had been so readily granted, that it seemed as if Richard’s caution had been vain in making such a delay, that even Margaret had begun to fear that the street of by-and-by was leading to the house of never. Now, however, it was plain that he had been wise. Opportunity was everything; at another moment, their father might have been harassed and oppressed, and unable to give his mind to concerns, which now he could think of with interest, and Richard could not have caught a more favourable conjuncture.
Ethel was in a wild state of felicity all that evening and the next day, very unlike her brother, who, dismayed at the open step he had taken, shrank into himself, and in his shyness dreaded the discussion in the evening, and would almost have been relieved, if Mr. Wilmot had been unable to accept the invitation. So quiet and grave was he, that Ethel could not get him to talk over the matter at all with her, and she was obliged to bestow all her transports and grand projects on Flora or Margaret, when she could gain their ears, besides conning them over to herself, as an accompaniment to her lessons, by which means she tried Miss Winter’s patience almost beyond measure. But she cared not—she saw a gathering school and rising church, which eclipsed all thought of present inattentions and gaucheries. She monopolised Margaret in the twilight, and rhapsodised to her heart’s content, talking faster and faster, and looking more and more excited. Margaret began to feel a little overwhelmed, and while answering “yes” at intervals, was considering whether Ethel had not been flying about in an absent inconsiderate mood all day, and whether it would seem unkind to damp her ardour, by giving her a hint that she was relaxing her guard over herself. Before Margaret had steeled herself, Ethel was talking of a story she had read, of a place something like Cocksmoor. Margaret was not ready with her recollection, and Ethel, saying it was in a magazine in the drawing-room chiffonier, declared she would fetch it.
Margaret knew what it was to expect her visitors to return “in one moment,” and with a “now-or-never” feeling she began, “Ethel, dear, wait,” but Ethel was too impetuous to attend. “I’ll be back in a twinkling,” she called out, and down she flew, in her speed whisking away, without seeing it, the basket with Margaret’s knitting and all her notes and papers, which lay scattered on the floor far out of reach, vexing Margaret at first, and then making her grieve at her own impatient feeling.
Ethel was soon in the drawing-room, but the right number of the magazine was not quickly forthcoming, and in searching she became embarked in another story. Just then, Aubrey, whose stout legs were apt to carry him into every part of the house where he was neither expected nor wanted, marched in at the open door, trying by dint of vehement gestures to make her understand, in his imperfect speech, something that he wanted. Very particularly troublesome she thought him, more especially as she could not make him out, otherwise than that he wanted her to do something with the newspaper and the fire. She made a boat for him with an old newspaper, a very hasty and frail performance, and told him to sail it on the carpet, and be Mr. Ernescliffe going away; and she thought him thus safely disposed of. Returning to her book and her search, with her face to the cupboard, and her book held up to catch the light, she was soon lost in her story, and thought of nothing more till suddenly roused by her father’s voice in the hall, loud and peremptory with alarm, “Aubrey! put that down!” She looked, and beheld Aubrey brandishing a great flaming paper—he dropped it at the exclamation—it fell burning on the carpet. Aubrey’s white pinafore! Ethel was springing up, but in her cramped, twisted position she could not do so quickly, and even as he called, her father strode by her, snatched at Aubrey’s merino frock, which he crushed over the scarcely lighted pinafore, and trampled out the flaming paper with his foot. It was a moment of dreadful fright, but the next assured them that no harm was done.
“Ethel!” cried the doctor, “Are you mad? What were you thinking of?”
Aubrey, here recollecting himself enough to be frightened at his father’s voice and manner, burst into loud cries; the doctor pressed him closer on his breast, caressed and soothed him. Ethel stood by, pale and transfixed with horror. Her father was more angry with her than she had ever seen him, and with reason, as she knew, as she smelled the singeing, and saw a large burnt hole in Aubrey’s pinafore, while the front of his frock was scorched and brown. Dr. May’s words were not needed, “What could make you let him?”
“I didn’t see—” she faltered.
“Didn’t see! Didn’t look, didn’t think, didn’t care! That’s it, Ethel. ‘Tis very hard one can’t trust you in a room with the child any more than the baby himself. His frock perfect tinder! He would have been burned to a cinder, if I had not come in!”
Aubrey roared afresh, and Dr. May, kissing and comforting him, gathered him up in his left arm, and carried him away, looking back at the door to say, “There’s no bearing it! I’ll put a stop to all schools and Greek, if it is to lead to this, and make you good for nothing!”
Ethel was too much terrified to know where she was, or anything, but that she had let her little brother run into fearful peril, and grievously angered her father; she was afraid to follow him, and stood still, annihilated, and in despair, till roused by his return; then, with a stifled sob, she exclaimed, “Oh, papa!” and could get no further for a gush of tears.
But the anger of the shock of terror was over, and Dr. May was sorry for her tears, though still he could not but manifest some displeasure. “Yes, Ethel,” he said, “it was a frightful thing,” and he could not but shudder again. “One moment later! It is an escape to be for ever thankful for—poor little fellow!—but, Ethel, Ethel, do let it be a warning to you.”
“Oh, I hope—I’ll try—” sobbed Ethel.
“You have said you would try before.”
“I know I have,” said Ethel, choked. “If I could but—”
“Poor child,” said Dr. May sadly; then looking earnestly at her, “Ethel, my dear, I am afraid of its being with you as—as it has been with me;” he spoke very low, and drew her close to him. “I grew up, thinking my inbred heedlessness a sort of grace, so to say, rather manly—the reverse of finikin. I was spoiled as a boy, and my Maggie carried on the spoiling, by never letting me feel its effects. By the time I had sense enough to regret this as a fault, I had grown too old for changing of ingrain, long-nurtured habits—perhaps I never wished it really. You have seen,” and his voice was nearly inaudible, “what my carelessness has come to—let that suffice at least, as a lesson that may spare you—what your father must feel as long as he lives.”
He pressed his hand tightly on her shoulder, and left her, without letting her see his face. Shocked and bewildered, she hurried upstairs to Margaret. She threw herself on her knees, felt her arms round her, and heard her kind soothing, and then, in broken words, told how dreadful it had been, and how kind papa had been, and what he had said, which was now the uppermost thought. “Oh, Margaret, Margaret, how very terrible it is! And does papa really think so?”
“I believe he does,” whispered Margaret.
“How can he, can he bear it!” said Ethel, clasping her hands. “Oh! it is enough to kill one—I can’t think why it did not!”
“He bears it,” said Margaret, “because he is so very good, that help and comfort do come to him. Dear papa! He bears up because it is right, and for our sakes, and he has a sort of rest in that perfect love they had for each other. He knows how she would wish him to cheer up and look to the end, and support and comfort are given to him, I know they are; but oh, Ethel! it does make one tremble and shrink, to think what he has been going through this autumn, especially when I hear him moving about late at night, and now and then comes a heavy groan—whenever any especial care has been on his mind.”
Ethel was in great distress. “To have grieved him again!” said she, “and just as he seemed better and brighter! Everything I do turns out wrong, and always will; I can’t do anything well by any chance.”
