"Oh, no, you would not be formal and precise--you would not make me cross."
"Perhaps you might make me so," said Margaret, "or I should let you alone, and leave you a slattern. We should both hate it so! No, don't make me your mistress, Ethel dear--let me be your sister and play-fellow still, as well as I can."
"You are, you are. I don't care half so much when I have got you."
"And will you try to bear with her, and remember it is right in the main, though it is troublesome? "
"That I will. I won't plague you again. I know it is bad for you, you look tired."
"Pray don't leave off telling me," said Margaret--"it is just what I wish on my own account, and I know it is comfortable to have a good grumble."
"If it does not hurt you, but I am sure you are not easy now--are you?"
"Only my back," said Margaret. "I have been sitting up longer than usual, and it is tired. Will you call nurse to lay me flat again?
The nursery was deserted--all were out, and Ethel came back in trepidation at the notion of having to do it herself, though she knew it was only to put one arm to support her sister, while, with the other, she removed the pillows; but Ethel was conscious of her own awkwardness and want of observation, nor had Margaret entire trust in her. Still she was too much fatigued to wait, so Ethel was obliged to do her best. She was careful and frightened, and therefore slow and unsteady. She trusted that all was right, and Margaret tried to believe so, though still uneasy.
Ethel began to read to her, and Dr. May came home. She looked up smiling, and asked where he had been, but it was vain to try to keep him from reading her face. He saw in an instant that something was amiss, and drew from her a confession that her back was aching a little. He knew she might have said a great deal--she was not in a comfortable position--she must be moved. She shook her head--she had rather wait--there was a dread of being again lifted by Ethel that she could not entirely hide. Ethel was distressed, Dr. May was angry, and, no wonder, when he saw Margaret suffer, felt his own inability to help, missed her who had been wont to take all care from his hands, and was vexed to see a tall strong girl of fifteen, with the full use of both arms, and plenty of sense, incapable of giving any assistance, and only doing harm by trying.
"It is of no use," said he. "Ethel will give no attention to anything but her books! I've a great mind to put an end to all the Latin and Greek! She cares for nothing else."
Ethel could little brook injustice, and much as she was grieving, she exclaimed, "Papa, papa, I do care--now don't I, Margaret? I did my best!"
"Don't talk nonsense. Your best, indeed! If you had taken the most moderate care--"
"I believe Ethel took rather too much care," said Margaret, much more harassed by the scolding than by the pain. "It will be all right presently. Never mind, dear papa."
But he was not only grieved for the present, but anxious for the future; and, though he knew it was bad for Margaret to manifest his displeasure, he could not restrain it, and continued to blame Ethel with enough of injustice to set her on vindication, whereupon he silenced her, by telling her she was making it worse by self- justification when Margaret ought to be quiet. Margaret tried to talk of other things, but was in too much discomfort to exert herself enough to divert his attention.
At last Flora returned, and saw in an instant what was wanted. Margaret was settled in the right posture, but the pain would not immediately depart, and Dr. May soon found out that she had a headache, of which he knew he was at least as guilty as Etheldred could be.
Nothing could be done but keep her quiet, and Ethe1 went away to be miserable; Flora tried to comfort her by saying it was unfortunate, but no doubt there was a knack, and everyone could not manage those things; Margaret was easier now, and as to papa's anger, he did not always mean all he said.
But consolation came at bedtime; Margaret received her with open arms when she went to wish her goodnight. "My poor Ethel," she said, holding her close, "I am sorry I have made such a fuss."
"Oh, you did not, it was too bad of me--I am grieved; are you quite comfortable now?"
"Yes, quite, only a little headache, which I shall sleep off. It has been so nice and quiet. Papa took up George Herbert, and has been reading me choice bits. I don't think I have enjoyed anything so much since I have been ill."
"I am glad of that, but I have been unhappy all the evening. I wish I knew what to do. I am out of heart about everything!"
"Only try to mind and heed, and you will learn. It will be a step if you will only put your shoes side by side when you take them off."
Ethel smiled and sighed, and Margaret whispered, "Don't grieve about me, but put your clever head to rule your hands, and you will do for home and Cocksmoor too. Good-night, dearest."
"I've vexed papa," sighed Ethel--and just then he came into the room.
"Papa," said Margaret, "here's poor Ethel, not half recovered from her troubles."
He was now at ease about Margaret, and knew he had been harsh to another of his motherless girls.
"Ah! we must send her to the infant-school, to learn 'this is my right hand, and this is my left,'" said he, in his half-gay, half-sad manner.
"I was very stupid," said Ethel.
"Poor child!" said her papa, "she is worse off than I am. If I have but one hand left, she has two left hands."
"I do mean to try, papa."
"Yes, you must, Ethel. I believe I was hasty with you, my poor girl. I was vexed, and we have no one to smooth us down. I am sorry, my dear, but you must bear with me, for I never learned her ways with you when I might. We will try to have more patience with each other."
What could Ethel do but hang round his neck and cry, till he said, but tenderly, that they had given Margaret quite disturbance enough to-day, and sent her to bed, vowing to watch each little action, lest she should again give pain to such a father and sister.
CHAPTER VIII.
"Tis not enough that Greek or Roman page At stated hours, his freakish thoughts engage, Even in his pastimes he requires a friend To warn and teach him safely to unbend, O'er all his pleasures gently to preside, Watch his emotions, and control their tide."--COWPER.
The misfortunes of that day disheartened and disconcerted Etheldred. To do mischief where she most wished to do good, to grieve where she longed to comfort, seemed to be her fate; it was vain to attempt anything for anyone's good, while all her warm feelings and high aspirations were thwarted by the awkward ungainly hands and heedless eyes that Nature had given her. Nor did the following day, Saturday, do much for her comfort, by giving her the company of her brothers. That it was Norman's sixteenth birthday seemed only to make it worse. Their father had apparently forgotten it, and Norman stopped Blanche when she was going to put him in mind of it; stopped her by such a look as the child never forgot, though there was no anger in it. In reply to Ethel's inquiry what he was going to do that morning, he gave a yawn and stretch, and said, dejectedly, that he had got some Euripides to look over, and some verses to finish.
"I am sorry; this is the first time you ever have not managed so as to make a real holiday of your Saturday!"
"I could not help it, and there's nothing to do," said Norman wearily.
"I promised to go and read to Margaret while Flora does her music," said Ethel; "I shall come after that and do my Latin and Greek with you."
Margaret would not keep her long, saying she liked her to be with Norman, but she found him with his head sunk on his open book, fast asleep. At dinner-time, Harry and Tom, rushing in, awoke him with a violent start.
"Halloo! Norman, that was a jump!" said Harry, as his brother stretched and pinched himself. "You'll jump out of your skin some of these days, if you don't take care!"
"It's enough to startle any one to be waked up with such a noise," said Ethel.
"Then he ought to sleep at proper times," said Harry, "and not be waking me up with tumbling about, and hallooing out, and talking in his sleep half the night."
"Talk
ing in his sleep! why, just now, you said he did not sleep," said Ethel.
"Harry knows nothing about it," said Norman.
"Don't I? Well, I only know, if you slept in school, and were a junior, you would get a proper good licking for going on as you do at night."
"And I think you might chance to get a proper good licking for not holding your tongue," said Norman, which hint reduced Harry to silence.
Dr. May was not come home; he had gone with Richard far into the country, and was to return to tea. He was thought to be desirous of avoiding the family dinners that used to be so delightful. Harry was impatient to depart, and when Mary and Tom ran after him, he ordered them back.
"Where can he be going?" said Mary, as she looked wistfully after him.
"I know," said Tom.
"Where? Do tell me."
"Only don't tell papa. I went down with him to the playground this morning, and there they settled it. The Andersons, and Axworthy, and he, are going to hire a gun, and shoot pee-wits on Cocksmoor."
But they ought not; should they?" said Mary. Papa would be very angry."
Anderson said there was no harm in it, but Harry told me not to tell. Indeed, Anderson would have boxed my ears for hearing, when I could not help it."
"But Harry would not let him?"
"Ay. Harry is quite a match for Harvey Anderson, though he is so much younger; and he said he would not have me bullied."
"That's a good Harry! But I wish he would not go out shooting!" said Mary.
"Mind, you don't tell."
"And where's Hector Ernescliffe? Would not he go?"
"No. I like Hector. He did not choose to go, though Anderson teased him, and said he was a poor Scot, and his brother didn't allow him tin enough to buy powder and shot. If Harry would have stayed at home, he would have come up here, and we might have had some fun in the garden."
"I wish he would. We never have any fun now," said Mary; "but oh! there he is," as she spied Hector peeping over the gate which led from the field into the garden. It was the first time that he had been to Dr. May's since his brother's departure, and he was rather shy, but the joyful welcome of Mary and Tom took off all reluctance, and they claimed him for a good game at play in the wood-house. Mary ran upstairs to beg to be excused the formal walk, and, luckily for her, Miss Winter was in Margaret's room. Margaret asked if it was very wet and dirty, and hearing "not very," gave gracious permission, and off went Mary and Blanche to construct some curious specimens of pottery, under the superintendence of Hector and Tom. There was a certain ditch where yellow mud was attainable, whereof the happy children concocted marbles and vases, which underwent a preparatory baking in the boys' pockets, that they might not crack in the nursery fire. Margaret only stipulated that her sisters should be well fenced in brown holland, and when Miss Winter looked grave, said, "Poor things, a little thorough play will do them a great deal of good."
Miss Winter could not see the good of groping in the dirt; and Margaret perceived that it would be one of her difficulties to know how to follow out her mother's views for the children, without vexing the good governess by not deferring to her.
In the meantime, Norman had disconsolately returned to his Euripides, and Ethel, who wanted to stay with him and look out his words, was ordered out by Miss Winter, because she had spent all yesterday indoors. Miss Winter was going to stay with Margaret, and Ethel and Flora coaxed Norman to come with them, "just one mile on the turnpike road and back again; he would be much fresher for his Greek afterwards."
He came, but he did not enliven his sisters. The three plodded on, taking a diligent constitutional walk, exchanging very few words, and those chiefly between the girls. Flora gathered some hoary clematis, and red berries, and sought in the hedge-sides for some crimson "fairy baths" to carry home; and, at the sight of the amusement Margaret derived from the placing the beauteous little Pezizas in a saucer of damp green moss, so as to hide the brown sticks on which they grew, Ethel took shame to herself for want of perception of little attentions. When she told Norman so, he answered, "There's no one who does see what is the right thing. How horrid the room looks! Everything is nohow!" added he, looking round at the ornaments and things on the tables, which had lost their air of comfort and good taste. It was not disorder, and Ethel could not see what he meant. "What's wrong?" said she.
"Oh, never mind--you can't do it. Don't try--you'll only make it worse. It will never be the same as long as we live."
"I wish you would not be so unhappy!" said Ethel.
"Never mind," again said Norman, but he put his arm round her.
"Have you done your Euripides? Can I help you? Will you construe it with me, or shall I look out your words?"
"Thank you, I don't mind that. It is the verses! I want some sense!" said Norman, running his fingers through his hair till it stood on end. "'Tis such a horrid subject, Coral Islands! As if there was anything to be said about them."
"Dear me, Norman, I could say ten thousand things, only I must not tell you what mine are, as yours are not done."
"No, don't," said Norman decidedly.
"Did you read the description of them in the Quarterly? I am sure you might get some ideas there. Shall I find it for you? It is in an old number."
"Well, do; thank you."
He rested listlessly on the sofa while his sister rummaged in a chiffonier. At last she found the article, and eagerly read him the description of the strange forms of the coral animals, and the beauties of their flower-like feelers and branching fabrics. It would once have delighted him, but his first comment was, "Nasty little brutes!" However, the next minute he thanked her, took the book, and said he could hammer something out of it, though it was too bad to give such an unclassical subject. At dusk he left off, saying he should get it done at night, his senses would come then, and he should be glad to sit up.
"Only three weeks to the holidays," said Ethel, trying to be cheerful; but his assent was depressing, and she began to fear that Christmas would only make them more sad.
Mary did not keep Tom's secret so inviolably, but that, while they were dressing for tea, she revealed to Ethel where Harry was gone. He was not yet returned, though his father and Richard were come in, and the sisters were at once in some anxiety on his account, and doubt whether they ought to let papa know of his disobedience.
Flora and Ethel, who were the first in the drawing-room, had a consultation.
"I should have told mamma directly," said Flora.
"He never did so," sighed Ethel; "things never went wrong then."
"Oh, yes, they did; don't you remember how naughty Harry was about climbing the wall, and making faces at Mrs. Richardson's servants?"
"And how ill I behaved the first day of last Christmas holidays?"
"She knew, but I don't think she told papa."
"Not that we knew of, but I believe she did tell him everything, and I think, Flora, he ought to know everything, especially now. I never could bear the way the Mackenzies used to have of thinking their parents must be like enemies, and keeping secrets from them."
"They were always threatening each other, 'I'll tell mamma,'" said Flora, "and calling us tell-tales because we told our own dear mamma everything. But it is not like that now--I neither like to worry papa, nor to bring Harry into disgrace--besides, Tom and Mary meant it for a secret."
"Papa would not be angry with him if we told him it was a secret," said Ethel; "I wish Harry would come in. There's the door--oh! it is only you."
"Whom did you expect?" said Richard, entering.
The sisters looked at each other, and Ethel, after an interval, explained their doubts about Harry.
"He is come in," said Richard; "I saw him running up to his own room, very muddy."
"Oh, I'm glad! But do you think papa ought to hear it? I don't know what's to be done. 'Tis the children's secret," said Flora.
"It will never do to have him going out with those boys continually," said Ethel--"Harvey Anderson close by
all the holidays!"
"I'll try what I can do with him," said Richard. "Papa had better not hear it now, at any rate. He is very tired and sad this evening! and his arm is painful again, so we must not worry him with histories of naughtiness among the children."
"No," said Ethel decidedly, "I am glad you were there, Ritchie; I never should have thought of one time being better than another."
"Just like Ethel!" said Flora, smiling.
"Why should not you learn?" said Richard gently.
"I can't," said Ethel, in a desponding way.
"Why not? You are much sharper than most people, and, if you tried, you would know those things much better than I do, as you know how to learn history."
"It is quite a different sort of cleverness," said Flora. "Recollect Sir Isaac Newton, or Archimedes."
"Then you must have both sorts," said Ethel, "for you can do things nicely, and yet you learn very fast."
"Take care, Ethel, you are singeing your frock! Well, I really don't think you can help those things!" said Flora. "Your short sight is the reason of it, and it is of no use to try to mend it."
"Don't tell her so," said Richard. "It can't be all short sight--it is the not thinking. I do believe that if Ethel would think, no one would do things so well. Don't you remember the beautiful perspective drawing she made of this room for me to take to Oxford? That was very difficult, and wanted a great deal of neatness and accuracy, so why should she not be neat and accurate in other things? And I know you can read faces, Ethel--why don't you look there before you speak?"
"Ah! before instead of after, when I only see I have said something malapropos," said Ethel.
"I must go and see about the children," said Flora; "if the tea comes while I am gone, will you make it, Ritchie?"
"Flora despairs of me," said Ethel.
"I don't," said Richard. "Have you forgotten how to put in a pin yet?"
"No; I hope not."
"Well, then, see if you can't learn to make tea; and, by-the-bye, Ethel, which is the next christening Sunday?"
The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations Page 10
