"Miss Randolph has a philosophy," the doctor went on, still
watching me, - "which is not common to the world, and which I
have hitherto in vain endeavoured to fathom. I have always
fancied that I should be happier if I could find it out."
"Did I never tell you what it was, Dr. Sandford?"
"Never - intelligibly. You will excuse me. I do not mean to
accuse you, but myself."
"But you know what it is," I said, facing him. "My philosophy,
as you call it. It is only, to live for the other world
instead of this."
"Why not live for this world, while you are in it, Daisy?"
"I am not going to stay in it."
"I hope, very long!" said the doctor - seriously. "And do you
not think that people are meant to enjoy this world, while
they have it?"
"Yes, when they can," I answered; remembering vividly that
enjoyment is not always the rule. "But I enjoy the world
better than you do, Dr. Sandford; because, living for the
other, I take the good of both. And if this fails at any time,
the other - cannot."
Dr. Sandford's blue eye went as deep into mine, and into me, I
think, as it could; and he did not look satisfied.
The preparations for our journey were pressed with a diligence
that admitted of no delay, all that day and the next. I was
quietly busy too, thinking that it did not matter; that the
time must come, and as well then as ever.
I had miscalculated my strength, or my weakness. Or perhaps
the emotional part of our nature is never to be depended on.
That dim morning of our early departure is fixed in my memory
as one of the most heart-sinking times my heart ever knew. My
companions were brisk and bright, in travelling mood, taking
cars and porters and ticket offices and crowds, as pleasant
concomitants of a pleasant affair. Glad to get away from
Washington, both of them. And I, alone in my heart, knew what
a thread was breaking for me; knew that Thorold's path and
mine were starting from that point upon divergent lines, which
would grow but further and further apart every day. Until that
moment I had not realised what it would be, to leave the
neighbourhood of his work and his danger, and cut off all but
the most distant and precarious communication between him and
me; what it would be, too, to him, to know that I was gone. It
did seem then for a minute as if I could not go; as if I must,
as necessity, remain within hailing distance of him, and at
the headquarters of information. But there was another "must,"
stronger than mine; I was seated in the car, the whistle blew
its mockery of me; and the slow movement which immediately
followed was the snapping of the thread, - the parting of the
lines. It was something that no human action could stay or
avert now; and the gentle motion soon grew to a whirl of speed
which bore me relentlessly away. The slow pang of that first
stir of the cars, I can feel yet.