The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations Read online

  "It is very bad for you, Ethel," further added her mother; "you will make your sight much shorter if you accustom your eyes to them."

  "Well, mamma, I never do wear them about the house."

  "For a very good reason," said Margaret; "because you haven't got them."

  "No, I believe Harry stole them in the holidays."

  "Stole them!" said the doctor; "as if they weren't my property, unjustifiably appropriated by her!"

  "They were that pair that you never could keep on, papa," said Ethel--"no use at all to you. Come, do lend me them."

  "I'm sure I shan't let you wear them," said Harry. "I shan't go, if you choose to make yourself such an object."

  "Ah!" said the father, "the boys thought it time to put a stop to it when it came to a caricature of the little doctor in petticoats."

  "Yes, in Norman's Lexicon," said Ethel, "a capital likeness of you, papa; but I never could get him to tell me who drew it."

  Nor did Ethel know that that caricature had been the cause of the black eye that Harry had brought home last summer. Harry returned, to protest that he would not join the walk, if she chose to be seen in the spectacles, while she undauntedly continued her petition, though answered that she would attract the attacks of the quarrymen, who would take her for an attenuated owl.

  "I wish you were obliged to go about without them yourself, papa!" cried Ethel, "and then you would know how tiresome it is not to see twice the length of your own nose."

  "Not such a very short allowance either," said the doctor quaintly, and therewith the dinner concluded. There was apt to be a race between the two eldest girls for the honour of bringing down the baby; but this time their father strode up three steps at once, turned at the top of the first flight, made his bow to them, and presently came down with his little daughter in his arms, nodded triumphantly at the sisters, and set her down on her mother's lap.

  "There, Maggie, you are complete, you old hen-and-chicken daisy. Can't you take her portrait in the character, Margaret?"

  "With her pink cap, and Blanche and Aubrey as they are now, on each side?" said Flora.

  "Margaret ought to be in the picture herself," said Ethel. "Fetch the artist in Norman's Lexicon, Harry."

  "Since he has hit off one of us so well," said the doctor. "Well! I'm off. I must see old Southern. You'll be ready by three? Good- bye, hen and chicken."

  "And I may have the spectacles?" said Ethel, running after him; "you know I am an injured individual, for mamma won't let me carry baby about the house because I am so blind."

  "You are welcome to embellish yourself, as far as I am concerned."

  A general dispersion ensued, and only Mrs. May, Margaret, and the baby, remained.

  "Oh, no!" sighed Margaret; "you can't be the hen-and-chicken daisy properly, without all your chickens. It is the first christening we ever had without our all being there."

  "It was best not to press it, my dear," said her mother. "Your papa would have had his thoughts turned to the disappointment again and it makes Richard himself so unhappy to see his vexation, that I believe it is better not to renew it."

  "But to miss him for so long!" said Margaret. "Perhaps it is best, "for it is very miserable when papa is sarcastic and sharp, and he cannot understand it, and takes it as meaning so much more than it really does, and grows all the more frightened and diffident. I cannot think what he would do without you to encourage him."

  "Or you, you good sister," said her mother, smiling. "If we could only teach him not to mind being laughed at, and to have some confidence in himself, he and papa would get on together."

  "It is very hard," cried Margaret, almost indignantly, "that papa won't believe it, when he does his best."

  "I don't think papa can bear to bring himself to believe that it is his best."

  "He is too clever himself to see how other people can be slow," said Margaret; "and yet"--the tears came into her eyes--"I cannot bear to think of his telling Richard it was no use to think of being a clergyman, and he had better turn carpenter at once, just because he failed in his examination."

  "My dear, I wish you would forget that," said Mrs. May. "You know papa sometimes says more than he means, and he was excessively vexed and disappointed. I know he was pleased with Ritchie's resolve not to come home again till he had passed, and it is best that it should not be broken."

  "The whole vacation, studying so hard, and this christening!" said Margaret; "it is treating him as if he had done wrong. I do believe Mr. Ernescliffe thinks he has--for papa always turns away the conversation if his name is mentioned! I wish you would explain it, mamma; I can't bear that."

  "If I can," said Mrs. May, rather pleased that Margaret had taken on herself this vindication of her favourite brother her father's expense. "But, after all, Margaret, I never feel quite sure that poor Ritchie does exert himself to the utmost, he is too desponding to make the most of himself."

  "And the more vexed papa is, the worse it grows!" said Margaret. "It is provoking, though. How I do wish sometimes to give Ritchie a jog, when there is some stumbling-block that he sticks fast at. Don't you remember those sums, and those declensions? When he is so clear and sensible about practical matters too--anything but learning--I cannot think why--and it is very mortifying!"

  "I dare say it is very good for us not to have our ambition gratified," said her mother. "There are so many troubles worse than these failures, that it only shows how happy we are that we should take them so much to heart."

  "They are a very real trouble!" said Margaret. "Don't smile, mamma. Only remember how wretched his schooldays were, when papa could not see any difficulty in what to him was so hard, and how all papa's eagerness only stupified him the more." "They are a comfort not to have that over again! Yet," said the mother, "I often think there is more fear for Norman. I dread his talent and success being snares."

  "There is no self-sufficiency about him," said Margaret. "I hope not, and he is so transparent, that it would be laughed down at the first bud: but the universal good report, and certainty of success, and being so often put in comparison with Richard, is hardly safe. I was very glad he heard what Ethel said to-day."

  "Ethel spoke very deeply," said Margaret; "I was a good deal struck by it--she often comes out with such solid thoughts."

  "She is an excellent companion for Norman."

  "The desire of being first!" said Margaret, "I suppose that is a form of caring for oneself! It set me thinking a good deal, mamma, how many forms of ambition there are. The craving for rank, or wealth, or beauty, are so clearly wrong, that one does not question about them; but I suppose, as Ethel said, the caring to be first in attainments is as bad."

  "Or in affection," said Mrs. May.

  "In affection--oh, mamma, there is always some one person with whom one is first!" said Margaret eagerly; and then, her colour deepening, as she saw her mother looking at her, she said hastily, "Ritchie--I never considered it--but I know--it is my great pleasure--oh, mamma!"

  "Well, my dear, I do not say but that you are the first with Richard, and that you well deserve to be so; but is the seeking to be the first even in that way safe? Is it not self-seeking again?"

  "Well, perhaps it is. I know it is what makes jealousy."

  "The only plan is not to think about ourselves at all," said Mrs. May. "Affection is round us like sunshine, and there is no use in measuring and comparing. We must give it out freely ourselves, hoping for nothing again."

  "Oh, mamma, you don't mean that!"

  "Perhaps I should have said, bargaining for nothing again. It will come of itself, if we don't exact it; but rivalry is the sure means of driving it away, because that is trying to get oneself worshipped."

  "I suppose, then, you have never thought of it," said Margaret, smiling.

  "Why, it would have been rather absurd," said Mrs. May, laughing, "to begin to torment myself whether you were all fond of me! You all have just as much affection for me, from beginning to end, as is natural, a
nd what's the use of thinking about it? No, no, Margaret, don't go and protest that you love me, more than is natural," as Margaret looked inclined to say something very eager, "that would be in the style of Regan and Goneril. It will be natural by-and-by that you should, some of you, love some one else better, and if I cared for being first, what should I do then?"

  "Oh, mamma! But," said Margaret suddenly, "you are always sure of papa."

  "In one way, yes," said Mrs. May; "but how do I know how long--" Calm as she was, she could not finish that sentence. "No, Margaret, depend upon it, the only security is not to think about ourselves at all, and not to fix our mind on any affection on earth. The least share of the Love above is the fullness of all blessing, and if we seek that first, all these things will be added unto us, and are," she whispered, more to herself than to Margaret.

  CHAPTER III.

  Wee modest crimson-tipped flower, Thou'st met me in an evil hour, For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem. To spare thee now is past my power, Thou bonnie gem. BURNS.

  "Is this all the walking party?" exclaimed Mr. Ernescliffe, as Miss Winter, Flora, and Norman gathered in the hall.

  "Harry won't go because of Ethel's spectacles," answered Flora; "and Mary and he are inseparable, so they are gone with Hector to have a shipwreck in the field."

  "And your other sisters?"

  "Margaret has ratted--she is going to drive out with mamma," said Norman; "as to Etheldred the Unready, I'll run up and hurry her."

  In a moment he was at her door. "Oh! Norman, come in. Is it time?"

  "I should think so! You're keeping every one waiting."

  "Oh, dear! go on; only just tell me the past participle of 'offero', and I'll catch you up."

  "'Oblatus.'"

  "Oh, yes, how stupid. The 'a' long or short? Then that's right. I had such a line in my head, I was forced to write it down. Is not it a capital subject this time?"

  "The devotion of Decius? Capital. Let me see!" said Norman, taking up a paper scribbled in pencil, with Latin verses. "Oh, you have taken up quite a different line from mine. I began with Mount Vesuvius spouting lava like anything."

  "But Mount Vesuvius didn't spout till it overthrew Pompeii."

  "Murder!" cried Norman, "I forgot! It's lucky you put me in mind. I must make a fresh beginning. There go my six best lines! However, it was an uncanny place, fit for hobgoblins, and shades, and funny customers, which will do as well for my purpose. Ha! that's grand about its being so much better than the vana gloria triumphalis--only take care of the scanning there--"

  "If it was but English. Something like this:

  "For what is equal to the fame Of forgetting self in the aim?

  That's not right, but--"

  "Ethel, Norman, what are you about? cried Flora. "Do you mean to go to Cocksmoor to-day?"

  "Oh, yes!" cried Ethel, flying into vehement activity; "only I've lost my blue-edged handkerchief--Flora, have you seen it?"

  "No; but here is your red scarf."

  "Thank you, there is a good Flora. And oh! I finished a frock all but two stitches. Where is it gone? Go on, all of you, I'll overtake you:

  "Purer than breath of earthly fame, Is losing self in a glorious aim.

  Is that better, Norman?"

  "You'll drive us out of patience," said Flora, tying the handkerchief round Ethel's throat, and pulling out the fingers of her gloves, which, of course, were inside out; "are you ready?"

  "Oh, my frock! my frock! There 'tis--three stitches--go on, and I'll come," said Ethel, seizing a needle, and sewing vehemently at a little pink frock. "Go on, Miss Winter goes slowly up the hill, and I'll overtake you."

  "Come, Norman, then; it is the only way to make her come at all."

  "I shall wait for her," said Norman. "Go on, Flora, we shall catch you up in no time;" and, as Flora went, he continued, "Never mind your aims and fames and trumpery English rhymes. Your verses will be much the best, Ethel; I only went on a little about Mount Vesuvius and the landscape, as Alan described it the other day, and Decius taking a last look, knowing he was to die. I made him beg his horse's pardon, and say how they will both be remembered, and their self-devotion would inspire Romans to all posterity, and shout with a noble voice!" said Norman, repeating some of his lines, correcting them as he proceeded.

  "Oh! yes; but oh, dear, I've done! Come along," said Ethel, crumpling her work into a bundle, and snatching up her gloves; then, as they ran downstairs, and emerged into the street, "It is a famous subject."

  "Yes, you have made a capital beginning. If you won't break down somewhere, as you always do, with some frightful false quantity, that you would get an imposition for, if you were a boy. I wish you were. I should like to see old Hoxton's face, if you were to show him up some of these verses."

  "I'll tell you what, Norman, if I was you, I would not make Decius flatter himself with the fame he was to get--it is too like the stuff every one talks in stupid books. I want him to say--Rome--my country--the eagles--must win, if they do--never mind what becomes of me."

  "But why should he not like to get the credit of it, as he did? Fame and glory--they are the spirit of life, the reward of such a death."

  "Oh, no, no," said Ethel. "Fame is coarse and vulgar--blinder than ever they draw Love or Fortune--she is only a personified newspaper, trumpeting out all that is extraordinary, without minding whether it is good or bad. She misses the delicate and lovely--I wished they would give us a theme to write about her. I should like to abuse her well."

  "It would make a very good theme, in a new line," said Norman; "but I don't give into it, altogether. It is the hope and the thought of fame, that has made men great, from first to last. It is in every one that is not good for nothing, and always will be! The moving spirit of man's greatness!"

  "I'm not sure," said Ethel; "I think looking for fame is like wanting a reward at once. I had rather people forgot themselves. Do you think Arnold von Winkelried thought about fame when he threw himself on the spears?"

  "He got it," said Norman.

  "Yes; he got it for the good of other people, not to please himself. Fame does those that admire it good, not those that win it."

  "But!" said Norman, and both were silent for some short interval, as they left the last buildings of the town, and began to mount a steep hill. Presently Norman slackened his pace, and driving his stick vehemently against a stone, exclaimed, "It is no use talking, Ethel, it is all a fight and a race. One is always to try to be foremost. That's the spirit of the thing--that's what the great, from first to last, have struggled, and fought, and lived, and died for."

  "I know it is a battle, I know it is a race. The Bible says so," replied Ethel; "but is not there the difference, that here all may win--not only one? One may do one's best, not care whether one is first or last. That's what our reading to-day said."

  "That was against trumpery vanity--false elevation--not what one has earned for oneself, but getting into other people's places that one never deserved. That every one despises!"

  "Of course! That they do. I say, Norman, didn't you mean Harvey Anderson?"

  Instead of answering, Norman exclaimed, "It is pretension that is hateful--true excelling is what one's life is for. No, no, I'll never be beat, Ethel--I never have been beat by any one, except by you, when you take pains," he added, looking exultingly at his sister, "and I never will be."

  "Oh, Norman!"

  "I mean, of course, while I have senses. I would not be like Richard for all the world."

  "Oh, no, no, poor Richard!"

  "He is an excellent fellow in everything else," said Norman; "I could sometimes wish I was more like him--but how he can be so amazingly slow, I can't imagine. That examination paper he broke down in--I could have done it as easily as possible."

  "I did it all but one question," said Ethel, "but so did he, you know, and we can't tell whether we should have it done well enough."

  "I know I must do something respectable when first I go to Oxford, if I
don't wish to be known as the man whose brother was plucked," said Norman.

  "Yes," said Ethel; "if papa will but let you try for the Randall scholarship next year, but he says it is not good to go to Oxford so young."

  "And I believe I had better not be there with Richard," added Norman. "I don't like coming into contrast with him, and I don't think he can like it, poor fellow, and it isn't his fault. I had rather stay another year here, get one of the open scholarships, and leave the Stoneborough ones for those who can do no better."

  In justice to Norman, we must observe that this was by no means said as a boast. He would scarcely have thus spoken to any one but Etheldred, to whom, as well as to himself, it seemed mere matter-of- fact. The others had in the meantime halted at the top of the hill, and were looking back at the town--the great old Minster, raising its twin towers and long roof, close to the river, where rich green meadows spread over the valley, and the town rising irregularly on the slope above, plentifully interspersed with trees and gardens, and one green space on the banks of the river, speckled over with a flock of little black dots in rapid motion.

  "Here you are!" exclaimed Flora. "I told them it was of no use to wait when you and Norman had begun a dissertation."

  "Now, Mr. Ernescliffe, I should like you to say," cried Ethel, "which do you think is the best, the name of it, or the thing?" Her eloquence always broke down with any auditor but her brother, or, perhaps, Margaret.

  "Ethel!" said Norman, "how is any one to understand you? The argument is this: Ethel wants people to do great deeds, and be utterly careless of the fame of them; I say, that love of glory is a mighty spring."

  "A mighty one!" said Alan: "but I think, as far as I understand the question, that Ethel has the best of it."

  "I don't mean that people should not serve the cause first of all," said Norman, "but let them have their right place and due honour."

  "They had better make up their minds to do without it," said Alan. "Remember--

  "The world knows nothing of its greatest men."

  "Then it is a great shame," said Norman.