lifted to the sofa now—and oh! how I long for it—but then Mr. Ward does not approve of my sitting up, even as I am doing now, and wants to keep me flat. Papa thinks that of no use, and likely to hurt my general health, and I believe the end of it will be that he will ask Sir Matthew Fleet’s opinion.”
“Is that the man he calls Mat?”
“Yes, you know they went through the university together, and were at Edinburgh and Paris, but they have never met since he set up in London, and grew so famous. I believe it would be a great treat to papa to have him, and it would be a good thing for papa too; I don’t think his arm is going on right—he does not trust to Mr. Ward’s treatment, and I am sure some one else ought to see it.”
“Did you know, Margaret, that he sits up quite late, because he cannot sleep for it?”
“Yes, I hear him moving about, but don’t tell him so; I would not have him guess for the world, that it kept me awake.”
“And does it?”
“Why, if I think he is awake and in pain I cannot settle myself to sleep; but that is no matter; having no exercise, of course I don’t sleep so much. But I am very anxious about him—he looks so thin, and gets so fagged—and no wonder.”
“Ah! Mr. Everard told me he was quite shocked to see him, and would hardly have known him,” and Norman groaned from the bottom of his heart.
“Well, I shall hope much from Sir Matthew’s taking him in hand,” said Margaret cheerfully; “he will mind him, though he will not Mr. Ward.”
“I wish the holidays were over!” said Norman, with a yawn, as expressive as a sigh.
“That’s not civil, on the third day,” said Margaret, smiling, “when I am so glad to have you to look after me, so as to set Flora at liberty.”
“What, can I do you any good?” said Norman, with a shade of his former alacrity.
“To be sure you can, a great deal. Better not come near me otherwise, for I make every one into a slave. I want my morning reading now—that book on Advent, there.”
“Shall I read it to you?”
“Thank you, that’s nice, and I shall get on with baby’s frock.”
Norman read, but, ere long, took to yawning; Margaret begged for the book, which he willingly resigned, saying, however, that he liked it, only he was stupid. She read on aloud, till she heard a succession of heavy breathings, and saw him fast asleep, and so he continued till waked by his father’s coming home.
Richard and Ethel were glad of a walk, for Margaret had found them a pleasant errand. Their Cocksmoor children could not go home to dinner between service and afternoon school, and Margaret had desired the cook to serve them up some broth in the back kitchen, to which the brother and sister were now to invite them. Mary was allowed to take her boots to Rebekah Watts, since Margaret held that goodness had better be profitable, at least at the outset; and Harry and Tom joined the party.
Norman, meantime, was driving his father—a holiday preferment highly valued in the days when Dr. May used only to assume the reins, when his spirited horses showed too much consciousness that they had a young hand over them, or when the old hack took a fit of laziness. Now, Norman needed Richard’s assurance that the bay was steady, so far was he from being troubled with his ancient desire, that the steed would rear right up on his hind legs.
He could neither talk nor listen till he was clear out of the town, and found himself master of the animal, and even then the words were few, and chiefly spoken by Dr. May, until after going along about three miles of the turnpike road, he desired Norman to turn down a cross-country lane.
“Where does this lead?”
“It comes out at Abbotstoke, but I have to go to an outlying farm.”
“Papa,” said Norman, after a few minutes, “I wish you would let me do my Greek.”
“Is that what you have been pondering all this time? What, may not the bonus Homerus slumber sometimes?”
“It is not Homer, it is Euripides. I do assure you, papa, it is no trouble, and I get much worse without it.”
“Well, stop here, the road grows so bad that we will walk, and let the boy lead the horse to meet us at Woodcote.”
Norman followed his father down a steep narrow lane, little better than a stony water-course, and began to repeat, “If you would but let me do my work! I’ve got nothing else to do, and now they have put me up, I should not like not to keep my place.”
“Very likely, but—hollo—how swelled this is!” said Dr. May, as they came to the bottom of the valley, where a stream rushed along, coloured with a turbid creamy yellow, making little whirlpools where it crossed the road, and brawling loudly just above where it roared and foamed between two steep banks of rock, crossed by a foot-bridge of planks, guarded by a handrail of rough poles. The doctor had traversed it, and gone a few paces beyond, when, looking back, he saw Norman very pale, with one foot on the plank, and one hand grasping the rail. He came back, and held out his hand, which Norman gladly caught at, but no sooner was the other side attained, than the boy, though he gasped with relief, exclaimed, “This is too bad! Wait one moment, please, and let me go back.”
He tried, but the first touch of the shaking rail, and glance at the chasm, disconcerted him, and his father, seeing his white cheeks and rigid lips, said, “Stop, Norman, don’t try it. You are not fit,” he added, as the boy came to him reluctantly.
“I can’t bear to be such a wretch!” said he. “I never used to be. I will not—let me conquer it;” and he was turning back, but the doctor took his arm, saying decidedly, “No, I won’t have it done. You are only making it worse by putting a force on yourself.” But the farther Norman was from the bridge, the more displeased he was with himself, and more anxious to dare it again. “There’s no bearing it,” he muttered; “let me only run back. I’ll overtake you. I must do it if no one looks on.”
“No such thing,” said the doctor, holding him fast. “If you do, you’ll have it all over again at night.”
“That’s better than to know I am worse than Tom.”
“I tell you, Norman, it is no such thing. You will recover your tone if you will only do as you are told, but your nerves have had a severe shock, and when you force yourself in this way, you only increase the mischief.”
“Nerves,” muttered Norman disdainfully. “I thought they were only fit for fine ladies.”
Dr. May smiled. “Well, will it content you if I promise that as soon as I see fit, I’ll bring you here, and let you march over that bridge as often as you like?”
“I suppose I must be contented, but I don’t like to feel like a fool.”
“You need not, while the moral determination is sound.”
“But my Greek, papa.”
“At it again—I declare, Norman, you are the worst patient I ever had!”
Norman made no answer, and Dr. May presently said, “Well, let me hear what you have to say about it. I assure you it is not that I don’t want you to get on, but that I see you are in great need of rest.”
“Thank you, papa. I know you mean it for my good, but I don’t think you do know how horrid it is. I have got nothing on earth to do or care for—the school work comes quite easy to me, and I’m sure thinking is worse; and then”—Norman spoke vehemently—“now they have put me up, it will never do to be beaten, and all the four others ought to be able to do it. I did not want or expect to be dux, but now I am, you could not bear me not to keep my place, and to miss the Randall scholarship, as I certainly shall, if I do not work these whole holidays.”
“Norman, I know it,” said his father kindly. “I am very sorry for you, and I know I am asking of you what I could not have done at your age—indeed, I don’t believe I could have done it for you a few months ago. It is my fault that you have been let alone, to have an overstrain and pressure