Miss McDonald by Mary J. Holmes


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Page 1




MISS MCDONALD




CHAPTER I

EXTRACTS FROM MISS FRANCES THORNTON'S JOURNAL


ELMWOOD, June 15, 18--.

I have been out among my flowers all the morning, digging, weeding, and
transplanting, and then stopping a little to rest. Such perfect
successes as my roses are 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 staying at the Towers came into
the grounds while I was at work, "just to see and admire," they said,
adding that there was no place like Elmwood in all the town of
Cuylerville. 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 so suddenly and seemed like a heavy blow.

Why did he want to get married, when he has lived to be thirty years
old, without a care of any kind, and with money enough to allow him to
indulge his taste for books, and pictures, and travel, and is respected
by everybody, 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;
why, I say, did he want a change, and, if he must be married, 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 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 such 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 he could more easily mold 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; and he asked me
to see to the furnishing of the rooms on the west side of the house, 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 he
would have for Daisy's boudoir or parlor, where she could sit when he
was occupied and she wished to be near him. This he would have 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 one up which should
suit, and so the carpet question was happily ended 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 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 recherch�.

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.

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Fri 7th Feb 2025, 1:44