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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Melbourne House, Volume 1, by Susan Warner
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
Title: Melbourne House, Volume 1
Author: Susan Warner
Release Date: July 20, 2004 [EBook #12963]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MELBOURNE HOUSE, VOLUME 1 ***
Produced by Karen Lofstrom and PG Distributed Proofreaders
MELBOURNE HOUSE.
[Illustration: THE OLD IRISH TOMB.]
Melbourne House, Vol. I.
MELBOURNE HOUSE.
BY THE
AUTHOR OF THE "WIDE, WIDE WORLD."
"Even a child is known by his doings, whether his work be pure, and
whether it be right."--PROV. XX. 11.
VOL. I.
NEW YORK:
ROBERT CARTER & BROTHERS,
530 BROADWAY.
1865.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by
ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the
Southern District of New York.
Stereotyped by SMITH & MCDOUGAL, 82 & 84 Beekman St.
Printed by E.O. JENKINS, 20 North William St.
[Transcriber's note: This edition of the novel was badly typeset in
places. Many small errors--missing periods, missing apostrophes, missing
closing quotes--have been corrected for reading ease. When the author
spelled a word as 'ankle' nine times and 'ancle' twice, occurrences of
'ancle' have been corrected to 'ankle'--and so forth. Other errors,
such as the persistent misspelling of 'visitor' as 'visiter', have been
left, as these are more likely to represent the author's convictions as
to spelling.]
MELBOURNE HOUSE.
CHAPTER I.
A little girl was coming down a flight of stairs that led up from a
great hall, slowly letting her feet pause on each stair, while the light
touch of her hand on the rail guided her. The very thoughtful little
face seemed to be intent on something out of the house, and when she
reached the bottom, she still stood with her hand on the great baluster
that rested on the marble there, and looked wistfully out of the open
door. So the sunlight came in and looked at her; a little figure in a
white frock and blue sash, with the hair cut short all over a little
round head, and a face not only just now full of some grave concern, but
with habitually thoughtful eyes and a wise little mouth. She did not
seem to see the sunlight which poured all over her, and lit up a wide,
deep hall, floored with marble, and opening at the other end on trees
and flowers, which shewed the sunlight busy there too. The child
lingered wistfully. Then crossed the hall, and went into a matted,
breezy, elegant room, where a lady lay luxuriously on a couch, playing
with a book and a leaf-cutter. She could not be _busy_ with anything in
that attitude. Nearly all that was to be seen was a flow of lavender
silk flounces, a rich slipper at rest on a cushion, and a dainty little
cap with roses on a head too much at ease to rest. By the side of the
lavender silk stood the little white dress, still and preoccupied as
before--a few minutes without any notice.
"Do you want anything, Daisy?"
"Mamma, I want to know something."
"Well, what is it?"
"Mamma"--Daisy seemed to be engaged on a very puzzling question--"what
does it mean to be a Christian?"
"_What?_" said her mother, rousing herself up for the first time to look
at her.
"To be a Christian, mamma?"
"It means, to be baptized and go to church, and all that," said the
lady, turning back to her book.
"But mamma, that isn't all I mean."
"I don't know what you mean. What has put it into your head?"
"Something Mr. Dinwiddie said."
"What absurd nonsense! Who is Mr. Dinwiddie?"
"You know him. He lives at Mrs. Sandford's."
"And where did he talk to you?"
"In the little school in the woods. In his Sunday-school. Yesterday."
"Well, it's absurd nonsense, your going there. You have nothing to do
with such things. Mr. Randolph?--"
An inarticulate sound, testifying that he was attending, came from a
gentleman who had lounged in and was lounging through the room.
"I won't have Daisy go to that Sunday-school any more, down there in the
woods. Just tell her she is not to do it, will you? She is getting her
head full of the most absurd nonsense. Daisy is just the child to be
ruined by it."
"You hear, Daisy," said Mr. Randolph, indolently, as he lounged finally
out of the room by an open window; which, as did all the windows in the
room, served for a door also. By the door by which she had entered,
Daisy silently withdrew again, making no effort to change the resolution
of either of her parents. She knew it would be of no use; for
excessively indulgent as they both were in general, whenever they took
it upon them to exercise authority, it was unflinchingly done. Her
father would never even hear a supplication to reconsider a judgment,
especially if pronounced at the desire of her mother. So Daisy knew.
It was a disappointment, greater than anybody thought or would have
guessed, that saw her. She went out to the large porch before the door,
and stood there, with the same thoughtful look upon her face, a little
cast down now. Still she did not shed tears about the matter, unless one
time when Daisy's hand went up to her brow rather quick, it was to get
rid of some improper suggestion there. More did not appear, either
before or after the sudden crunching of the gravel by a pair of light
wheels, and the coming up of a little Shetland pony, drawing a miniature
chaise.
"Hollo, Daisy! come along; he goes splendidly!"
So shouted the driver, a boy somewhat bigger than Daisy.
"Where are you going?"
"Anywhere--down to the church, if you'll be quick. Never mind your hat!"
He waited, however, while Daisy dashed into the house and out again, and
then stepped into the low chaise beside him. Then the eager intimation
was given to the pony, which set off as if knowing that impatience was
behind him. The smooth, wide, gravelled road was as good and much better
than a plank flooring; the chaise rolled daintily on under the great
trees; the pony was not forgetful, yet ever and anon a touch of his
owner's whip came to remind him, and the fellow's little body fairly
wriggled from side to side in his efforts to get on.
"I wish you wouldn't whip him so!" said Daisy, "he's doing as well as he
can."
"What do girls know about driving!" was the retort from the small piece
of masculine science beside her.
"Ask papa," said Daisy quietly.
"Well, what do they know about horses, any how!"
"I can _see_," said Daisy, whose manner of speech was somewhat slow and
deliberate, and in the choice of words, like one who had lived among
grown people. "I can observe."
"See that, then!"--And a cut, smarter than ordinary, drove the pony to
his last legs, namely, a gallop. Away they went; it was but a
short-legged gallop after all; yet they passed along swiftly over the
smooth gravel road. Great, beautiful trees overshadowed the ground on
either side with their long arms; and underneath, the turf was mown
short, fresh and green. Sometimes a flowering bush of some sort broke
the general green with a huge spot of white or red flowers; gradually
those became fewer, and were lost sight of; but the beautiful grass and
the trees seemed to be unending. Then a gray rock here and there began
to shew itself. Pony got through his gallop, and subsided again to a
waddling trot.
"This whip's the real thing," said the young driver, displaying and
surveying it as he spoke; "that is a whip now, fit for a man to use."
"A man wouldn't use it as you do," said Daisy. "It is cruel."
"That's what _you_ think. I guess you'd see papa use a whip once in a
while."
"Besides, you came along too fast to see anything."
"Well, I told you I was going to the church, and we hadn't time to go
slowly. What did you come for?"
"I suppose I came for some diversion," said Daisy with a sigh.
"Ain't Loupe a splendid little fellow?"
"Very; I think so."
"Why, Daisy, what ails you? there is no fun in you to-day. What's the
matter?"
"I am concerned about something. There is nothing the matter."
"Concerned about Loupe, eh!"
"I am not thinking about Loupe. O Ransom! stop him; there's Nora
Dinwiddie; I want to get out."
[Illustration: THE CHURCH BY THE WINTERGREENS.]
The place at which they were arrived had a little less the air of
carefully kept grounds, and more the look of a sweet wild wood; for the
trees clustered thicker in patches, and grey rock, in large and in small
quantities, was plenty about among the trees. Yet still here was care;
no unsightly underbrush or rubbish of dead branches was anywhere to be
seen; and the greensward, where it spread, was shaven and soft as ever.
It spread on three sides around a little church, which, in green and
gray, seemed almost a part of its surroundings. A little church, with a
little quaint bell-tower and arched doorway, built after some old, old
model; it stood as quietly in the green solitude of trees and rocks, as
if it and they had grown up together. It was almost so. The walls were
of native greystone in its natural roughness; all over the front and
one angle the American ivy climbed and waved, mounting to the tower;
while at the back, the closer clinging Irish ivy covered the little
"apse," and creeping round the corner, was advancing to the windows, and
promising to case the first one in a loving frame of its own. It seemed
that no carriage-road came to this place, other than the dressed
gravelled path which the pony-chaise had travelled, and which made a
circuit on approaching the rear of the church. The worshippers must come
humbly on foot; and a wicket in front of the church led out upon a path
suited for such. Perhaps a public road might be not far off, but at
least here there was no promise of it. In the edge of the thicket, at
the side of the church, was the girl whose appearance Daisy had hailed.
"I sha'n't wait for you," cried her brother, as she sprang down.
"No--go--I don't want you,"--and Daisy made few steps over the
greensward to the thicket. Then it was,--"O Nora! how do you do? what
are you doing?"--and "O Daisy! I'm getting wintergreens." Anybody who
has ever been nine, or ten, or eleven years old, and gone in the woods
looking for wintergreens, knows what followed. The eager plunging into
the thickest of the thicket; the happy search of every likely bank or
open ground in the shelter of some rock; the careless, delicious
straying from rock to rock, and whithersoever the bank or the course of
the thicket might lead them. The wintergreens sweet under foot, sweet in
the hands of the children, the whole air full of sweetness. Naturally
their quest led them to the thicker and wilder grown part of the wood;
prettier there, they declared it to be, where the ground became broken,
and there were ups and downs, and rocky dells and heights, and to turn a
corner was to come upon something new. They did not note nor care where
they went, intent upon business and pleasure together, till they came
out suddenly upon a little rocky height, where a small spot was shaded
with cedars and set with benches around and under them. The view away
off over the tops of the trees to other heights and hills in the
distance was winningly fair, especially as the sun shewed it just now in
bright, cool light and shadow. It was getting near sundown.
"Look where we are!" cried Nora, "at the Sunday-school!"
Daisy seated herself without answering.
"I think," went on Nora, as she followed the example, "it is the very
prettiest place for a Sunday-school that there ever was."
"Have you been in other Sunday-schools?" asked Daisy.
"Yes, in two."
"What were they like?"
"O they were in a church, or in some sort of a room. I like being out of
doors best; don't you?"
"Yes, I think so. But was the school just like this in other things?"
"O yes; only once I had a teacher who always asked us what we thought
about everything. I didn't like that."
"What you thought about everything?" said Daisy.
"Yes; every verse and question, she would say, 'What do you think about
it?' and I didn't like that, because I never thought anything."
Whereat Daisy fell into a muse. Her question recurred to her; but it was
hardly likely, she felt, that her little companion could enlighten her.
Nora was a bright, lively, spirited child, with black eyes and waves of
beautiful black hair; neither at rest; sportive energy and enjoyment in
every motion. Daisy was silent.
"What is supposed to be going on here?" said a stronger voice behind
them, which brought both their heads round. It was to see another head
just making its way up above the level of their platform; a head that
looked strong and spirited as the voice had sounded; a head set with
dark hair, and eyes that were too full of light to let you see what
colour they were. Both children came to their feet, one saying,
"Marmaduke!" the other, "Mr. Dinwiddie!"
"What do two such mature people do when they get together? I should like
to know," said the young man as he reached the top.
"Talking, sir," said Daisy.
"Picking wintergreens," said the other, in a breath.
"Talking! I dare say you do. If both things have gone on together, like
your answers," said he, helping himself out of Nora's stock of
wintergreens,--"you must have had a basket of talk."
"_That_ basket isn't full, sir," said Daisy.
"My dear," said Mr. Dinwiddie, diving again into his sister's, "that
basket never is; there's a hole in it somewhere."
"You are making a hole in mine," said Nora, laughing. "You sha'n't do
it, Marmaduke; they're for old Mrs. Holt, you know."
"Come along, then," said her brother; "as long as the baskets are not
full the fun isn't over."
And soon the children thought so. Such a scrambling to new places as
they had then; such a harvest of finest wintergreens as they all
gathered together; till Nora took off her sunbonnet to serve for a new
basket. And such joyous, lively, rambling talk as they had all three,
too; it was twice as good as they had before; or as Daisy, who was quiet
in her epithets, phrased it, "it was _nice_." By Mr. Dinwiddie's help
they could go faster and further than they could alone; he could jump
them up and down the rocks, and tell them where it was no use to waste
their time in trying to go.
They had wandered, as it seemed to them, a long distance--they knew not
whither--when the children's exclamations suddenly burst forth, as they
came out upon the Sunday-school place again. They were glad to sit down
and rest. It was just sundown, and the light was glistening, crisp and
clear, on the leaves of the trees and on the distant hill-points. In the
west a mass of glory that the eye could not bear was sinking towards the
horizon. The eye could not bear it, and yet every eye turned that way.
"Can you see the sun?" said Mr. Dinwiddie.
"No, sir,"--and "No, Marmaduke."
"Then why do you look at it?"
"I don't know!" laughed Nora; but Daisy said: "Because it is so
beautiful, Mr. Dinwiddie."
"Once when I was in Ireland," said the gentleman, "I was looking, near
sunset, at some curious old ruins. They were near a very poor little
village where I had to pass the night. There had been a little chapel or
church of some sort, but it had crumbled away; only bits of the walls
were standing, and in place of the floor there was nothing but grass and
weeds, and one or two monuments that had been under shelter of the roof.
One of them was a large square tomb in the middle of the place. It had
been very handsome. The top of it had held two statues, lying there with
hands upraised in prayer, in memory of those who slept beneath. But it
was so very old--the statues had been lying there so long since the roof
that sheltered them was gone, that they were worn away so that you could
only just see that they had been statues; you could just make out the
remains of what had been the heads and where the hands had been. It was
all rough and shapeless now." [Footnote A: See frontispiece.]
"What had worn the stone so?" asked Daisy.
"The weather--the heat and the cold, and the rain, and the dew."
"But it must have taken a great while?"
"A very great while. Their names were forgotten--nobody knew whose
monument or what church had been there."
"More than a hundred years?" asked Nora.
"It had been many hundred."
"O Duke!"
"What's the matter? Don't you believe that people died many hundred
years ago?"
"Yes; but--"
"And they had monuments erected to them, and they thought their names
would live forever; but these names were long gone, and the very stone
over their grave was going. While I sat there, thinking about them, and
wondering what sort of people they were in their lifetime,--the sun,
which had been behind a tree, got lower, and the beams came striking
across the stone and brightening up those poor old worn heads and hands
of what had been statues. And with that the words rushed into my head,
and they have never got out since,--'_Then_ shall the righteous shine
forth as the sun in the kingdom of their Father.'"
"When, Mr. Dinwiddie?" said Daisy, after a timid silence.
"When the King comes!" said the young man, still looking off to the
glowing west,--"the time when he will put away out of his kingdom all
things that offend him. You may read about it, if you will, in the
thirteenth chapter of Matthew, in the parable of the tares."
He turned round to Daisy as he spoke, and the two looked steadily into
one another's faces; the child wondering very much what feeling it could
be that had called an additional sparkle into those bright eyes the
moment before, and brought to the mouth, which was always in happy play,
an expression of happy rest. He, on his part, queried what lay under the
thoughtful, almost anxious, search of the little one's quiet grey eyes.
"Do you know," he said, "that you must go home? The sun is almost down."
So home they went--Mr. Dinwiddie and Nora taking care of Daisy quite to
the house. But it was long after sundown then.
"What has kept you?" her mother asked, as Daisy came in to the
tea-table.
"I didn't know how late it was, mamma."
"Where have you been?"
"I was picking wintergreens with Nora Dinwiddie."
"I hope you brought me some," said Mr. Randolph.
"O I did, papa; only I have not put them in order yet."
"And where did you and Nora part?"
"Here, at the door, mamma."
"Was she alone?"
"No, ma'am--Mr. Dinwiddie found us in the wood, and he took her home,
and he brought me home first."
Daisy was somewhat of a diplomatist. Perhaps a little natural reserve of
character might have been the beginning of it, but the habit had
certainly grown from Daisy's experience of her mother's somewhat
capricious and erratic views of her movements. She could not but find
out that things which to her father's sense were quite harmless and
unobjectionable, were invested with an unknown and unexpected character
of danger or disagreeableness in the eyes of her mother; neither could
Daisy get hold of any chain of reasoning by which she might know
beforehand what would meet her mother's favour and what would not. The
unconscious conclusion was, that reason had little to do with it; and
the consequence, that without being untrue, Daisy had learned to be very
uncommunicative about her thoughts, plans, or wishes. To her mother,
that is; she was more free with her father, though the habit, once a
habit, asserted itself everywhere. Perhaps, too, among causes, the
example of her mother's own elegant manner of shewing truth only as one
shews a fine picture,--in the best light,--might have had its effect.
Daisy's diplomacy served her little on the present occasion.
"Daisy!" said her mother, "look at me." Daisy fixed her eves on the
pleasant, handsome, mild face. "You are not to go anywhere in future
where Mr. Dinwiddie is. Do you understand?"
"If he finds you lost out at night, though," said Mr. Randolph a little
humorously, "he may bring you home."
Daisy wondered and obeyed, mentally, in silence; making no answer to
either speaker. It was not her habit either to shew her dismay on such
occasions, and she shewed none. But when she went up an hour later to be
undressed for bed, instead of letting the business go on, Daisy took a
Bible and sat down by the light and pored over a page that she had
found.
The woman waiting on her, a sad-faced mulatto, middle-aged and
respectable looking, went patiently round the room, doing or seeming to
do some trifles of business, then stood still and looked at the child,
who was intent on her book.
"Come, Miss Daisy," said she at last, "wouldn't you like to be
undressed?"
The words were said in a tone so low they were hardly more than a
suggestion. Daisy gave them no heed. The woman stood with dressing gown
on her arm and a look of habitual endurance upon her face. It was a
singular face, so set in its lines of enforced patience, so unbending.
The black eyes were bright enough, but without the help of the least
play of those fixed lines, they expressed nothing. A little sigh came
from the lips at last, which also was plainly at home there.
"Miss Daisy, it's gettin' very late."
"June, did you ever read the parable of the tares?"
"The what, Miss Daisy?"
"The parable about the wheat and the tares in the Bible--in the
thirteenth chapter of Matthew?"
"Yes, ma'am,"--came somewhat dry and unwillingly from June's lips, and
she moved the dressing-gown on her arm significantly.
"Do you remember it?"
"Yes, ma'am,--I suppose I do, Miss Daisy--"
"June, when do you think it will be?"
"When will what, Miss Daisy?"
"When the 'Son of Man shall send forth his angels, and they shall gather
out of his kingdom all things that offend and them which do iniquity,
and shall cast them into a furnace of fire; there shall be wailing and
gnashing of teeth. Then shall the righteous shine forth as the sun in
the kingdom of their Father.' It says, 'in the end of this world'--did
you know this world would come to an end, June?"
"Yes, Miss Daisy--"
"When will it be, June?"
"I don't know, Miss Daisy."
"There won't be anybody alive that is alive now, will there?"
Again unwillingly the answer came: "Yes, ma'am. Miss Daisy, hadn't you
better--"
"How do you know, June?"
"I have heard so--it's in the Bible--it will be when the Lord comes."
"Do you like to think of it, June?"
The child's searching eyes were upon her. The woman half laughed, half
answered, and turning aside, broke down and burst into tears.
"What's the matter, June?" said Daisy, coming nearer and speaking
awedly; for it was startling to see that stony face give way to anything
but its habitual formal smile. But the woman recovered herself almost
immediately, and answered as usual: "It's nothing, Miss Daisy." She
always spoke as if everything about her was "nothing" to everybody else.
"But, June," said Daisy tenderly, "why do you feel bad about it?"
"I shouldn't, I s'pose," said the woman desperately, answering because
she was obliged to answer; "I hain't no right to feel so--if I felt
ready."
"How can one be ready, June? that is what I want to know. Aren't you
ready?"
"Do, don't, Miss Daisy!--the Lord have mercy upon us!" said June under
her breath, wrought up to great excitement, and unable to bear the look
of the child's soft grey eyes. "Why don't ye ask your papa about them
things? he can tell ye."
Alas, Daisy's lips were sealed. Not to father or mother would she apply
with any second question on this subject. And now she must not ask Mr.
Dinwiddie. She went to bed, turning the matter all over and over in her
little head.
CHAPTER II.
For some days after this time, Mrs. Randolph fancied that her little
daughter was less lively than usual; she "moped," her mother said. Daisy
was not moping, but it was true she had been little seen or heard; and
then it was generally sitting with a book in the Belvidere or on a bank
under a rose-bush, or going out or coming in with a book under her arm.
Mrs. Randolph did not know that this book was almost always the Bible,
and Daisy had taken a little pains that she should not know, guessing
somehow that it would not be good for her studies. But her mother
thought Daisy was drooping; and Daisy had been a delicate child, and the
doctor had told them to turn her out in the country and "let her run;"
therefore it was that she was hardly ever checked in any fancy that came
into her head. But therefore it was partly, too, that Mrs. Randolph
tried to put books and thinking as far from her as she could.
"Daisy," she said one morning at the breakfast-table, "would you like to
go with June and carry some nice things down to Mrs. Parsons?"
"How, mamma?"
"How what? Do speak distinctly."
"How shall I go, I mean?"
"You may have the carriage. I cannot go, this morning or this
afternoon."
"O papa, mayn't I take Loupe and drive there myself?"
If Daisy had put the question at the other end of the table, there would
have been an end of the business, as she knew. As it was, her father's
"yes" got out just before her mother's "no."
"Yes she may," said Mr. Randolph--"no harm. John, tell Sam that he is to
take the black pony and go with the pony-chaise whenever Miss Daisy
drives. Daisy, see that he goes with you."
"Well," said Mrs. Randolph, "you may do as you like, but I think it is a
very unsafe proceeding. What's Sam?--he's a boy."
"Safe enough," said Mr. Randolph. "I can trust all three of the party;
Daisy, Loupe, and Sam. They all know their business, and they will all
do it."
"Well!--I think it is very unsafe," repeated Mrs. Randolph.
"Mamma," said Daisy, when she had allowed a moment to pass--"what shall
I take to Mrs. Parsons."
"You must go and see Joanna about that. You may make up whatever you
think will please her or do her good. Joanna will tell you."
And Mrs. Randolph had the satisfaction of seeing that Daisy's eyes were
lively enough for the rest of breakfast-time, and her colour perceptibly
raised. No sooner was breakfast over than she flew to the consultation
in the housekeeper's room.
Joanna was the housekeeper, and Mrs. Randolph's right hand; a jewel of
skill and efficiency; and as fully satisfied with her post and power in
the world, at the head of Mr. Randolph's household, as any throned
emperor or diademed queen; furthermore, devoted to her employers as
though their concerns had been, what indeed she reckoned them, her own.
"Mrs. Randolph didn't say anything to me about it," said this piece of
capability,--"but I suppose it isn't hard to manage. Who is Mrs.
Parsons? that's the first thing."
"She's a very poor old woman, Joanna; and she is obliged to keep her bed
always; there is something the matter with her. She lives with a
daughter of hers who takes care of her, I believe; but they haven't much
to live upon, and the daughter isn't smart. Mrs. Parsons hasn't anything
fit for her to eat, unless somebody sends it to her."
"What's the matter with her? ain't she going to get well?"
"No, never--she will always be obliged to lie on her bed as long as she
lives; and so, you see, Joanna, she hasn't appetite for coarse things."
"Humph!" said Joanna. "Custards won't give it to her. What does the
daughter live upon?"
"She does washing for people; but of course that don't give her much.
They are very poor, I know."
"Well, what would you like to take her, Miss Daisy?"
"Mother said you'd know."
"Well, I'll tell you what _I_ think--sweetmeats ain't good for such
folks. You wait till afternoon, and you shall have a pail of nice broth
and a bowl of arrowroot with wine and sugar in it; that'll hearten her
up. Will that do?"
"But I should like to take something to the other poor woman, too."
"How are you going?"
"In my pony-chaise--I can take anything."
Joanna muttered an ejaculation. "Well then, Miss Daisy, a basket of cold
meat wouldn't come amiss, I suppose."
"And some bread, Joanna?"
"The chaise won't hold so much."
"It has got to hold the basket," said Daisy in much glee, "and the bread
can go in. And, Joanna, I'll have it ready at half-past four o'clock."
There was no air of moping about Daisy, when, at half-past four she set
off from the house in her pony-chaise, laden with pail and basket and
all she had bargained for. A happier child was seldom seen. Sam, a
capable black boy, was behind her on a pony not too large to shame her
own diminutive equipage; and Loupe, a good-sized Shetland pony, was very
able for more than his little mistress was going to ask of him. Her
father looked on, pleased, to see her departure; and when she had
gathered up her reins, leaned over her and gave her with his kiss a
little gold piece to go with the pail and basket. It crowned Daisy's
satisfaction; with a quiet glad look and word of thanks to her father,
she drove off.
[Illustration: LOUPE.]
The pony waddled along nicely, but as his legs were none of the longest,
their rate of travelling was not precisely of the quickest. Daisy was
not impatient. The afternoon was splendid, the dust had been laid by
late rains, and Daisy looked at her pail and basket with great
contentment. Before she had gone a quarter of a mile from home, she met
her little friend of the wintergreens. Nora sprang across the road to
the chaise.
"O Daisy, where are you going?"
"I am going to carry some things for mamma, to a house."
"All alone?"
"No, Sam is there to take care of me."
Nora looked back at the black pony, and then at Daisy. "Isn't it nice!"
she said, with a sort of half-regretful admiration.
"It's as nice as a fairy tale," said Daisy. "I'm just as good as a
princess, you know, Nora. Don't you want to go, too? Do come."
"No, I musn't--there are people coming to tea. Mrs. Linwood, and Charles
and Jane--I wish I could go! How far is it, Daisy?"
"About five miles. Down beyond Crum Elbow, a good nice way; but I shan't
go through Crum Elbow."
"It's so splendid!" sighed Nora. "Well, good-bye. I can't go."
On went the pony. The roads were good and pleasant, leading through
farm, fields and here and there a bit of wood, but not much. It was
mostly open country, cultivated by farmers; and the grain fields not yet
ripe, and the grass fields not yet mown, looked rich and fair and soft
in bright colours to Daisy's eyes, as the afternoon sun shone across
them and tree shadows lay long over the ground. For trees there were, a
great many, growing singly about the fields and fences, and some of
them, very large and fine. Daisy was not so busy with her driving but
that she could use her eyes about other things. Now and then she met a
farm wagon, or a labourer going along the road. The men looked at her
curiously and pleasantly, as if they thought it a pretty sight; but once
Daisy, passing a couple of men together, overheard one say to the other:
"It's Randolph's folks--they stick themselves up considerable--"
The tone of the voice was gruff and coarse, and Daisy marvelled much in
her little mind what had displeased the man in her or in "Randolph's
folks." She determined to ask her father. "Stick ourselves up?" said
Daisy thoughtfully--"we _never_ do!"
So she touched the pony, who was falling into a very leisurely way of
trotting, and in good time came to Mrs. Parsons' door.
Daisy went in. The daughter was busy at some ironing in the outer room;
she was a dull, lack-lustre creature, and though she comprehended the
gifts that had been brought her, seemed hardly to have life enough to
thank the donor. _That_ wasn't quite like a fairy tale, Daisy thought.
No doubt this poor woman must have things to eat, but there was not much
fun in bringing them to her. Daisy was inclined to wonder how she had
ever come to marry anybody with so lively a name as Lark. But before she
got away, Mrs. Lark asked Daisy to go in and see her mother, and Daisy,
not knowing how to refuse, went in as requested.
What a change! Another poor room to be sure, very poor it looked to
Daisy; with its strip of rag carpet on the floor, its rush-bottomed
chairs, and paper window-shades; and on the bed lay the bed-ridden
woman. But with such a nice pleasant face; eyes so lively and quiet,
smile so contented, brow so calm, Daisy wondered if it could be she that
must lie there always and never go about again as long as she lived. It
had been a matter of dread to her to see anything so disagreeable; and
now it was not disagreeable. Daisy was fascinated. Mrs. Lark had
withdrawn.
"Is your mother with you, dear?"
"No ma'am, I came alone. Mamma told me to ask Mrs. Parsons if there is
anything she would like to have, that mamma could do for her."
"Yes; if you would come in and see me sometimes," said the old lady, "I
should like it very much."
"Me?" said Daisy.
"Yes. I don't see young faces very often. They don't care to come to see
an old woman."
"I should like to come," said Daisy, "very much, if I could do anything;
but I must go now, because it will be late. Good-bye, ma'am."
Daisy's little courtesy it was pleasant to see, and it was so pleasant
altogether that Mrs. Parsons had it over and over in her thoughts that
day and the next.
"It's as nice as a fairy tale," Daisy repeated to herself, as she took
her seat in the chaise again and shook up her reins. It was better than
a fairy tale really, for the sunshine coming between the trees from the
sinking sun, made all the world look so beautiful that Daisy thought no
words could tell it. It was splendid to drive through that sunlight. In
a minute or two more she had pulled up her reins short, and almost
before she knew why she had done it or whom she had seen, Mr. Dinwiddie
stood at her side. Here he was. She must not go where ha was; she had
not; he had come to her. Daisy was very glad. But she looked up in his
face now without speaking.
"Ha! my stray lamb," said he, "whither are you running?"
"Home, sir," said Daisy meekly.
"Do you know you have run away from me?"
"Yes, Mr. Dinwiddie."
"How came that?"
"It was unavoidable, sir," said Daisy, in her slow, old-fashioned way.
But the bright eye of the young man saw that her eye fell and her face
clouded over; it was not a slight nor a chance hindrance that had been
in her way, he was sure.
"Then you don't mean to come to me any more?"
It was a dreadful question, but Mr. Dinwiddie's way of speaking was so
clear and quick and business-like, and he seemed to know so well what he
was talking about, that the answer was forced from Daisy. She looked up
and said, "No, sir." He watched the soft thoughtful face that was raised
towards him.
"Then if this is the last time we are to talk about it, Daisy, shall I
look for you among those that will 'shine as the sun' in the Lord's
kingdom?"
"O sir,--Mr. Dinwiddie,"--said Daisy, dropping her reins and rising up,
"that is what I want to know about. Please tell me!"
"Tell you what?" said Mr. Dinwiddie, gathering up the reins.
"Tell me how to do, sir, please."
"What have you done, Daisy?"
"Nothing, sir--only reading the Bible."
"And you do not find it there?"
"I find a great deal, sir; but I don't quite understand--I don't know
how to be a Christian."
Daisy thought it might be her last chance; she was desperate, and spoke
out.
"Do you love the Lord Jesus, Daisy?"
"I don't know, Mr. Dinwiddie."
"You know how he loves you? You know what he has done for you?"
"Yes--I know--"
"He died to save you from death and sin. He will do it if you trust him.
Now what he wants is that you should love him and trust him. 'Let the
little children come to me,' he said a great while ago, and says now.
Daisy, the good Lord wants you to give him your heart."
"But suppose, Mr. Dinwiddie--"
"Yes. What?"
"Suppose I can't. I don't know how."
"Do you want to do it?"
"Yes, sir. Indeed I do."
"Very well; the Lord knows just what your difficulty is; you must apply
to him."
"Apply to him?" said Daisy.
"Ask him."
"How, sir?"
"Pray to him. Tell the Lord your trouble, and ask him to make it all
right for you. Did you never pray to him?"
"No, sir--not ever."
"My lamb," said Mr. Dinwiddie, "he will hear you, if you never prayed to
him before. I will shew you the word of his promise." And he opened a
pocket-Bible and found the place of these words which he gave Daisy to
read. "'_I will put a new spirit within you; and I will take the stony
heart out of their flesh, and will give them an heart of flesh; that
they may walk in my statutes, and keep mine ordinances, and do them: and
they shall be my people, and I will be their God_.' Now is that what you
want, Daisy?"
"Yes, sir; only I don't know how."
"Never mind; the Lord knows. He will make it all right, if only you are
willing to give yourself to be his little servant."
"I will give him all I have got, sir," said Daisy, looking up.
"Very well; then I will shew you one thing more--it is a word of the
Lord Jesus. See--'_If ye love me, keep my commandments_.' Now I want you
to keep those two words, and you can't remember where to find them
again--I must let you take this book with you." And Mr. Dinwiddie folded
down leaves in the two places.
"But Mr. Dinwiddie,"--said Daisy softly--"I don't know when I can get it
back to you again, sir."
"Never mind--keep it, and when you don't want it, give it to some poor
person that does. And remember, little one, that the good Lord expects
his servants to tell him their troubles and to pray to him every day."
"Thank you, sir!" was Daisy's deep ejaculation.
"Don't thank me. Now will your pony get you home before dark?"
"O yes, Mr. Dinwiddie! Loupe is lazy, but he can go, and I will make
him."
The chaise went off at a swift rate accordingly, after another soft
grateful look from its little driver. Mr. Dinwiddie stood looking after
it. Of a certain woman, of Thyatira it is written that "the Lord opened
her heart, that she attended to the things which were spoken." Surely,
the gentleman thought, the same had been true of his late little charge.
He went thoughtfully home. While Daisy, not speculating at all, in her
simplicity sat thinking that she was the Lord's servant; and rejoiced
over and over again that she had for her own and might keep the book of
her Lord's commandments. There were such things as Bibles in the house,
certainly, but Daisy had never had one of her own. That in which she had
read the other night and which she had used to study her lessons for Mr.
Dinwiddie, was one belonging to her brother, which he was obliged to use
at school. Doubtless Daisy could also have had one for the asking; she
knew that; but it might have been some time first; and she had a certain
doubt in her little mind that the less she said upon the subject the
better. She resolved her treasure should be a secret one. It was right
for her to have a Bible; she would not run the risk of disagreeable
comments or commands by in any way putting it forward. Meanwhile she had
become the Lord's servant! A very poor little beginning of a servant she
thought herself; nevertheless in telling Mr. Dinwiddie what she had, it
seemed to Daisy that she had spoken aloud her oath of allegiance; and a
growing joy in the transaction and a growing love to the great Saviour
who was willing to let her be his servant, filled her little heart. She
just knew that the ride home was lovely, but Daisy's mind was travelling
a yet more sunshiny road. She was intelligent in what she had done. One
by one Mr. Dinwiddie's lessons had fallen on a willing and open ear. She
knew herself to be a sinner and lost; she believed that the Lord Jesus
would save her by his death; and it seemed to her the most natural and
reasonable and pleasant thing in the world, that the life for which his
blood had been shed, should be given to him. "If ye love me, keep my
commandments." "I wonder," thought Daisy, "what they are."
CHAPTER III.
"What sort of an expedition did you have, Daisy?" her father asked at
breakfast next morning. Company the evening before had prevented any
talk about it.
"O very good, papa! It was as good as a fairy tale."
"Was it?" said Mr. Randolph. "I wonder what pitch of excellence that is.
I don't remember ever finding a fairy tale very good to me."
"Did you ever read any, papa?"
"I don't know! Were you not tired with your long drive?"
"O no, papa!"
"Would you like to go again?"
"Yes papa, very much."
"You may go as often as you like--only always let Sam be along."
"Did you find out what Mrs. Parsons wants?" said Mrs. Randolph.
"No, mamma--she did not look as if she wanted anything, except to see