The days are sad, it is the Holy tide,
When flowers have ceased to blow and birds to sing.
F. TENNYSON.
It had been a hard struggle to give up all thoughts of study, and Norman was not at first rewarded for it, but rather exemplified the truth of his own assertion, that he was worse without it; for when this sole occupation for his mind was taken away, he drooped still more. He would willingly have shown his father that he was not discontented, but he was too entirely unnerved to be either cheerful or capable of entering with interest into any occupation. If he had been positively ill, the task would have been easier, but the low intermittent fever that hung about him did not confine him to bed, only kept him lounging, listless and forlorn, through the weary day, not always able to go out with his father, and on Christmas Day unfit even for church.
All this made the want of his mother, and the vacancy in his home, still more evident, and nothing was capable of relieving his sadness but his father’s kindness, which was a continual surprise to him. Dr. May was a parent who could not fail to be loved and honoured; but, as a busy man, trusting all at home to his wife, he had only appeared to his children either as a merry playfellow, or as a stern paternal authority, not often in the intermediate light of guiding friend, or gentle guardian; and it affected Norman exceedingly to find himself, a tall schoolboy, watched and soothed with motherly tenderness and affection; with complete comprehension of his feelings, and delicate care of them. His father’s solicitude and sympathy were round him day and night, and this, in the midst of so much toil, pain, grief, and anxiety of his own, that Norman might well feel overwhelmed with the swelling, inexpressible feelings of grateful affection.
How could his father know exactly what he would like—say the very things he was thinking—see that his depression was not wilful repining—find exactly what best soothed him! He wondered, but he could not have said so to any one, only his eye brightened, and, as his sisters remarked, he never seemed half so uncomfortable when papa was in the room. Indeed, the certainty that his father felt the sorrow as acutely as himself, was one reason of his opening to him. He could not feel that his brothers and sisters did so, for, outwardly, their habits were unaltered, their spirits not lowered, their relish for things around much the same as before, and this had given Norman a sense of isolation. With his father it was different. Norman knew he could never appreciate what the bereavement was to him—he saw its traces in almost every word and look, and yet perceived that something sustained and consoled him, though not in the way of forgetfulness. Now and then Norman caught at what gave this comfort, and it might be hoped he would do so increasingly; though, on this Christmas Day, Margaret felt very sad about him, as she watched him sitting over the fire, cowering with chilliness and headache, while every one was gone to church, and saw that the reading of the service with her had been more of a trouble than a solace.
She tried to think it bodily ailment, and strove hard not to pine for her mother, to comfort them both, and say the fond words of refreshing cheering pity that would have made all light to bear. Margaret’s home Christmas was so spent in caring for brother, father, and children, that she had hardly time to dwell on the sad change that had befallen herself.
Christmas was a season that none of them knew well how to meet: Blanche was overheard saying to Mary that she wished it would not come, and Mary, shaking her head, and answering that she was afraid that was naughty, but it was very tiresome to have no fun. Margaret did her best upstairs, and Richard downstairs, by the help of prints and hymns, to make the children think of the true joy of Christmas, and in the evening their father gathered them round, and told them the stories of the Shepherds and of the Wise Men, till Mary and Blanche agreed, as they went up to bed, that it had been a very happy evening.
The next day Harry discomfited the schoolroom by bursting in with the news that “Louisa and Fanny Anderson were bearing down on the front door.” Ethel and Flora were obliged to appear in the drawing-room, where they were greeted by two girls, rather older than themselves. A whole shower of inquiries for Dr. May, for Margaret, and for the dear little baby, were first poured out; then came hopes that Norman was well, as they had not seen him at church yesterday.
“Thank you, he was kept at home by a bad headache, but it is better to-day.”
“We came to congratulate you on his success—we could not help it—it must have been such a pleasure to you.”
“That it was!” exclaimed Ethel, pleased at participation in her rejoicing. “We were so surprised.”
Flora gave a glance of warning, but Ethel’s short-sighted eyes were beyond the range of correspondence, and Miss Anderson continued. “It must have been a delightful surprise. We could hardly believe it when Harvey came in and told us. Every one thought Forder was sure, but they all were put out by the questions of general information—those were all Mr. Everard’s doing.”
“Mr. Everard was very much struck with Norman’s knowledge and scholarship too,” said Flora.
“So every one says. It was all Mr. Everard’s doing. Miss Harrison told mamma, but, for my part, I am very glad for the sake of Stoneborough; I like a town boy to be at the head.”
“Norman was sorry for Forder and Cheviot,” began Ethel. Flora tried to stop her, but Louisa Anderson caught at what she said, and looked eagerly for more. “He felt,” said she, only thinking of exalting her generous brother, “as if it was hardly right, when they are so much his seniors, that he could scarcely enjoy it.”
“Ah! that is just what people say,” replied Louisa. “But it must be very gratifying to you, and it makes him certain of the Randal scholarship too, I suppose. It is a great thing for him! He must have worked very hard.”
“Yes, that he has,” said Flora; “he is so fond of study, and that goes halfway.”
“So is dear Harvey. How earnest he is over his books! Mamma sometimes says, ‘Now Harvey, dear, you’ll be quite stupified, you’ll be ill; I really shall get Dr. May to forbid you.’ I suppose Norman is very busy too; it is quite the fashion for boys not to be idle now.”
“Poor Norman can’t help it,” said Ethel piteously. “Papa will not hear of his doing any Latin or Greek these whole holidays.”
“He thinks he will come to it better again for entire rest,” said Flora, launching another look at her sister, which again fell short.
A great deal of polite inquiry whether they were uneasy about him followed, mixed with a little boasting of dear Harvey’s diligence.
“By-the-bye, Ethel, it is you that are the great patroness of the wild Cocksmoor children—are not you?”
Ethel coloured, and mumbled, and Flora answered for her, “Richard and Ethel have been there once or twice. You know our under nursery-maid is a Cocksmoor girl.”
“Well, mamma said she could not think how Miss May could take one from thence. The whole place is full of thieves, and do you know, Bessie Boulder has lost her gold pencil-case.”
“Has she?” said Flora.
“And she had it on Sunday when she was teaching her class.”
“Oh!” cried Ethel vehemently; “surely she does not suspect any of those poor children!”
“I only know such a thing never happened at school before,” said Fanny, “and I shall never take anything valuable there again.”
“But is she sure she lost it at school?”
“Oh, yes, quite certain. She will not accuse any one, but it is not comfortable. And how those children do behave at church!”
“Poor things! they have been sadly neglected,” said Flora.
“They are quite spoiling the rest, and they are such figures! Why don’t you, at least, make them cut their hair? You know it is the rule of the school.”
“I know, but half the girls in the first class wear it long.”
“Oh, yes, but those are the superior people, that one would not be strict with, and they dress it so nicely too. Now these are like little savages.”
“Richard thinks it might drive them away to insist at first,” said Ethel; “we will try to bring it about in time.”
“Well, Mrs. Ledwich is nearly resolved to insist, so you had better be warned, Ethel. She cannot suffer such untidiness and rags to spoil the appearance of the school, and, I assure you, it is quite unpleasant to the teachers.”
“I wish they would give them all to me!” said Ethel. “But I do hope Mrs. Ledwich will have patience with them, for they are only to be gained gently.”
The visitors took their leave, and the two sisters began exclaiming—Ethel at their dislike of her proteges, and Flora at what they had said of Norman. “And you, Ethel, how could you go and tell them we were surprised, and Norman thought it was hard on the other boys? They’ll have it all over the town that he got it unjustly, and knows it, as they say already it was partiality of Mr. Everard’s.”
“Oh, no, no, they never can be so bad!” cried Ethel; “they must have understood better that it was his noble humility and generosity.”
“They understand anything noble! No, indeed! They think every one like their own beautiful brother! I knew what they came for all the time; they wanted to know whether Norman was able to work these holidays, and you told them the very thing they wanted to hear. How they will rejoice with that Harvey, and make sure of the Randall!”
“Oh, no, no!” cried Ethel; “Norman must get that!”
“I don’t think he will,” said Flora, “losing all this time, while they are working. It cannot be helped, of course, but it is a great pity.”
“I almost wish he had not been put up at all, if it is to end in this way,” said Ethel. “It is very provoking, and to have them triumphing as they will! There’s no bearing it!”
“Norman, certainly, is not at all well, poor fellow,” said Flora, “and I suppose he wants rest, but I wish papa would let him do what he can. It would be much better for him than moping about as he is always doing now; and the disappointment of losing his place will be grievous, though now he fancies he does not care for it.”
“I wonder when he will ever care for anything again. All I read and tell him only seems to tease him, though he tries to thank me.”
“There is a strange apathy about him,” said Flora, “but I believe it is chiefly for want of exertion. I should like to rouse him if papa would let me; I know I could, by telling him how these Andersons are reckoning on his getting down. If he does, I shall be ready to run away, that I may never meet any one here again.”
Ethel was very unhappy till she was able to pour all this trouble out to Margaret, and worked herself almost into crying about Norman’s being passed by “that Harvey,” and his sisters exulting, and papa being vexed, and Norman losing time and not caring.
“There you are wrong,” said Margaret, “Norman did care very much, and it was not till he had seen clearly that it was a matter of duty to do as papa thought right, and not agitate his mind about his chances of keeping up, that he could bear to give up his work;” and she told Ethel a little of what had passed.
Ethel was much struck. “But oh, Margaret, it is very hard, just to have him put up for the sake of being put down, and pleasing the Andersons!”
“Dear Ethel, why should you mind so much about the Andersons? May they not care about their brother as we do for ours?”
“Such a brother to care about!” said Ethel.
“But I suppose they may like him the best,” said Margaret, smiling.
“I suppose they do,” said Ethel grudgingly; “but still I cannot bear to see Norman doing nothing, and I know Harvey Anderson will beat him.”
“Surely you had rather he did nothing than made himself ill!”
“To be sure, but I wish it wasn’t so.”
“Yes; but, Ethel, whose doing is his getting into this state?”
Ethel looked grave. “It was wrong of me,” said she, “but then papa is not sure that Greek would hurt him.”
“Not sure, but he thinks it not wise to run the risk. But, Ethel, dear, why are you so bent on his being dux at all costs?”
“It would be horrid if he was not.”
“Don’t you remember you used to say that outward praise or honour was not to be cared for as long as one did one’s duty, and that it might be a temptation?”
“Yes, I know I did,” said Ethel, faltering, “but that was for oneself.”
“It is harder, I think, to feel so about those we care for,” said Margaret; “but after all, this is just what will show whether our pride in Norman is the right true loving pride, or whether it is only the family vanity of triumphing over the Andersons.”
Ethel hung her head. “There’s some of that,” she said, “but it is not all. No—I don’t want to triumph over them, nobody would do that.”
“Not outwardly perhaps, but in their hearts.”
“I can’t tell,” said Ethel, “but it is the being triumphed over that I cannot bear.”
“Perhaps this is all a lesson in humility for us,” said Margaret “It is teaching us, ‘Whosoever exalteth himself shall be abased, and he that humbleth himself shall be exalted.’”
Ethel was silent for some little space, then suddenly exclaimed, “And you think he will really be put down?”
Margaret seemed to have been talking with little effect, but she kept her patience, and answered, “I cannot guess, Ethel, but I’ll tell you one thing—I think there’s much more chance if he comes to his work fresh and vigorous after a rest, than if he went on dulling himself with it all this time.”
With which Ethel was so far appeased that she promised to think as little as she could of the Andersons, and a walk with Richard to Cocksmoor turned the current of her thoughts. They had caught some more Sunday-school children by the help of Margaret’s broth, but it was uphill work; the servants did not like such guests in the kitchen, and they were still less welcome at school.
“What do you think I heard, Ethel?” said Flora, the next Sunday, as they joined each other in the walk from school to church; “I heard Miss Graves say to Miss Boulder, ‘I declare I must remonstrate. I undertook to instruct a national, not a ragged school;’ and then Miss Boulder shook out her fine watered silk and said, ‘It positively is improper to place ladies in contact with such squalid objects.’”
“Ladies!” cried Ethel. “A stationer’s daughter and a banker’s clerk’s! Why do they come to teach at school at all?”
“Because our example makes it genteel,” said Flora.
“I hope you did something more in hopes of making it genteel.”
“I caught one of your ragged regiment with her frock gaping behind, and pinned it up. Such rags as there were under it! Oh, Ethel!”
“Which was it?”
“That merry Irish-looking child. I don’t know her name.”
“Oh! it is a real charming Irish name, Una M’Carthy. I am so glad you did it, Flora. I hope they were ashamed.”
“I doubt whether it will do good. We are sure of our station and can do anything—they are struggling to be ladies.”
“But we ought not to talk of them any more, Flora; here we are almost at the churchyard.”
The Tuesday of this week was appointed for the visit of the London surgeon, Sir Matthew Fleet, and the expectation caused Dr. May to talk much to Margaret of old times, and the days of his courtship, when it had been his favourite project that his friend and fellow-student should marry Flora Mackenzie, and there had been a promising degree of liking, but “Mat” had been obliged to be prudent, and had ended by never marrying at all. This the doctor, as well as his daughters, believed was for the sake of Aunt Flora, and thus the girls were a good deal excited about his coming, almost as much on his own account, as because they considered him as the arbiter of Margaret’s fate. He only came in time for a seven o’clock dinner, and Margaret did not see him that night, but heard enough from her sisters, when they came up to tell the history of their guest, and of the first set dinner when Flora had acted as lady of the house. The dinner it appeared had gone off very well. Flora had managed admirably, and the only mishap was some awkward carving of Ethel’s which had caused the dish to be changed with Norman. As to the guest, Flora said he was very good-looking and agreeable. Ethel abruptly pronounced, “I am very glad Aunt Flora married Uncle Arnott instead.”
“I can’t think why,” said Flora. “I never saw a person of pleasanter manners.”
“Did they talk of old times?” said Margaret.
“No,” said Ethel; “that was the thing.”
“You would not have them talk of those matters in the middle of dinner,” said Flora.
“No,” again said Ethel; “but papa has a way—don’t you know, Margaret, how one can tell in a moment if it is company talk.”
“What was the conversation about?” said Margaret.
“They talked over some of their fellow-students,” said Flora.
“Yes,” said Ethel; “and then when papa told him that beautiful history of Dr. Spencer going to take care of those poor emigrants in the fever, what do you think he said? ‘Yes, Spencer was always doing extravagant things.’ Fancy that to papa, who can hardly speak of it without having to wipe his spectacles, and who so longs to hear of Dr. Spencer.”
“And what did he say?”
“Nothing; so Flora and Sir Matthew got to pictures and all that sort of thing, and it was all company talk after that.”
“Most entertaining in its kind,” said Flora: “but—oh, Norman!” as he entered—“why, they are not out of the dining-room yet!”
“No; they are talking of some new invention, and most likely will not come for an hour.”
“Are you going to bed?”
“Papa followed me out of the dining-room to tell me to do so after tea.”
“Then sit down there, and I’ll go and make some, and let it come up with Margaret’s. Come, Ethel. Good-night, Norman. Is your head aching to-night?”
“Not much, now I have got out of the dining-room.”
“It would have been wiser not to have gone in,” said Flora, leaving the room.
“It was not the dinner, but the man,” said Norman. “It is incomprehensible to me how my father could take to him. I’d as soon have Harvey Anderson for a friend!”
“You are like me,” said Ethel, “in being glad he is not our uncle.”
“He presume to think of falling in love with Aunt Flora!” cried Norman indignantly.
“Why, what is the matter with him?” asked Margaret. “I can’t find much ground for Ethel’s dislike, and Flora is pleased.”
“She did not hear the worst, nor you either, Ethel,” said Norman. “I could not stand the cold hard way he spoke of hospital patients. I am sure he thinks poor people nothing but a study, and rich ones nothing but a profit. And his half sneers! But what I hated most was his way of avoiding discussions. When he saw he had said what would not go down with papa, he did not honestly stand up to the point, and argue it out, but seemed to have no mind of his own, and to be only talking to please papa—but not knowing how to do it. He understand my father indeed!”
Norman’s indignation had quite revived him, and Margaret was much entertained with the conflicting opinions. The next was Richard’s, when he came in late to wish her good-night, after he had been attending on Sir Matthew’s examination of his father’s arm. He did nothing but admire the surgeon’s delicacy of touch and understanding of the case, his view agreeing much better with Dr. May’s own than that with Mr. Ward’s. Dr. May had never been entirely satisfied with the present mode of treatment, and Richard was much struck by hearing him say, in answer to Sir Matthew, that he knew his recovery might have been more speedy and less painful if he had been able to attend to it at first, or to afford time for being longer laid up. A change of treatment was now to be made, likely soon to relieve the pain, to be less tedious and troublesome, and to bring about a complete cure in three or four months at latest. In hearing such tidings, there could be little thought of the person who brought them, and Margaret did not, till the last moment, learn that Richard thought Sir Matthew very clever and sensible, and certain to understand her case. Her last visitor was her father: “Asleep, Margaret? I thought I had better go to Norman first in case he should be awake.”
“Was he?”
“Yes, but his pulse is better to-night. He was lying awake to hear what Fleet thought of me. I suppose Richard told you?”
“Yes, dear papa; what a comfort it is!”
“Those fellows in London do keep up to the mark! But I would not be there for something. I never saw a man so altered. However, if he can only do for you as well—but it is of no use talking about it. I may trust you to keep yourself calm, my dear?”
“I am trying—indeed I am, dear papa. If you could help being anxious for me—though I know it is worse for you, for I only have to lie still, and you have to settle for me. But I have been thinking how well off I am, able to enjoy so much, and be employed all day long. It is nothing to compare with that poor girl you told me of, and you need not be unhappy for me. I have some verses to say over to myself to-night:
“O Lord my God, do Thou Thy holy will,
I will lie still,
I will not stir, lest I forsake Thine arm
And break the charm
That lulls me, clinging to my Father’s breast
In perfect rest.”
“Is not that comfortable?”
“My child—my dear child—I will say no more, lest I should break your sweet peace with my impatience. I will strive for the same temper, my Margaret. Bless you, dearest, good-night.”
After a night spent in waking intervals of such thoughts, Margaret found the ordinary morning, and the talk she could not escape, somewhat oppressive. Her brothers and sisters disturbed her by their open expressions of hope and anxiety; she dreaded to have the balance of tranquillity overset; and then blamed herself for selfishness in not being as ready to attend to them as usual. Ethel and Norman came up after breakfast, their aversion by no means decreased by further acquaintance. Ethel was highly indignant at the tone in which he had exclaimed, “What, May, have you one as young as this?” on discovering the existence of the baby; and when Norman observed that was not so atrocious either, she proceeded, “You did not hear the contemptuous, compassionate tone when he asked papa what he meant to do with all these boys.”
“I’m glad he has not to settle,” said Norman.
“Papa said Harry was to be a sailor, and he said it was a good way to save expenses of education—a good thing.”
“No doubt,” said Norman, “he thinks papa only wants to get rid of us, or if not, that it is an amiable weakness.”
“But I can’t see anything so shocking in this,” said Margaret.
“It is not the words,” said Norman, “the look and tone convey it; but there are different opinions. Flora is quite smitten with him, he talks so politely to her.”
“And Blanche!” said Ethel. “The little affected pussy-cat made a set at him, bridled and talked in her mincing voice, with all her airs, and made him take a great deal of notice of her.”
Nurse here came to prepare for the surgeon’s visit.
It was over, and Margaret awaited the judgment. Sir Matthew had spoken hopefully to her, but she feared to fasten hopes on what might have no meaning, and could rely on nothing, till she had seen her father, who never kept back his genuine opinion, and would least of all from her. She found her spirits too much agitated to talk to her sisters, and quietly begged them to let her be quite alone till the consultation was over, and she lay trying to prepare herself to submit thankfully, whether she might be bidden to resign herself to helplessness, or to let her mind open once more to visions of joyous usefulness. Every step she hoped would prove to be her father’s approach, and the longest hour of her life was that before he entered her room. His face said that the tidings were good, and yet she could not ask.
“Well, Margaret, I am glad we had him down. He thinks you may get about again, though it may be a long time first.”
“Does he?—oh, papa!” and the colour spread over her face, as she squeezed his hand very fast.
“He has known the use of the limbs return almost suddenly after even a year or two,” and Dr. May gave her the grounds of the opinion, and an account of other like cases, which he said had convinced him, “though, my poor child,” he said, “I feared the harm I had done you was irremediable, but thanks—” He turned away his face, and the clasp of their hands spoke the rest.
Presently he told Margaret that she was no longer to be kept prostrate, but she was to do exactly as was most comfortable to her, avoiding nothing but fatigue. She might be lifted to the sofa the next day, and if that agreed with her, she might be carried downstairs.
This, in itself, after she had been confined to her bed for three months, was a release from captivity, and all the brothers and sisters rejoiced as if she was actually on her feet again. Richard betook himself to constructing a reading-frame for the sofa; Harry tormented Miss Winter by insisting on a holiday for the others, and gained the day by an appeal to his father; then declared he should go and tell Mr. Wilmot the good news; and Norman, quite enlivened, took up his hat, and said he would come too.
In all his joy, however, Dr. May could not cease bewailing the alteration in his old friend, and spent half the evening in telling Margaret how different he had once been, in terms little less measured than Ethel’s: “I never saw such a change. Mat Fleet was one of the most warm, open-hearted fellows in the world, up to anything. I can hardly believe he is the same—turned into a mere machine, with a moving spring of self-interest! I don’t believe he cares a rush for any living thing! Except for your sake, Margaret, I wish I had never seen him again, and only remembered him as he was at Edinburgh, as I remembered dear old Spencer. It is a grievous thing! Ruined entirely! No doubt that London life must be trying—the constant change and bewilderment of patients preventing much individual care and interest. It must be very hardening. No family ties either, nothing to look to but pushing his way. Yes! there’s great excuse for poor Mat. I never knew fully till now the blessing it was that your dear mother was willing to take me so early, and that this place was open to me with all its home connections and interests. I am glad I never had anything to do with London!”
And when he was alone with Norman, he could not help saying, “Norman, my boy, I’m more glad than ever you yielded to me about your Greek these holidays, and for the reason you did. Take care the love of rising and pushing never gets hold of you; there’s nothing that faster changes a man from his better self.”
Meanwhile, Sir Matthew Fleet had met another old college friend in London, and was answering his inquiries for the Dick May of ancient times.
“Poor May! I never saw a man so thrown away. With his talent and acuteness, he might be the most eminent man of his day, if he had only known how to use them. But he was always the same careless, soft-hearted fellow, never knowing how to do himself any good, and he is the same still, not a day older nor wiser. It was a fatal thing for him that there was that country practice ready for him to step into, and even of that he does not make as good a thing as he might. Of course, he married early, and there he is, left a widower with a house full of children—screaming babies, and great tall sons growing up, and he without a notion what he shall do with them, as heedless as ever—saving nothing, of course. I always knew it was what he would come to, if he would persist in burying himself in that wretched little country town, but I hardly thought, after all he has gone through, to find him such a mere boy still. And yet he is one of the cleverest men I ever met—with such talent, and such thorough knowledge of his profession, that it does one good to hear him talk. Poor May! I am sorry for him, he might have been anything, but that early marriage and country practice were the ruin of him.”
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