Daisy in the Field Part 36

"I do not acknowledge it, ma'am."

"You must give her line, Charles," mamma said, half laughing but vexed. "She is a woman."

"I hope she will grant me forgiveness," he said. "She must remember, I _thought_ I had liberty."

"I shall not forget," I answered. "I understand, that respect for me failed before respect for my mother."

"But! -" he began.

"Be quiet, Charles," my mother interrupted him. "Pull us to sh.o.r.e; and let fits of perverseness alone till they go off.

That is my counsel to you."

And the remainder of our little voyage was finished in profound silence. I knew mamma was terribly vexed, but at the same time I was secretly overjoyed; for I saw that she yielded to me, and I knew that I should have no more trouble with Mr.

De Saussure.

I did not. He lingered about for a few days longer, in moody style, and then went away and I saw him no more. During those days I had nothing to do with him. But my mother had almost as little to do with me. She was greatly offended; and also, I saw, very much surprised. The woman Daisy could not be quite the ductile thing the child Daisy had been. I took refuge with papa whenever I could.

"What is all this about De Saussure and Marshall?" he asked one day.

"They have both gone home."

"I know they have; but what sent them home?"

"Mamma has been trying to make them go, this long while, you know, papa. She wanted them to go and join Beauregard."

"And will they? Is that what they are gone for?"

"I do not know if they will, papa. I suppose Mr. De Saussure will."

"And not Marshall?"

"I do not know about him."

"What did _you_ do, Daisy?"

"Papa - you know I do not like the war."

"How about liking the gentlemen?"

"I am glad they are gone."

"Well, so am I," papa answered; "but what had you to do with sending them home?"

"Nothing, papa, - only that I unfortunately did not want them to stay."

"And you could not offer them any reward for going?"

"Papa, a man who would do such a thing for _reward_, would not be a man."

"I think so too, Daisy. Your mother somehow takes a different view."

"She cares only for the soldier, papa; not for the man."

Papa was silent and thoughtful.

There were no other intimate friends about us in Geneva; and our life became, I must confess, less varied and pleasant after the young men had gone. At first I felt only the relief; then the dulness began to creep in. Papa led the life of an invalid, or of one who had been an invalid; not an active life in any way; I thought, not active enough for his good. Some hours I got of reading with him; reading to him, and talking of what we read; they did my father good, and me too; but they were few, and often cut short. As soon as mamma joined us, our books had to be laid aside. They bored her, she said, or hindered her own reading; and she and papa played draughts and chess and piquet. Mamma was not in a bored state at other times; for she was busy with letters and plans and arrangements, always in a leisurely way, but yet busy. It was a sort of business with which I had no sympathy, and which therefore left me out. The cause of the South was not my cause; and the discussion of toilettes, fas.h.i.+ons, costumes and society matters, was entirely out of my line. In all these, mamma found her element. Ransom was no resource to anybody; and of course not to me, with whom, now as ever, he had little in common. Mamma held me aloof, ever since Mr. De Saussure's departure; and I only knew indirectly, as it were, that she was planning a social campaign for me and meditating over adornments and advantages which should help to make it triumphant. Life in this way was not altogether enjoyable. The only conversation which could be said to be general among us, was on the subject of home affairs in America. That rung in my ears every day.

"Glorious news, sir!" cried Ransom one day as he came in to dinner. "Glorious news! The first real news we have had in a long time."

"What is it?" said my father; and "What, Ransom?" my mother asked, with a kindling eye. My heart sank. Those know who remember those times, how one's heart used to sink when news came.

"What is it, Ransom?"

"Why, a large body of them, the Yankees, got across the Potomac the night of the 20th; got in a nest of our sharpshooters and were well riddled; then, when they couldn't stand it any longer, they fell back to the river and tried to get across again to the other side, where they came from; and they had no means of getting across, nothing but a couple of old scows; so they went into the water to get away from the fire, and quant.i.ties of them were drowned, and those that were not drowned were shot. Lost a great many, and their commanding officer killed. That's the way. They'll have enough of it in time. The war'll be over in a few weeks or months more. De Saussure will not have time to raise his regiment. I don't think, mamma, it's any use for me to go home, it'll be over so soon."

"Where was this?" inquired my father.

"Some place - Ball's Bluff, I believe. It was a grand affair."

"How many did they lose?" my mother said.

"Oh, I don't know - some thousands. We lost nothing to speak of. But the thing is, they will lose heart. They will never stand this sort of thing. They have no officers, you know, and they can have no soldiers. They will be obliged to give up."

Words were in my heart, but my lips knew better than to speak them. _Had_ they no officers? Had Christian no soldiers under him? My head was ready to believe it; my heart refused. Yet I thought too I had seen at the North the stuff that soldiers are made of.

"If I were you," said my mother, "I would not let it all be over before I had a part in it."

"The war is not ended yet, Felicia," my father remarked; "and it will take more than a few hard knocks to make them give up."

"They have had nothing but hard knocks, sir, since it began,"

Ransom cried.

"Your father always takes a medium view of everything," my mother said. "If it depended on him, I believe there would be no war."

"I should have one other vote for peace," papa said, looking at me.

"It is well Daisy was not born a boy!" Ransom said.

"I hope you will not make me wish you had been born a girl,"

my father replied. "Strength is no more n.o.ble when it ceases to be gentle."

"Must not every woman wish for peace?" I said. It was an unhappy attempt at a diversion, and if I had not been in a hurry I should not have made it.

"No," my mother answered, not sharply, but with cold distinctness. "Before the South should submit to the dictation or reproof of Northern boors and fanatics, I would take a musket myself and die in the trenches."

"It is an ugly place to die in, my dear," answered my father.

"See Daisy s.h.i.+ver!" Ransom exclaimed; and he burst into a laugh, "Mamma, Daisy's blood has grown thin at the North. She is not a true Southern woman. There is no fire in you, Daisy."