Kitabı oku: «The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations», sayfa 15
A few days’ attendance in his father’s room gave him confidence in taking Richard’s place, and, accordingly, the third important measure was decided on, namely, that he and his father should accompany Harry to the naval school, and be absent three nights. Some relations would be glad to receive them in London, and Alan Ernescliffe, who was studying steam navigation at Woolwich, volunteered to meet them, and go with them to Portsmouth.
It was a wonderful event; Norman and Harry had never been beyond Whitford in their lives, and none of the young ones could recollect their papa’s ever going from home for more than one night. Dr. May laughed at Margaret for her anxiety and excitement on the subject, and was more amused at overhearing Richard’s precise directions to Norman over the packing up.
“Ay, Ritchie,” said the doctor, as he saw his portmanteau locked, and the key given to Norman, “you may well look grave upon it. You won’t see it look so tidy when it comes back again, and I believe you are thinking it will be lucky if you see it at all.”
There was a very affectionate leave-taking of Harry, who, growing rather soft-hearted, thought it needful to be disdainful, scolded Mary and Blanche for “lugging off his figure-head,” and assured them they made as much work about it as if he was going to sea at once. Then, to put an end to any more embraces, he marched off to the station with Tom, and nearly caused the others to be too late, by the search for him that ensued.
In due time, Dr. May and Norman returned, looking the better for the journey. There was, first, to tell of Harry’s school and its master, and Alan Ernescliffe’s introduction of him to a nice-looking boy of his own age; then they were eloquent on the wonders of the dockyard, the Victory, the block machinery. And London—while Dr. May went to transact some business, Norman had been with Alan at the British Museum, and though he had intended to see half London besides, there was no tearing him away from the Elgin marbles; and nothing would serve him, but bringing Dr. May the next morning to visit the Ninevite bulls. Norman further said, that whereas papa could never go out of his house without meeting people who had something to say to him, it was the same elsewhere. Six acquaintances he had met unexpectedly in London, and two at Portsmouth.
So the conversation went on all the evening, to the great delight of all. It was more about things than people, though Flora inquired after Mr. Ernescliffe, and was told he had met them at the station, had been everywhere with them, and had dined at the Mackenzies’ each day. “How was he looking?” Ethel asked; and was told pretty much the same as when he went away; and, on a further query from Flora, it appeared that an old naval friend of his father’s had hopes of a ship, and had promised to have him with him, and thereupon warm hopes were expressed that Harry might have a berth in the same.
“And when is he coming here again, papa?” said Ethel.
“Eh! oh! I can’t tell. I say, isn’t it high time to ring?”
When they went up at night, every one felt that half the say had not been said, and there were fresh beginnings on the stairs. Norman triumphantly gave the key to Richard, and then called to Ethel, “I say, won’t you come into my room while I unpack?”
“Oh, yes, I should like it very much.”
Ethel sat on the bed, rolled up in a cloak, while Norman undid his bag, announcing at the same time, “Well, Ethel, papa says I may get to my Euripides to-morrow, if I please, and only work an hour at a time!”
“Oh, I am so glad. Then he thinks you quite well?”
“Yes, I am quite well. I hope I’ve done with nonsense.”
“And how did you get on with his arm?”
“Very well—he was so patient, and told me how to manage. You heard that Sir Matthew said it had got much better in these few weeks. Oh, here it is! There’s a present for you.”
“Oh, thank you. From you, or from papa?”
“This is mine. Papa has a present for every one in his bag. He said, at last, that a man with eleven children hadn’t need to go to London very often.”
“And you got this beautiful ‘Lyra Innocentium’ for me? How very kind of you, Norman. It is just what I wished for. Such lovely binding—and those embossed edges to the leaves. Oh! they make a pattern as they open! I never saw anything like it.”
“I saw such a one on Miss Rivers’s table, and asked Ernescliffe where to get one like it. See, here’s what my father gave me.”
“‘Bishop Ken’s Manual’. That is in readiness for the Confirmation.”
“Look. I begged him to put my name, though he said it was a pity to do it with his left hand; I didn’t like to wait, so I asked him at least to write N. W. May, and the date.”
“And he has added Prov. xxiii. 24, 25. Let me look it out.” She did so, and instead of reading it aloud, looked at Norman full of congratulation.
“How it ought to make one—” and there Norman broke off from the fullness of his heart.
“I’m glad he put both verses” said Ethel presently. “How pleased with you he must be!”
A silence while brother and sister both gazed intently at the crooked characters, till at last Ethel, with a long breath, resumed her ordinary tone, and said, “How well he has come to write with his left hand now.”
“Yes. Did you know that he wrote himself to tell Ernescliffe Sir Matthew’s opinion of Margaret?”
“No: did he?”
“Do you know, Ethel,” said Norman, as he knelt on the floor, and tumbled miscellaneous articles out of his bag, “it is my belief that Ernescliffe is in love with her, and that papa thinks so.”
“Dear me!” cried Ethel, starting up. “That is famous. We should always have Margaret at home when he goes to sea!”
“But mind, Ethel, for your life you must not say one word to any living creature.”
“Oh, no, I promise you I won’t, Norman, if you’ll only tell me how you found it out.”
“What first put it in my head was the first evening, while I was undoing the portmanteau; my father leaned on the mantel-shelf, and sighed and muttered, ‘Poor Ernescliffe! I wish it may end well.’ I thought he forgot that I was there, so I would not seem to notice, but I soon saw it was that he meant.”
“How?” cried Ethel eagerly.
“Oh, I don’t know—by Alan’s way.”
“Tell me—I want to know what people do when they are in love.”
“Nothing particular,” said Norman, smiling.
“Did you hear him inquire for her? How did he look?”
“I can’t tell. That was when he met us at the station before I thought of it, and I had to see to the luggage. But I’ll tell you one thing, Ethel; when papa was talking of her to Mrs. Mackenzie, at the other end of the room, all his attention went away in an instant from what he was saying. And once, when Harry said something to me about her, he started, and looked round so earnestly.”
“Oh, yes—that’s like people in books. And did he colour?”
“No; I don’t recollect that he did,” said Norman; “but I observed he never asked directly after her if he could help it, but always was trying to lead, in some round-about way, to hearing what she was doing.”
“Did he call her Margaret?”
“I watched; but to me he always said, ‘Your sister,’ and if he had to speak of her to papa, he said, ‘Miss May.’ And then you should have seen his attention to papa. I could hardly get a chance of doing anything for papa.”
“Oh, sure of it!” cried Ethel, clasping her hands. “But, poor man, how unhappy he must have been at having to go away when she was so ill!”
“Ay, the last time he saw her was when he carried her upstairs.”
“Oh, dear! I hope he will soon come here again!”
“I don’t suppose he will. Papa did not ask him.”
“Dear me, Norman! Why not? Isn’t papa very fond of him? Why shouldn’t he come?”
“Don’t you see, Ethel, that would be of no use while poor Margaret is no better. If he gained her affections, it would only make her unhappy.”
“Oh, but she is much better. She can raise herself up now without help, and sat up ever so long this morning, without leaning back on her cushions. She is getting well—you know Sir Matthew said she would.”
“Yes; but I suppose papa thinks they had better say nothing till she is quite well.”
“And when she is! How famous it will be.”
“Then there’s another thing; he is very poor, you know.”
“I am sure papa doesn’t care about people being rich.”
“I suppose Alan thinks he ought not to marry, unless he could make his wife comfortable.”
“Look here—it would be all very easy: she should stay with us, and be comfortable here, and he go to sea, and get lots of prize money.”
“And that’s what you call domestic felicity!” said Norman, laughing.
“He might have her when he was at home,” said Ethel.
“No, no; that would never do,” said Norman. “Do you think Ernescliffe’s a man that would marry a wife for her father to maintain her?”
“Why, papa would like it very much. He is not a mercenary father in a book.”
“Hey! what’s that?” said a voice Ethel little expected. “Contraband talk at contraband times? What’s this!”
“Did you hear, papa?” said Ethel, looking down.
“Only your last words, as I came up to ask Norman what he had done with my pocket-book. Mind, I ask no impertinent questions; but, if you have no objection, I should like to know what gained me the honour of that compliment.”
“Norman?” said Ethel interrogatively, and blushing in emulation of her brother, who was crimson.
“I’ll find it,” said he, rushing off with a sort of nod and sign, that conveyed to Ethel that there was no help for it.
So, with much confusion, she whispered into her papa’s ear that Norman had been telling her something he guessed about Mr. Ernescliffe.
Her father at first smiled, a pleased amused smile. “Ah! ha! so Master June has his eyes and ears open, has he? A fine bit of gossip to regale you with on his return!”
“He told me to say not one word,” said Ethel.
“Right—mind you don’t,” said Dr. May, and Ethel was surprised to see how sorrowful his face became. At the same moment Norman returned, still very red, and said, “I’ve put out the pocket-book, papa. I think I should tell you I repeated what, perhaps, you did not mean me to hear—you talked to yourself something of pitying Ernescliffe.” The doctor smiled again at the boy’s high-minded openness, which must have cost an effort of self-humiliation. “I can’t say little pitchers have long ears, to a May-pole like you, Norman,” said he; “I think I ought rather to apologise for having inadvertently tumbled in among your secrets; I assure you I did not come to spy you.”
“Oh, no, no, no, no!” repeated Ethel vehemently. “Then you didn’t mind our talking about it?”
“Of course not, as long as it goes no further. It is the use of sisters to tell them one’s private sentiments. Is not it, Norman?”
“And do you really think it is so, papa?” Ethel could not help whispering.
“I’m afraid it is”, said Dr. May, sighing; then, as he caught her earnest eyes, “The more I see of Alan, the finer fellow I think him, and the more sorry I am for him. It seems presumptuous, almost wrong, to think of the matter at all while my poor Margaret is in this state; and, if she were well, there are other difficulties which would, perhaps, prevent his speaking, or lead to long years of waiting and wearing out hope.”
“Money?” said Ethel.
“Ay! Though I so far deserve your compliment, miss, that should be foolish enough, if she were but well, to give my consent to-morrow, because I could not help it; yet one can’t live forty-six years in this world without seeing it is wrong to marry without a reasonable dependence—and there won’t be much among eleven of you. It makes my heart ache to think of it, come what may, as far as I can see, and without her to judge. The only comfort is, that poor Margaret herself knows nothing of it, and is at peace so far. It will be ordered for them, anyhow. Good-night, my dear.”
Ethel sought her room, with graver, deeper thoughts of life than she had carried upstairs.
CHAPTER XVIII
Saw ye never in the meadows,
Where your little feet did pass,
Down below, the sweet white daisies
Growing in the long green grass?
Saw you never lilac blossoms,
Or acacia white and red,
Waving brightly in the sunshine,
On the tall trees over head?
HYMNS FOR CHILDREN, C. F. A.
“My dear child, what a storm you have had! how wet you must be!” exclaimed Mrs. Larpent, as Meta Rivers came bounding up the broad staircase at Abbotstoke Grange.
“Oh no; I am quite dry; feel.”
“Are you sure?” said Mrs. Larpent, drawing her darling into a luxurious bedroom, lighted up by a glowing fire, and full of pretty things. “Here, come and take off your wet things, my dear, and Bellairs shall bring you some tea.”
“I’m dry. I’m warm,” said Meta, tossing off her plumy hat, as she established herself, with her feet on the fender. “But where do you think I have been? You have so much to hear. But first—three guesses where we were in the rain!”
“In the Stoneborough Cloisters, that you wanted to see? My dear, you did not keep your papa in the cold there?”
“No, no; we never got there at all; guess again.”
“At Mr. Edward Wilmot’s?”
“No!”
“Could it have been at Dr. May’s? Really, then, you must tell me.”
“There! you deserve a good long story; beginning at the beginning,” said Meta, clapping her hands, “wasn’t it curious? as we were coming up the last hill, we met some girls in deep mourning, with a lady who looked like their governess. I wondered whether they could be Dr. May’s daughters, and so it turned out they were.
“Presently there began to fall little square lumps, neither hail, nor snow, nor rain; it grew very cold, and rain came on. It would have been great fun, if I had not been afraid papa would catch cold, and he said we would canter on to the inn. But, luckily, there was Dr. May walking up the street, and he begged us to come into his house. I was so glad! We were tolerably wet, and Dr. May said something about hoping the girls were at home; well, when he opened the drawing-room door, there was the poor daughter lying on the sofa.”
“Poor girl! tell me of her.”
“Oh! you must go and see her; you won’t look at her without losing your heart. Papa liked her so much—see if he does not talk of her all the evening. She looks the picture of goodness and sweetness. Only think of her having some of the maidenhair and cape jessamine still in water, that we sent her so long ago. She shall have some flowers every three days. Well, Dr. May said, ‘There is one at least, that is sure to be at home.’ She felt my habit, and said I must go and change it, and she called to a little thing of six, telling her to show me the way to Flora. She smiled, and said she wished she could go herself, but Flora would take care of me. Little Blanche came and took hold of my hand, chattering away, up we went, up two staircases, and at the top of the last stood a girl about seventeen, so pretty! such deep blue eyes, and such a complexion! ‘That’s Flora,’ little Blanche said; ‘Flora, this is Miss Rivers, and she’s wet, and Margaret says you are to take care of her.’”
“So that was your introduction?”
“Yes; we got acquainted in a minute. She took me into her room—such a room! I believe Bellairs would be angry if she had such a one; all up in the roof, no fire, no carpet, except little strips by the beds; there were three beds. Flora used to sleep there till Miss May was ill, and now she dresses there. Yet I am sure they are as much ladies as I am.”
“You are an only daughter, my dear, and a petted one,” said Mrs. Larpent, smiling. “There are too many of them to make much of, as we do of our Meta.”
“I suppose so; but I did not know gentlewomen lived in such a way,” said Meta. “There were nice things about, a beautiful inlaid work-box of Flora’s, and a rosewood desk, and plenty of books, and a Greek book and dictionary were spread open. I asked Flora if they were hers, and she laughed and said no; and that Ethel would be much discomposed that I had see them. Ethel keeps up with her brother Norman—only fancy! and he at the head of the school. How clever she must be!”
“But, my dear, were you standing in your wet things all this time!”
“No; I was trying on their frocks, but they trailed on the ground upon me, so she asked if I would come and sit by the nursery fire till my habit was dry; and there was a dear little good-humoured baby, so fair and pretty. She is not a bit shy, will go to anybody, but, they say, she likes no one so well as her brother Norman.”
“So you had a regular treat of baby-nursing.”
“That I had; I could not part with her, the darling. Flora thought we might take her down, and I liked playing with her in the drawing-room and talking to Miss May, till the fly came to take us home. I wanted to have seen Ethel; but, only think, papa has asked Dr. May to bring Flora some day; how I hope he will!”
Little Meta having told her story, and received plenty of sympathy, proceeded to dress, and, while her maid braided her hair, a musing fit fell upon her. “I have seen something of life to-day,” thought she. “I had thought of the great difference between us and the poor, but I did not know ladies lived in such different ways. I should be very miserable without Bellairs, or without a fire in my room. I don’t know what I should do if I had to live in that cold, shabby den, and do my own hair, yet they think nothing of it, and they are cultivated and ladylike! Is it all fancy, and being brought up to it? I wonder if it is right? Yet dear papa likes me to have these things, and can afford them. I never knew I was luxurious before, and yet I think I must be! One thing I do wish, and that is, that I was of as much use as those girls. I ought to be. I am a motherless girl like them, and I ought to be everything to papa, just as Miss May is, even lying on the sofa there, and only two years older than I am. I don’t think I am of any use at all; he is fond of me, of course, dear papa; and if I died, I don’t know what would become of him; but that’s only because I am his daughter—he has only George besides to care for. But, really and truly, he would get on as well without me. I never do anything for him, but now and then playing to him in the evening, and that not always, I am afraid, when I want to be about anything else. He is always petting me, and giving me all I want, but I never do anything but my lessons, and going to the school, and the poor people, and that is all pleasure. I have so much that I never miss what I give away. I wonder whether it is all right! Leonora and Agatha have not so much money to do as they please with—they are not so idolised. George said, when he was angry, that papa idolises me; but they have all these comforts and luxuries, and never think of anything but doing what they like. They never made me consider as these Mays do. I should like to know them more. I do so much want a friend of my own age. It is the only want I have. I have tried to make a friend of Leonora, but I cannot; she never cares for what I do. If she saw these Mays she would look down on them. Dear Mrs. Larpent is better than any one, but then she is so much older. Flora May shall be my friend. I’ll make her call me Meta as soon as she comes. When will it be? The day after tomorrow?”
But little Meta watched in vain. Dr. May always came with either Richard or the groom, to drive him, and if Meta met him and hoped he would bring Flora next time, he only answered that Flora would like it very much, and he hoped soon to do so.
The truth was, it was no such everyday matter as Meta imagined. The larger carriage had been broken, and the only vehicle held only the doctor—his charioteer—and in a very minute appendage behind, a small son of the gardener, to open gates, and hold the horse.
The proposal had been one of those general invitations to be fulfilled at any time, and therefore easily set aside; and Dr. May, though continually thinking he should like to take his girls to Abbotstoke, never saw the definite time for so doing; and Flora herself, though charmed with Miss Rivers, and delighted with the prospect of visiting her, only viewed it as a distant prospect.
There was plenty of immediate interest to occupy them at home, to say nothing of the increasing employment that Cocksmoor gave to thoughts, legs, and needles. There was the commencement of the half-year, when Tom’s schoolboy life was to begin, and when it would be proved whether Norman were able to retain his elevation.
Margaret had much anxiety respecting the little boy about to be sent into a scene of temptation. Her great confidence was in Richard, who told her that boys did many more wrong things than were known at home, and yet turned out very well, and that Tom would be sure to right himself in the end. Richard had been blameless in his whole school course, but though never partaking of the other boys’ evil practices, he could not form an independent estimate of character, and his tone had been a little hurt, by sharing the school public opinion of morality. He thought Stoneborough and its temptations inevitable, and only wished to make the best of it. Margaret was afraid to harass her father by laying the case before him. All her brothers had gone safely through the school, and it never occurred to her that it was possible that, if her father knew the bias of Tom’s disposition, he might choose, for the present, at least, some other mode of education.
She talked earnestly to Tom, and he listened impatiently. There is an age when boys rebel against female rule, and are not yet softened by the chivalry of manhood, and Tom was at this time of life. He did not like to be lectured by a sister, secretly disputed her right, and, proud of becoming a schoolboy, had not the generous deference for her weakness felt by his elder brothers; he was all the time peeling a stick, as if to show that he was not attending, and he raised up his shoulder pettishly whenever she came to a mention of the religious duty of sincerity. She did not long continue her advice, and, much disappointed and concerned, tried to console herself with hoping that he might have heeded more than he seemed to do.
He was placed tolerably high in the school, and Norman, who had the first choice of fags, took him instead of Hector Ernescliffe, who had just passed beyond the part of the school liable to be fagged. He said he liked school, looked bright when he came home in the evenings, and the sisters hoped all was right.
Every one was just now anxiously watching Norman, especially his father, who strove in vain to keep back all manifestation of his earnest desire to see him retain his post. Resolutely did the doctor refrain from asking any questions, when the boys came in, but he could not keep his eyes from studying the face, to see whether it bore marks of mental fatigue, and from following him about the room, to discover whether he found it necessary, as he had done last autumn, to spend the evening in study. It was no small pleasure to see him come in with his hand full of horse-chestnut and hazel-buds, and proceed to fetch the microscope and botany books, throwing himself eagerly into the study of the wonders of their infant forms, searching deeply into them with Margaret, and talking them over with his father, who was very glad to promote the pursuit—one in which he had always taken great interest.
Another night Dr. May was for a moment disturbed by seeing the school-books put out, but Norman had only some notes to compare, and while he did so, he was remarking on Flora’s music, and joining in the conversation so freely as to prove it was no labour to him. In truth, he was evidently quite recovered, entirely himself again, except that he was less boyish. He had been very lively and full of merry nonsense; but his ardour for play had gone off with his high spirits, and there was a manliness of manner, and tone of mind, that made him appear above his real age.
At the end of a fortnight he volunteered to tell his father that all was right. “I am not afraid of not keeping my place,” he said; “you were quite right, papa. I am more up to my work than I was ever before, and it comes to me quite fresh and pleasant. I don’t promise to get the Randall scholarship, if Forder and Cheviot stay on, but I can quite keep up to the mark in school work.”
“That’s right,” said Dr. May, much rejoiced. “Are you sure you do it with ease, and without its haunting you at night?”
“Oh, yes; quite sure. I can’t think what has made Dr. Hoxton set us on in such easy things this time. It is very lucky for me, for one gets so much less time to oneself as dux.”
“What! with keeping order?”
“Ay,” said Norman. “I fancy they think they may take liberties because I am new and young. I must have my eye in all corners of the hall at once, and do my own work by snatches, as I can.”
“Can you make them attend to you?”
“Why, yes, pretty well, when it comes to the point—‘will you, or will you not?’ Cheviot is a great help, too, and has all the weight of being the eldest fellow amongst us.”
“But still you find it harder work than learning? You had rather have to master the dead language than the live tongues?”
“A pretty deal,” said Norman; then added, “One knows what to be at with the dead, better than with the living; they don’t make parties against one. I don’t wonder at it. It was very hard on some of those great fellows to have me set before them, but I do not think it is fair to visit it by putting up the little boys to all sorts of mischief.”
“Shameful!” said the doctor warmly; “but never mind, Norman, keep your temper, and do your own duty, and you are man enough to put down such petty spite.”
“I hope I shall manage rightly,” said Norman; “but I shall be glad if I can get the Randall and get away to Oxford; school is not what it used to be, and if you don’t think me too young—”
“No, I don’t; certainly not. Trouble has made a man of you, Norman, and you are fitter to be with men than boys. In the meantime, if you can be patient with these fellows, you’ll be of great use where you are. If there had been any one like you at the head of the school in my time, it would have kept me out of no end of scrapes. How does Tom get on? he is not likely to fall into this set, I trust.”
“I am not sure,” said Norman; “he does pretty well on the whole. Some of them began by bullying him, and that made him cling to Cheviot and Ernescliffe, and the better party; but lately I have thought Anderson, junior, rather making up to him, and I don’t know whether they don’t think that tempting him over to them would be the surest way of vexing me. I have an eye over him, and I hope he may get settled into the steadier sort before next half.”
After a silence, Norman said, “Papa, there is a thing I can’t settle in my own mind. Suppose there had been wrong things done when older boys, and excellent ones too, were at the head of the school, yet they never interfered, do you think I ought to let it go on?”
“Certainly not, or why is power given to you?”
“So I thought,” said Norman; “I can’t see it otherwise. I wish I could, for it will be horrid to set about it, and they’ll think it a regular shame in me to meddle. Oh! I know what I came into the study for; I want you to be so kind as to lend me your pocket Greek Testament. I gave Harry my little one.”
“You are very welcome. What do you want it for?”
Norman coloured. “I met with a sermon the other day that recommended reading a bit of it every day, and I thought I should like to try, now the Confirmation is coming. One can always have some quiet by getting away into the cloister.”
“Bless you, my boy! while you go on in this way, I have not much fear but that you’ll know how to manage.”
Norman’s rapid progress affected another of the household in an unexpected way.
“Margaret, my dear, I wish to speak to you,” said Miss Winter, reappearing when Margaret thought every one was gone out walking. She would have said, “I am very sorry for it”—so ominous was the commencement—and her expectations were fulfilled when Miss Winter had solemnly seated herself, and taken out her netting. “I wished to speak to you about dear Ethel,” said the governess; “you know how unwilling I always am to make any complaint, but I cannot be satisfied with her present way of going on.”
“Indeed,” said Margaret. “I am much grieved to hear this. I thought she had been taking great pains to improve.”
“So she was at one time. I would not by any means wish to deny it, and it is not of her learning that I speak, but of a hurried, careless way of doing everything, and an irritability at being interfered with.”
Margaret knew how Miss Winter often tried Ethel’s temper, and was inclined to take her sister’s part. “Ethel’s time is so fully occupied,” she said.
“That is the very thing that I was going to observe, my dear. Her time is too much occupied, and my conviction is, that it is hurtful to a girl of her age.”
This was a new idea to Margaret, who was silent, longing to prove Miss Winter wrong, and not have to see poor Ethel pained by having to relinquish any of her cherished pursuits.
“You see there is that Cocksmoor,” said Miss Winter. “You do not know how far off it is, my dear; much too great a distance for a young girl to be walking continually in all weathers.”
“That’s a question for papa,” thought Margaret.
“Besides,” continued Miss Winter, “those children engross almost all her time and thoughts. She is working for them, preparing lessons, running after them continually. It takes off her whole mind from her proper occupations, unsettles her, and I do think it is beyond what befits a young lady of her age.”
Margaret was silent.
“In addition,” said Miss Winter, “she is at every spare moment busy with Latin and Greek, and I cannot think that to keep pace with a boy of Norman’s age and ability can be desirable for her.”
“It is a great deal,” said Margaret, “but—”
“I am convinced that she does more than is right,” continued Miss Winter. “She may not feel any ill effects at present, but you may depend upon it, it will tell on her by-and-by. Besides, she does not attend to anything properly. At one time she was improving in neatness and orderly habits. Now, you surely must have seen how much less tidy her hair and dress have been.”
