Jeannie got up out of her chair, where she had been sitting ever since
Daisy entered. Daisy as she spoke had risen also from the writing-table,
and, still holding the photograph of Diana in her hand, stood by her.
"You must give me a moment, Daisy," she said. "I have got to think. And,
my dear, while I am thinking do not try to guess. I can't bear that you
should guess. I would sooner tell you than that."
Daisy was very white, and the bright spot of anger that burnt in her
cheeks when she entered the room had smouldered away. She nodded without
spoken reply.
Jeannie moved away from Daisy, and sat down in the window-seat at the
far end of the room. Already Daisy had guessed that there was something
disgraceful. Daisy remembered, too, that after Diana's supposed death
her husband had come to England. And then for one moment Jeannie's
spirit rose in impotent revolt against the bitter cruelty of this chance
by which Daisy had seen Diana's photograph. She herself, perhaps, had
been careless and culpable, in putting it on her table; but she had been
so preoccupied with all the perplexities of this last week that the
danger had not ever so faintly occurred to her. But now by this fatal
oversight Daisy had already guessed perilously near the truth.
She herself could invent no story to account for these things, and if
Daisy was told the whole truth, of which she guessed so much, that other
bitterness, the sense that Jeannie had cruelly betrayed her, would be
removed. She could comfort Daisy again, and (this was sweet to herself
also) show her how she loved her. She had done her very best to keep her
promise to Diana, and she had not spared herself in doing so; and now,
in spite of her efforts, so hard to make and so ungrudgingly made, half
the truth was known to Daisy. It seemed to her that the other half would
heal rather than hurt.
She went back, and, standing in front of the girl, held out her hands to
her. But Daisy made no response to the gesture, and, indeed, moved a
little away. That, again, cut Jeannie like a lash, but she knew the pain
of it would be only temporary. In a few minutes now Daisy would
understand.
"I am going to tell you," she said, "and as I tell you, my dear, I
want you to keep on thinking to yourself that Diana was your sister,
your only sister, and--and that you used to play together and love
each other when you were children. And, dear Daisy, you must try to
be--not to be a girl only when I tell you this. You are a girl, but
you are a woman also, and you must bear this like a woman who is
hearing about her sister."
Once again Jeannie longed to take Daisy in her arms and tell her,
holding that dear head close to her bosom. But it was not time for
that yet.
"You were told five years ago," she said, "that your sister was dead.
She was not, Daisy; she died last year only, soon after I went abroad.
And she died in my arms, dear, thank Heaven, because I loved her. And
she loved me, Daisy. Oh, darling, you must bear this. I tried to spare
you the knowledge, for I promised Diana that, but by ill-chance you have
guessed so much that I think it better to tell you all. And you mustn't
judge Diana, poor dear, or condemn her. The time has quite gone by for
that, and, besides, she was your sister, and at the end the thing she
wanted most in all the world was that you should not know. Remember
that. Women have a hard time in this world, Daisy. Some are married
unhappily, and though Diana's husband loved her very truly and tenderly
it was not a happy marriage. At the time when you were told she was dead
she was not, but she had left her husband. For the love he bore her he
did not divorce her. Yes, dear, it was that."
Again Jeannie paused. As the moment came near it was all she could do to
get the words out. Yet when Daisy knew all, out of the hurt would come
some healing. Jeannie could make her feel how she loved her.
"She lived in Paris after she left her husband," she continued. "She
lived for a time with the man for whom she deserted him. She wanted
love--women do--you and I do. She--she got love. After a while there was
another man. Yes, my dear, it was he. We needn't name him any more than
we did just now when we spoke of him."
Daisy sat quite still for a moment; for all that her face expressed she
might never have heard. Then a sudden little tremor shook her, and she
tore the photograph of Diana which she held across and across, and threw
the fragments on the floor.
"Ah, Daisy, you are cruel," said Jeannie.
Daisy did not reply, and then suddenly her mouth began to tremble, and
tears ready to fall gathered in her eyes. It had hurt her cruelly, and
it was but the instinctive rebellion of one in sudden and incontrollable
pain that had made her tear the photograph. But, as Jeannie had
foreseen, with the hurt came healing.
It was not necessary to say any more, for she saw that already Daisy was
beginning to understand all that she had thought so incomprehensible,
and so vile when it was comprehended, in her, and the comprehension
brought with it the knowledge of the love and tenderness from which
these things sprang. And this time it was Daisy who held out her hands
to Jeannie, but falteringly, as if doubtful whether she dared. But she
need not have been afraid; next moment she was clasped close, and with
the sense of love surrounding and encompassing her the tears came, and
she sobbed her heart out. And even when the tumult of her weeping had
abated, it was but disjointedly that the words came.
"And so it was because of that, Aunt Jeannie," she whispered, "because
you had promised Diana that you would do your best to keep it from me?"
"Yes, my darling, but I have failed," said Jeannie.
"But how splendidly," whispered Daisy. "I should like to have f-failed
like that. And you were content that I should think you a b-beast, and
that he should?"
"No, dear, not content quite. But it was the best I could think of."
"And Mr. Braithwaite?" said Daisy. "Could you be content that he should
think so?"
Jeannie paused a moment before she replied. What she must say, if
she answered this, would hurt Daisy again, but again there was
healing there.
"I knew he would never think me a beast," she said at length. "I
knew he trusted me absolutely."
"And I didn't," said Daisy.
"No, dear, you didn't. But never mind that."
"I can't help minding that. I thought--I thought everything disgusting
about you. Oh, Aunt Jeannie, but I did try so much not to! I did try to
behave well, to realize that you and he had fallen in love with each
other, and that it was neither your fault nor his. But when Aunt Alice
told me that you were engaged to Mr. Braithwaite, then I broke down. And
when you told me you had known that I hoped to marry Lord Lindfield,
then it was complete to my mind. I thought--oh! I have spoilt it all. It
can never be the same again. And I did so long for you to come home a
week ago. I did love you."
Jeannie stroked Daisy's hair gently for a moment or two.
"You speak of spoiling love," she said. "That is not easy to do. In
fact, it can't be done. So don't have any fears on that point, my
darling."
Daisy was silent for a while.
"And if he asks you why you did it?" she said.
Jeannie considered this.
"I may have to tell him," she said. "It all depends. Probably you don't
understand that."
"No; tell me," said Daisy.
"If he appeals to me in the name of his love for me, I think I shall
have to tell him," said Jeannie. "I don't want to; I shall do my best
not to. But there is a claim, that of love, which is dominant. I did not
mean him to fall in love with me, dear; I meant him only to be detached
from you. But bigger issues, I am afraid, have come in. You must trust
me to do the best I can. I think you will trust me, will you not?"
Daisy clung closer for a moment, and then she sat up.
"Yes. And I haven't even said I am sorry, and I am sure I need not. Aunt
Jeannie, I think I want to go away alone for a little. I want, yes, I
want to cry a little more, but by myself. Do you understand?"
"Yes, my dear. But will you not stop here to-night? You could
telegraph to Alice, and you might add that we were friends. She
would like to know that."
Daisy mopped her eyes.
"I like to know it," she said.
She got up. Just in front of her were the fragments of the torn
photograph. She saw them and half shuddered at them. And Jeannie, all
tenderness, knew that things were not right with Daisy yet. There was
still another wound which must be healed.
"Oh, Daisy!" she said. "You must never let yourself be black and bitter
like that. You tore the photograph up; it lies there still."
"Oh, I can't touch it," said Daisy.
Jeannie looked at her quietly, patiently.
"Your sister," she said. "Diana. Have you forgotten what she made me
promise? She was so sorry, too; I think she would have given all the
world if what she had done could be undone. Not a day passed without her
being sorry. Daisy!"
Daisy stood quite still for a moment, then she suddenly knelt down on
the floor and picked the fragments up, kissing them as she did so.
"Oh, poor Di," she said--"poor, poor Di!"