The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations

Etheldred heard them, for there was no sleep for her. She had a parley to hold with herself, and to accuse her own feelings of having been unkind, ungrateful, undutiful towards her father. What had a fit of vanity brought her to? that she should have been teased by what would naturally have been her greatest delight! her father’s pleasure in being with her. Was this the girl who had lately vowed within herself that her father should be her first earthly object?

At first, Ethel blamed herself for her secret impatience, but another conviction crossed her, and not an unpleasing one, though it made her cheeks tingle with maidenly shame, at having called it up. Throughout this week, Norman Ogilvie had certainly sought her out. He had looked disappointed this evening—there was no doubt that he was attracted by her—by her, plain, awkward Ethel! Such a perception assuredly never gave so much pleasure to a beauty as it did to Ethel, who had always believed herself far less good-looking than she really was. It was a gleam of delight, and, though she set herself to scold it down, the conviction was elastic, and always leaped up again.

That resolution came before her, but it had been unspoken; it could not be binding, and, if her notion were really right, the misty brilliant future of mutual joy dazzled her! But there was another side: her father oppressed and lonely, Margaret ill and pining, Mary, neither companion nor authority, the children running wild; and she, who had mentally vowed never to forsake her father, far away, enjoying her own happiness. “Ah! that resolve had seemed easy enough when it was made, when,” thought Ethel, “I fancied no one could care for me! Shame on me! Now is the time to test it! I must go home with papa.”

It was a great struggle—on one side there was the deceitful guise of modesty, telling her it was absurd to give so much importance to the kindness of the first cousin with whom she had ever been thrown; there was the dislike to vex Flora to make a discussion, and break up the party. There was the desire to hear the concert, to go to the breakfast at – College, to return round by Warwick Castle, and Kenilworth, as designed. Should she lose all this for a mere flattering fancy? She, who had laughed at Miss Boulder, for imagining every one who spoke to her was smitten. What reason could she assign? It would be simply ridiculous, and unkind—and it was so very pleasant. Mr. Ogilvie would be too wise to think of so incongruous a connection, which would be so sure to displease his parents. It was more absurd than ever to think of it. The heir of Glenbracken, and a country physician’s daughter!

That was a candid heart which owned that its own repugnance to accept this disparity as an objection, was an additional evidence that she ought to flee from further intercourse. She believed that no harm was done yet; she was sure that she loved her father better than anything else in the world, and whilst she did so, it was best to preserve her heart for him. Widowed as he was, she knew that he would sorely miss her, and that for years to come, she should be necessary at home. She had better come away while it would cost only a slight pang, for that it was pain to leave Norman Ogilvie, was symptom enough of the need of not letting her own silly heart go further. However it might be with him, another week would only make it worse with her.

“I will go home with papa!” was the ultimatum reached by each chain of mental reasonings, and borne in after each short prayer for guidance, as Ethel tossed about listening to the perpetual striking of all the Oxford clocks, until daylight had begun to shine in; when she fell asleep, and was only waked by Meta, standing over her with a sponge, looking very mischievous, as she reminded her of their appointment with Dr. May, to go to the early service in New College Chapel.

The world looked different that morning with Ethel, but the determination was fixed, and the service strengthened it. She was so silent during the walk, that her companions rallied her, and they both supposed she was anxious about Norman; but taking her opportunity, when Meta was gone to prepare for breakfast, she rushed, in her usual way, into the subject. “Papa! if you please, I should like to go home to-morrow with you.”

“Eh?” said the doctor, amazed. “How is this? I told you that Miss Bracy and Mary are doing famously.”

“Yes, but I had rather go back.”

“Indeed!” and Dr. May looked at the door, and spoke low. “They make you welcome, I hope—”

“Oh, yes! nothing can be kinder.”

“I am glad to hear it. This Rivers is such a lout, that I could not tell how it might be. I did not look to see you turn homesick all at once.”

Ethel smiled. “Yes, I have been very happy; but please, papa, ask no questions—only take me home.”

“Come! it is all a homesick fit, Ethel—never fear the ball. Think of the concert. If it were not for that poor baby of Mrs. Larkins, I should stay myself to hear Sonntag again. You won’t have such another chance.”

“I know, but I think I ought to go—”

George came in, and they could say no more. Both were silent on the subject at breakfast, but when afterwards Flora seized on Ethel, to array her for the theatre, she was able to say, “Flora, please don’t be angry with me—you have been very kind to me, but I mean to go home with papa to-morrow.”

“I declare!” said Flora composedly, “you are as bad as the children at the infant school, crying to go home the instant they see their mothers!”

“No, Flora, but I must go. Thank you for all this pleasure, but I shall have heard Norman’s poem, and then I must go.”

Flora turned her round, looked in her face kindly, kissed her, and said, “My dear, never mind, it will all come right again—only, don’t run away.”

“What will come right?”

“Any little misunderstanding with Norman Ogilvie.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Ethel, becoming scarlet.

“My dear, you need not try to hide it. I see that you have got into a fright. You have made a discovery, but that is no reason for running away.”

“Yes it is!” said Ethel firmly, not denying the charge, though reddening more than ever at finding her impression confirmed.

“Poor child! she is afraid!” said Flora tenderly; “but I will take care of you, Ethel. It is everything delightful. You are the very girl for such a heros de Roman, and it has embellished you more than all my Paris fineries.”

“Hush, Flora! We ought not to talk in this way, as if—”

“As if he had done more than walk with, and talk with, nobody else! How he did hate papa last night. I had a great mind to call papa off, in pity to him.”

“Don’t, Flora. If there were anything in it, it would not be proper to think of it, so I am going home to prevent it.” The words were spoken with averted face and heaving breath.

“Proper?” said Flora. “The Mays are a good old family, and our own grandmother was an honourable Ogilvie herself. A Scottish baron, very poor too, has no right to look down—”

“They shall not look down. Flora, it is of no use to talk. I cannot be spared from home, and I will not put myself in the way of being tempted to forsake them all.”

“Tempted!” said Flora, laughing. “Is it such a wicked thing?”

“Not in others, but it would be wrong in me, with such a state of things as there is at home.”

“I do not suppose he would want you for some years to come. He is only two-and-twenty. Mary will grow older.”

“Margaret will either be married, or want constant care. Flora, I will not let myself be drawn from them.”

“You may think so now; but it would be for their real good to relieve papa of any of us. If we were all to think as you do, how should we live? I don’t know—for papa told me there will be barely ten thousand pounds, besides the houses, and what will that be among ten? I am not talking of yourself, but think of the others!”

“I know papa will not be happy without me, and I will not leave him,” repeated Ethel, not answering the argument.

Flora changed her ground, and laughed. “We are getting into the heroics,” she said, “when it would be very foolish to break up our plans, only because we have found a pleasant cousin. There is nothing serious in it, I dare say. How silly of us to argue on such an idea!”

Meta came in before Flora could say more, but Ethel, with burning cheeks, repeated, “It will be safer!”

Ethel had, meantime, been dressed by her sister; and, as Bellairs came to adorn Meta, and she could have no solitude, she went downstairs, thinking she heard Norman’s step, and hoping to judge of his mood.

She entered the room with an exclamation, “Oh, Norman!”

“At your service!” said the wrong Norman, looking merrily up from behind a newspaper.

“Oh, I beg your pardon; I thought—”

“Your thoughts were quite right,” he said, smiling. “Your brother desires me to present his respects to his honoured family, and to inform them that his stock of assurance is likely to be diminished by the pleasure of their company this morning.”

“How is he?” asked Ethel anxiously.

“Pretty fair. He has blue saucers round his eyes, as he had before he went up for his little go.”

“Oh, I know them,” said Ethel.

“Very odd,” continued her cousin; “when the end always is, that he says he has the luck of being set on in the very place he knows best. But I think it has expended itself in a sleepless night, and I have no fears, when he comes to the point.”

“What is he doing?”

“Writing to his brother Harry. He said it was the day for the Pacific mail, and that Harry’s pleasure would be the best of it.”

“Ah!” said Ethel, glancing towards the paper, “is there any naval intelligence?”

He looked; and while she was thinking whether she ought not to depart, he exclaimed, in a tone that startled her, “Ha! No. Is your brother’s ship the Alcestis?”

“Yes! Oh, what?”

“Nothing then, I assure you. See, it is merely this—she has not come into Sydney so soon as expected, which you knew before. That is all.”

“Let me see,” said the trembling Ethel.

It was no more than an echo of their unconfessed apprehensions, yet it seemed to give them a body; and Ethel’s thoughts flew to Margaret. Her going home would be absolutely necessary now. Mr. Ogilvie kindly began to talk away her alarm, saying that there was still no reason for dread, mentioning the many causes that might have delayed the ship, and reassuring her greatly.

“But Norman!” she said.

“Ah! true. Poor May! He will break down to a certainty if he hears it. I will go at once, and keep guard over him, lest he should meet with this paper. But pray, don’t be alarmed. I assure you there is no cause. You will have letters to-morrow.”

Ethel would fain have thrown off her finery and hurried home at once, but no one regarded the matter as she did. Dr. May agreed with Flora that it was no worse than before, and though they now thought Ethel’s return desirable, on Margaret’s account, it would be better not to add to the shock by a sudden arrival, especially as they took in no daily paper at home. So the theatre was not to be given up, nor any of the subsequent plans, except so far as regarded Ethel; and, this agreed, they started for the scene of action.

They were hardly in the street before they met the ubiquitous Mr. Ogilvie, saying that Cheviot, Norman’s prompter, was aware of the report, and was guarding him, while he came to escort the ladies, through what he expressively called “the bear fight.” Ethel resolutely adhered to her father, and her cousin took care of Meta, who had been clinging in a tiptoe manner to the point of her brother’s high elbow, looking as if the crowd might easily brush off such a little fly, without his missing her.

Inch by inch, a step at a time, the ladies were landed in a crowd of their own sex, where Flora bravely pioneered; they emerged on their benches, shook themselves out, and seated themselves. There was the swarm of gay ladies around them, and beneath the area, fast being paved with heads, black, brown, gray, and bald, a surging living sea, where Meta soon pointed out Dr. May and George; the mere sight of such masses of people was curious and interesting, reminding Ethel of Cherry Elwood having once shocked her by saying the Whit-Monday club was the most beautiful sight in the whole year. And above! that gallery of trampling undergraduates, and more than trampling! Ethel and Meta could, at first, have found it in their hearts to be frightened at those thundering shouts, but the young ladies were usually of opinions so similar, that the louder grew the cheers, the more they laughed and exulted, so carried along that no cares could be remembered.

Making a way through the thronged area, behold the procession of scarlet doctors, advancing through the midst, till the red and black vice-chancellor sat enthroned in the centre, and the scarlet line became a semicircle, dividing the flower-garden of ladies from the black mass below.

Then came the introduction of the honorary doctors, one by one, with the Latin speech, which Ethel’s companions unreasonably required her to translate to them, while she was using all her ears to catch a word or two, and her eyes to glimpse at the features of men of note.

By-and-by a youth made his appearance in the rostrum, and a good deal of Latin ensued, of which Flora hoped Ethel was less tired than she was. In time, however, Meta saw the spectacles removed, and George looking straight up, and she drew down her veil, and took hold of Flora’s hand, and Ethel flushed like a hot coal. Nevertheless, all contrived to see a tall figure, with face much flushed, and hands moving nervously. The world was tired, and people were departing, so that the first lines were lost, perhaps a satisfaction to Norman; but his voice soon cleared and became louder, his eyes lighted, and Ethel knew the “funny state” had come to his relief—people’s attention was arrested—there was no more going away.

It was well that Norman was ignorant of the fears for Harry, for four lines had been added since Ethel had seen the poem, saying how self-sacrifice sent forth the sailor-boy from home, to the lone watch, the wave and storm, his spirit rising high, ere manhood braced his form.

Applause did not come where Ethel had expected it, and, at first, there was silence at the close, but suddenly the acclamations rose with deafening loudness, though hardly what greets some poems with more to catch the popular ear.

Ethel’s great excitement was over, and presently she found herself outside of the theatre, a shower falling, and an umbrella held over her by Mr. Ogilvie, who was asking her if it was not admirable, and declaring the poem might rank with Heber’s ‘Palestine’, or Milman’s ‘Apollo’.

They were bound for a great luncheon at one of the colleges, where Ethel might survey the Principal with whom Miss Rich had corresponded. Mr. Ogilvie sat next to her, told her all the names, and quizzed the dignitaries, but she had a sense of depression, and did not wish to enter into the usual strain of banter. He dropped his lively tone, and drew her out about Harry, till she was telling eagerly of her dear sailor brother, and found him so sympathising and considerate, that she did not like him less; though she felt her intercourse with him a sort of intoxication, that would only make it the worse for her by-and-by.

During that whole luncheon, and their walk through the gardens, where there was a beautiful horticultural show, something was always prompting her to say, while in this quasi-privacy, that she was on the eve of departure, but she kept her resolution against it—she thought it would have been an unwarrantable experiment. When they returned to their inn they found Norman looking fagged, but relieved, half asleep on the sofa, with a novel in his hand. He roused himself as they came in, and, to avoid any compliments on his own performance, began, “Well, Ethel, are you ready for the ball?”

“We shall spare her the ball,” said Dr. May; “there is a report about the Alcestis in the newspaper that may make Margaret uncomfortable, and this good sister will not stay away from her.”

Norman started up crying, “What, papa?”

“It is a mere nothing in reality,” said Dr. May, “only what we knew before;” and he showed his son the paragraph, which Norman read as a death warrant; the colour ebbed from his lips and cheeks; he trembled so that he was obliged to sit down, and, without speaking, he kept his eyes fixed on the words, “Serious apprehensions are entertained with regard to H. M. S. Alcestis, Captain Gordon—”

“If you had seen as many newspaper reports come to nothing, as I have, you would not take this so much to heart,” said Dr. May. “I expect to hear that this very mail has brought letters.”

And Meta added that, at luncheon, she had been seated next to one of the honorary doctors—a naval captain—who had been making discoveries in the South Sea, and that he had scouted the notion of harm befalling the Alcestis, and given all manner of reassuring suppositions as to her detention, adding besides, that no one believed the Australian paper whence the report was taken. He had seen the Alcestis, knew Captain Gordon, and spoke of him as one of the safest people in the world. Had his acquaintance extended to lieutenants and midshipmen, it would have been perfect; as it was, the tidings brought back the blood to Norman’s cheek, and the light to his eye.

“When do we set off?” was Norman’s question.

“At five,” said Ethel. “You mean it, papa?”

“I did intend it, if I had gone alone, but I shall not take you till eight; nor you, Norman, at all.”

Norman was bent on returning, but his father and Flora would not hear of it. Flora could not spare him, and Dr. May was afraid of the effect of anxiety on nerves and spirits so sensitive. While this was going on, Mr. Ogilvie looked at Ethel in consternation, and said, “Are you really going home?”

“Yes, my eldest sister must not be left alone when she hears this.”

He looked down—Ethel had the resolution to walk away. Flora could not give up the ball, and Meta found that she must go; but both the Normans spent a quiet evening with Dr. May and Ethel. Norman May had a bad headache, which he was allowed to have justly earned; Dr. May was very happy reviving all his Scottish recollections, and talking to young Ogilvie about Edinburgh. Once, there was a private consultation. Ethel was provoked and ashamed at the throbs that it would excite. What! on a week’s acquaintance?

When alone with her father, she began to nerve herself for something heroic, and great was her shame when she heard only of her cousin’s kind consideration for her brother, whom he wished to take home with him, and thence to see the Highlands, so as to divert his anxiety for Harry, as well as to call him off from the studies with which he had this term overworked himself even more than usual. Dr. May had given most grateful consent, and he spoke highly in praise of the youth; but there was no more to come, and Ethel could have beaten herself for the moment of anticipation.

Meta came home, apologising for wakening Ethel; but Ethel had not been asleep. The ball had not, it seemed, been as charming to her as most events were, and Ethel heard a sigh as the little lady lay down in her bed.

Late as it was when she went to rest, Meta rose to see the travellers off; she sent hosts of messages to her father, and wished she might go with them. George and Flora were not visible, and Dr. May was leaving messages for them, and for Norman, in her charge, when the two Balliol men walked in.

Ethel had hoped it was over, yet she could not be sorry that the two youths escorted them to the station, and, as Ethel was placed in the carriage, she believed that she heard something of never forgetting—happiest week—but in the civilities which the other occupant of the carriage was offering for the accommodation of their lesser luggage, she lost the exact words, and the last she heard were, “Good-bye; I hope you will find letters at home.”