Gran'mere was concocting some mystery on the kitchen table, Barbe sat at the little wheel, spinning. And she was singing, too. A faint pink had come back to her cheek, and her eyes almost laughed with delight.
"What's a' the steer, kimmer.What's a' the steer,Jamie has landed, and soon he will be here."
"What's a' the steer, kimmer.What's a' the steer,Jamie has landed, and soon he will be here."
"What's a' the steer, kimmer.
What's a' the steer,
Jamie has landed, and soon he will be here."
She had a soft sweet voice. How long since she had sung with that gayety. True, she had been ill, and now she was well again, and Jamie had come home. But grandad had taken him off, and that somehow rankled in the child's heart.
She stood by the window, uncertainly. There were only two small windows in the large room that were of glass, for glass was costly. Another much larger had board shutters, closed tightly, and a blanket hung over it to keep out the cold. They called it the summer window. One looked over to the other house and Daffodil was there.
"I wouldn't go over if I were you," said her mother. "It is very wet. Grandad might have carried you, but he hardly knows whether he's on his head or his heels."
"He'd look very funny on his head. What makes him so glad? He was angry about—if that great general hadn't—I can't say the long word, father couldn't have come home."
She turned a very puzzled face to her mother.
"There might have been a big battle;" and the mother shuddered. "Oh, grandad will be as glad as the rest of us presently that we have a country. Now we can begin to live."
It was all very strange to her small mind. The sun was making rivulets through the snow, and the great white unbroken sheets sparkled with iridescent lights.Out beyond there was the Fort; she could see figures moving to and fro. Everything seemed so strange to her. And a country of one's own! Would the farms be larger, and, if England was beaten, what would become of it? Would they, our people, go over and take what they wanted? Would they drive the people away as they did the Indians?
She was tired of so much thinking. She went over to grandfather, and seated herself on the arm of the chair. She did not want Norry's fairy stories. Leaning her head down on the dear old shoulder, she said, "Tell me about a great King, who beat the English."
"Are you going mad about the English?" her mother asked laughingly. "We shall all be friends again. Quarrels are made up. And so many of us came from England."
"We didn't," returned Dilly decisively.
"Well—on the one side Scotch and Irish."
"And on the other French, pure French, until your mother married a Bradin, and you——"
"And Marc Bradin has been a good husband to me," said his wife, looking up from her preparations.
Truly, he had, and a kind son to him as well, though he had not been in favor of the marriage at first.
The story was about the grand old times in France. He never told of the religious persecutions to the little girl. He had a soft winsome sort of voice, andoften lapsed into French idioms, but she was always charmed with it, even if she could not understand all he said. Presently she went fast asleep.
Then the darkness began to fall. The candles were lighted, and that roused both sleepers. There was a savory smell of supper, even Judy went around sniffing.
"We won't wait any longer," gran'mere said, with a little impatience. She had been cooking some messes that she remembered her son-in-law was very fond of, and she was disappointed that he was not here to enjoy it.
After that grandfather went to bed. Dilly was wide awake and held her cat, telling her a wonderful tale of a beautiful woman who had been turned into a cat by an ugly witch, and all the adventures she could remember. Judy purred very loudly now and then.
"Don't you want to go to bed?" asked Mrs. Carrick.
"Oh, I'm not a bit sleepy." Then, after a pause, "Will father stay at grandad's?"
"Oh, no. He is with the men at the Fort."
"But grandad took him away."
"Oh, they all want to see him."
"Doesn't he belong to us?"
"Yes, dear. But they always make a time when one comes home from the war."
"What queer things there are in the flames," the child went on. "I think they fight, too. Look at that long blue streak. Just as soon as the little red ones come out, he swallows them up. Then he sits and waits for some more, just as Judy does for a mouse. It's funny!"
"There, I've spun out all my flax. Now let us both come to bed."
There was a sound of voices outside. Then the door was flung open, and Bernard Carrick entered, with a rather noisy greeting, catching his wife in his arms, and kissing her vehemently. Then he clasped his arms about Dilly, and threw her up, she was so small and light. She stretched out her hands to her mother.
"Don't, Bernard; you frighten the child. We have been waiting for you to come home. And now Dilly must go to bed."
She took her little girl by the hand. Bernard dropped in the big chair.
Barbe seldom undressed her now, but she did this night. Presently Daffodil said in an imperious tone, "Do you like my father? I don't. I like grandfather, and gran, and grandad sometimes, but not always. And—father——"
"Hush, dear. You will come to like him very much, I know, for I love him dearly. Now, say your little prayer and go to bed."
Barbe went out, poked the fire a little, put on another log, and then sat down by her husband, who had fallen into a heavy sleep. Had he given the country something more than his service these three years—his manhood, the tender and upright qualities that dominated him when he went away? Sandy Carrick was of the old school, strong and stalwart, and not easily overcome, although he could not be called dissipated in any sense. But Bernard had never been of the roystering kind. She prayed from the depths of her heart that he might be made aware of the danger. The fire dropped down again, and she roused with a sudden shiver, rising and looking intently at him. The flush was gone, he was pale and thin again. Then he opened his eyes and saw her standing there. After a moment he held out both hands, and clasped hers.
"Forgive me, Barbe," he said. "I ought not have come home to you like that, but they are a wild lot and I hadn't the strength to stand it after the months of privations. Zounds! what a head my father has! I haven't been indulging in such junkets. I wanted to come home alive to you and the little one. But I couldn't get away without offence and one goes farther than one can bear. Don't think I brought the detestable habit home with me, though many a poor fellow does yield to it and you can't blame them so much, either."
"No," she answered softly, and kissed him on the forehead, much relieved at his frankness. Then as an afterthought—"I hope you didn't quarrel with anybody."
"Oh, no. Party spirit runs high. A man who has never seen anything beyond an Indian skirmish thinks he could set the country on its feet by any wild plan. And here we have so many shades of opinion. Father's amuse me; I wonder how he and great-grandfather keep such amicable friends!"
"Oh, he has no one nearby to play a game of piquet with him. And the Duvernay temper is much milder. But you must be tired. Let us fix the fire for the night."
"Tell me when I have it right. I am not quite sure, though I have looked after many a camp fire. And now I am here to ease you up somewhat, and look out for you. Your father has been very good through these troublous times, and I will see that he need not be ashamed of his son."
"Oh," she cried with deep emotion, "you make me very happy. So much of our lives are yet to come."
There followed several pleasant days. The snow ran off and another came and vanished.
There was little doing. Some people had looms in their houses and were weaving goods of various rather common kinds and many of the women were keptbusy spinning thread and woolen yarns for cloth. Money was scarce, most of the trade was carried on by barter.
"It has the making of a magnificent city," Bernard Carrick said, surveying its many fine points. "From here you will go straight over to the Mississippi. Some day we shall have both sides. What have the French been about to let such a splendid opportunity slip through their hands."
"Don't stir up a hornet's nest at home," counseled the elder Carrick.
"Oh, you mean great-grandfather! He sees the mistakes and shortsightedness, and while he would have been proud enough to live here under French rule, he understands some aspects at the old home better than we, the extravagance of the Court, the corruption of society, and," laughing, "he is hardly as hot for France as you are for England. After all, what so much has been done for you or Scotland or Ireland for that matter?"
"This will be fought all over again. You will see. The country will be broken up into little provinces. Yankee and Virginian will never agree; Catholic and Puritan are bound to fight each other."
"Hardly! They fought together for the great cause and they'll hardly turn their swords on each other. I've been from New York to Yorktown. And now thegreat work is for every man to improve his own holding, his own town."
Pittsburg then had enjoyed or hated successive rulers. Great Britain, then France, Great Britain again, Virginia and Pennsylvania. It had been a strategic point worth holding, but no one then had dreamed of its later renown.
Bernard Carrick did not seem to make much headway with his little daughter. She had been startled with his rudeness, though he was gentle enough now. But what with her mother, grandad, and Norah, who was the most charming of stepmothers, she felt he had enough care and attention. She was not going to sue for any favors.
"Daffodil," he said one pleasant day when they had been rambling round the old Block House, not so very old then, though it could count on over twenty years, "Daffodil, why can't you love me as well as you love great-grandfather. I think you scarcely love me at all."
She kicked some gravelly stones out of her path and looked over the river. It was all so beautiful then, no smoke to obscure it anywhere.
"They all love you, they're always wanting you. Grandad doesn't care for me any more. And he wasn't a bit glad when the news came. He went in the house saying it was a 'lee' and Norry said the black cat was on his back. It wasn't a real cat, but likethose in the stories. And he stayed there all day. And he wouldn't believe you were coming home or that the war was ended."
"He hardly believes it yet;" laughing. "But hewasglad to have me come back. And are you not a little glad?"
"You have all mother's gladness. And gran'mere's."
She made a funny little movement with her dimpled chin, that if she had been older would have been coquettish. Her lashes were long and a sort of bronze brown, and her eyes made a glitter through them. Barbe had been a very pretty girl but the child was not much like her mother only in certain dainty ways. And her blue eyes came from him. He was rather glad of that.
"Don't you want them to be glad that I am back?"
"Why?"—she looked up perplexed. She was not old enough to define her emotions. "Of course I should want them to be glad."
"Yet you are a little jealous."
"Jealous!" she repeated. The word had no clearly definite meaning to her.
"Maybe I have crowded you out a little. But you will find as you grow that there is a great deal of love that can be given and not make any one the poorer."
"What is jealousy?"
She had been following out her own thought and hardly minded his truism.
"Why"—how could he define it to the child's limited understanding? "Jealousy is wantingallof another's regard and not being willing that any other shall have a share. Not being willing that grandad shall care for me."
"He wasn't glad at first." She could not forget that.
"It wasn't a question of wanting or not wanting me that made him captious. He could not enjoy the English being beaten. I do not understand that in him since he means to spend all the rest of his life here, and has never wanted to go back. He was only a little boy, not older than you when he came here. And he fought in the battle of Braddock's defeat. Though the French gained the day it was no great victory for them, for they gave up their plan of taking possession of all the country here about. And he has not much faith in the rebels, as he used to call us, and didn't see what we wanted to fight for. And heisglad to have me back. But he isn't going to love you any less."
"Oh, yes he does," she returned quickly. "I used to ride with him and he never asks me now. And he takes you away—then they all come asking for you and if everybody likes you so much——"
"And don't you like me a little?" He gave a soft,wholesome laugh and it teased her. She hung her head and returned rather doubtfully—"I don't know."
"Oh, and you are my one little girl! I love you dearly. Are you not glad to have me come back and bring all my limbs? For some poor fellows have left an arm or a leg on the battlefield. Suppose I had to walk with a crutch like poor old Pete Nares?"
She stopped short and viewed him from head to foot. "No, I shouldn't like it," she returned decisively.
"But you would feel sorry for me?"
"You couldn't dance then. And grandad tells of your dancing and that you and mother looked so pretty, that you could dance longer and better than any one. And he was quite sure you would come home all—all——"
"All battered up. But I think he and Norry would have been very good to me. And mother and everybody. And now say you love me a little."
"I was afraid of you," rather reluctantly. "You were not like—oh, you were so strange."
What an elusive little thing she was!
"But you are not afraid now. I think I never heard of a little girl who didn't love her father."
"But you see the fathers stay home with them. There are the Mullin children and the Boyles. But I shouldn't like Mr. Boyle for a father."
"Why?" with a touch of curiosity.
"Oh, because——"
"Andy Boyle seems very nice and jolly. We used to be great friends. And he gave me a warm welcome."
"I can't like him;" emphatically. "He beat Teddy."
"I suppose Teddy was bad. Children are not always good. What would you have done if you had been Teddy?" he asked with a half smile.
"I would—I would have bitten his hand, the one that struck. And then I should have run away, out in the woods and frozen to death, maybe."
"Why my father thrashed me and I know I deserved it. And you are not going to hate grandad for it?"
She raised her lovely eyes and looked him all over. "Were you very little?" she asked.
"Well—I think I wasn't very good as a boy."
"Then I don't like grandad as well. I'm bigger than Judy, but do you suppose I would beat her?"
"But if she went in the pantry and stole something?"
"Can you steal things in your own house?"
"Oh what a little casuist you are. But we haven't settled the other question—are you going to love me?"
"I can't tell right away;" reluctantly.
"Well, I am going to love you. You are all the little girl I have."
"But you have all the other people."
He laughed good-naturedly. She was very amusing in her unreason. And unlike most children he had seen she held her love rather high.
"I shall get a horse," he said, "and you will ride with me. And when the spring fairly comes in we will take walks and find wild flowers and watch the birds as they go singing about. Maybe I can think up some stories to tell you. I am going to be very good to you for I want you to love me."
She seemed to consider. Then she saw grandad, who had a little squirrel in his hands. Some of them were very tame, so she ran to look at it.
"A queer little thing," said the father to himself.
Spring came with a rush. Barbe Carrick glanced out of the south window one morning and called her little girl.
"Look, Dilly, the daffodils are opening and they make the garden fairly joyous. They are like the sun."
There was a long border of them. The green stalks stood up stiff like guards and the yellow heads nodded as if they were laughing. Wild hyacinths were showing color as well, but these were the first save a few snowdrops and violets one found in woody nooks. Birds were singing and flying to and fro in search of nesting places.
Pittsburg was not much of a town then, but its surroundings were beautiful. The two rivers were rushing and foaming now in their wild haste to pour their overflow into the Ohio. The houses had begun to stretch out beyond the Fort. Colonel Campbell some years before had laid out several streets, the nucleus of the coming city. Then Thomas Hickory completed the plans and new houses were in the course of erection. Still the great business of thetime was in the hands of the Indian traders that the French had found profitable. Beyond were farms, and the great tract, afterward to be Allegheny City, lay in fields and woods.
A post road had been ordered by the government between Philadelphia and the town. And there were plans for a paper. For now most people were convinced that the war was at an end, and the Southern cities had been turned over to the Continental government.
There was a brisk, stirring air pervading the place. Business projects were discussed. Iron had been discovered, in fact the whole land was rich in minerals. The traders were bringing down their furs. It had not been a specially cold winter and in this latitude the spring came earlier.
"Oh, it's beautiful!" The child clapped her hands. "Can't I bring in some of them?"
"Oh, yes. But pick only the largest ones. Leave the others on to grow."
She came in with an apron full. "Some are for grandfather," she said.
"Yes, fill this bowl and put it on his table."
She had just finished when he came out. He was always immaculate, and his hair had the silvery tint. His daughter saw that it was always neatly brushed and the queue tied with a black ribbon. He was growing a trifle thinner and weaker.
"Oh, little one," he cried, "did you get a posy for me? Is it your birthday?" and he stooped to kiss the golden hair, then the rosy lips.
"Her birthday will not be until next week," said her mother.
"I had forgotten. I am almost a hundred. And she is——"
"Seven."
"And when I get to be a hundred I'll have a little table like yours, and read out of the Bible, and we'll talk over things that happened when we were children."
He laughed and patted her shoulder. "I shall not be here," he said slowly.
"Oh, where are you going? I do not want you to go away," and she drew an apprehensive breath.
"We do not always stay in one place. I came from France years and years ago. And I shall go to another country, heaven. It is always summer there."
"Can't you take me?" with an eager, upward look.
"Mother wants you. And you are to be a little old lady and sit in this chair."
"And wear a cap like gran'mere? And have two little creases in my forehead, so?"
She tried to make them but they were not much of a success, and the smile returned. "Now let us read."
She took her seat on the arm of the chair. Gran'mere came in and busied herself about breakfast. The reading was from one of the minor prophets. Dilly did not understand it very well but she could converse in the language quite fluently. Her mother had taught her to spell and read English. Girls were not expected to have much education in those days; indeed, here they grew up mostly like the flowers of the field. While the little girls to the eastward were working samplers, sewing long overhand seams, hemming, and doing beautiful darning, these little girls ran about, romped, helped to take care of the next younger baby, grew up and married, no one could have told just how.
After breakfast when the sun was warm and bright grandfather started for his walk. He always felt stronger in the morning. Sometimes Barbe went, often only Dilly. He liked the child's prattle. He liked, too, the way the denizens of the woods came to her, and the birds. True she always had some bread to crumble and she talked in her low sunny voice. Now and then a squirrel would run up her shoulder, watch her with beady eyes that almost laughed and whisk his feathery tail about.
"It does seem as if they ought to talk," she often said.
"They do in their language, only we can't understand them; at least we do in part. Doesn't he say inhis fashion, 'I'm glad to see you? Have you any crumbs to-day.' And how one of them scolded when another ran off with that piece you dropped."
"That was funny, wasn't it!" and she laughed. They were sitting on a fallen log in the warm sunshine. Bees were out also, buzzing and no doubt grumbling a little because there were not more sweet flowers in bloom. And the birds sang and whistled in great glee.
They returned from their walk presently through the woods, where she gathered some curious wild flowers. Then they came out by the river, foaming and tumbling about as if it longed to overflow its banks. Now and then a rough kind of boat came down laden with stores of some kind, but there was no hurry visible anywhere.
About sixteen years before the Indians had ceded all the lands about Pittsburg to the Colonies. The six nations assembled with their principal chiefs and warriors and gave the strongest assurance of treaty keeping, which after all were not well kept, as usual. But they had retreated to better hunting grounds and for some time had made little trouble, though many friendly Indians remained.
The wanderers came out to the town proper. Streets were being surveyed, straightened, new ones laid out. There were about a hundred houses ranged round the Fort, but they had begun to spreadoutside. The disputes with the Pitt family, who had held the charter of Pennsylvania, had been mostly settled and grants of land given to many of the returned soldiers in lieu of the money the Colonial government could not pay. Pittsburg now belonged to the State, and a project had been broached to make it the county seat.
Grandfather looked very tired and pale as he came in and went straight to his chair. His daughter took his hat and cane.
"I did not mean to go so far. I wanted to look at the spot where I had buried my money;" with a little hollow laugh.
"Did you bury some money?" asked Daffodil, with eager curiosity. "Can't you dig it up again?"
"No, dear; it has to stay there for years. It may be dug up in your time, but I shall not need it."
She looked puzzled.
"You must have a cup of tea," said Mrs. Bradin, and immediately she set about it. Grandfather leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Dilly espied her mother in the adjoining room and went thither to exploit the splendid time with the squirrels and show the flowers she had gathered. Then she stood rather wistfully.
"Well?" said her mother in a tone of inquiry.
"Grandfather went to look at the money he hadburied, but he couldn't find it. Do you suppose some one has taken it away?"
"Buried?" She seemed mystified a moment, then smiled. "It wasn't as we bury things. A long time ago when the French held the Fort and seemed likely to keep a good part of the country grandfather bought a large tract of land. Then the French were driven out by the English and they in their turn by the Colonists. But the land is there and some day the money may come out of it. Grandad thinks he might as well have thrown it into the river. But he has never wanted for anything, and it would likely have been spent for something else. It's odd grandfather should have said that to-day. He seldom mentions it. He was quite troubled over it at first—whenIwas a little girl."
"Oh," returned Daffodil, relieved, though she did not understand the matter.
"Go and put your flowers in water;" said her mother.
Grandfather was soundly asleep and did not wake until dinner was on the table. Then he scarcely tasted it.
"You must not take such long walks," his daughter said. "You cannot stand it any more."
"No, I am getting old," rather sadly. "When your mother died I felt that I didn't want to live, and now I am content to go on in this lovely world until theLord calls me home. I thought once I should round out the century. There have been many changes in the hundred years."
And though he had been on exile for his faith's sake, though he had seen the blunders and sins of his country's rulers, he could not help reverting to the grand old dream of the magnificent empire of New France that would never come to pass now. How they had let all the advantages slip through their fingers that had grasped only at the wildest pleasures and dissipations.
Barbe went out in the sunshine to garden a little. She was so fond of growing and blooming things. And they yielded such a beautiful return. She sang snatches of songs, sometimes in French, sometimes the gay or sad Scotch ditties. Dilly went over to see Norah, all the men were out now at the spring work. Norah was spinning on the big wheel, but she could raise her voice above its whir and to-day she was full of merry legends. Dilly had brought the cat and Judy never objected to being held.
"I'm going to be seven years old," she said in a pause. "And when will I be almost a hundred like great-grandfather?"
"Oh, you've gone only a little bit toward it," laughed Norah. "Why I'm not half way there myself. And I don't want to be. I'd like never to grow any older. But you shouldn't stop at seven. Youhaven't come to the cream of life. There's more fun at seventeen and that's ten years away. But you're big enough to have a party."
"What is a party like?"
"Oh, you little innocent! A party is a lot of people together who laugh and tell stories and have a good time and something to eat and drink. And you must have a cake with seven candles around it."
"What are the candles for?"
"To light your way;" laughing. "No, to tell how many years you have lived. I'll make the cake, and the candles too. They'll have to be dips for I haven't any small mould. Don't you remember how your mother and gran'mere made candles last fall? And I haven't a bit of wax myrtle. Oh, I can melt up two or three of mine. They are more fragrant than tallow. Yes, you shall have a party. I'll talk to your mother about it."
Dilly was all interest and excitement. Her mother agreed at once. A modern little girl would have refused such a party. For there would be all grown people. Barbe Carrick had been a little exclusive with her child and she had not felt the need of playmates. Then they were rather out of the range of the Fort people as the somewhat crowded settlement was called. There were no schools nor Sunday-schools for little folks. Sunday was not very strictly kept. The schoolmaster read prayers, the litany, anda sermon from some volume on Sunday morning and the rest of the day was given over to social life. There were a few Friends who held their meeting in each other's houses; some of the Acadians had found their way thither, and now and then a priest came who took in the more devout of the Irish population. But there was a large liberty of opinion.
Norah would have the house decorated with blossoming shrubs and she made a wreath for the little girl to wear, for a few neighbors were asked in. James Langdale had been in Bernard's company, and Mrs. Langdale and Barbe had exchanged many a fear and a few hopes. There were two Langdale boys, but of course they were not eligible for a girl's party.
They had some idea of the fitness of things even then. Barbe and Bernard Carrick were at the head of the table with Daffodil on her mother's side and great-grandfather on the other. At the foot were grandfather and grandmother Bradin and on one side grandfather Carrick and Norah, fresh and smiling and full of gayety in the pretty lavender crêpe she had worn at her own wedding and that she saved now for high occasions, with her sapphire earrings and brooch that had come down to her through several generations and had been worn at Court and danced with royalty.
It was what we would call a high tea, a bountifulspread, and there was much jesting and joking. I think they didn't mind the little girl very much. She was perched up higher than usual and wore a white robe that was kept as a sort of heirloom when she outgrew it, for it was lace and needlework of her mother's making.
Jetty, a half Indian woman, waited on the table, and when the meats were taken out and the dessert brought in there was Daffodil's beautiful cake with the seven candles all alight. She thrilled with the pleasure. They passed around other cakes and home-made wine and drank great-grandfather's health and wished him many more years. Grandfather Carrick drank to Daffodil's future, wishing her long life and a happy marriage with great prosperity.
Then her mother helped her up on her feet. She felt very bashful with everybody's eyes upon her and almost forgot the little speech Norah had taught her, but her mother prompted and she replied amid great applause. The toasting went all around, then her candles were put out and she had to cut the cake, which she did with a silver knife that had a Louis stamp upon it. The cake was declared excellent.
"I'm going to take my piece home to the boys," declared Mrs. Langdale. "Husband, give me a taste of yours."
After that there was more merriment. Then Jetty took off the things, the tables were pushed back, andNorah and grandfather Carrick danced a jig. And itwasdancing such as you seldom see nowadays. Norah could have made her fortune on a modern stage.
After Daffodil's party broke up the men went over to grandfather Carrick's, where they made a night of it, as was the fashion of the times. But Dilly and great-grandfather wanted to go to bed.
"A party is just beautiful!" declared Dilly. "Couldn't I have another sometime!"
"Oh, you are getting spoiled," laughed her mother. "Let me see—when you are ten, maybe."
So many new thoughts came to Daffodil that she was surprised at herself. Of course it was being seven years old. She began to sew a little and knit and make lace over a cushion. Very simple at first, and oh, the mistakes! Then there was gardening. How curious to plant a dainty little seed and have it poke a green head out of the ground. But funniest of all were the beans coming up with their shells on their heads; she was sure at first they must be upside down.
The men were very busy about the new town and sometimes they almost quarreled over the improvements. It was taking on quite a changed aspect. They were giving names to the streets and building much better houses of hewn logs, making plaster walls. But glass was very dear and for a long whilethey could only put in a few windows. The rest were openings, closed by shutters at night or in a storm.
The paper was a great source of interest, the PittsburgGazette. What they did without any telegraph and depending only on post horses puzzles us now. And the General Government had a hard task on its hands reconciling the different states and trying ways of getting money.
"They'll see, an' a sorry time they'll have of it," predicted Sandy Carrick. "It's settin' up housekeeping for yourself on nothing. Th' ould country's paid our bills and sent us what we needed an' they'll be glad to go back, mark my words now."
Bernard took his father's talk in good part. His knowledge was so much wider. There would be hard times, but there were brave men to meet it. Sometimes he wished they could go to a big city, but it would be cruel to tear Barbe away from the household when she was its light.
Daffodil had another wonderful pleasure. The old English people kept up some of their customs and they had a gay time over the Maypole. It was like a grand picnic. They had a smooth grassy place at the edge of the woods and the pole was a young tree that was denuded of its limbs as it stood in just the right place. They could not get ribbon, but strips of dyed muslin answered for the streamers. There were two fiddlers, there were gay choruses. One song grandad sangwith great gusto. Captious as he could be when people did not agree with him, he had a fund of Irish drollery.
"Come, lasses and lads, get leave of your dadsAnd away to the Maypole hie;For every fair has a sweetheart there,And the fiddlers standing by,Then trip it, trip it, up and down."
"Come, lasses and lads, get leave of your dadsAnd away to the Maypole hie;For every fair has a sweetheart there,And the fiddlers standing by,Then trip it, trip it, up and down."
"Come, lasses and lads, get leave of your dads
And away to the Maypole hie;
For every fair has a sweetheart there,
And the fiddlers standing by,
Then trip it, trip it, up and down."
And grandad did trip it merrily. It was fortunate for Norah that she was not jealous, but she enjoyed a bit of fun, and her arch smile, the merry flash of her eyes, with the color coming and going, made her very attractive. Dilly wished she was big enough to dance—her little feet kept patting the turf and keeping time with the fiddle.
"You're Daffodil Carrick, aren't you?" said a boyish voice almost in her ear.
She turned, startled, and her eyes were so lovely they fairly transfixed him, and she stared unconsciously.
She did not speak but nodded.
"I'm Ned Langdale. My mother was at your party and brought us home a piece of your birthday cake. She said you were seven and as pretty as a fairy, and I'm fourteen, just twice as old."
"Oh," she said, "that's funny. And will you always be twice as old."
"Why—no. You can never be that but just once in your life—I mean with that special person. And when you were twenty I wouldn't like to be forty."
"Is that so very old? Great-grandfather is ninety-seven."
"Whew! That is old! But you see now I am seven years older than you and that is the way it will be all our lives. Do you go to school? There's a lady in Water Street who takes little girls, though she's only just begun."
"No; but I can spell, and read, and do little sums. And read in French."
"Oh, that's great! I'm studying Latin, but it's awful tough. Isn't it gay here? Can you dance?"
"I never tried with music."
"I can, just a little. Oh, say, it's splendid! If I knew just how I'd ask you to try it with me. It seems so easy when you look at them. It's so and so——" moving his hands. "Yes, do try. You whirl round——"
And without any real intention they started. It was like floating. Yes, she had done it when she thought of the little people dancing on the green.
"Oh," with a soft laugh of protest, and all out of breath. "It's—delicious! I didn't think I could do it for fair. I sometimes make believe. I'll get Norry to teach me."
"Norry? Who?"
"Why——" she flushed daintily. "That's grandad's wife."
"Then she's your grandmother."
"Oh, no, she isn't. You see the other wife died; she was father's mother and he married Norah. We all call her Norry."
"She doesn't look old enough to be any one's grandmother. And isn't she gay? She has such a merry face, pretty too."
"And she sings such gay songs. She knows all about the fairies, too, and she's seen them at home, that's Ireland. Why don't they come to America?"
"Maybe the witches drive them away. Witches are just awful! Come; let us try again."
He placed his arm around her and they whirled off to the fascinating music. Is there anything like a fiddle to put the spirit of delight in one's feet? Other couples were floating round or doing jigs with fancy steps and laughter. Now and then a bright, mirthful young lad ran off with some girl and left the first partner in the lurch, at which there was a shout.
"Oh, I wish you were my sister! Wouldn't we have fun! I have only one brother, Archie, and he's stupid as an owl—well, I mean he hasn't any fun in him, and he'd dance about like a cow. Oh, there's your—well, it would be queer to call her grandmother."
They both laughed at that.
"I wondered where you were, Daffodil. Isn't this Ned Langdale? I know your mother. Dilly, I think I had better take you home. I promised your mother I wouldn't keep you very long."
"Oh, no; let me stay just a little while. It's all so gay and they dance so—so—isn't it like a fairy ring?"
Norah laughed. "Well, I'll take another round, then we must go. You keep her just about here, then I shall know where to find you. Aren't you tired, though?"
"Oh, not a bit."
Her eyes shone like stars and there was a most delicious color in her cheeks like the dainty first ripeness of a peach.
"There's a tree over there—go and sit down. I won't be long."
The great tree had been cut down and there were no end of chips lying about.
"Now, if I was home I'd get a basket and gather them up," said Ned. "Mother thinks they make such a splendid fire. It's odd that our fathers were out in the war together, and are real good friends. I mean to be a soldier."
"But if there isn't any war?"
"There'll be Indian wars until they are all cleared out. They're a treacherous lot and never keep their word. And governments need an army all the time."
"But it's dreadful to fight and kill each other."
"Still you have to. History is full of wars. And there were so many in the Bible times. The children of Israel had to fight so many people to get the land of Canaan that the Lord promised them. And we've been fighting for a country—that is, our fathers have—and now we've gained it. Oh, wasn't it splendid when Cornwallis surrendered. Did you hear Kirsty that morning? I thought the place was on fire."
That brought grandad's face before her and she laughed.
"I didn't know what it meant nor who Cornwallis was. I'm only a little girl——"
"But you're awful smart to read French. Can you talk it?"
"Oh, yes. Grandmother Bradin was French. They went to Ireland and then came to America, and since father has been away they have talked it a great deal more, so you see I know both."
"Mother said your party was so nice. And the old grandfather was like a picture. When they drank your health you had to reply."
Daffodil's face was scarlet.
"I almost forgot. Norry made me say it over and over, but mother whispered and then I remembered."
"Oh, I wish I could have seen you. And you are so little and pretty. I'd like to see your French grandfather. Could I come some time?"
"Why, yes. And you'd like Norry so much."
"Do they live with you?"
"Oh, no; but it's only a little way off——"
Norah came flying back. "Come," she said hurriedly. "Grandad's had a fit about you because I did not have you tucked under my wing. Why, I should have dropped you while I was dancing. Glad you've taken such good care of her;" and Norah nodded to him as she took the child by the hand. "Don't say a word about the lad, or grandad will show his claws and scratch all round."
He was waiting where a path turned off.
"Well, Yellow-top," he began, "so you're not lost. Had a good time?"
"I was watching them dance. And they were so merry. Oh it was fine!"
"No place for a little youngster like you. Norry was crazy to think of it."
"I saw some other little children——"
"Yes, rabble;" and the nose went up.
"Grandad, don't be cross. I had such a nice time;" and she slipped her small hand in his.
"You're 'most a witch, you cunning little thing;" and he gave her a squeeze. "Now, Norry, take her to her mother's arms before you let her go."
They turned off, and grandad, who had not had his fun out, went back.
"It was all splendid, Norry. I want you to showme how to dance and teach me some songs—some of those gay and pretty ones."
"Well, well! youaregetting along. Daffodil Carrick, you'll break hearts some day;" and Norah laughed.
She had so much to tell them at home and she spoke of Ned Langdale, but she did not quite like to tell about the dancing, wondering if there had been anything wrong in it, and she did not want to have Norah blamed. She liked the gayety so much. It was rather grave at home, with all grown people. And her mother was notallhers now. Father was very fond of her. And she was coming to like him very much.
He was pleased that she had such a nice time. He wondered if it would not be well to send her to this school for small children that had lately been opened. But her mother objected decidedly.
Oh, how beautiful the summer was with its flowers, and then its fruits. One Sunday afternoon Mr. and Mrs. Langdale came up with their son Edward, and Daffodil was glad to see him again. He was a nice, well-behaved lad, and very deferential to great-grandfather. The two soldiers talked over their battles and the state of the country. The preliminaries of peace were under way, but the settlement seemed to drag along. France still stood our friend.
Daffodil took him out to see the squirrels that cameat her call and inspected him with such curious, inquiring eyes that he laughed about it.
"You see they are not used to boys," she explained.
The quails were very much at their ease as well, and robins flew and fluttered. Judy never tried to catch them, though sometimes she hunted out in the woods.
"Ned Langdale is a nice boy," said Dilly's father. "I don't wonder they are proud of him. His heart is set on being a soldier."
"I'm glad he isn't my son if that is his bent," Barbe said. "And I hope we'll hear no more of war."
The summer passed rapidly. Daffodil found many things to entertain her, but grandfather demanded much of her time. He took his morning walk with her hand in his, but he did not go as far as formerly. Then, on his return, he had a nap in his chair. He lost his appetite during the latter part of the season. In the afternoon he took a long nap. Daffodil read to him now, and he did not appear to notice her blunders.
"Father fails rapidly, I think," Mrs. Bradin said to her husband.
He shook his head with a slow, sympathetic movement.
"We shall miss him very much. And Dilly will feel it. I am sorry to have her know the mystery no child can understand."
"We won't go for a walk this morning, Dilly," he said one day in later August. "The air is very close. We will wait until evening."
"But you go to bed so early."
"Yes, I'm getting old," with his faint, sweet smile.
"But everybody says you must live to be a hundred. That's a whole century."
"Sometimes I feel as if it were two centuries since I began. But it has been a pleasant journey toward the last. I'm glad to have had you, Dilly."
"I'm glad, too," the child said with her bright smile.
"Now you may sing to me a little."
So she sang him to sleep. Then she went to wait on her grandmother. Her mother was sewing by the window in their sleeping-room.
"Go and look at grandfather," she said presently.
"He is still asleep. Mother, I wish you would show me that stitch I began yesterday."
So she sat down at her work.
Mrs. Bradin went to her father. His head had drooped a little forward. She placed her hand on his forehead, and drew a long quivering breath. The summons had come, peacefully, for him.
She was still standing there when her husband entered, and at a glance he knew what had happened.
"It is best so," he said.
Barbe was startled beyond measure. Latterly her thoughts had been revolving much about herself, and though she had remarked the slow alteration, she had put off the assumption of the great change. Somewhere in the winter—maybe spring, and here it was with the ripening of summer.
They carried him to his room and laid him tenderly on his bed. A long, well-used life it had been.
To Daffodil it was a profound mystery. No child could comprehend it. This was the journey grandfather had spoken of, that she had imagined going back to France.
"What is it, mother? How do people go to heaven?" she asked.
"Some day we will talk it all over, when you can understand better. We must all go sometime. And we shall see each other there."
"Then it isn't so bad as never seeing one again," and there was a great tremble in her voice.
"No, dear. And God knows about the best times. We must trust to that."
He looked so peaceful the day of the burial that Daffodil thought he must be simply asleep. She said good-by to him softly. There had been no tragedy about it, but a quiet, reverent passing away.
Still, they missed him very much. Barbe wanted to set away the chair that had been so much to him. She could not bear to see it empty.
"Oh, no, mother," pleaded Daffodil. "When I go and sit in it I can talk to him, and he seems to come back and answer me. It's so lovely where he is and there isn't any winter. Think of having flowers all the year round. And no one ever is ill. There are such beautiful walks, and woods full of birds, the like ofwhich one never sees here. And I can put my head down on his shoulder, just as I used, and I can feel his hand holding mine. Oh, no, don't take it away, for then I should lose him."
The child's eyes had a wonderful exalted light in them, and her voice had a tender, appealing sound, that went to the mother's heart. She was thankful, too, that Daffodil had no terror of death. She shrank from it as from some dread spectre standing in her way.
The child missed him most in her walks. Norah liked neighbors to chaff and gossip with; rambles, with no special motive, did not appeal to her. Gran'mere was always busy, her mother was easily tired out. She rode, as of old, with grandad, but she could not use the pillion, her arms were too short to go around his stout body. Her father took her out with him when he could; he did a good deal of surveying. On Saturday Ned Langdale would hunt them up, and one day he brought Archie, who was three years younger, and not exactly stupid, either, but always wanting to examine the beginning of things, and how the Indians came to own the continent, and why the Africans were black and had woolly hair and in the country called Asia they were yellow? And if God created only two at first, how did they come to be so different? And how did Adam know what to name the animals? Were there people living in the stars?
"Oh, do hush up," his mother would exclaim impatiently."You are enough to turn one's brain upside down! And you can't say half the multiplication table. I don't believe you know how many black beans make five!"
It had been a great puzzle to him. He sprung it on Daffodil one day.
She considered. "Why, five would be five of anything, wouldn't it?"
"Oh, how quick you are with a good reason, too. I couldn't see into it for ever so long. I'm awful dull."
Then they both laughed. His face was such a good honest one, but not full of mirth, like Ned's.
They were really nice boys, and her father felt he could trust her with them. But he wished there were some tolerably well trained girls for her to know.
Then the winter came on again. Her father had to go to Philadelphia on some business, and there were stirring times in the brave old city. They missed him so much. Grandfather Bradin was promoted to the whole name now, as there was no chance of confusion, but the little girl as often endearingly called him "gran."
Bernard Carrick brought home with him great-grandfather's will that had been made five years before, and intrusted to a legal friend, who was, like himself, a Huguenot refugee. To his wife FelixDuvernay had entrusted his strong box, with the gold pieces that were almost heirlooms, and various jewels, to do with whatever she chose. There were some deeds of property that he brought home with him, and the will.
"I was amazed," he said to Barbe. "Why, there are acres and acres of ground that will be worth a mint of money some day. And it is all securely made over to Daffodil Carrick. Your father and I are appointed guardians, and this Mr. de Ronville is administrator. His father was exiled about the same time, but he came at once to America. It seems a little queer that great-grandfather shouldn't have made more of it."
"I think, after the purchase he felt rather sore about it, as if it was a foolish bargain. But he thought then that the French would be the real rulers of America," said Mrs. Bradin. "Yet he never alluded to the will; and you know he was always very fond of Dilly, and that there was no other child."
"Dear old man! When Dilly is grown up she will be an heiress. It can only be leased until she comes of age. I wish it was on this side of the river. Well, as my father says, 'it will neither eat nor drink,' except the rains of heaven. We won't proclaim it on the housetops."
So matters went on just the same. No one gave much thought to "over the river" then.
One morning Mrs. Carrick was not very well. Norah came over, and there was grave consulting. She took Dilly back with her, and in the afternoon grandad bundled her up and drove her over to the mill with him, and was very jolly. They did not return until dusk, and then Norry's supper had such a savory fragrance she decided to share it. Norry had been over to the other house, and "mother" had a bad headache, and Dilly was to stay all night. She had brought over her nightgown.
"That's funny!" exclaimed Daffodil. "Mother seldom has a headache. Oh," with a sudden alarm, "you don't think mother will be ill for weeks and weeks, and grow pale and thin, as she did before father came home."
"Oh, no;" and Norry threw up her head with a laugh. "She'll be up again in no time."
Grandad was teaching the little girl to play checkers, and she was deeply interested. Norry was knitting a long woollen stocking for him, and sang bits of gay Irish songs. But by and by the little girl began to yawn, and made some bad plays.
"You're sleepy," said grandad.
"Yes, I can't get over to the king row;" and she smiled. "But you just wait until to-morrow, when I'm bright and fresh."
So Norry put her to bed, and, leaving grandad to read theGazette, she ran over to see how it fared withBarbe, and did not come home until morning. Grandad had a nice fire, and had made the coffee.
"Oh, dear," began Daffodil, coming out in her trained nightgown, as they made garments for children to grow in, in those days, "isn't it funny? When I woke up I couldn't think where I was, and it came into my mind about little Bridget, that fairies took away for seven years. Then I would be fourteen."
"That's some of Norry's nonsense. Get on your clothes, and come and have these grand griddle cakes and sausage, that'll make you sing in your sleep."
"Why not when I am awake?" with laughing eyes.
"Anybody can do that. But it takes something extra good to make you sing in your sleep."
She thought they were quite good enough, and wondered how it would seem to sing in the night, and the dark, and if she could hear herself.
Then her father came after her. Grandad wrung his hand and said, "Lad, I wish you joy and the best of luck."
What did that mean?
"Daffodil, something wonderful has happened to us, and I hope—you will like it. We are very happy over it. We have a little boy who came in the night. A little brother for you. And we want you to be glad."
"Oh, was that what grandad meant?" she asked gravely.
"Yes. You see, girls marry and give up their name. But a boy carries it on. And grandad hated to have the name die out. He will be very proud of the boy, but I think no one will be quite as dear to him as Daffodil."
The child was revolving various thoughts in her mind, and made no comment. When they entered the house, Grandmother Bradin took off her hat and cloak, and kissed her very fondly. Her father watched the small serious face. Then he sat down in the big chair, and took her on his knee.
"Dilly," he began in a pleading tone, "I hope you won't feel as if—as if you would be crowded out. We have had you the longest, and you were our first sweet joy. We can never love any other child quite like that. And nothing can ever change our love for you. So you must not feel jealous because we shall love him and be glad to have him——"
"Oh, that was what you said a long time ago, when you first came home—that I was jealous. No, I didn't like mother to love you so much. And you were strange, and you can't love any one all at once;" incoherently.
"But you are not jealous now?"
"No. It didn't take her love from me, only a little while."
"It did not take it away at all. And there were two people to love you, instead of one. Suppose Ihad felt hurt because you loved grandfather so much?"
"Was it like that?" She raised her lovely eyes with an appealing light in them. "And was I very bad?"
He stooped and kissed her. "It was very natural, and the only thing, the best thing, is to wait until the other one understands. You love me now?"
She reached up and twined her arms about his neck.
"I love you very much," she returned in an earnest tone. "And I am gladder than ever to have you love me, now that grandfather has gone away. But I don't want any one else to go."
He clasped her more tightly. No, any other break in the circle would mean a more poignant grief. There was no one to spare.
"And you will not mind if we love the little boy a good deal?"
"No—since it is a little boy. I am glad it is not a girl, that you chose a boy," she made answer simply.
"We all wanted the boy. Dilly, I am glad to have you love me, and I hope it will grow stronger as you grow older, and understand how sweet affection really is."
Mr. Bradin called him away. He put Daffodil in the chair and she leaned her head down and whispered to grandfather that a little boy had come, and shewas going to be glad, because they all wanted him. And then a curious thought flashed over her. Death and life are profound mysteries, even out of childhood.
"Would you like to see the baby?" asked gran'mere Bradin.
"Oh, yes."
Her mother glanced up out of fond dark eyes. Why, she was as pale as in her long sickness, but not so thin. She said, "Kiss me, Daffodil."
"Oh, mother!"
"And here is little brother."
Daffodil's first feeling was disappointment. She had thought of some angelic beauty. He was red and crumpled up, and there was a crown of thick black hair, and his mouth was puckered up. The mother patted his little face.
"He will look better by and by," she said reassuringly.
"Mother, I was thinking—it came to me in the chair—isn't it old grandfather come back to us again to live his life over? You know, everything begins little. The flowers die, but they spring up again, most of them in the same places."
"Why, child, that is a pretty thought;" and the mother smiled. "And he will have his name, only Grandfather Carrick must have his in, so it will be Alexander Felix Duvernay."
"I don't want him to be called Sandy."
"I think he won't be. And, Daffodil, you won't mind—I mean, you won't feel jealous. We wanted him so much." There was a touch of anxiety in the mother's voice.
"Oh, no. Father asked me that. No, you may love him ever so much, while you love me as well."
"She takes it very calmly," said Gran'mere Bradin afterward. "Some children as old as she, and been the only one so long, would have made a great fuss. We have all spoiled her a little, but she has such a sweet temper. It is the Duvernay temper;" smiling.
"I hope I have a good share of it," resumed Barbe.
The baby was not small, and he grew by the hour. He had soft, large dark eyes. Grandad did not like so much French about him, but he was glad to have a grandson, even at that estate. He soon bleached out, though he was not fair like Daffodil.
"I'll have to see about making a fortune for him," said grandad. "Though those acres of wood and farmland will not amount to much, and I don't see what a girl can do with a farm."
But the acres lay smiling in the sunshine, perhaps dreaming of the time when they should be homes of beauty.
Meanwhile events had been going on rapidly, if not harmoniously, for a stable government for the Colonies. And there must be some sort of a head. Agovernment of the largest liberty it must be, the states forming a great federation for protection and advancement. Out of the discussion came the Federal Constitution, and a President, the man who had never lost faith in the possibility of a great nation.
There were, of course, a few dissenting voices, and many fears. For the nation was only an infant.
"What did I tell you," said grandad to his son. He had to argue, it was one of his satisfactions. "Four years, they say. In two years the silly things will make him a king, and in ten years you'll be fighting for liberty again. There's no money to be had—we shall be glad enough to run back to England, and beg to be taken in. The French will throw us over."
"Don't look so far ahead." Bernard kept his temper under these onslaughts. But he did hate to have his father haranguing little crowds here and there over the spirits that were being so largely manufactured.
"Oh, yes! And have them catch us unprepared. Where's the money coming from to build a navy, to pay new soldiers when the old ones are half starving, to keep your grand President. You see, he'll have a court and a style, while we common folks can kneel outside the gates."
"We're going to look out for our own town, and let the men at the helm take care of the larger interests.We have everything for a fine city, and work for all, so we will take up the nearby business."
People were straggling in; they are generally gregarious. And there was plenty of work. There was felling of trees, a sawmill, and rough log houses were meant for only temporary housing. Wharfs and docks sprung up by magic. Then the school was merged into the Pittsburg Academy, afterward to be the University of Pennsylvania. Smaller schools came into existence, yet they were a great working people, and in those years the three R's were esteemed the most necessary.
Then, after a heated discussion, Pittsburg was established as the county seat, which enhanced its prestige. Some rigorous laws were passed, and a ducking stool was set up at the junction of the three rivers, much to the disgust of the better classes. At first there were crowds haunting the place, and jokes bandied about, but there was found small use for it.
"It's a good thing," said Sandy Carrick. "It'll keep the women in check, anyhow."
"Isn't it as well for the men?" asked Norah mischievously. "An', Sandy, you better look out, ye're scoldin' about the country 'cause you daren't try much of it on me. Don't I keep your house clean, mend your clothes, and knit you long stockings, so's you shan't get rheumatiz in your knees. An' if you know awoman who cooks a better meal of vittles, you had better go an' board with her."
She was so pretty and saucy that Sandy turned on his heel and laughed.
Then theMayflower, with a lot of New England emigrants, passed Pittsburg for the shores of the Muskingum.
"Them Eastern states must just have overflowed," was the verdict. "Goin' out to Ohio, an' spreadin' theirselves abroad as bait for the Indians, when there's civilized lands lyin' about."
And as if Pittsburg was not large enough, they turned to consider Alleghany, and began to lay it out. It would make another fine city.
Meanwhile matters went on prosperously, with the Carricks and the Bradins. Bernard added a room to his house for Daffodil, and placed a window so she could see her mother's garden of posies. The baby grew amazingly, was well and strong, and positively pretty, looking a little like his mother, getting teeth without any trouble, walking, saying all manner of crooked words, and then straightening them, being a jolly, healthy child, and Norah's heart was bound up in him. She borrowed him half her time.
"I'd be a happier woman with a houseful of them," she said, "Sandy always insisted he didn't care, but I know he does. He's just ready to eat up little Sandy without a grain of salt."
Theywouldcall him that, while his home name was Felix. His father called him baby at first, then son. He liked everybody, but he adored his own father. Barbe stood a little in the background, not that she loved him less, but she gave a continual thanksgiving that he had met with such a warm welcome.
Daffodil was amused at his pretty ways, and the cunning bits of mischief that she often kept from his mother. She was so certain of her father's affection now. She took a warm interest in his doings, she sided with him about the country, and listened delightedly to the stories of bravery and endurance, and absolutely quarrelled with grandad when he predicted the wretched times that would follow throwing off the protection of the mother country, and the surety that an appeal would be made again for her protection.
"An' just look at what they are saying about your precious Washington! They'll turn him out before he's served his four years. No two of them think alike! And how's the money to be raised for expenses! You silly child, you don't know anything about it. An' your father's a gey fule!"
"I'll never come in this house again, grandad!" with a dignity that made her pink cheeks red and her blue eyes black.
"Then sure you'll never go out of it on suchterms!" and grandad caught her and scrubbed her with his stubby beard, and hugged her so tight she was glad to promise she would come to-morrow. And likely she ran over that very evening.
"He's not worth the minding," Norry would declare. "He don't believe the half of it, and says it to see you spurt up. He's half the time spilin' for a quarrel that has no more in it than an empty eggshell."
Daffodil began to have some new interests in her life. She was growing rapidly, she went to school, and met children of her own age. Several chapels had been started, and there was a real clergyman, though they could not have him regularly, and then a reader took the service. The men had various outdoor diversions that had been brought from "the old country," and were never loath to join the women's frolics, at which there was dancing, and, it must be admitted, not a little drinking.