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The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations

C >> Charlotte Yonge >> The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations




"Thank you, Mr. Harry," said Meta. "I think we are at no loss for
monkeys here. But I have not the word yet. Who comes next?
Ethel--"

"I shall blunder, I forewarn you," said Ethel, "but this is mine:
There was a young king who had an old tutor, whom he despised because
he was so strict, so he got rid of him, and took to idle sport. One
day, when he was out hunting in a forest, a white hind came and ran
before him, till she guided him to a castle, and there he found a
lady all dressed in white, with a beamy crown on head, and so nobly
beautiful that he fell in love with her at once, and was only sorry
to see another prince who was come to her palace too. She told them
her name was Gloria, and that she had had many suitors, but the
choice did not depend on herself--she could only be won by him who
deserved her, and for three years they were to be on their probation,
trying for her. So she dismissed them, only burning to gain her, and
telling them to come back in three years' time. But they had not
gone far before they saw another palace, much finer, all glittering
with gold and silver, and their Lady Gloria came out to meet them,
not in her white dress, but in one all gay and bright with fine
colours, and her crown they now saw was of diamonds. She told them
they had only seen her everyday dress and house, this was her best;
and she showed them about the castle, and all the pictures of her
former lovers. There was Alexander, who had been nearer retaining
her than any one, only the fever prevented it; there was Pyrrhus,
always seeking her, but slain by a tile; Julius Caesar--Tamerlane--
all the rest, and she hoped that one of these two would really prove
worthy and gain her, by going in the same path as these great people.

"So our prince went home; his head full of being like Alexander and
all the rest of them, and he sent for his good old tutor to reckon up
his armies, and see whom he could conquer in order to win her. But
the old tutor told him he was under a mistake; the second lady he had
seen was a treacherous cousin of Gloria, who drew away her suitors by
her deceits, and whose real name was Vana Gloria. If he wished to
earn the true Gloria, he must set to work to do his subjects good,
and to be virtuous. And he did; he taught them, and he did justice
to them, and he bore it patiently and kindly when they did not
understand. But by-and-by the other king, who had no good tutor to
help him, had got his armies together, and conquered ever so many
people, and drawn off their men to be soldiers; and now he attacked
the good prince, and was so strong that he gained the victory, though
both prince and subjects fought manfully with heart and hand; but the
battle was lost, and the faithful prince wounded and made prisoner,
but bearing it most patiently, till he was dragged behind the other's
triumphal car with all the rest, when the three years were up, to be
presented to Vana Gloria. And so he was carried into the forest,
bleeding and wounded, and his enemy drove the car over his body, and
stretched out his arms to Vana Gloria, and found her a vain, ugly
wretch, who grew frightful as soon as he grasped her. But the good
dying prince saw the beautiful beamy face of his lady--love bending
over him. 'Oh!' he said, 'vision of my life, hast thou come to
lighten my dying eyes? Never--never, even in my best days, did I
deem that I could be worthy of thee; the more I strove, the more I
knew that Gloria is for none below--for me less than all.'

"And then the lady came and lifted him up, and she said, 'Gloria is
given to all who do and suffer truly in a good cause, for
faithfulness is glory, and that is thine.'"

Ethel's language had become more flowing as she grew more eager in
the tale, and they all listened with suspended interest. Norman
asked where she got the story. "Out of an old French book, the
'Magazin des enfans,'" was the answer.

"But why did you alter the end?" said Flora, "why kill the poor man?
He used to be prosperous, why not?"

"Because I thought," said Ethel, "that glory could not properly
belong to any one here, and if he was once conscious of it, it would
be all spoiled. Well, Meta, do you guess?"

"Oh! the word! I had forgotten all about it. I think I know what it
must be, but I should so like another story. May I not have one?"
said Meta coaxingly. "Mary, it is you."

Mary fell back on her papa, and begged him to take hers. Papa told
the best stories of all, she said, and Meta looked beseeching.

"My story will not be as long as Ethel's," said the doctor, yielding
with a half-reluctant smile. "My story is of a humming-bird, a
little creature that loved its master with all its strength, and
longed to do somewhat for him. It was not satisfied with its lot,
because it seemed merely a vain and profitless creature. The
nightingale sang praise, and the woods sounded with the glory of its
strains; the fowl was valued for its flesh, the ostrich for its
plume, but what could the little humming-bird do, save rejoice in the
glory of the flood of sunbeams, and disport itself over the flowers,
and glance in the sunny light, as its bright breastplate flashed from
rich purple to dazzling flame-colour, and its wings supported it,
fluttering so fast that the eye could hardly trace them, as it darted
its slender beak into the deep-belled blossoms. So the little bird
grieved, and could not rest, for thinking that it was useless in this
world, that it sought merely its own gratification, and could do
nothing that could conduce to the glory of its master. But one night
a voice spoke to the little bird, 'Why hast thou been placed here,'
it said, 'but at the will of thy master? Was it not that he might
delight himself in thy radiant plumage, and see thy joy in the
sunshine? His gifts are thy buoyant wing, thy beauteous colours, the
love of all around, the sweetness of the honey-drop in the flowers,
the shade of the palm leaf. Esteem them, then, as his; value thine
own bliss, while it lasts, as the token of his care and love; and
while thy heart praises him for them, and thy wings quiver and dance
to the tune of that praise, then, indeed, thy gladness conduces to no
vain-glory of thine own, in beauty, or in graceful flight, but thou
art a creature serving--as best thou canst to his glory.'"

"I know the word," half whispered Meta, not without a trembling of
the lip. "I know why you told the story, Dr. May, but one is not as
good as the humming-birds."

The elder ladies had begun to look at watches, and talk of time to go
home; and Jem Jemmings having been seen rearing himself up from
behind the barrow, the doctor proceeded to investigate his case, was
perfectly satisfied of the boy's truth, and as ready as the young
ones to befriend him. A letter should be written at once, desiring
his father to look out for him on Friday, when he should go by the
same train as Harry, who was delighted at the notion of protecting
him so far, and begged to be allowed to drive him home to
Stoneborough in the gig.

Consent was given; and Richard being added to give weight and
discretion, the gig set out at once--the doctor, much to Meta's
delight, took his place in the brake. Blanche, who, in the morning,
had been inclined to despise it as something akin to a cart, now
finding it a popular conveyance, was urgent to return in it; and
Flora was made over to the carriage, not at all unwillingly, for,
though it separated her from Meta, it made a senior of her.

Norman's fate conveyed him to the exalted seat beside the driver of
the brake, where he could only now and then catch the sounds of mirth
from below. He had enjoyed the day exceedingly, with that sort of
abandon more than ordinarily delicious to grave or saddened
temperaments, when roused or drawn out for a time. Meta's winning
grace and sweetness had a peculiar charm for him, and, perhaps, his
having been originally introduced to her as ill, and in sorrow, had
given her manner towards him a sort of kindness which was very
gratifying.

And now he felt as if he was going back to a very dusky dusty world;
the last and blithest day of his holidays was past, and he must
return to the misapprehensions and injustice that had blighted his
school career, be kept beneath boys with half his ability, and
without generous feeling, and find all his attainments useless in
restoring his position. Dr. Hoxton's dull scholarship would chill
all pleasure in his studies--there would be no companionship among
the boys--even his supporters, Ernescliffe and Larkins, were gone,
and Harry would leave him still under a cloud.

Norman felt it more as disgrace than he had done since the first, and
wished he had consented to quit the school when it had been offered--
be made a man, instead of suffering these doubly irksome
provocations, which rose before him in renewed force. "And what
would that little humming-bird think of me if she knew me disgraced?"
thought he. "But it is of no use to think of it. I must go through
with it, and as I always am getting vain-glorious, I had better have
no opportunity. I did not declare I renounced vain pomp and glory
last week, to begin coveting them now again."

So Norman repressed the sigh as he looked at the school buildings,
which never could give him the pleasures of memory they afforded to
others.

The brake had set out before the carriage, so that Meta had to come
in and wait for her governess. Before the vehicle had disgorged half
its contents, Harry had rushed out to meet them. "Come in, come in,
Norman! Only hear. Margaret shall tell you herself! Hurrah!"

Is Mr. Ernescliffe come? crossed Ethel's mind, but Margaret was
alone, flushed, and holding out her hands. "Norman! where is he?
Dear Norman, here is good news! Papa, Dr. Hoxton has been here, and
he knows all about it--and oh! Norman, he is very sorry for the
injustice, and you are dux again!"

Norman really trembled so much that he could neither speak nor stand,
but sat down on the window-seat, while a confusion of tongues asked
more.

Dr. Hoxton and Mr. Larkins had come to call--heard no one was at home
but Miss May--had, nevertheless, come in--and Margaret had heard that
Mr. Larkins, who had before intended to remove his son from
Stoneborough, had, in the course of the holidays, made discoveries
from him, which he could not feel justified in concealing from Dr.
Hoxton.

The whole of the transactions with Ballhatchet, and Norman's part in
them, had been explained, as well as the true history of the affray
in Randall's Alley--how Norman had dispersed the boys, how they had
again collected, and, with the full concurrence of Harvey Anderson,
renewed the mischief, how the Andersons had refused to bear witness
in his favour, and how Ballhatchet's ill-will had kept back the
evidence which would have cleared him.

Little Larkins had told all, and his father had no scruple in
repeating it, and causing the investigation to be set on foot. Nay,
he deemed that Norman's influence had saved his son, and came, as
anxious to thank him, as Dr. Hoxton, warm-hearted, though
injudicious, was to repair his injustice. They were much surprised
and struck by finding that Dr. May had been aware of the truth the
whole time, and had patiently put up with the injustice, and the loss
of the scholarship--a loss which Dr. Hoxton would have given anything
to repair, so as to have sent up a scholar likely to do him so much
credit; but it was now too late, and he had only been able to tell
Margaret how dismayed he was at finding out that the boy to whom all
the good order in his school was owing had been so ill-used. Kind
Dr. May's first feeling really seemed to be pity and sympathy for his
old friend, the head-master, in the shock of such a discovery. Harry
was vociferously telling his version of the story to Ethel and Mary.
Tom stood transfixed in attention. Meta, forgotten and bewildered,
was standing near Norman, whose colour rapidly varied, and whose
breath came short and quick as he listened. A quick half
interrogation passed Meta's lips, heard by no one else.

"It is only that it is all right," he answered, scarcely audibly;
"they have found out the truth."

"What?--who?--you?" said Meta, as she heard words that implied the
past suspicion.

"Yes," said Norman, "I was suspected, but never at home."

"And is it over now?"

"Yes, yes," he whispered huskily, "all is right, and Harry will not
leave me in disgrace."

Meta did not speak, but she held out her hand in hearty
congratulation; Norman, scarce knowing what he did, grasped and wrung
it so tight that it was positive pain, as he turned away his head to
the window to struggle with those irrepressible tears. Meta's colour
flushed into her cheek as she found it still held, almost
unconsciously, perhaps, in his agitation, and she heard Margaret's
words, that both gentlemen had said Norman had acted nobly, and that
every revelation made in the course of their examination had only
more fully established his admirable conduct.

"Oh, Norman, Norman, I am so glad!" cried Mary's voice in the first
pause, and, Margaret asking where he was, he suddenly turned round,
recollected himself, and found it was not the back of the chair that
he had been squeezing, blushed intensely, but made no attempt at
apology, for indeed he could not speak--he only leaned down over
Margaret, to receive her heartfelt embrace; and, as he stood up
again, his father laid his hand on his shoulder, "My boy, I am glad;"
but the words were broken, and, as if neither could bear more, Norman
hastily left the room, Ethel rushing after him.

"Quite overcome!" said the doctor, "and no wonder. He felt it
cruelly, though he bore up gallantly. Well, July?"

"I'll go down to school with him to-morrow, and see him dux again!
I'll have three-times-three!" shouted Harry; "hip! hip! hurrah!" and
Tom and Mary joined in chorus.

"What is all this?" exclaimed Flora, opening the door--is every one
gone mad?"

Many were the voices that answered.

"Well, I am glad, and I hope the Andersons will make an apology. But
where is poor Meta? Quite forgotten?"

"Meta would not wonder if she knew all," said the doctor, turning,
with a sweet smile that had in it something, nevertheless, of
apology.

"Oh, I am so glad--so glad!" said Meta, her eyes full of tears, as
she came forward.

And there was no helping it; the first kiss between Margaret May and
Margaret Rivers was given in that overflowing sympathy of
congratulation.

The doctor gave her his arm to take her to the carriage, and, on the
way, his quick warm words filled up the sketch of Norman's behaviour;
Meta's eyes responded better than her tongue, but, to her good-bye,
she could not help adding, "Now I have seen true glory."

His answer was much such a grip as her poor little fingers had
already received, but though they felt hot and crushed all the way
home, the sensation seemed to cause such throbs of joy, that she
would not have been without it.




CHAPTER XXVII.



And full of hope, day followed day,
While that stout ship at anchor lay
Beside the shores of Wight.
The May had then made all things green,
And floating there, in pomp serene,
That ship was goodly to be seen,
His pride and his delight.

Yet then when called ashore, he sought
The tender peace of rural thought,
In more than happy mood.
To your abodes, bright daisy flowers,
He then would steal at leisure hours,
And loved you, glittering in your bowers,
A starry multitude.
WORDSWORTH.


Harry's last home morning was brightened by going to the school to
see full justice done to Norman, and enjoying the scene for him. It
was indeed a painful ordeal to Norman himself, who could, at the
moment, scarcely feel pleasure in his restoration, excepting for the
sake of his father, Harry, and his sisters. To find the head-master
making apologies to him was positively painful and embarrassing, and
his countenance would have been fitter for a culprit receiving a
lecture. It was pleasanter when the two other masters shook hands
with him, Mr. Harrison with a free confession that he had done him
injustice, and Mr. Wilmot with a glad look of congratulation, that
convinced Harry he had never believed Norman to blame.

Harry himself was somewhat of a hero; the masters all spoke to him,
bade him good speed, and wished him a happy voyage, and all the boys
were eager to admire his uniform, and wish themselves already men and
officers like Mr. May. He had his long-desired three cheers for "May
senior!" shouted with a thorough goodwill by the united lungs of the
Whichcote foundation, and a supplementary cheer arose for the good
ship Alcestis, while hands were held out on every side; and the boy
arrived at such a pitch of benevolence and good humour, as actually
to volunteer a friendly shake of the hand to Edward Anderson, whom he
encountered skulking apart.

"Never mind, Ned, we have often licked each other before now, and
don't let us bear a grudge now I am going away. We are Stoneborough
fellows both, you know, after all."

Edward did not refuse the offered grasp, and though his words were
only, "Good-bye, I hope you will have plenty of fun!" Harry went
away with a lighter heart.

The rest of the day Harry adhered closely to his father, though
chiefly in silence; Dr. May had intended much advice and exhortation
for his warm-hearted, wild-spirited son, but words would not come,
not even when in the still evening twilight they walked down alone
together to the cloister, and stood over the little stone marked
M. M. After standing there for some minutes, Harry knelt to collect
some of the daisies in the grass.

"Are those to take with you?"

"Margaret is going to make a cross of them for my Prayerbook."

"Ay, they will keep it in your mind--say it all to you, Harry. She
may be nearer to you everywhere, though you are far from us. Don't
put yourself from her."

That was all Dr. May contrived to say to his son, nor could Margaret
do much more than kiss him, while tears flowed one by one over her
cheeks, as she tried to whisper that he must remember and guard
himself, and that he was sure of being thought of, at least, in every
prayer; and then she fastened into his book the cross, formed of
flattened daisies, gummed upon a framework of paper. He begged her
to place it at the Baptismal Service, for he said, "I like that about
fighting--and I always did like the church being like a ship--don't
you? I only found that prayer out the day poor little Daisy was
christened."

Margaret had indeed a thrill of melancholy pleasure in this task,
when she saw how it was regarded. Oh, that her boy might not lose
these impressions amid the stormy waves he was about to encounter!

That last evening of home good-nights cost Harry many a choking sob
ere he could fall asleep; but the morning of departure had more
cheerfulness; the pleasure of patronising Jem Jennings was as
consoling to his spirits, as was to Mary the necessity of comforting
Toby.

Toby's tastes were in some respects vulgar, as he preferred the
stable, and Will Adams, to all Mary's attentions; but he attached
himself vehemently to Dr. May, followed him everywhere, and went into
raptures at the slightest notice from him. The doctor said it was
all homage to the master of the house. Margaret held that the dog
was a physiognomist.

The world was somewhat flat after the loss of Harry--that element of
riot and fun; Aubrey was always playing at "poor Harry sailing away,"
Mary looked staid and sober, and Norman was still graver, and more
devoted to books, while Ethel gave herself up more completely to the
thickening troubles of Cocksmoor.

Jealousies had arisen there, and these, with some rebukes for
failures in sending children to be taught, had led to imputations on
the character of Mrs. Green, in whose house the school was kept.
Ethel was at first vehement in her defence; then when stronger
evidence was adduced of the woman's dishonesty, she was dreadfully
shocked, and wanted to give up all connection with her, and in both
moods was equally displeased with Richard for pausing, and not going
all lengths with her.

Mr. Wilmot was appealed to, and did his best to investigate, but the
only result was to discover that no one interrogated had any notion
of truth, except John Taylor, and he knew nothing of the matter. The
mass of falsehood, spite, violence, and dishonesty, that became
evident, was perfectly appalling, and not a clue was to be found to
the truth--scarcely a hope that minds so lost to honourable feeling
were open to receive good impressions. It was a great distress to
Ethel--it haunted her night and day--she lay awake pondering on the
vain hopes for her poor children, and slept to dream of the angry
faces and rude accusations. Margaret grew quite anxious about her,
and her elders were seriously considering the propriety of her
continuing her labours at Cocksmoor.

Mr. Wilmot would not be at Stoneborough after Christmas. His
father's declining health made him be required at home, and since
Richard was so often absent, it became matter of doubt whether the
Misses May ought to be allowed to persevere, unassisted by older
heads, in such a locality.

This doubt put Ethel into an agony. Though she had lately been
declaring that it made her very unhappy to go--she could not bear the
sight of Mrs. Green, and that she knew all her efforts were vain
while the poor children had such homes; she now only implored to be
allowed to go on; she said that the badness of the people only made
it more needful to do their utmost for them; there were no end to the
arguments that she poured forth upon her ever kind listener,
Margaret.

"Yes, dear Ethel, yes, but pray be calm; I know papa and Mr. Wilmot
would not put a stop to it if they could possibly help it, but if it
is not proper--"

"Proper! that is as bad as Miss Winter!"

"Ethel, you and I cannot judge of these things--you must leave them
to our elders--"

"And men always are so fanciful about ladies--"

"Indeed, if you speak in that way, I shall think it is really hurting
you."

"I did not mean it, dear Margaret," said Ethel, "but if you knew what
I feel for poor Cocksmoor, you would not wonder that I cannot bear
it."

"I do not wonder, dearest; but if this trial is sent you, perhaps it
is to train you for better things."

"Perhaps it is for my fault," said Ethel. "Oh, oh, if it be that I
am too unworthy! And it is the only hope; no one will do anything to
teach these poor creatures if I give it up. What shall I do,
Margaret?"

Margaret drew her down close to her, and whispered, "Trust them
Ethel, dear. The decision will be whatever is the will of God. If
He thinks fit to give you the work, it will come; if not, He will
give you some other, and provide for them."

"If I have been too neglectful of home, too vain of persevering when
no one but Richard would!" sighed Ethel.

"I cannot see that you have, dearest," said Margaret fondly, "but
your own heart must tell you that. And now, only try to be calm and
patient. Getting into these fits of despair is the very thing to
make people decide against you."

"I will! I will! I will try to be patient," sobbed Ethel; "I know
to be wayward and set on it would only hurt. I might only do more
harm--I'll try. But oh, my poor children!"

Margaret gave a little space for the struggle with herself, then
advised her resolutely to fix her attention on something else. It
was a Saturday morning, and time was more free than usual, so
Margaret was able to persuade her to continue a half-forgotten
drawing, while listening to an interesting article in a review, which
opened to her that there were too many Cocksmoors in the world.

The dinner-hour sounded too soon, and as she was crossing the hall to
put away her drawing materials, the front door gave the click
peculiar to Dr. May's left-handed way of opening it. She paused, and
saw him enter, flushed, and with a look that certified her that
something had happened.

"Well, Ethel, he is come."

"Oh, papa, Mr. Ernes--"

He held up his finger, drew her into the study, and shut the door.
The expression of mystery and amusement gave way to sadness and
gravity as he sat down in his arm-chair, and sighed as if much
fatigued. She was checked and alarmed, but she could not help
asking, "Is he here?"

"At the Swan. He came last night, and watched for me this morning as
I came out of the hospital. We have been walking over the meadows to
Fordholm."

No wonder Dr. May was hot and tired.

"But is he not coming?" asked Ethel.

"Yes, poor fellow; but hush, stop, say nothing to the others. I must
not have her agitated till she has had her dinner in peace, and the
house is quiet. You know she cannot run away to her room as you
would."

"Then he is really come for that?" cried Ethel breathlessly; and,
perceiving the affirmative, added, "But why did he wait so long?"

"He wished to see his way through his affairs, and also wanted to
hear of her from Harry. I am afraid poor July's colours were too
bright."

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