‘Your loving and dutiful daughter, ‘ETHELDRED MAY.’
CHAPTER VI
The XII statute remember to observe For all the paine thou hast for love and wo All is too lite her mercie to deserve Thou musten then thinke wher er thou ride or go And mortale wounds suffre thou also All for her sake, and thinke it well besette Upon thy love, for it maie not be bette. —Chaucer’s ‘Court of Love’
‘Good-bye, Leonard,’ said Ethel, as the two families, after mustering strong at the station, parted at the head of Minster Street; and as she felt the quivering lingering pressure of his hand, she added with a smile, ‘Remember, any Saturday afternoon. And you will come for the books.’
Glad as she was to be anchored on her father’s arm, and clustered round with rejoicing brothers and sisters, she could not be devoid of a shade of regret for the cessation of the intimate intercourse of the last nine weeks, and a certain desire for the continuance of the confidential terms that had arisen. The moment’s pang was lost in the eager interchange of tidings too minute for correspondence, and in approval of the renovation of the drawing-room, which was so skilful that her first glance would have detected no alteration in the subdued tones of paper, carpet, and chintz, so complete was their loyalty to the spirit of perpetuity. Flora told no one of the pains that, among her many cares, she had spent upon those tints, not so much to gratify Ethel, as because her own wearied spirit craved the repose of home sameness, nor how she had finally sent to Paris for the paper that looked so quiet, but was so exquisitely finished, that the whole room had a new air of refinement.
The most notable novelty was a water-coloured sketch, a labour of love from the busy hands in New Zealand, which had stolen a few hours from their many tasks to send Dr. May the presentment of his namesake grandson. Little Dickie stood before them, a true son of the humming-bird sprite, delicately limbed and featured, and with elastic springiness, visible even in the pencilled outline. The dancing dark eyes were all Meta’s, though the sturdy clasp of the hands, and the curl that hung over the brow, brought back the reflection of Harry’s baby days.
It would have been a charming picture, even if it had not been by Meta’s pencil, and of Norman’s child, and it chained Ethel for more than one interval of longing loving study.
Tom interrupted her in one of these contemplations. ‘Poor Flora,’ he said, with more feeling than he usually allowed to affect his voice, ‘that picture is a hard trial to her. I caught her looking at it for full ten minutes, and at last she turned away with her eyes full of tears.’
‘I do not wonder,’ said Ethel. ‘There is a certain likeness to that poor little Leonora, and I think Flora misses her more every year.’
‘Such a child as Margaret is just the thing to cause the other to be missed.’
‘What do you think of Margaret this time?’ said Ethel, for Tom alone ever durst seriously touch on the undefined impression that all entertained of Flora’s only child.
‘If Flora were only silly about her,’ said Tom, ‘one might have some hope; but unluckily she is as judicious there as in everything else, and the child gets more deplorable every year. She has got the look of deformity, and yet she is not deformed; and the queer sullen ways of deficiency, but she has more wit than her father already, and more cunning.’
‘As long as there is a mind to work on, one hopes’ said Ethel.
‘I could stand her better if she were foolish!’ exclaimed Tom, ‘but I can’t endure to see her come into the room to be courted by every one, and be as cross as she dares before her mother. Behind Flora’s back, I don’t know which she uses worst, her father or her grandfather. I came down upon little Miss at last for her treatment of the Doctor, and neither he nor Rivers have forgiven me.’
‘Poor child! I don’t believe she has ever known a moment’s thorough health or comfort! I always hope that with Flora’s patience and management she may improve.’
‘Pshaw, Ethel! she will always be a misfortune to herself and everybody else.’
‘I have faith in good coming out of misfortunes.’
‘Illustrated, I suppose, by ravings about your young Ward. Mary is crazy about his sister, and the Doctor lunatic as to the brother, who will soon kick at him for his pains.’
‘I own to thinking Leonard capable of great things.’
Tom made a grimace equal to what Ethel could do in that way, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and philosophically observed, ‘Behold the effects of patronage! Blind Cupid is nothing to him.’
Ethel let it pass, caring too much for Leonard to set him up as a mark for Tom’s satire, which was as different from Aubrey’s as quinine from orange-peel, though properly used, it was a bracing tonic, such as she often found wholesome. A cynical younger brother is a most valuable possession to a woman who has taken a certain position in her own world.
Tom was a sterling character, highly and deeply principled, though not demonstrative, and showing his Scots descent. None of the brothers had been extravagant, but Tom, with the income of his lately achieved fellowship, performed feats of economy, such as attaining to the purchase of an ultra perfect microscope, and he was consistently industrious, so exactly measuring his own powers that to undertake was with him to succeed, and no one suffered anxiety on his account. As Dr. Spencer said, he was as sure to fall on his legs as a sandy cat, and so nobody cared for him. At home he was sufficient to himself, properly behaved to his father, civil to Richard, unmerciful in ridicule, but merciful in dominion over the rest, except Ethel, whom he treated as an equal, able to retort in kind, reserving for her his most highly-flavoured sallies, and his few and distant approaches to such confidence as showed her how little she knew him. His father esteemed but did not ‘get on with’ him, and his chief and devoted adherent was Aubrey, to whom he was always kind and helpful. In person Tom was tall and well-made, of intelligent face, of which his spectacles seemed a natural feature, well-moulded fine-grained hand, and dress the perfection of correctness, though the precision, and dandyism had been pruned away.
Ethel would have preferred that Leonard and Averil should not have walked in on the Saturday after her return, just when Tom had spread his microscope apparatus over the table, and claimed Mary’s assistance in setting up objects; and she avoided his eye when Mary and Averil did what he poetically called rushing into each other’s arms, whilst she bestowed her greetings on Leonard and Mab.
‘Then she may come in?’ said Leonard. ‘Henry has banished her from the drawing-room, and we had much ado to get her allowed even in the schoolroom.’
‘It is so tiresome,’ said his sister, ‘just one of Henry’s fancies.’ Ethel, thinking this disloyal, remarked that those who disliked dogs in the house could not bear them, and did not wonder that Tom muttered ‘Original.’
‘But such a little darling as this!’ cried Averil, ‘and after Mrs. Ernescliffe had been so kind. Mary, you must see how clever she is. Leonard is teaching her to play on the piano.’