The Second E. F. Benson Megapack

by E. F. Benson

  Daisy looked at her for a moment, and then back to the photograph.

  “She died five years ago,” she said. “But this is signed 1907, last year.”

  Once again Jeannie tried to turn Daisy’s attention.

  “And if he did fall in love with me, what then?” she said. “You assume it is all my fault.”

  Daisy looked at her steadily a moment, and then back at the photograph.

  “Yes, yes,” she said. “But you were with Diana when she died, were you not? When did she die?”

  Jeannie covered her face with her hands a moment, thinking intently, and then Daisy spoke again.

  “Why was I told she died five years ago?” she asked. “You told me so yourself. Were you hiding anything?”

  Again Daisy paused.

  “Her husband came to England after her death,” she said. “He stopped with you, I remember, when I was living with you.”

  Once again she paused.

  “Was there something dreadful, something disgraceful?” she asked. “Aunt Jeannie, I must know. I must!”

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  Jeannie got up out of her chair, where she had been sitting ever since Daisy entered. Daisy as she spoke had risen also from the writing-table, and, still holding the photograph of Diana in her hand, stood by her.

  “You must give me a moment, Daisy,” she said. “I have got to think. And, my dear, while I am thinking do not try to guess. I can’t bear that you should guess. I would sooner tell you than that.”

  Daisy was very white, and the bright spot of anger that burnt in her cheeks when she entered the room had smouldered away. She nodded without spoken reply.

  Jeannie moved away from Daisy, and sat down in the window-seat at the far end of the room. Already Daisy had guessed that there was something disgraceful. Daisy remembered, too, that after Diana’s supposed death her husband had come to England. And then for one moment Jeannie’s spirit rose in impotent revolt against the bitter cruelty of this chance by which Daisy had seen Diana’s photograph. She herself, perhaps, had been careless and culpable, in putting it on her table; but she had been so preoccupied with all the perplexities of this last week that the danger had not ever so faintly occurred to her. But now by this fatal oversight Daisy had already guessed perilously near the truth.

  She herself could invent no story to account for these things, and if Daisy was told the whole truth, of which she guessed so much, that other bitterness, the sense that Jeannie had cruelly betrayed her, would be removed. She could comfort Daisy again, and (this was sweet to herself also) show her how she loved her. She had done her very best to keep her promise to Diana, and she had not spared herself in doing so; and now, in spite of her efforts, so hard to make and so ungrudgingly made, half the truth was known to Daisy. It seemed to her that the other half would heal rather than hurt.

  She went back, and, standing in front of the girl, held out her hands to her. But Daisy made no response to the gesture, and, indeed, moved a little away. That, again, cut Jeannie like a lash, but she knew the pain of it would be only temporary. In a few minutes now Daisy would understand.

  “I am going to tell you,” she said, “and as I tell you, my dear, I want you to keep on thinking to yourself that Diana was your sister, your only sister, and—and that you used to play together and love each other when you were children. And, dear Daisy, you must try to be—not to be a girl only when I tell you this. You are a girl, but you are a woman also, and you must bear this like a woman who is hearing about her sister.”

  Once again Jeannie longed to take Daisy in her arms and tell her, holding that dear head close to her bosom. But it was not time for that yet.

  “You were told five years ago,” she said, “that your sister was dead. She was not, Daisy; she died last year only, soon after I went abroad. And she died in my arms, dear, thank Heaven, because I loved her. And she loved me, Daisy. Oh, darling, you must bear this. I tried to spare you the knowledge, for I promised Diana that, but by ill-chance you have guessed so much that I think it better to tell you all. And you mustn’t judge Diana, poor dear, or condemn her. The time has quite gone by for that, and, besides, she was your sister, and at the end the thing she wanted most in all the world was that you should not know. Remember that. Women have a hard time in this world, Daisy. Some are married unhappily, and though Diana’s husband loved her very truly and tenderly it was not a happy marriage. At the time when you were told she was dead she was not, but she had left her husband. For the love he bore her he did not divorce her. Yes, dear, it was that.”

  Again Jeannie paused. As the moment came near it was all she could do to get the words out. Yet when Daisy knew all, out of the hurt would come some healing. Jeannie could make her feel how she loved her.

  “She lived in Paris after she left her husband,” she continued. “She lived for a time with the man for whom she deserted him. She wanted love—women do—you and I do. She—she got love. After a while there was another man. Yes, my dear, it was he. We needn’t name him any more than we did just now when we spoke of him.”

  Daisy sat quite still for a moment; for all that her face expressed she might never have heard. Then a sudden little tremor shook her, and she tore the photograph of Diana which she held across and across, and threw the fragments on the floor.

  “Ah, Daisy, you are cruel,” said Jeannie.

  Daisy did not reply, and then suddenly her mouth began to tremble, and tears ready to fall gathered in her eyes. It had hurt her cruelly, and it was but the instinctive rebellion of one in sudden and incontrollable pain that had made her tear the photograph. But, as Jeannie had foreseen, with the hurt came healing.

  It was not necessary to say any more, for she saw that already Daisy was beginning to understand all that she had thought so incomprehensible, and so vile when it was comprehended, in her, and the comprehension brought with it the knowledge of the love and tenderness from which these things sprang. And this time it was Daisy who held out her hands to Jeannie, but falteringly, as if doubtful whether she dared. But she need not have been afraid; next moment she was clasped close, and with the sense of love surrounding and encompassing her the tears came, and she sobbed her heart out. And even when the tumult of her weeping had abated, it was but disjointedly that the words came.

  “And so it was because of that, Aunt Jeannie,” she whispered, “because you had promised Diana that you would do your best to keep it from me?”

  “Yes, my darling, but I have failed,” said Jeannie.

  “But how splendidly,” whispered Daisy. “I should like to have f-failed like that. And you were content that I should think you a b-beast, and that he should?”

  “No, dear, not content quite. But it was the best I could think of.”

  “And Mr. Braithwaite?” said Daisy. “Could you be content that he should think so?”

  Jeannie paused a moment before she replied. What she must say, if she answered this, would hurt Daisy again, but again there was healing there.

  “I knew he would never think me a beast,” she said at length. “I knew he trusted me absolutely.”

  “And I didn’t,” said Daisy.

  “No, dear, you didn’t. But never mind that.”

  “I can’t help minding that. I thought—I thought everything disgusting about you. Oh, Aunt Jeannie, but I did try so much not to! I did try to behave well, to realize that you and he had fallen in love with each other, and that it was neither your fault nor his. But when Aunt Alice told me that you were engaged to Mr. Braithwaite, then I broke down. And when you told me you had known that I hoped to marry Lord Lindfield, then it was complete to my mind. I thought—oh! I have spoilt it all. It can never be the same again. And I did so long for you to come home a week ago. I did love you.”

  Jeannie stroked Daisy’s hair gently for a moment or two.

  “You speak of spoiling love,” she said. “That is not easy to do. In fact, it can’t be done. So don’t have any fears on that point, my darling.”


  Daisy was silent for a while.

  “And if he asks you why you did it?” she said.

  Jeannie considered this.

  “I may have to tell him,” she said. “It all depends. Probably you don’t understand that.”

  “No; tell me,” said Daisy.

  “If he appeals to me in the name of his love for me, I think I shall have to tell him,” said Jeannie. “I don’t want to; I shall do my best not to. But there is a claim, that of love, which is dominant. I did not mean him to fall in love with me, dear; I meant him only to be detached from you. But bigger issues, I am afraid, have come in. You must trust me to do the best I can. I think you will trust me, will you not?”

  Daisy clung closer for a moment, and then she sat up.

  “Yes. And I haven’t even said I am sorry, and I am sure I need not. Aunt Jeannie, I think I want to go away alone for a little. I want, yes, I want to cry a little more, but by myself. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, my dear. But will you not stop here tonight? You could telegraph to Alice, and you might add that we were friends. She would like to know that.”

  Daisy mopped her eyes.

  “I like to know it,” she said.

  She got up. Just in front of her were the fragments of the torn photograph. She saw them and half shuddered at them. And Jeannie, all tenderness, knew that things were not right with Daisy yet. There was still another wound which must be healed.

  “Oh, Daisy!” she said. “You must never let yourself be black and bitter like that. You tore the photograph up; it lies there still.”

  “Oh, I can’t touch it,” said Daisy.

  Jeannie looked at her quietly, patiently.

  “Your sister,” she said. “Diana. Have you forgotten what she made me promise? She was so sorry, too; I think she would have given all the world if what she had done could be undone. Not a day passed without her being sorry. Daisy!”

  Daisy stood quite still for a moment, then she suddenly knelt down on the floor and picked the fragments up, kissing them as she did so.

  “Oh, poor Di,” she said—“poor, poor Di!”

  CHAPTER XXV.

  The carriage had waited long before this, but when Daisy left her Jeannie went out for a breath of evening air. London, to her eyes, was looking very hot and tired, a purplish heat-haze hung in the sky, and the grass of the Park was yellow with the scorching of the last week, and grey with dust.

  Yet somehow it all brought a sense of extraordinary peace and refreshment to Jeannie. She, too, felt mentally hot and tired, but she knew that whatever scene it might be necessary to go through with Tom Lindfield, the worst was over. For, all unwittingly indeed, his had been the fault, and though Jeannie liked him and hated the idea both of his suffering and his possible bitterness and anger against her, all that was in the nature of justice; acts have always their consequences, and those who have committed them must bear what follows. But poor Daisy had done nothing; it was for the fault of others that her soul had been in the grip of resentment, jealousy, and anger, which had embittered and poisoned her days and nights.

  But that, all at any rate that was bitter in it, had now passed. She saw the meaning of her suffering; it was no longer a blind and wicked force. And though one love had to be left to wither and die in her heart, Jeannie knew well that the love between Daisy and her, which all this week had been blighted, was full of fresh-springing shoots again, which would help to cover over the bare place.

  Then, for herself, more precious than all was that sense of that great love which, she believed, had never suffered the dimness of a moment’s doubt. Victor had seen her acting in a way that was impossible for him to understand, but he had quite refused, so Jeannie believed, to let his mind even ask a why or wherefore, still less conjecture any answer. His own love for her and the absolute certainty of her love for him were things so huge that nothing else could be compared with them. They stood like great mountains, based on the earth but reaching into the heavens, firm and imperishable, and if anything could come between his vision and them, it could be no more than a mist-wreath which would presently pass, and could no more shake or invalidate their stability than the grasses and flowers that waved in the pleasant meadow beneath them.

  And had Jeannie but known it she would have found more comfort yet in the thought of Daisy, for at this moment Daisy, alone in her room, though weeping a little now and then, was thinking not of herself at all, not even of Lindfield, but of Jeannie. Daisy was generous and warm-hearted to the core, and passionate had been her self-reproach at her complete misunderstanding of her aunt, at her utter failure even to ask herself whether there was not something about it all that she did not understand.

  How nobly different Victor Braithwaite had been, who, so it seemed, had assumed there must be some undercurrent of which he knew nothing, and was quite content to leave it at that. Jeannie had said she loved him; he wanted nothing more. But Daisy knew also that Jeannie loved her; what she did not know then, but was beginning to know now, was what love meant; how it can bear even to be completely misunderstood by those it loves, if only, in spite of their ignorance and misjudgment, it can help them. To Daisy, hitherto, love had been something assertive; today she was learning that it is based on a self-surrender made with the same passionateness as are its conquests.

  The rest of the party were coming up next day, and it did not surprise Jeannie to find a telegram waiting for her when she came in from Tom Lindfield. He asked if he might call and see her next morning, saying that he would come at twelve unless she put him off.

  It needed but a moment’s reflection to make her decide that in bare justice she could not refuse. She shrank from it; she dreaded the thought of seeing him again, of listening to his just and passionate reproaches; she dreaded also the possibility that she might once again have to give up Diana’s secret. But, since he wished it, she must see him.

  Next morning she told Daisy she expected him, so that there should be no possibility of their meeting by chance on the stairs or in Jeannie’s room, and sat waiting for him alone. She could not prepare herself in any way for the interview, since she could not tell in the least what form it would take. She tried not to be afraid, but—but she had treated him abominably. So, at least, he must think, and with perfect justice.

  He was announced, and came in. As with Daisy yesterday, they did not greet one another. She was sitting at her writing-table, but did not rise, and for a moment he stood opposite her, just looking at her with those blue, boyish eyes which she knew could be so merry, but did not know could be so dumbly, hopelessly sad.

  Then he spoke, quite quietly.

  “You ran away unexpectedly, Mrs. Halton,” he said.

  “Yes; I thought it was best.”

  “Miss Daisy also left yesterday. I suppose you have seen her?” he said.

  “Yes, she spent the night here.”

  “Are you friends?”

  “Yes.”

  Tom Lindfield sat down on the arm of the low chair opposite the writing-table.

  “That’s the cleverest thing I’ve ever heard,” he said. “I think you owe me something, and I think you ought to tell me how you managed it. If she has forgiven you, perhaps I might.”

  “No. I can’t tell you how I managed it,” said Jeannie.

  “You quite refuse?”

  “Quite.”

  He paused a moment.

  “I suppose she asked you a certain question,” he said, “which I also want to ask you. Is it true you are engaged to that nice fellow—Braithwaite, I mean?”

  “Quite true.”

  Still quite quietly he got up, took out a cigarette, and looked about for matches. He found some on the chimney-piece, lit his cigarette, and came back to her.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I didn’t ask if I might smoke here? Thanks. Mrs. Halton, I don’t know if you have ever fallen in love. I have, once.”

  His voice rose a little over this, as if with suppressed anger. Jeannie lo
nged almost that he should get angry. This quietness was intolerable. And she tried to sting him into anger.

  “I should have thought you had fallen in love more than once,” she said.

  This was no good.

  “You would have been wrong, then,” he said. “I should have thought so too till just lately. But I have just found out that I never loved before. I—I did everything else, but I did not love.”

  “You loved Daisy, do you mean?” she asked.

  He flamed up for a moment.

  “Ah, there is no good in saying that,” he said, sharply. “What can be the use of it? I met the woman—there is only one—and she led me to believe that she cared for me. And when I told her that I loved her she said she had thought I was a gentleman and a friend.”

  Jeannie felt her heart melt within her.

  “Yes, yes, I am sorry,” she said.

  “That is no good, I am afraid,” said he. “You have got to tell me why you did it. We are man and woman, you and I. I cannot believe you did it out of sheer wantonness, from the desire to make me miserable, and, I am afraid, to some extent, to make Miss Daisy miserable. I don’t see what you were to gain by it. Also you risked something since you were engaged all the time to Braithwaite. And the only thing I can think of is that for some reason you wished to get between Miss Daisy and myself. I suppose you thought I had been a bad lot—I daresay I had—and did not want me to marry her. But wasn’t that an infernally cruel way of doing it?”

  Jeannie said nothing, but after a long silence she looked at him.

  “Have you finished?” she asked. “I have nothing to say to you, no explanation to give.”

  Once again, and more violently, his anger, his resentment at the cruelty of it, boiled over.

  “No, I have not finished,” he said. “I am here to tell you that you have done an infernally cruel thing, for I take it that it was to separate Miss Daisy and me that you did it. You have been completely successful, but—but for me it has been rather expensive. I gave you my heart, I tell you. And you stamped on it. I can’t mend it.”