The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations

CHAPTER XXIX

“What a bore!”

“What’s the matter now?”

“Here has this old fellow asked me to dinner again!”

“A fine pass we are come to!” cried Dr. May, half amused, half irate. “I should like to know what I should have said at your age if the head-master had asked me to dinner.”

“Papa is not so very fond of dining at Dr. Hoxton’s,” said Ethel. “A whipper-snapper schoolboy, who might be thankful to dine anywhere!” continued Dr. May, while the girls burst out laughing, and Norman looked injured.

“It is very ungrateful of Norman,” said Flora; “I cannot see what he finds to complain of.”

“You would know,” said Norman, “if, instead of playing those perpetual tunes of yours, you had to sit it out in that perfumy drawing-room, without anything to listen to worth hearing. If I have looked over that court album once, I have a dozen times, and there is not another book in the place.”

“I am glad there is not,” said Flora. “I am quite ashamed to see you for ever turning over those old pictures. You cannot guess how stupid you look. I wonder Mrs. Hoxton likes to have you,” she added, patting his shoulders between jest and earnest.

“I wish she would not, then. It is only to escort you.”

“Nonsense, Norman, you know better,” cried Ethel. “You know it is for your own sake, and to make up for their injustice, that he invites you, or Flora either.”

“Hush, Ethel! he gives himself quite airs enough already,” said the doctor.

“Papa!” said Ethel, in vexation, though he gave her a pinch to show it was all in good humour, while he went on, “I am glad to hear they do leave him to himself in a corner. A very good thing too! Where else should a great gawky schoolboy be?”

“Safe at home, where I wish he would let me be,” muttered Norman, though he contrived to smile, and followed Flora out of the room, without subjecting himself to the imputation of offended dignity.

Ethel was displeased, and began her defence: “Papa, I wish—” and there she checked herself.

“Eh! Miss Ethel’s bristles up!” said her father, who seemed in a somewhat mischievous mood of teasing.

“How could you, papa?” cried she.

“How could I what, Miss Etheldred?”

“Plague Norman,”—the words would come. “Accuse him of airs.”

“I hate to see young fellows above taking an honour from their elders,” said Dr. May.

“Now, papa, papa, you know it is no such thing. Dr. Hoxton’s parties are very dull—you know they are, and it is not fair on Norman. If he was set up and delighted at going so often, then you would call him conceited.”

“Conceit has a good many lurking-places,” said Dr. May. “It is harder to go and be overlooked, than to stay at home.”

“Now, papa, you are not to call Norman conceited,” cried Ethel. “You don’t believe that he is any such thing.”

“Why, not exactly,” said Dr. May, smiling. “The boy has missed it marvellously; but, you see, he has everything that subtle imp would wish to feed upon, and it is no harm to give him a lick with the rough side of the tongue, as your canny Scots grandfather used to say.”

“Ah! if you knew, papa—” began Ethel.

“If I knew?”

“No, no, I must not tell.”

“What, a secret, is there?”

“I wish it was not; I should like to tell you very much, but then, you see, it is Norman’s, and you are to be surprised.”

“Your surprise is likely to be very much like Blanche’s birthday presents, a stage aside.”

“No, I am going to keep it to myself.”

Two or three days after, as Ethel was going to the schoolroom after breakfast, Dr. May beckoned her back to the dining-room, and, with his merry look of significance, said, “Well, ma’am, I have found out your mystery!”

“About Norman? Oh, papa! Did he tell you?”

“When I came home from the hospital last night, at an hour when all respectable characters, except doctors and police, should be in their warm beds, I beheld a light in Norman’s window, so methought I would see what Gravity was doing out of his bed at midnight—”

“And you found him at his Greek—”

“So that was the meaning of his looking so lank and careworn, just as he did last year, and he the prince of the school! I could have found it in my heart to fling the books at his head!”

“But you consent, don’t you, to his going up for the scholarship?”

“I consent to anything, as long as he keeps within due bounds, and does not work himself to death. I am glad of knowing it, for now I can put a moderate check upon it.”

“And did he tell you all about it?”

“He told me he felt as if he owed it to us to gain something for himself, since I had given up the Randall to gratify him—a pretty sort of gratification.”

“Yes, and he will be glad to get away from school. He says he knows it is bad for him—as it is uncomfortable to be singled out in the way Dr. Hoxton does now. You know,” pleaded Ethel, “it is not ingratitude or elation, but it is, somehow, not nice to be treated as he is, set apart from the rest.”

“True; Dr. Hoxton never had taste or judgment. If Norman were not a lusus naturae,” said Dr. May, hesitating for a word, “his head would have been turned long ago. And he wants companions too—he has been forced out of boyhood too soon, poor fellow—and Harry gone too. He does not get anything like real relaxation, and he will be better among youths than boys. Stoneborough will never be what it was in my time!” added the doctor mournfully. “I never thought to see the poor old place come to this; but there—when all the better class send their sons to the great public schools, and leave nothing but riff-raff here, one is forced, for a boy’s own sake, to do the same.”

“Oh, I am so glad! Then you have consented to the rest of Norman’s scheme, and will not keep poor little Tom at school here without him?”

“By what he tells me it would be downright ruin to the boy. I little thought to have to take a son of mine away from Stoneborough; but Norman is the best judge, and he is the only person who seems to have made any impression on Tom, so I shall let it be. In fact,” he added, half smiling, “I don’t know what I could refuse old June.”

“That’s right!” cried Ethel. “That is so nice! Then, if Norman gets the scholarship, Tom is to go to Mr. Wilmot first, and then to Eton!”

“If Norman gains the scholarship, but that is an if,” said Dr. May, as though hoping for a loop-hole to escape offending the shade of Bishop Whichcote.

“Oh, papa, you cannot doubt of that!”

“I cannot tell, Ethel. He is facile princeps here in his own world, but we do not know how it may be when he is measured with public schoolmen, who have had more first-rate tutorship than poor old Hoxton’s.”

“Ah! he says so, but I thought that was all his humility.”

“Better he should be prepared. If he had had all those advantages—but it may be as well after all. I always had a hankering to have sent him to Eton, but your dear mother used to say it was not fair on the others. And now, to see him striving in order to give the advantage of it to his little brother! I only hope Master Thomas is worthy of it—but it is a boy I can’t understand.”

“Nor I,” said Ethel; “he never seems to say anything he can help, and goes after Norman without talking to any one else.”

“I give him up to Norman’s management,” said Dr. May. “He says the boy is very clever, but I have not seen it; and, as to more serious matters—However, I must take it on Norman’s word that he is wishing to learn truth. We made an utter mistake about him; I don’t know who is to blame for it.”

“Have you told Margaret about Norman’s plan?” asked Ethel.

“No; he desired me to say nothing. Indeed, I should not like Tom’s leaving school to be talked of beforehand.”

“Norman said he did not want Flora to hear, because she is so much with the Hoxton’s, and he said they would all watch him.”

“Ay, ay, and we must keep his secret. What a boy it is! But it is not safe to say conceited things. We shall have a fall yet, Ethel. Not seventeen, remember, and brought up at a mere grammar-school.”

“But we shall still have the spirit that made him try,” said Ethel, “and that is the thing.”

“And, to tell the truth,” said the doctor, lingering, “for my own part, I don’t care a rush for it!” and he dashed off to his work, while Ethel stood laughing.

“Papa was so very kind,” said Norman tremulously, when Ethel followed him to his room, to congratulate him on having gained his father’s assent, of which he had been more in doubt than she.

“And you see he quite approves of the scheme for Tom, except for thinking it disrespect to Bishop Whichcote. He said he only hoped Tom was worthy of it.”

“Tom!” cried Norman. “Take my word for it, Ethel, Tom will surprise you all. He will beat us all to nothing, I know!”

“If only he can be cured of—”

“He will,” said Norman, “when once he has outgrown his frights, and that he may do at Mr. Wilmot’s, apart from those fellows. When I go up for this scholarship, you must look after his lessons, and see if you are not surprised at his construing!”

“When you go. It will be in a month!”

“He has told no one, I hope.”

“No; but I hardly think he will bear not telling Margaret.”

“Well—I hate a thing being out of one’s own keeping. I should not so much dislike Margaret’s knowing, but I won’t have Flora know—mind that, Ethel,” he said, with disproportionate vehemence.

“I only hope Flora will not be vexed. But oh, dear! how nice it will be when you have it, telling Meta Rivers, and all!”

“And this is a fine way of getting it, standing talking here. Not that I shall—you little know what public schools can do! But that is no reason against trying.”

“Good-night, then. Only one thing more. You mean that, till further orders, Margaret should not know?”

“Of course,” said Norman impatiently. “She won’t take any of Flora’s silly affronts, and, what is more, she would not care half so much as before Alan Ernescliffe came.”

“Oh, Norman, Norman! I’m sure—”

“Why, it is what they always say. Everybody can’t be first, and Ernescliffe has the biggest half of her, I can see.”

“I am sure I did not,” said Ethel, in a mortified voice.

“Why, of course, it always comes of people having lovers.”

“Then I am sure I won’t!” exclaimed Ethel.

Norman went into a fit of laughing.

“You may laugh, Norman, but I will never let papa or any of you be second to any one!” she cried vehemently.

A brotherly home-truth followed: “Nobody asked you, sir, she said!” was muttered by Norman, still laughing heartily.

“I know,” said Ethel, not in the least offended, “I am very ugly, and very awkward, but I don’t care. There never can be anybody in all the world that I shall like half as well as papa, and I am glad no one is ever likely to make me care less for him and Cocksmoor.”

“Stay till you are tried,” said Norman.

Ethel squeezed up her eyes, curled up her nose, showed her teeth in a horrible grimace, and made a sort of snarl: “Yah! That’s the face I shall make at them!” and then, with another good-night, ran to her own room.

Norman was, to a certain extent, right with regard to Margaret—her thoughts and interest had been chiefly engrossed by Alan Ernescliffe, and so far drawn away from her own family, that when the Alcestis was absolutely gone beyond all reach of letters for the present, Margaret could not help feeling somewhat of a void, and as if the home concerns were not so entire an occupation for her mind as formerly.

She would fain have thrown herself into them again, but she became conscious that there was a difference. She was still the object of her father’s intense tenderness and solicitude, indeed she could not be otherwise, but it came over her sometimes that she was less necessary to him than in the first year. He was not conscious of any change, and, indeed, it hardly amounted to a change, and yet Margaret, lying inactive and thoughtful, began to observe that the fullness of his confidence was passing to Ethel. Now and then it would appear that he fancied he had told Margaret little matters, when he had really told them to Ethel; and it was Ethel who would linger with him in the drawing-room after the others had gone up at night, or who would be late at the morning’s reading, and disarm Miss Winter, by pleading that papa had been talking to her. The secret they shared together was, of course, the origin of much of this; but also Ethel was now more entirely the doctor’s own than Margaret could be after her engagement; and there was a likeness of mind between the father and daughter that could not but develop more in this year, than in all Ethel’s life, when she had made the most rapid progress. Perhaps, too, the doctor looked on Margaret rather as the authority and mistress of his house, while Ethel was more of a playfellow; and thus, without either having the least suspicion that the one sister was taking the place of the other, and without any actual neglect of Margaret, Ethel was his chief companion.

“How excited and anxious Norman looks!” said Margaret, one day, when he had rushed in at the dinner-hour, asking for his father, and, when he could not find him, shouting out for Ethel. “I hope there is nothing amiss. He has looked thin and worn for some time, and yet his work at school is very easy to him.”

“I wish there maybe nothing wrong there again,” said Flora. “There! there’s the front door banging! He is off! Ethel!—” stepping to the door, and calling in her sister, who came from the street door, her hair blowing about with the wind. “What did Norman want?”

“Only to know whether papa had left a note for Dr. Hoxton,” said Ethel, looking very confused and very merry.

“That was not all,” said Flora. “Now don’t be absurd, Ethel—I hate mysteries.”

“Last time I had a secret you would not believe it,” said Ethel, laughing.

“Come!” exclaimed Flora, “why cannot you tell us at once what is going on?”

“Because I was desired not,” said Ethel. “You will hear it soon enough,” and she capered a little.

“Let her alone, Flora,” said Margaret. “I see there is nothing wrong.”

“If she is desired to be silent, there is nothing to be said,” replied Flora, sitting down again, while Ethel ran away to guard her secret.

“Absurd!” muttered Flora. “I cannot imagine why Ethel is always making mysteries!”

“She cannot help other people having confidence in her,” said Margaret gently.

“She need not be so important, then,” said Flora—“always having private conferences with papa! I do not think it is at all fair on the rest.”

“Ethel is a very superior person,” said Margaret, with half a sigh.

Flora might toss her head, but she attempted no denial in words. “And,” continued Margaret, “if papa does find her his best companion and friend we ought to be glad of it.”

“I do not call it just,” said Flora.

“I do not think it can be helped,” said Margaret: “the best must be preferred.

“As to that, Ethel is often very ridiculous and silly.”

“She is improving every day; and you know dear mamma always thought her the finest character amongst us.”

“Then you are ready to be left out, and have your third sister always put before you?”

“No, Flora, that is not the case. Neither she nor papa would ever be unfair; but, as she would say herself, what they can’t help, they can’t help; and, as she grows older, she must surpass me more and more.”

“And you like it?”

“I like it—when—when I think of papa, and of his dear, noble Ethel. I do like it, when I am not selfish.”

Margaret turned away her head, but presently looked up again.

“Only, Flora,” she said, “pray do not say one word of this, on any account, to Ethel. She is so happy with papa, and I would not for anything have her think I feel neglected, or had any jealousy.”

“Ah,” thought Flora, “you can give up sweetly, but you have Alan to fall back upon. Now I, who certainly have the best right, and a great deal more practical sense—”

Flora took Margaret’s advice, and did not reproach Ethel, for a little reflection convinced her that she should make a silly figure in so doing, and she did not like altercations.

It was the same evening that Norman came in from school with his hands full of papers, and, with one voice, his father and Ethel exclaimed, “You have them?”

“Yes;” and he gave the letter to his father, while Blanche, who had a very inquisitive pair of eyes, began to read from a paper he placed on the table.

“‘Norman Walter, son of Richard and Margaret May, High Street, Doctor of Medicine, December 21st, 18—. Thomas Ramsden.’”

“What is that for, Norman?” and, as he did not attend, she called Mary to share her speculations, and spell out the words.

“Ha!” cried Dr. May, “this is capital! The old doctor seems not to know how to say enough for you. Have you read it?”

“No, he only told me he had said something in my favour, and wished me all success.”

“Success!” cried Mary. “Oh, Norman, you are not going to sea too?”

“No, no!” interposed Blanche knowingly—“he is going to be married. I heard nurse wish her brother success when he was going to marry the washerwoman with a red face.”

“No,” said Mary, “people never are married till they are twenty.”

“But I tell you,” persisted Blanche, “people always write like this, in a great book in church, when they are married. I know, for we always go into church with Lucy and nurse when there is a wedding.”

“Well, Norman, I wish you success with the bride you are to court,” said Dr. May, much diverted with the young ladies’ conjectures.

“But is it really?” said Mary, making her eyes as round as full moons.

“Is it really?” repeated Blanche. “Oh, dear! is Norman going to be married? I wish it was to be Meta Rivers, for then I could always ride her dear little white pony.”

“Tell them,” whispered Norman, a good deal out of countenance, as he leaned over Ethel, and quitted the room.

Ethel cried, “Now then!” and looked at her father, while Blanche and Mary reiterated inquiries—marriage, and going to sea, being the only events that, in their imagination, the world could furnish. Going to try for a Balliol scholarship! It was a sad falling off, even if they understood what it meant. The doctor’s explanations to Margaret had a tone of apology for having kept her in ignorance, and Flora said few words, but felt herself injured; she had nearly gone to Mrs. Hoxton that afternoon, and how strange it would have been if anything had been said to her of her own brother’s projects, when she was in ignorance.

Ethel slipped away to her brother, who was in his own room, surrounded with books, flushed and anxious, and trying to glance over each subject on which he felt himself weak.

“I shall fail! I know I shall!” was his exclamation. “I wish I had never thought of it!”

“What? did Dr. Hoxton think you not likely to succeed?” cried Ethel, in consternation.

“Oh! he said I was certain, but what is that? We Stoneborough men only compare ourselves with each other. I shall break down to a certainty, and my father will be disappointed.”

“You will do your best?”

“I don’t know that. My best will all go away when it comes to the point.”

“Surely not. It did not go away last time you were examined, and why should it now?”

“I tell you, Ethel, you know nothing about it. I have not got up half what I meant to have done. Here, do take this book—try me whether I know this properly.”

So they went on, Ethel doing her best to help and encourage, and Norman in an excited state of restless despair, which drove away half his senses and recollection, and his ideas of the superior powers of public schoolboys magnifying every moment. They were summoned downstairs to prayers, but went up again at once, and more than an hour subsequently, when their father paid one of his domiciliary visits, there they still were, with their Latin and Greek spread out, Norman trying to strengthen all doubtful points, but in a desperate desultory manner, that only confused him more and more, till he was obliged to lay his head down on the table, shut his eyes, and run his fingers through his hair, before he could recollect the simplest matter; his renderings alternated with groans, and, cold as was the room, his cheeks and brow were flushed and burning.