speak of it without having to wipe his spectacles, and who so longs to hear of Dr. Spencer.”
“And what did he say?”
“Nothing; so Flora and Sir Matthew got to pictures and all that sort of thing, and it was all company talk after that.”
“Most entertaining in its kind,” said Flora: “but—oh, Norman!” as he entered—“why, they are not out of the dining-room yet!”
“No; they are talking of some new invention, and most likely will not come for an hour.”
“Are you going to bed?”
“Papa followed me out of the dining-room to tell me to do so after tea.”
“Then sit down there, and I’ll go and make some, and let it come up with Margaret’s. Come, Ethel. Good-night, Norman. Is your head aching to-night?”
“Not much, now I have got out of the dining-room.”
“It would have been wiser not to have gone in,” said Flora, leaving the room.
“It was not the dinner, but the man,” said Norman. “It is incomprehensible to me how my father could take to him. I’d as soon have Harvey Anderson for a friend!”
“You are like me,” said Ethel, “in being glad he is not our uncle.”
“He presume to think of falling in love with Aunt Flora!” cried Norman indignantly.
“Why, what is the matter with him?” asked Margaret. “I can’t find much ground for Ethel’s dislike, and Flora is pleased.”
“She did not hear the worst, nor you either, Ethel,” said Norman. “I could not stand the cold hard way he spoke of hospital patients. I am sure he thinks poor people nothing but a study, and rich ones nothing but a profit. And his half sneers! But what I hated most was his way of avoiding discussions. When he saw he had said what would not go down with papa, he did not honestly stand up to the point, and argue it out, but seemed to have no mind of his own, and to be only talking to please papa—but not knowing how to do it. He understand my father indeed!”
Norman’s indignation had quite revived him, and Margaret was much entertained with the conflicting opinions. The next was Richard’s, when he came in late to wish her good-night, after he had been attending on Sir Matthew’s examination of his father’s arm. He did nothing but admire the surgeon’s delicacy of touch and understanding of the case, his view agreeing much better with Dr. May’s own than that with Mr. Ward’s. Dr. May had never been entirely satisfied with the present mode of treatment, and Richard was much struck by hearing him say, in answer to Sir Matthew, that he knew his recovery might have been more speedy and less painful if he had been able to attend to it at first, or to afford time for being longer laid up. A change of treatment was now to be made, likely soon to relieve the pain, to be less tedious and troublesome, and to bring about a complete cure in three or four months at latest. In hearing such tidings, there could be little thought of the person who brought them, and Margaret did not, till the last moment, learn that Richard thought Sir Matthew very clever and sensible, and certain to understand her case. Her last visitor was her father: “Asleep, Margaret? I thought I had better go to Norman first in case he should be awake.”
“Was he?”
“Yes, but his pulse is better to-night. He was lying awake to hear what Fleet thought of me. I suppose Richard told you?”
“Yes, dear papa; what a comfort it is!”
“Those fellows in London do keep up to the mark! But I would not be there for something. I never saw a man so altered. However, if he can only do for you as well—but it is of no use talking about it. I may trust you to keep yourself calm, my dear?”
“I am trying—indeed I am, dear papa. If you could help being anxious for me—though I know it is worse for you, for I only have to lie still, and you have to settle for me. But I have been thinking how well off I am, able to enjoy so much, and be employed all day long. It is nothing to compare with that poor girl you told me of, and you need not be unhappy for me. I have some verses to say over to myself to-night:
“O Lord my God, do Thou Thy holy will,
I will lie still,
I will not stir, lest I forsake Thine arm
And break the charm
That lulls me, clinging to my Father’s breast
In perfect rest.”
“Is not that comfortable?”
“My child—my dear child—I will say no more, lest I should break your sweet peace with my impatience. I will strive for the same temper, my Margaret. Bless you, dearest, good-night.”
After a night spent in waking intervals of such thoughts, Margaret found the ordinary morning, and the talk she could not escape, somewhat oppressive. Her brothers and sisters disturbed her by their open expressions of hope and anxiety; she dreaded to have the balance of tranquillity overset; and then blamed herself for selfishness in not being as ready to attend to them as usual. Ethel and Norman came up after breakfast, their aversion by no means decreased by further acquaintance. Ethel was highly indignant at the tone in which he had exclaimed, “What, May, have you one as young as this?” on discovering the existence of the baby; and when Norman observed that was not so atrocious either, she proceeded, “You did not hear the contemptuous, compassionate tone when he asked papa what he meant to do with all these boys.”
“I’m glad he has not to settle,” said Norman.
“Papa said Harry was to be a sailor, and he said it was a good way to save expenses of education—a good thing.”
“No doubt,” said Norman, “he thinks papa only wants to get rid of us, or if not, that it is an amiable weakness.”
“But I can’t see anything so shocking in this,” said Margaret.
“It is not the words,” said Norman, “the look and tone convey it; but there are different opinions. Flora is quite smitten with him, he talks so politely to her.”
“And Blanche!” said Ethel. “The little affected pussy-cat made a set at him, bridled and talked in her mincing voice, with all her airs, and made him take a great deal of notice of her.”
Nurse here came to prepare for the surgeon’s visit.
It was over, and Margaret awaited the judgment. Sir Matthew had spoken hopefully to her, but she feared to fasten hopes on what might have no meaning, and could rely on nothing, till she had seen her father, who never kept back his genuine opinion, and would least of all from her. She found her spirits too much agitated to talk to her sisters, and quietly begged them to let her be quite alone till the consultation was over, and she lay trying to prepare herself to submit thankfully, whether she might be bidden to resign herself to helplessness, or to let her mind open once more to visions of joyous usefulness. Every step she hoped would prove to be her father’s approach, and the longest hour of her life was that before he entered her room. His face said that the tidings were good, and yet she could not ask.
“Well, Margaret, I am glad we had him down. He thinks you may get about again, though it may be a long time first.”
