She uttered it in the same manner she might have asked why he did not bring home some flowers to grace the study table. Her lovely eyes were raised to his in the utmost innocence, and not a tint of color wavered on her cheek. His flushed with sudden surprise.
"Perhaps the charming young girl would consider it a dull house for life, and then elderly people have whims and fancies—well, younger men do. I have myself. And it would be asking a good deal."
"I think uncle hasn't many whims, and he does keep them in the background. You almost have to watch for them. Why, think of grandad!" and she laughed with a soft musical sound. "What he liked yesterday he may not like at all to-day, so Norry does the new thing, and says nothing about the other. And he often disputes with father as to whether there was any real need for the war, and that we would be better off under King George. But uncle is so large-minded, and then he has so many refined and delightful tastes. But you would get lonesome if you were not very well, and no one came to cheer you up, or bring you new thoughts and bright bits of things, that were going on in the world outside."
She paused suddenly, and flushed like a culprit, looking more beguiling than ever, with her downcast eyes.
"I suppose I oughtn't have said it, but it seems true to me, only I'm not blaming you. You have a great many things to attend to, and you must do them in a man's way, devote your whole mind to them, and you can't be frivolous, or other people's business would suffer. If I hadn't any one I would come and stay, but—I love them, and sometimes, in spite of the pleasure, my heart is almost torn in two with the longing. I said I would come back in the spring, and I must go. Then it will not be quite so bad, for Madame Clerval will be in and out, and he is so much better. And you'll let him take an interest in business, when he feels like it—oh, I seem to be giving you advice, and I sincerely beg your pardon. After all, I am not much more than a little girl, and I am talking as if I was old and wise;" and a sudden shame flamed her cheeks with scarlet.
"I think you have been wise, and sweet, and patient, without growing old. You have done a great deal for your guardian this winter—I really was afraid we should not have him with us for very long, and he did seem to wish for you so. Perhaps we were selfish, he and I."
"Oh, I was ready to come, too. It has been a delightful winter, and everybody has been so good to me, I've been just full of pleasure. But when you love those you have left behind, you sometimes feel as if you could fly."
She winked very fast, then made a sudden dab at her eyes, and half laughed, too.
"I think I understand. I have had no one to love dearly since I was a little lad, and all I remember about my mother is that she was pale, and ill, and could not endure a noise. Then I was put in school, and my father went away and died. When I was eighteen I went in M. de Ronville's office, and finished my studies. He has been my best friend, really like a father to me. I ought to make all the return in my power."
"Oh;" and there was a bewildering sweetness in her tone. "I have been so happy most of my life, and had so many to love me."
Then that unfortunate episode had not cost her any deep-seated grief. Had she loved at all, or was it only a childish fancy? He hoped it was, for the sake of her future.
He turned then and went out of the room. M. de Ronville had been up in his dressing-room, with his valet, and now he went to the library, and she followed him. There were some reports to look over, then the carriage came for them. It was sunny, with very little wind, and they had plenty of wraps.
Aldis Bartram went his way to the office. The two clerks were there and busy. He opened his letters, and answered several, the others had need of some legal opinions to be looked up. Then he took up a rather complicated case, but he soon lost the thread of it, for Daffodil's almost upbraiding voice haunted him. He had been outwardly patient many a time when all was irritation within, for he was too manly and too really grateful to show impatience.
Had Daffodil's being there this winter proved the source of the reaction in M. de Ronville's health? Had loneliness intensified the disease and discomfort? Perhaps. And now two or three young men dropped in, and had entertaining talks with him. Or was it because they liked the byplay of the pretty, vivacious girl, who never made herself the first attraction.
"Marry some pretty, charming young girl!" Where would he find one to M. de Ronville's liking?
March opened cold and stormy. Rheumatism made a clutch at M. de Ronville. For several days he did not come downstairs, but insisted that some of the guests must come to him. Dr. Langdale skipped away from a lecture he really desired to hear, and spent an hour comforting the invalid. Madame Clerval came in with a budget of news and friendly gossip, and Daffodil talked of her little girlhood, and old Pittsburg, as they had begun to call it, and sitting on the arm of great-grandfather's chair, and listening to tales of a still older time. He did not wonder that his friend Duvernay had lived to be almost a hundred, with all that affection to make the way pleasant.
Then he improved and came downstairs, took up chess-playing, and little promenades on the porch when the sun shone. And then the talk veered round to Daffodil's departure. He would not hear anything about it at first.
"Yet we have no right to keep her away from her own household, when she has been brave enough to give up all the winter to us," Mr. Bartram said.
"Oh, no, I suppose not. If I was younger, or in assured health, I should go and spend the summer with them. Oh, don't look so startled. I know it wouldn't do, with my uncertain health."
Aldis smiled. "If the summer is fine, and you keep pretty well, we might both take a trip. I would hardly trust you to go alone."
"So we might." The elder was gratified with the consideration.
"Aldis?" presently, in a half-enquiring tone.
"Well?" glancing up.
"Do you think—that Dr. Langdale—that there is anything between him and Daffodil?"
"There has been some talk. But young Pemberton is devoted to her as well."
"With either she would have to come back here to live. I like the doctor. He is such a fine, large-hearted, sympathetic young fellow, with so much real charity for suffering. I seem to be envying other people's sons and daughters;" ending with a longing sound. "Yes, if she were in love with him."
Aldis Bartram experienced a feeling of protest. Yet, why should he object? They were both young, they had been friends from childhood, and he was certainly worthy of her.
That very evening he dropped in. There had been a wonderful surgical operation on a poor fellow, who had been mashed and broken by a bad fall. There had been a dispute at first, whether they could save him intact, but after hours of the most careful work there was a good chance. Dr. Langdale was so proud and enthusiastic, giving every one his due with no narrowness.
Then he said, "Oh, Daffodil, are you really going home?"
"They have sent for me. The winter has gone!" and there was a piquant smile hovering about her face.
"It has been such a short winter I have not done half the things I planned to do. But I am resolved to run away some time in the summer. It is ungrateful not to visit mother. And I do want to see the town, and all the old friends."
"Oh, do come!" There was a joyous light in her eyes, and a sweetness played about her lips.
Yes, he surely thought he would. Then they went on about other matters. Bartram was not much versed in love indications, but something rose within him—as if there should be a higher, stronger, more overwhelming love for her.
She would make them talk cheerfully about her going. She said sagely there was such a thing as wearing out one's welcome, and that now she should feel free to come again.
"Next winter," said her guardian. "I think I can get along through the summer with this thought to sustain me, but I shall be a year older, and perhaps more feeble."
"I strictly forbid either of the consequences;" she laughed with adorable gayety, her eyes alight with fun.
"One would think I was of great consequence," she exclaimed a few days later, "by the lamentations my friends make. Or is it a fashion? It will make it harder for me to go. If we could move Pittsburg over! But there are the splendid rivers, and the hills covered with rhododendrons. And, you see, I shall miss the daffodils."
"If it is such sorrow to part with one, I hardly know how you can endure losing so many," said Aldis Bartram gravely.
She looked at him enquiringly. He seldom paid compliments to any one but Madame Clerval.
There were bloom and beauty enough in the grand old town, where every point was romantic. Every day Daffodil and her guardian were out driving, until it seemed to her she could have found her way about in the dark. And in his office Aldis Bartram sat thinking how lonely the house would be without the sunshine of her golden head, and the sound of her sweet, merry voice, her small, thoughtful ways, and the ease with which she could change from one mode of action that she saw was not bringing about a desirable result. At first he considered this a sort of frivolity, but he understood presently that she not infrequently gave up her own pleasure or method for something that suited M. de Ronville better.
He was ambitious, and he had marked out a career for himself. He meant to be rich and respected, his instincts were all honorable, and this had commended him to his employer, who detested anything bordering on double dealing. So, from one position he had been advanced to another, and by persistent study had taken his degree with honor. He enjoyed the life of the class with which he was in keen touch, and he found he could maintain a degree of mental superiority that satisfied his ambition.
There had been a partnership; he was junior counsel, and some of the clients preferred the young, broad-minded man. Then had come the proffer of a home that really surprised him. There were no relatives to be jealous; why, then, should he not be as a son to this man, who no longer felt equal to the burthen and heat of the new day that had dawned on the country, and was calling forth the highest aims and energies of the men of the time?
There had been one intense fascination in his life that had turned to the ashes of bitterness. And now, while he was affable and enjoyed the society of women, he considered himself proof against their blandishments. He had heard of Daffodil's interrupted marriage, and gave her a very sincere sympathy. But he had not been warmly in favor of her visit. Still, it seemed cruel and selfish not to agree to the longing of the invalid, who had an obstinate idea that his days were numbered. A pet and play-thing was perhaps what he needed, for sometimes the devotion exacted bored him and seemed a painful waste of time and energy.
Then M. de Ronville saw the necessity of arranging his guardianship of Daffodil Carrick on a different basis, so that there might be no trouble at his death. Her father might not understand all the fine points, and need some legal aid. This had brought about the visit to Pittsburg, and he had joined his solicitation to that of the guardian, truly believing M. de Ronville's days were numbered, and he did fervently desire to give him whatever happiness and comfort was possible.
But Daffodil was different from the vague idea he had formed of her. She was not a sentimental girl, even if she had been caught by a specious love, and though gay and eager, had a tender, truthful, and noble side to her nature. They were all of a higher class than he had thought possible, and Felix he considered quite an unusual boy. Mr. Carrick had made one brief explanation of the marriage, none of the others alluded to it.
"But you know that the law holds her as an unmarried woman. There was nothing binding in the vows on her side, and pure fraud on his," said Bartram decisively.
"Yes, we are aware of that, but young as she is, it has changed her in some respects. But she is dearer than ever to us. I deprecate this fashion of such youthful marriages, though mine has been very happy," returned the father.
Dr. Langdale came in one morning with a face full of the highest satisfaction. Bartram had been lingering about, discussing the journey. Madame Clerval had offered one of her French maids, but she knew so little of American ways.
"Daffodil," the doctor exclaimed, "will you take me for an escort? I find there is nothing very important for the next few weeks. I have but one more lecture in my course. And I do want to see mother. So, if you have no objection——"
"Why, I should be delighted, though I begin to feel quite like a wise and travelled body. And think how women are coming from abroad and from Canada, and going West, and all over, and reach their destination safely. But I shall be very glad all the same, and your mother will be wild with joy."
"I am afraid we do not think of the pleasure we can give our elders, who, in the nature of things, have less time for the enjoyment of their children. And I feel ashamed that I have allowed the time to slip by, content with a hurried letter. I mean to do better in the future."
"And I applaud your decision," exclaimed M. de Ronville. "Oh, I think you young people really do not know how much happiness you can give us elders just by the sight of your happy faces, and a little cordial attention."
Daffodil glanced at Dr. Langdale with a smile that seemed almost a caress, it was so approving, enchanting. Aldis Bartram caught it and turned away, saying—
"I must leave you to perfect arrangements. I am late now, so I must wish you good-morning," bowing himself out of the room.
He was very busy, and did not go home to dinner, as he had been doing of late. And it was not until he was walking home in the late afternoon that he allowed himself to think of Daffodil's departure.
"She will marry Dr. Langdale and come back here to live, which will be a great pleasure to M. de Ronville," he said to himself, remembering it had his friend's approval. And why should it not have his? Yet he felt as if he did not cordially assent. And if she returned next winter—he lost a sudden interest in the plan. They would be lovers and there would be their joy and satisfaction flaunted in everybody's face.
How could Daffodil keep so bright and cheerful? Had she any real depth? Did not every change, every new plan appeal to her just the same?
But if he had seen her with her arms about Mrs. Jarvis' neck, and the tears in her eyes, he would not have made the comment to himself. And the tender, beseeching tone in which she was saying—
"Oh, you will not let him miss me too much. And when it is pleasant, won't you walk about the garden with him and praise his roses and the flowers he cares for? And keep him thinking that he is better, and has years yet to live, and if Mr. Bartram will go on being devoted to him."
"Mr. Bartram seems to have grown more tenderly thoughtful. Of course, he has a great deal on his mind, and now there are so many perplexing questions about the country, and when one is tired out with the day's work it is hard to rehearse it all over. Oh, my dear, I think you have worked a change in us all with your sweet, generous ways, and your lovely outflowing youth. I am afraid I was beginning to think too much of my own comfort."
Dr. Langdale proved himself most solicitous. Bartram found the planning was taken quite out of his hands, and he chafed a little. Madame Clerval declared herself inconsolable, but she had the fine grace that speeds the parting guest when the going is inevitable.
There was only one day more. M. de Ronville had his breakfast sent upstairs. Daffodil went to find some papers her guardian was going over, and turning, she met Aldis Bartram entering the library.
"I was afraid you might forget them," she said, handing the packet to him.
"Thank you." How often she had charged her mind with these little things.
"I suppose," he began in a wandering sort of tone, as if his mind had strayed to something else, "that it will not really be out of order to congratulate you, since it will be a long while before I shall see you again."
"Oh, about going home? But I shall often think of you all here, and wish the old fairy stories were true, where you could be transported elsewhere in a moment. I think I did truly believe in them once."
How charming she was in that absolute simplicity, the exquisite, innocent, glowing face too frank for concealment. He had no business to probe her secret, and yet he must know.
"Oh, I meant, you will not come back to us the same. You will have learned the lesson of love, and I hope—you will be very happy."
"I don't understand"—a puzzled line settling in her fair brow. "Oh!" suddenly relieved, and then half smiling, "did you think," and then her face crimsoned to its utmost capacity, "that I, that Dr. Langdale—it is a mistake. We were dear friends in childhood, we are warm friends now. For, you see, he has been like a little bit of Pittsburg to me, and sometimes, when I was longing for the dear ones at home, it was comforting to talk them over. And he has no thought of marrying in a long, long while. He means to do so much first."
Was she a finished coquette by the grace of nature? Young men were not given to consideration of this or that when the bewildering passion seized them. But coquette or not, a sharp, overmastering knowledge seized him. Once she had advised him to marry and bring in the household a charming girl. She recognized that his duty would be to M. de Ronville while he lived. He knew that, too, if he would not prove himself an ingrate. And here was the charming girl.
He looked at her so long and steadily that there came faint colors in her face, growing deeper, the lines about her mouth showed tremors, the bronze-fringed lids drooped over her eyes, and she turned away. But the delicious half-bashful movement set his pulses aflame.
"Daffodil," and he caught her hand, "if there is no other among these young men, or even at home, may I not sue for a little favor? I know it surprises you; then perhaps I am too old to win a young girl's regard, love I mean——"
"Oh, you must not," she interrupted. "For I think you hardly like me—you did not at first. And then, I—well—I do not mean to marry. You know there was the——"
"Which simply has no weight in your life."
"But you see, I thought I loved him. Oh, I did love him. And I was so happy. Why, I would have gone to the end of the world with him! Only when one deceives you, when one dares not tell the whole truth, and when one cannot, does not want to give up wealth and station, what was love is some way crushed out. But how could I tell if any new love was the right thing? I might be mistaken again. And there are fickle women in the world I have heard, who can love many times. I don't desire to be one of them. Maybe it is only friendship I am fitted for."
She was trembling in every pulse, though she had made such a brave defence. And she seemed to him a hundred times sweeter than she ever had before. He had much ado not to clasp her to his heart. "My dear little Daffodil," he said with passionate tenderness, "though you have been wooed and said marriage vows, you know nothing about a true and fervent love. That was not much beyond a child's fancy, and you have overlived it, or you could not be so light-hearted. It is only a dream in your life. And I will wait until the woman's soul in you wakes. But I shall not let you go from my influence, I shall keep watch and ward, and try to win you."
"No, no, I am not worth all that trouble. No, do not try," she pleaded.
"I shall take your earlier advice. You said I must marry some charming girl and bring her here. No other girl or woman could satisfy M. de Ronville as well."
"Did I advise you to do that?" and she blushed daintily. "Well," and there was a glint of mischief in her eyes, soft as they were, "once I was offered to you, and you declined."
"Offered to me?" in surprise.
"When I was here before. It was in this very library. I was outside, and when I knew who was meant I ran away."
"Oh, you were such a child then! And I was doing something that I have always despised myself for. I knew a beautiful and fascinating woman, who led me to believe she cared a great deal for me. And then she laughed at my folly. I deserved it for my blindness. So you see, I too had a rude awakening, and found that it was not love, but a mere sham. I believe for a month or so I have been trying not to love you, shutting my eyes to a longing that stirred all my nature. And now that I have admitted it, it has taken a giant's growth in a few hours. I will wait until you can give me the true, sincere regard of your soul. But I could not let you go until I had settled whether I had any ground for hope. Shall we be friends, dear and fond friends, until that time? But I want to be loved sincerely, deeply."
She stood like a lovely culprit before him, and then he did enfold her in his arms, and pressed his lips against her blushing cheek.
"Oh, I cannot tell—yes, I like you—and you will be good to him while I am gone. But it is new and strange to me, and I cannot promise."
"But there is no one else—tell me that."
"There is no one else. But whether—I can love again;" and there was a great tremble in her voice, "whether it would be right."
"Oh, little innocent, you will find the right and the truth some day, I feel assured of that. I can trust you to tell me by word or sign when that day comes, for I know you will be honest. And now I must go, but I take with me a joy that will make glad the days and weeks of separation. Oh, my little darling!"
He went out of the house with a proud tread. He would never pause until he had won her. His soul was startled and roused by the sudden revelation of himself. He had supposed he should marry sometime, after his duty was done here, for he could not imagine a woman broad enough to share it with him. And here an angel had touched him with her fine beneficence, and shown him the duty in a stronger, truer light.
There was not much time for the ardent side of love, though Aldis Bartram had to fight with himself for a show of mere friendliness. She was to go at ten the next morning, and friends came to escort her.
"And I shall stay and help our good friend to bear the trial of parting," declared Madame Clerval. "We will talk over your virtues and your shortcomings, the lovers you might have had if you had been an astute young woman, and try to shed some sunshine on the doleful days until next winter."
There was the maid with some budgets, there was Dr. Langdale, proud and serene enough for a lover, and it did rouse a spasm of jealousy in the soul of Aldis Bartram. But he knew she was truth itself, and he could depend upon her.
It was a lovely journey if the term could be applied to the old-fashioned stagecoach. But the season of the year, the bloom and beauty everywhere, and the pleasant companionship lightened the few discomforts for Daffodil. There are natures that refrain from spoiling anticipations by cares or perplexities left behind, and hers was one. Indeed, hers was not complex, and people, women especially, had not learned to crowd so many interests, and fears, and hopes together. She would see those she loved the best, yes, she did love them the best of all now.
How glad they were to get her back! Yes, there were changes and changes. New business plans and firms, old ones enlarged, discoveries of coal and iron all about, materials for glass-making, a paper mill under consideration.
But the war was not yet over. The advisers of the King had begun to adopt a tone of insolence toward the young Republic; indeed, in spite of peace being signed, there was still an endeavor to stir up the Indians on the outskirts of many of the towns. The Indian villages along the Maumee received supplies of arms and ammunition, and were fortifying their own forts. The alarm spread down the Ohio. The British had not yet given up all the forts they had held in the preceding war, in spite of the agreements.
Tired of inaction, Lieutenant Langdale had, with several others, offered his services to General Anthony Wayne, as there was great need of trained officers. So Mrs. Langdale was doubly delighted with this visit of her son, of whom she was quite as proud as of her soldier.
"And I hope you have made good your chance with Daffodil Carrick," she said to him a few days after his return. "She'll be quite worth the winning, even if the father's money should all go to the son, who is a very promising lad, I hear. But they count on having a big place over the river, and that is all her share. One of you boys ought to win her. I thought it would be Ned. And you have had a chance all winter."
Archibald smiled, but there was no disappointment in it.
"She was a great favorite all through the winter, and she can marry any time she likes. But I have too much to do to take upon myself family cares, and I think she isn't the sort of girl to be in a hurry. We are just fine, sincere friends."
"But I want you to marry. And I've counted on grandchildren. I wish I had you both settled just around me. I shall be a lonesome old woman."
"Then when I am rich enough to set up a house, you shall come and live with me."
"Do you think Dilly's going to let that miserable mess of a marriage spoil all her life?"
"Oh, she is very happy, mother; girls don't marry as young as they did, and it is a good thing, too. They have some years of bright, gay girlhood, and won't get worn out so soon. Daffodil is a charming girl."
"But she's getting quite along, and it isn't like being a widow either," said the mother, who thought every girl ought to marry.
Daffodil watched mother and grandmere with longing eyes. Yes, grandmere was getting old. Her mother was losing the pretty girlishness, but she was very happy in her husband, and her son, who was tall and very good-looking, quite toned down in manner.
The house had no more changes. Here was her pretty room. Oh, yes, there was a new bright rag carpet on the floor. She went around with a tender touch on everything, patting the white pillow-slips, straightening a picture or two, and wondering in a curious fashion if sometime her brother's wife would be here and a group of merry children—she hoped there would be a houseful of them. And gran would be a great-grandfather, and sit in the big chair at the corner of the fireplace, that he had covered over with buckskin of his own tanning. Where she would be she did not plan. Only she would not mind being an old maid, she thought.
Everybody in the little circle supposed she would marry Dr. Langdale, and were surprised when his mother sorrowfully admitted it was not to be.
"There's them that goes through the woods, and picks up a crooked stick at the last;" and Norah shook her head resentfully.
"My stick won't be crooked, I promise you," laughed the girl.
"You may have no stick at all and go limping afoot and alone," was the curt rejoinder.
She was very happy, why she could hardly tell, for she felt she ought not to be. There came a letter with the stamp of the office on it and it had two enclosures. Her guardian's was most pleasant and fatherly. They missed her very much, but Mrs. Jarvis had taken on a new phase of kindliness so that he should not long too much for Daffodil, and Aldis was like a son. They went out driving together. And Aldis had grown so fond of the garden that he had not used to care much about. The weather was fine and he really was quite well for an old gentleman.
She almost dreaded to open the other. A blinding sort of consciousness pervaded her as if she were a prisoner, as if there was asked of her a curious, undefined surrender that she could hardly understand. Before, she had gone on simply and been overtaken, as it were, given without knowing just what she gave. Was it because she was older, wiser? She had still to learn that there were many mysteries in love that only a lifetime could explain.
She let her eyes wander over it in a vague sort of fashion. Did she really belong to him? He seemed to take possession of her in a way that she could not gainsay, could not even refuse.
But did she want to refuse?
She went out to the keeping room after awhile. Her mother sat alone, sewing some trifle. She came and laid both letters in her lap, then went and sat on the door sill where a great maple threw its green arms about in the soft breeze. There was a cuckoo somewhere, a yellow-hammer searching for half-hidden food, and a thrush with his long, sweet note.
"Yes," her mother remarked, as if in answer to a question. "He laid the matter before your father a month ago in the letter that came with you."
"Oh!" Then after a long while—"Mother, it is nothing like it was before. Then I did not doubt myself, now I wonder. He is so wise in many ways, I feel as if I had to reach up and up and I am a little afraid. I have seen so many fine girls in the city. And beautiful women."
"The woman a man chooses is the best to him always."
She did not torment herself with the thought that he was doing this for her guardian's sake. She felt that he was not the kind of man to take the mere crumbs of love while some one else feasted on the heart of love divine. What troubled her was whether she could love enough. And she hated to think there had been any previous regard. But did he not say, too, that he had been fascinated by an unworthy liking?
The summer seemed to check the wave of prosperity and men looked at each other in half affright. For no one knew just how the tide might turn. When the Indians made their sortie on Fort Recovery word came that the garrison had been massacred, but Captain Gibson bravely held it in spite of an all-day attack, and at night the enemy retreated. General Wayne was in command of all the forces and the Indians made various feints, hoping to be joined by the British, who were urging them on, but there was no big regular battle until that of Fallen Timbers, where a tornado had swept through the woods some time before. A few miles below was a British fort, the meeting place of the western fur traders. It was a hard fought field, but the victory for the Americans was such a signal one that it ended the terror of a frontier war that had hung over the border so long.
No town rejoiced more than Pittsburg, which lost some men and was proud of heroes who had come through the conflict unscathed. Among these was Lieutenant Langdale, whose bravery and foresight gained him a captaincy.
"He's a brave fellow!" declared grandad, and Daffodil was glad he had won some of the fame and glory for which he had longed.
"It's fine to be a soldier when you can fight and have nothing happen to you," declared Felix. "But I wouldn't want to be among the killed. There's so many splendid things in life. I hope I will live to be a hundred."
There were many matters to share Daffodil's attention, though she did miss the bright society and the knowledge branching out on every side. Yet these girls who had married half a dozen years ago and had grown common and careless with their little ones about them seemed very happy. It certainly was an industrious community, but they played as they worked. There were games that would have been no discredit to modern scores, there was dancing and merriment and happiness as well.
Was Daffodil learning her lesson? Aldis Bartram thought very slowly. But he was a man who prized hard won contests. And if with the attractive young men about her through the winter she had not been won, then she was not an easy prize. He smiled at times over her careful and futile reasoning. At least they would have the winter to go over the ground. And though he was becoming an ardent lover he was not an impatient one.
There are some events and decisions in life that are precipitated by a shock, the film that held one in thrall, veiling the clear sight, is suddenly disrupted. And this happened to Daffodil Carrick. Her father put an English paper in her hand one evening as he came up the path where roses were still blooming. It had been remailed in Philadelphia.
"From Madame Clerval," she said with a smile. "Some gay doings, I fancy. She has friends in London."
She glanced it over carelessly. The summer struggles had made her more of a patriot, and brought to her mind vividly the morning she had run out to know the cause of Kirsty Boyle's call and the ringing of his bell. A very little girl. She was always glad she had heard it.
She turned the paper to and fro rather impatiently. Oh, what was here with the black insignia of death: "Died, at Hurst Abbey, of a malignant fever. Margaretta, wife of Jeffrey, Lord Andsdell, only remaining son of the Earl of Wrenham."
She was not interested in the beauty of the bride, who had been a great belle in her day and won no little fame on the stage, nor the terrible accident that had deprived the Earl of two older sons and two grandsons, paving the way for the succession of Lord Andsdell. She shuddered and turned ghostly pale, and was terrified with a strange presentiment. But she could not talk of it just yet and was glad Norry and grandad came in to spend the evening with them.
The next morning she gave her father a little note with "important" written on the corner of the folded paper.
"What now?" enquired her father laughingly, "Did you forget your postscript?"
She assented with a nod.
Then she went about her daily duties, but a great terror surged at her heart. She was to remember through everything that she was the only woman Jeffrey Andsdell loved. Long ago she had cast it out. No doubt he had been happy in his ancestral home, at least, he had chosen that, well, wisely, too. But to ask that the woman he wronged should cling to her burthen!
How slowly the days passed. Aldis Bartram might have been away when the note came—he had been to Baltimore on some troublesome business—but waiting seemed very hard. And when it drew near to the time, she used to take different paths down by the square where the stage came in, just far enough away to see, but not be seen, and stand with a blushing face and a strange trembling at her heart. One day she was rewarded. There was the manly figure, the erect head, the firm, yet elastic step. A sudden pride leaped up in her heart.
She waylaid him in a bypath.
"Daffodil!" he cried in surprise. "What has happened?
"Nothing, nothing; I wanted to see you," but her voice trembled. "Come this way."
"How mysterious you are!" If she meant to give him his congé she could have done it better by letter. And the clasp of her hand on his arm had a clinging force.
"There is something for you to see. Let us turn here."
After a space through intervening trees they came to the open, where she paused and unfolded a paper she had held in her hand. "Read this," she said, and he stared a moment silently.
One moment, another moment. How still it was, every bird had hushed its singing, even the crickets were not chirping.
"He will come back to America. He will come back for you now that he is free," Bartram subjoined hoarsely. Should he hold her or let her go? Was the old love——
She faced him and slipped both hands over his shoulders, clasped them at the back of his neck. It seemed to him he had never seen such an entrancing light in her eyes.
"Aldis," she began, with tremulous sweetness, "I would rather be your wife than the greatest duchess of them all." And then she hid her blushing face on his breast.
It would not be raised, but he kissed the brow, the eyelids, and said in a shaken voice:
"Were you afraid——"
Then she raised the sweet face where he saw tears and the quick rifts of color, but there were high lights of resolve in the beautiful eyes.
"Not afraid anything could rekindle the glamor of that mistake, nor any repentance on his part mend the deception. I was a child then. I did not understand the depths that go to the making of a true love. All summer I have been learning——"
Then she paused and hid her face again.
"And there is a great deal more to learn, sweetheart. We shall go on studying the delightful lesson all our lives, I trust, and never reach the bottom of the cup of joy. Daffodil, you have already roused me to a wider, higher life. A year ago I would not have been worthy of you. Yes, I was blind and self-engrossed then. We will study the sweet lesson together."
Then they paused at a fallen log, not the old place that she never cared to see again. A little stream came trickling down the high hill and there were tender bird voices as accompaniments to the delicious confession. It had grown slowly, she was so afraid of another mistake, but he would never need to doubt its truth, its duration, its comprehensiveness.
It seemed minutes only and yet held the mysterious sweetness of hours. Then she heard a voice calling.
"Why—see! It is almost night! And that is Felix's voice. Oh, what have I been doing?" and she rose in a startled manner.
"We will explain our iniquity," he said laughingly.
They met Felix. "Oh!" he exclaimed in surprise. "We couldn't think! And we had supper."
Then mother said, "Why, did you come in the stage? That was here hours ago," to Mr. Bartram, in a wondering tone.
"Yes; but we had a good deal of business to settle. I hope you didn't eat up all the supper?"
He studied them both curiously. Daffodil's face was scarlet.
"Mr. Bartram, are you going to marry her?" he asked with a boy's frank eagerness.
"I hope to. Are you going to object?"
"No," rather reluctantly. "Only I wish you were going to live here."
Bernard Carrick had gone downtown. It showed the strides Pittsburg had made when there was already a downtown. Barbe stood in the doorway watching, for now the sky was growing gray with coming evening. But before Mr. Bartram spoke, she knew. One of the delights of the other engagement had been the certainty of keeping her daughter, now the pang of separation pierced her to the quick.
"Mrs. Carrick," he said in an appealing tone, "will you take me for a son?" but Daffodil kissed her.
They did not want much supper, but the others returned to the table and talked. He had only come for a few days, but he begged that they might have a wedding in the early fall, just as soon as possible indeed, for the journey was so long they could not afford to waste much time in courtship. They must be lovers afterward.
So, after much discussion to shorten the time, mid-September was settled upon.
"Oh," Daffodil said in her most adorable tone, "I shall pray daily that nothing will befall you, that God will send you back safely to me."
"And I shall be praying for you. Love surely opens one's heart to God."
There was not much to be made ready. The girl laid aside this and that for the son's wife when he should take one, "for," said she, "there is so much in my new house already. And Felix must marry young, so you will have a new daughter in my place."
She would not be married in church nor wear the olden wedding gown. "Let it skip a generation," she said, "and that may change the luck."
So the time came and the lover so full of impatience. She would have the ceremony in the old room that had been so interwoven with her life, and she fancied the spirit of great-grandfather was sitting there in the old chair and she went for his blessing.
The little girl passed out of Old Pittsburg and left behind lonely hearts. Grandad could not be reconciled, there were some fine young fellows in the town that would make good husbands. But Norah gave her a blessing and the best of wishes. So Daffodil Bartram went out to her new life, wondering how one could be so glad and happy when they were leaving behind so much love.
Old Pittsburg did not vanish with the little girl, however. But she went on her way steadily, industriously. The new century came in with great acclaim. Shipbuilding prospered. Iron foundries sprang up. The glass works went from the eight pots and the capacity of three boxes at a blowing to double that number, then doubled it again. The primitive structure erected by George Anshuts before the century ended was the progenitor of many others sending their smoke defiantly up in the clear sky. And all along the Monogahela valley as well as in other places the earth gave up its stores of coal as it had given up its stores of iron.
And in 1816 Pittsburg was incorporated as a city and had a mayor and aldermen and her own bank. It was a new Pittsburg then, a hive of human industry, where one business after another gathered and where fortunes were evolved from real work, and labor reaps a rich reward.
There are not many of the old things left. The block house built in 1764 by Colonel Bouquet still stands. A great depot covers the site of the ancient Fort, and the spot of Braddock's defeat. But there are Duquesne Heights, all her hills have not been levelled, if most of the old things have passed away. She is the workshop of the world now, one writer calls her "the most unique city in the world." And she has not neglected the finer arts of beautifying. She has magnificent buildings, fine libraries, and cultivated people, musical societies, and half a hundred benevolent institutions. And we must not forget that in six days after the firing on Fort Sumter a company of Pittsburgers marched to Washington and offered their services to the secretary of war.
If the little girl had vanished, Daffodil Bartram found much happiness in the new home. M. de Ronville was not only delighted, but grateful over his two children who were not of kindred blood, but of the finer and higher kin of love. There came children to the household, three boys and one golden-haired girl, but he did not quite reach the years of his friend Duvernay. And when the two older sons were grown they cast their lot with Allegheny City, which in the course of time grew into a lovely residential city, free from smoke and dust and noise, and theirs proved a noble patrimony. The Bartrams still had a son and daughter, and the journey to Pittsburg no longer had to be made in a stage coach.
Felix Duvernay Carrick made one of the notable citizens of the town, the author of several useful inventions and a most thriving business man, not needing any of his sister's fortune, for grandad left him one, beside the one he was making with his brains and industry. And Barbe was a happy grandmother to a merry flock, but she would never leave the old house, though the farm was cut up by streets and houses crowded in upon them. And she kept her bed of daffodils to the very last.
If there was not so much romance, it was the old story of the Rhinegelt of the land and the rivers yielding up such treasures as few cities possess, but without the tragedy of their legend. Work and thrift and the ingenuity of man have reared a magnificent city.