'And when she is! How famous it will be.'
'Then there's another thing; he is very poor, you know.'
'I am sure papa doesn't care about people being rich.'
'I suppose Alan thinks he ought not to marry, unless he could make his wife comfortable.'
'Look here--it would be all very easy: she should stay with us, and be comfortable here, and he go to sea, and get lots of prize money.'
'And that's what you call domestic felicity!' said Norman, 1aughing.
'He might have her when he was at home,' said Ethel.
'No, no; that would never do,' said Norman. 'Do you think Ernescliffe's a man that would marry a wife for her father to maintain her?'
'Why, papa would like it very much. He is not a mercenary father in a book.'
'Hey! what's that?' said a voice Ethel little expected. 'Contraband talk at contraband times? What's this!'
'Did you hear, papa?' said Ethel, looking down.
'Only your last words, as I came up to ask Norman what he had done with my pocket-book. Mind, I ask no impertinent questions; but, if you have no objection, I should like to know what gained me the honour of that compliment.'
'Norman?' said Ethel interrogatively, and blushing in emulation of her brother, who was crimson.
'I'll find it,' said he, rushing off with a sort of nod and sign, that conveyed to Ethel that there was no help for it.
So, with much confusion, she whispered into her papa's ear that Norman had been telling her something he guessed about Mr. Ernescliffe.
Her father at first smiled, a pleased amused smile. 'Ah! ha! so Master June has his eyes and ears open, has he? A fine bit of gossip to regale you with on his return!'
'He told me to say not one word,' said Ethel.
'Right--mind you don't,' said Dr. May, and Ethel was surprised to see how sorrowful his face became. At the same moment Norman returned, still very red, and said, 'I've put out the pocket-book, papa. I think I should tell you I repeated what, perhaps, you did not mean me to hear--you talked to yourself something of pitying Ernescliffe.' The doctor smiled again at the boy's high-minded openness, which must have cost an effort of self-humiliation. 'I can't say little pitchers have long ears, to a May-pole like you, Norman,' said he; 'I think I ought rather to apologise for having inadvertently tumbled in among your secrets; I assure you I did not come to spy you.'
'Oh, no, no, no, no!' repeated Ethel vehemently. 'Then you didn't mind our talking about it?'
'Of course not, as long as it goes no further. It is the use of sisters to tell them one's private sentiments. Is not it, Norman?'
'And do you really think it is so, papa?' Ethel could not help whispering.
'I'm afraid it is', said Dr. May, sighing; then, as he caught her earnest eyes, 'The more I see of Alan, the finer fellow I think him, and the more sorry I am for him. It seems presumptuous, almost wrong, to think of the matter at all while my poor Margaret is in this state; and, if she were well, there are other difficulties which would, perhaps, prevent his speaking, or lead to long years of waiting and wearing out hope.'
'Money?' said Ethel.
'Ay! Though I so far deserve your compliment, miss, that should be foolish enough, if she were but well, to give my consent to-morrow, because I could not help it; yet one can't live forty-six years in this world without seeing it is wrong to marry without a reasonable dependence--and there won't be much among eleven of you. It makes my heart ache to think of it, come what may, as far as I can see, and without her to judge. The only comfort is, that poor Margaret herself knows nothing of it, and is at peace so far. It will be ordered for them, anyhow. Good-night, my dear.'
Ethel sought her room, with graver, deeper thoughts of life than she had carried upstairs.
CHAPTER XVIII.
Saw ye never in the meadows, Where your little feet did pass, Down below, the sweet white daisies Growing in the long green grass? Saw you never lilac blossoms, Or acacia white and red, Waving brightly in the sunshine, On the tall trees over head? HYMNS FOR CHILDREN, C. F. A.
'My dear child, what a storm you have had! how wet you must be!' exclaimed Mrs. Larpent, as Meta Rivers came bounding up the broad staircase at Abbotstoke Grange.
'0h no; I am quite dry; feel.'
'Are you sure?' said Mrs. Larpent, drawing her darling into a luxurious bedroom, lighted up by a glowing fire, and full of pretty things. 'Here, come and take off your wet things, my dear, and Bellairs shall bring you some tea.'
'I'm dry. I'm warm,' said Meta, tossing off her plumy hat, as she established herself, with her feet on the fender. 'But where do you think I have been? You have so much to hear. But first--three guesses where we were in the rain!'
'In the Stoneborough Cloisters, that you wanted to see? My dear, you did not keep your papa in the cold there?'
'No, no; we never got there at all; guess again.'
'At Mr. Edward Wilmot's?'
'No!'
'Could it have been at Dr. May's? Really, then, you must tell me.'
'There I you deserve a good long story; beginning at the beginning,' said Meta, clapping her hands, 'wasn't it curious? as we were coming up the last hill, we met some girls in deep mourning, with a lady who looked like their governess. I wondered whether they could be Dr. May's daughters, and so it turned out they were.
Presently there began to fall little square lumps, neither hail, nor snow, nor rain; it grew very cold, and rain came on. It would have been great fun, if I had not been afraid papa would catch cold, and he said we would canter on to the inn. But, luckily, there was Dr. May walking up the street, and he begged us to come into his house. I was so glad! We were tolerably wet, and Dr. May said something about hoping the girls were at home; well, when he opened the drawing-room door, there was the poor daughter lying on the sofa.'
'Poor girl! tell me of her.'
'Oh! you must go and see her; you won't look at her without losing your heart. Papa liked her so much--see if he does not talk of her all the evening. She looks the picture of goodness and sweetness. Only think of her having some of the maidenhair and cape jessamine still in water, that we sent her so long ago. She ahall have some flowers every three days. Well, Dr. May said, 'There is one at least, that is sure to be at home.' She felt my habit, and said I must go and change it, and she called to a little thing of six, telling her to show me the way to Flora. She smiled, and said she wished she could go herself, but Flora would take care of me. Little Blanche came and took hold of my hand, chattering away, up we went, up two staircases, and at the top of the last stood a girl about seventeen, so pretty! such deep blue eyes, and such a complexion! 'That's Flora,' little Blanche said; 'Flora, this is Miss Rivers, and she's wet, and Margaret says you are to take care of her.''
'So that was your introduction?'
'Yes; we got acquainted in a minute. She took me into her room--such a room! I believe Bellairs would be angry if she had such a one; all up in the roof, no fire, no carpet, except little strips by the beds; there were three beds. Flora used to sleep there till Miss May was ill, and now she dresses there. Yet I am sure they are as much ladies as I am.'
'You are an only daughter, my dear, and a petted one,' said Mrs. Larpent, smiling. 'There are too many of them to make much of, as we do of our Meta.'
'I suppose so; but I did not know gentlewomen lived in such a way,' said Meta. 'There were nice things about, a beautiful inlaid work- box of Flora's, and a rosewood desk, and plenty of books, and a Greek book and dictionary were spread open. I asked Flora if they were hers, and she laughed and said no; and that Ethel would be much discomposed that I had see them. Ethel keeps up with her brother Norman--only fancy! and he at the head of the school. How clever she must be!'
'But, my dear, were you standing in your wet things all this time!'
'No; I was trying on their frocks, but they trailed on the ground upon me, so she asked if I would come and sit
