Think how simple things and lowly,
Have a part in Nature’s plan,
How the great hath small beginnings,
And the child will be a man.
Little efforts work great actions,
Lessons in our childhood taught
Mould the spirit of that temper
Whereby blessed deeds are wrought.
Cherish, then, the gifts of childhood,
Use them gently, guard them well,
For their future growth and greatness
Who can measure, who can tell!
MORAL SONGS.
The first shock of Tom’s misdemeanour passed away, though it still gave
many an anxious thought to such of the family as felt responsible for
him.
The girls were busily engaged in preparing an Easter feast for
Cocksmoor. Mr. Wilmot was to examine the scholars, and buns and tea were
provided, in addition to which Ethel designed to make a present to every
one--a great task, considering that the Cocksmoor funds were reserved
for absolute necessaries, and were at a very low ebb. So that
twenty-five gifts were to be composed out of nothing!
There was a grand turn-out of drawers of rubbish, all over Margaret,
raising such a cloud of dust as nearly choked her. What cannot rubbish
and willing hands effect! Envelopes and wafer boxes were ornamented with
pictures, bags, needle-cases, and pincushions, beautiful balls, tippets,
both of list and gay print, and even sun-bonnets and pinafores were
contrived, to the supreme importance and delight of Mary and Blanche,
who found it as good or better than play, and ranged their performances
in rows, till the room looked like a bazaar. To provide for boys was
more difficult; but Richard mended old toys, and repaired the frames of
slates, and Norman’s contribution of half-a-crown bought mugs, marbles,
and penny knives, and there were even hopes that something would remain
for bodkins, to serve as nozzles to the bellows, which were the pride of
Blanche’s heart.
Never were Easter gifts the source of more pleasure to the givers,
especially when the nursery establishment met Dr. Hoxton near the
pastrycook’s shop, and he bestowed on Blanche a packet of variegated
sugar-plums, all of which she literally poured out at Ethel’s feet,
saying, “I don’t want them. Only let me have one for Aubrey, because he
is so little. All the rest are for the poor children at Cocksmoor.”
After this, Margaret declared that Blanche must be allowed to buy the
bodkin, and give her bellows to Jane Taylor, the only Cocksmoor child
she knew, and to whom she always destined in turn every gift that she
thought most successful.
So Blanche went with Flora to the toy-shop, and there fell in love with
a little writing-box, that so eclipsed the bellows, that she tried to
persuade Flora to buy it for Jane Taylor, to be kept till she could
write, and was much disappointed to hear that it was out of the
question. Just then a carriage stopped, and from it stepped the pretty
little figure of Meta Rivers.
“Oh! how do you do? How delightful to meet you! I was wondering if we
should! Little Blanche too!” kissing her, “and here’s Mrs. Larpent--Mrs.
Larpent--Miss Flora May. How is Miss May?”
This was all uttered in eager delight, and Flora, equally pleased,
answered the inquiries. “I hope you are not in a hurry,” proceeded Meta;
“I want your advice. You know all about schools, don’t you? I am come
to get some Easter presents for our children, and I am sure you can help
me.”
“Are the children little or big?” asked Flora.
“Oh! all sorts and sizes. I have some books for the great sensible ones,
and some stockings and shoes for the tiresome stupid ones, but there are
some dear little pets that I want nice things for. There--there’s a doll
that looks just fit for little curly-headed Annie Langley, don’t you
think so, Mrs. Larpent?”
The price of the doll was a shilling, and there were quickly added to
it, boxes of toys, elaborate bead-work pincushions, polished blue and
green boxes, the identical writing-case--even a small Noah’s ark. Meta
hardly asked the prices, which certainly were not extravagant, since she
had nearly twenty articles for little more than a pound.
“Papa has given me a benefaction of £5 for my school-gifts,” said she,
“is not that charming? I wish you would come to the feast. Now, do! It
is on Easter Tuesday. Won’t you come?”
“Thank you, I am afraid we can’t. I should like it very much.”
“You never will come to me. You have no compassion.”
“We should enjoy coming very much. Perhaps, in the summer, when Margaret
is better.”
“Could not she spare any of you? Well, I shall talk to papa, and make
him talk to Dr. May. Mrs. Larpent will tell you I always get my way.
Don’t I? Good-bye. See if I don’t.”
She departed, and Flora returned to her own business; but Blanche’s
interest was gone. Dazzled by the more lavish gifts, she looked
listlessly and disdainfully at bodkins, three for twopence. “I wish I
might have bought the writing-box for Janet Taylor! Why does not papa
give us money to get pretty things for the children?” said she, as soon
as they came out.
“Because he is not so rich as Miss Rivers’s papa.”
Flora was interrupted by meeting the Misses Anderson, who asked, “Was
not that carriage Mr. Rivers’s of Abbotstoke Grange?”
“Yes. We like Miss Rivers very much,” said Flora, resolved to show that
she was acquainted.
“Oh! do you visit her? I knew he was a patient of Dr. May.” Flora
thought there was no need to tell that the only call had been owing to
the rain, and continued, “She has been begging us to come to her school
feast, but I do not think we can manage it.”
“Oh, indeed! the Grange is very beautiful, is it not?”
“Very,” said Flora. “Good-morning.”
Flora had a little uneasiness in her conscience, but it was satisfactory
to have put down Louisa Anderson, who never could aspire to an intimacy
with Miss Rivers. Her little sister looked up--“Why, Flora, have you
seen the Grange?”
“No, but papa and Norman said so.”
And Blanche showed that the practical lesson on the pomps of the world
was not lost on her, by beginning to wish they were as rich as Miss
Rivers. Flora told her it was wrong to be discontented, but the answer
was, “I don’t want it for myself, I want to have pretty things to give
away.”
And her mind could not be turned from the thought by any attempt of her
sister. Even when they met Dr. May coming out of the hospital, Blanche
renewed the subject. She poured out the catalogue of Miss Rivers’s
purchases, making appealing attempts at looking under his spectacles
into his eyes, and he perfectly understood the tenor of her song.
“I have had a sight, too, of little maidens preparing Easter gifts,”
said he.
“Have you, papa? What were they? Were they as nice as Miss Rivers’s?”
“I don’t know, but I thought they were the best sort of gifts, for I saw
that plenty of kind thought and clever contrivance went to them, ay, and
some little self-denial too.”
“Papa, you look as if you meant something; but ours are nothing but
nasty old rubbish.”
“Perhaps some fairy, or something better, has brought a wand to touch
the rubbish, Blanche; for I think that the maidens gave what would have
been worthless kept, but became precious as they gave it.”
“Do you mean the list of our flannel petticoats, papa, that Mary has
made into a tippet?”
“Perhaps I meant Mary’s own time and pains, as well as the tippet. Would
she have done much good with them otherwise?”
“No, she would have played. Oh! then you like the presents because they
are our own making? I never thought of that. Was that the reason you did
not give us any of your sovereigns to buy things with?”
“Perhaps I want my sovereigns for the eleven gaping mouths at home,
Blanche. But would not it be a pity to spoil your pleasure? You would
have lost all the chattering and laughing and buzzing I have heard round
Margaret of late, and I am quite sure Miss Rivers can hardly be as happy
in the gifts that cost her nothing, as one little girl who gives her
sugar-plums out of her own mouth!”
Blanche clasped her papa’s hand tight, and bounded five or six times.
“They are our presents, not yours,” said she. “Yes, I see. I like them
better now.”
“Ay, ay,” said the doctor. “Seeing Miss Rivers’s must not take the shine
out of yours, my little maids; for if you can’t give much, you have the
pleasure of giving the best of all, your labour of love.” Then thinking
on, and speaking to Flora, “The longer I live, the more I see the
blessing of being born in a state of life where you can’t both eat your
cake and give it away.”
Flora never was at ease in a conversation with her father; she could
not follow him, and did not like to show it. She answered aside from the
mark, “You would not have Blanche underrate Miss Rivers?”
“No, indeed, she is as good and sweet a creature as ever came across
me--most kind to Margaret, and loving to all the world. I like to see
one whom care and grief have never set their grip upon. Most likely she
would do like Ethel, if she had the opportunity, but she has not.”
“So she has not the same merit?” said Flora.
“We don’t talk of merit. I mean that the power of sacrifice is a great
advantage. The habit of small sacrifice that is made necessary in a
large family is a discipline that only-children are without: and so,
with regard to wealth, I think people are to be pitied who can give
extensively out of such abundance that they can hardly feel the want.”
“In effect, they can do much more,” said Flora.
“I am not sure of that. They can, of course, but it must be at the cost
of personal labour and sacrifice. I have often thought of the words,
‘Silver and gold have I none, but such as I have give I thee.’ And ‘such
as we have’ it is that does the good; the gold, if we have it, but, at
any rate, the personal influence; the very proof of sincerity, shown by
the exertion and self-denial, tells far more than money lightly come by,
lightly spent.”
“Do you mean that a person who maintained a whole school would do less
good than one who taught one child?”
“If the rich person take no pains, and leave the school to take care
of itself--nay, if he only visit it now and then, and never let it
inconvenience him, has he the least security that the scholars are
obtaining any real good from it? If the teacher of the one child is
doing his utmost, he is working for himself at least.”
“Suppose we could build, say our church and school, on Cocksmoor at
once, and give our superintendence besides?”
“If things were ripe for it, the means would come. As it is, it is a
fine field for Ethel and Richard. I believe it will be the making of
them both. I am sure it is training Ethel, or making her train herself,
as we could never have done without it. But here, come in and see old
Mrs. Robins. A visit from you will cheer her up.”
Flora was glad of the interruption, the conversation was uncomfortable
to her. She almost fancied her papa was moralising for their good, but
that he carried it too far, for wealthy people assuredly had it in their
power to do great things, and might work as hard themselves; besides, it
was finer in them, there was so much eclat in their stooping to charity.
But her knowledge of his character would not allow her to think for a
moment that he could say aught but from the bottom of his heart--no, it
was one of his one-sided views that led him into paradox. “It was just
like papa,” and so there was no need to attend to it. It was one of
his enthusiasms, he was so very fond of Ethel, probably because of her
likeness to himself. Flora thought Ethel put almost too forward--they
all helped at Cocksmoor, and Ethel was very queer and unformed, and
could do nothing by herself. The only thing Flora did keep in her mind
was, that her papa had spoken to her, as if she were a woman compared
with Ethel.
Little Blanche made her report of the conversation to Mary, “that it was
so nice; and now she did not care about Miss Rivers’s fine presents at
all, for papa said what one made oneself was better to give than what
one bought. And papa said, too, that it was a good thing not to be rich,
for then one never felt the miss of what one gave away.”
Margaret, who overheard the exposition, thought it so much to Blanche’s
credit, that she could not help repeating it in the evening, after the
little girl was gone to bed, when Mr. Wilmot had come in to arrange
the programme for Cocksmoor. So the little fit of discontent and its
occasion, the meeting with Meta Rivers, were discussed.
“Yes,” said Mr. Wilmot, “those Riverses are open-handed. They really
seem to have so much money, that they don’t know what to do with it. My
brother is ready to complain that they spoil his parish. It is all meant
so well, and they are so kind-hearted and excellent, that it is a shame
to find fault, and I tell Charles and his wife that their grumbling at
such a squire proves them the most spoiled of all.”
“Indiscriminate liberality?” asked the doctor. “I should guess the old
gentleman to be rather soft!”
“That’s one thing. The parish is so small, and there are so few to
shower all this bounty on, and they are so utterly unused to country
people. They seem to think by laying out money they can get a show set
of peasants in rustic cottages, just as they have their fancy cows and
poultry--all that offends the eye out of the way.”
“Making it a matter of taste,” said the doctor.
“I’m sure I would,” said Norman aside to Ethel. “What’s the use of
getting oneself disgusted?”
“One must not begin with showing dislike,” began Ethel, “or--”
“Ay--you like rags, don’t you? but hush!”
“That is just what I should expect of Mr. Rivers,” said Dr. May; “he
has cultivated his taste till it is getting to be a disease, but his
daughter has no lack of wit.”
“Perhaps not. Charles and Mary are very fond of her, but she is entirely
inexperienced, and that is a serious thing with so much money to throw
about. She pays people for sending their children to school, and keeping
their houses tidy; and there is so much given away, that it is enough to
take away all independence and motive for exertion. The people speculate
on it, and take it as a right; by-and-by there will be a reaction--she
will find out she is imposed upon, take offence, and for the rest of her
life will go about saying how ungrateful the poor are!”
“It is a pity good people won’t have a little common-sense,” said Dr.
May. “But there’s something so bewitching in that little girl, that I
can’t give her up. I verily believe she will right herself.”
“I have scarcely seen her,” said Mr. Wilmot. “She has won papa’s heart
by her kindness to me,” said Margaret, smiling. “You see her beautiful
flowers? She seems to me made to lavish pleasures on others wherever she
goes.”
“Oh, yes, they are most kind-hearted,” said Mr. Wilmot. “It is only
the excess of a virtue that could be blamed in them, and they are most
valuable to the place. She will learn experience in time--I only hope
she will not be spoiled.”
Flora felt as if her father must be thinking his morning’s argument
confirmed, and she was annoyed. But she thought there was no reason why
wealth should not be used sensibly, and if she were at the head of such
an establishment as the Grange, her charity should be so well regulated
as to be the subject of general approbation.
She wanted to find some one else on her side, and, as they went to bed,
she said to Ethel, “Don’t you wish we had some of this superfluity of
the Riverses for poor Cocksmoor?”
“I wish we had anything for Cocksmoor! Here’s a great hole in my boot,
and nurse says I must get a new pair, that is seven-and-sixpence gone! I
shall never get the first pound made up towards building!”
“And pounds seem nothing to them,” said Flora.
“Yes, but if they don’t manage right with them! I’ll tell you, Flora,
I got into a fit of wishing the other day; it does seem such a grievous
pity to see those children running to waste for want of daily teaching,
and Jenny Hall had forgotten everything. I was vexed, and thought it was
all no use while we could not do more; but just then I began to look out
the texts Ritchie had marked for me to print for them to learn, and the
first was, ‘Be thou faithful over a few things, and I will make thee
ruler over many things,’ and then I thought perhaps we were learning to
be faithful with a few things. I am sure what they said to-night showed
it was lucky we have not more in our hands. I should do wrong for ever
with the little we have if it were not for Ritchie and Margaret. By the
time we have really got the money together for the school, perhaps I
shall have more sense.”
“Got the money! As if we ever could!”
“Oh, yes! we shall and will. It need not be more than £70, Ritchie says,
and I have twelve shillings for certain, put out from the money for hire
of the room, and the books and clothes, and, in spite of these horrid
boots, I shall save something out of this quarter, half-a-crown at
least. And I have another plan besides--”
But Flora had to go down to Margaret’s room to bed. Flora was always
ready to throw herself into the present, and liked to be the most
useful person in all that went forward, so that no thoughts of greatness
interfered with her enjoyment at Cocksmoor.
The house seemed wild that Easter Monday morning. Ethel, Mary, and
Blanche, flew about in all directions, and in spite of much undoing of
their own arrangements, finished their preparations so much too early,
that, at half-past eleven, Mary complained that she had nothing to do,
and that dinner would never come.
Many were the lamentations at leaving Margaret behind, but she answered
them by talking of the treat of having papa all to herself, for he had
lent them the gig, and promised to stay at home all the afternoon with
her.
The first division started on foot directly after dinner, the real
Council of education, as Norman called them, namely, Mr. Wilmot,
Richard, Ethel, and Mary; Flora, the other member, waited to take care
of Blanche and Aubrey, who were to come in the gig, with the cakes,
tea-kettles, and prizes, driven by Norman. Tom and Hector Ernescliffe
were invited to join the party, and many times did Mary wish for Harry.
Supremely happy were the young people as they reached the common, and
heard the shout of tumultuous joy, raised by their pupils, who were on
the watch for them. All was now activity. Everybody tripped into Mrs.
Green’s house, while Richard and Ethel ran different ways to secure that
the fires were burning, which they had hired, to boil their kettles,
with the tea in them.
Then when the kitchen was so full that it seemed as if it could hold no
more, some kind of order was produced, the children were seated on their
benches, and, while the mothers stood behind to listen, Mr. Wilmot began
to examine, as well as he could in so crowded an audience.
There was progress. Yes, there was. Only three were as utterly rude
and idealess as they used to be at Christmas. Glimmerings had dawned
on most, and one--Una M’Carthy--was fit to come forward to claim Mr.
Wilmot’s promise of a Prayer-book. She could really read and say the
Catechism--her Irish wit and love of learning had outstripped all the
rest--and she was the pride of Ethel’s heart, fit, now, to present
herself on equal terms with the Stoneborough set, as far as her sense
was concerned--though, alas! neither present nor exhortation had
succeeded in making her anything, in looks, but a picturesque
tatterdemalion, her sandy elf locks streaming over a pair of eyes, so
dancing and gracieuses, that it was impossible to scold her.
With beating heart, as if her own success in life depended for ever
on the way her flock acquitted themselves, Ethel stood by Mr. Wilmot,
trying to read answers coming out of the dull mouths of her children,
and looking exultingly at Richard whenever some good reply was made,
especially when Una answered an unexpected question. It was too
delightful to hear how well she remembered all the history up to the
flood, and how prettily it came out in her Irish accent! That made up
for all the atrocious stupidity of others, who, after being told every
time since they had begun who gave their names, now chose to forget.
In the midst, while the assembly were listening with admiration to the
reading of the scholar next in proficiency to Una, a boy who could read
words of five letters without spelling, there was a fresh squeezing at
the door, and, the crowd opening as well as it could, in came Flora and
Blanche, while Norman’s head was seen for a moment in the doorway.
Flora’s whisper to Ethel was her first discovery that the closeness and
the heat of the room was nearly overpowering. Her excitement had made
all be forgotten. “Could not a window be opened?”
Mrs. Green interfered--it had been nailed up because her husband had the
rheumatiz!
“Where’s Aubrey?” asked Mary.
“With Norman. Norman said he would not let him go into the black-hole,
so he has got him out of doors. Ethel, we must come out! You don’t know
what an atmosphere it is! Blanche, go out to Norman!”
“Flora, Flora! you don’t consider,” said Ethel, in an agony.
“Yes, yes. It is not at all cold. Let them have their presents out of
doors and eat their buns.”
Richard and Mr. Wilmot agreed with Flora, and the party were turned out.
Ethel did own, when she was in the open air, “that it had been rather
hot.”
Norman’s face was a sight, as he stood holding Aubrey in his arms, to
gratify the child’s impatience. The stifling den, the uncouth aspect
of the children, the head girl so very ragged a specimen, thoroughly
revolted his somewhat fastidious disposition. This was Ethel’s delight!
to this she made so many sacrifices! this was all that her time and
labour had effected! He did not wish to vex her but it was more than he
could stand.
However, Ethel was too much engrossed to look for sympathy. It was a
fine spring day, and on the open space of the common the arrangements
were quickly made. The children stood in a long line, and the baskets
were unpacked. Flora and Ethel called the names, Mary and Blanche gave
the presents, and assuredly the grins, courtesies, and pulls of the
forelock they elicited, could not have been more hearty for any of Miss
Rivers’s treasures. The buns and the kettles of tea followed--it was
perfect delight to entertainers and entertained, except when Mary’s
dignity was cruelly hurt by Norman’s authoritatively taking a kettle out
of her hands, telling her she would be the death of herself or somebody
else, and reducing her to the mere rank of a bun distributor, which
Blanche and Aubrey could do just as well; while he stalked along with a
grave and resigned countenance, filling up the cups held out to him by
timid-looking children. Mary next fell in with Granny Hall, who had gone
into such an ecstasy over Blanche and Aubrey, that Blanche did not know
which way to look; and Aubrey, in some fear that the old woman might
intend to kiss him, returned the compliments by telling her she was
“ugly up in her face,” at which she laughed heartily, and uttered more
vehement benedictions.
Finally, the three best children, boys and girls, were to be made fit
to be seen, and recommended by Mr. Wilmot to the Sunday-school and
penny club at Stoneborough, and, this being proclaimed and the children
selected, the assembly dispersed, Mr. Wilmot rejoicing Ethel and
Richard by saying, “Well, really, you have made a beginning. There is an
improvement in tone among those children, that is more satisfactory than
any progress they may have made.”
Ethel’s eyes beamed, and she hurried to tell Flora. Richard coloured
and gave his quiet smile, then turned to put things in order for their
return.
“Will you drive home, Richard?” said Norman, coming up to him.
“Don’t you wish it?” said Richard, who had many minor arrangements to
make, and would have preferred walking home independently.
“No, thank you, I have a headache, and walking may take it off,” said
Norman, taking off his hat and passing his fingers through his hair.
“A headache again--I am sorry to hear it.”
“It is only that suffocating den of yours. My head ached from the moment
I looked into it. How can you take Ethel into such a hole, Richard? It
is enough to kill her to go on with it for ever.”
“It is not so every day,” said the elder brother quietly. “It is a warm
day, and there was an unusual crowd.”
“I shall speak to my father,” exclaimed Norman, with somewhat of the
supercilious tone that he had now and then been tempted to address to
his brother. “It is not fit that Ethel should give up everything, health
and all, to such a set as these. They look as if they had been picked
out of the gutter--dirt, squalor, everything disgusting, and summer
coming on, too, and that horrid place with no window to open! It is
utterly unbearable!”
Richard stooped to pick up a heavy basket, then smiled and said, “You
must get over such things as these if you mean to be a clergyman,
Norman.”
“Whatever I am to be, it does not concern the girls being in such a
place as this. I am surprised that you could suffer it.”
There was no answer--Richard was walking off with his basket, and
putting it into the carriage. Norman was not pleased with himself, but
thought it his duty to let his father know his opinion of Ethel’s weekly
resort. All he wished was to avoid Ethel herself, not liking to show her
his sentiments, and he was glad to see her put into the gig with Aubrey
and Mary.
They rushed into the drawing-room, full of glee, when they came home,
all shouting their news together, and had not at first leisure to
perceive that Margaret had some tidings for them in return. Mr.
Rivers had been there, with a pressing invitation to his daughter’s
school-feast, and it had been arranged that Flora and Ethel should go
and spend the day at the Grange, and their father come to dine, and
fetch them home in the evening. Margaret had been much pleased with the
manner in which the thing was done. When Dr. May, who seemed reluctant
to accept the proposal that related to himself, was called out of the
room, Mr. Rivers had, in a most kind manner, begged her to say whether
she thought it would be painful to him, or whether it might do
his spirits good. She decidedly gave her opinion in favour of the
invitation, Mr. Rivers gained his point, and she had ever since been
persuading her father to like the notion, and assuring him it need not
be made a precedent for the renewal of invitations to dine out in the
town. He thought the change would be pleasant for his girls, and had,
therefore, consented.
“Oh, papa, papa! thank you!” cried Ethel, enraptured, as soon as he
came into the room. “How very kind of you! How I have wished to see the
Grange, and all Norman talks about! Oh, dear! I am so glad you are going
there too!”
“Why, what should you do with me?” said Dr. May, who felt and looked
depressed at this taking up of the world again.
“Oh, dear! I should not like it at all without you! It would be no fun
at all by ourselves. I wish Flora would come home. How pleased she will
be! Papa, I do wish you would look as if you didn’t mind it! I can’t
enjoy it if you don’t like going.”
“I shall when I am there, my dear,” said the doctor affectionately,
putting his arm around her as she stood by him. “It will be a fine day’s
sport for you.”
“But can’t you like it beforehand, papa?”
“Not just this minute, Ethel,” said he, with his bright, sad smile. “All
I like just now is my girl’s not being able to do without me; but we’ll
do the best we can. So your flock acquitted themselves brilliantly? Who
is your Senior Wrangler?”
Ethel threw herself eagerly into the history of the examination, and had
almost forgotten the invitation till she heard the front door open. Then
it was not she, but Margaret, who told Flora--Ethel could not, as she
said, enjoy what seemed to sadden her father. Flora received it much
more calmly. “It will be very pleasant,” said she; “it was very kind of
papa to consent. You will have Richard and Norman, Margaret, to be with
you in the evening.”
And, as soon as they went upstairs, Ethel began to write down the list
of prizes in her school journal, while Flora took out the best evening
frocks, to study whether the crape looked fresh enough.
The invitation was a convenient subject of conversation, for Norman had
so much to tell his sisters of the curiosities they must look for at the
Grange, that he was not obliged to mention Cocksmoor. He did not like
to mortify Ethel by telling her his intense disgust, and he knew he
was about to do what she would think a great injury by speaking to his
father on the subject; but he thought it for her real welfare, and
took the first opportunity of making to his father and Margaret a most
formidable description of Ethel’s black-hole. It quite alarmed Margaret,
but the doctor smiled, saying, “Ay, ay, I know the face Norman puts on
if he looks into a cottage.”
“Well,” said Norman, with some mortification, “all I know is, that my
head ached all the rest of the day.”
“Very likely, but your head is not Ethel’s, and there were twice as many
people as the place was intended to hold.”
“A stuffy hole, full of peat-smoke, and with a window that can’t open at
the best of times.”
“Peat-smoke is wholesome,” said Dr. May, looking provoking.
“You don’t know what it is, papa, or you would never let Ethel spend her
life there. It is poisonous!”
“I’ll take care of Ethel,” said Dr. May, walking off, and leaving Norman
in a state of considerable annoyance at being thus treated. He broke
out into fresh exclamations against the horrors of Cocksmoor, telling
Margaret she had no idea what a den it was.
“But, Norman, it can’t be so very bad, or Richard would not allow it.”
“Richard is deluded!” said Norman; “but if he chooses to run after dirty
brats, why should he take Ethel there?”
“My dear Norman, you know it is all Ethel’s doing.”
“Yes, I know she has gone crazy after them, and given up all her Greek
for it. It is past endurance!” said Norman, who had worked himself up
into great indignation.
“Well, but surely, Norman, it is better they should do what they can for
those poor creatures, than for Ethel to learn Greek.”
“I don’t know that. Let those who are fit for nothing else go and
drone over A B C with ragged children, if they like. It is just their
vocation; but there is an order in everything, Margaret, and minds of a
superior kind are intended for higher purposes, not to be wasted in this
manner.”
“I don’t know whether they are wasted,” said Margaret, not quite liking
Norman’s tone, though she had not much to say to his arguments.
“Not wasted? Not in doing what any one can do? I know what you’ll
say about the poor. I grant it, but high ability must be given for a
purpose, not to be thrown away. It is common-sense, that some one must
be meant to do the dirty work.”
“I see what you mean, Norman, but I don’t quite like that to be called
by such a name. I think--” she hesitated. “Don’t you think you dislike
such things more than--”
“Any one must abominate dirt and slovenliness. I know what you mean. My
father thinks ‘tis all nonsense in me, but his profession has made him
insensible to such things, and he fancies every one else is the same!
Now, Margaret, am I unreasonable?”
“I am sure I don’t know, dear Norman,” said Margaret, hesitating,
and feeling it her duty to say something; “I dare say it was very
disagreeable.”
“And you think, too, that I made a disturbance for nothing?”
“No, indeed I don’t, nor does dear papa. I have no doubt he will see
whether it is proper for Ethel. All I think he meant is, that perhaps
your not being well last winter has made you a little more sensitive in
such things.”
Norman paused, and coloured. He remembered the pain it had given him to
find himself incapable of being of use to his father, and that he had
resolved to conquer the weakness of nerve of which he was ashamed;
but he did not like to connect this with his fastidious feelings of
refinement. He would not own to himself that they were over nice, and,
at the bottom of all this justification, rankled Richard’s saying, that
he who cared for such things was unfit for a clergyman. Norman’s secret
thought was, it was all very well for those who could only aspire
to parish work in wretched cottages--people who could distinguish
themselves were more useful at the university, forming minds, and
opening new discoveries in learning.
Was Norman quite proof against the consciousness of daily excelling
all his competitors? His superiority had become even more manifest
this Easter, when Cheviot and Forder, the two elder boys whom he had
outstripped, left the school, avowedly, because it was not worth
while for them to stay, since they had so little chance of the Randall
scholarship. Norman had now only to walk over the course, no one even
approaching him but Harvey Anderson.
Meta Rivers always said that fine weather came at her call, and so it
did--glowing sunshine streaming over the shaven turf, and penetrating
even the solid masses of the great cedar.
The carriage was sent for the Misses May, and at two o’clock they
arrived. Flora, extremely anxious that Ethel should comport herself
discreetly; and Ethel full of curiosity and eagerness, the only drawback
her fears that her papa was doing what he disliked. She was not in the
least shy, and did not think about her manner enough to be troubled by
the consciousness that it had a good deal of abruptness and eagerness,
and that her short sight made her awkward. Meta met them with
outstretched hands and a face beaming with welcome. “I told you I should
get my way!” she said triumphantly, and, after her warm greeting, she
looked with some respect at the face of the Miss May who was so very
clever. It certainly was not what she expected, not at all like either
of the four sisters she had already seen--brown, sallow, and with that
sharp long nose, and the eager eyes, and brow a little knit by the
desire to see as far as she could. It was pleasanter to look at Flora.
Ethel left the talk chiefly to Flora--there was wonder and study enough
for her in the grounds and garden, and when Mrs. Larpent tried to enter
into conversation with her, she let it drop two or three times while
she was peering hard at a picture and trying to make out its subject.
However, when they all went out to walk to church, Ethel lighted up,
and talked, admired, and asked questions in her quick, eager way, which
interested Mrs. Larpent greatly. The governess asked after Norman, and
no more was wanted to produce a volume of histories of his successes,
till Flora turned as she walked before with Meta, saying, “Why, Ethel,
you are quite overwhelming Mrs. Larpent.”
But some civil answer convinced Ethel that what she said was
interesting, and she would not be stopped in her account of their
anxieties on the day of the examination. Flora was pleased that Meta,
catching some words, begged to hear more, and Flora gave an account
of the matter, soberer in terms, but quietly setting Norman at a much
greater distance from all his competitors.
After church came the feast in the school. It was a large commodious
building. Meta declared it was very tiresome that it was so good inside,
it was so ugly, she should never rest till papa had built her a real
beauty. They found Mr. and Mrs. Charles Wilmot in the school, with a
very nice well-dressed set of boys and girls, and--But there is no need
to describe the roast-beef and plum-pudding, “the feast ate merrily,”
and Ethel was brilliantly happy waiting on the children, and so was
sunny-hearted Meta. Flora was too busy in determining what the Riverses
might be thinking of her and her sister to give herself up to the
enjoyment.
Ethel found a small boy looking ready to cry at an untouched slice of
beef. She examined him whether he could cut it, and at last discovered
that, as had been the case with one or two of her own brothers at the
same age, meat was repugnant to him. In her vehement manner she flew
off to fetch him some pudding, and hurrying up, as she thought, to Mr.
Charles Wilmot, who had been giving it out, she thrust her plate between
him and the dish, and had begun her explanation when she perceived it
was a stranger, and she stood, utterly discomfited, not saying, “I beg
your pardon,” but only blushing, awkward and confused, as he spoke to
her, in a good-natured, hospitable manner, which showed her it must be
Mr. Rivers. She obtained her pudding, and, turning hastily, retreated.
“Meta,” said Mr. Rivers, as his daughter came out of the school with
him, for, open and airy as it was, the numbers and the dinner made him
regard it as Norman had viewed the Cocksmoor room, “was that one of the
Miss Mays?”
“Yes, papa, Ethel, the third, the clever one.”
“I thought she must be one of them from her dress; but what a difference
between her and the others!”
Mr. Rivers was a great admirer of beauty, and Meta, brought up to be the
same, was disappointed, but consoled herself by admiring Flora. Ethel,
after the awkwardness was over, thought no more of the matter, but went
on in full enjoyment of the feast. The eating finished, the making of
presents commenced, and choice ones they were. The smiles of Meta and of
the children were a pretty sight, and Ethel thought she had never seen
anything so like a beneficent fairy. Mr. and Mrs. Wilmot said their
words of counsel and encouragement, and, by five o’clock, all was over.
“Oh, I am sorry!” said Meta, “Easter won’t come again for a whole year,
and it has been so delightful. How that dear little Annie smiled and
nursed her doll! I wish I could see her show it to her mother! Oh, how
nice it is! I am so glad papa brought me to live in the country. I don’t
think anything can be so charming in all the world as seeing little
children happy!”
Ethel could not think how the Wilmots could have found it in their heart
to regret the liberality of this sweet damsel, on whom she began to look
with Norman’s enthusiastic admiration.
There was time for a walk round the grounds, Meta doing the honours to
Flora, and Ethel walking with Mrs. Larpent. Both pairs were very good
friends, and the two sisters admired and were charmed with the beauty
of the gardens and conservatories--Ethel laying up a rich store of
intelligence for Margaret; but still she was not entirely happy;
her papa was more and more on her mind. He had looked dispirited
at breakfast; he had a long hard day’s work before him, and she was
increasingly uneasy at the thought that it would be a painful effort to
him to join them in the evening. Her mind was full of it when she was
conducted, with Flora, to the room where they were to dress; and when
Flora began to express her delight, her answer was only that she hoped
it was not very unpleasant to papa.
“It is not worth while to be unhappy about that, Ethel. If it is an
effort, it will be good for him when he is once here. I know he will
enjoy it.”
“Yes, I should think he would--I hope he will. He must like you to have
such a friend as Miss Rivers. How pretty she is!”
“Now, Ethel, it is high time to dress. Pray make yourself look
nice--don’t twist up your hair in that any-how fashion.”
Ethel sighed, then began talking fast about some hints on school-keeping
which she had picked up for Cocksmoor.
Flora’s glossy braids were in full order, while Ethel was still
struggling to get her plait smooth, and was extremely beholden to her
sister for taking it into her own hands and doing the best with it that
its thinness and roughness permitted. And then Flora pinched and pulled
and arranged Ethel’s frock, in vain attempts to make it sit like her
own--those sharp high bones resisted all attempts to disguise them.
“Never mind, Flora, it is quite tidy, I am sure, there--do let me be in
peace. You are like old nurse.”
“So those are all the thanks I get?”
“Well, thank you very much, dear Flora. You are a famous person. How I
wish Margaret could see that lovely mimosa!”
“And, Ethel, do take care. Pray don’t poke and spy when you come into
the room, and don’t frown when you are trying to see. I hope you won’t
have anything to help at dinner. Take care how you manage.”
“I’ll try,” said Ethel meekly, though a good deal tormented, as Flora
went on with half a dozen more injunctions, closed by Meta’s coming to
fetch them. Little Meta did not like to show them her own bedroom--she
pitied them so much when she thought of the contrast. She would have
liked to put Flora’s arm through her’s, but she thought, it would look
neglectful of Ethel; so she only showed the way downstairs. Ethel forgot
all her sister’s orders; for there stood her father, and she looked
most earnestly at his face. It was cheerful, and his voice sounded
well pleased as he greeted Meta; then resumed an animated talk with
Mr. Rivers. Ethel drew as near him as she could; she had a sense of
protection, and could open to full enjoyment when she saw him bright. At
the first pause in the conversation, the gentlemen turned to the young
ladies. Mr. Rivers began talking to Flora, and Dr. May, after a few
pleasant words to Meta, went back to Ethel. He wanted her to see
his favourite pictures--he led her up to them, made her put on his
spectacles to see them better, and showed her their special merits. Mr.
Rivers and the others joined them; Ethel said little, except a remark
or two in answer to her papa, but she was very happy--she felt that he
liked to have her with him; and Meta, too, was struck by the soundness
of her few sayings, and the participation there seemed to be in all
things between the father and daughter.
At dinner Ethel went on pretty well. She was next to her father, and was
very glad to find the dinner so grand, that no side-dish fell to her lot
to be carved. There was a great deal of pleasant talk, such as the girls
could understand, though they did not join much in it, except that now
and then Dr. May turned to Ethel as a reference for names and dates. To
make up for silence at dinner, there was a most confidential chatter in
the drawing-room. Flora and Meta on one side, hand in hand, calling each
other by their Christian names, Mrs. Larpent and Ethel on the other.
Flora dreaded only that Ethel was talking too much, and revealing too
much in how different style they lived. Then came the gentlemen, Dr. May
begging Mr. Rivers to show Ethel one of his prints, when Ethel stooped
more than ever, as if her eyelashes were feelers, but she was in
transports of delight, and her embarrassment entirely at an end in her
admiration, as she exclaimed and discussed with her papa, and by her
hearty appreciation made Mr. Rivers for the time forget her plainness.
Music followed; Flora played nicely, Meta like a well-taught girl; Ethel
went on musing over the engravings. The carriage was announced, and
so ended the day in Norman’s fairy-land. Ethel went home, leaning hard
against her papa, talking to him of Raphael’s Madonnas; and looking out
at the stars, and thinking how the heavenly beauty of those faces that,
in the prints she had been turning over, seemed to be connected with the
glories of the dark-blue sky and glowing stars. “As one star differeth
from another star in glory,” murmured she; “that was the lesson to-day,
papa;” and when she felt him press her hand, she knew he was thinking of
that last time she had heard the lesson, when he had not been with her,
and her thoughts went with his, though not another word was spoken.
Flora hardly knew when they ceased to talk. She had musings equally
engrossing of her own. She saw she was likely to be very intimate with
Meta Rivers, and she was roaming away into schemes for not letting the
intercourse drop, and hopes of being admitted to many a pleasure as yet
little within her reach--parties, balls, London, itself, and, above all,
the satisfaction of being admired. The certainty that Mr. Rivers thought
her pretty and agreeable had gratified her all the evening, and if he,
with his refined taste, thought so, what would others think? Her
only fear was, that Ethel’s awkwardness might make an unfavourable
impression, but, at least, she said to herself, it was anything but
vulgar awkwardness.
Their reflections were interrupted by the fly stopping. It was at a
little shop in the outskirts of the town, and Dr. May, explained that he
wanted to inquire for a patient. He went in for a moment, then came back
to desire that they would go home, for he should be detained some little
time. No one need sit up for him--he would let himself in.
It seemed a comment on Ethel’s thoughts, bringing them back to the
present hour. That daily work of homely mercy, hoping for nothing again,
was surely the true way of doing service.