DAISY, TOM, AND THAT OTHER ONE
Watching, waiting, hoping, saying to herself in the morning, "It will
come before night," and saying to herself at night, "It will be here
to-morrow morning." Such was Daisy's life, even before she had a right
to expect an answer to her letter.
Of the nature of Guy's reply she had no doubt. He had loved her once, he
loved her still, and he would take her back of course. There was no
truth in that rumor of another marriage. Possibly her father, whom she
understood now better than she once had, had gotten the story up for the
sake of inducing her through pique to marry Tom; but if so his plan
would fail. Guy would write to her, "Come!" and she would go, and more
than once she counted the contents of her purse and added to it the sum
due her from Madame Lafarcade, and wondered if she would dare venture on
the journey with so small a sum.
"You so happy and white, too, _ce matin_," her little pupil, Pauline,
said to her one day, when they sat together in the garden, and Daisy was
indulging in a fanciful picture of her meeting with Guy.
"Yes, I am happy," Daisy said, rousing from her reverie; "but I did not
know I was pale--or white, as you term it--though, now I think of it, I
do feel sick and faint. It's the heat, I guess. Oh! there is Max with
the mail! He is coming this way! He has--he certainly has something for
me!"
Daisy's cheeks were scarlet now, and her eyes were bright as stars as
she went forward to meet the man who brought the letters to the house.
"Only a paper!--is there nothing more?" she asked in an unsteady voice,
as she took the paper in her hand, and, recognizing Guy's handwriting,
knew almost to a certainty what was before her.
"Oh, mon Dieu! vous êtes malade! J'apporterai un verre d'eau!" Pauline
exclaimed, forgetting her English and adopting her mother tongue in her
alarm at Daisy's white face and the peculiar tone of her voice.
"No, Pauline, stay; open the paper for me," Daisy said, feeling that it
would be easier so than to read it herself, for she knew it was there,
else he would never have sent her a paper and nothing more.
Delighted to be of some use, and a little gratified to open a foreign
paper, Pauline tore off the wrapper, starting a little at Daisy's quick,
sharp cry as she made a rent across the handwriting.
"Look, you are tearing into my name, which he wrote," Daisy said, and
then remembering herself, she sank back into her seat in the garden
chair, while Pauline wondered what harm there was in tearing an old
soiled wrapper, and why her governess should take it so carefully in her
hand and roll it up as if it had been a living thing.
There were notices of new books, and a runaway match in high life, and a
suicide on Summer Street, and a golden wedding in Roxbury, and the
latest fashions from Paris, into which Pauline plunged with avidity
while Daisy listened like one in a dream, asking when the fashions were
exhausted: "Is that all? Are there no deaths or marriages?"
Pauline had not thought of that--she would see, and she hunted through
the columns till she found Guy's pencil mark, and read:
"Married, this morning, at St. Paul's Church, by the Rev. Dr. ----,
assisted by the rector, Guy Thornton, Esq., of Cuylerville, to Miss
Julia Hamilton, of this city."
"Yes, yes; it's very hot here, isn't it? I think I will go in," Daisy
said, her fingers working nervously with the bit of paper she held.
But Pauline was too intent on the name of Thornton to hear what Daisy
said, and she asked: "Is Mr. Thornton your friend?"
It was a natural enough question, and Daisy roused herself to answer it,
and said quickly: "He is the son of my husband's father."
"Oh, oui," Pauline rejoined, a little mystified as to the exact
relationship existing between Guy Thornton and her teacher's husband,
whom she supposed was dead, as Daisy had only confided to madame the
fact of a divorce.
"What date is the paper?" Daisy asked, and on being told she said softly
to herself: "I see, it was too late."
There was in her mind no doubt as to what the result would have been had
her letter been in time; no doubt of Guy's preference for her; no regret
that she had written to him, except that the knowledge that she loved
him at last might make him wretched with thinking "what might have
been," and with the bitter pain which cut her heart like a knife there
was mingled a pity for Guy, who would perhaps suffer more than she did,
if that were possible. She never once thought of retribution, or of
murmuring against her fate, but accepted it meekly, albeit she staggered
under the load and grew faint as she thought of the lonely life before
her, and she so young.
Slowly she went back to her room, while Pauline walked up and down the
garden trying to make out the relationship between the newly married
Thornton and her teacher.
"The son of her husband's father?" she repeated, until at last a meaning
dawned upon her, and she said: "Then he must be her brother-in-law; but
why didn't she say so? Maybe, though, that is the English way of putting
it," and, having thus settled the matter, Pauline joined her mother, who
was asking for Mrs. Thornton.
"Gone to her room, and her brother-in-law is married. It was marked in a
paper and I read it to her, and she's sick," Pauline said, without,
however, in the least connecting the sickness with the marriage.
Daisy did not come down to dinner that night, and the maid who called
her the next morning reported her as ill and acting very strangely.
Through the summer a malarial fever had prevailed to some extent in and
about Rouen, and the physician whom Madame Lafarcade summoned to the
sick girl expressed a fear that she was coming down with it, and ordered
her kept as quiet as possible.
"She seems to have something weighing on her mind. Has she heard any bad
news from home?" he asked, as in reply to his question where her pain
was the worst Daisy always answered:
"It reached him too late--too late, and I am so sorry."
Madame knew of no bad news, she said, and then as she saw the foreign
paper lying on the table, she took it up, and, guided by the pencil
marks, read the notice of Guy Thornton's marriage, and that gave her the
key at once to Daisy's mental agitation. Daisy had been frank with her
and told her as much of her story as was necessary, and she knew that
the Guy Thornton married to Julia Hamilton had once called Daisy his
wife.
"Excuse me, she is, or she has something on her mind, I suspect," she
said to the physician, who was still holding Daisy's hand and looking
anxiously at her flushed cheeks and bright, restless eyes.
"I thought so," he rejoined, "and it aggravates all the symptoms of her
fever. I shall call again to-night."
He did call and found his patient worse, and the next day he asked
Madame Lafarcade:
"Has she friends in this country? If so, they ought to know."
A few hours later, and in his lodgings at Berlin, Tom read the following
dispatch:
"Mrs. Thornton is dangerously ill. Come at once."
It was directed to Mr. McDonald, who with his wife had been on a trip to
Russia, and was expected daily. Feeling intuitively that it concerned
Daisy, Tom had opened it, and without a moment's hesitation packed his
valise, and, leaving a note for the McDonalds when they should return,
started for Rouen. Daisy did not know him, and in her delirium she said
things to him and of him which hurt him cruelly. Guy was her theme, and
the letter which went "too late, too late." Then she would beg of Tom to
go for Guy, to bring him to her and tell him how much she loved him and
how good she would be if he would take her back.
"Father wants me to marry Tom," she said in a whisper, and Tom's heart
almost stood still as he listened; "and Tom wanted me, too, but I
couldn't, you know, even if he were worth his weight in gold. I could
not love him. Why, he's got red hair, and such great freckles on his
face, and big feet and hands with freckles on them. Do you know Tom?"
"Yes, I know him," Tom answered sadly, forcing down a choking sob, while
the "big hand with the great freckles on it" smoothed the golden hair
tenderly and pushed it back from the burning brow.
"Don't talk any more, Daisy; it tires you so," he said, as he saw her
about to speak again.
But Daisy was not to be stopped, and she went on:
"Tom is good, though; so good, but awkward, and I like him ever so much,
but I can't be his wife. I cannot. I cannot."
"He doesn't expect it now, or want it," came huskily from Tom, while
Daisy quickly asked:
"Doesn't he?"
"No, never any more; so, put it from your mind and try to sleep," Tom
said, and again the freckled hands smoothed the tumbled pillows and
wiped the sweat drops from Daisy's face, while all the time the great
kind heart was breaking, and the hot tears were rolling down the
sun-burned face Daisy thought was so ugly.
Tom had heard from Madame Lafarcade of Guy's marriage, and, like her,
understood why Daisy's fever ran so high and her mind was in such a
turmoil. But for himself he knew there was no hope, and with a feeling
of death in his heart he watched by her day and night, yielding his
place to no one, and saying to madame when she remonstrated with him and
bade him care for his own health:
"It does not matter to me. I would rather die than not."
Daisy was better when her mother came--saved, the doctor said, more by
Tom's care and nursing than by his own skill, and then Tom gave up his
post and never went near her unless she asked for him. His "red hair and
freckled face" were constantly in his mind, making him loathe the very
sight of himself.
"She cannot bear my looks, and I will not force myself upon her," he
said; and so he stayed away, but surrounded her with every luxury money
could buy, and, as soon as she was able, had her removed to a pretty
little cottage which he rented and fitted up for her, and where she
would be more at home and quieter than at Madame Lafarcade's.
And there, one morning when he called to inquire for her, he, too, was
smitten down with the fever which he had taken with Daisy's breath the
many nights and days he watched her without rest or sufficient food.
There was a faint, followed by a long interval of unconsciousness, and
when he came to himself he was in Daisy's own room, lying on Daisy's
little bed, and Daisy herself was bending anxiously over him with a
flush on her white cheeks and a soft, pitiful look in her blue eyes.
"What is it? Where am I?" he asked, and Daisy replied:
"You are here in my room--on my bed; and you've got the fever, and I'm
going to take care of you, and I'm so glad. Not glad you have the
fever," she added, as she met his look of wonder, "but glad I can repay
in part all you did for me, you dear, noble Tom! And you are not to
talk," and she laid her small hand on his mouth as she saw him about to
speak. "I am strong enough; the doctor says so, and I'd do it if he
didn't, for you are the best, the truest friend I have."
She was rubbing his hot, feverish hands, and though the touch of her
cool, soft fingers was so delicious, poor Tom thought of the big
freckles so obnoxious to the little lady, and, drawing his hands from
her grasp, hid them beneath the clothes. Gladly, too, would he have
covered his face and hair from her sight, but this he could not do and
breathe, but he begged her to leave him and send someone in her place.
But Daisy would not listen to him.
He had nursed her day and night, she said, and she should stay with him,
and she did, through three weeks, when Tom's fever ran higher than hers
had done, because there was more for it to feed upon, and when Tom in
his ravings talked of things which made her heart ache with a new and
different pain from that already there.
At first there were low whisperings and incoherent mutterings, and when
Daisy asked him to whom he was talking he answered her:
"To that other one over in the corner. Don't you see him? He is waiting
for me till the fever eats me up. There's a lot of me to eat, I'm so big
and awkward, overgrown--that's what Daisy said. You know Daisy, don't
you? a dainty little creature, with such delicacy of sight and touch!
She doesn't like red hair; she said so when we thought the man in the
corner was waiting for her, and she doesn't like my freckled face and
hands--big hands, she said they were, and yet how they have worked like
horses for her! Oh, Daisy! Daisy! I have loved her ever since she was a
child, and I drew her to school on my sled and cut her doll's head off
to tease her. Take me quick, please, out of her sight, where my freckled
face won't offend her."
He was talking now to that other one, the man in the corner, who, like
some grim sentinel, stood there day and night, while Daisy kept her
tireless watch and Tom talked on and on--never to her--but always to the
other one, the man in the corner, whom he begged to take him away.
"Bring out your boat," he would say. "It's time we were off, for the
tide is at its height, and the river is running so fast. I thought once
it would take Daisy, but it left her, and I am glad. When I am fairly
over and there's nothing but my big, freckled hulk left, cover my face
and don't let her look at me, though I'll be white then, not red. Oh,
Daisy, Daisy, my darling, you hurt me so cruelly!"
Those were terrible days for Daisy, but she never flinched from her
post, and stood resolutely between the sick man and that other one in
the corner until the latter seemed to waver a little; his shadow was
not so black, his presence so all-pervading, and there was hope for Tom.
His reason came back at last, and the fever left him, but weak as a
child, with no power to move even his poor wasted hands which lay
outside the counterpane and seemed to trouble him, for there was a
wistful, pleading look in his gray eyes as they went from the hands to
Daisy, while his lips whispered faintly, "Cover."
She understood him, and with a rain of tears spread the sheet over them,
and then on her knees beside him, said to him amid her sobs:
"Forgive me, Tom, for what I did when I was crazy. You are not repulsive
to me. You are the truest, best, and dearest friend I ever had, and
I--I--oh, Tom, I wish I had never been born."
Daisy did not stay by Tom that night. There was no necessity for it, and
she was so worn and weary with watching that the physician declared she
must have absolute rest or be sick again herself. So she remained away,
and in a little room by herself fought the fiercest battle she had ever
fought, and on her knees, with tears and bitter cries, asked for help to
do right. Not for help to know what was right. She felt sure that she
did know that, only the flesh was weak, and there were chords of love
still clinging to a past she scarcely dared think of now lest her
courage should fail her. Guy was lost to her forever; it was a sin even
to think of him as she must think if she thought at all, and so she
strove to put him from her--to tear his image from her heart and put
another in its place, even Tom, whom she pitied so much, and whom she
could make so happy.
"No matter for myself," she said. "No matter what I feel, or how sharp
the pain in my heart, if I only keep it there and never let Tom know. I
can make him happy, and I will."
There was no wavering after that decision--no regret for the "might have
been," but her face was white as snow, and about the pretty mouth there
was a quivering of the muscles as if the words were hard to utter when
next day she went to Tom, and, sitting down beside him, asked how he was
feeling. His eyes brightened a little when he saw her, but there was a
look on his face which made Daisy's pulse quicken with a nameless fear,
and his voice was very weak as he replied:
"They say I am better; but, Daisy, I know the time is near for me to go.
I shall never get well, nor do I wish to, though life is not a gift to
be thrown away easily, and on some accounts mine has been a happy one,
but the life beyond is better, and I feel sure I am going to it."
"Oh, Tom, Tom, don't talk so! You must not leave me now!" Daisy cried,
all her composure giving way as she fell on her knees beside him, and,
taking both his hands in hers, wet them with her tears. "Tom," she
began, when she could speak. "I have been bad to you so often, and
worried and wounded you so much; but I am sorry, so sorry, and I've
thought it all over and made up my mind, and I want you to get well and
ask me that--that--question again--you have asked so many
times--and--and--Tom--I will say--yes--to it now, and try so hard to
make you happy."
Her face was crimson as if with shame, and she dared not look at Tom
until his silence startled her. Then she stole a glance at his face and
met an expression which prompted her to go on recklessly:
"Don't look so incredulous, Tom. I am in earnest. I mean what I say,
though it may be unmaidenly to say it. Try me, Tom; I will make you
happy, and, though at first I cannot love you as I did Guy when I sent
him that letter, the love will come, born of your great goodness and
kindness of heart. Try me, Tom, won't you?"
She kissed his thin, white hands where the freckles shone more plainly
than ever, and which Tom tried to free from her; she held them fast and
looked steadily into the face, which shone for a moment with a joy so
great that it was almost handsome, and when she said again, "Will you,
Tom?" the pale lips parted with an effort to speak, but no sound was
audible, only the chin quivered, and the tears stood in his gray eyes as
he battled with the great temptation. Should he accept the sacrifice?
Ought he to join her life with his? Could she ever learn to love him?
No, she could not, and he must put her from him, even though she came
asking him to take her. Thus Tom decided, and, turning his face to the
wall, he said, with a choking sob:
"No, Daisy--no. It cannot be. Such happiness is not for me now. I must
not think of it. Thank you, darling, just the same. It was kind in you
and well meant, but it cannot be. I could not make you happy. I am not
like Guy; never can be like him, and you would hate me after a while,
and the chain would hurt you cruelly. No, Daisy, I love you too
well--and yet, Daisy--Daisy--why do you tempt me so--if it could have
been!"
He turned suddenly toward her, and, winding both his arms around her,
drew her to him in a quick, passionate embrace, crying piteously over
her, and saying:
"My darling, my darling, if it could have been, but it's too late
now--God is good and will take me to himself. I thought of it before I
was sick, and believe I am a better man, and Jesus is my friend, and I
am going to him. I'm glad you told me what you have. It will make my
last days happier, and when I am gone you will find that I did well with
you."
He put her from him then, for faintness and great exhaustion were
stealing over him, and that was the last that ever passed between him
and Daisy on the subject which all his life had occupied so much of his
thoughts. The fever had left him, it is true, but he seemed to have no
vital force or rallying power, and after a few days it was clear even to
Daisy that Tom's life was drawing to a close. "The man in the corner"
was there again waiting for his prey, and would not leave this time
until he bore with him an immortal soul. And Tom was very happy. He had
thought much of death and what lay beyond during those days when
Daisy's life hung in the balance, and the result of the much thinking
had been a full surrender of himself to God, who did not forsake him
when the dark, cold river was closing over him.
Calm and peaceful as the setting of the summer sun was the close of his
life, and up to the last he retained his consciousness, with the
exception of a few hours, when his mind wandered a little, and he talked
to "that other one," whom no one could see but whose presence all felt
so vividly.
"It would have been pleasant, and for a minute I was tempted to take her
at her word," he said; "but when I remembered my hair and face and
hands, and how she liked nothing which was not comely, I would not run
the chance of being hated for my repulsive looks. Poor little Daisy! she
meant it all right, and I bless her for it, and am glad she said it, but
she must not look at me when I'm dead. The freckles she dislikes so much
will show plainer then. Don't let her come near, or, if she must, cover
me up--cover me up--cover me from her sight."
Thus he talked, and Daisy, who knew what he meant, wept silently by his
side, and kept the sheet closely drawn over the hands he was so anxious
to have hidden from her view. He knew her at last, and bade her a long
farewell, and told her she had been to him the dearest thing in life,
and Daisy's arm was round him, supporting him upon the pillow, and
Daisy's hand wiped the death moisture from his brow, and Daisy's lips
were pressed to his dying face, and her ear caught his last faint
whisper:
"God bless you, darling! I am going home! Good-by!"
"The man in the corner--that other one"--had claimed him, and Daisy put
gently from her only the lifeless form which had once been Tom.
They buried him there in France on a sunny slope, where the grass was
green and the flowers blossomed in the early spring, and when Mr.
McDonald examined his papers he found to his surprise that, with the
exception of an annuity to himself and several legacies to different
charitable institutions, Tom had left to Daisy his entire fortune,
stipulating only that one-tenth of all her income should be yearly given
back to God, who had a right to it.