 Part 2, Chapter 24 of The Daisy Chain, this is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Brooke Favorite, www.alongsidemom.com. The Daisy Chain by Charlotte Mary Young, Part 2, Chapter 24. Enough of foresight, sad, too much, of retrospect, have I, and well for me, that I sometimes can put those feelings by. There speaks the man we knew of your, well pleased I hear them say, such was he in his lighter moods before our heads were gray. Boyant he was in spirit, quick of fancy, light of heart, and care and time and change have left untouched his better part. Southey Ethel Dredmay and Meta Rivers were together in the drawing room. The timepiece pointed towards ten o'clock, but the tea things were on the table, prepared for a meal. The lamp shone with a sort of consciousness, and Ethel moved restlessly about, sometimes settling her tea equipage, sometimes putting away a stray book, or resorting by turns to her book, or to work a red and gold scroll on coarse canvas, on the other end of which Meta was employed. Nervous Ethel, said Meta, looking up with a merry provoking smile, knowing how much the word would displease. That is for you, retorted Ethel, preferring to carry the war into the enemy's quarters. What, don't you know that prudent people say that your fate depends on her report? At least, said Meta, laughing, she is a living instance that everyone is not eaten up, and we shall see if she fulfills Tom's prediction of being tattooed, or of having a slice out of the fattest part of her cheek. I know very well, said Ethel, the worst she said it would be the more you would go. Not quite that, said Meta, blushing and looking down. Come, don't be deceitful, said Ethel, you know very well that you are still more bent on it than you were last year. To be sure I am, said Meta, looking up with a sudden beamy flash of her dark eyes, Norman and I know each other so much better now, she added, rather falteringly. I, I know you are ready to go through thick and thin, and that is why I give my consent and approbation. You are not to be stopped for nonsense. Not for nonsense, certainly, said Meta. But—and her voice became tremulous—if Dr. May deliberately said it would be wrong, and that I should be an encumbrance and perplexity, I am making up my mind to the chance. But what would you do, asked Ethel? I don't know, you should not ask such questions, Ethel. Well, it won't happen, so does no use to talk about it, said Ethel, fancy my having made you cry. Very silly of me, said Meta, brightening and laughing, but sighing. I am only afraid Mrs. Arnott may think me individually unfit for the kind of life, as if I could not do what other women can. Do I look so? You look as if you were meant to be put under a glass case, said Ethel, surveying the little elegant figure, whose great characteristic was a look of exquisite finish, not only in the features and colouring, the turn of the head, and the shape of the small rosy-tipped fingers, but in everything she wore, from the braids of black silk hair to the little shoe on her foot, and even in the very lightness and gaity of her movements. Oh Ethel, cried Meta, springing up in dismay and looking at herself in the glass. What is the matter with me? Do tell me." You'll never get rid of it, said Ethel, unless you get yourself tattooed. Even separation from Belairs hasn't answered, and, after all, I don't think it would be any satisfaction to Norman or Papa. I assure you, Meta, whatever you may think of it, it is not so much bother to be prettier than needful, as it is to be uglier than needful. What is needful? said Meta, much amused. I suppose to be like Mary, so that nobody should take notice of one, but that one's own people may have the satisfaction of saying, She is pleasing, or She is in good looks. I think Gertrude will come to that. That's one comfort. That is your own case, Ethel. I have heard those very things said of you. Of my hatchet face, said Ethel contemptuously, someone must have been desperately bent on flattering the member's family. I could repeat more, said Meta, if I were to go back to the commemoration and to the day you went home. Ethel crimson'd, and made a sign with her hand, exclaiming, Hark! it went past. It was the omnibus. She must be walking down. Ethel breathed short, and wandered aimlessly about. Meta put her arm round her waist. I did not think this would be so much to you, she said. Oh, Meta, it seems like dear Mama coming to see how we've been going on, and then Papa. I wish I'd gone up to the station with him. He has, Richard. I, but I'm afraid Margaret is listening and will be restless, and have a palpitation, and I can't go and see, or I shall disturb her. Oh, I wish it were over. Meta stroked her and soothed her, and assured her that all would do well, and presently they heard the click of the door. Ethel flew into the hall, where she stopped short, her heart beating high at the sound of overpoweringly familiar accents. She was almost relieved by detecting otherwise little resemblance. The height was nearly the same, but there was not the plump softness of outline. Mrs. Arnett was small, thin, brisk and active, with a vivacious countenance, once evidently very fair and pretty, but aged and worn by toil, not trouble, for the furrows were the traces of smiles around her merry mouth, and beautiful blue eyes that had a tendency to laugh and cry both at once. Sir May, who had led her into the light, seemed to be looking her all over, while Richard was taking the wraps from her, and Ethel tried to encourage herself to go forward. I said the doctor kissing her, I see you, Flora, now, I have found you again. I found you as soon as I heard your voice, Richard, said she, and now for the bernies. Here's one, but there's but a poor show forthcoming to-night. Do you know her? There was an unspeakable joy in being pressed in Aunt Flora's arms, like a returning beam from the sunshine of seven years ago. This must be, Ethel, my dear, how you tower above me, you that I left in arms, and, as she advanced into the drawing-room, why, surely, this is not Margaret! A Margaret, not the Margaret, I wish I were, said Metta, as Mrs. Arnett stood with an arm on her shoulder. In the midst of an embrace, Dr. May enjoyed her perplexity, and Metta's blushes. See, Flora, these black locks never belonged to Calton Hill daisies, yet a daisy of my own she is, can't you guess? Miss Rivers! exclaimed Mrs. Arnett, and though she kissed her cordially, Metta suspected a little doubt and disappointment. Yes, said Dr. May, we change Mary for this little woman as Flora's lady-in-waiting, when she and her husband go out yachting and shooting. Flora and her husband, there's a marvellous sound, where are they? They are staying at Eccleswood Castle, said Ethel, and Mary with them. They would have been at home to receive you, but your note yesterday took us all by surprise. Norman is away, too, at a college meeting. And Margaret, my Margaret, does not she come downstairs? Ah, poor dear, said Dr. May, she's not been in this room since that sultry day in July. The eighteenth, said Richard, the precision of the date marking but too well the consciousness that it was in epic. We can keep her quiet or upstairs, said Dr. May, but you must not see her tonight. She will enjoy you very much to-morrow, but excitement at night always does her harm, so we put her to bed and told her to think about no one. Mrs. Arnett looked at him as if longing but dreading to ask further, and allowed her nephew and niece to seat her at the table, and attend to her once before she spoke again. And the babies. We don't keep babies, Gertrude would tell you, said Dr. May. There are three great creatures whom Ethel barbarously ordered off to bed. Ethel is master here. You must know, Flora. We all mind what she says. Oh, Papa, pleaded Ethel distressed. You know it was because I thought numbers might be oppressive. I never dispute, said Dr. May. We bow to a beneficial despotism and never rebel, do we, Metta? Seeing that Ethel took the imputation to heart, Metta rejoined. You are making Mrs. Arnett think her the strong-minded woman of the family, who winds up the clock and cuts the bread. No, that she makes you do when the boys are away. Of course, said Ethel, I can't be vituperated about hunches of bread. I have quite enough to bear on the score of tea. Your tea is very good, said Richard. See how they propitiate her, maliciously observed the doctor. Not at all. It is Richard standing up for his pupil, said Ethel. It is all very well now, with people who know the capacities of mortal tea, but the boys expect it to last from seven o'clock to ten, through an unlimited number of cups, till I have announced that a teapot must be carved on my tombstone, with an epitaph, dyed of unreasonable requirements. Mrs. Arnett looked from one to the other, amused, observant, and perceiving that they were all under that form of shyness which brings up family wit to hide embarrassment or emotion. Is Harry one of these unreasonable boys? she asked. My dear Harry, I presume Ethel has not sent him to bed. Is there any hope of my seeing him? Great hope, said Dr. May. He has been in the Baltic Fleet, a pretty little summer trip, from which we expect him to return any day. My old lion, I am glad you had him for a little while, Flora. Dear fellow, his only fault was being homesick and making me catch the infection. I am glad you did not put off your coming, said Dr. May gravely. You are in time for the consecration, said Richard. Ah, Coxmore, when will it take place? On St. Andrew's Day. It is St. Andrew's Church and the Bishop fixed the day, otherwise it is a disappointment that Hector cannot be present. Hector? Hector earns Cliff, poor Allen's brother, whom we don't know well from ourselves. And you are curate, Richie, said his aunt. If I may still call you so, you are not a bit altered from the mouse you used to be. Rich Mouse to Coxmore, said Dr. May, nearly as poor. We are to invest his patrimony in a parsonage as soon as our architect in Ordinary can find time for it. Spencer, you remember him? I remember how you and he used to be inseparable, and he has settled down at last by your side. The two old doctors hope to bolster each other up till Mr. Tom comes down with modern science in full force. That boy will do great things. He has as clear a head as I ever knew. And more, said Ethel. I, as sound a heart, I must find you his tutor's letter, Flora. They have had a row in his tutor's house at Eaton. And our boys made a gallant stand for the right, Tom especially, guarding the little fellows in a way that does one good to hear of. I must express my strong sense of gratitude for his truth, uprightness, and moral courage, quoted Metta. Ah-ha! You have learned it by heart. I know you copied it out for Norman, who has the best right to rejoice. You have a set of children to be proud of, Richard, exclaimed Mrs. Arnett. To be surprised at, to be thankful for, said Dr. May, almost inarticulately. To see her father so happy with Mrs. Arnett necessarily drew Ethel's heart towards her, and when they had bidden him good night, the aunt instantly assumed a caressing confidence towards Ethel, particularly comfortable to one consciously backward and awkward, and making her feel as intimate as if the whole space of her rational life had not elapsed since their last meeting. Must you go, my dear? said her aunt, detaining her over her fire. I can't tell how to spare you. I want to hear of your dear father. He looks aged and thin, Ethel, and yet that sweet expression is the same as ever. Is he very anxious about poor Margaret? Not exactly anxious, said Ethel mournfully. There is not much room for that. My dear Ethel, you don't mean—I thought—I suppose we ought to have written more fully, said Ethel, but it has been very gradual, and we never say it to ourselves. She is as bright and happy and comfortable as ever, in general, and perhaps may be so for a long time yet, but each attack weakens her. What kind of attack? Faintness sinking. It is suspended action of the heart, the injury to the spine deranged the system, and then the long suspense and the shock. It is not one thing more than another, but it must go on. Dr. Spencer will tell you. You won't ask Papa too much about it? No indeed, and he bears it—he bears everything. Strength comes up out of his great lovingness, but oh, I sometimes long that he may never have any more sorrows. My poor child, said Mrs. Arnett, putting her arm around her niece's waist. Ethel rested her head on her shoulder. Aunt Flora, Aunt Flora, if any words could tell what Margaret has been ever since we were left. Oh, don't make me talk or think of ourselves without her. It is wrong to wish. And when you see her, that dear face of hers will make you happy in the present, then, added Ethel, not able to leave off with such a subject, you have our Norman to see. Ah, Norman's project is too delightful to us, but I fear what it may be to your father. He gives dear Norman, as his most precious gift, the flower and pride of us all. But Ethel, I am quite frightened at Miss Rivers' looks. Is it possible that— Aunt Flora, broken Ethel, don't say a word against it. The choicest goods wear the best, and whatever woman can do, Meta Rivers can. Norman is a great tall fellow, as clever as possible, but perfectly feckless. If you had him there alone, he would be a bee without a queen. Well, but— Listen, continued Ethel, Meta is a concentration of spirit and energy. It's in practical matters, is twice the housewife I am, and does all like an accomplishment. Between them they will make a noble missionary. But she looks, hush, continued the niece. You will think me domineering, but please don't give any judgment without seeing, for they look to you as an arbitrator, and casual words will weigh. Thank you, Ethel, perhaps you're right. When does he think of coming out? When he's ordained, sometime next year. Does she live with you? I suppose she lives with Flora, but we always manage to get her when Norman is at home. You've told me nothing of Flora or Mary. I have little real to tell. Good old Mary, I daresay Harry talked to you plentifully of her. She is a—a nice old darling, said Ethel fondly. We want her again very much, and do not quite bargain for the succession of smart visits that she has been paying. With Flora? Yes. Unluckily George Rivers has taken an aversion to the Grange, and I have not seen Flora this whole year. Ethel stopped short, and said that she must not keep Margaret expecting her, perhaps her aunt guessed that she had touched the true cord of anxiety. The morning brought a cheering account of Margaret, and Mrs. Arnott was to see her directly after breakfast. In the meantime the firm limbs, blue eyes, and rosy face of Gertrude seemed a fair representation of the little bridesmaid whom she remembered. A very different niece did she find upstairs, though the smiling, overflowing eyes and the fond, eager look of recognition, as if asking to be taken to her bosom had in them all the familiarity of old tenderness. Auntie, dear Auntie, that you should have come back to me again! Mrs. Arnott fondly caressed her, but could not speak at first, for even her conversation with Ethel had not prepared her for so wasted and broken an appearance. Dr. May spoke briskly of Margaret's having behaved very well and slept like a good child, told Margaret where he had to go that morning, and pointed out to Mrs. Arnott some relics of herself still remaining. But the nervous tremulousness of manner did not much comfort her, although Margaret answered cheerfully. Nothing was so effectual in composing the aunt as Aubrey's coming headlong in to announce the gig, and to explain to Margaret his last design for a cathedral, drawing plans being just now his favorite sport. Architecture is all our rage at present, said Margaret, as her father hurried away. I'm so glad to have come in time for the consecration, said Mrs. Arnott, following her niece's lead. Is that a model of the church? Oh, yes, cried Margaret, lighting up. Richard made it for me. May I show it to Aunt Flora, said Aubrey. Bring it here if you can lift it, said Margaret. And Aunt Flora helping, the great cumbersome thing was placed beside her, whilst she smiled and welcomed it like a child, and began an eager exhibition. Was it not a beautiful little pierced spire? That was an extravagance of Dr. Spencer's own. Papa said he could not ask Captain Gordon to sanction it. The model did it no justice, but it was so very beautiful in the rich, creamy stone rising up on the moor, and the blue sky looking through, and it caught the sunset lights so beautifully. So animated was her description that Mrs. Arnott could not help asking. Why, my dear, when have you seen it? Barbara, said Margaret, with her sweet smile. I've never seen cocks moor, but Dr. Spencer and Metta are always sketching it for me, and Ethel would not let an effect pass without telling me. I shall hear how it strikes you next. I hope to see it by and by. What a comfortable, deep porch, if we could build such churches in the colonies, Margaret. See what little Metta will do for you. Yes, we have the porch deep for a shelter. That is copied from the west door of the Minster. And is it not a fine, high-pitched roof? John Taylor, who is to be clerk, could not understand its being open, he said, when he saw the timbers, that a man in his family might live up among them. They are noble oak-beams. We would not have any sham. Here, Aubrey, take off the roof, and Auntie will see the shape. Like the ribs of a ship, explained Aubrey, unconscious that the meaning was deeper than his sister could express. And he continued, such fine oak-beams, I wrote with Dr. Spencer one day last year to choose them. It is a too-ild church, you see, that a third may be added. Ethel came up as Aubrey began to absorb the conversation. Lessons, Aubrey, she said. So, Margaret, you are over your dear model? Not for stalling you too much, I hope, Ethel, dear, said Margaret, as you will show her the church itself. You have the best right, said Ethel, but come, Aubrey, we must not dawdle. I will show you the stones I laid myself, Aunt Flora, said Aubrey, running off without much reluctance. Ethel has him in excellent order, said Mrs. Arnett. That she has, she brings him on beautifully, and makes him enjoy it. She teaches him arithmetic in some wonderful scientific way that nobody can understand but Norman, and he not the details. But he says it is all coming right, and will make him a capital mathematical scholar, though he cannot add up pounds, shillings, and pints. I expected to be struck with Ethel, said Mrs. Arnett. Well, said Margaret, waiting. Yes, she does exceed my expectations. There is something curiously winning in that quaint, quick, decisive manner of hers. There is so much soul in the least thing she does, as if she could not be indifferent for a moment. Exactly, exactly so, said Margaret, delighted. It is really doing everything with all her might. Little simple everyday matters did not come naturally to her as to other people, and the having had to make them duties has taught her to do them with that earnest manner as if there were a right and a wrong to her in each little mechanical household office. Harry described her to me thus, said Mrs. Arnett, smiling, as to Ethel she is an odd fish, but Coxmore will make a woman of her after all. Quite true, cried Margaret. I should not have thought Harry had so much discernment in those days. Coxmore gave the stimulus, and made Ethel what she is. Look there, over the mantelpiece, are the designs for the painted glass, all gifts except the east window. That one of St. Andrew introducing the lad with the loaves and fishes is Ethel's window. It is the produce of the horde she began, this time seven years, when she had but one sovereign in the world. She kept steadily on with it, spending nothing on herself that she could avoid, always intending it for the church, and it was just enough to pay for this window. Most suitable, said Mrs. Arnett, yes, Mr. Wilma and I persuaded her into it, but I do not think she would have allowed it, if she had seen the application we made of it, the gift of her girlhood blessed and extended. Dear King Etheldrid, it is the only time I ever cheated her. This is a beautiful east window, and this little one, St. Margaret, I see. Ah, Papa would not be denied choosing that for his subject. We reproached him with legendary saints, and overwhelmed him with antiquarianism, to show that the Margaret of the Dragon was not the Margaret of the Daisy, but he would have it, and said we might thank him for not setting his heart on St. Etheldridda. This one? That is mine, said Margaret, very low, and her aunt abstained from remark, though unable to look without tears at the ship of the apostles, the calming of the storm, and the scroll with the verse, he bringeth them unto the haven where they would be. Both were the initials A, H, E, and the date of the year, the only memorials of the founder. Margaret next drew attention to St. Andrew with his cross, Metta's gift. And besides, she said, George Rivers made us a beautiful present which Metta hunted up, old Mr. Rivers, knowing no better, once bought all the beautiful carved fittings of a chapel in France, meaning to fit up a library with them, but happily he never did, and a happy notion came into Metta's head. So she found them out, and Dr. Spencer has adapted them, and set them all to rights, and they are most exquisite, you never saw such foliage. Thus Margaret proceeded with the description of everything in the church, and all the little adventures of the building, as if she could not turn away from the subject, and her aunt listened and wondered, and when called away, that Margaret might rest before nurse came to dress her, she expressed her wonder to Metta. Yes, was the answer. It is her chief occupation and interest. I do not mean that she has not always her own dear, full sympathy for everyone's concerns, but Coxmore is her concern, almost more than even Ethel's. I think she could chronicle every stage in the building, better than Dr. Spencer himself, and it is her daily delight to hear his histories of his progress, and not only with the church, but with the people. She knows all about every family. Richard and Ethel tell her all their news. She talks over the school with the mistress every Sunday, and you cannot think what a feeling there is for her at Coxmore. A kind message from Miss May has an effect that the active workers cannot always produce. Mrs. Arnott saw that Metta was right, when in the afternoon she walked with her nieces to see Coxmore. It was not a desolate sight as in old times, for the fair edifice rising on the slope gave an air of protection to the cottages, which seemed now to have a center of unity, instead of lying forlorn and scattered. Nor were they as wretched in themselves, for the impulse of civilization had caused windows to be mended, and railings to be tidied, and Richard promoted to the utmost cottage gardening, so that, though there was an air of poverty, there was no longer an appearance of reckless destitution, and hopeless neglect. In the cottages Mrs. Taylor had not entirely ceased to speak with a piteous voice, even though she told of the well-doing of her girls at service. But Granny Hall's merry content had in it something now of principle, and Sam had married a young Ford-Home wife, who promised to be a pattern for Coxmore. Everyone asked after Miss May, with a tenderness and affection that Mrs. Arnott well appreciated, and when they went into the large, fresh school where Richard was hearing a class, Cherry Ellwood looked quite cheered and enlivened by hearing that she had been able to enjoy seeing her aunt. Mrs. Arnott was set to enlighten the children about the little brown girls whom she was want to teach, and came away with a more brilliant impression of their intelligence than she might have had if she had not come to them fresh from the antipodes. She had to tell Margaret all her impressions on her return, and very pretty smiles repaid her commendations. She understood better the constant dwelling on the subject as she perceived how little capable Margaret was of any employment. The book, the writing materials, the work-basket were indeed placed by her side, but very seldom did the feeble fingers engage in any of the occupations once so familiar. Now and then a penciled note would be sent to Flora, or to Hector Ernst Cliff, or a few stitches be set in her work, or a page or two turned of a book, but she was far more often perfectly still, living assuredly in no ordinary sphere of human life, but never otherwise than cheerful, and open to the various tidings and interests which, as Ethel had formerly said, shifted before her like scenes in a magic lantern, and perhaps with less of substance than in those earlier days when her work among them was not yet done, and she was not, as it were, set aside from them. They were now little more than shadows reflected from the world once she was passing. But her home was not sad. When Dr. Spencer came in the evening the old Edenburg stories were discussed. Dr. May talked with spirit, and laughed with the merry note that Mrs. Arnott so well remembered, and Metta Rivers chimed in with her gay, saucy repartees, nor, though Richard was always silent, and Ethel's brow seemed to bear weight of thought, did it seem as if their spirits were depressed? While there was certainly no restraint on the glee of Blanche, Aubrey, and Gertrude, who were running into Margaret's room, and making as much noise there as they chose. Mrs. Arnott was at home with the whole family from the first, and in everyone's confidence. But what she enjoyed above all was the sitting in Margaret's room in the morning, when there was no danger of interruption, the three children being all safe captives to their lessons, and Metta and Richard's workshop illuminating texts on zinc scrolls for the church. Margaret came out more in these interviews. It had been a kind of shyness that made her talk so exclusively of the church at the first meeting. She had now felt her way and knew again, and realized, the same kind aunt with whom she had parted in her childhood, and now far dearer, since she herself was better able to appreciate her, and with a certain resemblance to her mother, that was unspeakably precious and soothing to one deprived, as Margaret had been, at the commencement of her illness and anxiety. She could hardly see her aunt come near her, without thanking her for having come home, and saying how every time she awoke it was with the sense that something was comfortable, then remembering it was Aunt Flora's being in the house. She seemed to have a feeling, as if telling everything to her aunt were like rendering up her account to her mother, and at different times she related the whole, looking back on the various decisions she had had to make or to influence, and reviewing her own judgments, though often with self-blame, not with a cuteness of distress, but rather with a humble trust in the infinite mercy that would atone for all shortcomings and infirmities, truly sorrowed for. On the whole it was a peaceful and grateful retrospect, the brothers all doing so well in their several ways, and such a comfort to their father. Tom, concerning whom she had made the greatest mistake, might be looked upon as rescued by Norman. Aubrey, Margaret said, smiling, was Ethel's child, and had long been off her mind. Hector to her, quite a brother, would miss her almost more than her own brothers. But good honest fellow, he had a home here. And, whispered Margaret, smiling and glowing a little, don't tell any one, for it is a secret of secrets, Hector told me one evening, that if he could be very steady he hoped he might yet have blanche at Maplewood. Poor little white Mayflower, it won't be for want of liking on her part, and she so blushes and watches when Hector comes near that I sometimes think that he might have said something like it to her. Mrs. Arnott gave no opinion on the plan for Norman and Metta. But Margaret, however, took all for granted, and expressed warm hopes for their sakes, that they would go out with Mrs. Arnott. Then when the suggestion seemed to astonish her aunt, who thought they were waiting for his ordination, she said, the fact is that he would like to be ordained where he is to work, but I believe they do not like to say anything about the wedding because of me. Now of all persons I must chiefly rejoice in what may help to teach in those islands. I cannot bear to be a hindrance. Whatever happens, Aunt Flora, will you take care that they know this? As to her father, Margaret was at rest. He had much more calmness than when he was more new to grief, and could bear far more patiently and hopefully than at first. He lived more on his affections above, and much as he loved those below he did not rest in them as once, and could better afford to have been removed. Besides, said Margaret serenely, it has been good for him to have been gradually weaned from depending on me, so that it is Ethel who is really necessary to him. For herself Margaret was perfectly content and happy. She knew the temptation of her character had been to be the ruler and manager of everything, and she saw it had been well for her to have been thus assigned the part of Mary rather than of Martha. She remembered with thankful joy the engagement with Alan Ernstcliff, and though she still wore tokens of mourning for him, it was with a kind of pleasure in them. There had been so little promise of happiness from the first, that there was far more peace in thinking of him as sinking into rest in Harry's arms, than as returning to grieve over her decline. And that last gift of his, the church, had afforded her continual delight and above all other earthly pursuits smoothed away the languor and weariness of disease as she slowly sank to join him. Now that her aunt had come to bring back a sunbeam of her spirit, Margaret declared that she had no more grief or care except one, and that a very deep and sad one, namely poor Flora. Mrs. Arnott had at first been inclined to fear that her god-daughter was neglecting her own family, since she had not been at home this whole year, but the slightest betrayal of the suspicion roused Margaret to an eager defense. She had not a doubt that Flora would gladly have been with her, but she believed that she was not acting by her own choice, or more truly, that her husband was so devoted to her that she felt the more bound to follow his slightest wishes, however contrary to her own. The season had been spent in the same whorl that had, last year, been almost beyond human power, even when stimulated by enjoyment and success. And now when her spirits were lowered and her health weakened, Metta had watched and trembled for her, though never able to obtain in a vowel that it was an overstrain, and while treated most affectionately never admitted within her barrier of reserve. If I could see poor Flora comforted, or if even she would only let me enter into her troubles, Margaret said sighing, I should be content. The consecration day came near, and the travelers began to return. Metta was in a state of restlessness, which in her was very pretty, under the disguise of a great desire to be useful. She fluttered about the house, visited Margaret, played with Gertrude, set the drawing room ornaments to rights, a task which Ethel was very glad to depute to her, and made a great many expeditions into the garden to put together autumn nose-gaze for the vases, finally discovering that Ethel's potatrimony vases on the staircase window must have some red and brown leaves. She did not come back quite so soon with them, and Mrs. Arnott, slyly looking out of the window, reported, Ha! he has come then! At least I see the little thing has found something extremely unlike itself, said Dr. May, laughing, something I could easily set down as a student at Edenburg thirty years ago. That's the very smile I remember dear Maggie being more angry than I ever saw her before, because Mr. Fleet said that you smile to show your white teeth. That is the best shadow of Maggie I ever saw, said Dr. May. She has taught the lad to smile. That is what I call a pretty sight. Come, Richard, it is a shame for old folks like us to stand spying them. They care very little for me, said Dr. May. But I shall have them in, cold winds blowing about that little head. Ah, here they are, fine leaves you gather, Miss, very red and brown. Metta rather liked than otherwise those pretty teasing's of Dr. May, but they always made Norman color extremely, and he parried them by announcing news. No, not the Busephalus, a marriage and high life, a relation. Not poor Mary, cried Ethel. Mary, what can make you think of her? As a hen thinks of her ducklings when they go into waters beyond her ken, said Ethel. Well, as long as it is not Mary, I don't care. High life, repeated Metta. Oh, it can only be Agatha Langdale. There's only Lord Cautiam further to guess, said Ethel. Hey, why not young Ogilvy, said Dr. May? I am right, I see. Well, who is the lady? A Miss Dunbar, a nice girl that I met at Glenbracken. Her property fits in with theirs, and I believe his father has been wishing it for a long time. It does not sound too romantic, said Metta. He writes as if he had the sense of having been extremely dutiful, said Norman. No doubt thinking it needful and addressing a namesake, who has had an eye to the main chance, said the doctor. Throw stones, young people. Well, exclaimed Metta, he did not look as if he would go and do such a stupid thing as that. Probably it is anything but a stupid thing, said Dr. May. You are using him very ill among you, said Norman eagerly. I believe her to be excellent in every way. He has no nerve from childhood. He writes as if he were perfectly contented and saw every chance of happiness. Nonetheless, for having followed his father's wishes, I'm glad he did, said Ethel, coming to her brother's side. I daresay you are right, was Metta's answer. But I am disappointed in him. He always promised to come and stay with you, and made such friends at Oxford, and he never came. I fancy there was a good deal to hinder him, said Norman. And as Mrs. Arnott proceeded to inquiries after the Ogilvie's in general, the master of Glenbracken was allowed to drop. Metta, however, renewed the subject when walking to the Minster that evening with Norman. You may defend Mr. Ogilvie, Norman, but it is not what I should have expected from him. Why did he make promises and then neglect his relations? I believe that conscientiously he did not dare to come, said Norman. I know that he was greatly struck with Ethel at the time of the commemoration, and therefore I could never again press him to come here. Oh, Norman, you hard-hearted monster, what a bad conductor! I do not wish to be a conductor, said Norman. If you had seen Glenbracken and the Old People, you would perceive that it would not have been suitable on our part to promote anything of the kind. Would they have been so violent? Not violent, but it would have been a severe struggle. They are good kind people, but with strong prejudices, and though I have no doubt they would have yielded to steady attachment on their son's part, and such conduct as Ethel's would have been, I could not lead in that direction. Is that pride, Norman? I hope not. It is doing by others as you were doing by yourself, half-whispered meta. But after all, if he had no constancy, Ethel had an escape. I was afraid that she had been rather touched, but I am glad to find myself mistaken. If you thought so, how could you make such a public announcement? He laughed. I had made myself so nervous as to the effect that in desperation I took her own way, and came out at once with it as unconsciously as I could. Very naturally you acted unconsciousness. It was better than insulting her by seeming to condole. Not that I do, though, for she deserves more steadiness than he has shown. If a man could appreciate her at all, I should have thought it would have been once and for ever. Remember he had barely known her for a fortnight and probably had no reason to believe that he had made any impression on her. He knew how such an attachment would grieve his parents, and surely he was acting dutifully, and with self-denial and consideration, not putting himself in the way of being further attracted. You make a good defence, Norman, but I cannot forgive him for marrying somebody else who cannot be Ethel's equal. She's a good little girl. He will form her, and be very happy, perhaps more so than with a great soul and strong nature like Ethel's. Only he is a canny Scott and not Dr. Spencer. Too short acquaintance, besides there were the parents, moreover what would become of home without Ethel. The unanswerable argument to make one contented, said Metta, and certainly to be wife to a member of Parliament is not so very delightful that one would covet it for her, any more than she does for herself. Norman was right in his view of his friend's motives, as well as of Ethel's present feelings. If there had ever been any disappointment about Norman Ogilvy, it had long since faded away. She had never given away the depths of her heart, though the upper surface had been stirred. Ethel had long subsided, and she could think freely of him as an agreeable cousin, in whose brilliant public career she could always be interested, without either a wish to partake it or a sense of injury or neglect. She had her vocation in her father, Margaret, the children, home and Coxmore, her mind and affections were occupied, and she never thought of wishing herself elsewhere. The new church and the expected return of her sisters engrossed many more of her thoughts than did anything relating to Glenbracken. She could not bear to talk of Flora, though almost as uneasy as was Margaret, and not able to lay aside misgivings, lest even her good simple Mary might have had her head turned by Gayety. Mr. and Mrs. Rivers arrived on the Saturday before the Tuesday fixed for the consecration, and stopped on their way that they might see Margaret, deposit Mary, and resume Metta. It was a short visit, and all that Ethel could discover was that Flora was looking very ill, no longer able to conceal the worn and fagged expression of her countenance, and evidently dreadfully shocked by the sight of the havoc made by disease on Margaret's frame. Yet she talked with composure of indifferent subjects, the yacht, the visits, the Bucephalus, the church, and the arrangements for St. Andrew's Day. She owned herself overworked and in need of rest, and as she was not well enough to venture on being present at the consecration, she undertook to spend the day with Margaret, thus setting the others at liberty. This settled she took her leave, for the journey had fatigued her greatly. During the short visit Mary had moved and spoken so quietly, and looked so well dressed and young ladylike, that in spite of her comfortable plump cheeks Ethel felt quite afraid. But the instant the carriage had driven off there was a skipping, a hugging, a screaming, oh it is so nice to be at home again. And Ethel knew she had her own Mary. It was only a much better looking and more mannerly Mary, in the full bloom of seventeen, open and honest face, her profuse light hair prettily disposed, her hands and arms more civilized, and her powers of conversation and self-possession developed. Marylike were her caresses of Gertrude, Marylike were her inquiries for Coxmore, Marylike her insisting on bringing her boxes into Margaret's room. Her exulting exhibition of all the pretty things that Flora and George had given to her, and the still more joyous bestowal of presence upon everybody. Her tastes were not a wit altered, nor her simplicity diminished. If she was pleased by joining a large dinner-party, her satisfaction was in the amusement of seeing well-dressed people and a grand table. Her knowledge of the world only reached to pronouncing everything unlike home. So funny she had relished most freshly and innocently every pleasure that she could understand. She had learned every variety of fancy work to teach Blanche and Miss Bracey, had been the delight of every schoolroom and nursery, had struck up numberless eternal friendships and correspondences with girls younger and shyer than herself, and her chief vexations seemed to have been at first that Flora insisted on her being called Miss May, secondly that all her delights could not be shared by everyone at home, and thirdly that poor Flora could not bear to look at little children. Grievous complaints were preferred by the dwellers in the attics the next morning, that Mary and Blanche had talked to an unmentionable hour of the night, but on the whole Blanche was rather doubtful whether Mary had made the most of her opportunities of observation. CHAPTER XXV Part II CHAPTER XXV of the Daisy Chain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. More information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. CHAPTER XXV Behold, with pearls they glittering stand, Thy peaceful gates to all expand, Thy grace and strength divinely shed, Each mortal thither may be led, Who, kindled by Christ's love, Will dare all earthly sufferings now to bear. By many a salutary stroke, by many a weary blow, That broke or polished with a workman's skill, The stones that form that glorious pile, They all are fitly framed to lie in their appointed place on high. Ancient hymn for the dedication of a church. The 30th of November dawned with the grave brightness of an important day, as the sun slowly mounted from the golden east, drinking up the mists that rose tidily, leaving the grass thickly bedued. The bells of Stoneborough Minster were ringing gladson peals, and the sunshine had newly touched the lime trees, whose last bright yellow leaves were gently floating down, as the carriage, from the Grange, drew up at Dr. May's door. Norman opened it to claim Metta at once for the walk. Mrs. Arnott and Mary had gone on to assist Richard in his final arrangements, but even before Coxmore, with Ethel, was now the care of Margaret, and she had waited with her father to keep all bustle from her room, and to commit her into the charge of Flora and of Nurse. Ethel seemed quite unwilling to go. There was that strange, oppressed feeling on her, as if the attainment of her wishes were joy too great to be real, as if she would feign hold off from it at the climax, and linger with the sister who had shared all with her, and to whom that church was even more than to herself. She came back, and back again, with fresh injunctions, sometimes forgetting the very purpose of her return, as if it had been only an excuse for looking at Margaret's countenance and drinking in her sympathy from her face. But she was to go in George's carriage, and he was not a man to allow of loitering. He became so impatient to Ethel's delays that she perceived that he could bear them no longer, gave her final kiss, and whispered, in spirit with us. Then ran down, and was seized on by George, who had already packed in the children, and missed Bracey, and was whirled away. Flora, dear, said Margaret, do you dislike having the window opened? Flora threw it up, protesting, in reply to her sister's scruples, that she liked the air. You always spoiled me, said Margaret fondly. Come and lie down by me. It is very nice to have you here, she added, as Flora complied. And she took her hand and fondled it. It is like the old times to have you here taking care of me. Very unlike them in some ways, said Flora. It has been a great renewal of still older times, said Margaret, to have Aunt Flora here. I hope you will get to know her, Flora. It is so like having Mamar here. And she looked in her sister's face as she spoke. Flora did not reply. But she lay quite still, as if there were a charm in the perfect rest of being alone with Margaret, making no effort, and being able to be silent. Time passed on. How long they knew not. But suddenly a thrill shot through Margaret's brain. She raised her hand and lifted her head with an eager hark. Flora could hear nothing. The bells, his bells, said Margaret, all one radiant look of listening, as Flora opened the window further and the breeze wafted in the chime, softened by distance. The carnation tinted those thin white cheeks. Eyes and smile beamed with joy. And uplifted finger and parted lips seemed marking every note of the cadence. It ceased. Alan, Alan, said she, it is enough. I am ready. The somewhat alarmed look on Flora's face recalled her. And smiling, she held out her hands for the consecration books, saying, let us follow the service. It will be best for us both. Slowly, softly, and rather monotonously, Flora read on, till she had come more than half through the first lesson. Her voice grew husky, and she sometimes paused as if she could not easily proceed. Margaret begged her to stop, but she would not cease and went on reading, though almost whispering, till she came to. If they return to thee with all their heart and with all their soul in the land of their captivity, whither they have carried them captives and pray toward their land, which thou gave us unto their fathers, and toward the city which thou has chosen, and toward the house which I have built for thy name, then hearing from the heavens, even from thy dwelling place. Flora could go no further. She strove, but one of her tearless sobs cut her short. She turned her face aside, and as Margaret began to say something tender, she exclaimed with low, hasty utterance, Margaret, Margaret, pray for me, for it is a hard captivity, and my heart is very, very sore. Oh, pray for me, that it may all be forgiven me, and that I may see my child again. My Flora, my own poor dear Flora, do I not pray? Oh, look up, look up. Think how he loves you. If I love you so much, how much more does not he? Come near me, Flora, be patient, and I know peace will come. The words had burst from Flora uncontrollably. She was aware the next instant that she had given way to harmful agitation. And resuming her quiescence, partly by her own will, partly from the soothing effect of Margaret's words and tone, she allowed herself to be drawn close to her sister and hid her face in the pillow, while Margaret's hands were folded over her, and words of blessing and prayer were whispered with a fervency that made them broken. Ethel, meanwhile, stood between Aubrey and Gertrude, hardly able to believe it was not a dream, as she beheld the procession enter the aisle and heard the psalm that called on those doors to lift up their heads for him who should enter. There was an almost bewildered feeling. Could it indeed be true? As she followed the earlier part of the service, which set apart that building as a temple forever, separate from all common uses, she had imagined the scene so often that she could almost have supposed the present one of her many imaginations. But by and by, the strangeness passed off and she was able to enter into, not merely to follow, the prayers and to feel the deep thanksgiving that such had been the crown of her feeble efforts. Margaret was in her mind the whole time, woven, as it were, into every supplication and every note of praise. And when there came the intercession for those in sickness and suffering, flowing into the commemoration of those departed in faith and fear, Ethel's spirit sank for a moment at the conviction that soon Margaret, like him, whom all must bear in mind on that day, might be included in that thanksgiving. Yet, as the service proceeded, leaving more and more of earth behind and the voices joined with angel and archangel, Ethel could lose the present grief and only retain the certainty that, come what might, there was joy and union amid those who had sung that hymn of praise. Never had Ethel been so happy, not in the sense of the finished work, no, she had lost all that, but in being more carried out of herself than ever she had been before. The free spirit of praise so bearing up her heart that the cry of glory came from her with such an exultant gladness as might surely be reckoned as one of those foretaste of our everlasting life. Not often vouchsafed even to the faithful and usually sent to prepare strength for what may be in store. The blessing brought the sense of peace which hung on her even while the sounds of movement began and the congregation were emerging. As she came out, greetings, sentences of admiration of the church and of inquiry for her absent sisters were crowded upon her as people moved towards the school where a luncheon was provided for them to pass away the interval until evening service. The half dozen oldest Coxmoreites were meantime to have a dinner in the former schoolroom at the Elwoods house and Ethel was anxious to see that all was right there. So while the rest of her party were doing civil things, she gave her arm to Cherry whose limping walk showed her to be very tired. Oh, Miss Ethel, said Cherry, if Miss Faye could only have been here. Her heart is, said Ethel. Well, ma'am, I believe it is. You would not think, ma'am, how all the children take heed to anything about her. If I only begin to say, Miss May told me, they are all like mice. She has done more for the real good of Coxmore than anyone else, said Ethel. More might have been said, but they perceived that they were being overtaken by the body of Kergy who had been unrobing in the vestry. Ethel hastened to retreat within Mrs. Elwoods Wicked Gate, but she was arrested by Richard and found herself being presented to the bishop and the bishop shaking hands with her and saying that he had much wished to be introduced to her. Of course, that was because she was her father's daughter and by way of something to say. She mentioned what was going on at the cottage, whereupon the bishop wished to go in and see the old people. And entering, they found the very comfortable looking party just sitting down to roast beef and goose. John Taylor in a new black coat on account of his clerkship presiding at one end and Mr. Elwood at the other and Dame Hall finding conversation for the whole assembly, while Blanche, Aubrey, Gertrude, the little Larkinses and the Abbot Stoke Wilmots were ready to act as waiters with infinite delight. Not a bit daunted by the bishop who was much entertained by her merry manner, old Granny told him she had never seen nothing like it since the Jubilee, when the squire roasted an ox-hole and there wasn't none of it fit to eat and when her poor father got his head broken. Well, to be sure, who would have thought what would come of Sam's bringing in the young gentleman and lady to see her the day her back was so bad? The bishop said grace and left Granny to the goose while he gave Ethel his arm, which she would have thought an unaccountable proceeding if she had not recollected that Richard might be considered as host and that she was his eldest sister forthcoming. No sooner, however, had they come beyond the wicked than she saw her father speaking to Will Adams and there was that in the air of both which made it no surprise when Dr. May came up saying Ethel, I must carry you away and in explanation to the bishop, my poor girl at home is not so well. All was inquiry and sympathy. Ethel was frantic to be at home and would have rushed off at once if Richard had not held her fast, asking what good she would do by hurrying in, breathless and exhausted, so as to add to flora's fright and distress, the anxiety which was most upon their minds since she had never before witnessed one of the seizures that were only two ordinary matters in the eyes of the home party. No one but Dr. May and Ethel should go. Richard undertook to tell the rest and the gig making its appearance, Ethel felt that the peculiarly kind manner with which the bishop pressed her hand and gave them all good wishes was like a continuation of his blessing to aid her in her home scene of trial. Perhaps it was well for her that her part in the consecration festivities should end here. At least so thought Mr. Wilmot, who though very sorry for the cause, could not wish her to have been present at the luncheon. She had not thought of self hitherto. The church was the gift of Alan and Margaret. The work of preparing the people belonged to all alike. And she did not guess that in the sight of others, she was not the nobody that she believed herself. Her share in the work at Coxmore was pretty well known and Dr. Hoxton could not allow public occasion to pass without speeches, such as must either have been very painful or very hurtful to her. The absence of herself and her father however, permitted a more free utterance to the general feeling and things were said that did indeed make the rest of the family extremely hot and uncomfortable, but which gave them extreme pleasure. Norman was obliged to spare Richard the answer and said exactly what he ought and so beautifully that Metta could not find it in her heart to echo the fervent wish, which he whispered as he sat down, that speechifying could be abolished by act of parliament. Mrs. Arnott began to perceive that her nephew was something to be proud of and to understand how much was sacrificed. While George Rivers expressed his opinion to her that Norman would be a crack speaker in the house and he hoped she would say everything to hinder his going out, for it was a regular shame to waste him on the niggers. Owing to George having constituted himself her squire, Mrs. Arnott had not arrived at an understanding of the state of affairs at home, but as soon as they rose up from luncheon and she learned the truth from Richard and Mary, nothing would hinder her from walking home at once to see whether she could be useful. Mary was easily persuaded to remain, for she was accustomed to Margaret's having these attacks and had always been kept out of her room the while, so she had little uneasiness to prevent her from being very happy in receiving in her own simple, good-humoured way all the attentions that lapsed upon her in the place of her elder sisters. Coxmore really has a church, was not enough of joy for her and no one could look at her round face without seeing perfect happens. Moreover, when after evening service, the November mist turned into decided rain, she was as happy as a queen in her foresight which had provided what seemed an unlimited supply of cloaks and umbrellas. She appeared to have an original genius for making the right people give a lift in their carriages to the distressed and regarding the abbot Stoke Britska as her own, packed in Mrs. Anderson and Fanny in addition to all their own little ones, Metta thrusting Miss Bracey into the demi-corner destined for herself at the last minute and remaining with Mary, the only ladies obliged to walk back to Stoneborough. So delighted were they at the fun that it might have been thought the most charming of adventures and they laughed all the more at the lack of umbrellas. They went to Mrs. Elwoods, divested themselves of all possible finery and tucked up the rest. Metta was rolled up from head to foot in a great old clad shawl of Mrs. Elwoods and Mary had a cloak of Richards. The one took Norman's arm, the other Dr. Spencers and they trudged home through the darkness and the mud in the highest glee. Quite sorry when the carriage met them halfway. It was the last mirth that they enjoyed for many weeks. When they reached home, a sense of self-reproach for their glee thrilled over them when they found a sort of hush pervading the drawing room and saw the faces of awe and consternation worn by Blanche and George Rivers. It was a much worse attack than usual and it did not go off was all that Blanche knew but her father had desired to be told when Dr. Spencer came home and she went up with the tidings. This brought Flora down looking dreadfully pale and with her voice sunk away as it had been when she lost her child. Her husband started up exclaiming at her aspect. She let him support her to the sofa and gave the few particulars. Margaret had been as placid and comfortable as usual till nurse came to dress her but the first move had brought on the faintness and loss of breath. He did not yield to remedies and she had neither looked nor spoken since only moaned. Flora thought her father much alarmed and then after an interval she began to intrigue that they might stay there sending Miss Bracey and the children to the Grange to make room. Meantime Dr. Spencer had come to the sick room but he could only suggest remedies that were already in course of application to the insensible sufferer. Mrs. Arnott and Ethel were watching and trying everything to relieve her but with little effect. And Ethel presently stood by the fire with her father as Dr. Spencer turned towards him and he said, in a very low but calm voice, it won't do. I believe it is the death stroke. Not immediate, said Dr. Spencer. No, said Dr. May and he quietly spoke of what the disease had affected and what yet remained for it to do ere the silver bowl should be broken. Dr. Spencer put in a word of agreement. Will there be no rally? Said Ethel in the same tone. Probably not, said Dr. May. The brain is generally reached at this stage. I have seen it coming for a long time. The thing was done seven years ago. There was a rally for a time when youth was strong but suspense and sorrow accelerated what began from the injury to the spine. Dr. Spencer bowed his head and looked at him anxiously saying, I do not think there will be much acute suffering. I fear it may be as trying, said Dr. May, sighing and then turning to Ethel and throwing his arm round her. Make God make it easy to her and grant us patient hearts. We will not grudge her to all that she loves best, my Ethel. Ethel clung to him as if to derive strength from him but the strength that was in them then did not come from earth. Dr. Spencer rung his hand and stepped back to the bed to try another resource. Then again, they only seemed to be tormenting her and the silent helplessness prevailed again. Then Dr. May went down to Flora, told her the true state of the case and urged on her to give up her plan of remailing. George joined with him and she yielded submissively but would not be refused going up once again and kissing her sister, standing beside her, gazing at her till her father came softly and drew her away. I shall be here tomorrow, she said to Ethel and went. The morrow, however, brought no Flora, the agitation and distress of that day had broken her down completely and she was so ill as to be unable to move. Her aunt went at once to see her and finding that her presence at the Grainge relieved some of Dr. May's anxieties, chiefly devoted herself to her. Flora was grateful and gentle but as silent and impenetrable as ever while day after day she lay on her couch, uncomplaining and undemonstrative, visited by her father and watched over by her aunt and sister-in-law who began to know each other much better, though Flora less than ever in that deep fixed grief. She only roused herself to return her husband's affection or to listen to the daily reports of Margaret. Poor George, he was very forlorn though Metta did her best to wait on him and he rode over twice a day to inquire at Stoneborough. The doctors were right and the consecration morning was her last of full consciousness. From the hour when she had heard the sound of Allen's bells, her ears were closed to earthly sounds. There was very little power of intercourse with her as she lingered on the borders of the land very far away where skill and tenderness could not either reach body or spirit. Often the watchers could not tell whether she was conscious or only incapacitated from expression by the fearful weight on her breath which caused a restlessness most piteous in the exhausted, helpless frame wasted till the softest touch was anguish. Now and then came precious gleams when a familiar voice or some momentary alleviation would gain a smile or thanks, and they thought her less restless when Richard read prayers beside her but words were very rare, only now and then a name and when in most distress, it will soon be over, it will soon be over, occurred so often that they began to think it once her solace and now repeated habitually without a meaning. They could not follow her into the valley of the shadow of death but could only watch the frail, earthly prison house being broken down as if the doom of sin must be born though faith could trust that it was but her full share in the cross. Calmly did those days pass, Ethel, Richard and Mary divided between them the watching and the household cares and their father bore up bravely in the fullness of his love and faith resigning her daughter to the hands which were bearing her wither her joys had long since departed. Hector Ernstcliffe arrived when the holidays began and his agony of sorrow when she failed to recognize him moved Dr. May to exert himself earnestly for his consolation and at the same time, Tom in a gentle almost humble manner paid a sort of daughter like attention to the smallest services for his father as if already accepting him as his special charge. It was midnight on the longest night of the year. Ethel was lying on her bed and had fallen into a brief slumber when her father's low clear voice summoned her. Ethel, she is going, there was a change on the face and the breath came in laboring gasps. Richard lifted her head and her eyes once more opened. She smiled once more. Papa, she said, dear papa, he threw himself on his knees beside her but she looked beyond him. Mama, Helen, oh, there they are, more raw. And as though the unspeakable dawned on her, she gasped for utterance then looked with a consoling smile on her father. Over now, she said, and the last struggle was ended. That which Richard laid down was no longer Margaret May. Over now, the 25 years life, the seven years captivity on her couch, the anxious headship of the motherless household, the hopeless betrothal, the long suspense, the efforts for resignation, the widowed affections, the slow decay, the tardy, painful death agony. All was over, nothing left. Save what they had rendered the undying spirit and the impress her example had left on those around her. The long continuance of the last suffering had softened the actual parting and it was with thankfulness for the cessation of her pain that they turned away and bade each other good night. Effel would not have believed that her first wakening to the knowledge that Margaret was gone could have been more fraught with relief than with misery. And for her father, it seemed as if it were a home-like comfortable thought to him that her mother had one of her children with her. He called her the first link of his daisy chain drawn up out of sight and during the quiet days that ensued, he seemed as if it were to be lifted above grief, dwelling upon hope. His calmness impressed the same on his children as they moved about in the solemn stillness of the house. And when Harry, pale and shocked at the blow to him so sudden, came home, the grave silence soothed his violence of grief and he sat beside his father or Mary, speaking in undertones of what Margaret had loved to hear from him of Alan Ernstcliffe's last moments. Mary gave way to a burst of weeping when she sought in vain for daisies in the wintry garden. But Hector Ernstcliffe went down to the cloisters and brought back the lingering blossoms to be placed on Margaret's bosom. The dog Toby had followed him unseen to the cloister and he was entering the garden when he was struck by seeing the animal bounding in irrepressible ecstasy, round a lad with tarpaulin hat, blue bordered collar and dark blue dress showed him to be a sailor as well as the broad-shouldered, grizzled, elderly man who stood beside him. I say, sir, said the latter as Hector's hand was on the door. Do you belong to Dr. May? Hector unhesitatingly answered that he did. Then maybe, sir, you have heard of one Bill Jennings. Hector was all in one flush, almost choking as he told that he was Mr. Ernstcliffe's brother and gave his hand to the sailor. What could he do for him? Jennings had heard from one of the crew of the Busephalus that Mr. May had been met on his return to Portsmouth by the news of his sister's death. The Mays had helped his boy. He had been with Mr. May in the island. He had laid Mr. Ernstcliffe in his grave and some notion had crossed the sailor that he must be at Miss Margaret's funeral. It might be they would let him lend a hand and in this expedition he was spending his time on shore. How he was welcomed need not be told nor how the tears came forth from full hearts as Dr. May granted his wish and thanked him for doing what Margaret herself would indeed have chosen. And in his blue sailor garb was Jennings added to the bearers, their own men and two Coxmore labourers who early on Christmas Eve carried her to the Minster. Last time she had been there, Alan Ernstcliffe had supported her. Now what was mortal of him lay beneath the palm tree beneath the glowing summer sky while the first snowflakes hung like pearls on her pawl. But as they laid her by her mother's side, who could doubt that they were together? End of part two, chapter 25. Part two, chapter 26 of The Daisy Chain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org recording by Chad Horner. From LibriVox. The Daisy Chain by Charlotte Mary Young. Part two, chapter 26. At length I got unto the gladsome hill where lay my hope, where lay my heart. And climbing still, when I had gained the bri on top, a lake of brackish waters on the ground was all I found, George Herbert. Late in the evening of the same snowy 24th of December, a little daughter awoke to life at Abbaxtow Grange. And not long after, Mrs. Arnott came to summon Dr. May from the anxious vigil in the sitting room. Come and see if you can do anything to save her, she said, with much alarm. The first sight of the baby has put her into such a state of agitation that we do not know what to do with her. It was so when he came to her bedside that fixed stony look of despair was gone, the source of tears so long dried up, had opened again, and there she lay, weeping quietly indeed, but profusely, and with deep, heaving sobs. To speak or to leave her alone seemed equally perilous, but he chose to first, he kissed and blessed her, and gave her joy. She looked up at him as if his blessing once more brought peace in, said faintly, now it is pardon, now I can die. The cloud is gone, thanks for that above all, said Dr. May fervently, now my dear, rest and thankful gladness, you are too weak to talk or think. I am weak and I am tired of it all, said Flora. I am glad to be going while I am so happy. There are Margaret, my own darling, rest, peace. You are not going, dear, said her father, at least I trust not. If you will, not give way. Here is a darling given to you instead of the first who needs you more. He would have taken the infant from the nurse and held her to her mother, but recollecting how little Leonora had drawn her last breath in his arms, he feared the association, and sighed to Mrs. Arnott to show her the child, but she seemed as yet only able to feel that it was not Leonora, and the long, sealed-up grief would have its way. The tears burst out again. Tell Ethel she will, be the best mother to her, name her Margaret, make her a daisy of your own. Don't call her after me, she said, with such passionate caresses. That Mrs. Arnott was glad to see the babe away. Dr. May's next expedient was to speak to her of her husband. He needed her more than all, to call him in. There seemed to be something tranquilising in his wistful manner of repeating, don't cry, Flora, that she was at last reduced by her extreme exhaustion to stillness. But there were still many fears for her. Dr. May's prediction was accomplished, that she would suffer for having overexerted herself. Her constitution had been severely tried by the grief and despondency that she had so long endured in silence, and the fresh sorrow for her favourite sister, coming at such a crisis. There was awareness of life and an unwillingness to resume her ordinary routine that made her almost welcome for weakness and sinking. And now that the black terror had cleared away from the future, she seemed to long to follow Margaret at once, and to yearn after her lost child, while appeals to the affection that surrounded her often seemed to oppress her, as if there were nothing but weariness in toil and store. The state of her mind made her father very anxious, though he was but too well accounted for. Poor Flora had voluntarily assumed the trammels that galled her worldly motives had prompted her marriage, and though she faithfully loved her husband, he was a heavy weight on her hands, and she had made it more onerous by thrusting him into a possession for which he was not calculated, and inspiring him with a self-consequence that would not recede from it. The shock of her child's death had taken away the zest and energy which had rejoiced in her chosen way of life and opened her eyes to see what master she had been serving, and the perception of the hollowness of all that had been apparently good in her had filled her with remorse and despair. Her sufferings had been the more bitter because she had not pardoned with her proud reserve. She had refused counsel and denied her confidence to those who would have guided her repentance, her natural good sense, and the sound principle in which she had been brought up had taught her to distrust her gloomy feelings as possibly morbid. And she had prayed, keeping her hold of faith in the infinite mercy, though she could not feel her own pertinent, and thus that faith was beginning at last to clear her path. It was the harder to deal with her because her hysterical agitation was so easily excited that her father hardly dared to let a word be spoken to her, and she was allowed to say no one else except her aunt and the dear old nurse whose tears for her child Margaret had been checked by the urgent requirements of another of her nurselings and whom George Rivers would have paid with her weight in gold for taking care of his new daughter regarding her as the only woman in the world that could be trusted. Those were heavy days with everyone, though each brought some shade of improvement. They were harder to bear than the peaceful days that had immediately followed the loss of Margaret and Ethel was especially unhappy and forlorn under the new anxiety where she could be of no service. And with her previous occupation gone, her father absent instead of resting upon her and her room deserted. She was grieved with herself because her feelings were unable to soar at the Christmas feast as urged on St. Andrew's Day. And she was bewildered to stress by the fear that she had them being only uplifted by vanity and elation. She told Richard so and he said kindly that he thought a good deal of that. She complained of a rose from bodily weariness. This hurt her a little, but when he said, I think that the blessings of St. Andrew's Day helped us through what was to follow. She owned that it had indeed been so unadded. I am going to work again. Tell me what will be most useful to you at Coxmore. Sick and hard as she was, she bravely set herself to appropriate the urge now left vacant and manfully walked with Richard and Harry to church at Coxmore on St. Stephen's Day. But the church brought back the sense of contrast. Next, she insisted on fulfilling her intention of coming home by abbot stoke to hear how flora was when the unfavourable account only added lead to the burden that weighed her down. Though they were sent home in the carriage, she was so completely spent that the effect of her turning home to her room without its dear inhabitant was quite overwhelming. And she sat on her bed for half an hour, struggling with repinnings. She came downstairs without having gained the victory and was so physically overcome with lassitude that Richard insisted on her lying on the sofa and leaving everything to him and Mary. Richard seemed to make her his object in life and was an unspeakable help and comforter to her. Not only by taking every care for her, for her sake, but by turning to her as his only friend and confidant, the best able to replace what they had lost. There were many plans to be put in operation for Coxmore on which much consultation was needed, though every word reminded them sadly of Margaret's ever ready interest in those schemes. It was very unlike Ethel's vision of the first weeks of St. Andrew's Church, but it might be safer for her than that odd should tempt her to say, see what my perseverance has wrought. Perhaps her Margaret had begun to admire her too much to be her safest confidant at any rate. It was good still to sew in tears rather than on earth to reap any confident joy. Norman was as brotherly and kind as possible, but it was one of the dreary feelings of those days that Ethel then first became aware of the difference that his engagement had made and saw that he resorted elsewhere for sympathy. She was not jealous and that was submissibly and resolutely, but they had been so much to each other that it was a trial, especially at such a time as this, when freshly deprived of Margaret, Norman's own prospect was not cheerful. He had received a letter from New Zealand begging him to hasten his coming out and there was educational work much wanting him and according to his original wish, he could be ordained there in the autumnal ember week. He was in much perplexity since, according to this request, he ought to sail with his aunt in the last week of February and he knew not how to reconcile the conflicting claims. Mita was not long in finding out the whole of his trouble as they paced up and down the terrace together on a frosty afternoon. You will go was her first exclamation. I ought said Norman, I believe I ought and if it had only been at any other time, it would have been easy. My aunt's company would have been such a comfort for you. It cannot be helped said Mita. Considering the circumstances began Norman with lingering looks at the little hummingbird on his arm, I believe I should be justified in waiting for such time as you could go with me. I could see what Mr. Wilmot thinks. You don't think so yourself said Mita. Nobody else can give a judgment. And a thing like this asking is what you once called seeking opinions as Bale inquired. Turning my words against me said Norman, smiling still Mita, perhaps older heads would be fitter to judge what would be right for a little person not far off. She can be the best judge of that herself said Mita. Norman and her dark eyes were steadfastly fixed. I always resolved that with God's help, I would not be a stumbling block in the way of your call to your work. I will not go out now. Perhaps you will be freer for it without me. And I suppose I have a longer apprenticeship to serve to all sorts of things before I come to help you. Oh Mita, you are a rebuke to me. What, when I'm going to stay on my own fireside, said Mita, trying to laugh, but not very successfully. Seriously, I have much to do here. When Perflora gets well, she must be spared an exertion for a long time to come. And I flatter myself that they want me at Stoneborough sometimes. If your father can bear to spare you, there is no doubt that you ought to go. My father is as unselfish as you are Mita, but I cannot speak to him until he is more easy about Flora. We always think the required sacrifice the hardest, but I must own that I could not grieve if he laid his commands on me to wait till the autumn. Oh, that would make it a duty and all easy said Mita smiling, but I don't think he will. And that Flora will be only too glad to carry out, to carry you out without incumbrance. Has not Aunt Flora come to see her senses about you? I believe she would rather I belong to any of her nephews but you. She is such a dear, sincere, kind-hearted person, and we are so comfortable together that it will be quite like home to come out to her. I mean there to convince her that I can be of something like this. Mita talked so as to brighten and invigorate Norman when they were together, but they both grew low-spirited when apart. The hummingbird had hardly ever been so downcast as a present. That is, whenever she was not engaged in waiting on her brother or in cheering up Mr. May, Dr. May, or in any of the many gentle offices she was ever fulfilling, she was greatly disappointed and full of fears for Norman and dread of the separation, but she would not give way. And only now and then, when off her guard, would the saddens reign on her face without an effort. Alone she thought of pride for resignation for herself and protection and strength for him, and chide herself with the foolish feeling that he would be safer with her. She told Aunt Flora how it was one evening that as they sat over the fire together speaking with a would-be-toned congratulation, indeed exclaimed Mrs. Arnott, Arnott. But that is a great pity. Mita looked quite brightened by her saying so. I thought you would be glad she be joined. Did you think me so hard-hearted? I thought you believed he would be better without me. My dear, we have not kept house and nursed together for a month for nothing, said Mrs. Arnott, smiling. Thank you. Thank you, said Mita, trying to answer the smile. You have taken a load off me. I don't like it at all, said Mrs. Arnott. It is a very uncomfortable plan for everyone. And yet, when I know how great is the want of him out there, I can say nothing against it without high treason. Well, my dear, I'll take all the care I can't norman. And when you come, I shall be almost as glad as if we were coming home for good, her Flora. She is one person who will not regret the arrangement. Her Flora, you think her really better this evening? Much better indeed. If we could only raise her spirits, I think she would recover very well. But she is so sadly depressed. I must try to talk to Ethel. She may better understand her. I have never understood Flora, said Mita. She has been as kind to me as possible, and I very soon came to a certain point with her, but I never have known her thoroughly. I doubt whether anyone dead but dear Margaret. Flora was, however, much softened and less reserved than she had been. She found great repose in her aunt's attendance, retracing, as it did, her mother's presence. And she responded to her tenderness with increasing reliance and comfort. While, as her strength began to revive and there was more disposition to talk, she became gradually drawn into greater confidence. Seeing of Ethel was one of the difficult questions. Flora had begun to wish it very much, and yet the bare idea threw her into a nervous tremor that caused it to be put off again and again. Her aunt found her one day almost faint with agitation. She had heard Ethel's voice in the next room and had been winding up her expectations, and now was as much grieved as relieved to find that she had been there saying the baby, but was now gone. How does the dear Ethel look, asked Flora presently. She is looking better today. She has looked very worn and harassed, but I thought her brighter today. She walked over by Aubrey on his pony, and I think it did her good. Dear old Ethel, aunt, it is a thing that no one has told me yet. Can you tell me how she bore the news of Norman Ogaldvey's engagement? Do you mean a Mrs. Arnott? Stop short in her interrogation. Yes, said Flora, answering the pause, but I thought young Ogaldvey, a most unexceptional person. So he is, said Flora. I was much annoyed at the time, but she was resolute in rejecting him, and running away as soon as she found what was likely to happen. And Flora, in a few words, told what had passed at Oxford. Then it was entirely out of devotion to your father. Entirely, said Flora. No one could look at her without saying that she liked him. I had left her to be the only effective one at home, and she sacrificed herself. I am glad that I have seen her, said Mrs. Arnott. I should never have understood her by description. I always said that I must come home to set my correspondence going rightly. Aunt Flora, said her niece, do you remember my dear mother's unfinished letter to you? To be sure I do, my dear. Nothing ever was more true, said Flora. I read it over some little time ago when I set my papers in order, and understood it then. I never did before. I used to think it very good for the others. It is what one generally does with good advice. Do you recollect the comparison between Norman, Ethel, and me? It is so curious. Norman, who was ambitious and loved praise, but now dreads nothing so much. Ethel, who never cared for anything of the kind, went straight on her own brave way. And oh, Aunt Flora, me, indeed my dear, I should have thought you had her most full approbation. Ah, don't you say the tone, as if she were not fully satisfied, as if she only could not see surface faults in me, said Flora. And now she said, she dreaded my love of praise, and of being liked. I wonder how it would have been if she had lived. I have looked back so often in the past year, and I think the holiness began from that time. It might have been there before, but I am not so sure. You see, at that dreadful time, after the accident, I was the eldest who was able to be efficient, and much more useful than per Ethel. I think the credit I gained made me think myself perfection. And I never did anything afterwards, but seek my own honour. Mrs. Arnott began better to understand Flora's continued depression, but she thought her self-approach exaggerated and said something at once soothing and calculated to encourage her to undraw the curtain of reserve. You do not know, continued Flora, how greedy I was of credit and affection. It made me jealous of Ethel herself, as long as we were in the same sphere. And when I felt that she was more to papa than I could be, I looked beyond, boom, for praise. I don't think the things I did were bad in themselves, broad-abuse I have been. They could hardly be so. I knew what merits praise and blame too well for that, but oh, the motive. I do believe I cared very much for Coxmore. I thought it would be a grand thing to bring about, but you see, as it has turned out, all I thought I had done for it was in vain. And Ethel has been the real person and does not know it. I used to think Ethel's so inferior to me, I left her all my work at home. If it had not been for that, she might have been happy with Norman Ogilvy, for never were two people better matched. And now she has done what I never thought to have left to another, watched over our own Margaret. Oh, how shall I ever bear to see her? My dear, I am sure nothing can be more affectionate than Ethel. She does not think these things. She does, said Flora. She always knew me better than I did myself. Her straightforward words should often have been rebukes to me. I shall see in every look and tone the opinion I have deserved. I have shrunk from her steadfast looks ever since I myself learned what I was. I could not bear them now, and yet, oh aunt, you must bring her, Ethel, my dear, dear old king, my darling's godmother, the last who was with Margaret. She had fallen into one of those fits, weeping when it was impossible to attempt anything but soothing her, but though she was so much exhausted that Mrs. Arnott expected to be in great disgrace with Dr. May, for having let her talk herself into this condition, she found that he was satisfied to find that she had so far revealed her mind, or believed her mind, and declared that she would be better now. The effect of the conversation was that the next day, the last of the 12 Christmas days, when Ethel was yearning after her sister was almost equally divided between dread and eagerness, eagerness for her embrace, and dread of the chill of her reserve, came once again in hopes of an interview. Dr. May called her at once. I shall take you in without any preparation, he said, that she may not have time to be flurried, only be quiet and natural. Did he know what a mountain there was in her throat when he seemed to think it so easy to be natural? She found him leading her into a darkened room, and heard his cheerful tone saying, I have brought Ethel to you. Ethel, oh, said a low, weak voice, with a sound as of expecting a treat, and Ethel was within a curtain, where she began in the dimness to see something white moving, and her hands were clasped by two long thin ones. There, said Dr. May. Now, if you will be good, I will leave you alone. Nurse is by to look after you, and you know she always separates naughty children. Either the reoccurrence to nursery language, or the mere sisterly touch after long separation, seemed to annihilate all the imaginary, mutual dread, and as Ethel bent lower and lower, and Floor's arms were round her, the only feeling was of being together again. And both at once made the childish gesture of affection, and murmured the old pet names of Flossie and King that belonged to almost forgotten days, when they were baby sisters. Then kissed each other again. I can't see you, said Ethel, drawing herself up a little. Why, Flora, you look like a little white shadow. I have had such weak eyes, said Flora, and this dim light is comfortable. I see your old sharp face quite plain. But what can you do here? Do, oh dear Ethel, I have had, I have not had much of doing. That says I have three years rest to make up. Her flowers, said Ethel. But I should have thought tiresome, especially for you. I have only now been able to think against, said Flora, and you will say I am taking to quoting poetry. Do you remember some lines in that drama that Norman admired so much, Philip von Artiveldi? Yes, I can't recollect them now, though. They used to be always running in my head, something about time to mend and time to mourn. These, said Ethel, he that lacks time to mourn, lacks time to mend, eternity mourns that. I never had time before for either, said Flora. You cannot think how I used to be hunted by those when I was chased from one thing to another all these long, long 18 months. I am in no haste to take up work again, mending as well as mourning, said Ethel, thoughtfully, Flora sighed. And now you have that dear little Christmas gift that Ethel paused. She is not nearly so fine and healthy as her sister was, said Flora. Her little dear, you know Ethel even now, I shall have very little time with her in that London life. Her papa wants me so much, and I must leave her to, to the nurses, Flora's voice trembled again. Our own dear old nurse, said Ethel. Oh, I wanted to thank you all for sparing her to us, said Flora. George wished it so much. But how does Per little Daisy bear it? Very magnanimously, said Ethel, smiling. In fact, nurse has had but little to do with Daisy of late, and would have been very forlorn at home. It is better for Aubrey and for her not to return to be babies to comfort Per nurse. I have been breaking up the nursery and taking Gertrude to live with me. Have you gone back there again? It would not have been better for weep. It would not have been better for waiting, said Ethel, and Gertrude was so proud to come to me. I could not have done it without her, but papa must not have vacancy next to him. It has been hard on you for me to engross him, said Flora, but oh Ethel, I could not spare him. I don't think even you can tell what papa is. You have found it out, said Ethel, in an old, in an odd, dry manner, which in sound, though not I'm feeling, was a contrast to the soft, whispering, tearful murmurs of our sister. And my aunt continued, Flora, that I should have taken up such a great piece of her short visit. Ah, it is coming to an end very fast, said Ethel, sighing, but you had the best right to her, and she and Meeta have seen so much of each other. She tells me she is quite satisfied about Meeta now. I am sorry to see Meeta looking out of spirits, said Flora. I am. I almost made her cry by saying something about Norman. Is there anything going wrong? Ethel, as usual, blundered into the subject, only about Normans going out. Flora asked further questions, and she was obliged to explain. It roused Flora's energies at once. This will never do, she said. They must marry and go with my aunt. Ethel was aghast. They would not hear of it now. They must. It is the only reasonable thing why Norman would be miserable. And as to Meeta, imagine his going out and returning a year's work, such an expense and loss of time, besides the missing aunt Flora, if it were not wrong. The waste would be the wrong thing, besides, as she told of Margaret's wishes, but Flora think the last week in February, and due so ill, I am not to marry them, said Flora, smiling. If it could be in a fortnight, they could go and get their outfit afterwards and come back to us when I am stronger. Let me see. There need be no fuss about settlements. Mr. Rivers will arrange everything for her. It would be a good thing to get rid of a fine wedding, said Ethel, but they will never consent. Yes, they will, and be grateful. Papa would be happier about Normans at Ethel, but I cannot fancy his liking it. And you, you can't spare Meeta, for Aunt Flora must go to the Ornance in a week or two more. Suppose Papa was to let me have you, said Flora. If he wants you, he must come after you. Ethel gasped at the thought that her occupation at home was gone. But she said, if I am not too awkward for you, dear Flora, you will miss Meeta terribly. I can't keep the hummingbird caged. With her heart far away, said Flora, Dr. May came in to break up the conversation and Ethel quickly guessed from his manner that Norman had been talking to him. Flora told him that she had been agreeing with Ethel that Meeta had much better not miss this opportunity. He was far less startled than Ethel had expected. Indeed, the proposal was rather a belief to his mind and his chief objection was to fear that Flora would be fatigued by the extra bustle. But she promised not to trouble herself about it. Otherwise, than that, if Norman could not persuade Meeta, she would. The sisters parted, much more comfortable than before. Ethel felt, Ethel felt as if she had found something like a dim reflection of margarine. Flora's fear of Ethel had fled away from the mere force of sisterhood. As to Norman, he declared that he had not the audacity to make the proposal to Meeta, though he was only too grateful. So his father carried it to the hummingbird and as soon as she found that it was not improper nor would hurt anyone's feelings, she gave ready consent, only begging that it might be as best to everyone, especially Flora, and ending by a whisper to her dear fatherly friend, owning that she was very glad. She meant she was very glad there would be nobody there. So Norman and Meeta settled their plans as they walked home together from evening service after listening to the prophecies of the blessings to be spread into the waste and desolate places which should yet become the heritage of the chosen and with the evening star shining on them like a faint reflex of the star of the east who came to be a light to lighten the Gentiles. End of part two, chapter 26.