The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations

by Шарлотта Мэри Йондж

  "No one but a Tom-boy would dream of it," added Norman; and Mary departed disconsolate, while Margaret gave a sigh of weariness, and said, as she returned to her work, "There, I believe I have done. I hope I was not cross with poor Mary, but it was rather too much to ask."

  "I can't think how you can help being cross to every one," said Norman, as he took away the books she had done with.

  "I am afraid I am," said Margaret sadly. "It does get trying at times."

  "I should think so! This eternal worrying must be more than any one can bear, always lying there too."

  "It is only now and then that it grows tiresome," said Margaret. "I am too happy to be of some use, and it is too bad to repine, but sometimes a feeling comes of its being always the same, as if a little change would be such a treat."

  "Aren't you very tired of lying in bed?"

  "Yes, very, sometimes. I fancy, but it is only fancy, that I could move better if I was up and dressed. It has seemed more so lately, since I have been stronger."

  "When do you think they will let you get up?"

  "There's the question. I believe papa thinks I might be lifted to the sofa now--and oh! how I long for it--but then Mr. Ward does not approve of my sitting up, even as I am doing now, and wants to keep me flat. Papa thinks that of no use, and likely to hurt my general health, and I believe the end of it will be that he will ask Sir Matthew Fleet's opinion."

  "Is that the man he calls Mat?"

  "Yes, you know they went through the university together, and were at Edinburgh and Paris, but they have never met since he set up in London, and grew so famous. I believe it would be a great treat to papa to have him, and it would be a good thing for papa too; I don't think his arm is going on right--he does not trust to Mr. Ward's treatment, and I am sure some one else ought to see it."

  "Did you know, Margaret, that he sits up quite late, because he cannot sleep for it?"

  "Yes, I hear him moving about, but don't tell him so; I would not have him guess for the world, that it kept me awake."

  "And does it?"

  "Why, if I think he is awake and in pain I cannot settle myself to sleep; but that is no matter; having no exercise, of course I don't sleep so much. But I am very anxious about him--he looks so thin, and gets so fagged--and no wonder."

  "Ah! Mr. Everard told me he was quite shocked to see him, and would hardly have known him," and Norman groaned from the bottom of his heart.

  "Well, I shall hope much from Sir Matthew's taking him in hand," said Margaret cheerfully; "he will mind him, though he will not Mr. Ward."

  "I wish the holidays were over!" said Norman, with a yawn, as expressive as a sigh.

  "That's not civil, on the third day," said Margaret, smiling, "when I am so glad to have you to look after me, so as to set Flora at liberty."

  "What, can I do you any good?" said Norman, with a shade of his former alacrity.

  "To be sure you can, a great deal. Better not come near me otherwise, for I make every one into a slave. I want my morning reading now--that book on Advent, there."

  "Shall I read it to you?"

  "Thank you, that's nice, and I shall get on with baby's frock."

  Norman read, but, ere long, took to yawning; Margaret begged for the book, which he willingly resigned, saying, however, that he liked it, only he was stupid. She read on aloud, till she heard a succession of heavy breathings, and saw him fast asleep, and so he continued till waked by his father's coming home.

  Richard and Ethel were glad of a walk, for Margaret had found them a pleasant errand. Their Cocksmoor children could not go home to dinner between service and afternoon school, and Margaret had desired the cook to serve them up some broth in the back kitchen, to which the brother and sister were now to invite them. Mary was allowed to take her boots to Rebekah Watts, since Margaret held that goodness had better be profitable, at least at the outset; and Harry and Tom joined the party.

  Norman, meantime, was driving his father--a holiday preferment highly valued in the days when Dr. May used only to assume the reins, when his spirited horses showed too much consciousness that they had a young hand over them, or when the old hack took a fit of laziness. Now, Norman needed Richard's assurance that the bay was steady, so far was he from being troubled with his ancient desire, that the steed would rear right up on his hind legs.

  He could neither talk nor listen till he was clear out of the town, and found himself master of the animal, and even then the words were few, and chiefly spoken by Dr. May, until after going along about three miles of the turnpike road, he desired Norman to turn down a cross-country lane.

  "Where does this lead?"

  "It comes out at Abbotstoke, but I have to go to an outlying farm."

  "Papa," said Norman, after a few minutes, "I wish you would let me do my Greek."

  "Is that what you have been pondering all this time? What, may not the bonus Homerus slumber sometimes?"

  "It is not Homer, it is Euripides. I do assure you, papa, it is no trouble, and I get much worse without it."

  "Well, stop here, the road grows so bad that we will walk, and let the boy lead the horse to meet us at Woodcote."

  Norman followed his father down a steep narrow lane, little better than a stony water-course, and began to repeat, "If you would but let me do my work! I've got nothing else to do, and now they have put me up, I should not like not to keep my place."

  "Very likely, but--hollo--how swelled this is!" said Dr. May, as they came to the bottom of the valley, where a stream rushed along, coloured with a turbid creamy yellow, making little whirlpools where it crossed the road, and brawling loudly just above where it roared and foamed between two steep banks of rock, crossed by a foot-bridge of planks, guarded by a handrail of rough poles. The doctor had traversed it, and gone a few paces beyond, when, looking back, he saw Norman very pale, with one foot on the plank, and one hand grasping the rail. He came back, and held out his hand, which Norman gladly caught at, but no sooner was the other side attained, than the boy, though he gasped with relief, exclaimed, "This is too bad! Wait one moment, please, and let me go back."

  He tried, but the first touch of the shaking rail, and glance at the chasm, disconcerted him, and his father, seeing his white cheeks and rigid lips, said, "Stop, Norman, don't try it. You are not fit," he added, as the boy came to him reluctantly.

  "I can't bear to be such a wretch!" said he. "I never used to be. I will not--let me conquer it;" and he was turning back, but the doctor took his arm, saying decidedly, "No, I won't have it done. You are only making it worse by putting a force on yourself." But the farther Norman was from the bridge, the more displeased he was with himself, and more anxious to dare it again. "There's no bearing it," he muttered; "let me only run back. I'll overtake you. I must do it if no one looks on."

  "No such thing," said the doctor, holding him fast. "If you do, you'll have it all over again at night."

  "That's better than to know I am worse than Tom."

  "I tell you, Norman, it is no such thing. You will recover your tone if you will only do as you are told, but your nerves have had a severe shock, and when you force yourself in this way, you only increase the mischief."

  "Nerves," muttered Norman disdainfully. "I thought they were only fit for fine ladies."

  Dr. May smiled. "Well, will it content you if I promise that as soon as I see fit, I'll bring you here, and let you march over that bridge as often as you like?"

  "I suppose I must be contented, but I don't like to feel like a fool."

  "You need not, while the moral determination is sound."

  "But my Greek, papa."

  "At it again--I declare, Norman, you are the worst patient I ever had!"

  Norman made no answer, and Dr. May presently said, "Well, let me hear what you have to say about it. I assure you it is not that I don't want you to get on, but that I see you are in great need of rest."

  "Thank you, papa. I know you mean it for my good, but I don't think you do know how
horrid it is. I have got nothing on earth to do or care for--the school work comes quite easy to me, and I'm sure thinking is worse; and then"--Norman spoke vehemently--"now they have put me up, it will never do to be beaten, and all the four others ought to be able to do it. I did not want or expect to be dux, but now I am, you could not bear me not to keep my place, and to miss the Randall scholarship, as I certainly shall, if I do not work these whole holidays."

  "Norman, I know it," said his father kindly. "I am very sorry for you, and I know I am asking of you what I could not have done at your age--indeed, I don't believe I could have done it for you a few months ago. It is my fault that you have been let alone, to have an overstrain and pressure on your mind, when you were not fit for it, and I cannot see any remedy but complete freedom from work. At the same time, if you fret and harass yourself about being surpassed, that is, as you say, much worse for you than Latin and Greek. Perhaps I may be wrong, and study might not do you the harm I think it would; at any rate, it is better than tormenting yourself about next half year, so I will not positively forbid it, but I think you had much better let it alone. I don't want to make it a matter of duty. I only tell you this, that you may set your mind at rest as far as I am concerned. If you do lose your place, I will consider it as my own doing, and not be disappointed. I had rather see you a healthy, vigorous, useful man, than a poor puling nervous wretch of a scholar, if you were to get all the prizes in the university."

  Norman made a little murmuring sound of assent, and both were silent for some moments, then he said, "Then you will not be displeased, papa, if I do read, as long as I feel it does me no harm."

  "I told you I don't mean to make it a matter of obedience. Do as you please--I had rather you read than vexed yourself."

  "I am glad of it. Thank you, papa," said Norman, in a much cheered voice.

  They had, in the meantime, been mounting a rising ground, clothed with stunted wood, and came out on a wide heath, brown with dead bracken; a hollow, traced by the tops of leafless trees, marked the course of the stream that traversed it, and the inequalities of ground becoming more rugged in outlines and grayer in colouring as they receded, till they were closed by a dark fir wood, beyond which rose in extreme distance the grand mass of Welsh mountain heads, purpled against the evening sky, except where the crowning peaks bore a veil of snow. Behind, the sky was pure gold, gradually shading into pale green, and then into clear light wintry blue, while the sun sitting behind two of the loftiest, seemed to confound their outlines, and blend them in one flood of soft hazy brightness. Dr. May looked at his son, and saw his face clear up, his brow expand, and his lips unclose with admiration.

  "Yes," said the doctor, "it is very fine, is it not? I used to bring mamma here now and then for a treat, because it put her in mind of her Scottish hills. Well, your's are the golden hills of heaven, now, my Maggie!" he added, hardly knowing that he spoke aloud. Norman's throat swelled, as he looked up in his face, then cast down his eyes hastily to hide the tears that had gathered on his eyelashes.

  "I'll leave you here," said Dr. May; "I have to go to a farmhouse close by, in the hollow behind us; there's a girl recovering from a fever. I'll not be ten minutes, so wait here."

  When he came back, Norman was still where he had left him, gazing earnestly, and the tears standing on his cheeks. He did not move till his father laid his hand on his shoulder--they walked away together without a word, and scarcely spoke all the way home.

  Dr. May went to Margaret and talked to her of Norman's fine character, and intense affection for his mother, the determined temper, and quietly borne grief, for which the doctor seemed to have worked himself into a perfect enthusiasm of admiration; but lamenting that he could not tell what to do with him--study or no study hurt him alike--and he dreaded to see health and spirits shattered for ever. They tried to devise change of scene, but it did not seem possible just at present; and Margaret, besides her fears for Norman, was much grieved to see this added to her father's troubles.

  At night Dr. May again went up to see whether Norman, whom he had moved into Margaret's former room, were again suffering from fever. He found him asleep in a restless attitude, as if he had just dropped off, and waking almost at the instant of his entrance, he exclaimed, "Is it you? I thought it was mamma. She said it was all ambition."

  Then starting, and looking round the room, and at his father, he collected himself, and said, with a slight smile, "I didn't know I had been asleep. I was awake just now, thinking about it. Papa, I'll give it up. I'll try to put next half out of my head, and not mind if they do pass me."

  "That's right, my boy," said the doctor.

  "At least if Cheviot and Forder do, for they ought. I only hope Anderson won't. I can stand anything but that. But that is nonsense too."

  "You are quite right, Norman," said the doctor, "and it is a great relief to me that you see the thing so sensibly."

  "No, I don't see it sensibly at all, papa. I hate it all the time, and I don't know whether I can keep from thinking of it, when I have nothing to do; but I see it is wrong; I thought all ambition and nonsense was gone out of me, when I cared so little for the examination; but now I see, though I did not want to be made first, I can't bear not to be first; and that's the old story, just as she used to tell me to guard against ambition. So I'll take my chance, and if I should get put down, why, 'twas not fair that I should be put up, and it is what I ought to be, and serves me right into the bargain--"

  "Well, that's the best sort of sense, your mother's sense," said the doctor, more affected than he liked to show. "No wonder she came to you in your dream, Norman, my boy, if you had come to such a resolution. I was half in hopes you had some such notion when I came upon you, on Far-view down."

  "I think that sky did it," said Norman, in a low voice; "it made me think of her in a different way--and what you said too."

  "What did I say? I don't remember."

  But Norman could not repeat the words, and only murmured, "Golden hills." It was enough.

  "I see," said the doctor, "you had dwelt on the blank here, not taken home what it is to her."

  "Ay," almost sobbed Norman, "I never could before--that made me," after a long silence, "and then I know how foolish I was, and how she would say it was wrong to make this fuss, when you did not like it, about my place, and that it was not for the sake of my duty, but of ambition. I knew that, but till I went to bed to-night, I could not tell whether I could make up my mind, so I would say nothing.

  CHAPTER XIII.

  The days are sad, it is the Holy tide, When flowers have ceased to blow and birds to sing. F. TENNYSON.

  It had been a hard struggle to give up all thoughts of study, and Norman was not at first rewarded for it, but rather exemplified the truth of his own assertion, that he was worse without it; for when this sole occupation for his mind was taken away, he drooped still more. He would willingly have shown his father that he was not discontented, but he was too entirely unnerved to be either cheerful or capable of entering with interest into any occupation. If he had been positively ill, the task would have been easier, but the low intermittent fever that hung about him did not confine him to bed, only kept him lounging, listless and forlorn, through the weary day, not always able to go out with his father, and on Christmas Day unfit even for church.

  All this made the want of his mother, and the vacancy in his home, still more evident, and nothing was capable of relieving his sadness but his father's kindness, which was a continual surprise to him. Dr. May was a parent who could not fail to be loved and honoured; but, as a busy man, trusting all at home to his wife, he had only appeared to his children either as a merry playfellow, or as a stern paternal authority, not often in the intermediate light of guiding friend, or gentle guardian; and it affected Norman exceedingly to find himself, a tall schoolboy, watched and soothed with motherly tenderness and affection; with complete comprehension of his feelings, and delicate care of them. His father's solicitude and sympathy were rou
nd him day and night, and this, in the midst of so much toil, pain, grief, and anxiety of his own, that Norman might well feel overwhelmed with the swelling, inexpressible feelings of grateful affection.

  How could his father know exactly what he would like--say the very things he was thinking--see that his depression was not wilful repining--find exactly what best soothed him! He wondered, but he could not have said so to any one, only his eye brightened, and, as his sisters remarked, he never seemed half so uncomfortable when papa was in the room. Indeed, the certainty that his father felt the sorrow as acutely as himself, was one reason of his opening to him. He could not feel that his brothers and sisters did so, for, outwardly, their habits were unaltered, their spirits not lowered, their relish for things around much the same as before, and this had given Norman a sense of isolation. With his father it was different. Norman knew he could never appreciate what the bereavement was to him--he saw its traces in almost every word and look, and yet perceived that something sustained and consoled him, though not in the way of forgetfulness. Now and then Norman caught at what gave this comfort, and it might be hoped he would do so increasingly; though, on this Christmas Day, Margaret felt very sad about him, as she watched him sitting over the fire, cowering with chilliness and headache, while every one was gone to church, and saw that the reading of the service with her had been more of a trouble than a solace.

  She tried to think it bodily ailment, and strove hard not to pine for her mother, to comfort them both, and say the fond words of refreshing cheering pity that would have made all light to bear. Margaret's home Christmas was so spent in caring for brother, father, and children, that she had hardly time to dwell on the sad change that had befallen herself.

  Christmas was a season that none of them knew well how to meet: Blanche was overheard saying to Mary that she wished it would not come, and Mary, shaking her head, and answering that she was afraid that was naughty, but it was very tiresome to have no fun. Margaret did her best upstairs, and Richard downstairs, by the help of prints and hymns, to make the children think of the true joy of Christmas, and in the evening their father gathered them round, and told them the stories of the Shepherds and of the Wise Men, till Mary and Blanche agreed, as they went up to bed, that it had been a very happy evening.