you all believe it.”
“Harry had better go to sleep next,” said Dr. May, “and see what dreaming will make him. If it makes Dux of Norman, who knows but it may make Drakes of him? Ha! Ethel—
“Oh, give us for our Kings such Queens,
And for our Ducks such Drakes.”
There had not been such a merry breakfast for months. There was the old confusion of voices; the boys, Richard, and the doctor had much to talk over of the school doings of this week, and there was nearly as much laughing as in days past. Ethel wondered whether any one but herself observed that the voice most seldom heard was Norman’s.
The promised call was made by Dr. Hoxton, and Mr. Everard, an old friend, and after their departure Dr. May came to Margaret’s room with fresh accounts, corroborating what Harry had said of the clear knowledge and brilliant talent that Norman had displayed, to a degree that surprised his masters, almost as much as the examiners. The copy of verses Dr. May brought with him, and construed them to Margaret, commenting all the way on their ease, and the fullness of thought, certainly remarkable in a boy of sixteen.
They were then resigned to Ethel’s keeping, and she could not help imparting her admiration to their author, with some apology for vexing him again.
“I don’t want to be cross,” said Norman, whom these words roused to a sense that he had been churlish last night; “but I cannot help it. I wish people would not make such a fuss about it.”
“I don’t think you can be well, Norman.”
“Nonsense. There’s nothing the matter with me.”
“But I don’t understand your not caring at all, and not being the least pleased.”
“It only makes it worse,” said Norman; “I only feel as if I wanted to be out of the way. My only comfortable time yesterday was on that bench in the cool quiet cloister. I don’t think I could have got through without that, when they left me in peace, till Cheviot and Harry came to rout me up, and I knew it was all coming.”
“Ah! you have overworked yourself, but it was for something. You have given papa such pleasure and comfort, as you can’t help being glad of. That is very different from us foolish young ones and our trumpeting.”
“What comfort can it be? I’ve not been the smallest use all this time. When he was ill, I left him to Ernescliffe, and lay on the floor like an ass; and if he were to ask me to touch his arm, I should be as bad again. A fine thing for me to have talked all that arrogant stuff about Richard! I hate the thought of it; and, as if to make arrows and barbs of it, here’s Richard making as much of this as if it was a double first class! He afraid to be compared with me, indeed!”
“Norman, indeed, this is going too far. We can’t be as useful as the elder ones; and when you know how papa was vexed about Richard, you must be glad to have pleased him.”
“If I were he, it would only make me miss her more. I believe he only makes much of me that he may not disappoint me.”
“I don’t think so. He is really glad, and the more because she would have been so pleased. He said it would have been a happy day for her, and there was more of the glad look than the sorry one. It was the glistening look that comes when he is watching baby, or hearing Margaret say pretty things to her. You see it is the first bright morning we have had.”
“Yes,” said Norman; “perhaps it was, but I don’t know. I thought half of it was din.”
“Oh, Norman!”
“And another thing, Ethel, I don’t feel as if I had fairly earned it. Forder or Cheviot ought to have had it. They are both more really good scholars than I am, and have always been above me. There was nothing I really knew better, except those historical questions that no one reckoned on; and not living at home with their sisters and books, they had no such chance, and it is very hard on them, and I don’t like it.”
“Well, but you really and truly beat them in everything.”
“Ay, by chance. There were lots of places in construing, where I should have broken down if I had happened to be set on in them; it was only a wonder I did not in that chorus, for I had only looked at it twice; but Everard asked me nothing but what I knew; and now and then I get into a funny state, when nothing is too hard for me, and that was how it was yesterday evening. Generally, I feel as dull as a post,” said Norman, yawning and stretching; “I could not make a nonsense hexameter this minute, if I was to die for it.”
“A sort of Berserkar fury!” said Ethel, “like that night you did the coral-worm verses. It’s very odd. Are you sure you are well, dear Norman?”
To which he answered, with displeasure, that he was as well as possible, ordered her not to go and make any more fuss, and left her hastily. She was unhappy, and far from satisfied; she had never known his temper so much affected, and was much puzzled; but she was too much afraid of vexing him, to impart her perplexity even to Margaret. However, the next day, Sunday, as she was reading to Margaret after church, her father came in, and the first thing he said was, “I want to know what you think of Norman.”
“How do you mean?” said Margaret; “in health or spirits?”
“Both,” said Dr. May. “Poor boy! he has never held up his head since October, and, at his age, that is hardly natural. He goes moping about, has lost flesh and appetite, and looks altogether out of order, shooting up like a Maypole too.”
“Mind and body,” said Margaret, while Ethel gazed intently at her father, wondering whether she ought to speak, for Margaret did not know half what she did; nothing about the bad nights, nor what he called the “funny state.”
“Yes, both. I fancied it was only his rapid growth, and the excitement of this examination, and that it would go off, but I think there’s more amiss. He was lounging about doing nothing, when the girls were gone to school after dinner, and I asked him to walk down with me to the Almshouses. He did not seem very willing, but he went, and presently, as I had hold of his arm, I felt him shivering, and saw him turn as pale as a sheet. As soon as I noticed it, he flushed crimson, and would not hear of turning back, stoutly protesting he was quite well, but I saw his hand was quivering even when I got into church. Why, Ethel, you have turned as red as he did.”
“Then he has done it!” exclaimed Ethel, in a smothered voice.
“What do you mean? Speak, Ethel.”
“He has gone past it—the place,” whispered she.
The doctor made a sound of sorrowful assent, as if much struck; then said, “you don’t mean he has never been there since?”
“Yes,” said Ethel, “he has always gone round Randall’s alley or the garden; he has said nothing, but has contrived to avoid it.”
“Well,” said Dr. May, after a pause, “I hoped none of us knew the exact spot.”
“We don’t; he never told us, but he was there.”
“Was he?” exclaimed her father; “I had no notion of that. How came he there?”
“He went on with Mr. Ernescliffe, and saw it all,” said Ethel, as her father drew
