Daisy Read online

  CHAPTER IV.

  SEVEN HUNDRED PEOPLE.

  "Do you think that was a proper thing to do, Daisy?" my governessasked when she released me.

  "What thing, ma'am?" I asked.

  "To tear about on that great grey pony."

  "Yes, ma'am," I said.

  "You think it _was_ proper?" said Miss Pinshon, coolly. "Whom had youwith you?"

  "Nobody was riding with me."

  "Your cousin was there?"

  "No, ma'am."

  "Who then?"

  "I had Uncle Darry. I was only riding up and down the dell."

  "The coachman! And were you riding up and through the quarters all theafternoon?"

  "No, ma'am."

  "What were you doing the rest of the time?"

  "I was going about----" I hesitated.

  "About where?"

  "Through the place there."

  "The quarters? Well, you think it proper amusement for your mother'sdaughter? You are not to make companions of the servants, Daisy. Youare not to go to the quarters without my permission, and I shall notgive it frequently. Now get yourself ready for tea."

  I did feel as if Preston's prophecy were coming true and I in a way tobe gradually petrified; some slow, chill work of that kind seemedalready to be going on. But a little thing soon stirred all the lifethere was in me. Miss Pinshon stepped to the door which led from herroom into mine, unlocked it, took out the key, and put it on her ownside of the door. I sprang forward at that, with a word, I do not knowwhat; and my governess turned her lustrous, unmoved eyes calmly uponme. I remember now how deadening their look was, in their very lustreand moveless calm. I begged however for a reversal of her lastproceeding; I wanted my door locked sometimes, I said.

  "You can lock the other door."

  "But I want both locked."

  "I do not. This door remains open, Daisy. I must come in here when Iplease. Now make haste and get ready."

  I had no time for anything but to obey. I went downstairs, I think,like a machine; my body obeying certain laws, while my mind and spiritwere scarcely present. I suppose I behaved myself as usual; save thatI would have nothing to do with Preston, nor would I receive anythingwhatever at the table from his hand. This, however, was known only tohim and me. I said nothing; not the less every word that others saidfastened itself in my memory. I was like a person dreaming.

  "You have just tired yourself with mounting that wild thing, Daisy,"said my Aunt Gary.

  "Wild!" said Preston. "About as wild as a tame sloth."

  "I always heard that was very wild indeed," said Miss Pinshon. "Thesloth cannot be tamed, can it?"

  "Being stupid already, I suppose not," said Preston.

  "Daisy looks pale at any rate," said my aunt.

  "A little overdone," said Miss Pinshon. "She wants regular exercise;but irregular exercise is very trying to any but a strong person. Ithink Daisy will be stronger in a few weeks."

  "What sort of exercise do you think will be good for her, ma'am?"Preston said, with an expression out of all keeping with his words, itwas so fierce.

  "I shall try different sorts," my governess answered, composedly."Exercise of patience is a very good thing, Master Gary. I thinkgymnastics will be useful for Daisy too. I shall try them."

  "That is what I have often said to my sister," said Aunt Gary. "I haveno doubt that sort of training would establish Daisy's strength morethan anything in the world. She just wants that to develop her andbring out the muscles."

  Preston almost groaned; pushed his chair from the table, and I knewsat watching me. I would give him no opportunity, for _my_ opportunityI could not have then. I kept quiet till the ladies moved; I movedwith them; and sat all the evening abstracted in my own meditations,without paying Preston any attention; feeling indeed very old andgrey, as no doubt I looked. When I was ordered to bed Miss Pinshondesired I would hold no conversation with anybody. Whereupon Prestontook my candle and boldly marched out of the room with me. When wewere upstairs he tried to make me disobey my orders. He declared Iwas turning to stone already; he said a great many hard words againstmy governess; threatened he would write to my father; and when hecould not prevail to make me talk, dashed off passionately and leftme. I went trembling into my room. But my refuge there was gone. I hadfallen upon evil times. My door must not be locked, and Miss Pinshonmight come in any minute. I could not pray. I undressed and went tobed; and lay there, waiting, all things in order, till my governesslooked in. Then the door was closed, and I heard her steps movingabout in her room. I lay and listened. At last the door was softly setopen again; and then after a few minutes the sound of regular slowbreathing proclaimed that those wide-open black eyes were reallyclosed for the night. I got up, went to my governess's door andlistened. She was sleeping profoundly. I laid hold of the handle ofthe door and drew it towards me; pulled out the key softly, put it inmy own side of the lock and shut the door. And after all I was afraidto turn the key. The wicked sound of the lock might enter thosesleeping ears. But the door was closed; and I went to my old place,the open window. It was not my window at Melbourne, with balmy summerair, and the dewy scent of the honeysuckle coming up, and themoonlight flooding all the world beneath me. But neither was it in theregions of the North. The night was still and mild, if not balmy; andthe stars were brilliant; and the evergreen oaks were masses of darkshadow all over the lawn. I do not think I saw them at first; for mylook was up to the sky, where the stars shone down to greet me, andwhere it was furthest from all the troubles on the surface of theearth; and with one thought of the Friend up there, who does notforget the troubles of even His little children, the barrier in myheart gave way, my tears gushed forth; my head lay on the window-sillat Magnolia, more hopelessly than in my childish sorrow it had everlain at Melbourne. I kept my sobs quiet; I must; but they were deep,heartbreaking sobs, for a long time.

  Prayer got its chance after a while. I had a great deal to pray for;it seemed to my child's heart now and then as if it could hardly bearits troubles. And very much I felt I wanted patience and wisdom. Ithought there was a great deal to do, even for my little hands; andpromise of great hindrance and opposition. And the only one pleasantthing I could think of in my new life at Magnolia, was that I mighttell of the truth to those poor people who lived in the negroquarters.

  Why I did not make myself immediately ill, with my night's vigils andsorrow, I cannot tell; unless it were that great excitement kept offthe effects of chill air and damp. However, the excitement had its owneffects, and my eyes were sadly heavy when they opened the nextmorning to look at Margaret lighting my fire.

  "Margaret," I said, "shut Miss Pinshon's door, will you?"

  She obeyed, and then turning to look at me, exclaimed that I was notwell.

  "Did you say you could not read, Margaret?" was my answer.

  "Read! no, missis. Guess readin' ain't no good for servants. Seemslike Miss Daisy ain't lookin' peart this mornin'."

  "Would you _like_ to read?"

  "Reckon don't care about it, Miss Daisy. Where'd us get books, mostlikely?"

  I said I would get the books; but Margaret turned to the fire andmade me no answer. I heard her mutter some ejaculation.

  "Because, Margaret, don't you know," I said, raising myself on myelbow, "God would like to have you learn to read, so that you mightknow the Bible and come to heaven."

  "Reckon folks ain't a heap better that knows the Bible," said thegirl. "'Pears as if it don't make no difference. Ain't nobody good in_this_ place, 'cept Uncle Darry."

  In another minute I was out of bed and standing before the fire, myhand on her shoulder. I told her I wanted _her_ to be good too, andthat Jesus would make her good, if she would let Him. Margaret gave mea hasty look and then finished her fire making; but to my greatastonishment, a few minutes after, I saw that the tears were runningdown the girl's face. It astonished me so much that I said no more;and Margaret was as silent, only dressed me with the greatestattention and tenderness.

  "Ye want
your breakfast bad, Miss Daisy," she remarked then in asubdued tone; and I suppose my looks justified her words. They createdsome excitement when I went downstairs. My aunt exclaimed; MissPinshon inquired; Preston inveighed, at things in general. He wantedto get me by myself, I knew, but he had no chance. Immediately afterbreakfast Miss Pinshon took possession of me.

  The day was less weary than the day before, only I think because I wastired beyond impatience or nervous excitement. Not much was done; forthough I was very willing I had very little power. But the multiplicationtable, Miss Pinshon said, was easy work; and at that and reading andwriting, the morning crept away. My hand was trembling, my voice wasfaint, my memory grasped nothing so clearly as Margaret's tears thatmorning, and Preston's behaviour the preceding day. My cheeks were pale,of course. Miss Pinshon said we would begin to set that right with a walkafter dinner.

  The walk was had; but with my hand clasped in Miss Pinshon's I onlywished myself at home all the way. At home again, after a while oflying down to rest, I was tried with a beginning of calisthenics. Atrial it was to me. The exercises, directed and overseen by MissPinshon, seemed to me simply intolerable, a weariness beyond all otherweariness. Even the multiplication table I liked better. Miss Pinshonwas tired perhaps herself at last. She let me go.

  It was towards the end of the day. With no life left in me foranything, I strolled out into the sunshine: aimlessly at first; thenled by a secret inclination I hardly knew or questioned, my stepsslowly made their way round by the avenue to the stables. Darry wasbusy there as I had found him yesterday. He looked hard at me as Icame up; and asked me earnestly how I felt that afternoon? I told himI was tired; and then I sat down on a huge log which lay there andwatched him at his work. By turns I watched the sunlight streamingalong the turf and lighting the foliage of the trees on the other sideof the dell; looking in a kind of dream, as if I were not Daisy northis Magnolia in any reality. I suddenly started and awoke torealities as Darry began to sing,--

  "My Father's house is built on high, Far, far above the starry sky; And though like Lazarus sick and poor, My heavenly mansion is secure. I'm going home,-- I'm going home,-- I'm going home To die no more! To die no more-- To die no more-- I'm going home To die no more!"

  The word "home" at the end of each line was dwelt upon in a prolongedsonorous note. It filled my ear with its melodious, plaintive breathof repose; it rested and soothed me. I was listening in a sort oftrance, when another sound at my side both stopped the song and quitebroke up the effect. It was Preston's voice. Now for it. He was allready for a fight, and I felt miserably battered and shaken and unfitto fight anything.

  "What are you doing here, Daisy?"

  "I am doing nothing," I said.

  "It is almost tea-time. Hadn't you better be walking home, beforeMedusa comes looking out for you?"

  I rose up, and bade Uncle Darry good-night.

  "Good-night, missis," he said heartily, "and de morning dat hab nonight, for my dear little missis, by'm by."

  I gave him my hand, and walked on.

  "Stuff!" muttered Preston, by my side.

  "You will not think it 'stuff' when the time comes," I said, no doubtvery gravely. Then Preston burst out.

  "I only wish Aunt Felicia was here! You will spoil these people,Daisy, that's one thing, or you would if you were older. As it is, youare spoiling yourself."

  I made no answer. He went on with other angry and excited words,wishing to draw me out, perhaps; but I was in no mood to talk toPreston in any tone but one. I went steadily and slowly on, withouteven turning my head to look at him. I had hardly life enough to talkto him in _that_ tone.

  "Will you tell me what is the matter with you?" he said, at last, veryimpatiently.

  "I am tired, I think."

  "Think? Medusa is stiffening the life out of you. _Think_ you aretired! You are tired to death; but that is not all. What ails you?"

  "I do not think anything ails me."

  "What ails _me_, then? What is the matter? What makes you act so?Speak, Daisy--you must speak!"

  I turned about and faced him, and I know I did not speak then as achild, but with a gravity befitting fifty years.

  "Preston, did you strike Uncle Darry yesterday?"

  "Pooh!" said Preston. But I stood and waited for his answer.

  "Nonsense, Daisy!" he said again.

  "What is nonsense?"

  "Why, _you_. What are you talking about?"

  "I asked you a question."

  "A ridiculous question. You are just absurd."

  "Will you please to answer it?"

  "I don't know whether I will. What have you to do with it?"

  "In the first place, Preston, Darry is not your servant."

  "Upon my word!" said Preston. "But yes, he is; for mamma is regenthere now. He must do what I order him anyhow."

  "And then, Preston, Darry is better than you, and will not defendhimself; and somebody ought to defend him; and there is nobody butme."

  "Defend himself!" echoed Preston.

  "Yes. You insulted him yesterday."

  "Insulted him!"

  "You know you did. You know, Preston, some men would not have borneit. If Darry had been like some men, he would have knocked you down."

  "Knocked me down!" cried Preston. "The sneaking old scoundrel! Heknows that I would shoot him if he did."

  "I am speaking seriously, Preston. It is no use to talk that way."

  "I am speaking very seriously," said my cousin. "I would shoot him,upon my honour."

  "Shoot him!"

  "Certainly."

  "What right have you to shoot a man for doing no worse than you do? Iwould _rather_ somebody would knock me down, than do what you didyesterday." And my heart swelled within me.

  "Come, Daisy, be a little sensible!" said Preston, who was in a fumeof impatience. "Do you think there is no difference between me and anold nigger?"

  "A great deal of difference," I said. "He is old and good; and you areyoung, and I wish you were as good as Darry. And then he can't helphimself without perhaps losing his place, no matter how you insulthim. I think it is cowardly."

  "Insult!" said Preston. "Lose his place! Heavens and earth, Daisy! areyou such a simpleton?"

  "You insulted him badly yesterday. I wondered how he bore it of you;only Darry is a Christian."

  "A fiddlestick!" said Preston impatiently. "He knows he must bearwhatever I choose to give him; and therein he is wiser than you are."

  "Because he is a Christian," said I.

  "I don't know whether he is a Christian or not; and it is nothing tothe purpose. I don't care what he is."

  "Oh, Preston! he is a good man--he is a servant of God; he will wear acrown of gold in heaven; and you have dared to touch him."

  "Why, hoity, toity!" said Preston, "what concern of mine is all that!All I know is, that he did not do what I ordered him."

  "What did you order him?"

  "I ordered him not to show you the saddle I had got for you, till Iwas here. I was going to surprise you. I am provoked at him!"

  "I am surprised," I said. But feeling how little I prevailed withPreston, and being weak in body as well as mind, I could not keep backthe tears. I began to walk on again, though they blinded me.

  "Daisy, don't be foolish. If Darry is to wear two crowns in the otherworld, he is a servant in this, all the same; and he must do hisduty."

  "I asked for the saddle," I said.

  "Why, Daisy, Daisy!" Preston exclaimed, "don't be such a child. Youknow nothing about it. I didn't touch Darry to hurt him."

  "It was a sort of hurt that if he had not been a Christian he wouldhave made you sorry for."

  "He knows I would shoot him if he did," said Preston coolly.

  "Preston, don't speak so!" I pleaded.

&nb
sp; "It is the simple truth. Why shouldn't I speak it?"

  "You do not mean that you would do it?" I said, scarce opening my eyesto the reality of what he said.

  "I give you my word, I do. If one of these black fellows laid a handon me I would put a bullet through him, as quick as a partridge."

  "But then you would be a murderer," said I. The ground seemed takenaway from under my feet. We were standing still now, and facing eachother.

  "No, I shouldn't," said Preston. "The law takes better care of us thanthat."

  "The law would hang you," said I.

  "I tell you, Daisy, it is no such thing! Gentlemen have a right todefend themselves against the insolence of these black fellows."

  "And have not the black fellows a right to defend themselves againstthe insolence of gentlemen?" said I.

  "Daisy, you are talking the most unspeakable nonsense," said Preston,quite put beyond himself now. "_Don't_ you know any better than that?These people are our servants--they are our property--we are to dowhat we like with them; and of course the law must see that we areprotected, or the blacks and the whites could not live together."

  "A man may be your servant, but he cannot be your property," I said.

  "Yes he can! They are our property, just as much as the land is; ourgoods to do as we like with. Didn't you know that?"

  "Property is something that you can buy and sell," I answered.

  "And we sell the people, and buy them too, as fast as we like."

  "_Sell_ them!" I echoed, thinking of Darry.

  "Certainly."

  "And who would buy them?"

  "Why all the world; everybody. There has been nobody sold off theMagnolia estate, I believe, in a long time; but nothing is morecommon, Daisy; everybody is doing it everywhere, when he has got toomany servants, or when he has got too few."

  "And do you mean," said I, "that Darry and Margaret and Theresa andall the rest here, have been _bought_?"

  "No; almost all of them have been born on the place."

  "Then it is not true of these," I said.

  "Yes, it is; for their mothers and fathers were bought. It is the samething."

  "Who bought them?" I asked, hastily.

  "Why our mothers, and grandfather and great-grandfather."

  "_Bought_ the fathers and mothers of all these hundreds of people?"said I, a slow horror creeping into my veins, that yet held childishblood, and but half comprehended.

  "Certainly--ages ago," said Preston. "Why, Daisy, I thought you knewall about it."

  "But who sold them first?" said I, my mind in its utter rejection ofwhat was told to me, seeking every refuge from accepting it. "Who soldthem first?"

  "Who first? Oh, the people that brought them over from Africa, Isuppose; or the people in their own country that sold them to _them_."

  "They had no right to sell them," I said.

  "Can't tell about that," said Preston. "We bought them. I suppose wehad a right to do that."

  "But if the fathers and mothers were bought," I insisted, "that gaveus no right to have their children."

  "I would like you to ask Aunt Felicia or my Uncle Randolph such aquestion," said Preston. "Just see how they would like the idea ofgiving up all their property! Why, you would be as poor as Job,Daisy."

  "That land would be here all the same."

  "Much good the land would do you, without people to work it."

  "But other people could be hired as well as these," I said, "if any ofthese wanted to go away."

  "No, they couldn't. White people cannot bear the climate nor do thework. The crops cannot be raised without coloured labour."

  "I do not understand," said I, feeling my child's head puzzled. "Maybenone of our people would like to go away?"

  "I dare say they wouldn't," said Preston, carelessly. "They are betteroff here than on most plantations. Uncle Randolph never forbids hishands to have meat; and some planters do."

  "Forbid them to have meat!" I said, in utter bewilderment.

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "They think it makes them fractious, and not so easy to manage. Don'tyou know, it makes a dog savage to feed him on raw meat! I supposecooked meat has the same effect on men."

  "But don't they get what they choose to eat?"

  "Well, I should think not!" said Preston. "Fancy their asking to befed on chickens and pound cake. That is what they would like."

  "But cannot they spend their wages for what they like?"

  "Wages!" said Preston.

  "Yes," said I.

  "My dear Daisy," said Preston, "you are talking of what you justutterly don't understand; and I am a fool for bothering you with it.Come! let us make it up and be friends."

  He stooped to kiss me, but I stepped back.

  "Stop," I said. "Tell me--can't they do what they like with theirwages?"

  "I don't think they have wages enough to 'do what they like' exactly,"said Preston. "Why, they would 'like' to do nothing. These blackfellows are the laziest things living. They would 'like' to lie in thesun all day long."

  "What wages does Darry have?" I asked.

  "Now, Daisy, this is none of your business. Come, let us go into thehouse and let it alone."

  "I want to know, first," said I.

  "Daisy, I never asked. What have I to do with Darry's wages?"

  "I will ask himself," I said; and I turned about to go to the stables.

  "Stop, Daisy," cried Preston. "Daisy, Daisy! you are the mostobstinate Daisy that ever was, when once you have taken a thing inyour head. Daisy, what have you to do with all this? Look here--thesepeople don't want wages."

  "Don't want wages?" I repeated.

  "No; they don't want them. What would they do with wages? they haveeverything they need given them already; their food and their clothingand their houses. They do not want anything more."

  "You said they did not have the food they liked," I objected.

  "Who does?" said Preston. "I am sure _I_ don't--not more than one dayin seven, on an average."

  "But don't they have any wages at all?" I persisted. "Our coachman atMelbourne had thirty dollars a month; and Logan had forty dollars andhis house and garden. Why shouldn't Darry have wages, too? Don't theyhave any wages at all, Preston?"

  "Why, yes! they have plenty of corn, bread, and bacon, I tell you; andtheir clothes. Daisy, they _belong_ to you, these people do."

  Corn, bread, and bacon was not much like chickens and pound cake, Ithought; and I remembered our servants at Melbourne were very, verydifferently dressed from the women I saw about me here, even in thehouse. I stood bewildered and pondering. Preston tried to get me to goon.

  "Why shouldn't they have wages?" I asked at length, with lips which Ibelieve were growing old with my thoughts.

  "Daisy, they are your servants; they _belong_ to you. They have noright to wages. Suppose you had to pay all these creatures--sevenhundred of them--as you pay people at Melbourne: how much do yousuppose you would have left to live upon yourselves? What nonsense itis to talk!"

  "But they work for us," I said.

  "Certainly. There would not be anything for any of us if they didn't.Here, at Magnolia, they raise rice crops and corn, as well as cotton;at our place we grow nothing but cotton and corn."

  "Well, what pays them for working?"

  "I told you! they have their living and clothing and no care; and theyare the happiest creatures the sun shines on."

  "Are they willing to work for only that!" I asked.

  "Willing!" said Preston.

  "Yes," said I, feeling myself grow sick at heart.

  "I fancy nobody asks them that question. They have to work, I reckon,whether they like it or no."

  "You said they _like_ to lie in the sun. What makes them work?"

  "Makes them!" said Preston, who was getting irritated as well asimpatient. "They get a good flogging if they do not work--that is all.They know, if they don't do their part, the lash will come down: andit don't come down easy."

&
nbsp; I suppose I must have looked as if it had come down on me. Prestonstopped talking and began to take care of me, putting his arm round meto support my steps homeward. In the verandah my aunt met us. Sheimmediately decided that I was ill, and ordered me to go to bed atonce. It was the thing of all others I would have wished to do. Itsaved me from the exertion of trying to hold myself up and of speakingand moving and answering questions. I went to bed in dull misery,longing to go to sleep and forget all my troubles of mind and bodytogether; but while the body rested, the mind would not. That kept theconsciousness of its burden; and it was that, more than any physicalail, which took away my power of eating, and created instead awretched sort of half nausea, which made even rest unrefreshing. Asfor rest in my mind and heart, it seemed at that time as if I shouldnever know it again. Never again! I was a child--I had but vague ideasrespecting even what troubled me; nevertheless I had been struck,where may few children be struck! in the very core and quick of myheart's reverence and affection. It had come home to me that papa wassomehow doing wrong. My father was in my childish thought and belief,the ideal of chivalrous and high-bred excellence;--and _papa_ wasdoing wrong. I could not turn my eyes from the truth; it was before mein too visible a form. It did not arrange itself in words, either; notat first; it only pressed upon my heart and brain that seven hundredpeople on my father's property were injured, and by his will, and forhis interests. Dimly the consciousness came to me; slowly it found itsway and spread out its details before me; bit by bit one point afteranother came into my mind to make the whole good; bit by bit one itemafter another came in to explain and be explained and to add its quotaof testimony; all making clear and distinct and dazzling before me thetruth which at first it was so hard to grasp. And this is not the lesstrue because my childish thought at first took everything vaguely andreceived it slowly. I was a child and a simple child; but once gettinghold of a clue of truth, my mind never let it go. Step by step, as achild could, I followed it out. And the balance of the golden rule, towhich I was accustomed, is an easy one to weigh things in; and evenlittle hands can manage it.

  For an hour after they put me to bed my heart seemed to grow chillfrom minute to minute; and my body, in curious sympathy, shook as if Ihad an ague. My aunt and Miss Pinshon came and went and were busyabout me; making me drink negus and putting hot bricks to my feet.Preston stole in to look at me; but I gathered that neither then norafterwards did he reveal to any one the matter of our conversation thehour before. "Wearied"--"homesick"--"feeble"--"with no sort ofstrength to bear anything"--they said I was. All true, no doubt; andyet I was not without powers of endurance, even bodily, if my mindgave a little help. Now the trouble was, that all such help waswanting. The dark figures of the servants came and went too, with theothers; came and stayed; Margaret and Mammy Theresa took post in myroom, and when they could do nothing for me, crouched by the fire andspent their cares and energies in keeping that in full blast. I couldhardly bear to see them; but I had no heart to speak even to ask thatthey might be sent away, or for anything else; and I had a sensebesides that it was a gratification to them to be near me; and togratify any one of the race I could have borne a good deal of pain.

  It smites my heart now, to think of those hours. The image of them issharp and fresh as if the time were but last night. I lay with shuteyes, taking in as it seemed to be, additional loads of trouble witheach quarter of an hour; as I thought and thought, and put one andanother thing together, of things past and present, to help myunderstanding. A child will carry on that process fast and to far-offresults; give her but the key and set her off on the track of truthwith a sufficient impetus. My happy childlike ignorance and childlikelife was in a measure gone; I had come into the world of vexedquestions, of the oppressor and the oppressed, the full and the empty,the rich and the poor. I could make nothing at all of Preston'sarguments and reasonings. The logic of expediency and of consequencescarried no weight with me, and as little the logic of self-interest. Isometimes think a child's vision is clearer, even in worldly matters,than the eyes of those can be who have lived among the fumes andvapours that rise in these low grounds, unless the eyes be washed dayby day in the spring of truth, and anointed with unearthly ointment.The right and the wrong were the two things that presented themselvesto my view; and oh, my sorrow and heartbreak was, that papa was in thewrong. I could not believe it, and yet I could not get rid of it.There were oppressors and oppressed in the world; and _he_ was one ofthe oppressors. There is no sorrow that a child can bear, keener andmore gnawingly bitter than this. It has a sting of its own, for whichthere is neither salve nor remedy; and it had the aggravation, in mycase, of the sense of personal dishonour. The wrong done and theoppression inflicted were not the whole; there was besides theintolerable sense of living upon other's gains. It was more than myheart could bear.

  I could not write as I do--I could not recall these thoughts and thattime--if I had not another thought to bring to bear upon them; athought which at that time I was not able to comprehend. It came to melater with its healing, and I have seen and felt it more clearly as Igrew older. I see it very clearly now. I had not been mistaken in mychildish notions of the loftiness and generosity of my father'scharacter. He was what I had thought him. Neither was I a whit wrongin my judgment of the things which it grieved me that he did andallowed. But I saw afterwards how he, and others, had grown up andbeen educated in a system and atmosphere of falsehood, till he failedto perceive that it was false. His eyes had lived in the darkness tillit seemed quite comfortably light to him; while to a fresh vision,accustomed to the sun, it was pure and blank darkness, as thick asnight. He followed what others did and his father had done before him,without any suspicion that it was an abnormal and morbid condition ofthings they were all living in; more especially without a tinge ofmisgiving that it might not be a noble, upright, dignified way oflife. But I, his little unreasoning child, bringing the golden rule ofthe gospel only to judge of the doings of hell, shrank back and fellto the ground, in my heart, to find the one I loved best in the worldconcerned in them.

  So when I opened my eyes that night, and looked into the blaze of thefirelight, the dark figures that were there before it stung me withpain every time; and every soft word and tender look on theirfaces--and I had many a one, both words and looks--racked my heart ina way that was strange for a child. The negus put me to sleep at last,or exhaustion did; I think the latter, for it was very late; and therest of that night wore away.

  When I awoke, the two women were there still, just as I had left themwhen I went to sleep. I do not know if they sat there all night, or ifthey had slept on the floor by my side; but there they were, andtalking softly to one another about something that caught myattention. I bounced out of bed--though I was so weak, I remember Ireeled as I went from my bed to the fire, and steadied myself bylaying my hand on Mammy Theresa's shoulder. I demanded of Margaret_what_ she had been saying. The women both started, with expressionsof surprise, alarm, and tender affection, raised by my ghostly looks,and begged me to get back into bed again. I stood fast, bearing onTheresa's shoulder.

  "What was it?" I asked.

  "'Twarn't nothin', Miss Daisy, dear!" said the girl.

  "Hush! don't tell me that," I said. "Tell me what it was--tell me whatit was. Nobody shall know; you need not be afraid; nobody shall know."For I saw a cloud of hesitation in Margaret's face.

  "'Twarn't nothin', Miss Daisy--only about Darry."

  "What about Darry?" I said, trembling.

  "He done went and had a praise-meetin'," said Theresa; "and he knowedit war agin the rules; he knowed that. 'Course he did. Rules mus' bekep'."

  "Whose rules?" I asked.

  "Laws, honey, 'taint 'cording to rules for we coloured folks to holdmeetin's no how. 'Course, we's ought to 'bey de rules; dat's clar."

  "Who made the rules?"

  "Who make 'em? Mass' Ed'ards--he made de rules on dis plantation.Reckon Mass' Randolph, he make 'em a heap different."

  "Does Mr. Edwards make it a r
ule that you are not to holdprayer-meetings?"

  "Can't spec' for to have everyt'ing jus like de white folks," said theold woman. "We's no right to spect it. But Uncle Darry, he sot a sightby his praise-meetin'. He's cur'ous, he is. S'pose Darry's cur'ous."

  "And does anybody say that you shall not have prayer-meetings?"

  "Laws, honey! what's we got to do wid praise-meetin's or any sort ofmeetin's? We'se got to work. Mass' Ed'ards, he say dat de meetin's deymakes coloured folks onsettled; and dey don't hoe de corn good if deyhas too much prayin' to do."

  "And does he forbid them then? doesn't he let you haveprayer-meetings?"

  "'Tain't Mr. Edwards alone, Miss Daisy," said Margaret, speaking low."It's agin the law for us to have meetin's anyhow, 'cept we get leave,and say what house it shall be, and who's a comin', and what we'secomin' for. And it's no use asking Mr. Edwards, 'cause he don't see noreason why black folks should have meetin's."

  "Did Darry have a prayer-meeting without leave?" I asked.

  "'Twarn't no count of a meetin'!" said Theresa, a little touch ofscorn, or indignation, coming into her voice; "and Darry, he war inhis own house prayin'. Dere warn't nobody dere, but Pete and ole'Liza, and Maria, cook, and dem two Johns dat come from de lowerplantation. Dey couldn't get a strong meetin' into Uncle Darry'shouse; 'tain't big enough to hold 'em."

  "And what did the overseer do to Darry?" I asked.

  "Laws, Miss Daisy," said Margaret, with a quick look at the otherwoman; "he didn't do nothing to hurt Darry; he only want to scare defolks."

  "Dey's done scared," said Theresa, under her breath.

  "What is it?" I said, steadying myself by my hold on Theresa'sshoulder, and feeling that I must stand till I had finished myinquiry: "how did he know about the meeting? and what did he do toDarry? Tell me! I must know. I must know, Margaret."

  "Spect he was goin' through the quarters, and he heard Darry at hisprayin'," said Margaret. "Darry he don't mind to keep his prayerssecret, he don't," she added, with a half laugh. "Spect nothin' butthey'll bust the walls o' that little house some day."

  "Dey's powerful!" added Theresa. "But he warn't prayin' no harm; hewas just prayin', 'Dy will be done on de eart' as it be in deheaven'--Pete, he tell me. Darry warn't saying not'ing--he just pray'Dy will be done.'"

  "Well?" I said, for Margaret kept silent.

  "And de oberseer, he say--leastways he swore, he did--dat _his_ willshould be done on dis plantation, and he wouldn't have no such work.He say, der's nobody to come togedder after it be dark, if it's two ort'ree, 'cept dey gets his leave, Mass' Ed'ards, he say; and dey won'tget it."

  "But what did he do to Darry?" I could scarcely hold myself on my feetby this time.

  "He whipped him, I reckon," said Margaret, in a low tone, and with adark shadow crossing her face, very different from its own brownduskiness.

  "He don't have a light hand, Mass' Ed'ards," went on Theresa, "and hegot a sharp, new whip. De second stripe--Pete, he tell me thisevenin'--and it war wet; and it war wet enough before he got through.He war mad, I reckon; certain, Mass' Ed'ards, he war mad."

  "_Wet?_" said I.

  "Laws, Miss Daisy," said Margaret, "'tain't nothin'. Them whips, theydraws the blood easy. Darry, he don't mind."

  I have a recollection of the girl's terrified face, but I heard nothingmore. Such a deadly sickness came over me that for a minute I must havebeen near fainting; happily it took another turn amid the variousconfused feelings which oppressed me, and I burst into tears. My eyes hadnot been wet through all the hours of the evening and night; my heartachehad been dry. I think I was never very easy to move to tears, even as achild. But now, well for me, perhaps, some element of the pain I wassuffering found the unguarded point--or broke up the guard. I wept as Ihave done very few times in my life. I had thrown myself into MammyTheresa's lap, in the weakness which could not support itself, and in anabandonment of grief which was careless of all the outside world; andthere I lay, clasped in her arms and sobbing. Grief, horror, tendersympathy, and utter helplessness, striving together; there was nothingfor me at that moment but the woman's refuge and the child's remedy ofweeping. But the weeping was so bitter, so violent, and so uncontrollable,that the women were frightened. I believe they shut the doors, to keepthe sound of my sobs from reaching other ears; for when I recovered theuse of my senses I saw that they were closed.

  The certain strange relief which tears do bring, they gave to me. Icannot tell why. My pain was not changed, my helplessness was not doneaway; yet at least I had washed my causes of sorrow in a flood ofheart drops, and cleansed them so somehow from any personal stain.Rather I was perfectly exhausted. The women put me to bed, as soon asI would let them; and Margaret whispered an earnest "Do, don't, MissDaisy, don't say nothin' about the prayer meetin'!" I shook my head; Iknew better than to say anything about it.

  All the better not to betray them, and myself, I shut my eyes, andtried to let my face grow quiet. I had succeeded, I believe, before myAunt Gary and Miss Pinshon came in. The two stood looking at me; myaunt in some consternation, my governess reserving any expression ofwhat she thought. I fancied she did not trust my honesty. Another timeI might have made an effort to right myself in her opinion; but I waspast that and everything now. It was decided by my aunt that I hadbetter keep my bed as long as I felt like doing so.

  So I lay there during the long hours of that day. I was glad to bestill, to keep out of the way in a corner, to hear little and seenothing of what was going on; my own small world of thoughts wasenough to keep me busy. I grew utterly weary at last of thinking, andgave it up, so far as I could; submitting passively, in a state ofpain, sometimes dull and sometimes acute, to what I had no power tochange or remedy. But my father _had_, I thought; and at those timesmy longing was unspeakable to see him. I was very quiet all that day,I believe, in spite of the rage of wishes and sorrows within me; butit was not to be expected I should gain strength. On the contrary, Ithink I grew feverish. If I could have laid down my troubles inprayer! but at first, these troubles, I could not. The core and rootof them being my father's share in the rest. And I was not alone; andI had a certain consciousness that if I allowed myself to go to mylittle Bible for help, it would unbar my self-restraint, with itssweet and keen words, and I should give way again before Margaret andTheresa: and I did not wish that.

  "What shall we do with her?" said my Aunt Gary when she came to metowards the evening. "She looks like a mere shadow. I never saw such achange in a child in four weeks--never!"

  "Try a different regimen to-morrow, I think," said my governess, whoselustrous black eyes looked at me sick, exactly as they looked at mewell.

  "I shall send for the doctor, if she isn't better," said my aunt."She's feverish now."

  "Keeping her bed all day," said Miss Pinshon.

  "Do you think so?" said my aunt.

  "I have no doubt of it. It is very weakening."

  "Then we will let her get up to-morrow, and see how that will do."

  They had been gone half an hour, when Preston stole in and came to theside of my bed, between me and the firelight.

  "Come, Daisy, let us be friends!" he said. And he was stooping to kissme; but I put out my hand to keep him back.

  "Not till you have told Darry you are sorry," I said.

  Preston was angry instantly, and stood upright.

  "Ask pardon of a servant!" he said. "You would have the world upsidedown directly."

  I thought it was upside down already; but I was too weak anddownhearted to say so.

  "Daisy, Daisy!" said Preston--"And there you lie, looking like a poorlittle wood flower that has hardly strength to hold up its head; andwith about as much colour in your cheeks. Come, Daisy, kiss me, andlet us be friends."

  "If you will do what is right," I said.

  "I will--always," said Preston; "but this would be wrong, you know."And he stooped again to kiss me. And again I would not suffer him.

  "Daisy, you are absurd," said Preston, vibrating between pity an
danger, I think, as he looked at me. "Darry is a servant, andaccustomed to a servant's place. What hurt you so much did not hurthim a bit. He knows where he belongs."

  "You don't," said I.

  "What?"

  "Know anything about it." I remember I spoke very feebly. I had hardlyenergy left to speak at all. My words must have come with a curiouscontrast between the meaning and the manner.

  "Know anything about what, Daisy? You are as oracular and as immovableas one of Egypt's monuments; only they are very hard, and you are verysoft, my dear little Daisy!--and they are very brown, according to allI have heard, and you are as white as a wind-flower. One can almostsee through you. What is it I don't know anything about?"

  "I am so tired, Preston!"

  "Yes; but what is it I don't know anything about?"

  "Darry's place--and yours," I said.

  "His place and mine! His place is a servant's, I take it, belonging toRudolf Randolph, of Magnolia. I am the unworthy representative of anold Southern family, and a gentleman. What have you to say aboutthat?"

  "He is a servant of the Lord of lords," I said; "and his Master loveshim. And He has a house of glory preparing for him, and a crown ofgold, and a white robe, such as the King's children wear. And he willsit on a throne himself by and by. Preston, where will _you_ be?"

  These words were said without the least heat of manner--almostlanguidly; but they put Preston in a fume. I could not catch hisexcitement in the least; but I saw it. He stood up again, hesitated,opened his mouth to speak and shut it without speaking, turned andwalked away and came back to me. I did not wait for him then.

  "You have offended one of the King's children," I said; "and the Kingis offended."

  "Daisy," said Preston, in a sort of suppressed fury, "one would thinkyou had turned Abolitionist; only you never heard of such a thing."

  "What is it?" said I, shutting my eyes.

  "It is just the meanest and most impudent shape a Northerner can take;it is the lowest end of creation, an Abolitionist is; and a Yankee ispretty much the same thing!"

  "Dr. Sandford is a Yankee," I remarked.

  "Did you get it from _him_?" Preston asked, fiercely.

  "What?" said I, opening my eyes.

  "Your nonsense. Has he taught you to turn Abolitionist?"

  "I have not _turned_ at all," I said. "I wish you would. It is onlythe people who are in the wrong that ought to turn."

  "Daisy," said Preston, "you ought never to be away from Aunt Feliciaand my uncle. Nobody else can manage you. I don't know what you willbecome or what you will do, before they get back."

  I was silent; and Preston, I suppose, cooled down. He waited awhile,and then again begged that I would kiss and be friends. "You see, I amgoing away to-morrow morning, little Daisy."

  "I wish you had gone two days ago," I said.

  And my mind did not change, even when the morning came.