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The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations

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




Flora was in Margaret's room, too useful to be spared.

So ended that dreadful Saturday.




CHAPTER IV.



They may not mar the deep repose
Of that immortal flower:
Though only broken hearts are found
To watch her cradle by,
No blight is on her slumbers found,
No touch of harmful eye.
LYRA INNOCENTIUM.


Such a strange sad Sunday! No going to church, but all the poor
children moving in awe and oppression about the house, speaking under
their breath, as they gathered in the drawing-room. Into the study
they might not go, and when Blanche would have asked why, Tom pressed
her hand and shuddered.

Etheldred was allowed to come and look at Margaret, and even to sit
in the room for a little while, to take the place of Miss Winter; but
she was not sensible of sufficient usefulness to relieve the burden
of fear and bewilderment in the presence of that still, pale form;
and, what was almost worse, the sight of the familiar objects, the
chair by the fire, the sofa, the books, the work-basket, the letter-
case, the dressing things, all these were too oppressive. She sat
crouched up, with her face hidden in her hands, and the instant she
was released, hastened back to Norman. She was to tell him that he
might go into the room, but he did not move, and Mary alone went in
and out with messages.

Dr. May was not to be visited, for he was in the same half-conscious
state, apparently sensible only of bodily suffering, though he
answered when addressed, and no one was trusted to speak to him but
Flora and Ernescliffe.

The rest wore through the day as best they might. Harry slept a good
deal, Ethel read to herself, and tried to get Norman to look at
passages which she liked, Mary kept the little ones from being
troublesome, and at last took them to peep behind the school-room
blinds for Richard's coming.

There was a simultaneous shout when, at four o'clock, they caught
sight of him, and though, at Ethel's exclamation of wonder, Mary and
Tom hung their heads at having forgotten themselves, the association
of gladness in seeing Richard was refreshing; the sense of being
desolate and forsaken was relieved, and they knew that now they had
one to rely on and to comfort them.

Harry hastened to open the front door, and Richard, with his small
trim figure, and fresh, fair young face, flushed, though not
otherwise agitated, was among them, almost devoured by the younger
ones, and dealing out quiet caresses to them, as he caught from the
words and looks of the others that at least his father and sister
were no worse. Mr. Wilmot had come with him, but only stayed to hear
the tidings.

"Can I see papa?" were Richard's first audible words--all the rest
had been almost dumb show.

Ethel thought not, but took him to Margaret's room, where he stood
for many minutes without speaking; then whispered to Flora that he
must go to the others, she should call him if--and went down,
followed by Ethel.

Tom and Blanche had fallen into teasing tricks, a sort of melancholy
play to relieve the tedium. They grew cross. Norman was roused to
reprove sharply, and Blanche was beginning to cry. But Richard's
entrance set all at peace--he sat down among them, and, with soft
voice and arm round Blanche, as she leaned against him, made her good
in a moment; and she listened while he talked over with Norman and
Ethel all they could bear to speak of.

Late in the day Flora came into her father's room, and stood gazing
at him, as he lay with eyes closed, breathing heavily, and his brows
contracted by pain. She watched him with piteous looks, as if
imploring him to return to his children. Poor girl, to-day's quiet,
after the last evening's bustle, was hard to bear. She had then been
distracted from thought by the necessity of exertion, but it now
repaid itself, and she knew not how to submit to do nothing but wait
and watch.

"No change?" enquired Alan Ernescliffe; looking kindly in her face.

"No," replied she in a low, mournful tone. "She only once said,
thank you."

A voice which she did not expect, asked inquiringly, "Margaret?" and
her heart beat as if it would take away her breath, as she saw her
father's eyes intently fixed on her. "Did you speak of her?" he
repeated.

"Yes, dear papa," said Flora, not losing presence of mind, though in
extreme fear of what the next question might be. "She is quiet and
comfortable, so don't be uneasy, pray."

"Let me hear," he said, and his whole voice and air showed him to be
entirely roused. "There is injury? What is it--"

He continued his inquiries till Flora was obliged fully to explain
her sister's condition, and then he dismayed her by saying he would
get up and go to see her. Much distressed, she begged him not to
think of it, and appealed to Alan, who added his entreaties that he
would at least wait for Mr. Ward; but the doctor would not relinquish
his purpose, and sent her to give notice that he was coming.

Mr. Ernescliffe followed her out of the room, and tried to console
her, as she looked at him in despair.

"You see he is quite himself, quite collected," he said; "you heard
now clear and coherent his questions were."

"Can't it be helped? Do try to stop him till I can send to Mr.
Ward."

"I will try, but I think he is in a state to judge for himself.
I do, upon my word; and I believe trying to prevent him would be more
likely to do him harm than letting him satisfy himself. I really
think you need not be alarmed."

"But you know," said Flora, coming nearer, and almost gasping as she
whispered and signed towards the door, "she is there--it is mamma's
room, that will tell all."

"I believe he knows," said Alan. "It was that which made him faint
after the accident, for he had his perceptions fully at first. I
have suspected all day that he was more himself than he seemed, but
I think he could not bear to awaken his mind to understand it, and
that he was afraid to hear about her--your sister, so that our
mention of her was a great relief, and did him good. I am convinced
he knows the rest. Only go on, be calm, as you have been, and we
shall do very well."

Flora went to prepare. Ethel eagerly undertook to send to Mr. Ward,
and hastened from the room, as if in a sort of terror, shrinking
perhaps from what might lead to an outburst of grief. She longed to
have seen her father, but was frightened at the chance of meeting
him. When she had sent her message, and told her brothers what was
passing, she went and lingered on the stairs and in the passage for
tidings. After what seemed a long time, Flora came out, and hastened
to the nursery, giving her intelligence on the way.

"Better than could be hoped, he walked alone into the room, and was
quite calm and composed. Oh! if this will not hurt him, if the
seeing baby was but over!"

"Does he want her?"

"Yes, he would have come up here himself, but I would not let him.
Nurse, do you hear? Papa wants baby; let me have her."

"Bless me, Miss Flora, you can't hold her while you are all of a
tremble! And he has been to Miss Margaret?"

"Yes, nurse, and he was only rather stiff and lame."

"Did Margaret seem to know him?" said Ethel.

"She just answered in that dreamy way when he spoke to her. He says
he thinks it is as Mr. Ward believes, and that she will soon come to
herself. He is quite able to consider--"

"And he knows all?"

"I am sure he does. He desired to see baby, and he wants you, nurse.
Only mind you command yourself--don't say a word you can help--do
nothing to agitate him."

Nurse promised, but the tears came so fast, and sobs with them, as
she approached her master's room, that Flora saw no composure could
be expected from her; and taking the infant from her, carried it in,
leaving the door open for her to follow when wanted. Ethel stood by
listening. There was silence at first, then some sounds from the
baby, and her father's voice soothing it, in his wonted caressing
phrases and tones, so familiar that they seemed to break the spell,
drive away her vague terrors, and restore her father. Her heart
bounded, and a sudden impulse carried her to the bedside, at once
forgetting all dread of seeing him, and chance of doing him harm.
He lay, holding the babe close to him, and his face was not altered,
so that there was nothing in the sight to impress her with the need
of caution, and, to the consternation of the anxious Flora, she
exclaimed, abruptly and vehemently, "Papa! should not she be
christened?"

Dr. May looked up at Ethel, then at the infant; "Yes," he said, "at
once." Then added feebly and languidly, "Some one must see to it."

There was a pause, while Flora looked reproachfully at her sister,
and Ethel became conscious of her imprudence, but in a few moments
Dr. May spoke again, first to the baby, and then asking, "Is Richard
here?"

"Yes, papa."

"Send him up presently. Where's nurse?"

Ethel retreated, much alarmed at her rash measure, and when she
related it she saw that Richard and Mr. Ernescliffe both thought it
had been a great hazard.

"Papa wants you," was a welcome sound to the ears of Richard, and
brought a pink glow into his face. He was never one who readily
showed his feelings, and there was no danger of his failing in self-
command, though grievously downcast, not only at the loss of the
tender mother, who had always stood between him and his father's
impatience, but by the dread that he was too dull and insignificant
to afford any help or comfort in his father's dire affliction.

Yet there was something in the gentle sad look that met him, and in
the low tone of the "How d'ye do, Ritchie?" that drove off a thought
of not being loved; and when Dr. May further added, You'll see about
it all--I am glad you are come," he knew he was of use, and was
encouraged and cheered. That his father had full confidence and
reliance in him, and that his presence was a satisfaction and relief
he could no longer doubt; and this was a drop of balm beyond all his
hopes; for loving and admiring his father intensely, and with
depressed spirits and a low estimate of himself, he had begun to
fancy himself incapable of being anything but a vexation and burden.

He sat with his father nearly all the evening, and was to remain with
him at night. The rest were comforted by the assurance that Dr. May
was still calm, and did not seem to have been injured by what had
passed. Indeed, it seemed as if the violence and suddenness of the
shock, together with his state of suffering, had deadened his
sensations; for there was far less agitation about him than could
have been thought possible in a man of such strong, warm affections
and sensitive temperament.

Ethel and Norman went up arm-in-arm at bedtime.

"I am going to ask if I may wish papa good-night," said Ethel.
"Shall I say anything about your coming?"

Norman hesitated, but his cheeks blanched; he shuddered, shook his
head without speaking, ran up after Harry, and waved her back when
she would have followed.

Richard told her that she might come in, and, as she slowly advanced,
she thought she had never seen anything so ineffably mournful as the
affectionate look on her father's face. She held his hand and
ventured--for it was with difficulty she spoke--to hope he was not in
pain.

"Better than it was, thank you, my dear," he said, in a soft weak
tone: then, as she bent down to kiss his brow; "you must take care of
the little ones."

"Yes, papa," she could hardly answer, and a large drop gathered
slowly in each eye, long in coming, as if the heart ached too much
for them to flow freely.

"Are they all well?"

"Yes, papa."

"And good?" He held her hand, as if lengthening the interview.

"Yes, very good all day."

A long deep sigh. Ethel's two tears stood on her cheeks.

"My love to them all. I hope I shall see them to-morrow. God bless
you, my dear, good-night."

Ethel went upstairs, saddened and yet soothed. The calm silent
sorrow, too deep for outward tokens, was so unlike her father's
usually demonstrative habits, as to impress her all the more, yet
those two tears were followed by no more; there was much strangeness
and confusion in her mind in the newness of grief.

She found poor Flora, spent with exertion, under the reaction of all
she had undergone, lying on her bed, sobbing as if her heart would
break, calling in gasps of irrepressible agony on "mamma! mamma!" yet
with her face pressed down on the pillow that she might not be heard.
Ethel, terrified and distressed, timidly implored her to be
comforted, but it seemed as if she were not even heard; she would
have fetched some one, but whom? Alas! alas! it brought back the
sense that no mother would ever soothe them--Margaret, papa, both so
ill, nurse engaged with Margaret! Ethel stood helpless and
despairing, and Flora sobbed on, so that Mary awakened to burst out
in a loud frightened fit of crying; but in a few moments a step was
at the door, a knock, and Richard asked, "Is anything the matter?"

He was in the room in a moment, caressing and saying affectionate
things with gentleness and fondling care, like his mother, and which
recalled the days when he had been proud to be left for a little
while the small nurse and guardian of the lesser ones. Mary was
hushed in a moment, and Flora's exhausted weeping was gradually
soothed, when she was able to recollect that she was keeping him from
her father; with kind good-nights, he left Ethel to read to her till
she could sleep. Long did Ethel read, after both her sisters were
slumbering soundly; she went on in a sort of dreamy grief, almost
devoid of pain, as if all this was too terrible to be true: and she
had imagined herself into a story, which would give place at dawn to
her ordinary life.

At last she went to bed, and slept till wakened by the return of
Flora, who had crept down in her dressing-gown to see how matters
were going. Margaret was in the same state, papa was asleep, after a
restless distressing night, with much pain and some fever; and
whenever Richard had begun to hope from his tranquillity, that he was
falling asleep, he was undeceived by hearing an almost unconsciously
uttered sigh of "Maggie, my Maggie!" and then the head turned wearily
on the pillow, as if worn out with the misery from which there was no
escape. Towards morning the pain had lessened, and, as he slept, he
seemed much less feverish than they could have ventured to expect.

Norman looked wan and wretched, and could taste no breakfast; indeed
Harry reported that he had been starting and talking in his sleep
half the night, and had proceeded to groaning and crying out till,
when it could be borne no longer, Harry waked him, and finished his
night's rest in peace.

The children were kept in the drawing-room that morning, and there
were strange steps in the house; but only Richard and Mr. Ernescliffe
knew the reason. Happily there had been witnesses enough of the
overturn to spare any reference to Dr. May--the violent start of the
horses had been seen, and Adams and Mr. Ernescliffe agreed, under
their breath, that the new black one was not fit to drive, while the
whole town was so used to Dr. May's headlong driving, that every one
was recollecting their own predictions of accidents. There needed
little to account for the disaster--the only wonder was that it had
not happened sooner.

"I say," announced Harry, soon after they were released again, "I've
been in to papa. His door was open, and he heard me, and called me.
He says he should like any of us to come in and see him. Hadn't you
better go, Norman?"

Norman started up, and walked hastily out of the room, but his hand
shook so, that he could hardly open the door; and Ethel, seeing how
it was with him, followed him quickly, as he dashed, at full speed,
up the stairs. At the top, however, he was forced to cling to the
rail, gasping for breath, while the moisture started on his forehead.

"Dear Norman," she said, "there's nothing to mind. He looks just as
usual. You would not know there was anything the matter." But he
rested his head on his hand, and looked as if he could not stir. "I
see it won't do," said Ethel--"don't try--you will be better by-and-
by, and he has not asked for you in particular."

"I won't be beat by such stuff," said Norman, stepping hastily
forwards, and opening the door suddenly. He got through the greeting
pretty well, there was no need for him to speak, he only gave his
hand and looked away, unable to bring himself to turn his eyes on his
father, and afraid of letting his own face be seen. Almost at the
same moment, nurse came to say something about Margaret, and he
seized the opportunity of withdrawing his hand, and hurrying away, in
good time, for he was pale as death, and was obliged to sit down on
the head of the stairs, and lean his head against Etheldred.

"What does make me so ridiculous?" he exclaimed faintly, but very
indignantly.

The first cure was the being forced to clear out of Mr. Ward's way,
which he could not effect without being seen; and Ethel though she
knew that he would be annoyed, was not sorry to be obliged to remain,
and tell what was the matter with him. "Oh," said Mr. Ward, turning
and proceeding to the dining-room, "I'll set that to rights in a
minute, if you will ask for a tumbler of hot water Miss Ethel.

And armed with the cordial he had prepared, Ethel hunted up her
brother, and persuaded him, after scolding her a little, to swallow
it, and take a turn in the garden; after which he made a more
successful attempt at visiting his father.

There was another room whither both Norman and Etheldred wished to
go, though they dared not hint at their desire. At last Richard came
to them, as they were wandering in the garden, and, with his usual
stillness of manner, shaded with additional seriousness, said, "Would
you like to come into the study?"

Etheldred put one hand into his, Norman took the other, and soon they
stood in that calm presence. Fair, cold, white, and intensely still-
-that face brought home to them the full certainty that the warm
brightening look would never beam on them, the soft blue eyes never
guide, check, and watch them, the smile never approve or welcome
them. To see her unconscious of their presence was too strange and
sad, and all were silent, till, as they left the room, Ethel looked
out at Blanche and Aubrey in the garden. "They will never remember
her! Oh! why should it be?"

Richard would fain have moralised and comforted, but she felt as if
she knew it all before, and heard with languid attention. She had
rather read than talk, and he sat down to write letters.

There were no near relations to be sent for. Dr. May was an only
son, and his wife's sister, Mrs. Arnott, was in New Zealand; her
brother had long been dead, and his widow, who lived in Edinburgh,
was scarcely known to the May family. Of friends there were many,
fast bound by affection and gratitude, and notes, inquiries,
condolences, and offers of service came in thickly, and gave much
occupation to Flora, Richard, and Alan Ernescliffe, in turn. No one
from without could do anything for them--they had all the help they
wanted in Miss Winter and in Alan, who was invaluable in sharing with
Richard the care of the doctor, as well as in giving him the benefit
of his few additional years' experience, and relieving him of some of
his tasks. He was indeed like one of themselves, and a most valuable
help and comforter. Mr. Wilmot gave them all the time he could, and
on this day saw the doctor, who seemed to find some solace in his
visit, though saying very little.

On this day the baby was to be baptized. The usual Stoneborough
fashion was to collect all the christenings for the month into one
Sunday, except those for such persons as thought themselves too
refined to see their children christened before the congregation, and
who preferred an empty church and a week-day. The little one had
waited till she was nearly six weeks old for "a Christening Sunday,"
and since that had been missed, she could not be kept unbaptized for
another month; so, late in the day, she was carried to church.

Richard had extremely gratified old nurse, by asking her to represent
poor Margaret; Mrs. Hoxton stood for the other godmother, and Alan
Ernescliffe was desired to consider himself absolutely her sponsor,
not merely a proxy. The younger children alone were to go with them:
it was too far off, and the way lay too much through the town for it
to be thought proper for the others to go. Ethel wished it very
much, and thought it nonsense to care whether people looked at her;
and in spite of Miss Winter's seeming shocked at her proposing it,
had a great mind to persist. She would even have appealed to her
papa, if Flora had not stopped her, exclaiming, "Really, Ethel, I
think there never was a person so entirely without consideration as
you are."

Much abashed, Ethel humbly promised that if she might go into papa's
room, she would not say one word about the christening, unless he
should begin, and, to her great satisfaction, he presently asked her
to read the service to him. Flora came to the doorway of Margaret's
room, and listened; when she had finished, all were silent.

"How shall we, how can we virtuously bring up our motherless little
sister?" was the thought with each of the girls. The answers were,
in one mind, "I trust we shall do well by her, dear little thing. I
see, on an emergency, that I know how to act. I never thought I was
capable of being of so much use, thanks to dear, dear mamma's
training. I shall manage, I am sure, and so they will all depend on
me, and look up to me. How nice it was to hear dear papa say what he
did about the comfort of my being able to look after Margaret."

In the other, "Poor darling, it is saddest of all for her, because
she knows nothing, and will never remember her mamma! But if
Margaret is but better, she will take care of her, and oh how we
ought to try--and I, such a naughty wild thing--if I should hurt the
dear little ones by carelessness, or by my bad example! Oh! what
shall I do, for want of some one to keep me in order? If I should
vex papa by any of my wrong ways!"

They heard the return of the others, and the sisters both sprang up,
"May we bring her to you?" said Flora.

"Yes, do, my dears."

The sisters all came down together with the little one, and Flora put
her down within the arm her father stretched out for her. He gazed
into the baby face, which, in its expressionless placidity, almost
recalled her mother's tranquil sweetness.

"Gertrude Margaret," said Flora, and with a look that had more of
tenderness than grief, he murmured, "My Daisy blossom, my little
Maggie."

"Might we?" said Ethel, when Flora took her again, "might we take her
to her godmother to see if she would notice her?"

He looked as if he wished it; but said, "No, I think not, better not
rouse her," and sighed heavily; then, as they stood round his bed,
unwilling to go, he added, "Girls, we must learn carefulness and
thoughtfulness. We have no one to take thought for us now."

Flora pressed the babe in her arms, Ethel's two reluctant tears stood
on her cheeks, Mary exclaimed, "I'll try not to be naughty;" and
Blanche climbed up to kiss him, saying, "I will be always good papa."

"Daisy--papa's Daisy--your vows are made," whispered Ethel, gaining
sole possession of the babe for a minute. "You have promised to be
good and holy. We have the keeping of you, mamma's precious flower,
her pearl of truth! Oh, may God guard you to be an unstained jewel,
till you come back to her again--and a blooming flower, till you are
gathered into the wreath that never fades--my own sweet poor little
motherless Daisy!"




CHAPTER V.



Through lawless camp, through ocean wild,
Her prophet eye pursues her child;
Scans mournfully her poet's strain,
Fears for her merchant, loss alike and gain."
LYRA INNOCENTIUM.


Dr. May took the management of himself into his own hands, and paid
so little attention to Mr. Ward's recommendations that his sons and
daughters were in continual dread of his choosing to do something
that might cause injurious agitation.

However, he did not go further than Margaret's bedroom where he sat
hour after hour his eyes fixed upon her, as she continued in a state
bordering on insensibility. He took little notice of anything else,
and hardly spoke. There were heavy sighs now and then, but Richard
and Flora, one or other of whom were always watching him, could
hardly tell whether to ascribe them to the oppression of sorrow or of
suffering. Their great fear was of his insisting on seeing his
wife's face, and it was a great relief that he never alluded to her,
except once, to desire Richard to bring him her ring. Richard
silently obeyed, and, without a word, he placed it on his little
finger. Richard used to read the Psalms to him in the morning,
before he was up, and Flora would bring little Daisy and lay her by
his side.

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