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 passed 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 assent, 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.