 Part 2, Chapter 7 of The Daisy Chain. He cumbers fashions, crowd not on my head, Mind be the chip of purest white, swan-like, And, as her feathers light, went on the still-wave spread, And let it wear the graceful dress Of unadorned simple-ness. Catherine Fanshawe's parody on Grey. Nothing transpired to the discredit of Lieutenant Rivers. He had spent a great deal of money But chiefly for want of something else to do. And, though he was not a subject for high praise, there was no vice in him, no more than in an old donkey, as Dr. May declared, in his concluding paroxysm of despair. On finding that, though there was little to reconcile him to the engagement, there was no reasonable ground for thwarting his daughter's wishes. He argued the matter once more with her, and, finding her purpose fixed, he notified his consent, and the rest of the family were admitted to a knowledge of the secret which they had never suspected. A felt-hood could not help being gratified with the indignation it excited. With one voice, Miriam Blanche declared that they would never give up the title of the detestable, and would not make him any presence, certainly not watch-chains. Ms. Bracey, rather alarm, lectured them just enough to make them worse, and Margaret, overhearing Blanche instructing Aubrey in her own impertnances, was obliged to call her to her sofa, and assure her that she was unkind to Flora, and that she must consider Mr. George Rivers as her brother. Never, my brother, like Harry, exclaimed Mary indignantly. No, indeed, nor like Alan, exclaimed Blanche, and I won't call him George. I am determined if it is ever so. It will not matter to him what such little girls call him, said Margaret. Blanche was so annihilated that the sound of a carriage and of the doorbell was a great satisfaction to her. Meta Rivers came flying into the room, her beautiful eyes dancing, and her cheeks glowing with pleasure, as, a little timidly, she kissed Margaret, while Ethel, in a confused way, received Mr. Rivers, in pain for her own cold, abrupt manner, in contrast with his gentle, congratulating politeness. Meta asked, blushing, and with a hesitating voice, for their dear Flora, Mary offered to call her but made a beg to go herself, and thus was spared the awkwardness that ensued. Ethel was almost vexed with herself, as ungrateful, when she saw Mr. Rivers so mildly kind, and so delighted, with the bland courtesy that seemed fully conscious of the favor that Flora had conferred on his son, and thankful to the maize for accepting him. Margaret answered with more expression of gratification than would have been sincere in Ethel, but it was a relief when Flora and Meta came in together, as pretty contrast as could be seen. The little dark-eyed fairy, all radiant with joy, clinging to the slender waist of Flora, whose quiet grace and maidenly dignity were never more conspicuous than as, with a soft red man playing in her fair cheek, her eyes cast down, but with a simple, unaffected warmth of confidence and gratitude, she came forward to receive Mr. Rivers' caressing affectionate greeting. Stiffness was over when she came in, and Dr. May, who presently made his appearance, soon was much more at his ease than could have been hoped, after his previous declaration said he should never be able to be moderately civil about it to Mr. Rivers. People of very sympathy, such as Dr. May and Margaret, have a great deal of difficulty with their sincerity spared them, by being carried along with the feelings of others. Ethel could not feel the same, and was bent on avoiding any expression of opinion. She hoped that Meta's ecstasies would all be bestowed upon her future sister-in-law. But Meta was eager for an interview with Ethel herself, and, as usual, gained her point. Now then, you are property of my own, she cried. May I not take you all for sisters? Ethel had not thought of this as a convenience of the connection, and she let Meta kiss her and own that it was very nice. Ethel, said Meta, I see, and I wanted to talk to you. You don't think, poor George, good enough for Flora. I never meant to show it, said Ethel. You need not mind, said Meta, smiling. I was very much surprised myself, and thought it all a mistake. But I am so very glad, for I know it will make such a difference to him, poor fellow. I should like to tell you all about him, for no one else can very well, and you will like him better, perhaps. You know, my grandfather made his own fortune, and you would think some of our relations very queer. My Aunt Dorothy once told me all about it. Papa was made to marry the partner's daughter, and a fancy she could not have been much of a lady. I don't think he could have been very happy with her, but she soon died, and left him with this one son, who those odd old aunts brought up their own way. I invite, you know, Papa came to be in quite another line of society, but when he married again, poor George had been so spoiled by these aunts, and was so big and old, that my mother did not know what to make of him. A great, lovely boy, Ethel said, rather repenting the next moment. He is 13 years older than I am, said Meta, and you see it has been hard on him altogether. He had not the education that Papa would have given him if he had been born later, and he can't remember his mother, and has always been at a loss when with clever people. I never understood it, till within the last two or three years, nor knew how trying it must be to see such a little chit as me made so much up, almost thrusting him aside. But you cannot think what a warm hearted good fellow he is. He has never been otherwise than so very kind to me, and he was so very fond of his old aunt. Hitherto he has had such disadvantages, and no real, sensible woman has taken him in hand. He does not care for Papa's tastes, and I am so much younger that I never could get on with him at all, till this time. But I do know that he has a real good temper, and all sorts of good qualities, and that he only needs to be led right, to go right. Oh, Flora may make anything of him, and we are so thankful to her for having found it out. Thank you for telling me, said Ethel. It is much more satisfactory to have no shamming. Meta laughed, for Ethel's sham was not too successful. She continued. Dear Dr. May, I thought he would think his beautiful Flora not exactly matched. But tell him, Ethel, for if he wants his sorry for poor George, he will like him, and it will really be the making of George, to be thrown with him and your brothers. Oh, we are so glad, but I won't tease you to be so. I can like it better now, said Ethel. You know Norman thinks very highly of your brother, and Declare said it will all come out by and by. Meta clapped her hand, and said that she should tell her father and Ethel parted with her, liking her, at least, better than ever. There was a comical scene between her and the doctor, trying to define what relations they should become to each other, which Ethel thought did a good deal to mollify her father. The history of George's life did more. He took to pitying him, and pity was, indeed, a can to love in the good doctor's mind. In fact, George was a man who could be liked, when once regarded as a belonging, a necessity, not a choice, for it was quite true that there was no harm in him, and a great deal of good nature. His constant kindness and evident liking for Margaret stood him in good stead. He made her a sort of confidant, bestowing on her his immeasurable appreciation of florid's perfections, and telling her how well he was getting on with the old gentleman, a name under which she failed to recognize her father. As to Tom, he wrote his congratulations to Ethel, that she might make a wedding present of her trust in faces, the cube is on which must have been put there by anticipation. Richard heard none of the doubts, and gave kind, warm congratulations, promising to return home for the wedding. And Mary and Blanche no sooner heard a whisper about Bricemaids than all their opposition faded away, in a manner that quite scandalized Ethel, while it set Margaret on reminiscences of her having been a six-year-old Bricemaid to florid's godmother, Mrs. Arnott. As to the gossip in the town, Ethel quite dreaded the sight of everyone without Florida to protect her, and certainly florid's unaffected, quiet manner was perfection, and kept off all two forward congratulations, while it gratified those whom she was willing to encourage. There was no reason for waiting, and Mr. Rivers was as impatient as his son, so an understanding arose that the wedding should take place near the end of the Christmas holidays. Laura showed herself sensible and considerate. Always open-handed, her father was inclined to do everything liberally, and laid no restrictions on her preparations, but she had too much discretion to be profuse, and had a real regard for the welfare of the rest. She locked with Ethel at the anticipations of the stone moral ladies that she must be going to London, and at the requests, as a great favor, that they might be allowed the sight of her trousseau. Her wedding dress, white silk, with a white cashmere mantle, was indeed ordered from Mida's London dressmaker, but for the rest, she contented herself with an expedition to Whitford, accompanied by Miss Bracey and her two enchanted pupils, and there laid in a stock of purchases, unpretending and in good taste, aiming only at what could be well done, and not attempting the decorative wardrobe of a great lady. Ethel was highly amused when the Mrs. Anderson came for their inspection, to see their concealed disappointment at finding no undergarments trimmed with bustles lace, nor pocket hanger chips all open marked except at the center of the size of a crown piece, and the only thing remarkable was Margaret's beautiful marking and embroidery. There was some compensation in the costly wedding presents. Flora had reaped a whole harvest from friends of her own, grateful patients of her father, and the whole rivers and landale connection. But in spite of the brilliant uselessness of most of these, the young ladies considered themselves ill-used, thought Dr. May never would have been shabby, and were of opinion that when this ward had married her father's surgical pupil, her outfit had been a far more edifying spectacle. The same moderation influenced Flora's other arrangements. Dr. May was resigned to whatever might be thought most proper, stipulating only that he should not have to make a speech. But Flora felt that, in their house, a grand breakfast would be an unsuccessful and melancholy affair. If the bride had been anyone else, she could have enjoyed making all go off well. But under present circumstances, it would be great pain to her father and Margaret, a mystery to Ethel, and something she dared not think of to the guests. She had no difficulty in having it dispensed with. George was glad to avoid a great nuisance. Mr. Rivers feared the fatigue, and, with his daughter, admired Flora for her amiability, and, as to the home party, no words could express their gratitude to her for letting them off. Mary and Blanche did, indeed, look rather blank, but Blanche was consoled by settling with Hector the Splendorson's door for Allen and Margaret, and Mary cared the less, as there would be no hurry to enjoy the fun. The bride-maiden's glory was theirs by right, though Ethel was an unsatisfactory chief who such as desired Splendor. She protested against anything incongruous with January, or that could not be useful afterwards, and made it to her part, laughing at the cruel stroke they were preparing for belayers. Ethel begged for dark silks and straw bonnets, and Flora said that she had expected to hear of brown stuff and gray duffel, but owned that they had better o'med the ordinary muslin garb in the heart of winter. The baby bride's maid was, at last, the chief consideration. Margaret suggested how pretty she and Blanche would look in sky-boomerino, trimmed with swans down, made it was charmed with the idea, and though Ethel stuck out her shoulder blades and poked out her head, and said she should look like the ugly duckling, she was clamorously reminded that the ugly duckling ended by being a swan, and promised that she should be allowed a bonnet of a reasonable size, trimmed with white, for Mr. Rivers's good taste could endure, as little as Dr. May said some propriety, the sight of a daughter without shade to her face. Ethel, finally, gave in, on being put in mind, that her papa had a penchant for swans down, and on Margaret's promising to wear a dress of the same as theirs. Ethel was pleased and satisfied by Flora's justice like of gray, and attention to the feelings of all. Passing over the one great fact, the two sisters were more of one mind than usual, probably because all latent jealousy of Ethel had ceased in Flora's mind. Hitherto, she had preferred the being the only practically useful person in the family, and had encouraged the idea of Ethel's grocery, but now she desired to render her sister able to take her place, and did all in her power to put her in good heart. For if Eldred was terrified at the prospect of becoming responsible housekeeper, Margaret could only serve as an occasional reference. Her morning powers became too uncertain to be depended on for any regular, necessary duty, and it would have oppressed her so much to order the dinners, which she never saw, that, though she offered to resume the office, Flora would not hear of Ethel's consenting. If it were her proper business, Ethel suppose she could do it, but another hour of her leisure was gone, and what would become of them all, with her, a proverb for heedlessness and ignorance of ordinary details. She did not know that these were more proverbial than actual, and, having a bad name, she believed in it herself. However, Flora made it her business to persuade her that her powers were as good for household matters as for books or coxmoor. She guided her in her own methodical plans, and made her keep house for a fortnight, with so much success that she began to be hopeful. In the attendance on Margaret, the other great charge, Old Nurse was the security, and Ethel, who had felt herself much less unhandy than before, was, to succeed to the abode, in her room, blanched being promoted from the nursery to the Old Attic, and said Flora consolingly, if dear Margaret ever should be ill, you may reckon on me. Miss Flora May made her last appearance at the ladies' committee to hear the reply from the principal of the college. It was a civil letter, but declined taking any steps in the matter without more certain intelligence of the wishes of the incumbent of the parish or of the holders of the land in question. The ladies abused all colleges as prejudiced old bodies and feared that it would be impossible to ask Mrs. Parkinson's niece to take the school while there was neither room nor lodging. So Miss Rich recorded the correspondence, and the vote of censor, by which it was to be hoped the ladies' committee of Margaret Stoneborough inflicted a severe blow on the principal and fellows of M. College. Never mind Ethel, said Flora, I shall meet Sir Henry walking aim in London, and we'll talk to him. We shall yet astonish the muses. If we can get the land without them, we shall be able to manage it our own way without obligations. You forget the money. We will keep them from dissipating it, or that might be no harm. A hundred pounds be easily found, and we should then have it in our own hands. Besides, you know, I don't mean to give up. I shall write a polite note to Mrs. Ledwitch begging to subscribe on my own account and to retain my seat, and you will see what we shall do. You mean to come down with the external authority, said Ethel, smiling. True, and though my driving in with a pair of horses may make little difference to you, Ethel, the pent upon it, Mrs. Ledwitch will be the more amenable. Whenever I want to be particularly impressive, I shall bring in that smelling bottle with a diamond stopper that won't come out, and you will find that carries all before it. A talisman, said Ethel, laughing, but I had rather they yielded to a sense of right. So had I, said Flora, perhaps you will rule them that way. Not I, cried Ethel, terrified. Then you must come to me, and secondary motives. Seriously, I do mean that George should do something for Stoneborough, and in a position of influence I hope to be able to be useful to my poor old town. Perhaps we shall have the minster restored. Flora did wish it. She did love Stoneborough, and was sincerely interested for Coxmore. She thought she worked earnestly for them, and that her situation would be turned to their profit, but there was something for which she worked more earnestly. Had Flora never heard of the two masters whom we cannot serve at the same time? Richard came home for a parson's week, so as to include the wedding. He looked very fresh and youthful, but his manner, though still gentle and retiring, had lost all that shrinking diffidence and had, now, a very suitable grave composure. Everybody was delighted to have him, and Ethel, more than anyone except Margaret. What floods of Coxmore histories report upon him, and what comparing of notes about his present schoolchildren. He could not enter into the refinements of her dread of ladies' committees, and thought she might be thankful if the school were built by any proper means. Or, if Chariall Wood were retained, and the ladies prevented from doing harm, he did not understand why Ethel should wish to reject all assistants that did not come in a manner she admired. He never would comprehend, so Ethel gave it up. Feared she was again jealous and self-sufficient, and contented herself with the joy that his presence produced at Coxmore, where the children smiled, lushed, and tittered with ecstasy whenever he even looked at one of them. Richard was not allowed to have a Sunday of rest. His father apologized for having made an engagement for him, as Mr. Ramston was unwell, and the school clergy were all absent, so that he could do no otherwise than assist in the service. Richard colored and said that he had brought no sermon, and he was, in fact, deprived of much of his sister's company, for composition was not easy to him, and the quantity of time he spent on it quite alarmed Norman and Ethel, who both felt rather nervous on the Sunday morning, but agreed that preaching was not everything. Ethel could not see well as far as the reading desk, but she saw her father glance up, take off his spectacles, wipe them, and put them away, and she could not be displeased, though she looked reproof at Blanche's breathless whisper. Oh, he looked so nice! Those white folds did truly suit well with the meek, serious expression of the young deacon's fair face, and made him, as the sisters afterwards said, like one of the solemnly peaceful angel carvings of the earlier ages. His voice was sweet and clear, and his reading full of quiet simplicity and devotion, such as was not often heard by that congregation, who were too much used to either carelessness or to pomposity. The sermon made his brother and sister ashamed of their fears. It was an exposition of the gospel for the day, practical and earnest, going deep and rising high, with a clearness and soberness, yet with a beauty and elevation, such as Norman and Ethel had certainly not expected, or, rather, they forgot all their own expectations and Richard himself, and only recollected their own hearts and the great future before them. Even Blanche and Aubrey told Margaret a great deal about it, and declared that, if Richard preached every Sunday, they should like going to church much better. When Dr. May came in, sometime after, he was looking much pleased. So, Mr. Richie, he said, you have made quite a sensation. Everyone shaking me by the hand and thanking me for my son's sermon. You will be a popular preacher at last. Richard blushed distressedfully, and quoted the saying that it would be the true comfort to hear that people went home, thinking of themselves rather than of the sermon. This put an end to the subject, but the doctor went over it again, most thoroughly, with his other children, who were greatly delighted. Laura's last home Sunday. She was pale and serious, evidently feeling much, though seeking no tete-tete, and chiefly engrossed with waiting on Margaret, or fondling little Gertrude. No one saw the inside of her mind. Probably she did not herself. On the outside was a very suitable pensiveness and affection for all that she was leaving. The only one in the family to whom she talked much was Norman, who continued to see many perfections in George, and contrived, by the force of his belief, to impress the same on the others, and to make them think his great talent for silence such a proof of his discretion that they were not staggered, even by his shy, blundering exclamation that his wedding would be a great nuisance, a phrase which, as Dr. May observed, was, to him, what est-il possible was to his namesake of Denmark. Nobody wished for any misgivings, so Richard was never told of any, though there was a careful watch kept to see what were his first impressions. None transpired except something about good nature, but it was shrewdly believed that Richard and George, being much alike in shy unwillingness to speak, had been highly satisfied with the little trouble they had caused to each other, and so had come to a tacit esteem. There was very little bustle of preparation, accepting the packing everything went on much as usual, till the Thursday morning, and then the children were up early, refreshing their Christmas hollies, and working up their excitement, only to have it damped by the suppressed agitation of their elders at the breakfast table. Dr. May did not seem to know what he was about, and Flora looked paler and paler. She went away before the meal was over, and when Ethel went to the bedroom, shortly after, she found that she had fairly broken down, and was kneeling besides Margaret's sofa, resting her head on her sister's bosom, and sobbing, as Ethel had never seen her weep except on that dreadful night after their mother's death. In a person ordinarily of such self-command as Flora, weeping was a terrible thing, and Margaret was much distressed and alarmed. But the worst had passed before Ethel came up, and Flora was able to speak. Oh, Margaret, I cannot leave you. Oh, how happy we have been. You are going to be happier, we trust, dearest, said Margaret Fomley. Oh, what have I done? It is not worth it! Ethel thought she caught those words, but no more. Mary's step was heard, and Flora was on her feet, instantly, composing herself rapidly. She shed no more tears, but her eyelids were very heavy, and her face softened, in a manner that, though she was less pretty than usual, was very becoming under her bridal veil. She recovered calmness and even cheerfulness, while reversing the usual order of things and dressing her bridesmaids, who would never have turned out fit to be seen, but for the exertions of herself Margaret and Miss Bracey. Ethel's long scotch bones and Mary's round, dumpy shapelessness were, in their different ways, equally hard to overcome, and the one was welled out with a fabulous number of petticoats, and the other pinched in, till she gassed and screamed for mercy, while Blanche and Gertrude danced about, beautiful and behold under their shady hats, and presently, with a light tap at the door, Meta River stepped in, looking so pretty, that all felt that to try to attain to such an appearance was vain. Timid in her affection, she hardly dared to do more than kiss them, and whisper her pretty caressing words to each. There was no more time, Dr. Hoxton's carriage was come to take up the bride. Ethel did as she was told, without much volition of her own, and she quitted the carriage and was drawn into her place by Norman, trusting that Meta would not let her do wrong, and relieved that just in front of her were the little ones over whose heads she could see her father, with Flora's veiled, bending figure. That pause, while the procession was getting into order, the slow movement of the center aisle, the weekday atmosphere of the church, brought back to her thoughts a very different time, and one of those strange equings on the mind repeated in her ears the words, for man walketh in a vain shadow, and disquieteth himself in vain. There was a little pause, George did not seem to be forthcoming, and Meta turned round, rather uneasily, and whispered something about his having been so nervous. However, there he was, looking exceedingly red and very sheepish, and disposed to fall back on his best man, Norman, whose countenance was at the brightest, and almost handsome. Dr. Hoxton performed the ceremony, assisted by Richard. It had been Flora's choice, and his loud, sonorous voice was thought very impressive. Lange stood the nearest, and looked happy and important, with Flora's glove. Gertrude held Mary's hand, and gave straight up into the fretted roof, as if that were to her the chief marvel. Ethel stood and knelt, but did not seem, to herself, to have the power of thinking or feeling. She saw and heard, that was all. She could not realize. They drew her forward, when it was over, to sign her name as witness. She took up the pen, looked at the floor may, written for the last time, and found her hand so trembling, that she said, half smiling, that she could not write. Mary was only too well pleased to supply the deficiency. Dr. May looked at her anxiously, and asked whether she felt overcome. No, Papa, I did not know my hand was shaky. He took it into his and pressed it. Ethel knew, then, how much had been undeveloped in her own mind, catching it, as it were, from his touch and look. The thought of his past joy, the sad fading of hope for Margaret, the fear and doubt for the present bride, above all, the sense that the fashion of this world passes away, and that it is not the outward scene, but our bearing in it, that is to last forever. The bells struck up, each peel ending with a crash that gave Ethel some vague idea of fatality, and they all came back to the house where Margaret was ready, in the drying room, to receive them, looking very pretty, in her soft blue dress, which especially became her fair complexion and light brown hair. Ethel did not quite like the pink color on her cheeks, and feared that she had been shaken by Flora's agitation in the morning, but she was very calm and bright, in the affectionate greeting with which she held out her hands to the bride and bridegroom as they came in. Mr. Rivers and Mata were the only guests, and, while Mata was seized by the children, Margaret lay talking to Mr. Rivers, large standing upright and silent behind her sofa, like a sentinel. Flora was gone to change her dress, not giving way, but nervous and hurried as she reiterated parting directions about household comforts to Ethel, who stood by the toilet table, sticking a pin into the pincushion and drying it out again, as if solely intent on making it always fit into the same hole, while Mary dressed Flora, packed, flew about, and was useful. As they came downstairs, Ethel found that Flora was trembling from head to foot, and leaning on her. Dr. May stood at the foot of the stairs and folded his daughter in a long embrace. Flora gave herself up to it as if she would never bear to leave it. Did a flash come over then? What the father was, whom she had held cheaply? What was the worth of that for which she had exchanged such a home? She spoke not a word, she only clung tightly. If her heart failed her, it was too late. Bless you, my child, he said at last. Only be what your mother was. A coming dread warned them to part. There was a tray of luncheon for the two who were about to depart, and the great snow-white cake was waiting for Flora to cut it. She smiled, accomplished that feat steadily, and Norman, continuing the operation, obligated Gertrude in handing round the slices. George did full justice there, too, as well as to the more solid vions. Flora could taste nothing, but she contrived to smile and say it was too early. She was in haste to have it over now, and, as soon as George had finished, she rose up, still composed, and resolved. The last kisses were given. Gertrude was lifted up to her after she was in the carriage for the very last, when George proposed to run away with her also, where Pondaisie kicked and screamed, and was taken back in haste. The door was shut, and they drove off, bound for the continent, and then Mary, as if the contingency of losing Flora had only for the first time occurred to her as the consequence of the wedding, broke out into a piteous fit of sobbing, rather too unrestrained considering her fourteen years. Poor Mary, she was a very child still. They pulled her into the study, out of the way of Mr. Rivers, and Maida had no sooner said how Flora would soon come home and live at the Grange, and talked of the grand school feast to which she was at once going to take her friends. Then the round rosy face drew out of its melancholy puckers into smiles, as Mary began to tell the delight caused by the invitations which she had conveyed. That was to be a feast indeed, all the abbots' dope children, all Flora's class at Stone Burl, and as many coxmore scholars as could walk so far, were to dine on Christmas fair at one o'clock at the Grange, and Maida was in haste to be at home to superintend the feast. Mary, Blanche, and Aubrey went with her under the keeping of Ms. Bracey. The boys were to follow. She had hoped for Ethel, but on looking at her ceased her coaxing importunity. I see, she said kindly, even schoolchildren will not be so good for you as peace. Thank you, said Ethel. I should like to be quiet till the evening if you will let me off. It is very kind in you. I ought to know how to pity you, said Maida. I, who have gained what you have lost. I want to thank you, said Ethel. It is the beginning to me of a new life, and I have not been able to look at it yet. Besides, Margaret will want you. For Margaret, has it been very trying to her? I fear so, but I shall keep out of her way and leave her to a quiet afternoon with Richard. It will be the greatest treat to those two to be together. Very well, I will carry off the children and leave the house quiet. And quiet it was in another hour. Gertrude walking with the nurses, Dr. May gone to his patients, and all the rest at Abbott Stoke, except Richard and Margaret downstairs, and Ethel, who, while arranging her properties in her new room, had full leisure to lay out before herself the duties that had devolved on her and to grapple with them. She recalled the many councils that she had received from Flora, and they sounded so bewildering that she wished it had been conic sections, and then she looked at a Hebrew grammar that Norman had given her and gave a sigh as she slipped it into the shelf of the cell used. She looked about the room, cleared out the last piece of brown paper, and burned the last torn envelope that no relic of packing and change my distressed Margaret's eyes for order. Then feeling at once desolate and intrusive, she sat down in Flora's fireside chair, opened her desk, and took out her last timetable. She looked at it for some minutes, laid it aside, and rising knelt down. Again, seating herself, she resumed her paper, took a blank one, ruled it, and wrote her rules for each hour of each day in the week. That first hour after breakfast, when hitherto she had been free, was one sacrifice. It must go now to ordering dinner, seeing after stores, watching over the children's clothes, and the other nondescripts, which happily for her, Flora had already reduced to method. The other loss was the spare time between the walk and tea. She must not spend that in her own room now, or there would be no one to sit with Margaret or keep the little ones from being troublesome to her. Ethel had often had to give up this space before, when Flora went out in the evening, and she had seldom felt otherwise than annoyed. Give it up for good. That was secure for temper, but it had been valuable as something of her own. She would have been thankful, could she have hoped to keep regularly to her own rules, but that she knew was utterly improbable. Boys, holidays, callers, engagements, Dr. May would all conspire to turn half her days upside down, and Coxmore itself most often depend not only on the weather, but on home doings. Two or three notes, she wrote at the foot of her paper, and B, these are a standard, not a bed of procrastis, musts to be first consulted, mays last, Ethel mays last of all. If I cannot do everything, omit the self-chosen. Mem, neither hurry when it depends on myself, nor fidget when it depends on others, keep a book going to pacify myself. Her rules drawn up, Ethel knelt once more. Then she drew a long sigh, and wondered where Flora was. And next, as she was fairly fagged, mind and body, she threw herself back in the armchair, took up a railway novel that Hector had brought home, and which they had hidden from the children, and repaired herself with the luxury of an idle reading. Margaret and Richard likewise been a peaceful, the pensive afternoon. Margaret had portions of letters from Alan to read to him, and a consultation to hold. The hope of her full recovery had so melted away that she had, in every letter, striven to prepare Mr. Ernst's clip for the disappointment, and each that she received in return was so sanguine and affectionate that the very fondness was as much grief as joy. She could not believe that he took in the true state of the case, or was prepared to perceive that she could never be his wife, and she wanted Richard to write one of his clear, dispassionate statements, such as carried full conviction, and to help to put a final end to the engagement. But why, said Richard, why should you wish to distress him? Because I cannot bear that he should be deceived, and should feed on false hopes. Do you think it right, Richard? I will write to him if you like, said Richard, but I think he must pretty well know the truth from all the letters to Harry and to himself. It would be so much better for him to settle his mind at once, said Margaret. Perhaps he would not think so. There was a pause while Margaret saw that her brother was thinking. At last he said, Margaret, will you pardon me? I do think that this is a little restlessness. The truth has not been kept from him, and I do not see that we are called to force it on him. He is sensible and reasonable, and will know how to judge when he comes home. It was to try to save him the pain, murmured Margaret. Yes, but it will be worse far away than near. I do not mean that we should conceal the fact, but you have no right to give him up before he comes home. The whole engagement was for the time of his voyage. Then you think I ought not to break it off before his return? Certainly not. It will be pain spared, unless it should be worse by and by. I do not suppose we ought to look to by and by, said Richard. How so? Do the clearly right thing for the present, I mean, he said, without anxiety for the rest. How do we, any of us, know what may be the case in another year? Do not flatter me with hopes, said Margaret, sadly smiling. I have had too many of them. No, said Richard, I do not think you will ever get well, but so much may happen. I had rather have my mind made up once for all and resign myself, said Margaret. His will is sometimes that we should be uncertain, said Richard. And that is the most trying, said Margaret. Just so, and he paused tenderly. I feel how much has been right, said Margaret. This wedding has brought my real character before me. I feel what I should have been. You have no notion how excited and elated I can get about a little bit of dress out of the common way for myself or others, said she, smiling, and then all the external show and things belonging to station. I naturally care much more for them than even Flora does. Ethel would bear all those things as if they did not exist. I could not. There would be a temptation. They would once have been. Yes, they would now, said Margaret, and government and management and influence. You would not guess what dreams I used to waste on them. And now here am I set aside from it all good for nothing, but for all you dear ones to be kind to. They would not say so, said Richard kindly. Not say it, but I feel it. Papa and Ethel are all the world to each other. Richard, I may say it to you. There has been only one thing more hard to bear than that. Don't suppose there was a moment's neglect or disregard. But when first I understood that Ethel could be more to him than I, then I could not always feel rightly. It was the punishment for always wanting to be first. My father would be grieved that you had the notion you should not keep it. He does not know it is so, said Margaret. I am his first care, I fear, his second grief, but it is not in the nature of things that Ethel should not be more his comfort and companion. Oh, I am glad it was not she who married. What shall we do when she goes? This came from Margaret's heart so as to show that if there had once been a jealous pang of mortification, it had been healed by overflowing unselfish affection and humility. They went off to praise Ethel and thence to praise Norman and the elder brother and sister, who might have had some jealousy of the superiority of their juniors, spent a good happy hour indwelling on the shining qualities they loved so heartily. And Richard was drawn into talking of his own deeper thoughts, and Margaret had again the comfort of clerical counsel, and now from our own most dear brother. So they sat till darkness closed in, when Ethel came down, bringing Gertrude and her great favor, very full of chatter, only not quite sure whether she had been bride, bridesmaid, or bridegroom. The school room sat with Tom and Aubrey, came home soon after, and tongues went fast with stories of roast beef, plum pudding and blind man's buff. How the dear Metta had sent a cart to Coxmore to bring cherry herself, and how many slices everybody had eaten, and how the bride's health had been drunk by the children in real wine, and how they had all played, Norman and all, and how Hector had made blanche bold enough to extract a raisin from the flaming snap-dragon. It was not half-told when Dr. May came home, and Ethel went up to dress for her dinner at Abbott Stoke, merry following to help her and continue her narration, which bade fair to entertain Margaret the whole evening. Dr. May, Richard, and Ethel had a comfortable dark drive to the Grange, and, on arriving, found Hector deep in wild sports of the West, while Norman and Metta were sitting over the fire talking, and Mr. Rivers was resting in his library. And when Ethel and Metta spent the time before the gentleman came in from the dining-room, in a happy te-ta-tet, Ethel learned that the fire-light dialogue had been the pleasantest part of the whole day, and that Metta had had confided to her the existence of Desius Moose, a secret which Ethel had hitherto considered as her own peculiar property, but she supposed it was the pledge of the sisterhood, which made it professed with all the House of May. End of Part 2 Chapter 7, Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. Part 2 Chapter 8 of the Daisy Chain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Daisy Chain by Charlotte Mary Young, Part 2 Chapter 8. The rest all accepted the kind invitation and much bustle it caused in the plumed creation, such ruffling of feathers, such pruning of coats, such chirping, such whistling, such clearing of throats, such polishing bills, and such oiling of pinions, had never been known in the biped dominions. Peacock at home. Etheldred was thankful for that confidence to Meta Rivers, for without it she would hardly have succeeded in spurring Norman up to give the finishing touches to Deces and to send him in. If she talked of the poem as the devotion of Deces, he was willing enough and worked with spirit, for he liked the ideas and enjoyed the expressing them and trying to bring his lines to his notion of perfection. But if she called it the nudigit or the prize poem and declared herself sure it would be successful, he yawned, slackened, leaned back in his chair and began to read other people's poetry, which Etheld was disrespectful enough not to think nearly as good as his own. It was completed at last, and Etheld stitched it up with a narrow red and white ribbon, the bollial colors, and set Meta at him till a promise was extorted that he would send it in. And in due time Etheld received the following note. My dear Ethel, my peacock bubble has flown over the house. Tell them all about it. You're affectionate, N-W-M. They were too much accustomed to Norman's successes to be extraordinarily excited. Etheld would have been much mortified if the prize had been awarded to anyone else. But, as it was, it came rather as a matter of course. The doctor was greatly pleased and said he should drive round by Abbotstuck to tell the news there, and then laughed beyond measure to hear that Meta had been in the plot, saying he should accuse the little hummingbird of being a magpie, stealing secrets. By this time the bride and bridegroom were writing that they thought of soon returning. They had spent the early spring at Paris, had wandered about in the south of France, and now were at Paris again. Flora's letters were long, descriptive and affectionate, and she was eager to be kept fully informed of everything at home. As soon as she heard of Norman's success, she wrote a whole budget of letters, declaring that she and George would hear of no refusal. They were going to spend a fortnight at Oxford for the commemoration, and must have Meta and Ethel with them to hear Norman's poem in the theatre. Dr. May, who already had expressed a hankering to run up for the day, and take Ethel with him, was perfectly delighted at the proposal, and so was Mr. Rivers, but the young ladies made many demures. Ethel wanted Mary to go in her stead, and had to be told that this would not be, by any means, the same to the other parties. She could not bear to leave Margaret. It was a long time since there had been letters from the Alsustis, and she did not like to miss being at home when they should come. And Meta, on her side, was so unwilling to leave her father that, at last, Dr. May scolded them both for a pair of conceited, self-important damsels who thought nothing could go on without them, and next compared them to young birds obliged to be shoved by force into flying. Meta consented first, on condition that Ethel would, and Ethel found that her whole house would be greatly disappointed if she refused, so she proceeded to be grateful, and then discovered how extremely delightful the plan was, Oxford, of which she had heard so much, and which she had always wished to see, and Norman's glory, and Meta's company, nay, the very holiday and going from home were charms enough for a girl of eighteen who had never been beyond Whitford in her life. Besides, to crown all, Papa promised that if his patients would behave well and not want him too much, he would come up for the one great day. Mr. and Mrs. George Rivers came to Abbot Stoke to collect their party. They arrived by a railroad, whose station was nearer to Abbot Stoke than to Stoneborough, therefore, instead of their visiting the High Street by the way, Dr. May, with Ethel and Mary, were invited to dine at the Grange the first evening, a proposal at least as new and exciting to Mary as was the journey to Oxford to her sister. The two girls went early, as the travellers had intended to arrive before luncheon, and though Ethel said few words, but let Mary rattle on with a stream of conjectures and questions, her heart was full of longings for her sister, as well as of strange doubts and fears as to the change that her new life might have made in her. There! There! cried Mary. Yes, it is Flora! Only she has her hair done in a funny way. Flora and Meadow were both standing on the steps before the conservatory, and Mary made but one bound before she was hugging Flora. Ethel kissed her without so much violence, and then saw that Flora was looking very well and bright, more decidedly pretty and elegant than ever, and was certainly no diminution of affection. It was warmer, though rather more patronising. How natural you look was her first exclamation, as she held Mary's hand and drew Ethel's arm into hers, and how is Margaret? Pretty well, but the heat makes her languid. Is there any letter yet? No. I do not see any cause for alarm. Letters are so often detained, but of course she will be anxious. Has she had pain in the back again? Sometimes, but summer always does her good. I shall see her tomorrow, and the daisy. How do you all get on? Have you broken down yet, Ethel? Oh, we do go on, said Ethel, smiling. The worst thing I have done was expecting James to dress the salads with lamp oil. A Greenland salad, but don't talk of oil. I have the taste still in my mouth after the Pyrenean cookery. Oh, Ethel, you would have been wild with delight in those places. Snowy mountains, are they not like a fairy dream to you now? You must have felt at home as a Scotch woman's daughter. Think of the peaks and the sunrise. Oh, I wanted you in the pass of Ronsevales to hear the echo of Rowland's horn, and we saw the cleft made by Rowland's sword in the rocks. Oh, how delightful! And Spain, too! I, the Isle of Pheasants, where all the conferences took place. Were Louis XIV met his bride and Francois I sealed his treason with his empty flourish? Well, don't let us fight about François first now. I want to know how Tom likes eating. He gets on famously. I'm so glad he is in the same house with Hector. Mr. Ramston, how is he? No better. He has not done any duty for weeks. Tomkins and his set want to sell the next presentation, but Papa hopes to stave that off, for there's a better set than usual in the Town Council this year. Cocksmoor, and how are our friends the muses? I found a note from the secretary telling me that I am elected again. How have they behaved? Pretty well, said Ethel. Mrs. Ledwich has been away, so we've had few meetings, and have been pretty quiet, except for an uproar about the mistress beating that Franklin's girl. And what do you think I did, Flora? I made bold to say the woman should show her to Papa to see if she had done her any harm, and he found that it was all a fabrication from one end to the other, so it ended in the poor girl being expelled, and Mary and I have her twice a week to see if there's any grace in her. To reward her, said Flora, that is always your way. Why, one cannot give the poor thing quite up, said Ethel. You will manage the ladies at last, cried Flora. Not while Mrs. Ledwich is there. I'll cope with her, but come I want you in my room. May not I come, said Metta? I must see when—Flora held up her hand, and while signing invitation gave an arch-look to Metta to be silent. Ethel hereby thought herself of inquiring about Mr. Rivers, and then for George. Mr. Rivers was pretty well, George quite well, and some were in the garden, and Metta said that he had such a beard that they would hardly know him, while Flora added that he was delighted with the Oxford scheme. Flora's rooms had been already often shown to her sisters, when Mr. Rivers had been newly furnishing them with every luxury and ornament that taste could devise. Her dressing room, with the large bay window commanding a beautiful view of Stoneborough and filled, but not crowded, with every sort of choice article, was a perfect exhibition to eyes unaccustomed to such varieties. Mary could have still been amused by the hour in studying the devices and ornaments on the shelves and chiffonures, and Blanche had romanced about it to the little ones till they were erecting it into a mythical palace, and Flora, in her simple, well-chosen dress, looked and moved as if she had been born and bred in the like. There were signs of unpacking about the room—Flora's dressing-case on the table, and some dresses lying on the sofa and ottoman. Mary ran up to them eagerly and exclaimed at the beautiful shot blue and white silk. Paris fashion, said Ethel, carelessly. Yes, but I don't parade my own dresses here, said Flora. Whose are they, then? Your commission's meta? No, and meta laughed heartily. Your French maids, then, said Ethel, I dare say she dresses quite as well, and the things are really too pretty and simple for an English maid's taste. I am glad you like them, said Flora maliciously. Now please to be good. Who are they for, then? said Ethel, beginning to be frightened. For a young lady, whose brother has got the nudigate prize, and who is going to Oxford. Me? Those? But I have not got four backs, as Ethel saw meta and fits of laughing and Flora making affirmative signs. Mary gave a ponderous spring of ecstasy. Come, said Flora, you may as well be quiet. Whatever you may like, I am not going to have the nudigate prize-man shown as brother to a scarecrow. I knew what you would come to without me to take care of you. Look at yourself in the glass. I'm sure I see no harm in myself, said Ethel, turning towards the pure glass and surveying herself in a white muslin made high, a black silk mantle, and a brown hat. She had felt very respectable when she set out, but she could not avoid a lurking conviction that, beside Flora and meta, it had a scanty squirrel-girl effect. And, she continued quaintly, besides I have really got a new gown on purpose, a good, useful silk, that Papa chose at Woodford, just the colour of a copper teakettle where it turns purple. Ethel, you will kill me, said meta, sinking back on the sofa. And, I suppose, continued Flora, that you have sent it to miss broads without any directions, and she will trim it with flame-coloured gimp and glass buttons. And, unless Margaret catches you, you will find yourself ready to set the Thames on fire. No, my dear teakettle, I take you to Oxford on my own terms, and you have better submit without a fuss, and be thankful it is no worse. George wanted me to buy you a white brocade with a perfect flower garden on it that you could have examined with a microscope. I was obliged to let him buy that lace mantle to make it up to him. Now then, meta, the scene opens and discovers. Metta opened the folding doors into Flora's bedroom, and thence came forward Bolaire's and a little brisk French woman, whom Flora had acquired at Paris. The former, who was quite used to adorning Miss Ethel against her will, looked as amused as her mistresses. And before Ethel knew what was going on, her muslin was stripped off her back, and that instrument of torture, a half-made body, was being tried upon her. She made one of her most wonderful grimaces of despair and stood still. The dresses were not so bad after all. They were more tasteful than costly, and neither in material nor ornament were otherwise then suitable to the occasion and the wearer. It was very kind and thoughtful of Flora, that she could not but feel. Nothing had been forgotten. But when Ethel saw the mantles, the ribbons, the collars, the bonnet, all glistening with the French air of freshness and grace, she began to feel doubts and hesitations, whether she ought to let her sister go to such an expense on her account, and privately resolved that the accepting thanks should not be spoken, till she should have consulted her father. In the meantime she could only endure, be laughed at by her elders, and entertained by Mary's extreme pleasure in her array. Good Mary! It was more than any comedy to her. She had not one moment thought of herself, till when Flora dived into her box and produced a pair of bracelets, and fastened them on her comfortable plump arms, her eyes grew wide with wonder, and she felt at least two stages nearer womanhood. Flora had omitted no one. There was a Paris present for every servant at home, and a needle-case even for Cherry Ellwood, for which Ethel thanked her with a fervency wanting in her own case. She accomplished consulting her father on her scruples, and he set her mind at rest. He knew that the outlay was a mere trifle to the rivers' and was greatly pleased and touched with the affection that Flora showed, so he only smiled at Ethel's doubts and dwelt with heartfelt delight on the beautiful print that she had brought him from Ari Schaefer's picture of the Great Consular. Flora was in her glory. To be able to bestow benefits on those whom she loved had always been a favourite vision, and she had the full pleasure of feeling how much enjoyment she was causing. They had a very pleasant evening. She gave interesting accounts of their tour, and by appeals to her husband made him talk also. He was much more animated and agreeable than Ethel had ever seen him, and was actually laughing and making Mary laugh heartily with his stories of the Inns and the Pyrenees. Old Mr. Rivers looked as proud and happy as possible, and was quite young and gay, having evidently forgotten all his maladies in paying elaborate attention to his daughter-in-law. Ethel told Margaret that night that she was quite satisfied about Flora. She was glad to own that she had done her injustice, and that Norman was right in saying there was more in George Rivers than met the eye. The morning spent at home was equally charming. Flora came back with love strengthened by absence. She was devoted to Margaret, caressing to all. She sat in her old places. She fulfilled her former offices. She gratified Miss Bracey by visiting her in the school room and talking of French books, and won golden opinions by taking Gertrude in her hand, and walking to Minster Street to call on Mrs. Hoxton as in old times, and take her the newest foreign device of working to kill time. So a few days passed merrily away, and the great journey commenced. Ethel met the Abbot-Stuck party at the station, and with a parting injunction to her father, that he was to give all his patients a sleeping potion that they might not miss him, she was carried away from Stoneborough. Metta was in her gayest mood, Ethel full of glee and wonder. For once beyond Whitford, the whole world was new to her. Flora more quiet, but greatly enjoying their delight, and George not saying much, but smiling under his beard, as if well pleased to be so well amused with so little trouble. He took exceeding care of them, and fed them with everything he could make them eat at the Swindon Station, asking for impossible things, and wishing them so often to change for something better that, if they had been submissive, they would have had no lunch in at all. And as it was, Flora was obliged to whisk into the carriage with her last sandwich in her hand. I am the more sorry, said he, after grumbling at the allotted ten minutes, as we shall dine so late. You desired Norman to bring any friend he liked, did you not, Flora? Yes, and he spoke of bringing our old friend, Charles Cheville, and Mr. Ogilvy, said Flora. Mr. Ogilvy, said Ethel, the master of Glenbrocken. Oh, I am so glad! I have wanted so much to see him. Ah, he is a great hero of yours, said Flora. Do you know him, said Metta? No, but he is a great friend of Norman's, and a Scottish cousin, Norman Ogilvy. Norman has his name from the Ogilvys. Our grandmother, Mrs. McKenzie, was a daughter of Lord Glenbrocken, said Flora. This man might be called the master of Glenbrocken at home, said Ethel. It is such a pretty title, and there is a beautiful history belonging to them. There was a master of Glenbrocken who carried James the Fourth Standard at Flodden, and would not yield, and was killed with it wrapped round his body, and the lion was died with his blood. Mama knew some scraps of a ballad about him. Then they were out with Montrose, and had their castle burned by the Covenanters, and since that they have been Jacobites, and one barely escaped being beheaded at Carlisle. I want to hear the rites of it. Norman is to go, some time or other, to stay at Glenbrocken. Yes, said Flora, coming down to times present, this young heir seems worthy of his race. They are patterned people, have built a church, and have all their tenantry in excellent order. This is the only son, and very good and clever. He preferred going to Balio, that he might work, but he is a great sportsman, George, added she. You will get on with him very well, about fishing and grouse shooting, I dare say. Norman met them at the station, and there was great excitement at seeing his long nose under his college cap. He looked rather thin and worn, but brightened at the sight of the party. After the question whether there had been any letters from Harry, he asked whether his father were coming, and Ethel thought he seemed nervous at the idea of this addition to his audience. He saw them to their hotel, and promising them his two guests departed. Ethel watched collegiate figures passing in the street, and recollected the grey buildings just glimpsed at in her drive. It was dreamy and confused, and she stood musing, not discovering that it was time to dress, till Flora and her Frenchwoman came in, and laid violent hands on her. The effect of their manipulations was very successful. Ethel was made to look well dressed, and still more, distinguished. Her height told well when her lankiness was overcome, and her hair was disposed so as to set off her features to advantage. The glow of amusement and pleasure did still more for her, and Norman, who was in the parlor when the sisters appeared, quite started with surprise and satisfaction at her aspect. Well done, Flora, he said. Why, I have been telling Ogilvy that one of my sisters was very plain. Then I hope we have been preparing an agreeable surprise for him, said Flora. Ethel is very much obliged to you. By the by, she said in her universal amity. I must ask Harvey Anderson to dinner one of these days. Norman started, and his face said, Don't. Oh, very well. It is as you please. I thought it would please Stoneborough, and that Edward was a protege of yours. What has he been doing? Did we not hear he had been distinguishing himself? Dr. Hoxton was boasting of his two scholars. Ask him, said Norman hurriedly. At least, said he, do not let anything from me prevent you. Has he been doing anything wrong, reiterated Flora? Not that I know of, was the blunt answer, and at the same instant Mr. Ogilvy arrived. He was a pleasant, high-bred-looking gentleman, brown complexion than dark-eyed, with a brisk and resolute cast of countenance that Ethel thought might have suited the Norman of Glambrachan who died on the ruddy line of Scotland, and speaking with the very same slight degree of Scottish intonation as she remembered in her mother, making a most home-like sound in her ears. Presently, the rest of their own party came down, and soon after, Charles Cheville appeared, looking as quiet and tame as he used to be in the schoolboy days, when Norman would bring him home, and he used to be too shy to speak a word. However, he had learned the use of his tongue by this time, though it was a very soft one, and he stood by Ethel, asking many questions about Stoneborough, while something apparently very spirited and amusing was going on between the others. The dinner went off well. There were few enough for the conversation to be general. The young men began to strike out sparks of wit against each other, Flora put in a word or two. Ethel grew so much interested in the discussion that her face lighted up, and she joined in it as if it had been only between her father and brother, keen, clear, and droll. After that, she had her full share in the conversation, and enjoyed it so much that, when she left the dinner table, she fetched her writing case to sketch the colloquy for Margaret and her father. Flora exclaimed at her for never allowing anyone to think of rest. Metta said she should like to do the same, but it was impossible now. She did not know how she should ever settle down to write a letter. Ethel was soon interrupted. The gentlemen entered, and Mr. Ogilvy came to the window where she was sitting, and began to tell her how much obliged to her he and his college were for having insisted on her brother's sending in his poem. Thanks are due for our being spared in inflection next week, he said. Have you seen it? she asked, and she was amused by the quick negative movement of his head. I read my friend's poems. But our lungs are prepared. Will you give me my cue? It is of no use to ask him when we are to deafen you. One generally knows the crack passages, something beginning with, oh, woman, but it is well to be in readiness if you would only forewarn me other telling hits. If they cannot tell themselves that Ethel's smiling, I don't think they deserve the name. Perhaps you think what does tell on the undergraduates collectively is not always what ought to tell on them. I don't know. I daresay the same would not be a favourite with them and with me. I should like to know which are your favourites. No doubt you have a copy here, made by yourself, and he looked towards her paper case. There was the copy, and she took it out, peering to see whether Norman were looking. Let me see, he said, as he paused to open the MS. He told me the thoughts were more yours than his own. Did he? That was not fair. One thought was an old one, long ago, talked over between us. The rest is all his own. Here Mr. Ogilvy took the paper, and Ethel saw his countenance show evident tokens of surprise and feeling. Yes, he said presently, May goes deep, deeper than most men, though I doubt whether they will applaud this. I should like it better if they did not, said Ethel. It is rather to be felt than shouted at. And I don't know how the world would go on if it were felt. Few men would do much without the hope of fame, said Norman Ogilvy. Is it the question what they would do, said Ethel? So you call fame a low motive. I see where your brother's philosophy comes from. I do not call it a low motive. Her pause was expressive, nor allow that the norm omnis morir of Horace has in it something divine. For he then, yes. And pray, what would you have the moving spring? Duty. Would not that end in, Mine be a cot beside the rail, said he, with an intonation of absurd sentiment? While, and suppose an enemy came, would duty prompt not the hay with the joke or wrinkle rid on the spears? Nay, why not? It is my duty to take care of Lucy. Then Lucy ought to be broken on her own wheel. Not at all. It is Lucy's duty to keep her Cullen from running into danger. I hope there are not many Lucy's who would think so. I agree with you. Most would rather have Cullen killed than disgraced. To be sure. Then perceiving a knowing twinkle, as if he thought she had made an admission, she added. But what is disgrace? Some say it is misfortune, said Mr. Ogilvy. Is it not failure in duty, said Ethel? Well. Cullen's first duty is to his king and country. If he fail in that, he is disgraced in his own eyes before heaven and men. If he does it, there is a reward, which seems to me a better, more powerful motive for Lucy to set before him then. My dear, I hope you will distinguish yourself. When the fact is, England has forty thousand men we trust as good as he. Victory or Westminster Abbey is a tolerable war cry, said Mr. Ogilvy. Not so good as England expects every man to do his duty. That serves for those who cannot look to Westminster Abbey. Ah, you are an English woman. Only by haves. I had rather have been the master of Glenbrock and at Flawden than King James, or, for she grew rather ashamed of having been impelled to utter the personal illusion, better to have been the Swinton or the Gordon at Hamilton than all the rest put together. I always thought Swinton a big-headed old fellow, and I have little doubt that my ancestor was a young Ruffian, coolly answered the master of Glenbrocken. Why was all that Ethel could say in her indignation? It was the normal state of Scottish gentlemen, he answered. If I thought you were an earnest, I should say you did not deserve to be a Scott. And so you wished to make me out of Faw Scott. Ogilvy, called Norman, are you fighting Scottish and English battles with Ethel there? We want you to tell us which will be the best day for going to Blenheim. The rest of the evening was spent in arranging the programme of their lionising, in which it appeared that the Scottish cousin intended to take his full share. Ethel was not sorry, for he interested her much while provoking her. She was obliged to put out her full strength in answering him, and felt at the same time that he was not making any effort in using the arguments that puzzled her. She was an earnest while he was at play, and though there was something teasing in this, and she knew it partook of what her brothers called chaffing, it gave her that sense of power on his side, which is always attractive to women. With the knowledge that, through Norman, she had of his real character, she understood that half at least of what he said was jest, and the other half was enough in earnest to make it exciting to argue with him.