“It is far deeper,” said Ethel; and she related great part of what

she had heard in the afternoon. It was not easy to make her father

listen--his line was to be positively indignant, rather than

compassionate, when he heard of the doubts that had assailed poor

Norman. “Foolish boy, what business had he to meddle with those accursed

books, when he knew what they were made of--it was tasting poison,

it was running into temptation! He had no right to expect to come out

safe--” and then he grasped tightly hold of Ethel’s hands, and, as if

the terror had suddenly flashed on him, asked her, with dilated eye and

trembling voice, whether she were sure that he was safe, and held the

faith.

Ethel repeated his asseveration, and her father covered his face with

his hands in thanksgiving.

After this, he seemed somewhat inclined to hold poor Oxford in horror,

only, as he observed, it would be going out of the frying-pan into the

fire, to take refuge at Paris--a recurrence to the notion of Norman’s

medical studies, that showed him rather enticed by the proposal.

He sent Ethel to bed, saying he should talk to Norman and find out what

was the meaning of it, and she walked upstairs, much ashamed of having

so ill served her brother, as almost to have made him ridiculous.

Dr May and Norman never failed to come to an understanding, and after

they had had a long drive into the country together, Dr May told Ethel

that he was afraid, of what he ought not to be afraid of, that she was

right, that the lad was very much in earnest now at any rate, and if he

should continue in the same mind, he hoped he should not be so weak as

to hold him from a blessed work.

From Norman, Ethel heard the warmest gratitude for his father’s

kindness. Nothing could be done yet, he must wait patiently for the

present, but he was to write to his uncle, Mr. Arnott, in New Zealand,

and, without pledging himself, to make inquiries as to the mission; and

in the meantime, return to Oxford, where, to his other studies, he was

to add a course of medical lectures, which, as Dr. May said, would do

him no harm, would occupy his mind, and might turn to use wherever he

was.

Ethel was surprised to find that Norman wrote to Flora an expression of

his resolution, that, if he found he could be spared from assisting his

father as a physician, he would give himself up to the mission in New

Zealand. Why should he tell any one so unsympathetic as Flora, who would

think him wasted in either case?

CHAPTER XVII.

Do not fear: Heaven is as near,

By water, as by land.--LONGFELLOW.

The fifth of May was poor Harry’s eighteenth birthday, and, as usual,

was a holiday. Etheldred privately thought his memory more likely to be

respected, if Blanche and Aubrey were employed, than if they were left

in idleness; but Mary would have been wretched had the celebration been

omitted, and a leisure day was never unwelcome.

Dr. Spencer carried off Blanche and Aubrey for a walk, and Ethel found

Mary at her great resort--Harry’s cupboard--dusting and arranging his

books, and the array of birthday gifts, to which, even to-day, she had

not failed to add the marker that had been in hand at Christmas. Ethel

entreated her to come down, and Mary promised, and presently appeared,

looking so melancholy, that, as a sedative, Ethel set her down to

the basket of scraps to find materials for a tippet for some one at

Cocksmoor, intending, as soon as Margaret should be dressed, to resign

her morning to the others, invite Miss Bracy to the drawing-room, and

read aloud.

Gertrude was waiting for her walk, till nurse should have dressed

Margaret, and was frisking about the lawn, sometimes looking in at the

drawing-room window at her sisters, sometimes chattering to Adams at his

work, or laughing to herself and the flowers, in that overflow of mirth,

that seemed always bubbling up within her.

She was standing in rapt contemplation of a pear-tree in full blossom,

her hands tightly clasped behind the back, for greater safety from the

temptation, when, hearing the shrubbery gate open, she turned, expecting

to see her papa, but was frightened at the sight of two strangers, and

began to run off at full speed.

“Stop! Blanche! Blanche, don’t you know me?” The voice was that tone of

her brother’s, and she stood and looked, but it came from a tall, ruddy

youth, in a shabby rough blue coat, followed by a grizzled old seaman.

She was too much terrified and perplexed even to run.

“What’s the matter! Blanche, it is I! Why, don’t you know me--Harry?”

“Poor brother Harry is drowned,” she answered; and, with one bound, he

was beside her, and, snatching her up, devoured her with kisses.

“Put me down--put me down, please,” was all she could say.

“It is not Blanche! What? the little Daisy, I do believe!”

“Yes, I am Gertrude, but please let me go;” and, at the same time, Adams

hurried up, as if he thought her being kidnapped, but his aspect changed

at the glad cry, “Ha! Adams’ how are you? Are they all well?”

“‘Tisn’t never Master Harry! Bless me!” as Harry’s hand gave him

sensible proof; “when we had given you up for lost!”

“My father well?” Harry asked, hurrying the words one over the other.

“Quite well, sir, but he never held up his head since he heard it, and

poor Miss Mary has so moped about. If ever I thought to see the like--”

“So they did not get my letter, but I can’t stop. Jennings will tell

you. Take care of him. Come, Daisy--” for he had kept her unwilling hand

all the time. “But what’s that for?” pointing to the black ribbons, and,

stopping short, startled.

“Because of poor Harry,” said the bewildered child.

“Oh, that’s right!” cried he, striding on, and dragging her in a

breathless run, as he threw open the well-known doors; and, she escaping

from him, hid her face in Mary’s lap, screaming, “He says he is Harry!

he says he is not drowned!”

At the same moment Ethel was in his arms, and his voice was sobbing,

“Ethel! Mary! home! Where’s papa?” One moment’s almost agonising joy in

the certainty of his identity! but ere she could look or think, he was

crying, “Mary! oh, Ethel, see--”

Mary had not moved, but sat as if turned to stone, with breath

suspended, wide-stretched eyes, and death-like cheeks--Ethel sprang to

her, “Mary, Mary dear, it is Harry! It is himself! Don’t you see? Speak

to her, Harry.”

He seemed almost afraid to do so, but, recovering himself, exclaimed,

“Mary, dear old Polly, here I am! Oh, won’t you speak to me?” he added

piteously, as he threw his arm round her and kissed her, startled at the

cold touch of her cheek.

The spell seemed broken, and, with a wild hoarse shriek that rang

through the house, she struggled to regain her breath, but it would only

come in painful, audible catches, as she held Harry’s hand convulsively.

“What have I done?” he exclaimed, in distress.

“What’s this! Who is this frightening my dear?” was old nurse’s

exclamation, as she and James came at the outcry.

“Oh, nurse, what have I done to her?” repeated Harry.

“It is joy--it is sudden joy!” said Ethel. “See, she is better now--”

“Master Harry! Well, I never!” and James, “with one wring of the hand,

retreated, while old nurse was nearly hugged to death, declaring all the

time that he didn’t ought to have come in such a way, terrifying every

one out of their senses! and as for poor Miss May--

“Where is she?” cried Harry, starting at the sight of the vacant sofa.

“Only upstairs,” said Ethel; “but where’s Alan? Is not he come?”

“Oh, Ethel, don’t you know?” His face told but too plainly.

“Nurse! nurse, how shall we tell her?” said Ethel.

“Poor dear!” exclaimed nurse, sounding her tongue on the roof of her

mouth. “She’ll never abear it without her papa. Wait for him, I should

say. But bless me, Miss Mary, to see you go on like that, when Master

Harry is come back such a bonny man!”

“I’m better now,” said Mary, with an effort. “Oh, Harry! speak to me

again.”

“But Margaret!” said Ethel, while the brother was holding Mary in

his embrace, and she lay tremulous with the new ecstasy upon his

breast--“but Margaret. Nurse, you must go up, or she will suspect. I’ll

come when I can; speak quietly. Oh! poor Margaret! If Richard would but

come in!”

Ethel walked up and down the room, divided between a tumult of joy,

grief, dread, and perplexity. At that moment a little voice said at the

door, “Please, Margaret wants Harry to come up directly.”

They looked one upon another in consternation. They had never thought of

the child, who, of course, had flown up at once with the tidings.

“Go up, Miss Ethel,” said nurse.

“Oh! nurse, I can’t be the first. Come, Harry, come.”

Hand-in-hand, they silently ascended the stairs, and Ethel pushed open

the door. Margaret was on her couch, her whole form and face in one

throb of expectation.

She looked into Harry’s face--the eagerness flitted like sunshine on the

hillside, before a cloud, and, without a word, she held out her arms.

He threw himself on his knees, and her fingers were clasped among his

thick curls, while his frame heaved with suppressed sobs, “Oh, if he

could only have come back to you.”

“Thank God,” she said; then slightly pushing him back, she lay holding

his hand in one of hers, and resting the other on his shoulder, and

gazing in silence into his face. Each was still--she was gathering

strength--he dreaded word or look.

“Tell me how and where;” she said at last.

“It was in the Loyalty Isles; it was fever--the exertions for us. His

head was lying here,” and he pointed to his own breast. “He sent his

love to you--he bade me tell you there would be meeting by and by, in

the haven where he would be.--I laid his head in the grave--under the

great palm--I said some of the prayers--there are Christians round it.”

He said this in short disconnected phrases, often pausing to gather

voice, but forced to resume, by her inquiring looks and pressure of his

hand.

She asked no more. “Kiss me,” she said, and when he had done so, “Thank

you, go down, please, all of you. You have brought great relief. Thank

you. But I can’t talk yet. You shall tell me the rest by and by.”

She sent them all away, even Ethel, who would have lingered.

“Go to him, dearest. Let me be alone. Don’t be uneasy. This is

peace--but go.”

Ethel found Mary and Harry interlaced into one moving figure, and Harry

greedily asking for his father and Norman, as if famishing for the sight

of them. He wanted to set out to seek the former in the town, but his

movements were too uncertain, and the girls clung to the newly-found,

as if they could not trust him away from them. They wandered about,

speaking, all three at random, without power of attending to the

answers. It was enough to see him, and touch him; they could not yet

care where he had been.

Dr. May was in the midst of them ere they were aware. One look, and he

flung his arms round his son, but, suddenly letting him go, he burst

away, and banged his study door. Harry would have followed.

“No, don’t,” said Ethel; then, seeing him disappointed, she came nearer,

and murmured, “‘He entered into his chamber and--’”

Harry silenced her with another embrace, but their father was with them

again, to verify that he had really seen his boy, and ask, alas! whether

Alan were with Margaret. The brief sad answer sent him to see how it was

with her. She would not let him stay; she said it was infinite comfort,

and joy was coming, but she would rather be still, and not come down

till evening.

Perhaps others would fain have been still, could they have borne an

instant’s deprivation of the sight of their dear sailor, while greetings

came thickly on him. The children burst in, having heard a report in the

town, and Dr. Spencer waited at the door for the confirmation; but when

Ethel would have flown out to him, he waved his hand, shut the door, and

hurried away, as if a word to her would have been an intrusion.

The brothers had been summoned by a headlong apparition of Will Adams in

Cocksmoor school, shouting that Master Harry was come home; and Norman’s

long legs out-speeding Richard, had brought him back, flushed, and too

happy for one word, while, “Well, Harry,” was Richard’s utmost, and his

care for Margaret seemed to overpower everything else, as he went up,

and was not so soon sent away.

Words were few downstairs. Blanche and Aubrey agreed that they

thought people would have been much happier, but, in fact, the joy was

oppressive from very newness. Ethel roamed about, she could not sit

still without feeling giddy, in the strangeness of the revulsion. Her

father sat, as if a word would break the blest illusion; and Harry

stood before each of them in turn, as if about to speak, but turned

his address into a sudden caress, or blow on the shoulder, and tried to

laugh. Little Gertrude, not understanding; the confusion, had taken up

her station under the table, and peeped out from beneath the cover.

There was more composure as they sat at dinner, and yet there was very

little talking or eating. Afterwards Dr. May and Norman exultingly

walked away, to show their Harry to Dr. Spencer and Mr. Wilmot; and

Ethel would gladly have tried to calm herself, and recover the balance

of her mind, by giving thanks where they were due; but she did not know

what to do with her sisters. Blanche was wild, and Mary still in so

shaky a state of excitement, that she went off into mad laughing, when

Blanche discovered that they were in mourning for Harry.

Nothing would satisfy Blanche but breaking in on Margaret, and climbing

to the top of the great wardrobe to disinter the coloured raiment,

beseeching that each favourite might be at once put on, to do honour

to Harry. Mary chimed in with her, in begging for the wedding

merinos--would not Margaret wear her beautiful blue?

“No, my dear, I cannot,” said Margaret gently.

Mary looked at her and was again in a flood of tears, incoherently

protesting, together with Ethel, that they would not change.

“No, dears,” said Margaret. “I had rather you did so. You must not be

unkind to Harry. He will not think I do not welcome him. I am only too

glad that Richard would not let my impatience take away my right to wear

this.”

Ethel knew that it was for life.

Mary could not check her tears, and would go on making heroic protests

against leaving off her black, sobbing the more at each. Margaret’s

gentle caresses seemed to make her worse, and Ethel, afraid that

Margaret’s own composure would be overthrown, exclaimed, “How can you

be so silly? Come away!” and rather roughly pulled her out of the room,

when she collapsed entirely at the top of the stairs, and sat crying

helplessly.

“I can’t think what’s the use of Harry’s coming home,” Gertrude was

heard saying to Richard. “It is very disagreeable;” whereat Mary

relapsed into a giggle, and Ethel felt frantic.

“Richard! Richard! what is to be done with Mary? She can’t help it, I

believe, but this is not the way to treat the mercy that--”

“Mary had better go and lie down in her own room,” said Richard,

tenderly and gravely.

“Oh, please! please!” began Mary, “I shall not see him when he comes

back!”

“If you can’t behave properly when he does come,” said Richard, “there

is no use in being there.”

“Remember, Ritchie,” said Ethel, thinking him severe, “she has not been

well this long time.”

Mary began to plead, but, with his own pretty persuasive manner, he

took her by the hand, and drew her into his room; and when he came down,

after an interval, it was to check Blanche, who would have gone up to

interrupt her with queries about the perpetual blue merino. He sat down

with Blanche on the staircase window-seat, and did not let her go till

he had gently talked her out of flighty spirits into the soberness of

thankfulness.

Ethel, meanwhile, had still done nothing but stray about, long for

loneliness, find herself too unsteady to finish her letters to Flora

and Tom; and, while she tried to make Gertrude think Harry a pleasant

acquisition, she hated her own wild heart, that could not rejoice, nor

give thanks, aright.

By and by Mary came down, with her bonnet on, quite quiet now. “I am

going to church with Ritchie,” she said. Ethel caught at the notion, and

it spread through the house. Dr May, who just then came in with his two

sons, looked at Harry, saying, “What do you think of it? Shall we go, my

boy?” And Harry, as soon as he understood, declared that he should like

nothing better. It seemed what they all needed, even Aubrey and Gertrude

begged to come, and, when the solemn old minster was above their

heads, and the hallowed stillness around them, the tightened sense of

half-realised joy began to find relief in the chant of glory. The voices

of the sanctuary, ever uplifting notes of praise, seemed to gather

together and soften their emotions; and agitation was soothed away, and

all that was oppressive and tumultuous gave place to sweet peace and

thankfulness. Ethel dimly remembered the like sense of relief, when her

mother had hushed her wild ecstasy, while sympathising with her joy.

Richard could not trust his voice, but Mr. Wilmot offered the special

thanksgiving.

Harry was, indeed, “at home,” and his tears fell fast over his book, as

he heard his father’s “Amen,” so fervent and so deep; and he gazed up

and around, with fond and earnest looks, as thoughts and resolutions,

formed there of old, came gathering thick upon him. And there little

Gertrude seemed first to accept him. She whispered to her papa, as they

stood up to go away, that it was very good in God Almighty to have sent

Harry home; and, as they left the cloister, she slipped into Harry’s

hand a daisy from the grave, such a gift as she had never carried to any

one else, save her father and Margaret, and she shrank no longer from

being lifted up in his arms, and carried home through the twilight

street.

He hurried into the drawing-room, and was heard declaring that all was

right, for Margaret was on the sofa; but he stopped short, grieved at

her altered looks. She smiled as he stooped to kiss her, and then made

him stand erect, and measure himself against Norman, whose height he

had almost reached. The little curly midshipman had come back, as nurse

said, “a fine-growed young man,” his rosy cheeks, brown and ruddy, and

his countenance--

“You are much more like papa and Norman than I thought you would be,”

said Margaret.

“He has left his snub nose and yellow locks behind,” said his father;

“though the shaggy mane seems to remain. I believe lions grow darker

with age. So there stand June and July together again!”

Dr. May walked backwards to look at them. It was good to see his face.

“I shall see Flora and Tom to-morrow!” said Harry, after nodding with

satisfaction, as they all took their wonted places.

“Going!” exclaimed Richard.

“Why, don’t you know?” said Ethel; “it is current in the nursery that

he is going to be tried by court-martial for living with the King of the

Cannibal Islands.”

“Aubrey says he had a desert island, with Jennings for his man Friday,”

said Blanche.

“Harry,” said little Gertrude, who had established herself on his knee,

“did you really poke out the giant’s eye with the top of a fir-tree?”

“Who told you so, Daisy?” was the general cry; but she became shy, and

would not answer more than by a whisper about Aubrey, who indignantly

declared that he never said so, only Gertrude was so foolish that she

did not know Harry from Ulysses.

“After all,” said Ethel, “I don’t think our notions are much more

defined. Papa and Norman may know more, but we have heard almost

nothing. I have been waiting to hear more to close up my letters to

Flora and Tom. What a shame that has not been done!”

“I’ll finish,” said Mary, running to the side-table.

“And tell her I’ll be there to-morrow,” said Harry. “I must report

myself; and what fun to see Flora a member of Parliament! Come with me,

June; I’ll be back next day. I wish you all would come.”

“Yes, I must come with you,” said Norman. “I shall have to go to Oxford

on Thursday;” and very reluctant he looked. “Tell Flora I am coming,

Mary.”

“How did you know that Flora was a married lady?” asked Blanche, in her

would-be grown-up manner.

“I heard that from Aunt Flora. A famous lot of news I picked up there!”

“Aunt Flora!”

“Did you not know he had been at Auckland?” said Dr. May. “Aunt Flora

had to nurse him well after all he had undergone. Did you not think her

very like mamma, Harry?”

“Mamma never looked half so old!” cried Harry indignantly.

“Flora was five years younger!”

“She has got her voice and way with her,” said Harry; “but you will soon

see. She is coming home soon.”

There was a great outcry of delight.

“Yes, there is some money of Uncle Arnott’s that must be looked after,

but he does not like the voyage, and can’t leave his office, so perhaps

Aunt Flora may come alone. She had a great mind to come with me, but

there was no good berth for her in this schooner, and I could not wait

for another chance. I can’t think what possessed the letters not to

come! She would not write by the first packet, because I was so ill, but

we both wrote by the next, and I made sure you had them, or I would have

written before I came.”

The words were not out of his mouth before the second post was brought

in, and there were two letters from New Zealand! What would they not

have been yesterday? Harry would have burned his own, but the long

closely-written sheets were eagerly seized, as, affording the best hope

of understanding his adventures, as it had been written at intervals

from Auckland, and the papers, passing from one to the other, formed the

text for interrogations on further details, though much more was gleaned

incidentally in tete-a-tetes, by Margaret, Norman, or his father, and no

one person ever heard the whole connectedly from Harry himself.

“What was the first you knew of the fire, Harry?” asked Dr. May, looking

up from the letter.

“Owen shaking me awake; and I thought it was a hoax,” said Harry. “But

it was true enough, and when we got on deck, there were clouds of smoke

coming up the main hatch-way.”

Margaret’s eyes were upon him, and her lips formed the question, “And

he?”

“He met us, and told us to be steady--but there was little need for

that! Every man there was as cool and collected as if it had been no

more than the cook’s stove--and we should have scorned to be otherwise!

He put his hand on my shoulder and said, ‘Keep by me,’ and I did.”

“Then there was never much hope of extinguishing the fire?”

“No; if you looked down below the forecastle it was like a furnace, and

though the pumps were at work, it was only to gain time while the boats

were lowered. The first lieutenant told off the men, and they went

down the side without one word, only shaking hands with those that were

left.”

“Oh, Harry! what were you thinking of?” cried Blanche.

“Of the powder,” said Harry.

Ethel thought there was more in that answer than met the ear, and that

Harry, at least, had thought of the powder to-night at church.

“Mr. Ernescliffe had the command of the second cutter. He asked to take

me with him; I was glad enough; and Owen--he is mate, you know--went

with us.”

As to telling how he felt when he saw the good ship Alcestis blown to

fragments, that was past Harry, and all but Blanche were wise enough not

to ask. She had by way of answer, “Very glad to be safe out of her.”

Nor was Harry willing to dwell on the subsequent days, when the

unclouded sun had been a cruel foe; and the insufficient stores of food

and water did, indeed, sustain life, but a life of extreme suffering.

What he told was of the kindness that strove to save him, as the

youngest, from all that could be spared him. “If I dropped asleep at the

bottom of the boat, I was sure to find some one shading me from the sun.

If there was an extra drop of water, they wanted me to have it.”

“Tell me their names, Harry!” cried Dr. May. “If ever I meet one of

them--”

“But the storm, Harry, the storm?” asked Blanche. “Was that not

terrible?”

“Very comfortable at first, Blanche,” was the answer. “Oh, that rain!”

“But when it grew so very bad?”

“We did not reck much what happened to us,” said Harry. “It could not be

worse than starving. When we missed the others in the morning, most of

us thought them the best off.”

Mary could not help coming round to kiss him, as if eyes alone were not

enough to satisfy her that here he was.

Dr. May shuddered, and went on reading, and Margaret drew Harry down to

her, and once more by looks craved for more minute tidings.

“All that you can think,” murmured Harry; “the very life and soul of us

all--so kind, and yet discipline as perfect as on board. But don’t now,

Margaret--”

The tone of the don’t, the reddening cheek, liquid eye, and heaving

chest, told enough of what the lieutenant had been to one, at least, of

the desolate boat’s crew.

“Oh, Harry, Harry! I can’t bear it!” exclaimed Mary. “How long did it

last? How did it end?”

“Fifteen days,” said Harry. “It was time it should end, for all the

water we had caught in the storm was gone--we gave the last drop to

Jones, for we thought him dying; one’s tongue was like a dry sponge.”

“How did it end?” repeated Mary, in an agony.

“Jennings saw a sail. We thought it all a fancy of weakness, but ‘twas

true enough, and they saw our signal of distress!”

The vessel proved to be an American whaler, which had just parted with

her cargo to a homeward bound ship, and was going to refit, and take in

provisions and water at one of the Milanesian islands, before returning

for further captures. The master was a man of the shrewd, hard

money-making cast; but, at the price of Mr. Ernescliffe’s chronometer,

and of the services of the sailors, he undertook to convey them where

they might fall in with packets bound for Australia.

The distressed Alcestes at first thought themselves in paradise, but

the vessel, built with no view, save to whales, and, with a considerable

reminiscence of the blubber lately parted with, proved no wholesome

abode, when overcrowded, and in the tropics! Mr. Ernescliffe’s science,

resolution, and constancy, had saved his men so far; but with the need

for exertion his powers gave way, and he fell a prey to a return of the

fever which had been his introduction to Dr. May.

“There he was,” said Harry, “laid up in a little bit of a stifling

cabin, just like an oven, without the possibility of a breath of air!

The skin-flint skipper carried no medicine; the water--shocking stuff it

was--was getting so low, that there was only a pint a day served out to

each, and though all of us Alcestes clubbed every drop we could spare

for him--it was bad work! Owen and I never were more glad in our lives

than when we heard we were to cast anchor at the Loyalty Isles! Such a

place as it was! You little know what it was to see anything green! And

there was this isle fringed down close to the sea with cocoa-nut trees!

And the bay as clear!--you could see every shell, and wonderful fishes

swimming in it! Well, every one was for going ashore, and some of the

natives swam out to us, and brought things in their canoes, but not

many; it is not encouraged by the mission, nor by David--for those

Yankee traders are not the most edifying society--and the crew vowed

they were cannibals, and had eaten a man three years ago, so they all

went ashore armed.”

“You stayed with him,” said Margaret.

“Ay, it was my turn, and I was glad enough to have some fresh fruit and

water for him, but he could not take any notice of it. Did not I want

you, papa? Well, by and by, Owen came back, in a perfect rapture

with the place and the people, and said it was the only hope for Mr.

Ernescliffe, to take him on shore--”

“Then you did really go amongst the cannibals!” exclaimed Blanche.

“That is all nonsense,” said Harry. “Some of them may once have been,

and I fancy the heathens might not mind a bit of ‘long pig’ still; but

these have been converted by the Samoans.”

The Samoans, it was further explained, are the inhabitants of the

Navigator Islands, who, having been converted by the Church Missionary

Society, have sent out great numbers of most active and admirable

teachers among the scattered islands, braving martyrdom and disease,

never shrinking from their work, and, by teaching and example, preparing

the way for fuller doctrine than they can yet impart. A station of these

devoted men had for some years been settled in this island, and had

since been visited by the missions of Newcastle and New Zealand. The

young chief, whom Harry called David, and another youth, had spent two

summers under instruction at New Zealand, and had been baptised. They

were spending the colder part of the year at home, and hoped shortly to

be called for by the mission-ship to return, and resume their course of

instruction.

Owen had come to an understanding with the chief and the Samoans, and

had decided on landing his lieutenant, and it was accordingly done, with

very little consciousness on the patient’s part. Black figures, with

woolly mop-heads, and sometimes decorated with whitewash of lime,

crowded round to assist in the transport of the sick man through the

surf; and David himself, in a white European garb, met his guests,

with dignified manners that would have suited a prince of any land, and

conducted them through the grove of palms, interspersed with white huts,

to a beautiful house consisting of a central room, with many others

opening from it, floored with white coral lime, and lined with soft

shining mats of Samoan manufacture. This, Harry learned, had been

erected by them in hopes of an English missionary taking up his abode

amongst them.

They were a kindly people, and had shown hospitality to other

Englishmen, who had less appreciated it than these young officers

could. They lavished every kindness in their power upon them, and

Mr. Ernescliffe, at first, revived so much, that he seemed likely to

recover.

But the ship had completed her repairs, and was ready to sail. The two

midshipmen thought it would be certain death to their lieutenant to

bring him back to such an atmosphere; “and so,” continued Harry’s letter

to his father, “I thought there was nothing for it but for me to stay

with him, and that you would say so. I got Owen to consent, after some

trouble, as we were sure to be fetched off one time or another. We said

not a word to Mr. Ernescliffe, for he was only sensible now and then, so

that Owen had the command. Owen made the skipper leave me a pistol and

some powder, but I was ashamed David should know it, and stowed it away.

As to the quarter-master, old Jennings, whose boy you remember we

picked up at the Roman camp, he had not forgotten that, and when we were

shaking hands and wishing good-bye, he leaped up, and vowed ‘he would

never leave the young gentleman that had befriended his boy, to be eaten

up by them black savage niggers. If they made roast-pork of Mr. May, he

would be eaten first, though he reckoned they would find him a tougher

morsel.’ I don’t think Owen was sorry he volunteered, and no words can

tell what a blessing the good old fellow was to us both.

“So there we stayed, and, at first, Mr. Ernescliffe seemed mending. The

delirium went off, he could talk quite clearly and comfortably, and he

used to lie listening, when David and I had our odd sort of talks. I

believe, if you had been there, or we could have strengthened him any

way, he might have got over it; but he never thought he should, and he

used to talk to me about all of you, and said Stoneborough had been the

most blessed spot in his life; he had never had so much of a home, and

that sharing our grief, and knowing you, had done him great good, just

when he might have been getting elated. I cannot recollect it all,

though I tried hard, for Margaret’s sake, but he said Hector would have

a great deal of temptation, and he hoped you would be a father to him,

and Norman an elder brother. You would not think how much he talked of

Cocksmoor, about a church being built there, as Ethel wished, and little

Daisy laying the first stone. I remember one night, I don’t know whether

he was quite himself, for he looked full at me with his eyes, that had

grown so large, till I did not know what was coming, and he said, ‘I

have seen a ship built by a sailor’s vow; the roof was like the timbers

of a ship--that was right. Mind, it is so. That is the ship that bears

through the waves; there is the anchor that enters within the veil.’ I

believe that was what he said. I could not forget that--he looked at me

so; but much more he said, that I dimly remember, and chiefly about poor

dear Margaret. He bade me tell her--his own precious pearl, as he used

to call her--that he was quite content, and believed it was best for her

and him both, that all should be thus settled, for they did not part for

ever, and he trusted--But I can’t write all that.” (There was a great

tear-blot just here). “It is too good to recollect anywhere but at

church. I have been there to-day, with my uncle and aunt, and I thought

I could have told it when I came home, but I was too tired to write

then, and now I don’t seem as if it could be written anyhow. When I come

home, I will try to tell Margaret. The most part was about her; only

what was better seemed to swallow that up.”

The narrative broke off here, but had been subsequently resumed.

“For all Mr. Ernescliffe talked as I told you, he was so quiet and

happy, that I made sure he was getting well, but Jennings did not; and

there came an old heathen native once to see us, who asked why we did

not bury him alive, because he got no better, and gave trouble. At last,

one night--it was the third of August--he was very restless, and could

not breathe, nor lie easily; I lifted him up in my arms, for he was very

light and thin, and tried to make him more comfortable. But presently he

said, ‘Is it you, Harry? God bless you;’ and, in a minute, I knew he was

dead. You will tell Margaret all about it. I don’t think she can love

him more than I did; and she did not half know him, for she never saw

him on board, nor in all that dreadful time, nor in his illness. She

will never know what she has lost.”

There was another break here, and the story was continued.

“We buried him the next day, where one could see the sea, close under

the great palm, where David hopes to have a church one of these days.

David helped us, and said the Lord’s Prayer and the Glory with us there.

I little thought, when I used to grumble at my two verses of the psalms

every day, when I should want the ninetieth, or how glad I should be to

know so many by heart, for they were such a comfort to Mr. Ernescliffe.

“David got us a nice bit of wood, and Jennings carved the cross, and

his name, and all about him. I should have liked to have done it, but I

knocked up after that. Jennings thinks I had a sun-stroke. I don’t know,

but my head was so bad, whenever I moved, that I thought only Jennings

would ever have come to tell you about it. Jennings looked after me as

if I had been his own son; and there was David too, as kind as if he had

been Richard himself--always sitting by, to bathe my forehead, or, when

I was a little better, to talk to me, and ask me questions about his

Christian teaching. You must not think of him like a savage, for he is

my friend, and a far more perfect gentleman than I ever saw any one,

but you, papa, holding the command over his people so easily and

courteously, and then coming to me with little easy first questions

about the Belief, and such things, like what we used to ask mamma. He

liked nothing so well as for me to tell him about King David; and we had

learned a good deal of each other’s languages by that time. The notion

of his heart--like Cocksmoor to Ethel--is to get a real English mission,

and have all his people Christians. Ethel talked of good kings being

Davids to their line; I think that is what he will be, if he lives; but

those islanders have been dying off since Europeans came among them.”

But Harry’s letter could not tell what he confessed, one night, to his

father, the next time he was out with him by starlight, how desolate he

had been, and how he had yearned after his home, and, one evening, he

had been utterly overcome by illness and loneliness, and had cried most

bitterly and uncontrollably; and, though Jennings thought it was for

his friend’s death, it really was homesickness, and the thought of his

father and Mary. Jennings had helped him out to the entrance of the

hut, that the cool night air might refresh his burning brow. Orion shone

clear and bright, and brought back the night when they had chosen the

starry hunter as his friend. “It seemed,” he said, “as if you all

were looking at me, and smiling to me in the stars. And there was

the Southern Cross upright, which was like the minster to me; and

I recollected it was Sunday morning at home, and knew you would be

thinking about me. I was so glad you had let me be confirmed, and be

with you that last Sunday, papa, for it seemed to join me on so much the

more; and when I thought of the words in church, they seemed, somehow,

to float on me so much more than ever before, and it was like the

minster, and your voice. I should not have minded dying so much after

that.”

At last, Harry’s Black Prince had hurried into the hut with the tidings

that his English father’s ship was in the bay, and soon English voices

again sounded in his ears, bringing the forlorn boy such warmth of

kindness that he could hardly believe himself a mere stranger. If Alan

could but have shared the joy with him!

He was carried down to the boat in the cool of the evening, and paused

on the way, for a last farewell to the lonely grave under the palm

tree-one of the many sailors’ graves scattered from the tropics to

the poles, and which might be the first seed in a “God’s acre” to that

island, becoming what the graves of holy men of old are to us.

A short space more of kind care from his new friends and his Christian

chief, and Harry awoke from a feverish doze at sounds that seemed so

like a dream of home, that he was unwilling to break them by rousing

himself; but they approved themselves as real, and he found himself in

the embrace of his mother’s sister.

And here Mrs. Arnott’s story began, of the note that reached her in the

early morning with tidings that her nephew had been picked up by the

mission-ship, and how she and her husband had hastened at once on board.

“They sent me below to see a hero,” she wrote. “What I saw was a

scarecrow sort of likeness of you, dear Richard; but, when he opened his

eyes, there was our Maggie smiling at me. I suppose he would not forgive

me for telling how he sobbed and cried, when he had his arms round my

neck, and his poor aching head on my shoulder. Poor fellow, he was very

weak, and I believe he felt, for the moment, as if he had found his

mother.

“We brought him home with us, but when the next mail went, the fever was

still so high, that I thought it would be only alarm to you to write,

and I had not half a story either, though you may guess how proud I was

of my nephew.”

Harry’s troubles were all over from that time. He had thenceforth to

recover under his aunt’s motherly care, while talking endlessly over the

home that she loved almost as well as he did. He was well more quickly

than she had ventured to hope, and nothing could check his impatience to

reach his home, not even the hopes of having his aunt for a companion.

The very happiness he enjoyed with her only made him long the more

ardently to be with his own family; and he had taken his leave of her,

and of his dear David, and sailed by the first packet leaving Auckland.

“I never knew what the old Great Bear was to me till I saw him again!”

said Harry.

It was late when the elders had finished all that was to be heard at

present, and the clock reminded them that they must part.

“And you go to-morrow?” sighed Margaret.

“I must. Jennings has to go on to Portsmouth, and see after his son.”

“Oh, let me see Jennings!” exclaimed Margaret. “May I not, papa?”

Richard, who had been making friends with Jennings, whenever he had not

been needed by his sisters that afternoon, went to fetch him from the

kitchen, where all the servants, and all their particular friends,

were listening to the yarn that made them hold their heads higher, as

belonging to Master Harry.

Harry stepped forward, met Jennings, and said, aside, “My sister,

Jennings; my sister that you have heard of.”

Dr. May had already seen the sailor, but he could not help addressing

him again. “Come in; come in, and see my boy among us all. Without you,

we never should have had him.”

“Make him come to me,” said Margaret breathlessly, as the embarrassed

sailor stood, sleeking down his hair; and, when he had advanced to her

couch, she looked up in his face, and put her hand into his great brown

one.

“I could not help saying thank you,” she said.

“Mr. May, sir!” cried Jennings, almost crying, and looking round for

Harry, as a sort of protector--“tell them, sir, please, it was only my

duty--I could not do no less, and you knows it, sir,” as if Harry had

been making an accusation against him.

“We know you could not,” said Margaret, “and that is what we would thank

you for, if we could. I know he--Mr. Ernescliffe--must have been much

more at rest for leaving my brother with so kind a friend, and--”

“Please, miss, don’t say no more about it. Mr. Ernescliffe was as fine

an officer as ever stepped a quarter-deck, and Mr. May here won’t fall

short of him; and was I to be after leaving the like of them to the

mercy of the black fellows--that was not so bad neither? If it had only

pleased God that we had brought them both back to you, miss; but, you

see, a man can’t be everything at once, and Mr. Ernescliffe was not so

stout as his heart.”

“You did everything, we know--” began Dr. May.

“‘Twas a real pleasure,” said Jennings hastily, “for two such real

gentlemen as they was. Mr. May, sir, I beg your pardon if I say it to

your face, never flinched, nor spoke a word of complaint, through it

all; and, as to the other--”

“Margaret cannot bear this,” said Richard, coming near. “It is too

much.”

The sailor shook his head, and was retreating, but Margaret signed him

to come near again, and grasped his hand. Harry followed him out of the

room, to arrange their journey, and presently returned.

“He says he is glad he has seen Margaret; he says she is the right sort

of stuff for Mr. Ernescliffe.”

Harry had not intended Margaret to hear, but she caught the words,

smiled radiantly, and whispered, “I wish I may be!”

CHAPTER XVIII.

Margaret had borne the meeting much too well for her own good, and a

wakeful night of palpitation was the consequence; but she would not

allow any one to take it to heart, and declared that she should be ready

to enjoy Harry by the time he should return, and meantime, she should

dwell on the delight of his meeting Flora.

No one had rested too soundly that night, and Dr. May had not been

able to help looking in at his sleeping boy at five in the morning,

to certify himself that he had not only figured his present bliss to

himself, in his ten minutes’ dream. And looking in again at half-past

seven, he found Harry half dressed, with his arm round Mary; laughing,

almost sobbing, over the treasures in his cupboard, which he had newly

discovered in their fresh order.

Dr. May looked like a new man that morning, with his brightened eye and

bearing, as if there were a well-spring of joy within him, ready to brim

over at once in tear and in smile, and finding an outlet in the praise

and thanksgiving that his spirit chanted, and his face expressed, and in

that sunny genial benevolence that must make all share his joy.

He was going to run over half the town--every one would like to hear

it from him; Ethel and Mary must go to the rest--the old women in the

almshouses, where lived an old cook who used to be fond of Harry--they

should have a feast; all who were well enough in the hospital should

have a tea-drinking; Dr. Hoxton had already granted a holiday to the

school; every boy with whom they had any connection should come to

dinner, and Edward Anderson should be asked to meet Harry on his return,

because, poor fellow, he was so improved.

Dr. May was in such a transport of kind-hearted schemes, that he was

not easily made to hear that Harry had not a sixpence wherewith to reach

London.

Ethel, meanwhile, was standing beside her brother tendering to him some

gold, as his last quarter.

“How did you get it, Ethel? do you keep the purse?”

“No, but papa took Cocksmoor in your stead, when--”

“Nonsense, Ethel,” said Harry; “I don’t want it. Have I not all my

pay and allowance for the whole time I was dead? And as to robbing

Cocksmoor--”

“Yes, keep it, Ethel,” said her father; “do you think I would take it

now, when if there were a thank-offering in the world.--And, by the bye,

your Cocksmoor children must have something to remember this by--”

Every one could have envied Norman, for travelling to London with Harry,

but that he must proceed to Oxford in two days, when Harry would return

to them. The station-master, thinking he could not do enough for the

returned mariner, put the two brothers into the coupe, as if they had

been a bridal couple, and they were very glad of the privacy, having, as

yet, hardly spoken to each other, when Harry’s attention was dispersed

among so many.

Norman asked many questions about the mission work in the southern

hemisphere, and ended by telling his brother of his design, which met

with Harry’s hearty approbation.

“That’s right, old June. There’s nothing they want so much, as such as

you. How glad my aunt will be! Perhaps you will see David! Oh, if you

were to go out to the Loyalty group!”

“Very possibly I might,” said Norman.

“Tell them you are my brother, and how they will receive you! I can see

the mop-heads they will dress in honour of you, and what a feast of pork

and yams you will have to eat! But there is plenty of work among the

Maoris for you--they want a clergyman terribly at the next village to

my uncle’s place. I say, Norman, it will go hard if I don’t get a ship

bound for the Pacific, and come and see you.”

“I shall reckon on you. That is, if I have not to stay to help my

father.”

“To be sure,” exclaimed Harry; “I thought you would have stayed at home,

and married little Miss Rivers!”

Thus broadly and boyishly did he plunge into that most tender subject,

making his brother start and wince, as if he had touched a wound.

“Nonsense!” he cried, almost angrily.

“Well! you used to seem very much smitten, but so, to be sure, were

some of the Alcestes with the young ladies at Valparaiso. How we used to

roast Owen about that Spanish Donna, and he was as bad at Sydney about

the young lady whose father, we told him, was a convict, though he kept

such a swell carriage. He had no peace about his father-in-law, the

house-breaker! Don’t I remember how you pinched her hand the night you

were righted!”

“You know nothing about it,” said Norman shortly. “She is far beyond my

reach.”

“A fine lady? Ha! Well, I should have thought you as good as Flora any

day,” said Harry indignantly.

“She is what she always was,” said Norman, anxious to silence him; “but

it is unreasonable to think of it. She is all but engaged to Sir Henry

Walkinghame.”

“Walkinghame!” cried the volatile sailor. “I have half a mind to send in

my name to Flora as Miss Walkinghame!” and he laughed heartily over that

adventure, ending, however, with a sigh, as he said, “It had nearly cost

me a great deal! But tell me, Norman, how has that Meta, as they called

her, turned out? I never saw anything prettier or nicer than she was

that day of the Roman encampment, and I should be sorry if that fine

fashionable aunt of hers, had made her stuck-up and disdainful.”

“No such thing,” said Norman.

“Ha!” said Harry to himself, “I see how it is! She has gone and made

poor old June unhappy, with her scornful airs--a little impertinent

puss!--I wonder Flora does not teach her better manners.”

Norman, meanwhile, as the train sped over roofs, and among chimneys, was

reproaching himself for running into the fascination of her presence,

and then recollecting that her situation, as well as his destiny, both

guaranteed that they could meet only as friendly connections.

No carriage awaited them at the station, which surprised Norman, till

he recollected that the horses had probably been out all day, and it was

eight o’clock. Going to Park Lane in a cab, the brothers were further

surprised to find themselves evidently not expected. The butler came to

speak to them, saying that Mr. and Mrs. Rivers were gone out to dinner,

but would return, probably, at about eleven o’clock. He conducted

them upstairs, Harry following his brother, in towering vexation and

disappointment, trying to make him turn to hear that they would go

directly--home--to Eton--anywhere--why would he go in at all?

The door was opened, Mr. May was announced, and they were in a

silk-lined boudoir, where a little slender figure in black started up,

and came forward with outstretched hand.

“Norman!” she cried, “how are you? Are you come on your way to Oxford?”

“Has not Flora had Mary’s letter?”

“Yes, she said she had one. She was keeping it till she had time to read

it.”

As she spoke, Meta had given her hand to Harry, as it was evidently

expected; she raised her eyes to his face, and said, smiling’ and

blushing, “I am sure I ought to know you, but I am afraid I don’t.”

“Look again,” said Norman. “See if you have ever seen him before.”

Laughing, glancing, and casting down her eyes, she raised them with a

sudden start of joy, but colouring more deeply, said, “Indeed, I cannot

remember. I dare say I ought.”

“I think you see a likeness,” said Norman.

“Oh, yes, I see,” she answered, faltering; but perceiving how bright

were the looks of both, “No? Impossible! Yes, it is!”

“Yes, it is,” said both brothers with one voice. She clasped her hands,

absolutely bounded with transport, then grasped both Harry’s hands,

and then Norman’s, her whole countenance radiant with joy and sympathy

beyond expression.

“Dear, dear Dr. May!” was her first exclamation. “Oh, how happy you must

all be! And Margaret?” She looked up at Norman, and came nearer. “Is not

Mr. Ernescliffe come?” she asked softly, and trembling.

“No,” was the low answer, which Harry could not bear to hear, and

therefore walked to the window. “No, Meta, but Margaret is much

comforted about him. He died in great peace--in his arms”--as he signed

towards his brother. And as Harry continued to gaze out on the stars of

gas on the opposite side of the park, he was able to add a few of the

particulars.

Meta’s eyes glistened with tears, as she said, “Perhaps it would have

been too perfect if he had come; but oh, Norman! how good she is to bear

it so patiently! And how gloriously he behaved! How can we make enough

of him! And Flora out! how sorry she will be!”

“And she never opened Mary’s letter,” said Harry, coming back to them.

“She little thought what it contained,” said Meta. “Mary’s letters are

apt to bear keeping, you know, and she was so busy, that she laid it

aside for a treat after the day’s work. But there! inhospitable wretch

that I am! you have had no dinner!”

A refection of tea and cold meat was preferred, and in her own pretty

manner Meta lavished her welcomes, trying to cover any pain given by

Flora’s neglect.

“What makes her so busy?” asked Harry, looking round on the beautifully

furnished apartment, which, to many eyes besides those fresh from a

Milanesian hut, might have seemed a paradise of luxurious ease.

“You don’t know what an important lady you have for a sister,” said Meta

merrily.

“But tell me, what can she have to do? I thought you London ladies

had nothing to do, but to sit with your hands before you entertaining

company.”

Meta laughed heartily. “Shall I begin at the beginning? I’ll describe

to-day then, and you must understand that this is what Tom would call a

mild specimen--only one evening engagement. Though, perhaps, I ought to

start from last night at twelve o’clock, when she was at the Austrian

Ambassador’s ball, and came home at two; but she was up by eight--she

always manages to get through her housekeeping matters before breakfast.

At nine, breakfast, and baby--by the bye, you have never inquired for

our niece.”

“I have not come to believe in her yet,” said Harry.

“Seeing is believing,” said Meta; “but no, I won’t take an unfair

advantage over her mamma; and she will be fast asleep; I never knew a

child sleep as she does. So to go on with our day. The papers come, and

Miss Leonora is given over to me; for you must know we are wonderful

politicians. Flora studies all the debates till George finds out what

he has heard in the House, and baby and I profit. Baby goes out walking,

and the post comes. Flora always goes to the study with George, and

writes, and does all sorts of things for him. She is the most useful

wife in the world. At twelve, we had our singing lesson--”

“Singing lesson!” exclaimed Harry.

“Yes, you know she has a pretty voice, and she is glad to cultivate it.

It is very useful at parties, but it takes up a great deal of time,

and with all I can do to save her in note-writing, the morning is gone

directly. After luncheon, she had to ride with George, and came back in

a hurry to make some canvassing calls about the orphan asylum, and Miss

Bracy’s sister. If we get her in at all, it will be Flora’s diplomacy.

And there was shopping to do, and when we came in hoping for time for

our letters, there were the Walkinghames, who stayed a long time, so

that Flora could only despatch the most important notes, before George

came in and wanted her. She was reading something for him all the time

she was dressing, but, as I say, this is quite a quiet day.”

“Stop!” cried Harry, with a gesture of oppression, “it sounds harder

than cleaning knives, like Aunt Flora! And what is an unquiet day like?”

“You will see, for we have a great evening party to-morrow.”

“Do you always stay at home?” asked Harry.

“Not always, but I do not go to large parties or balls this year,” said

Meta, glancing at her deep mourning; “I am very glad of a little time at

home.”

“So you don’t like it.”

“Oh, yes! it is very pleasant,” said Meta. “It is so entertaining when

we talk it over afterwards, and I like to hear how Flora is admired, and

called the beauty of the season. I tell George, and we do so gloat over

it together! There was an old French marquis the other night, a dear

old man, quite of the ancien regime, who said she was exactly like the

portraits of Madame de Maintenon, and produced a beautiful miniature on

a snuff-box, positively like that very pretty form of face of hers.

The old man even declared that Mistress Rivers was worthy to be a

Frenchwoman.”

“I should like to kick him!” amiably responded Harry.

“I hope you won’t to-morrow! But don’t let us waste our time over this;

I want so much to hear about New Zealand.”

Meta was well read in Australasian literature, and drew out a great deal

more information from Harry than Norman had yet heard. She made him talk

about the Maori pah near his uncle’s farm, where the Sunday services

were conducted by an old gentleman tattooed elegantly in the face, but

dressed like an English clergyman; and tell of his aunt’s troubles about

the younger generation, whom their elders, though Christians themselves,

could not educate, and who she feared would relapse into heathenism, for

want of instruction, though with excellent dispositions.

“How glad you must be that you are likely to go!” exclaimed Meta to

Norman, who had sat silently listening.

The sound of the door bell was the first intimation that Harry’s

histories had occupied them until long past twelve o’clock.

“Now, then!” cried Meta, springing forward, as if intending to meet

Flora with the tidings, but checking herself, as if she ought not to

be the first. There was a pause. Flora was hearing downstairs that Mr.

Norman May and another gentleman had arrived, and, while vexed at her

own omission, and annoyed at Norman’s bringing friends without waiting

for permission, she was yet prepared to be courteous and amiable. She

entered in her rich black watered silk, deeply trimmed with lace,

and with silver ornaments in her dark hair, so graceful and

distinguished-looking, that Harry stood suspended, hesitating, for an

instant, whether he beheld his own sister, especially as she made a

dignified inclination towards him, offering her hand to Norman, as she

said, “Meta has told you--” But there she broke off, exclaiming, “Ha! is

it possible! No, surely it cannot be--”

“Miss Walkinghame?” said the sailor, who had felt at home with her at

the first word, and she flew into his great rough arms.

“Harry! this is dear Harry! our own dear sailor come back,” cried she,

as her husband stood astonished; and, springing towards him, she put

Harry’s hand into his, “My brother Harry! our dear lost one.”

“Your--brother--Harry,” slowly pronounced George, as he instinctively

gave the grasp of greeting--“your brother that was lost? Upon my word,”

as the matter dawned fully on him, and he became eager, “I am very glad

to see you. I never was more rejoiced in my life.”

“When did you come? Have you been at home?” asked Flora.

“I came home yesterday--Mary wrote to tell you.”

“Poor dear old Mary! There’s a lesson against taking a letter on trust.

I thought it would be all Cocksmoor, and would wait for a quiet moment!

How good to come to me so soon, you dear old shipwrecked mariner!”

“I was forced to come to report myself,” said Harry, “or I could not

have come away from my father so soon.”

The usual questions and their sad answers ensued, and while Flora talked

to Harry, fondly holding his hand, Norman and Meta explained the history

to George, who no sooner comprehended it, that he opined it must have

been a horrid nuisance, and that Harry was a gallant fellow; then

striking him over the shoulder, welcomed him home with all his kind

heart, told him he was proud to receive him, and falling into a state of

rapturous hospitality, rang the bell, and wanted to order all sorts

of eatables and drinkables, but was sadly baffled to find him already

satisfied.

There was more open joy than even at home, and Flora was supremely happy

as she sat between her brothers, listening and inquiring till far past

one o’clock, when she perceived poor George dozing off, awakened every

now and then by a great nod, and casting a wishful glance of resigned

remonstrance, as if to appeal against sitting up all night.

The meeting at breakfast was a renewal of pleasure. Flora was proud and

happy in showing off her little girl, a model baby, as she called her,

a perfect doll for quietness, so that she could be brought in at family

prayers; “and,” said Flora, “I am the more glad that she keeps no

one away, because we can only have evening prayers on Sunday. It is a

serious thing to arrange for such a household.”

“She is equal to anything,” said George.

The long file of servants marched in, George read sonorously, and Flora

rose from her knees, highly satisfied at the impression produced upon

her brothers.

“I like to have the baby with us at breakfast,” she said; “it is the

only time of day when we can be sure of seeing anything of her, and I

like her nurse to have some respite. Do you think her grown, Norman?”

“Not very much,” said Norman, who thought her more inanimate and like

a pretty little waxen toy, than when he had last seen her. “Is she not

rather pale?”

“London makes children pale. I shall soon take her home to acquire a

little colour. You must know Sir Henry has bitten us with his yachting

tastes, and as soon as we can leave London, we are going to spend six

weeks with the Walkinghames at Ryde, and rival you, Harry. I think Miss

Leonora will be better at home, so we must leave her there. Lodgings and

irregularities don’t suit people of her age.”

“Does home mean Stoneborough?” asked Norman.

“No. Old nurse has one of her deadly prejudices against Preston, and I

would not be responsible for the consequences of shutting them up in the

same nursery. Margaret would be distracted between them. No, miss, you

shall make her a visit every day, and be fondled by your grandpapa.”

George began a conversation with Harry on nautical matters, and Norman

tried to discover how Meta liked the yachting project, and found her

prepared to think it charming. Hopes were expressed that Harry might be

at Portsmouth, and a quantity of gay scheming ensued, with reiterations

of the name of Walkinghame; while Norman had a sense of being wrapped

in some gray mist, excluding him from participation in their enjoyments,

and condemned his own temper as frivolous for being thus excited to

discontent.

Presently, he heard George insisting that he and Harry should return in

time for the evening party; and, on beginning to refuse, was amazed to

find Harry’s only objection was on the score of lack of uniform.

“I don’t want you in one, sir,” said Flora.

“I have only one coat in the world, besides this,” continued Harry, “and

that is all over tar.”

“George will see to that,” said Flora. “Don’t you think you would be

welcome in matting, with an orange cowry round your neck?”

Norman, however, took a private opportunity of asking Harry if he was

aware of what he was undertaking, and what kind of people they should

meet.

“All English people behave much the same in a room,” said Harry, as if

all society, provided it was not cannibal, were alike to him.

“I should have thought you would prefer finding out Forder in his

chambers, or going to one of the theatres.”

“As you please,” said Harry; “but Flora seems to want us, and I should

rather like to see what sort of company she keeps.”

Since Harry was impervious to shyness, Norman submitted, and George took

them to a wonder-worker in cloth, who undertook that full equipments

should await the young gentleman. Harry next despatched his business at

the Admiralty, and was made very happy by tidings of his friend Owen’s

safe arrival in America.

Thence the brothers went to Eton, where home letters had been more

regarded; and Dr. May having written to secure a holiday for the objects

of their visit, they were met at the station by the two boys. Hector’s

red face and prominent light eyebrows were instantly recognised; but, as

to Tom, Harry could hardly believe that the little, dusty, round-backed

grub be had left had been transformed into the well-made gentlemanlike

lad before him, peculiarly trim and accurate in dress, even to the

extent of as much foppery as Eton taste permitted.

Ten minutes had not passed before Tom, taking a survey of the newcomer,

began to exclaim at Norman, for letting him go about such a figure; and,

before they knew what was doing, they had all been conducted into the

shop of the “only living man who knew how to cut hair.” Laughing and

good-natured, Harry believed his hair was “rather long,” allowed himself

to be seated, and to be divested of a huge superfluous mass of sun-dried

curls, which Tom, particularly resenting that “rather long,” kept on

taking up, and unrolling from their tight rings, to measure the number

of inches.

“That is better,” said he, as they issued from the shop; “but, as to

that coat of yours, the rogue who made it should never make another.

Where could you have picked it up?”

“At a shop at Auckland,” said Harry, much amused.

“Kept by a savage?” said Tom, to whom it was no laughing matter. “See

that seam!”

“Have done, May!” exclaimed Hector. “He will think you a tailor’s

apprentice!”

“Or worse,” said Norman. “Rivers’s tailor kept all strictures to

himself.”

Tom muttered that he only wanted Harry to be fit to be seen by the

fellows.

“The fellows are not such asses as you!” cried Hector. “You don’t

deserve that he should come to see you. If my--”

There poor Hector broke off. If his own only brother had been walking

beside him, how would he not have felt? They had reached their tutor’s

house, and, opening his own door, he made an imploring sign to Harry

to enter with him. On the table lay a letter from Margaret, and another

which Harry had written to him from Auckland.

“Oh, Harry, you were with him,” he said; “tell me all about him.”

And he established himself, with his face hidden on the table,

uttering nothing, except, “Go on,” whenever Harry’s voice failed in the

narration. When something was said of “all for the best,” he burst out,

“He might say so. I suppose one ought to think so. But is not it hard,

when I had nobody but him? And there was Maplewood; and I might have

been so happy there, with him and Margaret.”

“They say nothing could have made Margaret well,” said Harry.

“I don’t care; he would have married her all the same, and we should

have made her so happy at Maplewood. I hate the place! I wish it were at

Jericho!”

“You are captain of the ship now,” said Harry, “and you must make the

best of it.”

“I can’t. It will never be home. Home is with Margaret, and the rest of

them.”

“So Alan said he hoped you would make it; and you are just like one of

us, you know.”

“What’s the use of that, when Captain Gordon will not let me go near

you. Taking me to that abominable Maplewood last Easter, with half the

house shut up, and all horrid! And he is as dry as a stick!”

“The captain!” cried Harry angrily. “There’s not a better captain to

sail with in the whole navy, and your brother would be the first to tell

you so! I’m not discharged yet. Hector--you had better look out what you

say!”

“Maybe he is the best to sail with, but that is not being the best to

live with,” said the heir of Maplewood disconsolately. “Alan himself

always said he never knew what home was, till he got to your father and

Margaret.”

“So will you,” said Harry; “why, my father is your master, or whatever

you may call it.”

“No, Captain Gordon is my guardian.”

“Eh! what’s become of the will then?”

“What will?” cried Hector. “Did Alan make one after all?”

“Ay. At Valparaiso, he had a touch of fever; I went ashore to nurse

him, to a merchant’s, who took us in for love of our Scottish blood. Mr.

Ernescliffe made a will there, and left it in his charge.”

“Do you think he made Dr. May my guardian?”

“He asked me whether I thought he would dislike it, and I told him, no.”

“That’s right!” cried Hector. “That’s like dear old Alan! I shall

get back to the doctor and Margaret after all. Mind you write to the

captain, Harry!”

Hector was quite inspirited and ready to return to the others, but Harry

paused to express a hope that he did not let Tom make such a fool of

himself as he had done to-day.

“Not he,” said Hector. “He is liked as much as any one in the house--he

has been five times sent up for good. See there in the Eton list! He is

a real clever fellow.”

“Ay, but what’s the good of all that, if you let him be a puppy?”

“Oh, he’ll be cured. A fellow that has been a sloven always is a puppy

for a bit,” said Hector philosophically.

Norman was meantime taking Tom to task for these same airs, and, hearing

it was from the desire to see his brother respectable--Stoneborough men

never cared for what they looked like, and he must have Harry do himself

credit.

“You need not fear,” said Norman. “He did not require Eton to make him a

gentleman. How now? Why, Tom, old man, you are not taking that to heart?

That’s all over long ago.”

For that black spot in his life had never passed out of the lad’s

memory, and it might be from the lurking want of self-respect that there

was about him so much of self-assertion, in attention to trifles. He

was very reserved, and no one except Norman had ever found the way to

anything like confidence, and Norman had vexed him by the proposal he

had made in the holidays.

He made no answer, but stood looking at Norman with an odd undecided

gaze.

“Well, what now, old fellow?” said Norman, half fearing “that” might not

be absolutely over. “One would think you were not glad to see Harry.”

“I suppose he has made you all the more set upon that mad notion of

yours,” said Tom.

“So far as making me feel that that part of the world has a strong claim

on us,” replied Norman.

“I’m sure you don’t look as if you found your pleasure in it,” cried

Tom.

“Pleasure is not what I seek,” said Norman.

“What is the matter with you?” said Tom. “You said I did not seem

rejoiced--you look worse, I am sure.” Tom put his arm on Norman’s

shoulder, and looked solicitously at him--demonstrations of affection

very rare with him.

“I wonder which would really make you happiest, to have your own way,

and go to these black villains--”

“Remember, that but for others who have done so, Harry--”

“Pshaw,” said Tom, rubbing some invisible dust from his coat sleeve. “If

it would keep you at home, I would say I never would hear of doctoring.”

“I thought you had said so.”

“What’s the use of my coming here, if I’m to be a country doctor?”

“I have told you I do not mean to victimise you. If you have a distaste

to it, there’s an end of it--I am quite ready.”

Tom gave a great sigh. “No,” he said, “if I must, I must; I don’t mind

the part of it that you do. I only hate the name of it, and the being

tied down to a country place like that, while you go out thousands of

miles off to these savages; but if it is the only thing to content you,

I wont stand in your way. I can’t bear your looking disconsolate.”

“Don’t think yourself bound, if you really dislike the profession.”

“I don’t,” said Tom. “It is my free choice. If it were not for horrid

sick people, I should like it.”

Promising! it must be confessed!

Perhaps Tom had expected Norman to brighten at once, but it was a

fallacious hope. The gaining his point involved no pleasant prospect,

and his young brother’s moody devotion to him suggested scruples whether

he ought to exact the sacrifice, though, in his own mind, convinced

that it was Tom’s vocation; and knowing that would give him many of the

advantages of an eldest son.

Eton fully justified Hector’s declaration that it would not regard the

cut of Harry’s coat. The hero of a lost ship and savage isle was the

object of universal admiration and curiosity, and inestimable were the

favours conferred by Hector and Tom in giving introductions to him, till

he had shaken hands with half the school, and departed amid deafening

cheers.

In spite of Harry, the day had been long and heavy to Norman, and though

he chid himself for his depression, he shrank from the sight of Meta and

Sir Henry Walkinghame together, and was ready to plead an aching head as

an excuse for not appearing at the evening party; but, besides that this

might attract notice, he thought himself bound to take care of Harry in

so new a world, where the boy must be at a great loss.

“I say, old June,” cried a voice at his door, “are you ready?”

“I have not begun dressing yet. Will you wait?”

“Not I. The fun is beginning.”

Norman heard the light foot scampering downstairs, and prepared to

follow, to assume the protection of him.

Music sounded as Norman left his room, and he turned aside to avoid the

stream of company flowing up the flower-decked stairs, and made his way

into the rooms through Flora’s boudoir. He was almost dazzled by the

bright lights, and the gay murmurs of the brilliant throng. Young ladies

with flowers and velvet streamers down their backs, old ladies portly

and bejewelled, gentlemen looking civil, abounded wherever he turned his

eyes. He could see Flora’s graceful head bending as she received guest

after guest, and the smile with which she answered congratulations on

her brother’s return; but Harry he did not so quickly perceive, and he

was trying to discover in what corner he might have hidden himself, when

Meta stood beside him, asking whether their Eton journey had prospered,

and how poor Hector was feeling at Harry’s return.

“Where is Harry?” asked Norman. “Is he not rather out of his element?”

“No, indeed,” said Meta, smiling. “Why, he is the lion of the night!”

“Poor fellow, how he must hate it!”

“Come this way, into the front room. There, look at him--is it not nice

to see him, so perfectly simple and at his ease, neither shy nor elated?

And what a fine-looking fellow he is!”

Meta might well say so. The trim, well-knit, broad-chested form, the

rosy embrowned honest face, the shining light-brown curly locks, the

dancing well-opened blue eyes, and merry hearty smile showed to the best

advantage, in array that even Tom would not have spurned, put on with

naval neatness; and his attitude and manner were so full of manly ease,

that it was no wonder that every eye rested on him with pleasure. Norman

smiled at his own mistake, and asked who were the lady and gentleman

conversing with him. Meta mentioned one of the most distinguished of

English names, and shared his amusement in seeing Harry talking to

them with the same frank unembarrassed ease as when he had that morning

shaken hands with their son, in the capacity of Hector Ernescliffe’s

fag. No one present inspired him with a tithe of the awe he felt for a

post-captain--it was simply a pleasant assembly of good-natured folks,

glad to welcome home a battered sailor, and of pretty girls, for whom he

had a sailor’s admiration, but without forwardness or presumption--all

in happy grateful simplicity.

“I suppose you cannot dance?” said Flora to him.

“I!” was Harry’s interjection; and while she was looking round for a

partner to whom to present him, he had turned to the young daughter of

his new acquaintance, and had her on his arm, unconscious that George

had been making his way to her.

Flora was somewhat uneasy, but the mother was looking on smiling, and

expressed her delight in the young midshipman; and Mrs. Rivers, while

listening gladly to his praises, watched heedfully, and was reassured

to see that dancing was as natural to him as everything else; his steps

were light as a feather, his movement all freedom and joy, without being

boisterous, and his boyish chivalry as pretty a sight as any one could

wish to see.

If the rest of the world enjoyed their dances a quarter as much as did

“Mr. May,” they were enviable people, and he contributed not a little

to their pleasure, if merely by the sight of his blithe freshness and

spirited simplicity, as well as the general sympathy with his sister’s

joy, and the interest in his adventures. He would have been a general

favourite, if he had been far less personally engaging; as it was, every

young lady was in raptures at dancing with him, and he did his best to

dance with them all; and to try to stir up Norman, who, after Meta

had been obliged to leave him, and go to act her share of the part of

hostess, had disposed of himself against a wall, where he might live out

the night.

“Ha! June! what makes you stand sentry there? Come and dance, and have

some of the fun! Some of these girls are the nicest partners in the

world. There’s that Lady Alice, something with the dangling things

in her hair, sitting down now--famous at a polka. Come along, I’ll

introduce you. It will do you good.”

“I know nothing of dancing,” said Norman, beginning to apprehend that he

might be dragged off, as often he had been to cricket or football, and

by much the same means.

“Comes by nature, when you hear the music. Ha! what a delicious polka!

Come along, or I must be off! She will be waiting for me, and she is the

second prettiest girl here! Come!”

“I have been trying to make something of him, Harry,” said the

ubiquitous Flora, “but I don’t know whether it is mauvaise honte, or

headache.”

“I see! Poor old June!” cried Harry. “I’ll get you an ice at once, old

fellow! Nothing like one for setting a man going!”

Before Norman could protest, Harry had flown off.

“Flora,” asked Norman, “is--are the Walkinghames here?”

“Yes. Don’t you see Sir Henry. That fine-looking man with the black

moustache. I want you to know him. He is a great admirer of your prize

poem and of Dr. Spencer.”

Harry returning, administered his ice, and then darted off to excuse

himself to his partner, by explanations about his brother, whom

everybody must have heard of, as he was the cleverest fellow living, and

had written the best prize poem ever heard at Oxford. He firmly believed

Norman a much greater lion than himself.

Norman was forced to leave his friendly corner to dispose of the glass

of his ice, and thus encountered Miss Rivers, of whom Sir Henry was

asking questions about a beautiful collection of cameos, which Flora had

laid out as a company trap.

“Here is Norman May,” said Meta; “he knows them better than I do. Do you

remember which of these is the head of Diana, Norman?”

Having set the two gentlemen to discuss them, she glided away on fresh

hospitable duties, while Norman repeated the comments that he had so

enjoyed hearing from poor Mr. Rivers, hoping he was, at least, sparing

Meta some pain, and wondering that Flora should have risked hurting her

feelings by exposing these treasures to the general gaze.

If Norman were wearied by Sir Henry, it was his own fault, for the

baronet was a very agreeable person, who thought a first-class man worth

cultivation, so that the last half-hour might have compensated for all

the rest, if conversation were always the test.

“Why, Meta,” cried Harry, coming up to her, “you have not once danced!

We are a sort of brother and sister, to be sure, but that is no

hindrance, is it?”

“No,” said Meta, smiling, “thank you, Harry, but you must find some one

more worthy. I do not dance this season; at least, not in public. When

we get home, who knows what we may do?”

“You don’t dance! Poor little Meta! And you don’t go out! What a pity!”

“I had rather not work quite so hard,” said Meta. “Think what good

fortune I had by staying at home last night!”

“I declare!” exclaimed Harry, bewitched by the beaming congratulation

of her look, “I can’t imagine why Norman had said you had turned into a

fine lady! I can’t see a bit of it!”

“Norman said I had turned into a fine lady!” repeated Meta. “Why?”

“Never mind! I don’t think so; you are just like papa’s humming-bird, as

you always were, not a bit more of a fine lady than any girl here, and I

am sure papa would say so. Only old June had got a bad headache, and is

in one of his old dumps, such as I hoped he had left off. But he can’t

help it, poor fellow, and he will come out of it, by and by--so never

mind. Hallo! why people are going away already. There’s that girl

without any one to hand her downstairs.”

Away ran Harry, and presently the brothers and sisters gathered round

the fire--George declaring that he was glad that nuisance was so well

over, and Harry exclaiming, “Well done, Flora! It was capital fun! I

never saw a lot of prettier or more good-natured people in my life. If

I am at home for the Stoneborough ball, I wonder whether my father will

let me go to it.”

This result of Harry’s successful debut in high life struck his sister

and Norman as so absurd that both laughed.

“What’s the matter now?” asked Harry.

“Your comparing Flora’s party to a Stoneborough ball,” said Norman.

“It is all the same, isn’t it?” said Harry. “I’m sure you are equally

disgusted at both!”

“Much you know about it,” said Flora, patting him gaily. “I’m not going

to put conceit in that lion head of yours, but you were as good as an

Indian prince to my party. Do you know to whom you have been talking so

coolly?”

“Of course. You see, Norman, it is just as I told you. All civilised

people are just alike when they get into a drawing-room.”

“Harry takes large views of the Genus homo,” Norman exerted himself to

say. “Being used to the black and brown species, he takes little heed of

the lesser varieties.”

“It is enough for him that he does not furnish the entertainment in

another way,” said Flora. “But, good-night. Meta, you look tired.”

CHAPTER XIX.

Let none, henceforward, shrink from daring dreams,

For earnest hearts shall find their dreams fulfilled.--FOUQUE.

“I have it!” began Harry, as he came down to breakfast. “I don’t

know how I came to forget it. The will was to be sent home to Mr.

Mackintosh’s English partner. I’ll go and overhaul him this very

morning. They won’t mind my coming by a later train, when there is such

a reason.”

“What is his name? Where shall you find him?” asked Flora.

“I can’t be sure; but you’ve a navy list of that sort of cattle, have

not you, Flora? I’ll hunt him up.”

Flora supposed he meant a directory; and all possible South American

merchants having been overlooked, and the Mackintoshes selected, he next

required a chart of London, and wanted to attempt self-navigation, but

was forced to accept of George’s brougham and escort; Flora would not

trust him otherwise; and Norman was obliged to go to Oxford at once,

hurrying off to his train before breakfast was over.

Flora might have trusted Harry alone. George contributed no more than

the dignity of his presence; and, indeed, would have resigned the

pursuit at the first blunder about the firm; and still more when the

right one had been found, but the partner proved crusty, and would not

believe that any such document was in his hands. George was consenting

to let it rest till Mr. Mackintosh could be written to; but Harry,

outrunning his management, and regardless of rebuffs, fairly teased the

old gentleman into a search, as the only means of getting rid of the

troublesome sailor.

In the midst of George’s civil regrets at the fruitless trouble they

were causing, forth came a bundle of papers, and forth from the bundle

fell a packet, on which Harry pounced as he read, “Will of Alan Halliday

Ernescliffe, Esquire, of Maplewood, Yorkshire, Lieutenant in H. M.

S. Alcestis,” and, in the corner, the executors’ names, Captain John

Gordon, of H. M. S. Alcestis; and Richard May, Esquire, M. D., Market

Stoneborough.

As if in revenge, the prudent merchant would not be induced to entrust

him with the document, saying he could not give it up till he had heard

from the executors, and had been certified of the death of the testator.

He withstood both the angry gentlemen, who finally departed in a state

of great resentment--Harry declaring that the old land-lubber would

not believe that he was his own father’s son; and Mr. Rivers, no less

incensed, that the House of Commons had been insulted in his person,

because he did not carry all before him.

Flora laughed at their story, and told them that she suspected that the

old gentleman was in the right; and she laid plans for having Harry to

teach them yachting at Ryde, while Harry declared he would have nothing

to do with such trumpery.

Harry found his home in a sort of agony of expectation, for his

non-arrival at the time expected had made his first appearance seem like

an unsubstantial illusion, though Dr. May, or Mary and Aubrey, had been

at the station at the coming in of each train. Margaret had recovered

the effects of the first shock, and the welcome was far more joyous than

the first had been, with the mixed sensations that were now composed,

and showed little, outwardly, but gladness.

Dr. May took Flora’s view of the case, and declared that, if Harry

had brought home the will, he should not have opened it without his

co-executor. So he wrote to the captain, while Harry made the most of

his time in learning his sisters over again. He spent a short time alone

with Margaret every morning, patiently and gently allowing himself to

be recalled to the sad recollections that were all the world to her.

He kept Ethel and Mary merry with his droll desultory comments; he made

Blanche keep up her dancing; and taught Gertrude to be a thorough little

romp. As to Dr. May, his patients never were so well or so cheerful,

till Dr. Spencer and Ethel suspected that the very sight of his looks

brightened them--how could they help it? Dr. Spencer was as happy as a

king in seeing his friend freed from the heavy weight on his spirits;

and, truly, it was goodly to watch his perfect look of content, as he

leaned on his lion-faced boy’s arm, and walked down to the minster,

whither it seemed to have become possible to go on most evenings. Good

Dr. May was no musician, but Mr. Wilmot could not regret certain tones

that now and then burst out in the chanting, from the very bottom of a

heart that assuredly sang with the full melody of thankfulness, whatever

the voice might do.

Captain Gordon not only wrote but came to Stoneborough, whence Harry was

to go with him to the court-martial at Portsmouth.

The girls wondered that, after writing with so much warmth and

affection, both of and to Harry, he met him without any demonstration of

feeling; and his short peremptory manner removed all surprise that poor

Hector had been so forlorn with him at Maplewood, and turned, with all

his heart, to Dr. May. They were especially impressed at the immediate

subsidence of all Harry’s noise and nonsense, as if the drawing-room had

been the quarter-deck of the Alcestis.

“And yet,” said Margaret, “Harry will not hear a single word in

dispraise of him. I do believe he loves him with all his heart.”

“I think,” said Ethel, “that in a strong character, there is an exulting

fear in looking up to a superior, in whose justice there is perfect

reliance. It is a germ of the higher feeling.”

“I believe you are right,” said Margaret; “but it is a serious thing

for a man to have so little sympathy with those below him. You see how

Hector feels it, and I now understand how it told upon Alan, and how

papa’s warmth was like a surprise to him.”

“Because Captain Gordon had to be a father to them, and that is more

than a captain. I should not wonder if there were more similarity and

fellow-feeling between him and Harry than there could be with either of

them. Harry, though he has all papa’s tenderness, is of a rougher sort

that likes to feel itself mastered. Poor Hector! I wonder if he is to be

given back to us.”

“Do you know--when--whether they will find out this morning?” said

Margaret, catching her dress nervously, as she was moving away.

“Yes, I believe so. I was not to have told you, but--”

“There is no reason that it should do me any harm,” said Margaret,

almost smiling, and looking as if she was putting a restraint on

something she wished to say. “Go down, dear Ethel--Aubrey will be

waiting for you.”

Ethel went down to the difficult task of hearing Aubrey’s lessons, while

Harry was pretending to write to Mrs. Arnott, but, in reality, teaching

Gertrude the parts of a ship, occasionally acting mast, for her to

climb.

By and by Dr. May came in. “Margaret not downstairs yet?” he said.

“She is dressed, but will not come down till the evening,” said Ethel.

“I’ll go to her. She will be pleased. Come up presently, Ethel. Or,

where’s Richard?”

“Gone out,” said Harry. “What, is it anything left to her?”

“The best, the best!” said Dr. May. “Ethel, listen--twenty thousand, to

build and endow a church for Cocksmoor!”

No need to bid Ethel listen. She gave a sort of leap in her chair, then

looked almost ready to faint.

“My dear child,” said her father, “This is your wish. I give you joy,

indeed I do!”

Ethel drew his arm round her, and leaned against him. “My wish! my

wish!” she repeated, as if questioning the drift of the words.

“I’m glad it is found!” cried Harry. “Now I know why he talked of

Cocksmoor, and seemed to rest in planning for it. You will mind the roof

is as he said.”

“You must talk to Dr. Spencer about that,” said Dr. May. “The captain

means to leave it entirely in our hands.”

“Dear Alan!” exclaimed Ethel. “My wish! Oh, yes, but how gained? Yet,

Cocksmoor with a church! I don’t know how to be glad enough, and yet--”

“You shall read the sentence,” said Dr. May. “‘In testimony of

thankfulness for mercy vouchsafed to him here--’ poor dear boy!”

“What does the captain say?” asked Harry.

“He is rather astounded, but he owns that the estate can bear it, for

old Halliday had saved a great deal, and there will be more before

Hector comes of age.”

“And Hector?”

“Yes, we get him back. I am fellow-trustee with Captain Gordon, and as

to personal guardianship, I fancy the captain found he could not make

the boy happy, and thinks you no bad specimen of our training.”

“Famous!” cried Harry. “Hector will hurrah now! Is that all?”

“Except legacies to Captain Gordon, and some Scottish relations. But

poor Margaret ought to hear it. Ethel, don’t be long in coming.”

With all Ethel’s reputation for bluntness, it was remarkable how her

force of character made her always called for whenever there was the

least dread of a scene.

She turned abruptly from Harry; and, going outside the window, tried

to realise and comprehend the tidings, but all she could have time to

discover was that Alan’s memory was dearer to her than ever, and she was

obliged to hasten upstairs.

Her father quitted the room by one door, as she entered by the other;

she believed that it was to hide his emotion, but Margaret’s fair wan

face was beaming with the sweetest of congratulating smiles.

“I thought so,” she said, as Ethel came in. “Dear Ethel, are you not

glad?”

“I think I am,” said Ethel, putting her hands to her brow.

“You think!” exclaimed Margaret, as if disappointed.

“I beg your pardon,” said Ethel, with quivering lip. “Dear Margaret, I

am glad--don’t you believe I am, but somehow, it is harder to deal with

joy than grief. It confuses one! Dear Alan--and then to have been set

on it so long--to have prayed so for it, and to have it come in this

way--by your--”

“Nay, Ethel, had he come home, it was his great wish to have done it.

He used to make projects when he was here, but he would not let me tell

you, lest he should find duties at Maplewood--whereas this would have

been his pleasure.”

“Dear Alan!” repeated Ethel. “If you are so kind, so dear as to be glad,

Margaret, I think I shall be so presently.”

Margaret almost grudged the lack of the girlish outbreak of rejoicing

which would once have forgotten everything in the ecstasy of the

fulfilled vision. It did not seem to be what Alan had intended; he had

figured to himself unmixed joy, and she wanted to see it, and something

of the wayward impatience of weakness throbbed at her heart, as Ethel

paced the room, and disappeared in her own curtained recess.

Presently she came back saying, “You are sure you are glad?”

“It would be strange if I were not,” said Margaret. “See, Ethel, here

are blessings springing up from what I used to think had served for

nothing but to bring him pain and grief. I am so thankful that he could

express his desire, and so grateful to dear Harry for bringing it to

light. How much better it is than I ever thought it could be! He has

been spared disappointment, and surely the good that he will have done

will follow him.”

“And you?” said Ethel sadly.

“I shall lie here and wait,” said Margaret. “I shall see the plans, and

hear all about it, and oh!”--her eyes lighted up--“perhaps some day, I

may hear the bell.”

Richard’s tap interrupted them. “Had he heard?”

“I have.” The deepened colour in his cheek betrayed how much he felt, as

he cast an anxious glance towards Margaret--an inquiring one on Ethel.

“She is so pleased,” was all Ethel could say.

“I thought she would be,” said Richard, approaching. “Captain Gordon

seemed quite vexed that no special token of remembrance was left to

her.”

Margaret smiled in a peculiar way. “If he only knew how glad I am there

was not.” And Ethel knew that the church was his token to Margaret, and

that any “fading frail memorial” would have lessened the force of the

signification.

Ethel could speak better to her brother than to her sister. “Oh,

Richard! Richard! Richard!” she cried, and a most unusual thing with

both, she flung her arms round his neck. “It is come at last! If it

had not been for you, this would never have been. How little likely it

seemed, that dirty day, when I talked wildly, and you checked me!”

“You had faith and perseverance,” said Richard, “or--”

“You are right,” said Margaret, as Ethel was about to disclaim. “It

was Ethel’s steadiness that brought it before Alan’s mind. If she had

yielded when we almost wished it, in the time of the distress about Mrs.

Green, I do believe that all would have died away!”

“I didn’t keep steady--I was only crazy. You and Ritchie and Mr.

Wilmot--” said Ethel, half crying; then, as if unable to stay, she

exclaimed with a sort of petulance, “And there’s Harry playing all sorts

of rigs with Aubrey! I shan’t get any more sense out of him to-day!”

And away she rushed to the wayfaring dust of her life of labour, to find

Aubrey and Daisy half-way up the tulip tree, and Harry mischievously

unwilling to help them down again, assuring her that such news deserved

a holiday, and that she was growing a worse tartar than Miss Winter. She

had better let the poor children alone, put on her bonnet, and come with

him to tell Mr. Wilmot.

Whereat Ethel was demurring, when Dr. May came forth, and declared he

should take her himself.

Poor Mr. Wilmot laboured under a great burden of gratitude, which no one

would receive from him. Dr. May and Ethel repudiated thanks almost with

terror; and, when he tried them with the captain, he found very doubtful

approval of the whole measure, so that Harry alone was a ready acceptant

of a full meed of acknowledgments for his gallant extraction of the

will.

No one was more obliged to him than Hector Ernescliffe, who wrote to

Margaret that it would be very jolly to come home again, and that he

was delighted that the captain could not hinder either that or Cocksmoor

Church. “And as to Maplewood, I shall not hate it so much, if that

happens which I hope will happen.” Of which oracular sentence, Margaret

could make nothing.

The house of May felt more at their ease when the uncongenial captain

had departed, although he carried off Harry with him. There was the

better opportunity for a tea-drinking consultation with Dr. Spencer

and Mr. Wilmot, when Margaret lay on her sofa, looking better than for

months past, and taking the keenest interest in every arrangement.

Dr. Spencer, whose bright eyes glittered at every mention of the

subject, assumed that he was to be the architect, while Dr. May was

assuring him that it was a maxim that no one unpaid could be trusted;

and when he talked of beautiful German churches with pierced spires,

declared that the building must not make too large a hole in the twenty

thousand, at the expense of future curates, because Richard was the

first.

“I’ll be prudent, Dick,” said Dr. Spencer. “Trust me not to rival the

minster.”

“We shall find work next for you there,” said Mr. Wilmot.

“Ay, we shall have May out of his family packing-box before many years

are over his head.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Dr. May; “I know what I exposed myself to in

bringing Wilmot here.”

“Yes,” said Dr. Spencer, “we shall put you in the van when we attack the

Corporation pen.”

“I shall hold by the good old cause. As if the galleries had not been

there before you were born!”

“As if poor people had a right to sit in their own church!” said Ethel.

“Sit, you may well say,” said Mr. Wilmot. “As if any one could do

otherwise, with those ingenious traps for hindering kneeling.”

“Well, well, I know the people must have room,” said Dr. May, cutting

short several further attacks which he saw impending.

“Yes, you would like to build another blue gallery, blocking up another

window, and with Richard May and Christopher Tomkins, Churchwardens, on

it, in orange-coloured letters--the Rivers’ colours. No disrespect to

your father, Miss May, but, as a general observation, it is a property

of Town Councillors to be conservative only where they ought not.”

“I brought you here to talk of building a church, not of pulling one to

pieces.”

Poor Dr. May, he knew it was inevitable and quite right, but his

affectionate heart and spirit of perpetuity, which had an association

connected with every marble cloud, green baize pew, and square-headed

panel, anticipated tortures in the general sweep, for which his

ecclesiastical taste and sense of propriety would not soon compensate.

Margaret spared his feelings by bringing the Cocksmoor subject back

again; Dr. Spencer seemed to comprehend the ardour with which she

pressed it on, as if it were very near her heart that there should be no

delay. He said he could almost promise her that the first stone should

be laid before the end of the summer, and she thanked him in her own

warm sweet way, hoping that it would be while Hector and Harry were at

home.

Harry soon returned, having gone through the court-martial with the

utmost credit, been patronised by Captain Gordon in an unheard-of

manner, asked to dine with the admiral, and promised to be quickly

afloat again. Ere many days had passed, he was appointed to one of the

finest vessels in the fleet, commanded by a captain to whom Captain

Gordon had introduced him, and who “seemed to have taken a fancy to

him,” as he said. The Bucephalus, now the object of his pride, was

refitting, and his sisters hoped to see a good deal of him before he

should again sail. Besides, Flora would be at Ryde before the end of

July.

It was singular that Ethel’s vision should have been fulfilled

simultaneously with Flora’s having obtained a position so far beyond

what could have been anticipated.

She was evidently extremely happy and valuable, much admired and

respected, and with full exercise for the energy and cleverness, which

were never more gratified than by finding scope for action. Her husband

was devotedly attached to her, and was entirely managed by her, and

though her good judgment kept her from appearing visibly in matters not

pertaining to her own sphere, she was, in fact, his understanding. She

read, listened, and thought for him, imbued him with her own views, and

composed his letters for him; ruling his affairs, both political and

private, and undeniably making him fill a position which, without her,

he would have left vacant; nor was there any doubt that he was far

happier for finding himself of consequence, and being no longer left

a charge upon his own hands. He seemed fully to suffice to her as

a companion, although she was so far superior in power; for it was,

perhaps, her nature to love best that which depended upon her, and gave

her a sense of exercising protection; as she had always loved Margaret

better than Ethel.

“Mrs. Rivers was an admirable woman.” So every one felt, and her

youthful beauty and success in the fashionable world made her qualities,

as a wife and mistress of a household, the more appreciated. She never

set aside her religious habits or principles, was an active member

of various charitable associations, and found her experience of the

Stoneborough Ladies’ Committee applicable among far greater names.

Indeed, Lady Leonora thought dear Flora Rivers’s only fault, her

over-strictness, which encouraged Meta in the same, but there were

points that Flora could not have yielded on any account, without failing

in her own eyes.

She made time for everything, and though, between business and fashion,

she seemed to undertake more than mortal could accomplish, it was all

effected, and excellently. She did, indeed, sigh over the briefness of

the time that she could bestow on her child or on home correspondence,

and declared that she should rejoice in rest; but, at the same time, her

achievements were a positive pleasure to her.

Meta, in the meantime, had been living passively on the most

affectionate terms with her brother and sister, and though often

secretly yearning after the dear old father, whose darling she had

been, and longing for power of usefulness, she took it on trust that her

present lot had been ordered for her, and was thankful, like the bird

of Dr. May’s fable, for the pleasures in her path--culling sweet morals,

and precious thoughts out of book, painting or concert, occasions for

Christian charities in each courtesy of society, and opportunities

for cheerful self-denial and submission, whenever any little wish was

thwarted.

So Norman said she had turned into a fine lady! It was a sudden and

surprising intimation, and made a change in the usually bright and

calm current of her thoughts. She was not aware that there had been any

alteration in herself, and it was a revelation that set her to examine

where she had changed--poor little thing! She was not angry, she did

not resent the charge, she took it for granted that, coming from such a

source, it must be true and reasonable--and what did it mean? Did they

think her too gay, or neglectful of old friends? What had they been

saying to Harry about her?

“Ah!” thought Meta, “I understand it. I am living a life of ease and

uselessness, and with his higher aims and nobler purposes, he shrinks

from the frivolities among which I am cast. I saw his saddened

countenance among our gaieties, and I know that to deep minds there is

heaviness in the midst of display. He withdraws from the follies that

have no charms for him, and I--ought I to be able to help being amused?

I don’t seek these things, but, perhaps, I ought to avoid them more than

I do. If I could be quite clear what is right, I should not care what

effort I made. But I was born to be one of those who have trial of

riches, and such blessed tasks are not my portion. But if he sees the

vanities creeping into my heart, I should be grateful for that warning.”

So meditated Meta, as she copied one of her own drawings of the Grange,

for her dear old governess, Mrs. Larpent, while each line and tint

recalled the comments of her fond amateur father, and the scenery

carried her home, in spite of the street sounds, and the scratching of

Flora’s pen, coursing over note-paper. Presently Sir Henry Walkinghame

called, bringing a beautiful bouquet.

“Delicious,” cried Meta. “See, Flora, it is in good time, for those

vases were sadly shabby.”

She began at once to arrange the flowers, a task that seemed what she

was born for, and the choice roses and geraniums acquired fresh grace

as she placed them in the slender glasses and classic vases; but

Flora’s discerning eyes perceived some mortification on the part of

the gentleman, and, on his departure, playfully reproached Meta for

ingratitude.

“Did we not thank him? I thought I did them all due honour, actually

using the Dresden bowl.”

“You little wretch! quite insensible to the sentiment of the thing.”

“Sentiment! One would think you had been reading about the language of

flowers!”

“Whatever there was, poor Sir Henry did not mean it for the Dresden bowl

or Bohemian glass.”

“Flora! do pray tell me whether you are in fun?”

“You ridiculous child!” said Flora, kissing her earnest forehead,

ringing the bell, and gathering up her papers, as she walked out of the

room, and gave her notes to the servant.

“What does she mean? Is it play? Oh, no, a hint would be far more like

her. But I hope it is nonsense. He is very kind and pleasant, and I

should not know what to do.”

Instances of his complaisance towards herself rose before her, so as to

excite some warmth and gratitude. Her lonely heart thrilled at the idea

of being again the best beloved, and her energetic spirit bounded at the

thought of being no longer condemned to a life of idle ease. Still it

was too new a light to her to be readily accepted, after she had looked

on him so long, merely as a familiar of the house, attentive to her,

because she fell to his share, when Flora was occupied. She liked him,

decidedly; she could possibly do more; but she was far more inclined

to dread, than to desire, any disturbance of their present terms of

intercourse.

“However,” thought she, “I must see my way. If he should have any such

thing in his head, to go on as we do now would be committing myself, and

I will not do that, unless I am sure it is right. Oh, papa, you would

settle it for me! But I will have it out with Flora. She will find out

what I cannot--how far he is a man for whom one ought to care. I do

not think Norman liked him, but then Norman has so keen a sense of

the world-touched. I suppose I am that! If any other life did but seem

appointed for me, but one cannot tell what is thwarting providential

leading, and if this be as good a man as--What would Ethel say? If I

could but talk to Dr. May! But Flora I will catch, before I see him

again, that I may know how to behave.”

Catching Flora was not the easiest thing in the world, among her

multifarious occupations; but Meta was not the damsel to lose an

opportunity for want of decision.

Flora saw what was coming, and was annoyed with herself for having given

the alarm; but, after all, it must have come some time or other, though

she had rather that Meta had been more involved first.

It should be premised that Mrs. Rivers had no notion of the degree of

attachment felt by her brother for Meta; she only knew that Lady Leonora

had a general distrust of her family, and she felt it a point of

honour to promote no dangerous meetings, and to encourage Sir Henry--a

connection who would be most valuable, both as conferring importance

upon George in the county, and as being himself related to persons of

high influence, whose interest might push on her brothers. Preferment

for Richard; promotion for Harry; nay, diplomatic appointments for

Tom, came floating before her imagination, even while she smiled at her

Alnaschar visions.

But the tone of Meta, as she drew her almost forcibly into her room,

showed her that she had given a great shock to her basket.

“Flora, if you would only give me a minute, and would tell me--”

“What?” asked Flora, not inclined to spare her blushes.

“Whether, whether you meant anything in earnest?”

“My dear little goose, did no one ever make an innocent joke in their

lives before?”

“It was very silly of me,” said Meta; “but you gave me a terrible

fright.”

“Was it so very terrible, poor little bird?” said Flora, in

commiseration. “Well then, you may safely think of him as a man tame

about the house. It was much prettier of you not to appropriate the

flowers, as any other damsel would have done.”

“Do you really and truly think--” began Meta; but, from the colour of

her cheek and the timid resolution of her tone, Flora thought it safest

not to hear the interrogation, and answered, “I know what he comes here

for--it is only as a refuge from his mother’s friend, old Lady Drummond,

who would give the world to catch him for her daughters--that’s all. Put

my nonsense out of your head, and be yourself, my sweet one.”

Flora had never gone so near an untruth, as when she led Meta to believe

this was the sole reason. But, after all, what did Flora herself know to

the contrary?

Meta recovered her ease, and Flora marked, as weeks passed on, that she

grew more accustomed to Sir Henry’s attentions. A little while, and she

would find herself so far bound by the encouragement she had given, that

she could not reject him.

“My dear,” said George, “when do you think of going down to take the

baby to the Grange? She looks dull, I think.”

“Really, I think it is hardly worth while to go down en masse,” said

Flora. “These last debates may be important, and it is a bad time to

quit one’s post. Don’t you think so?”

“As you please--the train is a great bore.”

“And we will send the baby down the last day before we go to Ryde, with

Preston and Butts to take care of her. We can’t spare him to take them

down, till we shut up the house. It is so much easier for us to go to

Portsmouth from hence.”

The lurking conviction was that one confidential talk with Ethel

would cause the humming-bird to break the toils that were being wound

invisibly round her. Ethel and her father knew nothing of the world, and

were so unreasonable in their requirements! Meta would consult them

all, and all her scruples would awaken, and perhaps Dr. Spencer might

be interrogated on Sir Henry’s life abroad, where Flora had a suspicion

that gossip had best not be raked up.

Not that she concealed anything positively known to her, or that she

was not acting just as she would have done by her own child. She found

herself happily married to one whom home notions would have rejected,

and she believed Meta would be perfectly happy with a man of decided

talent, honour, and unstained character, even though he should not come

up to her father’s or Ethel’s standard.

If Meta were to marry as they would approve, she would have far to

seek among “desirable connections.” Meantime, was not Flora acting with

exemplary judgment and self-denial?

So she wrote that she could not come home; Margaret was much

disappointed, and so was Meta, who had looked to Ethel to unravel the

tangles of her life.

“No, no, little miss,” said Flora to herself; “you don’t talk to Ethel

till your fate is irrevocable. Why, if I had listened to her, I should

be thankful to be singing at Mrs. Hoxton’s parties at this minute!

and, as for herself, look at Norman Ogilvie! No, no, after six weeks’

yachting--moonlight, sea, and sympathy--I defy her to rob Sir Henry of

his prize! And, with Meta lady of Cocksmoor, even Ethel herself must be

charmed!”

CHAPTER XX.

We barter life for pottage, sell true bliss

For wealth or power, for pleasure or renown;

Thus, Esau-like, our Father’s blessing miss,

Then wash with fruitless tears our faded crown.

Christian Year.

“Papa, here is a message from Flora for you,” said Margaret, holding up

a letter; “she wants to know whom to consult about the baby.”

“Ha! what’s the matter?”

Margaret read--“Will you ask papa whom I had better call in to see the

baby. There does not seem to be anything positively amiss, but I am

not happy about her. There is a sleepiness about her which I do not

understand, and, when roused, she is fretful, and will not be amused.

There is a look in her eyes which I do not like, and I should wish to

have some advice for her. Lady Leonora recommends Mr.--, but I always

distrust people who are very much the rage, and I shall send for no one

without papa’s advice.”

“Let me see!” said Dr. May, startled, and holding out his hand for the

letter. “A look about the eyes! I shall go up and see her myself. Why

has not she brought her home?”

“It would have been far better,” said Margaret.

“Sleepy and dull! She was as lively a child when they took her away as

I ever saw. What! is there no more about her? The letter is crammed with

somebody’s fete--vote of want of confidence--debate last night. What is

she about? She fancies she knows everything, and, the fact is, she knows

no more about infants--I could see that, when the poor little thing was

a day old!”

“Do you think there is cause for fear?” said Margaret anxiously.

“I can’t tell. With a first child, one can’t guess what may be mamma’s

fancy, or what may be serious. But Flora is not too fanciful, and I must

see her for my own satisfaction. Let some one write, and say I will

come up to-morrow by the twelve o’clock train--and mind she opens the

letter.”

Dr. May kept his word, and the letter had evidently not been neglected;

for George was watching for him at the station, and thanked him so

eagerly for coming, that Dr. May feared that he was indeed needed, and

inquired anxiously.

“Flora is uneasy about her--she seems heavy, and cries when she is

disturbed,” replied George. “Flora has not left her to-day, and hardly

yesterday.”

“Have you had no advice for her?”

“Flora preferred waiting till you should come.”

Dr. May made an impatient movement, and thought the way long, till they

were set down in Park Lane. Meta came to meet them on the stairs, and

said that the baby was just the same, and Flora was in the nursery, and

thither they hastily ascended.

“Oh, papa! I am so glad you are come!” said Flora, starting up from her

low seat, beside the cradle.

Dr. May hardly paused to embrace his daughter, and she anxiously led him

to the cradle, and tried to read his expression, as his eyes fell on the

little face, somewhat puffed, but of a waxy whiteness, and the breathing

seeming to come from the lips.

“How long has she been so?” he asked, in a rapid, professional manner.

“For about two or three hours. She was very fretful before, but I did

not like to call in any one, as you were coming. Is it from her teeth?”

said Flora, more and more alarmed by his manner. “Her complexion is

always like that--she cannot bear to be disturbed,” added she, as the

child feebly moaned, on Dr. May beginning to take her from her cradle;

but, without attending to the objection, he lifted her up, so that she

lay as quietly as before, on his arm. Flora had trusted that hope and

confidence would come with him; but, on the contrary, every lurking

misgiving began to rush wildly over her, as she watched his countenance,

while he carried his little granddaughter towards the light, studied

her intently, raised her drooping eyelids, and looked into her eyes,

scarcely eliciting another moan. Flora dared not ask a question, but

looked on with eyes open, as it were, stiffened.

“This is the effect of opium,” were Dr. May’s first words, breaking

on all with startling suddenness; but, before any one could speak, he

added, “We must try some stimulant directly;” then looking round the

room, “What have you nearest?”

“Godfrey’s Cordial, sir,” quickly suggested the nurse.

“Ay--anything to save time--she is sinking for want of the drug that

has--” He broke off to apportion the dose, and to hold the child in a

position to administer it--Flora tried to give it--the nurse tried--in

vain.

“Do not torment her further,” said the doctor, as Flora would have

renewed the trial--“it cannot be done. What have you all been doing?”

cried he, as, looking up, his face changed from the tender compassion

with which he had been regarding his little patient, into a look of

strong indignation, and one of his sentences of hasty condemnation broke

from him, as it would not have done, had Flora been less externally

calm. “I tell you this child has been destroyed with opium!”

They all recoiled; the father turned fiercely round on the nurse, with a

violent exclamation, but Dr. May checked him. “Hush! This is no presence

for the wrath of man.” The solemn tone seemed to make George shrink

into an awestruck quiescence; he stood motionless and transfixed, as if

indeed conscious of some overwhelming presence.

Flora had come near, with an imploring gesture, to take the child in

her own arms; but Dr. May, by a look of authority, prevented it; for,

indeed, it would have been harassing and distressing the poor little

sufferer again to move her, as she lay with feeble gasps on his arm.

So they remained, for what space no one knew--not one word was uttered,

not a limb moved, and the street noises sounded far off.

Dr. May stooped his head closer to the babe’s face, and seemed listening

for a breath, as he once more touched the little wrist; he took away his

finger, he ceased to listen, he looked up.

Flora gave one cry--not loud, not sharp, but “an exceeding bitter

cry”--she would have moved forward, but reeled, and her husband’s arms

supported her as she sank into a swoon.

“Carry her to her room,” said Dr. May. “I will come;” and, when George

had borne her away, he kissed the lifeless cheek, and reverently placed

the little corpse in the cradle; but, as he rose from doing so, the

sobbing nurse exclaimed, “Oh, sir! oh, sir! indeed, I never did--”

“Never did what?” said Dr. May sternly.

“I never gave the dear baby anything to do her harm,” cried Preston

vehemently.

“You gave her this,” said Dr. May, pointing to the bottle of Godfrey’s

Cordial.

He could say no more, for her master was hurrying back into the room.

Anger was the first emotion that possessed him, and he hardly gave an

answer to Dr. May’s question about Flora. “Meta is with her! Where is

that woman? Have you given her up to the police?”

Preston shrieked and sobbed, made incoherent exclamations, and was much

disposed to cling to the doctor.

“Silence!” said Dr. May, lifting his hand, and assuming a tone and

manner that awed them both, by reminding them that death was present in

the chamber; and, taking his son-in-law out, and shutting the door, he

said, in a low voice,

“I believe this is no case for the police--have mercy on the poor

woman.”

“Mercy--I’ll have no mercy on my child’s murderer! You said she had

destroyed my child.”

“Ignorantly.”

“I don’t care for ignorance! She destroyed her--I’ll have justice,” said

George doggedly.

“You shall,” said Dr. May, laying his hand on his arm; “but it must be

investigated, and you are in no state to investigate. Go downstairs--do

not do anything till I come to you.”

His peremptory manner imposed on George, who, nevertheless, turned round

as he went, saying, with a fierce glare in his eyes, “You will not let

her escape.”

“No. Go down--be quiet.”

Dr. May returned to Preston, and had to assure her that Mr. Rivers was

not gone to call the police, before he could bring her to any degree of

coherence. She regarded him as her only friend, and soon undertook to

tell the whole truth, and he perceived that it was, indeed, the truth.

She had not known that the cordial was injurious, deeming it a panacea

against fretfulness, precious to nurses, but against which ladies always

had a prejudice, and, therefore, to be kept secret. Poor little Leonora

had been very fretful and uneasy when Flora’s many avocations had first

caused her to be set aside, and Preston had had recourse to the remedy

which, lulling her successfully, was applied with less moderation and

judgment than would have been shown by a more experienced person, till

gradually the poor child became dependent on it for every hour of rest.

When her mother, at last, became aware of her unsatisfactory condition,

and spent her time in watching her, the nurse being prevented from

continuing her drug, she was, of course, so miserable without it, that

Preston had ventured on proposing it, to which Mrs. Rivers had replied

with displeasure sufficient to prevent her from declaring how much she

had previously given. Preston was in an agony of distress for her little

charge, as well as of fear for herself, and could hardly understand what

her error had been. Dr. May soon saw that, though not highly principled,

her sorrow was sincere, and that she still wept bitterly over the

consequences of her treatment, when he told her that she had nothing to

fear from the law, and that he would protect her from Mr. Rivers.

Her confession was hardly over when Meta knocked at the door, pale and

frightened. “Oh, Dr. May, do come to poor Flora! I don’t know what to

do, and George is in such a state!”

Dr. May made a sound of sorrow and perplexity, and Meta, as she went

down before him, asked, in a low, horror-stricken whisper, “Did Preston

really--”

“Not knowingly,” said Dr. May. “It is the way many children have gone;

but I never thought--”

They had come to Flora’s dressing-room. Her bedroom door was open, and

George was pacing heavily up and down the length of both apartments,

fiercely indignant. “Well!” said he, advancing eagerly on Dr. May, “has

she confessed?”

“But Flora!” said Dr. May, instead of answering him. Flora lay on her

bed, her face hidden on her pillow, only now and then moaning.

“Flora, my poor, poor child!” said her father, bending down to raise

her, and taking her hand.

She moved away, so as to bury her face more completely; but there was

life in the movement, and he was sufficiently reassured on her situation

to be able to attend to George, who was only impatient to rush off

to take his revenge. He led him into the outer room, where Meta was

waiting, and forced upon his unwilling conviction that it was no case

for the law. The child had not been killed by any one dose, but had

rather sunk from the want of stimulus, to which she had been accustomed.

As to any pity for the woman, George would not hear of it. She was

still, in his eyes, the destroyer of his child; and, when he found the

law would afford him no vengeance, he insisted that she should be turned

out of his house at once.

“George!” called a hollow voice from the next room, and hurrying back,

they saw Flora sitting up, and, as well as trembling limbs allowed,

endeavouring to rise to her feet, while burning spots were in her

cheeks.

“George, turn me out of the house too! If Preston killed her, I did!”

and she gave a ghastly laugh.

George threw his arms round her, and laid her on her bed again, with

many fond words, and strength which she had not power to withstand. Dr.

May, in the meantime, spoke quickly to Meta in the doorway. “She must

go. They cannot see her again; but has she any friends in London?”

“I think not.”

“Find out. She must not be sent adrift. Send her to the Grange, if

nothing better offers. You must judge.”

He felt that he could confide in Meta’s discretion and promptitude, and

returned to the parents.