little constrained. I was very sorry, and could not help it.
"Papa - I think - Don't you think, Mr. Marshall has the most
principle?"
"Do you always like people best that are the best, Daisy?"
said papa laughing. "Because, I confess I have a wicked
perverseness to do the other way."
After this conversation I seemed to see several clouds rising
on my horizon in different quarters. I thought it was wisest
not to look at them; but there was one that cast a shadow
always on the spot where I was. It was so long since I had
heard from Mr. Thorold! I had told him he must not write to
me; but at the same time he had said that he would, and that
he would enclose a letter to my father. Neither letter had
come. It was easy to account for; he might not have had a
chance to write; or in the confusions at home, his despatch
might have been detained somewhere; it might reach me after a
long interval, or it might never reach me! There was nothing
strange about it; there was something trying. The hunger of my
heart for one word from him or of him, grew sometimes
rapacious; it was a perpetual fast day with me, and nature
cried out for relief. _That_ cloud cast a shadow always over me
now; only except when now and then a ray from the eternal
sunshine found a rift in the cloud, or shot below it, and for
a moment my feet stood in light. I had letters from the
Sandfords; I had even one from Miss Cardigan; it did me a
great deal of good, but it broke my heart too.
Mamma and I kept off the subject of the great world for a
while; I think my father purposely prolonged our stay at
Geneva, to favour my pleasure; and I hoped something after all
might prevent the discussion of that subject between mamma and
me, at least for the present. So something did.
I came down one afternoon to the green bank behind the house,
where a table stood, and where we took our meals when the
weather was fine. Our three young men were around it and the
air was fragrant with the fumes of their cigars. The cigars of
two of them were tossed away on my appearance. Ransom held his
in abeyance.
"I did not know you were here," I said, "or I should have
scrupled about interrupting anything so pleasant."
"You do not think it pleasant, confess, Miss Randolph," said
De Saussure, drawing near to look over the progress of my
work.
"Do you dislike it, honestly, Miss Randolph?" said Hugh
Marshall.
"I don't dislike sugar-plums," I said.
"Daisy likes nothing that ordinary people like," cried Ransom.
"I pity the man that will marry you, Daisy! He will live
within a hedge-row of restrictions. You have lived among
Puritans till you're blue."
I lifted my eyes to Ransom without speaking. What there was in
my look, I do not know; but they all laughed.
"What connection is there between cigars and sugar-plums?"
Hugh Marshall asked next.
"None, I suppose," I said. "Only, - what would you think of a
lady who sat down regularly to eat sugar-plums three or four
times a day and the last thing before going to bed? and who
evidently could not live without them."
"But why not take a sugar-plum, or a cigar, as well as other
things - wine, or fruit, for instance?" said Marshall.
"It is an indulgence - but we all allow ourselves indulgences
of one sort or another."
"Besides, with a lady it is different," said De Saussure. "We
poor fellows have nothing better to do, half the time."
I had no wish to lecture Mr. De Saussure, but I could not help
looking at him, which again seemed to rouse their amusement.
"You seem to say, that is an insignificant way of life," Hugh
Marshall added.
"We'll try for something better to-morrow," said De Saussure.
"We have laid a plan to go to see the lake of Annecy, Miss
Randolph, if we can secure your company and approbation. It
will just take the day; and I propose that each one of us
shall go prepared to instruct the others, at luncheon, as to
his or her views of the worthiest thing a man can do with his
life; - cigars being banished."
"Cigars are not banished yet," said Ransom, taking delicate
whiffs of his own, which sent a fragrant wreath of blue smoke
curling about his face.
"What do you say, Miss Randolph?" Hugh asked.
"Wouldn't you like to see the house of Eugene Sue?" said De
Saussure.
"Who was Eugene Sue?" was my counter question; and they
laughed again, our two friends with sparkling eyes.
"Look here, Daisy!" said Ransom, suddenly bringing down his
chair on four feet and sitting upright, - "I wish you would
put an end to this indulgence of sight-seeing and your
society, and send these gentlemen home with me. I must go, and
they ought to go too and do their duty. A word from you would
send either of them straight to Beauregard's headquarters.
Talk of indulgences!"
"I do not wish to send either of them there," was my
incautious answer.
"Do you think it is always wrong to fight?" De Saussure asked.
I said no, with an internal shiver running through me from
head to foot. They went into a mutual gratulation on the
causes for fighting that existed on the part of the Southern
States, and the certainty that the warlike spirit of the North
would "die off like a big fungus," as one of them phrased it.
I could not discuss the point with them, and I got away as
soon as it could gracefully be done.
But something in this little talk, or in what went before it,
had unsettled me; and I slept little that night. Anxieties
which had lain pretty still, and pain which had been rather
quiet, rose up together and shook me. My Bible reading had
given me a word which for a time helped the confusion. "No man
that warreth entangleth himself with the affairs of this life,
that he may please Him who hath chosen him to be a soldier."
Not to be entangled with the affairs of this life! - and my
heart and soul were in a whirl of them; I might say, in a
snarl. And true the words were. How could I please Him who had
chosen me to be a soldier, with my heart set on my own
pleasure, and busy with my own fears? I knew I could not. The
quiet subjection of spirit with which I left Washington, I had
in a measure lost at Lucerne. Somehow, opposition had roused
me; and the great distance and the impossibility of hearing
had made my imagination restless; and the near probability
that mamma would not favour our wishes had caused me to take a
sort of life and death grasp of them. The management of
myself, that I had resigned, I found I had not resigned it;
but my heart was stretching out yearning hands to Thorold and
crying for a sight of him. Meanwhile, the particular work that
I had to do in Switzerland had been little thought of. What
was it?
I spent that night waking. My room looked not to the lake, but
over an extent of greensward and orchards, lit up now by a
bright moon. I knelt at my window, with a strong recollection
of former times, and a vain look back at my little old self,
the childish Daisy, whose window at Melbourne, over the
honeysuckles, had been so well used and had entertained such a
quiet little heart. Then there had been Miss Pinshon's Daisy;
but all the Daisies that I could remember had been quiet
compared to this one. Must joy take such close hold on sorrow?
Must hopes always be twin with such fears? - I asked amid
bitter tears. But tears do one good; and after a little
indulgence of them, I brought myself up to look at my duty.
What was it?
I might love, and fear, and hope; but I must not be
"entangled." Not so concerned about myself, either for sorrow
or joy, that I should fail in anything to discern the Lord's
will, or be unready, or be slow, to do it. Not so but that my
heart should be free, looking to God for its chief strength
and joy always and everywhere, - yes, and holding my hopes at
his hand, to be given up if he called them back. With Thorold
parted from me, in the thick of the war struggle, almost
certain to be rejected by both my father and my mother, could
I have and keep such a disentangled heart? The command said
yes, and I knew there were promises that said yes too; but for
a time I was strangely unwilling. I had a sort of
superstitious feeling, that the giving up of my will about
these things, and of my will's hold of them, would be a
preliminary to their being taken away from me in good earnest.
And I trembled and wept and shrank, like the coward I was.
"And if a man also strive for masteries, yet is he not
crowned, except he strive lawfully."
"God's way is the way," I said to myself, - "and there is no
other. I know, in what I said to mamma that afternoon about
dressing and going into the world, it was not all principle.
There was a mixture of selfish disinclination to go into
society, because of Mr. Thorold and my feeling about him. My
thoughts and will are all in a tangle; and they must be
disentangled."
The struggle was long and sore that night. Worse than in
Washington; because here I was alone among those who did not
favour Mr. Thorold, and were opposed in everything to his and
my views and wishes. Temptation said, that it was forsaking
their cause, to give up my will about them. But there is no
temptation that takes us and God has not provided a way of
escape. The struggle was sharp; but when the dawn broke over
the orchards and replaced the glory of the moonlight, my heart
was quiet again. I was bent, before all things, upon doing the
will of God; and had given up myself and all my hopes entirely
to His disposal. They were not less dear hopes for that,
though now the rest of my heart was on something better; on
something which by no change or contingency can disappoint or
fail. I was disentangled. I stood free. And I was happier than
I had been in many a long day. "The peace of God." If people
could only possibly know what that means!
CHAPTER XII.
AN ENGAGEMENT
The expedition to Annecy had been determined on, and papa and
mamma were to go. I went in a carriage with them, while the
others were on horseback; so I had a nice quiet time, which
suited me; a time of curious secret enjoyment. It seemed as if
a gratulation came to me from every blade of grass and every
ray of sunlight; because I was a servant of God, and as wholly
given up to do His will as they were. There was communion
between them and me. Of those "ministers of His, that do His
pleasure," I would be one; to do what He had for me to do in
the world, should be my care and joy at once; and the care of
myself - I left it to Him. One goes light when one does not
carry that burden.
"Daisy, you are dreadfully sober," said mamma.
"Not _dreadfully_, mamma, I hope," I said with a smile.
"You are pale too," she went on. "Mr. Randolph, Daisy thinks
too much."
"It is an old weakness of hers," said papa. "I am afraid it is
beyond our reach, Felicia."
"I will break it up for to-day," said mamma as the carriage
stopped and Mr. De Saussure came to the steps. "Charles, Daisy
has got into a brown study. I give her to you in charge, not
to allow anything of the sort again till we get home. And
order luncheon at once, will you. I can't go walking or sight-
seeing without that."
Mr. de Saussure gave me his arm and took me with him, as he
said, to help about the luncheon. It was soon spread out of
doors, beneath the shade of some large trees, and we gathered
round it in holiday mood. Bread was sweet, with that page of
beauty spread out before my eyes all the time; - for between
the boles of the trees and under their hanging branches I
could see the glittering waters of the lake and a bit of its
distant shore. I did not go into a brown study, however, not
wishing to give occasion to Mr. De Saussure's good offices. I
thought he had quite enough enjoyed his charge during the
business before luncheon. To my disappointment, after the meal
papa declared himself tired and went to lie down.
"We have forgotten our agreement," said Mr. De Saussure. "At
luncheon, we were all to tell, Mrs. Randolph, what we think
the worthiest thing to live for."
"Were we?" said mamma. "That sounds like one of Daisy's
problems."
"It is not hers, however," he rejoined; "any further than that
I am mainly curious to know what she will say about it."
"You ought to be equally anxious about my opinion, it seems to
me," mamma said.
"Do I not know it already? Pour la patrie, - does anything go
before that in your mind? Honestly, Mrs. Randolph, - is it not
in your opinion the worthiest thing anybody can do, to fight,
or to die - still better, - for the independence of the
South?"
"You do not think so," said mamma, "or you would be there."
"I am selfish, and have selfish hopes and fears. But you think
so?"
"Let us hear what you consider the worthiest object of life,"
said mamma.
"It is not my turn. Miss Randolph, your mother has spoken -
the next honour belongs to you."
"The worthiest object of life?" I said. "Is that the
question?"
"It will not be a question, when you have answered it," De
Saussure said gallantly.
"You will not like my answer," I said. "I should think it
would be, To please God."
"But that is not an answer, pardon me. Of course, the Supreme
Being is pleased to see people following the worthiest object;
and the question is, What is the _worthiest?_"
I did not like to hear Mr. De Saussure's tongue touch themes
where it was not at home. The conversation was too serious for
light handling; but I could not get out of it.
"You will find that my answer includes all," I said. "It is
impossible to lay down a rule, as to particulars, that will
fit all cases. It is the best thing one man can do, to lay
down his life for his country; the best thing another man can
do is to stay at home and devote himself to the care of an
infirm mother or father; but in either case, for God."
"I do not understand -" said Mr. Marshall.
"Suppose the one goes to the battlefield for his own glory,
and the other stays at home for his own ease?"
"Don't you think glory is a thing to live for?" said Ransom,
with an indignant expression that reminded me painfully of our
childish days.
"Yes," I said slowly, - "I do; but not the praise of men,
which is so often mistaken. The glory that comes from God, -
_that_ is worth living for."
"What an incomprehensible girl you are!" Ransom answered
impatiently.
"She'll mend -" said mamma.
"But, Miss Randolph," said Mr. Marshall, "the care of infirm
relatives, a father or a mother, can anything make that
unworthy?"
"Not in itself," I said; "but suppose a man's duty calls him
away? It might. You can suppose such a case."
"I see what I have to expect," mamma said with a laugh. "Daisy
will take care of me, until some duty calls her away. I will
not count upon you, Daisy, any longer than that. De Saussure,
what is _your_ estimate of life's objects? On honour, now!"
"I can think of nothing better than to live for somebody that
one loves," he said.
"I knew you would say that," she rejoined. "Hugh, what do you
say?"
"I need to go to school, Mrs. Randolph."
"Well, go to school to Daisy," said mamma with another light
laugh. "And come, let us walk, or we shall not have time.
Eugne Sue, is it, that we are going to see?"
"Only his house, madam. Miss Randolph, I am charged, you know,
with your studies to-day."
I was not in the mood of accepting Mr. De Saussure's arm, but
just then it was the only thing to do. My mother and Ransom
and Hugh Marshall were presently some little distance behind,
an interval separating us; and Mr. De Saussure and I followed
the shores of the lake, taking such counsel together as our
somewhat diverse moods made possible. I was thinking, what a
life of hard work the two prophets Elijah must have known in
their time; he who was first of the name, and his greater
successor, John the Baptist. Each of them worked alone,
against a universal tide of adverse evil that flooded the
land. If I found it so sorrowful to be alone in my family and
society, what must they have felt with the whole world against
them. And Elijah's spirit did once give out, brave as he was:
"It is enough, O Lord; take away my life." I thought I could
understand it. To be all alone; to have no sympathy in what is
dearest to you; to face opposition and scorn and ridicule and
contumely while trying to do people good and bring them to
good; to have only God on your side, with the bitter
consciousness that those whom you love best are arrayed
against him; your family and country; - I suppose nobody can
tell how hard that is to endure, but he who has tasted it. My
taste of it was light indeed; but a half hour with Miss
Cardigan would have been inexpressibly good to me that day. So
I thought, as I walked along the bank of the lake with Mr. De
Saussure; and then I remembered "my hiding-place and my
shield."
"You are very silent to-day, Miss Randolph," said my companion
at length. I may remark, in passing, that _he_ had not been.
"It is enough to look, and to think," I answered, "with such a
sight before one's eyes."
"Do you know," said he, "such independence of all the exterior
world, - of mortals, I mean, - is very tantalising to those
disregarded mortals?"
"Do you find it so? It is fair then to presume, in a place
like this, that what takes up my attention has not so much
charm for you."
"That is severe!" he said. "Do you think I do not see all this
beauty before us? But pardon me, - have _you_ seen it?"
"I have tasted it every step of the way, Mr. De Saussure."
"I am rebuked," he said. "You must excuse me - I had counted
upon the pleasure of seeing you enjoy it."
"One's enjoyment is not always heightened by giving it
expression," I said.
"No, I know that is your theory - or practice," he said. "My
sisters are always so vehement in their praises of anything
they like, that nobody else has a chance to know whether he
likes it or not. I generally incline to the _not_."
I added no remark upon Mr. De Saussure's or his sisters'
peculiar way of enjoying themselves.
"But you _are_ uncommonly silent," he went on presently; -
"_triste_, _rêveuse_. It is impossible not to suffer from it, - in
one who values your words as much as I do."
"Why, I thought you were apt to look upon things from a
different point of view, - not from mine," I said.
"I must be wrong then - always. Miss Randolph, you are of a
gentle and kind disposition, - I wish you would be my Mentor!"
"I am not old enough to be Mentor," I said.
"To be mine! Yes, you are," he rejoined eagerly. "I would not
have you a day older."
"I shall be that to-morrow," I said, laughing.
"But if you were mine," he said, changing his tone, "every day
would only add to your power and your qualifications for doing
me good. And I know that is what you love."
"I cannot see that I have done you the least good, so far, Mr.
De Saussure," I said, amused. "I think you must be mistaken."
"Will you try, Daisy?" he said insinuatingly, and stopping
short in our walk.
"Try what, Mr. De Saussure?" I said, beginning to be
bewildered.
"Surely you know! You are a little cruel. But you have the
right. Be my Mentor - be my darling - promise to be, one of
these days, my wife."
I dropped my arm from Mr. De Saussure's and stood in a maze, I
might say with truth, frightened. Up to that minute, no
suspicion of his purpose or mind regarding me had entered my
thoughts. I suppose I was more blind than I ought to have
been; and the truth was, that in the utter preoccupation of my
own heart, the idea that I could like anybody else but Mr.
Thorold, or that anybody else could like me, had been simply
out of sight. I knew myself so thoroughly beyond anybody's
reach, the prior possession of the ground was so perfect and
settled a thing, that I did not remember it was a fact hidden
from other eyes but mine. And I had gone on in my supposed
walled-in safety; - and here was somebody presuming within the
walls, who might allege that I had left the gate open.
However, to do Mr. De Saussure justice, I never doubted for a
moment that his heart might be in any danger of breaking if I
thrust him out. But for all that, I lost my breath in the
first minute of discovery of what I had been doing.
"You hesitate," said he. "You shall command me, Daisy. I will
go instantly, hard as it would be, and give all my power to
furthering the war at home; - or, if you bid me, I will keep
out of it, which would be harder still, were you not here
instead of there. Speak, won't you, -a good word for me?"
"You must do nothing at my command, Mr. de Saussure," I said.
"I have known you only as mamma's and my brother's friend; - I
never thought you had any other feeling; and I had no other
towards you."
"Mrs. Randolph _is_ my friend," he said eagerly. "She does me
the honour to wish well to my suit. She looks at it, not with
my eyes, but with the eyes of prudence; and she sees the
advantages that such an arrangement would secure. I believe
she looks at it with patriotic eyes too. You know my estates
are nearly adjoining to yours. I may say too, that our
families are worthy one of another. But there, I am very
conscious, my worthiness ends. I am not personally deserving
of your regard - I can only promise under your guidance to
become so."
A light broke upon me.
"Mr. De Saussure" - I began; but he said hastily, "Let us go
on - they are coming near us;" and I took his offered arm
again, not wishing more than he to have spectators or hearers
of our talk; and now that the talk was begun, I wished to end
it.
"Mr. de Saussure," I said, "you are under a serious mistake.
You speak of my estates; I must inform you that I shall never,
under any circumstances, be an heiress. Whoever marries me -
if I ever marry - will marry a poor girl."
"Pardon me -" he began.
"Yes," said I interrupting him; - "I know of what I speak."
"What can you mean, Miss Randolph?"
"I assure you, I mean exactly what I say. Pray take it so."
"But I do not understand you."
"Understand this, - that I shall be a penniless woman; or
something very like it. I am making no jest. I am no heiress -
as people think."
"But you confound me, Miss Randolph," he said, looking both
curious and incredulous. "May I ask, what can be the
explanation of your words? I know your Magnolia property - and
it is, I assure you, a very noble one, and unencumbered.
Nothing can hinder you from inheriting it - at some, we hope,
of course, very distant day."
"Nevertheless," I said, "if I live to see that day, I shall be
very poor, Mr. De Saussure."
"You will condescend to explain so extraordinary a statement?"
"Is not my word sufficient?"
"Pardon me, a thousand times; but you must see that I am in a
difficulty. Against your word I have the word of two others -
your mother and your brother, who both assure me of the
contrary. May it not be, that they know best?"
"No, Mr. De Saussure; for the fact depends on something out of
their knowledge."
"It is out of my knowledge too," he said.
I hesitated a little, and then said, -
"I will explain myself, Mr. De Saussure, trusting to your
honour to keep silence about it. I am a friend of the coloured
people."
"Oh! - So are we all," he said.
"And I will never be rich at their expense."
"By their means, is not necessarily at their expense," he said
gently.
"It is at their expense," I repeated. "I do not choose to be
rich so. And the religion I live by, forbids me to do to
others as I would not like they should do to me."
"I am sure, by that rule, your dependants at Magnolia would
implore you not to give them over to other hands. They will
never have so kind a mistress. Don't you see?" he said with
the same insinuating gentleness.
"I shall give them over to no other hands. I would make them
as free as myself."
"Make them free!"
"That is what I would do."
"You cannot mean it," he said.
"You see, Mr. De Saussure, that I shall be very poor."
"You are playing with me."
"I am very serious."
"It is rank Northern madness!" he said to himself. "And it is
Mrs. Randolph's daughter. The thing is impossible."
"It _is_ Mrs. Randolph's daughter," I said, withdrawing my hand
from his arm. "I pray you not to forget it."
"Pray, forgive me!" he said eagerly. "I was bewildered, and am
yet. I did not know where I was. It seems to me I cannot have
heard you aright."
"Quite right, Mr. De Saussure."
"But just reflect!" he said. "These creatures, whose cause you
are advocating, they are but half human; they cannot take care
of themselves; their very happiness is identified with their
present position."
"It is not the view they take of it."
"They are incapable of forming any judgment on the matter."
"At least they know what _they_ mean by happiness," I said; "and
in their mouths it is not a synonym with slavery. And if your
words are true, Mr. De Saussure, in the case of some of those
poor people, - and I know they are, - it is one of the worst
things that can be said of the system. If some of them are
brought so low as to be content with being slaves, we have
robbed them of their humanity."
"It is absolutely Northern radicalism!" said Mr. De Saussure
to himself.
"No," I said, - "it is Christian justice and mercy."
"You will allow me to represent to you, without any
presumption, that there are very many Christians, both at the
South and North, who do not look at the matter with your
eyes."
"I suppose they have never really seen it," I answered sadly.
"People that have always lived close to something, often do
not know what it is. My father has never seen it - nor, my
mother. _I_ have."
"They would not agree with you; your views would not harmonise
with theirs."
"And therefore I trust to your honour to keep silence
respecting mine."
"I am bound," he answered gloomily; and we walked a few
minutes in silence.
"You will change your manner of thinking, Miss Randolph," he
began again. "Yours is the vision of inexperienced eyes and of
impulsive generosity. It will not remain what it is."
"Inexperienced eyes see the clearest," I answered. "The habit
of wrong is no help towards judging of the right."
"You will think differently by and by."
"Not while I am a servant of God and He commands me to break
every yoke, to do as I would be done by, to look not on my own
things, but also on the things of others. We owe our poor
people not liberty only, but education, and every advantage
for restored civilisation; - a great long debt."
"And is this the reason why you will not look favourably on my
suit?" he said after another interval.
"It is a reason why you will not wish to prosecute it, Mr. De
Saussure."
"You are very severe!" he said. "Do you really think that?"
"You know it is true. I do not wish to be severe."
"Have you then no kindness for me?"
"Why do you ask?"
"You are so dreadfully calm and cool!" he said. "One has no
chance with you. If this matter were not in the way, would you
have any kindness for me, Daisy? Is this all that separates
us?"
"It is quite enough, Mr. De Saussure. It is as powerful with
you as with me."
"I am too late, I suppose!" he said, as it seemed to me,
rather spitefully. As he was too late, it was no use to tell
him he could never have been early enough. I was silent; and
we walked on unenjoyingly. Vexation was working in his
countenance, and a trace of that same spite; I was glad when
we came to the end of our way and the other members of our
party closed up and joined us.
As I cared nothing for the house they had come to see, I
excused myself from going any nearer, and sat down upon the
bank at a little distance while they gratified their
curiosity. The view of the lake and lake shores here was very
lovely; enough to satisfy any one for a long while; but now,
my thoughts only rested there for a minute, to make a spring
clear across the Atlantic. Mr. Thorold was very close to me,
and I was very far from him; that was the burden of my heart.
So close to me he had been, that I had never dreamed any one
could think of taking his place. I saw I had been a simpleton.
Up to that day I had no suspicion that Mr. De Saussure liked
me more than would be convenient; and indeed I had no fear now
of his heart being broken; but I saw that his unlucky suit
made a complication in my affairs that they certainly did not
need. - Mamma approved it; yes, I had no doubt of that. I knew
of a plantation of his, Briery Bank, only a few miles distant
from Magnolia and reputed to be very rich in its incomings.
And, no doubt Mr. De Saussure would have liked the
neighbourhood of Magnolia, and to add its harvest to his own.
And all the while I belonged to Mr. Thorold, and nobody else
could have me. My thoughts came back to that refrain with a
strong sense of pain and gladness. However, the gladness was
the strongest. How lovely the lake was, with its sunlit hills!
In the midst of my musings, Hugh Marshall came and threw
himself on the ground at my side. I welcomed him with a smile;
for I liked him; he was a friend; and I thought, - This one
does not want me at any rate. I was a great simpleton, I
suppose.
"I was afraid you had deserted me to-day," he said.
"I am sure, it is I who might rather have thought that of
you," I answered; and indeed I had wished for his company more
than once.
"You could not have thought it!" he said.
"Have you satisfied your curiosity with Eugene Sue's house?"
"I do not care to look at anything that you don't like," he
replied.
"Cigars? -" I suggested.
"No indeed. If you disapprove of them, I shall have no more
fellowship with them."
"That is going quite too far, Mr. Marshall. A man should never
give up anything that he does not disapprove of himself."
"Not to please somebody he wishes to please?"
"Of course," I said, thinking of Mr. Thorold, - "there might
be such cases. But in general."
"This is one of the cases. I wish to please you."
"Thank you," I said earnestly. "But indeed, I should be more
pleased to have you follow your own sense of right than any
notion of another, even of myself."
"You are not like any other woman I ever saw," he said
smiling. "Do you know, they all have a passion for command?
There are De Saussure's mother and sisters, - they do not
leave him a moment's peace, because he is not at home
fighting."
I was silent, and hoped that Mr. De Saussure's friends might
now perhaps get him away from Geneva at least.
"You think with them, that he ought to go?" Hugh Marshall said
presently with a shadow, I thought, on his words.
"I would not add one more to the war," I answered.
"Your mother does not think so."
"No."
"Mrs. Randolph has almost signified to me that her favour will
depend on my taking such a course, and doing all I can to help
on the Confederacy."
"Yes, I know," I said rather sadly; "mamma feels very strongly
about it."
"You do not?"
"Yes, Mr. Marshall, I do; but it is in a different way."
"I wish you would explain," he said earnestly.
"But I do not like to set myself in opposition to mamma; and
you ought to do what you yourself think right, Mr. Marshall;
not what either of us thinks."
"What do _you_ think is right?" he repeated eagerly.
"My thoughts do not make or unmake anything."
"They make - they will make, if you will let them - the rule
of my life," he answered. "I have no dearer wish."
I was struck with dismay.
"Please do not say that!" I said trembling. "My thoughts
should rule only my own life; not anybody, else's."
"One more!" said Hugh Marshall. "They must rule one more.
There will be one, somewhere, whose highest pleasure will be
to please you, as long as he has a life to give to it. - Will
you take mine?" he said after a pause and in a lower tone. "I
offer it to you undividedly."
It cannot be told, the sickness of heart which came over me.
The mistake I had made in my blindness, the sorrowfulness of
it, the pain I must give, the mischief it might do, I saw it
all at once. For a while, I could not find words to speak.
Hugh studied my face, and must have seen no ground of hope
there, for he did not speak either. He was quite silent and
left it to me. Oh, Lake of Annecy! what pain comes to me now
with the remembrance of your sweet waters.
I turned at last and laid my hand upon Hugh's arm. He did not
mistake me; he took my hand in his, and stood looking at me
with a face as grave as my own.
"What is the matter, Daisy?" he said sorrowfully.
"I have made a miserable mistake!" I said. "Cannot we be
friends, Mr. Marshall? - dear friends, and nothing more?"
"Why 'nothing more'?"
"I can be no more to you," I answered.
"Why not?"
"I have not the feeling. I have not the power. I would, if I
could."
"It is I who have made a mistake," he said, as he dropped my
hand.
"No, it is I," I said bitterly. "I have been childishly wrong.
I have been foolish. It never entered my thought, that you -
or anybody - liked me, except as a friend."
"And he got your heart without your knowing it?"
"Who?" said I, frightened.
"De Saussure, of course."
"De Saussure! No indeed. I would a thousand times rather give
it to you, Hugh. But, I cannot."
"Then it will come," said he, taking my hand again; "if you
can say that, it will come. I will wait."
"No, it will not come," I said, as we looked one another in
the face. "I can be only a friend. May I not be that?"
He eyed me keenly, I saw, and my eyes for a moment fell. He
let go my hand again.
"Then, I understand," - he said. "Shall we go? I believe it is
time."
"Where is mamma?" I asked, looking about in some bewilderment
now.
"Mrs. Randolph and the rest have gone on; they are some
distance ahead of us by this time."
And what were they all thinking too, by this time! In great
dismay I turned to go after them with my unwelcome companion.
We walked in silence; I blaming myself greatly for stupidness
and blindness and selfish preoccupation, which had made me
look at nobody's affairs but my own; and grieving sadly too
for the mischief I had done.
"Mayn't we be friends, Mr. Marshall?" I said somewhat timidly
at last; for I could not bear the silence.
"I can never be anything else," he said. "You may always
command me. But I have not misunderstood you, Daisy? You meant
to tell me that - _some one_ has been more fortunate than I, and
been beforehand with me ?"
"I did not mean to tell you that," I said in a good deal of
confusion.
"But it is true ?" he said, looking searchingly at me.
"Nobody knows it, Hugh," I said. "Not my mother nor my
father."
The silence fell again and again became painful. The others of
our party were well in advance. - We caught no glimpse of them
yet.
"We will be friends, Mr. Marshall?" - I said anxiously.
"Yes, we will be friends, Daisy; but I cannot be a friend near
you. I cannot see you any longer. I shall be a wreck now, I
suppose. You might have made me - anything !"
"You will make yourself a noble name and place in the world,"
I said, laying my hand on his arm. "The name and the place of
a servant of God. Won't you, Hugh? Then you will come to true
joy, and honour - the joy and honour that God gives. Let me
have the joy of knowing that! I have done so much mischief, -
let me know that the mischief is mended."
"What mischief have you done?" he asked, with his voice
roughened by feeling.
"I did not know what I was leading you - and others - into."
"You led to nothing; except as the breath of a rose leads one
to stretch out one's hand for it," he answered. "The rose has
as much design!"
He turned aside hastily, stooped for a little twig that lay on
the roadside, and began assiduously breaking it up. And the
silence was not interrupted again, till we came in sight of
our friends in advance of us, leisurely walking to let us come
up. Then Hugh and I plunged into conversation; but what it was
about I have not the least remembrance. It lasted though, till
we joined company with the rest of our party, and the talk
became general. Still I do not know what we talked about. I
had a feeling of thunder in the air, though the very stillness
of sunlight beauty was on the smooth water and the hilly
shore; and I saw clouds rising and gathering, even though Mont
Blanc as we returned that evening showed rosy hues to its very
summit in the clear heaven. I can hardly tell how, my mother's
manner or something in it, made me sure both of the clouds and
the thunder. It was full of grace, tact and spirit, to such a
point of admiration. Yet I read in it, yes, and in that very
grace and spirit, a certain state of the nervous powers which
told of excitement at work, or a fund of determination
gathering; the electric forces massing somewhere; and this
luminous play only foretold the lightning.
CHAPTER XIII.
A TRUCE
It is odd with what significance little things become endued,
from their connection with other things which are not little.
I remember the white dress mamma wore the next day, and the
red cashmere scarf she had wrapped round her. I remember how
happy and easy the folds of her drapery were, and how I
noticed her graceful slow movements, Surely grace is a natural
attribute of power, even though power be not always graceful;
at least any uncertainty of meaning or manner is fatal to
gracefulness. There was no uncertainty about mamma ever,
unless the uncertainty of carelessness; and that itself
belonged to power. There was no uncertainty in any fold of her
cashmere that morning; in any movement of her person, slow and
reposeful as every movement was. I knew by a sort of instinct
what it all meant. Indeed these were mamma's ordinary
characteristics; only appearing just now with the bloom of
perfection upon them. She was powerful and she knew it; I knew
myself naturally no match for her. It was always very hard for
me to withstand mamma. Nothing but the sense of right ever
gave me courage to do it. But striving for the right, the
Christian is not at his own charges, and has other strength
than his own to depend upon.
"You do not eat, my darling," papa said to me.
"Daisy has too much to think of," said mamma with a sort of
careless significance. "I will have another bit of chicken,
if you please, Mr. Randolph."
"What is she thinking of?"
"Girls' thoughts are unfathomable," said mamma.
"_Is_ it thoughts, Daisy?" said my father.
"I suppose it may be, papa."
"Then I shall do something to break up thinking," he said.
But I knew I must not look for help so. To appeal to one of my
parents against the other, was what it would never answer to
do, even if I could have done it. I felt alone; but I was as
quiet as mamma. I had not so good an appetite.
In the course of the morning she had me up stairs to consider
the matter of dresses and fashions; and we were turning over a
quantity of laces and jewels. Mamma tried one and another set
of stones upon me and in my hair.
"Rubies and pearls are your style," she said at length.
"Diamonds are out of harmony, somehow. You are magnificent,
Daisy; and pearls make you look like the Queen of Sheba. I
cannot imagine why diamonds do hot suit you."
"I do not suit them, mamma."
"Pardon me. You do not know yourself. But girls of your age
never do. That is where mothers are useful, I suppose. Which
is it to be, Daisy?"
"I do not want either, mamma."
"Yes; that is of course too. But which do you like best, of
the two? I suppose you have some preference."
"Mamma, I think I prefer the pearls, but you know -"
Mamma stopped my mouth with a kiss. "Little goose!" she said,
- "I am not talking of pearls. Did I not say what I was
thinking of? I supposed we both had the same thought, Daisy,
and that you would understand me."
"I thought it was pearls and rubies, mamma."
"Well, now you know it is not; and again I come back to my
question, - Which is it to be?"
"Which - of what, mamma?"
"Nonsense, Daisy; - you know."
"I know nothing of any choice that I have to make, ma'am, if
you do not mean about jewels; and of them, as I said, I should
prefer neither."
"You may choose and refuse among jewels," said my mother, -
"and refuse and choose; but among some other things it is
necessary to make a choice and stick to it."
"Yes, mamma; but I am not in such a necessity."
"What choice have you made, then? It is the same thing, Daisy;
only I want to know. Do you not think it is reasonable that I
should know?"
"Please explain yourself, mamma."
"Hugh Marshall, then, and Charles De Saussure. What is your
mind about them?"
"I like them, mamma, as your friends and as mine, - very well,
- but no more."
"Only very well."
"No more, mamma."
"Very well, is a good deal," said mamma coolly. "Which of them
must I like a little more than very well, Daisy?"
"Mamma? -"
"Whoever owns and possesses you, I should wish to like very
much. Which is it to be, Daisy?"
"Neither of these gentlemen, mamma."
"Did De Saussure propose to you yesterday?"
"Yes."
"What did you say to him?"
"I made him understand that he was nothing to me."
"He is something to me," said mamma. "He is one of the first
young men I know, and has one of the finest estates - close by
yours, Daisy."
"Estates are nothing in such a matter, mamma."
"That is like saying that pearls and rubies are nothing on
such a skin as yours," said mamma laughing. "But you may think
of the men, Daisy, and I will think of the estates; that is
all _en règle_."
"I do not wish to think of these men, mamma."
"It is late in the day to say that. You must have thought of
them both, Daisy, and long ago."
"It never entered my head till yesterday, mamma, that either
of them liked me."
"You must have seen it for weeks past."
"I did not, mamma, - I never thought of such a thing as
possible, till yesterday."
"Is it a possible thing," said mamma, "that a daughter of mine
can be such a simpleton? It is time you were married, Daisy,
if you can break hearts like that, without knowing it."
"Better be a simpleton than wicked," I said.
"And that comes to the point," said mamma. "You have most
unaccountably encouraged the addresses of these gentlemen -
and seeing that you did, so have I; - now, to clear both
yourself and me, let your preference be made known. It need
not take you long to make your mind up, I suppose."
"I am very sorry, mamma. I have done wrong; I have been very
foolish; but I cannot do worse. I do not like either of these
gentlemen well enough for what you mean."
"If you have done wrong, you can mend it," said mamma. "Liking
will come fast enough, Daisy; a girl like you does not think
she can like anybody but her father and mother; she finds out
her mistake in time. So will you. I will decide for you, if
you have no choice. Charles De Saussure is my friend, and I
think he is most of a man of the two. I will tell Charles that
you will make him happy by and by."
"No, mamma, I will not. Do not tell him so."
"Do you like Hugh Marshall better?"
"I do not like either of them in the way you mean."
"Do you like Hugh better? Answer me."
"Mamma -"
"No, answer me. A plain answer. Do you like Hugh better?"
"A great deal better; but -"
"That settles it," said mamma. "You shall be Hugh Marshall's
wife. Don't tell me a word against it, Daisy, for I will not
hear you. I do not like Marshall as well, myself, but his
property is even larger, I believe; and as I am not in love, I
may be allowed to think of such things. It is away over on the
Mississippi; but we cannot help that. I will make Hugh happy
to-day, and then - you shall, Daisy."
"No, mamma, - never. It cannot be."
"It must, Daisy. You have compromised yourself, and me. You
have allowed these gentlemen's attentions; you have been seen
everywhere with them; you owe it to yourself and them to
declare your choice of one of them now. You must make up your
mind to it. If you are not in love, it cannot be helped; that
will come in time; but I think you are. Hey, Daisy?" she said,
lifting my chin with her forefinger and looking into my face,
- "isn't it true? Isn't it true? Ah, silly thing! - Eyes that
are wells of sweetness for somebody - for all down they go, -
a mouth that has smiles enough for somebody, - though it
trembles, - and what does this rose leaf mean, that is
stealing over every one of your two cheeks? it is a witness to
somebody, who has brought it there. Go - I know all about it.
You may make your confession to Hugh, if you like it best."
I thought mamma would have broken my heart. I rose up in
despair.
"To-day, Daisy," mamma repeated. "It must be done to-day."
What could I say? I did not know.
"Mamma, it is not as you think. I do not care for Hugh
Marshall."
"Is it De Saussure, then?" she asked, turning quickly upon me.
"No, mamma."
"Is it Preston Gary?" she asked, with a change in her voice.
"No, Oh, no, mamma!"
"Then it is one of these. Daisy, I protest I have not skill
enough to find out _which_ of them; but you know, and that is
sufficient. And they must know too; there can be no more of
this three-cornered game. It is time to put an end to it. I
have read you, if you have not read yourself; and now, my
child, you must be content to let the rose blossom, that you
keep so carefully folded up in its green leaves. One of these
gentlemen will leave us presently; and the other, whichever it
is, I shall consider and treat as your acknowledged suitor;
and so _must you, Daisy_. He will be going home to the war, he
too, in a short time more; and he must go with the distinct
understanding that when the war is over, you will reward him
as he wants to be rewarded. Not; till then, child. You will
have time enough to think about it."
My mother had shut my lips. I was afraid to say anything good
or bad. She had read me; yes, I felt that she had, when she
looked into my face and touched my cheeks and kissed my lips,
which I knew well enough were trembling, as she had said. She
had read me, all but the name in my heart. What if she had
read that? The least movement now on my part might bring it to
the light; what if it came? I did not know what then, and I
was greatly afraid. An old awe of my mother and sense of her
power, as well as knowledge of her invincible determination,
filled me with doubt and fear. She might write to Mr. Thorold
at once and forbid him ever to think of me; she might send him
word that I was engaged to Mr. De Saussure. And indeed I might
also possibly clear my own action to Mr. Thorold; but change
hers, never. My faith failed, I believe. I was like Abraham
when he went into Egypt and feared somebody would kill him to
get possession of his wife. I did not, like him, resort to a
fiction for my safety; but neither did I trust God and dare
tell the truth.
My own will was as good as mamma's. I was not afraid of weakly
yielding some time or other; I was only afraid of her outside
measures.
She resumed her occupation of trying laces and jewels on me;
finally laughed, chucked me under the chin, kissed me, called
me a pretty goose, and bade me go and dress myself "for
whomever I liked best." I went to my room to have the
heartache.
I had given up the management of myself; I was not struggling
now; I knew there would be a way out of all my perplexities
some time; but nevertheless my heart ached. I did dress
myself, however, for that is an important part of a woman's
work; and I went down stairs with a vague hope in my heart
that I might see Hugh and somehow enlist him on my side, so
far at least as to make him delay his departure; though I
could not imagine how I could ask it, nor what I could say to
him of any sort that would benefit me or that would not do him
harm. But I thought in vain. I did not see him. Mr. De
Saussure came, and played chess with me all the evening. I
played very ill, and he won every game, till I thought he
would stop for the very stupidness of it.
Some painful days followed that day; during which mamma
managed to make me accept Mr. De Saussure's attentions in
public and in private. She managed it; I could not escape them
without making a violent protest, and I did not of course
choose that. Hugh Marshall was gone; he had come only to take
a hurried leave of us; suddenly obliged to return home, he
said; "he had lingered too long." Mr. De Saussure's eyes
flashed with I triumph; every line of mamma's face (to me)
expressed satisfaction, of course gracefully concealed from
everybody else. But Hugh and I parted with a great grasp of
the hand, which I am sure came from both our hearts and left
mine very sore. Then he was gone. After that, Mr. De Saussure
took Hugh's place and his own too in our little society; and
for a few days things went on in a train which I knew was
preparing mischief.
Then one night the explosion came. We were out on the lake in
a boat; mamma, Mr. De Saussure, and I; we had gone to see the
colours come and go on the great head of Mont Blanc. In the
glory of the sight, I had forgotten who was with me and where
I was, for the moment; and I was thinking of the colours and
lights of the New Jerusalem, than which those before me seemed
scarcely less unearthly. Thinking, with a pang at the distance
between; with a longing for those pure heights where human
life never casts its flickering shadow; with a cry for Thorold
in my heart, whom every sight of joy or beauty was sure to
bring before me. I was rudely recalled from my momentary
dream, though it was by my mother's soft voice.
"Daisy -"
I started and came back to earth and the Lake of Geneva.
"Mr. De Saussure is going soon to leave us and return home -
you know for what. Before he goes, he desires the satisfaction
of kissing your hand. I suppose he would have liked a little
more, but I have only promised the hand."
"I have explained myself to Mr. De Saussure, mamma; he is
under no mistake."
"So I have told him. He could not ask more than you have given
him; but leaving us for a long while, Daisy, and on such a
service, a little further grace would not be ill bestowed. I
shall give him leave, if you do not," she added laughing; "and
I may give him more than you would like, Daisy."
I think at that minute I felt as if I would like to make one
spring out of this world and all its confusions into that
other world I had been thinking of; but one does not get quit
of one's troubles so easily. That minute on the Lake of Geneva
was one of the _ugliest_ I have ever known. Mamma was smooth and
determined; Mr. De Saussure looked triumphant and expectant;
for a moment my heart shrank, but I do not think I showed it
outwardly.
"Daisy -" said mamma, smiling.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Mr. De Saussure is waiting. Will you speak the word? - or
shall I?"
"I have spoken to Mr. De Saussure," I said, coldly.
"Not very clearly. He understands you better now."
"Permit me to say," put in blandly Mr. De Saussure, - "that I
am rejoiced to find I did _not_ understand you at a former
conversation we held together. Mrs. Randolph has been my kind
interpreter. You will not _now_ refuse me?" he said, as he
endeavoured to insinuate his fingers into mine.
"Kiss her, Charles!" said mamma; "she is a coy girl. I give
you leave."
And before I could anticipate or prevent it, Mr. De Saussure's
arm was round me and the salute was given. I think mamma
really thought she could bestow me away as she pleased. I am
sure she had no idea of the nature she was combating. Nobody
had ever withstood her successfully; she did not think that I
could be the first. But this little thing - it was not a
little thing to me at the time - cut the knot of my
difficulties. Released from Mr. De Saussure's encircling arm,
I removed myself to the other side of the boat and drew my
shawl round me. I do not know what significance was in my
action, but mamma said, "Nonsense!"
"I have not offended, have I?" said Mr. De Saussure.
"Remember, I had liberty."
"Mamma," I said, "if you will sit a little further that way,
you will restore the balance of the boat."
"Which you have entirely disarranged, Daisy," she said as she
moved herself.
"Daisy will acknowledge I had liberty," Mr. De Saussure
repeated.
"Mamma," I said, "don't you think it is growing chill?"
"Row us home, Charles," said my mother. "And, Daisy, don't be
a fool. Mr. De Saussure had liberty, as he says."
"I do not acknowledge it, ma'am."
"You must give her line, Charles," mamma said, half laughing
but vexed. "She is a woman."
"I hope she will grant me forgiveness," he said. "She must
remember, I _thought_ I had liberty."
"I shall not forget," I answered. "I understand, that respect
for me failed before respect for my mother."
"But! -" he began.
"Be quiet, Charles," my mother interrupted him. "Pull us to
shore; and let fits of perverseness alone till they go off.
That is my counsel to you."
And the remainder of our little voyage was finished in
profound silence. I knew mamma was terribly vexed, but at the
same time I was secretly overjoyed; for I saw that she yielded
to me, and I knew that I should have no more trouble with Mr.
De Saussure.
I did not. He lingered about for a few days longer, in moody
style, and then went away and I saw him no more. During those
days I had nothing to do with him. But my mother had almost as
little to do with me. She was greatly offended; and also, I
saw, very much surprised. The woman Daisy could not be quite
the ductile thing the child Daisy had been. I took refuge with
papa whenever I could.
"What is all this about De Saussure and Marshall?" he asked
one day.
"They have both gone home."
"I know they have; but what sent them home?"
"Mamma has been trying to make them go, this long while, you
know, papa. She wanted them to go and join Beauregard."
"And will they? Is that what they are gone for?"
"I do not know if they will, papa. I suppose Mr. De Saussure
will."
"And not Marshall?"
"I do not know about him."
"What did _you_ do, Daisy?"
"Papa - you know I do not like the war."
"How about liking the gentlemen?"
"I am glad they are gone."
"Well, so am I," papa answered; "but what had you to do with
sending them home?"
"Nothing, papa, - only that I unfortunately did not want them
to stay."
"And you could not offer them any reward for going?"
"Papa, a man who would do such a thing for _reward_, would not
be a man."
"I think so too, Daisy. Your mother somehow takes a different
view."
"She cares only for the soldier, papa; not for the man."
Papa was silent and thoughtful.
There were no other intimate friends about us in Geneva; and
our life became, I must confess, less varied and pleasant
after the young men had gone. At first I felt only the relief;
then the dulness began to creep in. Papa led the life of an
invalid, or of one who had been an invalid; not an active life
in any way; I thought, not active enough for his good. Some
hours I got of reading with him; reading to him, and talking
of what we read; they did my father good, and me too; but they
were few, and often cut short. As soon as mamma joined us, our
books had to be laid aside. They bored her, she said, or
hindered her own reading; and she and papa played draughts and
chess and piquet. Mamma was not in a bored state at other
times; for she was busy with letters and plans and
arrangements, always in a leisurely way, but yet busy. It was
a sort of business with which I had no sympathy, and which
therefore left me out. The cause of the South was not my
cause; and the discussion of toilettes, fashions, costumes and
society matters, was entirely out of my line. In all these,
mamma found her element. Ransom was no resource to anybody;
and of course not to me, with whom, now as ever, he had little
in common. Mamma held me aloof, ever since Mr. De Saussure's
departure; and I only knew indirectly, as it were, that she
was planning a social campaign for me and meditating over
adornments and advantages which should help to make it
triumphant. Life in this way was not altogether enjoyable. The
only conversation which could be said to be general among us,
was on the subject of home affairs in America. That rung in my
ears every day.
"Glorious news, sir!" cried Ransom one day as he came in to
dinner. "Glorious news! The first real news we have had in a
long time."
"What is it?" said my father; and "What, Ransom?" my mother
asked, with a kindling eye. My heart sank. Those know who
remember those times, how one's heart used to sink when news
came.
"What is it, Ransom?"
"Why, a large body of them, the Yankees, got across the
Potomac the night of the 20th; got in a nest of our
sharpshooters and were well riddled; then, when they couldn't
stand it any longer, they fell back to the river and tried to
get across again to the other side, where they came from; and
they had no means of getting across, nothing but a couple of
old scows; so they went into the water to get away from the
fire, and quantities of them were drowned, and those that were
not drowned were shot. Lost a great many, and their commanding
officer killed. That's the way. They'll have enough of it in
time. The war'll be over in a few weeks or months more. De
Saussure will not have time to raise his regiment. I don't
think, mamma, it's any use for me to go home, it'll be over so
soon."
"Where was this?" inquired my father.
"Some place - Ball's Bluff, I believe. It was a grand affair."
"How many did they lose?" my mother said.
"Oh, I don't know - some thousands. We lost nothing to speak
of. But the thing is, they will lose heart. They will never
stand this sort of thing. They have no officers, you know, and
they can have no soldiers. They will be obliged to give up."
Words were in my heart, but my lips knew better than to speak
them. _Had_ they no officers? Had Christian no soldiers under
him? My head was ready to believe it; my heart refused. Yet I
thought too I had seen at the North the stuff that soldiers
are made of.
"If I were you," said my mother, "I would not let it all be
over before I had a part in it."
"The war is not ended yet, Felicia," my father remarked; "and
it will take more than a few hard knocks to make them give
up."
"They have had nothing but hard knocks, sir, since it began,"
Ransom cried.
"Your father always takes a medium view of everything," my
mother said. "If it depended on him, I believe there would be
no war."
"I should have one other vote for peace," papa said, looking
at me.
"It is well Daisy was not born a boy!" Ransom said.
"I hope you will not make me wish you had been born a girl,"
my father replied. "Strength is no more noble when it ceases
to be gentle."
"Must not every woman wish for peace?" I said. It was an
unhappy attempt at a diversion, and if I had not been in a
hurry I should not have made it.
"No," my mother answered, not sharply, but with cold
distinctness. "Before the South should submit to the dictation
or reproof of Northern boors and fanatics, I would take a
musket myself and die in the trenches."
"It is an ugly place to die in, my dear," answered my father.
"See Daisy shiver!" Ransom exclaimed; and he burst into a
laugh, "Mamma, Daisy's blood has grown thin at the North. She
is not a true Southern woman. There is no fire in you, Daisy."
Not at that moment, for I was sick and cold, as he said. I
could not get accustomed to these things, with all the
practice I had.
"No fire in her?" said papa, calmly. "There is ammunition
enough, Ransom. I don't want to see the fire, for my part. I
am glad there is one of us that keeps cool. My darling, you
look pale - what is it for?"
"Fire that burns with a blue flame," said mamma.
"Blue?" - said papa, with a look at me which somehow set us all
to laughing.
"The carmine is coming in again," said mamma. "I profess I do
not understand you, Daisy."
I was afraid she began to suspect me.
It was very true that mamma did not understand me; and it was
the unhappiness of my life. I tried hard to narrow the
distance between us, by every opportunity that the days or the
hours gave; and a certain accord was after a time established
anew in our relations with each other. Mamma again took to
adorning and playing with me; again studied my toilettes and
superintended my dressing; made me as exquisite as herself in
all outward paraphernalia. I let her alone; in this at least I
could gratify her; and no occasion of gratifying her was to be
lost. Papa was pleased too, though I think it made less
difference to him what I was dressed in; yet he observed me,
and smiled in a way to show his pleasure whenever a new device
of mamma's produced a new effect. She sought society for
herself and me now. We removed from Geneva and went to
Florence. I was thankful it was not to Paris. Every foot of
Italy had great charms for me; and I dreamed over Florence,
with a delighted fancy that never grew tired or tame. That my
evenings were spent in what I did not care for, could not
spoil my days. Our walks and drives, which papa and I often
now took alone, were delicious beyond expression. I forgot the
whirl of the night before and of the evening to come, and I
was the child Daisy again, I think, in very much. At night
mamma had me.
There was a lull at this time in the news from home. Both
parties in America were gathering up their strength; and in
the mean time the only affairs we heard of were inconclusive
skirmishes, sometimes turning out for the advantage of one
side, sometimes of the other; but not to signal advantage for
anybody. I hoped, with such a lull, that things might subside
into a state susceptible of composition. I might have
reasoned, if I looked at home, upon the unlikelihood of any
such thing. No news of advantages lost or gained had any
effect upon my mother and brother but to make them more keen
in the cause and more relentless in pursuit of their end. The
hearing of a trifling success was like a taste of blood to the
lion; the loss of Beaufort and its forts was turned into an
occasion of triumph because "the great naval expedition" had
accomplished no greater things. They laughed at McClellan's
review of troops; and counted up the gains his adversaries
were to realise from the co-operation of foreign well-wishers.
And then the taking of Mason and Slidell put them into a fume
of indignation and scorn. My father shared, though more
gently, in all this. I was alone. Could I tell them that my
heart was with the Northern army; and how it went out after
every gleam of one particular sabre?
My mother drew me into society by degrees. I hardly knew where
the line was passed, between quiet conversaziones and
brilliant and courtly assemblies. It was passed when I was
unwitting of it, or when I felt unable to help it. My mother
had been so much alienated by my behaviour toward Marshall and
De Saussure, that I thought it needful to please her by every
means in my power, short of downright violation of conscience.
"Children, obey your parents _in the Lord_," - I did not forget;
I thought I was doing the very thing. For it was not to please
myself, that I let my mother make me look as she chose and let
her take me - where she would. My heart was too sore to be
ambitious and too sober to feel the flutterings of vanity. I
knew the effect of her doings was often what satisfied her;
but the nearest approach to a thrill of vanity in myself was,
I think, the wish that Christian could see me. And as he could
not, I seemed to wear an armour of proof against other eyes. I
did not care for them.
Nevertheless, I began to be sensible that they cared for me. I
obeyed my mother at first because she signified her will very
absolutely, and allowed me to see that any refusal on my part
would make a breach between us. I left myself in her hands, to
dress and adorn and lead about as she liked; I could not help
it without an effort that would have parted us. And besides, I
believe I accepted these engrossments of society as a sedative
to keep me from thinking. They took a great deal of tine and
occupied my attention while they lasted.
By degrees there came a change. As I said, I was admired. At
first I cared little for any eyes but those which could not
see me; but that did not last. I began to like to be admired.
Soon after that, it dimly dawned upon me, that some of those
whom I saw now every day, might come to admire me too much. I
had learnt a lesson. There were several gentlemen, whose
society I liked very well, who gave us, I began to perceive, a
great deal of it. I saw them at night; I saw them by day; they
met us in our walks; they even joined us in our rides. One was
a German; a very cultivated and agreeable talker, well-bred,
and in high position at Florence. Another was a delightful
Italian; poor I think. A third was a young English nobleman;
rich, but nothing more that I could discover. The German
talked to me; the Italian sang with me; the Englishman
followed me, and was most at home in our house of them all. I
had been taking the good of all this, in a nice society way,
enjoying the music and the talk and the information I got from
the two first, and I am afraid enjoying too the flowers and
the attentions of the third, as well as of still others whom I
have not mentioned. I was floating down a stream and I had not
thought about it, only enjoyed in a careless way; till a
little thing startled me.
"We do not have so much time for our walks as we used, Daisy,"
papa said one day when he came into the drawing-room and found
me with my habit on. "Where are you going now?"
"To ride, papa, with Lord Montjoy."
"My Daisy is not a daisy any longer," said papa, folding me in
his arms. "She has grown into a white camellia. Going to ride
with Lord Montjoy! -"
I cannot say what in these last words of papa gave me a whole
revelation.
"I think you are mistaken, papa," I said. "I am Daisy yet."
"I _was_ mistaken," said papa smiling, but rather shadowedly, I
thought; - "I should have said a rose camellia. Here is Lord
Montjoy, my dear. Go."
I am sure Lord Montjoy had little satisfaction in that ride;
at least I am sure I had little. I was longing for time to
think, and frightened besides. But when the ride was over,
mamma wanted me; the evening claimed me for a grand reception;
the morning held me in sleep; we had company at luncheon; I
was engaged with another riding party in the afternoon, and
another assembly expected me at night. I could not rest or
think, as I wanted to think, till night and morning had again
two or three times tossed me about as a society ball. I think
one's mind gets to be something like a ball too, when one
lives such a life; all one's better thoughts rolled up, like a
hybernating hedgehog, and put away as not wanted for use. I
had no opportunity to unroll mine for several days.
But I could not bear this state of things long; and at last I
excused myself from a party one morning and went to walk with
papa; and then that hedgehog of thoughts began to stir and
unfold and come to life. Still I wanted quiet. We had been
going through a picture gallery, where I did not see the
pictures; then, as often before, I persuaded papa to walk on
further and take post where we could look at our leisure on
the beautiful Dome. This was an unceasing pleasure to me. Papa
was not so fond of it; he came for my sake, as he often was
accustomed to do. To-day, instead of soothing, its majestic
beauty roused all there was to rouse within me. I suppose we
were a long time silent, but I do not know.
"Daisy, you are very quiet," papa said at length.
"Yes papa," I said, rousing myself. "I was thinking."
"That is an old disease of yours, my pet. I wish I could enjoy
that great Dome as much as you do."
"Papa, it is so perfect!"
"The Grecian temples suit me better, Daisy."
"Not me, papa."
"Why do they not? What can equal their grace and symmetry?"
"It is cold beauty, papa; there is nothing to lift the
thoughts up; and I don't believe those who built them had any
high thoughts - spiritual thoughts, I mean, papa."
"And you think the builder of the Dome of Florence had?"
"Yes, sir - I think so."
"The one means no more to me than the other, Daisy."
"Papa," I said, "don't you remember, when you sent me word I
must stay two years longer in school without seeing you and
mamma, you sent me a promise too? - by Aunt Gary."
"I remember very well, Daisy. Are you going to claim the
promise?"
"Papa, may I?"
"Certainly."
"But, papa, -does the promise stand good, like Herod's promise
to that dancing woman? is it to be whatever I ask?"
"I believe I said so, Daisy. By the way, why do you not like
dancing?"
"I suppose I should like it, papa, if I let myself do it."
"Why not let yourself do it? You do not want to make yourself
singular, Daisy."
"No more than I must, papa. But about your promise."
"Yes. Well?"
"It stands good, papa? if it is 'to the half of your
kingdom.' "
"That was a rash promise of Herod, Daisy."
"Yes, papa; but I am not a dancing girl."
Papa laughed, and looked at me, and laughed again, and seemed
a good deal amused.
"What put that argument into your mouth?" he said. "And what
is the reason that it is an argument? You are very absurd,
Daisy! You are very absurd not to dance; so your mother says;
and I am absurd too, by that reasoning; for I like you better
than if you did. Well, not being a dancing girl, what is your
petition? I reckon it will stand good, even to the half of my
kingdom. Though indeed I do not know how much of a kingdom
will remain to me, by the time matters are composed at home.
There will be no crops grown at the South this year."
"It would not cost more to go to Palestine, would it, papa,
than to live as we are doing now?"
"Palestine!" he exclaimed. "Your mother would never go to
Palestine, Daisy."
"But you and I might, papa, - for a few months. You know mamma
wants to go to Paris, to be there with Aunt Gary, who is
coming."
"She wants you there too, Daisy, I much suspect; not to speak
of me."
"What better time can we ever have, papa?"
"I do not know. I am afraid your mother would say any other
would be better."
"Papa, I cannot tell you how glad I should be to go now."
"Why, Daisy?" said papa, looking at me. "To my certain
knowledge, there are several people who will be desolate if
you quit Florence at this time - several besides your mother."
"Papa, - that is the very reason why I should like to go -
before it becomes serious."
Papa became serious immediately. He lifted my face to look at
it, flushed as I suppose it was; and kissed me, with a smile
which did not in the least belie the seriousness.
"If we go to Paris, Daisy? - we should leave your enemies
behind."
"No papa - two of them are going to Paris when we go."
"That _is_ serious," said my father. "After all, why not,
Daisy?"
"Oh, papa, let us get away while it is time!" I said. "Mamma
was so displeased with me because of Mr. De Saussure and Mr.
Marshall; and she will be again - perhaps."
"Why, Daisy," said papa, lifting my face again for scrutiny, -
"how do you know? Are you cased in proof armour? are you sure?
Do you know what you are talking of, Daisy?"
"Yes, - I know, papa."
"I see you do. Whenever your eyes are deep and calm like that,
you are always in your right mind and know it. That is, you
are thoroughly yourself; and so far as my limited acquaintance
with you goes, there is no other mind that has the power of
turning you. Yes, Daisy; we will go to Palestine, you and I."
I kissed his hand, in the extremity of my joy.
"But this is not a proper season for travelling in Syria, my
pet. I am afraid it is not. The winter rains make the roads
bad."
"Oh, yes, papa. - We will be quiet when it rains, and travel
on the good days. And then we shall be in time to see the
spring flowers."
"How do you know anything about that, Daisy?"
"Papa, I remember when I was a child, at Melbourne, Mr.
Dinwiddie told me some of these things; and I have never
forgotten."
"Have you wanted to go to Palestine ever since you were ten
years old?"
"Oh, no, papa; only of late. When your promise came, then I
thought very soon what I would ask you. And now is such a good
time."
"There will be different opinions about that," said my father.
"However, we will go, Daisy. To the half of my kingdom. Your
mother has the other half. But allow me to ask you just in
passing, what do you think of our young English friend?"
"He has no head, papa."
Papa looked amused.
"Signor Piacevoli - what do you think of him?"
"He is very nice and kind and full of good things; but he has
no principles, papa; no settled principles."
"He has a head," said papa.
"Yes, sir; out of order."
"How do you estimate Mr. Leypoldt, then? - _his_ head is in
order, and a good deal in it."
"Only the truth left out, papa."
"The truth?" said my father. "He is fuller of truth, of all
sorts, than any one else I know, Daisy."
"Truth of all sorts, papa, but not _the_ truth. He understands
the world, and almost everything in it; but not who made it
nor what it was made for; and he knows men; but not their
work, or place, or destiny in the universe. He knows what they
are; he has no idea what they ought to be, or what they may
be."
"He is not a religious man, certainly. Do you carry your
principles so far, Daisy, that you mean you would not let
anybody approach you who is not of your way of thinking?"
A pang shot through my heart, with the instant sense of the
answer I ought to give. I might have evaded the question; but
I would not. Yet I could not immediately speak. I was going to
put a bond upon myself; and the words would not come.
"Do you mean that, Daisy?" papa repeated. "Seriously. Is it
your rule of supposed duty, that a man must be a Christian
after your sort, to obtain your favour?"
"Papa," I said struggling, - "one cannot control one's
liking."
"No," said papa, laughing; "that is very true. Then if you
_liked_ somebody who was not that sort of a Christian, Daisy,
you would not refuse to marry him?"
"Papa," I said with difficulty, - "I think I ought."
The words struck upon my own heart, I cannot tell how heavily.
But they were forced from me. When the question came, it had
to be answered. I suppose the matter had really been in my
mind before, vaguely, and I had refused to look at it, while
yet I could not help seeing its proportions and bearing; so
that when papa asked me I knew what I must say. But the spoken
words stunned me, for all that.
"I suppose," said papa, not lightly, "you will think so till
you are tried; and then you will take a woman's privilege of
changing your mind. But if the trial is to come in that shape,
Daisy, it is very far off. There are no men of your way of
thinking, my pet."
He kissed me as he said it; and I could not for a moment
speak.
"But we will go to Palestine, papa?"
"Yes, we will go to Palestine. That is fixed. You and I will
take a holiday, and for a while give up all thoughts of
marrying and giving in marriage."
CHAPTER XIV.
FLIGHT
I am coming to the holiday of my life; a time that seems, as I
look back to it, like a chequered mosaic of pleasure pieces
laid in bright colours, all in harmony, and making out a
pattern of beauty. It is odd I should speak so; for I have
known other holidays, when fewer clouds were in my sky and
fewer life-shadows stretching along the landscape.
Nevertheless, this is how it looks to me in the retrospect;
and to write of it, is like setting the pins of that mosaic
work over again. Not one of them is lost in my memory.
Truly I have known other holidays; yet never one that took me
out of so much harassment and perplexity. And I could not get
rid of all my burdens, even in Palestine; but somehow I got
rid of all my anxious trouble about them. I had left behind so
much, that I accepted even thankfully all that remained. I was
free from mamma's schemes for me, and cleared from the pursuit
of those who seconded her schemes; they could not follow me in
the Holy Land. No more angry discussions of affairs at home,
and words of enmity and fierce displeasure toward the part of
the nation that held my heart. No more canvassing of war news;
not much hearing of them, even; a clean escape from the
demands of society and leisure for a time to look into my
heart and see what condition it was in. And to my great
astonishment I had found the love of admiration and the
ambition of womanly vanity beginning to stir again; in me, who
knew better things, and who really did not value these; in me,
who had so much to make me sober and keep down thoughts of
folly. I found that I had a certain satisfaction when entering
a room, to know that the sight of me gave pleasure; yes, more;
I liked to feel that the sight of no one else gave so much
pleasure. I could hardly understand, when I came to look at
it, how so small a satisfaction could have taken possession of
my mind; I was very much ashamed; but the fact remained. When
we set sail for Palestine I got clear, at least for the time,
from all this. I hoped for ever. - And it was exceedingly
sweet to find myself alone with papa.
How mamma ever consented to the plan, I do not know. Because
papa had settled it and given his word, perhaps; for in those
cases I know she never interfered; necessity made her yield.
She would not go with us; she went to Paris, where Aunt Gary
was come for the winter. Ransom went home to join the army;
and papa and I took our holiday. I ought not to have been so
happy, with so many causes of anxiety on my mind; Ransom in
the war on one side, and Christian already engaged on the
opposite side; both in danger, not to speak of other friends
whom I knew; and my own and Mr. Thorold's future so very dark
to look forward to. But I was happy. I believe, the very
enormous pressure of things to trouble me, helped me to throw
off the weight. In fact, it was too heavy for me to bear. I
had trusted and given up myself to God; it was not a mock
trust or submission; I laid off my cares, or in the expressive
Bible words, "rolled them" upon him. And then I went light.
Even my self-spoken sentence, the declaration that I ought not
to marry a person who was not a Christian, did not crush me as
I thought it would. Somebody has said very truly, "There is a
healing power in truth." It is correct in more ways than one.
And especially in truth towards God, in whole-hearted devotion
to him, or as the Bible says again, in "wholly following the
Lord," there is strength and healing; "quietness and assurance
for ever." I was no nearer despair now than I had been before.
And I was more ready for my holiday.
My holiday began on board the steamer, among the novel
varieties of character and costume by which I found myself
surrounded. I was certainly getting far away from the American
war, far from Parisian saloons; I could not even regret the
Dome of Florence. And I shall never forget the minute when I
first looked upon the coast of Jaffa. I had been in the cabin
and papa called me; and with the sight, a full, delicious
sensation of pleasure entered my heart, and never left it, I
think, while I stayed in the land. The picture is all before
me. The little white town, shining in the western sun on its
hill, with its foot in the water; the surf breaking on the
rocks; and the long line of high land in the distance, which I
knew was the hill country of Palestine. I was glad, with a
fulness of gladness. Even the terrors of landing through the
surf could not dash my pleasure, though the water was not
quiet enough to make it safe, and I did not see how we were
possibly to get through. I thought we would, and we did; and
then out of the confusion on the quay we found our way to a
nice little hotel. Few things I suppose are nice in Jaffa; but
this really seemed clean, and I am sure it was pleasant. The
Oriental style of the house - the courtyard, and alcove rooms,
stone floors and cushioned divans, - were delightful to me.
And so was our first dinner there; papa and I alone, tired and
hungry, and eating with the Mediterranean full in sight, and
the sun going down "ayont the sea." I established a truce with
sorrowful thoughts that evening, and slept the night through
in peace. The next morning papa found me standing at the
window of one of our rooms that looked inward from the sea.
"Well, Daisy," said he, putting his hands on my shoulders - "I
have got my Daisy of ten years old back again. What is it
now?"
"Oh, papa," I exclaimed, "look at the housetops! I have read
of housetops all my life; and now here they are!"
"They have been here all the time, Daisy."
"But - it is so impossible to realise without seeing it, papa.
It was on such a housetop that Peter was when he had his
vision. You can see, it is the pleasantest part of the house,
papa. I should like to sleep on the housetop, as they do in
summer; with only the stars over me. How nice!"
"What was Peter's vision, besides the stars?"
"Papa! Not the stars; his vision was at noonday. I have just
been reading about it. How delicious the Bible will be here!"
"It is always delicious to you, I think," papa said; I fancied
rather sadly. "It is a taste you were born with. Sit down and
read me about that vision."
But it was papa that sat down, and I stood by the window, and
we read together those chapters of the Acts; and papa grew
very much interested, and we had an excellent talk all
breakfast time. The strange dishes at breakfast helped the
interest too; the boiled rice and meat, and the fish and the
pomegranates. I seemed to have my living in Bible times as
well as places. The Mediterranean lay sparkling before us; as
it was before Peter no doubt when he went up to that housetop
to pray. The house is gone; but it is the same sea yet.
"I shall always look upon Jaffa with respect," said papa, at
last; "since here it was that the gates of religion were
publicly set open for all the world, and the key taken out of
the hands of the Jews. It is a little place too, to have
anything of so much interest belonging to it."
"That is not all, papa," I said. "Solomon had the cedar for
the Temple, and for all his great buildings, floated down
here."
"Solomon!" said papa.
"Don't you remember, sir, his great works, and the timber he
had to get from Lebanon?"
"Did it come this way?"
"The only way it could come, papa; and then it had to go by
land up to Jerusalem - the same way that we are going; thirty-
three miles."
"Where did you learn so much about it?"
"That isn't much, papa; all that is in Murray; but now may I
read you about Solomon's floats of timber, while you are
finishing that pomegranate?"
"Read away," said papa. "Pomegranates are not ripe now, are
they?"
"They keep, papa."
Papa laughed at me, and I read to him as much as I liked; and
he was almost as much engaged as I was.
"We'll go out and look at this famous harbour for lumber," he
said. "It is not good for much else, Daisy; I thought
yesterday we should certainly make shipwreck on that reef. Is
it possible there is no better along the coast."
"It is not what we would call a harbour at all, papa. Nothing
but little boats can get through that narrow opening in the
reef; and I suppose, Solomon's cedar timber got through."
"The ships of old time were not much more than our boats, many
of them," said my father. "How delightfully you realise
everything, Daisy!"
"Well, papa, - don't you?"
"Not the past, child. I realise _you_ by my side."
"Papa, if you think about it a little, you will realise Joppa
too."
"I have not your imagination, Daisy. About Solomon's temple, -
there is nothing of it left now, I suppose?"
"Oh, no, papa!"
"It might, Daisy. Thebes is vastly older."
"But, papa, - don't you remember, there was not one stone of
all those buildings to be left upon another stone. Nothing is
left - only some of the foundation wall that supported the
floor, or the platform, of the Temple."
"Well, we shall see, when we go to Jerusalem," my father said.
In the meantime we went out and took a great walk about the
environs of Joppa. Through the miles of gardens; the grand
orange groves, and pomegranate, lemon, fig, apricot and palm
orchards. The oranges and lemons getting their great harvests
ready; cultivation going on beneath the trees; the water-
wheels working; the curious hedges of prickly pear, four and
six feet high, reminding us all the while, if nothing else
did, that we were in a very strange land. What endless delight
it was! The weather had just cleared the day before; and to-
day, the fifteenth of January, the sun shone still and fair
and warm. I saw that papa was getting good with every step,
and growing interested with every hour. We went down to the
beach, and strolled along as far as the tanneries; every wave
that broke at my side seeming to sing in my ears the reminder
that it broke on the shores of Palestine. Papa wished the
oranges were ripe; I wished for nothing.
Then we entered the city again, and examined the bazars;
lingering first a good while to watch the motley, picturesque,
strange and wild crowd without the city gate. It was my first
taste of Oriental life; papa knew it before, but he relished
it all afresh in my enjoyment of it. Of course we were taken
to see Simon's house and the house where Tabitha died.
"Do you realise anything here, Daisy?" papa asked, as we stood
on the flat roof of the first of these two.
"Yes, papa."
"Pray, what? St. Peter never saw this building, my dear."
"No, papa, I don't think it. But he saw the Mediterranean -
just so, - and he had the same sky over him, and the same
shores before him."
"The same sky, Daisy? What is the sky?"
"Yes papa, I know; but there is a difference. This Syrian sky
is not like the sky over Florence nor like the sky over
Melbourne. And this is what Peter saw."
"You are a delicious travelling companion, Daisy," said papa.
"Your mother is good, but you are better. Well, take me with
you now in your journey into the past."
We sat down there on the roof of the so-called house of Simon,
papa and I; he gave the guide a bonus to keep him contented;
and we read together chapters in the Old Testament and
chapters in the New. It was drinking water from wells of
delight. Bible words never seemed so real, nor so full. And
then when I thought that I was going on to Jerusalem - to
Jericho - to Mount Tabor, and the Sea of Galilee, and Lebanon,
- that Joppa was only the beginning, - I could hardly contain
my joy. I could only give thanks for it all the time. True, I
did remember, as I looked over that bright sea of the Levant,
I did remember that far away there was a region of conflict
where the interests nearest to me were involved; a strife
going on, in which the best blood in the world, the dearest in
my account, might be shed or shedding. I remembered it all.
But the burden of that care was too heavy for me to carry; I
was fain to lay it down where so many a load has been laid
before now; and it was easier for me to do it in Syria than
anywhere else; God's own land, where His people had had so
many tokens to trust Him. Where Peter's doubts of conscience
were resolved by a vision, where the poor worker of kindness
was raised from the sleep of death, it was not there the place
for me to doubt whether the Lord looked upon my trouble, or
whether he cared about it, or whether he could manage it. I
laid care and doubt to sleep; and while I was in the Lord's
land I walked with the Lord's presence always before me. There
is no want to them that fear him.
We were detained at Joppa three days by a most pouring rain,
which kept us fast prisoners in doors. The time was however
not lost. We had despaired of making arrangements at Joppa for
our journey, any further than such as would take us to
Jerusalem. Joppa is no place for such arrangements. But while
we waited there in the rain, a party of English people arrived
who came to take the steamer for home. They had just ended
their travels in the Holy Land; and while waiting for the
steamer, one of them who was an invalid sought the shelter of
our hotel. We came to know each other. And the end was, we
secured their travelling equipment. Tents, servants and all,
were made over to papa, with mutual pleasure at the
arrangement. So when the sun shone out on the fourth day, we
were ready to start in great comfort. I had a dear little
Syrian pony, which carried me nicely through my whole journey;
papa had another that served him well. The tents and tent
fittings were in the English style of perfection; cook and
interpreter and other servants knew their business, and we had
no reason to complain of them from the beginning to the end of
our tour. Moreover, in those days of waiting at Joppa, and
intercourse with the ladies of the party, I got from them some
useful hints and details which were of great service to me
afterwards. I had always wished to go through Palestine living
in our own tents; papa had been a little uncertain how he
would do. Now it was settled. I had my maid, of course; but
she was the greatest trouble I had, all the way.
The morning of our setting out from Joppa is never to be
forgotten. It was clear and balmy. For miles we rode through
the orange gardens, getting ready fast for their superb
harvest, which would be ripe a month later. Then through a
pleasant open country; - cornfields and meadows interspersed
with trees in patches. It was easy riding, and I liked my
pony, and my heart was full of exhilaration.
"Well?" said papa, as my eye met his one time in the course of
its wanderings.
"Papa, it is the plain of Sharon!"
"You speak as if it were a place where you had played, when
you were a child."
"Papa, in some measure it is like that; so often I have read
about the old things that were done here."
Papa smiled at me? and asked what? But I could not tell him
while we were going at a canter.
"It would be pretty in spring," he said. "Where are we to stop
to-night, Daisy? I have left all that to you. I do not know
the country as you do."
"Papa, we set off so late, we shall not be able to get further
than Latron to-night."
"What place is that? is it any place?"
"Supposed to be the Modin of the Maccabees."
"Have you brought any books, Daisy?" was papa's next question.
"No, papa, except 'Murray' and the Bible."
"We ought to have more," he said. "We must see if we cannot
supply that want at Jerusalem."
Papa's interest in the subject was thoroughly waking up. We
lunched at Ramleh. How present it is to me, those hours we
spent there. The olive groves and orchards and cornfields, the
palms and figs, the prickly-pear hedges, the sweet breath of
the air. And after our luncheon we stayed to examine the ruins
and the minaret. Our master of ceremonies, Suleiman, was a
little impatient. But we got off in good time and reached our
camping ground just before sunset. Tiere too, the sunlight
flashing on those rocks of ruin comes back to me, and the wide
plain and sea view which the little hill commands. Papa and I
climbed it to look at the ruins and see the view while dinner
was getting ready.
"What is it, Daisy?" he said. "You must be my gazetteer and
interpreter for the land; Suleiman will do for the people."
"It is an old Crusaders' fortress, papa; built to command the
pass to Jerusalem."
That was enough for papa. He pored over the rough remains and
their associations; while I sat down on a stone and looked
over the Philistine plain; scarce able to convince myself that
I was so happy as to see it in reality. Papa and I had a most
enjoyable dinner afterwards; he enjoyed it, I knew; and our
night's rest was sweet, with a faint echo of the war storms of
the ages breaking upon my ear.
To my great joy, there was no storm of the elements the next
morning, and we were able to take up our march for Jerusalem.
The road soon was among the hills; rough, thickety, wild; from
one glen into another, down and up steep ridge sides, always
mounting of course by degrees. Rough as it all was, there were
olives and vineyards sometimes to be seen; often terraced
hillsides which spoke of what had been. At last we came up out
of a deep glen and saw at a distance the white line of wall
which tells of Jerusalem. I believe it was a dreary piece of
country which lay between, but I could hardly know what it
was. My thoughts were fixed on that white wall. I forgot even
papa.
We had pouring rains again soon after we got to Jerusalem. I
was half glad. So much to see and think of at once, it was
almost a relief to be obliged to take things gradually. I had
been given numerous good bits of counsel by the kind English
ladies we had seen at Jaffa; and according to their advice, I
persuaded papa that we should go down at once to Jericho and
the Dead Sea, without waiting till the weather should grow too
hot for it; then Jerusalem and the Mount of Olives and all the
neighbourhood would be delightful. Now, they were very gray
and forlorn to a stranger's eye. I wanted papa to be pleased.
_I_ could have enjoyed Jerusalem at any time. But I knew that by
and by Jericho would be insupportable.
So papa and Suleiman made their arrangements. All that we
wanted was a guard of Arabs; everything else we had already.
The rain ceased after the third day; and early in the morning
we went out of the eastern gate of the city and moved slowly
down the slope of the Kedron valley and up the side of Mount
Olivet.
It was my first ride in the environs of Jerusalem; and I could
hardly bear the thoughts it brought up. Yet there was scant
time for thoughts; eyes had to be so busy. The valley of the
Kedron! I searched its depths, only to find tombs everywhere,
with olive trees sprinkled about among them. Life and death;
for if anything is an emblem of life in Palestine, I suppose
it is the olive. They looked sad to me at first, the olives;
their blue-gray foliage had so little of the fresh cheer of
our green woods. Afterwards I thought differently. But
certainly the valley of the Kedron was desolate and mournful
in the extreme, as we first saw it. Nor was Olivet less so.
The echo of forfeited promises seemed to fill my ear; the
shades of lost glory seemed to tenant all those ways and
hillsides. I could but think what feet had trod those paths;
what hands of blessing had been held out on these hills;
turned back and rejected, to the utter ruin of those who
rejected them. The places of Solomon's splendour and David's
honour, in the hands of the Moslem; or buried beneath the
ruins of twenty desolations. And in the midst of such thoughts
which possessed me constantly, came thrills of joy that I was
there. So we mounted over the shoulder of the Mount of Olives,
and the day cleared and brightened as we went on. Then came
the ruins of Bethany. I would have liked to linger there; but
this was not the time. I left it for the present.
"We must dismount here, Daisy," said papa the next minute. And
he set me the example. "Our own feet will do this next piece
of road most satisfactorily."
We scrambled down, over the loose stones and rock, the very
steep pitch just below Bethany. I do not know how deep, but
hundreds of feet certainly. Our mules and horses came on as
they could.
"Is this to be taken as a specimen of Palestine roads, Daisy?"
"I believe they are pretty bad, papa."
"How do you like it?"
"Oh, papa," said I, stopping, "I like it. Look - look yonder -
do you see that glimmer? do you know what that is, papa?"
"It is water -"
"It is the Dead Sea."
"Thirty-six hundred feet below. We have a sharp ride before
us, Daisy."
"Not quite so much below us - we have come down some way.
Papa, don't you enjoy it?"
"I enjoy _you_," he said, smiling. "Yes, child, I enjoy it; only
I don't enjoy such villainous roads."
"But then, papa, you know it is the only possible way the road
can go, and always has been; and so we are sure that Christ
was here many a time. _Here_, papa, where our feet are
treading."
Papa looked at me and said nothing.
The way was so pleasant, that we walked on ahead of our mules,
till we came to the spring about a mile from Bethany. It was
strange to look at the water pouring out its never failing
stream, and to remember it had been doing just so ever since
nineteen hundred years ago.
"How often travellers have rested here and drunk of the water,
papa; how often Christ was here."
"That arch was not over the spring in those days, though,"
said papa.
But papa stood and looked at the spring and at the ravine, and
I saw that he was catching something of my feeling. We mounted
there, and the rest of the way we had no more talk. I did not
want to talk. There was too much to think about, as we wound
down the rough valleys or watercourses among the desolate
hills; while the air grew constantly warmer as we got lower.
No trees, no life, no vine terraces; and this was the way to
Jericho. At the ruined khan, a good distance from the top, we
dismounted and stopped to rest and take our lunch.
"Well, Daisy," said papa, "are you enjoying yet?"
"Every minute, papa."
"I am very glad. But I am very tired."
"Papa, you must take a good rest here; and here is an orange
for you. I will give you something else directly."
Papa stretched himself out wearily on the stones.
"What is the source of your pleasure just now, Daisy? It is as
barren a landscape as ever I traversed."
"Papa, David went this way when he fled from Absalom."
"Humph!" said papa, as if there were not much pleasure in that
association.
"And Jesus and His apostles came this way, up from Jericho; up
and down, I suppose, many a time; they have rested _here_,
papa."
"And I see, Daisy, you love the ground where those feet have
trod. I never could understand it before. I fancy, I could
never attain power of realisation to get near enough to the
subject."
"Do you now, papa?"
"Hardly. By sympathy with you, Daisy."
"A little below, papa, we shall come to the Valley of Achor,
where Achan was stoned."
"I don't know that story, Daisy. You may read it to me."
We had a long reading and resting there by the ruined khan.
Papa was ready to listen and talk; and I saw that so long as
we were in Palestine he would read the Bible as much as I
liked. Then we made the rest of our way. I knew he could not
but be interested with that. The scenery became so wild and
grand as to satisfy even him. We got the glorious view of the
plains of Jericho from the top of the steep descent, and stood
still for some time to look. Papa said it was a noble view;
but to me it was so full of the riches of association that I
could hardly feast upon it enough. Down there, Jericho of old
had stood and fallen; when the priests and the people of
Israel compassed it about with trumpets of victory. There, or
over against it, the Jordan had been divided to let the people
pass over. In later days Elijah and Elisha had gone over
single-handed. Down on that plain had stood Herod's Jericho,
which Christ had gone through time and again; where Zaccheus
climbed the tree to see Him, and Bartimeus sitting by the
wayside had cried out for his mercy and got it. What was there
before me in all that scene that did not tell of the power of
faith - of the grace of God - of the safety and strength of
His children - of the powerlessness of their enemies. My heart
sang hymns and chanted psalms of rejoicing, while my little
Syrian pony stood still with me at the top of the pass of
Adummim. I even forgot papa.
At the bottom we found ourselves in a new world. Water and
wood, luxuriant vegetation of many kinds; a stream even to
ford, the brook which comes down from Wady Kelt, now full with
the rains; a warm delicious atmosphere, and the sun shining on
the opposite Moab mountains.
And then came another sight which is very pleasant at the
close of a long day of fatigue and excitement; our tents, up
and ready for us. Our Syrian cook gave us a good dinner; and
papa was satisfied to see me so happy. I thought he was a
little happy himself.
CHAPTER XV.
OLD BATTLEFIELDS
The next day papa was so tired that he would not go anywhere.
So I had to be quiet too. It was no hardship. I was rather
glad, to take in leisurely the good of all I had before and
around me, and have time for it. Our tents were pitched by the
beautiful fountain Aines-Sultân; which the books told me was
Elisha's fountain. I wandered round it, examining the strange
trees and bushes, gathering flowers; I found a great many;
studying the lights and shades on the Moab mountains, and
casting longing looks towards the Dead Sea and the Jordan. I
took my maid with me in my wanderings, and Suleiman also kept
near me like a shadow; but nobody of all our caravan behaved
to me with anything but the most observant politeness. The
Arabs, taught, I suppose, by other travellers whom they had
attended, were very eager to bring me natural curiosities;
birds and animals and shells and plants. I had no lack of
business and pleasure all that day. I wanted only some one to
talk to me who could tell me things I wanted to know.
The day had come to an end, almost; the shadow of Quarantania
had fallen upon us; and I sat on a rock by the spring,
watching the colours of the sunset still bright on the trees
in the plain, on the water of the sea, and on the range of the
Moab hills. From all these my thoughts had at last wandered
away, and were busy at the other end of the world; sad, with a
great sense that Mr. Thorold was away from me; heavy, with a
moment's contrast of pleasures present and pleasures past. My
musings were suddenly broken by seeing that some one was close
by my side, and a single glance said, a stranger. I was
startled and rose up, but the stranger stood still and seemed
to wish to speak to me. Yet he did not speak. I saw the air of
a gentleman, the dress of a European in Syria, the outlines of
a personable man; one glance at his face showed me a bronzed
complexion, warm-coloured auburn hair, and a frank and very
bright eye. I looked away, and then irresistibly was driven to
look back again. He smiled. I was in confusion.
"Don't you know?" he said.
"Not -?"
"Yes!"
"Can it be, - Mr. Dinwiddie?"
"Is it possible it is Daisy?" he said, taking my hand.
"Oh, Mr. Dinwiddie, I am so glad to see you!"
"And I am so glad to see you - here, of all places, at
Elisha's fountain. The first question is, How came we both
here?"
"I persuaded papa to bring me. I wanted to see Palestine."
"And I heard of you in Jerusalem, and felt sure it must be
you, and I could not resist the temptation to take a little
journey after you."
"And you are travelling through Palestine too?"
"In one way. I am living here - and life is a journey, you
know."
"You are _living_ in Palestine?"
"In Jerusalem. I came here as a missionary, five years ago."
"How very nice!" I said. "And you can go with us?"
He shook my hand heartily, which he had not yet let go,
laughing, and asked where we were going?
"I want to see the Dead Sea, very much, Mr. Dinwiddie; and
papa was in doubt; but if you were with us there would be no
more difficulty."
"I shall be most happy to be with you. Do you know where you
are now?"
"I know a little. This is Elisha's fountain, isn't it?"
"Yes; and just hereabouts are the ruins of old Jericho."
"I did not know. I wondered, and wanted to know. But, Mr.
Dinwiddie, have you got a tent?"
"I never travel without one."
"Then it is all right," I said; "for we have a cook."
"I should not miss that functionary," he said, shaking his
head. "I am accustomed to act in that capacity myself. It is
something I have learned since I came from Virginia."
We were called to dinner and had no time then for anything
more. Our table was spread in front of the tents, in a clear
spot of greensward; in the midst, I thought, of all possible
delights that could be clustered together - except one. The
breeze was a balmy, gentle evening zephyr; the sunlight,
hidden from us by the Quarantania, shone on the opposite
mountains of Moab, bringing out colours of beauty; and glanced
from the water of the Dead Sea, and brightened the hues of the
green thickets on the plain. Jericho behind us, the Jordan in
front of us, the confusions of the world we live in thrust to
a great distance out of the way, - I sat down to the open-air
meal with a profound feeling of gratitude and joy. It was also
a relief to me to have Mr. Dinwiddie's company with papa; he
knew the land and the people and the ways of the land, and
could give such good help if help were needed. He could be
such good society too.
I fancied that papa's reception of Mr. Dinwiddie was rather
slack in its evidence of pleasant recollection; but however,
every shadow of stiffness passed away from his manner before
dinner was over. Mr. Dinwiddie made himself very acceptable;
and there, where we had so much to talk about, talk flowed in
full stream. It was arranged that the new member of our party
should be our guest and our travelling companion during as
much of our journey as his duties allowed; and I went to sleep
that night with a deep and full sense of satisfaction.
Papa declared himself still the next day unable for a very
long and exciting day's work; so it was decided that we should
put off till the morrow our ride to the Jordan and the Dead
Sea, and Mr. Dinwiddie proposed to conduct me to Mount
Quarantania to see the hermits' caves which are remaining
there. Of course they remain; for the walls of caves do not
crumble away; however, the staircases and rock ways which led
to the upper ones have many of them suffered that fate.
We had a delicious walk. First along the foot of the mountain,
skirting a little channel of running water which brings the
outflow of another fountain to enrich a part of the plain. It
was made good for the cultivation of a large tract; although
very wild and disorderly cultivation. As we went, every spot
within sight was full of interest; rich with associations; the
air was warm but pleasant; the warble of the orange-winged
blackbird - I don't know if I ought to call it a warble; it
was a very fine and strong note, or whistle, - sounding from
the rocks as we went by, thrilled me with a wild reminder of
all that had once been busy life there, where now the
blackbird's cry sounded alone. The ruins of what had been, -
the blank, that was once so filled up, - the forlorn repose,
where the stir of the ages had been so restlessly active. I
heard Mr. Dinwiddie's talk as we went, he was telling and
explaining things to me. I heard, but could not make much
answer. Thought was too full.
A good distance from home, that is, from the tents, we reached
the source of all that fertilising water the channel of which
we had followed up. How wild the source was too! No Saracenic
arch over that; the water in a full flow came out from among
the roots of a great tree - one of the curious thorny dôm
trees that grow in thickets over the plain. I believe our
Arabs called them dôm; Mr. Dinwiddie said it was a Zizyphus.
It was a very large tree at any rate, and with its odd thorny
branches and bright green foliage canopied picturesquely the
fine spring beneath it. All was wild and waste. The Arabs do
not even root out the dîm or nubk trees from the spots they
irrigate and cultivate; but the little channels of water flow
in and out among the stems and roots of the trees as they can.
Times are changed on Jericho's plain.
I thought so, as we turned up the slope of rock rubbish which
leads to the foot of the cave cliffs. The mountain here is a
sheer face of rock; and the caves, natural or artificial,
pierce the rock in tiers, higher and lower. The precipice is
spotted with them. The lowest ones are used now by the Arabs
to pen their sheep and quarter their donkeys; Mr. Dinwiddie
and I looked into a good many of them; in one or two we found
a store of corn or straw laid up. Many of the highest caves
could not be got at; the paths and stairs in the rock which
used to lead to them are washed and worn away; but the second
tier are not so utterly cut off from human feet. By a way
chiselled in the rock, with good nerves, one can reach them.
My nerves were good enough, and I followed Mr. Dinwiddie along
the face of the precipice till we reached some sets of caves
communicating with each other. These were partly natural,
partly enlarged by labour. Places were cut for beds and for
cupboards; there was provision of a fine water tank, to which,
Mr. Dinwiddie told me, there were stone channels leading from
a source some hundreds of feet distant; cistern and tubes both
carefully plastered. A few Abyssinian Christians come here
every spring to keep Lent, Mr. Dinwiddie said. How much more
pains they take than we do, I thought.
"Yes," said Mr. Dinwiddie, when I said my thought aloud, -
" 'Skin for skin; all that a man hath will he give for his
life.' But when the conscience knows that heaven is not to be
bought that way, then there is no other motive left that will
use up all a man's energies but the love of Christ
constraining him."
"The trouble is, Mr. Dinwiddie, that there is so little of
that."
"So little!" he said, - "even in those of us who love most. I
do not mean to say that this love had no share in determining
the actions of those who used to live here; perhaps they
thought to get nearer to Christ by getting nearer to the
places of His some time presence and working in human flesh."
"And don't you think it does help, Mr. Dinwiddie?" I said.
He turned on me a very deep and sweet look, that was half a
smile.
"No!" he answered. "The Lord may use it, - He often does, - to
quicken our sense of realities and so strengthen our
apprehension of spiritualities; but just so He can use other
things, even remote distance from such and all material helps.
Out of that very distance He can make a tie to draw the soul
to Himself."
"There must have been a great many of those old Christians
living here once?" I said.
"Yes," said Mr. Dinwiddie. "On this face of the mountain there
are thirty or forty caves - I think there are many more in the
gorge of the Kelt, round on the south face. Do you see that
round hole over your head?"
We were standing in one of the caverns. I looked up.
"I cannot get you up there," he went on, - "but I have climbed
up by means of a rope. There are other rooms there, and one is
a chapel - I mean, it was one, - with arches cut to the
windows and doorways, and frescoed walls, full of figures of
saints. Through another hole in another ceiling, like this, I
got up into still a third set of rooms, like the ones below.
Into those nobody had come for many a year; the dust witnessed
it. Back of one room, the chapel, was a little low doorway;
very low. I crept through - and there in the inner place, lay
piled the skeletons of the old hermits; skulls and bones, just
as they had been laid while the flesh was still upon them; the
dust was inches deep. A hundred feet higher up there are more
caverns. No, I should not like to take you - though the
Abyssinian devotees come to them every spring. Yet higher than
those, far up, near the top of the mountain, I have explored
others, where I found still more burial caves like the one
just here above us. Chapels and frescoes were up there too."
"And difficult climbing, Mr. Dinwiddie."
"Very difficult. Broken stairs and dizzy galleries, and deep
precipices, with the vultures floating in air down below me."
"What a place for men to live!"
"Fitter for the doves and swallows which inhabit the old
hermits' houses now. Yet not a bad place to live either, if
one had nothing to do in the world. Sit down and rest and let
us look at it."
"And I have got some luncheon for you, Mr. Dinwiddie. I should
have missed all this if you had not been with me. Papa would
never have come here."
There were many places in front of the cells where seats had
been cut out in the rock; and in one of these Mr. Dinwiddie
and I sat down, to eat fruit and biscuit and use our eyes; our
attendant Arab no doubt wondering at us all the while. The
landscape in view was exceedingly fine. We had the plains of
Jericho, green and lovely, spread out before us; we could see
the north end of the Dead Sea and the mouth of the Jordan; and
the hills of Moab, always like a superb wall of mountain
rising up over against us.
"Do you know where you are?" said Mr. Dinwiddie.
"Partly."
"The site of old Jericho is marked by the heaps and the ruins
which lie between us and our camp."
"Yes. That is _old_ Jericho."
"Over against us, somewhere among those Moab hills, is the
pass by which the hosts of the 'sons of Israel' came down,
with their flocks and herds, to the rich plains over there, -
the plains of Moab."
"And opposite us, I suppose, somewhere along there in front of
old Jericho, is the place where the waters of the river failed
from below and were cut off from above, and the great space
was laid bare for the armies to pass over."
"Just over there. And there - Elijah and Elisha went over dry
shod, when Elijah smote with his mantle upon the waters; and
there by the same way Elisha came back alone, after he had
seen his master taken from him."
"Those were grand times!" I said, with a half breath.
"They were rough times."
"Still, they were grand times."
"I think, these are grander."
"But, Mr. Dinwiddie, such things are not done now as were done
then."
"Why not?"
"Why, how can you ask?"
"How can you answer?"
"Why, Mr. Dinwiddie, the river is not parted now, this river
nor any other, for the Lord's people to go over without
trouble."
"Are you sure?" said he, with the deep sweet look I had
noticed. "Do they never come now, in the way of their duty, to
an impassable barrier of danger or difficulty, through which
the same hand opens their path? Did you never find that they
do, in your own experience?"
A little, I had; and yet it seemed to me that a very Jordan of
difficulty lay before me now, rolling in full power. Mr.
Dinwiddie waited a moment and went on.
"That old cry, 'Where is the Lord God of Elijah?' - will bring
down His hand, now as then; mighty to hold back worse waves
than those of the 'Descender.' Aaron's rod, and the blast of
the priests' trumpets, were but the appeal and the triumph of
faith. And before that appeal stronger walls than those of
Jericho fall down, now as well as then."
"Then it must be the faith that is wanting," I said.
"Sometimes" - Mr. Dinwiddie answered; "and _not_ sometimes. That
earnest Sunday-school teacher, who prayed that the Lord would
give him at least one soul a week out of his Bible class, and
who reported at the end of the year, _fifty-two_ brought to God,
- what do you think of his faith? - and his Jericho?"
"Is it true?" I said.
"It is true. What are the walls of stone and mortar to that?
We wrestle not with flesh and blood, but against
principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the
darkness of this world. - But our Captain is stronger."
I think we were both silent for some time; yet there was a din
of voices in my ear. So it seemed. Silence was literally
broken only by the note of a bird here and there; but the
plain before me, the green line which marked the course of the
Jordan, the Moab mountains, the ruins at my feet, the caves
behind me, were all talking to me. And there were voices of my
own past and present, still other voices, blending with these.
I sat very still, and Mr. Dinwiddie sat very still; until he
suddenly turned to me and spoke.
"Will nothing but a miracle do, Miss Daisy?"
The tone was so gentle and so quietly blended itself with my
musings, that I started and smiled.
"Oh, yes," I said; - "I do not suppose I want a miracle."
"Can a friend's counsel be of any use?"
"It might - of the greatest," I answered; - "if only I could
tell you all the circumstances."
"Before we go to that, how has it fared with my little friend
of old time, all these years?"
"How has it _fared_ with me?" - I repeated in doubt.
"There is only one sort of welfare I know," he said. "It is
not strength to the body, or gold to the purse. I am 'well'
only when God's favour is shining on me and I am strong to run
the way of His commandments."
"I am not strong," I said.
"You know I do not mean my own strength, or yours," he
answered.
"I have never forgotten what you used to tell me," I said.
"Good. And yet, Miss Daisy, I would rather you could tell me
you had forgotten it; that you had gone on so far from that
beginning as to have lost it out of view."
"Ah, but I have not had so many friends to teach me, and help
me, that I could afford to forget the first one," I said. "I
have one dear old friend who thinks as you do, - and that is
all; and I cannot see her now."
" 'If any man lack wisdom, let him ask of God, who giveth to
all men liberally and upbraideth not; and it shall be given
him,' " Mr. Dinwiddie said.
"I lack wisdom, very much; but it does not seem to come, even
though I ask for it. I am sometimes in a great puzzle."
"About what to do?"
"Yes."
"You can always find out the first step to be taken. Jesus
will be followed step by step. He will not show you but one
step at a time, very often. But take that, holding His hand,
and He will show you the next."
"So I came here," I said.
"And what is the work to be done here? on yourself, or on
somebody else?"
"I do not know," I said. "I had not thought it was either.
Perhaps I am learning."
He was silent then, and I sat thinking.
"Mr. Dinwiddie," I said, "maybe you can help me."
"I will gladly, if I can."
"But it is very difficult for me to put you in possession of
the circumstances - or in the atmosphere of the circumstances.
I do not know that I can. You know that papa and mamma do not
think with me on the subject of religion?"
"Yes."
"There are other things in which I think differently from them
- other things in which we feel apart; and they do not know
it. Ought I to let them know it?"
"Your question is as enigmatical as an ancient oracle. I must
have a little more light. Do these differences of feeling or
opinion touch action? - either yours or theirs?"
"Yes, - both."
"Then, unless your minds are known to each other, will there
not be danger of mistaken action, on the one part or on the
other?"
"Telling them would not prevent that danger," I said.
"They would disregard your views, or you would disregard
theirs, - which?"
"I must not disregard theirs," I said low.
Mr. Dinwiddie was silent awhile. I had a sort of cry in my
heart for the old dividing of the waters.
"Miss Daisy," he said, "there is one sure rule. Do right; and
let consequences break us to pieces, if needs be."
"But," said I doubtfully, "I had questioned what was right; at
least I had not been certain that I ought to do anything just
now."
"Of course I am speaking in the dark," he answered. "But you
can judge whether this matter of division is something that in
your father's place you would feel you had a right to know."
I mused so long after this speech, that I am sure Mr.
Dinwiddie must have felt that he had touched my difficulty. He
was perfectly silent. At last I rose up to go home. I do not
know what Mr. Dinwiddie saw in me, but he stopped me and took
my hand.
"Can't you trust the Lord?" he said.
"I see trouble before me, whatever I do," I said with some
difficulty.
"Very well," he said; "even so, trust the Lord. The trouble
will do you no harm."
I sat down for a moment and covered my face. It might do me no
harm; it might at the same time separate me from what I loved
best in the world.
"Cannot you trust?" he repeated. " 'He that putteth his trust
in the Lord shall be made fat.' "
"You know," I said, getting up, "one cannot help being weak."
"Will you excuse me? - That is precisely what we _can_ help. We
cannot help being ignorant sometimes, - foolish sometimes, -
short-sighted. But weak we need not be; for 'in the Lord
Jehovah is everlasting strength;' and 'he giveth power to the
faint.' "
"But there is no perfection, Mr. Dinwiddie."
"Not if by perfection you mean, standing alone. But if the
power that holds us up is perfect, - what should hinder our
having a fulness of that? 'If ye shall ask anything in My
name, I will do it.' Isn't that promise good for all we want
to ask?"
I sat down again to think. Mr. Dinwiddie quietly took his
place by my side; and we were still for a good while. The
plains of Jericho and the Jordan and the Moab mountains and
the Quarantania, all seemed to have new voices for me now;
voices full of balm; messages of soft-healing. I do think the
messages God sends to us by natural things are some of the
sweetest and mightiest and best understood of all. They come
home.
"Do you think," I asked, after a long silence, "that this
mountain was really the scene of the Temptation?"
"Why should we think so? No, I do not think it."
"But the road from Jericho to Jerusalem - there is no doubt of
that?"
"No doubt at all. We are often sure of the roads here, when we
are sure of little else."
There was a pause; and then Mr. Dinwiddie broke it.
"You left things in confusion at home. How do you feel about
that?"
"At home in America?" I said. "I do not feel about it as my
parents do."
"You side with the North!"
"I have lived there so much. I know the view taken there; and
it seems to me the right one. And I have lived at the South
too; and I do not like the view held there, - nor the practice
followed."
"There are some things I can fancy you would not like," he
said musingly. "I have not known what to think. It seems to me
they have made a false move. But it seems to me they must
succeed."
"I don't know," I said. "Perhaps."
He looked at me a little hard, and then we left the hermits'
caves and went down the plain to our encampment.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE FORLORN HOPE