The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations

CHAPTER XXIII

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?

“Not you, Tom!” cried Hector.

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

“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 you 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, looked 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.

The dreaded conference with Lord Cosham had proved highly gratifying. There might be something in the fact that he could not help it, which assisted in his ready acquiescence, but he was also a sensible right-minded man, who thought that the largeness of Meta’s fortune was no reason that it should be doubled; considered that, in the matter of connection, the May family had the advantage, and saw in Norman; a young man whom any one might have pleasure in bringing forward. Oxford had established confidence both in his character and talents, and his speech had been such as to impress an experienced man, like Lord Cosham, with an opinion of his powers, that prepared a welcome for him, such as no one could have dared to expect. His lordship thought his niece not only likely to be happier, but to occupy a more distinguished position with such a man as Norman May, than with most persons of ready-made rank and fortune.

The blushing and delighted Dr. May had thought himself bound to speak of his son’s designs, but he allowed that the project had been formed under great distress of mind, and when he saw it treated by so good a man, as a mere form of disappointed love, he felt himself reprieved from the hardest sacrifice that he had ever been called on to make, loved little Meta the better for restoring his son, and once more gave a free course to the aspirations that Norman’s brilliant boyhood had inspired. Richard took the same view, and the evening passed away in an argument—as if any one had been disputing with them—the father reasoning loud, the son enforcing it low, that it had become Norman’s duty to stay at home to take care of Meta, whose father would have been horrified at his taking her to the Antipodes. They saw mighty tasks for her fortune to effect in England, they enhanced each other’s anticipations of Norman’s career, overthrew abuses before him, heaped distinctions upon him, and had made him Prime Minister and settled his policy, before ten o’clock brought their schemes to a close.

Mary gazed and believed; Margaret lay still and gently assented; Ethel was silent at first, and only when the fabric became extremely airy and magnificent, put in her word with a vehement dash at the present abuses, which grieved her spirit above all, and, whether vulnerable or not, Norman was to dispose of, like so many giants before Mr. Great-heart.

She went upstairs, unable to analyse her sentiments. To be spared the separation would be infinite relief—all this prosperity made her exult—the fair girl at the Grange was the delight of her heart, and yet there was a sense of falling off; she disliked herself for being either glad or sorry, and could have quarrelled with the lovers for perplexing her feelings so uncomfortably.

Though she sat up till the party returned, she was inclined to be supposed in bed, so as to put off the moment of meeting; but Margaret, who she hoped was asleep, said from her pillow, “Ask dear Norman to let me give him one kiss.”

She ran down headlong, clutched Norman as he was taking off his greatcoat, told him that Margaret wanted him, and dragged him up without letting him go, till she reached the first landing, where she stood still, saying breathlessly, “New Zealand.”

“If I wished to fail, she would keep me to it.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Ethel, claiming heartily his caress. “I was wrong to doubt either of you. Now, I know how to feel! But Margaret must not wait.”

The happy youth, in the flush of love and joy, bent gently, almost tearfully, down in silence to the white form, half seen in the twilight, whose hopes had fleeted away from earth, and who was calmly, softly gliding after them. Hardly a word was uttered, but of all the many heartfelt thoughts that had passed while the face was pressed into Margaret’s pillow, and her sympathising arms round the neck, surely none was ever deeper, than was his prayer and vow that his affection should be like hers, unearthly, and therefore enduring.

The embrace was all; Margaret must not be agitated, and, indeed, the events of the day had been too much for her, and the ensuing morning brought the fluttering of heart and prostration of strength, no longer a novelty and occasion of immediate terror, but the token of the waning power of life.

Till she was better, her father had no thoughts for aught else, but, as with many another invalid, the relief from present distress was as cheering as if it had been recovery, and ere night, her placid look of repose had returned, and she was devising pretty greetings for her newest Daisy.

Perhaps the sobering effect of these hours of anxiety was in Norman’s favour, on entering into conversation with his father. Those visions, which had had their swing the night before, belonged to the earlier, more untamed period of Dr. May’s life, and had melted away in the dim room, made sacred by lingering mementos of his wife, and in the sound of that panting breath and throbbing heart. His vehemence had been, after all, chiefly against his own misgivings, and when he heard of his son’s resolution, and Meta’s more than acquiescence, he was greatly touched, and recurred to his kind, sorrowful promise, that he would never be a stumbling-block in the path of his children. Still he owned himself greatly allured by the career proposed by Lord Cosham, and thought Norman should consider the opportunities of doing good in, perhaps, a still more important and extensive field than that which he had chosen.

“Time was that I should have grasped at such a prospect,” said Norman; “but I am not the man for it. I have too much ambition, and too little humility. You know, father, how often you have had to come to my rescue, when I was running after success as my prime object.”

“Vanity fair is a dangerous place, but you who have sound principles and pure motives—”