Flora exclaimed at her for never allowing any one to think of rest. Meta 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. Ogilvie 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 an infliction 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 of the telling hits?"
"If they cannot tell themselves," said Ethel, 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 dare say 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 she 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. Ogilvie 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 Ogilvie.
"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 Non omnis moriar of Horace has in it something divine?"
"For a heathen--yes."
"And pray, what would you have the moving spring?"
"Duty."
"Would not that end in 'Mine be a cot, beside the rill'?" said he, with an intonation of absurd sentiment.
"Well, and suppose an enemy came, would duty prompt not the Hay with the joke--or Winkelried 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 Colin from running into danger."
"I hope there are not many Lucies who would think so."
"I agree with you. Most would rather have Colin 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. Ogilvie.
"Is it not failure in duty? " said Ethel.
"Well!"
"Colin'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 than '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. Ogilvie.
"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 halves. I had rather have been the Master of Glenbracken at Flodden than King James, or"--for she grew rather ashamed of having been impelled to utter the personal allusion--"better to have been the Swinton or the Gordon at Homildon than all the rest put together."
"I always thought Swinton a pig-headed old fellow, and I have little doubt that my ancestor was a young ruffian," coolly answered the Master of Glenbracken.
"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 in earnest, I should say you did not deserve to be a Scot."
"And so you wish to make me out a fause Scot!"
"Ogilvie!" 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 in 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.
CHAPTER IX.
While I, thy dearest, sat apart, And felt thy triumphs were as mine, And lov'd them more than they were thine. TENNYSON.
That was a week of weeks; the most memorable week in Ethel's life, spent in indefatigable sight-seeing. College Chapels, Bodleian Library, Taylor Gallery, the Museum, all were thoroughly studied, and, if Flora had not dragged the party on, in mercy to poor George's patience, Ethel would never have got through a day's work.
Indeed, Mr. Ogilvie, when annoyed at being hurried in going over Merton Chapel with her, was heard to whisper that he acted the part of policeman, by a perpetual "move on"; and as Ethel recollected the portly form and wooden face of the superintendent at Stoneborough, she was afraid that the comparison would not soon be forgotten. Norman Ogilvie seemed to consider himself bound to their train as much as his namesake, or, as on the second morning, Norman reported his reasoning, it was that a man must walk about with somebody on Commemoration week, and that it was a comfort to do so with ladies who wore their bonnets upon their heads, instead of, like most of those he met, remind him of what Cock Robin said to Jenny Wren in that matrimonial quarrel, when
Robin, he grew angry, Hopped upon a twig--
Flora was extremely delighted, and, in matronly fashion, told her sister that people were always respected and admired who had the strength of mind to resist unsuitable customs. Ethel laughed in answer, and said she thought it would take a great deal more strength of mind to go about with her whole visage exposed to the universal gaze; and, woman-like, they had a thorough gossip over the evils of the "backsliding" head-gear.
Norman had retreated from it into the window, when Flora returned to the charge about Harvey Anderson. She had been questioning their old friend Mr. Everard, and had learned from him that the cause of the hesitation with which his name had been received was that he had become imbued with some of the Rationalistic ideas current in some quarters. He seldom met Norman May without forcing on him debates, which were subjects of great interest to the hearers, as the two young men were considered as the most distinguished representatives of their respective causes, among their own immediate contemporaries. Norman's powers of argument, his eloquence, readiness, and clearness, were thought to rank very high, and, in the opinion of Mr. Everard, had been of great effect in preventing other youths from being carried away by the spec
ious brilliancy of his rival.
Ethel valued this testimony far above the Newdigate prize, and she was extremely surprised by hearing Flora declare her intention of still asking Mr. Anderson to dinner, only consulting her brother as to the day.
"Why, Flora! ask him! Norman--"
Norman had turned away with the simple answer, "any day."
"Norman is wiser than you are, Ethel," said Flora. "He knows that Stoneborough would be up in arms at any neglect from us to one of the Andersons, and, considering the rivalship, it is the more graceful, and becoming."
"I do not think it right," said Ethel stoutly; "I believe that a line ought to be drawn, and that we ought not to associate with people who openly tamper with their faith."
"Never fear," smiled Flora; "I promise you that there shall be no debates at my table."
Ethel felt the force of the pronoun, and, as Flora walked out of the room, she went up to Norman, who had been resting his brow against the window.
"It is vain to argue with her," she said; "but, Norman, do not you think it is clearly wrong to seek after men who desert and deny--"
She stopped short, frightened at his pale look.
He spoke in a low clear tone that seemed to thrill her with a sort of alarm. "If the secrets of men's hearts were probed, who could cast the first stone?"
"I don't want to cast stones," she began; but he made a gesture as if he would not hear, and, at the same moment, Mr. Ogilvie entered the room.
Had Ethel been at home, she would have pondered much over her brother's meaning--here she had no leisure. Not only was she fully occupied with the new scenes around her, but her Scottish cousin took up every moment open to conversation. He was older than Norman, and had just taken his degree, and he talked with that superior aplomb, which a few years bestow at their time of life, without conceit, but more hopeful and ambitious, and with higher spirits than his cousin.
Though industrious and distinguished, he had not avoided society or amusement, was a great cricketer and tennis-player, one of the "eight" whose success in the boat races was one of Norman's prime interests, and he told stories of frolics that reminded Ethel of her father's old Cambridge adventures.
He was a new variety in her eyes, and entertained her greatly. Where the bounds of banter ended, was not easy to define, but whenever he tried a little mystification, she either entered merrily into the humour, or threw it over with keen wit that he kept constantly on the stretch. They were always discovering odd, unexpected bits of knowledge in each other, and a great deal more accordance in views and opinions than appealed on the surface, for his enthusiasm usually veiled itself in persiflage on hers, though he was too good and serious to carry it too far.
At Blenheim, perhaps he thought he had given an overdose of nonsense, and made her believe, as Meta really did, that the Duchess Sarah was his model woman; for as they walked in the park in search of Phoebe Mayflower's well, he gathered a fern leaf, to show her the Glenbracken badge, and talked to her of his home, his mother, and his sister Marjorie, and the little church in the rocky glen. He gave the history of the stolen meetings of the little knot of churchmen during the days of persecution, and showed a heart descended straight from the Ogilvie who was "out with Montrose," now that the upper structure of young England was for a little while put aside.
After this, she took his jokes much more coolly, and made thrusts beneath them, which he seemed to enjoy, and caused him to unfold himself the more. She liked him all the better for finding that he thought Norman had been a very good friend to him, and that he admired her brother heartily, watching tenderly over his tendencies to make himself unhappy. He confided to her that, much as he rejoiced in the defeats of Anderson, he feared that the reading and thought consequent on the discussions, had helped to overstrain Norman's mind, and he was very anxious to carry him away from all study, and toil, and make his brains rest, and his eyes delight themselves upon Scottish mountains.
Thereupon came vivid descriptions of the scenery, especially his own glen with the ruined tower, and ardent wishes that his cousin Ethel could see them also, and know Marjorie. She could quite echo the wish, Edinburgh and Loch Katrine had been the visions of her life, and now that she had once taken the leap and left home, absence did not seem impossible, and, with a start of delight, she hailed her own conviction that he intended his mother to invite the party to Glenbracken.
After Norman's visit, Mr. Ogilvie declared that he must come home with him and pay his long-promised visit to Stoneborough. He should have come long ago. He had been coming last winter, but the wedding had prevented him; he had always wished to know Dr. May, whom his father well remembered, and now nothing should keep him away!
Flora looked on amused and pleased at Ethel's development--her abruptness softened into piquancy, and her countenance so embellished, that the irregularity only added to the expressiveness. There was no saying what Ethel would come to! She had not said that she would not go to the intended ball, and her grimaces at the mention of it were growing fainter every day.
The discussion about Harvey Anderson was never revived; Flora sent the invitation without another word--he came with half a dozen other gentlemen--Ethel made him a civil greeting, but her head was full of boats and the procession day, about which Mr. Ogilvie was telling her, and she thought of him no more.
"A lucky step!" thought Flora. "A grand thing for Ethel--a capital connection for us all. Lady Glenbracken will not come too much into my sphere either. Yes, I am doing well by my sisters."
It would make stay-at-home people giddy to record how much pleasure, how much conversation and laughter were crowded into those ten days, and with much thought and feeling beside them, for these were not girls on whom grave Oxford could leave no impression but one of gaiety.
The whole party was very full of merriment. Norman May, especially, on whom Flora contrived to devolve that real leadership of conversation that should rightly have belonged to George Rivers, kept up the ball with wit and drollery far beyond what he usually put forth; enlivened George into being almost an agreeable man, and drew out little Meta's vivacity into sunny sparkles.
Meta generally had Norman for her share, and seemed highly contented with his lionisings, which were given much more quietly and copiously than those which his cousin bestowed upon his sister. Or if there were anything enterprising to be done, any tower to be mounted, or anything with the smallest spice of danger in it, Meta was charmed, and with her lightness and airiness of foot and figure, and perfectly feminine ways, showed a spirit of adventure that added to the general diversion. But if she were to be helped up or down anywhere, she certainly seemed to find greater security in Norman May's assistance, though it was but a feather-like touch that she ever used to aid her bounding step.
Both as being diffident, and, in a manner at home, Norman was not as constantly her cavalier as was Mr. Ogilvie to his sister; and, when supplanted, his wont was either to pioneer for Flora, or, if she did not need him, to walk alone, grave and abstracted. There was a weight on his brow, when nothing was going on to drive it away, and whether it were nervousness as to the performance in store for him, anxiety about Harry, or, as Mr. Ogilvie said, too severe application; some burden hung upon him, that was only lightened for the time by his participation in the enjoyment of the party.
On Sunday evening, when they had been entering into the almost vision-like delight of the choicest of music, and other accompaniments of church service, they went to walk in Christchurch Meadows. They had begun altogether by comparing feelings--Ethel wondering whether Stoneborough Minster would ever be used as it might be, and whether, if so, they should be practically the better for it; and proceeding with metaphysics on her side, and satire on Norman Ogilvie's, to speculate whether that which is, is best, and the rights and wrongs of striving for change and improvements, what should begin from above, and what from beneath--with illustrations often laughter-moving, though they were much in earnest, as the young heir of Glenbracken looked i
nto his future life.
Flora had diverged into wondering who would have the living after poor old Mr. Ramsden, and walked, keeping her husband amused with instances of his blunders.
Meta, as with Norman she parted from the rest, thought her own dear Abbotstoke church, and Mr Charles Wilmot, great subjects for content and thanksgiving, though it was a wonderful treat to see and hear such as she had enjoyed to-day; and she thought it was a joy, to carry away abidingly, to know that praise and worship, as near perfection as this earth could render them, were being offered up.
Norman understood her thought, but responded by more of a sigh than was quite comfortable.
Meta went on with her own thoughts, on the connection between worship and good works, how the one leads to the other, and how praise with pure lips is, after all, the great purpose of existence.-- Her last thought she spoke aloud.
"I suppose everything, our own happiness and all, are given to us to turn into praise," she said.
"Yes--" echoed Norman; but as if his thoughts were not quite with hers, or rather in another part of the same subject; then recalling himself, "Happy such as can do so."
"If one only could--" said Meta.
"You can--don't say otherwise," exclaimed Norman; "I know, at least, that you and my father can."
"Dr. May does so, more than any one I know," said Meta.
"Yes," said Norman again; "it is his secret of joy. To him, it is never, I am half sick of shadows."
"To him they are not shadows, but foretastes," said Meta. Silence again; and when she spoke, she said, "I have always thought it must be such a happiness to have power of any kind that can be used in direct service, or actual doing good."
The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations Page 56