



Produced by Sandra Laythorpe





THE DAISY CHAIN, OR ASPIRATIONS

By Charlotte Yonge




PREFACE.


No one can be more sensible than is the Author that the present is an
overgrown book of a nondescript class, neither the "tale" for the young,
nor the novel for their elders, but a mixture of both.

Begun as a series of conversational sketches, the story outran both
the original intention and the limits of the periodical in which it was
commenced; and, such as it has become, it is here presented to those who
have already made acquaintance with the May family, and may be willing
to see more of them. It would beg to be considered merely as what it
calls itself, a Family Chronicle--a domestic record of home events,
large and small, during those years of early life when the character
is chiefly formed, and as an endeavour to trace the effects of those
aspirations which are a part of every youthful nature. That the young
should take one hint, to think whether their hopes and upward-breathings
are truly upwards, and founded in lowliness, may be called the moral of
the tale.

For those who may deem the story too long, and the characters too
numerous, the Author can only beg their pardon for any tedium that they
may have undergone before giving it up. Feb. 22nd, 1856.





THE DAISY CHAIN




PART 1.



CHAPTER I.



     Si douce est la Marguerite.--CHAUCER.



"Miss Winter, are you busy? Do you want this afternoon? Can you take a
good long walk?"

"Ethel, my dear, how often have I told you of your impetuosity--you have
forgotten."

"Very well"--with an impatient twist--"I beg your pardon. Good-morning,
Miss Winter," said a thin, lank, angular, sallow girl, just fifteen,
trembling from head to foot with restrained eagerness, as she tried to
curb her tone into the requisite civility.

"Good-morning, Ethel, good-morning, Flora," said the prim, middle-aged
daily governess, taking off her bonnet, and arranging the stiff little
rolls of curl at the long, narrow looking-glass, the border of which
distorted the countenance.

"Good-morning," properly responded Flora, a pretty, fair girl, nearly
two years older than her sister.

"Will you--" began to burst from Etheldred's lips again, but was stifled
by Miss Winter's inquiry, "Is your mamma pretty well to-day?"

"Oh! very well," said both at once; "she is coming to the reading." And
Flora added, "Papa is going to drive her out to-day."

"I am very glad. And the baby?"

"I do believe she does it on purpose!" whispered Ethel to herself,
wriggling fearfully on the wide window-seat on which she had
precipitated herself, and kicking at the bar of the table, by which
manifestation she of course succeeded in deferring her hopes, by a
reproof which caused her to draw herself into a rigid, melancholy
attitude, a sort of penance of decorum, but a rapid motion of the
eyelids, a tendency to crack the joints of the fingers, and an
unquietness at the ends of her shoes, betraying the restlessness of the
digits therein contained.

It was such a room as is often to be found in old country town houses,
the two large windows looking out on a broad old-fashioned street,
through heavy framework, and panes of glass scratched with various names
and initials. The walls were painted blue, the skirting almost a third
of the height, and so wide at the top as to form a narrow shelf. The
fireplace, constructed in the days when fires were made to give as
little heat as possible, was ornamented with blue and white Dutch
tiles bearing marvellous representations of Scripture history, and was
protected by a very tall green guard; the chairs were much of the same
date, solid and heavy, the seats in faded carpet-work, but there was a
sprinkling of lesser ones and of stools; a piano; a globe; a large table
in the middle of the room, with three desks on it; a small one, and a
light cane chair by each window; and loaded book-cases. Flora began, "If
you don't want this afternoon to yourself--"

Ethel was on her feet, and open-mouthed. "Oh, Miss Winter, if you would
be so kind as to walk to Cocksmoor with us!"

"To Cocksmoor, my dear!" exclaimed the governess in dismay.

"Yes, yes, but hear," cried Ethel. "It is not for nothing. Yesterday--"

"No, the day before," interposed Flora.

"There was a poor man brought into the hospital. He had been terribly
hurt in the quarry, and papa says he'll die. He was in great distress,
for his wife has just got twins, and there were lots of children before.
They want everything--food and clothes--and we want to walk and take
it."

"We had a collection of clothes ready, luckily," said Flora; "and we
have a blanket, and some tea and some arrowroot, and a bit of bacon, and
mamma says she does not think it too far for us to walk, if you will be
so kind as to go with us."

Miss Winter looked perplexed. "How could you carry the blanket, my
dear?"

"Oh, we have settled that," said Ethel, "we mean to make the donkey a
sumpter-mule, so, if you are tired, you may ride home on her."

"But, my dear, has your mamma considered? They are such a set of wild
people at Cocksmoor; I don't think we could walk there alone."

"It is Saturday," said Ethel, "we can get the boys."

"If you would reflect a little! They would be no protection. Harry would
be getting into scrapes, and you and Mary running wild."

"I wish Richard was at home!" said Flora.

"I know!" cried Ethel. "Mr. Ernescliffe will come. I am sure he can walk
so far now. I'll ask him."

Ethel had clapped after her the heavy door with its shining brass lock,
before Miss Winter well knew what she was about, and the governess
seemed annoyed. "Ethel does not consider," said she. "I don't think your
mamma will be pleased."

"Why not?" said Flora.

"My dear--a gentleman walking with you, especially if Margaret is
going!"

"I don't think he is strong enough," said Flora; "but I can't think
why there should be any harm. Papa took us all out walking with him
yesterday--little Aubrey and all, and Mr. Ernescliffe went."

"But, my dear--"

She was interrupted by the entrance of a fine tall blooming girl
of eighteen, holding in her hand a pretty little maid of five.
"Good-morning. Miss Winter. I suppose Flora has told you the request we
have to make to you?"

"Yes, my dear Margaret, but did your mamma consider what a lawless place
Cocksmoor is?"

"That was the doubt," said Margaret, "but papa said he would answer for
it nothing would happen to us, and mamma said if you would be so kind."

"It is unlucky," began the governess, but stopped at the incursion of
some new-comers, nearly tumbling over each other, Ethel at the head
of them. "Oh, Harry!" as the gathers of her frock gave way in the
rude grasp of a twelve-year-old boy. "Miss Winter, 'tis all right--Mr.
Ernescliffe says he is quite up to the walk, and will like it very much,
and he will undertake to defend you from the quarrymen."

"Is Miss Winter afraid of the quarrymen?" hallooed Harry. "Shall I take
a club?"

"I'll take my gun and shoot them," valiantly exclaimed Tom; and while
threats were passing among the boys, Margaret asked, in a low voice,
"Did you ask him to come with us?"

"Yes, he said he should like it of all things. Papa was there, and said
it was not too far for him--besides, there's the donkey. Papa says it,
so we must go, Miss Winter."

Miss Winter glanced unutterable things at Margaret, and Ethel began to
perceive she had done something wrong. Flora was going to speak, when
Margaret, trying to appear unconscious of a certain deepening colour in
her own cheeks, pressed a hand on her shoulder, and whispering, "I'll
see about it. Don't say any more, please," glided out of the room.

"What's in the wind?" said Harry. "Are many of your reefs out there,
Ethel?"

"Harry can talk nothing but sailors' language," said Flora, "and I am
sure he did not learn that of Mr. Ernescliffe. You never hear slang from
him."

"But aren't we going to Cocksmoor?" asked Mary, a blunt downright girl
of ten.

"We shall know soon," said Ethel. "I suppose I had better wait till
after the reading to mend that horrid frock?"

"I think so, since we are so nearly collected," said Miss Winter; and
Ethel, seating herself on the corner of the window-seat, with one leg
doubled under her, took up a Shakespeare, holding it close to her
eyes, and her brother Norman, who, in age, came between her and Flora,
kneeling on one knee on the window-seat, and supporting himself with one
arm against the shutter, leaned over her, reading it too, disregarding a
tumultuous skirmish going on in that division of the family collectively
termed "the boys," namely, Harry, Mary, and Tom, until Tom was suddenly
pushed down, and tumbled over into Ethel's lap, thereby upsetting
her and Norman together, and there was a general downfall, and a loud
scream, "The sphynx!"

"You've crushed it," cried Harry, dealing out thumps indiscriminately.

"No, here 'tis," said Mary, rushing among them, and bringing out a green
sphynx caterpillar on her finger--"'tis not hurt."

"Pax! Pax!" cried Norman, over all, with the voice of an authority,
as he leaped up lightly and set Tom on his legs again. "Harry! you had
better do that again," he added warningly. "Be off, out of this window,
and let Ethel and me read in peace."

"Here's the place," said Ethel--"Crispin, Crispian's day. How I do like
Henry V."

"It is no use to try to keep those boys in order!" sighed Miss Winter.

"Saturnalia, as papa calls Saturday," replied Flora.

"Is not your eldest brother coming home to-day?" said Miss Winter in a
low voice to Flora, who shook her head, and said confidentially, "He
is not coming till he has passed that examination. He thinks it better
not."

Here entered, with a baby in her arms, a lady with a beautiful
countenance of calm sweetness, looking almost too young to be the mother
of the tall Margaret, who followed her. There was a general hush as she
greeted Miss Winter, the girls crowding round to look at their little
sister, not quite six weeks old.

"Now, Margaret, will you take her up to the nursery?" said the
mother, while the impatient speech was repeated, "Mamma, can we go to
Cocksmoor?"

"You don't think it will be too