And felt thy triumphs were as mine,
And lov’d them more than they were thine.
TENNYSON.
That was a week of weeks; the most memorable week in Ethel’s life, spent
in indefatigable sight-seeing. College Chapels, Bodleian Library, Taylor
Gallery, the Museum, all were thoroughly studied, and, if Flora had not
dragged the party on, in mercy to poor George’s patience, Ethel would
never have got through a day’s work.
Indeed, Mr. Ogilvie, when annoyed at being hurried in going over
Merton Chapel with her, was heard to whisper that he acted the part of
policeman, by a perpetual “move on”; and as Ethel recollected the portly
form and wooden face of the superintendent at Stoneborough, she was
afraid that the comparison would not soon be forgotten. Norman Ogilvie
seemed to consider himself bound to their train as much as his namesake,
or, as on the second morning, Norman reported his reasoning, it was that
a man must walk about with somebody on Commemoration week, and that it
was a comfort to do so with ladies who wore their bonnets upon their
heads, instead of, like most of those he met, remind him of what Cock
Robin said to Jenny Wren in that matrimonial quarrel, when
Robin, he grew angry,
Hopped upon a twig--
Flora was extremely delighted, and, in matronly fashion, told her sister
that people were always respected and admired who had the strength of
mind to resist unsuitable customs. Ethel laughed in answer, and said
she thought it would take a great deal more strength of mind to go about
with her whole visage exposed to the universal gaze; and, woman-like,
they had a thorough gossip over the evils of the “backsliding”
head-gear.
Norman had retreated from it into the window, when Flora returned to the
charge about Harvey Anderson. She had been questioning their old friend
Mr. Everard, and had learned from him that the cause of the hesitation
with which his name had been received was that he had become imbued with
some of the Rationalistic ideas current in some quarters. He seldom met
Norman May without forcing on him debates, which were subjects of great
interest to the hearers, as the two young men were considered as the
most distinguished representatives of their respective causes, among
their own immediate contemporaries. Norman’s powers of argument, his
eloquence, readiness, and clearness, were thought to rank very high,
and, in the opinion of Mr. Everard, had been of great effect in
preventing other youths from being carried away by the specious
brilliancy of his rival.
Ethel valued this testimony far above the Newdigate prize, and she was
extremely surprised by hearing Flora declare her intention of still
asking Mr. Anderson to dinner, only consulting her brother as to the
day.
“Why, Flora! ask him! Norman--”
Norman had turned away with the simple answer, “any day.”
“Norman is wiser than you are, Ethel,” said Flora. “He knows that
Stoneborough would be up in arms at any neglect from us to one of the
Andersons, and, considering the rivalship, it is the more graceful, and
becoming.”
“I do not think it right,” said Ethel stoutly; “I believe that a line
ought to be drawn, and that we ought not to associate with people who
openly tamper with their faith.”
“Never fear,” smiled Flora; “I promise you that there shall be no
debates at my table.”
Ethel felt the force of the pronoun, and, as Flora walked out of the
room, she went up to Norman, who had been resting his brow against the
window.
“It is vain to argue with her,” she said; “but, Norman, do not you think
it is clearly wrong to seek after men who desert and deny--”
She stopped short, frightened at his pale look.
He spoke in a low clear tone that seemed to thrill her with a sort of
alarm. “If the secrets of men’s hearts were probed, who could cast the
first stone?”
“I don’t want to cast stones,” she began; but he made a gesture as if he
would not hear, and, at the same moment, Mr. Ogilvie entered the room.
Had Ethel been at home, she would have pondered much over her brother’s
meaning--here she had no leisure. Not only was she fully occupied with
the new scenes around her, but her Scottish cousin took up every moment
open to conversation. He was older than Norman, and had just taken
his degree, and he talked with that superior aplomb, which a few years
bestow at their time of life, without conceit, but more hopeful and
ambitious, and with higher spirits than his cousin.
Though industrious and distinguished, he had not avoided society or
amusement, was a great cricketer and tennis-player, one of the “eight”
whose success in the boat races was one of Norman’s prime interests,
and he told stories of frolics that reminded Ethel of her father’s old
Cambridge adventures.
He was a new variety in her eyes, and entertained her greatly. Where the
bounds of banter ended, was not easy to define, but whenever he tried
a little mystification, she either entered merrily into the humour, or
threw it over with keen wit that he kept constantly on the stretch. They
were always discovering odd, unexpected bits of knowledge in each other,
and a great deal more accordance in views and opinions than appeared on
the surface, for his enthusiasm usually veiled itself in persiflage on
hers, though he was too good and serious to carry it too far.
At Blenheim, perhaps he thought he had given an overdose of nonsense,
and made her believe, as Meta really did, that the Duchess Sarah was
his model woman; for as they walked in the park in search of Phoebe
Mayflower’s well, he gathered a fern leaf, to show her the Glenbracken
badge, and talked to her of his home, his mother, and his sister
Marjorie, and the little church in the rocky glen. He gave the history
of the stolen meetings of the little knot of churchmen during the days
of persecution, and showed a heart descended straight from the Ogilvie
who was “out with Montrose,” now that the upper structure of young
England was for a little while put aside.
After this, she took his jokes much more coolly, and made thrusts
beneath them, which he seemed to enjoy, and caused him to unfold himself
the more. She liked him all the better for finding that he thought
Norman had been a very good friend to him, and that he admired her
brother heartily, watching tenderly over his tendencies to make himself
unhappy. He confided to her that, much as he rejoiced in the defeats
of Anderson, he feared that the reading and thought consequent on the
discussions, had helped to overstrain Norman’s mind, and he was very
anxious to carry him away from all study, and toil, and make his brains
rest, and his eyes delight themselves upon Scottish mountains.
Thereupon came vivid descriptions of the scenery, especially his own
glen with the ruined tower, and ardent wishes that his cousin Ethel
could see them also, and know Marjorie. She could quite echo the wish,
Edinburgh and Loch Katrine had been the visions of her life, and now
that she had once taken the leap and left home, absence did not seem
impossible, and, with a start of delight, she hailed her own conviction
that he intended his mother to invite the party to Glenbracken.
After Norman’s visit, Mr. Ogilvie declared that he must come home with
him and pay his long-promised visit to Stoneborough. He should have come
long ago. He had been coming last winter, but the wedding had prevented
him; he had always wished to know Dr. May, whom his father well
remembered, and now nothing should keep him away!
Flora looked on amused and pleased at Ethel’s development--her
abruptness softened into piquancy, and her countenance so embellished,
that the irregularity only added to the expressiveness. There was no
saying what Ethel would come to! She had not said that she would not go
to the intended ball, and her grimaces at the mention of it were growing
fainter every day.
The discussion about Harvey Anderson was never revived; Flora sent
the invitation without another word--he came with half a dozen other
gentlemen--Ethel made him a civil greeting, but her head was full of
boats and the procession day, about which Mr. Ogilvie was telling her,
and she thought of him no more.
“A lucky step!” thought Flora. “A grand thing for Ethel--a capital
connection for us all. Lady Glenbracken will not come too much into my
sphere either. Yes, I am doing well by my sisters.”
It would make stay-at-home people giddy to record how much pleasure,
how much conversation and laughter were crowded into those ten days, and
with much thought and feeling beside them, for these were not girls on
whom grave Oxford could leave no impression but one of gaiety.
The whole party was very full of merriment. Norman May, especially, on
whom Flora contrived to devolve that real leadership of conversation
that should rightly have belonged to George Rivers, kept up the ball
with wit and drollery far beyond what he usually put forth; enlivened
George into being almost an agreeable man, and drew out little Meta’s
vivacity into sunny sparkles.
Meta generally had Norman for her share, and seemed highly contented
with his lionisings, which were given much more quietly and copiously
than those which his cousin bestowed upon his sister. Or if there were
anything enterprising to be done, any tower to be mounted, or anything
with the smallest spice of danger in it, Meta was charmed, and with her
lightness and airiness of foot and figure, and perfectly feminine ways,
showed a spirit of adventure that added to the general diversion. But if
she were to be helped up or down anywhere, she certainly seemed to
find greater security in Norman May’s assistance, though it was but a
feather-like touch that she ever used to aid her bounding step.
Both as being diffident, and, in a manner at home, Norman was not as
constantly her cavalier as was Mr. Ogilvie to his sister; and, when
supplanted, his wont was either to pioneer for Flora, or, if she did not
need him, to walk alone, grave and abstracted. There was a weight on his
brow, when nothing was going on to drive it away, and whether it were
nervousness as to the performance in store for him, anxiety about Harry,
or, as Mr. Ogilvie said, too severe application; some burden hung upon
him, that was only lightened for the time by his participation in the
enjoyment of the party.
On Sunday evening, when they had been entering into the almost
vision-like delight of the choicest of music, and other accompaniments
of church service, they went to walk in Christchurch Meadows. They
had begun altogether by comparing feelings--Ethel wondering whether
Stoneborough Minster would ever be used as it might be, and whether, if
so, they should be practically the better for it; and proceeding with
metaphysics on her side, and satire on Norman Ogilvie’s, to speculate
whether that which is, is best, and the rights and wrongs of striving
for change and improvements, what should begin from above, and what from
beneath--with illustrations often laughter-moving, though they were
much in earnest, as the young heir of Glenbracken looked into his future
life.
Flora had diverged into wondering who would have the living after poor
old Mr. Ramsden, and walked, keeping her husband amused with instances
of his blunders.
Meta, as with Norman she parted from the rest, thought her own dear
Abbotstoke church, and Mr Charles Wilmot, great subjects for content and
thanksgiving, though it was a wonderful treat to see and hear such as
she had enjoyed to-day; and she thought it was a joy, to carry away
abidingly, to know that praise and worship, as near perfection as this
earth could render them, were being offered up.
Norman understood her thought, but responded by more of a sigh than was
quite comfortable.
Meta went on with her own thoughts, on the connection between worship
and good works, how the one leads to the other, and how praise with pure
lips is, after all, the great purpose of existence.--Her last thought
she spoke aloud.
“I suppose everything, our own happiness and all, are given to us to
turn into praise,” she said.
“Yes--” echoed Norman; but as if his thoughts were not quite with hers,
or rather in another part of the same subject; then recalling himself,
“Happy such as can do so.”
“If one only could--” said Meta.
“You can--don’t say otherwise,” exclaimed Norman; “I know, at least,
that you and my father can.”
“Dr. May does so, more than any one I know,” said Meta.
“Yes,” said Norman again; “it is his secret of joy. To him, it is never,
‘I am half sick of shadows’.”
“To him they are not shadows, but foretastes,” said Meta. Silence again;
and when she spoke, she said, “I have always thought it must be such a
happiness to have power of any kind that can be used in direct service,
or actual doing good.”
“No,” said Norman. “Whatever becomes a profession, becomes an
unreality.”
“Surely not, in becoming a duty,” said Meta.
“Not for all,” he answered; “but where the fabric erected by ourselves,
in the sight of the world, is but an outer case, a shell of mere words,
blown up for the occasion, strung together as mere language;
then, self-convicted, we shrink within the husk, and feel our own
worthlessness and hypocrisy.”
“As one feels in reproving the school children for behaving ill at
church?” said Meta.
“You never felt anything approaching to it!” said Norman. “To know
oneself to be such a deception, that everything else seems a delusion
too!”
“I don’t know whether that is metaphysical,” said Meta, “but I am sure
I don’t understand it. One must know oneself to be worse than one knows
any one else to be.”
“I could not wish you to understand,” said Norman; and yet he seemed
impelled to go on; for, after a hesitating silence, he added, “When the
wanderer in the desert fears that the spring is but a mirage; or when
all that is held dear is made hazy or distorted by some enchanter, what
do you think are the feelings, Meta?”
“It must be dreadful,” she said, rather bewildered; “but he may know
it is a delusion, if he can but wake. Has he not always a spell, a
charm?--”
“What is the spell?” eagerly said Norman, standing still.
“Believe--” said Meta, hardly knowing how she came to choose the words.
“I believe!” he repeated. “What--when we go beyond the province of
reason--human, a thing of sense after all! How often have I so answered.
But Meta, when a man has been drawn, in self-sufficient security, to
look into a magic mirror, and cannot detach his eyes from the confused,
misty scene--where all that had his allegiance appears shattered,
overthrown, like a broken image, or at least unable to endure
examination, then--”
“Oh, Norman, is that the trial to any one here? I thought old Oxford was
the great guardian nurse of truth! I am sure she cannot deal in magic
mirrors or such frightful things. Do you know you are talking like a
very horrible dream?”
“I believe I am in one,” said Norman.
“To be sure you are. Wake!” said Meta, looking up, smiling in his
face. “You have read yourself into a maze, that’s all--what Mary calls,
muzzling your head; you don’t really think all this, and when you get
into the country, away from books, you will forget it. One look at our
dear old purple Welsh hills will blow away all the mists!”
“I ought not to have spoken in this manner,” said Norman sadly. “Forget
it, Meta.”
“Forget it! Of course I will. It is all nonsense, and meant to be
forgotten,” said Meta, laughing. “You will own that it is by-and-by.”
He gave a deep sigh.
“Don’t think I am unfeeling,” she said; “but I know it is all a fog
up from books, books, books--I should like to drive it off with a good
fresh gust of wind! Oh! I wish those yellow lilies would grow in our
river!”
Meta talked away gaily for the rest of the walk. She was anything but
unfeeling, but she had a confidence in Norman that forbade her to see
anything here but one of his variations of spirits, which always sank in
the hour of triumph. She put forth her brightness to enliven him, and,
in their subsequent tete-a-tetes, she avoided all that could lead to a
renewal of this conversation. Ethel would not have rested till it had
been fought out. Meta thought it so imaginary, that it had better die
for want of the aliment of words; certainly, hers could not reach an
intellect like his, and she would only soothe and amuse him. Dr. May,
mind-curer as well as body-curer, would soon be here, to put the climax
to the general joy and watch his own son.
He did arrive; quite prepared to enjoy, giving an excellent account of
both homes; Mr. Rivers very well, and the Wilmots taking care of him,
and Margaret as comfortable as usual, Mary making a most important and
capable little housekeeper, Miss Bracy as good as possible. He talked
as if they had all flourished the better for Ethel’s absence, but he had
evidently missed her greatly, as he showed, without knowing it, by his
instant eagerness to have her to himself. Even Norman, prizeman as he
was, was less wanted. There was proud affection, eager congratulation,
for him, but it was Ethel to whom he wanted to tell everything that had
passed during her absence--whom he treated as if they were meeting after
a tedious separation.
They dined rather early, and went out afterwards, to walk down the High
Street to Christchurch Meadow. Norman and Ethel had been anxious for
this; they thought it would give their father the best idea of the tout
ensemble of Oxford, and were not without hopes of beating him by his own
confession, in that standing fight between him and his sons, as to the
beauties of Oxford and Cambridge--a fight in which, hitherto, they had
been equally matched--neither partisan having seen the rival University.
Flora stayed at home; she owned herself fairly tired by her arduous
duties of following the two young ladies about, and was very glad
to give her father the keeping of them. Dr. May held out his arm to
Ethel--Norman secured his peculiar property. Ethel could have preferred
that it should be otherwise--Norman would have no companion but George
Rivers; how bored he would be!
All through the streets, while she was telling her father the names of
the buildings, she was not giving her whole attention; she was trying
to guess, from the sounds behind, whether Mr. Ogilvie were accompanying
them. They entered the meadows--Norman turned round, with a laugh, to
defy the doctor to talk of the Cam, on the banks of the Isis. The
party stood still--the other two gentlemen came up. They amalgamated
again--all the Oxonians conspiring to say spiteful things of the Cam,
and Dr. May making a spirited defence, in which Ethel found herself
impelled to join.
In the wide gravelled path, they proceeded in threes; George attached
himself to his sister and Norman. Mr. Ogilvie came to Ethel’s other
side, and began to point out all the various notabilities. Ethel was
happy again; her father was so much pleased and amused, with him, and he
with her father, that it was a treat to look on.
Presently Dr. May, as usual, always meeting with acquaintances, fell in
with a county neighbour, and Ethel had another pleasant aside, until her
father claimed her, and Mr. Ogilvie was absorbed among another party,
and lost to her sight.
He came to tea, but, by that time, Dr. May had established himself in
the chair which had hitherto been appropriated to her cousin, a chair
that cut her nook off from the rest of the world, and made her the
exclusive possession of the occupant. There was a most interesting
history for her to hear, of a meeting with the Town Council, which
she had left pending, when Dr. May had been battling to save the next
presentation of the living from being sold.
Few subjects could affect Ethel more nearly, yet she caught herself
missing the thread of his discourse, in trying to hear what Mr. Ogilvie
was saying to Flora about a visit to Glenbracken.
The time came for the two Balliol men to take their leave. Norman May
had been sitting very silent all the evening, and Meta, who was near
him, respected his mood. When he said good-night, he drew Ethel outside
the door. “Ethel,” he said, “only one thing: do ask my father not to put
on his spectacles to-morrow.”
“Very well,” said Ethel, half smiling; “Richard did not mind them.”
“Richard has more humility--I shall break down if he looks at me! I wish
you were all at home.”
“Thank you.”
The other Norman came out of the sitting-room at the moment, and heard
the last words.
“Never mind,” said he to Ethel, “I’ll take care of him. He shall comport
himself as if you were all at Nova Zembla. A pretty fellow to talk of
despising fame, and then get a fit of stage-fright!”
“Well, good-night,” said Norman, sighing. “It will be over to-morrow;
only remember the spectacles.”
Dr. May laughed a good deal at the request, and asked if the rest of
the party were to be blindfolded. Meta wondered that Ethel should have
mentioned the request so publicly; she was a good deal touched by it,
and she thought Dr. May ought to be so.
Good-night was said, and Dr. May put his arm round Ethel, and gave her
the kiss that she had missed for seven nights. It was very homelike,
and it brought a sudden flash of thought across Ethel! What had she been
doing? She had been impatient of her father’s monopoly of her!
She parted with Flora, and entered the room she shared with Meta, where
Bellairs waited to attend her little mistress. Few words passed between
the two girls, and those chiefly on the morrow’s dress. Meta had some
fixed ideas--she should wear pink. Norman had said he liked her pink
bonnet, and then she could put down her white veil, so that he could be
certain that she was not looking; Ethel vaguely believed Flora meant to
wear--something--
Bellairs went away, and Meta gave expression to her eager hope that
Norman would go through it well. If he would only read it as he did last
Easter to her and Ethel.
“He will,” said Ethel. “This nervousness always wears off when it comes
to the point, and he warms with his subject.”
“Oh! but think of all the eyes looking at him!”
“Our’s are all that he really cares for, and he will think of none of
them, when he begins. No, Meta, you must not encourage him in it. Papa
says, if he did not think it half morbid--the result of the shock to his
nerves--he should be angry with it as a sort of conceit!”
“I should have thought that the last thing to be said of Norman!” said
Meta, with a little suppressed indignation.
“It was once in his nature,” said Ethel; “and I think it is the fault
he most beats down. There was a time, before you knew him, when he would
have been vain and ambitious.”
“Then it is as they say, conquered faults grow to be the opposite
virtues!” said Meta. “How very good he is, Ethel; one sees it more when
he is with other people, and one hears all these young men’s stories!”
“Everything Norman does not do, is not therefore wrong,” said Ethel,
with her usual lucidity of expression.
“Don’t you like him the better for keeping out of all these follies?”
“Norman does not call them so, I am sure.”
“No, he is too good to condemn--”
“It is not only that,” said Ethel. “I know papa thinks that the first
grief, coming at his age, and in the manner it did, checked and subdued
his spirits, so that he has little pleasure in those things. And he
always meant to be a clergyman, which acted as a sort of consecration on
him; but many things are innocent; and I do believe papa would like it
better, if Norman were less grave.”
“Yes,” said Meta, remembering the Sunday talk, “but still, he would not
be all he is--so different from others--”
“Of course, I don’t mean less good, only, less grave,” said Ethel, “and
certainly less nervous. But, perhaps, it is a good thing; dear mamma
thought his talents would have been a greater temptation than they seem
to be, subdued as he has been. I only meant that you must not condemn
all that Norman does not do. Now, goodnight.”
Very different were the feelings with which those two young girls
stretched themselves in their beds that night. Margaret Rivers’s
innocent, happy little heart was taken up in one contemplation.
Admiration, sympathy, and the exultation for him, which he would not
feel for himself, drew little Meta entirely out of herself--a self that
never held her much. She was proud of the slender thread of connection
between them; she was confident that his vague fancies were but the
scruples of a sensitive mind, and, as she fell sound asleep, she
murmured broken lines of Decius, mixed with promises not to look.
Etheldred heard them, for there was no sleep for her. She had a parley
to hold with herself, and to accuse her own feelings of having been
unkind, ungrateful, undutiful towards her father. What had a fit of
vanity brought her to? that she should have been teased by what would
naturally have been her greatest delight! her father’s pleasure in being
with her. Was this the girl who had lately vowed within herself that her
father should be her first earthly object?
At first, Ethel blamed herself for her secret impatience, but another
conviction crossed her, and not an unpleasing one, though it made her
cheeks tingle with maidenly shame, at having called it up. Throughout
this week, Norman Ogilvie had certainly sought her out. He had looked
disappointed this evening--there was no doubt that he was attracted by
her--by her, plain, awkward Ethel! Such a perception assuredly never
gave so much pleasure to a beauty as it did to Ethel, who had always
believed herself far less good-looking than she really was. It was a
gleam of delight, and, though she set herself to scold it down, the
conviction was elastic, and always leaped up again.
That resolution came before her, but it had been unspoken; it could not
be binding, and, if her notion were really right, the misty brilliant
future of mutual joy dazzled her! But there was another side: her father
oppressed and lonely, Margaret ill and pining, Mary, neither companion
nor authority, the children running wild; and she, who had mentally
vowed never to forsake her father, far away, enjoying her own happiness.
“Ah! that resolve had seemed easy enough when it was made, when,”
thought Ethel, “I fancied no one could care for me! Shame on me! Now is
the time to test it! I must go home with papa.”
It was a great struggle--on one side there was the deceitful guise of
modesty, telling her it was absurd to give so much importance to the
kindness of the first cousin with whom she had ever been thrown; there
was the dislike to vex Flora to make a discussion, and break up the
party. There was the desire to hear the concert, to go to the breakfast
at ---- College, to return round by Warwick Castle, and Kenilworth, as
designed. Should she lose all this for a mere flattering fancy? She, who
had laughed at Miss Boulder, for imagining every one who spoke to
her was smitten. What reason could she assign? It would be simply
ridiculous, and unkind--and it was so very pleasant. Mr. Ogilvie would
be too wise to think of so incongruous a connection, which would be so
sure to displease his parents. It was more absurd than ever to think of
it. The heir of Glenbracken, and a country physician’s daughter!
That was a candid heart which owned that its own repugnance to accept
this disparity as an objection, was an additional evidence that she
ought to flee from further intercourse. She believed that no harm was
done yet; she was sure that she loved her father better than anything
else in the world, and whilst she did so, it was best to preserve her
heart for him. Widowed as he was, she knew that he would sorely miss
her, and that for years to come, she should be necessary at home. She
had better come away while it would cost only a slight pang, for that it
was pain to leave Norman Ogilvie, was symptom enough of the need of not
letting her own silly heart go further. However it might be with him,
another week would only make it worse with her.
“I will go home with papa!” was the ultimatum reached by each chain of
mental reasonings, and borne in after each short prayer for guidance, as
Ethel tossed about listening to the perpetual striking of all the Oxford
clocks, until daylight had begun to shine in; when she fell asleep, and
was only waked by Meta, standing over her with a sponge, looking very
mischievous, as she reminded her of their appointment with Dr. May, to
go to the early service in New College Chapel.
The world looked different that morning with Ethel, but the
determination was fixed, and the service strengthened it. She was so
silent during the walk, that her companions rallied her, and they both
supposed she was anxious about Norman; but taking her opportunity, when
Meta was gone to prepare for breakfast, she rushed, in her usual
way, into the subject. “Papa! if you please, I should like to go home
to-morrow with you.”
“Eh?” said the doctor, amazed. “How is this? I told you that Miss Bracy
and Mary are doing famously.”
“Yes, but I had rather go back.”
“Indeed!” and Dr. May looked at the door, and spoke low. “They make you
welcome, I hope--”
“Oh, yes! nothing can be kinder.”
“I am glad to hear it. This Rivers is such a lout, that I could not tell
how it might be. I did not look to see you turn homesick all at once.”
Ethel smiled. “Yes, I have been very happy; but please, papa, ask no
questions--only take me home.”
“Come! it is all a homesick fit, Ethel--never fear the ball. Think of
the concert. If it were not for that poor baby of Mrs. Larkins, I should
stay myself to hear Sonntag again. You won’t have such another chance.”
“I know, but I think I ought to go--”
George came in, and they could say no more. Both were silent on the
subject at breakfast, but when afterwards Flora seized on Ethel, to
array her for the theatre, she was able to say, “Flora, please don’t be
angry with me--you have been very kind to me, but I mean to go home with
papa to-morrow.”
“I declare!” said Flora composedly, “you are as bad as the children
at the infant school, crying to go home the instant they see their
mothers!”
“No, Flora, but I must go. Thank you for all this pleasure, but I shall
have heard Norman’s poem, and then I must go.”
Flora turned her round, looked in her face kindly, kissed her, and said,
“My dear, never mind, it will all come right again--only, don’t run
away.”
“What will come right?”
“Any little misunderstanding with Norman Ogilvie.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Ethel, becoming scarlet.
“My dear, you need not try to hide it. I see that you have got into a
fright. You have made a discovery, but that is no reason for running
away.”
“Yes it is!” said Ethel firmly, not denying the charge, though reddening
more than ever at finding her impression confirmed.
“Poor child! she is afraid!” said Flora tenderly; “but I will take care
of you, Ethel. It is everything delightful. You are the very girl for
such a heros de Roman, and it has embellished you more than all my Paris
fineries.”
“Hush, Flora! We ought not to talk in this way, as if--”
“As if he had done more than walk with, and talk with, nobody else! How
he did hate papa last night. I had a great mind to call papa off, in
pity to him.”
“Don’t, Flora. If there were anything in it, it would not be proper to
think of it, so I am going home to prevent it.” The words were spoken
with averted face and heaving breath.
“Proper?” said Flora. “The Mays are a good old family, and our own
grandmother was an honourable Ogilvie herself. A Scottish baron, very
poor too, has no right to look down--”
“They shall not look down. Flora, it is of no use to talk. I cannot be
spared from home, and I will not put myself in the way of being tempted
to forsake them all.”
“Tempted!” said Flora, laughing. “Is it such a wicked thing?”
“Not in others, but it would be wrong in me, with such a state of things
as there is at home.”
“I do not suppose he would want you for some years to come. He is only
two-and-twenty. Mary will grow older.”
“Margaret will either be married, or want constant care. Flora, I will
not let myself be drawn from them.”
“You may think so now; but it would be for their real good to relieve
papa of any of us. If we were all to think as you do, how should we
live? I don’t know--for papa told me there will be barely ten thousand
pounds, besides the houses, and what will that be among ten? I am not
talking of yourself, but think of the others!”
“I know papa will not be happy without me, and I will not leave him,”
repeated Ethel, not answering the argument.
Flora changed her ground, and laughed. “We are getting into the
heroics,” she said, “when it would be very foolish to break up our
plans, only because we have found a pleasant cousin. There is nothing
serious in it, I dare say. How silly of us to argue on such an idea!”
Meta came in before Flora could say more, but Ethel, with burning
cheeks, repeated, “It will be safer!”
Ethel had, meantime, been dressed by her sister; and, as Bellairs came
to adorn Meta, and she could have no solitude, she went downstairs,
thinking she heard Norman’s step, and hoping to judge of his mood.
She entered the room with an exclamation, “Oh, Norman!”
“At your service!” said the wrong Norman, looking merrily up from behind
a newspaper.
“Oh, I beg your pardon; I thought--”
“Your thoughts were quite right,” he said, smiling. “Your brother
desires me to present his respects to his honoured family, and to inform
them that his stock of assurance is likely to be diminished by the
pleasure of their company this morning.”
“How is he?” asked Ethel anxiously.
“Pretty fair. He has blue saucers round his eyes, as he had before he
went up for his little go.”
“Oh, I know them,” said Ethel.
“Very odd,” continued her cousin; “when the end always is, that he says
he has the luck of being set on in the very place he knows best. But I
think it has expended itself in a sleepless night, and I have no fears,
when he comes to the point.”
“What is he doing?”
“Writing to his brother Harry. He said it was the day for the Pacific
mail, and that Harry’s pleasure would be the best of it.”
“Ah!” said Ethel, glancing towards the paper, “is there any naval
intelligence?”
He looked; and while she was thinking whether she ought not to depart,
he exclaimed, in a tone that startled her, “Ha! No. Is your brother’s
ship the Alcestis?”
“Yes! Oh, what?”
“Nothing then, I assure you. See, it is merely this--she has not come
into Sydney so soon as expected, which you knew before. That is all.”
“Let me see,” said the trembling Ethel.
It was no more than an echo of their unconfessed apprehensions, yet it
seemed to give them a body; and Ethel’s thoughts flew to Margaret. Her
going home would be absolutely necessary now. Mr. Ogilvie kindly began
to talk away her alarm, saying that there was still no reason for
dread, mentioning the many causes that might have delayed the ship, and
reassuring her greatly.
“But Norman!” she said.
“Ah! true. Poor May! He will break down to a certainty if he hears it. I
will go at once, and keep guard over him, lest he should meet with this
paper. But pray, don’t be alarmed. I assure you there is no cause. You
will have letters to-morrow.”
Ethel would fain have thrown off her finery and hurried home at once,
but no one regarded the matter as she did. Dr. May agreed with Flora
that it was no worse than before, and though they now thought Ethel’s
return desirable, on Margaret’s account, it would be better not to add
to the shock by a sudden arrival, especially as they took in no daily
paper at home. So the theatre was not to be given up, nor any of the
subsequent plans, except so far as regarded Ethel; and, this agreed,
they started for the scene of action.
They were hardly in the street before they met the ubiquitous Mr.
Ogilvie, saying that Cheviot, Norman’s prompter, was aware of the
report, and was guarding him, while he came to escort the ladies,
through what he expressively called “the bear fight.” Ethel resolutely
adhered to her father, and her cousin took care of Meta, who had been
clinging in a tiptoe manner to the point of her brother’s high elbow,
looking as if the crowd might easily brush off such a little fly,
without his missing her.
Inch by inch, a step at a time, the ladies were landed in a crowd of
their own sex, where Flora bravely pioneered; they emerged on their
benches, shook themselves out, and seated themselves. There was the
swarm of gay ladies around them, and beneath the area, fast being paved
with heads, black, brown, gray, and bald, a surging living sea, where
Meta soon pointed out Dr. May and George; the mere sight of such masses
of people was curious and interesting, reminding Ethel of Cherry Elwood
having once shocked her by saying the Whit-Monday club was the most
beautiful sight in the whole year. And above! that gallery of trampling
undergraduates, and more than trampling! Ethel and Meta could, at first,
have found it in their hearts to be frightened at those thundering
shouts, but the young ladies were usually of opinions so similar,
that the louder grew the cheers, the more they laughed and exulted, so
carried along that no cares could be remembered.
Making a way through the thronged area, behold the procession of
scarlet doctors, advancing through the midst, till the red and black
vice-chancellor sat enthroned in the centre, and the scarlet line became
a semicircle, dividing the flower-garden of ladies from the black mass
below.
Then came the introduction of the honorary doctors, one by one, with
the Latin speech, which Ethel’s companions unreasonably required her to
translate to them, while she was using all her ears to catch a word or
two, and her eyes to glimpse at the features of men of note.
By-and-by a youth made his appearance in the rostrum, and a good deal of
Latin ensued, of which Flora hoped Ethel was less tired than she was.
In time, however, Meta saw the spectacles removed, and George looking
straight up, and she drew down her veil, and took hold of Flora’s hand,
and Ethel flushed like a hot coal. Nevertheless, all contrived to see
a tall figure, with face much flushed, and hands moving nervously. The
world was tired, and people were departing, so that the first lines were
lost, perhaps a satisfaction to Norman; but his voice soon cleared and
became louder, his eyes lighted, and Ethel knew the “funny state” had
come to his relief--people’s attention was arrested--there was no more
going away.
It was well that Norman was ignorant of the fears for Harry, for
four lines had been added since Ethel had seen the poem, saying how
self-sacrifice sent forth the sailor-boy from home, to the lone watch,
the wave and storm, his spirit rising high, ere manhood braced his form.
Applause did not come where Ethel had expected it, and, at first,
there was silence at the close, but suddenly the acclamations rose with
deafening loudness, though hardly what greets some poems with more to
catch the popular ear.
Ethel’s great excitement was over, and presently she found herself
outside of the theatre, a shower falling, and an umbrella held over
her by Mr. Ogilvie, who was asking her if it was not admirable, and
declaring the poem might rank with Heber’s ‘Palestine’, or Milman’s
‘Apollo’.
They were bound for a great luncheon at one of the colleges, where Ethel
might survey the Principal with whom Miss Rich had corresponded.
Mr. Ogilvie sat next to her, told her all the names, and quizzed the
dignitaries, but she had a sense of depression, and did not wish to
enter into the usual strain of banter. He dropped his lively tone,
and drew her out about Harry, till she was telling eagerly of her dear
sailor brother, and found him so sympathising and considerate, that she
did not like him less; though she felt her intercourse with him a sort
of intoxication, that would only make it the worse for her by-and-by.
During that whole luncheon, and their walk through the gardens, where
there was a beautiful horticultural show, something was always prompting
her to say, while in this quasi-privacy, that she was on the eve of
departure, but she kept her resolution against it--she thought it would
have been an unwarrantable experiment. When they returned to their inn
they found Norman looking fagged, but relieved, half asleep on the sofa,
with a novel in his hand. He roused himself as they came in, and, to
avoid any compliments on his own performance, began, “Well, Ethel, are
you ready for the ball?”
“We shall spare her the ball,” said Dr. May; “there is a report about
the Alcestis in the newspaper that may make Margaret uncomfortable, and
this good sister will not stay away from her.”
Norman started up crying, “What, papa?”
“It is a mere nothing in reality,” said Dr. May, “only what we knew
before;” and he showed his son the paragraph, which Norman read as a
death warrant; the colour ebbed from his lips and cheeks; he trembled so
that he was obliged to sit down, and, without speaking, he kept his eyes
fixed on the words, “Serious apprehensions are entertained with regard
to H. M. S. Alcestis, Captain Gordon--”
“If you had seen as many newspaper reports come to nothing, as I have,
you would not take this so much to heart,” said Dr. May. “I expect to
hear that this very mail has brought letters.”
And Meta added that, at luncheon, she had been seated next to one of the
honorary doctors--a naval captain--who had been making discoveries in
the South Sea, and that he had scouted the notion of harm befalling
the Alcestis, and given all manner of reassuring suppositions as to her
detention, adding besides, that no one believed the Australian paper
whence the report was taken. He had seen the Alcestis, knew Captain
Gordon, and spoke of him as one of the safest people in the world. Had
his acquaintance extended to lieutenants and midshipmen, it would have
been perfect; as it was, the tidings brought back the blood to Norman’s
cheek, and the light to his eye.
“When do we set off?” was Norman’s question.
“At five,” said Ethel. “You mean it, papa?”
“I did intend it, if I had gone alone, but I shall not take you till
eight; nor you, Norman, at all.”
Norman was bent on returning, but his father and Flora would not hear of
it. Flora could not spare him, and Dr. May was afraid of the effect of
anxiety on nerves and spirits so sensitive. While this was going on,
Mr. Ogilvie looked at Ethel in consternation, and said, “Are you really
going home?”
“Yes, my eldest sister must not be left alone when she hears this.”
He looked down--Ethel had the resolution to walk away. Flora could not
give up the ball, and Meta found that she must go; but both the Normans
spent a quiet evening with Dr. May and Ethel. Norman May had a bad
headache, which he was allowed to have justly earned; Dr. May was very
happy reviving all his Scottish recollections, and talking to young
Ogilvie about Edinburgh. Once, there was a private consultation. Ethel
was provoked and ashamed at the throbs that it would excite. What! on a
week’s acquaintance?
When alone with her father, she began to nerve herself for something
heroic, and great was her shame when she heard only of her cousin’s kind
consideration for her brother, whom he wished to take home with him, and
thence to see the Highlands, so as to divert his anxiety for Harry, as
well as to call him off from the studies with which he had this term
overworked himself even more than usual. Dr. May had given most grateful
consent, and he spoke highly in praise of the youth; but there was no
more to come, and Ethel could have beaten herself for the moment of
anticipation.
Meta came home, apologising for wakening Ethel; but Ethel had not been
asleep. The ball had not, it seemed, been as charming to her as most
events were, and Ethel heard a sigh as the little lady lay down in her
bed.
Late as it was when she went to rest, Meta rose to see the travellers
off; she sent hosts of messages to her father, and wished she might go
with them. George and Flora were not visible, and Dr. May was leaving
messages for them, and for Norman, in her charge, when the two Balliol
men walked in.
Ethel had hoped it was over, yet she could not be sorry that the two
youths escorted them to the station, and, as Ethel was placed in
the carriage, she believed that she heard something of never
forgetting--happiest week--but in the civilities which the other
occupant of the carriage was offering for the accommodation of their
lesser luggage, she lost the exact words, and the last she heard were,
“Good-bye; I hope you will find letters at home.”
CHAPTER X.
True to the kindred points of Heaven and home.
WORDSWORTH.
Etheldred’s dream was over. She had wakened to the inside of a
Great Western carriage, her father beside her, and opposite a thin,
foreign-looking gentleman. Her father, to whom her life was to be
devoted! She looked at his profile, defined against the window, and did
not repent. In a sort of impulse to do something for him, she took his
hat from his hand, and was going to dispose of it in the roof, when he
turned, smiling his thanks, but saying, “it was not worth while--this
carriage was a very transitory resting-place.”
The stranger at that moment sprang to his feet, exclaiming, “Dick
himself!”
“Spencer, old fellow, is it you?” cried Dr. May, in a voice of equal
amazement and joy, holding out his hand, which was grasped and wrung
with a force that made Ethel shrink for the poor maimed arm.
“Ha! what is amiss with your arm?” was the immediate question. Three
technical words were spoken in a matter-of-fact way, as Dr. May replaced
his hand in his bosom, and then, with an eager smile, said, “Ethel,
here! You have heard of him!”
Ethel had indeed, and gave her hand cordially, surprised by the bow and
air of deferential politeness with which it was received, like a favour,
while Dr. Spencer asked her whether she had been staying in Oxford.
“Ay; and what for, do you think?” said Dr. May joyously.
“You don’t say that was your son who held forth yesterday! I thought his
voice had a trick of yours--but then I thought you would have held by
old Cambridge.”
“What could I do?” said Dr. May deprecatingly; “the boy would go and get
a Balliol scholarship--”
“Why! the lad is a genius! a poet--no mistake about it! but I scarcely
thought you could have one of such an age.”
“Of his age! His brother is in Holy Orders--one of his sisters is
married. There’s for you, Spencer!”
“Bless me, Dick! I thought myself a young man!”
“What! with hair of that colour?” said Dr. May, looking at his friend’s
milk-white locks.
“Bleached by that frightful sickly season at Poonshedagore, when I
thought I was done for. But you! you--the boy of the whole lot! You
think me very disrespectful to your father,” added he, turning to Ethel,
“but you see what old times are.”
“I know,” said Ethel, with a bright look.
“So you were in the theatre yesterday,” continued Dr. May; “but there is
no seeing any one in such a throng. How long have you been in England?”
“A fortnight. I went at once to see my sister, at Malvern; there I fell
in with Rudden, the man I was with in New Guinea. He was going up to be
made an honorary doctor, and made me come with him.”
“And where are you bound for?” as the train showed signs of a halt.
“For London. I meant to hunt up Mat. Fleet, and hear of you, and other
old friends.”
“Does he expect you?”
“No one expects me. I am a regular vagabond.”
“Come home with us,” said Dr. May, laying his hand on his arm. “I cannot
part with you so soon. Come, find your luggage. Take your ticket for
Gloucester.”
“So suddenly! Will it not be inconvenient?” said he, looking tempted,
but irresolute.
“Oh, no, no; pray come!” said Ethel eagerly. “We shall be so glad.”
He looked his courteous thanks, and soon was with them en-route for
Stoneborough.
Ethel’s thoughts were diverted from all she had left at Oxford. She
could not but watch those two old friends. She knew enough of the
traveller to enter into her father’s happiness, and to have no fears is
of another Sir Matthew.
They had been together at Stoneborough, at Cambridge, at Paris, at
Edinburgh, always linked in the closest friendship; but, by Dr. May’s
own account, his friend had been the diligent one of the pair, a bright
compound of principle and spirit, and highly distinguished in all his
studies, and Dr. May’s model of perfection. Their paths had since lain
far apart, and they had not seen each other since, twenty-six years ago,
they had parted in London--the one to settle at his native town, while
the other accepted a situation as travelling physician. On his return,
he had almost sacrificed his life, by self-devoted attendance on a
fever-stricken emigrant-ship. He had afterwards received an appointment
in India, and there the correspondence had died away, and Dr. May had
lost traces of him, only knowing that, in a visitation of cholera, he
had again acted with the same carelessness of his own life, and a
severe illness, which had broken up his health, had occasioned him to
relinquish his post.
It now appeared that he had thought himself coming home ever since.
He had gone to recruit in the Himalayas, and had become engrossed in
scientific observations on their altitudes, as well as investigations in
natural history. Going to Calcutta, he had fallen in with a party about
to explore the Asiatic islands and he had accompanied them, as well
as going on an expedition into the interior of Australia. He had been
employed in various sanitary arrangements there and in India, and
had finally worked his way slowly home, overland, visiting Egypt and
Palestine, and refreshing his memory with every Italian, German, or
French Cathedral, or work of art, that had delighted him in early days.
He was a slight small man, much sunburned, nearly bald, and his hair
snowy, but his eyes were beautiful, very dark, soft, and smiling,
and yet their gaze peculiarly keen and steady, as if ready for any
emergency, and his whole frame was full of alertness and vigour. His
voice was clear and sweet, and his manner most refined and polished,
indeed, his courtesy to Ethel, whenever there was a change of carriage,
was so exemplary, that she understood it as the effect on a chivalrous
mind, of living where a lady was a rare and precious article. It
frightened Ethel a little at first, but, before the end of the journey,
she had already begun to feel towards him like an old friend--one of
those inheritances who are so much valued and loved, like a sort of
uncles-in-friendship. She had an especial grateful honour for the
delicate tact which asked no questions, as she saw his eye often falling
anxiously on her father’s left hand, where the wedding ring shone upon
the little finger.
There was talk enough upon his travels, on public changes, and on
old friends; but, after those first few words, home had never been
mentioned.
When, at five o’clock, the engine blew its whistle, at the old familiar
station, Dr. May had scarcely put his head out before Adams hastened up
to him with a note.
“All well at home?”
“Yes, sir, Miss Margaret sent up the gig.”
“I must go at once,” said Dr May hastily--“the Larkins’ child is worse.
Ethel, take care of him, and introduce him. Love to Margaret. I’ll be at
home before tea.”
He was driven off at speed, and Ethel proposed to walk home. Dr Spencer
gave her his arm, and was silent, but presently said, in a low, anxious
voice, “My dear, you must forgive me, I have heard nothing for many
years. Your mother--”
“It was an accident,” said Ethel looking straight before her. “It was
when papa’s arm was hurt. The carriage was over-turned.”
“And--” repeated Dr Spencer earnestly
“She was killed on the spot,” said Ethel, speaking shortly, and
abruptly. If she was to say it at all, she could not do so otherwise.
He was dreadfully shocked--she knew it by the shudder of his arm, and a
tight suppressed groan. He did not speak, and Ethel, as if a relief from
the silence must be made, said what was not very consoling, and equally
blunt. “Margaret had some harm done to her spine--she cannot walk.”
He did not seem to hear, but walked on, as in a dream, where Ethel
guided him, and she would not interrupt him again.
They had just passed Mr Bramshaw’s office, when a voice was heard
behind, calling, “Miss Ethel! Miss Ethel!” and Edward Anderson, now
articled to Mr. Bramshaw, burst out, pen in hand, and looking shabby and
inky.
“Miss Ethel!” he said breathlessly, “I beg your pardon, but have you
heard from Harry?”
“No!” said Ethel. “Have they had that paper at home?”
“Not that I know of,” said Edward. “My mother wanted to send it, but I
would not take it--not while Dr. May was away.”
“Thank you--that was very kind of you.”
“And oh! Miss Ethel, do you think it is true?”
“We hope not,” said Ethel kindly--“we saw a Captain at Oxford who
thought it not at all to be depended on.”
“I am so glad,” said Edward; and, shaking hands, he went back to his
high stool, Ethel feeling that he deserved the pains that Norman
had taken to spare and befriend him. She spoke to her companion in
explanation. “We are very anxious for news of my next brother’s ship,
Alcestis, in the Pacific--”
“More!” exclaimed poor Dr. Spencer, almost overpowered; “Good Heavens! I
thought May, at least, was happy!”
“He is not unhappy,” said Ethel, not sorry that they had arrived at the
back entrance of the shrubbery.
“How long ago was this?” said he, standing still, as soon as they had
passed into the garden.
“Four years, next October. I assure you, his spirits are almost always
good.”
“When I was at Adelaide, little thinking!” he sighed, then recollecting
himself. “Forgive me, I have given you pain.”
“No,” she said, “or rather, I gave you more.”
“I knew her--” and there he broke off, paused for a minute, then
collecting himself, seemed resolutely to turn away from the subject, and
said, walking on, “This garden is not much altered.”
At that moment, a little shrill voice broke out in remonstrance among
the laurels--“But you know, Daisy, you are the captain of the forty
thieves!”
“A startling announcement!” said Dr. Spencer, looking at Ethel, and the
next two steps brought them in view of the play-place in the laurels,
where Aubrey lay on the ground, feigning sleep, but keeping a watchful
eye over Blanche, who was dropping something into the holes of inverted
flower-pots, Gertrude dancing about in a way that seemed to have called
for the reproof of the more earnest actors.
“Ethel! Ethel!” screamed the children, with one voice, and, while the
two girls stood in shyness at her companion, Aubrey had made a dart at
her neck, and hung upon her, arms, legs, body, and all, like a wild cat.
“That will do! that will do, old man--let go! Speak to Dr. Spencer, my
dear.”
Blanche did so demurely, and asked where was papa?
“Coming, as soon as he has been to Mrs. Larkins’s poor baby.”
“George Larkins has been here,” said Aubrey. “And I have finished
‘Vipera et lima’, Ethel, but Margaret makes such false quantities!”
“What is your name, youngster?” said Dr. Spencer, laying his hand on
Aubrey’s head.
“Aubrey Spencer May,” was the answer.
“Hey day! where did you steal my name?” exclaimed Dr. Spencer, while
Aubrey stood abashed at so mysterious an accusation.
“Oh!” exclaimed Blanche, seizing on Ethel, and whispering, “is it really
the boy that climbed the market cross?”
“You see your fame lives here,” said Ethel, smiling, as Dr. Spencer
evidently heard.
“He was a little boy!” said Aubrey indignantly, looking at the
gray-haired man.
“There!” said Ethel to Dr. Spencer.
“The tables turned!” he said, laughing heartily. “But do not let me keep
you. You would wish to prepare your sister for a stranger, and I shall
improve my acquaintance here. Where are the forty thieves?”
“I am all of them,” said the innocent, daisy-faced Gertrude; and Ethel
hastened towards the house, glad of the permission granted by his true
good-breeding.
There was a shriek of welcome from Mary, who sat working beside
Margaret. Ethel was certain that no evil tidings had come to her eldest
sister, so joyous was her exclamation of wonder and rebuke to her
home-sick Ethel. “Naughty girl! running home at once! I did think you
would have been happy there!”
“So I was,” said Ethel hastily; “but who do you think I have brought
home?” Margaret flushed with such a pink, that Ethel resolved never to
set her guessing again, and hurried to explain; and having heard that
all was well, and taken her housekeeping measures, she proceeded to
fetch the guest; but Mary, who had been unusually silent all this time,
ran after her, and checked her.
“Ethel, have you heard?” she said.
“Have you?” said Ethel.
“George Larkins rode in this morning to see when papa would come home,
and he told me. He said I had better not tell Margaret, for he did not
believe it.”
“And you have not! That is very good of you, Mary.”
“Oh! I am glad you are come! I could not have helped telling, if you had
been away a whole week! But, Ethel, does papa believe it?” Poor Mary’s
full lip swelled, and her eyes swam, ready to laugh or weep, in full
faith in her sister’s answer.
Ethel told of Meta’s captain, and the smile predominated, and settled
down into Mary’s usual broad beamy look, like a benignant rising sun
on the sign of an inn, as Ethel praised her warmly for a fortitude and
consideration of which she had not thought her capable.
Dr. Spencer was discovered full in the midst of the comedy of the forty
thieves, alternating, as required, between the robber-captain and the
ass, and the children in perfect ecstasies with him.
They all followed in his train to the drawing-room, and were so
clamorous, that he could have no conversation with Margaret. He
certainly made them so, but Ethel, remembering what a blow her
disclosures had been, thought it would be only a kindness to send Aubrey
to show him to his room, where he might have some peace.
She was not sorry to be very busy, so as to have little time to reply
to the questions on the doings at Oxford, and the cause of her sudden
return; and yet it would have been a comfort to be able to sit down
to understand herself, and recall her confused thoughts. But solitary
reflection was a thing only to be hoped for in that house in bed, and
Ethel was obliged to run up and down, and attend to everybody, under
an undefined sense that she had come home to a dull, anxious world of
turmoil.
Margaret seemed to guess nothing, that was one comfort; she evidently
thought that her return was fully accounted for by the fascination of
her papa’s presence in a strange place. She gave Ethel no credit for
the sacrifice, naturally supposing that she could not enjoy herself
away from home. Ethel did not know whether to be glad or not; she was
relieved, but it was flat. As to Norman Ogilvie, one or two inquiries
whether she liked him, and if Norman were going to Scotland with him,
were all that passed, and it was very provoking to be made so hot and
conscious by them.
She could not begin to dress till late, and while she was unpacking, she
heard her father come home, among the children’s loud welcomes, and
go to the drawing-room. He presently knocked at the door between their
rooms.
“So Margaret does not know?” he said.
“No, Mary has been so very good;” and she told what had passed.
“Well done, Mary, I must tell her so. She is a good girl on a pinch, you
see!”
“And we don’t speak of it now? Or will it hurt Margaret more to think we
keep things from her?”
“That is the worst risk of the two. I have seen great harm done in that
way. Mention it, but without seeming to make too much of it.”
“Won’t you, papa?”
“You had better--it will seem of less importance. I think nothing of it
myself.”
Nevertheless, Ethel saw that he could not trust himself to broach the
subject to Margaret.
“How was the Larkins’ baby?”
“Doing better. What have you done with Spencer?”
“I put him into Richard’s room. The children were eating him up! He is
so kind to them.”
“Ay! I say, Ethel, that was a happy consequence of your coming home with
me.”
“What a delightful person he is!”
“Is he not? A true knight errant, as he always was! I could not tell you
what I owed to him as a boy--all my life, I may say. Ethel,” he added
suddenly: “we must do our best to make him happy here. I know it now--I
never guessed it then, but one is very hard and selfish when one is
happy--”
“What do you mean, papa?”
“I see it now,” continued Dr. May incoherently; “the cause of his
wandering life--advantages thrown aside. He! the most worthy. Things
I little heeded at the time have come back on me! I understand why he
banished himself!”
“Why?” asked Ethel bewildered.
“She never had an idea of it; but I might have guessed from what fell
from him unconsciously, for not a word would he have said--nor did he
say, to show how he sacrificed himself!”
“Who was it? Aunt Flora?” said Ethel, beginning to collect his meaning.
“No, Ethel, it was your own dear mother! You will think this another
romantic fancy of mine, but I am sure of it.”
“So am I,” said Ethel.
“How--what? Ah! I remembered after we parted that he might know
nothing--”
“He asked me,” said Ethel.
“And how did he bear it?”
Ethel told, and the tears filled her father’s eyes.
“It was wrong and cruel in me to bring him home unprepared! and then to
leave it to you. I always forget other people’s feelings. Poor Spencer!
And now, Ethel, you see what manner of man we have here, and how we
ought to treat him.”
“Indeed I do!”
“The most unselfish--the most self-sacrificing--” continued Dr. May.
“And to see what it all turned on! I happened to have this place open to
me--the very cause, perhaps, of my having taken things easy--and so the
old Professor threw opportunities in my way; while Aubrey Spencer, with
every recommendation that man could have, was set aside, and exiled
himself, leaving the station, and all he might so easily have gained.
Ah, Ethel, Sir Matthew Fleet never came near him in ability. But not one
word to interfere with me would he say, and--how I have longed to meet
him again, after parting in my selfish, unfeeling gladness; and now I
have nothing to do for him, but show him how little I was to be trusted
with her.”
Ethel never knew how to deal with these occasional bursts of grief, but
she said that she thought Dr. Spencer was very much pleased to have met
with him, and delighted with the children.
“Ah! well, you are her children,” said Dr. May, with his hand on Ethel’s
shoulder.
So they went downstairs, and found Mary making tea; and Margaret,
fearing Dr. Spencer was overwhelmed with his young admirers--for Aubrey
and Gertrude were one on each knee, and Blanche standing beside him,
inflicting on him a catalogue of the names and ages of all the eleven.
“Ethel has introduced you, I see,” said Dr. May.
“Ay, I assure you, it was an alarming introduction. No sooner do I enter
your garden, than I hear that I am in the midst of the Forty Thieves.
I find a young lady putting the world to death, after the fashion of
Hamlet--and, looking about to find what I have lost, I find this urchin
has robbed me of my name--a property I supposed was always left to
unfortunate travellers, however small they might be chopped themselves.”
“Well, Aubrey boy, will you make restitution?”
“It is my name,” said Aubrey positively; for, as his father added, “He
is not without dread of the threat being fulfilled, and himself left to
be that Anon who, Blanche says, writes so much poetry.”
Aubrey privately went to Ethel, to ask her if this were possible; and
she had to reassure him, by telling him that they were “only in fun.”
It was fun with a much deeper current though; for Dr. Spencer was
saying, with a smile, between gratification and sadness, “I did not
think my name would have been remembered here so long.”
“We had used up mine, and the grandfathers’, and the uncles’, and began
to think we might look a little further a-field,” said Dr. May. “If I
had only known where you were, I would have asked you to be the varlet’s
godfather; but I was much afraid you were nowhere in the land of the
living.”
“I have but one godson, and he is coffee-coloured! I ought to have
written; but, you see, for seven years I thought I was coming home.”
Aubrey had recovered sufficiently to observe to Blanche, “That was
almost as bad as Ulysses,” which, being overheard and repeated, led to
the information that he was Ethel’s pupil, whereupon Dr. Spencer began
to inquire after the school, and to exclaim at his friend for having
deserted it in the person of Tom. Dr. May looked convicted, but said it
was all Norman’s fault; and Dr. Spencer, shaking his head at Blanche,
opined that the young gentleman was a great innovater, and that he was
sure he was at the bottom of the pulling down the Market Cross, and the
stopping up Randall’s Alley--iniquities of the “nasty people,” of which
she already had made him aware.
“Poor Norman, he suffered enough anent Randall’s Alley,” said Dr. May;
“but as to the Market Cross, that came down a year before he was born.”
“It was the Town Council!” said Ethel.
“One of the ordinary stultifications of Town Councils?”
“Take care, Spencer,” said Dr. May. “I am a Town Council man my-self--”
“You, Dick!” and he turned with a start of astonishment, and went into
a fit of laughing, re-echoed by all the young ones, who were especially
tickled by hearing, from another, the abbreviation that had, hitherto,
only lived in the favourite expletive, “As sure as my name is Dick May.”
“Of course,” said Dr. May. “‘Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou
not suspect my years? One that hath two gowns, and everything handsome
about him!’”
His friend laughed the more, and they betook themselves to the College
stories, of which the quotation from Dogberry seemed to have reminded
them.
There was something curious and affecting in their manner to each other.
Often it was the easy bantering familiarity of the two youths they had
once been together, with somewhat of elder brotherhood on Dr. Spencer’s
side--and of looking up on Dr. May’s--and just as they had recurred to
these terms, some allusion would bring back to Dr. Spencer, that the
heedless, high-spirited “Dick,” whom he had always had much ado to keep
out of scrapes, was a householder, a man of weight and influence; a
light which would at first strike him as most ludicrous, and then mirth
would end in a sigh, for there was yet another aspect! After having
thought of him so long as the happy husband of Margaret Mackenzie, he
found her place vacant, and the trace of deep grief apparent on the
countenance, once so gay--the oppression of anxiety marked on the brow,
formerly so joyous, the merriment almost more touching than gravity
would have been, for the former nature seemed rather shattered than
altered. In merging towards this side, there was a tender respect in
Dr. Spencer’s manner that was most beautiful, though this evening such
subjects were scrupulously kept at the utmost distance, by the constant
interchange of new and old jokes and stories.
Only when bed-time had come, and Margaret had been carried off--did a
silence fall on the two friends, unbroken till Dr. May rose and proposed
going upstairs. When he gave his hand to wish good-night, Dr. Spencer
held it this time most carefully, and said, “Oh, May! I did not expect
this!”
“I should have prepared you,” said his host, “but I never recollected
that you knew nothing--”
“I had dwelt on your happiness!”
“There never were two happier creatures for twenty-two years,” said Dr.
May, his voice low with emotion. “Sorrow spared her! Yes, think of her
always in undimmed brightness--always smiling as you remember her. She
was happy. She is,” he concluded. His friend had turned aside and hidden
his face with his hands, then looked up for a moment, “And you, Dick,”
he said briefly.
“Sorrow spared her,” was Dr. May’s first answer. “And hers are very good
children!”
There was a silence again, ending in Dr. May’s saying, “What do you
think of my poor girl?”
They discussed the nature of the injury: Dr. Spencer could not feel
otherwise than that it was a very hopeless matter. Her father owned
that he had thought so from the first, and had wondered at Sir Matthew
Fleet’s opinion. His subdued tone of patience and resignation, struck
his guest above all, as changed from what he had once been.
“You have been sorely tried,” he said, when they parted at his room
door.
“I have received much good!” simply answered Dr. May. “Goodnight! I am
glad to have you here--if you can bear it.”
“Bear it? Dick! how like that girl is to you! She is yourself!”
“Such a self as I never was! Good-night.”
Ethel overcame the difficulty of giving the account of the newspaper
alarm with tolerable success, by putting the story of Meta’s
conversation foremost. Margaret did not take it to heart as much as she
had feared, nor did she appear to dwell on it afterwards. The truth was
perhaps that Dr. Spencer’s visit was to every one more of an excitement
and amusement than it was to Ethel. Not that she did not like him
extremely, but after such a week as she had been spending, the
home-world seemed rather stale and unprofitable.
Miss Bracy relapsed into a state of “feelings,” imagining that Ethel had
distrusted her capabilities, and therefore returned; or as Ethel herself
sometimes feared, there might be irritability in her own manner that
gave cause of annoyance. The children were inclined to be riotous with
their new friend, who made much of them continually, and especially
patronised Aubrey; Mary was proud of showing how much she had learned
to do for Margaret in her sister’s absence; Dr. May was so much taken up
with his friend, that Ethel saw less of him than usual, and she began to
believe that it had been all a mistake that every one was so dependent
on her, for, in fact, they did much better without her.
Meantime, she heard of the gaieties which the others were enjoying, and
she could not feel heroic when they regretted her. At the end of a week,
Meta Rivers was escorted home from Warwick by two servants, and came
to Stoneborough, giving a lively description of all the concluding
pleasures, but declaring that Ethel’s departure had taken away the zest
of the whole, and Mr. Ogilvie had been very disconsolate. Margaret
had not been prepared to hear that Mr. Ogilvie had been so constant a
companion, and was struck by finding that Ethel had passed over one
who had evidently been so great an ingredient in the delights of the
expedition. Meta had, however observed nothing--she was a great deal too
simple and too much engrossed for such notions to have crossed her mind;
but Margaret inferred something, and hoped to learn more when she should
see Flora. This would not be immediately. George and his wife were gone
to London, and thence intended to pay a round of visits; and Norman had
accompanied his namesake to Glenbracken.
Ethel fought hard with her own petulance and sense of tedium at home,
which was, as she felt, particularly uncalled for at present; when Dr.
Spencer was enlivening them so much. He was never in the way, he was
always either busy in the dining-room in the morning with books and
papers, or wandering about his old school-boy haunts in the town, or
taking Adam’s place, and driving out Dr. May, or sometimes joining the
children in a walk, to their supreme delight. His sketches, for he
drew most beautifully, were an endless pleasure to Margaret, with his
explanations of them--she even tried to sit up to copy them, and he
began to teach Blanche to draw. The evenings, when there was certain to
be some entertaining talk going on between the two doctors, were very
charming, and Margaret seemed quite revived by seeing her father so
happy with his friend. Ethel knew she ought to be happy also, and if
attention could make her so, she had it, for kind and courteous as Dr.
Spencer was to all, she seemed to have a double charm for him. It was
as if he found united in her the quaint brusquerie, that he had loved
in her father, with somewhat of her mother; for though Ethel had less
personal resemblance to Mrs. May than any other of the family, Dr.
Spencer transferred to her much of the chivalrous distant devotion, with
which he had regarded her mother. Ethel was very little conscious of it,
but he was certainly her sworn knight, and there was an eagerness in his
manner of performing every little service for her, a deference in his
way of listening to her, over and above his ordinary polish of manner.
Ethel lighted up, and enjoyed herself when talking was going
on--her periods of ennui were when she had to set about any home
employment--when Aubrey’s lessons did not go well--when she wanted to
speak to her father, and could not catch him; and even when she had to
go to Cocksmoor.
She did not seem to make any progress there--the room was very full,
and very close, the children were dull, and she began to believe she was
doing no good--it was all a weariness. But she was so heartily ashamed
of her feelings, that she worked the more vehemently for them, and the
utmost show that they outwardly made was, that Margaret thought her less
vivacious than her wont, and she was a little too peremptory at times
with Mary and Blanche. She had so much disliked the display that Flora
had made about Cocksmoor, that she had imposed total silence on it
upon her younger sisters, and Dr. Spencer had spent a fortnight at
Stoneborough without being aware of their occupation; when there
occurred such an extremely sultry day, that Margaret remonstrated
with Ethel on her intention of broiling herself and Mary by walking to
Cocksmoor, when the quicksilver stood at 80° in the shade.
Ethel was much inclined to stay at home, but she did not know whether
this was from heat or from idleness, and her fretted spirits took the
turn of determination--so she posted off at a galloping pace, that her
brothers called her “Cocksmoor speed,” and Mary panted by her side,
humbly petitioning for the plantation path, when she answered “that it
was as well to be hot in the sun as in the shade.”
The school-room was unusually full, all the haymaking mothers made it
serve as an infant school, and though as much window was opened as there
could be, the effect was not coolness. Nevertheless, Ethel sat down and
gathered her class round her, and she had just heard the chapter once
read, when there was a little confusion, a frightened cry of “Ethel!”
and before she could rise to her feet--a flump upon the floor--poor Mary
had absolutely fainted dead away.
Ethel was much terrified, and very angry with herself; Mary was no light
weight, but Mrs. Elwood coming at their cry, helped Ethel to drag
her into the outer room, where she soon began to recover, and to be
excessively puzzled as to what had happened to her. She said the sea was
roaring, and where was Harry? and then she looked much surprised to
find herself lying on Mrs. Elwood’s damp flags--a circumstance extremely
distressing to Mrs. Elwood, who wanted to carry her upstairs into
Cherry’s room, very clean and very white, but with such a sun shining
full into it!
Ethel lavished all care, and reproached herself greatly, though to be
sure nothing had ever been supposed capable of hurting Mary, and Mary
herself protested that nothing at all had ailed her till the children’s
voices began to sound funny, and turned into the waves of the sea, and
therewith poor Mary burst into a great flood of tears, and asked whether
Harry would ever come back. The tears did her a great deal of good,
though not so much as the being petted by Ethel, and she soon declared
herself perfectly well; but Ethel could not think of letting her walk
home, and sent off a boy--who she trusted would not faint--with a note
to Margaret, desiring her to send the gig, which fortunately was at home
to-day.
Mary had partaken of some of Mrs. Elwood’s tea, which, though extremely
bitter, seemed a great cordial, and was sitting, quite revived, in the
arbour at the door, when the gig stopped, and Dr. Spencer walked in.
“Well, and how are you?”
“Quite well now, thank you. Was Margaret frightened? Why did you come?”
“I thought it would make her happier, as your father was not at home.
Here, let me feel your pulse. Do you think no one is a doctor but your
papa? There’s not much the matter with you, however. Where is Ethel?”
“In the school,” and Mary opened the door. Dr. Spencer looked in, as
Ethel came out, and his face put her in mind of Norman’s look.
“No wonder!” was all he said.
Ethel was soon satisfied that he did not think Mary ill. In fact, he
said fainting was the most natural and justifiable measure, under the
circumstances. “How many human creatures do you keep there?” he asked.
“Forty-seven to-day,” said Mary proudly.
“I shall indict you for cruelty to animals! I think I have known it
hotter at Poonshedagore, but there we had punkahs!”
“It was very wrong of me,” said Ethel. “I should have thought of poor
Mary, in that sunny walk, but Mary never complains.”
“Oh, never mind,” said Mary, “it did not hurt.”
“I’m not thinking of Mary,” said Dr. Spencer, “but of the wretched
beings you are leaving shut up there. I wonder what the mercury would be
there.”
“We cannot help it,” said Mary. “We cannot get the ground.”
And Mary, having been voted into the seat of honour and comfort by his
side in the carriage, told her version of Cocksmoor and the Committee;
while Ethel sat up in the little narrow seat behind, severely
reproaching herself for her want of consideration towards one so good
and patient as Mary, who proved to have been suffering far more on
Harry’s account than they had guessed, and who was so simple and
thorough-going in doing her duty. This was not being a good elder
sister, and, when they came home, she confessed it, and showed so much
remorse that poor Mary was quite shocked, and cried so bitterly that it
was necessary to quit the subject.
“Ethel, dearest,” said Margaret that night, after they were in bed, “is
there anything the matter?”
“No, nothing, but that Oxford has spoiled me,” said Ethel, resolutely.
“I am very cross and selfish!”
“It will be better by-and-by,” said Margaret, “if only you are sure you
have nothing to make you unhappy.”
“Nothing,” said Ethel. She was becoming too much ashamed of her fancy
to breathe one word about it, and she had spoken the truth. Pleasure had
spoiled her.
“If only we could do something for Cocksmoor!” she sighed, presently,
“with that one hundred and fifty pounds lying idle.”
Margaret was very glad that her thoughts were taking this channel, but
it was not a promising one, for there seemed to be nothing practicable,
present or future. The ground could not be had--the pig would not get
over the stile--the old woman could not get home to-night. Cocksmoor
must put up with its present school, and Mary must not be walked to
death.
Or, as Ethel drew her own moral, sacrifice must not be selfish. One
great resolution that has been costly, must not blunt us in the daily
details of life.
CHAPTER XI.
If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, Chapels had
been Churches, and poor men’s cottages, princes’ palaces.
MERCHANT OF VENICE.
“Dick,” said Dr. Spencer, as the friends sat together in the evening,
after Mary’s swoon, “you seem to have found an expedient for making
havoc among your daughters.”
“It does not hurt them,” said Dr. May carelessly.
“Pretty well, after the specimen of to-day.”
“That was chance.”
“If you like it, I have no more to say; but I should like to make you
sit for two hours in such a temperature. If they were mine--”
“Very fine talking, but I would not take the responsibility of hindering
the only pains that have ever been taken with that unlucky place. You
don’t know that girl Ethel. She began at fifteen, entirely of her own
accord, and has never faltered. If any of the children there are saved
from perdition, it is owing to her, and I am not going to be the man to
stop her. They are strong, healthy girls, and I cannot see that it does
them any harm--rather good.”
“Have you any special predilection for a room eight feet by nine?”
“Can’t be helped. What would you have said if you had seen the last?”
“What is this about one hundred and fifty pounds in hand?”
“The ladies here chose to have a fancy fair, the only result of which,
hitherto, has been the taking away my Flora. There is the money, but the
land can’t be had.”
“Why not?”
“Tied up between the Drydale Estate and ---- College, and in the hands
of the quarry master, Nicolson. There was an application made to the
College, but they did not begin at the right end.”
“Upon my word, Dick, you take it easy!” cried his friend, rather
indignantly.
“I own I have not stirred in the matter,” said Dr. May. “I knew nothing
would come to good under the pack of silly women that our schools
are ridden with--” and, as he heard a sound a little like “pish!” he
continued, “and that old Ramsden, it is absolutely useless to work with
such a head--or no head. There’s nothing for it but to wait for better
times, instead of setting up independent, insubordinate action.”
“You are the man to leave venerable abuses undisturbed!”
“The cure is worse than the disease!”
“There spoke the Corporation!”
“Ah! it was not the way you set to work in Poonshedagore.”
“Why, really, when the venerable abuses consisted of Hindoos praying to
their own three-legged stools, and keeping sacred monkeys in honour of
the ape Hanyuman, it was a question whether one could be a Christian
oneself, and suffer it undisturbed. It was coming it too strong, when
I was requested to lend my own step-ladder for the convenience of an
exhibition of a devotee swinging on hooks in his sides.”
Dr. Spencer had, in fact, never rested till he had established a mission
in his former remote station; and his brown godson, once a Brahmin,
now an exemplary clergyman, traced his conversion to the friendship and
example of the English physician.
“Well, I have lashed about me at abuses, in my time,” said Dr. May.
“I dare say you have, Dick!” and they both laughed--the inconsiderate
way was so well delineated.
“Just so,” replied Dr. May; “and I made enemies enough to fetter me now.
I do not mean that I have done right--I have not; but there is a good
deal on my hands, and I don’t write easily. I have been slower to take
up new matters than I ought to have been.”
“I see, I see!” said Dr. Spencer, rather sorry for his implied reproach,
“but must Cocksmoor be left to its fate, and your gallant daughter to
hers?”
“The vicar won’t stir. He is indolent enough by nature, and worse with
gout; and I do not see what good I could do. I once offended the tenant,
Nicolson, by fining him for cheating his unhappy labourers, on the
abominable truck system; and he had rather poison me than do anything to
oblige me. And, as to the copyholder, he is a fine gentleman, who never
comes near the place, nor does anything for it.”
“Who is he?”
“Sir Henry Walkinghame.”
“Sir Henry Walkinghame! I know the man. I found him in one of the caves
at Thebes, among the mummies, laid up with a fever, nearly ready to be
a mummy himself! I remember bleeding him--irregular, was not it? but one
does not stand on ceremony in Pharaoh’s tomb. I got him through with
it; we came up the Nile together, and the last I saw of him was at
Alexandria. He is your man! something might be done with him!”
“I believe Flora promises to ask him if she should ever meet him in
London, but he is always away. If ever we should be happy enough to get
an active incumbent, we shall have a chance.”
Two days after, Ethel came down equipped for Cocksmoor. It was as hot as
ever, and Mary was ordered to stay at home, being somewhat pacified by
a promise that she should go again as soon as the weather was fit for
anything but a salamander.
Dr. Spencer was in the hall, with his bamboo, his great Panama hat, and
gray loose coat, for he entirely avoided, except on Sundays, the medical
suit of black. He offered to relieve Ethel of her bag of books.
“No thank you.” (He had them by this time). “But I am going to
Cocksmoor.”
“Will you allow me to be your companion?”
“I shall be very glad of the pleasure of your company, but I am not in
the least afraid of going alone,” said she, smiling, however, so as to
show she was glad of such pleasant company. “I forewarn you though that
I have business there.”
“I will find occupation.”
“And you must promise not to turn against me. I have undergone a great
deal already about that place. Norman was always preaching against it,
and now that he has become reasonable, I can’t have papa set against it
again--besides, he would mind you more.”
Dr. Spencer promised to do nothing but what was quite reasonable. Ethel
believed that he accompanied her merely because his gallantry would not
suffer her to go unescorted, and she was not sorry, for it was too long
a walk for solitude to be very agreeable, when strange wagoners might be
on the road, though she had never let them be “lions in the path.”
The walk was as pleasant as a scorching sun would allow, and by the
time they arrived at the scattered cottages, Ethel had been drawn into
explaining many of her Cocksmoor perplexities.
“If you could get the land granted, where should you choose to have it?”
he asked. “You know it will not do to go and say, ‘Be pleased to give me
a piece of land,’ without specifying what, or you might chance to have
one at the Land’s End.”
“I see, that was one of the blunders,” said Ethel. “But I had often
thought of this nice little square place, between two gardens, and
sheltered by the old quarry.”
“Ha! hardly space enough, I should say,” replied Dr. Spencer, stepping
it out. “No, that won’t do, so confined by the quarry. Let us look
farther.”
A surmise crossed Ethel. Could he be going to take the work on himself,
but that was too wild a supposition--she knew he had nothing of his own,
only a moderate pension from the East India Company.
“What do you think of this?” he said, coming to the slope of a knoll,
commanding a pretty view of the Abbotstoke woods, clear from houses, and
yet not remote from the hamlet. She agreed that it would do well, and
he kicked up a bit of turf, and pryed into the soil, pronouncing it dry,
and fit for a good foundation. Then he began to step it out, making
a circuit that amazed her, but he said, “It is of no use to do it at
twice. Your school can be only the first step towards a church, and you
had better have room--enough at once. It will serve as an endowment in
the meantime.”
He would not let her remain in the sun, and she went into school.
She found him, when she came out, sitting in the arbour smoking a
cigar-rather a shock to her feelings, though he threw it away the
instant she appeared, and she excused him for his foreign habits.
In the evening, he brought down a traveller’s case of instruments, and
proceeded to draw a beautiful little map of Cocksmoor, where it seemed
that he had taken all his measurements, whilst she was in school. He
ended by an imaginary plan and elevation for the school, with a pretty
oriel window and bell-gable, that made Ethel sigh with delight at the
bare idea.
Next day, he vanished after dinner, but this he often did; he used to
say he must go and have a holiday of smoking--he could not bear too much
civilised society. He came back for tea, however, and had not sat down
long before he said, “Now, I know all about it. I shall pack up my
goods, and be off for Vienna to-morrow.”
“To Vienna!” was the general and dolorous outcry, and Gertrude laid hold
of him and said he should not go.
“I am coming back,” he said, “if you will have me. The college holds a
court at Fordholm on the 3rd, and on the last of this month, I hope to
return.”
“College! Court! What are you going to do at Vienna? Where have you left
your senses?” asked Dr. May.
“I find Sir Henry Walkinghame is there. I have been on an exploring
expedition to Drydale, found out his man of business, and where he is to
be written to. The college holds a court at Fordholm, and I hope to have
our business settled.”
Ethel was too much confounded to speak. Her father was exclaiming on the
shortness of the time.
“Plenty of time,” said Dr. Spencer, demonstrating that he should be able
to travel comfortably, and have four days to spare at Vienna--a journey
which he seemed to think less of, than did Dr. May of going to London.
As to checking him, of that there was no possibility, nor, indeed,
notion, though Ethel did not quite know how to believe in it, nor that
the plan could come to good. Ethel was much better by this time: by her
vigorous efforts, she had recovered her tone of mind and interest in
what was passing; and though now and then Norman’s letters, carrying
sentences of remembrance, made her glow a little, she was so steady
to her resolution that she averted all traffic in messages through her
brother’s correspondence, and, in that fear, allowed it to lapse into
Margaret’s hands more than she had ever done. Indeed, no one greatly
liked writing from home, it was heartless work to say always, “No news
from the Alcestis” and yet they all declared they were not anxious.
Hector Ernescliffe knelt a great while beside Margaret’s sofa, on the
first evening of his holidays, and there was a long low-voiced talk
between them. Ethel wished that she had warned him off, for Margaret
looked much more harassed and anxious, after having heard the outpouring
of all that was on his mind.
Dr. Spencer thought her looking worse, when he came, as come he did, on
the appointed day. He had brought Sir Henry Walkinghame’s full consent
to the surrender of the land; drawn up in such form as could be acted
upon, and a letter to his man of business. But Nicolson! He was a worse
dragon nearer home, hating all schools, especially hating Dr. May.
However, said Dr. Spencer, in eastern form, “Have I encountered Rajahs,
and smoked pipes with three-tailed Pachas, that I should dread the face
of the father of quarrymen.”
What he did with the father of quarrymen was not known, whether he
talked him over, or bought him off--Margaret hoped the former; Dr. May
feared the latter; the results were certain; Mr. Nicolson had agreed
that the land should be given up.
The triumphant Dr. Spencer sat down to write a statement to be shown to
the college authorities, when they should come to hold their court.
“The land must be put into the hands of trustees,” he said. “The
incumbent of course?”
“Then yourself; and we must have another. Your son-in-law?”
“You, I should think,” said Dr. May.
“I! Why, I am going.”
“Going, but not gone,” said his friend.
“I must go! I tell you, Dick; I must have a place of my own to smoke my
pipe in.”
“Is that all?” said Dr. May. “I think you might be accommodated here,
unless you wished to be near your sister.”
“My sister is always resorting to watering-places. My nieces do nothing
but play on the piano. No, I shall perhaps go off to America, the only
place I have not seen yet, and I more than half engaged to go and help
at Poonshedagore.”
“Better order your coffin then,” muttered Dr. May.
“I shall try lodgings in London, near the old hospital, perhaps--and go
and turn over the British Museum library.”
“Look you here, Spencer, I have a much better plan. Do you know that
scrap of a house of mine, by the back gate, just big enough for you
and your pipe? Set up your staff there. Ethel will never get her school
built without you.”
“Oh! that would be capital!” cried Ethel.
“It would be the best speculation for me. You would pay rent, and the
last old woman never did,” continued Dr. May. “A garden the length of
this one--”
“But I say--I want to be near the British Museum.”
“Take a season-ticket, and run up once a week.”
“I shall teach your boys to smoke!”
“I’ll see to that!”
“You have given Cocksmoor one lift,” said Ethel, “and it will never go
on without you.”
“It is such a nice house!” added the children, in chorus; “it would be
such fun to have you there.”
“Daisy will never be able to spare her other doctor,” said Margaret,
smiling.
“Run to Mrs. Adams, Tom, and get the key,” said Dr. May.
There was a putting on of hats and bonnets, and the whole party walked
down the garden to inspect the house--a matter of curiosity to some--for
it was where the old lady had resided on whom Harry had played so many
tricks, and the subject of many myths hatched between him and George
Larkins.
It was an odd, little narrow slip of a house, four stories, of two rooms
all the way up, each with a large window, with a marked white eyebrow.
Dr. May eagerly pointed out all the conveniences, parlour, museum,
smoking den, while Dr. Spencer listened, and answered doubtfully; and
the children’s clamorous anxiety seemed to render him the more silent.
Hector Ernescliffe discovered a jackdaw’s nest in the chimney, whereupon
the whole train rushed off to investigate, leaving the two doctors and
Ethel standing together in the empty parlour, Dr. May pressing, Dr.
Spencer raising desultory objections; but so evidently against his own
wishes, that Ethel said, “Now, indeed, you must not disappoint us all.”
“No,” said Dr. May, “it is a settled thing.”
“No, no, thanks, thanks to you all, but it cannot be. Let me go;” and he
spoke with emotion. “You are very kind, but it is not to be thought of.”
“Why not?” said Dr. May. “Spencer, stay with me;” and he spoke with a
pleading, almost dependent air. “Why should you go?”
“It is of no use to talk about it. You are very kind, but it will not do
to encumber you with a lone man, growing old.”
“We have been young together,” said Dr. May.
“And you must not leave papa,” added Ethel.
“No,” said Dr. May. “Trouble may be at hand. Help us through with it.
Remember, these children have no uncles.”
“You will stay?” said Ethel.
He made a sign of assent--he could do no more, and just then Gertrude
came trotting back, so exceedingly smutty, as to call everybody’s
attention. Hector had been shoving Tom half-way up the chimney, in
hopes of reaching the nest; and the consequences of this amateur
chimney-sweeping had been a plentiful bespattering of all the spectators
with soot, that so greatly distressed the young ladies, that Mary and
Blanche had fled away from public view.
Dr. Spencer’s first act of possession was to threaten to pull Tom down
by the heels for disturbing his jackdaws, whereupon there was a general
acclamation; and Dr. May began to talk of marauding times, when the
jackdaws in the Minster tower had been harried.
“Ah!” said Dr. Spencer, as Tom emerged, blacker than the outraged
jackdaws, and half choked, “what do you know about jackdaws’ nests? You
that are no Whichcote scholars.”
“Don’t we?” cried Hector, “when there is a jackdaw’s nest in Eton
Chapel, twenty feet high.”
“Old Grey made that!” said Tom, who usually acted the part of esprit
fort to Hector’s credulity.
“Why, there is a picture of it on Jesse’s book,” said Hector.
“But may not we get up on the roof, to see if we can get at the nest,
papa?” said Tom.
“You must ask Dr. Spencer. It is his house.”
Dr. Spencer did not gainsay it, and proceeded even to show the old
Whichcote spirit, by leading the assault, and promising to take care of
Aubrey, while Ethel retained Gertrude, and her father too; for Dr. May
had such a great inclination to scramble up the ladder after them, that
she, thinking it a dangerous experiment for so helpless an arm, was
obliged to assure him that it would create a sensation among the
gossiphood of Stoneborough, if their physician were seen disporting
himself on the top of the house.
“Ah! I’m not a physician unattached, like him,” said Dr. May, laughing.
“Hullo! have you got up, Tom? There’s a door up there. I’ll show you--”
“No, don’t papa. Think of Mrs. Ledwich; and asking her to see two
trustees up there!” said Ethel.
“Ah! Mrs. Ledwich; what is to be done with her, Ethel?”
“I am sure I can’t tell. If Flora were but at home, she would manage
it.”
“Spencer can manage anything!” was the answer. “That was the happiest
chance imaginable that you came home with me, and so we came to go by
the same train.”
Ethel was only afraid that time was being cruelly wasted; but the best
men, and it is emphatically the best that generally are so--have the
boy strong enough on one side or other of their natures, to be a great
provocation to womankind; and Dr. Spencer did not rest from his pursuit
till the brood of the jackdaws had been discovered, and two gray-headed
nestlings kidnapped, which were destined to a wicker cage and education.
Little Aubrey was beyond measure proud, and was suggesting all sorts of
outrageous classical names for them, till politely told by Tom that he
would make them as great prigs as himself, and that their names should
be nothing but Jack and Jill.
“There’s nothing for it but for Aubrey to go to school,” cried Tom,
sententiously turning round to Ethel.
“Ay, to Stoneborough,” said Dr. Spencer.
Tom coloured, as if sorry for his movement, and hastened away to make
himself sufficiently clean to go in quest of a prison for his captives.
Dr. Spencer began to bethink him of the paper that he had been so
eagerly drawing up, and looking at his own begrimed hands, asked Ethel
whether she would have him for a trustee.
“Will the other eight ladies?” said Ethel, “that’s the point.”
“Ha, Spencer! you did not know what you were undertaking. Do you wish to
be let off?” said Dr. May.
“Not I,” said the undaunted doctor. “Come, Ethel, let us hear what
should be done.”
“There’s no time,” said Ethel, bewildered. “The court will be only on
the day after to-morrow.”
“Ample time!” said Dr. Spencer, who seemed ready to throw himself into
it with all his might. “What we have to do is this. The ladies to be
propitiated are--”
“Nine Muses, to whom you will have to act Apollo,” said Dr. May, who,
having put his friend into the situation, had a mischievous delight in
laughing at him, and watching what he would do.
“One and two, Ethel, and Mrs. Rivers!”
“Rather eight and nine,” said Ethel, “though Flora may be somebody now.”
“Seven then,” said Dr. Spencer. “Well then, Ethel, suppose we set out
on our travels this afternoon. Visit these ladies, get them to call a
meeting to-morrow, and sanction their three trustees.”
“You little know what a work it is to call a meeting, or how many notes
Miss Rich sends out before one can be accomplished.”
“Faint heart--you know the proverb, Ethel. Allons. I’ll call on Mrs.
Ledwich--”
“Stay,” said Dr. May. “Let Ethel do that, and ask her to tea, and we
will show her your drawing of the school.”
So the remaining ladies were divided--Ethel was to visit Miss Anderson,
Miss Boulder, and Mrs. Ledwich; Dr. Spencer, the rest, and a meeting, if
possible, be appointed for the next day.
Ethel did as she was told, though rather against the grain, and her
short, abrupt manner was excused the more readily, that Dr. Spencer had
been a subject of much mysterious speculation in Stoneborough, and to
gain any intelligence respecting him, was a great object; so that she
was extremely welcome wherever she called.
Mrs. Ledwich promised to come to tea, and instantly prepared to walk
to Miss Rich, and authorise her to send out the notes of summons to the
morrow’s meeting. Ethel offered to walk with her, and found Mrs. and
Miss Rich in a flutter, after Dr. Spencer’s call; the daughter just
going to put on her bonnet and consult Mrs. Ledwich, and both extremely
enchanted with Dr. Spencer, who “would be such an acquisition.”
The hour was fixed and the notes sent out, and Ethel met Dr. Spencer at
the garden gate.
“Well!” he said, smiling, “I think we have fixed them off--have not we?”
“Yes; but is it not heartless that everything should be done through so
much nonsense?”
“Did you ever hear why the spire of Ulm Cathedral was never finished?”
said Dr. Spencer.
“No; why not?”
“Because the citizens would accept no help from their neighbours.”
“I am glad enough of help when it comes in the right way, and from good
motives.”
“There are more good motives in the world than you give people credit
for, Ethel. You have a good father, good sense, and a good education;
and you have some perception of the system by which things like this
should be done. Unfortunately, the system is in bad hands here, and
these good ladies have been left to work for themselves, and it is no
wonder that there is plenty of little self-importance, nonsense, and the
like, among them; but for their own sakes we should rather show them the
way, than throw them overboard.”
“If they will be shown,” said Ethel.
“I can’t say they seemed to me so very formidable,” said Dr. Spencer.
“Gentle little women.”
“Oh! it is only Mrs. Ledwich that stirs them up. I hope you are prepared
for that encounter.”
Mrs. Ledwich came to tea, sparkling with black bugles, and was very
patronising and amiable. Her visits were generally subjects of great
dread, for she talked unceasingly, laid down the law, and overwhelmed
Margaret with remedies; but to-night Dr. Spencer took her in hand. It
was not that he went out of his ordinary self, he was always the same
simple-mannered, polished gentleman; but it was this that told--she was
evidently somewhat in awe of him--the refinement kept her in check. She
behaved very quietly all the evening, admired the plans, consented to
everything, and was scarcely Mrs. Ledwich!
“You will get on now, Ethel,” said Dr. May afterwards. “Never fear but
that he will get the Ladies’ Committee well in hand.”
“Why do you think so, papa?”
“Never you fear.”
That was all she could extract from him, though he looked very arch. The
Ladies’ Committee accepted of their representatives with full consent;
and the indefatigable Dr. Spencer next had to hunt up the fellow
trustee. He finally contrived to collect every one he wanted at
Fordholm, the case was laid before the College--the College was
propitious, and by four o’clock in the evening, Dr. Spencer laid before
Ethel the promise of the piece of land.
Mary’s joy was unbounded, and Ethel blushed, and tried to thank. This
would have been the summit of felicity a year ago, and she was vexed
with herself for feeling that though land and money were both in such
safe hands, she could not care sufficiently to feel the ecstasy the
attainment of her object would once have given to her. Then she would
have been frantic with excitement, and heedless of everything; now she
took it so composedly as to annoy herself.
“To think of that one week at Oxford having so entirely turned this head
of mine!”
Perhaps it was the less at home, because she had just heard that George
and Flora had accepted an invitation to Glenbracken, but though the zest
of Cocksmoor might be somewhat gone, she called herself to order, and
gave her full attention to all that was planned by her champion.
Never did man plunge into business more thoroughly than he, when he
had once undertaken it. He was one of those men who, from gathering
particulars of every practical matter that comes under their notice, are
able to accomplish well whatever they set their hand to; and building
was not new to him, though his former subjects--a church and mission
station in India--bore little remembrance to the present.
He bought a little round dumpling of a white pony, and trotted all over
the country in search of building materials and builders, he discovered
trees in distant timber-yards, he brought home specimens of stone, one
in each pocket, to compare and analyse, he went to London to look at
model schools, he drew plans each more neat and beautiful than the
last, he compared builders’ estimates, and wrote letters to the National
Society, so as to be able to begin in the spring.
In the meantime he was settling himself, furnishing his new house with
great precision and taste. He would have no assistance in his choice,
either of servants or furniture, but made numerous journeys of
inspection to Whitford, to Malvern, and to London, and these seemed
to make him the more content with Stoneborough. Sir Matthew Fleet had
evidently chilled him, and as he found his own few remaining relations
uncongenial, he became the more ready to find a resting-place in the
gray old town, the scene of his school life, beside the friend of his
youth, and the children of her, for whose sake he had never sought a
home of his own. Though he now and then talked of seeing America, or
of going back to India, in hopes of assisting his beloved mission at
Poonshedagore, these plans were fast dying away, as he formed habits and
attachments, and perceived the sphere of usefulness open to him.
It was a great step when his packages arrived, and his beautiful Indian
curiosities were arranged, making his drawing-room as pretty a room as
could anywhere be seen; in readiness, as he used to tell Ethel, for a
grand tea-party for all the Ladies’ Committee, when he should borrow
her and the best silver teapot to preside. Moreover, he had a chemical
apparatus, a telescope, and microscope, of great power, wherewith he
tried experiments that were the height of felicity to Tom and Ethel,
and much interested their father. He made it his business to have full
occupation for himself, with plans, books, or correspondence, so as not
to be a charge on the hands of the May family, with whom he never spent
an evening without special and earnest invitation.
He gave attendance at the hospital on alternate days, as well as taking
off Dr. May’s hands such of his gratuitous patients as were not averse
to quit their old doctor, and could believe in a physician in shepherd’s
plaid, and Panama hat. Exceedingly sociable, he soon visited every one
far and wide, and went to every sort of party, from the grand dinners
of the “county families,” to the tea-drinkings of the Stoneborough
ladies--a welcome guest at all, and enjoying each in his own way.
English life was so new to him that he entered into the little
accessories with the zest of a youth; and there seemed to be a curious
change between the two old fellow students, the elder and more staid of
former days having come back with unencumbered freshness to enliven his
friend, just beginning to grow aged under the wear of care and sorrows.
It was very droll to hear Dr. May laughing at Dr. Spencer’s histories
of his adventures, and at the new aspects in which his own well-trodden
district appeared to travelled eyes; and not less amusing was Dr.
Spencer’s resolute defence of all the nine muses, generally and
individually.
He certainly had no reason to think ill of them. As one woman, they were
led by him, and conformed their opinions. The only seceder was Louisa
Anderson, who had her brother for her oracle; and, indeed, the more
youthful race, to whom Harvey was the glass of fashion, uttered
disrespectful opinions as to the doctor’s age, and would not accede to
his being, as Mrs. Ledwich declared, “much younger than Dr. May.”
Harvey Anderson had first attempted patronage, then argument, with Dr.
Spencer, but found him equally impervious to both. “Very clever, but an
old world man,” said Harvey. “He has made up his bundle of prejudices.”
“Clever sort of lad!” said Dr. Spencer, “a cool hand, but very
shallow--”
Ethel wondered to hear thus lightly disposed of, the powers of argument
that had been thought fairly able to compete with Norman, and which
had taxed him so severely. She did not know how differently abstract
questions appear to a mature mind, confirmed in principle by practice;
and to one young, struggling in self-formation, and more used to
theories than to realities.
CHAPTER XII.
The heart may ache, but may not burst;
Heaven will not leave thee, nor forsake.
Christian Year.
Hector and Tom finished their holidays by a morning’s shooting at the
Grange, Dr. May promising to meet them, and let them drive him home.
Meta was out when he arrived; and, repairing to the library, he found
Mr. Rivers sitting by a fire, though it was early in September, with the
newspaper before him, but not reading. He looked depressed, and seemed
much disappointed at having heard that George and Flora had accepted
some further invitations in Scotland, and did not intend to return for
another month. Dr. May spoke cheerfully of the hospitality and kindness
they had met, but failed to enliven him, and, as if trying to assign
some cause for his vexation, he lamented over fogs and frosts, and began
to dread an October in Scotland for Flora, almost as if it were the
Arctic regions.
He grew somewhat more animated in praising Flora, and speaking of the
great satisfaction he had in seeing his son married to so admirable a
person. He only wished it could be the same with his daughter.
“You are a very unselfish father,” said Dr. May. “I cannot imagine you
without your little fairy.”
“It would be hard to part,” said Mr. Rivers, sighing; “yet I should be
relieved to see her in good hands, so pretty and engaging as she is, and
something of an heiress. With our dear Flora, she is secure of a happy
home when I am gone, but still I should be glad to have seen--” and he
broke off thoughtfully.
“She is so sensible, that we shall see her make a good choice,” said Dr.
May, smiling; “that is, if she choose at all, for I do not know who is
worthy of her.”
“I am quite indifferent as to fortune,” continued Mr. Rivers. “She will
have enough of her own.”
“Enough not to be dependent, which is the point,” said Dr. May, “though
I should have few fears for her any way.”
“It would be a comfort,” harped on Mr. Rivers, dwelling on the subject,
as if he wanted to say something, “if she were only safe with a man
who knew how to value her and make her happy. Such a young man as your
Norman, now--I have often thought--”
Dr. May would not seem to hear, but he could not prevent himself from
blushing as crimson as if he had been the very Norman, as he answered,
going on with his own speech, as if Mr. Rivers’s had been unmade, “She
is the brightest little creature under the sun, and the sparkle is down
so deep within, that however it may turn out, I should never fear for
her happiness.”
“Flora is my great reliance,” proceeded Mr. Rivers. “Her aunt, Lady
Leonora, is very kind, but somehow she does not seem to suit with Meta.”
“Oh, ho,” thought the doctor, “have you made that discovery, my good
friend?”
The voices of the two boys were heard in the hall, explaining their
achievements to Meta, and Dr. May took his departure, Hector driving
him, and embarking in a long discourse on his own affairs as if he
had quite forgotten that the doctor was not his father, and going on
emphatically, in spite of the absence of mind now and then betrayed by
his auditor, who, at Dr. Spencer’s door, exclaimed, “Stop, Hector, let
me out here--thank you;” and presently brought out his friend into the
garden, and sat down on the grass, talking low and earnestly over the
disease with which Mr. Rivers had been so long affected; for though Dr.
May could not perceive any positively unfavourable symptom, he had
been rendered vaguely uneasy by the unusual heaviness and depression
of manner. So long did they sit conversing, that Blanche was sent out,
primed with an impertinent message, that two such old doctors ought to
be ashamed of themselves for sitting so late in the dew.
Dr. Spencer was dragged in to drink tea, and the meal had just been
merrily concluded, when the door bell rang, and a message was brought
in. “The carriage from the Grange, sir; Miss Rivers would be much
obliged if you would come directly.”
“There!” said Dr. May, looking at Dr. Spencer, as if to say, I told you
so, in the first triumph of professional sagacity; but the next moment
exclaiming, “Poor little Meta!” he hurried away.
A gloom fell on those who remained, for, besides their sympathy for
Meta, and their liking for her kind old father, there was that one
unacknowledged heartache, which, though in general bravely combated,
lay in wait always ready to prey on them. Hector stole round to sit by
Margaret, and Dr. Spencer muttered, “This will never do,” and sent
Tom to fetch some papers lying on his table, whence he read them some
curious accounts that he had just received from his missionary friends
in India.
They were interested, but in a listening mood, that caused a universal
start when the bell again sounded. This time, James reported that the
servant from the Grange said his master was very ill--he had brought
a letter to post for Mr. George Rivers, and here was a note for Miss
Ethel. It was the only note Ethel had ever received from her father, and
contained these few words:
“DEAR E.--,
“I believe this attack will be the last. Come to Meta, and bring my
things. R. M.”
Ethel put her hands to her forehead. It was as if she had been again
plunged into the stunned dream of misery of four years ago, and her
sensation was of equal bewilderment and uselessness; but it was but for
a moment--the next she was in a state of over-bustle and eagerness. She
wanted to fly about and hasten to help Meta, and could hardly obey the
word and gesture by which Margaret summoned her to her side.
“Dear Ethel, you must calm yourself, or you will not be of use.”
“I? I can’t be of any use! Oh, if you could go! If Flora were but here!
But I must go, Margaret.”
“I will put up your father’s things,” said Dr. Spencer, in a soothing
tone. “The carriage cannot be ready in a moment, so that there will be
full time.”
Mary and Miss Bracy prepared Ethel’s own goods, which she would
otherwise have forgotten; and Margaret, meanwhile, detained her by her
side, trying to calm and encourage her with gentle words of counsel,
that might hinder her from giving way to the flurry of emotion that had
seized her, and prevent her from thinking herself certain to be useless.
Adams was to drive her thither in the gig, and it presently came to the
door. Dr. Spencer wrapped her up well in cloaks and shawls, and spoke
words of kindly cheer in her ear as she set off. The fresh night air
blew pleasantly on her, the stars glimmered in full glory overhead,
and now and then her eye was caught by the rocket-like track of a
shooting-star. Orion was rising slowly far in the east, and bringing to
her mind the sailor-boy under the southern sky; if, indeed, he were
not where sun and stars no more are the light. It was strange that the
thought came more as soothing than as acute pain; she could bear to
think of him thus in her present frame, as long as she had not to
talk of him. Under those solemn stars, the life everlasting seemed
to overpower the sense of this mortal life, and Ethel’s agitation was
calmed away.
The old cedar-tree stood up in stately blackness against the sky, and
the lights in the house glanced behind it. The servants looked rather
surprised to see Ethel, as if she were not expected, and conducted her
to the great drawing-room, which looked the more desolate and solitary,
from the glare of lamplight, falling on the empty seats which Ethel
had lately seen filled with a glad home party. She was looking round,
thinking whether to venture up to Meta’s room, and there summon
Bellairs, when Meta came gliding in, and threw her arms round her.
Ethel could not speak, but Meta’s voice was more cheerful than she had
expected. “How kind of you, dear Ethel!”
“Papa sent for me,” said Ethel.
“He is so kind! Can Margaret spare you?”
“Oh, yes; but you must leave me. You must want to be with him.”
“He never lets me come in when he has these attacks,” said Meta. “If he
only would! But will you come up to my room? That is nearer.”
“Is papa with him?”
“Yes.”
Meta wound her arms round Ethel, and led her up to her sitting-room,
where a book lay on the table. She said that her father had seemed weary
and torpid, and had sat still until almost their late dinner-hour, when
he seemed to bethink himself of dressing, and had risen. She thought
he walked weakly, and rather tottering, and had run to make him lean on
her, which he did, as far as his own room door. There he had kissed
her, and thanked her, and murmured a word like blessing. She had not,
however, been alarmed, until his servant had come to tell her that he
had another seizure.
Ethel asked whether she had seen Dr. May since he had been with her
father. She had; but Ethel was surprised to find that she had not taken
in the extent of his fears. She had become so far accustomed to these
attacks, that, though anxious and distressed, she did not apprehend more
than a few days’ weakness, and her chief longing was to be of use. She
was speaking cheerfully of beginning her nursing to-morrow, and of her
great desire that her papa would allow her to sit up with him, when
there was a slow, reluctant movement of the lock of the door, and the
two girls sprang to their feet, as Dr. May opened it; and Ethel read his
countenance at once.
Not so Meta. “How is he? May I go to him?” cried she.
“Not now, my dear,” said Dr. May, putting his hand on her shoulder, in
a gentle, detaining manner, that sent a thrill of trembling through her
frame, though she did not otherwise move. She only clasped her hands
together, and looked up into his face. He answered the look. “Yes, my
dear, the struggle is over.”
Ethel came near, and put her arm round Meta’s waist, as if to strengthen
her, as she stood quite passive and still.
Dr. May seemed to think it best that all should be told; but, though
intently watching Meta, he directed his words to his own daughter.
“Thank Heaven, it has been shorter, and less painful, than I had dared
to hope.”
Meta tried to speak, but could not bring out the words, and, with an
imploring look at Ethel, as if to beg her to make them clear for her,
she inarticulately murmured, “Oh! why did you not call me?”
“I could not. He would not let me. His last conscious word to me was not
to let you see him suffer.”
Meta wrung her clasped hands together in mute anguish. Dr. May signed to
Ethel to guide her back to the sofa, but the movement seemed so far to
rouse her, that she said, “I should like to go to bed.”
“Right--the best thing,” said Dr. May; and he whispered to Ethel, “Go
with her, but don’t try to rouse her--don’t talk to her. Come back to
me, presently.”
He did not even shake hands with Meta, nor wish her good-night, as she
disappeared into her own room.