andreadiness. He spoke presently in a disengaged manner, -
"Mr. Ransom Randolph is in no danger at present. I know from aword in a late letter from your father, that he is in Europestill. Would you not like to get out of this confused state ofthings, and join them there?"
"I would like better to go if it was peace here," I said.
"Would you? Then you are not afraid lest the rebels shouldtake Washington and confiscate the whole of us?"
"Major Fairbairn thinks the danger of that is past."
"He does! However, other dangers might arise -"
"I knew you would not think Washington very safe ground forus," Mrs. Sandford rejoined.
"Mrs. Sandford is at her own risk. But I should hardly bedoing the duty of a good guardian if I risked anything, whereso important a charge is committed to me. I shall get you awayfrom here without delay. How soon can you both be ready?"
I wanted to say I was ready, but I could not get out thewords. My two friends debated the matter, and the doctor fixedhis own time. The day after to-morrow.
It was good for me, that I had given up the charge of my owninterests; or I never could have maintained the ease of mannerwhich it was desirable to maintain in face of thisproposition. I was very calm, remembering that "a man's heartdeviseth his way, but the Lord directeth his steps." I went onwith my worsted stitching under the eye of the doctor. I donot know why he watched me so.
"Has anybody ventured to tell you, Miss Randolph, that youhave changed within a few months?" This question was put afterI had forgotten the doctor and was marching somewhere before abattery in Patterson's column. I started a little.
"Yes, indeed! has she not?" exclaimed Mrs. Sandford. "Changed!She came out of school the dearest little schoolgirl that everlived; or I should say, she went back to school so, last year.What has the year done to you, Daisy?"
"What _has_ it done to me?" I replied, smiling at her. "How am Ichanged?"
"Changed!" Mrs. Sandford repeated. "Tell her, Grant, what isshe now?"
"She would not thank me for telling her," said the doctor.
"But I will thank you, Mrs. Sandford," I said. "I _was_ 'thedearest little schoolgirl.' "
"My dear, you are not that now," Mrs. Sandford said solemnly.
"It all comes to this, Daisy," said the doctor. "You are apsychological puzzle to me. For the matter of that, now Ithink of it, you always were. When you went to visit MollySkelton, and carried rose-bushes round the country in yourpony-chaise, just as much as now. You are not the same Daisy,however."
"Yes, I am; just the same," I said earnestly.
"Fancy it!" said Mrs. Sandford. "My dear, you do I not seeyourself; that is clear."
"I would like to do the same things again," I insisted. Butthat nearly choked me. For a vision of myself in my happypony-chaise; the free, joyous child that I was, ignorant ofsoldiers and wars, further than as I knew my dear CaptainDrummond; the vision of the Daisy that once was, and couldnever be again; went nigh to shake all my composure down. Theemotion came with a rush, and I had nearly succumbed to it.
"Miss Randolph has a philosophy," the doctor went on, stillwatching me, - "which is not common to the world, and which Ihave hitherto in vain endeavoured to fathom. I have alwaysfancied that I should be happier if I could find it out."
"Did I never tell you what it was, Dr. Sandford?"
"Never - intelligibly. You will excuse me. I do not mean toaccuse you, but myself."
"But you know what it is," I said, facing him. "My philosophy,as you call it. It is only, to live for the other worldinstead of this."
"Why not live for this world, while you are in it, Daisy?"
"I am not going to stay in it."
"I hope, very long!" said the doctor - seriously. "And do younot think that people are meant to enjoy this world, whilethey have it?"
"Yes, when they can," I answered; remembering vividly thatenjoyment is not always the rule. "But I enjoy the worldbetter than you do, Dr. Sandford; because, living for theother, I take the good of both. And if this fails at any time,the other - cannot."
Dr. Sandford's blue eye went as deep into mine, and into me, Ithink, as it could; and he did not look satisfied.
The preparations for our journey were pressed with a diligencethat admitted of no delay, all that day and the next. I wasquietly busy too, thinking that it did not matter; that thetime must come, and as well then as ever.
I had miscalculated my strength, or my weakness. Or perhapsthe emotional part of our nature is never to be depended on.That dim morning of our early departure is fixed in my memoryas one of the most heart-sinking times my heart ever knew. Mycompanions were brisk and bright, in travelling mood, takingcars and porters and ticket offices and crowds, as pleasantconcomitants of a pleasant affair. Glad to get away fromWashington, both of them. And I, alone in my heart, knew whata thread was breaking for me; knew that Thorold's path andmine were starting from that point upon divergent lines, whichwould grow but further and further apart every day. Until thatmoment I had not realised what it would be, to leave theneighbourhood of his work and his danger, and cut off all butthe most distant and precarious communication between him andme; what it would be, too, to him, to know that I was gone. Itdid seem then for a minute as if I could not go; as if I must,as necessity, remain within hailing distance of him, and atthe headquarters of information. But there was another "must,"stronger than mine; I was seated in the car, the whistle blewits mockery of me; and the slow movement which immediatelyfollowed was the snapping of the thread, - the parting of thelines. It was something that no human action could stay oravert now; and the gentle motion soon grew to a whirl of speedwhich bore me relentlessly away. The slow pang of that firststir of the cars, I can feel yet.
It was a dumb pain at my heart all day. I could not understandmyself. For several days I had been quiet and prepared, Ithought, and submissive; now to-day all was disorder; nopreparedness; no quiet. Instead were heartaches and regretsand wild wishes; sometimes in dull and steady force, like astill rain storm; and sometimes sweeping over me with the furyof a tempestuous blast. I had not strength to resist; myutmost was to keep a calm front before my friends. I did that,I think. But what torture is it not, to be obliged to hear andanswer all manner of trifling words, to enter into everytrivial thought, of people at ease around one, when the heartis bending and bowing under its life burden; to be obliged tocount the pebbles in the way, when one is staggering to keepone's footing at all. Yes, and one must answer with adisengaged face, and one must smile with ready lips, andattention must not wander, and self-absorption for a minutecannot be allowed. Perhaps it was good for me.
My companions attended to me well, so that I got no respiteall day. Not till night, when I reached my room; and when Ihad respite, I found no rest. It was great relief to put myhead down without fear lest somebody should ask me if itached; but all night long I struggled with the pain that hadfought me all day. The next morning I went to find MissCardigan. To my great disappointment she was not at home; andwould not be at home, I was told, under a week.
I passed slowly in, over the familiar stones of the marblefloor, in through the empty rooms, to the innermost one whichopened upon the little conservatory. That too was stripped ofits beauties; most of the plants were set out in the openground, and the scaffolding steps were bare. I turned my backupon the glass door, which had been for me the door to so muchsweetness, and sat down to think. Not only sweetness. Howstrange it was! From Miss Cardigan's flowers, the connectinglinks led on straight to all my sorrow and heartache of thepresent and perhaps of many future days. They had led me here;and here Mr. Thorold had said words to me that had bound himand me together for the rest of our lives, and made hiswelfare my welfare. And now, he was in the shock ofbattlefields; and I - afar off - must watch and listen. And Icould not be near and watch. I must be where even good newswould be no news, except of the past; where nobody would speakto me of Mr. Thorold, and where I could not speak of him toanybody. I was sure, the more I thought of it,
that the onlypossible chance for a good issue to our engagement, would beto wait until the war should be over; and if he persisted inhis determination of speaking to my father and mother beforesuch a favourable conjuncture, the end would be only disaster.I somewhat hoped, that the pressure of active duty on hispart, or some happy negligence of post-office officials, orother contingency, might hinder such a letter as he hadthreatened from coming to my father's hands at present.
Meanwhile, in Miss Cardigan's little room, I struggled for aright mind. If I was sorrowful, I told myself, I was alsoglad. If I pitied myself a little for all that had happened,it was also true that I would not have undone it - that is, mypart in it, - for the world. I would