One day passed after another, and Daisy looked longingly for her summons
home, and still she did not receive it. Her fears and agonies were
somewhat quieted; because Dr. Sandford assured her that her father was
getting better; but he never said that her father was well, or that he
had not been very ill. Daisy knew that the matter had been very serious
that had prevented her being at Melbourne all these days. Her imaginings
of evil were doubtful and dim; but it seemed to her that her father
himself would have commanded her presence in all ordinary circumstances;
and a doubt like an ice-wind sometimes swept over her little spirit,
whether he could be too ill to know of her absence! No word that could,
be said would entirely comfort Daisy while this state of things lasted;
and it was very well for her that she had a wise and energetic friend
watching over her welfare, in the meanwhile. If business could keep her
from pining and hinder her from too much imagining, Dr. Sandford took
care that she had it. He contrived that she should indeed oversee the
making of the dresses for the poor children, and it was a very great
charge for Daisy. A great responsibility; it lay on her mind for days,
and gave occasion for a number of drives to Crum Elbow and to Juanita's
cottage. Then at evening, after hearing her report progress, the doctor
would take Daisy up to his room, and shew her many a wonder and beauty
that little Daisy had never dreamed of before; and the friendship
between the two grew closer than ever.
"Grant, you are a good fellow!" said Mrs. Sandford one night. "I do not
know what I should do with that child, if it were not for you."
"You would do nothing. She would not be here if it were not for me."
"I do not suppose, however, that your care for her is dictated by a
conscientious regard for that fact. It is good of you."
"She is my patient, Mrs. Sandford."
"Yes, yes; _im_patient would be the word with some young men."
"I am glad you do not class me with such young men."
"Well, no child ever gave less cause for impatience, I will say that.
Nor had more. Poor child! How she looks at you every day when you come
home! But I suppose you doctors get hard hearts."
Dr. Sandford's lips curled a little into one of the smiles that Daisy
liked, but he said nothing.
Daisy did look hard at her friend those days, but it was only when he
came home. So she was not expecting anything the next morning when he
said to her,
"Daisy--will you take a ride with me?"
Daisy looked up. The doctor was sitting by the breakfast-table, poring
over a newspaper. Breakfast was done, and Daisy herself busy with a
book. So she only answered,
"If you please, Dr. Sandford."
"Where shall we go?"
Daisy looked surprised. "I supposed you had business, sir."
"So I have. I am going to visit a patient. Perhaps you would like to
make the visit with me."
"To one of your patients, Dr. Sandford?"
"Yes, one. Not more than one. But I think that one would like to see
you."
A light came into Daisy's face, and colour started upon her cheeks,
almost painfully.
"Dr. Sandford--do you mean--"
"I think so, Daisy," said her friend quietly. "It will do no harm,--if
you are a good child."
He was so quiet, that it stilled Daisy's feeling, which else might have
been impetuous. There was danger of that, as the child's eye and cheek
bore witness. But she only said, "I'll get ready, Dr. Sandford--" and
went off in orderly style till she reached the hall and was out of
sight. Then Daisy's feet made haste up the stairs. In three minutes she
was back again, with her hat and gloves in her hand.
The doctor threw down his newspaper and drew her up to him.
"Daisy, can you be quiet?"
"I think so, Dr. Sandford."
"I think so too; therefore I tell you beforehand that I wish it. Your
father has not fully recovered his strength yet; and it would not be
good for him to be excited. You will be very glad to see him, and he
will be very glad to see you; that is quite enough; and it would be too
much, if you were to shew him _how_ glad you are."
Daisy said nothing, but she thought within herself she could not do
that!
"Can you command yourself, Daisy?"
"I will try, Dr. Sandford."
"You _must_ do it--for my sake," added the doctor.
"Dr. Sandford," said Daisy, "was that what you meant?"
"When?"
"When you said, if I was a good child?"
"It must have been that I meant, I think. I could have said it in no
other connection."
"The pony-chaise, ma'am, for Miss Randolph--" said a servant at the
door.
"The chaise may go away again, Daisy, I suppose," said Mrs. Sandford.
"You will not want it."
"Yes, she will," said the doctor,--"to drive to Melbourne. Go, Daisy,
since you are ready; I will follow you. That little waddling fellow can
be overtaken without any great difficulty."
"Do you want me to drive slowly, sir?"
"Not at all," said the doctor; "only drive well, for I shall come and
see."
If ever a little pride in her driving accomplishments had lodged in
Daisy's mind, she certainly did not feel it that afternoon. She drove
without knowing very well how she drove; she did not think of Dr.
Sandford's criticism, or admiration; what she thought of, was the miles
of the road to Melbourne.
They were not very many, and unconsciously the eager spirit in Daisy's
fingers made itself known to Loupe's understanding, through the medium
of the reins. He travelled better than usual, so that they were not more
than half way from Melbourne when the doctor's gig overtook them. And
then Loupe went better yet.
"Remember, Daisy, and keep quiet--" said the doctor as he took her out
of the chaise. Daisy trembled, but she followed him steadily through the
hall and up the stairs and into her father's room. Then she went before
him, yet even then she went with a moderated step, and stood by her
father's couch at last silent and breathless. Breathless with the very
effort she made to keep silent and quiet. With excitement too; for Mr.
Randolph was looking feeble and pale, more than Daisy had ever seen him,
and it frightened her. He was not in bed but on a sofa and as Daisy came
to his side he put out his arm and drew his little daughter close to
him. Without a word at first and Daisy stooped her lips to his, and then
stood hiding her face on his shoulder; perfectly quiet, though
trembling with contained emotion, and not daring to say anything lest
she should say too much.
"Daisy," said her father,--"Daisy,--do you know I have been ill?"
There was a little, little tone of surprise or disappointment in the
voice. Daisy felt it, knew it, but what could she do? She was afraid to
speak to say anything. She turned her face a little to Dr. Sandford; he
saw an agony struggling in the eye that appealed to him. This was not
what he wanted.
"She knows it almost too well," he said, coming to the rescue; "I have
been her gaoler all these days; a severe one."
"Are you glad to see me, Daisy?" said Mr. Randolph.
Daisy half raised herself, half glanced at his face, and turning from
him threw herself upon Dr. Sandford's arm with a cry and gave way to a
deep passion of weeping. Deep and still; her sobs could not but be
heard, but they were kept under as much as the heaving of that little
breast could bear. Mr. Randolph's pale face flashed; and the doctor saw
that his precautions had been too good.
"Why Daisy!" he said lightly, "is this your self-command?"
"Let me have her--" said Mr. Randolph. "Self-command is a good thing,
doctor; but people may have too much of it."
And getting hold of Daisy's hand, which the doctor brought within his
reach, he again drew the sobbing child to his breast and folded her
close in both his arms. The sobs were very soon hushed; but during all
the rest of the doctor's visit and through all the conversation that
took place, Daisy and her father never changed their position. The
conversation indeed was not much, being confined to a few quiet
questions and answers and remarks; and then Dr. Sandford took his
departure, leaving Daisy very unconscious of his movements. He only
waved his hand to Mr. Randolph, with a smile at Daisy who did not see
him.
"Daisy--my darling--" said Mr. Randolph, when he was gone.
"Papa!--" came in a whisper.
"What is the matter?"
Daisy lifted her face from its resting place and kissed, with kisses
that were like velvet, first one side of her father's mouth and then the
other.
"Papa--Dr. Sandford told me I must keep quiet."
"Well, you shall," said Mr. Randolph. "That is right enough. You shall
keep quiet, and I will go to sleep."
So he did. But he did not loose his hold of Daisy; and she lay, still as
happiness could make her, with her head upon his breast. She knew, she
was conscious, that he must be very feeble yet, to go to sleep in that
way; but she was with him again, and in his arms, and her heart was so
full of joy that it could do nothing but overflow in silent
thanksgivings and prayers. Daisy would not have stirred till he did, no
matter how long it might have been; but there came an interruption. A
door opened, and Mrs. Randolph appeared on the threshold, and so soon as
she saw Daisy beckoned her to come to another room. Mr. Randolph's arms
had relaxed their hold somewhat, and Daisy obeyed the signal and left
him.
Her mother wanted then to know all the story of her days at Mrs.
Sandford's; and Daisy had a good deal to tell. That is, Mrs. Randolph's
questionings made it so. Daisy herself would not have had it a long
story. Then, she must see June, and Joanna; and then came dinner. It was
not till the afternoon was well passed that the call came for her to go
to her father again. Daisy had watched and waited for it; her mother had
forbidden her to go in without it. At last she was sent for, and Daisy
sprang away.
Mrs. Randolph was there.
"No noise!--remember," she said, lifting her finger as Daisy came in.
Daisy came near slowly. Her father held out his hand to her, and folded
her in his arms again.
"You are such a noisy child!" he said,--"your mother does wisely to warn
you."
"She is an excitable child,"--said Mrs. Randolph;--"and I think you want
warning too."
"We will keep each other quiet," said Mr. Randolph.
The lady looked on, with what seemed a doubtful eye. Nobody watched it.
Her husband's eyes were often closed; Daisy's little head lay on his
breast, quiet enough, unless when she moved it to give soft noiseless
kisses to her father's cheek. They remained so a good while, with scarce
any word spoken; and Mrs. Randolph was busy at her tetting. The light
faded; the evening drew on.
"It is time for Daisy's tea." It was the first thing that broke a long
silence.
"She and I will have it together," said Mr. Randolph.
"Will that be best for you, Mr. Randolph?"
"I hope so."
"I doubt it."
"Most things in this world are doubtful," said Mr. Randolph; "but we
will try."
"Will you choose to have tea now, then?"
"Now?--no."
"This is Daisy's time."
"Very well. She must wait for my time."
Not a word did Daisy say; only little alternate throbs of joy and fear,
as her father or her mother spoke, passed through her heart. Mrs.
Randolph gave it up; and there was another hour of quiet, very sweet to
Daisy. Then lights were brought, and again Mrs. Randolph proposed, to
have the tea served; but again Mr. Randolph negatived her proposal; and
things remained as they were. At last Mrs. Randolph was summoned to
preside at the tea-table down stairs; for even now there were one or two
guests at Melbourne. Then there was a stir in the room up stairs. The
tray came with Mr. Randolph's supper; and Daisy had the delight of
sharing it and of being his attendant in chief. He let her do what she
would; and without being unquiet, Daisy and her father enjoyed
themselves over that entertainment.
"Now I think I could bear a little reading," said Mr. Randolph, as he
laid his head back on his couch.
"What, papa?" said Daisy, a sudden hope starting into some dark corner
of her heart, almost without her knowing it.
"What?--what you please."
"Shall I read what, I like, papa?"
"Yes. If I do not like it, I will tell you."
Daisy ran away and flew through the rooms to her own, and there hastily
sought her Bible. She could not wait to get another; she took her own
and ran back softly with it. Her father's languid eye watched the little
white figure coming towards him, book in hand; the gentle eager step,
the slight flush on the cheek; till she took her seat beside him.
"What have you got there, Daisy?" he asked.
"Papa--my Bible."
"Well--what are you going to read?"
"I don't know, papa--" said Daisy doubtfully. What would come next?
"Do you remember your picture, the 'Game of Life'?"
"Yes, papa."
"Do you remember your talk about good and evil spirits?"
"Yes, sir."
"Find me the grounds of your philosophy."
Daisy thought what that might mean, and guessed at it. She turned to the
twenty-fifth chapter of Matthew, a favourite chapter, and read the
parable of the sheep and the goats. The servant had withdrawn; Daisy
and her father were alone. There was a moment's pause when she had done.
"Is that all?" said Mr. Randolph.
"That is all of _this_, papa."
"There is nothing there about the rejoicings of the good spirits,"--said
Mr. Randolph.
Daisy's fingers trembled, she hardly knew why, as she turned over the
leaves to find the place. Her father watched her.
"Are you sure it is there, Daisy?"
"O yes, papa--it is in the story of the man with a hundred sheep--I will
find it directly."
So she did, and read the parable in the fifteenth chapter of Luke. Her
father listened with shut eyes, while the child's voice gave the words
in a sort of sweet clear gravity.
"'Then drew near unto him all the publicans and sinners for to hear him.
And the Pharisees and scribes murmured, saying, This man receiveth
sinners, and eateth with them. And he spake this parable unto them,
saying, What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of
them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after
that which is lost, until he find it? And when he hath found it, he
layeth it on his shoulders, rejoicing. And when he cometh home, he
calleth together his friends and neighbours, saying unto them, Rejoice
with me; for I have found my sheep which was lost. I say unto you, that
likewise joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more
than over ninety and nine just persons, which need no repentance. Either
what woman, having ten pieces of silver, if she lose one piece, doth not
light a candle, and sweep the house, and seek diligently till she find
it? And when she hath found it, she calleth her friends and her
neighbours together, saying, Rejoice with, me; for I have found the
piece which I had lost. Likewise I say unto you, there is joy in the
presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth.'"
There Daisy stopped, and there was silence. Presently her father opened
his eyes. He saw that hers were full, but they were not looking at her
book, neither at him; they were gazing away at the light, with an
intent, very serious expression.
"Daisy!--" said her father.
She came back instantly to a sweet happy look at him.
"What were you studying?"
"Papa!--I was thinking--"
"What were you thinking?"
"I was thinking, papa," said Daisy unwillingly,--"how strange it is that
anybody should try to _hide himself from God_."
She started a little and rose up, for her mother stood on the other side
of the light now. Mrs. Randolph's voice was a note belonging to another
chord.
"Daisy, it is your bedtime."
"Yes, mamma."
Mr. Randolph made no attempt to hinder his wife's arrangements this
time. Daisy exchanged a very tender good-night with him and then went
away. But she went away very happy. She thought she saw good days
coming.
There were good days that followed that one, for a while. Daisy's
readings and sweet companionship with her father were constant, and grew
sweeter as he grew stronger. But the strengthening process was not
rapid. About a fortnight had passed, when Mrs. Sandford one day made
enquiry about it of her brother-in-law.
"Slow work--" said the doctor.
"He will get over it, won't he?"
"I hope he will."
"But cannot anything be done for him, Grant?"
"He is going to do the best thing. He is going to Europe."
"To Europe!--This winter?"
"Now, in a few weeks, or less."
"It will be good for your pet Daisy."
"Doubtfully--" said the doctor with a very complicated expression of
face; but he was taking off his boot at the moment, and maybe it
pinched him. "She will not go."
"Not go! Daisy! Does not her mother go?"
"Yes."
"And not Daisy? Why not Daisy?"
"She gives so much trouble--" said the doctor.
"Trouble!--I thought her parents were so fond of her."
"Mr. Randolph is unequal to any agitation; and Mrs. Randolph regulates
everything."
"But wouldn't it be good for Daisy?"
"I think so."
"Poor child! What will they do with her?"
"Send her to a Southern plantation, under care of a governess, as I
understand."
"It will half kill Daisy," said Mrs. Sandford.
"It takes a great deal to kill people," said the doctor.
"I do not know how to believe you," said the lady. "Is it all fixed and
settled. Grant?"
"They leave Melbourne next week."
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's Melbourne House, Volume 2, by Susan Warner