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Tommaso Campanells - "The City of the Sun"

T.S. Arthur - "Words of Cheer for the Tempted, the Toiling, and the Sorrowing"

Mrs. Everard Cotes - "The Story of Sonny Sahib"

The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations

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




She spoke not a word after the ladies were left with Aubrey, who was
in despair at not being allowed to follow Hector and Tom, but was
left, as his prematurely classical mind expressed it, like the
Gaulish women with the impedimenta in the marshes--whereas Tom had
added insult to injury, by a farewell to "Jack among the maidens."

Meta tried to console him, by persuading him that he was their
protector, and he began to think there was need of a guard, when a
mighty cheer caused him to take refuge behind Ethel. Even when
assured that it was anything but terrific, he gravely declared that
he thought Margaret would want him, but he could not cross the garden
without Meta to protect him.

She would not allow any one else to relieve her from the doughty
champion, and thereby she missed the spectacle. It might be that she
did not regret it, for though it would have been unkind to refuse to
come in with her brother and sister, her wound was still too fresh
for crowds, turmoil, and noisy rejoicing to be congenial. She did
not withdraw her hand, which Aubrey squeezed harder at each
resounding shout, nor object to his conducting her to see his museum
in the dark corner of the attics, most remote from the tumult.

The loss was not great. The others could hear nothing distinctly,
and see only a wilderness of heads; but the triumph was complete.
Dr. May had been cheered enough to satisfy even Hector; George Rivers
had made a very fair speech, and hurrahs had covered all
deficiencies; Hector had shouted till he was as hoarse as the
jackdaws; the opposite candidate had never come forward at all;
Tomkins was hiding his diminished head; and the gentlemen had nothing
to report but success, and were in the highest spirits.

By and by Blanche was missing, and Ethel, going in quest of her,
spied a hem of blue merino peeping out under all the cloaks in the
hall cupboard, and found the poor little girl sobbing in such
distress, that it was long before any explanation could be extracted,
but at last it was revealed--when the door had been shut, and they
stood in the dark, half stifled among the cloaks, that George's
spirits had taken his old facetious style with Blanche, and in the
very hearing of Hector! The misery of such jokes to a sensitive
child, conscious of not comprehending their scope, is incalculable,
and Blanche having been a baby-coquette, was the more susceptible.
She hid her face again from the very sound of her own confession, and
resisted Ethel's attempts to draw her out of the musty cupboard,
declaring that she could never see either of them again. Ethel, in
vain, assured her that George was gone to the dinner at the Swan;
nothing was effectual but being told that for her to notice what had
passed was the sure way to call Hector's attention thereto, when she
bridled, emerged, and begged to know whether she looked as if she had
been crying. Poor child, she could never again be unconscious, but,
at least, she was rendered peculiarly afraid of a style of notice,
that might otherwise have been a temptation.

Ethel privately begged Flora to hint to George to alter his style of
wit, and the suggestion was received better than the blundering
manner deserved; Flora was too exulting to take offence, and her
patronage of all the world was as full-blown as her ladylike nature
allowed. Ethel, she did not attempt to patronise, but she promised
all the sights in London to the children, and masters to Mary and
Blanche, and she perfectly overwhelmed Miss Bracy with orphan asylums
for her sisters. She would have liked nothing better than dispersing
cards, with Mrs. Rivers prominent among the recommenders of the case.

"A fine coming-out for you, little lady," said she to her baby, when
taking leave that evening. "If it was good luck for you to make your
first step in life upwards, what is this?"

"Excelsior?" said Ethel, and Flora smiled, well pleased, but she had
not caught half the meaning. "May it be the right excelsior" added
Ethel, in a low voice that no one heard, and she was glad they did
not. They were all triumphant, and she could not tell why she had a
sense of sadness, and thought of Flora's story long ago, of the girl
who ascended Mont Blanc, and for what?

All she had to do at present was to listen to Miss Bracy, who was
sure that Mrs. Rivers thought Mary and Blanche were not improved, and
was afraid she was ungrateful for all the intended kindness to her
sister.

Ethel had more sympathy here, for she had thought that Flora was
giving herself airs, and she laughed and said her sister was pleased
to be in a position to help her friends; and tried to turn it off,
but ended by stumbling into allowing that prosperity was apt to make
people over-lavish of offers of kindness.

"Dear Miss Ethel, you understand so perfectly. There is no one like
you!" cried Miss Bracy, attempting to kiss her hand.

If Ethel had not spoken rightly of her sister, she was sufficiently
punished.

What she did was to burst into a laugh, and exclaim, "Miss Bracy!
Miss Bracy! I can't have you sentimental. I am the worst person in
the world for it."

"I have offended. You cannot feel with me!"

"Yes, I can, when it is sense; but please don't treat me like a
heroine. I am sure there is quite enough in the world that is
worrying, without picking shades of manner to pieces. It is the sure
way to make an old crab of me, and so I am going off. Only, one
parting piece of advice, Miss Bracy--read 'Frank Fairlegh', and put
everybody out of your head."

And, thinking she had been savage about her hand, Ethel turned back,
and kissed the little governess's forehead, wished her goodnight, and
ran away.

She had learned that, to be rough and merry, was the best way of
doing Miss Bracy good in the end; and so she often gave herself the
present pain of knowing that she was being supposed careless and
hard-hearted; but the violent affection for her proved that the
feeling did not last.

Ethel was glad to sit by the fire at bed-time, and think over the
day, outwardly so gay, inwardly so fretting and perplexing.

It was the first time that she had seen much of her little niece.
She was no great baby-handler, nor had she any of the phrases adapted
to the infant mind; but that pretty little serene blue-eyed girl had
been her chief thought all day, and she was abashed by recollecting
how little she had dwelt on her own duties as her sponsor, in the
agitations excited by the doubts about her coadjutor.

She took out her Prayer-book, and read the Service for Baptism,
recollecting the thoughts that had accompanied her youngest sister's
orphaned christening, "The vain pomp and glory of the world, and all
covetous desires of the same." They seemed far enough off then, and
now--poor little Leonora!

Ethel knew that she judged her sister hardly; yet she could not help
picturing to herself the future--a young lady, trained for
fashionable life, serious teaching not omitted, but right made the
means of rising in the world; taught to strive secretly, but not
openly, for admiration--a scheming for her marriage--a career like
Flora's own. Ethel could scarcely feel that it would not be a
mockery to declare, on her behalf, that she renounced the world.
But, alas! where was not the world? Ethel blushed at having censured
others, when, so lately, she had herself been oblivious of the higher
duty. She thought of the prayer, including every Christian in holy
and loving intercession--"I pray not that Thou wouldest take them out
of the world, but that Thou wouldest keep them from the evil."

"Keep her from the evil--that shall be my prayer for my poor little
Leonora. His grace can save her, were the surrounding evil far worse
than ever it is likely to be. The intermixture with good is the
trial, and is it not so everywhere--ever since the world and the
Church have seemed fused together? But she will soon be the child of
a Father who guards His own; and, at least, I can pray for her, and
her dear mother. May I only live better, that so I may pray better,
and act better, if ever I should have to act."

There was a happy family gathering on the New Year's Day, and Flora,
who had kindly felt her way with Meta, finding her not yet ready to
enjoy a public festivity for the village, added a supplement to the
Christmas beef, that a second dinner might be eaten at home, in
honour of Miss Leonora Rivers.

Lady Leonora was highly satisfied with her visit, which impressed her
far more in favour of the Abbotstoke neighbourhood than in the days
of poor old Mr. Rivers. Flora knew every one, and gave little select
dinner-parties, which, by her good management, even George, at the
bottom of the table, could not make heavy. Dr. Spencer enjoyed them
greatly, and was an unfailing resource for conversation; and as to
the Hoxtons, Flora felt herself amply repaying the kindness she had
received in her young lady days, when she walked down to the dining-
room with the portly headmaster, or saw his good lady sit serenely
admiring the handsome rooms. "A very superior person, extremely
pleasing and agreeable," was the universal verdict on Mrs. Rivers.
Lady Leonora struck up a great friendship with her, and was delighted
that she meant to take Meta to London. The only fault that could be
found with her was that she had so many brothers; and Flora,
recollecting that her ladyship mistrusted those brothers, avoided
encouraging their presence at the Grange, and took every precaution
against any opening for the suspicion that she threw them in the way
of her little sister-in-law.

Nor had Flora forgotten the Ladies' Committee, or Cocksmoor. As to
the muses, they gave no trouble at all. Exemplary civilities about
the chair passed between the Member's lady and Mrs. Ledwich, ending
in Flora's insisting that priority in office should prevail, feeling
that she could well afford to yield the post of honour, since
anywhere she was the leader. She did not know how much more
conformable the ladies had been ever since they had known Dr.
Spencer's opinion; and yet he only believed that they were grateful
for good advice, and went about among them, easy, good-natured, and
utterly unconscious that for him sparkled Mrs. Ledwich's bugles, and
for him waved every spinster's ribbon, from Miss Rich down to Miss
Boulder.

The point carried by their united influence was Charity Elwood's
being sent for six months' finish at the Diocesan Training School;
while a favourite pupil-teacher from Abbotstoke took her place at
Cocksmoor. Dr. Spencer looked at the Training School, and talked
Mrs. Ledwich into magnanimous forgiveness of Mrs. Elwood. Cherry
dreaded the ordeal, but she was willing to do anything that was
thought right, and likely to make her fitter for her office.




CHAPTER XIV.



'Twas a long doubt; we never heard
Exactly how the ship went down.--ARCHER GURNEY.


The tidings came at last, came when the heart-sickness of hope
deferred had faded into the worse heart-sickness of fear deferred,
and when spirits had been fain to rebel, and declare that they would
be almost glad to part with the hope that but kept alive despair.

The Christmas holidays had come to an end, and the home party were
again alone, when early in the forenoon, there was a tap at the
drawing-room door, and Dr. Spencer called, "Ethel, can you come and
speak to me?"

Margaret started as if those gentle tones had been a thunderclap.
"Go! go, Ethel," she said, "don't keep me waiting."

Dr. Spencer stood in the hall with a newspaper in his hand. Ethel
said, "Is it?" and he made a sorrowful gesture. "Both?" she asked.

"Both," he repeated. "The ship burned--the boat lost."

"Ethel, come!" hoarsely called Margaret.

"Take it," said Dr. Spencer, putting the paper into her hand; "I will
wait."

She obeyed. She could not speak, but kneeling down by her sister,
they read the paragraph together; Ethel, with one eye on the words,
the other on Margaret.

No doubt was left. Captain Gordon had returned, and this was his
official report. The names of the missing stood below, and the list
began thus:--

Lieutenant A. H. Ernescliffe.
Mr. Charles Owen, Mate.
Mr. Harry May, Midshipman.

The Alcestis had taken fire on the 12th of April of the former year.
There had been much admirable conduct, and the intrepid coolness of
Mr. Ernescliffe was especially recorded. The boats had been put off
without loss, but they were scantily provisioned, and the nearest
land was far distant. For five days the boats kept together, then
followed a night of storms, and, when morning dawned, the second
cutter, under command of Mr. Ernescliffe, had disappeared. There
could be no doubt that she had sunk, and the captain could only
record his regrets for the loss the service had experienced in the
three brave young officers and their gallant seamen. After infinite
toil and suffering, the captain, with the other boats' crews, had
reached Tahiti, whence they had made their way home.

"Oh, Margaret, Margaret!" cried Ethel.

Margaret raised herself, and the colour came into her face.

"I did not write the letter!" she said.

"What letter?" said Ethel, alarmed.

"Richard prevented me. The letter that would have parted us. Now
all is well."

"All is well, I know, if we could but feel it."

"He never had the pain. It is unbroken!" continued Margaret, her
eyes brightening, but her breath, in long-drawn gasps that terrified
Ethel into calling Dr. Spencer.

Mary was standing before him, with bloodless face and dilated eyes;
but, as Ethel approached, she turned and rushed upstairs.

Dr. Spencer entered the drawing-room with Ethel, who tried to read
his face as he saw Margaret--restored, as it seemed, to all her
girlish bloom, and her eyes sparkling as they were lifted up, far
beyond the present scene. Ethel had a moment's sense that his
expression was as if he had seen a death-blow struck, but it was gone
in a moment, as he gently shook Margaret by the hand, and spoke a
word of greeting, as though to recall her.

"Thank you," she said, with her own grateful smile.

"Where is your father?" he asked of Ethel.

"Either at the hospital, or at Mr. Ramsden's," said Ethel, with a
ghastly suspicion that he thought Margaret in a state to require him.

"Papa!" said Margaret. "If he were but here! But--ah! I had
forgotten."

She turned aside her head, and hid her face. Dr. Spencer signed
Ethel nearer to him. "This is a more natural state," he said.
"Don't be afraid for her. I will find your father, and bring him
home." Pressing her hand he departed.

Margaret was weeping tranquilly--Ethel knelt down beside her, without
daring at first to speak, but sending up intense mental prayers to
Him, who alone could bear her or her dear father through their
affliction. Then she ventured to take her hand, and Margaret
returned the caress, but began to blame herself for the momentary
selfishness that had allowed her brother's loss and her father's
grief to have been forgotten in her own. Ethel's "oh! no! no!" did
not console her for this which seemed the most present sorrow, but
the flow of tears was so gentle, that Ethel trusted that they were a
relief. Ethel herself seemed only able to watch her, and to fear for
her father, not to be able to think for herself.

The front door opened, and they heard Dr. May's step hesitating in
the hall, as if he could not bear to come in.

"Go to him!" cried Margaret, wiping off her tears. Ethel stood a
moment in the doorway, then sprang to him, and was clasped in his
arms.

"You know it?" he whispered.

"Dr. Spencer told us. Did not you meet him?"

"No. I read it at Bramshaw's office. How--" He could not say the
words, but he looked towards the room, and wrung the hand he held.

"Quiet. Like herself. Come."

He threw one arm round Ethel, and laid his hand on her head. "How
much there is to be thankful for!" he said, then advancing, he hung
over Margaret, calling her his own poor darling.

"Papa, you must forgive me. You said sending him to sea was giving
him up."

"Did I. Well, Margaret, he did his duty. That is all we have to
live for. Our yellow-haired laddie made a gallant sailor, and--"

Tears choked his utterance--Margaret gently stroked his hand.

"It falls hard on you, my poor girl," he said.

"No, papa," said Margaret, "I am content and thankful. He is spared
pain and perplexity."

"You are right, I believe," said Dr. May. "He would have been
grieved not to find you better."

"I ought to grieve for my own selfishness," said Margaret. "I cannot
help it! I cannot be sorry the link is unbroken, and that he had not
to turn to any one else."

"He never would!" cried Dr. May, almost angrily.

"I tried to think he ought," said Margaret. "His life would have
been too dreary. But it is best as it is."

"It must be," said the doctor. "Where are the rest, Ethel? Call
them all down."

Poor Mary, Ethel felt as if she had neglected her! She found her
hanging over the nursery fire, alternating with old nurse in fond
reminiscences of Harry's old days, sometimes almost laughing at his
pranks, then crying again, while Aubrey sat between them, drinking in
each word.

Blanche and Gertrude came from the schoolroom, where Miss Bracy
seemed to have been occupying them, with much kindness and judgment.
She came to the door to ask Ethel anxiously for the doctor and Miss
May, and looked so affectionate and sympathising, that Ethel gave her
a hearty kiss.

"Dear Miss Ethel! if you can only let me help you."

"Thank you," said Ethel with all her heart, and hurried away.
Nothing was more in favour of Miss Bracy, than that there should be a
hurry. Then she could be warm, and not morbid.

Dr. May gathered his children round him, and took out the great
Prayer-book. He read a psalm and a prayer from the Burial Service,
and the sentence for funerals at sea. Then he touched each of their
heads, and, in short broken sentences, gave thanks for those still
left to him, and for the blessed hope they could feel for those who
were gone; and he prayed that they might so follow in their
footsteps, as to come to the same holy place, and in the meantime
realise the Communion of Saints. Then they said the Lord's Prayer,
he blessed them, and they arose.

"Mary, my dear," he said, "you have a photograph."

She put the case into his hands, and ran away.

He went to the study, where he found Dr. Spencer awaiting him.

"I am only come to know where I shall go for you."

"Thank you, Spencer. Thank you for taking care of my poor girls."

"They took care of themselves. They have the secret of strength."

"They have--" He turned aside, and burst out, "Oh, Spencer! you have
been spared a great deal. If you missed a great deal of joy, you
have missed almost as much sorrow!" And, covering his face, he let
his grief have a free course.

"Dick! dear old Dick, you must bear up. Think what treasures you
have left."

"I do. I try to do so," said poor Dr. May; "but, Spencer, you never
saw my yellow-haired laddie, with his lion look! He was the flower
of them all! Not one of these other boys came near him in manliness,
and with such a loving heart! An hour ago, I thought any certainty
would be gain, but now I would give a lifetime to have back the hope
that I might see my boy's face again! Oh, Spencer! this is the first
time I could rejoice that his mother is not here!"

"She would have been your comforter," sighed his friend, as he felt
his inability to contend with such grief.

"There, I can be thankful," Dr. May said, and he looked so. "She has
had her brave loving boy with her all this time, while we little
thought--but there are others. My poor Margaret--"

"Her patience must be blessed," said Dr. Spencer. "I think she will
be better. Now that the suspense no longer preys on her, there will
be more rest."

"Rest," repeated Dr. May, supporting his head on his hand; and,
looking up dreamily--"there remaineth a rest--"

The large Bible lay beside him on the table, and Dr. Spencer thought
that he would find more rest there than in his words. Leaving him,
therefore, his friend went to undertake his day's work, and learn,
once more, in the anxious inquiries and saddened countenances of the
patients and their friends, how great an amount of love and sympathy
that Dr. May had won by his own warmth of heart. The patients seemed
to forget their complaints in sighs for their kind doctor's troubles;
and the gouty Mayor of Stoneborough kept Dr. Spencer half an hour to
listen to his recollections of the bright-faced boy's droll tricks,
and then to the praises of the whole May family, and especially of
the mother.

Poor Dr. Spencer! he heard her accident described so many times in
the course of the day, that his visits were one course of shrinking
and suffering; and his only satisfaction was in knowing how his
friend would be cheered by hearing of the universal feeling for him
and his children.

Ethel wrote letters to her brothers; and Dr. May added a few lines,
begging Richard to come home, if only for a few days. Margaret would
not be denied writing to Hector Ernescliffe, though she cried over
her letter so much that her father could almost have taken her pen
away; but she said it did her good.

When Flora came in the afternoon, Ethel was able to leave Margaret to
her, and attend to Mary, with whom Miss Bracy's kindness had been
inefficacious. If she was cheered for a few minutes, some
association, either with the past or the vanished future, soon set
her off sobbing again. "If I only knew where dear, dear Harry is
lying," she sobbed, "and that it had not been very bad indeed, I
could bear it better."

The ghastly uncertainty was too terrible for Ethel to have borne to
contemplate it. She knew that it would haunt their pillows, and she
was trying to nerve herself by faith.

"Mary," she said, "that is the worst; but, after all, God willed that
we should not know. We must bear it like His good children. It
makes no differences to them now--"

"I know," said Mary, trying to check her sobs.

"And, you know, we are all in the same keeping. The sea is a
glorious great pure thing, you know, that man cannot hurt or defile.
It seems to me," said Ethel, looking up, "as if resting there was
like being buried in our baptism-tide over again, till the great new
birth. It must be the next best place to a churchyard. Anywhere,
they are as safe as among the daisies in our own cloister."

"Say it again--what you said about the sea," said Mary, more
comforted than if Ethel had been talking down to her.

By and by Ethel discovered that the sharpest trouble to the fond
simple girl was the deprivation of her precious photograph. It was
like losing Harry over again, to go to bed without it, though she
would not for the world seem to grudge it to her father.

Ethel found an opportunity of telling him of this distress, and it
almost made him smile. "Poor Mary," he said, "is she so fond of it?
It is rather a libel than a likeness."

"Don't say so to her, pray, papa. It is all the world to her. Three
strokes on paper would have been the same, if they had been called by
his name."

"Yes; a loving heart has eyes of its own, and she is a dear girl!"

He did not forget to restore the treasure with gratitude
proportionate to what the loan had cost Mary. With a trembling
voice, she proffered it to him for the whole day, and every day, if
she might only have it at night; and she even looked black when he
did not accept the proposal.

"It is exactly like--" said she.

"It can't help being so, in a certain sense," he answered kindly,
"but after all, Mary dear, he did not pout out his chin in that way."

Mary was somewhat mortified, but she valued her photograph more than
ever, because no one else would admire it, except Daisy, whom she had
taught to regard it with unrivalled veneration.

A letter soon arrived from Captain Gordon, giving a fuller account of
the loss of his ship, and of the conduct of his officers, speaking in
the highest terms of Alan Ernescliffe, for whom he said he mourned as
for his own son, and, with scarcely less warmth, of Harry, mentioning
the high esteem all had felt for the boy, and the good effect which
the influence of his high and truthful spirit had produced on the
other youngsters, who keenly regretted him.

Captain Gordon added that the will of the late Captain Ernescliffe
had made him guardian of his sons, and that he believed poor Alan had
died intestate. He should therefore take upon himself the charge of
young Hector, and he warmly thanked Dr. May and his family for all
the kindness that the lad had received.

Though the loss of poor Hector's visits was regretted, it was, on the
whole, a comforting letter, and would give still more comfort in
future time.

Richard contrived to come home through Oxford and see Norman, whom he
found calm, and almost relieved by the cessation from suspense; not
inclined, as his father had feared, to drown sorrow in labour, but
regarding his grief as an additional call to devote himself to
ministerial work. In fact, the blow had fallen when he first heard
the rumour of danger, and could not recur with the same force.

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