Wee modest crimson-tipped flower,
Thou’st met me in an evil hour,
For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem.
To spare thee now is past my power,
Thou bonnie gem.
BURNS.
“Is this all the walking party?” exclaimed Mr. Ernescliffe, as Miss
Winter, Flora, and Norman gathered in the hall.
“Harry won’t go because of Ethel’s spectacles,” answered Flora; “and
Mary and he are inseparable, so they are gone with Hector to have a
shipwreck in the field.”
“And your other sisters?”
“Margaret has ratted--she is going to drive out with mamma,” said
Norman; “as to Etheldred the Unready, I’ll run up and hurry her.”
In a moment he was at her door. “Oh! Norman, come in. Is it time?”
“I should think so! You’re keeping every one waiting.”
“Oh, dear! go on; only just tell me the past participle of ‘offero’, and
I’ll catch you up.”
“‘Oblatus.’”
“Oh, yes, how stupid. The ‘a’ long or short? Then that’s right. I had
such a line in my head, I was forced to write it down. Is not it a
capital subject this time?”
“The devotion of Decius? Capital. Let me see!” said Norman, taking up
a paper scribbled in pencil, with Latin verses. “Oh, you have taken up
quite a different line from mine. I began with Mount Vesuvius spouting
lava like anything.”
“But Mount Vesuvius didn’t spout till it overthrew Pompeii.”
“Murder!” cried Norman, “I forgot! It’s lucky you put me in mind. I must
make a fresh beginning. There go my six best lines! However, it was
an uncanny place, fit for hobgoblins, and shades, and funny customers,
which will do as well for my purpose. Ha! that’s grand about its being
so much better than the vana gloria triumphalis--only take care of the
scanning there--”
“If it was but English. Something like this:
“For what is equal to the fame
Of forgetting self in the aim?
That’s not right, but--”
“Ethel, Norman, what are you about?” cried Flora. “Do you mean to go to
Cocksmoor to-day?”
“Oh, yes!” cried Ethel, flying into vehement activity; “only I’ve lost
my blue-edged handkerchief--Flora, have you seen it?”
“No; but here is your red scarf.”
“Thank you, there is a good Flora. And oh! I finished a frock all but
two stitches. Where is it gone? Go on, all of you, I’ll overtake you:
“Purer than breath of earthly fame,
Is losing self in a glorious aim.
“Is that better, Norman?”
“You’ll drive us out of patience,” said Flora, tying the handkerchief
round Ethel’s throat, and pulling out the fingers of her gloves, which,
of course, were inside out; “are you ready?”
“Oh, my frock! my frock! There ‘tis--three stitches--go on, and I’ll
come,” said Ethel, seizing a needle, and sewing vehemently at a little
pink frock. “Go on, Miss Winter goes slowly up the hill, and I’ll
overtake you.”
“Come, Norman, then; it is the only way to make her come at all.”
“I shall wait for her,” said Norman. “Go on, Flora, we shall catch you
up in no time;” and, as Flora went, he continued, “Never mind your aims
and fames and trumpery English rhymes. Your verses will be much the
best, Ethel; I only went on a little about Mount Vesuvius and the
landscape, as Alan described it the other day, and Decius taking a last
look, knowing he was to die. I made him beg his horse’s pardon, and say
how they will both be remembered, and their self-devotion would inspire
Romans to all posterity, and shout with a noble voice!” said Norman,
repeating some of his lines, correcting them as he proceeded.
“Oh! yes; but oh, dear, I’ve done! Come along,” said Ethel, crumpling
her work into a bundle, and snatching up her gloves; then, as they ran
downstairs, and emerged into the street, “It is a famous subject.”
“Yes, you have made a capital beginning. If you won’t break down
somewhere, as you always do, with some frightful false quantity, that
you would get an imposition for, if you were a boy. I wish you were. I
should like to see old Hoxton’s face, if you were to show him up some of
these verses.”
“I’ll tell you what, Norman, if I was you, I would not make Decius
flatter himself with the fame he was to get--it is too like the
stuff every one talks in stupid books. I want him to say--Rome--my
country--the eagles--must win, if they do--never mind what becomes of
me.”
“But why should he not like to get the credit of it, as he did? Fame and
glory--they are the spirit of life, the reward of such a death.”
“Oh, no, no,” said Ethel. “Fame is coarse and vulgar--blinder than
ever they draw Love or Fortune--she is only a personified newspaper,
trumpeting out all that is extraordinary, without minding whether it
is good or bad. She misses the delicate and lovely--I wished they would
give us a theme to write about her. I should like to abuse her well.”
“It would make a very good theme, in a new line,” said Norman; “but I
don’t give into it, altogether. It is the hope and the thought of fame,
that has made men great, from first to last. It is in every one that
is not good for nothing, and always will be! The moving spirit of man’s
greatness!”
“I’m not sure,” said Ethel; “I think looking for fame is like wanting
a reward at once. I had rather people forgot themselves. Do you think
Arnold von Winkelried thought about fame when he threw himself on the
spears?”
“He got it,” said Norman.
“Yes; he got it for the good of other people, not to please himself.
Fame does those that admire it good, not those that win it.”
“But!” said Norman, and both were silent for some short interval, as
they left the last buildings of the town, and began to mount a steep
hill. Presently Norman slackened his pace, and driving his stick
vehemently against a stone, exclaimed, “It is no use talking, Ethel, it
is all a fight and a race. One is always to try to be foremost. That’s
the spirit of the thing--that’s what the great, from first to last, have
struggled, and fought, and lived, and died for.”
“I know it is a battle, I know it is a race. The Bible says so,” replied
Ethel; “but is not there the difference, that here all may win--not
only one? One may do one’s best, not care whether one is first or last.
That’s what our reading to-day said.”
“That was against trumpery vanity--false elevation--not what one has
earned for oneself, but getting into other people’s places that one
never deserved. That every one despises!”
“Of course! That they do. I say, Norman, didn’t you mean Harvey
Anderson?”
Instead of answering, Norman exclaimed, “It is pretension that is
hateful--true excelling is what one’s life is for. No, no, I’ll never be
beat, Ethel--I never have been beat by any one, except by you, when you
take pains,” he added, looking exultingly at his sister, “and I never
will be.”
“Oh, Norman!”
“I mean, of course, while I have senses. I would not be like Richard for
all the world.”
“Oh, no, no, poor Richard!”
“He is an excellent fellow in everything else,” said Norman; “I could
sometimes wish I was more like him--but how he can be so amazingly slow,
I can’t imagine. That examination paper he broke down in--I could have
done it as easily as possible.”
“I did it all but one question,” said Ethel, “but so did he, you know,
and we can’t tell whether we should have it done well enough.”
“I know I must do something respectable when first I go to Oxford, if
I don’t wish to be known as the man whose brother was plucked,” said
Norman.
“Yes,” said Ethel; “if papa will but let you try for the Randall
scholarship next year, but he says it is not good to go to Oxford so
young.”
“And I believe I had better not be there with Richard,” added Norman. “I
don’t like coming into contrast with him, and I don’t think he can like
it, poor fellow, and it isn’t his fault. I had rather stay another year
here, get one of the open scholarships, and leave the Stoneborough ones
for those who can do no better.”
In justice to Norman, we must observe that this was by no means said as
a boast. He would scarcely have thus spoken to any one but Etheldred, to
whom, as well as to himself, it seemed mere matter-of-fact. The others
had in the meantime halted at the top of the hill, and were looking back
at the town--the great old Minster, raising its twin towers and long
roof, close to the river, where rich green meadows spread over the
valley, and the town rising irregularly on the slope above, plentifully
interspersed with trees and gardens, and one green space on the banks
of the river, speckled over with a flock of little black dots in rapid
motion.
“Here you are!” exclaimed Flora. “I told them it was of no use to wait
when you and Norman had begun a dissertation.”
“Now, Mr. Ernescliffe, I should like you to say,” cried Ethel, “which
do you think is the best, the name of it, or the thing?” Her eloquence
always broke down with any auditor but her brother, or, perhaps,
Margaret.
“Ethel!” said Norman, “how is any one to understand you? The argument is
this: Ethel wants people to do great deeds, and be utterly careless of
the fame of them; I say, that love of glory is a mighty spring.”
“A mighty one!” said Alan: “but I think, as far as I understand the
question, that Ethel has the best of it.”
“I don’t mean that people should not serve the cause first of all,” said
Norman, “but let them have their right place and due honour.”
“They had better make up their minds to do without it,” said Alan.
“Remember--
‘The world knows nothing of its greatest men.’”
“Then it is a great shame,” said Norman.
“But do you think it right,” said Ethel, “to care for distinction? It
is a great thing to earn it, but I don’t think one should care for the
outer glory.”
“I believe it is a great temptation,” said Alan. “The being over-elated
or over-depressed by success or failure in the eyes of the world,
independently of the exertion we have used.”
“You call it a temptation?” said Ethel.
“Decidedly so.”
“But one can’t live or get on without it,” said Norman.
There they were cut short. There was a plantation to be crossed, with a
gate that would not open, and that seemed an effectual barrier against
both Miss Winter and the donkey, until by persuasive eloquence and great
gallantry, Mr. Ernescliffe performed the wonderful feat of getting the
former over the tall fence, while Norman conducted the donkey a long way
round, undertaking to meet them at the other side of the plantation.
The talk became desultory, as they proceeded for at least a mile along
a cart-track through soft-tufted grass and heath and young fir-trees.
It ended in a broad open moor, stony; and full of damp boggy hollows,
forlorn and desolate under the autumn sky. Here they met Norman again,
and walked on along a very rough and dirty road, the ground growing
more decidedly into hills and valleys as they advanced, till they found
themselves before a small, but very steep hillock, one side of which was
cut away into a slate quarry. Round this stood a colony of roughly-built
huts, of mud, turf, or large blocks of the slate. Many workmen were
engaged in splitting up the slates, or loading wagons with them, rude
wild-looking men, at the sight of whom the ladies shrank up to their
protectors, but who seemed too busy even to spare time for staring at
them.
They were directed to John Taylor’s house, a low mud cottage, very
wretched looking, and apparently so smoky that Mr. Ernescliffe and
Norman were glad to remain outside and survey the quarry, while the
ladies entered.
Inside they found more cleanliness and neatness than they had expected,
but there was a sad appearance of poverty, insufficient furniture, and
the cups and broken tea-pot on the table, holding nothing but toast and
water, as a substitute for their proper contents. The poor woman was
sitting by the fire with one twin on her lap, and the other on a chair
by her side, and a larger child was in the corner by the fire, looking
heavy and ill, while others of different ages lounged about listlessly.
She was not untidy, but very pale, and she spoke in a meek, subdued way,
as if the ills of life were so heavy on her that she had no spirit even
to complain. She thanked them for their gifts but languidly, and did not
visibly brighten when told that her husband was better.
Flora asked when the babes would be christened.
“I can’t hardly tell, Miss--‘tis so far to go.”
“I suppose none of the children can go to school? I don’t know their
faces there,” said Flora, looking at a nice tall, smooth-haired girl of
thirteen or fourteen.
“No, Miss--‘tis so far. I am sorry they should not, for they always was
used to it where we lived before, and my oldest girl she can work very
nicely. I wish I could get a little place for her.”
“You would hardly know what to do without her,” said Miss Winter.
“No, ma’am; but she wants better food than I can give her, and it is a
bad wild place for a girl to grow up. It is not like what I was used to,
ma’am; I was always used to keep to my school and to my church--but it
is a bad place to live in here.”
No one could deny it, and the party left the cottage gravely. Alan and
Norman joined them, having heard a grievous history of the lawlessness
of the people from a foreman with whom they had met. There seemed to be
no visible means of improvement. The parish church was Stoneborough, and
there the living was very poor, the tithes having been appropriated
to the old Monastery, and since its dissolution having fallen into
possession of a Body that never did anything for the town. The
incumbent, Mr. Ramsden, had small means, and was not a high stamp of
clergyman, seldom exerting himself, and leaving most of his parish work
to the two under masters of the school, Mr. Wilmot and Mr. Harrison, who
did all they had time and strength for, and more too, within the town
itself. There was no hope for Cocksmoor!
“There would be a worthy ambition!” said Etheldred, as they turned their
steps homeward. “Let us propose that aim to ourselves, to build a church
on Cocksmoor!”
“How many years do you give us to do it in?” said Norman.
“Few or many, I don’t care. I’ll never leave off thinking about it till
it is done.”
“It need not be long,” said Flora, “if one could get up a subscription.”
“A penny subscription?” said Norman. “I’d rather have it my own doing.”
“You agree then,” said Ethel; “do you, Mr. Ernescliffe?”
“I may safely do so,” he answered, smiling. Miss Winter looked at
Etheldred reprovingly, and she shrank into herself, drew apart, and
indulged in a reverie. She had heard in books of girls writing poetry,
romance, history--gaining fifties and hundreds. Could not some of the
myriads of fancies floating in her mind thus be made available? She
would compose, publish, earn money--some day call papa, show him her
hoard, beg him to take it, and, never owning whence it came, raise the
building. Spire and chancel, pinnacle and buttress, rose before her
eyes, and she and Norman were standing in the porch with an orderly,
religious population, blessing the unknown benefactor, who had caused
the news of salvation to be heard among them.
They were almost at home, when the sight of a crowd in the main street
checked them. Norman and Mr. Ernescliffe went forward to discover the
cause, and spoke to some one on the outskirts--then Mr. Ernescliffe
hurried back to the ladies.
“There’s been an accident,” he said hastily--“you had better go down the
lane and in by the garden.”
He was gone in an instant, and they obeyed in silence. Whence came
Ethel’s certainty that the accident concerned themselves? In an agony
of apprehension, though without one outward sign of it, she walked home.
They were in the garden--all was apparently as usual, but no one was in
sight. Ethel had been first, but she held back, and let Miss Winter go
forward into the house. The front door was open--servants were standing
about in confusion, and one of the maids, looking dreadfully frightened,
gave a cry, “Oh! Miss--Miss--have you heard?”
“No--what? What has happened? Not Mrs. May--” exclaimed Miss Winter.
“Oh, ma’am! it is all of them. The carriage is overturned, and--”
“Who’s hurt? Mamma! papa! Oh, tell me!” cried Flora.
“There’s nurse,” and Ethel flew up to her. “What is it? Oh, nurse!”
“My poor, poor children,” said old nurse, passionately kissing Ethel.
Harry and Mary were on the stairs behind her, clinging together.
A stranger looked into the house, followed by Adams, the stableman.
“They are going to bring Miss May in,” some one said.
Ethel could bear it no longer. As if she could escape, she fled upstairs
into her room, and, falling on her knees, hid her face on her bed.
There were heavy steps in the house, then a sound of hasty feet coming
up to her. Norman dashed into the room, and threw himself on a chair. He
was ghastly pale, and shuddered all over.
“Oh, Norman, Norman, speak! What is it?” He groaned, but could not
speak; he rested his head against her, and gasped. She was terribly
frightened. “I’ll call--” and she would have gone, but he held her.
“No--no--they can’t!” He was prevented from saying more, by chattering
teeth and deadly faintness. She tried to support him, but could only
guide him as he sank, till he lay at full length on the floor, where she
put a pillow under his head, and gave him some water. “Is it--oh, tell
me! Are they much hurt? Oh, try to say!”
“They say Margaret is alive,” said Norman, in gasps; “but--And papa--he
stood up--sat--walked--was better-”
“Is he hurt--much hurt?”
“His arm--” and the tremor and fainting stopped him again.
“Mamma?” whispered Ethel; but Norman only pressed his face into the
pillow.
She was so bewildered as to be more alive to the present distress of his
condition than to the vague horrors downstairs. Some minutes passed in
silence, Norman lying still, excepting a nervous trembling that agitated
his whole frame. Again was heard the strange tread, doors opening and
shutting, and suppressed voices, and he turned his face upwards, and
listened with his hand pressed to his forehead, as if to keep himself
still enough to listen.
“Oh! what is the matter? What is it?” cried Ethel, startled and recalled
to the sense of what was passing.
“Oh, Norman!” Then springing up, with a sudden thought, “Mr. Ward! Oh!
is he there?”
“Yes,” said Norman, in a low hopeless tone, “he was at the place. He
said it--”
“What?”
Again Norman’s face was out of sight.
“Mamma?” Ethel’s understanding perceived, but her mind refused to grasp
the extent of the calamity. There was no answer, save a convulsive
squeezing of her hand.
Fresh sounds below recalled her to speech and action.
“Where is she? What are they doing for her? What--”
“There’s nothing to be done. She--when they lifted her up, she was--”
“Dead?”
“Dead.”
The boy lay with his face hidden, the girl sat by him on the floor, too
much crushed for even the sensations belonging to grief, neither moving
nor looking. After an interval Norman spoke again, “The carriage turned
right over--her head struck on the kerb stone--”
“Did you see?” said Ethel presently.
“I saw them lift her up.” He spoke at intervals, as he could get breath
and bear to utter the words. “And papa--he was stunned--but soon he
sat up, said he would go to her--he looked at her--felt her pulse, and
then--sank down over her!”
“And did you say--I can’t remember--was he hurt?”
The shuddering came again, “His arm--all twisted--broken,” and his voice
sank into a faint whisper; Ethel was obliged to sprinkle him again
with water. “But he won’t die?” said she, in a tone calm from its
bewilderment.
“Oh! no, no, no--”
“And Margaret?”
“They were bringing her home. I’ll go and see. Oh! what’s the meaning of
this?” exclaimed he, scolding himself, as, sitting up, he was forced to
rest his head on his shaking hand.
“You are still faint, dear Norman; you had better lie still, and I’ll go
and see.”
“Faint--stuff--how horridly stupid!” but he was obliged to lay his head
down again; and Ethel, scarcely less trembling, crept carefully towards
the stairs, but a dread of what she might meet came over her, and she
turned towards the nursery.
The younger ones sat there in a frightened huddle. Mary was on a low
chair by the infant’s cot, Blanche in her lap, Tom and Harry leaning
against her, and Aubrey almost asleep. Mary held up her finger as Ethel
entered, and whispered, “Hush! don’t wake baby for anything!”
The first true pang of grief shot through Ethel like a dart, stabbing
and taking away her breath, “Where are they?” she said; “how is papa?
who is with him?”
“Mr. Ward and Alan Ernescliffe,” said Harry. “Nurse came up just now,
and said they were setting his arm.”
“Where is he?”
“On the bed in his dressing-room,” said Harry.
“Has he come to himself--is he better?”
They did not seem to know, and Ethel asked where to find Flora. “With
Margaret,” she was told, and she was thinking whether she could venture
to seek her, when she herself came fast up the stairs. Ethel and
Harry both darted out. “Don’t stop me,” said Flora--“they want some
handkerchiefs.”
“What, is not she in her own room?”
“No,” said Harry, “in mamma’s;” and then his face quivered all over,
and he turned away. Ethel ran after her sister, and pulling out drawers
without knowing what she sought, begged to hear how papa and Margaret
were.
“We can’t judge of Margaret--she has moved, and made a little
moaning--there are no limbs broken, but we are afraid for her head. Oh!
if papa could but--”
“And papa?”
“Mr. Ward is with him now--his arm is terribly hurt.”
“But oh! Flora--one moment--is he sensible?”
“Hardly; he does not take any notice--but don’t keep me.”
“Can I do anything?” following her to the head of the stairs.
“No; I don’t see what you can do. Miss Winter and I are with Margaret;
there’s nothing to do for her.”
It was a relief. Etheldred shrank from what she might have to behold,
and Flora hastened down, too busy and too useful to have time to think.
Harry had gone back to his refuge in the nursery, and Ethel returned to
Norman. There they remained for a long time, both unwilling to speak
or stir, or even to observe to each other on the noises that came in to
them, as their door was left ajar, though in those sounds they were so
absorbed, that they did not notice the cold of a frosty October evening,
or the darkness that closed in on them.
They heard the poor babe crying, one of the children going down to call
nurse, and nurse coming up; then Harry, at the door of the room where
the boys slept, calling Norman in a low voice. Norman, now nearly
recovered, went and brought him into his sister’s room, and his tidings
were, that their father’s arm had been broken in two places, and the
elbow frightfully injured, having been crushed and twisted by the wheel.
He was also a good deal bruised, and though Mr. Ward trusted there was
no positive harm to the head, he was in an unconscious state, from
which the severe pain of the operation had only roused him, so far as to
evince a few signs of suffering. Margaret was still insensible.
The piteous sound of the baby’s wailing almost broke their hearts.
Norman walked about the room in the dark, and said he should go down,
he could not bear it; but he could not make up his mind to go, and after
about a quarter of an hour, to their great relief, it ceased.
Next Mary opened the door, saying, “Norman, here’s Mr. Wilmot come to
ask if he can do anything--Miss Winter sent word that you had better go
to him.”
“How is baby?” asked Harry.
“Nurse has fed her, and is putting her to bed; she is quiet now,” said
Mary; “will you go down, Norman?”
“Where is he?”
“In the drawing-room.”
Norman paused to ask what he was to say.
“Nothing,” said Mary, “nobody can do anything. Make haste. Don’t you
want a candle?”
“No, thank you, I had rather be in the dark. Come up as soon as you have
seen him,” said Etheldred.
Norman went slowly down, with failing knees, hardly able to conquer the
shudder that came over him, as he passed those rooms. There were
voices in the drawing-room, and he found a sort of council there, Alan
Ernescliffe, the surgeon, and Mr. Wilmot. They turned as he came in, and
Mr. Wilmot held out his hand with a look of affection and kindness that
went to his heart, making room for him on the sofa, while going on with
what he was saying. “Then you think it would be better for me not to sit
up with him.”
“I should decidedly say so,” replied Mr. Ward. “He has recognised
Mr. Ernescliffe, and any change might excite him, and lead him to ask
questions. The moment of his full consciousness is especially to be
dreaded.”
“But you do not call him insensible?”
“No, but he seems stunned--stupified by the shock, and by pain. He spoke
to Miss Flora when she brought him some tea.”
“And admirably she managed,” said Alan Ernescliffe. “I was much afraid
of some answer that would rouse him, but she kept her self-possession
beautifully, and seemed to compose him in a moment.”
“She is valuable indeed--so much judgment and activity,” said Mr. Ward.
“I don’t know what we should have done without her. But we ought to have
Mr. Richard--has no one sent to him?”
Alan Ernescliffe and Norman looked at each other.
“Is he at Oxford, or at his tutor’s?” asked Mr. Wilmot.
“At Oxford; he was to be there to-day, was he not, Norman?”
“What o’clock is it? Is the post gone--seven--no; it is all safe,” said
Mr. Ward.
Poor Norman! he knew he was the one who ought to write, but his icy
trembling hand seemed to shake more helplessly than ever, and a piteous
glance fell upon Mr. Wilmot.
“The best plan would be,” said Mr. Wilmot, “for me to go to him at once
and bring him home. If I go by the mail-train, I shall get to him sooner
than a letter could.”
“And it will be better for him,” said Mr. Ward. “He will feel it
dreadfully, poor boy. But we shall all do better when we have him. You
can get back to-morrow evening.”
“Sunday,” said Mr. Wilmot, “I believe there is a train at four.”
“Oh! thank you, sir,” said Norman.
“Since that is settled, perhaps I had better go up to the doctor,” said
Alan; “I don’t like leaving Flora alone with him,” and he was gone.
“How fortunate that that youth is here,” said Mr. Wilmot--“he seems to
be quite taking Richard’s place.”
“And to feel it as much,” said Mr. Ward. “He has been invaluable with
his sailor’s resources and handiness.”
“Well, what shall I tell poor Richard?” asked Mr. Wilmot.
“Tell him there is no reason his father should not do very well, if
we can keep him from agitation--but there’s the point. He is of so
excitable a constitution, that his faculties being so far confused is
the best thing, perhaps, that could be. Mr. Ernescliffe manages him very
well--used to illness on that African coast, and the doctor is very
fond of him. As to Miss May, one can’t tell what to say about her
yet--there’s no fracture, at least--it must be a work of time to judge.”
Flora at that moment half-opened the door, and called Mr. Ward, stopping
for a moment to say it was for nothing of any consequence. Mr. Wilmot
and Norman were left together. Norman put his hands over his face and
groaned--his master looked at him with kind anxiety, but did not feel as
if it were yet time to speak of consolation.
“God bless and support you, and turn this to your good, my dear boy,”
said he affectionately, as he pressed his hand; “I hope to bring your
brother to-morrow.”
“Thank you, sir,” was all Norman could say; and as Mr. Wilmot went
out by the front door, he slowly went up again, and, lingering on the
landing-place, was met by Mr. Ward, who told him to his relief--for the
mere thinking of it renewed the faint sensation--that he had better not
go to his father’s room.
There was nothing to be done but to return to Ethel and Harry, and tell
them all; with some humiliation at being helpless, where Flora was doing
so much, and to leave their father to be watched by a stranger. If he
had been wanted, Norman might have made the effort, but being told that
he would be worse than useless, there was nothing for him but to give
way.
They sat together in Ethel’s room till somewhere between eight and nine
o’clock, when good old nurse, having put her younger ones to bed, came
in search of them. “Dear, dear! poor darlings,” said she, as she found
them sitting in the dark; she felt their cold hands, and made them all
come into the nursery, where Mary was already, and, fondling them, one
by one, as they passively obeyed her, she set them down on their little
old stools round the fire, took away the high fender, and gave them each
a cup of tea. Harry and Mary ate enough to satisfy her, from a weary
craving feeling, and for want of employment; Norman sat with his elbow
on his knee, and a very aching head resting on his hand, glad of drink,
but unable to eat; Ethel could be persuaded to do neither, till she
found old nurse would let her have no peace.
The nurse sent them all to bed, taking the two girls to their own room,
undressing them, and never leaving them until Mary was in a fair way of
crying herself to sleep--for saying her prayers had brought the tears;
while Ethel lay so wide awake that it was of no use to wait for her, and
then she went to the boys, tucked them each in, as when they were little
children, and saying, “Bless your dear hearts!” bestowed on each of them
a kiss which came gratefully to Norman’s burning brow, and which even
Harry’s boyish manliness could not resist.
Flora was in Margaret’s room, too useful to be spared.
So ended that dreadful Saturday.