Oh! the golden-hearted daisies,Witnessed there before my youth,To the truth of things, with praisesOf the beauty of the truth.—E. B. BROWNING.
“Margaret, see here.”
The doctor threw into her lap a letter, which made her cheeks light up.
Mr. Ernescliffe wrote that his father’s friend, Captain Gordon, having been appointed to the frigate Alcestis, had chosen him as one of his lieutenants, and offered a nomination as naval cadet for his brother. He had replied that the navy was not Hector’s destination, but, as Captain Gordon had no one else in view, had prevailed on him to pass on the proposal to Harry May.
Alan wrote in high terms of his captain, declaring that he esteemed the having sailed with him as one of the greatest advantages he had ever received, and adding that, for his own part, Dr. May needed no promise from him to be assured that he would watch over Harry like his own brother. It was believed that the Alcestis was destined for the South American station.
“A three years’ business,” said Dr. May, with a sigh. “But the thing is done, and this is as good as we can hope.”
“Far better!” said Margaret. “What pleasure it must have given him! Dear Harry could not sail under more favourable circumstances.”
“No, I would trust to Ernescliffe as I would to Richard. It is kindly done, and I will thank him at once. Where does he date from?”
“From Portsmouth. He does not say whether he has seen Harry.”
“I suppose he waited for my answer. Suppose I enclose a note for him to give to Harry. There will be rapture enough, and it is a pity he should not have the benefit of it.”
The doctor sat down to write, while Margaret worked and mused, perhaps on outfits and new shirts—perhaps on Harry’s lion-locks, beneath a blue cap and gold band, or, perchance, on the coral shoals of the Pacific.
It was one of the quiet afternoons, when all the rest were out, and which the doctor and his daughter especially valued, when they were able to spend one together without interruption. Soon, however, a ring at the door brought an impatient exclamation from the doctor; but his smile beamed out at the words, “Miss Rivers.” They were great friends; in fact, on terms of some mutual sauciness, though Meta was, as yet, far less at home with his daughters, and came in, looking somewhat shy.
“Ah, your congeners are gone out!” was the doctor’s reception. “You must put up with our sober selves.”
“Is Flora gone far?” asked Meta.
“To Cocksmoor,” said Margaret. “I am very sorry she has missed you.”
“Shall I be in your way?” said Meta timidly. “Papa has several things to do, and said he would call for me here.”
“Good luck for Margaret,” said Dr. May.
“So they are gone to Cocksmoor!” said Meta. “How I envy them!”
“You would not if you saw the place,” said Dr. May. “I believe Norman is very angry with me for letting them go near it.”
“Ah! but they are of real use there!”
“And Miss Meta is obliged to take to envying the black-hole of Cocksmoor, instead of being content with the eglantine bowers of Abbotstoke! I commiserate her!” said the doctor.
“If I did any good instead of harm at Abbotstoke!”
“Harm!” exclaimed Margaret.
“They went on very well without me,” said Meta; “but ever since I have had the class they have been getting naughtier and noisier every Sunday; and, last Sunday, the prettiest of all—the one I liked best, and had done everything for—she began to mimic me—held up her finger, as I did, and made them all laugh!”
“Well, that is very bad!” said Margaret; “but I suppose she was a very little one.”
“No, a quick clever one, who knew much better, about nine years old. She used to be always at home in the week, dragging about a great baby; and we managed that her mother should afford to stay at home and send her to school. It seemed such a pity her cleverness should be wasted.”
The doctor smiled. “Ah! depend upon it, the tyrant-baby was the best disciplinarian.”
Meta looked extremely puzzled.
“Papa means,” said Margaret, “that if she was inclined to be conceited, the being teased at home might do her more good than being brought forward at school.”
“I have done everything wrong, it seems,” said Meta, with a shade of what the French call depit. “I thought it must be right and good—but it has only done mischief; and now papa says they are an ungrateful set, and that, if it vexes me, I had better have no more to do with them!”
“It does not vex you so much as that, I hope,” said Margaret.
“Oh, I could not bear that!” said Meta; “but it is so different from what I thought!”
“Ah! you had an Arcadia of good little girls in straw hats, such as I see in Blanche’s little books,” said the doctor, “all making the young lady an oracle, and doing wrong—if they do it at all—in the simplest way, just for an example to the others.”
“Dr. May! How can you know so well? But do you really think it is their fault, or mine?”
“Do you think me a conjurer?”
“Well, but what do you think?”
“What do Mr. and Mrs. Charles Wilmot think?”
“I know Mrs. Wilmot thinks I spoil my class. She spoke to me about making favourites, and sometimes has seemed surprised at things which I have done. Last Sunday she told me she thought I had better have a steadier class, and I know whom she will give me—the great big, stupid ones, at the bottom of the first class! I do believe it is only out of good-nature that she does not tell me not to teach at all. I have a great mind I will not; I know I do nothing but harm.”
“What shall you say if I tell you I think so too?” asked the doctor.
“Oh, Dr. May, you don’t really? Now, does he, Miss May? I am sure I only want to do them good. I don’t know what I can have done.”
Margaret made her perceive that the doctor was smiling, and she changed her tone, and earnestly begged to be told what they thought of the case; for if she should show her concern at home, her father and governess would immediately beg her to cease from all connection with the school, and she did not feel at all convinced that Mrs. Wilmot liked to have her there. Feeling injured by the implied accusation of mismanagement, yet, with a sense of its truth, used to be petted, and new to rebuffs, yet with a sincere wish to act rightly, she was much perplexed by this, her first reverse, and had come partly with the view of consulting Flora, though she had fallen on other counsellors.
“Margaret, our adviser general,” said the doctor, “what do you say? Put yourself in the place of Mrs. Charles Wilmot, and say, shall Miss Rivers teach or not?”
“I had rather you would, papa.”
“Not I—I never kept school.”
“Well, then, I being Mrs. Wilmot, should certainly be mortified if Miss Rivers deserted me because the children were naughty. I think, I think I had rather she came and asked me what she had better do.”
“And you would answer ‘teach,’ for fear of vexing her,” said Meta.
“I should, and also for the sake of letting her learn to teach.”
“The point where only trial shows one’s ignorance,” said Dr. May.
“But I don’t want to do it for my own sake,” said Meta. “I do everything for my own sake already.”
“For theirs, then,” said the doctor. “If teaching will not come by nature, you must serve an apprenticeship, if you mean to be of service in that line. Perhaps it was the gift that the fairies omitted.”
“But will it do any good to them?”
“I can’t tell; but I am sure it would do them harm for you to give it up, because it is disagreeable.”
“Well,” said Meta, with a sigh, “I’ll go and talk to Mrs. Wilmot. I could not bear to give up anything that seems right just now, because of the Confirmation.”
Margaret eagerly inquired, and it appeared that the bishop had given notice for a Confirmation in August, and that Mr. Wilmot was already beginning to prepare his candidates, whilst Mr. Ramsden, always tardy, never gave notice till the last moment possible. The hope was expressed that Harry might be able to profit by this opportunity; and Harry’s prospects were explained to Meta; then the doctor, recollecting something that he wished to say to Mr. Rivers, began to ask about the chance of his coming before the time of an engagement of his own.
“He said he should be here at about half-past four,” said Meta. “He is gone to the station to inquire about the trains. Do you know what time the last comes in?”
“At nine forty-five,” said the doctor.
“That is what we were afraid of. It is for Bellairs, my maid. Her mother is very ill, and she is afraid she is not properly nursed. It is about five miles from the Milbury Station, and we thought of letting her go with a day-ticket to see about her. She could go in the morning, after I am up; but I don’t know what is to be done, for she could not get back before I dress for dinner.”
Margaret felt perfectly aghast at the cool tone, especially after what had passed.
“It would be quite impossible,” said the doctor. “Even going by the eight o’clock train, and returning by the last, she would only have two hours to spare—short enough measure for a sick mother.”
“Papa means to give her whatever she wants for any nurse she may get.”
“Is there no one with her mother now?”
“A son’s wife, who, they think, is not kind. Poor Bellairs was so grateful for being allowed to go home. I wonder if I could dress for once without her?”
“Do you know old Crabbe?” said the doctor.
“The dear old man at Abbotstoke? Oh, yes, of course.”
“There was a very sad case in his family. The mother was dying of a lingering illness, when the son met with a bad accident. The only daughter was a lady’s-maid, and could not be spared, though the brother was half crazy to see her, and there was no one to tend them but a wretch of a woman, paid by the parish. The poor fellow kept calling for his sister in his delirium, and, at last, I could not help writing to the mistress.”
“Did she let her come?” said Meta, her cheek glowing.
“As a great favour, she let her set out by the mail train, after dressing her for a ball, with orders to return in time for her toilette for an evening party the next day.”
“Oh, I remember,” said Margaret, “her coming here at five in the morning, and your taking her home.”
“And when we got to Abbotstoke the brother was dead. That parish nurse had not attended to my directions, and, I do believe, was the cause of it. The mother had had a seizure, and was in the most precarious state.”
“Surely she stayed!”
“It was as much as her place was worth,” said the doctor; “and her wages were the chief maintenance of the family. So she had to go back to dress her mistress, while the old woman lay there, wailing after Betsy. She did give warning then, but, before the month was out, the mother was dead.”
Meta did not speak, and Dr. May presently rose, saying he should try to meet Mr. Rivers in the town, and went out. Meta sat thoughtful, and at last, sighing, said, “I wonder whether Bellairs’s mother is so very ill? I have a great mind to let Susan try to do my hair, and let Bellairs stay a little longer. I never thought of that.”
“I do not think you will be sorry,” said Margaret.
“Yes, I shall, for if my hair does not look nice, papa will not be pleased, and there is Aunt Leonora coming. How odd it will be to be without Bellairs! I will ask Mrs. Larpent.”
“Oh, yes!” said Margaret. “You must not think we meant to advise; but papa has seen so many instances of distress, from servants not spared to their friends in illness, that he feels strongly on the subject.”
“And I really might have been as cruel as that woman!” said Meta. “Well, I hope Mrs. Bellairs may be better, and able to spare her daughter. I don’t know what will become of me without her.”
“I think it will have been a satisfaction in one way,” said Margaret.
“In what way?”
“Don’t you remember what you began by complaining of, that you could not be of use? Now, I fancy this would give you the pleasure of undergoing a little personal inconvenience for the good of another.”
Meta looked half puzzled, half thoughtful, and Margaret, who was a little uneasy at the style of counsel she found herself giving, changed the conversation.
It was a memorable one to little Miss Rivers, opening out to her, as did almost all her meetings with that family, a new scope for thought and for duty. The code to which she had been brought up taught that servants were the machines of their employer’s convenience. Good-nature occasioned much kindliness of manner and intercourse, and every luxury and indulgence was afforded freely; but where there was any want of accordance between the convenience of the two parties, there was no question. The master must be the first object, the servants’ remedy was in their own hands.
Amiable as was Mr. Rivers, this, merely from indulgence and want of reflection, was his principle; and his daughter had only been acting on it, though she did not know it, till the feelings that she had never thought of were thus displayed before her. These were her first practical lessons that life was not meant to be passed in pleasing ourselves, and being good-natured at small cost.
It was an effort. Meta was very dependent, never having been encouraged to be otherwise, and Bellairs was like a necessary of life in her estimation; but strength of principle came to aid her naturally kind-hearted feeling, and she was pleased by the idea of voluntarily undergoing a privation so as to test her sincerity.
So when her father told her of the inconvenient times of the trains, and declared that Bellairs must give it up, she answered by proposing to let her sleep a night or two there, gaily promised to manage very well, and satisfied him.
Her maid’s grateful looks and thanks recompensed her when she made the offer to her, and inspirited her to an energetic coaxing of Mrs. Larpent, who, being more fully aware than her father of the needfulness of the lady’s-maid, and also very anxious that her darling should appear to the best advantage before the expected aunt, Lady Leonora Langdale, was unwilling to grant more than one night at the utmost.
Meta carried the day, and her last assurance to Bellairs was that she might stay as long as seemed necessary to make her mother comfortable.
Thereupon Meta found herself more helpful in some matters than she had expected, but at a loss in others. Susan, with all Mrs. Larpent’s supervision, could not quite bring her dress to the air that was so peculiarly graceful and becoming; and she often caught her papa’s eye looking at her as if he saw something amiss, and could not discover what it was. Then came Aunt Leonora, always very kind to Meta, but the dread of the rest of the household, whom she was wont to lecture on the proper care of her niece. Miss Rivers was likely to have a considerable fortune, and Lady Leonora intended her to be a very fashionable and much admired young lady, under her own immediate protection.
The two cousins, Leonora and Agatha, talked to her; the one of her balls, the other of her music—patronised her, and called her their good little cousin—while they criticised the stiff set of those unfortunate plaits made by Susan, and laughed, as if it was an unheard-of concession, at Bellairs’s holiday.
Nevertheless, when “Honoured Miss” received a note, begging for three days’ longer grace, till a niece should come, in whom Bellairs could place full confidence, she took it on herself to return free consent. Lady Leonora found out what she had done, and reproved her, telling her it was only the way to make “those people” presume, and Mrs. Larpent was also taken to task; but, decidedly, Meta did not regret what she had done, though she felt as if she had never before known how to appreciate comfort, when she once more beheld Bellairs stationed at her toilette table.
Meta was asked about her friends. She could not mention any one but Mrs. Charles Wilmot and the Misses May.
“Physician’s daughters; oh!” said Lady Leonora.
And she proceeded to exhort Mr. Rivers to bring his daughter to London, or its neighbourhood, where she might have masters, and be in the way of forming intimacies suited to her connections.
Mr. Rivers dreaded London—never was well there, and did not like the trouble of moving—while Meta was so attached to the Grange, that she entreated him not to think of leaving it, and greatly dreaded her aunt’s influence. Lady Leonora did, indeed, allow that the Grange was a very pretty place; her only complaint was the want of suitable society for Meta; she could not bear the idea of her growing accustomed—for want of something better—to the vicar’s wife and the pet doctor’s daughters.
Flora had been long desirous to effect a regular call at Abbotstoke, and it was just now that she succeeded. Mrs. Charles Wilmot’s little girl was to have a birthday feast, at which Mary, Blanche, and Aubrey were to appear. Flora went in charge of them, and as soon as she had safely deposited them, and appointed Mary to keep Aubrey out of mischief, she walked up to the Grange, not a whit daunted by the report of the very fine ladies who were astonishing the natives of Abbotstoke.
She was admitted, and found herself in the drawing-room, with a quick lively-looking lady, whom she perceived to be Lady Leonora, and who instantly began talking to her very civilly. Flora was never at a loss, and they got on extremely well; her ease and self-possession, without forwardness, telling much to her advantage. Meta came in, delighted to see her, but, of course, the visit resulted in no really intimate talk, though it was not without effect. Flora declared Lady Leonora Langdale to be a most charming person; and Lady Leonora, on her side, asked Meta who was that very elegant conversible girl. “Flora May,” was the delighted answer, now that the aunt had committed herself by commendation. And she did not retract it; she pronounced Flora to be something quite out of the common way, and supposed that she had had unusual advantages.
Mr. Rivers took care to introduce to his sister-in-law Dr. May (who would fain have avoided it), but ended by being in his turn pleased and entertained by her brilliant conversation, which she put forth for him, as her instinct showed her that she was talking to a man of high ability. A perfect gentleman she saw him to be, and making out some mutual connections far up in the family tree of the Mackenzies, she decided that the May family were an acquisition, and very good companions for her niece at present, while not yet come out. So ended the visit, with this great triumph for Meta, who had a strong belief in Aunt Leonora’s power and infallibility, and yet had not consulted her about Bellairs, nor about the school question.
She had missed one Sunday’s school on account of her aunt’s visit, but the resolution made beside Margaret’s sofa had not been forgotten. She spent her Saturday afternoon in a call on Mrs. Wilmot, ending with a walk through the village; she confessed her ignorance, apologised for her blunders, and put herself under the direction which once she had fancied too strict and harsh to be followed.
And on Sunday she was content to teach the stupid girls, and abstain from making much of the smooth-faced engaging set. She thought it very dull work, but she could feel that it was something not done to please herself; and whereas her father had feared she would be dull when her cousins were gone, he found her more joyous than ever.
There certainly was a peculiar happiness about Margaret Rivers; her vexations were but ripples, rendering the sunny course of her life more sparkling, and each exertion in the way of goodness was productive of so much present joy that the steps of her ladder seemed, indeed, to be of diamonds.
Her ladder—for she was, indeed, mounting upwards. She was very earnest in her Confirmation preparation, most anxious to do right and to contend with her failings; but the struggle at present was easy; and the hopes, joys, and incentives shone out more and more upon her in this blithe stage of her life.
She knew there was a dark side, but hope and love were more present to her than was fear. Happy those to whom such young days are granted.
It is the generous spirit, who, when broughtAmong the tasks of real life, hath wroughtUpon the plan that pleased his childish thought,Whose high endeavours are an inward light,Making the path before him always bright.WORDSWORTH.
The holidays had commenced about a week when Harry, now duly appointed to H. M. S. Alcestis, was to come home on leave, as he proudly expressed it.
A glad troop of brothers and sisters, with the doctor himself, walked up to the station to meet him, and who was happiest when, from the window, was thrust out the rosy face, with the gold band? Mary gave such a shriek and leap, that two passengers and one guard turned round to look at her, to the extreme discomfiture of Flora and Norman, evidenced by one by a grave “Mary! Mary!” by the other, by walking off to the extreme end of the platform, and trying to look as if he did not belong to them, in which he was imitated by his shadow, Tom.
Sailor already, rather than schoolboy, Harry cared not for spectators; his bound from the carriage, and the hug between him, and Mary would have been worthy of the return from the voyage. The next greeting was for his father, and the sisters had had their share by the time the two brothers thought fit to return from their calm walk on the platform.
Grand was it to see that party return to the town—the naval cadet, with his arm linked in Mary’s, and Aubrey clinging to his hand, and the others walking behind, admiring him as he turned his bright face every moment with some glad question or answer, “How was Margaret?” Oh, so much better; she had been able to walk across the room, with Norman’s arm round her—they hoped she would soon use crutches—and she sat up more. “And the baby?” More charming than ever—four teeth—would soon walk—such a darling! Then came “my dirk, the ship, our berth.” “Papa, do ask Mr. Ernescliffe to come here. I know he could get leave.”
“Mr. Ernescliffe! You used to call him Alan!” said Mary.
“Yes, but that is all over now. You forget what we do on board. Captain Gordon himself calls me Mr. May!”
Some laughed, others were extremely impressed.
“Ha! There’s Ned Anderson coming,” cried Mary. “Now! Let him see you, Harry.”
“What matters Ned Anderson to me?” said Harry; and, with an odd mixture of shamefacedness and cordiality, he marched full up to his old school-fellow, and shook hands with him, as if able, in the plenitude of his officership, to afford plenty of good-humoured superiority. Tom had meantime subsided out of all view. But poor Harry’s exultation had a fall.
“Well!” graciously inquired ‘Mr. May’, “and how is Harvey?”
“Oh, very well. We are expecting him home to-morrow.”
“Where has he been?”
“To Oxford, about the Randall.”
Harry gave a disturbed, wondering look round, on seeing Edward’s air of malignant satisfaction. He saw nothing that reassured him, except the quietness of Norman’s own face, but even that altered as their eyes met. Before another word could be said, however, the doctor’s hand was on Harry’s shoulder.
“You must not keep him now, Ned,” said he—“his sister has not seen him yet.”
And he moved his little procession onwards, still resting on Harry’s shoulder, while a silence had fallen on all, and even the young sailor ventured no question. Only Tom’s lips were quivering, and Ethel had squeezed Norman’s hand. “Poor Harry!” he muttered, “this is worst of all! I wish we had written it to him.”
“So do I now, but we always trusted it would come right. Oh! if I were but a boy to flog that Edward!”
“Hush, Ethel, remember what we resolved.”
They were entering their own garden, where, beneath the shade of the tulip-tree, Margaret lay on her couch. Her arms were held out, and Harry threw himself upon her, but when he rose from her caress, Norman and Tom were gone.
“What is this?” he now first ventured to ask.
“Come with me,” said Dr. May, leading the way to his study, where he related the whole history of the suspicion that Norman had incurred. He was glad that he had done so in private, for Harry’s indignation and grief went beyond his expectations; and when at last it appeared that Harvey Anderson was actually Randall-scholar, after opening his eyes with the utmost incredulity, and causing it to be a second time repeated, he gave a gulp or two, turned very red, and ended by laying his head on the table, and fairly sobbing and crying aloud, in spite of dirk, uniform, and manhood.
“Harry! why, Harry, my boy! We should have prepared you for this,” said the doctor affectionately. “We have left off breaking our hearts about it. I don’t want any comfort now for having gold instead of glitter; though at first I was as bad as you.”
“Oh, if I had but been there!” said Harry, combating unsuccessfully with his tears.
“Ah! so we all said, Norman and all. Your word would have cleared him—that is, if you had not been in the thick of the mischief. Ha! July, should not you have been on the top of the wall?”
“I would have stood by him, at least. Would not I have given Axworthy and Anderson two such black eyes as they could not have shown in school for a week? They had better look out!” cried Harry savagely.
“What! An officer in her Majesty’s service! Eh, Mr. May?”
“Don’t, papa, don’t. Oh! I thought it would have been so happy, when I came home, to see Norman Randall-scholar. Oh! now I don’t care for the ship, nor anything.” Again Harry’s face went down on the table.
“Come, come, Harry,” said Dr. May, pulling off the spectacles that had become very dewy, “don’t let us make fools of ourselves, or they will think we are dying for the scholarship.”
“I don’t care for the scholarship, but to have June turned down—and disgrace—”
“What I care for, Harry, is having June what he is, and that I know better now.”
“He is! he is—he is June himself, and no mistake!” cried Harry, with vehemence.
“The prime of the year, is not it?” said the doctor, smiling, as he stroked down the blue sleeve, as if he thought that generous July did not fall far short of it.
“That he is!” exclaimed Harry. “I have never met one fellow like him.”
“It will be a chance if you ever do,” said Dr. May. “That is better than scholarships!”
“It should have been both,” said Harry.
“Norman thinks the disappointment has been very good for him,” said the doctor.
“Perhaps it made him what he is now. All success is no discipline, you know.”
Harry looked as if he did not know.
“Perhaps you will understand better by-and-by, but this I can tell you, Harry, that the patient bearing of his vexation has done more to renew Norman’s spirits than all his prosperity. See if if has not. I believe it is harder to every one of us, than to him. To Ethel, especially, it is a struggle to be in charity with the Andersons.”
“In charity!” repeated Harry. “Papa! you don’t want us to like a horrid, sneaking, mean-spirited pair like those, that have used Norman in that shameful way?”
“No, certainly not; I only want you to feel no more personal anger than if it had been Cheviot, or some indifferent person, that had been injured.”
“I should have hated them all the same!” cried Harry.
“If it is all the same, and it is the treachery you hate, I ask no more,” said the doctor.
“I can’t help it, papa, I can’t! If I were to meet those fellows, do you think I could shake hands with them? If I did not lick Ned all down Minster Street, he might think himself lucky.”
“Well, Harry, I won’t argue any more. I have no right to preach forbearance. Your brother’s example is better worth than my precept. Shall we go back to Margaret, or have you anything to say to me?”
Harry made no positive answer, but pressed close to his father, who put his arm round him, while the curly head was laid on his shoulder. Presently he said, with a great sigh, “There’s nothing like home.”
“Was that what you wanted to say?” asked Dr. May, smiling, as he held the boy more closely to him.
“No; but it will be a long time before I come back. They think we shall have orders for the Pacific.”
“You will come home our real lion,” said the doctor. “How much you will have to tell!”
“Yes,” said Harry; “but oh! it is very different from coming home every night, not having any one to tell a thing to.”
“Do you want to say anything now?”
“I don’t know. I told you in my letter about the half-sovereign.”
“Ay, never mind that.”
“And there was one night, I am afraid, I did not stand by a little fellow that they bullied about his prayers. Perhaps he would have gone on, if I had helped him!”
“Does he sail with you?”
“No, he was at school. If I had told him that he and I would stand by each other—but he looked so foolish, and began to cry! I am sorry now.”
“Weak spirits have much to bear,” said the doctor, “and you stronger ones, who don’t mind being bullied, are meant, I suppose, to help them, as Norman has been doing by poor little Tommy.”
“It was thinking of Norman—that made me sorry. I knew there was something else, but you see I forget when I don’t see you and Margaret every day.”
“You have One always near, my boy.”
“I know, but I cannot always recollect. And there is such a row at night on board, I cannot think or attend as I ought,” murmured Harry.
“Yes, your life, sleeping at home in quiet, has not prepared you for that trial,” said the doctor. “But others have kept upright habits under the same, you know—and God helps those who are doing their best.”
Harry sighed.
“I mean to do my best,” he added; “and if it was not for feeling bad, I should like it. I do like it”—and his eye sparkled, and his smile beamed, though the tear was undried.
“I know you do!” said Dr. May, smiling, “and for feeling bad, my Harry, I fear you must do that by sea, or land, as long as you are in this world. God be thanked that you grieve over the feeling. But He is ready to aid, and knows the trial, and you will be brought nearer to Him before you leave us.”
“Margaret wrote about the Confirmation. Am I old enough?”
“If you wish it, Harry, under these circumstances.”
“I suppose I do,” said Harry, uneasily twirling a button.
“But then, if I’ve got to forgive the Andersons—”
“We won’t talk any more of that,” said the doctor; “here is poor Mary, reconnoitring, to know why I am keeping you from her.”
Then began the scampering up and down the house, round and round the garden, visiting every pet or haunt or contrivance; Mary and Harry at the head, Blanche and Tom in full career after them, and Aubrey stumping and scrambling at his utmost speed, far behind.
Not a word passed between Norman and Harry on the school misadventure, but, after the outbreak of the latter, he treated it as a thing forgotten, and brought all his high spirits to enliven the family party. Richard, too, returned later on the same day, and though not received with the same uproarious joy as Harry, the elder section of the family were as happy in their way as what Blanche called the middle-aged. The Daisy was brought down, and the eleven were again all in the same room, though there were suppressed sighs from some, who reflected how long it might be before they could again assemble.
Tea went off happily in the garden, with much laughing and talking. “Pity to leave such good company!” said the doctor, unwillingly rising at last—“but I must go to the Union—I promised Ward to meet him there.”
“Oh, let me walk with you!” cried Harry.
“And me!” cried other voices, and the doctor proposed that they should wait for him in the meads, and extend the walk after the visit. Richard and Ethel both expressing their intention of adhering to Margaret—the latter observing how nice it would be to get rid of everybody, and have a talk.
“What have we been doing all this time?” said Dr. May, laughing.
“Chattering, not conversing,” said Ethel saucily.
“Ay! the Cocksmoor board is going to sit,” said Dr. May.
“What is a board?” inquired Blanche, who had just come down prepared for her walk.
“Richard, Margaret, and Ethel, when they sit upon Cocksmoor,” said Dr. May.
“But Margaret never does sit on Cocksmoor, papa.”
“Only allegorically, Blanche,” said Norman.
“But I don’t understand what is a board?” pursued Blanche.
“Mr. May in his ship,” was Norman’s suggestion.
Poor Blanche stood in perplexity. “What is it really?”
“Something wooden headed,” continued the provoking papa.
“A board is all wooden, not only its head,” said Blanche.
“Exactly so, especially at Stoneborough!” said the doctor.
“It is what papa is when he comes out of the council-room,” added Ethel.
“Or what every one is while the girls are rigging themselves,” sighed Harry. “Ha! here’s Polly—now we only want Flora.”
“And my stethoscope! Has any one seen my stethoscope!” exclaimed the doctor, beginning to rush frantically into the study, dining-room, and his own room; but failing, quietly took up a book, and gave up the search, which was vigorously pursued by Richard, Flora, and Mary, until the missing article was detected, where Aubrey had left it in the nook on the stairs, after using it for a trumpet and a telescope.
“Ah! now my goods will have a chance!” said Dr. May, as he took it, and patted Richard’s shoulder. “I have my best right hand, and Margaret will be saved endless sufferings.”
“Papa!”
“Ay! poor dear! don’t I see what she undergoes, when nobody will remember that useful proverb, ‘A place for everything, and everything in its place.’ I believe one use of her brains is to make an inventory of all the things left about the drawing-room; but, beyond it, it is past her power.”
“Yes,” said Flora, rather aggrieved; “I do the best I can, but, when nobody ever puts anything into its place, what can I do, single-handed? So no one ever goes anywhere without first turning the house upside down for their property; and Aubrey, and now even baby, are always carrying whatever they can lay hands on into the nursery. I can’t bear it; and the worst of it is that,” she added, finishing her lamentation, after the others were out at the door, “papa and Ethel have neither of them the least shame about it.”
“No, no, Flora, that is not fair!” exclaimed Margaret—but Flora was gone.
“I have shame,” sighed Ethel, walking across the room disconsolately, to put a book into a shelf.
“And you don’t leave things trainants as you used,” said Margaret. “That is what I meant.”
“I wish I did not,” said Ethel; “I was thinking whether I had better not make myself pay a forfeit. Suppose you keep a book for me, Margaret, and make a mark against me at everything I leave about, and if I pay a farthing for each, it will be so much away from Cocksmoor, so I must cure myself!”
“And what shall become of the forfeits?” asked Richard.
“Oh, they won’t be enough to be worth having, I hope,” said Margaret.
“Give them to the Ladies’ Committee,” said Ethel, making a face. “Oh, Ritchie! they are worse than ever. We are so glad that Flora is going to join it, and see whether she can do any good.”
“We?” said Margaret, hesitating.
“Ah! I know you aren’t, but papa said she might—and you know she has so much tact and management—”
“As Norman says,” observed Margaret doubtfully. “I cannot like the notion of Flora going and squabbling with Mrs. Ledwich and Louisa Anderson!”
“What do you think, Ritchie?” asked Ethel. “Is it not too bad that they should have it all their own way, and spoil the whole female population? Why, the last thing they did was to leave off reading the Prayer-book prayers morning and evening! And it is much expected that next they will attack all learning by heart.”
“It is too bad,” said Richard, “but Flora can hardly hinder them.”
“It will be one voice,” said Ethel; “but oh! if I could only say half what I have in my mind, they must see the error. Why, these, these—what they call formal—these the ties—links on to the Church—on to what is good—if they don’t learn them soundly—rammed down hard—you know what I mean—so that they can’t remember the first—remember when they did not know them—they will never get to learn—know—understand when they can understand!”
“My dear Ethel, don’t frown so horribly, or it will spoil your eloquence,” said Margaret.
“I don’t understand either,” said Richard gravely. “Not understand when they can understand? What do you mean?”
“Why, Ritchie, don’t you see? If they don’t learn them—hard, firm, by rote when they can’t—they won’t understand when they can.”
“If they don’t learn when they can’t, they won’t understand when they can?” puzzled Richard, making Margaret laugh; but Ethel was too much in earnest for amusement.
“If they don’t learn them by rote when they have strong memories. Yes, that’s it!” she continued; “they will not know them well enough to understand them when they are old enough!”
“Who won’t learn and understand what?” said Richard.
“Oh, Ritchie, Ritchie! Why the children—the Psalms—the Gospels—the things. They ought to know them, love them, grow up to them, before they know the meaning, or they won’t care. Memory, association, affection, all those come when one is younger than comprehension!”
“Younger than one’s own comprehension?”
“Richard, you are grown more tiresome than ever. Are you laughing at me?”
“Indeed, I beg your pardon—I did not mean it,” said Richard. “I am very sorry to be so stupid.”
“My dear Ritchie, it was only my blundering—never mind.”
“But what did you mean? I want to know, indeed, Ethel.”
“I mean that memory and association come before comprehension, so that one ought to know all good things—fa—with familiarity before one can understand, because understanding does not make one love. Oh! one does that before, and, when the first little gleam, little bit of a sparklet of the meaning does come, then it is so valuable and so delightful.”
“I never heard of a little bit of a sparklet before,” said Richard, “but I think I do see what Ethel means; and it is like what I heard and liked in a university sermon some Sundays ago, saying that these lessons and holy words were to be impressed on us here from infancy on earth, that we might be always unravelling their meaning, and learn it fully at last—where we hope to be.”
“The very same thought!” exclaimed Margaret, delighted; “but,” after a pause, “I am afraid the Ladies’ Committee might not enter into it in plain English, far less in Ethel’s language.”
“Now, Margaret! You know I never meant myself. I never can get the right words for what I mean.”
“And you leave about your faux commencements, as M. Ballompre would call them, for us to stumble over,” said Margaret.
“But Flora would manage!” said Ethel. “She has power over people, and can influence them. Oh, Ritchie, don’t persuade papa out of letting her go.”
“Does Mr. Wilmot wish it?” asked Richard.
“I have not heard him say, but he was very much vexed about the prayers,” said Ethel.
“Will he stay here for the holidays?”
“No, his father has not been well, and he is gone to take his duty. He walked with us to Cocksmoor before he went, and we did so wish for you.”
“How have you been getting on?”
“Pretty well, on the whole,” said Ethel, “but, oh, dear! oh, dear, Richard, the M’Carthys are gone!”
“Gone, where?”
“Oh, to Wales. I knew nothing of it till they were off. Una and Fergus were missing, and Jane Taylor told me they were all gone. Oh, it is so horrid! Una had really come to be so good and so much in earnest. She behaved so well at school and church, that even Mrs. Ledwich liked her, and she used to read her Testament half the day, and bring her Sunday-school lessons to ask me about! Oh! I was so fond of her, and it really seemed to have done some good with her. And now it is all lost! Oh, I wish I knew what would become of my poor child!”
“The only hope is that it may not be all lost,” said Margaret.
“With such a woman for a mother!” said Ethel; “and going to some heathenish place again! If I could only have seen her first, and begged her to go to church and say her prayers. If I only knew where she is gone! but I don’t. I did think Una would have come to wish me good-bye!”
“I am very sorry to lose her,” said Richard.
“Mr. Wilmot says it is bread cast on the waters,” said Margaret—“he was very kind in consoling Ethel, who came home quite in despair.”
“Yes, he said it was one of the trials,” said Ethel, “and that it might be better for Una as well as for me. And I am trying to care for the rest still, but I cannot yet as I did for her. There are none of the eyes that look as if they were eating up one’s words before they come, and that smile of comprehension! Oh, they all are such stupid little dolts, and so indifferent!”
“Why, Ethel!”
“Fancy last Friday—Mary and I found only eight there—”
“Do you remember what a broiling day Friday was?” interrupted Margaret. “Miss Winter and Norman both told me I ought not to let them go, and I began to think so when they came home. Mary was the colour of a peony!”
“Oh! it would not have signified if the children had been good for anything, but all their mothers were out at work, and, of those that did come, hardly one had learned their lessons—Willy Blake had lost his spelling-card; Anne Harris kicked Susan Pope, and would not say she was sorry; Mary Hale would not know M from N, do all our Mary would; and Jane Taylor, after all the pains I have taken with her, when I asked how the Israelites crossed the Red Sea, seemed never to have heard of them.”
Margaret could have said that Ethel had come in positively crying with vexation, but with no diminution of the spirit of perseverance.
“I am so glad you are come, Richard!” she continued. “You will put a little new life into them. They all looked so pleased when we told them Mr. Richard was coming.”
“I hope we shall get on,” said Richard.
“I want you to judge whether the Popes are civilised enough to be dressed for Sunday-school. Oh, and the money! Here is the account-book—”
“How neatly you have kept it, Ethel.”
“Ah! it was for you, you know. Receipts—see, aren’t you surprised?”
“Four pounds eighteen and eightpence! That is a great deal!”
“The three guineas were Mr. Rivers’s fees, you know; then, Margaret gave us half-a-sovereign, and Mary a shilling, and there was one that we picked up, tumbling about the house, and papa said we might have, and the twopence were little Blanche’s savings. Oh, Ritchie!” as a bright coin appeared on the book.
“That is all I could save this term,” he said.
“Oh, it is famous! Now, I do think I may put another whole sovereign away into the purse for the church. See, here is what we have paid. Shoes—those did bring our money very low, and then I bought a piece of print which cost sixteen shillings, but it will make plenty of frocks. So, you see, the balance is actually two pounds nine! That is something. The nine shillings will go on till we get another fee; for I have two frocks ready made for the Popes, so the two pounds are a real nest-egg towards the church.”
“The church!” repeated Rlchard, half smiling.
“I looked in the paper the other day, and saw that a chapel had been built for nine hundred pounds,” said Ethel.
“And you have two!”
“Two in eight months, Ritchie, and more will come as we get older. I have a scheme in my head, but I won’t tell you now.”
“Nine hundred! And a church has to be endowed as well as built, you know, Ethel.”
“Oh! never mind that now. If we can begin and build, some good person will come and help. I’ll run and fetch it, Ritchie. I drew out a sketch of what I want it to be.”
“What a girl that is!” said Richard, as Ethel dashed away.
“Is not she?” said Margaret. “And she means all so heartily. Do you know she has spent nothing on her own pleasures, not a book, not a thing has she bought this year, except a present for Blanche’s birthday, and some silk to net a purse for Harry.”
“I cannot help being sometimes persuaded that she will succeed,” said Richard.
“Faith, energy, self-denial, perseverance, they go a great way,” said Margaret. “And yet when we look at poor dear Ethel, and her queer ungainly ways, and think of her building a church!”
Neither Richard nor Margaret could help laughing, but they checked it at once, and the former said, “That brave spirit is a reproof to us all.”
“Yes,” said Margaret; “and so is the resolution to mend her little faults.”
Ethel came back, having, of course, mislaid her sketch, and, much vexed, wished to know if it ought to cause her first forfeit, but Margaret thought these should not begin till the date of the agreement, and the three resumed the Cocksmoor discussion.
It lasted till the return of the walking party, so late, that they had been star-gazing, and came in, in full dispute as to which was Cygnus and which Aquila, while Blanche was talking very grandly of Taurus Poniatouski, and Harry begging to be told which constellations he should still see in the southern hemisphere. Dr. May was the first to rectify the globe for the southern latitudes, and fingers were affectionately laid on Orion’s studded belt, as though he were a friend who would accompany the sailor-boy. Voices grew loud and eager in enumerating the stars common to both; and so came bedtime, and the globe stood on the table in danger of being forgotten. Ethel diligently lifted it up; and while Norman exclaimed at her tidiness, Margaret told how a new leaf was to be turned, and of her voluntary forfeits.
“A very good plan,” cried the doctor. “We can’t do better than follow her example.”
“What you, papa? Oh, what fun!” exclaimed Harry.
“So you think I shall be ruined, Mr. Monkey. How do you know I shall not be the most orderly of all? A penny for everything left about, confiscated for the benefit of Cocksmoor, eh?”
“And twopence for pocket-handkerchiefs, if you please,” said Norman, with a gesture of disgust.
“Very well. From Blanche, upwards. Margaret shall have a book, and set down marks against us—hold an audit every Saturday night. What say you, Blanche?”
“Oh, I hope Flora will leave something about!” cried Blanche, dancing with glee.