The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations

CHAPTER XIV

The tidings came at last, came when the heart-sickness of hope deferred had faded into the worse heart-sickness of fear deferred, and when spirits had been fain to rebel, and declare that they would be almost glad to part with the hope that but kept alive despair.

The Christmas holidays had come to an end, and the home party were again alone, when early in the forenoon, there was a tap at the drawing-room door, and Dr. Spencer called, “Ethel, can you come and speak to me?”

Margaret started as if those gentle tones had been a thunderclap. “Go! go, Ethel,” she said, “don’t keep me waiting.”

Dr. Spencer stood in the hall with a newspaper in his hand. Ethel said, “Is it?” and he made a sorrowful gesture. “Both?” she asked.

“Both,” he repeated. “The ship burned—the boat lost.”

“Ethel, come!” hoarsely called Margaret.

“Take it,” said Dr. Spencer, putting the paper into her hand; “I will wait.”

She obeyed. She could not speak, but kneeling down by her sister, they read the paragraph together; Ethel, with one eye on the words, the other on Margaret.

No doubt was left. Captain Gordon had returned, and this was his official report. The names of the missing stood below, and the list began thus:—

        Lieutenant A. H. Ernescliffe.

        Mr. Charles Owen, Mate.

        Mr. Harry May, Midshipman.

The Alcestis had taken fire on the 12th of April of the former year. There had been much admirable conduct, and the intrepid coolness of Mr. Ernescliffe was especially recorded. The boats had been put off without loss, but they were scantily provisioned, and the nearest land was far distant. For five days the boats kept together, then followed a night of storms, and, when morning dawned, the second cutter, under command of Mr. Ernescliffe, had disappeared. There could be no doubt that she had sunk, and the captain could only record his regrets for the loss the service had experienced in the three brave young officers and their gallant seamen. After infinite toil and suffering, the captain, with the other boats’ crews, had reached Tahiti, whence they had made their way home.

“Oh, Margaret, Margaret!” cried Ethel.

Margaret raised herself, and the colour came into her face.

“I did not write the letter!” she said.

“What letter?” said Ethel, alarmed.

“Richard prevented me. The letter that would have parted us. Now all is well.”

“All is well, I know, if we could but feel it.”

“He never had the pain. It is unbroken!” continued Margaret, her eyes brightening, but her breath, in long-drawn gasps that terrified Ethel into calling Dr. Spencer.

Mary was standing before him, with bloodless face and dilated eyes; but, as Ethel approached, she turned and rushed upstairs.

Dr. Spencer entered the drawing-room with Ethel, who tried to read his face as he saw Margaret—restored, as it seemed, to all her girlish bloom, and her eyes sparkling as they were lifted up, far beyond the present scene. Ethel had a moment’s sense that his expression was as if he had seen a death-blow struck, but it was gone in a moment, as he gently shook Margaret by the hand, and spoke a word of greeting, as though to recall her.

“Thank you,” she said, with her own grateful smile.

“Where is your father?” he asked of Ethel.

“Either at the hospital, or at Mr. Ramsden’s,” said Ethel, with a ghastly suspicion that he thought Margaret in a state to require him.

“Papa!” said Margaret. “If he were but here! But—ah! I had forgotten.”

She turned aside her head, and hid her face. Dr. Spencer signed Ethel nearer to him. “This is a more natural state,” he said. “Don’t be afraid for her. I will find your father, and bring him home.” Pressing her hand he departed.

Margaret was weeping tranquilly—Ethel knelt down beside her, without daring at first to speak, but sending up intense mental prayers to Him, who alone could bear her or her dear father through their affliction. Then she ventured to take her hand, and Margaret returned the caress, but began to blame herself for the momentary selfishness that had allowed her brother’s loss and her father’s grief to have been forgotten in her own. Ethel’s “oh! no! no!” did not console her for this which seemed the most present sorrow, but the flow of tears was so gentle, that Ethel trusted that they were a relief. Ethel herself seemed only able to watch her, and to fear for her father, not to be able to think for herself.

The front door opened, and they heard Dr. May’s step hesitating in the hall, as if he could not bear to come in.

“Go to him!” cried Margaret, wiping off her tears. Ethel stood a moment in the doorway, then sprang to him, and was clasped in his arms.

“You know it?” he whispered.

“Dr. Spencer told us. Did not you meet him?”

“No. I read it at Bramshaw’s office. How—” He could not say the words, but he looked towards the room, and wrung the hand he held.

“Quiet. Like herself. Come.”

He threw one arm round Ethel, and laid his hand on her head. “How much there is to be thankful for!” he said, then advancing, he hung over Margaret, calling her his own poor darling.

“Papa, you must forgive me. You said sending him to sea was giving him up.”

“Did I. Well, Margaret, he did his duty. That is all we have to live for. Our yellow-haired laddie made a gallant sailor, and—”

Tears choked his utterance—Margaret gently stroked his hand.

“It falls hard on you, my poor girl,” he said.

“No, papa,” said Margaret, “I am content and thankful. He is spared pain and perplexity.”

“You are right, I believe,” said Dr. May. “He would have been grieved not to find you better.”

“I ought to grieve for my own selfishness,” said Margaret. “I cannot help it! I cannot be sorry the link is unbroken, and that he had not to turn to any one else.”

“He never would!” cried Dr. May, almost angrily.

“I tried to think he ought,” said Margaret. “His life would have been too dreary. But it is best as it is.”

“It must be,” said the doctor. “Where are the rest, Ethel? Call them all down.”

Poor Mary, Ethel felt as if she had neglected her! She found her hanging over the nursery fire, alternating with old nurse in fond reminiscences of Harry’s old days, sometimes almost laughing at his pranks, then crying again, while Aubrey sat between them, drinking in each word.

Blanche and Gertrude came from the schoolroom, where Miss Bracy seemed to have been occupying them, with much kindness and judgment. She came to the door to ask Ethel anxiously for the doctor and Miss May, and looked so affectionate and sympathising, that Ethel gave her a hearty kiss.

“Dear Miss Ethel! if you can only let me help you.”

“Thank you,” said Ethel with all her heart, and hurried away. Nothing was more in favour of Miss Bracy, than that there should be a hurry. Then she could be warm, and not morbid.

Dr. May gathered his children round him, and took out the great Prayer-book. He read a psalm and a prayer from the Burial Service, and the sentence for funerals at sea. Then he touched each of their heads, and, in short broken sentences, gave thanks for those still left to him, and for the blessed hope they could feel for those who were gone; and he prayed that they might so follow in their footsteps, as to come to the same holy place, and in the meantime realise the Communion of Saints. Then they said the Lord’s Prayer, he blessed them, and they arose.

“Mary, my dear,” he said, “you have a photograph.”

She put the case into his hands, and ran away.

He went to the study, where he found Dr. Spencer awaiting him.

“I am only come to know where I shall go for you.”

“Thank you, Spencer. Thank you for taking care of my poor girls.”

“They took care of themselves. They have the secret of strength.”

“They have—” He turned aside, and burst out, “Oh, Spencer! you have been spared a great deal. If you missed a great deal of joy, you have missed almost as much sorrow!” And, covering his face, he let his grief have a free course.

“Dick! dear old Dick, you must bear up. Think what treasures you have left.”

“I do. I try to do so,” said poor Dr. May; “but, Spencer, you never saw my yellow-haired laddie, with his lion look! He was the flower of them all! Not one of these other boys came near him in manliness, and with such a loving heart! An hour ago, I thought any certainty would be gain, but now I would give a lifetime to have back the hope that I might see my boy’s face again! Oh, Spencer! this is the first time I could rejoice that his mother is not here!”

“She would have been your comforter,” sighed his friend, as he felt his inability to contend with such grief.

“There, I can be thankful,” Dr. May said, and he looked so. “She has had her brave loving boy with her all this time, while we little thought—but there are others. My poor Margaret—”

“Her patience must be blessed,” said Dr. Spencer. “I think she will be better. Now that the suspense no longer preys on her, there will be more rest.”

“Rest,” repeated Dr. May, supporting his head on his hand; and, looking up dreamily—“there remaineth a rest—”

The large Bible lay beside him on the table, and Dr. Spencer thought that he would find more rest there than in his words. Leaving him, therefore, his friend went to undertake his day’s work, and learn, once more, in the anxious inquiries and saddened countenances of the patients and their friends, how great an amount of love and sympathy that Dr. May had won by his own warmth of heart. The patients seemed to forget their complaints in sighs for their kind doctor’s troubles; and the gouty Mayor of Stoneborough kept Dr. Spencer half an hour to listen to his recollections of the bright-faced boy’s droll tricks, and then to the praises of the whole May family, and especially of the mother.

Poor Dr. Spencer! he heard her accident described so many times in the course of the day, that his visits were one course of shrinking and suffering; and his only satisfaction was in knowing how his friend would be cheered by hearing of the universal feeling for him and his children.

Ethel wrote letters to her brothers; and Dr. May added a few lines, begging Richard to come home, if only for a few days. Margaret would not be denied writing to Hector Ernescliffe, though she cried over her letter so much that her father could almost have taken her pen away; but she said it did her good.

When Flora came in the afternoon, Ethel was able to leave Margaret to her, and attend to Mary, with whom Miss Bracy’s kindness had been inefficacious. If she was cheered for a few minutes, some association, either with the past or the vanished future, soon set her off sobbing again. “If I only knew where dear, dear Harry is lying,” she sobbed, “and that it had not been very bad indeed, I could bear it better.”

The ghastly uncertainty was too terrible for Ethel to have borne to contemplate it. She knew that it would haunt their pillows, and she was trying to nerve herself by faith.

“Mary,” she said, “that is the worst; but, after all, God willed that we should not know. We must bear it like His good children. It makes no differences to them now—”

“I know,” said Mary, trying to check her sobs.

“And, you know, we are all in the same keeping. The sea is a glorious great pure thing, you know, that man cannot hurt or defile. It seems to me,” said Ethel, looking up, “as if resting there was like being buried in our baptism-tide over again, till the great new birth. It must be the next best place to a churchyard. Anywhere, they are as safe as among the daisies in our own cloister.”

“Say it again—what you said about the sea,” said Mary, more comforted than if Ethel had been talking down to her.

By and by Ethel discovered that the sharpest trouble to the fond simple girl was the deprivation of her precious photograph. It was like losing Harry over again, to go to bed without it, though she would not for the world seem to grudge it to her father.

Ethel found an opportunity of telling him of this distress, and it almost made him smile. “Poor Mary,” he said, “is she so fond of it? It is rather a libel than a likeness.”

“Don’t say so to her, pray, papa. It is all the world to her. Three strokes on paper would have been the same, if they had been called by his name.”

“Yes; a loving heart has eyes of its own, and she is a dear girl!”

He did not forget to restore the treasure with gratitude proportionate to what the loan had cost Mary. With a trembling voice, she proffered it to him for the whole day, and every day, if she might only have it at night; and she even looked black when he did not accept the proposal.

“It is exactly like—” said she.

“It can’t help being so, in a certain sense,” he answered kindly, “but after all, Mary dear, he did not pout out his chin in that way.”

Mary was somewhat mortified, but she valued her photograph more than ever, because no one else would admire it, except Daisy, whom she had taught to regard it with unrivalled veneration.

A letter soon arrived from Captain Gordon, giving a fuller account of the loss of his ship, and of the conduct of his officers, speaking in the highest terms of Alan Ernescliffe, for whom he said he mourned as for his own son, and, with scarcely less warmth, of Harry, mentioning the high esteem all had felt for the boy, and the good effect which the influence of his high and truthful spirit had produced on the other youngsters, who keenly regretted him.

Captain Gordon added that the will of the late Captain Ernescliffe had made him guardian of his sons, and that he believed poor Alan had died intestate. He should therefore take upon himself the charge of young Hector, and he warmly thanked Dr. May and his family for all the kindness that the lad had received.

Though the loss of poor Hector’s visits was regretted, it was, on the whole, a comforting letter, and would give still more comfort in future time.

Richard contrived to come home through Oxford and see Norman, whom he found calm, and almost relieved by the cessation from suspense; not inclined, as his father had feared, to drown sorrow in labour, but regarding his grief as an additional call to devote himself to ministerial work. In fact, the blow had fallen when he first heard the rumour of danger, and could not recur with the same force.

Richard was surprised to find that Margaret was less cast down than he could have dared to hope. It did not seem like an affliction to her. Her countenance wore the same gentle smile, and she was as ready to participate in all that passed, finding sympathy for the little pleasures of Aubrey and Gertrude, and delighting in Flora’s baby; as well as going over Cocksmoor politics with a clearness and accuracy that astonished him, and asking questions about his parish and occupations, so as fully to enjoy his short visit, which she truly called the greatest possible treat.

If it had not been for the momentary consternation that she had seen upon Dr. Spencer’s face, Ethel would have been perfectly satisfied; but she could not help sometimes entertaining a dim fancy that this composure came from a sense that she was too near Alan to mourn for him. Could it be true that her frame was more wasted, that there was less capability of exertion, that her hours became later in the morning, and that her nights were more wakeful? Would she fade away? Ethel longed to know what her father thought, but she could neither bear to inspire him with the apprehension, nor to ask Dr. Spencer’s opinion, lest she should be confirmed in her own.

The present affliction altered Dr. May more visibly than the death of his wife, perhaps, because there was not the same need of exertion. If he often rose high in faith and resignation, he would also sink very low under the sense of bereavement and disappointment. Though Richard was his stay, and Norman his pride, there was something in Harry more congenial to his own temper, and he could not but be bowed down by the ruin of such bright hopes. With all his real submission, he was weak, and gave way to outbursts of grief, for which he blamed himself as unthankful; and his whole demeanour was so saddened and depressed, that Ethel and Dr. Spencer consulted mournfully over him, whenever they walked to Cocksmoor together.

This was not as often as usual, though the walls of the school were rising, for Dr. Spencer had taken a large share of his friend’s work for the present, and both physicians were much occupied by the condition of Mr. Ramsden who was fast sinking, and, for some weeks, seemed only kept alive by their skill. The struggle ended at last, and his forty years’ cure of Stoneborough was closed. It made Dr. May very sad—his affections had tendrils for anything that he had known from boyhood; and though he had often spoken strong words of the vicar, he now sat sorrowfully moralising and making excuses. “People in former times had not so high an estimate of pastoral duty—poor Mr. Ramsden had not much education—he was already old when better times came in—he might have done better in a less difficult parish with better laity to support him, etc.” Yet after all, he exclaimed with one of his impatient gestures, “Better have my Harry’s seventeen years than his sixty-seven!”