"Personally and socially. Not exactly. But I am historically
unknown."
"Historically!" echoed my aunt.
"And living is cheaper here too."
"But one must have some money, even here, Felicia."
"I have jewels," said mamma.
"Your jewels! - Daisy might have prevented all this," said
Aunt Gary, looking at me.
"Daisy is one of those whose religion it is to please
themselves."
"But, my dear, you must be married some time," my aunt went
on, appealingly.
"I do not think that is certain, Aunt Gary."
"You are not waiting for Preston, are you? I hope not; for he
is likely to be as poor as you are; if he gets through the
battles, poor boy!" And my aunt put her handkerchief to her
eyes.
"I am not waiting for Preston," I said, "any more than he is
waiting for me."
"I don't know how that is," said my aunt. "Preston was very
dependent on you, Daisy; but I don't know - since he has heard
these stories of you" "Daisy is nothing to Preston!" my mother broke in with some
sharpness. "Tell him so, if he ever broaches the question to
you. Cut that matter short. I have other views for Daisy, when
she returns to her duty. I believe in a religion of obedience
- not in a religion of independent self-will. I wish Daisy had
been brought up in a convent. She would, if I had had my way.
These popular religions throw over all law and order. I hate
them!"
"You see, Daisy my dear, how pleasant it would be, if you
could see things as your mother does," my aunt remarked.
"I am indifferent whether Daisy has my eyes or not," said
mamma; "what I desire is, that she should have my will."
The talks came to nothing, ended in nothing, did nothing. My
aunt Gary at the beginning of winter went back to America. My
mother did as she had proposed; sold some of her jewels, and
so paid her way in Switzerland for some months longer. But
this could not last. Dr. Sandford urged her return; she wished
also to be nearer to Ransom; and in the spring we once more
embarked for home.
The winter had been exceedingly sad to me. No word from
America ever reached my hands to give me any comfort; and I
was alone with my sorrow. Mamma's state of mind, too, which
was most uncomfortable for her, was extremely trying to me;
because it consisted of regrets that I could not soothe,
anxieties that I was unable to allay, and reproachful wishes
that I could neither meet nor promise to meet. Constant
repinings, ceaseless irritations, purposeless discussions;
they wearied my heart, but I could bring no salve nor remedy
unless I would have agreed to make a marriage for money. I
missed all that had brought so much sweetness into even my
Paris life, with my talks with papa, and readings, and
sympathy, and mutual confidence. It was a weary winter, my
only real earthly friend being Mont Pilatte. Except Mr.
Dinwiddie. I had written to him and got one or two good,
strong, kind, helpful answers. Ah, what a good thing a good
letter is!