Behold, with pearls they glittering stand,Thy peaceful gates to all expand,By grace and strength divinely shed,Each mortal thither may be led;Who, kindled by Christ’s love, will dareAll earthly sufferings now to bear.By many a salutary stroke,By many a weary blow, that broke,Or polished, with a workman’s skill,The stones that form that glorious pile;They all are fitly framed to lieIn their appointed place on high.Ancient Hymn for the Dedication of a Church.
The thirtieth of November dawned with the grave brightness of an autumn day, as the sun slowly mounted from the golden east, drinking up the mists that rose tardily, leaving the grass thickly bedewed.
The bells of Stoneborough Minster were ringing gladsome peals, and the sunshine had newly touched the lime trees, whose last bright yellow leaves were gently floating down, as the carriage, from the Grange, drew up at Dr. May’s door.
Norman opened it, to claim Meta at once for the walk; Mrs. Arnott and Mary had gone on to assist Richard in his final arrangements, but even before Cocksmoor, with Ethel, was now the care of Margaret; and she had waited with her father to keep all bustle from her room, and to commit her into the charge of Flora and of nurse. Ethel seemed quite unwilling to go. There was that strange oppressed feeling on her as if the attainment of her wishes were joy too great to be real—as if she would fain hold off from it at the climax, and linger with the sister who had shared all with her, and to whom that church was even more than to herself. She came back, and back again, with fresh injunctions, sometimes forgetting the very purpose of her return, as if it had been only an excuse for looking at Margaret’s countenance, and drinking in her sympathy from her face; but she was to go in George’s carriage, and he was not a man to allow of loitering. He became so impatient of Ethel’s delays, that she perceived that he could bear them no longer, gave her final kiss, and whispered, “In spirit with us!” then ran down and was seized on by George, who had already packed in the children and Miss Bracy, and was whirled away.
“Flora dear,” said Margaret, “do you dislike having the window opened?”
Flora threw it up, protesting, in reply to her sister’s scruples, that she liked the air. “You always spoiled me,” said Margaret fondly. “Come and lie down by me. It is very nice to have you here,” she added, as Flora complied; and she took her hand and fondled it, “It is like the old times to have you here taking care of me.”
“Very unlike them in some ways,” said Flora.
“It has been a great renewal of still older times,” said Margaret, “to have Aunt Flora here. I hope you will get to know her, Flora, it is so like having mamma here,” and she looked in her sister’s face as she spoke.
Flora did not reply, but she lay quite still, as if there were a charm in the perfect rest of being alone with Margaret, making no effort, and being able to be silent. Time passed on, how long they knew not, but, suddenly, a thrill shot through Margaret’s frame; she raised her hand and lifted her head, with an eager “Hark!”
Flora could hear nothing.
“The bells—his bells!” said Margaret, all one radiant look of listening, as Flora opened the window further, and the breeze wafted in the chime, softened by distance. The carnation tinted those thin white cheeks, eyes and smile beamed with joy, and uplifted finger and parted lips seemed marking every note of the cadence.
It ceased. “Alan! Alan!” said she. “It is enough! I am ready!”
The somewhat alarmed look on Flora’s face recalled her, and, smiling, she held out her hands for the consecration books, saying, “Let us follow the service. It will be best for us both.”
Slowly, softly, and rather monotonously, Flora read on, till she had come more than half through the first lesson. Her voice grew husky, and she sometimes paused as if she could not easily proceed. Margaret begged her to stop, but she would not cease, and went on reading, though almost whispering, till she came to, “If they return to Thee with all their heart and with all their soul in the land of their captivity, whither they have carried them captives, and pray toward their land, which Thou gavest unto their fathers, and toward the City which Thou hast chosen, and toward the House which I have built for Thy Name; then hearing from the Heavens, even from Thy dwelling-place—”
Flora could go no further; she strove, but one of her tearless sobs cut her short. She turned her face aside, and, as Margaret began to say something tender, she exclaimed, with low, hasty utterance, “Margaret! Margaret! pray for me, for it is a hard captivity, and my heart is very, very sore. Oh! pray for me, that it may all be forgiven me—and that I may see my child again!”
“My Flora; my own poor, dear Flora! do I not pray? Oh! look up, look up. Think how He loves you. If I love you so much, how much more does not He? Come near me, Flora. Be patient, and I know peace will come!”
The words had burst from Flora uncontrollably. She was aware, the next instant, that she had given way to harmful agitation, and, resuming her quiescence, partly by her own will, partly from the soothing effect of Margaret’s words and tone, she allowed herself to be drawn close to her sister, and hid her face in the pillow, while Margaret’s hands were folded over her, and words of blessing and prayer were whispered with a fervency that made them broken.
Ethel, meanwhile, stood between Aubrey and Gertrude, hardly able to believe it was not a dream, as she beheld the procession enter the aisle, and heard the psalm that called on those doors to lift up their heads for Him who should enter. There was an almost bewildered feeling—could it indeed be true, as she followed the earlier part of the service, which set apart that building as a temple for ever, separate from all common uses. She had imagined the scene so often that she could almost have supposed the present, one of her many imaginations; but, by and by, the strangeness passed off, and she was able to enter into, not merely to follow, the prayers, and to feel the deep thanksgiving that such had been the crown of her feeble efforts. Margaret was in her mind the whole time, woven, as it were, into every supplication and every note of praise; and when there came the intercession for those in sickness and suffering, flowing into the commemoration of those departed in faith and fear, Ethel’s spirit sank for a moment at the conviction that soon Margaret, like him, whom all must bear in mind on that day, might be included in that thanksgiving; yet, as the service proceeded, leaving more and more of earth behind, and the voices joined with angel and archangel, Ethel could lose the present grief, and only retain the certainty that, come what might, there was joy and union amid those who sung that hymn of praise. Never had Ethel been so happy—not in the sense of the finished work—no, she had lost all that, but in being more carried out of herself than ever she had been before, the free spirit of praise so bearing up her heart that the cry of glory came from her with such an exultant gladness, as might surely be reckoned as one of those foretastes of our everlasting life, not often vouchsafed even to the faithful, and usually sent to prepare strength for what may be in store.
The blessing brought the sense of peace, which hung on her even while the sounds of movement began, and the congregation were emerging. As she came out, greetings, sentences of admiration of the church, and of inquiry for her absent sisters, were crowded upon her, as people moved towards the school, where a luncheon was provided for them, to pass away the interval until evening service. The half-dozen oldest Cocksmoorites were, meantime, to have a dinner in the former schoolroom, at the Elwoods’ house, and Ethel was anxious so see that all was right there; so, while the rest of her party were doing civil things, she gave her arm to Cherry, whose limping walk showed her to be very tired.
“Oh, Miss Ethel!” said Cherry, “if Miss May could only have been here!”
“Her heart is,” said Ethel.
“Well, ma’am, I believe it is. You would not think, ma’am, how all the children take heed to anything about her. If I only begin to say ‘Miss May told me—’ they are all like mice.”
“She has done more for the real good of Cocksmoor than any one else,” said Ethel.
More might have been said, but they perceived that they were being overtaken by the body of clergy, who had been unrobing in the vestry. Ethel hastened to retreat within Mrs. Elwood’s wicket gate, but she was arrested by Richard, and found herself being presented to the bishop, and the bishop shaking hands with her, and saying that he had much wished to be introduced to her.
Of course, that was because she was her father’s daughter, and by way of something to say. She mentioned what was going on at the cottage, whereupon the bishop wished to go in and see the old people; and, entering, they found the very comfortable-looking party just sitting down to roast-beef and goose. John Taylor, in a new black coat, on account of his clerkship, presiding at one end, and Mr. Elwood at the other, and Dame Hall finding conversation for the whole assembly; while Blanche, Aubrey, Gertrude, the little Larkinses, and the Abbotstoke Wilmots were ready to act as waiters with infinite delight. Not a bit daunted by the bishop, who was much entertained by her merry manner, old granny told him “she had never seen nothing like it since the Jubilee, when the squire roasted an ox whole, and there wasn’t none of it fit to eat; and when her poor father got his head broken. Well, to be sure, who would have thought what would come of Sam’s bringing in the young gentleman and lady to see her the day her back was so bad!”
The bishop said grace, and left granny to the goose, while he gave Ethel his arm, which she would have thought an unaccountable proceeding if she had not recollected that Richard might be considered as host, and that she was his eldest sister forthcoming.
No sooner, however, had they come beyond the wicket than she saw her father speaking to Will Adams, and there was that in the air of both which made it no surprise when Dr. May came up, saying, “Ethel, I must carry you away;” and, in explanation to the bishop, “my poor girl at home is not so well.”
All was inquiry and sympathy. Ethel was frantic to be at home, and would have rushed off at once, if Richard had not held her fast, asking what good she would do by hurrying in, breathless and exhausted, so as to add to Flora’s fright and distress, the anxiety which was most upon their minds, since she had never before witnessed one of the seizures, that were only too ordinary matters in the eyes of the home party. No one but Dr. May and Ethel should go. Richard undertook to tell the rest, and the gig making its appearance, Ethel felt that the peculiarly kind manner with which the bishop pressed her hand, and gave them all good wishes, was like a continuation of his blessing to aid her in her home scene of trial.
Perhaps, it was well for her that her part in the consecration festivities should end here; at least so thought Mr. Wilmot, who, though very sorry for the cause, could not wish her to have been present at the luncheon. She had not thought of self hitherto, the church was the gift of Alan and Margaret, the work of preparing the people belonged to all alike, and she did not guess that, in the sight of others, she was not the nobody that she believed herself. Her share in the work at Cocksmoor was pretty well known, and Dr. Hoxton could not allow a public occasion to pass without speeches, such as must either have been very painful, or very hurtful to her. The absence of herself and her father, however, permitted a more free utterance to the general feeling; and things were said, that did indeed make the rest of the family extremely hot and uncomfortable, but which gave them extreme pleasure. Norman was obliged to spare Richard the answer, and said exactly what he ought, and so beautifully, that Meta could not find it in her heart to echo the fervent wish, which he whispered as he sat down, that speechifying could be abolished by Act of Parliament.
Mrs. Arnott began to perceive that her nephew was something to be proud of, and to understand how much was sacrificed, while George Rivers expressed his opinion to her that Norman would be a crack speaker in the House, and he hoped she would say everything to hinder his going out, for it was a regular shame to waste him on the niggers.
Owing to George having constituted himself her squire, Mrs. Arnott had not arrived at an understanding of the state of affairs at home; but, as soon as they rose up from luncheon, and she learned the truth from Richard and Mary, nothing would hinder her from walking home at once to see whether she could be useful. Mary was easily persuaded to remain, for she was accustomed to Margaret’s having these attacks, and had always been kept out of her room the while, so she had little uneasiness to prevent her from being very happy, in receiving in her own simple, good-humoured way all the attentions that lapsed upon her in the place of her elder sisters.
“Cocksmoor really has a church!” was note enough of joy for her, and no one could look at her round face without seeing perfect happiness. Moreover, when after evening service, the November mist turned into decided rain, she was as happy as a queen in her foresight, which had provided what seemed an unlimited supply of cloaks and umbrellas. She appeared to have an original genius for making the right people give a lift in their carriages to the distressed; and, regarding the Abbotstoke britska as her own, packed in Mrs. Anderson and Fanny, in addition to all their own little ones, Meta thrusting Miss Bracy into the demi-corner destined for herself at the last minute, and, remaining with Mary, the only ladies obliged to walk back to Stoneborough. So delighted were they “at the fun,” that it might have been thought the most charming of adventures, and they laughed all the more at the lack of umbrellas. They went to Mrs. Elwood’s, divested themselves of all possible finery, and tucked up the rest; Meta was rolled up from head to foot in a great old plaid shawl of Mrs. Elwood’s, and Mary had a cloak of Richard’s, the one took Norman’s arm, the other Dr. Spencer’s, and they trudged home through the darkness and the mud in the highest glee, quite sorry when the carriage met them half-way.
It was the last mirth that they enjoyed for many weeks. When they reached home, a sense of self-reproach for their glee thrilled over them, when they found a sort of hush pervading the drawing-room, and saw the faces of awe and consternation, worn by Blanche and George Rivers.
“It was a much worse attack than usual, and it did not go off,” was all that Blanche knew, but her father had desired to be told when Dr. Spencer came home, and she went up with the tidings.
This brought Flora down, looking dreadfully pale, and with her voice sunk away as it had been when she lost her child. Her husband started up, exclaiming at her aspect; she let him support her to the sofa, and gave the few particulars. Margaret had been as placid and comfortable as usual, till nurse came to dress her, but the first move had brought on the faintness and loss of breath. It did not yield to remedies, and she had neither looked nor spoken since, only moaned. Flora thought her father much alarmed; and then, after an interval, she began to entreat that they might stay there, sending Miss Bracy and the children to the Grange to make room.
Meantime, Dr. Spencer had come to the sick-room, but he could only suggest remedies that were already in course of application to the insensible sufferer. Mrs. Arnott and Ethel were watching, and trying everything to relieve her, but with little effect, and Ethel presently stood by the fire with her father, as Dr. Spencer turned towards him, and he said, in a very low, but calm voice, “It won’t do—I believe it is the death-stroke.”
“Not immediate,” said Dr. Spencer.
“No,” said Dr. May; and he quietly spoke of what the disease had effected, and what yet remained for it to do, ere the silver bowl should be broken.
Dr. Spencer put in a word of agreement.
“Will there be no rally?” said Ethel, in the same tone.
“Probably not,” said Dr. May; “the brain is generally reached at this stage. I have seen it coming for a long time. The thing was done seven years ago. There was a rally for a time when youth was strong; but suspense and sorrow accelerated what began from the injury to the spine.”
Dr. Spencer bowed his head, and looked at him anxiously, saying, “I do not think there will be much acute suffering.”
“I fear it may be as trying,” said Dr. May, sighing; and then turning to Ethel, and throwing his arm round her, “May God make it easy to her, and grant us ‘patient hearts.’ We will not grudge her to all that she loves best, my Ethel.”
Ethel clung to him, as if to derive strength from him. But the strength that was in them then did not come from earth. Dr. Spencer wrung his hand, and stepped back to the bed to try another resource. Vain again, they only seemed to be tormenting her, and the silent helplessness prevailed again. Then Dr. May went down to Flora, told her the true state of the case, and urged on her to give up her plan of remaining. George joined with him, and she yielded submissively, but would not be refused going up once again and kissing her sister, standing beside her gazing at her, till her father came softly and drew her away. “I shall be here to-morrow,” she said to Ethel, and went.
The morrow, however, brought no Flora. The agitation and distress of that day had broken her down completely, and she was so ill as to be unable to move. Her aunt went at once to see her, and finding that her presence at the Grange relieved some of Dr. May’s anxieties, chiefly devoted herself to her. Flora was grateful and gentle, but as silent and impenetrable as ever, while day after day she lay on her couch, uncomplaining and undemonstrative, visited by her father, and watched over by her aunt and sister-in-law, who began to know each other much better, though Flora less than ever, in that deep fixed grief. She only roused herself to return her husband’s affection, or to listen to the daily reports of Margaret. Poor George, he was very forlorn, though Meta did her best to wait on him, and he rode over twice a day to inquire at Stoneborough.
The doctors were right, and the consecration morning was her last of full consciousness. From the hour when she had heard the sound of Alan’s bells, her ears were closed to earthly sounds. There was very little power of intercourse with her, as she lingered on the borders of the land very far away, where skill and tenderness could not either reach body or spirit. Often the watchers could not tell whether she was conscious, or only incapacitated from expression, by the fearful weight on her breath, which caused a restlessness most piteous in the exhausted helpless frame, wasted till the softest touch was anguish. Now and then came precious gleams when a familiar voice, or some momentary alleviation would gain a smile, or thanks, and they thought her less restless when Richard read prayers beside her, but words were very rare, only now and then a name, and when in most distress, “it will be soon over,” “it will soon be over,” occurred so often, that they began to think it once her solace, and now repeated habitually without a meaning.
They could not follow her into the valley of the shadow of death, but could only watch the frail earthly prison-house being broken down, as if the doom of sin must be borne, though faith could trust that it was but her full share in the Cross. Calmly did those days pass. Ethel, Richard, and Mary divided between them the watching and the household cares, and their father bore up bravely in the fullness of his love and faith, resigning her daughter to the Hands which were bearing her whither her joys had long since departed.
Hector Ernescliffe arrived when the holidays began; and his agony of sorrow, when she failed to recognise him, moved Dr. May to exert himself earnestly for his consolation; and, at the same time, Tom, in a gentle, almost humble manner, paid a sort of daughter-like attention to the smallest services for his father, as if already accepting him as his especial charge.
It was midnight, on the longest night of the year; Ethel was lying on her bed, and had fallen into a brief slumber, when her father’s low, clear voice summoned her: “Ethel, she is going!”
There was a change on the face, and the breath came in labouring gasps. Richard lifted her head, and her eyes once more opened; she smiled once more.
“Papa!” she said, “dear papa!”
He threw himself on his knees beside her, but she looked beyond him, “Mamma! Alan! oh, there they are! More! more!” and, as though the unspeakable dawned on her, she gasped for utterance, then looked, with a consoling smile, on her father. “Over now!” she said—and the last struggle was ended. That which Richard laid down was no longer Margaret May.
Over now! The twenty-five years’ life, the seven years’ captivity on her couch, the anxious headship of the motherless household, the hopeless betrothal, the long suspense, the efforts for resignation, the widowed affections, the slow decay, the tardy, painful death agony—all was over; nothing left, save what they had rendered the undying spirit, and the impress her example had left on those around her.
The long continuance of the last suffering had softened the actual parting; and it was with thankfulness for the cessation of her pain that they turned away, and bade each other good-night.
Ethel would not have believed that her first wakening to the knowledge that Margaret was gone could have been more fraught with relief than with misery. And, for her father, it seemed as if it were a home-like, comfortable thought to him, that her mother had one of her children with her. He called her the first link of his Daisy Chain drawn up out of sight; and, during the quiet days that ensued, he seemed as it were to be lifted above grief, dwelling upon hope. His calmness impressed the same on his children, as they moved about in the solemn stillness of the house; and when Harry, pale, and shocked at the blow to him so sudden, came home, the grave silence soothed his violence of grief; and he sat beside his, father or Mary, speaking in undertones of what Margaret had loved to hear from him, of Alan Ernescliffe’s last moments.
Mary gave way to a burst of weeping when she sought, in vain, for daisies in the wintry garden; but Hector Ernescliffe went down to the cloisters, and brought back the lingering blossoms to be placed on Margaret’s bosom.
The dog Toby had followed him, unseen, to the cloister; and he was entering the garden, when he was struck by seeing the animal bounding, in irrepressible ecstasy, round a lad, whose tarpaulin hat, blue-bordered collar, and dark blue dress, showed him to be a sailor, as well as the broad-shouldered, grizzled, elderly man, who stood beside him.
“I say, sir,” said the latter, as Hector’s hand was on the door, “do you belong to Dr. May?”
Hector unhesitatingly answered that he did.
“Then, maybe, sir, you have heard of one Bill Jennings.”
Hector was all in one flush, almost choking, as he told that he was Mr. Ernescliffe’s brother, and gave his hand to the sailor. “What could he do for him?”
Jennings had heard from one of the crew of the Bucephalus that Mr. May had been met, on his return to Portsmouth, by the news of his sister’s death. The Mays had helped his boy; he had been with Mr. May in the island; he had laid Mr. Ernescliffe in his grave; and some notion had crossed the sailor that he must be at Miss Margaret’s funeral—it might be they would let him lend a hand—and, in this expedition, he was spending his time on shore.
How he was welcomed need not be told, nor how the tears came forth from full hearts, as Dr. May granted his wish, and thanked him for doing what Margaret herself would indeed have chosen; and, in his blue sailor garb, was Jennings added to the bearers, their own men, and two Cocksmoor labourers, who, early on Christmas Eve, carried her to the minster. Last time she had been there, Alan Ernescliffe had supported her. Now, what was mortal of him lay beneath the palm tree, beneath the glowing summer sky, while the first snow-flakes hung like pearls on her pall. But as they laid her by her mother’s side, who could doubt that they were together?
At length I got unto the gladsome hill,Where lay my hope;Where lay my heart; and, climbing still,When I had gained the brow and top,A lake of brackish waters on the ground,Was all I found.—GEORGE HERBERT.
Late in the evening of the same snowy 24th of December, a little daughter awoke to life at Abbotstoke Grange, and, not long after, Mrs. Arnott came to summon Dr May from the anxious vigil in the sitting-room. “Come and see if you can do anything to soothe her,” she said, with much alarm. “The first sight of the baby has put her into such a state of agitation, that we do not know what to do with her.”
It was so, when he came to her bedside; that fixed stony look of despair was gone; the source of tears, so long dried up, had opened again; and there she lay, weeping quietly indeed, but profusely, and with deep heaving sobs. To speak, or to leave her alone, seemed equally perilous, but he chose the first—he kissed and blessed her, and gave her joy. She looked up at him as if his blessing once more brought peace, and said faintly, “Now it is pardon—now I can die!”
“The cloud is gone! Thanks for that above all!” said Dr. May fervently. “Now, my dear, rest in thankful gladness—you are too weak to talk or think.”
“I am weak—I am tired of it all,” said Flora. “I am glad to be going while I am so happy—there are Margaret—my own darling—rest—peace—”
“You are not going, dearest,” said her father; “at least, I trust not, if you will not give way; here is a darling given to you, instead of the first, who needs you more.”
He would have taken the infant from the nurse and held her to her mother, but, recollecting how little Leonora had drawn her last breath in his arms, he feared the association, and signed to Mrs. Arnott to show her the child; but she seemed as yet only able to feel that it was not Leonora, and the long sealed-up grief would have its way. The tears burst out again. “Tell Ethel she will be the best mother to her. Name her Margaret—make her a Daisy of your own—don’t call her after me,” she said, with such passionate caresses, that Mrs. Arnott was glad to take the babe away.
Dr. May’s next expedient was to speak to her of her husband, who needed her more than all, and to call him in. There seemed to be something tranquillising in his wistful manner of repeating, “Don’t cry, Flora;” and she was at last reduced, by her extreme exhaustion, to stillness; but there were still many fears for her.
Dr. May’s prediction was accomplished—that she would suffer for having over-exerted herself. Her constitution had been severely tried by the grief and despondency that she had so long endured in silence, and the fresh sorrow for her favourite sister coming at such a crisis. There was a weariness of life, and an unwillingness to resume her ordinary routine, that made her almost welcome her weakness and sinking; and now that the black terror had cleared away from the future, she seemed to long to follow Margaret at once, and to yearn after her lost child; while appeals to the affection that surrounded her often seemed to oppress her, as if there were nothing but weariness and toil in store.
The state of her mind made her father very anxious, though it was but too well accounted for. Poor Flora had voluntarily assumed the trammels that galled her; worldly motives had prompted her marriage, and though she faithfully loved her husband, he was a heavy weight on her hands, and she had made it more onerous by thrusting him into a position for which he was not calculated, and inspiring him with a self-consequence that would not recede from it. The shock of her child’s death had taken away the zest and energy which had rejoiced in her chosen way of life, and opened her eyes to see what Master she had been serving; and the perception of the hollowness of all that had been apparently good in her, had filled her with remorse and despair. Her sufferings had been the more bitter because she had not parted with her proud reserve. She had refused council, and denied her confidence to those who could have guided her repentance. Her natural good sense, and the sound principle in which she had been brought up, had taught her to distrust her gloomy feelings as possibly morbid; and she had prayed, keeping her hold of faith in the Infinite Mercy, though she could not feel her own part in it; and thus that faith was beginning at last to clear her path.
It was the harder to deal with her, because her hysterical agitation was so easily excited, that her father hardly dared to let a word be spoken to her; and she was allowed to see no one else except her aunt and the dear old nurse, whose tears for her child Margaret had been checked by the urgent requirements of another of her nurslings; and whom George Rivers would have paid with her weight in gold, for taking care of his new daughter, regarding her as the only woman in the world that could be trusted.
Those were heavy days with every one, though each brought some shade of improvement. They were harder to bear than the peaceful days that had immediately followed the loss of Margaret; and Ethel was especially unhappy and forlorn under the new anxiety, where she could be of no service; and with her precious occupation gone; her father absent, instead of resting upon her; and her room deserted. She was grieved with herself, because her feelings were unable to soar at the Christmas Feast, as erst on St. Andrew’s Day; and she was bewildered and distressed by the fear that she had then been only uplifted by vanity and elation.
She told Richard so, and he said, kindly, that he thought a good deal of that she complained of arose from bodily weariness.
This hurt her a little; but when he said, “I think that the blessings of St. Andrew’s Day helped us through what was to follow,” she owned that it had indeed been so, and added, “I am going to work again! Tell me what will be most useful to you at Cocksmoor.”
Sick at heart as she was, she bravely set herself to appropriate the hours now left vacant; and manfully walked with Richard and Harry to church at Cocksmoor on St. Stephen’s Day; but the church brought back the sense of contrast. Next, she insisted on fulfilling their intention of coming home by Abbotstoke to hear how Flora was, when the unfavourable account only added lead to the burden that weighed her down. Though they were sent home in the carriage, she was so completely spent, that the effect of returning home to her room, without its dear inhabitant, was quite overwhelming, and she sat on her bed for half an hour, struggling with repinings. She came downstairs without having gained the victory, and was so physically overcome with lassitude, that Richard insisted on her lying on the sofa, and leaving everything to him and Mary.
Richard seemed to make her his object in life, and was an unspeakable help and comforter to her, not only by taking every care for her for her sake, but by turning to her as his own friend and confidante, the best able to replace what they had lost. There were many plans to be put in operation for Cocksmoor, on which much consultation was needed, though every word reminded them sadly of Margaret’s ever ready interest in those schemes. It was very unlike Ethel’s vision of the first weeks of St. Andrew’s Church; but it might be safer for her than that aught should tempt her to say, “See what my perseverance has wrought!” Perhaps her Margaret had begun to admire her too much to be her safest confidante—at any rate, it was good still to sow in tears, rather than on earth to reap in confident joy.
Norman was as brotherly and kind as possible; but it was one of the dreary feelings of those days, that Ethel then first became aware of the difference that his engagement had made, and saw that he resorted elsewhere for sympathy. She was not jealous, and acquiesced submissively and resolutely; but they had been so much to each other, that it was a trial, especially at such a time as this, when freshly deprived of Margaret.
Norman’s own prospect was not cheerful. He had received a letter from New Zealand, begging him to hasten his coming out, as there was educational work much wanting him, and, according to his original wish, he could be ordained there in the autumnal Ember Week.
He was in much perplexity, since, according to this request, he ought to sail with his aunt in the last week of February, and he knew not how to reconcile the conflicting claims.
Meta was not long in finding out the whole of his trouble, as they paced up and down the terrace together on a frosty afternoon.
“You will go!” was her first exclamation.
“I ought,” said Norman, “I believe I ought, and if it had only been at any other time, it would have been easy. My aunt’s company would have been such a comfort for you.”
“It cannot be helped,” said Meta.
“Considering the circumstances,” began Norman, with lingering looks at the little humming-bird on his arm, “I believe I should be justified in waiting till such time as you could go with me. I could see what Mr. Wilmot thinks.”
“You don’t think so yourself,” said Meta. “Nobody else can give a judgment. In a thing like this, asking is, what you once called, seeking opinions as Balaam inquired.”
“Turning my words against me?” said Norman, smiling. “Still, Meta, perhaps older heads would be fitter to judge what would be right for a little person not far off.”
“She can be the best judge of that herself,” said Meta. “Norman,” and her dark eyes were steadfastly fixed, “I always resolved that, with God’s help, I would not be a stumbling-block in the way of your call to your work. I will not. Go out now—perhaps you will be freer for it without me, and I suppose I have a longer apprenticeship to serve to all sorts of things before I come to help you.”
“Oh, Meta, you are a rebuke to me!”
“What? when I am going to stay by my own fireside?” said Meta, trying to laugh, but not very successfully. “Seriously, I have much to do here. When poor Flora gets well, she must be spared all exertion for a long time to come; and I flatter myself that they want me at Stoneborough sometimes. If your father can bear to spare you, there is no doubt that you ought to go.”
“My father is as unselfish as you are, Meta. But I cannot speak to him until he is more easy about Flora. We always think the required sacrifice the hardest, but I must own that I could not grieve if he laid his commands on me to wait till the autumn.”
“Oh, that would make it a duty and all easy,” said Meta, smiling; “but I don’t think he will; and Aunt Flora will be only too glad to carry you out without encumbrance.”
“Has not Aunt Flora come to her senses about you?”
“I believe she would rather I belonged to any of her nephews but you. She is such a dear, sincere, kind-hearted person, and we are so comfortable together, that it will be quite like home to come out to her! I mean there, to convince her that I can be of something like use.”
Meta talked so as to brighten and invigorate Norman when they were together, but they both grew low-spirited when apart. The humming-bird had hardly ever been so downcast as at present—that is, whenever she was not engaged in waiting on her brother, or in cheering up Dr. May, or in any of the many gentle offices that she was ever fulfilling. She was greatly disappointed, and full of fears for Norman, and dread of the separation, but she would not give way; and only now and then, when off her guard, would the sadness reign on her face without an effort. Alone, she fought and prayed for resignation for herself, and protection and strength for him, and chid herself for the foolish feeling that he would be safer with her.
She told Aunt Flora how it was one evening, as they sat over the fire together, speaking with a would-be tone of congratulation.
“Indeed!” exclaimed Mrs. Arnott. “But that is a great pity!”
Meta looked quite brightened by her saying so. “I thought you would be glad,” she rejoined.
“Did you think me so hard-hearted?”
“I thought you believed he would be better without me.”
“My dear, we have not kept house and nursed together for a month for nothing,” said Mrs. Arnott, smiling.
“Thank you,” said Meta, trying to answer the smile. “You have taken a load off me!”
“I don’t like it at all,” said Mrs. Arnott. “It is a very uncomfortable plan for every one. And yet when I know how great is the want of him out there, I can say nothing against it without high treason. Well, my dear, I’ll take all the care I can of Norman, and when you come, I shall be almost as glad as if we were coming home for good. Poor Flora! she is one person who will not regret the arrangement.”
“Poor Flora!—you think her really better this evening?”
“Much better, indeed; if we could only raise her spirits, I think she would recover very well; but she is so sadly depressed. I must try to talk to Ethel—she may better understand her.”
“I have never understood Flora,” said Meta. “She has been as kind to me as possible, and I very soon came to a certain point with her, but I never have known her thoroughly. I doubt whether any one did but dear Margaret.”
Flora was, however, much softened and less reserved than she had been. She found great repose in her aunt’s attendance, retracing, as it did, her mother’s presence, and she responded to her tenderness with increasing reliance and comfort; while as her strength began to revive, and there was more disposition to talk, she became gradually drawn into greater confidence.
The seeing of Ethel was one of the difficult questions. Flora had begun to wish it very much, and yet the bare idea threw her into a nervous tremor, that caused it to be put off again and again. Her aunt found her one day almost faint with agitation—she had heard Ethel’s voice in the next room, and had been winding up her expectations, and now was as much grieved as relieved, to find that she had been there seeing the baby, but was now gone.
“How does the dear Ethel look?” asked Flora presently.
“She is looking better to-day; she has looked very worn and harassed, but I thought her brighter to-day. She walked over by Aubrey on his pony, and I think it did her good.”
“Dear old Ethel! Aunt, it is a thing that no one has told me yet. Can you tell me how she bore the news of Norman Ogilvie’s engagement?”
“Do you mean—” and Mrs. Arnott stopped short in her interrogation.
“Yes,” said Flora, answering the pause.
“But I thought young Ogilvie a most unexceptionable person.”
“So he is,” said Flora. “I was much annoyed at the time, but she was resolute.”
“In rejecting him?”
“In running away as soon as she found what was likely to happen;” and Flora, in a few words, told what had passed at Oxford.
“Then it was entirely out of devotion to your father?”
“Entirely,” said Flora. “No one could look at her without seeing that she liked him. I had left her to be the only effective one at home, and she sacrificed herself.”
“I am glad that I have seen her,” said Mrs. Arnott. “I should never have understood her by description. I always said that I must come home to set my correspondence going rightly.”
“Aunt Flora,” said her niece, “do you remember my dear mother’s unfinished letter to you?”
“To be sure I do, my dear.”
“Nothing ever was more true,” said Flora. “I read it over some little time ago, when I set my papers in order, and understood it then. I never did before. I used to think it very good for the others.”
“It is what one generally does with good advice.”
“Do you recollect the comparison between Norman, Ethel, and me? It is so curious. Norman, who was ambitious and loved praise, but now dreads nothing so much; Ethel, who never cared for anything of the kind, but went straight on her own brave way; and oh! Aunt Flora—me—”
“Indeed, my dear, I should have thought you had her most full approbation.”
“Ah! don’t you see the tone, as if she were not fully satisfied, as if she only could not see surface faults in me,” said Flora; “and how she said she dreaded my love of praise, and of being liked. I wonder how it would have been if she had lived. I have looked back so often in the past year, and I think the hollowness began from that time. It might have been there before, but I am not so sure. You see, at that dreadful time, after the accident, I was the eldest who was able to be efficient, and much more useful than poor Ethel. I think the credit I gained made me think myself perfection, and I never did anything afterwards but seek my own honour.”
Mrs. Arnott began better to understand Flora’s continued depression, but she thought her self-reproach exaggerated, and said something at once soothing and calculated to encourage her to undraw the curtain of reserve.
“You do not know,” continued Flora, “how greedy I was of credit and affection. It made me jealous of Ethel herself, as long as we were in the same sphere; and when I felt that she was more to papa than I could be, I looked beyond home for praise. I don’t think the things I did were bad in themselves—brought up as I have been, they could hardly be so. I knew what merits praise and blame too well for that—but oh! the motive. I do believe I cared very much for Cocksmoor. I thought it would be a grand thing to bring about; but, you see, as it has turned out, all I thought I had done for it was in vain; and Ethel has been the real person and does not know it. I used to think Ethel so inferior to me. I left her all my work at home. If it had not been for that, she might have been happy with Norman Ogilvie—for never were two people better matched, and now she has done what I never thought to have left to another—watched over our own Margaret. Oh! how shall I ever bear to see her?”
“My dear, I am sure nothing can be more affectionate than Ethel. She does not think these things.”
“She does,” said Flora. “She always knew me better than I did myself. Her straightforward words should often have been rebukes to me. I shall see in every look and tone the opinion I have deserved. I have shrunk from her steadfast looks ever since I myself learned what I was. I could not bear them now—and yet—oh, aunt, you must bring her! Ethel! my dear, dear old King—my darling’s godmother—the last who was with Margaret!”
She had fallen into one of those fits of weeping when it was impossible to attempt anything but soothing her; but, though she was so much exhausted that Mrs. Arnott expected to be in great disgrace with Dr. May for having let her talk herself into this condition, she found that he was satisfied to find that she had so far relieved her mind, and declared that she would be better now.
The effect of the conversation was, that the next day, the last of the twelve Christmas days, when Ethel, whose yearning after her sister was almost equally divided between dread and eagerness—eagerness for her embrace, and dread of the chill of her reserve, came once again in hopes of an interview. Dr. May called her at once. “I shall take you in without any preparation,” he said, “that she may not have time to be flurried. Only, be quiet and natural.”
Did he know what a mountain there was in her throat when he seemed to think it so easy to be natural?
She found him leading her into a darkened room, and heard his cheerful tones saying, “I have brought Ethel to you!”
“Ethel! oh!” said a low, weak voice, with a sound as of expecting a treat, and Ethel was within a curtain, where she began, in the dimness, to see something white moving, and her hands were clasped by two long thin ones. “There!” said Dr. May, “now, if you will be good, I will leave you alone. Nurse is by to look after you, and you know she always separates naughty children.”
Either the recurrence to nursery language, or the mere sisterly touch after long separation, seemed to annihilate all the imaginary mutual dread, and, as Ethel bent lower and lower, and Flora’s arms were round her, the only feeling was of being together again, and both at once made the childish gesture of affection, and murmured the old pet names of “Flossy,” and “King,” that belonged to almost forgotten days, when they were baby sisters, then kissed each other again.
“I can’t see you,” said Ethel, drawing herself up a little. “Why, Flora, you look like a little white shadow!”
“I have had such weak eyes,” said Flora, “and this dim light is comfortable. I see your old sharp face quite plain.”
“But what can you do here?”
“Do? Oh, dear Ethel, I have not had much of doing. Papa says I have three years’ rest to make up.”
“Poor Flora!” said Ethel; “but I should have thought it tiresome, especially for you.”
“I have only now been able to think again,” said Flora; “and you will say I am taking to quoting poetry. Do you remember some lines in that drama that Norman admired so much?”
“Philip von Artevelde?”
“Yes. I can’t recollect them now, though they used to be always running in my head—something about time to mend and time to mourn.”
“These?” said Ethel—