Daisy in the Field

there were breakers ahead."

  "You do not know that now, Mr. Dinwiddie?" I said.

  "I know there are rocks. If the sea should let you pass themin quiet, it would be a wonder."

  That was too true, I knew. I could only be silent.

  "How do you feel?" he next asked.

  "I know it is as you say, Mr. Dinwiddie."

  "And in view of it? -"

  "What can I do, - Mr. Dinwiddie?"

  "Nothing to avoid the rocks. The helm is not in your hand."

  "But I know in whose hand it is."

  "And are willing to have it there?"

  "More than willing," I said, meeting his eye.

  "Then the boat will go right," he said, with a sort of accentof relief. "It is the cross pulls with the oar, striving toundo the work of the rudder, that draw the vessel out of hercourse. The Pilot knows, - if you can only leave it to thePilot."

  There was a pause again.

  "But He sometimes takes the boat into the breakers," Mr.Dinwiddie said.

  "Yes," I said. "I know it."

  "What then, Daisy, my friend?"

  "What then, Mr. Dinwiddie?" I said, looking up at him. "Thenshe must be broken to pieces."

  "And what then? Can you trust the Pilot still?"

  His great eyes were flashing and glittering as he looked atme. No careless nor aimless thought had caused such aninterrogatory, I knew. I met the eyes which seemed to beblazing and melting at once, but I answered only by the look.

  "You may," he went on, without taking his eyes from mine. "Youmay trust safely. Even if the vessel is shaken and broken,trust even then, when all seems gone. There shall be smoothwaters yet; and a better voyage than if you had gone a lesswearisome way."

  "Why do you say all this to me, Mr. Dinwiddie?"

  "Not because I am a prophet," he said, looking away now, -"for I am none. And if I saw such trials ahead for you, Ishould have hardly courage to utter them. I asked, to comfortmyself; that I might know of a certainty that you are safe,whatever comes."

  "Thank you," I said, rather faintly.

  "I shall stay here," he went on presently, "in the land of mywork; and you will be gone to-morrow for other scenes. Itisn't likely you will ever see me again. But if ever you needa friend, on the other side of the globe, if you call me, Iwill come. It is folly to say that, though," he said pluckinghastily at a spear of grass; - "you will not need nor think ofme. But I suppose you know, Daisy, by this time, that allthose who come near you, love you. I am no exception. You musthave charity for me."

  "Dear Mr. Dinwiddie," I said reaching out my hand, - "if Iwere in trouble and wanted a friend, there is no one in theworld that I would sooner, or - rather, or as soon or as lief,ask to help me. Except -" I added, and could not finish mysentence. For I had remembered there was an exception whichought to be implied somewhere.

  "I know," he said, wringing my hand. "I wish I could heapblessings on the head of the exception. Now let us go in."

  The next day we rode down to Beyrout, and took the steamerthat same evening.

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  A MASKED BATTERY

  My Palestine holiday lasted, in some measure, all the way ofour journey home; and left me at the very moment when weentered our Parisian hotel and met mamma. It left me then. Allthe air of the place, much more all the style of mamma's dressand manner, said at once that we had come into another world.She was exquisitely dressed; that was usual; it could not havebeen only that, nor the dainty appointments around her; - itwas something in her bearing, an indescribable something evenas she greeted us, which said, You have played your play - nowyou will play mine. And it said, I cannot tell how, The cardsare in my hands.

  Company engaged her that evening. I saw little of her till thenext day. At our late breakfast then we discussed many things.Not much of Palestine; mamma did not want to hear much ofthat. She had had it in our letters, she said. Americanaffairs were gone into largely; with great eagerness andbitterness by both mamma and Aunt Gary; with triumphs over thedisasters of the Union army before Richmond, and other lesseraffairs in which the North had gained no advantage; invectivesagainst the President's July proclamation, his impudence andhis cowardice; and prophecies of ruin to him and his cause.Papa listened and said little. I heard and was silent; withthrobbing forebodings of trouble.

  "Daisy is handsomer than ever," my aunt remarked, when evenpolitics had exhausted themselves. But I wondered what she wasthinking of when she said it. Mamma lifted her eyes andglanced me over.

  "Daisy has a rival, newly appeared," she said. "She must doher best."

  "There cannot be rivalry, mamma, where there is nocompetition," I said.

  "Cannot there?" said mamma. "You never told us, Daisy, of _your_successes in the North."

  I do not think I flushed at all in answer to this remark; theblood seemed to me to go all to my heart.

  "Who has been Daisy's trumpeter?" papa asked.

  "There is a friend of hers here," mamma said, slowly sippingher coffee. I do not know how I sat at the table; thingsseemed to swim in a maze before my eyes; then mamma went on, -"What have you done with your victim, Daisy?"

  "Mamma," I said, "I do not at all know of whom you arespeaking."

  "Left him for dead, I suppose," she said. "He has met with agood Samaritan, I understand, who carried oil and wine."

  Papa's eye met mine for a moment.

  "Felicia," he said, "you are speaking very unintelligibly. Ibeg you will use clearer language, for all our sakes."

  "Daisy understands," she said.

  "Indeed I do not, mamma."

  "Not the good Samaritan's part, of course. That has come sinceyou were away. But you knew once that a Northern Blue-coat hadbeen pierced by the fire of your eyes?"

  "Mamma," I said, - "if you put it so, I have known it of morethan one."

  "Imagine it!" said mamma, with an indescribable gesture oflip, which yet was gracefully slight.

  "Imagine what?" said papa.

  "One of those canaille venturing to look at Daisy!"

  "My dear," said papa, "pray do not fail to remember, that wehave passed a large portion of our life among those whom youdenominate canaille, and who always were permitted theprivilege of looking at us all. I do not recollect that wefelt it any derogation from anything that belonged to us."

  "Did you let him look at you, Daisy?" mamma said, lifting herown eyes up to me. "It was cruel of you."

  "Your friend Miss St. Clair, is here, Daisy," my aunt Garysaid.

  "My friend!" I repeated.

  "She is your friend," said mamma. "She has bound up the woundsyou have made, Daisy, and saved you from being in the fullsense a destroyer of human life."

  "When did Faustina come here?" I asked.

  "She has been here a month. Are you glad?"

  "She was never a particular friend of mine, mamma."

  "You will love her now," said mamma; and the conversationturned. It had only filled me with vague fears. I could notunderstand it.

  I met Faustina soon in company. She was as brilliant a visionas I have often seen; her beauty was perfected in herwomanhood, and was of that type which draws all eyes. She wasnot changed, however; and she was not changed towards me. Shemet me with the old coldness; with a something besides which Icould not fathom. It gave me a secret feeling of uneasiness; Isuppose, because that in it I read a meaning of exultation, asecret air of triumph, which, I could not tell how or why,directed itself towards me and gathered about my head. It grewdisagreeable to me to meet her; but I was forced to do thisconstantly. We never talked together more than a few words;but as we passed each other, as our eyes met and hers wentfrom me, as she smiled at the next opening of her mouth, Ifelt always something sinister, or at least something hidden,which took the shape of an advantage gained. I tried to meether with perfect pleasantness, but it grew difficult. In mycircumstances I was very open to influences of discouragementor apprehension; indeed the trouble was to fight them off.This intangible evil however presently took
shape.

  I thought I had observed that for a day or two my father'seyes had lingered on me frequently with a tender or wistfulexpression, more than usual. I did not know what it meant.Mamma was pushing me into company all this while, and makingno allusion to my own private affairs, if she had any clue tothem. One morning I had excused myself from an engagementwhich carried away my aunt and her, that I might have a quiettime to read with papa. Our readings had been much broken inupon - lately. With a glad step I went to papa's room; astudy, I might call it, where he spent all of the time he didnot wish to give to society.