The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations

by Шарлотта Мэри Йондж

  "The one after next, surely. The first of December is Monday--yes, to-morrow week is the next."

  "Then I have thought of something; it would cost eighteenpence to hire Joliffe's spring-cart, and we might have Mrs. Taylor and the twins brought to church in it. Should you like to walk to Cocksmoor and settle it?"

  "Oh yes, very much indeed. What a capital thought. Margaret said you would know how to manage."

  "Then we will go the first fine day papa does not want me."

  "I wonder if I could finish my purple frocks. But here's the tea. Now, Richard, don't tell me to make it. I should do something wrong, and Flora will never forgive you."

  Richard would not let her off. He stood over her, counted her shovelfuls of tea, and watched the water into the teapot--he superintended her warming the cups, and putting a drop into each saucer. "Ah!" said Ethel, with a concluding sigh, "it makes one hotter than double equations!"

  It was all right, as Flora allowed with a slightly superior smile. She thought Richard would never succeed in making a notable or elegant woman of Ethel, and it was best that the two sisters should take different lines. Flora knew that, though clever and with more accomplishments, she could not surpass Ethel in intellectual attainments, but she was certainly far more valuable in the house, and had been proved to have just the qualities in which her sister was most deficient. She did not relish hearing that Ethel wanted nothing but attention to be more than her equal, and she thought Richard mistaken. Flora's remembrance of their time of distress was less unmixedly wretched than it was with the others, for she knew she had done wonders.

  The next day Norman told Ethel that he had got on very well with the verses, and finished them off late at night. He showed them to her before taking them to school on Monday morning, and Ethel thought they were the best he had ever written. There was too much spirit and poetical beauty for a mere schoolboy task, and she begged for the foul copy to show it to her father. "I have not got it," said Norman. "The foul copy was not like these; but when I was writing them out quite late, it was all I don't know how. Flora's music was in my ears, and the room seemed to get larger, and like an ocean cave; and when the candle flickered, 'twas like the green glowing light of the sun through the waves."

  "As it says here," said Ethel.

  "And the words all came to me of themselves in beautiful flowing Latin, just right, as if it was anybody but myself doing it, and they ran off my pen in red and blue and gold, and all sorts of colours; and fine branching zig-zagging stars, like what the book described, only stranger, came dancing and radiating round my pen and the candle. I could hardly believe the verses would scan by daylight, but I can't find a mistake. Do you try them again."

  Ethel scanned. "I see nothing wrong," she said, "but it seems a shame to begin scanning Undine's verses, they are too pretty. I wish I could copy them. It must have been half a dream."

  "I believe it was; they don't seem like my own."

  "Did you dream afterwards?"

  He shivered. "They had got into my head too much; my ears sang like the roaring of the sea, and I thought my feet were frozen on to an iceberg: then came darkness, and sea monsters, and drowning--it was too horrid!" and his face expressed all, and more than all, he said. "But 'tis a quarter to seven--we must go," said he, with a long yawn, and rubbing his eyes. "You are sure they are right, Ethel? Harry, come along."

  Ethel thought those verses ought to make a sensation, but all that came of them was a Quam optime, and when she asked Norman if no special notice had been taken of them, he said, in his languid way, "No; only Dr. Hoxton said they were better than usual."

  Ethel did not even have the satisfaction of hearing that Mr. Wilmot, happening to meet Dr. May, said to him, "Your boy has more of a poet in him than any that has come in my way. He really sometimes makes very striking verses."

  Richard watched for an opportunity of speaking to Harry, which did not at once occur, as the boy spent very little of his time at home, and, as if by tacit consent, he and Norman came in later every evening. At last, on Thursday, in the additional two hours' leisure allowed to the boys, when the studious prepared their tasks, and the idle had some special diversion, Richard encountered him running up to his own room to fetch a newly-invented instrument for projecting stones.

  "I'll walk back to school with you," said Richard. "I mean to run," returned Harry.

  "Is there so much hurry?" said Richard. "I am sorry for it, for I wanted to speak to you, Harry; I have something to show you."

  His manner conveyed that it related to their mother, and the sobering effect was instantaneous. "Very well," said he, forgetting his haste. "I'll come into your room."

  The awe-struck, shy, yet sorrowful look on his rosy face showed preparation enough, and Richard's only preface was to say, "It is a bit of a letter that she was in course of writing to Aunt Flora, a description of us all. The letter itself is gone, but here is a copy of it. I thought you would like to read what relates to yourself."

  Richard laid before him the sheet of notepaper on which this portion of the letter was written, and left him alone with it, while he set out on the promised walk with Ethel.

  They found the old woman, Granny Hall, looking like another creature, smoke-dried and withered indeed, but all briskness and animation.

  "Well! be it you, sir, and the young lady?"

  "Yes; here we are come to see you again," said Richard. "I hope you are not disappointed that I've brought my sister this time instead of the doctor."

  "No, no, sir; I've done with the doctor for this while," said the old woman, to Ethel's great amusement. "He have done me a power of good, and thank him for it heartily; but the young lady is right welcome here--but 'tis a dirty walk for her."

  "Never mind that," said Ethel, a little shyly, "I came--where are your grandchildren?"

  "Oh, somewhere out among the blocks. They gets out with the other children; I can't be always after them."

  "I wanted to know if these would fit them," said Ethel, beginning to undo her basket.

  "Well, 'pon my word! If ever I see! Here!" stepping out to the door, "Polly--Jenny! come in, I say, this moment! Come in, ye bad girls, or I'll give you the stick; I'll break every bone of you, that I will!" all which threats were bawled out in such a good-natured, triumphant voice, and with such a delighted air, that Richard and Ethel could not help laughing.

  After a few moments, Polly and Jenny made their appearance, extremely rough and ragged, but compelled by their grandmother to duck down, by way of courtesies, and, with finger in mouth, they stood, too shy to show their delight, as the garments were unfolded; Granny talking so fast that Ethel would never have brought in the stipulation, that the frocks should be worn to school and church, if Richard, in his mild, but steady way, had not brought the old woman to listen to it. She was full of asseverations that they should go; she took them to church sometimes herself, when it was fine weather and they had clothes, and they could say their catechiz as well as anybody already; yes, they should come, that they should, and next Sunday. Ethel promised to be there to introduce them to the chief lady, the president of the Committee, Mrs. Ledwich, and, with a profusion of thanks, they took leave.

  They found John Taylor, just come out of the hospital, looking weak and ill, as he smoked his pipe over the fire, his wife bustling about at a great rate, and one of the infants crying. It seemed to be a great relief that they were not come to complain of Lucy, and there were many looks of surprise on hearing what their business really was. Mrs. Taylor thanked them, and appeared not to know whether she was glad or sorry; and her husband, pipe in hand, gazed at the young gentleman as if he did not comprehend the species, since he could not be old enough to be a clergyman.

  Richard hoped they would find sponsors by that time; and there Mrs. Taylor gave little hope; it was a bad lot--there was no one she liked to ask to stand, she said, in a dismal voice; but there her husband put in, "I'll find some one if that's all; my missus always thinks nobody can't do
nothing."

  "To be sure," said the lamentable Mrs. Taylor, "all the elder ones was took to church, and I'm loath the little ones shouldn't; but you see, sir, we are poor people, and it's a long way, and they was set down in the gentleman's register book."

  "But you know that is not the same, Mrs. Taylor. Surely Lucy could have told you that, when she went to school."

  "No, sir, 'tis not the same--I knows that; but this is a bad place to live in--"

  "Always the old song, missus!" exclaimed her husband. "Thank you kindly, sir--you have been a good friend to us, and so was Dr. May, when I was up to the hospital, through the thick of his own troubles. I believe you are in the right of it, sir, and thank you. The children shall be ready, and little Jack too, and I'll find gossips, and let 'em christened on Sunday."

  "I believe you will be glad of it," said Richard; and he went on to speak of the elder children coming to school on Sunday, thus causing another whining from the wife about distance and bad weather, and no one else going that way. He said the little Halls were coming, but Mrs. Taylor begun saying she disliked their company for the children- -granny let them get about so much, and they said bad words. The father again interfered. Perhaps Mr. Wilmot, who acted as chaplain at the hospital, had been talking to him, for he declared at once that they should come; and Richard suggested that he might see them home when he came from church; then, turning to the boy and girl, told them they would meet their sister Lucy, and asked them if they would not like that.

  On the whole, the beginning was not inauspicious, though there might be a doubt whether old Mrs. Hall would keep all her promises. Ethel was so much diverted and pleased as to be convinced she would; Richard was a little doubtful as to her power over the wild girls. There could not be any doubt that John Taylor was in earnest, and had been worked upon just at the right moment; but there was danger that the impression would not last. "And his wife in such a horrible whining dawdle!" said Ethel--"there will be no good to be done if it depends on her."

  Richard made no answer, and Ethel presently felt remorseful for her harsh speech about a poor ignorant woman, overwhelmed with poverty, children, and weak health.

  "I have been thinking a great deal about what you said last time we took this walk," said Richard, after a considerable interval.

  "Oh, have you!" cried Ethel eagerly; and the black peaty pond she was looking at seemed to sparkle with sunlight.

  "Do you really mean it?" said Richard deliberately.

  "Yes, to be sure;" she said, with some indignation.

  "Because I think I see a way to make a beginning, but you must make up your mind to a great deal of trouble, and dirty walks, and you must really learn not to draggle your frock."

  "Well, well; but tell me."

  "This is what I was thinking. I don't think I can go back to Oxford after Christmas. It is not fit to leave you while papa is so disabled."

  "Oh no, he could not get on at all. I heard him tell Mr. Wilmot the other day that you were his right hand."

  Ethel was glad she had repeated this, for there was a deepening colour and smiling glow of pleasure on her brother's face, such as she had seldom seen on his delicate, but somewhat impassive features.

  "He is very kind!" he said warmly. "No, I am sure I cannot be spared till he is better able to use his arm, and I don't see any chance of that just yet. Then if I stay at home, Friday is always at my own disposal, while papa is at the hospital meeting."

  "Yes, yes, and we could go to Cocksmoor, and set up a school. How delightful!"

  "I don't think you would find it quite so delightful as you fancy," said Richard; "the children will be very wild and ignorant, and you don't like that at the National School."

  "Oh, but they are in such need, besides there will be no Mrs. Ledwich over me. It is just right--I shan't mind anything. You are a capital Ritchie, for having thought of it!"

  "I don't think--if I am ever to be what I wish, that is, if I can get through at Oxford--I don't think it can be wrong to begin this, if Mr. Ramsden does not object."

  "Oh, Mr. Ramsden never objects to anything."

  "And if Mr. Wilmot will come and set us off. You know we cannot begin without that, or without my father's fully liking it."

  "Oh! there can be no doubt of that!"

  "This one thing, Ethel, I must stipulate. Don't you go and tell it all out at once to him. I cannot have him worried about our concerns."

  "But how--no one can question that this is right. I am sure he won't object."

  "Stop, Ethel, don't you see, it can't be done for nothing? If we undertake it, we must go on with it, and when I am away it will fall on you and Flora. Well, then, it ought to be considered whether you are old enough and steady enough; and if it can be managed for you to go continually all this way, in this wild place. There will be expense too."

  Ethel looked wild with impatience, but could not gainsay these scruples, otherwise than by declaring they ought not to weigh against the good of Cocksmoor.

  "It will worry him to have to consider all this," said Richard, "and it must not be pressed upon him."

  "No," said Ethel sorrowfully; "but you don't mean to give it up."

  "You are always in extremes, Ethel. All I want is to find a good time for proposing it."

  She fidgeted and gave a long sigh.

  "Mind," said Richard, stopping short, "I'll have nothing to do with it except on condition you are patient, and hold your tongue about it."

  "I think I can, if I may talk to Margaret."

  "Oh yes, to Margaret of course. We could not settle anything without her help."

  "And I know what she will say," said Ethel. "Oh, I am so glad," and she jumped over three puddles in succession.

  "And, Ethel, you must learn to keep your frock out of the dirt."

  "I'll do anything, if you'll help me at Cocksmoor."

  CHAPTER IX.

  For the structure that we raise, Time is with materials filled; Our to-days and yesterdays, Are the blocks which we build. Truly shape and fashion these, Leave no yawning gaps between; Think not, because no man sees, Such things will remain unseen.--LONGFELLOW.

  When Ethel came home, burning with the tidings of the newly-excited hopes for Cocksmoor, they were at once stopped by Margaret eagerly saying, "Is Richard come in? pray call him;" then on his entrance, "Oh, Richard, would you be so kind as to take this to the bank. I don't like to send it by any one else--it is so much;" and she took from under her pillows a velvet bag, so heavy, that it weighed down her slender white hand.

  "What, he has given you the care of his money?" said Ethel.

  "Yes; I saw him turning something out of his waistcoat-pocket into the drawer of the looking-glass, and sighing in that very sad way. He said his fees had come to such an accumulation that he must see about sending them to the bank; and then he told me of the delight of throwing his first fee into dear mamma's lap, when they were just married, and his old uncle had given up to him, and how he had brought them to her ever since; he said she had spoiled him by taking all trouble off his hands. He looked at it, as if it was so sorrowful to him to have to dispose of it, that I begged him not to plague himself any more, but let me see about it, as dear mamma used to do; so he said I was spoiling him too, but he brought me the drawer, and emptied it out here: when he was gone, I packed it up, and I have been waiting to ask Richard to take it all to the bank, out of his sight."

  "You counted it?" said Richard.

  "Yes--there's fifty--I kept seventeen towards the week's expenses. Just see that it is right," said Margaret, showing her neat packets.

  "Oh, Ritchie," said Ethel, "what can expense signify, when all that has been kicking about loose in an open drawer? What would not one of those rolls do?"

  "I think I had better take them out of your way," said Richard quietly. "Am I to bring back the book to you, Margaret?"

  "Yes, do," said Margaret; "pray do not tease him with it." And as her brother left the room, she continued, "I wish he was bett
er. I think he is more oppressed now than even at first. The pain of his arm, going on so long, seems to me to have pulled him down; it does not let him sleep, and, by the end of the day, he gets worn and fagged by seeing so many people, and exerting himself to talk and think; and often, when there is something that must be asked, I don't know how to begin, for it seems as if a little more would be too much for him."

  "Yes, Richard is right," said Ethel mournfully; "it will not do to press him about our concerns; but do you think him worse to-day?"

  "He did not sleep last night, and he is always worse when he does not drive out into the country; the fresh air, and being alone with Richard, are a rest for him. To-day is especially trying; he does not think poor old Mr. Southern will get through the evening, and he is so sorry for the daughter." "Is he there now?"

  "Yes; he thought of something that might be an alleviation, and he would go, though he was tired. I am afraid the poor daughter will detain him, and he is not fit to go through such things now."

  "No, I hope he will soon come; perhaps Richard will meet him. But, oh, Margaret, what do you think Richard and I have been talking of?" and, without perception of fit times and seasons, Ethel would have told her story, but Margaret, too anxious to attend to her, said, "Hark! was not that his step?" and Dr. May came in, looking mournful and fatigued.

  "Well," said he, "I was just too late. He died as I got there, and I could not leave the daughter till old Mrs. Bowers came."

  "Poor thing," said Margaret. "He was a good old man."

  "Yes," said Dr. May, sitting wearily down, and speaking in a worn-out voice. "One can't lightly part with a man one has seen at church every Sunday of one's life, and exchanged so many friendly words with over his counter. 'Tis a strong bond of neighbourliness in a small place like this, and, as one grows old, changes come heavier--'the clouds return again after the rain.' Thank you, my dear," as Ethel fetched his slippers, and placed a stool for his feet, feeling somewhat ashamed of thinking it an achievement to have, unbidden, performed a small act of attention which would have come naturally from any of the others.