only to assume the reins, when his spirited horses showed too much consciousness that they had a young hand over them, or when the old hack took a fit of laziness. Now, Norman needed Richard's assurance that the bay was steady, so far was he from being troubled with his ancient desire, that the steed would rear right up on his hind legs.
He could neither talk nor listen till he was clear out of the town, and found himself master of the animal, and even then the words were few, and chiefly spoken by Dr. May, until after going along about three miles of the turnpike road, he desired Norman to turn down a cross-country lane.
'Where does this lead?'
'It comes out at Abbotstoke, but I have to go to an outlying farm.'
'Papa,' said Norman, after a few minutes, 'I wish you would let me do my Greek.'
'Is that what you have been pondering all this time? What, may not the bonus Homerus slumber sometimes?'
'It is not Homer, it is Euripides. I do assure you, papa, it is no trouble, and I get much worse without it.'
'Well, stop here, the road grows so bad that we will walk, and let the boy lead the horse to meet us at Woodcote.'
Norman followed his father down a steep narrow lane, little better than a stony water-course, and began to repeat, 'If you would but let me do my work! I've got nothing else to do, and now they have put me up, I should not like not to keep my place.'
'Very likely, but--hollo--how swelled this is!' said Dr. May, as they came to the bottom of the valley, where a stream rushed along, coloured with a turbid creamy yellow, making little whirlpools where it crossed the road, and brawling loudly just above where it roared and foamed between two steep banks of rock, crossed by a foot-bridge of planks, guarded by a handrail of rough poles. The doctor had traversed it, and gone a few paces beyond, when, looking back, he saw Norman very pale, with one foot on the plank, and one hand grasping the rail. He came back, and held out his hand, which Norman gladly caught at, but no sooner was the other side attained, than the boy, though he gasped with relief, exclaimed, 'This is too bad! Wait one moment, please, and let me go back.'
He tried, but the first touch of the shaking rail, and glance at the chasm, disconcerted him, and his father, seeing his white cheeks and rigid lips, said, 'Stop, Norman, don't try it. You are not fit,' he added, as the boy came to him reluctantly.
'I can't bear to be such a wretch!' said he. 'I never used to be. I will not--let me conquer it;' and he was turning back, but the doctor took his arm, saying decidedly, 'No, I won't have it done. You are only making it worse by putting a force on yourself.' But the farther Norman was from the bridge, the more displeased he was with himself, and more anxious to dare it again. 'There's no bearing it,' he muttered; 'let me only run back. I'll overtake you. I must do it if no one looks on.'
'No such thing,' said the doctor, holding him fast. 'If you do, you'll have it all over again at night.'
'That's better than to know I am worse than Tom.'
'I tell you, Norman, it is no such thing. You will recover your tone if you will only do as you are told, but your nerves have had a severe shock, and when you force yourself in this way, you only increase the mischief.'
'Nerves,' muttered Norman disdainfully. 'I thought they were only fit for fine ladies.'
Dr. May smiled. 'Well, will it content you if I promise that as soon as I see fit, I'll bring you here, and let you march over that bridge as often as you like?'
'I suppose I must be contented, but I don't like to feel like a fool.'
'You need not, while the moral determination is sound.'
'But my Greek, papa.'
'At it again--I declare, Norman, you are the worst patient I ever had!'
Norman made no answer, and Dr. May presently said, 'Well, let me hear what you have to say about it. I assure you it is not that I don't want you to get on, but that I see you are in great need of rest.'
'Thank you, papa. I know you mean it for my good, but I don't think you do know how horrid it is. I have got nothing on earth to do or care for--the school work comes quite easy to me, and I'm sure thinking is worse; and then'--Norman spoke vehemently--'now they have put me up, it will never do to be beaten, and all the four others ought to be able to do it. I did not want or expect to be dux, but now I am, you could not bear me not to keep my place, and to miss the Randall scholarship, as I certainly shall, if I do not work these whole holidays.'
'Norman, I know it,' said his father kindly. 'I am very sorry for you, and I know I am asking of you what I could not have done at your age--indeed, I don't believe I could have done it for you a few months ago. It is my fault that you have been let alone, to have an overstrain and pressure on your mind, when you were not fit for it, and I cannot see any remedy but complete freedom from work. At the same time, if you fret and harass yourself about being surpassed, that is, as you say, much worse for you than Latin and Greek. Perhaps I may be wrong, and study might not do you the harm I think it would; at any rate, it is better than tormenting yourself about next half year, so I will not positively forbid it, but I think you had much better let it alone. I don't want to make it a matter of duty. I only tell you this, that you may set your mind at rest as far as I am concerned. If you do lose your place, I will consider it as my own doing, and not be disappointed. I had rather see you a healthy, vigorous, useful man, than a poor puling nervous wretch of a scholar, if you were to get all the prizes in the university.'
Norman made a little murmuring sound of assent, and both were silent for some moments, then he said, 'Then you will not be displeased, papa, if I do read, as long as I feel it does me no harm.'
'I told you I don't mean to make it a matter of obedience. Do as you please--I had rather you read than vexed yourself.'
'I am glad of it. Thank you, papa,' said Norman, in a much cheered voice.
They had, in the meantime, been mounting a rising ground, clothed with stunted wood, and came out on a wide heath, brown with dead bracken; a hollow, traced by the tops of leafless trees, marked the course of the stream that traversed it, and the inequalities of ground becoming more rugged in outlines and grayer in colouring as they receded, till they were closed by a dark fir wood, beyond which rose in extreme distance the grand mass of Welsh mountain heads, purpled against the evening sky, except where the crowning peaks bore a veil of snow. Behind, the sky was pure gold, gradually shading into pale green, and then into clear light wintry blue, while the sun sitting behind two of the loftiest, seemed to confound their outlines, and blend them in one flood of soft hazy brightness. Dr. May looked at his son, and saw his face clear up, his brow expand, and his lips unclose with admiration.
'Yes,' said the doctor, 'it is very fine, is it not? I used to bring mamma here now and then for a treat, because it put her in mind of her Scottish hills. Well, your's are the golden hills of heaven, now, my Maggie!' he added, hardly knowing that he spoke aloud. Norman's throat swelled, as he looked up in his face, then cast down his eyes hastily to hide the tears that had gathered on his eyelashes.
'I'll leave you here,' said Dr. May; 'I have to go to a farmhouse close by, in the hollow behind us; there's a girl recovering from a fever. I'll not be ten minutes, so wait here.'
When he came back, Norman was still where he had left him, gazing earnestly, and the tears standing on his cheeks. He did not move till his father laid his hand on his shoulder--they walked away together without a word, and scarcely spoke all the way home.
Dr. May went to Margaret and talked to her of Norman's fine character, and intense affection for his mother, the determined temper, and quietly borne grief, for which the doctor seemed to have worked himself into a perfect enthusiasm of admiration; but lamenting that he could not tell what to do with him--study or no study hurt him alike--and he dreaded to see health and spirits shattered for ever. They tried to devise change of scene, but it did not seem possible just at present; and Margaret, besides her fears for Norman, was much grieved to see this added to her father's troubles.
At night Dr. May again went up to see whether Norman, whom he had moved into Margaret's former room, were again suffering from fever. He found him asleep in a restless attitude, as if he had just dropped off, and waking almost at the instant of his entrance, he exclaimed, 'Is it you? I thought it was mamma. She said it was all ambition.'
Then starting, and looking round the room, and at his father, he collected himself, and said, with a slight smile, 'I didn't know I had been asleep. I was awake just now, thinking about it. Papa, I'll give it up. I'll try to put next half out of my head, and not mind if they do pass me.'
'That's right, my boy,' said the doctor.
'At least if Cheviot and Forder do, for they ought. I only hope Anderson won't. I can stand anything but that. But that is nonsense too.'
