these scruples, otherwise than by declaring they ought not to weigh against the good of Cocksmoor.
“It will worry him to have to consider all this,” said Richard, “and it must not be pressed upon him.”
“No,” said Ethel sorrowfully; “but you don’t mean to give it up.”
“You are always in extremes, Ethel. All I want is to find a good time for proposing it.”
She fidgeted and gave a long sigh.
“Mind,” said Richard, stopping short, “I’ll have nothing to do with it except on condition you are patient, and hold your tongue about it.”
“I think I can, if I may talk to Margaret.”
“Oh yes, to Margaret of course. We could not settle anything without her help.”
“And I know what she will say,” said Ethel. “Oh, I am so glad,” and she jumped over three puddles in succession.
“And, Ethel, you must learn to keep your frock out of the dirt.”
“I’ll do anything, if you’ll help me at Cocksmoor.”
CHAPTER IX
For the structure that we raise,
Time is with materials filled;
Our to-days and yesterdays,
Are the blocks which we build.
Truly shape and fashion these,
Leave no yawning gaps between;
Think not, because no man sees,
Such things will remain unseen.—LONGFELLOW.
When Ethel came home, burning with the tidings of the newly-excited hopes for Cocksmoor, they were at once stopped by Margaret eagerly saying, “Is Richard come in? pray call him;” then on his entrance, “Oh, Richard, would you be so kind as to take this to the bank. I don’t like to send it by any one else—it is so much;” and she took from under her pillows a velvet bag, so heavy, that it weighed down her slender white hand.
“What, he has given you the care of his money?” said Ethel.
“Yes; I saw him turning something out of his waistcoat-pocket into the drawer of the looking-glass, and sighing in that very sad way. He said his fees had come to such an accumulation that he must see about sending them to the bank; and then he told me of the delight of throwing his first fee into dear mamma’s lap, when they were just married, and his old uncle had given up to him, and how he had brought them to her ever since; he said she had spoiled him by taking all trouble off his hands. He looked at it, as if it was so sorrowful to him to have to dispose of it, that I begged him not to plague himself any more, but let me see about it, as dear mamma used to do; so he said I was spoiling him too, but he brought me the drawer, and emptied it out here: when he was gone, I packed it up, and I have been waiting to ask Richard to take it all to the bank, out of his sight.”
“You counted it?” said Richard.
“Yes—there’s fifty—I kept seventeen towards the week’s expenses. Just see that it is right,” said Margaret, showing her neat packets.
“Oh, Ritchie,” said Ethel, “what can expense signify, when all that has been kicking about loose in an open drawer? What would not one of those rolls do?”
“I think I had better take them out of your way,” said Richard quietly. “Am I to bring back the book to you, Margaret?”
“Yes, do,” said Margaret; “pray do not tease him with it.” And as her brother left the room, she continued, “I wish he was better. I think he is more oppressed now than even at first. The pain of his arm, going on so long, seems to me to have pulled him down; it does not let him sleep, and, by the end of the day, he gets worn and fagged by seeing so many people, and exerting himself to talk and think; and often, when there is something that must be asked, I don’t know how to begin, for it seems as if a little more would be too much for him.”
“Yes, Richard is right,” said Ethel mournfully; “it will not do to press him about our concerns; but do you think him worse to-day?”
“He did not sleep last night, and he is always worse when he does not drive out into the country; the fresh air, and being alone with Richard, are a rest for him. To-day is especially trying; he does not think poor old Mr. Southern will get through the evening, and he is so sorry for the daughter.”
“Is he there now?”
“Yes; he thought of something that might be an alleviation, and he would go, though he was tired. I am afraid the poor daughter will detain him, and he is not fit to go through such things now.”
“No, I hope he will soon come; perhaps Richard will meet him. But, oh, Margaret, what do you think Richard and I have been talking of?” and, without perception of fit times and seasons, Ethel would have told her story, but Margaret, too anxious to attend to her, said, “Hark! was not that his step?” and Dr. May came in, looking mournful and fatigued.
“Well,” said he, “I was just too late. He died as I got there, and I could not leave the daughter till old Mrs. Bowers came.”
“Poor thing,” said Margaret. “He was a good old man.”
“Yes,” said Dr. May, sitting wearily down, and speaking in a worn-out voice. “One can’t lightly part with a man one has seen at church every Sunday of one’s life, and exchanged so many friendly words with over his counter. ‘Tis a strong bond of neighbourliness in a small place like this, and, as one grows old, changes come heavier—‘the clouds return again after the rain.’ Thank you, my dear,” as Ethel fetched his slippers, and placed a stool for his feet, feeling somewhat ashamed of thinking it an achievement to have, unbidden, performed a small act of attention which would have come naturally from any of the others.
“Papa, you will give me the treat of drinking tea with me?” said Margaret, who saw the quiet of her room would suit him better than the bustle of the children downstairs. “Thank you,” as he gave a smile of assent.
That Margaret could not be made to listen this evening was plain, and all that Ethel could do, was to search for some books on schools. In seeking for them, she displayed such confusion in the chiffonier, that Flora exclaimed, “Oh, Ethel, how could you leave it so?”
“I was in a hurry, looking for something for Norman. I’ll set it to rights,” said Ethel, gulping down her dislike of being reproved by Flora, with the thought that mamma would have said the same.
“My dear!” cried Flora presently, jumping up, “what are you doing? piling up those heavy books on the top of the little ones; how do you think they will ever stand? let me do it.”
“No, no, Flora;” and Richard, in a low voice, gave Ethel some advice, which she received, seated on the floor, in a mood between temper and despair.
“He is going to teach her to do it on the principles of gravitation,” said Flora.
Richard did not do it himself, but, by his means, Ethel, without being in the least irritated, gave the chiffonier a thorough dusting and setting-to-rights, sorting magazines, burning old catalogues, and finding her own long-lost ‘Undine’, at which she was so delighted that she would have forgotten all; in proceeding to
