emotion, as if it had been an indifferent patient.
“I don’t know, things seemed so long that evening. Till after dark at least, and it came on in the morning—no, the Monday. I believe it was your arm—for talking of going to see you always brought it on, till Mr. Ward gave him a dose of brandy-and-water, and that stopped it.”
“I wish I had known this before. Derangement of the nervous system, no doubt—a susceptible boy like that—I wonder what sort of nights he has been having.”
“Terrible ones,” said Ethel; “I don’t think he ever sleeps quietly till morning; he has dreams, and he groans and talks in his sleep; Harry can tell you all that.”
“Bless me!” cried Dr. May, in some anger; “what have you all been thinking about to keep this to yourselves all this time?”
“He could not bear to have it mentioned,” said Ethel timidly; “and I didn’t know that it signified so much; does it?”
“It signifies so much, that I had rather have given a thousand pounds than have let him go on all this time, to be overworked at school, and wound up to that examination!”
“Oh, dear! I am sorry!” said Ethel, in great dismay. “If you had but been at home when Cheviot wanted Harry to have sent for you—because he did not think him fit for it!” And Ethel was much relieved by pouring out all she knew, though her alarm was by no means lessened by the effect it produced on her father, especially when he heard of the “funny state.”
“A fine state of things,” he said; “I wonder it has not brought on a tremendous illness by this time. A boy of that sensitive temperament meeting with such a shock—never looked after—the quietest and most knocked down of all, and therefore the most neglected—his whole system disordered—and then driven to school to be harassed and overworked; if we had wanted to occasion brain fever we could not have gone a better way to set about it. I should not wonder if health and nerves were damaged for life!”
“Oh! papa, papa!” cried Ethel, in extreme distress, “what shall I do! I wish I had told you, but—”
“I’m not blaming you, Ethel, you knew no better, but it has been grievous neglect. It is plain enough there is no one to see after you,” said the doctor, with a low groan.
“We may be taking it in time,” said Margaret’s soft voice—“it is very well it has gone on no longer.”
“Three months is long enough,” said Dr. May.
“I suppose,” continued Margaret, “it will be better not to let dear Norman know we are uneasy about him.”
“No, no, certainly not. Don’t say a word of this to him. I shall find Harry, and ask about these disturbed nights, and then watch him, trusting it may not have gone too far; but there must be dreadful excitability of brain!”
He went away, leaving Margaret to comfort Ethel as well as she could, by showing her that he had not said the mischief was done, putting her in mind that he was wont to speak strongly; and trying to make her thankful that her brother would now have such care as might avert all evil results.
“But, oh,” said Ethel, “his success has been dearly purchased!”
CHAPTER XII.
“It hath do me mochil woe.”
“Yea hath it? Use,” quod he, “this medicine;
Every daie this Maie or that thou dine,
Go lokin in upon the freshe daisie,
And though thou be for woe in poinct to die,
That shall full gretly lessen thee of thy pine.”
CHAUCER.
That night Norman started from, what was not so much sleep, as a trance of oppression and suffering, and beheld his father’s face watching him attentively.
“Papa! What’s the matter?” said he, starting up. “Is any one ill?”
“No; no one, lie down again,” said Dr. May, possessing himself of a hand, with a burning spot in the palm, and a throbbing pulse.
“But what made you come here? Have I disturbed any one? Have I been talking?”
“Only mumbling a little, but you looked very uncomfortable.”
“But I’m not ill—what are you feeling my pulse for?” said Norman uneasily.
“To see whether that restless sleep has quickened it.”
Norman scarcely let his father count for a moment, before he asked, “What o’clock is it?”
“A little after twelve.”
“What does make you stay up so late, papa?”
“I often do when my arm seems likely to keep me awake. Richard has done all I want.”
“Pray don’t stay here in the cold,” said Norman, with feverish impatience, as he turned upwards the cool side of his pillow. “Good-night!”
“No hurry,” said his father, still watching him.
“There’s nothing the matter,” repeated the boy.
“Do you often have such unquiet nights?”
“Oh, it does not signify. Good-night,” and he tried to look settled and comfortable.
“Norman,” said his father, in a voice betraying much grief, “it will not do to go on in this way. If your mother was here, you would not close yourself against her.”
Norman interrupted him in a voice strangled with sobs: “It is no good saying it—I thought it would only make it worse for you; but that’s it. I cannot bear the being without her.”
Dr. May was glad to see that a gush of tears followed this exclamation, as Norman hid his face under the coverings.
“My poor boy,” said he, hardly able to speak, “only One can comfort you truly; but you must not turn from me; you must let me do what I can for you, though it is not the same.”
“I thought it would grieve you more,” said Norman, turning his face towards him again.
“What, to find my children, feeling with me, and knowing what they have lost? Surely not, Norman.”
“And it is of no use,” added Norman, hiding his face again, “no one can comfort—”
“There you are wrong,” said Dr. May, with deep feeling, “there is much comfort in everything, in everybody, in kindness, in all around, if one can only open one’s mind to it. But I did not come to keep you awake with such talk: I
