Chapter 9

DAISY'S POST

Dr. Sandford and I stood together on the deck of the steamer, looking at the lessening shore. I was afraid the doctor should see how I looked, yet I could not turn my eyes from it. I had given up the care of myself; I could bear to see America fading out of my sight; yet it seemed to me as if I left Daisy and her life there, and as if I must be like a wandering spirit from another world till I should come back to those shores again. I would minister to my father and mother, but nobody would minister to me. And I thought it was very likely very good for me. Maybe I was in danger of growing selfish and of forgetting my work and all happiness except my own and Thorold's. I could do nothing for either of those now; nothing actively. But I called myself up as soon as that thought passed through me. I could always pray; and I could be quiet and trust; and I could be full of faith, hope and love; and anybody with those is not unhappy. And God is with his people; and he can feed them in a desert. And with that, I went down to my stateroom, to sob my heart out. Not altogether in sorrow, or I think I should not have shed a tear; but with that sense of joy and riches in the midst of trial; the feeling of care that was over my helplessness, and hope that could never die nor be disappointed sin spite of the many hopes that fail.

After that, my voyage was pleasant, as every voyage or journey is when one goes in the Lord's hand and with Him for a companion. I had no news, as the doctor had said, and I laid down all the matter of the war; though I was obliged to hear it talked of very much and in a way that was often extremely hard to bear. The English people on board seemed to think that Americans had no feeling on the subject of their country, or no country to feel about. Certainly they showed no respect for mine; and though Dr. Sandford and one or two other gentlemen could and did answer their words well and cogently, and there was satisfaction in that; yet it was a warfare I did not choose to enter into unless good breeding could be a defence on both sides. They abused Mr. Lincoln; how they abused him! they have learned better since. They abused republics in general, rejoicing openly in the ruin they affected to see before ours. Yes, the United States of America and their boasted Constitution were a vast bubble - no solidity - rather a collection of bubbles, which would go to pieces by their own contact. Specially the weight of dislike and maligning fell on the Northern portion of the country; sympathy was with the South. These natives of the free British Isles were unmistakably disposed to cheer and help on a nation of oppressors, and wished them success. It was some time before I could understand such an anomaly; at last I saw that the instinct of self-preservation was at work, and I forgave as natural, what I could not admire as noble.

This element in our little society troubled somewhat my enjoyment of the voyage. I _had_ some patriotic nerves, if I was an American; and every one of them was often tingling with disagreeable irritation. Besides, ill-breeding is of itself always disagreeable enough; and here was ill-breeding in well- bred people, - worst of all. And I had my own private reasons for annoyance. A favourite theme with the company was the want of soldiers or generals at the North, and the impossibility that a set of mechanics and tradesmen, who knew only how to make money and keep it, should be able in chivalrous and gentlemanly exercises to cope with the Southern cavaliers, who were accustomed to sword and pistol and the use of them from their youth up. Bull Run, they said, showed what the consequence must always be, of a conflict between soldiers with the martial spirit and soldiers without it. It would be much better and cheaper for the North to succumb at once. I had Southern prejudice enough to believe there might be a good deal of truth in this, but I could not bear to hear it or to think it; for besides the question of country and right, the ruin of the North would be disaster to Mr. Thorold and me. I shunned at last all conversation with our English companions, as far as I could, and bent my thoughts forward to the joyful meeting which lay before me with father and mother and brother. Brighter and brighter the prospect grew, as each day brought it nearer; and I sat sometimes by the hour looking over the waters and resting my heart in the hope of that meeting.

"Almost in, Miss Randolph," said the doctor, coming to my side one of those times.

I brought my eyes from the dancing sea, and answered "You are glad."

"Very glad."

"What route will you take, when we get to land?"

"The shortest."

"You do not wish to see anything by the way?"

"I can see enough, after I get to them," I answered.

"You are at a happy time of life!" the doctor said after a pause.

"Are you past it, Dr. Sandford?" I asked, replying, I think, to something in the tones of his voice.

"I do not know. I think, yes. Cologne cathedral will never be to me what it will be to you."

"What will it be to me?"

"I wish you would tell me, when you see it."

"Does it lie in our route?" I asked somewhat eagerly.

"It can - if you choose."

"But I should not want to stop to look at it," I said; "and I could not see it without stopping, I suppose."

"I suppose not. Well, we will push forward as fast as possible. To Lausanne, is it?"

"They _were_ at Lausanne. They were talking of going to Lucerne."

"To stay?"

"For some time, I think. Papa was getting tired of Lausanne. We shall know as soon as we reach our port."

"Wonderful things will crowd upon you now, Daisy," the doctor said meditatively. "And you are as ready for them as ever."

"Don't they crowd upon everybody?" I said, remembering what strange ones life had lately brought to me.

"Everybody does not see them - does not know it. You have this peculiarity, that you will not fail to note every one that comes within your knowledge. Europe will be a wonder gallery to you. And life, perhaps."

"Oh, life is now, Dr. Sandford."

He had been looking very grave. He smiled at me then, one of his bright, winsome smiles that the child Daisy used to get. It made my heart sore with longing for him, and sorrow.

"Isn't it a wonder, that I live, and that I shall live for ever?" I said. "That this world is only the portal to glory? Isn't it a wonder, that there is a highway from these low grounds to Heaven's court, and that the gates of brass and bars of iron that stopped the way, are broken asunder? Isn't it a wonder, that the Prince of Heaven came down to open the way and to show it to us? and is there any wonder so great, as that, after this, any mortal should refuse to walk that way?"

"Grant Sandford, to wit!" said the doctor with an odd expression, something between pleased and displeased. "I am afraid, Daisy, he would want an angel to go before him after all."

I remember this little talk well, for it puzzled me and did not seem like Dr. Sandford. I remember nothing else of any interest till we came to Switzerland and I was near my journey's end. We had pushed on, sometimes by night and day; stopping only for necessary meals and refreshment. I wanted no delay. When we reached the glories of the Swiss mountains, even yet distant, my mood oddly changed, and I was no longer in a hurry. My life, I knew, would take a new turn, in among those mountains somewhere; and it might not, I had a shrewd suspicion that it would not, be a turn for my ease and comfort; and even while I was as eager as ever to see my father and mother, at the same time I was willing to take the last steps of the way more slowly, and enjoy what I had and what I hoped for together, before reality should displace anticipation. This is my understanding of the mood as I look back to it; at the time I did not reason, but only was conscious of being ready to linger and willing to lose nothing of novelty and beauty on my way. However, lingering was not possible. By one conveyance and another we pushed our way on, till Lucerne, our place of destination, was reached.

I saw nothing in the town, almost literally, while we were making our way through its streets. I was in a breathless state; my senses could not play, or my mind could receive no impression from them. It was disappointment and relief too, when coming to the house where my father and mother lived, we were told that the family were gone out of town on some excursion and would not be back till evening. The servants told us. This was no hotel, but a nice little private house which my father had hired and where he and my mother were living entirely at home.

I knew I was at home, as my feet pressed the stairs going up to the little drawing-room. "At home." Not since we left Melbourne had the exquisite sensation come over me. It came now like a subtle perfume, pervading and surrounding everything. My eyes filled with tears of great joy, as I mounted the stairs. I would not let Dr. Sandford see them. He, I knew, felt like anything but crying for joy. He was certainly very honestly fond of me and of my company, and I was grateful for it.

The servant led us to a little drawing-room, out of which another opened; over the simple furniture of which my mother's hand had thrown a spell of grace. And luxurious enjoyment too; that belonged to her. A soft rug or two lay here and there; a shawl of beautiful colour had fallen upon a chair-back; pictures hung on the walls, - one stood on an easel in a corner; bits of statuary, bronzes, wood-carvings, trifles of art, mosaics, engravings, were everywhere; and my mother's presence was felt in the harmony which subdued and united all these in one delicious effect. My mother had almost an Oriental eye for colour and harmony. It was like seeing a bit of her, to be in her room. I lost my head for a moment, standing in the middle of the floor; then I turned to Dr. Sandford.

"Now you are happy," he said, extending his hand - "and I will leave you."

"No, Dr. Sandford - you will sit down and be happy too."

"You could command me to sit down, undoubtedly; but I am afraid my happiness is beyond your power."

"I wish it was not!" I said earnestly. "You have been very good to me, Dr. Sandford."

His face flushed a little and paled, and the eyes which were so fond of reading other people's seemed now to shun being read. I could not understand his expression, but it troubled me.

"Happiness is always beyond other people's power," I said; - "but not beyond one's own."

"That's your confounded theory!" he answered, bringing the word out very gingerly and with a little laugh. "I beg ten thousand pardons, Daisy; but a slight expression of indignation was an unavoidable indulgence just then. You would make every one responsible for all the troubles that come upon him!"

"No - only for their effect upon his happiness," I ventured, doubtfully.

"You think the effect of troubles upon happiness is then optional!" - he said, with a humorous expression so cool and shrewd that I could not forbear laughing.

"I do not mean exactly that."

"Your words were well chosen to produce that impression."

"No, Dr. Sandford - yes, perhaps they were; - but the real truth is, that we may have a happiness that is beyond the reach of trouble. So much is optional."

"With Daisy Randolph," said the doctor. "For the rest of the world, a brown study will never be a golden reflection." He held out his hand as he spoke.

"But are you going?" I said; - "before my father and mother come home?"

"I will call before I leave Lucerne."

"How soon do you expect to do that?"

"Immediately, Daisy; to-morrow. I must hasten back to my post, you know; before there is another Bull Run, if possible. It is very good that you are out of the way of such things," he said, eyeing me earnestly. "The very mention of them - do you know what it does?"

"It gives me a great feeling of pain, I know," I said, trying to rally.

"It does that, I see. I did not know the power of imagination was so strong in you. I thought you were rather a literalist."

"And I think I am," I answered as calmly as I could. "It does not require much imagination. It did not, when I was in Washington."

"It does not now," said the doctor; "for your cheeks have not got back their colour yet. What banished it, Daisy?"

It was the old tone and look I used to meet in my childhood, and to which I always then rendered obedience. For an instant the spell was upon me now; then I threw it off, shook hands with the doctor and parted from him with a bow and smile which told him nothing. And he succumbed in his turn; made me a profound reverence and left the room.

My first feeling was of gladness that he was gone. My next was, the sense that I was under my natural guardians once more. I felt it with a thrill of delight, even though I had a full consciousness that I was going to be far less my own mistress than for some time I had been accustomed to find myself. Dr. Sandford rather took laws from me, in most things. This however did not give me much concern. I went round the rooms to quiet myself, for I was growing more and more excited. I went studying one by one the objects in the little home museum, for such those drawing-rooms were to me. I read, not natural history but family history in them; here my father's hand had been, here By mother's, leaving some token of study, or luxury, or art, or feeling. A very handsome meerschaum seemed to give also a hint of my brother's presence. The home review did not quiet me; I found it would not do; I went to the window. And there I sat down immediately, to hear all that nature said to me; as once Miss Cardigan's flowers.

I had expected to see the town; and it was part of the town no doubt that stretched away before me, but it had rather the beauty of the country. There was nothing regular in streets or buildings, nor compact; the houses scattered away down the hill, standing here and there, alone and in groups, with fields or pieces of fields intermingling. Pretty houses, with quaint dormer windows and high sloping roofs. We were on a height, I found, from which the eye went down delightfully over this bit of the rambling old town. A courtyard, with grass and young trees, was the first thing next the house on this side; which I found was not the front; then the ground fell sharply, and most of the houses stood upon a level below bordering the lake. A stretch of the lake lay there, smooth, still, bearing the reflection of some houses on its opposite edge; where softened under a misty atmosphere another little town seemed to rest on a rising bank. And then, just behind it, rose the mountain, looking down upon lake and towns as if to forbid a thought of foolishness in any one who should ever live there. So, in its beautiful gravity, Mont Pilatte seemed to me, then and always. Are not mountains always witnesses for God? This first time I saw it, a misty cloud had swept across the breast of the mountain and hid part of the outline; but the head lifted itself in sunlight just above the veiling cloud, and looked down in unspeakable majesty upon the lower world. Always my eyes went back to that wonderful mountain head; then fell to the placid lake and the little town sleeping in misty sunlight on its further border; then caught the sharp pointed towers of a church or cathedral close by at my left hand, just within my picture; I could not see the whole church; then back to the soft veiled mountain. A more picturesque combination never went into a view. I sat still in a trance of pleasure, only my eyes moving slowly from point to point, and my heart and soul listening to the hidden melodies which in nature's great halls are always sounding. I do believe, for the matter of that, they are always sounding in nature's least chambers as well; but there is the tinkle of a silver bell, and there is the thunder of the great organ. At any rate I was quieted, comforted, soothed, and entirely myself again, by the time I had listened to Mont Pilatte for a couple of hours.

The day wore on, and the lights changed, and the cloud deepened on the mountain. The lights had not begun to fade yet, though it was the time of long shadows, when a little bustle below and steps on the stairs drew me away from the window and brought me to my feet; but I stood still. The first one was mamma, and her first word of course broke the spell under which I had been standing and brought me into her arms. And that word I pondered many a time afterwards. It was simply, "Why, Daisy!" - but the letters put together tell nothing of what was in the expression. Pleasure and affection there were, of course; and there was something beside, which I could not help thinking gave token of gratified surprise. What should have excited it I do not know, unless it were that my appearance pleased her better than she had expected. It was not surprise at my being there, for the servants had told of that. My father, who was next, said exactly the same words; but his "Why, Daisy!" had an altogether different expression. I flung myself into his arms, and then almost broke my heart with the thought that I had been so long out of them. My father pressed me very close, and kept very still. I felt my mother touch me on the shoulder, and heard her tell me not to be so excited; but I could not mind her. And papa, sitting down, kept me in his arms and held me fast and kissed me, and I sobbed myself into content.

"Is that Daisy?" said mamma. I was sitting on papa's knee yet. I looked up at her. She was standing beside us.

"Doesn't she look like it?" my father said, fondly, stroking my hair.

"She does not act like it," said my mother.

But I hid my face in papa's neck at that, and he kissed me again.

"Don't you mean to speak to anybody else?" said mamma, with an amused voice.

"Nobody else has any right," said papa. I looked up however, eagerly, and saw what I could only guess was Ransom, he had so grown and changed. He was looking curious and pleased. I got up to salute him.

"Why, Daisy!" said he, returning my embrace with more new than old emotion as it seemed to me, - "you are a sister of whom a fellow may be proud."

"Can't you say as much for him, Daisy?" said my mother.

"As far as looks go -" I answered slowly, surveying him. He was excessively handsome, and his mother's own boy in grace of person and manner. I could see that in the first moment.

"As far as looks go" - my mother repeated. "_That_ is like Daisy. Is it the very same Daisy?"

I looked up at her, and they looked at me. Oddly enough, we were all silent. Had I changed so much?

"Mamma, there is the difference between ten and seventeen," I said. "I don't think there is much other."

"And between formed and unformed," said my brother Ransom; for my father and mother were still silent, and I could hardly bear to meet their eyes.

"What is formed, and what is unformed?" I asked, trying to make it a light question.

"My opinion is not unformed," said Ransom, - "and your destiny is - formed."

"Papa," said I, "Ransom is very quick in deciding upon my destiny." But with that look into each other's eyes, Ransom's words were forgotten; my father clasped me in a fresh fond embrace and my head went down upon his shoulder again. And we were all still. Words are nothing at such times. I think one rather speaks light words, if any; thoughts are too deep to come out. At last my mother remarked that our toilettes were among the unformed things, and suggested that we should go to our rooms for a little while before dinner. I got up from papa's knee and followed mamma; and passing Ransom with a smile, he suddenly clasped me in his arms and kissed me.

"I am proud of you, Daisy," he whispered.

Arrived in mamma's room, her tenderness came out after her own fashion. She examined me; her hands touched me caressingly; she helped me to dress, although her maid was at hand.

"You did not tell me you had such beautiful hair," she said, when I had unbound it to put it in order.

"Mamma!" I laughed. "Why should I?"

"And there are a great many other things you have not told me," she went on. I had to control myself to prevent a start, though her words meant nothing.

"Of course, mamma," I answered.

"Yes; you could hardly have been expected to give me a catalogue raisonné of your advantages. Do you know them yourself, Daisy?"

"Mamma, - I suppose I know some of them."

"Do you know, for instance, that your skin is exquisite, in colour and texture?"

"Mrs. Sandford used to tell me so," I said.

My mother drew the tips of her fingers over my cheek.

"And now, at my saying that, comes a little rose hue here, as delicate as the inside of a shell. But you have lost all the look of delicate condition, Daisy; this is the colour of perfect health."

"Dr. Sandford has taken care of me, mamma."

"Your father trusted a great deal to Dr. Sandford. Do you think his trust was well placed?"

"Nobody could have taken more care of me, mamma. Dr. Sandford has been very good."

"He always was your favourite," she remarked.

"Well, mamma, he deserved all I have given him."

"Don't give anybody much, - unless I bid you," my mother said, laughingly. "Daisy, you have matured better even than I ever thought you would, or than your aunt Gary told me. Your figure is as good as ever mine was."

She took up one of my hands, looked at it, kissed it, and as she let it drop asked carelessly, -

"What has become of Preston now?"

I felt as if breakers were all around me. "He has joined the Southern army," I said.

"When did you see him?"

"Not since a year ago."

"Where then?"

"At West Point, mamma. He only graduated this spring."

"Were you long at West Point?"

"Yes, ma'am - some weeks."

"Dr. Sandford did not show remarkable care in that."

"He thought so, mamma, for he found me not well, and took me away immediately from school, without waiting for the term to close. Mrs. Sandford and he, were going to West Point - and so -"

"West Point did you good?"

"I grew well there."

"Your aunt tells me, your voice is very uncommon, Daisy. Is she right in that?"

"Mamma - you can judge better than I. It is not so easy for me to judge how it sounds."

"You know how it sounds to you."

"Yes, but then I am thinking of the music. I cannot tell, mamma, how it sounds to other people."

"Well, we shall be able to judge by and by," my mother said, in a satisfied tone. "Your speaking voice is as calm and sweet as I ever heard."

"_Calm?_ mamma," I said, laughing.

"Yes, child. Don't you know most people's voices have a little thread, if it is not more, of sharpness or roughness, coming out somewhere. It is sure to come out somewhere; in one form of speech or another; with some people it only appears in the laugh, and they should never laugh. Your voice is like a chime of bells." And my mother took me in her arms, half-dressed as I was, and pressed her lips full upon mine; looking into my face and playing with me and smiling at me; finishing with another pressure of her mouth to mine.

"Your lips are very sweet," she said, with a half sigh. "I wonder who else will think so!"

And if one bit of vanity or self-exaltation could have been stirred in my thoughts, though it were by my mother's praises, these last words banished it well. I was sobered to the depths of my heart; so sobered, that I found it expedient to be busy with my dressing, and not expose my face immediately to any more observations. And even when I went down stairs, my father's first remark was, -

"It is the same Daisy!"

"Did you doubt it, papa?" I asked, with a smile.

"No, my pet."

"Then why do you say that as soon as I make my appearance!"

"I can hardly tell - the consciousness forced itself upon me. You are looking at life with a microscope, - as of old."

"With a microscope, papa!"

"To pick up invisible duties and find out indiscernible dangers -"

"When one is as old as I am," I said, "there is no need of a microscope to find out either dangers or duties."

"Ha!" said my father, folding me in his arms - "what dangers have you discovered, Daisy?"

"I believe they are everywhere, papa," I said, kissing him.

"Not here," he said, fondly; "there shall be none here for you."

"Mr. Randolph," said mamma, laughing, "if Daisy is to be meat and drink as well as scenery to you, we may as well dispense with the usual formalities; but I hope you will condescend to look at dinner as usual."