Daisy in the Field

"I should have said a rose camellia. Here is LordMontjoy, 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 tothink, 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; Iwas engaged with another riding party in the afternoon, andanother assembly expected me at night. I could not rest orthink, as I wanted to think, till night and morning had againtwo or three times tossed me about as a society ball. I thinkone's mind gets to be something like a ball too, when onelives such a life; all one's better thoughts rolled up, like ahybernating hedgehog, and put away as not wanted for use. Ihad no opportunity to unroll mine for several days.

  But I could not bear this state of things long; and at last Iexcused myself from a party one morning and went to walk withpapa; and then that hedgehog of thoughts began to stir andunfold and come to life. Still I wanted quiet. We had beengoing through a picture gallery, where I did not see thepictures; then, as often before, I persuaded papa to walk onfurther and take post where we could look at our leisure onthe beautiful Dome. This was an unceasing pleasure to me. Papawas not so fond of it; he came for my sake, as he often wasaccustomed to do. To-day, instead of soothing, its majesticbeauty roused all there was to rouse within me. I suppose wewere 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 enjoythat 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 thethoughts up; and I don't believe those who built them had anyhigh 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 Imust stay two years longer in school without seeing you andmamma, you sent me a promise too? - by Aunt Gary."

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

  "Papa, may I?"

  "Certainly."

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

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

  "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 yourselfsingular, Daisy."

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

  "Yes. Well?"

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

  "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 seemeda good deal amused.

  "What put that argument into your mouth?" he said. "And whatis 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 betterthan if you did. Well, not being a dancing girl, what is yourpetition? I reckon it will stand good, even to the half of mykingdom. Though indeed I do not know how much of a kingdomwill 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 toPalestine, Daisy."

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

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

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

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

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

  "Why, Daisy?" said papa, looking at me. "To my certainknowledge, there are several people who will be desolate ifyou 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 atit, flushed as I suppose it was; and kissed me, with a smilewhich did not in the least belie the seriousness.

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

  "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. "Mammawas 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, youare thoroughly yourself; and so far as my limited acquaintancewith you goes, there is no other mind that has the power ofturning 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, mypet. I am afraid it is not. The winter rains make the roadsbad."

  "Oh, yes, papa. - We will be quiet when it rains, and travelon the good days. And then we shall be in time to see thespring 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 neverforgotten."

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

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

  "There will be different opinions about that," said my father."However, we will go, Daisy. To the half of my kingdom. Yourmother has the other half. But allow me to ask you just inpassing, 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 hasno 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 inorder, and a good deal in it."

  "Only the truth left out, papa."

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

  "Truth of all sorts, papa, but not _the_ truth. He understandsthe world, and almost everything in it; but not who made itnor what it was made for; and he knows men; but not theirwork, or place, or destiny in the universe. He knows what theyare; he has no idea what they ought to be, or what they maybe."

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

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

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

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

  "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 hadto be answered. I suppose the matter had really been in mymind before, vaguely, and I had refused to look at it, whileyet I could not help seeing its proportions and bearing; sothat when papa asked me I knew