Daisy
South Carolina and Virginia _gentlemen_ are going to live under a
rail-splitter for a President? and take orders from him?"
"What do you mean by a 'rail-splitter'?"
"I mean this Abe Lincoln the northern mudsills have picked up to make
a President of. He used to get his living by splitting rails for a
Western fence, Daisy Randolph."
"But if he is President, he is President," I said.
"For those that like him. _We_ won't have him. Jefferson Davis is my
President. And all I can do to help him I will. I can't fight; I wish
I could. My brother and my cousins and my uncle will, though, that's
one comfort; and what I can do I will."
"Then I think you are a traitor," I said.
I was hated among the Southern girls from that day. Hated with a
bitter, violent hatred, which had indeed little chance to show itself,
but was manifested in the scornful, intense avoidance of me. The
bitterness of it is surprising to me even now. I cared not very much
for it. I was too much engrossed with deeper interests of the time,
both public and private. The very next day came the President's call
for seventy-five thousand men; and the next, the answer of the
governor of Kentucky, that "Kentucky would furnish no troops for the
wicked purpose of subduing her sister Southern States." I saw this in
the paper in the library; the other girls had no access to the general
daily news, or I knew there would have been shoutings of triumph over
Governor Magoffin. Other governors of other States followed his
example. Jefferson Davis declared in a proclamation that letters of
marque and reprisal would be issued. Everything wore the aspect of
thickening strife.
My heart grew very heavy over these signs of evil, fearing I knew not
what for those whom I cared about. Indeed, I would not stop to think
what I feared. I tried to bury my fears in my work. Letters from my
mother became very explicit now; she said that troublesome times were
coming in the country, and she would like me to be out of it. After a
little while, when the independence of the South should be assured, we
would all come home and be happy together. Meantime, as soon after the
close of the school year as Dr. Sandford could find a good chance for
me, I was to come out to them at Lausanne, where my mother thought
they would be by that time.
So I studied with all my strength, with the double motive of gaining all
I could and of forgetting what was going on in the political world. Music
and French, my mother particularly desired that I should excel in; and I
gave many hours to my piano, as many as possible, and talked with Mlle.
Genevieve, whenever she would let me. And she was very fond of me and
fond of talking to me; it was she who kept for me my library privilege.
And my voice was good, as it had promised to be. I had the pleasure of
feeling that I was succeeding in what I most wished to attain. It was
succeeding over the heads of my schoolfellows; and that earned me wages
that were not pleasant among a portion of my companions. Faustina St.
Clair was back among us; she would perhaps have forgiven if she could
have forgotten me; but my headship had been declared ever since the time
of the bronze standish, and even rivalry had been long out of the
question. So the old feud was never healed; and now, between the
unfriendliness of her party and the defection of all the Southern girls,
I was left in a great minority of popular favour. It could not be helped.
I studied the harder. I had unlimited favour with all my teachers, and
every indulgence I asked for.
The news of the attack in Baltimore upon the Massachusetts troops
passing through the city, and Governor Andrew's beautiful telegram,
shook me out of my pre-occupation. It shook me out of all quiet for a
day. Indignation, and fear, and sorrow rolled through my heart. The
passions that were astir among men, the mad results to which they were
leading, the possible involvement of several of those whom I loved, a
general trembling of evil in the air, made study difficult for the
moment. What signified the course and fate of nations hundreds of
years ago? Our own course and fate filled the horizon. What signified
the power or beauty of my voice, when I had not the heart to send it
up and down like a bird any longer? Where was Preston, and Dr.
Sandford, and Ransom, and what would become of Magnolia? In truth, I
did not know what had become of Ransom. I had not heard from him or of
him in a long time. But these thoughts would not do. I drove them
away. I resolved to mind my work and not read the papers, if I could
help it, and not think about politics or my friends' course in them. I
could do nothing. And in a few months I should be away, out of the
land.
I kept my resolve pretty well. Indeed, I think nothing very particular
happened to disturb it for the next two or three weeks. I succeeded in
filling my head with work and being very happy in it. That is,
whenever I could forget more important things.
CHAPTER XIX.
ENTERED FOR THE WAR.
One evening, I think before the end of April, I asked permission to
spend the evening at Miss Cardigan's. I had on hand a piece of study
for which I wanted to consult certain books which I knew were in her
library. Mlle. Genevieve gave me leave gladly.
"You do study too persevering, m'amie," she said. "Go, and stop to
study for a little while. You are pale. I am afraid your doctor--ce
bon Monsieur le docteur--will scold us all by and by. Go, and do not
study."
But I determined to have my play and my study too.
As I passed through Miss Cardigan's hall, the parlour door, standing
half open let me see that a gentleman was with her. Not wishing to
interrupt any business that might be going on, and not caring also to
be bored with it myself, I passed by and went into the inner room
where the books were. I would study now, I thought, and take my
pleasure with my dear old friend by and by, when she was at leisure. I
had found my books, and had thrown myself down on the floor with one,
when a laugh that came from the front room laid a spell upon my powers
of study. The book fell from my hands; I sat bolt upright, every sense
resolved into that of hearing. What, and who had that been? I
listened. Another sound of a word spoken, another slight inarticulate
suggestion of laughter; and I knew with an assured knowledge that my
friend Cadet Thorold, and no other, was the gentleman in Miss
Cardigan's parlour with whom she had business. I sat up and forgot my
books. The first impulse was to go in immediately and show myself. I
can hardly tell what restrained me. I remembered that Miss Cardigan
must have business with him, and I had better not interrupt it. But
those sounds of laughter had not been very business-like, either. Nor
were they business words which came through the open door. I never
thought or knew I was listening. I only thought it was Thorold, and
held my breath to hear, or rather to feel. My ears seemed sharpened
beyond all their usual faculty.
"And you haven't gone and fallen in love, callant, meanwhile, just to
complicate affairs?" said the voice of Miss Cardigan.
"I shall never fall in love," said Thorold, with (I suppose) mock
gravity. His voice sounded so.
"Why not?"
"I require too much."
"It's like your conceit!" said Miss Cardigan. "Now, what is it that
you require? I would like to know; that is, if you know yourself. It
appears that you have thought about it."
"I have thought, till I have got it all by heart," said Thorold. "The
worst is, I shall never find it in this world."
"That's likely. Come, lad, paint your picture, and I'll tell you if
_I_ know where to look," said Miss Cardigan.
"And then you'll search for me?"
"I dinna ken if you deserve it," said Miss Cardigan.
"I don't deserve it, of course," said Thorold. "Well--I have painted
the likeness a good many times. The first thing is a pair of eyes as
deep and grey as our mountain lakes."
"I never heard that your Vermont lakes were _grey_," said Miss
Cardigan.
"Oh, but they are! when the shadow of the mountains closes them in. It
is not cold grey, but purple and brown, the shadow of light, as it
were; the lake is in shadow. Only, if a bit of blue _does_ show itself
there, it is the very heaven."
"I hope that it is not going to be in poetry?" said Miss Cardigan's
voice, sounding dry and amused. "What is the next thing? It is a very
good picture of eyes."
"The next thing is a mouth that makes you think of nothing but kissing
it; the lines are so sweet, and so mobile, and at the same time so
curiously subdued. A mouth that has learned to smile when things don't
go right; and that has learned the lesson so well, you cannot help
thinking it must have often known things go wrong; to get the habit so
well, you know."
"Eh?--Why, boy!"--cried Miss Cardigan.
"Do you know anybody like it?" said Thorold, laughing. "If you do, you
are bound to let me know where, you understand."
"What lies between the eyes and mouth?" said Miss Cardigan. "There
goes more to a picture."
"Between the eyes and mouth," said Thorold, "there is sense and
dignity, and delicacy, and refinement to a fastidious point; and a
world of strength of character in the little delicate chin."
"Character--_that_ shows in the mouth," said Miss Cardigan, slowly.
"I told you so," said Thorold. "That is what I told you. Truth, and
love, and gentleness, all sit within those little red lips; and a
great strength of will, which you cannot help thinking has borne
something to try it. The brow is like one of our snowy mountain tops
with the sun shining on it."
"And the lady's figure is like a pine-tree, isn't it? It sounds gay,
as if you'd fallen in love with Nature, and so personified and imaged
her in human likeness. Is it real humanity?"
Thorold laughed his gay laugh. "The pine-tree will do excellently,
Aunt Catherine," he said. "No better embodiment of stately grace could
be found."
My ears tingled. "Aunt Catherine?" _Aunt!_ Then Thorold must be her
relation, her nephew; then he was not come on business; then he would
stay to tea. I might as well show myself. But, I thought, if Thorold
had some other lady so much in his mind (for I was sure his picture
must be in a portrait), he would not care so very much about seeing
me, as I had at first fancied he would. However, I could not go away;
so I might as well go in; it would not do to wait longer. The evening
had quite fallen now. It was April, as I said, but a cold, raw spring
day, and had been like that for several days. Houses were chill; and
in Miss Cardigan's grate a fine fire of Kennal coals were blazing,
making its red illumination all over the room and the two figures who
sat in front of it. She had had a grate put in this winter. There was
no other light, only that soft red glow and gloom, under favour of
which I went in and stood almost beside them before they perceived me.
I did not speak to Miss Cardigan. I remember my words were, "How do
you do, Mr. Thorold?"--in a very quiet kind of a voice; for I did not
now expect him to be very glad. But I was surprised at the change my
words made. He sprang up, his eyes flashing a sort of shower of sparks
over me, gladness in every line of his face, and surprise, and a kind
of inexpressible deference in his manner.
"Daisy!" he exclaimed. "Miss Randolph!"
"Daisy!" echoed Miss Cardigan. "My dear--do you two know each other?
Where did you come from?"
I think I did not answer. I am sure Thorold did not. He was caring for
me, placing his chair nearer his aunt, and putting me into it, before
he let go the hand he had taken. Then, drawing up another chair on the
other side of me, he sat down, looking at me (I thought afterwards, I
only felt at the moment), as if I had been some precious wonder; the