Part 4 (2/2)

”Oh, Guy, how can I give it up? Surely there must be a way now I am of age. I was so humiliated about it, and after all that pa.s.sed between father and Tom and me, I could not stay in Berlin, and never be sure whose money was paying for my bread, and when I heard that Madame Lafarcade, a French lady, who had spent the winter in Berlin, was wanting an English governess for her children, I went to her, and as the result, am here at her beautiful country-seat, just out of the city, earning my own living and feeling so proud to do it; only, Guy, there is an ache in my heart, a heavy, throbbing pain which will not leave me day or night, and this is how it came there.

”Mother wrote that you were about to marry Miss Hamilton. Letters from home brought her the news, which she thinks is true. Oh, Guy, it is not, it cannot be true. You must not go quite away from me now, just as I am coming back to you. For, Guy, I am-or rather, I have come, and a great love, such as I never felt before, fills me full almost to bursting. I always liked you, Guy; but when we were married I did not know what it was to love,-to feel my pulses quicken as they do now just at thought of you. If I had, how happy I could have made you, but I was a silly little girl, and married life was distasteful to me, and I was willing to be free, though always, way down in my heart, was something which protested against it, and if you knew just how I was influenced and led on insensibly to a.s.sent, you would not blame me so much. The word _divorce_ had an ugly sound to me, and I did not like it, and I have always felt as if bound to you just the same. It would not be right for me to marry Tom, even if I wanted to, which I do not. I am yours, Guy,-only yours, and all these years I have studied and improved for your sake, without any fixed idea, perhaps, as to what I expected or hoped. But when Tom spoke the last time it came to me suddenly what I was keeping myself for, and, just as a great body of water, when freed from its prison walls rolls rapidly down a green meadow, so did a mighty love for you take possession of me and permeate my whole being, until every nerve quivered with joy, and when Tom was gone I went away alone and cried more for my new happiness, I am afraid, than for him, poor fellow. And yet I pitied him, too, and as I could not stay in Berlin after that I came away to earn money enough to take me back to you. For I am coming, or I was before I heard that dreadful news which I cannot believe.

”Is it true, Guy? Write and tell me it is not, and that you love me still and want me back, or, if it in part is true, and you are engaged to Julia, show her this letter and ask her to give you up, even if it is the very day before the wedding,-for you are mine, and, sometimes, when the children are troublesome, and I am so tired and sorry and homesick, I have such a longing for a sight of your dear face, and think if I could only lay my aching head in your lap once more I should never know pain or weariness again.

”Try me, Guy. I will be so good and loving, and make you so happy, and your sister, too,-I was a bother to her once. I'll be a comfort now.

Tell her so, please; tell her to bid me come. Say the word yourself, and almost before you know it I'll be there.

”Truly, lovingly, waitingly, your wife,

”_Daisy_.”

”P. S.-To make sure of this letter's safety I shall send it to New York by a friend, who will mail it to you.

”Again, lovingly, _Daisy Thornton_.”

This was Daisy's letter, which Guy read with such a pang in his heart as he had never known before, even when he was smarting the worst from wounded love and disappointed hopes. Then he had said to himself, ”I can never suffer again as I am suffering now,” and now, alas, he felt how little he had ever known of that pain which tears the heart and takes the breath away.

”G.o.d help her,” he moaned,-his first thought, his first prayer for Daisy, the girl who called herself his wife, when just across the hall was the bride of a few hours,-another woman who bore his name and called him her husband.

With a face as pale as ashes, and hands which shook like palsied hands, he read again that pathetic cry from her whom he now felt he had never ceased to love; ay, whom he loved still, and whom, if he could, he would have taken to his arms so gladly, and loved and cherished as the priceless thing he had once thought her to be. The first moments of agony which followed the reading of the letter were Daisy's wholly, and in bitterness of soul the man she had cast off and thought to take again cried out, as he stretched his arms toward an invisible form: ”Too late, darling; too late. But had it come two months, one month, or even one week ago, I would,-I would, -have gone to you over land and sea, but now,-another is in your place, another is my wife; Julia,-poor, innocent Julia. G.o.d help me to keep my vow; G.o.d help me in my need.”

He was praying now; and Julia was the burden of his prayer. And as he prayed there came into his heart an unutterable tenderness and pity for her. He had thought he loved her an hour ago; he believed he loved her now, or if he did not, he would be to her the kindest, most thoughtful of husbands, and never let her know, by word or sign, of the terrible pain he should always carry in his heart. ”Darling Daisy, poor Julia,”

he called the two women who were both so much to him. To the first his love, to the other his tender care, for she was worthy of it. She was n.o.ble, and good, and womanly; he said many times and tried to stop the rapid heart-throbs and quiet himself down to meet her when she came back to him with her frank, open face and smile, in which there was no shadow of guile. She was coming now; he heard her voice in the hall speaking to her friend, and thrusting the fatal letter in his pocket he rose to his feet, and steadying himself upon the table, stood waiting for her, as, flushed and eager, she came in.

”Guy, Guy, what is it? Are you sick?” she asked, alarmed at the pallor of his face and the strange expression of his eyes.

He was glad she had thus construed his agitation, and he answered that he was faint and a little sick.

”It came on suddenly, while I was sitting here. It will pa.s.s off as suddenly,” he said, trying to smile, and holding out his hand, which she took at once in hers.

”Is it your heart, Guy? Do you think it is your heart?” she continued, as she rubbed and caressed his cold, clammy hand.

A shadow of pain or remorse flitted across Guy's face as he replied:

”I think it is my heart, but I a.s.sure you there is no danger,-the worst is over. I am a great deal better.”

And he was better with that fair girl beside him, her face glowing with excitement, and her soft hands pressing his. Perfectly healthy herself, she must have imparted some life and vigor to him, for he felt his pulse grow steadier beneath her touch, and the blood flow more regularly through his veins. If only he could forget that crumpled letter which lay in his vest pocket, and seemed to burn into his flesh; forget that, and the young girl watching for an answer and the one word ”come,” he might be happy yet, for Julia was one whom any man could love and be proud to call his wife. And Guy said to himself that he did love her, though not as he once loved Daisy, or as he could love her again were he free to do so, and because of that full love withheld, he made a mental vow that his whole life should be given to Julia's happiness, so that she might never know any care or sorrow from which he could s.h.i.+eld her.

”And Daisy?” something whispered in his ear.

”I must and will forget her,” he sternly answered, and the arm he had thrown around Julia, who was sitting with him upon the sofa, tightened its grasp until she winced and moved a little from him.

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