The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations

“Indeed,” exclaimed Ethel. “What can you do?”

“What I can,” said Meta, laughing. “Whatever is not ‘a horrid nuisance’ to him.”

“It would be a horrid nuisance to me,” said Ethel bluntly, “if my brothers wanted me to amuse them all the morning.”

“Your brothers, oh!” said Meta, as if that were very different; “besides, you have so much more to do. I am only too glad and grateful when George will come to me at all. You see I have always been too young to be his companion, or find out what suited him, and now he is so very kind and good-natured to me.”

“But what becomes of your business?”

“I get time, one way or another. There is the evening, very often, when I have sung both him and papa to sleep. I had two hours, all to myself, yesterday night,” said Meta, with a look of congratulation, “and I had a famous reading of Thirlwall’s ‘Greece.’”

“I should think that such evenings were as bad as the mornings.”

“Come, Ethel, don’t make me naughty. Large families, like yours, may have merry, sociable evenings; but, I do assure you, ours are very pleasant. We are so pleased to have George at home; and we really hope that he is taking a fancy to the dear Grange. You can’t think how delighted papa is to have him content to stay quietly with us so long. I must call him to go back now, though, or papa will be kept waiting.”

When Ethel had watched the tall, ponderous brother help the bright fairy sister to fly airily into her saddle, and her sparkling glance, and wave of the hand, as she cantered off, contrasting with his slow bend, and immobility of feature, she could not help saying that Meta’s life certainly was not too charming, with her fanciful, valetudinarian father, and that stupid, idealess brother.

“He is very amiable and good-natured,” interposed Norman.

“Ha! Norman, you are quite won by his invitation to shoot! How he despised you for refusing—as much as you despised him.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Norman. “You fancy no sensible man likes shooting, but you are all wrong. Some of our best men are capital sportsmen. Why, there is Ogilvie—you know what he is. When I bring him down here, you will see that there is no sort of sport that he is not keen after.”

“This poor fellow will never be keen after anything,” said Dr. May. “I pity him! Existence seems hard work to him!”

“We shall have baby calling him ‘the detestable’ next,” said Ethel. “What a famous set down she gave him.”

“She is a thorough lady, and allows no liberties,” said Dr. May.

“Ah!” said Margaret, “it is a proof of what I want to impression you. We really must leave off calling her Daisy when strangers are there.”

“It is so much nicer,” pleaded Mary.

“The very reason,” said Margaret, “fondling names should be kept for our innermost selves, not spread abroad, and made common. I remember when I used to be called Peg-top—and Flora, Flossy—we were never allowed to use the names when any visitor was near; and we were asked if we could not be as fond of each other by our proper names. I think it was felt that there was a want of reserve in publishing our pet words to other people.”

“Quite true,” said Dr. May; “baby-names never ought to go beyond home. It is the fashion to use them now; and, besides the folly, it seems, to me, an absolute injury to a girl, to let her grow up, with a nickname attached to her.”

“Ay!” chimed in Norman, “I hear men talking of Henny, and Loo, and the like; and you can’t think how glad I have been that my sisters could not be known by any absurd word!”

“It is a case where self-respect would make others behave properly,” said Flora.

“True,” said Dr. May; “but if girls won’t keep up their own dignity, their friends’ duty is to do it for them. The mischief is in the intimate friends, who blazon the words to every one.”

“And then they call one formal, for trying to protect the right name,” said Flora. “It is, one-half of it, silliness, and, the other, affectation of intimacy.”

“Now, I know,” said Mary, “why you are so careful to call Meta Miss Rivers, to all the people here.”

“I should hope so!” cried Norman indignantly.

“Why, yes, Mary,” said Margaret, “I should hope lady-like feelings would prevent you from calling her Meta before—”

“The Andersons!” cried Ethel, laughing. “Margaret was just going to say it. We only want Harry, to exact the forfeit! Poor dear little humming-bird! It gives one an oppression on the chest, to think of her having that great do-nothing brother on her hands all day.”

“Thank you,” said Norman, “I shall know where I am not to look when I want a sister.”

“Ay,” said Ethel, “when you come yawning to me to find amusement for you, you will see what I shall do!”

“Stand over me with a stick while I print A B C for Cocksmoor, I suppose,” said Norman.

“Well! why not? People are much better doing something than nothing.”

“What, you won’t even let me blow bubbles!” said Norman.

“That is too intellectual, as papa makes it,” said Ethel. “By the bye, Norman,” she added, as she had now walked with him a little apart, “it always was a bubble of mine that you should try for the Newdigate prize. Ha!” as the colour rushed into his cheeks, “you really have begun!”

“I could not help it, when I heard the subject given out for next year. Our old friend, Decius Mus.”

“Have you finished?”

“By no means, but it brought a world of notions into my head, such as I could not but set down. Now, Ethel, do oblige me, do write another, as we used in old times.”

“I had better not,” said Ethel, standing thoughtful. “If I throw myself into it, I shall hate everything else, and my wits will be woolgathering. I have neither time nor poetry enough.”

“You used to write English verse.”

“I was cured of it.”

“How?”

“I wanted money for Cocksmoor, and after persuading papa, I got leave to send a ballad about a little girl and a white rose to that school magazine. I don’t think papa liked it, but there were some verses that touched him, and one had seen worse. It was actually inserted, and I was in high feather, till, oh, Norman! imagine Richard getting hold of this unlucky thing, without a notion where it came from! Margaret put it before him, to see what he would say to it.”

“I am afraid it was not like a young lady’s anonymous composition in a story.”

“By no means. Imagine Ritchie picking my poor metaphors to pieces, and weighing every sentimental line! And all in his dear old simplicity, because he wanted to understand it, seeing that Margaret liked it. He had not the least intention of hurting my feelings, but never was I so annihilated! I thought he was doing it on purpose, till I saw how distressed he was when he found it out; and worse than all was, his saying at the end that he supposed it was very fine, but he could not understand it.”

“Let me see it.”

“Some time or other; but let me see Decius.”

“Did you give up verses because Richard could not understand them?”

“No; because I had other fish to fry. And I have not given them up altogether. I do scrabble down things that tease me by running in my head, when I want to clear my brains, and know what I mean; but I can’t do it without sitting up at night, and that stupefies me before breakfast. And as to making bubbles of them, Ritchie has cured me of that!”

“It is a pity!” said Norman.

“Nonsense, let me see Decius. I know he is splendid.”

“I wish you would have tried, for all my best ideas are stolen from you.”

Ethel prevailed by following her brother to his room, and perching herself on the window-sill, while he read his performance from many slips of paper. The visions of those boyish days had not been forgotten, the Vesuvius scenery was much as Ethel had once described it, but with far more force and beauty; there was Decius’s impassioned address to the beauteous land he was about to leave, and the remembrances of his Roman hearth, his farm, his children, whom he quitted for the pale shadows of an uncertain Elysium. There was a great hiatus in the middle, and Norman had many more authorities to consult, but the summing-up was nearly complete, and Ethel thought the last lines grand, as they spoke of the noble consul’s name living for evermore, added to the examples that nerve ardent souls to devote life, and all that is precious, to the call of duty. Fame is not their object. She may crown their pale brows, but for the good of others, not their own, a beacon light to the world. Self is no object of theirs, and it is the casting self behind that wins—not always the visible earthly strife, but the combat between good and evil. They are the true victors, and, whether chronicled or forgotten, true glory rests on their heads, the sole true glory that man can attain, namely, the reflected beams that crown them as shadowy types of Him whom Decius knew not—the Prince who gave Himself for His people, and thus rendered death, for Truth’s sake, the highest boon to mortal man.

“Norman, you must finish it! When will it be given in?”

“Next spring, if at all, but keep the secret, Ethel. I cannot have my father’s hopes raised.”

“I’ll tell you of a motto,” said Ethel. “Do you remember Mrs. Hemans’ mention of a saying of Sir Walter Scott—‘Never let me hear that brave blood has been shed in vain. It sends a roaring voice down through all time.’”

“If,” said Norman, rather ashamed of the enthusiasm which, almost approaching to the so-called “funny state” of his younger days, had trembled in his voice, and kindled his eye—“if you won’t let me put ‘nascitur ridiculus mus.’”

“Too obvious,” said Ethel. “Depend upon it, every undergraduate has thought of it already.”

Ethel was always very happy over Norman’s secrets, and went about smiling over Decius, and comparing her brother with such a one as poor Meta was afflicted with; wasting some superfluous pity and contempt on the weary weight that was inflicted on the Grange.

“What do you think of me?” said Margaret, one afternoon. “I have had Mr. George Rivers here for two hours.”

“Alone! what could bring him here?”

“I told him that every one was out, but he chose to sit down, and seemed to be waiting.”

“How could you get on?”

“Oh! we asked a few questions, and brought out remarks, with great difficulty, at long intervals. He asked me if lying here was not a great nuisance, and, at last, he grew tired of twisting his moustache, and went away.”

“I trust it was a call to take leave.”

“No, he thinks he shall sell out, for the army is a great nuisance.”

“You seem to have got into his confidence.”

“Yes, he said he wanted to settle down, but living with one’s father was such a nuisance.”

“By the bye,” cried Ethel, laughing, “Margaret, it strikes me that this is a Dumbiedikes’ courtship!”

“Of yourself?” said Margaret slyly.

“No, of Flora. You know, she has often met him at the Grange and other places, and she does contrive to amuse him, and make him almost animated. I should not think he found her a great nuisance.”

“Poor man! I am sorry for him!” said Margaret.

“Oh! rejection will be very good for him, and give him something to think of.”

“Flora will never let it come to that,” said Margaret. “But not one word about it, Ethel!”

Margaret and Etheldred kept their eyes open, and sometimes imagined, sometimes laughed at themselves for their speculations, and so October began; and Ethel laughed, as she questioned whether the Grange would feel the Hussar’s return to his quarters, as much as home would the departure of their scholar for Balliol.

CHAPTER VI

     So, Lady Flora, take my lay,       And if you find a meaning there,     Oh! whisper to your glass, and say,       What wonder, if he thinks me fair.—Tennyson.

Flora and Norman were dining with one of their county acquaintance, and Dr. May had undertaken to admit them on their return. The fire shone red and bright, as it sank calmly away, and the timepiece and clock on the stairs had begun their nightly duet of ticking, the crickets chirped in the kitchen, and the doctor sat alone. His book lay with unturned pages, as he sat musing, with eyes fixed on the fire, living over again his own life, the easy bright days of his youth, when, without much pains on his own part, the tendencies of his generous affectionate disposition, and the influences of a warm friendship, and an early attachment, had guarded him from evil—then the period when he had been perfectly happy, and the sobering power of his position had been gradually working on him; but though always religious and highly principled, the very goodness of his natural character preventing him from perceiving the need of self-control, until the shock that changed the whole tenor of his life, and left him, for the first time, sensible of his own responsibility, but with inveterate habits of heedlessness and hastiness that love alone gave him force to combat. He was now a far gentler man. His younger children had never seen, his elder had long since forgotten, his occasional bursts of temper, but he suffered keenly from their effects, especially as regarded some of his children. Though Richard’s timidity had been overcome, and Tom’s more serious failures had been remedied, he was not without anxiety, and had a strange unsatisfactory feeling as regarded Flora. He could not feel that he fathomed her! She reminded him of his old Scottish father-in-law, Professor Mackenzie, whom he had never understood, nor, if the truth were known, liked. Her dealings with the Ladies’ Committee were so like her grandfather’s canny ways in a public meeting, that he laughed over them—but they were not congenial to him. Flora was a most valuable person; all that she undertook prospered, and he depended entirely on her for household affairs, and for the care of Margaret; but, highly as he esteemed her, he was a little afraid of her cool prudence; she never seemed to be in any need of him, nor to place any confidence in him, and seemed altogether so much older and wiser than he could feel himself—pretty girl as she was—and very pretty were her fine blue eyes and clear skin, set off by her dark brown hair. There arose the vision of eyes as blue, skin as clear, but of light blonde locks, and shorter, rounder, more dove-like form, open, simple, loving face, and serene expression, that had gone straight to his heart, when he first saw Maggie Mackenzie making tea.

He heard the wheels, and went out to unbolt the door. Those were a pair for a father to be proud of—Norman, of fine stature and noble looks, with his high brow, clear thoughtful eye, and grave intellectual eagle face, lighting into animation with his rare, sweet smile; and Flora, so tall and graceful, and in her white dress, picturesquely half concealed by her mantle, with flowers in her hair, and a deepened colour in her cheek, was a fair vision, as she came in from the darkness.

“Well! was it a pleasant party?”

Norman related the circumstances, while his sister remained silently leaning against the mantel-piece, looking into the fire, until he took up his candle, and bade them good-night. Dr. May was about to do the same, when she held out her hand. “One moment, if you please, dear papa,” she said; “I think you ought to know it.”

“What, my dear?”

“Mr. George Rivers, papa—”

“Ha!” said Dr. May, beginning to smile. “So that is what he is at, is it? But what an opportunity to take.”

“It was in the conservatory,” said Flora, a little hurt, as her father discovered by her tone. “The music was going on, and I don’t know that there could have been—”

“A better opportunity, eh?” said Dr. May, laughing; “well, I should have thought it awkward; was he very much discomposed?”

“I thought,” said Flora, looking down and hesitating, “that he had better come to you.”

“Indeed! so you shifted the ungracious office to me. I am very glad to spare you, my dear; but it was hard on him to raise his hopes.”

“I thought,” faltered Flora, “that you could not disapprove—”

“Flora—” and he paused, completely confounded, while his daughter was no less surprised at the manner in which her news was received. Each waited for the other to speak, and Flora turned away, resting her head against the mantel-piece.

“Surely,” said he, laying his hand on her shoulder, “you do not mean that you like this man?”

“I did not think that you would be against it,” said Flora, in a choked voice, her face still averted.

“Heaven knows, I would not be against anything for your happiness, my dear,” he answered; “but have you considered what it would be to spend your life with a man that has not three ideas! not a resource for occupying himself—a regular prey to ennui—one whom you could never respect!” He had grown more and more vehement, and Flora put her handkerchief to her eyes, for tears of actual disappointment were flowing.

“Come, come,” he said, touched, but turning it off by a smile, “we will not talk of it any more to-night. It is your first offer, and you are flattered, but we know

             “‘Colours seen by candle-light,              Will not bear the light of day.’

“There, good-night, Flora, my dear—we will have a-tete-a-tete in the study before breakfast, when you have had time to look into your own mind.”

He kissed her affectionately, and went upstairs with her, stopping at her door to give her another embrace, and to say “Bless you, my dear child, and help you to come to a right decision—”

Flora was disappointed. She had been too highly pleased at her conquest to make any clear estimation of the prize, individually considered. Her vanity magnified her achievement, and she had come home in a flutter of pleasure, at having had such a position in society offered to her, and expecting that her whole family would share her triumph. Gratified by George Rivers’s admiration, she regarded him with favour and complacency; and her habit of considering herself as the most sensible person in her sphere made her so regard his appreciation of her, that she was blinded to his inferiority. It must be allowed that he was less dull with her than with most others.

And, in the midst of her glory, when she expected her father to be delighted and grateful—to be received as a silly girl, ready to accept any proposal, her lover spoken of with scorn, and the advantages of the match utterly passed over, was almost beyond endurance. A physician, with eleven children dependent on his practice, to despise an offer from the heir of such a fortune! But that was his customary romance! She forgave him, when it occurred to her that she was too important, and valuable, to be easily spared; and a tenderness thrilled through her, as she looked at the sleeping Margaret’s pale face, and thought of surrendering her and little Daisy to Ethel’s keeping. And what would become of the housekeeping? She decided, however, that feelings must not sway her—out of six sisters some must marry, for the good of the rest. Blanche and Daisy should come and stay with her, to be formed by the best society; and, as to poor dear Ethel, Mrs. Rivers would rule the Ladies’ Committee for her with a high hand, and, perhaps, provide Cocksmoor with a school at her sole expense. What a useful, admirable woman she would be! The doctor would be the person to come to his senses in the morning, when he remembered Abbotstoke, Mr. Rivers, and Meta.

So Flora met her father, the next morning, with all her ordinary composure, in which he could not rival her, after his sleepless, anxious night. His looks of affectionate solicitude disconcerted what she had intended to say, and she waited, with downcast eyes, for him to begin.

“Well, Flora,” he said at last, “have you thought?”

“Do you know any cause against it?” said Flora, still looking down.

“I know almost nothing of him. I have never heard anything of his character or conduct. Those would be a subject of inquiry, if you wish to carry this on—”

“I see you are averse,” said Flora. “I would do nothing against your wishes—”

“My wishes have nothing to do with it,” said Dr. May. “The point is—that I must do right, as far as I can, as well as try to secure your happiness; and I want to be sure that you know what you are about.”

“I know he is not clever,” said Flora; “but there may be many solid qualities without talent.”

“I am the last person to deny it; but where are these solid qualities? I cannot see the recommendation!”

“I place myself in your hands,” said Flora, in a submissive tone, which had the effect of making him lose patience.

“Flora, Flora! why will you talk as if I were sacrificing you to some dislike or prejudice of my own! Don’t you think I should only rejoice to have such a prosperous home offered to you, if only the man were worthy?”

“If you do not think him so, of course there is an end of it,” said Flora, and her voice showed suppressed emotion.

“It is not what I think, in the absence of proof, but what you think, Flora. What I want you to do is this—to consider the matter fairly. Compare him with—I’ll not say with Norman—but with Richard, Alan, Mr. Wilmot. Do you think you could rely on him—come to him for advice?” (Flora never did come to any one for advice.) “Above all—do you think him likely to be a help, or a hindrance, in doing right?”

“I think you underrate him,” said Flora steadily; “but, of course, if you dislike it—though, I think, you would change your mind if you knew him better—”

“Well,” he said, as if to himself, “it is not always the most worthy;” then continued, “I have no dislike to him. Perhaps I may find that you are right. Since your mind is made up, I will do this: first, we must be assured of his father’s consent, for they may very fairly object, since what I can give you is a mere nothing to them. Next, I shall find out what character he bears in his regiment, and watch him well myself; and, if nothing appear seriously amiss, I will not withhold my consent. But, Flora, you should still consider whether he shows such principle and right feeling as you can trust to.”

“Thank you, papa. I know you will do all that is kind.”

“Mind, you must not consider it an engagement, unless all be satisfactory.”

“I will do as you please.”

Ethel perceived that something was in agitation, but the fact did not break upon her till she came to Margaret, after the schoolroom reading, and heard Dr. May declaiming away in the vehement manner that always relieved him.

“Such a cub!” These were the words that met her ear; and she would have gone away, but he called her. “Come in, Ethel; Margaret says you guessed at this affair!”

“At what affair!” exclaimed Ethel. “Oh, it is about Flora. Poor man; has he done it?”

“Poor! He is not the one to be pitied!” said her father.

“You don’t mean that she likes him?”

“She does though! A fellow with no more brains than a turnip lantern!”

“She does not mean it?” said Ethel.

“Yes, she does! Very submissive, and proper spoken, of course, but bent on having him; so there is nothing left for me but to consent—provided Mr. Rivers does, and he should turn out not to have done anything outrageous; but there’s no hope of that—he has not the energy. What can possess her? What can she see to admire?”

“He is good-natured,” said Margaret, “and rather good-looking—”

“Flora has more sense. What on earth can be the attraction?”

“I am afraid it is partly the grandeur—” said Ethel. She broke off short, quite dismayed at the emotion she had excited. Dr. May stepped towards her, almost as if he could have shaken her.

“Ethel,” he cried, “I won’t have such motives ascribed to your sister!”

Ethel tried to recollect what she had said that was so shocking, for the idea of Flora’s worldly motives was no novelty to her. They had appeared in too many instances; and, though frightened at his anger, she stood still, without unsaying her words.

Margaret began to explain away. “Ethel did not mean, dear papa—”

“No,” said Dr. May, his passionate manner giving way to dejection. “The truth is, that I have made home so dreary, that my girls are ready to take the first means of escaping.”

Poor Margaret’s tears sprang forth, and, looking up imploringly, she exclaimed, “Oh, papa, papa! it was no want of happiness! I could not help it. You know he had come before—”

Any reproach to her had been entirely remote from his thoughts, and he was at once on his knee beside her, soothing and caressing, begging her pardon, and recalling whatever she could thus have interpreted. Meanwhile, Ethel stood unnoticed and silent, making no outward protestation, but with lips compressed, as in her heart of hearts she passed the resolution—that her father should never feel this pain on her account. Leave him who might, she would never forsake him; nothing but the will of Heaven should part them. It might be hasty and venturesome. She knew not what it might cost her; but, where Ethel had treasured her resolve to work for Cocksmoor, there she also laid up her secret vow—that no earthly object should be placed between her and her father.