The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations

by Шарлотта Мэри Йондж

"But where's my little Daisy?" said Dr. May.

  "You'll see her in a minute. She is as good as gold."

  He drew them on up the bank--people making way for them--till he had stationed them among the others of their own party, beside the deep trench that traced the foundation, around a space that seemed far too small.

  Nearly at the same moment began the soft clear sound of chanting wafted upon the wind, then dying away--carried off by some eddying breeze, then clear, and coming nearer and nearer.

  I will not suffer mine eyes to sleep, Nor mine eye-lids to slumber: Neither the temples of my head to take any rest; Until I find out a place for the temple of the Lord: An habitation for the mighty God of Jacob.

  Few, who knew the history of Cocksmoor, could help glancing towards the slight girl, who stood, with bent head, her hand clasped over little Aubrey's; while, all that was not prayer and thanksgiving in her mind, was applying the words to him, whose head rested in the Pacific isle, while, in the place which he had chosen, was laid the foundation of the temple that he had given unto the Lord.

  There came forth the procession: the minster choristers, Dr. Spencer as architect, and, in her white dress, little Gertrude, led between Harry and Hector, Margaret's special choice for the occasion, and followed by the Stoneborough clergy.

  Let thy priests be clothed with righteousness.

  It came in well with the gentle, meek, steadfast face of the young curate of Cocksmoor, as he moved on in his white robe, and the sunlight shone upon his fair hair, and calm brow, thankful for the past, and hoping, more than fearing, for the future.

  The prayers were said, and there was a pause, while Dr. Spencer and the foreman advanced to the machine and adjusted it. The two youths then led forward the little girl, her innocent face and large blue eyes wearing a look of childish obedient solemnity, only half understanding what she did, yet knowing it was something great.

  It was very pretty to see her in the midst of the little gathering round the foundation, the sturdy workman smiling over his hod of mortar, Dr. Spencer's silver locks touching her flaxen curls as he held the shining trowel to her, and Harry's bright head and hardy face, as he knelt on one knee to guide the little soft hand, while Hector stood by, still and upright, his eyes fixed far away, as if his thoughts were roaming to the real founder.

  The Victoria coins were placed--Gertrude scooped up the mass of mortar, and spread it about with increasing satisfaction, as it went so smoothly and easily, prolonging the operation, till Harry drew her back, while, slowly down creaked the ponderous corner-stone into the bed that she had prepared for it, and, with a good will, she gave three taps on it with her trowel.

  Harry had taken her hand, when, at the sight of Dr. May, she broke from him, and, as if taking sudden fright at her own unwonted part, ran, at full speed, straight up to her father, and clung to him, hiding her face as he raised her in his arms and kissed her.

  Meanwhile the strain arose:

  Thou heavenly, new Jerusalem, Vision of peace, in Prophet's dream; With living stones, built up on high, And rising to the starry sky--

  The blessing of peace seemed to linger softly and gently in the fragrant summer breeze, and there was a pause ere the sounds of voices awoke again.

  "Etheldred--" Mr. Wilmot stood beside her, ere going to unrobe in the school-- "Etheldred, you must once let me say, God bless you for this."

  As she knelt beside her sister's sofa, on her return home, Margaret pressed something into her hand. "If you please, dearest, give this to Dr. Spencer, and ask him to let it be set round the stem of the chalice," she whispered.

  Ethel recognised Alan Ernescliffe's pearl hoop, the betrothal ring, and looked at her sister without a word.

  "I wish it," said Margaret gently. "I shall like best to know it there."

  So Margaret joined in Alan's offering, and Ethel dared say no more, as she thought how the "relic of a frail love lost" was becoming the "token of endless love begun." There was more true union in this, than in clinging to the mere tangible emblem--for broken and weak is all affection that is not knit together above in the One Infinite Love.

  CHAPTER XXIII.

  Of lowly fields you think no scorn, Yet gayest gardens would adorn, And grace wherever set; Home, seated in your lowly bower, Or wedded, a transplanted flower, I bless you, Margaret.--CHARLES LAMB.

  George Rivers had an antipathy to ladies' last words keeping the horses standing, and his wife and sister dutifully seated themselves in the carriage at once, without an attempt to linger.

  Four of the young gentlemen were to walk across to Abbotstoke and dine at the Grange; and Tom, who, reasoning from analogy, had sent on his black tie and agate studs, was so dismally disconcerted on finding that Norman treated his own going as a matter of course, that Richard, whose chief use of his right of primogeniture was to set himself aside, discovered that he was wanted at home, and that Tom would be much better at the Grange, offering, at the same time, to send Norman's dressing things by Dr. Spencer.

  "Which," observed Thomas, "he would never have recollected for himself."

  "Tom would have had to lend him the precious studs."--"He would not have had them; who would wear imitation?" "I say, Tom, what did you give for them?" "Better ask what the Jew gave for them, that bought them at Windsor Fair; not a bad imitation, either--pity they weren't Malachite; but, no doubt, the Jew thought green would be personal." "As if they had any business to talk, who didn't know a respectable stud when they saw it--Harry, especially, with his hat set on the back of his head, like a sailor on the stage"--(a leap to set it to rights--a skirmish, knocking Tom nearly into the ditch). "Fine experience of the stage--all came from Windsor Fair." "Ay, Hector might talk, but didn't he pay a shilling to see the Irish giant. He wouldn't confess, but it was a famous take in--giant had potatoes in his shoes." "Not he; he was seven feet ten high." "Ay, when he stood upon a stool--Hector would swallow anything--even the lady of a million postage stamps had not stuck in his throat--he had made Margaret collect for her." "And, had not Tom, himself, got a bottle of ointment to get the red out of his hair?"--(great fury). "His hair wasn't red--didn't want to change the colour--not half so red as Hector's own." "What was it then? lively auburn?" But for fear of Norman's losing his bearings, Harry would fetch a carrot, to compare. "Better colour than theirs could ever be." "Then what was the ointment for? to produce whiskers? that was the reason Tom oiled himself like a Loyalty islander--his hair was so shiny, that Harry recommended a top-knot, like theirs, etc."

  Norman was, like the others, in such towering glee, and took so full a share of the witticisms, that were the more noisily applauded, the worse they were, that Harry suggested that "old June had lost his way, and found his spirits in Drydale--he must have met with a private grog-shop in the plantations--would not Tom confess"--"not he; it was all in private. He thought it was laughing-gas, or the reaction of being fried all the morning, holding forth in that Town Hall. He had longed to make a speech himself--no end of the good it would have done the old stagers to come out with something to the purpose. What would old Hoxton have thought of it?

  They shall dive for alligators, catch the wild goats by the beard; Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy-faced baboon; Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo in the mountains of the moon. I myself, in far Timbuctoo, leopard's blood shall daily quaff; Ride a tiger hunting, mounted on a thoroughbred giraffe.

  "Not you, Tom!" cried Hector.

  You, the swell, the Eton fellow! You, to seek such horrid places. You to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber lips, and monkey faces. Fool, again the dream, the fancy; don't I know the words are mad, For you count the gray barbarian lower than the Brocas cad!

  "Nay, it is the consequence of misanthropy at the detection of the frauds of unsophisticated society," said Norman.

  The edge of life is rusted; The agate studs and whisker ointment left him very much disgusted.

  "Perhaps it was Miss Rivers forsaking him. Was not that rather spider-hearted, Tom?"


  "Come, Harry, it is time to have done. We are getting into civilised society--here's Abbotstoke."

  "Poor Norman, he is very far gone! He takes that scarecrow for civilised society!"

  "Much better clothed than the society you have been accustomed to, July." "What a prize his wardrobe would be to the Black Prince!" "Don't insult your betters!" "Which? The scarecrow, or the Black Prince?"

  Norman tried to call his companions to order, for they were close upon the village, and he began to tax himself with unbecoming levity; the effect of spirits pitched rather low, which did not easily find their balance, under unwonted exhilaration, but Harry's antics were less easily repressed than excited, and if Tom had not heard the Grange clock strike half-past six, and had not been afraid of not having time to array himself, and watch over Harry's neckcloth, they would hardly have arrived in reasonable time. Dr. May had gone home, and there was no one in the drawing-room; but, as Norman was following the boys upstairs, Flora opened her sitting-room door, and attracted his attention by silently putting her cold fingers into his hand, and drawing him into the room.

  "Dear Norman, this is pleasant," she said affectionately; but in a voice so sunken, that all gladness seemed to be dead within, and the effect was far more mournful than if she had not attempted to smile congratulation.

  "I will give you till Dr. Spencer comes," she said. "Then Norman can dress, and you must be a good child, and come down to me."

  The playfulness ill suited the wan, worn face that seemed to have caught a gray tint from her rich poplin, her full toilet making the contrast almost more painful; and, as she closed the door, her brother could only exclaim, "Poor Flora!"

  "She is so kind," said the voice of the white figure that moved towards him. "Oh, if we could comfort her!"

  "I trust to her own kindness working comfort to her, at last," said Norman. "But is she often thus?"

  "Whenever she is not bearing up for George's sake," said Meta. "She never says anything when she is alone with me, only she does not struggle with her looks."

  "It must be very trying for you."

  "Nay, I feel grateful to her for even so far relaxing the restraint. If I could but do her any good."

  "You cannot help doing her good," said Norman.

  Meta sighed, and shook her head slightly, as she said, "She is so gentle and considerate. I think this has been no fresh pain to her to-day, but I cannot tell. The whole day has been a strange intermixture."

  "The two strands of joy and grief have been very closely twisted," said Norman. "That rose is shedding its fragrant leaves in its glory, and there is much that should have chastened the overflowing gladness of to-day."

  "As I was thinking," whispered Meta, venturing nearer to him, and looking into his face with the sweet reliance of union in thought. She meant him to proceed, but he paused, saying, "You were thinking-"

  "I had rather hear it from you."

  "Was it not that we were taught to-day what is enduring, and gives true permanence and blessedness to such--to what there was between Ernescliffe and Margaret?"

  Her dewy eyes, and face of deep emotion, owned that he had interpreted her thought.

  "Theirs would, indeed, be a disheartening example," he said, "if it did not show the strength and peace that distance, sickness, death, cannot destroy."

  "Yes. To see that church making Margaret happy as she lies smiling on her couch, is a lesson of lessons."

  "That what is hallowed must be blest," said Norman; "whatever the sundry and manifold changes."

  Each was far too humble to deny aloud any inequality with the goodness of Alan and Margaret, knowing that it would be at once disputed, trusting to time to prevent the over-estimate, and each believing the other was the one to bring the blessing.

  "But, Meta," said Norman, "have you heard nothing of--of the elders?"

  "Oh, yes," said Meta, smiling, "have not you?"

  "I have seen no one."

  "I have!" said Meta merrily. "Uncle Cosham is delighted. That speech of yours has captivated him. He calls me a wise little woman to have found out your first-rate abilities. There's for you, sir."

  "I don't understand it! Surely he must be aware of my intentions?"

  "He said nothing about them; but, of course, Dr. May must have mentioned them."

  "I should have thought so, but I cannot suppose--"

  "That he would be willing to let me go," said Meta. "But then you know he cannot help it," added she, with a roguish look, at finding herself making one of her saucy independent speeches.

  "I believe you are taking a would-be missionary instead of Norman May!" he answered, with a sort of teasing sweetness.

  "All would-be missionaries did not make dear papa so fond of them," said Meta, very low; "and you would not be Norman May without such purposes."

  "The purpose was not inspired at first by the highest motive," said Norman; "but it brought me peace, and, after the kind of dedication that I inwardly made of myself in my time of trouble, it would take some weighty reason, amounting to a clear duty, or physical impossibility, to make me think I ought to turn back. I believe"-- the tears rose to his eyes, and he brought out the words with difficulty--"that, if this greatest of all joys were likely to hinder me from my calling, I ought to seek strength to regard it as a temptation, and to forgo it."

  "You ought, if it were so," said Meta, nevertheless holding him tighter. "I could not bear to keep back a soldier. If this were last year, and I had any tie or duty here, it would be very hard. But no one needs me, and if the health I have always had be continued to me, I don't think I shall be much in the way. There,"--drawing back a little, and trying to laugh off her feeling--"only tell me at once if you think me still too much of a fine lady."

  "I--you--a fine lady! Did anything ever give you the impression that I did?"

  "I shall not get poor Harry into a scrape, shall I? He told me that you said so, last spring, and I feared you judged me too truly."

  After a few exclamations of utter surprise, it flashed on Norman. "I know, I know--Harry interpreted my words in his own blunt fashion!"

  "Then you did say something like it?"

  "No, but--but-- In short, Meta, these sailors' imaginations go to great lengths. Harry had guessed more than I knew myself, before he had sailed, and taxed me with it. It was a subject I could not bear then, and I answered that you were too far beyond my hopes."

  "Six years ago!" said Meta slowly, blushing deeper and deeper. "Some eyes saw it all that time, and you--and," she added, laughing, though rather tearfully, "I should never have known it, if Tom had not taken me through the plantations!"

  "Not if I had not discovered that your preferences did not lie--"

  "Among boudoirs and balls?" said Meta. "Harry was right. You thought me a fine lady after all."

  The gay taunt was cut short by a tap at the door, and Flora looked in.

  "Dr. Spencer has brought your things, Norman. I am sorry to disturb you--but come down, Meta--I ran away very uncivilly to fetch you. I hope it is not too cruel," as she drew Meta's arm into her own, and added, "I have not been able speak to George."

  Meta suspected that, in the wish to spare her, Flora had abstained from seeking him.

  The evening went off like any other evening--people ate and talked, thought Mrs. Rivers looking very ill, and Miss Rivers very pretty-- Flora forced herself into being very friendly to Sir Henry, commiserating the disappointment to which she had led him; and she hoped that he suspected the state of affairs, though Tom, no longer supplanted by his elder brother, pursued Meta into the sheltered nook, where Flora had favoured her seclusion, to apologise for having left her to the guidance of poor Norman, whose head was with the blackamoors. It was all Harry's fault.

  "Nonsense, Tom," said Harry; "don't you think Norman is better company than you any day?"

  "Then why did you not walk him off instead of me?" said Tom, turning round sharply.

  "Out of consideration for Meta. She will tell y
ou that she was very much obliged to me--"

  Harry checked himself, for Meta was colouring so painfully that his own sunburned face caught the glow. He pushed Tom's slight figure aside with a commanding move of his broad hand, and said, "I beg your pardon, upon my word, though I don't know what for."

  "Nor I," said Meta, rallying herself, and smiling. "You have no pardon to beg. You will know it all to-morrow."

  "Then I know it now," said Harry, sheltering his face by leaning over the back of a chair, and taming the hearty gaiety of his voice. "Well done, Meta; there's nothing like old June in all the world! You may take my word for it, and I knew you would have the sense to find it out."

  They were well out of sight, and Meta only answered by a good tight squeeze of his kind hand between both her own. Tom, suddenly recovering from his displeasure at being thrust aside, whisked round, dropped on a footstool before Meta, locked up in her face, and said, "Hallo!" in such utter amazement that there was nothing for it but to laugh more uncontrollably than was convenient. "Come along, Tom," said Harry, pulling him up by force, "she does not want any of your nonsense. We will not plague her now."

  "Thank you, Harry," said Meta. "I cannot talk rationally just yet. Don't think me unkind, Tom."

  Tom sat in a sort of trance all the rest of the evening.

  Lord Cosham talked to Norman, who felt as if he were being patronised on false pretences, drew into his shell, and displayed none of his "first-rate abilities."

  Dr. Spencer discussed his architecture with the archdeacon; but his black eyes roamed heedfully after the young gentleman and lady, in the opposite corners of the room; and, as he drove home afterwards with the youths, he hummed scraps of Scottish songs, and indulged in silent smiles.

  Those at home had been far more demonstrative. Dr. May had arrived, declaring himself the proudest doctor in her Majesty's dominions, and Ethel needed nothing but his face to explain why, and tell her that dear old June's troubles were over, and their pretty little Meta was their own--a joy little looked for to attend their foundation-stone.