Daisy Read online

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  DAISY.

  BY ELIZABETH WETHERELL,

  AUTHOR OF "THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD," "QUEECHY," ETC., ETC.

  Floral Squiggle]

  LONDON:

  WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED, WARWICK HOUSE, SALISBURY SQUARE, E.C. NEW YORK AND MELBOURNE.

  Frontis "'And you love Jesus, Darry,' I said." _Page 59_ ]

  CONTENTS.

  PAGE CHAPTER I. MISS PINSHON 9

  CHAPTER II. MY HOME 27

  CHAPTER III. THE MULTIPLICATION TABLE 45

  CHAPTER IV. SEVEN HUNDRED PEOPLE 68

  CHAPTER V. IN THE KITCHEN 97

  CHAPTER VI. WINTER AND SUMMER 119

  CHAPTER VII. SINGLEHANDED 149

  CHAPTER VIII. EGYPTIAN GLASS 165

  CHAPTER IX. SHOPPING 185

  CHAPTER X. SCHOOL 205

  CHAPTER XI. A PLACE IN THE WORLD 226

  CHAPTER XII. FRENCH DRESSES 244

  CHAPTER XIII. GREY COATS 275

  CHAPTER XIV. YANKEES 297

  CHAPTER XV. FORT PUTNAM 320

  CHAPTER XVI. HOPS 338

  CHAPTER XVII. OBEYING ORDERS 356

  CHAPTER XVIII. SOUTH AND NORTH 379

  CHAPTER XIX. ENTERED FOR THE WAR 392

  DAISY.

  CHAPTER I.

  MISS PINSHON.

  I want an excuse to myself for writing my own life; an excuse for theindulgence of going it all over again, as I have so often gone overbits. It has not been more remarkable than thousands of others. Yetevery life has in it a thread of present truth and possible glory. Letme follow out the truth to the glory.

  The first bright years of my childhood I will pass. They werechildishly bright. They lasted till my eleventh summer. Then the lightof heavenly truth was woven in with the web of my mortal existence;and whatever the rest of the web has been, those golden threads havealways run through it all the rest of the way. Just as I reached mybirthday that summer and was ten years old, I became a Christian.

  For the rest of that summer I was a glad child. The brightness ofthose days is a treasure safe locked up in a chamber of my memory. Ihave known other glad times too in my life; other times of even higherenjoyment. But among all the dried flowers of my memory, there is notone that keeps a fresher perfume or a stronger scent of its life thanthis one. Those were the days without cloud; before life shadows hadbegun to cast their blackness over the landscape. And even though suchshadows do go as well as come, and leave the intervals as sunlit asever; yet after that change of the first life shadow is once seen, itis impossible to forget that it may come again and darken the sun. Ido not mean that the days of that summer were absolutely withoutthings to trouble me; I had changes of light and shade; but, on thewhole, nothing that did not heighten the light. They were pleasantdays that I had in Juanita's cottage at the time when my ankle wasbroken; there were hours of sweetness with crippled Molly; and it wassimply delight I had all alone with my pony Loupe, driving over thesunny and shady roads, free to do as I liked and go where I liked. Andhow I enjoyed studying English history with my cousin Preston. It isall stowed away in my heart, as fresh and sweet as at first. I willnot pull it out now. The change, and my first real life shadow came,when my father was thrown from his horse and injured his head. Thenthe doctors decided he must go abroad and travel, and mamma decidedthat it was best that I should go to Magnolia with Aunt Gary and havea governess.

  There is no pleasure in thinking of those weeks. They went veryslowly, and yet very fast; while I counted every minute and notedevery step in the preparations. They were all over at last; my littleworld was gone from me; and I was left alone with Aunt Gary.

  Her preparations had been made too; and the day after the steamersailed we set off on our journey to the south. I do not know muchabout that journey. The things by the way were like objects in a mistto me and no more clearly discerned. Now and then there came a rift inthe mist; something woke me up out of my sorrow-dream; and of thosepoints and of what struck my eyes at those minutes I have a mostintense and vivid recollection. I can feel yet the still air of oneearly morning's start, and hear the talk between my aunt and the hotelpeople about the luggage. My aunt was a great traveller and wanted noone to help her or manage for her. I remember acutely a beggar whospoke to us on the sidewalk at Washington. We stayed over a few daysin Washington, and then hurried on; for when she was on the road myAunt Gary lost not a minute. We went, I presume, as fast as we couldwithout travelling all night; and our last day's journey added thattoo.

  By that time my head was getting steadied, perhaps, from the griefwhich had bewildered it; or grief was settling down and taking itsproper place at the bottom of my heart, leaving the surface as usual.For twelve hours that day we went by a slow railway train through acountry of weary monotony. Endless forests of pine seemed all that wasto be seen; scarce ever a village; here and there a miserable clearingand forlorn-looking house; here and there stoppages of a few minutesto let somebody out or take somebody in; once, to my great surprise, astop of rather more than a few minutes to accommodate a lady whowanted some flowers gathered for her. I was surprised to see flowerswild in the woods at that time of year, and much struck with thepoliteness of the railway train that was willing to delay for such areason. We got out of the car for dinner, or for a short rest atdinner-time. My aunt had brought her lunch in a basket. Then theforests and the rumble of the cars began again. At one time the pineforests were exchanged for oak, I remember; after that, nothing butpine.

  It was late in the day, when we left the cars at one of those solitarywayside station-houses. I shall never forget the look and feeling ofthe place. We had been for some miles going through a region of swampor swampy woods, where sometimes the rails were laid on piles in thewater. This little station-house was in the midst of such a region.The woods were thick and tangled with vines everywhere beyond the edgeof the clearing; the ground was wet beneath them, and in places showedstanding water. There was scarcely a clearing; the forest was allround the house; with only the two breaks in it where on one side andon the other the iron rail track ran off into the distance. It was alonely place; almost nobody was there waiting for the train; one ortwo forlorn coloured people and a long lank-looking countryman, wereall. Except what at first prevented my seeing anything else--my cousinPreston. He met me just as I was going to get down from the car;lifted me to the platform, and then with his looks and words almostbroke up the composure which for several days had been growing uponme. It was not hardened yet to bear attacks. I was like a poorshell-fish, which, having lost one coat of armour and defence, cravesa place of hiding and shelter for itself until its new coat be grown.While he was begging me to come into the station-house and rest, Istood still looking up the long line of railway by which we had come,feeling as if my life lay at the other end of it, out of sight andquite beyond reach. Yet I asked him not to call me "poor" Daisy. I wasvery tired, and I suppose my nerves not very steady. Preston said wemust wait at that place for another train; there was a fork in theroad beyond, and this train would not go the right way. It would nottake us to Baytown. So he had me into the station-house.

  It wearied me and so did all that my eyes lighted upon, strange thoughit was. The bare room, not clean; the board partition, with swingingdoors, behind which, Preston said, were the
cook and the baker! theuntidy waiting girls that came and went, with scant gowns and coarseshoes, and no thread of white collar to relieve the dusky throat andhead rising out of the dark gown, and no apron at all. Preston didwhat he could. He sent away the girls with their trays of eatables; hehad a table pulled out from the wall and wiped off, and then heordered a supper of eggs, and johnny cake, and all sorts of things.But I could not eat. As soon as supper was over I went out on theplatform to watch the long lines of railway running off through theforest, and wait for the coming train. The evening fell while welooked; the train was late; and at last when it came I could only knowit in the distance by the red spark of its locomotive gleaming like afirefly.

  It was a freight train, there was but one passenger car, and that wasfull. We got seats with difficulty, and apart from each other. Ihardly know whether that, or anything, could have made me moreforlorn. I was already stiff and weary with the twelve hours oftravelling we had gone through that day; inexpressibly weary in heart.It seemed to me that I could not long endure the rumble and the jarand the closeness of this last car. The passengers, too, had habitswhich made me draw my clothes as tight around me as I could, andshrink away mentally into the smallest compass possible. I had noticedthe like, to be sure, ever since we left Washington; but to-night, inmy weary, faint, and tired-out state of mind and body every unseemlysight or sound struck my nerves with a sense of pain that was hardlyendurable. I wondered if the train would go on all night; it went veryslowly. And I noticed that nobody seemed impatient or had the air ofexpecting that it would soon find its journey's end. I felt as if Icould not bear it many half hours. My next neighbour was a fat,good-natured, old lady, who rather made matters worse by putting herarm round me and hugging me up, and begging me to make a pillow of herand go to sleep. My nerves were twitching with impatience and thedesire for relief; when suddenly the thought came to me that I mightplease the Lord by being patient. I remember what a lull the thoughtof Him brought; and yet how difficult it was not to be impatient, tillI fixed my mind on some Bible words--they were the words of thetwenty-third Psalm--and began to think and pray them over. So goodthey were, that by and by they rested me. I dropped asleep and forgotmy aches and weariness until the train arrived at Baytown.

  They took me to a hotel, then, and put me to bed, and I did not get upfor several days. I must have been feverish, for my fancies wanderedincessantly in unknown places with papa, in regions of the old world;and sometimes, I think, took both him and myself to rest and homewhere wanderings are over. After a few days this passed away. I wasable to come downstairs, and both Preston and his mother did theirbest to take good care of me. Especially Preston. He brought me books,and fruit, and birds to tempt me to eat, and was my kind and constantcompanion when his mother was out, and indeed when she was in, too. SoI got better by the help of oranges and rice-birds. I could have gotbetter faster, but for my dread of a governess which was hanging overme. I heard nothing about her and could not bear to ask. One dayPreston brought the matter up and asked if Daisy was going to have aschool-mistress?

  "Certainly," my Aunt Gary said. "She must be educated, you know."

  "_I_ don't know," said Preston; "but if they say so, I suppose shemust. Who is it to be, mamma?"

  "You do not know anything about it," said Aunt Gary. "If my son wasgoing to marry the greatest heiress in the State; and she is verynearly that--goodness! I did not see you were there, Daisy, my dear;but it makes no difference;--I should think it proper that she shouldbe educated."

  "I can't see what her being an heiress should have to do with it,"said Preston, "except rather to make it unnecessary as well as a bore.Who is it, mamma?"

  "I have recommended Miss Pinshon."

  "Oh, then, it is not fixed yet."

  "Yes, it is fixed. Miss Pinshon is coming as soon as we get toMagnolia."

  "I'll be off before that," said Preston. "Who is Miss Pinshon?"

  "How should _you_ know? She has lived at Jessamine Bank,--educated theDalzell girls."

  "What sort of a person, mamma!"

  "What sort of a person?" said my Aunt Gary; "why a governess sort of aperson. What sort should she be."

  "Any other sort in the world," said Preston, "for my money. That isjust the sort to worry poor little Daisy out of her life."

  "You are a foolish boy!" said Aunt Gary. "Of course if you fillDaisy's head with notions, she will not get them out again. If youhave anything of that sort to say, you had better say it where shewill not hear."

  "Daisy has eyes--and a head," said Preston.

  As soon as I was able for it Preston took me out for short walks; andas I grew stronger he made the walks longer. The city was a strangeplace to me; very unlike New York; there was much to see and many astory to hear; and Preston and I enjoyed ourselves. Aunt Gary was busymaking visits, I think. There was a beautiful walk by the sea which Iliked best of all; and when it was not too cold my greatest pleasurewas to sit there looking over the dark waters and sending my wholesoul across them to that unknown spot where my father and mother were."Home," that spot was to me. Preston did not know what I liked theEsplanade for; he sometimes laughed at me for being poetic andmeditative; when I was only sending my heart over the water. But hewas glad to please me in all that he could; and whenever it was nottoo cold, our walks always took me there.

  One day, sitting there, I remember we had a great argument aboutstudying. Preston began with saying that I must not mind thisgoverness that was coming, nor do anything she bade me unless I likedit. As I gave him no answer, he repeated what he had said.

  "You know, Daisy, you are not obliged to care what she thinks."

  I said I thought I was.

  "What for?" said Preston.

  "I have a great deal to learn you know," I said, feeling it verygravely indeed in my little heart.

  "What do you want to know so much?" said Preston.

  I said, everything. I was very ignorant.

  "You are no such thing," said Preston. "Your head is full this minute.I think you have about as much knowledge as is good for you. I mean totake care that you do not get too much."

  "O Preston," said I, "that is very wrong. I have not any knowledgescarcely."

  "There is no occasion," said Preston stoutly. "I hate learned women."

  "Don't you like to learn things?"

  "That's another matter," said he. "A man must know things, or he can'tget along. Women are different."

  "But I think it is nice to know things too," said I. "I don't see howit is different."

  "Why, a woman need not be a lawyer, or a doctor, or a professor," saidPreston; "all she need do, is to have good sense and dress herselfnicely."

  "Is dressing so important?" said I, with a new light breaking over me.

  "Certainly. Ribbons of the wrong colour will half kill a woman. And Ihave heard Aunt Randolph say that a particular lady was ruined by hergloves."

  "Ruined by her gloves!" said I. "Did she buy so many?"

  Preston went into such a laugh at that, I had to wait some time beforeI could go on. I saw I had made some mistake, and I would not renewthat subject.

  "Do _you_ mean to be anything of that sort?" I said, with some want ofconnection.

  "What sort? Ruined by my gloves? Not if I know it."

  "No, no! I mean, a lawyer or a doctor or a professor?"

  "I should think not!" said Preston, with a more emphatic denial.

  "Then, what are you studying for?"

  "Because, as I told you, Daisy, a man must know things, or he cannotget on in the world."

  I pondered the matter, and then I said, I should think good sensewould make a woman study too. I did not see the difference. "Besides,Preston," I said, "if she didn't, they would not be equal."

  "Equal!" cried Preston. "Equal! O Daisy, you ought to have lived insome old times. You are two hundred years old, at least. Now don't goto studying that, but come home. You have sat here long enough."

  It was my last hour of freedom. Perhaps for that
reason I rememberevery minute so distinctly. On our way home we met a negro funeral. Istopped to look at it. Something, I do not know what, in the long lineof dark figures, orderly and even stately in their demeanour, thewhite dresses of the women, the peculiar faces of men and women both,fascinated my eyes. Preston exclaimed at me again. It was thecommonest sight in the world, he said. It was their pride to have agrand funeral. I asked if _this_ was a grand funeral. Preston said"pretty well; there must be several hundred of them and they were welldressed." And then he grew impatient and hurried me on. But I wasthinking; and before we got to the hotel where we lodged, I askedPreston if there were many coloured people at Magnolia.

  "Lots of them," he said. "There isn't anything else."

  "Preston," I said presently, "I want to buy some candy somewhere."

  Preston was very much pleased, I believe, thinking that my thoughtshad quite left the current of sober things. He took me to a famousconfectioner's; and there I bought sweet things till my little stockof money was all gone.

  "No more funds?" said Preston. "Never mind--go on, and I'll help you.Why I never knew you liked sugarplums so much. What next? burntalmonds? _this_ is good, Daisy--this confection of roses. But you musttake all this sugar in small doses, or I am afraid it wouldn't be justbeneficial."

  "O Preston!" I said--"I do not mean to eat all this myself."

  "Are you going to propitiate Miss Pinshon with it? I have apresentiment that sweets won't sweeten her, Daisy."

  "I don't know what 'propitiate' means," I said, sighing. "I will nottake the almonds, Preston."

  But he was determined I should; and to the almonds he added a quantityof the delicate confection he spoke of, which I had thought toodelicate and costly for the uses I had purposed; and after the rose heordered candied fruits; till a great packet of varieties was made up.Preston paid for them--I could not help it--and desired them senthome; but I was bent on taking the package myself. Preston would notlet me do that, so he carried it; which was a much more serious tokenof kindness, in him, than footing the bill. It was but a little way,however, to the hotel. We were in the hall, and I was just taking mysugars from Preston to carry them upstairs, when I heard Aunt Garycall my name from the parlour. Instinctively, I cannot tell how, Iknew from her tone what she wanted me for. I put back the package inPreston's hands, and walked in; my play over.

  How well I knew my play was over, when I saw my governess. She wassitting by my aunt on the sofa. Quite different from what I hadexpected, so different that I walked up to her in a maze, and yetseemed to recognize in that first view all that was coming after.Probably that is fancy; but it seems to me now that all I ever knew orfelt about Miss Pinshon in the years that followed, was duly begun andbetokened in those first five minutes. She was a young-looking lady,younger looking than she was. She had a dark, rich complexion, and aface that I suppose would have been called handsome; it was neverhandsome to me. Long black curls on each side of her face, and largeblack eyes, were the features that first struck one; but I immediatelydecided that Miss Pinshon was not born a lady. I do not mean that Ithink blood and breeding are unseverable; or that half a dozen ladyancestors in a direct line secure the character to the seventh indescent; though they _do_ often secure the look of it; nevertheless,ladies are born who never know all their lives how to make a curtsey,and curtseys are made with infinite grace by those who have nothing ofa lady beyond the trappings. I never saw Miss Pinshon do a rude or anawkward thing, that I remember; nor one which changed my first mindabout her. She was handsomely dressed; but there again I felt the samewant. Miss Pinshon's dresses made me think always of the mercer'scounter and the dressmaker's shop. My mother's robes always seemedpart of her own self; and so, in a certain true sense, they were.

  My aunt introduced me. Miss Pinshon studied me. Her first remark wasthat I looked very young. My aunt excused that, on the ground of myhaving been always a delicate child. Miss Pinshon observed furtherthat the way I wore my hair produced part of the effect. My auntexplained _that_ to my father's and mother's fancy; and agreed thatshe thought cropped heads were always ungraceful. If my hair wereallowed to fall in ringlets on my neck I would look very different.Miss Pinshon next inquired how much I knew? turning her great blackeyes from me to Aunt Gary. My aunt declared she could not tell;delicate health had also here interfered; and she appealed to me tosay what knowledge I was possessed of. I could not answer. I could notsay. It seemed to me I had not learned anything. Then Preston spokefor me.

  "Modesty is apt to be silent on its own merits," he said. "My cousinhas learned the usual rudiments; and in addition to those the art ofdriving."

  "Of _what_? What did you say?" inquired my governess.

  "Of driving, ma'am. Daisy is an excellent whip for her years andstrength."

  Miss Pinshon turned to Preston's mother. My aunt confirmed andenlarged the statement, again throwing the blame on my father andmother. For herself, she always thought it very dangerous for a littlegirl like me to go about in the country in a pony-chaise all alone.Miss Pinshon's eyes could not be said to express anything, but to myfancy they concealed a good deal. She remarked that the roads wereeasy.

  "Oh, it was not here," said my aunt; "it was at the North, where theroads are not like our pine forest. However the roads were notdangerous there, that I know of; not for anybody but a child. Buthorses and carriages are always dangerous."

  Miss Pinshon next applied herself to me. What did I know? "beside thiswhip accomplishment," as she said. I was tongue-tied. It did not seemto me that I knew anything. At last I said so. Preston exclaimed. Ilooked at him to beg him to be still; and I remember how he smiled atme.

  "You can read, I suppose?" my governess went on.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "And write, I suppose?"

  "I do not think you would say I know how to write," I answered. "Icannot do it at all well; and it takes me a long time."

  "Come back to the driving, Daisy," said Preston. "That is one thingyou do know. And English history, I will bear witness."

  "What have you got there, Preston?" my aunt asked.

  "Some horehound drops, mamma."

  "You haven't a sore throat?" she asked, eagerly.

  "No, ma'am--not just now, but I had yesterday; and I thought I wouldbe provided."

  "You seem provided for a long time," Miss Pinshon remarked.

  "Can't get anything up at Magnolia, except rice," said Preston, aftermaking the lady a bow which did not promise good fellowship. "You musttake with you what you are likely to want there."

  "You will not want all that," said his mother.

  "No ma'am, I hope not," said Preston, looking at his package demurely."Old Uncle Lot, you know, always has a cough; and I purpose delightinghim with some of my purchases. I will go and put them away."

  "Old Uncle Lot!" my aunt repeated. "What Uncle Lot? I did not know youhad been enough at Magnolia to get the servants' names. But _I_ don'tremember any Uncle Lot."

  Preston turned to leave the room with his candy, and in turning gaveme a look of such supreme fun and mischief that at another time Icould hardly have helped laughing. But Miss Pinshon was asking me if Iunderstood arithmetic?

  "I think--I know very little about it," I said hesitating. "I can do asum."

  "In what?"

  "On the slate, ma'am."

  "Yes, but in what?"

  "I don't know, ma'am--it is adding up the columns."

  "Oh, in _addition_, then. Do you know the multiplication and divisiontables?"

  "No, ma'am."

  "Go and get off your things, and then come back to me; and I will havesome more talk with you."

  I remember to this day how heavily my feet went up the stairs. I wasnot very strong yet in body, and now the strength seemed to have goneout of my heart.

  "I declare," said Preston, who waited for me on the landing, "shefalls into position easy! Does she think she is going to take _that_tone with you?"

  I made no answer. Preston followed me into my room.
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  "I won't have it, little Daisy. Nobody shall be mistress at Magnoliabut you. This woman shall not. See, Daisy--I am going to put thesethings in my trunk for you, until we get where you want them. Thatwill be safe."

  I thanked him.

  "What are you going to do now?"

  "I am going downstairs, as soon as I am ready."

  "Do you expect to be under all the commands this High Mightiness maythink proper to lay upon you?"

  I begged him to be still and leave me.

  "She will turn you into stone!" he exclaimed. "She is a regularGorgon, with those heavy eyes of hers. I never saw such eyes. Ibelieve she would petrify me if I had to bear them. Don't you giveMedusa one of those sweet almonds, Daisy--not one, do you hear?"

  I heard too well. I faced round upon him and begged him to rememberthat it was my _mother_ I must obey in Miss Pinshon's orders: and saidthat he must not talk to me. Whereupon Preston threw down his candies,and pulled my cloak out of my unsteady hands, and locked his armsabout me; kissing me and lamenting over me that it was "too bad." Itried to keep my self-command; but the end was a great burst of tears;and I went down to Miss Pinshon with red eyes and at a disadvantage. Ithink Preston was pleased.

  I had need of all my quiet and self-command. My governess stretched outher hand, drew me to her side and kissed me; then with the other handwent on to arrange the ruffle round my neck, stroking it and pulling itinto order, and even taking out a little bit of a pin I wore, and puttingit in again to suit herself. It annoyed me excessively. I knew all wasright about my ruffle and pin; I never left them carelessly arranged; nofingers but mamma's had ever dared to meddle with them before. But MissPinshon arranged the ruffle and the pin, and still holding me, looked inmy face with those eyes of hers. I began to feel that they were "heavy."They did not waver. They did not seem to wink, like other eyes. They boredown upon my face with a steady power, that was not bright but ponderous.Her first question was, whether I was a good girl.

  I could not tell how to answer. My aunt answered for me, that shebelieved Daisy meant to be a good girl, though she liked to have herown way.

  Miss Pinshon ordered me to bring up a chair and sit down; and thenasked if I knew anything about mathematics; told me it was the scienceof quantity; remarked to my aunt that it was the very best study forteaching children to think, and that she always gave them a great dealof it in the first year of their pupilage. "It puts the mind inorder," the black-eyed lady went on; "and other things come so easilyafter it. Daisy, do you know what I mean by 'quantity?'"

  I knew what _I_ meant by quantity; but whether the English languagehad anything in common for Miss Pinshon and me, I had great doubts. Ihesitated.

  "I always teach my little girls to answer promptly when they are askedanything. I notice that you do not answer promptly. You can alwaystell whether you know a thing or whether you do not."

  I was not so sure of that. Miss Pinshon desired me now to repeat themultiplication table. Here at least there was certainty. I had neverlearned it.

  "It appears to me," said my governess, "you have done very little withthe first ten years of your life. It gives you a great deal to do forthe next ten."

  "Health has prevented her applying to her studies," said my aunt.

  "The want of health. Yes, I suppose so. I hope Daisy will be very wellnow, for we must make up for lost time."

  "I do not suppose so much time need have been lost," said my aunt;"but parents are easily alarmed, you know; they think of nothing butone thing."

  So now there was nobody about me who would be easily alarmed. I tookthe full force of that.

  "Of course," said Miss Pinshon, "I shall have a careful regard to herhealth. Nothing can be done without that. I shall take her outregularly to walk with me, and see that she does not expose herself inany way. Study is no hindrance to health; learning has no malevolenteffect upon the body. I think people often get sick for want ofsomething to think of."

  How sure I felt, as I went up to bed that night, that no such easycause of sickness would be mine for long years to come!