Pitch thy behaviour low, thy projects high,So shalt thou humble and magnanimous be;Sink not in spirit; who aimeth at the skyShoots higher much than he that means a tree.A grain of glory mixed with humbleness,Cures both a fever and lethargicness.HERBERT.
“Norman, do you feel up to a long day’s work?” said Dr. May, on the following morning. “I have to set off after breakfast to see old Mrs. Gould, and to be at Abbotstoke Grange by twelve; then I thought of going to Fordholm, and getting Miss Cleveland to give us some luncheon—there are some poor people on the way to look at; and that girl on Far-view Hill; and there’s another place to call in at coming home. You’ll have a good deal of sitting in the carriage, holding Whitefoot, so if you think you shall be cold or tired, don’t scruple to say so, and I’ll take Adams to drive me.”
“No, thank you,” said Norman briskly. “This frost is famous.”
“It will turn to rain, I expect—it is too white,” said the doctor, looking out at the window. “How will you get to Cocksmoor, good people?”
“Ethel won’t believe it rains unless it is very bad,” said Richard.
Norman set out with his father, and prosperously performed the expedition, arriving at Abbotstoke Grange at the appointed hour.
“Ha!” said the doctor, as the iron gates of ornamental scrollwork were swung back, “there’s a considerable change in this place since I was here last. Well kept up indeed! Not a dead leaf left under the old walnuts, and the grass looks as smooth as if they had a dozen gardeners rolling it every day.”
“And the drive,” said Norman, “more like a garden walk than a road! But oh! what a splendid cedar!”
“Isn’t it! I remember that as long as I remember anything. All this fine rolling of turf, and trimming up of the place, does not make much difference to you, old fellow, does it? You don’t look altered since I saw you last, when old Jervis was letting the place go to rack and ruin. So they have a new entrance—very handsome conservatory—flowers—the banker does things in style. There,” as Norman helped him off with his plaid, “wrap yourself up well, don’t get cold. The sun is gone in, and I should not wonder if the rain were coming after all. I’ll not be longer than I can help.”
Dr. May disappeared from his son’s sight through the conservatory, where, through the plate-glass, the exotics looked so fresh and perfumy, that Norman almost fancied that the scent reached him. “How much poor Margaret would enjoy one of those camellias,” thought he, “and these people have bushels of them for mere show. If I were papa, I should be tempted to be like Beauty’s father, and carry off one. How she would admire it!”
Norman had plenty of time to meditate on the camellias, and then to turn and speculate on the age of the cedar, whether it could have been planted by the monks of Stoneborough Abbey, to whom the Grange had belonged, brought from Lebanon by a pilgrim, perhaps; and then he tried to guess at the longevity of cedars, and thought of asking Margaret, the botanist of the family. Then he yawned, moved the horse a little about, opined that Mr. Rivers must be very prosy, or have some abstruse complaint, considered the sky, and augured rain, buttoned another button of his rough coat, and thought of Miss Cleveland’s dinner. Then he thought there was a very sharp wind, and drove about till he found a sheltered place on the lee side of the great cedar, looked up at it, and thought it would be a fine subject for verses, if Mr. Wilmot knew of it, and then proceeded to consider what he should make of them.
In the midst he was suddenly roused by the deep-toned note of a dog, and beheld a large black Newfoundland dog leaping about the horse in great indignation. “Rollo! Rollo!” called a clear young voice, and he saw two ladles returning from a walk. Rollo, at the first call, galloped back to his mistress, and was evidently receiving an admonition, and promising good behaviour. The two ladies entered the house, while he lay down on the step, with his lion-like paw hanging down, watching Norman with a brilliant pair of hazel eyes. Norman, after a little more wondering when Mr. Rivers would have done with his father, betook himself to civil demonstrations to the creature, who received them with dignity, and presently, after acknowledging with his tail, various whispers of “Good old fellow,” and “Here, old Rollo!” having apparently satisfied himself that the young gentleman was respectable, he rose, and vouchsafed to stand up with his forepaws in the gig, listening amiably to Norman’s delicate flatteries. Norman even began to hope to allure him into jumping on the seat: but a great bell rang, and Rollo immediately turned round, and dashed off, at full speed, to some back region of the house. “So, old fellow, you know what the dinner-bell means,” thought Norman. “I hope Mr. Rivers is hungry too. Miss Cleveland will have eaten up her whole luncheon, if this old bore won’t let my father go soon! I hope he is desperately ill—‘tis his only excuse! Heigh ho! I must jump out to warm my feet soon! There, there’s a drop of rain! Well, there’s no end to it! I wonder what Ethel is doing about Cocksmoor! It is setting in for a wet afternoon!” and Norman disconsolately put up his umbrella.
At last Dr. May and another gentleman were seen in the conservatory, and Norman gladly proceeded to clear the seat; but Dr. May called out, “Jump out, Norman, Mr. Rivers is so kind as to ask us to stay to luncheon.”
With boyish shrinking from strangers, Norman privately wished Mr. Rivers at Jericho, as he gave the reins to a servant, and entered the conservatory, where a kindly hand was held out to him by a gentleman of about fifty, with a bald smooth forehead, soft blue eyes, and gentle pleasant face. “Is this your eldest son?” said he, turning to Dr. May—and the manner of both was as if they were already well acquainted. “No, this is my second. The eldest is not quite such a long-legged fellow,” said Dr. May. And then followed the question addressed to Norman himself, where he was at school.
“At Stoneborough,” said Norman, a little amused at the thought how angry Ethel and Harry would be that the paragraph of the county paper, where “N. W. May” was recorded as prizeman and foremost in the examination, had not penetrated even to Abbotstoke Grange, or rather to its owner’s memory.
However, his father could not help adding, “He is the head of the school—a thing we Stoneborough men think much of.”
This, and Mr. Rivers’s civil answer, made Norman so hot, that he did not notice much in passing through a hall full of beautiful vases, stuffed birds, busts, etc., tastefully arranged, and he did not look up till they were entering a handsome dining-room, where a small square table was laid out for luncheon near a noble fire.
The two ladies were there, and Mr. Rivers introduced them as his daughter and Mrs. Larpent. It was the most luxurious meal that Norman had ever seen, the plate, the porcelain, and all the appointments of the table so elegant, and the viands, all partaking of the Christmas character, and of a recherche delicate description quite new to him. He had to serve as his father’s right hand, and was so anxious to put everything as Dr. May liked it, and without attracting notice, that he hardly saw or listened till Dr. May began to admire a fine Claude on the opposite wall, and embarked in a picture discussion. The doctor had much taste for art, and had made the most of his opportunities of seeing paintings during his time of study at Paris, and in a brief tour to Italy. Since that time, few good pictures had come in his way, and these were a great pleasure to him, while Mr. Rivers, a regular connoisseur, was delighted to meet with one who could so well appreciate them. Norman perceived how his father was enjoying the conversation, and was much interested both by the sight of the first fine paintings he had ever seen, and by the talk about their merits; but the living things in the room had more of his attention and observation, especially the young lady who sat at the head of the table; a girl about his own age; she was on a very small scale, and seemed to him like a fairy, in the airy lightness and grace of her movements, and the blithe gladsomeness of her gestures and countenance. Form and features, though perfectly healthful and brisk, had the peculiar finish and delicacy of a miniature painting, and were enhanced by the sunny glance of her dark soft smiling eyes. Her hair was in black silky braids, and her dress, with its gaiety of well-assorted colour, was positively refreshing to his eye, so long accustomed to the deep mourning of his sisters. A little Italian greyhound, perfectly white, was at her side, making infinite variations of the line of beauty and grace, with its elegant outline, and S-like tail, as it raised its slender nose in hopes of a fragment of bread which she from time to time dispensed to it.
Luncheon over, Mr. Rivers asked Dr. May to step into his library, and Norman guessed that they had been talking all this time, and had never come to the medical opinion. However, a good meal and a large fire made a great difference in his toleration, and it was so new a scene, that he had no objection to a prolonged waiting, especially when Mrs. Larpent said, in a very pleasant tone, “Will you come into the drawing-room with us?”
He felt somewhat as if he was walking in enchanted ground as he followed her into the large room, the windows opening into the conservatory, the whole air fragrant with flowers, the furniture and ornaments so exquisite of their kind, and all such a fit scene for the beautiful little damsel, who, with her slender dog by her side, tripped on demurely, and rather shyly, but with a certain skipping lightness in her step. A very tall overgrown schoolboy did Norman feel himself for one bashful moment, when he found himself alone with the two ladies; but he was ready to be set at ease by Mrs. Larpent’s good-natured manner, when she said something of Rollo’s discourtesy. He smiled, and answered that he had made great friends with the fine old dog, and spoke of his running off to the dinner, at which little Miss Rivers laughed, and looked delighted, and began to tell of Rollo’s perfections and intelligence. Norman ventured to inquire the name of the little Italian, and was told it was Nipen, because it had once stolen a cake, much like the wind-spirit in Feats on the Fiord. Its beauty and tricks were duly displayed, and a most beautiful Australian parrot was exhibited, Mrs. Larpent taking full interest in the talk, in so lively and gentle a manner, and she and her pretty pupil evidently on such sister-like terms, that Norman could hardly believe her to be the governess, when he thought of Miss Winter.
Miss Rivers took up some brown leaves which she was cutting out with scissors, and shaping. “Our holiday work,” said Mrs. Larpent, in answer to the inquiring look of Norman’s eyes. “Meta has been making a drawing for her papa, and is framing it in leather-work. Have you ever seen any?”
“Never!” and Norman looked eagerly, asking questions, and watching while Miss Rivers cut out her ivy leaf and marked its veins, and showed how she copied it from nature. He thanked her, saying, “I wanted to learn all about it, for I thought it would be such nice work for my eldest sister.”
A glance of earnest interest from little Meta’s bright eyes at her governess, and Mrs. Larpent, in a kind, soft tone that quite gained his heart, asked, “Is she the invalid?”
“Yes,” said Norman. “New fancy work is a great gain to her.”
Mrs. Larpent’s sympathetic questions, and Meta’s softening eyes, gradually drew from him a great deal about Margaret’s helpless state, and her patience, and capabilities, and how every one came to her with all their cares; and Norman, as he spoke, mentally contrasted the life, untouched by trouble and care, led by the fair girl before him, with that atmosphere of constant petty anxieties round her namesake’s couch, at years so nearly the same.
“How very good she must be,” said little Meta, quickly and softly; and a tear was sparkling on her eyelashes.
“She is indeed,” said Norman earnestly. “I don’t know what papa would do but for her.”
Mrs. Larpent asked kind questions whether his father’s arm was very painful, and the hopes of its cure; and he felt as if she was a great friend already. Thence they came to books. Norman had not read for months past, but it happened that Meta was just now reading Woodstock, with which he was of course familiar; and both grew eager in discussing that and several others. Of one, Meta spoke in such terms of delight, that Norman thought it had been very stupid of him to let it lie on the table for the last fortnight without looking into it.
He was almost sorry to see his father and Mr. Rivers come in, and hear the carriage ordered, but they were not off yet, though the rain was now only Scotch mist. Mr. Rivers had his most choice little pictures still to display, his beautiful early Italian masters, finished like illuminations, and over these there was much lingering and admiring. Meta had whispered something to her governess, who smiled, and advanced to Norman. “Meta wishes to know if your sister would like to have a few flowers?” said she.
No sooner said than done; the door into the conservatory was opened, and Meta, cutting sprays of beautiful geranium, delicious heliotrope, fragrant calycanthus, deep blue tree violet, and exquisite hothouse ferns; perfect wonders to Norman, who, at each addition to the bouquet, exclaimed by turns, “Oh, thank you!” and, “How she will like it!”
Her father reached a magnolia blossom from on high, and the quick warm grateful emotion trembled in Dr. May’s features and voice, as he said, “It is very kind in you; you have given my poor girl a great treat. Thank you with all my heart.”
Margaret Rivers cast down her eyes, half smiled, and shrank back, thinking she had never felt anything like the left-handed grasp, so full of warmth and thankfulness. It gave her confidence to venture on the one question on which she was bent. Her father was in the hall, showing Norman his Greek nymph; and lifting her eyes to Dr. May’s face, then casting them down, she coloured deeper than ever, as she said, in a stammering whisper, “Oh, please—if you would tell me—do you think—is papa very ill?”
Dr. May answered in his softest, most reassuring tones: “You need not be alarmed about him, I assure you. You must keep him from too much business,” he added, smiling; “make him ride with you, and not let him tire himself, and I am sure you can be his best doctor.”
“But do you think,” said Meta, earnestly looking up—“do you think he will be quite well again?”
“You must not expect doctors to be absolute oracles,” said he. “I will tell you what I told him—I hardly think his will ever be sound health again, but I see no reason why he should not have many years of comfort, and there is no cause for you to disquiet yourself on his account—you have only to be careful of him.”
Meta tried to say “thank you,” but not succeeding, looked imploringly at her governess, who spoke for her. “Thank you, it is a great relief to have an opinion, for we were not at all satisfied about Mr. Rivers.”
A few words more, and Meta was skipping about like a sprite finding a basket for the flowers—she had another shake of the hand, another grateful smile, and “thank you,” from the doctor; and then, as the carriage disappeared, Mrs. Larpent exclaimed, “What a very nice intelligent boy that was.”
“Particularly gentlemanlike,” said Mr. Rivers. “Very clever—the head of the school, as his father tells me—and so modest and unassuming—though I see his father is very proud of him.”
“Oh, I am sure they are so fond of each other,” said Meta: “didn’t you see his attentive ways to his father at luncheon! And, papa, I am sure you must like Dr. May, Mr. Wilmot’s doctor, as much as I said you would.”
“He is the most superior man I have met with for a long time,” said Mr. Rivers. “It is a great acquisition to find a man of such taste and acquirements in this country neighbourhood, when there is not another who can tell a Claude from a Poussin. I declare, when once we began talking, there was no leaving off—I have not met a person of so much conversation since I left town. I thought you would like to see him, Meta.”
“I hope I shall know the Miss Mays some time or other.”
“That is the prettiest little fairy I ever did see!” was Dr. May’s remark, as Norman drove from the door.
“How good-natured they are!” said Norman; “I just said something about Margaret, and she gave me all these flowers. How Margaret will be delighted! I wish the girls could see it all!”
“So you got on well with the ladies, did you?”
“They were very kind to me. It was very pleasant!” said Norman, with a tone of enjoyment that did his father’s heart good.
“I was glad you should come in. Such a curiosity shop is a sight, and those pictures were some of them well worth seeing. That was a splendid Titian.”
“That cast of the Pallas of the Parthenon—how beautiful it was—I knew it from the picture in Smith’s dictionary. Mr. Rivers said he would show me all his antiques if you would bring me again.”
“I saw he liked your interest in them. He is a good, kind-hearted dilettante sort of old man; he has got all the talk of the literary, cultivated society in London, and must find it dullish work here.”
“You liked him, didn’t you?”
“He is very pleasant; I found he knew my old friend, Benson, whom I had not seen since we were at Cambridge together, and we got on that and other matters; London people have an art of conversation not learned here, and I don’t know how the time slipped away; but you must have been tolerably tired of waiting.”
“Not to signify,” said Norman. “I only began to think he must be very ill; I hope there is not much the matter with him.”
“I can’t say. I am afraid there is organic disease, but I think it may be kept quiet a good while yet, and he may have a pleasant life for some time to come, arranging his prints, and petting his pretty daughter. He has plenty to fall back upon.”
“Do you go there again?”
“Yes, next week. I am glad of it. I shall like to have another look at that little Madonna of his—it is the sort of picture that does one good to carry away in one’s eye. Whay! Stop. There’s an old woman in here. It is too late for Fordholm, but these cases won’t wait.”
He went into the cottage, and soon returned, saying, “Fine new blankets, and a great kettle of soup, and such praises of the ladies at the Grange!” And, at the next house, it was the same story. “Well, ‘tis no mockery now to tell the poor creatures they want nourishing food. Slices of meat and bottles of port wine rain down on Abbotstoke.”
A far more talkative journey than usual ensued; the discussion of the paintings and antiques was almost equally delightful to the father and son, and lasted till, about a mile from Stoneborough, they descried three figures in the twilight.
“Ha! How are you, Wilmot? So you braved the rain, Ethel. Jump in,” called the doctor, as Norman drew up.
“I shall crowd you—I shall hurt your arm, papa; thank you.”
“No, you won’t—jump in—there’s room for three thread-papers in one gig. Why, Wilmot, your brother has a very jewel of a squire! How did you fare?”
“Very well on the whole,” was Mr. Wllmot’s answer, while Ethel scrambled in, and tried to make herself small, an art in which she was not very successful; and Norman gave an exclamation of horrified warning, as she was about to step into the flower-basket; then she nearly tumbled out again in dismay, and was relieved to find herself safely wedged in, without having done any harm, while her father called out to Mr. Wilmot, as they started, “I say! You are coming back to tea with us.”
That cheerful tone, and the kindness to herself, were a refreshment and revival to Ethel, who was still sobered and shocked by her yesterday’s adventure, and by the sense of her father’s sorrowful displeasure. Expecting further to be scolded for getting in so awkwardly, she did not venture to volunteer anything, and even when he kindly said, “I hope you were prosperous in your expedition,” she only made answer, in a very grave voice, “Yes, papa, we have taken a very nice tidy room.”
“What do you pay for it?”
“Fourpence for each time.”
“Well, here’s for you,” said Dr. May. “It is only two guineas to-day; that banker at the Grange beguiled us of our time, but you had better close the bargain for him, Ethel—he will be a revenue for you, for this winter at least.”
“Oh, thank you, papa,” was all Ethel could say; overpowered by his kindness, and more repressed by what she felt so unmerited, than she would have been by coldness, she said few words, and preferred listening to Norman, who began to describe their adventures at the Grange.
All her eagerness revived, however, as she sprang out of the carriage, full of tidings for Margaret; and it was almost a race between her and Norman to get upstairs, and unfold their separate budgets.
Margaret’s lamp had just been lighted, when they made their entrance, Norman holding the flowers on high.
“Oh, how beautiful! how delicious! For me? Where did you get them?”
“From Abbotstoke Grange; Miss Rivers sent them to you.”
“How very kind! What a lovely geranium, and oh, that fern! I never saw anything so choice. How came she to think of me?”
“They asked me in because it rained, and she was making the prettiest things, leather leaves and flowers for picture frames. I thought it was work that would just suit you, and learned how to do it. That made them ask about you, and it ended by her sending you this nosegay.”
“How very kind everybody is! Well, Ethel, are you come home too?”
“Papa picked me up. Oh, Margaret, we have found such a nice room, a clean sanded kitchen—”
“You never saw such a conservatory—”
“And it is to be let to us for fourpence a time—”
“The house is full of beautiful things, pictures and statues. Only think of a real Titian, and a cast of the Apollo!”
“Twenty children to begin with, and Richard is going to make some forms.”
“Mr. Rivers is going to show me all his casts.”
“Oh, is he? But only think how lucky we were to find such a nice woman; Mr. Wilmot was so pleased with her.”
Norman found one story at a time was enough, and relinquished the field, contenting himself with silently helping Margaret to arrange the flowers, holding the basket for her, and pleased with her gestures of admiration. Ethel went on with her history. “The first place we thought of would not do at all; the woman said she would not take half-a-crown a week to have a lot of children stabbling about, as she called it; so we went to another house, and there was a very nice woman indeed, Mrs. Green, with one little boy, whom she wanted to send to school, only it is too far. She says she always goes to church at Fordholm because it is nearer, and she is quite willing to let us have the room. So we settled it, and next Friday we are to begin. Papa has given us two guineas, and that will pay for, let me see, a hundred and twenty-six times, and Mr. Wilmot is going to give us some books, and Ritchie will print some alphabets. We told a great many of the people, and they are so glad. Old Granny Hall said, ‘Well, I never!’ and told the girls they must be as good as gold now the gentlefolks was coming to teach them. Mr. Wilmot is coming with us every Friday as long as the holidays last.”
Ethel departed on her father’s coming in to ask Margaret if she would like to have a visit from Mr. Wilmot. She enjoyed this very much, and he sat there nearly an hour, talking of many matters, especially the Cocksmoor scheme, on which she was glad to hear his opinion at first hand.
“I am very glad you think well of it,” she said. “It is most desirable that something should be done for those poor people, and Richard would never act rashly; but I have longed for advice whether it was right to promote Ethel’s undertaking. I suppose Richard told you how bent on it she was, long before papa was told of it.”
“He said it was her great wish, and had been so for a long time past.”
Margaret, in words more adequate to express the possession the project had gained of Ethel’s ardent mind, explained the whole history of it. “I do believe she looks on it as a sort of call,” said she, “and I have felt as if I ought not to hinder her, and yet I did not know whether it was right, at her age, to let her undertake so much.”
“I understand,” said Mr. Wilmot, “but, from what I have seen of Ethel, I should think you had decided rightly. There seems to me to be such a spirit of energy in her, that if she does not act, she will either speculate and theorise, or pine and prey on herself. I do believe that hard homely work, such as this school-keeping, is the best outlet for what might otherwise run to extravagance—more especially as you say the hope of it has already been an incentive to improvement in home duties.”
“That I am sure it has,” said Margaret.
“Moreover,” said Mr. Wilmot, “I think you were quite right in thinking that to interfere with such a design was unsafe. I do believe that a great deal of harm is done by prudent friends, who dread to let young people do anything out of the common way, and so force their aspirations to ferment and turn sour, for want of being put to use.”
“Still girls are told they ought to wait patiently, and not to be eager for self-imposed duties.”
“I am not saying that it is not the appointed discipline for the girls themselves,” said Mr. Wilmot. “If they would submit, and do their best, it would doubtless prove the most beneficial thing for them; but it is a trial in which they often fail, and I had rather not be in the place of such friends.”
“It is a great puzzle!” said Margaret, sighing.
“Ah! I dare say you are often perplexed,” said her friend kindly.
“Indeed I am. There are so many little details that I cannot be always teasing papa with, and yet which I do believe form the character more than the great events, and I never know whether I act for the best. And there are so many of us, so many duties, I cannot half attend to any. Lately, I have been giving up almost everything to keep this room quiet for Norman in the morning, because he was so much harassed and hurt by bustle and confusion, and I found to-day that things have gone wrong in consequence.”
“You must do the best you can, and try to trust that while you work in the right spirit, your failures will be compensated,” said Mr. Wilmot. “It is a hard trial.”
“I like your understanding it,” said Margaret, smiling sadly. “I don’t know whether it is silly, but I don’t like to be pitied for the wrong thing. My being so helpless is what every one laments over; but, after all, that is made up to me by the petting and kindness I get from all of them; but it is the being mistress of the house, and having to settle for every one, without knowing whether I do right or wrong, that is my trouble.”
“I am not sure, however, that it is right to call it a trouble, though it is a trial.”
“I see what you mean,” said Margaret. “I ought to be thankful. I know it is an honour, and I am quite sure I should be grieved if they did not all come to me and consult me as they do. I had better not have complained, and yet I am glad I did, for I like you to understand my difficulties.”
“And, indeed, I wish to enter into them, and do or say anything in my power to help you. But I don’t know anything that can be of so much comfort as the knowledge that He who laid the burden on you, will help you to bear it.”
“Yes,” said Margaret, pausing; and then, with a sweet look, though a heavy sigh, she said, “It is very odd how things turn out! I always had a childish fancy that I would be useful and important, but I little thought how it would be! However, as long as Richard is in the house, I always feel secure about the others, and I shall soon be downstairs myself. Don’t you think dear papa in better spirits?”
“I thought so to-day,”—and here the doctor returned, talking of Abbotstoke Grange, where he had certainly been much pleased. “It was a lucky chance,” he said, “that they brought Norman in. It was exactly what I wanted to rouse and interest him, and he took it all in so well, that I am sure they were pleased with him. I thought he looked a very lanky specimen of too much leg and arm when I called him in, but he has such good manners, and is so ready and understanding, that they could not help liking him. It was fortunate I had him instead of Richard—Ritchie is a very good fellow, certainly, but he had rather look at a steam-engine, any day, than at Raphael himself.”
Norman had his turn by-and-by. He came up after tea, reporting that papa was fast asleep in his chair, and the others would go on about Cocksmoor till midnight, if they were let alone; and made up for his previous yielding to Ethel, by giving, with much animation, and some excitement, a glowing description of the Grange, so graphic, that Margaret said she could almost fancy she had been there.
“Oh, Margaret, I wonder if you ever will! I would give something for you to see the beautiful conservatory. It is a real bower for a maiden of romance, with its rich green fragrance in the midst of winter. It is like a picture in a dream. One could imagine it a fairy land, where no care, or grief, or weariness could come, all choice beauty and sweetness waiting on the creature within. I can hardly believe that it is a real place, and that I have seen it.”
“Though you have brought these pretty tokens that your fairy is as good as she is fair!” said Margaret, smiling.
EVANS. Peace your tattlings. What is fair, William?WILLIAM. PULCHER.QUICKLY. Poulcats! there are fairer things than poulcats sure!EVANS. I pray you have your remembrance, child, accusativeHING HANG HOG.QUICKLY. HANG HOG is Latin for bacon, I warrant you.SHAKESPEARE.
In a large family it must often happen, that since every member of it cannot ride the same hobby, nor at the same time, their several steeds must sometimes run counter to each other; and so Ethel found it, one morning when Miss Winter, having a bad cold, had given her an unwonted holiday.
Mr. Wilmot had sent a large parcel of books for her to choose from for Cocksmoor, but this she could not well do without consultation. The multitude bewildered her, she was afraid of taking too many or too few, and the being brought to these practical details made her sensible that though her schemes were very grand and full for future doings, they passed very lightly over the intermediate ground. The Paulo post fulurum was a period much more developed in her imagination than the future, that the present was flowing into.
Where was her coadjutor, Richard? Writing notes for papa, and not to be disturbed. She had better have waited tranquilly, but this would not suit her impatience, and she ran up to Margaret’s room. There she found a great display of ivy leaves, which Norman, who had been turning half the shops in the town upside down in search of materials, was instructing her to imitate in leather-work—a regular mania with him, and apparently the same with Margaret.
In came Ethel. “Oh, Margaret, will you look at these ‘First Truths?’ Do you think they would be easy enough? Shall I take some of the Parables and Miracles at once, or content myself with the book about ‘Jane Sparks?’”
“There’s some very easy reading in ‘Jane Sparks’, isn’t there? I would not make the little books from the New Testament too common.”
“Take care, that leaf has five points,” said Norman.
“Shall I bring you up ‘Jane Sparks’ to see? Because then you can judge,” said Ethel.
“There, Norman, is that right?—what a beauty! I should like to look over them by-and-by, dear Ethel, very much.”
Ethel gazed and went away, more put out than was usual with her. “When Margaret has a new kind of fancy work,” she thought, “she cares for nothing else! as if my poor children did not signify more than trumpery leather leaves!” She next met Flora.
“Oh, Flora, see here, what a famous parcel of books Mr. Wilmot has sent us to choose from.”
“All those!” said Flora, turning them over as they lay heaped on the drawing-room sofa; “what a confusion!”
“See, such a parcel of reading books. I want to know what you think of setting them up with ‘Jane Sparks’, as it is week-day teaching.”
“You will be very tired of hearing those spelled over for ever; they have some nicer books at the national school.”
“What is the name of them? Do you see any of them here?”
“No, I don’t think I do, but I can’t wait to look now. I must write some letters. You had better put them together a little. If you were to sort them, you would know what is there. Now, what a mess they are in.”
Ethel could not deny it, and began to deal them out in piles, looking somewhat more fitting, but still felt neglected and aggrieved, at no one being at leisure but Harry, who was not likely to be of any use to her.
Presently she heard the study door open, and hoped; but though it was Richard who entered the room, he was followed by Tom, and each held various books that boded little good to her. Miss Winter had, much to her own satisfaction, been relieved from the charge of Tom, whose lessons Richard had taken upon himself; and thus Ethel had heard so little about them for a long time past, that even in her vexation and desire to have them over, she listened with interest, desirous to judge what sort of place Tom might be likely to take in school.
She did not perceive that this made Richard nervous and uneasy. He had a great dislike to spectators of Latin lessons; he never had forgotten an unlucky occasion, some years back, when his father was examining him in the Georgics, and he, dull by nature, and duller by confusion and timidity, had gone on rendering word for word—enim for, seges a crop, lini of mud, urit burns, campum the field, avenae a crop of pipe, urit burns it; when Norman and Ethel had first warned him of the beauty of his translation by an explosion of laughing, when his father had shut the book with a bounce, shaken his head in utter despair, and told him to give up all thoughts of doing anything—and when Margaret had cried with vexation. Since that time, he had never been happy when any one was in earshot of a lesson; but to-day he had no escape—Harry lay on the rug reading, and Ethel sat forlorn over her books on the sofa. Tom, however, was bright enough, declined his Greek nouns irreproachably, and construed his Latin so well, that Ethel could not help putting in a word or two of commendation, and auguring the third form. “Do let him off the parsing, Ritchie,” said she coaxingly—“he has said it so well, and I want you so much.”
“I am afraid I must not,” said Richard; who, to her surprise, did not look pleased or satisfied with the prosperous translation; “but come, Tom, you shan’t have many words, if you really know them.”
Tom twisted and looked rather cross, but when asked to parse the word viribus, answered readily and correctly.
“Very well, only two more—affuit?”
“Third person singular, praeter perfect tense of the verb affo, affis, affui, affere,” gabbled off Tom with such confidence, that though Ethel gave an indignant jump, Richard was almost startled into letting it pass, and disbelieving himself. He remonstrated in a somewhat hesitating voice. “Did you find that in the dictionary?” said he; “I thought affui came from adsum.”
“Oh, to be sure, stupid fool of a word, so it does!” said Tom hastily. “I had forgot—adsum, ades, affui, adesse.”
Richard said no more, but proposed the word oppositus.
“Adjective.”
Ethel was surprised, for she remembered that it was, in this passage, part of a passive verb, which Tom had construed correctly, “it was objected,” and she had thought this very creditable to him, whereas he now evidently took it for opposite; however, on Richard’s reading the line, he corrected himself and called it a participle, but did not commit himself further, till asked for its derivation.
“From oppositor.”
“Hallo!” cried Harry, who hitherto had been abstracted in his book, but now turned, raised himself on his elbow, and, at the blunder, shook his thick yellow locks, and showed his teeth like a young lion.
“No, now, Tom, pay attention,” said Richard resignedly. “If you found out its meaning, you must have seen its derivation.”
“Oppositus,” said Tom, twisting his fingers, and gazing first at Ethel, then at Harry, in hopes of being prompted, then at the ceiling and floor, the while he drawled out the word with a whine, “why, oppositus from op-posor.”
“A poser! ain’t it?” said Harry.
“Don’t, Harry, you distract him,” said Richard. “Come, Tom, say at once whether you know it or not—it is of no use to invent.”
“From op-” and a mumble.
“What? I don’t hear—op—”
Tom again looked for help to Harry, who made a mischievous movement of his lips, as if prompting, and, deceived by it, he said boldly, “From op-possum.”
“That’s right! let us hear him decline it!” cried Harry, in an ecstasy. “Oppossum, opottis, opposse, or oh-pottery!”
“Harry,” said Richard, in a gentle reasonable voice, “I wish you would be so kind as not to stay, if you cannot help distracting him.”
And Harry, who really had a tolerable share of forbearance and consideration, actually obeyed, contenting himself with tossing his book into the air and catching it again, while he paused at the door to give his last unsolicited assistance. “Decline oppossum you say. I’ll tell you how: O-possum re-poses up a gum tree. O-pot-you-I will, says the O-posse of Yankees, come out to ketch him. Opossum poses them and declines in O-pot-esse by any manner of means of o-potting-di-do-dum, was quite oppositum-oppotitu, in fact, quite contrairy.”
Richard, with the gravity of a victim, heard this sally of schoolboy wit, which threw Ethel back on the sofa in fits of laughing, and declaring that the Opossum declined, not that he was declined; but, in the midst of the disturbance thus created, Tom stepped up to her, and whispered, “Do tell me, Ethel!”
“Indeed I shan’t,” said she. “Why don’t you say fairly if you don’t know?”
He was obliged to confess his ignorance, and Richard made him conjugate the whole verb opponor from beginning to end, in which he wanted a good deal of help.
Ethel could not help saying, “How did you find out the meaning of that word, Tom, if you didn’t look out the verb?”
“I—don’t know,” drawled Tom, in the voice, half sullen, half piteous, which he always assumed when out of sorts.
“It is very odd,” she said decidedly; but Richard took no notice, and proceeded to the other lessons, which went off tolerably well, except the arithmetic, where there was some great misunderstanding, into which Ethel did not enter for some time. When she did attend, she perceived that Tom had brought a right answer, without understanding the working of the sum, and that Richard was putting him through it. She began to be worked into a state of dismay and indignation at Tom’s behaviour, and Richard’s calm indifference, which made her almost forget ‘Jane Sparks’, and long to be alone with Richard; but all the world kept coming into the room, and going out, and she could not say what was in her mind till after dinner, when, seeing Richard go up into Margaret’s room, she ran after him, and entering it, surprised Margaret, by not beginning on her books, but saying at once, “Ritchie, I wanted to speak to you about Tom. I am sure he shuffled about those lessons.”
“I am afraid he does,” said Richard, much concerned.
“What, do you mean that it is often so?”
“Much too often,” said Richard; “but I have never been able to detect him; he is very sharp, and has some underhand way of preparing his lessons that I cannot make out.”
“Did you know it, Margaret?” said Ethel, astonished not to see her sister looked shocked as well as sorry.
“Yes,” said Margaret, “Ritchie and I have often talked it over, and tried to think what was to be done.”
“Dear me! why don’t you tell papa? It is such a terrible thing!”
“So it is,” said Margaret, “but we have nothing positive or tangible to accuse Tom of; we don’t know what he does, and have never caught him out.”
“I am sure he must have found out the meaning of that oppositum in some wrong way—if he had looked it out, he would only have found opposite. Nothing but opponor could have shown him the rendering which he made.”
“That’s like what I have said almost every day,” said Richard, “but there we are—I can’t get any further.”
“Perhaps he guesses by the context,” said Margaret.
“It would be impossible to do so always,” said both the Latin scholars at once.
“Well, I can’t think how you can take it so quietly,” said Ethel. “I would have told papa the first moment, and put a stop to it. I have a great mind to do so, if you won’t.
“Ethel, Ethel, that would never do!” exclaimed Margaret, “pray don’t. Papa would be so dreadfully grieved and angry with poor Tom.”
“Well, so he deserves,” said Ethel.
“You don’t know what it is to see papa angry,” said Richard.
“Dear me, Richard!” cried Ethel, who thought she knew pretty well what his sharp words were. “I’m sure papa never was angry with me, without making me love him more, and, at least, want to be better.”
“You are a girl,” said Richard.
“You are higher spirited, and shake off things faster,” said Margaret.
“Why, what do you think he would do to Tom?”
“I think he would be so very angry, that Tom, who, you know, is timid and meek, would be dreadfully frightened,” said Richard.
“That’s just what he ought to be, frightened out of these tricks.”
“I am afraid it would frighten him into them still more,” said Richard, “and perhaps give him such a dread of my father as would prevent him from ever being open with him.”
“Besides, it would make papa so very unhappy,” added Margaret. “Of course, if poor dear Tom had been found out in any positive deceit, we ought to mention it at once, and let him be punished; but while it is all vague suspicion, and of what papa has such a horror of, it would only grieve him, and make him constantly anxious, without, perhaps, doing Tom any good.”
“I think all that is expediency,” said Ethel, in her bluff, abrupt way.
“Besides,” said Richard, “we have nothing positive to accuse him of, and if we had, it would be of no use. He will be at school in three weeks, and there he would be sure to shirk, even if he left it off here. Every one does, and thinks nothing of it.”
“Richard!” cried both sisters, shocked. “You never did?”
“No, we didn’t, but most others do, and not bad fellows either. It is not the way of boys to think much of those things.”
“It is mean—it is dishonourable—it is deceitful!” cried Ethel.
“I know it is very wrong, but you’ll never get the general run of boys to think so,” said Richard.
“Then Tom ought not to go to school at all till he is well armed against it,” said Ethel.
“That can’t be helped,” said Richard. “He will get clear of it in time, when he knows better.”
“I will talk to him,” said Margaret, “and, indeed, I think it would be better than worrying papa.”
“Well,” said Ethel, “of course I shan’t tell, because it is not my business, but I think papa ought to know everything about us, and I don’t like your keeping anything back. It is being almost as bad as Tom himself.”
With which words, as Flora entered, Ethel marched out of the room in displeasure, and went down, resolved to settle Jane Sparks by herself.
“Ethel is out of sorts to-day,” said Flora. “What’s the matter?”
“We have had a discussion,” said Margaret. “She has been terribly shocked by finding out what we have often thought about poor little Tom, and she thinks we ought to tell papa. Her principle is quite right, but I doubt—”
“I know exactly how Ethel would do it!” cried Flora; “blurt out all on a sudden, ‘Papa, Tom cheats at his lessons!’ then there would be a tremendous uproar, papa would scold Tom till he almost frightened him out of his wits, and then find out it was only suspicion.”
“And never have any comfort again,” said Margaret. “He would always dread that Tom was deceiving him, and then think it was all for want of—Oh, no, it will never do to speak of it, unless we find out some positive piece of misbehaviour.”
“Certainly,” said Flora.
“And it would do Tom no good to make him afraid of papa,” said Richard.
“Ethel’s rule is right in principle,” said Margaret thoughtfully, “that papa ought to know all without reserve, and yet it will hardly do in practice. One must use discretion, and not tease him about every little thing. He takes them so much to heart, that he would be almost distracted; and, with so much business abroad, I think at home he should have nothing but rest, and, as far as we can, freedom from care and worry. Anything wrong about the children brings on the grief so much, that I cannot bear to mention it.”
Richard and Flora agreed with her, admiring the spirit which made her, in her weakness and helplessness, bear the whole burden of family cares alone, and devote herself entirely to spare her father. He was, indeed, her first object, and she would have sacrificed anything to give him ease of mind; but, perhaps, she regarded him more as a charge of her own, than as, in very truth, the head of the family. She had the government in her hands, and had never been used to see him exercise it much in detail (she did not know how much her mother had referred to him in private), and had succeeded to her authority at a time when his health and spirits were in such a state as to make it doubly needful to spare him. It was no wonder that she sometimes carried her consideration beyond what was strictly right, and forgot that he was the real authority, more especially as his impulsive nature sometimes carried him away, and his sound judgment was not certain to come into play at the first moment, so that it required some moral courage to excite displeasure, so easy of manifestation; and of such courage there was, perhaps, a deficiency in her character. Nor had she yet detected her own satisfaction in being the first with every one in the family.
Ethel was put out, as Flora had discovered, and when she was downstairs she found it out, and accused herself of having been cross to Margaret, and unkind to Tom—of wishing to be a tell-tale. But still, though displeased with herself, she was dissatisfied with Margaret; it might be right, but it did not agree with her notions. She wanted to see every one uncompromising, as girls of fifteen generally do; she had an intense disgust and loathing of underhand ways, could not bear to think of Tom’s carrying them on, and going to a place of temptation with them uncorrected; and she looked up to her father with the reverence and enthusiasm of one like minded.
She was vexed on another score. Norman came home from Abbotstoke Grange without having seen Miss Rivers, but with a fresh basket of choice flowers, rapturous descriptions of Mr. Rivers’s prints, and a present of an engraving, in shading, such as to give the effect of a cast, of a very fine head of Alexander. Nothing was to be thought of but a frame for this—olive, bay, laurel, everything appropriate to the conqueror. Margaret and Norman were engrossed in the subject, and, to Ethel, who had no toleration for fancy work, who expected everything to be either useful or intellectual, this seemed very frivolous. She heard her father say how glad he was to see Norman interested and occupied, and certainly, though it was only in leather leaves, it was better than drooping and attending to nothing. She knew, too, that Margaret did it for his sake, but, said Ethel to herself, “It was very odd that people should find amusement in such things. Margaret always had a turn for them, but it was very strange in Norman.”
Then came the pang of finding out that this was aggravated by the neglect of herself; she called it all selfishness, and felt that she had had an uncomfortable, unsatisfactory day, with everything going wrong.