CHAPTER VII.
SINGLEHANDED.
As my aunt set sail for the shores of Europe, and Miss Pinshon and Iturned our faces towards Magnolia, I seemed to see before me a wearywinter. I was alone now; there was nobody to take my part in small orgreat things; my governess would have her way. I was so much strongernow that no doubt she thought I could bear it. So it was. The fulltale of studies and tasks was laid on me; and it lay on me frommorning till night.
I had expected that. I had looked also for the comfort and refreshmentof ministering to my poor friends in the kitchen on the Sundayevenings. I began as usual with them. But as the Sundays came round, Ifound now and then a gap or two in the circle; and the gaps as timewent on did not fill up; or if they did they were succeeded by othergaps. My hearers grew fewer, instead of more; the fact was undoubted.Darry was always on the spot; but the two Jems not always, and Petewas not sure, and Eliza failed sometimes, and others; and this grewworse. Moreover, a certain grave and sad air replaced the enjoying,almost jocund, spirit of gladness which used to welcome me and listento the reading and join in the prayers and raise the song. The singingwas not less good than it used to be; but it fell oftener into theminor key, and then poured along with a steady, powerful volume,deepening and steadying as it went, which somehow swept over my heartlike a wind from the desert. I could not well tell why, yet I felt ittrouble me; sometimes my heart trembled with the thrill of those sweetand solemn vibrations. I fancied that Darry's prayer had a somewhatdifferent atmosphere from the old. Yet when I once or twice askedMargaret the next morning why such and such a one had not been at thereading, she gave me a careless answer, that she supposed Mr. Edwardshad found something for them to do.
"But at night, Margaret?" I said. "Mr. Edwards cannot keep them atwork at night."
To which she made no answer; and I was for some reason unwilling topress the matter. But things went on, not getting better but worseuntil I could not bear it. I watched my opportunity and got Mariaalone.
"What is the matter," I asked, "that the people do not come on Sundayevening as they used? Are they tired of the reading, Maria?"
"I 'spect dey's as tired as a fish mus' be of de water," said Maria.She had a fine specimen under her hand at the moment, which I supposesuggested the figure.
"Then why do they not come as usual, Maria? there were only a few lastnight."
"Dere was so few, it was lonesome," said Maria.
"Then what is the reason?"
"Dere is more reasons for t'ings, den Maria can make out," she saidthoughtfully. "Mebbe it's to make 'em love de priv'lege mo'."
"But what keeps them away, Maria? what hinders?"
"Chile, de Lord hab His angels, and de debil he hab his ministers; anddey takes all sorts o' shapes, de angels and de ministers too. Ireckon dere's some work o' dat sort goin' on."
Maria spoke in a sort of sententious wisdom which did not satisfy meat all. I thought there was something behind.
"Who is doing the work, Maria?" I asked, after a minute.
"Miss Daisy," she said, "dere ain't no happenin' at all widout de Lordlets it happen. Dere is much contrairy in dis world--fact, dere is;but I 'spect de Lord make it up to us by'm by."
And she turned her face full upon me with a smile of so much quietresting in that truth, that for just a moment it silenced me.
"Miss Daisy ain't looking quite so peart as she use to look," Mariawent on. But I slipped away from that diversion.
"Maria," I said, "you don't tell me what is the matter; and I wish toknow. What keeps the people, Pete, and Eliza, and all, from coming?What hinders them, Maria? I wish to know."
Maria busied herself with her fish for a minute, turning and washingit; then, without looking up from her work, she said, in a loweredtone,--
"'Spect de overseer, he don't hab no favour to such ways andmeetin's."
"But with _me_?" I said; "and with Aunt Gary's leave?"
"'Spose he like to fix t'ings his own way," said Maria.
"Does he forbid them to come?" I asked.
"I reckon he do," she said, with a sigh.
Maria was very even-tempered, quiet, and wise, in her own way. Hersigh went through my heart. I stood thinking what plan I could take.
"De Lord is berry good, Miss Daisy," she said, cheerily, a momentafter; "and dem dat love Him, dere can be no sort o' separation, noways."
"Does Mr. Edwards forbid them _all_ to come?" I asked. "For a goodmany do come."
"'Spect he don't like de meetin's, nohow," said Maria.
"But does he tell all the people they must not come?"
"I reckon he make it oncomfor'ble for 'em," Maria answered gravely."Dere is no end o' de mean ways o' sich folks. Know he ain't nogentleman, nohow!"
"What does he do, Maria?" I said, trembling, yet unable to keep backthe question.
"He can do what he please, Miss Daisy," Maria said, in the same graveway. "'Cept de Lord above, dere no one can hinder--now massa so fur.Bes' pray de Lord, and mebbe He sen' His angel, some time."
Maria's fish was ready for the kettle; some of the other servants camein, and I went with a heavy heart up the stairs. "Massa so fur"--yes!I knew that; and Mr. Edwards knew it too. Once sailed for China, andit would be long, long, before my cry for help, in the shape of one ofmy little letters, could reach him and get back the answer. My heartfelt heavy as if I could die, while I slowly mounted the stairs to myroom. It was not only that trouble was brought upon my poor friends,nor even that their short enjoyment of the word of life was hinderedand interrupted; above this and worse than this was the sense of_wrong_ done to these helpless people, and done by my own father andmother. This sense was something too bitter for a child of my years tobear; it crushed me for a time. Our people had a right to the Bible asgreat as mine; a right to dispose of themselves as true as my father'sright to dispose of himself. Christ, my Lord, had died for them aswell as for me; and here was my father--_my father_--practicallysaying that they should not hear of it, nor know the message He hadsent to them. And if anything could have made this more bitter to me,it was the consciousness that the _reason_ of it all was that we mightprofit by it. Those unpaid hands wrought that our hands might be freeto do nothing; those empty cabins were bare, in order that our housesmight be full of every soft luxury; those unlettered minds were keptunlettered that the rarest of intellectual wealth might be poured intoour treasury. I knew it. For I had written to my father once to beghis leave to establish schools, where the people on the plantationmight be taught to read and write. He had sent a very kind answer,saying it was just like his little Daisy to wish such a thing, andthat his wish was not against it, if it could be done; but that thelaws of the State, and for wise reasons, forbade it. Greatly puzzledby this, I one day carried my puzzle to Preston. He laughed at me asusual, but at the same time explained that it would not be safe; forthat if the slaves were allowed books and knowledge, they would soonnot be content with their condition, and would be banding together tomake themselves free. I knew all this, and I had been brooding overit; and now when the powerful hand of the overseer came in to hinderthe little bit of good and comfort I was trying to give the people, myheart was set on fire with a sense of sorrow and wrong that, as Isaid, no child ought ever to know.
I think it made me ill. I could not eat. I studied like a machine, andwent and came as Miss Pinshon bade me; all the while brooding bymyself and turning over and over in my heart the furrows of thoughtwhich seemed at first to promise no harvest. Yet those furrows neverbreak the soil for nothing. In due time the seed fell; and the fruitof a ripened purpose came to maturity.
I did not give up my Sunday readings, even although the number of myhearers grew scantier. As many as could, we met together to read andto pray, yes, and to sing. And I shall never in this world hear suchsinging again. One refrain comes back to me now--
"Oh, had I the wings of the morning-- Oh, had I the wings of the morning-- Oh, had I the wings of the morning--
I'd fly to my Jesus away!"
I used to feel so too, as I listened and sometimes sung with them.
Meantime, all that I could do with my quarterly ten dollars, I did.And there was many a little bit of pleasure I could give; what with atulip here and a cup of tea there, and a bright handkerchief, or apair of shoes. Few of the people had spirit and cultivation enough tocare for the flowers. But Maria cherished some red and white tulipsand a hyacinth in her kitchen window, as if they had been herchildren; and to Darry a white rose-tree I had given him seemed almostto take the place of a familiar spirit. Even grave Pete, whom I onlysaw now and then this winter at my readings, nursed and tended andwatched a bed of crocuses with endless delight and care. All thewhile, my Sunday circle of friends grew constantly fewer; and thesongs that were sung at our hindered meetings had a spirit in them,which seemed to me to speak of a deep-lying fire somewhere in thehearts of the singers, hidden, but always ready to burst into a blaze.Was it because the fire was burning in my own heart?
I met one of the two Jems in the pine-avenue one day. He greeted mewith the pleasantest of broad smiles.
"Jem," said I, "why don't you come to the house Sunday evenings anymore?"
"It don't 'pear practical, missie." Jem was given to large-sizedwords, when he could get hold of them.
"Mr. Edwards hinders you?"
"Mass' Ed'ards berry smart man, Miss Daisy. He want massa's work doneup all jus' so."
"And he says that the prayer-meeting hinders the work, Jem?"
"Clar, missis, Mass' Ed'ards got long head; he see furder den me," Jemsaid, shaking his own head as if the whole thing were beyond him. Ilet him go. But a day or two after I attacked Margaret on the subject.She and Jem, I knew, were particular friends. Margaret was oracularand mysterious, and looked like a thundercloud. I got nothing fromher, except an increase of uneasiness. I was afraid to go further inmy inquiries; yet could not rest without. The house servants, I knew,would not be likely to tell me anything that would trouble me if theycould help it. The only exception was mammy Theresa; who with all herlove for me had either less tact, or had grown from long habithardened to the state of things in which she had been brought up. Fromher, by a little cross questioning, I learned that Jem and others hadbeen forbidden to come to the Sunday readings; and their disobeyinghad been visited with the lash, not once nor twice; till, as mammyTheresa said, "'peared like it warn't no use to try to be good agin dedevil."
And papa was away on his voyage to China--away on the high seas, whereno letter could reach him; and Mr. Edwards knew that. There was a firein my heart now that burned with sharp pain. I felt as if it wouldburn my heart out. And now took shape and form one single aim andpurpose, which became for years the foremost one of my life. It hadbeen growing and gathering. I set it clear before me from this time.
Meanwhile, my mother's daughter was not willing to be entirely baffledby the overseer. I arranged with Darry that I would be at thecemetery-hill on all pleasant Sunday afternoons, and that all whowished to hear me read, or who wished to learn themselves, might meetme there. The Sunday afternoons were often pleasant that winter. I wasconstantly at my post; and many a one crept round to me from thequarters and made his way through the graves and the trees to where Isat by the iron railing. We were safe there. Nobody but me liked theplace. Miss Pinshon and the overseer agreed in shunning it. And therewas promise in the blue sky, and hope in the soft sunshine, andsympathy in the sweet rustle of the pine-leaves. Why not? Are they notall God's voices? And the words of the Book were very precious there,to me and many another. I was rather more left to myself of late. Mygoverness gave me my lessons quite as assiduously as ever; but afterlesson-time she seemed to have something else to take her attention.She did not walk often with me as the spring drew near; and my Sundayafternoons were absolutely unquestioned.
One day in March I had gone to my favourite place to get out alesson. It was not Sunday afternoon, of course. I was tired with myday's work, or I was not very strong; for though I had work to do, thewitcheries of nature prevailed with me to put down my book. The scentof pine-buds and flowers made the air sweet to smell, and the springsun made it delicious to feel. The light won its way tenderly amongthe trees, touching the white marble tombstones behind me, but restingwith a more gentle ray upon the moss and turf where only little bitsof rough board marked the sleeping-places of our dependants. Just outof sight, through the still air I could hear the river, in itsrippling, flow past the bank at the top of which I sat. My book hungin my hand, and the course of Universal History was forgotten, while Imused and mused over the two sorts of graves that lay around me, thetwo races, the diverse fate that attended them, while one blue sky wasover, and one sunlight fell down. And "while I was musing the fireburned" more fiercely than ever David's had occasion when he wrotethose words, "Then spake I with my tongue." I would have liked to dothat. But I could do nothing; only pray.
I was very much startled while I sat in my muse to hear a footstepcoming. A steady, regular footstep; no light trip of children; and thehands were in the field, and this was not a step like any of them. Myfirst thought was, the overseer's come to spy me out. The next minuteI saw through the trees and the iron railings behind me that it wasnot the overseer. I knew _his_ wideawake; and this head was crownedwith some sort of a cap. I turned my head again and sat quiet; willingto be overlooked, if that might be. The steps never slackened. I heardthem coming round the railing--then just at the corner--I looked up tosee the cap lifted, and a smile coming upon features that I knew; butmy own thoughts were so very far away that my visitor had almostreached my side before I could recollect who it was. I remember I gotup then in a little hurry.
"It is Doctor Sandford!" I exclaimed, as his hand took mine.
"Is it, Daisy?" answered the doctor.
"I think so," I said.
"And I _think_ so," he said, looking at me after the old fashion. "Sitdown, and let me make sure."
"You must sit on the grass, then," I said.
"Not a bad thing, in such a pleasant place," he rejoined, sending hisblue eye all round my prospect. "But it is not so pleasant a place asWhite Lake, Daisy."
Such a flood of memories and happy associations came rushing into mymind at these words--he had not given them time to come in slowly. Isuppose my face showed it, for the doctor looked at me and smiled ashe said, "I see it _is_ Daisy; I think it is certainly Daisy. So youdo not like Magnolia?"
"Yes, I do," I said, wondering where he got that conclusion. "I likethe _place_ very much, if----"
"I should like to have the finishing of that 'if'--if you have noobjection."
"I like the _place_," I repeated. "There are some things about it I donot like."
"Climate, perhaps?"
"I did not mean the climate. I do not think I meant anything thatbelonged to the place itself."
"How do you do?" was the doctor's next question.
"I am very well, sir."
"How do you know it?"
"I suppose I am," I said. "I am not sick. I always say I am well."
"For instance, you are so well that you never get tired?"
"Oh I get tired very often. I always did."
"What sort of things make you tired? Do you take too long drives inyour pony-chaise?"
"I have no pony-chaise now, Dr. Sandford. Loupe was left at Melbourne.I don't know what became of him."
"Why didn't you bring him along? But any other pony would do, Daisy."
"I don't drive at all, Dr. Sandford. My aunt and governess do not liketo have me drive as I used to do. I wish I could!"
"You would like to use your pony and chaise again?"
"Very much. I know it would rest me."
"And you have a governess, Daisy? That is something you had not atMelbourne."
"No," I said.
"A governess is a very nice thing," said the doctor, taking off hishat and leaning back against the iron railing, "if she knows properlyhow to set people to play."
"To play!"
I echoed. "I don't know whether Miss Pinshon approves ofplay."
"Oh! She approves of work then, does she?"
"She likes work," I answered.
"Keeps you busy?"
"Most of the day, sir."
"The evenings you have to yourself?"
"Sometimes. Not always. Sometimes I cannot get through with mylessons, and they stretch on into the evening."
"How many lessons does this lady think a person of your age andcapacity can manage in the twenty-four hours?" said the doctor, takingout his knife as he spoke and beginning to trim the thorns off a bitof sweetbriar he had cut. I stopped to make the reckoning.
"Give me the course of your day, Daisy. And by-the-by when does yourday begin?"
"It begins at half past seven, Dr. Sandford."
"With breakfast?"
"No, sir. I have a recitation before breakfast."
"Please of what?"
"Miss Pinshon always begins with mathematics."
"As a bitters. Do you find that it gives you an appetite?"
By this time I was very near bursting into tears. The familiar voiceand way, the old time they brought back, the contrasts they forcedtogether, the different days of Melbourne and of my Southern home, theforms and voices of mamma and papa, they all came crowding andflitting before me. I was obliged to delay my answer. I knew that Dr.Sandford looked at me; then he went on in a very gentle way--
"Sweetbriar is sweet, Daisy,"--putting it to my nose. "I should liketo know how long does mathematics last, before you are allowed to havecoffee?"
"Mathematics only lasts half an hour. But then I have an hour of studyin mental philosophy before breakfast. We breakfast at nine."
"It must take a great deal of coffee to wash down all that," said thedoctor, lazily trimming his sweetbriar. "Don't you find that you arevery hungry when you come to breakfast?"
"No, not generally," I said.
"How is that? where there is so much sharpening of the wits, peopleought to be sharp otherwise."
"My wits do not get sharpened," I said, half laughing. "I think theyget dull; and I am often dull altogether by breakfast time."
"What time in the day do you walk?"
"In the afternoon, when we have done with the schoolroom. But latelyMiss Pinshon does not walk much."
"So you take the best of the day for philosophy?"
"No, sir, for mathematics."
"Oh! Well, Daisy, _after_ philosophy and mathematics have both hadtheir turn, what then?--when breakfast is over."
"Oh, they have two or three more turns in the course of the day," Isaid. "Astronomy comes after breakfast; then Smith's 'Wealth ofNations;' then chemistry. Then I have a long history lesson to recite;then French. After dinner we have natural philosophy, and physicalgeography and mathematics; and then we have generally done."
"And then what is left of you goes to walk," said the doctor.
"No, not very often now," I said. "I don't know why--Miss Pinshon hasvery much given up walking of late."
"Then what becomes of you?"
"I do not often want to do much of anything," I said. "To-day I camehere."
"With a book," said the doctor. "Is it work or play?"
"My history lesson," I said, showing the book. "I had not quite timeenough at home."
"How much of a lesson, for instance?" said the doctor, taking the bookand turning over the leaves.
"I had to make a synopsis of the state of Europe from the thirdcentury to the tenth--synchronising the events and the names."
"In writing?"
"I might write it if I chose, I often do, but I had to give thesynopsis from memory."
"Does it take long to prepare, Daisy?" said the doctor, still turningover the leaves.
"Pretty long," I said, "when I am stupid. Sometimes I _cannot_ do thesynchronising, my head gets so thick; and I have to take two or threedays for it."
"Don't you get punished for letting your head get thick?"
"Sometimes I do."
"And what is the system of punishment at Magnolia for such deeds?"
"I am kept in the house for the rest of the afternoon sometimes," Isaid; "or I have an extra problem in mathematics to get out for thenext morning."
"And _that_ keeps you in, if the governess don't."
"Oh no," I said; "I never can work at it then. I get up earlier thenext morning."
"Do you do nothing for exercise but those walks, which you do nottake?"
"I used to ride last year," I said; "and this year I was stronger, andMiss Pinshon gave me more studies; and somehow I have not cared toride so much. I have felt more like being still."
"You must have grown tremendously wise, Daisy," said the doctor,looking round at me now with his old pleasant smile. I cannot tell thepleasure and comfort it was to me to see him; but I think I saidnothing.
"It is near the time now when you always leave Magnolia, is it not?"
"Very near now."
"Would it trouble you to have the time a little anticipated?"
I looked at him, in much doubt what this might mean. The doctorfumbled in his breast pocket and fetched out a letter.
"Just before your father sailed for China, he sent me this. It wassome time before it reached me; and it was some time longer before Icould act upon it."
He put a letter in my hand, which I, wondering, read. It said, theletter did, that papa was not at ease about me; that he was notsatisfied with my aunt's report of me, nor with the style of my lateletters; and begged Dr. Sandford would run down to Magnolia at hisearliest convenience and see me, and make inquiry as to my well-being;and if he found things not satisfactory, as my father feared he might,and judge that the rule of Miss Pinshon had not been good for me onthe whole, my father desired that Dr. Sandford would take measures tohave me removed to the North and placed in one of the best schoolsthere to be found; such a one as Mrs. Sandford might recommend. Theletter further desired that Dr. Sandford would keep a regular watchover my health, and suffer no school training nor anything else tointerfere with it; expressing the writer's confidence that Dr.Sandford knew better than any one what was good for me.
"So you see, Daisy," the doctor said, when I handed him back theletter, "your father has constituted me in some sort your guardianuntil such time as he comes back."
"I am very glad," I said, smiling.
"Are you? That is kind. I am going to act upon my authorityimmediately, and take you away."
"From Magnolia?" I said breathlessly.
"Yes. Wouldn't you like to go and see Melbourne again for a littlewhile?"
"Melbourne!" said I; and I remember how my cheeks grew warm."But--will Miss Pinshon go to Melbourne?"
"No; she will not. Nor anywhere else, Daisy, with my will andpermission, where you go. Will that distress you very much?"
I could not say yes, and I believe I made no answer, my thoughts werein such a whirl.
"Is Mrs. Sandford in Melbourne--I mean, near Melbourne--now?" I askedat length.
"No, she is in Washington. But she will be going to the old placebefore long. Would you like to go, Daisy?"
I could hardly tell him. I could hardly think. It began to rush overme, that this parting from Magnolia was likely to be for a longer timethan usual. The river murmured by--the sunlight shone on the groves onthe hillside. Who would look after my poor people?
"You like Magnolia after all?" said the doctor. "I do not wonder, sofar as Magnolia goes, you are sorry to leave it."
"No," I said, "I am not sorry at all to leave Magnolia; I am veryglad. I am only sorry to leave--some friends."
"Friends?" said the doctor.
"Yes."
"How many friends?"
"I don't know," said I. "I think there are a hundred or more."
"Seriously?"
"Oh yes," I said. "They are all on the place here."
"How long will you want, Daisy, to take proper leave of thesefriends?"
I had no idea he was in such practical haste; but I fou
nd it was so.