Saw ye never in the meadows,
Where your little feet did pass,
Down below, the sweet white daisies
Growing in the long green grass?
Saw you never lilac blossoms,
Or acacia white and red,
Waving brightly in the sunshine,
On the tall trees over head?
HYMNS FOR CHILDREN, C. F. A.
“My dear child, what a storm you have had! how wet you must be!”
exclaimed Mrs. Larpent, as Meta Rivers came bounding up the broad
staircase at Abbotstoke Grange.
“Oh no; I am quite dry; feel.”
“Are you sure?” said Mrs. Larpent, drawing her darling into a luxurious
bedroom, lighted up by a glowing fire, and full of pretty things. “Here,
come and take off your wet things, my dear, and Bellairs shall bring you
some tea.”
“I’m dry. I’m warm,” said Meta, tossing off her plumy hat, as she
established herself, with her feet on the fender. “But where do you
think I have been? You have so much to hear. But first--three guesses
where we were in the rain!”
“In the Stoneborough Cloisters, that you wanted to see? My dear, you did
not keep your papa in the cold there?”
“No, no; we never got there at all; guess again.”
“At Mr. Edward Wilmot’s?”
“No!”
“Could it have been at Dr. May’s? Really, then, you must tell me.”
“There! you deserve a good long story; beginning at the beginning,” said
Meta, clapping her hands, “wasn’t it curious? as we were coming up the
last hill, we met some girls in deep mourning, with a lady who looked
like their governess. I wondered whether they could be Dr. May’s
daughters, and so it turned out they were.
“Presently there began to fall little square lumps, neither hail, nor
snow, nor rain; it grew very cold, and rain came on. It would have been
great fun, if I had not been afraid papa would catch cold, and he said
we would canter on to the inn. But, luckily, there was Dr. May walking
up the street, and he begged us to come into his house. I was so glad!
We were tolerably wet, and Dr. May said something about hoping the girls
were at home; well, when he opened the drawing-room door, there was the
poor daughter lying on the sofa.”
“Poor girl! tell me of her.”
“Oh! you must go and see her; you won’t look at her without losing your
heart. Papa liked her so much--see if he does not talk of her all the
evening. She looks the picture of goodness and sweetness. Only think
of her having some of the maidenhair and cape jessamine still in water,
that we sent her so long ago. She shall have some flowers every three
days. Well, Dr. May said, ‘There is one at least, that is sure to be
at home.’ She felt my habit, and said I must go and change it, and
she called to a little thing of six, telling her to show me the way to
Flora. She smiled, and said she wished she could go herself, but Flora
would take care of me. Little Blanche came and took hold of my hand,
chattering away, up we went, up two staircases, and at the top of the
last stood a girl about seventeen, so pretty! such deep blue eyes, and
such a complexion! ‘That’s Flora,’ little Blanche said; ‘Flora, this is
Miss Rivers, and she’s wet, and Margaret says you are to take care of
her.’”
“So that was your introduction?”
“Yes; we got acquainted in a minute. She took me into her room--such a
room! I believe Bellairs would be angry if she had such a one; all up
in the roof, no fire, no carpet, except little strips by the beds; there
were three beds. Flora used to sleep there till Miss May was ill, and
now she dresses there. Yet I am sure they are as much ladies as I am.”
“You are an only daughter, my dear, and a petted one,” said Mrs.
Larpent, smiling. “There are too many of them to make much of, as we do
of our Meta.”
“I suppose so; but I did not know gentlewomen lived in such a way,”
said Meta. “There were nice things about, a beautiful inlaid work-box of
Flora’s, and a rosewood desk, and plenty of books, and a Greek book and
dictionary were spread open. I asked Flora if they were hers, and she
laughed and said no; and that Ethel would be much discomposed that I had
see them. Ethel keeps up with her brother Norman--only fancy! and he at
the head of the school. How clever she must be!”
“But, my dear, were you standing in your wet things all this time!”
“No; I was trying on their frocks, but they trailed on the ground upon
me, so she asked if I would come and sit by the nursery fire till my
habit was dry; and there was a dear little good-humoured baby, so fair
and pretty. She is not a bit shy, will go to anybody, but, they say, she
likes no one so well as her brother Norman.”
“So you had a regular treat of baby-nursing.”
“That I had; I could not part with her, the darling. Flora thought we
might take her down, and I liked playing with her in the drawing-room
and talking to Miss May, till the fly came to take us home. I wanted to
have seen Ethel; but, only think, papa has asked Dr. May to bring Flora
some day; how I hope he will!”
Little Meta having told her story, and received plenty of sympathy,
proceeded to dress, and, while her maid braided her hair, a musing fit
fell upon her. “I have seen something of life to-day,” thought she. “I
had thought of the great difference between us and the poor, but I did
not know ladies lived in such different ways. I should be very miserable
without Bellairs, or without a fire in my room. I don’t know what I
should do if I had to live in that cold, shabby den, and do my own hair,
yet they think nothing of it, and they are cultivated and ladylike! Is
it all fancy, and being brought up to it? I wonder if it is right? Yet
dear papa likes me to have these things, and can afford them. I never
knew I was luxurious before, and yet I think I must be! One thing I do
wish, and that is, that I was of as much use as those girls. I ought to
be. I am a motherless girl like them, and I ought to be everything to
papa, just as Miss May is, even lying on the sofa there, and only two
years older than I am. I don’t think I am of any use at all; he is fond
of me, of course, dear papa; and if I died, I don’t know what would
become of him; but that’s only because I am his daughter--he has only
George besides to care for. But, really and truly, he would get on as
well without me. I never do anything for him, but now and then playing
to him in the evening, and that not always, I am afraid, when I want
to be about anything else. He is always petting me, and giving me all I
want, but I never do anything but my lessons, and going to the school,
and the poor people, and that is all pleasure. I have so much that I
never miss what I give away. I wonder whether it is all right! Leonora
and Agatha have not so much money to do as they please with--they are
not so idolised. George said, when he was angry, that papa idolises
me; but they have all these comforts and luxuries, and never think of
anything but doing what they like. They never made me consider as these
Mays do. I should like to know them more. I do so much want a friend of
my own age. It is the only want I have. I have tried to make a friend of
Leonora, but I cannot; she never cares for what I do. If she saw these
Mays she would look down on them. Dear Mrs. Larpent is better than any
one, but then she is so much older. Flora May shall be my friend. I’ll
make her call me Meta as soon as she comes. When will it be? The day
after tomorrow?”
But little Meta watched in vain. Dr. May always came with either Richard
or the groom, to drive him, and if Meta met him and hoped he would bring
Flora next time, he only answered that Flora would like it very much,
and he hoped soon to do so.
The truth was, it was no such everyday matter as Meta imagined. The
larger carriage had been broken, and the only vehicle held only the
doctor--his charioteer--and in a very minute appendage behind, a small
son of the gardener, to open gates, and hold the horse.
The proposal had been one of those general invitations to be fulfilled
at any time, and therefore easily set aside; and Dr. May, though
continually thinking he should like to take his girls to Abbotstoke,
never saw the definite time for so doing; and Flora herself, though
charmed with Miss Rivers, and delighted with the prospect of visiting
her, only viewed it as a distant prospect.
There was plenty of immediate interest to occupy them at home, to say
nothing of the increasing employment that Cocksmoor gave to thoughts,
legs, and needles. There was the commencement of the half-year, when
Tom’s schoolboy life was to begin, and when it would be proved whether
Norman were able to retain his elevation.
Margaret had much anxiety respecting the little boy about to be sent
into a scene of temptation. Her great confidence was in Richard, who
told her that boys did many more wrong things than were known at home,
and yet turned out very well, and that Tom would be sure to right
himself in the end. Richard had been blameless in his whole school
course, but though never partaking of the other boys’ evil practices,
he could not form an independent estimate of character, and his tone had
been a little hurt, by sharing the school public opinion of morality. He
thought Stoneborough and its temptations inevitable, and only wished to
make the best of it. Margaret was afraid to harass her father by laying
the case before him. All her brothers had gone safely through the
school, and it never occurred to her that it was possible that, if her
father knew the bias of Tom’s disposition, he might choose, for the
present, at least, some other mode of education.
She talked earnestly to Tom, and he listened impatiently. There is an
age when boys rebel against female rule, and are not yet softened by the
chivalry of manhood, and Tom was at this time of life. He did not like
to be lectured by a sister, secretly disputed her right, and, proud of
becoming a schoolboy, had not the generous deference for her weakness
felt by his elder brothers; he was all the time peeling a stick, as
if to show that he was not attending, and he raised up his shoulder
pettishly whenever she came to a mention of the religious duty of
sincerity. She did not long continue her advice, and, much disappointed
and concerned, tried to console herself with hoping that he might have
heeded more than he seemed to do.
He was placed tolerably high in the school, and Norman, who had the
first choice of fags, took him instead of Hector Ernescliffe, who had
just passed beyond the part of the school liable to be fagged. He said
he liked school, looked bright when he came home in the evenings, and
the sisters hoped all was right.
Every one was just now anxiously watching Norman, especially his father,
who strove in vain to keep back all manifestation of his earnest desire
to see him retain his post. Resolutely did the doctor refrain from
asking any questions, when the boys came in, but he could not keep his
eyes from studying the face, to see whether it bore marks of mental
fatigue, and from following him about the room, to discover whether he
found it necessary, as he had done last autumn, to spend the evening in
study. It was no small pleasure to see him come in with his hand full of
horse-chestnut and hazel-buds, and proceed to fetch the microscope and
botany books, throwing himself eagerly into the study of the wonders
of their infant forms, searching deeply into them with Margaret, and
talking them over with his father, who was very glad to promote the
pursuit--one in which he had always taken great interest.
Another night Dr. May was for a moment disturbed by seeing the
school-books put out, but Norman had only some notes to compare, and
while he did so, he was remarking on Flora’s music, and joining in the
conversation so freely as to prove it was no labour to him. In truth,
he was evidently quite recovered, entirely himself again, except that he
was less boyish. He had been very lively and full of merry nonsense; but
his ardour for play had gone off with his high spirits, and there was
a manliness of manner, and tone of mind, that made him appear above his
real age.
At the end of a fortnight he volunteered to tell his father that all
was right. “I am not afraid of not keeping my place,” he said; “you were
quite right, papa. I am more up to my work than I was ever before, and
it comes to me quite fresh and pleasant. I don’t promise to get the
Randall scholarship, if Forder and Cheviot stay on, but I can quite keep
up to the mark in school work.”
“That’s right,” said Dr. May, much rejoiced. “Are you sure you do it
with ease, and without its haunting you at night?”
“Oh, yes; quite sure. I can’t think what has made Dr. Hoxton set us on
in such easy things this time. It is very lucky for me, for one gets so
much less time to oneself as dux.”
“What! with keeping order?”
“Ay,” said Norman. “I fancy they think they may take liberties because I
am new and young. I must have my eye in all corners of the hall at once,
and do my own work by snatches, as I can.”
“Can you make them attend to you?”
“Why, yes, pretty well, when it comes to the point--‘will you, or will
you not?’ Cheviot is a great help, too, and has all the weight of being
the eldest fellow amongst us.”
“But still you find it harder work than learning? You had rather have to
master the dead language than the live tongues?”
“A pretty deal,” said Norman; then added, “One knows what to be at with
the dead, better than with the living; they don’t make parties against
one. I don’t wonder at it. It was very hard on some of those great
fellows to have me set before them, but I do not think it is fair to
visit it by putting up the little boys to all sorts of mischief.”
“Shameful!” said the doctor warmly; “but never mind, Norman, keep your
temper, and do your own duty, and you are man enough to put down such
petty spite.”
“I hope I shall manage rightly,” said Norman; “but I shall be glad if I
can get the Randall and get away to Oxford; school is not what it used
to be, and if you don’t think me too young--”
“No, I don’t; certainly not. Trouble has made a man of you, Norman, and
you are fitter to be with men than boys. In the meantime, if you can
be patient with these fellows, you’ll be of great use where you are. If
there had been any one like you at the head of the school in my time, it
would have kept me out of no end of scrapes. How does Tom get on? he is
not likely to fall into this set, I trust.”
“I am not sure,” said Norman; “he does pretty well on the whole. Some
of them began by bullying him, and that made him cling to Cheviot and
Ernescliffe, and the better party; but lately I have thought Anderson,
junior, rather making up to him, and I don’t know whether they don’t
think that tempting him over to them would be the surest way of vexing
me. I have an eye over him, and I hope he may get settled into the
steadier sort before next half.”
After a silence, Norman said, “Papa, there is a thing I can’t settle in
my own mind. Suppose there had been wrong things done when older boys,
and excellent ones too, were at the head of the school, yet they never
interfered, do you think I ought to let it go on?”
“Certainly not, or why is power given to you?”
“So I thought,” said Norman; “I can’t see it otherwise. I wish I could,
for it will be horrid to set about it, and they’ll think it a regular
shame in me to meddle. Oh! I know what I came into the study for; I
want you to be so kind as to lend me your pocket Greek Testament. I gave
Harry my little one.”
“You are very welcome. What do you want it for?”
Norman coloured. “I met with a sermon the other day that recommended
reading a bit of it every day, and I thought I should like to try, now
the Confirmation is coming. One can always have some quiet by getting
away into the cloister.”
“Bless you, my boy! while you go on in this way, I have not much fear
but that you’ll know how to manage.”
Norman’s rapid progress affected another of the household in an
unexpected way.
“Margaret, my dear, I wish to speak to you,” said Miss Winter,
reappearing when Margaret thought every one was gone out walking.
She would have said, “I am very sorry for it”--so ominous was the
commencement--and her expectations were fulfilled when Miss Winter had
solemnly seated herself, and taken out her netting. “I wished to speak
to you about dear Ethel,” said the governess; “you know how unwilling
I always am to make any complaint, but I cannot be satisfied with her
present way of going on.”
“Indeed,” said Margaret. “I am much grieved to hear this. I thought she
had been taking great pains to improve.”
“So she was at one time. I would not by any means wish to deny it, and
it is not of her learning that I speak, but of a hurried, careless way
of doing everything, and an irritability at being interfered with.”
Margaret knew how Miss Winter often tried Ethel’s temper, and was
inclined to take her sister’s part. “Ethel’s time is so fully occupied,”
she said.
“That is the very thing that I was going to observe, my dear. Her time
is too much occupied, and my conviction is, that it is hurtful to a girl
of her age.”
This was a new idea to Margaret, who was silent, longing to prove
Miss Winter wrong, and not have to see poor Ethel pained by having to
relinquish any of her cherished pursuits.
“You see there is that Cocksmoor,” said Miss Winter. “You do not know
how far off it is, my dear; much too great a distance for a young girl
to be walking continually in all weathers.”
“That’s a question for papa,” thought Margaret.
“Besides,” continued Miss Winter, “those children engross almost all her
time and thoughts. She is working for them, preparing lessons, running
after them continually. It takes off her whole mind from her proper
occupations, unsettles her, and I do think it is beyond what befits a
young lady of her age.”
Margaret was silent.
“In addition,” said Miss Winter, “she is at every spare moment busy
with Latin and Greek, and I cannot think that to keep pace with a boy of
Norman’s age and ability can be desirable for her.”
“It is a great deal,” said Margaret, “but--”
“I am convinced that she does more than is right,” continued Miss
Winter. “She may not feel any ill effects at present, but you may depend
upon it, it will tell on her by-and-by. Besides, she does not attend to
anything properly. At one time she was improving in neatness and orderly
habits. Now, you surely must have seen how much less tidy her hair and
dress have been.”
“I have thought her hair looking rather rough,” said Margaret
disconsolately.
“No wonder,” said Miss Winter, “for Flora and Mary tell me she hardly
spends five minutes over it in the morning, and with a book before her
the whole time. If I send her up to make it fit to be seen, I meet with
looks of annoyance. She leaves her books in all parts of the school-room
for Mary to put away, and her table drawer is one mass of confusion. Her
lessons she does well enough, I own, though what I should call much too
fast; but have you looked at her work lately?”
“She does not work very well,” said Margaret, who was at that moment,
though Miss Winter did not know it, re-gathering a poor child’s frock
that Ethel had galloped through with more haste than good speed.
“She works a great deal worse than little Blanche,” said Miss Winter,
“and though it may not be the fashion to say so in these days, I
consider good needlework far more important than accomplishments. Well,
then, Margaret, I should wish you only just to look at her writing.”
And Miss Winter opened a French exercise-book, certainly containing
anything but elegant specimens of penmanship. Ethel’s best writing was
an upright, disjointed niggle, looking more like Greek than anything
else, except where here and there it made insane efforts to become
running-hand, and thereby lost its sole previous good quality of
legibility, while the lines waved about the sheet in almost any
direction but the horizontal. The necessity she believed herself under
of doing what Harry called writing with the end of her nose, and
her always holding her pen with her fingers almost in the ink, added
considerably to the difficulty of the performance. This being at her
best, the worst may be supposed to be indescribable, when dashed off in
a violent hurry, and considerably garnished with blots. Margaret thought
she had seen the worst, and was sighing at being able to say nothing for
it, when Miss Winter confounded her by turning a leaf, and showing it
was possible to make a still wilder combination of scramble, niggle,
scratch, and crookedness--and this was supposed to be an amended
edition! Miss Winter explained that Ethel had, in an extremely short
time, performed an exercise in which no fault could be detected except
the writing, which was pronounced to be too atrocious to be shown up to
M. Ballompre. On being desired to write it over again, she had obeyed
with a very bad grace, and some murmurs about Cocksmoor, and produced
the second specimen, which, in addition to other defects, had some
elisions from arrant carelessness, depriving it of its predecessor’s
merits of being good French.
Miss Winter had been so provoked that she believed this to be an effect
of ill temper, and declared that she should certainly have kept Ethel at
home to write it over again, if it had not so happened that Dr. May had
proposed to walk part of the way with her and Richard, and the governess
was unwilling to bring her into disgrace with him. Margaret was so
grateful to her for this forbearance, that it disposed her to listen
the more patiently to the same representations put in, what Miss Winter
fancied, different forms. Margaret was much perplexed. She could not but
see much truth in what Miss Winter said, and yet she could not bear
to thwart Ethel, whom she admired with her whole heart; and that dry
experience, and prejudiced preciseness, did not seem capable of entering
into her sister’s thirst for learning and action. When Miss Winter said
Ethel would grow up odd, eccentric, and blue, Margaret was ready to
answer that she would be superior to every one; and when the governess
urged her to insist on Cocksmoor being given up, she felt impatient of
that utter want of sympathy for the good work.
All that evening Margaret longed for a quiet time to reflect, but it
never came till she was in bed; and when she had made up her mind how to
speak to Ethel, it was five times harder to secure her alone. Even when
Margaret had her in the room by herself, she looked wild and eager, and
said she could not stay, she had some Thucydides to do.
“Won’t you stay with me a little while, quietly?” said Margaret; “we
hardly ever have one of our talks.”
“I didn’t mean to vex you, dear Margaret; I like nothing so well, only
we are never alone, and I’ve no time.”
“Pray do spare me a minute, Ethel, for I have something that I must say
to you, and I am afraid you won’t like it--so do listen kindly.”
“Oh!” said Ethel, “Miss Winter has been talking to you. I know she said
she would tell you that she wants me to give up Cocksmoor. You aren’t
dreaming of it, Margaret?”
“Indeed, dear Ethel, I should be very sorry, but one thing I am sure of,
that there is something amiss in your way of going on.”
“Did she show you that horrid exercise?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I know it was baddish writing, but just listen, Margaret. We
promised six of the children to print them each a verse of a hymn on a
card to learn. Ritchie did three, and then could not go on, for the
book that the others were in was lost till last evening, and then he
was writing for papa. So I thought I would do them before we went to
Cocksmoor, and that I should squeeze time out of the morning; but I got
a bit of Sophocles that was so horridly hard it ate up all my time, and
I don’t understand it properly now; I must get Norman to tell me. And
that ran in my head and made me make a mistake in my sum, and have
to begin it again. Then, just as I thought I had saved time over the
exercise, comes Miss Winter and tells me I must do it over again, and
scolds me besides about the ink on my fingers. She would send me up at
once to get it off, and I could not find nurse and her bottle of stuff
for it, so that wasted ever so much more time, and I was so vexed that,
really and truly, my hand shook and I could not write any better.”
“No, I thought it looked as if you had been in one of your agonies.”
“And she thought I did it on purpose, and that made me angry, and so
we got into a dispute, and away went all the little moment I might have
had, and I was forced to go to Cocksmoor as a promise breaker!”
“Don’t you think you had better have taken pains at first?”
“Well, so I did with the sense, but I hadn’t time to look at the writing
much.”
“You would have made better speed if you had.”
“Oh, yes, I know I was wrong, but it is a great plague altogether.
Really, Margaret, I shan’t get Thucydides done.”
“You must wait a little longer, please, Ethel, for I want to say to
you that I am afraid you are doing too much, and that prevents you from
doing things well, as you were trying to do last autumn.”
“You are not thinking of my not going to Cocksmoor?” cried Ethel
vehemently.
“I want you to consider what is to be done, dear Ethel. You thought,
last autumn, a great deal of curing your careless habits, now you seem
not to have time to attend. You can do a great deal very fast, I know,
but isn’t it a pity to be always in a hurry?”
“It isn’t Cocksmoor that is the reason,” said Ethel.
“No; you did pretty well when you began, but you know that was in the
holidays, when you had no Latin and Greek to do.”
“Oh, but, Margaret, they won’t take so much time when I have once got
over the difficulties, and see my way, but just now they have put Norman
into such a frightfully difficult play, that I can hardly get on at all
with it, and there’s a new kind of Greek verses, too, and I don’t make
out from the book how to manage them. Norman showed me on Saturday, but
mine won’t be right. When I’ve got over that, I shan’t be so hurried.”
“But Norman will go on to something harder, I suppose.”
“I dare say I shall be able to do it.”
“Perhaps you might, but I want you to consider if you are not working
beyond what can be good for anybody. You see Norman is much cleverer
than most boys, and you are a year younger; and besides doing all his
work at the head of the school, his whole business of the day, you have
Cocksmoor to attend to, and your own lessons, besides reading all the
books that come into the house. Now isn’t that more than is reasonable
to expect any head and hands to do properly?”
“But if I can do it?”
“But can you, dear Ethel? Aren’t you always racing from one thing to
another, doing them by halves, feeling hunted, and then growing vexed?”
“I know I have been cross lately,” said Ethel, “but it’s the being so
bothered.”
“And why are you bothered? Isn’t it that you undertake too much?”
“What would you have me do?” said Ethel, in an injured, unconvinced
voice. “Not give up my children?”
“No,” said Margaret; “but don’t think me very unkind if I say, suppose
you left off trying to keep up with Norman.”
“Oh, Margaret! Margaret!” and her eyes filled with tears. “We have
hardly missed doing the same every day since the first Latin grammar was
put into his hands!”
“I know it would be very hard,” said Margaret; but Ethel continued, in a
piteous tone, a little sentimental, “From hie haec hoc up to Alcaics and
beta Thukididou we have gone on together, and I can’t bear to give it
up. I’m sure I can--”
“Stop, Ethel, I really doubt whether you can. Do you know that Norman
was telling papa the other day that it was very odd Dr. Hoxton gave them
such easy lessons.”
Ethel looked very much mortified.
“You see,” said Margaret kindly, “we all know that men have more power
than women, and I suppose the time has come for Norman to pass beyond
you. He would not be cleverer than any one, if he could not do more than
a girl at home.”
“He has so much more time for it,” said Ethel.
“That’s the very thing. Now consider, Ethel. His work, after he goes to
Oxford, will be doing his very utmost--and you know what an utmost that
is. If you could keep up with him at all, you must give your whole time
and thoughts to it, and when you had done so--if you could get all
the honours in the University--what would it come to? You can’t take a
first-class.”
“I don’t want one,” said Ethel; “I only can’t bear not to do as Norman
does, and I like Greek so much.”
“And for that would you give up being a useful, steady daughter and
sister at home? The sort of woman that dear mamma wished to make you,
and a comfort to papa.”
Ethel was silent, and large tears were gathering.
“You own that that is the first thing?”
“Yes,” said Ethel faintly.
“And that it is what you fail in most?”
“Yes.”
“Then, Ethel dearest, when you made up your mind to Cocksmoor, you knew
those things could not be done without a sacrifice?”
“Yes, but I didn’t think it would be this.”
Margaret was wise enough not to press her, and she sat down and sighed
pitifully. Presently she said, “Margaret, if you would only let me leave
off that stupid old French, and horrid dull reading with Miss Winter,
I should have plenty of time for everything; and what does one learn by
hearing Mary read poetry she can’t understand?”
“You work, don’t you? But indeed, Ethel, don’t say that I can let you
leave off anything. I don’t feel as if I had that authority. If it be
done at all, it must be by papa’s consent, and if you wish me to ask
him about it, I will, only I think it would vex Miss Winter; and I don’t
think dear mamma would have liked Greek and Cocksmoor to swallow up all
the little common ladylike things.”
Ethel made two or three great gulps; “Margaret, must I give up
everything, and forget all my Latin and Greek?”
“I should think that would be a great pity,” said Margaret. “If you were
to give up the verse-making, and the trying to do as much as Norman, and
fix some time in the day--half an hour, perhaps--for your Greek, I think
it might do very well.”
“Thank you,” said Ethel, much relieved; “I’m glad you don’t want me to
leave it all off. I hope Norman won’t be vexed,” she added, looking a
little melancholy.
But Norman had not by any means the sort of sentiment on the subject
that she had. “Of course, you know, Ethel,” said he, “it must have come
to this some time or other, and if you find those verses too hard, and
that they take up too much of your time, you had better give them up.”
Ethel did not like anything to be said to be too hard for her, and was
very near pleading she only wanted time, but some recollection came
across her, and presently she said, “I suppose it is a wrong sort of
ambition to want to learn more, in one’s own way, when one is told it
is not good for one. I was just going to say I hated being a woman,
and having these tiresome little trifles--my duty--instead of learning,
which is yours, Norman.”
“I’m glad you did not,” said Norman, “for it would have been very silly
of you; and I assure you, Ethel, it is really time for you to stop, or
you would get into a regular learned lady, and be good for nothing. I
don’t mean that knowing more than other people would make you so, but
minding nothing else would.”
This argument from Norman himself did much to reconcile Ethel’s mind to
the sacrifice she had made; and when she went to bed, she tried to work
out the question in her own mind, whether her eagerness for classical
learning was a wrong sort of ambition, to know what other girls did not,
and whether it was right to crave for more knowledge than was thought
advisable for her. She only bewildered herself, and went to sleep before
she had settled anything, but that she knew she must make all give way
to papa first, and, secondly, to Cocksmoor.
Meanwhile Margaret had told her father all that had passed. He was
only surprised to hear that Ethel had kept up so long with Norman, and
thought that it was quite right that she should not undertake so much,
agreeing more entirely than Margaret had expected with Miss Winter’s
view, that it would be hurtful to body as well as mind.
“It is perfectly ridiculous to think of her attempting it!” he said. “I
am glad you have put a stop to it.”
“I am glad I have,” said Margaret; “and dear Ethel behaved so very well.
If she had resisted, it would have puzzled me very much, I must have
asked you to settle it. But it is very odd, papa, Ethel is the one of
them all who treats me most as if I had real authority over her; she
lets me scold her, asks my leave, never seems to recollect for a moment
how little older I am, and how much cleverer she is. I am sure I
never should have submitted so readily. And that always makes it more
difficult to me to direct her; I don’t like to take upon me with her,
because it seems wrong to have her obeying me as if she were a mere
child.”
“She is a fine creature,” said Dr. May emphatically. “It just shows the
fact, the higher the mind the readier the submission. But you don’t mean
that you have any difficulty with the others?”
“Oh, no, no. Flora never could need any interference, especially from
me, and Mary is a thorough good girl. I only meant that Ethel lays
herself out to be ruled in quite a remarkable way. I am sure, though she
does love learning, her real love is for goodness and for you, papa.”
Ethel would have thought her sacrifice well paid for, had she seen her
father’s look of mournful pleasure.