Daisy
mixed up with it; and therefore--Daisy Randolph must go to the hop no
more. I felt the certainty of the decision growing over me, even while
I was appalled by it. I staved off consideration all that day.
In the afternoon Mr. Thorold came and took me to see the laboratory,
and explained for me a number of curious things. I should have had
great enjoyment, if Preston had not taken it into his head, unasked,
to go along; being unluckily with me when Thorold came. He was a
thorough marplot; saying nothing of consequence himself, and only
keeping a grim watch--I could take it as nothing else--of everything
we said and did. Consequently, Mr. Thorold's lecture was very proper
and grave, instead of being full of fun and amusement, as well as
instruction. I took Preston to task about it when we got home.
"You hinder pleasure when you go in that mood," I told him.
"What mood?"
"You know. You never are pleasant when Mr. Thorold is present or when
he is mentioned."
"He is a cowardly Yankee!" was Preston's rejoinder.
"_Cowardly_, Gary?"--said somebody near; and I saw a cadet whom I did
not know, who came from behind us and passed by on the piazza. He did
not look at us, and stayed not for any more words; but turning to
Preston, I was surprised to see his face violently flushed.
"Who was that?"
"No matter--impertinence!" he muttered.
"But what _is_ the matter? and what did he mean?"
"He is one of Thorold's set," said Preston; "and I tell you Daisy, you
shall not have anything to do with them. Aunt Felicia would never
allow it. She would not look at them herself. You shall not have
anything more to do with them."
How could I, if I was going no more to the hops? How could I see
Thorold, or anybody? The thought struck to my heart, and I made no
answer. Company, however, kept me from considering the matter all the
evening.
But the next day, early, I was in my usual place: near the river side,
among the rocks, with my Bible; and I resolved to settle the question
there as it ought to be settled. I was resolved; but to do what I had
resolved was difficult. For I wanted to go to the hop that evening
very much. Visions of it floated before me; snatches of music and
gleams of light; figures moving in harmony; words and looks; and--my
own white little person. All these made a kind of quaint mosaic with
flashes of light on the river, and broad warm bands of sunshine on the
hills, and the foliage of trees and bushes, and the grey lichened
rocks at my foot. It was confusing; but I turned over the leaves of my
Bible to see if I could find some undoubted direction as to what I
ought to do, or perhaps rather some clear permission for what I wished
to do. I could not remember that the Bible said anything about
dancing, _pro_ or _con_; dancing, I thought, could not be wrong; but
this confusion in my mind was not right. I fluttered over my leaves a
good while with no help; then I thought I might as well take a chapter
somewhere and study it through. The whole chapter, it was the third of
Colossians, did not seem to me to go favourably for my pleasure; but
the seventeenth verse brought me to a point,--"Whatsoever ye do in
word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus."
There was no loophole here for excuses or getting off, "_Whatsoever ye
do._" Did I wish it otherwise? No, I did not. I was content with the
terms of service; but now about dancing, or rather, the dancing party?
"In the name of the Lord Jesus." Could I go there in that name? as the
servant of my Master, busy about His work, or taking pleasure that He
had given me to take? That was the question. And all my visions of
gay words and gay scenes, all the flutter of pleased vanity and the
hope of it, rose up and answered me. By that thought of the pretty
dress I would wear, I knew I should not wear it "in the name of the
Lord Jesus;" for my thought was of honour to myself, not to Him. By
the fear which darted into my head, that Mr. Thorold might dance with
Faustina if I were not there, I knew I should not go "in the name of
the Lord," if I went; but to gratify my own selfish pride and
emulation. By the confusion which had reigned in my brain these two
days, by the tastelessness of my Bible, by the unaptness for prayer, I
knew I could not go in the name of my Lord, for it would be to unfit
myself for His work.
The matter was settled in one way; but the pain of it took longer to come
to an end. It is sorrowful to me to remember now how hard it was to get
over. My vanity I was heartily ashamed of, and bade that show its head no
more; my emulation of Faustina St. Clair gave me some horror; but the
pleasure--the real honest pleasure, of the scene, and the music and the
excitement and the dancing and the seeing people--all that I did not let
go for ever without a hard time of sorrow and some tears. It was not a
_struggle_, for I gave that up at once; only I had to fight pain. It was
one of the hardest things I ever did in my life. And the worst of all and
the most incurable was, I should miss seeing Mr. Thorold. One or two more
walks, possibly, I might have with him; but those long, short evenings of
seeing and talking and dancing!
Mrs. Sandford argued, coaxed, and rallied me; and then said, if I
would not go, she should not; and she did not. That evening we spent
at home together, and alone; for everybody else had drifted over to
the hop. I suppose Mrs. Sandford found it dull; for the next hop night
she changed her mind and left me. I had rather a sorrowful evening.
Dr. Sandford had not come back from the mountains; indeed, I did not
wish for him; and Thorold had not been near us for several days. My
fairyland was getting disenchanted a little bit. But I was quite sure
I had done right.
The next morning, I had hardly been three minutes on my rock by the
river, when Mr. Thorold came round the turn of the walk and took a
seat beside me.
"How do you do?" said he, stretching out his hand. I put mine in it.
"What has become of my friend, this seven years?"
"I am here--" I said.
"I see you. But why have I _not_ seen you, all this while?"
"I suppose you have been busy," I answered.
"Busy! Of course I have, or I should have been here asking questions.
I was not too busy to dance with you: and I was promised--how many
dances? Where have you been?"
"I have been at home."
"Why?"
Would Mr. Thorold understand me? Mrs. Sandford did not. My own mother
never did. I hesitated, and he repeated his question, and those hazel
eyes were sparkling all sorts of queries around me.
"I have given up going to the hops," I said.
"Given up? Do you mean, you _don't_ mean, that you are never coming
any more?"
"I am not coming any more."
"Don't you sometimes change your decisions?"
"I suppose I do," I answered; "but not this one."
"I am in a great puzzle," he said. "And very sorry. Aren't you going
to be so good as to give me some clue to this mystery? Did you find
the hops so dull?"
And he looked very serious indeed.
"Oh no!" I said. "I liked them very much--I enjoyed them very much. I
am sorry to stay away."
"Then you will not stay away very long."
"Yes--I shall."
"Why?" he asked again, with a little sort of imperative curiosity
which was somehow very pleasant to me.
"I do not think it is right for me to go," I said. Then, seeing grave
astonishment and great mystification in his face, I added, "I am a
Christian, Mr. Thorold."
"A Christian!" he cried, with flashes of light and shadow crossing his
brow. "Is _that_ it?"
"That is it," I assented.
"But my dear Miss Randolph--you know we are friends?"
"Yes," I said, smiling, and glad that he had not forgotten it.
"Then we may talk about what we like. Christians go to hops."
I looked at him without answering.
"Don't you know they do?"
"I suppose they may--" I answered, slowly.
"But they _do_. There was our former colonel's wife--Mrs. Holt; she
was a regular church-goer, and a member of the church; she was always
at the hop, and her sister; they are both church members. Mrs.
Lambkin, General Lambkin's wife, she is another. Major Banks'
sisters--those pretty girls--they are always there; and it is the same
with visitors. Everybody comes; their being Christians does not make
any difference."
"Captain Thorold," said I--"I mean Mr. Thorold, don't you obey your
orders?"
"Yes--general," he said. And he laughed.
"So must I."
"You are not a soldier."
"Yes--I am."
"Have you got orders not to come to our hop?"
"I think I have. You will not understand me, but this is what I mean,
Mr. Thorold. I _am_ a soldier, of another sort from you; and I have
orders not to go anywhere that my Captain does not send me, or where I
cannot be serving Him."
"I wish you would show those orders to me."
I gave him the open page which I had been studying, that same chapter
of Colossians, and pointed out the words. He looked at them, and
turned over the page, and turned it back.
"I don't see the orders," he said.
I was silent. I had not expected he would.
"And I was going to say, I never saw any Christians that were
soldiers; but I have, one. And so you are another?" And he bent upon
me a look so curiously considering, tender, and wondering, at once,
that I could not help smiling.
"A soldier!" said he, again. "You? Have you ever been under fire?"
I smiled again, and then, I don't know what it was. I cannot tell
what, in the question and in the look, touched some weak spot. The
question called up such sharp answers; the look spoke so much
sympathy. It was very odd for me to do, but I was taken unawares; my
eyes fell and filled, and before I could help it were more than full.
I do not know, to this day, how I came to cry before Thorold. It was
very soon over, my weakness, whatever it was. It seemed to touch him
amazingly. He got hold of my hand, put it to his lips, and kissed it
over and over, outside and inside.
"I can see it all in your face," he said, tenderly: "the strength and
the truth to do anything, and bear--whatever is necessary. But I am
not so good as you. I cannot bear anything unless it _is_ necessary;
and this isn't."
"Oh no, nor I!" I said; "but this is necessary, Mr. Thorold."
"Prove it--come."
"You do not see the orders," I said; "but there they are. 'Do all in
the name of the Lord Jesus.' I cannot go to that place 'in His name.'"
"I do not think I understand what you mean," he said, gently. "A
soldier, the best that ever lived, is his own man when he is off duty.
We go to the hop to play--not to work."
"Ah, but a soldier of Christ is never 'off duty,'" I said. "See, Mr.
Thorold--_'whatsoever_ ye do'--'whether ye eat or drink, or whatsoever
ye do.' That covers all; don't you see?"
"That would make it a very heavy thing to be a Christian," he said;
"there would be no liberty at all."
"Oh, but it is all liberty!" I said,--"When you love Jesus."
He looked at me so inquiringly, so inquisitively, that I went on.
"You do not think it hard to do things for anybody you love?"
"No," said he. "I would like to do things for you."
I remember I smiled at that, for it seemed to me very pleasant to hear
him say it; but I went on.
"Then you understand it, Mr. Thorold."
"No," said he, "I do not understand it; for there is this difficulty.
I do not see what in the world such an innocent amusement as that we
are talking of can have to do with Christian duty, one way or another.
Every Christian woman that I know comes to it,--that is young enough;
and some that aren't."
It was very hard to explain.
"Suppose they disobey orders," I said slowly;--"that would be another
reason why I should obey them."
"Of course. But do they?"
"I should," I said. "I am not serving Christ when I am there. I am not