more fuss, and left her hastily. She was unhappy, and far from satisfied; she had never known his temper so much affected, and was much puzzled; but she was too much afraid of vexing him, to impart her perplexity even to Margaret. However, the next day, Sunday, as she was reading to Margaret after church, her father came in, and the first thing he said was, 'I want to know what you think of Norman.'
'How do you mean?' said Margaret; 'in health or spirits?'
'Both,' said Dr. May. 'Poor boy! he has never held up his head since October, and, at his age, that is hardly natural. He goes moping about, has lost flesh and appetite, and looks altogether out of older, shooting up like a Maypole too.'
'Mind and body,' said Margaret, while Ethel gazed intently at her father, wondering whether she ought to speak, for Margaret did not know half what she did; nothing about the bad nights, nor what he called the 'funny state.'
'Yes, both. I fancied it was only his rapid growth, and the excitement of this examination, and that it would go off, but I think there's more amiss. He was lounging about doing nothing, when the girls were gone to school after dinner, and I asked him to walk down with me to the Almshouses. He did not seem very willing, but he went, and presently, as I had hold of his arm, I felt him shivering, and saw him turn as pale as a sheet. As soon as I noticed it, he flushed crimson, and would not hear of turning back, stoutly protesting he was quite well, but I saw his hand was quivering even when I got into church. Why, Ethel, you have turned as red as he did.'
'Then he has done it!' exclaimed Ethel, in a smothered voice.
'What do you mean? Speak, Ethel.'
'He has gone past it--the place,' whispered she.
The doctor made a sound of sorrowful assent, as if much struck; then said, 'you don't mean he has never been there since?'
'Yes,' said Ethel, 'he has always gone round Randall's alley or the garden; he has said nothing, but has contrived to avoid it.'
'Well,' said Dr. May, after a pause, 'I hoped none of us knew the exact spot.'
'We don't; he never told us, but he was there.'
'Was he?' exclaimed her father; 'I had no notion of that. How came he there?'
'He went on with Mr. Ernescliffe, and saw it all,' said Ethel, as her father drew out her words, apparently with his eye; 'and then came up to my room so faint that he was obliged to lie on the floor ever so long.'
'Faint--how long did it last?' said her father, examining her without apparent emotion, as if it had been an indifferent patient.
'I don't know, things seemed so long that evening. Till after dark at least, and it came on in the morning--no, the Monday. I believe it was your arm--for talking of going to see you always brought it on, till Mr. Ward gave him a dose of brandy-and-water, and that stopped it.'
'I wish I had known this before. Derangement of the nervous system, no doubt--a susceptible boy like that--I wonder what sort of nights he has been having.'
'Terrible ones,' said Ethel; 'I don't think he ever sleeps quietly till morning; he has dreams, and he groans and talks in his sleep; Harry can tell you all that.'
'Bless me!' cried Dr. May, in some anger; 'what have you all been thinking about to keep this to yourselves all this time?'
'He could not bear to have it mentioned,' said Ethel timidly; 'and I didn't know that it signified so much; does it?'
'It signifies so much, that I had rather have given a thousand pounds than have let him go on all this time, to be overworked at school, and wound up to that examination!'
'Oh, dear! I am sorry!' said Ethel, in great dismay. 'If you had but been at home when Cheviot wanted Harry to have sent for you--because he did not think him fit for it!' And Ethel was much relieved by pouring out all she knew, though her alarm was by no means lessened by the effect it produced on her father, especially when he heard of the 'funny state.'
'A fine state of things,' he said; 'I wonder it has not brought on a tremendous illness by this time. A boy of that sensitive temperament meeting with such a shock--never looked after--the quietest and most knocked down of all, and therefore the most neglected--his whole system disordered--and then driven to school to be harassed and overworked; if we had wanted to occasion brain fever we could not have gone a better way to set about it. I should not wonder if health and nerves were damaged for life!'
'Oh! papa, papa!' cried Ethel, in extreme distress, 'what shall I do! I wish I had told you, but--'
'I'm not blaming you, Ethel, you knew no better, but it has been grievous neglect. It is plain enough there is no one to see after you,' said the doctor, with a low groan.
'We may be taking it in time,' said Margaret's soft voice--'it is very well it has gone on no longer.'
'Three months is long enough,' said Dr. May.
'I suppose,' continued Margaret, 'it will be better not to let dear Norman know we are uneasy about him.'
'No, no, certainly not. Don't say a word of this to him. I shall find Harry, and ask about these disturbed nights, and then watch him, trusting it may not have gone too far; but there must be dreadful excitability of brain!'
He went away, leaving Margaret to comfort Ethel as well as she could, by showing her that he had not said the mischief was done, putting her in mind that he was wont to speak strongly; and trying to make her thankful that her brother would now have such care as might avert all evil results.
'But, oh,' said Ethel, 'his success has been dearly purchased!'
CHAPTER XII.
'It hath do me mochil woe.' 'Yea hath it? Use,' quod he, 'this medicine; Every daie this Maie or that thou dine, Go lokin in upon the freshe daisie, And though thou be for woe in poinct to die, That shall full gretly lessen thee of thy pine.' CHAUCER.
That night Norman started from, what was not so much sleep, as a trance of oppression and suffering, and beheld his father's face watching him attentively.
'Papa! What's the matter?' said he, starting up. 'Is any one ill?'
'No; no one, lie down again,' said Dr. May, possessing himself of a hand, with a burning spot in the palm, and a throbbing pulse.
'But what made you come here? Have I disturbed any one? Have I been talking?'
'Only mumbling a little, but you looked very uncomfortable.'
'But I'm not ill--what are you feeling my pulse for?' said Norman uneasily.
'To see whether that restless sleep has quickened it.'
Norman scarcely let his father count for a moment, before he asked, 'What o'clock is it?'
'A little after twelve.'
'What does make you stay up so late, papa?'
'I often do when my arm seems likely to keep me awake. Richard has done all I want.'
'Pray don't stay here in the cold,' said Norman, with feverish impatience, as he turned upwards the cool side of his pillow. 'Good-night!'
'No hurry,' said his father, still watching him.
'There's nothing the matter,' repeated the boy.
'Do you often have such unquiet nights?'
'Oh, it does not signify. Good-night,' and he tried to look settled and comfortable.
'Norman,' said his father, in a voice betraying much grief, 'it will not do to go on in this way. If your mother was here, you would not close yourself against her.'
Norman interrupted him in a voice strangled with sobs: 'It is no good saying it--I thought it would only make it worse for you; but that's it. I cannot bear the being without her.'
Dr. May was glad to see that a gush of tears followed this exclamation, as Norman hid his face under the coverings.
'My poor boy,' said he, hardly able to speak, 'only One can comfort you truly; but you must not turn from me; you must let me do what I can for you, though it is not the same.'
