“It hath do me mochil woe.”
“Yea hath it? Use,” quod he, “this medicine;
Every daie this Maie or that thou dine,
Go lokin in upon the freshe daisie,
And though thou be for woe in poinct to die,
That shall full gretly lessen thee of thy pine.”
CHAUCER.
That night Norman started from, what was not so much sleep, as a trance
of oppression and suffering, and beheld his father’s face watching him
attentively.
“Papa! What’s the matter?” said he, starting up. “Is any one ill?”
“No; no one, lie down again,” said Dr. May, possessing himself of a
hand, with a burning spot in the palm, and a throbbing pulse.
“But what made you come here? Have I disturbed any one? Have I been
talking?”
“Only mumbling a little, but you looked very uncomfortable.”
“But I’m not ill--what are you feeling my pulse for?” said Norman
uneasily.
“To see whether that restless sleep has quickened it.”
Norman scarcely let his father count for a moment, before he asked,
“What o’clock is it?”
“A little after twelve.”
“What does make you stay up so late, papa?”
“I often do when my arm seems likely to keep me awake. Richard has done
all I want.”
“Pray don’t stay here in the cold,” said Norman, with feverish
impatience, as he turned upwards the cool side of his pillow.
“Good-night!”
“No hurry,” said his father, still watching him.
“There’s nothing the matter,” repeated the boy.
“Do you often have such unquiet nights?”
“Oh, it does not signify. Good-night,” and he tried to look settled and
comfortable.
“Norman,” said his father, in a voice betraying much grief, “it will not
do to go on in this way. If your mother was here, you would not close
yourself against her.”
Norman interrupted him in a voice strangled with sobs: “It is no good
saying it--I thought it would only make it worse for you; but that’s it.
I cannot bear the being without her.”
Dr. May was glad to see that a gush of tears followed this exclamation,
as Norman hid his face under the coverings.
“My poor boy,” said he, hardly able to speak, “only One can comfort you
truly; but you must not turn from me; you must let me do what I can for
you, though it is not the same.”
“I thought it would grieve you more,” said Norman, turning his face
towards him again.
“What, to find my children, feeling with me, and knowing what they have
lost? Surely not, Norman.”
“And it is of no use,” added Norman, hiding his face again, “no one can
comfort--”
“There you are wrong,” said Dr. May, with deep feeling, “there is much
comfort in everything, in everybody, in kindness, in all around, if one
can only open one’s mind to it. But I did not come to keep you awake
with such talk: I saw you were not quite well, so I came up to see about
you; and now, Norman, you will not refuse to own that something is the
matter.”
“I did not know it,” said Norman, “I really believe I am well, if I
could get rid of these horrible nights. I either lie awake, tumbling and
tossing, or I get all sorts of unbearable dreams.”
“Ay, when I asked master Harry about you, all the answer I could get
was, that he was quite used to it, and did not mind it at all. As if
I asked for his sake! How fast that boy sleeps--he is fit for a
midshipman’s berth!”
“But do you think there is anything amiss with me?”
“I shall know more about that to-morrow morning. Come to my room as
soon as you are up, unless I come to you. Now, I have something to read
before I go to bed, and I may as well try if it will put you to sleep.”
Norman’s last sight that night was of the outline of his father’s
profile, and he was scarcely awake the next morning before Dr. May was
there again.
Unwilling as he had been to give way, it was a relief to relinquish the
struggle to think himself well, and to venture to lounge and dawdle,
rest his heavy head, and stretch his inert limbs without fear of
remark. His father found him after breakfast lying on the sofa in the
drawing-room with a Greek play by his side, telling Ethel what words to
look out.
“At it again!” exclaimed Dr. May. “Carry it away, Ethel. I will have no
Latin or Greek touched these holidays.”
“You know,” said Norman, “if I don’t sap, I shall have no chance of
keeping up.”
“You’ll keep nowhere if you don’t rest.”
“It is only Euripides, and I can’t do anything else,” said Norman
languidly.
“Very likely, I don’t care. You have to get well first of all, and the
Greek will take care of itself. Go up to Margaret. I put you in her
keeping, while I am gone to Whitford. After that, I dare say
Richard will be very glad to have a holiday, and let you drive me to
Abbotstoke.”
Norman rose, and wearily walked upstairs, while his sister lingered
to excuse herself. “Papa, I did not think Euripides would hurt him--he
knows it all so well, and he said he could not read anything else.”
“Just so, Ethel. Poor fellow, he has not spirits or energy for anything:
his mind was forced into those classicalities when it wanted rest, and
now it has not spring enough to turn back again.”
“Do you think him so very ill?”
“Not exactly, but there’s low fever hanging about him, and we must look
after him well, and I hope we may get him right. I have told Margaret
about him; I can’t stop any longer now.”
Norman found the baby in his sister’s room, and this was just what
suited him. The Daisy showed a marked preference for her brothers; and
to find her so merry and good with him, pleased and flattered him far
more than his victory at school. He carried her about, danced her,
whistled to her, and made her admire her pretty blue eyes in the glass
most successfully, till nurse carried her off. But perhaps he had been
sent up rather too soon, for as he sat in the great chair by the fire,
he was teased by the constant coming and going, all the petty cares of
a large household transacted by Margaret--orders to butcher and
cook--Harry racing in to ask to take Tom to the river--Tom, who was to
go when his lesson was done, coming perpetually to try to repeat the
same unhappy bit of ‘As in Proesenti’, each time in a worse whine.
“How can you bear it, Margaret?” said Norman, as she finally dismissed
Tom, and laid down her account-book, taking up some delicate fancy work.
“Mercy, here’s another,” as enter a message about lamp oil, in the midst
of which Mary burst in to beg Margaret to get Miss Winter to let her go
to the river with Harry and Tom.
“No, indeed, Mary, I could not think of such a thing. You had better go
back to your lessons, and don’t be silly,” as she looked much disposed
to cry.
“No one but a Tom-boy would dream of it,” added Norman; and Mary
departed disconsolate, while Margaret gave a sigh of weariness, and
said, as she returned to her work, “There, I believe I have done. I hope
I was not cross with poor Mary, but it was rather too much to ask.”
“I can’t think how you can help being cross to every one,” said Norman,
as he took away the books she had done with.
“I am afraid I am,” said Margaret sadly. “It does get trying at times.”
“I should think so! This eternal worrying must be more than any one can
bear, always lying there too.”
“It is only now and then that it grows tiresome,” said Margaret. “I am
too happy to be of some use, and it is too bad to repine, but sometimes
a feeling comes of its being always the same, as if a little change
would be such a treat.”
“Aren’t you very tired of lying in bed?”
“Yes, very, sometimes. I fancy, but it is only fancy, that I could move
better if I was up and dressed. It has seemed more so lately, since I
have been stronger.”
“When do you think they will let you get up?”
“There’s the question. I believe papa thinks I might be lifted to the
sofa now--and oh! how I long for it--but then Mr. Ward does not approve
of my sitting up, even as I am doing now, and wants to keep me flat.
Papa thinks that of no use, and likely to hurt my general health, and
I believe the end of it will be that he will ask Sir Matthew Fleet’s
opinion.”
“Is that the man he calls Mat?”
“Yes, you know they went through the university together, and were at
Edinburgh and Paris, but they have never met since he set up in London,
and grew so famous. I believe it would be a great treat to papa to have
him, and it would be a good thing for papa too; I don’t think his arm is
going on right--he does not trust to Mr. Ward’s treatment, and I am sure
some one else ought to see it.”
“Did you know, Margaret, that he sits up quite late, because he cannot
sleep for it?”
“Yes, I hear him moving about, but don’t tell him so; I would not have
him guess for the world, that it kept me awake.”
“And does it?”
“Why, if I think he is awake and in pain I cannot settle myself to
sleep; but that is no matter; having no exercise, of course I don’t
sleep so much. But I am very anxious about him--he looks so thin, and
gets so fagged--and no wonder.”
“Ah! Mr. Everard told me he was quite shocked to see him, and would
hardly have known him,” and Norman groaned from the bottom of his heart.
“Well, I shall hope much from Sir Matthew’s taking him in hand,” said
Margaret cheerfully; “he will mind him, though he will not Mr. Ward.”
“I wish the holidays were over!” said Norman, with a yawn, as expressive
as a sigh.
“That’s not civil, on the third day,” said Margaret, smiling, “when I am
so glad to have you to look after me, so as to set Flora at liberty.”
“What, can I do you any good?” said Norman, with a shade of his former
alacrity.
“To be sure you can, a great deal. Better not come near me otherwise,
for I make every one into a slave. I want my morning reading now--that
book on Advent, there.”
“Shall I read it to you?”
“Thank you, that’s nice, and I shall get on with baby’s frock.”
Norman read, but, ere long, took to yawning; Margaret begged for the
book, which he willingly resigned, saying, however, that he liked it,
only he was stupid. She read on aloud, till she heard a succession of
heavy breathings, and saw him fast asleep, and so he continued till
waked by his father’s coming home.
Richard and Ethel were glad of a walk, for Margaret had found them a
pleasant errand. Their Cocksmoor children could not go home to dinner
between service and afternoon school, and Margaret had desired the cook
to serve them up some broth in the back kitchen, to which the brother
and sister were now to invite them. Mary was allowed to take her boots
to Rebekah Watts, since Margaret held that goodness had better be
profitable, at least at the outset; and Harry and Tom joined the party.
Norman, meantime, was driving his father--a holiday preferment highly
valued in the days when Dr. May used only to assume the reins, when his
spirited horses showed too much consciousness that they had a young
hand over them, or when the old hack took a fit of laziness. Now, Norman
needed Richard’s assurance that the bay was steady, so far was he from
being troubled with his ancient desire, that the steed would rear right
up on his hind legs.
He could neither talk nor listen till he was clear out of the town, and
found himself master of the animal, and even then the words were few,
and chiefly spoken by Dr. May, until after going along about three miles
of the turnpike road, he desired Norman to turn down a cross-country
lane.
“Where does this lead?”
“It comes out at Abbotstoke, but I have to go to an outlying farm.”
“Papa,” said Norman, after a few minutes, “I wish you would let me do my
Greek.”
“Is that what you have been pondering all this time? What, may not the
bonus Homerus slumber sometimes?”
“It is not Homer, it is Euripides. I do assure you, papa, it is no
trouble, and I get much worse without it.”
“Well, stop here, the road grows so bad that we will walk, and let the
boy lead the horse to meet us at Woodcote.”
Norman followed his father down a steep narrow lane, little better than
a stony water-course, and began to repeat, “If you would but let me do
my work! I’ve got nothing else to do, and now they have put me up, I
should not like not to keep my place.”
“Very likely, but--hollo--how swelled this is!” said Dr. May, as they
came to the bottom of the valley, where a stream rushed along, coloured
with a turbid creamy yellow, making little whirlpools where it crossed
the road, and brawling loudly just above where it roared and foamed
between two steep banks of rock, crossed by a foot-bridge of planks,
guarded by a handrail of rough poles. The doctor had traversed it, and
gone a few paces beyond, when, looking back, he saw Norman very pale,
with one foot on the plank, and one hand grasping the rail. He came
back, and held out his hand, which Norman gladly caught at, but no
sooner was the other side attained, than the boy, though he gasped with
relief, exclaimed, “This is too bad! Wait one moment, please, and let me
go back.”
He tried, but the first touch of the shaking rail, and glance at the
chasm, disconcerted him, and his father, seeing his white cheeks and
rigid lips, said, “Stop, Norman, don’t try it. You are not fit,” he
added, as the boy came to him reluctantly.
“I can’t bear to be such a wretch!” said he. “I never used to be. I will
not--let me conquer it;” and he was turning back, but the doctor took
his arm, saying decidedly, “No, I won’t have it done. You are only
making it worse by putting a force on yourself.” But the farther Norman
was from the bridge, the more displeased he was with himself, and more
anxious to dare it again. “There’s no bearing it,” he muttered; “let me
only run back. I’ll overtake you. I must do it if no one looks on.”
“No such thing,” said the doctor, holding him fast. “If you do, you’ll
have it all over again at night.”
“That’s better than to know I am worse than Tom.”
“I tell you, Norman, it is no such thing. You will recover your tone
if you will only do as you are told, but your nerves have had a severe
shock, and when you force yourself in this way, you only increase the
mischief.”
“Nerves,” muttered Norman disdainfully. “I thought they were only fit
for fine ladies.”
Dr. May smiled. “Well, will it content you if I promise that as soon as
I see fit, I’ll bring you here, and let you march over that bridge as
often as you like?”
“I suppose I must be contented, but I don’t like to feel like a fool.”
“You need not, while the moral determination is sound.”
“But my Greek, papa.”
“At it again--I declare, Norman, you are the worst patient I ever had!”
Norman made no answer, and Dr. May presently said, “Well, let me hear
what you have to say about it. I assure you it is not that I don’t want
you to get on, but that I see you are in great need of rest.”
“Thank you, papa. I know you mean it for my good, but I don’t think
you do know how horrid it is. I have got nothing on earth to do or care
for--the school work comes quite easy to me, and I’m sure thinking is
worse; and then”--Norman spoke vehemently--“now they have put me up, it
will never do to be beaten, and all the four others ought to be able to
do it. I did not want or expect to be dux, but now I am, you could not
bear me not to keep my place, and to miss the Randall scholarship, as I
certainly shall, if I do not work these whole holidays.”
“Norman, I know it,” said his father kindly. “I am very sorry for
you, and I know I am asking of you what I could not have done at your
age--indeed, I don’t believe I could have done it for you a few months
ago. It is my fault that you have been let alone, to have an overstrain
and pressure on your mind, when you were not fit for it, and I cannot
see any remedy but complete freedom from work. At the same time, if you
fret and harass yourself about being surpassed, that is, as you say,
much worse for you than Latin and Greek. Perhaps I may be wrong, and
study might not do you the harm I think it would; at any rate, it is
better than tormenting yourself about next half year, so I will not
positively forbid it, but I think you had much better let it alone. I
don’t want to make it a matter of duty. I only tell you this, that you
may set your mind at rest as far as I am concerned. If you do lose your
place, I will consider it as my own doing, and not be disappointed. I
had rather see you a healthy, vigorous, useful man, than a poor puling
nervous wretch of a scholar, if you were to get all the prizes in the
university.”
Norman made a little murmuring sound of assent, and both were silent for
some moments, then he said, “Then you will not be displeased, papa, if I
do read, as long as I feel it does me no harm.”
“I told you I don’t mean to make it a matter of obedience. Do as you
please--I had rather you read than vexed yourself.”
“I am glad of it. Thank you, papa,” said Norman, in a much cheered
voice.
They had, in the meantime, been mounting a rising ground, clothed with
stunted wood, and came out on a wide heath, brown with dead bracken; a
hollow, traced by the tops of leafless trees, marked the course of the
stream that traversed it, and the inequalities of ground becoming more
rugged in outlines and grayer in colouring as they receded, till they
were closed by a dark fir wood, beyond which rose in extreme distance
the grand mass of Welsh mountain heads, purpled against the evening sky,
except where the crowning peaks bore a veil of snow. Behind, the sky was
pure gold, gradually shading into pale green, and then into clear light
wintry blue, while the sun sitting behind two of the loftiest, seemed
to confound their outlines, and blend them in one flood of soft hazy
brightness. Dr. May looked at his son, and saw his face clear up, his
brow expand, and his lips unclose with admiration.
“Yes,” said the doctor, “it is very fine, is it not? I used to bring
mamma here now and then for a treat, because it put her in mind of her
Scottish hills. Well, your’s are the golden hills of heaven, now, my
Maggie!” he added, hardly knowing that he spoke aloud. Norman’s throat
swelled, as he looked up in his face, then cast down his eyes hastily to
hide the tears that had gathered on his eyelashes.
“I’ll leave you here,” said Dr. May; “I have to go to a farmhouse close
by, in the hollow behind us; there’s a girl recovering from a fever.
I’ll not be ten minutes, so wait here.”
When he came back, Norman was still where he had left him, gazing
earnestly, and the tears standing on his cheeks. He did not move till
his father laid his hand on his shoulder--they walked away together
without a word, and scarcely spoke all the way home.
Dr. May went to Margaret and talked to her of Norman’s fine character,
and intense affection for his mother, the determined temper, and quietly
borne grief, for which the doctor seemed to have worked himself into a
perfect enthusiasm of admiration; but lamenting that he could not tell
what to do with him--study or no study hurt him alike--and he dreaded to
see health and spirits shattered for ever. They tried to devise change
of scene, but it did not seem possible just at present; and Margaret,
besides her fears for Norman, was much grieved to see this added to her
father’s troubles.
At night Dr. May again went up to see whether Norman, whom he had moved
into Margaret’s former room, were again suffering from fever. He found
him asleep in a restless attitude, as if he had just dropped off, and
waking almost at the instant of his entrance, he exclaimed, “Is it you?
I thought it was mamma. She said it was all ambition.”
Then starting, and looking round the room, and at his father, he
collected himself, and said, with a slight smile, “I didn’t know I had
been asleep. I was awake just now, thinking about it. Papa, I’ll give
it up. I’ll try to put next half out of my head, and not mind if they do
pass me.”
“That’s right, my boy,” said the doctor.
“At least if Cheviot and Forder do, for they ought. I only hope Anderson
won’t. I can stand anything but that. But that is nonsense too.”
“You are quite right, Norman,” said the doctor, “and it is a great
relief to me that you see the thing so sensibly.”
“No, I don’t see it sensibly at all, papa. I hate it all the time, and
I don’t know whether I can keep from thinking of it, when I have nothing
to do; but I see it is wrong; I thought all ambition and nonsense was
gone out of me, when I cared so little for the examination; but now
I see, though I did not want to be made first, I can’t bear not to be
first; and that’s the old story, just as she used to tell me to guard
against ambition. So I’ll take my chance, and if I should get put down,
why, ‘twas not fair that I should be put up, and it is what I ought to
be, and serves me right into the bargain--”
“Well, that’s the best sort of sense, your mother’s sense,” said the
doctor, more affected than he liked to show. “No wonder she came to you
in your dream, Norman, my boy, if you had come to such a resolution.
I was half in hopes you had some such notion when I came upon you, on
Far-view down.”
“I think that sky did it,” said Norman, in a low voice; “it made me
think of her in a different way--and what you said too.”
“What did I say? I don’t remember.”
But Norman could not repeat the words, and only murmured, “Golden
hills.” It was enough.
“I see,” said the doctor, “you had dwelt on the blank here, not taken
home what it is to her.”
“Ay,” almost sobbed Norman, “I never could before--that made me,” after
a long silence, “and then I know how foolish I was, and how she would
say it was wrong to make this fuss, when you did not like it, about my
place, and that it was not for the sake of my duty, but of ambition. I
knew that, but till I went to bed to-night, I could not tell whether I
could make up my mind, so I would say nothing.”