SPINNING WITH VARIOUS THREADS
"Richard," Mrs. Forbes began, looking up from the beaded purse she was
knitting, "do you know anything about that Englishman, Andsdell?"
He had been reading, and smoking his pipe. He laid down both.
"A sort of goodish, well-informed fellow, who doesn't drink to excess,
and is always a gentleman. He plays a good deal, and wins oftener than
he loses, but that's luck and knowledge. Like so many young men, he
came over to seek his fortune. He was in Virginia, was some general's
aide, I believe. Why are you so eager to know his record?"
"Why?" laughing softly. "I think he is very much smitten with Daffodil
Carrick. She is pretty and sweet, a most admirable daughter, but,
somehow, the beaux do not flock about her. She will make some one a
lovely wife."
"Young Langdale has a fancy for her."
"And she is not at all charmed with military glory. Her father was a
good, brave soldier, and went at the darkest of times, because his
country needed him, not for fame or enthusiasm. She has heard too
much of the dangers and struggles. Edward Langdale is full of
soldierly ardor. They have had opportunities enough to be in love, and
she rather shrinks from him. No, her husband, whoever he is, must be a
civilian."
"Why, I think I can learn about him. The Harrisons are at
Williamsburg, you know. And there is a slight relationship between us.
Yes, it would be well to learn before you dream of wedding rings and
all that."
Still she could not resist asking Daffodil in to tea to meet some
friends. There were Mrs. Trent, the wife of the first lieutenant, and
Bessy Lowy, young Langdale, and the Englishman. Bessy was a charming,
dark-eyed coquette, ready of wit, and she did admire Ned. Andsdell was
almost a stranger to her, and in the prettiest, most winsome fashion
she relegated him to Miss Carrick.
They had a gay time, for Mrs. Trent was very bright and chatty, and
her husband had a fund of small-talk. Afterward they played cards, the
amusement of the times. In two of the games Ned had Daffodil for a
partner, but she was not an enthusiastic player. And she had accepted
Andsdell's escort home, much to Ned's chagrin.
"I did not know whether you would be at liberty," she said simply.
"I'll have an afternoon off Thursday. Will you go for a walk?"
She hesitated, and he remarked it.
"I see so little of you now. And you always seem--different."
"But you know I am quite grown up. We are no longer children. And that
makes a change in every one."
"But that need not break friendship."
"I think it doesn't break friendship always," she returned
thoughtfully.
"Daffodil, you are the loveliest and sweetest girl I have ever known."
"But not in the whole world," she rejoined archly.
"In my world. That is enough for me. Good-night;" and he longed to
kiss her hand.
She and Andsdell came down from the Fort, crossed several streets, and
then turned to the east. Philadelphia was their theme of conversation.
"I was such a little girl then," she said, with almost childish
eagerness. "Everything was so different. I felt as if I was in a
palace, and the maid dressed me with so much care, and went out to
walk with me, and Miss Wharton was so charming. And now she is in
France."
"Would you like to go to France--Paris?"
"Oh, I don't know. You have been there?"
"Yes, for a short stay."
"And London, and ever so many places?"
"Yes. But I never want to see it again."
Something in his tone jarred a little.
"I am glad you like America."
Then they met her father, who was coming for her, but Mr. Andsdell
went on with them to the very door.
"Did you have a fine time?" asked her mother.
"Oh, yes, delightful. Mrs. Trent was so amusing, and Bessy Lowy was
like some one in a play. I wish my eyes were dark, like yours. I think
they are prettier."
Her mother smiled and kissed her.
All the next morning Dilly sat and spun on the little wheel, and sang
merry snatches from old ballads. She wished she were not going to walk
with Lieutenant Langdale.
"Is there any wrong in it, mother?" she asked, turning her perplexed
face to Barbe.
"Why, not as I see. You have been friends for so long. And it is
seldom that he gets out now."
The Post brought a letter from Archie. It was really very joyous. He
had won a prize for a fine treatise, and had joined a club, not for
pleasure or card playing, but debating and improvement of the mind.
She was very glad they would have this to talk about. And when Ned saw
her joyous face, and had her gay greeting, his heart gave a great
bound. They went off together in a merry fashion.
"Oh, you cannot think"--then pausing suddenly--"Did you have word from
Archie in the post?"
"No, but a letter came for mother."
"You hurried me so, or I should have remembered to bring it. Father
thought it so fine. He has won a prize, twenty-five pounds. And he
thinks another year he may pass all the examinations. Oh, won't your
mother be glad?"
There was such a sweet, joyous satisfaction in her tone, such a lovely
light in her eyes, that his heart made a protest.
"You care a great deal about his success?" he said jealously.
"Yes, why not?" in surprise.
"And none about mine?"
"Why--it is so different;" faltering a little. "And you know I never
was overfond of soldiering."
"Where would the country have been but for the brave men who fought
and gained her liberty? Look at General Washington, and that brave
noble-hearted Lafayette. And there was General Steuben that winter at
Valley Forge, sharing hardship when he might have lived at ease. It
stirs my blood when I think of the hundreds of brave men, and I am
proud to be a soldier."
He stood up very straight, and there was a world of resolution in his
eyes, a flush on his cheek.
"But you are glad of his success?"
"And why should you not be as glad of mine?" not answering her
question.
"Why--I am. But you see that appeals to me the more. Yet I shall be
glad for you to rise in your profession, and win honors,
only--fighting shocks me all through. I am a coward."
"And he will come back a doctor, and you will rejoice with him. I
shouldn't mind that so much, but you will marry him----"
"Marry him! Ned, what are you thinking of!"
There was a curious protest in her face almost strong enough for
horror. Even her lips lost their rosy tint.
"What I am thinking of is this," and there was a fierce desperation in
his tone. "I love you! love you! and I cannot bear to think of you
going to any other man, of any person calling you wife. I've always
loved you, and it has grown with my manhood's strength. Archie will
always be lost in his books, and his care for others. A doctor ought
never to marry, he belongs to the world at large. And I want you in my
very life;" then his arms were about her, and clasped her so tightly
that for an instant she could make no protest. She pushed away and
dropped on a great stone, beginning to cry.
"Oh, Daffodil, what have I done! It is my wild love. It is like some
plant that grows and grows, and suddenly bursts into bloom. I almost
hated Bessy Lowy taking possession of me in that fashion. I wanted to
talk to you, to be near you, to touch your dear hand. All last night I
lay awake thinking of you. It was so sweet that I did not want to
sleep."
"Oh, hush," she entreated, "hush," making as if she would put him away
with her slim hands. "You must not talk so to me. It is a language I
do not understand, do not like. I think I am not meant for lovers and
marriage. I will be friends always, and rejoice in your success. And
it is the same with Archie. Oh, let me live my own quiet life with
father and mother----"
"And never marry?"
"Not for years to come, perhaps never. I am not afraid of being called
an old maid. For Miss Wharton was delightful and merry, and like a
mother to me, though I shall not be as gay and fond of good times. I
like quiet and my own pretty dreams, and to talk with the birds and
squirrels in the woods, and the lambs in the fields, and sometimes
great-grandfather comes back."
Her face was partly turned away, and had a rapt expression. He was
walking moodily up and down. Why was she so different from most girls?
And yet he loved her. She might outgrow this--was it childishness?
"Well," with a long sigh, "I will wait. If it is not Archie----"
"It is no one. And when some nice girl loves you--oh, Ned, you should
find some nice sweet girl, who will be glad of your love. I think
girls are when they meet with the right one. And do not think of me in
that way."
"I shall think of you in that way all the rest of my life. And if you
do not marry, I shall not marry either."
Then there was a long silence.
"Shall we go on?" she asked timidly.
"The walk is spoiled. It doesn't matter now;" moodily.
"Oh, Ned, let us be friends again. I cannot bear to have any one angry
with me. No one ever is but grandad, when we talk about the country or
the whiskey tax," and she laughed, but it was half-heartedly.
What a child she was, after all. For a moment or two he fancied he did
not care so much, but her sweet face, her lovely eyes, the dainty
hands hanging listlessly at her side, brought him back to his
allegiance.
They walked on, but the glory had gone out of the day, the hope in his
heart, the simple gladness of hers. Then the wind began to blow up
chilly, and dark clouds were drifting about. She shivered.
"Are you cold? Perhaps we had better go back?"
"Well"--in a sort of resigned tone. Then, after a pause--"Are you very
angry with me?"
"Perhaps not angry--disappointed. I had meant to have such a nice
time."
"I am sorry. If I could have guessed, I would not have agreed to
come."
They paused at the gate. No, he would not come in. The fine face
betrayed disappointment.
"But you will come sometime, when you have quite forgiven me," and the
adorable tenderness in her tone reawakened hope. After all, Archie was
not looking forward to marriage. Jeffrey Andsdell had not even entered
his mind.
She went in, and threw aside her hat.
"Did you have a nice walk? You came back soon."
"No, I did not. Ned neither." She went and stood straight before her
mother, pale, yet with a certain dignity.
"You did not quarrel, I hope. Is it true he is charmed by Bessy?"
"He asked me to love him. He wants to marry me;" in a tone that was
almost a cry.
"Well?" subjoined her mother. The young lieutenant was a favorite with
her, worth any girl's acceptance, in her estimation.
"I--I don't understand about love. To give away your whole life, years
and years;" and she shivered.
"But if you loved him, if you were glad to do it;" and the mother's
tone was encouraging.
"Ah. I think one ought to be glad. And I wasn't glad when he kissed
me." Her face was scarlet now, her bosom heaving with indignation, her
eyes full of protest.
"He will make a nice husband. His father is devoted to his mother. He
has learned what a true and tender love really is."
"Mother, would you like me to marry?"
She knelt down at her mother's knee.
"Oh, my dear, not until you love some one;" and she kissed her fondly.
"Do you think there was ever a girl who could not love in that way?"
"I should be sorry for her; love is the sweetest thing in life, the
best gift of the good Lord is a good husband."
Autumn was coming on slowly. Housewives were making preparations for
winter. Daffodil was cheery and helpful. Grandmere was not as well as
usual. She said she was growing old. There was a great deal of outside
business for the men. Pittsburg was a borough town, and its citizens
were considering various industries. Every day almost, new things came
to the fore, and now they were trying some experiments in making
glass. The country round was rich in minerals. Boat-building required
larger accommodations. The post road had been improved, straightened,
the distance shortened. There were sundry alterations in looms, and
homespun cloth was made of a better quality.
Daffodil Carrick watched some of the lovers, who came under her
notice. She met Lieutenant Langdale occasionally, and they were
outwardly friends. They even danced together, but her very frankness
and honesty kept up the barrier between them. He tried to make her
jealous, but it never quickened a pulse within her.
Yet in a curious way she was speculating on the master passion. There
were not many books to distract her attention, but one day there came
a package from her guardian that contained a few of the old rather
stilted novels, and some volumes of poems by the older English poets,
dainty little songs that her mother sung, and love verses to this one
or that one, names as odd as hers. And how they seemed to love Daisies
and Daffodils.
She took them out with her on her walks, and read them aloud to the
woods, and the birds, or sometimes sang them. Jeffrey Andsdell found a
wood nymph one day and listened. He had met her twice since the
evening at Mrs. Forbes'. And he wondered now whether he should
surprise her or go his way.
She rose presently, and by a sudden turn surprised him.
"I beg your pardon," he said. "I have been listening, enchanted. First
I could not imagine whether it was some wandering fay or wood nymph
wild."
"Oh, do I look very wild?" with a most charming smile.
"Why"--he colored a little--"perhaps the word may have more than one
meaning. Oh, you look as if you were part of the forest, a sprite or
fairy being."
"Oh, do you believe in them? I sit here sometimes and call them up.
There was an odd volume sent me awhile ago, a play by Shakespere,
'Midsummer Night's Dream,' and it is full of those little mischievous
elves and dainty darlings."
"That is not it?" coming nearer and looking at her book.
"Oh, it is verses by one Mr. Herrick. Some of them almost sing
themselves, and I put tunes to them."
"And sing to the woods and waters. You should have a more appreciative
audience."
"Oh, I couldn't sing to real people," and she flushed. "I wonder
if"--and there came a far-away look in her eyes that passed him, and
yet he saw it.
"What is the wonder?"
"That if you could write verses, songs."
She asked it in all simplicity.
"No, I couldn't;" in the frankest of tones.
"One must know a good deal."
"And be a genius beside."
"What queer names they give the girls. Chloe, that isn't a bit pretty,
and Phyllis, that is a slave name. And Lesbia, that isn't so bad."
"I think I have found Daffodil among them. And that is beautiful."
"Do you think so?" She could not tell why she was glad, but he saw it
in her face, and what a sweet face it was! He wondered then how such a
fascinating bit of sweetness and innocence could have kept its charm
in this rather rough soil. Her frankness was fascinating.
"Do you come here often?" he asked presently.
"Oh, yes, in the summer."
"That was when I first met you. I was with Mrs. Forbes. And her little
tea was very nice and social. I've not seen you since. Don't you go to
the Fort only on special invitation? There are quite a number of
visitors. Strangers always come."
"I am quite busy," she replied. "Grandmere has not been well, and I
help mother. There is a great deal to do in the fall."
Such a pretty housewifely look settled in her face. How lovely it was,
with the purity of girlhood.
The wind swayed the wooded expanse, and sent showers of scarlet and
golden maple leaves down upon them. The hickory was a blaze of yellow,
some oaks were turning coppery. Acorns fell now and then, squirrels
ran about and disputed over them. He reached over and took her book,
seating himself on the fallen log, and began reading to her. The sound
of his voice and the melody of the poems took her into another land,
the land of her fancy. If one could live in it always! The sun dropped
down, and it seemed evening, though it was more the darkness of the
woods.
She rose. They walked down together, there was no third person, and he
helped her with the gentlest touch over some hillocks made by the
rain-washed roots of the trees. Then she slipped on some dead pine
needles, and his arm was around her for several paces, and quietly
withdrawn.
Daffodil laughed and raised her face to his.
"Once I slipped this way, it was over on the other path, where it is
steeper, and slid down some distance, but caught a tree and saved
myself, for there was a big rock I was afraid I should hit. And I was
pretty well scratched. Now I catch the first thing handy. That rock is
a splendid big thing. You ought to see it."
"You must pilot me some day."
They emerged into the light. The rivers were still gleaming with the
sunset fire, but over eastward it was twilight gray.
"Good-night;" as they reached her house. "I am glad I found you there
in the woods. I have had a most enjoyable time."
"Good-night," she said in return.
A neighbor was sitting by the candle her mother had just lighted.
"Dilly, you come over here and write these recipes. My eyes ain't what
they used to be. And your mother does make some of that peppery sauce
that my man thinks the best in Pittsburg. And that grape jam is hard
to beat. Your fingers are young and spry, they hain't washed, and
scrubbed, and kneaded bread, 'n' all that for forty year."
Daffodil complied readily. Mrs. Carrick told the processes as well.
"For there's so much in the doin'," said Mrs. Moss. "That's the real
luck of it."
Felix went down to the shipyard after school, and came home with his
father. To go to New Orleans now was his great aim.
"Grandad wants you to come over there," Mrs. Carrick said to her
daughter.
"Then I'll have to read my paper myself," Mr. Carrick complained.
Grandad wanted her to go over some papers. They were all right, he
knew, but two heads were better than one, if one was a pin's head.
Then she must gossip awhile with Norah, while grandad leaned back in
his chair and snored. Her father came for her, and she went to bed to
the music of the dainty poems read in an impressive voice.
And when she awoke in the morning there seemed a strange music surging
in her ears, and in her heart, and she listened to it like one
entranced. But she had gone past the days of fairy lore, she was no
longer a little girl to build wonderful magic haunts, and people them.
Yet what was it, this new anticipation of something to come that would
exceed all that had gone before?
It came on to rain at noon, a sort of sullen autumn storm, with not
much wind at first, but it would gain power at nightfall. Daffodil and
her mother were sewing on some clothes for the boy, women had learned
to make almost everything. It took time, too. There were no magic
sewing machines. Grandmere was spinning on the big wheel the other
side of the room, running to and fro, and pulling out the wool into
yarn.
"Why so grave, child? Is it a thought of pity for the lieutenant?" and
Mrs. Carrick gave a faint smile that would have invited confidence if
there had been any to give. She could hardly relinquish the idea that
her daughter might relent.
"Oh, no. One can hardly fix the fleeting thoughts that wander idly
through one's brain. The loneliness of the woods when the squirrels
hide in their holes, and no bird voices make merry. And bits of verses
and remembrance of half-forgotten things. Is any one's mind
altogether set upon work? There are two lives going on within us."
Barbe Carrick had never lived but the one life, except when her
husband was with the army, and she was glad enough to lay down the
other. Had it been wise for Daffodil to spend those months in
Philadelphia? Yet she had accepted her old home cheerfully. And all
unconsciously she had worked changes in it to her grandmother's
delight. Now her father was prospering. They would be among the "best
people" as time went on.
The storm lasted three days. There had been some hours of wild fury in
it, when the trees groaned and split, and the rivers lashed themselves
into fury. Then it cleared up with a soft May air, and some things
took a second growth. There was a sort of wild pear tree at the corner
of the garden, and it budded.
Daffodil did not take her accustomed walk up in the woods. Something
held her back, but she would not allow to herself it was that.
Instead, she took rides on Dolly in different directions. One day she
went down to the shipyard with a message for her father. Mr. Andsdell
stood talking with him. Her pulses suddenly quickened.
"Well, you've started at the right end," Bernard Carrick was saying.
"This place has a big future before it. If it was a good place for a
fort, it's a splendid place for a town. Philadelphia can't hold a
candle to it, if she did have more than a hundred years the start. Why
they should have gone way up the Delaware River beats me. Yes, come up
to the house, and we'll talk it over."
Then they both turned to the young girl. There was a pleasurable light
in Andsdell's eyes.
Afterward he walked some distance beside her horse. The storm, the
beautiful weather since, the busy aspect of the town, the nothings
that are so convenient when it is best to leave some things in
abeyance. Then he said adieu and turned to his own street, where he
had lodgings.
She went on with a curiously light heart. Her father had said, "Come
up to the house," and she was glad she had not gone to the woods in
the hope of meeting him.
She slipped off Dolly and ran to the garden. "Oh, Norry, what are you
doing?" she cried with a sound of anger in her voice. "My beautiful
pear blossoms! I've been watching them every day."
They lay on the ground. Norry even sprang up for the last one.
"They're bad luck, child! Blossoms or fruit out of season is trouble
without reason. I hadn't spied them before, or I wouldn't have let
them come to light. That's as true as true can be. There, don't cry,
child. I hope I haven't been too late."
"Yes. I've heard the adage," said her mother. "Norry is
superstitious."