"Will I take him to the stable, Miss Daisy?" inquired the boy, as Daisy got out at the back door.
"No. Just wait a little for me, Lewis."
Up stairs went Daisy; took off her boots and got rid of the soil they had brought home; that was the first thing. Then, in spotless order again, she went back to Lewis and inquired where Logan was at work. Thither she drove the pony chaise.
"Logan," said Daisy coming up to him; she had left Loupe in Lewis's care; "what do you use to help you get up weeds?"
"Maybe a hoe, Miss Daisy; or whiles a weeding fork."
"Have you got one here?"
"No, Miss Daisy. Was it a fork you were wanting?"
"Yes, I want one, Logan."
"And will you be wanting it noo?"
"Yes, I want it now, if you please."
"Bill, you go home and get Miss Daisy one o' them small hand forks—out o' that new lot—them's slenderer."
"And Logan, I want another thing. I want a little rose bush—and if you can, I want it with a rose open or a bud on it."
"A rose bush!" said Logan. "Ye want it to be set some place, nae doute?"
"Yes, I do; but I want to set it out myself, Logan; so it must not betoobig a bush, you know, for I couldn't manage it."
"Perhaps Miss Daisy had better let me manage it. It's dirty work, MissDaisy."
"No; I only want the rose bush. I will take care of it, Logan. Have you got one that I can have?"
"Ou, ay, Miss Daisy! there's a forest of rose bushes; ye can just please yourself."
"Where is it?"
[Illustration]
Seeing his little mistress was greatly in earnest and must be presently satisfied, Logan cast a wistful glance or two at his own proper work in hand which he was abandoning, and walked away with Daisy. The flower garden and nursery were at some distance; but Daisy trudged along as patiently as he. Her little face was busy-looking now and eager, as well as wise; but no tinge of colour would yet own itself at home in those pale cheeks. Logan glanced at her now and then and was, as she said, "very good." He thought he was about the best business, after all, that could occupy him. He directed his steps to a great garden that yet was not the show garden, but hid away behind the plantations of trees and shrubbery. There were a vast number of plants and flowers here, too; but they were not in show order, and were in fact only the reserve stock, for supplying vacancies or preparing changes or especially for furnishing cut flowers to the house; of which a large quantity must every day be sent in. There was a very nursery of rose trees, smaller and larger. Logan peered about, very particular in his own line as to how every thing should be done; at last he found and chose just the right thing for Daisy. A slender, thrifty young plant, with healthy strong leaves and shoots, and at the top a bud shewing red and a half opened sweet rose. Daisy was quite satisfied.
"Now where is it going, Miss Daisy?" Logan inquired.
"I am going to plant it out myself, Logan; it is going in a place—whereI want it."
"Surely! but does Miss Daisy know how to plant a rose tree?"
"Won't you tell me how, Logan?"
"Weel, Miss Daisy, there must be a hole dug for it, in the first place; you must take a trowel and make a hole for it—But your dress will be the waur!" he exclaimed, glancing at his little mistress's spotless draperies.
"Never mind; only go on and tell me exactly how to manage, Logan."
"Does Miss Daisy intend to do it this afternoon?"
"Yes."
"Aweel, you must take a trowel and make a hole," said Logan, nipping off some useless buds and shoots from the plants in his neighbourhood as he was speaking—"and be sure your hole is deep as it should be; and make the bottom soft with your trowel, or throw in a little earth, well broken, for the roots to rest on"———
"How shall I know when my hole is deep enough?"
"Weel, Miss Daisy, it depends on the haighth of the roots—ye must even try and see till ye get it deep enough; but whatever ye do, keep the crown of the plant above ground."
"And what is the crown of the plant, Logan?"
Logan stooped down and put his fingers to the stem of a rose tree.
"It's just called the crown o' the plant, Miss Daisy, here where the roots goes one way and the stem springs up another. Miss Daisy sees, there's a kind o' shouther there."
"No, I don't see," said Daisy.
Logan put in his spade, and with a turn or two brought up the little rose bush he had chosen for her purpose; and holding the ball of earth, in his hand, shewed her the part of the plant he spoke of, just above the surface of the soil.
"It's the most tenderest pairt of the vegetable nature," he said; "and it must be kept out of the ground, where it can breathe, like; it won't answer to cover it up."
"I will not," said Daisy. "Then?—"
"Then, when ye have gotten the place prepared, ye must set in this ball of earth, as haill as ye can keep it; but if it gets broken off, as it's like it will!—then ye must set the roots kindly in on the soft earth, and let them lie just natural; and put in the soft earth over them; and when ye have got a little in press it down a bit; and then more, after the same manner, until it's all filled up."
"Why must it be pressed down?"
"Weel, Miss Daisy, it must be dune; the roots is accustomed to have the soil tight round them, and they don't like it unless they have it so. It's a vara good way, to have a watering pot of water and make a puddle in the bottom of the hole, and set the roots in that and throw in the soil; and then it settles itself all round them, and ye need not to coax it with your fingers. But if ye don't puddle the roots, the bush must be well watered and soaked when ye have dune."
"Very well, Logan—thank you. Now please put it in a basket for me, with a trowel, and let me take a watering pot of water too; or Lewis can carry that, can't he?"
"He can take whatever ye have a mind," said Logan; "but where is it going?"
"I'll take the basket with the rose," said Daisy—"it's going a little way—you can set it just here, in my chaise, Logan."
The gardener deposited the basket safely in the chaise, and Daisy got in and shook the reins. Lewis, much wondering and a little disgustful, was accommodated with a watering pot full of water, by the grinning Logan.
"See ye ride steady now, boy," he said. "Ye won't want to shew any graces of horsemanship, the day!"
Whatever Lewis might have wanted, the necessity upon him was pretty stringent. A watering pot full of water he found a very uncomfortable bundle to carry on horseback; he was bound to ride at the gentlest of paces, or inflict an involuntary cold bath upon himself every other step. Much marvelling at the arrangement which made a carriage and horses needful to move a rose bush, Lewis followed as gently as he could the progress of his little mistress's pony chaise; which was much swifter than he liked it; until his marvelling was increased by its turning out of Melbourne grounds and taking a course up the road again. Towards the same place! On went Daisy, much too fast for the watering pot; till the cripple's cottage came in sight a second time. There, just at the foot of the little rise in the road which led up to the cottage gate, Loupe suddenly fell to very slow going. The watering pot went easily enough for several yards; and then Loupe stopped. What was the matter?
Something was the matter, yet Daisy did not summon Lewis. She sat quite still, looking before her up to the cottage, with a thoughtful, puzzled, troubled face. The matter was, that just there and not before, the remembrance of her mother's command had flashed on her—that she should have nothing to do with any stranger out of the house unless she had first got leave. Daisy was stopped short. Get leave? She would never get leave to speak again to that poor crabbed, crippled, forlorn creature; and who else would take up the endeavour to be kind to her? Who else would even try to win her to a knowledge of the Bible and Bible joys? and how would that poor ignorant mortal ever get out of the darkness into the light? Daisy did not know how to give her up; yet she could not go on. The sweet rose on the top of her little rose tree mocked her, with kindness undone and good not attempted. Daisy sat still, confounded at this new barrier her mother's will had put in her way.
Wheels came rapidly coursing along the road in front of her, and in a moment Dr. Sandford's gig had whirled past the cottage and bore down the hill. But recognizing the pony chaise in the road, he too came to a stop as sudden as Daisy's had been. The two were close beside each other.
"Where away, Daisy?"
"I do not understand, Dr. Sandford."
"Where are you going? or rather, why are you standing still here?"
"Because I was in doubt what to do."
"Did the doubt take you here, in the middle of the road?"
"Yes, Dr. Sandford."
"What is it, Daisy? To whom are you carrying a rose bush?"
"I am afraid—nobody."
"What is the matter—or the doubt?"
"It is a question of duty, Dr. Sandford."
"Then I will decide it for you. Go on and do what you wish to do. That will be right."
"O no, sir," said Daisy, smiling at her adviser—"that is just what would be wrong. I cannot."
"Cannot what?"
"Do that, sir; do what I wish to do." And Daisy sighed withal.
"What do you wish to do?"
The doctor was quite serious and as usual a little imperative in his questions, and Daisy knew him to be trusted.
"I wanted to take this little rose bush and set it out in the garden up there."
"There?? do you mean the garden of that cottage?" said the doctor pointing with his whip.
"Yes, sir."
"Are you bound thither now?"
"No, sir—I am going home."
"Rose bush and all? Daisy, let Lewis get Loupe home, and you come here and ride with me. Come! I want you."
Truly Daisy wanted nothing else. She left rose bush and watering pot, chaise and pony, to Lewis's management, and gladly let the doctor take her up beside him. She liked to drive with him; he had a fine horse and went fast; and there were other reasons.
Now they drove off in fine style; fast, over the good roads; whisked by Melbourne, sped away along south, catching glimpses of the river from time to time, with the hills on the further side hazily blue and indistinct with the September haze of sunbeams. Near hand the green of plantations and woodland was varied with brown grainfields, where grain had been, and with ripening Indian corn and buckwheat; but more especially with here and there a stately roof-tree or gable of some fine new or old country house. The light was mellow, the air was good; in the excitement of her drive Daisy half forgot her perplexity and discomfiture. Till the doctor said, suddenly looking round at her with a smile,
"Now I should like to know the history of that rose bush."
"O, there is no history about it," said Daisy, quite taken by surprise.
"Everything has a beginning, a middle, and an end," said the doctor."What was the beginning of this?"
"Only, Dr. Sandford," said Daisy doubtfully,—"I was sorry for that poor woman, after what you told me about her."
"Molly Skelton?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you thought to comfort her with rose bushes?"
"No sir,—but—I wanted to get on good terms with her."
"Are you on any other terms?"
"She does not know me, you know, sir," said Daisy lifting to her friend a face that was beyond his comprehension,—"and I do not think she was very well pleased to see me in her garden a little while ago."
"You have been in her garden, then?"
"Yes, sir."
"Daisy, will you excuse me for asking, why you should be on any terms whatever with Molly Skelton?"
"She is so unhappy, Dr. Sandford,"—Daisy said, looking up again.
"And do you think you can do anything to make her less unhappy?"
"I thought"—Daisy did not look up now, but the doctor watching her saw a witnessing tinge that he knew coming about her eyelids, and a softened line of lip, that made him listen the closer,—"I thought—I might teach her something that would make her happy,—if I could."
"What would you teach her, Daisy?"
"I would teach her to read—perhaps—I thought; if she would like me and let me."
"Is reading a specific for happiness?"
"No sir—but—the Bible!" Daisy said with a sudden glance. And so clear and sure the speech of her childish eye was, that the doctor though believing nothing of it would not breathe a question of that which she believed.
"O that is it!" he said. "Well, Daisy, this is the beginning; but though I came in upon the middle of the subject I do not understand it yet. Why did not the rose tree get to its destination?"
"Because—I remembered, just when I had got to the bottom of the hill, that mamma would not let me."
Daisy's tone of voice told more than she knew of her subdued state of disappointment.
"Mrs. Randolph had forbidden you to go to Molly's cottage?"
"No sir; but she had forbidden me to speak to anybody without having her leave. I had forgotten it till just that minute."
"Ask her leave, and then go. What is the difficulty in that, Daisy?"
"She will not give me leave, Dr. Sandford. Mamma does not like me to——do such things."
"Do you care much about it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Present your request to Mrs. Randolph to-morrow, Daisy—that is my advice to you."
"It would be no use, Dr. Sandford."
"Perhaps not; but I advise you to take my advice; and lay the rose bush by the heels till to-morrow afternoon."
"By the heels, sir?"
"Yes. Logan will tell you what that means."
Daisy looked with such a gaze of steadfast inquiry up in the doctor's face, that he had hard work to command his countenance. She could not make out anything from his face, except that somehow she got a little encouragement from it; and then they whirled in at the gate of Melbourne and in another minute were at home. Daisy went off to see after her rose-bush, find Logan, and have it laid by the heels. The doctor marched in through the hall, into the library, and then catching sight of Mr. Randolph on the piazza, he went out there. Mr. Randolph was enjoying the September sunlight, and seemed to be doing nothing else.
"Good afternoon!" said the doctor.
"How do you do?" said Mr. Randolph. "Can you possibly have business on hand, doctor, in this weather?"
"Very good weather for business," said the doctor.
"Too good. It is enough to look and breathe."
All Mr. Randolph was doing, apparently. He was lounging on a settee, with a satisfied expression of countenance. The doctor put himself in a great cane chair and followed the direction of his host's eyes, to the opposite river and mountains; over which there was a glory of light and atmosphere. Came back to Mr. Randolph's face with an air of the disparaged business.
"It is not bad, driving."
"No, I suppose not!"
"Your little daughter likes business better than you do." A smile came over Mr. Randolph's face, a smile of much meaning.
"She likes it too well, doctor. I wish I could infuse some degree of nonchalant carelessness into Daisy's little wise head."
"We must deal with things as we find them," said the doctor. "I met her this afternoon in the road, with a carriage-load of business on hand; but what was very bad for her, it was arrested business."
"How do you mean?"
The doctor rose here to give his chair to Mrs. Randolph, who stepped out through the library window. He fetched another for himself and went on.
"She was in the middle of the road, her chaise loaded with baskets and greenhouse plants, and with a general distribution of garden tools between herself and her outrider. All in the middle of the road at a stand-still—chaise and pony and all,—and Daisy herself in particular. I found it was an interrupted expedition, and invited Daisy to take a ride with me; which she did, and I got at the rationale of the affair. And I come now to make the request, as her physician, not as her friend, that her expeditions may be as little interfered with as possible. Let her energies work. The very best thing for her is that they should find something to work upon, and receive no interruption."
"What interrupted her this afternoon?"
"Conscience—as I understand it."
"There is no dealing with Daisy's conscience, doctor," said Mr. Randolph with a smile. "Whatthatsays, Daisy feels herself bound to do."
"Do not burden her conscience then," said the doctor. "Not just now—till she gets stronger."
"Where was she going this afternoon?" Mrs. Randolph asked in her calm voice.
"On an errand of the most Utopian benevolence"—
"Having what for its object?"
"A miserable old crippled creature, who lives in a poor cottage about half a mile from your gate."
"What was Daisy desiring to do, doctor?"
"Carry some comfort to this forlorn thing, I believe; whom nobody else thinks of comforting."
"Do you know what shape the comfort was to take?"
"I think," said the doctor,—"I am not quite sure, but I think, it was a rose bush."
Mr. Randolph looked at his wife and straightened himself up to a sitting posture.
"And what hindered her, Dr. Sandford?"
"I think, some understanding that she had not liberty to go on."
"Very proper in Daisy," said Mrs. Randolph.
"That is your child who is wanting in docility," remarked Mr. Randolph.
"She might have remembered my orders before she got so far,"—said the lady.
"I wish you would change the orders," said Dr. Sandford boldly.
"Not even to oblige you, doctor," said Mrs. Randolph. "Daisy has an idea that the companions who are not fit for her are precisely the ones whom she should cultivate."
"I think Daisy would state the question differently, however," Mr.Randolph remarked.
"She has a tinge of the wildest fanaticism," Mrs. Randolph went on, dropping her work and facing the doctor. "Wherever there are rags and dirt, there, by force of contrast, Daisy thinks it is her business to go. This is a miserable place, I suppose, that she was aiming for this afternoon—is it not?"
"Very miserable. But the point is, to visit it would have made Daisy happy."
"It is sheer fanaticism!" said Mrs. Randolph. "I cannot let her encourage it. If I did, she would not be fit for anything by and by. She is fit for very little now."
"You will of course judge as you please about it," said the doctor; "but it is my duty to tell you that the danger in that line is far more than compensated by the advantage to be gained. For Daisy's health, she should be checked in nothing; let her go where she will and do what she will; the more business on hand the better, that carries her out of doors and out of herself. With a strong body and secure health, you will find it far easier to manage fanaticism."
"I am sure Dr. Sandford is right, Felicia," said Mr. Randolph.
"I know Daisy—" said the lady.
"I think I know fanaticism," said the doctor; "and if I do, the best thing you can do with it is to give it plenty of sun and air."
"Is it quite safe for Daisy to go to this cottage you speak of?" Mr.Randolph asked.
"Quite safe."
"I cannot think of letting Daisy go there, Mr. Randolph!" said his wife.
"What danger do you apprehend, Felicia?"
It was not quite so easy to say. The lady handled her tetting pins, which were in her fingers, for a moment or two in silence; then let them fall, and raised her handsome head.
"Daisy must be withdrawn entirely from the associations which have taken possession of her—if it is possible. The very best thing for her in my opinion would be to send her to a boarding school. Unless you wish your daughter to grow up a confirmedréligieuse, Mr. Randolph. Do you wish that?"
"I have not considered it. What do you suppose Daisy will do to harm herself, at this place Dr. Sandford speaks of?"
"Some absurdity, that just cherishes the temper she is in."
"Quite as likely"—to wear it out, Mr. Randolph was going to say; but some remembrance of Daisy came up and stopped him.
"Good evening!" said the doctor, rising to his feet.
"Are you going, Dr. Sandford?"
"Yes."
"Then you recommend that we let Daisy go to this place, and alone?"
"In my capacity of physician I shouldorderit," said the doctor with a smile; "only, I do not like to give orders and have them dishonoured."
Off he went.
"Felicia," said Mr. Randolph, "I believe he is right."
"I am sure he knows nothing about it," said the lady.
"Do you? Daisy is very delicate."
"She will never die of want of resolution."
"Felicia, I mean to enquire into Daisy's wishes and purposes about this matter; and if I find them unobjectionable, I shall give her leave to go on with it."
"You do not know what you are about, Mr. Randolph."
"I shall find out, then," said the gentleman. "I would rather she would be aréligieusethan a shadow."
Daisy pondered over the doctor's counsel. It was friendly; but she hardly thought well advised. He did not know her father and mother so well as she did. Yet she went to find out Logan that afternoon on her return from the drive, and saw the rose-bush laid by the heels; with perhaps just a shadow of hope in her heart that her friend the doctor might mean to put in a plea for her somewhere. The hope faded when she got back to the house, and the doctor was gone, and Mrs. Randolph's handsome face looked its usual calm impassiveness. What use to ask her such a thing as leave to go to the cripple's cottage? No use at all, Daisy knew. The request alone would probably move displeasure. Every look at her mother's face settled this conviction more and more deeply in Daisy's mind; and she ended by giving up the subject. There was no hope. She could do nothing for any poor person, she was sure, under her mother's permission, beyond carrying soup and jelly in her pony chaise and maybe going in to give it. And that was not much; and there were very few poor people around Melbourne that wanted just that sort of attention.
So Daisy gave up her scheme. Nevertheless next morning it gave her a twinge of heart to see her rose-bush laid by the heels, exactly like her hopes. Daisy stood and looked at it. The sweet half-blown rose at the top of the little tree hung ingloriously over the soil, and yet looked so lovely and smelt so sweet; and Daisy had hoped it might win poor Molly Skelton's favour, or at least begin to open a way for it to come in due time.
"So ye didn't get your bush planted—" said Logan coming up.
"No."
"Your hands were not strong enough to make the hole deep for it, MissDaisy?"
"Yes, I think they could; but I met with an interruption yesterday,Logan."
"Weel—it'll just bide here till ye want it."
Daisy wished it was back in its old place again; but she did not like to say so, and she went slowly back to the house. As she mounted the piazza steps she heard her father's voice. He was there before the library windows.
"Come here, Daisy. What are you about?" he said drawing her up in his arms.
"Nothing, papa."
"How do you like doing nothing?"
"Papa, I think it is not at all agreeable."
"You do! So I supposed. What were you about yesterday afternoon?"
"I went to ride with Dr. Sandford."
"Did that occupy the whole afternoon?"
"O no, papa."
"Were you doing nothing the rest of the time?"
"No sir, notnothing."
"Daisy, I wish you would be a little more frank. Have you any objection to tell me what you were doing?"
"No, papa;—but I did not think it would give you any pleasure. I was only trying to do something."
"It would give me pleasure to have you tell about it."
"I must tell you more then, papa." And standing with her arm on her father's shoulder, looking over to the blue mountains on the other side of the river, Daisy went on.
"There is a poor woman living half a mile from here, papa, that I saw one day when I was riding with Dr. Sandford. She is a cripple. Papa, her legs and feet are all bent up under her, so that she cannot walk at all; her way of moving is by dragging herself along over the ground on her hands and knees; her hands and her gown all down in the dirt."
"That is your idea of extreme misery, is it not, Daisy?"
"Papa, do you not think it is—it must be—very uncomfortable?"
"Very, I should think."
"But that is not her worst misery. Papa, she is all alone; the neighbours bring her food, but nobody stops to eat it with her. She is all alone by night and by day; and she is disagreeable in her temper, I believe, and she has nobody to love her and she loves nobody."
"Which of those two things is the worst, Daisy?"
"What two things, papa?"
"To love nobody, or to have nobody to love her?"
"Papa—I do not know." Then remembering Juanita, Daisy suddenly added,—"Papa, I should think it must be the worst to love nobody."
"Do you? Pray why?"
"It would not make her happy, I think, to have people love her if she did not love them."
"And you think loving others would be better, without anybody to give love back?"
"I should think it would be very hard!"—said Daisy with a most profound expression of thoughtfulness.
"Well—this poor cripple, I understand, lacks both those conditions of happiness?"
"Yes, papa."
"What then? You were going to tell me something about her."
"Not much abouther" said Daisy, "but only about myself."
"A much more interesting subject to me, Daisy."
You could only see the faintest expression of pleasure in the line ofDaisy's lips; she was looking very sober and a trifle anxious.
"I only thought, papa, I would try if I could not do something to make that poor woman happier."
"What did you try?"
"The first thing was to get her to know me and like me, you know, papa; because she is rather cross and does not like people generally, I believe."
"So you went to see her?"
"I have never spoken much to her, papa. But I went inside of her gate one day, and saw her trying to take care of some poor flowers; so then I thought, maybe, if I took her a nice little rose-bush, she might like it."
"And then like you? Well—you tried the experiment?"
"No, papa. I did get a rose-bush from Logan and he told me how to plant it; and I was on my way to the cottage and had almost got there; and then I recollected mamma had said I must not speak to anybody without her leave."
"So you came home?"
"Yes, papa. No, papa, I went to ride with Dr. Sandford."
"Have you asked leave of your mother?"
"No, papa,"—said Daisy, in a tone of voice which sufficiently expressed that she did not intend it.
"So my dear little Daisy," said her father drawing his arm round her a little more closely—"you think a rose-bush would serve instead of friends to make this poor creature happy?"
"O no, papa!"
"What was the purpose of it, then?"
"Only—to get her to like me, papa."
"What wereyougoing to do to make her happy?"
"Papa, if you lived in such a place, in such a way, wouldn't you like to have a friend come and see you sometimes?"
"Certainly!—if you were the friend."
"I thought—by and by—she might learn to like it," Daisy said in the most sedately meek way possible. Her father could not forbear a smile.
"But Daisy, from what you tell me, I am at a loss to understand the part that all this could have had inyourhappiness."
"O papa—she is so miserable!" was Daisy's answer. Mr. Randolph drew her close and kissed her.
"Youare not miserable?"
"No, papa—but—"
"But what?"
"I would like to give her a little bit of comfort."
There was much earnestness, and a little sorrow, in Daisy's eyes.
"I am not sure that it is right for you to go to such places."
"Papa, may I shew you something?" said the child with sudden life.
"Anything, Daisy."
She rushed away; was gone a full five minutes; then came softly to Mr.Randolph's shoulder with an open book in her hand. It was Joanna'sBible, for Daisy did not dare bring her own; and it was open at thesewords—
"Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them."
"What does this mean, Daisy? It seems very plain; but what do I want with it?"
"Only, papa, that is what makes me think it is right."
"What is right?"
"To do this, papa."
"Well but, are you in want of somebody to come and make you happy?"
"O no, papa—but if I were in her place, then I should be."
"Do you suppose this commands us to do in every case what we would like ourselves in the circumstances?"
"Papa—I suppose so—if it wouldn't be something wrong."
"At that rate, I should have to let you go with your rose-bush," saidMr. Randolph.
"O papa!" said Daisy, "do you think, if you asked her, mamma would perhaps say I might?"
"Can't tell, Daisy—I think I shall try my powers of persuasion."
For answer to which, Daisy clasped her arms round his neck and gave him some very earnest caresses, comprised in one great kiss and a clinging of her little head in his neck for the space of half a minute. It meant a great deal; so much that Mr. Randolph was unable for the rest of the day to get rid of a sort of lingering echo of Daisy's Bible words; they haunted him, and haunted him with a strange sense of the house being at cross purposes, and Daisy's line of life lying quite athwart and contrary to all the rest. "Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you;"—who else at Melbourne considered that for one moment?
However, Mr. Randolph had a fresh talk with his wife; the end of which was that he gave Daisy leave to do what she liked in the matter of Molly Skelton; and was rewarded on the spot by seeing the pink tinge which instantly started into the pale cheeks.
No lack of energy had Daisy for the rest of that day. She went off first to see what was the condition of her rose-bush; pretty fair; lying by the heels seemed to agree with it quite well. Then the pony chaise was ordered and a watering pot of water again; much to the boy's disgust who was to carry it; and Daisy took her dinner with quiet satisfaction. So soon as the afternoon had become pleasantly cool, Daisy's driving gloves and hat went on, the chaise was summoned, and rose-bush and all she set forth on her expedition. Mr. Randolph watched her off, acknowledging that certainly for the present the doctor was right; whether in the future Mrs. Randolph would prove to have been right also, he was disagreeably uncertain. Still, he was not quite sure that he wished Daisy anything other than she was.
Troubled by no fears or prognostications, meanwhile, the pony chaise and its mistress went on their way. No, Daisy had no fears. She did doubt what Molly's immediate reception of her advances might be; her first experience bade her doubt; but the spirit of love in her little heart was overcoming; it poured over Molly a flood of sunny affections and purposes, in the warmth and glow of which the poor cripple's crabbedness and sourness of manner and temper were quite swallowed up and lost. Daisy drove on, very happy and thankful, till the little hill was gained, and slowly walking up it Loupe stopped, nothing loth, before the gate of Molly Skelton's courtyard.
A little bit of hesitation came over Daisy now, not about what was to be done, but how to do it. The cripple was in her flowery bit of ground, grubbing around her balsams as usual. The clear afternoon sunbeams shone all over what seemed to Daisy all distressing together. The ragged balsams—the coarse bloom of prince's feather and cockscomb—some straggling tufts of ribband grass and four-o'clocks and marigolds—and the great sunflower nodding its head on high over all; while weeds were only kept away from the very growth of the flowers and started up everywhere else, and grass grew irregularly where grass should not; and in the midst of it all the poor cripple on her hands and knees in the dirt, more uncared-for, more unseemly and unlovely than her little plot of weeds and flowers. Daisy looked at her, with a new tide of tenderness flowing up in her heart, along with the doubt how her mission should be executed or how it would be received; then she gave up her reins, took the rose-tree in her hands, and softly opened the little wicket gate. She went up the path and stood beside the cripple, who hearing the gate shut had risen from her grubbing in the earth and sat back looking at who was coming. Daisy went on without hesitation now. She had prayed out all her prayer about it before setting out from home.
"I have brought you a rose-bush," she said simply. "Do you like roses? this is very sweet. I thought maybe you would like a rose. Where would you like to have it go?"
The answer was a very strange sort of questioning grunt—inarticulate—nevertheless expressive of rude wonder and incredulity, as far as it expressed anything. And Molly stared.
"Where shall I put this rose-tree?" said Daisy. "Where would it look prettiest? May I put it here, by these balsams?"
No answer in words; but instead of a sign of assent, the cripple after looking a moment longer at Daisy and the rose-tree, put her hand beyond the balsams and grubbed up a tuft of what the country people call "creepin' Charley;" and then sitting back as before, signified to Daisy by a movement of her hand that the rose-bush might go in that place. That was all Daisy wanted. She fell to work with her trowel, glad enough to be permitted, and dug a hole, with great pains and some trouble; for the soil was hard as soon as she got a little below the surface. But with great diligence Daisy worked and scooped, till by repeated trials she found she had the hole deep enough and large enough; and then she tenderly set the roots of the rose-tree in the prepared place and shook fine soil over them, as Logan had told her; pressing it down from time to time, until the job was finished and the little tree stood securely planted. A great feat accomplished. Daisy stayed not, but ran off to the road for the watering pot, and bringing it with some difficulty to the spot without soiling herself, she gave the rose-bush a thorough watering; watered it till she was sure the refreshment had penetrated down to the very roots. All the while the cripple sat back gazing at her; gazing alternately at the rose-bush and the planting, and at the white delicate frock the child wore and the daintily neat shoes and stockings, and the handsome flat hat with its costly riband. I think the view of these latter things must in some degree have neutralized the effect of the sweet rose looking at her from the top of the little bush; because Molly on the whole was not gracious. Daisy had finished her work and set down her empty watering pot, and was looking with great satisfaction at the little rose-bush; which was somewhat closely neighboured by a ragged bunch of four-o'clocks on one side and the overgrown balsams on the other; when Molly said suddenly and gruffly,
"Now go 'long!"———
Daisy was startled, and turned to the creature who had spoken to see if she had heard and understood aright. No doubt of it. Molly was not looking at her, but her face was ungenial; and as Daisy hesitated she made a little gesture of dismissal with her hands. Daisy moved a step or two off, afraid of another shower of gravel upon her feet.
"I will come to-morrow and see how it looks"—she said gently.
Molly did not reply yes or no, but she repeated her gesture of dismissal, and Daisy thought it best and wisest to obey. She bid her a sweet "good bye," to which she got no answer, and mounted into her chaise again. There was a little disappointment in her heart; yet when she had time to think it all over she was encouraged too. The rose-tree was fairly planted; that would keep on speaking to Molly without the fear of a rebuff; and somehow Daisy's heart was warm towards the gruff old creature. How forlorn she had looked, sitting in the dirt, with her grum face!
"But perhaps she will wear a white robe in heaven!"—thought Daisy.
Seeing that the rose-tree had evidently won favour, Daisy judged she could not do better than attack Molly again on her weak side, which seemed to be the love of the beautiful!—in one line at least. But Daisy was not an impatient child; and she thought it good to see first what sort of treatment the rose-bush got, and not to press Molly too hard. So the next day she carried nothing with her; only went to pay a visit to the garden. Nothing was to be seen but the garden; Molly did not shew herself; and Daisy went in and looked at the rose. Much to her satisfaction, she saw that Molly had quite discarded the great bunch of four-o'clocks which had given the little rose tree no room on one side; they were actually pulled up and gone; and the rose looked out in fair space and sunshine where its coarse-growing neighbour had threatened to be very much in its way. An excellent sign. Molly clearly approved of the rose. Daisy saw with great pleasure that another bud was getting ready to open and already shewing red between the leaves of its green calyx; and she went home happy.
Next morning she went among the flower beds, and took a very careful survey of all the beauties there to see what best she might take for her next attack upon Molly. The beauties in flower were so very many and so very various and so delicious all to Daisy's eye, that she was a good deal puzzled. Red and purple and blue and white and yellow, the beds were gay and glorious. But Daisy reflected that anything which wanted skill in its culture or shelter from severities of season would disappoint Molly, because it would not get from her what would be necessary to its thriving. Some of the flowers in bloom, too, would not bear transplanting. Daisy did not know what to do. She took Logan into her confidence, so far as she could without mentioning names or circumstances.
"Weel, Miss Daisy," said the gardener, "if ye're bent on being a Lady Flora to the poor creature, I'll tell ye what ye'll do—ye'll just take her a scarlet geranium."
"A geranium?" said Daisy.
"Ay. Just that."
"But it would want to be in the greenhouse when winter comes."
"Any place where it wouldn't freeze," said Logan. "You see, it'll be in a pot e'en now, Miss Daisy—and you'll keep it in the pot; and the pot you'll sink in the ground till frost comes; and when the frost comes, it'll just come up as it is and go intil the poor body's house, and make a spot of summer for her in her house till summer comes again."
"O Logan, that is an excellent thought!"
"Ay, Miss Daisy—I'm glad ye approve it."
"And than she would have the flowers all winter."
"Ay—if she served it justly."
The only thing now was to choose the geranium. Daisy was some time about it, there were so many to choose from. At last she suited herself with a very splendid new kind called the "Jewess"—a compact little plant with a store of rich purple-red blossoms. Logan murmured as he took up the pot in which it was planted—"Less than the best will never serve ye, Miss Daisy"—but he did not grumble about it after all, and Daisy was content.
She was very content when she had got it in her pony chaise and was driving off, with the magnificent purple-red blossoms at her feet. How exquisitely those delicate petals were painted, and marked with dashes of red and purple deeper than the general colour. What rich clusters of blossoms. Daisy gave only half an eye to her driving; and it was not till she had almost reached Melbourne gate that she discovered her trowel had been forgotten. She sent her attendant back for it and waited.
Loupe was always willing to stand, lazy little fat fellow that he was; and Daisy was giving her undivided attention to the purple "Jewess," with a sort of soft prayer going on all the while in her heart that her errand might be blessed; when she was suddenly interrupted.
"Why where are you going, Daisy?"
"Where have you been, Preston?" said Daisy as suddenly drawing up.
"Little Yankee!" said Preston. "Answer one question by another in that fashion? You mustn't do it, Daisy. What are you doing?"
"Nothing. I am waiting."
"What are you going to do, then?"
"I am going to drive."
"Do you usually carry a pot of geraniums for company?"
"No, not usually," said Daisy smiling at him.
"Well set out the pot of geraniums, and we will have a glorious ride, Daisy. I am going to the Fish's, to see some of Alexander's traps; and you shall go with me."
"O Preston—I am sorry; I cannot."
"Why?"
"I cannot this afternoon."
"Yes, you can, my dear little Daisy. In fact youmust. Consider—I shall be going away before very long, and then we cannot take rides together. Won't you come?"
"Not now—I cannot, Preston! I have got something to do first."
"What?"
"Something which will take me an hour or two. After that I could go."
"Scarcely, this afternoon. Daisy, it is a long drive to the Fish's. And they have beautiful things there, which you would like to see, I know you would. Come! go with me—that's my own little Daisy."
Preston was on horseback, and looked very much in earnest. He looked very gay and handsome too, for he was well mounted and knew how to manage himself and his horse. He wanted to manage Daisy too; and that was difficult. Daisy would have been tempted, and would have gone with him at the first asking; but the thought of Molly and her forlornness, and the words warm at her heart—"Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you"—and a further sense that her visitations of Molly were an extraordinary thing and very likely to be hindered on short notice, kept her firm as a rock. She had an opportunity now in hand; she would not throw it away; not for any self-gratification. And to tell the truth, no sort of self-gratification could balance for a moment in Daisy's mind the thought of Molly's wearing a crown of gold in heaven. That crown of gold was before Daisy's eyes; nothing else was worth a thought in comparison.
"Are you going to see that wretched old being?" said Preston at last.
"Yes."
"Daisy—dear Daisy—I do not know what to do with you. Do you like, is it possible that you can like, dirt and vulgarity?"
"I don't think I do," Daisy said gently; "but Preston, I like the poorpeople."
"You do!" said Preston. "Then it is manifest that you cannot like me." And he dashed spurs into his horse and sprung away, with a grace and life that kept Daisy looking after him in admiration, and a plain mood of displeasure which cast its shadow all over her spirit.
"Here is the trowel, Miss Daisy."
Her messenger had come back, and Daisy recalled to the business in hand took up her reins again and drove on; but she felt deeply grieved. Now and then her gauntleted hand even went up to her face to brush away a tear that had gathered. It was not exactly a new thing, nor was Daisy entirely surprised at the attempt to divert her from her purpose. She was wise enough to guess that Preston's object had been more than the pleasure of her company; and she knew that all at home, unless possibly her father might be excepted, neither liked nor favoured her kindness to Molly and would rejoice to interrupt the tokens of it. All were against her; and Daisy's hand, went up again and again. "It is good I am weak and not very well," she thought; "as soon as I grow strong mamma will not let me do this any more. I must do all I can now."
So she came to the cripple's gate; and by that time the tears were all gone.
Nobody was in the little courtyard; Daisy went in first to see how the rose looked. It was all safe and doing well. While she stood there before it, the cottage door opened and the poor inmate came out. She crawled down the walk on hands and knees till she got near Daisy, and then sat back to look at her.
"What do you want?" she said, in a most uninviting and ungracious tone of voice.
"I came to see you," said Daisy, venturing to let her eyes rest for the first time on those poor, restless, unloving eyes opposite her—"and I wanted to see the rose, and I have brought you another flower—if you will let me bring it in."
Her words were sweet as honey. The woman looked at her, and answered again with the unintelligible grunt, of unbelieving wonder, which Daisy had heard once before. Daisy thought on the whole the safest way was not to talk but to fetch her beautiful "Jewess" flowers to speak for themselves. So she ran off and brought the pot and set it on the ground before Molly. It was a great attraction; Daisy could see that at once. The cripple sat back gazing at it. Daisy prudently waited till her eyes came round again from the flowers and rested on her little visiter's face.
"Where shall I put it?" said Daisy. "Where would you like to have it go?"
Molly's eyes presently followed hers, roaming over the little flower plot in search of room for the geranium, which did not appear; prince's feather and marigolds so choked up the ground where balsams did not straggle over it. Molly looked as Daisy did at the possibilities of the case, looked again at the strange sweet little face which was so busy in her garden; and then made a sudden movement. With two or three motions of hands and knees she drew herself a few steps back to one of the exclusive bunches of balsams, and began with her two hands to root it up. Actually she was grubbing, might and main, at the ungainly stalks of the balsams, pulling them up as fast as she could and flinging them aside, careless where. Daisy came to help with her trowel, and together they worked, amicably enough but without a word, till the task was done. A great space was left clear, and Molly threw herself back in her wonted position for taking observations. Daisy wasted no time. In hopeful delight she went on to make a hole in the ground in which to sink the pot of geraniums. It was more of a job than she thought, and she dug away stoutly with her trowel for a good while before she had an excavation sufficient to hold the pot. Daisy got it in at last; smoothed the surface nicely all round it; disposed of the loose soil till the bed was trim and neat, as far as that was concerned; and then stood up and spoke. Warm,—how warm she was! her face was all one pink flush, but she did not feel it, she was so eager.
"There," she said, "that will stand there nicely; and when the cold weather comes, you can take the pot up and take it into the house, just as it is; and if you do not let it freeze, it will have flowers for you in the winter."
"Cold?" said Molly.
"Yes—by and by, when the cold weather comes, this must be taken up. The cold would kill it, if it was cold enough to freeze. It would have to go in the house. The rose can stay out all winter if you like; but this must be kept warm. This is a geranium. And it will give you flowers in the winter."
"J'anium?" said Molly.
"Yes. This is called the 'Jewess'—there are so many kinds that they have to be named. This is the 'Jewess' geranium."
"Water?"—said Molly.
"Water? No, this does not need water, because the roots are in a pot, you know, and have not been disturbed. It will want water if rain don't come, by and by."
"What's you?" was Molly's next question, given with more directness.
"Me? I am Daisy Randolph. And I love flowers; and you love flowers. MayI come and see you sometimes? Will you let me?"
Molly's grunt this time was not unintelligible. It was queer, but there was certainly a tone of assent in it. She sat looking now at the "Jewess" blossoms and now at Daisy.
"And I love Jesus," the child went on. "Do you love him?"
The grunt was of pure question, in answer to this speech. Molly did not understand. Daisy stooped down to face her on more equal terms.
"There is a great King up in heaven, who loves you, Molly. He loves you so well that he died for you. And if you love him, he will take you there when you die and give you a white robe and a crown of gold, and make you blessed."
It is impossible to describe the simple earnestness of this speech. Daisy said it, not as a philosopher nor as even a preacher would have done; she said it as a child. As she had received, she gave. The utter certainty and sweetness of her faith and love went right from one pair of eyes to the other. Nevertheless, Molly's answer was only a most ignorant and blank, "What?"—but it told of interest.
"Yes," said Daisy. "Jesus loved us so well that he came and died for us—he shed his blood that we might be forgiven our sins. And now he is a Great King up in heaven; and he knows all we do and all we think; and if we love him he will make us good and take us to be with him, and give us white robes and crowns of gold up there. He can do anything, for he raised up dead people to life, when he was in the world."
That was a master-stroke of Daisy's. Molly's answer was again a grunt of curiosity; and Daisy, crouching opposite to her, took up her speech and told her at length and in detail the whole story of Lazarus. And if Daisy was engaged with her subject, so certainly was Molly. She did not stir hand or foot; she sat listening movelessly to the story, which came with such loving truthfulness from the lips of her childish teacher. A teacher exactly fitted, however, to the scholar; Molly's poor closed-up mind could best receive any truth in the way a child's mind would offer it; but in this truth, the undoubting utterance of Daisy's love and belief won entrance for her words where another utterance might not. Faith is always catching.
So Daisy told the wonderful story, and displayed the power and love and tenderness of the Lord with the affection of one who knew himherLord, and almost with the zeal of an eye-witness of his work. It was almost to Daisy so; it seemed to her that she had beheld and heard the things she was telling over; for faith is the substance of things not seen; and the grief of the sisters, and their joy, and the love and tenderness of the Lord Jesus, were all to her not less real than they were to the actors in that far distant drama. Molly heard her throughout, with open mouth and marvelling eyes.
Neither of them had changed her position, and indeed Daisy had scarce finished talking, when she heard herself hailed from the road. She started. Preston was there on horseback, calling to her. Daisy got up and took up her trowel.
"Good bye," she said, with a little sigh for the lost vision which Preston's voice had interrupted—"I'll come again, I hope." And she ran out at the gate.
"It is time for you to go home, Daisy. I thought you did not know how late it is."
Daisy mounted into her pony chaise silently.
"Have I interrupted something very agreeable?"
"You would not have thought it so," said Daisy diplomatically.
"What were you doing, down there in the dirt?"
"Preston, if you please, I cannot talk to you nicely while you are so high and I am so low."
Preston was certainly at some height above Daisy, being mounted up in his saddle on a pretty high horse, while the pony chaise was hung very near the ground. He had been beside her; but at her last words he laughed and set off at a good pace in advance, leaving the chaise to come along in Loupe's manner. Daisy drove contentedly home through the afternoon sunlight, which laid bands of brightness across her road all the way home. They seemed bands of joy to Daisy.
Preston had gallopped ahead and was at the door ready to meet her. "What kept you so long at that dismal place?" he asked as he handed her out of the chaise.
"You were back very soon from the Fish place, I think," said Daisy.
"Yes—Alexander was not at home; there was no use in my staying. But what were you doing all that while, Daisy?"
"It was not so very long," said Daisy. "I did not think it was a long time. You must have deceived yourself."
"But do you not mean to tell me what you were about? Whatcouldyou do, at such a place?"
Daisy stood on the piazza, in all the light of the afternoon sunbeams, looking and feeling puzzled. How much was it worth while to try to tell Preston of her thoughts and wishes?
"What was the attraction, Daisy? only tell me that. Dirt and ignorance and rudeness and disorder—and you contented to be in the midst of it! Down in the dirt! What was the attraction?"
"She is very unhappy, Preston."
"I don't believe it. Nonsense! All that is not misery to such people, unless you make it so by shewing them something different. Marble tables are not the thing for them, Daisy."
"Marble tables!" echoed Daisy.
"Nor fuchsias and geraniums either. That old thing's old flowers do just as well."
Daisy was silent. She could have answered this. Preston went on.
"She won't be any better with her garden full of roses and myrtles, than she is with her sunflowers now. What do you expect to do, little Daisy?"
"I know what I would like if I were in her place," said Daisy.
"You,—but she is not you. She has not your tastes. Do you mean to carry her a silver cup and fork, Daisy? You would certainly like that, if you were in her place. Dear little Daisy, don't you be a mad philosopher."
But Daisy had not been thinking of silver cups and forks, and she was not misled by this argument.
"Daisy, do you see you have been under a mistake?"
"No, Preston,"—she said looking up at him.
"Daisy, do you think it isrightfor you to go into houses and among people where my uncle and aunt do not wish you to go? You know they do not wish it, though they have given consent perhaps because you were so set upon it."
Daisy glanced behind her, at the windows of the library; for they were at the back entrance of the house; and then seizing Preston's hand and saying, "Come with me," she drew him down the steps and over the grass till she reached one of the garden seats under the trees, out of hearing of any one. There they sat down; Preston curious, Daisy serious and even doubtful.
"Preston"—she began with all her seriousness upon her,—"I wish I had the book here, but I will tell you. When the Lord Jesus comes again in glory, and all the angels with him, he will have all the people before him, and he will separate them into two sets. One will be on the right and one on the left. One set will be the people that belong to him, and the other set will be the people that do not belong to him. Then he will welcome the first set, and bless them, because they have done things to the poor and miserable such as they would have liked to have done to themselves. And he will say—'Inasmuch as ye have done it to one of the least of these, ye have done it unto me.'" Daisy's eyes were full of water by this time.
"So you are working to gain heaven, Daisy?" said Preston, who did not know how to answer her.
"O no!" said the child. "I don't mean that."
"Yes, you do."
"No,—that would be doing it for oneself, not for the Lord Jesus"—saidDaisy gravely looking at Preston.
"Then I don't see what you mean by your story."
"I mean only, that Jesus likes to have us do to other people what we would want in their place."
"Suppose you were in my aunt and uncle's place—do you not think you would like to have a little daughter regard their wishes?"
Daisy looked distressed.
"I think it is time to go in and get ready for dinner, Preston," she said.
If she was distressed, Preston was displeased. They went in without any more words. But Daisy was not perplexed at all. She had not told Preston her innermost thought and hope—that Molly Skelton might learn the truth and be one of that blessed throng on the right hand in the Great Day; but the thought and hope were glowing at her heart; and she thought she must carry her Master's message, if not positively forbidden, to all whom she could carry it to. Preston's meditations were different.
"I have tried my best," he said that evening when Daisy was gone to bed,—"and I have failed utterly. I tried my best—and all I got was a rebuke and a sermon."
"A sermon!" said Mrs. Randolph.
"An excellent one, aunt Felicia. It was orderly, serious, and pointed."
"And she went to that place?"
"Yes, ma'am. The sermon was afterwards."
"What do you mean, Preston! Speak intelligibly."
"Daisy did, ma'am. I am speaking sober truth, aunt Felicia."
"What is her motive in going to that horrid place? can you understand?"
"Its disagreeableness, ma'am—so far as I can make out."
"It is very singular," said Mrs. Gary.
"It is very deplorable." said Mrs. Randolph. "So at least it seems to me. There will be nothing in common soon between Daisy and her family."
"Only that this kind of thing is apt to wear out, my dear. You have that comfort."
"No comfort at all. You do not know Daisy. She is a persistent child.She has taken a dose of fanaticism enough to last her for years."
"I am sure nevertheless that Dr. Sandford is right in his advice," said Mr. Randolph;—"both as a physician and as a philosopher. By far the best way is not to oppose Daisy, and take as little notice as possible of her new notions. They will fade out."
"I do not believe it," said the lady "I do not believe it in the least. If she had not your support, I would have an end of this folly in a month."
"Indirect ways"—said Mrs. Gary—"indirect ways, my dear; those are your best chance. Draw off Daisy's attention with other things. That is what I would do."
And then the ladies put their heads together and concerted a scheme; Preston joining eagerly in the discussion, and becoming the manager-in-chief intrusted with its execution. Mr. Randolph heard, but he gave no help and made no suggestion. He let the ladies alone.