Gently supported by the ready aid
Of loving hands, whose little work of toil
Her grateful prodigality repaid
With all the benediction of her smile,
She turned her failing feet
To the softly cushioned seat,
Dispensing kindly greetings all the time.
R. M. MILNES.
Three great events signalised the month of January. The first was, the
opening of the school at Cocksmoor, whither a cart transported half
a dozen forms, various books, and three dozen plum-buns, Margaret’s
contribution, in order that the school might begin with eclat. There
walked Mr. Wilmot, Richard, and Flora, with Mary, in a jumping, capering
state of delight, and Ethel, not knowing whether she rejoiced. She
kept apart from the rest, and hardly spoke, for this long probation had
impressed her with a sense of responsibility, and she knew that it was
a great work to which she had set her hand--a work in which she must
persevere, and in which she could not succeed in her own strength.
She took hold of Flora’s hand, and squeezed it hard, in a fit of
shyness, when they came upon the hamlet, and saw the children watching
for them; and when they reached the house, she would fain have shrank
into nothing; there was a swelling of heart that seemed to overwhelm and
stifle her, and the effect of which was to keep her standing unhelpful,
when the others were busy bringing in the benches and settling the room.
It was a tidy room, but it seemed very small when they ranged the
benches, and opened the door to the seven-and-twenty children, and the
four or five women who stood waiting. Ethel felt some dismay when they
all came pushing in, without order or civility, and would have been
utterly at a loss what to do with her scholars now she had got them, if
Richard and Flora had not marshalled them to the benches.
Rough heads, torn garments, staring vacant eyes, and mouths gaping in
shy rudeness--it was a sight to disenchant her of visions of pleasure in
the work she had set herself. It was well that she had not to take the
initiative.
Mr. Wilmot said a few simple words to the mothers about the wish to
teach their children what was right, and to do the best at present
practicable; and then told the children that he hoped they would take
pains to be good, and mind what they were taught. Then he desired all
to kneel down; he said the Collect, “Prevent us, O Lord, in all our
doings,” and then the Lord’s Prayer.
Ethel felt as if she could bear it better, and was more up to the work
after this. Next, the children were desired to stand round the room, and
Mr. Wilmot tried who could say the Catechism--the two biggest, a boy and
a girl, had not an idea of it, and the boy looked foolish, and grinned
at being asked what was his name. One child was tolerably perfect, and
about half a dozen had some dim notions. Three were entirely ignorant of
the Lord’s Prayer, and many of the others did not by any means pronounce
the words of it. Jane and Fanny Taylor, Rebekah Watts, and Mrs. Green’s
little boy, were the only ones who, by their own account, used morning
and evening prayers, though, on further examination, it appeared that
Polly and Jenny Hall, and some others, were accustomed to repeat the old
rhyme about “Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John,” and Una M’Carthy and her
little brother Fergus said something that nobody could make out, but
which Mr. Wilmot thought had once been an “Ave Maria.”
Some few of the children could read, and several more knew their
letters. The least ignorant were selected to form a first class, and Mr.
Wilmot promised a Prayer-book to the first who should be able to repeat
the Catechism without a mistake, and a Bible to the first who could read
a chapter in it.
Then followed a setting of tasks, varying from a verse of a Psalm, or
the first answer in the Catechism, down to the distinction between A,
B, and C; all to be ready by next Tuesday, when, weather permitting,
a second lesson was to be given. Afterwards, a piece of advice of
Margaret’s was followed, and Flora read aloud to the assembly the story
of “Margaret Fletcher.” To some this seemed to give great satisfaction,
especially to Una, but Ethel was surprised to see that many, and those
not only little ones, talked and yawned. They had no power of attention
even to a story, and the stillness was irksome to such wild colts. It
was plain that it was time to leave off, and there was no capacity there
which did not find the conclusion agreeable, when the basket was opened,
and Ethel and Mary distributed the buns, with instructions to say,
“thank you.”
The next Tuesday, some of the lessons were learned, Una’s perfectly, the
big ignorant boy came no more; and some of the children had learned to
behave better, while others behaved worse; Ethel began to know what she
was about; Richard’s gentleness was eminently successful with the little
girls, impressing good manners on them in a marvellous way; and Mary’s
importance and happiness with alphabet scholars, some bigger than
herself, were edifying. Cocksmoor was fairly launched.
The next memorable day was that of Margaret’s being first carried
downstairs. She had been willing to put it off as long as she could,
dreading to witness the change below-stairs, and feeling, too, that in
entering on the family room, without power of leaving it, she was losing
all quiet and solitude, as well as giving up that monopoly of her father
in his evenings, which had been her great privilege.
However, she tried to talk herself into liking it; and was rewarded
by the happy commotion it caused, though Dr. May was in a state of
excitement and nervousness at the prospect of seeing her on the stairs,
and his attempts to conceal it only made it worse, till Margaret knew
she should be nervous herself, and wished him out of sight and out of
the house till it was over, for without him she had full confidence in
the coolness and steadiness of Richard, and by him it was safely and
quietly accomplished. She was landed on the sofa, Richard and Flora
settling her, and the others crowding round and exclaiming, while the
newness of the scene and the change gave her a sense of confusion, and
she shut her eyes to recover her thoughts, but opened them the next
instant at her father’s exclamation that she was overcome, smiled to
reassure him, and declared herself not tired, and to be very glad to be
among them again. But the bustle was oppressive, and her cheerful manner
was an effort; she longed to see them all gone, and Flora found it
out, sent the children for their walk, and carried off Ethel and the
brothers.
Dr. May was called out of the room at the same time, and she was left
alone. She gazed round her, at the room where, four months before, she
had seen her mother with the babe in her arms, the children clustered
round her, her father exulting in his hen-and-chicken daisies, herself
full of bright undefined hope, radiant with health and activity, and her
one trouble such that she now knew the force of her mother’s words, that
it only proved her happiness. It was not till that moment that Margaret
realised the change; found her eyes filling with tears, as she looked
round, and saw the familiar furniture and ornaments.
They were instantly checked as she heard her father returning, but not
so that he did not perceive them, and exclaim that it had been too much
for her. “Oh, no--it was only the first time,” said Margaret, losing the
sense of the painful vacancy in her absorbing desire not to distress her
father, and thinking only of him as she watched him standing for some
minutes leaning on the mantel-shelf with his hand shading his forehead.
She began to speak as soon as she thought he was ready to have his mind
turned away: “How nicely Ritchie managed! He carried me so comfortably
and easily. It is enough to spoil me to be so deftly waited on.”
“I’m glad of it,” said Dr. May; “I am sure the change is better for
you;” but he came and looked at her still with great solicitude.
“Ritchie can take excellent care of me,” she continued, most anxious
to divert his thoughts. “You see it will do very well indeed for you to
take Harry to school.”
“I should like to do so. I should like to see his master, and to take
Norman with me,” said the doctor. “It would be just the thing for him
now--we would show him the dockyard, and all those matters, and such a
thorough holiday would set him up again.”
“He is very much better.”
“Much better--he is recovering spirits and tone very fast. That
leaf-work of yours came at a lucky time. I like to see him looking out
for a curious fern in the hedgerows--the pursuit has quite brightened
him up.”
“And he does it so thoroughly,” said Margaret. “Ethel fancies it is
rather frivolous of him, I believe; but it amuses me to see how men give
dignity to what women make trifling. He will know everything about the
leaves, hunts up my botany books, and has taught me a hundred times more
of the construction and wonders of them than I ever learned.”
“Ay,” said the doctor, “he has been talking a good deal to me about
vegetable chemistry. He would make a good scientific botanist, if
he were to be nothing else. I should be glad if he sticks to it as a
pursuit--‘tis pretty work, and I should like to have gone further with
it, if I had ever had time for it.”
“I dare say he will,” said Margaret. “It will be very pleasant if he can
go with you. How he would enjoy the British Museum, if there was time
for him to see it! Have you said anything to him yet?”
“No; I waited to see how you were, as it all depends on that.”
“I think it depends still more on something else; whether Norman is as
fit to take care of you as Richard is.”
“That’s another point. There’s nothing but what he could manage now, but
I don’t like saying anything to him. I know he would undertake anything
I wished, without a word, and then, perhaps, dwell on it in fancy, and
force himself, till it would turn to a perfect misery, and upset his
nerves again. I’m sorry for it. I meant him to have followed my trade,
but he’ll never do for that. However, he has wits enough to make himself
what he pleases, and I dare say he will keep at the head of the school
after all.”
“How very good he has been in refraining from restlessness!”
“It’s beautiful!” said Dr. May, with strong emotion. “Poor boy! I trust
he’ll not be disappointed, and I don’t think he will; but I’ve promised
him I won’t be annoyed if he should lose his place--so we must take
especial care not to show any anxiety. However, for this matter,
Margaret, I wish you would sound him, and see whether it would be more
pleasure or pain. Only mind you don’t let him think that I shall be
vexed, if he feels that he can’t make up his mind; I would not have him
fancy that, for more than I can tell.”
This consultation revived the spirits of both; and the others returning,
found Margaret quite disposed for companionship. If to her the evening
was sad and strange, like a visit in a dream to some old familiar haunt,
finding all unnatural, to the rest it was delightful. The room was no
longer dreary, now that there was a centre for care and attentions, and
the party was no longer broken up--the sense of comfort, cheerfulness,
and home-gathering had returned, and the pleasant evening household
gossip went round the table almost as it used to do. Dr. May resumed
his old habit of skimming a club book, and imparting the cream to the
listeners; and Flora gave them some music, a great treat to Margaret,
who had long only heard its distant sounds.
Margaret found an opportunity of talking to Norman, and judged
favourably. He was much pleased at the prospect of the journey, and of
seeing a ship, so as to have a clearer notion of the scene where Harry’s
life was to be spent, and though the charge of the arm was a drawback,
he did not treat it as insurmountable.
A few days’ attendance in his father’s room gave him confidence in
taking Richard’s place, and, accordingly, the third important measure
was decided on, namely, that he and his father should accompany Harry
to the naval school, and be absent three nights. Some relations would be
glad to receive them in London, and Alan Ernescliffe, who was studying
steam navigation at Woolwich, volunteered to meet them, and go with them
to Portsmouth.
It was a wonderful event; Norman and Harry had never been beyond
Whitford in their lives, and none of the young ones could recollect
their papa’s ever going from home for more than one night. Dr. May
laughed at Margaret for her anxiety and excitement on the subject, and
was more amused at overhearing Richard’s precise directions to Norman
over the packing up.
“Ay, Ritchie,” said the doctor, as he saw his portmanteau locked, and
the key given to Norman, “you may well look grave upon it. You won’t see
it look so tidy when it comes back again, and I believe you are thinking
it will be lucky if you see it at all.”
There was a very affectionate leave-taking of Harry, who, growing rather
soft-hearted, thought it needful to be disdainful, scolded Mary and
Blanche for “lugging off his figure-head,” and assured them they made
as much work about it as if he was going to sea at once. Then, to put
an end to any more embraces, he marched off to the station with Tom,
and nearly caused the others to be too late, by the search for him that
ensued.
In due time, Dr. May and Norman returned, looking the better for the
journey. There was, first, to tell of Harry’s school and its master, and
Alan Ernescliffe’s introduction of him to a nice-looking boy of his
own age; then they were eloquent on the wonders of the dockyard, the
Victory, the block machinery. And London--while Dr. May went to transact
some business, Norman had been with Alan at the British Museum, and
though he had intended to see half London besides, there was no tearing
him away from the Elgin marbles; and nothing would serve him, but
bringing Dr. May the next morning to visit the Ninevite bulls. Norman
further said, that whereas papa could never go out of his house
without meeting people who had something to say to him, it was the same
elsewhere. Six acquaintances he had met unexpectedly in London, and two
at Portsmouth.
So the conversation went on all the evening, to the great delight of
all. It was more about things than people, though Flora inquired after
Mr. Ernescliffe, and was told he had met them at the station, had been
everywhere with them, and had dined at the Mackenzies’ each day. “How
was he looking?” Ethel asked; and was told pretty much the same as when
he went away; and, on a further query from Flora, it appeared that an
old naval friend of his father’s had hopes of a ship, and had promised
to have him with him, and thereupon warm hopes were expressed that Harry
might have a berth in the same.
“And when is he coming here again, papa?” said Ethel.
“Eh! oh! I can’t tell. I say, isn’t it high time to ring?”
When they went up at night, every one felt that half the say had
not been said, and there were fresh beginnings on the stairs. Norman
triumphantly gave the key to Richard, and then called to Ethel, “I say,
won’t you come into my room while I unpack?”
“Oh, yes, I should like it very much.”
Ethel sat on the bed, rolled up in a cloak, while Norman undid his bag,
announcing at the same time, “Well, Ethel, papa says I may get to my
Euripides to-morrow, if I please, and only work an hour at a time!”
“Oh, I am so glad. Then he thinks you quite well?”
“Yes, I am quite well. I hope I’ve done with nonsense.”
“And how did you get on with his arm?”
“Very well--he was so patient, and told me how to manage. You heard that
Sir Matthew said it had got much better in these few weeks. Oh, here it
is! There’s a present for you.”
“Oh, thank you. From you, or from papa?”
“This is mine. Papa has a present for every one in his bag. He said, at
last, that a man with eleven children hadn’t need to go to London very
often.”
“And you got this beautiful ‘Lyra Innocentium’ for me? How very kind
of you, Norman. It is just what I wished for. Such lovely binding--and
those embossed edges to the leaves. Oh! they make a pattern as they
open! I never saw anything like it.”
“I saw such a one on Miss Rivers’s table, and asked Ernescliffe where to
get one like it. See, here’s what my father gave me.”
“‘Bishop Ken’s Manual’. That is in readiness for the Confirmation.”
“Look. I begged him to put my name, though he said it was a pity to do
it with his left hand; I didn’t like to wait, so I asked him at least to
write N. W. May, and the date.”
“And he has added Prov. xxiii. 24, 25. Let me look it out.” She did
so, and instead of reading it aloud, looked at Norman full of
congratulation.
“How it ought to make one--” and there Norman broke off from the
fullness of his heart.
“I’m glad he put both verses” said Ethel presently. “How pleased with
you he must be!”
A silence while brother and sister both gazed intently at the crooked
characters, till at last Ethel, with a long breath, resumed her ordinary
tone, and said, “How well he has come to write with his left hand now.”
“Yes. Did you know that he wrote himself to tell Ernescliffe Sir
Matthew’s opinion of Margaret?”
“No: did he?”
“Do you know, Ethel,” said Norman, as he knelt on the floor, and tumbled
miscellaneous articles out of his bag, “it is my belief that Ernescliffe
is in love with her, and that papa thinks so.”
“Dear me!” cried Ethel, starting up. “That is famous. We should always
have Margaret at home when he goes to sea!”
“But mind, Ethel, for your life you must not say one word to any living
creature.”
“Oh, no, I promise you I won’t, Norman, if you’ll only tell me how you
found it out.”
“What first put it in my head was the first evening, while I was undoing
the portmanteau; my father leaned on the mantel-shelf, and sighed and
muttered, ‘Poor Ernescliffe! I wish it may end well.’ I thought he
forgot that I was there, so I would not seem to notice, but I soon saw
it was that he meant.”
“How?” cried Ethel eagerly.
“Oh, I don’t know--by Alan’s way.”
“Tell me--I want to know what people do when they are in love.”
“Nothing particular,” said Norman, smiling.
“Did you hear him inquire for her? How did he look?”
“I can’t tell. That was when he met us at the station before I thought
of it, and I had to see to the luggage. But I’ll tell you one thing,
Ethel; when papa was talking of her to Mrs. Mackenzie, at the other end
of the room, all his attention went away in an instant from what he was
saying. And once, when Harry said something to me about her, he started,
and looked round so earnestly.”
“Oh, yes--that’s like people in books. And did he colour?”
“No; I don’t recollect that he did,” said Norman; “but I observed he
never asked directly after her if he could help it, but always was
trying to lead, in some round-about way, to hearing what she was doing.”
“Did he call her Margaret?”
“I watched; but to me he always said, ‘Your sister,’ and if he had to
speak of her to papa, he said, ‘Miss May.’ And then you should have seen
his attention to papa. I could hardly get a chance of doing anything for
papa.”
“Oh, sure of it!” cried Ethel, clasping her hands. “But, poor man, how
unhappy he must have been at having to go away when she was so ill!”
“Ay, the last time he saw her was when he carried her upstairs.”
“Oh, dear! I hope he will soon come here again!”
“I don’t suppose he will. Papa did not ask him.”
“Dear me, Norman! Why not? Isn’t papa very fond of him? Why shouldn’t he
come?”
“Don’t you see, Ethel, that would be of no use while poor Margaret is no
better. If he gained her affections, it would only make her unhappy.”
“Oh, but she is much better. She can raise herself up now without
help, and sat up ever so long this morning, without leaning back on her
cushions. She is getting well--you know Sir Matthew said she would.”
“Yes; but I suppose papa thinks they had better say nothing till she is
quite well.”
“And when she is! How famous it will be.”
“Then there’s another thing; he is very poor, you know.”
“I am sure papa doesn’t care about people being rich.”
“I suppose Alan thinks he ought not to marry, unless he could make his
wife comfortable.”
“Look here--it would be all very easy: she should stay with us, and be
comfortable here, and he go to sea, and get lots of prize money.”
“And that’s what you call domestic felicity!” said Norman, laughing.
“He might have her when he was at home,” said Ethel.
“No, no; that would never do,” said Norman. “Do you think Ernescliffe’s
a man that would marry a wife for her father to maintain her?”
“Why, papa would like it very much. He is not a mercenary father in a
book.”
“Hey! what’s that?” said a voice Ethel little expected. “Contraband talk
at contraband times? What’s this!”
“Did you hear, papa?” said Ethel, looking down.
“Only your last words, as I came up to ask Norman what he had done with
my pocket-book. Mind, I ask no impertinent questions; but, if you have
no objection, I should like to know what gained me the honour of that
compliment.”
“Norman?” said Ethel interrogatively, and blushing in emulation of her
brother, who was crimson.
“I’ll find it,” said he, rushing off with a sort of nod and sign, that
conveyed to Ethel that there was no help for it.
So, with much confusion, she whispered into her papa’s ear that Norman
had been telling her something he guessed about Mr. Ernescliffe.
Her father at first smiled, a pleased amused smile. “Ah! ha! so Master
June has his eyes and ears open, has he? A fine bit of gossip to regale
you with on his return!”
“He told me to say not one word,” said Ethel.
“Right--mind you don’t,” said Dr. May, and Ethel was surprised to see
how sorrowful his face became. At the same moment Norman returned,
still very red, and said, “I’ve put out the pocket-book, papa. I think
I should tell you I repeated what, perhaps, you did not mean me to
hear--you talked to yourself something of pitying Ernescliffe.” The
doctor smiled again at the boy’s high-minded openness, which must have
cost an effort of self-humiliation. “I can’t say little pitchers have
long ears, to a May-pole like you, Norman,” said he; “I think I ought
rather to apologise for having inadvertently tumbled in among your
secrets; I assure you I did not come to spy you.”
“Oh, no, no, no, no!” repeated Ethel vehemently. “Then you didn’t mind
our talking about it?”
“Of course not, as long as it goes no further. It is the use of sisters
to tell them one’s private sentiments. Is not it, Norman?”
“And do you really think it is so, papa?” Ethel could not help
whispering.
“I’m afraid it is”, said Dr. May, sighing; then, as he caught her
earnest eyes, “The more I see of Alan, the finer fellow I think him,
and the more sorry I am for him. It seems presumptuous, almost wrong, to
think of the matter at all while my poor Margaret is in this state; and,
if she were well, there are other difficulties which would, perhaps,
prevent his speaking, or lead to long years of waiting and wearing out
hope.”
“Money?” said Ethel.
“Ay! Though I so far deserve your compliment, miss, that should be
foolish enough, if she were but well, to give my consent to-morrow,
because I could not help it; yet one can’t live forty-six years in
this world without seeing it is wrong to marry without a reasonable
dependence--and there won’t be much among eleven of you. It makes my
heart ache to think of it, come what may, as far as I can see, and
without her to judge. The only comfort is, that poor Margaret herself
knows nothing of it, and is at peace so far. It will be ordered for
them, anyhow. Good-night, my dear.”
Ethel sought her room, with graver, deeper thoughts of life than she had
carried upstairs.