"He is--that he is," said Margaret, "and, indeed, it is most beautiful to see how what has happened has brought him at once to what she wished, when, perhaps, otherwise it would have been a work of long time."
Ethel was entirely consoled. Flora thought of the words "tete exaltee" and considered herself alone to have sober sense enough to see things in a true light--not that she went the length of believing that Norman had any underhand motives, but she thought it very discreet in her to think a prudent father would not have been satisfied with such a desire to avoid investigation.
Dr. May would not trust himself to enter on the subject with Dr. Hoxton in conversation; he only wrote a note.
"June 16th.
"Dear Dr. Hoxton,
"My son has appealed to me to confirm his account of himself on Thursday evening last. I therefore distinctly state that he came in at half-past nine, with his hands full of plants from the river, and that he then went out again, by my desire, to look for his little brother.
--Yours very truly, R. May."
A long answer came in return, disclaiming all doubt of Norman's veracity, and explaining Dr. Hoxton's grounds for having degraded him. There had been misconduct in the school, he said, for some time past, and he did not consider that it was any very serious reproach, to a boy of Norman's age, that he had not had weight enough to keep up his authority, and had been carried away by the general feeling. It had been necessary to make an example for the sake of principle, and though very sorry it should have fallen on one of such high promise and general good conduct, Dr. Hoxton trusted that it would not be any permanent injury to his prospects, as his talents had raised him to his former position in the school so much earlier than usual.
"The fact was," said Dr. May, "that old Hoxton did it in a passion, feeling he must punish somebody, and now, finding there's no uproar about it, he begins to be sorry. I won't answer this note. I'll stop after church to-morrow and shake hands, and that will show we don't bear malice."
What Mr. Wilmot might think was felt by all to affect them more nearly. Ethel wanted to hear that he declared his complete conviction of Norman's innocence, and was disappointed to find that he did not once allude to the subject. She was only consoled by Margaret's conjecture that, perhaps, he thought the headmaster had been hasty, and could not venture to say so--he saw into people's characters, and it was notorious that it was just what Dr. Hoxton did not.
Tom had spent the chief of that Saturday in reading a novel borrowed from Axworthy, keeping out of sight of every one. All Sunday he avoided Norman more scrupulously than ever, and again on Monday. That day was a severe trial to Norman; the taking the lower place, and the sense that, excel as much as ever he might in his studies, it would not avail to restore him to his former place, were more unpleasant, when it came to the point, than he had expected.
He saw the cold manner, so different from the readiness with which his tasks had always been met, certain as they were of being well done; he found himself among the common herd whom he had passed so triumphantly, and, for a little while, he had no heart to exert himself.
This was conquered by the strong will and self-rebuke for having merely craved for applause, but, in the play-ground, he found himself still alone-the other boys who had been raised by his fall shrank from intercourse with one whom they had injured by their silence, and the Andersons, who were wont to say the Mays carried every tale home, and who still almost expected interference from Dr. May, hardly believed their victory secure, and the younger one, at least, talked spitefully, and triumphed in the result of May's meddling and troublesome over strictness. "Such prigs always come to a downfall," was the sentiment.
Norman found himself left out of everything, and stood dispirited and weary on the bank of the river, wishing for Harry, wishing for Cheviot, wishing that he had been able to make a friend who would stand by him, thinking it could not be worse if he had let his father reinstate him--and a sensation of loneliness and injustice hung heavy at his heart.
His first interruption was a merry voice. "I say, June, there's no end of river cray-fish under that bank," and Larkins's droll face was looking up at him, from that favourite position, half stooping, his hands on his knees, his expression of fun trying to conceal his real anxiety and sympathy.
Norman turned and smiled, and looked for the cray-fish, and, at the same time, became aware of Hector Ernescliffe, watching for an opportunity to say, "I have a letter from Alan." He knew they wanted, as far as little boys ventured to seek after one so much their elder, to show themselves his friends, and he was grateful; he roused himself to hear about Alan's news, and found it was important- -his great friend, Captain Gordon, had got a ship, and hoped to be able to take him, and this might lead to Harry's going with him. Then Norman applied himself to the capture of cray-fish, and Larkins grew so full of fun and drollery, that the hours of recreation passed off less gloomily than they had begun.
If only his own brother would have been his adherent! But he saw almost nothing of Tom. Day after day he missed him, he was off before him in going and returning from school, and when he caught a sight of his face, it looked harassed, pale, and miserable, stealing anxious glances after him, yet shrinking from his eye. But, at the same time, Norman did not see him mingling with his former friends, and could not make out how he disposed of himself. To be thus continually shunned by his own brother, even when the general mass were returning to ordinary terms, became so painful, that Norman was always on the watch to seek for one more conversation with him.
He caught him at last in the evening, just as they were going home. "Tom, why are you running away? Come with me," said he authoritatively; and Tom obeyed in trembling.
Norman led the way to the meads. "Tom," said he, "do not let this go on. Why do you serve me in this way? You surely need not turn against me," he said, with pleading melancholy in his voice.
It was not needed. Tom had flung himself upon the grass, and was in an agony of crying, even before he had finished the words.
"Tom, Tom! what is the matter? Have they been bullying you again? Look up, and tell me--what is it? You know I can stand by you still, if you'll only let me;" and Norman sat by him on the grass, and raised his face by a sort of force, but the kind words only brought more piteous sobs. It was a long time before they diminished enough to let him utter a word, but Norman went on patiently consoling and inquiring, sure, at least, that here had broken down the sullenness that had always repelled him.
At last came the words, "Oh! I cannot bear it. It is all my doing!"
"What--how--you don't mean this happening to me? It is not your doing, August--what fancy is this?"
"Oh, yes, it is," said Tom, his voice cut short by gasps, the remains of the sobs. "They would not hear me! I tried to tell them how you told them not, and sent them home. I tried to tell about Ballhatchet--but--but they wouldn't--they said if it had been Harry, they would have attended--but they would not believe me. Oh! if Harry was but here!"
"I wish he was," said Norman, from the bottom of his heart; "but you see, Tom, if this sets you on always telling truth, I shan't think any great harm done."
A fresh burst, "Oh, they are all so glad! They say such things! And the Mays were never in disgrace before. Oh, Norman, Norman!"
"Never mind about that--"began Norman.
"But you would mind," broke in the boy passionately, "if you knew what Anderson junior and Axworthy say! They say it serves you right, and they were going to send me to old Ballhatchet's to get some of his stuff to drink confusion to the mouth of June, and all pragmatical meddlers; and when I said I could not go, they vowed if I did not, I should eat the corks for them! And Anderson junior called me names, and licked me. Look there." He showed a dark blue-and-red stripe raised on the palm of his hand. "I could not write well for it these three days, and Hawes gave me double copies!"
"The cowardly fellows!" exclaimed Norman indignantly. "But you did not go?"
"No, Anderson senior stopped th
em. He said he would not have the Ballhatchet business begin again."
"That is one comfort," said Norman. "I see he does not dare not to keep order. But if you'll only stay with me, August, I'll take care they don't hurt you."
"Oh, June! June!" and he threw himself across his kind brother. "I am so very sorry! Oh! to see you put down--and hear them! And you to lose the scholarship! Oh, dear! oh, dear! and be in disgrace with them all!"
"But, Tom, do cheer up. It is nothing to be in such distress at. Papa knows all about it, and while he does, I don't care half so much."
"Oh, I wish--I wish--"
"You see, Tom," said Norman, "after all, though it is very kind of you to be sorry for not being able to get me out of this scrape, the thing one wants you to be sorry about is your own affair."
"I wish I had never come to school! I wish Anderson would leave me alone! It is all his fault! A mean-spirited, skulking, bullying--"
"Hush, hush, Tom, he is bad enough, but now you know what he is, you can keep clear of him for the future. Now listen. You and I will make a fresh start, and try if we can't get the Mays to be looked on as they were when Harry was here. Let us mind the rules, and get into no more mischief."
"You'll keep me from Ned Anderson and Axworthy?" whispered Tom.
"Yes, that I will. And you'll try and speak the truth, and be straightforward?"
"I will, I will," said Tom, worn out in spirits by his long bondage, and glad to catch at the hope of relief and protection.
"Then let us come home," and Tom put his hand into his brother's, as a few weeks back would have seemed most unworthy of schoolboy dignity.
Thenceforth Tom was devoted to Norman, and kept close to him, sure that the instant he was from under his wing his former companions would fall on him to revenge his defection, but clinging to him also from real affection and gratitude. Indolence and timidity were the true root of what had for a time seemed like a positively bad disposition; beneath, there was a warm heart, and sense of right, which had been almost stifled for the time, in the desire, from moment to moment, to avoid present trouble or fear. Under Norman's care his better self had freer scope, he was guarded from immediate terror, and kept from the suggestions of the worse sort of boys, as much as was in his brother's power; and the looks they cast towards him, and the sly torments they attempted to inflict, by no means invited him back to them. The lessons, where he had a long inveterate habit of shuffling, came under Norman's eye at the same time. He always prepared them in his presence, instead of in the most secret manner possible, and with all Anderson's expeditious modes of avoiding the making them of any use. Norman sat by, and gave such help as was fair and just, showed him how to learn, and explained difficulties, and the ingenuity hitherto spent in eluding learning being now directed to gaining it, he began to make real progress and find satisfaction in it. The comfort of being good dawned upon him once more, but still there was much to contend with; he had acquired such a habit of prevarication that, if by any means taken by surprise, his impulse was to avoid giving a straightforward answer, and when he recollected his sincerity, the truth came with the air of falsehood. Moreover, he was an arrant coward, and provoked tricks by his manifest and unreasonable terrors. It was no slight exercise of patience that Norman underwent, but this was the interest he had made for himself; and the recovery of the boy's attachment, and his improvement, though slow, were a present recompense.
Ernescliffe, Larkins, and others of the boys, held fast to him, and after the first excitement was past, all the rest returned to their former tone. He was decidedly as much respected as ever, and, at the same time, regarded with more favour than when his strictness was resented. And as for the discipline of the school, that did not suffer. Anderson felt that, for his own credit, he must not allow the rules to be less observed than in May's reign, and he enforced them upon the reluctant and angry boys with whom he had been previously making common cause. Dr. Hoxton boasted to the under- masters that the school had never been in such good order as under Anderson, little guessing that this was but reaping the fruits of a past victory, or that every boy in the whole school gave the highest place in their esteem to the deposed dux.
To Anderson, Norman's cordial manner and ready support were the strangest part of all, only explained by thinking that he deemed it, as he tried to do himself, merely the fortune of war, and was sensible of no injury.
And, for Norman himself, when the first shock was over, and he was accustomed to the change, he found the cessation of vigilance a relief, and carried a lighter heart than any time since his mother's death. His sisters could not help observing that there was less sadness in the expression of his eyes, that he carried his head higher, walked with freedom and elasticity of step, tossed and flourished the Daisy till she shouted and crowed, while Margaret shrank at such freaks; and, though he was not much of a laugher himself, contributed much sport in the way of bright apposite sayings to the home circle.
It was a very unexpected mode of cure for depression of spirits, but there could be no question that it succeeded; and when, a few Saturdays after, he drove Dr. May again to Groveswood to see young Mr. Lake, who was recovering, he brought Margaret home a whole pile of botanical curiosities, and drew his father into an animated battle over natural and Linnaean systems, which kept the whole party merry with the pros and cons every evening for a week.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Oh! the golden-hearted daisies, Witnessed there before my youth, To the truth of things, with praises Of the beauty of the truth.--E. B. BROWNING.
"Margaret, see here."
The doctor threw into her lap a letter, which made her cheeks light up.
Mr. Ernescliffe wrote that his father's friend, Captain Gordon, having been appointed to the frigate Alcestis, had chosen him as one of his lieutenants, and offered a nomination as naval cadet for his brother. He had replied that the navy was not Hector's destination, but, as Captain Gordon had no one else in view, had prevailed on him to pass on the proposal to Harry May.
Alan wrote in high terms of his captain, declaring that he esteemed the having sailed with him as one of the greatest advantages he had ever received, and adding that, for his own part, Dr. May needed no promise from him to be assured that he would watch over Harry like his own brother. It was believed that the Alcestis was destined for the South American station.
"A three years' business," said Dr. May, with a sigh. "But the thing is done, and this is as good as we can hope."
"Far better!" said Margaret. "What pleasure it must have given him! Dear Harry could not sail under more favourable circumstances."
"No, I would trust to Ernescliffe as I would to Richard. It is kindly done, and I will thank him at once. Where does he date from?"
"From Portsmouth. He does not say whether he has seen Harry."
"I suppose he waited for my answer. Suppose I enclose a note for him to give to Harry. There will be rapture enough, and it is a pity he should not have the benefit of it."
The doctor sat down to write, while Margaret worked and mused, perhaps on outfits and new shirts--perhaps on Harry's lion-locks, beneath a blue cap and gold band, or, perchance, on the coral shoals of the Pacific.
It was one of the quiet afternoons, when all the rest were out, and which the doctor and his daughter especially valued, when they were able to spend one together without interruption. Soon, however, a ring at the door brought an impatient exclamation from the doctor; but his smile beamed out at the words, "Miss Rivers." They were great friends; in fact, on terms of some mutual sauciness, though Meta was, as yet, far less at home with his daughters, and came in, looking somewhat shy.
"Ah, your congeners are gone out!" was the doctor's reception. "You must put up with our sober selves."
"Is Flora gone far?" asked Meta.
"To Cocksmoor," said Margaret. "I am very sorry she has missed you."
"Shall I be in your way?" said Meta timidly. "Papa has several things to do, and said he would call for me here."
"Good luck for Margaret," said Dr. May.
"So they are gone to Cocksmoor!" said Meta. "How I envy them!"
"You would not if you saw the place," said Dr. May. "I believe Norman is very angry with me for letting them go near it."
"Ah! but they are of real use there!"
"And Miss Meta is obliged to take to envying the black-hole of Cocksmoor, instead of being content with the eglantine bowers of Abbotstoke! I commiserate her!" said the doctor.
"If I did any good instead of harm at Abbotstoke!"
"Harm!" exclaimed Margaret.
"They went on very well without me," said Meta; "but ever since I have had the class they have been getting naughtier and noisier every Sunday; and, last Sunday, the prettiest of all--the one I liked best, and had done everything for--she began to mimic me--held up her finger, as I did, and made them all laugh!"
"Well, that is very bad!" said Margaret; "but I suppose she was a very little one."
"No, a quick clever one, who knew much better, about nine years old. She used to be always at home in the week, dragging about a great baby; and we managed that her mother should afford to stay at home and send her to school. It seemed such a pity her cleverness should be wasted."
The doctor smiled. "Ah! depend upon it, the tyrant-baby was the best disciplinarian."
Meta looked extremely puzzled.
"Papa means," said Margaret, "that if she was inclined to be conceited, the being teased at home might do her more good than being brought forward at school."
"I have done everything wrong, it seems," said Meta, with a shade of what the French call depit. "I thought it must be right and good-- but it has only done mischief; and now papa says they are an ungrateful set, and that, if it vexes me, I had better have no more to do with them!"
"It does not vex you so much as that, I hope," said Margaret.
"Oh, I could not bear that!" said Meta; "but it is so different from what I thought!"
The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations Page 32
