Daisy kept herself quite still while her father and June were present.
When Mr. Randolph had gone down stairs, and June seeing her charge
better, ventured to leave her to get some brandy and water, then Daisy
seized that minute of being alone to allow herself a few secret tears.
Once opened, the fountain of tears gushed out a river; and when June
came back Daisy was in an agony which prevented her knowing that anybody
was with her. In amaze June set down the brandy and water and looked on.
She had never in her life seen Daisy so. It distressed her; but though
June might be called dull, her poor wits were quick to read some signs;
and troubled as she was, she called neither Daisy's father nor her
mother. The child's state would have warranted such an appeal. She never
heard June's tremulous "Don't, Miss Daisy!" She was shaken with the
sense of the terrible contest she had brought on herself; and grieved to
the very depths of her tender little heart that she must bear the
displeasure of her father and her mother. She struggled with tears and
agitation until she was exhausted, and then lay quiet, panting and pale,
because she had no strength to weep longer.
"Miss Daisy," said June, "drink this."
"What is it?"
"It is brandy and water. It is good for you."
"I am not faint. I don't like it."
"Miss Daisy, please! You want something. It will make you feel better
and put you to sleep."
Disregarding the tumbler which June offered, Daisy slowly crawled off
the bed and went and kneeled down before her open window, crossing her
arms on the sill. June followed her, with a sort of submissive
pertinacity.
"Miss Daisy, you want to take some of this, and lie down and go to
sleep."
"I don't want to go to sleep."
"Miss Daisy, you're weak--won't you take, a little of this, to
strengthen you a bit?"
"I don't want it, June."
"You'll be sick to-morrow."
"June," said Daisy, "I wish a chariot of fire would come for me!"
"Why, Miss Daisy?"
"To take me right up. But I shall not be sick. You needn't be afraid.
You needn't stay."
June was too much awed to speak, and dared not disobey. She withdrew;
and in her own premises stood as Daisy was doing, looking at the
moonlight; much wondering that storms should pass over her little white
mistress such as had often shaken her own black breast. It was
mysterious.
Daisy did not wish to go to sleep; and it was for fear she should, that
she had crawled off the bed, trembling in every limb. For the same
reason she would not touch the brandy and water. Once asleep, the next
thing would be morning and waking up; she was not ready for that. So she
knelt by the window and felt the calm glitter of the moonlight, and
tried to pray. It was long, long since Daisy had withstood her father or
mother in anything. She remembered the last time; she knew now they
_would_ have her submit to them, and now she thought she must not. Daisy
dared not face the coming day. She would have liked to sit up all night;
but her power of keeping even upon her knees was giving way when June
stole in behind her, too uneasy to wait for Daisy's ring.
"Miss Daisy, you'll be surely sick to-morrow, and Mis' Randolph will
think I ought to be killed."
"June, didn't the minister say this morning--"
"What minister?"
"O it wasn't you,--it was Joanna. Where is Joanna? I want to see her."
"Most likely she's going to bed, Miss Daisy."
"No matter--I want to see her. Go and tell her, June--no matter if she
is in her night-gown,--tell her I want to speak to her one minute."
June went, and Daisy once more burst into tears. But she brushed them,
aside when Joanna came back with June a few minutes after.
"Joanna--didn't the minister say this morning, that when we are doing
what Jesus tells us, he will help us through?"
"It's true," said Joanna, looking startled and troubled at the pale
little tear-stained face lifted to her;--"but I don't just know as that
minister said it this morning."
"Didn't he?"
"Why it's true, Miss Daisy; for I've heard other ministers say it; but
that one this morning was preaching about something else--don't you
know?"
"Was he? Didn't he say that?"
"Why no, Miss Daisy; he was preaching about how rich----"
"O I know!" said Daisy--"I remember; yes, it wasn't then--it was
afterwards. Yes, he said it--I knew it--but it wasn't in his sermon.
Thank you, Joanna--that's all; I don't want you any more."
"What ails her?" whispered Joanna, when June followed her out with a
light.
But June knew her business better than to tell her little mistress's
secrets; and her face shewed no more of them, than it shewed of her own.
When she returned, Daisy was on her knees, with her face hidden in her
hands, at the foot of the bed.
June stopped; and the little white figure there looked so slight, the
attitude of the bended head was so childlike and pitiful, that the
mulatto woman's face twinkled and twitched in a way most unwonted to its
usual stony lines. She never stirred till Daisy rose up and submissively
allowed herself to be put to bed; and then waited on her with most
reverent gentleness.
So she did next morning. But Daisy was very pale, and trembled
frequently, June noticed; and when she was dressed sat down patiently by
the window. She was not going down, to breakfast, she told June; and
June went away to her own breakfast, very ill satisfied.
Breakfast was brought up to Daisy, as she expected; and then she waited
for her summons. She could not eat much. The tears were very ready to
start, but Daisy kept them back. It did not suit her to go weeping into
her father and mother's presence, and she had self command enough to
prevent it. She could not read; yet she turned over the pages of her
Bible to find some comfort. She did not know or could not remember just
where to look for it; and at last turned to the eleventh of Hebrews, and
with her eye running over the record there of what had been done and
borne for Christ's sake, felt her own little heart beating hard in its
own trial.
June came at length to call her to her mother's room.
Mrs. Randolph was half lying on a couch, a favourite position; and her
eye was full on Daisy as she came in. Daisy stopped at a little
distance; and June took care to leave the door ajar.
"Daisy," said Mrs. Randolph, "I want in the first place an explanation
of last night's behaviour."
"Mamma, I am very sorry to have offended you!" said Daisy, pressing both
hands together upon her breast to keep herself quiet.
"Looks like it," said Mrs. Randolph; and yet she did see and feel the
effect of the night's work upon the child. "Go on;--tell me why you
disobeyed me last night."
"It was Sunday--" said Daisy softly.
"Sunday!--well, what of that? what of Sunday?"
"That song--wasn't a Sunday song."
"What do you mean by a Sunday song?"
"I mean"--Daisy was on dangerous ground, and she knew it,--"I mean, one
of those songs that God likes to hear people sing on his day."
"Who is to be judge?" said Mrs. Randolph,--"you or I?"
"Mamma," said Daisy, "I will do everything else in the world you tell
me!"
"You will have to do everything else and this too. Isn't there a
commandment about children obeying their mothers?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"That is the very first commandment I mean you shall obey," said Mrs.
Randolph, rousing herself enough to bring one foot to the floor. "You
have no business to think whether a thing is right or wrong, that I
order you to do; if I order it, that makes it right; and anybody but a
fool would tell you so. You will sing that song from the 'Camp in
Silesia' for me next Sunday evening, or I will whip you, Daisy--you may
depend upon it. I have done it before, and I will again; and you know I
do not make believe. Now go to your father."
"Where is he, mamma?" said Daisy, with a perceptible added paleness in
her cheek.
"I don't know. In the library, I suppose."
To the library Daisy went, with trembling steps, in great uncertainty
what she was to expect from her father. It was likely enough that he
would say the same as her mother, and insist on the act of submission to
be gone through next Sunday; but Daisy had an inward consciousness that
her father was likely to come to a point with her sooner than that. It
came even sooner than she expected.
Mr. Randolph was pacing up and down the library when Daisy slowly opened
the door. No one else was there. He stopped when she came in, and stood
looking at her as she advanced towards him.
"Daisy, you disobeyed me last night."
"Yes, papa,--but--"
"I have but one answer for that sort of thing," said Mr. Randolph,
taking a narrow ruler from the library table. "Give me your hand!"
Daisy gave it, with a very vague apprehension of what he was about to
do. The sharp, stinging stroke of the ruler the next moment upon her
open palm, made her understand very thoroughly. It drew from her one cry
of mixed pain and terror; but after that first forced exclamation Daisy
covered her face with her other hand and did not speak again. Tears,
that she could not help, came plentifully; for the punishment was
sufficiently severe, and it broke her heart that her father should
inflict it; but she stood perfectly still, only for the involuntary
wincing that was beyond her control, till her hand was released and the
ruler was thrown down. Heart and head bowed together then, and Daisy
crouched down on the floor where she stood, unable either to stand or to
move a step away.
"There! That account's settled!" said Mr. Randolph as he flung down his
ruler. And the next moment his hands came softly about Daisy and lifted
her from the floor and placed her on his knee; and his arms were wrapped
tenderly round her. Daisy almost wished he had let her alone; it seemed
to her that her sorrow was more than she could bear.
"Is your heart almost broken?" said Mr. Randolph softly, as he felt
rather than heard the heavy sobs so close to him. But to speak was an
impossibility, and so he knew, and did not repeat his question; only he
held Daisy fast, and it was in his arms that she wept out the first
overcharged fulness of her heart. It was a long time before she could
quiet those heavy sobs; and Mr. Randolph sat quite still holding her.
"Is your heart quite broken?" he whispered again, when he judged that
she could speak. Daisy did not speak, however. She turned, and rising
upon her knees, threw her arms round her father's neck and hid her soft
little head there. If tears came Mr. Randolph could not tell; he thought
his neck was wet with them. He let her alone for a little while.
"Daisy----"
"Papa----"
"Can you talk to me?"
Daisy sank back into her former position. Her father put his lips down
to hers for a long kiss.
"That account is settled," said he; "do you understand? Now Daisy, tell
me what was the matter last night."
"Papa, it was Sunday night."
"Yes. Well?"
"And that song--that mamma wanted me to sing"--Daisy spoke very
low,--"was out of an opera; and it was good for any other day, but not
for Sunday."
"Why not?"
Daisy hesitated, and at last said, "It had nothing to do with Sunday,
papa."
"But obedience is not out of place on Sunday, is it?"
"No, papa,--except----"
"Well, except what?"
"Papa, if God tells me to do one thing, and you tell me another, what
shall I do?" Daisy had hid her face in her father's breast.
"What counter command have you to plead in this case?"
"Papa, may I shew it to you?"
"Certainly."
She got down off his lap, twinkling away a tear hastily, and went to the
bookcase for the big Bible aforesaid. Mr. Randolph seeing what she was
after and that she could not lift it, went to her help and brought it to
the library table. Daisy turned over the leaves with fingers that
trembled yet, hastily, hurriedly; and paused and pointed to the words
that her father read.
"Remember that thou keep holy the Sabbath day."
Mr. Randolph read them and the words following and the words that went
before; then he turned from them and drew Daisy to her place in his arms
again.
"Daisy, there is another commandment there. 'Honour thy father and thy
mother.' Is there not?"
"Yes, papa."
"Is not one command as good as the other?"
"Papa, I think not," said Daisy. "One command tells me to obey you,--the
other tells me to obey God."
Childish as the answer was, there was truth in it; and Mr. Randolph
shifted his ground.
"Your mother will not be satisfied without your obeying the lesser
command--nor shall I!"
Silence.
"She will expect you to do next Sunday evening what you refused to do
last evening."
Still silence, but a shiver ran over Daisy's frame.
"Do you know it?" said Mr. Randolph, noticing also that Daisy's cheek
had grown a shade paler than it was.
"Papa--I wish I could die!" was the answer of the child's agony.
"Do you mean that you will not obey her, Daisy?"
"How can I, papa? how can I!" exclaimed Daisy.
"Do you think that song is so very bad, Daisy?"
"No. papa, it is very good for other days; but it is not _holy_." Her
accent struck strangely upon Mr. Randolph's ear; and sudden contrasts
rushed together oddly in his mind.
"Daisy, do you know that you are making yourself a judge of right and
wrong? Over your mother and over me?"
Daisy hid her face again in his breast; what could she answer? Mr.
Randolph unfolded the little palm swollen and blistered from the marks
of his ruler.
"Why did you offend me, Daisy?" he said gravely.
"Oh papa!" said Daisy beside herself,--"I didn't--I couldn't--I
wouldn't, for anything in the world! But I couldn't offend the Lord
Jesus!"
She was weeping again bitterly.
"That will not do," said Mr. Randolph. "You must find a way to reconcile
both duties. I shall not take an alternative." But after that he said no
more and only applied himself to soothing Daisy; till she sat drooping
in his arms, but still and calm. She started when the sound of steps and
voices came upon the verandah.
"Papa, may I go?"
He let her go, and watched her measured steps through the long room, to
the door, and heard the bound they made as soon as she was outside of
it. He rang the bell and ordered June to be called.
She came.
"June," said Mr. Randolph, "I think Daisy wants to be taken care of
to-day--I wish you would not lose sight of her."
June courtesied her obedience.
A few minutes afterwards her noiseless steps entered Daisy's room.
June's footfall was never heard about the house. As noiseless as a
shadow she came into a room; as stealthily as a dark shadow she went
out. Her movements were always slow; and whether from policy or caution
originally, her tread would not waken a sleeping mouse. So she came into
her little mistress's chamber now. Daisy was there, at her bureau,
before an open drawer; as June advanced, she saw that a great stock of
little pairs of gloves was displayed there, of all sorts, new and old;
and Daisy was trying to find among them one that would do for her
purpose. One after another was tried on the fingers of her right hand,
and thrown aside; and tears were running over the child's cheeks and
dropping into the drawer all the time. June came near, with a sort of
anxious look on her yellow face. It was strangely full of wrinkles and
lines, that generally never stirred to express or reveal anything.
Suddenly she exclaimed, but June's very exclamations were in a smothered
tone.
"O Miss Daisy! what have you done to your hand?"
"I haven't done anything to it," said Daisy, trying furtively to get rid
of her tears,--"but I want a glove to put on, June, and they are all too
small. Is Cecilia at work here to-day?"
"Yes, Miss Daisy; but let me look at your hand!--let me put some
liniment on."
"No, I don't want it," said Daisy; and June saw the suppressed sob that
was not allowed to come out into open hearing;--"but June, just rip that
glove, will you, here in the side seam; and then ask Cecilia to make a
strip of lace-work there--so that I can get it on." Daisy drew a fur
glove over the wounded hand as she spoke; it was the only one large
enough; and put on her flat hat.
"Miss Daisy, Mr. Randolph said I was to go with you anywhere you
went--to take care of you."
"Then come down to the beach, June; I'll be there."
Daisy stole down stairs and slipped out of the first door she came to.
What she wanted was to get away from seeing anybody; she did not wish to
see her mother, or Preston, or Capt. Drummond, or Ransom; and she meant
even if possible to wander off and not be at home for dinner. She could
not bear the thought of the dinner-table with all the faces round it.
She stole out under the shrubbery, which soon hid her from view of the
house.
It was a very warm day, the sun beating hot wherever it could touch at
all. Daisy went languidly along under cover of the trees, wishing to go
faster, but not able, till she reached the bank. There she waited for
June to join her, and together they went down to the river shore. Safe
there from pursuit, on such a day, Daisy curled herself down in the
shade with her back against a stone, and then began to think. She felt
very miserable; not merely for what had passed, but for a long stretch
of trouble that she saw lying before her. Indeed where or how it was to
end, Daisy had no idea. Her father indeed, she felt pretty sure would
not willingly allow his orders to come in conflict with what she thought
her duty; though if he happened to do it unconsciously,--Daisy would not
follow that train of thought. But here she was now, at this moment,
engaged in a trial of strength with her mother; very unequal, for Daisy
felt no power at all for the struggle,--and yet she could not yield!
Where was it to end? and how many other like occasions of difference
might arise, even after this one should somehow have been settled? Had
the joy of being a servant of Jesus so soon brought trouble with it?
Daisy had put the trunk of a large tree between her and June; but the
mulatto woman where she sat heard the stifled sobs of the child. June's
items of intelligence picked up by eye and ear, had given her by this
time an almost reverent feeling towards Daisy; she regarded her as
hardly earthly; nevertheless this sort of distress must not be suffered
to go on, and she was appointed to prevent it.
"Miss Daisy--it is luncheon time," she said without moving. Daisy gave
no response. June waited and then came before her and repeated her
words.
"I am not going in."
"But you want your dinner, Miss Daisy."
"No, I don't, June. I don't want to go in."
June looked at her a minute. "I'll get you your luncheon out here, Miss
Daisy. You'll be faint for want of something to eat. Will you have it
out here?"
"You needn't say where I am, June."
[Illustration]
June went off, and Daisy was left alone. Very weary and exhausted, she
sat leaning her head against the stone at her side, in a sort of
despairing quiet. The little ripple of the water on the pebbly shore
struck her ear; it was the first thing eye or ear had perceived to be
pleasant that day. Daisy's thoughts went to the hand that had made the
glittering river, with all its beauties and wonders; then they went to
what Mr. Dinwiddie had said, that God will help his people when they are
trying to do any difficult work for him; he will take care of them; he
will not forsake them. Suddenly it filled Daisy's soul like a flood,
the thought that Jesus _loves_ his people; that she was his little child
and that he loved her; and all his wisdom and power and tenderness were
round her and would keep her. Her trouble seemed to be gone, or it was
like a cloud with sunlight shining all over it. The very air was full of
music, to Daisy's feeling, not her sense. There never was such sunlight,
or such music either, as this feeling of the love of Jesus. Daisy
kneeled down by the rock and rested her forehead against it, to pray for
joy.
She was there still, when June came back and stopped and looked at her,
a vague expression of care sitting in her black eyes, into which now an
unwonted moisture stole. June had a basket, and as soon as Daisy sat
down again, she came up and began to take things out of it. She had
brought everything for Daisy's dinner. There was a nice piece of
beefsteak, just off the gridiron; and rice and potatoes; and a fine bowl
of strawberries for dessert. June had left nothing; there was the roll
and the salt, and a tumbler and a carafe of water. She set the other
things about Daisy, on the ground and on the rock, and gave the plate of
beefsteak into her hand.
"Miss Daisy, what will you do for a table?"
"It's nicer here than a table. How good you are, June. I didn't know I
wanted it."
"I know you do, Miss Daisy."
And she went to her sewing, and sewed perseveringly, while Daisy eat her
dinner.
"June, what o'clock is it?"
"It's after one, ma'am."
"You haven't had your own dinner?"
June mumbled something, of which nothing could be understood except that
it was a general abnegation of all desire or necessity for dinner on her
own part.
"But you have not had it?" said Daisy.
"No, ma'am. They've done dinner by this time."
"June, I have eaten up all the beefsteak--there is nothing left but some
potato and rice and strawberries; but you shall have some strawberries."
June in vain protested. Daisy divided the strawberries into two parts,
sugared them both, broke the remaining roll in two, and obliged June to
take her share. When this was over, Daisy seated herself near June and
laid her head against her knee. She could hardly hold it up.
"June,"--she said presently, "I think those people in the eleventh
chapter of Hebrews--you know?"
"Yes, Miss Daisy."
"I think they were very happy, because they knew that Jesus loved them."
June made no audible answer; she mumbled something; and Daisy sat still.
Presently her soft breathing made June look over at her; Daisy was
asleep. In her hand, in her lap, lay a book. June looked yet further, to
see what book it was. It was Mr. Dinwiddie's Bible. June sat up and went
on with her work, but her face twitched.