Weary soul, and burdened sore,
Labouring with thy secret load,
Fear not all thy griefs to pour
In this heart, love’s true abode.
Lyra Innocentium.
Tea had just been brought in on the eighth evening from Norman’s
departure, when there was a ring at the bell. There was a start, and
look of expectation. “Only a patient,” said the doctor; but it surely
was not for that reason that he rose with so much alacrity and opened
the door, nor was “Well, old fellow?” the greeting for his patients--so
everybody sprang after him, and beheld something tall taking off a coat,
while a voice said, “I have got it.”
The mass of children rushed back to Margaret, screaming, “He has got
it!” and then Aubrey trotted out into the hall again to see what Norman
had got.
“A happy face at least,” said Margaret, as he came to her. And that was
not peculiar to Norman. The radiance had shone out upon every one
in that moment, and it was one buzz of happy exclamation, query, and
answer--the only tone of regret when Mary spoke of Harry, and all
at once took up the strain--how glad poor Harry would be. As to the
examination, that had been much less difficult than Norman had expected;
in fact, he said, it was lucky for him that the very subjects had been
chosen in which he was most up--luck which, as the doctor could not help
observing, generally did attend Norman. And Norman had been so happy
with Richard; the kind, wise elder brother had done exactly what was
best for him in soothing his anxiety, and had fully shared his feelings,
and exulted in his success. Margaret had a most triumphant letter,
dwelling on the abilities of the candidates whom Norman had outstripped,
and the idea that every one had conceived of his talent. “Indeed,” wrote
Richard, “I fancy the men had never believed that I could have a clever
brother. I am glad they have seen what Norman can do.”
Margaret could not help reading this aloud, and it made Norman blush
with the compunction that Richard’s unselfish pride in him always
excited. He had much to tell of his ecstasy with Oxford. Stoneborough
Minster had been a training in appreciation of its hoary beauty, but the
essentially prosaic Richard had never prepared him for the impression
that the reverend old university made on him, and he was already, heart
and soul, one of her most loyal and loving sons, speaking of his college
and of the whole university as one who had a right of property in them,
and looking, all the time, not elated, but contented, as if he had found
his sphere and was satisfied. He had seen Cheviot, too, and had been
very happy in the renewed friendship; and had been claimed as a cousin
by a Balliol man, a certain Norman Ogilvie, a name well known among the
Mays. “And how has Tom been getting on?” he asked, when he returned to
home affairs.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Ethel. “He will not have my help.”
“Not let you help him!” exclaimed Norman.
“No. He says he wants no girls,” said Ethel, laughing.
“Foolish fellow!” said Norman. “I wonder what sort of work he has made!”
“Very funny, I should think,” said Ethel, “judging by the verses I could
see.”
The little, pale, rough-haired Tom, in his perpetual coating of dust,
softly crept into the room, as if he only wanted to elude observation;
but Mary and Blanche were at once vociferating their news in his ears,
though with little encouragement--he only shook them off abruptly, and
would not answer when they required him to be glad.
Norman stretched out his arm, intercepting him as he was making for his
hiding-place behind Dr. May’s arm-chair.
“Come, August, how have things gone on?”
“Oh! I don’t know.”
“What’s your place?”
“Thirteenth!” muttered Tom in his throat, and well he might, for two
or three voices cried out that was too bad, and that it was all his own
fault, for not accepting Ethel’s help. He took little heed, but crept to
his corner without another word, and Mary knew she should be thumped if
she should torment him there.
Norman left him alone, but the coldness of the little brother for whom
he had worked gave a greater chill to his pleasure than he could have
supposed possible. He would rather have had some cordiality on Tom’s
part, than all the congratulations that met him the next day.
He could not rest contented while Tom continued to shrink from him, and
he was the more uneasy when, on Saturday morning, no calls from Mary
availed to find the little boy, and bring him to the usual reading and
Catechism.
Margaret decided that they must begin without him, and poor Mary’s verse
was read, in consequence, with a most dolorous tone. As soon as the
books were shut, she ran off, and a few words passed among the elder
ones about the truant--Flora opining that the Andersons had led him
away; Ethel suggesting that his gloom must arise from his not being
well; and Margaret looking wistfully at Norman, and saying she feared
they had judged much amiss last spring. Norman heard in silence, and
walked thoughtfully into the garden. Presently he caught Mary’s voice in
expostulation: “How could you not come to read?”
“Girls’ work!” growled another voice, out of sight.
“But Norman, and Richard, and Harry, always come to the reading.
Everybody ought.”
Norman, who was going round the shrubs that concealed the speakers from
him, here lost their voices, but, as he emerged in front of the old
tool-house, he heard a little scream from Mary, and, at the same moment,
she darted back, and fell over a heap of cabbage-stumps in front of the
old tool-house. It was no small surprise to her to be raised by him, and
tenderly asked whether she were hurt. She was not hurt, but she could
not speak without crying, and when Norman begged to hear what was the
matter, and where Tom was, she would only plead for him--that he did not
intend to hurt her, and that she had been teasing him. What had he done
to frighten her? Oh! he had only run at her with a hoe, because she was
troublesome; she did not mind it, and Norman must not--and she clung
to him as if to keep him back, while he pursued his researches in the
tool-house, where, nearly concealed by a great bushel-basket, lurked
Master Thomas, crouching down, with a volume of Gil Blas in his hand.
“You here, Tom! What have you hidden yourself here for? What can make
you so savage to Mary?”
“She should not bother me,” said Tom sulkily.
Norman sent Mary away, pacifying her by promises that he would not
revenge her quarrel upon Tom, and then, turning the basket upside down,
and perching himself astride on it, he began: “That is the kindest, most
forgiving little sister I ever did see. What possesses you to treat her
so ill?”
“I wasn’t going to hurt her.”
“But why drive her away? Why don’t you come to read?” No answer;
and Norman, for a moment, felt as if Tom were really hopelessly
ill-conditioned and sullen, but he persevered in restraining his
desire to cuff the ill-humour out of him, and continued, “Come! there’s
something wrong, and you will never be better till it is out. Tell
me--don’t be afraid. Those fellows have been at you again?”
He took Tom by the arm to draw him nearer, but a cry and start of pain
were the result. “So they have licked you? Eh? What have they been
doing?”
“They said they would spiflicate me if I told!” sighed Tom.
“They shall never do anything to you;” and, by-and-by, a sobbing
confession was drawn forth, muttered at intervals, as low as if Tom
expected the strings of onions to hear and betray him to his foes.
Looking on him as a deserter, these town-boys had taken advantage of his
brother’s absence to heap on him every misery they could inflict. There
had been a wager between Edward Anderson and Sam Axworthy as to what
Tom could be made to do, and his personal timidity made him a miserable
victim, not merely beaten and bruised, but forced to transgress every
rule of right and wrong that had been enforced on his conscience.
On Sunday, they had profited by the absence of their dux to have a
jollification at a little public-house, not far from the playing-fields;
and here had Tom been dragged in, forced to partake with them, and
frightened with threats that he had treated them all, and was liable
to pay the whole bill, which, of course, he firmly believed, as well
as that he should be at least half murdered if he gave his father any
suspicion that the whole had not been consumed by himself. Now, though
poor Tom’s conscience had lost many scruples during the last spring,
the offence, into which he had been forced, was too heinous to a child
brought up as he had been to be palliated even in his own eyes. The
profanation of Sunday, and the carousal in a public-house, had combined
to fill him with a sense of shame and degradation, which was the real
cause that he felt himself unworthy to come and read with his sisters.
His grief and misery were extreme, and Norman’s indignation was such
as could find no utterance. He sat silent, quivering with anger, and
clenching his fingers over the handle of the hoe.
“I knew it!” sighed Tom. “None of you will ever speak to me again!”
“You! Why, August, man, I have better hopes of you than ever. You are
more really sorry now than ever you were before.”
“I had never been at the Green Man before,” said poor Tom, feeling his
future life stained.
“You never will again!”
“When you are gone--” and the poor victim’s voice died away.
“Tom, you will not stay after me. It is settled that when I go to
Balliol, you leave Stoneborough, and go to Mr. Wilmot as pupil. Those
scamps shall never have you in their clutches again.”
It did not produce the ecstasy Norman had expected. The boy still sat
on the ground, staring at his brother, as if the good news hardly
penetrated the gloom; and, after a disappointing silence, recurred to
the most immediate cause of distress: “Eight shillings and tenpence
halfpenny! Norman, if you would only lend it to me, you shall have all
my tin till I have made it up--sixpence a week, and half-a-crown on New
Year’s Day.”
“I am not going to pay Mr. Axworthy’s reckoning,” said Norman, rather
angrily. “You will never be better till you have told my father the
whole.”
“Do you think they will send in the bill to my father?” asked Tom, in
alarm.
“No, indeed! that is the last thing they will do,” said Norman; “but I
would not have you come to him only for such a sneaking reason.”
“But the girls would hear it. Oh, if I thought Mary and Margaret would
ever hear it--Norman, I can’t--”
Norman assured him that there was not the slightest reason that these
passages should ever come to the knowledge of his sisters. Tom was
excessively afraid of his father, but he could not well be more wretched
than he was already; and he was brought to assent when Norman showed
him that he had never been happy since the affair of the blotting-paper,
when his father’s looks and tones had become objects of dread to his
guilty conscience. Was not the only means of recovering a place in
papa’s esteem to treat him with confidence?
Tom answered not, and would only shudder when his brother took upon him
to declare that free confession would gain pardon even for the doings at
the Green Man.
Tom had grown stupefied and passive, and his sole dependence was on
Norman, so, at last, he made no opposition when his brother offered to
conduct him to his father and speak for him. The danger now was that
Dr. May should not be forthcoming, and the elder brother was as much
relieved, as the younger was dismayed, to see, through the drawing-room
window, that he was standing beside Margaret.
“Papa, can you come and speak to me,” said Norman, “at the door?”
“Coming! What now?” said the doctor, entering the hall. “What, Tom, my
boy, what is it?” as he saw the poor child, white, cold, almost sick
with apprehension, with every pulse throbbing, and looking positively
ill. He took the chilly, damp hand, which shook nervously, and would
fain have withdrawn itself.
“Come, my dear, let us see what is amiss;” and before Tom knew what he
was doing, he had seated him on his knee, in the arm-chair in the study,
and was feeling his pulse. “There, rest your head! Has it not been
aching all day?”
“I do not think he is ill,” said Norman; “but there is something he
thinks I had better tell you.”
Tom would fain have been on his feet, yet the support of that shoulder
was inexpressibly comfortable to his aching temples, and he could not
but wait for the shock of being roughly shaken and put down. So, as his
brother related what had occurred, he crouched and trembled more and
more on his father’s breast, till, to his surprise, he found the other
arm passed round him in support, drawing him more tenderly close.
“My poor little fellow!” said Dr. May, trying to look into the drooping
face, “I grieve to have exposed you to such usage as this! I little
thought it of Stoneborough fellows!”
“He is very sorry,” said Norman, much distressed by the condition of the
culprit.
“I see it--I see it plainly,” said Dr. May. “Tommy, my boy, why should
you tremble when you are with me?”
“He has been in great dread of your being displeased.”
“My boy, do you not know how I forgive you?” Tom clung round his neck,
as if to steady himself.
“Oh, papa! I thought you would never--”
“Nay, you need never have thought so, my boy! What have I done that you
should fear me?”
Tom did not speak, but nestled up to him with more confidence. “There!
that’s better! Poor child! what he must have suffered! He was not fit
for the place! I had thought him looking ill. Little did I guess the
cause.”
“He says his head has ached ever since Sunday,” said Norman; “and I
believe he has hardly eaten or slept properly since.”
“He shall never be under their power again! Thanks to you, Norman. Do
you hear that, Tommy?”
The answer was hardly audible. The little boy was already almost asleep,
worn out with all he had undergone. Norman began to clear the sofa, that
they might lay him down, but his father would not hear of disturbing
him, and, sending Norman away, sat still for more than an hour, until
the child slowly awoke, and scarcely recalling what had happened, stood
up between his father’s knees, rubbing his eyes, and looking bewildered.
“You are better now, my boy?”
“I thought you would be very angry,” slowly murmured Tom, as the past
returned on him.
“Never, while you are sorry for your faults, and own them freely.”
“I’m glad I did,” said the boy, still half asleep. “I did not know you
would be so kind.”
“Ah! Tom, I fear it was as much my fault as yours that you did not know
it. But, my dear, there is a pardon that can give you better peace than
mine.”
“I think,” muttered Tom, looking down--“I think I could say my prayers
again now, if--”
“If what, my dear?”
“If you would help me, as mamma used--”
There could be but one response to this speech.
Tom was still giddy and unwell, his whole frame affected by the troubles
of the last week, and Dr. May arranged him on the sofa, and desired
him to be quiet, offering to send Mary to be his companion. Tom was
languidly pleased, but renewed his entreaty, that his confession
might be a secret from his sisters. Dr. May promised, and Mary, quite
satisfied at being taken into favour, asked no questions, but spent
the rest of the morning in playing at draughts with him, and in having
inflicted on her the history of the Bloody Fire King’s Ghost--a work
of Tom’s imagination, which he was wont to extemporise, to the extreme
terror of much enduring Mary.
When Dr. May had called Mary, he next summoned Norman, who found him in
the hall, putting on his hat, and looking very stern and determined.
“Norman!” said he hastily, “don’t say a word--it must be done--Hoxton
must hear of this.”
Norman’s face expressed utter consternation.
“It is not your doing. It is no concern of yours,” said Dr. May,
walking impetuously into the garden. “I find my boy ill, broken down,
shattered--it is the usage of this crew of fellows--what right have I to
conceal it--leave other people’s sons to be so served?”
“I believe they did so to Tom out of ill-will to me,” said Norman, “and
because they thought he had ratted.”
“Hush! don’t argue against it,” said Dr. May, almost petulantly. “I have
stood a great deal to oblige you, but I cannot stand this. When it is
a matter of corruption, base cruelty--no, Norman, it is not right--not
another word!”
Norman’s words had not been many, but he felt a conviction that, in
spite of the dismay and pain to himself, Dr. May ought to meet with
submission to his judgment, and he acquiesced by silence.
“Don’t you see,” continued the doctor, “if they act thus, when your back
is turned, what is to happen next half? ‘Tis not for Tom’s sake, but how
could we justify it to ourselves, to expose other boys to this usage?”
“Yes,” said Norman, not without a sigh. “I suppose it must be.”
“That is right,” said Dr. May, as if much relieved. “I knew you must see
it in that light. I do not mean to abuse your confidence.”
“No, indeed,” answered Norman warmly.
“But you see yourself, that where the welfare of so many is at stake,
it would be wickedness--yes, wickedness--to be silent. Could I see
that little fellow prostrated, trembling in my arms, and think of those
scamps inflicting the same on other helpless children--away from their
homes!”
“I see, I see!” said Norman, carried along by the indignation and
tenderness that agitated his father’s voice in his vehemence--“it is the
only thing to be done.”
“It would be sharing the guilt to hide it,” said Dr. May.
“Very well,” said Norman, still reluctantly. “What do you wish me to do?
You see, as dux, I know nothing about it. It happened while I was away.”
“True, true,” said his father. “You have learned it as brother, not as
senior boy. Yes, we had better have you out of the matter. It is I who
complain of their usage of my son.”
“Thank you,” said Norman, with gratitude.
“You have not told me the names of these fellows! No, I had best not
know them.”
“I think it might make a difference,” hesitated Norman.
“No, no, I will not hear them. It ought to make none. The fact is the
same, be they who they may.”
The doctor let himself out at the garden gate, and strode off at a rapid
pace, conscious perhaps, in secret, that if he did not at once yield
to the impulse of resentment, good nature would overpower the sense of
justice. His son returned to the house with a heavy sigh, yet honouring
the generosity that had respected his scruples, when merely his own
worldly loss was involved, but set them aside when the good of others
was concerned. By-and-by Dr. May reappeared. The head-master had been
thoroughly roused to anger, and had begged at once to examine May
junior, for whom his father was now come.
Tom was quite unprepared for such formidable consequences of his
confession, and began by piteous tears and sobs, and when these had,
with some difficulty, been pacified, he proved to be really so unwell
and exhausted, that his father could not take him to Minster Street, and
was obliged to leave him to his brother’s keeping, while he returned to
the school.
Upon this, Dr. Hoxton came himself, and the sisters were extremely
excited and alarmed by the intelligence that he was in the study with
papa and Tom.
Then away went the gentlemen; and Mary was again called to comfort Tom,
who, broken down into the mere longing for sympathy, sobbed out all his
troubles to her, while her eyes expanded more and more in horror, and
her soft heart giving way, she cried quite as pitifully, and a great
deal more loudly; and so the other sisters learned the whole, and
Margaret was ready for her father when he came in, in the evening,
harassed and sorrowful. His anger was all gone now, and he was
excessively grieved at finding that the ringleaders, Samuel Axworthy and
Edward Anderson, could, in Dr. Hoxton’s opinion, receive no sentence but
expulsion, which was to be pronounced on them on Monday.
Sam Axworthy was the son of a low, uneducated man, and his best chance
had been the going to this school; but he was of a surly, obstinate
temper, and showed so little compunction, that even such superabundant
kindness as Dr. May’s could not find compassion for him; especially
since it had appeared that Tom had been by no means the only victim, and
that he had often been the promoter of the like malpractices, which many
boys were relieved to be forced to expose.
For Edward Anderson, however, or rather for his mother, Dr. May was very
sorry, and had even interceded for his pardon; but Dr. Hoxton, though
slow to be roused, was far less placable than the other doctor, and
would not hear of anything but the most rigorous justice.
“Poor Mrs. Anderson, with her pride in her children!” Flora spoke it
with a shade of contemptuous pity, but it made her father groan.
“I shall never be able to look in her face again! I shall never see that
boy without feeling that I have ruined him!”
“He needed nobody to do that for him,” said Flora.
“With every disadvantage!” continued Dr. May; “unable even to remember
his father! Why could I not be more patient and forbearing?”
“Oh, papa!” was the general cry--Norman’s voice giving decision to the
sisters’ exclamation.
“Perhaps,” said Margaret, “the shock may be the best thing for him.”
“Right, Margaret,” said her father. “Sometimes such a thing is the first
that shows what a course of evil really is.”
“They are an affectionate family too,” said Margaret, “and his mother’s
grief may have an effect on him.”
“If she does not treat him as an injured hero,” said Flora; “besides, I
see no reason for regret. These are but two, and the school is not to be
sacrificed to them.”
“Yes,” said Norman; “I believe that Ashe will be able to keep much
better order without Axworthy. It is much better as it is, but Harry
will be very sorry to hear it, and I wish this half was over.”
Poor Mrs. Anderson! her shower of notes rent the heart of the one
doctor, but were tossed carelessly aside by the other. On that Sunday,
Norman held various conversations with his probable successor, Ashe,
a gentle, well-disposed boy, hitherto in much dread of the post of
authority, but owning that, in Axworthy’s absence, the task would be
comparatively easy, and that Anderson would probably originate far less
mischief.
Edward Anderson himself fell in Norman’s way in the street, and was
shrinking aside, when a word, of not unfriendly greeting, caused him to
quicken his steps, and say, hesitatingly, “I say, how is August?”
“Better, thank you; he will be all right in a day or two.”
“I say, we would not have bullied him so, if he had not been in such a
fright at nothing.”
“I dare say not.”
“I did not mean it all, but that sort of thing makes a fellow go on,”
continued Edward, hanging down his head, very sorrowful and downcast.
“If it had only been fair bullying; but to take him to that place--to
teach him falsehood--” said Norman.
Edward’s eyes were full of tears; he almost owned the whole. He had
not thought of such things, and then Axworthy--It was more evident from
manner than words that the boy did repent and was greatly overcome,
both by his own disgrace and his mother’s distress, wishing earnestly to
redeem his character, and declaring, from the bottom of his heart, that
he would avoid his former offences. He was emboldened at last to say,
with hesitation, “Could not you speak to Dr. Hoxton for me?”
“My father has said all he could in your behalf.”
Edward’s eye glanced towards Norman in wonder, as he recollected that
the Mays must know that a word from him would have saved Norman
from unjust punishment and the loss of the scholarship, and he said,
“Good-night,” and turned aside to his own home, with a heavy sigh.
Norman took another turn, looked up at the sky, twisted his hands
together in perplexity, mumbled something about hating to do a thing
when it was all for no use, and then marched off towards Minster Street,
with a pace like his father’s the day before.
When he came forth again from Dr. Hoxton’s study, he did not believe
that his intercession had produced the least effect, and there was a
sense of vexation at the position which he had assumed. He went home,
and said nothing on the subject; but when, on Monday, the school was
assembled, and the judgment announced, it was Axworthy alone whose
friends had been advised to remove him.
Anderson received a severe punishment, as did all those who had shared
in the revel at the Green Man. Even Tom, and another little boy, who had
been likewise drawn in, were obliged to stay within narrow bounds, and
to learn heavy impositions; and a stern reprimand and exhortation were
given to the school collectively. Anderson, who had seen from the window
that turn towards Minster Street, drew his own conclusions, and was not
insensible to the generosity that had surpassed his hopes, though to his
faltering attempt at thanks, Norman replied that he did not believe
it was owing to him, and never exposed himself to Flora’s wonder by
declaring at home what he had done.
So the last weeks of the half-year passed away with the boys in a
subdued, but hopeful manner, and the reformation, under Norman’s
auspices, progressed so well, that Ashe might fairly expect to reap the
benefit of the discipline, established at so much cost.
Mr. Wilmot had looked on, and given his help, but he was preparing to
leave Stoneborough, and there was great concern at the parting with such
a friend. Ethel, especially, mourned the loss to Cocksmoor, and, for
though hers had been the executive part, his had been the head, and he
was almost equally grieved to go from the newly-begun work.
Margaret lamented the loss of her kind counsellor, and the ready hearer
of her anxieties for the children. Writing could ill supply the place of
their conversations, and she feared likewise that her father would
feel the want of his companionship. The promise of visits, and
the intercourse kept up by Tom’s passing to and fro, was the best
consolation.
Poor Margaret had begun to flag, both in strength and spirits, as winter
approached, but there came a revival in the shape of “Ship Letters!”
Alan wrote cheerfully and graphically, with excellent accounts of Harry,
who, on his side, sent very joyous and characteristic despatches, only
wishing that he could present Mary with all the monkeys and parrots he
had seen at Rio, as well as the little ruby-crested humming-birds, that
always reminded him of Miss Rivers.
With the Christmas holidays, Hector Ernescliffe came from Eton, as to a
home, and was received by Margaret as a sort of especial charge. It was
pretty to see how he turned to her as something peculiarly his own,
and would sit on a footstool by her, letting himself be drawn into
confidence, and dwelling on his brother’s past doings, and on future
schemes for Maplewood. For the rest, he restored to the house the
atmosphere of boy, which had somewhat departed with Harry. Mary, who had
begun to be tamed down, ran more wild than ever, to the utter despair
of Miss Winter; and Tom, now that his connection with the Whichcote
foundation was over, and he was no more cowed by the sight of his
tyrants, came out in a new light. He put on his boy-nature, rioted
like the rest, acquired colour in his cheeks, divested his jacket of
perpetual dust, had his hair cut, brushed up a crest on his head, and
ran about no longer a little abject, but a merry lad.
Ethel said it was a change from Horrid-locks to Harfagre; Margaret said
little, but, like her father, she blessed Norman in her heart for having
given back the boy to his father’s confidence, and saved him so far from
the terrible course of deceit and corruption. She could not much take
to heart the mad exploits of the so-called boys, even though she spent
three hours in heart-beatings on Christmas Eve, when Hector, Mary, Tom,
Blanche, and the dog Toby, were lost the whole day. However, they did
come back at six o’clock, having been deluded by an old myth of George
Larkins, into starting for a common, three miles beyond Cocksmoor, in
search of mistletoe, with scarlet berries, and yellow holly, with
leaves like a porcupine! Failing these wonders, they had been contenting
themselves with scarlet holly, in the Drydale plantations, when a rough
voice exclaimed, “Who gave you leave to take that?” whereupon Tom had
plunged into a thicket, and nearly “scratched out both his eyes”; but
Hector boldly standing his ground, with Blanche in his hand, the woodman
discovered that here was the Miss Mary, of whom his little girls talked
so much, thereupon cut down the choicest boughs, and promised to leave
a full supply at Dr. May’s. Margaret could have been angry at the taking
the young ladies on so mad a scheme, but then Mary was so happy, and as
to Hector, how scold him, when he had lifted Blanche over every
ditch, and had carried her home one mile on his back, and another,
queen’s-cushion fashion, between him and Mary?
Flora, meanwhile, went her own way. The desire of compensating for
what had passed with Norman, led to great civilities from Dr. and Mrs.
Hoxton, which nobody was at liberty to receive except Flora. Pretty,
graceful, and pleasing, she was a valuable companion to a gentle little,
inane lady, with more time and money than she knew what to do with; and
Mrs. Hoxton, who was of a superior grade to the Stoneborough ladies in
general, was such a chaperon as Flora was glad to secure. Dr. May’s old
loyal feelings could not help regarding her notice of his daughter as a
favour and kindness, and Margaret could find no tangible objections, nor
any precedent from her mother’s conduct, even had any one had the power
to interfere with one so quiet, reasonable, and determined as Flora.
So the intimacy became closer and closer, and as the winter passed on,
Flora gradually became established as the dear friend and assistant,
without whom Mrs. Hoxton could give no party. Further, Flora took the
grand step of setting up a copper-plate and cards of “Miss Flora May,”
went out frequently on morning calls with Mrs. Hoxton and her bay
horses, and when Dr. May refused his share of invitations to dinner with
the neighbours in the county, Flora generally found that she could go
under the Hoxtons’ guardianship.
PART II
CHAPTER I.
Now have I then eke this condicion
That above all the flouris in the mede;
Then love I most these flouris white and rede,
Soche that men callin daisies in our town.
To them have I so great affection,
As I said erst, when comin is the Maie,
That in my bed there dawith me no daie
That I am up and walking in the mede,
To see this floure agenst the sunne sprede.--CHAUCER.
“That is better!” said Margaret, contemplating a butterfly of the
penwiper class, whose constitution her dexterous needle had been
rendering less rickety than Blanche had left it.
Margaret still lay on the sofa, and her complexion had assumed the dead
white of habitual ill-health. There was more languor of manner, and her
countenance, when at rest, and not under the eye of her father, had
a sadness of expression, as if any hopes that she might once have
entertained were fading away. The years of Alan Ernescliffe’s absence
that had elapsed had rather taken from her powers than added to them.
Nevertheless, the habit of cheerfulness and sympathy had not deserted
her, and it was with a somewhat amused glance that she turned towards
Ethel, as she heard her answer by a sigh.
These years had dealt more kindly with Etheldred’s outward appearance.
They had rounded her angles, softened her features, and tinged
her cheeks with a touch of red, that took off from the surrounding
sallowness. She held herself better, had learned to keep her hair in
order, and the more womanly dress, plain though it was, improved her
figure more than could have been hoped in the days of her lank,
gawky girlhood. No one could call her pretty, but her countenance
had something more than ever pleasing in the animated and thoughtful
expression on those marked features. She was sitting near the window,
with a book, a dictionary, and pencil, as she replied to Margaret, with
the sigh that made her sister smile.
“Poor Ethel! I condole with you.”
“And I wonder at you!” said Ethel, “especially as Flora and Mrs. Hoxton
say it is all for your sake;” then, nettled by Margaret’s laugh, “Such a
nice occupation for her, poor thing, as if you were Mrs. Hoxton, and had
no resource but fancy-work.”
“You know I am base enough to be so amused,” said Margaret; “but,
seriously, Ethel dear, I cannot bear to see you so much hurt by it. I
did not know you were really grieved.”
“Grieved! I am ashamed--sickened!” cried Ethel vehemently. “Poor
Cocksmoor! As soon as anything is done there, Flora must needs go
about implying that we have set some grand work in hand, and want only
means--”
“Stop, Ethel; Flora does not boast.”
“No, she does not boast. I wish she did! That would be straightforward
and simple; but she has too good taste for that--so she does worse--she
tells a little, and makes that go a long way, as if she were keeping
back a great deal! You don’t know how furious it makes me!”
“Ethel!”
“So,” said Ethel, disregarding, “she stirs up all Stoneborough to hear
what the Miss Mays are doing at Cocksmoor. So the Ladies’ Committee must
needs have their finger in! Much they cared for the place when it was
wild and neglected! But they go to inspect Cherry and her school--Mrs.
Ledwich and all--and, back they come, shocked--no system, no order, the
mistress untrained, the school too small, with no apparatus! They all
run about in despair, as if we had ever asked them to help us. And so
Mrs. Hoxton, who cares for poor children no more than for puppy-dogs,
but who can’t live without useless work, and has filled her house as
full of it as it can hold, devises a bazaar--a field for her trumpery,
and a show-off for all the young ladies; and Flora treats it like an
inspiration! Off they trot, to the old Assembly Rooms. I trusted that
the smallness of them would have knocked it on the head; but, still
worse, Flora’s talking of it makes Mr. Rivers think it our pet scheme;
so, what does he do but offer his park, and so we are to have a
regular fancy fair, and Cocksmoor School will be founded in vanity and
frivolity! But I believe you like it!”
“I am not sure of my own feeling,” said Margaret. “It has been settled
without our interposition, and I have never been able to talk it over
calmly with you. Papa does not seem to disapprove.”
“No,” said Ethel. “He will only laugh, and say it will spare him a great
many of Mrs. Hoxton’s nervous attacks. He thinks of it nearly as I do,
at the bottom, but I cannot get him to stop it, nor even to say he does
not wish Flora to sell.”
“I did not understand that you really had such strong objections,” said
Margaret. “I thought it was only as a piece of folly, and--”
“And interference with my Cocksmoor?” said Ethel. “I had better own to
what may be wrong personal feeling at first.”
“I can hardly call it wrong,” said Margaret tenderly, “considering what
Cocksmoor is to you, and what the Ladies’ Committee is.”
“Oh, Margaret, if the lawful authority--if a good clergyman would only
come, how willingly would I work under him! But Mrs. Ledwich and--it
is like having all the Spaniards and savages spoiling Robinson Crusoe’s
desert island!”
“It is not come to that yet,” said Margaret; “but about the fancy fair.
We all know that the school is very much wanted.”
“Yes, but I hoped to wait in patience and perseverance, and do it at
last.”
“All yourself?”
“Now, Margaret! you know I was glad of Alan’s help.”
“I should think so!” said Margaret. “You need not make a favour of
that!”
“Yes, but, don’t you see, that came as almsgiving, in the way which
brings a blessing. We want nothing to make us give money and work to
Cocksmoor. We do all we can already; and I don’t want to get a fine bag
or a ridiculous pincushion in exchange!”
“Not you, but--”
“Well, for the rest. If they like to offer their money, well and good,
the better for them; but why must they not give it to Cocksmoor--but for
that unnatural butterfly of Blanche’s, with black pins for horns, that
they will go and sell at an extortionate rate.”
“The price will be given for Cocksmoor’s sake!”
“Pooh! Margaret. Do you think it is for Cocksmoor’s sake that Lady
Leonora Langdale and her fine daughter come down from London? Would Mrs.
Hoxton spend the time in making frocks for Cocksmoor children that
she does in cutting out paper, and stuffing glass bottles with it? Let
people be honest--alms, or pleasure, or vanity! let them say which they
mean; but don’t make charity the excuse for the others; and, above all,
don’t make my poor Cocksmoor the victim of it.”
“This is very severe,” said Margaret, pausing, almost confounded. “Do
you think no charity worth having but what is given on unmixed motives?
Who, then, could give?”
“Margaret--we see much evil arise in the best-planned institutions; nay,
in what are not human. Don’t you think we ought to do our utmost to have
no flaw in the foundation? Schools are not such perfect places that we
can build them without fear, and, if the means are to be raised by a
bargain for amusement--if they are to come from frivolity instead of
self-denial, I am afraid of them. I do not mean that Cocksmoor has not
been the joy of my life, and of Mary’s, but that was not because we did
it for pleasure.”
“No!” said Margaret, sighing, “you found pleasure by the way. But why
did you not say all this to Flora?”
“It is of no use to talk to Flora,” said Ethel; “she would say it was
high-flown and visionary. Oh! she wants it for the bazaar’s own sake,
and that is one reason why I hate it.”
“Now, Ethel!”
“I do believe it was very unfortunate for Flora that the Hoxtons took to
patronising her, because Norman would not be patronised. Ever since
it began, her mind has been full of visitings, and parties, and county
families, and she has left off the home usefulness she used to care
about.”
“But you are old enough for that,” said Margaret. “It would be hard to
keep Flora at home, now that you can take her place, and do not care for
going out. One of us must be the representative Miss May, you know, and
keep up the civilities; and you may think yourself lucky it is not you.”
“If it was only that, I should not care, but I may as well tell you,
Margaret, for it is a weight to me. It is not the mere pleasure in
gaieties--Flora cares for them, in themselves, as little as I do--nor
is it neighbourliness, as a duty to others, for, you may observe, she
always gets off any engagement to the Wards, or any of the town folk, to
whom it would be a gratification to have her--she either eludes them, or
sends me. The thing is, that she is always trying to be with the great
people, the county set, and I don’t think that is the safe way of going
on.”
Margaret mused sadly. “You frighten me, Ethel! I cannot say it is not
so, and these are so like the latent faults that dear mamma’s letter
spoke of--”
Ethel sat meditating, and at last said, “I wish I had not told you! I
don’t always believe it myself, and it is so unkind, and you will make
yourself unhappy too. I ought not to have thought it of her! Think of
her ever-ready kindness and helpfulness; her pretty courteous ways to
the very least; her obligingness and tact!”
“Yes,” said Margaret, “she is one of the kindest people there is, and
I am sure that she thought the gaining funds for Cocksmoor was the
best thing to be done, that you would be pleased, and a great deal of
pleasant occupation provided for us all.”
“That is the bright side, the surface side,” said Ethel.
“And not an untrue one,” said Margaret; “Meta will not be vain, and will
work the more happily for Cocksmoor’s sake. Mary and Blanche, poor Mrs.
Boulder, and many good ladies who hitherto have not known how to help
Cocksmoor, will do so now with a good will, and though it is not what we
should have chosen, I think we had better take it in good part.”
“You think so?”
“Yes, indeed I do. If you go about with that dismal face and strong
disapproval, it will really seem as if it was the having your dominion
muddled with that you dislike. Besides, it is putting yourself forward
to censure what is not absolutely wrong in itself, and that cannot be
desirable.”
“No,” said Ethel, “but I cannot help being sorry for Cocksmoor. I
thought patience would prepare the way, and the means be granted in good
time, without hastiness--only earnestness.”
“You had made a picture for yourself,” said Margaret gently. “Yes, we
all make pictures for ourselves, and we are the foremost figures in
them; but they are taken out of our hands, and we see others putting
in rude touches, and spoiling our work, as it seems; but, by-and-by, we
shall see that it is all guided.”
Ethel sighed. “Then having protested to my utmost against this concern,
you think I ought to be amiable about it.”
“And to let poor Mary enjoy it. She would be so happy, if you would not
bewilder her by your gloomy looks, and keep her to the hemming of your
endless glazed calico bonnet strings.”
“Poor old Mary! I thought that was by her own desire.”
“Only her dutiful allegiance to you; and, as making pincushions is
nearly her greatest delight, it is cruel to make her think it, in some
mysterious way, wrong and displeasing to you.”
Ethel laughed, and said, “I did not think Mary was in such awe of me.
I’ll set her free, then. But, Margaret, do you really think I ought to
give up my time to it?”
“Could you not just let them have a few drawings, or a little bit of
your company work--just enough for you not to annoy every one, and seem
to be testifying against them? You would not like to vex Meta.”
“It will go hard, if I do not tell Meta my mind. I cannot bear to see
her deluded.”
“I don’t think she is,” said Margaret; “but she does not set her face
against what others wish. As papa says of his dear little humming-bird,
she takes the honey, and leaves the poison.”
“Yes; amid all that enjoyment, she is always choosing the good, and
leaving the evil; always sacrificing something, and then being happy in
the sacrifice!”
“No one would guess it was a sacrifice, it is so joyously done--least of
all Meta herself.”
“Her coming home from London was exactly a specimen of that
sacrifice--and no sacrifice,” said Ethel.
“What was that?” said Norman, who had come up to the window unobserved,
and had been listening to their few last sentences.
“Did not you hear of it? It was a sort of material turning away from
vanity that made me respect the little rival Daisy, as much as I always
admired her.
“Tell me,” said Norman. “When was it?”
“Last spring. You know Mr. Rivers is always ill in London: indeed, papa
says it would be the death of him; but Lady Leonora Langdale thinks it
dreadful that Meta should not go to all the gaieties; and last year,
when Mrs. Larpent was gone, she insisted on her coming to stay with her
for the season. Now Meta thought it wrong to leave her father alone, and
wanted not to have gone at all, but, to my surprise, Margaret advised
her to yield, and go for some short fixed time.”
“Yes,” said Margaret; “as all her elders thought it right, I did not
think we could advise her to refuse absolutely. Besides, it was a
promise.”
“She declared she would only stay three weeks, and the Langdales were
satisfied, thinking that, once in London, they should keep her. They
little knew Meta, with her pretty ways of pretending that her resolution
is only spoiled-child wilfulness. None of you quite trusted her, did
you, Margaret? Even papa was almost afraid, though he wanted her very
much to be at home; for poor Mr. Rivers was so low and forlorn without
her, though he would not let her know, because Lady Leonora had
persuaded him to think it was all for her good.”
“What did they do with her in London?” asked Norman.
“They did their utmost,” said Ethel. “They made engagements for her, and
took her to parties and concerts--those she did enjoy very much and she
had lessons in drawing and music, but whenever she wanted to see any
exhibitions, or do anything, they always said there was time to spare. I
believe it was very charming, and she would have been very glad to stay,
but she never would promise, and she was always thinking of her positive
duty at home. She seemed afterwards to think of her wishes to remain
almost as if they had been a sin; but she said--dear little Meta--that
nothing had ever helped her so much as that she used to say to herself,
whenever she was going out, ‘I renounce the world.’ It came to a crisis
at last, when Lady Leonora wanted her to be presented--the Drawing-Room
was after the end of her three weeks--and she held out against it;
though her aunt laughed at her, and treated her as if she was a silly,
shy child. At last, what do you think Meta did? She went to her uncle,
Lord Cosham, and appealed to him to say whether there was the least
necessity for her to go to court.”
“Then she gained the day?” said Norman.
“He was delighted with that spirited, yet coaxing way of hers, and
admired her determination. He told papa so himself--for you must know,
when he heard all Meta had to say, he called her a very good girl, and
said he would take her home himself on the Saturday she had fixed, and
spend Sunday at Abbotstoke. Oh! he was perfectly won by her sweet
ways. Was not it lucky? for before this Lady Leonora had written to Mr.
Rivers, and obtained from him a letter, which Meta had the next day,
desiring her to stay for the Drawing-Room. But Meta knew well enough how
it was, and was not to be conquered that way; so she said she must go
home to entertain her uncle, and that if her papa really wished it, she
would return on Monday.”
“Knowing well that Mr. Rivers would be only too glad to keep her.”
“Just so. How happy they both did look, when they came in here on their
way from the station where he had met her! How she danced in, and how
she sparkled with glee!” said Margaret, “and poor Mr. Rivers was quite
tremulous with the joy of having her back, hardly able to keep from
fondling her every minute, and coming again into the room after they had
taken leave, to tell me that his little girl had preferred her home, and
her poor old father, to all the pleasures in London. Oh, I was so glad
they came! That was a sight that did one good! And then, I fancy Mr.
Rivers is a wee bit afraid of his brother-in-law, for he begged papa
and Flora to come home and dine with them, but Flora was engaged to Mrs.
Hoxton.”
“Ha! Flora!” said Norman, as if he rather enjoyed her losing something
through her going to Mrs. Hoxton. “I suppose she would have given the
world to go!”
“I was so sorry,” said Ethel; “but I had to go instead, and it was
delightful. Papa made great friends with Lord Cosham, while Mr. Rivers
went to sleep after dinner, and I had such a delightful wandering with
Meta, listening to the nightingales, and hearing all about it. I never
knew Meta so well before.”
“And there was no more question of her going back?” said Norman.
“No, indeed! She said, when her uncle asked in joke, on Monday morning,
whether she had packed up to return with him, Mr. Rivers was quite
nervously alarmed the first moment, lest she should intend it.”
“That little Meta,” said Margaret. “Her wishes for substantial use have
been pretty well realised!”
“Um!” said Ethel.
“What do you mean?” said Norman sharply. “I should call her present
position the perfection of feminine usefulness.”
“So perhaps it is,” said Ethel; “but though she does it beautifully,
and is very valuable, to be the mistress of a great luxurious house like
that does not seem to me the subject of aspirations like Meta’s.”
“Think of the contrast with what she used to be,” said Margaret gently,
“the pretty, gentle, playful toy that her father brought her up to
be, living a life of mere accomplishments and self-indulgence; kind
certainly, but never so as to endure any disagreeables, or make any
exertion. But as soon as she entered into the true spirit of our
calling, did she not begin to seek to live the sterner life, and train
herself in duty? The quiet way she took always seemed to me the great
beauty of it. She makes duties of her accomplishments by making them
loving obedience to her father.”
“Not that they are not pleasant to her?” interposed Norman.
“Certainly,” said Margaret, “but it gives them the zest, and confidence
that they are right, which one could not have in such things merely for
one’s own amusement.”
“Yes,” said Ethel, “she does more; she told me one day that one reason
she liked sketching was, that looking into nature always made psalms and
hymns sing in her ears, and so with her music and her beautiful copies
from the old Italian devotional pictures. She says our papa taught her
to look at them so as to see more than the mere art and beauty.”
“Think how diligently she measures out her day,” said Margaret; “getting
up early, to be sure of time for reading her serious books, and working
hard at her tough studies.”
“And what I care for still more,” said Ethel, “her being bent on
learning plain needlework and doing it for her poor people. She is so
useful amongst the cottagers at Abbotstoke!”
“And a famous little mistress of the house,” added Margaret. “When the
old housekeeper went away two years ago, she thought she ought to know
something about the government of the house; so she asked me about
it, and proposed to her father that the new one should come to her for
orders, and that she should pay the wages and have the accounts in
her hands. Mr. Rivers thought it was only a freak, but she has gone on
steadily; and I assure you, she has had some difficulties, for she has
come to me about them. Perhaps Ethel does not believe in them?”
“No, I was only thinking how I should hate ordering those fanciful
dinners for Mr. Rivers. I know what you mean, and how she had
difficulties about sending the maids to church, and in dealing with the
cook, who did harm to the other servants, and yet sent up dinners that
he liked, and how puzzled she was to avoid annoying him. Oh! she has got
into a peck of troubles by making herself manager.”
“And had she not been the Meta she is, she would either have fretted, or
thrown it all up, instead of humming briskly through all. She never
was afraid to speak to any one,” said Margaret, “that is one thing; I
believe every difficulty makes the spirit bound higher, till she springs
over it, and finds it, as she says, only a pleasure.”
“She need not be afraid to speak,” said Ethel, “for she always does it
well and winningly. I have seen her give a reproof in so firm and kind a
way, and so bright in the instant of forgiveness.”
“Yes,” said Margaret, “she does those disagreeable things as well as
Flora does in her way.”
“And yet,” said Ethel, “doing things well does not seem to be a snare to
her.”
“Because,” whispered Margaret, “she fulfils more than almost any
one--the--‘Whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God.’”
“Do you know,” said Norman suddenly, “the derivation of Margarita?”
“No further than those two pretty meanings, the pearl and the daisy,”
said Ethel.
“It is from the Persian Mervarid, child of light,” said Norman; and,
with a sudden flush of colour, he returned to the garden.
“A fit meaning for one who carries sunshine with her,” said Margaret.
“I feel in better tune for a whole day after her bright eyes have been
smiling on me.”
“You want no one to put you in tune,” said Ethel fondly--“you, our own
pearl of light.”
“No, call me only an old faded daisy,” said Margaret sadly.
“Not a bit, only our moon, la gran Margarita” said Ethel.
“I hear the real Daisy coming!” exclaimed Margaret, her face lighting up
with pleasure as the two youngest children entered, and, indeed, little
Gertrude’s golden hair, round open face, fresh red and white complexion,
and innocent looks, had so much likeness to the flower, as to promote
the use of the pet name, though protests were often made in favour
of her proper appellation. Her temper was daisy-like too, serene and
loving, and able to bear a great deal of spoiling, and resolve as they
might, who was not her slave?
Miss Winter no longer ruled the schoolroom. Her sway had been brought
to a happy conclusion by a proposal from a widowed sister to keep house
with her; and Ethel had reason to rejoice that Margaret had kept her
submissive under authority, which, if not always judicious, was both
kind and conscientious.
Upon the change, Ethel had thought that the lessons could easily
be managed by herself and Flora; while Flora was very anxious for a
finishing governess, who might impart singing to herself, graces to
Ethel, and accomplishments to Mary and Blanche.
Dr. May, however, took them both by surprise. He met with a family of
orphans, the eldest of whom had been qualifying herself for a governess,
and needed nothing but age and finish; and in ten minutes after the
project had been conceived, he had begun to put it in execution, in
spite of Flora’s prudent demurs.
Miss Bracy was a gentle, pleasing young person, pretty to look at,
with her soft olive complexion, and languid pensive eyes, obliging and
intelligent; and the change from the dry, authoritative Miss Winter was
so delightful, that unedifying contrasts were continually being drawn.
Blanche struck up a great friendship for her at once; Mary, always
docile, ceased to be piteous at her lessons, and Ethel moralised on the
satisfaction of having sympathy needed instead of repelled, and did her
utmost to make Miss Bracy feel at home--and like a friend--in her new
position.
For herself, Ethel had drawn up a beautiful time-table, with all her
pursuits and duties most carefully balanced, after the pattern of that
which Margaret Rivers had made by her advice, on the departure of Mrs.
Larpent, who had been called away by the ill-health of her son. Meta had
adhered to hers in an exemplary manner, but she was her own mistress in
a manner that could hardly be the lot of one of a large family.
Margaret had become subject to languor and palpitations, and the head
of the household had fallen entirely upon Flora, who, on the other hand,
was a person of multifarious occupations, and always had a great number
of letters to write, or songs to copy and practise, which, together with
her frequent visits to Mrs. Hoxton, made her glad to devolve, as much as
she could, upon her younger sister; and, “Oh, Ethel, you will not mind
just doing this for me,” was said often enough to be a tax upon her
time.
Moreover, Ethel perceived that Aubrey’s lessons were in an
unsatisfactory state. Margaret could not always attend to them, and
suffered from them when she did; and he was bandied about between his
sisters and Miss Bracy in a manner that made him neither attentive nor
obedient.
On her own principle, that to embrace a task heartily renders it no
longer irksome, she called on herself to sacrifice her studies and
her regularity, as far as was needful, to make her available for home
requirements. She made herself responsible for Aubrey, and, after a
few battles with his desultory habits, made him a very promising
pupil, inspiring so much of herself into him, that he was, if anything,
overfull of her classical tastes. In fact, he had such an appetite for
books, and dealt so much in precocious wisdom, that his father was heard
to say, “Six years old! It is a comfort that he will soon forget the
whole.”
Gertrude was also Ethel’s pupil, but learning was not at all in her
line; and the sight of “Cobwebs to catch Flies,” or of the venerated
“Little Charles,” were the most serious clouds, that made the Daisy
pucker up her face, and infuse a whine into her voice.
However, to-day, as usual, she was half dragged, half coaxed, through
her day’s portion of the discipline of life, and then sent up for her
sleep, while Aubrey’s two hours were spent in more agreeable work, such
as Margaret could not but enjoy hearing--so spirited was Ethel’s mode of
teaching--so eager was her scholar.
His play afterwards consisted in fighting o’er again the siege of Troy
on the floor, with wooden bricks, shells, and the survivors of a Noah’s
ark, while Ethel read to Margaret until Gertrude’s descent from the
nursery, when the only means of preventing a dire confusion in Aubrey’s
camp was for her elder sisters to become her playfellows, and so spare
Aubrey’s temper. Ethel good-humouredly gave her own time, till their
little tyrant trotted out to make Norman carry her round the garden on
his back.
So sped the morning till Flora came home, full of the intended bazaar,
and Ethel would fain have taken refuge in puzzling out her Spanish, had
she not remembered her recent promise to be gracious.
The matter had been much as she had described it. Flora had a way of
hinting at anything she thought creditable, and thus the Stoneborough
public had become aware of the exertions of the May family on behalf of
Cocksmoor.
The plan of a fancy fair was started. Mrs. Hoxton became more interested
than was her wont, and Flora was enchanted at the opening it gave for
promoting the welfare of the forlorn district. She held a position which
made her hope to direct the whole. As she had once declared, with truth,
it only had depended on themselves, whether she and her sisters should
sink to the level of the Andersons and their set, or belong to the
county society; and her tact had resulted in her being decidedly--as the
little dressmaker’s apprentice amused Ethel by saying--“One of our most
distinguished patronesses”--a name that had stuck by her ever since.
Margaret looked on passively, inclined to admire Flora in everything,
yet now and then puzzled; and her father, in his simple-hearted way,
felt only gratitude and exultation in the kindness that his daughter
met with. As to the bazaar, if it had been started in his own family, he
might have weighed the objections, but, as it was not his daughter’s own
concern, he did not trouble himself about it, only regarding it as one
of the many vagaries of the ladies of Stoneborough.
So the scheme had been further developed, till now Flora came in with
much to tell. The number of stalls had been finally fixed. Mrs. Hoxton
undertook one, with Flora as an aide-de-camp, and some nieces to assist;
Lady Leonora was to chaperon Miss Rivers; and a third, to Flora’s
regret, had been allotted to Miss Cleveland, a good-natured, merry,
elderly heiress, who would, Flora feared, bring on them the whole
“Stoneborough crew.” And then she began to reckon up the present
resources--drawings, bags, and pincushions. “That chip hat you plaited
for Daisy, Margaret, you must let us have that. It will be lovely,
trimmed with pink.”
“Do you wish for this?” said Ethel, heaving up a mass of knitting.
“Thank you,” said Flora; “so ornamental, especially the original
performance in the corner, which you would perpetrate, in spite of my
best efforts.”
“I shall not be offended if you despise it. I only thought you might
have no more scruple in robbing Granny Hall than in robbing Daisy.”
“Pray, send it. Papa will buy it as your unique performance.”
“No; you shall tell me what I am to do.”
“Does she mean it?” said Flora, turning to Margaret. “Have you converted
her? Well done! Then, Ethel, we will get some pretty batiste, and you
and Mary shall make some of those nice sun-bonnets, which you really do
to perfection.”
“Thank you. That is a more respectable task than I expected. People may
have something worth buying,” said Ethel, who, like all the world, felt
the influence of Flora’s tact.
“I mean to study the useful,” said Flora. “The Cleveland set will be
sure to deal in frippery, and I have been looking over Mrs. Hoxton’s
stores, where I see quite enough for mere decoration. There are two
splendid vases in potichomanie, in an Etruscan pattern, which are coming
for me to finish.”
“Mrs. Taylor, at Cocksmoor, could do that for you,” said Ethel. “Her two
phials, stuffed with chintz patterns and flour, are quite as original
and tasteful.”
“Silly work,” said Flora, “but it makes a fair show.”
“The essence of Vanity Fair,” said Ethel.
“It won’t do to be satirical over much,” said Flora. “You won’t get on
without humouring your neighbours’ follies.”
“I don’t want to get on.”
“But you want--or, at least, I want--Cocksmoor to get on.”
Ethel saw Margaret looking distressed, and, recalling her resolution
she said, “Well, Flora, I don’t mean to say any more about it. I see it
can’t be helped, and you all think you intend it for good; so there’s an
end of the matter, and I’ll do anything for you in reason.”
“Poor old King Ethel!” said Flora, smiling in an elder-sisterly
manner. “You will see, my dear, your views are very pretty, but very
impracticable, and it is a work-a-day world after all--even papa would
tell you so. When Cocksmoor school is built, then you may thank me. I do
not look for it before.”
CHAPTER II.
Knowledge is second, not the first;
A higher Hand must make her mild,
If all be not in vain, and guide
Her footsteps, moving side by side,
With wisdom; like the younger child,
For she is earthly of the mind,
But knowledge heavenly of the soul.--In Memoriam.
Etheldred had not answered her sister, but she did not feel at all
secure that she should have anything to be thankful for, even if the
school were built.
The invasion of Cocksmoor was not only interference with her own field
of action, but it was dangerous to the improvement of her scholars.
Since the departure of Mr. Wilmot, matters at Stoneborough National
School had not improved, though the Misses Anderson talked a great deal
about progress, science, and lectures.
The Ladies’ Committee were constantly at war with the mistresses, and
that one was a veteran who endured them, or whom they could endure
beyond her first half-year. No mistress had stayed a year within the
memory of any girl now at school. Perpetual change prevented any real
education, and, as each lady held different opinions and proscribed all
books not agreeing thereto, everything “dogmatical” was excluded; and,
as Ethel said, the children learned nothing but facts about lions and
steam-engines, while their doctrine varied with that of the visitor for
the week. If the ten generals could only have given up to Miltiades,
but, alas! there was no Miltiades. Mr. Ramsden’s health was failing,
and his neglect told upon the parish in the dreadful evils reigning
unchecked, and engulfing many a child whom more influential teaching
might have saved. Mental arithmetic, and the rivers of Africa, had
little power to strengthen the soul against temptation.
The scanty attendance at the National School attested the indifference
with which it was regarded, and the borderers voluntarily patronised
Cherry Elwood, and thus had, perhaps, first aroused the emulation that
led Mrs. Ledwich on a visit of inspection, to what she chose to consider
as an offshoot of the National School.
The next day she called upon the Misses May. It was well that Ethel was
not at home. Margaret received the lady’s horrors at the sight of the
mere crowded cottage kitchen, the stupid untrained mistress, without an
idea of method, and that impertinent woman, her mother! Miss Flora and
Miss Ethel must have had a great deal to undergo, and she would lose no
time in convening the Ladies’ Committee, and appointing a successor to
“that Elwood,” as soon as a fit room could be erected for her use. If
Margaret had not known that Mrs. Ledwich sometimes threatened more than
she could accomplish, she would have been in despair. She tried to say
a good word for Cherry, but was talked down, and had reason to believe
that Mrs. Elwood had mortally offended Mrs. Ledwich.
The sisters had heard the other side of the story at Cocksmoor. Mrs.
Elwood would not let them enter the school till she had heard how that
there Mrs. Ledwich had come in, and treated them all as if it was her
own place--how she had found fault with Cherry before all the children,
and as good as said she was not fit to keep a school. She had even laid
hands on one of the books, and said that she should take it home, and
see whether it were a fit one for them to use; whereupon Mrs. Elwood had
burst out in defence--it was Miss Ethel May’s book, and should not be
taken away--it was Miss Ethel as she looked to; and when it seemed that
Mrs. Ledwich had said something disparaging of Miss Ethel, either as
to youth, judgment, or doctrine, Mrs. Elwood had fired up into a
declaration that “Miss Ethel was a real lady--that she was! and that
no real lady would ever come prying into other folk’s work and finding
fault with what wasn’t no business of theirs,” with more of a personal
nature, which Flora could not help enjoying, even while she regretted
it.
Cherry was only too meek, as her mother declared. She had said not a
word, except in quiet reply, and being equally terrified by the attack
and defence, had probably seemed more dull than was her wont. Her real
feelings did not appear till the next Sunday, when, in her peaceful
conference with Margaret, far from the sound of storms, she expressed
that she well knew that she was a poor scholar, and that she hoped the
young ladies would not let her stand in the children’s light, when a
better teacher could be found for them.
“I am sure!” cried Ethel, as she heard of this, “it would be hard to
find such a teacher in humility! Cherry bears it so much better than I,
that it is a continual reproof!”
As to the dullness, against which Ethel used to rail, the attacks upon
it had made her erect it into a positive merit; she was always comparing
the truth, honesty, and respectful demeanour of Cherry’s scholars with
the notorious faults of the National School girls, as if these defects
had been implanted either by Mrs. Ledwich, or by geography. It must be
confessed that the violence of partisanship did not make her a pleasant
companion.
However, the interest of the bazaar began somewhat to divert the current
of the ladies’ thoughts, and Ethel found herself walking day after
day to Cocksmoor, unmolested by further reports of Mrs. Ledwich’s
proceedings. Richard was absent, preparing for ordination, but Norman
had just returned home for the Long Vacation, and, rather than lose the
chance of a conversation with her, had joined her and Mary in a walk to
Cocksmoor.
His talk was chiefly of Settlesham, old Mr. Wilmot’s parish, where
he had been making a visit to his former tutor, and talking over the
removal to Eton of Tom, who had well responded to the care taken of him,
and with his good principles confirmed, and his character strengthened,
might be, with less danger, exposed to trial.
It had been a visit such as to leave a deep impression on Norman’s mind.
Sixty years ago, old Mr. Wilmot had been what he now was himself--an
enthusiastic and distinguished Balliol man, and he had kept up a
warm, clear-sighted interest in Oxford throughout his long life. His
anecdotes, his recollections, and comments on present opinions had been
listened to with great eagerness, and Norman had felt it an infinite
honour to give the venerable old man his arm, as to be shown by him his
curious collection of books. His parish, carefully watched for so many
years, had been a study not lost upon Norman, who detailed particulars
of the doings there, which made Ethel sigh to think of the contrast
with Stoneborough. In such conversation they came to the entrance of
the hamlet, and Mary, with a scream of joy, declared that she really
believed that he was going to help them! He did not turn away.
“Thank you!” said Ethel, in a low voice, from the bottom of her heart.
She used him mercifully, and made the lessons shorter than usual, but
when they reached the open air again, he drew a long breath; and when
Mary eagerly tried for a compliment to their scholars, asked if they
could not be taught the use of eyelids.
“Did they stare?” said Ethel. “That’s one advantage of being blind. No
one can stare me out of countenance.”
“Why were you answering all your questions yourself?” asked Mary.
“Because no one else would,” said Norman.
“You used such hard words,” replied Ethel.
“Indeed! I thought I was very simple.”
“Oh!” cried Mary, “there were derive, and instruction, and implicate,
and--oh, so many.”
“Never mind,” said Ethel, seeing him disconcerted. “It is better for
them to be drawn up, and you will soon learn their language. If we only
had Una M’Carthy here!”
“Then you don’t like it?” said Mary, disappointed.
“It is time to learn not to be fastidious,” he answered. “So, if you
will help me--”
“Norman, I am so glad!” said Ethel.
“Yes,” said Norman, “I see now that these things that puff us up, and
seem the whole world to us now, all end in nothing but such as this!
Think of old Mr. Wilmot, once carrying all before him, but deeming all
his powers well bestowed in fifty years’ teaching of clowns!”
“Yes,” replied Ethel, very low. “One soul is worth--” and she paused
from the fullness of thought.
“And these things, about which we are so elated, do not render us so fit
to teach--as you, Mary, or as Richard.”
“They do,” said Ethel. “The ten talents were doubled. Strength tells in
power. The more learning, the fitter to teach the simplest thing.”
“You remind me of old Mr. Wilmot saying that the first thing he learned
at his parish was, how little his people knew; the second, how little he
himself knew.”
So Norman persevered in the homely discipline that he had chosen for
himself, which brought out his deficiency in practical work in a manner
which lowered him in his own eyes, to a degree almost satisfactory
to himself. He was not, indeed, without humility, but his nature was
self-contemplative and self-conscious enough to perceive his superiority
of talent, and it had been the struggle of his life to abase this
perception, so that it was actually a relief not to be obliged to fight
with his own complacency in his powers. He had learned not to think too
highly of himself--he had yet to learn to “think soberly.” His aid was
Ethel’s chief pleasure through this somewhat trying summer, it might be
her last peaceful one at Cocksmoor.
That bazaar! How wild it had driven the whole town, and even her own
home!
Margaret herself, between good nature and feminine love of pretty
things, had become ardent in the cause. In her unvaried life, it was a
great amusement to have so many bright elegant things exhibited to her,
and Ethel was often mortified to find her excited about some new device,
or drawn off from “rational employments,” to complete some trifle.
Mary and Blanche were far worse. From the time that consent had been
given to the fancy-work being carried on in the schoolroom, all interest
in study was over. Thenceforth, lessons were a necessary form, gone
through without heart or diligence. These were reserved for paste-board
boxes, beplastered with rice and sealing-wax, for alum baskets, dressed
dolls, and every conceivable trumpery; and the governess was as eager as
the scholars.
If Ethel remonstrated, she hurt Miss Bracy’s feelings, and this was a
very serious matter to both parties.
The governess was one of those morbidly sensitive people, who cannot
be stopped when once they have begun arguing that they are injured.
Two women together, each with the last-word instinct, have no power
to cease; and, when the words are spent in explaining--not in
scolding--conscience is not called in to silence them, and nothing but
dinner or a thunder-storm can check them. All Ethel’s good sense was of
no avail; she could not stop Miss Bracy, and, though she might resolve
within herself that real kindness would be to make one reasonable reply,
and then quit the subject, yet, on each individual occasion, such a
measure would have seemed mere impatience and cruelty. She found that if
Miss Winter had been too dry, Miss Bracy went to the other extreme,
and demanded a manifestation of sympathy, and return to her passionate
attachment that perplexed Ethel’s undemonstrative nature. Poor good Miss
Bracy, she little imagined how often she added to the worries of her
dear Miss Ethel, all for want of self-command.
Finally, as the lessons were less and less attended to, and the needs
of the stall became more urgent, Dr. May and Margaret concurred in a
decision, that it was better to yield to the mania, and give up the
studies till they could be pursued with a willing mind.
Ethel submitted, and only laughed with Norman at the display of
treasures, which the girls went over daily, like the “House that Jack
built,” always starting from “the box that Mary made.” Come when Dr. May
would into the drawing-room, there was always a line of penwipers laid
out on the floor, bags pendent to all the table-drawers, antimacassars
laid out everywhere.
Ethel hoped that the holidays would create a diversion, but Mary was too
old to be made into a boy, and Blanche drew Hector over to the feminine
party, setting him to gum, gild, and paste all the contrivances which,
in their hands, were mere feeble gimcracks, but which now became fairly
sound, or, at least, saleable.
The boys also constructed a beautiful little ship from a print of the
Alcestis, so successfully, that the doctor promised to buy it; and Ethel
grudged the very sight of it to the bazaar.
Tom, who, in person, was growing like a little shadow or model of
Norman, had, unlike him, a very dexterous pair of hands, and made
himself extremely useful in all such works. On the other hand, the
Cleveland stall seemed chiefly to rely for brilliance on the wit of
Harvey Anderson, who was prospering at his college, and the pride of his
family. A great talker, and extremely gallant, he was considered a far
greater acquisition to a Stoneborough drawing-room than was the silent,
bashful Norman May, and rather looked down on his brother Edward, who,
having gone steadily through the school, was in the attorney’s office,
and went on quietly and well, colouring up gratefully whenever one of
the May family said a kind word to him.
CHAPTER III.
Any silk, any thread,
Any toys for your head,
Of the newest and finest wear-a?
Come to the pedlar,
Money’s a medlar.
That doth utter all men’s ware-a.
Winter’s Tale.
“This one day and it will be over, and we shall be rational again,”
thought Ethel, as she awoke.
Flora was sleeping at the Grange, to be ready for action in the morning,
and Ethel was to go early with Mary and Blanche, who were frantic to
have a share in the selling. Norman and the boys were to walk at their
own time, and the children to be brought later by Miss Bracy. The doctor
would be bound by no rules.
It was a pattern day, bright, clear, warm, and not oppressive, perfect
for an out-of-doors fete; and Ethel had made up her mind to fulfil her
promise to Margaret of enjoying herself. In the brilliant sunshine, and
between two such happy sisters, it would have been surly, indeed, not to
enter into the spirit of the day; and Ethel laughed gaily with them,
and at their schemes and hopes; Blanche’s heart being especially set on
knowing the fate of a watch-guard of her own construction.
Hearing that the ladies were in the gardens, they repaired thither at
once. The broad, smooth bowling-green lay before them; a marquee, almost
converted into a bower, bounding it on either side, while in the midst
arose, gorgeous and delicious, a pyramid of flowers--contributions from
all the hot-houses in the neighbourhood--to be sold for the benefit of
the bazaar. Their freshness and fragrance gave a brightness to the whole
scene, while shrinking from such light, as only the beauteous works of
nature could bear, was the array accomplished by female fingers.
Under the wreathed canopies were the stalls, piled up with bright
colours, most artistically arranged. Ethel, with her over-minute
knowledge of every article, could hardly believe that yonder glowing
Eastern pattern of scarlet, black, and blue, was, in fact, a judicious
mosaic of penwipers that she remembered, as shreds begged from the
tailor, that the delicate lace-work consisted of Miss Bracy’s perpetual
antimacassars, and that the potichomanie could look so dignified and
Etruscan.
“Here you are!” cried Meta Rivers, springing to meet them. “Good girls,
to come early. Where’s my little Daisy?”
“Coming in good time,” said Ethel. “How pretty it all looks!”
“But where’s Flora?--where’s my watch-guard?” anxiously asked Blanche.
“She was here just now,” said Meta, looking round. “What a genius she
is, Ethel! She worked wonders all yesterday, and let the Miss Hoxtons
think it was all their own doing, and she was out before six this
morning, putting finishing touches.”
“Is this your stall?” said Ethel.
“Yes, but it will not bear a comparison with hers. It has a lady’s-maid
look by the side of hers. In fact, Bellairs and my aunt’s maid did it
chiefly, for papa was rather ailing yesterday, and I could not be out
much.”
“How is he now?”
“Better; he will walk round by-and-by. I hope it will not be too much
for him.”
“Oh, what beautiful things!” cried Mary, in ecstasy, at what she was
forced to express by the vague substantive, for her imagination had
never stretched to the marvels she beheld.
“Ay, we have been lazy, you see, and so Aunt Leonora brought down all
these smart concerns. It is rather like Howell and James’s, isn’t it?”
In fact, Lady Leonora’s marquee was filled with costly knick-knacks,
which, as Meta justly said, had not half the grace and appropriate air
that reigned where Flora had arranged, and where Margaret had worked,
with the peculiar freshness and finish that distinguished everything to
which she set her hand.
Miss Cleveland’s counter was not ill set-out, but it wanted the air of
ease and simplicity, which was even more noticeable than the perfect
taste of Flora’s wares. If there had been nothing facetious, the effect
would have been better, but there was nothing to regret, and the whole
was very bright and gay.
Blanche could hardly look; so anxious was she for Flora to tell her the
locality of her treasure.
“There she is,” said Meta at last. “George is fixing that branch of
evergreen for her.”
“Flora! I did not know her,” cried each sister amazed; while Mary added,
“Oh, how nice she looks!”
It was the first time of seeing her in the white muslin, and broad chip
hat--which all the younger saleswomen of the bazaar had agreed to wear.
It was a most becoming dress, and she did, indeed, look strikingly
elegant and well dressed. It occurred to Ethel, for the first time, that
Flora was decidedly the reigning beauty of the bazaar--no one but Meta
Rivers could be compared to her, and that little lady was on so small
a scale of perfect finish, that she seemed fit to act the fairy, where
Flora was the enchanted princess.
Flora greeted her sisters eagerly, while Meta introduced her brother--a
great contrast to herself, though not without a certain comeliness,
tall and large, with ruddy complexion, deep lustreless black eyes, and
a heavy straight bush of black moustache, veiling rather thick lips.
Blanche reiterated inquiries for her watch-guard.
“I don’t know,”--said Flora. “Somewhere among the rest.”
Blanche was in despair.
“You may look for it,” said Flora, who, however hurried, never failed in
kindness, “if you will touch nothing.”
So Blanche ran from place to place in restless dismay, that caused Mr.
George Rivers to ask what was the matter.
“The guards! the guards!” cried Blanche; whereupon he fell into a fit of
laughter, which disconcerted her, because she could not understand him,
and made Ethel take an aversion to him on the spot.
However, he was very good-natured; he took Blanche’s reluctant hand, and
conducted her all along the stall, even proceeding to lift her up where
she could not command a view of the whole, thus exciting her extreme
indignation. She shook herself out when he set her down, surveyed her
crumpled muslin, and believed he took her for a little girl! She ought
to have been flattered when the quest was successful, and he insisted
on knowing which was the guard, and declared that he should buy it. She
begged him to do no such thing, and he desired to know why--insisting
that he would give five shillings--fifteen--twenty-five for that one!
till she did not know whether he was in earnest, and she doing an injury
to the bazaar.
Meantime, the hour had struck, and Flora had placed Mrs. Hoxton in a
sheltered spot, where she could take as much or as little trouble as she
pleased. Lady Leonora and Miss Langdale came from the house, and, with
the two ladies’-maids in the background, took up their station with
Miss Rivers. Miss Cleveland called her party to order, and sounds of
carriages were heard approaching.
Mary and Blanche disbursed the first money spent in the “fancy fair;”
Mary, on a blotting-book for Harry, to be placed among the presents, to
which she added on every birthday, while Blanche bought a sixpenny gift
for every one, with more attention to the quantity than the quality.
Then came a revival of her anxieties for the guards, and while Mary was
simply desirous of the fun of being a shopwoman, and was made happy by
Meta Rivers asking her help, Blanche was in despair, till she had sidled
up to their neighbourhood, and her piteous looks had caused good-natured
Mrs. Hoxton to invite her to assist, when she placed herself close to
the precious object.
A great fluttering of heart went to that manoeuvre, but still felicity
could not be complete. That great troublesome Mr. George Rivers had
actually threatened to buy nothing but that one watch-chain, and
Blanche’s eye followed him everywhere with fear, lest he should come
that way. And there were many other gentlemen--what could they want but
watch-guards, and of them--what--save this paragon?
Poor Blanche; what did she not undergo whenever any one cast his eye
over her range of goods? and this was not seldom, for there was an
attraction in the pretty little eager girl, glowing and smiling. One
old gentleman actually stopped, handled the guards themselves, and asked
their price.
“Eighteen-pence,” said Blanche, colouring and faltering, as she held up
one in preference.
“Eh! is not this the best?” said he, to the lady on his arm.
“Oh! please, take that instead?” exclaimed Blanche, in extremity.
“And why?” asked the gentleman, amused.
“I made this,” she answered.
“Is that the reason I must not have it?”
“No, don’t tease her,” the lady said kindly; and the other was taken.
“I wonder for what it is reserved!” the lady could not help saying, as
she walked away.
“Let us watch her for a minute or two. What an embellishment
children are! Ha! don’t you see--the little maid is fluttering and
reddening--now! How pretty she looks! Ah! I see! here’s the favoured!
Don’t you see that fine bronzed lad--Eton--one can see at a glance! It
is a little drama. They are pretending to be strangers. He is turning
over the goods with an air, she trying to look equally careless, but
what a pretty carnation it is! Ha! ha! he has come to it--he has it! Now
the acting is over, and they are having their laugh out! How joyously!
What next! Oh! she begs off from keeping shop--she darts out to him,
goes off in his hand--I declare that is the prettiest sight in the whole
fair! I wonder who the little demoiselle can be?”
The great event of the day was over now with Blanche, and she greatly
enjoyed wandering about with Hector and Tom. There was a post-office
at Miss Cleveland’s stall, where, on paying sixpence, a letter could be
obtained to the address of the inquirer. Blanche had been very anxious
to try, but Flora had pronounced it nonsense; however, Hector declared
that Flora was not his master, tapped at the sliding panel, and charmed
Blanche by what she thought a most witty parody of his name as Achilles
Lionsrock, Esquire. When the answer came from within, “Ship letter, sir,
double postage,” they thought it almost uncanny; and Hector’s shilling
was requited by something so like a real ship letter, that they had
some idea that the real post had somehow transported itself thither. The
interior was decidedly oracular, consisting of this one line, “I counsel
you to persevere in your laudable undertaking.”
Hector said he wished he had any laudable undertaking, and Blanche tried
to persuade Tom to try his fortune, but he pronounced that he did
not care to hear Harvey Anderson’s trash--he knew his writing, though
disguised, and had detected his shining boots below the counter. There
Mr. George Rivers came up, and began to tease Blanche about the guards,
asking her to take his fifteen shillings--or five-and-twenty, and who
had got that one, which alone he wanted; till the poor child, after
standing perplexed for some moments, looked up with spirit, and said,
“You have no business to ask,” and, running away, took refuge in the
back of Mrs. Hoxton’s marquee, where she found Ethel packing up for Miss
Hoxton’s purchasers, and confiding to her that Mr. George Rivers was a
horrid man, she ventured no more from her protection. She did, indeed,
emerge, when told that papa was coming with Aubrey and Daisy and Miss
Bracy, and she had the pleasure of selling to them some of her wares.
Dr. May bargaining with her to her infinite satisfaction; and little
Gertrude’s blue eyes opened to their full width, not understanding what
could have befallen her sisters.
“And what is Ethel doing?” asked the doctor.
“Packing up parcels, papa,” and Ethel’s face was raised, looking very
merry.
“Packing parcels! How long will they last tied up?” said Dr. May,
laughing.
“Lasting is the concern of nothing in the fair, papa,” answered she, in
the same tone.
For Ethel was noted as the worst packer in the house; but, having
offered to wrap up a pincushion, sold by a hurried Miss Hoxton, she
became involved in the office for the rest of the day--the same which
Bellairs and her companion performed at the Langdale counter. Flora was
too ready and dexterous to need any such aid, but the Misses Hoxton
were glad to be spared the trouble; and Blanche, whose fingers were far
neater than Ethel’s, made the task much easier, and was kept constant
to it by her dread of the dark moustache, which was often visible near
their tent, searching, she thought, for her.
Their humble employment was no sinecure; for this was the favourite
stall with the purchasers of better style, since the articles were, in
general, tasteful, and fairly worth the moderate price set on them. At
Miss Cleveland’s counter there was much noisy laughter--many jocular
cheats--tricks for gaining money, and refusals to give change; and it
seemed to be very popular with the Stoneborough people, and to carry
on a brisk trade. The only languor was in Lady Leonora’s quarter--the
articles were too costly, and hung on hand; nor were the ladies
sufficiently well known, nor active enough, to gain custom, excepting
Meta, who drove a gay traffic at her end of the stall, which somewhat
redeemed the general languor.
Her eyes were, all the time, watching for her father, and, suddenly
perceiving him, she left her trade in charge of the delighted and
important Mary, and hastened to walk round with him, and show him the
humours of the fair.
Mary, in her absence, had the supreme happiness of obtaining Norman as
a customer. He wanted a picture for his rooms at Oxford, and
water-coloured drawings were, as Tom had observed, suitable staple
commodities for Miss Rivers. Mary tried to make him choose a
brightly-coloured pheasant, with a pencil background; and, then, a fine
foaming sea-piece, by some unknown Lady Adelaide, that much dazzled her
imagination; but nothing would serve him but a sketch of an old cedar
tree, with Stoneborough Minster in the distance, and the Welsh hills
beyond, which Mary thought a remarkable piece of bad taste, since--could
he not see all that any day of his life? and was it worth while to give
fourteen shillings and sixpence for it? But he said it was all for the
good of Cocksmoor, and Mary was only too glad to add to her hoard of
coin; so she only marvelled at his extravagance, and offered to take
care of it for him; but, to this, he would not consent. He made her pack
it up for him, and had just put the whitey-brown parcel under his arm,
when Mr. Rivers and his daughter came up, before he was aware. Mary
proudly advertised Meta that she had sold something for her.
“Indeed! What was it?”
“Your great picture of Stoneborough!” said Mary.
“Is that gone? I am sorry you have parted with that, my dear; it was one
of your best,” said Mr. Rivers, in his soft, sleepy, gentle tone.
“Oh, papa, I can do another. But, I wonder! I put that extortionate
price on it, thinking no one would give it, and so that I should keep it
for you. Who has it, Mary?”
“Norman, there. He would have it, though I told him it was very dear.”
Norman, pressed near them by the crowd, had been unable to escape, and
stood blushing, hesitating, and doubting whether he ought to restore the
prize, which he had watched so long, and obtained so eagerly.
“Oh! it is you?” said Mr. Rivers politely. “Oh, no, do not think of
exchanging it. I am rejoiced that one should have it who can appreciate
it. It was its falling into the hands of a stranger that I disliked. You
think with me, that it is one of her best drawings?”
“Yes, I do,” said Norman, still rather hesitating. “She did that with
C--, when he was here last year. He taught her very well. Have you that
other here, that you took with him, my dear? The view from the gate, I
mean.”
“No, dear papa. You told me not to sell that.”
“Ah! I remember; that is right. But there are some very pretty copies
from Prout here.”
While he was seeking them, Meta contrived to whisper, “If you could
persuade him to go indoors--this confusion of people is so bad for him,
and I must not come away. I was in hopes of Dr. May, but he is with the
little ones.”
Norman signed comprehension, and Meta said, “Those copies are not worth
seeing, but you know, papa, you have the originals in the library.”
Mr. Rivers looked pleased, but was certain that Norman could not prefer
the sketches to this gay scene. However, it took very little persuasion
to induce him to do what he wished, and he took Norman’s arm, crossed
the lawn, and arrived in his own study, where it was a great treat
to him to catch any one who would admire his accumulation of prints,
drawings, coins, etc.; and his young friend was both very well amused
and pleased to be setting Miss Rivers’s mind at ease on her father’s
account. It was not till half-past four that Dr. May knocked at the
door, and stood surprised at finding his son there. Mr. Rivers spoke
warmly of the young Oxonian’s kindness in leaving the fair for an old
man, and praised Norman’s taste in art. Norman rose to take leave, but
still thought it incumbent on him to offer to give up the picture,
if Mr. Rivers set an especial value on it. But Mr. Rivers went to the
length of being very glad that it was in his possession, and added to
it a very pretty drawing of the same size, by a noted master, which had
been in the water-colour exhibition, and, while Norman walked away, well
pleased, Mr. Rivers began to extol him to his father, as a very superior
and sensible young man, of great promise, and began to wish George had
the same turn.
Norman, on returning to the fancy fair, found the world in all the
ardour of raffles. Lady Leonora’s contributions were the chief prizes,
which attracted every one, and, of course, the result was delightfully
incongruous. Poor Ethel, who had been persuaded to venture a shilling
to please Blanche, who had spent all her own, obtained the two jars in
potichomanie, and was regarding them with a face worth painting. Harvey
Anderson had a doll, George Rivers a wooden monkey, that jumped over a
stick; and, if Hector Ernescliffe was enchanted at winning a beautiful
mother-of-pearl inlaid workbox, which he had vainly wished to buy for
Margaret, Flora only gained a match-box of her own, well known always to
miss fire, but which had been decided to be good enough for the bazaar.
By fair means or foul, the commodities were cleared off, and, while the
sunbeams faded from the trodden grass, the crowds disappeared, and
the vague compliment, “a very good bazaar,” was exchanged between the
lingering sellers and their friends.
Flora was again to sleep at the Grange, and return the next day, for
a committee to be held over the gains, which were not yet fully
ascertained. So Dr. May gathered his flock together, and packed them,
boys and all, into the two conveyances, and Ethel bade Meta good-night,
almost wondering to hear her merry voice say, “It has been a delightful
day, has it not? It was so kind of your brother to take care of papa.”
“Oh, it was delightful!” echoed Mary, “and I took one pound fifteen and
sixpence!”
“I hope it will do great good to Cocksmoor,” added Meta, “but, if you
want real help, you know, you must come to us.”
Ethel smiled, but hurried her departure, for she saw Blanche again
tormented by Mr. George Rivers, to know what had become of the guard,
telling her that, if she would not say, he should be furiously jealous.
Blanche hid her face on Ethel’s arm, when they were in the carriage, and
almost cried with indignant “shamefastness.” That long-desired day had
not been one of unmixed happiness to her, poor child, and Ethel doubted
whether it had been so to any one, except, indeed, to Mary, whose
desires never soared so high but that they were easily fulfilled, and
whose placid content was not easily wounded. All she was wishing now
was, that Harry were at home to receive his paper-case.
The return to Margaret was real pleasure. The narration of all that had
passed was an event to her. She was so charmed with her presents, of
every degree; things, unpleasant at the time, could, by drollery in the
relating, be made mirthful fun ever after; Dr. May and the boys were so
comical in their observations--Mary’s wonder and simplicity came in so
amazingly--and there was such merriment at Ethel’s two precious jars,
that she could hardly wish they had not come to her. On one head they
were all agreed, in dislike of George Rivers, whom Mary pronounced to be
a detestable man, and, when gently called to order by Margaret, defended
it, by saying that Miss Bracy said it was better to detest than to
hate, while Blanche coloured up to the ears, and hid herself behind
the arm-chair; and Dr. May qualified the censure by saying, he believed
there was no great harm in the youth, but that he was shallow-brained
and extravagant, and, having been born in the days when Mr. Rivers had
been working himself up in the world, had not had so good an education
as his little half-sister.
“Well, what are you thinking of?” said her father, laying his hand
on Ethel’s arm, as she was wearily and pensively putting together the
scattered purchases before going up to bed.
“I was thinking, papa, that there is a great deal of trouble taken in
this world for a very little pleasure.”
“The trouble is the pleasure, in most cases, most misanthropical miss!”
“Yes, that is true; but, if so, why cannot it be taken for some good?”
“They meant it to be good,” said Dr. May. “Come, I cannot have you
severe and ungrateful.”
“So I have been telling myself, papa, all along; but, now that the
day has come, and I have seen what jealousies, and competitions, and
vanities, and disappointments it has produced--not even poor little
Blanche allowed any comfort--I am almost sick at heart with thinking
Cocksmoor was the excuse!”
“Spectators are more philosophical than actors, Ethel. Others have not
been tying parcels all day.”
“I had rather do that than--But that is the ‘Fox and the Grapes,’” said
Ethel, smiling. “What I mean is, that the real gladness of life is not
in these great occasions of pleasure, but in the little side delights
that come in the midst of one’s work, don’t they, papa? Why is it worth
while to go and search for a day’s pleasuring?”
“Ethel, my child! I don’t like to hear you talk so,” said Dr. May,
looking anxiously at her. “It may be too true, but it is not youthful
nor hopeful. It is not as your mother or I felt in our young days, when
a treat was a treat to us, and gladdened our hearts long before and
after. I am afraid you have been too much saddened with loss and care--”
“Oh, no, papa!” said Ethel, rousing herself, though speaking huskily.
“You know I am your merry Ethel. You know I can be happy enough--only at
home--”
And Ethel, though she had tried to be cheerful, leaned against his arm,
and shed a few tears.
“The fact is, she is tired out,” said Dr. May soothingly, yet half
laughing. “She is not a beauty or a grace, and she is thoughtful and
quiet, and so she moralises, instead of enjoying, as the world goes by.
I dare say a night’s rest will make all the difference in the world.”
“Ah! but there is more to come. That Ladies’ Committee at Cocksmoor!”
“They are not there yet, Ethel. Good-night, you tired little cynic.”
CHAPTER IV.
Back then, complainer...
Go, to the world return, nor fear to cast
Thy bread upon the waters, sure at last
In joy to find it after many days.--Christian Year.
The next day Ethel had hoped for a return to reason, but behold, the
world was cross! The reaction of the long excitement was felt, Gertrude
fretted, and was unwell; Aubrey was pettish at his lessons; and Mary and
Blanche were weary, yawning and inattentive; every straw was a burden,
and Miss Bracy had feelings.
Ethel had been holding an interminable conversation with her in the
schoolroom, interrupted at last by a summons to speak to a Cocksmoor
woman at the back door, and she was returning from the kitchen, when the
doctor called her into his study.
“Ethel! what is all this? Mary has found Miss Bracy in floods of tears
in the schoolroom, because she says you told her she was ill-tempered.”
“I am sure you will be quite as much surprised,” said Ethel, somewhat
exasperated, “when you hear that you lacerated her feelings yesterday.”
“I? Why, what did I do?” exclaimed Dr. May.
“You showed your evident want of confidence in her.”
“I? What can I have done?”
“You met Aubrey and Gertrude in her charge, and you took them away at
once to walk with you.”
“Well?”
“Well, that was it. She saw you had no confidence in her.”
“Ethel, what on earth can you mean? I saw the two children dragging on
her, and I thought she would see nothing that was going on, and would be
glad to be released; and I wanted them to go with me and see Meta’s gold
pheasants.”
“That was the offence. She has been breaking her heart all this time,
because she was sure, from your manner, that you were displeased to see
them alone with her--eating bon-bons, I believe, and therefore took them
away.”
“Daisy is the worse for her bon-bons, I believe, but the overdose of
them rests on my shoulders. I do not know how to believe you, Ethel. Of
course you told her nothing of the kind crossed my mind, poor thing!”
“I told her so, over and over again, as I have done forty times before
but her feelings are always being hurt.”
“Poor thing, poor thing! no doubt it is a trying situation, and she is
sensitive. Surely you are all forbearing with her?”
“I hope we are,” said Ethel; “but how can we tell what vexes her?”
“And what is this, of your telling her she was ill-tempered?” asked Dr.
May incredulously.
“Well, papa,” said Ethel, softened, yet wounded by his thinking it
so impossible. “I had often thought I ought to tell her that these
sensitive feelings of hers were nothing but temper; and perhaps--indeed
I know I do--I partake of the general fractiousness of the house to-day,
and I did not bear it so patiently as usual. I did say that I thought it
wrong to foster her fancies; for if she looked at them coolly, she would
find they were only a form of pride and temper.”
“It did not come well from you, Ethel,” said the doctor, looking vexed.
“No, I know it did not,” said Ethel meekly; “but oh! to have these
janglings once a week, and to see no end to them!”
“Once a week?”
“It is really as often, or more often,” said Ethel. “If any of us
criticise anything the girls have done, if there is a change in any
arrangement, if she thinks herself neglected--I can’t tell you what
little matters suffice; she will catch me, and argue with me, till--oh,
till we are both half dead, and yet cannot stop ourselves.”
“Why do you argue?”
“If I could only help it!”
“Bad management,” said the doctor, in a low, musing tone. “You want a
head!” and he sighed.
“Oh, papa, I did not mean to distress you. I would not have told you if
I had remembered--but I am worried to-day, and off my guard--”
“Ethel, I thought you were the one on whom I could depend for bearing
everything.”
“These were such nonsense!”
“What may seem nonsense to you is not the same to her. You must
be forbearing, Ethel. Remember that dependence is prone to morbid
sensitiveness, especially in those who have a humble estimate of
themselves.”
“It seems to me that touchiness is more pride than humility,” said
Ethel, whose temper, already not in the smoothest state, found it hard
that, after having long borne patiently with these constant arguments,
she should find Miss Bracy made the chief object of compassion.
Dr. May’s chivalrous feeling caused him to take the part of the weak,
and he answered, “You know nothing about it. Among our own kith and kin
we can afford to pass over slights, because we are sure the heart is
right--we do not know what it is to be among strangers, uncertain of
any claim to their esteem or kindness. Sad! sad!” he continued, as the
picture wrought on him. “Each trifle seems a token one way or the other!
I am very sorry I grieved the poor thing yesterday. I must go and tell
her so at once.”
He put Ethel aside, and knocked at the schoolroom door, while Ethel
stood, mortified. “He thinks I have been neglecting, or speaking harshly
to her! For fifty times that I have borne with her maundering, I have,
at last, once told her the truth; and for that I am accused of want of
forbearance! Now he will go and make much of her, and pity her, till she
will think herself an injured heroine, and be worse than ever; and he
will do away with all the good of my advice, and want me to ask her
pardon for it--but that I never will. It was only the truth, and I will
stick to it.”
“Ethel!” cried Mary, running up to her, then slackening her pace, and
whispering, “you did not tell Miss Bracy she was ill-tempered.”
“No--not exactly. How could you tell papa I did?”
“She said so. She was crying, and I asked what was the matter, and she
said my sister Ethel said she was ill-tempered.”
“She made a great exaggeration then,” said Ethel.
“I am sure she was very cross all day,” said Mary.
“Well, that is no business of yours,” said Ethel pettishly. “What now?
Mary, don’t look out at the street window.”
“It is Flora--the Grange carriage,” whispered Mary, as the two sisters
made a precipitate retreat into the drawing-room.
Meanwhile, Dr. May had been in the schoolroom. Miss Bracy had ceased her
tears before he came--they had been her retort on Ethel, and she had not
intended the world to know of them. Half disconcerted, half angry, she
heard the doctor approach. She was a gentle, tearful woman, one of
those who are often called meek, under an erroneous idea that meekness
consists in making herself exceedingly miserable under every kind
of grievance; and she now had a sort of melancholy satisfaction in
believing that the young ladies had fabricated an exaggerated complaint
of her temper, and that she was going to become injured innocence. To
think herself accused of a great wrong, excused her from perceiving
herself guilty of a lesser one.
“Miss Bracy,” said Dr. May, entering with his frank, sweet look, “I
am concerned that I vexed you by taking the children to walk with me
yesterday. I thought such little brats would be troublesome to any but
their spoiling papa, but they would have been in safer hands with you.
You would not have been as weak as I was, in regard to sugar-plums.”
Such amends as these confused Miss Bracy, who found it pleasanter to be
lamentable with Ethel, than to receive a full apology for her imagined
offence from the master of the house. Feeling both small and absurd,
she murmured something of “oh, no,” and “being sure,” and hoped he
was going, so that she might sit down to pity herself, for those girls
having made her appear so ridiculous.
No such thing! Dr. May put a chair for her, and sat down himself,
saying, with a smile, “You see, you must trust us sometimes, and
overlook it, if we are less considerate than we might be. We have rough,
careless habits with each other, and forget that all are not used to
them.”
Miss Bracy exclaimed, “Oh, no, never, they were most kind.”
“We wish to be,” said Dr. May, “but there are little neglects--or
you think there are. I will not say there are none, for that would be
answering too much for human nature, or that they are fanciful--for that
would be as little comfort as to tell a patient that the pain is only
nervous--”
Miss Bracy smiled, for she could remember instances when, after
suffering much at the time, she had found the affront imaginary.
He was glad of that smile, and proceeded. “You will let me speak to
you, as to one of my own girls? To them, I should say, use the only true
cure. Don’t brood over vexations, small or great, but think of them as
trials that, borne bravely, become blessings.”
“Oh! but Dr. May!” she exclaimed, shocked; “nothing in your house could
call for such feelings.”
“I hope we are not very savage,” he said, smiling; “but, indeed, I still
say it is the safest rule. It would be the only one if you were really
among unkind people; and, if you take so much to heart an unlucky
neglect of mine, what would you do if the slight were a true one?”
“You are right; but my feelings were always over-sensitive;” and this
she said with a sort of complacency.
“Well, we must try to brace them,” said Dr. May, much as if prescribing
for her. “Will not you believe in our confidence and esteem, and harden
yourself against any outward unintentional piece of incivility?”
She felt as if she could at that moment.
“Or at least, try to forgive and forget them. Talking them over only
deepens the sense of them, and discussions do no good to any one. My
daughters are anxious to be your best friends, as I hope you know.”
“Oh! they are most kind--”
“But, you see, I must say this,” added Dr. May, somewhat hesitating, “as
they have no mother to--to spare all this,” and then, growing clearer,
he proceeded, “I must beg you to be forbearing with them, and not
perplex yourself and them with arguing on what cannot be helped.
They have not the experience that could enable them to finish such a
discussion without unkindness; and it can only waste the spirits, and
raise fresh subjects of regret. I must leave you--I hear myself called.”
Miss Bracy began to be sensible that she had somewhat abused
Ethel’s patience; and the unfortunate speech about the source of her
sensitiveness did not appear to her so direfully cruel as at first.
She hoped every one would forget all about it, and resolved not to take
umbrage so easily another time, or else be silent about it, but she was
not a person of much resolution.
The doctor found that Meta Rivers and her brother had brought Flora
home, and were in the drawing-room, where Margaret was hearing another
edition of the history of the fair, and a by-play was going on, of
teasing Blanche about the chain.
George Rivers was trying to persuade her to make one for him; and her
refusal came out at last, in an almost passionate key, in the midst of
the other conversation--“No! I say-no!”
“Another no, and that will be yes.”
“No! I won’t! I don’t like you well enough!”
Margaret gravely sent Blanche and the other children away to take their
walk, and the brother and sister soon after took leave, when Flora
called Ethel to hasten to the Ladies’ Committee, that they might arrange
the disposal of the one hundred and fifty pounds, the amount of their
gains.
“To see the fate of Cocksmoor,” said Ethel.
“Do you think I cannot manage the Stoneborough folk?” said Flora,
looking radiant with good humour, and conscious of power. “Poor Ethel!
I am doing you good against your will! Never mind, here is wherewith to
build the school, and the management will be too happy to fall into
our hands. Do you think every one is as ready as you are, to walk three
miles and back continually?”
There was sense in this; there always was sense in what Flora said, but
it jarred on Ethel; and it seemed almost unsympathising in her to be so
gay, when the rest were wearied or perturbed. Ethel would have been very
glad of a short space to recollect herself, and recover her good temper;
but it was late, and Flora hurried her to put on her bonnet, and come to
the committee. “I’ll take care of your interests,” she said, as they
set out. “You look as doleful as if you thought you should be robbed of
Cocksmoor; but that is the last thing that will happen, you will see.”
“It would not be acting fairly to let them build for us, and then for us
to put them out of the management,” said Ethel.
“My dear, they want importance, not action. They will leave the real
power to us of themselves.”
“You like to build Cocksmoor with such instruments,” said Ethel, whose
ruffled condition made her forget her resolution not to argue with
Flora.
“Bricks are made of clay!” said Flora. “There, that was said like Norman
himself! On your plan, we might have gone on for forty years, saving
seven shillings a year, and spending six, whenever there was an illness
in the place.”
“You, who used to dislike these people more than even I did!” said
Ethel.
“That was when I was an infant, my dear, and did not know how to deal
with them. I will take care--I will even save Cherry Elwood for you, if
I can. Alan Ernescliffe’s ten pounds is a noble weapon.”
“You always mean to manage everything, and then you have no time!” said
Ethel, sensible all the time of her own ill-humour, and of her sister’s
patience and amiability, yet propelled to speak the unpleasant truths
that in her better moods were held back.
Still Flora was good-tempered, though Ethel would almost have preferred
her being provoked; “I know,” she said, “I have been using you ill, and
leaving the world on your shoulders, but it was all in your service and
Cocksmoor’s; and now we shall begin to be reasonable and useful again.”
“I hope so,” said Ethel.
“Really, Ethel, to comfort you, I think I shall send you with Norman to
dine at Abbotstoke Grange on Wednesday. Mr. Rivers begged us to come; he
is so anxious to make it lively for his son.”
“Thank you, I do not think Mr. George Rivers and I should be likely to
get on together. What a bad style of wit! You heard what Mary said about
him? and Ethel repeated the doubt between hating and detesting.
“Young men never know how to talk to little girls,” was Flora’s reply.
At this moment they came up with one of the Miss Andersons, and Flora
began to exchange civilities, and talk over yesterday’s events with
great animation. Her notice always gave pleasure, brightened as it was
by the peculiarly engaging address which she had inherited from her
father, and which, therefore, was perfectly easy and natural. Fanny
Anderson was flattered and gratified, rather by the manner than the
words, and, on excellent terms, they entered the committee-room, namely,
the schoolmistress’s parlour.
There were nine ladies on the committee--nine muses, as the doctor
called them, because they produced anything but harmony. Mrs. Ledwich
was in the chair; Miss Rich was secretary, and had her pen and ink, and
account-book ready. Flora came in, smiling and greeting; Ethel, grave,
earnest, and annoyed, behind her, trying to be perfectly civil, but not
at all enjoying the congratulations on the successful bazaar. The ladies
all talked and discussed their yesterday’s adventures, gathering in
little knots, as they traced the fate of favourite achievements of their
skill, while Ethel, lugubrious and impatient, beside Flora, the only
one not engaged, and, therefore, conscious of the hubbub of clacking
tongues.
At last Mrs. Ledwich glanced at the mistress’s watch, in its pasteboard
tower, in Gothic architecture, and insisted on proceeding to business.
So they all sat down round a circular table, with a very fine red, blue,
and black oilcloth, whose pattern was inseparably connected, in Ethel’s
mind, with absurdity, tedium, and annoyance.
The business was opened by the announcement of what they all knew
before, that the proceeds of the fancy fair amounted to one hundred and
forty-nine pounds fifteen shillings and tenpence.
Then came a pause, and Mrs. Ledwich said that next they had to consider
what was the best means of disposing of the sum gained in this most
gratifying manner. Every one except Flora, Ethel, and quiet Mrs.
Ward, began to talk at once. There was a great deal about Elizabethan
architecture, crossed by much more, in which normal, industrial,
and common things, most often met Ethel’s ear, with some stories,
second-hand, from Harvey Anderson, of marvellous mistakes; and, on the
opposite side of the table, there was Mrs. Ledwich, impressively saying
something to the silent Mrs. Ward, marking her periods with emphatic
beats with her pencil, and each seemed to close with “Mrs. Perkinson’s
niece,” whom Ethel knew to be Cherry’s intended supplanter. She looked
piteously at Flora, who only smiled and made a sign with her hand to her
to be patient. Ethel fretted inwardly at that serene sense of power; but
she could not but admire how well Flora knew how to bide her time, when,
having waited till Mrs. Ledwich had nearly wound up her discourse on
Mrs. Elwood’s impudence, and Mrs. Perkinson’s niece, she leaned towards
Miss Boulder, who sat between, and whispered to her, “Ask Mrs. Ledwich
if we should not begin with some steps for getting the land.”
Miss Boulder, having acted as conductor, the president exclaimed, “Just
so, the land is the first consideration. We must at once take steps
for obtaining it.” Thereupon Mrs. Ledwich, who “always did things
methodically,” moved, and Miss Anderson seconded, that the land
requisite for the school must be obtained, and the nine ladies held up
their hands, and resolved it.
Miss Rich duly recorded the great resolution, and Miss Boulder suggested
that, perhaps, they might write to the National Society, or Government,
or something; whereat Miss Rich began to flourish one of the very long
goose quills which stood in the inkstand before her, chiefly as insignia
of office, for she always wrote with a small, stiff metal pen.
Flora here threw in a query, whether the National Society, or
Government, or something, would give them a grant, unless they had the
land to build upon?
The ladies all started off hereupon, and all sorts of instances of
hardness of heart were mentioned, the most relevant of which was, that
the Church Building Society would not give a grant to Mr. Holloway’s
proprietary chapel at Whitford, when Mrs. Ledwich was suddenly struck
with the notion that dear Mr. Holloway might be prevailed on to come
to Stoneborough to preach a sermon in the Minster, for the benefit of
Cocksmoor, when they would all hold plates at the door. Flora gave Ethel
a tranquillising pat, and, as Mrs. Ledwich turned to her, asking whether
she thought Dr. May, or Dr. Hoxton, would prevail on him to come, she
said, with her winning look, “I think that consideration had better wait
till we have some more definite view. Had we not better turn to this
land question?”
“Quite true!” they all agreed, but to whom did the land belong?--and
what a chorus arose! Miss Anderson thought it belonged to Mr. Nicolson,
because the wagons of slate had James Nicolson on them, and, if so, they
had no chance, for he was an old miser--and six stories illustrative
thereof ensued. Miss Rich was quite sure some Body held it, and
Bodies were slow of movement. Mrs. Ledwich remembered some question of
enclosing, and thought all waste lands were under the Crown; she knew
that the Stoneborough people once had a right to pasture their cattle,
because Mr. Southron’s cow had tumbled down a loam-pit when her mother
was a girl. No, that was on Far-view down, out the other way! Miss
Harrison was positive that Sir Henry Walkinghame had some right there,
and would not Dr. May apply to him? Mrs. Grey thought it ought to
be part of the Drydale estate, and Miss Boulder was certain that Mr.
Bramshaw knew all about it.
Flora’s gentle voice carried conviction that she knew what she was
saying, when, at last, they left a moment for her to speak--(Ethel would
have done so long ago). “If I am not mistaken, the land is a copyhold of
Sir Henry Walkinghame, held under the manor of Drydale, which belongs to
M---- College, and is underlet to Mr. Nicolson.”
Everybody, being partially right, was delighted, and had known it all
before; Miss Boulder agreed with Miss Anderson that Miss May had stated
it as lucidly as Mr. Bramshaw could. The next question was, to whom to
apply? and, after as much as was expedient had been said in favour of
each, it was decided that, as Sir Henry Walkinghame was abroad, no one
knew exactly where, it would be best to go to the fountain-head, and
write at once to the principal of the college. But who was to write?
Flora proposed Mr. Ramsden as the fittest person, but this was
negatived. Every one declared that he would never take the trouble, and
Miss Rich began to agitate her pens. By this time, however, Mrs. Ward,
who was opposite to the Gothic clock-tower, began to look uneasy, and
suggested, in a nervous manner, that it was half-past five, and she was
afraid Mr. Ward would be kept waiting for his dinner. Mrs. Grey began
to have like fears, that Mr. Grey would be come in from his ride after
banking hours. The other ladies began to think of tea, and the meeting
decided on adjourning till that day next week, when the committee would
sit upon Miss Rich’s letter.
“My dear Miss Flora!” began Miss Rich, adhering to her as they parted
with the rest at the end of the street, “how am I to write to a
principal? Am I to begin Reverend Sir, or My Lord, or is he Venerable,
like an archdeacon? What is his name, and what am I to say?”
“Why, it is not a correspondence much in my line,” said Flora, laughing.
“Ah! but you are so intimate with Dr. Hoxton, and your brothers at
Oxford! You must know--”
“I’ll take advice,” said Flora good-naturedly. “Shall I come, and call
before Friday, and tell you the result?”
“Oh, pray! It will be a real favour! Good-morning--”
“There,” said Flora, as the sisters turned homewards, “Cherry is not
going to be turned out just yet!”
“How could you, Flora? Now they will have that man from Whitford, and
you said not a word against it!”
“What was the use of adding to the hubbub? A little opposition would
make them determined on having him. You will see, Ethel, we shall get
the ground on our own terms, and then it will be time to settle about
the mistress. If the harvest holidays were not over, we would try to
send Cherry to a training-school, so as to leave them no excuse.”
“I hate all this management and contrivance. It would be more honest to
speak our minds, and not pretend to agree with them.”
“My dear Ethel! have I spoken a word contrary to my opinion? It is not
fit for me, a girl of twenty, to go disputing and dragooning as you
would have me; but a little savoir faire, a grain of common sense,
thrown in among the babble, always works. Don’t you remember how Mrs.
Ward’s sister told us that a whole crowd of tottering Chinese ladies
would lean on her, because they felt her firm support, though it was out
of sight?”
Ethel did not answer; she had self-control enough left not to retort
upon Flora’s estimate of herself, but the irritation was strong; she
felt as if her cherished views for Cocksmoor were insulted, as well as
set aside, by the place being made the occasion of so much folly and
vain prattle, the sanctity of her vision of self-devotion destroyed
by such interference, and Flora’s promises did not reassure her. She
doubted Flora’s power, and had still more repugnance to the means
by which her sister tried to govern; they did not seem to her
straightforward, and she could not endure Flora’s complacency in their
success. Had it not been for her real love for the place and people, as
well as the principle which prompted that love, she could have found
it in her heart to throw up all concern with it, rather than become a
fellow-worker with such a conclave.
Such were Ethel’s feelings as the pair walked down the street; the one
sister bright and smiling with the good humour that had endured many
shocks all that day, all good nature and triumph, looking forward to
success, great benefit to Cocksmoor, and plenty of management, with
credit and praise to herself; the other, downcast and irritable, with
annoyance at the interference with her schemes, at the prospects of her
school, and at herself for being out of temper, prone to murmur or to
reply tartly, and not able to recover from her mood, but only, as she
neared the house, lapsing into her other trouble, and preparing to
resist any misjudged, though kind attempt of her father, to make her
unsay her rebuke to Miss Bracy. Pride and temper! Ah! Etheldred! where
were they now?
Dr. May was at his study door as his daughters entered the hall, and
Ethel expected the order which she meant to question; but, instead of
this, after a brief inquiry after the doings of the nine muses, which
Flora answered, so as to make him laugh, he stopped Ethel, as she
was going upstairs, by saying, “I do not know whether this letter is
intended for Richard, or for me. At any rate, it concerns you most.”
The envelope was addressed to the Reverend Richard May, D. D., Market
Stoneborough, and the letter began, “Reverend Sir.” So far Ethel saw,
and exclaimed, with amusement, then, with a long-drawn “Ah!” and
an interjection, “My poor dear Una!” she became absorbed, the large
tears--yes, Ethel’s reluctant tears gathering slowly and dropping.
The letter was from a clergyman far away in the north of England, who
said he could not, though a stranger, resist the desire to send to
Dr. May an account of a poor girl, who seemed to have received great
benefits from him, or from some of his family, especially as she had
shown great eagerness on his proposing to write.