A Little Girl in Old Pittsburg
by Amanda M. Douglas · English · Gutenberg #43769 · 450,560 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Little Girl in Old Pittsburg
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: A Little Girl in Old Pittsburg
Author: Amanda M. Douglas
Release date: September 20, 2013 [eBook #43769]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/43769
Credits: Produced by Melissa McDaniel and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD PITTSBURG ***
Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
been preserved. Examples include peddler and peddlar, grandmere and
gran'mere, Mr. de Ronville and M. de Ronville.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal
signs=.
A Little Girl in Old Pittsburg
The "Little Girl" Series
By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS
In Handsome Cloth Binding
Price, per Volume 60 Cents
A Little Girl in Old New York
A Little Girl of Long Ago
A sequel to "A Little Girl in Old New York"
A Little Girl in Old Boston
A Little Girl in Old Philadelphia
A Little Girl in Old Washington
A Little Girl in Old New Orleans
A Little Girl in Old Detroit
A Little Girl in Old St. Louis
A Little Girl in Old Chicago
A Little Girl in Old San Francisco
A Little Girl in Old Quebec
A Little Girl in Old Baltimore
A Little Girl in Old Salem
A Little Girl in Old Pittsburg
For Sale by all Booksellers or will be sent postpaid on
receipt of price.
A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS
52, 58 Duane Street New York
A LITTLE GIRL IN
OLD PITTSBURG
By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS
[Illustration]
A. L. BURT COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
Copyright, 1909, by
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
Published, September, 1909
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I A LITTLE GIRL 1
II A JOYFUL RETURN 19
III WELCOME 39
IV OLD PITTSBURG 60
V HOW THE WORLD WIDENED 81
VI A NEW FRIEND 103
VII DAFFODIL'S NEW WORLD 120
VIII IN SILK ATTIRE 141
IX WITH THE EYES OF YOUTH 152
X THE PASSING OF THE OLD 169
XI THE WOOF OF DAILY THINGS 189
XII SPINNING WITH VARIOUS THREADS 209
XIII THE SWEETNESS OF LOVE 227
XIV SORROW'S CROWN OF SORROW 242
XV ANOTHER FLITTING 261
XVI SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 284
XVII OH, WHICH IS LOVE? 305
XVIII A REVELATION 320
CHAPTER I
A LITTLE GIRL
"Oh, what is it, grandad! Why is Kirsty ringing two bells and oh, what
is he saying?"
Grandfather Carrick had come out of his cottage and stood in the small
yard place that a young oak had nearly filled with a carpet of leaves.
He was a medium-sized man with reddish hair streaked with white, and a
spare reddish beard, rather ragged, bright blue eyes and a nose
_retroussé_ at the best, but in moments of temper or disdain it turned
almost upside down, as now.
"What is he sayin'. Well, it's a dirty black lee! Lord Cornwallis
isn't the man to give in to a rabble of tatterdemalions with not a
shoe to their feet an' hardly a rag to their back! By the beard of St.
Patrick they're all rags!" and he gave an insolent laugh! "It's a
black lee, I tell you!"
He turned and went in the door with a derisive snort. Daffodil stood
irresolute. Kirsty was still ringing his two bells and now people were
coming out to question. The street was a rather winding lane with the
houses set any way, and very primitive they were, built of logs, some
of them filled in with rude mortar and thatched with straw.
Then Nelly Mullin came flying along, a bright, dark-haired,
rosy-cheeked woman, with a shawl about her shoulders. She caught up
the child and kissed her rapturously.
"Oh, isn't it full grand!" she cried. "Cornwallis has surrendered to
General Washington! Our folks caught him in a trap. An' now the men
folks will come home, my man an' your father, Dilly. Thank the Saints
there wasna a big battle. Rin tell your mither!"
"But grandad said it was a--a lee!" and the child gave a questioning
look.
"Lie indeed!" she laughed merrily. "They wouldna be sending all over
the country such blessed news if it was na true. Clear from Yorktown
an' their Cornwallis was the biggest man England could send, a rale
Lord beside. Rin honey, I must go to my sisters."
The little girl walked rather slowly instead, much perturbed in her
mind. The Duvernay place joined the Carrick place and at present they
were mostly ranged round the Fort. That was much smaller, but better
kept and there were even some late hardy flowers in bloom.
"What's all the noise, Posy?" asked Grandfather Duvernay. He was an
old, old man, a bright little Frenchman with snowy white hair, but
bright dark eyes. He was a good deal wrinkled as became a
great-grandfather, and he sat in a high-backed chair at one corner of
the wide stone chimney that was all built in the room. There was a
fine log fire and Grandmother Bradin was stirring a savory mass of
herbs. The real grandfather was out in the barn, looking after the
stock.
"It was Kirsty ringing two bells. Cornwallis is taken."
"No!" The little man sprang up and clasped his hands. "You are sure
you heard straight! It wasn't Washington?"
"I'm quite sure. And Nelly Mullin said 'run and tell your mother, your
father'll be coming home.'"
"Thank the good God." He dropped down in the chair again and closed
his eyes, bent his head reverently and prayed.
"Your mother's asleep now. She's had a pretty good night. Run out and
tell gran."
Grandfather Bradin kissed his little girl, though he was almost afraid
to believe the good news. Three years Bernard Carrick had been
following the fortunes of war and many a dark day had intervened.
"Oh, that won't end the war. There's Charleston and New York. But
Cornwallis! I must go out and find where the news came from."
"Grandad don't believe it!" There was still a look of doubt in her
eyes.
Bradin laughed. "I d' know as he'd believe it if he saw the articles
of peace signed. He'll stick to King George till he's laid in his
coffin. There, I've finished mending the steps and I'll slip on my
coat and go."
"I couldn't go with you?" wistfully.
"No, dear. I'll run all about and get the surest news. I s'pose it
came to the Fort, but maybe by the South road."
He took the child's hand and they went into the house. The streets
were all astir. Grandfather stood by the window looking out, but he
turned and smiled and suddenly broke out in his native French. His
face then had the prettiness of enthusiastic old age.
"We'll shake hands on it," said Bradin. "I'm going out to see. There
couldn't be a better word."
The autumnal air was chilly and he wrapped his old friese cloak around
him.
"Mother's awake now," said Mrs. Bradin. "You may go in and see her."
The door was wide open now. It was as large as the living room, but
divided by a curtain swung across, now pushed aside partly. There was
a bed in each corner. A light stand by the head of the bed, a chest of
drawers, a brass bound trunk and two chairs completed the furnishing
of this part. The yellow walls gave it a sort of cheerful, almost
sunshiny look, and the curtain at the window with its hand-made lace
was snowy white. The painted floor had a rug through the centre that
had come from some foreign loom. The bedstead had high slender carved
posts, but was without a canopy.
A woman still young and comely as to feature lay there. She was thin,
which made the eyes seem larger and darker. The brown hair had a
certain duskiness and was a curly fringe about the forehead. She
smiled up at the little girl, who leaned over and kissed her on the
cheek.
"You are better, mother dear," she said as she seated herself with a
little spring on the side of the bed. "But you said so yesterday. When
will it be real, so you can get up and go out?" and a touch of
perplexity crossed the child's face.
"Gra'mere thinks I may sit up a little while this afternoon. I had no
fever yesterday nor last night."
"Oh, mother, I was to tell you that Cornwallis has--it's a long word
that has slipped out of my mind. Nelly Mullin said her husband would
come home and my father. Kirsty Boyle rang two bells----"
"Oh, what was it? Go and ask grandfather, child," and the mother half
rose in her eagerness.
"It was 'sur-ren-dered' with his army. Father has gone to see. And
then the war will end."
"Oh, thank heaven, the good God, and all the saints, for I think they
must have interceded. They must be glad when dreadful wars come to an
end."
She laid her head back on the pillow and the tears fringed her dark
lashes.
The child was thinking, puzzling over something. Then she said
suddenly, "What is my father like? I seem to remember just a
little--that he carried me about in his arms and that we all cried a
good deal."
"It was three years and more ago. He loved us very much. But he felt
the country needed him. And the good Allfather has kept him safe. He
has never been wounded or taken prisoner, and if he comes back to
us----"
"But what is surrendered?"
"Why, the British army has given up. And Lord Cornwallis is a great
man. England, I believe, thought he could conquer the Colonies. Oh,
Daffodil, you are too little to understand;" in a sort of helpless
fashion.
"He isn't like grandad then. Grandad wants England to beat."
"No, he isn't much like grandad. And yet dear grandad has been very
good to us. Of course he was desperately angry that your father should
go for a soldier. Oh, if he comes home safe!"
"Dilly," said gran'mere, pausing at the door with a piece of yellow
pumpkin in her hand which she was peeling, "you must come away now.
You have talked enough to your mother and she must rest."
The child slipped down and kissed the pale cheek again, then came out
in the living-room and looked around. The cat sat washing her face and
at every dab the paw went nearer her ear.
"You shan't, Judy! We don't want rain, do we, grandfather?" She caught
up the cat in her arms, but not before pussy had washed over one ear.
Grandfather laughed. "Well, it _does_ make it rain when she washes
over her ear," the little girl said with a very positive air. "It did
on Sunday."
"And I guess pussy washes over her ear every day in the week."
"It's saved up then for the big storms;" with a triumphant air.
"Get the board and let's have a game. You're so smart I feel it in my
bones that you will beat."
She put Judy down very gently, but the cat switched her tail around
and wondered why. She brought out the board that was marked like "Tit
tat toe," and a box that she rattled laughingly. Pussy came when they
had adjusted it on their knees and put two white paws on it,
preparatory to a jump.
"Oh, Judy, I can't have you now. Come round and sit by the fire."
Judy went round to the back of Dilly's chair and washed over both ears
in a very indignant manner.
The play was Fox and Geese. There was one red grain of corn for the
fox and all the geese were white. One block at the side was left
vacant. If you could pen the fox in there without losing a goose or at
the most two or three, you were the winner. But if once you let the
fox out the geese had to fly for their lives. Grandfather often let
the little girl beat.
He was very fond of her, and he was a sweet-natured old man who liked
to bestow what pleasure he could. Just now he was feeling impatient
for the news and wanted to pass away the time.
Dilly was quite shrewd, too, for a little girl not yet seven. She
considered now and moved a far off goose, and the fox knew that was
sour grapes.
"Oh, you're a sharp one!" exclaimed grandfather. "I'll have to mind
how I doze on this bout."
But alas! On the next move she let him in a little way, then she
fenced him out again, and lost one goose repairing her defences. But
it wasn't a bad move. The great art was to keep one goose behind
another for protection. He couldn't jump over but one at a time.
She beat grandfather, who pretended to be quite put out about it and
said she'd do for an army general. Grandmother was making a pumpkin
pudding with milk and eggs and sugar and stick-cinnamon, which was
quite a luxury. Then she poured it into an iron pan that stood upon
little feet, drew out a bed of coal, and plumped it down. The cover
had a rim around the top, and she placed some coals on the top of
this. She baked her bread in it, too. Stoves were great luxuries and
costly. Then she laid some potatoes in the hot ashes and hung a kettle
of turnips on the crane.
Grandfather and the little girl had another game and she was the fox
this time and lost, getting penned up.
"Grandfather," she said sagely, "if you know the good early moves and
don't make any mistake, you're sure to win."
"I believe that is so. You're getting a stock of wisdom, Dilly. Oh,
won't your father be surprised when he comes home. You were a mere
baby when he went away."
She was an oddly pretty child. Her hair was really yellow, soft and
curly, then her eyes were of so dark a blue that you often thought
them black. The eyebrows and lashes were dark, the nose rather
piquant, the mouth sweet and rosy, curved, with dimples in the
corners. But in those days no one thought much about beauty in
children.
The door was flung open.
"Ugh!" ejaculated Gran Bradin. "It's fairly wintry. Fire feels good!
The news is just glorious! They headed off Cornwallis after having
destroyed their fortifications and dismantled their cannon. The
British works were so in ruins they tried escape. One section of
troops crossed over to Glous'ter Point, but a storm set in and
dispersed the boats. There was nothing left but surrender. So the
great army and the great general who were to give us the finishing
stroke, handed in their capitulation to General Washington. There are
between seven and eight thousand prisoners and all the shipping in the
harbor. Grandfather, you may be proud. We had, it is thought, seven
thousand French troops, with Count De Rochambeau, and Count De
Grasse."
He reached over and wrung grandfather's slim white hand with its
tracery of blue veins. Then he kissed his wife. "They've been good
friends to us. We'll never forget that!"
"And the war is over?"
"Not exactly that. We've yet to dislodge them from various places. But
they think now England will be willing to treat. And we'll have a
country of our own! Well, it was three weeks ago."
There were no telegraphs, and only the more important places had post
roads. Pittsburg was quite out of the way. It had no dreams of
grandeur in those days, and about its only claim to eminence was
Braddock's defeat.
"Lang brought some copies of the Philadelphia _Gazette_, but you
couldn't get near one, they were rushed off so. But we'll hear it all
in a few days. Too much good news might puff us up with vain glory.
We may look for letters any day. Such a splendid victory!"
Grandfather was wiping the tears from his eyes. Marc Bradin went in to
comfort his daughter, though he could hardly forbear smiling with a
sense of inward amusement as he thought of Sandy Carrick, who had as
good as disowned his son for joining the Colonial army. He'd be glad
enough to have him back again. Though he had been rather disgruntled
at his marrying Barbe Bradin because she had French blood in her
veins, as if the Irish Bradin could not in some degree counteract
that!
Sandy Carrick had been in the sore battle of Braddock's defeat. But
after all the cowardly French had thought retreat the better part of
valor and left the Fort that had been partly burned, left that section
as well, and the government had erected the new Fort Pitt. He insisted
that the French had been really driven out. They certainly had been
checked in their advance to the Mississippi.
Pittsburg was a conglomerate in these early days. Welsh, Irish, and
English had contributed to its then small population of the few
hundreds whose history and beginning were like so many other
emigrants. The houses were ranged largely about the Fort for
protection from the Indians. There were small crooked lanes, a few
dignified by-streets, Penn Street, Duquesne way, Water and Ferry
streets. Colonel George Morgan had built a double-hewn log house of
considerable dimensions, the first house in the settlement to have a
shingle roof. Though the "Manor of Pittsburg" had been surveyed and
Fort Pitt had been abandoned by the British under orders of General
Gage and occupied by Virginia troops under Captain John Neville.
There were some French residents, some Acadians as well, and a few
Virginians who were mostly refugees. The houses were of very primitive
construction, generally built of logs, but made comfortable on the
inside. The emigrants had brought their industries with them. The
women spun and knit, there were several rude looms, but they depended
largely on Philadelphia for supplies.
Pierre Duvernay had fled to Ireland in one of the Huguenot
persecutions, but more fortunate than many, he had been able to take
some of his worldly possessions. Here his only daughter had married
Marc Bradin, his only son had died, and his wife had followed.
Broken-hearted he had accompanied his daughter and son-in-law to the
new Colonies. They had spent a few years in Virginia, then with some
French friends had come to Pittsburg and bought a large holding, which
seemed at the time a misadventure, and so they had built in nearer to
the Fort. Here pretty Barbe Bradin had grown up and married Bernard
Carrick, their neighbor's son, but they had not let the hospitable
Bradin home. Here Daffodil had been born, and the French and Irish
blended again.
"What made you call me Daffodil?" the child said one day to her
mother. "You were named after your mother and gran'mere after hers,
and you should have called me Barbe."
"It would have made no end of confusion. You see it does with
great-grandfather. And when you were born it was lovely sunshiny
weather and the daffodils were in bloom with their tender gold. Then
you had such a funny fuzzy yellow head. I loved the Daffodils so. They
come so early and look so cheerful, and you were such a cheerful baby,
always ready to smile."
"Do you suppose my hair will always stay yellow?"
"Oh, no. It will grow darker."
"Like yours?"
"Well, perhaps not quite as dark. I like it. You are my spring. If I
were in any sorrow, your brightness would comfort me."
Then the sorrow came. The young husband felt it his duty to join the
struggling army and fight for his country. It was in doubtful times.
This queer, rural, primitive settlement knew little about the great
causes. Since the new fort had been built and the French repulsed,
absolutely driven out of their strongholds, there had been only the
infrequent Indian encounters to rouse them. The stern resolves, the
mighty enthusiasm of the Eastern Colonies had not inspired them. Even
the Declaration of Independence, while it had stirred up their alien
and contradictory blood, had not evoked the sturdy patriotism of the
larger towns having so much more at stake. They added to their flocks
and herds, they hunted game and wild animals, and on the whole enjoyed
their rural life.
Sandy Carrick had never known which side to affiliate with the most
strongly. There was the brave old Scottish strain that his mother had
handed down in many a romantic tale, there was the Irish of his father
that had come down almost from royalty itself, from the famous Dukes
that had once divided Ireland between them. Why the Carricks had
espoused the English side he could not have told. He was glad to come
to the new countries. And when, after being a widower for several
years, he married pretty buxom widow Boyle, he was well satisfied with
his place in life.
He had been in the fateful encounter at Braddock's defeat at his first
introduction to the country. The French were well enough in Canada,
which seemed not very far from the North Pole, and a land of eternal
snow, but when they came farther down with their forts and their
claims it was time to drive them out, and nothing gave him greater
satisfaction than to think they were mostly out.
He took a great fancy to his next-door neighbor, Marc Bradin, but he
fought shy of the old black-eyed Frenchman. Pierre Duvernay had passed
through too many vicissitudes and experiences to believe that any one
party had all the right; then, too, he was a sweet-natured old man,
thinking often of the time when he should rejoin friends and
relatives, not a few of whom had died for their faith.
Sandy had not liked his son's marriage with Barbe Bradin, who
certainly was more French than Irish, but she had a winsome brightness
and vivacity, and indulged in many a laughing tilt with her
father-in-law. Nora Boyle openly favored them all. They spun and knit
and made lace and wove rugs of rags and compared cookery, and she and
Mrs. Bradin were wildly happy over Daffodil.
"If 't had been a boy now!" exclaimed Sandy. "A gal's good for naught
when it comes to handin' down the name. Though if its hair'll turn out
red, an 't looks so now, it may flout t'other blood," putting a strong
expletive to it.
"Don't now, Sandy!" said his wife's coaxing voice. "There's sorts and
kinds in the world. The good Lord didn't mean us all to be alike or
he'd made 'em so to start with."
"Did make 'em so, woman. There was only two of 'em!"
"Well, some others came from somewhere. And Cain went off an got
himself a wife. An' when you think of the baby there's good three
parts Irish to the one French. An' I'm sure no one keeps a tidier
house, an' the little old man sittin' by the chimney corner hurts no
one. And it's handy to have a neebur to play at cards."
When there came an urgent call for men to join what seemed almost a
lost cause Bernard Carrick went to Philadelphia with perhaps twenty
other recruits, to the sorrow of his wife and the anger of his father.
"For they can't win, the blunderin' fules! D'y spose King George's
goin' to let a gran' country like this slip out of his fingers.
Barbery, if you were half a woman you'd 'a' held onto him if y'd had
to spit on yer han's to do it. You'll never see him agen, an' it
comforts me for the loss of my son that you've lost your husband. Ye
can git anither one, but I'll have no more sons to comfort me in my
old age."
Poor Barbe was wild with grief, yet somehow Bernard's sense of duty to
his country _had_ inspired her, and then she had her little darling,
her mother, and father, and grandfather, who had not outlived a
certain heroic strain if his blood had come through French channels.
The people of Pittsburg had no tea to throw overboard. The Stamp Act
bore lightly on them. They could brew good beer, they could distil
whiskey and make passable wine. Fish and game were in abundance, the
fields laughed with riotous harvests, so what if a few did go to war?
Sandy relented after a little and they took up the evenings of
card-playing, with the cider or beer and doughnuts, or a brittle kind
of spice cake that Mrs. Bradin could make in perfection. They had
arguments, to be sure: Marc Bradin was on the side of the Colonies,
and he had taken pains to keep informed of the causes of disaffection.
It was going to be a big country and could govern itself since it must
know better what was needed than a king thousands of miles away!
Sandy held his spite against the French sufficiently in abeyance to
learn to play piquet with great-grandfather. It interested him
wonderfully, and since two could play a game the women could knit and
sew and gossip. News came infrequently. Bradin often went to the Fort
to hear. If there were reverses, he held his peace in a cheerful sort
of way--if victories, there was rejoicing among themselves. For they
tried not to ruffle Sandy Carrick unnecessarily.
Daffodil went often to see grandad and Norry, as they called the
merry-hearted second wife, who nearly always had some tidbit for her.
And grandad took her on journeys sitting in front of him on an
improvised pillion, teaching her to sit astride and buckling a strap
around both bodies.
"For you'll have to be my boy, Dilly. My other boy'll never come back
to us."
"Where will he go?" in her wondering tone.
"The Lord only knows, child."
CHAPTER II
A JOYFUL RETURN
"It is so good to get out among you all," Barbe Carrick said, as she
was pillowed up in a big high-backed chair and wrapped in a soft gray
blanket. Her hair was gathered in a pretty white cap with a ruffle of
lace about the edge, framing in her rather thin face. "So good! And
the good news! Why, I feel almost well."
It had been a slow autumnal fever, never very serious, but wearing.
Mrs. Bradin knew the use of many herbs and was considered as good as a
doctor by most of the settlers.
The room would have made a fine "Interior," if there had been a Dutch
artist at hand. It was of good dimensions, or the great fireplace
would have dwarfed it. Marc Bradin was a handy man, as not a few were
in those days when new settlers could not encumber themselves with
much furniture. There were some of the old French belongings, a sort
of escritoire that had drawers below and shelves above and was in two
pieces. But the tables and chairs and the corner cupboard were of his
fashioning. There was china, really beautiful pewter ware, some
pieces of hammered brass, candlesticks, and one curious lamp. The
rafters were dark with age and smoke, but they were not ornamented
with flitches of bacon, for there was a smoke-house out one side.
The chairs would pass for modern Mission furniture. A few had rockers,
notably that in which the little girl sat, with Judy on her lap, and
the cat almost covered her. Grandfather was in his accustomed place.
There was a small table beside him on which were his old French Bible,
a book of devotion, and a volume or two of poems, and a tall
candlestick with two branches. Gran'mere was doing some white
embroidery, a frock for the little girl's next summer's wear. Mrs.
Bradin had been settling her daughter and now stood undecided as to
her next duty.
"Has father gone out again?" Barbe asked.
"Yes, to the Fort--to see if he can't get one of the papers."
"It's wonderful news!" and the invalid drew a long breath of delight.
"But it isn't real peace yet."
"Oh, no, I do believe it is the beginning, though," said her mother.
"I wish the sun would shine. It ought to;" and Barbe gave a wan half
smile.
"But it isn't going to," announced Daffodil confidently. "And it _is_
going to rain."
Grandfather laughed.
"Why, Dilly?"
"Because." The child colored. "Oh, you will see."
There was a tap at the door and then it opened. Norah Carrick dropped
the shawl she had thrown over her head. A still pretty,
heartsome-looking woman, with a merry face bright with roses, laughing
blue eyes, and dark hair.
"It's good for sore eyes to see you up, Barbe. I hope we'll have some
fine weather to brace up one. An'--an' 'twas good news you heard the
morn." Then she gave a funny, rippling laugh.
"But he'll be glad to have Bernard come back," Barbe exclaimed
resentfully.
"Ah, that he will! Ye mustna mind him child, if he's cranky for a bit.
He's been that set about England winning the game that you'd take him
for wan of the high dukes that sit in state and tell what shall be
done. I've been for the country all along. It runs in my mind that
Ireland owes the king a gredge. She's been a cross-grained stepmother,
say your best. An' why couldn't she let us go on an' prosper! We'd
been willin' enough to work for her part of the time. An' it's not
such an easy thing to lave your own bit of a home and come over here
in these wilds, an' hew down trees for your houses and clear land for
the corn, an' fight Indians. So I'm wishin' the country to win. But
Sandy's carryin' the black cat round on his back to-day, an' it makes
me laugh, too. He's that smart when he gets a little riled up, and
he's husked corn to-day as if he was keepin' time with Nickey Nick's
fiddle."
"What makes the black cat stay on his back?" asked Daffodil, stroking
her own pussy softly.
"Ah, that's just a say so, Dilly darlin', for a spell of gettin' out
of temper when there's no need. But he made a good dinner. I had just
the stew he liked, an' a Donegal puddin' that come down from my
great-grandmother. An', Barbe, you begin to look like crawlin' about
again an' not so washed out. The good news should make a warm streak
all through you."
"Oh, I'm much better. If it will come off nice an' warm----"
"We'll have a storm first. And is there any more news?"
She had been taking some work out of a bag after she had nodded to
gran'mere and shaken hands with great-grandfather. Now she settled
herself and began to sew. She was never idle. Sandy Carrick had the
smartest wife anywhere about and few women would have minded his queer
quips so little.
Then the door opened and Marc Bradin entered, thrusting out a
newspaper.
"I've been waiting my turn and have promised to have it back in half
an hour, but I'll not count the coming and going," laughing. "And
it's news worth waiting for. It's all true and more, too. And if we
want a King or an Emperor, General Washington's the man. Now I'll
read, since that's the cheapest way, as you can all hear at once."
He dropped into a chair and threw his old cap on the floor. Bradin was
an excellent reader. Yes, it was glorious news. A big battle averted
and soldiers disabled by honor rather than wounds. A vivid description
of what had led up to the surrender and the conditions, the enthusiasm
and the predictions that at last victory was achieved for the
Colonies. And although numerous points were still held by the English,
it would be difficult to rouse enthusiasm after this crushing blow.
"Time's up," said the reader. "But you have all the real gist of the
matter. Norah, how's Sandy?"
Norah gave a laugh and a shrug of the shoulders.
"Oh, he'll come round. I can't see, with all the Scotch an' Irish in
him, why he must be shoutin' for King George just because he happened
to fight on that side years ago. An' it was under Washington, too, an'
people do say if Braddock hadn't been so high an' mighty, and taken
some of the young man's counsel, there wouldna have been such an awful
defeat."
"I'll come right back, jinky! It begins to rain."
Dilly looked up in triumph. "I told you so," she said, "and you just
laughed, grandfather. Now you see Judy knew."
She gave Judy an extra hug and squeezed a faint mew out of her.
"Judy is a wise cat," admitted grandfather.
"And I must run home an' get a supper that'll be a soothin' poultice
to the inside of the man," laughed Norah. "I'm glad I know about how
things stand, so my heart will be light. An' we will have Bernard home
safe and sound, never you fear, so, Barbe, get well to welcome him.
I'm cooking chicken to-morrow an' I'll send over broth an' a bit of
the breast. Run over to-morrow, little one. Grandad'll be all right."
Barbe was tired and went to bed. Dilly moved over by grandfather and
begged for a story. He and Norah had a packful of them. It grew darker
and rained, with a sort of rushing wind.
When Dilly grew older and began to understand what real living was, it
seemed as if this was her actual induction into it. She had run about
and played, listened to stories and songs, gravitated between the two
houses, ridden with grandad, who was always a little jealous that most
of her relatives should be on the French side. She could shut her eyes
and hear Kirsty's raucous voice and the two bells he was ringing and
see grandad's upturned nose and his derisive tone. She awoke to the
fact that she really had a father.
Grandad used to come over in the evening and play piquet with old
grandfather. It was a game two could enjoy, and the women folk were no
great hands at card-playing. Now and then, when Norah was not too
busy, they had a friendly, social game. It rained two days and then
cleared up in the glory of perfect autumn weather. Nothing came to
counteract the good tidings. Grandad came for Daffodil to take a ride
with him, and that evening he sauntered in and had a game of piquet
and beat. It always delighted him. It was fighting the French over
again.
Barbe improved rapidly now. People were quite apt to have what was
called a run of fever in the autumn at the change of the seasons, and
there were some excellent home-brewed remedies and tonics that
answered, if the case was not too severe.
Dilly and her mother talked a great deal about the return of the
husband and father.
"Is he like grandad?" she inquired with a little contraction of the
brows.
"Oh, not much. He was called a handsome young fellow. Your eyes are
like his, and he had such a brilliant color then," sighing a little
and wondering if the hardships had made him old before his time.
"And--and his nose?" hesitatingly.
Barbe laughed. "It isn't short like grandad's. His mother was a
handsome woman."
"It's queer," said the child reflectively, "that you can have so many
grand relatives and only one father. And only one gran'mere. For Norry
isn't _real_, is she, since she isn't father's mother. And how many
wives can one have?"
"Only one at a time. It's quite a puzzle to little folks. It was to
me."
Daffodil looked at her mother with wondering eyes and said
thoughtfully, "Were you truly little like me? And did you like
grandad? Did he take you out on his big horse?"
"We were living in Virginia then. Great-grandfather and
great-grandmother were living there--she was alive then. And when she
died gran'mere and gran came out here. I was about eight. And we
didn't like it here. The children were so different."
"It is all very queer," said Dilly. "You are little, and then you
grow, and--and you get married. Will I be married? Must you find some
one----"
"Oh, Dilly, I think some one will find you;" and her mother laughed.
"You will have to grow up and be--well, eighteen, I think, almost a
dozen years before you need to think about it."
"I'm very glad," she said soberly.
She did not like things that puzzled her. The war was another. What
had it been about? Grandad was sure the English were right, and
great-grandfather was glad they were going to be beaten.
She used to dream of her father, and watch out for him. For some of
the companies were furloughed, his among them. And now he was Captain
Carrick.
Christmas came. There was not much made of it here, as there had been
in Virginia, no gift-giving, but family dinners that often ended in a
regular carouse, sometimes a fight. For Pittsburg had not reached any
high point of refinement, and was such a conglomerate that they could
hardly be expected to agree on all points.
The little girl lost interest presently in watching for her father,
and half believed he was not coming. She was very fond of grandad, and
Norry, and the wonderful stories she heard about fairies and "little
folk," who came to your house at night, and did wonderful
things--sometimes spun the whole night long, and at others did bits of
mischief. This was when you had offended them some way.
She liked the Leprecawn so much. He was a fairy shoemaker, and when
all was still in the night you sometimes heard him. "Tip tap, rip rap,
Tick a tack too!" And the little Eily, who wished so for red shoes,
but her folks were too poor to buy them. So she was to find six
four-leaf clovers, and lay them on the doorstep, which she did.
"What a queer noise there was in the night," said the mother. "It was
like this, 'Tip tap, rip rap.'"
"Sho!" said the father, "it was the swallows in the chimney."
Eily held her peace, but she put four-leafed clovers again on the
doorstep, and tried to keep awake, so she could hear the little
shoemaker.
"I'll clear them swallows out of the chimney, they disturb me so,"
declared the father, and he got a long pole and scraped down several
nests. But the next night the sound came again, and the mother began
to feel afeared. But when Eily went downstairs there was a pair of
little red shoes standing in the corner, and Eily caught them up and
kissed them, she was so full of joy. Then her mother said, "The
Leprecawn has been here. And, Eily, you must never wear them out of
doors at the full of the moon, or you'll be carried off."
"Was she ever, do you think, Norry?"
"Oh, her mother'd be very careful. For if you go to fairyland, you'll
have to stay seven years."
"I shouldn't like that," subjoined Dilly. "But I _would_ like the red
shoes. And if I could find some four-leaf clovers----"
"You can't in winter."
"Well--next summer."
"Maybe grandad can find you some red leather, and lame Pete can make
them."
"But I rather have the fairy shoemaker, with his 'tip tap, rip rap';"
laughing.
"Don't minch about him. Here's a nice chunk of cake."
Dilly had cake enough to spoil a modern child's digestion. But no one
understood hygiene in those days, and kept well.
There were no schools for little girls to go to. But a queer old
fellow, who lived by himself, taught the boys, and tried to thrash
some knowledge in their brains. It was considered the best method.
Dilly's mother taught her to read English, and great-grandfather
inducted her into French. Gran'mere talked French to the old man.
Every morning she brushed his hair and tied it in a queue with a black
ribbon. He wore a ruffled shirt front, and lace ruffles at his wrist;
knee breeches, silk stockings, and low shoes with great buckles.
Dilly learned to sew a little as well. But early industry was not held
in as high esteem as in the Eastern Colonies. There was plenty of
spinning and knitting. Fashions did not change much in the way of
dress, so you could go on with your clothes until they were worn out.
The nicest goods were imported, but there was a kind of flannelly
cloth for winter wear, that was dyed various colors, mostly blue and
copperas, which made a kind of yellow.
So the winter went on, and in February there came a great thaw. Oh,
how the river swelled, and rushed on to the Ohio. It was very warm.
And one day Daffodil sat on the great stone doorstep, holding the
cat, and munching a piece of cake. Judy ate a few crumbs, but she did
not care much for it.
"There's a peddler," said Dilly to Judy. "He has a big pack on his
back, and he walks with a cane, as if he was tired. And there's
something hanging to his waist, and a queer cap. He seems
looking--why, he's coming here. Gran'mere wants some thread, but he
isn't our----Mother," she called.
He was thin, and pale, and travel-stained, and had not the brisk,
jaunty air of the peddlar.
But he came up the little path, and looked at her so sharply she
jumped up, hugging Judy tightly. "Some one, mother," she said, half
frightened.
Mrs. Carrick stepped to the door, and glanced. Then, with a cry, she
went to her husband's arms.
They both almost fell on the doorstep.
"Oh," she cried, "you are tired to death! And----"
"Never mind; I'm home. And I have all my limbs, and have never been
ill. It has been a desperate struggle, but it's ending grandly. And
everybody----"
"They are all alive and well. Oh, we've been watching, and hoping--it
doesn't matter now, you are here;" and she leaned down on his shoulder
and cried.
"Three years and four months. I couldn't get word very well, and
thought I'd rather come on. You see, my horse gave out, and I've had
a ten-mile walk. And--the baby?"
"Oh, she's a big girl. She was sitting here----"
"Not that child!" in surprise.
"Daffodil," called her mother.
The child came shyly, hesitatingly.
"Dilly, it's father. We've talked of him so much, you know. And you
have watched out for him many a time."
Somehow he didn't seem the father of her imagination. He took her in
his arms, and dragged her over in his lap.
"Oh, I forgot you could grow," in a tone broken with emotion. "But her
blue eyes, and her yellow hair. Oh, my little darling! We shall have
to get acquainted over again;" and he kissed the reluctant lips. "Oh,
it is all like a dream! Many and many a time I thought I should never
see you again;" and he wiped the tears from his eyes.
"If you are glad, what makes you cry?" asked the child, in a curious
sort of way.
Barbe put her arms around Dilly. Of course, no child could understand.
"And the others," began Bernard Carrick.
"Oh, let us go in." There was a tremble of joy in her voice. "Mother,
grandfather, he has come!"
Mrs. Bradin greeted her son-in-law with fond affection, and a great
thanksgiving that he had been spared to return to them. They talked
and cried, and Daffodil looked on wonderingly. Great-grandfather
Duvernay, who had been taking his afternoon rest, came out of his
room, and laid his hand tremblingly in the younger one, that had not
lost its strength. Yes, he was here again, in the old home, amid them
all, after many hardships.
"Oh, sit down," said Mother Bradin. "You look fit to drop. And you
must have something to eat, and a cup of tea. Or, will it be a man's
tipple? There's some good home-brewed beer--or a sup of whiskey."
"I'll take the tea. It's long since I've had any. And if I could wash
some of the dust off--it must be an inch thick."
Ah, that was something like the old smile, only there was a hollow in
the cheek, that used to be so round and so pink. She took him into her
room, and, filling a basin with warm water, set it on the cedar chest,
spreading a cloth over it, that he might splash in comfort.
"It's been a long journey," he said. "But the poor horse gave out
first. Boyle, and Truart, and Lowy were with me, but not to come quite
so far. Some of the young fellows remained, though the feeling is that
there won't be much more fighting. The impression is that England's
about as tired of the war as we."
"But you wouldn't have to go back again?" Barbe protested, in a sort
of terror.
"Well--no;" yet the tone was not altogether reassuring.
She took his coat out by the door and brushed it, but it was very
shabby. Still, he looked much improved when he re-entered the room,
where Mrs. Bradin had set a tempting lunch at the corner of the table.
But he could hardly eat for talking. Barbe sat beside him--she could
scarce believe he was there in the flesh.
Daffodil went out in the sunshine again. She started to run over to
grandad's. Norry would be so glad. Well, grandad too, she supposed.
Had he really believed father would never come home? Somehow, it was
different. In Norry's stories the soldiers were strong, and handsome,
and glittering with gold lace, and full of laughter. She couldn't
recall whether they had any little girls or not. And there was her
mother hanging over the strange man--yes, he _was_ strange to her. And
her mother would care for him, and stay beside him, and she somehow
would be left out. Her little heart swelled. She did not understand
about jealousy, she had had all the attention, and it was not pleasant
to be pushed one side. Oh, how long he was eating, and drinking, and
talking, and--yes, they laughed. Grandad was coming up to the house
with a great two-handled basket--she knew it was full of ears of
corn, and she did so like to see him shell it, and hear the rattle as
it fell down in the tub. He sat on a board across the tub, and had a
queer sort of affair, made by two blades, and as he drew the ears of
corn through it, scraped off both sides.
No, she wouldn't even go and see grandad, for he would say, "Well,
yellow-top, your father hasna come home yet;" and, she--well, she
could not tell a wrong story, and she would not tell the true one.
Grandad wouldn't go back on her, but he could wait.
"Oh, Dilly, here you are!" said her mother, coming out of the door,
with her husband's arm around her. "We're going over to grandad's;
come;" and she held out her hand.
The soldier looked more attractive. His faded cap had been thrown
aside, and his short dark hair was a mass of curls. He looked sharply
at the little girl, and she turned away her face. Still, she took her
mother's hand.
Norry had been sitting by the window. Now she rushed out with a shriek
of joy.
"Oh, Barney! Barney! Sure, I've been afraid we'd never set eyes on you
again! The saints be praised! Sandy!"
Sandy Carrick came and put his arms around his son. Both were rather
tall men. For some moments neither spoke. Then the father said,
"Cross the threshold, Barney. An' here's a silver shilling--kiss it
for good luck an' a long stay."
Bernard did as his father bade him, and the two crossed the threshold
together.
"Now, you must have something to eat and drink," began hospitable
Norah. "Deed an' true, the crows would hardly make a meal of you."
"But I've been stuffed already," he protested.
"No matter. There's always room intil you're laid on your back for the
last time. An' you're that thin, 't would take two of you to make a
shadow."
She set out cold chicken, and boiled bacon, and bread that would tempt
one on a fast day, with a great loaf of cake, and Bernard and Barbe
sat down. Sandy brought out the whiskey bottle. No one thought of
objecting in those days.
"Oh, where's the colleen?" and Norah stepped to the door.
"Has she gone back home? She takes it a little strange," said Barbe.
"She can't remember well. But she'll come to it presently." Then Barbe
raised her eyes and met her husband's, that were so full of adoration;
she blushed like a girl.
"And the war is over," declared Norah. "Did they all have leave to go
home?"
"Oh, no. We can't say it's over, though the thought is there'll be no
more hard fighting. And we've some good friends on the other side to
argue the case for us."
"No, no," snorted Sandy. "It's not over by a long shot. An' then
they'll get to fightin' atween theirselves, and split here an' there.
Weel, Mr. Captain, are we to have a King or a great Emperor, like him
of France, with a court an' all that?"
Bernard laughed. "We'll have neither. We've gotten rid of kings for
all time."
"Don't do your skreeking until you're well out o' the woods. But I
hope you'll be wise enough next time to let t'other fellow take his
chance. An' it beats me to think a great Lord an' a great soldier,
too, should be put about, and captured by a crowd of ignoramuses
without training."
"Oh, you learn a good deal in five or six years," said the son
good-naturedly. "There have been the Indians and the French."
"And I can't abide turn-coats. First we fight for th' old country,
then turn around and fight forninst it. We lick the French, an' then
ask their aid. A fine country we'll have, when no one knows his own
mind!"
"You'll see the sort of country we'll make when we get about it. And
we have no end of brave fine men who'll plan it out for us. Here's to
your health and luck. And now tell me what Pittsburg has been doing."
He raised his glass and barely touched it to his lips. Sandy drained
his.
"There's not much doin'--how could there be, with no money?" he
answered shortly.
"But you've the place for a fine town. New York and Philadelphia may
have the start, but it's up to us to come out fair in the race. You
have the key to the great West. Some day we'll clear the French out of
that."
"Oh, don't talk war," interposed Norah. "Tell us if you're glad to get
home. And should you have known Dilly? She'll be the one to set hearts
aching with those eyes of hers, when she gets a bit grown up."
"We must go back," said Barbe. "And, Bernard, you must be stiff with
your long tramp. They rode mostly all night, and when the horses gave
out, walked. You must go to bed with the chickens."
Sandy gave a snort.
"I'll be over in the morn, ready for a talk or a fight," laughed
Bernard. "God be praised that He has cared for us all these years, and
let us meet again."
Sandy looked after his son, who had the fine air of a trained soldier.
"An' when we get him fatted up," said Norah, "he will be main
good-looking."
Daffodil had sauntered slowly homeward. She looked for some one to
call after her, but there was no sound. Oh, her mother did not care
for her now, and Norry had not so much as coaxed her in and offered
her a piece of cake. She entered the house rather sadly. Gran'mere was
concocting some treat for supper. She just turned and said, "Were they
glad to see your father?"
"I don't know. I didn't go in." Then she crept up alongside of
grandfather, and leaned her face down on his breast and cried softly.
"Dear, what has hurt my little girl?" pushing aside the mop of hair.
"Mother won't want me any more. Nor grandad, nor Norry, nor--nor any
one;" and Daffodil seemed very lonesome in a great cold world, colder
than any winter day.
"Yes, I want you. Oh, they'll all want you after a day or two. And
it's a great thing for your father to come home safe."
"I don't believe I am going to like him. He isn't like what I
thought."
Grandfather smiled. "Wait and see what he is like to-morrow. It's
almost night now, and things look different, cloudy-like. There, dear,
don't cry when we are all full of joy."
CHAPTER III
WELCOME
Neighbors kept dropping in, and the table was crowded at supper time.
Hospitality was ungrudging in those days. Grandfather had the little
girl close under his wing, but she had a curiously strange feeling, as
if she was outside of it all. Then her mother said:
"Wouldn't you rather go to bed, dear? The men will want to talk about
battles, and things, not best for little girls to hear. When you are
older they will interest you more."
"Yes," she replied, and kissed grandfather. Then her mother undressed
her and tucked her in her little pallet.
"Oh, you _will_ always love me?" she cried, in a tremulous tone.
"Always, always. And father, too." Even if other children should come,
the years when Daffodil had been her all could never be dimmed.
The mother shut the door softly. They were kindly enough, this
conglomerate population, but rough, and the French strain in the
Bradins had tended to refinement, as well as living somewhat to
themselves.
Daffodil cried a little, it seemed a comfort. But she was tired and
soon fell asleep, never hearing a sound, and the company was rather
noisy. When she woke, the door to the living room was partly open, and
the yellow candlelight was shining through. Mornings were dark, for
they had come to the shortest days. There was a curious rustling
sound, and Dilly ran out in her little bare feet, though the carpet
was thick and warm. Gran'mere was cooking, Barbe was washing dishes,
Judy sat by the fire in a grave upright fashion. How white the windows
were!
"Oh, it's snow!" cried the little girl. "Are we snowed up, as grandad
tells about? Why, we can't see out!"
"Yes, it's a tremendous snow. Bring out your clothes, and let me dress
you. Don't be noisy."
The child seldom was noisy. She wondered at the request. And what had
happened? She had a confused sense of something unusual in her mind.
"Father is asleep. It was late when he went to bed last night, and he
is so tired out that we shall let him sleep as long as he will. Get
your clothes, and shut the door softly."
She did as she was bidden, with a furtive glance at the mound under
the blankets. Her mother soon had her dressed in a sort of brownish
red flannel frock, and a blue and white checked apron. Then she
brushed out her silky hair, and made three or four thick curls.
"Oh, isn't it funny! Why, we can't see anything, not a house, or a
tree, nor grandad's."
They could see that in almost any storm.
She went and patted Judy. Gran'mere was frying bacon, and when that
was brown and crisp, she slipped some eggs in the pan. Grandfather
kept his bed late winter mornings, and only wanted a bit of toast and
a cup of coffee. That was generally made by roasting wheat grains,
with a tiny bit of corn, and made very fair coffee. But it was
necessity then, not any question of nerves or health.
So they ate their breakfast and everything seemed quite as usual
except the snow. So far there had been none to speak of. Gran'mere put
out the candle, and the room was in a sort of whitey-gray light.
There was queer, muffled banging outside, that came nearer, and
finally touched the door, and a voice said "Hello! hello!"
Barbe opened it. There was grandad, in his frieze coat and fur cap, a
veritable Santa Claus.
"Well, was there ever the beat of this! Stars out at twelve? The old
woman's geese are gettin' plucked close to the skin. Why, it's
furious! Dilly, come out and let me tumble you in the snow bank."
She shrank back, laughing.
"I'd have to dig you out again. How is the lad? Did we upset
grandfather with the racket?"
"Oh, no. He always sleeps late. Have a cup of hot coffee."
"An' that's just what I will. Well, the lad's lucky that he was no' a
day later, he'd been stumped for good. By the nose of St. Andrew, I
never saw so much snow fall in a little time. An' it's dark as the
chimney back."
"The snow is white," interposed Daffodil.
"Ah, ye're a cunnin' bairn. But put a lot of it together, and it turns
the air. The coffee's fine, it warm the cockles of one's heart."
"What are they?"
"Oh, the little fellys that get hot, an' cold, an' keep the blood
racin' round. And have delight bottled up to give out now and then
when one is well treated."
Daffodil nodded. She was not going to say she did not understand.
"An' the b'y? He wants fat, sure. The country's made a poor shoat out
of him. Well, I must go back, shovelin' for the path's about grown up.
The boss out to the barn?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'll kem over agin, an' give him a hand."
"Grandad has a good heart," said Mrs. Bradin.
Mr. Bradin came in presently with a pail of milk. "This beats all for
a storm," he said. "Now, I'll take a second breakfast. Dilly, come
and sit here beside me, and take a taste of things. Not a livin' hen
is up yet, just balls of feathers on the perch."
"Couldn't you take me out to see them?"
"If you get snowed under, we'll have to send for grandad. Well, they
did have a roarin' time last night. He was plucky to take that long
walk, though the poor fellows have had many a wearisome march."
He wrapped Dilly in a blanket, and carried her out to the barn. There
was Mooley munchin' her hay, there was the pen of sheep that was
always safe-guarded at night, and the hens, funny balls of feathers,
sure enough. But the head of the flock stretched up his long neck and
crowed. The pigs grunted and squealed a request for breakfast. Mr.
Bradin threw them a lot of corn.
"Oh, let me walk back," she exclaimed. But the snow drifted in her
eyes, and she tumbled over in the snow bank. He picked her up, and
they both laughed.
Grandfather was up now, looking as neat and trim as possible. He
always read a chapter in his French Bible, and Daffodil sat on the
broad arm of the chair and liked to listen. Then he had his breakfast
on the little stand, and Dilly ate the crust of his toast. She liked
so to crunch it in her teeth. Then she always wanted a story about
France, that seemed heroic to her, though she hardly knew the meaning
of the word. But Norah's stories were generally amusing, and
grandfather did not believe in the "little people."
It was noon when the soldier made his appearance. He really looked
much refreshed, though his clothes were worn and shabby. And he kissed
his little girl very fondly. Why, his blue eyes were very much like
hers, and his smile won one to smile in return.
And then the sun suddenly broke through the gray clouds, and a gust of
wind began tearing them to tatters, and letting the blue through.
Gran'mere opened the door, and the very air was warm. She drew long,
reviving breaths. Grandad was coming over again, with a great dish of
roasted apples Norah had sent.
"I should be ungrateful if I didn't get fat by the minute," Bernard
Carrick said. "But such a snow!"
"I never saw so much business done in the same time, but it'll run off
like a river. And the sun is fairly hot. But there's plenty of time
for winter yet. How does it seem to be out of barracks, or tents, or
whatever you had, or didn't have?"
"There was a good deal of _not_ having. But no one hardly knows all
the hardships, and the danger. The wonder to me is that so many come
out of it alive. And home is a better thing for all a man has passed
through. I'm anxious to see how the town has gone on."
"H-u-g," with a sort of disdain. "It hasn't gone on. How could it,
with the likeliest men thrashin' round the country worse than wild
Indians. For we counted on their having a little more sense."
Bernard laughed. His father had been very angry about his going, and
it was funny to see him try to be a little ungracious over his return,
as he had been so sure he would never come back alive.
"Suppose we go out and take a look at it?"
"In all the snow!" so amazed he reverted to the ancient tongue. With
the variety of people, and the admixture of English, the rugged points
of dialect were being rubbed off.
"I've seen some snow, and travelled through it. But this is rather
queer. Such a glorious air, and fairly a May day sun.
"Who dances barefoot in Janiveer will greet in March."
"But they wouldn't go barefooted in the snow," exclaimed Daffodil, in
surprise.
"They wouldn't do it for choice, though I've seen them dance with
their feet tied up in rags. Dance to keep themselves warm," said her
father.
"Yes. Let us go to the Fort. You'll be wanting to see the b'y's grown
up now. An' the old folk."
"You haven't grown much older;" looking his father over
affectionately.
"Bedad! It's not much beyant three years, and does a man get bowed
over, an' knock-kneed, an' half-blind, an' bald-headed, an' walk with
a stick in that little time. Havers! Did you expect to see me
bed-ridden!"
Bernard laughed. The same old contrarity that was not so much temper
after all.
"I can't say the same of you, more's the pity. You've given the
country, a pack of men who'll never give you a thankee, your good
looks, an' your flesh, an' at least ten years. Ye're a middle-aged
man, Bernard Carrick!"
Bernard laughed again. It was like old times, and, oh, how glad he was
to be home again.
"Come, then; and, Dilly, run down an' see Norah, an' have a good
time."
Sandy took his son's arm, and they went off together. Daffodil looked
after them with long breaths that almost brought tears to her eyes.
Grandad hadn't been glad when the news came; she could see just how he
had turned with his nose in the air, and now he was claiming his son
as if he had all the right.
Gran'mere was concocting some mystery on the kitchen table, Barbe sat
at the little wheel, spinning. And she was singing, too. A faint pink
had come back to her cheek, and her eyes almost laughed with delight.
"What's a' the steer, kimmer.
What's a' the steer,
Jamie has landed, and soon he will be here."
She had a soft sweet voice. How long since she had sung with that
gayety. True, she had been ill, and now she was well again, and Jamie
had come home. But grandad had taken him off, and that somehow rankled
in the child's heart.
She stood by the window, uncertainly. There were only two small
windows in the large room that were of glass, for glass was costly.
Another much larger had board shutters, closed tightly, and a blanket
hung over it to keep out the cold. They called it the summer window.
One looked over to the other house and Daffodil was there.
"I wouldn't go over if I were you," said her mother. "It is very wet.
Grandad might have carried you, but he hardly knows whether he's on
his head or his heels."
"He'd look very funny on his head. What makes him so glad? He was
angry about--if that great general hadn't--I can't say the long word,
father couldn't have come home."
She turned a very puzzled face to her mother.
"There might have been a big battle;" and the mother shuddered. "Oh,
grandad will be as glad as the rest of us presently that we have a
country. Now we can begin to live."
It was all very strange to her small mind. The sun was making rivulets
through the snow, and the great white unbroken sheets sparkled with
iridescent lights. Out beyond there was the Fort; she could see
figures moving to and fro. Everything seemed so strange to her. And a
country of one's own! Would the farms be larger, and, if England was
beaten, what would become of it? Would they, our people, go over and
take what they wanted? Would they drive the people away as they did
the Indians?
She was tired of so much thinking. She went over to grandfather, and
seated herself on the arm of the chair. She did not want Norry's fairy
stories. Leaning her head down on the dear old shoulder, she said,
"Tell me about a great King, who beat the English."
"Are you going mad about the English?" her mother asked laughingly.
"We shall all be friends again. Quarrels are made up. And so many of
us came from England."
"We didn't," returned Dilly decisively.
"Well--on the one side Scotch and Irish."
"And on the other French, pure French, until your mother married a
Bradin, and you----"
"And Marc Bradin has been a good husband to me," said his wife,
looking up from her preparations.
Truly, he had, and a kind son to him as well, though he had not been
in favor of the marriage at first.
The story was about the grand old times in France. He never told of
the religious persecutions to the little girl. He had a soft winsome
sort of voice, and often lapsed into French idioms, but she was
always charmed with it, even if she could not understand all he said.
Presently she went fast asleep.
Then the darkness began to fall. The candles were lighted, and that
roused both sleepers. There was a savory smell of supper, even Judy
went around sniffing.
"We won't wait any longer," gran'mere said, with a little impatience.
She had been cooking some messes that she remembered her son-in-law
was very fond of, and she was disappointed that he was not here to
enjoy it.
After that grandfather went to bed. Dilly was wide awake and held her
cat, telling her a wonderful tale of a beautiful woman who had been
turned into a cat by an ugly witch, and all the adventures she could
remember. Judy purred very loudly now and then.
"Don't you want to go to bed?" asked Mrs. Carrick.
"Oh, I'm not a bit sleepy." Then, after a pause, "Will father stay at
grandad's?"
"Oh, no. He is with the men at the Fort."
"But grandad took him away."
"Oh, they all want to see him."
"Doesn't he belong to us?"
"Yes, dear. But they always make a time when one comes home from the
war."
"What queer things there are in the flames," the child went on. "I
think they fight, too. Look at that long blue streak. Just as soon as
the little red ones come out, he swallows them up. Then he sits and
waits for some more, just as Judy does for a mouse. It's funny!"
"There, I've spun out all my flax. Now let us both come to bed."
There was a sound of voices outside. Then the door was flung open, and
Bernard Carrick entered, with a rather noisy greeting, catching his
wife in his arms, and kissing her vehemently. Then he clasped his arms
about Dilly, and threw her up, she was so small and light. She
stretched out her hands to her mother.
"Don't, Bernard; you frighten the child. We have been waiting for you
to come home. And now Dilly must go to bed."
She took her little girl by the hand. Bernard dropped in the big
chair.
Barbe seldom undressed her now, but she did this night. Presently
Daffodil said in an imperious tone, "Do you like my father? I don't. I
like grandfather, and gran, and grandad sometimes, but not always.
And--father----"
"Hush, dear. You will come to like him very much, I know, for I love
him dearly. Now, say your little prayer and go to bed."
Barbe went out, poked the fire a little, put on another log, and then
sat down by her husband, who had fallen into a heavy sleep. Had he
given the country something more than his service these three
years--his manhood, the tender and upright qualities that dominated
him when he went away? Sandy Carrick was of the old school, strong and
stalwart, and not easily overcome, although he could not be called
dissipated in any sense. But Bernard had never been of the roystering
kind. She prayed from the depths of her heart that he might be made
aware of the danger. The fire dropped down again, and she roused with
a sudden shiver, rising and looking intently at him. The flush was
gone, he was pale and thin again. Then he opened his eyes and saw her
standing there. After a moment he held out both hands, and clasped
hers.
"Forgive me, Barbe," he said. "I ought not have come home to you like
that, but they are a wild lot and I hadn't the strength to stand it
after the months of privations. Zounds! what a head my father has! I
haven't been indulging in such junkets. I wanted to come home alive to
you and the little one. But I couldn't get away without offence and
one goes farther than one can bear. Don't think I brought the
detestable habit home with me, though many a poor fellow does yield to
it and you can't blame them so much, either."
"No," she answered softly, and kissed him on the forehead, much
relieved at his frankness. Then as an afterthought--"I hope you didn't
quarrel with anybody."
"Oh, no. Party spirit runs high. A man who has never seen anything
beyond an Indian skirmish thinks he could set the country on its feet
by any wild plan. And here we have so many shades of opinion. Father's
amuse me; I wonder how he and great-grandfather keep such amicable
friends!"
"Oh, he has no one nearby to play a game of piquet with him. And the
Duvernay temper is much milder. But you must be tired. Let us fix the
fire for the night."
"Tell me when I have it right. I am not quite sure, though I have
looked after many a camp fire. And now I am here to ease you up
somewhat, and look out for you. Your father has been very good through
these troublous times, and I will see that he need not be ashamed of
his son."
"Oh," she cried with deep emotion, "you make me very happy. So much of
our lives are yet to come."
There followed several pleasant days. The snow ran off and another
came and vanished.
There was little doing. Some people had looms in their houses and were
weaving goods of various rather common kinds and many of the women
were kept busy spinning thread and woolen yarns for cloth. Money was
scarce, most of the trade was carried on by barter.
"It has the making of a magnificent city," Bernard Carrick said,
surveying its many fine points. "From here you will go straight over
to the Mississippi. Some day we shall have both sides. What have the
French been about to let such a splendid opportunity slip through
their hands."
"Don't stir up a hornet's nest at home," counseled the elder Carrick.
"Oh, you mean great-grandfather! He sees the mistakes and
shortsightedness, and while he would have been proud enough to live
here under French rule, he understands some aspects at the old home
better than we, the extravagance of the Court, the corruption of
society, and," laughing, "he is hardly as hot for France as you are
for England. After all, what so much has been done for you or Scotland
or Ireland for that matter?"
"This will be fought all over again. You will see. The country will be
broken up into little provinces. Yankee and Virginian will never
agree; Catholic and Puritan are bound to fight each other."
"Hardly! They fought together for the great cause and they'll hardly
turn their swords on each other. I've been from New York to Yorktown.
And now the great work is for every man to improve his own holding,
his own town."
Pittsburg then had enjoyed or hated successive rulers. Great Britain,
then France, Great Britain again, Virginia and Pennsylvania. It had
been a strategic point worth holding, but no one then had dreamed of
its later renown.
Bernard Carrick did not seem to make much headway with his little
daughter. She had been startled with his rudeness, though he was
gentle enough now. But what with her mother, grandad, and Norah, who
was the most charming of stepmothers, she felt he had enough care and
attention. She was not going to sue for any favors.
"Daffodil," he said one pleasant day when they had been rambling round
the old Block House, not so very old then, though it could count on
over twenty years, "Daffodil, why can't you love me as well as you
love great-grandfather. I think you scarcely love me at all."
She kicked some gravelly stones out of her path and looked over the
river. It was all so beautiful then, no smoke to obscure it anywhere.
"They all love you, they're always wanting you. Grandad doesn't care
for me any more. And he wasn't a bit glad when the news came. He went
in the house saying it was a 'lee' and Norry said the black cat was on
his back. It wasn't a real cat, but like those in the stories. And he
stayed there all day. And he wouldn't believe you were coming home or
that the war was ended."
"He hardly believes it yet;" laughing. "But he _was_ glad to have me
come back. And are you not a little glad?"
"You have all mother's gladness. And gran'mere's."
She made a funny little movement with her dimpled chin, that if she
had been older would have been coquettish. Her lashes were long and a
sort of bronze brown, and her eyes made a glitter through them. Barbe
had been a very pretty girl but the child was not much like her mother
only in certain dainty ways. And her blue eyes came from him. He was
rather glad of that.
"Don't you want them to be glad that I am back?"
"Why?"--she looked up perplexed. She was not old enough to define her
emotions. "Of course I should want them to be glad."
"Yet you are a little jealous."
"Jealous!" she repeated. The word had no clearly definite meaning to
her.
"Maybe I have crowded you out a little. But you will find as you grow
that there is a great deal of love that can be given and not make any
one the poorer."
"What is jealousy?"
She had been following out her own thought and hardly minded his
truism.
"Why"--how could he define it to the child's limited understanding?
"Jealousy is wanting _all_ of another's regard and not being willing
that any other shall have a share. Not being willing that grandad
shall care for me."
"He wasn't glad at first." She could not forget that.
"It wasn't a question of wanting or not wanting me that made him
captious. He could not enjoy the English being beaten. I do not
understand that in him since he means to spend all the rest of his
life here, and has never wanted to go back. He was only a little boy,
not older than you when he came here. And he fought in the battle of
Braddock's defeat. Though the French gained the day it was no great
victory for them, for they gave up their plan of taking possession of
all the country here about. And he has not much faith in the rebels,
as he used to call us, and didn't see what we wanted to fight for. And
he _is_ glad to have me back. But he isn't going to love you any
less."
"Oh, yes he does," she returned quickly. "I used to ride with him and
he never asks me now. And he takes you away--then they all come asking
for you and if everybody likes you so much----"
"And don't you like me a little?" He gave a soft, wholesome laugh and
it teased her. She hung her head and returned rather doubtfully--"I
don't know."
"Oh, and you are my one little girl! I love you dearly. Are you not
glad to have me come back and bring all my limbs? For some poor
fellows have left an arm or a leg on the battlefield. Suppose I had to
walk with a crutch like poor old Pete Nares?"
She stopped short and viewed him from head to foot. "No, I shouldn't
like it," she returned decisively.
"But you would feel sorry for me?"
"You couldn't dance then. And grandad tells of your dancing and that
you and mother looked so pretty, that you could dance longer and
better than any one. And he was quite sure you would come home
all--all----"
"All battered up. But I think he and Norry would have been very good
to me. And mother and everybody. And now say you love me a little."
"I was afraid of you," rather reluctantly. "You were not like--oh, you
were so strange."
What an elusive little thing she was!
"But you are not afraid now. I think I never heard of a little girl
who didn't love her father."
"But you see the fathers stay home with them. There are the Mullin
children and the Boyles. But I shouldn't like Mr. Boyle for a
father."
"Why?" with a touch of curiosity.
"Oh, because----"
"Andy Boyle seems very nice and jolly. We used to be great friends.
And he gave me a warm welcome."
"I can't like him;" emphatically. "He beat Teddy."
"I suppose Teddy was bad. Children are not always good. What would you
have done if you had been Teddy?" he asked with a half smile.
"I would--I would have bitten his hand, the one that struck. And then
I should have run away, out in the woods and frozen to death, maybe."
"Why my father thrashed me and I know I deserved it. And you are not
going to hate grandad for it?"
She raised her lovely eyes and looked him all over. "Were you very
little?" she asked.
"Well--I think I wasn't very good as a boy."
"Then I don't like grandad as well. I'm bigger than Judy, but do you
suppose I would beat her?"
"But if she went in the pantry and stole something?"
"Can you steal things in your own house?"
"Oh what a little casuist you are. But we haven't settled the other
question--are you going to love me?"
"I can't tell right away;" reluctantly.
"Well, I am going to love you. You are all the little girl I have."
"But you have all the other people."
He laughed good-naturedly. She was very amusing in her unreason. And
unlike most children he had seen she held her love rather high.
"I shall get a horse," he said, "and you will ride with me. And when
the spring fairly comes in we will take walks and find wild flowers
and watch the birds as they go singing about. Maybe I can think up
some stories to tell you. I am going to be very good to you for I want
you to love me."
She seemed to consider. Then she saw grandad, who had a little
squirrel in his hands. Some of them were very tame, so she ran to look
at it.
"A queer little thing," said the father to himself.
CHAPTER IV
OLD PITTSBURG
Spring came with a rush. Barbe Carrick glanced out of the south window
one morning and called her little girl.
"Look, Dilly, the daffodils are opening and they make the garden
fairly joyous. They are like the sun."
There was a long border of them. The green stalks stood up stiff like
guards and the yellow heads nodded as if they were laughing. Wild
hyacinths were showing color as well, but these were the first save a
few snowdrops and violets one found in woody nooks. Birds were singing
and flying to and fro in search of nesting places.
Pittsburg was not much of a town then, but its surroundings were
beautiful. The two rivers were rushing and foaming now in their wild
haste to pour their overflow into the Ohio. The houses had begun to
stretch out beyond the Fort. Colonel Campbell some years before had
laid out several streets, the nucleus of the coming city. Then Thomas
Hickory completed the plans and new houses were in the course of
erection. Still the great business of the time was in the hands of
the Indian traders that the French had found profitable. Beyond were
farms, and the great tract, afterward to be Allegheny City, lay in
fields and woods.
A post road had been ordered by the government between Philadelphia
and the town. And there were plans for a paper. For now most people
were convinced that the war was at an end, and the Southern cities had
been turned over to the Continental government.
There was a brisk, stirring air pervading the place. Business projects
were discussed. Iron had been discovered, in fact the whole land was
rich in minerals. The traders were bringing down their furs. It had
not been a specially cold winter and in this latitude the spring came
earlier.
"Oh, it's beautiful!" The child clapped her hands. "Can't I bring in
some of them?"
"Oh, yes. But pick only the largest ones. Leave the others on to
grow."
She came in with an apron full. "Some are for grandfather," she said.
"Yes, fill this bowl and put it on his table."
She had just finished when he came out. He was always immaculate, and
his hair had the silvery tint. His daughter saw that it was always
neatly brushed and the queue tied with a black ribbon. He was growing
a trifle thinner and weaker.
"Oh, little one," he cried, "did you get a posy for me? Is it your
birthday?" and he stooped to kiss the golden hair, then the rosy lips.
"Her birthday will not be until next week," said her mother.
"I had forgotten. I am almost a hundred. And she is----"
"Seven."
"And when I get to be a hundred I'll have a little table like yours,
and read out of the Bible, and we'll talk over things that happened
when we were children."
He laughed and patted her shoulder. "I shall not be here," he said
slowly.
"Oh, where are you going? I do not want you to go away," and she drew
an apprehensive breath.
"We do not always stay in one place. I came from France years and
years ago. And I shall go to another country, heaven. It is always
summer there."
"Can't you take me?" with an eager, upward look.
"Mother wants you. And you are to be a little old lady and sit in this
chair."
"And wear a cap like gran'mere? And have two little creases in my
forehead, so?"
She tried to make them but they were not much of a success, and the
smile returned. "Now let us read."
She took her seat on the arm of the chair. Gran'mere came in and
busied herself about breakfast. The reading was from one of the minor
prophets. Dilly did not understand it very well but she could converse
in the language quite fluently. Her mother had taught her to spell and
read English. Girls were not expected to have much education in those
days; indeed, here they grew up mostly like the flowers of the field.
While the little girls to the eastward were working samplers, sewing
long overhand seams, hemming, and doing beautiful darning, these
little girls ran about, romped, helped to take care of the next
younger baby, grew up and married, no one could have told just how.
After breakfast when the sun was warm and bright grandfather started
for his walk. He always felt stronger in the morning. Sometimes Barbe
went, often only Dilly. He liked the child's prattle. He liked, too,
the way the denizens of the woods came to her, and the birds. True she
always had some bread to crumble and she talked in her low sunny
voice. Now and then a squirrel would run up her shoulder, watch her
with beady eyes that almost laughed and whisk his feathery tail about.
"It does seem as if they ought to talk," she often said.
"They do in their language, only we can't understand them; at least we
do in part. Doesn't he say in his fashion, 'I'm glad to see you? Have
you any crumbs to-day.' And how one of them scolded when another ran
off with that piece you dropped."
"That was funny, wasn't it!" and she laughed. They were sitting on a
fallen log in the warm sunshine. Bees were out also, buzzing and no
doubt grumbling a little because there were not more sweet flowers in
bloom. And the birds sang and whistled in great glee.
They returned from their walk presently through the woods, where she
gathered some curious wild flowers. Then they came out by the river,
foaming and tumbling about as if it longed to overflow its banks. Now
and then a rough kind of boat came down laden with stores of some
kind, but there was no hurry visible anywhere.
About sixteen years before the Indians had ceded all the lands about
Pittsburg to the Colonies. The six nations assembled with their
principal chiefs and warriors and gave the strongest assurance of
treaty keeping, which after all were not well kept, as usual. But they
had retreated to better hunting grounds and for some time had made
little trouble, though many friendly Indians remained.
The wanderers came out to the town proper. Streets were being
surveyed, straightened, new ones laid out. There were about a hundred
houses ranged round the Fort, but they had begun to spread outside.
The disputes with the Pitt family, who had held the charter of
Pennsylvania, had been mostly settled and grants of land given to many
of the returned soldiers in lieu of the money the Colonial government
could not pay. Pittsburg now belonged to the State, and a project had
been broached to make it the county seat.
Grandfather looked very tired and pale as he came in and went straight
to his chair. His daughter took his hat and cane.
"I did not mean to go so far. I wanted to look at the spot where I had
buried my money;" with a little hollow laugh.
"Did you bury some money?" asked Daffodil, with eager curiosity.
"Can't you dig it up again?"
"No, dear; it has to stay there for years. It may be dug up in your
time, but I shall not need it."
She looked puzzled.
"You must have a cup of tea," said Mrs. Bradin, and immediately she
set about it. Grandfather leaned back in his chair and closed his
eyes. Dilly espied her mother in the adjoining room and went thither
to exploit the splendid time with the squirrels and show the flowers
she had gathered. Then she stood rather wistfully.
"Well?" said her mother in a tone of inquiry.
"Grandfather went to look at the money he had buried, but he couldn't
find it. Do you suppose some one has taken it away?"
"Buried?" She seemed mystified a moment, then smiled. "It wasn't as we
bury things. A long time ago when the French held the Fort and seemed
likely to keep a good part of the country grandfather bought a large
tract of land. Then the French were driven out by the English and they
in their turn by the Colonists. But the land is there and some day the
money may come out of it. Grandad thinks he might as well have thrown
it into the river. But he has never wanted for anything, and it would
likely have been spent for something else. It's odd grandfather should
have said that to-day. He seldom mentions it. He was quite troubled
over it at first--when _I_ was a little girl."
"Oh," returned Daffodil, relieved, though she did not understand the
matter.
"Go and put your flowers in water;" said her mother.
Grandfather was soundly asleep and did not wake until dinner was on
the table. Then he scarcely tasted it.
"You must not take such long walks," his daughter said. "You cannot
stand it any more."
"No, I am getting old," rather sadly. "When your mother died I felt
that I didn't want to live, and now I am content to go on in this
lovely world until the Lord calls me home. I thought once I should
round out the century. There have been many changes in the hundred
years."
And though he had been on exile for his faith's sake, though he had
seen the blunders and sins of his country's rulers, he could not help
reverting to the grand old dream of the magnificent empire of New
France that would never come to pass now. How they had let all the
advantages slip through their fingers that had grasped only at the
wildest pleasures and dissipations.
Barbe went out in the sunshine to garden a little. She was so fond of
growing and blooming things. And they yielded such a beautiful return.
She sang snatches of songs, sometimes in French, sometimes the gay or
sad Scotch ditties. Dilly went over to see Norah, all the men were out
now at the spring work. Norah was spinning on the big wheel, but she
could raise her voice above its whir and to-day she was full of merry
legends. Dilly had brought the cat and Judy never objected to being
held.
"I'm going to be seven years old," she said in a pause. "And when will
I be almost a hundred like great-grandfather?"
"Oh, you've gone only a little bit toward it," laughed Norah. "Why I'm
not half way there myself. And I don't want to be. I'd like never to
grow any older. But you shouldn't stop at seven. You haven't come to
the cream of life. There's more fun at seventeen and that's ten years
away. But you're big enough to have a party."
"What is a party like?"
"Oh, you little innocent! A party is a lot of people together who
laugh and tell stories and have a good time and something to eat and
drink. And you must have a cake with seven candles around it."
"What are the candles for?"
"To light your way;" laughing. "No, to tell how many years you have
lived. I'll make the cake, and the candles too. They'll have to be
dips for I haven't any small mould. Don't you remember how your mother
and gran'mere made candles last fall? And I haven't a bit of wax
myrtle. Oh, I can melt up two or three of mine. They are more fragrant
than tallow. Yes, you shall have a party. I'll talk to your mother
about it."
Dilly was all interest and excitement. Her mother agreed at once. A
modern little girl would have refused such a party. For there would be
all grown people. Barbe Carrick had been a little exclusive with her
child and she had not felt the need of playmates. Then they were
rather out of the range of the Fort people as the somewhat crowded
settlement was called. There were no schools nor Sunday-schools for
little folks. Sunday was not very strictly kept. The schoolmaster read
prayers, the litany, and a sermon from some volume on Sunday morning
and the rest of the day was given over to social life. There were a
few Friends who held their meeting in each other's houses; some of the
Acadians had found their way thither, and now and then a priest came
who took in the more devout of the Irish population. But there was a
large liberty of opinion.
Norah would have the house decorated with blossoming shrubs and she
made a wreath for the little girl to wear, for a few neighbors were
asked in. James Langdale had been in Bernard's company, and Mrs.
Langdale and Barbe had exchanged many a fear and a few hopes. There
were two Langdale boys, but of course they were not eligible for a
girl's party.
They had some idea of the fitness of things even then. Barbe and
Bernard Carrick were at the head of the table with Daffodil on her
mother's side and great-grandfather on the other. At the foot were
grandfather and grandmother Bradin and on one side grandfather Carrick
and Norah, fresh and smiling and full of gayety in the pretty lavender
crêpe she had worn at her own wedding and that she saved now for high
occasions, with her sapphire earrings and brooch that had come down to
her through several generations and had been worn at Court and danced
with royalty.
It was what we would call a high tea, a bountiful spread, and there
was much jesting and joking. I think they didn't mind the little girl
very much. She was perched up higher than usual and wore a white robe
that was kept as a sort of heirloom when she outgrew it, for it was
lace and needlework of her mother's making.
Jetty, a half Indian woman, waited on the table, and when the meats
were taken out and the dessert brought in there was Daffodil's
beautiful cake with the seven candles all alight. She thrilled with
the pleasure. They passed around other cakes and home-made wine and
drank great-grandfather's health and wished him many more years.
Grandfather Carrick drank to Daffodil's future, wishing her long life
and a happy marriage with great prosperity.
Then her mother helped her up on her feet. She felt very bashful with
everybody's eyes upon her and almost forgot the little speech Norah
had taught her, but her mother prompted and she replied amid great
applause. The toasting went all around, then her candles were put out
and she had to cut the cake, which she did with a silver knife that
had a Louis stamp upon it. The cake was declared excellent.
"I'm going to take my piece home to the boys," declared Mrs. Langdale.
"Husband, give me a taste of yours."
After that there was more merriment. Then Jetty took off the things,
the tables were pushed back, and Norah and grandfather Carrick danced
a jig. And it _was_ dancing such as you seldom see nowadays. Norah
could have made her fortune on a modern stage.
After Daffodil's party broke up the men went over to grandfather
Carrick's, where they made a night of it, as was the fashion of the
times. But Dilly and great-grandfather wanted to go to bed.
"A party is just beautiful!" declared Dilly. "Couldn't I have another
sometime!"
"Oh, you are getting spoiled," laughed her mother. "Let me see--when
you are ten, maybe."
So many new thoughts came to Daffodil that she was surprised at
herself. Of course it was being seven years old. She began to sew a
little and knit and make lace over a cushion. Very simple at first,
and oh, the mistakes! Then there was gardening. How curious to plant a
dainty little seed and have it poke a green head out of the ground.
But funniest of all were the beans coming up with their shells on
their heads; she was sure at first they must be upside down.
The men were very busy about the new town and sometimes they almost
quarreled over the improvements. It was taking on quite a changed
aspect. They were giving names to the streets and building much better
houses of hewn logs, making plaster walls. But glass was very dear and
for a long while they could only put in a few windows. The rest were
openings, closed by shutters at night or in a storm.
The paper was a great source of interest, the Pittsburg _Gazette_.
What they did without any telegraph and depending only on post horses
puzzles us now. And the General Government had a hard task on its
hands reconciling the different states and trying ways of getting
money.
"They'll see, an' a sorry time they'll have of it," predicted Sandy
Carrick. "It's settin' up housekeeping for yourself on nothing. Th'
ould country's paid our bills and sent us what we needed an' they'll
be glad to go back, mark my words now."
Bernard took his father's talk in good part. His knowledge was so much
wider. There would be hard times, but there were brave men to meet it.
Sometimes he wished they could go to a big city, but it would be cruel
to tear Barbe away from the household when she was its light.
Daffodil had another wonderful pleasure. The old English people kept
up some of their customs and they had a gay time over the Maypole. It
was like a grand picnic. They had a smooth grassy place at the edge of
the woods and the pole was a young tree that was denuded of its limbs
as it stood in just the right place. They could not get ribbon, but
strips of dyed muslin answered for the streamers. There were two
fiddlers, there were gay choruses. One song grandad sang with great
gusto. Captious as he could be when people did not agree with him, he
had a fund of Irish drollery.
"Come, lasses and lads, get leave of your dads
And away to the Maypole hie;
For every fair has a sweetheart there,
And the fiddlers standing by,
Then trip it, trip it, up and down."
And grandad did trip it merrily. It was fortunate for Norah that she
was not jealous, but she enjoyed a bit of fun, and her arch smile, the
merry flash of her eyes, with the color coming and going, made her
very attractive. Dilly wished she was big enough to dance--her little
feet kept patting the turf and keeping time with the fiddle.
"You're Daffodil Carrick, aren't you?" said a boyish voice almost in
her ear.
She turned, startled, and her eyes were so lovely they fairly
transfixed him, and she stared unconsciously.
She did not speak but nodded.
"I'm Ned Langdale. My mother was at your party and brought us home a
piece of your birthday cake. She said you were seven and as pretty as
a fairy, and I'm fourteen, just twice as old."
"Oh," she said, "that's funny. And will you always be twice as old."
"Why--no. You can never be that but just once in your life--I mean
with that special person. And when you were twenty I wouldn't like to
be forty."
"Is that so very old? Great-grandfather is ninety-seven."
"Whew! That is old! But you see now I am seven years older than you
and that is the way it will be all our lives. Do you go to school?
There's a lady in Water Street who takes little girls, though she's
only just begun."
"No; but I can spell, and read, and do little sums. And read in
French."
"Oh, that's great! I'm studying Latin, but it's awful tough. Isn't it
gay here? Can you dance?"
"I never tried with music."
"I can, just a little. Oh, say, it's splendid! If I knew just how I'd
ask you to try it with me. It seems so easy when you look at them.
It's so and so----" moving his hands. "Yes, do try. You whirl
round----"
And without any real intention they started. It was like floating.
Yes, she had done it when she thought of the little people dancing on
the green.
"Oh," with a soft laugh of protest, and all out of breath.
"It's--delicious! I didn't think I could do it for fair. I sometimes
make believe. I'll get Norry to teach me."
"Norry? Who?"
"Why----" she flushed daintily. "That's grandad's wife."
"Then she's your grandmother."
"Oh, no, she isn't. You see the other wife died; she was father's
mother and he married Norah. We all call her Norry."
"She doesn't look old enough to be any one's grandmother. And isn't
she gay? She has such a merry face, pretty too."
"And she sings such gay songs. She knows all about the fairies, too,
and she's seen them at home, that's Ireland. Why don't they come to
America?"
"Maybe the witches drive them away. Witches are just awful! Come; let
us try again."
He placed his arm around her and they whirled off to the fascinating
music. Is there anything like a fiddle to put the spirit of delight in
one's feet? Other couples were floating round or doing jigs with fancy
steps and laughter. Now and then a bright, mirthful young lad ran off
with some girl and left the first partner in the lurch, at which there
was a shout.
"Oh, I wish you were my sister! Wouldn't we have fun! I have only one
brother, Archie, and he's stupid as an owl--well, I mean he hasn't any
fun in him, and he'd dance about like a cow. Oh, there's your--well,
it would be queer to call her grandmother."
They both laughed at that.
"I wondered where you were, Daffodil. Isn't this Ned Langdale? I know
your mother. Dilly, I think I had better take you home. I promised
your mother I wouldn't keep you very long."
"Oh, no; let me stay just a little while. It's all so gay and they
dance so--so--isn't it like a fairy ring?"
Norah laughed. "Well, I'll take another round, then we must go. You
keep her just about here, then I shall know where to find you. Aren't
you tired, though?"
"Oh, not a bit."
Her eyes shone like stars and there was a most delicious color in her
cheeks like the dainty first ripeness of a peach.
"There's a tree over there--go and sit down. I won't be long."
The great tree had been cut down and there were no end of chips lying
about.
"Now, if I was home I'd get a basket and gather them up," said Ned.
"Mother thinks they make such a splendid fire. It's odd that our
fathers were out in the war together, and are real good friends. I
mean to be a soldier."
"But if there isn't any war?"
"There'll be Indian wars until they are all cleared out. They're a
treacherous lot and never keep their word. And governments need an
army all the time."
"But it's dreadful to fight and kill each other."
"Still you have to. History is full of wars. And there were so many in
the Bible times. The children of Israel had to fight so many people to
get the land of Canaan that the Lord promised them. And we've been
fighting for a country--that is, our fathers have--and now we've
gained it. Oh, wasn't it splendid when Cornwallis surrendered. Did you
hear Kirsty that morning? I thought the place was on fire."
That brought grandad's face before her and she laughed.
"I didn't know what it meant nor who Cornwallis was. I'm only a little
girl----"
"But you're awful smart to read French. Can you talk it?"
"Oh, yes. Grandmother Bradin was French. They went to Ireland and then
came to America, and since father has been away they have talked it a
great deal more, so you see I know both."
"Mother said your party was so nice. And the old grandfather was like
a picture. When they drank your health you had to reply."
Daffodil's face was scarlet.
"I almost forgot. Norry made me say it over and over, but mother
whispered and then I remembered."
"Oh, I wish I could have seen you. And you are so little and pretty.
I'd like to see your French grandfather. Could I come some time?"
"Why, yes. And you'd like Norry so much."
"Do they live with you?"
"Oh, no; but it's only a little way off----"
Norah came flying back. "Come," she said hurriedly. "Grandad's had a
fit about you because I did not have you tucked under my wing. Why, I
should have dropped you while I was dancing. Glad you've taken such
good care of her;" and Norah nodded to him as she took the child by
the hand. "Don't say a word about the lad, or grandad will show his
claws and scratch all round."
He was waiting where a path turned off.
"Well, Yellow-top," he began, "so you're not lost. Had a good time?"
"I was watching them dance. And they were so merry. Oh it was fine!"
"No place for a little youngster like you. Norry was crazy to think of
it."
"I saw some other little children----"
"Yes, rabble;" and the nose went up.
"Grandad, don't be cross. I had such a nice time;" and she slipped her
small hand in his.
"You're 'most a witch, you cunning little thing;" and he gave her a
squeeze. "Now, Norry, take her to her mother's arms before you let her
go."
They turned off, and grandad, who had not had his fun out, went back.
"It was all splendid, Norry. I want you to show me how to dance and
teach me some songs--some of those gay and pretty ones."
"Well, well! you _are_ getting along. Daffodil Carrick, you'll break
hearts some day;" and Norah laughed.
She had so much to tell them at home and she spoke of Ned Langdale,
but she did not quite like to tell about the dancing, wondering if
there had been anything wrong in it, and she did not want to have
Norah blamed. She liked the gayety so much. It was rather grave at
home, with all grown people. And her mother was not _all_ hers now.
Father was very fond of her. And she was coming to like him very much.
He was pleased that she had such a nice time. He wondered if it would
not be well to send her to this school for small children that had
lately been opened. But her mother objected decidedly.
Oh, how beautiful the summer was with its flowers, and then its
fruits. One Sunday afternoon Mr. and Mrs. Langdale came up with their
son Edward, and Daffodil was glad to see him again. He was a nice,
well-behaved lad, and very deferential to great-grandfather. The two
soldiers talked over their battles and the state of the country. The
preliminaries of peace were under way, but the settlement seemed to
drag along. France still stood our friend.
Daffodil took him out to see the squirrels that came at her call and
inspected him with such curious, inquiring eyes that he laughed about
it.
"You see they are not used to boys," she explained.
The quails were very much at their ease as well, and robins flew and
fluttered. Judy never tried to catch them, though sometimes she hunted
out in the woods.
"Ned Langdale is a nice boy," said Dilly's father. "I don't wonder
they are proud of him. His heart is set on being a soldier."
"I'm glad he isn't my son if that is his bent," Barbe said. "And I
hope we'll hear no more of war."
CHAPTER V
HOW THE WORLD WIDENED
The summer passed rapidly. Daffodil found many things to entertain
her, but grandfather demanded much of her time. He took his morning
walk with her hand in his, but he did not go as far as formerly. Then,
on his return, he had a nap in his chair. He lost his appetite during
the latter part of the season. In the afternoon he took a long nap.
Daffodil read to him now, and he did not appear to notice her
blunders.
"Father fails rapidly, I think," Mrs. Bradin said to her husband.
He shook his head with a slow, sympathetic movement.
"We shall miss him very much. And Dilly will feel it. I am sorry to
have her know the mystery no child can understand."
"We won't go for a walk this morning, Dilly," he said one day in later
August. "The air is very close. We will wait until evening."
"But you go to bed so early."
"Yes, I'm getting old," with his faint, sweet smile.
"But everybody says you must live to be a hundred. That's a whole
century."
"Sometimes I feel as if it were two centuries since I began. But it
has been a pleasant journey toward the last. I'm glad to have had you,
Dilly."
"I'm glad, too," the child said with her bright smile.
"Now you may sing to me a little."
So she sang him to sleep. Then she went to wait on her grandmother.
Her mother was sewing by the window in their sleeping-room.
"Go and look at grandfather," she said presently.
"He is still asleep. Mother, I wish you would show me that stitch I
began yesterday."
So she sat down at her work.
Mrs. Bradin went to her father. His head had drooped a little forward.
She placed her hand on his forehead, and drew a long quivering breath.
The summons had come, peacefully, for him.
She was still standing there when her husband entered, and at a glance
he knew what had happened.
"It is best so," he said.
Barbe was startled beyond measure. Latterly her thoughts had been
revolving much about herself, and though she had remarked the slow
alteration, she had put off the assumption of the great change.
Somewhere in the winter--maybe spring, and here it was with the
ripening of summer.
They carried him to his room and laid him tenderly on his bed. A long,
well-used life it had been.
To Daffodil it was a profound mystery. No child could comprehend it.
This was the journey grandfather had spoken of, that she had imagined
going back to France.
"What is it, mother? How do people go to heaven?" she asked.
"Some day we will talk it all over, when you can understand better. We
must all go sometime. And we shall see each other there."
"Then it isn't so bad as never seeing one again," and there was a
great tremble in her voice.
"No, dear. And God knows about the best times. We must trust to that."
He looked so peaceful the day of the burial that Daffodil thought he
must be simply asleep. She said good-by to him softly. There had been
no tragedy about it, but a quiet, reverent passing away.
Still, they missed him very much. Barbe wanted to set away the chair
that had been so much to him. She could not bear to see it empty.
"Oh, no, mother," pleaded Daffodil. "When I go and sit in it I can
talk to him, and he seems to come back and answer me. It's so lovely
where he is and there isn't any winter. Think of having flowers all
the year round. And no one ever is ill. There are such beautiful
walks, and woods full of birds, the like of which one never sees
here. And I can put my head down on his shoulder, just as I used, and
I can feel his hand holding mine. Oh, no, don't take it away, for then
I should lose him."
The child's eyes had a wonderful exalted light in them, and her voice
had a tender, appealing sound, that went to the mother's heart. She
was thankful, too, that Daffodil had no terror of death. She shrank
from it as from some dread spectre standing in her way.
The child missed him most in her walks. Norah liked neighbors to chaff
and gossip with; rambles, with no special motive, did not appeal to
her. Gran'mere was always busy, her mother was easily tired out. She
rode, as of old, with grandad, but she could not use the pillion, her
arms were too short to go around his stout body. Her father took her
out with him when he could; he did a good deal of surveying. On
Saturday Ned Langdale would hunt them up, and one day he brought
Archie, who was three years younger, and not exactly stupid, either,
but always wanting to examine the beginning of things, and how the
Indians came to own the continent, and why the Africans were black and
had woolly hair and in the country called Asia they were yellow? And
if God created only two at first, how did they come to be so
different? And how did Adam know what to name the animals? Were there
people living in the stars?
"Oh, do hush up," his mother would exclaim impatiently. "You are
enough to turn one's brain upside down! And you can't say half the
multiplication table. I don't believe you know how many black beans
make five!"
It had been a great puzzle to him. He sprung it on Daffodil one day.
She considered. "Why, five would be five of anything, wouldn't it?"
"Oh, how quick you are with a good reason, too. I couldn't see into it
for ever so long. I'm awful dull."
Then they both laughed. His face was such a good honest one, but not
full of mirth, like Ned's.
They were really nice boys, and her father felt he could trust her
with them. But he wished there were some tolerably well trained girls
for her to know.
Then the winter came on again. Her father had to go to Philadelphia on
some business, and there were stirring times in the brave old city.
They missed him so much. Grandfather Bradin was promoted to the whole
name now, as there was no chance of confusion, but the little girl as
often endearingly called him "gran."
Bernard Carrick brought home with him great-grandfather's will that
had been made five years before, and intrusted to a legal friend, who
was, like himself, a Huguenot refugee. To his wife Felix Duvernay had
entrusted his strong box, with the gold pieces that were almost
heirlooms, and various jewels, to do with whatever she chose. There
were some deeds of property that he brought home with him, and the
will.
"I was amazed," he said to Barbe. "Why, there are acres and acres of
ground that will be worth a mint of money some day. And it is all
securely made over to Daffodil Carrick. Your father and I are
appointed guardians, and this Mr. de Ronville is administrator. His
father was exiled about the same time, but he came at once to America.
It seems a little queer that great-grandfather shouldn't have made
more of it."
"I think, after the purchase he felt rather sore about it, as if it
was a foolish bargain. But he thought then that the French would be
the real rulers of America," said Mrs. Bradin. "Yet he never alluded
to the will; and you know he was always very fond of Dilly, and that
there was no other child."
"Dear old man! When Dilly is grown up she will be an heiress. It can
only be leased until she comes of age. I wish it was on this side of
the river. Well, as my father says, 'it will neither eat nor drink,'
except the rains of heaven. We won't proclaim it on the housetops."
So matters went on just the same. No one gave much thought to "over
the river" then.
One morning Mrs. Carrick was not very well. Norah came over, and there
was grave consulting. She took Dilly back with her, and in the
afternoon grandad bundled her up and drove her over to the mill with
him, and was very jolly. They did not return until dusk, and then
Norry's supper had such a savory fragrance she decided to share it.
Norry had been over to the other house, and "mother" had a bad
headache, and Dilly was to stay all night. She had brought over her
nightgown.
"That's funny!" exclaimed Daffodil. "Mother seldom has a headache.
Oh," with a sudden alarm, "you don't think mother will be ill for
weeks and weeks, and grow pale and thin, as she did before father came
home."
"Oh, no;" and Norry threw up her head with a laugh. "She'll be up
again in no time."
Grandad was teaching the little girl to play checkers, and she was
deeply interested. Norry was knitting a long woollen stocking for him,
and sang bits of gay Irish songs. But by and by the little girl began
to yawn, and made some bad plays.
"You're sleepy," said grandad.
"Yes, I can't get over to the king row;" and she smiled. "But you just
wait until to-morrow, when I'm bright and fresh."
So Norry put her to bed, and, leaving grandad to read the _Gazette_,
she ran over to see how it fared with Barbe, and did not come home
until morning. Grandad had a nice fire, and had made the coffee.
"Oh, dear," began Daffodil, coming out in her trained nightgown, as
they made garments for children to grow in, in those days, "isn't it
funny? When I woke up I couldn't think where I was, and it came into
my mind about little Bridget, that fairies took away for seven years.
Then I would be fourteen."
"That's some of Norry's nonsense. Get on your clothes, and come and
have these grand griddle cakes and sausage, that'll make you sing in
your sleep."
"Why not when I am awake?" with laughing eyes.
"Anybody can do that. But it takes something extra good to make you
sing in your sleep."
She thought they were quite good enough, and wondered how it would
seem to sing in the night, and the dark, and if she could hear
herself.
Then her father came after her. Grandad wrung his hand and said, "Lad,
I wish you joy and the best of luck."
What did that mean?
"Daffodil, something wonderful has happened to us, and I hope--you
will like it. We are very happy over it. We have a little boy who came
in the night. A little brother for you. And we want you to be glad."
"Oh, was that what grandad meant?" she asked gravely.
"Yes. You see, girls marry and give up their name. But a boy carries
it on. And grandad hated to have the name die out. He will be very
proud of the boy, but I think no one will be quite as dear to him as
Daffodil."
The child was revolving various thoughts in her mind, and made no
comment. When they entered the house, Grandmother Bradin took off her
hat and cloak, and kissed her very fondly. Her father watched the
small serious face. Then he sat down in the big chair, and took her on
his knee.
"Dilly," he began in a pleading tone, "I hope you won't feel as if--as
if you would be crowded out. We have had you the longest, and you were
our first sweet joy. We can never love any other child quite like
that. And nothing can ever change our love for you. So you must not
feel jealous because we shall love him and be glad to have him----"
"Oh, that was what you said a long time ago, when you first came
home--that I was jealous. No, I didn't like mother to love you so
much. And you were strange, and you can't love any one all at once;"
incoherently.
"But you are not jealous now?"
"No. It didn't take her love from me, only a little while."
"It did not take it away at all. And there were two people to love
you, instead of one. Suppose I had felt hurt because you loved
grandfather so much?"
"Was it like that?" She raised her lovely eyes with an appealing light
in them. "And was I very bad?"
He stooped and kissed her. "It was very natural, and the only thing,
the best thing, is to wait until the other one understands. You love
me now?"
She reached up and twined her arms about his neck.
"I love you very much," she returned in an earnest tone. "And I am
gladder than ever to have you love me, now that grandfather has gone
away. But I don't want any one else to go."
He clasped her more tightly. No, any other break in the circle would
mean a more poignant grief. There was no one to spare.
"And you will not mind if we love the little boy a good deal?"
"No--since it is a little boy. I am glad it is not a girl, that you
chose a boy," she made answer simply.
"We all wanted the boy. Dilly, I am glad to have you love me, and I
hope it will grow stronger as you grow older, and understand how sweet
affection really is."
Mr. Bradin called him away. He put Daffodil in the chair and she
leaned her head down and whispered to grandfather that a little boy
had come, and she was going to be glad, because they all wanted him.
And then a curious thought flashed over her. Death and life are
profound mysteries, even out of childhood.
"Would you like to see the baby?" asked gran'mere Bradin.
"Oh, yes."
Her mother glanced up out of fond dark eyes. Why, she was as pale as
in her long sickness, but not so thin. She said, "Kiss me, Daffodil."
"Oh, mother!"
"And here is little brother."
Daffodil's first feeling was disappointment. She had thought of some
angelic beauty. He was red and crumpled up, and there was a crown of
thick black hair, and his mouth was puckered up. The mother patted his
little face.
"He will look better by and by," she said reassuringly.
"Mother, I was thinking--it came to me in the chair--isn't it old
grandfather come back to us again to live his life over? You know,
everything begins little. The flowers die, but they spring up again,
most of them in the same places."
"Why, child, that is a pretty thought;" and the mother smiled. "And he
will have his name, only Grandfather Carrick must have his in, so it
will be Alexander Felix Duvernay."
"I don't want him to be called Sandy."
"I think he won't be. And, Daffodil, you won't mind--I mean, you won't
feel jealous. We wanted him so much." There was a touch of anxiety in
the mother's voice.
"Oh, no. Father asked me that. No, you may love him ever so much,
while you love me as well."
"She takes it very calmly," said Gran'mere Bradin afterward. "Some
children as old as she, and been the only one so long, would have made
a great fuss. We have all spoiled her a little, but she has such a
sweet temper. It is the Duvernay temper;" smiling.
"I hope I have a good share of it," resumed Barbe.
The baby was not small, and he grew by the hour. He had soft, large
dark eyes. Grandad did not like so much French about him, but he was
glad to have a grandson, even at that estate. He soon bleached out,
though he was not fair like Daffodil.
"I'll have to see about making a fortune for him," said grandad.
"Though those acres of wood and farmland will not amount to much, and
I don't see what a girl can do with a farm."
But the acres lay smiling in the sunshine, perhaps dreaming of the
time when they should be homes of beauty.
Meanwhile events had been going on rapidly, if not harmoniously, for a
stable government for the Colonies. And there must be some sort of a
head. A government of the largest liberty it must be, the states
forming a great federation for protection and advancement. Out of the
discussion came the Federal Constitution, and a President, the man who
had never lost faith in the possibility of a great nation.
There were, of course, a few dissenting voices, and many fears. For
the nation was only an infant.
"What did I tell you," said grandad to his son. He had to argue, it
was one of his satisfactions. "Four years, they say. In two years the
silly things will make him a king, and in ten years you'll be fighting
for liberty again. There's no money to be had--we shall be glad enough
to run back to England, and beg to be taken in. The French will throw
us over."
"Don't look so far ahead." Bernard kept his temper under these
onslaughts. But he did hate to have his father haranguing little
crowds here and there over the spirits that were being so largely
manufactured.
"Oh, yes! And have them catch us unprepared. Where's the money coming
from to build a navy, to pay new soldiers when the old ones are half
starving, to keep your grand President. You see, he'll have a court
and a style, while we common folks can kneel outside the gates."
"We're going to look out for our own town, and let the men at the helm
take care of the larger interests. We have everything for a fine
city, and work for all, so we will take up the nearby business."
People were straggling in; they are generally gregarious. And there
was plenty of work. There was felling of trees, a sawmill, and rough
log houses were meant for only temporary housing. Wharfs and docks
sprung up by magic. Then the school was merged into the Pittsburg
Academy, afterward to be the University of Pennsylvania. Smaller
schools came into existence, yet they were a great working people, and
in those years the three R's were esteemed the most necessary.
Then, after a heated discussion, Pittsburg was established as the
county seat, which enhanced its prestige. Some rigorous laws were
passed, and a ducking stool was set up at the junction of the three
rivers, much to the disgust of the better classes. At first there were
crowds haunting the place, and jokes bandied about, but there was
found small use for it.
"It's a good thing," said Sandy Carrick. "It'll keep the women in
check, anyhow."
"Isn't it as well for the men?" asked Norah mischievously. "An',
Sandy, you better look out, ye're scoldin' about the country 'cause
you daren't try much of it on me. Don't I keep your house clean, mend
your clothes, and knit you long stockings, so's you shan't get
rheumatiz in your knees. An' if you know a woman who cooks a better
meal of vittles, you had better go an' board with her."
She was so pretty and saucy that Sandy turned on his heel and laughed.
Then the _Mayflower_, with a lot of New England emigrants, passed
Pittsburg for the shores of the Muskingum.
"Them Eastern states must just have overflowed," was the verdict.
"Goin' out to Ohio, an' spreadin' theirselves abroad as bait for the
Indians, when there's civilized lands lyin' about."
And as if Pittsburg was not large enough, they turned to consider
Alleghany, and began to lay it out. It would make another fine city.
Meanwhile matters went on prosperously, with the Carricks and the
Bradins. Bernard added a room to his house for Daffodil, and placed a
window so she could see her mother's garden of posies. The baby grew
amazingly, was well and strong, and positively pretty, looking a
little like his mother, getting teeth without any trouble, walking,
saying all manner of crooked words, and then straightening them, being
a jolly, healthy child, and Norah's heart was bound up in him. She
borrowed him half her time.
"I'd be a happier woman with a houseful of them," she said, "Sandy
always insisted he didn't care, but I know he does. He's just ready to
eat up little Sandy without a grain of salt."
They _would_ call him that, while his home name was Felix. His father
called him baby at first, then son. He liked everybody, but he adored
his own father. Barbe stood a little in the background, not that she
loved him less, but she gave a continual thanksgiving that he had met
with such a warm welcome.
Daffodil was amused at his pretty ways, and the cunning bits of
mischief that she often kept from his mother. She was so certain of
her father's affection now. She took a warm interest in his doings,
she sided with him about the country, and listened delightedly to the
stories of bravery and endurance, and absolutely quarrelled with
grandad when he predicted the wretched times that would follow
throwing off the protection of the mother country, and the surety that
an appeal would be made again for her protection.
"An' just look at what they are saying about your precious Washington!
They'll turn him out before he's served his four years. No two of them
think alike! And how's the money to be raised for expenses! You silly
child, you don't know anything about it. An' your father's a gey
fule!"
"I'll never come in this house again, grandad!" with a dignity that
made her pink cheeks red and her blue eyes black.
"Then sure you'll never go out of it on such terms!" and grandad
caught her and scrubbed her with his stubby beard, and hugged her so
tight she was glad to promise she would come to-morrow. And likely she
ran over that very evening.
"He's not worth the minding," Norry would declare. "He don't believe
the half of it, and says it to see you spurt up. He's half the time
spilin' for a quarrel that has no more in it than an empty eggshell."
Daffodil began to have some new interests in her life. She was growing
rapidly, she went to school, and met children of her own age. Several
chapels had been started, and there was a real clergyman, though they
could not have him regularly, and then a reader took the service. The
men had various outdoor diversions that had been brought from "the old
country," and were never loath to join the women's frolics, at which
there was dancing, and, it must be admitted, not a little drinking.
Norah took her out occasionally, "for," she said to Barbe, "it isn't
just right to make an old woman of her. They love the fun when they're
young, and that's natural, an' it's a sin to crowd them out of it."
Barbe was very domestic. Her house, her little boy, her sewing and
spinning, filled up all her time. The child was a marvel to her. He
was so bright and active, so pretty and merry, but altogether
different from Daffodil.
Once when they had talked over great-grandfather's bequest, Bernard
had said, "It seems almost a pity that Dilly had not been the boy,
with that great estate to come to him. A man can do so much more in a
business way than a woman. Not but that the boy will be cared for,
father's heart is set on him. And I shall see that he is well provided
for if I live."
Bernard Carrick was deeply interested in the welfare and advancement
of the town, and found much work to do outside of the farm that his
father-in-law attended to, indeed, had the greater interest in. Sandy
Carrick had a great outlying tract. Grain of all kinds, especially
wheat, grew for the mere planting in the virgin soil. And the staple
product of the time was whiskey. Nearly every farmer had a still. The
morality of drinking was not called in question, and the better class
of people were temperate. It was the great thing they could exchange
for their needs. They sent it over the mountains to Kentucky and Ohio.
They built rough sort of tugs, and freighted it through the Ohio to
the Mississippi, disposing of it anywhere along the route. The mouth
of the great river was still in the hands of the Spanish.
It must be confessed, since the birth of Felix, Barbe had shared her
motherhood a good deal with Norah, who laid claim largely to Daffodil.
They wandered through the woods together, for the child peopled them
with the old stories that Norah's faith made so real. She stopped for
her at school, and brought her home to supper. Grandad at times tried
to tease her. Strangely enough she was never jealous, even of her
father's love for the little brother. And she said to grandad:
"You may love him all you like. He is a boy. Men ought to love boys.
And he is named after you, though I don't like the name."
"Oh, you don't! One grandfather is as good as the other, and I'm
nearer of kin. It's a good old Scotch name, an' they're good as the
French any day."
"I don't like Sandy."
"And I don't like Felix. But I put up with it. You won't make a
Frenchman out of him. I'll see to that;" and he gave a funny wink out
of his eye.
"And if some day he should want to go to France?"
"I'll see that he doesn't. This place will be big enough and good
enough for him. There's fortunes to be made here. I'm going to leave
him mine, an' I'll bet you a gallon of whiskey it'll be worth more
than your wild land."
"Well, I shan't care!" archly, and with laughing eyes. "I like the
woods and the birds and the squirrels. Some day I'll have a house
built, and I'll take Norah to live with me."
"You will, hey? I'll have something to say about that. Do you suppose
I'll stay here and starve?"
He tried to look very angry, but she knew all about his face, and his
tone, and said nonchalantly, "Oh, you can go over to the other house
and get something to eat."
"Well, we'll see, little Miss Madam. You'll be gravely mistook!"
So they jested and pretended to bicker. Then grandad set up Norah with
a pony and a sort of jaunting car, that would only hold two. For
Daffodil could no longer keep her seat in the old fashion, neither
would her arms reach around grandad.
Sometimes Norah took out Barbe and the little boy. For Daffodil went
to school quite regularly about eight months of the year. The
remaining time most of the children were needed to help at home.
Any other child would have been spoiled with the favoritism at school.
The older ones helped her at her lessons, and in those days there were
no easy kindergarten methods. They gave her tidbits of their
luncheons, they piled her little basket with fruit, although she
insisted there was so much at home. They brought her some strange
flower they had found, they hovered about her as if there was some
impelling sweetness, some charm. She had a way of dispensing her
regard impartially, but with so tender a grace that no one was hurt.
"I just wish we could go to the same school," Ned Langdale said in
one of the Sunday rambles. He was always on the lookout for Norah and
her.
"But--the big boys go there."
"Yes. Oh, you wouldn't like it a bit. Beside, you couldn't. And the
lessons are just awful. And the thrashings----"
"Don't. I can't hear about that;" shaking her pretty golden head.
"No. Girls oughtn't. But they say it's good for children----"
"For boys. Why, are boys worse than girls?"
"Oh, they are not. I know some girls who are mean, and tricky, and
don't tell the truth. All girls are not like you."
"Maybe it's because everybody is so good to me. I couldn't be bad in
return, you know."
"Oh, I just wish you were my sister, and lived with us."
"Well, you see that couldn't have been. God sent me to mother."
"But a fellow can wish it."
"It's queer, but there are a great many things wishing doesn't bring.
I suppose it's because they _can't_ happen."
He gave a sigh.
She knew how to dance now; Norah had taught her, but it comes natural
to most children, and it did to her. She used to dance by herself, and
sometimes whirl little brother round, to the great amusement of her
father.
Ned used to stray over summer evenings to hear Mr. Carrick talk about
the war, and the dangers he had escaped. He never told the hardest
side of it, not even to Barbe.
There were other boys who made various errands, and if she was not
home, went over to Sandy's for her.
"This thing must stop," grandad said angrily. "What are they running
after such a child as that for? Oh, don't tell me it's some trumped-up
errand. It's just to sit and look at her as if they never saw a girl
before! She's pretty to look at, to be sure, but she's not going to
have lovers in a long time yet."
"Sandy, don't get your head fuddled with that kind of nonsense. It's a
heap worse than whiskey."
Sandy gave an indignant grunt.
CHAPTER VI
A NEW FRIEND
"Oh, here's a letter for father. Grandad brought it. From
Philadelphia. And here's a queer red something"--and Dilly peered over
it.
"Seal," said her mother. "And, why, it's from that friend of
great-grandfather's," studying the French emblem. And an odd shiver
ran over her, as she suddenly studied her child.
Dilly laughed. "You look as if you were afraid he wanted me, as if he
was some cruel old ogre, who might eat me up."
Then Barbe laughed also, and stood the letter on the high shelf over
the chimney, that she could just reach.
It was from Monsieur de Ronville. He was coming to Pittsburg on some
quite important business, for parties who had heard about the
discovery of minerals, and that a blast furnace had been started; that
Pittsburg was coming to be a point of connection with the west and
south; and he would also like to see his ward and her possessions,
that he might be able to advise in time to come. Would Mr. Carrick be
kind enough to meet him and bespeak accommodations at some hotel for
himself and his man, for all of which he would be extremely obliged.
Bernard Carrick looked at his wife in sheer amazement.
"Hotel! Well, there are only two or three taverns good enough for
traders, and that ilk, who don't mind a roystering crew, gaming, and
drinking. If it was government business, he might be taken in at the
Fort. Why, what can we do? And a man. You see, he is used to the
habits of civilized life, and we have had no time to fall into the
traces. The Lindsays are in their new house, but I couldn't ask them
to take in our guest."
"And we;" Barbe hesitated, then said laughingly, "we shall have to
enlarge our borders. Sometime the boy will want a room."
Bernard dropped into grandfather's chair and considered. He had been
about the world enough to know the place would look rather rough to a
person from one of the chief cities. Somehow, they were a little
different. There were pieces of fine old furniture that had come from
France, then their ways were rather more refined. It would be the
proper thing to take him in. And he would be here in about a week.
Mrs. Bradin agreed on that point. Truth to tell, she was anxious to
see this M. de Ronville, whose father had been her father's boyhood's
companion.
"Why, you could give him Dilly's room, and she could go over to
Norry's," she said as they were discussing the next day what was to be
done. "It is a good thing we brought down that old bedstead, though
Dilly hated it so."
Dilly had outgrown her little pallet, though at first she declared the
high posts were the little brown men grown into giants, who would
carry her away. But when grandmere exhumed some faded silk hangings
where the roses were of a creamy pink, and cupids with wings were
flying about, she was soon reconciled. Then Grandfather Bradin had
made her a chest of drawers and two chairs that looked as though they
might have been imported.
"And I can fix a bed in the attic for the man, so we will have it all
running smoothly."
"You are a great comfort," said Bernard to his mother-in-law.
The post now came every week. Even the busy folks went to meet it for
the sake of the newspapers and the occasional letters, though those
mostly went to the Fort. Sometimes a few emigrants had joined the
train. For now there seemed to have broken out a fever for adventure,
for founding new settlements, although in some places the Indians were
still troublesome.
Bernard Carrick went to meet his guest. He could have picked him from
the group at once by his decidedly foreign air, the French aspect. He
was past sixty, rather tall, and very erect, almost soldierly, with a
beautiful white beard, though his hair was only half sprinkled with
snow. Clear, rather soft dark eyes, and a high-bred air that gave a
grave, yet kindly, expression to his countenance. He had his horse, as
well as his servant, who was a rather small, shrewd-eyed Frenchman.
Carrick introduced himself, and welcomed his guest cordially,
explaining to him that they had not arrived at the dignity of hotels,
and that the taverns were but poor affairs, so he would be pleased to
offer him the hospitality of his own house.
"Thank you," he returned. "You are the father of my ward, I presume."
"Yes, she is my little girl;" with a smile.
"An odd sort of charge. Though I suppose it was because I was of his
country. Nations are clannish."
"We shall get so mixed up that we shall hardly be able to trace our
forbears. On her mother's side my little girl is mostly French."
"A little girl!" He seemed surprised.
"She will always be that to me. Only heaven knows my joy and gratitude
at coming home from the long struggle, and finding her and her mother
alive; indeed, the whole household. I have had a son born since."
"Yes. You were in the war. You may be proud of that. It will be an
honor to hand down to your son. But your town----"
With a vague glance around, and an expression that was clearly not
admiration.
"It has not had your advantages, nor your people, and is much younger.
It seems to me on the verge of civilization."
Bernard Carrick laughed good humoredly.
"That is true," he returned. "Except for the confluence of the rivers
there seems no special advantage, though the land is thought to be
rich in minerals. And the Fort being built here--the French planned a
long chain of them."
"It seems a just return to France for her indifference to her splendid
Colonies. And I have lived long enough to see if there are no fatal
mistakes made, that this will be a grand country. From the depths of
my heart I pray for her welfare."
"And I fought for it," was the younger man's proud reply.
De Ronville had hardly expected to see such a house as this. The
aspect was undeniably French, heightened by the old furniture that he
had been used to in his boyhood. His room was delightful. Barbe had
taken out most of the girl's fancy touches, and odd things her
grandfather Bradin had made, and left a grave aspect. Outside,
everything was a-bloom, and a rose climbed up a trellis at the side
of the window, shaking its nodding fragrant blossoms against the
window-pane, and, when it was open, showering in its sweet silky
leaves.
They made friends readily. Great-grandfather Duvernay was the link
between, and the women were more French than of any other race. It was
almost supper time when Daffodil came in, leading her little brother
by the hand. In him again the mother's type predominated; he was a
fine, robust child, with a fearless, upright expression, and a voice
that had none of the rougher tones of so many of the early settlers.
But Daffodil! He studied her with a little wonder.
For her abundant hair had not yet shaken off its gold, and lay in
loose thick curls about her neck. Her complexion was of that rare
texture that neither sun nor wind roughened, and all the care it had
was cleanliness and the big bonnets of those days. Her features were
quite regular, the nose straight, rather defiant, but the beautiful
mouth, full of the most tantalizing curves, fun, laughter, sweetness,
and the something termed coquetry in older women, that is not always
experience either. She was slender and full of grace, tall for her
age, but most girls grew up quickly, though she had not left the
fairyland of childhood.
"I am glad to see the darling of my old friend," smiling as he took
her soft, dimpled hand. "I have always thought of her as a very
little girl, sitting on the arm of her grandfather's chair----"
"Oh, did he tell you that!" in her bright, eager tone. "Yes, and we
used to talk--he told me so much about France and--it was your
father--was it not? I thought you must be quite young;" and a faint
touch of surprise passed over her face.
"We were both set back in memory, it seems. And even I am getting to
be quite an old man."
"But I like old men," she said, with charming frankness, and a tint of
color deepened in her cheek. "They are all old except father, and the
men who come in to play games are wrinkled up, and some of them have
white hair. I've had such a lot of grandfathers, and only one
grandmother."
"How did you get more than two?"
"It was great-grandfather Duvernay," explained Barbe, "that made the
third."
"And this is his chair. Mother wanted to take it away, but I could not
bear to have it leave this corner. I could see him in it. Strange how
you can see one who is not really there, or do they come back for a
moment? Here is the arm where I sat, and I used to put my arm round
his neck. I am going to let you sit in his chair. Father won't mind;"
glancing inquiringly at her mother.
"Dilly, you are too forward," and Barbe colored. Felix was climbing in
her lap and almost upset her.
"No, no; her prattle is the most cordial welcome. And I hope you will
soon like me well enough to come and sit on the arm and hear my
stories."
"Oh, have you what Norry calls a bag of stories, that the little brown
men carry about? They're queer, and they drop them over you while you
are asleep, and that makes dreams, and you see people, and have good
times with them."
M. de Ronville laughed. Bernard came in; he had been settling the man,
and the luggage, and now repeated his hearty welcome.
When M. de Ronville settled himself in the corner and the chair you
could almost fancy grandfather had come back. They had a strong
likeness of race of the higher type, those who had been pure livers
and held strongly to their religion. He was very tired with the
journey and looked pale as he sat there, relaxed.
Barbe and her mother spread the table. They had a sort of outdoor
kitchen they used for cooking in the warm weather. Felix was asking
questions of his sister, who answered them with a sort of teasing
gayety. Why was this so and that, and did she ever see a panther.
Jimmy Servy's father killed a wolf out by the Fort, and Jimmy said a
wolf would eat you up. Would it truly? "Then when I am big enough to
fire a gun I'll go out and shoot all I can find."
The supper was most appetizing if it did not have the style of his own
house. He was really pleased with the simplicity of the two women, and
Mr. Bradin and his son-in-law certainly were intelligent if they had
not the range of the greater world. Daffodil was quiet and
well-mannered he observed. In truth he was agreeably surprised with
these people who were not held in high esteem by the culture of the
large city.
Dilly came to him afterward.
"I am going over to grandad's," she announced. "I stay all night with
them sometimes. Oh, I hope you will like Norry. I love her dearly and
you mustn't mind if grandad is a little queer."
"No, I will not," amused at her frankness.
"He is just a splendid old man!" she announced to Norah. "And he looks
like great-grandfather. I'm going to like him ever so much, and I want
you to."
"Oh, yes, I'll like him," responded Norah readily. "I fancied he was
one of the high and mighty dukes like that Colonel Leavitt, and I'm
glad for your mother's sake that he's comfortable to get along with.
It never would have done for him to go to a tavern."
They talked a little at the other house and then retired for the
night. And the next day was a busy one. Bernard Carrick took him about
and they inspected the blast furnace on which high hopes were built,
but the knowledge in those times was rather limited. It struggled
along for some years and then better things came in its stead.
The river front was quite a busy place. Yes, de Ronville admitted
there was great promise of a thriving city. And over opposite might be
another. He knew how the cities on the eastern coast had improved and
grown in power. One had only to wait. And his ward was young. Though
he wondered a little at the faith of his friend Duvernay. But the old
man, not so old then, had in his mind the beautiful estates in the
land of his birth, and this land commanding the river and what would
sometime be a thriving town attracted his fancy. He had hoped so that
Barbe's child would be a son, but he had loved Daffodil with the
passion of declining years. Felix had come too late.
M. de Ronville found much to interest him. The eastern shore would not
be all of the country. Explorers were sending back glowing tales of
western possibilities. Towns were springing up and this was the key to
them all. There were large tracts of fertile lands that seemed to have
been deserted by the Indians and that were of amazing fertility. After
all Felix Duvernay had made no mistake.
And Daffodil found her way to the guest's heart with very little
effort. It might have been her beauty, that no one around seemed
aware of, or her pretty, winsome manner. She accompanied him and her
father on their rides about. She was a graceful and well-trained
horsewoman. She had so many dainty legends of out-of-the-way nooks;
most of them Norah had grafted on old country tales.
And the evenings at home came to be quite a delight for them all,
listening to the glories of his city and the strides it had made. Of
the famous men, of the many incidents in the great struggle, its
churches and various entertainments as well as the social aspect.
Daffodil listened enchanted.
They had come to be such friends that she sat on the broad arm of the
chair, but he noted her wonderful delicacy in never dropping into
familiarities, while they were so common with her father, and grandad
was almost rough with her. True, Barbe had an innate refinement and it
was the child's birth-right as well.
She sat there one afternoon. Mother and grandmother were busy
preserving fruit for winter use, it grew so plentifully, but they had
not mastered the art of keeping some of the choicest through the
winter uncooked.
"Daffodil," he began gravely, "your parents have entertained me most
delightfully. You have a charming home and I shall hate to leave it.
But on Thursday there is a return post and I have overstayed the time
I thought would be ample to transact the business I came about. And
now I must return."
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Oh, I do not want you to go."
What pleading, beautiful eyes she raised to him.
Old as he was it thrilled through his pulses.
"But, my child, I cannot live here. And I shall miss you so much. Why
I have half a mind to run away with you. I wonder if you would like a
visit to my beautiful city."
"Oh, it would be splendid! But--is there any one----"
"To take care of you? There is a housekeeper and a maid, and a jolly,
good-natured black woman, who cooks in the kitchen. There are two
carriages and horses, and there will be so much to see. It is so
different from this."
She seemed to consider. "Yes," rather irresolutely, "if I could go.
They would miss me so much here."
"And would you be homesick?"
"Not in a good long while, with you;" she returned with a child's
innocence. "And you would surely let me come back?"
"Yes, my dear; even if it broke my heart to do it. I wish you were my
little granddaughter."
"Then I would have another grandfather," and she gave a soft, musical
ripple. After an instant she caught his hand in hers so plump and
warm, and exclaimed--"Oh, I should like to go."
"Dilly; Dilly!" exclaimed the fresh boyish voice; "come and see what I
have. Grandad and I have been fishing."
There was a string of shining plump fish that as Felix said still
wiggled in their freshness. "Oh, Dilly, if you only were a boy!
Grandad says you are not worth a button at fishing."
"They're fine, little brother. No, I don't love to fish. And baiting!"
She shuddered as she spoke.
"But you can eat them afterward."
"I couldn't if I caught them myself."
"I wanted a nice lot before the gentleman went away. And Katy and Peg
Boyle were out and they are great. It was a fine afternoon for fishing
I tell you!"
She went through to the kitchen with him. He was a boy for all kinds
of sport, but he abhorred school and was glad when it closed early in
the summer, for the boys and girls were needed at home. Sandy Carrick
inducted his grandson into all boyish pursuits. His heart was bound up
in Felix.
He began to prepare the fish for cooking. Dilly looked out over the
wide expanse where trees were thick with leaves and laden with fruit.
But she did not truly see anything for her eyes were following her
thoughts. To go to a great and wonderful city where they had rung the
first bell for independence, to see the splendid houses and the
ladies in fine array and to hear beautiful music. But of course she
could not go. They would miss her so much. Yet it seemed as if she did
very little now.
They had not the strenuous methods of to-day. If those old settlers of
Pittsburg with their simple living could come back they would lose
their senses at the luxury and striving for gain, the magnificence,
the continual hurry and restlessness, the whirl of business undreamed
of then. No one was striving to outshine his neighbor. House
furnishing lasted through generations. Fashions in gowns and hats went
on year after year, and it left time for many other things. Barbe
Carrick found hours for lace-making; as was the custom of that time
she was laying by in the old oaken chest articles and napery for the
time when Daffodil would go to a home of her own. For then it was a
great disappointment to the mother if a girl did not marry.
In the old chair Gaspard de Ronville sat dreaming. He should have
married long ago and had children and grandchildren. Would there have
been one pretty, golden-haired girl among them with a sweet voice and
such eyes as were sure to find the way to one's heart, such rosy,
laughing lips, sweet for lovers to kiss when the time came? And
then--oh, if it could be!
That evening he laid his plan before the household. Might he take
Daffodil for a few months' visit, and thereby return their cordial
hospitality that had given him a most unexpected pleasure. She would
be well taken care of, that he could assure them. And in event of her
losing her natural protectors he as her trustee and guardian would be
only too happy to take charge of her. He would have her best interests
at heart always. And it might be well for her to see a little of the
world. She might desire more education than the place could afford.
They were all too much amazed to reply at once.
"Pittsburg is good enough!" flung out grandad. "Her interests will be
here. She'll marry here, she'll die and be buried here, and she'll
know enough to get to heaven at the last without all the folderols of
a great city, as those folks think it because they rung their bell
when they cut loose from the mother country!"
"Oh, we couldn't spare her," said the mother. "And, Dilly, you
wouldn't want to go away among strangers."
"Oh, no," returned the little girl, and she knew then she had two
sides to her nature, and one was longing for the new and untried, and
the other clung to what was familiar. There were tears in her eyes,
but she could not have told which chord of her soul of all the many
was touched.
"I should just die without you!" protested Norah. "I couldn't love a
colleen of my own better."
Grandmere said but little. She saw there was an unquiet longing in the
child's heart. She could not quite approve of trusting her to
strangers, but she knew girls had come from the old world to Virginia
and married men they had never seen before, and made good wives and
mothers. Daffodil was too young to think of lovers, two years hence
there might be danger.
"I'd go!" declared Felix in his most manly fashion. "Why, Tim Byerly
has been out to Ohio, which is a real country, not all a river. And
Joe Avery went over to the Mes'sipy and down to New Orleans."
"Mississippi," corrected his mother.
"That's what Joe calls it. And men haven't time for such long names.
Yes, I mean to go about when I'm big and have some money. Father 'n'
I'll set out and discover some new state and take possession of it in
the name of the President. Of course girls can't set out to discover
things. And Philadelphia has been discovered already."
They had not long to think about it. And as if to make it the more
possible an old neighbor, Mrs. Craig, who was going to spend the
winter in the distant city with a married daughter, offered to give
her a mother's care on the journey. Girl friends came in and envied
her the wonderful luck. Most of the neighbors took it for granted that
she would go.
As for the little girl she changed her mind about every hour. She had
come to care a great deal about M. de Ronville. In youth one responds
so readily to affection and he had learned to love her as he had never
loved anything in his life. He was charmed with her frankness and
simplicity, her utter unworldliness. She seemed to care no more for
the great estate over the river than if it had been a mere garden
patch. And he thought her too lovely to be wasted upon any of these
rather rough, commonplace young men. She must be taught to know and
appreciate her own value.
It was only settled the night before. There was no need of much making
ready, they could get what she wanted in the great city. And they must
allow him the pleasure of providing for her. No one would be wronged
by whatever he might do for her.
Grandad had been very grumpy about it, and Norah cried and scolded and
then admitted it was the most splendid thing, like a fairy story.
Felix was full of delight. And the good-by's were so crowded at the
last that her head was in a whirl. She felt as if she should come back
that same night and talk over her day's journey.
And so the little girl went out of Pittsburg with good wishes, and
perhaps a little envy from those who would like to have been in her
place.
CHAPTER VII
DAFFODIL'S NEW WORLD
Their first stage was in the coach. There was really quite a caravan
for the weather was very pleasant for such a trip. Mrs. Craig fussed a
little in a motherly way, and M. de Ronville watched her attentively,
fearful she might give way to tears. But she had a stunned,
incredulous feeling. Two men in the coach were arguing about the
feasibility of Philadelphia becoming the capital of the Nation. It
should never have gone to New York, which, after all, had been a nest
of Tories.
One of the men recalled grandad to her mind and she could not forbear
a vague little smile. It roused her to an amused interest and she
asked M. de Ronville in a low tone which was right.
"The stout man is right, but he might be less dogmatic about it. I
wondered at its going so far North."
Mrs. Craig was quite chatty and a very sensible body who saw several
amusing things outside of the coach. All the passengers had brought
luncheons along and they stopped by a wayside spring for a refreshing
drink and to water the horses. Most of the travellers took a little
walk around to rest their limbs. And then on again. The afternoon
seemed long to Daffodil, though M. de Ronville entertained her with
some reminiscences of the war and before that time, and how queer and
unpromising the first beginnings were, and about William Penn, whose
dream and desire had been "A fair roomy city with houses set in
gardens of greenery," and Benjamin Franklin, who had done so much
brave work for the country.
The post road had been made very tolerable. The darkness dropped down
and the woods seemed full of strange things that made her shiver. Then
they stopped at an inn--taverns they were called in those days--and
had a good supper.
"Are you very tired?" asked M. de Ronville with much solicitude.
"Not so much tired as stiff. I think I never sat still so long even at
school," and she smiled.
"It's a rather long journey, and I hope," he was going to say, "you
will not be homesick," but checked himself and added, "that you will
not get clear tired out. I will see if we cannot get some horses for
to-morrow. That will make a change."
"Oh, I shall like that," her face in a glow of pleasure.
The supper was very good and she was healthily hungry. Mrs. Craig
found some amusement to keep up the little girl's spirits, and she
fared very well until she was safe in bed beside her kind companion.
Then she turned her face to the wall and her mind went back to all the
nights in her short life when she had been kissed and cuddled by
mother or grandmere, or for the last ten days by Norry, and now she
suddenly realized what the separation meant.
The glamour was gone. She could not go back. Oh, why had she come! She
wanted to fly to the dear ones. She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of
her nightdress, and sighed very softly, but she need not have minded,
for Mrs. Craig was gently snoring.
The next morning was bright and clear, but she wondered where she was
when Mrs. Craig spoke to her. What a little bit of a room and a tin
basin to wash in!
"I hope you slept well. And I never dreamed a word! What a shame, when
your dreams in a strange place come true--but you wouldn't want a bad
dream to come true."
"No," in a very sober tone.
There was noise enough, but it was not the familiar home tones and
Felix bustling about. Daffodil made a great effort to restrain her
feelings and laughed a little at some of the sallies.
M. de Ronville was pacing up and down the hall, and he held out both
hands, but his eyes wore an anxious expression.
"My dear little girl, I could not help thinking last night that it was
very selfish of me to want to take you away from your home and those
who love you so dearly just for a bit of pleasure to myself. Did you
go to sleep thinking hard thoughts of me?"
She raised her lovely eyes, but the face was sweet and grave.
"Oh, you know I need not have come unless I had wanted to. I didn't
think it would be so--so hard," and there was a little quiver in her
voice.
"And are you sorry? Do you want to go back?"
"No," she answered with a certain bravery. "I like you very much and
you want to do the things that please those you care a great deal for.
And I want to see the beautiful city and the wonderful places where
things have happened. And I am going to be very happy, only I shall
think of them all at home."
"That is right. And I am going to do all I can to make you happy. The
journey will be tiresome--I have seldom had to take any delicate
person into consideration and I didn't think----"
"Oh, I shall not get tired out," laughing with some of her olden
spirit.
He had been upbraiding himself during the night for his covetous
desire of having her a little longer. Yes, he would have been glad if
she was in reality his ward, if she were some friendless, homeless
child that he could take to his heart for all time. There were many
of them who would be glad and thankful for the shelter. But he wanted
this one.
The riding for awhile was a pleasant change, and they talked of
themselves, of M. de Ronville's home, one of the early old houses
where he had lived for years, alone with the servants. She had heard
most of it before, but she liked to go over it again.
"I wonder why you didn't marry and have children of your own," and
there was a cadence of regret in her tone that touched him.
"I supposed I would. But year after year passed by and then I grew
settled in my ways, and satisfied. I was a great reader."
"Oh, I wonder if I shall disturb you?" and there is a charm in her
accent that warms his heart. "You must have seen that we live so
altogether, that word just expresses it, as if all our interests were
just the same. And they are. And I shall be--strange. Is the
housekeeper nice?"
"Well--a little formal and dignified perhaps. Mrs. Jarvis. And she is
a widow without children. Then there is Jane, quite a young woman. Of
course, Chloe belongs to the kitchen department. And there is a young
man."
There is no new accession of interest. She only says--"And is that all
in a great big house?"
"Oh, there are visitors at times. I've had General Lafayette and
Count de Grasse and not a few of our own brave men. But they have
largely dispersed now, and sometimes I have a rather lonely feeling. I
suppose I am getting old."
"Oh, I don't know how any one can live without folks, real folks of
their very own," she said with emphasis.
"Yet, the friends have ties and interests elsewhere, and you have no
close claim on them. It is not a good thing. Suppose grandfather
Duvernay had been all alone those later years."
"Oh, I don't believe he could have lived. He was so fond of us all.
And I loved him so. But I couldn't truly think he had gone away. I
used to sit on the arm of the chair and talk to him. Do you know just
where they go, and can't they come back for a little while? Oh, I know
mother would. She couldn't stay away!"
Her eyes had a beautiful expression, almost as if she had a vision of
the other world.
"Oh, he was to be envied," exclaimed de Ronville, with deep feeling.
His own life looked lonelier than ever.
By noon she was glad to go back to the coach. It had changed some of
its passengers and there were two children that attracted Daffodil's
interest and put her in a still more charming light.
It was a long and tiresome journey with one wild storm and some
cloudy days, but at last they reached the much desired city, and were
driven out to the end of Broad Street. It was still the "greene
country towne," although it had taken on city ways. This house stood
then in the midst of greenery, having a garden on both sides, one
devoted to choice fruit, the other to flowers and a sort of kitchen
garden. It was a square brick house with green blinds, a wide doorway,
and a hall running through the centre.
Mrs. Jarvis answered the summons herself.
"A hundred warm welcomes, my dear friend," she said most cordially.
"We have missed you so much. I hope you are well?"
"Quite worn with the journey. And this is my ward--Miss Daffodil
Carrick."
She held out her hand to the young girl and smiled at the attractive
face.
"Will you go upstairs at once? There will be time for a rest before
supper. Oh, sir, you can hardly think how glad we are to get you
back."
The hall and stairs seemed to Daffodil as if they were carpeted with
moss. Four rooms opened on the upper hall. Jules had his master's
portmanteau as well as that of the girl, which he set down at the
opposite door. Mrs. Jarvis led her in.
"This is my room and you see there is a connecting doorway so you need
not feel lonely. You must be tired with the dreadful journey. How
people ever ventured before there was a post road I can't imagine. Yet
there are families going out to Ohio and Kentucky, as if there was not
land enough here to settle. Now I'll send up Jane with some warm water
that will refresh you very much. And then you had better take a rest.
Supper is at six. You have nearly two hours."
Left to herself Daffodil took a survey of the room. It looked quite
splendid to her untrained eyes with its soft carpet, its pretty
chairs, its bedstead and bureau of light wood, its clock and tall
candlesticks on the mantel, and the dressing mirror that stood on feet
and in which you could see the whole figure. Then in a little nook
curtained off was a washing stand with beautiful appointments in white
and old blue. She glanced around in amazement and was still standing
there when Jane entered.
A quaint enough figure in a short, scant frock, short-waisted as was
the fashion of the times, of home-dyed blue linen that would have been
one of the new colors of to-day where we have gone through every
conceivable shade and hue. The sleeves were short, but there were
long-armed mitts for summer wear. The cape was of the same material
and the straw gipsy hat had a bow on the top and the strings to tie
under the chin when it was not too warm.
"Oh, you look as if you did not mean to stay," cried Jane. "Let me
take your hat and cape."
Jane was nearer thirty than twenty, a comely, fresh-faced girl with an
air of youthfulness, attired in a sort of Quaker gray gown, with a
lace kerchief crossed over her bosom. Her hair was banded straight
above her ears and gathered in a knot behind.
"Oh, miss, you look fagged out. Mrs. Jarvis said when you'd had a good
wash you must go to bed awhile. There's nothing freshens you up like
that. It must have been an awful journey! My brother has gone out to
Ohio. Do you live anywhere near that?"
"Not so very far away. And the Ohio river runs by us."
"I want to know now! The world's a funny sort of place, isn't it,
Miss, with land here and water there and great lakes up North and a
gulf at the South that they do say is part of the ocean. Now--shan't I
unpack your portmanteau?"
"Monsieur de Ronville wouldn't let mother pack up much, he said things
could be bought here."
"Yes, there's no end of them now that we are trading openly with
France."
"And I was growing so fast," she continued apologetically, for the two
frocks looked but a meagre outfit. One was a delicate gingham made out
of a skirt of her mother's when gowns were fuller, the other her best
white one tucked up to the waist and with some rare embroidery.
"Can I help you any?"
"No," returned Daffodil in a soft tone and with a half smile. "I'm
used to waiting on myself."
"I'll come in and fasten your frock. You'll put on the white one;" and
Jane withdrew.
Oh, how good the fresh water and soap scented with rose and violet
seemed! She loitered in her bathing, it was so refreshing. Then she
did throw herself across the foot of the bed and in a few moments was
soundly asleep, never stirring until some one said--"Miss; Miss!"
"Oh! I had a lovely rest. You get so jolted in a stage coach that it
seems as if your joints were all spinning out."
"Oh, miss, what beautiful hair? It's just like threads of gold. And it
curls in such a lovely fashion! And such dark lashes and eyebrows sets
you off."
Jane was such a fervent note of admiration that Daffodil blushed.
She was very pretty in her frock that ended above the ankles, and her
fine white linen home-knit stockings were clocked. True her shoes were
rather clumsy, but her shoulders made amends for any shortcomings. Her
skin was very fair; sometimes it burned a little, but it never
tanned.
"Oh, miss, if you had a ribbon to tie your curls up high! All the
young ladies wear it so."
"I'm not _quite_ a young lady," archly.
M. de Ronville came out of the library to meet her. The little flush
and the shy way of raising her eyes was enchanting. She seemed a part
of the handsome surroundings, really more attractive than in the
plainness of her own home.
"You are a most excellent traveller," he began. "And I give you a warm
and heartfelt welcome to my house. You should have been my
granddaughter. What now?" seeing a grave look settled in her face.
"I was thinking. I wish I might call you uncle. It's queer but I never
had an uncle with all the other relations. They seem to run in one
line," and she laughed.
"Oh, if you will. I've wished there was some way of bringing us nearer
together. Yes, you shall be my niece. You won't forget?"
"Oh, no; I am so glad." She seemed to come a little closer, and he
placed his arm around her. Oh why did he never know before how sweet
love could be! Then he kisses down amid the golden hair. Even her
cheek is sacred to him and her lips must be kept for some lover.
There was a little musical string of bells that summoned them to
supper. A young man of three- or four-and-twenty stood just inside the
door.
"For convenience sake Miss Carrick will be announced as my niece as
she is my ward. Allow me to present Mr. Bartram."
Daffodil flushed and bowed. M. de Ronville placed her chair for her.
The table was round and very beautifully appointed. She and the young
man were opposite. He was rather tall, well looking without being
especially handsome. Mrs. Jarvis poured the tea. The two men talked a
little business.
"I shall lay the matter before the Wetherills to-morrow," de Ronville
said. "I was surprised at the promise of the place and it has a most
excellent location. At present it is rather wild, but after seething
and settling down the real town comes to the surface. It will not be a
bad investment if one can wait. And the Wetherills are not likely to
lack descendants.
"I am glad you were not disappointed," returned the young man.
"We know so little about Pittsburg," said Mrs. Jarvis, "except the
great defeat of Braddock in the old war. Your people are French, I
believe," turning to Daffodil.
"Yes, on the one side. The town seems to be made up of all nations,
but they agree pretty well. And they have many queer ways and
fashions."
Daffodil did not feel as strange as she had been fearing for the last
two or three days that she would. Mother and grandmere would stand a
comparison with Mrs. Jarvis, who had the dignity and bearing of a
lady.
Some friends came in to congratulate M. de Ronville on his safe
return. Mrs. Jarvis was much relieved at Daffodil's quiet manner. And
she certainly was a pretty girl. They had quite a little talk by
themselves when the guests were gone and Mrs. Jarvis was well pleased
that she had come of a good family, as the town set much store by
grandfathers and the French were in high repute.
Before M. de Ronville went to business the next morning he made a call
on Miss Betty Wharton, who was a person of consequence and had had a
romance, a lover who had been lost at sea when he was coming to marry
her and the wedding finery was all in order. She and her mother lived
together, then the mother died and Betty went on in her small house
with a man and a maid and a negro cook. They were in high favor at
that time. She had been quite a belle and even now was in with the
Franks and the Shippens and the Henrys, and through the war her house
had been quite a rendezvous for the patriots. She was an excellent
card player, good humored and full of spirits, helpful in many society
ways. She could have married, that all her friends knew; indeed two or
three elderly beaux were still dangling after her.
"I am come to ask a favor," he said after the talk of his journey was
over. "I have brought back with me a young girl, my ward, who will
some day have a big and valuable estate as the country improves. Mrs.
Jarvis hardly feels capable of shopping for her, and of course does
not go about much. She is a charming girl and my father and her
great-grandfather were the dearest of friends. M. Duvernay almost
rounded out his hundred years. I call her my niece as the French blood
makes us kin. Could you oblige me by taking her in hand, seeing that
she has the proper attire and showing her through the paths of
pleasure? You will find her a beautiful and attractive young girl."
"Why--really!" and her tone as well as her smile bespoke amusement.
"French! Where did you unearth this paragon? And is she to have a
lover and be married off? Has she a fortune or is she to look for
one?"
He would not yield to annoyance at the bantering tone.
"Why, she is a mere child, and has no thought of lovers. She will have
fortune enough if times go well with us, and need not think of that
until her time of loving comes. She has been brought up very simply.
There is a brother much younger. Her father was in the war the last
three years. She is not ignorant nor unrefined, though Pittsburg does
not aim at intellectuality."
"Pittsburg! Isn't it a sort of Indian settlement, and--well I really
do not know much about it except that it is on the western borders."
"Oh, it is being civilized like all new places. We have had to work
and struggle to plant towns and bring them into shape. Pittsburg has a
most admirable position for traffic and abounds in iron ore as well as
other minerals."
"And the girl _is_ presentable?"
"Oh, she is not old enough for society. I did not mean that. But to go
about a little and perhaps to a play, and places where it would look
odd for me to take her without some womenkind. We French have rather
strict ideas about our girls. Come to supper to-night and see her."
"Why, I'll come gladly. I like your young man, too. He has not been
spoiled by the flirting young women. It is a shame I did not marry and
have such a son to lean on in my old age;" and she laughed gayly.
"Then you can see for yourself. And if you do not like Miss Carrick we
will let the matter drop through."
"Yes, I will be happy to come."
M. de Ronville went on to his office. Already there began to be
business streets in the Quaker City that was rapidly losing its
plainer appearance. This was rather old-fashioned and wore a quiet
aspect. One clerk sat on a high stool transcribing a lengthy deed,
and young Bartram had just deposited another pile of letters on his
employer's desk which was at the far end of the place and could be
shut off.
"I think these are not worth your first consideration," he said in a
quiet tone. "And here is a list of people anxious to see you to-day.
And--if you can spare me a little while--I am due at the Surrogate's
office."
"Yes," nodding politely. Then he watched the young man as he walked
away with a light, firm tread. There had always been a certain
manliness in Aldis Bartram since the time he had attracted his
employer's favor and been taken in as a clerk. Then he had an invalid
mother to whom he had been devoted, that had been another passport to
the elder's favor. On her death M. de Ronville had offered him a home
and he was now confidential clerk and might one day be taken in the
business which had been made a most excellent one from the Frenchman's
uprightness and probity as well as his knowledge and judgment. Many a
time he had settled a dispute and made friends between two hot-headed
litigants.
He did not read his letters at first but dropped into a peculiar train
of thought. He was in good health and vigor, his mind was clear and
alert. But he was growing old. And if Betty Wharton in the prime of a
delightful life thought a son would conduce to the pleasure and
security of her old age, why not to his? Could he have a better son
than Aldis Bartram? But he wanted the feminine contingent and he was
past marrying. He wanted some one young and bright, and, yes, charming
to look at, tender of heart. And here were these two in the very
blossom time of life. Why they might fancy each other and in the
course of time have it ripen to a real and lasting regard. Oh, the old
house would be a Paradise. And if there were children----
He had to rouse himself from the dream with an effort and look over
the accumulation. For perhaps the first time business seemed irksome
to him, and he had always been fond of it, too fond perhaps.
Men nearly always went home to a noon dinner. He found Mrs. Jarvis and
Daffodil in a comfortable state of friendliness, but the girl's eyes
lighted with pleasure at the sight of him and her voice was full of
gay gladness. No, she was not homesick; she had been in the garden and
there were so many flowers she had never seen before and the ripe
luscious fruit. There had been so many things to look at that she had
not finished her letter, but she would do that this afternoon.
She is a gleam of the most enchanting sunshine in the old house, and
her voice soft and merry, the tiredness and discomfort of travelling
gone out of it is sweetest music to him and warms his heart. The eyes
are very blue to-day, not so much brilliant as gladsome and her rosy
lips curve and smile and dimple and every change seems more
fascinating than the previous one. There is no young man in the room,
it is the outcome of her own delightful golden heart. Oh, any young
man might fall in love on the spot.
"Miss Wharton will be in to supper," M. de Ronville remarked casually.
"She is not a young girl," seeing the look of interest in Daffodil's
face; "but you will find her a very agreeable companion."
"It's queer, but I don't know many young girls. Some of the older ones
were married in the spring, and I have been so much with mother and
grandmere and Norah that I'm a little girl, a big little girl, I've
grown so much."
Her laugh was a gay ripple of sound. He took it with him to the office
and her golden head seemed dancing about everywhere, just as it had at
home.
"Of course," Miss Wharton said to herself as she lifted the brass
knocker, "de Ronville never could be so foolish as to fall in love
with a chit of a thing, though I have heard of men training a young
girl just to their fancy. He has always been so discreet and
punctilious. French _are_ a little different."
No, he had not overpraised her beauty. Betty Wharton admitted that at
once. And her manners had a natural grace, it ran in the French
blood. Why it would be a pleasure to take her about and have men
stare at her as they would be sure to do.
She and Mrs. Jarvis found enough to talk about, and while the
housekeeper had gone to look after the tea she turned her attention to
Daffodil.
"Oh, I can't help liking the place," the child said with charming
eagerness. "Mrs. Jarvis has been telling me about the stores and the
gardens a dozen times prettier than this, though I don't see how that
can be. They don't seem to care much about gardens at home, they have
a few posy beds, but you can go out and gather basketsful in the
woods, only they are not grand like these. And there are no such
beautiful houses. Oh, there are lots of log huts, really, the older
ones, and people are not--I don't just know what to call it, but they
do not seem to care."
"All towns improve after a while. The people in New York think they
are much finer than we, and then there is Boston--where the people are
starched so stiff with the essence of fine breeding that they can
hardly curtsey to one another. I like my town the best, having seen
them all."
"Oh, how splendid it must be to go about to strange, beautiful
places," the child said wistfully, with glowing eyes.
"But I have not been to France;" laughingly.
"Neither have I. But great-grandfather came from there when he was a
young man. And he had been to Paris, but he did not live there. And he
and grandmother, whom I never saw, had to fly for their lives because
they worshipped God in a different fashion from Royalty. And I can
talk quite a good deal in French, but I like English better. It seems
to mean more."
Miss Wharton laughed at that.
They had a very delightful meal and Betty, by a well known society
art, brought out the brightness of the little girl, that made her very
charming without any overboldness.
"Why you have unearthed quite a prize," Miss Wharton said to her host
later in the evening. "Has Pittsburg many such girls? If so I am
afraid our young men will be running after them. You may command me
for any service, only I must have her as my guest now and then."
"A thousand thanks. Will you see about her wardrobe to-morrow? There
is no need to stint."
"I shall be very glad to oblige you. I suppose you do not mean to turn
her into a young lady?"
"No--o," rather hesitatingly.
"Then it shall be simple prettiness."
After that Miss Wharton played on the spinet and sang several old
songs. Daffodil wished grandad could hear two that were his favorites,
and she was quite sure Norry could not have resisted jumping up and
dancing at the sound of "The Campbells Are Coming." Mr. Bartram turned
over the leaves of the music, while Daffodil snuggled in the corner of
the sofa beside her guardian. And when she went to bed her head was
full of Norah's fairy stories come true.
CHAPTER VIII
IN SILK ATTIRE
The shopping the next day was something wonderful. Daffodil was quite
sure the fairies must have had a hand in it. And such beautiful
things, she fairly held her breath over them.
"But, madam, when am I to wear these lovely garments? For mother says
I grow so fast, and there is no one to take them afterward."
Betty Wharton laughed many times at the fascinating simplicity of the
child.
Then she took her to the mantua-makers, where she was measured, and
where she hardly understood a word of what they were saying, but
between whiles played with a beautiful yellow cat, who sat on a silken
cushion and purred his delight at the touch of the gentle hands.
"Now, you are to come home to dinner with me."
"Did uncle say I might? For mother told me to do nothing without his
permission."
"Oh, you darling infant!" She squeezed the slim little body that,
after all, was plump enough. It was shocking for a young person to be
fat in those days.
"I will make it all right with him."
Miss Wharton's house was much smaller. A square sort of hall, with
oddly pretty furnishing, a parlor and a dining-room off it, and all
were filled with curiosities that were family heirlooms, beautiful
things, for Miss Wharton abhorred ugliness and despised horrid Chinese
idols. The dinner was very dainty, and Daffodil wondered how she could
feel so much at home.
"And to-morrow we will go out again, but we will drive around, and you
shall see the city. What means that sober look?"
"Oh, madam, I shall feel so spoiled with beauty, that I don't know how
I shall content myself to go back to Pittsburg;" and her eyes swam in
a soft lustre that was almost tears.
"Perhaps we shall not let you go back;" laughingly.
Jane came around for her in the afternoon, and she said, "We missed
you so much at dinner time. And ever so many bundles have come for
you."
"And I've been so full of pleasure, that any more would run over. Oh,
madam, how can I thank you!"
"By coming again. I'll call for you to-morrow."
They walked home, past pretty gardens all a-bloom with summer
richness. Daffodil was so full of delight she wanted to dance. In her
room was one large box--that was the new hat. A rather fancy straw,
and she had not seen it trimmed. It had a wreath of fine roses
inside, and larger ones on the outside, and beautiful wide strings of
some gauzy stuff, that in warm weather were to float around, but in a
high wind they were tied under the chin.
And there was a dainty pair of red slippers, laced across the top,
with a red cord fastened diamond-wise, and a pair of black shoes. They
were not "boots" then. These came up almost to the ankles, and were
laced across with ribbon and tied in a bow. There were some imported
stockings, but Mrs. Jarvis declared she had never seen such pretty
home-knit ones as the little girl wore, that looked quite as if they
were of silk, and the clocks were perfect.
In another package was a beautiful scarf, with threads of gold in the
border, and some fine handkerchiefs.
"Mother has some at home, two that have wide borders of beautiful
lace, that she made herself. And bibs that you wear over the neck of
your frocks. And she is making a lovely skirt for me, that is lace and
needlework, and I am to have it when I am quite grown up and go out to
tea."
Barbe Carrick had begun to think of her daughter's marriage, and as
there was but little ready money, outfits were made at home, and
packed away against the time. For most mothers counted on it, even
thought of grandchildren.
Daffodil had enough to talk about that evening. Mr. Bartram went out,
and for an hour Dilly had her guardian quite to herself. Then two
gentlemen came in, and the tired little girl went to bed.
About ten the next morning a pony chaise stopped at the door. Jules
came out and took the reins, and Miss Wharton stepped lightly down and
was greeted by Mrs. Jarvis.
"I have come for the little girl," she said, "having her guardian's
permission. I am going to show her the sights, and make her sick of
Pittsburg. We want her here. Why, I never supposed I had such a
motherly streak in my nature, or I would have wedded and had a
houseful. Or else the child has some bewitchment about her. Jane, put
on her new hat and the scarf. The frocks will be here in a day or
two."
Daffodil did look bewitching as she stepped into the chaise. Miss
Wharton was quite used to driving. They went along Chestnut Street
first, past the stores, then looked at some of the old places that
were to be historical. Mistress Betty told over many of the war
adventures and the coming of the good news.
"And I remember that," said Daffodil. "Grandad was angry about it. He
still believes England will get us back sometime."
"Yet your father went to war. How did he take that?"
"I was so little then. I think I didn't know much about him until we
heard he would come home. Then I really began to remember. I didn't
like him so much at first, and I went to great-grandfather for
comfort. Oh, madam, he was so sweet and dear. And when M. de Ronville
came, and I put him in the old chair, it seemed almost as if
grandfather had come back. And I liked him at once. Now he is to be my
uncle, we have settled that."
Then they went out on the beautiful road, where the Shippens and
several of the old families had their capacious estates, and their
large old mansions. Oh, how lovely and orderly everything looked, the
picture of peace and plenty.
"Some day we will go over to Valley Forge. But it is nearing noon, and
I must not starve you. I know of a nice place, where ladies often go
at noon, and you do not need to have a man tagging after you. Start
up, Dolly!" to the pony.
They came back to busy streets. There were Quakers at Pittsburg, but
they did not seem so pronounced as here. And there were such
fine-looking men, in their drab suits, widebrimmed hats, and they wore
knee-breeches and silk stockings, quite like the world's people. Here
and there one nodded to Miss Wharton. The elegance and harmony
appealed to the child, without her understanding why.
They paused at a house set back a little from the street, with a
courtyard of blooming flowers. There was a wide covered porch and a
trellis work wreathed with vines. A wide door opened into a spacious
hall.
A young colored boy came out to them.
"Pomp," Miss Wharton said, "take the pony and give him a little feed
and water, not too much, mind now. He wants a little rest, so do we."
Pompey assisted them out with a flourish, and led the pony up a side
way. They walked to the porch, raised by three steps, and Miss Wharton
was greeted warmly by several parties.
"Here is a table," said Mrs. Mason. "My dear creature, I haven't seen
you in an age. Have you been getting married, and is this _his_
daughter? Did you take him for the sake of the child?"
"Alas! I have not been so fortunate! The child has both parents. And
she has just come from Pittsburg. You know, M. de Ronville went out
there and brought back--well, it is his grandniece, I suppose--Miss
Daffodil Carrick."
The waiter, another colored servant--they were quite favorites in the
city for their obsequious politeness--placed chairs for them.
"Pittsburg! Why, that's way at the West in the Indian countries, on
the way to Ohio, I believe. What a long journey. And how is M. de
Ronville?"
"Rather improved by his journey, I think. Now, Daffodil, what will you
have? You ought to be hungry."
"You choose for me, madam;" in a low tone, and with a tint of
exquisite coloring.
It kept wavering over the sweet face, for she felt somehow that she
was being observed. She wished she had on one of the pretty frocks,
but Jane had ironed out this white one, and Mrs. Jarvis had found her
a sash. But she was not accustomed to much consideration of herself,
and she was hungry. The ladies were prettily dressed, some of them in
rather quakerish colors and they had beautiful fans and parasols. It
was quite a meeting-place, where they exchanged bits of news, a little
gossip, and had most excellent tea.
"Carrick isn't a French name," said Madam Neville, rather critically.
"No. She is French on the mother's side. M. de Ronville's father and
her grandfather were Huguenot exiles in the old times. He is her
guardian now, and there is some property, enough for a town, I
believe. And you know the French once had possession of most of that
country."
Betty Wharton knew that would settle her status at once, more
decisively than her beauty.
Then some other ladies, having finished their tea, came over for a
little chat. Had she been to see the new play? For "The Academy of
Polite Science" seemed rather above an ordinary theatre, and
Philadelphia had swung back to amusements. Was she going to Mrs.
Chew's card party this evening?
"Oh, yes. She wouldn't miss it for anything."
"What a beautiful child!" whispered another. "Will she live here in
town?"
"Oh, she is only on a visit now."
"She's too nice to be wasted on such an outlandish place as Pittsburg,
where they do nothing but make whiskey."
The pony came round, and the ladies said their good-bys. Since the
closing of the war, indeed, in gratitude for French assistance, much
honor had been paid to our noble allies.
That evening M. de Ronville went to his card club. But Daffodil had
Mrs. Jarvis for audience, and in return heard many wonderful things
about the great city.
If Daffodil had not been so utterly simple-hearted and had so little
self-consciousness, it might have proved a rather dangerous ordeal for
her. In a few days she certainly was the light of the house. Even Mr.
Bartram yielded to her charm, though he fancied girls of that age were
seldom interesting: either painfully shy, or overbold. She was
neither. She seemed to radiate a pervasive atmosphere of happiness,
her smile was so full of light and joy; and her sweet voice touched
the springs of one's heart.
M. de Ronville had never met with any such experience. A shy young
man, he had kept much to his own compatriots. Then he had devoted
himself to business, with a vague idea that when he had made a fortune
he would go back to France, that had grown much more liberal in
matters of religion. But he had become warmly interested in the new
country, and especially the city.
He had been pleased with the household at Pittsburg, the plain
sensible soldier, who was making an excellent citizen, but the two
ladies he found most interesting. It was golden-crowned Daffodil that
stirred his heart in a new fashion, and made him feel how much had
been lost out of his life. And now he had her. A sweet, dazzling,
bird-like creature, that gave the house an altogether new aspect.
She went with Jane to call on Mrs. Craig. The daughter was well
married, and had four small children, though their house was rather
simple.
"And have you cried yourself to sleep with homesickness?" asked Mrs.
Craig. "I've heard it is rather quiet in the big house where you are,
with only a few grown people. True, Mr. de Ronville is like a father
or, perhaps, a grandfather would be nearer, and you have been used to
elderly men."
"Oh, madam, it is delightful. I like him so much. I did at home, or I
never could have come. And Mrs. Jarvis is nice and pleasant, and tells
me what is good manners for little girls, and Jane spoils me by
waiting on me."
"Madam, indeed!" laughed Mrs. Craig. "Why, you make me feel as if I
belonged to the quality!"
"They call the grown-up ladies that, the elder ones I mean. And there
is one who has been so good to me, Miss Wharton, who bought my new
clothes, and tells me what to wear, and things to say that are the
fashion here. I think we have not much fashion at home. She takes me
out, and, oh, there are so many things to see. And now uncle has hired
a pony, and I ride with him in the morning, and we all went to a play,
where the people made believe they were part of a story, and I was
charmed, for it seemed so real. And there was a fine concert, I never
heard so many instruments. And going to church is quite grand. I wish
we had a lovely church at home. Oh, I hardly have a moment, but I do
think of them all, and how wild Felix will be over all I shall have to
tell him."
"I'm afraid you won't want to go back."
"Not go back to mother and all the others? Why, every day makes it one
day nearer;" and the lovely light in her face showed she was not
forgetting them.
"I am going before real cold weather. It would be too hard a journey
to take in winter. But I find it very pleasant, too."
"And the stores are so full of beautiful things. People must be very
rich, they spend so much money."
"It is a big town, and there are many people."
"And one can't help being joyous and happy." She looked as if she
could dance or fly. "And uncle likes me best to be gay, and I should
be ungrateful to mope when so much is being done for me."
"Yes, that is true."
"And next week Miss Wharton is going to take me to a grand out-of-door
party of young people. Mrs. Pemberton came and gave uncle the
invitation for me, and he has promised to come in the evening to see
us, and to fetch me home."
"Oh, but they're on the Schuylkill! Well, you are going among the
quality. You'll never do for Pittsburg again."
"But I shall do for father and mother, and I shall have such fun
hearing grandad scold about all the doings, and say that I am spoiled,
and not worth a pewter platter. And then he will hug me so tightly
that it will almost squeeze the breath out of me."
She laughed so merrily and her face was in a glow of mirth and
mischief. Then Jane came for her, though she was quick about learning
the city streets. But M. de Ronville thought her too precious to be
trusted out alone, though now the town was safe enough.
CHAPTER IX
WITH THE EYES OF YOUTH
The place was like a picture by some fine artist, and the midsummer
coloring, the shade of the tall trees, the great beds of flowers made
it lovely, indeed. There was a space of greensward that ran down to
the river, then a series of steps up the terrace, where a large level
lawn with another row of steps led and a wide porch, with fluted
columns. The house was large, and hospitable of aspect. Now it was
filled with graceful figures, flitting to and fro, of all ages, it
seemed. For it was quite a notable occasion.
There were two Pemberton sons, one married; then Miss Bessy, who was
eighteen; Mary of sixteen, and Belinda, a growing girl, whose birthday
was the same as Bessy's, though there was five years between them.
This is why young people are asked to the birthday party. And the
mothers of the girls, the brothers, and other young men. The tables
will be set out on the lawn, three of them.
Bessy was to be married early in the autumn, and lovers in those days
were in no wise abashed by their engagement. Mr. Morris hovered about
his betrothed, young Mr. and Mrs. Pemberton had not outlived their
honeymoon. There were other engaged couples, and quite a merry crowd
of children.
Betty Wharton glanced over the group, as they ascended the steps. Not
a girl was as handsome as her _protégée_. They had come in a coach,
and the child had just a light scarf thrown over her shoulders. Her
frock was of some white crapy stuff, the bodice cut square in the neck
after the fashion of the day, and edged with a bit of lace; the short
waist defined with a soft blue silk sash. Her curls were caught up
high on her head, with a blue bow, and every movement seemed to shake
off a shower of gold. Where the chin melted in her neck, and the neck
sloped to her shoulder, there were exquisite lines.
"That's the little girl from Pittsburg," exclaimed Anton Wetherell. "I
didn't suppose they could raise anything like that. She's not so
little, either; why, she must be well on to fifteen. Some connection
of that old French lawyer, de Ronville. I wonder if he means to make
her his heir? I fancy there's a good deal of money."
"Miss Wharton has been making much of her, it seems, and she isn't the
one to fall into a mistake."
The elder ladies greeted her cordially. There was such a charming
simplicity about her and her enjoyment of everything was infectious.
She gravitated to the younger girls, and Belinda was really
fascinated with her. They played some games, and she was so ready to
assent to what they proposed, so frank to admit her ignorance of some
things, that they were all ready to help her and explain. Presently
they sat on the grass in a little ring, and asked her about Pittsburg.
Was it a great city?
"Oh, you would think it very queer," she said laughingly. "Only the
rivers are beautiful, and the hills, and the woods over opposite. But
the people"--then she flushed a little, but she was too honest to
embellish--"well, they are Scotch, and Irish, and English, and a few
from the East, but now those folks are going out to Ohio. And----"
"But you're French," said one of the girls. "Though I thought all
French people were dark."
"Mother and grandmere have beautiful dark eyes and hair. So has my
little brother Felix. But my father has blue eyes, and I don't know
where the yellow hair came from. That was why my mother called me
Daffodil."
"What an odd, pretty name. And your hair is beautiful, like silk. Does
it curl that way without----"
For little girls and big ones, too, had their hair put up in curl
papers, or the hairdresser used tongs.
"Oh, yes, it curls naturally, and tangles, too. When I was little I
wanted it cut off, there were such awful pulls. But mother wouldn't,
because father was away soldiering, and when he came home he wouldn't
hear to it. One grandfather used to call me Yellowtop."
The nearest girl was petting one of the soft, silky curls. Another
said, "Can you talk French? I'm studying it at school. It's awful hard
and queer."
"Oh, yes. You see, I learned to talk in both languages. Then I had a
lovely great-grandfather, who lived to be almost a hundred, and he
taught me to read quite well. There are some French Acadians, who come
in to see us now and then. But their speech has been mixed up so much.
I've been reading a little with uncle. After grandfather died, I
almost forgot."
"And are there fine stores and churches, and do you have plays, and
entertainments, and parties?"
"Oh, no. It's queer and plain, quite rough, though now they are making
nice streets, and people are spinning and weaving. Some of the women
make beautiful lace. There's always a May party and a dance; and then
a time when the new year begins, and tea drinkings, and some birthdays
are kept. No, you wouldn't like it, after such a beautiful city."
"Oh, you won't want to go back!"
"Mother and all my people are there," she answered simply. "But if I
had always lived in a beautiful city like this, I wouldn't want to."
By this time the tables were arranged, and they were summoned to the
repast. Several young lads had joined the company, and Mary took the
head of the children's table. The lawn was a picturesque sight.
Afterward some lanterns were strung about, but it was clear and
moonlight, which added to the beauty of the scene, and presently
dancing began. There was much rambling around.
Miss Wharton found her, and asked if she was having a good time. She
had been dancing with two of the boys. "And Mr. Wetherell wants the
pleasure of dancing with the young lady from Pittsburg;" laughing.
"But I am not a real young lady. And I don't know all the dances;" in
a hesitating tone.
"You do it at your own risk, Anton," Betty said to the young man. "You
have been warned."
"I'll take the risk."
He piloted her through very skilfully. Then young Mr. Pemberton asked
her. She met Mr. Bartram in this quadrille, and he talked to her
afterward. She wished he would ask her to dance, but he seemed very
much occupied with the older girls. And presently she spied out uncle
de Ronville, and went over to the step of the porch, where he was
sitting in a chair. He felt very proud of her. She was so full of
enjoyment she fairly bubbled over with delight, as she detailed the
pleasures.
"And we must be thinking of going home. That is one of the penalties
of old age."
"Oh," with a kind of _riant_ sweetness in her voice, "if you could go
back halfway, and I could come on halfway, wouldn't it be delightful!
But I get sleepy often in the evening, not like to-night;" as an
afterthought. "I suppose that comes of living in a country place,
where people go to bed at nine! But you sometimes go to bed quite
late."
Yes, if they could meet halfway! Oh, what a foolish old man!
It has been a delightful evening, and Miss Wharton joins them.
"Daffodil, you have had honors enough to turn your head. M. de
Ronville, are we spoiling her?"
He gave her a fatherly look, and taking her soft little hand in his,
they rose together.
"Will you go home in our coach?" he asked of Miss Wharton.
"Very glad, indeed, my dear sir, I am rather tired. Our party began
early."
There were a good many adieus to make, and some very flattering
invitations for Daffodil. They put Mistress Betty down at her own
door, and when they reached home M. de Ronville gave her a tender
good-night.
"It was splendid, Jane," she said as the finery was being removed.
"And I danced with several of the young men. I didn't quite know how,
but I thought of Norry's stories about the fairy dances in the
moonlight, and I guess the real moonlight helped."
"I don't believe there was as pretty a girl among them all," declared
Jane admiringly.
It was late when Mr. Bartram came in, and he had enjoyed himself as
well.
But it was not all dissipation. There were evenings when Daffodil read
French to her host, and he corrected any faulty pronunciation. At
other times it was the newspaper. She had such a clear young voice,
and she did everything with such charming cheerfulness. The rides with
him in the morning were a delight. And though her figure had not
rounded out, there was something exquisite in the virginal lines. She
did not realize herself that she was a big girl now, so gradual was
the change, and she had been a little girl all her life to those at
home. He thought it was the French blood, as he could recall the girls
of his youth, with their pretty deference, but it is the little
admixture of Irish that makes her so winsome and frank.
Yet there were times when Daffodil was surprised at herself, and the
strange feelings and stronger emotions that would flash across her.
Was it the wider life, the variety of people and incident, the deeper
and more comprehensive tone of the talk, and the new pleasures of the
higher type?
There was no special dividing line in those days. Little girls wore
ankle-length frocks, so the tucks were let out as they grew taller.
After a little the hair was put up high with a pretty comb discarded
by an older sister. When she had a lover, the next younger girl came
to the fore.
"If the child was two years older I might make an excellent match for
her," thought Betty Wharton. "But she isn't thinking about lovers or
admiration. She will be very lovely presently, when she knows how to
use those heart-breaking eyes and that dangerous smile. When she comes
again--of course, it would be a sin to bury such a girl alive in that
dozy, drowsy old Pittsburg!"
The days flew by so rapidly. Letters did not come frequently, postage
was high, and there was a sort of secret faith in most people that
things were going on well, according to the old adage that "no news
was good news." But when a rare letter came, she cried over it
secretly for two or three days, and was rather grave, but she thought
it ungracious not to be bright and happy when so much was being done
for her. Mrs. Craig was planning to go before the autumnal rains set
in, and she took it for granted that it was her place to return
Daffodil.
The child had been talking this over one afternoon, and a flood of
home love had overwhelmed her. Mrs. Jarvis had an old friend to supper
and to spend the evening, Jane had gone out, and M. de Ronville had
gone to a sort of sociable dinner, with some of the citizens who were
interested in the library project. It had proved a rather lonesome
evening, and she had really longed for home. She wandered about
aimlessly, and presently settled herself in the corner of the
vine-covered porch, and yielded to the beauty and fragrance of the
night. Everything had a richer aspect and meaning to her. It was
moonlight again. The tall trees seemed outlined in silver, and the
flower-beds were transformed into fairy haunts. Only a few stars were
out, they were larger and more golden than usual. She drank in the
honeyed fragrance all about her, and it seemed a land of enchantment.
Some one came into the library, but did not make a light. She heard M.
de Ronville's low, but clear-toned, voice.
"I have wanted to talk this matter over with you. There need be no
hurry, one or two years here will answer. You see, I am getting to be
an old man. Latterly I have come to long for some one of my own, that
I could go down the valley of life with, and who would care to make
the journey more cheerful. You have been almost like a son to me. I
should like you to be that, indeed. And this child has grown very dear
to me. To think of you both going on here in the old house when I have
left it, would give me my heart's desire. She is lovely, she is sweet,
and has a most admirable temper. Then those people are in comfortable
circumstances, and of the better class. You know it is a trait of our
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/43769