June came the next morning to dress her young mistress as usual. Daisy
was not soon done with that business on this particular day; she would
break off, half dressed, and go to lean out of her window. There was a
honeysuckle below the window; its dewy sweet smell came up to her, and
the breath of the morning was sweet beside in all the trees and leaves
around; the sun shone on the short turf by glimpses, where the trees
would let it. Daisy leaned out of her window. June stood as often
before, with comb and brush in hand.
"Miss Daisy--it's late."
"June," said Daisy,--"it's Sunday."
"Yes, ma'am."
"It'll be hot too," Daisy went on. "June, are you glad when Sunday
comes?"
"Yes ma'am," said June, shifting her position a little.
"I am," said Daisy. "Jesus is King to-day. To be sure, he is King
always; but to-day _everything_ is his."
"Miss Daisy, you won't be dressed."
Daisy drew her head in from the window and sat down to submit it to
June's brush; but she went on talking.
"What part of the Bible do you like best to read, June?"
"Miss Daisy, will you wear your white muslin, to-day--or the one with
blue spots?"
"White. But tell me, June--which part of the Bible do you like best?"
"I like where it tells about all they had to go through"--June answered,
rather unwillingly.
"They?--who?"
"The people, Miss Daisy--Christians, I s'pose."
"What did they have to go through?"
"Things, ma'am," said June very confusedly. "Miss Daisy, please don't
turn your head round."
"But what things? and what for? Where is it, June?"
"I can't tell--I can find it for you, Miss Daisy. But you won't be
ready."
June however had to risk that and find the chapter; and then Daisy read
perseveringly all through the rest of her dressing, till it was
finished. All the while June was fastening her frock, and tying her
sash, and lacing her boots, Daisy stood or sat with the Bible in her
hands and her eyes on the eleventh of Hebrews.
"June, I wonder when all this happened?"
"A great while ago, it's likely, Miss Daisy--but it's good to read
now"--June added but half distinctly, as it was her manner often to
speak. Daisy was accustomed to her, and heard it. She did not answer
except by breaking out into the chorus she had learnt from June--
"'Die in the field of battle,
Die in the field of battle,
Die in the field of battle,
Glory in your view!'"
"Miss Daisy--I wouldn't sing that in the house," June ventured. For the
child's voice, clear and full, raised the sweet notes to a pitch that
might have been heard at least through several of the large rooms. Daisy
hushed her song.
The trout was to be for breakfast, and Daisy when she was quite ready
went gaily down to see if it would be approved. Her father was engaged
to eat it all, and he held to his promise; only allowing Daisy herself
to share with him; and on the whole Daisy and he had a very gay
breakfast.
"It is too hot to do anything," said Mrs. Randolph, as the trout was
very nearly reduced to a skeleton. "I shall not go to church this
morning."
A shade passed over Daisy's face, but she did not look towards her
mother.
"If you do not, I can't see why I should," said Mr. Randolph. "The
burden of setting a good example lies upon you."
"Why?" said his wife quickly.
"Nobody will know whether I am there or not."
"Nobody will know that _I_ am there at any rate," the lady rejoined.
"The heat will be insufferable." Mrs. Gary declared herself of the same
opinion.
An hour after Daisy came into her mother's room.
"Mamma, may I go to church with Joanna?"
"It's too hot, Daisy."
"No, mamma--I don't mind it. I would like to go."
"Children don't mind anything! Please yourself. But how are you going?"
"On foot, mamma; under the shade of the trees. It is nice and shady, all
the way."
"It is enough to kill you! But go."
So Daisy's great flat set off alongside of Miss Underwood's Sunday gown
to walk to church. They set out all right, on the way to the church by
the evergreens. Preston Gary was a good deal surprised to find them some
time later in another part of the grounds and going in a different
direction.
"Where are you bound, Daisy?" he asked.
"To church, Preston."
"Church is the other way."
"Yes, but Mr. Pyne is sick and the church is closed, and we are going
over to that little church on the other side of the road."
"Why that is a dissenting chapel, isn't it?"
"There's no more dissent amongst 'em than there is among other folks!"
broke in Miss Underwood with a good deal of expression. "I wish all
other folks and churches was as peaceable and kept as close to their
business! Anyhow, it's a church, and the other one won't let us in."
Preston smiled and stepped back, and to Daisy's satisfaction they met
with no further stay. They got to the little church and took their
places in the very front; that place was empty, and Joanna said it was
the only one that she could see. The house was full. It was a plain
little church, very neat, but very plain compared with what Daisy was
accustomed to. So were the people. These were not rich people, not any
of them, she thought. At least there were no costly bonnets nor
exquisite lace shawls nor embroidered muslin dresses among them; and
many persons that she saw looked absolutely poor. Daisy however did not
see this at first; for the service began almost as soon as they entered.
Daisy was very fond of the prayers always in church, but she seldom
could make much of the sermon. It was not so to-day. In the first place,
when the prayers and hymns were over, and what Daisy called "the good
part" of the service was done, her astonishment and delight were about
equal to see Mr. Dinwiddie come forward to speak. It is impossible to
tell how glad Daisy was; even a sermon she thought she could relish from
his lips; but when he began, she forgot all about it's being a sermon.
Mr. Dinwiddie was talking to her and to the rest of the people; that was
all she knew; he was not looking down at his book, he was looking at
them; his eyes were going right through hers. And he did not speak as if
he was preaching; his voice sounded exactly as it did every day out of
church. It was delightful. Daisy forgot all about it's being a sermon,
and only drank in the words with her ears and her heart, and never took
her eyes from those bright ones that every now and then looked down at
her. For Mr. Dinwiddie was telling of Him "who though he was rich yet
for our sakes became poor." He told how rich he was, in the glories and
happiness of heaven, where everything is perfect and all is his. And
then he told how Jesus made himself poor; how he left all that glory and
everything that pleased him; came where everything displeased him; lived
among sin and sinners; was poor, and despised, and rejected, and treated
with every shame, and at last shamefully put to death and his dead body
laid in the grave. All this because he loved us; all this because he
wanted to make us rich, and without his death to buy our forgiveness
there was no other way. "Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that
he loved us, and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins."
Daisy forgot even Mr. Dinwiddie in thinking of that wonderful One. She
thought she had never seen before how good he is, or how beautiful; she
had never felt how loving and tender Jesus is in his mercy to those that
seek him, and whom _he_ came to seek first; she never saw "the kindness
and love of God our Saviour" before. As the story went on, again and
again Daisy would see a cloud or mist of tears come over the brightness
of those brilliant eyes; and saw the lips tremble; and Daisy's own eyes
filled and ran over and her cheeks were wet with tears, and she never
knew it!
But when Mr. Dinwiddie stopped she was so full of gladness in her little
heart,--gladness that this beautiful Saviour loved her and that she
loved him, that although if she _could_ have been sorry, she would have
been very sorry that the sermon was over, she was not; she could be
nothing but glad.
She thought they were going home then, after the hymn was sung; but in
her thoughts she had missed some words not spoken by Mr. Dinwiddie. And
now she perceived that not only it was sacrament day, which she had
seen before; but further, that the people who would not share in that
service were going, and that Miss Underwood was staying, and by
consequence she must stay too. Daisy was pleased. She had never in her
life, as it happened, seen the observance of this ordinance; and she
had, besides a child's curiosity, a deep, deep interest in all that
Christians are accustomed to do. Was she not one?
Mr. Dinwiddie had spoken about the service and the purpose of it; he
explained how the servants of Christ at his command take the bread and
wine in remembrance of him and what he has done for them; and as a sign
to all the world that they believe in him and love him, and wait for him
to come again. Now some prayers were made, and there were spoken some
grave words of counsel and warning, which sounded sweet and awful in
Daisy's ears; and then the people came forward, a part of them, and
knelt around a low railing which was before the pulpit. As they did
this, some voices began to sing a hymn, in a wonderfully sweet and
touching music. Daisy was exceedingly fond of every melody and harmony
that was worthy the name; and this--plaintive, slow, simple--seemed to
go not only through her ears, but down to the very bottom of her heart.
They sang but a verse and a chorus; and then after an interval, when
those around the railings rose and gave place to others, they sang a
verse and a chorus again; and this is the chorus that they sang. It
dwelt in Daisy's heart for many a day; but I can never tell you the
sweetness of it.
"O the Lamb! the loving Lamb!
The Lamb on Calvary;
The Lamb that was slain, but lives again,
To intercede for me."
It seemed to Daisy a sort of paradise while they were singing. Again and
again after a pause the notes measuredly rose and fell; and little Daisy
who could take no other open part in what was going on, responded to
them with her tears. Nobody was looking, she thought; nobody would see.
At last it was all done; the last verses were sung; the last prayers
spoken; the little crowd turned to go. Daisy standing behind Joanna in
the front place was obliged to wait till the aisle was clear. She had
turned too when everybody else did, and so was standing with her back to
the pulpit, when a hand was laid on her shoulder. The next minute
Daisy's little fingers were in Mr. Dinwiddie's clasp, and her face was
looking joyfully into his.
"Daisy--I am glad to see you."
Another look, and a slight clasp of her little fingers, answered him.
"I wish you had been with us just now."
"I am too little--" was Daisy's humble and regretful reply.
"Nobody is too little, who is old enough to know what Jesus has done and
to love him for it, and to be his servant. Do you love him, Daisy?"
"Yes, Mr. Dinwiddie."
A very soft but a very clear answer; and so was the answer of the eyes
raised to his. To Daisy's great joy, he did not let go her hand when
they got out of the church. Instead of that, keeping it fast, he allowed
Miss Underwood to go on a little before them, and then he lingered with
Daisy along the shady, overarched walks of Melbourne grounds, into which
they presently turned. Mr. Dinwiddie lingered purposely, and let Joanna
get out of hearing. Then he spoke again.
"If you love Jesus, you want to obey him, Daisy."
"Yes, Mr. Dinwiddie!"
He felt the breathless manner of her answer.
"What will you do, little one, when you find that to obey him, you may
have a great deal of hard fighting to go through?"
"I'll die on the field of battle, Mr. Dinwiddie."
He looked at her a little curiously. It was no child's boast. Her face
was quiet, her eye steady; so had her tone been. It was most unlike
Daisy to make protestations of feeling; just now she was speaking to the
one person in the world who could help her, whom in this matter she
trusted; speaking to him maybe for the last time, she knew; and moreover
Daisy's heart was full. She spoke as she might live years and not do
again, when she said, "I'll die on the field of battle."
"That is as the Lord pleases," returned Mr. Dinwiddie; "but how will you
_fight_, Daisy? you are a weak little child. The fight must be won, in
the first place."
"Please tell me, Mr. Dinwiddie."
He sat down on a bank and drew Daisy down beside him.
"In the first place, you must remember that you are the Lord's and that
everything you have belongs to him; so that his will is the only thing
to be considered in every case. Is it so, Daisy?"
"Yes, Mr. Dinwiddie! But tell me what you mean, by 'everything I have.'
That is what I wanted to know."
"I will tell you presently. In the next place--whenever you know the
Lord's will, don't be afraid, but trust him to help you to do it. He
always will, he always can. Only trust him, and don't be afraid."
"Yes, Mr. Dinwiddie!" Daisy said; but with a gleam on her face which
even then reflected the light of those words.
"That's all, Daisy."
"Then Mr. Dinwiddie, please tell me what you mean by 'everything?'"
"If you love the Lord, Daisy, you will find out."
"But I am afraid I don't know, Mr. Dinwiddie, what all my talents are."
"He is a wise man that does. But if you love the Lord Jesus with all
your heart, you will find that in everything you do you can somehow
please him, and that he is first to be pleased."
They looked into each other again, those two faces, with perfect
understanding; grateful content in the child's eyes, watchful tenderness
in those of Mr. Dinwiddie, through all their keenness and brightness.
Then, he rose up and offered his hand to Daisy; just said "good bye,"
and was gone, he turned off another way, Daisy followed Miss Underwood's
steps. But Joanna had got to the house long before she reached it; and
Daisy thought herself very happy that nobody saw her come home alone.
She got to her own room in safety.
Daisy's heart was full of content. That day was the King's, to be sure;
the very air seemed to speak of the love of Jesus, and the birds and the
sunshine and the honeysuckle repeated the song of "The Lamb on Calvary."
There was no going to church a second time; after luncheon, which was
Daisy's dinner, she had the time all to herself. She sat by her own
window, or sometimes she lay down--for Daisy was not very strong
yet--but sitting or lying and whatever she was doing, the thought that
that King was hers, and that Jesus loved her, made her happy; and the
hours of the day rolled away as bright as its own sunshine.
"Well, mouse." said her mother when Daisy came down to tea,--"where have
you been? What a mouse you are!"
"Intelligent--for a lower order of quadrupeds," said Mr. McFarlane.
"The day has been insufferable!" said Mrs. Randolph. "Have you been
asleep, Daisy?"
"No, mamma."
"You were lying down?"
"Yes, mamma."
Daisy had drawn up close to her mother who had thrown an arm round her.
The family were gathered in the library; the windows open, the fresh
air coming faintly in; the light fading, but no lamps needed yet.
"I am glad the day is over!" said Mrs. Gary. "This morning I did not
know how I was going to live through it. There is a little freshness
now. Why is it always so much hotter on Sundays than on any other day?"
"Because you think about it," said Mr. Randolph, who was moving from
window to window setting the glass doors wider open.
"There is nothing else to think about," said Mrs. Randolph with a yawn.
"Gary, do bring me a cup of tea."
"You ought to think about your evil deeds," said Mr. McFarlane obeying
the command. "Then you would have enough."
"_You_ would, you mean."
"I know it. I speak from experience. I tried it once, for a whole
afternoon; and you've no idea how good tea-time was when it came!"
"What _could_ set you about such a piece of work, Gary?" said his
hostess laughing.
"Conscience, my dear," said her sister. "I am not at all surprised. I
wonder if anybody has been to church to-day?"
"I am sorry for the clergyman, if anybody has," remarked Gary.
Mrs. Randolph's arm had slipped from Daisy, and Daisy slipped away from
her mother's sofa to the table; where she dipped sponge biscuits in milk
and wondered at other people's Sundays. A weight seemed settling down on
her heart. She could not bear to hear the talk; she eat her supper and
then sat down on the threshold of one of the glass doors that looked
towards the west, and watched the beautiful colours on the clouds over
the mountains; and softly sung to herself the tune she had heard in
church in the morning. So the colours faded away, and the light, and the
dusk grew on, and still Daisy sat in the window door humming to
herself. She did not know that Gary McFarlane had stolen up close behind
her and gone away again.
He went away just as company came in; some gay neighbours who found the
evening tempting, and came for a little diversion. Lamps were lit and
talking and laughing went round, till Mrs. Randolph asked where Daisy
was.
"In the window, singing to the stars," Gary McFarlane whispered. "Do you
know, Mrs. Randolph, how she can sing?"
"No,--how? She has a child's voice."
"But not a child's taste or ear," said Gary. "I heard her the other day
warbling the gypsy song in 'The Camp in Silesia,' and she did it to
captivation. Do, Mrs. Randolph, ask her to sing it. I was astonished."
"Do!" said Capt. Drummond; and the request spread and became general.
"Daisy--" said Mrs. Randolph. Daisy did not hear; but the call being
repeated she came from her window, and after speaking to the strangers,
whom she knew, she turned to her mother. The room was all light and
bright and full of gay talkers.
"Daisy," said her mother, "I want you to sing that gypsy song from the
'Camp in Silesia.' Gary says you know it--so he is responsible. _Can_
you sing it?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Then sing it. Never mind whether you succeed or not; that is of no
consequence."
"Mamma----," began Daisy.
"Well, what?"
Daisy was in great confusion. What to say to her mother she did not
know.
"No matter how you get along with it," repeated Mrs. Randolph. "That is
nothing."
"It isn't that, mamma,--but--"
"Then sing. No more words, Daisy; sing."
"Mamma, please don't ask me!"
"I _have_ asked you. Come Daisy--don't be silly."
"Mamma," whispered Daisy trembling, "I will sing it any other night but
to-night!"
"To-night? what's to-night?"
"To-night is Sunday."
"And is that the reason?"
Daisy stood silent, very much agitated.
"I'll have no nonsense of the kind, Daisy. Sing immediately!" But Daisy
stood still.
"Do you refuse me?"
"Mamma--" said Daisy pleadingly.
"Go and fetch me a card from the table."
Daisy obeyed. Mrs. Randolph rapidly wrote a word or two on it with a
pencil.
"But where is the gypsy?" cried Gary McFarlane.
"She has not found her voice yet. Take that to your father, Daisy."
Daisy's knees literally shook under her as she moved across the room to
obey this order. Mr. Randolph was sitting at some distance talking with
one of the gentlemen. He broke off when Daisy came up with the card.
"What is it your mother wishes you to sing?" he inquired, looking from
the writing to the little bearer. Daisy answered very low.
"A gypsy song from an opera."
"Can you sing it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then do so at once, Daisy."
The tone was quiet but imperative. Daisy stood with eyes cast down, the
blood all leaving her face to reinforce some attacked region. She grew
white from second to second.
"It is the charge of the Light Brigade," said Capt. Drummond to himself.
He had heard and watched the whole proceeding and had the key to it. He
thought good-naturedly to suggest to Daisy an escape from her
difficulty, by substituting for the opera song something else that she
_could_ sing. Rising and walking slowly up and down the room, he hummed
near enough for her to hear and catch it, the air of "Die in the field
of battle." Daisy heard and caught it, but not his suggestion. It was
the thought of the _words_ that went to her heart,--not the thought of
the tune. She stood as before, only clasped her little hands close upon
her breast. Capt. Drummond watched her. So did her father, who could
make nothing of her.
"Do you understand me, Daisy?"
"Papa--"
"Obey me first, and then talk about it."
Daisy was in no condition to talk; she could hardly breathe that one
word. She knew the tone of great displeasure in her father's voice. He
saw her condition.
"You are not able to sing at this minute," said he. "Go to your room--I
will give you ten minutes to recover yourself. Then, Daisy, come here
and sing--if you like to be at peace with me."
But Daisy did not move; she stood there with her two hands clasped on
her breast.
"Do you mean that you will not?" said Mr. Randolph.
"If it wasn't Sunday, papa--" came from Daisy's parted lips.
"Sunday?" said Mr. Randolph--"is that it? Now we know where we are.
Daisy--do you hear me?--turn about and sing your song. Do not give me
another refusal!"
But Daisy stood, growing paler and paler, till the whiteness reached her
lips, and her father saw that in another minute she would fall. He
snatched her from the floor and placed her upon his knee with his arm
round her; but though conscious that she was held against his breast,
Daisy was conscious too that there was no relenting in it; she knew her
father; and her deadly paleness continued. Mr. Randolph saw that there
would be no singing that night, and that the conflict between Daisy and
him must be put off to another day. Making excuse to those near, that
she was not well, he took his little daughter in his arms and carried
her up stairs to her own room. There he laid her on the bed and rang for
June, and staid by her till he saw her colour returning. Then without a
word he left her.
Meanwhile Capt. Drummond, down stairs, had taken a quiet seat in a
corner; his talking mood having deserted him.
"Did I ever walk up to the cannon's mouth like that?" he said to
himself.