The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations

The ebullition of feeling seemed to have restored Dr. May’s calmness, and he rose, saying, “I must go to my work; the man is coming here this afternoon.”

“Where shall you see him?” Margaret asked.

“In my study, I suppose. I fear there is no chance of Flora’s changing her mind first. Or do you think one of you could talk to her, and get her fairly to contemplate the real bearings of the matter?” And, with these words, he left the room.

Margaret and Ethel glanced at each other; and both felt the impenetrability of Flora’s nature, so smooth, that all thrusts glided off.

“It will be of no use,” said Ethel; “and, what is more, she will not have it done.”

“Pray try; a few of your forcible words would set it in a new light.”

“Why! Do you think she will attend to me, when she has not chosen to heed papa?” said Ethel, with an emphasis of incredulity. “No; whatever Flora does, is done deliberately, and unalterably.”

“Still, I don’t know whether it is not our duty,” said Margaret.

“More yours than mine,” said Ethel.

Margaret flushed up. “Oh, no, I cannot!” she said, always timid, and slightly defective in moral courage. She looked so nervous and shaken by the bare idea of a remonstrance with Flora, that Ethel could not press her; and, though convinced that her representation would be useless, she owned that her conscience would rest better after she had spoken. “But there is Flora, walking in the garden with Norman,” she said. “No doubt he is doing it.”

So Ethel let it rest, and attended to the children’s lessons, during which Flora came into the drawing-room, and practised her music, as if nothing had happened.

Before the morning was over, Ethel contrived to visit Norman in the dining-room, where he was wont to study, and asked him whether he had made any impression on Flora.

“What impression do you mean?”

“Why, about this concern,” said Ethel; “this terrible man, that makes papa so unhappy.”

“Papa unhappy! Why, what does he know against him? I thought the Riverses were his peculiar pets.”

“The Riverses! As if, because one liked the sparkling stream, one must like a muddy ditch.”

“What harm do you know of him?” said Norman, with much surprise and anxiety, as if he feared that he had been doing wrong, in ignorance.

“Harm! Is he not a regular oaf?”

“My dear Ethel, if you wait to marry till you find some one as clever as yourself, you will wait long enough.”

“I don’t think it right for a woman to marry a man decidedly her inferior.”

“We have all learned to think much too highly of talent,” said Norman gravely.

“I don’t care for mere talent—people are generally more sensible without it; but, one way or other, there ought to be superiority on the man’s side.”

“Well, who says there is not?”

“My dear Norman! Why, this George Rivers is really below the average! you cannot deny that! Did you ever meet any one so stupid?”

“Really!” said Norman, considering; and, speaking very innocently, “I cannot see why you think so. I do not see that he is at all less capable of sustaining a conversation than Richard.”

Ethel sat down, perfectly breathless with amazement and indignation.

Norman saw that he had shocked her very much. “I do not mean,” he said, “that we have not much more to say to Richard; all I meant to say was, merely as to the intellect.”

“I tell you,” said Ethel, “it is not the intellect. Richard! why, you know how we respect, and look up to him. Dear old Ritchie! with his goodness, and earnestness, and right judgment—to compare him to that man! Norman, Norman, I never thought it of you!”

“You do not understand me, Ethel. I only cited Richard, as a person who proves how little cleverness is needed to insure respect.”

“And, I tell you, that cleverness is not the point.”

“It is the only objection you have put forward.”

“I did wrong,” said Ethel. “It is not the real one. It is earnest goodness that one honours in Richard. Where do we find it in this man, who has never done anything but yawn over his self indulgence?”

“Now, Ethel, you are working yourself up into a state of foolish prejudice. You and papa have taken a dislike to him; and you are overlooking a great deal of good safe sense and right thinking. I know his opinions are sound, and his motives right. He has been undereducated, we all see, and is not very brilliant or talkative; but I respect Flora for perceiving his solid qualities.”

“Very solid and weighty, indeed!” said Ethel ironically. “I wonder if she would have seen them in a poor curate.”

“Ethel, you are allowing yourself to be carried, by prejudice, a great deal too far. Are such imputations to be made, wherever there is inequality of means? It is very wrong! very unjust!”

“So papa said,” replied Ethel, as she looked sorrowfully down. “He was very angry with me for saying so. I wish I could help feeling as if that were the temptation.”

“You ought,” said Norman. “You will be sorry, if you set yourself, and him, against it.”

“I only wish you to know what I feel; and, I think, Margaret and papa do,” said Ethel humbly; “and then you will not think us more unjust than we are. We cannot see anything so agreeable or suitable in this man as to account for Flora’s liking, and we do not feel convinced of his being good for much. That makes papa greatly averse to it, though he does not know any positive reason for refusing; and we cannot feel certain that she is doing quite right, or for her own happiness.”

“You will be convinced,” said Norman cheerfully. “You will find out the good that is under the surface when you have seen more of him. I have had a good deal of talk with him.”

A good deal of talk to him would have been more correct, if Norman had but been aware of it. He had been at the chief expense of the conversation with George Rivers, and had taken the sounds of assent, which he obtained, as evidences of his appreciation of all his views. Norman had been struggling so long against his old habit of looking down on Richard, and exalting intellect; and had seen, in his Oxford life, so many ill-effects of the knowledge that puffeth up, that he had come to have a certain respect for dullness, per se, of which George Rivers easily reaped the benefit, when surrounded by the halo, which everything at Abbotstoke Grange bore in the eyes of Norman.

He was heartily delighted at the proposed connection, and his genuine satisfaction not only gratified Flora, and restored the equanimity that had been slightly disturbed by her father, but it also reassured Ethel and Margaret, who could not help trusting in his judgment, and began to hope that George might be all he thought him.

Ethel, finding that there were two ways of viewing the gentleman, doubted whether she ought to express her opinion. It was Flora’s disposition, and the advantages of the match, that weighed most upon her, and, in spite of her surmise having been treated as so injurious, she could not rid herself of the burden.

Dr. May was not so much consoled by Norman’s opinion as Ethel expected. The corners of his mouth curled up a little with diversion, and though he tried to express himself glad, and confident in his son’s judgment, there was the same sort of involuntary lurking misgiving with which he had accepted Sir Matthew Fleet’s view of Margaret’s case.

There was no danger that Dr. May would not be kind and courteous to the young man himself. It was not his fault if he were a dunce, and Dr. May perceived that his love for Flora was real, though clumsily expressed. He explained that he could not sanction the engagement till he should be better informed of the young gentleman’s antecedents; this was, as George expressed it, a great nuisance, but his father agreed that it was quite right, in some doubt, perhaps, as to how Dr. May might be satisfied.

CHAPTER VII

     Ye cumbrous fashions, crowd not on my head.     Mine be the chip of purest white,     Swan-like; and, as her feathers light,     When on the still wave spread;     And let it wear the graceful dress     Of unadorned simpleness.                            Catherine Fanshaw’s ‘Parody on Grey’.

Nothing transpired to the discredit of Lieutenant Rivers. He had spent a great deal of money, but chiefly for want of something else to do, and, though he was not a subject for high praise, there was no vice in him—no more than in an old donkey—as Dr. May declared, in his concluding paroxysm of despair, on finding that, though there was little to reconcile him to the engagement, there was no reasonable ground for thwarting his daughter’s wishes. He argued the matter once more with her, and, finding her purpose fixed, he notified his consent, and the rest of the family were admitted to a knowledge of the secret which they had never suspected.

Etheldred could not help being gratified with the indignation it excited. With one voice, Mary and Blanche declared that they would never give up the title of “the detestable,” and would not make him any presents; certainly not watch-chains! Miss Bracy, rather alarmed, lectured them just enough to make them worse; and Margaret, overhearing Blanche instructing Aubrey in her own impertinences, was obliged to call her to her sofa, and assure her that she was unkind to Flora, and that she must consider Mr. George Rivers as her brother.

“Never my brother like Harry!” exclaimed Mary indignantly.

“No, indeed; nor like Alan!” exclaimed Blanche. “And I won’t call him George, I am determined, if it is ever so!”

“It will not matter to him what such little girls call him,” said Margaret.

Blanche was so annihilated, that the sound of a carriage, and of the door bell, was a great satisfaction to her.

Meta Rivers came flying into the room, her beautiful eyes dancing, and her cheeks glowing with pleasure, as, a little timidly, she kissed Margaret; while Ethel, in a confused way, received Mr. Rivers, in pain for her own cold, abrupt manner, in contrast with his gentle, congratulating politeness.

Meta asked, blushing, and with a hesitating voice, for their dear Flora; Mary offered to call her, but Meta begged to go herself, and thus was spared the awkwardness that ensued. Ethel was almost vexed with herself, as ungrateful, when she saw Mr. Rivers so mildly kind, and so delighted, with the bland courtesy that seemed fully conscious of the favour that Flora had conferred on his son, and thankful to the Mays for accepting him.

Margaret answered with more expression of gratification than would have been sincere in Ethel; but it was a relief when Flora and Meta came in together, as pretty a contrast as could be seen; the little dark-eyed fairy, all radiant with joy, clinging to the slender waist of Flora, whose quiet grace and maidenly dignity were never more conspicuous than as, with a soft red mantling in her fair cheek, her eyes cast down, but with a simple, unaffected warmth of confidence and gratitude, she came forward to receive Mr. Rivers’s caressing affectionate greeting.

Stiffness was over when she came in, and Dr. May, who presently made his appearance, soon was much more at his ease than could have been hoped, after his previous declarations that he should never be able to be moderately civil about it to Mr. Rivers. People of ready sympathy, such as Dr. May and Margaret, have a great deal of difficulty with their sincerity spared them, by being carried along with the feelings of others. Ethel could not feel the same, and was bent on avoiding any expression of opinion; she hoped that Meta’s ecstasies would all be bestowed upon her future sister-in-law; but Meta was eager for an interview with Ethel herself, and, as usual, gained her point.

“Now then, you are property of my own!” she cried. “May I not take you all for sisters?”

Ethel had not thought of this as a convenience of the connection, and she let Meta kiss her, and owned that it was very nice.

“Ethel,” said Meta, “I see, and I wanted to talk to you. You don’t think poor George good enough for Flora.”

“I never meant to show it,” said Ethel.

“You need not mind,” said Meta, smiling. “I was very much surprised myself, and thought it all a mistake. But I am so very glad, for I know it will make such a difference to him, poor fellow. I should like to tell you all about him, for no one else can very well, and you will like him better, perhaps. You know my grandfather made his own fortune, and you would think some of our relations very queer. My Aunt Dorothy once told me all about it—papa was made to marry the partner’s daughter, and I fancy she could not have been much of a lady. I don’t think he could have been very happy with her, but she soon died, and left him with this one son, whom those odd old aunts brought up their own way. By and by, you know, papa came to be in quite another line of society, but when he married again, poor George had been so spoiled by these aunts, and was so big, and old, that my mother did not know what to make of him.”

“A great lubberly boy,” Ethel said, rather repenting the next moment.

“He is thirteen years older than I am,” said Meta, “and you see it has been hard on him altogether; he had not the education that papa would have given him if he had been born later: and he can’t remember his mother, and has always been at a loss when with clever people. I never understood it till within the last two or three years, nor knew how trying it must be to see such a little chit as me made so much of—almost thrusting him aside. But you cannot think what a warm-hearted good fellow he is—he has never been otherwise than so very kind to me, and he was so very fond of his old aunt. Hitherto, he has had such disadvantages, and no real, sensible woman has taken him in hand; he does not care for papa’s tastes, and I am so much younger, that I never could get on with him at all, till this time; but I do know that he has a real good temper, and all sorts of good qualities, and that he only needs to be led right, to go right. Oh! Flora may make anything of him, and we are so thankful to her for having found it out!”

“Thank you for telling me,” said Ethel. “It is much more satisfactory to have no shamming.”

Meta laughed, for Ethel’s sham was not too successful; she continued, “Dear Dr. May, I thought he would think his beautiful Flora not exactly matched—but tell him, Ethel, for if he once is sorry for poor George, he will like him. And it will really be the making of George, to be thrown with him and your brothers. Oh! we are so glad! But I won’t tease you to be so.”

“I can like it better now,” said Ethel. “You know Norman thinks very highly of your brother, and declares that it will all come out by and by.”

Meta clapped her hands, and said that she should tell her father, and Ethel parted with her, liking her, at least, better than ever. There was a comical scene between her and the doctor, trying to define what relations they should become to each other, which Ethel thought did a good deal to mollify her father.

The history of George’s life did more; he took to pitying him, and pity was, indeed, akin to love in the good doctor’s mind. In fact, George was a man who could be liked, when once regarded as a belonging—a necessity, not a choice; for it was quite true that there was no harm in him, and a great deal of good nature. His constant kindness, and evident liking for Margaret, stood him in good stead; he made her a sort of confidante, bestowing on her his immeasurable appreciation of Flora’s perfections, and telling her how well he was getting on with “the old gentleman”—a name under which she failed to recognise her father.

As to Tom, he wrote his congratulations to Ethel, that she might make a wedding present of her Etruscan vases, the Cupids on which must have been put there by anticipation. Richard heard none of the doubts, and gave kind, warm congratulations, promising to return home for the wedding; and Mary and Blanche no sooner heard a whisper about bride’s-maids than all their opposition faded away, in a manner that quite scandalised Ethel, while it set Margaret on reminiscences of her having been a six-year-old bride’s-maid to Flora’s godmother, Mrs. Arnott.

As to the gossip in the town, Ethel quite dreaded the sight of every one without Flora to protect her, and certainly, Flora’s unaffected, quiet manner was perfection, and kept off all too forward congratulations, while it gratified those whom she was willing to encourage.

There was no reason for waiting, and Mr. Rivers was as impatient as his son, so an understanding arose that the wedding, should take place near the end of the Christmas holidays.

Flora showed herself sensible and considerate. Always open-handed, her father was inclined to do everything liberally, and laid no restrictions on her preparations, but she had too much discretion to be profuse, and had a real regard for the welfare of the rest. She laughed with Ethel at the anticipations of the Stoneborough ladies that she must be going to London, and, at the requests, as a great favour, that they might be allowed the sight of her trousseau. Her wedding-dress, white silk, with a white cashmere mantle, was, indeed, ordered from Meta’s London dressmaker; but, for the rest, she contented herself with an expedition to Whitford, accompanied by Miss Bracy and her two enchanted pupils, and there laid in a stock of purchases, unpretending and in good taste, aiming only at what could be well done, and not attempting the decorative wardrobe of a great lady. Ethel was highly amused when the Misses Anderson came for their inspection, to see their concealed disappointment at finding no under garments trimmed with Brussels lace, nor pocket-handkerchiefs all open-work, except a centre of the size of a crown-piece, and the only thing remarkable was Margaret’s beautiful marking in embroidery. There was some compensation in the costly wedding presents—Flora had reaped a whole harvest from friends of her own, grateful patients of her father, and the whole Rivers and Langdale connection; but, in spite of the brilliant uselessness of most of these, the young ladies considered themselves ill-used, thought Dr. May never would have been shabby, and were of opinion that when Miss Ward had married her father’s surgical pupil, her outfit had been a far more edifying spectacle.

The same moderation influenced Flora’s other arrangements. Dr. May was resigned to whatever might be thought most proper, stipulating only that he should not have to make a speech; but Flora felt that, in their house, a grand breakfast would be an unsuccessful and melancholy affair. If the bride had been any one else, she could have enjoyed making all go off well, but, under present circumstances, it would be great pain to her father and Margaret, a misery to Ethel, and something she dared not think of to the guests. She had no difficulty in having it dispensed with. George was glad to avoid “a great nuisance.” Mr. Rivers feared the fatigue, and, with his daughter, admired Flora for her amiability, and, as to the home party, no words could express their gratitude to her for letting them off. Mary and Blanche did, indeed, look rather blank, but Blanche was consoled, by settling with Hector the splendours in store for Alan and Margaret, and Mary cared the less, as there would be no Harry to enjoy the fun.

The bride-maiden’s glory was theirs by right, though Ethel was an unsatisfactory chief for such as desired splendour. She protested against anything incongruous with January, or that could not be useful afterwards, and Meta took her part, laughing at the cruel stroke they were preparing for Bellairs. Ethel begged for dark silks and straw bonnets, and Flora said that she had expected to hear of brown stuff and gray duffle, but owned that they had better omit the ordinary muslin garb in the heart of winter. The baby bride’s-maid was, at last, the chief consideration. Margaret suggested how pretty she and Blanche would look in sky-blue merino, trimmed with swan’s-down. Meta was charmed with the idea, and though Ethel stuck out her shoulder-blades and poked out her head, and said she should look like the ugly duckling, she was clamorously reminded that the ugly duckling ended by being a swan, and promised that she should be allowed a bonnet of a reasonable size, trimmed with white, for Mr. Rivers’s good taste could endure, as little as Dr. May’s sense of propriety, the sight of a daughter without shade to her face, Ethel, finally, gave in, on being put in mind that her papa had a penchant for swan’s-down, and on Margaret’s promising to wear a dress of the same as theirs.

Ethel was pleased and satisfied by Flora’s dislike of parade, and attention to the feelings of all. Passing over the one great fact, the two sisters were more of one mind than usual, probably because all latent jealousy of Ethel had ceased in Flora’s mind. Hitherto, she had preferred the being the only practically useful person in the family, and had encouraged the idea of Ethel’s gaucherie but now she desired to render her sister able to take her place, and did all in her power to put her in good heart.

For Etheldred was terrified at the prospect of becoming responsible housekeeper. Margaret could only serve as an occasional reference. Her morning powers became too uncertain to be depended on for any regular, necessary duty, and it would have oppressed her so much to order the dinners, which she never saw, that, though she offered to resume the office, Flora would not hear of Ethel’s consenting. If it were her proper business, Ethel supposed she could do it, but another hour of her leisure was gone, and what would become of them all, with her, a proverb for heedlessness, and ignorance of ordinary details. She did not know that these were more proverbial than actual, and, having a bad name, she believed in it herself. However, Flora made it her business to persuade her that her powers were as good for household matters, as for books, or Cocksmoor; instructed her in her own methodical plans, and made her keep house for a fortnight, with so much success that she began to be hopeful.

In the attendance on Margaret, the other great charge, old nurse was the security; and Ethel, who had felt her self much less unhandy than before, was, to succeed to the abode, in her room—Blanche being promoted from the nursery to the old attic. “And,” said Flora consolingly, “if dear Margaret ever should be ill, you may reckon on me.”

Miss Flora May made her last appearance at the Ladies’ Committee to hear the reply from the principal of the college. It was a civil letter, but declined taking any steps in the matter without more certain intelligence of the wishes of the incumbent of the parish or of the holders of the land in question.

The ladies abused all colleges—as prejudiced old Bodies, and feared that it would be impossible to ask Mrs. Perkinson’s niece to take the school while there was neither room nor lodging. So Miss Rich recorded the correspondence, and the vote of censure, by which it was to be hoped the Ladies’ Committee of Market Stoneborough inflicted a severe blow on the principal and fellows of M– College.

“Never mind, Ethel,” said Flora. “I shall meet Sir Henry Walkinghame in London, and will talk to him. We shall yet astonish the muses. If we can get the land without them, we shall be able to manage it our own way, without obligations.”

“You forget the money!”

“We will keep them from dissipating it—or that might be no harm! A hundred pounds will be easily found, and we should then have it in our own hands. Besides, you know, I don’t mean to give up. I shall write a polite note to Mrs. Ledwich, begging to subscribe on my own account, and to retain my seat! and you will see what we shall do.”

“You mean to come down with the external authority,” said Ethel, smiling.

“True! and though my driving in with a pair of horses may make little difference to you, Ethel, depend upon it, Mrs. Ledwich will be the more amenable. Whenever I want to be particularly impressive, I shall bring in that smelling-bottle, with the diamond stopper that won’t come out, and you will find that carries all before it.”

“A talisman!” said Ethel, laughing. “But I had rather they yielded to a sense of right!”

“So had I,” said Flora. “Perhaps you will rule them that way?”

“Not I!” cried Ethel, terrified.

“Then you must come to me, and secondary motives. Seriously—I do mean that George should do something for Stoneborough; and, in a position of influence, I hope to be able to be useful to my poor old town. Perhaps we shall have the minster restored.”