“Your affectionate father,R. May.
“PS.—Margaret does not gain ground this summer; you must soon come home and cheer her.”
As late, engaged by fancy’s dream,I lay beside a rapid stream,I saw my first come gliding by,Its airy form soon caught my eye;Its texture frail, and colour various,Like human hopes, and life precarious.Sudden, my second caught my ear,And filled my soul with constant fear;I quickly rose, and home I ran,My whole was hissing in the pan.—Riddle.
Flora revised the letter to the principal, and the Ladies’ Committee approved, after having proposed seven amendments, all of which Flora caused to topple over by their own weakness.
After interval sufficient to render the nine ladies very anxious, the principal wrote from Scotland, where he was spending the Long Vacation, and informed them that their request should be laid before the next college meeting.
After the committee had sat upon this letter, the two sisters walked home in much greater harmony than after the former meeting. Etheldred had recovered her candour, and was willing to own that it was not art, but good sense, that gave her sister so much ascendancy. She began to be hopeful, and to declare that Flora might yet do something even with the ladies. Flora was gratified by the approval that no one in the house could help valuing; “Positively,” said Flora, “I believe I may in time. You see there are different ways of acting, as an authority, or as an equal.”
“The authority can move from without, the equal must from within,” said Ethel.
“Just so. We must circumvent their prejudices, instead of trying to beat them down.”
“If you only could have the proper catechising restored!”
“Wait; you will see. Let me feel my ground.”
“Or if we could only abdicate into the hands of the rightful power!”
“The rightful power would not be much obliged to you.”
“That is the worst of it,” said Ethel. “It is sad to hear the sick people say that Dr. May is more to them than any parson; it shows that they have so entirely lost the notion of what their clergyman should be.”
“Dr. May is the man most looked up to in this town,” said Flora, “and that gives weight to us in the committee, but it is all in the using.”
“Yes,” said Ethel hesitatingly.
“You see, we have the prestige of better birth, and better education, as well as of having the chief property in the town, and of being the largest subscribers, added to his personal character,” said Flora; “so that everything conspires to render us leaders, and our age alone prevented us from assuming our post sooner.”
They were at home by this time, and entering the hall, perceived that the whole party were in the lawn. The consolation of the children for the departure of Hector and Tom, was a bowl of soap-suds and some tobacco pipes, and they had collected the house to admire and assist, even Margaret’s couch being drawn close to the window.
Bubbles is one of the most fascinating of sports. There is the soft foamy mass, like driven snow, or like whipped cream. Blanche bends down to blow “a honeycomb,” holding the bowl of the pipe in the water; at her gurgling blasts there slowly heaves upwards the pile of larger, clearer bubbles, each reflecting the whole scene, and sparkling with rainbow tints, until Aubrey ruthlessly dashes all into fragments with his hand, and Mary pronounces it stiff enough, and presents a pipe to little Daisy, who, drawing the liquid into her mouth, throws it away with a grimace, and declares that she does not like bubbles! But Aubrey stands with swelled cheeks, gravely puffing at the sealing-waxed extremity. Out pours a confused assemblage of froth, but the glassy globe slowly expands the little branching veins, flowing down on either side, bearing an enlarging miniature of the sky, the clouds, the tulip-tree. Aubrey pauses to exclaim! but where is it? Try again! A proud bubble, as Mary calls it, a peacock, in blended pink and green, is this transparent sphere, reflecting and embellishing house, wall, and shrubs! It is too beautiful! It is gone! Mary undertakes to give a lesson, and blows deliberately without the slightest result. Again! She waves her disengaged hand in silent exultation as the airy balls detach themselves, and float off on the summer breeze, with a tardy, graceful, uncertain motion. Daisy rushes after them, catches at them, and looks at her empty fingers with a puzzled “All gone!” as plainly expressed by Toby, who snaps at them, and shakes his head with offended dignity at the shock of his meeting teeth, while the kitten frisks after them, striking at them with her paw, amazed at meeting vacancy.
Even the grave Norman is drawn in. He agrees with Mary that bubbles used to fly over the wall, and that one once went into Mrs. Richardson’s garret window, when her housemaid tried to catch it with a pair of tongs, and then ran downstairs screaming that there was a ghost in her room; but that was in Harry’s time, the heroic age of the May nursery.
He accepts a pipe, and his greater height raises it into a favourable current of air—the glistening balloon sails off. It flies, it soars; no, it is coming down! The children shout at it, as if to drive it up, but it wilfully descends—they rush beneath, they try to waft it on high with their breath—there is a collision between Mary and Blanche—Aubrey perceives a taste of soapy water—the bubble is no more—it is vanished in his open mouth!
Papa himself has taken a pipe, and the little ones are mounted on chairs, to be on a level with their tall elders. A painted globe is swimming along, hesitating at first, but the dancing motion is tending upwards, the rainbow tints glisten in the sunlight—all rush to assist it; if breath of the lips can uphold it, it should rise, indeed! Up! above the wall! over Mrs. Richardson’s elm, over the topmost branch—hurrah! out of sight! Margaret adds her voice to the acclamations. Beat that if you can, Mary! That doubtful wind keeps yours suspended in a graceful minuet; its pace is accelerated—but earthwards! it has committed self-destruction by running foul of a rose-bush. A general blank!
“You here, Ethel?” said Norman, as the elders laughed at each other’s baffled faces.
“I am more surprised to find you here,” she answered.
“Excitement!” said Norman, smiling; “one cause is as good as another for it.”
“Very pretty sport,” said Dr. May. “You should write a poem on it, Norman.”
“It is an exhausted subject,” said Norman; “bubble and trouble are too obvious a rhyme.”
“Ha! there it goes! It will be over the house! That’s right!” Every one joined in the outcry.
“Whose is it?”
“Blanche’s—”
“Hurrah for Blanche! Well done, white Mayflower, there!” said the doctor, “that is what I meant. See the applause gained by a proud bubble that flies! Don’t we all bow down to it, and waft it up with the whole force of our lungs, air as it is; and when it fairly goes out of sight, is there any exhilaration or applause that surpasses ours?”
“The whole world being bent on making painted bubbles fly over the house,” said Norman, far more thoughtfully than his father. “It is a fair pattern of life and fame.”
“I was thinking,” continued Dr. May, “what was the most unalloyed exultation I remember.”
“Harry’s, when you were made dux,” whispered Ethel to her brother.
“Not mine,” said Norman briefly.
“I believe,” said Dr. May, “I never knew such glorification as when Aubrey Spencer climbed the poor old market-cross. We all felt ourselves made illustrious for ever in his person.”
“Nay, papa, when you got that gold medal must have been the grandest time?” said Blanche, who had been listening.
Dr. May laughed, and patted her. “I, Blanche? Why, I was excessively amazed, that is all, not in Norman’s way, but I had been doing next to nothing to the very last, then fell into an agony, and worked like a horse, thinking myself sure of failure, and that my mother and my uncle would break their hearts.”
“But when you heard that you had it?” persisted Blanche.
“Why, then I found I must be a much cleverer fellow than I thought for!” said he, laughing; “but I was ashamed of myself, and of the authorities, for choosing such an idle dog, and vexed that other plodding lads missed it, who deserved it more than I.”
“Of course,” said Norman, in a low voice, “that is what one always feels. I had rather blow soap-bubbles!”
“Where was Dr. Spencer?” asked Ethel.
“Not competing. He had been ready a year before, and had gained it, or I should have had no chance. Poor Spencer! what would I not give to see him, or hear of him?”
“The last was—how long ago?” said Ethel.
“Six years, when he was setting off, to return from Poonshedagore,” said Dr. May, sighing. “I gave him up; his health was broken, and there was no one to look after him. He was the sort of man to have a nameless grave, and a name too blessed for fame.”
Ethel would have asked further of her father’s dear old friend, but there were sounds, denoting an arrival, and Margaret beckoned to them as Miss Rivers and her brother were ushered into the drawing-room; and Blanche instantly fled away, with her basin, to hide herself in the schoolroom.
Meta skipped out, and soon was established on the grass, an attraction to all the live creatures, as it seemed; for the kitten came, and was caressed till her own graceful Nipen was ready to fight with the uncouth Toby for the possession of a resting-place on the skirt of her habit, while Daisy nestled up to her, as claiming a privilege, and Aubrey kept guard over the dogs.
Meta inquired after a huge doll—Dr. Hoxton’s gift to Daisy, at the bazaar.
“She is in Margaret’s wardrobe,” was the answer, “because Aubrey tied her hands behind her, and was going to offer her up on the nursery grate.”
“Oh, Aubrey, that was too cruel!”
“No,” returned Aubrey; “she was Iphigenia, going to be sacrificed.”
“Mary unconsciously acted Diana,” said Ethel, “and bore the victim away.”
“Pray, was Daisy a willing Clytemnestra?” asked Meta.
“Oh, yes, she liked it,” said Aubrey, while Meta looked discomfited.
“I never could get proper respect paid to dolls,” said Margaret; “we deal too much in their natural enemies.”
“Yes,” said Ethel, “my only doll was like a heraldic lion, couped in all her parts.”
“Harry and Tom once made a general execution,” said Flora; “there was a doll hanging to every baluster—the number made up with rag.”
George Rivers burst out laughing—his first sign of life; and Meta looked as if she had heard of so many murders.
“I can’t help feeling for a doll!” she said. “They used to be like sisters to me. I feel as if they were wasted on children, that see no character in them, and only call them Dolly.”
“I agree with you,” said Margaret. “If there had been no live dolls, Richard and I should have reared our doll family as judiciously as tenderly. There are treasures of carpentry still extant, that he made for them.”
“Oh, I am so glad!” cried Meta, as if she had found another point of union. “If I were to confess—there is a dear old Rose in the secret recesses of my wardrobe. I could as soon throw away my sister—”
“Ha!” cried her brother, laying hold of the child, “here, little Daisy, will you give your doll to Meta?”
“My name is Gertrude Margaret May,” said the little round mouth. The fat arm was drawn back, with all a baby’s dignity, and the rosy face was hidden in Dr. May’s breast, at the sound of George Rivers’s broad laugh and “Well done, little one!”
Dr. May put his arm round her, turned aside from him, and began talking to Meta about Mr. Rivers.
Flora and Norman made conversation for the brother; and he presently asked Norman to go out shooting with him, but looked so amazed on hearing that Norman was no sportsman that Flora tried to save the family credit by mentioning Hector’s love of a gun, which caused their guest to make a general tender of sporting privileges; “Though,” added he, with a drawl, “shooting is rather a nuisance, especially alone.”
Meta told Ethel, a little apart, that he was so tired of going out alone, that he had brought her here, in search of a companion.
“He comes in at eleven o’clock, poor fellow, quite tired with solitude,” said she, “and comes to me to be entertained.”
“Indeed,” exclaimed Ethel. “What can you do?”
“What I can,” said Meta, laughing. “Whatever is not ‘a horrid nuisance’ to him.”
“It would be a horrid nuisance to me,” said Ethel bluntly, “if my brothers wanted me to amuse them all the morning.”
“Your brothers, oh!” said Meta, as if that were very different; “besides, you have so much more to do. I am only too glad and grateful when George will come to me at all. You see I have always been too young to be his companion, or find out what suited him, and now he is so very kind and good-natured to me.”
“But what becomes of your business?”
“I get time, one way or another. There is the evening, very often, when I have sung both him and papa to sleep. I had two hours, all to myself, yesterday night,” said Meta, with a look of congratulation, “and I had a famous reading of Thirlwall’s ‘Greece.’”
“I should think that such evenings were as bad as the mornings.”
“Come, Ethel, don’t make me naughty. Large families, like yours, may have merry, sociable evenings; but, I do assure you, ours are very pleasant. We are so pleased to have George at home; and we really hope that he is taking a fancy to the dear Grange. You can’t think how delighted papa is to have him content to stay quietly with us so long. I must call him to go back now, though, or papa will be kept waiting.”
When Ethel had watched the tall, ponderous brother help the bright fairy sister to fly airily into her saddle, and her sparkling glance, and wave of the hand, as she cantered off, contrasting with his slow bend, and immobility of feature, she could not help saying that Meta’s life certainly was not too charming, with her fanciful, valetudinarian father, and that stupid, idealess brother.
“He is very amiable and good-natured,” interposed Norman.
“Ha! Norman, you are quite won by his invitation to shoot! How he despised you for refusing—as much as you despised him.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Norman. “You fancy no sensible man likes shooting, but you are all wrong. Some of our best men are capital sportsmen. Why, there is Ogilvie—you know what he is. When I bring him down here, you will see that there is no sort of sport that he is not keen after.”
“This poor fellow will never be keen after anything,” said Dr. May. “I pity him! Existence seems hard work to him!”
“We shall have baby calling him ‘the detestable’ next,” said Ethel. “What a famous set down she gave him.”
“She is a thorough lady, and allows no liberties,” said Dr. May.
“Ah!” said Margaret, “it is a proof of what I want to impression you. We really must leave off calling her Daisy when strangers are there.”
“It is so much nicer,” pleaded Mary.
“The very reason,” said Margaret, “fondling names should be kept for our innermost selves, not spread abroad, and made common. I remember when I used to be called Peg-top—and Flora, Flossy—we were never allowed to use the names when any visitor was near; and we were asked if we could not be as fond of each other by our proper names. I think it was felt that there was a want of reserve in publishing our pet words to other people.”
“Quite true,” said Dr. May; “baby-names never ought to go beyond home. It is the fashion to use them now; and, besides the folly, it seems, to me, an absolute injury to a girl, to let her grow up, with a nickname attached to her.”
“Ay!” chimed in Norman, “I hear men talking of Henny, and Loo, and the like; and you can’t think how glad I have been that my sisters could not be known by any absurd word!”
“It is a case where self-respect would make others behave properly,” said Flora.
“True,” said Dr. May; “but if girls won’t keep up their own dignity, their friends’ duty is to do it for them. The mischief is in the intimate friends, who blazon the words to every one.”
“And then they call one formal, for trying to protect the right name,” said Flora. “It is, one-half of it, silliness, and, the other, affectation of intimacy.”
“Now, I know,” said Mary, “why you are so careful to call Meta Miss Rivers, to all the people here.”
“I should hope so!” cried Norman indignantly.
“Why, yes, Mary,” said Margaret, “I should hope lady-like feelings would prevent you from calling her Meta before—”
“The Andersons!” cried Ethel, laughing. “Margaret was just going to say it. We only want Harry, to exact the forfeit! Poor dear little humming-bird! It gives one an oppression on the chest, to think of her having that great do-nothing brother on her hands all day.”
“Thank you,” said Norman, “I shall know where I am not to look when I want a sister.”
“Ay,” said Ethel, “when you come yawning to me to find amusement for you, you will see what I shall do!”
“Stand over me with a stick while I print A B C for Cocksmoor, I suppose,” said Norman.
“Well! why not? People are much better doing something than nothing.”
“What, you won’t even let me blow bubbles!” said Norman.
“That is too intellectual, as papa makes it,” said Ethel. “By the bye, Norman,” she added, as she had now walked with him a little apart, “it always was a bubble of mine that you should try for the Newdigate prize. Ha!” as the colour rushed into his cheeks, “you really have begun!”
“I could not help it, when I heard the subject given out for next year. Our old friend, Decius Mus.”
“Have you finished?”
“By no means, but it brought a world of notions into my head, such as I could not but set down. Now, Ethel, do oblige me, do write another, as we used in old times.”
“I had better not,” said Ethel, standing thoughtful. “If I throw myself into it, I shall hate everything else, and my wits will be woolgathering. I have neither time nor poetry enough.”
“You used to write English verse.”
“I was cured of it.”
“How?”
“I wanted money for Cocksmoor, and after persuading papa, I got leave to send a ballad about a little girl and a white rose to that school magazine. I don’t think papa liked it, but there were some verses that touched him, and one had seen worse. It was actually inserted, and I was in high feather, till, oh, Norman! imagine Richard getting hold of this unlucky thing, without a notion where it came from! Margaret put it before him, to see what he would say to it.”
“I am afraid it was not like a young lady’s anonymous composition in a story.”
“By no means. Imagine Ritchie picking my poor metaphors to pieces, and weighing every sentimental line! And all in his dear old simplicity, because he wanted to understand it, seeing that Margaret liked it. He had not the least intention of hurting my feelings, but never was I so annihilated! I thought he was doing it on purpose, till I saw how distressed he was when he found it out; and worse than all was, his saying at the end that he supposed it was very fine, but he could not understand it.”
“Let me see it.”
“Some time or other; but let me see Decius.”
“Did you give up verses because Richard could not understand them?”
“No; because I had other fish to fry. And I have not given them up altogether. I do scrabble down things that tease me by running in my head, when I want to clear my brains, and know what I mean; but I can’t do it without sitting up at night, and that stupefies me before breakfast. And as to making bubbles of them, Ritchie has cured me of that!”
“It is a pity!” said Norman.
“Nonsense, let me see Decius. I know he is splendid.”
“I wish you would have tried, for all my best ideas are stolen from you.”
Ethel prevailed by following her brother to his room, and perching herself on the window-sill, while he read his performance from many slips of paper. The visions of those boyish days had not been forgotten, the Vesuvius scenery was much as Ethel had once described it, but with far more force and beauty; there was Decius’s impassioned address to the beauteous land he was about to leave, and the remembrances of his Roman hearth, his farm, his children, whom he quitted for the pale shadows of an uncertain Elysium. There was a great hiatus in the middle, and Norman had many more authorities to consult, but the summing-up was nearly complete, and Ethel thought the last lines grand, as they spoke of the noble consul’s name living for evermore, added to the examples that nerve ardent souls to devote life, and all that is precious, to the call of duty. Fame is not their object. She may crown their pale brows, but for the good of others, not their own, a beacon light to the world. Self is no object of theirs, and it is the casting self behind that wins—not always the visible earthly strife, but the combat between good and evil. They are the true victors, and, whether chronicled or forgotten, true glory rests on their heads, the sole true glory that man can attain, namely, the reflected beams that crown them as shadowy types of Him whom Decius knew not—the Prince who gave Himself for His people, and thus rendered death, for Truth’s sake, the highest boon to mortal man.
“Norman, you must finish it! When will it be given in?”
“Next spring, if at all, but keep the secret, Ethel. I cannot have my father’s hopes raised.”
“I’ll tell you of a motto,” said Ethel. “Do you remember Mrs. Hemans’ mention of a saying of Sir Walter Scott—‘Never let me hear that brave blood has been shed in vain. It sends a roaring voice down through all time.’”
“If,” said Norman, rather ashamed of the enthusiasm which, almost approaching to the so-called “funny state” of his younger days, had trembled in his voice, and kindled his eye—“if you won’t let me put ‘nascitur ridiculus mus.’”
“Too obvious,” said Ethel. “Depend upon it, every undergraduate has thought of it already.”
Ethel was always very happy over Norman’s secrets, and went about smiling over Decius, and comparing her brother with such a one as poor Meta was afflicted with; wasting some superfluous pity and contempt on the weary weight that was inflicted on the Grange.
“What do you think of me?” said Margaret, one afternoon. “I have had Mr. George Rivers here for two hours.”
“Alone! what could bring him here?”
“I told him that every one was out, but he chose to sit down, and seemed to be waiting.”
“How could you get on?”
“Oh! we asked a few questions, and brought out remarks, with great difficulty, at long intervals. He asked me if lying here was not a great nuisance, and, at last, he grew tired of twisting his moustache, and went away.”
“I trust it was a call to take leave.”
“No, he thinks he shall sell out, for the army is a great nuisance.”
“You seem to have got into his confidence.”
“Yes, he said he wanted to settle down, but living with one’s father was such a nuisance.”
“By the bye,” cried Ethel, laughing, “Margaret, it strikes me that this is a Dumbiedikes’ courtship!”
“Of yourself?” said Margaret slyly.
“No, of Flora. You know, she has often met him at the Grange and other places, and she does contrive to amuse him, and make him almost animated. I should not think he found her a great nuisance.”
“Poor man! I am sorry for him!” said Margaret.
“Oh! rejection will be very good for him, and give him something to think of.”
“Flora will never let it come to that,” said Margaret. “But not one word about it, Ethel!”
Margaret and Etheldred kept their eyes open, and sometimes imagined, sometimes laughed at themselves for their speculations, and so October began; and Ethel laughed, as she questioned whether the Grange would feel the Hussar’s return to his quarters, as much as home would the departure of their scholar for Balliol.
So, Lady Flora, take my lay,And if you find a meaning there,Oh! whisper to your glass, and say,What wonder, if he thinks me fair.—Tennyson.
Flora and Norman were dining with one of their county acquaintance, and Dr. May had undertaken to admit them on their return. The fire shone red and bright, as it sank calmly away, and the timepiece and clock on the stairs had begun their nightly duet of ticking, the crickets chirped in the kitchen, and the doctor sat alone. His book lay with unturned pages, as he sat musing, with eyes fixed on the fire, living over again his own life, the easy bright days of his youth, when, without much pains on his own part, the tendencies of his generous affectionate disposition, and the influences of a warm friendship, and an early attachment, had guarded him from evil—then the period when he had been perfectly happy, and the sobering power of his position had been gradually working on him; but though always religious and highly principled, the very goodness of his natural character preventing him from perceiving the need of self-control, until the shock that changed the whole tenor of his life, and left him, for the first time, sensible of his own responsibility, but with inveterate habits of heedlessness and hastiness that love alone gave him force to combat. He was now a far gentler man. His younger children had never seen, his elder had long since forgotten, his occasional bursts of temper, but he suffered keenly from their effects, especially as regarded some of his children. Though Richard’s timidity had been overcome, and Tom’s more serious failures had been remedied, he was not without anxiety, and had a strange unsatisfactory feeling as regarded Flora. He could not feel that he fathomed her! She reminded him of his old Scottish father-in-law, Professor Mackenzie, whom he had never understood, nor, if the truth were known, liked. Her dealings with the Ladies’ Committee were so like her grandfather’s canny ways in a public meeting, that he laughed over them—but they were not congenial to him. Flora was a most valuable person; all that she undertook prospered, and he depended entirely on her for household affairs, and for the care of Margaret; but, highly as he esteemed her, he was a little afraid of her cool prudence; she never seemed to be in any need of him, nor to place any confidence in him, and seemed altogether so much older and wiser than he could feel himself—pretty girl as she was—and very pretty were her fine blue eyes and clear skin, set off by her dark brown hair. There arose the vision of eyes as blue, skin as clear, but of light blonde locks, and shorter, rounder, more dove-like form, open, simple, loving face, and serene expression, that had gone straight to his heart, when he first saw Maggie Mackenzie making tea.
He heard the wheels, and went out to unbolt the door. Those were a pair for a father to be proud of—Norman, of fine stature and noble looks, with his high brow, clear thoughtful eye, and grave intellectual eagle face, lighting into animation with his rare, sweet smile; and Flora, so tall and graceful, and in her white dress, picturesquely half concealed by her mantle, with flowers in her hair, and a deepened colour in her cheek, was a fair vision, as she came in from the darkness.
“Well! was it a pleasant party?”
Norman related the circumstances, while his sister remained silently leaning against the mantel-piece, looking into the fire, until he took up his candle, and bade them good-night. Dr. May was about to do the same, when she held out her hand. “One moment, if you please, dear papa,” she said; “I think you ought to know it.”
“What, my dear?”
“Mr. George Rivers, papa—”
“Ha!” said Dr. May, beginning to smile. “So that is what he is at, is it? But what an opportunity to take.”
“It was in the conservatory,” said Flora, a little hurt, as her father discovered by her tone. “The music was going on, and I don’t know that there could have been—”
“A better opportunity, eh?” said Dr. May, laughing; “well, I should have thought it awkward; was he very much discomposed?”
“I thought,” said Flora, looking down and hesitating, “that he had better come to you.”
“Indeed! so you shifted the ungracious office to me. I am very glad to spare you, my dear; but it was hard on him to raise his hopes.”
“I thought,” faltered Flora, “that you could not disapprove—”
“Flora—” and he paused, completely confounded, while his daughter was no less surprised at the manner in which her news was received. Each waited for the other to speak, and Flora turned away, resting her head against the mantel-piece.
“Surely,” said he, laying his hand on her shoulder, “you do not mean that you like this man?”
“I did not think that you would be against it,” said Flora, in a choked voice, her face still averted.
“Heaven knows, I would not be against anything for your happiness, my dear,” he answered; “but have you considered what it would be to spend your life with a man that has not three ideas! not a resource for occupying himself—a regular prey to ennui—one whom you could never respect!” He had grown more and more vehement, and Flora put her handkerchief to her eyes, for tears of actual disappointment were flowing.
“Come, come,” he said, touched, but turning it off by a smile, “we will not talk of it any more to-night. It is your first offer, and you are flattered, but we know
“‘Colours seen by candle-light,Will not bear the light of day.’
“There, good-night, Flora, my dear—we will have a-tete-a-tete in the study before breakfast, when you have had time to look into your own mind.”
He kissed her affectionately, and went upstairs with her, stopping at her door to give her another embrace, and to say “Bless you, my dear child, and help you to come to a right decision—”
Flora was disappointed. She had been too highly pleased at her conquest to make any clear estimation of the prize, individually considered. Her vanity magnified her achievement, and she had come home in a flutter of pleasure, at having had such a position in society offered to her, and expecting that her whole family would share her triumph. Gratified by George Rivers’s admiration, she regarded him with favour and complacency; and her habit of considering herself as the most sensible person in her sphere made her so regard his appreciation of her, that she was blinded to his inferiority. It must be allowed that he was less dull with her than with most others.
And, in the midst of her glory, when she expected her father to be delighted and grateful—to be received as a silly girl, ready to accept any proposal, her lover spoken of with scorn, and the advantages of the match utterly passed over, was almost beyond endurance. A physician, with eleven children dependent on his practice, to despise an offer from the heir of such a fortune! But that was his customary romance! She forgave him, when it occurred to her that she was too important, and valuable, to be easily spared; and a tenderness thrilled through her, as she looked at the sleeping Margaret’s pale face, and thought of surrendering her and little Daisy to Ethel’s keeping. And what would become of the housekeeping? She decided, however, that feelings must not sway her—out of six sisters some must marry, for the good of the rest. Blanche and Daisy should come and stay with her, to be formed by the best society; and, as to poor dear Ethel, Mrs. Rivers would rule the Ladies’ Committee for her with a high hand, and, perhaps, provide Cocksmoor with a school at her sole expense. What a useful, admirable woman she would be! The doctor would be the person to come to his senses in the morning, when he remembered Abbotstoke, Mr. Rivers, and Meta.
So Flora met her father, the next morning, with all her ordinary composure, in which he could not rival her, after his sleepless, anxious night. His looks of affectionate solicitude disconcerted what she had intended to say, and she waited, with downcast eyes, for him to begin.
“Well, Flora,” he said at last, “have you thought?”
“Do you know any cause against it?” said Flora, still looking down.
“I know almost nothing of him. I have never heard anything of his character or conduct. Those would be a subject of inquiry, if you wish to carry this on—”
“I see you are averse,” said Flora. “I would do nothing against your wishes—”
“My wishes have nothing to do with it,” said Dr. May. “The point is—that I must do right, as far as I can, as well as try to secure your happiness; and I want to be sure that you know what you are about.”
“I know he is not clever,” said Flora; “but there may be many solid qualities without talent.”
“I am the last person to deny it; but where are these solid qualities? I cannot see the recommendation!”
“I place myself in your hands,” said Flora, in a submissive tone, which had the effect of making him lose patience.
“Flora, Flora! why will you talk as if I were sacrificing you to some dislike or prejudice of my own! Don’t you think I should only rejoice to have such a prosperous home offered to you, if only the man were worthy?”
“If you do not think him so, of course there is an end of it,” said Flora, and her voice showed suppressed emotion.
“It is not what I think, in the absence of proof, but what you think, Flora. What I want you to do is this—to consider the matter fairly. Compare him with—I’ll not say with Norman—but with Richard, Alan, Mr. Wilmot. Do you think you could rely on him—come to him for advice?” (Flora never did come to any one for advice.) “Above all—do you think him likely to be a help, or a hindrance, in doing right?”
“I think you underrate him,” said Flora steadily; “but, of course, if you dislike it—though, I think, you would change your mind if you knew him better—”
“Well,” he said, as if to himself, “it is not always the most worthy;” then continued, “I have no dislike to him. Perhaps I may find that you are right. Since your mind is made up, I will do this: first, we must be assured of his father’s consent, for they may very fairly object, since what I can give you is a mere nothing to them. Next, I shall find out what character he bears in his regiment, and watch him well myself; and, if nothing appear seriously amiss, I will not withhold my consent. But, Flora, you should still consider whether he shows such principle and right feeling as you can trust to.”
“Thank you, papa. I know you will do all that is kind.”
“Mind, you must not consider it an engagement, unless all be satisfactory.”
“I will do as you please.”
Ethel perceived that something was in agitation, but the fact did not break upon her till she came to Margaret, after the schoolroom reading, and heard Dr. May declaiming away in the vehement manner that always relieved him.
“Such a cub!” These were the words that met her ear; and she would have gone away, but he called her. “Come in, Ethel; Margaret says you guessed at this affair!”
“At what affair!” exclaimed Ethel. “Oh, it is about Flora. Poor man; has he done it?”
“Poor! He is not the one to be pitied!” said her father.
“You don’t mean that she likes him?”
“She does though! A fellow with no more brains than a turnip lantern!”
“She does not mean it?” said Ethel.
“Yes, she does! Very submissive, and proper spoken, of course, but bent on having him; so there is nothing left for me but to consent—provided Mr. Rivers does, and he should turn out not to have done anything outrageous; but there’s no hope of that—he has not the energy. What can possess her? What can she see to admire?”
“He is good-natured,” said Margaret, “and rather good-looking—”
“Flora has more sense. What on earth can be the attraction?”
“I am afraid it is partly the grandeur—” said Ethel. She broke off short, quite dismayed at the emotion she had excited. Dr. May stepped towards her, almost as if he could have shaken her.
“Ethel,” he cried, “I won’t have such motives ascribed to your sister!”
Ethel tried to recollect what she had said that was so shocking, for the idea of Flora’s worldly motives was no novelty to her. They had appeared in too many instances; and, though frightened at his anger, she stood still, without unsaying her words.
Margaret began to explain away. “Ethel did not mean, dear papa—”
“No,” said Dr. May, his passionate manner giving way to dejection. “The truth is, that I have made home so dreary, that my girls are ready to take the first means of escaping.”
Poor Margaret’s tears sprang forth, and, looking up imploringly, she exclaimed, “Oh, papa, papa! it was no want of happiness! I could not help it. You know he had come before—”
Any reproach to her had been entirely remote from his thoughts, and he was at once on his knee beside her, soothing and caressing, begging her pardon, and recalling whatever she could thus have interpreted. Meanwhile, Ethel stood unnoticed and silent, making no outward protestation, but with lips compressed, as in her heart of hearts she passed the resolution—that her father should never feel this pain on her account. Leave him who might, she would never forsake him; nothing but the will of Heaven should part them. It might be hasty and venturesome. She knew not what it might cost her; but, where Ethel had treasured her resolve to work for Cocksmoor, there she also laid up her secret vow—that no earthly object should be placed between her and her father.
The ebullition of feeling seemed to have restored Dr. May’s calmness, and he rose, saying, “I must go to my work; the man is coming here this afternoon.”
“Where shall you see him?” Margaret asked.
“In my study, I suppose. I fear there is no chance of Flora’s changing her mind first. Or do you think one of you could talk to her, and get her fairly to contemplate the real bearings of the matter?” And, with these words, he left the room.
Margaret and Ethel glanced at each other; and both felt the impenetrability of Flora’s nature, so smooth, that all thrusts glided off.
“It will be of no use,” said Ethel; “and, what is more, she will not have it done.”
“Pray try; a few of your forcible words would set it in a new light.”
“Why! Do you think she will attend to me, when she has not chosen to heed papa?” said Ethel, with an emphasis of incredulity. “No; whatever Flora does, is done deliberately, and unalterably.”
“Still, I don’t know whether it is not our duty,” said Margaret.
“More yours than mine,” said Ethel.
Margaret flushed up. “Oh, no, I cannot!” she said, always timid, and slightly defective in moral courage. She looked so nervous and shaken by the bare idea of a remonstrance with Flora, that Ethel could not press her; and, though convinced that her representation would be useless, she owned that her conscience would rest better after she had spoken. “But there is Flora, walking in the garden with Norman,” she said. “No doubt he is doing it.”
So Ethel let it rest, and attended to the children’s lessons, during which Flora came into the drawing-room, and practised her music, as if nothing had happened.
Before the morning was over, Ethel contrived to visit Norman in the dining-room, where he was wont to study, and asked him whether he had made any impression on Flora.
“What impression do you mean?”
“Why, about this concern,” said Ethel; “this terrible man, that makes papa so unhappy.”
“Papa unhappy! Why, what does he know against him? I thought the Riverses were his peculiar pets.”
“The Riverses! As if, because one liked the sparkling stream, one must like a muddy ditch.”
“What harm do you know of him?” said Norman, with much surprise and anxiety, as if he feared that he had been doing wrong, in ignorance.
“Harm! Is he not a regular oaf?”
“My dear Ethel, if you wait to marry till you find some one as clever as yourself, you will wait long enough.”
“I don’t think it right for a woman to marry a man decidedly her inferior.”
“We have all learned to think much too highly of talent,” said Norman gravely.
“I don’t care for mere talent—people are generally more sensible without it; but, one way or other, there ought to be superiority on the man’s side.”
“Well, who says there is not?”
“My dear Norman! Why, this George Rivers is really below the average! you cannot deny that! Did you ever meet any one so stupid?”
“Really!” said Norman, considering; and, speaking very innocently, “I cannot see why you think so. I do not see that he is at all less capable of sustaining a conversation than Richard.”
Ethel sat down, perfectly breathless with amazement and indignation.
Norman saw that he had shocked her very much. “I do not mean,” he said, “that we have not much more to say to Richard; all I meant to say was, merely as to the intellect.”
“I tell you,” said Ethel, “it is not the intellect. Richard! why, you know how we respect, and look up to him. Dear old Ritchie! with his goodness, and earnestness, and right judgment—to compare him to that man! Norman, Norman, I never thought it of you!”
“You do not understand me, Ethel. I only cited Richard, as a person who proves how little cleverness is needed to insure respect.”
“And, I tell you, that cleverness is not the point.”
“It is the only objection you have put forward.”
“I did wrong,” said Ethel. “It is not the real one. It is earnest goodness that one honours in Richard. Where do we find it in this man, who has never done anything but yawn over his self indulgence?”
“Now, Ethel, you are working yourself up into a state of foolish prejudice. You and papa have taken a dislike to him; and you are overlooking a great deal of good safe sense and right thinking. I know his opinions are sound, and his motives right. He has been undereducated, we all see, and is not very brilliant or talkative; but I respect Flora for perceiving his solid qualities.”
“Very solid and weighty, indeed!” said Ethel ironically. “I wonder if she would have seen them in a poor curate.”
“Ethel, you are allowing yourself to be carried, by prejudice, a great deal too far. Are such imputations to be made, wherever there is inequality of means? It is very wrong! very unjust!”
“So papa said,” replied Ethel, as she looked sorrowfully down. “He was very angry with me for saying so. I wish I could help feeling as if that were the temptation.”
“You ought,” said Norman. “You will be sorry, if you set yourself, and him, against it.”
“I only wish you to know what I feel; and, I think, Margaret and papa do,” said Ethel humbly; “and then you will not think us more unjust than we are. We cannot see anything so agreeable or suitable in this man as to account for Flora’s liking, and we do not feel convinced of his being good for much. That makes papa greatly averse to it, though he does not know any positive reason for refusing; and we cannot feel certain that she is doing quite right, or for her own happiness.”
“You will be convinced,” said Norman cheerfully. “You will find out the good that is under the surface when you have seen more of him. I have had a good deal of talk with him.”
A good deal of talk to him would have been more correct, if Norman had but been aware of it. He had been at the chief expense of the conversation with George Rivers, and had taken the sounds of assent, which he obtained, as evidences of his appreciation of all his views. Norman had been struggling so long against his old habit of looking down on Richard, and exalting intellect; and had seen, in his Oxford life, so many ill-effects of the knowledge that puffeth up, that he had come to have a certain respect for dullness, per se, of which George Rivers easily reaped the benefit, when surrounded by the halo, which everything at Abbotstoke Grange bore in the eyes of Norman.
He was heartily delighted at the proposed connection, and his genuine satisfaction not only gratified Flora, and restored the equanimity that had been slightly disturbed by her father, but it also reassured Ethel and Margaret, who could not help trusting in his judgment, and began to hope that George might be all he thought him.
Ethel, finding that there were two ways of viewing the gentleman, doubted whether she ought to express her opinion. It was Flora’s disposition, and the advantages of the match, that weighed most upon her, and, in spite of her surmise having been treated as so injurious, she could not rid herself of the burden.
Dr. May was not so much consoled by Norman’s opinion as Ethel expected. The corners of his mouth curled up a little with diversion, and though he tried to express himself glad, and confident in his son’s judgment, there was the same sort of involuntary lurking misgiving with which he had accepted Sir Matthew Fleet’s view of Margaret’s case.
There was no danger that Dr. May would not be kind and courteous to the young man himself. It was not his fault if he were a dunce, and Dr. May perceived that his love for Flora was real, though clumsily expressed. He explained that he could not sanction the engagement till he should be better informed of the young gentleman’s antecedents; this was, as George expressed it, a great nuisance, but his father agreed that it was quite right, in some doubt, perhaps, as to how Dr. May might be satisfied.