That was three weeks ago, and Guy is better now and knows us all, and
to-day, for the first time, I have a strong hope that I am not to be
left alone, and I thank Heaven for that hope, and feel as if I were at
peace with all the world, even with Daisy herself, from whom I have
heard nothing since that brief telegram.
The shadow of death has passed from our house, and I may almost say the
shadow of sickness, too, for though Guy is still weak as a child and
thin as a ghost, he is decidedly on the gain, and to-day I drove him out
for the third time, and felt from something he said that he was
beginning to feel some interest in the life so kindly given back to him.
Still he will never be just the same. The blow stunned him too
completely for him to recover quite his old hopeful, happy manner, and
there is a look of age in his face which pains me to see. He knows Daisy
has been here, and why. I had to tell him all about it, and sooner, too,
than I meant. Almost his first coherent question to me after his reason
came back was: "Where is Daisy? I am sure I heard her voice. It could not have been a
dream. Is she here, or has she been here? Tell me the truth, Fanny."
So I told him, though I did not mean to, and showed him the bits of
paper, and held his head on my bosom while he cried like a little child.
How he loves her yet, and how glad he was to know that she was not as
mercenary as it would at first seem. Not that her tearing up that paper
will make any difference about the money. She cannot give it to him, he
says, until she is of age, neither does he wish it at all, and he would
not take it from her; but he is glad to see her disposition in the
matter; glad to have me think better of her than I did, and I am certain
that he is half expecting to hear from her every day and is disappointed
that he does not. He did not reproach me when I told him about turning
her out in the rain; he only said: "Poor Daisy, did she get very wet? She is so delicate, you know. I hope
it did not make her sick."
Oh, the love a man will feel for a woman, let her be ever so unworthy. I
cannot comprehend it. And why should I--an old maid like me, who never
loved anyone but Guy?
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 that he
thought it best to leave for a time till the storm blows 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.