'And he will have been foiled!' said Ethel
'If he is?'
The boy and girl were both silent.
'Are you striving for mere victory's sake, Norman?' continued his father.
'I thought not,' murmured Norman.
'Successful or not, you will have done your utmost for us. You would not lose one jot of affection or esteem, and Tom shall not suffer. Is it worth this agony?'
'No, it is foolish,' said Norman, with trembling voice, almost as if he could have burst into tears. He was quite unnerved by the anxiety and toil with which he had overtasked himself, beyond his father's knowledge.
'Oh, papa!' pleaded Ethel, who could not bear to see him pained.
'It is foolish,' continued Dr. May, who felt it was the moment for bracing severity. 'It is rendering you unmanly. It is wrong.'
Again Ethel made an exclamation of entreaty.
'It is wrong, I know,' repeated Norman; 'but you don't know what it is to get into the spirit of the thing.'
'Do you think I do not?' said the doctor; 'I can tell exactly what you feel now. If I had not been an idle dog, I should have gone through it all many more times.'
'What shall I do?' asked Norman, in a worn-out voice.
'Put all this out of your mind, sleep quietly, and don't open another book.'
Norman moved his head, as if sleep were beyond his power.
'I will read you something to calm your tone,' said Dr. May, and he took up a Prayer-book. ''Know ye not, that they which run in a race, run all, but one receiveth the prize? So run that ye may obtain. And every man that striveth for the mastery is temperate in all things. Now they do it to obtain a corruptible crown, but we an incorruptible.' And, Norman, that is not the struggle where the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong; nor the contest, where the conqueror only wins vanity and vexation of spirit.'
Norman had cast down his eyes, and hardly made answer, but the words had evidently taken effect. The doctor only further bade him good- night, with a whispered blessing, and, taking Ethel by the hand, drew her away. When they met the next morning, the excitement had passed from Norman's manner, but he looked dejected and resigned. He had made up his mind to lose, and was not grateful for good wishes; he ought never to have thought, he said, of competing with men from public schools, and he knew his return of love of vain-glory deserved that he should fail. However, he was now calm enough not to be likely to do himself injustice by nervousness, and Margaret hid hopes that Richard's steady equable mind would have a salutary influence. So, commending Tom's lessons to Ethel, and hearing, but not marking, countless messages to Richard, he set forth upon his emprise, while his anxiety seemed to remain as a legacy for those at home.
Poor Dr. May confessed that his practice by no means agreed with his precept, for he could think of nothing else, and was almost as bad as Norman, in his certainty that the boy would fail from mere nervousness. Margaret was the better companion for him now, attaching less intensity of interest to Norman's success than did Ethel; she was the more able to compose him, and cheer his hopes.
CHAPTER XXX.
Weary soul, and burdened sore, Labouring with thy secret load, Fear not all thy griefs to pour In this heart, love's true abode. Lyra Innocentium.
Tea had just been brought in on the eighth evening from Norman's departure, when there was a ring at the bell. There was a start, and look of expectation. 'Only a patient,' said the doctor; but it surely was not for that reason that he rose with so much alacrity and opened the door, nor was 'Well, old fellow?' the greeting for his patients--so everybody sprang after him, and beheld something tall taking off a coat, while a voice said, 'I have got it.'
The mass of children rushed back to Margaret, screaming, 'He has got it!' and then Aubrey trotted out into the hall again to see what Norman had got.
'A happy face at least,' said Margaret, as he came to her. And that was not peculiar to Norman. The radiance had shone out upon every one in that moment, and it was one buzz of happy exclamation, query, and answer--the only tone of regret when Mary spoke of Harry, and all at once took up the strain--how glad poor Harry would be. As to the examination, that had been much less difficult than Norman had expected; in fact, he said, it was lucky for him that the very subjects had been chosen in which he was most up--luck which, as the doctor could not help observing, generally did attend Norman. And Norman had been so happy with Richard; the kind, wise elder brother had done exactly what was best for him in soothing his anxiety, and had fully shared his feelings, and exulted in his success. Margaret had a most triumphant letter, dwelling on the abilities of the candidates whom Norman had outstripped, and the idea that every one had conceived of his talent. 'Indeed,' wrote Richard, 'I fancy the men had never believed that I could have a clever brother. I am glad they have seen what Norman can do.'
Margaret could not help reading this aloud, and it made Norman blush with the compunction that Richard's unselfish pride in him always excited. He had much to tell of his ecstasy with Oxford. Stoneborough Minster had been a training in appreciation of its hoary beauty, but the essentially prosaic Richard had never prepared him for the impression that the reverend old university made on him, and he was already, heart and soul, one of her most loyal and loving sons, speaking of his college and of the whole university as one who had a right of property in them, and looking, all the time, not elated, but contented, as if he had found his sphere and was satisfied. He had seen Cheviot, too, and had been very happy in the renewed friendship; and had been claimed as a cousin by a Balliol man, a certain Norman Ogilvie, a name well known among the Mays. 'And how has Tom been getting on?' he asked, when he returned to home affairs.
'Oh, I don't know,' said Ethel. 'He will not have my help.'
'Not let you help him!' exclaimed Norman.
'No. He says he wants no girls,' said Ethel, laughing.
'Foolish fellow!' said Norman. 'I wonder what sort of work he has made!'
'Very funny, I should think,' said Ethel, 'judging by the verses I could see.'
The little, pale, rough-haired Tom, in his perpetual coating of dust, softly crept into the room, as if he only wanted to elude observation; but Mary and Blanche were at once vociferating their news in his ears, though with little encouragement--he only shook them off abruptly, and would not answer when they required him to be glad.
Norman stretched out his arm, intercepting him as he was making for his hiding-place behind Dr. May's arm- chair.
'Come, August, how have things gone on?'
'Oh! I don't know.'
'What's your place?'
'Thirteenth!' muttered Tom in his throat, and well he might, for two or three voices cried out that was too bad, and that it was all his own fault, for not accepting Ethel's help. He took little heed, but crept to his corner without another word, and Mary knew she should be thumped if she should torment him there.
Norman left him alone, but the coldness of the little brother for whom he had worked gave a greater chill to his pleasure than he could have supposed possible. He would rather have had some cordiality on Tom's part, than all the congratulations that met him the next day.
He could not rest contented while Tom continued to shrink from him, and he was the more uneasy when, on Saturday morning, no calls from Mary availed to find the little boy, and bring him to the usual reading and Catechism.
Margaret decided that they must begin without him, and poor Mary's verse was read, in consequence, with a most dolorous tone. As soon as the books were shut, she ran off, and a few words passed among the elder ones about the truant--Flora opining that the Andersons had led him away; Ethel suggesting that his gloom must arise from his not being well; and Margaret looking wistfully at Norman, and saying she feared they had judged much amiss last spring. Norman heard in silence, and walked thoughtfully into the garden. Presently he caught Mary's voice in expostulation: 'How could you not come to read?'
'Girls' work!' growled another voice, out of sight.
'But Norman, and Richard, and Harry, always come to the reading. Everybody ought.'
