Daisy had gone but a little way out of the village, when she suddenly
pulled up. Sam was at the side of the chaise immediately.
"Sam, I want a glass of water; where can I get it?"
"Guess at Mrs. Benoit's, Miss Daisy. There's a fine spring of cold
water."
"Who is Mrs. Benoit?"
"It's Juanita--Miss Daisy has heard of Mrs. St. Leonard's Juanita. Mr.
St. Leonard built a house for her,--just the other side o' them trees."
Daisy knew who Juanita was. She had been brought from the West Indies by
the mother of one of the gentlemen who lived in the neighbourhood; and
upon the death of her mistress had been established in a little house of
her own. Daisy judged that she would be quite safe in going there for
water.
"If I turn into that road, can I go home round that way, Sam?"
"You can, Miss Daisy; but it's a ways longer."
"I like that," said Daisy.
She turned up the road that led behind the trees, and presently saw
Juanita's cottage. A little grey stone house, low-roofed, standing at
the very edge of a piece of woodland, and some little distance back from
the road. Daisy saw the old woman sitting on her doorstep. A grassy
slope stretched down from the house to the road. The sun shone up
against the grey cottage.
"You take care of Loupe, Sam, and I'll go in," said Daisy. A plan which
probably disappointed Sam, but Daisy did not know that. She went through
a little wicket and up the path.
Juanita did not look like the blacks she had been accustomed to see.
_Black_ she was not, but of a fine olive dark skin; and though certainly
old, she was still straight and tall and very fine in her appearance and
bearing. Daisy could see this but partially while Juanita was sitting at
her door; she was more struck by the very grave look her face wore just
then. It was not turned towards her little visiter, and Daisy got the
impression that she must be feeling unhappy.
Juanita rose however with great willingness to get the water, and asked
Daisy into her house. Daisy dared not, after her father's prohibition,
go in, and she stood at the door till the water was brought. Then with a
strong feeling of kindness towards the lonely and perhaps sorrowful old
woman, and remembering to "do good as she had opportunity," Daisy
suddenly offered her the beautiful rose-branch.
"Does the lady think I want pay for a glass of water?" said the woman,
with a smile that was extremely winning.
"No," said Daisy,--"but I thought, perhaps, you liked flowers."
"There's another sort of flowers that the Lord likes,"--said the woman
looking at her; "they be his little children."
Daisy's heart was tender, and there was something in Juanita's face that
won her confidence. Instead of turning away, she folded her hands
unconsciously and said, more wistfully than she knew, "I want to be
one!"
"Does my little lady know the Lord Jesus?" said the woman, with a bright
light coming into her eye.
Daisy's heart was sore as well as tender; the question touched two
things,--the joy that she did know him, and the trouble that following
him had cost her; she burst into tears. Then turning away and with a
great effort throwing off the tears, she went back to the chaise. There
stood Sam with the pony's foot in his hand.
"Miss Daisy, this fellow has kicked one of his shoes half off; he can't
go home so; it's hanging. Could Miss Daisy stop a little while at Mrs.
Benoit's, I could take the pony to the blacksmith's--it ain't but a very
little ways off--and get it put on, in a few minutes."
"Well, do, Sam,"--said Daisy after she had looked at the matter; and
while he took Loupe out of harness she turned back to Juanita.
"What is gone wrong?" said the old woman.
"Nothing is wrong," said Daisy; "only the pony has got his shoe off, and
the boy is taking him to the blacksmith's."
"Will my lady come into my house?"
"No, thank you. I'll stay here."
The woman brought out a low chair for her and set it on the grass; and
took herself her former place on the sill of the door. She looked
earnestly at Daisy; and Daisy on her part had noticed the fine carriage
of the woman, her pleasant features, and the bright handkerchief which
made her turban. Through the open door she could see the neat order of
the room within, and her eye caught some shells arranged on shelves; but
Daisy did not like to look, and she turned away. She met Juanita's eye;
she felt she must speak.
"This is a pleasant place."
"Why does my lady think so?"
"It looks pleasant," said Daisy. "It is nice. The grass is pretty, and
the trees; and it is a pretty little house, I think." The woman smiled.
"I think it be a palace of beauty," she said,--"for Jesus is here."
Daisy looked, a little wondering but entirely respectful; the whole
aspect of Juanita commanded that.
"Does my little lady know, that the presence of the King makes a poor
house fine?"
"I don't quite know what you mean," said Daisy humbly.
"Does my little lady know that the Lord Jesus loves his people?"
"Yes," said Daisy,--"I know it."
"But she know not much. When a poor heart say any time, 'Lord, I am all
thine!'--then the Lord comes to that heart and he makes it the house of
a King--for he comes there _himself_. And where Jesus is,--all is glory!
Do not my little lady read that in the Bible?"
"I don't remember"--said Daisy.
The woman got up, went into the cottage, and brought out a large print
Testament which she put into Daisy's hands, open at the fourteenth
chapter of John. Daisy read with curious interest the words to which she
was directed.
"Jesus answered and said unto him, If a man love me, he will keep my
words: and my Father will love him, and we will come unto him and make
our abode with him."
Daisy looked at the promise, with her heart beating under troublesome
doubts; when the voice of Juanita broke in upon them by saying,
tenderly,
"Does my little lady keep the Lord's words?"
Down went the book, and the tears rushed into Daisy's eyes.
"Don't call me so," she cried,--"I am Daisy Randolph;--and I do want to
keep his words!--and--I don't know how."
"What troubles my love?" said the woman, in low tones of a voice that
was always sweet. "Do not she know what the words of the Lord be?"
"Yes,"--said Daisy, hardly able to make herself understood,--"but--"
"Then do 'em," said Juanita. "The way is straight. What he say, do."
"But suppose----" said Daisy.
"Suppose what? What do my love suppose?"
"Wouldn't it make it right, if it would do a great deal of good?"
This confused sentence Juanita pondered over.
"What does my love mean?"
"If it would do a great deal of good--wouldn't that make it right to do
something?"
"Right to do something that the Lord say _not_ do?"
"Yes."
"If you love Jesus, you not talk so," said Juanita sorrowfully. But that
made Daisy give way altogether.
"O I do love him!--I do love him!" she cried;--"but I don't know what to
do." And tears came in a torrent. Juanita was watchful and thoughtful.
When Daisy had very soon checked herself, she said in the same low,
gentle way in which she had before spoken, "What do the Lord say--to do
that some good thing,--or to keep his words?"
"To keep his words."
"Then keep 'em--and the Lord will do the good thing himself; that same
or another. He can do what he please; and he tell you, only keep his
words. He want you to shew you love him--and he tell you how."
Daisy sat quite still to let the tears pass away and the struggle in her
heart grow calm; then when she could safely she looked up. She met
Juanita's eye. It was fixed on her.
"Is the way straight now?" she asked. Daisy nodded, with a little bit of
a smile on her poor little lips.
"But there is trouble in the way?" said Juanita.
"Yes," said Daisy, and the old woman saw the eyes redden again.
"Has the little one a good friend at home to help?"
Daisy shook her head.
"Then let Jesus help. My little lady keep the Lord's words, and the
sweet Lord Jesus will keep her." And rising to her feet and clasping her
hands, where she stood, Juanita poured forth a prayer. It was for her
little visiter. It was full of love. It was full of confidence too; and
of such clear simplicity as if, like Stephen, she had _seen_ the heavens
open. But the loving strength of it won Daisy's heart; and when the
prayer was finished she came close to the old woman and threw her arms
round her as she stood, and wept with her face hid in Juanita's dress.
Yet the prayer had comforted her too, greatly. And though Daisy was very
shy of intimacies with strangers, she liked to feel Juanita's hand on
her shoulder; and after the paroxysm of tears was past, she still stood
quietly by her, without attempting to increase the distance between
them; till she saw Sam coming down the lane with the pony.
"Good bye," said Daisy, "there's the boy."
"My lady will come to see old Juanita again?"
"I am Daisy Randolph. I'll come,"--said the child, looking lovingly up.
Then she went down the slope to Sam.
"The blacksmith couldn't shoe him, Miss Daisy--he hadn't a shoe to fit.
He took off the old shoe--so Miss Daisy please not drive him hard home."
Daisy wanted nothing of the kind. To get home soon was no pleasure; so
she let Loupe take his own pace, anything short of walking; and it was
getting dusk when they reached Melbourne. Daisy was not glad to be
there. It was Friday night; the next day would be Saturday.
Mrs. Randolph came out into the hall to see that nothing was the matter,
and then went back into the drawing-room. Daisy got her dress changed,
and came there too, where the family were waiting for tea. She came in
softly and sat down by herself at a table somewhat removed from the
others, who were all busily talking and laughing. But presently Capt.
Drummond drew near and sat down at her side.
"Have you had a good drive, Daisy?"
"Yes, Capt. Drummond."
"We missed our history to-day, but I have been making preparations.
Shall we go into the Saxon Heptarchy to-morrow--you and I--and see if we
can get the kingdom settled?"
"If you please. I should like it very much."
"What is the matter with you, Daisy?"
Daisy lifted her wise little face, which indeed looked as if it were
heavy with something beside wisdom, towards her friend; she was not
ready with an answer.
"You aren't going to die on the field of battle yet, Daisy?" he said
half lightly, and half he knew not why. It brought a rush of colour to
the child's face; the self-possession must have been great which kept
her from giving way to further expression of feeling. She answered with
curious calmness,
"I don't think I shall, Capt. Drummond."
The Captain saw it was a bad time to get anything from her, and he moved
away. Preston came the next minute.
"Why Daisy," he whispered, drawing his chair close, "where have you been
all day? No getting a sight of you. What have you been about?"
"I have been to Crum Elbow this afternoon."
"Yes, and how late you stayed. Why did you?"
"Loupe lost a shoe. I had to wait for Sam to go to the blacksmith's with
him."
"Really. Did you wait in the road?"
"No. I had a place to wait."
"I dare say you are as hungry as a bear," said Preston. "Now here comes
tea--and waffles, Daisy; you shall have some waffles and cream. That
will make you feel better."
"Cream isn't good with waffles," said Daisy.
"Yes it is. Cream is good with everything. You shall try. I know! I am
always cross myself when I am hungry."
"I am not hungry, Preston; and I don't think I am cross."
"What are you, then? Come, Daisy,--here is a cup of tea, and here is a
waffle. First the sugar--there,--then the cream. So."
"You have spoiled it, Preston."
"Eat it--and confess you are hungry and cross too."
Daisy could have laughed, only she was too sore-hearted, and would
surely have cried. She fell to eating the creamed waffle.
"Is it good?"
"Very good!"
"Confess you are hungry and cross, Daisy."
"I am not cross. And Preston, please!--don't!" Daisy's fork fell; but
she took it up again.
"What is the matter, then, Daisy?"
Daisy did not answer; she went on eating as diligently as she could.
"Is it that foolish business of the song?" whispered Preston. "Is _that_
the trouble, Daisy?"
"Please don't, Preston!"--
"Well I won't, till you have had another waffle. Sugar and cream,
Daisy?"
"Yes."
"That's brave! Now eat it up--and tell me, Daisy, is _that_ the trouble
with you?"
He spoke affectionately, as he almost always did to her; and Daisy did
not throw him off.
"You don't understand it, Preston," she said.
"Daisy, I told you my uncle and aunt would not like that sort of thing."
Daisy was silent, and Preston wondered at her. Mrs. Gary drew near at
this moment, and placed herself opposite Daisy's tea-cup, using her eyes
in the first place.
"What are you talking about?" said she.
"About Daisy's singing, ma'am."
"That's the very thing," said Mrs. Gary, "that I wanted to speak about.
Daisy, my dear, I hope you are going to sing it properly to your mother
the next time she bids you?"
Daisy was silent.
"I wanted to tell you, my dear," said Mrs. Gary impressively, "what a
poor appearance your refusal made, the other evening. You could not see
it for yourself; but it made you seem awkward, and foolish, and
ill-bred. I am sure everybody would have laughed, if it had not been for
politeness towards your mother; for the spectacle was ludicrous,
thoroughly. You like to make a graceful appearance, don't you?"
Daisy answered in a low voice,--"Yes, ma'am; when I can."
"Well you _can_, my dear, for your behaviour is generally graceful, and
unexceptionable; only the other night it was very rough and uncouth. I
expected you to put your finger in your mouth the next thing, and stand
as if you had never seen anybody. And Daisy Randolph!--the heiress of
Melbourne and Cranford!"--
The heiress of Melbourne and Cranford lifted to her aunt's face a look
strangely in contrast with the look bent on her; so much worldly wisdom
was in the one, so much want of it in the other. Yet those steady grey
eyes were not without a wisdom, of their own; and Mrs. Gary met them
with a puzzled feeling of it.
"Do you understand me, Daisy, my dear?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Do you see that it is desirable never to look ridiculous, and well-bred
persons never do?"
"Yes, aunt Gary."
"Then I am sure you won't do it again. It would mortify me for your
father and mother."
Mrs. Gary walked away. Daisy looked thoughtful.
"Will you do it, Daisy?" whispered Preston.
"What?"
"Will you sing the song for them next time? You will, won't you?"
"I'll do what I can"--said Daisy. But it was said so soberly, that
Preston was doubtful of her. However he, like Capt. Drummond, had got to
the end of his resources for that time; and seeing his uncle approach,
Preston left his seat.
Mr. Randolph took it and drew Daisy from her own to a place in his arms.
He sat then silent a good while, or talking to other people; only
holding her close and tenderly. Truth to tell, Mr. Randolph was a little
troubled about the course things were taking; and Daisy and her father
were a grave pair that evening.
Daisy felt his arms were a pleasant shield between her and all the
world; if they might only _keep_ round her! And then she thought of
Juanita's prayer, and of the invisible shield, of a stronger and more
loving arm, that the Lord Jesus puts between his children and all real
harm.
At last Mr. Randolph bent down his head and brought his lips to Daisy's,
asking her if she had had a nice time that afternoon.
"Very, papa!" said Daisy gratefully; and then added after a little
hesitation, "Papa, do you know old Juanita?--Mrs. St. Leonard's woman,
that Mr. St. Leonard built a little house for?"
"I do not know her. I believe I have heard of her."
"Papa, would you let me go into _her_ house? She has some beautiful
shells that I should like to see."
"How do you know?"
"I saw them, papa, through the doorway of her house, I waited there
while Sam went with Loupe to the blacksmith's."
"And you did not go in?"
"No, sir--you said I must not, you know."
"I believe Juanita is a safe person, Daisy. You may go in, if ever you
have another opportunity."
"Thank you, papa."
"What are you going to do with the hundred dollars?" said Mr. Randolph,
putting his head down and speaking softly.
Daisy waited a minute, checked the swelling of her heart, forbade her
tears, steadied her voice to speak; and then said, "I sha'n't have them,
papa."
"Why not?"
"I can't fulfil the conditions." Daisy spoke again after waiting a
minute.
"Don't you mean to sing?"
Every time Daisy waited.--"I can't, papa."
"Your mother will require it."
Silence, only Mr. Randolph saw that the child's breath went and came
under excitement.
"Daisy, she will require it."
"Yes, papa"--was said rather faintly.
"And I think you must do it."
No response from Daisy; and no sign of yielding.
"How do you expect to get over it?"
"Papa, won't you help me?" was the child's agonized cry. She hid her
face in her father's breast.
"I have tried to help you. I will give you what will turn your fancied
wrong deed into a good one. It is certainly right to do charitable
things on Sunday."
There was silence, and it promised to last some time. Mr. Randolph would
not hurry her: and Daisy was thinking, "If ye love me, keep my
commandments." "_If ye love me_"--
"Papa,"--said she at last, very slowly, and pausing between her
words,--"would you be satisfied,--if I should disobey you--for a hundred
dollars?"
This time it was Mr. Randolph that did not answer, and the longer he
waited the more the answer did not come. He put Daisy gently off his
knee and rose at last without speaking. Daisy went out upon the verandah
and sat down on the step; and there the stars seemed to say to her--"If
a man love me, he will keep my words." They were shining very bright; so
was that saying to Daisy. She sat looking at them, forgetting all the
people in the drawing-room; and though troubled enough, she was not
utterly unhappy. The reason was, she loved her King.
Somebody came behind her and took hold of her shoulders. "My dear little
Daisy!" said the voice of Preston, "I wish you were an India-rubber
ball, that I might chuck you up to the sky and down again a few times!"
"Why? I don't think it would be nice."
"Why?--why because you want shaking; you are growing dull,--yes,
absolutely you are getting heavy! you, little Daisy! of all people in
the world. It won't do."
"I don't think such an exercise would benefit me," said Daisy.
"I'd find something else then. Daisy, Daisy," said he, shaking her
shoulders gently, "this religious foolery is spoiling you. Don't _you_
go and make yourself stupid. Why I don't know you. What is all this
ridiculous stuff? You aren't yourself."
"What do you want me to do, Preston?" said Daisy standing before him,
not without a certain childish dignity. It was lost on him.
"I want you to be my own little Daisy," said he coaxingly. "Come!--say
you will, and give up these outlandish notions you have got from some
old woman or other. What is it they want you to do?--sing?--Come,
promise you will. Promise me!"
"I will sing any day but Sunday."
"Sunday? Now Daisy! I'm ashamed of you. Why I never heard such nonsense.
Nobody has such notions but low people. It isn't sensible. Give it up,
Daisy, or I shall not know how to love you."
"Good night, Preston"--
"Daisy, Daisy! come and kiss me and be good."
"Good night"--repeated Daisy without turning; and she walked off.
It half broke June's heart that night to see that the child's eyes were
quietly dropping tears all the while she was getting undressed.
Preston's last threat had cut very close. But Daisy said not a word; and
when, long after June had left her, she got into bed and lay down, it
was not Preston's words but the reminder of the stars that was with her
and making harmony among all her troubled thoughts--"If a man love me,
he will keep my words."