O ruthful scene! when from a nook obscure,His little sister doth his peril see,All playful as she sate, she grows demure,She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee,She meditates a prayer to set him free.SHENSTONE.
The setting sun shone into the great west window of the school at Stoneborough, on its bare walls, the masters’ desks, the forms polished with use, and the square, inky, hacked and hewed chests, carved with the names of many generations of boys.
About six or eight little boys were clearing away the books or papers that they, or those who owned them as fags, had left astray, and a good deal of talk and laughing was going on among them. “Ha!” exclaimed one, “here has Harrison left his book behind him that he was showing us the gladiators in!” and, standing by the third master’s desk, he turned over a page or two of Smith’s ‘Antiquities’, exclaiming, “It is full of pictures—here’s an old man blowing the bellows—”
“Let me see!” cried Tom May, precipitating himself across the benches and over the desk, with so little caution, that there was an outcry; and, to his horror, he beheld the ink spilled over Mr. Harrison’s book, while, “There, August! you’ve been and done it!” “You’ll catch it!” resounded on all sides.
“What good will staring with your mouth open do!” exclaimed Edward Anderson, the eldest present. “Here! a bit of blotting-paper this moment!”
Tom, dreadfully frightened, handed a sheet torn from an old paper-case that he had inherited from Harry, saying despairingly, “It won’t take it out, will it?”
“No, little stupid head, but don’t you see, I’m stopping it from running down the edges, or soaking in. He won’t be the wiser till he opens it again at that place.”
“When he does, he will,” said the bewildered Tom.
“Let him. It won’t tell tales.”
“He’s coming!” cried another boy, “he is close at the door.”
Anderson hastily shut the book over the blotting-paper, which he did not venture to retain in his hand, dragged Tom down from the desk, and was apparently entirely occupied with arranging his own box, when Mr. Harrison came in. Tom crouched behind the raised lid, quaking in every limb, conscious he ought to confess, but destitute of resolution to do so, and, in a perfect agony as the master went to his desk, took up the book, and carried it away, so unconscious, that Larkins, a great wag, only waited till his back was turned, to exclaim, “Ha! old fellow, you don’t know what you’ve got there!”
“Hallo! May junior, will you never leave off staring? you won’t see a bit farther for it,” said Edward Anderson, shaking him by the ear; “come to your senses, and know your friends.”
“He’ll open it!” gasped Tom.
“So he will, but I’d bet ninety to one, it is not at that page, or if he does, it won’t tell tales, unless, indeed, he happened to see you standing there, crouching and shaking. That’s the right way to bring him upon you.”
“But suppose he opens it, and knows who was in school?”
“What then? D’ye think we can’t stand by each other, and keep our own counsel?”
“But the blotting-paper—suppose he knows that!”
There was a laugh all round at this, “as if Harrison knew everyone’s blotting-paper!”
“Yes, but Harry used to write his name all over his—see—and draw Union Jacks on it.”
“If he did, the date is not there. Do you think the ink is going to say March 2nd? Why should not July have done it last half?”
“July would have told if he had,” said Larkins. “That’s no go.”
“Ay! That’s the way—the Mays are all like girls—can’t keep a secret—not one of them. There, I’ve done more for you than ever one of them would have done—own it—and he strode up to Tom, and grasped his wrists, to force the confession from him.”
“But—but he’ll ask when he finds it out—”
“Let him. We know nothing about it. Don’t be coming the good boy over me like your brothers. That won’t do—I know whose eyes are not too short-sighted to read upside down.”
Tom shrank and looked abject, clinging to the hope that Mr. Harrison would not open the book for weeks, months, or years.
But the next morning his heart died within him, when he beheld the unfortunate piece of blotting-paper, displayed by Mr. Harrison, with the inquiry whether any one knew to whom it belonged, and what made it worse was, that his sight would not reach far enough to assure him whether Harry’s name was on it, and he dreaded that Norman or Hector Ernescliffe should recognise the nautical designs. However, both let it pass, and no one through the whole school attempted to identify it. One danger was past, but the next minute Mr. Harrison opened his Smith’s ‘Antiquities’ at the page where stood the black witness. Tom gazed round in despair, he could not see his brother’s face, but Edward Anderson, from the second form, returned him a glance of contemptuous encouragement.
“This book,” said Mr. Harrison, “was left in school for a quarter of an hour yesterday. When I opened it again, it was in this condition. Do any of you know how it happened?” A silence, and he continued, “Who was in school at this time? Anderson junior, can you tell me anything of it?”
“No, sir.”
“You know nothing of it?”
“No, sir.”
Cold chills crept over Tom, as Mr. Harrison looked round to refresh his memory. “Larkins, do you know how this happened?”
“No, sir,” said Larkins boldly, satisfying his conscience because he had not seen the manner of the overthrow.
“Ernescliffe, were you there?”
“No, sir.”
Tom’s timid heart fluttered in dim hope that he had been overlooked, as Mr. Harrison paused, then said, “Remember, it is concealment that is the evil, not the damage to the book. I shall have a good opinion ever after of a boy honest enough to confess, May junior, I saw you,” he added, hopefully and kindly. “Don’t be afraid to speak out if you did meet with a mischance.”
Tom coloured and turned pale. Anderson and Larkins grimaced at him, to remind him that they had told untruths for his sake, and that he must not betray them. It was the justification he wanted; he was relieved to fancy himself obliged to tell the direct falsehood, for which a long course of petty acted deceits had paved the way, for he was in deadly terror of the effects of truth.
“No, sir.” He could hardly believe he had said the words, or that they would be so readily accepted, for Mr. Harrison had only the impression that he knew who the guilty person was, and would not tell, and, therefore, put no more questions to him, but, after a few more vain inquiries, was baffled, and gave up the investigation.
Tom thought he should have been very unhappy; he had always heard that deceit was a heavy burden, and would give continual stings, but he was surprised to find himself very comfortable on the whole, and able to dismiss repentance as well as terror. His many underhand ways with Richard had taken away the tenderness of his conscience, though his knowledge of what was right was clear; and he was quite ready to accept the feeling prevalent at Stoneborough, that truth was not made for schoolboys.
The axiom was prevalent, but not universal, and parties were running high. Norman May, who as head boy had, in play-hours, the responsibility, and almost the authority of a master, had taken higher ground than was usual even with the well-disposed; and felt it his duty to check abuses and malpractices that his predecessors had allowed. His friend, Cheviot, and the right-minded set, maintained his authority with all their might; but Harvey Anderson regarded his interference as vexatious, always took the part of the offenders, and opposed him in every possible way, thus gathering as his adherents not only the idle and mischievous, but the weak and mediocre, and, among this set, there was a positive bitterness of feeling to May, and all whom they considered as belonging to him.
In shielding Tom May and leading him to deceive, the younger Anderson had gained a conquest—in him the Mays had fallen from that pinnacle of truth which was a standing reproach to the average Stoneborough code—and, from that time, he was under the especial patronage of his friend. He was taught the most ingenious arts of saying a lesson without learning it, and of showing up other people’s tasks; whispers and signs were directed to him to help him out of difficulties, and he was sought out and put forward whenever a forbidden pleasure was to be enjoyed by stealth. These were his stimulants under a heavy bondage; he was teased and frightened, bullied and tormented, whenever it was the fancy of Ned Anderson and his associates to make his timidity their sport; he was scorned and ill-treated, and driven, by bodily terror, into acts alarming to his conscience, dangerous in their consequences, and painful in the perpetration; and yet, among all his sufferings, the little coward dreaded nothing so much as truth, though it would have set him free at once from this wretched tyranny.
Excepting on holidays, and at hours when the town-boys were allowed to go home, there were strict rules confining all except the sixth form to their bounds, consisting of two large courts, and an extensive field bordered by the river and the road. On the opposite side of the bridge was a turnpike gate, where the keeper exposed stalls of various eatables, very popular among the boys, chiefly because they were not allowed to deal there. Ginger-beer could also be procured, and there were suspicions that the bottles so called contained something contraband.
“August,” said Norman, as they were coming home from school one evening, “did I see you coming over the bridge?”
Tom would not answer.
“So you have been at Ballhatchet’s gate? I can’t think what could take you there. If you want tarts, I am sure poor old Betty’s are just as good. What made you go there?”
“Nothing,” said Tom.
“Well, mind you don’t do it again, or I shall have to take you in hand, which I shall be very sorry to do. That man is a regular bad character, and neither my father nor Dr. Hoxton would have one of us have anything to do with him, as you know.”
Tom was in hopes it was over, but Norman went on. “I am afraid you are getting into a bad way. Why won’t you mind what I have told you plenty of times before, that no good comes of going after Ned Anderson, and Axworthy, and that set. What were you doing with them to-day?” But, receiving no answer, he went on. “You always sulk when I speak to you. I suppose you think I have no right to row you, but I do it to save you from worse. You can’t never be found out.” This startled Tom, but Norman had no suspicion. “If you go on, you will get into some awful scrape, and papa will be grieved. I would not, for all the world, have him put out of heart about you. Think of him, Tom, and try to keep straight.” Tom would say nothing, only reflecting that his elder brother was harder upon him than any one else would be, and Norman grew warmer. “If you let Anderson junior get hold of you, and teach you his tricks, you’ll never be good for anything. He seems good-natured now, but he will turn against you, as he did with Harry. I know how it is, and you had better take my word, and trust to me and straightforwardness, when you get into a mess.”
“I’m in no scrape,” said Tom, so doggedly, that Norman lost patience, and spoke with more displeasure. “You will be then, if you go out of bounds, and run Anderson’s errands, and shirk work. You’d better take care. It is my place to keep order, and I can’t let you off for being my brother; so remember, if I catch you going to Ballhatchet’s again, you may make sure of a licking.”
So the warning closed—Tom more alarmed at the aspect of right, which he fancied terrific, and Norman with some compunction at having lost temper and threatened, when he meant to have gained him by kindness.
Norman recollected his threat with a qualm of dismay when, at the end of the week, as he was returning from a walk with Cheviot, Tom darted out of the gate-house. He was flying across the bridge, with something under his arm, when Norman laid a detaining hand on his collar, making a sign at the same time to Cheviot to leave them.
“What are you doing here?” said Norman sternly, marching Tom into the field. “So you’ve been there again. What’s that under your jacket?”
“Only—only what I was sent for,” and he tried to squeeze it under the flap.
“What is it? a bottle—”
“Only—only a bottle of ink.”
Norman seized it, and gave Tom a fierce angry shake, but the indignation was mixed with sorrow. “Oh, Tom, Tom, these fellows have brought you a pretty pass. Who would have thought of such a thing from us!”
Tom cowered, but felt only terror.
“Speak truth,” said Norman, ready to shake it out of him; “is this for Anderson junior?”
Under those eyes, flashing with generous, sorrowful wrath, he dared not utter another falsehood, but Anderson’s threats chained him, and he preferred his thraldom to throwing himself on the mercy of his brother who loved him. He would not speak.
“I am glad it is not for yourself,” said Norman; “but do you remember what I said, in case I found you there again?”
“Oh! don’t, don’t!” cried the boy. “I would never have gone if they had not made me.”
“Made you?” said Norman, disdainfully, “how?”
“They would have thrashed me—they pinched my fingers in the box—they pulled my ears—oh, don’t—”
“Poor little fellow!” said Norman; “but it is your own fault. If you won’t keep with me, or Ernescliffe, of course they will bully you. But I must not let you off—I must keep my word!” Tom cried, sobbed, and implored in vain. “I can’t help it,” he said, “and now, don’t howl! I had rather no one knew it. It will soon be over. I never thought to have this to do to one of us.” Tom roared and struggled, till, releasing him, he said, “There, that will do. Stop bellowing, I was obliged, and I can’t have hurt you much, have I?” he added more kindly, while Tom went on crying, and turning from him. “It is nothing to care about, I am sure; look up;” and he pulled down his hands. “Say you are sorry—speak the truth—keep with me, and no one shall hurt you again.”
Very different this from Tom’s chosen associates; but he was still obdurate, sullen, and angry, and would not speak, nor open his heart to those kind words. After one more, “I could not help it, Tom, you’ve no business to be sulky,” Norman took up the bottle, opened it, smelled, and tasted, and was about to throw it into the river; when Tom exclaimed, “Oh, don’t, don’t! what will they do to me? give it to me!”
“Did they give you the money to pay for it?”
“Yes; let me have it.”
“How much was it?”
“Fourpence.”
“I’ll settle that,” and the bottle splashed in the river. “Now then, Tom, don’t brood on it any more. Here’s a chance for you of getting quit of their errands. If you will keep in my sight. I’ll take care no one bullies you, and you may still leave off these disgraceful tricks, and do well.”
But Tom’s evil spirit whispered that Norman had beaten him, that he should never have any diversion again, and that Anderson would punish him; and there was a sort of satisfaction in seeing that his perverse silence really distressed his brother.
“If you will go on in this way, I can’t help it, but you’ll be sorry some day,” said Norman, and he walked thoughtfully on, looking back to see whether Tom was following, as he did slowly, meditating on the way how he should avert his tyrant’s displeasure.
Norman stood for a moment at the door, surveying the court, then walked up to a party of boys, and laid his hand on the shoulder of one, holding a silver fourpence to him. “Anderson Junior,” said he, “there’s your money. I am not going to let Stoneborough School be turned into a gin palace. I give you notice, it is not to be. Now you are not to bully May junior for telling me. He did not, I found him out.”
Leaving Anderson to himself he looked for Tom, but not seeing him, he entered the cloister, for it was the hour when he was used to read there, but he could not fix his mind. He went to the bench where he had lain on the examination day, and kneeling on it, looked out on the green grass where the graves were. “Mother! mother!” he murmured, “have I been harsh to your poor little tender sickly boy? I couldn’t help it. Oh! if you were but here! We are all going wrong! What shall I do? How should Tom be kept from this evil?—it is ruining him! mean, false, cowardly, sullen—all that is worst—and your son—oh! mother! and all I do only makes him shrink more from me. It will break my father’s heart, and you will not be there to comfort him.”
Norman covered his face with his hands, and a fit of bitter grief came over him. But his sorrow was now not what it had been before his father’s resignation had tempered it, and soon it turned to prayer, resolution, and hope.
He would try again to reason quietly with him, when the alarm of detection and irritation should have gone off, and he sought for the occasion; but, alas! Tom had learned to look on all reproof as “rowing,” and considered it as an additional injury from a brother, who, according to the Anderson view, should have connived at his offences, and turned a deafened ear and dogged countenance to all he said. The foolish boy sought after the Andersons still more, and Norman became more dispirited about him, greatly missing Harry, that constant companion and follower, who would have shared his perplexities, and removed half of them, in his own part of the school, by the influence of his high, courageous, and truthful spirit.
In the meantime Richard was studying hard at home, with greater hopefulness and vigour than he had ever thrown into his work before. “Suppose,” Ethel had once said to him, “that when you are a clergyman, you could be Curate of Cocksmoor, when there is a church there.”
“When?” said Richard, smiling at the presumption of the scheme, and yet it formed itself into a sort of definite hope. Perhaps they might persuade Mr. Ramsden to take him as a curate with a view to Cocksmoor, and this prospect, vague as it was, gave an object and hope to his studies. Every one thought the delay of his examination favourable to him, and he now read with a determination to succeed. Dr. May had offered to let him read with Mr. Harrison but Richard thought he was getting on pretty well, with the help Norman gave him; for it appeared that ever since Norman’s return from London, he had been assisting Richard, who was not above being taught by a younger brother; while, on the other hand, Norman, much struck by his humility, would not for the world have published that he was fit to act as his elder’s tutor.
One evening, when the two boys came in from school, Tom gave a great start, and, pulling Mary by the sleeve, whispered, “How came that book here?”
“It is Mr. Harrison’s.”
“Yes, I know, but how came it here?”
“Richard borrowed it to look out something, and Ethel brought it down.”
A little reassured, Tom took up an exciting story-book, and ensconced himself by the fire, but his agonies were great during the ensuing conversation.
“Norman,” Ethel was exclaiming in delight, “do you know this book?”
“Smith? Yes, it is in the school library.”
“There’s everything in it that one wants, I do believe. Here is such an account of ancient galleys—I never knew how they managed their banks of rowers before—oh! and the Greek houses—look at the pictures too.”
“Some of them are the same as Mr. Rivers’s gems,” said Norman, standing behind her, and turning the leaves, in search of a favourite.
“Oh! what did I see? is that ink?” said Flora, from the opposite side of the table.
“Yes, didn’t you hear?” said Ethel. “Mr. Harrison told Ritchie when he borrowed it, that unluckily one day this spring he left it in school, and some of the boys must have upset an inkstand over it; but, though he asked them all round, each denied it. How I should hate for such things to happen! and it was a prize-book too.”
While Ethel spoke she opened the marked page, to show the extent of the calamity, and as she did so Mary exclaimed, “Dear me! how funny! why, how did Harry’s blotting-paper get in there?”
Tom shrank into nothing, set his teeth, and pinched his fingers, ready to wish they were on Mary’s throat, more especially as the words made some sensation. Richard and Margaret exchanged looks, and their father, who had been reading, sharply raised his eyes and said, “Harry’s blotting-paper! How do you know that, Mary?”
“It is Harry’s,” said she, all unconscious, “because of that anchor up in one corner, and the Union Jack in the other. Don’t you see, Ethel?”
“Yes,” said Ethel; “nobody drew that but Harry.”
“Ay, and there are his buttons,” said Mary, much amused and delighted with these relics of her beloved Harry. “Don’t you remember one day last holidays, papa desired Harry to write and ask Mr. Ernescliffe what clothes he ought to have for the naval school, and all the time he was writing the letter, he was drawing sailors’ buttons on his blotting-paper. I wonder how ever it got into Mr. Harrison’s book!”
Poor Mary’s honest wits did not jump to a conclusion quite so fast as other people’s, and she little knew what she was doing when, as a great discovery, she exclaimed, “I know! Harry gave his paper-case to Tom. That’s the way it got to school!”
“Tom!” exclaimed his father, suddenly and angrily, “where are you going?”
“To bed,” muttered the miserable Tom, twisting his hands. A dead silence of consternation fell on all the room. Mary gazed from one to the other, mystified at the effect of her words, frightened at her father’s loud voice, and at Tom’s trembling confusion. The stillness lasted for some moments, and was first broken by Flora, as if she had caught at a probability. “Some one might have used the first blotting-paper that came to hand.”
“Come here, Tom,” said the doctor, in a voice not loud, but trembling with anxiety; then laying his hand on his shoulder, “Look in my face.” Tom hung his head, and his father put his hand under his chin, and raised the pale terrified face. “Don’t be afraid to tell us the meaning of this. If any of your friends have done it, we will keep your secret. Look up, and speak out. How did your blotting-paper come there?”
Tom had been attempting his former system of silent sullenness, but there was anger at Mary, and fear of his father to agitate him, and in his impatient despair at thus being held and questioned, he burst out into a violent fit of crying.
“I can’t have you roaring here to distress Margaret,” said Dr. May. “Come into the study with me.”
But Tom, who seemed fairly out of himself, would not stir, and a screaming and kicking scene took place, before he was carried into the study by his brothers, and there left with his father. Mary, meantime, dreadfully alarmed, and perceiving that, in some way, she was the cause, had thrown herself upon Margaret, sobbing inconsolably, as she begged to know what was the matter, and why papa was angry with Tom—had she made him so?
Margaret caressed and soothed her to the best of her ability, trying to persuade her that, if Tom had done wrong, it was better for him it should be known, and assuring her that no one could think her unkind, nor a tell-tale; then dismissing her to bed, and Mary was not unwilling to go, for she could not bear to meet Tom again, only begging in a whisper to Ethel, “that, if dear Tom had not done it, she would come and tell her.”
“I am afraid there is no hope of that!” sighed Ethel, as the door closed on Mary.
“After all,” said Flora, “he has not said anything. If he has only done it, and not confessed, that is not so bad—it is only the usual fashion of boys.”
“Has he been asked? Did he deny it?” said Ethel, looking in Norman’s face, as if she hardly ventured to put the question, and she only received sorrowful signs as answers. At the same moment Dr. May called him. No one spoke. Margaret rested her head on the sofa, and looked very mournful, Richard stood by the fire without moving limb or feature, Flora worked fast, and Ethel leaned back on an arm-chair, biting the end of a paper-knife.
The doctor and Norman came back together. “I have sent him up to bed,” said Dr. May. “I must take him to Harrison to-morrow morning. It is a terrible business!”
“Has he confessed it?” said Margaret.
“I can hardly call such a thing a confession—I wormed it out bit by bit—I could not tell whether he was telling truth or not, till I called Norman in.”
“But he has not said anything more untrue—”
“Yes, he has though!” said Dr. May indignantly. “He said Ned Anderson put the paper there, and had been taking up the ink with it—‘twas his doing—then when I came to cross-examine him I found that though Anderson did take up the ink, it was Tom himself who knocked it down—I never heard anything like it—I never could have believed it!”
“It must all be Ned Anderson’s doing!” cried Flora. “They are enough to spoil anybody.”
“I am afraid they have done him a great deal of harm,” said Norman.
“And what have you been about all the time?” exclaimed the doctor, too keenly grieved to be just. “I should have thought that with you at the head of the school, the child might have been kept out of mischief; but there have you been going your own way, and leaving him to be ruined by the very worst set of boys!”
Norman’s colour rose with the extreme pain this unjust accusation caused him, and his voice, though low, was not without irritation, “I have tried. I have not done as much as I ought, perhaps, but—”
“No, I think not, indeed!” interrupted his father. “Sending a boy there, brought up as he had been, without the least tendency to deceit—”
Here no one could see Norman’s burning cheeks, and brow bent downwards in the effort to keep back an indignant reply, without bursting out in exculpation; and Richard looked up, while the three sisters all at once began, “Oh, no, no, papa”—and left Margaret to finish—“Poor little Tom had not always been quite sincere.”
“Indeed! and why was I left to send him to school without knowing it? The place of all others to foster deceit.”
“It was my fault, papa,” said Margaret.
“And mine,” put in Richard; and she continued, “Ethel told us we were very wrong, and I wish we had followed her advice. It was by far the best, but we were afraid of vexing you.”
“Every one seems to have been combined to hide what they ought not!” said Dr. May, though speaking to her much more softly than to Norman, to whom he turned angrily again. “Pray, how came you not to identify this paper?”
“I did not know it,” said Norman, speaking with difficulty. “He ought never to have been sent to school,” said the doctor—“that tendency was the very worst beginning.”
“It was a great pity; I was very wrong,” said Margaret, in great concern.
“I did not mean to blame you, my dear,” said her father affectionately. “I know you only meant to act for the best, but—” and he put his hand over his face, and then came the sighing groan, which pained Margaret ten thousand times more than reproaches, and which, in an instant, dispersed all the indignation burning within Norman, though the pain remained at his father’s thinking him guilty of neglect, but he did not like, at that moment, to speak in self-justification.
After a short space, Dr. May desired to hear what were the deceptions to which Margaret had alluded, and made Norman tell what he knew of the affair of the blotted book. Ethel spoke hopefully when she had heard it. “Well, do you know, I think he will do better now. You see, Edward made him conceal it, and he has been going on with it on his mind, and in that boy’s power ever since; but now it is cleared up and confessed, he will begin afresh and do better. Don’t you think so, Norman? don’t you, papa?”
“I should have more hope if I had seen anything like confession or repentance,” said Dr. May; “but that provoked me more than all—I could only perceive that he was sorry to be found out, and afraid of punishment.”
“Perhaps, when he has recovered the first fright, he will come to his better self,” said Margaret; for she guessed, what indeed was the case, that the doctor’s anger on this first shock of the discovery of the fault he most abhorred had been so great, that a fearful cowering spirit would be completely overwhelmed; and, as there had been no sorrow shown for the fault, there had been none of that softening and relenting that won so much love and confidence.
Every one felt that talking only made them more unhappy, they tried to return to their occupations, and so passed the time till night. Then, as Richard was carrying Margaret upstairs, Norman lingered to say, “Papa, I am very sorry you should think I neglected Tom. I dare say I might have done better for him, but, indeed, I have tried.”
“I am sure you have, Norman. I spoke hastily, my boy—you will not think more of it. When a thing like this comes on a man, he hardly knows what he says.”
“If Harry were here,” said Norman, anxious to turn from the real loss and grief, as well as to talk away that feeling of being apologised to, “it would all do better. He would make a link with Tom, but I have so little, naturally, to do with the second form, that it is not easy to keep him in sight.”
“Yes, yes, I know that very well. It is no one’s fault but my own; I should not have sent him there without knowing him better. But you see how it is, Norman—I have trusted to her, till I have grown neglectful, and it is well if it is not the ruin of him!”
“Perhaps he will take a turn, as Ethel says,” answered Norman cheerfully. “Good-night, papa.”
“I have a blessing to be thankful for in you, at least,” murmured the doctor to himself. “What other young fellow of that age and spirit would have borne so patiently with my injustice? Not I, I am sure! a fine father I show myself to these poor children—neglect, helplessness, temper—Oh, Maggie!”
Margaret had so bad a headache the next day that she could not come downstairs. The punishment was, they heard, a flogging at the time, and an imposition so long, that it was likely to occupy a large portion of the play-hours till the end of the half-year. His father said, and Norman silently agreed, “a very good thing, it will keep him out of mischief;” but Margaret only wished she could learn it for him, and took upon herself all the blame from beginning to end. She said little to her father, for it distressed him to see her grieved; he desired her not to dwell on the subject, caressed her, called her his comfort and support, and did all he could to console her, but it was beyond his power; her sisters, by listening to her, only made her worse. “Dear, dear papa,” she exclaimed, “how kind he is! But he can never depend upon me again—I have been the ruin of my poor little Tom.”
“Well,” said Richard quietly, “I can’t see why you should put yourself into such a state about it.”
This took Margaret by surprise. “Have not I done very wrong, and perhaps hurt Tom for life?”
“I hope not,” said Richard. “You and I made a mistake, but it does not follow that Tom would have kept out of this scrape, if we had told my father our notion.”
“It would not have been on my conscience,” said Margaret—“he would not have sent him to school.”
“I don’t know that,” said Richard. “At any rate we meant to do right, and only made a mistake. It was unfortunate, but I can’t tell why you go and make yourself ill, by fancying it worse than it is. The boy has done very wrong, but people get cured of such things in time, and it is nonsense to fret as if he were not a mere child of eight years old. You did not teach him deceit.”
“No, but I concealed it—papa is disappointed, when he thought he could trust me.”
“Well! I suppose no one could expect never to make mistakes,” said Richard, in his sober tone.
“Self-sufficiency!” exclaimed Margaret, “that has been the root of all! Do you know, Ritchie, I believe I was expecting that I could always judge rightly.”
“You generally do,” said Richard; “no one else could do half what you do.”
“So you have said, papa, and all of you, till you have spoilt me. I have thought it myself, Ritchie.”
“It is true,” said Richard.
“But then,” said Margaret, “I have grown to think much of it, and not like to be interfered with. I thought I could manage by myself, and when I said I would not worry papa, it was half because I liked the doing and settling all about the children myself. Oh! if it could have been visited in any way but by poor Tom’s faults!”
“Well,” said Richard, “if you felt so, it was a pity, though I never should have guessed it. But you see you will never feel so again, and as Tom is only one, and there are nine to govern, it is all for the best.”
His deliberate common-sense made her laugh a little, and she owned he might be right. “It is a good lesson against my love of being first. But indeed it is difficult—papa can so little bear to be harassed.”
“He could not at first, but now he is strong and well, it is different.”
“He looks terribly thin and worn still,” sighed Margaret, “so much older!”
“Ay, I think he will never get back his young looks; but except his weak arm, he is quite well.”
“And then his—his quick way of speaking may do harm.”
“Yes, that was what I feared for Tom,” said Richard, “and there was the mistake. I see it now. My father always is right in the main, though he is apt to frighten one at first, and it is what ought to be that he should rule his own house. But now, Margaret, it is silly to worry about it any more—let me fetch baby, and don’t think of it.”
And Margaret allowed his reasonableness, and let herself be comforted. After all, Richard’s solid soberness had more influence over her than anything else.
Think how simple things and lowly,Have a part in Nature’s plan,How the great hath small beginnings,And the child will be a man.Little efforts work great actions,Lessons in our childhood taughtMould the spirit of that temperWhereby blessed deeds are wrought.Cherish, then, the gifts of childhood,Use them gently, guard them well,For their future growth and greatnessWho can measure, who can tell!MORAL SONGS.
The first shock of Tom’s misdemeanour passed away, though it still gave many an anxious thought to such of the family as felt responsible for him.
The girls were busily engaged in preparing an Easter feast for Cocksmoor. Mr. Wilmot was to examine the scholars, and buns and tea were provided, in addition to which Ethel designed to make a present to every one—a great task, considering that the Cocksmoor funds were reserved for absolute necessaries, and were at a very low ebb. So that twenty-five gifts were to be composed out of nothing!
There was a grand turn-out of drawers of rubbish, all over Margaret, raising such a cloud of dust as nearly choked her. What cannot rubbish and willing hands effect! Envelopes and wafer boxes were ornamented with pictures, bags, needle-cases, and pincushions, beautiful balls, tippets, both of list and gay print, and even sun-bonnets and pinafores were contrived, to the supreme importance and delight of Mary and Blanche, who found it as good or better than play, and ranged their performances in rows, till the room looked like a bazaar. To provide for boys was more difficult; but Richard mended old toys, and repaired the frames of slates, and Norman’s contribution of half-a-crown bought mugs, marbles, and penny knives, and there were even hopes that something would remain for bodkins, to serve as nozzles to the bellows, which were the pride of Blanche’s heart.
Never were Easter gifts the source of more pleasure to the givers, especially when the nursery establishment met Dr. Hoxton near the pastrycook’s shop, and he bestowed on Blanche a packet of variegated sugar-plums, all of which she literally poured out at Ethel’s feet, saying, “I don’t want them. Only let me have one for Aubrey, because he is so little. All the rest are for the poor children at Cocksmoor.”
After this, Margaret declared that Blanche must be allowed to buy the bodkin, and give her bellows to Jane Taylor, the only Cocksmoor child she knew, and to whom she always destined in turn every gift that she thought most successful.
So Blanche went with Flora to the toy-shop, and there fell in love with a little writing-box, that so eclipsed the bellows, that she tried to persuade Flora to buy it for Jane Taylor, to be kept till she could write, and was much disappointed to hear that it was out of the question. Just then a carriage stopped, and from it stepped the pretty little figure of Meta Rivers.
“Oh! how do you do? How delightful to meet you! I was wondering if we should! Little Blanche too!” kissing her, “and here’s Mrs. Larpent—Mrs. Larpent—Miss Flora May. How is Miss May?”
This was all uttered in eager delight, and Flora, equally pleased, answered the inquiries. “I hope you are not in a hurry,” proceeded Meta; “I want your advice. You know all about schools, don’t you? I am come to get some Easter presents for our children, and I am sure you can help me.”
“Are the children little or big?” asked Flora.
“Oh! all sorts and sizes. I have some books for the great sensible ones, and some stockings and shoes for the tiresome stupid ones, but there are some dear little pets that I want nice things for. There—there’s a doll that looks just fit for little curly-headed Annie Langley, don’t you think so, Mrs. Larpent?”
The price of the doll was a shilling, and there were quickly added to it, boxes of toys, elaborate bead-work pincushions, polished blue and green boxes, the identical writing-case—even a small Noah’s ark. Meta hardly asked the prices, which certainly were not extravagant, since she had nearly twenty articles for little more than a pound.
“Papa has given me a benefaction of £5 for my school-gifts,” said she, “is not that charming? I wish you would come to the feast. Now, do! It is on Easter Tuesday. Won’t you come?”
“Thank you, I am afraid we can’t. I should like it very much.”
“You never will come to me. You have no compassion.”
“We should enjoy coming very much. Perhaps, in the summer, when Margaret is better.”
“Could not she spare any of you? Well, I shall talk to papa, and make him talk to Dr. May. Mrs. Larpent will tell you I always get my way. Don’t I? Good-bye. See if I don’t.”
She departed, and Flora returned to her own business; but Blanche’s interest was gone. Dazzled by the more lavish gifts, she looked listlessly and disdainfully at bodkins, three for twopence. “I wish I might have bought the writing-box for Janet Taylor! Why does not papa give us money to get pretty things for the children?” said she, as soon as they came out.
“Because he is not so rich as Miss Rivers’s papa.”
Flora was interrupted by meeting the Misses Anderson, who asked, “Was not that carriage Mr. Rivers’s of Abbotstoke Grange?”
“Yes. We like Miss Rivers very much,” said Flora, resolved to show that she was acquainted.
“Oh! do you visit her? I knew he was a patient of Dr. May.” Flora thought there was no need to tell that the only call had been owing to the rain, and continued, “She has been begging us to come to her school feast, but I do not think we can manage it.”
“Oh, indeed! the Grange is very beautiful, is it not?”
“Very,” said Flora. “Good-morning.”
Flora had a little uneasiness in her conscience, but it was satisfactory to have put down Louisa Anderson, who never could aspire to an intimacy with Miss Rivers. Her little sister looked up—“Why, Flora, have you seen the Grange?”
“No, but papa and Norman said so.”
And Blanche showed that the practical lesson on the pomps of the world was not lost on her, by beginning to wish they were as rich as Miss Rivers. Flora told her it was wrong to be discontented, but the answer was, “I don’t want it for myself, I want to have pretty things to give away.”
And her mind could not be turned from the thought by any attempt of her sister. Even when they met Dr. May coming out of the hospital, Blanche renewed the subject. She poured out the catalogue of Miss Rivers’s purchases, making appealing attempts at looking under his spectacles into his eyes, and he perfectly understood the tenor of her song.
“I have had a sight, too, of little maidens preparing Easter gifts,” said he.
“Have you, papa? What were they? Were they as nice as Miss Rivers’s?”
“I don’t know, but I thought they were the best sort of gifts, for I saw that plenty of kind thought and clever contrivance went to them, ay, and some little self-denial too.”
“Papa, you look as if you meant something; but ours are nothing but nasty old rubbish.”
“Perhaps some fairy, or something better, has brought a wand to touch the rubbish, Blanche; for I think that the maidens gave what would have been worthless kept, but became precious as they gave it.”
“Do you mean the list of our flannel petticoats, papa, that Mary has made into a tippet?”
“Perhaps I meant Mary’s own time and pains, as well as the tippet. Would she have done much good with them otherwise?”
“No, she would have played. Oh! then you like the presents because they are our own making? I never thought of that. Was that the reason you did not give us any of your sovereigns to buy things with?”
“Perhaps I want my sovereigns for the eleven gaping mouths at home, Blanche. But would not it be a pity to spoil your pleasure? You would have lost all the chattering and laughing and buzzing I have heard round Margaret of late, and I am quite sure Miss Rivers can hardly be as happy in the gifts that cost her nothing, as one little girl who gives her sugar-plums out of her own mouth!”
Blanche clasped her papa’s hand tight, and bounded five or six times. “They are our presents, not yours,” said she. “Yes, I see. I like them better now.”
“Ay, ay,” said the doctor. “Seeing Miss Rivers’s must not take the shine out of yours, my little maids; for if you can’t give much, you have the pleasure of giving the best of all, your labour of love.” Then thinking on, and speaking to Flora, “The longer I live, the more I see the blessing of being born in a state of life where you can’t both eat your cake and give it away.”
Flora never was at ease in a conversation with her father; she could not follow him, and did not like to show it. She answered aside from the mark, “You would not have Blanche underrate Miss Rivers?”
“No, indeed, she is as good and sweet a creature as ever came across me—most kind to Margaret, and loving to all the world. I like to see one whom care and grief have never set their grip upon. Most likely she would do like Ethel, if she had the opportunity, but she has not.”
“So she has not the same merit?” said Flora.
“We don’t talk of merit. I mean that the power of sacrifice is a great advantage. The habit of small sacrifice that is made necessary in a large family is a discipline that only-children are without: and so, with regard to wealth, I think people are to be pitied who can give extensively out of such abundance that they can hardly feel the want.”
“In effect, they can do much more,” said Flora.
“I am not sure of that. They can, of course, but it must be at the cost of personal labour and sacrifice. I have often thought of the words, ‘Silver and gold have I none, but such as I have give I thee.’ And ‘such as we have’ it is that does the good; the gold, if we have it, but, at any rate, the personal influence; the very proof of sincerity, shown by the exertion and self-denial, tells far more than money lightly come by, lightly spent.”
“Do you mean that a person who maintained a whole school would do less good than one who taught one child?”
“If the rich person take no pains, and leave the school to take care of itself—nay, if he only visit it now and then, and never let it inconvenience him, has he the least security that the scholars are obtaining any real good from it? If the teacher of the one child is doing his utmost, he is working for himself at least.”
“Suppose we could build, say our church and school, on Cocksmoor at once, and give our superintendence besides?”
“If things were ripe for it, the means would come. As it is, it is a fine field for Ethel and Richard. I believe it will be the making of them both. I am sure it is training Ethel, or making her train herself, as we could never have done without it. But here, come in and see old Mrs. Robins. A visit from you will cheer her up.”
Flora was glad of the interruption, the conversation was uncomfortable to her. She almost fancied her papa was moralising for their good, but that he carried it too far, for wealthy people assuredly had it in their power to do great things, and might work as hard themselves; besides, it was finer in them, there was so much eclat in their stooping to charity. But her knowledge of his character would not allow her to think for a moment that he could say aught but from the bottom of his heart—no, it was one of his one-sided views that led him into paradox. “It was just like papa,” and so there was no need to attend to it. It was one of his enthusiasms, he was so very fond of Ethel, probably because of her likeness to himself. Flora thought Ethel put almost too forward—they all helped at Cocksmoor, and Ethel was very queer and unformed, and could do nothing by herself. The only thing Flora did keep in her mind was, that her papa had spoken to her, as if she were a woman compared with Ethel.
Little Blanche made her report of the conversation to Mary, “that it was so nice; and now she did not care about Miss Rivers’s fine presents at all, for papa said what one made oneself was better to give than what one bought. And papa said, too, that it was a good thing not to be rich, for then one never felt the miss of what one gave away.”
Margaret, who overheard the exposition, thought it so much to Blanche’s credit, that she could not help repeating it in the evening, after the little girl was gone to bed, when Mr. Wilmot had come in to arrange the programme for Cocksmoor. So the little fit of discontent and its occasion, the meeting with Meta Rivers, were discussed.
“Yes,” said Mr. Wilmot, “those Riverses are open-handed. They really seem to have so much money, that they don’t know what to do with it. My brother is ready to complain that they spoil his parish. It is all meant so well, and they are so kind-hearted and excellent, that it is a shame to find fault, and I tell Charles and his wife that their grumbling at such a squire proves them the most spoiled of all.”
“Indiscriminate liberality?” asked the doctor. “I should guess the old gentleman to be rather soft!”
“That’s one thing. The parish is so small, and there are so few to shower all this bounty on, and they are so utterly unused to country people. They seem to think by laying out money they can get a show set of peasants in rustic cottages, just as they have their fancy cows and poultry—all that offends the eye out of the way.”
“Making it a matter of taste,” said the doctor.
“I’m sure I would,” said Norman aside to Ethel. “What’s the use of getting oneself disgusted?”
“One must not begin with showing dislike,” began Ethel, “or—”
“Ay—you like rags, don’t you? but hush!”
“That is just what I should expect of Mr. Rivers,” said Dr. May; “he has cultivated his taste till it is getting to be a disease, but his daughter has no lack of wit.”
“Perhaps not. Charles and Mary are very fond of her, but she is entirely inexperienced, and that is a serious thing with so much money to throw about. She pays people for sending their children to school, and keeping their houses tidy; and there is so much given away, that it is enough to take away all independence and motive for exertion. The people speculate on it, and take it as a right; by-and-by there will be a reaction—she will find out she is imposed upon, take offence, and for the rest of her life will go about saying how ungrateful the poor are!”
“It is a pity good people won’t have a little common-sense,” said Dr. May. “But there’s something so bewitching in that little girl, that I can’t give her up. I verily believe she will right herself.”
“I have scarcely seen her,” said Mr. Wilmot. “She has won papa’s heart by her kindness to me,” said Margaret, smiling. “You see her beautiful flowers? She seems to me made to lavish pleasures on others wherever she goes.”
“Oh, yes, they are most kind-hearted,” said Mr. Wilmot. “It is only the excess of a virtue that could be blamed in them, and they are most valuable to the place. She will learn experience in time—I only hope she will not be spoiled.”
Flora felt as if her father must be thinking his morning’s argument confirmed, and she was annoyed. But she thought there was no reason why wealth should not be used sensibly, and if she were at the head of such an establishment as the Grange, her charity should be so well regulated as to be the subject of general approbation.
She wanted to find some one else on her side, and, as they went to bed, she said to Ethel, “Don’t you wish we had some of this superfluity of the Riverses for poor Cocksmoor?”
“I wish we had anything for Cocksmoor! Here’s a great hole in my boot, and nurse says I must get a new pair, that is seven-and-sixpence gone! I shall never get the first pound made up towards building!”
“And pounds seem nothing to them,” said Flora.
“Yes, but if they don’t manage right with them! I’ll tell you, Flora, I got into a fit of wishing the other day; it does seem such a grievous pity to see those children running to waste for want of daily teaching, and Jenny Hall had forgotten everything. I was vexed, and thought it was all no use while we could not do more; but just then I began to look out the texts Ritchie had marked for me to print for them to learn, and the first was, ‘Be thou faithful over a few things, and I will make thee ruler over many things,’ and then I thought perhaps we were learning to be faithful with a few things. I am sure what they said to-night showed it was lucky we have not more in our hands. I should do wrong for ever with the little we have if it were not for Ritchie and Margaret. By the time we have really got the money together for the school, perhaps I shall have more sense.”
“Got the money! As if we ever could!”
“Oh, yes! we shall and will. It need not be more than £70, Ritchie says, and I have twelve shillings for certain, put out from the money for hire of the room, and the books and clothes, and, in spite of these horrid boots, I shall save something out of this quarter, half-a-crown at least. And I have another plan besides—”
But Flora had to go down to Margaret’s room to bed. Flora was always ready to throw herself into the present, and liked to be the most useful person in all that went forward, so that no thoughts of greatness interfered with her enjoyment at Cocksmoor.
The house seemed wild that Easter Monday morning. Ethel, Mary, and Blanche, flew about in all directions, and in spite of much undoing of their own arrangements, finished their preparations so much too early, that, at half-past eleven, Mary complained that she had nothing to do, and that dinner would never come.
Many were the lamentations at leaving Margaret behind, but she answered them by talking of the treat of having papa all to herself, for he had lent them the gig, and promised to stay at home all the afternoon with her.
The first division started on foot directly after dinner, the real Council of education, as Norman called them, namely, Mr. Wilmot, Richard, Ethel, and Mary; Flora, the other member, waited to take care of Blanche and Aubrey, who were to come in the gig, with the cakes, tea-kettles, and prizes, driven by Norman. Tom and Hector Ernescliffe were invited to join the party, and many times did Mary wish for Harry.
Supremely happy were the young people as they reached the common, and heard the shout of tumultuous joy, raised by their pupils, who were on the watch for them. All was now activity. Everybody tripped into Mrs. Green’s house, while Richard and Ethel ran different ways to secure that the fires were burning, which they had hired, to boil their kettles, with the tea in them.
Then when the kitchen was so full that it seemed as if it could hold no more, some kind of order was produced, the children were seated on their benches, and, while the mothers stood behind to listen, Mr. Wilmot began to examine, as well as he could in so crowded an audience.
There was progress. Yes, there was. Only three were as utterly rude and idealess as they used to be at Christmas. Glimmerings had dawned on most, and one—Una M’Carthy—was fit to come forward to claim Mr. Wilmot’s promise of a Prayer-book. She could really read and say the Catechism—her Irish wit and love of learning had outstripped all the rest—and she was the pride of Ethel’s heart, fit, now, to present herself on equal terms with the Stoneborough set, as far as her sense was concerned—though, alas! neither present nor exhortation had succeeded in making her anything, in looks, but a picturesque tatterdemalion, her sandy elf locks streaming over a pair of eyes, so dancing and gracieuses, that it was impossible to scold her.
With beating heart, as if her own success in life depended for ever on the way her flock acquitted themselves, Ethel stood by Mr. Wilmot, trying to read answers coming out of the dull mouths of her children, and looking exultingly at Richard whenever some good reply was made, especially when Una answered an unexpected question. It was too delightful to hear how well she remembered all the history up to the flood, and how prettily it came out in her Irish accent! That made up for all the atrocious stupidity of others, who, after being told every time since they had begun who gave their names, now chose to forget.
In the midst, while the assembly were listening with admiration to the reading of the scholar next in proficiency to Una, a boy who could read words of five letters without spelling, there was a fresh squeezing at the door, and, the crowd opening as well as it could, in came Flora and Blanche, while Norman’s head was seen for a moment in the doorway.
Flora’s whisper to Ethel was her first discovery that the closeness and the heat of the room was nearly overpowering. Her excitement had made all be forgotten. “Could not a window be opened?”
Mrs. Green interfered—it had been nailed up because her husband had the rheumatiz!
“Where’s Aubrey?” asked Mary.
“With Norman. Norman said he would not let him go into the black-hole, so he has got him out of doors. Ethel, we must come out! You don’t know what an atmosphere it is! Blanche, go out to Norman!”
“Flora, Flora! you don’t consider,” said Ethel, in an agony.
“Yes, yes. It is not at all cold. Let them have their presents out of doors and eat their buns.”
Richard and Mr. Wilmot agreed with Flora, and the party were turned out. Ethel did own, when she was in the open air, “that it had been rather hot.”
Norman’s face was a sight, as he stood holding Aubrey in his arms, to gratify the child’s impatience. The stifling den, the uncouth aspect of the children, the head girl so very ragged a specimen, thoroughly revolted his somewhat fastidious disposition. This was Ethel’s delight! to this she made so many sacrifices! this was all that her time and labour had effected! He did not wish to vex her but it was more than he could stand.
However, Ethel was too much engrossed to look for sympathy. It was a fine spring day, and on the open space of the common the arrangements were quickly made. The children stood in a long line, and the baskets were unpacked. Flora and Ethel called the names, Mary and Blanche gave the presents, and assuredly the grins, courtesies, and pulls of the forelock they elicited, could not have been more hearty for any of Miss Rivers’s treasures. The buns and the kettles of tea followed—it was perfect delight to entertainers and entertained, except when Mary’s dignity was cruelly hurt by Norman’s authoritatively taking a kettle out of her hands, telling her she would be the death of herself or somebody else, and reducing her to the mere rank of a bun distributor, which Blanche and Aubrey could do just as well; while he stalked along with a grave and resigned countenance, filling up the cups held out to him by timid-looking children. Mary next fell in with Granny Hall, who had gone into such an ecstasy over Blanche and Aubrey, that Blanche did not know which way to look; and Aubrey, in some fear that the old woman might intend to kiss him, returned the compliments by telling her she was “ugly up in her face,” at which she laughed heartily, and uttered more vehement benedictions.
Finally, the three best children, boys and girls, were to be made fit to be seen, and recommended by Mr. Wilmot to the Sunday-school and penny club at Stoneborough, and, this being proclaimed and the children selected, the assembly dispersed, Mr. Wilmot rejoicing Ethel and Richard by saying, “Well, really, you have made a beginning. There is an improvement in tone among those children, that is more satisfactory than any progress they may have made.”
Ethel’s eyes beamed, and she hurried to tell Flora. Richard coloured and gave his quiet smile, then turned to put things in order for their return.
“Will you drive home, Richard?” said Norman, coming up to him.
“Don’t you wish it?” said Richard, who had many minor arrangements to make, and would have preferred walking home independently.
“No, thank you, I have a headache, and walking may take it off,” said Norman, taking off his hat and passing his fingers through his hair.
“A headache again—I am sorry to hear it.”
“It is only that suffocating den of yours. My head ached from the moment I looked into it. How can you take Ethel into such a hole, Richard? It is enough to kill her to go on with it for ever.”
“It is not so every day,” said the elder brother quietly. “It is a warm day, and there was an unusual crowd.”
“I shall speak to my father,” exclaimed Norman, with somewhat of the supercilious tone that he had now and then been tempted to address to his brother. “It is not fit that Ethel should give up everything, health and all, to such a set as these. They look as if they had been picked out of the gutter—dirt, squalor, everything disgusting, and summer coming on, too, and that horrid place with no window to open! It is utterly unbearable!”
Richard stooped to pick up a heavy basket, then smiled and said, “You must get over such things as these if you mean to be a clergyman, Norman.”
“Whatever I am to be, it does not concern the girls being in such a place as this. I am surprised that you could suffer it.”
There was no answer—Richard was walking off with his basket, and putting it into the carriage. Norman was not pleased with himself, but thought it his duty to let his father know his opinion of Ethel’s weekly resort. All he wished was to avoid Ethel herself, not liking to show her his sentiments, and he was glad to see her put into the gig with Aubrey and Mary.
They rushed into the drawing-room, full of glee, when they came home, all shouting their news together, and had not at first leisure to perceive that Margaret had some tidings for them in return. Mr. Rivers had been there, with a pressing invitation to his daughter’s school-feast, and it had been arranged that Flora and Ethel should go and spend the day at the Grange, and their father come to dine, and fetch them home in the evening. Margaret had been much pleased with the manner in which the thing was done. When Dr. May, who seemed reluctant to accept the proposal that related to himself, was called out of the room, Mr. Rivers had, in a most kind manner, begged her to say whether she thought it would be painful to him, or whether it might do his spirits good. She decidedly gave her opinion in favour of the invitation, Mr. Rivers gained his point, and she had ever since been persuading her father to like the notion, and assuring him it need not be made a precedent for the renewal of invitations to dine out in the town. He thought the change would be pleasant for his girls, and had, therefore, consented.
“Oh, papa, papa! thank you!” cried Ethel, enraptured, as soon as he came into the room. “How very kind of you! How I have wished to see the Grange, and all Norman talks about! Oh, dear! I am so glad you are going there too!”
“Why, what should you do with me?” said Dr. May, who felt and looked depressed at this taking up of the world again.
“Oh, dear! I should not like it at all without you! It would be no fun at all by ourselves. I wish Flora would come home. How pleased she will be! Papa, I do wish you would look as if you didn’t mind it! I can’t enjoy it if you don’t like going.”
“I shall when I am there, my dear,” said the doctor affectionately, putting his arm around her as she stood by him. “It will be a fine day’s sport for you.”