Part 42 (2/2)

Finally Weil consented. He would not discuss the question of whether he would afterwards speak of the hope that lay nearest his heart. But he would go to her, as Roseleaf suggested, and relieve her of the strain that had worn so deeply. He would go the very next day. The sooner it was accomplished the better. The more he thought of it the more delighted he grew that he could carry such tidings. He could make Daisy happier. That was enough for him--at present. If he could make himself happy at a future date--but there was time enough for that.

He sat upright in his saddle and exulted as his horse bounded nimbly over the ground. Why was it not already day, that he might turn the beast in the opposite direction! The hours would be very long before the sun rose and he could start on his joyful errand. The sombre hue of his countenance disappeared before the contentment that began to fill his breast.

He slept well, notwithstanding the fact that he expected to lie awake all night when he retired. In the morning, on going down to breakfast, he found that s.h.i.+rley had left still earlier, leaving word that he had started on a quest for game. Weil did not mind. He had enough before him for one day. He was going to see Daisy, and he had that to tell which would lighten the load she had so long felt compelled to carry.

He waited until after nine o'clock, feeling that some regard must be paid to _les convenances_, even on such an important occasion as this.

When he was in the saddle he rode as slowly as he could bring himself to do, to make his arrival still later. At last he reached the gate of Oakhurst, and when he had summoned the porter he sent him for Mr. Fern, stating that he had happened to ride in that direction and wanted merely to make a short call.

It was but a few minutes before the servant returned, and the hospitable master of the premises came with him. Mr. Fern upbraided Weil for using so much ceremony, remarking that although he was living in a retired way, there was always one friend he was glad to see. Giving up the horse, Archie accompanied his host to the house, where the latter said he would send at once for Daisy.

”A minute,” interpolated Archie. ”I want a little talk with you first, alone.”

Mr. Fern looked up curiously. He believed he knew what his visitor was about to say. He had long suspected the feelings which Archie entertained for Daisy. He knew also that his daughter would consent to wed no man, no matter who, while there hung over her fair fame the terrible mystery of her wedding night.

”I want to tell you,” pursued Archie, before his host could interrupt, ”that I have made a great discovery--one of the utmost moment to your family. I know what happened on that day so sad to all of us, and--listen to me, Mr. Fern!--I know that your child is absolutely blameless in the matter.”

The listener's face grew very white. He understood imperfectly, but it seemed to him that a tale he could not bear to hear was about to be forced upon him.

”Mr. Weil,” he said, earnestly, ”I hope you will not continue this subject. I do not know what occurred--I do not wish to know. I have consulted my daughter's sentiments entirely. She prefers to have the veil unlifted, and I respect her wish.”

The visitor could hardly contain himself for impatience.

”That has been true hitherto,” he replied. ”But Miss Daisy herself will be more than delighted when she knows I am aware of the entire facts--which she has been prevented, by a promise extracted from her, from revealing. Call her, let me tell her that I know everything, and how I know it, and you will see the happiest girl in America.”

Mr. Fern shook his head doubtfully. He was much afraid of doing something to injure Daisy's feelings. He could not believe she wanted to have the trouble that had crushed her raked up by any one. Archie persisted, however, and his arguments at last won the day.

”You do not think I would come here with any tidings I did not believe agreeable?” he said, interrogatively. ”You know I care too much for--for both of you--to do that.”

When Miss Daisy was summoned, which she was at last, and Mr. Weil gently let drop a hint of what he had to tell, the girl was hardly less agitated than her father had been. Instead, however, as the visitor expected, of relying on her natural protector during the expected recital, she whispered to Mr. Fern, who obediently rose and let her lead him out of the room. Presently she returned, and took a chair opposite to Mr. Weil. Her face was so pathetic, her att.i.tude so entreating, that he quite forgot what he had come to tell, and leaning toward her, took her hands in his.

”Daisy,” he said, ”I--I--” and he could go no further.

”Yes, I know,” she answered, in a low voice. ”But there is a reason why I cannot listen to you. I have told you that before. I ought not even to say as much as this. I should not even remain in the room while you explain the least thing.”

He choked down the rising in his throat and hastened, lest she should follow literally the sentiment she had outlined and leave him to himself.

”This has all been true, until now,” he said. ”You were under a promise, an oath. But--Daisy, last night I heard all that pa.s.sed between you and your persecutor, and there is no longer any need for mystery between us.”

She gasped, as if her breath was going.

”You--you heard!”

”Everything. I was within forty feet of you. Are you sorry that the awful cloud is blown away--that your perfect innocence is proved without a violation of your plighted word?”

For the girl was crying, slowly, without hysteria, crying with both her hands tightly clasped over her eyes.

<script>