“But can’t you like it beforehand, papa?”
“Not just this minute, Ethel,” said he, with his bright, sad smile. “All I like just now is my girl’s not being able to do without me; but we’ll do the best we can. So your flock acquitted themselves brilliantly? Who is your Senior Wrangler?”
Ethel threw herself eagerly into the history of the examination, and had almost forgotten the invitation till she heard the front door open. Then it was not she, but Margaret, who told Flora—Ethel could not, as she said, enjoy what seemed to sadden her father. Flora received it much more calmly. “It will be very pleasant,” said she; “it was very kind of papa to consent. You will have Richard and Norman, Margaret, to be with you in the evening.”
And, as soon as they went upstairs, Ethel began to write down the list of prizes in her school journal, while Flora took out the best evening frocks, to study whether the crape looked fresh enough.
The invitation was a convenient subject of conversation, for Norman had so much to tell his sisters of the curiosities they must look for at the Grange, that he was not obliged to mention Cocksmoor. He did not like to mortify Ethel by telling her his intense disgust, and he knew he was about to do what she would think a great injury by speaking to his father on the subject; but he thought it for her real welfare, and took the first opportunity of making to his father and Margaret a most formidable description of Ethel’s black-hole. It quite alarmed Margaret, but the doctor smiled, saying, “Ay, ay, I know the face Norman puts on if he looks into a cottage.”
“Well,” said Norman, with some mortification, “all I know is, that my head ached all the rest of the day.”
“Very likely, but your head is not Ethel’s, and there were twice as many people as the place was intended to hold.”
“A stuffy hole, full of peat-smoke, and with a window that can’t open at the best of times.”
“Peat-smoke is wholesome,” said Dr. May, looking provoking.
“You don’t know what it is, papa, or you would never let Ethel spend her life there. It is poisonous!”
“I’ll take care of Ethel,” said Dr. May, walking off, and leaving Norman in a state of considerable annoyance at being thus treated. He broke out into fresh exclamations against the horrors of Cocksmoor, telling Margaret she had no idea what a den it was.
“But, Norman, it can’t be so very bad, or Richard would not allow it.”
“Richard is deluded!” said Norman; “but if he chooses to run after dirty brats, why should he take Ethel there?”
“My dear Norman, you know it is all Ethel’s doing.”
“Yes, I know she has gone crazy after them, and given up all her Greek for it. It is past endurance!” said Norman, who had worked himself up into great indignation.
“Well, but surely, Norman, it is better they should do what they can for those poor creatures, than for Ethel to learn Greek.”
“I don’t know that. Let those who are fit for nothing else go and drone over A B C with ragged children, if they like. It is just their vocation; but there is an order in everything, Margaret, and minds of a superior kind are intended for higher purposes, not to be wasted in this manner.”
“I don’t know whether they are wasted,” said Margaret, not quite liking Norman’s tone, though she had not much to say to his arguments.
“Not wasted? Not in doing what any one can do? I know what you’ll say about the poor. I grant it, but high ability must be given for a purpose, not to be thrown away. It is common-sense, that some one must be meant to do the dirty work.”
“I see what you mean, Norman, but I don’t quite like that to be called by such a name. I think—” she hesitated. “Don’t you think you dislike such things more than—”
“Any one must abominate dirt and slovenliness. I know what you mean. My father thinks ‘tis all nonsense in me, but his profession has made him insensible to such things, and he fancies every one else is the same! Now, Margaret, am I unreasonable?”
“I am sure I don’t know, dear Norman,” said Margaret, hesitating, and feeling it her duty to say something; “I dare say it was very disagreeable.”
“And you think, too, that I made a disturbance for nothing?”
“No, indeed I don’t, nor does dear papa. I have no doubt he will see whether it is proper for Ethel. All I think he meant is, that perhaps your not being well last winter has made you a little more sensitive in such things.”
Norman paused, and coloured. He remembered the pain it had given him to find himself incapable of being of use to his father, and that he had resolved to conquer the weakness of nerve of which he was ashamed; but he did not like to connect this with his fastidious feelings of refinement. He would not own to himself that they were over nice, and, at the bottom of all this justification, rankled Richard’s saying, that he who cared for such things was unfit for a clergyman. Norman’s secret thought was, it was all very well for those who could only aspire to parish work in wretched cottages—people who could distinguish themselves were more useful at the university, forming minds, and opening new discoveries in learning.
Was Norman quite proof against the consciousness of daily excelling all his competitors? His superiority had become even more manifest this Easter, when Cheviot and Forder, the two elder boys whom he had outstripped, left the school, avowedly, because it was not worth while for them to stay, since they had so little chance of the Randall scholarship. Norman had now only to walk over the course, no one even approaching him but Harvey Anderson.
Meta Rivers always said that fine weather came at her call, and so it did—glowing sunshine streaming over the shaven turf, and penetrating even the solid masses of the great cedar.
The carriage was sent for the Misses May, and at two o’clock they arrived. Flora, extremely anxious that Ethel should comport herself discreetly; and Ethel full of curiosity and eagerness, the only drawback her fears that her papa was doing what he disliked. She was not in the least shy, and did not think about her manner enough to be troubled by the consciousness that it had a good deal of abruptness and eagerness, and that her short sight made her awkward. Meta met them with outstretched hands and a face beaming with welcome. “I told you I should get my way!” she said triumphantly, and, after her warm greeting, she looked with some respect at the face of the Miss May who was so very clever. It certainly was not what she expected, not at all like either of the four sisters she had already seen—brown, sallow, and with that sharp long nose, and the eager eyes, and brow a little knit by the desire to see as far as she could. It was pleasanter to look at Flora.
Ethel left the talk chiefly to Flora—there was wonder and study enough for her in the grounds and garden, and when Mrs. Larpent tried to enter into conversation with her, she let it drop two or three times while she was peering hard at a picture and trying to make out its subject. However, when they all went out to walk to church, Ethel lighted up, and talked, admired, and asked questions in her quick, eager way, which interested Mrs. Larpent greatly. The governess asked after Norman, and no more was wanted to produce a volume of histories of his successes, till Flora turned as she walked before with Meta, saying, “Why, Ethel, you are quite overwhelming Mrs. Larpent.”
But some civil answer convinced Ethel that what she said was interesting, and she would not be stopped in her account of their anxieties on the day of the examination. Flora was pleased that Meta, catching some words, begged to hear more, and Flora gave an account of the matter, soberer in terms, but quietly setting Norman at a much greater distance from all his competitors.
After church came the feast in the school. It was a large commodious building. Meta declared it was very tiresome that it was so good inside, it was so ugly, she should never rest till papa had built her a real beauty. They found Mr. and Mrs. Charles Wilmot in the school, with a very nice well-dressed set of boys and girls, and—But there is no need to describe the roast-beef and plum-pudding, “the feast ate merrily,” and Ethel was brilliantly happy waiting on the children, and so was sunny-hearted Meta. Flora was too busy in determining what the Riverses might be thinking of her and her sister to give herself up to the enjoyment.
Ethel found a small boy looking ready to cry at an untouched slice of beef. She examined him whether he could cut it, and at last discovered that, as had been the case with one or two of her own brothers at the same age, meat was repugnant to him. In her vehement manner she flew off to fetch him some pudding, and hurrying up, as she thought, to Mr. Charles Wilmot, who had been giving it out, she thrust her plate between him and the dish, and had begun her explanation when she perceived it was a stranger, and she stood, utterly discomfited, not saying, “I beg your pardon,” but only blushing, awkward and confused, as he spoke to her, in a good-natured, hospitable manner, which showed her it must be Mr. Rivers. She obtained her pudding, and, turning hastily, retreated.
“Meta,” said Mr. Rivers, as his daughter came out of the school with him, for, open and airy as it was, the numbers and the dinner made him regard it as Norman had viewed the Cocksmoor room, “was that one of the Miss Mays?”
“Yes, papa, Ethel, the third, the clever one.”
“I thought she must be one of them from her dress; but what a difference between her and the others!”
Mr. Rivers was a great admirer of beauty, and Meta, brought up to be the same, was disappointed, but consoled herself by admiring Flora. Ethel, after the awkwardness was over, thought no more of the matter, but went on in full enjoyment of the feast. The eating finished, the making of presents commenced, and choice ones they were. The smiles of Meta and of the children were a pretty sight, and Ethel thought she had never seen anything so like a beneficent fairy. Mr. and Mrs. Wilmot said their words of counsel and encouragement, and, by five o’clock, all was over.
“Oh, I am sorry!” said Meta, “Easter won’t come again for a whole year, and it has been so delightful. How that dear little Annie smiled and nursed her doll! I wish I could see her show it to her mother! Oh, how nice it is! I am so glad papa brought me to live in the country. I don’t think anything can be so charming in all the world as seeing little children happy!”
Ethel could not think how the Wilmots could have found it in their heart to regret the liberality of this sweet damsel, on whom she began to look with Norman’s enthusiastic admiration.
There was time for a walk round the grounds, Meta doing the honours to Flora, and Ethel walking with Mrs. Larpent. Both pairs were very good friends, and the two sisters admired and were charmed with the beauty of the gardens and conservatories—Ethel laying up a rich store of intelligence for Margaret; but still she was not entirely happy; her papa was more and more on her mind. He had looked dispirited at breakfast; he had a long hard day’s work before him, and she was increasingly uneasy at the thought that it would be a painful effort to him to join them in the evening. Her mind was full of it when she was conducted, with Flora, to the room where they were to dress; and when Flora began to express her delight, her answer was only that she hoped it was not very unpleasant to papa.
“It is not worth while to be unhappy about that, Ethel. If it is an effort, it will be good for him when he is once here. I know he will enjoy it.”
“Yes, I should think he would—I hope he will. He must like you to have such a friend as Miss Rivers. How pretty she is!”
“Now, Ethel, it is high time to dress. Pray make yourself look nice—don’t twist up your hair in that any-how fashion.”
Ethel sighed, then began talking fast about some hints on school-keeping which she had picked up for Cocksmoor.
Flora’s glossy braids were in full order, while Ethel was still struggling to get her plait smooth, and was extremely beholden to her sister for taking it into her own hands and doing the best with it that its thinness and roughness permitted. And then Flora pinched and pulled and arranged Ethel’s frock, in vain attempts to make it sit like her own—those sharp high bones resisted all attempts to disguise them. “Never mind, Flora, it is quite tidy, I am sure, there—do let me be in peace. You are like old nurse.”
“So those are all the thanks I get?”
“Well, thank you very much, dear Flora. You are a famous person. How I wish Margaret could see that lovely mimosa!”
“And, Ethel, do take care. Pray don’t poke and spy when you come into the room, and don’t frown when you are trying to see. I hope you won’t have anything to help at dinner. Take care how you manage.”
“I’ll try,” said Ethel meekly, though a good deal tormented, as Flora went on with half a dozen more injunctions, closed by Meta’s coming to fetch them. Little Meta did not like to show them her own bedroom—she pitied them so much when she thought of the contrast. She would have liked to put Flora’s arm through her’s, but she thought, it would look neglectful of Ethel; so she only showed the way downstairs. Ethel forgot all her sister’s orders; for there stood her father, and she looked most earnestly at his face. It was cheerful, and his voice sounded well pleased as he greeted Meta; then resumed an animated talk with Mr. Rivers. Ethel drew as near him as she could; she had a sense of protection, and could open to full enjoyment when she saw him bright. At the first pause in the conversation, the gentlemen turned to the young ladies. Mr. Rivers began talking to Flora, and Dr. May, after a few pleasant words to Meta, went back to Ethel. He wanted her to see his favourite pictures—he led her up to them, made her put on his spectacles to see them better, and showed her their special merits. Mr. Rivers and the others joined them; Ethel said little, except a remark or two in answer to her papa, but she was very happy—she felt that he liked to have her with him; and Meta, too, was struck by the soundness of her few sayings, and the participation there seemed to be in all things between the father and daughter.
At dinner Ethel went on pretty well. She was next to her father, and was very glad to find the dinner so grand, that no side-dish fell to her lot to be carved. There was a great deal of pleasant talk, such as the girls could understand, though they did not join much in it, except that now and then Dr. May turned to Ethel as a reference for names and dates. To make up for silence at dinner, there was a most confidential chatter in the drawing-room. Flora and Meta on one side, hand in hand, calling each other by their Christian names, Mrs. Larpent and Ethel on the other. Flora dreaded only that Ethel was talking too much, and revealing too much in how different style they lived. Then came the gentlemen, Dr. May begging Mr. Rivers to show Ethel one of his prints, when Ethel stooped more than ever, as if her eyelashes were feelers, but she was in transports of delight, and her embarrassment entirely at an end in her admiration, as she exclaimed and discussed with her papa, and by her hearty appreciation made Mr. Rivers for the time forget her plainness. Music followed; Flora played nicely, Meta like a well-taught girl; Ethel went on musing over the engravings. The carriage was announced, and so ended the day in Norman’s fairy-land. Ethel went home, leaning hard against her papa, talking to him of Raphael’s Madonnas; and looking out at the stars, and thinking how the heavenly beauty of those faces that, in the prints she had been turning over, seemed to be connected with the glories of the dark-blue sky and glowing stars. “As one star differeth from another star in glory,” murmured she; “that was the lesson to-day, papa;” and when she felt him press her hand, she knew he was thinking of that last time she had heard the lesson, when he had not been with her, and her thoughts went with his, though not another word was spoken.
Flora hardly knew when they ceased to talk. She had musings equally engrossing of her own. She saw she was likely to be very intimate with Meta Rivers, and she was roaming away into schemes for not letting the intercourse drop, and hopes of being admitted to many a pleasure as yet little within her reach—parties, balls, London, itself, and, above all, the satisfaction of being admired. The certainty that Mr. Rivers thought her pretty and agreeable had gratified her all the evening, and if he, with his refined taste, thought so, what would others think? Her only fear was, that Ethel’s awkwardness might make an unfavourable impression, but, at least, she said to herself, it was anything but vulgar awkwardness.
Their reflections were interrupted by the fly stopping. It was at a little shop in the outskirts of the town, and Dr. May, explained that he wanted to inquire for a patient. He went in for a moment, then came back to desire that they would go home, for he should be detained some little time. No one need sit up for him—he would let himself in.
It seemed a comment on Ethel’s thoughts, bringing them back to the present hour. That daily work of homely mercy, hoping for nothing again, was surely the true way of doing service.
WATCHMAN. How, if he will not stand?DOGBERRY. Why, then, take no note of him, but let him go.Much Ado about Nothing.
Dr. May promised Margaret that he would see whether the black-hole of Cocksmoor was all that Norman depicted it, and, accordingly, he came home that way on Tuesday evening the next week, much to the astonishment of Richard, who was in the act of so mending the window that it might let in air when open, and keep it out when shut, neither of which purposes had it ever yet answered.
Dr. May walked in, met his daughter’s look of delight and surprise, spoke cheerfully to Mrs. Green, a hospital acquaintance of his, like half the rest of the country, and made her smile and curtsey by asking if she was not surprised at such doings in her house; then looked at the children, and patted the head that looked most fit to pat, inquired who was the best scholar, and offered a penny to whoever could spell copper tea-kettle, which being done by three merry mortals, and having made him extremely popular, he offered Ethel a lift, and carried her off between him and Adams, on whom he now depended for driving him, since Richard was going to Oxford at once.
It was possible to spare him now. Dr. May’s arm was as well as he expected it ever would be; he had discarded the sling, and could use his hand again, but the arm was still stiff and weak—he could not stretch it out, nor use it for anything requiring strength; it soon grew tired with writing, and his daughters feared that it ached more than he chose to confess, when they saw it resting in the breast of his waistcoat. Driving he never would have attempted again, even if he could, and he had quite given up carving—he could better bear to sit at the side than at the bottom of the dinner-table.
Means of carrying Margaret safely had been arranged by Richard, and there was no necessity for longer delaying his going to Oxford, but he was so unwillingly spared by all, as to put him quite into good spirits. Ethel was much concerned to lose him from Cocksmoor, and dreaded hindrances to her going thither without his escort; but she had much trust in having her father on her side, and meant to get authority from him for the propriety of going alone with Mary.
She did not know how Norman had jeopardised her projects, but the danger blew over. Dr. May told Margaret that the place was clean and wholesome, and though more smoky than might be preferred, there was nothing to do any one in health any harm, especially when the walk there and back was over the fresh moor. He lectured Ethel herself on opening the window, now that she could; and advised Norman to go and spend an hour in the school, that he might learn how pleasant peat-smoke was—a speech Norman did not like at all. The real touchstone of temper is ridicule on a point where we do not choose to own ourselves fastidious, and if it and been from any one but his father, Norman would not have so entirely kept down his irritation.
Richard passed his examination successfully, and Dr. May wrote himself to express his satisfaction. Nothing went wrong just now except little Tom, who seemed to be justifying Richard’s fears of the consequence of exciting his father’s anger. At home, he shrank and hesitated at the simplest question if put by his father suddenly; and the appearance of cowardice and prevarication displeasing Dr. May further, rendered his tone louder, and frightened Tom the more, giving his manner an air of sullen reserve that was most unpleasant. At school it was much the same—he kept aloof from Norman, and threw himself more into the opposite faction, by whom he was shielded from all punishment, except what they chose themselves to inflict on him.
Norman’s post as head of the school was rendered more difficult by the departure of his friend Cheviot, who had always upheld his authority; Harvey Anderson did not openly transgress, for he had a character to maintain, but it was well known throughout the school that there was a wide difference between the boys, and that Anderson thought it absurd, superfluous, and troublesome in May not to wink at abuses which appeared to be licensed by long standing. When Edward Anderson, Axworthy, and their set, broke through rules, it was with the understanding that the second boy in the school would support them, if he durst.
The summer and the cricket season brought the battle of Ballhatchet’s house to issue. The cricket ground was the field close to it, and for the last two or three years there had been a frequent custom of despatching juniors to his house for tarts and ginger-beer bottles. Norman knew of instances last year in which this had led to serious mischief, and had made up his mind that, at whatever loss of popularity, it was his duty to put a stop to the practice.
He was an ardent cricketer himself, and though the game did not, in anticipation, seem to him to have all the charms of last year, he entered into it with full zest when once engaged. But his eye was on all parts of the field, and especially on the corner by the bridge, and the boys knew him well enough to attempt nothing unlawful within the range of that glance. However, the constant vigilance was a strain too great to be always kept up, and he had reason to believe he was eluded more than once.
At last came a capture, something like that of Tom, one which he could not have well avoided making. The victim was George Larkins, the son of a clergyman in the neighbourhood, a wild, merry varlet, who got into mischief rather for the sake of the fun than from any bad disposition.
His look of consternation was exaggerated into a most comical caricature, in order to hide how much of it was real.
“So you are at that trick, Larkins.”
“There! that bet is lost!” exclaimed Larkins. “I laid Hill half-a-crown that you would not see me when you were mooning over your verses!”
“Well, I have seen you. And now—”
“Come, you would not thrash a fellow when you have just lost him half-a-crown! Single misfortunes never come alone, they say; so there’s my money and my credit gone, to say nothing of Ballhatchet’s ginger-beer!”
The boy made such absurd faces, that Norman could hardly help laughing, though he wished to make it a serious affair. “You know, Larkins, I have given out that such things are not to be. It is a melancholy fact.”
“Ay, so you must make an example of me!” said Larkins, pretending to look resigned. “Better call all the fellows together, hadn’t you, and make it more effective? It would be grateful to one’s feelings, you know; and June,” added he, with a ridiculous confidential air, “if you’ll only lay it on soft, I’ll take care it makes noise enough. Great cry, little wool, you know.”
“Come with me,” said Norman. “I’ll take care you are example enough. What did you give for those articles?”
“Fifteen-pence halfpenny. Rascally dear, isn’t it? but the old rogue makes one pay double for the risk! You are making his fortune, you have raised his prices fourfold.”
“I’ll take care of that.”
“Why, where are you taking me? Back to him?”
“I am going to gratify your wish to be an example.”
“A gibbet! a gibbet” cried Larkins. “I’m to be turned off on the spot where the crime took place—a warning to all beholders. Only let me send home for old Neptune’s chain, if you please, sir—if you hang me in the combined watch-chains of the school, I fear they would give way and defeat the purposes of justice.”
They were by this time at the bridge. “Come in,” said Norman to his follower, as he crossed the entrance of the little shop, the first time he had ever been there. A little cringing shrivelled old man stood up in astonishment.
“Mr. May! can I have the pleasure, sir?”
“Mr. Ballhatchet, you know that it is contrary to the rules that there should be any traffic with the school without special permission?”
“Yes, sir—just nothing, sir—only when the young gentlemen come here, sir—I’m an old man, sir, and I don’t like not to oblige a young gentleman, sir,” pleaded the old man, in a great fright.
“Very likely,” said Norman, “but I am come to give you fair notice. I am not going to allow the boys here to be continually smuggling spirits into the school.”
“Spirits! bless you, sir, I never thought of no sich a thing! ‘Tis nothing in life but ginger-beer—very cooling drink, sir, of my wife’s making; she had the receipt from her grandmother up in Leicestershire. Won’t you taste a bottle, sir?” and he hastily made a cork bounce, and poured it out.
That, of course, was genuine, but Norman was “up to him,” in schoolboy phrase.
“Give me yours, Larkins.”
No pop ensued. Larkins, enjoying the detection, put his hands on his knees and looked wickedly up in the old man’s face to see what was coming.
“Bless me! it is a little flat. I wonder how that happened? I’ll be most happy to change it, sir. Wife! what’s the meaning of Mr. Larkins’s ginger-pop being so flat?”
“It is very curious ginger-beer indeed, Mr. Ballhatchet,” said Norman; “and since it is liable to have such strange properties, I cannot allow it to be used any more at the school.”
“Very well, sir-as you please, sir. You are the first gentleman as has objected, sir.”
“And, once for all, I give you warning,” added Norman, “that if I have reason to believe you have been obliging the young gentlemen, the magistrates and the trustees of the road shall certainly hear of it.”
“You would not hurt a poor man, sir, as is drove to it—you as has such a name for goodness!”
“I have given you warning,” said Norman. “The next time I find any of your bottles in the school fields, your licence goes. Now, there are your goods. Give Mr. Larkins back the fifteen-pence. I wonder you are not ashamed of such a charge!”
Having extracted the money, Norman turned to leave the shop. Larkins, triumphant, “Ha! there’s Harrison!” as the tutor rode by, and they touched their caps. “How he stared! My eyes! June, you’ll be had up for dealing with old Ball!” and he went into an ecstasy of laughing. “You’ve settled him, I believe. Well, is justice satisfied?”
“It would be no use thrashing you,” said Norman, laughing, as he leaned against the parapet of the bridge, and pinched the boy’s ear. “There’s nothing to be got out of you but chaff.”
Larkins was charmed with the compliment.
“But I’ll tell you what, Larkins, I can’t think how a fellow like you can go and give in to these sneaking, underhand tricks that make you ashamed to look one in the face.”
“It is only for the fun of it.”
“Well, I wish you would find your fun some other way. Come, Larkins, recollect yourself a little—you have a home not so far off. How do you think your father and mother would fancy seeing you reading the book you had yesterday, or coming out of Ballhatchet’s with a bottle of spirits, called by a false name?”
Larkins pinched his fingers; home was a string that could touch him, but it seemed beneath him to own it. At that moment a carriage approached, the boy’s whole face lighted up, and he jumped forward. “Our own!” he cried. “There she is!”
She was, of course, his mother; and Norman, though turning hastily away that his presence might prove no restraint, saw the boy fly over the door of the open carriage, and could have sobbed at the thought of what that meeting was.
“Who was that with you?” asked Mrs. Larkins, when she had obtained leave to have her boy with her, while she did her shopping.
“That was May senior, our dux.”
“Was it? I am very glad you should be with him, my dear George. He is very kind to you, I hope?”
“He is a jolly good fellow,” said Larkins sincerely, though by no means troubling himself as to the appropriateness of the eulogy, nor thinking it necessary to explain to his mother the terms of the conversation.
It was not fruitless; Larkins did avoid mischief when it was not extremely inviting, was more amenable to May senior, and having been put in mind by him of his home, was not ashamed to bring the thought to the aid of his eyes, when, on Sunday, during a long sermon of Mr. Ramsden’s, he knew that Axworthy was making the grimace which irresistibly incited him to make a still finer one.
And Ballhatchet was so much convinced of “that there young May” being in earnest, that he assured his persuasive customers that it was as much as his licence was worth to supply them.
Evil and insubordination were more easily kept under than Norman had expected, when he first made up his mind to the struggle. Firmness had so far carried the day, and the power of manful assertion of the right had been proved, contrary to Cheviot’s parting auguries, that he would only make himself disliked, and do no good.
The whole of the school was extremely excited this summer by a proceeding of Mr. Tomkins, the brewer, who suddenly closed up the footway called Randall’s Alley, declaring that there was no right of passage through a certain field at the back of his brewery. Not only the school, but the town was indignant, and the Mays especially so. It had been the doctor’s way to school forty years ago, and there were recollections connected with it that made him regard it with personal affection. Norman, too, could not bear to lose it; he had not entirely conquered his reluctance to pass that spot in the High Street, and the loss of the alley would be a positive deprivation to him. Almost every native of Stoneborough felt strongly the encroachment of the brewer, and the boys, of course, carried the sentiment to exaggeration.
The propensity to public speaking perhaps added to the excitement, for Norman May and Harvey Anderson, for once in unison, each made a vehement harangue in the school-court—Anderson’s a fine specimen of the village Hampden style, about Britons never suffering indignities, and free-born Englishmen swelling at injuries.
“That they do, my hearty,” interjected Larkins, pointing to an inflamed eye that had not returned to its right dimensions. However, Anderson went on unmoved by the under titter, and demonstrated, to the full satisfaction of all the audience, that nothing could be more illegal and unfounded than the brewer’s claims.
Then came a great outburst from Norman, with all his father’s headlong vehemence; the way was the right of the town, the walk had been trodden by their forefathers for generations past—it had been made by the good old generous-hearted man who loved his town and townspeople, and would have heard with shame and anger of a stranger, a new inhabitant, a grasping radical, caring, as radicals always did, for no rights, but for their own chance of unjust gains, coming here to Stoneborough to cut them off from their own path. He talk of liberalism and the rights of the poor! He who cut off Randall’s poor old creatures in the almshouses from their short way! and then came some stories of his oppression as a poor-law guardian, which greatly aggravated the wrath of the speaker and audience, though otherwise they did not exactly bear on the subject.
“What would old Nicholas Randall say to these nineteenth-century doings?” finished Norman.
“Down, with them!” cried a voice from the throng, probably Larkins’s; but there was no desire to investigate, it was the universal sentiment. “Down with it! Hurrah, we’ll have our footpath open again! Down with the fences! Britons never shall be slaves!” as Larkins finally ejaculated.
“That’s the way to bring it to bear!” said Harvey Anderson, “See if he dares to bring an action against us. Hurrah!”
“Yes, that’s the way to settle it,” said Norman. “Let’s have it down. It is an oppressive, arbitrary, shameful proceeding, and we’ll show him we won’t submit to it!”
Carried along by the general feeling, the whole troop of boys dashed shouting up to the barricade at the entrance of the field, and levelled it with the ground. A handkerchief was fastened to the top of one of the stakes, and waved over the brewhouse wall, and some of the boys were for picking up stones and dirt, and launching them over, in hopes of spoiling the beer; but Norman put a stop to this, and brought them back to the school-yard, still in a noisy state of exultation.
It cooled a little by-and-by under the doubt how their exploit would be taken. At home, Norman found it already known, and his father half glad, half vexed, enjoying the victory over Tomkins, yet a little uneasy on his son’s behalf. “What will Dr. Hoxton say to the dux?” said he. “I didn’t know he was to be dux in mischief as well as out of it.”
“You can’t call it mischief, papa, to resent an unwarranted encroachment of our rights by such an old ruffian as that. One’s blood is up to think of the things he has done!”
“He richly deserves it, no doubt,” said the doctor, “and yet I wish you had been out of the row. If there is any blame, you will be the first it will light on.”
“I am glad of it, that is but just. Anderson and I seem to have stirred it up—if it wanted stirring—for it was in every fellow there; indeed, I had no notion it was coming to this when I began.”
“Oratory,” said the doctor, smiling. “Ha, Norman! Think a little another time, my boy, before you take the law into your own hands, or, what is worse, into a lot of hands you can’t control for good, though you may excite them to harm.”
Dr. Hoxton did not come into school at the usual hour, and, in the course of the morning, sent for May senior, to speak to him in his study.
He looked very broad, awful, and dignified, as he informed him that Mr. Tomkins had just been with him to complain of the damage that had been done, and he appeared extremely displeased that the dux should have been no check on such proceedings.
“I am sorry, sir,” said Norman, “but I believe it was the general feeling that he had no right to stop the alley, and, therefore, that it could not be wrong to break it down.”
“Whether he has a right or not is not a question to be settled by you. So I find that you, whose proper office it is to keep order, have been inflaming the mischievous and aggressive spirit amongst the others. I am surprised at you; I thought you were more to be depended upon, May, in your position.”
Norman coloured a good deal, and simply answered, “I am sorry, sir.”
“Take care, then, that nothing of the kind happens again,” said Dr. Hoxton, who was very fond of him, and did not find fault with him willingly.
That the first inflammatory discourse had been made by Anderson did not appear to be known—he only came in for the general reprimand given to the school.
It was reported the following evening, just as the town boys turned out to go to their homes, that “old Tomkins had his fence up five times higher than before.”
“Have at him again, say I!” exclaimed Axworthy. “What business has he coming stopping up ways that were made before he was born?”
“We shall catch it from the doctor if we do,” said Edward Anderson, “He looked in no end of a rage yesterday when he talked about the credit of the school.”
“Who cares for the credit of the school?” said the elder Anderson; “we are out of the school now—we are townsmen—Stoneborough boys—citizens not bound to submit to injustice. No, no, the old rogue knew it would not stand if it was brought into court, so he brings down old Hoxton on us instead—a dirty trick he deserves to be punished for.”
And there was a general shout and yell in reply.
“Anderson,” said Norman, “you had better not excite them again, they are ripe for mischief. It will go further than it did yesterday—don’t you see?”
Anderson could not afford to get into a scrape without May to stand before him, and rather sulkily he assented.
“It is of no use to rave about old Tomkins,” proceeded Norman, in his style of popular oratory. “If it is illegal, some one will go to law about it, and we shall have our alley again. We have shown him our mind once, and that is enough; if we let him alone now, he will see ‘tis only because we are ordered, not for his sake. It would be just putting him in the right, and maybe winning his cause for him, to use any more violence. There’s law for you, Anderson. So now no more about it—let us all go home like rational fellows. August, where’s August?”
Tom was not visible—he generally avoided going home with his brother; and Norman having seen the boys divide into two or three little parties, as their roads lay homewards, found he had an hour of light for an expedition of his own, along the bank of the river. He had taken up botany with much ardour, and sharing the study with Margaret was a great delight to both. There was a report that the rare yellow bog-bean grew in a meadow about a mile and a half up the river, and thither he was bound, extremely enjoying the summer evening walk, as the fresh dewy coolness sunk on all around, and the noises of the town were mellowed by distance, and the sun’s last beams slanted on the green meadows, and the May-flies danced, and dragon-flies darted, and fish rose or leaped high in the air, or showed their spotted sides, and opened and shut their gills, as they rested in the clear water, and the evening breeze rustled in the tall reeds, and brought fragrance from the fresh-mown hay.
It was complete enjoyment to Norman after his day’s study and the rule and watch over the unruly crowd of boys, and he walked and wandered and collected plants for Margaret till the sun was down, and the grasshoppers chirped clamorously, while the fern-owl purred, and the beetle hummed, and the skimming swallows had given place to the soft-winged bat, and the large white owl floating over the fields as it moused in the long grass.
The summer twilight was sobering every tint, when, as Norman crossed the cricket-field, he heard, in the distance, a loud shout. He looked up, and it seemed to him that he saw some black specks dancing in the forbidden field, and something like the waving of a flag, but it was not light enough to be certain, and he walked quickly home.
The front door was fastened, and, while he was waiting to be let in, Mr. Harrison walked by, and called out, “You are late at home to-night—it is half-past nine.”
“I have been taking a walk, sir.”
A good-night was the answer, as he was admitted. Every one in the drawing-room looked up, and exclaimed as he entered, “Where’s Tom?”
“What! he is not come home?”
“No! Was he not with you?”
“I missed him after school. I was persuaded he was come home. I have been to look for the yellow bog-bean. There, Margaret. Had not I better go and look for him?”
“Yes, do,” said Dr. May. “The boy is never off one’s mind.”
A sort of instinctive dread directed Norman’s steps down the open portion of Randall’s Alley, and, voices growing louder as he came nearer, confirmed his suspicions. The fence at this end was down, and, on entering the field, a gleam of light met his eye on the ground—a cloud of smoke, black figures were flitting round it, pushing brands into red places, and feeding the bonfire.
“What have you been doing?” exclaimed Norman. “You have got yourselves into a tremendous scrape!”
A peal of laughter, and shout of “Randall and Stoneborough for ever!” was the reply.
“August! May junior! Tom! answer me! Is he here?” asked Norman, not solicitous to identify any one.
But gruff voices broke in upon them. “There they are, nothing like ‘em for mischief.”
“Come, young gentlemen,” said a policeman, “be off, if you please. We don’t want to have none of you at the station to-night.”
A general hurry-skurry ensued. Norman alone, strong in innocence, walked quietly away, and, as he came forth from the darkness of the alley, beheld something scouring away before him, in the direction of home. It popped in at the front door before him, but was not in the drawing-room. He strode upstairs, called, but was not answered, and found, under the bedclothes, a quivering mass, consisting of Tom, with all his clothes on, fully persuaded that it was the policeman who was pursuing him.