If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, Chapels hadbeen Churches, and poor men’s cottages, princes’ palaces.MERCHANT OF VENICE.
“Dick,” said Dr. Spencer, as the friends sat together in the evening, after Mary’s swoon, “you seem to have found an expedient for making havoc among your daughters.”
“It does not hurt them,” said Dr. May carelessly.
“Pretty well, after the specimen of to-day.”
“That was chance.”
“If you like it, I have no more to say; but I should like to make you sit for two hours in such a temperature. If they were mine—”
“Very fine talking, but I would not take the responsibility of hindering the only pains that have ever been taken with that unlucky place. You don’t know that girl Ethel. She began at fifteen, entirely of her own accord, and has never faltered. If any of the children there are saved from perdition, it is owing to her, and I am not going to be the man to stop her. They are strong, healthy girls, and I cannot see that it does them any harm—rather good.”
“Have you any special predilection for a room eight feet by nine?”
“Can’t be helped. What would you have said if you had seen the last?”
“What is this about one hundred and fifty pounds in hand?”
“The ladies here chose to have a fancy fair, the only result of which, hitherto, has been the taking away my Flora. There is the money, but the land can’t be had.”
“Why not?”
“Tied up between the Drydale Estate and —— College, and in the hands of the quarry master, Nicolson. There was an application made to the College, but they did not begin at the right end.”
“Upon my word, Dick, you take it easy!” cried his friend, rather indignantly.
“I own I have not stirred in the matter,” said Dr. May. “I knew nothing would come to good under the pack of silly women that our schools are ridden with—” and, as he heard a sound a little like “pish!” he continued, “and that old Ramsden, it is absolutely useless to work with such a head—or no head. There’s nothing for it but to wait for better times, instead of setting up independent, insubordinate action.”
“You are the man to leave venerable abuses undisturbed!”
“The cure is worse than the disease!”
“There spoke the Corporation!”
“Ah! it was not the way you set to work in Poonshedagore.”
“Why, really, when the venerable abuses consisted of Hindoos praying to their own three-legged stools, and keeping sacred monkeys in honour of the ape Hanyuman, it was a question whether one could be a Christian oneself, and suffer it undisturbed. It was coming it too strong, when I was requested to lend my own step-ladder for the convenience of an exhibition of a devotee swinging on hooks in his sides.”
Dr. Spencer had, in fact, never rested till he had established a mission in his former remote station; and his brown godson, once a Brahmin, now an exemplary clergyman, traced his conversion to the friendship and example of the English physician.
“Well, I have lashed about me at abuses, in my time,” said Dr. May.
“I dare say you have, Dick!” and they both laughed—the inconsiderate way was so well delineated.
“Just so,” replied Dr. May; “and I made enemies enough to fetter me now. I do not mean that I have done right—I have not; but there is a good deal on my hands, and I don’t write easily. I have been slower to take up new matters than I ought to have been.”
“I see, I see!” said Dr. Spencer, rather sorry for his implied reproach, “but must Cocksmoor be left to its fate, and your gallant daughter to hers?”
“The vicar won’t stir. He is indolent enough by nature, and worse with gout; and I do not see what good I could do. I once offended the tenant, Nicolson, by fining him for cheating his unhappy labourers, on the abominable truck system; and he had rather poison me than do anything to oblige me. And, as to the copyholder, he is a fine gentleman, who never comes near the place, nor does anything for it.”
“Who is he?”
“Sir Henry Walkinghame.”
“Sir Henry Walkinghame! I know the man. I found him in one of the caves at Thebes, among the mummies, laid up with a fever, nearly ready to be a mummy himself! I remember bleeding him—irregular, was not it? but one does not stand on ceremony in Pharaoh’s tomb. I got him through with it; we came up the Nile together, and the last I saw of him was at Alexandria. He is your man! something might be done with him!”
“I believe Flora promises to ask him if she should ever meet him in London, but he is always away. If ever we should be happy enough to get an active incumbent, we shall have a chance.”
Two days after, Ethel came down equipped for Cocksmoor. It was as hot as ever, and Mary was ordered to stay at home, being somewhat pacified by a promise that she should go again as soon as the weather was fit for anything but a salamander.
Dr. Spencer was in the hall, with his bamboo, his great Panama hat, and gray loose coat, for he entirely avoided, except on Sundays, the medical suit of black. He offered to relieve Ethel of her bag of books.
“No thank you.” (He had them by this time). “But I am going to Cocksmoor.”
“Will you allow me to be your companion?”
“I shall be very glad of the pleasure of your company, but I am not in the least afraid of going alone,” said she, smiling, however, so as to show she was glad of such pleasant company. “I forewarn you though that I have business there.”
“I will find occupation.”
“And you must promise not to turn against me. I have undergone a great deal already about that place. Norman was always preaching against it, and now that he has become reasonable, I can’t have papa set against it again—besides, he would mind you more.”
Dr. Spencer promised to do nothing but what was quite reasonable. Ethel believed that he accompanied her merely because his gallantry would not suffer her to go unescorted, and she was not sorry, for it was too long a walk for solitude to be very agreeable, when strange wagoners might be on the road, though she had never let them be “lions in the path.”
The walk was as pleasant as a scorching sun would allow, and by the time they arrived at the scattered cottages, Ethel had been drawn into explaining many of her Cocksmoor perplexities.
“If you could get the land granted, where should you choose to have it?” he asked. “You know it will not do to go and say, ‘Be pleased to give me a piece of land,’ without specifying what, or you might chance to have one at the Land’s End.”
“I see, that was one of the blunders,” said Ethel. “But I had often thought of this nice little square place, between two gardens, and sheltered by the old quarry.”
“Ha! hardly space enough, I should say,” replied Dr. Spencer, stepping it out. “No, that won’t do, so confined by the quarry. Let us look farther.”
A surmise crossed Ethel. Could he be going to take the work on himself, but that was too wild a supposition—she knew he had nothing of his own, only a moderate pension from the East India Company.
“What do you think of this?” he said, coming to the slope of a knoll, commanding a pretty view of the Abbotstoke woods, clear from houses, and yet not remote from the hamlet. She agreed that it would do well, and he kicked up a bit of turf, and pryed into the soil, pronouncing it dry, and fit for a good foundation. Then he began to step it out, making a circuit that amazed her, but he said, “It is of no use to do it at twice. Your school can be only the first step towards a church, and you had better have room—enough at once. It will serve as an endowment in the meantime.”
He would not let her remain in the sun, and she went into school. She found him, when she came out, sitting in the arbour smoking a cigar-rather a shock to her feelings, though he threw it away the instant she appeared, and she excused him for his foreign habits.
In the evening, he brought down a traveller’s case of instruments, and proceeded to draw a beautiful little map of Cocksmoor, where it seemed that he had taken all his measurements, whilst she was in school. He ended by an imaginary plan and elevation for the school, with a pretty oriel window and bell-gable, that made Ethel sigh with delight at the bare idea.
Next day, he vanished after dinner, but this he often did; he used to say he must go and have a holiday of smoking—he could not bear too much civilised society. He came back for tea, however, and had not sat down long before he said, “Now, I know all about it. I shall pack up my goods, and be off for Vienna to-morrow.”
“To Vienna!” was the general and dolorous outcry, and Gertrude laid hold of him and said he should not go.
“I am coming back,” he said, “if you will have me. The college holds a court at Fordholm on the 3rd, and on the last of this month, I hope to return.”
“College! Court! What are you going to do at Vienna? Where have you left your senses?” asked Dr. May.
“I find Sir Henry Walkinghame is there. I have been on an exploring expedition to Drydale, found out his man of business, and where he is to be written to. The college holds a court at Fordholm, and I hope to have our business settled.”
Ethel was too much confounded to speak. Her father was exclaiming on the shortness of the time.
“Plenty of time,” said Dr. Spencer, demonstrating that he should be able to travel comfortably, and have four days to spare at Vienna—a journey which he seemed to think less of, than did Dr. May of going to London.
As to checking him, of that there was no possibility, nor, indeed, notion, though Ethel did not quite know how to believe in it, nor that the plan could come to good. Ethel was much better by this time: by her vigorous efforts, she had recovered her tone of mind and interest in what was passing; and though now and then Norman’s letters, carrying sentences of remembrance, made her glow a little, she was so steady to her resolution that she averted all traffic in messages through her brother’s correspondence, and, in that fear, allowed it to lapse into Margaret’s hands more than she had ever done. Indeed, no one greatly liked writing from home, it was heartless work to say always, “No news from the Alcestis” and yet they all declared they were not anxious.
Hector Ernescliffe knelt a great while beside Margaret’s sofa, on the first evening of his holidays, and there was a long low-voiced talk between them. Ethel wished that she had warned him off, for Margaret looked much more harassed and anxious, after having heard the outpouring of all that was on his mind.
Dr. Spencer thought her looking worse, when he came, as come he did, on the appointed day. He had brought Sir Henry Walkinghame’s full consent to the surrender of the land; drawn up in such form as could be acted upon, and a letter to his man of business. But Nicolson! He was a worse dragon nearer home, hating all schools, especially hating Dr. May.
However, said Dr. Spencer, in eastern form, “Have I encountered Rajahs, and smoked pipes with three-tailed Pachas, that I should dread the face of the father of quarrymen.”
What he did with the father of quarrymen was not known, whether he talked him over, or bought him off—Margaret hoped the former; Dr. May feared the latter; the results were certain; Mr. Nicolson had agreed that the land should be given up.
The triumphant Dr. Spencer sat down to write a statement to be shown to the college authorities, when they should come to hold their court.
“The land must be put into the hands of trustees,” he said. “The incumbent of course?”
“Then yourself; and we must have another. Your son-in-law?”
“You, I should think,” said Dr. May.
“I! Why, I am going.”
“Going, but not gone,” said his friend.
“I must go! I tell you, Dick; I must have a place of my own to smoke my pipe in.”
“Is that all?” said Dr. May. “I think you might be accommodated here, unless you wished to be near your sister.”
“My sister is always resorting to watering-places. My nieces do nothing but play on the piano. No, I shall perhaps go off to America, the only place I have not seen yet, and I more than half engaged to go and help at Poonshedagore.”
“Better order your coffin then,” muttered Dr. May.
“I shall try lodgings in London, near the old hospital, perhaps—and go and turn over the British Museum library.”
“Look you here, Spencer, I have a much better plan. Do you know that scrap of a house of mine, by the back gate, just big enough for you and your pipe? Set up your staff there. Ethel will never get her school built without you.”
“Oh! that would be capital!” cried Ethel.
“It would be the best speculation for me. You would pay rent, and the last old woman never did,” continued Dr. May. “A garden the length of this one—”
“But I say—I want to be near the British Museum.”
“Take a season-ticket, and run up once a week.”
“I shall teach your boys to smoke!”
“I’ll see to that!”
“You have given Cocksmoor one lift,” said Ethel, “and it will never go on without you.”
“It is such a nice house!” added the children, in chorus; “it would be such fun to have you there.”
“Daisy will never be able to spare her other doctor,” said Margaret, smiling.
“Run to Mrs. Adams, Tom, and get the key,” said Dr. May.
There was a putting on of hats and bonnets, and the whole party walked down the garden to inspect the house—a matter of curiosity to some—for it was where the old lady had resided on whom Harry had played so many tricks, and the subject of many myths hatched between him and George Larkins.
It was an odd, little narrow slip of a house, four stories, of two rooms all the way up, each with a large window, with a marked white eyebrow. Dr. May eagerly pointed out all the conveniences, parlour, museum, smoking den, while Dr. Spencer listened, and answered doubtfully; and the children’s clamorous anxiety seemed to render him the more silent.
Hector Ernescliffe discovered a jackdaw’s nest in the chimney, whereupon the whole train rushed off to investigate, leaving the two doctors and Ethel standing together in the empty parlour, Dr. May pressing, Dr. Spencer raising desultory objections; but so evidently against his own wishes, that Ethel said, “Now, indeed, you must not disappoint us all.”
“No,” said Dr. May, “it is a settled thing.”
“No, no, thanks, thanks to you all, but it cannot be. Let me go;” and he spoke with emotion. “You are very kind, but it is not to be thought of.”
“Why not?” said Dr. May. “Spencer, stay with me;” and he spoke with a pleading, almost dependent air. “Why should you go?”
“It is of no use to talk about it. You are very kind, but it will not do to encumber you with a lone man, growing old.”
“We have been young together,” said Dr. May.
“And you must not leave papa,” added Ethel.
“No,” said Dr. May. “Trouble may be at hand. Help us through with it. Remember, these children have no uncles.”
“You will stay?” said Ethel.
He made a sign of assent—he could do no more, and just then Gertrude came trotting back, so exceedingly smutty, as to call everybody’s attention. Hector had been shoving Tom half-way up the chimney, in hopes of reaching the nest; and the consequences of this amateur chimney-sweeping had been a plentiful bespattering of all the spectators with soot, that so greatly distressed the young ladies, that Mary and Blanche had fled away from public view.
Dr. Spencer’s first act of possession was to threaten to pull Tom down by the heels for disturbing his jackdaws, whereupon there was a general acclamation; and Dr. May began to talk of marauding times, when the jackdaws in the Minster tower had been harried.
“Ah!” said Dr. Spencer, as Tom emerged, blacker than the outraged jackdaws, and half choked, “what do you know about jackdaws’ nests? You that are no Whichcote scholars.”
“Don’t we?” cried Hector, “when there is a jackdaw’s nest in Eton Chapel, twenty feet high.”
“Old Grey made that!” said Tom, who usually acted the part of esprit fort to Hector’s credulity.
“Why, there is a picture of it on Jesse’s book,” said Hector.
“But may not we get up on the roof, to see if we can get at the nest, papa?” said Tom.
“You must ask Dr. Spencer. It is his house.”
Dr. Spencer did not gainsay it, and proceeded even to show the old Whichcote spirit, by leading the assault, and promising to take care of Aubrey, while Ethel retained Gertrude, and her father too; for Dr. May had such a great inclination to scramble up the ladder after them, that she, thinking it a dangerous experiment for so helpless an arm, was obliged to assure him that it would create a sensation among the gossiphood of Stoneborough, if their physician were seen disporting himself on the top of the house.
“Ah! I’m not a physician unattached, like him,” said Dr. May, laughing. “Hullo! have you got up, Tom? There’s a door up there. I’ll show you—”
“No, don’t papa. Think of Mrs. Ledwich; and asking her to see two trustees up there!” said Ethel.
“Ah! Mrs. Ledwich; what is to be done with her, Ethel?”
“I am sure I can’t tell. If Flora were but at home, she would manage it.”
“Spencer can manage anything!” was the answer. “That was the happiest chance imaginable that you came home with me, and so we came to go by the same train.”
Ethel was only afraid that time was being cruelly wasted; but the best men, and it is emphatically the best that generally are so—have the boy strong enough on one side or other of their natures, to be a great provocation to womankind; and Dr. Spencer did not rest from his pursuit till the brood of the jackdaws had been discovered, and two gray-headed nestlings kidnapped, which were destined to a wicker cage and education. Little Aubrey was beyond measure proud, and was suggesting all sorts of outrageous classical names for them, till politely told by Tom that he would make them as great prigs as himself, and that their names should be nothing but Jack and Jill.
“There’s nothing for it but for Aubrey to go to school,” cried Tom, sententiously turning round to Ethel.
“Ay, to Stoneborough,” said Dr. Spencer.
Tom coloured, as if sorry for his movement, and hastened away to make himself sufficiently clean to go in quest of a prison for his captives.
Dr. Spencer began to bethink him of the paper that he had been so eagerly drawing up, and looking at his own begrimed hands, asked Ethel whether she would have him for a trustee.
“Will the other eight ladies?” said Ethel, “that’s the point.”
“Ha, Spencer! you did not know what you were undertaking. Do you wish to be let off?” said Dr. May.
“Not I,” said the undaunted doctor. “Come, Ethel, let us hear what should be done.”
“There’s no time,” said Ethel, bewildered. “The court will be only on the day after to-morrow.”
“Ample time!” said Dr. Spencer, who seemed ready to throw himself into it with all his might. “What we have to do is this. The ladies to be propitiated are—”
“Nine Muses, to whom you will have to act Apollo,” said Dr. May, who, having put his friend into the situation, had a mischievous delight in laughing at him, and watching what he would do.
“One and two, Ethel, and Mrs. Rivers!”
“Rather eight and nine,” said Ethel, “though Flora may be somebody now.”
“Seven then,” said Dr. Spencer. “Well then, Ethel, suppose we set out on our travels this afternoon. Visit these ladies, get them to call a meeting to-morrow, and sanction their three trustees.”
“You little know what a work it is to call a meeting, or how many notes Miss Rich sends out before one can be accomplished.”
“Faint heart—you know the proverb, Ethel. Allons. I’ll call on Mrs. Ledwich—”
“Stay,” said Dr. May. “Let Ethel do that, and ask her to tea, and we will show her your drawing of the school.”
So the remaining ladies were divided—Ethel was to visit Miss Anderson, Miss Boulder, and Mrs. Ledwich; Dr. Spencer, the rest, and a meeting, if possible, be appointed for the next day.
Ethel did as she was told, though rather against the grain, and her short, abrupt manner was excused the more readily, that Dr. Spencer had been a subject of much mysterious speculation in Stoneborough, and to gain any intelligence respecting him, was a great object; so that she was extremely welcome wherever she called.
Mrs. Ledwich promised to come to tea, and instantly prepared to walk to Miss Rich, and authorise her to send out the notes of summons to the morrow’s meeting. Ethel offered to walk with her, and found Mrs. and Miss Rich in a flutter, after Dr. Spencer’s call; the daughter just going to put on her bonnet and consult Mrs. Ledwich, and both extremely enchanted with Dr. Spencer, who “would be such an acquisition.”
The hour was fixed and the notes sent out, and Ethel met Dr. Spencer at the garden gate.
“Well!” he said, smiling, “I think we have fixed them off—have not we?”
“Yes; but is it not heartless that everything should be done through so much nonsense?”
“Did you ever hear why the spire of Ulm Cathedral was never finished?” said Dr. Spencer.
“No; why not?”
“Because the citizens would accept no help from their neighbours.”
“I am glad enough of help when it comes in the right way, and from good motives.”
“There are more good motives in the world than you give people credit for, Ethel. You have a good father, good sense, and a good education; and you have some perception of the system by which things like this should be done. Unfortunately, the system is in bad hands here, and these good ladies have been left to work for themselves, and it is no wonder that there is plenty of little self-importance, nonsense, and the like, among them; but for their own sakes we should rather show them the way, than throw them overboard.”
“If they will be shown,” said Ethel.
“I can’t say they seemed to me so very formidable,” said Dr. Spencer. “Gentle little women.”
“Oh! it is only Mrs. Ledwich that stirs them up. I hope you are prepared for that encounter.”
Mrs. Ledwich came to tea, sparkling with black bugles, and was very patronising and amiable. Her visits were generally subjects of great dread, for she talked unceasingly, laid down the law, and overwhelmed Margaret with remedies; but to-night Dr. Spencer took her in hand. It was not that he went out of his ordinary self, he was always the same simple-mannered, polished gentleman; but it was this that told—she was evidently somewhat in awe of him—the refinement kept her in check. She behaved very quietly all the evening, admired the plans, consented to everything, and was scarcely Mrs. Ledwich!
“You will get on now, Ethel,” said Dr. May afterwards. “Never fear but that he will get the Ladies’ Committee well in hand.”
“Why do you think so, papa?”
“Never you fear.”
That was all she could extract from him, though he looked very arch. The Ladies’ Committee accepted of their representatives with full consent; and the indefatigable Dr. Spencer next had to hunt up the fellow trustee. He finally contrived to collect every one he wanted at Fordholm, the case was laid before the College—the College was propitious, and by four o’clock in the evening, Dr. Spencer laid before Ethel the promise of the piece of land.
Mary’s joy was unbounded, and Ethel blushed, and tried to thank. This would have been the summit of felicity a year ago, and she was vexed with herself for feeling that though land and money were both in such safe hands, she could not care sufficiently to feel the ecstasy the attainment of her object would once have given to her. Then she would have been frantic with excitement, and heedless of everything; now she took it so composedly as to annoy herself.
“To think of that one week at Oxford having so entirely turned this head of mine!”
Perhaps it was the less at home, because she had just heard that George and Flora had accepted an invitation to Glenbracken, but though the zest of Cocksmoor might be somewhat gone, she called herself to order, and gave her full attention to all that was planned by her champion.
Never did man plunge into business more thoroughly than he, when he had once undertaken it. He was one of those men who, from gathering particulars of every practical matter that comes under their notice, are able to accomplish well whatever they set their hand to; and building was not new to him, though his former subjects—a church and mission station in India—bore little remembrance to the present.
He bought a little round dumpling of a white pony, and trotted all over the country in search of building materials and builders, he discovered trees in distant timber-yards, he brought home specimens of stone, one in each pocket, to compare and analyse, he went to London to look at model schools, he drew plans each more neat and beautiful than the last, he compared builders’ estimates, and wrote letters to the National Society, so as to be able to begin in the spring.
In the meantime he was settling himself, furnishing his new house with great precision and taste. He would have no assistance in his choice, either of servants or furniture, but made numerous journeys of inspection to Whitford, to Malvern, and to London, and these seemed to make him the more content with Stoneborough. Sir Matthew Fleet had evidently chilled him, and as he found his own few remaining relations uncongenial, he became the more ready to find a resting-place in the gray old town, the scene of his school life, beside the friend of his youth, and the children of her, for whose sake he had never sought a home of his own. Though he now and then talked of seeing America, or of going back to India, in hopes of assisting his beloved mission at Poonshedagore, these plans were fast dying away, as he formed habits and attachments, and perceived the sphere of usefulness open to him.
It was a great step when his packages arrived, and his beautiful Indian curiosities were arranged, making his drawing-room as pretty a room as could anywhere be seen; in readiness, as he used to tell Ethel, for a grand tea-party for all the Ladies’ Committee, when he should borrow her and the best silver teapot to preside. Moreover, he had a chemical apparatus, a telescope, and microscope, of great power, wherewith he tried experiments that were the height of felicity to Tom and Ethel, and much interested their father. He made it his business to have full occupation for himself, with plans, books, or correspondence, so as not to be a charge on the hands of the May family, with whom he never spent an evening without special and earnest invitation.
He gave attendance at the hospital on alternate days, as well as taking off Dr. May’s hands such of his gratuitous patients as were not averse to quit their old doctor, and could believe in a physician in shepherd’s plaid, and Panama hat. Exceedingly sociable, he soon visited every one far and wide, and went to every sort of party, from the grand dinners of the “county families,” to the tea-drinkings of the Stoneborough ladies—a welcome guest at all, and enjoying each in his own way. English life was so new to him that he entered into the little accessories with the zest of a youth; and there seemed to be a curious change between the two old fellow students, the elder and more staid of former days having come back with unencumbered freshness to enliven his friend, just beginning to grow aged under the wear of care and sorrows.
It was very droll to hear Dr. May laughing at Dr. Spencer’s histories of his adventures, and at the new aspects in which his own well-trodden district appeared to travelled eyes; and not less amusing was Dr. Spencer’s resolute defence of all the nine muses, generally and individually.
He certainly had no reason to think ill of them. As one woman, they were led by him, and conformed their opinions. The only seceder was Louisa Anderson, who had her brother for her oracle; and, indeed, the more youthful race, to whom Harvey was the glass of fashion, uttered disrespectful opinions as to the doctor’s age, and would not accede to his being, as Mrs. Ledwich declared, “much younger than Dr. May.”
Harvey Anderson had first attempted patronage, then argument, with Dr. Spencer, but found him equally impervious to both. “Very clever, but an old world man,” said Harvey. “He has made up his bundle of prejudices.”
“Clever sort of lad!” said Dr. Spencer, “a cool hand, but very shallow—”
Ethel wondered to hear thus lightly disposed of, the powers of argument that had been thought fairly able to compete with Norman, and which had taxed him so severely. She did not know how differently abstract questions appear to a mature mind, confirmed in principle by practice; and to one young, struggling in self-formation, and more used to theories than to realities.
The heart may ache, but may not burst;Heaven will not leave thee, nor forsake.Christian Year.
Hector and Tom finished their holidays by a morning’s shooting at the Grange, Dr. May promising to meet them, and let them drive him home.
Meta was out when he arrived; and, repairing to the library, he found Mr. Rivers sitting by a fire, though it was early in September, with the newspaper before him, but not reading. He looked depressed, and seemed much disappointed at having heard that George and Flora had accepted some further invitations in Scotland, and did not intend to return for another month. Dr. May spoke cheerfully of the hospitality and kindness they had met, but failed to enliven him, and, as if trying to assign some cause for his vexation, he lamented over fogs and frosts, and began to dread an October in Scotland for Flora, almost as if it were the Arctic regions.
He grew somewhat more animated in praising Flora, and speaking of the great satisfaction he had in seeing his son married to so admirable a person. He only wished it could be the same with his daughter.
“You are a very unselfish father,” said Dr. May. “I cannot imagine you without your little fairy.”
“It would be hard to part,” said Mr. Rivers, sighing; “yet I should be relieved to see her in good hands, so pretty and engaging as she is, and something of an heiress. With our dear Flora, she is secure of a happy home when I am gone, but still I should be glad to have seen—” and he broke off thoughtfully.
“She is so sensible, that we shall see her make a good choice,” said Dr. May, smiling; “that is, if she choose at all, for I do not know who is worthy of her.”
“I am quite indifferent as to fortune,” continued Mr. Rivers. “She will have enough of her own.”
“Enough not to be dependent, which is the point,” said Dr. May, “though I should have few fears for her any way.”
“It would be a comfort,” harped on Mr. Rivers, dwelling on the subject, as if he wanted to say something, “if she were only safe with a man who knew how to value her and make her happy. Such a young man as your Norman, now—I have often thought—”
Dr. May would not seem to hear, but he could not prevent himself from blushing as crimson as if he had been the very Norman, as he answered, going on with his own speech, as if Mr. Rivers’s had been unmade, “She is the brightest little creature under the sun, and the sparkle is down so deep within, that however it may turn out, I should never fear for her happiness.”
“Flora is my great reliance,” proceeded Mr. Rivers. “Her aunt, Lady Leonora, is very kind, but somehow she does not seem to suit with Meta.”
“Oh, ho,” thought the doctor, “have you made that discovery, my good friend?”
The voices of the two boys were heard in the hall, explaining their achievements to Meta, and Dr. May took his departure, Hector driving him, and embarking in a long discourse on his own affairs as if he had quite forgotten that the doctor was not his father, and going on emphatically, in spite of the absence of mind now and then betrayed by his auditor, who, at Dr. Spencer’s door, exclaimed, “Stop, Hector, let me out here—thank you;” and presently brought out his friend into the garden, and sat down on the grass, talking low and earnestly over the disease with which Mr. Rivers had been so long affected; for though Dr. May could not perceive any positively unfavourable symptom, he had been rendered vaguely uneasy by the unusual heaviness and depression of manner. So long did they sit conversing, that Blanche was sent out, primed with an impertinent message, that two such old doctors ought to be ashamed of themselves for sitting so late in the dew.
Dr. Spencer was dragged in to drink tea, and the meal had just been merrily concluded, when the door bell rang, and a message was brought in. “The carriage from the Grange, sir; Miss Rivers would be much obliged if you would come directly.”
“There!” said Dr. May, looking at Dr. Spencer, as if to say, I told you so, in the first triumph of professional sagacity; but the next moment exclaiming, “Poor little Meta!” he hurried away.
A gloom fell on those who remained, for, besides their sympathy for Meta, and their liking for her kind old father, there was that one unacknowledged heartache, which, though in general bravely combated, lay in wait always ready to prey on them. Hector stole round to sit by Margaret, and Dr. Spencer muttered, “This will never do,” and sent Tom to fetch some papers lying on his table, whence he read them some curious accounts that he had just received from his missionary friends in India.
They were interested, but in a listening mood, that caused a universal start when the bell again sounded. This time, James reported that the servant from the Grange said his master was very ill—he had brought a letter to post for Mr. George Rivers, and here was a note for Miss Ethel. It was the only note Ethel had ever received from her father, and contained these few words:
“DEAR E.—,
“I believe this attack will be the last. Come to Meta, and bring my things. R. M.”
Ethel put her hands to her forehead. It was as if she had been again plunged into the stunned dream of misery of four years ago, and her sensation was of equal bewilderment and uselessness; but it was but for a moment—the next she was in a state of over-bustle and eagerness. She wanted to fly about and hasten to help Meta, and could hardly obey the word and gesture by which Margaret summoned her to her side.
“Dear Ethel, you must calm yourself, or you will not be of use.”
“I? I can’t be of any use! Oh, if you could go! If Flora were but here! But I must go, Margaret.”
“I will put up your father’s things,” said Dr. Spencer, in a soothing tone. “The carriage cannot be ready in a moment, so that there will be full time.”
Mary and Miss Bracy prepared Ethel’s own goods, which she would otherwise have forgotten; and Margaret, meanwhile, detained her by her side, trying to calm and encourage her with gentle words of counsel, that might hinder her from giving way to the flurry of emotion that had seized her, and prevent her from thinking herself certain to be useless.
Adams was to drive her thither in the gig, and it presently came to the door. Dr. Spencer wrapped her up well in cloaks and shawls, and spoke words of kindly cheer in her ear as she set off. The fresh night air blew pleasantly on her, the stars glimmered in full glory overhead, and now and then her eye was caught by the rocket-like track of a shooting-star. Orion was rising slowly far in the east, and bringing to her mind the sailor-boy under the southern sky; if, indeed, he were not where sun and stars no more are the light. It was strange that the thought came more as soothing than as acute pain; she could bear to think of him thus in her present frame, as long as she had not to talk of him. Under those solemn stars, the life everlasting seemed to overpower the sense of this mortal life, and Ethel’s agitation was calmed away.
The old cedar-tree stood up in stately blackness against the sky, and the lights in the house glanced behind it. The servants looked rather surprised to see Ethel, as if she were not expected, and conducted her to the great drawing-room, which looked the more desolate and solitary, from the glare of lamplight, falling on the empty seats which Ethel had lately seen filled with a glad home party. She was looking round, thinking whether to venture up to Meta’s room, and there summon Bellairs, when Meta came gliding in, and threw her arms round her. Ethel could not speak, but Meta’s voice was more cheerful than she had expected. “How kind of you, dear Ethel!”
“Papa sent for me,” said Ethel.
“He is so kind! Can Margaret spare you?”
“Oh, yes; but you must leave me. You must want to be with him.”
“He never lets me come in when he has these attacks,” said Meta. “If he only would! But will you come up to my room? That is nearer.”
“Is papa with him?”
“Yes.”
Meta wound her arms round Ethel, and led her up to her sitting-room, where a book lay on the table. She said that her father had seemed weary and torpid, and had sat still until almost their late dinner-hour, when he seemed to bethink himself of dressing, and had risen. She thought he walked weakly, and rather tottering, and had run to make him lean on her, which he did, as far as his own room door. There he had kissed her, and thanked her, and murmured a word like blessing. She had not, however, been alarmed, until his servant had come to tell her that he had another seizure.
Ethel asked whether she had seen Dr. May since he had been with her father. She had; but Ethel was surprised to find that she had not taken in the extent of his fears. She had become so far accustomed to these attacks, that, though anxious and distressed, she did not apprehend more than a few days’ weakness, and her chief longing was to be of use. She was speaking cheerfully of beginning her nursing to-morrow, and of her great desire that her papa would allow her to sit up with him, when there was a slow, reluctant movement of the lock of the door, and the two girls sprang to their feet, as Dr. May opened it; and Ethel read his countenance at once.
Not so Meta. “How is he? May I go to him?” cried she.
“Not now, my dear,” said Dr. May, putting his hand on her shoulder, in a gentle, detaining manner, that sent a thrill of trembling through her frame, though she did not otherwise move. She only clasped her hands together, and looked up into his face. He answered the look. “Yes, my dear, the struggle is over.”
Ethel came near, and put her arm round Meta’s waist, as if to strengthen her, as she stood quite passive and still.
Dr. May seemed to think it best that all should be told; but, though intently watching Meta, he directed his words to his own daughter. “Thank Heaven, it has been shorter, and less painful, than I had dared to hope.”
Meta tried to speak, but could not bring out the words, and, with an imploring look at Ethel, as if to beg her to make them clear for her, she inarticulately murmured, “Oh! why did you not call me?”
“I could not. He would not let me. His last conscious word to me was not to let you see him suffer.”
Meta wrung her clasped hands together in mute anguish. Dr. May signed to Ethel to guide her back to the sofa, but the movement seemed so far to rouse her, that she said, “I should like to go to bed.”
“Right—the best thing,” said Dr. May; and he whispered to Ethel, “Go with her, but don’t try to rouse her—don’t talk to her. Come back to me, presently.”
He did not even shake hands with Meta, nor wish her good-night, as she disappeared into her own room.
Bellairs undressed her, and Ethel stood watching, till the young head, under the load of sorrow, so new to it, was laid on the pillow. Bellairs asked her if she would have a light.
“No, no, thank you—the dark and alone. Good-night,” said Meta. Ethel went back to the sitting-room, where her father was standing at the window, looking out into the night. He turned as she came in, folded her in his arms, and kissed her forehead. “And how is the poor little dear?” he asked.
“The same,” said Ethel. “I can’t bear to leave her alone, and to have said nothing to comfort her.”
“It is too soon as yet,” said Dr. May—“her mind has not taken it in. I hope she will sleep all night, and have more strength to look at it when she wakens.”
“She was utterly unprepared.”
“I could not make her understand me,” said Dr. May.
“And, oh, papa, what a pity she was not there!”
“It was no sight for her, till the last few minutes; and his whole mind seemed bent on sparing her. What tenderness it has been.”
“Must we leave her to herself all night?”
“Better so,” said Dr. May. “She has been used to loneliness; and to thrust companionship on her would be only harassing.”
Ethel, who scarcely knew what it was to be alone, looked as if she did not understand.
“I used to try to force consolation on people,” said Dr. May, “but I know, now, that it can only be done by following their bent.”
“You have seen so many sorrows,” said Ethel.
“I never understood till I felt,” said Dr. May. “Those few first days were a lesson.”
“I did not think you knew what was passing,” said Ethel.
“I doubt whether any part of my life is more distinctly before me than those two days,” said Dr. May. “Flora coming in and out, and poor Alan sitting by me; but I don’t believe I had any will. I could no more have moved my mind than my broken arm; and I verily think, Ethel, that, but for that merciful torpor, I should have been frantic. It taught me never to disturb grief.”
“And what shall we do?”
“You must stay with her till Flora comes. I will be here as much as I can. She is our charge, till they come home. I told him, between the spasms, that I had sent for you, and he seemed pleased.”
“If only I were anybody else!”
Dr. May again threw his arm round her, and looked into her face. He felt that he had rather have her, such as she was, than anybody else; and, together, they sat down, and talked of what was to be done, and what was best for Meta, and of the solemnity of being in the house of death. Ethel felt and showed it so much, in her subdued, awe-struck manner, that her father felt checked whenever he was about to return to his ordinary manner, familiarised, as he necessarily was, with the like scenes. It drew him back to the thought of their own trouble, and their conversation recurred to those days, so that each gained a more full understanding of the other, and they at length separated, certainly with the more peaceful and soft feelings for being in the abode of mourning.
Bellairs promised to call Ethel, to be with her young lady as early as might be, reporting that she was sound asleep. And sleep continued to shield her till past her usual hour, so that Ethel was up, and had been with Dr. May, before she was summoned to her, and then she found her half dressed, and hastening that she might not make Dr. May late for breakfast, and in going to his patients. There was an elasticity in the happily constituted young mind that could not be entirely struck down, nor deprived of power of taking thought for others. Yet her eyes looked wandering, and unlike themselves, and her words, now and then, faltered, as if she was not sure what she was doing or saying. Ethel told her not to mind—Dr. Spencer would take care of the patients; but she did not seem to recollect, at first, who Dr. Spencer was, nor to care for being reminded.
Breakfast was laid out in the little sitting-room. Ethel wanted to take the trouble off her hands, but she would not let her. She sat behind her urn, and asked about tea or coffee, quite accurately, in a low, subdued voice, that nearly overcame Dr. May. When the meal was over, and she had rung the bell, and risen up, as if to her daily work, she turned round, with that piteous, perplexed air, and stood for a moment, as if confused.
“Cannot we help you?” said Ethel.
“I don’t know. Thank you. But, Dr. May, I must not keep you from other people—”
“I have no one to go to this morning,” said Dr. May. “I am ready to stay with you, my dear.”
Meta came closer to him, and murmured, “Thank you!”
The breakfast things had, by this time, been taken away, and Meta, looking to see that the door had shut for the last time, said, in a low voice, “Now tell me—”
Dr. May drew her down to sit on the sofa beside him, and, in his soft, sweet voice, told her all that she wished to learn of her father’s last hours, and was glad to see showers of quiet, wholesome tears drop freely down, but without violence, and she scarcely attempted to speak. There was a pause at the end, and then she said gently, “Thank you, for it all. Dear papa!” And she rose up, and went back to her room.
“She has learned to dwell apart,” said Dr. May, much moved.
“How beautiful she bears up!” said Ethel.
“It has been a life which, as she has used it, has taught her strength and self-dependence in the midst of prosperity.”
“Yes,” said Ethel, “she has trained herself by her dread of self-indulgence, and seeking after work. But oh! what a break up it is for her! I cannot think how she holds up. Shall I go to her?”
“I think not. She knows the way to the only Comforter. I am not afraid of her after those blessed tears.”
Dr. May was right; Meta presently returned to them, in the same gentle subdued sadness, enfolding her, indeed, as a flower weighed down by mist, but not crushing nor taking away her powers. It was as if she were truly upheld; and thankful to her friends as she was, she did not throw herself on them in utter dependence or self-abandonment.
She wrote needful letters, shedding many tears over them, and often obliged to leave off to give the blinding weeping its course, but refusing to impose any unnecessary task upon Dr. May’s lame arm. All that was right, she strove to do; she saw Mr. Charles Wilmot, and was refreshed by his reading to her; and when Dr. May desired it, she submissively put on her bonnet, and took several turns with Ethel in the shrubbery, though it made her cry heartily to look into the downstairs rooms. And she lay on the sofa at last, owning herself strangely tired, she did not know why, and glad that Ethel should read to her. By and by, she went to dress for the evening, and came back, full of the tidings that one of the children in the village had been badly burned. It occupied her very much—she made Ethel promise to go and see about her to-morrow, and sent Bellairs at once with every comfort that she could devise.
On the whole, those two days were to Ethel a peaceful and comfortable time. She saw more than usual of her father, and had such conversations with him as were seldom practicable at home, and that chimed in with the unavowed care which hung on their minds; while Meta was a most sweet and loving charge, without being a burden, and often saying such beautiful things in her affectionate resignation, that Ethel could only admire and lay them up in her mind. Dr. May went backwards and forwards, and brought good accounts of Margaret and fond messages; he slept at the Grange each night, and Meta used to sit in the corner of the sofa and work, or not, as best suited her, while she listened to his talk with Ethel, and now and then herself joined.
George Rivers’s absence was a serious inconvenience in all arrangements; but his sister dreaded his grief as much as she wished for his return; and often were the posts and the journeys reckoned over, without a satisfactory conclusion, as to when he could arrive from so remote a part of Scotland.
At last, as the two girls had finished their early dinner, the butler brought in word that Mr. Norman May was there. Meta at once begged that he would come in, and Ethel went into the hall to meet him. He looked very wan, with the dark rings round his eyes a deeper purple than ever, and he could hardly find utterance to ask, “How is she?”
“As good and sweet as she can be,” said Ethel warmly; but no more, for Meta herself had come to the dining-room door, and was holding out her hand. Norman took it in both his, but could not speak; Meta’s own soft voice was the first. “I thought you would come—he was so fond of you.”
Poor Norman quite gave way, and Meta was the one to speak gentle words of soothing. “There is so much to be thankful for,” she said. “He has been spared so much of the suffering Dr. May feared for him; and he was so happy about George.”
Norman made a great effort to recover himself. Ethel asked for Flora and George. It appeared that they had been on an excursion when the first letter arrived at Glenbracken, and thus had received both together in the evening, on their return. George had been greatly overcome, and they had wished to set off instantly; but Lady Glenbracken would not hear of Flora’s travelling night and day, and it had at length been arranged that Norman Ogilvie should drive Norman across the country that evening, to catch the mail for Edinburgh, and he had been on the road ever since. George was following with his wife more slowly, and would be at home to-morrow evening. Meantime, he sent full authority to his father-in-law to make arrangements.
Ethel went to see the burned child, leaving Meta to take her walk in the garden under Norman’s charge. He waited on her with a sort of distant reverence for a form of grief, so unlike what he had dreaded for her, when the first shock of the tidings had brought back to him the shattered bewildered feelings to which he dared not recur.
To dwell on the details was, to her, a comfort, knowing his sympathy and the affection there had been between him and her father; nor had they parted in such absolute brightness, as to make them unprepared for such a meeting as the present. The cloud of suspense was brooding lower and lower over the May family, and the need of faith and submission was as great with them as with the young orphan herself. Norman said little, but that little was so deep and fervent, that after a time Meta could not help saying, when Ethel was seen in the distance, and their talk was nearly over, “Oh, Norman, these things are no mirage!”
“It is the world that is the mirage,” he answered. Ethel came up, and Dr. May also, in good time for the post. He was obliged to become very busy, using Norman for his secretary, till he saw his son’s eyes so heavy, that he remembered the two nights that he had been up, and ordered him to go home and go to bed as soon as tea was over.
“May I come back to-morrow?”
“Why—yes—I think you may. No, no,” he added, recollecting himself, “I think you had better not,” and he did not relent, though Norman looked disappointed.
Meta had already expressed her belief that her father would be buried at the suburban church, where lay her mother; and Dr. May, having been desired to seek out the will and open it, found it was so; and fixed the day and hour with Meta, who was as submissive and reasonable as possible, though much grieved that he thought she could not be present.
Ethel, after going with Meta to her room at night, returned as usual to talk matters over with him, and again say how good Meta was.
“And I think Norman’s coming did her a great deal of good,” said Ethel.
“Ha! yes,” said the doctor thoughtfully.
“She thinks so much of Mr. Rivers having been fond of him.”
“Yes,” said the doctor, “he was. I find, in glancing over the will, which was newly made on Flora’s marriage, that he has remembered Norman—left him £100 and his portfolio of prints by Raffaelle.”
“Has he, indeed?—how very kind, how much Norman will value it.”
“It is remarkable,” said Dr. May; and then, as if he could not help it, told Ethel what Mr. Rivers had said of his wishes with regard to his daughter. Ethel blushed and smiled, and looked so much touched and delighted, that he grew alarmed and said, “You know, Ethel, this must be as if it never had been mentioned.”
“What! you will not tell Norman?”
“No, certainly not, unless I see strong cause. They are very fond of each other, certainly, but they don’t know, and I don’t know, whether it is not like brother and sister. I would not have either of them guess at this, or feel bound in any way. Why, Ethel, she has thirty thousand pounds, and I don’t know how much more.”
“Thirty thousand!” said Ethel, her tone one of astonishment, while his had been almost of objection.
“It would open a great prospect,” continued Dr. May complacently; “with Norman’s talents, and such a lift as that, he might be one of the first men in England, provided he had nerve and hardness enough, which I doubt.”
“He would not care for it,” said Ethel.
“No; but the field of usefulness; but what an old fool I am, after all my resolutions not to be ambitious for that boy; to be set a-going by such a thing as this! Still Norman is something out of the common way. I wonder what Spencer thinks of him.”
“And you never mean them to hear of it?”
“If they settle it for themselves,” said Dr. May, “that sanction will come in to give double value to mine; or if I should see poor Norman hesitating as to the inequality, I might smooth the way; but you see, Ethel, this puts us in a most delicate situation towards this pretty little creature. What her father wanted was only to guard her from fortune-hunters, and if she should marry suitably elsewhere—why, we will be contented.”
“I don’t think I should be,” said Ethel.
“She is the most winning of humming-birds, and what we see of her now, gives one double confidence in her. She is so far from the petted, helpless girl that he, poor man, would fain have made her! And she has a bright, brave temper and elastic spirits that would be the very thing for him, poor boy, with that morbid sensitiveness—he would not hurt her, and she would brighten him. It would be a very pretty thing—but we must never think about it again.”
“If we can help it,” said Ethel.
“Ah! I am sorry I have put it into your head too. We shall not so easily be unconscious now, when they talk about each other in the innocent way they do. We have had a lesson against being pleased at match-making!” But, turning away from the subject, “You shall not lose your Cocksmoor income, Ethel—”
“I had never thought of that. You have taken no fees here since we have been all one family.”
“Well, he has been good enough to leave me £500, and Cocksmoor can have the interest, if you like.”
“Oh, thank you, papa.”
“It is only its due, for I suppose that is for attendance. Personally, to myself, he has left that beautiful Claude which he knew I admired so much. He has been very kind! But, after all, we ought not to be talking of all this—I should not have known it, if I had not been forced to read the will. Well, so we are in Flora’s house, Ethel! I wonder how poor dear little Meta will feel the being a guest here, instead of the mistress. I wish that boy were three or four years older! I should like to take her straight home with us—I should like to have her for a daughter. I shall always look on her as one.”
“As a Daisy!” said Ethel.
“Don’t talk of it!” said Dr. May hastily; “this is no time for such things. After all, I am glad that the funeral is not here—Flora and Meta might be rather overwhelmed with these three incongruous sets of relations. By their letters, those Riverses must be quite as queer a lot as George’s relations. After all, if we have nothing else, Ethel, we have the best of it, in regard to such relations as we have.”
“There is Lord Cosham,” said Ethel.
“Yes, he is Meta’s guardian, as well as her brother; but he could not have her to live with him. She must depend upon Flora. But we shall see.”
Ethel felt confident that Flora would be very kind to her little sister-in-law, and yet one of those gleams of doubt crossed her, whether Flora would not be somewhat jealous of her own authority.
Late the next evening, the carriage drove to the door, and George and Flora appeared in the hall. Their sisters went out to meet them, and George folded Meta in his arms, and kissing her again and again, called her his poor dear little sister, and wept bitterly, and even violently. Flora stood beside Ethel, and said, in a low voice, that poor George felt it dreadfully; and then came forward, touched him gently, and told him that he must not overset Meta; and, drawing her from him, kissed her, and said what a grievous time this had been for her, and how sorry they had been to leave her so long, but they knew she was in the best hands.
“Yes, I should have been so sorry you had been over-tired. I was quite well off,” said Meta.
“And you must look on us as your home,” added Flora.
“How can she?” thought Ethel. “This is taking possession, and making Meta a guest already!”
However, Meta did not seem so to feel it—she replied by caresses, and turned again to her brother. Poor George was by far the most struck down of all the mourners, and his whole demeanour gave his new relations a much warmer feeling towards him than they could ever have hoped to entertain. His gentle refined father had softly impressed his duller nature; and his want of attention and many extravagances came back upon him acutely now, in his changed home. He could hardly bear to look at his little orphan sister, and lavished every mark of fondness upon her; nor could he endure to sit at the bottom of his table; but when they had gone in to dinner, he turned away from the chair and hid his face. He was almost like a child in his want of self-restraint; and with all Dr. May’s kind soothing manner, he could not bring him to attend to any of the necessary questions as to arrangements, and was obliged to refer to Flora, whose composed good sense was never at fault.
Ethel was surprised to find that it would be a great distress to Meta to part with her until the funeral was over, though she would hardly express a wish lest Ethel should be needed at home. As soon as Flora perceived this, she begged her sister to stay, and again Ethel felt unpleasantly that Meta might have seen, if she had chosen, that Flora took the invitation upon herself.
So, while Dr. May, with George, Norman, and Tom, went to London, she remained, though not exactly knowing what good she was doing, unless by making the numbers rather less scanty; but both sisters declared her to be the greatest comfort possible; and when Meta shut herself up in her own room, where she had long learned to seek strength in still communing with her own heart, Flora seemed to find it a relief to call her sister to hers, and talk over ordinary subjects, in a tone that struck on Ethel’s ear as a little incongruous—but then Flora had not been here from the first, and the impression could not be as strong. She was very kind, and her manner, when with others, was perfect, from its complete absence of affectation; but, alone with Ethel, there was a little complacency sometimes betrayed, and some curiosity whether her father had read the will. Ethel allowed what she had heard of the contents to be extracted from her, and it certainly did not diminish Flora’s secret satisfaction in being ‘somebody’.
She told the whole history of her visits; first, how cordial Lady Leonora Langdale had been, and then, how happy she had been at Glenbracken. The old Lord and Lady, and Marjorie, all equally charming in their various ways; and Norman Ogilvie so good a son, and so highly thought of in his own country.
“Did I tell you, Ethel, that he desired to be remembered to you?”
“Yes, you said so.”
“What has Coralie done with it?” continued Flora, seeking in her dressing-case. “She must have put it away with my brooches. Oh, no, here it is. I had been looking for Cairngorm specimens in a shop, saying I wanted a brooch that you would wear, when Norman Ogilvie came riding after the carriage, looking quite hot and eager. He had been to some other place, and hunted this one up. Is it not a beauty?”
It was one of the round Bruce brooches, of dark pebble, with a silver fern-leaf lying across it, the dots of small Cairngorm stones. “The Glenbracken badge, you know,” continued Flora.
Ethel twisted it about in her fingers, and said, “Was not it meant for you?”