The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations

by Шарлотта Мэри Йондж

  "No," said Norman. "Whatever becomes a profession, becomes an unreality."

  "Surely not, in becoming a duty," said Meta.

  "Not for all," he answered; "but where the fabric erected by ourselves, in the sight of the world, is but an outer case, a shell of mere words, blown up for the occasion, strung together as mere language; then, self-convicted, we shrink within the husk, and feel our own worthlessness and hypocrisy."

  "As one feels in reproving the school children for behaving ill at church?" said Meta.

  "You never felt anything approaching to it!" said Norman. "To know oneself to be such a deception, that everything else seems a delusion too!"

  "I don't know whether that is metaphysical," said Meta, "but I am sure I don't understand it. One must know oneself to be worse than one knows any one else to be."

  "I could not wish you to understand," said Norman; and yet he seemed impelled to go on; for, after a hesitating silence, he added, "When the wanderer in the desert fears that the spring is but a mirage; or when all that is held dear is made hazy or distorted by some enchanter, what do you think are the feelings, Meta?"

  "It must be dreadful," she said, rather bewildered; "but he may know it is a delusion, if he can but wake. Has he not always a spell, a charm?--"

  "What is the spell?" eagerly said Norman, standing still.

  "Believe--" said Meta, hardly knowing how she came to choose the words.

  "I believe!" he repeated. "What--when we go beyond the province of reason--human, a thing of sense after all! How often have I so answered. But Meta, when a man has been drawn, in self-sufficient security, to look into a magic mirror, and cannot detach his eyes from the confused, misty scene--where all that had his allegiance appears shattered, overthrown, like a broken image, or at least unable to endure examination, then--"

  "Oh, Norman, is that the trial to any one here? I thought old Oxford was the great guardian nurse of truth! I am sure she cannot deal in magic mirrors or such frightful things. Do you know you are talking like a very horrible dream?"

  "I believe I am in one," said Norman.

  "To be sure you are. Wake!" said Meta, looking up, smiling in his face. "You have read yourself into a maze, that's all--what Mary calls, muzzling your head; you don't really think all this, and when you get into the country, away from books, you will forget it. One look at our dear old purple Welsh hills will blow away all the mists!"

  "I ought not to have spoken in this manner," said Norman sadly. "Forget it, Meta."

  "Forget it! Of course I will. It is all nonsense, and meant to be forgotten," said Meta, laughing. "You will own that it is by-and- by."

  He gave a deep sigh.

  "Don't think I am unfeeling," she said; "but I know it is all a fog up from books, books, books--I should like to drive it off with a good fresh gust of wind! Oh! I wish those yellow lilies would grow in our river!"

  Meta talked away gaily for the rest of the walk. She was anything but unfeeling, but she had a confidence in Norman that forbade her to see anything here but one of his variations of spirits, which always sank in the hour of triumph. She put forth her brightness to enliven him, and, in their subsequent tete-a-tetes, she avoided all that could lead to a renewal of this conversation. Ethel would not have rested till it had been fought out. Meta thought it so imaginary, that it had better die for want of the aliment of words; certainly, hers could not reach an intellect like his, and she would only soothe and amuse him. Dr. May, mind-curer as well as body-curer, would soon be here, to put the climax to the general joy and watch his own son.

  He did arrive; quite prepared to enjoy, giving an excellent account of both homes; Mr. Rivers very well, and the Wilmots taking care of him, and Margaret as comfortable as usual, Mary making a most important and capable little housekeeper, Miss Bracy as good as possible. He talked as if they had all nourished the better for Ethel's absence, but he had evidently missed her greatly, as he showed, without knowing it, by his instant eagerness to have her to himself. Even Norman, prizeman as he was, was less wanted. There was proud affection, eager congratulation, for him, but it was Ethel to whom he wanted to tell everything that had passed during her absence--whom he treated as if they were meeting after a tedious separation.

  They dined rather early, and went out afterwards, to walk down the High Street to Christchurch Meadow. Norman and Ethel had been anxious for this; they thought it would give their father the best idea of the tout ensemble of Oxford, and were not without hopes of beating him by his own confession, in that standing fight between him and his sons, as to the beauties of Oxford and Cambridge--a fight in which, hitherto, they had been equally matched--neither partisan having seen the rival University.

  Flora stayed at home; she owned herself fairly tired by her arduous duties of following the two young ladies about, and was very glad to give her father the keeping of them. Dr. May held out his arm to Ethel--Norman secured his peculiar property. Ethel could have preferred that it should be otherwise--Norman would have no companion but George Rivers; how bored he would be!

  All through the streets, while she was telling her father the names of the buildings, she was not giving her whole attention; she was trying to guess, from the sounds behind, whether Mr. Ogilvie were accompanying them. They entered the meadows--Norman turned round, with a laugh, to defy the doctor to talk of the Cam, on the banks of the Isis. The party stood still--the other two gentlemen came up. They amalgamated again--all the Oxonians conspiring to say spiteful things of the Cam, and Dr. May making a spirited defence, in which Ethel found herself impelled to join.

  In the wide gravelled path, they proceeded in threes; George attached himself to his sister and Norman. Mr. Ogilvie came to Ethel's other side, and began to point out all the various notabilities. Ethel was happy again; her father was so much pleased and amused, with him, and he with her father, that it was a treat to look on.

  Presently Dr. May, as usual, always meeting with acquaintances, fell in with a county neighbour, and Ethel had another pleasant aside, until her father claimed her, and Mr. Ogilvie was absorbed among another party, and lost to her sight.

  He came to tea, but, by that time, Dr. May had established himself in the chair which had hitherto been appropriated to her cousin, a chair that cut her nook off from the rest of the world, and made her the exclusive possession of the occupant. There was a most interesting history for her to hear, of a meeting with the Town Council, which she had left pending, when Dr. May had been battling to save the next presentation of the living from being sold.

  Few subjects could affect Ethel more nearly, yet she caught herself missing the thread of his discourse, in trying to hear what Mr. Ogilvie was saying to Flora about a visit to Glenbracken.

  The time came for the two Balliol men to take their leave. Norman May had been sitting very silent all the evening, and Meta, who was near him, respected his mood. When he said good-night, he drew Ethel outside the door. "Ethel," he said, "only one thing: do ask my father not to put on his spectacles to-morrow."

  "Very well," said Ethel, half smiling; "Richard did not mind them."

  "Richard has more humility--I shall break down if he looks at me! I wish you were all at home."

  "Thank you."

  The other Norman came out of the sitting-room at the moment, and heard the last words.

  "Never mind," said he to Ethel, "I'll take care of him. He shall comport himself as if you were all at Nova Zembla. A pretty fellow to talk of despising fame, and then get a fit of stage-fright!"

  "Well, good-night," said Norman, sighing. "It will be over to- morrow; only remember the spectacles."

  Dr. May laughed a good deal at the request, and asked if the rest of the party were to be blindfolded. Meta wondered that Ethel should have mentioned the request so publicly; she was a good deal touched by it, and she thought Dr. May ought to be so.

  Good-night was said, and Dr. May put his arm round Ethel, and gave her the kiss that she had missed for seven nights. It was very homelik
e, and it brought a sudden flash of thought across Ethel! What had she been doing? She had been impatient of her father's monopoly of her!

  She parted with Flora, and entered the room she shared with Meta, where Bellairs waited to attend her little mistress. Few words passed between the two girls, and those chiefly on the morrow's dress. Meta had some fixed ideas--she should wear pink. Norman had said he liked her pink bonnet, and then she could put down her white veil, so that he could be certain that she was not looking; Ethel vaguely believed Flora meant to wear--something--

  Bellairs went away, and Meta gave expression to her eager hope that Norman would go through it well. If he would only read it as he did last Easter to her and Ethel.

  "He will," said Ethel. "This nervousness always wears off when it comes to the point, and he warms with his subject."

  "Oh! but think of all the eyes looking at him!"

  "Our's are all that he really cares for, and he will think of none of them, when he begins. No, Meta, you must not encourage him in it. Papa says, if he did not think it half morbid--the result of the shock to his nerves--he should be angry with it as a sort of conceit!"

  "I should have thought that the last thing to be said of Norman!" said Meta, with a little suppressed indignation.

  "It was once in his nature," said Ethel; "and I think it is the fault he most beats down. There was a time, before you knew him, when he would have been vain and ambitious."

  "Then it is as they say, conquered faults grow to be the opposite virtues!" said Meta. "How very good he is, Ethel; one sees it more when he is with other people, and one hears all these young men's stories!"

  "Everything Norman does not do, is not therefore wrong," said Ethel, with her usual lucidity of expression.

  "Don't you like him the better for keeping out of all these follies?"

  "Norman does not call them so, I am sure."

  "No, he is too good to condemn--"

  "It is not only that," said Ethel. "I know papa thinks that the first grief, coming at his age, and in the manner it did, checked and subdued his spirits, so that he has little pleasure in those things. And he always meant to be a clergyman, which acted as a sort of consecration on him; but many things are innocent; and I do believe papa would like it better, if Norman were less grave."

  "Yes," said Meta, remembering the Sunday talk, "but still, he would not be all he is--so different from others--"

  "Of course, I don't mean less good, only, less grave," said Ethel, "and certainly less nervous. But, perhaps, it is a good thing; dear mamma thought his talents would have been a greater temptation than they seem to be, subdued as he has been. I only meant that you must not condemn all that Norman does not do. Now, goodnight."

  Very different were the feelings with which those two young girls stretched themselves in their beds that night. Margaret Rivers's innocent, happy little heart was taken up in one contemplation. Admiration, sympathy, and the exultation for him, which he would not feel for himself, drew little Meta entirely out of herself--a self that never held her much. She was proud of the slender thread of connection between them; she was confident that his vague fancies were but the scruples of a sensitive mind, and, as she fell sound asleep, she murmured broken lines of Decius, mixed with promises not to look.

  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."

&nbs
p; "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."