“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 little thorough play will do them a great deal of good.”
Miss Winter could not see the good of groping in the dirt; and Margaret perceived that it would be one of her difficulties to know how to follow out her mother’s views for the children, without vexing the good governess by not deferring to her.
In the meantime, Norman had disconsolately returned to his Euripides, and Ethel, who wanted to stay with him and look out his words, was ordered out by Miss Winter, because she had spent all yesterday indoors. Miss Winter was going to stay with Margaret, and Ethel and Flora coaxed Norman to come with them, “just one mile on the turnpike road and back again; he would be much fresher for his Greek afterwards.”
He came, but he did not enliven his sisters. The three plodded on, taking a diligent constitutional walk, exchanging very few words, and those chiefly between the girls. Flora gathered some hoary clematis, and red berries, and sought in the hedge-sides for some crimson “fairy baths” to carry home; and, at the sight of the amusement Margaret derived from the placing the beauteous little Pezizas in a saucer of damp green moss, so as to hide the brown sticks on which they grew, Ethel took shame to herself for want of perception of little attentions. When she told Norman so, he answered, “There’s no one who does see what is the right thing. How horrid the room looks! Everything is nohow!” added he, looking round at the ornaments and things on the tables, which had lost their air of comfort and good taste. It was not disorder, and Ethel could not see what he meant. “What’s wrong?” said she.
“Oh, never mind—you can’t do it. Don’t try—you’ll only make it worse. It will never be the same as long as we live.”
“I wish you would not be so unhappy!” said Ethel.
“Never mind,” again said Norman, but he put his arm round her.
“Have you done your Euripides? Can I help you? Will you construe it with me, or shall I look out your words?”
“Thank you, I don’t mind that. It is the verses! I want some sense!” said Norman, running his fingers through his hair till it stood on end. “‘Tis such a horrid subject, Coral Islands! As if there was anything to be said about them.”
“Dear me, Norman, I could say ten thousand things, only I must not tell you what mine are, as yours are not done.”
“No, don’t,” said Norman decidedly.
“Did you read the description of them in the Quarterly? I am sure you might get some ideas there. Shall I find it for you? It is in an old number.”
“Well, do; thank you.”
He rested listlessly on the sofa while his sister rummaged in a chiffonier. At last she found the article, and eagerly read him the description of the strange forms of the coral animals, and the beauties of their flower-like feelers and branching fabrics. It would once have delighted him, but his first comment was, “Nasty little brutes!” However, the next minute he thanked her, took the book, and said he could hammer something out of it, though it was too bad to give such an unclassical subject. At dusk he left off, saying he should get it done at night, his senses would come then, and he should be glad to sit up.
“Only three weeks to the holidays,” said Ethel, trying to be cheerful; but his assent was depressing, and she began to fear that Christmas would only make them more sad.
Mary did not keep Tom’s secret so inviolably, but that, while they were dressing for tea, she revealed to Ethel where Harry was gone. He was not yet returned, though his father and Richard were come in, and the sisters were at once in some anxiety on his account, and doubt whether they ought to let papa know of his disobedience.
Flora and Ethel, who were the first in the drawing-room, had a consultation.
“I should have told mamma directly,” said Flora.
“He never did so,” sighed Ethel; “things never went wrong then.”
“Oh, yes, they did; don’t you remember how naughty Harry was about climbing the wall, and making faces at Mrs. Richardson’s servants?”
“And how ill I behaved the first day of last Christmas holidays?”
“She knew, but I don’t think she told papa.”
“Not that we knew of, but I believe she did tell him everything, and I think, Flora, he ought to know everything, especially now. I never could bear the way the Mackenzies used to have of thinking their parents must be like enemies, and keeping secrets from them.”
“They were always threatening each other, ‘I’ll tell mamma,’” said Flora, “and calling us tell-tales because we told our own dear mamma everything. But it is not like that now—I neither like to worry papa, nor to bring Harry into disgrace—besides, Tom and Mary meant it for a secret.”
“Papa would not be angry with him if we told him it was a secret,” said Ethel; “I wish Harry would come in. There’s the door—oh! it is only you.”
“Whom did you expect?” said Richard, entering.
The sisters looked at each other, and Ethel, after an interval, explained their doubts about Harry.
“He is come in,” said Richard; “I saw him running up to his own room, very muddy.”
“Oh, I’m glad! But do you think papa ought to hear it? I don’t know what’s to be done. ‘Tis the children’s secret,” said Flora.
“It will never do to have him going out with those boys continually,” said Ethel—“Harvey Anderson close by all the holidays!”
“I’ll try what I can do with him,” said Richard. “Papa had better not hear it now, at any rate. He is very tired and sad this evening! and his arm is painful again, so we must not worry him with histories of naughtiness among the children.”
“No,” said Ethel decidedly, “I am glad you were there, Ritchie; I never should have thought of one time being better than another.”
“Just like Ethel!” said Flora, smiling.
“Why should not you learn?” said Richard gently.
“I can’t,” said Ethel, in a desponding way.
“Why not? You are much sharper than most people, and, if you tried, you would know those things much better than I do, as you know how to learn history.”
“It is quite a different sort of cleverness,” said Flora. “Recollect Sir Isaac Newton, or Archimedes.”
“Then you must have both sorts,” said Ethel,