fearing, for the future.
The prayers were said, and there was a pause, while Dr. Spencer and the foreman advanced to the machine and adjusted it. The two youths then led forward the little girl, her innocent face and large blue eyes wearing a look of childish obedient solemnity, only half understanding what she did, yet knowing it was something great.
It was very pretty to see her in the midst of the little gathering round the foundation, the sturdy workman smiling over his hod of mortar, Dr. Spencer's silver locks touching her flaxen curls as he held the shining trowel to her, and Harry's bright head and hardy face, as he knelt on one knee to guide the little soft hand, while Hector stood by, still and upright, his eyes fixed far away, as if his thoughts were roaming to the real founder.
The Victoria coins were placed--Gertrude scooped up the mass of mortar, and spread it about with increasing satisfaction, as it went so smoothly and easily, prolonging the operation, till Harry drew her back, while, slowly down creaked the ponderous corner-stone into the bed that she had prepared for it, and, with a good will, she gave three taps on it with her trowel.
Harry had taken her hand, when, at the sight of Dr. May, she broke from him, and, as if taking sudden fright at her own unwonted part, ran, at full speed, straight up to her father, and clung to him, hiding her face as he raised her in his arms and kissed her.
Meanwhile the strain arose:
Thou heavenly, new Jerusalem, Vision of peace, in Prophet's dream; With living stones, built up on high, And rising to the starry sky--
The blessing of peace seemed to linger softly and gently in the fragrant summer breeze, and there was a pause ere the sounds of voices awoke again.
'Etheldred--' Mr. Wilmot stood beside her, ere going to unrobe in the school-- 'Etheldred, you must once let me say, God bless you for this.'
As she knelt beside her sister's sofa, on her return home, Margaret pressed something into her hand. 'If you please, dearest, give this to Dr. Spencer, and ask him to let it be set round the stem of the chalice,' she whispered.
Ethel recognised Alan Ernescliffe's pearl hoop, the betrothal ring, and looked at her sister without a word.
'I wish it,' said Margaret gently. 'I shall like best to know it there.'
So Margaret joined in Alan's offering, and Ethel dared say no more, as she thought how the 'relic of a frail love lost' was becoming the 'token of endless love begun.' There was more true union in this, than in clinging to the mere tangible emblem--for broken and weak is all affection that is not knit together above in the One Infinite Love.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Of lowly fields you think no scorn, Yet gayest gardens would adorn, And grace wherever set; Home, seated in your lowly bower, Or wedded, a transplanted flower, I bless you, Margaret.--CHARLES LAMB.
George Rivers had an antipathy to ladies' last words keeping the horses standing, and his wife and sister dutifully seated themselves in the carriage at once, without an attempt to linger.
Four of the young gentlemen were to walk across to Abbotstoke and dine at the Grange; and Tom, who, reasoning from analogy, had sent on his black tie and agate studs, was so dismally disconcerted on finding that Norman treated his own going as a matter of course, that Richard, whose chief use of his right of primogeniture was to set himself aside, discovered that he was wanted at home, and that Tom would be much better at the Grange, offering, at the same time, to send Norman's dressing things by Dr. Spencer.
'Which,' observed Thomas, 'he would never have recollected for himself.'
'Tom would have had to lend him the precious studs.'--'He would not have had them; who would wear imitation?' 'I say, Tom, what did you give for them?' 'Better ask what the Jew gave for them, that bought them at Windsor Fair; not a bad imitation, either--pity they weren't Malachite; but, no doubt, the Jew thought green would be personal.' 'As if they had any business to talk, who didn't know a respectable stud when they saw it--Harry, especially, with his hat set on the back of his head, like a sailor on the stage'--(a leap to set it to rights--a skirmish, knocking Tom nearly into the ditch). 'Fine experience of the stage--all came from Windsor Fair.' 'Ay, Hector might talk, but didn't he pay a shilling to see the Irish giant. He wouldn't confess, but it was a famous take in--giant had potatoes in his shoes.' 'Not he; he was seven feet ten high.' 'Ay, when he stood upon a stool--Hector would swallow anything--even the lady of a million postage stamps had not stuck in his throat--he had made Margaret collect for her.' 'And, had not Tom, himself, got a bottle of ointment to get the red out of his hair?'--(great fury). 'His hair wasn't red--didn't want to change the colour--not half so red as Hector's own.' 'What was it then? lively auburn?' But for fear of Norman's losing his bearings, Harry would fetch a carrot, to compare. 'Better colour than theirs could ever be.' 'Then what was the ointment for? to produce whiskers? that was the reason Tom oiled himself like a Loyalty islander--his hair was so shiny, that Harry recommended a top-knot, like theirs, etc.'
Norman was, like the others, in such towering glee, and took so full a share of the witticisms, that were the more noisily applauded, the worse they were, that Harry suggested that 'old June had lost his way, and found his spirits in Drydale--he must have met with a private grog-shop in the plantations--would not Tom confess'--'not he; it was all in private. He thought it was laughing-gas, or the reaction of being fried all the morning, holding forth in that Town Hall. He had longed to make a speech himself--no end of the good it would have done the old stagers to come out with something to the purpose. What would old Hoxton have thought of it?
They shall dive for alligators, catch the wild goats by the beard; Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy- faced baboon; Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo in the mountains of the moon. I myself, in far Timbuctoo, leopard's blood shall daily quaff; Ride a tiger hunting, mounted on a thoroughbred giraffe.
'Not you, Tom!' cried Hector.
You, the swell, the Eton fellow! You, to seek such horrid places. You to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber lips, and monkey faces. Fool, again the dream, the fancy; don't I know the words are mad, For you count the gray barbarian lower than the Brocas cad!
'Nay, it is the consequence of misanthropy at the detection of the frauds of unsophisticated society,' said Norman.
The edge of life is rusted; The agate studs and whisker ointment left him very much disgusted.
'Perhaps it was Miss Rivers forsaking him. Was not that rather spider-hearted, Tom?'
'Come, Harry, it is time to have done. We are getting into civilised society--here's Abbotstoke.'
'Poor Norman, he is very far gone! He takes that scarecrow for civilised society!'
'Much better clothed than the society you have been accustomed to, July.' 'What a prize his wardrobe would be to the Black Prince!' 'Don't insult your betters!' 'Which? The scarecrow, or the Black Prince?'
Norman tried to call his companions to order, for they were close upon the village, and he began to tax himself with unbecoming levity; the effect of spirits pitched rather low, which did not easily find their balance, under unwonted exhilaration, but Harry's antics were less easily repressed than excited, and if Tom had not heard the Grange clock strike half-past six, and had not been afraid of not having time to array himself, and watch over Harry's neckcloth, they would hardly have arrived in reasonable time. Dr. May had gone home, and there was no one in the drawing-room; but, as Norman was following the boys upstairs, Flora opened her sitting-room door, and attracted his attention by silently putting her cold fingers into his hand, and drawing him into the room.
'Dear Norman, this is pleasant,' she said affectionately; but in a voice so sunken, that all gladness seemed to be dead within, and the effect was far more mournful than if she had not attempted to smile congratulation.
'I will give you till Dr. Spencer comes,' she said. 'Then Norman can dress, and you must be a good child, and come down to me.'
The playfulness ill suited the wan, worn face that seemed to have caught a gray tint from her rich poplin, her full toilet making the contrast almost more painful; and, as she closed the door, her brother could only exclaim, 'Poor Flora!'
'She is so kind,' said the voice of the white figure that moved towards him. 'Oh, if we could comfort her!'
'I trust to her own kindness working comfort to her, at last,' said Norman. 'But is she often thus?'
'Whenever she is not bearing up for George's sake,' said Meta. 'She never says anything when she is alone with me, only she does not struggle with her looks.'
'It must be very trying for you.'
'Nay, I feel grateful to her for even so far relaxing the restraint. If I could but do her any good.'
