said Norman, and both were silent for some short interval, as they left the last buildings of the town, and began to mount a steep hill. Presently Norman slackened his pace, and driving his stick vehemently against a stone, exclaimed, “It is no use talking, Ethel, it is all a fight and a race. One is always to try to be foremost. That’s the spirit of the thing—that’s what the great, from first to last, have struggled, and fought, and lived, and died for.”
“I know it is a battle, I know it is a race. The Bible says so,” replied Ethel; “but is not there the difference, that here all may win—not only one? One may do one’s best, not care whether one is first or last. That’s what our reading to-day said.”
“That was against trumpery vanity—false elevation—not what one has earned for oneself, but getting into other people’s places that one never deserved. That every one despises!”
“Of course! That they do. I say, Norman, didn’t you mean Harvey Anderson?”
Instead of answering, Norman exclaimed, “It is pretension that is hateful—true excelling is what one’s life is for. No, no, I’ll never be beat, Ethel—I never have been beat by any one, except by you, when you take pains,” he added, looking exultingly at his sister, “and I never will be.”
“Oh, Norman!”
“I mean, of course, while I have senses. I would not be like Richard for all the world.”
“Oh, no, no, poor Richard!”
“He is an excellent fellow in everything else,” said Norman; “I could sometimes wish I was more like him—but how he can be so amazingly slow, I can’t imagine. That examination paper he broke down in—I could have done it as easily as possible.”
“I did it all but one question,” said Ethel, “but so did he, you know, and we can’t tell whether we should have it done well enough.”
“I know I must do something respectable when first I go to Oxford, if I don’t wish to be known as the man whose brother was plucked,” said Norman.
“Yes,” said Ethel; “if papa will but let you try for the Randall scholarship next year, but he says it is not good to go to Oxford so young.”
“And I believe I had better not be there with Richard,” added Norman. “I don’t like coming into contrast with him, and I don’t think he can like it, poor fellow, and it isn’t his fault. I had rather stay another year here, get one of the open scholarships, and leave the Stoneborough ones for those who can do no better.”
In justice to Norman, we must observe that this was by no means said as a boast. He would scarcely have thus spoken to any one but Etheldred, to whom, as well as to himself, it seemed mere matter-of-fact. The others had in the meantime halted at the top of the hill, and were looking back at the town—the great old Minster, raising its twin towers and long roof, close to the river, where rich green meadows spread over the valley, and the town rising irregularly on the slope above, plentifully interspersed with trees and gardens, and one green space on the banks of the river, speckled over with a flock of little black dots in rapid motion.
“Here you are!” exclaimed Flora. “I told them it was of no use to wait when you and Norman had begun a dissertation.”
“Now, Mr. Ernescliffe, I should like you to say,” cried Ethel, “which do you think is the best, the name of it, or the thing?” Her eloquence always broke down with any auditor but her brother, or, perhaps, Margaret.
“Ethel!” said Norman, “how is any one to understand you? The argument is this: Ethel wants people to do great deeds, and be utterly careless of the fame of them; I say, that love of glory is a mighty spring.”
“A mighty one!” said Alan: “but I think, as far as I understand the question, that Ethel has the best of it.”
“I don’t mean that people should not serve the cause first of all,” said Norman, “but let them have their right place and due honour.”
“They had better make up their minds to do without it,” said Alan. “Remember—
‘The world knows nothing of its greatest men.’”
“Then it is a great shame,” said Norman.
“But do you think it right,” said Ethel, “to care for distinction? It is a great thing to earn it, but I don’t think one should care for the outer glory.”
“I believe it is a great temptation,” said Alan. “The being over-elated or over-depressed by success or failure in the eyes of the world, independently of the exertion we have used.”
“You call it a temptation?” said Ethel.
“Decidedly so.”
“But one can’t live or get on without it,” said Norman.
There they were cut short. There was a plantation to be crossed, with a gate that would not open, and that seemed an effectual barrier against both Miss Winter and the donkey, until by persuasive eloquence and great gallantry, Mr. Ernescliffe performed the wonderful feat of getting the former over the tall fence, while Norman conducted the donkey a long way round, undertaking to meet them at the other side of the plantation.
The talk became desultory, as they proceeded for at least a mile along a cart-track through soft-tufted grass and heath and young fir-trees. It ended in a broad open moor, stony; and full of damp boggy hollows, forlorn and desolate under the autumn sky. Here they met Norman again, and walked on along a very rough and dirty road, the ground growing more decidedly into hills and valleys as they advanced, till they found themselves before a small, but very steep hillock, one side of which was cut away into a slate quarry. Round this stood a colony of roughly-built huts, of mud, turf, or large blocks of the slate. Many workmen were engaged in splitting up the slates, or loading wagons with them, rude wild-looking men, at the sight of whom the ladies shrank up to their protectors, but who seemed too busy even to spare time for staring at them.
They were directed to John Taylor’s house, a low mud cottage, very wretched looking, and apparently so smoky that Mr. Ernescliffe and Norman were glad to remain outside and survey the quarry, while the ladies entered.
Inside they found more cleanliness and neatness than they had expected, but there was a sad appearance of poverty, insufficient furniture, and the cups and broken tea-pot on the table, holding nothing but toast and water, as a substitute for their proper contents. The poor woman was sitting by the fire with one twin on her lap, and the other on a chair by her side, and a larger child was in the corner by the fire, looking heavy and ill, while others of different ages lounged about listlessly. She was not untidy, but very pale, and she spoke in a meek, subdued way, as if the ills of life were so heavy on her that she had no spirit even to complain. She thanked them for their gifts but languidly, and did not visibly brighten when told that her husband was better.
Flora asked when the babes would be christened.
“I can’t hardly tell, Miss—‘tis so far to go.”
“I suppose none of the children can go to school? I don’t know their faces there,” said Flora, looking at a nice tall, smooth-haired girl of thirteen or fourteen.
“No, Miss—‘tis so far. I am sorry they should not, for they always was used to it where we lived before, and my oldest girl she can work very nicely. I wish I could get a little place for her.”
“You
