EXTRACTS FROM DIARIES
_Extract 1st--Mr. McDonald's._
MAY ----.
Well, that matter is over, and I can't say I am sorry, for the
expression in that Thornton's eye I do not care to meet a second time.
There was mischief in it, and it made one think of six-shooters and cold
lead. I never quite indorsed the man--first, because he was not as rich
as I would like Daisy's husband to be, and, second, because even if he
had been a millionaire it would have done me no good. That he did not
marry Daisy's family, he made me fully understand, and for any good his
money did me, I was as poor after the marriage as before. Then he must
needs lose all he had in that foolish way, and when I found that Daisy
was not exceedingly in love with married life, it was natural that, as
her father, I should take advantage of the laws of the State in which I
live, especially as Tom is growing rich so fast. On the whole, I have
done a good thing. Daisy is free, with ten thousand dollars that
Thornton settled on her, for, of course, I shall prevent her giving that
back, as she is determined to do, saying it is not hers, and she will
not keep it. It is hers, and she shall keep it, and Tom will be a
millionaire if that gold mine proves as great a success as it seems now
to be, and I can manage Tom, and, as I said before, I've done a nice
thing after all.
_Extract 2nd--Miss Thornton's._
JUNE 30, 18--.
To-day, for the first time, we have hopes that my brother will live;
but, oh! how near he has been to the gates of death since that night
when he came back to us from the West, with a fearful look on his face
and a cruel stab in his heart. I say us, for Julia Hamilton has been
with me all through the dreadful days and nights when I watched to see
Guy's life go out and know I was left alone. She was with me when I was
getting ready for Daisy and waiting for Guy to bring her home--not to
Elmwood--that dear old place is sold and strangers walk the rooms I love
so well--but here to the brown cottage on the hill, which, if I had
never had Elmwood, would seem so pleasant to me.
And it is pleasant here, especially in Daisy's room, which we shall
never use, for the door is shut and bolted, and it seems each time I
pass it as if a dead body were inside. Had Guy died I would have laid
him there and sent for that false creature to come and see her work. I
promised her so much, but not from any love, for my heart was full of
bitterness that night when I turned her from the door out into the rain.
I shall never tell Guy that--never, lest he should soften toward her,
and I would not have her here again for all the world contains. And yet
I did like her, and was looking forward to her return with a good deal
of pleasure. Julia had spoken many a kind word for her, had pleaded her
extreme youth as an excuse for her faults, and had led me to hope for
better things when time had matured her somewhat and she had become
accustomed to our new mode of life.
And so I hoped and waited for her and Guy, and wondered I did not hear
from him, and felt so glad and happy when I received the telegram,
"Shall be home to-night." It was a bright day in May, but the evening
set in cool, with a feeling of rain in the air, and I had a fire kindled
in the parlor and in Daisy's room, for I remembered how she used to
crouch on the rug before the grate and watch the blaze floating up the
chimney with all the eagerness of a child. Then, although it hurt me
sorely, I went to Simpson, who bought our carriage, and asked that it
might be sent to the station so that Daisy should not feel the
difference at once. And Jerry, our old coachman, went with it and waited
there just as Julia and I waited at home, for Julia had promised to stay
a few weeks and see what Daisy was like.
The train was late that night, an hour behind time, and the spring rain
was falling outside and the gas was lighted within when I heard the
sound of wheels stopping at the door and went to meet my brother. But
only my brother. There was no Daisy with him. He came in alone, with
such an awful look on his white face as made me cry out with alarm.
"What it is, Guy, and where is Daisy?" I asked, as he staggered against
the banister, where he leaned heavily.
He did not answer my question, but said, "Take me to my room," in a
voice I would never have known for Guy's. I took him to his room, made
him lie down, and brought him a glass of wine, and then, when he was
strong enough to tell it, listened to the shameful story, and felt that
henceforth and forever I must and would hate the woman who had wounded
my Guy so cruelly.
And still there is some good in her--some sense of right and wrong, as
was shown by a strange thing which happened when Guy was at the worst of
the terrible fever which followed his coming home. I watched him day and
night, I would not even let Julia Hamilton share my vigils, and one
night when I was worn out with fatigue and anxiety I fell asleep upon
the lounge, where I threw myself for a moment. How long I slept I never
knew, but it must have been an hour or more, for the last thing I
remember was hearing the whistle of the Western train and the sighing of
the wind, which sounded like rain, and when I awoke the rain was falling
heavily and the clock was striking twelve, which was an hour after the
train was due. It was very quiet in the room, and darker than usual, for
someone had shaded the lamp from my eyes as well as Guy's so that at
first I did not see distinctly, but I had an impression that there was a
figure sitting by Guy near the bed. Julia, most likely, I thought, and I
called her by name, feeling my blood curdle in my veins and my heart
stand still with something like fear when a voice I knew so well and
never expected to hear again, answered softly:
"It is not Julia. It's me!"
There was no faltering in her voice, no sound of apology. She spoke like
one who had a right there, and this it was which angered me and made me
lose my self-command. Starting to my feet, I confronted her where she
sat in my chair, by Guy's bedside, with those queer blue eyes of hers
fixed so questioningly upon me as if she wondered at my impertinence.
"Miss McDonald," I said, laying great stress on the name, "why are you
here, and how did you dare come?"
"I was almost afraid, it was so dark when I left the train, and it kept
thundering so," she replied, mistaking my meaning altogether, "but there
was no conveyance at the station, and so I came on alone. I never knew
Guy was sick. Is he very bad?"
Her perfect composure and utter ignoring of the past provoked me beyond
endurance, and without stopping to think what I was doing, I seized her
arm, and drawing her into an adjoining room, said, in a suppressed
whisper of rage:
"Very bad--I should think so. We have feared and still fear he will die,
and it's all your work, the result of your wickedness, and yet you
presume to come here into his very room--you who are no wife of his, and
no woman, either, to do what you have done."
What more I said I do not remember. I only know Daisy put her hands to
her head in a scared, helpless way, and said:
"I do not quite understand it all, or what you wish me to do."
"Do?" I replied. "I want you to leave this house to-night--now, before
Guy can possibly be harmed by your presence. Go back to the depot and
take the next train home. It is due in an hour. You have time to reach
it."
"But it's so dark, and it rains and thunders so," she said, with a
shudder, as a heavy peal shook the house and the rain beat against the
windows.
I think I must have been crazy with mad excitement, and her answer made
me worse.
"You were not afraid to come here," I said. "You can go from here as
well. Thunder will not hurt such as you."
Even then she did not move, but crouched in a corner of the room
farthest from me, reminding me of my kitten when I try to drive it from
a place where it has been permitted to play. As that will not understand
my scats and gestures, so she did not seem to comprehend my meaning.
But I made her at last, and with a very white face and a strange look in
her great, staring blue eyes, she said:
"Fanny" (she always called me Miss Frances before), "Fanny, do you
really mean me to go back in the dark and the rain and the thunder? Then
I will, but I must tell you first what I came for, and you will tell
Guy. He gave me ten thousand dollars when we first were married; settled
it on me, they called it, and father was one of the trustees and kept
the paper for me till I was of age. So much I understand, but not why I
can't give it back to Guy, for father says I can't. I never dreamed it
was mine after the--the--the divorce."
She spoke the word softly and hesitatingly, while a faint flush showed
on her otherwise white face.
"If I am not Guy's wife, as they say, then I have no right to his money,
and I told father so, and said I'd give it back, and he said I couldn't,
and I said I could and would, and I wrote to Guy about it, told him I
was not so mean, and father kept the letter, and I did not know what I
should do next till I was invited to visit Aunt Merriman in Detroit.
Then I took the paper--the settlement, you know, from the box where
father kept it and put it in my pocket; here it is--see," and she drew
out a document and held it toward me while she continued: "I started for
Detroit under the care of a friend who stopped a few miles the other
side, so you see I was free to come here if I liked, and I did so, for I
wanted to see Guy and give him the paper, and tell him I'd never take a
cent of his money. I am sorry he is sick. I did not think he'd care so
much, and I don't know what to do with the paper unless I tear it up. I
believe I'd better; then, surely, it will be out of the way."
And before I could speak or think she tore the document in two, and then
across again, and scattered the four pieces on the floor.
"Tell Guy, please," she continued, "what I have done, and that I never
meant to take it, after--after--that--you know--and that I did not care
for money only as father taught me I must have it, and that I am sorry
he ever saw me, and I never really wanted to be married and can't be his
wife again till I do."
She spoke as if Guy would take her back of course if she only signified
her wish to come, and this kept me angry, though I was beginning to
soften a little with this unexpected phase of her character, and I might
have suffered her to stay till morning if she had signified a wish to
do so, but she did not.
"I suppose I must go now if I would catch the train," she said, moving
toward the door. "Good-by, Fanny. I am sorry I ever troubled you."
She held her little white, ungloved hand toward me, and then I came to
myself, and, hearing the wind and rain, and remembering the lonely road
to the station, I said to her:
"Stay, Daisy, I cannot let you go alone. Miss Hamilton will watch with
Guy while I go with you."
"And who will go with you? It will be just as dark and rainy then," she
said; but she made no objection to my plan, and in less than five
minutes Julia, who always slept in her dressing-gown so as to be ready
for any emergency, was sitting by Guy, and I was out in the dark night
with Daisy and our watchdog Leo, who, at sight of his old playmate, had
leaped upon her and nearly knocked her down in his joy.
"Leo is glad to see me," Daisy said, patting the dumb creature's head,
and in her voice there was a rebuking tone, which I resented silently.
I was not glad to see her, and I could not act a part, but I wrapped my
waterproof around her and adjusted the hood over her flowing hair, and
thought how beautiful she was, even in that disfiguring garb, and then
we went on our way, the young creature clinging close to me as peal
after peal of thunder rolled over our heads, and gleams of lightning lit
up the inky sky. She did not speak to me, nor I to her, till the red
light on the track was in sight, and we knew the train was coming. Then
she asked timidly. "Do you think Guy will die?"
"Heaven only knows," I said, checking a strong impulse to add: "If he
does, you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you killed him."
I was glad now that I did not say it. And I was glad then, when Daisy,
alarmed perhaps by something in the tone of my voice, repeated her
question:
"But do you think he will die? If I thought he would I should wish to
die, too. I like him, Miss Frances, better than anyone I ever saw; like
him now as well as I ever did, but I do not want to be his wife, nor
anybody's wife, and that is just the truth. I am sorry he ever saw me
and loved me so well. Tell him that, Fanny."
It was Fanny again and she grasped my hand nervously, for the train was
upon us.
"Promise me solemnly that if you think he is surely going to die you
will let me know in time to see him once more. Promise--quick--and kiss
me as a pledge."
The train had stopped. There was not a moment to lose, and I promised,
and kissed the red lips in the darkness, and felt a remorseful pang when
I saw the little figure go alone into the car which bore her swiftly
away, while I turned my steps homeward with only Leo for my companion.
I had to tell Julia about it, and I gathered up the four scraps of paper
from the floor where Daisy had thrown them, and, joining them together,
saw they really were the marriage settlement, and kept them for Guy,
should he ever be able to hear about it and know what it meant. There
was a telegram for me the next evening, dated at Detroit, and bearing
simply the words, "Arrived safely," and that was all I heard of Daisy.
No one in town knew of her having been here but Julia and myself, and it
was better that they should not, for Guy's life hung on a thread, and
for many days and nights I trembled lest that promise, sealed by a kiss,
would have to be redeemed.
That was three weeks ago, and Guy is better now and knows us all, and
to-day, for the first time, I have a strong hope that I am not to be
left alone, and I thank Heaven for that hope, and feel as if I were at
peace with all the world, even with Daisy herself, from whom I have
heard nothing since that brief telegram.
AUGUST 1, ----.
The shadow of death has passed from our house, and I may almost say the
shadow of sickness, too, for though Guy is still weak as a child and
thin as a ghost, he is decidedly on the gain, and to-day I drove him out
for the third time, and felt from something he said that he was
beginning to feel some interest in the life so kindly given back to him.
Still he will never be just the same. The blow stunned him too
completely for him to recover quite his old hopeful, happy manner, and
there is a look of age in his face which pains me to see. He knows Daisy
has been here, and why. I had to tell him all about it, and sooner, too,
than I meant. Almost his first coherent question to me after his reason
came back was:
"Where is Daisy? I am sure I heard her voice. It could not have been a
dream. Is she here, or has she been here? Tell me the truth, Fanny."
So I told him, though I did not mean to, and showed him the bits of
paper, and held his head on my bosom while he cried like a little child.
How he loves her yet, and how glad he was to know that she was not as
mercenary as it would at first seem. Not that her tearing up that paper
will make any difference about the money. She cannot give it to him, he
says, until she is of age, neither does he wish it at all, and he would
not take it from her; but he is glad to see her disposition in the
matter; glad to have me think better of her than I did, and I am certain
that he is half expecting to hear from her every day and is disappointed
that he does not. He did not reproach me when I told him about turning
her out in the rain; he only said:
"Poor Daisy, did she get very wet? She is so delicate, you know. I hope
it did not make her sick."
Oh, the love a man will feel for a woman, let her be ever so unworthy. I
cannot comprehend it. And why should I--an old maid like me, who never
loved anyone but Guy?
AUGUST 30, ----.
In a roundabout way we have heard that Mr. McDonald is going away with
his wife and daughter. When the facts of the divorce were known they
brought him into such disgrace with the citizens of Indianapolis that he
thought it best to leave for a time till the storm blows over, and so
they will go to South America, where there is a cousin Tom, who is
growing rich very fast. I cannot help certain thoughts coming into my
mind any more than I can help being glad that Daisy is going out of the
country. Guy never mentions her now, and is getting to look and act
quite like himself. If only he could forget her we might be very happy
again, as Heaven grant we may.