Daisy in the Field

Daisy?" he asked, veryprofessionally. Mamma was out when he came.

  "Nothing -" I answered; "except what will take its own time."

  "Not like you, that answer," he said.

  "It is like me now," I replied.

  "We must get back to a better condition. It is not I good foryou to be in this place. Would you like to go into quartersnear Melbourne, for the summer?"

  "Better than anything! - if you could manage it. Mamma wouldnot like it."

  "I think I can convince her."

  Dr. Sandford I knew had powers of convincing, and I judge theywere helped on this occasion by facts in the pecuniary stateof our affairs, to which my mother could no longer quite shuther eyes. She had not money to remain where she was. I thinkshe had not been able, properly, to be there, for a good whilepast; though the bills were paid somehow. But now herresources failed; the war was evidently ending disastrouslyfor the South; her hopes gave way; and she agreed to let Dr.Sandford make arrangements for our going into the country. Itwas very bitter to her, the whole draught she had to swallow;and the very fact of being under necessity. Dr. Sandford had adeal of trouble, I fancy, to find any house or arrangementthat would content her. No board was procurable that could beendured even for a day. The doctor found at last, and hired,and put in order for us, a small cottage on the way betweenMelbourne and Crum Elbow; and there, early in June, mamma andI found ourselves established; "Buried," she said;"sheltered," I thought.

  "I wish I was dead," mamma said next morning.

  "Mamma - why do you speak so? just now."

  "There is no sort of view here - nothing in the world butthose grass fields."

  "We have this fine elm tree over the house, mamma, to shadeus. That is worth a great deal."

  "If the windows had Italian shades, they would be better. Whatwindows! Who do you suppose lived here before us?"

  "Mamma, I do think it is very comfortable."

  "I hope you will show that you think so, then. I have had nocomfort in you for a long time past."

  I thought, _I_ should never have comfort in anybody any more.

  "What has changed you so?"

  "Changes come to everybody, I suppose, mamma, now and then."

  "Is that all your boasted religion is good for?"

  I could not answer. Was it? What is the boat which can onlysail in smooth water? But though feeling reproached, andjustly, I was as far from help as ever. Mamma went on -

  "You used to be always bright - with your sort of brightness;there was not much brilliance to it; but you had a kind ofsteady cheerfulness of your own, from a child. What has becomeof it?"

  "Mamma, I am sorry it is gone. Perhaps it will wake up one ofthese days."

  "I shall die of heartache first. It would be the easiest thingI could do. To live here, is to die a long death. I feel as ifI could not get a free breath now."

  "I think, mamma, when we get accustomed to the place, we shallfind pleasantness in it. It is a world pleasanter than NewYork."

  "No, it is not," said mamma vehemently; "and it never will be.In a city, you can cover yourself up, as it were, and halfhide yourself from even yourself; in such a place as this,there is not a line in your lot but you have; leisure to traceit all out; and there is not a rough place in your life butyou have time to put your foot on every separate inch of it.Life is bare, Daisy; in a city one lives faster, and one is ina crowd, and things are covered up or one passes them oversomehow. I shall die here!"

  "Next spring you can have Melbourne again, mamma, you know."

  But mamma burst into tears. I knew not how to comfort.

  "Would'st thou go forth to bless? be sure of thine own ground;"Fix well thy centre first; then draw thy circle round."

  I was silent, while mamma wept.

  "I wish you would keep Dr. Sandford from coming here!" shesaid suddenly.

  "I see his curricle at the gate now, mamma."

  "Then I'll go. I don't want to see him. Do give him adismissal, Daisy!"

  Our only faithful kind friend; how could I? It was notpossible that I should do such a thing.

  "How is all here?" said the doctor, coming in.

  I told him, as well as usual - or not quite. Mamma had not gotaccustomed to the change yet.

  "And Daisy?"

  "I like it."

  The doctor took an ungratified survey of my countenance.

  "Don't you want to see some of your old friends?"

  "Friends? - _here?_ Who, Dr. Sandford?"

  "Old Juanita would like to see you."

  "Juanita!" said I. "Is she alive?"

  "You do not seem very glad of it?"

  I was not glad of anything. But I did not say so.

  "She would like to see you."

  "I suppose she would."

  "Do you not incline to gratify her?"

  "Did you tell her of - my being here, Dr. Sandford?"

  "It was a very natural thing to do. If I had not, somebodyelse would."

  "I will go over to see her some time," I said. "I suppose itis not too far for me to walk."

  "It is not too far for you to ride," said the doctor. "I amgoing that way now. Put on your hat and come. The air will begood for you."

  It was not pleasant to go. Nevertheless I yielded and went. Iknew how it would be. Every foot of the way pain. The doctorlet me alone. I was thankful for that. And he left me alone atJuanita's cottage. He drove on, and I walked up the littlepath where I had first gone for a drink of water almost elevenyears ago. Yet eleven years, from ten to twenty-one, is not somuch, in most cases, I thought. In mine, it was a whole life-time, and the end of a life-time. So it seemed.

  The interview with my old nurse was not satisfactory. Not tome, and I think not to her. I did not seem to her quite thesame Daisy Randolph she had known; indeed I was not the same.Juanita had a little awe of me; and I could not be unreservedand remove the awe. I could not tell her my heart's history;and without telling it, in part, I could not but keep at adistance from my old friend. Time might bring something out ofour intercourse; but I felt that this first sight of her haddone me no good. So Dr. Sandford found that I felt; for hetook pains to know.

  Juanita was but little changed. The eleven years had justtouched her. She was more wrinkled, hardly so firm in herbearing, not quite so upright, as her beautiful presence usedto be. There was no deeper change. The brow was as peacefuland as noble as ever. I thought, speculating upon it, that shemust have seen storms, too, in her life-time. The clouds wereall cleared away, long since. Perhaps it will be so with me, Ithought, some day; by and by.

  I thought Dr. Sandford would be discouraged in trying to do megood; however, a day or two after this drive, I saw his horsesstopping again at our gate. My mother uttered an exclamationof impatience.

  "Does that man come to see you or me, Daisy?" she asked.

  "Mamma, I think he is a kind friend to both of us," I said.

  "I suppose every woman has a tenderness for a man that isenamoured of her, if he is ever so great a fool," sheremarked.

  "Mamma! - nobody ever accused Dr. Sandford before of being afool."

  "He is a fool to look at you. Do get a little wisdom into hishead, Daisy!" And she left the room again as the doctorentered the house.

  I knew he and I understood each other; and though he might bea fool after mamma's reckoning, I had a great kindness forhim. So I met him with frank kindness now. The doctor walkedabout the room a while, talking of indifferent things; andthen said suddenly, -

  "Do you remember old Molly Skelton?"

  "Certainly. What of her?"

  "She is dying, poor creature."

  "Does _she_ know I am here?" I asked.

  "I have not told her."

  "Would she like to see me, do you think?" I said, with anuneasy consciousness that I must go, whatever the answer were.

  "If she can recognise you-I presume there is nobody else shewould so like to see. As in reason there ought not."

  "Can you take me there, Dr. Sandford?"

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bsp; "Not at this hour; I am going another way. This afternoon Iwill take you, if you will go. Will you go?"

  "If you will be so good as to take me."

  "I will come for you then at four o'clock."

  That ride I have reason to remember. It was a fair Juneafternoon, though the month was almost out now; the peculiarbrilliance which distinguishes June shone through the air andsparkled on the hills. With clear bright outlines the Catskillrange stretched away right and left before us, whenever ourroad brought us in view of it; fulness of light on the sunnyslopes, soft depth of shadow on the others, proclaiming theclear purity of the atmosphere. The blue of the sky, the freshsweetness of