MRS. SHELDON and her daughter Daisy were occupying easy chairs in their
pleasant living-room, surrounded by all possible evidences of home
comforts, and luxuries. But even a passing glance at the two faces
would have suggested unrest. The mother's face looked worn, and her
eyes were anxious; while the daughter's eyes were tense with excitement.
"Daisy dear," began Mrs. Sheldon, and was interrupted:
"Please, Mother, won't you call me 'Marguerite'?"
A look of pain flushed the mother's face but she spoke quietly.
"Why, daughter, you know I nearly always say 'Daisy.'"
"I know you do; but I—I don't like it to-night; I—Mother, I just can't
bear the sound of it! That's the only explanation I can give."
Unshed tears were in the mother's eyes. "I will try to remember," she
said, her voice low and tremulous. "But you are my 'Daisy' you know;
all I have left in this world; and your father loved that name."
Daisy with a sudden movement flung herself on the arm of the great easy
chair and hid her face in her mother's neck; when she tried to talk her
voice choked with sobs.
"Oh, Mother, do please try to understand; you know what Father was to
me, and you surely know that I love you with all my soul. If I hadn't,
I—"
But the convulsive sobs came again, and she once more hid her face,
while the mother's arms clasped her tenderly. A few minutes passed,
then the girl sat erect and tried again.
"Mother dear, forgive me." As she spoke, she slipped to the footstool
beside her mother's chair. "I didn't mean to worry you. I don't often
go to pieces in this way, do I? But—you can't understand what I am
going through! It seems so strange not to hear a word after almost five
days! I thought I should certainly get a telegram, at least! Mamma, I
didn't mean that about my name; at least not in the way it must have
sounded. I shall get over that feeling, of course; but you see he did
not know me by any other name; and when you used it, for a second it
almost seemed as though I could hear his voice, and oh, Mother, I
couldn't bear it! I spoke right out, before I thought.
"Mother, it seems as though you must understand what I mean! Don't you
know you told me about how you loved Father so very much even right at
the first? That is the way I feel about Rufus. Mother, I love him with
all my soul, and I always shall! I never before knew what love meant,
that kind of love, I mean and I can't tell you how it almost kills me
to think that you don't believe in him!
"But you know you have hardly seen him. You have just let yourself be
prejudiced by those horrid women who gossiped about him; just because
he, was polite and helpful to those little flappers who were traveling
alone; he showed them the same attention that any gentleman would. But
I don't blame you, Mother dear; I suppose it is natural for mothers to
feel so; when you never have had a chance to find out for yourself what
a wonderful man he is. Besides, think how I helped it along!
"Why, mother, when I think of the way I let that awful Mrs. Dunlap, a
perfect stranger, manage me so that I almost insulted him, it makes me
feel as though I were going insane! Oh, I hope I shall never see or
hear of her again! How could I let her make me treat him so! I don't
see how he can ever forgive me! O, Mother! How can I live any longer! I
wish I could die to-night!"
It was just then that the sound of the door bell pealed through the
quiet house. The sound had instant effect on the nerves of the half
insane girl. She sprang up quickly, evidently making a supreme effort
at self-control, and spoke in a more natural tone.
"I'm afraid that's Nelson! I entirely forgot that he was to come
to-night if he got back in time, to tell me how the vote went; as if I
cared how they voted!"
With this last word, her voice had returned to bitter sarcasm; but
after a moment she continued more quietly.
"Will you see him, Mother, and tell him tell him anything you like?
I simply cannot talk with him to-night; nor with anybody else. Oh,
Mother, kiss me and let me run away!"
By this time the poor mother had no words to offer about anything.
She put her arms around her daughter, kissed her tenderly and opened
the door for her to escape by way of the back hall, just as the maid
appeared at the sitting-room doorway, card tray in hand.
"For Miss Daisy, ma'am. Has she gone upstairs? Shall I take it up to
her room?"
"No," said the weary, faithful mother. "Daisy does not feel able to see
callers to-night; I'll attend to it."
She held out her hand for the card and read on it:
"Mrs. J. C. Dunlap, Albany."
"Dunlap!" Over that name the face of the mother flushed, then paled.
That was the name of the woman who had watched over her darling with
such wise and patient care, and brought her safely home! Could it
possibly be the same woman who was waiting in the parlor! If so, how
could she talk with her just now? She felt completely exhausted. Still,
Daisy certainly must not be called. She reminded herself that the name
Dunlap was common enough, even though she did not happen to recall it
among her acquaintances. It really was not at all probable that a woman
who lived hundreds of miles away should suddenly appear late in the
evening to make a call!
At last she crossed the hall and opened the living-room door. One
glance sufficed; the woman who arose at her entrance was the same one
who had kissed Daisy goodbye with unmistakable tenderness only a few
days before!
"I'm afraid I have startled you," said Mary Dunlap moving forward; for
Daisy's mother had paused suddenly the moment she caught sight of her
caller, and her pale face was expressive of pain. "Of course you did
not expect to see me so soon again, but I—it became my duty to return
West sooner than I had planned. I hope I may see your daughter for a
few minutes? There is a—I have heard of—something connected with our
journey together, that she, perhaps, ought to be told."
It was a very hesitating sentence; the speaker's tone and manner
suggested embarrassing uncertainty as to just what she should do next.
Something helped the mother to self-control and decision. Whatever that
woman thought she ought to tell Daisy ought to be told! She believed in
her! She might be mistaken in judgment, of course; unduly alarmed about
a small matter; all people were liable to mistakes, occasionally. But
she was sincere! Of that, Mrs. Sheldon felt absolutely sure; and what
she had to say might help to clear away some anxieties. She held out
her hand and spoke cordially.
"I am glad to see you again, Mrs. Dunlap, but I am afraid that my
daughter will not be able to do so, this evening; she has had a
somewhat trying day and is feeling to-night as though she could not
talk with anybody. She seems nervously unstrung with her recent
experiences. She has retired, I think, but perhaps you will trust me
with a message?"
Mrs. Dunlap reached a quick decision. "Perhaps I had better tell you
all about it," she said, speaking as an intimate friend might have
done. "I have taken a room at the Delport House, and shall not leave
until sometime to-morrow afternoon I think. If Daisy is feeling better,
I could see her in the morning. I hope you will pardon my interest in
your daughter and my familiar use of her name. She and I grew quite
intimate during that one day you know."
The mother's quick thought was, "What would she think if she knew that
I had just been told to say 'Marguerite!'"
Mary Dunlap, noting the troubled glance of the mother hurried on:
"I had a precious little girl of my own, once, about your daughter's
age, Mrs. Sheldon. She was my only child. That night when your daughter
stayed with me in my room was the first time I had ever been able to
say with my whole heart, 'Thank God my Margaret is forever safe in the
Everlasting arms!'
"That is my apology for intruding on you again. And now, perhaps it
would be wiser for me to have my talk with you, leaving you to repeat
as much or as little as you see fit, to your daughter."
Mrs. Sheldon answered quickly, excitedly: "Oh, I wish you would!" she
said, "I have so longed to see you and ask you a lot of questions.
Won't you sit down? And please, tell me first, about that night at the
hotel. I know so very little about it, and I want to understand exactly
what happened. Daisy is very vague in her story, and is so excitable
that I dare not question her in her present state. All that I now know
positively is that because of crowded conditions at the hotel, you
kindly permitted her to share your room for the night."
"Is it possible that you have not been told the whole story!" exclaimed
Mary Dunlap in amazement. It seemed incredible that such a girl as the
one she had protected had kept her mother in ignorance of the whole of
that night's happenings.
"Oh, tell me quickly!" said the mother, with instant premonition,
dropping down on the edge of the couch where the caller had seated
herself. "Tell me all, please. I have been utterly at a loss to
understand Daisy's unstrung state of mind."
Mary Dunlap wondered wildly where she should begin and then plunged
into her subject.
"First, may I ask, please, about this Mr. Keller whom I met that night
with your daughter? Of course I knew nothing of him whatever. Is he a
personal acquaintance of yours? A—friend?"
There was an instant flash of indignation in the mother's eyes.
"Certainly not!" she replied with almost haughtiness in her voice. "I
have met him but once and I have never liked anything that I have heard
about him. He is a sort of a traveling agent I believe for some New
York firm, and business seems to call him to this particular town more
frequently than I could wish. My daughter thinks that I am prejudiced
against him because of certain stories we have heard about him, which
she thinks have no foundation except in malicious gossip. But frankly,
he is a source of much anxiety to me.
"For the past few months he has been quite attentive to Daisy, that
is, as attentive as circumstances would allow, and I—do not trust him.
I do not know why. But I don't! I am utterly at a loss to account for
the influence he seems to have acquired over her in the few brief
meetings they have had. She thinks me hard and cruel because I well, I
can scarcely bear the sound of his name! And yet I have to confess that
I have no good reason to offer for such a feeling. It appears that he
really asked her to marry him. The idea is so obnoxious to me that I
can scarcely bear to utter the words!"
"And this trip they were taking together," ventured the troubled
questioner; "you knew about it of course?"
"Trip!" exclaimed the mother indignantly. "They were not traveling
together! Why, I sent her away on this visit to get her out of his
vicinity because I heard that he was intending to remain in this
town several weeks! They simply met on the train. Daisy thinks it
was a coincidence I suppose from what she says, but of course, he
followed her. I am positive of that. To put it plainly, he seems to
be infatuated with her. And she, poor child, has admitted to me this
very afternoon that she loves him with all her heart! Oh, it seems so
terrible for me to be telling this to you, a stranger, burdening you
with my anxiety."
Mrs. Sheldon wiped the tears away from her eyes, and struggled to keep
more from falling. "But you have been so kind to me and to Daisy, and
there has been no one to whom I could go for advice."
Mary Dunlap slipped an arm around the shoulders of the mother with
strong reassurance.
"My dear!" she said in her warm comforting strong voice, "Just you cry
if you want to, and don't worry about telling me. I'm used to helping
mothers and girls. It is my job in life. And don't you worry. I'm going
to help you, and I thank God I can. I'm glad too that you have told me
this, for now I can speak frankly and tell you all I know. It is going
to make things a lot easier to set right. And now, I've got to tell you
the whole story."