Part 7 (2/2)
”_Brown Cottage_, 'Most Tissmas time.
”_Dear Miss Mac-Dolly_:-I'se an 'ittle dirl named for you, I is, Daisy Thornton, an' my papa is Mr. Guy, an' mam-ma is Julia, and 'ittle brother is Guy, too-only he's a baby, and vomits up his dinner and ties awfully sometimes; an' I knows anoder 'ittle dirl named for somebody who dives her 'sings,' a whole lot, an' why doesn't youse dive me some, when I'se your sake-name, an' loves you ever so much, and why you never turn here to see me? I wish you would. I ask papa is you pretty, an' he tell me yes, bootiful, an' every night I pays for you and say G.o.d bress papa an' mam-ma, an' auntie, and Miss Mac-Dolly, and 'ittle brodder, an' make Daisy a dood dirl, and have Miss Mac-Dolly send her sumptin' for Tissmas, for Christ's sake. An' I wants a turly headed doll that ties and suts her eyes when she does to seep, and wears a shash and a pairesol, and anodder big dolly to be her mam-ma and pank her when she's naughty, an' I wants an' 'ittle fat-iran, an' a cook-stove, an'
washboard. I'se dot a tub. An' I wants some dishes an' a stenshun table, an' 'ittle bedstead, an' yuffled seets, an' pillars, an' bue silk kilt, an' ever many sings which papa cannot buy, cause he hasn't dot the money. Vill you send them, Miss Mac-Dolly, pese, an' your likeness, too.
I wants to see how you looks. My mam-ma is pretty, with back hair an'
eyes, but she's awful old-I dess. How old is you? Papa's hair is some dray, an' his viskers, too. My eyes is bue.
”Yours, respectfully, ”_Daisy Thornton_.”
Miss McDonald had been shopping since ten in the morning, and her carriage had stood before dry goods stores, and toy shops, and candy stores, while bundle after bundle had been deposited on the cus.h.i.+ons and others ordered to be sent. But she was nearly through now, and, just as it was beginning to grow dark in the streets, she bade her coachman drive home, where dinner was waiting for her in the dining-room, and her mother was waiting in the parlor. Mrs. McDonald was not very well, and had kept her room all day, but she was better that night, and came down to dine with her daughter. The December wind was cold and raw, and a few snowflakes fell on Daisy's hat and cloak as she ran up the steps and entered the warm, bright room, which seemed so pleasant when contrasted with the dreariness without.
”Oh, how nice this is, and how tired and cold I am!” she said, as she bent over the blazing fire.
”Are you through with your shopping?” Mrs. McDonald asked, in a half-querulous tone, as if she did not altogether approve of her daughter's acts.
”Yes, all through, except a shawl for old Sarah Mackie, and a few more toys for Biddy Warren's blind boy,” Daisy said, and her mother replied: ”Well, I'm sure I shall be glad for your sake when it is over. You'll make youself sick, and you are nearly worn out now, remembering everbody in New York.”
”Not quite everybody, mother,” Daisy rejoined, cheerfully; ”only those whom everybody forgets,-the poor, whom we have with us always. Don't you remember the text, and the little kirk where we heard it preached from?
But come,-dinner is ready, and I am hungry, I a.s.sure you.”
She led the way to the handsome dining-room, and took her seat at the table, looking, in her dark street dress, as her mother had said, pale and worn, as if the shopping had been very hard upon her. And yet it was not so much the fatigue of the day which affected her as the remembrance of a past she did not often dare to recall.
It was at Christmas time years ago that she first met with Guy, and all the day long, as she turned over piles of shawls, and delaines, and flannels, or ordered packages of candy, and bonbons, and dollies by the dozen, her thoughts had been with Guy and the time she met him at Leiter and Field's and he walked home with her. It seemed to her years and years ago, and the idea of having lived so long made her feel old and tired and worn. But the nice dinner and the cheer of the room revived her, and her face looked brighter and more rested when she returned to the parlor, and began to show her mother her purchases.
Daisy did not receive many letters except on business, and, as these usually came in the morning, she did not think to ask if the postman had left her anything; and so it was not until her mother had retired and she was about going to her own room, that she saw a letter lying on the hall-stand. Miss Barker, who had instigated the letter, had never written to her more than once or twice, and then only short notes, and she did not recognize the handwriting at once. But she saw it was post-marked Cuylerville, and a sick, faint sensation crept over her as she wondered who had sent it, and if it contained news of Guy. It was long since she had heard of him,-not, in fact, since poor Tom's death; and she knew nothing of the little girl called for herself, and thus had no suspicion of the terrible shock awaiting her, when at last she broke the seal. Miss Barker had written a few explanatory lines, which were as follows:
”_Cuylerville_, Dec., 18-.
”_Dear Miss McDonald_:-Since saying good-bye to you last June, and going off to the mountains and seaside, while you, like a good Samaritan, stayed in the hot city to look after 'your people,' I have flitted hither and thither until at last I floated out to Cuylerville to visit Mrs. Guy Thornton, who is a friend and former schoolmate of mine.
Here,-not in the house, but in town,-I have heard a story which surprised me not a little, and I now better understand that sad look I have so often seen on your face without at all suspecting the cause.
”Dear friend, pardon me, won't you, for the liberty I have taken since knowing your secret? You would, I am sure, if you only knew what a dear, darling little creature Mr. Thornton's eldest child is. Did you know he had called her Daisy for you? He has, and with her blue eyes and bright auburn hair, she might pa.s.s for your very own, with the exception of her nose, which is decidedly _retrousse_. She is three years old, and the most precocious little witch you ever saw. What think you of her making up a bundle of shawls and ap.r.o.ns, and christening it _Miss Mac-Dolly_, her name for you, and talking to it as if it were really the famous and beautiful woman she fancies it to be? She is your 'sake-name,' she says, and before I knew the facts of the case, I was greatly amused by her talk to the bundle of shawls which she reproached for never having sent her anything. When I asked Julia (that's Mrs. Thornton) who Miss Mac-Dolly was, she merely answered, 'the lady for whom Daisy was named,'
and that was all I knew until the gossips enlightened me, when, without a word to any one, I resolved upon a liberty which I thought I could venture to take with you. I suggested the letter which I inclose, and which I wrote exactly as the words came from the little lady's lips.
Neither Mr. Thornton, nor his wife, know aught of the letter, nor will they unless you respond, for the child will keep her own counsel, I am well a.s.sured.
”Again forgive me if I have done wrong, and believe me, as ever,
”Yours, sincerely, ”_Ella Barker_.”
Daisy's face was pale as ashes as she read Miss Barker's letter, and then s.n.a.t.c.hing up the other devoured its contents almost at a glance, while her breath came in panting gasps, and her heart seemed trying to burst through her throat. She could neither move nor cry out for a moment, but sat like one turned to stone, with a sense of suffocation oppressing her, and a horrible pain in her heart. She had thought the grave was closed, the old wound healed by time and silence, and now a little child had torn it open, and it was bleeding and throbbing again with a pang such as she had never felt before, while there crept over her such a feeling of desolation and loneliness, a want of something unpossessed, as few have ever experienced.
But for her own foolishness that sweet little child might have been hers, she thought, as her heart went after the little one with an indescribable yearning which made her stretch out her arms as if to take the baby to her bosom and hold it there forever. Guy had called it for _her_, and that touched her more than anything else. He had not forgotten her then. She had never supposed he had, but to be thus a.s.sured of it was very sweet, and as she thought of it, and read again little Daisy's letter, the tightness about her heart and the choking sensation in her throat began to give way, and one after another the great tears rolled down her cheeks, slowly at first, but gradually faster and faster until they fell in torrents, and a tempest of sobs shook her frame, as with her head bowed upon her dressing-table she gave vent to her grief. It seemed to her she never could stop crying or grow calm again, for as often as she thought of the touching words, ”I pays for you,” there came a fresh burst of sobs and tears, until at last nature was exhausted, and with a low moan Daisy sank upon her knees and tried to pray, the words which first sprang to her lips framing themselves into thanks that somewhere in the world there was one who prayed for her and loved her too, even though the love might have for its object merely dolls, and candies, and toys. And these the child should have in abundance, and Miss McDonald found herself longing for the morrow in which to begin again the shopping she had thought was nearly ended.
It was in vain next day that her mother remonstrated against her going out, pleading her white, haggard face and the rawness of the day. Daisy was not to be detained at home, and before ten o'clock she was down on Broadway, and the dolly with the ”shash,” and ”pairesol,” which she had seen the day before under its gla.s.s case was hers for twenty-five dollars, and the plainer bit of china, who was to be dollie's mother and perform the parental duty of ”panking her when she was naughty,” was also purchased, and the dishes, and the table, and stove, and bedstead, with ruffled sheets, and pillow-cases, and blue satin spread, and the washboard, and clothes-bars, and tiny wringer, and diverse other toys, were bought with a disregard of expense which made Miss McDonald a wonder to those who waited on her. Such a Christmas-box was seldom sent to a child as that which Daisy packed in her room that night, with her mother looking on and wondering what Sunday-school was to be the recipient of all those costly presents, and suggesting that cheaper articles would have answered just as well.
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