Chapter 14

A TRUCE

It is odd with what significance little things become endued, from their connection with other things which are not little. I remember the white dress mamma wore the next day, and the red cashmere scarf she had wrapped round her. I remember how happy and easy the folds of her drapery were, and how I noticed her graceful slow movements, Surely grace is a natural attribute of power, even though power be not always graceful; at least any uncertainty of meaning or manner is fatal to gracefulness. There was no uncertainty about mamma ever, unless the uncertainty of carelessness; and that itself belonged to power. There was no uncertainty in any fold of her cashmere that morning; in any movement of her person, slow and reposeful as every movement was. I knew by a sort of instinct what it all meant. Indeed these were mamma's ordinary characteristics; only appearing just now with the bloom of perfection upon them. She was powerful and she knew it; I knew myself naturally no match for her. It was always very hard for me to withstand mamma. Nothing but the sense of right ever gave me courage to do it. But striving for the right, the Christian is not at his own charges, and has other strength than his own to depend upon.

"You do not eat, my darling," papa said to me.

"Daisy has too much to think of," said mamma with a sort of careless significance. "I will have another bit of chicken, if you please, Mr. Randolph."

"What is she thinking of?"

"Girls' thoughts are unfathomable," said mamma.

"_Is_ it thoughts, Daisy?" said my father.

"I suppose it may be, papa."

"Then I shall do something to break up thinking," he said.

But I knew I must not look for help so. To appeal to one of my parents against the other, was what it would never answer to do, even if I could have done it. I felt alone; but I was as quiet as mamma. I had not so good an appetite.

In the course of the morning she had me up stairs to consider the matter of dresses and fashions; and we were turning over a quantity of laces and jewels. Mamma tried one and another set of stones upon me and in my hair.

"Rubies and pearls are your style," she said at length. "Diamonds are out of harmony, somehow. You are magnificent, Daisy; and pearls make you look like the Queen of Sheba. I cannot imagine why diamonds do hot suit you."

"I do not suit them, mamma."

"Pardon me. You do not know yourself. But girls of your age never do. That is where mothers are useful, I suppose. Which is it to be, Daisy?"

"I do not want either, mamma."

"Yes; that is of course too. But which do you like best, of the two? I suppose you have some preference."

"Mamma, I think I prefer the pearls, but you know -"

Mamma stopped my mouth with a kiss. "Little goose!" she said, - "I am not talking of pearls. Did I not say what I was thinking of? I supposed we both had the same thought, Daisy, and that you would understand me."

"I thought it was pearls and rubies, mamma."

"Well, now you know it is not; and again I come back to my question, - Which is it to be?"

"Which - of what, mamma?"

"Nonsense, Daisy; - you know."

"I know nothing of any choice that I have to make, ma'am, if you do not mean about jewels; and of them, as I said, I should prefer neither."

"You may choose and refuse among jewels," said my mother, - "and refuse and choose; but among some other things it is necessary to make a choice and stick to it."

"Yes, mamma; but I am not in such a necessity."

"What choice have you made, then? It is the same thing, Daisy; only I want to know. Do you not think it is reasonable that I should know?"

"Please explain yourself, mamma."

"Hugh Marshall, then, and Charles De Saussure. What is your mind about them?"

"I like them, mamma, as your friends and as mine, - very well, - but no more."

"Only very well."

"No more, mamma."

"Very well, is a good deal," said mamma coolly. "Which of them must I like a little more than very well, Daisy?"

"Mamma? -"

"Whoever owns and possesses you, I should wish to like very much. Which is it to be, Daisy?"

"Neither of these gentlemen, mamma."

"Did De Saussure propose to you yesterday?"

"Yes."

"What did you say to him?"

"I made him understand that he was nothing to me."

"He is something to me," said mamma. "He is one of the first young men I know, and has one of the finest estates - close by yours, Daisy."

"Estates are nothing in such a matter, mamma."

"That is like saying that pearls and rubies are nothing on such a skin as yours," said mamma laughing. "But you may think of the men, Daisy, and I will think of the estates; that is all _en règle_."

"I do not wish to think of these men, mamma."

"It is late in the day to say that. You must have thought of them both, Daisy, and long ago."

"It never entered my head till yesterday, mamma, that either of them liked me."

"You must have seen it for weeks past."

"I did not, mamma, - I never thought of such a thing as possible, till yesterday."

"Is it a possible thing," said mamma, "that a daughter of mine can be such a simpleton? It is time you were married, Daisy, if you can break hearts like that, without knowing it."

"Better be a simpleton than wicked," I said.

"And that comes to the point," said mamma. "You have most unaccountably encouraged the addresses of these gentlemen - and seeing that you did, so have I; - now, to clear both yourself and me, let your preference be made known. It need not take you long to make your mind up, I suppose."

"I am very sorry, mamma. I have done wrong; I have been very foolish; but I cannot do worse. I do not like either of these gentlemen well enough for what you mean."

"If you have done wrong, you can mend it," said mamma. "Liking will come fast enough, Daisy; a girl like you does not think she can like anybody but her father and mother; she finds out her mistake in time. So will you. I will decide for you, if you have no choice. Charles De Saussure is my friend, and I think he is most of a man of the two. I will tell Charles that you will make him happy by and by."

"No, mamma, I will not. Do not tell him so."

"Do you like Hugh Marshall better?"

"I do not like either of them in the way you mean."

"Do you like Hugh better? Answer me."

"Mamma -"

"No, answer me. A plain answer. Do you like Hugh better?"

"A great deal better; but -"

"That settles it," said mamma. "You shall be Hugh Marshall's wife. Don't tell me a word against it, Daisy, for I will not hear you. I do not like Marshall as well, myself, but his property is even larger, I believe; and as I am not in love, I may be allowed to think of such things. It is away over on the Mississippi; but we cannot help that. I will make Hugh happy to-day, and then - you shall, Daisy."

"No, mamma, - never. It cannot be."

"It must, Daisy. You have compromised yourself, and me. You have allowed these gentlemen's attentions; you have been seen everywhere with them; you owe it to yourself and them to declare your choice of one of them now. You must make up your mind to it. If you are not in love, it cannot be helped; that will come in time; but I think you are. Hey, Daisy?" she said, lifting my chin with her forefinger and looking into my face, - "isn't it true? Isn't it true? Ah, silly thing! - Eyes that are wells of sweetness for somebody - for all down they go, - a mouth that has smiles enough for somebody, - though it trembles, - and what does this rose leaf mean, that is stealing over every one of your two cheeks? it is a witness to somebody, who has brought it there. Go - I know all about it. You may make your confession to Hugh, if you like it best."

I thought mamma would have broken my heart. I rose up in despair.

"To-day, Daisy," mamma repeated. "It must be done to-day."

What could I say? I did not know.

"Mamma, it is not as you think. I do not care for Hugh Marshall."

"Is it De Saussure, then?" she asked, turning quickly upon me.

"No, mamma."

"Is it Preston Gary?" she asked, with a change in her voice.

"No, Oh, no, mamma!"

"Then it is one of these. Daisy, I protest I have not skill enough to find out _which_ of them; but you know, and that is sufficient. And they must know too; there can be no more of this three-cornered game. It is time to put an end to it. I have read you, if you have not read yourself; and now, my child, you must be content to let the rose blossom, that you keep so carefully folded up in its green leaves. One of these gentlemen will leave us presently; and the other, whichever it is, I shall consider and treat as your acknowledged suitor; and so _must you, Daisy_. He will be going home to the war, he too, in a short time more; and he must go with the distinct understanding that when the war is over, you will reward him as he wants to be rewarded. Not; till then, child. You will have time enough to think about it."

My mother had shut my lips. I was afraid to say anything good or bad. She had read me; yes, I felt that she had, when she looked into my face and touched my cheeks and kissed my lips, which I knew well enough were trembling, as she had said. She had read me, all but the name in my heart. What if she had read that? The least movement now on my part might bring it to the light; what if it came? I did not know what then, and I was greatly afraid. An old awe of my mother and sense of her power, as well as knowledge of her invincible determination, filled me with doubt and fear. She might write to Mr. Thorold at once and forbid him ever to think of me; she might send him word that I was engaged to Mr. De Saussure. And indeed I might also possibly clear my own action to Mr. Thorold; but change hers, never. My faith failed, I believe. I was like Abraham when he went into Egypt and feared somebody would kill him to get possession of his wife. I did not, like him, resort to a fiction for my safety; but neither did I trust God and dare tell the truth.

My own will was as good as mamma's. I was not afraid of weakly yielding some time or other; I was only afraid of her outside measures.

She resumed her occupation of trying laces and jewels on me; finally laughed, chucked me under the chin, kissed me, called me a pretty goose, and bade me go and dress myself "for whomever I liked best." I went to my room to have the heartache.

I had given up the management of myself; I was not struggling now; I knew there would be a way out of all my perplexities some time; but nevertheless my heart ached. I did dress myself, however, for that is an important part of a woman's work; and I went down stairs with a vague hope in my heart that I might see Hugh and somehow enlist him on my side, so far at least as to make him delay his departure; though I could not imagine how I could ask it, nor what I could say to him of any sort that would benefit me or that would not do him harm. But I thought in vain. I did not see him. Mr. De Saussure came, and played chess with me all the evening. I played very ill, and he won every game, till I thought he would stop for the very stupidness of it.

Some painful days followed that day; during which mamma managed to make me accept Mr. De Saussure's attentions in public and in private. She managed it; I could not escape them without making a violent protest, and I did not of course choose that. Hugh Marshall was gone; he had come only to take a hurried leave of us; suddenly obliged to return home, he said; "he had lingered too long." Mr. De Saussure's eyes flashed with I triumph; every line of mamma's face (to me) expressed satisfaction, of course gracefully concealed from everybody else. But Hugh and I parted with a great grasp of the hand, which I am sure came from both our hearts and left mine very sore. Then he was gone. After that, Mr. De Saussure took Hugh's place and his own too in our little society; and for a few days things went on in a train which I knew was preparing mischief.

Then one night the explosion came. We were out on the lake in a boat; mamma, Mr. De Saussure, and I; we had gone to see the colours come and go on the great head of Mont Blanc. In the glory of the sight, I had forgotten who was with me and where I was, for the moment; and I was thinking of the colours and lights of the New Jerusalem, than which those before me seemed scarcely less unearthly. Thinking, with a pang at the distance between; with a longing for those pure heights where human life never casts its flickering shadow; with a cry for Thorold in my heart, whom every sight of joy or beauty was sure to bring before me. I was rudely recalled from my momentary dream, though it was by my mother's soft voice.

"Daisy -"

I started and came back to earth and the Lake of Geneva.

"Mr. De Saussure is going soon to leave us and return home - you know for what. Before he goes, he desires the satisfaction of kissing your hand. I suppose he would have liked a little more, but I have only promised the hand."

"I have explained myself to Mr. De Saussure, mamma; he is under no mistake."

"So I have told him. He could not ask more than you have given him; but leaving us for a long while, Daisy, and on such a service, a little further grace would not be ill bestowed. I shall give him leave, if you do not," she added laughing; "and I may give him more than you would like, Daisy."

I think at that minute I felt as if I would like to make one spring out of this world and all its confusions into that other world I had been thinking of; but one does not get quit of one's troubles so easily. That minute on the Lake of Geneva was one of the _ugliest_ I have ever known. Mamma was smooth and determined; Mr. De Saussure looked triumphant and expectant; for a moment my heart shrank, but I do not think I showed it outwardly.

"Daisy -" said mamma, smiling.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Mr. De Saussure is waiting. Will you speak the word? - or shall I?"

"I have spoken to Mr. De Saussure," I said, coldly.

"Not very clearly. He understands you better now."

"Permit me to say," put in blandly Mr. De Saussure, - "that I am rejoiced to find I did _not_ understand you at a former conversation we held together. Mrs. Randolph has been my kind interpreter. You will not _now_ refuse me?" he said, as he endeavoured to insinuate his fingers into mine.

"Kiss her, Charles!" said mamma; "she is a coy girl. I give you leave."

And before I could anticipate or prevent it, Mr. De Saussure's arm was round me and the salute was given. I think mamma really thought she could bestow me away as she pleased. I am sure she had no idea of the nature she was combating. Nobody had ever withstood her successfully; she did not think that I could be the first. But this little thing - it was not a little thing to me at the time - cut the knot of my difficulties. Released from Mr. De Saussure's encircling arm, I removed myself to the other side of the boat and drew my shawl round me. I do not know what significance was in my action, but mamma said, "Nonsense!"

"I have not offended, have I?" said Mr. De Saussure. "Remember, I had liberty."

"Mamma," I said, "if you will sit a little further that way, you will restore the balance of the boat."

"Which you have entirely disarranged, Daisy," she said as she moved herself.

"Daisy will acknowledge I had liberty," Mr. De Saussure repeated.

"Mamma," I said, "don't you think it is growing chill?"

"Row us home, Charles," said my mother. "And, Daisy, don't be a fool. Mr. De Saussure had liberty, as he says."

"I do not acknowledge it, ma'am."

"You must give her line, Charles," mamma said, half laughing but vexed. "She is a woman."

"I hope she will grant me forgiveness," he said. "She must remember, I _thought_ I had liberty."

"I shall not forget," I answered. "I understand, that respect for me failed before respect for my mother."

"But! -" he began.

"Be quiet, Charles," my mother interrupted him. "Pull us to shore; and let fits of perverseness alone till they go off. That is my counsel to you."

And the remainder of our little voyage was finished in profound silence. I knew mamma was terribly vexed, but at the same time I was secretly overjoyed; for I saw that she yielded to me, and I knew that I should have no more trouble with Mr. De Saussure.

I did not. He lingered about for a few days longer, in moody style, and then went away and I saw him no more. During those days I had nothing to do with him. But my mother had almost as little to do with me. She was greatly offended; and also, I saw, very much surprised. The woman Daisy could not be quite the ductile thing the child Daisy had been. I took refuge with papa whenever I could.

"What is all this about De Saussure and Marshall?" he asked one day.

"They have both gone home."

"I know they have; but what sent them home?"

"Mamma has been trying to make them go, this long while, you know, papa. She wanted them to go and join Beauregard."

"And will they? Is that what they are gone for?"

"I do not know if they will, papa. I suppose Mr. De Saussure will."

"And not Marshall?"

"I do not know about him."

"What did _you_ do, Daisy?"

"Papa - you know I do not like the war."

"How about liking the gentlemen?"

"I am glad they are gone."

"Well, so am I," papa answered; "but what had you to do with sending them home?"

"Nothing, papa, - only that I unfortunately did not want them to stay."

"And you could not offer them any reward for going?"

"Papa, a man who would do such a thing for _reward_, would not be a man."

"I think so too, Daisy. Your mother somehow takes a different view."

"She cares only for the soldier, papa; not for the man."

Papa was silent and thoughtful.

There were no other intimate friends about us in Geneva; and our life became, I must confess, less varied and pleasant after the young men had gone. At first I felt only the relief; then the dulness began to creep in. Papa led the life of an invalid, or of one who had been an invalid; not an active life in any way; I thought, not active enough for his good. Some hours I got of reading with him; reading to him, and talking of what we read; they did my father good, and me too; but they were few, and often cut short. As soon as mamma joined us, our books had to be laid aside. They bored her, she said, or hindered her own reading; and she and papa played draughts and chess and piquet. Mamma was not in a bored state at other times; for she was busy with letters and plans and arrangements, always in a leisurely way, but yet busy. It was a sort of business with which I had no sympathy, and which therefore left me out. The cause of the South was not my cause; and the discussion of toilettes, fashions, costumes and society matters, was entirely out of my line. In all these, mamma found her element. Ransom was no resource to anybody; and of course not to me, with whom, now as ever, he had little in common. Mamma held me aloof, ever since Mr. De Saussure's departure; and I only knew indirectly, as it were, that she was planning a social campaign for me and meditating over adornments and advantages which should help to make it triumphant. Life in this way was not altogether enjoyable. The only conversation which could be said to be general among us, was on the subject of home affairs in America. That rung in my ears every day.

"Glorious news, sir!" cried Ransom one day as he came in to dinner. "Glorious news! The first real news we have had in a long time."

"What is it?" said my father; and "What, Ransom?" my mother asked, with a kindling eye. My heart sank. Those know who remember those times, how one's heart used to sink when news came.

"What is it, Ransom?"

"Why, a large body of them, the Yankees, got across the Potomac the night of the 20th; got in a nest of our sharpshooters and were well riddled; then, when they couldn't stand it any longer, they fell back to the river and tried to get across again to the other side, where they came from; and they had no means of getting across, nothing but a couple of old scows; so they went into the water to get away from the fire, and quantities of them were drowned, and those that were not drowned were shot. Lost a great many, and their commanding officer killed. That's the way. They'll have enough of it in time. The war'll be over in a few weeks or months more. De Saussure will not have time to raise his regiment. I don't think, mamma, it's any use for me to go home, it'll be over so soon."

"Where was this?" inquired my father.

"Some place - Ball's Bluff, I believe. It was a grand affair."

"How many did they lose?" my mother said.

"Oh, I don't know - some thousands. We lost nothing to speak of. But the thing is, they will lose heart. They will never stand this sort of thing. They have no officers, you know, and they can have no soldiers. They will be obliged to give up."

Words were in my heart, but my lips knew better than to speak them. _Had_ they no officers? Had Christian no soldiers under him? My head was ready to believe it; my heart refused. Yet I thought too I had seen at the North the stuff that soldiers are made of.

"If I were you," said my mother, "I would not let it all be over before I had a part in it."

"The war is not ended yet, Felicia," my father remarked; "and it will take more than a few hard knocks to make them give up."

"They have had nothing but hard knocks, sir, since it began," Ransom cried.

"Your father always takes a medium view of everything," my mother said. "If it depended on him, I believe there would be no war."

"I should have one other vote for peace," papa said, looking at me.

"It is well Daisy was not born a boy!" Ransom said.

"I hope you will not make me wish you had been born a girl," my father replied. "Strength is no more noble when it ceases to be gentle."

"Must not every woman wish for peace?" I said. It was an unhappy attempt at a diversion, and if I had not been in a hurry I should not have made it.

"No," my mother answered, not sharply, but with cold distinctness. "Before the South should submit to the dictation or reproof of Northern boors and fanatics, I would take a musket myself and die in the trenches."

"It is an ugly place to die in, my dear," answered my father.

"See Daisy shiver!" Ransom exclaimed; and he burst into a laugh, "Mamma, Daisy's blood has grown thin at the North. She is not a true Southern woman. There is no fire in you, Daisy."

Not at that moment, for I was sick and cold, as he said. I could not get accustomed to these things, with all the practice I had.

"No fire in her?" said papa, calmly. "There is ammunition enough, Ransom. I don't want to see the fire, for my part. I am glad there is one of us that keeps cool. My darling, you look pale - what is it for?"

"Fire that burns with a blue flame," said mamma.

"Blue?" - said papa, with a look at me which somehow set us all to laughing.

"The carmine is coming in again," said mamma. "I profess I do not understand you, Daisy."

I was afraid she began to suspect me.

It was very true that mamma did not understand me; and it was the unhappiness of my life. I tried hard to narrow the distance between us, by every opportunity that the days or the hours gave; and a certain accord was after a time established anew in our relations with each other. Mamma again took to adorning and playing with me; again studied my toilettes and superintended my dressing; made me as exquisite as herself in all outward paraphernalia. I let her alone; in this at least I could gratify her; and no occasion of gratifying her was to be lost. Papa was pleased too, though I think it made less difference to him what I was dressed in; yet he observed me, and smiled in a way to show his pleasure whenever a new device of mamma's produced a new effect. She sought society for herself and me now. We removed from Geneva and went to Florence. I was thankful it was not to Paris. Every foot of Italy had great charms for me; and I dreamed over Florence, with a delighted fancy that never grew tired or tame. That my evenings were spent in what I did not care for, could not spoil my days. Our walks and drives, which papa and I often now took alone, were delicious beyond expression. I forgot the whirl of the night before and of the evening to come, and I was the child Daisy again, I think, in very much. At night mamma had me.

There was a lull at this time in the news from home. Both parties in America were gathering up their strength; and in the mean time the only affairs we heard of were inconclusive skirmishes, sometimes turning out for the advantage of one side, sometimes of the other; but not to signal advantage for anybody. I hoped, with such a lull, that things might subside into a state susceptible of composition. I might have reasoned, if I looked at home, upon the unlikelihood of any such thing. No news of advantages lost or gained had any effect upon my mother and brother but to make them more keen in the cause and more relentless in pursuit of their end. The hearing of a trifling success was like a taste of blood to the lion; the loss of Beaufort and its forts was turned into an occasion of triumph because "the great naval expedition" had accomplished no greater things. They laughed at McClellan's review of troops; and counted up the gains his adversaries were to realise from the co-operation of foreign well-wishers. And then the taking of Mason and Slidell put them into a fume of indignation and scorn. My father shared, though more gently, in all this. I was alone. Could I tell them that my heart was with the Northern army; and how it went out after every gleam of one particular sabre?

My mother drew me into society by degrees. I hardly knew where the line was passed, between quiet conversaziones and brilliant and courtly assemblies. It was passed when I was unwitting of it, or when I felt unable to help it. My mother had been so much alienated by my behaviour toward Marshall and De Saussure, that I thought it needful to please her by every means in my power, short of downright violation of conscience. "Children, obey your parents _in the Lord_," - I did not forget; I thought I was doing the very thing. For it was not to please myself, that I let my mother make me look as she chose and let her take me - where she would. My heart was too sore to be ambitious and too sober to feel the flutterings of vanity. I knew the effect of her doings was often what satisfied her; but the nearest approach to a thrill of vanity in myself was, I think, the wish that Christian could see me. And as he could not, I seemed to wear an armour of proof against other eyes. I did not care for them.

Nevertheless, I began to be sensible that they cared for me. I obeyed my mother at first because she signified her will very absolutely, and allowed me to see that any refusal on my part would make a breach between us. I left myself in her hands, to dress and adorn and lead about as she liked; I could not help it without an effort that would have parted us. And besides, I believe I accepted these engrossments of society as a sedative to keep me from thinking. They took a great deal of tine and occupied my attention while they lasted.

By degrees there came a change. As I said, I was admired. At first I cared little for any eyes but those which could not see me; but that did not last. I began to like to be admired. Soon after that, it dimly dawned upon me, that some of those whom I saw now every day, might come to admire me too much. I had learnt a lesson. There were several gentlemen, whose society I liked very well, who gave us, I began to perceive, a great deal of it. I saw them at night; I saw them by day; they met us in our walks; they even joined us in our rides. One was a German; a very cultivated and agreeable talker, well-bred, and in high position at Florence. Another was a delightful Italian; poor I think. A third was a young English nobleman; rich, but nothing more that I could discover. The German talked to me; the Italian sang with me; the Englishman followed me, and was most at home in our house of them all. I had been taking the good of all this, in a nice society way, enjoying the music and the talk and the information I got from the two first, and I am afraid enjoying too the flowers and the attentions of the third, as well as of still others whom I have not mentioned. I was floating down a stream and I had not thought about it, only enjoyed in a careless way; till a little thing startled me.

"We do not have so much time for our walks as we used, Daisy," papa said one day when he came into the drawing-room and found me with my habit on. "Where are you going now?"

"To ride, papa, with Lord Montjoy."

"My Daisy is not a daisy any longer," said papa, folding me in his arms. "She has grown into a white camellia. Going to ride with Lord Montjoy! -"

I cannot say what in these last words of papa gave me a whole revelation.

"I think you are mistaken, papa," I said. "I am Daisy yet."

"I _was_ mistaken," said papa smiling, but rather shadowedly, I thought; - "I should have said a rose camellia. Here is Lord Montjoy, my dear. Go."

I am sure Lord Montjoy had little satisfaction in that ride; at least I am sure I had little. I was longing for time to think, and frightened besides. But when the ride was over, mamma wanted me; the evening claimed me for a grand reception; the morning held me in sleep; we had company at luncheon; I was engaged with another riding party in the afternoon, and another assembly expected me at night. I could not rest or think, as I wanted to think, till night and morning had again two or three times tossed me about as a society ball. I think one's mind gets to be something like a ball too, when one lives such a life; all one's better thoughts rolled up, like a hybernating hedgehog, and put away as not wanted for use. I had no opportunity to unroll mine for several days.

But I could not bear this state of things long; and at last I excused myself from a party one morning and went to walk with papa; and then that hedgehog of thoughts began to stir and unfold and come to life. Still I wanted quiet. We had been going through a picture gallery, where I did not see the pictures; then, as often before, I persuaded papa to walk on further and take post where we could look at our leisure on the beautiful Dome. This was an unceasing pleasure to me. Papa was not so fond of it; he came for my sake, as he often was accustomed to do. To-day, instead of soothing, its majestic beauty roused all there was to rouse within me. I suppose we were a long time silent, but I do not know.

"Daisy, you are very quiet," papa said at length.

"Yes papa," I said, rousing myself. "I was thinking."

"That is an old disease of yours, my pet. I wish I could enjoy that great Dome as much as you do."

"Papa, it is so perfect!"

"The Grecian temples suit me better, Daisy."

"Not me, papa."

"Why do they not? What can equal their grace and symmetry?"

"It is cold beauty, papa; there is nothing to lift the thoughts up; and I don't believe those who built them had any high thoughts - spiritual thoughts, I mean, papa."

"And you think the builder of the Dome of Florence had?"

"Yes, sir - I think so."

"The one means no more to me than the other, Daisy."

"Papa," I said, "don't you remember, when you sent me word I must stay two years longer in school without seeing you and mamma, you sent me a promise too? - by Aunt Gary."

"I remember very well, Daisy. Are you going to claim the promise?"

"Papa, may I?"

"Certainly."

"But, papa, -does the promise stand good, like Herod's promise to that dancing woman? is it to be whatever I ask?"

"I believe I said so, Daisy. By the way, why do you not like dancing?"

"I suppose I should like it, papa, if I let myself do it."

"Why not let yourself do it? You do not want to make yourself singular, Daisy."

"No more than I must, papa. But about your promise."

"Yes. Well?"

"It stands good, papa? if it is 'to the half of your kingdom.' "

"That was a rash promise of Herod, Daisy."

"Yes, papa; but I am not a dancing girl."

Papa laughed, and looked at me, and laughed again, and seemed a good deal amused.

"What put that argument into your mouth?" he said. "And what is the reason that it is an argument? You are very absurd, Daisy! You are very absurd not to dance; so your mother says; and I am absurd too, by that reasoning; for I like you better than if you did. Well, not being a dancing girl, what is your petition? I reckon it will stand good, even to the half of my kingdom. Though indeed I do not know how much of a kingdom will remain to me, by the time matters are composed at home. There will be no crops grown at the South this year."

"It would not cost more to go to Palestine, would it, papa, than to live as we are doing now?"

"Palestine!" he exclaimed. "Your mother would never go to Palestine, Daisy."

"But you and I might, papa, - for a few months. You know mamma wants to go to Paris, to be there with Aunt Gary, who is coming."

"She wants you there too, Daisy, I much suspect; not to speak of me."

"What better time can we ever have, papa?"

"I do not know. I am afraid your mother would say any other would be better."

"Papa, I cannot tell you how glad I should be to go now."

"Why, Daisy?" said papa, looking at me. "To my certain knowledge, there are several people who will be desolate if you quit Florence at this time - several besides your mother."

"Papa, - that is the very reason why I should like to go - before it becomes serious."

Papa became serious immediately. He lifted my face to look at it, flushed as I suppose it was; and kissed me, with a smile which did not in the least belie the seriousness.

"If we go to Paris, Daisy? - we should leave your enemies behind."

"No papa - two of them are going to Paris when we go."

"That _is_ serious," said my father. "After all, why not, Daisy?"

"Oh, papa, let us get away while it is time!" I said. "Mamma was so displeased with me because of Mr. De Saussure and Mr. Marshall; and she will be again - perhaps."

"Why, Daisy," said papa, lifting my face again for scrutiny, - "how do you know? Are you cased in proof armour? are you sure? Do you know what you are talking of, Daisy?"

"Yes, - I know, papa."

"I see you do. Whenever your eyes are deep and calm like that, you are always in your right mind and know it. That is, you are thoroughly yourself; and so far as my limited acquaintance with you goes, there is no other mind that has the power of turning you. Yes, Daisy; we will go to Palestine, you and I."

I kissed his hand, in the extremity of my joy.

"But this is not a proper season for travelling in Syria, my pet. I am afraid it is not. The winter rains make the roads bad."

"Oh, yes, papa. - We will be quiet when it rains, and travel on the good days. And then we shall be in time to see the spring flowers."

"How do you know anything about that, Daisy?"

"Papa, I remember when I was a child, at Melbourne, Mr. Dinwiddie told me some of these things; and I have never forgotten."

"Have you wanted to go to Palestine ever since you were ten years old?"

"Oh, no, papa; only of late. When your promise came, then I thought very soon what I would ask you. And now is such a good time."

"There will be different opinions about that," said my father. "However, we will go, Daisy. To the half of my kingdom. Your mother has the other half. But allow me to ask you just in passing, what do you think of our young English friend?"

"He has no head, papa."

Papa looked amused.

"Signor Piacevoli - what do you think of him?"

"He is very nice and kind and full of good things; but he has no principles, papa; no settled principles."

"He has a head," said papa.

"Yes, sir; out of order."

"How do you estimate Mr. Leypoldt, then? - _his_ head is in order, and a good deal in it."

"Only the truth left out, papa."

"The truth?" said my father. "He is fuller of truth, of all sorts, than any one else I know, Daisy."

"Truth of all sorts, papa, but not _the_ truth. He understands the world, and almost everything in it; but not who made it nor what it was made for; and he knows men; but not their work, or place, or destiny in the universe. He knows what they are; he has no idea what they ought to be, or what they may be."

"He is not a religious man, certainly. Do you carry your principles so far, Daisy, that you mean you would not let anybody approach you who is not of your way of thinking?"

A pang shot through my heart, with the instant sense of the answer I ought to give. I might have evaded the question; but I would not. Yet I could not immediately speak. I was going to put a bond upon myself; and the words would not come.

"Do you mean that, Daisy?" papa repeated. "Seriously. Is it your rule of supposed duty, that a man must be a Christian after your sort, to obtain your favour?"

"Papa," I said struggling, - "one cannot control one's liking."

"No," said papa, laughing; "that is very true. Then if you _liked_ somebody who was not that sort of a Christian, Daisy, you would not refuse to marry him?"

"Papa," I said with difficulty, - "I think I ought."

The words struck upon my own heart, I cannot tell how heavily. But they were forced from me. When the question came, it had to be answered. I suppose the matter had really been in my mind before, vaguely, and I had refused to look at it, while yet I could not help seeing its proportions and bearing; so that when papa asked me I knew what I must say. But the spoken words stunned me, for all that.

"I suppose," said papa, not lightly, "you will think so till you are tried; and then you will take a woman's privilege of changing your mind. But if the trial is to come in that shape, Daisy, it is very far off. There are no men of your way of thinking, my pet."

He kissed me as he said it; and I could not for a moment speak.

"But we will go to Palestine, papa?"

"Yes, we will go to Palestine. That is fixed. You and I will take a holiday, and for a while give up all thoughts of marrying and giving in marriage."