"Quite true!" they all agreed, but to whom did the land belong?--and what a chorus arose! Miss Anderson thought it belonged to Mr. Nicolson, because the wagons of slate had James Nicolson on them, and, if so, they had no chance, for he was an old miser--and six stories illustrative thereof ensued. Miss Rich was quite sure some Body held it, and Bodies were slow of movement. Mrs. Ledwich remembered some question of enclosing, and thought all waste lands were under the Crown; she knew that the Stoneborough people once had a right to pasture their cattle, because Mr. Southron's cow had tumbled down a loam-pit when her mother was a girl. No, that was on Far-view down, out the other way! Miss Harrison was positive that Sir Henry Walkinghame had some right there, and would not Dr. May apply to him? Mrs. Grey thought it ought to be part of the Drydale estate, and Miss Boulder was certain that Mr. Bramshaw knew all about it.
Flora's gentle voice carried conviction that she knew what she was saying, when, at last, they left a moment for her to speak--(Ethel would have done so long ago). "If I am not mistaken, the land is a copyhold of Sir Henry Walkinghame, held under the manor of Drydale, which belongs to M-- College, and is underlet to Mr. Nicolson."
Everybody, being partially right, was delighted, and had known it all before; Miss Boulder agreed with Miss Anderson that Miss May had stated it as lucidly as Mr. Bramshaw could. The next question was, to whom to apply? and, after as much as was expedient had been said in favour of each, it was decided that, as Sir Henry Walkinghame was abroad, no one knew exactly where, it would be best to go to the fountain-head, and write at once to the principal of the college. But who was to write? Flora proposed Mr. Ramsden as the fittest person, but this was negatived. Every one declared that he would never take the trouble, and Miss Rich began to agitate her pens. By this time, however, Mrs. Ward, who was opposite to the Gothic clock- tower, began to look uneasy, and suggested, in a nervous manner, that it was half-past five, and she was afraid Mr. Ward would be kept waiting for his dinner. Mrs. Grey began to have like fears, that Mr. Grey would be come in from his ride after banking hours. The other ladies began to think of tea, and the meeting decided on adjourning till that day next week, when the committee would sit upon Miss Rich's letter.
"My dear Miss Flora!" began Miss Rich, adhering to her as they parted with the rest at the end of the street, "how am I to write to a principal? Am I to begin Reverend Sir, or My Lord, or is he Venerable, like an archdeacon? What is his name, and what am I to say?"
"Why, it is not a correspondence much in my line," said Flora, laughing.
"Ah! but you are so intimate with Dr. Hoxton, and your brothers at Oxford! You must know--"
"I'll take advice," said Flora good-naturedly. "Shall I come, and call before Friday, and tell you the result?"
"Oh, pray! It will be a real favour! Good-morning--"
"There," said Flora, as the sisters turned homewards, "Cherry is not going to be turned out just yet!"
"How could you, Flora? Now they will have that man from Whitford, and you said not a word against it!"
"What was the use of adding to the hubbub? A little opposition would make them determined on having him. You will see, Ethel, we shall get the ground on our own terms, and then it will be time to settle about the mistress. If the harvest holidays were not over, we would try to send Cherry to a training-school, so as to leave them no excuse."
"I hate all this management and contrivance. It would be more honest to speak our minds, and not pretend to agree with them."
"My dear Ethel! have I spoken a word contrary to my opinion? It is not fit for me, a girl of twenty, to go disputing and dragooning as you would have me; but a little savoir faire, a grain of common sense, thrown in among the babble, always works. Don't you remember how Mrs. Ward's sister told us that a whole crowd of tottering Chinese ladies would lean on her, because they felt her firm support, though it was out of sight?"
Ethel did not answer; she had self-control enough left not to retort upon Flora's estimate of herself, but the irritation was strong; she felt as if her cherished views for Cocksmoor were insulted, as well as set aside, by the place being made the occasion of so much folly and vain prattle, the sanctity of her vision of self-devotion destroyed by such interference, and Flora's promises did not reassure her. She doubted Flora's power, and had still more repugnance to the means by which her sister tried to govern; they did not seem to her straightforward, and she could not endure Flora's complacency in their success. Had it not been for her real love for the place and people, as well as the principle which prompted that love, she could have found it in her heart to throw up all concern with it, rather than become a fellow-worker with such a conclave.
Such were Ethel's feelings as the pair walked down the street; the one sister bright and smiling with the good humour that had endured many shocks all that day, all good nature and triumph, looking forward to success, great benefit to Cocksmoor, and plenty of management, with credit and praise to herself; the other, downcast and irritable, with annoyance at the interference with her schemes, at the prospects of her school, and at herself for being out of temper, prone to murmur or to reply tartly, and not able to recover from her mood, but only, as she neared the house, lapsing into her other trouble, and preparing to resist any misjudged, though kind attempt of her father, to make her unsay her rebuke to Miss Bracy. Pride and temper! Ah! Etheldred! where were they now?
Dr. May was at his study door as his daughters entered the hall, and Ethel expected the order which she meant to question; but, instead of this, after a brief inquiry after the doings of the nine muses, which Flora answered, so as to make him laugh, he stopped Ethel, as she was going upstairs, by saying, "I do not know whether this letter is intended for Richard, or for me. At any rate, it concerns you most."
The envelope was addressed to the Reverend Richard May, D. D., Market Stoneborough, and the letter began, "Reverend Sir." So far Ethel saw, and exclaimed, with amusement, then, with a long-drawn "Ah!" and an interjection, "My poor dear Una!" she became absorbed, the large tears--yes, Ethel's reluctant tears gathering slowly and dropping.
The letter was from a clergyman far away in the north of England, who said he could not, though a stranger, resist the desire to send to Dr. May an account of a poor girl, who seemed to have received great benefits from him, or from some of his family, especially as she had shown great eagerness on his proposing to write.
He said it was nearly a year since there had come into his parish a troop of railwaymen and their families. For the most part, they were completely wild and rude, unused to any pastoral care; but, even on the first Sunday, he had noticed a keen-looking, freckled, ragged, unmistakably Irish girl, creeping into church with a Prayer-book in her hand, and had afterwards found her hanging about the door of the school. "I never saw a more engaging, though droll, wild expression, than that with which she looked up to me." (Ethel's cry of delight was at that sentence--she knew that look too well, and had yearned after it so often!) "I found her far better instructed than her appearance had led me to expect, and more truly impressed with the spirit of what she had learned than it has often been my lot to find children. She was perfect in the New Testament history"--("Ah! that she was not, when she went away!")--"and was in the habit of constantly attending church, and using morning and evening prayers." ("Oh! how I longed, when she went away, to beg her to keep them up! Dear Una.") "On my questions, as to how she had been taught, she always replied, 'Mr. Richard May,' or 'Miss Athel.' You must excuse me if I have not correctly caught the name from her Irish pronunciation." ("I am afraid he thinks my name is Athaliah! But oh! this dear girl! How I have wished to hear of her!") "Everything was answered with 'Mr. Richard,' or 'Miss Athel'; and, if I inquired further, her face would light up with a beam of gratitude, and she would run on, as long as I could listen, with instances of their kindness. It was the same with her mother, a wild, rude specimen of an Irishwoman, whom I never could bring to church herself, but who ran on loudly with their praises, usually ending with 'Heavens be their bed,' and saying that Una had been quite a different girl since the young ladies and gentleman found her out, and put them parables in her head.