“Dick,” said Dr. Spencer, as the friends sat together in the evening, after Mary’s swoon, “you seem to have found an expedient for making havoc among your daughters.”

“It does not hurt them,” said Dr. May carelessly.

“Pretty well, after the specimen of to-day.”

“That was chance.”

“If you like it, I have no more to say; but I should like to make you sit for two hours in such a temperature. If they were mine—”

“Very fine talking, but I would not take the responsibility of hindering the only pains that have ever been taken with that unlucky place. You don’t know that girl Ethel. She began at fifteen, entirely of her own accord, and has never faltered. If any of the children there are saved from perdition, it is owing to her, and I am not going to be the man to stop her. They are strong, healthy girls, and I cannot see that it does them any harm—rather good.”

“Have you any special predilection for a room eight feet by nine?”

“Can’t be helped. What would you have said if you had seen the last?”

“What is this about one hundred and fifty pounds in hand?”

“The ladies here chose to have a fancy fair, the only result of which, hitherto, has been the taking away my Flora. There is the money, but the land can’t be had.”

“Why not?”

“Tied up between the Drydale Estate and —— College, and in the hands of the quarry master, Nicolson. There was an application made to the College, but they did not begin at the right end.”

“Upon my word, Dick, you take it easy!” cried his friend, rather indignantly.

“I own I have not stirred in the matter,” said Dr. May. “I knew nothing would come to good under the pack of silly women that our schools are ridden with—” and, as he heard a sound a little like “pish!” he continued, “and that old Ramsden, it is absolutely useless to work with such a head—or no head. There’s nothing for it but to wait for better times, instead of setting up independent, insubordinate action.”

“You are the man to leave venerable abuses undisturbed!”

“The cure is worse than the disease!”

“There spoke the Corporation!”

“Ah! it was not the way you set to work in Poonshedagore.”

“Why, really, when the venerable abuses consisted of Hindoos praying to their own three-legged stools, and keeping sacred monkeys in honour of the ape Hanyuman, it was a question whether one could be a Christian oneself, and suffer it undisturbed. It was coming it too strong, when I was requested to lend my own step-ladder for the convenience of an exhibition of a devotee swinging on hooks in his sides.”

Dr. Spencer had, in fact, never rested till he had established a mission in his former remote station; and his brown godson, once a Brahmin, now an exemplary clergyman, traced his conversion to the friendship and example of the English physician.

“Well, I have lashed about me at abuses, in my time,” said Dr. May.

“I dare say you have, Dick!” and they both laughed—the inconsiderate way was so well delineated.

“Just so,” replied Dr. May; “and I made enemies enough to fetter me now. I do not mean that I have done right—I have not; but there is a good deal on my hands, and I don’t write easily. I have been slower to take up new matters than I ought to have been.”

“I see, I see!” said Dr. Spencer, rather sorry for his implied reproach, “but must Cocksmoor be left to its fate, and your gallant daughter to hers?”

“The vicar won’t stir. He is indolent enough by nature, and worse with gout; and I do not see what good I could do. I once offended the tenant, Nicolson, by fining him for cheating his unhappy labourers, on the abominable truck system; and he had rather poison me than do anything to oblige me. And, as to the copyholder, he is a fine gentleman, who never comes near the place, nor does anything for it.”

“Who is he?”

“Sir Henry Walkinghame.”

“Sir Henry Walkinghame! I know the man. I found him in one of the caves at Thebes, among the mummies, laid up with a fever, nearly ready to be a mummy himself! I remember bleeding him—irregular, was not it? but one does not stand on ceremony in Pharaoh’s tomb. I got him through with it; we came up the Nile together, and the last I saw of him was at Alexandria. He is your man! something might be done with him!”

“I believe Flora promises to ask him if she should ever meet him in London, but he is always away. If ever we should be happy enough to get an active incumbent, we shall have a chance.”

Two days after, Ethel came down equipped for Cocksmoor. It was as hot as ever, and Mary was ordered to stay at home, being somewhat pacified by a promise that she should go again as soon as the weather was fit for anything but a salamander.

Dr. Spencer was in the hall, with his bamboo, his great Panama hat, and gray loose coat, for he entirely avoided, except on Sundays, the medical suit of black. He offered to relieve Ethel of her bag of books.

“No thank you.” (He had them by this time). “But I am going to Cocksmoor.”

“Will you allow me to be your companion?”

“I shall be very glad of the pleasure of your company, but I am not in the least afraid of going alone,” said she, smiling, however, so as to show she was glad of such pleasant company. “I forewarn you though that I have business there.”

“I will find occupation.”

“And you must promise not to turn against me. I have undergone a great deal already about that place. Norman was always preaching against it, and now that he has become reasonable, I can’t have papa set against it again—besides, he would mind you more.”

Dr. Spencer promised to do nothing but what was quite reasonable. Ethel believed that he accompanied her merely because his gallantry would not suffer her to go unescorted, and she was not sorry, for it was too long a walk for solitude to be very agreeable, when strange wagoners might be on the road, though she had never let them be “lions in the path.”

The walk was as pleasant as a scorching sun would allow, and by the time they arrived at the scattered cottages, Ethel had been drawn into explaining many of her Cocksmoor perplexities.

“If you could get the land granted, where should you choose to have it?” he asked. “You know it will not do to go and say, ‘Be pleased to give me a piece of land,’ without specifying what, or you might chance to have one at the Land’s End.”

“I see, that was one of the blunders,” said Ethel. “But I had often thought of this nice little square place, between two gardens, and sheltered by the old quarry.”

“Ha! hardly space enough, I should say,” replied Dr. Spencer, stepping it out. “No, that won’t do, so confined by the quarry. Let us look farther.”

A surmise crossed Ethel. Could he be going to take the work on himself, but that was too wild a supposition—she knew he had nothing of his own, only a moderate pension from the East India Company.

“What do you think of this?” he said, coming to the slope of a knoll, commanding a pretty view of the Abbotstoke woods, clear from houses, and yet not remote from the hamlet. She agreed that it would do well, and he kicked up a bit of turf, and pryed into the soil, pronouncing it dry, and fit for a good foundation. Then he began to step it out, making a circuit that amazed her, but he said, “It is of no use to do it at twice. Your school can be only the first step towards a church, and you had better have room—enough at once. It will serve as an endowment in the meantime.”

He would not let her remain in the sun, and she went into school. She found him, when she came out, sitting in the arbour smoking a cigar-rather a shock to her feelings, though he threw it away the instant she appeared, and she excused him for his foreign habits.

In the evening, he brought down a traveller’s case of instruments, and proceeded to draw a beautiful little map of Cocksmoor, where it seemed that he had taken all his measurements, whilst she was in school. He ended by an imaginary plan and elevation for the school, with a pretty oriel window and bell-gable, that made Ethel sigh with delight at the bare idea.

Next day, he vanished after dinner, but this he often did; he used to say he must go and have a holiday of smoking—he could not bear too much civilised society. He came back for tea, however, and had not sat down long before he said, “Now, I know all about it. I shall pack up my goods, and be off for Vienna to-morrow.”

“To Vienna!” was the general and dolorous outcry, and Gertrude laid hold of him and said he should not go.

“I am coming back,” he said, “if you will have me. The college holds a court at Fordholm on the 3rd, and on the last of this month, I hope to return.”

“College! Court! What are you going to do at Vienna? Where have you left your senses?” asked Dr. May.

“I find Sir Henry Walkinghame is there. I have been on an exploring expedition to Drydale, found out his man of business, and where he is to be written to. The college holds a court at Fordholm, and I hope to have our business settled.”

Ethel was too much confounded to speak. Her father was exclaiming on the shortness of the time.

“Plenty of time,” said Dr. Spencer, demonstrating that he should be able to travel comfortably, and have four days to spare at Vienna—a journey which he seemed to think less of, than did Dr. May of going to London.

As to checking him, of that there was no possibility, nor, indeed, notion, though Ethel did not quite know how to believe in it, nor that the plan could come to good. Ethel was much better by this time: by her vigorous efforts, she had recovered her tone of mind and interest in what was passing; and though now and then Norman’s letters, carrying sentences of remembrance, made her glow a little, she was so steady to her resolution that she averted all traffic in messages through her brother’s correspondence, and, in that fear, allowed it to lapse into Margaret’s hands more than she had ever done. Indeed, no one greatly liked writing from home, it was heartless work to say always, “No news from the Alcestis” and yet they all declared they were not anxious.

Hector Ernescliffe knelt a great while beside Margaret’s sofa, on the first evening of his holidays, and there was a long low-voiced talk between them. Ethel wished that she had warned him off, for Margaret looked much more harassed and anxious, after having heard the outpouring of all that was on his mind.

Dr. Spencer thought her looking worse, when he came, as come he did, on the appointed day. He had brought Sir Henry Walkinghame’s full consent to the surrender of the land; drawn up in such form as could be acted upon, and a letter to his man of business. But Nicolson! He was a worse dragon nearer home, hating all schools, especially hating Dr. May.

However, said Dr. Spencer, in eastern form, “Have I encountered Rajahs, and smoked pipes with three-tailed Pachas, that I should dread the face of the father of quarrymen.”

What he did with the father of quarrymen was not known, whether he talked him over, or bought him off—Margaret hoped the former; Dr. May feared the latter; the results were certain; Mr. Nicolson had agreed that the land should be given up.

The triumphant Dr. Spencer sat down to write a statement to be shown to the college authorities, when they should come to hold their court.

“The land must be put into the hands of trustees,” he said. “The incumbent of course?”

“Then yourself; and we must have another. Your son-in-law?”

“You, I should think,” said Dr. May.

“I! Why, I am going.”

“Going, but not gone,” said his friend.

“I must go! I tell you, Dick; I must have a place of my own to smoke my pipe in.”

“Is that all?” said Dr. May. “I think you might be accommodated here, unless you wished to be near your sister.”

“My sister is always resorting to watering-places. My nieces do nothing but play on the piano. No, I shall perhaps go off to America, the only place I have not seen yet, and I more than half engaged to go and help at Poonshedagore.”

“Better order your coffin then,” muttered Dr. May.

“I shall try lodgings in London, near the old hospital, perhaps—and go and turn over the British Museum library.”

“Look you here, Spencer, I have a much better plan. Do you know that scrap of a house of mine, by the back gate, just big enough for you and your pipe? Set up your staff there. Ethel will never get her school built without you.”

“Oh! that would be capital!” cried Ethel.

“It would be the best speculation for me. You would pay rent, and the last old woman never did,” continued Dr. May. “A garden the length of this one—”

“But I say—I want to be near the British Museum.”

“Take a season-ticket, and run up once a week.”

“I shall teach your boys to smoke!”

“I’ll see to that!”

“You have given Cocksmoor one lift,” said Ethel, “and it will never go on without you.”

“It is such a nice house!” added the children, in chorus; “it would be such fun to have you there.”

“Daisy will never be able to spare her other doctor,” said Margaret, smiling.

“Run to Mrs. Adams, Tom, and get the key,” said Dr. May.

There was a putting on of hats and bonnets, and the whole party walked down the garden to inspect the house—a matter of curiosity to some—for it was where the old lady had resided on whom Harry had played so many tricks, and the subject of many myths hatched between him and George Larkins.

It was an odd, little narrow slip of a house, four stories, of two rooms all the way up, each with a large window, with a marked white eyebrow. Dr. May eagerly pointed out all the conveniences, parlour, museum, smoking den, while Dr. Spencer listened, and answered doubtfully; and the children’s clamorous anxiety seemed to render him the more silent.

Hector Ernescliffe discovered a jackdaw’s nest in the chimney, whereupon the whole train rushed off to investigate, leaving the two doctors and Ethel standing together in the empty parlour, Dr. May pressing, Dr. Spencer raising desultory objections; but so evidently against his own wishes, that Ethel said, “Now, indeed, you must not disappoint us all.”

“No,” said Dr. May, “it is a settled thing.”

“No, no, thanks, thanks to you all, but it cannot be. Let me go;” and he spoke with emotion. “You are very kind, but it is not to be thought of.”

“Why not?” said Dr. May. “Spencer, stay with me;” and he spoke with a pleading, almost dependent air. “Why should you go?”

“It is of no use to talk about it. You are very kind, but it will not do to encumber you with a lone man, growing old.”

“We have been young together,” said Dr. May.

“And you must not leave papa,” added Ethel.

“No,” said Dr. May. “Trouble may be at hand. Help us through with it. Remember, these children have no uncles.”

“You will stay?” said Ethel.

He made a sign of assent—he could do no more, and just then Gertrude came trotting back, so exceedingly smutty, as to call everybody’s attention. Hector had been shoving Tom half-way up the chimney, in hopes of reaching the nest; and the consequences of this amateur chimney-sweeping had been a plentiful bespattering of all the spectators with soot, that so greatly distressed the young ladies, that Mary and Blanche had fled away from public view.

Dr. Spencer’s first act of possession was to threaten to pull Tom down by the heels for disturbing his jackdaws, whereupon there was a general acclamation; and Dr. May began to talk of marauding times, when the jackdaws in the Minster tower had been harried.

“Ah!” said Dr. Spencer, as Tom emerged, blacker than the outraged jackdaws, and half choked, “what do you know about jackdaws’ nests? You that are no Whichcote scholars.”

“Don’t we?” cried Hector, “when there is a jackdaw’s nest in Eton Chapel, twenty feet high.”

“Old Grey made that!” said Tom, who usually acted the part of esprit fort to Hector’s credulity.

“Why, there is a picture of it on Jesse’s book,” said Hector.

“But may not we get up on the roof, to see if we can get at the nest, papa?” said Tom.

“You must ask Dr. Spencer. It is his house.”

Dr. Spencer did not gainsay it, and proceeded even to show the old Whichcote spirit, by leading the assault, and promising to take care of Aubrey, while Ethel retained Gertrude, and her father too; for Dr. May had such a great inclination to scramble up the ladder after them, that she, thinking it a dangerous experiment for so helpless an arm, was obliged to assure him that it would create a sensation among the gossiphood of Stoneborough, if their physician were seen disporting himself on the top of the house.

“Ah! I’m not a physician unattached, like him,” said Dr. May, laughing. “Hullo! have you got up, Tom? There’s a door up there. I’ll show you—”

“No, don’t papa. Think of Mrs. Ledwich; and asking her to see two trustees up there!” said Ethel.

“Ah! Mrs. Ledwich; what is to be done with her, Ethel?”

“I am sure I can’t tell. If Flora were but at home, she would manage it.”

“Spencer can manage anything!” was the answer. “That was the happiest chance imaginable that you came home with me, and so we came to go by the same train.”

Ethel was only afraid that time was being cruelly wasted; but the best men, and it is emphatically the best that generally are so—have the boy strong enough on one side or other of their natures, to be a great provocation to womankind; and Dr. Spencer did not rest from his pursuit till the brood of the jackdaws had been discovered, and two gray-headed nestlings kidnapped, which were destined to a wicker cage and education. Little Aubrey was beyond measure proud, and was suggesting all sorts of outrageous classical names for them, till politely told by Tom that he would make them as great prigs as himself, and that their names should be nothing but Jack and Jill.

“There’s nothing for it but for Aubrey to go to school,” cried Tom, sententiously turning round to Ethel.

“Ay, to Stoneborough,” said Dr. Spencer.

Tom coloured, as if sorry for his movement, and hastened away to make himself sufficiently clean to go in quest of a prison for his captives.

Dr. Spencer began to bethink him of the paper that he had been so eagerly drawing up, and looking at his own begrimed hands, asked Ethel whether she would have him for a trustee.

“Will the other eight ladies?” said Ethel, “that’s the point.”

“Ha, Spencer! you did not know what you were undertaking. Do you wish to be let off?” said Dr. May.

“Not I,” said the undaunted doctor. “Come, Ethel, let us hear what should be done.”

“There’s no time,” said Ethel, bewildered. “The court will be only on the day after to-morrow.”

“Ample time!” said Dr. Spencer, who seemed ready to throw himself into it with all his might. “What we have to do is this. The ladies to be propitiated are—”

“Nine Muses, to whom you will have to act Apollo,” said Dr. May, who, having put his friend into the situation, had a mischievous delight in laughing at him, and watching what he would do.

“One and two, Ethel, and Mrs. Rivers!”

“Rather eight and nine,” said Ethel, “though Flora may be somebody now.”

“Seven then,” said Dr. Spencer. “Well then, Ethel, suppose we set out on our travels this afternoon. Visit these ladies, get them to call a meeting to-morrow, and sanction their three trustees.”

“You little know what a work it is to call a meeting, or how many notes Miss Rich sends out before one can be accomplished.”

“Faint heart—you know the proverb, Ethel. Allons. I’ll call on Mrs. Ledwich—”

“Stay,” said Dr. May. “Let Ethel do that, and ask her to tea, and we will show her your drawing of the school.”

So the remaining ladies were divided—Ethel was to visit Miss Anderson, Miss Boulder, and Mrs. Ledwich; Dr. Spencer, the rest, and a meeting, if possible, be appointed for the next day.

Ethel did as she was told, though rather against the grain, and her short, abrupt manner was excused the more readily, that Dr. Spencer had been a subject of much mysterious speculation in Stoneborough, and to gain any intelligence respecting him, was a great object; so that she was extremely welcome wherever she called.

Mrs. Ledwich promised to come to tea, and instantly prepared to walk to Miss Rich, and authorise her to send out the notes of summons to the morrow’s meeting. Ethel offered to walk with her, and found Mrs. and Miss Rich in a flutter, after Dr. Spencer’s call; the daughter just going to put on her bonnet and consult Mrs. Ledwich, and both extremely enchanted with Dr. Spencer, who “would be such an acquisition.”

The hour was fixed and the notes sent out, and Ethel met Dr. Spencer at the garden gate.

“Well!” he said, smiling, “I think we have fixed them off—have not we?”

“Yes; but is it not heartless that everything should be done through so much nonsense?”

“Did you ever hear why the spire of Ulm Cathedral was never finished?” said Dr. Spencer.

“No; why not?”

“Because the citizens would accept no help from their neighbours.”

“I am glad enough of help when it comes in the right way, and from good motives.”

“There are more good motives in the world than you give people credit for, Ethel. You have a good father, good sense, and a good education; and you have some perception of the system by which things like this should be done. Unfortunately, the system is in bad hands here, and these good ladies have been left to work for themselves, and it is no wonder that there is plenty of little self-importance, nonsense, and the like, among them; but for their own sakes we should rather show them the way, than throw them overboard.”

“If they will be shown,” said Ethel.

“I can’t say they seemed to me so very formidable,” said Dr. Spencer. “Gentle little women.”

“Oh! it is only Mrs. Ledwich that stirs them up. I hope you are prepared for that encounter.”

Mrs. Ledwich came to tea, sparkling with black bugles, and was very patronising and amiable. Her visits were generally subjects of great dread, for she talked unceasingly, laid down the law, and overwhelmed Margaret with remedies; but to-night Dr. Spencer took her in hand. It was not that he went out of his ordinary self, he was always the same simple-mannered, polished gentleman; but it was this that told—she was evidently somewhat in awe of him—the refinement kept her in check. She behaved very quietly all the evening, admired the plans, consented to everything, and was scarcely Mrs. Ledwich!

“You will get on now, Ethel,” said Dr. May afterwards. “Never fear but that he will get the Ladies’ Committee well in hand.”

“Why do you think so, papa?”

“Never you fear.”

That was all she could extract from him, though he looked very arch. The Ladies’ Committee accepted of their representatives with full consent; and the indefatigable Dr. Spencer next had to hunt up the fellow trustee. He finally contrived to collect every one he wanted at Fordholm, the case was laid before the College—the College was propitious, and by four o’clock in the evening, Dr. Spencer laid before Ethel the promise of the piece of land.

Mary’s joy was unbounded, and Ethel blushed, and tried to thank. This would have been the summit of felicity a year ago, and she was vexed with herself for feeling that though land and money were both in such safe hands, she could not care sufficiently to feel the ecstasy the attainment of her object would once have given to her. Then she would have been frantic with excitement, and heedless of everything; now she took it so composedly as to annoy herself.

“To think of that one week at Oxford having so entirely turned this head of mine!”

Perhaps it was the less at home, because she had just heard that George and Flora had accepted an invitation to Glenbracken, but though the zest of Cocksmoor might be somewhat gone, she called herself to order, and gave her full attention to all that was planned by her champion.

Never did man plunge into business more thoroughly than he, when he had once undertaken it. He was one of those men who, from gathering particulars of every practical matter that comes under their notice, are able to accomplish well whatever they set their hand to; and building was not new to him, though his former subjects—a church and mission station in India—bore little remembrance to the present.

He bought a little round dumpling of a white pony, and trotted all over the country in search of building materials and builders, he discovered trees in distant timber-yards, he brought home specimens of stone, one in each pocket, to compare and analyse, he went to London to look at model schools, he drew plans each more neat and beautiful than the last, he compared builders’ estimates, and wrote letters to the National Society, so as to be able to begin in the spring.

In the meantime he was settling himself, furnishing his new house with great precision and taste. He would have no assistance in his choice, either of servants or furniture, but made numerous journeys of inspection to Whitford, to Malvern, and to London, and these seemed to make him the more content with Stoneborough. Sir Matthew Fleet had evidently chilled him, and as he found his own few remaining relations uncongenial, he became the more ready to find a resting-place in the gray old town, the scene of his school life, beside the friend of his youth, and the children of her, for whose sake he had never sought a home of his own. Though he now and then talked of seeing America, or of going back to India, in hopes of assisting his beloved mission at Poonshedagore, these plans were fast dying away, as he formed habits and attachments, and perceived the sphere of usefulness open to him.

It was a great step when his packages arrived, and his beautiful Indian curiosities were arranged, making his drawing-room as pretty a room as could anywhere be seen; in readiness, as he used to tell Ethel, for a grand tea-party for all the Ladies’ Committee, when he should borrow her and the best silver teapot to preside. Moreover, he had a chemical apparatus, a telescope, and microscope, of great power, wherewith he tried experiments that were the height of felicity to Tom and Ethel, and much interested their father. He made it his business to have full occupation for himself, with plans, books, or correspondence, so as not to be a charge on the hands of the May family, with whom he never spent an evening without special and earnest invitation.

He gave attendance at the hospital on alternate days, as well as taking off Dr. May’s hands such of his gratuitous patients as were not averse to quit their old doctor, and could believe in a physician in shepherd’s plaid, and Panama hat. Exceedingly sociable, he soon visited every one far and wide, and went to every sort of party, from the grand dinners of the “county families,” to the tea-drinkings of the Stoneborough ladies—a welcome guest at all, and enjoying each in his own way. English life was so new to him that he entered into the little accessories with the zest of a youth; and there seemed to be a curious change between the two old fellow students, the elder and more staid of former days having come back with unencumbered freshness to enliven his friend, just beginning to grow aged under the wear of care and sorrows.

It was very droll to hear Dr. May laughing at Dr. Spencer’s histories of his adventures, and at the new aspects in which his own well-trodden district appeared to travelled eyes; and not less amusing was Dr. Spencer’s resolute defence of all the nine muses, generally and individually.

He certainly had no reason to think ill of them. As one woman, they were led by him, and conformed their opinions. The only seceder was Louisa Anderson, who had her brother for her oracle; and, indeed, the more youthful race, to whom Harvey was the glass of fashion, uttered disrespectful opinions as to the doctor’s age, and would not accede to his being, as Mrs. Ledwich declared, “much younger than Dr. May.”

Harvey Anderson had first attempted patronage, then argument, with Dr. Spencer, but found him equally impervious to both. “Very clever, but an old world man,” said Harvey. “He has made up his bundle of prejudices.”

“Clever sort of lad!” said Dr. Spencer, “a cool hand, but very shallow—”

Ethel wondered to hear thus lightly disposed of, the powers of argument that had been thought fairly able to compete with Norman, and which had taxed him so severely. She did not know how differently abstract questions appear to a mature mind, confirmed in principle by practice; and to one young, struggling in self-formation, and more used to theories than to realities.