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DAISY THORNTON
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost
no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
eBook or online at http://www.gutenberg.org/license.
Title: Daisy Thornton
Author: Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
Release Date: September 17, 2011 [EBook #37467]
Language: English
Character set encoding: US-ASCII
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DAISY THORNTON ***
Produced by Roger Frank, Mary Meehan, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net.
BY MRS. MARY J. HOLMES,
AUTHOR OF
_Tempest and Sunshine.--'Lena Rivers.--Darkness and Daylight._
_--Marian Grey.--English Orphans.--Hugh Worthington.--Millbank._
_--Ethelyn's Mistake.--Edna Browning, Etc., Etc._
"Those whom God has joined together let no man put asunder."
NEW YORK:
Copyright, 1878, by
_G. W. Carleton & Co., Publishers_.
LONDON: S. LOW & CO.
MDCCCLXXX.
_Samuel Stodder_,
_Stereotyper_,
_90 Ann Street, N.Y._
_Trow_
_Printing and Bookbinding_
_Company._
----
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.--EXTRACTS FROM MISS FRANCES THORNTON'S JOURNAL.
CHAPTER II.--EXTRACTS FROM GUY'S JOURNAL.
CHAPTER III.--EXTRACTS FROM DAISY'S JOURNAL.
CHAPTER IV.--AUTHOR'S STORY.
CHAPTER V.--THE DIVORCE.
CHAPTER VI.--EXTRACTS FROM DIARIES.
CHAPTER VII.--FIVE YEARS LATER.
CHAPTER VIII.--DAISY'S LETTER.
CHAPTER IX.--DAISY, TOM, AND THAT OTHER ONE.
CHAPTER X.--MISS MCDONALD.
CHAPTER XI.--AT SARATOGA.
CHAPTER XII.--IN THE SICK ROOM.
CHAPTER XIII.--DAISY'S JOURNAL.
----
DAISY THORNTON
CHAPTER I.--EXTRACTS FROM MISS FRANCES THORNTON'S JOURNAL.
Elmwood, June 15th, 18--.
I have been working among my flowers all the morning, digging, weeding
and transplanting, and then stopping a little to rest. My roses are
perfect beauties this year, while my white lilies are the wonder of the
town, and yet my heart was not with them to-day, and it was nothing to
me that those fine people from the Towers came into the grounds while I
was at work, "just to see and admire," they said, adding that there was
no place in Cuylerville like Elmwood. I know that, and Guy and I have
been so happy here, and I loved him so much, and never dreamed what was
in store for me until it came suddenly like a heavy blow.
Why should he wish to marry, when he has lived to be thirty years old
without a care of any kind, and has money enough to allow him to indulge
his taste for books, and pictures, and travel, and is respected by
everybody, and looked up to as the first man in town, and petted and
cared for by me as few brothers have ever been petted and cared for? and
if he must marry, why need he take a child of sixteen, whom he has only
known since Christmas, and whose sole recommendation, so far as I can
learn, is her pretty face?
Daisy McDonald is her name, and she lives in Indianapolis, where her
father is a poor lawyer, and as I have heard, a scheming, unprincipled
man. Guy met her last winter in Chicago, and fell in love at once, and
made two or three journeys West on "important business," he said, and
then, some time in May, told me he was going to bring me a sister, the
sweetest little creature, with beautiful blue eyes and wonderful hair. I
was sure to love her, he said, and when I suggested that she was very
young, he replied that her youth was in her favor, as we could more
easily mould her to the Thornton pattern.
Little he knows about girls; but then he was perfectly infatuated and
blind to everything but Daisy's eyes, and hair, and voice, which is so
sweet and winning that it will speak for her at once. Then she is so
dainty and refined, he said, and he asked me to see to the furnishing of
the rooms on the west side of the house, the two which communicate with
his own private library, where he spends a great deal of time with his
books and writing. The room adjoining this was to be Daisy's boudoir or
parlor, where she could sit when he was occupied and she wished to be
near him. This was to be fitted up in blue, as she had expressed a wish
to that effect, and he said no expense must be spared to make it as
pretty and attractive as possible. So the walls were frescoed and
tinted, and I spent two entire days in New York hunting for a carpet of
the desirable shade, which should be right both in texture and design.
Guy was exceedingly particular, and developed a wonderful proclivity to
find fault with everything I admired. Nothing was quite the thing for
Daisy, until at last a manufacturer offered to get a carpet up which was
sure to suit, and so that question was happily settled for the time
being. Then came the furniture, and unlimited orders were given to the
upholsterer to do his best, and matters were progressing finely when
order number two came from the little lady, who was sorry to seem so
fickle, but her mamma, whose taste was perfect, had decided against
_all_ blue, and would Guy please furnish the room with drab trimmed with
blue?
"It must be a very delicate shade of drab," she wrote, and lest he
should get too intense an idea, she would call it a _tint_ of a _shade_
of drab, or, better yet, a _hint_ of a tint of a shade of drab would
describe exactly what she meant, and be so entirely unique, and lovely,
and _recherche_.
Guy never swears, and seldom uses slang of any kind, but this was a
little too much, and with a most rueful expression of countenance he
asked me "what in thunder I supposed a hint of a tint of a shade of drab
could be?"
I could not enlighten him, and we finally concluded to leave it to the
upholsterer, to whom Guy telegraphed in hot haste, bidding him hunt New
York over for the desired shade. Where he found it I never knew; but
find it he did, or something approximating to it,--a faded, washed-out
color, which seemed a cross between wood-ashes and pale skim milk. A
sample was sent up for Guy's approval, and then the work commenced
again, when order number three came in one of those dainty little
billets which used to make Guy's face radiant with happiness. Daisy had
changed her mind again and gone back to the blue, which she always
preferred as most becoming to her complexion.
Guy did not say a single word, but he took the next train for New York,
and staid there till the furniture was done and packed for Cuylerville.
As I did not know where he was stopping, I could not forward him two
letters which came during his absence, and which bore the Indianapolis
post-mark. I suspect he had a design in keeping his address from me,
and, whether Daisy changed her mind again or not, I never knew.
The furniture reached Elmwood the day but one before Guy started for his
bride, and Julia Hamilton, who was then at the Towers, helped me arrange
the room, which is a perfect little gem, and cannot fail to please, I am
sure. I wonder Guy never fancied Julia Hamilton. Oh, if he only had done
so, I should not have as many misgivings as I now have, nor dread the
future so much. Julia is sensible and twenty years old, and lives in
Boston, and comes of a good family, and is every way suitable,--but when
did a man ever choose the woman whom his sister thought suitable for
him? And Guy is like other men, and this is his wedding day; and after a
trip to Montreal, and Quebec, and Boston, and New York, and Saratoga,
they are coming home, and I am to give a grand reception, and then
subside, I suppose, into the position of the "old maid sister who will
be dreadfully in the way."
----
September 15th, 18--.
Just three months since I opened my journal, and, on glancing over what
I wrote on Guy's wedding day, I find that in one respect at least I was
unjust to the little creature who is now my sister, and calls me Miss
Frances. Not by a word or look has she shown the least inclination to
assume the position of mistress of the house, nor does she seem to think
me at all in the way; but that she considers me quite an antediluvian I
am certain, for, in speaking of something which happened in 1820, she
asked if I remembered it! And I only three years older than Guy! But
then she once called him a dear old grandfatherly man, and thought it a
good joke that on their wedding tour she was mistaken for his daughter.
She looks so young,--not sixteen even; but with those childish blue
eyes, and that innocent, pleading kind of expression, she never can be
old. She is very beautiful, and I can understand in part Guy's
infatuation, though at times he hardly knows what to do with his pretty
plaything.
It was the middle of August when they came from Saratoga, sorely against
her wishes, as I heard from the Porters, who were at the same hotel, and
who have told me what a sensation she created, and how much attention
she received. Everybody flattered her, and one evening, when there was
to be a hop at Congress Hall, she received twenty bouquets from as many
different admirers, each of whom asked her hand for the first dance. And
even Guy tried some of the square dances,--with poor success, I imagine,
for Lucy Porter laughed when she told me of it, and the mistakes he
made; and I do not wonder, for my grave, scholarly Guy must be as much
out of place in a ball-room as his little, airy, doll of a wife is in
her place when there. I can understand just how she enjoyed it all, and
how she hated to come to Elmwood, for she did not then know the kind of
home she was coming to.
It was glorious weather for August, and a rain of the previous day had
washed all the flowers and shrubs, and freshened up the grass on the
lawn, which was just like a piece of velvet, while everything around the
house seemed to laugh in the warm afternoon sunshine as the carriage
came up to the door. Eight trunks, two hat-boxes, and a guitar-case had
come in the morning, and were waiting the arrival of their owner, whose
face looked eagerly out at the house and its surroundings, and it seemed
to me did not light up as much as it should have done under the
circumstances.
"Why, Guy, I always thought the house was brick," I heard her say, as
the carriage door was opened by the coachman.
"No, darling,--wood. Ah, there's Fan," was Guy's reply, and the next
moment I had her in my arms.
Yes, literally in my arms. She is such a wee little thing, and her face
is so sweet, and her eyes so childish and wistful and her voice so
musical and flute-like that before I knew what I was doing I lifted her
from her feet and hugged her hard, and said I meant to love her, first
for Guy's sake, and then for her own. Was it my fancy, I wonder, or did
she really shrink back a little and put up her hands to arrange the
bows, and streamers, and curls floating away from her like the flags on
a vessel on some gala day.
She was very tired, Guy said, and ought to lie down before dinner. Would
I show her to her room with Zillah, her maid? Then for the first time I
noticed a dark-haired girl who had alighted from the carriage and stood
holding Daisy's traveling-bag and wraps.
"Her waiting-maid, whom we found in Boston," Guy explained, when we were
alone. "She is so young and helpless, and wanted one so badly, that I
concluded to humor her for a time, especially as I had not the most
remote idea how to pin on those wonderful fixings which she wears. It is
astonishing how many things it takes to make up the _tout ensemble_ of a
fashionable woman," Guy said, and I thought he glanced with an unusual
amount of curiosity and interest at my plain cambric wrapper and smooth
hair.
Indeed he has taken it upon himself to criticise me somewhat; thinks I
am too slim, as he expresses it, and that my head might be improved if
it had a more snarly appearance. Daisy, of course, stands for his model,
and her hair does not look as if it had been combed in a month, and yet
Zillah spends hours over it. She,--that is, Daisy,--was pleased with her
boudoir, and gave vent to sundry exclamations of delight when she
entered it, skipped around like the child she is, and said she was so
glad it was blue instead of that indescribable drab, and that room is
almost the only thing she has expressed an opinion about since she has
been here. She does not talk much except to Zillah, and then in French,
which I do not understand. If I were to write just what I think I should
say that she had expected a great deal more grandeur than she finds. At
all events, she takes the things which I think very nice and even
elegant as a matter of course, and if we were to set up a style of
living equal to that of the queen's household, I do believe she would
act as if she had been accustomed to it all her life, or, at least, that
it was what she had a right to expect. I know she imagines Guy a great
deal richer than he is; and that reminds me of something which troubles
me.
Guy has given his name to Dick Trevylian for one hundred thousand
dollars. To be sure it is only for three months, and Dick is worth three
times that amount, and is an old friend and every way reliable and
honest. And still I did not want Guy to sign. I wonder why it is that
women always jump at a conclusion without any apparent reason. Of
course, I could not explain it, but when Guy told me what he was going
to do, I felt in an instant as if he would have it all to pay, and told
him so, but he only laughed at me and called me nervous and fidgety, and
said a friend was good for nothing if he could not lend a helping hand
occasionally. Perhaps that is true, but I was uneasy and shall be glad
when the time is up and the paper canceled.
Our expenses since Daisy came are double what they were before, and if
we were to lose one hundred thousand dollars now we should be badly off.
Daisy is a luxury Guy has to pay for, but he pays willingly and seems to
grow more and more infatuated every day. "She is such a sweet-tempered,
affectionate little puss," he says; and I admit to myself that she is
sweet-tempered, and that nothing ruffles her, but about the affectionate
part I am not so certain. Guy would pet her and caress her all the time
if she would let him, but she won't.
"O, please don't touch me. It is too warm, and you muss my dress," I
have heard her say more than once when he came in and tried to put his
arm about her or take her in his lap.
Indeed, her dress seems to be uppermost in her mind, and I have known
her to try on half a dozen different ones before she could decide in
which she looked the best. No matter what Guy is doing, or how deeply he
is absorbed in his studies, she makes him stop and inspect her from all
points, and give his opinion, and Guy submits in a way perfectly
wonderful to me who never dared to disturb him when shut up with his
books.
Another thing, too, he submits to which astonishes me more than anything
else. It used to annoy him terribly to wait for anything or anybody.
_He_ was always ready, and expected others to be, but Daisy is just the
reverse. Such dawdling habits I never saw in any person. With Zillah to
help her dress she is never ready for breakfast, never ready for dinner,
never ready for church, never ready for anything, and that, in a
household accustomed to order and regularity, does put things back so,
and make so much trouble.
"Don't wait breakfast for me, please," she says, when she has been
called for the third or fourth time, and if she can get us to sit down
without her she seems to think it all right, and that she can be as long
as she likes.
I wonder that it never occurs to her that to keep the breakfast table
round, as we must, makes the girls cross and upsets the kitchen
generally. I hinted as much to her once when the table stood till ten
o'clock, and she only opened her great blue eyes wonderingly, and said
mamma had spoiled her she guessed, for it did not use to matter at home
when she was ready, but she would try and do better. She bade Zillah
call her at _five_ the next morning, and Zillah called her, and then she
was a half hour late. Guy doesn't like that, and he looked daggers on
the night of the reception, when the guests began to arrive before she
was dressed! And she commenced her toilet too, at three o'clock! But she
was wondrously beautiful in her bridal robes, and took all hearts by
storm. She is perfectly at home in society, and knows just what to do
and say so long as the conversation keeps in the fashionable round of
chit-chat, but when it drifts into deeper channels she is silent at
once, or only answers in monosyllables. I believe she is a good French
scholar, and she plays and sings tolerably well, and reads the novels as
they come out, but of books and literature, in general, she is wholly
ignorant, and if Guy thought to find in her any sympathy with his
favorite studies and authors he is terribly mistaken.
And yet, as I write all this, my conscience gives me sundry pricks as if
I were wronging her, for in spite of her faults I like her ever so much,
and like to watch her flitting through the house and grounds like the
little fairy she is, and I hope the marriage may turn out well, and that
she will improve with age, and make Guy very happy.
CHAPTER II.--EXTRACTS FROM GUY'S JOURNAL.
September 20th, 18--.
Three months married. Three months with Daisy all to myself, and yet not
exactly to myself either, for of her own accord she does not often come
where I am, unless it is just as I have shut myself up in my room,
thinking to have a quiet hour with my books. Then she generally appears,
and wants me to ride with her, or play croquet or see which dress is
most becoming, and I always submit and obey her as if I were the child
instead of herself.
She _is_ young, and I almost wonder her parents allowed her to marry.
Fan hints that they were mercenary, but if they were they concealed the
fact wonderfully well, and made me think it a great sacrifice on their
part to give me Daisy. And so it was; such a lovely little darling, and
so beautiful. What a sensation she created at Saratoga! and still I was
glad to get away, for I did not fancy some things which were done there.
I did not like so many young men around her, nor her dancing those
abominable round dances which she seemed to enjoy so much. "Square
dances were poky," she said, even after I tried them with her for the
sake of keeping her out of that vile John Britton's arms. I have an
impression that I made a spectacle of myself, hopping about like a
magpie, but Daisy said, "I did beautifully," though she cried because I
put my foot on her lace flounce and tore it, and I noticed that after
that she always had some good reason why I should not dance again. "It
was too hard work for me; I was too big and clumsy," she said, "and
would tire easily. Cousin Tom was big and he never danced."
By the way, I have some little curiosity with regard to that Cousin Tom
who wanted Daisy so badly, and who, because she refused him, went off to
South America. I trust he will stay there. Not that I am or could be
jealous of Daisy, but it is better for cousins like Tom to keep away.
Daisy is very happy here, though she is not quite as enthusiastic over
the place as I supposed she would be, knowing how she lived at home. The
McDonalds are intensely respectable, so she says; but her father's
practice cannot bring him over two thousand a year, and the small brown
house they live in, with only a grass-plot in the rear and at the side,
is not to be compared with Elmwood, which is a fine old place, every one
admits. It has come out gradually that she thought the house was brick
and had a tower and billiard-room, and that we kept a great many
servants, and had a fish-pond on the premises, and velvet carpets on
every floor. I would not let Fan know this for the world, as I want her
to like Daisy thoroughly.
And she does like her, though this little pink and white pet of mine is
a new revelation to her, and puzzles her amazingly. She would have been
glad if I had married Julia Hamilton, of Boston; but those Boston girls
are too strong-minded and positive to suit me. Julia is nice, it is
true, and pretty, and highly educated, and Fan says she has brains and
would make a splendid wife. As Fan had never seen Daisy she did not, of
course, mean to hint that she had not brains, but I suspect even now she
would be better pleased if Julia were here, but I should not. Julia is
self-reliant; Daisy is not. Julia has opinions of her own and asserts
them, too; Daisy does not. Julia can sew and run a machine; Daisy
cannot. Julia gets up in the morning and goes to bed at night; Daisy
does neither. Nobody ever waits for Julia; everybody waits for Daisy.
Julia reads scientific works and dotes on metaphysics; Daisy does not
know the meaning of the word. In short, Julia is a strong, high-toned,
energetic, independent woman, while Daisy is--a little innocent,
confiding girl, whom I would rather have without brains than all the
Boston women like Julia with brains!
And yet I sometimes wish she did care for books, and was more interested
in what interests me. I have tried reading aloud to her an hour every
evening, but she generally goes to sleep or steals up behind me to look
over my shoulder and see how near I am to the end of the chapter, and
when I reach it she says: "Excuse me, but I have just thought of
something I must tell Zillah about the dress I want to wear to-morrow.
I'll be back in a moment;" and off she goes and our reading is ended for
that time, for I notice she never returns. The dress is of more
importance than the book, and I find her at ten or eleven trying to
decide whether black or white or blue is most becoming to her. Poor
Daisy! I fear she had no proper training at home. Indeed, she told me
the other day that from her earliest recollection she had been taught
that the main object of her life was to marry young and to marry money.
Of course she did not mean anything, but I would rather she had not said
it, even though I know she refused a millionaire for me who can hardly
be called rich as riches are rated these days. If Dick Trevylian should
fail to meet his payment I should be very poor, and then what would
become of Daisy, to whom the luxuries which money buys are so necessary?
[Here followed several other entries in the journal, consisting mostly
of rhapsodies on Daisy, and then came the following:]
----
December 15th, 18--.
Dick _has_ failed to meet his payments, and that too after having
borrowed of me twenty thousand more! Is he a villain, and did he know
all the time that I was ruining myself? I cannot think so when I
remember the look on his face as he told me about it and swore to me
solemnly that up to the very last he fully expected relief from England,
where he thought he had a fortune.
"If I live I will pay you sometime," he said; but that does not help me
now. I am a ruined man. Elmwood must be sold, and I must work like a dog
to earn my daily bread. For myself I would not mind it much, and Fan,
who, woman-like, saw it in the distance and warned me of it, behaves
nobly; but it falls hard on Daisy.
Poor Daisy! She never said a word when I told her the exact truth, but
she went to bed and cried for one whole day. I am so glad I settled ten
thousand dollars on her when we were married. No one can touch that, and
I told her so; but she did not say a word or seem to know what I meant.
Talking of anything serious, or expressing her opinion, was never in her
line, and she has not of her own accord spoken with me on the subject,
and when I try to talk with her about our future she shudders and cries,
and says, "Please don't! I can't bear it! I want to go home to mother!"
And so it is settled that while we are arranging matters she is to visit
her mother and perhaps not return till spring, when I hope to be in a
better condition financially than I am at present.
One thing Daisy said, which hurt me cruelly, and that was: "If I must be
a poor man's wife I might as well have married Cousin Tom, who wanted me
so badly!" To do her justice, however, she added immediately: "But I
like you the best."
I am glad she said that. It will be something to remember when she is
gone, or rather when I return without her, as I am going to Indianapolis
with her, and then back to the dreary business of seeing what I have
left and what I can do. I have an offer for the house, and shall sell it
at once; but where my home will be next, I do not know, neither would I
care so much if it were not for Daisy,--poor little Daisy!--who thought
she had married a rich man. The only tears I have shed over my lost
fortune were for her. Oh, Daisy, Daisy!
CHAPTER III.--EXTRACTS FROM DAISY'S JOURNAL.
Elmwood, September 20th, 18--.
Daisy McDonald Thornton's journal,--presented by my husband, Mr. Guy
Thornton, who wishes me to write something in it every day; and who,
when I asked him what I should write, said: "Your thoughts, and
opinions, and experiences. It will be pleasant for you sometime to look
back upon your early married life and see what progress you have made
since then, and will help you to recall incidents you would otherwise
forget. A journal fixes things in your mind, and I know you will enjoy
it, especially as no one is to see it, and you can talk to it freely as
to a friend."
That is what Guy said, and I wrote it right down to copy into the book
as a kind of preface or introduction. I am not much pleased with having
to keep a journal, and maybe I shall coax Zillah to keep it for me. I
don't care to _fix_ things in my mind. I don't like things _fixed_,
anyway. I'd rather they would lie round loose, as they surely would, if
I had not Zillah to pick them up. She is a treasure, and it is almost
worth being married to have a waiting-maid,--and that reminds me that I
may as well begin back at the time when I was not married, and did not
want to be either, if we had not been so poor, and obliged to make so
many shifts to keep up appearances and seem richer than we were.
My maiden name was Margaret McDonald, and I am seventeen next New Year's
Day. My father is of Scotch descent, and a lawyer; and mother was a
Barnard, from New Orleans, and has some very good blood in her veins. I
am an only child, and very handsome,--so everybody says; and I should
know it if they did not say it, for can't I see myself in the glass? And
still I really do not care so much for my good looks except as they
serve to attain the end for which father says I was born.
Almost the first thing I can remember is of his telling me that I must
marry young and marry rich, and I promised him I would, provided I could
stay at home with mother just the same after I was married. Another
thing I remember, which made a lasting impression, and that is the
beating father gave me for asking before some grand people staying at
our house, "Why we did not always have beefsteak and hot muffins for
breakfast, instead of baked potatoes and bread and butter?"
I must learn to keep my mouth shut, he said, and not tell all I knew;
and I profited by the lesson, and that is one reason, I suppose, why I
so rarely say what I think or express an opinion either favorable or
otherwise.
I do not believe I am deceitful, though all my life I have seen my
parents try to seem what they are not; that is, try to seem like rich
people, when sometimes father's practice brought him only a few hundreds
a year, and there was mother and myself and Tom to support. Tom is my
cousin,--Tom McDonald--who lived with us and fell in love with me,
though I never tried to make him. But I liked him ever so much, even if
he did use to tease me horridly, and put horn-bugs in my shoes, and
worms on my neck, and jack-o'lanterns in my room, and tip me off his
sled into the snow; for with all his teasing, he had a great, kind,
unselfish heart, and I shall never forget that look on his face when I
told him I could not be his wife. I did not like him as he liked me, and
I did not want to be married any way. I could not bear the thought of
being tied up to some man, and if I did marry it must be to somebody who
was rich. That was in Chicago, and the night before Tom started for
South America, where he was going to make his fortune, and he wanted me
to promise to wait for him, and said no one would ever love me as well
as he did.
I could not promise, because, even if he had all the gold mines in Peru,
I did not care to spend my days with him,--to see him morning, noon and
night, and all the time. It is a good deal to ask of a woman, and I told
him so, and he cried so hard,--not loud, but in a pitiful kind of way,
which hurt me cruelly. I hear that sobbing sometimes now in my sleep,
and it's like the moan of the wind round that house on the prairie where
Tom's mother died. Poor Tom! I gave him a lock of my hair and let him
kiss me twice, and then he went away, and after that old Judge Burton
offered himself and his million to me; but I could not endure his bald
head a week, I should hate him awfully and I told him no; and when
father seemed sorry and said I missed it, I told him I would not sell
myself for gold alone,--I'd run away first and go after Tom, who was
young and just bearable. Then Guy Thornton came, and--and--well, he took
me by storm, and I liked him better than any one I had ever seen, though
I would rather have him for my friend,--my beau, whom I could order
around and get rid of when I pleased, but I married him. Everybody said
he was rich, and father was satisfied and gave his consent, and bought
me a most elaborate trousseau. I wondered then where the money came
from. Now, I know that _Tom_ sent it. He has been very successful with
his mine, and in a letter to father sent me a check for fifteen hundred
dollars. Father would not tell me that, but mother did, and I felt
worse, I think, than when I heard the sobbing. Poor Tom! I never wear
one of the dresses now without thinking who paid for it and wrote in his
letter, "I am working like an ox for Daisy." Poor Tom!
----
October 1st, 18--.
I rather like writing in my journal after all, for here I can say what I
think, and I guess I shall not let Zillah make the entries. Where did I
leave off? Oh, about poor Tom.
I have had a letter from him. He had just heard of my marriage, and only
said, "God bless you, my darling little Daisy, and may you be very
happy."
I burned the letter up and cried myself into a headache. I wish people
would not love me so much. I do not deserve it, for I know I am not what
they think me to be. There's Guy, my husband, more to be pitied than
Tom, because, you see, he has got me; and privately, between you and me,
old journal, I am not worth the getting, and I know it perhaps better
than any one else. I do not think I am really mean or bad, but there
certainly is in my make-up something different from other women. I like
Guy and believe him to be the best man in the world, and I would rather
he kissed me than Tom, but do not want any body to kiss me, especially a
man, and Guy is so affectionate, and his great hands are so hot, and
muss my fluted dresses so terribly.
I guess I don't like to be married anyway. If one only could have the
house, and the money, and the nice things without the husband! That's
wicked, of course, when Guy is so kind and loves me so much. I wish he
didn't, but I would not for the world let him know how I feel. I did
tell him that I was not the wife he ought to have, but he would not
believe me, and father was anxious, and so I married him, meaning to do
the best I could. It was splendid at Saratoga, only Guy danced so
ridiculously and would not let me waltz with those young men. As if I
cared a straw for them or any body besides Guy and Tom!
It is very pleasant here at Elmwood, but the house is not as grand as I
supposed, and there are not as many servants, and the family carriage is
awful pokey. Guy is to give me a pretty little phaeton on my birthday.
I like Miss Frances very much, only she is such a raging housekeeper,
and keeps me all the while on the alert. I don't believe in these raging
housekeepers who act as if they wanted to make the bed before you are
up, and eat breakfast before it is ready. I don't like to get up in the
morning any way, and I don't like to hurry, and I am always behind, and
keeping somebody waiting, and that disturbs the people here very much.
Miss Frances seems really cross sometimes, and even Guy looks sober and
disturbed when he has waited for me half an hour or more. I guess I must
try and do better, for both Guy and Miss Frances are as kind as they can
be, but then I am not one bit like them, and have never been accustomed
to anything like order and regularity. At home things came round any
time, and I came with them, and that suited me better than being
married, only now I have a kind of settled feeling, and am Mrs. Guy
Thornton, and Guy is good looking, and highly esteemed, and very
learned, and I can see that the young ladies in the neighborhood envy me
for being his wife. I wonder who is that Julia Hamilton, Miss Frances
talks about so much, and why Guy did not marry her instead of me. She is
very learned, and gets up in the morning and flies round and is always
ready, and reads scientific articles in the _Westminster Review_, and
teaches in Sunday-school, and thinks it wicked to waltz, and likes to
discuss all the mixed-up horrid questions of the day,--religion and
politics and science and everything. I asked Guy once why he did not
marry her instead of a little goose like me, and he said he liked the
little goose the best, and then kissed me, and crumpled my white dress
all up. Poor Guy! I wish I did love him as well as he does me, but it's
not in me to love any body very much.
----
December 20th, 18--.
A horrible thing has happened, and I have married a poor man after all!
Guy signed for somebody and had to pay, and Elmwood must be sold, and we
are to move into a stuffy little house, without Zillah, and with but one
girl, and I shall have to take care of my own room as I did at home, and
make my own bed and pick up my things and shall never be ready for
dinner. It is too dreadful to think about, and I was sick for a week
after Guy told me of it. I might as well have married Tom, only I like
Guy the best. He looks so sorry and sad that I sometimes forget myself
to pity him. I am going home to mother for a long, long time,--all
winter may be,--and I shall enjoy it so much. Guy says I have ten
thousand dollars of my own, and the interest on that will buy my
dresses, I guess, and get something for Miss Frances, too. She is a
noble woman, and tries to bear up so bravely. She says they will keep
the furniture of my blue room for me, if I want it; and I do, and I mean
to have Guy send it to Indianapolis, if he will. Oh, mother, I am so
glad I am coming back, where I can do exactly as I like,--eat my
breakfast on the washstand if I choose, and sit up all night long. I
almost wish,--no, I don't, either. I like Guy ever so much. It's being
tied up that I don't like.
CHAPTER IV.--AUTHOR'S STORY.
Guy Thornton was not a fool, and Daisy was not a fool, though they have
thus far appeared to great disadvantage. Beth had made a mistake; Guy in
marrying a child whose mind was unformed; and Daisy in marrying at all,
when her whole nature was in revolt against matrimony. But the mistake
was made, and Guy had failed and Daisy was going home, and the New
Year's morning when she was to have received Guy's gift of the phaeton
and ponies, found her at the little cottage in Indianapolis, where she
at once resumed all the old indolent habits of her girlhood, and was
happier than she had been since leaving home as a bride.
On Mr. McDonald, the news of his son-in-law's failure fell like a
thunderbolt and affected him more than it did Daisy. Shrewd, ambitious
and scheming, he had for years planned for his daughter a moneyed
marriage, and now she was returned upon his hands for an indefinite
time, with her naturally luxurious tastes intensified by recent
indulgence, and her husband a ruined man. It was not a pleasant picture
to contemplate, and Mr. McDonald's face was cloudy and thoughtful for
many days, until a letter from Tom turned his thoughts into a new
channel and sent him with fresh avidity to certain points of law with
which he had of late years been familiar. If there was one part of his
profession in which he excelled more than another it was in the divorce
cases which had made Indiana so notorious. Squire McDonald, as he was
called, was well known to that class of people who, utterly ignoring
God's command, seek to free themselves from the bonds which once were so
pleasant to wear, and as he sat alone in his office with Tom's letter in
his hand, and read how rapidly that young man was getting rich, there
came into his mind a plan, the very thought of which would have made Guy
Thornton shudder with horror and disgust.
Daisy had not been altogether satisfied with her brief married life, and
it would be very easy to make her more dissatisfied, especially as the
home to which she would return must necessarily be very different from
Elmwood. Tom was destined to be a millionaire. There was no doubt of
that, and he could be moulded and managed as Mr. McDonald had never been
able to mould or manage Guy. But everything pertaining to Tom must be
kept carefully out of sight, for the man knew his daughter would never
lend herself to such a diabolical scheme as that which he was revolving,
and which he at once put in progress, managing so adroitly that before
Daisy was at all aware of what she was doing, she found herself the
heroine of a divorce suit, founded really upon nothing but a general
dissatisfaction with married life, and a wish to be free from it.
Something there was about incompatibility of temperament and
uncongeniality and all that kind of thing which wicked men and women
parade before the world when weary of the tie which God has said shall
not be torn asunder.
It is not our intention to follow the suit through any of its details,
and we shall only say that it progressed rapidly, while poor
unsuspicious Guy was working hard to retrieve in some way his lost
fortune, and to fit up a pleasant home for the childish wife who was
drifting away from him. He had missed her so much at first, even while
he felt it a relief to have her gone when his business matters needed
all his time and thought. It was some comfort to write to her, but not
much to receive her letters, for Daisy did not excel in epistolary
composition, and after a few weeks her letters were short and far apart,
and, as Guy thought, constrained and studied in their tone, and when,
after she had been absent from him for three months or more his longing
to see her was so great that he decided upon a visit of a few days to
the West, and apprized her of his intention, asking if she would be glad
to see him, he received in reply a telegram from Mr. McDonald telling
him to defer his journey as Daisy was visiting some friends and would be
absent for an indefinite length of time. There was but one more letter
from her, and that was dated at Vincennes, and merely said that she was
well, and Guy must not feel anxious about her or take the trouble to
come to see her, as she knew how valuable his time must be, and would
far rather he should devote himself to his business than bother about
her. The letter was signed, "Hastily, Daisy," and Guy read it over many
times with a pang in his heart he could not define.
But he had no suspicion of the terrible blow in store for him, and went
on planning for her comfort just the same; and when at last Elmwood was
sold and he could no longer stay there, he hired a more expensive house
than he could afford, because he thought Daisy would like it better, and
then, with his sister Frances, set himself to the pleasant task of
fitting it up for Daisy. There was a blue room with a bay window just as
there had been in Elmwood, only it was not so pretentious and large. But
it was very pleasant, and had a door opening out upon what Guy meant
should be a flower garden in the summer, and though he missed his little
wife sadly, and longed so much at times for a sight of her beautiful
face and the sound of her sweet voice, he put all thought of himself
aside and said he would not bring her back until the May flowers were in
blossom and the young grass bright and green by the blue room door.
"She will have a better impression of her new home then," he said to his
sister, "and I want her to be happy here and not feel the change too
keenly."
Julia Hamilton chanced to be in town staying at the Towers, and as she
was very intimate with Miss Thornton the two were a great deal together,
and it thus came about that Julia was often at the brown cottage and
helped to settle the blue room for Daisy.
"If it were only you who was to occupy it," Frances said to her one
morning when they had been reading together for an hour or more in the
room they both thought so pretty. "I like Daisy, but somehow she seems
so far from me. Why, there's not a sentiment in common between us."
Then, as if sorry for having said so much, she spoke of Daisy's
marvelous beauty and winning ways, and hoped Julia would know and love
her ere long, and possibly do her good.
It so happened that Guy was sometimes present at these readings and
enjoyed them so much that there insensibly crept into his heart a wish
that Daisy was more like the Boston girl whom he had mentally termed
strong-minded and stiff.
"And in time, perhaps, she maybe," he thought. "I mean to have Julia
here a great deal next summer, and with two such women for companions as
Julia and Fan, Daisy cannot help but improve."
And so at last when the house was settled and the early spring flowers
were in bloom Guy started westward for his wife. He had not seen her now
for months, and it was more than two weeks since he had heard from her,
and his heart beat high with joyful anticipation as he thought just how
she would look when she came to him, shyly and coyly, as she always did,
with that droop in her eye-lids and that pink flush in her cheeks. He
would chide her a little at first, he said, for having been so poor a
correspondent, especially of late, and after that he would love her so
much, and shield her so tenderly from every want or care that she should
never feel the difference in his fortune.
Poor Guy,--he little dreamed what was in store for him just inside the
door where he stood ringing one morning in May, and which, when at last
it was opened, shut in a very different man from the one who who went
through it three hours later, benumbed and half-crazed with bewilderment
and surprise.
CHAPTER V.--THE DIVORCE.
He had expected to meet Daisy in the hall, but she was not in sight, and
her mother, who appeared in response to the card he sent up, seemed
confused and unnatural to such a degree that Guy asked in some alarm if
anything had happened, and where Daisy was.
Nothing had happened,--that is,--well, nothing was the matter with
Daisy, Mrs. McDonald said, only she was nervous and not feeling quite
well that morning, and thought she better not come down. They were not
expecting him so soon, she continued, and she regretted exceedingly that
her husband was not there, but she had sent for him, and hoped he would
come immediately. Had Mr. Thornton been to breakfast?
He had been to breakfast, and he did not understand at all what she
meant; if Daisy could not come to him, he must go to her, he said, and
he started for the door, when Mrs. McDonald sprang forward, and laying
her hand on his arm, held him back, saying:
"Wait, Mr. Thornton: wait till husband comes--to tell you----"
"Tell me what!" Guy demanded, feeling sure now that something had
befallen Daisy.
"Tell you--that--that,--Daisy is,--that he has,--that,--oh, believe me,
it was not my wish at all, and I don't know now why it was done," Mrs.
McDonald said, still trying to detain Guy and keep him in the room.
But her efforts were vain, for shaking off her grasp, Guy opened the
hall door, and with a cry of joy caught Daisy herself in his arms.
In a state of fearful excitement and very curious to know what was
passing between her mother and Guy, she had stolen down stairs to
listen, and had reached the door just as Guy opened it so suddenly.
"Daisy, darling, I feared you were sick," he cried, nearly smothering
her with his caresses.
But Daisy writhed herself away from him, and putting up her hands to
keep him off, cried out:
"Oh, Guy, Guy, you can't,--you mustn't. You must never kiss me again or
love me any more, because I am,--I am not,----Oh, Guy, I wish you had
never seen me; I am so sorry, too. I did like you. I,--I,--Guy,--Guy,--I
am not your wife any more I Father has got a divorce!"
She whispered the last words, and then, affrighted at the expression of
Guy's face, fled half way up the stairs, where she stood looking down
upon him, while, with a face as white as ashes, he, too, stood gazing at
her and trying to frame the words which should ask her what she meant.
He did not believe her literally; the idea was too preposterous, but he
felt that some thing horrible had come between him and Daisy,--that in
some way she was as much lost to him as if he had found her coffined for
the grave, and the suddenness of the blow took from him for a moment his
powers of speech, and he still stood looking at her when the street door
opened, and a new actor appeared upon the scene in the person of Mr.
McDonald, who had hastened home in obedience to the message from his
wife.
It was a principle of Mr. McDonald never to lose his presence of mind or
his temper, or the smooth, low tone of voice he had cultivated years ago
and practiced with so good effect.
And now, though he understood the state of matters at once and knew that
Guy had heard the worst, he did not seem ruffled in the slightest
degree, and his voice was just as kind and sweet as ever as he bade Guy
good-morning, and advanced to take his hand. But Guy would not take it.
He had always disliked and distrusted Mr. McDonald, and he felt
intuitively that whatever harm had befallen him had come through the
oily-tongued man who stood smilingly before him. With a gesture of
disgust he turned away from the offered hand, and in a voice husky with
suppressed excitement, asked:
"What does all this mean, that when, after a separation of months, I
come for my wife, I am told that she is not my wife,--that there has
been a--a divorce?"
Guy had brought himself to name the horrid thing, and the very sound of
the word served to make it more real and clear to his mind, and there
were great drops of sweat, upon his forehead and about his mouth as he
asked what it meant.
"Oh, Guy, don't feel so badly. Tell him, father, I did not do it," Daisy
cried, as she stood leaning over the stair-rail looking down at the
wretched man.
"Daisy, go to your room. You should not have seen him at all," Mr.
McDonald said, with more sternness of manner than was usual for him.
Then, turning to Guy, he continued:
"Come in here, Mr. Thornton, where we can be alone while I explain to
you what seems so mysterious now."
They went together into the little parlor, and for half an hour or more
the sound of their voices was distinctly heard as Mr. McDonald tried to
explain what there really was no explanation or excuse for. Daisy was
not contented at Elmwood, and though she complained of nothing she was
not happy as a married woman, and was glad to be free again. That was
all, and Guy understood at last that Daisy was his no longer; that the
law which was a disgrace to the State in which it existed had divorced
him from his wife without his knowledge or consent, and for no other
reason than incompatibility of temperament, and a desire on Daisy's part
to be free from the marriage tie. Not a word had been said of Guy's
altered fortunes, but he felt that his comparative poverty was really
the cause of this great wrong, and for a few moments resentment and
indignation prevailed over every other feeling; then, when he remembered
the little blue-eyed, innocent-faced girl whom he had loved so much and
thought so good and true, he laid his head upon the sofa-arm and groaned
bitterly, while the man who had ruined him sat coolly by, citing to him
many similar cases where divorces had been procured without the
knowledge of the absent party. It was a common,--a very common thing, he
said, and reflected no disgrace where there was no criminal charge.
Daisy was too young and childish anyway, and ought not to have been
married for several years, and it was really quite as much a favor to
Guy as a wrong. He was free again,--free to marry if he liked,--he had
taken care to see to that, so----
"Stop!" Guy thundered out, rousing himself from his crouching attitude
upon the sofa. "There is a point beyond which you shall not go. Be
satisfied with taking Daisy from me, and do not insult me with talk of a
second marriage. Had I found Daisy dead it would have hurt me less than
this fearful wrong you have done. I say _you_, for I charge it all to
_you_. Daisy could have had no part in it, and I ask to see her and hear
from her own lips that she accepts the position in which you and your
diabolical laws have placed her before I am willing to give her up. Call
her, will you?"
"No, Mr. Thornton," Mr. McDonald replied. "To see Daisy would be
useless, and only excite you more than you are excited now. You cannot
see her."
"Yes he will, father. If Guy wants to see me, he shall."
It was Daisy herself who spoke, and who a second time had been acting
the part of listener. Going up to Guy she knelt down beside him, and
laying her arms across his lap, said to him.
"What is it, Guy what is it you wish to say to me?"
The sight of her before him in all her girlish beauty, with that soft,
sweet expression on the face raised so timidly to his, unmanned Guy
entirely, and clasping her in his arms he wept passionately for a
moment, while he tried to say:
"Oh, Daisy, my darling, tell me it is a horrid dream,--tell me you are
still my wife, and go with me to the home I have tried to make so
pleasant for your sake. It is not like Elmwood, but I will sometime have
one handsomer even than that, and I'll work so hard for you. Oh, Daisy,
tell me you are sorry for the part you had in this fearful business, if
indeed you had a part, and I'll take you back so gladly. Will you,
Daisy; will you be my wife once more? I shall never ask you again. This
is your last chance with me. Reflect before you throw it away."
Guy's mood was changing a little, because of something he saw in Daisy's
face,--a drawing back from him when he spoke of marriage.
"Daisy must not go back with you; I shall not suffer that," Mr. McDonald
said, while Daisy, still keeping her arms around Guy's neck, where she
had put them when he drew her to him, replied:
"Oh, Guy! I can't go with you; but I shall like you always, and I'm
sorry for you. I never wanted to be married; but if I must, I'd better
have married _Tom_, or that old Chicago man; they would not have felt so
badly, and I'd rather hurt them than you."
The utter childishness of the remark roused Guy, and, with a gesture of
impatience, he put her from him, and rising to his feet, said angrily:
"This, then, is your decision, and I accept it; but, Daisy, if you have
in you a spark of true womanhood, you will some time be sorry for this
day's work; while _you_!" and he turned fiercely upon Mr.
McDonald,--"words cannot express the contempt I feel for you; and know,
too, that I understand you fully, and am certain that were I the rich
man I was when you gave your daughter to me, you would not have taken
her away. But I will waste no more words upon you. You are a _villain_!
and Daisy is"----His white lips quivered a little as he hesitated a
moment, and then added: "Daisy _was_ my wife."
Then, without another word, he left the house, and never turned to see
the white, frightened face which looked after him so wistfully until a
turn in the street hid him from view.
CHAPTER VI.--EXTRACTS FROM DIARIES.
_Extract 1st.--Mr. McDonald's._
May ----.
Well, that matter is over, and I can't say I am sorry, for the
expression in that Thornton's eye I do not care to meet a second time.
There was mischief in it, and it made one think of six-shooters and cold
lead. I never quite indorsed the man,--first, because he was not as rich
as I would like Daisy's husband to be; and second, because even had he