The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations. Yonge Charlotte Mary
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was distressed, Dr. May was angry, and, no wonder, when he saw Margaret suffer, felt his own inability to help, missed her who had been wont to take all care from his hands, and was vexed to see a tall strong girl of fifteen, with the full use of both arms, and plenty of sense, incapable of giving any assistance, and only doing harm by trying.
“It is of no use,” said he. “Ethel will give no attention to anything but her books! I’ve a great mind to put an end to all the Latin and Greek! She cares for nothing else.”
Ethel could little brook injustice, and much as she was grieving, she exclaimed, “Papa, papa, I do care—now don’t I, Margaret? I did my best!”
“Don’t talk nonsense. Your best, indeed! If you had taken the most moderate care—”
“I believe Ethel took rather too much care,” said Margaret, much more harassed by the scolding than by the pain. “It will be all right presently. Never mind, dear papa.”
But he was not only grieved for the present, but anxious for the future; and, though he knew it was bad for Margaret to manifest his displeasure, he could not restrain it, and continued to blame Ethel with enough of injustice to set her on vindication, whereupon he silenced her, by telling her she was making it worse by self-justification when Margaret ought to be quiet. Margaret tried to talk of other things, but was in too much discomfort to exert herself enough to divert his attention.
At last Flora returned, and saw in an instant what was wanted. Margaret was settled in the right posture, but the pain would not immediately depart, and Dr. May soon found out that she had a headache, of which he knew he was at least as guilty as Etheldred could be.
Nothing could be done but keep her quiet, and Ethel went away to be miserable; Flora tried to comfort her by saying it was unfortunate, but no doubt there was a knack, and everyone could not manage those things; Margaret was easier now, and as to papa’s anger, he did not always mean all he said.
But consolation came at bedtime; Margaret received her with open arms when she went to wish her goodnight. “My poor Ethel,” she said, holding her close, “I am sorry I have made such a fuss.”
“Oh, you did not, it was too bad of me—I am grieved; are you quite comfortable now?”
“Yes, quite, only a little headache, which I shall sleep off. It has been so nice and quiet. Papa took up George Herbert, and has been reading me choice bits. I don’t think I have enjoyed anything so much since I have been ill.”
“I am glad of that, but I have been unhappy all the evening. I wish I knew what to do. I am out of heart about everything!”
“Only try to mind and heed, and you will learn. It will be a step if you will only put your shoes side by side when you take them off.”
Ethel smiled and sighed, and Margaret whispered, “Don’t grieve about me, but put your clever head to rule your hands, and you will do for home and Cocksmoor too. Good-night, dearest.”
“I’ve vexed papa,” sighed Ethel—and just then he came into the room.
“Papa,” said Margaret, “here’s poor Ethel, not half recovered from her troubles.”
He was now at ease about Margaret, and knew he had been harsh to another of his motherless girls.
“Ah! we must send her to the infant-school, to learn ‘this is my right hand, and this is my left,’” said he, in his half-gay, half-sad manner.
“I was very stupid,” said Ethel.
“Poor child!” said her papa, “she is worse off than I am. If I have but one hand left, she has two left hands.”
“I do mean to try, papa.”
“Yes, you must, Ethel. I believe I was hasty with you, my poor girl. I was vexed, and we have no one to smooth us down. I am sorry, my dear, but you must bear with me, for I never learned her ways with you when I might. We will try to have more patience with each other.”
What could Ethel do but hang round his neck and cry, till he said, but tenderly, that they had given Margaret quite disturbance enough to-day, and sent her to bed, vowing to watch each little action, lest she should again give pain to such a father and sister.
CHAPTER VIII
“Tis not enough that Greek or Roman page
At stated hours, his freakish thoughts engage,
Even in his pastimes he requires a friend
To warn and teach him safely to unbend,
O’er all his pleasures gently to preside,
Watch his emotions, and control their tide.”
The misfortunes of that day disheartened and disconcerted Etheldred. To do mischief where she most wished to do good, to grieve where she longed to comfort, seemed to be her fate; it was vain to attempt anything for anyone’s good, while all her warm feelings and high aspirations were thwarted by the awkward ungainly hands and heedless eyes that Nature had given her. Nor did the following day, Saturday, do much for her comfort, by giving her the company of her brothers. That it was Norman’s sixteenth birthday seemed only to make it worse. Their father had apparently forgotten it, and Norman stopped Blanche when she was going to put him in mind of it; stopped her by such a look as the child never forgot, though there was no anger in it. In reply to Ethel’s inquiry what he was going to do that morning, he gave a yawn and stretch, and said, dejectedly, that he had got some Euripides to look over, and some verses to finish.
“I am sorry; this is the first time you ever have not managed so as to make a real holiday of your Saturday!”
“I could not help it, and there’s nothing to do,” said Norman wearily.
“I promised to go and read to Margaret while Flora does her music,” said Ethel; “I shall come after that and do my Latin and Greek with you.”
Margaret would not keep her long, saying she liked her to be with Norman, but she found him with his head sunk on his open book, fast asleep. At dinner-time, Harry and Tom, rushing in, awoke him with a violent start.
“Halloo! Norman, that was a jump!” said Harry, as his brother stretched and pinched himself. “You’ll jump out of your skin some of these days, if you don’t take care!”
“It’s enough to startle any one to be waked up with such a noise,” said Ethel.
“Then he ought to sleep at proper times,” said Harry, “and not be waking me up with tumbling about, and hallooing out, and talking in his sleep half the night.”
“Talking in his sleep! why, just now, you said he did not sleep,” said Ethel.
“Harry knows nothing about it,” said Norman.
“Don’t I? Well, I only know, if you slept in school, and were a junior, you would get a proper good licking for going on as you do at night.”
“And I think you might chance to get a proper good licking for not holding your tongue,” said Norman, which hint reduced Harry to silence.
Dr. May was not come home; he had gone with Richard far into the country, and was to return to tea. He was thought to be desirous of avoiding the family dinners that used to be so delightful. Harry was impatient to depart, and when Mary and Tom ran after him, he ordered them back.
“Where can he be going?” said Mary, as she looked wistfully after him.
“I know,” said Tom.
“Where? Do tell me.”
“Only don’t tell papa. I went down with him to the playground this morning, and there they settled it. The Andersons, and Axworthy, and he, are going to hire a gun, and shoot pee-wits on Cocksmoor.”
“But they ought not; should they?” said Mary. “Papa would be very angry.”
“Anderson said there was no harm in it, but Harry told me not to