In a roundabout way we have heard that Mr. McDonald is going away with his wife and daughter. When the facts of the divorce were known, they brought him into such disgrace with the citizens of Indianapolis, who were perfectly indignant, and showed that they were in every possible way, that he thought best to leave for a time till the storm was over, and so they will go to South America, where there is a cousin Tom, who is growing rich very fast. I cannot help certain thoughts coming into my mind, any more than I can help being glad that Daisy is going out of the country. Guy never mentions her now, and is getting to look and act quite like himself. If only he _could_ forget her, we might be very happy again, as Heaven grant we may.

CHAPTER VII.-FIVE YEARS LATER.

"Married, this morning, at St. Paul's church, by the Rev. Dr. --, a.s.sisted by the Rector, Guy Thornton, Esq., of Cuylerville, to Miss Julia Hamilton, of this city."

Such was the notice which appeared in a daily Boston paper one lovely morning in September five years after the last entry in Miss Thornton's journal. Guy had reached the point at last, when he could put Daisy from his heart and take another in her place. He had never seen her, or heard directly from her since the night she brought him the marriage settlement and tore it in pieces, thinking thus to give him the money beyond a doubt. That this did not change the matter one whit he knew, for she could not give him the ten thousand settled upon her until she was of age. She _was_ of age now, and had been for a year or more, and to say the truth he had expected to hear from her when she was twenty-one. To himself he had reasoned on this wise: "Her father told her that the tearing up that paper made no difference, that she was powerless of herself to act until she was of age, so she will wait quietly till then before making another effort." And Guy thought how he would not take a penny from her, but would insist upon her keeping it.

Still he should respect her all the more for her sense of justice and generosity, he thought, and when her twenty-first birthday came and pa.s.sed, and week after week went by, and brought no sign from Daisy, there was a pang in his heart and a look of disappointment on his face which did not pa.s.s away until October hung her gorgeous colors upon the hills of Cuylerville, and Julia Hamilton came to the Brown Cottage to spend a few weeks with his sister.

From an independent, self-reliant, energetic girl of twenty-two, Julia had ripened into a n.o.ble and dignified woman of twenty-seven, with a repose of manner which seemed to rest and quiet one, and which told insensibly on Guy, until at last he found himself dreading to have her go, and wishing to keep her with him always. The visit was lengthened into a month; and when in November he went with her to Boston, he had asked her to take Daisy's place, and be his second wife. Very freely they talked of the little golden-haired girl, and Julia told him what she had heard through a mutual acquaintance who had been on the same vessel with the McDonalds when they returned from South America. Cousin Tom was with them, a rich man then, and a richer now, for his gold mine and his railroad had made him almost a millionaire, and it was currently reported and believed that Mr. McDonald meant him to marry his daughter.

They were abroad now, the McDonalds and Tom, and Daisy, it was said, was even more beautiful than in her early girlhood, and that to her natural loveliness was added great cultivation and refinement of manner. She had had the best of teachers while in South America, and was now continuing her studies abroad with a view to further improvement. All this Julia Hamilton told Guy, and then bade him think again before deciding to join his life with hers.

And Guy did think again, and his thoughts went across the sea after the beautiful Daisy, and he tried to picture to himself what she must be now that education and culture had set their seal upon her. But always in the picture there was a dark background, where cousin Tom stood sentinel with his bags of gold, and so, with a half unconscious sigh for what "might have been," Guy dug still deeper the grave where, years before, he had buried his love for Daisy, and to make the burial sure this time, so that there should be no future resurrection, he put over the grave a head-stone, on which was written a new hope and a new love, both of which centered in Julia Hamilton.

And so they were engaged, and after that there was no wavering on his part,-no looking back to a past, which seemed like a happy dream, from which there had been a horrible awaking.

He loved Julia at first quietly and sensibly, and loved her more and more as the winter and spring went by, and brought the day when he stood again at the altar, and for the second time took upon him the marriage vow. It was a very quiet wedding, with only a few friends present, and Miss Frances was the bridesmaid, in a gown of silver gray; but Julia's face was bright with the certainty of a happiness long desired; and if in Guy's heart there lingered the odor of other bridal flowers, withered now and dead, and the memory of other marriage bells than those which sent their music on the air that September morning, and if a pair of sunny blue eyes seemed looking into his, he made no sign, and his face wore an expression of perfect content as he took his second bride for better or worse, just as he once had taken little Daisy. In Daisy's case it had proved all for the worse, but now there was a suitableness in the union which boded future happiness, and many a hearty wish for good was sent after the newly-married pair, whose destination was New York.

It was nearly dark when they reached the hotel, and quite dark before dinner was over. Then Julia suddenly remembered that an old friend of hers was boarding in the house, and suggested going to her room.

"I'd send my card," she said, blushingly, "only she would not know me by the new name, so if you do not mind my leaving you a moment, I'll go and find her myself."

Guy did not mind, and Julia went out and left him alone. Scarcely was she gone when he called to mind a letter which had been forwarded to him from Cuylerville, and which he had found awaiting him on his return from, the church that morning. Not thinking it of much consequence, he had thrust it in his pocket and in the excitement forgotten it till now.

He had dressed for dinner and worn his wedding-coat, and he took the letter out and looked at it a moment, and wondered whom it was from, as people often wait and wonder, when breaking the seal would settle the matter so soon. It was post-marked in New York, and, felt heavy in his hand, and he opened it at last, and found that the outer envelope inclosed another one, on which his name and address were written in a handwriting once so familiar to him, and the sight of which made him start and breathe heavily for a moment as if the air had suddenly grown thick and burdensome.

It was Daisy's handwriting, which he had never thought to see again; for after his engagement with Julia he had burned every vestige of a correspondence it was sorrow now to remember. One by one, and with a steady hand, he had dropped Daisy's letters into the fire and watched them turning into ashes, and thought how like his love for her they were when nothing remained of them but the thin gray tissue his breath could blow away. The four sc.r.a.ps of the marriage settlement which Daisy had brought him on that night of storm he kept, because they seemed to embody something good and n.o.ble in the girl; but the letters she had written him were gone past recall, and he had thought himself cut loose from her forever,-when, lo! there had come to him an awakening to the bitterness of the past in a letter from the once-loved wife, whose delicate handwriting made him grow faint and sick for a moment, as he held the letter in his hand and read:

"_Guy Thornton, Esq._, "Brown Cottage, "Politeness of Mr. Wilkes. Cuylerville, Ma.s.s."

Why had she written, and what had she to say to him? he wondered, and for a moment he felt tempted to tear the letter up and never know what it contained.

Better, perhaps, had he done so,-better for him, and better for the fond new wife whose happiness was so perfect, and whose trust in his love was so strong.

But he did not tear it up. He opened it, and another chapter will tell us what he read.

CHAPTER VIII.-DAISY'S LETTER.

It was dated at Rouen, France, and it ran as follows:

"_Dear, Dear Guy_:-I am all alone here in Rouen, with no one near me who speaks English, or knows a thing of Daisy Thornton, as she was, or as she is now, for I am Daisy Thornton here. I have taken the old name again and am an English governess in a wealthy French family; and this is how it came about: I have left Berlin and the party there, and am earning my own living, for three reasons, two of which concern cousin Tom, and one of which has to do with you and that miserable settlement which has troubled me so much. I thought when I brought it back and tore it up that was the last of it, and felt so happy and relieved. Father missed it, of course; and I told him the truth and that I could never touch a penny of your money if I was not your wife. He did not say a word, and I supposed it was all right, and never dreamed that I was actually clothed and fed on the interest of that ten thousand dollars.

Father would not tell me, and you did not write. Why didn't you, Guy? I expected a letter so long and went to the office so many times and cried a little to myself, and said Guy has forgotten me.

"After the divorce, which I know now was a most unjust and mean affair, the people in Indianapolis treated us with so much coldness and neglect that at last we went to South America,-father, mother and I,-went to live with Tom. He wanted me for his wife before you did, but I could not marry Tom. He is very rich now, and we lived with him, and then we all came to Europe and have traveled everywhere, and I have had teachers in everything, and people say I am a fine scholar, and praise me much; and, Guy, I have tried to improve just to please _you_; believe me, Guy, just to please _you_. Tom was as a brother,-a dear, good big bear of a brother, whom I loved as such, but nothing more. Even were you dead, I could not marry Tom after knowing you; and I told him so when in Berlin he asked me for the sixth time to be his wife. I had to tell him something hard to make him understand, and when I saw how what I said hurt him cruelly and made him cry because he was such a great big, awkward, dear old fellow, I put my arms around his neck and cried with him, and tried to explain, and that made him ten times worse. Oh, if people only would not love me so much it would save me a great deal of sorrow.

"You see, I tell you this because I want you to know exactly what I have been doing these five years, and that I have never thought of marrying Tom or anybody. I did not think I could. I felt that if I belonged to anybody it was you, and I cannot have Tom, and father was very angry and taunted me with living on Tom's money, which I did not know before, and then he accidently let out about the marriage settlement, and that hurt me worse than the other.

"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 shield 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.