There he sat, occupying his never idle hands with a net that he kept for such moments, whilst Ethel sat behind her urn, now giving out its last sighs, profiting by the leisure to read the county newspaper, while she continually filled up her cup with tea or milk as occasion served, indifferent to the increasing pallor of the liquid.
Mary, a ‘fine young woman,’ as George Rivers called her, of blooming face and sweet open expression, had begun, at Gertrude’s entreaty, a game of French billiards. Gertrude had still her childish sunny face and bright hair, and even at the trying age of twelve was pleasing, chiefly owing to the caressing freedom of manner belonging to an unspoilable pet. Her request to Aubrey to join the sport had been answered with a half petulant shake of the head, and he flung himself into his father’s chair, his long legs hanging over one arm—an attitude that those who had ever been under Mrs. May’s discipline thought impossible in the drawing-room; but Aubrey was a rival pet, and with the family characteristics of aquiline features, dark gray eyes, and beautiful teeth, had an air of fragility and easy languor that showed his exercise of the immunities of ill-health. He had been Ethel’s pupil till Tom’s last year at Eton, when he was sent thither, and had taken a good place; but his brother’s vigilant and tender care could not save him from an attack on the chest, that settled his public-school education for ever, to his severe mortification, just when Tom’s shower of honours was displaying to him the sweets of emulation and success. Ethel regained her pupil, and put forth her utmost powers for his benefit, causing Tom to examine him at each vacation, with adjurations to let her know the instant he discovered that her task of tuition was getting beyond her. In truth, Tom fraternally held her cheap, and would have enjoyed a triumph over her scholarship; but to this he had not attained, and in spite of his desire to keep his brother in a salutary state of humiliation, candour wrung from him the admission that, even in verses, Aubrey did as well as other fellows of his standing.
Conceit was not Aubrey’s fault. His father was more guarded than in the case of his elder sons, and the home atmosphere was not such as to give the boy a sense of superiority, especially when diligently kept down by his brother. Even the half year at Eton had not produced superciliousness, though it had given Eton polish to the home-bred manners; it had made sisters valuable, and awakened a desire for masculine companionship. He did not rebel against his sister’s rule; she was nearly a mother to him, and had always been the most active president of his studies and pursuits; and he was perfectly obedient and dutiful to her, only asserting his equality, in imitation of Harry and Tom, by a little of the good-humoured raillery and teasing that treated Ethel as the family butt, while she was really the family authority.
‘All gone, Ethel,’ he said, with a lazy smile, as Ethel mechanically, with her eyes on the newspaper, tried all her vessels round, and found cream-jug, milk-jug, tea-pot, and urn exhausted; ‘will you have in the river next?’
‘What a shame!’ said Ethel, awakening and laughing. ‘Those are the tea-maker’s snares.’
‘Do send it away then,’ said Aubrey, ‘the urn oppresses the atmosphere.’
‘Very well, I’ll make a fresh brew when papa comes home, and perhaps you’ll have some then. You did not half finish to-night.’
Aubrey yawned; and after some speculation about their father’s absence, Gertrude went to bed; and Aubrey, calling himself tired, stood up, stretched every limb portentously, and said he should go off too. Ethel looked at him anxiously, felt his hand, and asked if he were sure he had not a cold coming on. ‘You are always thinking of colds,’ was all the satisfaction she received.
‘What has he been doing?’ said Richard.
‘That is what I was thinking. He was about all yesterday afternoon with Leonard Ward, and perhaps may have done something imprudent in the damp. I never know what to do. I can’t bear him to be a coddle; yet he is always catching cold if I let him alone. The question is, whether it is worse for him to run risks, or to be thinking of himself.’
‘He need not be doing that,’ said Richard; ‘he may be thinking of your wishes and papa’s.’
‘Very pretty of him and you, Ritchie; but he is not three parts of a boy or man who thinks of his womankind’s wishes when there is anything spirited before him.’
‘Well, I suppose one may do one’s duty without being three parts of a boy,’ said Richard, gravely.
‘I know it is true that some of the most saintly characters have been the more spiritual because their animal frame was less vigorous; but still it does not content me.’
‘No, the higher the power, the better, of course, should the service be. I was only putting you in mind that there is compensation. But I must be off. I am sorry I cannot wait for papa. Let me know what is the matter tomorrow, and how Aubrey is.’
Richard went; and the sisters took up their employments—Ethel writing to the New Zealand sister-in-law her history of the wedding, Mary copying parts of a New Zealand letter for her brother, the lieutenant in command of a gun-boat on the Chinese coast. Those letters, whether from Norman May or his wife, were very delightful, they were so full of a cheerful tone of trustful exertion and resolution, though there had been perhaps more than the natural amount of disappointments. Norman’s powers were not thought of the description calculated for regular mission work, and some of the chief aspirations of the young couple had had to be relinquished at the voice of authority without a trial. They had received the charge of persons as much in need of them as unreclaimed savages, but to whom there was less apparent glory in ministering. A widespread district of very colonial colonists, and the charge of a college for their uncultivated sons, was quite as troublesome as the most ardent self-devotion could desire; and the hardships and disagreeables, though severe, made no figure in history—nay, it required ingenuity to gather their existence from Meta’s bright letters, although, from Mrs. Arnott’s accounts, it was clear that the wife took a quadruple share. Mrs. Rivers had been heard to say that Norman need not have gone so far, and sacrificed so much, to obtain an underbred English congregation; and even the Doctor had sighed once or twice at having relinquished his favourite son to what was dull and distasteful; but Ethel could trust that this unmurmuring acceptance of the less striking career, might be another step in the discipline of her brother’s ardent and ambitious nature. It is a great thing to sacrifice, but a greater to consent not to sacrifice in one’s own way.
Ethel sat up for her father, and Mary would not go to bed and leave her, so the two sisters waited till they heard the latch-key. Ethel ran out, but her father was already on the stairs, and waved her back.
‘Here is some tea. Are you not coming, papa?—it is all here.’
‘Thank you, I’ll just go and take off this coat;’ and he passed on to his room.
‘I don’t like that,’ said Ethel, returning to the drawing-room, where Mary was boiling up the kettle, and kneeling down to make some toast.
‘Why, what’s the matter?’
‘I have never known him go and change his coat but when some infectious thing has been about. Besides, he did not wait to let me help him off with it.’
