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DAISY.
BY
ELIZABETH WETHERELL,
AUTHOR OF
"THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD," "QUEECHY,"
ETC., ETC.
[Illustration: Floral Squiggle]
LONDON:
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED,
WARWICK HOUSE, SALISBURY SQUARE, E.C.
NEW YORK AND MELBOURNE.
[Illustration: Frontis "'And you love Jesus, Darry,' I said."
_Page 59_ ]
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
MISS PINSHON 9
CHAPTER II.
MY HOME 27
CHAPTER III.
THE MULTIPLICATION TABLE 45
CHAPTER IV.
SEVEN HUNDRED PEOPLE 68
CHAPTER V.
IN THE KITCHEN 97
CHAPTER VI.
WINTER AND SUMMER 119
CHAPTER VII.
SINGLEHANDED 149
CHAPTER VIII.
EGYPTIAN GLASS 165
CHAPTER IX.
SHOPPING 185
CHAPTER X.
SCHOOL 205
CHAPTER XI.
A PLACE IN THE WORLD 226
CHAPTER XII.
FRENCH DRESSES 244
CHAPTER XIII.
GREY COATS 275
CHAPTER XIV.
YANKEES 297
CHAPTER XV.
FORT PUTNAM 320
CHAPTER XVI.
HOPS 338
CHAPTER XVII.
OBEYING ORDERS 356
CHAPTER XVIII.
SOUTH AND NORTH 379
CHAPTER XIX.
ENTERED FOR THE WAR 392
DAISY.
CHAPTER I.
MISS PINSHON.
I want an excuse to myself for writing my own life; an excuse for the
indulgence of going it all over again, as I have so often gone over
bits. It has not been more remarkable than thousands of others. Yet
every life has in it a thread of present truth and possible glory. Let
me follow out the truth to the glory.
The first bright years of my childhood I will pass. They were
childishly bright. They lasted till my eleventh summer. Then the light
of heavenly truth was woven in with the web of my mortal existence;
and whatever the rest of the web has been, those golden threads have
always run through it all the rest of the way. Just as I reached my
birthday that summer and was ten years old, I became a Christian.
For the rest of that summer I was a glad child. The brightness of
those days is a treasure safe locked up in a chamber of my memory. I
have known other glad times too in my life; other times of even higher
enjoyment. But among all the dried flowers of my memory, there is not
one that keeps a fresher perfume or a stronger scent of its life than
this one. Those were the days without cloud; before life shadows had
begun to cast their blackness over the landscape. And even though such
shadows do go as well as come, and leave the intervals as sunlit as
ever; yet after that change of the first life shadow is once seen, it
is impossible to forget that it may come again and darken the sun. I
do not mean that the days of that summer were absolutely without
things to trouble me; I had changes of light and shade; but, on the
whole, nothing that did not heighten the light. They were pleasant
days that I had in Juanita's cottage at the time when my ankle was
broken; there were hours of sweetness with crippled Molly; and it was
simply delight I had all alone with my pony Loupe, driving over the
sunny and shady roads, free to do as I liked and go where I liked. And
how I enjoyed studying English history with my cousin Preston. It is
all stowed away in my heart, as fresh and sweet as at first. I will
not pull it out now. The change, and my first real life shadow came,
when my father was thrown from his horse and injured his head. Then
the doctors decided he must go abroad and travel, and mamma decided
that it was best that I should go to Magnolia with Aunt Gary and have
a governess.
There is no pleasure in thinking of those weeks. They went very
slowly, and yet very fast; while I counted every minute and noted
every step in the preparations. They were all over at last; my little
world was gone from me; and I was left alone with Aunt Gary.
Her preparations had been made too; and the day after the steamer
sailed we set off on our journey to the south. I do not know much
about that journey. The things by the way were like objects in a mist
to me and no more clearly discerned. Now and then there came a rift in
the mist; something woke me up out of my sorrow-dream; and of those
points and of what struck my eyes at those minutes I have a most
intense and vivid recollection. I can feel yet the still air of one
early morning's start, and hear the talk between my aunt and the hotel
people about the luggage. My aunt was a great traveller and wanted no
one to help her or manage for her. I remember acutely a beggar who
spoke to us on the sidewalk at Washington. We stayed over a few days
in Washington, and then hurried on; for when she was on the road my
Aunt Gary lost not a minute. We went, I presume, as fast as we could
without travelling all night; and our last day's journey added that
too.
By that time my head was getting steadied, perhaps, from the grief
which had bewildered it; or grief was settling down and taking its
proper place at the bottom of my heart, leaving the surface as usual.
For twelve hours that day we went by a slow railway train through a
country of weary monotony. Endless forests of pine seemed all that was
to be seen; scarce ever a village; here and there a miserable clearing
and forlorn-looking house; here and there stoppages of a few minutes
to let somebody out or take somebody in; once, to my great surprise, a
stop of rather more than a few minutes to accommodate a lady who
wanted some flowers gathered for her. I was surprised to see flowers
wild in the woods at that time of year, and much struck with the
politeness of the railway train that was willing to delay for such a
reason. We got out of the car for dinner, or for a short rest at
dinner-time. My aunt had brought her lunch in a basket. Then the
forests and the rumble of the cars began again. At one time the pine
forests were exchanged for oak, I remember; after that, nothing but
pine.
It was late in the day, when we left the cars at one of those solitary
wayside station-houses. I shall never forget the look and feeling of
the place. We had been for some miles going through a region of swamp
or swampy woods, where sometimes the rails were laid on piles in the
water. This little station-house was in the midst of such a region.
The woods were thick and tangled with vines everywhere beyond the edge
of the clearing; the ground was wet beneath them, and in places showed
standing water. There was scarcely a clearing; the forest was all
round the house; with only the two breaks in it where on one side and
on the other the iron rail track ran off into the distance. It was a
lonely place; almost nobody was there waiting for the train; one or
two forlorn coloured people and a long lank-looking countryman, were
all. Except what at first prevented my seeing anything else--my cousin
Preston. He met me just as I was going to get down from the car;
lifted me to the platform, and then with his looks and words almost
broke up the composure which for several days had been growing upon
me. It was not hardened yet to bear attacks. I was like a poor
shell-fish, which, having lost one coat of armour and defence, craves
a place of hiding and shelter for itself until its new coat be grown.
While he was begging me to come into the station-house and rest, I
stood still looking up the long line of railway by which we had come,
feeling as if my life lay at the other end of it, out of sight and
quite beyond reach. Yet I asked him not to call me "poor" Daisy. I was
very tired, and I suppose my nerves not very steady. Preston said we
must wait at that place for another train; there was a fork in the
road beyond, and this train would not go the right way. It would not
take us to Baytown. So he had me into the station-house.
It wearied me and so did all that my eyes lighted upon, strange though
it was. The bare room, not clean; the board partition, with swinging
doors, behind which, Preston said, were the cook and the baker! the
untidy waiting girls that came and went, with scant gowns and coarse
shoes, and no thread of white collar to relieve the dusky throat and
head rising out of the dark gown, and no apron at all. Preston did
what he could. He sent away the girls with their trays of eatables; he
had a table pulled out from the wall and wiped off, and then he
ordered a supper of eggs, and johnny cake, and all sorts of things.
But I could not eat. As soon as supper was over I went out on the
platform to watch the long lines of railway running off through the
forest, and wait for the coming train. The evening fell while we
looked; the train was late; and at last when it came I could only know
it in the distance by the red spark of its locomotive gleaming like a
firefly.
It was a freight train, there was but one passenger car, and that was
full. We got seats with difficulty, and apart from each other. I
hardly know whether that, or anything, could have made me more
forlorn. I was already stiff and weary with the twelve hours of
travelling we had gone through that day; inexpressibly weary in heart.
It seemed to me that I could not long endure the rumble and the jar
and the closeness of this last car. The passengers, too, had habits
which made me draw my clothes as tight around me as I could, and
shrink away mentally into the smallest compass possible. I had noticed
the like, to be sure, ever since we left Washington; but to-night, in
my weary, faint, and tired-out state of mind and body every unseemly
sight or sound struck my nerves with a sense of pain that was hardly
endurable. I wondered if the train would go on all night; it went very
slowly. And I noticed that nobody seemed impatient or had the air of
expecting that it would soon find its journey's end. I felt as if I
could not bear it many half hours. My next neighbour was a fat,
good-natured, old lady, who rather made matters worse by putting her
arm round me and hugging me up, and begging me to make a pillow of her
and go to sleep. My nerves were twitching with impatience and the
desire for relief; when suddenly the thought came to me that I might
please the Lord by being patient. I remember what a lull the thought
of Him brought; and yet how difficult it was not to be impatient, till
I fixed my mind on some Bible words--they were the words of the
twenty-third Psalm--and began to think and pray them over. So good
they were, that by and by they rested me. I dropped asleep and forgot
my aches and weariness until the train arrived at Baytown.
They took me to a hotel, then, and put me to bed, and I did not get up
for several days. I must have been feverish, for my fancies wandered
incessantly in unknown places with papa, in regions of the old world;
and sometimes, I think, took both him and myself to rest and home
where wanderings are over. After a few days this passed away. I was
able to come downstairs, and both Preston and his mother did their
best to take good care of me. Especially Preston. He brought me books,
and fruit, and birds to tempt me to eat, and was my kind and constant
companion when his mother was out, and indeed when she was in, too. So
I got better by the help of oranges and rice-birds. I could have got
better faster, but for my dread of a governess which was hanging over
me. I heard nothing about her and could not bear to ask. One day
Preston brought the matter up and asked if Daisy was going to have a
school-mistress?
"Certainly," my Aunt Gary said. "She must be educated, you know."
"_I_ don't know," said Preston; "but if they say so, I suppose she
must. Who is it to be, mamma?"
"You do not know anything about it," said Aunt Gary. "If my son was
going to marry the greatest heiress in the State; and she is very
nearly that--goodness! I did not see you were there, Daisy, my dear;
but it makes no difference;--I should think it proper that she should
be educated."
"I can't see what her being an heiress should have to do with it,"
said Preston, "except rather to make it unnecessary as well as a bore.
Who is it, mamma?"
"I have recommended Miss Pinshon."
"Oh, then, it is not fixed yet."
"Yes, it is fixed. Miss Pinshon is coming as soon as we get to
Magnolia."
"I'll be off before that," said Preston. "Who is Miss Pinshon?"
"How should _you_ know? She has lived at Jessamine Bank,--educated the
Dalzell girls."
"What sort of a person, mamma!"
"What sort of a person?" said my Aunt Gary; "why a governess sort of a
person. What sort should she be."
"Any other sort in the world," said Preston, "for my money. That is
just the sort to worry poor little Daisy out of her life."
"You are a foolish boy!" said Aunt Gary. "Of course if you fill
Daisy's head with notions, she will not get them out again. If you
have anything of that sort to say, you had better say it where she
will not hear."
"Daisy has eyes--and a head," said Preston.
As soon as I was able for it Preston took me out for short walks; and
as I grew stronger he made the walks longer. The city was a strange
place to me; very unlike New York; there was much to see and many a
story to hear; and Preston and I enjoyed ourselves. Aunt Gary was busy
making visits, I think. There was a beautiful walk by the sea which I
liked best of all; and when it was not too cold my greatest pleasure
was to sit there looking over the dark waters and sending my whole
soul across them to that unknown spot where my father and mother were.
"Home," that spot was to me. Preston did not know what I liked the
Esplanade for; he sometimes laughed at me for being poetic and
meditative; when I was only sending my heart over the water. But he
was glad to please me in all that he could; and whenever it was not
too cold, our walks always took me there.
One day, sitting there, I remember we had a great argument about
studying. Preston began with saying that I must not mind this
governess that was coming, nor do anything she bade me unless I liked
it. As I gave him no answer, he repeated what he had said.
"You know, Daisy, you are not obliged to care what she thinks."
I said I thought I was.
"What for?" said Preston.
"I have a great deal to learn you know," I said, feeling it very
gravely indeed in my little heart.
"What do you want to know so much?" said Preston.
I said, everything. I was very ignorant.
"You are no such thing," said Preston. "Your head is full this minute.
I think you have about as much knowledge as is good for you. I mean to
take care that you do not get too much."
"O Preston," said I, "that is very wrong. I have not any knowledge
scarcely."
"There is no occasion," said Preston stoutly. "I hate learned women."
"Don't you like to learn things?"
"That's another matter," said he. "A man must know things, or he can't
get along. Women are different."
"But I think it is nice to know things too," said I. "I don't see how
it is different."
"Why, a woman need not be a lawyer, or a doctor, or a professor," said
Preston; "all she need do, is to have good sense and dress herself
nicely."
"Is dressing so important?" said I, with a new light breaking over me.
"Certainly. Ribbons of the wrong colour will half kill a woman. And I
have heard Aunt Randolph say that a particular lady was ruined by her
gloves."
"Ruined by her gloves!" said I. "Did she buy so many?"
Preston went into such a laugh at that, I had to wait some time before
I could go on. I saw I had made some mistake, and I would not renew
that subject.
"Do _you_ mean to be anything of that sort?" I said, with some want of
connection.
"What sort? Ruined by my gloves? Not if I know it."
"No, no! I mean, a lawyer or a doctor or a professor?"
"I should think not!" said Preston, with a more emphatic denial.
"Then, what are you studying for?"
"Because, as I told you, Daisy, a man must know things, or he cannot
get on in the world."
I pondered the matter, and then I said, I should think good sense
would make a woman study too. I did not see the difference. "Besides,
Preston," I said, "if she didn't, they would not be equal."
"Equal!" cried Preston. "Equal! O Daisy, you ought to have lived in
some old times. You are two hundred years old, at least. Now don't go
to studying that, but come home. You have sat here long enough."
It was my last hour of freedom. Perhaps for that reason I remember
every minute so distinctly. On our way home we met a negro funeral. I
stopped to look at it. Something, I do not know what, in the long line
of dark figures, orderly and even stately in their demeanour, the
white dresses of the women, the peculiar faces of men and women both,
fascinated my eyes. Preston exclaimed at me again. It was the
commonest sight in the world, he said. It was their pride to have a
grand funeral. I asked if _this_ was a grand funeral. Preston said
"pretty well; there must be several hundred of them and they were well
dressed." And then he grew impatient and hurried me on. But I was
thinking; and before we got to the hotel where we lodged, I asked
Preston if there were many coloured people at Magnolia.
"Lots of them," he said. "There isn't anything else."
"Preston," I said presently, "I want to buy some candy somewhere."
Preston was very much pleased, I believe, thinking that my thoughts
had quite left the current of sober things. He took me to a famous
confectioner's; and there I bought sweet things till my little stock
of money was all gone.
"No more funds?" said Preston. "Never mind--go on, and I'll help you.
Why I never knew you liked sugarplums so much. What next? burnt
almonds? _this_ is good, Daisy--this confection of roses. But you must
take all this sugar in small doses, or I am afraid it wouldn't be just
beneficial."
"O Preston!" I said--"I do not mean to eat all this myself."
"Are you going to propitiate Miss Pinshon with it? I have a
presentiment that sweets won't sweeten her, Daisy."
"I don't know what 'propitiate' means," I said, sighing. "I will not
take the almonds, Preston."
But he was determined I should; and to the almonds he added a quantity
of the delicate confection he spoke of, which I had thought too
delicate and costly for the uses I had purposed; and after the rose he
ordered candied fruits; till a great packet of varieties was made up.
Preston paid for them--I could not help it--and desired them sent
home; but I was bent on taking the package myself. Preston would not
let me do that, so he carried it; which was a much more serious token
of kindness, in him, than footing the bill. It was but a little way,
however, to the hotel. We were in the hall, and I was just taking my
sugars from Preston to carry them upstairs, when I heard Aunt Gary
call my name from the parlour. Instinctively, I cannot tell how, I
knew from her tone what she wanted me for. I put back the package in
Preston's hands, and walked in; my play over.
How well I knew my play was over, when I saw my governess. She was
sitting by my aunt on the sofa. Quite different from what I had
expected, so different that I walked up to her in a maze, and yet
seemed to recognize in that first view all that was coming after.
Probably that is fancy; but it seems to me now that all I ever knew or
felt about Miss Pinshon in the years that followed, was duly begun and
betokened in those first five minutes. She was a young-looking lady,
younger looking than she was. She had a dark, rich complexion, and a
face that I suppose would have been called handsome; it was never
handsome to me. Long black curls on each side of her face, and large
black eyes, were the features that first struck one; but I immediately
decided that Miss Pinshon was not born a lady. I do not mean that I
think blood and breeding are unseverable; or that half a dozen lady
ancestors in a direct line secure the character to the seventh in
descent; though they _do_ often secure the look of it; nevertheless,
ladies are born who never know all their lives how to make a curtsey,
and curtseys are made with infinite grace by those who have nothing of
a lady beyond the trappings. I never saw Miss Pinshon do a rude or an
awkward thing, that I remember; nor one which changed my first mind
about her. She was handsomely dressed; but there again I felt the same
want. Miss Pinshon's dresses made me think always of the mercer's
counter and the dressmaker's shop. My mother's robes always seemed
part of her own self; and so, in a certain true sense, they were.
My aunt introduced me. Miss Pinshon studied me. Her first remark was
that I looked very young. My aunt excused that, on the ground of my
having been always a delicate child. Miss Pinshon observed further
that the way I wore my hair produced part of the effect. My aunt
explained _that_ to my father's and mother's fancy; and agreed that
she thought cropped heads were always ungraceful. If my hair were
allowed to fall in ringlets on my neck I would look very different.
Miss Pinshon next inquired how much I knew? turning her great black
eyes from me to Aunt Gary. My aunt declared she could not tell;
delicate health had also here interfered; and she appealed to me to
say what knowledge I was possessed of. I could not answer. I could not
say. It seemed to me I had not learned anything. Then Preston spoke
for me.
"Modesty is apt to be silent on its own merits," he said. "My cousin
has learned the usual rudiments; and in addition to those the art of
driving."
"Of _what_? What did you say?" inquired my governess.
"Of driving, ma'am. Daisy is an excellent whip for her years and
strength."
Miss Pinshon turned to Preston's mother. My aunt confirmed and
enlarged the statement, again throwing the blame on my father and
mother. For herself, she always thought it very dangerous for a little
girl like me to go about in the country in a pony-chaise all alone.
Miss Pinshon's eyes could not be said to express anything, but to my
fancy they concealed a good deal. She remarked that the roads were
easy.
"Oh, it was not here," said my aunt; "it was at the North, where the
roads are not like our pine forest. However the roads were not
dangerous there, that I know of; not for anybody but a child. But
horses and carriages are always dangerous."
Miss Pinshon next applied herself to me. What did I know? "beside this
whip accomplishment," as she said. I was tongue-tied. It did not seem
to me that I knew anything. At last I said so. Preston exclaimed. I
looked at him to beg him to be still; and I remember how he smiled at
me.
"You can read, I suppose?" my governess went on.
"Yes, ma'am."
"And write, I suppose?"
"I do not think you would say I know how to write," I answered. "I
cannot do it at all well; and it takes me a long time."
"Come back to the driving, Daisy," said Preston. "That is one thing
you do know. And English history, I will bear witness."
"What have you got there, Preston?" my aunt asked.
"Some horehound drops, mamma."
"You haven't a sore throat?" she asked, eagerly.
"No, ma'am--not just now, but I had yesterday; and I thought I would
be provided."
"You seem provided for a long time," Miss Pinshon remarked.
"Can't get anything up at Magnolia, except rice," said Preston, after
making the lady a bow which did not promise good fellowship. "You must
take with you what you are likely to want there."
"You will not want all that," said his mother.
"No ma'am, I hope not," said Preston, looking at his package demurely.
"Old Uncle Lot, you know, always has a cough; and I purpose delighting
him with some of my purchases. I will go and put them away."
"Old Uncle Lot!" my aunt repeated. "What Uncle Lot? I did not know you
had been enough at Magnolia to get the servants' names. But _I_ don't
remember any Uncle Lot."
Preston turned to leave the room with his candy, and in turning gave
me a look of such supreme fun and mischief that at another time I
could hardly have helped laughing. But Miss Pinshon was asking me if I
understood arithmetic?
"I think--I know very little about it," I said hesitating. "I can do a
sum."
"In what?"
"On the slate, ma'am."
"Yes, but in what?"
"I don't know, ma'am--it is adding up the columns."
"Oh, in _addition_, then. Do you know the multiplication and division
tables?"
"No, ma'am."
"Go and get off your things, and then come back to me; and I will have
some more talk with you."
I remember to this day how heavily my feet went up the stairs. I was
not very strong yet in body, and now the strength seemed to have gone
out of my heart.
"I declare," said Preston, who waited for me on the landing, "she
falls into position easy! Does she think she is going to take _that_
tone with you?"
I made no answer. Preston followed me into my room.
"I won't have it, little Daisy. Nobody shall be mistress at Magnolia
but you. This woman shall not. See, Daisy--I am going to put these
things in my trunk for you, until we get where you want them. That
will be safe."
I thanked him.
"What are you going to do now?"
"I am going downstairs, as soon as I am ready."
"Do you expect to be under all the commands this High Mightiness may
think proper to lay upon you?"
I begged him to be still and leave me.
"She will turn you into stone!" he exclaimed. "She is a regular
Gorgon, with those heavy eyes of hers. I never saw such eyes. I
believe she would petrify me if I had to bear them. Don't you give
Medusa one of those sweet almonds, Daisy--not one, do you hear?"
I heard too well. I faced round upon him and begged him to remember
that it was my _mother_ I must obey in Miss Pinshon's orders: and said
that he must not talk to me. Whereupon Preston threw down his candies,
and pulled my cloak out of my unsteady hands, and locked his arms
about me; kissing me and lamenting over me that it was "too bad." I
tried to keep my self-command; but the end was a great burst of tears;
and I went down to Miss Pinshon with red eyes and at a disadvantage. I
think Preston was pleased.
I had need of all my quiet and self-command. My governess stretched out
her hand, drew me to her side and kissed me; then with the other hand
went on to arrange the ruffle round my neck, stroking it and pulling it
into order, and even taking out a little bit of a pin I wore, and putting
it in again to suit herself. It annoyed me excessively. I knew all was
right about my ruffle and pin; I never left them carelessly arranged; no
fingers but mamma's had ever dared to meddle with them before. But Miss
Pinshon arranged the ruffle and the pin, and still holding me, looked in
my face with those eyes of hers. I began to feel that they were "heavy."
They did not waver. They did not seem to wink, like other eyes. They bore
down upon my face with a steady power, that was not bright but ponderous.
Her first question was, whether I was a good girl.
I could not tell how to answer. My aunt answered for me, that she
believed Daisy meant to be a good girl, though she liked to have her
own way.
Miss Pinshon ordered me to bring up a chair and sit down; and then
asked if I knew anything about mathematics; told me it was the science
of quantity; remarked to my aunt that it was the very best study for
teaching children to think, and that she always gave them a great deal
of it in the first year of their pupilage. "It puts the mind in
order," the black-eyed lady went on; "and other things come so easily
after it. Daisy, do you know what I mean by 'quantity?'"
I knew what _I_ meant by quantity; but whether the English language
had anything in common for Miss Pinshon and me, I had great doubts. I
hesitated.
"I always teach my little girls to answer promptly when they are asked
anything. I notice that you do not answer promptly. You can always
tell whether you know a thing or whether you do not."
I was not so sure of that. Miss Pinshon desired me now to repeat the
multiplication table. Here at least there was certainty. I had never
learned it.
"It appears to me," said my governess, "you have done very little with
the first ten years of your life. It gives you a great deal to do for
the next ten."
"Health has prevented her applying to her studies," said my aunt.
"The want of health. Yes, I suppose so. I hope Daisy will be very well
now, for we must make up for lost time."
"I do not suppose so much time need have been lost," said my aunt;
"but parents are easily alarmed, you know; they think of nothing but
one thing."
So now there was nobody about me who would be easily alarmed. I took
the full force of that.
"Of course," said Miss Pinshon, "I shall have a careful regard to her
health. Nothing can be done without that. I shall take her out
regularly to walk with me, and see that she does not expose herself in
any way. Study is no hindrance to health; learning has no malevolent
effect upon the body. I think people often get sick for want of
something to think of."
How sure I felt, as I went up to bed that night, that no such easy
cause of sickness would be mine for long years to come!