Daisy
seen Miss Bentley wince, and Miss Macy bite her lip; but neither of
them dared affront the daughter of Mrs. St. Clair. Miss Lansing was
herself of the favoured class, and had listened lightly. Fashion was
power, that was plain. Was I willing to forego it? Was I willing to
be one of those whom fashion passes by as St. Clair had glanced on my
dress--as something not worthy a thought.
I was not happy, those days. Something within me was struggling for
self assertion. It was new to me; for until then I had never needed to
assert my claims to anything. For the first time, I was looked down
upon, and I did not like it. I do not quite know why I was made to
know this so well. My dress, if not showy or costly, was certainly
without blame in its neatness and niceness, and perfectly becoming my
place as a schoolgirl. And I had very little to do at that time with
my schoolmates, and that little was entirely friendly in its
character. I am obliged to think, looking back at it now, that some
rivalry was at work. I did not then understand it. But I was taking a
high place in all my classes. I had gone past St. Clair in two or
three things. Miss Lansing was too far behind in her studies to feel
any jealousy on that account; but besides that, I was an unmistakable
favourite with all the teachers. They liked to have me do anything for
them or with them; if any privilege was to be given, I was sure to be
one of the first names called to share it; if I was spoken to for
anything, the manner and tone were in contrast with those used towards
almost all my fellows. It may have been partly for these reasons that
there was a little positive element in the slight which I felt. The
effect of the whole was to make a long struggle in my mind. "The world
knoweth us not"--gave the character and condition of that party to
which I belonged. I was feeling now what those words mean,--and it was
not pleasant.
This struggle had been going on for several weeks, and growing more
and more wearying, when Mrs. Sandford came one day to see me. She
said I did not look very well, and obtained leave for me to take a
walk with her. I was glad of the change. It was a pleasant bright
afternoon; we strolled up the long avenue, then gay and crowded with
passers to and fro in every variety and in the height of the mode; for
our avenue was a favourite and very fashionable promenade. The gay
world nodded and bowed to each other; the sun streamed on satins and
laces, flowers and embroidery; elegant toilets passed and repassed
each other, with smiling recognition; the street was a show. I walked
by Mrs. Sandford's side in my chinchilla cap, for I had not got a
straw hat yet, though it was time; thinking--"The world knoweth us
not"--and carrying on the struggle in my heart all the while. By and
by we turned to come down the avenue.
"I want to stop a moment here on some business," said Mrs. Sandford,
as we came to Miss Cardigan's corner; "would you like to go in with
me, Daisy?"
I was pleased, and moreover glad that it was the hour for my
companions to be out walking. I did not wish to be seen going in at
that house and to have all the questions poured on me that would be
sure to come. Moreover, I was curious to see how far Miss St. Clair's
judgment would be verified. The marble hall was undoubted; it was
large and square, with a handsome staircase going up from it; but the
parlour, into which we were ushered the next minute, crossed all my
expectations. It was furnished with dark chintz; no satin, red or
blue, was anywhere to be seen; even the curtains were chintz. The
carpet was not rich; the engravings on the walls were in wooden frames
varnished; the long mirror between the windows, for that was there,
reflected a very simple mahogany table, on which lay a large work
basket, some rolls of muslin and flannel, work cut and uncut, shears
and spools of cotton. Another smaller table held books and papers and
writing materials. This was shoved up to the corner of the hearth,
where a fire--a real, actual fire of sticks--was softly burning. The
room was full of the sweet smell of the burning wood. Between the two
tables, in a comfortable large chair, sat the lady we had come to see.
My heart warmed at the look of her immediately. Such a face of genial
gentle benevolence; such a healthy sweet colour in the old cheeks;
such a hearty, kind, and withal shrewd and sound, expression of eye
and lip. She was stout and dumpy in figure, rather fat; with a little
plain cap on her head and a shawl pinned round her shoulders. Somebody
who had never been known to the world of fashion. But oh, how homely
and comfortable she and her room looked! she and her room and her cat;
for a great white cat sat with her paws doubled under her in front of
the fire.
"My sister begged that I would call and see you, Miss Cardigan," Mrs.
Sandford began, "about a poor family named Whittaker, that live
somewhere in Ellen Street."
"I know them. Be seated," said our hostess. "I know them well. But I
don't know this little lady."
"A little friend of mine, Miss Cardigan; she is at school with your
neighbour opposite,--Miss Daisy Randolph."
"If nearness made neighbourhood," said Miss Cardigan, laughing, "Mme.
Ricard and I would be neighbours; but I am afraid the rule of the Good
Samaritan would put us far apart. Miss Daisy--do you like my cat; or
would you like maybe to go in and look at my flowers?--yes?--Step in
that way, dear; just go through that room, and on, straight through;
you'll smell them before you come to them."
I gladly obeyed her, stepping in through the darkened middle room,
where already the greeting of the distant flowers met me; then through
a third smaller room, light and bright and full of fragrance, and to
my surprise, lined with books. From this an open glass door let me
into the greenhouse and into the presence of the beauties I had so
often looked up to from the street. I lost myself then. Geraniums
breathed over me; roses smiled at me; a daphne at one end of the room
filled the whole place with its fragrance. Amaryllis bulbs were
magnificent; fuchsias dropped with elegance; jonquils were shy and
dainty; violets were good; hyacinths were delicious; tulips were
splendid. Over and behind all these and others, were wonderful ferns,
and heaths most delicate in their simplicity, and myrtles most
beautiful with their shining dark foliage and starry white blossoms. I
lost myself at first, and wandered past all these new and old friends
in a dream; then I waked up to an intense feeling of homesickness. I
had not been in such a greenhouse in a long time; the geraniums and
roses and myrtles summoned me back to the years when I was a little
happy thing at Melbourne House--or summoned the images of that time
back to me. Father and mother and home--the delights and freedoms of
those days--the carelessness, and the care--the blessed joys of that
time before I knew Miss Pinshon, or school, and before I was perplexed
with the sorrows and the wants of the world, and before I was
alone--above all, when papa and mamma and I were _at home_. The
geraniums and the roses set me back there so sharply that I felt it
all. I had lost myself at first going into the greenhouse; and now I
had quite lost sight of everything else, and stood gazing at the faces
of the flowers with some tears on my own, and, I suppose, a good deal
of revelation of my feeling; for I was unutterably startled by the
touch of two hands upon my shoulders and a soft whisper in my ear,
"What is it, my bairn?"
It was Miss Cardigan's soft Scotch accent, and it was besides a
question of the tenderest sympathy. I looked at her, saw the kind and
strong grey eyes which were fixed on me wistfully; and hiding my face
in her bosom I sobbed aloud.
I don't know how I came to be there, in her arms, nor how I did
anything so unlike my habit; but there I was, and it was done, and
Miss Cardigan and I were in each other's confidence. It was only for
one moment that my tears came; then I recovered myself.
"What sort of discourse did the flowers hold to you, little one?" said
Miss Cardigan's kind voice; while her stout person hid all view of me
that could have been had through the glass door.
"Papa is away," I said, forcing myself to speak,--"and mamma:--and we
used to have these flowers--"
"Yes, yes; I know. I know very well," said my friend. "The flowers
didn't know but you were there yet. They hadn't discretion. Mrs.
Sandford wants to go, dear. Will you come again and see them? They
will say something else next time."
"Oh, may I?" I said.
"Just whenever you like, and as often as you like. So I'll expect
you."
I went home, very glad at having escaped notice from my schoolmates,
and firmly bent on accepting Miss Cardigan's invitation at the first
chance I had. I asked about her of Mrs. Sandford in the first place;
and learned that she was "a very good sort of person; a little queer,
but very kind; a person that did a great deal of good and had plenty
of money. Not in society, of course," Mrs. Sandford added; "but I dare
say she don't miss that; and she is just as useful as if she were."
"Not in society." That meant, I supposed, that Miss Cardigan would not
be asked to companies where Mrs. Randolph would be found, or Mrs.
Sandford; that such people would not "know" her, in fact. That would
certainly be a loss to Miss Cardigan; but I wondered how much? "The
world knoweth us not,"--the lot of all Christ's people,--could it
involve anything in itself very bad? My old Juanita, for example, who
held herself the heir to a princely inheritance, was it any harm to
her that earthly palaces knew her only as a servant? But then, what
did not matter to Juanita or Miss Cardigan might matter to somebody
who had been used to different things. I knew how it had been with
myself for a time past. I was puzzled. I determined to wait and see,
if I could, how much it mattered to Miss Cardigan.
CHAPTER XII.
FRENCH DRESSES.
My new friend had given me free permission to come and see her whenever I
found myself able. Saturday afternoon we always had to ourselves in the
school; and the next Saturday found me at Miss Cardigan's door again as
soon as my friends and room-mates were well out of my way. Miss Cardigan
was not at home, the servant said, but she would be in presently. I was
just as well pleased. I took off my cap, and carrying it in my hand I
went back through the rooms to the greenhouse. All still and fresh and
sweet, it seemed more delightful than ever, because I knew there was
nobody near. Some new flowers were out. An azalea was in splendid beauty,
and a white French rose, very large and fair, was just blossoming, and
with the red roses and the hyacinths and the violets and the daphne and
the geraniums, made a wonderful sweet place of the little greenhouse. I
lost myself in delight again; but this time the delight did not issue in
homesickness. The flowers had another message for me to-day. I did not
heed it at first, busy with examining and drinking in the fragrance and
the loveliness about me; but even as I looked and drank, the flowers
began to whisper to me. With their wealth of perfume, with all their
various, glorious beauty, one and another leaned towards me or bent over
me with the question--"Daisy, are you afraid?--Daisy, are you
afraid?--The good God who has made us so rich, do you think he will leave
you poor? He loves you, Daisy. You needn't be a bit afraid but that HE is
enough, even if the world does not know you. He is rich enough for you as
well as for us."
I heard no voice, but surely I heard that whisper, plain enough. The
roses seemed to kiss me with it. The sweet azalea repeated it. The
hyacinths stood witnesses of it. The gay tulips and amaryllis held up