The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations. Yonge Charlotte Mary

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СКАЧАТЬ morning was tiresome; though Dr. May had two regular days for seeing poor people at his house, he was too good-natured to keep strictly to them, and this day, as Flora had predicted, there was a procession of them not soon got rid of, even by his rapid queries and the talismanic figures made by his left hand on scraps of paper, with which he sent them off to the infirmary. Ethel tried to read; the children lingered about; it was a trial of temper to all but Tom, who obtained Richard’s attention to his lessons. He liked to say them to his brother, and was an incentive to learn them quickly, that none might remain for Miss Winter when Richard went out with his father. If mamma had been there, she would have had prayers; but now no one had authority enough, though they did at last even finish breakfast. Just as the gig came to the door, Dr. May dismissed his last patient, rang the bell in haste, and as soon as prayers were over, declared he had an appointment, and had no time to eat. There was a general outcry that it was bad enough when he was well, and now he must not take liberties; Flora made him drink some tea; and Richard placed morsels in his way, while he read his letters. He ran up for a final look at Margaret, almost upset the staid Miss Winter as he ran down again, called Richard to take the reins, and was off.

      It was French day, always a trial to Ethel. M. Ballompre, the master, knew what was good and bad French, but could not render a reason, and Ethel, being versed in the principles of grammar, from her Latin studies, chose to know the why and wherefore of his corrections—she did not like to see her pages defaced, and have no security against future errors; while he thought her a troublesome pupil, and was put out by her questions. They wrangled, Miss Winter was displeased, and Ethel felt injured.

      Mary’s inability to catch the pronunciation, and her hopeless dull look when she found that coeur must not be pronounced cour, nor cur, but something between, to which her rosy English lips could never come—all this did not tease M. Ballompre, for he was used to it.

      His mark for Ethel’s lesson was “de l’humeur.”

      “I am sorry,” said Miss Winter, when he was gone. “I thought you had outgrown that habit of disputing over every phrase.”

      “I can’t tell how a language is to be learned without knowing the reasons of one’s mistakes,” said Ethel.

      “That is what you always say, my dear. It is of no use to renew it all, but I wish you would control yourself. Now, Mary, call Blanche, and you and Ethel take your arithmetic.”

      So Flora went to read to Margaret, while Blanche went lightly and playfully through her easy lessons, and Mary floundered piteously over the difficulties of Compound Long Division. Ethel’s mind was in too irritated and tumultuous a state for her to derive her usual solace from Cube Root. Her sum was wrong, and she wanted to work it right, but Miss Winter, who had little liking for the higher branches of arithmetic, said she had spent time enough over it, and summoned her to an examination such as the governess was very fond of and often practised. Ethel thought it useless, and was teased by it; and though her answers were chiefly correct, they were given in an irritated tone. It was of this kind:—

              What is the date of the invention of paper?

              What is the latitude and longitude of Otaheite?

              What are the component parts of brass?

              Whence is cochineal imported?

      When this was over, Ethel had to fetch her mending-basket, and Mary her book of selections; the piece for to-day’s lesson was the quarrel of Brutus and Cassius; and Mary’s dull droning tone was a trial to her ears; she presently exclaimed, “Oh, Mary, don’t murder it!”

      “Murder what?” said Mary, opening wide her light blue eyes.

      “That use of exaggerated language,—” began Miss Winter.

      “I’ve heard papa say it,” said Ethel, only wanting to silence Miss Winter. In a cooler moment she would not have used the argument.

      “All that a gentleman may say, may not be a precedent for a young lady; but you are interrupting Mary.”

      “Only let me show her. I can’t bear to hear her, listen, Mary.

              “What shall one of us

               That struck the foremost”—

      “That is declaiming,” said Miss Winter. “It is not what we wish for in a lady. You are neglecting your work and interfering.”

      Ethel made a fretful contortion, and obeyed. So it went on all the morning, Ethel’s eagerness checked by Miss Winter’s dry manner, producing pettishness, till Ethel, in a state between self-reproach and a sense of injustice, went up to prepare for dinner, and to visit Margaret on the way.

      She found her sister picking a merino frock to pieces. “See here,” she said eagerly, “I thought you would like to make up this old frock for one of the Cocksmoor children; but what is the matter?” as Ethel did not show the lively interest that she expected.

      “Oh, nothing, only Miss Winter is so tiresome.”

      “What was it?”

      “Everything, it was all horrid. I was cross, I know, but she and M. Ballompre made me so;” and Ethel was in the midst of the narration of her grievances, when Norman came in. The school was half a mile off, but he had not once failed to come home, in the interval allowed for play after dinner, to inquire for his sister.

      “Well, Norman, you are out of breath, sit down and rest. What is doing at school; are you dux of your class?”

      “Yes,” said the boy wearily.

      “What mark for the verses?” said Ethel.

      “Quam bene.”

      “Not optime?”

      “No, they were tame,” Dr. Hoxton said.

      “What is Harry doing?” said Margaret.

      “He is fourth in his form. I left him at football.”

      “Dinner!” said Flora at the door. “What will you have, Margaret?”

      “I’ll fetch it,” said Norman, who considered it his privilege to wait on Margaret at dinner. When he had brought the tray, he stood leaning against the bed-post, musing. Suddenly, there was a considerable clatter of fire-irons, and his violent start surprised Margaret.

      “Ethel has been poking the fire,” she said, as if no more was needed to account for their insecurity. Norman put them up again, but a ringing sound betrayed that it was not with a firm touch, and when, a minute after, he came to take her plate, she saw that he was trying with effort to steady his hand.

      “Norman, dear, are you sure you are well?”

      “Yes, very well,” said he, as if vexed that she had taken any notice.

      “You had better not come racing home. I’m not worth inquiries now, I am so much better,” said she, smiling.

      He made no reply, but this was not consenting silence.

      “I don’t like you to lose your football,” she proceeded.

      “I could not—” and he stopped short.

      “It would be much better for you,” said she, looking up in his face with anxious СКАЧАТЬ