CHAPTER XVIII

All bright hopes and hues of day

Have faded into twilight gray.--Christian Year

'No fear of Aubrey's failing,' said Tom; 'he has a better foundation

than nine-tenths of the lads that go up, and he is working like a man.'

'He always did work heartily,' said Ethel, 'and with pleasure in his

work.'

'Ay, like a woman.'

'Like a scholar.'

'A scholar is a kind of woman. A man, when he's a boy, only works

because he can't help it, and afterwards for what he can get by it.'

'For what he can do with it would have a worthier sound.'

'Sound or sense, it is all the same.'

'Scaffolding granted, what is the building?'

Tom apparently thought it would be working like a woman to give himself

the trouble of answering; and Ethel went on in her own mind, 'For the

work's own sake--for what can be got by it--for what can be done with

it--because it can't be helped--are--these all the springs of labour

here? Then how is work done in that solitary cell? Is it because it

can't be helped, or is it 'as the Lord's freeman'? And when he can

hear of Aubrey's change, will he take it as out of his love, or grieve

for having been the cause?'

For the change had been working in Aubrey ever since Leonard had

altered his career. The boy was at a sentimental age, and had the

susceptibility inseparable from home breeding; his desire to become a

clergyman had been closely connected with the bright visions of the

happy days at Coombe, and had begun to wane with the first thwarting of

Leonard's plans; and when the terrible catastrophe of the one friend's

life occurred, the other became alienated from all that they had hoped

to share together. Nor could even Dr. May's household be so wholly

exempt from the spirit of the age, that Aubrey was not aware of the

strivings and trials of faith at the University. He saw what Harvey

Anderson was, and knew what was passing in the world; and while free

from all doubts, shrank boyishly from the investigations that he

fancied might excite them. Or perhaps these fears of possible scruples

were merely his self-justification for gratifying his reluctance.

At any rate, he came home from his two months' tour, brown, robust,

with revived spirits, but bent on standing an examination for the

academy at Woolwich. He had written about it several times before his

return, and his letters were, as his father said, 'so appallingly

sensible that perhaps he would change his mind.' But it was not

changed when he came home; and Ethel, though sorely disappointed, was

convinced by her own sense as well as by Richard's prudence, that

interference was dangerous. No one in Israel was to go forth to the

wars of the Lord save those who 'willingly offered themselves;' and

though grieved that her own young knight should be one of the many

champions unwilling to come forth in the Church's cause, she remembered

the ordeal to Norman's faith, and felt that the exertion of her

influence was too great a responsibility.

'You don't like this,' said Tom, after a pause. 'It is not my doing,

you know.'

'No, I did not suppose it was,' said Ethel. 'You would not withhold

any one in these days of exceeding want of able clergymen.'

'I told him it would be a grief at home,' added Tom, 'but when a lad

gets into that desperate mood, he always may be a worse grief if you

thwart him; and I give you credit, Ethel, you have not pulled the curb.'

'Richard told me not.'

'Richard represents the common sense of the family when I am not at

home.'

Tom was going the next day to his course of study at the London

hospitals, and this--the late afternoon--was the first time that he and

his sister had been alone together. He had been for some little time

having these short jerks of conversation, beginning and breaking off

rather absently. At last he said, 'Do those people ever write?'

'Prisoners, do you mean? Not for three months.'

'No--exiles.'

'Mary has heard twice.'

He held out Mary's little leathern writing-case to her.

'O, Tom!'

'It is only Mary.'

Ethel accepted the plea, aware that there could be no treason between

herself and Mary, and moreover that the letters had been read by all

the family. She turned the key, looked them out, and standing by the

window to catch the light, began to read--

'You need not be afraid, kind Mary,' wrote Averil, on the first days of

her voyage; 'I am quite well, as well as a thing can be whose heart is

dried up. I am hardened past all feeling, and seem to be made of

India-rubber. Even my colour has returned--how I hate to see it, and

to hear people say my roses will surprise the delicate Americans.

Fancy, in a shop in London I met an old school-fellow, who was

delighted to see me, talked like old times, and insisted on knowing

where we were staying. I used to be very fond of her, but it was as if

I had been dead and was afraid she would find out I was a ghost, yet I

talked quite indifferently, and never faltered in my excuses. When we

embarked, it was no use to know it was the last of England, where _he_

and you and home and life were left. How I envied the poor girl, who

was crying as if her heart would break!'

On those very words, broke the announcement of Mr. Cheviot. Tom coolly

held out his hand for the letters, so much as a matter of course, that

Ethel complied with his gesture, and he composedly pocketed them, while

she felt desperately guilty. Mary's own entrance would have excited no

compunction, Ethel would have said that Tom wanted to hear of the

voyage; but in the present case, she could only blush, conscious that

the guest recognized her sister's property, and was wondering what

business she had with it, and she was unwilling to explain, not only on

Tom's account, but because she knew that Mr. Cheviot greatly

disapproved of petitioning against the remission of capital sentences,

and thought her father under a delusion.

After Tom's departure the next day, she found the letters in her

work-basket, and restored them to Mary, laughing over Mr. Cheviot's

evident resentment at the detection of her doings.

'I think it looked rather funny,' said Mary.

'I beg your pardon,' said Ethel, much astonished; 'but I thought, as

every one else had seen them--'

'Tom always laughed at poor Ave.'

'He is very different now; but indeed, Mary, I am sorry, since you did

not like it.'

'Oh!' cried Mary, discomfited by Ethel's apology, 'indeed I did not

mean that, I wish I had not said anything. You know you are welcome to

do what you please with all I have. Only,' she recurred, 'you can't

wonder that Mr. Cheviot thought it funny.'

'If he had any call to think at all,' said Ethel, who was one of those

who thought that Charles Cheviot had put a liberal interpretation on

Dr. May's welcome to Stoneborough. He had arrived after the summer

holidays as second master of the school, and at Christmas was to

succeed Dr. Hoxton, who had been absolutely frightened from his chair

by the commissions of inquiry that had beset the Whichcote foundation;

and in compensation was at present perched on the highest niche sacred

to conservative martyrdom in Dr. May's loyal heart.

Charles Cheviot was a very superior man, who had great influence with

young boys, and was admirably fitted to bring about the much required

reformation in the school. He came frequently to discuss his

intentions with Dr. May, and his conversation was well worth being

listened to; but even the Doctor found three evenings in a week a large

allowance for good sense and good behaviour--the evenings treated as

inviolable even by old friends like Dr. Spencer and Mr. Wilmot, the

fast waning evenings of Aubrey's home life.

The rest were reduced to silence, chess, books, and mischief, except

when a treat of facetious small talk was got up for their benefit. Any

attempt of the ladies to join in the conversation was replied to with a

condescending levity that reduced Ethel to her girlhood's awkward sense

of forwardness and presumption; Mary was less disconcerted, because her

remarks were never so aspiring, and Harry's wristbands sufficed her;

but the never-daunted Daisy rebelled openly, related the day's events

to her papa, fearless of any presence, and when she had grown tired of

the guest's regular formula of expecting to meet Richard, she told him

that the adult school always kept Richard away in the winter evenings;

'But if you want to see him, he is always to be found at Cocksmoor, and

he would be very glad of help.'

'Did he express any such wish?' said Mr. Cheviot, looking rather

puzzled.

'Oh dear, no; only I thought you had so much time on your hands.'

'Oh no--oh no!' exclaimed Mary, in great confusion, 'Gertrude did not

mean--I am sure I don't know what she was thinking of.'

And at the first opportunity, Mary, for once in her life, administered

to Gertrude a richly-deserved reproof for sauciness and contempt of

improving conversation; but the consequence was a fancy of the idle

younglings to make Mary accountable for the 'infesting of their

evenings,' and as she was always ready to afford sport to the

household, they thus obtained a happy outlet for their drollery and

discontent, and the imputation was the more comical from his apparent

indifference and her serene composure; until one evening when, as the

bell rung, and mutterings passed between Aubrey and Gertrude, of 'Day

set,' and 'Cheviot's mountains lone,' the head of the family, for the

first time, showed cognizance of the joke, and wearily taking down his

slippered feet from their repose, said, 'Lone! yes, there's the rub! I

shall have to fix days of reception if Mary will insist on being so

attractive.'

Mary, with an instinct that she was blamed, began to be very sorry, but

broke off amid peals of merriment, and blushes that were less easily

extinguished; and which caused Ethel to tell each of the young ones

privately, that their sport was becoming boy and frog work, and she

would have no more of it. The Daisy was inclined to be restive; but

Ethel told her that many people thought this kind of fun could never be

safe or delicate. 'I have always said that it might be quite harmless,

if people knew where to stop--now show me that I am right.'

And to Aubrey she put the question, whether he would like to encourage

Daisy in being a nineteenth-century young lady without reticence?

However, as Mary heard no more of their mischievous wit, Ethel was

quite willing to let them impute to herself a delusion that the

schoolmaster was smitten with Mary, and to laugh with them in private

over all the ridiculous things they chose to say.

At last Flora insisted on Ethel's coming with her to make a distant

call, and, as soon as they were in the carriage, said, 'It was not only

for the sake of Mrs. Copeland, though it is highly necessary you should

go, but it is the only way of ever speaking to you, and I want to know

what all this is about Mary?'

'The children have not been talking their nonsense to you!'

'No one ever talks nonsense to me--intentionally, I mean--not even you,

Ethel; I wish you did. But I hear it is all over the town. George has

been congratulated, and so have I, and one does not like contradicting

only to eat it up again.'

'You always did hear everything before it was true, Flora.'

'Then is it going to be true?'

'O, Flora, can it be possible?' said Ethel, with a startled, astonished

look.

'Possible! Highly obvious and proper, as it seems to me. The only

doubt in my mind was whether it were not too obvious to happen.'

'He is always coming in,' said Ethel, 'but I never thought it was

really for that mischief! The children only laugh about it as the most

preposterous thing they can think of, for he never speaks to a woman if

he can help it.'

'That may not prevent him from wanting a good wife.'

'Wanting a wife--ay, as he would want a housekeeper, just because he

has got to the proper position for it; but is he to go and get our

bonny Mary in that way, just for an appendage to the mastership?'

'Well done, old Ethel! I'm glad to see you so like yourself. I

remember when we thought Mrs. Hoxton's position very sublime.'

'I never thought of positions!'

'Never! I know that very well; and I am not thinking of it now, except

as an adjunct to a very worthy man, whom Mary will admire to the depths

of her honest heart, and who will make her very happy.'

'Yes, I suppose if she once begins to like him, that he will,' said

Ethel, slowly; 'but I can't bring myself to swallow it yet. She has

never given in to his being a bore, but I thought that was her

universal benevolence; and he says less to her than to any one.'

'Depend upon it, he thinks he is proceeding selon les regles.'

'Then he ought to be flogged! Has he any business to think of my Mary,

without falling red-hot in love with her? Why, Hector was regularly

crazy that last half-year; and dear old Polly is worth ever so much

more than Blanche.'

'I must say you have fulfilled my desire of hearing you talk nonsense,

Ethel. Mary would never think of those transports.'

'She deserves them all the more.'

'Well, she is the party most concerned, though she will be a cruel loss

to all of us.'

'She will not go far, if--'

'Yes, but she will be the worse loss. You simple Ethel, you don't

think that Charles Cheviot will let her be the dear family fag we have

always made of her?'

'Oh no--that always was wrong.'

'And living close by, she will not come on a visit, all festal, to

resume home habits. No, you must make up your mind, Ethel--_if,_ as

you say, _if_--he will be a man for monopolies, and he will resent

anything that he thinks management from you. I suspect it is a real

sign of the love that you deny, that he has ventured on the sister of a

clever woman, living close by, and a good deal looked up to.'

'Flora, Flora, you should not make one wicked. If she is to be happy,

why can't you let me rejoice freely, and only have her drawn off from

me bit by bit, in the right way of nature?'

'I did not tell you to make you dislike it--of course not. Only I

thought that a little tact, a little dexterity, might prevent Charles

Cheviot from being so much afraid of you, as if he saw at once how

really the head of the family you are.'

'Nonsense, Flora, I am no such thing. If I am domineering, the sooner

any one sees it and takes me down the better. If this does come, I

will try to behave as I ought, and not to mind so Mary is happy; but I

can't act, except just as the moment leads me. I hope it will soon be

over, now you have made me begin to believe in it. I am afraid it will

spoil Harry's pleasure at home! Poor dear Harry, what will he do?'

'When does he come?'

'Any day now; he could not quite tell when he could get away.

When they came back, and Dr. May ran out to say, 'Can you come in.

Flora? we want you,' the sisters doubted whether his excitement were

due to the crisis, or to the arrival. He hurried them into the study,

and shut the door, exulting and perplexed. 'You girls leave one no

rest,' he said. 'Here I have had this young Cheviot telling me that

the object of his attentions has been apparent. I'm sure I did not

know if it were Mab or one of you. I thought he avoided all alike; and

poor Mary was so taken by surprise that she will do nothing but cry,

and say, "No, never;" and when I tell her she shall do as she pleases,

she cries the more; or if I ask her if I am to say Yes, she goes into

ecstasies of crying! I wish one of you would go up, and see if you can

do anything with her.'

'Is he about the house?' asked Flora, preparing to obey.

'No--I was obliged to tell him that she must have time, and he is gone

home. I am glad he should have a little suspense--he seemed to make so

certain of her. Did he think he was making love all the time he was

boring me with his gas in the dormitories? I hope she will serve him

out!'

'He will not be the worse for not being a lady's man,' said Flora, at

the door.

But in ten minutes, Flora returned with the same report of nothing but

tears; and she was obliged to leave the party to their perplexity, and

drive home; while Ethel went in her turn to use all manner of pleas to

her sister to cheer up, know her own mind, and be sure that they only

wished to guess what would make her happiest. To console or to scold

were equally unsuccessful, and after attempting all varieties of

treatment, bracing or tender, Ethel found that the only approach to

calm was produced by the promise that she should be teased no more that

evening, but be left quite alone to recover, and cool her burning eyes

and aching head. So, lighting her fire, shaking up a much-neglected

easy-chair, bathing her eves, desiring her not to come down to tea, and

engaging both that Gertrude should not behold her, and that papa would

not be angry, provided that she tried to know what she really wished,

and be wiser on the morrow, Ethel left her. The present concern was

absolutely more to persuade her to give an answer of some sort, than

what that answer should be. Ethel would not wish; Dr. May had very

little doubt; and Gertrude, from whom there was no concealing the state

of affairs, observed, 'If she cries so much the first time she has to

know her own mind, it shows she can't do without some one to do it for

her.'

The evening passed in expeditions of Ethel's to look after her patient,

and in desultory talk on all that was probable and improbable between

Dr. May and the younger ones, until just as Ethel was coming down at

nine o'clock with the report that she had persuaded Mary to go to bed,

she was startled by the street door being opened as far as the chain

would allow, and a voice calling, 'I say, is any one there to let me

in?'

'Harry! O, Harry! I'm coming;' and she had scarcely had time to shut

the door previous to taking down the chain, before the three others

were in the hall, the tumult of greetings breaking forth.

'But where's Polly?' he asked, as soon as he was free to look round

them all.

'Going to bed with a bad headache,' was the answer, with which Daisy

had sense enough not to interfere; and the sailor had been brought into

the drawing-room, examined on his journey, and offered supper, before

he returned to the charge.

'Nothing really the matter with Mary, I hope?'

'Oh! no--nothing.'

'Can't I go up and see her?'

'Not just at present,' said Ethel. 'I will see how she is when she is

in bed, but if she is going to sleep, we had better not disturb her.'

'Harry thinks she must sleep better for the sight of him,' said the

Doctor; 'but it is a melancholy business.--Harry, your nose is out of

joint.'

'Who is it?' said Harry, gravely.

'Ah! you have chosen a bad time to come home. We shall know no comfort

till it is over.'

'Who?' cried Harry; 'no nonsense, Gertrude, I can't stand guessing.'

This was directed to Gertrude, who was only offending by pursed lips

and twinkling eyes, because he could not fall foul of his father. Dr.

May took pity, and answered at once.

'Cheviot!' cried Harry. 'Excellent! He always did know how to get the

best of everything. Polly turning into a Mrs. Hoxton. Ha! ha! Well,

that is a relief to my mind.'

'You did look rather dismayed, certainly. What were you afraid of?'

'Why, when that poor young Leonard Ward's business was in the papers, a

messmate of mine was asked if we were not all very much interested,

because of some attachment between some of us. I thought he must mean

me or Tom, for I was tremendously smitten with that sweet pretty girl,

and I used to be awfully jealous of Tom, but when I heard of Mary going

to bed with a headache, and that style of thing, I began to doubt, and

I couldn't stand her taking up with such a dirty little nigger as Henry

Ward was at school.'

'I think you might have known Mary better!' exclaimed Gertrude.

'And it's not Tom either?' he asked.

'Exactly the reverse,' laughed his father.

'Well, Tom is a sly fellow, and he had a knack of turning up whenever

one wanted to do a civil thing by that poor girl. Where is she now?'

'At New York.'

'They'd better take care how they send me to watch the Yankees, then.'

'Your passion does not alarm me greatly,' laughed the Doctor. 'I don't

think it ever equalled that for the reigning ship. I hope there's a

vacancy in that department for the present, and that we may have you at

home a little.'

'Indeed, sir, I'm afraid not,' said Harry. 'I saw Captain Gordon at

Portsmouth this morning, and he tells me he is to go out in the Clio to

the Pacific station, and would apply for me as his first lieutenant, if

I liked to look up the islands again. So, if you have any commissions

for Norman, I'm your man.

'And how soon?'

'Uncertain--but Cheviot and Mary must settle their affairs in good

time; I've missed all the weddings in the family hitherto, and won't be

balked of Polly's. I say, Ethel, you can't mean me not to go and wish

her joy.'

'We are by no means come to joy yet,' said Ethel; 'poor Mary is overset

by the suddenness of the thing.'

'Why, I thought it was all fixed.'

'Nothing less so,' said the Doctor. 'One would think it was a naiad

that had had an offer from the mountains next, for she has been

shedding a perfect river of tears ever since; and all that the united

discernment of the family has yet gathered is, that she cries rather

more when we tell her she is right to say No than when we tell her she

is right to say Yes.'

'I declare, Ethel, you must let me go up to her.'

'But, Harry, I promised she should hear no more about it to-night. You

must say nothing unless she begins.'

And thinking a quiet night's rest, free from further excitement, the

best chance of a rational day, Ethel was glad that her mission resulted

in the report, 'Far too nearly asleep to be disturbed;' but on the way

up to bed, soft as Harry's foot-falls always were, a voice came down

the stairs, 'That's Harry! Oh, come!' and with a face of triumph

turned back to meet Ethel's glance of discomfited warning, he bounded

up, to be met by Mary in her dressing-gown. 'O, Harry, why didn't you

come?' as she threw her arms round his neck.

'They wouldn't let me.'

'I did think I heard you; but when no one came I thought it was only

Richard, till I heard the dear old step, and then I knew. O, Harry!'

and still she gasped, with her head on his shoulder.

'They said you must be quiet.'

'O Harry! did you hear?'

'Yes, indeed,' holding her closer, 'and heartily glad I am; I know him

as well as if I had sailed with him, and I could not wish you in better

hands.'

'But--O, Harry dear--' and there was a struggle with a sob between each

word, 'indeed--I won't--mind if you had rather not.'

'Do you mean that you don't like him?'

'I should see him, you know, and perhaps he would not mind--he could

always come and talk to papa in the evenings.'

'And is that what you want to put a poor man off with, Mary?'

'Only--only--if you don't want me to--'

'I not want you to--? Why, Mary, isn't it the very best thing I could

want for you? What are you thinking about?'

'Don't you remember, when you came home after your wound, you said I--I

mustn't--' and she fell into such a paroxysm of crying that he had

quite to hold her up in his arms, and though his voice was merry, there

was a moisture on his eyelashes. 'Oh, you Polly! You're a caution

against deluding the infant mind! Was that all? Was that what made

you distract them all? Why not have said so?'

'Oh, never! They would have said you were foolish.'

'As I was for not knowing that you wouldn't understand that I only

meant you were to wait till the right one turned up. Why, if I had

been at Auckland, would you have cried till I came home?'

'Oh, I'm sorry I was silly! But I'm glad you didn't mean it, dear

Harry!' squeezing him convulsively.

'There! And now you'll sleep sound, and meet them as fresh as a fair

wind to-morrow. Eh?'

'Only please tell papa I'm sorry I worried him.'

'And how about somebody else, Mary, whom you've kept on tenter-hooks

ever so long? Are you sure he is not walking up and down under the

limes on the brink of despair?'

'Oh, do you think--? But he would not be so foolish!'

'There now, go to sleep. I'll settle it all for you, and I shan't let

any one say you are a goose but myself. Only sleep, and get those

horrid red spots away from under your eyes, or perhaps he'll repent his

bargain, said Harry, kissing each red spot. 'Promise you'll go to bed

the instant I'm gone.'

'Well,' said Dr. May, looking out of his room, 'I augur that the spirit

of the flood has something to say to the spirit of the fell.'

'I should think so! Genuine article--no mistake.'

'Then what was all this about?'

'All my fault. Some rhodomontade of mine about not letting her marry

had cast anchor in her dear little ridiculous heart, and it is well I

turned up before she had quite dissolved herself away.'

'Is that really all?'

'The sum total of the whole, as sure as--' said Harry, pausing for an

asseveration, and ending with 'as sure as your name is Dick May;'

whereat they both fell a-laughing, though they were hardly drops of

laughter that Harry brushed from the weather-marked pucker in the comer

of his eyes; and Dr. May gave a sigh of relief, and said, 'Well, that's

right!'

'Where's the latch-key? I must run down and put Cheviot out of his

misery.'

'It is eleven o'clock, he'll be gone to bed.'

'Then I would forbid the banns. Where does he hang out? Has he got

into old Hoxton's?'

'No, it is being revivified. He is at Davis's lodgings. But I advise

you not, a little suspense will do him good.'

'One would think you had never been in love,' said Harry, indignantly.

'At least, I can't sleep till I've shaken hands with the old fellow.

Good night, father. I'll not be long.'

He kept his word, and the same voice greeted him out of the

dressing-room: 'How was the spirit of the fell? Sleep'st thou,

brother?'

'Brother, nay,' answered Harry, 'he was only looking over Latin verses!

He always was a cool hand.'

'The spirit of the Fell--Dr. Fell, with a vengeance,' said Dr. May. 'I

say, Harry, is this going to be a mere business transaction on his

part? Young folks have not a bit of romance in these days, and one

does not know where to have them; but if I thought--'

'You may be sure of him, sir,' said Harry, speaking the more eagerly

because he suspected the impression his own manner had made; 'he is

thoroughly worthy, and feels Mary's merits pretty nearly as much as I

do. More, perhaps, I ought to say. There's more warmth in him than

shows. I don't know that Norman ever could have gone through that

terrible time after the accident, but for the care he took of him. And

that little brother of his that sailed with me in the Eurydice, and

died at Singapore--I know how he looked to his brother Charles, and I

do assure you, father, you could not put the dear Mary into safer,

sounder hands, or where she could be more prized or happier. He is

coming up to-morrow morning, and you'll see he is in earnest in spite

of all his set speeches. Good night, father; I am glad to be in time

for the last of my Polly.'

This was almost the only moment at which Harry betrayed a consciousness

that his Polly was less completely his own. And yet it seemed as if it

must have been borne in on him again and again, for Mary awoke the next

morning as thoroughly, foolishly, deeply in love as woman could be, and

went about comporting herself in the most comically commonplace style,

forgetting and neglecting everything, not hearing nor seeing, making

absurd mistakes, restless whenever Mr. Cheviot was not present, and

then perfectly content if he came to sit by her, as he always did; for

his courtship--now it had fairly begun--was equally exclusive and

determined. Every day they walked or rode together, almost every

evening he came and sat by her, and on each holiday they engrossed the

drawing-room, Mary looking prettier than she had ever been seen before;

Aubrey and Gertrude both bored and critical; Harry treating the whole

as a pantomime got up for his special delectation, and never betokening

any sense that Mary was neglecting him. It was the greatest help to

Ethel in keeping up the like spirit, under the same innocent

unconscious neglect from the hitherto devoted Mary, who was only

helpful in an occasional revival of mechanical instinct in lucid

intervals, and then could not be depended on. To laugh good-naturedly

and not bitterly, to think the love-making pretty and not foolish, to

repress Gertrude's saucy scorn, instead of encouraging it, would have

been far harder without the bright face of the brother who generously

surrendered instead of repining.

She never told herself that there was no proportion between the trials,

not only because her spirits still suffered from the ever-present load

of pity at her heart, nor because the loss would be hourly to her, but

also because Charles Cheviot drew Harry towards him, but kept her at a

distance, or more truly laughed her down. She was used to be laughed

at; her ways had always been a matter of amusement to her brothers, and

perhaps it was the natural assumption of brotherhood to reply to any

suggestion or remark of hers with something intended for drollery, and

followed with a laugh, which, instead of as usual stirring her up to

good-humoured repartee, suppressed her, and made her feel foolish and

awkward. As to Flora's advice, to behave with tact, she could not if

she would, she would not if she could; in principle she tried to

acquiesce in a man's desire to show that he meant to have his wife to

himself, and in practice she accepted his extinguisher because she

could not help it.

Mr. Cheviot was uneasy about the chances of Aubrey's success in the

examination at Woolwich, and offered assistance in the final

preparation; but though Aubrey willingly accepted the proposal, two or

three violent headaches from over-study and anxiety made Dr. May insist

on his old regimen of entire holiday and absence of work for the last

week; to secure which repose, Aubrey was sent to London with Harry for

a week's idleness and the society of Tom, who professed to be too busy

to come home even for Christmas. Mr. Cheviot's opinion transpired

through Mary, that it was throwing away Aubrey's only chance.

In due time came the tidings that Aubrey had the second largest number

of marks, and had been highly commended for the thoroughness of his

knowledge, so different from what had been only crammed for the

occasion. He had been asked who had been his tutor, and had answered,

'His brother,' fully meaning to spare Ethel publicity; and she was

genuinely thankful for having been shielded under Tom's six months of

teaching. She heartily wished the same shield would have availed at

home, when Charles Cheviot gave that horrible laugh, and asked her if

she meant to stand for a professor's chair. She faltered something

about Tom and mathematics. 'Ay, ay,' said Charles; 'and these military

examinations are in nothing but foreign languages and trash;' and again

he laughed his laugh, and Mary followed his example. Ethel would fain

have seen the fun.

'Eh, Cheviot, what two of a trade never agree?' asked Dr. May, in high

glory and glee.

'Not my trade, papa,' said Ethel, restored by his face and voice, 'only

the peculiarity of examiners, so long ago remarked by Norman, of only

setting questions that one can answer.'

'Not your trade, but your amateur work!' said Mr. Cheviot, again

exploding, and leaving Ethel to feel demolished. Why, she wondered

presently, had she not held up her knitting, and merrily owned it for

her trade--why, but because those laughs took away all merriment, all

presence of mind, all but the endeavour not to be as cross as she felt.

Was this systematic, or was it only bad taste?

The wedding was fixed for Whitsuntide; the repairs and drainage

necessitating early and long holidays; and the arrangements gave full

occupation. Mary was the first daughter who had needed a portion,

since Mr. Cheviot was one of a large family, and had little of his own.

Dr. May had inherited a fair private competence, chiefly in land in and

about the town, and his professional gains, under his wife's prudent

management, had been for the most part invested in the like property.

The chief of his accumulation of ready money had been made over to

establish Richard at Cocksmoor; and though living in an inexpensive

style, such as that none of the family knew what it was to find means

lacking for aught that was right or reasonable, there was no large

amount of capital available. The May custom had always been that the

physician should inherit the landed estate; and though this was

disproportionately increased by the Doctor's own acquisitions, yet the

hold it gave over the town was so important, that he was unwilling it

should be broken up at his death, and wished to provide for his other

children by charges on the rents, instead of by sale and division. All

this he caused Richard to write to Tom, for though there was no

absolute need of the young man's concurrence in arranging Mary's

settlements, it was a good opportunity for distinctly stating his

prospects, and a compliment to consult him.

Feeling that Tom had thus been handsomely dealt with, his letter to his

father was the greater shock, when, after saying that he doubted

whether he could come home for the wedding, he expressed gratitude for

the opening held out to him, but begged that precedents applicable to

very different circumstances might not be regarded as binding. He was

distressed at supplanting Richard, and would greatly prefer the

property taking its natural course. It would be so many years, he

trusted, before there would be room for his services, even as an

assistant, at Stoneborough, that he thought it would be far more

advisable to seek some other field; and his own desire would be at once

to receive a younger son's share, if it were but a few hundreds, and be

free to cut out his own line.

'What is he driving at, Ethel?' asked the Doctor, much vexed. 'I offer

him what any lad should jump at; and he only says, "Give me the portion

of goods that falleth to me." What does that mean?'

'Not prodigality,' said Ethel. 'Remember what Sir Matthew Fleet said

to Dr. Spencer--"Dick's ability and common sense besides."'

'Exactly what makes me suspicious of his coming the disinterested over

me. There's something behind! He is running into debt and destruction

among that precious crew about the hospitals.'

'Harry saw nothing wrong, and thought his friends in good style.'

'Every one is in good style with Harry, happy fellow! He is no more a

judge than a child of six years old--carries too much sunshine to see

shades.'

'A lieutenant in the navy can hardly be the capital officer that our

Harry is without some knowledge of men and discipline.'

'I grant you, on his own element; but on shore he goes about in his

holiday spectacles, and sees a bird of paradise in every cock-sparrow.'

'Isn't _there_ a glass house that can sometimes make a swan?' said

Ethel, slyly touching her father's spectacles; 'but with you both,

there's always a something to attract the embellishing process; and

between Harry and Aubrey, Dr. Spencer and Sir Matthew, we could hardly

fail to have heard of anything amiss.'

'I don't like it.'

'Then it is hard,' said Ethel, with spirit. 'So steady as he has

always been, he ought to have the benefit of a little trust.'

'He was never like the others; I don't know what to be at with him! I

should not have minded but for that palaver about elder brothers.'

Defend as Ethel might, it was still with a misgiving lest

disappointment should have taken a wrong course. It was hard to trust

where correspondence was the merest business scrap, and neither

Christmas nor the sister's marriage availed to call Tom home; and

though she had few fears as to dissipation, she did dread hardening and

ambition, all the more since she had learnt that Sir Matthew Fleet was

affording to him a patronage unprecedented from that quarter.

No year of Etheldred May's life had been so trying as this last. It

seemed like her first step away from the aspirations of youth, into the

graver fears of womanhood. With all the self-restraint that she had

striven to exercise at Coombe, it had been a time of glorious dreams

over the two young spirits who seemed to be growing up by her side to

be faithful workers, destined to carry out her highest visions; and the

boyish devotion of the one, the fraternal reverence of the other, had

made her very happy. And now? The first disappointment in Leonard had

led--not indeed to less esteem for him, but to that pitying veneration

that could only be yielded by a sharing in spirit of the like

martyrdom; a continued thankfulness and admiration, but a continual

wringing of the heart. And her own child and pupil, Aubrey, had turned

aside from the highest path; and in the unavowed consciousness that he

was failing in the course he had so often traced out with her, and that

all her aid and ready participation in his present interests were but

from her outward not her inward heart, he had never argued the point

with her, never consulted her on his destination. He had talked only

to his father of his alteration of purpose, and had at least paid her

the compliment of not trying to make her profess that she was gratified

by the change. In minor matters, he depended on her as much as ever;

but Harry was naturally his chief companion, and the prime of his full

and perfect confidence had departed, partly in the step from boy to

man, but more from the sense that he was not fulfilling the soldiership

he had dreamt of with her, and that he had once led her to think his

talents otherwise dedicated. She had few fears for his steadiness, but

she had some for his health, and he was something taken away from

her--a brightness had faded from his image.

And this marriage--with every effort at rejoicing and certainty of

Mary's present bliss and probability of future happiness, it was the

loss of a sister, and not the gain of a brother, and Mr. Cheviot did

his utmost to render the absence of repining a great effort of

unselfishness. And even with her father, her possession of Tom's

half-revealed secret seemed an impairing of absolute confidence; she

could not but hope that her father did her brother injustice, and in

her tenderness towards them both this was a new and painful sensation.

Her manner was bright and quaint as ever, her sayings perhaps less

edged than usual, because the pain at her heart made her guard her

tongue; but she had begun to feel middle-aged, and strangely lonely.

Richard, though always a comfort, would not have entered into her

troubles; Harry, in his atmosphere of sailor on shore, had nothing of

the confidant, and engrossed his father; Mary and Aubrey were both gone

from her, and Gertrude was still a child. She had never so longed after

Margaret or Norman. But at least her corner in the Minster, her table

at home with her Bible and Prayer-Book, were still the same, and

witnessed many an outpouring of her anxiety, many a confession of the

words or gestures that she had felt to have been petulant, whether

others had so viewed them or not.