Daisy was at the dinner-table. After having a good sleep on June's knee,
she had come home and dressed as usual, and she was in her place when
the dessert was brought on. Mr. Randolph from his distant end of the
table watched her a little; he saw that she behaved just as usual; she
did not shun anybody, though her mother shunned her. A glove covered her
right hand, yet Daisy persisted in using that hand rather than attract
notice, though from the slowness of her movements it was plain it cost
her some trouble. Gary McFarlane asked why she had a glove on, and Mr.
Randolph heard Daisy's perfectly quiet and true answer, that "her hand
was wounded, and had to wear a glove,"--given without any confusion or
evasion. He called his little daughter to him, and giving her a chair by
his side, spent the rest of _his_ time in cracking nuts and preparing a
banana for her; doing it carelessly, not as if she needed but as if it
pleased him to give her his attention.
After dinner Daisy sought Preston, who was out on the lawn, as he said,
to cool himself; in the brightness of the setting sun to be sure, but
also in a sweet light air which was stirring.
"Phew! it's hot. And you, Daisy, don't look as if the sun and you had
been on the same side of the earth to-day. What do you want now?"
"I want a good talk with you, Preston."
"I was going to say 'fire up,'" said Preston, "but no, don't do
anything of that sort! If there is any sort of talking that has a chilly
effect, I wish you'd use it."
"I have read of such talk, but I don't think I know how to do it," said
Daisy. "I read the other day of somebody's being 'frozen with a look.'"
Preston went off into a fit of laughter and rolled himself over on the
grass, declaring that it was a splendid idea; then he sat up and asked
Daisy again what she wanted? Daisy cast a glance of her eye to see that
nobody was too near.
"Preston, you know you were going to teach me."
"O, ay!--about the Spartans."
"I want to learn everything," said Daisy. "I don't know much."
Preston looked at the pale, delicate child, whose doubtful health he
knew had kept her parents from letting her "know much"; and it was no
wonder that when he spoke again, he used a look and manner that were
caressing, and even tender.
"What do you want to know, Daisy?"
"I want to know everything," whispered Daisy; "but I don't know what to
begin at."
"No!" said Preston,--"'everything' seems as big as the world, and as
hard to get hold of."
"I want to know geography," said Daisy.
"Yes. Well--you shall. And you shall not study for it neither; which you
can't."
"Yes I can."
"No you can't. You are no more fit for it, little Daisy--but look here!
I wish you would be a red daisy."
"Then what else, Preston?"
"Nothing else. Geography is enough at once."
"O no, it isn't. Preston, I can't do the least little bit of a sum in
the world."
"Can't you? Well--I don't see that that is of any very great
consequence. What sums do _you_ want to do?"
"But I want to know how."
"Why?"
"Why Preston, you know I _ought_ to know how. It might be very useful,
and I ought to know."
"I hope it will never be of any use to you," said Preston; "but you can
learn the multiplication table if you like."
"Then will you shew it to me?"
"Yes; but what has put you in such a fever of study, little Daisy? It
excites me, this hot weather."
"Then won't you come in and shew me the multiplication table now,
Preston?"
In came Preston laughing, and found an arithmetic for Daisy; and Daisy,
not laughing, but with a steady seriousness, sat down on the verandah in
the last beams of the setting sun to learn that "twice two is four."
The same sort of sweet seriousness hung about all her movements this
week. To those who knew what it meant, there was something extremely
touching in the gentle gravity with which she did everything, and the
grace of tenderness which she had for everybody. Daisy was going through
great trouble. Not only the trouble of what was past, but the ordeal of
what was to come. It hung over her like a black cloud, and her fears
were like muttering thunder. But the sense of right, the love of the
Master in whose service she was suffering, the trust in his guiding
hand, made Daisy walk with that strange, quiet dignity between the one
Sunday and the other. Mr. Randolph fancied sometimes when she was
looking down, that he saw the signs of sadness about her mouth; but
whenever she looked up again, he met such quiet, steady eyes, that he
wondered. He was puzzled; but it was no puzzle that Daisy's cheeks grew
every day paler, and her appetite less.
"I do not wish to flatter you"--said Mrs. Gary one evening--"but that
child has very elegant manners! Really, I think they are very nearly
perfect. I don't believe there is an English court beauty who could
shew better."
"The English beauty would like to be a little more robust in her
graces," remarked Gary McFarlane.
"That is all Daisy wants," her aunt went on; "but that will come, I
trust, in time."
"Daisy would do well enough," said Mrs. Randolph, "if she could get some
notions out of her head."
"What, you mean her religious notions? How came she by them, pray?"
"Why there was a person here--a connexion of Mrs. Sandford's--that set
up a Sunday school in the woods; and Daisy went to it for a month or
two, before I thought anything about it, or about him. Then I found she
was beginning to ask questions, and I took her away."
"Is asking questions generally considered a sign of danger?" said Gary
McFarlane.
"What was that about her singing the other night?" said Mrs. Gary--"that
had something to do with the same thing, hadn't it?"
"Refused to sing an opera song because it was Sunday."
"Ridiculous!" said Mrs. Gary. "I'll try to make her see it so
herself--if I get a chance. She is a sensible child."
Mr. Randolph was walking up and down the room, and had not spoken a
word. A little time after he found himself nearly alone with Mrs.
Randolph, the others having scattered away. He paused near his wife's
sofa.
"Daisy is failing," he said. "She has lost more this week than she had
gained in the two months before."
Mrs. Randolph made no answer, and did not even move her handsome head,
or her delicate hands.
"Can't you get out of this business, Felicia?"
"In the way that I said I would. You expect your words to be obeyed, Mr.
Randolph; and I expect it for mine."
Mr. Randolph resumed his walk.
"Daisy has got some things in her head that must get out of it. I would
as lieve not have a child, as not to have her mind me."
Mr. Randolph passed out upon the verandah, and continuing his walk
there, presently came opposite the windows of the library. There he saw
Daisy seated at the table, reading. Her hand was over her brow, and Mr.
Randolph did not feel satisfied with the sober lines of the little mouth
upon which the lamplight shone. Once too, Daisy's head went down upon
her book and lay there a little while. Mr. Randolph did not feel like
talking to her just then, or he would have liked to go in and see what
she was studying. But while he stood opposite the window, Capt. Drummond
came into the library.
"You here, Daisy! What are you busy about?" he said kindly. "What are
you studying now?"
"I am reading the History of England, Capt. Drummond."
"How do you like it?"
"I have not got very far. I do not like it very much."
"Where are you?"
"I have just got to where it tells about Alfred."
"Why do you read it, Daisy? Is it a lesson?"
"No, Capt. Drummond,--but--I think proper to read it."
"It is proper," said the Captain. "Come, Daisy,--suppose we go down on
the sand-beach to-morrow, and we will play out the Saxon Heptarchy there
as we played out the Crimea. Shall we?"
Daisy's face changed. "O thank you, Capt. Drummond!--that will be nice!
Shall we?"
"If you will, I will," said the Captain.
Mr. Randolph moved away.
The next day after luncheon, Daisy followed her father when he left the
table. She followed till they were got quite away from other ears.
"Papa, I would like to go to Mrs. Harbonner's again. You said I must not
go without leave."
"Who is Mrs. Harbonner?"
"Papa, it is the place where I took the ham,--do you remember? Joanna
has enquired about her, and found that she is respectable."
"What do you want to go there again for, Daisy?"
"Joanna has found some work for her, papa. She would not have the ham
unless she could work to pay for it. I want to see her to tell her about
it."
Mr. Randolph had it on his tongue to say that somebody else might do
that; but looking down at Daisy, the sight of the pale face and hollow
eyes stopped him. He sat down and drew Daisy up to his side.
"I will let you go."
"Thank you, papa!"
"Do you know," said Mr. Randolph, "that your mother is going to ask you
to sing that song again when Sunday evening comes?"
The smile vanished from Daisy's face; it grew suddenly dark; and a
shuddering motion was both seen and felt by Mr. Randolph, whose arm was
round her.
"Daisy," said he, not unkindly, "do you know that I think you a little
fool?"
She lifted her eyes quickly, and in their meeting with her father's
there was much; much that Mr. Randolph felt without stopping to analyze,
and that made his own face as suddenly sober as her own. There was no
folly in that quick grave look of question or appeal; it seemed to carry
the charge in another direction.
"You think it is not right to sing such a song on a Sunday?" he asked.
"No, papa."
"But suppose, by singing it, you could do a great deal of good, instead
of harm?"
"How, papa?"
"I will give you a hundred dollars for singing it,--which you may spend
as you please for all the poor people about Melbourne or Crum Elbow."
It was very singular to him to see the changes in Daisy's face. Light
and shadow came and went with struggling quickness. He expected her to
speak, but she waited for several minutes; then she said in a troubled
voice,--"Papa, I will think of it."
"Is that all, Daisy?" said Mr. Randolph, disappointed.
"I am going to Mrs. Harbonner's, papa, and I will think, and tell you."
Mr. Randolph was inclined to frown and suspect obstinacy; but the meek
little lips which offered themselves for a kiss disarmed him of any such
thought. He clasped Daisy in his arms and gave her kisses, many a one,
close and tender. If he had known it, he could have done nothing better
for the success of his plan; under the pressure of conscience Daisy
could bear trouble in doing right, but the argument of affection went
near to trouble her conscience. Daisy was obliged to compound for a good
many tears, before she could get away and begin her drive. And when she
did, her mind was in a flutter. A hundred dollars! how much good could
be done with a hundred dollars. Why would it not be right to do
something, even sing such a song on Sunday, when it was sung for such a
purpose and with such results? But Daisy could not feel quite sure about
it; while at the same time the prospect of getting quit of her
difficulties by this means--escaping her mother's anger and the
punishment with which it was sure to be accompanied, and also pleasing
her father--shook Daisy's very soul. What should she do? She had not
made up her mind when she got to the little brown house where Mrs.
Harbonner lived.
She found mother and daughter both in the little bare room; the child
sitting on the floor and cutting pieces of calico and cloth into strips,
which her mother was sewing together with coarse thread. Both looked
just as when Daisy had seen them before--slim, and poor and uncombed;
but the room was clean.
"I thought you warn't coming again," said Mrs. Harbonner.
"I couldn't come till to-day," said Daisy, taking a chair. "I came as
soon as I could." Partly from policy, partly because she felt very
sober, she left it to Mrs. Harbonner to do most of the talking.
"I never see more'n a few folks that thought much of doing what they
said they'd do--without they found their own account in it. If I was
living in a great house, now, I'd have folks enough come to see me."
Daisy did not know what answer to make to this, so she made none.
"I used to live in a better house once," went on Mrs. Harbonner; "I
didn't always use to eat over a bare floor. I was well enough, if I
could ha' let well alone; but I made a mistake, and paid for it; and
what's more, I'm paying for it yet. 'Taint _my_ fault, that Hephzibah
sits there cuttin' rags, instead of going to school."
Again Daisy did not feel herself called upon to decide on the mistakes
of Mrs. Harbonner's past life; and she sat patiently waiting for
something else that she could understand.
"What are you come to see me for now?" said the lady. "I suppose you're
going to tell me you haven't got no work for me to do, and I must owe
you for that ham?"
"I have got something for you to do," said Daisy. "The boy has got it at
the gate. The housekeeper found some clothes to make--and you said that
was your work."
"Tailoring," said Mrs. Harbonner. "I don't know nothing about women's
fixtures,--except what'll keep me and Hephzibah above the savages. I
don't suppose I could dress a doll so's it would sell."
"This is tailoring work," said Daisy. "It is a boy's suit--and there
will be more to do if you like to have it."
"Where is it? at the gate, did you say? Hephzibah, go and fetch it in.
Who's got it?"
"The boy who is taking care of the horses."
"I declare, have you got that little covered shay there again?--it's
complete! I never see a thing so pretty! And Hephzibah says you drive
that little critter yourself. Ain't you afraid?"
"Not at all," said Daisy. "The pony won't do any harm."
"He looks skeery," said Mrs. Harbonner. "I wouldn't trust him. What a
tremenjious thick mane he's got! Well, I s'pect you have everything you
want, don't you?"
"Of such things--" said Daisy.
"That's what I meant. Gracious! I s'pose every one of us has
wishes--whether they are in the air or on the earth. Wishes is the
butter to most folks' bread. Here, child."
She took the bundle from Hephzibah, unrolled it, and examined its
contents with a satisfied face.
"What did _you_ come along with this for?" she said suddenly to Daisy.
"Why didn't you send it?"
"I wanted to come and see you," said Daisy pleasantly.
"What ails you? You ain't so well as when you was here before," said
Mrs. Harbonner, looking at her narrowly.
"I am well," said Daisy.
"You ain't fur from bein' something else then. I suppose you're dyin'
with learning--while my Hephzibah can't get schooling enough to read her
own name. That's the way the world's made up!"
"Isn't there a school at Crum Elbow?" said Daisy.
"Isn't there! And isn't there a bench for the rags? No, my Hephzibah
don't go to shew none."
Mrs. Harbonner was so sharp and queer, though not unkindly towards
herself, that Daisy was at a loss how to go on; and moreover, a big
thought began to turn about in her head.
"Poverty ain't no shame, but it's an inconvenience," said Mrs.
Harbonner. "Hephzibah may stay to home and be stupid, when she's as much
right to be smart as anybody. That's what I look at; it ain't having a
little to eat now and then."
"Melbourne is too far off for her to get there, isn't it?" said Daisy.
"What should she go there for?"
"If she could get there," said Daisy, "and would like it,--I would teach
her."
"_You_ would?" said Mrs. Harbonner. "What would you learn her?"
"I would teach her to read," said Daisy, colouring a little; "and
anything else I could."
"La, she can read," said Mrs. Harbonner, "but she don't know nothing,
for all that. Readin' don't tell a person much, without he has books. I
wonder how long it would hold out, if you begun? 'Taint no use to begin
a thing and then not go on."
"But could she get to Melbourne?" said Daisy.
"I don't know. Maybe she can. Who'd she see at your house?"
"Nobody, but the man at the lodge, or his mother."
"Who's that?"
"He's the man that lives in the lodge, to open the gate."
"Open the gate, hey? Who pays him for it?"
"Papa pays him, and he lives in the lodge."
"I shouldn't think it would take a man to open a gate. Why Hephzibah
could do it as well as anybody."
Daisy did not see the point of this remark, and went on. "Hephzibah
wouldn't see anybody else, but me."
"Well, I believe you mean what you say," said Mrs. Harbonner, "and I
hope you will when you're twenty years older--but I don't believe it.
I'll let Hephzibah come over to you on Sundays--I know she's jumpin'
out of her skin to go--she shall go on Sundays, but I can't let her go
other days, 'cause she's got work to do; and anyhow it would be too fur.
What time would you like to see her?"
"As soon as it can be after afternoon church, if you please. I couldn't
before."
"You're a kind little soul!" said the woman. "Do you like flowers?"
Daisy said yes. The woman went to a back door of the room, and opening
it, plucked a branch from a great rose-bush that grew there.
"We haint but one pretty thing about this house," said she presenting it
to Daisy,--"but that's kind o' pretty."
It was a very rich and delicious white rose, and the branch was an
elegant one, clustered with flowers and buds. Daisy gave her thanks and
took leave.
"As we have opportunity, let us do good unto all men." There was a
little warm drop of comfort in Daisy's heart as she drove away. If she
could not go to Sunday-school herself, she might teach somebody else yet
more needy; that would be the next best thing. Sunday afternoon--it
looked bright to Daisy; but then her heart sank; Sunday evening would be
near. What should she do? She could not settle it in her mind what was
right; between her mother's anger and her father's love, Daisy could not
see what was just the plumb line of duty. Singing would gain a hundred
dollars' worth of good; and not singing would disobey her mother and
displease her father; but then came the words of one that Daisy honoured
more than father and mother--"Remember that thou keep holy the Sabbath
day;" and she could not tell what to do.