Kitabı oku: «The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations», sayfa 10
Norman himself was asleep when Harry went to give this narration. He came down late, and his father rose to meet him as he entered. “My boy,” he said, “I had not expected this of you. Well done, Norman!” and the whole tone and gesture had a heartfelt approval and joy in them, that Ethel knew her brother was deeply thrilled by, for his colour deepened, and his lips quivered into something like a smile, though he did not lift his eyes.
Then came Richard’s warm greeting and congratulation, he, too, showing himself as delighted as if the honours were his own; and then Dr. May again, in lively tones, like old times, laughing at Norman for sleeping late, and still not looking well awake, asking him if he was quite sure it was not all a dream.
“Well,” said Norman, “I should think it was, if it were not that you all believe it.”
“Harry had better go to sleep next,” said Dr. May, “and see what dreaming will make him. If it makes Dux of Norman, who knows but it may make Drakes of him? Ha! Ethel—
“Oh, give us for our Kings such Queens,
And for our Ducks such Drakes.”
There had not been such a merry breakfast for months. There was the old confusion of voices; the boys, Richard, and the doctor had much to talk over of the school doings of this week, and there was nearly as much laughing as in days past. Ethel wondered whether any one but herself observed that the voice most seldom heard was Norman’s.
The promised call was made by Dr. Hoxton, and Mr. Everard, an old friend, and after their departure Dr. May came to Margaret’s room with fresh accounts, corroborating what Harry had said of the clear knowledge and brilliant talent that Norman had displayed, to a degree that surprised his masters, almost as much as the examiners. The copy of verses Dr. May brought with him, and construed them to Margaret, commenting all the way on their ease, and the fullness of thought, certainly remarkable in a boy of sixteen.
They were then resigned to Ethel’s keeping, and she could not help imparting her admiration to their author, with some apology for vexing him again.
“I don’t want to be cross,” said Norman, whom these words roused to a sense that he had been churlish last night; “but I cannot help it. I wish people would not make such a fuss about it.”
“I don’t think you can be well, Norman.”
“Nonsense. There’s nothing the matter with me.”
“But I don’t understand your not caring at all, and not being the least pleased.”
“It only makes it worse,” said Norman; “I only feel as if I wanted to be out of the way. My only comfortable time yesterday was on that bench in the cool quiet cloister. I don’t think I could have got through without that, when they left me in peace, till Cheviot and Harry came to rout me up, and I knew it was all coming.”
“Ah! you have overworked yourself, but it was for something. You have given papa such pleasure and comfort, as you can’t help being glad of. That is very different from us foolish young ones and our trumpeting.”
“What comfort can it be? I’ve not been the smallest use all this time. When he was ill, I left him to Ernescliffe, and lay on the floor like an ass; and if he were to ask me to touch his arm, I should be as bad again. A fine thing for me to have talked all that arrogant stuff about Richard! I hate the thought of it; and, as if to make arrows and barbs of it, here’s Richard making as much of this as if it was a double first class! He afraid to be compared with me, indeed!”
“Norman, indeed, this is going too far. We can’t be as useful as the elder ones; and when you know how papa was vexed about Richard, you must be glad to have pleased him.”
“If I were he, it would only make me miss her more. I believe he only makes much of me that he may not disappoint me.”
“I don’t think so. He is really glad, and the more because she would have been so pleased. He said it would have been a happy day for her, and there was more of the glad look than the sorry one. It was the glistening look that comes when he is watching baby, or hearing Margaret say pretty things to her. You see it is the first bright morning we have had.”
“Yes,” said Norman; “perhaps it was, but I don’t know. I thought half of it was din.”
“Oh, Norman!”
“And another thing, Ethel, I don’t feel as if I had fairly earned it. Forder or Cheviot ought to have had it. They are both more really good scholars than I am, and have always been above me. There was nothing I really knew better, except those historical questions that no one reckoned on; and not living at home with their sisters and books, they had no such chance, and it is very hard on them, and I don’t like it.”
“Well, but you really and truly beat them in everything.”
“Ay, by chance. There were lots of places in construing, where I should have broken down if I had happened to be set on in them; it was only a wonder I did not in that chorus, for I had only looked at it twice; but Everard asked me nothing but what I knew; and now and then I get into a funny state, when nothing is too hard for me, and that was how it was yesterday evening. Generally, I feel as dull as a post,” said Norman, yawning and stretching; “I could not make a nonsense hexameter this minute, if I was to die for it.”
“A sort of Berserkar fury!” said Ethel, “like that night you did the coral-worm verses. It’s very odd. Are you sure you are well, dear Norman?”
To which he answered, with displeasure, that he was as well as possible, ordered her not to go and make any more fuss, and left her hastily. She was unhappy, and far from satisfied; she had never known his temper so much affected, and was much puzzled; but she was too much afraid of vexing him, to impart her perplexity even to Margaret. However, the next day, Sunday, as she was reading to Margaret after church, her father came in, and the first thing he said was, “I want to know what you think of Norman.”
“How do you mean?” said Margaret; “in health or spirits?”
“Both,” said Dr. May. “Poor boy! he has never held up his head since October, and, at his age, that is hardly natural. He goes moping about, has lost flesh and appetite, and looks altogether out of order, shooting up like a Maypole too.”
“Mind and body,” said Margaret, while Ethel gazed intently at her father, wondering whether she ought to speak, for Margaret did not know half what she did; nothing about the bad nights, nor what he called the “funny state.”
“Yes, both. I fancied it was only his rapid growth, and the excitement of this examination, and that it would go off, but I think there’s more amiss. He was lounging about doing nothing, when the girls were gone to school after dinner, and I asked him to walk down with me to the Almshouses. He did not seem very willing, but he went, and presently, as I had hold of his arm, I felt him shivering, and saw him turn as pale as a sheet. As soon as I noticed it, he flushed crimson, and would not hear of turning back, stoutly protesting he was quite well, but I saw his hand was quivering even when I got into church. Why, Ethel, you have turned as red as he did.”
“Then he has done it!” exclaimed Ethel, in a smothered voice.
“What do you mean? Speak, Ethel.”
“He has gone past it—the place,” whispered she.
The doctor made a sound of sorrowful assent, as if much struck; then said, “you don’t mean he has never been there since?”
“Yes,” said Ethel, “he has always gone round Randall’s alley or the garden; he has said nothing, but has contrived to avoid it.”
“Well,” said Dr. May, after a pause, “I hoped none of us knew the exact spot.”
“We don’t; he never told us, but he was there.”
“Was he?” exclaimed her father; “I had no notion of that. How came he there?”
“He went on with Mr. Ernescliffe, and saw it all,” said Ethel, as her father drew out her words, apparently with his eye; “and then came up to my room so faint that he was obliged to lie on the floor ever so long.”
“Faint—how long did it last?” said her father, examining her without apparent 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 saw you were not quite well, so I came up to see about you; and now, Norman, you will not refuse to own that something is the matter.”
“I did not know it,” said Norman, “I really believe I am well, if I could get rid of these horrible nights. I either lie awake, tumbling and tossing, or I get all sorts of unbearable dreams.”
“Ay, when I asked master Harry about you, all the answer I could get was, that he was quite used to it, and did not mind it at all. As if I asked for his sake! How fast that boy sleeps—he is fit for a midshipman’s berth!”
“But do you think there is anything amiss with me?”
“I shall know more about that to-morrow morning. Come to my room as soon as you are up, unless I come to you. Now, I have something to read before I go to bed, and I may as well try if it will put you to sleep.”
Norman’s last sight that night was of the outline of his father’s profile, and he was scarcely awake the next morning before Dr. May was there again.
Unwilling as he had been to give way, it was a relief to relinquish the struggle to think himself well, and to venture to lounge and dawdle, rest his heavy head, and stretch his inert limbs without fear of remark. His father found him after breakfast lying on the sofa in the drawing-room with a Greek play by his side, telling Ethel what words to look out.
“At it again!” exclaimed Dr. May. “Carry it away, Ethel. I will have no Latin or Greek touched these holidays.”
“You know,” said Norman, “if I don’t sap, I shall have no chance of keeping up.”
“You’ll keep nowhere if you don’t rest.”
“It is only Euripides, and I can’t do anything else,” said Norman languidly.
“Very likely, I don’t care. You have to get well first of all, and the Greek will take care of itself. Go up to Margaret. I put you in her keeping, while I am gone to Whitford. After that, I dare say Richard will be very glad to have a holiday, and let you drive me to Abbotstoke.”
Norman rose, and wearily walked upstairs, while his sister lingered to excuse herself. “Papa, I did not think Euripides would hurt him—he knows it all so well, and he said he could not read anything else.”
“Just so, Ethel. Poor fellow, he has not spirits or energy for anything: his mind was forced into those classicalities when it wanted rest, and now it has not spring enough to turn back again.”
“Do you think him so very ill?”
“Not exactly, but there’s low fever hanging about him, and we must look after him well, and I hope we may get him right. I have told Margaret about him; I can’t stop any longer now.”
Norman found the baby in his sister’s room, and this was just what suited him. The Daisy showed a marked preference for her brothers; and to find her so merry and good with him, pleased and flattered him far more than his victory at school. He carried her about, danced her, whistled to her, and made her admire her pretty blue eyes in the glass most successfully, till nurse carried her off. But perhaps he had been sent up rather too soon, for as he sat in the great chair by the fire, he was teased by the constant coming and going, all the petty cares of a large household transacted by Margaret—orders to butcher and cook—Harry racing in to ask to take Tom to the river—Tom, who was to go when his lesson was done, coming perpetually to try to repeat the same unhappy bit of ‘As in Proesenti’, each time in a worse whine.
“How can you bear it, Margaret?” said Norman, as she finally dismissed Tom, and laid down her account-book, taking up some delicate fancy work. “Mercy, here’s another,” as enter a message about lamp oil, in the midst of which Mary burst in to beg Margaret to get Miss Winter to let her go to the river with Harry and Tom.
“No, indeed, Mary, I could not think of such a thing. You had better go back to your lessons, and don’t be silly,” as she looked much disposed to cry.
“No one but a Tom-boy would dream of it,” added Norman; and Mary departed disconsolate, while Margaret gave a sigh of weariness, and said, as she returned to her work, “There, I believe I have done. I hope I was not cross with poor Mary, but it was rather too much to ask.”
“I can’t think how you can help being cross to every one,” said Norman, as he took away the books she had done with.
“I am afraid I am,” said Margaret sadly. “It does get trying at times.”
“I should think so! This eternal worrying must be more than any one can bear, always lying there too.”
“It is only now and then that it grows tiresome,” said Margaret. “I am too happy to be of some use, and it is too bad to repine, but sometimes a feeling comes of its being always the same, as if a little change would be such a treat.”
“Aren’t you very tired of lying in bed?”
“Yes, very, sometimes. I fancy, but it is only fancy, that I could move better if I was up and dressed. It has seemed more so lately, since I have been stronger.”
“When do you think they will let you get up?”
“There’s the question. I believe papa thinks I might be lifted to the sofa now—and oh! how I long for it—but then Mr. Ward does not approve of my sitting up, even as I am doing now, and wants to keep me flat. Papa thinks that of no use, and likely to hurt my general health, and I believe the end of it will be that he will ask Sir Matthew Fleet’s opinion.”
“Is that the man he calls Mat?”
“Yes, you know they went through the university together, and were at Edinburgh and Paris, but they have never met since he set up in London, and grew so famous. I believe it would be a great treat to papa to have him, and it would be a good thing for papa too; I don’t think his arm is going on right—he does not trust to Mr. Ward’s treatment, and I am sure some one else ought to see it.”
“Did you know, Margaret, that he sits up quite late, because he cannot sleep for it?”
“Yes, I hear him moving about, but don’t tell him so; I would not have him guess for the world, that it kept me awake.”
“And does it?”
“Why, if I think he is awake and in pain I cannot settle myself to sleep; but that is no matter; having no exercise, of course I don’t sleep so much. But I am very anxious about him—he looks so thin, and gets so fagged—and no wonder.”
“Ah! Mr. Everard told me he was quite shocked to see him, and would hardly have known him,” and Norman groaned from the bottom of his heart.
“Well, I shall hope much from Sir Matthew’s taking him in hand,” said Margaret cheerfully; “he will mind him, though he will not Mr. Ward.”
“I wish the holidays were over!” said Norman, with a yawn, as expressive as a sigh.
“That’s not civil, on the third day,” said Margaret, smiling, “when I am so glad to have you to look after me, so as to set Flora at liberty.”
“What, can I do you any good?” said Norman, with a shade of his former alacrity.
“To be sure you can, a great deal. Better not come near me otherwise, for I make every one into a slave. I want my morning reading now—that book on Advent, there.”
“Shall I read it to you?”
“Thank you, that’s nice, and I shall get on with baby’s frock.”
Norman read, but, ere long, took to yawning; Margaret begged for the book, which he willingly resigned, saying, however, that he liked it, only he was stupid. She read on aloud, till she heard a succession of heavy breathings, and saw him fast asleep, and so he continued till waked by his father’s coming home.
Richard and Ethel were glad of a walk, for Margaret had found them a pleasant errand. Their Cocksmoor children could not go home to dinner between service and afternoon school, and Margaret had desired the cook to serve them up some broth in the back kitchen, to which the brother and sister were now to invite them. Mary was allowed to take her boots to Rebekah Watts, since Margaret held that goodness had better be profitable, at least at the outset; and Harry and Tom joined the party.
Norman, meantime, was driving his father—a holiday preferment highly valued in the days when Dr. May used only to assume the reins, when his spirited horses showed too much consciousness that they had a young hand over them, or when the old hack took a fit of laziness. Now, Norman needed Richard’s assurance that the bay was steady, so far was he from being troubled with his ancient desire, that the steed would rear right up on his hind legs.
He could neither talk nor listen till he was clear out of the town, and found himself master of the animal, and even then the words were few, and chiefly spoken by Dr. May, until after going along about three miles of the turnpike road, he desired Norman to turn down a cross-country lane.
“Where does this lead?”
“It comes out at Abbotstoke, but I have to go to an outlying farm.”
“Papa,” said Norman, after a few minutes, “I wish you would let me do my Greek.”
“Is that what you have been pondering all this time? What, may not the bonus Homerus slumber sometimes?”
“It is not Homer, it is Euripides. I do assure you, papa, it is no trouble, and I get much worse without it.”
“Well, stop here, the road grows so bad that we will walk, and let the boy lead the horse to meet us at Woodcote.”
Norman followed his father down a steep narrow lane, little better than a stony water-course, and began to repeat, “If you would but let me do my work! I’ve got nothing else to do, and now they have put me up, I should not like not to keep my place.”
“Very likely, but—hollo—how swelled this is!” said Dr. May, as they came to the bottom of the valley, where a stream rushed along, coloured with a turbid creamy yellow, making little whirlpools where it crossed the road, and brawling loudly just above where it roared and foamed between two steep banks of rock, crossed by a foot-bridge of planks, guarded by a handrail of rough poles. The doctor had traversed it, and gone a few paces beyond, when, looking back, he saw Norman very pale, with one foot on the plank, and one hand grasping the rail. He came back, and held out his hand, which Norman gladly caught at, but no sooner was the other side attained, than the boy, though he gasped with relief, exclaimed, “This is too bad! Wait one moment, please, and let me go back.”
He tried, but the first touch of the shaking rail, and glance at the chasm, disconcerted him, and his father, seeing his white cheeks and rigid lips, said, “Stop, Norman, don’t try it. You are not fit,” he added, as the boy came to him reluctantly.
“I can’t bear to be such a wretch!” said he. “I never used to be. I will not—let me conquer it;” and he was turning back, but the doctor took his arm, saying decidedly, “No, I won’t have it done. You are only making it worse by putting a force on yourself.” But the farther Norman was from the bridge, the more displeased he was with himself, and more anxious to dare it again. “There’s no bearing it,” he muttered; “let me only run back. I’ll overtake you. I must do it if no one looks on.”
“No such thing,” said the doctor, holding him fast. “If you do, you’ll have it all over again at night.”
“That’s better than to know I am worse than Tom.”
“I tell you, Norman, it is no such thing. You will recover your tone if you will only do as you are told, but your nerves have had a severe shock, and when you force yourself in this way, you only increase the mischief.”
“Nerves,” muttered Norman disdainfully. “I thought they were only fit for fine ladies.”
Dr. May smiled. “Well, will it content you if I promise that as soon as I see fit, I’ll bring you here, and let you march over that bridge as often as you like?”
“I suppose I must be contented, but I don’t like to feel like a fool.”
“You need not, while the moral determination is sound.”
“But my Greek, papa.”
“At it again—I declare, Norman, you are the worst patient I ever had!”
Norman made no answer, and Dr. May presently said, “Well, let me hear what you have to say about it. I assure you it is not that I don’t want you to get on, but that I see you are in great need of rest.”
“Thank you, papa. I know you mean it for my good, but I don’t think you do know how horrid it is. I have got nothing on earth to do or care for—the school work comes quite easy to me, and I’m sure thinking is worse; and then”—Norman spoke vehemently—“now they have put me up, it will never do to be beaten, and all the four others ought to be able to do it. I did not want or expect to be dux, but now I am, you could not bear me not to keep my place, and to miss the Randall scholarship, as I certainly shall, if I do not work these whole holidays.”
“Norman, I know it,” said his father kindly. “I am very sorry for you, and I know I am asking of you what I could not have done at your age—indeed, I don’t believe I could have done it for you a few months ago. It is my fault that you have been let alone, to have an overstrain and pressure on your mind, when you were not fit for it, and I cannot see any remedy but complete freedom from work. At the same time, if you fret and harass yourself about being surpassed, that is, as you say, much worse for you than Latin and Greek. Perhaps I may be wrong, and study might not do you the harm I think it would; at any rate, it is better than tormenting yourself about next half year, so I will not positively forbid it, but I think you had much better let it alone. I don’t want to make it a matter of duty. I only tell you this, that you may set your mind at rest as far as I am concerned. If you do lose your place, I will consider it as my own doing, and not be disappointed. I had rather see you a healthy, vigorous, useful man, than a poor puling nervous wretch of a scholar, if you were to get all the prizes in the university.”
Norman made a little murmuring sound of assent, and both were silent for some moments, then he said, “Then you will not be displeased, papa, if I do read, as long as I feel it does me no harm.”
“I told you I don’t mean to make it a matter of obedience. Do as you please—I had rather you read than vexed yourself.”
“I am glad of it. Thank you, papa,” said Norman, in a much cheered voice.
They had, in the meantime, been mounting a rising ground, clothed with stunted wood, and came out on a wide heath, brown with dead bracken; a hollow, traced by the tops of leafless trees, marked the course of the stream that traversed it, and the inequalities of ground becoming more rugged in outlines and grayer in colouring as they receded, till they were closed by a dark fir wood, beyond which rose in extreme distance the grand mass of Welsh mountain heads, purpled against the evening sky, except where the crowning peaks bore a veil of snow. Behind, the sky was pure gold, gradually shading into pale green, and then into clear light wintry blue, while the sun sitting behind two of the loftiest, seemed to confound their outlines, and blend them in one flood of soft hazy brightness. Dr. May looked at his son, and saw his face clear up, his brow expand, and his lips unclose with admiration.
“Yes,” said the doctor, “it is very fine, is it not? I used to bring mamma here now and then for a treat, because it put her in mind of her Scottish hills. Well, your’s are the golden hills of heaven, now, my Maggie!” he added, hardly knowing that he spoke aloud. Norman’s throat swelled, as he looked up in his face, then cast down his eyes hastily to hide the tears that had gathered on his eyelashes.
“I’ll leave you here,” said Dr. May; “I have to go to a farmhouse close by, in the hollow behind us; there’s a girl recovering from a fever. I’ll not be ten minutes, so wait here.”
When he came back, Norman was still where he had left him, gazing earnestly, and the tears standing on his cheeks. He did not move till his father laid his hand on his shoulder—they walked away together without a word, and scarcely spoke all the way home.
Dr. May went to Margaret and talked to her of Norman’s fine character, and intense affection for his mother, the determined temper, and quietly borne grief, for which the doctor seemed to have worked himself into a perfect enthusiasm of admiration; but lamenting that he could not tell what to do with him—study or no study hurt him alike—and he dreaded to see health and spirits shattered for ever. They tried to devise change of scene, but it did not seem possible just at present; and Margaret, besides her fears for Norman, was much grieved to see this added to her father’s troubles.
At night Dr. May again went up to see whether Norman, whom he had moved into Margaret’s former room, were again suffering from fever. He found him asleep in a restless attitude, as if he had just dropped off, and waking almost at the instant of his entrance, he exclaimed, “Is it you? I thought it was mamma. She said it was all ambition.”
