Part 2, Chapter 9 of the Daisy Chain. The Daisy Chain by Charlotte Mary Young. Part 2, Chapter 9. While I, thy dearest, sat apart, and felt thy triumphs were as mine, and loved them more than they were thine. That was a week of weeks, the most memorable week in Ethel's life, spent in indefatigable sightseeing. College chapels, Bodleian library, Taylor gallery, the museum, all were thoroughly studied, and if Flora had not dragged the party on in mercy to poor George's patience, Ethel would never have got through a day's work. Indeed, Mr. Ogilvy, when annoyed at being hurried in going over Merton Chapel with her, was heard to whisper that he acted the part of policemen by a perpetual move on, and as Ethel recollected the portly form and wooden face of the superintendent at Stoneborough, she was afraid that the comparison would not soon be forgotten. Norman Ogilvy seemed to consider himself bound to their train as much as his namesake, for as on the second morning Norman reported his reasoning, it was that a man must walk about with somebody on commemoration week, and that it was a comfort to do so with ladies who wore their bonnets upon their heads, instead of, like most of those he met, remind him of what Cock Robin said to Jenny Wren in that matrimonial quarrel when Robin grew angry, hopped upon a twig. Flora was extremely delighted, and in matronly fashion told her sister, that people were always respected and admired who had the strength of mind to resist unsuitable customs. Ethel laughed an answer, and said she thought it would take a great deal more strength of mind to go about with her whole visage exposed to the universal gaze, and womanlike they had a thorough gossip over the evils of the backsliding headgear. Norman had retreated from it into the window when Flora returned to the charge about Harvey Anderson. She had been questioning their old friend Mr. Everard, and had learned from him that the cause of the hesitation with which his name had been received was that he had become imbued with some of the rationalistic ideas current in some quarters. He seldom met Norman May without forcing on him debates which were subjects of great interest to the hearers as the two young men were considered as the most distinguished representatives of their respective causes, among their own immediate contemporaries. Norman's powers of argument, his eloquence, readiness, and clearness were thought to rank very high, and in the opinion of Mr. Everard had been of great effect in preventing other youths from being carried away by the specious brilliancy of his rival. Ethel valued this testimony far above the nudigate prize, and she was extremely surprised by hearing Flora declare her intention of still asking Mr. Anderson to dinner, only consulting her brother as to the day. Why, Flora, ask him. Norman! Norman had turned away with a simple answer. Any day. Norman is wiser than you are, Ethel, said Flora. He knows that Stoneborough would be up in arms at any neglect from us to one of the Anderson's, and considering the rival ship it is the more graceful and becoming. I do not think it right, said Ethel stoutly. I believe that a line ought to be drawn, and that we ought not to associate with people who openly tamper with their faith. Never fear, smiled Flora. I promise you that there shall be no debates at my table. Ethel felt the force of the pronoun, and as Flora walked out of the room she went up to Norman who had been resting his brow against the window. It is vain to argue with her, she said, but Norman, do you not think it is clearly wrong to seek after men who desert and deny? She stopped short, frightened at his pale look. He spoke in a low, clear tone that seemed to thrill her with a sort of alarm. If the secrets of men's hearts were probed, who would cast the first Stone? I don't want to cast Stones, she began, but he made a gesture as if he would not hear, and at the same moment Mr. Ogilvy entered the room. Had Ethel been at home she would have pondered much over her brother's meaning. Here she had no leisure. Not only was she fully occupied with the new scenes around her, but her Scottish cousin took up every moment open to conversation. He was older than Norman, and had just taken his degree, and he talked with that superior aplomb, which a few years bestow at their time of life without conceit, but more hopeful and ambitious, and with higher spirits than his cousin. Though industrious and distinguished, he had not avoided society or amusement. He was a great cricketer and tennis player, one of the eight whose success in the boat races was one of Norman's prime interests, and he told stories of frolics that reminded Ethel of her father's old Cambridge adventures. He was a new variety in her eyes, and entertained her greatly. Where the bounds of banter ended was not easy to define, but whenever he tried a little mystification she either entered merrily into the humour, or threw it over with keen wit that he kept constantly on the stretch. They were always discovering odd, unexpected bits of knowledge in each other, and a great deal more in accordance of views and opinions than appeared on the surface, for his enthusiasm usually veiled itself in persouflage on hers, though he was too good and serious to carry it too far. At Blenheim perhaps he thought he had given an overdose of nonsense, and made her believe, as Metta really did, that the duchess Sarah was his model woman, for as they walked in the park in search of Phoebe Mayflower's well, he gathered a fern leaf to show her the glenbrocken badge, and talked to her of his home, his mother, and his sister Marjorie, and the little church in the rocky glen. He gave the history of the stolen meetings of the little knot of churchmen, during the days of persecution, and showed a heart descended straight from the Ogilvy who was out with Montrose, now that the upper structure of young England was for a little while put aside. After this she took his jokes much more coolly, and made thrusts beneath them which she seemed to enjoy, and caused him to unfold himself the more. She liked him all the better for finding that he thought Norman had been a very good friend to him, and that he admired her brother heartily, watching tenderly over his tendencies to make himself unhappy. He confided to her that, much as he rejoiced in the defeats of Anderson, he feared that the reading and thought consequent on the discussions had helped to overstrain Norman's mind, and he was very anxious to carry him away from all study and toil, and make his brains rest, and his eyes delight themselves upon Scottish mountains. Thereupon came vivid descriptions of the scenery, especially his own glen with the ruined tower, and ardent wishes that his cousin Ethel could see them also, and no marjorie. She could quite echo the wish. Edinburgh and La Cotrine had been the visions of her life, and now that she had once taken a leap and left home, absence did not seem impossible, and with a start of delight she hailed her conviction that he intended his mother to invite the party to Glenbrocken. After Norman's visit, Mr Ogilvy declared that he must come with him and pay his long-promised visit to Stoneborough. He should have come long ago. He had been coming last winter, but the wedding had prevented him. He had always wished to know Dr May, whom his father well remembered, and now nothing should keep him away. Flora looked on amused and pleased at Ethel's development. Her abruptness softened into pecancy, and her countenance so embellished that the irregularity only added to the expressiveness. There was no saying what Ethel would come to. She had not said that she would not go to the intended ball, and her grimaces at the mention of it were growing fainter every day. The discussion about Harvey Anderson was never revived. Flora sent the invitation without another word. He came with a half-dozen other gentlemen. Ethel made him a civil greeting, but her head was full of boats and the procession of the day about which Mr Ogilvy was telling her, and she thought of him no more. A lucky step, thought Flora, a grand thing for Ethel, a capital connection for us all. Lady Glenbrocken will not come too much into my sphere, either. Yes, I am doing well by my sisters. It would make stay at home people giddy to record how much pleasure, how much conversation and laughter were crowded into those ten days, and with much thought and feeling beside them, for these were not girls on whom Grave Oxford could leave no impression but one of gaiety. The whole party was very full of merriment. Norman May especially, on whom Flora contrived to devolve that real leadership of conversation that should rightly have belonged to George Rivers, kept up the ball with wit and far beyond what he usually put forth, and livened George into being almost an agreeable man, and drew out little Metta's vivacity into sunny sparkles. Metta generally had Norman for her share, and seemed highly contented with his lionisings, which were given much more quietly and copiously than those which his cousin bestowed upon his sister. Or if there were anything enterprising to be done, any tower to be mounted, or anything with the smallest spice of danger in it, Metta was charmed, and with her lightness and airiness of foot and figure, and perfectly feminine ways, showed a spirit of adventure that added to the general diversion. But if she were to be helped up or down anywhere, she certainly seemed to find greater security in Norman May's assistance, though it was but a feather-like touch that she ever used to aid her bounding step. Both as being diffident and in a manner at home, Norman was not as constantly her cavalier as was Mr. Ogilvy to his sister. And when supplanted, his want was either to pioneer for Flora, or if she did not need him to walk alone, grave, and abstracted. There was a weight on his brow when nothing was going on to drive it away, and whether it were nervousness as to the performance in store for him, anxiety about Harry, or, as Mr. Ogilvy said, too severe application, some burden hung upon him that was only lightened for the time by his participation in the enjoyment of the party. On Sunday evening when they had been entering into the almost vision-like delight of the choicest of music and other accompaniments of church service, they went to walk to Christchurch meadows. They had begun altogether by comparing feelings, Ethel wondering whether Stonbrough Minster would ever be used as it might be, and whether, if so, they should be practically the better for it, and proceeding with metaphysics on her side, and satire on Norman Ogilvy's, to speculate whether that which is, is best, and the rights and wrongs of striving for change and improvements, what should begin from above, and what from beneath. With illustrations often laughter-moving, though they weren't much in earnest, as the young heir of Glenbrock and looked into his future life. Flora had diverged into wondering who would have the living after poor old Mr. Ramston, and walked, keeping her husband amused with instances of his blunders. Metta, as with Norman she parted from the rest, thought her own dear abbots took church, and Mr. Charles Wilmot, great subjects for content and thanksgiving, though it was a wonderful treat to see and hear such as she had enjoyed today, and she thought it was a joy to carry away abidingly, to know that praise and worship, as near perfection as this earth could render them, were being offered up. Norman understood her thought, but responded by more of a sigh than was quite comfortable. Metta went on with her own thoughts, on the connection between worship and good works, how the one leads to the other, and how praise with pure lips is, after all, the great purpose of existence, her last thought she spoke aloud. I suppose everything, our own happiness and all, are given to us to turn into praise, she said. Yes, echoed Norman, but as if his thoughts were not quite with hers, or rather in another part of the same subject, then recalling himself happy such as can do so. If one only could, said Metta, you can, don't say otherwise, exclaimed Norman, I know at least that you and my father can. Dr. May does so more than anyone I know, said Metta. Yes, said Norman again, it is his secret of joy.  To him they are not shadows, but foretastes, said Metta. Silence again. And when she spoke, she said, I have always thought it must be such a happiness to have power of any kind that can be used in direct service or actual doing good. No, said Norman, whatever becomes a profession becomes an unreality. Surely not, in becoming a duty, said Metta. Not for all, he answered, but where the fabric erected by ourselves in the sight of the world is but an outer case, a shell of mere words blown up for the occasion, strung together as mere language, then self-convicted we shrink within the husk and feel our own worthlessness and hypocrisy. As one feels in reproving the children for behaving ill at church, said Metta, you never felt anything approaching to it, said Norman, to know oneself to be such a deception that everything else seems a delusion too. I don't know whether that is metaphysical, said Metta, but I'm sure I don't understand it. One must know oneself to be worse than one knows anyone else to be. I could not wish you to understand, said Norman, and yet he seemed impelled to go on, for after a hesitating silence he added, when the wanderer in the desert fears that the spring is but a mirage, or when all that is held dear is made hazy or distorted by some enchanter, what do you think are the feelings, Metta? It must be dreadful, she said, rather bewildered, but he may know it is a delusion, if he can but wake. Has he not always a spell, a charm? What is the spell, eagerly said Norman, standing still? Believe, said Metta, hardly knowing how she came to choose the words. I believe, he repeated, what, when we go beyond the province of reason, human, a thing of sense after all? How often have I so answered? But Metta, when a man has been drawn in self-sufficient security to look into a magic mirror and cannot detach his eyes from the confused, misty scenes where all that had his allegiance appears shattered, overthrown, like a broken image, or at least unable to endure examination, then, oh, Norman, is that the trial to anyone here? I thought Old Oxford was the great guardian nurse of truth. I'm sure she cannot deal in magic mirrors or such frightful things.  I believe I am in one, said Norman. To be sure you are. Wake, said Metta, looking up, smiling in his face. You have read yourself into a maze, that's all, what Mary calls muzzling your head. You don't really think all this, and when you get into the country, away from books, you will forget it. One look at our dear old purple Welsh hills will blow away all the mists. I ought not to have spoken in this manner, said Norman, sadly. Forget it, Metta. Forget it? Of course I will. It is all nonsense, and meant to be forgotten, said Metta, laughing. You will own that it is by and by. He gave a deep sigh. Don't think I am unfeeling, she said. But I know it is all a fog up from books, books, books. I should like to drive it off with a good fresh gust of wind. Oh, I wish those yellow lilies would grow in our river. Metta talked away gaily for the rest of the walk. She was anything but unfeeling, but she had a confidence in Norman that forbade her to see anything here but one of his variations of spirits, which always sank in the hour of triumph. She put forth her brightness to enliven him, and in their subsequent tetetets she avoided all that could lead to a renewal of this conversation. Ethel would not have rested till it had been fought out. Metta thought it so imaginary that it had better die for want of the element of words, certainly hers could not reach an intellect like his, and she would only soothe and amuse him. Dr. May, mind curer as well as body curer, would soon be here to put the climax to the general joy and watch his own son. He did arrive, quite prepared to enjoy, giving an excellent account of both homes. Mr. River's very well, and the Wilmot's taking care of him, and Margaret as comfortable as usual, Mary making a most important and capable little housekeeper, Miss Bracey as good as possible. He talked as if they had all flourished the better for Ethel's absence, but he had evidently missed her greatly, as he showed without knowing it, by his instant eagerness to have her to himself. Even Norman, prize-man as he was, was less wanted. There was proud affection, eager congratulation for him, but it was Ethel to whom he wanted to tell everything that had passed during her absence, whom he treated as if they were meeting after a tedious separation. They dined rather early and went out afterwards, to walk down the high street to Christchurch Meadow. Norman and Ethel had been anxious for this. They thought it would give their father the best idea of the two ensemble of Oxford, and were not without hopes of beating him by his own confession, in that standing fight between him and his sons, as to the beauties of Oxford and Cambridge, a fight in which hitherto they had been equally matched, neither partisan having seen the rival university. Flora stayed at home, she owned herself fairly tired by her arduous duties of following the two young ladies about, and was very glad to give her father the keeping of them. Dr. May held out his arm to Ethel. Norman secured his peculiar property. Ethel could have preferred that it should be otherwise. Norman would have no companion but George Rivers, how bored he would be. All through the streets, while she was telling her father the names of the buildings, she was not giving her whole attention. She was trying to guess from the sounds behind, whether Mr. Ogilvy were accompanying them. They entered the meadows. Norman turned round with a laugh to defy the doctor to talk of the cam on the banks of the Isis. The party stood still. The other two gentlemen came up. They amalgamated again. All the oxonians conspiring to say spiteful things of the cam, and Dr. May making a spirited defence, in which Ethel found herself impelled to join. In the wide-graveled path they proceeded in threes. George attached himself to his sister and Norman. Mr. Ogilvy came to Ethel's other side, and began to point out all the various notabilities. Ethel was happy again. Her father was so much pleased and amused with him, and he with her father, that it was a treat to look on. Presently Dr. May, as usual, always meeting with acquaintances, fell in with a county neighbour, and Ethel had another pleasant aside, until her father claimed her, and Mr. Ogilvy was absorbed among another party, and lost to her sight. He came to tea, but by that time Dr. May had established himself in the chair, which had hitherto been appropriated to her cousin, a chair that cut her nook off from the rest of the world, and made her the exclusive possession of the occupant. There was a most interesting history for her to hear, of a meeting with a town council, which she had left pending, when Dr. May had been battling to save the next presentation of the living from being sold. Few subjects could affect Ethel more nearly, yet she caught herself missing the thread of his discourse, and trying to hear what Mr. Ogilvy was saying to Flora about a visit to Glenbrocken. The time came for the two Bollyul men to take their leave. Norman May had been sitting very silent all the evening, and Metta, who was near him, respected his mood. When he said good night, he drew Ethel outside the door. Ethel, he said, only one thing, do ask my father not to put on his spectacles tomorrow. Very well, said Ethel, half-smiling. Richard did not mind them. Richard has more humility. I shall break down if he looks at me. I wish you were all at home. Thank you. The other Norman came out of the sitting-room at the moment and heard the last words. Never mind, said he to Ethel. I'll take care of him. He shall comport himself as if you were all at Nova Zimbla, a pretty fellow to talk of despising fame, and then get a fit of strage fright. Well, good night, said Norman, sighing. It will be over tomorrow. Only remember the spectacles. Dr. May laughed a good deal at the request, and asked if the rest of the party were to be blindfolded. Metta wondered that Ethel should have mentioned the request so publicly. She was a good deal touched by it, and she thought Dr. May ought to be so. Good night was said, and Dr. May put his arm round Ethel, and gave her the kiss that she had missed for seven nights. It was very home-like, and it brought a sudden flash of thought across Ethel. What had she been doing? She had been impatient of her father's monopoly of her. She parted with Flora, and entered the room she shared with Metta, where Belair waited to attend her little mistress. Few words passed between the two girls, and those chiefly on the morrow's dress. Metta had some fixed ideas. She would wear pink. Norman had said he liked her pink bonnet, and then she could put down her white veil, so that he could be certain that she was not looking. Ethel vaguely believed Flora meant to wear... something. Belair went away, and Metta gave expression to her eager hope that Norman would go through it well, if he would only read it as he did last Easter to her and Ethel. He will, said Ethel. This nervousness always wears off when it comes to the point, and he warms with his subject. Oh, but think of all the eyes looking at him. Ours are all that he really cares for, and he will think of none of them when he begins. No Metta, you must not encourage him in it. Papa says if he did not think it half morbid, the result of the shock to his nerves, he should be angry with it as a sort of conceit. I should have thought that the last thing to be said of Norman, said Metta, with a little suppressed indignation. It was once in his nature, said Ethel, and I think it is the fault he most beats down. There was a time before you knew him, when he would have been vain and ambitious. Then it is as they say, conquered faults go to be the opposite virtues, said Metta. How very good he is, Ethel! One sees it more when he is with other people, and when he hears all these young men's stories. Everything Norman does not do is not therefore wrong, said Ethel, with her usual lucidity of expression. Don't you like him the better for keeping out of all these follies? Norman does not call them so, I am sure. No, he is too good to condemn. It is not only that, said Ethel. I know Papa thinks that the first grief, coming at his age, and in the manner it did, checked and subdued his spirits, so that he has little pleasure in those things. And he always meant to be a clergyman, which acted as a sort of consecration on him. But many things are innocent, and I do believe Papa would like it better if Norman were less grave. Yes, said Metta, remembering the Sunday talk. But still, he would not be all he is, so different from others. Of course, I don't mean less good. Only less grave, said Ethel, and certainly less nervous. But perhaps it is a good thing. Dear Mama thought his talents would have been a greater temptation than they seem to be, subdued as he has been. I only meant that you must not condemn all that Norman does not do. Now, good night. Very different were the feelings with which those two young girls stretched themselves in their beds that night. Margaret Rivers' innocent, happy little heart was taken up in one contemplation. Admiration, sympathy, and the exultation for him, which he would not feel for himself, drew little Metta entirely out of herself, a self that never held her much. She was proud of the slender thread of connection between them. She was confident that his vague fancies were but the scruples of a sensitive mind, and as she fell sound asleep, she murmured broken lines of decious, mixed with promises not to look. Ethel did heard them, for there was no sleep for her. She had a parley to hold with herself, and to accuse her own feelings of having been unkind, ungrateful, undutiful towards her father. What had a fit of vanity brought her to? That she should have been teased by what would naturally have been her greatest delight, her father's pleasure in being with her. Was this the girl who had lately vowed within herself that her father should be her first earthly object? At first Ethel blamed herself for her secret impatience, but another conviction crossed her, and not an unpleasing one, though it made her cheeks tingle with maidenly shame at having called it up. Throughout this week, Norman Ogilvy had certainly sought her out. He had looked disappointed this evening. There is no doubt that he was attracted by her. By her, plain, awkward Ethel. Such a perception assuredly never gave so much pleasure to a beauty as it did to Ethel, who had always believed herself far less good-looking than she really was. It was a gleam of delight, and though she set herself to scold down, the conviction was elastic, and always leaped up again. That resolution came before her, but it had been unspoken. It could not be binding, and if her notion were really right, the misty brilliant future of mutual joy dazzled her. But there was another side, her father oppressed and lonely. Margaret ill and pining, Mary neither companion nor authority, the children running wild, and she, who had mentally vowed never to forsake her father, far away, enjoying her own happiness. Ah, that resolve had seemed easy enough when it was made, when, thought Ethel, I fancied no one could care for me.  Now is the time to test it. I must go home with Papa. It was a great struggle. On one side there was the deceitful guise of modesty, telling her it was absurd to give so much importance to the kindness of the first cousin with whom she had ever been thrown. There was the dislike to Vex Flora to make a discussion, and break up the party. There was the desire to hear the concert, to go to the breakfast at Blank College, to return round by Warwick Castle and Kellenworth as designed. Should she lose all this for a mere flattering fancy? She, who had laughed at Miss Boulder for imagining everyone who spoke to her was smitten? What reason could she assign? It would be simply ridiculous, and unkind, and it was so very pleasant. Mr. Ogilvy would be too wise to think of so incongruous a connection, which would be so sure to displease his parents. It was more absurd than ever to think of it. The heir of Glenn Brocken, and a country physician's daughter. That was a candid heart which owned that its own repugnance to accept this disparity as an objection, was an additional evidence that she opt to flee from further intercourse. She believed that no harm was done yet. She was sure that she loved her father better than anything else in the world, and whilst she did so, it was best to preserve her heart for him. Widowdyce was, she knew that he would sorely miss her, and that for years to come she should be necessary at home. She had better come away while it would cost only a slight paying, for that it was pain to leave Norman Ogilvy was symptom enough of the need of not letting her own silly heart go further. However it might be with him, another week would only make it worse with her. I will go home with Papa, was the ultimatum reached by each chain of mental reasonings, and borne in after each short prayer for guidance, as Ethel tossed about, listening to the perpetual striking of all the Oxford clocks, until daylight had begun to shine in, when she fell asleep and was only wakened by meta, standing over her with a sponge looking very mischievous, as she reminded her of their appointment with Dr May to go to the early service in New College Chapel. The world looked different that morning with Ethel, but the determination was fixed, and the service strengthened it. She was so silent during the walk that her companions rallied her, and they both supposed she was anxious about Norman. But taking her opportunity when meta was gone to prepare for breakfast, she rushed in her usual way into the subject, Papa, if you please, I should like to go home tomorrow with you. Eh? said the doctor, amazed. How is this?  Yes, but I had rather go back. Indeed, and Dr May looked at the door and spoke low. They make you welcome, I hope. Oh yes, nothing can be kinder. I am glad to hear it. This river is such a lout that I could not tell how it might be. I did not look to see you turn homesick all at once. Ethel smiled. Yes, I have been very happy. But please, Papa, ask no questions, only take me home. Come. It is all a homesick fit, Ethel. Never fear the ball. Think of the concert. If it were not for that poor baby of Mrs Larkin's, I should stay myself to hear Sontag again. You won't have such another chance. I know, but I think I ought to go. George came in, and they could say no more. Both were silent on the subject at breakfast, but when afterwards Flora seized on Ethel to array her for the theatre, she was able to say, Flora, please don't be angry with me. You have been very kind to me, but I mean to go home with Papa tomorrow. I declare, said Flora composably, you are as bad as the children at the infant school, crying to go home the instant they see their mothers. No, Flora, but I must go. Thank you for all this pleasure, but I shall have heard Norman's poem, and then I must go. Flora turned her round, looked in her face kindly, kissed her, and said, My dear, never mind, it will all come right again. Only don't run away. What will come right? Any little misunderstanding with Norman Orgillie? I don't know what you mean, said Ethel, becoming Scarlet. My dear, you need not try to hide it. I see that you have got into a fright. You have made a discovery, but that is no reason for running away. Yes, it is, said Ethel firmly, not denying the charge, though reddening more than ever at finding her impression confirmed. Poor child, she is afraid, said Flora tenderly, but I will take care of you, Ethel. It is everything delightful. You are the very girl for such a hero's, dear Roman, and it has embellished you more than all my Paris fineries. Hush, Flora! We ought not to talk in this way, as if— as if he had done more than walk with and talk with nobody else.  I had a great mind to call Papa off and pity to him. Don't, Flora! If there were anything in it, it would not be proper to think of it, so I'm going home to prevent it. The word forespoken with averted face and heaving breath. Proper, said Flora, the maze are a good old family, and our own grandmother was an honourable Ogilvy herself. A Scottish baron, very poor too, has no right to look down. They shall not look down, Flora. It is of no use to talk. I cannot be spared from home, and I will not put myself in the way of being tempted to forsake them all. Tempted, said Flora, laughing, is it such a wicked thing, not in others, but it would be wrong in me with such a state of things as there is at home. I do not suppose he would want you for some years to come. He is only two and twenty. Mary will grow older. Margaret will either be married or want constant care. Flora, I will not let myself be drawn from them. You may think so now, but it would be for their real good to relieve Papa of any of us. If we were all to think as you do, how should we live? I don't know, for Papa told me there would be barely ten thousand pounds, besides the houses, and what will that be among ten? I am not talking of yourself, but think of the others. I know Papa will not be happy without me, and I will not leave him, repeated Ethel, not answering the argument. Flora changed her ground and laughed. We are getting into the heroics, she said, when it would be very foolish to break up our plans only because we have found a pleasant cousin. There is nothing serious in it, I daresay. How silly of us to argue on such an idea! Meta came in before Flora could say more, but Ethel with burning cheeks repeated, it would be safer. Ethel had, meantime, been dressed by her sister, and as Bolare came to adorn Meta, and she could have no solitude, she went downstairs, thinking she heard Norman's step, and hoping to judge of his mood. She entered the room with an exclamation, oh, Norman, at your service, said the wrong Norman, looking merrily up from behind a newspaper. Oh, I beg your pardon, I thought your thoughts were quite right, he said, smiling. Your brother desires me to present his respects to his honoured family, and to inform them that his stock of assurance is likely to be diminished by the pleasure of their company this morning. How is he? asked Ethel anxiously. Pretty fair. He has blue saucers round his eyes, as he had before he went up for his little go. Oh, I know them, said Ethel. Very odd, continued her cousin, when the end always is that he says he has the lock of being set on in the very place he knows best, but I think it has expended itself in a sleeveless night, and I have no fears when he comes to the point. What is he doing? Writing to his brother Harry, he said it was the day for the Pacific male, and that Harry's pleasure would be the best of it. Ah, said Ethel, glancing towards the paper. Is there any naval intelligence? He looked, and while she was thinking whether she ought not to depart, he exclaimed in a tone that startled her, Ha! No! Is your brother's ship the Alcestis? Yes. Oh, what? Nothing then, I assure you. See, it is merely this. She has not come into Sydney so soon as expected, which you knew before. That is all. Let me see, said the trembling Ethel. It was no more than an echo of their unconfessed apprehensions, yet it seemed to give them a body, and Ethel's thoughts flew to Margaret. Her going home would be absolutely necessary now. Mr. Ogilvy kindly began to talk away her alarm, saying that there was still no reason for dread, mentioning the many causes that might have to lead the ship, and reassuring her greatly. But Norman, she said, Ah, true. For me, he will break down to a certainty if he hears it. I will go at once and keep guard over him, lest he should meet with this paper. But pray, don't be alarmed. I assure you there is no cause. You will have lethers to-morrow. Ethel would feign have thrown off her finery and hurried home at once, but no one regarded the matter as she did. Dr. May agreed with Flora that it was no worse than before, and though they now thought Ethel's return desirable on Margaret's account, it would be better not to add to the shock by a sudden arrival, especially as they took in no daily paper at home. So the theatre was not to be given up, nor any of the subsequent plans, except so far as regarded Ethel. And, this agreed, they started for the scene of action. They were hardly in the street before they met the ubiquitous Mr. Ogilvy, saying that Cheviot, Norman's prompter, was aware of the report, and was guarding him, while he came to escort the ladies, through what he expressively called the bare fight.  Inch by inch, a step at a time, the ladies were landed in a crowd of their own sex, where Flora bravely pioneered. They emerged on their benches, shook themselves out, and seated themselves. There was the swarm of gay ladies around them, and beneath the area, fast being paved with heads, black, brown, gray, and bald, a surging, living sea where Metta soon pointed out Dr. May and George. The mere sight of such masses of people was curious and interesting, reminding Ethel of Cherry Ellwood, having once shocked her by saying the Whit Mundy Club was the most beautiful sight in the whole year, and above that gallery of trampling undergraduates, and more than trampling, Ethel and Metta could at first have found it in their hearts to be frightened at those thundering shouts. But the young ladies were usually of opinions so similar, that the louder grew the cheers, the more they laughed and exalted, so carried along that no cares could be remembered. Making a way through the thronged area, behold the procession of scarlet doctors, advancing through the midst, till the red and black vice-chancellors sat and throned in the centre, and the scarlet line became a semi-circle, dividing the flower garden of ladies from the black mass below. Then came the introduction of the honorary doctors, one by one, with a Latin speech which Ethel's companions unreasonably required her to translate to them, while she was using all her ears to catch a word or two, and her eyes to glimpse at the features of men of note. By and by, a youth made his appearance in the rostrum, and a good deal of Latin ensued, of which Flora hoped Ethel was less tired than she was. In time, however, Metta saw the spectacles removed, and George looking straight up, and she drew down her veil and took hold of Flora's hand, and Ethel flushed like a hot coal. Nevertheless, all contrived to see a tall figure with face much flushed, and hands moving nervously. The world was tired, and people were departing, so that the first lines were lost, perhaps a satisfaction to Norman. But his voice soon cleared and became louder, his eyes lighted, and Ethel knew the funny state had come to his relief. People's attention was arrested, there was no more going away. It was well that Norman was ignorant of the fears for Harry, for four lines had been added since Ethel had seen the poem, saying how self-sacrifice sent forth the sailor boy from home to the lone watch, the wave, and storm, his spirit rising high, ere manhood braced his form. A applause did not come where Ethel had expected it, and at first there was silence at the close. But suddenly the acclamations rose with deafening loudness, though hardly what greets some poems with more to catch the popular ear. Ethel's great excitement was over, and presently she found herself outside of the theatre, a shower falling, and an umbrella held over her by Mr. Ogilvy, who was asking her if it was not admirable, and declaring the poem might rank with Heber's Palestine or Millman's Apollo. They were bound for a great luncheon at one of the colleges, where Ethel might survey the principal with whom Miss Rich had corresponded. Mr. Ogilvy sat next to her, told her all the names, and quizzed the dignitaries, but she had a sense of depression, and did not wish to enter into the usual strain of banter. He dropped his lively tone and drew her out about Harry, till she was telling eagerly of her dear sailor brother, and found him so sympathizing and considerate that she did not like him less, though she felt her intercourse with him a sort of intoxication that would only make it the worst for her by and by. During that whole luncheon, and their walk through the gardens, where there was a beautiful horticultural show, something was always prompting her to say, while in this quasi-privacy, that she was on the eve of departure, but she kept her resolution against it. She thought it would have been an unwarrantable experiment. When they returned to their inn, they found Norman looking fagged, but relieved, half asleep on the sofa, with a novel in his hand. He roused himself as they came in, and, to avoid any compliments on his own performance, began, Well, Ethel, are you ready for the ball? We shall spare her the ball, said Dr. May. There is a report about the el-sustis and the newspaper that may make Margaret uncomfortable, and this good sister will not stay away from her. Norman started up crying, What, Papa? It is a mere nothing in reality, said Dr. May, only what we knew before, and he showed his son the paragraph, which Norman read as a death warrant. The colour ebbed from his lips and cheeks. He trembled so that he was obliged to sit down, and without speaking he kept his eyes fixed on the words. Serious apprehensions are entertained with regard to HMS el-sustis, Captain Gordon. If you had seen as many newspaper reports come to nothing as I have, you would not take this so much to heart, said Dr. May. I expect to hear that this very mail has brought letters. And Metta added that, at luncheon, she had been seated next to one of the honorary doctors, a naval captain, who had been making discoveries in the South Sea, and that he had scouted the notion of harm befalling the el-sustis, and given all manner of reassuring suppositions as to her detention, adding besides that no one believed the Australian paper once the report was taken. He had seen the el-sustis, new Captain Gordon, and spoke of him as one of the safest people in the world. Had his acquaintance extended to lieutenants and midshipmen, it would have been perfect. As it was, the tidings brought back the blood to Norman's cheek and the light to his eye. When do we set off, was Norman's question. At five, said Ethel, you mean it, Papa. I did intend it if I had gone alone, but I shall not take you till eight, nor you, Norman, at all. Norman was bent on returning, but his father and Flora would not hear of it. Flora could not spare him, and Dr. May was afraid of the effect of anxiety on nerves and spirits so sensitive. While this was going on, Mr. Ogilvy looked at Ethel in consternation, and said, Are you really going home? Yes, my oldest sister must not be left alone when she hears this. He looked down. Ethel had the resolution to walk away. Flora could not give up the ball, and Metta found that she must go. But both the Normans spent a quiet evening with Dr. May and Ethel. Norman May had a bad headache, which he was allowed to have justly earned. Dr. May was very happy reviving all his Scottish recollections and talking to young Ogilvy about Edinburgh. Once there was a private consultation. Ethel was provoked and ashamed at the throbs that it would excite, what, on a week's acquaintance? When alone with her father she began to nerve herself for something heroic, and great was her shame when she heard only of her cousin's kind consideration for her brother, whom he wished to take home with him, and thence to see the Highlands, so as to divert his anxiety for Harry, as well as to call him off from the studies with which he had, on this term, overworked himself even more than usual. Dr. May had given most grateful consent, and he spoke highly in praise of the youth. But there was no more to come, and Ethel could have beaten herself for the moment of anticipation. Metta came home, apologising for awakening Ethel, but Ethel had not been asleep. The ball had not, it seemed, been as charming to her as most events were, and Ethel heard a sigh as the little lady lay down in her bed. Late as it was when she went to rest, Metta rose to see the travellers off. She sent hosts of messages to her father, and wished she might go with them. George and Flora were not visible, and Dr. May was leaving messages for them, and for Norman, in her charge, when the two Bollyon men walked in. Ethel had hoped it was over, yet she could not be sorry that the two youths escorted them to the station, and as Ethel was placed in the carriage, she believed that she heard something of, never forgetting, happiest week, but in the civilities which the other occupant of the carriage was offering for the accommodation of their lesser luggage, she lost the exact words, and the last she heard were, Good-bye, I hope you will find letters at home. Part 2 Chapter 10 True to the kindred points of heaven and home, Wordsworth Ethel Dredd's dream was over. She had wakened to the inside of a great western carriage, her father beside her, and opposite, a thin, foreign-looking gentleman. Her father, to whom her life was to be devoted, she looked at his profile, defined against the window, and did not repent. In a sort of impulse to do something for him, she took his hat from his hand, and was going to dispose of it in the roof, when he turned, smiling his thanks, but saying, It was not worthwhile, this carriage was a very transitory resting place. The stranger at that moment sprang to his feet, exclaiming, Dick himself, Spencer, old fellow, is it you, cried Dr May, in a voice of equal amazement and joy, holding out his hand, which was grasped and rung with a force that made Ethel shrink for the poor, maimed arm. Ah, what is amiss with your arm? was the immediate question. Three technical words were spoken in a matter-of-fact way, as Dr May replaced his hand in his bosom, and then, with an eager smile, said, Ethel, here, you have heard of him. Ethel had indeed, and gave her hand cordially, surprised by the bow and air of differential politeness with which it was received, like a favour, while Dr Spencer asked her whether she had been staying in Oxford. Aye, and what floor do you think? said Dr May joyously. You don't say that was your son who held forth yesterday? I thought his voice had a trick of yours, but then I thought you would have been held by old Cambridge. What could I do? said Dr May deprecatingly. The boy would go and get a balial scholarship. Why, the lad is a genius, a poet, no mistake about it, but I scarcely thought you could have one of such an age. Of his age, his brother is in holy orders, one of his sisters is married. There's for you, Spencer.  I thought myself a young man. What, with hair of that colour? said Dr May, looking at his friend's milk-white lots, bleached by that frightful, sickly season at Poon Shed-Nagore, when I thought I was doneful. But you, you, the boy of the whole lot, you think me very disrespectful to your father, added he, turning to Ethel. But you see what old times are. I know, said Ethel, with a bright look. So you were in theatre yesterday, continued Dr May, but there is no seeing anyone in such a throng. How long have you been in England? A fortnight, I went at once to see my sister at Malvern. Then I fell in with Rudden, the man I was with in New Guinea. He was going up to be made an honorary doctor and made me come with him. And where are you bound for, as the train showed signs of a halt? For London, I meant to hunt up Matt Fleet and hear of you and other old friends. Does he expect you? No one expects me, I am a regular vagabond. Come home with us, said Dr May, laying his hand on his arm. I cannot part with you so soon. Come, find your luggage, take your ticket for Gloucester. So suddenly, will it not be inconvenient, said he, looking tempted but irresolute. Oh, no, no, pray come, said Ethel, eagerly. We shall be so glad. He looked his courteous thanks, and soon was with them our route for Stoneborough. Ethel's thoughts were diverted from all she had left at Oxford. She could not but watch those two old friends. She knew enough of the traveller to enter into her father's happiness, and to have no fears of another Sir Matthew. They had been together at Stoneborough, at Cambridge, at Paris, at Edinburgh, always linked in the closest friendship. But, by Dr May's own account, his friend had been the diligent one of the pair, a bright compound of principle and spirit, and highly distinguished in all his studies, and Dr May's model of perfection. Their paths had since lain far apart, and they had not seen each other since, 26 years ago, they had parted in London, the one to settle at his native town, while the other accepted a situation as travelling position. On his return, he had almost sacrificed his life by self-devoted attendance on a fever-stricken emigrant ship. He had afterwards received an appointment in India, and there the correspondence had died away, and Dr May had lost traces of him, only knowing that, in a visitation of Collora, he had again acted with the same carelessness of his own life, and a severe illness, which had broken up his health, had occasioned him to relinquish his post. It now appeared that he had thought himself coming home ever since. He had gone to recruit in the Himalayas, and had become engrossed in scientific observations on their altitudes, as well as investigations in natural history. Going to Calcutta, he had fallen in with a party about to explore the Asiatic Islands, and he had accompanied them, as well as going on an expedition into the interior of Australia. He had been employed in various sanitary arrangements there, and in India, and had finally worked his way slowly home, overland, visiting Egypt and Palestine, and refreshing his memory with every Italian, German, or French cathedral, or work of art, that had delighted him in early days.  His voice was clear and sweet, and his manner most refined and polished. Indeed, his courtesy to Ethel, whenever there was a change of carriage, was so exemplary that she understood it as the effect on a chivalrous mind of living where a lady was a rare and precious article. It frightened Ethel a little at first, but before the end of the journey, she had already begun to feel towards him like an old friend, one of those inheritances who are so much valued and loved, like a sort of uncle's in friendship. She had a special grateful honour for the delicate tact which asked no questions, as she saw his eye often falling anxiously on her father's left hand, where the wedding ring shone upon the little finger. There was talk enough upon his travels, on public changes, and on old friends, but after those first few words, home had never been mentioned. When, at five o'clock, the engine blew its whistle, at the old familiar station, Dr May had scarcely put his head out, before Adams hastened up to him with a note. All well at home? Yes, sir, Miss Margaret sent up the gig. I must go at once, said Dr May hastily. The Larkin's child is worse. Ethel, take care of him and introduce him. Love to Margaret, I'll be at home before tea. He was driven off at speed, and Ethel proposed to walk home. Dr Spencer gave her his arm and was silent. But presently said, in a low and anxious voice, My dear, you must forgive me. I have heard nothing for many years. Your mother? It was an accident, said Ethel, looking straight before her. It was when Papa's arm was hurt. The carriage was overturned. And, repeated Dr Spencer earnestly, she was killed on the spot, said Ethel, speaking shortly and abruptly. If she was to say it at all, she could not do so otherwise. He was dreadfully shocked. She knew it by the shudder of his arm, and a tight, suppressed groan. He did not speak, and Ethel, as if a relief from the silence must be made, said what was not very consoling and equally blunt. Margaret had some harm done to her spine. She cannot walk. He did not seem to hear, but walked on, as in a dream, where Ethel guided him, and she would not interrupt him again. They had just passed Mr Bramshaw's office, when a voice was heard behind, calling, Miss Ethel, Miss Ethel! And Edward Anderson, now article to Mr Bramshaw, burst out, pen in hand, and looking shabby and inky. Miss Ethel! He said breathlessly, I beg your pardon, but have you heard from Harry? No, said Ethel. Have they had that paper at home? Not that I know of, said Edward. My mother wanted to send it, but I would not take it. Not while Dr May was away. Thank you. That was very kind of you. And ooh, Miss Ethel, do you think it is true? We hope not, said Ethel kindly. We saw a captain at Oxford, who thought it not at all to be depended upon. I am so glad. Said Edward. And shaking hands, he went back to his high stool, Ethel feeling that he deserved the pains that Norman had taken to spare and befriend him. She spoke to her companion in exclamation. We were very anxious for news of my next brother, ship, Alcestis, in the Pacific. More, exclaimed poor Dr Spencer, almost overpowered. Good heavens! I thought May at least was happy. He's not unhappy, said Ethel. Not sorry that they had arrived at the back entrance of the shrubbery. How long ago was this? Said he, standing still, as soon as they had passed into the garden. Four years, next October. I assure you, his spirits are almost always good. When I was at Adelaide, little thinking, he sighed, then recollecting himself. Forgive me, I have given you pain. No, she said, or rather, I gave you more. I knew her. And there he broke off, paused for a minute, then collecting himself, seemed resolutely to turn away from the subject and said, walking on. This garden is not much altered. At that moment, a little shrill voice broke out in remonstrance among the laurels. But you know, Daisy, you are the captain of the Forty Thieves. A startling announcement, said Dr Spencer, looking at Ethel. And the next two steps brought them in view of the playplace in the laurels, where Aubrey lay on the ground, feigning sleep, but keeping a watchful eye over Blanche, who was dropping something into the holes of inverted flower pots, Gertrude dancing about in a way that seemed to have called for the reproof of the more earnest actors. Ethel, Ethel, screamed the children with one voice. And while the two girls stood in shyness at her companion, Aubrey had made a dart at her neck and hung upon her arms, legs, body and all, like a wild cat. That will do, that will do, old man, let go. Speak to Dr Spencer, my dear. Blanche did so demurely and asked where was Papa? Coming as soon as he has been to Mrs Larkins' poor baby. George Larkins has been here, said Aubrey, and I have finished by Pera et Lima, Ethel, but Margaret makes such false quantities. What is your name, youngster? said Dr Spencer, laying his hand on Aubrey's head. Aubrey Spencer May, was the answer. Hey, Dave, where did you steal my name? exclaimed Dr Spencer, while Aubrey stood abashed at so mysterious an accusation. Oh, exclaimed Blanche, seizing on Ethel and whispering, is it really the boy that climbed the market cross? You see your fame lives here, said Ethel, smiling as Dr Spencer evidently heard. It was a little boy, said Aubrey indignantly, looking at the grey-haired man. There, said Ethel to Dr Spencer. The tables turned, he said, laughing heartily, but do not let me keep you. You would wish to prepare your sister for a stranger, and I shall improve my acquaintance here. Where are the 40 thieves? I am all of them, said the innocent, daisy-faced Gertrude, and Ethel hastened towards the house, glad of the permission granted by his true good breeding. There was a shriek of welcome from Mary, who sat working beside Margaret.  So joyous was her exclamation of wonder and rebuke to her homesick Ethel. Naughty girl, running home at once! I did think you would have been happy there. So I was, said Ethel hastily, but who do you think I brought home? Margaret flushed with such a pink, that Ethel resolved never to set her guessing again, and hurried to explain, and having heard that all was well, and taken her housekeeping measures, she proceeded to fetch the guest. But Mary, who had been unusually silent all this time, ran after her and checked her. Ethel, have you heard? she said. Have you? said Ethel. George Larkins rode in this morning to see when Pa would come home, and he told me. He said I had better not tell Margaret, for he did not believe it. And you have not. That is very good of you, Mary. Oh, I am glad you have come. I could not have helped telling if you had been away a whole week. But Ethel, does Papa believe it?  Ethel told of Metta's captain, and the smile predominated, and settled down into Mary's usual broad beanie look, like a benign and rising sun on the sign of an inn, as Ethel praised her warmly for a fortitude and consideration of which she had not thought her capable. Dr. Spencer was discovered full in the midst of the comedy of the 40 thieves, alternating as required between the robber captain and the ass, and the children in perfect ecstasies with him. They all followed in his train to the drawing room, and were so clamorous that he could have no conversation with Margaret. He certainly made them so, but Ethel, remembering what a blow her disclosures had been, thought it would be only a kindness to send Aubrey to show him to his room, where he might have some peace. She was not sorry to be very busy, so as to have little time to reply to the questions on the doings at Oxford, and the cause of her sudden return, and yet it would have been a comfort to be able to sit down to understand herself and recall her confused thoughts. But solitary reflection was a thing only to be hoped for in that house, in bed, and Ethel was obliged to run up and down and attend to everybody under an undefined sense that she had come home to a dull, anxious world of towing oil. Margaret seemed to guess nothing, that was one comfort. She evidently thought that her return was fully accounted for by the fascination of her papa's presence in a strange place. She gave Ethel no credit for the sacrifice, naturally supposing that she could not enjoy herself away from home. Ethel did not know whether to be glad or not. She was relieved, but it was flat. As to Norman Ogilby, one or two inquiries whether she liked him, and if Norman were going to Scotland with him, for all that passed, and it was very provoking to be made so hot and conscious by them. She could not begin to dress till late, and while she was unpacking, she heard her father come home, among the children's loud welcomes, and go to the drawing room. He presently knocked at the door between their rooms. So Margaret does not know, he said. No, Mary has been so very good, and she told what had passed. Well done, Mary, I must tell her so. She is a good girl on a pinch, you see. And we don't speak of it now, or will it hurt Margaret more to think we keep things from her? That is the worst risk of the two. I have seen great harm done in that way. Mention it, but without seeming to make too much of it. Won't you, Papa? You had better. It will seem of less importance. I think nothing of it myself. Nevertheless, Ethel saw that he could not trust himself to broach the subject to Margaret. How was the Larkin's baby? Doing better. What have you done with Spencer? I put him into Richard's room. The children were eating him up. He is so kind to them. I, I say, Ethel, that was a happy consequence of your coming home with me.  Is he not a true knight errant, as he always was? I could not tell you what I owed to him as a boy. All my life, I made. Ethel, he added suddenly, we must do our best to make him happy here. I know it now. I never guessed it then. But one is very hard and selfish when one is happy. What do you mean, Papa? I see it now, continued Dr May incoherently. The cause of his wandering life. Advantages thrown aside. He, the most worthy. Things I live for. Most worthy. Things I little heeded at the time have come back on me. I understand why he banished himself. Why? asked Ethel bewildered. She never had an idea of it. But I might have guessed from what fell from him unconsciously. For not a word would he have said. Nor did he say to show how he sacrificed himself. Who was it? Unflora? Said Ethel, beginning to collect his meaning. No Ethel, it was your own dear mother. You will think this another romantic fancy of mine, but I am sure of it. So am I, said Ethel. How? What? Ah, I remembered after we parted that he might know nothing. He asked me, said Ethel, and how did he bear it? Ethel told, and the tears filled her father's eyes. It was wrong and cruel in me to bring him home unprepared, and then to leave it to you. I always forget other people's feelings. Poor Spencer. And now, Ethel, you see what manner of man we have here, and how we ought to treat him. Indeed I do. The most unselfish, the most self-sacrificing, continued Dr May, and to see what it all turned on. I happen to have this place open to me, the very cause, perhaps, of my having taken things easy, and so the old professor threw opportunities in my way, while Aubrey Spencer, with every recommendation that man could have, was set aside, and exiled himself, leaving the station, and all he might so easily have gained. Ah, Ethel, so Matthew Fleet never came near him in ability, but not one word to interfere with me, would he say? And how I have longed to meet him again, after parting in my selfish, unfeeling gladness? And now I have nothing to do for him, but show him how little I was to be trusted with her. Ethel never knew how to deal with these occasional bursts of grief, but she said that she thought Dr Spencer was very much pleased to have met with him, and delighted with the children. Ah, well, you are her children, said Dr May, with his hand on Ethel's shoulder. So they went downstairs and found Mary making tea, and Margaret, fearing Dr Spencer was overwhelmed with his young admirers, for Aubrey and Gertrude were one on each knee, and Blanche standing beside him, inflicting on him a catalogue of the names and ages of all the eleven. Ethel has introduced you, I see, said Dr May. Hi, I assure you, it was an alarming introduction. No sooner do I enter your garden than I hear that I am in the midst of the forty thieves. I find a young lady putting the world to death, after the fashion of Hamlet, and, looking about to find what I have lost, I find this urchin has robbed me of my name. A property, I suppose, was always left to unfortunate travellers, however small they might be chopped themselves. Well, Aubrey boy, will you make restitution? It is my name, said Aubrey positively, for, as his father added, he is not without dread of the threat being fulfilled, and himself left to be that anon who, Blanche says, writes so much poetry. Aubrey privately went to Ethel to ask her if this were possible, and she had to reassure him by telling him that they were only in fun. It was fun with a much deeper courage, though, for Dr Spencer was saying, with a smile, between gratification and sadness, I did not think my name would have been remembered here so long. We had used up mine, and the grandfathers, and the uncles, and began to think we might look a little further afield, said Dr May. If I had only known where you were, I would have asked you to be the valet's godfather, but I was much afraid you were nowhere in the land of the living. I have but one godson, and he is coffee-coloured. I ought to have written, but you see, for seven years I thought I was coming home. Aubrey had recovered sufficiently to observe to Blanche. That was almost as bad as Ulysses, which, being overheard and repeated, led to the information that he was Ethel's pupil, whereupon Dr Spencer began to inquire after the school, and to exclaim at his friend for having deserted it in the person of Tom. Dr May looked convicted, but said it was all Norman's fault, and Dr Spencer, shaking his head at Blanche, opined that the young gentleman was a great innovator, and that he was sure he was at the bottom of the pulling down the market cross, and the stopping up Randall's alley, iniquities of the nasty people of which he already had made him aware. Poor Norman, he suffered enough for an end Randall's alley, said Dr May, but as to the market cross, that came down a year before he was born. What was the town council? said Ethel. One of the ordinary stultifications of town councils, take care Spencer, said Dr May, I'm a town council man myself, you dick, and he turned with a start of astonishment, and went into a fit of laughing, re-echoed by all the young ones, who were especially tickled by hearing, from another, the abbreviation that had hitherto only lived in the favorite expletive, as sure as my name is Dick May. Of course, said Dr May, does thou not suspect my place? Does thou not suspect my years? One that hath two gowns, and everything handsome about him. His friend laughed them all, and they betook themselves to the college stories, of which the quotation from Dogbury seemed to have reminded them. There was something curious and affecting in their manner to each other. Often it was the easy bantering familiarity of the two youths, they had once been together, with somewhat of elder brotherhood on Dr Spencer's side, and of looking up on Dr May's, and just as they had recurred to these terms, some illusion would bring back to Dr Spencer, that the heedless high-spirited dick, whom he had always had much adieu to keep out of scrapes, was a householder, a man of weight and influence, a light which would at first strike him as most ludicrous, and then mirth would end in a sigh, for there was yet another aspit. After having thought of him so long as the happy husband of Margaret Mackenzie, he found her place vacant, and the trace of deep grief apparent on the countenance, once so gay, the oppression of anxiety marked on the brow, formally so joyous, the merriment almost more touching than gravity would have been, for the former nature seemed rather shattered than altered. In merging towards this side, there was a tender respect in Dr Spencer's manner that was most beautiful, though this evening such subjects were scrupulously kept at the utmost distance, by the constant interchange of new and old jokes and stories. Only when bedtime had come, and Margaret had been carried off, did a silence fall on the two friends, unbroken till Dr May rose and proposed going upstairs. When he gave his hand to wish good night, Dr Spencer held it this time most carefully, and said, oh May, I did not expect this. I should have prepared you, said his host, but I never recollected that you knew nothing. I had dwelt on your happiness. There never were two happier creatures for 22 years, said Dr May, his voice low with emotion. Sorrows spared her. Yes, think of her always in undimmed brightness, always smiling as you remember her. She was happy. She is, he concluded. His friend had turned aside and hidden his face with his hands, then looked up for a moment. And you, Dick, he said briefly, Sorrows spared her, was Dr May's first answer, and hers are very good children. There was a silence again, ending in Dr May's saying, what do you think of my poor girl? They discussed the nature of the injury. Dr Spencer could not feel otherwise than that it was a very hopeless matter. Her father owned that he had thought so from the first, and had wondered at Sir Matthew Fleet's opinion. His subdued tone of patience and resignation struck his guest above all, as changed from what he had once been. You have been sorely tried, he said, when they parted at his room door. I have received much good, simply answered Dr May. Good night. I am glad to have you here. If you can bear it, bear it. Dick, how light that girl is to you. She is yourself, such a self as I never was. Good night. Ethel overcame the difficulty of giving the account of the newspaper alarm with tolerable success by putting the story of Metta's conversation foremost. Margaret did not take it to heart as much as she had feared, nor did she appear to dwell on it afterwards. The truth was perhaps that Dr Spencer's visit was to everyone more of an excitement and amusement than it was to Ethel. Not that she did not like him extremely, but after such a week as she had been spending, the homeworld seemed rather stale and unprofitable. Miss Bracey relapsed into a state of feelings, imagining that Ethel had distrusted her capabilities and therefore returned, or as Ethel herself sometimes feared, there might be irritability in her own manner that gave cause of annoyance. The children were inclined to be righteous with their new friend, who made much of them continually and especially patronized Aubrey. Mary was proud of showing how much she had learned to do for Margaret in her sister's absence. Dr May was so much taken up with his friend that Ethel saw less of him than usual, and she began to believe that it had all been a mistake that everyone was so dependent on her for, in fact, they did much better without her. Meantime, she heard of the gayities which the others were enjoying, and she could not feel heroic when they regretted her. At the end of a week, Metta Rivers was escorted home from Warwick by two servants, and came to Stoneborough, giving a lively description of all the concluding pleasures, but declaring that Ethel's departure had taken away the zest of the whole, and Mr Ogilby had been very disconsolate. Margaret had not been prepared to hear that Mr Ogilby had been so constant a companion, and was struck by finding that Ethel had passed over one who had evidently been so great an ingredient in the delights of the expedition. Metta had, however, observed nothing. She was a great deal too simple and too much engrossed for such notions to have crossed her mind. But Margaret inferred something, but Margaret inferred something, and hoped to learn more when she should see Flora. This would not be immediately. George and his wife were gone to London, and thence intended to pay a round of visits, and Norman had accompanied his namesake to Glen Bracken. Ethel fought hard with her own petulance and sense of tedium at home, which was, as she felt, particularly uncalled for at present, when Dr Spencer was enlivening them so much. He was never in the way. He was always either busy in the dining room in the morning with books and papers, or wandering about his old schoolboy hunks in the town, or taking Adam's place, and driving out Dr May, or sometimes joining the children in a walk to their supreme delight. His sketches, for he drew most beautifully, were an endless pleasure to Margaret with his explanations of them. She even tried to sit up to copy them, and he began to teach Blanche to draw. The evenings, when there was certain to be some entertaining talk going on between the two doctors, were very charming, and Margaret seemed quite revived by seeing her father so happy with his friend. Ethel knew she ought to be happy also, and if attention could make her so, she had it. For kind and courteous as Dr Spencer was to all, she seemed to have a double charm for him. It was if he found united in her the quaint brusquery that he had loved in her father, with somewhat of her mother, for though Ethel had less personal resemblance to Mrs May than any other of the family, Dr Spencer transferred to her much of the chivalrous distant devotion with which he had regarded her mother. Ethel was very little conscious of it, but he was certainly her sworn knight, and there was an eagerness in his manner of performing every little service for her, a deference in his way of listening to her, over and above his ordinary polish of manner. Ethel lighted up and enjoyed herself when talking was going on. Her periods of ennui were when she had to set about any home employment, when Aubrey's lessons did not go well, when she wanted to speak to her father and could not catch him, and even when she had to go to Coxmore. She did not seem to make any progress there. The room was very full and very close. The children were dull and she began to believe she was doing no good. It was all a weariness, but she was so heartily ashamed of her feelings that she worked them all vehemently for them. And the utmost show that they outwardly made was that Margaret thought her less pivacious than her want, and she was a little too peremptory at times with Mary and Blanche. She had so much disliked the display that Flora had made about Coxmore that she had imposed total silence on it upon her younger sisters, and Dr Spencer had spent a fortnight at Stoneborough without being aware of their occupation. When there occurred such an extremely sultry day that Margaret remonstrated with Ethel on her intention of broiling herself and Mary by walking to Coxmore when the Quicksilver stood at 80 degrees in the shade. Ethel was much inclined to stay at home, but she did not know whether this was from heat or from idleness, and her fretted spirits took the turn of determination. So she posted off at a galloping pace that her brothers called her Coxmore speed, and Mary panted by her side, humbly petitioning for the plantation path, when she answered that it was as well to be hot in the sun as in the shade. The schoolroom was unusually full, all the hay-making mothers made it serve as an infant school, and though as much window was opened as there could be, the effect was not coolness. Nevertheless Ethel sat down and gathered her class round her, and she had just heard the chapter once read, when there was a little confusion, a frightened cry of Ethel, and before she could rise to her feet, a flump upon the floor, poor Mary had absolutely fainted dead away. Ethel was much terrified and very angry with herself. Mary was no lightweight, but Mrs. Elwood coming at their cry helped Ethel to drag her into the outer room, where she soon began to recover, and to be excessively puzzled as to what had happened to her. She said the sea was roaring, and where was Harry? And then she looked much surprised to find herself lying on Mrs. Elwood's damp flags, a circumstance extremely distressing to Mrs. Elwood, who wanted to carry her upstairs into Cherry's room, very clean and very white, but with such a sun shining full into it. Ethel lavished all care and reproached herself greatly, though to be sure nothing had ever been supposed capable of hurting Mary, and Mary herself protested that nothing at all had ailed her till the children's voices began to sound funny, and turned into the waves of the sea. And therewith poor Mary burst into a great flood of tears, and asked whether Harry would ever come back. The tears did her a great deal of good, though not so much as the being petted by Ethel, and she soon declared herself perfectly well. But Ethel could not think of letting her walk home, and sent off a boy, who she trusted would not faint, with a note to Margaret, desiring her to send the gig, which fortunately was at home today. Mary had partaken of some of Mrs. Elwood's tea, which though extremely bitter, seemed a great cordial, and was sitting, quite revived, in the arbor at the door, when the gig stopped, and Dr. Spencer walked in. Well, and how are you? Quite well now, thank you. Was Margaret frightened? Why did you come? I thought it would make her happier, as your father was not at home. Here, let me feel your pulse. Do you think no one is a doctor but your papa? There's not much the matter with you, however. Where is Ethel? In the school, and Mary opened the door. Dr. Spencer looked in as Ethel came out, and his face put her in mind of Norman's look. No wonder, is all he said. Ethel was soon satisfied that he did not think Mary ill. In fact, he said fainting was the most natural and justifiable measure under the circumstances. How many human creatures do you keep there? he asked. Forty-seven today, said Mary proudly. I shall indict you for cruelty to animals. I think I have known it hotter at Punchedna Gore, but there we had punkers. It was very wrong of me, said Ethel. I should have thought of poor Mary in that sunny walk, but Mary never complained. Oh, never mind, said Mary. It did not hurt. I'm not thinking of Mary, said Dr. Spencer, but of the richid beings you are leaving shut up there. I wonder what the Mercury would be there. We cannot help it, said Mary. We cannot get the ground. And Mary, having been voted into the seat of honour and comfort by his side in the carriage, told her version of Coxmore and the committee. While Ethel sat up in the little narrow seat behind, severely reproaching herself for her want of consideration towards one so good and patient as Mary, who had proved to have been suffering far more on Harry's account than they had guessed, and who was so simple and thoroughgoing in doing her duty. This was not being a good elder sister, and when they came home, she confessed it and showed so much remorse that poor Mary was quite shocked and cried so bitterly that it was necessary to quit the subject. Ethel, dearest, said Margaret that night after they were in bed. Is there anything the matter? No, nothing but that Oxford has spoiled me, said Ethel resolutely. I'm very cross and selfish. It will be better by and by, said Margaret. If only you are sure you have nothing to make you unhappy. Nothing, said Ethel. She was becoming too much ashamed of her fancy to breathe one word about it. And she had spoken the truth. Pleasure had spoiled her. If only we could do something for Coxmore, she sighed presently, with that one hundred and fifty pounds lying idle. Margaret was very glad that her thoughts were taking this channel, but it was not a promising one, for there seemed to be nothing practicable, present or future. The ground could not be had, the pig would not get over the stile, the old woman could not get home tonight. Coxmore must put up with its present school, and Mary must not be walked to death. Or, as Ethel drew her own moral, sacrifice must not be selfish. One great resolution that has been costly must not blunt us in the daily details of life. End of part two, chapter 10.