Kitabı oku: «Daisy: or, The Fairy Spectacles», sayfa 7

CHAPTER XXII.
THE FACE AND THE HEART

"Can I give up my beautiful face, and become a poor little drudge, like Daisy?" asked Maud of herself. "No, it's a great deal too much trouble. I can find plenty of friends at the fair; and so I will forget the sad, sweet face that has haunted me all these months."

So Maud never told that she had looked upon Christ; though every time Daisy spoke of him, she felt it could be no other.

The winter came on; and the report of Maud's beauty had spread so far, that she was invited to balls in the neighboring towns; and she no longer walked, for people sent their elegant carriages for her.

The dame took care that she should have dresses and jewels in abundance; and Daisy could not but feel proud when she saw her sister look like such a splendid lady; though sometimes she would be frightened by seeing the eyes of a live snake glittering among Maud's diamonds, and something that seemed like the teeth of a wolf glistening among her pearls.

The beauty had many lovers, but she found some fault with each; until, one day, the handsomest and gayest man in all the country round asked her to marry him.

She refused, at first, because he had not quite so much money as the others; but when she saw how many ladies were in love with him, Maud felt it would be a fine thing to humble them, and show her own power. The old dame could give them money enough; and so she changed her mind, and began to make ready for her wedding.

Then you should have seen the splendid things that the old dame brought, day after day, and poured on the cabin floor – velvets, and heavy brocades, gay ribbons and silks, and costly laces; as for the pearls and diamonds, you would think she had found them by handfuls in the river bed, there were so many.

Meantime Daisy had come across a very different jewel, though I am not sure but it was worth a cabin full of such as Maud's.

Once she was walking with the little beggar girl, whom Daisy called her own child now, and named Susan, after her mother; before them, climbing the hill side, was a man in a coarse blue frock, who seemed like a herdsman.

He was driving his cows, and turning back to look for a stray one, Susan chanced to see his face; she broke from Daisy, and with a cry of joy, ran into the herdsman's arms.

His name was Joseph; and Daisy learned that, when the little girl's mother was sick, Joseph had brought her food, and taken the kindest care of her; but his master sent him to buy some cows in a distant town, and before he reached home again, Susan's mother did not need any more charity, and the poor child herself was cast out into the streets.

They sat on the grass beside Joseph; and Daisy found that, for all his coarse dress, he loved beautiful things as well as herself, and had sat there, day after day, watching the river and sky, and finding out the secrets of the birds, seeing the insects gather in their stores, and the rabbits burrow, and listening to the whisper of the leaves.

And, in cold winter nights, he had watched the stars moving on in their silent paths, so far above his head, and fancied he could find pictures and letters among them, and that they beckoned, and seemed to promise, if he would only try, he might come and live with them.

Then, out of some young shoots of elder, Joseph had made a flute; and Daisy was enchanted when he played on this, for, besides that she had never heard a musical instrument before, he seemed to bring every thing she loved around her in his wonderful tunes.

She could almost see the dark pine tops gilded with morning light, and the cabin nestling under them; and then the song of a bird, and of many birds, trilled out from amidst the boughs, and the little leaves on the birch trees trembled as with joy, and her rabbits darted through the shade.

Again, she saw the wide river rolling on, the sky reflected in it, and the flowers on its banks just lifting their sweet faces to the sun, and every thing was wet with dew, and fresh, and silent.

And then he played what was like a storm, with lightning, and huge trees crashing down, and the old dame seated before her fire in the cave, and Daisy herself creeping alone through the dark, tired, and drenched with rain.

Daisy told her new friend that she lived in the wood, and what a beautiful sister she had at home, and how she wished that Maud could hear his music.

But Joseph seemed contented to play for her, and could not leave his cows, he said, to look upon a handsome face; he did not care so much for bright eyes and pretty lips as for goodness and gentleness, that would make the ugliest face look beautiful to him.

CHAPTER XXIII.
JOSEPH

What with Joseph's music, and all he had to say to them, Daisy and Susan sat for hours on the hill side, and promised, at parting, to come very soon again.

But they found Maud ready, as usual, to spoil all their pleasure, by fretting because they had left her alone, and had not come earlier, and a hundred other foolish things.

She wouldn't hear a word about the music, but asked her sister if she was not ashamed to talk with a cow boy, and declared that neither she nor Susan should go to the hill again.

But it was no strange thing for Maud to change her mind; so, one day, she told Daisy she had dreamed about Joseph's music, and must hear it, and they would all go that very afternoon.

Daisy was glad, you may be sure; but she had great trouble with her sister on the way, for Maud would shriek at an earth worm, and start at a fly, and was afraid of bats, and snakes, and owls, and more other things than Daisy ever thought of.

Then the sharp sticks cut through her satin boots; and when she sat a while to rest, the crickets ate great holes in her new silk gown, and mosquitos kept buzzing about her, and little worms dropped down sometimes from the boughs.

When any of these things happened, of course poor Daisy had to be scolded, as if it were her fault. If a shadow moved, or a bird flew quickly past, or a bee buzzed by, – thinking of any one except Miss Maud, – the beauty would fancy that a tiger or rattlesnake was making ready to spring at her, and suffered a great deal more from fright than she would from pain if the creatures she dreaded had really been near, and she had allowed them quietly to eat her up.

When, after all this trouble, she found that Joseph wore a coarse blue frock, and did not oil his curly hair, and hardly looked at her, while he was overjoyed at seeing Daisy again, Maud began to pout, and say she must go home.

But Joseph brought a kind of harp he had made from reeds and corn stalks; and when he began to play, Maud started, for it was as if she stood under the arching trees again, and the Beautiful Being stood beside her, with his sad eyes, saying, "O Maud, when you despise my little ones, you are despising me."

She thought it must only be a kind of waking dream, however, and tossing her head, asked Joseph if he could play any opera airs, and where he bought his harp, and who his teacher could have been.

"The trees, and river, and birds, the morning wind and midnight sky, sorrow, and joy, and hope have been my teachers," he answered gravely.

"They're an old-fashioned set, then," said Maud. "We haven't had any of the tunes you play at our balls this year; and you must find more modern teachers, or else be content to take care of your cows."

Joseph heard not her sneers; he was talking with Daisy; and every thing he said seemed so noble, and wise, and pure, so unlike the words of Maud or of the fretful dame, that Daisy could not help loving him with all her heart.

The more she thought of Joseph the less she said of him to Maud; but whenever her sister was away, they were sure to meet; and the herdsman grew as fond of Daisy as she was of him.

In the long winter evenings, when Maud was away at her balls, she little dreamed what pleasant times Daisy had at home. When floating about in the dance, to the sound of gay, inspiring music, she thought of her sister only to pity her, and did not know that she was listening to sweeter music from Joseph's humble harp of reeds.

We often pity people who are a great deal better off than ourselves, forgetting that what seems fine to us may be tedious enough to them.

Then it was such a new thing for Daisy to have any one think of her comfort, and plan pleasant surprises for her, and even admire her serious face, and – best of all – appreciate her spectacles.

As soon as Joseph came, he wanted her to put them on, and tell him about a hundred things which he had looked at only with his naked eyes. Daisy found so often that he had seen rightly and clearly, and had in humblest paths picked up most lovely things, and every where found what was best, she told him that he must have borrowed the old dame's lantern.

But Joseph said, no, he had only taken care that the lantern in his own breast should be free from dust and stains; while that burned clearly, there was no use in borrowing another's light.

Maud's lover took her to dances and sleigh rides, and gave her jewels and confectionery; Daisy's lover took her to see the old sick mother he supported, and to look at his cows in their neat barn, and brought her a new apron sometimes from the fair, or a bag of chestnuts which he had picked up in the fall.

But Joseph gave the love of a fresh, honest heart; and Daisy thought this better than all her sister's bright stones and sugar plums.

CHAPTER XXIV.
THE FRESHET

The spring came; and Maud's wedding day was so near that she and Daisy went to the town every week to make purchases.

Now, the river which they were obliged to cross always overflowed its banks in spring. Although, in summer, Daisy had often walked across it, by stepping from stone to stone in the rough bed, it had risen now to a height of many feet.

Then, blocks of ice came down from the mountain streams above, and swept along bridges, and hay ricks, and drift wood with them, just as happened once, you may remember, when Susan was alive.

A new bridge had been built; but it jarred frightfully when the heaped blocks of ice came down, or some great tree was dashed against it by the rapid stream.

Things were in this state when the two sisters reached home, one day, from town. When Maud felt how the bridge jarred, she ran back screaming, and told Daisy to go first, and make sure it was safe.

Daisy was not a coward; but this time she did think of her own life for once, or rather of Joseph – how he would grieve if she were swept away and drowned.

Her heart beat faster than usual; yet she walked on calmly, and soon gained the other side. Then she called back for Maud to wait till she could find Joseph, and secure his help.

But Maud, always impatient, grew tired of waiting, and mustering all her courage, stepped upon the bridge alone.

She had hardly reached the centre when its foundations gave way; and, with a great crash and whirl, with the trees, and ice, and drift wood whirling after it, the bridge went sweeping down the stream.

So Joseph and Daisy returned only in time to hear Maud's shrieks, which sounded louder than the heavy, jolting logs, and creaking beams, and grinding ice.

Running across the bridge wildly, she beckoned for Joseph to come to her – implored him to trust himself upon the blocks of ice, or else send Daisy, and not leave her to perish alone.

There came new drifts of ice from above, jolting against the bridge, and throwing Maud from her feet; and so the heavy structure went whirling, tossing like a straw upon the stream.

Joseph turned to Daisy. "If I go to her help, we both may slip from the unsteady blocks of ice, and drown. Yet I may possibly save her; shall I go or stay?"

"Go," she said instantly.

"Then good by, Daisy; perhaps we never shall look in each other's faces again."

"Not here, perhaps; but, go."

"What's that?" asked the sharp voice of the dame. "Foolish children! Don't you know that, when Maud is drowned, there will be no one to separate you, and, as long as she lives, she will not let you be married?"

"She is my sister," said Daisy. And Joseph, stepping boldly upon the ice, creeping from log to log, – lost now in the branches of a tree, dashed into the water, and struggling out again, – found his way to the bridge, and threw his strong arm about the form of the fainting Maud.

But here was new trouble; for she declared that she would never venture where Joseph had been, not if they both were swept away.

Finding her so unreasonable, the herdsman took Maud, like an infant, in his arms, and, though she shrieked and struggled, stepped from the bridge just as its straining beams parted, and fell, one by one, among the drift wood in the stream.

When Maud stood safely on the shore, she was so glad to find herself alive, that she took off every one of her jewels and offered them to Joseph.

But the herdsman told her that he did not wish to be paid for what had cost him nothing, and had he lost his life, the jewels would have been no recompense.

"So you want more, perhaps," said Maud, the haughty look coming again into her handsome face. "Well, what shall I give you for risking your precious life?"

"Daisy," he answered.

"My sister? Do you dare tell me that she would marry a cowboy?"

"Ask her."

"Yes," said Daisy.

"Nonsense! you will live with me, Daisy, in my new great house; and if you marry at all, it will be some rich, elegant man, so that you can entertain us when I and my husband wish to visit you."

"I shall marry Joseph or no one," Daisy answered firmly.

"Well, then, Joseph, cross the river on the ice once more, and Daisy shall be your wife." Maud thought she had found a way to rid herself of the troublesome herdsman; for it seemed to her the dreadful voyage could not be made again in safety; and then she half believed that Joseph would sooner give up Daisy than try.

But, without a word, he darted upon the ice – slipped, as at first; and when Daisy saw him struggling, she flew to his help – slipped where he slipped: a tree came sailing down, and struck them both. Maud saw no more.

But, all the way home, she heard in her ears the shrill voice of the fairy, saying, "I hope you are satisfied, now you have killed them both."

CHAPTER XXV.
THE FAIRY'S LAST GIFT

Maud went home to the lonely cabin; there was no one to make a fire, and dry her wet clothes, and comfort her. When little Susan heard what had happened, she ran away to live with the mother of Joseph; and Maud was left alone.

Wearied with fright, and trouble, and remorse, the beauty sank upon her bed and fell asleep.

But hardly were her eyes closed, when she seemed in a damp, cellar-like place herself, but, looking upward, saw the glorious golden city Daisy told her about, with its pearly gates and diamond foundations, and the river shaded by beautiful palms, and throngs of angels walking on its banks.

The ranks of angels parted, and she saw among them the Beautiful One, who had met her in the wood – only he was bright and joyous now, and his wounds shone like stars; and – could it be? yes – he was leading Daisy and Joseph, not a poor drudge and humble herdsboy now, but, like the other angels, clothed in light, crowned with lilies, and Joseph's harp of reeds changed to a golden harp, on which he still made music.

She saw two other beautiful ones come forward and embrace her sister: one, she felt, was the father she had never seen, and one was Susan, the good and humble mother of whom Maud had been ashamed.

Then she awoke, to find herself alone in the cabin, which was damp and dark as she had dreamed; and she could only hear the night wind sighing, and the voices of the wolves and snakes.

As soon as morning came, she hurried to the river bank, in hopes, thus late, to save her sister, or to hear, at least, some news from her. But she saw only floating logs and blocks of ice jarring and whirling down the river.

And from that hour Maud believed herself a murderer, and would gladly have given her own life to forget the dreadful scene, which kept rising before her, of the good, gentle sister drowning in the flood, and the sound of the dame's shrill voice asking, "Now, are you satisfied?"

But Daisy did not drown. When Joseph saw her danger, though almost dead himself, he took fresh courage, and made such bold, brave efforts that both he and Daisy reached the shore.

Long, happy days they spent together on the earth. Determined that she should have no more trouble with her sister, Joseph took his wife over the sea to a pleasant island, where she had a happier, if not so splendid a home as Maud.

When he opened the door to show Daisy her beautiful little house, who should stand within but the fairy, all dressed in her velvet and pearls, and looking as bright as if she too were glad that Daisy's life was to be so happy now.

Many a gift the fairy brought them: little Peters, and Susans, and Daisies came in her arms, to play before their door, and make the cottage merry with their songs, before our Daisy went to wear her crown in heaven. And many a pleasant tune Joseph played to his wife and children on the home-made harp of reeds, before it was changed to a harp of gold, and chimed in with the angels' music, in our Father's home above.

When packing her things, to leave the cabin, Maud left Daisy's dresses, as they were not fine enough for her, and also some little things which her sister had treasured – among them, the spectacles.

But once in her fine new home, and the wedding over, the first things she found, hanging in the fringe of her shawl, were Daisy's spectacles.

So she thought how queerly Daisy used to look in them, and put the glasses on, to amuse her husband; but what was her surprise to find she could see plainly through them now!

And, alas! the first thing they told her was, that this man, for whom she had left all her rich suitors, did not love her, but her money; despised her because her mother was so poor, and was much fonder of one of the ladies whom he had forsaken than of her.

She told him this angrily; but he only laughed, and said she might have guessed it without spectacles, and asked how he could love any one who thought only of herself.

She hoped he might be jesting, yet his words were soon proved true; for he not only neglected, but treated her harshly, and when she was saddest, dragged her to the balls which she no longer enjoyed, and laughed about her spectacles, which began to leave their mark upon her handsome face.

"At least," thought Maud, "I am very rich; there is no end to my jewelry. I will find out all its value through the spectacles."

But though there were pearls and diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and sapphires, set in heavy gold, they seemed only a handful through the glasses; while she saw whole heaps of finer pearls lying neglected under the sea, and rubies, and emeralds, and diamonds scattered about on the sands, or in the heart of rocks, enough to build a house. Melted along the veins of the earth she discovered so much gold, too, that her own didn't seem worth keeping; for Maud only valued things when she thought others could not have so fine.

Do you remember what the dame said, when she placed the spectacles on little Daisy's breast? "Take care of her heart, now, Peter, and this gift of mine will be a precious one."

Here was the trouble: Maud, with all her beauty and wealth, had not taken care of her heart; and so, when Daisy saw bright, and wise, and pleasant things through the glasses, Maud saw only sad and painful ones.

The beauty grew tired of life; her husband was so jealous that he would not allow any one to admire her; and she found the palace did not make her any happier than the cabin had done, nor did the open country seem any brighter than the wood.

For it isn't whether we live in a palace or a cave, but whether our hearts are cheerful palaces or gloomy caves, that makes the difference between sad lives and merry ones.

So, one day, when the dame appeared with her gifts, Maud said, "O, take them away – take back all the beauty, the power, and money you ever brought, and give me a heart like Daisy's."

"Pretty likely," said the dame. "You asked for money – you and your mother, both; now make the most of it."

But the old woman had hardly left the house when one of Maud's servants brought her in, wounded, and weeping bitterly, for a wagon had run over her.

"Carry her home to her cave; why did you bring her to me?" said Maud.

But just then she seemed to see the cold, bare cave that Daisy had told her about, with nothing except wooden stools and a smoky fireplace – no soft bed, no child to watch over and comfort the poor old dame.

So Maud called the servants back, and had the woman placed in her own room, and watched with her, and bathed her limbs, and though she was fretful, did not once neglect her through a long and tedious illness.

At last, the dame felt well enough to go home, and bade good by to Maud, who begged her not to go; "for," she said, – and the tears came into her eyes, – "you make me think of dear Daisy, the only one that ever loved me, with this selfish heart."

"No, no; I cannot trust you," said the dame, and disappeared.

But she came back, with such a bundle in her arms as she had brought to Susan once; and when Maud looked up to thank her, lo! the dame had changed to a lovely fairy, with a young, sweet face – the same that Daisy used to talk about.

Bending over Maud, she wiped the tears from her face, and put the bundle in her arms, and disappeared.

And when the little child learned to love her, Maud forgot her fears and cares, her cruel husband and her selfish self, and found how much happier it makes us to give joy than to receive it.

The little girl was named Daisy, and grew up not only beautiful and rich, but wise and good; she spent her money nobly, and gained the love and added to the happiness of all her friends.

But the one whom she made happiest was her own mother – Maud.