, but his father and Flora would not hear of it. Flora could not spare him, and Dr. May was afraid of the effect of anxiety on nerves and spirits so sensitive. While this was going on, Mr. Ogilvie looked at Ethel in consternation, and said, “Are you really going home?”

“Yes, my eldest sister must not be left alone when she hears this.”

He looked down--Ethel had the resolution to walk away. Flora could not give up the ball, and Meta found that she must go; but both the Normans spent a quiet evening with Dr. May and Ethel. Norman May had a bad headache, which he was allowed to have justly earned; Dr. May was very happy reviving all his Scottish recollections, and talking to young Ogilvie about Edinburgh. Once, there was a private consultation. Ethel was provoked and ashamed at the throbs that it would excite. What! on a week’s acquaintance?

When alone with her father, she began to nerve herself for something heroic, and great was her shame when she heard only of her cousin’s kind consideration for her brother, whom he wished to take home with him, and thence to see the Highlands, so as to divert his anxiety for Harry, as well as to call him off from the studies with which he had this term overworked himself even more than usual. Dr. May had given most grateful consent, and he spoke highly in praise of the youth; but there was no more to come, and Ethel could have beaten herself for the moment of anticipation.

Meta came home, apologising for wakening Ethel; but Ethel had not been asleep. The ball had not, it seemed, been as charming to her as most events were, and Ethel heard a sigh as the little lady lay down in her bed.

Late as it was when she went to rest, Meta rose to see the travellers off; she sent hosts of messages to her father, and wished she might go with them. George and Flora were not visible, and Dr. May was leaving messages for them, and for Norman, in her charge, when the two Balliol men walked in.

Ethel had hoped it was over, yet she could not be sorry that the two youths escorted them to the station, and, as Ethel was placed in the carriage, she believed that she heard something of never forgetting--happiest week--but in the civilities which the other occupant of the carriage was offering for the accommodation of their lesser luggage, she lost the exact words, and the last she heard were, “Good-bye; I hope you will find letters at home.”

Chapter X

True to the kindred points of Heaven and home. WORDSWORTH.

Etheldred’s dream was over. She had wakened to the inside of a Great Western carriage, her father beside her, and opposite a thin, foreign-looking gentleman. Her father, to whom her life was to be devoted! She looked at his profile, defined against the window, and did not repent. In a sort of impulse to do something for him, she took his hat from his hand, and was going to dispose of it in the roof, when he turned, smiling his thanks, but saying, “it was not worth while--this carriage was a very transitory resting-place.”

The stranger at that moment sprang to his feet, exclaiming, “Dick himself!”

“Spencer, old fellow, is it you?” cried Dr. May, in a voice of equal amazement and joy, holding out his hand, which was grasped and wrung with a force that made Ethel shrink for the poor maimed arm.

“Ha! what is amiss with your arm?” was the immediate question. Three technical words were spoken in a matter-of-fact way, as Dr. May replaced his hand in his bosom, and then, with an eager smile, said, “Ethel, here! You have heard of him!”

Ethel had indeed, and gave her hand cordially, surprised by the bow and air of deferential politeness with which it was received, like a favour, while Dr. Spencer asked her whether she had been staying in Oxford.

“Ay; and what for, do you think?” said Dr. May joyously.

“You don’t say that was your son who held forth yesterday! I thought his voice had a trick of yours--but then I thought you would have held by old Cambridge.”

“What could I do?” said Dr. May deprecatingly; “the boy would go and get a Balliol scholarship--”

“Why! the lad is a genius! a poet--no mistake about it! but I scarcely thought you could have one of such an age.”

“Of his age! His brother is in Holy Orders--one of his sisters is married. There’s for you, Spencer!”

“Bless me, Dick! I thought myself a young man!”

“What! with hair of that colour?” said Dr. May, looking at his friend’s milk-white locks.

“Bleached by that frightful sickly season at Poonshedagore, when I thought I was done for. But you! you--the boy of the whole lot! You think me very disrespectful to your father,” added he, turning to Ethel, “but you see what old times are.”

“I know,” said Ethel, with a bright look.

“So you were in the theatre yesterday,” continued Dr. May; “but there is no seeing any one in such a throng. How long have you been in England?”

“A fortnight. I went at once to see my sister, at Malvern; there I fell in with Rudden, the man I was with in New Guinea. He was going up to be made an honorary doctor, and made me come with him.”

“And where are you bound for?” as the train showed signs of a halt.

“For London. I meant to hunt up Mat. Fleet, and hear of you, and other old friends.”

“Does he expect you?”

“No one expects me. I am a regular vagabond.”

“Come home with us,” said Dr. May, laying his hand on his arm. “I cannot part with you so soon. Come, find your luggage. Take your ticket for Gloucester.”

“So suddenly! Will it not be inconvenient?” said he, looking tempted, but irresolute.

“Oh, no, no; pray come!” said Ethel eagerly. “We shall be so glad.”

He looked his courteous thanks, and soon was with them en-route for Stoneborough.

Ethel’s thoughts were diverted from all she had left at Oxford. She could not but watch those two old friends. She knew enough of the traveller to enter into her father’s happiness, and to have no fears is of another Sir Matthew.

They had been together at Stoneborough, at Cambridge, at Paris, at Edinburgh, always linked in the closest friendship; but, by Dr. May’s own account, his friend had been the diligent one of the pair, a bright compound of principle and spirit, and highly distinguished in all his studies, and Dr. May’s model of perfection. Their paths had since lain far apart, and they had not seen each other since, twenty-six years ago, they had parted in London--the one to settle at his native town, while the other accepted a situation as travelling physician. On his return, he had almost sacrificed his life, by self-devoted attendance on a fever-stricken emigrant-ship. He had afterwards received an appointment in India, and there the correspondence had died away, and Dr. May had lost traces of him, only knowing that, in a visitation of cholera, he had again acted with the same carelessness of his own life, and a severe illness, which had broken up his health, had occasioned him to relinquish his post.

It now appeared that he had thought himself coming home ever since. He had gone to recruit in the Himalayas, and had become engrossed in scientific observations on their altitudes, as well as investigations in natural history. Going to Calcutta, he had fallen in with a party about to explore the Asiatic islands and he had accompanied them, as well as going on an expedition into the interior of Australia. He had been employed in various sanitary arrangements there and in India, and had finally worked his way slowly home, overland, visiting Egypt and Palestine, and refreshing his memory with every Italian, German, or French Cathedral, or work of art, that had delighted him in early days.

He was a slight small man, much sunburned, nearly bald, and his hair snowy, but his eyes were beautiful, very dark, soft, and smiling, and yet their gaze peculiarly keen and steady, as if ready for any emergency, and his whole frame was full of alertness and vigour. His voice was clear and sweet, and his manner most refined and polished, indeed, his courtesy to Ethel, whenever there was a change of carriage, was so exemplary, that she understood it as the effect on a chivalrous mind, of living where a lady was a rare and precious article. It frightened Ethel a little at first, but, before the end of the journey, she had already begun to feel towards him like an old friend--one of those inheritances who are so much valued and loved, like a sort of uncles-in-friendship. She had an especial grateful honour for the delicate tact which asked no questions, as she saw his eye often falling anxiously on her father’s left hand, where the wedding ring shone upon the little finger.

There was talk enough upon his travels, on public changes, and on old friends; but, after those first few words, home had never been mentioned.

When, at five o’clock, the engine blew its whistle, at the old familiar station, Dr. May had scarcely put his head out before Adams hastened up to him with a note.

“All well at home?”

“Yes, sir, Miss Margaret sent up the gig.”

“I must go at once,” said Dr May hastily--“the Larkins’ child is worse. Ethel, take care of him, and introduce him. Love to Margaret. I’ll be at home before tea.”

He was driven off at speed, and Ethel proposed to walk home. Dr Spencer gave her his arm, and was silent, but presently said, in a low, anxious voice, “My dear, you must forgive me, I have heard nothing for many years. Your mother--”

“It was an accident,” said Ethel looking straight before her. “It was when papa’s arm was hurt. The carriage was over-turned.”

“And--” repeated Dr Spencer earnestly

“She was killed on the spot,” said Ethel, speaking shortly, and abruptly. If she was to say it at all, she could not do so otherwise.

He was dreadfully shocked--she knew it by the shudder of his arm, and a tight suppressed groan. He did not speak, and Ethel, as if a relief from the silence must be made, said what was not very consoling, and equally blunt. “Margaret had some harm done to her spine--she cannot walk.”

He did not seem to hear, but walked on, as in a dream, where Ethel guided him, and she would not interrupt him again.

They had just passed Mr Bramshaw’s office, when a voice was heard behind, calling, “Miss Ethel! Miss Ethel!” and Edward Anderson, now articled to Mr. Bramshaw, burst out, pen in hand, and looking shabby and inky.

“Miss Ethel!” he said breathlessly, “I beg your pardon, but have you heard from Harry?”

“No!” said Ethel. “Have they had that paper at home?”

“Not that I know of,” said Edward. “My mother wanted to send it, but I would not take it--not while Dr. May was away.”

“Thank you--that was very kind of you.”

“And oh! Miss Ethel, do you think it is true?”

“We hope not,” said Ethel kindly--“we saw a Captain at Oxford who thought it not at all to be depended on.”

“I am so glad,” said Edward; and, shaking hands, he went back to his high stool, Ethel feeling that he deserved the pains that Norman had taken to spare and befriend him. She spoke to her companion in explanation. “We are very anxious for news of my next brother’s ship, Alcestis, in the Pacific--”

“More!” exclaimed poor Dr. Spencer, almost overpowered; “Good Heavens! I thought May, at least, was happy!”

“He is not unhappy,” said Ethel, not sorry that they had arrived at the back entrance of the shrubbery.

“How long ago was this?” said he, standing still, as soon as they had passed into the garden.

“Four years, next October. I assure you, his spirits are almost always good.”

“When I was at Adelaide, little thinking!” he sighed, then recollecting himself. “Forgive me, I have given you pain.”

“No,” she said, “or rather, I gave you more.”

“I knew her--” and there he broke off, paused for a minute, then collecting himself, seemed resolutely to turn away from the subject, and said, walking on, “This garden is not much altered.”

At that moment, a little shrill voice broke out in remonstrance among the laurels--“But you know, Daisy, you are the captain of the forty thieves!”

“A startling announcement!” said Dr. Spencer, looking at Ethel, and the next two steps brought them in view of the play-place in the laurels, where Aubrey lay on the ground, feigning sleep, but keeping a watchful eye over Blanche, who was dropping something into the holes of inverted flower-pots, Gertrude dancing about in a way that seemed to have called for the reproof of the more earnest actors.

“Ethel! Ethel!” screamed the children, with one voice, and, while the two girls stood in shyness at her companion, Aubrey had made a dart at her neck, and hung upon her, arms, legs, body, and all, like a wild cat.

“That will do! that will do, old man--let go! Speak to Dr. Spencer, my dear.”

Blanche did so demurely, and asked where was papa?

“Coming, as soon as he has been to Mrs. Larkins’s poor baby.”

“George Larkins has been here,” said Aubrey. “And I have finished ‘Vipera et lima’, Ethel, but Margaret makes such false quantities!”

“What is your name, youngster?” said Dr. Spencer, laying his hand on Aubrey’s head.

“Aubrey Spencer May,” was the answer.

“Hey day! where did you steal my name?” exclaimed Dr. Spencer, while Aubrey stood abashed at so mysterious an accusation.

“Oh!” exclaimed Blanche, seizing on Ethel, and whispering, “is it really the boy that climbed the market cross?”

“You see your fame lives here,” said Ethel, smiling, as Dr. Spencer evidently heard.

“He was a little boy!” said Aubrey indignantly, looking at the gray-haired man.

“There!” said Ethel to Dr. Spencer.

“The tables turned!” he said, laughing heartily. “But do not let me keep you. You would wish to prepare your sister for a stranger, and I shall improve my acquaintance here. Where are the forty thieves?”

“I am all of them,” said the innocent, daisy-faced Gertrude; and Ethel hastened towards the house, glad of the permission granted by his true good-breeding.

There was a shriek of welcome from Mary, who sat working beside Margaret. Ethel was certain that no evil tidings had come to her eldest sister, so joyous was her exclamation of wonder and rebuke to her home-sick Ethel. “Naughty girl! running home at once! I did think you would have been happy there!”

“So I was,” said Ethel hastily; “but who do you think I have brought home?” Margaret flushed with such a pink, that Ethel resolved never to set her guessing again, and hurried to explain; and having heard that all was well, and taken her housekeeping measures, she proceeded to fetch the guest; but Mary, who had been unusually silent all this time, ran after her, and checked her.

“Ethel, have you heard?” she said.

“Have you?” said Ethel.

“George Larkins rode in this morning to see when papa would come home, and he told me. He said I had better not tell Margaret, for he did not believe it.”

“And you have not! That is very good of you, Mary.”

“Oh! I am glad you are come! I could not have helped telling, if you had been away a whole week! But, Ethel, does papa believe it?” Poor Mary’s full lip swelled, and her eyes swam, ready to laugh or weep, in full faith in her sister’s answer.

Ethel told of Meta’s captain, and the smile predominated, and settled down into Mary’s usual broad beamy look, like a benignant rising sun on the sign of an inn, as Ethel praised her warmly for a fortitude and consideration of which she had not thought her capable.

Dr. Spencer was discovered full in the midst of the comedy of the forty thieves, alternating, as required, between the robber-captain and the ass, and the children in perfect ecstasies with him.

They all followed in his train to the drawing-room, and were so clamorous, that he could have no conversation with Margaret. He certainly made them so, but Ethel, remembering what a blow her disclosures had been, thought it would be only a kindness to send Aubrey to show him to his room, where he might have some peace.

She was not sorry to be very busy, so as to have little time to reply to the questions on the doings at Oxford, and the cause of her sudden return; and yet it would have been a comfort to be able to sit down to understand herself, and recall her confused thoughts. But solitary reflection was a thing only to be hoped for in that house in bed, and Ethel was obliged to run up and down, and attend to everybody, under an undefined sense that she had come home to a dull, anxious world of turmoil.

Margaret seemed to guess nothing, that was one comfort; she evidently thought that her return was fully accounted for by the fascination of her papa’s presence in a strange place. She gave Ethel no credit for the sacrifice, naturally supposing that she could not enjoy herself away from home. Ethel did not know whether to be glad or not; she was relieved, but it was flat. As to Norman Ogilvie, one or two inquiries whether she liked him, and if Norman were going to Scotland with him, were all that passed, and it was very provoking to be made so hot and conscious by them.

She could not begin to dress till late, and while she was unpacking, she heard her father come home, among the children’s loud welcomes, and go to the drawing-room. He presently knocked at the door between their rooms.

“So Margaret does not know?” he said.

“No, Mary has been so very good;” and she told what had passed.

“Well done, Mary, I must tell her so. She is a good girl on a pinch, you see!”

“And we don’t speak of it now? Or will it hurt Margaret more to think we keep things from her?”

“That is the worst risk of the two. I have seen great harm done in that way. Mention it, but without seeming to make too much of it.”

“Won’t you, papa?”

“You had better--it will seem of less importance. I think nothing of it myself.”

Nevertheless, Ethel saw that he could not trust himself to broach the subject to Margaret.

“How was the Larkins’ baby?”

“Doing better. What have you done with Spencer?”

“I put him into Richard’s room. The children were eating him up! He is so kind to them.”

“Ay! I say, Ethel, that was a happy consequence of your coming home with me.”

“What a delightful person he is!”

“Is he not? A true knight errant, as he always was! I could not tell you what I owed to him as a boy--all my life, I may say. Ethel,” he added suddenly: “we must do our best to make him happy here. I know it now--I never guessed it then, but one is very hard and selfish when one is happy--”

“What do you mean, papa?”

“I see it now,” continued Dr. May incoherently; “the cause of his wandering life--advantages thrown aside. He! the most worthy. Things I little heeded at the time have come back on me! I understand why he banished himself!”

“Why?” asked Ethel bewildered.

“She never had an idea of it; but I might have guessed from what fell from him unconsciously, for not a word would he have said--nor did he say, to show how he sacrificed himself!”

“Who was it? Aunt Flora?” said Ethel, beginning to collect his meaning.

“No, Ethel, it was your own dear mother! You will think this another romantic fancy of mine, but I am sure of it.”

“So am I,” said Ethel.

“How--what? Ah! I remembered after we parted that he might know nothing--”

“He asked me,” said Ethel.

“And how did he bear it?”

Ethel told, and the tears filled her father’s eyes.

“It was wrong and cruel in me to bring him home unprepared! and then to leave it to you. I always forget other people’s feelings. Poor Spencer! And now, Ethel, you see what manner of man we have here, and how we ought to treat him.”

“Indeed I do!”

“The most unselfish--the most self-sacrificing--” continued Dr. May. “And to see what it all turned on! I happened to have this place open to me--the very cause, perhaps, of my having taken things easy--and so the old Professor threw opportunities in my way; while Aubrey Spencer, with every recommendation that man could have, was set aside, and exiled himself, leaving the station, and all he might so easily have gained. Ah, Ethel, Sir Matthew Fleet never came near him in ability. But not one word to interfere with me would he say, and--how I have longed to meet him again, after parting in my selfish, unfeeling gladness; and now I have nothing to do for him, but show him how little I was to be trusted with her.”

Ethel never knew how to deal with these occasional bursts of grief, but she said that she thought Dr. Spencer was very much pleased to have met with him, and delighted with the children.

“Ah! well, you are her children,” said Dr. May, with his hand on Ethel’s shoulder.

So they went downstairs, and found Mary making tea; and Margaret, fearing Dr. Spencer was overwhelmed with his young admirers--for Aubrey and Gertrude were one on each knee, and Blanche standing beside him, inflicting on him a catalogue of the names and ages of all the eleven.

“Ethel has introduced you, I see,” said Dr. May.

“Ay, I assure you, it was an alarming introduction. No sooner do I enter your garden, than I hear that I am in the midst of the Forty Thieves. I find a young lady putting the world to death, after the fashion of Hamlet--and, looking about to find what I have lost, I find this urchin has robbed me of my name--a property I supposed was always left to unfortunate travellers, however small they might be chopped themselves.”

“Well, Aubrey boy, will you make restitution?”

“It is my name,” said Aubrey positively; for, as his father added, “He is not without dread of the threat being fulfilled, and himself left to be that Anon who, Blanche says, writes so much poetry.”

Aubrey privately went to Ethel, to ask her if this were possible; and she had to reassure him, by telling him that they were “only in fun.”

It was fun with a much deeper current though; for Dr. Spencer was saying, with a smile, between gratification and sadness, “I did not think my name would have been remembered here so long.”

“We had used up mine, and the grandfathers’, and the uncles’, and began to think we might look a little further a-field,” said Dr. May. “If I had only known where you were, I would have asked you to be the varlet’s godfather; but I was much afraid you were nowhere in the land of the living.”

“I have but one godson, and he is coffee-coloured! I ought to have written; but, you see, for seven years I thought I was coming home.”

Aubrey had recovered sufficiently to observe to Blanche, “That was almost as bad as Ulysses,” which, being overheard and repeated, led to the information that he was Ethel’s pupil, whereupon Dr. Spencer began to inquire after the school, and to exclaim at his friend for having deserted it in the person of Tom. Dr. May looked convicted, but said it was all Norman’s fault; and Dr. Spencer, shaking his head at Blanche, opined that the young gentleman was a great innovater, and that he was sure he was at the bottom of the pulling down the Market Cross, and the stopping up Randall’s Alley--iniquities of the “nasty people,” of which she already had made him aware.

“Poor Norman, he suffered enough anent Randall’s Alley,” said Dr. May; “but as to the Market Cross, that came down a year before he was born.”

“It was the Town Council!” said Ethel.

“One of the ordinary stultifications of Town Councils?”

“Take care, Spencer,” said Dr. May. “I am a Town Council man my-self--”

“You, Dick!” and he turned with a start of astonishment, and went into a fit of laughing, re-echoed by all the young ones, who were especially tickled by hearing, from another, the abbreviation that had, hitherto, only lived in the favourite expletive, “As sure as my name is Dick May.”

“Of course,” said Dr. May. “‘Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou not suspect my years? One that hath two gowns, and everything handsome about him!’”

His friend laughed the more, and they betook themselves to the College stories, of which the quotation from Dogberry seemed to have reminded them.

There was something curious and affecting in their manner to each other. Often it was the easy bantering familiarity of the two youths they had once been together, with somewhat of elder brotherhood on Dr. Spencer’s side--and of looking up on Dr. May’s--and just as they had recurred to these terms, some allusion would bring back to Dr. Spencer, that the heedless, high-spirited “Dick,” whom he had always had much ado to keep out of scrapes, was a householder, a man of weight and influence; a light which would at first strike him as most ludicrous, and then mirth would end in a sigh, for there was yet another aspect! After having thought of him so long as the happy husband of Margaret Mackenzie, he found her place vacant, and the trace of deep grief apparent on the countenance, once so gay--the oppression of anxiety marked on the brow, formerly so joyous, the merriment almost more touching than gravity would have been, for the former nature seemed rather shattered than altered. In merging towards this side, there was a tender respect in Dr. Spencer’s manner that was most beautiful, though this evening such subjects were scrupulously kept at the utmost distance, by the constant interchange of new and old jokes and stories.

Only when bed-time had come, and Margaret had been carried off--did a silence fall on the two friends, unbroken till Dr. May rose and proposed going upstairs. When he gave his hand to wish good-night, Dr. Spencer held it this time most carefully, and said, “Oh, May! I did not expect this!”

“I should have prepared you,” said his host, “but I never recollected that you knew nothing--”

“I had dwelt on your happiness!”

“There never were two happier creatures for twenty-two years,” said Dr. May, his voice low with emotion. “Sorrow spared her! Yes, think of her always in undimmed brightness--always smiling as you remember her. She was happy. She is,” he concluded. His friend had turned aside and hidden his face with his hands, then looked up for a moment, “And you, Dick,” he said briefly.

“Sorrow spared her,” was Dr. May’s first answer. “And hers are very good children!”

There was a silence again, ending in Dr. May’s saying, “What do you think of my poor girl?”

They discussed the nature of the injury: Dr. Spencer could not feel otherwise than that it was a very hopeless matter. Her father owned that he had thought so from the first, and had wondered at Sir Matthew Fleet’s opinion. His subdued tone of patience and resignation, struck his guest above all, as changed from what he had once been.

“You have been sorely tried,” he said, when they parted at his room door.

“I have received much good!” simply answered Dr. May. “Goodnight! I am glad to have you here--if you can bear it.”

“Bear it? Dick! how like that girl is to you! She is yourself!”

“Such a self as I never was! Good-night.”

Ethel overcame the difficulty of giving the account of the newspaper alarm with tolerable success, by putting the story of Meta’s conversation foremost. Margaret did not take it to heart as much as she had feared, nor did she appear to dwell on it afterwards. The truth was perhaps that Dr. Spencer’s visit was to every one more of an excitement and amusement than it was to Ethel. Not that she did not like him extremely, but after such a week as she had been spending, the home-world seemed rather stale and unprofitable.

Miss Bracy relapsed into a state of “feelings,” imagining that Ethel had distrusted her capabilities, and therefore returned; or as Ethel herself sometimes feared, there might be irritability in her own manner that gave cause of annoyance. The children were inclined to be riotous with their new friend, who made much of them continually, and especially patronised Aubrey; Mary was proud of showing how much she had learned to do for Margaret in her sister’s absence; Dr. May was so much taken up with his friend, that Ethel saw less of him than usual, and she began to believe that it had been all a mistake that every one was so dependent on her, for, in fact, they did much better without her.

Meantime, she heard of the gaieties which the others were enjoying, and she could not feel heroic when they regretted her. At the end of a week, Meta Rivers was escorted home from Warwick by two servants, and came to Stoneborough, giving a lively description of all the concluding pleasures, but declaring that Ethel’s departure had taken away the zest of the whole, and Mr. Ogilvie had been very disconsolate. Margaret had not been prepared to hear that Mr. Ogilvie had been so constant a companion, and was struck by finding that Ethel had passed over one who had evidently been so great an ingredient in the delights of the expedition. Meta had, however observed nothing--she was a great deal too simple and too much engrossed for such notions to have crossed her mind; but Margaret inferred something, and hoped to learn more when she should see Flora. This would not be immediately. George and his wife were gone to London, and thence intended to pay a round of visits; and Norman had accompanied his namesake to Glenbracken.

Ethel fought hard with her own petulance and sense of tedium at home, which was, as she felt, particularly uncalled for at present; when Dr. Spencer was enlivening them so much. He was never in the way, he was always either busy in the dining-room in the morning with books and papers, or wandering about his old school-boy haunts in the town, or taking Adam’s place, and driving out Dr. May, or sometimes joining the children in a walk, to their supreme delight. His sketches, for he drew most beautifully, were an endless pleasure to Margaret, with his explanations of them--she even tried to sit up to copy them, and he began to teach Blanche to draw. The evenings, when there was certain to be some entertaining talk going on between the two doctors, were very charming, and Margaret seemed quite revived by seeing her father so happy with his friend. Ethel knew she ought to be happy also, and if attention could make her so, she had it, for kind and courteous as Dr. Spencer was to all, she seemed to have a double charm for him. It was as if he found united in her the quaint brusquerie, that he had loved in her father, with somewhat of her mother; for though Ethel had less personal resemblance to Mrs. May than any other of the family, Dr. Spencer transferred to her much of the chivalrous distant devotion, with which he had regarded her mother. Ethel was very little conscious of it, but he was certainly her sworn knight, and there was an eagerness in his manner of performing every little service for her, a deference in his way of listening to her, over and above his ordinary polish of manner.

Ethel lighted up, and enjoyed herself when talking was going on--her periods of ennui were when she had to set about any home employment--when Aubrey’s lessons did not go well--when she wanted to speak to her father, and could not catch him; and even when she had to go to Cocksmoor.

She did not seem to make any progress there--the room was very full, and very close, the children were dull, and she began to believe she was doing no good--it was all a weariness. But she was so heartily ashamed of her feelings, that she worked the more vehemently for them, and the utmost show that they outwardly made was, that Margaret thought her less vivacious than her wont, and she was a little too peremptory at times with Mary and Blanche. She had so much disliked the display that Flora had made about Cocksmoor, that she had imposed total silence on it upon her younger sisters, and Dr. Spencer had spent a fortnight at Stoneborough without being aware of their occupation; when there occurred such an extremely sultry day, that Margaret remonstrated with Ethel on her intention of broiling herself and Mary by walking to Cocksmoor, when the quicksilver stood at 80° in the shade.

Ethel was much inclined to stay at home, but she did not know whether this was from heat or from idleness, and her fretted spirits took the turn of determination--so she posted off at a galloping pace, that her brothers called her “Cocksmoor speed,” and Mary panted by her side, humbly petitioning for the plantation path, when she answered “that it was as well to be hot in the sun as in the shade.”

The school-room was unusually full, all the haymaking mothers made it serve as an infant school, and though as much window was opened as there could be, the effect was not coolness. Nevertheless, Ethel sat down and gathered her class round her, and she had just heard the chapter once read, when there was a little confusion, a frightened cry of “Ethel!” and before she could rise to her feet--a flump upon the floor--poor Mary had absolutely fainted dead away.

Ethel was much terrified, and very angry with herself; Mary was no light weight, but Mrs. Elwood coming at their cry, helped Ethel to drag her into the outer room, where she soon began to recover, and to be excessively puzzled as to what had happened to her. She said the sea was roaring, and where was Harry? and then she looked much surprised to find herself lying on Mrs. Elwood’s damp flags--a circumstance extremely distressing to Mrs. Elwood, who wanted to carry her upstairs into Cherry’s room, very clean and very white, but with such a sun shining full into it!

Ethel lavished all care, and reproached herself greatly, though to be sure nothing had ever been supposed capable of hurting Mary, and Mary herself protested that nothing at all had ailed her till the children’s voices began to sound funny, and turned into the waves of the sea, and therewith poor Mary burst into a great flood of tears, and asked whether Harry would ever come back. The tears did her a great deal of good, though not so much as the being petted by Ethel, and she soon declared herself perfectly well; but Ethel could not think of letting her walk home, and sent off a boy--who she trusted would not faint--with a note to Margaret, desiring her to send the gig, which fortunately was at home to-day.

Mary had partaken of some of Mrs. Elwood’s tea, which, though extremely bitter, seemed a great cordial, and was sitting, quite revived, in the arbour at the door, when the gig stopped, and Dr. Spencer walked in.

“Well, and how are you?”

“Quite well now, thank you. Was Margaret frightened? Why did you come?”

“I thought it would make her happier, as your father was not at home. Here, let me feel your pulse. Do you think no one is a doctor but your papa? There’s not much the matter with you, however. Where is Ethel?”

“In the school,” and Mary opened the door. Dr. Spencer looked in, as Ethel came out, and his face put her in mind of Norman’s look.

“No wonder!” was all he said.

Ethel was soon satisfied that he did not think Mary ill. In fact, he said fainting was the most natural and justifiable measure, under the circumstances. “How many human creatures do you keep there?” he asked.

“Forty-seven to-day,” said Mary proudly.

“I shall indict you for cruelty to animals! I think I have known it hotter at Poonshedagore, but there we had punkahs!”

“It was very wrong of me,” said Ethel. “I should have thought of poor Mary, in that sunny walk, but Mary never complains.”

“Oh, never mind,” said Mary, “it did not hurt.”

“I’m not thinking of Mary,” said Dr. Spencer, “but of the wretched beings you are leaving shut up there. I wonder what the mercury would be there.”

“We cannot help it,” said Mary. “We cannot get the ground.”

And Mary, having been voted into the seat of honour and comfort by his side in the carriage, told her version of Cocksmoor and the Committee; while Ethel sat up in the little narrow seat behind, severely reproaching herself for her want of consideration towards one so good and patient as Mary, who proved to have been suffering far more on Harry’s account than they had guessed, and who was so simple and thorough-going in doing her duty. This was not being a good elder sister, and, when they came home, she confessed it, and showed so much remorse that poor Mary was quite shocked, and cried so bitterly that it was necessary to quit the subject.

“Ethel, dearest,” said Margaret that night, after they were in bed, “is there anything the matter?”

“No, nothing, but that Oxford has spoiled me,” said Ethel, resolutely. “I am very cross and selfish!”

“It will be better by-and-by,” said Margaret, “if only you are sure you have nothing to make you unhappy.”

“Nothing,” said Ethel. She was becoming too much ashamed of her fancy to breathe one word about it, and she had spoken the truth. Pleasure had spoiled her.

“If only we could do something for Cocksmoor!” she sighed, presently, “with that one hundred and fifty pounds lying idle.”

Margaret was very glad that her thoughts were taking this channel, but it was not a promising one, for there seemed to be nothing practicable, present or future. The ground could not be had--the pig would not get over the stile--the old woman could not get home to-night. Cocksmoor must put up with its present school, and Mary must not be walked to death.

Or, as Ethel drew her own moral, sacrifice must not be selfish. One great resolution that has been costly, must not blunt us in the daily details of life.

Chapter XI

If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, Chapels had been Churches, and poor men’s cottages, princes’ palaces. MERCHANT OF VENICE.

“Dick,” said Dr. Spencer, as the friends sat together in the evening, after Mary’s swoon, “you seem to have found an expedient for making havoc among your daughters.”

“It does not hurt them,” said Dr. May carelessly.

“Pretty well, after the specimen of to-day.”

“That was chance.”

“If you like it, I have no more to say; but I should like to make you sit for two hours in such a temperature. If they were mine--”

“Very fine talking, but I would not take the responsibility of hindering the only pains that have ever been taken with that unlucky place. You don’t know that girl Ethel. She began at fifteen, entirely of her own accord, and has never faltered. If any of the children there are saved from perdition, it is owing to her, and I am not going to be the man to stop her. They are strong, healthy girls, and I cannot see that it does them any harm--rather good.”

“Have you any special predilection for a room eight feet by nine?”

“Can’t be helped. What would you have said if you had seen the last?”

“What is this about one hundred and fifty pounds in hand?”

“The ladies here chose to have a fancy fair, the only result of which, hitherto, has been the taking away my Flora. There is the money, but the land can’t be had.”

“Why not?”

“Tied up between the Drydale Estate and ---- College, and in the hands of the quarry master, Nicolson. There was an application made to the College, but they did not begin at the right end.”

“Upon my word, Dick, you take it easy!” cried his friend, rather indignantly.

“I own I have not stirred in the matter,” said Dr. May. “I knew nothing would come to good under the pack of silly women that our schools are ridden with--” and, as he heard a sound a little like “pish!” he continued, “and that old Ramsden, it is absolutely useless to work with such a head--or no head. There’s nothing for it but to wait for better times, instead of setting up independent, insubordinate action.”

“You are the man to leave venerable abuses undisturbed!”

“The cure is worse than the disease!”

“There spoke the Corporation!”

“Ah! it was not the way you set to work in Poonshedagore.”

“Why, really, when the venerable abuses consisted of Hindoos praying to their own three-legged stools, and keeping sacred monkeys in honour of the ape Hanyuman, it was a question whether one could be a Christian oneself, and suffer it undisturbed. It was coming it too strong, when I was requested to lend my own step-ladder for the convenience of an exhibition of a devotee swinging on hooks in his sides.”

Dr. Spencer had, in fact, never rested till he had established a mission in his former remote station; and his brown godson, once a Brahmin, now an exemplary clergyman, traced his conversion to the friendship and example of the English physician.

“Well, I have lashed about me at abuses, in my time,” said Dr. May.

“I dare say you have, Dick!” and they both laughed--the inconsiderate way was so well delineated.

“Just so,” replied Dr. May; “and I made enemies enough to fetter me now. I do not mean that I have done right--I have not; but there is a good deal on my hands, and I don’t write easily. I have been slower to take up new matters than I ought to have been.”

“I see, I see!” said Dr. Spencer, rather sorry for his implied reproach, “but must Cocksmoor be left to its fate, and your gallant daughter to hers?”

“The vicar won’t stir. He is indolent enough by nature, and worse with gout; and I do not see what good I could do. I once offended the tenant, Nicolson, by fining him for cheating his unhappy labourers, on the abominable truck system; and he had rather poison me than do anything to oblige me. And, as to the copyholder, he is a fine gentleman, who never comes near the place, nor does anything for it.”

“Who is he?”

“Sir Henry Walkinghame.”

“Sir Henry Walkinghame! I know the man. I found him in one of the caves at Thebes, among the mummies, laid up with a fever, nearly ready to be a mummy himself! I remember bleeding him--irregular, was not it? but one does not stand on ceremony in Pharaoh’s tomb. I got him through with it; we came up the Nile together, and the last I saw of him was at Alexandria. He is your man! something might be done with him!”

“I believe Flora promises to ask him if she should ever meet him in London, but he is always away. If ever we should be happy enough to get an active incumbent, we shall have a chance.”

Two days after, Ethel came down equipped for Cocksmoor. It was as hot as ever, and Mary was ordered to stay at home, being somewhat pacified by a promise that she should go again as soon as the weather was fit for anything but a salamander.

Dr. Spencer was in the hall, with his bamboo, his great Panama hat, and gray loose coat, for he entirely avoided, except on Sundays, the medical suit of black. He offered to relieve Ethel of her bag of books.

“No thank you.” (He had them by this time). “But I am going to Cocksmoor.”

“Will you allow me to be your companion?”

“I shall be very glad of the pleasure of your company, but I am not in the least afraid of going alone,” said she, smiling, however, so as to show she was glad of such pleasant company. “I forewarn you though that I have business there.”

“I will find occupation.”

“And you must promise not to turn against me. I have undergone a great deal already about that place. Norman was always preaching against it, and now that he has become reasonable, I can’t have papa set against it again--besides, he would mind you more.”

Dr. Spencer promised to do nothing but what was quite reasonable. Ethel believed that he accompanied her merely because his gallantry would not suffer her to go unescorted, and she was not sorry, for it was too long a walk for solitude to be very agreeable, when strange wagoners might be on the road, though she had never let them be “lions in the path.”

The walk was as pleasant as a scorching sun would allow, and by the time they arrived at the scattered cottages, Ethel had been drawn into explaining many of her Cocksmoor perplexities.

“If you could get the land granted, where should you choose to have it?” he asked. “You know it will not do to go and say, ‘Be pleased to give me a piece of land,’ without specifying what, or you might chance to have one at the Land’s End.”

“I see, that was one of the blunders,” said Ethel. “But I had often thought of this nice little square place, between two gardens, and sheltered by the old quarry.”

“Ha! hardly space enough, I should say,” replied Dr. Spencer, stepping it out. “No, that won’t do, so confined by the quarry. Let us look farther.”

A surmise crossed Ethel. Could he be going to take the work on himself, but that was too wild a supposition--she knew he had nothing of his own, only a moderate pension from the East India Company.

“What do you think of this?” he said, coming to the slope of a knoll, commanding a pretty view of the Abbotstoke woods, clear from houses, and yet not remote from the hamlet. She agreed that it would do well, and he kicked up a bit of turf, and pryed into the soil, pronouncing it dry, and fit for a good foundation. Then he began to step it out, making a circuit that amazed her, but he said, “It is of no use to do it at twice. Your school can be only the first step towards a church, and you had better have room--enough at once. It will serve as an endowment in the meantime.”

He would not let her remain in the sun, and she went into school. She found him, when she came out, sitting in the arbour smoking a cigar-rather a shock to her feelings, though he threw it away the instant she appeared, and she excused him for his foreign habits.

In the evening, he brought down a traveller’s case of instruments, and proceeded to draw a beautiful little map of Cocksmoor, where it seemed that he had taken all his measurements, whilst she was in school. He ended by an imaginary plan and elevation for the school, with a pretty oriel window and bell-gable, that made Ethel sigh with delight at the bare idea.

Next day, he vanished after dinner, but this he often did; he used to say he must go and have a holiday of smoking--he could not bear too much civilised society. He came back for tea, however, and had not sat down long before he said, “Now, I know all about it. I shall pack up my goods, and be off for Vienna to-morrow.”

“To Vienna!” was the general and dolorous outcry, and Gertrude laid hold of him and said he should not go.

“I am coming back,” he said, “if you will have me. The college holds a court at Fordholm on the 3rd, and on the last of this month, I hope to return.”

“College! Court! What are you going to do at Vienna? Where have you left your senses?” asked Dr. May.

“I find Sir Henry Walkinghame is there. I have been on an exploring expedition to Drydale, found out his man of business, and where he is to be written to. The college holds a court at Fordholm, and I hope to have our business settled.”

Ethel was too much confounded to speak. Her father was exclaiming on the shortness of the time.

“Plenty of time,” said Dr. Spencer, demonstrating that he should be able to travel comfortably, and have four days to spare at Vienna--a journey which he seemed to think less of, than did Dr. May of going to London.

As to checking him, of that there was no possibility, nor, indeed, notion, though Ethel did not quite know how to believe in it, nor that the plan could come to good. Ethel was much better by this time: by her vigorous efforts, she had recovered her tone of mind and interest in what was passing; and though now and then Norman’s letters, carrying sentences of remembrance, made her glow a little, she was so steady to her resolution that she averted all traffic in messages through her brother’s correspondence, and, in that fear, allowed it to lapse into Margaret’s hands more than she had ever done. Indeed, no one greatly liked writing from home, it was heartless work to say always, “No news from the Alcestis” and yet they all declared they were not anxious.

Hector Ernescliffe knelt a great while beside Margaret’s sofa, on the first evening of his holidays, and there was a long low-voiced talk between them. Ethel wished that she had warned him off, for Margaret looked much more harassed and anxious, after having heard the outpouring of all that was on his mind.

Dr. Spencer thought her looking worse, when he came, as come he did, on the appointed day. He had brought Sir Henry Walkinghame’s full consent to the surrender of the land; drawn up in such form as could be acted upon, and a letter to his man of business. But Nicolson! He was a worse dragon nearer home, hating all schools, especially hating Dr. May.

However, said Dr. Spencer, in eastern form, “Have I encountered Rajahs, and smoked pipes with three-tailed Pachas, that I should dread the face of the father of quarrymen.”

What he did with the father of quarrymen was not known, whether he talked him over, or bought him off--Margaret hoped the former; Dr. May feared the latter; the results were certain; Mr. Nicolson had agreed that the land should be given up.

The triumphant Dr. Spencer sat down to write a statement to be shown to the college authorities, when they should come to hold their court.

“The land must be put into the hands of trustees,” he said. “The incumbent of course?”

“Then yourself; and we must have another. Your son-in-law?”

“You, I should think,” said Dr. May.

“I! Why, I am going.”

“Going, but not gone,” said his friend.

“I must go! I tell you, Dick; I must have a place of my own to smoke my pipe in.”

“Is that all?” said Dr. May. “I think you might be accommodated here, unless you wished to be near your sister.”

“My sister is always resorting to watering-places. My nieces do nothing but play on the piano. No, I shall perhaps go off to America, the only place I have not seen yet, and I more than half engaged to go and help at Poonshedagore.”

“Better order your coffin then,” muttered Dr. May.

“I shall try lodgings in London, near the old hospital, perhaps--and go and turn over the British Museum library.”

“Look you here, Spencer, I have a much better plan. Do you know that scrap of a house of mine, by the back gate, just big enough for you and your pipe? Set up your staff there. Ethel will never get her school built without you.”

“Oh! that would be capital!” cried Ethel.

“It would be the best speculation for me. You would pay rent, and the last old woman never did,” continued Dr. May. “A garden the length of this one--”

“But I say--I want to be near the British Museum.”

“Take a season-ticket, and run up once a week.”

“I shall teach your boys to smoke!”

“I’ll see to that!”

“You have given Cocksmoor one lift,” said Ethel, “and it will never go on without you.”

“It is such a nice house!” added the children, in chorus; “it would be such fun to have you there.”

“Daisy will never be able to spare her other doctor,” said Margaret, smiling.

“Run to Mrs. Adams, Tom, and get the key,” said Dr. May.

There was a putting on of hats and bonnets, and the whole party walked down the garden to inspect the house--a matter of curiosity to some--for it was where the old lady had resided on whom Harry had played so many tricks, and the subject of many myths hatched between him and George Larkins.

It was an odd, little narrow slip of a house, four stories, of two rooms all the way up, each with a large window, with a marked white eyebrow. Dr. May eagerly pointed out all the conveniences, parlour, museum, smoking den, while Dr. Spencer listened, and answered doubtfully; and the children’s clamorous anxiety seemed to render him the more silent.

Hector Ernescliffe discovered a jackdaw’s nest in the chimney, whereupon the whole train rushed off to investigate, leaving the two doctors and Ethel standing together in the empty parlour, Dr. May pressing, Dr. Spencer raising desultory objections; but so evidently against his own wishes, that Ethel said, “Now, indeed, you must not disappoint us all.”

“No,” said Dr. May, “it is a settled thing.”

“No, no, thanks, thanks to you all, but it cannot be. Let me go;” and he spoke with emotion. “You are very kind, but it is not to be thought of.”

“Why not?” said Dr. May. “Spencer, stay with me;” and he spoke with a pleading, almost dependent air. “Why should you go?”

“It is of no use to talk about it. You are very kind, but it will not do to encumber you with a lone man, growing old.”

“We have been young together,” said Dr. May.

“And you must not leave papa,” added Ethel.

“No,” said Dr. May. “Trouble may be at hand. Help us through with it. Remember, these children have no uncles.”

“You will stay?” said Ethel.

He made a sign of assent--he could do no more, and just then Gertrude came trotting back, so exceedingly smutty, as to call everybody’s attention. Hector had been shoving Tom half-way up the chimney, in hopes of reaching the nest; and the consequences of this amateur chimney-sweeping had been a plentiful bespattering of all the spectators with soot, that so greatly distressed the young ladies, that Mary and Blanche had fled away from public view.

Dr. Spencer’s first act of possession was to threaten to pull Tom down by the heels for disturbing his jackdaws, whereupon there was a general acclamation; and Dr. May began to talk of marauding times, when the jackdaws in the Minster tower had been harried.

“Ah!” said Dr. Spencer, as Tom emerged, blacker than the outraged jackdaws, and half choked, “what do you know about jackdaws’ nests? You that are no Whichcote scholars.”

“Don’t we?” cried Hector, “when there is a jackdaw’s nest in Eton Chapel, twenty feet high.”

“Old Grey made that!” said Tom, who usually acted the part of esprit fort to Hector’s credulity.

“Why, there is a picture of it on Jesse’s book,” said Hector.

“But may not we get up on the roof, to see if we can get at the nest, papa?” said Tom.

“You must ask Dr. Spencer. It is his house.”

Dr. Spencer did not gainsay it, and proceeded even to show the old Whichcote spirit, by leading the assault, and promising to take care of Aubrey, while Ethel retained Gertrude, and her father too; for Dr. May had such a great inclination to scramble up the ladder after them, that she, thinking it a dangerous experiment for so helpless an arm, was obliged to assure him that it would create a sensation among the gossiphood of Stoneborough, if their physician were seen disporting himself on the top of the house.

“Ah! I’m not a physician unattached, like him,” said Dr. May, laughing. “Hullo! have you got up, Tom? There’s a door up there. I’ll show you--”

“No, don’t papa. Think of Mrs. Ledwich; and asking her to see two trustees up there!” said Ethel.

“Ah! Mrs. Ledwich; what is to be done with her, Ethel?”

“I am sure I can’t tell. If Flora were but at home, she would manage it.”

“Spencer can manage anything!” was the answer. “That was the happiest chance imaginable that you came home with me, and so we came to go by the same train.”

Ethel was only afraid that time was being cruelly wasted; but the best men, and it is emphatically the best that generally are so--have the boy strong enough on one side or other of their natures, to be a great provocation to womankind; and Dr. Spencer did not rest from his pursuit till the brood of the jackdaws had been discovered, and two gray-headed nestlings kidnapped, which were destined to a wicker cage and education. Little Aubrey was beyond measure proud, and was suggesting all sorts of outrageous classical names for them, till politely told by Tom that he would make them as great prigs as himself, and that their names should be nothing but Jack and Jill.

“There’s nothing for it but for Aubrey to go to school,” cried Tom, sententiously turning round to Ethel.

“Ay, to Stoneborough,” said Dr. Spencer.

Tom coloured, as if sorry for his movement, and hastened away to make himself sufficiently clean to go in quest of a prison for his captives.

Dr. Spencer began to bethink him of the paper that he had been so eagerly drawing up, and looking at his own begrimed hands, asked Ethel whether she would have him for a trustee.

“Will the other eight ladies?” said Ethel, “that’s the point.”

“Ha, Spencer! you did not know what you were undertaking. Do you wish to be let off?” said Dr. May.

“Not I,” said the undaunted doctor. “Come, Ethel, let us hear what should be done.”

“There’s no time,” said Ethel, bewildered. “The court will be only on the day after to-morrow.”

“Ample time!” said Dr. Spencer, who seemed ready to throw himself into it with all his might. “What we have to do is this. The ladies to be propitiated are--”

“Nine Muses, to whom you will have to act Apollo,” said Dr. May, who, having put his friend into the situation, had a mischievous delight in laughing at him, and watching what he would do.

“One and two, Ethel, and Mrs. Rivers!”

“Rather eight and nine,” said Ethel, “though Flora may be somebody now.”

“Seven then,” said Dr. Spencer. “Well then, Ethel, suppose we set out on our travels this afternoon. Visit these ladies, get them to call a meeting to-morrow, and sanction their three trustees.”

“You little know what a work it is to call a meeting, or how many notes Miss Rich sends out before one can be accomplished.”

“Faint heart--you know the proverb, Ethel. Allons. I’ll call on Mrs. Ledwich--”

“Stay,” said Dr. May. “Let Ethel do that, and ask her to tea, and we will show her your drawing of the school.”

So the remaining ladies were divided--Ethel was to visit Miss Anderson, Miss Boulder, and Mrs. Ledwich; Dr. Spencer, the rest, and a meeting, if possible, be appointed for the next day.

Ethel did as she was told, though rather against the grain, and her short, abrupt manner was excused the more readily, that Dr. Spencer had been a subject of much mysterious speculation in Stoneborough, and to gain any intelligence respecting him, was a great object; so that she was extremely welcome wherever she called.

Mrs. Ledwich promised to come to tea, and instantly prepared to walk to Miss Rich, and authorise her to send out the notes of summons to the morrow’s meeting. Ethel offered to walk with her, and found Mrs. and Miss Rich in a flutter, after Dr. Spencer’s call; the daughter just going to put on her bonnet and consult Mrs. Ledwich, and both extremely enchanted with Dr. Spencer, who “would be such an acquisition.”

The hour was fixed and the notes sent out, and Ethel met Dr. Spencer at the garden gate.

“Well!” he said, smiling, “I think we have fixed them off--have not we?”

“Yes; but is it not heartless that everything should be done through so much nonsense?”

“Did you ever hear why the spire of Ulm Cathedral was never finished?” said Dr. Spencer.

“No; why not?”

“Because the citizens would accept no help from their neighbours.”

“I am glad enough of help when it comes in the right way, and from good motives.”

“There are more good motives in the world than you give people credit for, Ethel. You have a good father, good sense, and a good education; and you have some perception of the system by which things like this should be done. Unfortunately, the system is in bad hands here, and these good ladies have been left to work for themselves, and it is no wonder that there is plenty of little self-importance, nonsense, and the like, among them; but for their own sakes we should rather show them the way, than throw them overboard.”

“If they will be shown,” said Ethel.

“I can’t say they seemed to me so very formidable,” said Dr. Spencer. “Gentle little women.”

“Oh! it is only Mrs. Ledwich that stirs them up. I hope you are prepared for that encounter.”

Mrs. Ledwich came to tea, sparkling with black bugles, and was very patronising and amiable. Her visits were generally subjects of great dread, for she talked unceasingly, laid down the law, and overwhelmed Margaret with remedies; but to-night Dr. Spencer took her in hand. It was not that he went out of his ordinary self, he was always the same simple-mannered, polished gentleman; but it was this that told--she was evidently somewhat in awe of him--the refinement kept her in check. She behaved very quietly all the evening, admired the plans, consented to everything, and was scarcely Mrs. Ledwich!

“You will get on now, Ethel,” said Dr. May afterwards. “Never fear but that he will get the Ladies’ Committee well in hand.”

“Why do you think so, papa?”

“Never you fear.”

That was all she could extract from him, though he looked very arch. The Ladies’ Committee accepted of their representatives with full consent; and the indefatigable Dr. Spencer next had to hunt up the fellow trustee. He finally contrived to collect every one he wanted at Fordholm, the case was laid before the College--the College was propitious, and by four o’clock in the evening, Dr. Spencer laid before Ethel the promise of the piece of land.

Mary’s joy was unbounded, and Ethel blushed, and tried to thank. This would have been the summit of felicity a year ago, and she was vexed with herself for feeling that though land and money were both in such safe hands, she could not care sufficiently to feel the ecstasy the attainment of her object would once have given to her. Then she would have been frantic with excitement, and heedless of everything; now she took it so composedly as to annoy herself.

“To think of that one week at Oxford having so entirely turned this head of mine!”

Perhaps it was the less at home, because she had just heard that George and Flora had accepted an invitation to Glenbracken, but though the zest of Cocksmoor might be somewhat gone, she called herself to order, and gave her full attention to all that was planned by her champion.

Never did man plunge into business more thoroughly than he, when he had once undertaken it. He was one of those men who, from gathering particulars of every practical matter that comes under their notice, are able to accomplish well whatever they set their hand to; and building was not new to him, though his former subjects--a church and mission station in India--bore little remembrance to the present.

He bought a little round dumpling of a white pony, and trotted all over the country in search of building materials and builders, he discovered trees in distant timber-yards, he brought home specimens of stone, one in each pocket, to compare and analyse, he went to London to look at model schools, he drew plans each more neat and beautiful than the last, he compared builders’ estimates, and wrote letters to the National Society, so as to be able to begin in the spring.

In the meantime he was settling himself, furnishing his new house with great precision and taste. He would have no assistance in his choice, either of servants or furniture, but made numerous journeys of inspection to Whitford, to Malvern, and to London, and these seemed to make him the more content with Stoneborough. Sir Matthew Fleet had evidently chilled him, and as he found his own few remaining relations uncongenial, he became the more ready to find a resting-place in the gray old town, the scene of his school life, beside the friend of his youth, and the children of her, for whose sake he had never sought a home of his own. Though he now and then talked of seeing America, or of going back to India, in hopes of assisting his beloved mission at Poonshedagore, these plans were fast dying away, as he formed habits and attachments, and perceived the sphere of usefulness open to him.

It was a great step when his packages arrived, and his beautiful Indian curiosities were arranged, making his drawing-room as pretty a room as could anywhere be seen; in readiness, as he used to tell Ethel, for a grand tea-party for all the Ladies’ Committee, when he should borrow her and the best silver teapot to preside. Moreover, he had a chemical apparatus, a telescope, and microscope, of great power, wherewith he tried experiments that were the height of felicity to Tom and Ethel, and much interested their father. He made it his business to have full occupation for himself, with plans, books, or correspondence, so as not to be a charge on the hands of the May family, with whom he never spent an evening without special and earnest invitation.

He gave attendance at the hospital on alternate days, as well as taking off Dr. May’s hands such of his gratuitous patients as were not averse to quit their old doctor, and could believe in a physician in shepherd’s plaid, and Panama hat. Exceedingly sociable, he soon visited every one far and wide, and went to every sort of party, from the grand dinners of the “county families,” to the tea-drinkings of the Stoneborough ladies--a welcome guest at all, and enjoying each in his own way. English life was so new to him that he entered into the little accessories with the zest of a youth; and there seemed to be a curious change between the two old fellow students, the elder and more staid of former days having come back with unencumbered freshness to enliven his friend, just beginning to grow aged under the wear of care and sorrows.

It was very droll to hear Dr. May laughing at Dr. Spencer’s histories of his adventures, and at the new aspects in which his own well-trodden district appeared to travelled eyes; and not less amusing was Dr. Spencer’s resolute defence of all the nine muses, generally and individually.

He certainly had no reason to think ill of them. As one woman, they were led by him, and conformed their opinions. The only seceder was Louisa Anderson, who had her brother for her oracle; and, indeed, the more youthful race, to whom Harvey was the glass of fashion, uttered disrespectful opinions as to the doctor’s age, and would not accede to his being, as Mrs. Ledwich declared, “much younger than Dr. May.”

Harvey Anderson had first attempted patronage, then argument, with Dr. Spencer, but found him equally impervious to both. “Very clever, but an old world man,” said Harvey. “He has made up his bundle of prejudices.”

“Clever sort of lad!” said Dr. Spencer, “a cool hand, but very shallow--”

Ethel wondered to hear thus lightly disposed of, the powers of argument that had been thought fairly able to compete with Norman, and which had taxed him so severely. She did not know how differently abstract questions appear to a mature mind, confirmed in principle by practice; and to one young, struggling in self-formation, and more used to theories than to realities.

Chapter XII

The heart may ache, but may not burst; Heaven will not leave thee, nor forsake. Christian Year.

Hector and Tom finished their holidays by a morning’s shooting at the Grange, Dr. May promising to meet them, and let them drive him home.

Meta was out when he arrived; and, repairing to the library, he found Mr. Rivers sitting by a fire, though it was early in September, with the newspaper before him, but not reading. He looked depressed, and seemed much disappointed at having heard that George and Flora had accepted some further invitations in Scotland, and did not intend to return for another month. Dr. May spoke cheerfully of the hospitality and kindness they had met, but failed to enliven him, and, as if trying to assign some cause for his vexation, he lamented over fogs and frosts, and began to dread an October in Scotland for Flora, almost as if it were the Arctic regions.

He grew somewhat more animated in praising Flora, and speaking of the great satisfaction he had in seeing his son married to so admirable a person. He only wished it could be the same with his daughter.

“You are a very unselfish father,” said Dr. May. “I cannot imagine you without your little fairy.”

“It would be hard to part,” said Mr. Rivers, sighing; “yet I should be relieved to see her in good hands, so pretty and engaging as she is, and something of an heiress. With our dear Flora, she is secure of a happy home when I am gone, but still I should be glad to have seen--” and he broke off thoughtfully.

“She is so sensible, that we shall see her make a good choice,” said Dr. May, smiling; “that is, if she choose at all, for I do not know who is worthy of her.”

“I am quite indifferent as to fortune,” continued Mr. Rivers. “She will have enough of her own.”

“Enough not to be dependent, which is the point,” said Dr. May, “though I should have few fears for her any way.”

“It would be a comfort,” harped on Mr. Rivers, dwelling on the subject, as if he wanted to say something, “if she were only safe with a man who knew how to value her and make her happy. Such a young man as your Norman, now--I have often thought--”

Dr. May would not seem to hear, but he could not prevent himself from blushing as crimson as if he had been the very Norman, as he answered, going on with his own speech, as if Mr. Rivers’s had been unmade, “She is the brightest little creature under the sun, and the sparkle is down so deep within, that however it may turn out, I should never fear for her happiness.”

“Flora is my great reliance,” proceeded Mr. Rivers. “Her aunt, Lady Leonora, is very kind, but somehow she does not seem to suit with Meta.”

“Oh, ho,” thought the doctor, “have you made that discovery, my good friend?”

The voices of the two boys were heard in the hall, explaining their achievements to Meta, and Dr. May took his departure, Hector driving him, and embarking in a long discourse on his own affairs as if he had quite forgotten that the doctor was not his father, and going on emphatically, in spite of the absence of mind now and then betrayed by his auditor, who, at Dr. Spencer’s door, exclaimed, “Stop, Hector, let me out here--thank you;” and presently brought out his friend into the garden, and sat down on the grass, talking low and earnestly over the disease with which Mr. Rivers had been so long affected; for though Dr. May could not perceive any positively unfavourable symptom, he had been rendered vaguely uneasy by the unusual heaviness and depression of manner. So long did they sit conversing, that Blanche was sent out, primed with an impertinent message, that two such old doctors ought to be ashamed of themselves for sitting so late in the dew.

Dr. Spencer was dragged in to drink tea, and the meal had just been merrily concluded, when the door bell rang, and a message was brought in. “The carriage from the Grange, sir; Miss Rivers would be much obliged if you would come directly.”

“There!” said Dr. May, looking at Dr. Spencer, as if to say, I told you so, in the first triumph of professional sagacity; but the next moment exclaiming, “Poor little Meta!” he hurried away.

A gloom fell on those who remained, for, besides their sympathy for Meta, and their liking for her kind old father, there was that one unacknowledged heartache, which, though in general bravely combated, lay in wait always ready to prey on them. Hector stole round to sit by Margaret, and Dr. Spencer muttered, “This will never do,” and sent Tom to fetch some papers lying on his table, whence he read them some curious accounts that he had just received from his missionary friends in India.

They were interested, but in a listening mood, that caused a universal start when the bell again sounded. This time, James reported that the servant from the Grange said his master was very ill--he had brought a letter to post for Mr. George Rivers, and here was a note for Miss Ethel. It was the only note Ethel had ever received from her father, and contained these few words:

“DEAR E.--,

“I believe this attack will be the last. Come to Meta, and bring my things. R. M.”

Ethel put her hands to her forehead. It was as if she had been again plunged into the stunned dream of misery of four years ago, and her sensation was of equal bewilderment and uselessness; but it was but for a moment--the next she was in a state of over-bustle and eagerness. She wanted to fly about and hasten to help Meta, and could hardly obey the word and gesture by which Margaret summoned her to her side.

“Dear Ethel, you must calm yourself, or you will not be of use.”

“I? I can’t be of any use! Oh, if you could go! If Flora were but here! But I must go, Margaret.”

“I will put up your father’s things,” said Dr. Spencer, in a soothing tone. “The carriage cannot be ready in a moment, so that there will be full time.”

Mary and Miss Bracy prepared Ethel’s own goods, which she would otherwise have forgotten; and Margaret, meanwhile, detained her by her side, trying to calm and encourage her with gentle words of counsel, that might hinder her from giving way to the flurry of emotion that had seized her, and prevent her from thinking herself certain to be useless.

Adams was to drive her thither in the gig, and it presently came to the door. Dr. Spencer wrapped her up well in cloaks and shawls, and spoke words of kindly cheer in her ear as she set off. The fresh night air blew pleasantly on her, the stars glimmered in full glory overhead, and now and then her eye was caught by the rocket-like track of a shooting-star. Orion was rising slowly far in the east, and bringing to her mind the sailor-boy under the southern sky; if, indeed, he were not where sun and stars no more are the light. It was strange that the thought came more as soothing than as acute pain; she could bear to think of him thus in her present frame, as long as she had not to talk of him. Under those solemn stars, the life everlasting seemed to overpower the sense of this mortal life, and Ethel’s agitation was calmed away.

The old cedar-tree stood up in stately blackness against the sky, and the lights in the house glanced behind it. The servants looked rather surprised to see Ethel, as if she were not expected, and conducted her to the great drawing-room, which looked the more desolate and solitary, from the glare of lamplight, falling on the empty seats which Ethel had lately seen filled with a glad home party. She was looking round, thinking whether to venture up to Meta’s room, and there summon Bellairs, when Meta came gliding in, and threw her arms round her. Ethel could not speak, but Meta’s voice was more cheerful than she had expected. “How kind of you, dear Ethel!”

“Papa sent for me,” said Ethel.

“He is so kind! Can Margaret spare you?”

“Oh, yes; but you must leave me. You must want to be with him.”

“He never lets me come in when he has these attacks,” said Meta. “If he only would! But will you come up to my room? That is nearer.”

“Is papa with him?”

“Yes.”

Meta wound her arms round Ethel, and led her up to her sitting-room, where a book lay on the table. She said that her father had seemed weary and torpid, and had sat still until almost their late dinner-hour, when he seemed to bethink himself of dressing, and had risen. She thought he walked weakly, and rather tottering, and had run to make him lean on her, which he did, as far as his own room door. There he had kissed her, and thanked her, and murmured a word like blessing. She had not, however, been alarmed, until his servant had come to tell her that he had another seizure.

Ethel asked whether she had seen Dr. May since he had been with her father. She had; but Ethel was surprised to find that she had not taken in the extent of his fears. She had become so far accustomed to these attacks, that, though anxious and distressed, she did not apprehend more than a few days’ weakness, and her chief longing was to be of use. She was speaking cheerfully of beginning her nursing to-morrow, and of her great desire that her papa would allow her to sit up with him, when there was a slow, reluctant movement of the lock of the door, and the two girls sprang to their feet, as Dr. May opened it; and Ethel read his countenance at once.

Not so Meta. “How is he? May I go to him?” cried she.

“Not now, my dear,” said Dr. May, putting his hand on her shoulder, in a gentle, detaining manner, that sent a thrill of trembling through her frame, though she did not otherwise move. She only clasped her hands together, and looked up into his face. He answered the look. “Yes, my dear, the struggle is over.”

Ethel came near, and put her arm round Meta’s waist, as if to strengthen her, as she stood quite passive and still.

Dr. May seemed to think it best that all should be told; but, though intently watching Meta, he directed his words to his own daughter. “Thank Heaven, it has been shorter, and less painful, than I had dared to hope.”

Meta tried to speak, but could not bring out the words, and, with an imploring look at Ethel, as if to beg her to make them clear for her, she inarticulately murmured, “Oh! why did you not call me?”

“I could not. He would not let me. His last conscious word to me was not to let you see him suffer.”

Meta wrung her clasped hands together in mute anguish. Dr. May signed to Ethel to guide her back to the sofa, but the movement seemed so far to rouse her, that she said, “I should like to go to bed.”

“Right--the best thing,” said Dr. May; and he whispered to Ethel, “Go with her, but don’t try to rouse her--don’t talk to her. Come back to me, presently.”

He did not even shake hands with Meta, nor wish her good-night, as she disappeared into her own room.

Bellairs undressed her, and Ethel stood watching, till the young head, under the load of sorrow, so new to it, was laid on the pillow. Bellairs asked her if she would have a light.

“No, no, thank you--the dark and alone. Good-night,” said Meta. Ethel went back to the sitting-room, where her father was standing at the window, looking out into the night. He turned as she came in, folded her in his arms, and kissed her forehead. “And how is the poor little dear?” he asked.

“The same,” said Ethel. “I can’t bear to leave her alone, and to have said nothing to comfort her.”

“It is too soon as yet,” said Dr. May--“her mind has not taken it in. I hope she will sleep all night, and have more strength to look at it when she wakens.”

“She was utterly unprepared.”

“I could not make her understand me,” said Dr. May.

“And, oh, papa, what a pity she was not there!”

“It was no sight for her, till the last few minutes; and his whole mind seemed bent on sparing her. What tenderness it has been.”

“Must we leave her to herself all night?”

“Better so,” said Dr. May. “She has been used to loneliness; and to thrust companionship on her would be only harassing.”

Ethel, who scarcely knew what it was to be alone, looked as if she did not understand.

“I used to try to force consolation on people,” said Dr. May, “but I know, now, that it can only be done by following their bent.”

“You have seen so many sorrows,” said Ethel.

“I never understood till I felt,” said Dr. May. “Those few first days were a lesson.”

“I did not think you knew what was passing,” said Ethel.

“I doubt whether any part of my life is more distinctly before me than those two days,” said Dr. May. “Flora coming in and out, and poor Alan sitting by me; but I don’t believe I had any will. I could no more have moved my mind than my broken arm; and I verily think, Ethel, that, but for that merciful torpor, I should have been frantic. It taught me never to disturb grief.”

“And what shall we do?”

“You must stay with her till Flora comes. I will be here as much as I can. She is our charge, till they come home. I told him, between the spasms, that I had sent for you, and he seemed pleased.”

“If only I were anybody else!”

Dr. May again threw his arm round her, and looked into her face. He felt that he had rather have her, such as she was, than anybody else; and, together, they sat down, and talked of what was to be done, and what was best for Meta, and of the solemnity of being in the house of death. Ethel felt and showed it so much, in her subdued, awe-struck manner, that her father felt checked whenever he was about to return to his ordinary manner, familiarised, as he necessarily was, with the like scenes. It drew him back to the thought of their own trouble, and their conversation recurred to those days, so that each gained a more full understanding of the other, and they at length separated, certainly with the more peaceful and soft feelings for being in the abode of mourning.

Bellairs promised to call Ethel, to be with her young lady as early as might be, reporting that she was sound asleep. And sleep continued to shield her till past her usual hour, so that Ethel was up, and had been with Dr. May, before she was summoned to her, and then she found her half dressed, and hastening that she might not make Dr. May late for breakfast, and in going to his patients. There was an elasticity in the happily constituted young mind that could not be entirely struck down, nor deprived of power of taking thought for others. Yet her eyes looked wandering, and unlike themselves, and her words, now and then, faltered, as if she was not sure what she was doing or saying. Ethel told her not to mind--Dr. Spencer would take care of the patients; but she did not seem to recollect, at first, who Dr. Spencer was, nor to care for being reminded.

Breakfast was laid out in the little sitting-room. Ethel wanted to take the trouble off her hands, but she would not let her. She sat behind her urn, and asked about tea or coffee, quite accurately, in a low, subdued voice, that nearly overcame Dr. May. When the meal was over, and she had rung the bell, and risen up, as if to her daily work, she turned round, with that piteous, perplexed air, and stood for a moment, as if confused.

“Cannot we help you?” said Ethel.

“I don’t know. Thank you. But, Dr. May, I must not keep you from other people--”

“I have no one to go to this morning,” said Dr. May. “I am ready to stay with you, my dear.”

Meta came closer to him, and murmured, “Thank you!”

The breakfast things had, by this time, been taken away, and Meta, looking to see that the door had shut for the last time, said, in a low voice, “Now tell me--”

Dr. May drew her down to sit on the sofa beside him, and, in his soft, sweet voice, told her all that she wished to learn of her father’s last hours, and was glad to see showers of quiet, wholesome tears drop freely down, but without violence, and she scarcely attempted to speak. There was a pause at the end, and then she said gently, “Thank you, for it all. Dear papa!” And she rose up, and went back to her room.

“She has learned to dwell apart,” said Dr. May, much moved.

“How beautiful she bears up!” said Ethel.

“It has been a life which, as she has used it, has taught her strength and self-dependence in the midst of prosperity.”

“Yes,” said Ethel, “she has trained herself by her dread of self-indulgence, and seeking after work. But oh! what a break up it is for her! I cannot think how she holds up. Shall I go to her?”

“I think not. She knows the way to the only Comforter. I am not afraid of her after those blessed tears.”

Dr. May was right; Meta presently returned to them, in the same gentle subdued sadness, enfolding her, indeed, as a flower weighed down by mist, but not crushing nor taking away her powers. It was as if she were truly upheld; and thankful to her friends as she was, she did not throw herself on them in utter dependence or self-abandonment.

She wrote needful letters, shedding many tears over them, and often obliged to leave off to give the blinding weeping its course, but refusing to impose any unnecessary task upon Dr. May’s lame arm. All that was right, she strove to do; she saw Mr. Charles Wilmot, and was refreshed by his reading to her; and when Dr. May desired it, she submissively put on her bonnet, and took several turns with Ethel in the shrubbery, though it made her cry heartily to look into the downstairs rooms. And she lay on the sofa at last, owning herself strangely tired, she did not know why, and glad that Ethel should read to her. By and by, she went to dress for the evening, and came back, full of the tidings that one of the children in the village had been badly burned. It occupied her very much--she made Ethel promise to go and see about her to-morrow, and sent Bellairs at once with every comfort that she could devise.

On the whole, those two days were to Ethel a peaceful and comfortable time. She saw more than usual of her father, and had such conversations with him as were seldom practicable at home, and that chimed in with the unavowed care which hung on their minds; while Meta was a most sweet and loving charge, without being a burden, and often saying such beautiful things in her affectionate resignation, that Ethel could only admire and lay them up in her mind. Dr. May went backwards and forwards, and brought good accounts of Margaret and fond messages; he slept at the Grange each night, and Meta used to sit in the corner of the sofa and work, or not, as best suited her, while she listened to his talk with Ethel, and now and then herself joined.

George Rivers’s absence was a serious inconvenience in all arrangements; but his sister dreaded his grief as much as she wished for his return; and often were the posts and the journeys reckoned over, without a satisfactory conclusion, as to when he could arrive from so remote a part of Scotland.

At last, as the two girls had finished their early dinner, the butler brought in word that Mr. Norman May was there. Meta at once begged that he would come in, and Ethel went into the hall to meet him. He looked very wan, with the dark rings round his eyes a deeper purple than ever, and he could hardly find utterance to ask, “How is she?”

“As good and sweet as she can be,” said Ethel warmly; but no more, for Meta herself had come to the dining-room door, and was holding out her hand. Norman took it in both his, but could not speak; Meta’s own soft voice was the first. “I thought you would come--he was so fond of you.”

Poor Norman quite gave way, and Meta was the one to speak gentle words of soothing. “There is so much to be thankful for,” she said. “He has been spared so much of the suffering Dr. May feared for him; and he was so happy about George.”

Norman made a great effort to recover himself. Ethel asked for Flora and George. It appeared that they had been on an excursion when the first letter arrived at Glenbracken, and thus had received both together in the evening, on their return. George had been greatly overcome, and they had wished to set off instantly; but Lady Glenbracken would not hear of Flora’s travelling night and day, and it had at length been arranged that Norman Ogilvie should drive Norman across the country that evening, to catch the mail for Edinburgh, and he had been on the road ever since. George was following with his wife more slowly, and would be at home to-morrow evening. Meantime, he sent full authority to his father-in-law to make arrangements.

Ethel went to see the burned child, leaving Meta to take her walk in the garden under Norman’s charge. He waited on her with a sort of distant reverence for a form of grief, so unlike what he had dreaded for her, when the first shock of the tidings had brought back to him the shattered bewildered feelings to which he dared not recur.

To dwell on the details was, to her, a comfort, knowing his sympathy and the affection there had been between him and her father; nor had they parted in such absolute brightness, as to make them unprepared for such a meeting as the present. The cloud of suspense was brooding lower and lower over the May family, and the need of faith and submission was as great with them as with the young orphan herself. Norman said little, but that little was so deep and fervent, that after a time Meta could not help saying, when Ethel was seen in the distance, and their talk was nearly over, “Oh, Norman, these things are no mirage!”

“It is the world that is the mirage,” he answered. Ethel came up, and Dr. May also, in good time for the post. He was obliged to become very busy, using Norman for his secretary, till he saw his son’s eyes so heavy, that he remembered the two nights that he had been up, and ordered him to go home and go to bed as soon as tea was over.

“May I come back to-morrow?”

“Why--yes--I think you may. No, no,” he added, recollecting himself, “I think you had better not,” and he did not relent, though Norman looked disappointed.

Meta had already expressed her belief that her father would be buried at the suburban church, where lay her mother; and Dr. May, having been desired to seek out the will and open it, found it was so; and fixed the day and hour with Meta, who was as submissive and reasonable as possible, though much grieved that he thought she could not be present.

Ethel, after going with Meta to her room at night, returned as usual to talk matters over with him, and again say how good Meta was.

“And I think Norman’s coming did her a great deal of good,” said Ethel.

“Ha! yes,” said the doctor thoughtfully.

“She thinks so much of Mr. Rivers having been fond of him.”

“Yes,” said the doctor, “he was. I find, in glancing over the will, which was newly made on Flora’s marriage, that he has remembered Norman--left him £100 and his portfolio of prints by Raffaelle.”

“Has he, indeed?--how very kind, how much Norman will value it.”

“It is remarkable,” said Dr. May; and then, as if he could not help it, told Ethel what Mr. Rivers had said of his wishes with regard to his daughter. Ethel blushed and smiled, and looked so much touched and delighted, that he grew alarmed and said, “You know, Ethel, this must be as if it never had been mentioned.”

“What! you will not tell Norman?”

“No, certainly not, unless I see strong cause. They are very fond of each other, certainly, but they don’t know, and I don’t know, whether it is not like brother and sister. I would not have either of them guess at this, or feel bound in any way. Why, Ethel, she has thirty thousand pounds, and I don’t know how much more.”

“Thirty thousand!” said Ethel, her tone one of astonishment, while his had been almost of objection.

“It would open a great prospect,” continued Dr. May complacently; “with Norman’s talents, and such a lift as that, he might be one of the first men in England, provided he had nerve and hardness enough, which I doubt.”

“He would not care for it,” said Ethel.

“No; but the field of usefulness; but what an old fool I am, after all my resolutions not to be ambitious for that boy; to be set a-going by such a thing as this! Still Norman is something out of the common way. I wonder what Spencer thinks of him.”

“And you never mean them to hear of it?”

“If they settle it for themselves,” said Dr. May, “that sanction will come in to give double value to mine; or if I should see poor Norman hesitating as to the inequality, I might smooth the way; but you see, Ethel, this puts us in a most delicate situation towards this pretty little creature. What her father wanted was only to guard her from fortune-hunters, and if she should marry suitably elsewhere--why, we will be contented.”

“I don’t think I should be,” said Ethel.

“She is the most winning of humming-birds, and what we see of her now, gives one double confidence in her. She is so far from the petted, helpless girl that he, poor man, would fain have made her! And she has a bright, brave temper and elastic spirits that would be the very thing for him, poor boy, with that morbid sensitiveness--he would not hurt her, and she would brighten him. It would be a very pretty thing--but we must never think about it again.”

“If we can help it,” said Ethel.

“Ah! I am sorry I have put it into your head too. We shall not so easily be unconscious now, when they talk about each other in the innocent way they do. We have had a lesson against being pleased at match-making!” But, turning away from the subject, “You shall not lose your Cocksmoor income, Ethel--”

“I had never thought of that. You have taken no fees here since we have been all one family.”

“Well, he has been good enough to leave me £500, and Cocksmoor can have the interest, if you like.”

“Oh, thank you, papa.”

“It is only its due, for I suppose that is for attendance. Personally, to myself, he has left that beautiful Claude which he knew I admired so much. He has been very kind! But, after all, we ought not to be talking of all this--I should not have known it, if I had not been forced to read the will. Well, so we are in Flora’s house, Ethel! I wonder how poor dear little Meta will feel the being a guest here, instead of the mistress. I wish that boy were three or four years older! I should like to take her straight home with us--I should like to have her for a daughter. I shall always look on her as one.”

“As a Daisy!” said Ethel.

“Don’t talk of it!” said Dr. May hastily; “this is no time for such things. After all, I am glad that the funeral is not here--Flora and Meta might be rather overwhelmed with these three incongruous sets of relations. By their letters, those Riverses must be quite as queer a lot as George’s relations. After all, if we have nothing else, Ethel, we have the best of it, in regard to such relations as we have.”

“There is Lord Cosham,” said Ethel.

“Yes, he is Meta’s guardian, as well as her brother; but he could not have her to live with him. She must depend upon Flora. But we shall see.”

Ethel felt confident that Flora would be very kind to her little sister-in-law, and yet one of those gleams of doubt crossed her, whether Flora would not be somewhat jealous of her own authority.

Late the next evening, the carriage drove to the door, and George and Flora appeared in the hall. Their sisters went out to meet them, and George folded Meta in his arms, and kissing her again and again, called her his poor dear little sister, and wept bitterly, and even violently. Flora stood beside Ethel, and said, in a low voice, that poor George felt it dreadfully; and then came forward, touched him gently, and told him that he must not overset Meta; and, drawing her from him, kissed her, and said what a grievous time this had been for her, and how sorry they had been to leave her so long, but they knew she was in the best hands.

“Yes, I should have been so sorry you had been over-tired. I was quite well off,” said Meta.

“And you must look on us as your home,” added Flora.

“How can she?” thought Ethel. “This is taking possession, and making Meta a guest already!”

However, Meta did not seem so to feel it--she replied by caresses, and turned again to her brother. Poor George was by far the most struck down of all the mourners, and his whole demeanour gave his new relations a much warmer feeling towards him than they could ever have hoped to entertain. His gentle refined father had softly impressed his duller nature; and his want of attention and many extravagances came back upon him acutely now, in his changed home. He could hardly bear to look at his little orphan sister, and lavished every mark of fondness upon her; nor could he endure to sit at the bottom of his table; but when they had gone in to dinner, he turned away from the chair and hid his face. He was almost like a child in his want of self-restraint; and with all Dr. May’s kind soothing manner, he could not bring him to attend to any of the necessary questions as to arrangements, and was obliged to refer to Flora, whose composed good sense was never at fault.

Ethel was surprised to find that it would be a great distress to Meta to part with her until the funeral was over, though she would hardly express a wish lest Ethel should be needed at home. As soon as Flora perceived this, she begged her sister to stay, and again Ethel felt unpleasantly that Meta might have seen, if she had chosen, that Flora took the invitation upon herself.

So, while Dr. May, with George, Norman, and Tom, went to London, she remained, though not exactly knowing what good she was doing, unless by making the numbers rather less scanty; but both sisters declared her to be the greatest comfort possible; and when Meta shut herself up in her own room, where she had long learned to seek strength in still communing with her own heart, Flora seemed to find it a relief to call her sister to hers, and talk over ordinary subjects, in a tone that struck on Ethel’s ear as a little incongruous--but then Flora had not been here from the first, and the impression could not be as strong. She was very kind, and her manner, when with others, was perfect, from its complete absence of affectation; but, alone with Ethel, there was a little complacency sometimes betrayed, and some curiosity whether her father had read the will. Ethel allowed what she had heard of the contents to be extracted from her, and it certainly did not diminish Flora’s secret satisfaction in being ‘somebody’.

She told the whole history of her visits; first, how cordial Lady Leonora Langdale had been, and then, how happy she had been at Glenbracken. The old Lord and Lady, and Marjorie, all equally charming in their various ways; and Norman Ogilvie so good a son, and so highly thought of in his own country.

“Did I tell you, Ethel, that he desired to be remembered to you?”

“Yes, you said so.”

“What has Coralie done with it?” continued Flora, seeking in her dressing-case. “She must have put it away with my brooches. Oh, no, here it is. I had been looking for Cairngorm specimens in a shop, saying I wanted a brooch that you would wear, when Norman Ogilvie came riding after the carriage, looking quite hot and eager. He had been to some other place, and hunted this one up. Is it not a beauty?”

It was one of the round Bruce brooches, of dark pebble, with a silver fern-leaf lying across it, the dots of small Cairngorm stones. “The Glenbracken badge, you know,” continued Flora.

Ethel twisted it about in her fingers, and said, “Was not it meant for you?”

“It was to oblige me, if you choose so to regard it,” said Flora, smiling. “He gave me no injunctions; but, you see, you must wear it now. I shall not wear coloured brooches for a year.”

Ethel sighed. She felt as if her black dress ought, perhaps, to be worn for a nearer cause. She had a great desire to keep that Glenbracken brooch; and surely it could not be wrong. To refuse it would be much worse, and would only lead to Flora’s keeping it, and not caring for it.

“Then it is your present, Flora?”

“If you like better to call it so, my dear. I find Norman Ogilvie is going abroad in a few months. I think we ought to ask him here on his way.”

“Flora, I wish you would not talk about such things!”

“Do you really and truly, Ethel?”

“Certainly not, at such a time as this,” said Ethel.

Flora was checked a little, and sat down to write to Marjorie Ogilvie. “Shall I say you like the brooch, Ethel?” she asked presently.

“Say what is proper,” said Ethel impatiently. “You know what I mean, in the fullest sense of the word.”

“Do I?” said Flora.

“I mean,” said Ethel, “that you may say, simply and rationally, that I like the thing, but I won’t have it said as a message, or that I take it as his present.”

“Very well,” said Flora, “the whole affair is simple enough, if you would not be so conscious, my dear.”

“Flora, I can’t stand your calling me my dear!”

“I am very much obliged to you,” said Flora, laughing, more than she would have liked to be seen, but recalled by her sister’s look. Ethel was sorry at once.

“Flora, I beg your pardon; I did not mean to be cross, only please don’t begin about that; indeed, I think you had better leave out about the brooch altogether. No one will wonder at your passing it over in such a return as this.”

“You are right,” said Flora thoughtfully.

Ethel carried the brooch to her own room, and tried to keep herself from speculating what had been Mr. Ogllvie’s views in procuring it, and whether he remembered showing her, at Woodstock, which sort of fern was his badge, and how she had abstained from preserving the piece shut up in her guide-book.

Meta’s patient sorrow was the best remedy for proneness to such musings. How happy poor little Meta had been! The three sisters sat together that long day, and Ethel read to the others, and by and by went to walk in the garden with them, till, as Flora was going in, Meta asked, “Do you think it would be wrong for me to cross the park to see that little burned girl, as Mr. Wilmot is away to-day, and she has no one to go to her?”

Flora could see no reason against it, and Meta and Ethel left the garden, and traversed the green park, in its quiet home beauty, not talking much, except that Meta said, “Well! I think there is quite as much sweetness as sadness in this evening.”

“Because of this calm autumn sunset beauty?” said Ethel. “Look at the golden light coming in under the branches of the trees.”

“Yes,” said Meta, “one cannot help thinking how much more beautiful it must be--”

The two girls said no more, and came to the cottage, where so much gratitude was expressed at seeing Miss Rivers, that it was almost too much for her. She left Ethel to talk, and only said a few soft little words to her sick scholar, who seemed to want her voice and smile to convince her that the small mournful face, under all that black crape, belonged to her own dear bright teacher.

“It is odd,” said Meta, as they went back; “it is seeing other people that makes one know it is all sad and altered--it seems so bewildering, though they are so kind.”

“I know what you mean,” said Ethel.

“One ought not to wish it to go on, because there are other people and other duties,” said Meta, “but quietness is so peaceful. Do you know, Ethel, I shall always think of those two first days, before anybody came, with you and Dr. May, as something very--very--precious,” she said at last, with the tears rising.

“I am sure I shall,” said Ethel.

“I don’t know how it is, but there is something even in this affliction that makes it like--a strange sort of happiness,” said Meta musingly.

“I know what it is!” said Ethel.

“That He is so very good?” said Meta reverently.

“Yes,” said Ethel, almost rebuked for the first thought, namely, that it was because Meta was so very good.

“It does make one feel more confidence,” said Meta.

“‘It is good for me to have been in trouble,’” repeated Ethel.

“Yes,” said Meta. “I hope it is not wrong or unkind in me to feel it, for I think dear papa would wish it; but I do not feel as if--miss him always as I shall--the spring of life were gone from me. I don’t think it can, for I know no more pain or trouble can reach him, and there is--don’t you think, Ethel, that I may think so?--especial care for the orphan, like a compensation. And there is hope, and work here. And I am very thankful! How much worse it would have been, if George had not been married! Dear Flora! Will you tell her, Ethel, how really I do wish her to take the command of me? Tell her it will be the greatest kindness in the world to make me useful to her.”

“I will,” said Ethel.

“And please tell her that I am afraid I may forget, and take upon me, as if I were still lady of the house. Tell her I do not mean it, and I hope that she will check it.”

“I think there is no fear of her forgetting that,” said Ethel, regretting the words before they were out of her mouth.

“I hope I shall not,” said Meta. “If I do, I shall drive myself away to stay with Aunt Leonora, and I don’t want to do that at all. So please to make Flora understand that she is head, and I am ready to be hand and foot;” and Meta’s bright smile shone out, with the pleasure of a fresh and loving service.

Ethel understood the force of her father’s words, that it was a brave, vigorous spirit.

Dr. May came back with George, and stayed to dinner, after which he talked over business with Flora, whose sagacity continually amazed him, and who undertook to make her husband understand, and do what was needed.

Meta meanwhile cross-questioned her brother on the pretty village by the Thames, of which she had a fond, childish remembrance, and heard from him of the numerous kind messages from all her relations. There were various invitations, but George repeated them unwillingly.

“You won’t go, Meta,” he said. “It would be a horrid nuisance to part with you.”

“As long as you think so, dear George. When I am in your way, or Flora’s--”

“That will never be! I say, Flora, will she ever be in our way?”

“No, indeed! Meta and I understand that,” said Flora, looking up. “Well, I suppose Bruce can’t be trusted to value the books and prints.”

Dr. May thought it a great relief that Meta had a home with Flora, for, as he said to Ethel as they went home together, “Certainly, except Lord Cosham, I never saw such an unpresentable crew as their relations. You should have heard the boys afterwards! There was Master Tom turning up his Eton nose at them, and pronouncing that there never were such a set of snobs, and Norman taking him to task as I never heard him do before--telling him that he would never have urged his going to Eton, if he had thought it would make him despise respectable folks, probably better than himself, and that this was the last time in the world for such observations--whereat poor Tommy was quite annihilated; for a word from Norman goes further with him than a lecture from any one else.”

“Well, I think Norman was right as to the unfitness of the time.”

“So he was. But we had a good deal of them, waiting in the inn parlour. People make incongruities when they will have such things done in state. It could not be helped here, to be sure; but I always feel, at a grand undertaker’s display like this, that, except the service itself, there is little to give peace or soothing. I hate what makes a talk! Better be little folk.”

“One would rather think of our own dear cloister, and those who cared so much,” said Ethel.

“Ah! you were happy to be there!” said Dr. May. “But it all comes to the same.” Pausing, he looked from the window, then signed to Ethel to do the same--Orion glittered in the darkness.

“One may sleep sound without the lullaby,” said Dr. May, “and the waves--”

“Oh! don’t, papa. You don’t give up hope!”

“I believe we ought, Ethel. Don’t tell her, but I went to the Admirality to-day.”

“And what did you hear there?”

“Great cause for fear--but they do not give up. My poor Margaret! But those stars tell us they are in the same Hand.”

Chapter XIII

Shall I sit alone in my chamber, And set the chairs by the wall, While you sit with lords and princes, Yet have not a thought at all?

Shall I sit alone in my chamber, And duly the table lay, Whilst you stand up in the diet, And have not a word to say?--Old Danish Ballad.

“Oh, Norman, are you come already?” exclaimed Margaret, as her brother opened the door, bringing in with him the crisp breath of December.

“Yes, I came away directly after collections. How are you, Margaret?”

“Pretty brave, thank you;” but the brother and sister both read on each other’s features that the additional three months of suspense had told. There were traces of toil and study on Norman’s brow; the sunken look about his eyes, and the dejected outline of his cheek, Margaret knew betokened discouragement; and though her mild serenity was not changed, she was almost transparently thin and pale. They had long ago left off asking whether there were tidings, and seldom was the subject adverted to, though the whole family seemed to be living beneath a dark shadow.

“How is Flora?” he next asked.

“Going on beautifully, except that papa thinks she does too much in every way. She declares that she shall bring the baby to show me in another week, but I don’t think it will be allowed.”

“And the little lady prospers?”

“Capitally, though I get rather contradictory reports of her. First, papa declared her something surpassing--exactly like Flora, and so I suppose she is; but Ethel and Meta will say nothing for her beauty, and Blanche calls her a fright. But papa is her devoted admirer--he does so enjoy having a sort of property again in a baby!”

“And George Rivers?” said Norman, smiling.

“Poor George! he is very proud of her in his own way. He has just been here with a note from Flora, and actually talked! Between her and the election, he is wonderfully brilliant.”

“The election? Has Mr. Esdaile resigned?”

“Have you not heard? He intends it, and George himself is going to stand. The only danger is that Sir Henry Walkinghame should think of it.”

“Rivers in Parliament! Well, sound men are wanted.”

“Fancy Flora, our member’s wife. How well she will become her position.”

“How soon is it likely to be?”

“Quickly, I fancy. Dr. Spencer, who knows all kinds of news (papa says he makes a scientific study of gossip, as a new branch of comparative anatomy), found out from the Clevelands that Mr. Esdaile meant to retire, and happened to mention it the last time that Flora came to see me. It was like firing a train. You would have wondered to see how it excited her, who usually shows her feelings so little. She has been so much occupied with it, and so anxious that George should be ready to take the field at once, that papa was afraid of its hurting her, and Ethel comes home declaring that the election is more to her than her baby.”

“Ethel is apt to be a little hard on Flora. They are too unlike to understand each other.”

“Ethel is to be godmother though, and Flora means to ask Mr. Ogilvie to come and stand.”

“I think he will be gone abroad, or I should have asked him to fulfil his old promise of coming to us.”

“I believe he must be lodged here, if he should come. Flora will have her house full, for Lady Leonora is coming. The baby is to be called after her.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Norman.

“Yes; I thought it unnecessary, as she is not George’s aunt, but Flora is grateful to her for much kindness, and she is coming to see Meta. I am afraid papa is a little hurt, that any name but one should have been chosen.”

“Has Meta been comfortable?”

“Dear little thing! Every one says how beautifully she has behaved. She brought all her housekeeping books to Flora at once, and only begged to be made helpful in whatever way might be most convenient. She explained, what we never knew before, how she had the young maids in to read with her, and asked leave to go on. Very few could have been set aside so simply and sweetly in their own house.”

“Flora was sensible of it, I hope.”

“Oh, yes. She took the management of course, but Meta is charmed with her having the girls in from the village, in turn, to help in the scullery. They have begun family prayers too, and George makes the stablemen go to church--a matter which had been past Meta, as you may guess, though she had been a wonderful little manager, and Flora owned herself quite astonished.”

“I wonder only at her being astonished.”

“Meta owned to Ethel that what had been worst of all to her was the heart sinking, at finding herself able to choose her occupations, with no one to accommodate them to. But she would not give way--she set up more work for herself at the school, and has been talking of giving singing lessons at Cocksmoor; and she forced herself to read, though it was an effort. She has been very happy lately in nursing Flora.”

“Is Ethel there?”

“No; she is, as usual, at Cocksmoor. There are great councils about sending Cherry to be trained for her new school.”

“Would Flora be able to see me, if I were to ride over to the Grange?”

“You may try; and, if papa is not there, I dare say she will.”

“At least, I shall see Meta, and she may judge. I want to see Rivers too, so I will ask if the bay is to be had. Ah! you have the Claude, I see.”

“Yes, it is too large for this room; but papa put it here that I might enjoy it, and it is almost a companion. The sky improves so in the sunset light.”

Norman was soon at Abbotstoke; and, as he drew his rein, Meta’s bright face nodded to him from Flora’s sitting-room window; and, as he passed the conservatory, the little person met him, with a summons, at once, to his sister.

He found Flora on the sofa, with a table beside her, covered with notes and papers. She was sitting up writing; and, though somewhat pale, was very smiling and animated.

“Norman, how kind to come to me the first thing!”

“Margaret encouraged me to try whether you would be visible.”

“They want to make a regular prisoner of me,” said Flora, laughing. “Papa is as bad as the old nurse! But he has not been here to-day, so I have had my own way. Did you meet George?”

“No; but Margaret said he had been with her.”

“I wish he would come. We expect the second post to bring the news that Mr. Esdaile has accepted the Chiltern Hundreds. If he found it so, he meant to go and talk to Mr. Bramshaw; for, though he is so dull, we must make him agent.”

“Is there any danger of opposition?”

“None at all, if we are soon enough in the field. Papa’s name will secure us, and there is no one else on the right side to come forward, so that it is an absolute rescue of the seat.”

“It is the very moment when men of principle are most wanted,” said Norman. “The questions of the day are no light matters; and it is an immense point to save Stoneborough from being represented by one of the Tomkins’ set.”

“Exactly so,” said Flora. “I should feel it a crime to say one word to deter George, at a time when every effort must be made to support the right cause. One must make sacrifices when the highest interests are at stake.”

Flora seemed to thrive upon her sacrifice--she had never appeared more brilliant and joyous. Her brother saw, in her, a Roman matron; and the ambition that was inherent in his nature, began to find compensation for being crushed, as far as regarded himself, by soaring for another. He eagerly answered that he fully agreed with her, and that she would never repent urging her husband to take on himself the duties incumbent on all who had the power.

Highly gratified, she asked him to look at a copy of George’s intended address, which was lying on the table. He approved of the tenor, but saw a few phrases susceptible of a better point. “Give it,” she said, putting a pen into his hand; and he began to interline and erase her fair manuscript, talking earnestly, and working up himself and the address at the same time, till it had grown into a composition far superior to the merely sensible affair it had been. Eloquence and thought were now in the language, and substance--and Flora was delighted.

“I have been very disrespectful to my niece all this time,” said Norman, descending from the clouds of patriotism.

“I do not mean to inflict her mercilessly on her relations,” said Flora, “but I should like you to see her. She is so like Blanche.”

The little girl was brought in, and Flora made a very pretty young mother, as she held her in her arms, with so much graceful pride. Norman was perfectly entranced--he had never seen his sister so charming or so admirable, between her delight in her infant, and her self-devotion to the good of her husband and her country--acting so wisely, and speaking so considerately; and praising her dear Meta with so much warmth. He would never have torn himself away, had not the nurse hinted that Mrs. Rivers had had too much excitement and fatigue already to-day; and, besides, he suspected that he might find Meta in the drawing-room, where he might discuss the whole with her, and judge for himself of her state of spirits.

Flora’s next visitor was her father, who came as the twilight was enhancing the comfortable red brightness of the fire. He was very happy in these visits--mother and child had both prospered so well, and it was quite a treat to be able to expend his tenderness on Flora. His little grandchild seemed to renew his own happy days, and he delighted to take her from her mother and fondle her. No sooner was the baby in his arms than Flora’s hands were busy among the papers, and she begged him to ring for lights.

“Not yet,” he said. “Why can’t you sit in the dark, and give yourself a little rest?”

“I want you to hear George’s address. Norman has been looking at it, and I hope you will not think it too strong,” and she turned, so that the light might fall on the paper.

“Let me see,” said Dr. May, holding out his hand for it.

“This is a rough copy, too much scratched for you to make out.”

She read it accordingly, and her father admired it exceedingly--Norman’s touches, above all; and Flora’s reading had dovetailed all so neatly together that no one knew where the joins were. “I will copy it fairly,” she said, “if you will show it to Dr. Spencer, and ask whether he thinks it too strong. Mr. Dodsley too; he would be more gratified if he saw it first, in private, and thought himself consulted.”

Dr. May was dismayed at seeing her take up her pen, make a desk of her blotting-book, and begin her copy by firelight.

“Flora, my dear,” he said, “this must not be. Have I not told you that you must be content to rest?”

“I did not get up till ten o’clock, and have been lying here ever since.”

“But what has this head of yours been doing? Has it been resting for ten minutes together? Now I know what I am saying, Flora--I warn you, that if you will not give yourself needful quiet now, you will suffer for it by and by.”

Flora smiled, and said, “I thought I had been very good. But, what is to be done when one’s wits will work, and there is work for them to do?”

“Is not there work enough for them here?” said Dr. May, looking at the babe. “Your mother used to value such a retirement from care.”

Flora was silent for a minute, then said, “Mr. Esdaile should have put off his resignation to suit me. It is an unfortunate time for the election.”

“And you can’t let the election alone?”

She shook her head, and smiled a negative, as if she would, but that she was under a necessity.

“My dear, if the election cannot go on without you, it had better not go on at all.”

She looked very much hurt, and turned away her head.

Her father was grieved. “My dear,” he added, “I know you desire to be of use, especially to George; but do you not believe that he would rather fail, than that you, or his child, should suffer?”

No answer.

“Does he stand by his own wish, or yours, Flora?”

“He wishes it. It is his duty,” said Flora, collecting her dignity.

“I can say no more, except to beg him not to let you exert yourself.”

Accordingly, when George came home, the doctor read him a lecture on his wife’s over-busy brain; and was listened to, as usual, with gratitude and deference. He professed that he only wished to do what was best for her, but she never would spare herself; and, going to her side, with his heavy, fond solicitude, he made her promise not to hurt herself, and she laughed and consented.

The promise was easily given, for she did not believe she was hurting herself; and, as to giving up the election, or ceasing secretly to prompt George, that was absolutely out of the question. What could be a greater duty than to incite her husband to usefulness?

Moreover it was but proper to invite Meta’s aunt and cousin to see her, and to project a few select dinners for their amusement and the gratification of her neighbours. It was only grateful and cousinly likewise, to ask the “Master of Glenbracken”; and as she saw the thrill of colour on Ethel’s cheeks, at the sight of the address to the Honourable Norman Ogilvie, she thought herself the best of sisters. She even talked of Ogilvie as a second Christian name, but Meta observed that old Aunt Dorothy would call it Leonorar Rogilvie Rivers, and thus averted it, somewhat to Ethel’s satisfaction.

Ethel scolded herself many times for wondering whether Mr. Ogilvie would come. What was it to her? Suppose he should; suppose the rest. What a predicament! How unreasonable and conceited, even to think of such a thing, when her mind was made up. What could result, save tossings to and fro, a passing gratification set against infinite pain, and strife with her own heart and with her father’s unselfishness! Had he but come before Flora’s marriage! No; Ethel hated herself for the wish that arose for the moment. Far better he should keep away, if, perhaps, without the slightest inclination towards her, his mere name could stir up such a tumult--all, it might be, founded in vanity. Rebellious feelings and sense of tedium had once been subdued--why should they be roused again?

The answer came. Norman Ogilvie was setting off for Italy, and regretted that he could not take Abbotstoke on his way. He desired his kind remembrances and warm Christmas wishes to all his cousins.

If Ethel breathed more freely, there was a sense that tranquillity is uninteresting. It was, it must be confessed, a flat end to a romance, that all the permanent present effect was a certain softening, and a degree more attention to her appearance; and after all, this might, as Flora averred, be ascribed to the Paris outfit having taught her to wear clothes; as well as to that which had awakened the feminine element, and removed that sense of not being like other women, which sometimes hangs painfully about girls who have learned to think themselves plain or awkward.

There were other causes why it should be a dreary winter to Ethel, under the anxiety that strengthened by duration, and the strain of acting cheerfulness for Margaret’s sake. Even Mary was a care. Her round rosy childhood had worn into height and sallowness, and her languor and indifference fretted Miss Bracy, and was hunted down by Ethel, till Margaret convinced her that it was a case for patience and tenderness, which, thenceforth, she heartily gave, even encountering a scene with Miss Bracy, who was much injured by the suggestion that Mary was oppressed by perspective. Poor Mary, no one guessed the tears nightly shed over Harry’s photograph.

Nor could Ethel quite fathom Norman. He wore the dispirited, burdened expression that she knew too well, but he would not, as formerly, seek relief in confidence to her, shunning the being alone with her, and far too much occupied to offer to walk to Cocksmoor. When the intelligence came that good old Mr. Wilmot of Settlesham had peacefully gone to his rest, after a short and painless illness, Tom was a good deal affected, in his peculiar silent and ungracious fashion; but Norman did not seek to talk over the event, and the feelings he had entertained two years ago--he avoided the subject, and threw himself into the election matters with an excitement foreign to his nature.

He was almost always at Abbotstoke, or attending George Rivers at the committee-room at the Swan, talking, writing, or consulting, concocting squibs, and perpetrating bons mots, that were the delight of friends and the confusion of foes. Flora was delighted, George adored him, Meta’s eyes danced whenever he came near, Dr. Spencer admired him, and Dr. Hoxton prophesied great things of him; but Ethel did not feel as if he were the veritable Norman, and had an undefined sensation of discomfort, when she heard his brilliant repartees, and the laughter with which he accompanied them, so unlike his natural rare and noiseless laugh. She knew it was false excitement, to drive away the suspense that none dared to avow, but which did not press on them the less heavily for being endured in silence. Indeed, Dr. May could not help now and then giving way to outbursts of despondency, of which his friend, Dr. Spencer, who made it his special charge to try to lighten his troubles, was usually the kind recipient.

And though the bustle of the election was incongruous, and seemed to make the leaden weight the more heavy, there was a compensation in the tone of feeling that it elicited, which gave real and heartfelt pleasure.

Dr. May had undergone numerous fluctuations of popularity. He had always been the same man, excellent in intention, though hasty in action, and heeding neither praise nor censure; and while the main tenor of his course never varied, making many deviations by flying to the reverse of the wrong, most immediately before him, still his personal character gained esteem every year; and though sometimes his merits, and sometimes his failings, gave violent umbrage, he had steadily risen in the estimation of his fellow-townsmen, as much as his own inconsistencies and theirs would allow, and every now and then was the favourite with all, save with the few who abused him for tyranny, because he prevented them from tyrannising.

He was just now on the top of the wave, and his son-in-law had nothing to do but to float in on the tide of his favour. The opposite faction attempted a contest, but only rendered the triumph more complete, and gave the gentlemen the pleasure of canvassing, and hearing, times without number, that the constituents only wished the candidate were Dr. May himself. His sons and daughters were full of exultation--Dr. Spencer, much struck, rallied “Dick” on his influence--and Dr. May, the drops of warm emotion trembling on his eyelashes, smiled, and bade his friend see him making a church-rate.

The addresses and letters that came from the Grange were so admirable, that Dr. May often embraced Norman’s steady opinion that George was a very wise man. If Norman was unconscious how much he contributed to these compositions, he knew far less how much was Flora’s. In his ardour, he crammed them both, and conducted George when Flora could not be at his side. George himself was a personable man, wrote a good bold hand, would do as he was desired, and was not easily put out of countenance; he seldom committed himself by talking; and when a speech was required, was brief, and to the purpose. He made a very good figure, and in the glory of victory, Ethel herself began to grow proud of him, and the children’s great object in life was to make the jackdaws cry, “Rivers for ever!”

Flora had always declared that she would be at Stoneborough for the nomination. No one believed her, until three days before, she presented herself and her daughter before the astonished Margaret, who was too much delighted to be able to scold. She had come away on her own responsibility, and was full of triumph. To come home in this manner, after having read “Rivers for ever!” on all the dead walls, might be called that for which she had lived. She made no stay--she had only come to show her child, and establish a precedent for driving out, and Margaret had begun to believe the apparition a dream, when the others came in, some from Cocksmoor, others from the committee-room at the Swan.

“So she brought the baby,” exclaimed Ethel. “I should have thought she would not have taken her out before her christening.”

“Ethel,” said Dr. Spencer, “permit me to make a suggestion. When relations live in the same neighbourhood, there is no phrase to be more avoided than ‘I should have thought--’”

The nomination-day brought Flora, Meta, baby and all to be very quiet, as was said; but how could that be? when every boy in the house was frantic, and the men scarcely less so. Aubrey and Gertrude, and the two jackdaws, each had a huge blue and orange rosette, and the two former went about roaring “Rivers for ever!” without the least consideration for the baby, who would have been decked in the same manner, if Ethel would have heard of it without indignation, at her wearing any colour before her christening white; as to Jack and Jill, though they could say their lesson, they were too much distressed by their ornaments to do ought but lurk in corners, and strive to peck them off.

Flora comported herself in her usual quiet way, and tried to talk of other things, though a carnation spot in each cheek showed her anxiety and excitement. She went with her sisters to look out from Dr. Spencer’s windows towards the Town Hall. Her husband gave her his arm as they went down the garden, and Ethel saw her talking earnestly to him, and pressing his arm with her other hand to enforce her words, but if she did tutor him, it was hardly visible, and he was very glad of whatever counsel she gave.

She spoke not a word after the ladies were left with Aubrey, who was in despair at not being allowed to follow Hector and Tom, but was left, as his prematurely classical mind expressed it, like the Gaulish women with the impedimenta in the marshes--whereas Tom had added insult to injury, by a farewell to “Jack among the maidens.”

Meta tried to console him, by persuading him that he was their protector, and he began to think there was need of a guard, when a mighty cheer caused him to take refuge behind Ethel. Even when assured that it was anything but terrific, he gravely declared that he thought Margaret would want him, but he could not cross the garden without Meta to protect him.

She would not allow any one else to relieve her from the doughty champion, and thereby she missed the spectacle. It might be that she did not regret it, for though it would have been unkind to refuse to come in with her brother and sister, her wound was still too fresh for crowds, turmoil, and noisy rejoicing to be congenial. She did not withdraw her hand, which Aubrey squeezed harder at each resounding shout, nor object to his conducting her to see his museum in the dark corner of the attics, most remote from the tumult.

The loss was not great. The others could hear nothing distinctly, and see only a wilderness of heads; but the triumph was complete. Dr. May had been cheered enough to satisfy even Hector; George Rivers had made a very fair speech, and hurrahs had covered all deficiencies; Hector had shouted till he was as hoarse as the jackdaws; the opposite candidate had never come forward at all; Tomkins was hiding his diminished head; and the gentlemen had nothing to report but success, and were in the highest spirits.

By and by Blanche was missing, and Ethel, going in quest of her, spied a hem of blue merino peeping out under all the cloaks in the hall cupboard, and found the poor little girl sobbing in such distress, that it was long before any explanation could be extracted, but at last it was revealed--when the door had been shut, and they stood in the dark, half stifled among the cloaks, that George’s spirits had taken his old facetious style with Blanche, and in the very hearing of Hector! The misery of such jokes to a sensitive child, conscious of not comprehending their scope, is incalculable, and Blanche having been a baby-coquette, was the more susceptible. She hid her face again from the very sound of her own confession, and resisted Ethel’s attempts to draw her out of the musty cupboard, declaring that she could never see either of them again. Ethel, in vain, assured her that George was gone to the dinner at the Swan; nothing was effectual but being told that for her to notice what had passed was the sure way to call Hector’s attention thereto, when she bridled, emerged, and begged to know whether she looked as if she had been crying. Poor child, she could never again be unconscious, but, at least, she was rendered peculiarly afraid of a style of notice, that might otherwise have been a temptation.

Ethel privately begged Flora to hint to George to alter his style of wit, and the suggestion was received better than the blundering manner deserved; Flora was too exulting to take offence, and her patronage of all the world was as full-blown as her ladylike nature allowed. Ethel, she did not attempt to patronise, but she promised all the sights in London to the children, and masters to Mary and Blanche, and she perfectly overwhelmed Miss Bracy with orphan asylums for her sisters. She would have liked nothing better than dispersing cards, with Mrs. Rivers prominent among the recommenders of the case.

“A fine coming-out for you, little lady,” said she to her baby, when taking leave that evening. “If it was good luck for you to make your first step in life upwards, what is this?”

“Excelsior?” said Ethel, and Flora smiled, well pleased, but she had not caught half the meaning. “May it be the right excelsior” added Ethel, in a low voice that no one heard, and she was glad they did not. They were all triumphant, and she could not tell why she had a sense of sadness, and thought of Flora’s story long ago, of the girl who ascended Mont Blanc, and for what?

All she had to do at present was to listen to Miss Bracy, who was sure that Mrs. Rivers thought Mary and Blanche were not improved, and was afraid she was ungrateful for all the intended kindness to her sister.

Ethel had more sympathy here, for she had thought that Flora was giving herself airs, and she laughed and said her sister was pleased to be in a position to help her friends; and tried to turn it off, but ended by stumbling into allowing that prosperity was apt to make people over-lavish of offers of kindness.

“Dear Miss Ethel, you understand so perfectly. There is no one like you!” cried Miss Bracy, attempting to kiss her hand.

If Ethel had not spoken rightly of her sister, she was sufficiently punished.

What she did was to burst into a laugh, and exclaim, “Miss Bracy! Miss Bracy! I can’t have you sentimental. I am the worst person in the world for it.”

“I have offended. You cannot feel with me!”

“Yes, I can, when it is sense; but please don’t treat me like a heroine. I am sure there is quite enough in the world that is worrying, without picking shades of manner to pieces. It is the sure way to make an old crab of me, and so I am going off. Only, one parting piece of advice, Miss Bracy--read ‘Frank Fairlegh’, and put everybody out of your head.”

And, thinking she had been savage about her hand, Ethel turned back, and kissed the little governess’s forehead, wished her goodnight, and ran away.

She had learned that, to be rough and merry, was the best way of doing Miss Bracy good in the end; and so she often gave herself the present pain of knowing that she was being supposed careless and hard-hearted; but the violent affection for her proved that the feeling did not last.

Ethel was glad to sit by the fire at bed-time, and think over the day, outwardly so gay, inwardly so fretting and perplexing.

It was the first time that she had seen much of her little niece. She was no great baby-handler, nor had she any of the phrases adapted to the infant mind; but that pretty little serene blue-eyed girl had been her chief thought all day, and she was abashed by recollecting how little she had dwelt on her own duties as her sponsor, in the agitations excited by the doubts about her coadjutor.

She took out her Prayer-book, and read the Service for Baptism, recollecting the thoughts that had accompanied her youngest sister’s orphaned christening, “The vain pomp and glory of the world, and all covetous desires of the same.” They seemed far enough off then, and now--poor little Leonora!

Ethel knew that she judged her sister hardly; yet she could not help picturing to herself the future--a young lady, trained for fashionable life, serious teaching not omitted, but right made the means of rising in the world; taught to strive secretly, but not openly, for admiration--a scheming for her marriage--a career like Flora’s own. Ethel could scarcely feel that it would not be a mockery to declare, on her behalf, that she renounced the world. But, alas! where was not the world? Ethel blushed at having censured others, when, so lately, she had herself been oblivious of the higher duty. She thought of the prayer, including every Christian in holy and loving intercession--“I pray not that Thou wouldest take them out of the world, but that Thou wouldest keep them from the evil.”

“Keep her from the evil--that shall be my prayer for my poor little Leonora. His grace can save her, were the surrounding evil far worse than ever it is likely to be. The intermixture with good is the trial, and is it not so everywhere--ever since the world and the Church have seemed fused together? But she will soon be the child of a Father who guards His own; and, at least, I can pray for her, and her dear mother. May I only live better, that so I may pray better, and act better, if ever I should have to act.”

There was a happy family gathering on the New Year’s Day, and Flora, who had kindly felt her way with Meta, finding her not yet ready to enjoy a public festivity for the village, added a supplement to the Christmas beef, that a second dinner might be eaten at home, in honour of Miss Leonora Rivers.

Lady Leonora was highly satisfied with her visit, which impressed her far more in favour of the Abbotstoke neighbourhood than in the days of poor old Mr. Rivers. Flora knew every one, and gave little select dinner-parties, which, by her good management, even George, at the bottom of the table, could not make heavy. Dr. Spencer enjoyed them greatly, and was an unfailing resource for conversation; and as to the Hoxtons, Flora felt herself amply repaying the kindness she had received in her young lady days, when she walked down to the dining-room with the portly headmaster, or saw his good lady sit serenely admiring the handsome rooms. “A very superior person, extremely pleasing and agreeable,” was the universal verdict on Mrs. Rivers. Lady Leonora struck up a great friendship with her, and was delighted that she meant to take Meta to London. The only fault that could be found with her was that she had so many brothers; and Flora, recollecting that her ladyship mistrusted those brothers, avoided encouraging their presence at the Grange, and took every precaution against any opening for the suspicion that she threw them in the way of her little sister-in-law.

Nor had Flora forgotten the Ladies’ Committee, or Cocksmoor. As to the muses, they gave no trouble at all. Exemplary civilities about the chair passed between the Member’s lady and Mrs. Ledwich, ending in Flora’s insisting that priority in office should prevail, feeling that she could well afford to yield the post of honour, since anywhere she was the leader. She did not know how much more conformable the ladies had been ever since they had known Dr. Spencer’s opinion; and yet he only believed that they were grateful for good advice, and went about among them, easy, good-natured, and utterly unconscious that for him sparkled Mrs. Ledwich’s bugles, and for him waved every spinster’s ribbon, from Miss Rich down to Miss Boulder.

The point carried by their united influence was Charity Elwood’s being sent for six months’ finish at the Diocesan Training School; while a favourite pupil-teacher from Abbotstoke took her place at Cocksmoor. Dr. Spencer looked at the Training School, and talked Mrs. Ledwich into magnanimous forgiveness of Mrs. Elwood. Cherry dreaded the ordeal, but she was willing to do anything that was thought right, and likely to make her fitter for her office.

Chapter XIV

‘Twas a long doubt; we never heard Exactly how the ship went down.--ARCHER GURNEY.

The tidings came at last, came when the heart-sickness of hope deferred had faded into the worse heart-sickness of fear deferred, and when spirits had been fain to rebel, and declare that they would be almost glad to part with the hope that but kept alive despair.

The Christmas holidays had come to an end, and the home party were again alone, when early in the forenoon, there was a tap at the drawing-room door, and Dr. Spencer called, “Ethel, can you come and speak to me?”

Margaret started as if those gentle tones had been a thunderclap. “Go! go, Ethel,” she said, “don’t keep me waiting.”

Dr. Spencer stood in the hall with a newspaper in his hand. Ethel said, “Is it?” and he made a sorrowful gesture. “Both?” she asked.

“Both,” he repeated. “The ship burned--the boat lost.”

“Ethel, come!” hoarsely called Margaret.

“Take it,” said Dr. Spencer, putting the paper into her hand; “I will wait.”

She obeyed. She could not speak, but kneeling down by her sister, they read the paragraph together; Ethel, with one eye on the words, the other on Margaret.

No doubt was left. Captain Gordon had returned, and this was his official report. The names of the missing stood below, and the list began thus:--

Lieutenant A. H. Ernescliffe. Mr. Charles Owen, Mate. Mr. Harry May, Midshipman.

The Alcestis had taken fire on the 12th of April of the former year. There had been much admirable conduct, and the intrepid coolness of Mr. Ernescliffe was especially recorded. The boats had been put off without loss, but they were scantily provisioned, and the nearest land was far distant. For five days the boats kept together, then followed a night of storms, and, when morning dawned, the second cutter, under command of Mr. Ernescliffe, had disappeared. There could be no doubt that she had sunk, and the captain could only record his regrets for the loss the service had experienced in the three brave young officers and their gallant seamen. After infinite toil and suffering, the captain, with the other boats’ crews, had reached Tahiti, whence they had made their way home.

“Oh, Margaret, Margaret!” cried Ethel.

Margaret raised herself, and the colour came into her face.

“I did not write the letter!” she said.

“What letter?” said Ethel, alarmed.

“Richard prevented me. The letter that would have parted us. Now all is well.”

“All is well, I know, if we could but feel it.”

“He never had the pain. It is unbroken!” continued Margaret, her eyes brightening, but her breath, in long-drawn gasps that terrified Ethel into calling Dr. Spencer.

Mary was standing before him, with bloodless face and dilated eyes; but, as Ethel approached, she turned and rushed upstairs.

Dr. Spencer entered the drawing-room with Ethel, who tried to read his face as he saw Margaret--restored, as it seemed, to all her girlish bloom, and her eyes sparkling as they were lifted up, far beyond the present scene. Ethel had a moment’s sense that his expression was as if he had seen a death-blow struck, but it was gone in a moment, as he gently shook Margaret by the hand, and spoke a word of greeting, as though to recall her.

“Thank you,” she said, with her own grateful smile.

“Where is your father?” he asked of Ethel.

“Either at the hospital, or at Mr. Ramsden’s,” said Ethel, with a ghastly suspicion that he thought Margaret in a state to require him.

“Papa!” said Margaret. “If he were but here! But--ah! I had forgotten.”

She turned aside her head, and hid her face. Dr. Spencer signed Ethel nearer to him. “This is a more natural state,” he said. “Don’t be afraid for her. I will find your father, and bring him home.” Pressing her hand he departed.

Margaret was weeping tranquilly--Ethel knelt down beside her, without daring at first to speak, but sending up intense mental prayers to Him, who alone could bear her or her dear father through their affliction. Then she ventured to take her hand, and Margaret returned the caress, but began to blame herself for the momentary selfishness that had allowed her brother’s loss and her father’s grief to have been forgotten in her own. Ethel’s “oh! no! no!” did not console her for this which seemed the most present sorrow, but the flow of tears was so gentle, that Ethel trusted that they were a relief. Ethel herself seemed only able to watch her, and to fear for her father, not to be able to think for herself.

The front door opened, and they heard Dr. May’s step hesitating in the hall, as if he could not bear to come in.

“Go to him!” cried Margaret, wiping off her tears. Ethel stood a moment in the doorway, then sprang to him, and was clasped in his arms.

“You know it?” he whispered.

“Dr. Spencer told us. Did not you meet him?”

“No. I read it at Bramshaw’s office. How--” He could not say the words, but he looked towards the room, and wrung the hand he held.

“Quiet. Like herself. Come.”

He threw one arm round Ethel, and laid his hand on her head. “How much there is to be thankful for!” he said, then advancing, he hung over Margaret, calling her his own poor darling.

“Papa, you must forgive me. You said sending him to sea was giving him up.”

“Did I. Well, Margaret, he did his duty. That is all we have to live for. Our yellow-haired laddie made a gallant sailor, and--”

Tears choked his utterance--Margaret gently stroked his hand.

“It falls hard on you, my poor girl,” he said.

“No, papa,” said Margaret, “I am content and thankful. He is spared pain and perplexity.”

“You are right, I believe,” said Dr. May. “He would have been grieved not to find you better.”

“I ought to grieve for my own selfishness,” said Margaret. “I cannot help it! I cannot be sorry the link is unbroken, and that he had not to turn to any one else.”

“He never would!” cried Dr. May, almost angrily.

“I tried to think he ought,” said Margaret. “His life would have been too dreary. But it is best as it is.”

“It must be,” said the doctor. “Where are the rest, Ethel? Call them all down.”

Poor Mary, Ethel felt as if she had neglected her! She found her hanging over the nursery fire, alternating with old nurse in fond reminiscences of Harry’s old days, sometimes almost laughing at his pranks, then crying again, while Aubrey sat between them, drinking in each word.

Blanche and Gertrude came from the schoolroom, where Miss Bracy seemed to have been occupying them, with much kindness and judgment. She came to the door to ask Ethel anxiously for the doctor and Miss May, and looked so affectionate and sympathising, that Ethel gave her a hearty kiss.

“Dear Miss Ethel! if you can only let me help you.”

“Thank you,” said Ethel with all her heart, and hurried away. Nothing was more in favour of Miss Bracy, than that there should be a hurry. Then she could be warm, and not morbid.

Dr. May gathered his children round him, and took out the great Prayer-book. He read a psalm and a prayer from the Burial Service, and the sentence for funerals at sea. Then he touched each of their heads, and, in short broken sentences, gave thanks for those still left to him, and for the blessed hope they could feel for those who were gone; and he prayed that they might so follow in their footsteps, as to come to the same holy place, and in the meantime realise the Communion of Saints. Then they said the Lord’s Prayer, he blessed them, and they arose.

“Mary, my dear,” he said, “you have a photograph.”

She put the case into his hands, and ran away.

He went to the study, where he found Dr. Spencer awaiting him.

“I am only come to know where I shall go for you.”

“Thank you, Spencer. Thank you for taking care of my poor girls.”

“They took care of themselves. They have the secret of strength.”

“They have--” He turned aside, and burst out, “Oh, Spencer! you have been spared a great deal. If you missed a great deal of joy, you have missed almost as much sorrow!” And, covering his face, he let his grief have a free course.

“Dick! dear old Dick, you must bear up. Think what treasures you have left.”

“I do. I try to do so,” said poor Dr. May; “but, Spencer, you never saw my yellow-haired laddie, with his lion look! He was the flower of them all! Not one of these other boys came near him in manliness, and with such a loving heart! An hour ago, I thought any certainty would be gain, but now I would give a lifetime to have back the hope that I might see my boy’s face again! Oh, Spencer! this is the first time I could rejoice that his mother is not here!”

“She would have been your comforter,” sighed his friend, as he felt his inability to contend with such grief.

“There, I can be thankful,” Dr. May said, and he looked so. “She has had her brave loving boy with her all this time, while we little thought--but there are others. My poor Margaret--”

“Her patience must be blessed,” said Dr. Spencer. “I think she will be better. Now that the suspense no longer preys on her, there will be more rest.”

“Rest,” repeated Dr. May, supporting his head on his hand; and, looking up dreamily--“there remaineth a rest--”

The large Bible lay beside him on the table, and Dr. Spencer thought that he would find more rest there than in his words. Leaving him, therefore, his friend went to undertake his day’s work, and learn, once more, in the anxious inquiries and saddened countenances of the patients and their friends, how great an amount of love and sympathy that Dr. May had won by his own warmth of heart. The patients seemed to forget their complaints in sighs for their kind doctor’s troubles; and the gouty Mayor of Stoneborough kept Dr. Spencer half an hour to listen to his recollections of the bright-faced boy’s droll tricks, and then to the praises of the whole May family, and especially of the mother.

Poor Dr. Spencer! he heard her accident described so many times in the course of the day, that his visits were one course of shrinking and suffering; and his only satisfaction was in knowing how his friend would be cheered by hearing of the universal feeling for him and his children.

Ethel wrote letters to her brothers; and Dr. May added a few lines, begging Richard to come home, if only for a few days. Margaret would not be denied writing to Hector Ernescliffe, though she cried over her letter so much that her father could almost have taken her pen away; but she said it did her good.

When Flora came in the afternoon, Ethel was able to leave Margaret to her, and attend to Mary, with whom Miss Bracy’s kindness had been inefficacious. If she was cheered for a few minutes, some association, either with the past or the vanished future, soon set her off sobbing again. “If I only knew where dear, dear Harry is lying,” she sobbed, “and that it had not been very bad indeed, I could bear it better.”

The ghastly uncertainty was too terrible for Ethel to have borne to contemplate it. She knew that it would haunt their pillows, and she was trying to nerve herself by faith.

“Mary,” she said, “that is the worst; but, after all, God willed that we should not know. We must bear it like His good children. It makes no differences to them now--”

“I know,” said Mary, trying to check her sobs.

“And, you know, we are all in the same keeping. The sea is a glorious great pure thing, you know, that man cannot hurt or defile. It seems to me,” said Ethel, looking up, “as if resting there was like being buried in our baptism-tide over again, till the great new birth. It must be the next best place to a churchyard. Anywhere, they are as safe as among the daisies in our own cloister.”

“Say it again--what you said about the sea,” said Mary, more comforted than if Ethel had been talking down to her.

By and by Ethel discovered that the sharpest trouble to the fond simple girl was the deprivation of her precious photograph. It was like losing Harry over again, to go to bed without it, though she would not for the world seem to grudge it to her father.

Ethel found an opportunity of telling him of this distress, and it almost made him smile. “Poor Mary,” he said, “is she so fond of it? It is rather a libel than a likeness.”

“Don’t say so to her, pray, papa. It is all the world to her. Three strokes on paper would have been the same, if they had been called by his name.”

“Yes; a loving heart has eyes of its own, and she is a dear girl!”

He did not forget to restore the treasure with gratitude proportionate to what the loan had cost Mary. With a trembling voice, she proffered it to him for the whole day, and every day, if she might only have it at night; and she even looked black when he did not accept the proposal.

“It is exactly like--” said she.

“It can’t help being so, in a certain sense,” he answered kindly, “but after all, Mary dear, he did not pout out his chin in that way.”

Mary was somewhat mortified, but she valued her photograph more than ever, because no one else would admire it, except Daisy, whom she had taught to regard it with unrivalled veneration.

A letter soon arrived from Captain Gordon, giving a fuller account of the loss of his ship, and of the conduct of his officers, speaking in the highest terms of Alan Ernescliffe, for whom he said he mourned as for his own son, and, with scarcely less warmth, of Harry, mentioning the high esteem all had felt for the boy, and the good effect which the influence of his high and truthful spirit had produced on the other youngsters, who keenly regretted him.

Captain Gordon added that the will of the late Captain Ernescliffe had made him guardian of his sons, and that he believed poor Alan had died intestate. He should therefore take upon himself the charge of young Hector, and he warmly thanked Dr. May and his family for all the kindness that the lad had received.

Though the loss of poor Hector’s visits was regretted, it was, on the whole, a comforting letter, and would give still more comfort in future time.

Richard contrived to come home through Oxford and see Norman, whom he found calm, and almost relieved by the cessation from suspense; not inclined, as his father had feared, to drown sorrow in labour, but regarding his grief as an additional call to devote himself to ministerial work. In fact, the blow had fallen when he first heard the rumour of danger, and could not recur with the same force.

Richard was surprised to find that Margaret was less cast down than he could have dared to hope. It did not seem like an affliction to her. Her countenance wore the same gentle smile, and she was as ready to participate in all that passed, finding sympathy for the little pleasures of Aubrey and Gertrude, and delighting in Flora’s baby; as well as going over Cocksmoor politics with a clearness and accuracy that astonished him, and asking questions about his parish and occupations, so as fully to enjoy his short visit, which she truly called the greatest possible treat.

If it had not been for the momentary consternation that she had seen upon Dr. Spencer’s face, Ethel would have been perfectly satisfied; but she could not help sometimes entertaining a dim fancy that this composure came from a sense that she was too near Alan to mourn for him. Could it be true that her frame was more wasted, that there was less capability of exertion, that her hours became later in the morning, and that her nights were more wakeful? Would she fade away? Ethel longed to know what her father thought, but she could neither bear to inspire him with the apprehension, nor to ask Dr. Spencer’s opinion, lest she should be confirmed in her own.

The present affliction altered Dr. May more visibly than the death of his wife, perhaps, because there was not the same need of exertion. If he often rose high in faith and resignation, he would also sink very low under the sense of bereavement and disappointment. Though Richard was his stay, and Norman his pride, there was something in Harry more congenial to his own temper, and he could not but be bowed down by the ruin of such bright hopes. With all his real submission, he was weak, and gave way to outbursts of grief, for which he blamed himself as unthankful; and his whole demeanour was so saddened and depressed, that Ethel and Dr. Spencer consulted mournfully over him, whenever they walked to Cocksmoor together.

This was not as often as usual, though the walls of the school were rising, for Dr. Spencer had taken a large share of his friend’s work for the present, and both physicians were much occupied by the condition of Mr. Ramsden who was fast sinking, and, for some weeks, seemed only kept alive by their skill. The struggle ended at last, and his forty years’ cure of Stoneborough was closed. It made Dr. May very sad--his affections had tendrils for anything that he had known from boyhood; and though he had often spoken strong words of the vicar, he now sat sorrowfully moralising and making excuses. “People in former times had not so high an estimate of pastoral duty--poor Mr. Ramsden had not much education--he was already old when better times came in--he might have done better in a less difficult parish with better laity to support him, etc.” Yet after all, he exclaimed with one of his impatient gestures, “Better have my Harry’s seventeen years than his sixty-seven!”

“Better improve a talent than lay it by!” said Ethel.

“Hush! Ethel. How do you know what he may have done? If he acted up to his own standard, he did more than most of us.”

“Which is best,” said Ethel, “a high standard, not acted up to, or a lower one fulfilled?”

“I think it depends on the will,” said Margaret.

“Some people are angry with those whose example would show that there is a higher standard,” said Ethel.

“And,” said Margaret, “some who have the high one set before them content themselves with knowing that it cannot be fully attained, and will not try.”

“The standard is the effect of early impression,” said Dr. May. “I should be very sorry to think it could not be raised.”

“Faithful in a little--” said Ethel. “I suppose all good people’s standard is always going higher.”

“As they comprehend more of absolute perfection,” said Margaret.

Chapter XV

The city’s golden spire it was, When hope and health were strongest; But now it is the churchyard grass, We look upon the longest.--E. B. BROWNING.

A disinclination for exertion or going into public hung upon Dr. May, but he was obliged to rouse himself to attend the Town Council meeting, which was held a few days after the vicar’s funeral, to decide on the next appointment. If it had depended on himself alone, his choice would have been Mr. Edward Wilmot, whom the death of his good old father had uprooted from Settlesham; and the girls had much hope, but he was too much out of spirits to be sanguine. He said that he should only hear a great deal of offensive stuff from Tomkins the brewer; and that, in the desire to displease nobody, the votes should settle down on some nonentity, was the best which was likely to happen. Thus, grumbling, he set off, and his daughters watched anxiously for his return. They saw him come through the garden with a quick, light step, that made them augur well, and he entered the room with the corners of his mouth turning up. “I see,” said Ethel, “it is all right.”

“They were going to have made a very absurd choice.”

“But you prevented it? Who was it?”

“Ah! I told you Master Ritchie was turning out a popular preacher.”

“You don’t mean that they chose Richard!” cried Margaret breathlessly.

“As sure as my name is Dick May, they did, every man of them, except Tomkins, and even he held his tongue; I did not think it of them,” said the doctor, almost overcome; “but there is much more goodness of heart in the world than one gives it credit for.”

And good Dr. May was not one to give the least credit for all that was like himself.

“But it was Richard’s own doing,” he continued. “Those sermons made a great impression, and they love the boy, because he has grown up among them. The old mayor waddled up to me, as I came in, telling me that they had been talking it over, and they were unanimously agreed that they could not have a parson they should like better than Mr. Richard.”

“Good old Mr. Doddesley! I can see him!” cried Ethel.

“I expected it so little, that I thought he meant some Richards; but no, he said Mr. Richard May, if he had nothing better in view--they liked him, and knew he was a very steady, good young gentleman, and if he took after his fathers that went before him--and they thought we might like to have him settled near!”

“How very kind!” said Margaret, as the tears came. “We shall love our own townsfolk better than ever!”

“I always told you so, if you would but believe it. They have warm, sound hearts, every one of them! I declare, I did not know which way to look, I was so sorry to disappoint them.”

“Disappoint them!” cried Margaret, in consternation.

“I was thinking,” said Ethel. “I do not believe Richard would think himself equal to this place in such a state as it is. He is so diffident.”

“Yes,” said Dr. May, “if he were ten or twelve years older, it would be another thing; but here, where everything is to be done, he would not bring weight or force enough. He would only work himself to death, for individuals, without going to the root. Margaret, my darling, I am very sorry to have disappointed you so much--it would have been as great a pleasure as we could have had in this world to have the lad here--”

“And Cocksmoor,” sighed Ethel.

“I shall be grateful all my life to those good people for thinking of it,” continued the doctor; “but look you here, it was my business to get the best man chosen in my power and, though as to goodness, I believe the dear Ritchie has not many equals; I don’t think we can conscientiously say he would be, at present, the best vicar for Stoneborough.”

Ethel would not say no, for fear she should pain Margaret.

“Besides,” continued Dr. May, “after having staved off the sale of the presentation as a sin, it would hardly have been handsome to have let my own son profit by it. It would have seemed as if we had our private ends, when Richard helped poor old Mr. Ramsden.”

Margaret owned this, and Ethel said Richard would be glad to be spared the refusal.

“I was sure of it. The poor fellow would have been perplexed between the right and consideration for us. A vicar here ought to carry things with a high hand, and that is hardest to do at a man’s own home, especially for a quiet lad like him.”

“Yes, papa, it was quite right,” said Margaret, recovering herself; “it has spared Richard a great deal.”

“But are we to have Mr. Wilmot?” said Ethel. “Think of our not having heard!”

“Ay. If they would not have had Wilmot, or a man of his calibre, perhaps I might have let them offer it to Richard. I almost wish I had. With help, and Ethel--”

“No, no, papa,” said Margaret. “You are making me angry with myself for my folly. It is much better for Richard himself, and for us all, as well as the town. Think how long we have wished for Mr. Wilmot!”

“He will be in time for the opening of Cocksmoor school!” cried Ethel. “How did you manage it?”

“I did not manage at all,” said the doctor. “I told them exactly my mind, that Richard was not old enough for such arduous work; and though no words could tell how obliged I was, if they asked me who was the best man for it I knew, I should say Edward Wilmot, and I thought he deserved something from us, for the work he did gratis, when he was second master. Tomkins growled a little, but, fortunately, no one was prepared with another proposal, so they all came round, and the mayor is to write by this evening’s post, and so shall I. If we could only have given Richard a dozen more years!”

Margaret was somewhat comforted to find that the sacrifice had cost her father a good deal; she was always slightly jealous for Richard, and now that Alan was gone, she clung to him more than ever. His soft calm manner supported her more than any other human comforter, and she always yearned after him when absent, more than for all the other brothers; but her father’s decision had been too high-minded for her to dare to wish it recalled, and she could not but own that Richard would have had to undergo more toil and annoyance than perhaps his health would have endured.

Flora had discontinued comments to her sisters on her father’s proceedings, finding that observations mortified Margaret, and did not tend to peace with Ethel; but she told her husband that she did not regret it much, for Richard would have exhausted his own income, and his father’s likewise, in paying curates, and raising funds for charities. She scarcely expected Mr. Edward Wilmot to accept the offer, aware as he was, of the many disadvantages he should have to contend with, and unsuccessful as he had been in dealing with the Ladies’ Committee.

However, Mr. Wilmot signified his thankful acceptance, and, in due time, his familiar tap was heard at the drawing-room door, at tea-time, as if he had just returned after the holidays. He was most gladly welcomed, and soon was installed in his own place, with his goddaughter, Mary, blushing with pleasure at pouring out his coffee.

“Well, Ethel, how is Cocksmoor? How like old times!”

“Oh,” cried Ethel, “we are so glad you will see the beginning of the school!”

“I hear you are finishing Cherry Elwood, too.”

“Much against Ethel’s will,” said Margaret; “but we thought Cherry not easily spoiled. And Whitford school seems to be in very good order. Dr. Spencer went and had an inspection of it, and conferred with all the authorities.”

“Ah! we have a jewel of a parishioner for you,” said Dr. May. “I have some hopes of Stoneborough now.”

Mr. Wilmot did not look too hopeful, but he smiled, and asked after Granny Hall, and the children.

“Polly grew up quite civilised,” said Ethel. “She lives at Whitford, with some very respectable people, and sends granny presents, which make her merrier than ever. Last time it was a bonnet, and Jenny persuaded her to go to church in it, though, she said, what she called the moon of it was too small.”

“How do the people go on?”

“I cannot say much for them. It is disheartening. We really have done nothing. So very few go to church regularly.”

“None at all went in my time,” said Mr. Wilmot.

“Elwood always goes,” said Mary, “and Taylor; yes, and Sam Hall, very often, and many of the women, in the evening, because they like to walk home with the children.”

“The children? the Sunday scholars?”

“Oh, every one that is big enough comes to school now, here, on Sunday. If only the teaching were better--”

“Have you sent out any more pupils to service?”

“Not many. There is Willie Brown, trying to be Dr. Spencer’s little groom,” said Ethel.

“But I am afraid it will take a great deal of the doctor’s patience to train him,” added Margaret.

“It is hard,” said Dr. May. “He did it purely to oblige Ethel; and, I tell her, when he lames the pony, I shall expect her to buy another for him, out of the Cocksmoor funds.”

Ethel and Mary broke out in a chorus of defence of Willie Brown.

“There was Ben Wheeler,” said Mary, “who went to work in the quarries; and the men could not teach him to say bad words, because the young ladies told him not.”

“The young ladies have not quite done nothing,” said Dr. May, smiling.

“These are only little stray things, and Cherry has done the chief of them,” said Ethel. “Oh, it is grievously bad still,” she added, sighing. “Such want of truth, such ungoverned tongues and tempers, such godlessness altogether! It is only surface-work, taming the children at school, while they have such homes; and their parents, even if they do come where they might learn better, are always liable to be upset, as they call it--turned out of their places in church, and they will not run the chance.”

“The church must come to them,” said Mr. Wilmot. “Could the school be made fit to be licensed for service.”

“Ask our architect,” said Dr. May. “There can be little doubt.”

“I have been settling that I must have a curate specially for Cocksmoor,” said Mr. Wilmot. “Can you tell me of one, Ethel--or perhaps Margaret could?”

Margaret could only smile faintly, for her heart was beating.

“Seriously,” said Mr. Wilmot, turning to Dr. May, “do you think Richard would come and help us here?”

“This seems to be his destiny,” said the doctor, smiling, “only it would not be fair to tell you, lest you should be jealous--that the Town Council had a great mind for him.”

The matter was explained, and Mr. Wilmot was a great deal more struck by Dr. May’s conduct than the good doctor thought it deserved. Every one was only too glad that Richard should come as Cocksmoor curate; and, though the stipend was very small--since Mr. Wilmot meant to have other assistance--yet, by living at home, it might be feasible.

Margaret’s last words that night to Ethel were, “The last wish I had dared to make is granted!”

Mr. Wilmot wrote to Richard, who joyfully accepted his proposal, and engaged to come home as soon as his present rector could find a substitute.

Dr. Spencer was delighted, and, it appeared, had already had a view to such possibilities in designing the plan of the school.

The first good effect of Mr. Wilmot’s coming was, that Dr. Spencer was cured of the vagrant habits of going to church at Abbotstoke or Fordholm, that had greatly concerned his friend. Dr. May, who could never get any answer from him except that he was not a Town Councillor, and, as to example, it was no way to set that to sleep through the sermon.

To say that Dr. May never slept under the new dynasty would be an over-statement, but slumber certainly prevailed in the minster to a far less degree than formerly. One cause might be that it was not shut up unaired from one Sunday to another, but that the chime of the bells was no longer an extraordinary sound on a week-day. It was at first pronounced that time could not be found for going to church on week-days without neglecting other things, but Mary, who had lately sat very loose to the schoolroom, began gradually to slip down to church whenever the service was neither too early nor too late; and Gertrude was often found trotting by her side--going to mamma, as the little Daisy called it, from some confusion between the church and the cloister, which Ethel was in no hurry to disturb.

Lectures in Lent filled the church a good deal, as much perhaps from the novelty as from better motives, and altogether there was a renewal of energy in parish work. The poor had become so little accustomed to pastoral care, that the doctors and the district visitors were obliged to report cases of sickness to the clergy, and vainly tried to rouse the people to send of their own accord. However, the better leaven began to work, and, of course, there was a ferment, though less violent than Ethel had expected.

Mr. Wilmot set more cautiously to work than he had done in his younger days, and did not attack prejudices so openly, and he had an admirable assistant in Dr. Spencer. Every one respected the opinion of the travelled doctor, and he had a courteous clever process of the reduction to the absurd, which seldom failed to tell, while it never gave offence. As to the Ladies’ Committee, though there had been expressions of dismay, when the tidings of the appointment first went abroad, not one of the whole “Aonian choir” liked to dissent from Dr. Spencer, and he talked them over, individually, into a most conformable state, merely by taking their compliance for granted, and showing that he deemed it only the natural state of things, that the vicar should reign over the charities of the place.

The committee was not dissolved--that would have been an act of violence--but it was henceforth subject to Mr. Wilmot, and he and his curates undertook the religious instruction in the week, and chose the books--a state of affairs brought about with so much quietness, that Ethel knew not whether Flora, Dr. Spencer, or Mr. Wilmot had been the chief mover.

Mrs. Ledwich was made treasurer of a new coal club, and Miss Rich keeper of the lending-library, occupations which delighted them greatly; and Ethel was surprised to find how much unity of action was springing up, now that the period was over, of each “doing right in her own eyes.”

“In fact,” said Dr. Spencer, “when women have enough to do, they are perfectly tractable.”

The Cocksmoor accounts were Ethel’s chief anxiety. It seemed as if now there might be a school-house, but with little income to depend upon, since poor Alan Ernescliffe’s annual ten pounds was at an end. However, Dr. May leaned over her as she was puzzling over her pounds, shillings, and pence, and laid a cheque upon her desk. She looked up in his face. “We must make Cocksmoor Harry’s heir,” he said.

By and by it appeared that Cocksmoor was not out of Hector Ernescliffe’s mind. The boy’s letters to Margaret had been brief, matter-of-fact, and discouraging, as long as the half-year lasted, and there was not much to be gathered about him from Tom, on his return for the Easter holidays, but soon poor Hector wrote a long dismal letter to Margaret.

Captain Gordon had taken him to Maplewood, where the recollection of his brother, and the happy hopes with which they had taken possession, came thronging upon him. The house was forlorn, and the corner that had been unpacked for their reception, was as dreary a contrast to the bright home at Stoneborough, as was the dry, stern captain, to the fatherly warm-hearted doctor. Poor Hector had little or nothing to do, and the pleasure of possession had not come yet; he had no companion of his own age, and bashfulness made him shrink with dislike from introduction to his tenants and neighbours.

There was not an entertaining book in the house, he declared, and the captain snubbed him, if he bought anything he cared to read. The captain was always at him to read musty old improving books, and talking about the position he would occupy. The evenings were altogether unbearable, and if it were not for rabbit shooting now, and the half-year soon beginning again, Hector declared he should be ready to cut and run, and leave Captain Gordon and Maplewood to each other--and very well matched too! He was nearly in a state of mind to imitate that unprecedented boy, who wrote a letter to ‘The Times’, complaining of extra weeks.

As to Cocksmoor, Ethel must not think it forgotten; he had spoken to the captain about it, and the old wooden-head had gone and answered that it was not incumbent on him, that Cocksmoor had no claims upon him, and he could not make it up out of his allowance; for the old fellow would not give him a farthing more than he had before, and had said that was too much.

There was a great blur over the words “wooden-head,” as if Hector had known that Margaret would disapprove, and had tried to scratch it out. She wrote all the consolation in her power, and exhorted him to patience, apparently without much effect. She would not show his subsequent letters, and the reading and answering them fatigued her so much, that Hector’s writing was an unwelcome sight at Stoneborough. Each letter, as Ethel said, seemed so much taken out of her, and she begged her not to think about them.

“Nothing can do me much good or harm now,” said Margaret; and seeing Ethel’s anxious looks, “Is it not my greatest comfort that Hector can still treat me as his sister, or, if I can only be of any use in keeping him patient? Only think of the danger of a boy, in his situation, being left without sympathy!”

There was nothing more to be said. They all felt it was good for them that the building at Cocksmoor gave full occupation to thoughts and conversation; indeed, Tom declared they never walked in any other direction, nor talked of anything else, and that without Hector, or George Rivers, he had nobody to speak to. However, he was a good deal tranquillised by an introduction to Dr. Spencer’s laboratory, where he compounded mixtures that Dr. Spencer promised should do no more harm than was reasonable to himself, or any one else. Ethel suspected that, if Tom had chanced to singe his eyebrows, his friend would not have regretted a blight to his nascent coxcombry, but he was far too careful of his own beauty to do any such thing.

Richard was set at liberty just before Easter, and came home to his new charge. He was aware of what had taken place, and heartily grateful for the part his father had taken. To work at Cocksmoor, under Mr. Wilmot, and to live at home, was felicity; and he fitted at once into his old place, and resumed all the little home services for which he had been always famed. Ethel was certain that Margaret was content, when she saw her brother bending over her, and the sense of reliance and security that the presence of the silent Richard imparted to the whole family was something very peculiar, especially as they were so much more active and demonstrative than he was.

Mr. Wilmot put him at once in charge of the hamlet. The inhabitants were still a hard, rude, unpromising race, and there were many flagrant evils amongst them, but the last few years had not been without some effect--some were less obdurate, a few really touched, and, almost all, glad of instruction for their children. If Ethel’s perseverance had done nothing else, it had, at least, been a witness, and her immediate scholars showed the influence of her lessons.