Meanwhile Maria beat and mixed and stirred the things in her wooden bowl; and by and by ladled out a glassful of rich-looking, yellow, creamy froth – I did not know what it was, only it looked beautiful – and presented it to me.
"Miss Daisy mus' tell Mis' Felissy Maria hain't forgot how to make it – 'spect she hain't, anyhow. Dat's for Miss Daisy's Christmas."
"It's very nice!" I said.
"Reckon it is," was the capable answer.
"Won't you give everybody some, Maria?" For Jem had gone upstairs with a tray and glasses, and Maria seemed to be resting upon her labours.
"Dere'll come down orders for mo', chile; and 'spose I gives it to de company, what'll Mis' Lisa do wid Maria? I have de 'sponsibility of Christmas."
"But you can make some more," I said, holding my glass in waiting. "Do, Maria."
"'Spose hain't got de 'terials, hey?"
"What do you want? Aunt Gary will give it to you." And I begged Jem to go up again and prefer my request to her for the new filling of Maria's bowl. Jem shrugged his shoulders, but he went; and I suppose he made a good story of it; for he came down with whatever was wanted – my Aunt Gary was in a mood to refuse me nothing then – and Maria went anew about the business of beating and mixing and compounding.
There was great enjoyment in the kitchen. It was a time of high festival, what with me and the egg supper. Merriment and jocularity, a little tide-wave of social excitement, swelled and broke on all sides of me; making a soft ripply play of fun and repartee, difficult to describe, and which touched me as much as it amused. It was very unlike the enjoyment of a set of white people holding the same social and intellectual grade. It was the manifestation of another race, less coarse and animal in their original nature, more sensitive and more demonstrative, with a strange touch of the luxurious and refined for a people whose life has had nothing to do with luxury, and whom refinement leaves on one side as quite beyond its sphere. But blood is a strange thing; and Ham's children will show luxurious and æsthetic tastes, take them where you will.
"Chillen, I hope you's enjoyed your supper," Maria said, when the last lingering drops had been secured, and mugs and glasses were coming back to the kitchen table.
Words and smiles answered her. "We's had a splendid time, Aunt Maria," said one young man as he set down his glass. He was a worker in the garden.
"Den I hope's we's all willin' to gib de Lord t'anks for His goodness. Dere ain't a night in de year when it's so proper to gib de Lord t'anks, as it be dis precious night."
"It's to-morrow night, Aunt Maria," said Pete. "To-morrow's Christmas night."
"I don't care! One night's jus' as good as another, you Pete. And now we's all together, you see, and comfortable together; and I feel like giving t'anks, I do, to de Lord, for all His mercies."
"What's Christmas, anyhow?" asked another.
"It's jus' de crown o' all the nights in de year. You Solomon, it's a night dat dey keeps up in heaven. You know nothin' about it, you poor critter. I done believe you never hearn no one tell about it. Maybe Miss Daisy wouldn't read us de story, and de angels, and de shepherds, and dat great light what come down, and make us feel good for Christmas; and Uncle Darry, he'll t'ank de Lord."
The last words were put in a half-questioning form to me, rather taking for granted that I would readily do what was requested. And hardly anything in the world, I suppose, could have given me such deep gratification at the moment. Margaret was sent upstairs to fetch my Bible; the circle closed in around the fire and me; a circle of listening, waiting, eager, interested faces, some few of them shone with pleasure, or grew grave with reverent love, while I read slowly the chapters that tell of the first Christmas night. I read them from all the gospels, picking the story out first in one, then in another; answered sometimes by low words of praise that echoed but did not interrupt me – words that were but some dropped notes of the song that began that night in heaven, and has been running along the ages since, and is swelling and will swell into a great chorus of earth and heaven by and by. And how glad I was in the words of the story myself, as I went along. How heart-glad that here, in this region of riches and hopes not earthly, those around me had as good welcome, and as open entrance, and as free right as I. "There is neither bond nor free." "And base things of this world, and things which are despised, hath God chosen, yea, and things which are not, to bring to nought things that are."
I finished my reading at last, amid the hush of my listening audience. Then Maria called upon Darry to pray, and we all kneeled down.
It comes back to me now as I write – the hush and the breathing of the fire, and Darry's low voice and imperfect English. Yes, and the incoming tide of rest and peace and gladness which began to fill the dry places in my heart, and rose and swelled till my heart was full. I lost my troubles and forgot my difficulties. I forgot that my father and mother were away, for the sense of loneliness was gone. I forgot that those around me were in bonds, for I felt them free as I, and inheritors of the same kingdom. I have not often in my life listened to such a prayer, unless from the same lips. He was one of those that make you feel that the door is open to their knocking, and that they always find it so. His words were seconded – not interrupted, even to my feelings – by low-breathed echoes of praise and petition, too soft and deep to leave any doubt of the movement that called them forth.
There was a quiet gravity upon all when we rose to our feet again. I knew I must go; but the kitchen had been the pleasantest place to me in all Magnolia. I bade them good-night, answered with bows and curtseys and hearty wishes; and as I passed out of the circle, tall black Pete, looking down upon me with just a glimmer of white between his lips, added, "Hope you'll come again."
A thought darted into my head which brought sunshine with it. I seemed to see my way begin to open.
The hope was warm in my heart as soon as I was awake the next morning. With more comfort than for many days I had known, I lay and watched Margaret making my fire. Then suddenly I remembered it was Christmas, and what thanksgivings had been in heaven about it, and what should be on earth; and a lingering of the notes of praise I had heard last night made a sort of still music in the air. But I did not expect at all that any of the ordinary Christmas festivities would come home to me, seeing that my father and mother were away. Where should Christmas festivities come from? So, when Margaret rose up and showed all her teeth at me, I only thought last night had given her pleasure, and I suspected nothing, even when she stepped into the next room and brought in a little table covered with a shawl, and set it close to my bedside. "Am I to have breakfast in bed?" I asked. "What is this for?"
"Dunno, Miss Daisy," said Margaret, with all her white teeth sparkling; – "'spose Miss Daisy take just a look, and see what 'pears like."
I felt the colour come into my face. I raised myself on my elbow and lifted up cautiously one corner of the shawl. Packages – white paper and brown paper – long and short, large and small! "O Margaret, take off the shawl, will you!" I cried; "and let me see what is here."
There was a good deal. But "From Papa" caught my eye on a little parcel. I seized it and unfolded. From papa, and he so far away! But I guessed the riddle before I could get to the last of the folds of paper that wrapped and enwrapped a little morocco case. Papa and mamma, leaving me alone, had made provision beforehand, that when this time came I might miss nothing except themselves. They had thought and cared and arranged for me; and now they were thinking about it, perhaps, far away somewhere over the sea. I held the morocco case in my hand a minute or two before I could open it. Then I found a little watch; my dear little watch! which has gone with me ever since, and never failed nor played tricks with me. My mother had put in one of her own chains for me to wear with it.
I lay a long time looking and thinking, raised up on my elbow as I was, before I could leave the watch and go on to anything else. Margaret spread round my shoulders the shawl which had covered the Christmas table; and then she stood waiting, with a good deal more impatience and curiosity than I showed. But such a world of pleasure and pain gathered round that first "bit of Christmas" – so many, many thoughts of one and the other kind – that I for awhile had enough with that. At last I closed the case, and keeping it yet in one hand, used the other to make more discoveries. The package labelled "From Mamma," took my attention next; but I could make nothing of it. An elegant little box, that was all, which I could not open; only it felt so very heavy that I was persuaded there must be something extraordinary inside. I could make nothing of it: it was a beautiful box; that was all. Preston had brought me a little riding whip, both costly and elegant. I could not but be much pleased with it. A large, rather soft package, marked with Aunt Gary's name, unfolded a riding cap to match; at least, it was exceeding rich and stylish, with a black feather that waved away in curves that called forth Margaret's delighted admiration. Nevertheless, I wondered, while I admired, at my Aunt Gary's choice of a present. I had a straw hat which served all purposes, even of elegance, for my notions. I was amazed to find that Miss Pinshon had not forgotten me. There was a decorated pen, wreathed with a cord of crimson and gold twist, and supplemented with two dangling tassels. It was excessively pretty, as I thought of Aunt Gary's cap; and not equally convenient. I looked at all these things while Margaret was dressing me; but the case with the watch, for the most part, I remember I kept in my hand.
"Ain't you goin' to try it on and see some how pretty it looks, Miss Daisy?" said my unsatisfied attendant.
"The cap?" said I. "Oh, I dare say it fits. Aunt Gary knows how big my head is."
"Mass' Preston come last night," she went on; "so I reckon Miss Daisy'll want to wear it by and by."
"Preston come last night!" I said. "After I was in bed?" – and feeling that it was indeed Christmas, I finished getting ready and went downstairs. I made up my mind I might as well be friends with Preston, and not push any further my displeasure at his behaviour. So we had a comfortable breakfast. My aunt was pleased to see me, she said, look so much better. Miss Pinshon was not given to expressing what she felt; but she looked at me two or three times without saying anything, which I suppose meant satisfaction. Preston was in high feather, making all sorts of plans for my divertisement during the next few days. I, for my part, had my own secret cherished plan, which made my heart beat quicker whenever I thought of it. But I wanted somebody's counsel and help; and on the whole I thought my Aunt Gary's would be the safest. So after breakfast I consulted Preston only about my mysterious little box, which would not open. Was it a paper weight?
Preston smiled, took up the box and performed some conjuration upon it, and then – I cannot describe my entranced delight – as he set it down again on the table, the room seemed to grow musical. Softest, most liquid sweet notes came pouring forth one after the other, binding my ears as if I had been in a state of enchantment; binding feet and hands and almost my breath, as I stood hushed and listening to the liquid warbling of delicious things, until the melody had run itself out. It was a melody unknown to me; wild and dainty; it came out of a famous opera, I was told afterward. When the fairy notes sunk into silence, I turned mutely towards Preston. Preston laughed.
"I declare!" he said, – "I declare! Hurra! you have got colour in your cheeks, Daisy; absolutely, my little Daisy! there is a real streak of pink there where it was so white before."
"What is it?" said I.
"Just a little good blood coming up under the skin."
"Oh no, Preston —this; what is it?"
"A musical box."
"But where does the music come from?"
"Out of the box. See, Daisy; when it has done a tune and is run out, you must wind it up, so, – like a watch."
He wound it up and set it on the table again. And again a melody came forth, and this time it was different; not plaintive and thoughtful, but jocund and glad; a little shout and ring of merriment, like the feet of dancers scattering the drops of dew in a bright morning; or like the chime of a thousand little silver bells rung for laughter. A sort of intoxication came into my heart. When Preston would have wound up the box again, I stopped him. I was full of the delight. I could not hear any more just then.
"Why, Daisy, there are ever so many more tunes."
"Yes. I am glad. I will have them another time," I answered. "How very kind of mamma!"
"Hit the right thing this time, didn't she? How's the riding cap, Daisy?"
"It is very nice," I said. "Aunt Gary is very good; and I like the whip very much, Preston."
"That fat little rascal will want it. Does the cap fit, Daisy?"
"I don't know," I said. "Oh yes, I suppose so."
Preston made an exclamation, and forthwith would have it tried on to see how it looked. It satisfied him; somehow it did not please me as well; but the ride did, which we had soon after; and I found that my black feather certainly suited everybody else. Darry smiled at me, and the house servants were exultant over my appearance.
Amid all these distracting pleasures, I kept on the watch for an opportunity to speak to Aunt Gary alone. Christmas day I could not. I could not get it till near the next day.
"Aunt Gary," I said, "I want to consult you about something."
"You have always something turning about in your head," was her answer.
"Do you think," said I slowly, "Mr. Edwards would have any objection to some of the people coming to the kitchen Sunday evenings to hear me read the Bible?"
"To hear you read the Bible!" said my aunt.
"Yes, Aunt Gary; I think they would like it. You know they cannot read it for themselves."
"They would like it. And you would be delighted, wouldn't you?"
"Yes, Aunt Gary. I should like it better than anything."
"You are a funny child! There is not a bit of your mother in you – except your obstinacy."
And my aunt seemed to ponder my difference.
"Would Mr. Edwards object to it, do you think? Would he let them come?"
"The question is whether I will let them come. Mr. Edwards has no business with what is done in the house."
"But, Aunt Gary, you would not have any objection."
"I don't know, I am sure. I wish your father and mother had never left you in my charge; for I don't know how to take care of you."
"Aunt Gary," I said, "please don't object! There is nobody to read the Bible to them – and I should like to do it very much."
"Yes, I see you would. There – don't get excited about it – every Sunday evening, did you say?"
"Yes, ma'am, if you please."
"Daisy, it will just tire you; that's what it will do. I know it, just as well as if I had seen it. You are not strong enough."
"I am sure it would refresh me, Aunt Gary. It did the other night."
"The other night?"
"Christmas eve, ma'am."
"Did you read to them then?"
"Yes, ma'am; they wanted to know what Christmas was about."
"And you read to them. You are the oddest child!"
"But Aunt Gary, never mind – it would be the greatest pleasure to me. Won't you give leave?"
"The servants hear the Bible read, child, every morning and every night."
"Yes, but that is only a very few of the house servants. I want some of the others to come – a good many – as many as can come."
"I wish your mother and father were here!" sighed my aunt.
"Do you think Mr. Edwards would make any objection?" I asked again, presuming on the main question being carried. "Would he let them come?"
"Let them come!" echoed my aunt. "Mr. Edwards would be well employed to interfere with anything the family chose to do."
"But you know he does not let them meet together, the people, Aunt Gary; not unless they have his permission."
"No, I suppose so. That is his business."
"Then will you speak to him, ma'am, so that he may not be angry with the people when they come?"
"I? No," said my aunt. "I have nothing to do with your father's overseer. It would just make difficulty, maybe, Daisy; you had better let this scheme of yours alone."
I could not without bitter disappointment. Yet I did not know how further to press the matter. I sat still and said nothing.
"I declare, if she isn't growing pale about it!" exclaimed my aunt. "I know one thing, and that is, your father and mother ought to have taken you along with them. I have not the least idea how to manage you; not the least. What is it you want to do, Daisy?"
I explained over again.
"And now if you cannot have this trick of your fancy you will just fidget yourself sick! I see it. Just as you went driving all about Melbourne without company to take care of you. I am sure I don't know. It is not in my way to meddle with overseers – How many people do you want to read to at once, Daisy?"
"As many as I can, Aunt Gary. But Mr. Edwards will not let two or three meet together anywhere."
"Well, I dare say he is right. You can't believe anything in the world these people tell you, child. They will lie just as fast as they will speak."
"But if they came to see me, Aunt Gary?" I persisted, waiving the other question.
"That's another thing, of course. Well, don't worry. Call Preston. Why children cannot be children passes my comprehension."
Preston came, and there was a good deal of discussing of my plan; at which Preston frowned and whistled, but on the whole, though I knew against his will, took my part. The end was, my aunt sent for the overseer. She had some difficulty, I judge, in carrying the point; and made capital of my ill-health and delicacy and spoiled-child character. The overseer's unwilling consent was gained at last; the conditions being, that every one who came to hear the reading should have a ticket of leave, written and signed by myself, for each evening; and that I should be present with the assembly from the beginning to the close of it.
My delight was very great. And my aunt, grumbling at the whole matter, and especially at her share in it, found an additional cause of grumbling in that, she said, I had looked twenty per cent. better ever since this foolish thing got possession of my head. "I am wondering," she remarked to Miss Pinshon, "whatever Daisy will do when she grows up. I expect nothing but she will be – what do you call them? – one of those people who run wild over the human race."
"Pirates?" suggested Preston. "Or corsairs?"
"Her mother will be disappointed," went on my aunt. "That is what I confidently expect."
Miss Pinshon hinted something about the corrective qualities of mathematics; but I was too happy to heed her or care. I was stronger and better, I believe, from that day; though I had not much to boast of. A true tonic had been administered to me; my fainting energies took a new start.
I watched my opportunity, and went down to the kitchen one evening to make my preparations. I found Maria alone and sitting in state before the fire – which I believe was always in the kitchen a regal one. I hardly aver saw it anything else. She welcomed me with great suavity; drew up a chair for me; and finding I had something to say, sat then quite grave and still looking into the blaze, while I unfolded my plan.
"De Lord is bery good!" was her subdued comment, made when I had done. "He hab sent His angel, sure!"
"Now, Maria," I went on, "you must tell me who would like to come next Sunday, you think; and I must make tickets for them. Every one must have my ticket, with his name on it; and then there will be no fault found."
"I s'pose not," said Maria – "wid Miss Daisy's name on it."
"Who will come, Maria?"
"Laws, chile, dere's heaps. Dere's Darry, and Pete – Pete, he say de meetin' de oder night war 'bout de best meetin' he eber 'tended; he wouldn't miss it for not'ing in de world; he's sure; and dere's ole 'Lize; and de two Jems – no, dere's tree Jems dat is ser'ous; and Stark, and Carl, and Sharlim – "
"Sharlim?" said I, not knowing that this was the Caffir for Charlemagne.
"Sharlim," Maria repeated. "He don' know much; but he has a leanin' for de good t'ings. And Darry, he can tell who'll come. I done forget all de folks' names."
"Why, Maria," I said, "I did not know there were so many people at Magnolia that cared about the Bible."
"What has 'um to care for, chile, I should like fur to know? Dere ain't much mo' in dis world."
"But I thought there were only very few," I said.
"'Spose um fifty," said Maria. "Fifty ain't much, I reckon, when dere's all de rest o' de folks what don't care. De Lord's people is a little people yet, for sure; and de world's a big place. When de Lord come Hisself, to look for 'em, 'spect He have to look mighty hard. De world's awful dark."
That brought to my mind my question. It was odd, no doubt, to choose an old coloured woman for my adviser, but indeed, I had not much choice; and something had given me a confidence in Maria's practical wisdom, which early as it had been formed, nothing ever happened to shake. So, after considering the fire and the matter a moment, I brought forth my doubt.
"Maria," said I, "what is the best way – I mean, how can one let one's light shine?"
"What Miss Daisy talkin' about?"
"I mean – you know what the Bible says – 'Let your light so shine before men that they may see your good works and glorify your Father which is in heaven.'"
"For sure, I knows dat. Ain't much shining in dese yere parts. De people is dark, Miss Daisy; dey don' know. 'Spect dey would try to shine, some on 'em, ef dey knowed. Feel sure dey would."
"But that is what I wanted to ask about, Maria. How ought one to let one's light shine?"
I remember now the kind of surveying look the woman gave me. I do not know what she was thinking of; but she looked at me, up and down, for a moment, with a wonderfully tender, soft expression. Then turned away.
"How let um light shine?" she repeated. "De bestest way, Miss Daisy, is fur to make him burn good."
I saw it all immediately; my question never puzzled me again. Take care that the lamp is trimmed; take care that it is full of oil; see that the flame mounts clear and steady towards heaven; and the Lord will set it where its light will fall on what pleases Him, and where it will reach, mayhap, to what you never dream of.