“Oh, you did not, it was too bad of me—I am grieved; are you quite comfortable now?”
“Yes, quite, only a little headache, which I shall sleep off. It has been so nice and quiet. Papa took up George Herbert, and has been reading me choice bits. I don’t think I have enjoyed anything so much since I have been ill.”
“I am glad of that, but I have been unhappy all the evening. I wish I knew what to do. I am out of heart about everything!”
“Only try to mind and heed, and you will learn. It will be a step if you will only put your shoes side by side when you take them off.”
Ethel smiled and sighed, and Margaret whispered, “Don’t grieve about me, but put your clever head to rule your hands, and you will do for home and Cocksmoor too. Good-night, dearest.”
“I’ve vexed papa,” sighed Ethel—and just then he came into the room.
“Papa,” said Margaret, “here’s poor Ethel, not half recovered from her troubles.”
He was now at ease about Margaret, and knew he had been harsh to another of his motherless girls.
“Ah! we must send her to the infant-school, to learn ‘this is my right hand, and this is my left,’ ” said he, in his half-gay, half-sad manner.
“I was very stupid,” said Ethel.
“Poor child!” said her papa, “she is worse off than I am. If I have but one hand left, she has two left hands.”
“I do mean to try, papa.”
“Yes, you must, Ethel. I believe I was hasty with you, my poor girl. I was vexed, and we have no one to smooth us down. I am sorry, my dear, but you must bear with me, for I never learned her ways with you when I might. We will try to have more patience with each other.”
What could Ethel do but hang round his neck and cry, till he said, but tenderly, that they had given Margaret quite disturbance enough to-day, and sent her to bed, vowing to watch each little action, lest she should again give pain to such a father and sister.
CHAPTER VIII.
“Tis not enough that Greek or Roman page
At stated hours, his freakish thoughts engage,
Even in his pastimes he requires a friend
To warn and teach him safely to unbend,
O’er all his pleasures gently to preside,
Watch his emotions, and control their tide.”—COWPER.
The misfortunes of that day disheartened and disconcerted Etheldred. To do mischief where she most wished to do good, to grieve where she longed to comfort, seemed to be her fate; it was vain to attempt anything for anyone’s good, while all her warm feelings and high aspirations were thwarted by the awkward ungainly hands and heedless eyes that Nature had given her. Nor did the following day, Saturday, do much for her comfort, by giving her the company of her brothers. That it was Norman’s sixteenth birthday seemed only to make it worse. Their father had apparently forgotten it, and Norman stopped Blanche when she was going to put him in mind of it; stopped her by such a look as the child never forgot, though there was no anger in it. In reply to Ethel’s inquiry what he was going to do that morning, he gave a yawn and stretch, and said, dejectedly, that he had got some Euripides to look over, and some verses to finish.
“I am sorry; this is the first time you ever have not managed so as to make a real holiday of your Saturday!”
“I could not help it, and there’s nothing to do,” said Norman wearily.
“I promised to go and read to Margaret while Flora does her music,” said Ethel; “I shall come after that and do my Latin and Greek with you.”
Margaret would not keep her long, saying she liked her to be with Norman, but she found him with his head sunk on his open book, fast asleep. At dinner-time, Harry and Tom, rushing in, awoke him with a violent start.
“Halloo! Norman, that was a jump!” said Harry, as his brother stretched and pinched himself. “You’ll jump out of your skin some of these days, if you don’t take care!”
“It’s enough to startle any one to be waked up with such a noise,” said Ethel.
“Then he ought to sleep at proper times,” said Harry, “and not be waking me up with tumbling about, and hallooing out, and talking in his sleep half the night.”
“Talking in his sleep! why, just now, you said he did not sleep,” said Ethel.
“Harry knows nothing about it,” said Norman.
“Don’t I? Well, I only know, if you slept in school, and were a junior, you would get a proper good licking for going on as you do at night.”
“And I think you might chance to get a proper good licking for not holding your tongue,” said Norman, which hint reduced Harry to silence.
Dr. May was not come home; he had gone with Richard far into the country, and was to return to tea. He was thought to be desirous of avoiding the family dinners that used to be so delightful. Harry was impatient to depart, and when Mary and Tom ran after him, he ordered them back.
“Where can he be going?” said Mary, as she looked wistfully after him.
“I know,” said Tom.
“Where? Do tell me.”
“Only don’t tell papa. I went down with him to the playground this morning, and there they settled it. The Andersons, and Axworthy, and he, are going to hire a gun, and shoot pee-wits on Cocksmoor.”
“But they ought not; should they?” said Mary. “Papa would be very angry.”
“Anderson said there was no harm in it, but Harry told me not to tell. Indeed, Anderson would have boxed my ears for hearing, when I could not help it.”
“But Harry would not let him?”
“Ay. Harry is quite a match for Harvey Anderson, though he is so much younger; and he said he would not have me bullied.”
“That’s a good Harry! But I wish he would not go out shooting!” said Mary.
“Mind, you don’t tell.”
“And where’s Hector Ernescliffe? Would not he go?”
“No. I like Hector. He did not choose to go, though Anderson teased him, and said he was a poor Scot, and his brother didn’t allow him tin enough to buy powder and shot. If Harry would have stayed at home, he would have come up here, and we might have had some fun in the garden.”
“I wish he would. We never have any fun now,” said Mary; “but oh! there he is,” as she spied Hector peeping over the gate which led from the field into the garden. It was the first time that he had been to Dr. May’s since his brother’s departure, and he was rather shy, but the joyful welcome of Mary and Tom took off all reluctance, and they claimed him for a good game at play in the wood-house. Mary ran upstairs to beg to be excused the formal walk, and, luckily for her, Miss Winter was in Margaret’s room. Margaret asked if it was very wet and dirty, and hearing “not very,” gave gracious permission, and off went Mary and Blanche to construct some curious specimens of pottery, under the superintendence of Hector and Tom. There was a certain ditch where yellow mud was attainable, whereof the happy children concocted marbles and vases, which underwent a preparatory baking in the boys’ pockets, that they might not crack in the nursery fire. Margaret only stipulated that her sisters should be well fenced in brown holland, and when Miss Winter looked grave, said, “Poor things, a