that they had very few more walks to take together to Bishop Whichcote’s school; Norman’s heart was very full at the prospect of another vacancy in his home, and Harry’s was swelling between the ardour of enterprise and the thought of bidding good-bye to each familiar object, and, above all, to the brother who had been his model and admiration from babyhood.
“June!” at length he broke out, “I wish you were going too. I should not mind it half so much if you were.”
“Nonsense, Harry! you want to be July after June all your life, do you? You’ll be much more of a man without me.”
That evening Dr. May called Harry into his study to ask him if his mind was made up; he put the subject fairly before him, and told him not to be deterred from choosing what he thought would be for the best by any scruples about changing his mind. “We shall not think a bit the worse of you; better now, than too late.”
There was that in his face and tone that caused Harry to say, in a stifled voice, “I did not think you would care so much, papa; I won’t go, if you do.”
Dr. May put his hand on his shoulder, and was silent. Harry felt a strange mixture of hope and fear, joy and grief, disappointment and relief. “You must not give it up on that account, my dear,” he said at length; “I should not let you see this, if it did not happen at a time when I can’t command myself as I ought. If you were an only son, it might be your duty to stay; being one of many, ‘tis nonsense to make a rout about parting with you. If it is better for you, it is better for all of us; and we shall do very well when you are once fairly gone. Don’t let that influence you for a moment.”
Harry paused, not that he doubted, but he was collecting his energies—“Then, papa, I choose the navy.”
“Then it is done, Harry. You have chosen in a dutiful, unselfish spirit, and I trust it will prosper with you; for I am sure your father’s blessing—aye, and your mother’s too, go with you! Now then,” after a pause, “go and call Richard. I want him to write to Ernescliffe about that naval school. You must take your leave of the Whichcote foundation on Friday. I shall go and give Dr. Hoxton notice tomorrow, and get Tom’s name down instead.”
And when the name of Thomas May was set down, Dr. Hoxton expressed his trust that it would pass through the school as free from the slightest blemish as those of Richard, Norman, and Harry May.
Now that Harry’s destiny was fixed, Ethel began to think of Cocksmoor again, and she accomplished another walk there with Richard, Flora, and Mary, to question Granny Hall about the children’s failure.
The old woman’s reply was a tissue of contradictions: the girls were idle hussies, all contrary: they plagued the very life out of her, and she represented herself as using the most frightful threats, if they would not go to school. Breaking every bone in their skin was the least injury she promised them; till Mary, beginning to think her a cruel old woman, took hold of her brother’s coat-tails for protection.
“But I am afraid, Mrs. Hall,” said Richard, in that tone which might be either ironical or simple, “if you served them so, they would never be able to get to school at all, poor things.”
“Bless you, sir, d’ye think I’d ever lay a finger near them; it’s only the way one must talk to children, you see,” said she, patronising his inexperience.
“Perhaps they have found that out,” said Richard. Granny looked much entertained, and laughed triumphantly and shrewdly, “ay, ay, that they have, the lasses—they be sharp enough for anything, that they be. Why, when I tell little Jenny that there’s the black man coming after her, what does she do but she ups and says, ‘Granny, I know ‘tis only the wind in the chimney.’”
“Then I don’t think it seems to answer,” said Richard. “Just suppose you were to try for once, really punishing them when they won’t obey you, perhaps they would do it next time.”
“Why, sir, you see I don’t like to take the stick to them; they’ve got no mother, you see, sir.”
Mary thought her a kind grandmother, and came out from behind her brother.
“I think it would be kinder to do it for once. What do you think they will do as they grow older, if you don’t keep them in order when they are little?”
This was foresight beyond Granny Hall, who began to expatiate on the troubles she had undergone in their service, and the excellence of Sam. There was certainly a charm in her manners, for Ethel forgot her charge of ingratitude, the other sisters were perfectly taken with her, nor could they any of them help giving credence to her asseverations that Jenny and Polly should come to school next Sunday.
They soon formed another acquaintance; a sharp-faced woman stood in their path, with a little girl in her hand, and arrested them with a low curtsey, and not a very pleasant voice, addressing herself to Flora, who was quite as tall as Richard, and appeared the person of most consequence.
“If you please, miss, I wanted to speak to you. I have got a little girl here, and I want to send her to school, only I have no shoes for her.”
“Why, surely, if she can run about here on the heath, she can go to school,” said Flora.
“Oh! but there is all the other children to point at her. The poor thing would be daunted, you see, miss; if I could but get some friend to give her a pair of shoes, I’d send her in a minute. I want her to get some learning; as I am always saying, I’d never keep her away, if I had but got the clothes to send her in. I never lets her be running on the common, like them Halls, as it’s a shame to see them in nice frocks, as Mrs. Hall got by going hypercriting about.”
“What is your name?” said Richard, cutting her short.
“Watts, if you please, sir; we heard there was good work up here, sir, and so we came; but I’d never have set foot in it if I had known what a dark heathenish place it is, with never a Gospel minister to come near it,” and a great deal more to the same purpose.
Mary whispered to Flora something about having outgrown her boots, but Flora silenced her by a squeeze of the hand, and the two friends of Cocksmoor felt a good deal puzzled.
At last Flora said, “You will soon get her clothed if she comes regularly to school on Sundays, for she will be admitted into the club; I will recommend her if she has a good character and comes regularly. Good-morning, Mrs. Watts. Now we must go, or it will be dark before we get home.” And they walked hastily away.
“Horrid woman!” was Ethel’s exclamation.
“But Flora,” said innocent Mary, “why would you not let me give the little girl my boots?”
“Perhaps I may, if she is good and comes to school, said Flora.
“I think Margaret ought to settle what you do with your boots,” said Richard, not much to Flora’s satisfaction.
“It is the same,” she said. “If I approve, Margaret will not object.”
“How well you helped us out, Flora,” said Ethel; “I did not know in the least what to say.”
“It will be the best way of testing her sincerity, said Flora; and at least it will do the child good; but I congratulate you on the promising aspect of Cocksmoor.”
“We did not expect to find a perfect place,” said Ethel; “if it were, it would be of no use to go to it.”
Ethel could answer with dignity, but her heart sank at the aspect of what she had undertaken. She knew there would be evil, but she had expected it in a more striking and less disagreeable form.
That walk certainly made her less impatient, though it did not relax her determination, nor the guard over her lion and bear, which her own good feeling, aided by Margaret’s council, showed her were the greatest hindrances to her doing anything good and great.
Though she was obliged to set to work so many principles and reflections to induce herself to wipe a pen, or to sit straight on her chair, that it was like winding up a steam-engine to thread a needle; yet the work was being done—she was struggling with her faults, humbled by them, watching them, and overcoming them.
Flora,