Part 3 (2/2)

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 catch the train,” she said, moving toward the door. ”Good-bye, f.a.n.n.y. 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 come back 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 watch-dog 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 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 am 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 any one 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, f.a.n.n.y.”

It was f.a.n.n.y 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 sc.r.a.ps 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 1st, --.

The shadow of death has pa.s.sed from our house, and I can 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 hoped 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 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 to, for 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, f.a.n.n.y.”

So I told him, and showed him the bits of paper, and held his head on my bosom, while he cried like a child. How he loves her still, 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 expecting to hear from her every day, and is disappointed that he does not. He did not reproach me as I thought he would 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 any one but Guy.

August 30th, --.

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