One thing is wanting in the beamy cup
Of my young life! one thing to be poured in;
Ay, and one thing is wanting to fill up
The measure of proud joy, and make it sin.—F. W. F.
Hopes that Dr. May would ever have his mind free, seemed as fallacious as mamma’s old promise to Margaret, to make doll’s clothes for her whenever there should be no live dolls to be worked for in the nursery.
Richard and Ethel themselves had their thoughts otherwise engrossed. The last week before the holidays was an important one. There was an examination, by which the standing of the boys in the school was determined, and this time it was of more than ordinary importance, as the Randall scholarship of £100 a year for three years would be open in the summer to the competition of the first six boys. Richard had never come within six of the top, but had been past at every examination by younger boys, till his father could bear it no longer; and now Norman was too young to be likely to have much chance of being of the number. There were eight decidedly his seniors, and Harvey Anderson, a small, quick-witted boy, half a year older, who had entered school at the same time, and had always been one step below him, had, in the last three months, gained fast upon him.
Harry, however, meant Norman to be one of the six, and declared all the fellows thought he would be, except Andersen’s party. Mr. Wilmot, in a call on Ethel and Flora, told them that he thought their brother had a fair chance, but he feared he was over-working himself, and should tell the doctor so, whenever he could catch him; but this was difficult, as there was a great deal of illness just then, and he was less at home than usual.
All this excited the home party, but Norman only seemed annoyed by talk about it, and though always with a book in his hand, was so dreamy and listless, that Flora declared that there was no fear of his doing too much—she thought he would fail for want of trying.
“I mean to try,” said Norman; “say no more about it, pray.”
The great day was the 20th of December, and Ethel ran out, as the boys went to school, to judge of Norman’s looks, which were not promising. “No wonder,” said Harry, since he had stayed up doing Euripides and Cicero the whole length of a candle that had been new at bedtime. “But never mind, Ethel, if he only beats Anderson, I don’t care for anything else.”
“Oh, it will be unbearable if he does not! Do try, Norman, dear.”
“Never you mind.”
“He’ll light up at the last moment,” said Ethel, consolingly, to Harry; but she was very uneasy herself, for she had set her heart on his surpassing Harvey Anderson. No more was heard all day. Tom went at dinner-time to see if he could pick up any news; but he was shy, or was too late, and gained no intelligence. Dr. May and Richard talked of going to hear the speeches and viva voce examination in the afternoon—objects of great interest to all Stoneborough men—but just as they came home from a long day’s work, Dr. May was summoned to the next town, by an electric telegraph, and, as it was to a bad case, he did not expect to be at home till the mail-train came in at one o’clock at night. Richard begged to go with him, and he consented, unwillingly, to please Margaret, who could not bear to think of his “fending for himself” in the dark on the rail-road.
Very long did the evening seem to the listening sisters. Eight, and no tidings; nine, the boys not come; Tom obliged to go to bed by sheer sleepiness, and Ethel unable to sit still, and causing Flora demurely to wonder at her fidgeting so much, it would be so much better to fix her attention to some employment; while Margaret owned that Flora was right, but watched, and started at each sound, almost as anxiously as Ethel.
It was ten, when there was a sharp pull at the bell, and down flew the sisters; but old James was beforehand, and Harry was exclaiming, “Dux! James, he is Dux! Hurrah! Flossy, Ethel, Mary! There stands the Dux of Stoneborough! Where’s papa?”
“Sent for to Whitford. But oh! Norman, Dux! Is he really?”
“To be sure, but I must tell Margaret,” and up he rushed, shouted the news to her, but could not stay for congratulation; broke Tom’s slumber by roaring it in his ear, and dashed into the nursery, where nurse for once forgave him for waking the baby. Norman, meanwhile, followed his eager sisters into the drawing-room, putting up his hand as if the light dazzled him, and looking, by no means, as it he had just achieved triumphant success.
Ethel paused in her exultation: “But is it, is it true, Norman?”
“Yes,” he said wearily, making his way to his dark corner.
“But what was it for? How is it?”
“I don’t know,” he answered.
“What’s the matter?” said Flora. “Are you tired, Norman, dear, does your head ache?”
“Yes;” and the pain was evidently severe.
“Won’t you come to Margaret?” said Ethel, knowing what was the greater suffering; but he did not move, and they forbore to torment him with questions. The next moment Harry came down in an ecstacy, bringing in, from the hall, Norman’s beautiful prize books, and showing off their Latin inscription.
“Ah!” said he, looking at his brother, “he is regularly done for. He ought to turn in at once. That Everard is a famous fellow for an examiner. He said he never had seen such a copy of verses sent up by a school-boy, and could hardly believe June was barely sixteen. Old Hoxton says he is the youngest Dux they have had these fifty years that he has known the school, and Mr. Wilmot said ‘twas the most creditable examination he had ever known, and that I might tell papa so. What did possess that ridiculous old landlubber at Whitford, to go and get on the sick-list on this, of all the nights of the year? June, how can you go on sitting there, when you know you ought to be in your berth?”
“I wish he was,” said Flora, “but let him have some tea first.”
“And tell us more, Harry,” said Ethel. “Oh! it is famous! I knew he would come right at last. It is too delightful, if papa was but here!”
“Isn’t it? You should have seen how Anderson grinned—he is only fourth—down below Forder, and Cheviot, and Ashe.”
“Well, I did not think Norman would have been before Forder and Cheviot. That is grand.”
“It was the verses that did it,” said Harry; “they had an hour to do Themistocles on the hearth of Admetus, and there he beat them all to shivers. ‘Twas all done smack, smooth, without a scratch, in Alcaics, and Cheviot heard Wilmot saying, ‘twas no mere task, but had poetry, and all that sort of thing in it. But I don’t know whether that would have done, if he had not come out so strong in the recitation; they put him on in Priam’s speech to Achilles, and he said it—Oh it was too bad papa did not hear him! Every one held their breath and listened.”
“How you do go on!” muttered Norman; but no one heeded, and Harry continued. “He construed a chorus in Sophocles without a blunder, but what did the business was this, I believe. They asked all manner of out-of-the-way questions—history and geography, what no one expected, and the fellows who read nothing they can help, were thoroughly posed. Forder had not a word to say, and the others were worse, for Cheviot thought Queen Elizabeth’s Earl of Leicester was Simon de Montfort; and didn’t know when that battle was, beginning with an E.—was it Evesham, or Edgehill?”
“O Harry, you are as bad yourself?”
“But any one would know Leicester, because of Kenilworth,” said Harry; “and I’m not sixth form. If papa had but been there! Every one was asking for him, and wishing it. For Dr. Hoxton called me—they shook hands with me, and wished me joy of it, and told me to tell my father how well Norman had done.”
“I suppose you looked so happy, they could not help it,” said Flora, smiling at that honest beaming face of joy.
“Ay,” said Norman, looking up; “they had something to say to him on his own score, which he has forgotten.”
“I should think not,” said Harry. “Why, what d’ye think they said? That I had gone on as well as all the Mays, and they trusted I should still, and be a credit to my profession.”
“Oh! Harry! why didn’t you tell us?”
“Oh! that is grand!” and, as the two elder girls made this exclamation, Mary proceeded to a rapturous embrace. “Get along, Mary, you are throttling one. Mr. Everard inquired for my father and Margaret, and said he’d call to-morrow, and Hoxton and Wilmot kept on wishing he was there.”
“I wish he had been!” said Ethel; “he would have taken such delight in it; but, even if he could have gone, he doubted whether it would not have made Norman get on worse from anxiety.”
“Well, Cheviot wanted me to send up for him at dinner-time,” said Harry; “for as soon as we sat down in the hall, June turned off giddy, and could not stay, and looked so horrid, we thought it was all over with him, and he would not be able to go up at all.”
“And Cheviot thought you ought to send for papa!”
“Yes, I knew he would not be in, and so we left him lying down on the bench in the cloister till dinner was over.”
“What a place for catching cold!” said Flora.
“So Cheviot said, but I couldn’t help it; and when we went to call him afterwards, he was all right. Wasn’t it fun, when the names were called over, and May senior at the head! I don’t think it will be better when I am a post-captain myself! But Margaret has not heard half yet.”
After telling it once in her room, once in the nursery, in whispers like gusts of wind, and once in the pantry, Harry employed himself in writing—“Norman is Dux!” in immense letters, on pieces of paper, which he disposed all over the house, to meet the eyes of his father and Richard on their return.
Ethel’s joy was sadly damped by Norman’s manner. He hardly spoke—only just came in to wish Margaret good-night, and shrank from her affectionate sayings, departing abruptly to his own room.
“Poor fellow! he is sadly overdone,” said she, as he went.
“Oh!” sighed Ethel, nearly ready to cry, “‘tis not like what I used to fancy it would be when he came to the head of the school!”
“It will be different to-morrow,” said Margaret, trying to console herself as well as Ethel. “Think how he has been on the strain this whole day, and long before, doing so much more than older boys. No wonder he is tired and worn out.”
Ethel did not understand what mental fatigue was, for her active, vigorous spirit had never been tasked beyond its powers.
“I hope he will be like himself to-morrow!” said she disconsolately. “I never saw him rough and hasty before. It was even with you, Margaret.”
“No, no, Ethel you aren’t going to blame your own Norman for unkindness on this of all days in the year. You know how it was; you love him better; just as I do, for not being able to bear to stay in this room, where—”
“Yes,” said Ethel, mournfully; “it was a great shame of me! How could I? Dear Norman! how he does grieve—what love his must have been! But yet, Margaret,” she said impatiently, and the hot tears breaking out, “I cannot—cannot bear it! To have him not caring one bit for all of us! I want him to triumph! I can’t without him!”
“What, Ethel, you, who said you didn’t care for mere distinction and praise? Don’t you think dear mamma would say it was safer for him not to be delighted and triumphant?”
“It is very tiresome,” said Ethel, nearly convinced, but in a slightly petulant voice.
“And does not one love those two dear boys to-night!” said Margaret. “Norman not able to rejoice in his victory without her, and Harry in such an ecstacy with Norman’s honours. I don’t think I ever was so fond of my two brothers.”
Ethel smiled, and drew up her head, and said no boys were like them anywhere, and papa would be delighted, and so went to bed happier in her exultation, and in hoping that the holidays would make Norman himself again.
Nothing could be better news for Dr. May, who had never lost a grain of the ancient school-party-loyalty that is part of the nature of the English gentleman. He was a thorough Stoneborough boy, had followed the politics of the Whichcote foundation year by year all his life, and perhaps, in his heart, regarded no honour as more to be prized than that of Dux and Randall scholar. Harry was in his room the next morning as soon as ever he was stirring, a welcome guest—teased a little at first, by his pretending to take it all as a sailor’s prank to hoax him and Richard, and then free to pour out to delighted ears the whole history of the examination, and of every one’s congratulations.
Norman himself was asleep when Harry went to give this narration. He came down late, and his father rose to meet him as he entered. “My boy,” he said, “I had not expected this of you. Well done, Norman!” and the whole tone and gesture had a heartfelt approval and joy in them, that Ethel knew her brother was deeply thrilled by, for his colour deepened, and his lips quivered into something like a smile, though he did not lift his eyes.
Then came Richard’s warm greeting and congratulation, he, too, showing himself as delighted as if the honours were his own; and then Dr. May again, in lively tones, like old times, laughing at Norman for sleeping late, and still not looking well awake, asking him if he was quite sure it was not all a dream.
“Well,” said Norman, “I should think it was, if it were not that you all believe it.”
“Harry had better go to sleep next,” said Dr. May, “and see what dreaming will make him. If it makes Dux of Norman, who knows but it may make Drakes of him? Ha! Ethel—
“Oh, give us for our Kings such Queens,
And for our Ducks such Drakes.”
There had not been such a merry breakfast for months. There was the old confusion of voices; the boys, Richard, and the doctor had much to talk over of the school doings of this week, and there was nearly as much laughing as in days past. Ethel wondered whether any one but herself observed that the voice most seldom heard was Norman’s.
The promised call was made by Dr. Hoxton, and Mr. Everard, an old friend, and after their departure Dr. May came to Margaret’s room with fresh accounts, corroborating what Harry had said of the clear knowledge and brilliant talent that Norman had displayed, to a degree that surprised his masters, almost as much as the examiners. The copy of verses Dr. May brought with him, and construed them to Margaret, commenting all the way on their ease, and the fullness of thought, certainly remarkable in a boy of sixteen.
They were then resigned to Ethel’s keeping, and she could not help imparting her admiration to their author, with some apology for vexing him again.
“I don’t want to be cross,” said Norman, whom these words roused to a sense that he had been churlish last night; “but I cannot help it. I wish people would not make such a fuss about it.”
“I don’t think you can be well, Norman.”
“Nonsense. There’s nothing the matter with me.”
“But I don’t understand your not caring at all, and not being the least pleased.”
“It only makes it worse,” said Norman; “I only feel as if I wanted to be out of the way. My only comfortable time yesterday was on that bench in the cool quiet cloister. I don’t think I could have got through without that, when they left me in peace, till Cheviot and Harry came to rout me up, and I knew it was all coming.”
“Ah! you have overworked yourself, but it was for something. You have given papa such pleasure and comfort, as you can’t help being glad of. That is very different from us foolish young ones and our trumpeting.”
“What comfort can it be? I’ve not been the smallest use all this time. When he was ill, I left him to Ernescliffe, and lay on the floor like an ass; and if he were to ask me to touch his arm, I should be as bad again. A fine thing for me to have talked all that arrogant stuff about Richard! I hate the thought of it; and, as if to make arrows and barbs of it, here’s Richard making as much of this as if it was a double first class! He afraid to be compared with me, indeed!”
“Norman, indeed, this is going too far. We can’t be as useful as the elder ones; and when you know how papa was vexed about Richard, you must be glad to have pleased him.”
“If I were he, it would only make me miss her more. I believe he only makes much of me that he may not disappoint me.”
“I don’t think so. He is really glad, and the more because she would have been so pleased. He said it would have been a happy day for her, and there was more of the glad look than the sorry one. It was the glistening look that comes when he is watching baby, or hearing Margaret say pretty things to her. You see it is the first bright morning we have had.”
“Yes,” said Norman; “perhaps it was, but I don’t know. I thought half of it was din.”
“Oh, Norman!”
“And another thing, Ethel, I don’t feel as if I had fairly earned it. Forder or Cheviot ought to have had it. They are both more really good scholars than I am, and have always been above me. There was nothing I really knew better, except those historical questions that no one reckoned on; and not living at home with their sisters and books, they had no such chance, and it is very hard on them, and I don’t like it.”
“Well, but you really and truly beat them in everything.”
“Ay, by chance. There were lots of places in construing, where I should have broken down if I had happened to be set on in them; it was only a wonder I did not in that chorus, for I had only looked at it twice; but Everard asked me nothing but what I knew; and now and then I get into a funny state, when nothing is too hard for me, and that was how it was yesterday evening. Generally, I feel as dull as a post,” said Norman, yawning and stretching; “I could not make a nonsense hexameter this minute, if I was to die for it.”
“A sort of Berserkar fury!” said Ethel, “like that night you did the coral-worm verses. It’s very odd. Are you sure you are well, dear Norman?”
To which he answered, with displeasure, that he was as well as possible, ordered her not to go and make any more fuss, and left her hastily. She was unhappy, and far from satisfied; she had never known his temper so much affected, and was much puzzled; but she was too much afraid of vexing him, to impart her perplexity even to Margaret. However, the next day, Sunday, as she was reading to Margaret after church, her father came in, and the first thing he said was, “I want to know what you think of Norman.”
“How do you mean?” said Margaret; “in health or spirits?”
“Both,” said Dr. May. “Poor boy! he has never held up his head since October, and, at his age, that is hardly natural. He goes moping about, has lost flesh and appetite, and looks altogether out of order, shooting up like a Maypole too.”
“Mind and body,” said Margaret, while Ethel gazed intently at her father, wondering whether she ought to speak, for Margaret did not know half what she did; nothing about the bad nights, nor what he called the “funny state.”
“Yes, both. I fancied it was only his rapid growth, and the excitement of this examination, and that it would go off, but I think there’s more amiss. He was lounging about doing nothing, when the girls were gone to school after dinner, and I asked him to walk down with me to the Almshouses. He did not seem very willing, but he went, and presently, as I had hold of his arm, I felt him shivering, and saw him turn as pale as a sheet. As soon as I noticed it, he flushed crimson, and would not hear of turning back, stoutly protesting he was quite well, but I saw his hand was quivering even when I got into church. Why, Ethel, you have turned as red as he did.”
“Then he has done it!” exclaimed Ethel, in a smothered voice.
“What do you mean? Speak, Ethel.”
“He has gone past it—the place,” whispered she.
The doctor made a sound of sorrowful assent, as if much struck; then said, “you don’t mean he has never been there since?”
“Yes,” said Ethel, “he has always gone round Randall’s alley or the garden; he has said nothing, but has contrived to avoid it.”
“Well,” said Dr. May, after a pause, “I hoped none of us knew the exact spot.”
“We don’t; he never told us, but he was there.”
“Was he?” exclaimed her father; “I had no notion of that. How came he there?”
“He went on with Mr. Ernescliffe, and saw it all,” said Ethel, as her father drew out her words, apparently with his eye; “and then came up to my room so faint that he was obliged to lie on the floor ever so long.”
“Faint—how long did it last?” said her father, examining her without apparent emotion, as if it had been an indifferent patient.
“I don’t know, things seemed so long that evening. Till after dark at least, and it came on in the morning—no, the Monday. I believe it was your arm—for talking of going to see you always brought it on, till Mr. Ward gave him a dose of brandy-and-water, and that stopped it.”
“I wish I had known this before. Derangement of the nervous system, no doubt—a susceptible boy like that—I wonder what sort of nights he has been having.”
“Terrible ones,” said Ethel; “I don’t think he ever sleeps quietly till morning; he has dreams, and he groans and talks in his sleep; Harry can tell you all that.”
“Bless me!” cried Dr. May, in some anger; “what have you all been thinking about to keep this to yourselves all this time?”
“He could not bear to have it mentioned,” said Ethel timidly; “and I didn’t know that it signified so much; does it?”
“It signifies so much, that I had rather have given a thousand pounds than have let him go on all this time, to be overworked at school, and wound up to that examination!”
“Oh, dear! I am sorry!” said Ethel, in great dismay. “If you had but been at home when Cheviot wanted Harry to have sent for you—because he did not think him fit for it!” And Ethel was much relieved by pouring out all she knew, though her alarm was by no means lessened by the effect it produced on her father, especially when he heard of the “funny state.”
“A fine state of things,” he said; “I wonder it has not brought on a tremendous illness by this time. A boy of that sensitive temperament meeting with such a shock—never looked after—the quietest and most knocked down of all, and therefore the most neglected—his whole system disordered—and then driven to school to be harassed and overworked; if we had wanted to occasion brain fever we could not have gone a better way to set about it. I should not wonder if health and nerves were damaged for life!”
“Oh! papa, papa!” cried Ethel, in extreme distress, “what shall I do! I wish I had told you, but—”
“I’m not blaming you, Ethel, you knew no better, but it has been grievous neglect. It is plain enough there is no one to see after you,” said the doctor, with a low groan.
“We may be taking it in time,” said Margaret’s soft voice—“it is very well it has gone on no longer.”
“Three months is long enough,” said Dr. May.
“I suppose,” continued Margaret, “it will be better not to let dear Norman know we are uneasy about him.”
“No, no, certainly not. Don’t say a word of this to him. I shall find Harry, and ask about these disturbed nights, and then watch him, trusting it may not have gone too far; but there must be dreadful excitability of brain!”
He went away, leaving Margaret to comfort Ethel as well as she could, by showing her that he had not said the mischief was done, putting her in mind that he was wont to speak strongly; and trying to make her thankful that her brother would now have such care as might avert all evil results.
“But, oh,” said Ethel, “his success has been dearly purchased!”
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