A Little Girl in Old Pittsburg

CHAPTER VI

A NEW FRIEND

"Oh, here's a letter for father. Grandad brought it. From Philadelphia. And here's a queer red something" – and Dilly peered over it.

"Seal," said her mother. "And, why, it's from that friend of great-grandfather's," studying the French emblem. And an odd shiver ran over her, as she suddenly studied her child.

Dilly laughed. "You look as if you were afraid he wanted me, as if he was some cruel old ogre, who might eat me up."

Then Barbe laughed also, and stood the letter on the high shelf over the chimney, that she could just reach.

It was from Monsieur de Ronville. He was coming to Pittsburg on some quite important business, for parties who had heard about the discovery of minerals, and that a blast furnace had been started; that Pittsburg was coming to be a point of connection with the west and south; and he would also like to see his ward and her possessions, that he might be able to advise in time to come. Would Mr. Carrick be kind enough to meet him and bespeak accommodations at some hotel for himself and his man, for all of which he would be extremely obliged.

Bernard Carrick looked at his wife in sheer amazement.

"Hotel! Well, there are only two or three taverns good enough for traders, and that ilk, who don't mind a roystering crew, gaming, and drinking. If it was government business, he might be taken in at the Fort. Why, what can we do? And a man. You see, he is used to the habits of civilized life, and we have had no time to fall into the traces. The Lindsays are in their new house, but I couldn't ask them to take in our guest."

"And we;" Barbe hesitated, then said laughingly, "we shall have to enlarge our borders. Sometime the boy will want a room."

Bernard dropped into grandfather's chair and considered. He had been about the world enough to know the place would look rather rough to a person from one of the chief cities. Somehow, they were a little different. There were pieces of fine old furniture that had come from France, then their ways were rather more refined. It would be the proper thing to take him in. And he would be here in about a week.

Mrs. Bradin agreed on that point. Truth to tell, she was anxious to see this M. de Ronville, whose father had been her father's boyhood's companion.

"Why, you could give him Dilly's room, and she could go over to Norry's," she said as they were discussing the next day what was to be done. "It is a good thing we brought down that old bedstead, though Dilly hated it so."

Dilly had outgrown her little pallet, though at first she declared the high posts were the little brown men grown into giants, who would carry her away. But when grandmere exhumed some faded silk hangings where the roses were of a creamy pink, and cupids with wings were flying about, she was soon reconciled. Then Grandfather Bradin had made her a chest of drawers and two chairs that looked as though they might have been imported.

"And I can fix a bed in the attic for the man, so we will have it all running smoothly."

"You are a great comfort," said Bernard to his mother-in-law.

The post now came every week. Even the busy folks went to meet it for the sake of the newspapers and the occasional letters, though those mostly went to the Fort. Sometimes a few emigrants had joined the train. For now there seemed to have broken out a fever for adventure, for founding new settlements, although in some places the Indians were still troublesome.

Bernard Carrick went to meet his guest. He could have picked him from the group at once by his decidedly foreign air, the French aspect. He was past sixty, rather tall, and very erect, almost soldierly, with a beautiful white beard, though his hair was only half sprinkled with snow. Clear, rather soft dark eyes, and a high-bred air that gave a grave, yet kindly, expression to his countenance. He had his horse, as well as his servant, who was a rather small, shrewd-eyed Frenchman.

Carrick introduced himself, and welcomed his guest cordially, explaining to him that they had not arrived at the dignity of hotels, and that the taverns were but poor affairs, so he would be pleased to offer him the hospitality of his own house.

"Thank you," he returned. "You are the father of my ward, I presume."

"Yes, she is my little girl;" with a smile.

"An odd sort of charge. Though I suppose it was because I was of his country. Nations are clannish."

"We shall get so mixed up that we shall hardly be able to trace our forbears. On her mother's side my little girl is mostly French."

"A little girl!" He seemed surprised.

"She will always be that to me. Only heaven knows my joy and gratitude at coming home from the long struggle, and finding her and her mother alive; indeed, the whole household. I have had a son born since."

"Yes. You were in the war. You may be proud of that. It will be an honor to hand down to your son. But your town – "

With a vague glance around, and an expression that was clearly not admiration.

"It has not had your advantages, nor your people, and is much younger. It seems to me on the verge of civilization."

Bernard Carrick laughed good humoredly.

"That is true," he returned. "Except for the confluence of the rivers there seems no special advantage, though the land is thought to be rich in minerals. And the Fort being built here – the French planned a long chain of them."

"It seems a just return to France for her indifference to her splendid Colonies. And I have lived long enough to see if there are no fatal mistakes made, that this will be a grand country. From the depths of my heart I pray for her welfare."

"And I fought for it," was the younger man's proud reply.

De Ronville had hardly expected to see such a house as this. The aspect was undeniably French, heightened by the old furniture that he had been used to in his boyhood. His room was delightful. Barbe had taken out most of the girl's fancy touches, and odd things her grandfather Bradin had made, and left a grave aspect. Outside, everything was a-bloom, and a rose climbed up a trellis at the side of the window, shaking its nodding fragrant blossoms against the window-pane, and, when it was open, showering in its sweet silky leaves.

They made friends readily. Great-grandfather Duvernay was the link between, and the women were more French than of any other race. It was almost supper time when Daffodil came in, leading her little brother by the hand. In him again the mother's type predominated; he was a fine, robust child, with a fearless, upright expression, and a voice that had none of the rougher tones of so many of the early settlers. But Daffodil! He studied her with a little wonder.

For her abundant hair had not yet shaken off its gold, and lay in loose thick curls about her neck. Her complexion was of that rare texture that neither sun nor wind roughened, and all the care it had was cleanliness and the big bonnets of those days. Her features were quite regular, the nose straight, rather defiant, but the beautiful mouth, full of the most tantalizing curves, fun, laughter, sweetness, and the something termed coquetry in older women, that is not always experience either. She was slender and full of grace, tall for her age, but most girls grew up quickly, though she had not left the fairyland of childhood.

"I am glad to see the darling of my old friend," smiling as he took her soft, dimpled hand. "I have always thought of her as a very little girl, sitting on the arm of her grandfather's chair – "

"Oh, did he tell you that!" in her bright, eager tone. "Yes, and we used to talk – he told me so much about France and – it was your father – was it not? I thought you must be quite young;" and a faint touch of surprise passed over her face.

"We were both set back in memory, it seems. And even I am getting to be quite an old man."

"But I like old men," she said, with charming frankness, and a tint of color deepened in her cheek. "They are all old except father, and the men who come in to play games are wrinkled up, and some of them have white hair. I've had such a lot of grandfathers, and only one grandmother."

"How did you get more than two?"

"It was great-grandfather Duvernay," explained Barbe, "that made the third."

"And this is his chair. Mother wanted to take it away, but I could not bear to have it leave this corner. I could see him in it. Strange how you can see one who is not really there, or do they come back for a moment? Here is the arm where I sat, and I used to put my arm round his neck. I am going to let you sit in his chair. Father won't mind;" glancing inquiringly at her mother.

"Dilly, you are too forward," and Barbe colored. Felix was climbing in her lap and almost upset her.

"No, no; her prattle is the most cordial welcome. And I hope you will soon like me well enough to come and sit on the arm and hear my stories."

"Oh, have you what Norry calls a bag of stories, that the little brown men carry about? They're queer, and they drop them over you while you are asleep, and that makes dreams, and you see people, and have good times with them."

M. de Ronville laughed. Bernard came in; he had been settling the man, and the luggage, and now repeated his hearty welcome.

When M. de Ronville settled himself in the corner and the chair you could almost fancy grandfather had come back. They had a strong likeness of race of the higher type, those who had been pure livers and held strongly to their religion. He was very tired with the journey and looked pale as he sat there, relaxed.

Barbe and her mother spread the table. They had a sort of outdoor kitchen they used for cooking in the warm weather. Felix was asking questions of his sister, who answered them with a sort of teasing gayety. Why was this so and that, and did she ever see a panther. Jimmy Servy's father killed a wolf out by the Fort, and Jimmy said a wolf would eat you up. Would it truly? "Then when I am big enough to fire a gun I'll go out and shoot all I can find."

The supper was most appetizing if it did not have the style of his own house. He was really pleased with the simplicity of the two women, and Mr. Bradin and his son-in-law certainly were intelligent if they had not the range of the greater world. Daffodil was quiet and well-mannered he observed. In truth he was agreeably surprised with these people who were not held in high esteem by the culture of the large city.

Dilly came to him afterward.

"I am going over to grandad's," she announced. "I stay all night with them sometimes. Oh, I hope you will like Norry. I love her dearly and you mustn't mind if grandad is a little queer."

"No, I will not," amused at her frankness.

"He is just a splendid old man!" she announced to Norah. "And he looks like great-grandfather. I'm going to like him ever so much, and I want you to."

"Oh, yes, I'll like him," responded Norah readily. "I fancied he was one of the high and mighty dukes like that Colonel Leavitt, and I'm glad for your mother's sake that he's comfortable to get along with. It never would have done for him to go to a tavern."

They talked a little at the other house and then retired for the night. And the next day was a busy one. Bernard Carrick took him about and they inspected the blast furnace on which high hopes were built, but the knowledge in those times was rather limited. It struggled along for some years and then better things came in its stead.

The river front was quite a busy place. Yes, de Ronville admitted there was great promise of a thriving city. And over opposite might be another. He knew how the cities on the eastern coast had improved and grown in power. One had only to wait. And his ward was young. Though he wondered a little at the faith of his friend Duvernay. But the old man, not so old then, had in his mind the beautiful estates in the land of his birth, and this land commanding the river and what would sometime be a thriving town attracted his fancy. He had hoped so that Barbe's child would be a son, but he had loved Daffodil with the passion of declining years. Felix had come too late.

M. de Ronville found much to interest him. The eastern shore would not be all of the country. Explorers were sending back glowing tales of western possibilities. Towns were springing up and this was the key to them all. There were large tracts of fertile lands that seemed to have been deserted by the Indians and that were of amazing fertility. After all Felix Duvernay had made no mistake.

And Daffodil found her way to the guest's heart with very little effort. It might have been her beauty, that no one around seemed aware of, or her pretty, winsome manner. She accompanied him and her father on their rides about. She was a graceful and well-trained horsewoman. She had so many dainty legends of out-of-the-way nooks; most of them Norah had grafted on old country tales.

And the evenings at home came to be quite a delight for them all, listening to the glories of his city and the strides it had made. Of the famous men, of the many incidents in the great struggle, its churches and various entertainments as well as the social aspect. Daffodil listened enchanted.

They had come to be such friends that she sat on the broad arm of the chair, but he noted her wonderful delicacy in never dropping into familiarities, while they were so common with her father, and grandad was almost rough with her. True, Barbe had an innate refinement and it was the child's birth-right as well.

She sat there one afternoon. Mother and grandmother were busy preserving fruit for winter use, it grew so plentifully, but they had not mastered the art of keeping some of the choicest through the winter uncooked.

"Daffodil," he began gravely, "your parents have entertained me most delightfully. You have a charming home and I shall hate to leave it. But on Thursday there is a return post and I have overstayed the time I thought would be ample to transact the business I came about. And now I must return."

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Oh, I do not want you to go."

What pleading, beautiful eyes she raised to him.

Old as he was it thrilled through his pulses.

"But, my child, I cannot live here. And I shall miss you so much. Why I have half a mind to run away with you. I wonder if you would like a visit to my beautiful city."

"Oh, it would be splendid! But – is there any one – "

"To take care of you? There is a housekeeper and a maid, and a jolly, good-natured black woman, who cooks in the kitchen. There are two carriages and horses, and there will be so much to see. It is so different from this."

She seemed to consider. "Yes," rather irresolutely, "if I could go. They would miss me so much here."

"And would you be homesick?"

"Not in a good long while, with you;" she returned with a child's innocence. "And you would surely let me come back?"

"Yes, my dear; even if it broke my heart to do it. I wish you were my little granddaughter."

"Then I would have another grandfather," and she gave a soft, musical ripple. After an instant she caught his hand in hers so plump and warm, and exclaimed – "Oh, I should like to go."

"Dilly; Dilly!" exclaimed the fresh boyish voice; "come and see what I have. Grandad and I have been fishing."

There was a string of shining plump fish that as Felix said still wiggled in their freshness. "Oh, Dilly, if you only were a boy! Grandad says you are not worth a button at fishing."

"They're fine, little brother. No, I don't love to fish. And baiting!" She shuddered as she spoke.

"But you can eat them afterward."

"I couldn't if I caught them myself."

"I wanted a nice lot before the gentleman went away. And Katy and Peg Boyle were out and they are great. It was a fine afternoon for fishing I tell you!"

She went through to the kitchen with him. He was a boy for all kinds of sport, but he abhorred school and was glad when it closed early in the summer, for the boys and girls were needed at home. Sandy Carrick inducted his grandson into all boyish pursuits. His heart was bound up in Felix.

He began to prepare the fish for cooking. Dilly looked out over the wide expanse where trees were thick with leaves and laden with fruit. But she did not truly see anything for her eyes were following her thoughts. To go to a great and wonderful city where they had rung the first bell for independence, to see the splendid houses and the ladies in fine array and to hear beautiful music. But of course she could not go. They would miss her so much. Yet it seemed as if she did very little now.

They had not the strenuous methods of to-day. If those old settlers of Pittsburg with their simple living could come back they would lose their senses at the luxury and striving for gain, the magnificence, the continual hurry and restlessness, the whirl of business undreamed of then. No one was striving to outshine his neighbor. House furnishing lasted through generations. Fashions in gowns and hats went on year after year, and it left time for many other things. Barbe Carrick found hours for lace-making; as was the custom of that time she was laying by in the old oaken chest articles and napery for the time when Daffodil would go to a home of her own. For then it was a great disappointment to the mother if a girl did not marry.

In the old chair Gaspard de Ronville sat dreaming. He should have married long ago and had children and grandchildren. Would there have been one pretty, golden-haired girl among them with a sweet voice and such eyes as were sure to find the way to one's heart, such rosy, laughing lips, sweet for lovers to kiss when the time came? And then – oh, if it could be!

That evening he laid his plan before the household. Might he take Daffodil for a few months' visit, and thereby return their cordial hospitality that had given him a most unexpected pleasure. She would be well taken care of, that he could assure them. And in event of her losing her natural protectors he as her trustee and guardian would be only too happy to take charge of her. He would have her best interests at heart always. And it might be well for her to see a little of the world. She might desire more education than the place could afford.

They were all too much amazed to reply at once.

"Pittsburg is good enough!" flung out grandad. "Her interests will be here. She'll marry here, she'll die and be buried here, and she'll know enough to get to heaven at the last without all the folderols of a great city, as those folks think it because they rung their bell when they cut loose from the mother country!"

"Oh, we couldn't spare her," said the mother. "And, Dilly, you wouldn't want to go away among strangers."

"Oh, no," returned the little girl, and she knew then she had two sides to her nature, and one was longing for the new and untried, and the other clung to what was familiar. There were tears in her eyes, but she could not have told which chord of her soul of all the many was touched.

"I should just die without you!" protested Norah. "I couldn't love a colleen of my own better."

Grandmere said but little. She saw there was an unquiet longing in the child's heart. She could not quite approve of trusting her to strangers, but she knew girls had come from the old world to Virginia and married men they had never seen before, and made good wives and mothers. Daffodil was too young to think of lovers, two years hence there might be danger.

"I'd go!" declared Felix in his most manly fashion. "Why, Tim Byerly has been out to Ohio, which is a real country, not all a river. And Joe Avery went over to the Mes'sipy and down to New Orleans."

"Mississippi," corrected his mother.

"That's what Joe calls it. And men haven't time for such long names. Yes, I mean to go about when I'm big and have some money. Father 'n' I'll set out and discover some new state and take possession of it in the name of the President. Of course girls can't set out to discover things. And Philadelphia has been discovered already."

They had not long to think about it. And as if to make it the more possible an old neighbor, Mrs. Craig, who was going to spend the winter in the distant city with a married daughter, offered to give her a mother's care on the journey. Girl friends came in and envied her the wonderful luck. Most of the neighbors took it for granted that she would go.

As for the little girl she changed her mind about every hour. She had come to care a great deal about M. de Ronville. In youth one responds so readily to affection and he had learned to love her as he had never loved anything in his life. He was charmed with her frankness and simplicity, her utter unworldliness. She seemed to care no more for the great estate over the river than if it had been a mere garden patch. And he thought her too lovely to be wasted upon any of these rather rough, commonplace young men. She must be taught to know and appreciate her own value.

It was only settled the night before. There was no need of much making ready, they could get what she wanted in the great city. And they must allow him the pleasure of providing for her. No one would be wronged by whatever he might do for her.

Grandad had been very grumpy about it, and Norah cried and scolded and then admitted it was the most splendid thing, like a fairy story. Felix was full of delight. And the good-by's were so crowded at the last that her head was in a whirl. She felt as if she should come back that same night and talk over her day's journey.

And so the little girl went out of Pittsburg with good wishes, and perhaps a little envy from those who would like to have been in her place.

CHAPTER VII

DAFFODIL'S NEW WORLD

Their first stage was in the coach. There was really quite a caravan for the weather was very pleasant for such a trip. Mrs. Craig fussed a little in a motherly way, and M. de Ronville watched her attentively, fearful she might give way to tears. But she had a stunned, incredulous feeling. Two men in the coach were arguing about the feasibility of Philadelphia becoming the capital of the Nation. It should never have gone to New York, which, after all, had been a nest of Tories.

One of the men recalled grandad to her mind and she could not forbear a vague little smile. It roused her to an amused interest and she asked M. de Ronville in a low tone which was right.

"The stout man is right, but he might be less dogmatic about it. I wondered at its going so far North."