“Oh, no, no, they never can be so bad!” cried Ethel; “they must have understood better that it was his noble humility and generosity.”
“They understand anything noble! No, indeed! They think every one like their own beautiful brother! I knew what they came for all the time; they wanted to know whether Norman was able to work these holidays, and you told them the very thing they wanted to hear. How they will rejoice with that Harvey, and make sure of the Randall!”
“Oh, no, no!” cried Ethel; “Norman must get that!”
“I don’t think he will,” said Flora, “losing all this time, while they are working. It cannot be helped, of course, but it is a great pity.”
“I almost wish he had not been put up at all, if it is to end in this way,” said Ethel. “It is very provoking, and to have them triumphing as they will! There’s no bearing it!”
“Norman, certainly, is not at all well, poor fellow,” said Flora, “and I suppose he wants rest, but I wish papa would let him do what he can. It would be much better for him than moping about as he is always doing now; and the disappointment of losing his place will be grievous, though now he fancies he does not care for it.”
“I wonder when he will ever care for anything again. All I read and tell him only seems to tease him, though he tries to thank me.”
“There is a strange apathy about him,” said Flora, “but I believe it is chiefly for want of exertion. I should like to rouse him if papa would let me; I know I could, by telling him how these Andersons are reckoning on his getting down. If he does, I shall be ready to run away, that I may never meet any one here again.”
Ethel was very unhappy till she was able to pour all this trouble out to Margaret, and worked herself almost into crying about Norman’s being passed by “that Harvey,” and his sisters exulting, and papa being vexed, and Norman losing time and not caring.
“There you are wrong,” said Margaret, “Norman did care very much, and it was not till he had seen clearly that it was a matter of duty to do as papa thought right, and not agitate his mind about his chances of keeping up, that he could bear to give up his work;” and she told Ethel a little of what had passed.
Ethel was much struck. “But oh, Margaret, it is very hard, just to have him put up for the sake of being put down, and pleasing the Andersons!”
“Dear Ethel, why should you mind so much about the Andersons? May they not care about their brother as we do for ours?”
“Such a brother to care about!” said Ethel.
“But I suppose they may like him the best,” said Margaret, smiling.
“I suppose they do,” said Ethel grudgingly; “but still I cannot bear to see Norman doing nothing, and I know Harvey Anderson will beat him.”
“Surely you had rather he did nothing than made himself ill!”
“To be sure, but I wish it wasn’t so.”
“Yes; but, Ethel, whose doing is his getting into this state?”
Ethel looked grave. “It was wrong of me,” said she, “but then papa is not sure that Greek would hurt him.”
“Not sure, but he thinks it not wise to run the risk. But, Ethel, dear, why are you so bent on his being dux at all costs?”
“It would be horrid if he was not.”
“Don’t you remember you used to say that outward praise or honour was not to be cared for as long as one did one’s duty, and that it might be a temptation?”
“Yes, I know I did,” said Ethel, faltering, “but that was for oneself.”
“It is harder, I think, to feel so about those we care for,” said Margaret; “but after all, this is just what will show whether our pride in Norman is the right true loving pride, or whether it is only the family vanity of triumphing over the Andersons.”
Ethel hung her head. “There’s some of that,” she said, “but it is not all. No—I don’t want to triumph over them, nobody would do that.”
“Not outwardly perhaps, but in their hearts.”
“I can’t tell,” said Ethel, “but it is the being triumphed over that I cannot bear.”
“Perhaps this is all a lesson in humility for us,” said Margaret “It is teaching us, ‘Whosoever exalteth himself shall be abased, and he that humbleth himself shall be exalted.’ ”
Ethel was silent for some little space, then suddenly exclaimed, “And you think he will really be put down?”
Margaret seemed to have been talking with little effect, but she kept her patience, and answered, “I cannot guess, Ethel, but I’ll tell you one thing—I think there’s much more chance if he comes to his work fresh and vigorous after a rest, than if he went on dulling himself with it all this time.”
With which Ethel was so far appeased that she promised to think as little as she could of the Andersons, and a walk with Richard to Cocksmoor turned the current of her thoughts. They had caught some more Sunday-school children by the help of Margaret’s broth, but it was uphill work; the servants did not like such guests in the kitchen, and they were still less welcome at school.
“What do you think I heard, Ethel?” said Flora, the next Sunday, as they joined each other in the walk from school to church; “I heard Miss Graves say to Miss Boulder, ‘I declare I must remonstrate. I undertook to instruct a national, not a ragged school;’ and then Miss Boulder shook out her fine watered silk and said, ‘It positively is improper to place ladies in contact with such squalid objects.’ ”
“Ladies!” cried Ethel. “A stationer’s daughter and a banker’s clerk’s! Why do they come to teach at school at all?”
“Because our example makes it genteel,” said Flora.
“I hope you did something more in hopes of making it genteel.”
“I caught one of your ragged regiment with her frock gaping behind, and pinned it up. Such rags as there were under it! Oh, Ethel!”
“Which was it?”
“That merry Irish-looking child. I don’t know her name.”
“Oh! it is a real charming Irish name, Una M’Carthy. I am so glad you did it, Flora. I hope they were ashamed.”
“I doubt whether it will do good. We are sure of our station and can do anything—they are struggling to be ladies.”
“But we ought not to talk of them any more, Flora; here we are almost at the churchyard.”
The Tuesday of this week was appointed for the visit of the London surgeon, Sir Matthew Fleet, and the expectation caused Dr. May to talk much to Margaret of old times, and the days of his courtship, when it had been his favourite project that his friend and fellow-student should marry Flora Mackenzie, and there had been a promising degree of liking, but “Mat” had been obliged to be prudent, and had ended by never marrying at all. This the doctor, as well as his daughters, believed was for the sake of Aunt Flora, and thus the girls were a good deal excited about his coming, almost as much on his own account, as because they considered him as the arbiter of Margaret’s fate. He only came in time for a seven o’clock dinner, and Margaret did not see him that night, but heard enough from her sisters, when they came up to tell the history of their guest, and of the first set dinner when Flora had acted as lady of the house. The dinner it appeared had gone off very well. Flora had managed admirably, and the only mishap was some awkward carving of Ethel’s which had