Miss Bracy 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 riotous with their new friend, who made much of them continually, and especially patronised 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 been all a mistake that every one was so dependent on her, for, in fact, they did much better without her.
Meantime, she heard of the gaieties which the others were enjoying, and she could not feel heroic when they regretted her. At the end of a week, Meta 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. Ogilvie had been very disconsolate. Margaret had not been prepared to hear that Mr. Ogilvie 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. Meta 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, 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 Glenbracken.
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 school-boy haunts 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 as if he found united in her the quaint brusquerie, 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 Cocksmoor.
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 the more vehemently for them, and the utmost show that they outwardly made was, that Margaret thought her less vivacious than her wont, 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 Cocksmoor, 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 Cocksmoor, when the quicksilver stood at 80° 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 "Cocksmoor 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 school-room was unusually full, all the haymaking 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 light weight, 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 to-day.
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 arbour 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!" was 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 to-day," said Mary proudly.
"I shall indict you for cruelty to animals! I think I have known it hotter at Poonshedagore, but there we had punkahs!"
"It was very wrong of me," said Ethel. "I should have thought of poor Mary, in that sunny walk, but Mary never complains."
"Oh, never mind," said Mary, "it did not hurt."
"I'm not thinking of Mary," said Dr. Spencer, "but of the wretched 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 Cocksmoor 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 proved to have been suffering far more on Harry's account than they had guessed, and who was so simple and thorough-going in doing her duty. This was not being a g
ood 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 am 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 Cocksmoor!" 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 to- night. Cocksmoor 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.
CHAPTER XI.
If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, Chapels had been Churches, and poor men's cottages, princes' palaces. MERCHANT OF VENICE.
"Dick," said Dr. Spencer, as the friends sat together in the evening, after Mary's swoon, "you seem to have found an expedient for making havoc among your daughters."
"It does not hurt them," said Dr. May carelessly.
"Pretty well, after the specimen of to-day."
"That was chance."
"If you like it, I have no more to say; but I should like to make you sit for two hours in such a temperature. If they were mine--"
"Very fine talking, but I would not take the responsibility of hindering the only pains that have ever been taken with that unlucky place. You don't know that girl Ethel. She began at fifteen, entirely of her own accord, and has never faltered. If any of the children there are saved from perdition, it is owing to her, and I am not going to be the man to stop her. They are strong, healthy girls, and I cannot see that it does them any harm--rather good."
"Have you any special predilection for a room eight feet by nine?"
"Can't be helped. What would you have said if you had seen the last?"
"What is this about one hundred and fifty pounds in hand?"
"The ladies here chose to have a fancy fair, the only result of which, hitherto, has been the taking away my Flora. There is the money, but the land can't be had."
"Why not?"
"Tied up between the Drydale Estate and -- College, and in the hands of the quarry master, Nicolson. There was an application made to the College, but they did not begin at the right end."
"Upon my word, Dick, you take it easy!" cried his friend, rather indignantly.
"I own I have not stirred in the matter," said Dr. May. "I knew nothing would come to good under the pack of silly women that our schools are ridden with--" and, as he heard a sound a little like "pish!" he continued, "and that old Ramsden, it is absolutely useless to work with such a head--or no head. There's nothing for it but to wait for better times, instead of setting up independent, insubordinate action."
"You are the man to leave venerable abuses undisturbed!"
"The cure is worse than the disease!"
"There spoke the Corporation!"
"Ah! it was not the way you set to work in Poonshedagore."
"Why, really, when the venerable abuses consisted of Hindoos praying to their own three-legged stools, and keeping sacred monkeys in honour of the ape Hanyuman, it was a question whether one could be a Christian oneself, and suffer it undisturbed. It was coming it too strong, when I was requested to lend my own step-ladder for the convenience of an exhibition of a devotee swinging on hooks in his sides."
Dr. Spencer had, in fact, never rested till he had established a mission in his former remote station; and his brown godson, once a Brahmin, now an exemplary clergyman, traced his conversion to the friendship and example of the English physician.
"Well, I have lashed about me at abuses, in my time," said Dr. May.
"I dare say you have, Dick!" and they both laughed--the inconsiderate way was so well delineated.
"Just so," replied Dr. May; "and I made enemies enough to fetter me now. I do not mean that I have done right--I have not; but there is a good deal on my hands, and I don't write easily. I have been slower to take up new matters than I ought to have been."
"I see, I see!" said Dr. Spencer, rather sorry for his implied reproach, "but must Cocksmoor be left to its fate, and your gallant daughter to hers?"
"The vicar won't stir. He is indolent enough by nature, and worse with gout; and I do not see what good I could do. I once offended the tenant, Nicolson, by fining him for cheating his unhappy labourers, on the abominable truck system; and he had rather poison me than do anything to oblige me. And, as to the copyholder, he is a fine gentleman, who never comes near the place, nor does anything for it."
"Who is he?"
"Sir Henry Walkinghame."
"Sir Henry Walkinghame! I know the man. I found him in one of the caves at Thebes, among the mummies, laid up with a fever, nearly ready to be a mummy himself! I remember bleeding him--irregular, was not it? but one does not stand on ceremony in Pharaoh's tomb. I got him through with it; we came up the Nile together, and the last I saw of him was at Alexandria. He is your man! something might be done with him!"
"I believe Flora promises to ask him if she should ever meet him in London, but he is always away. If ever we should be happy enough to get an active incumbent, we shall have a chance."
Two days after, Ethel came down equipped for Cocksmoor. It was as hot as ever, and Mary was ordered to stay at home, being somewhat pacified by a promise that she should go again as soon as the weather was fit for anything but a salamander.
Dr. Spencer was in the hall, with his bamboo, his great Panama hat, and gray loose coat, for he entirely avoided, except on Sundays, the medical suit of black. He offered to relieve Ethel of her bag of books.
"No thank you." (He had them by this time). "But I am going to Cocksmoor."
"Will you allow me to be your companion?"
"I shall be very glad of the pleasure of your company, but I am not in the least afraid of going alone," said she, smiling, however, so as to show she was glad of such pleasant company. "I forewarn you though that I have business there."
"I will find occupation."
"And you must promise not to turn against me. I have undergone a great deal already about that place. Norman was always preaching against it, and now that he has become reasonable, I can't have papa set against it again--besides, he would mind you more."
Dr. Spencer promised to do nothing but what was quite reasonable. Ethel believed that he accompanied her merely because his gallantry would not suffer her to go unescorted, and she was not sorry, for it was too long a walk for solitude to be very agreeable, when strange wagoners might be on the road, though she had never let them be "lions in the path."
The walk was as pleasant as a scorching sun would allow, and by the time they arrived at the scattered cottages, Ethel had been drawn into explaining many of her Cocksmoor perplexities.
"If you could get the land granted, where should you choose to have it?" he asked. "You know it will not do to go and say, 'Be pleased to give me a piece of land,' without specifying what, or you might chance to have one at the Land's End."
"I see, that was one of the blunders," said Ethel. "But I had often thought of this nice little square place, between two gardens, and sheltered by the old quarry."
"Ha! hardly space enough, I should say," replied Dr. Spencer, stepping it out. "No, that won't do, so confined by the quarry. Let us look farther."
A surmise crossed Ethel
. Could he be going to take the work on himself, but that was too wild a supposition--she knew he had nothing of his own, only a moderate pension from the East India Company.
"What do you think of this?" he said, coming to the slope of a knoll, commanding a pretty view of the Abbotstoke woods, clear from houses, and yet not remote from the hamlet. She agreed that it would do well, and he kicked up a bit of turf, and pryed into the soil, pronouncing it dry, and fit for a good foundation. Then he began to step it out, making a circuit that amazed her, but he said, "It is of no use to do it at twice. Your school can be only the first step towards a church, and you had better have room--enough at once. It will serve as an endowment in the meantime."
He would not let her remain in the sun, and she went into school. She found him, when she came out, sitting in the arbour smoking a cigar-rather a shock to her feelings, though he threw it away the instant she appeared, and she excused him for his foreign habits.
In the evening, he brought down a traveller's case of instruments, and proceeded to draw a beautiful little map of Cocksmoor, where it seemed that he had taken all his measurements, whilst she was in school. He ended by an imaginary plan and elevation for the school, with a pretty oriel window and bell-gable, that made Ethel sigh with delight at the bare idea.
Next day, he vanished after dinner, but this he often did; he used to say he must go and have a holiday of smoking--he could not bear too much civilised society. He came back for tea, however, and had not sat down long before he said, "Now, I know all about it. I shall pack up my goods, and be off for Vienna to-morrow."
The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations Page 60
