So Daisy gave up her scheme. Nevertheless next morning it gave her a twinge of heart to see her rose-bush laid by the heels, exactly like her hopes. Daisy stood and looked at it. The sweet half-blown rose at the top of the little tree hung ingloriously over the soil, and yet looked so lovely and smelt2 so sweet; and Daisy had hoped it might win poor Molly Skelton's favour, or at least begin to open a way for it to come in due time.
"So ye didn't get your bush planted—" said Logan coming up.
"No."
"Your hands were not strong enough to make the hole deep for it, Miss
Daisy?"
"Yes, I think they could; but I met with an interruption yesterday,
Logan."
"Weel—it'll just bide3 here till ye want it."
Daisy wished it was back in its old place again; but she did not like to say so, and she went slowly back to the house. As she mounted the piazza4 steps she heard her father's voice. He was there before the library windows.
"Come here, Daisy. What are you about?" he said drawing her up in his arms.
"Nothing, papa."
"How do you like doing nothing?"
"Papa, I think it is not at all agreeable."
"You do! So I supposed. What were you about yesterday afternoon?"
"I went to ride with Dr. Sandford."
"Did that occupy the whole afternoon?"
"O no, papa."
"Were you doing nothing the rest of the time?"
"No sir, not nothing."
"Daisy, I wish you would be a little more frank. Have you any objection to tell me what you were doing?"
"No, papa;—but I did not think it would give you any pleasure. I was only trying to do something."
"It would give me pleasure to have you tell about it."
"I must tell you more then, papa." And standing5 with her arm on her father's shoulder, looking over to the blue mountains on the other side of the river, Daisy went on.
"There is a poor woman living half a mile from here, papa, that I saw one day when I was riding with Dr. Sandford. She is a cripple. Papa, her legs and feet are all bent6 up under her, so that she cannot walk at all; her way of moving is by dragging herself along over the ground on her hands and knees; her hands and her gown all down in the dirt."
"That is your idea of extreme misery7, is it not, Daisy?"
"Papa, do you not think it is—it must be—very uncomfortable?"
"Very, I should think."
"But that is not her worst misery. Papa, she is all alone; the neighbours bring her food, but nobody stops to eat it with her. She is all alone by night and by day; and she is disagreeable in her temper, I believe, and she has nobody to love her and she loves nobody."
"Which of those two things is the worst, Daisy?"
"What two things, papa?"
"To love nobody, or to have nobody to love her?"
"Papa—I do not know." Then remembering Juanita, Daisy suddenly added,—"Papa, I should think it must be the worst to love nobody."
"Do you? Pray why?"
"It would not make her happy, I think, to have people love her if she did not love them."
"And you think loving others would be better, without anybody to give love back?"
"I should think it would be very hard!"—said Daisy with a most profound expression of thoughtfulness.
"Well—this poor cripple, I understand, lacks both those conditions of happiness?"
"Yes, papa."
"What then? You were going to tell me something about her."
"Not much about her" said Daisy, "but only about myself."
"A much more interesting subject to me, Daisy."
You could only see the faintest expression of pleasure in the line of
Daisy's lips; she was looking very sober and a trifle anxious.
"I only thought, papa, I would try if I could not do something to make that poor woman happier."
"What did you try?"
"The first thing was to get her to know me and like me, you know, papa; because she is rather cross and does not like people generally, I believe."
"So you went to see her?"
"I have never spoken much to her, papa. But I went inside of her gate one day, and saw her trying to take care of some poor flowers; so then I thought, maybe, if I took her a nice little rose-bush, she might like it."
"And then like you? Well—you tried the experiment?"
"No, papa. I did get a rose-bush from Logan and he told me how to plant it; and I was on my way to the cottage and had almost got there; and then I recollected9 mamma had said I must not speak to anybody without her leave."
"So you came home?"
"Yes, papa. No, papa, I went to ride with Dr. Sandford."
"Have you asked leave of your mother?"
"No, papa,"—said Daisy, in a tone of voice which sufficiently10 expressed that she did not intend it.
"So my dear little Daisy," said her father drawing his arm round her a little more closely—"you think a rose-bush would serve instead of friends to make this poor creature happy?"
"O no, papa!"
"What was the purpose of it, then?"
"Only—to get her to like me, papa."
"What were you going to do to make her happy?"
"Papa, if you lived in such a place, in such a way, wouldn't you like to have a friend come and see you sometimes?"
"Certainly!—if you were the friend."
"I thought—by and by—she might learn to like it," Daisy said in the most sedately11 meek12 way possible. Her father could not forbear a smile.
"But Daisy, from what you tell me, I am at a loss to understand the part that all this could have had in your happiness."
"O papa—she is so miserable13!" was Daisy's answer. Mr. Randolph drew her close and kissed her.
"You are not miserable?"
"No, papa—but—"
"But what?"
"I would like to give her a little bit of comfort."
There was much earnestness, and a little sorrow, in Daisy's eyes.
"I am not sure that it is right for you to go to such places."
"Papa, may I shew you something?" said the child with sudden life.
"Anything, Daisy."
She rushed away; was gone a full five minutes; then came softly to Mr.
Randolph's shoulder with an open book in her hand. It was Joanna's
Bible, for Daisy did not dare bring her own; and it was open at these
words—
"Whatsoever14 ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them."
"What does this mean, Daisy? It seems very plain; but what do I want with it?"
"Only, papa, that is what makes me think it is right."
"What is right?"
"To do this, papa."
"Well but, are you in want of somebody to come and make you happy?"
"O no, papa—but if I were in her place, then I should be."
"Do you suppose this commands us to do in every case what we would like ourselves in the circumstances?"
"Papa—I suppose so—if it wouldn't be something wrong."
"At that rate, I should have to let you go with your rose-bush," said
Mr. Randolph.
"O papa!" said Daisy, "do you think, if you asked her, mamma would perhaps say I might?"
"Can't tell, Daisy—I think I shall try my powers of persuasion15."
For answer to which, Daisy clasped her arms round his neck and gave him some very earnest caresses16, comprised in one great kiss and a clinging of her little head in his neck for the space of half a minute. It meant a great deal; so much that Mr. Randolph was unable for the rest of the day to get rid of a sort of lingering echo of Daisy's Bible words; they haunted him, and haunted him with a strange sense of the house being at cross purposes, and Daisy's line of life lying quite athwart and contrary to all the rest. "Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you;"—who else at Melbourne considered that for one moment?
However, Mr. Randolph had a fresh talk with his wife; the end of which was that he gave Daisy leave to do what she liked in the matter of Molly Skelton; and was rewarded on the spot by seeing the pink tinge17 which instantly started into the pale cheeks.
No lack of energy had Daisy for the rest of that day. She went off first to see what was the condition of her rose-bush; pretty fair; lying by the heels seemed to agree with it quite well. Then the pony chaise was ordered and a watering pot of water again; much to the boy's disgust who was to carry it; and Daisy took her dinner with quiet satisfaction. So soon as the afternoon had become pleasantly cool, Daisy's driving gloves and hat went on, the chaise was summoned, and rose-bush and all she set forth18 on her expedition. Mr. Randolph watched her off, acknowledging that certainly for the present the doctor was right; whether in the future Mrs. Randolph would prove to have been right also, he was disagreeably uncertain. Still, he was not quite sure that he wished Daisy anything other than she was.
Troubled by no fears or prognostications, meanwhile, the pony chaise and its mistress went on their way. No, Daisy had no fears. She did doubt what Molly's immediate19 reception of her advances might be; her first experience bade her doubt; but the spirit of love in her little heart was overcoming; it poured over Molly a flood of sunny affections and purposes, in the warmth and glow of which the poor cripple's crabbedness and sourness of manner and temper were quite swallowed up and lost. Daisy drove on, very happy and thankful, till the little hill was gained, and slowly walking up it Loupe stopped, nothing loth, before the gate of Molly Skelton's courtyard.
A little bit of hesitation20 came over Daisy now, not about what was to be done, but how to do it. The cripple was in her flowery bit of ground, grubbing around her balsams as usual. The clear afternoon sunbeams shone all over what seemed to Daisy all distressing21 together. The ragged22 balsams—the coarse bloom of prince's feather and cockscomb—some straggling tufts of ribband grass and four-o'clocks and marigolds—and the great sunflower nodding its head on high over all; while weeds were only kept away from the very growth of the flowers and started up everywhere else, and grass grew irregularly where grass should not; and in the midst of it all the poor cripple on her hands and knees in the dirt, more uncared-for, more unseemly and unlovely than her little plot of weeds and flowers. Daisy looked at her, with a new tide of tenderness flowing up in her heart, along with the doubt how her mission should be executed or how it would be received; then she gave up her reins24, took the rose-tree in her hands, and softly opened the little wicket gate. She went up the path and stood beside the cripple, who hearing the gate shut had risen from her grubbing in the earth and sat back looking at who was coming. Daisy went on without hesitation now. She had prayed out all her prayer about it before setting out from home.
"I have brought you a rose-bush," she said simply. "Do you like roses? this is very sweet. I thought maybe you would like a rose. Where would you like to have it go?"
The answer was a very strange sort of questioning grunt25—inarticulate—nevertheless expressive26 of rude wonder and incredulity, as far as it expressed anything. And Molly stared.
"Where shall I put this rose-tree?" said Daisy. "Where would it look prettiest? May I put it here, by these balsams?"
No answer in words; but instead of a sign of assent27, the cripple after looking a moment longer at Daisy and the rose-tree, put her hand beyond the balsams and grubbed up a tuft of what the country people call "creepin' Charley;" and then sitting back as before, signified to Daisy by a movement of her hand that the rose-bush might go in that place. That was all Daisy wanted. She fell to work with her trowel, glad enough to be permitted, and dug a hole, with great pains and some trouble; for the soil was hard as soon as she got a little below the surface. But with great diligence Daisy worked and scooped28, till by repeated trials she found she had the hole deep enough and large enough; and then she tenderly set the roots of the rose-tree in the prepared place and shook fine soil over them, as Logan had told her; pressing it down from time to time, until the job was finished and the little tree stood securely planted. A great feat23 accomplished29. Daisy stayed not, but ran off to the road for the watering pot, and bringing it with some difficulty to the spot without soiling herself, she gave the rose-bush a thorough watering; watered it till she was sure the refreshment30 had penetrated31 down to the very roots. All the while the cripple sat back gazing at her; gazing alternately at the rose-bush and the planting, and at the white delicate frock the child wore and the daintily neat shoes and stockings, and the handsome flat hat with its costly32 riband. I think the view of these latter things must in some degree have neutralized33 the effect of the sweet rose looking at her from the top of the little bush; because Molly on the whole was not gracious. Daisy had finished her work and set down her empty watering pot, and was looking with great satisfaction at the little rose-bush; which was somewhat closely neighboured by a ragged bunch of four-o'clocks on one side and the overgrown balsams on the other; when Molly said suddenly and gruffly,
"Now go 'long!"———
Daisy was startled, and turned to the creature who had spoken to see if she had heard and understood aright. No doubt of it. Molly was not looking at her, but her face was ungenial; and as Daisy hesitated she made a little gesture of dismissal with her hands. Daisy moved a step or two off, afraid of another shower of gravel34 upon her feet.
"I will come to-morrow and see how it looks"—she said gently.
Molly did not reply yes or no, but she repeated her gesture of dismissal, and Daisy thought it best and wisest to obey. She bid her a sweet "good bye," to which she got no answer, and mounted into her chaise again. There was a little disappointment in her heart; yet when she had time to think it all over she was encouraged too. The rose-tree was fairly planted; that would keep on speaking to Molly without the fear of a rebuff; and somehow Daisy's heart was warm towards the gruff old creature. How forlorn she had looked, sitting in the dirt, with her grum face!
"But perhaps she will wear a white robe in heaven!"—thought Daisy.
Seeing that the rose-tree had evidently won favour, Daisy judged she could not do better than attack Molly again on her weak side, which seemed to be the love of the beautiful!—in one line at least. But Daisy was not an impatient child; and she thought it good to see first what sort of treatment the rose-bush got, and not to press Molly too hard. So the next day she carried nothing with her; only went to pay a visit to the garden. Nothing was to be seen but the garden; Molly did not shew herself; and Daisy went in and looked at the rose. Much to her satisfaction, she saw that Molly had quite discarded the great bunch of four-o'clocks which had given the little rose tree no room on one side; they were actually pulled up and gone; and the rose looked out in fair space and sunshine where its coarse-growing neighbour had threatened to be very much in its way. An excellent sign. Molly clearly approved of the rose. Daisy saw with great pleasure that another bud was getting ready to open and already shewing red between the leaves of its green calyx; and she went home happy.
Next morning she went among the flower beds, and took a very careful survey of all the beauties there to see what best she might take for her next attack upon Molly. The beauties in flower were so very many and so very various and so delicious all to Daisy's eye, that she was a good deal puzzled. Red and purple and blue and white and yellow, the beds were gay and glorious. But Daisy reflected that anything which wanted skill in its culture or shelter from severities of season would disappoint Molly, because it would not get from her what would be necessary to its thriving. Some of the flowers in bloom, too, would not bear transplanting. Daisy did not know what to do. She took Logan into her confidence, so far as she could without mentioning names or circumstances.
"Weel, Miss Daisy," said the gardener, "if ye're bent on being a Lady Flora35 to the poor creature, I'll tell ye what ye'll do—ye'll just take her a scarlet36 geranium."
"A geranium?" said Daisy.
"Ay. Just that."
"But it would want to be in the greenhouse when winter comes."
"Any place where it wouldn't freeze," said Logan. "You see, it'll be in a pot e'en now, Miss Daisy—and you'll keep it in the pot; and the pot you'll sink in the ground till frost comes; and when the frost comes, it'll just come up as it is and go intil the poor body's house, and make a spot of summer for her in her house till summer comes again."
"O Logan, that is an excellent thought!"
"Ay, Miss Daisy—I'm glad ye approve it."
"And than she would have the flowers all winter."
"Ay—if she served it justly."
The only thing now was to choose the geranium. Daisy was some time about it, there were so many to choose from. At last she suited herself with a very splendid new kind called the "Jewess"—a compact little plant with a store of rich purple-red blossoms. Logan murmured as he took up the pot in which it was planted—"Less than the best will never serve ye, Miss Daisy"—but he did not grumble37 about it after all, and Daisy was content.
She was very content when she had got it in her pony chaise and was driving off, with the magnificent purple-red blossoms at her feet. How exquisitely38 those delicate petals39 were painted, and marked with dashes of red and purple deeper than the general colour. What rich clusters of blossoms. Daisy gave only half an eye to her driving; and it was not till she had almost reached Melbourne gate that she discovered her trowel had been forgotten. She sent her attendant back for it and waited.
Loupe was always willing to stand, lazy little fat fellow that he was; and Daisy was giving her undivided attention to the purple "Jewess," with a sort of soft prayer going on all the while in her heart that her errand might be blessed; when she was suddenly interrupted.
"Why where are you going, Daisy?"
"Where have you been, Preston?" said Daisy as suddenly drawing up.
"Little Yankee!" said Preston. "Answer one question by another in that fashion? You mustn't do it, Daisy. What are you doing?"
"Nothing. I am waiting."
"What are you going to do, then?"
"I am going to drive."
"Do you usually carry a pot of geraniums for company?"
"No, not usually," said Daisy smiling at him.
"Well set out the pot of geraniums, and we will have a glorious ride, Daisy. I am going to the Fish's, to see some of Alexander's traps; and you shall go with me."
"O Preston—I am sorry; I cannot."
"Why?"
"I cannot this afternoon."
"Yes, you can, my dear little Daisy. In fact you must. Consider—I shall be going away before very long, and then we cannot take rides together. Won't you come?"
"Not now—I cannot, Preston! I have got something to do first."
"What?"
"Something which will take me an hour or two. After that I could go."
"Scarcely, this afternoon. Daisy, it is a long drive to the Fish's. And they have beautiful things there, which you would like to see, I know you would. Come! go with me—that's my own little Daisy."
Preston was on horseback, and looked very much in earnest. He looked very gay and handsome too, for he was well mounted and knew how to manage himself and his horse. He wanted to manage Daisy too; and that was difficult. Daisy would have been tempted40, and would have gone with him at the first asking; but the thought of Molly and her forlornness, and the words warm at her heart—"Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you"—and a further sense that her visitations of Molly were an extraordinary thing and very likely to be hindered on short notice, kept her firm as a rock. She had an opportunity now in hand; she would not throw it away; not for any self-gratification. And to tell the truth, no sort of self-gratification could balance for a moment in Daisy's mind the thought of Molly's wearing a crown of gold in heaven. That crown of gold was before Daisy's eyes; nothing else was worth a thought in comparison.
"Are you going to see that wretched old being?" said Preston at last.
"Yes."
"Daisy—dear Daisy—I do not know what to do with you. Do you like, is it possible that you can like, dirt and vulgarity?"
"I don't think I do," Daisy said gently; "but Preston, I like the poor people."
"You do!" said Preston. "Then it is manifest that you cannot like me." And he dashed spurs into his horse and sprung away, with a grace and life that kept Daisy looking after him in admiration41, and a plain mood of displeasure which cast its shadow all over her spirit.
"Here is the trowel, Miss Daisy."
Her messenger had come back, and Daisy recalled to the business in hand took up her reins again and drove on; but she felt deeply grieved. Now and then her gauntleted hand even went up to her face to brush away a tear that had gathered. It was not exactly a new thing, nor was Daisy entirely42 surprised at the attempt to divert her from her purpose. She was wise enough to guess that Preston's object had been more than the pleasure of her company; and she knew that all at home, unless possibly her father might be excepted, neither liked nor favoured her kindness to Molly and would rejoice to interrupt the tokens of it. All were against her; and Daisy's hand, went up again and again. "It is good I am weak and not very well," she thought; "as soon as I grow strong mamma will not let me do this any more. I must do all I can now."
So she came to the cripple's gate; and by that time the tears were all gone.
Nobody was in the little courtyard; Daisy went in first to see how the rose looked. It was all safe and doing well. While she stood there before it, the cottage door opened and the poor inmate43 came out. She crawled down the walk on hands and knees till she got near Daisy, and then sat back to look at her.
"What do you want?" she said, in a most uninviting and ungracious tone of voice.
"I came to see you," said Daisy, venturing to let her eyes rest for the first time on those poor, restless, unloving eyes opposite her—"and I wanted to see the rose, and I have brought you another flower—if you will let me bring it in."
Her words were sweet as honey. The woman looked at her, and answered again with the unintelligible44 grunt, of unbelieving wonder, which Daisy had heard once before. Daisy thought on the whole the safest way was not to talk but to fetch her beautiful "Jewess" flowers to speak for themselves. So she ran off and brought the pot and set it on the ground before Molly. It was a great attraction; Daisy could see that at once. The cripple sat back gazing at it. Daisy prudently45 waited till her eyes came round again from the flowers and rested on her little visiter's face.
"Where shall I put it?" said Daisy. "Where would you like to have it go?"
Molly's eyes presently followed hers, roaming over the little flower plot in search of room for the geranium, which did not appear; prince's feather and marigolds so choked up the ground where balsams did not straggle over it. Molly looked as Daisy did at the possibilities of the case, looked again at the strange sweet little face which was so busy in her garden; and then made a sudden movement. With two or three motions of hands and knees she drew herself a few steps back to one of the exclusive bunches of balsams, and began with her two hands to root it up. Actually she was grubbing, might and main, at the ungainly stalks of the balsams, pulling them up as fast as she could and flinging them aside, careless where. Daisy came to help with her trowel, and together they worked, amicably46 enough but without a word, till the task was done. A great space was left clear, and Molly threw herself back in her wonted position for taking observations. Daisy wasted no time. In hopeful delight she went on to make a hole in the ground in which to sink the pot of geraniums. It was more of a job than she thought, and she dug away stoutly47 with her trowel for a good while before she had an excavation48 sufficient to hold the pot. Daisy got it in at last; smoothed the surface nicely all round it; disposed of the loose soil till the bed was trim and neat, as far as that was concerned; and then stood up and spoke8. Warm,—how warm she was! her face was all one pink flush, but she did not feel it, she was so eager.
"There," she said, "that will stand there nicely; and when the cold weather comes, you can take the pot up and take it into the house, just as it is; and if you do not let it freeze, it will have flowers for you in the winter."
"Cold?" said Molly.
"Yes—by and by, when the cold weather comes, this must be taken up. The cold would kill it, if it was cold enough to freeze. It would have to go in the house. The rose can stay out all winter if you like; but this must be kept warm. This is a geranium. And it will give you flowers in the winter."
"J'anium?" said Molly.
"Yes. This is called the 'Jewess'—there are so many kinds that they have to be named. This is the 'Jewess' geranium."
"Water?"—said Molly.
"Water? No, this does not need water, because the roots are in a pot, you know, and have not been disturbed. It will want water if rain don't come, by and by."
"What's you?" was Molly's next question, given with more directness.
"Me? I am Daisy Randolph. And I love flowers; and you love flowers. May
I come and see you sometimes? Will you let me?"
Molly's grunt this time was not unintelligible. It was queer, but there was certainly a tone of assent in it. She sat looking now at the "Jewess" blossoms and now at Daisy.
"And I love Jesus," the child went on. "Do you love him?"
The grunt was of pure question, in answer to this speech. Molly did not understand. Daisy stooped down to face her on more equal terms.
"There is a great King up in heaven, who loves you, Molly. He loves you so well that he died for you. And if you love him, he will take you there when you die and give you a white robe and a crown of gold, and make you blessed."
It is impossible to describe the simple earnestness of this speech. Daisy said it, not as a philosopher nor as even a preacher would have done; she said it as a child. As she had received, she gave. The utter certainty and sweetness of her faith and love went right from one pair of eyes to the other. Nevertheless, Molly's answer was only a most ignorant and blank, "What?"—but it told of interest.
"Yes," said Daisy. "Jesus loved us so well that he came and died for us—he shed his blood that we might be forgiven our sins. And now he is a Great King up in heaven; and he knows all we do and all we think; and if we love him he will make us good and take us to be with him, and give us white robes and crowns of gold up there. He can do anything, for he raised up dead people to life, when he was in the world."
That was a master-stroke of Daisy's. Molly's answer was again a grunt of curiosity; and Daisy, crouching49 opposite to her, took up her speech and told her at length and in detail the whole story of Lazarus. And if Daisy was engaged with her subject, so certainly was Molly. She did not stir hand or foot; she sat listening movelessly to the story, which came with such loving truthfulness50 from the lips of her childish teacher. A teacher exactly fitted, however, to the scholar; Molly's poor closed-up mind could best receive any truth in the way a child's mind would offer it; but in this truth, the undoubting utterance51 of Daisy's love and belief won entrance for her words where another utterance might not. Faith is always catching52.
So Daisy told the wonderful story, and displayed the power and love and tenderness of the Lord with the affection of one who knew him her Lord, and almost with the zeal53 of an eye-witness of his work. It was almost to Daisy so; it seemed to her that she had beheld54 and heard the things she was telling over; for faith is the substance of things not seen; and the grief of the sisters, and their joy, and the love and tenderness of the Lord Jesus, were all to her not less real than they were to the actors in that far distant drama. Molly heard her throughout, with open mouth and marvelling55 eyes.
Neither of them had changed her position, and indeed Daisy had scarce finished talking, when she heard herself hailed from the road. She started. Preston was there on horseback, calling to her. Daisy got up and took up her trowel.
"Good bye," she said, with a little sigh for the lost vision which Preston's voice had interrupted—"I'll come again, I hope." And she ran out at the gate.
"It is time for you to go home, Daisy. I thought you did not know how late it is."
Daisy mounted into her pony chaise silently.
"Have I interrupted something very agreeable?"
"You would not have thought it so," said Daisy diplomatically.
"What were you doing, down there in the dirt?"
"Preston, if you please, I cannot talk to you nicely while you are so high and I am so low."
Preston was certainly at some height above Daisy, being mounted up in his saddle on a pretty high horse, while the pony chaise was hung very near the ground. He had been beside her; but at her last words he laughed and set off at a good pace in advance, leaving the chaise to come along in Loupe's manner. Daisy drove contentedly56 home through the afternoon sunlight, which laid bands of brightness across her road all the way home. They seemed bands of joy to Daisy.
Preston had gallopped ahead and was at the door ready to meet her. "What kept you so long at that dismal58 place?" he asked as he handed her out of the chaise.
"You were back very soon from the Fish place, I think," said Daisy.
"Yes—Alexander was not at home; there was no use in my staying. But what were you doing all that while, Daisy?"
"It was not so very long," said Daisy. "I did not think it was a long time. You must have deceived yourself."
"But do you not mean to tell me what you were about? What could you do, at such a place?"
Daisy stood on the piazza, in all the light of the afternoon sunbeams, looking and feeling puzzled. How much was it worth while to try to tell Preston of her thoughts and wishes?
"What was the attraction, Daisy? only tell me that. Dirt and ignorance and rudeness and disorder—and you contented57 to be in the midst of it! Down in the dirt! What was the attraction?"
"She is very unhappy, Preston."
"I don't believe it. Nonsense! All that is not misery to such people, unless you make it so by shewing them something different. Marble tables are not the thing for them, Daisy."
"Marble tables!" echoed Daisy.
"Nor fuchsias and geraniums either. That old thing's old flowers do just as well."
Daisy was silent. She could have answered this. Preston went on.
"She won't be any better with her garden full of roses and myrtles, than she is with her sunflowers now. What do you expect to do, little Daisy?"
"I know what I would like if I were in her place," said Daisy.
"You,—but she is not you. She has not your tastes. Do you mean to carry her a silver cup and fork, Daisy? You would certainly like that, if you were in her place. Dear little Daisy, don't you be a mad philosopher."
But Daisy had not been thinking of silver cups and forks, and she was not misled by this argument.
"Daisy, do you see you have been under a mistake?"
"No, Preston,"—she said looking up at him.
"Daisy, do you think it is right for you to go into houses and among people where my uncle and aunt do not wish you to go? You know they do not wish it, though they have given consent perhaps because you were so set upon it."
Daisy glanced behind her, at the windows of the library; for they were at the back entrance of the house; and then seizing Preston's hand and saying, "Come with me," she drew him down the steps and over the grass till she reached one of the garden seats under the trees, out of hearing of any one. There they sat down; Preston curious, Daisy serious and even doubtful.
"Preston"—she began with all her seriousness upon her,—"I wish I had the book here, but I will tell you. When the Lord Jesus comes again in glory, and all the angels with him, he will have all the people before him, and he will separate them into two sets. One will be on the right and one on the left. One set will be the people that belong to him, and the other set will be the people that do not belong to him. Then he will welcome the first set, and bless them, because they have done things to the poor and miserable such as they would have liked to have done to themselves. And he will say—'Inasmuch as ye have done it to one of the least of these, ye have done it unto me.'" Daisy's eyes were full of water by this time.
"So you are working to gain heaven, Daisy?" said Preston, who did not know how to answer her.
"O no!" said the child. "I don't mean that."
"Yes, you do."
"No,—that would be doing it for oneself, not for the Lord Jesus"—said
Daisy gravely looking at Preston.
"Then I don't see what you mean by your story."
"I mean only, that Jesus likes to have us do to other people what we would want in their place."
"Suppose you were in my aunt and uncle's place—do you not think you would like to have a little daughter regard their wishes?"
Daisy looked distressed59.
"I think it is time to go in and get ready for dinner, Preston," she said.
If she was distressed, Preston was displeased60. They went in without any more words. But Daisy was not perplexed61 at all. She had not told Preston her innermost thought and hope—that Molly Skelton might learn the truth and be one of that blessed throng62 on the right hand in the Great Day; but the thought and hope were glowing at her heart; and she thought she must carry her Master's message, if not positively63 forbidden, to all whom she could carry it to. Preston's meditations64 were different.
"I have tried my best," he said that evening when Daisy was gone to bed,—"and I have failed utterly65. I tried my best—and all I got was a rebuke66 and a sermon."
"A sermon!" said Mrs. Randolph.
"An excellent one, aunt Felicia. It was orderly, serious, and pointed67."
"And she went to that place?"
"Yes, ma'am. The sermon was afterwards."
"What do you mean, Preston! Speak intelligibly68."
"Daisy did, ma'am. I am speaking sober truth, aunt Felicia."
"What is her motive69 in going to that horrid70 place? can you understand?"
"Its disagreeableness, ma'am—so far as I can make out."
"It is very singular," said Mrs. Gary.
"It is very deplorable." said Mrs. Randolph. "So at least it seems to me. There will be nothing in common soon between Daisy and her family."
"Only that this kind of thing is apt to wear out, my dear. You have that comfort."
"No comfort at all. You do not know Daisy. She is a persistent71 child.
She has taken a dose of fanaticism72 enough to last her for years."
"I am sure nevertheless that Dr. Sandford is right in his advice," said Mr. Randolph;—"both as a physician and as a philosopher. By far the best way is not to oppose Daisy, and take as little notice as possible of her new notions. They will fade out."
"I do not believe it," said the lady "I do not believe it in the least. If she had not your support, I would have an end of this folly73 in a month."
"Indirect ways"—said Mrs. Gary—"indirect ways, my dear; those are your best chance. Draw off Daisy's attention with other things. That is what I would do."
And then the ladies put their heads together and concerted a scheme; Preston joining eagerly in the discussion, and becoming the manager-in-chief intrusted with its execution. Mr. Randolph heard, but he gave no help and made no suggestion. He let the ladies alone.
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1
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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2
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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3
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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6
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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7
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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8
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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9
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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10
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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11
sedately
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| adv.镇静地，安详地 | |
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12
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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13
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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14
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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15
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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16
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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17
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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18
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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19
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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20
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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21
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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22
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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23
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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24
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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25
grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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26
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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27
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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28
scooped
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| v.抢先报道( scoop的过去式和过去分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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29
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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30
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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31
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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32
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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33
neutralized
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| v.使失效( neutralize的过去式和过去分词 )；抵消；中和；使（一个国家）中立化 | |
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34
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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35
flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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36
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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37
grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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38
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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39
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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40
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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41
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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42
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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43
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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44
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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45
prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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46
amicably
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| adv.友善地 | |
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47
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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48
excavation
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| n.挖掘，发掘；被挖掘之地 | |
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49
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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50
truthfulness
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| n. 符合实际 | |
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51
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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52
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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53
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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54
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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55
marvelling
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的现在分词 ) | |
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56
contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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57
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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58
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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59
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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60
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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61
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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62
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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63
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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64
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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65
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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66
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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67
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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68
intelligibly
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| adv.可理解地，明了地，清晰地 | |
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69
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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70
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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71
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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72
fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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73
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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