newly returned from the continent. 'A fine-looking, agreeable man, about five-and-thirty,' Flora described him, 'very lively and entertaining. He talked a great deal of Dr. Spencer, and of the life in the caves at Thebes; and he asked me whether that unfortunate place, Cocksmoor, did not owe a great deal to me, or to one of my sisters. I left Meta to tell him that story, and they became very sociable over it.'
A day or two after--'Sir Henry Walkinghame has been dining with us. He has a very good voice, and we had some delightful music in the evening.'
By and by Sir Henry was the second cavalier, when they went to an oratorio, and Meta's letter overflowed with the descriptions she had heard from him of Italian church music. He always went to Rome for Easter, and had been going as usual, this spring, but he lingered, and, for once, remained in England, where he had only intended to spend a few days on necessary business.
The Easter recess was not spent at the Grange, but at Lady Leonora's pretty house in Surrey. She had invited the party in so pressing a manner that Flora did not think it right to decline. Meta expressed some disappointment at missing Easter among her school-children, but she said a great deal about the primroses and the green corn- fields, and nightingales--all which Ethel would have set down to her trick of universal content, if it had not appeared that Sir Henry was there too, and shared in all the delicious rides.
'What would Ethel say,' wrote Flora, 'to have our little Meta as Lady of the Manor of Cocksmoor? He has begun to talk about Drydale, and there are various suspicious circumstances that Lady Leonora marks with the eyes of a discreet dowager. It was edifying to see how, from smiles, we came to looks, and by and by to confidential talks, which have made her entirely forgive me for having so many tall brothers. Poor dear old Mr. Rivers! Lady Leonora owns that it was the best thing possible for that sweet girl that he did not live any longer to keep her in seclusion; it is so delightful to see her appreciated as she deserves, and with her beauty and fortune, she might make any choice she pleases. In fact, I believe Lady Leonora would like to look still higher for her, but this would be mere ambition, and we should be far better satisfied with such a connection as this, founded on mutual and increasing esteem, with a man so well suited to her, and fixing her so close to us. You must not, however, launch out into an ocean of possibilities, for the good aunt has only infected me with the castle-building propensities of chaperons, and Meta is perfectly unconscious, looking on him as too hopelessly middle-aged, to entertain any such evil designs, avowing freely that she likes him, and treating him very nearly as she does papa. It is my business to keep 'our aunt,' who, between ourselves, has, below the surface, the vulgarity of nature that high-breeding cannot eradicate, from startling the little humming-bird, before the net has been properly twined round her bright little heart. As far as I can see, he is much smitten, but very cautious in his approaches, and he is wise.'
Margaret did not know what dismay she conveyed, as she handed this letter to her sister. There was no rest for Ethel till she could be alone with her father. 'Could nothing prevent it? Could not Flora be told of Mr. Rivers's wishes?' she asked.
'His wishes would have lain this way.'
'I do not know that.'
'It is no concern of ours. There is nothing objectionable here, and though I can't say it is not a disappointment, it ought not to be. The long and short of it is, that I never ought to have told you anything about it.'
'Poor Norman!'
'Absurd! The lad is hardly one-and-twenty. Very few marry a first love.' (Ah, Ethel!) 'Poor old Rivers only mentioned it as a refuge from fortune-hunters, and it stands to reason that he would have preferred this. Anyway, it is awkward for a man with empty pockets to marry an heiress, and it is wholesomer for him to work for his living. Better that it should be out of his head at once, if it were there at all. I trust it was all our fancy. I would not have him grieved now for worlds, when his heart is sore.'
'Somehow,' said Ethel, 'though he is depressed and silent, I like it better than I did last Christmas.'
'Of course, when we were laughing out of the bitterness of our hearts,' said Dr. May, sighing. 'It is a luxury to let oneself alone to be sorrowful.'
Ethel did not know whether she desired a tete-a-tete with Norman or not. She was aware that he had seen Flora's letter, and she did not believe that he would ever mention the hopes that must have been dashed by it; or, if he should do so, how could she ever guard her father's secret? At least, she had the comfort of recognising the accustomed Norman in his manner, low-spirited, indeed, and more than ever dreamy and melancholy, but not in the unnatural and excited state that had made her unhappy about him. She could not help telling Dr. Spencer that this was much more the real brother.
'I dare say,' was the answer, not quite satisfactory in tone.
'I thought you would like it better.'
'Truth is better than fiction, certainly. But I am afraid he has a tendency to morbid self-contemplation, and you ought to shake him out of it.'
'What is the difference between self-contemplation and self- examination?'
'The difference between your brother and yourself. Ah! you think that no answer. Will you have a medical simile? Self-examination notes the symptoms and combats them; self-contemplation does as I did when I was unstrung by that illness at Poonshedagore, and was always feeling my own pulse. It dwells on them, and perpetually deplores itself. Oh, dear! this is no better--what a wretch I am. It is always studying its deformities in a moral looking-glass.'
'Yes, I think poor Norman does that, but I thought it right and humble.'
'The humility of a self-conscious mind. It is the very reverse of your father, who is the most really humble man in existence.'
'Do you call self-consciousness a fault?'
'No. I call it a misfortune. In the vain, it leads to prudent vanity; in the good, to a painful effort of humility.'
'I don't think I quite understand what it is.'
'No, and you have so much of your father in you, that you never will. But take care of your brother, and don't let his brains work.'
How Ethel was to take care of him she did not know; she could only keep a heedful eye on him, and rejoice when he took Tom out for a long walk--a companion certainly not likely to promote the working of the brain--but though it was in the opposite direction to Cocksmoor, Tom came home desperately cross, snubbed Gertrude, and fagged Aubrey; but, then, as Blanche observed, perhaps that was only because his trousers were splashed.
In her next solitary walk to Cocksmoor, Norman joined Ethel. She was gratified, but she could not think of one safe word worth saying to him, and for a mile they preserved an absolute silence, until he first began, 'Ethel, I have been thinking--'
'That you have!' said she, between hope and dread, and the thrill of being again treated as his friend.
'I want to consult you. Don't you think now that Richard is settled at home, and if Tom will study medicine, that I could be spared.'
'Spared!' exclaimed Ethel. 'You are not much at home.'
'I meant more than my present absences. It is my earnest wish--' he paused, and the continuation took her by surprise. 'Do you think it would give my father too much pain to part with me as a missionary to New Zealand?'
She could only gaze at him in mute amazement.
'Do you think he could bear it?' said Norman hastily.
'He would consent,' she replied. 'Oh, Norman, it is the most glorious thing man can do! How I wish I could go with you.'
'Your mission is here,' said Norman affectionately.
'I know it is--I am contented with it,' said Ethel; 'but oh! Norman, after all our talks about races and gifts, you have found the more excellent way.'
'Hush! Charity finds room at home, and mine are not such unmixed motives as yours.'
She made a sound of inquiry.
'I cannot tell you all. Some you shall hear. I am weary of this feverish life of competition and controversy--'
'I thought you were so happy with your fellowship. I thought Oxford was your delight.'
'She will always be nearer my heart than any place, save this. It is not her fault that I am not like the simple and dutiful, who are not fretted or perplexed.'
