Part 3 (1/2)
”In Was.h.i.+ngton? I don't know. Did he never give it to you?”
”No, ma'am; nothing except 'Was.h.i.+ngton.' ”
”I suppose that is enough. Haven't you written to him?”
”I have written once. - I have been thinking, Miss Cardigan, that I must stop the writing.”
”Altogether?”
”Yes, ma'am.”
”His writing too?”
”Yes. My father and mother do not know - and I cannot ask them, - and -”
”You are right,” Miss Cardigan answered sorrowfully. ”And yet you will let your engagement stand, Daisy?”
”I cannot break my part of it, ma'am. I - nor they - cannot change what is, and what has been done. The future is in their hands - or in G.o.d's hands, rather.”
Miss Cardigan sighed.
”And what then, dear, about the address?” she said.
”Because, Miss Cardigan, I am going there. I am going to Was.h.i.+ngton.”
She stopped her work to look at me.
”I am going Sat.u.r.day. My guardian has sent for me. It is very strange, Miss Cardigan; but I must go; and I thought I would like to know in what part of the city Christian is.”
”Will you write to let him know? You will, of course. Write just as usual, child; the letter will reach him.”
”Why should I, Miss Cardigan? what use? He cannot come to see me.”
”Why not?”
”I would not dare. My guardian watches me well; and he would not like my seeing Mr. Thorold of all people.”
”Why not? Ah, child! there is a rose leaf in each of your cheeks this minute. That tells the story. Then, Daisy, you had better not go to Was.h.i.+ngton. Christian will not bear that very well; and it will be hard for you too. My dear, it will be hard.”
”Yes, ma'am - and hard not to go. I shall go, Miss Cardigan.”
”And mayn't I tell him you are there?”
”No, ma'am. If I can, I will let him know somehow.”
But a sense of the difficulties, dangers, doubts and uncertainties, thronging my way, therewith pressed heavily upon me; and I sat in silence and weariness, while Miss Cardigan put up her work and ordered tea, and finally went off to her greenhouse. Presently she came back with a rose in her hand and held it under my face. It was a full dewy sweet damask rose, rich and fragrant and lovely as such a rose can be. I took it and looked at it.
”Do ye mind,” my old friend said, ”how the flowers spoke to you and brought you messages, when Daisy was a child yet and first came to see me?”
”I know - I remember,” I said.