He said it was nearly a year since there had come into his parish a

troop of railwaymen and their families. For the most part, they were

completely wild and rude, unused to any pastoral care; but, even on

the first Sunday, he had noticed a keen-looking, freckled, ragged,

unmistakably Irish girl, creeping into church with a Prayer-book in her

hand, and had afterwards found her hanging about the door of the school.

“I never saw a more engaging, though droll, wild expression, than that

with which she looked up to me.” (Ethel’s cry of delight was at that

sentence--she knew that look too well, and had yearned after it so

often!) “I found her far better instructed than her appearance had led

me to expect, and more truly impressed with the spirit of what she had

learned than it has often been my lot to find children. She was perfect

in the New Testament history”--(“Ah! that she was not, when she went

away!”)--“and was in the habit of constantly attending church, and using

morning and evening prayers.” (“Oh! how I longed, when she went away, to

beg her to keep them up! Dear Una.”) “On my questions, as to how she had

been taught, she always replied, ‘Mr. Richard May,’ or ‘Miss Athel.’ You

must excuse me if I have not correctly caught the name from her Irish

pronunciation.” (“I am afraid he thinks my name is Athaliah! But oh!

this dear girl! How I have wished to hear of her!”) “Everything was

answered with ‘Mr. Richard,’ or ‘Miss Athel’; and, if I inquired

further, her face would light up with a beam of gratitude, and she would

run on, as long as I could listen, with instances of their kindness. It

was the same with her mother, a wild, rude specimen of an Irishwoman,

whom I never could bring to church herself, but who ran on loudly with

their praises, usually ending with ‘Heavens be their bed,’ and saying

that Una had been quite a different girl since the young ladies and

gentleman found her out, and put them parables in her head.

“For my own part, I can testify that, in the seven months that she

attended my school, I never had a serious fault to find with her, but

far more often to admire the earnestness and devout spirit, as well as

the kindness and generosity apparent in all her conduct. Bad living, and

an unwholesome locality, have occasioned a typhus fever among the poor

strangers in this place, and Una was one of the first victims. Her

mother, almost from the first, gave her up, saying she knew she was one

marked for glory; and Una has been lying, day after day, in a sort

of half-delirious state, constantly repeating hymns and psalms, and

generally, apparently very happy, except when one distress occurred

again and again, whether delirious or sensible, namely, that she had

never gone to wish Miss May good-bye, and thank her; and that maybe she

and Mr. Richard thought her ungrateful; and she would sometimes beg, in

her phraseology, to go on her bare knees to Stoneborough, only to see

Miss Athel again.

“Her mother, I should say, told me the girl had been half mad at not

being allowed to go and take leave of Miss May; and she had been sorry

herself, but her husband had come home suddenly from the search for

work, and, having made his arrangements, removed them at once, early the

next morning--too early to go to the young lady; though, she said, Una

did--as they passed through Stoneborough--run down the street before she

was aware, and she found her sobbing, fit to break her heart, before the

house.” (“Oh, why, why was I not up, and at the window! Oh, my Una! to

think of that!”) “When I spoke of writing to let Miss May hear how

it was, the poor girl caught at the idea with the utmost delight. Her

weakness was too great to allow her to utter many words distinctly,

when I asked her what she would have me say, but these were as well as

I could understand:--‘The blessing of one, that they have brought peace

unto. Tell them I pray, and will pray, that they may walk in the robe

of glory--and tell Mr. Richard that I mind what he said to me, of taking

hold on the sure hope. God crown all their crosses unto them, and fulfil

all their desires unto everlasting life.’ I feel that I am not rendering

her words with all their fervour and beauty of Irish expression, but I

would that I could fully retain and transmit them, for those who have so

led her must, indeed, be able to feel them precious. I never saw a

more peaceful frame of penitence and joy. She died last night, sleeping

herself away, without more apparent suffering, and will be committed

to the earth on Sunday next, all her fellow-scholars attending; and, I

hope, profiting by the example she has left.

“I have only to add my most earnest congratulations to those whose

labour of love has borne such blessed fruit; and, hoping you will pardon

the liberty, etc.”

Etheldred finished the letter through blinding tears, while rising sobs

almost choked her. She ran away to her own room, bolted the door, and

threw herself on her knees, beside her bed--now confusedly giving thanks

for such results--now weeping bitterly over her own unworthiness. Oh!

what was she in the sight of Heaven, compared with what this poor girl

had deemed her--with what this clergyman thought her? She, the teacher,

taught, trained, and guarded, from her infancy, by her wise mother, and

by such a father! She, to have given way all day to pride, jealousy,

anger, selfish love of her own will; when this poor girl had embraced,

and held fast, the blessed hope, from the very crumbs they had brought

her! Nothing could have so humbled the distrustful spirit that had been

working in Ethel, which had been scotched into silence--not killed--when

she endured the bazaar, and now had been indemnifying itself by repining

at every stumbling-block. Her own scholar’s blessing was the rebuke that

went most home to her heart, for having doubted whether good could be

worked in any way, save her own.

She was interrupted by Mary trying to open the door, and, admitting

her, heard her wonder at the traces of her tears, and ask what there

was about Una. Ethel gave her the letter, and Mary’s tears showered very

fast--they always came readily. “Oh, Ethel, how glad Richard will be!”

“Yes; it is all Richard’s doing. So much more good, and wise, and

humble, as he is. No wonder his teaching--” and Ethel sat down and cried

again.

Mary pondered. “It makes me very glad,” she said; “and yet I don’t know

why one cries. Ethel, do you think”--she came near, and whispered--“that

Una has met dear mamma there?”

Ethel kissed her. It was almost the first time Mary had spoken of her

mother; and she answered, “Dear Mary, we cannot tell--we may think. It

is all one communion, you know.”

Mary was silent, and, next time she spoke, it was to hope that Ethel

would tell the Cocksmoor children about Una.

Ethel was obliged to dress, and go downstairs to tea. Her father seemed

to have been watching for her, with his study door open, for he came

to meet her, took her hand, and said, in a low voice, “My dear child, I

wish you joy. This will be a pleasant message, to bid poor Ritchie good

speed for his ordination, will it not?”

“That it will, papa--”

“Why, Ethel, have you been crying over it all this time?” said he,

struck by the sadness of her voice.

“Many other things, papa. I am so unworthy--but it was not our

doing--but the grace--”

“No, but thankful you may be, to have been the means of awakening the

grace!”

Ethel’s lips trembled. “And oh, papa! coming to-day, when I have been

behaving so ill to you, and Miss Bracy, and Flora, and all.

“Have you? I did not know you had behaved ill to me.”

“About Miss Bracy--I thought wrong things, if I did not say them. To

her, I believe, I said what was true, though it was harsh of me to say

it, and--”

“What? about pride and temper? It was true, and I hope it will do her

good. Cure a piping turkey with a peppercorn sometimes. I have spoken to

her, and told her to pluck up a little spirit; not fancy affronts, and

not to pester you with them. Poor child! you have been sadly victimised

to-day and yesterday. No wonder you were bored past patience, with that

absurd rabble of women!”

“It was all my own selfish, distrustful temper, wanting to have

Cocksmoor taken care of in my own way, and angry at being interfered

with. I see it now--and here this poor girl, that I thought thrown

away--”

“Ay, Ethel, you will often see the like. The main object may fail or

fall short, but the earnest painstaking will always be blessed some way

or other, and where we thought it most wasted, some fresh green shoot

will spring up, to show it is not we that give the increase. I suppose

you will write to Richard with this?”

“That I shall.”

“Then you may send this with it. Tell him my arm is tired and stiff

to-day, or I would have said more. He must answer the clergyman’s

letter.”

Dr. May gave Ethel his sheet not folded. His written words were now so

few as to be cherished amongst his children.

“Dear Richard,--

“May all your ministerial works be as blessed as this, your first labour

of love. I give you hearty joy of this strengthening blessing. Mine goes

with it--‘Only be strong and of a good courage!’

“Your affectionate father,

R. May.

“PS.--Margaret does not gain ground this summer; you must soon come home

and cheer her.”

CHAPTER V.

As late, engaged by fancy’s dream,

I lay beside a rapid stream,

I saw my first come gliding by,

Its airy form soon caught my eye;

Its texture frail, and colour various,

Like human hopes, and life precarious.

Sudden, my second caught my ear,

And filled my soul with constant fear;

I quickly rose, and home I ran,

My whole was hissing in the pan.--Riddle.

Flora revised the letter to the principal, and the Ladies’ Committee

approved, after having proposed seven amendments, all of which Flora

caused to topple over by their own weakness.

After interval sufficient to render the nine ladies very anxious, the

principal wrote from Scotland, where he was spending the Long Vacation,

and informed them that their request should be laid before the next

college meeting.

After the committee had sat upon this letter, the two sisters walked

home in much greater harmony than after the former meeting. Etheldred

had recovered her candour, and was willing to own that it was not art,

but good sense, that gave her sister so much ascendancy. She began to be

hopeful, and to declare that Flora might yet do something even with the

ladies. Flora was gratified by the approval that no one in the house

could help valuing; “Positively,” said Flora, “I believe I may in time.

You see there are different ways of acting, as an authority, or as an

equal.”

“The authority can move from without, the equal must from within,” said

Ethel.

“Just so. We must circumvent their prejudices, instead of trying to beat

them down.”

“If you only could have the proper catechising restored!”

“Wait; you will see. Let me feel my ground.”

“Or if we could only abdicate into the hands of the rightful power!”

“The rightful power would not be much obliged to you.”

“That is the worst of it,” said Ethel. “It is sad to hear the sick

people say that Dr. May is more to them than any parson; it shows that

they have so entirely lost the notion of what their clergyman should

be.”

“Dr. May is the man most looked up to in this town,” said Flora, “and

that gives weight to us in the committee, but it is all in the using.”

“Yes,” said Ethel hesitatingly.

“You see, we have the prestige of better birth, and better education,

as well as of having the chief property in the town, and of being the

largest subscribers, added to his personal character,” said Flora;

“so that everything conspires to render us leaders, and our age alone

prevented us from assuming our post sooner.”

They were at home by this time, and entering the hall, perceived that

the whole party were in the lawn. The consolation of the children

for the departure of Hector and Tom, was a bowl of soap-suds and some

tobacco pipes, and they had collected the house to admire and assist,

even Margaret’s couch being drawn close to the window.

Bubbles is one of the most fascinating of sports. There is the soft

foamy mass, like driven snow, or like whipped cream. Blanche bends down

to blow “a honeycomb,” holding the bowl of the pipe in the water; at her

gurgling blasts there slowly heaves upwards the pile of larger, clearer

bubbles, each reflecting the whole scene, and sparkling with rainbow

tints, until Aubrey ruthlessly dashes all into fragments with his hand,

and Mary pronounces it stiff enough, and presents a pipe to little

Daisy, who, drawing the liquid into her mouth, throws it away with a

grimace, and declares that she does not like bubbles! But Aubrey stands

with swelled cheeks, gravely puffing at the sealing-waxed extremity.

Out pours a confused assemblage of froth, but the glassy globe slowly

expands the little branching veins, flowing down on either side, bearing

an enlarging miniature of the sky, the clouds, the tulip-tree. Aubrey

pauses to exclaim! but where is it? Try again! A proud bubble, as Mary

calls it, a peacock, in blended pink and green, is this transparent

sphere, reflecting and embellishing house, wall, and shrubs! It is

too beautiful! It is gone! Mary undertakes to give a lesson, and

blows deliberately without the slightest result. Again! She waves

her disengaged hand in silent exultation as the airy balls detach

themselves, and float off on the summer breeze, with a tardy, graceful,

uncertain motion. Daisy rushes after them, catches at them, and looks

at her empty fingers with a puzzled “All gone!” as plainly expressed by

Toby, who snaps at them, and shakes his head with offended dignity at

the shock of his meeting teeth, while the kitten frisks after them,

striking at them with her paw, amazed at meeting vacancy.

Even the grave Norman is drawn in. He agrees with Mary that bubbles

used to fly over the wall, and that one once went into Mrs. Richardson’s

garret window, when her housemaid tried to catch it with a pair of

tongs, and then ran downstairs screaming that there was a ghost in her

room; but that was in Harry’s time, the heroic age of the May nursery.

He accepts a pipe, and his greater height raises it into a favourable

current of air--the glistening balloon sails off. It flies, it soars;

no, it is coming down! The children shout at it, as if to drive it up,

but it wilfully descends--they rush beneath, they try to waft it on high

with their breath--there is a collision between Mary and Blanche--Aubrey

perceives a taste of soapy water--the bubble is no more--it is vanished

in his open mouth!

Papa himself has taken a pipe, and the little ones are mounted on

chairs, to be on a level with their tall elders. A painted globe is

swimming along, hesitating at first, but the dancing motion is tending

upwards, the rainbow tints glisten in the sunlight--all rush to assist

it; if breath of the lips can uphold it, it should rise, indeed!

Up! above the wall! over Mrs. Richardson’s elm, over the topmost

branch--hurrah! out of sight! Margaret adds her voice to the

acclamations. Beat that if you can, Mary! That doubtful wind keeps yours

suspended in a graceful minuet; its pace is accelerated--but earthwards!

it has committed self-destruction by running foul of a rose-bush. A

general blank!

“You here, Ethel?” said Norman, as the elders laughed at each other’s

baffled faces.

“I am more surprised to find you here,” she answered.

“Excitement!” said Norman, smiling; “one cause is as good as another for

it.”

“Very pretty sport,” said Dr. May. “You should write a poem on it,

Norman.”

“It is an exhausted subject,” said Norman; “bubble and trouble are too

obvious a rhyme.”

“Ha! there it goes! It will be over the house! That’s right!” Every one

joined in the outcry.

“Whose is it?”

“Blanche’s--”

“Hurrah for Blanche! Well done, white Mayflower, there!” said the

doctor, “that is what I meant. See the applause gained by a proud bubble

that flies! Don’t we all bow down to it, and waft it up with the whole

force of our lungs, air as it is; and when it fairly goes out of sight,

is there any exhilaration or applause that surpasses ours?”

“The whole world being bent on making painted bubbles fly over the

house,” said Norman, far more thoughtfully than his father. “It is a

fair pattern of life and fame.”

“I was thinking,” continued Dr. May, “what was the most unalloyed

exultation I remember.”

“Harry’s, when you were made dux,” whispered Ethel to her brother.

“Not mine,” said Norman briefly.

“I believe,” said Dr. May, “I never knew such glorification as when

Aubrey Spencer climbed the poor old market-cross. We all felt ourselves

made illustrious for ever in his person.”

“Nay, papa, when you got that gold medal must have been the grandest

time?” said Blanche, who had been listening.

Dr. May laughed, and patted her. “I, Blanche? Why, I was excessively

amazed, that is all, not in Norman’s way, but I had been doing next to

nothing to the very last, then fell into an agony, and worked like a

horse, thinking myself sure of failure, and that my mother and my uncle

would break their hearts.”

“But when you heard that you had it?” persisted Blanche.

“Why, then I found I must be a much cleverer fellow than I thought for!”

said he, laughing; “but I was ashamed of myself, and of the authorities,

for choosing such an idle dog, and vexed that other plodding lads missed

it, who deserved it more than I.”

“Of course,” said Norman, in a low voice, “that is what one always

feels. I had rather blow soap-bubbles!”

“Where was Dr. Spencer?” asked Ethel.

“Not competing. He had been ready a year before, and had gained it, or

I should have had no chance. Poor Spencer! what would I not give to see

him, or hear of him?”

“The last was--how long ago?” said Ethel.

“Six years, when he was setting off, to return from Poonshedagore,” said

Dr. May, sighing. “I gave him up; his health was broken, and there was

no one to look after him. He was the sort of man to have a nameless

grave, and a name too blessed for fame.”

Ethel would have asked further of her father’s dear old friend, but

there were sounds, denoting an arrival, and Margaret beckoned to them

as Miss Rivers and her brother were ushered into the drawing-room; and

Blanche instantly fled away, with her basin, to hide herself in the

schoolroom.

Meta skipped out, and soon was established on the grass, an attraction

to all the live creatures, as it seemed; for the kitten came, and was

caressed till her own graceful Nipen was ready to fight with the uncouth

Toby for the possession of a resting-place on the skirt of her habit,

while Daisy nestled up to her, as claiming a privilege, and Aubrey kept

guard over the dogs.

Meta inquired after a huge doll--Dr. Hoxton’s gift to Daisy, at the

bazaar.

“She is in Margaret’s wardrobe,” was the answer, “because Aubrey tied

her hands behind her, and was going to offer her up on the nursery

grate.”

“Oh, Aubrey, that was too cruel!”

“No,” returned Aubrey; “she was Iphigenia, going to be sacrificed.”

“Mary unconsciously acted Diana,” said Ethel, “and bore the victim

away.”

“Pray, was Daisy a willing Clytemnestra?” asked Meta.

“Oh, yes, she liked it,” said Aubrey, while Meta looked discomfited.

“I never could get proper respect paid to dolls,” said Margaret; “we

deal too much in their natural enemies.”

“Yes,” said Ethel, “my only doll was like a heraldic lion, couped in all

her parts.”

“Harry and Tom once made a general execution,” said Flora; “there was a

doll hanging to every baluster--the number made up with rag.”

George Rivers burst out laughing--his first sign of life; and Meta

looked as if she had heard of so many murders.

“I can’t help feeling for a doll!” she said. “They used to be like

sisters to me. I feel as if they were wasted on children, that see no

character in them, and only call them Dolly.”

“I agree with you,” said Margaret. “If there had been no live dolls,

Richard and I should have reared our doll family as judiciously as

tenderly. There are treasures of carpentry still extant, that he made

for them.”

“Oh, I am so glad!” cried Meta, as if she had found another point of

union. “If I were to confess--there is a dear old Rose in the secret

recesses of my wardrobe. I could as soon throw away my sister--”

“Ha!” cried her brother, laying hold of the child, “here, little Daisy,

will you give your doll to Meta?”

“My name is Gertrude Margaret May,” said the little round mouth. The

fat arm was drawn back, with all a baby’s dignity, and the rosy face was

hidden in Dr. May’s breast, at the sound of George Rivers’s broad laugh

and “Well done, little one!”

Dr. May put his arm round her, turned aside from him, and began talking

to Meta about Mr. Rivers.

Flora and Norman made conversation for the brother; and he presently

asked Norman to go out shooting with him, but looked so amazed on

hearing that Norman was no sportsman that Flora tried to save the family

credit by mentioning Hector’s love of a gun, which caused their guest to

make a general tender of sporting privileges; “Though,” added he, with a

drawl, “shooting is rather a nuisance, especially alone.”

Meta told Ethel, a little apart, that he was so tired of going out

alone, that he had brought her here, in search of a companion.

“He comes in at eleven o’clock, poor fellow, quite tired with solitude,”

said she, “and comes to me to be entertained.”

“Indeed,” exclaimed Ethel. “What can you do?”

“What I can,” said Meta, laughing. “Whatever is not ‘a horrid nuisance’

to him.”

“It would be a horrid nuisance to me,” said Ethel bluntly, “if my

brothers wanted me to amuse them all the morning.”

“Your brothers, oh!” said Meta, as if that were very different;

“besides, you have so much more to do. I am only too glad and grateful

when George will come to me at all. You see I have always been too young

to be his companion, or find out what suited him, and now he is so very

kind and good-natured to me.”

“But what becomes of your business?”

“I get time, one way or another. There is the evening, very often, when

I have sung both him and papa to sleep. I had two hours, all to myself,

yesterday night,” said Meta, with a look of congratulation, “and I had a

famous reading of Thirlwall’s ‘Greece.’”

“I should think that such evenings were as bad as the mornings.”

“Come, Ethel, don’t make me naughty. Large families, like yours, may

have merry, sociable evenings; but, I do assure you, ours are very

pleasant. We are so pleased to have George at home; and we really

hope that he is taking a fancy to the dear Grange. You can’t think how

delighted papa is to have him content to stay quietly with us so long. I

must call him to go back now, though, or papa will be kept waiting.”

When Ethel had watched the tall, ponderous brother help the bright fairy

sister to fly airily into her saddle, and her sparkling glance, and wave

of the hand, as she cantered off, contrasting with his slow bend,

and immobility of feature, she could not help saying that Meta’s life

certainly was not too charming, with her fanciful, valetudinarian

father, and that stupid, idealess brother.

“He is very amiable and good-natured,” interposed Norman.

“Ha! Norman, you are quite won by his invitation to shoot! How he

despised you for refusing--as much as you despised him.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Norman. “You fancy no sensible man likes

shooting, but you are all wrong. Some of our best men are capital

sportsmen. Why, there is Ogilvie--you know what he is. When I bring him

down here, you will see that there is no sort of sport that he is not

keen after.”

“This poor fellow will never be keen after anything,” said Dr. May. “I

pity him! Existence seems hard work to him!”

“We shall have baby calling him ‘the detestable’ next,” said Ethel.

“What a famous set down she gave him.”

“She is a thorough lady, and allows no liberties,” said Dr. May.

“Ah!” said Margaret, “it is a proof of what I want to impression you. We

really must leave off calling her Daisy when strangers are there.”

“It is so much nicer,” pleaded Mary.

“The very reason,” said Margaret, “fondling names should be kept for our

innermost selves, not spread abroad, and made common. I remember when I

used to be called Peg-top--and Flora, Flossy--we were never allowed to

use the names when any visitor was near; and we were asked if we could

not be as fond of each other by our proper names. I think it was felt

that there was a want of reserve in publishing our pet words to other

people.”

“Quite true,” said Dr. May; “baby-names never ought to go beyond home.

It is the fashion to use them now; and, besides the folly, it seems, to

me, an absolute injury to a girl, to let her grow up, with a nickname

attached to her.”

“Ay!” chimed in Norman, “I hear men talking of Henny, and Loo, and the

like; and you can’t think how glad I have been that my sisters could not

be known by any absurd word!”

“It is a case where self-respect would make others behave properly,”

said Flora.

“True,” said Dr. May; “but if girls won’t keep up their own dignity,

their friends’ duty is to do it for them. The mischief is in the

intimate friends, who blazon the words to every one.”

“And then they call one formal, for trying to protect the right

name,” said Flora. “It is, one-half of it, silliness, and, the other,

affectation of intimacy.”

“Now, I know,” said Mary, “why you are so careful to call Meta Miss

Rivers, to all the people here.”

“I should hope so!” cried Norman indignantly.

“Why, yes, Mary,” said Margaret, “I should hope lady-like feelings would

prevent you from calling her Meta before--”

“The Andersons!” cried Ethel, laughing. “Margaret was just going to

say it. We only want Harry, to exact the forfeit! Poor dear little

humming-bird! It gives one an oppression on the chest, to think of her

having that great do-nothing brother on her hands all day.”

“Thank you,” said Norman, “I shall know where I am not to look when I

want a sister.”

“Ay,” said Ethel, “when you come yawning to me to find amusement for

you, you will see what I shall do!”

“Stand over me with a stick while I print A B C for Cocksmoor, I

suppose,” said Norman.

“Well! why not? People are much better doing something than nothing.”

“What, you won’t even let me blow bubbles!” said Norman.

“That is too intellectual, as papa makes it,” said Ethel. “By the bye,

Norman,” she added, as she had now walked with him a little apart, “it

always was a bubble of mine that you should try for the Newdigate prize.

Ha!” as the colour rushed into his cheeks, “you really have begun!”

“I could not help it, when I heard the subject given out for next year.

Our old friend, Decius Mus.”

“Have you finished?”

“By no means, but it brought a world of notions into my head, such as I

could not but set down. Now, Ethel, do oblige me, do write another, as

we used in old times.”

“I had better not,” said Ethel, standing thoughtful. “If I throw

myself into it, I shall hate everything else, and my wits will be

woolgathering. I have neither time nor poetry enough.”

“You used to write English verse.”

“I was cured of it.”

“How?”

“I wanted money for Cocksmoor, and after persuading papa, I got leave

to send a ballad about a little girl and a white rose to that school

magazine. I don’t think papa liked it, but there were some verses that

touched him, and one had seen worse. It was actually inserted, and I was

in high feather, till, oh, Norman! imagine Richard getting hold of this

unlucky thing, without a notion where it came from! Margaret put it

before him, to see what he would say to it.”

“I am afraid it was not like a young lady’s anonymous composition in a

story.”

“By no means. Imagine Ritchie picking my poor metaphors to pieces, and

weighing every sentimental line! And all in his dear old simplicity,

because he wanted to understand it, seeing that Margaret liked it. He

had not the least intention of hurting my feelings, but never was I

so annihilated! I thought he was doing it on purpose, till I saw how

distressed he was when he found it out; and worse than all was, his

saying at the end that he supposed it was very fine, but he could not

understand it.”

“Let me see it.”

“Some time or other; but let me see Decius.”

“Did you give up verses because Richard could not understand them?”

“No; because I had other fish to fry. And I have not given them up

altogether. I do scrabble down things that tease me by running in my

head, when I want to clear my brains, and know what I mean; but I

can’t do it without sitting up at night, and that stupefies me before

breakfast. And as to making bubbles of them, Ritchie has cured me of

that!”

“It is a pity!” said Norman.

“Nonsense, let me see Decius. I know he is splendid.”

“I wish you would have tried, for all my best ideas are stolen from

you.”

Ethel prevailed by following her brother to his room, and perching

herself on the window-sill, while he read his performance from many

slips of paper. The visions of those boyish days had not been forgotten,

the Vesuvius scenery was much as Ethel had once described it, but with

far more force and beauty; there was Decius’s impassioned address to the

beauteous land he was about to leave, and the remembrances of his Roman

hearth, his farm, his children, whom he quitted for the pale shadows of

an uncertain Elysium. There was a great hiatus in the middle, and Norman

had many more authorities to consult, but the summing-up was nearly

complete, and Ethel thought the last lines grand, as they spoke of the

noble consul’s name living for evermore, added to the examples that

nerve ardent souls to devote life, and all that is precious, to the call

of duty. Fame is not their object. She may crown their pale brows, but

for the good of others, not their own, a beacon light to the world. Self

is no object of theirs, and it is the casting self behind that wins--not

always the visible earthly strife, but the combat between good and evil.

They are the true victors, and, whether chronicled or forgotten, true

glory rests on their heads, the sole true glory that man can attain,

namely, the reflected beams that crown them as shadowy types of Him whom

Decius knew not--the Prince who gave Himself for His people, and thus

rendered death, for Truth’s sake, the highest boon to mortal man.

“Norman, you must finish it! When will it be given in?”

“Next spring, if at all, but keep the secret, Ethel. I cannot have my

father’s hopes raised.”

“I’ll tell you of a motto,” said Ethel. “Do you remember Mrs. Hemans’

mention of a saying of Sir Walter Scott--‘Never let me hear that brave

blood has been shed in vain. It sends a roaring voice down through all

time.’”

“If,” said Norman, rather ashamed of the enthusiasm which, almost

approaching to the so-called “funny state” of his younger days, had

trembled in his voice, and kindled his eye--“if you won’t let me put

‘nascitur ridiculus mus.’”

“Too obvious,” said Ethel. “Depend upon it, every undergraduate has

thought of it already.”

Ethel was always very happy over Norman’s secrets, and went about

smiling over Decius, and comparing her brother with such a one as poor

Meta was afflicted with; wasting some superfluous pity and contempt on

the weary weight that was inflicted on the Grange.

“What do you think of me?” said Margaret, one afternoon. “I have had Mr.

George Rivers here for two hours.”

“Alone! what could bring him here?”

“I told him that every one was out, but he chose to sit down, and seemed

to be waiting.”

“How could you get on?”

“Oh! we asked a few questions, and brought out remarks, with great

difficulty, at long intervals. He asked me if lying here was not a great

nuisance, and, at last, he grew tired of twisting his moustache, and

went away.”

“I trust it was a call to take leave.”

“No, he thinks he shall sell out, for the army is a great nuisance.”

“You seem to have got into his confidence.”

“Yes, he said he wanted to settle down, but living with one’s father was

such a nuisance.”

“By the bye,” cried Ethel, laughing, “Margaret, it strikes me that this

is a Dumbiedikes’ courtship!”

“Of yourself?” said Margaret slyly.

“No, of Flora. You know, she has often met him at the Grange and

other places, and she does contrive to amuse him, and make him almost

animated. I should not think he found her a great nuisance.”

“Poor man! I am sorry for him!” said Margaret.

“Oh! rejection will be very good for him, and give him something to

think of.”

“Flora will never let it come to that,” said Margaret. “But not one word

about it, Ethel!”

Margaret and Etheldred kept their eyes open, and sometimes imagined,

sometimes laughed at themselves for their speculations, and so October

began; and Ethel laughed, as she questioned whether the Grange would

feel the Hussar’s return to his quarters, as much as home would the

departure of their scholar for Balliol.

CHAPTER VI.

So, Lady Flora, take my lay,

And if you find a meaning there,

Oh! whisper to your glass, and say,

What wonder, if he thinks me fair.--Tennyson.

Flora and Norman were dining with one of their county acquaintance, and

Dr. May had undertaken to admit them on their return. The fire shone red

and bright, as it sank calmly away, and the timepiece and clock on the

stairs had begun their nightly duet of ticking, the crickets chirped in

the kitchen, and the doctor sat alone. His book lay with unturned pages,

as he sat musing, with eyes fixed on the fire, living over again his own

life, the easy bright days of his youth, when, without much pains on his

own part, the tendencies of his generous affectionate disposition,

and the influences of a warm friendship, and an early attachment, had

guarded him from evil--then the period when he had been perfectly happy,

and the sobering power of his position had been gradually working

on him; but though always religious and highly principled, the very

goodness of his natural character preventing him from perceiving the

need of self-control, until the shock that changed the whole tenor

of his life, and left him, for the first time, sensible of his own

responsibility, but with inveterate habits of heedlessness and hastiness

that love alone gave him force to combat. He was now a far gentler man.

His younger children had never seen, his elder had long since forgotten,

his occasional bursts of temper, but he suffered keenly from their

effects, especially as regarded some of his children. Though Richard’s

timidity had been overcome, and Tom’s more serious failures had been

remedied, he was not without anxiety, and had a strange unsatisfactory

feeling as regarded Flora. He could not feel that he fathomed her! She

reminded him of his old Scottish father-in-law, Professor Mackenzie,

whom he had never understood, nor, if the truth were known, liked. Her

dealings with the Ladies’ Committee were so like her grandfather’s canny

ways in a public meeting, that he laughed over them--but they were

not congenial to him. Flora was a most valuable person; all that she

undertook prospered, and he depended entirely on her for household

affairs, and for the care of Margaret; but, highly as he esteemed her,

he was a little afraid of her cool prudence; she never seemed to be

in any need of him, nor to place any confidence in him, and seemed

altogether so much older and wiser than he could feel himself--pretty

girl as she was--and very pretty were her fine blue eyes and clear skin,

set off by her dark brown hair. There arose the vision of eyes as blue,

skin as clear, but of light blonde locks, and shorter, rounder, more

dove-like form, open, simple, loving face, and serene expression, that

had gone straight to his heart, when he first saw Maggie Mackenzie

making tea.

He heard the wheels, and went out to unbolt the door. Those were a pair

for a father to be proud of--Norman, of fine stature and noble looks,

with his high brow, clear thoughtful eye, and grave intellectual eagle

face, lighting into animation with his rare, sweet smile; and Flora, so

tall and graceful, and in her white dress, picturesquely half concealed

by her mantle, with flowers in her hair, and a deepened colour in her

cheek, was a fair vision, as she came in from the darkness.

“Well! was it a pleasant party?”

Norman related the circumstances, while his sister remained silently

leaning against the mantel-piece, looking into the fire, until he took

up his candle, and bade them good-night. Dr. May was about to do the

same, when she held out her hand. “One moment, if you please, dear

papa,” she said; “I think you ought to know it.”

“What, my dear?”

“Mr. George Rivers, papa--”

“Ha!” said Dr. May, beginning to smile. “So that is what he is at, is

it? But what an opportunity to take.”

“It was in the conservatory,” said Flora, a little hurt, as her father

discovered by her tone. “The music was going on, and I don’t know that

there could have been--”

“A better opportunity, eh?” said Dr. May, laughing; “well, I should have

thought it awkward; was he very much discomposed?”

“I thought,” said Flora, looking down and hesitating, “that he had

better come to you.”

“Indeed! so you shifted the ungracious office to me. I am very glad to

spare you, my dear; but it was hard on him to raise his hopes.”

“I thought,” faltered Flora, “that you could not disapprove--”

“Flora--” and he paused, completely confounded, while his daughter was

no less surprised at the manner in which her news was received. Each

waited for the other to speak, and Flora turned away, resting her head

against the mantel-piece.

“Surely,” said he, laying his hand on her shoulder, “you do not mean

that you like this man?”

“I did not think that you would be against it,” said Flora, in a choked

voice, her face still averted.

“Heaven knows, I would not be against anything for your happiness, my

dear,” he answered; “but have you considered what it would be to spend

your life with a man that has not three ideas! not a resource for

occupying himself--a regular prey to ennui--one whom you could never

respect!” He had grown more and more vehement, and Flora put her

handkerchief to her eyes, for tears of actual disappointment were

flowing.

“Come, come,” he said, touched, but turning it off by a smile, “we will

not talk of it any more to-night. It is your first offer, and you are

flattered, but we know

“‘Colours seen by candle-light,

Will not bear the light of day.’

“There, good-night, Flora, my dear--we will have a-tete-a-tete in the

study before breakfast, when you have had time to look into your own

mind.”

He kissed her affectionately, and went upstairs with her, stopping at

her door to give her another embrace, and to say “Bless you, my dear

child, and help you to come to a right decision--”

Flora was disappointed. She had been too highly pleased at her conquest

to make any clear estimation of the prize, individually considered. Her

vanity magnified her achievement, and she had come home in a flutter of

pleasure, at having had such a position in society offered to her, and

expecting that her whole family would share her triumph. Gratified

by George Rivers’s admiration, she regarded him with favour and

complacency; and her habit of considering herself as the most sensible

person in her sphere made her so regard his appreciation of her, that

she was blinded to his inferiority. It must be allowed that he was less

dull with her than with most others.

And, in the midst of her glory, when she expected her father to be

delighted and grateful--to be received as a silly girl, ready to accept

any proposal, her lover spoken of with scorn, and the advantages of the

match utterly passed over, was almost beyond endurance. A physician,

with eleven children dependent on his practice, to despise an offer

from the heir of such a fortune! But that was his customary romance!

She forgave him, when it occurred to her that she was too important, and

valuable, to be easily spared; and a tenderness thrilled through her,

as she looked at the sleeping Margaret’s pale face, and thought of

surrendering her and little Daisy to Ethel’s keeping. And what would

become of the housekeeping? She decided, however, that feelings must not

sway her--out of six sisters some must marry, for the good of the rest.

Blanche and Daisy should come and stay with her, to be formed by the

best society; and, as to poor dear Ethel, Mrs. Rivers would rule the

Ladies’ Committee for her with a high hand, and, perhaps, provide

Cocksmoor with a school at her sole expense. What a useful, admirable

woman she would be! The doctor would be the person to come to his senses

in the morning, when he remembered Abbotstoke, Mr. Rivers, and Meta.

So Flora met her father, the next morning, with all her ordinary

composure, in which he could not rival her, after his sleepless, anxious

night. His looks of affectionate solicitude disconcerted what she had

intended to say, and she waited, with downcast eyes, for him to begin.

“Well, Flora,” he said at last, “have you thought?”

“Do you know any cause against it?” said Flora, still looking down.

“I know almost nothing of him. I have never heard anything of his

character or conduct. Those would be a subject of inquiry, if you wish

to carry this on--”

“I see you are averse,” said Flora. “I would do nothing against your

wishes--”

“My wishes have nothing to do with it,” said Dr. May. “The point

is--that I must do right, as far as I can, as well as try to secure your

happiness; and I want to be sure that you know what you are about.”

“I know he is not clever,” said Flora; “but there may be many solid

qualities without talent.”

“I am the last person to deny it; but where are these solid qualities? I

cannot see the recommendation!”

“I place myself in your hands,” said Flora, in a submissive tone, which

had the effect of making him lose patience.

“Flora, Flora! why will you talk as if I were sacrificing you to some

dislike or prejudice of my own! Don’t you think I should only rejoice

to have such a prosperous home offered to you, if only the man were

worthy?”

“If you do not think him so, of course there is an end of it,” said

Flora, and her voice showed suppressed emotion.

“It is not what I think, in the absence of proof, but what you think,

Flora. What I want you to do is this--to consider the matter fairly.

Compare him with--I’ll not say with Norman--but with Richard, Alan, Mr.

Wilmot. Do you think you could rely on him--come to him for advice?”

(Flora never did come to any one for advice.) “Above all--do you think

him likely to be a help, or a hindrance, in doing right?”

“I think you underrate him,” said Flora steadily; “but, of course, if

you dislike it--though, I think, you would change your mind if you knew

him better--”

“Well,” he said, as if to himself, “it is not always the most worthy;”

then continued, “I have no dislike to him. Perhaps I may find that you

are right. Since your mind is made up, I will do this: first, we must be

assured of his father’s consent, for they may very fairly object, since

what I can give you is a mere nothing to them. Next, I shall find out

what character he bears in his regiment, and watch him well myself; and,

if nothing appear seriously amiss, I will not withhold my consent. But,

Flora, you should still consider whether he shows such principle and

right feeling as you can trust to.”

“Thank you, papa. I know you will do all that is kind.”

“Mind, you must not consider it an engagement, unless all be

satisfactory.”

“I will do as you please.”

Ethel perceived that something was in agitation, but the fact did not

break upon her till she came to Margaret, after the schoolroom reading,

and heard Dr. May declaiming away in the vehement manner that always

relieved him.

“Such a cub!” These were the words that met her ear; and she would have

gone away, but he called her. “Come in, Ethel; Margaret says you guessed

at this affair!”

“At what affair!” exclaimed Ethel. “Oh, it is about Flora. Poor man; has

he done it?”

“Poor! He is not the one to be pitied!” said her father.

“You don’t mean that she likes him?”

“She does though! A fellow with no more brains than a turnip lantern!”

“She does not mean it?” said Ethel.

“Yes, she does! Very submissive, and proper spoken, of course, but bent

on having him; so there is nothing left for me but to consent--provided

Mr. Rivers does, and he should turn out not to have done anything

outrageous; but there’s no hope of that--he has not the energy. What can

possess her? What can she see to admire?”

“He is good-natured,” said Margaret, “and rather good-looking--”

“Flora has more sense. What on earth can be the attraction?”

“I am afraid it is partly the grandeur--” said Ethel. She broke off

short, quite dismayed at the emotion she had excited. Dr. May stepped

towards her, almost as if he could have shaken her.

“Ethel,” he cried, “I won’t have such motives ascribed to your sister!”

Ethel tried to recollect what she had said that was so shocking, for the

idea of Flora’s worldly motives was no novelty to her. They had appeared

in too many instances; and, though frightened at his anger, she stood

still, without unsaying her words.

Margaret began to explain away. “Ethel did not mean, dear papa--”

“No,” said Dr. May, his passionate manner giving way to dejection. “The

truth is, that I have made home so dreary, that my girls are ready to

take the first means of escaping.”

Poor Margaret’s tears sprang forth, and, looking up imploringly, she

exclaimed, “Oh, papa, papa! it was no want of happiness! I could not

help it. You know he had come before--”

Any reproach to her had been entirely remote from his thoughts, and he

was at once on his knee beside her, soothing and caressing, begging

her pardon, and recalling whatever she could thus have interpreted.

Meanwhile, Ethel stood unnoticed and silent, making no outward

protestation, but with lips compressed, as in her heart of hearts she

passed the resolution--that her father should never feel this pain on

her account. Leave him who might, she would never forsake him;

nothing but the will of Heaven should part them. It might be hasty and

venturesome. She knew not what it might cost her; but, where Ethel had

treasured her resolve to work for Cocksmoor, there she also laid up her

secret vow--that no earthly object should be placed between her and her

father.

The ebullition of feeling seemed to have restored Dr. May’s calmness,

and he rose, saying, “I must go to my work; the man is coming here this

afternoon.”

“Where shall you see him?” Margaret asked.

“In my study, I suppose. I fear there is no chance of Flora’s changing

her mind first. Or do you think one of you could talk to her, and get

her fairly to contemplate the real bearings of the matter?” And, with

these words, he left the room.

Margaret and Ethel glanced at each other; and both felt the

impenetrability of Flora’s nature, so smooth, that all thrusts glided

off.

“It will be of no use,” said Ethel; “and, what is more, she will not

have it done.”

“Pray try; a few of your forcible words would set it in a new light.”

“Why! Do you think she will attend to me, when she has not chosen to

heed papa?” said Ethel, with an emphasis of incredulity. “No; whatever

Flora does, is done deliberately, and unalterably.”

“Still, I don’t know whether it is not our duty,” said Margaret.

“More yours than mine,” said Ethel.

Margaret flushed up. “Oh, no, I cannot!” she said, always timid, and

slightly defective in moral courage. She looked so nervous and shaken by

the bare idea of a remonstrance with Flora, that Ethel could not press

her; and, though convinced that her representation would be useless, she

owned that her conscience would rest better after she had spoken. “But

there is Flora, walking in the garden with Norman,” she said. “No doubt

he is doing it.”

So Ethel let it rest, and attended to the children’s lessons, during

which Flora came into the drawing-room, and practised her music, as if

nothing had happened.

Before the morning was over, Ethel contrived to visit Norman in the

dining-room, where he was wont to study, and asked him whether he had

made any impression on Flora.

“What impression do you mean?”

“Why, about this concern,” said Ethel; “this terrible man, that makes

papa so unhappy.”

“Papa unhappy! Why, what does he know against him? I thought the

Riverses were his peculiar pets.”

“The Riverses! As if, because one liked the sparkling stream, one must

like a muddy ditch.”

“What harm do you know of him?” said Norman, with much surprise and

anxiety, as if he feared that he had been doing wrong, in ignorance.

“Harm! Is he not a regular oaf?”

“My dear Ethel, if you wait to marry till you find some one as clever as

yourself, you will wait long enough.”

“I don’t think it right for a woman to marry a man decidedly her

inferior.”

“We have all learned to think much too highly of talent,” said Norman

gravely.

“I don’t care for mere talent--people are generally more sensible

without it; but, one way or other, there ought to be superiority on the

man’s side.”

“Well, who says there is not?”

“My dear Norman! Why, this George Rivers is really below the average!

you cannot deny that! Did you ever meet any one so stupid?”

“Really!” said Norman, considering; and, speaking very innocently, “I

cannot see why you think so. I do not see that he is at all less capable

of sustaining a conversation than Richard.”

Ethel sat down, perfectly breathless with amazement and indignation.

Norman saw that he had shocked her very much. “I do not mean,” he said,

“that we have not much more to say to Richard; all I meant to say was,

merely as to the intellect.”

“I tell you,” said Ethel, “it is not the intellect. Richard! why, you

know how we respect, and look up to him. Dear old Ritchie! with his

goodness, and earnestness, and right judgment--to compare him to that

man! Norman, Norman, I never thought it of you!”

“You do not understand me, Ethel. I only cited Richard, as a person who

proves how little cleverness is needed to insure respect.”

“And, I tell you, that cleverness is not the point.”

“It is the only objection you have put forward.”

“I did wrong,” said Ethel. “It is not the real one. It is earnest

goodness that one honours in Richard. Where do we find it in this man,

who has never done anything but yawn over his self indulgence?”

“Now, Ethel, you are working yourself up into a state of foolish

prejudice. You and papa have taken a dislike to him; and you are

overlooking a great deal of good safe sense and right thinking. I

know his opinions are sound, and his motives right. He has been

undereducated, we all see, and is not very brilliant or talkative; but I

respect Flora for perceiving his solid qualities.”

“Very solid and weighty, indeed!” said Ethel ironically. “I wonder if

she would have seen them in a poor curate.”

“Ethel, you are allowing yourself to be carried, by prejudice, a

great deal too far. Are such imputations to be made, wherever there is

inequality of means? It is very wrong! very unjust!”

“So papa said,” replied Ethel, as she looked sorrowfully down. “He was

very angry with me for saying so. I wish I could help feeling as if that

were the temptation.”

“You ought,” said Norman. “You will be sorry, if you set yourself, and

him, against it.”

“I only wish you to know what I feel; and, I think, Margaret and papa

do,” said Ethel humbly; “and then you will not think us more unjust than

we are. We cannot see anything so agreeable or suitable in this man as

to account for Flora’s liking, and we do not feel convinced of his being

good for much. That makes papa greatly averse to it, though he does not

know any positive reason for refusing; and we cannot feel certain that

she is doing quite right, or for her own happiness.”

“You will be convinced,” said Norman cheerfully. “You will find out the

good that is under the surface when you have seen more of him. I have

had a good deal of talk with him.”

A good deal of talk to him would have been more correct, if Norman

had but been aware of it. He had been at the chief expense of the

conversation with George Rivers, and had taken the sounds of assent,

which he obtained, as evidences of his appreciation of all his views.

Norman had been struggling so long against his old habit of looking down

on Richard, and exalting intellect; and had seen, in his Oxford life, so

many ill-effects of the knowledge that puffeth up, that he had come

to have a certain respect for dullness, per se, of which George Rivers

easily reaped the benefit, when surrounded by the halo, which everything

at Abbotstoke Grange bore in the eyes of Norman.

He was heartily delighted at the proposed connection, and his genuine

satisfaction not only gratified Flora, and restored the equanimity that

had been slightly disturbed by her father, but it also reassured Ethel

and Margaret, who could not help trusting in his judgment, and began to

hope that George might be all he thought him.

Ethel, finding that there were two ways of viewing the gentleman,

doubted whether she ought to express her opinion. It was Flora’s

disposition, and the advantages of the match, that weighed most upon

her, and, in spite of her surmise having been treated as so injurious,

she could not rid herself of the burden.

Dr. May was not so much consoled by Norman’s opinion as Ethel expected.

The corners of his mouth curled up a little with diversion, and though

he tried to express himself glad, and confident in his son’s judgment,

there was the same sort of involuntary lurking misgiving with which he

had accepted Sir Matthew Fleet’s view of Margaret’s case.

There was no danger that Dr. May would not be kind and courteous to the

young man himself. It was not his fault if he were a dunce, and Dr. May

perceived that his love for Flora was real, though clumsily expressed.

He explained that he could not sanction the engagement till he should

be better informed of the young gentleman’s antecedents; this was, as

George expressed it, a great nuisance, but his father agreed that it

was quite right, in some doubt, perhaps, as to how Dr. May might be

satisfied.

CHAPTER VII.

Ye cumbrous fashions, crowd not on my head.

Mine be the chip of purest white,

Swan-like; and, as her feathers light,

When on the still wave spread;

And let it wear the graceful dress

Of unadorned simpleness.

Catherine Fanshaw’s ‘Parody on Grey’.

Nothing transpired to the discredit of Lieutenant Rivers. He had spent a

great deal of money, but chiefly for want of something else to do,

and, though he was not a subject for high praise, there was no vice

in him--no more than in an old donkey--as Dr. May declared, in his

concluding paroxysm of despair, on finding that, though there was little

to reconcile him to the engagement, there was no reasonable ground for

thwarting his daughter’s wishes. He argued the matter once more with

her, and, finding her purpose fixed, he notified his consent, and the

rest of the family were admitted to a knowledge of the secret which they

had never suspected.

Etheldred could not help being gratified with the indignation it

excited. With one voice, Mary and Blanche declared that they would

never give up the title of “the detestable,” and would not make him

any presents; certainly not watch-chains! Miss Bracy, rather alarmed,

lectured them just enough to make them worse; and Margaret, overhearing

Blanche instructing Aubrey in her own impertinences, was obliged to call

her to her sofa, and assure her that she was unkind to Flora, and that

she must consider Mr. George Rivers as her brother.

“Never my brother like Harry!” exclaimed Mary indignantly.

“No, indeed; nor like Alan!” exclaimed Blanche. “And I won’t call him

George, I am determined, if it is ever so!”

“It will not matter to him what such little girls call him,” said

Margaret.

Blanche was so annihilated, that the sound of a carriage, and of the

door bell, was a great satisfaction to her.

Meta Rivers came flying into the room, her beautiful eyes dancing,

and her cheeks glowing with pleasure, as, a little timidly, she kissed

Margaret; while Ethel, in a confused way, received Mr. Rivers, in

pain for her own cold, abrupt manner, in contrast with his gentle,

congratulating politeness.

Meta asked, blushing, and with a hesitating voice, for their dear Flora;

Mary offered to call her, but Meta begged to go herself, and thus was

spared the awkwardness that ensued. Ethel was almost vexed with herself,

as ungrateful, when she saw Mr. Rivers so mildly kind, and so delighted,

with the bland courtesy that seemed fully conscious of the favour that

Flora had conferred on his son, and thankful to the Mays for accepting

him.

Margaret answered with more expression of gratification than would have

been sincere in Ethel; but it was a relief when Flora and Meta came in

together, as pretty a contrast as could be seen; the little dark-eyed

fairy, all radiant with joy, clinging to the slender waist of Flora,

whose quiet grace and maidenly dignity were never more conspicuous than

as, with a soft red mantling in her fair cheek, her eyes cast down, but

with a simple, unaffected warmth of confidence and gratitude, she came

forward to receive Mr. Rivers’s caressing affectionate greeting.

Stiffness was over when she came in, and Dr. May, who presently made his

appearance, soon was much more at his ease than could have been hoped,

after his previous declarations that he should never be able to be

moderately civil about it to Mr. Rivers. People of ready sympathy, such

as Dr. May and Margaret, have a great deal of difficulty with their

sincerity spared them, by being carried along with the feelings of

others. Ethel could not feel the same, and was bent on avoiding any

expression of opinion; she hoped that Meta’s ecstasies would all be

bestowed upon her future sister-in-law; but Meta was eager for an

interview with Ethel herself, and, as usual, gained her point.

“Now then, you are property of my own!” she cried. “May I not take you

all for sisters?”

Ethel had not thought of this as a convenience of the connection, and

she let Meta kiss her, and owned that it was very nice.

“Ethel,” said Meta, “I see, and I wanted to talk to you. You don’t think

poor George good enough for Flora.”

“I never meant to show it,” said Ethel.

“You need not mind,” said Meta, smiling. “I was very much surprised

myself, and thought it all a mistake. But I am so very glad, for I know

it will make such a difference to him, poor fellow. I should like to

tell you all about him, for no one else can very well, and you will like

him better, perhaps. You know my grandfather made his own fortune, and

you would think some of our relations very queer. My Aunt Dorothy once

told me all about it--papa was made to marry the partner’s daughter, and

I fancy she could not have been much of a lady. I don’t think he could

have been very happy with her, but she soon died, and left him with this

one son, whom those odd old aunts brought up their own way. By and by,

you know, papa came to be in quite another line of society, but when he

married again, poor George had been so spoiled by these aunts, and was

so big, and old, that my mother did not know what to make of him.”

“A great lubberly boy,” Ethel said, rather repenting the next moment.

“He is thirteen years older than I am,” said Meta, “and you see it has

been hard on him altogether; he had not the education that papa would

have given him if he had been born later: and he can’t remember his

mother, and has always been at a loss when with clever people. I never

understood it till within the last two or three years, nor knew

how trying it must be to see such a little chit as me made so much

of--almost thrusting him aside. But you cannot think what a warm-hearted

good fellow he is--he has never been otherwise than so very kind to

me, and he was so very fond of his old aunt. Hitherto, he has had such

disadvantages, and no real, sensible woman has taken him in hand; he

does not care for papa’s tastes, and I am so much younger, that I never

could get on with him at all, till this time; but I do know that he has

a real good temper, and all sorts of good qualities, and that he only

needs to be led right, to go right. Oh! Flora may make anything of him,

and we are so thankful to her for having found it out!”

“Thank you for telling me,” said Ethel. “It is much more satisfactory to

have no shamming.”

Meta laughed, for Ethel’s sham was not too successful; she continued,

“Dear Dr. May, I thought he would think his beautiful Flora not exactly

matched--but tell him, Ethel, for if he once is sorry for poor George,

he will like him. And it will really be the making of George, to be

thrown with him and your brothers. Oh! we are so glad! But I won’t tease

you to be so.”

“I can like it better now,” said Ethel. “You know Norman thinks very

highly of your brother, and declares that it will all come out by and

by.”

Meta clapped her hands, and said that she should tell her father, and

Ethel parted with her, liking her, at least, better than ever. There

was a comical scene between her and the doctor, trying to define what

relations they should become to each other, which Ethel thought did a

good deal to mollify her father.

The history of George’s life did more; he took to pitying him, and pity

was, indeed, akin to love in the good doctor’s mind. In fact, George

was a man who could be liked, when once regarded as a belonging--a

necessity, not a choice; for it was quite true that there was no harm in

him, and a great deal of good nature. His constant kindness, and evident

liking for Margaret, stood him in good stead; he made her a sort of

confidante, bestowing on her his immeasurable appreciation of Flora’s

perfections, and telling her how well he was getting on with “the old

gentleman”--a name under which she failed to recognise her father.

As to Tom, he wrote his congratulations to Ethel, that she might make

a wedding present of her Etruscan vases, the Cupids on which must have

been put there by anticipation. Richard heard none of the doubts,

and gave kind, warm congratulations, promising to return home for

the wedding; and Mary and Blanche no sooner heard a whisper about

bride’s-maids than all their opposition faded away, in a manner that

quite scandalised Ethel, while it set Margaret on reminiscences of

her having been a six-year-old bride’s-maid to Flora’s godmother, Mrs.

Arnott.

As to the gossip in the town, Ethel quite dreaded the sight of every one

without Flora to protect her, and certainly, Flora’s unaffected, quiet

manner was perfection, and kept off all too forward congratulations,

while it gratified those whom she was willing to encourage.

There was no reason for waiting, and Mr. Rivers was as impatient as his

son, so an understanding arose that the wedding, should take place near

the end of the Christmas holidays.

Flora showed herself sensible and considerate. Always open-handed, her

father was inclined to do everything liberally, and laid no restrictions

on her preparations, but she had too much discretion to be profuse, and

had a real regard for the welfare of the rest. She laughed with Ethel at

the anticipations of the Stoneborough ladies that she must be going

to London, and, at the requests, as a great favour, that they might be

allowed the sight of her trousseau. Her wedding-dress, white silk,

with a white cashmere mantle, was, indeed, ordered from Meta’s London

dressmaker; but, for the rest, she contented herself with an expedition

to Whitford, accompanied by Miss Bracy and her two enchanted pupils,

and there laid in a stock of purchases, unpretending and in good

taste, aiming only at what could be well done, and not attempting the

decorative wardrobe of a great lady. Ethel was highly amused when

the Misses Anderson came for their inspection, to see their concealed

disappointment at finding no under garments trimmed with Brussels lace,

nor pocket-handkerchiefs all open-work, except a centre of the size of

a crown-piece, and the only thing remarkable was Margaret’s beautiful

marking in embroidery. There was some compensation in the costly wedding

presents--Flora had reaped a whole harvest from friends of her own,

grateful patients of her father, and the whole Rivers and Langdale

connection; but, in spite of the brilliant uselessness of most of these,

the young ladies considered themselves ill-used, thought Dr. May never

would have been shabby, and were of opinion that when Miss Ward had

married her father’s surgical pupil, her outfit had been a far more

edifying spectacle.

The same moderation influenced Flora’s other arrangements. Dr. May was

resigned to whatever might be thought most proper, stipulating only

that he should not have to make a speech; but Flora felt that, in their

house, a grand breakfast would be an unsuccessful and melancholy affair.

If the bride had been any one else, she could have enjoyed making all

go off well, but, under present circumstances, it would be great pain to

her father and Margaret, a misery to Ethel, and something she dared not

think of to the guests. She had no difficulty in having it dispensed

with. George was glad to avoid “a great nuisance.” Mr. Rivers feared the

fatigue, and, with his daughter, admired Flora for her amiability, and,

as to the home party, no words could express their gratitude to her for

letting them off. Mary and Blanche did, indeed, look rather blank, but

Blanche was consoled, by settling with Hector the splendours in store

for Alan and Margaret, and Mary cared the less, as there would be no

Harry to enjoy the fun.

The bride-maiden’s glory was theirs by right, though Ethel was an

unsatisfactory chief for such as desired splendour. She protested

against anything incongruous with January, or that could not be useful

afterwards, and Meta took her part, laughing at the cruel stroke they

were preparing for Bellairs. Ethel begged for dark silks and straw

bonnets, and Flora said that she had expected to hear of brown stuff

and gray duffle, but owned that they had better omit the ordinary muslin

garb in the heart of winter. The baby bride’s-maid was, at last, the

chief consideration. Margaret suggested how pretty she and Blanche would

look in sky-blue merino, trimmed with swan’s-down. Meta was charmed with

the idea, and though Ethel stuck out her shoulder-blades and poked

out her head, and said she should look like the ugly duckling, she was

clamorously reminded that the ugly duckling ended by being a swan,

and promised that she should be allowed a bonnet of a reasonable size,

trimmed with white, for Mr. Rivers’s good taste could endure, as little

as Dr. May’s sense of propriety, the sight of a daughter without shade

to her face, Ethel, finally, gave in, on being put in mind that her papa

had a penchant for swan’s-down, and on Margaret’s promising to wear a

dress of the same as theirs.

Ethel was pleased and satisfied by Flora’s dislike of parade, and

attention to the feelings of all. Passing over the one great fact,

the two sisters were more of one mind than usual, probably because all

latent jealousy of Ethel had ceased in Flora’s mind. Hitherto, she had

preferred the being the only practically useful person in the family,

and had encouraged the idea of Ethel’s gaucherie but now she desired to

render her sister able to take her place, and did all in her power to

put her in good heart.

For Etheldred was terrified at the prospect of becoming responsible

housekeeper. Margaret could only serve as an occasional reference. Her

morning powers became too uncertain to be depended on for any regular,

necessary duty, and it would have oppressed her so much to order the

dinners, which she never saw, that, though she offered to resume the

office, Flora would not hear of Ethel’s consenting. If it were her

proper business, Ethel supposed she could do it, but another hour of her

leisure was gone, and what would become of them all, with her, a proverb

for heedlessness, and ignorance of ordinary details. She did not know

that these were more proverbial than actual, and, having a bad name, she

believed in it herself. However, Flora made it her business to persuade

her that her powers were as good for household matters, as for books, or

Cocksmoor; instructed her in her own methodical plans, and made her

keep house for a fortnight, with so much success that she began to be

hopeful.

In the attendance on Margaret, the other great charge, old nurse was

the security; and Ethel, who had felt her self much less unhandy

than before, was, to succeed to the abode, in her room--Blanche

being promoted from the nursery to the old attic. “And,” said Flora

consolingly, “if dear Margaret ever should be ill, you may reckon on

me.”

Miss Flora May made her last appearance at the Ladies’ Committee to hear

the reply from the principal of the college. It was a civil letter,

but declined taking any steps in the matter without more certain

intelligence of the wishes of the incumbent of the parish or of the

holders of the land in question.

The ladies abused all colleges--as prejudiced old Bodies, and feared

that it would be impossible to ask Mrs. Perkinson’s niece to take the

school while there was neither room nor lodging. So Miss Rich recorded

the correspondence, and the vote of censure, by which it was to be hoped

the Ladies’ Committee of Market Stoneborough inflicted a severe blow on

the principal and fellows of M---- College.

“Never mind, Ethel,” said Flora. “I shall meet Sir Henry Walkinghame in

London, and will talk to him. We shall yet astonish the muses. If we can

get the land without them, we shall be able to manage it our own way,

without obligations.”

“You forget the money!”

“We will keep them from dissipating it--or that might be no harm! A

hundred pounds will be easily found, and we should then have it in our

own hands. Besides, you know, I don’t mean to give up. I shall write a

polite note to Mrs. Ledwich, begging to subscribe on my own account, and

to retain my seat! and you will see what we shall do.”

“You mean to come down with the external authority,” said Ethel,

smiling.

“True! and though my driving in with a pair of horses may make little

difference to you, Ethel, depend upon it, Mrs. Ledwich will be the more

amenable. Whenever I want to be particularly impressive, I shall bring

in that smelling-bottle, with the diamond stopper that won’t come out,

and you will find that carries all before it.”

“A talisman!” said Ethel, laughing. “But I had rather they yielded to a

sense of right!”

“So had I,” said Flora. “Perhaps you will rule them that way?”

“Not I!” cried Ethel, terrified.

“Then you must come to me, and secondary motives. Seriously--I do mean

that George should do something for Stoneborough; and, in a position of

influence, I hope to be able to be useful to my poor old town. Perhaps

we shall have the minster restored.”

Flora did wish it. She did love Stoneborough, and was sincerely

interested for Cocksmoor. She thought she worked earnestly for them,

and that her situation would be turned to their profit; but there was

something for which she worked more earnestly. Had Flora never heard of

the two masters whom we cannot serve at the same time?

Richard came home for “a parson’s week,” so as to include the wedding.

He looked very fresh and youthful; but his manner, though still gentle

and retiring, had lost all that shrinking diffidence, and had, now, a

very suitable grave composure. Everybody was delighted to have him;

and Ethel, more than any one, except Margaret. What floods of Cocksmoor

histories were poured upon him; and what comparing of notes about his

present school-children! He could not enter into the refinements of her

dread of the Ladies’ Committee, and thought she might be thankful if

the school were built by any proper means; for, if Cherry Elwood

were retained, and the ladies prevented from doing harm, he did not

understand why Ethel should wish to reject all assistance that did not

come in a manner she admired. He never would comprehend--so Ethel gave

it up--feared she was again jealous and self-sufficient, and contented

herself with the joy that his presence produced at Cocksmoor, where the

children smiled, blushed, and tittered, with ecstasy, whenever he even

looked at one of them.

Richard was not allowed to have a Sunday of rest. His father apologised

for having made an engagement for him--as Mr. Ramsden was unwell, and

the school clergy were all absent, so that he could do no otherwise than

assist in the service. Richard coloured, and said that he had brought no

sermon; and he was, in fact, deprived of much of his sister’s company,

for composition was not easy to him, and the quantity of time he spent

on it, quite alarmed Norman and Ethel, who both felt rather nervous on

the Sunday morning, but agreed that preaching was not everything.

Ethel could not see well as far as the reading-desk, but she saw her

father glance up, take off his spectacles, wipe them, and put them away;

and she could not be displeased, though she looked reproof at Blanche’s

breathless whisper, “Oh, he looks so nice!” Those white folds did truly

suit well with the meek, serious expression of the young deacon’s fair

face, and made him, as his sisters afterwards said, like one of the

solemnly peaceful angel-carvings of the earlier ages.

His voice was sweet and clear, and his reading full of quiet simplicity

and devotion, such as was not often heard by that congregation, who were

too much used either to carelessness or to pomposity. The sermon made

his brother and sister ashamed of their fears. It was an exposition of

the Gospel for the day, practical and earnest, going deep, and rising

high, with a clearness and soberness, yet with a beauty and elevation,

such as Norman and Ethel had certainly not expected--or, rather,

they forgot all their own expectations and Richard himself, and only

recollected their own hearts and the great future before them.

Even Blanche and Aubrey told Margaret a great deal about it, and

declared that, if Richard preached every Sunday, they should like going

to church much better.

When Dr. May came in, some time after, he was looking much pleased.

“So, Mr. Ritchie,” he said, “you have made quite a sensation--every one

shaking me by the hand, and thanking me for my son’s sermon. You will be

a popular preacher at last!”

Richard blushed distressfully, and quoted the saying, that it would be

the true comfort to hear that people went home, thinking of themselves

rather than of the sermon. This put an end to the subject; but the

doctor went over it again, most thoroughly, with his other children, who

were greatly delighted.

Flora’s last home Sunday! She was pale and serious, evidently feeling

much, though seeking no tete-a-tetes; and chiefly engrossed with waiting

on Margaret, or fondling little Gertrude. No one saw the inside of her

mind--probably, she did not herself. On the outside was a very suitable

pensiveness, and affection for all that she was leaving. The only one in

the family to whom she talked much was Norman, who continued to see many

perfections in George, and contrived, by the force of his belief, to

impress the same on the others, and to make them think his great

talent for silence such a proof of his discretion, that they were not

staggered, even by his shy blundering exclamation that his wedding would

be a great nuisance--a phrase which, as Dr. May observed, was, to him,

what Est-il-possible was to his namesake of Denmark.

Nobody wished for any misgivings, so Richard was never told of any,

though there was a careful watch kept to see what were his first

impressions. None transpired, except something about good nature, but it

was shrewdly believed that Richard and George, being much alike in

shy unwillingness to speak, had been highly satisfied with the little

trouble they had caused to each other, and so had come to a tacit

esteem.

There was very little bustle of preparation. Excepting the packing,

everything went on much as usual, till the Thursday morning, and then

the children were up early, refreshing the Christmas hollies, and

working up their excitement, only to have it damped by the suppressed

agitation of their elders at the breakfast-table.

Dr. May did not seem to know what he was about; and Flora looked paler

and paler. She went away before the meal was over, and when Ethel went

to the bedroom, shortly after, she found that she had fairly broken

down, and was kneeling beside Margaret’s sofa, resting her head on her

sister’s bosom, and sobbing--as Ethel had never seen her weep, except on

that dreadful night, after their mother’s death.

In a person ordinarily of such self-command as Flora, weeping was a

terrible thing, and Margaret was much distressed and alarmed; but the

worst had passed before Ethel came up, and Flora was able to speak. “Oh!

Margaret! I cannot leave you! Oh! how happy we have been--”

“You are going to be happier, we trust, dearest,” said Margaret fondly.

“Oh! what have I done? It is not worth it!”

Ethel thought she caught those words, but no more. Mary’s step was

heard, and Flora was on her feet, instantly, composing herself rapidly.

She shed no more tears, but her eyelids were very heavy, and her face

softened, in a manner that, though she was less pretty than usual, was

very becoming under her bridal veil. She recovered calmness and even

cheerfulness, while reversing the usual order of things, and dressing

her bride’s-maids, who would never have turned out fit to be seen, but

for the exertions of herself, Margaret, and Miss Bracy. Ethel’s long

Scotch bones and Mary’s round, dumpy shapelessness were, in their

different ways, equally hard to overcome; and the one was swelled out

with a fabulous number of petticoats, and the other pinched in, till she

gasped and screamed for mercy, while Blanche and Gertrude danced about,

beautiful to behold, under their shady hats; and presently, with a light

tap at the door, Meta Rivers stepped in, looking so pretty, that all

felt that to try to attain to such an appearance was vain.

Timid in her affection, she hardly dared to do more than kiss them, and

whisper her pretty caressing words to each. There was no more time--Dr.

Hoxton’s carriage was come to take up the bride.

Ethel did as she was told, without much volition of her own; and she

quitted the carriage, and was drawn into her place by Norman, trusting

that Meta would not let her do wrong, and relieved that just in front

of her were the little ones, over whose heads she could see her father,

with Flora’s veiled bending figure.

That pause while the procession was getting into order, the slow

movement up the centre aisle, the week-day atmosphere of the church,

brought back to her thoughts a very different time, and one of those

strange echoings on the mind repeated in her ears the words, “For man

walketh in a vain shadow, and disquieteth himself in vain--”

There was a little pause--George did not seem to be forthcoming, and

Meta turned round, rather uneasily, and whispered something about his

having been so nervous. However, there he was, looking exceedingly red,

and very sheepish, and disposed to fall back on his best man, Norman,

whose countenance was at the brightest--and almost handsome.

Dr. Hoxton performed the ceremony, “assisted by” Richard. It had been

Flora’s choice; and his loud sonorous voice was thought very impressive.

Blanche stood the nearest, and looked happy and important, with Flora’s

glove. Gertrude held Mary’s hand, and gazed straight up into the fretted

roof, as if that were to her the chief marvel. Ethel stood and knelt,

but did not seem, to herself, to have the power of thinking or feeling.

She saw and heard--that was all; she could not realise.

They drew her forward, when it was over, to sign her name, as witness.

She took up the pen, looked at the Flora May, written for the last time,

and found her hand so trembling, that she said, half smiling, that

she could not write. Mary was only too well pleased to supply the

deficiency. Dr. May looked at her anxiously, and asked whether she felt

overcome.

“No, papa. I did not know my hand was shaky.”

He took it into his, and pressed it. Ethel knew, then, how much had been

undeveloped in her own mind, catching it, as it were, from his touch

and look. The thought of his past joy--the sad fading of hope for

Margaret--the fear and doubt for their present bride--above all, the

sense that the fashion of this world passeth away; and that it is not

the outward scene, but our bearing in it, that is to last for ever.

The bells struck up, each peal ending with a crash that gave Ethel

some vague idea of fatality; and they all came back to the house, where

Margaret was ready, in the drawing-room, to receive them, looking

very pretty, in her soft blue dress, which especially became her fair

complexion and light brown hair. Ethel did not quite like the pink

colour on her cheeks, and feared that she had been shaken by Flora’s

agitation in the morning; but she was very calm and bright, in the

affectionate greeting with which she held out her hands to the bride and

bridegroom, as they came in.

Mr. Rivers and Meta were the only guests, and, while Meta was seized

by the children, Margaret lay talking to Mr. Rivers, George standing

upright and silent behind her sofa, like a sentinel. Flora was gone

to change her dress, not giving way, but nervous and hurried, as she

reiterated parting directions about household comforts to Ethel, who

stood by the toilette-table, sticking a pin into the pincushion and

drawing it out again, as if solely intent on making it always fit into

the same hole, while Mary dressed Flora, packed, flew about, and was

useful.

As they came downstairs, Ethel found that Flora was trembling from head

to foot, and leaning on her; Dr. May stood at the foot of the stairs,

and folded his daughter in a long embrace; Flora gave herself up to it

as if she would never bear to leave it. Did a flash come over her then,

what the father was, whom she had held cheaply? what was the worth of

that for which she had exchanged such a home? She spoke not a word, she

only clung tightly--if her heart failed her--it was too late. “Bless

you! my child!” he said at last. “Only be what your mother was!”

A coming tread warned them to part. There was a tray of luncheon for the

two who were about to depart, and the great snow-white cake was waiting

for Flora to cut it. She smiled, accomplished that feat steadily, and

Norman continuing the operation, Aubrey guided Gertrude in handing round

the slices. George did full justice thereto, as well as to the more

solid viands. Flora could taste nothing, but she contrived to smile and

say it was too early. She was in haste to have it over now, and, as soon

as George had finished, she rose up, still composed and resolved, the

last kisses were given--Gertrude was lifted up to her, after she was in

the carriage for the very last, when George proposed to run away with

her also, whereupon Daisy kicked and screamed, and was taken back in

haste. The door was shut, and they drove off, bound for the Continent,

and then Mary, as if the contingency of losing Flora had only for the

first time occurred to her as the consequence of the wedding, broke out

into a piteous fit of sobbing--rather too unrestrained, considering her

fourteen years.

Poor Mary, she was a very child still! They pulled her into the study,

out of the way of Mr. Rivers, and Meta had no sooner said how Flora

would soon come home and live at the Grange, and talked of the grand

school-feast to which she was at once going to take her friends, than

the round rosy face drew out of its melancholy puckers into smiles, as

Mary began to tell the delight caused by the invitations which she

had conveyed. That was to be a feast indeed--all the Abbotstoke

children--all Flora’s class at Stoneborough, and as many Cocksmoor

scholars as could walk so far, were to dine on Christmas fare, at

one o’clock, at the Grange, and Meta was in haste to be at home to

superintend the feast.

Mary, Blanche, and Aubrey, went with her, under the keeping of Miss

Bracy, the boys were to follow. She had hoped for Ethel, but on looking

at her, ceased her coaxing importunity.

“I see,” she said kindly; “even schoolchildren will not be so good for

you as peace.”

“Thank you,” said Ethel, “I should like to be quiet till the evening, if

you will let me off. It is very kind in you.”

“I ought to know how to pity you,” said Meta, “I who have gained what

you have lost.”

“I want to think too,” said Ethel. “It is the beginning to me of a new

life, and I have not been able to look at it yet.”

“Besides, Margaret will want you. Poor Margaret--has it been very trying

to her?”

“I fear so, but I shall keep out of her way, and leave her to a quiet

afternoon with Richard. It will be the greatest treat to those two to be

together.”

“Very well, I will carry off the children, and leave the house quiet.”

And quiet it was in another hour--Gertrude walking with the nurses, Dr.

May gone to his patients, and all the rest at Abbotstoke, except Richard

and Margaret downstairs; and Ethel, who, while arranging her properties

in her new room, had full leisure to lay out before herself the duties

that had devolved on her and to grapple with them. She recalled the

many counsels that she had received from Flora, and they sounded so

bewildering that she wished it had been Conic sections, and then she

looked at a Hebrew grammar that Norman had given her, and gave a sigh as

she slipped it into the shelf of the seldom used. She looked about the

room, cleared out the last piece of brown paper, and burned the last

torn envelope, that no relic of packing and change might distress

Margaret’s eyes for order; then feeling at once desolate and intrusive,

she sat down in Flora’s fireside chair, opened her desk, and took out

her last time-table. She looked at it for some minutes, laid it aside,

and rising, knelt down. Again seating herself, she resumed her paper,

took a blank one, ruled it, and wrote her rules for each hour of each

day in the week. That first hour after breakfast, when hitherto she had

been free, was one sacrifice; it must go now, to ordering dinner,

seeing after stores, watching over the children’s clothes, and the

other nondescripts, which, happily for her, Flora had already reduced to

method. The other loss was the spare time between the walk and tea; she

must not spend that in her own room now, or there would be no one to sit

with Margaret, or keep the little ones from being troublesome to her.

Ethel had often had to give up this space before, when Flora went out in

the evening, and she had seldom felt otherwise than annoyed. Give it

up for good! that was the cure for temper, but it had been valuable as

something of her own. She would have been thankful could she have

hoped to keep regularly to her own rules, but that she knew was utterly

improbable--boys, holidays, callers, engagements, Dr. May, would all

conspire to turn half her days upside down, and Cocksmoor itself must

often depend not only on the weather, but on home doings. Two or three

notes she wrote at the foot of her paper.

‘N. B. These are a standard--not a bed of Procrustes.

MUSTS--To be first consulted.--Mays--last. Ethel May’s

last of all.

If I cannot do everything--omit the self-chosen.

MEM-- Neither hurry when it depends on myself,

nor fidget when it depends on others.

Keep a book going to pacify myself.’

Her rules drawn up, Ethel knelt once more. Then she drew a long sigh,

and wondered where Flora was; and next, as she was fairly fagged, mind

and body, she threw herself back in the armchair, took up a railway

novel that Hector had brought home, and which they had hidden from the

children, and repaired herself with the luxury of an idle reading.

Margaret and Richard likewise spent a peaceful, though pensive

afternoon. Margaret had portions of letters from Alan to read to him,

and a consultation to hold. The hope of her full recovery had so melted

away, that she had, in every letter, striven to prepare Mr. Ernescliffe

for the disappointment, and each that she received in return was so

sanguine and affectionate, that the very fondness was as much grief as

joy. She could not believe that he took in the true state of the case,

or was prepared to perceive that she could never be his wife, and she

wanted Richard to write one of his clear, dispassionate statements,

such as carried full conviction, and to help to put a final end to the

engagement.

“But why,” said Richard--“why should you wish to distress him?”

“Because I cannot bear that he should be deceived, and should feed on

false hopes. Do you think it right, Richard?”

“I will write to him, if you like,” said Richard; “but I think he

must pretty well know the truth from all the letters to Harry and to

himself.”

“It would be so much better for him to settle his mind at once,” said

Margaret.

“Perhaps he would not think so--”

There was a pause, while Margaret saw that her brother was thinking. At

last he said, “Margaret, will you pardon me? I do think that this is a

little restlessness. The truth has not been kept from him, and I do

not see that we are called to force it on him. He is sensible and

reasonable, and will know how to judge when he comes home.”

“It was to try to save him the pang,” murmured Margaret.

“Yes; but it will be worse far away than near. I do not mean that we

should conceal the fact, but you have no right to give him up before he

comes home. The whole engagement was for the time of his voyage.”

“Then you think I ought not to break it off before his return?”

“Certainly not.”

“It will be pain spared--unless it should be worse by and by.”

“I do not suppose we ought to look to by and by,” said Richard.

“How so?”

“Do the clearly right thing for the present, I mean,” he said, “without

anxiety for the rest. How do we--any of us--know what may be the case in

another year?”

“Do not flatter me with hopes,” said Margaret, sadly smiling; “I have

had too many of them.”

“No,” said Richard; “I do not think you will ever get well. But so much

may happen--”

“I had rather have my mind made up once for all, and resign myself,”

said Margaret.

“His will is sometimes that we should be uncertain,” said Richard.

“And that is the most trying,” said Margaret.

“Just so--” and he paused tenderly.

“I feel how much has been right,” said Margaret. “This wedding has

brought my real character before me. I feel what I should have been. You

have no notion how excited and elated I can get about a little bit of

dress out of the common way for myself or others,” said she, smiling;

“and then all the external show and things belonging to station--I

naturally care much more for them than even Flora does. Ethel would bear

all those things as if they did not exist--I could not.”

“They would be a temptation?”

“They would once have been. Yes, they would now,” said Margaret. “And

government, and management, and influence--you would not guess what

dreams I used to waste on them, and now here am I set aside from it all,

good for nothing but for all you dear ones to be kind to.”

“They would not say so,” said Richard kindly.

“Not say it, but I feel it. Papa and Ethel are all the world to each

other--Richard, I may say it to you. There has been only one thing more

hard to bear than that--don’t suppose there was a moment’s neglect or

disregard; but when first I understood that Ethel could be more to him

than I, then I could not always feel rightly. It was the punishment for

always wanting to be first.”

“My father would be grieved that you had the notion. You should not keep

it.”

“He does not know it is so,” said Margaret; “I am his first care, I

fear, his second grief; but it is not in the nature of things that Ethel

should not be more his comfort and companion. Oh! I am glad it was not

she who married! What shall we do when she goes?”

This came from Margaret’s heart, so as to show that if there had once

been a jealous pang of mortification, it had been healed by overflowing,

unselfish affection and humility.

They went off to praise Ethel, and thence to praise Norman, and the

elder brother and sister, who might have had some jealousy of the

superiority of their juniors, spent a good happy hour in dwelling on the

shining qualities they loved so heartily.

And Richard was drawn into talking of his own deeper thoughts, and

Margaret had again the comfort of clerical counsel--and now from her own

most dear brother! So they sat till darkness closed in, when Ethel came

down, bringing Gertrude and her great favour, very full of chatter, only

not quite sure whether she had been bride, bride’s-maid, or bridegroom.

The schoolroom set, with Tom and Aubrey, came home soon after, and

tongues went fast with stories of roast-beef, plum-pudding, and

blind-man’s-buff. How the dear Meta had sent a cart to Cocksmoor to

bring Cherry herself, and how many slices everybody had eaten, and how

the bride’s health had been drunk by the children in real wine, and how

they had all played, Norman and all, and how Hector had made Blanche

bold enough to extract a raisin from the flaming snap-dragon. It was

not half told when Dr. May came home, and Ethel went up to dress for

her dinner at Abbotstoke, Mary following to help her and continue her

narration, which bade fair to entertain Margaret the whole evening.

Dr. May, Richard, and Ethel had a comfortable dark drive to the Grange,

and, on arriving, found Hector deep in ‘Wild Sports of the West’, while

Norman and Meta were sitting over the fire talking, and Mr. Rivers was

resting in his library.

And when Ethel and Meta spent the time before the gentlemen came in

from the dining-room, in a happy tete-a-tete, Ethel learned that the

fire-light dialogue had been the pleasantest part of the whole day, and

that Meta had had confided to her the existence of Decius Mus--a secret

which Ethel had hitherto considered as her own peculiar property, but

she supposed it was a pledge of the sisterhood, which Meta professed

with all the house of May.

CHAPTER VIII.

The rest all accepted the kind invitation,

And much bustle it caused in the plumed creation;

Such ruffling of feathers, such pruning of coats,

Such chirping, such whistling, such clearing of throats,

Such polishing bills, and such oiling of pinions,

Had never been known in the biped dominions.

Peacock at Home.

Etheldred was thankful for that confidence to Meta Rivers, for without

it, she would hardly have succeeded in spurring Norman up to give the

finishing touches to Decius, and to send him in. If she talked of the

poem as the devotion of Decius, he was willing enough, and worked with

spirit, for he liked the ideas, and enjoyed the expressing them, and

trying to bring his lines to his notion of perfection, but if she called

it the “Newdigate,” or the “Prize Poem,” and declared herself sure it

would be successful, he yawned, slackened, leaned back in his chair,

and began to read other people’s poetry, which Ethel was disrespectful

enough not to think nearly as good as his own.

It was completed at last, and Ethel stitched it up with a narrow red and

white ribbon--the Balliol colours; and set Meta at him till a promise

was extorted that he would send it in.

And, in due time, Ethel received the following note:

“My Dear Ethel,--

“My peacock bubble has flown over the house.

Tell them all about it.

Your affectionate,

N. W. M.”

They were too much accustomed to Norman’s successes to be

extraordinarily excited; Ethel would have been much mortified if the

prize had been awarded to any one else, but, as it was, it came rather

as a matter of course. The doctor was greatly pleased, and said he

should drive round by Abbotstoke to tell the news there, and then

laughed beyond measure to hear that Meta had been in the plot, saying

he should accuse the little humming-bird of being a magpie, stealing

secrets.

By this time the bride and bridegroom were writing that they thought of

soon returning; they had spent the early spring at Paris, had wandered

about in the south of France, and now were at Paris again. Flora’s

letters were long, descriptive, and affectionate, and she was eager to

be kept fully informed of everything at home. As soon as she heard of

Norman’s success, she wrote a whole budget of letters, declaring that

she and George would hear of no refusal; they were going to spend a

fortnight at Oxford for the Commemoration, and must have Meta and Ethel

with them to hear Norman’s poem in the theatre.

Dr. May, who already had expressed a hankering to run up for the day and

take Ethel with him, was perfectly delighted at the proposal, and so was

Mr. Rivers, but the young ladies made many demurs. Ethel wanted Mary to

go in her stead, and had to be told that this would not be by any means

the same to the other parties--she could not bear to leave Margaret; it

was a long time since there had been letters from the Alcestis, and she

did not like to miss being at home when they should come; and Meta, on

her side, was so unwilling to leave her father that, at last, Dr. May

scolded them both for a pair of conceited, self-important damsels, who

thought nothing could go on without them; and next, compared them to

young birds, obliged to be shoved by force into flying.

Meta consented first, on condition that Ethel would; and Ethel found

that her whole house would be greatly disappointed if she refused,

so she proceeded to be grateful, and then discovered how extremely

delightful the plan was. Oxford, of which she had heard so much, and

which she had always wished to see! And Norman’s glory--and Meta’s

company--nay, the very holiday, and going from home, were charms enough

for a girl of eighteen, who had never been beyond Whitford in her life.

Besides, to crown all, papa promised that, if his patients would behave

well, and not want him too much, he would come up for the one great day.

Mr. and Mrs. George Rivers came to Abbotstoke to collect their party.

They arrived by a railroad, whose station was nearer to Abbotstoke than

to Stoneborough, therefore, instead of their visiting the High Street

by the way, Dr. May, with Ethel and Mary, were invited to dine at the

Grange, the first evening--a proposal, at least, as new and exciting to

Mary as was the journey to Oxford to her sister.

The two girls went early, as the travellers had intended to arrive

before luncheon, and, though Ethel said few words, but let Mary rattle

on with a stream of conjectures and questions, her heart was full of

longings for her sister, as well as of strange doubts and fears, as to

the change that her new life might have made in her.

“There! there!” cried Mary. “Yes! it is Flora! Only she has her hair

done in a funny way!”

Flora and Meta were both standing on the steps before the conservatory,

and Mary made but one bound before she was hugging Flora. Ethel kissed

her without so much violence, and then saw that Flora was looking very

well and bright, more decidedly pretty and elegant than ever, and with

certainly no diminution of affection; it was warmer, though rather more

patronising.

“How natural you look!” was her first exclamation, as she held Mary’s

hand, and drew Ethel’s arm into hers. “And how is Margaret?”

“Pretty well-but the heat makes her languid--”

“Is there any letter yet?”

“No--”

“I do not see any cause for alarm--letters are so often detained, but,

of course, she will be anxious. Has she had pain in the back again?”

“Sometimes, but summer always does her good--”

“I shall see her to-morrow--and the Daisy. How do you all get on? Have

you broken down yet, Ethel?”

“Oh! we do go on,” said Ethel, smiling; “the worst thing I have done was

expecting James to dress the salads with lamp-oil.”

“A Greenland salad! But don’t talk of oil--I have the taste still in my

mouth after the Pyrennean cookery! Oh! Ethel, you would have been wild

with delight in those places!”

“Snowy mountains! Are they not like a fairy-dream to you now? You must

have felt at home, as a Scotchwoman’s daughter.”

“Think of the peaks in the sunrise! Oh! I wanted you in the pass of

Roncevalles, to hear the echo of Roland’s horn. And we saw the cleft

made by Roland’s sword in the rocks.”

“Oh! how delightful--and Spain too!”

“Ay, the Isle of Pheasants, where all the conferences took place.”

“Where Louis XIV. met his bride, and Francois I. sealed his treason with

his empty flourish--”

“Well, don’t let us fight about Francois I. now; I want to know how Tom

likes Eton.”

“He gets on famously. I am so glad he is in the same house with Hector.”

“Mr. Ramsden--how is he?”

“No better; he has not done any duty for weeks. Tomkins and his set want

to sell the next presentation, but papa hopes to stave that off, for

there is a better set than usual in the Town Council this year.”

“Cocksmoor? And how are our friends the muses? I found a note from the

secretary telling me that I am elected again. How have they behaved?”

“Pretty well,” said Ethel. “Mrs. Ledwich has been away, so we have had

few meetings, and have been pretty quiet, except for an uproar about

the mistress beating that Franklin’s girl--and what do you think I did,

Flora? I made bold to say the woman should show her to papa, to see if

she had done her any harm, and he found that it was all a fabrication

from one end to the other. So it ended in the poor girl being expelled,

and Mary and I have her twice a week, to see if there is any grace in

her.”

“To reward her!” said Flora. “That is always your way--”

“Why, one cannot give the poor thing quite up,” said Ethel.

“You will manage the ladies at last!” cried Flora.

“Not while Mrs. Ledwich is there!”

“I’ll cope with her! But, come, I want you in my room--”

“May not I come?” said Meta. “I must see when--”

Flora held up her hand, and, while signing invitation, gave an arch look

to Meta to be silent. Ethel here bethought herself of inquiring after

Mr. Rivers, and then for George.

Mr. Rivers was pretty well--George, quite well, and somewhere in the

garden; and Meta said that he had such a beard that they would hardly

know him; while Flora added that he was delighted with the Oxford

scheme. Flora’s rooms had been, already, often shown to her sisters,

when Mr. Rivers had been newly furnishing them, with every luxury and

ornament that taste could devise. Her dressing-room, with the large bay

window, commanding a beautiful view of Stoneborough, and filled, but not

crowded, with every sort of choice article, was a perfect exhibition to

eyes unaccustomed to such varieties.

Mary could have been still amused by the hour, in studying the devices

and ornaments on the shelves and chiffonieres; and Blanche had romanced

about it to the little ones, till they were erecting it into a mythical

palace.

And Flora, in her simple, well-chosen dress, looked, and moved, as if

she had been born and bred in the like.

There were signs of unpacking about the room-Flora’s dressing-case on

the table, and some dresses lying on the sofa and ottoman.

Mary ran up to them eagerly, and exclaimed at the beautiful shot blue

and white silk.

“Paris fashions?” said Ethel carelessly.

“Yes; but I don’t parade my own dresses here,” said Flora.

“Whose are they then? Your commissions, Meta?”

“No!” and Meta laughed heartily.

“Your French maid’s then?” said Ethel. “I dare say she dresses quite as

well; and the things are too really pretty and simple for an English

maid’s taste.”

“I am glad you like them,” said Flora maliciously. “Now, please to be

good.”

“Who are they for then?” said Ethel, beginning to be frightened.

“For a young lady, whose brother has got the Newdigate prize, and who is

going to Oxford.”

“Me! Those! But I have not got four backs,” as Ethel saw Meta in fits

of laughing, and Flora making affirmative signs. Mary gave a ponderous

spring of ecstasy.

“Come!” said Flora, “you may as well be quiet. Whatever you may like,

I am not going to have the Newdigate prizeman shown as brother to a

scarecrow. I knew what you would come to, without me to take care of

you. Look at yourself in the glass.”

“I’m sure I see no harm in myself,” said Ethel, turning towards the

pier-glass, and surveying herself--in a white muslin, made high, a black

silk mantle, and a brown hat. She had felt very respectable when she set

out, but she could not avoid a lurking conviction that, beside Flora and

Meta, it had a scanty, schoolgirl effect. “And,” she continued quaintly,

“besides, I have really got a new gown on purpose--a good useful silk,

that papa chose at Whitford--just the colour of a copper tea-kettle,

where it turns purple.”

“Ethel! you will kill me!” said Meta, sinking back on the sofa.

“And I suppose,” continued Flora, “that you have sent it to

Miss Broad’s, without any directions, and she will trim it with

flame-coloured gimp, and glass buttons; and, unless Margaret catches

you, you will find yourself ready to set the Thames on fire. No, my dear

tea-kettle, I take you to Oxford on my own terms, and you had better

submit, without a fuss, and be thankful it is no worse. George wanted me

to buy you a white brocade, with a perfect flower-garden on it, that you

could have examined with a microscope. I was obliged to let him buy that

lace mantle, to make up to him. Now then, Meta, the scene opens, and

discovers--”

Meta opened the folding-doors into Flora’s bedroom, and thence came

forward Bellairs and a little brisk Frenchwoman, whom Flora had acquired

at Paris. The former, who was quite used to adorning Miss Ethel against

her will, looked as amused as her mistresses; and, before Ethel knew

what was going on, her muslin was stripped off her back, and that

instrument of torture, a half made body, was being tried upon her. She

made one of her most wonderful grimaces of despair, and stood still. The

dresses were not so bad after all; they were more tasteful than costly,

and neither in material nor ornament were otherwise than suitable to the

occasion and the wearer. It was very kind and thoughtful of Flora--that

she could not but feel--nothing had been forgotten, but when Ethel saw

the mantles, the ribbons, the collars, the bonnet, all glistening with

the French air of freshness and grace, she began to feel doubts and

hesitations, whether she ought to let her sister go to such an expense

on her account, and privately resolved that the accepting thanks should

not be spoken till she should have consulted her father.

In the meantime, she could only endure, be laughed at by her elders, and

entertained by Mary’s extreme pleasure in her array. Good Mary--it

was more than any comedy to her; she had not one moment’s thought

of herself, till, when Flora dived into her box, produced a pair of

bracelets, and fastened them on her comfortable plump arms, her eyes

grew wide with wonder, and she felt, at least, two stages nearer

womanhood.

Flora had omitted no one. There was a Paris present for every servant at

home, and a needle-case even for Cherry Elwood, for which Ethel thanked

her with a fervency wanting in her own case.

She accomplished consulting her father on her scruples, and he set her

mind at rest. He knew that the outlay was a mere trifle to the Riverses,

and was greatly pleased and touched with the affection that Flora

showed; so he only smiled at Ethel’s doubts, and dwelt with heartfelt

delight on the beautiful print that she had brought him, from Ary

Scheffer’s picture of the Great Consoler.

Flora was in her glory. To be able to bestow benefits on those whom she

loved, had been always a favourite vision, and she had the full pleasure

of feeling how much enjoyment she was causing. They had a very pleasant

evening; she gave interesting accounts of their tour, and by her appeals

to her husband, made him talk also. He was much more animated and

agreeable than Ethel had ever seen him, and was actually laughing,

and making Mary laugh heartily with his histories of the inns in the

Pyrennees. Old Mr. Rivers looked as proud and happy as possible, and

was quite young and gay, having evidently forgotten all his maladies, in

paying elaborate attention to his daughter-in-law.

Ethel told Margaret, that night, that she was quite satisfied about

Flora--she was glad to own that she had done her injustice, and that

Norman was right in saying there was more in George Rivers than met the

eye.

The morning spent at home was equally charming. Flora came back, with

love strengthened by absence. She was devoted to Margaret--caressing to

all; she sat in her old places; she fulfilled her former offices; she

gratified Miss Bracy by visiting her in the schoolroom, and talking of

French books; and won golden opinions, by taking Gertrude in her hand,

and walking to Minster Street to call on Mrs. Hoxton, as in old times,

and take her the newest foreign device of working to kill time.

So a few days passed merrily away, and the great journey commenced.

Ethel met the Abbotstoke party at the station, and, with a parting

injunction to her father, that he was to give all his patients a

sleeping potion, that they might not miss him, she was carried away from

Stoneborough.

Meta was in her gayest mood; Ethel full of glee and wonder, for once

beyond Whitford, the whole world was new to her; Flora more quiet, but

greatly enjoying their delight, and George not saying much, but smiling

under his beard, as if well pleased to be so well amused with so little

trouble.

He took exceeding care of them, and fed them with everything he could

make them eat at the Swindon Station, asking for impossible things, and

wishing them so often to change for something better, that, if they had

been submissive, they would have had no luncheon at all; and, as it was,

Flora was obliged to whisk into the carriage with her last sandwich in

her hand.

“I am the more sorry,” said he, after grumbling at the allotted ten

minutes, “as we shall dine so late. You desired Norman to bring any

friend he liked, did you not, Flora?”

“Yes, and he spoke of bringing our old friend, Charles Cheviot, and Mr.

Ogilvie,” said Flora.

“Mr. Ogilvie!” said Ethel, “the Master of Glenbracken! Oh! I am so glad!

I have wanted so much to see him!”

“Ah! he is a great hero of yours?” said Flora.

“Do you know him?” said Meta.

“No; but he is a great friend of Norman’s, and a Scottish cousin--Norman

Ogilvie. Norman has his name from the Ogilvies.”

“Our grandmother, Mrs. Mackenzie, was a daughter of Lord Glenbracken,”

said Flora.

“This man might be called the Master of Glenbracken at home,” said

Ethel. “It is such a pretty title, and there is a beautiful history

belonging to them. There was a Master of Glenbracken who carried James

IV.’s standard at Flodden, and would not yield, and was killed with it

wrapped round his body, and the Lion was dyed with his blood. Mamma knew

some scraps of a ballad about him. Then they were out with Montrose,

and had their castle burned by the Covenanters, and since that they have

been Jacobites, and one barely escaped being beheaded at Carlisle! I

want to hear the rights of it. Norman is to go, some time or other, to

stay at Glenbracken.”

“Yes,” said Flora, “coming down to times present, this young heir seems

worthy of his race. They are pattern people--have built a church, and

have all their tenantry in excellent order. This is the only son, and

very good and clever--he preferred going to Balliol, that he might work;

but he is a great sportsman, George,” added she; “you will get on with

him very well, about fishing, and grouse shooting, I dare say.”

Norman met them at the station, and there was great excitement at seeing

his long nose under his college cap. He looked rather thin and worn, but

brightened at the sight of the party. After the question--whether

there had been any letters from Harry? he asked whether his father

were coming?--and Ethel thought he seemed nervous at the idea of this

addition to his audience. He saw them to their hotel, and, promising

them his two guests, departed.

Ethel watched collegiate figures passing in the street, and recollected

the gray buildings, just glimpsed at in her drive--it was dreamy and

confused, and she stood musing, not discovering that it was time to

dress, till Flora and her Frenchwoman came in, and laid violent hands on

her.

The effect of their manipulations was very successful. Ethel was made to

look well-dressed, and, still more, distinguished. Her height told well,

when her lankiness was overcome, and her hair was disposed so as to set

off her features to advantage. The glow of amusement and pleasure did

still more for her; and Norman, who was in the parlour when the sisters

appeared, quite started with surprise and satisfaction at her aspect.

“Well done. Flora!” he said. “Why! I have been telling Ogilvie that one

of my sisters was very plain!”

“Then, I hope we have been preparing an agreeable surprise for him,”

said Flora. “Ethel is very much obliged to you. By the bye,” she said,

in her universal amity, “I must ask Harvey Anderson to dinner one of

these days?” Norman started, and his face said “Don’t.”

“Oh, very well; it is as you please. I thought it would please

Stoneborough, and that Edward was a protege of yours. What has he been

doing? Did we not hear he had been distinguishing himself? Dr. Hoxton

was boasting of his two scholars.”

“Ask him,” said Norman hurriedly. “At least,” said he, “do not let

anything from me prevent you.”

“Has he been doing anything wrong?” reiterated Flora.

“Not that I know of,” was the blunt answer; and, at the same instant,

Mr. Ogilvie arrived. He was a pleasant, high-bred looking gentleman,

brown-complexioned, and dark-eyed, with a brisk and resolute cast

of countenance, that, Ethel thought, might have suited the Norman of

Glenbracken, who died on the ruddy Lion of Scotland, and speaking with

the very same slight degree of Scottish intonation as she remembered in

her mother, making a most home-like sound in her ears.

Presently, the rest of their own party came down, and, soon after,

Charles Cheviot appeared, looking as quiet and tame, as he used to be in

the schoolboy days, when Norman would bring him home, and he used to be

too shy to speak a word.

However, he had learned the use of his tongue by this time, though it

was a very soft one; and he stood by Ethel, asking many questions about

Stoneborough, while something, apparently very spirited and amusing, was

going on between the others.

The dinner went off well--there were few enough for the conversation to

be general. The young men began to strike out sparks of wit against each

other--Flora put in a word or two--Ethel grew so much interested in the

discussion, that her face lighted up, and she joined in it, as if it had

been only between her father and brother--keen, clear, and droll. After

that, she had her full share in the conversation, and enjoyed it so much

that, when she left the dinner-table, she fetched her writing-case to

sketch the colloquy for Margaret and her father.

Flora exclaimed at her for never allowing any one to think of rest. Meta

said she should like to do the same, but it was impossible now; she did

not know how she should ever settle down to write a letter. Ethel was

soon interrupted--the gentlemen entered, and Mr. Ogilvie came to the

window, where she was sitting, and began to tell her how much obliged

to her he and his college were, for having insisted on her brother’s

sending in his poem. “Thanks are due, for our being spared an infliction

next week,” he said.

“Have you seen it?” she asked, and she was amused by the quick negative

movement of his head.

“I read my friend’s poems? But our lungs are prepared! Will you give

me my cue--it is of no use to ask him when we are to deafen you. One

generally knows the crack passages--something beginning with ‘Oh,

woman!’ but it is well to be in readiness--if you would only forewarn me

of the telling hits?”

“If they cannot tell themselves,” said Ethel, smiling, “I don’t think

they deserve the name.”

“Perhaps you think what does tell on the undergraduates, collectively,

is not always what ought to tell on them.”

“I don’t know. I dare say the same would not be a favourite with them

and with me.”

“I should like to know which are your favourites. No doubt you have a

copy here--made by yourself;” and he looked towards her paper-case.

There was the copy, and she took it out, peering to see whether Norman

were looking.

“Let me see,” he said, as she paused to open the MS., “he told me the

thoughts were more yours than his own.”

“Did he? That was not fair. One thought was an old one, long ago talked

over between us; the rest is all his own.”

Here Mr. Ogilvie took the paper, and Ethel saw his countenance show

evident tokens of surprise and feeling.

“Yes,” he said presently, “May goes deep--deeper than most men--though I

doubt whether they will applaud this.”

“I should like it better if they did not,” said Ethel. “It is rather to

be felt than shouted at.”

“And I don’t know how the world would go on if it were felt. Few men

would do much without the hope of fame,” said Norman Ogilvie.

“Is it the question what they would do?” said Ethel.

“So you call fame a low motive? I see where your brother’s philosophy

comes from.”

“I do not call it a low motive--” Her pause was expressive.

“Nor allow that the Non omnis moriar of Horace has in it something

divine?”

“For a heathen--yes.”

“And pray, what would you have the moving spring?”

“Duty.”

“Would not that end in ‘Mine be a cot, beside the rill’?” said he, with

an intonation of absurd sentiment.

“Well, and suppose an enemy came, would duty prompt not the Hay with the

joke--or Winkelried on the spears?”

“Nay, why not--‘It is my duty to take care of Lucy.’”

“Then Lucy ought to be broken on her own wheel.”

“Not at all! It is Lucy’s duty to keep her Colin from running into

danger.”

“I hope there are not many Lucies who would think so.”

“I agree with you. Most would rather have Colin killed than disgraced.”

“To be sure!” then, perceiving a knowing twinkle, as if he thought she

had made an admission, she added, “but what is disgrace?”

“Some say it is misfortune,” said Mr. Ogilvie.

“Is it not failure in duty?” said Ethel.

“Well!”

“Colin’s first duty is to his king and country. If he fail in that, he

is disgraced, in his own eyes, before Heaven and men. If he does it,

there is a reward, which seems to me a better, more powerful motive

for Lucy to set before him than ‘My dear, I hope you will distinguish

yourself,’ when the fact is,

“‘England has forty thousand men,

We trust, as good as he.’

“‘Victory or Westminster Abbey!’ is a tolerable war-cry,” said Mr.

Ogilvie.

“Not so good as ‘England expects every man to do his duty.’ That serves

for those who cannot look to Westminster Abbey.”

“Ah! you are an English woman!”

“Only by halves. I had rather have been the Master of Glenbracken at

Flodden than King James, or”--for she grew rather ashamed of having

been impelled to utter the personal allusion--“better to have been the

Swinton or the Gordon at Homildon than all the rest put together.”

“I always thought Swinton a pig-headed old fellow, and I have little

doubt that my ancestor was a young ruffian,” coolly answered the Master

of Glenbracken.

“Why?” was all that Ethel could say in her indignation.

“It was the normal state of Scottish gentlemen,” he answered.

“If I thought you were in earnest, I should say you did not deserve to

be a Scot.”

“And so you wish to make me out a fause Scot!”

“Ogilvie!” called Norman, “are you fighting Scottish and English battles

with Ethel there? We want you to tell us which will be the best day for

going to Blenheim.”

The rest of the evening was spent in arranging the programme of their

lionising, in which it appeared that the Scottish cousin intended to

take his full share. Ethel was not sorry, for he interested her much,

while provoking her. She was obliged to put out her full strength in

answering him, and felt, at the same time, that he was not making any

effort in using the arguments that puzzled her--she was in earnest,

while he was at play; and, though there was something teasing in this,

and she knew it partook of what her brothers called chaffing, it gave

her that sense of power on his side, which is always attractive to

women. With the knowledge that, through Norman, she had of his real

character, she understood that half, at least, of what he said was jest;

and the other half was enough in earnest to make it exciting to argue

with him.

CHAPTER IX.