“I think that sky did it,” said Norman, in a low voice; “it made me think of her in a different way—and what you said too.”
“What did I say? I don’t remember.”
But Norman could not repeat the words, and only murmured, “Golden hills.” It was enough.
“I see,” said the doctor, “you had dwelt on the blank here, not taken home what it is to her.”
“Ay,” almost sobbed Norman, “I never could before—that made me,” after a long silence, “and then I know how foolish I was, and how she would say it was wrong to make this fuss, when you did not like it, about my place, and that it was not for the sake of my duty, but of ambition. I knew that, but till I went to bed to-night, I could not tell whether I could make up my mind, so I would say nothing.”
CHAPTER XIII.
The days are sad, it is the Holy tide,
When flowers have ceased to blow and birds to sing.
F. TENNYSON.
It had been a hard struggle to give up all thoughts of study, and Norman was not at first rewarded for it, but rather exemplified the truth of his own assertion, that he was worse without it; for when this sole occupation for his mind was taken away, he drooped still more. He would willingly have shown his father that he was not discontented, but he was too entirely unnerved to be either cheerful or capable of entering with interest into any occupation. If he had been positively ill, the task would have been easier, but the low intermittent fever that hung about him did not confine him to bed, only kept him lounging, listless and forlorn, through the weary day, not always able to go out with his father, and on Christmas Day unfit even for church.
All this made the want of his mother, and the vacancy in his home, still more evident, and nothing was capable of relieving his sadness but his father’s kindness, which was a continual surprise to him. Dr. May was a parent who could not fail to be loved and honoured; but, as a busy man, trusting all at home to his wife, he had only appeared to his children either as a merry playfellow, or as a stern paternal authority, not often in the intermediate light of guiding friend, or gentle guardian; and it affected Norman exceedingly to find himself, a tall schoolboy, watched and soothed with motherly tenderness and affection; with complete comprehension of his feelings, and delicate care of them. His father’s solicitude and sympathy were round him day and night, and this, in the midst of so much toil, pain, grief, and anxiety of his own, that Norman might well feel overwhelmed with the swelling, inexpressible feelings of grateful affection.