Daisy in the Field, Page 2

that I lovedThorold; no dream that he liked me had ever entered my head. Ithought we were friends, and that was all. Indeed I had notknown there was anything in the world more, until one nightago.

  But I winced a little, privately, in the very bottom of myheart, that I had let Thorold have so much liberty; that I hadlet him know so easily what he was to me. I seemed unlike theDaisy Randolph of my former acquaintance. She was never sofree. But it was done; and I had been taken unawares and atdisadvantage, with the thought of coming danger and separationchecking every reserve I would have shown. I had to be contentwith myself at all events; Thorold knew my weakness and wouldnever forget it another time.

  I thought a great many other thoughts that night; some of themwere grave enough. My sleep however, when I went to sleep, wasas light as the fall of the dew. I could not be careful. Justseventeen, and just come into life's great inheritance, myspirit was strong, as such spirits are, to throw off everyburden.

  For several days it happened that I was too busy to see MissCardigan. I used to look over to her house, those days, as theplace where I had begun to live. Meanwhile I was bending myenergies to work, with a serious consciousness of woman's lifeand responsibility before me. In one way I think I felt tenyears older, when next I crossed the avenue and went into thefamiliar marble-paved hall and opened Miss Cardigan's door.That Thorold was not there, was the first thought with me.Certainly the world had made a revolution; but all things elselooked as usual; and Miss Cardigan gave me a welcome just asif the world had not turned round. She was busy with theaffairs of some poor people, and plunged me into them as hercustom was. But I fancied a somewhat more than usual of sobergravity in her manner. I fancied, and then was sure of it;though for a long time nothing was said which touched Thoroldor me. I had forgotten that it was to come; and then it came.

  "And what have ye been doing, my bonnie lady, since ye wentaway at eight o'clock o' the morn?"

  I started, and found that I had lost myself in a reverie. Isaid, I had been studying.

  "You and me have need to study some new things," Miss Cardigansaid, soberly.

  "Yes ma'am," I said. But then - "What, Miss Cardigan?"

  "There's our duty" - she said, with a pause at that part ofher sentence; - "and then, how to do it. Yes, Daisy, you neednot look at me, nor call the bloom up into your cheeks, thatChristian says are such an odd colour. Don't you think youhave duties, lassie? and more to-day than a fortnight syne?"

  "But - Miss Cardigan," I answered, - "yes, I have duties; but- I thought I knew them."

  "It will do no harm to look at them, Daisy. It is good to seeall round our duties, and it's hard too. Are you in a hurry togo back to school?"

  "No, ma'am - I can have the evening."

  Miss Cardigan pushed her work-baskets and table away, and drewher chair up beside mine, before the fire; and made it blaze,and sat and looked into the blaze, till I wondered what wascoming.

  "I suppose this is all a fixed thing between Christian andyou," she began at last.

  I hardly knew what she meant. I said, that I could not unfixit.

  "And he will not, no fear! So it is fixed, as we may say;fixed as two hearts can make it. But it's very sudden, Daisy;and you are a young thing, my dear."

  "I know it is sudden," I said, meekly. "It is sudden to me.But he will not like me less for my being so young."

  Miss Cardigan laughed a short laugh.

  "Troth, he's no right, being young himself, we may say. Youare safe for his liking, my bonnie Daisy. But - your fatherand mother, my dear?"

  "Yes, Miss Cardigan."

  "What will their word be?"

  "I do not know, ma'am."

  "You will tell them, Daisy?"

  This was very disagreeable to me. I had thought over thesethings, and made up my mind; but to outline on canvass, as itwere, and put in full depth of shadow, all the images ofopposition real and possible that might rise in my way - whichI knew might rise, - I liked not to do it. Still Miss Cardiganhad reason; and when she repeated, "You will tell them atonce?" I answered,

  "No, Miss Cardigan; I think not."

  "When, then, will you tell them?" she said shortly.

  "I think I will not tell them at all. I will wait, till -"

  "Till Christian does it?"

  "Yes."

  "When will _that_ be?"

  "I do not know. It may be - a great while. Why should I tellthem before, Miss Cardigan?"

  "For many reasons, as they seem to my mind, Daisy; and Ithought, as they would seem to yours. 'Honour thy father andthy mother.' Daisy, would it be honouring them, to let themnot know?"

  There were so many things, of which Miss Cardigan wasignorant! How could I answer her? I sat silent, pondering thedifficulty; and she was silent on her side, waiting for me tothink over it. It was never her way to be in a hurry; not toleave her work half done neither, as I knew.

  "I will honour them the best way I can," I said at length.

  "Then you will write them next steamer. Is it not so, Daisy?"

  "That would make it very difficult for me to honour them," Isaid; "to honour them in action, I mean."

  "Why so? There is no way so short as a straight way."

  "No, ma'am. But -I cannot undo what is done, Miss Cardigan."

  "What our cheeks say your heart has done. No, child." Andagain I heard the unwonted sigh from Miss Cardigan's lips.

  "Not my heart only," I went on, plucking up courage. "I havespoken - I have let him speak. I cannot undo it - I cannotundo it."

  "Well?" said Miss Cardigan, looking anxious.

  "It was done before I thought of mamma and papa. It was alldone - it is done; and I cannot undo it now, even for them."

  "My dear, you would not marry without your parents' consent?"

  "No, Miss Cardigan. They may forbid _that_."

  "What then? What harm would be done by your letting them knowat once how the case stands. They would care for yourhappiness, Daisy."

  Not with a Northerner, a farmer's son, and an officer in theNorthern army. I knew how it would be; but I could not tellMiss Cardigan.

  "What is it you cannot undo, little Daisy?" she said softly, Isuppose seeing me look troubled. And she stretched out a kindhand and took hold of mine. It was very hard to bear. All thiswas a sort of dragging things into light and putting things inblack and white; more tangible and more hard to deal with forever after.

  "What is it you cannot undo? Since you confess, that if theydesired, you would undo the whole."

  "Not my faith, nor my affection," - I said, slowly. "Somethings they may forbid, and I obey; but _these_ things arepassed beyond their power, and beyond mine. I will be true. Icannot help it now, if I would."

  "But, Daisy -" said Miss Cardigan, and she was evidentlyperplexed now herself. - "Since you are ready to obey them inthe utmost and give up Thorold if they say so, what is there,my dear, which your father and mother could command _now_ inwhich you are not ready to obey them?"

  "The time has not come, Miss Cardigan," I said. "It may be -you know it may be - long, before they need know anythingabout it; before, I mean, anything could be done. I am goingabroad - Christian will be busy here - and they might tell menot to think of him and not to write to him; and - I can'tlive so. It is fair to give him and myself the chance. It isfair that they should know him and see him before they hearwhat he wants of them; or at least before they answer it."

  "Give him and yourself the _chance_ - of what, Daisy?"

  "I don't know," I said faint-heartedly. "Of what time may do."

  "Then you think -my dear, you augur ill of your father's andmother's opinion of your engagement?"

  "I can't help it now, Miss Cardigan," I said; and I know Ispoke firmly then. "I did not know what I was doing - I didnot know what was coming. If I had known, if I could havehelped myself, I think I ought not to have loved anybody orlet anybody speak to me without my father and mother choosingit; but it was all done before I could in the least help it;and you know I cannot help it now. I owe something besides tothem now. I will not disobey them in anything I can help; -but I will be true, - as long as I live."

  Miss Cardigan sat a long while silent, holding my hand all thewhile; sometimes clasping, and sometimes fondling it. Then sheturned and kissed me. It was very hard to bear, all of it.

  "I suppose you are a great heiress," she said at last; as ifthe words escaped her, and with a breath of a sigh.

  "It is not that!" I exclaimed. "No, I am not. I am not - Ishall not be a great heiress, or an heiress at all, I think.Christian is richer than I."

  "My dear!" said Miss Cardigan. "Christian never said a word tome about it, but your friend Mrs. Sandford - she told _me_; shetold me you would be one of the richest women in your State."

  "She thought so," - I said.

  "My dear, your parents are very wealthy; and they have onlyone other child, Mrs. Sandford told me. I remember, for ittook me with a pity at my heart, little Daisy, for you."

  "Yes, they are wealthy," I said; "and Ransom, my brother, isthe only other one. _He_ will be rich. But I shall not."

  "Do you mean he is the favourite?" said Miss Cardigan.

  "Oh, no!" I said. "At least, if he is, so am I. It isn't that.But I shall never be an heiress, Miss Cardigan. I shall bevery poor, I rather think."

  I smiled at her as I said these words - they were upon thefirst pleasant subject that had been touched for some timebetween us; and Miss Cardigan looked quite bewildered. Iremembered she had good reason; and I thought it was right,though very much against my will, to explain my words.

  "You know what makes my father and mother rich?" I said.

  "My dear!" said Miss Cardigan - "They have large Southernproperties."

  "And you know what makes Southern wealth?" I went on.
r />   "Rice - cotton -"

  "No, it isn't that," I said.

  "What then, my dear? I do not know what you mean. I thought itwas mainly cotton."

  "It is unpaid labour," I said. "It is hands that ought to workfor themselves; and men and women that ought to belong tothemselves."

  "Slaves," said Miss Cardigan. "But, Daisy, what do you mean?It's all true; but what can you do?"

  "I can have nothing to do with it. And I will have nothing. Iwould rather be poor, as poor as old Darry and Maria, thantake what belongs to them. Miss Cardigan, so would you."

  She settled herself back in her chair, like a person who hasgot a new thought. "My dear child!" she said. And then shesaid nothing more. I did not wish she should. I wanted nocounsel, nor to hear any talk about it. I had only spoken somuch, as thinking she had a right to hear it. I went back intomy own meditations.

  "Daisy, my child," she said suddenly after a while, - "thereis only one thing to be said; and the word is not mine. 'Ifthe world hate you, ye know that it hated me before it hatedyou."

  "Why, Miss Cardigan," said I, smiling, "do you think the,world will hate me for such a thing?"

  "It hates all those who pretend to tell it is wrong."

  "I do not pretend to tell it anything," I said.

  "There is no preaching like that of the life. Daisy, have youwell considered this matter?"

  "For years."

  "Then I'll know how to pray for you," she said. And there ourconversation ended. It had laid on my heart a grave burden ofwell-defined care, which went with me thenceforth. I couldnever ignore it nor doubt it was there. Not but I knew wellenough each several point in our discussion, before it hadcome up in words between Miss Cardigan and me; but having socome up, and taken form, each was a tangible thing for everafter. It is odd, how much we can bear unspoken, to whichwords give an unendurable weight and power. However, thesetroubles, in their present form, were not unendurable. I onlyfelt them constantly from that time.

  My visits to Miss Cardigan now were what they had always been;only perhaps she was a little more tenderly affectionate andcareful of me. We did not go back to the discussions of thatday, nor to any other regarding my affairs; but she and Iscanned the papers well, and talked to each other of the itemsthat seemed now to touch Thorold's and my future as well asthe future of the country. We talked, - I could not help it;and yet often I would as lief not; the subjects were notquieting.

  The first thing, was the going to Washington of Christian andhis class. He wrote to me about it. They went in haste andzeal; waiting for nothing; losing not a train; going by night.Some in civilian's dress; some in cadet clothes, with theblack stripe torn off the leg; all eager for their work. Whatwork? It was peaceful enough work just at first. Thorold andothers were set to drill the new citizen soldiers who had comein, answering to the President's proclamation, and who knewsimply nothing of the business they were to be wanted for, ifwanted at all. It was likely they would have something to do!Already a second proclamation from the President had calledfor a second supply of men, to serve for three years, if thewar was not sooner ended. Seamen for the navy also, in likemanner.

  For three years or the war! It went to my heart, thatrequisition. It looked so terribly in earnest. And sounhopeful. I wondered, those days, how people could live thatdid not know how to pray; when every one had, or might have, atreasure at stake in this fierce game that was playing. I haveoften since felt the same wonder.

  I do not know how studies and the usual forms of schoolrecitations went on; but they did go on; smoothly, I suppose.I even recollect that mine went on successfully. With mydouble or treble motive for desiring success, I had also areason for prizing and remembering the attainment. But my headwas on graver matters, all the time. Would the rebels attack,Washington? it was constantly threatened. Would fightingactually become the common news of the land? The answer tothis second query began to be sounded audibly. It was beforeMay was over, that Ellsworth's soldiers took possession ofAlexandria, and he was killed. That stirred people at thetime; it looks a very little thing now. Alexandria! how Iremembered driving through it one grey morning, on one of mySouthern journeys; the dull little place, that looked as if ithad fallen asleep some hundred or two years ago and neverwaked up. Now it was waked up with rifle shots; but its slavepen was emptied. I was glad of that. And Thorold was safe inWashington, drilling raw soldiers, in the saddle all day, andvery happy, he wrote me. I had begun to be uneasy about hiswriting to me. It was without leave from my father and mother,and the leave I knew could not be obtained; it would followthat the indulgence must be given up. I knew it must. I lookedthat necessity in the face. A correspondence, such acorrespondence, carried on without their knowing of it, mustbe an impossibility for me. I intended to tell Christian so,and stop the letters, before I should go abroad. Mydifficulties were becoming daily more and more clear, andlooking more and more unmanageable. I wondered sometimeswhither I was drifting; for guide or choose my course I couldnot. I had got into the current by no agency and with no faultof my own. To get out of the current - perhaps that might notbe till life and I should go out together. So I was a somewhatsober and diligent student those closing weeks of the term;and yet, very happy, for Christian loved me. It was a new,sweet, strange, elixir of life.

  The term was almost out, when I was called to the parlour oneday to see Mrs. Sandford. All winter I had not seen her; shehad not been in New York. I think she was unaffectedly glad tosee me; somehow my presence was pleasant to her.

  "Out of school!" she exclaimed, after a few greetings hadpassed. "Almost out of school. A woman, Daisy. My dear, Inever see you but I am struck with the change in you. Don'tchange any more! you are just right."

  I laughed and asked her, what was the change in me? I had notgrown taller.

  "No -" said Mrs. Sandford - "I don't know that you have; butyour figure is improved, and you have the air of being taller,Daisy. I never saw you looking so well. My dear, what work youare going to do now! now that you are out of the 'elements.'And by the by - what _are_ you going to do, when school closesand you are set free?"

  I said I could not tell; I had received no directions. I waswaiting for letters from somewhere, to tell me what I must do.

  "Suppose you go with me to Washington."

  "Washington!" - I ejaculated, and therewith the power ofspeech left me.

  "Yes. You are not afraid, Daisy, that you look at me so? Somepeople are afraid, I know, and think Washington is going to bestormed by the Southern army; but that is all nonsense, Grantsays; and I always trust Grant. He knows. He wants me to come.He says Washington is a novel sight just now, and I may neverhave such another chance; and I think I shall do as he saysand go. Washington is full of soldiers, and no ladies in it.You are not _afraid?_"

  "Oh, no. But - Dr. Sandford has not written to me to come."

  "Yes, he has; or something very like it. He asked me to comeand see you as I passed through the city - I was not likely toneed his admonition, Daisy, my dear, for it always does megood to see you; - and he added that I might suggest to youthat I was coming, and ask you if your curiosity inclined youto take the trouble of the journey. He said _he_ thought itworth while, - and that we would both find it so."

  I was dumb. Dr. Sandford little knew to what he was invitingme; and I - and Thorold - What a strange chance.

  "Well, what are you pondering?" Mrs. Sandford cried gaily."Dresses? You don't care for dresses; besides, we can