"Tom is good, though; so good, but awkward, and I like him ever so much, but I can't be his wife. I cannot. I cannot."

"He doesn't expect it now, or want it," came huskily from Tom, while Daisy quickly asked:

"Doesn't he?"

"No, never any more; so, put it from your mind and try to sleep," Tom said, and again the freckled hands smoothed the tumbled pillows and wiped the sweat drops from Daisy's face, while all the time the great kind heart was breaking, and the hot tears were rolling down the sunburnt face Daisy thought so ugly.

Tom had heard from Madame Lafarcade of Guy's marriage and, like her, understood why Daisy's fever ran so high, and her mind was in such turmoil. But for himself he knew there was no hope, and with a feeling of death in his heart he watched by her day and night, yielding his place to no one, and saying to madame, when she remonstrated with him and bade him care for his own health:

"It does not matter for me. I would rather die than not."

Daisy was better when her mother came,-saved, the doctor said, more by Tom's care and nursing than by his own skill, and then Tom gave up his post, and never went near her unless she asked for him. His "red hair and freckled face" were constantly in his mind, making him loathe the very sight of himself.

"She cannot bear my looks, and I will not force myself upon her," he thought; and so he staid away, but surrounded her with every luxury money could buy, and as soon as she was able had her removed to a pretty little cottage which he rented and fitted up for her, and where she would be more at home and quieter than at Madame Lafarcade's.

And there one morning when he called to inquire for her, he, too, was smitten down with the fever which he had taken with Daisy's breath the many nights and days he watched by her without rest or sufficient food.

There was a faint, followed by a long interval of unconsciousness, and when he came to himself he was in Daisy's own room lying on Daisy's little bed, and Daisy herself was bending anxiously over him, with a flush on her white cheeks and a soft, pitiful look in her blue eyes.

"What is it? Where am I?" he asked, and Daisy replied:

"You are here in my room; and you've got the fever, and I'm going to take care of you, and I'm so glad. Not glad you have the fever," she added, as she met his look of wonder, "but glad I can repay in part all you did for me, you dear, n.o.ble Tom! And you are not to talk," and she laid her hand on his mouth as she saw him about to speak. "I am strong enough; the doctor says so, and I'd do it if he didn't, for you are the best, the truest friend I have."

She was rubbing his hot, feverish hands, and though the touch of her cool, soft fingers was so delicious, poor Tom thought of the big frecks so obnoxious to the little lady, and drawing his hands from her grasp hid them beneath the clothes. Gladly, too, would he have covered his face and hair from her sight, but this he could not do and breathe, so he begged her to leave him, and send some one in her place. But Daisy would not listen to him.

He had nursed her day and night, she said, and she should stay with him, and she did stay through the three weeks when Tom's fever ran higher than hers had done, and when Tom in his ravings talked of things which made her heart ache with a new and different pain from that already there.

At first there were low whisperings and incoherent mutterings, and when Daisy asked him to whom he was talking he answered:

"To that other one over in the corner. Don't you see him? He is waiting for me till the fever eats me up. There's a lot of me to eat, I'm so big and awkward, overgrown,-that's what Daisy said. You know Daisy, don't you? a dainty little creature, with such delicacy of sight and touch.

She doesn't like red hair; she said so, when we thought the man in the corner was waiting for her; and she doesn't like my freckled face and hands,-big hands, she said they were, and yet how they have worked like horses for her. Oh, Daisy, Daisy, I have loved her ever since she was a child, and I drew her to school on my sled and cut her doll's head off to tease her. Take me quick, please, out of her sight, where my freckled face won't offend her."

He was talking now to that other one, the man in the corner, who like some grim sentinel stood there day and night, while Daisy kept her tireless watch and Tom talked on and on,-never to her,-but always to the other one, the man in the corner, whom he begged to take him away.

"Bring out your boat," he would say. "It's time we were off, for the tide is at its height, and the river is running so fast. I thought once it would take Daisy, but it left her and I am glad. When I am fairly over and there's nothing but my big freckled hulk left, cover my face, and don't let her look at me, though I'll be white then, not red. Oh, Daisy, Daisy, my darling, you hurt me so cruelly."

Those were terrible days for Daisy, but she never left her post, and stood resolutely between the sick man and _that other one_ in the corner, until the latter seemed to waver a little; his shadow was not so black, his presence so all-pervading, and there was hope for Tom, the doctor said. His reason came back at last, and the fever left him, weak as a little child, with no power to move even his poor wasted hands, which lay outside the counterpane and seemed to trouble him, for there was a wistful, pleading look in his gray eyes as they went from the hands to Daisy, and his lips whispered faintly: "Cover."

She understood him, and with a rain of tears spread the sheet over them, and then on her knees beside him, said to him, amid her sobs:

"Forgive me, Tom, for what I said when I was crazy. You are not repulsive to me. You are the truest, best, and dearest friend I ever had, and I-I-Oh, Tom, live for my sake, and let me prove how-Oh, Tom, I wish I had never been born."

Daisy did not stay with Tom that night. There was no necessity for it, and she was so worn and weary with watching that the physician declared she must have absolute rest or be sick again. So she staid away, and in a little room by herself fought the fiercest battle she had ever fought, and on her knees, with tears and bitter cries, asked for help to do right. Not for help to know what was right. She felt sure that she did know that, only the flesh was weak, and there were chords of love still clinging to a past she scarcely dared think of now, lest her courage should fail her. Guy was lost to her forever; it was a sin even to think of him as she must think if she thought at all, and so she strove to put him from her,-to tear his image from her heart, and put another in its place,-Tom, whom she pitied so much, and whom she could make so happy.

"No matter for myself," she said at last. "No matter what I feel, or how sharp the pain in my heart, if I only keep it there and never let Tom know. I can make him happy, and I will."

There was no wavering after that decision,-no regret for the "might have been,"-but her face was white as snow, and about the pretty mouth there was a quivering of the muscles, as if the words were hard to utter, when next day she went to Tom, and sitting down beside him, asked how he was feeling. His eyes brightened a little when he saw her, but there was a look on his face which made Daisy's pulse quicken with a nameless fear, and his voice was very weak, as he replied:

"They say I am better; but, Daisy, I know the time is near for me to go.

I shall never get well, and I do not wish to, though life is not a gift to be thrown away easily, and on some accounts mine has been a happy one, but the life beyond is better, and I feel sure I am going to it."

"Oh, Tom, Tom, don't talk so. You must not leave me now," Daisy cried, all her composure giving way as she fell on her knees beside him, and taking both his hands in hers wet them with her tears. "Tom," she began, when she could speak, "I have been bad to you so often, and worried and wounded you so much; but I am sorry, so sorry,-and I've thought it all over real earnestly and seriously, and made up my mind, and I want you to get well and ask me that,-that-question again,-you have asked so many times,-and-and-Tom,-I will say-yes-to it now, and try so hard to make you happy."

Her face was crimson as if with shame, and she dared not look at Tom until his silence startled her. Then she stole a glance at him, and met an expression which prompted her to go on recklessly:

"Don't look so incredulous, Tom. I am in earnest. I mean what I say, though it may be unmaidenly to say it. Try me, Tom. I will make you happy, and though at first I cannot love you as I did Guy when I sent him that letter, the love will come, born of your great goodness and kindness of heart. Try me, Tom, won't you?"

She kissed his thin white hands where the freckles showed more plainly than ever, and which Tom tried to free from her; she held them fast and looked steadily into the face, which shone for a moment with a joy so great that it was almost handsome, and when she said again: "Will you, Tom?" the pale lips parted with an effort to speak, but no sound was audible, only the chin quivered and the tears stood in Tom's eyes as he battled with the temptation. Should he accept the sacrifice? It would be worth trying to live for, if Daisy could be his wife, but ought he to join her life with his? Could she ever learn to love him? No, she could not, and he must put her from him, even though she came asking him to take her. Thus Tom decided, and turning his face to the wall, he said with a choking sob:

"No, Daisy. It cannot be. Such happiness is not for me now. I must not think of it, for I am going to die. Thank you, darling, just the same.

It was kind in you and well meant, but it cannot be. I could not make you happy. I am not like Guy; never could be like him, and you would hate me after a while, and the chain would hurt you cruelly. No, Daisy, I love you too well,-and yet, Daisy,-Daisy,-why do you tempt me so,-if it could be, I might perhaps get well, I should try so hard."

He turned suddenly toward her, and winding both his arms around her, drew her to him in a quick, pa.s.sionate embrace, crying piteously over her, and saying:

"My darling, my darling, if it could have been, but it's too late now,-G.o.d is good and will take me to Himself. I thought a great deal before I was sick, and believe I am a better man, and that Jesus is my friend, and I am going to him. I'm glad you told me what you have. It will make my last days happier, and when I am gone, you will find that I did well with you."

He put her from him then, for faintness and exhaustion were stealing over him, and that was the last that ever pa.s.sed between him and Daisy on the subject which all his life had occupied so much of his thoughts.

The fever had left him, it is true, but he seemed to have no vital force or rallying power, and, after a few days, it was clear even to Daisy that Tom's life was drawing to a close. "The man in the corner," who had troubled him so much, was there again, and Tom was very happy. He had thought much of death and what lay beyond during those days when Daisy's life hung in the balance, and the result of the much thinking had been a full surrender of himself to G.o.d, who did not forsake him when the dark, cold river was closing over him.

Calm and peaceful as the setting of the summer sun was the close of his life, and up to the last he retained his consciousness, with the exception of a few hours, when his mind wandered a little, and he talked to "that other one," whom no one could see, but whose presence all felt so vividly.

"It would have been pleasant, and for a minute I was tempted to take her at her word," he said; "but when I remembered my hair, and face, and hands, and how she liked nothing which was not comely, I would not run the chance of being hated for my repulsive looks. Poor little Daisy! she meant it all right, and I bless her for it, and am glad she said it, but she must not look at me when I'm dead. The frecks she dislikes so much will show plainer then. Don't let her come near, or, if she must, cover me up,-cover me up,-cover me from her sight."

Thus he talked, and Daisy, who knew what he meant, wept silently by his side, and kept the sheet closely drawn over the hands he was so anxious to conceal. He knew her at the last, and bade her farewell, and told her she had been to him the dearest thing in life; and Daisy's arm was round him, supporting him upon the pillow, and Daisy's hand wiped the death moisture from his brow, and Daisy's lips were pressed to his dying face, and her ear caught his faint whisper:

"G.o.d bless you, darling! I am going home! Good-bye."

"The man in the corner,-that other one,"-had claimed him, and Daisy put gently from her the lifeless form which had once been Tom.

They buried him there in France, on a sunny slope, where the gra.s.s was green and the flowers blossomed in the early spring; and, when Mr.

McDonald examined his papers, he found to his surprise that, with the exception of an annuity to himself, and several legacies to different charitable inst.i.tutions, Tom had left to Daisy his entire fortune, stipulating only that one-tenth of all her income should be yearly given back to G.o.d, who had a right to it.

CHAPTER X.-MISS MCDONALD.

She took the name again, and with it, also, Margaret, feeling that Daisy was far too girlish an appellation for one who clad herself in the deepest mourning, and felt, when she stood at poor Tom's grave, more wretched and desolate than many a wife has felt when her husband was buried from sight.

Tom had meant to make her parents independent of her so that she need not have them with her unless she chose to do so, for knowing Mr.

McDonald as he did, he thought she would be happier without him; but G.o.d so ordered it that within three months after poor Tom's death, they made another grave beside his, and Daisy and her mother were alone.

It was spring time, and the two desolate women bade adieu to their dead, and made their way to England, and from there to Scotland, where among the heather hills they pa.s.sed the summer in the utmost seclusion.

Here Daisy had ample time for thought, which dwelt mostly upon the past and the happiness she cast away when she consented to the sundering of the tie which had bound her to Guy Thornton.

"Oh, how could I have been so foolish and so weak," she said, as with intense contempt for herself, she read over the journal she had kept at Elmwood during the first weeks of her married life.