The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations

by Шарлотта Мэри Йондж

  "Flora! How has this dear child been saved?" he said. "What has released her from the guilt she inherited through you, through me, through all? Is not the Fountain open?"

  "She never wasted grace," said Flora.

  "My child! my Flora!" he exclaimed, losing the calmness he had gained by such an effort; "you must not talk thus--it is wrong! Only your own morbid feeling can treat this--this--as a charge against you, and if it were, indeed"--he sank his voice--"that such consequences destroyed hope, oh, Flora! where should I be?"

  "No," said Flora, "this is not what I meant. It is that I have never set my heart right. I am not like you nor my sisters. I have seemed to myself, and to you, to be trying to do right, but it was all hollow, for the sake of praise and credit. I know it, now it is too late; and He has let me destroy my child here, lest I should have destroyed her everlasting life, like my own."

  The most terrible part of this sentence was to Dr. May, that Flora spoke as if she knew it all as a certainty, and without apparent emotion, with all the calmness of despair. What she had never guessed before had come clearly and fully upon her now, and without apparent novelty, or, perhaps, there had been misgivings in the midst of her complacent self-satisfaction. She did not even seem to perceive how dreadfully she was shocking her father, whose sole comfort was in believing her language the effect of exaggerated self- reproach. His profession had rendered him not new to the sight of despondency, and, dismayed as he was, he was able at once to speak to the point.

  "If it were indeed so, her removal would be the greatest blessing."

  "Yes," said her mother, and her assent was in the same tone of resigned despair, owning it best for her child to be spared a worldly education, and loving her truly enough to acquiesce.

  "I meant the greatest blessing to you," continued Dr. May, "if it be sent to open your eyes, and raise your thoughts upwards. Oh, Flora, are not afflictions tokens of infinite love?"

  She could not accept the encouragement, and only formed, with her lips, the words, "Mercy to her--wrath to me!"

  The simplicity and hearty piety which, with all Dr. May's faults, had always been part of his character, and had borne him, in faith and trust, through all his trials, had never belonged to her. Where he had been sincere, erring only from impulsiveness, she had been double-minded and calculating; and, now that her delusion had been broken down, she had nothing to rest upon. Her whole religious life had been mechanical, deceiving herself more than even others, and all seemed now swept away, except the sense of hypocrisy, and of having cut herself off, for ever, from her innocent child. Her father saw that it was vain to argue with her, and only said, "You will think otherwise by and by, my dear. Now shall I say a prayer before we go down?"

  As she made no reply, he repeated the Lord's Prayer, but she did not join; and then he added a broken, hesitating intercession for the mourners, which caused her to bury her face deeper in her hands, but her dull wretchedness altered not.

  Rising, he said authoritatively, "Come, Flora, you must go to bed. See, it is morning."

  "You have sat up all night with me!" said Flora, with somewhat of her anxious, considerate self.

  "So has George. He had just dropped asleep on the sofa when you awoke."

  "I thought he was in anger," said she.

  "Not with you, dearest."

  "No, I remember now, not where it was justly due. Papa," she said, pausing, as to recall her recollection, "what did I do? I must have done something very unkind to make him go away and leave me."

  "I insisted on his leaving you, my dear. You seemed oppressed, and his affectionate ways were doing you harm; so I was hardhearted, and turned him out, sadly against his will."

  "Poor George!" said Flora, "has he been left to bear it alone all this time? How much distressed he must have been. I must have vexed him grievously. You don't guess how fond he was of her. I must go to him at once."

  "That is right, my dear."

  "Don't praise me," said she, as if she could not bear it. "All that is left for me is to do what I can for him."

  Dr. May felt cheered. He was sure that hope must again rise out of unselfish love and duty.

  Their return awoke George, who started, half sitting up, wondering why he was spending the night in so unusual a manner, and why Flora looked so pale, in the morning light, with her loosened, drooping hair.

  She went straight to him, and, kneeling by his side, said, "George, forgive!" The same moment he had caught her to his bosom; but so impressed was his tardy mind with the peril of talking to her, that he held her in his arms without a single word, till Dr. May had unclosed his lips--a sign would not suffice--he must have a sentence to assure him; and then it was such joy to have her restored, and his fondness and solicitude were so tender and eager in their clumsiness, that his father-in-law was touched to the heart.

  Flora was quite herself again, in presence of mind and power of dealing with him; and Dr. May left them to each other, and went to his own room, for such rest as sorrow, sympathy, and the wakening city, would permit him.

  When the house was astir in the morning, and the doctor had met Meta in the breakfast-room, and held with her a sad, affectionate conversation, George came down with a fair report of his wife, and took her father to see her.

  That night had been like an illness to her, and, though perfectly composed, she was feeble and crushed, keeping the room darkened, and reluctant to move or speak. Indeed, she did not seem able to give her attention to any one's voice, except her husband's. When Dr. May, or Meta, spoke to her, she would miss what they said, beg their pardon, and ask them to repeat it; and sometimes, even then, become bewildered. They tried reading to her, but she did not seem to listen, and her half-closed eye had the expression of listless dejection, that her father knew betokened that, even as last night, her heart refused to accept promises of comfort as meant for her.

  For George, however, her attention was always ready, and was perpetually claimed. He was forlorn and at a loss without her, every moment; and, in the sorrow which he too felt most acutely, could not have a minute's peace unless soothed by her presence; he was dependent on her to a degree which amazed and almost provoked the doctor, who could not bear to have her continually harassed and disturbed, and yet was much affected by witnessing so much tenderness, especially in Flora, always the cold utilitarian member of his family.

  In the middle of the day she rose and dressed, because George was unhappy at having to sit without her, though only in the next room. She sat in the large arm-chair, turned away from the blinded windows, never speaking nor moving, save when he came to her, to make her look at his letters and notes, when she would, with the greatest patience and sweetness, revise them, suggest word or sentence, rouse herself to consider each petty detail, and then sink back into her attitude of listless dejection. To all besides, she appeared totally indifferent; gently courteous to Meta and to her father, when they addressed her, but otherwise showing little consciousness whether they were in the room; and yet, when something was passing about her father's staying or returning, she rose from her seat, came up to him before he was aware, and said, "Papa! papa! you will not leave me!" in such an imploring tone, that if he had ever thought of quitting her, he could not have done so.

  He longed to see her left to perfect tranquillity, but such could not be in London. Though theirs was called a quiet house, the rushing stream of traffic wearied his country ears, the door bell seemed ceaselessly ringing, and though Meta bore the brunt of the notes and messages, great numbers necessarily came up to Mr. Rivers, and of these Flora was not spared one. Dr. May had his share too of messages and business, and friends and relations, the Rivers' kindred, always ready to take offence with their rich connections, and who would not be satisfied with inquiries, at the door, but must see Meta, and would have George fetched down to them--old aunts, who wanted the whole story of the child's illness, and came imagining there was something to be hushed up; Lady Leonora extremely polite, but extremely disgu
sted at the encounter with them; George ready to be persuaded to take every one up to see his wife, and the prohibition to be made by Dr. May over and over again--it was a most tedious, wearing afternoon, and at last, when the visitors had gone, and George had hurried back to his wife, Dr. May threw himself into an arm-chair and said, "Oh, Meta, sorrow weighs more heavily in town than in the country!"

  "Yes!" said Meta. "If one only could go out and look at the flowers, and take poor Flora up a nosegay!"

  "I don't think it would make much difference to her," sighed the doctor.

  "Yes, I think it would," said Meta; "it did to me. The sights there speak of the better sights."

  "The power to look must come from within," said Dr. May, thinking of his poor daughter.

  "Ay," said Meta, "as Mr. Ernescliffe said, 'heaven is as near--!' But the skirts of heaven are more easily traced in our mountain view than here, where, if I looked out of window, I should only see that giddy string of carriages and people pursuing each other!"

  "Well, we shall get her home as soon as she is able to move, and I hope it may soothe her. What a turmoil it is! There has not been one moment without noise in the twenty-two hours I have been here!"

  "What would you say if you were in the city?"

  "Ah! there's no talking of it; but if I had been a fashionable London physician, as my father-in-law wanted to make me, I should have been dead long ago!"

  "No, I think you would have liked it very much."

  "Why?"

  "Love's a flower that will not die," repeated Meta, half smiling. "You would have found so much good to do--"

  "And so much misery to rend one's heart," said Dr. May. "But, after all, I suppose there is only a certain capacity of feeling."

  "It is within, not without, as you said," returned Meta.

  "Ha, there's another!" cried Dr. May, almost petulant at the sound of the bell again, breaking into the conversation that was a great refreshment.

  "It was Sir Henry Walkinghame's ring," said Meta. "It is always his time of day."

  The doctor did not like it the better.

  Sir Henry sent up a message to ask whether he could see Mr. or Miss Rivers.

  "I suppose we must," said Meta, looking at the doctor. "Lady Walkinghame must be anxious about Flora."

  She blushed greatly, fancying that Dr. May was putting his own construction on the heightened colour which she could not control. Sir Henry came in, just what he ought to be, kindly anxious, but not overwhelming, and with a ready, pleased recognition of the doctor, as an old acquaintance of his boyhood. He did not stay many minutes; but there was a perceptible difference between his real sympathy and friendly regard only afraid of obtruding, and the oppressive curiosity of their former visitors. Dr. May felt it due, both from kindness and candour, to say something in his praise when he was gone.

  "That is a sensible superior man," he said. "He will be an acquisition when he takes up his abode at Drydale."

  "Yes," said Meta; a very simple yes, from which nothing could be gathered.

  The funeral was fixed for Monday, the next day but one, at the church where Mr. Rivers had been buried. No one was invited to be present; Ethel wrote that, much as she wished it, she could not leave Margaret, and, as the whole party were to return home on the following day, they should soon see Flora.

  Flora had laid aside all privileges of illness after the first day; she came downstairs to breakfast and dinner, and though looking wretchedly ill, and speaking very low and feebly, she was as much as ever the mistress of her house. Her father could never draw her into conversation again on the subject nearest his heart, and could only draw the sad conclusion that her state of mind was unchanged, from the dreary indifference with which she allowed every word of cheer to pass by unheeded, as if she could not bear to look beyond the grave. He had some hope in the funeral, which she was bent on attending, and more in the influence of Margaret, and the counsel of Richard, or of Mr. Wllmot.

  The burial, however, failed to bring any peaceful comfort to the mourning mother. Meta's tears flowed freely, as much for her father as for her little niece; and George's sobs were deep and choking; but Flora, externally, only seemed absorbed in helping him to go through with it; she, herself, never lost her fixed, composed, hopeless look.

  After her return, she went up to the nursery, and deliberately set apart and locked up every possession of her child's, then, coming down, startled Meta by laying her hand on her shoulder and saying, "Meta, dear, Preston is in the housekeeper's room. Will you go and speak to her for a moment, to reassure her before I come?"

  "Oh, Flora!"

  "I sent for her," said Flora, in answer. "I thought it would be a good opportunity while George is out. Will you be kind enough to prepare her, my dear?"

  Meta wondered how Flora had known whither to send, but she could not but obey. Poor Preston was an ordinary sort of woman, kind-hearted, and not without a conscience; but her error had arisen from the want of any high religious principle to teach her obedience, or sincerity. Her grief was extreme, and she had been so completely overcome by the forbearance and consideration shown to her, that she was even more broken-hearted by the thought of them, than by the terrible calamity she had occasioned.

  Kind-hearted Mrs. Larpent had tried to console her, as well as to turn the misfortune to the best account, and Dr. May had once seen her, and striven gently to point out the true evil of the course she had pursued. She was now going to her home, and they augured better of her, that she had been as yet too utterly downcast to say one word of that first thought with a servant, her character.

  Meta found her sobbing uncontrollably at the associations of her master's house, and dreadfully frightened at hearing that she was to see Mrs. Rivers; she began to entreat to the contrary with the vehemence of a person unused to any self-government; but, in the midst, the low calm tones were heard, and her mistress stood before her--her perfect stillness of demeanour far more effective in repressing agitation, than had been Meta's coaxing attempts to soothe.

  "You need not be afraid to see me, Preston," said Flora kindly. "I am very sorry for you--you knew no better, and I should not have left so much to you."

  "Oh, ma'am--so kind--the dear, dear little darling--I shall never forgive myself."

  "I know you did love her," continued Flora. "I am sure you intended no harm, and it was my leaving her that made her fretful."

  Preston tried to thank.

  "Only remember henceforth"--and the clear tone grew fainter than ever with internal anguish, though still steady--"remember strict obedience and truth henceforth; the want of them will have worse results by and by than even this. Now, Preston, I shall always wish you well. I ought not, I believe, to recommend you to the like place, without saying why you left me, but for any other I will give you a fair character. I will see what I can do for you, and if you are ever in any distress, I hope you will let me know. Have your wages been paid?"

  There was a sound in the affirmative, but poor Preston could not speak. "Good-bye, then," and Flora took her hand and shook it. "Mind you let me hear if you want help. Keep this."

  Meta was a little disappointed to see sovereigns instead of a book. Flora turned to go, and put her hand out to lean on her sister as for support; she stood still to gather strength before ascending the stairs, and a groan of intense misery was wrung from her.

  "Dearest Flora, it has been too much!"

  "No," said Flora gently.

  "Poor thing, I am glad for her sake. But might she not have a book-- a Bible?"

  "You may give her one, if you like. I could not."

  Flora reached her own room, went in, and bolted the door.

  CHAPTER XXI.

  Oh, where dwell ye, my ain sweet bairns? I'm woe and weary grown! Oh, Lady, we live where woe never is, In a land to flesh unknown.--ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

  It had been with a gentle sorrow that Etheldred had expected to go and lay in her resting-place, the little niece, who had been kept from the evil
of the world, in a manner of which she had little dreamt. Poor Flora! she must be ennobled, she thought, by having a child where hers is, when she is able to feel anything but the first grief; and Ethel's heart yearned to be trying, at least, to comfort her, and to be with her father, who had loved his grandchild so fondly.

  It was not to be. Margaret had borne so many shocks with such calmness, that Ethel had no especial fears for her; but there are some persons who have less fortitude for others than for themselves, and she was one of these. Ethel had been her own companion-sister, and the baby had been the sunbeam of her life, during the sad winter and spring.

  In the middle of the night, Ethel knocked at Richard's door. Margaret had been seized with faintness, from which they could not bring her back; and, even when Richard had summoned Dr. Spencer, it was long ere his remedies took effect; but, at last, she revived enough to thank them, and say she was glad that papa was not there.

  Dr. Spencer sent them all to bed, and the rest of the night was quiet; but Margaret could not deny, in the morning, that she felt terribly shattered, and she was depressed in spirits to a degree such as they had never seen in her before. Her whole heart was with Flora; she was unhappy at being at a distance from her, almost fretfully impatient for letters, and insisting vehemently on Ethel's going to London.

  Ethel had never felt so helpless and desolate, as with Margaret thus changed and broken, and her father absent.

  "My dear," said Dr. Spencer, "nothing can be better for both parties than that he should be away. If he were here, he ought to leave all attendance to me, and she would suffer from the sight of his distress."

  "I cannot think what he will do or feel!" sighed Ethel.

  "Leave it to me. I will write to him, and we shall see her better before post time."

  "You will tell him exactly how it was, or I shall," said Ethel abruptly, not to say fiercely.

  "Ho! you don't trust me?" said Dr. Spencer, smiling, so that she was ashamed of her speech. "You shall speak for yourself, and I for myself; and I shall say that nothing would so much hurt her as to have others sacrificed to her."