WITH THE EYES OF YOUTH
The place was like a picture by some fine artist, and the midsummer
coloring, the shade of the tall trees, the great beds of flowers made
it lovely, indeed. There was a space of greensward that ran down to
the river, then a series of steps up the terrace, where a large level
lawn with another row of steps led and a wide porch, with fluted
columns. The house was large, and hospitable of aspect. Now it was
filled with graceful figures, flitting to and fro, of all ages, it
seemed. For it was quite a notable occasion.
There were two Pemberton sons, one married; then Miss Bessy, who was
eighteen; Mary of sixteen, and Belinda, a growing girl, whose birthday
was the same as Bessy's, though there was five years between them.
This is why young people are asked to the birthday party. And the
mothers of the girls, the brothers, and other young men. The tables
will be set out on the lawn, three of them.
Bessy was to be married early in the autumn, and lovers in those days
were in no wise abashed by their engagement. Mr. Morris hovered about
his betrothed, young Mr. and Mrs. Pemberton had not outlived their
honeymoon. There were other engaged couples, and quite a merry crowd
of children.
Betty Wharton glanced over the group, as they ascended the steps. Not
a girl was as handsome as her _protégée_. They had come in a coach,
and the child had just a light scarf thrown over her shoulders. Her
frock was of some white crapy stuff, the bodice cut square in the neck
after the fashion of the day, and edged with a bit of lace; the short
waist defined with a soft blue silk sash. Her curls were caught up
high on her head, with a blue bow, and every movement seemed to shake
off a shower of gold. Where the chin melted in her neck, and the neck
sloped to her shoulder, there were exquisite lines.
"That's the little girl from Pittsburg," exclaimed Anton Wetherell. "I
didn't suppose they could raise anything like that. She's not so
little, either; why, she must be well on to fifteen. Some connection
of that old French lawyer, de Ronville. I wonder if he means to make
her his heir? I fancy there's a good deal of money."
"Miss Wharton has been making much of her, it seems, and she isn't the
one to fall into a mistake."
The elder ladies greeted her cordially. There was such a charming
simplicity about her and her enjoyment of everything was infectious.
She gravitated to the younger girls, and Belinda was really
fascinated with her. They played some games, and she was so ready to
assent to what they proposed, so frank to admit her ignorance of some
things, that they were all ready to help her and explain. Presently
they sat on the grass in a little ring, and asked her about Pittsburg.
Was it a great city?
"Oh, you would think it very queer," she said laughingly. "Only the
rivers are beautiful, and the hills, and the woods over opposite. But
the people"--then she flushed a little, but she was too honest to
embellish--"well, they are Scotch, and Irish, and English, and a few
from the East, but now those folks are going out to Ohio. And----"
"But you're French," said one of the girls. "Though I thought all
French people were dark."
"Mother and grandmere have beautiful dark eyes and hair. So has my
little brother Felix. But my father has blue eyes, and I don't know
where the yellow hair came from. That was why my mother called me
Daffodil."
"What an odd, pretty name. And your hair is beautiful, like silk. Does
it curl that way without----"
For little girls and big ones, too, had their hair put up in curl
papers, or the hairdresser used tongs.
"Oh, yes, it curls naturally, and tangles, too. When I was little I
wanted it cut off, there were such awful pulls. But mother wouldn't,
because father was away soldiering, and when he came home he wouldn't
hear to it. One grandfather used to call me Yellowtop."
The nearest girl was petting one of the soft, silky curls. Another
said, "Can you talk French? I'm studying it at school. It's awful hard
and queer."
"Oh, yes. You see, I learned to talk in both languages. Then I had a
lovely great-grandfather, who lived to be almost a hundred, and he
taught me to read quite well. There are some French Acadians, who come
in to see us now and then. But their speech has been mixed up so much.
I've been reading a little with uncle. After grandfather died, I
almost forgot."
"And are there fine stores and churches, and do you have plays, and
entertainments, and parties?"
"Oh, no. It's queer and plain, quite rough, though now they are making
nice streets, and people are spinning and weaving. Some of the women
make beautiful lace. There's always a May party and a dance; and then
a time when the new year begins, and tea drinkings, and some birthdays
are kept. No, you wouldn't like it, after such a beautiful city."
"Oh, you won't want to go back!"
"Mother and all my people are there," she answered simply. "But if I
had always lived in a beautiful city like this, I wouldn't want to."
By this time the tables were arranged, and they were summoned to the
repast. Several young lads had joined the company, and Mary took the
head of the children's table. The lawn was a picturesque sight.
Afterward some lanterns were strung about, but it was clear and
moonlight, which added to the beauty of the scene, and presently
dancing began. There was much rambling around.
Miss Wharton found her, and asked if she was having a good time. She
had been dancing with two of the boys. "And Mr. Wetherell wants the
pleasure of dancing with the young lady from Pittsburg;" laughing.
"But I am not a real young lady. And I don't know all the dances;" in
a hesitating tone.
"You do it at your own risk, Anton," Betty said to the young man. "You
have been warned."
"I'll take the risk."
He piloted her through very skilfully. Then young Mr. Pemberton asked
her. She met Mr. Bartram in this quadrille, and he talked to her
afterward. She wished he would ask her to dance, but he seemed very
much occupied with the older girls. And presently she spied out uncle
de Ronville, and went over to the step of the porch, where he was
sitting in a chair. He felt very proud of her. She was so full of
enjoyment she fairly bubbled over with delight, as she detailed the
pleasures.
"And we must be thinking of going home. That is one of the penalties
of old age."
"Oh," with a kind of _riant_ sweetness in her voice, "if you could go
back halfway, and I could come on halfway, wouldn't it be delightful!
But I get sleepy often in the evening, not like to-night;" as an
afterthought. "I suppose that comes of living in a country place,
where people go to bed at nine! But you sometimes go to bed quite
late."
Yes, if they could meet halfway! Oh, what a foolish old man!
It has been a delightful evening, and Miss Wharton joins them.
"Daffodil, you have had honors enough to turn your head. M. de
Ronville, are we spoiling her?"
He gave her a fatherly look, and taking her soft little hand in his,
they rose together.
"Will you go home in our coach?" he asked of Miss Wharton.
"Very glad, indeed, my dear sir, I am rather tired. Our party began
early."
There were a good many adieus to make, and some very flattering
invitations for Daffodil. They put Mistress Betty down at her own
door, and when they reached home M. de Ronville gave her a tender
good-night.
"It was splendid, Jane," she said as the finery was being removed.
"And I danced with several of the young men. I didn't quite know how,
but I thought of Norry's stories about the fairy dances in the
moonlight, and I guess the real moonlight helped."
"I don't believe there was as pretty a girl among them all," declared
Jane admiringly.
It was late when Mr. Bartram came in, and he had enjoyed himself as
well.
But it was not all dissipation. There were evenings when Daffodil read
French to her host, and he corrected any faulty pronunciation. At
other times it was the newspaper. She had such a clear young voice,
and she did everything with such charming cheerfulness. The rides with
him in the morning were a delight. And though her figure had not
rounded out, there was something exquisite in the virginal lines. She
did not realize herself that she was a big girl now, so gradual was
the change, and she had been a little girl all her life to those at
home. He thought it was the French blood, as he could recall the girls
of his youth, with their pretty deference, but it is the little
admixture of Irish that makes her so winsome and frank.
Yet there were times when Daffodil was surprised at herself, and the
strange feelings and stronger emotions that would flash across her.
Was it the wider life, the variety of people and incident, the deeper
and more comprehensive tone of the talk, and the new pleasures of the
higher type?
There was no special dividing line in those days. Little girls wore
ankle-length frocks, so the tucks were let out as they grew taller.
After a little the hair was put up high with a pretty comb discarded
by an older sister. When she had a lover, the next younger girl came
to the fore.
"If the child was two years older I might make an excellent match for
her," thought Betty Wharton. "But she isn't thinking about lovers or
admiration. She will be very lovely presently, when she knows how to
use those heart-breaking eyes and that dangerous smile. When she comes
again--of course, it would be a sin to bury such a girl alive in that
dozy, drowsy old Pittsburg!"
The days flew by so rapidly. Letters did not come frequently, postage
was high, and there was a sort of secret faith in most people that
things were going on well, according to the old adage that "no news
was good news." But when a rare letter came, she cried over it
secretly for two or three days, and was rather grave, but she thought
it ungracious not to be bright and happy when so much was being done
for her. Mrs. Craig was planning to go before the autumnal rains set
in, and she took it for granted that it was her place to return
Daffodil.
The child had been talking this over one afternoon, and a flood of
home love had overwhelmed her. Mrs. Jarvis had an old friend to supper
and to spend the evening, Jane had gone out, and M. de Ronville had
gone to a sort of sociable dinner, with some of the citizens who were
interested in the library project. It had proved a rather lonesome
evening, and she had really longed for home. She wandered about
aimlessly, and presently settled herself in the corner of the
vine-covered porch, and yielded to the beauty and fragrance of the
night. Everything had a richer aspect and meaning to her. It was
moonlight again. The tall trees seemed outlined in silver, and the
flower-beds were transformed into fairy haunts. Only a few stars were
out, they were larger and more golden than usual. She drank in the
honeyed fragrance all about her, and it seemed a land of enchantment.
Some one came into the library, but did not make a light. She heard M.
de Ronville's low, but clear-toned, voice.
"I have wanted to talk this matter over with you. There need be no
hurry, one or two years here will answer. You see, I am getting to be
an old man. Latterly I have come to long for some one of my own, that
I could go down the valley of life with, and who would care to make
the journey more cheerful. You have been almost like a son to me. I
should like you to be that, indeed. And this child has grown very dear
to me. To think of you both going on here in the old house when I have
left it, would give me my heart's desire. She is lovely, she is sweet,
and has a most admirable temper. Then those people are in comfortable
circumstances, and of the better class. You know it is a trait of our
nation to be deeply interested in the marriage of our children, to
advise, often to choose for them, with our wider experience."
"But she is such a child, eager, unformed, and I have thought of some
one, companionable, with a wider education----"
That was Mr. Bartram's voice.
"We can remedy all that. I could have her here, and I think she is an
apt scholar. She is well up in French, and that is quite in demand
now. She could be trained in music, she has a sweet voice. And she is
very graceful. If you could see the indifferent manners of most people
in that queer, backward town, you would wonder at her refinement, her
nice adjustment. Her mother, the Duvernay people, are high-bred, yet
in no wise pretentious."
There was a brief silence, then the young man began.
"Mr. de Ronville, you have been the best and kindest friend a young
man could have. I owe you a great deal. But I would not like to bind
myself by any such promise. I have an old-fashioned notion that one
must or should choose for one's self, and another perhaps foolish one,
that I should like to win the woman I marry, not have her take me
because some one else desired it. She would naturally be
impressionable----"
All this talk was about her. She just realized it. She had listened as
if some one was reading out of a book. She started now, and light and
fleet as a deer flashed across the porch and up to her own room, in a
queer, frightened state, hardly knowing what it meant, and yet vaguely
suspicious. She had not been especially drawn to Mr. Bartram. He
treated her quite as a child, sometimes teased, and evoked quick,
mirthful replies, at others passed her by indifferently. All her
experience had been with boys, and men of middle age, and she had no
idea of lovers. Did uncle de Ronville mean that she should come here
and love, and then be married to Mr. Bartram!
She was suddenly and unreasonably homesick for ugly old Pittsburg. The
shops and the drives, the gayeties and delights, had lost their charm.
If she could fly home to her mother's arms! If she could sit on her
father's knee and have him hug her to his heart, or even grandad's
rough love. And Norah, and Felix, and grandfather Bradin, who took her
out in his boat, and sang funny sea-going songs. No, she couldn't come
here to live!
Yet it was curious the next morning. Everything seemed exactly the
same. Uncle said, "Will you get ready for your ride?" in that gentle,
courtly manner, and they went off together. Mr. Bartram had been very
quiet, she had hardly ventured to raise her eyes to him.
Oh, maybe she had fallen asleep and dreamed it.
Mary Pemberton came over early. A host of girls were going to have a
picnic up the river, and Belinda wanted her. They would bring her back
by five in the afternoon. It was to be just a girls' party, only her
brother would be there to see that Darius, the black servitor,
attended to them properly.
It was a bright, jolly day, with swinging, and a gipsy campfire,
playing tag and telling riddles, and even running races. And she was
so joyous talking it all over that evening, M. de Ronville felt he
could never let her go. Could he persuade her to stay? Young people
were fond of pleasure, and after this Pittsburg would be dull.
All the week the desire in Daffodil's heart had grown into absolute
longing to go home. Yet she cares so much for them here: Uncle, Mrs.
Jarvis, Miss Wharton, and a number of other people. But how could the
return be planned. No one had suggested such a thing.
Providence comes to her assistance, opening the way in the shape of
Mrs. Craig, who stays to supper, as she has a matter to lay before M.
de Ronville. And that is, that she has finished her visit, and desires
to return before the autumnal rains set in, while the going is still
good. And she will take Daffodil.
"I am afraid we can't spare her," returned M. de Ronville. "She has
become such a part of our household."
"But I must go home sometime," said the child with a quick gasp in her
breath.
"Are you tired of us?"
"Tired!" She came and placed her arm caressingly over his shoulder.
"Oh, I have never been tired, but there is mother and--the rest," with
a tremble in her voice, while her eyes had the softness of coming
tears. "Think how long I have been away!"
"And they've had many a heartache, I dare say. I don't know how they
could spare you long. Of course, where your daughters marry it is a
different thing. You resign yourself to that," said Mrs. Craig.
"When did you think of starting?"
"Well, so as to miss the equinoctial." People pinned their faith to
its coming regularly in those days. "And perhaps no one would care to
take such a journey if they had no need, and she couldn't come alone."
"No;" in a grave, slow tone. "We must talk it over. I've thought of
her staying in the winter and going to school, perhaps. And you might
study music," glancing at her.
"Oh, you are very good. But--I ought to go."
"Yes. You've had a nice long time, and lots of going about, I've
heard. I hope you have not been spoiled. And you are the only girl
your mother has. Then she had you so long before Felix came and while
your father was away, and I know she's missed you sorely."
The tears did come into Daffodil's eyes then.
After Mrs. Craig had gone, her guardian drew her down on the sofa
beside him.
"Daffodil," he began, "I have come to love you very dearly. There has
been no one in my life to call forth any special affection. There
might have been, I see now that there should have been. It is along
the last of life that we feel most of the need of these ties. And if
you could give me a little----"
"Oh, I do love you. You have been so kind, and given me so many
pleasures. But not altogether for that. I liked you when you first
came, you know. There was something--I can't quite express it--even if
I had not come to Philadelphia, I should have thought of you so often.
And it has been such a delightful visit. But I know mother has missed
me very much, and she has the first claim. And oh, I want to see her."
The longing and piteousness in her tone touched him. She was not all
lightness and pleasure-loving.
"My dear, it is hard to give you up. Child, why can you not divide
some time between us, and let me do for you as a father would. They
have Felix--and each other. They have parents as well. And I am all
alone. It would be a joy to my latter years to have some one to care
for, to share my almost useless fortune, and my home."
She leaned her golden head down on his shoulder, and he knew she was
crying.
"Oh," she sobbed, "it is very hard. I do love you. But, you see, they
have the best right, and I love them. I am torn in two."
Yes, it was selfish to try her this way. He had dreamed of what might
happen if he could keep her here, a girl sweet and lovely enough to
charm any one. But it was wrong thus to covet, to make it harder for
her.
"My child, it shall be as you wish. Sometime you may like to come
again. My home and heart will always be open to you, and I shall study
your best interests. When you want any favor do not hesitate to ask
me. I shall be only too glad to do anything."
"Oh, do not think me ungrateful for all this love and kindness. Every
day I shall think of you. Yes," and the brightness in her tone
thrilled him. "I may come again if you want me----"
"I shall always want you, remember that."
M. de Ronville was not the only one who made an outcry. Miss Wharton
took her to task.
"Daffodil, you are not old enough to realize what a foolish girl you
are, and so we must not be too severe. Mr. de Ronville is a rich man,
a fine and noble one as well. I have no doubt but that he would leave
you a handsome portion, for he loves you sincerely. And think of the
advantages of a city like this. But when you go back to Pittsburg, you
will see a great difference. If all is true, there is no society, no
interest for such a woman as you may become with proper training, such
as you would get here. You are--yes, I will say it, too lovely to be
wasted on a place like that. I am really vexed with you."
The tears stood in her beautiful eyes.
"Oh, one can't be angry with you, you are so sweet! A year or two
hence you could have no end of admirers at your feet, and take your
pick of them. I hate to give you up. I want to see you a queen in
society, you lovely, winsome, short-sighted thing! I don't believe you
have a bit of vanity, and they say no girl child was ever born without
it. I shall make your uncle, as you call him, keep track of you, for I
shall want to know where you throw away your sweetness. I believe if I
was Mr. de Ronville I would offer to buy you from your father."
"Oh, he couldn't."
It sounded as if she said it exultantly.
Jane bemoaned the proposed departure as well.
"The house will feel just like a funeral when you have gone out of it,
Miss Daffodil. You've been like the sunshine floating up and down. We
never missed it on the rainiest day, for there was your flashing
golden head. And, oh, I wish you could stay and, grow up a young
woman, and go to parties, and then have a splendid lover. Oh, dear!"
and then Jane broke down crying.
Poor Daffodil's heart was torn by the regrets. It seemed as if uncle
was the only one who was like to help her bear the parting, and he was
so tender that at times she almost relented. Mr. Bartram did not
count. He was polite, and to a degree sympathetic. He did not tease
her, nor laugh about Pittsburg, that would have made her indignant
now.
She had come with such a little parcel, now there was a trunk to be
packed. M. de Ronville slipped in some dainty little boxes that were
not to be opened until she reached home. And at last the day came, and
there were sad enough good-by's.
There was a new Post coach in its shining paint, and four stout
horses. Mr. de Ronville pressed Daffodil's hand the last one, but he
turned his eyes away. Yes, the light of his house had gone. But he
could not give up all hope.