Daisy Brooks: or, A Perilous Love

For two long years he never looked upon her face again. One stormy night she returned quite unexpectedly at Whitestone Hall, bringing with her their little child Pluma, and, placing her in her father’s arms, bitter recriminations followed. Bitterly Basil Hurlhurst repented that terrible mistake of his youth, that hasty marriage.

When the morning light dawned he took his wife and child from Whitestone Hall–took them abroad. What did it matter to him where they went? Life was the same to him in one part of the world as another. For a year they led a weary life of it. Heaven only knew how weary he was of the woman the law called his wife!

One night, in a desperate fit of anger, she threw herself into the sea; her body was never recovered. Then the master of Whitestone Hall returned with his child, a sadder and wiser man.

But the bitterest drop in his cup had been added last. The golden-haired young wife, the one sweet love whom he had married last, was taken from him; even her little child, tiny image of that fair young mother, had not been spared him.

How strange it was such a passionate yearning always came over him when he thought of his child!

When he saw a fair, golden-haired young girl, with eyes of blue, the pain in his heart almost stifled him. Some strange unaccountable fate urged him to ever seek for that one face even in the midst of crowds. It was a mad, foolish fancy, yet it was the one consolation of Basil Hurlhurst’s weary, tempest tossed life.

No wonder he set his teeth hard together as he listened to the cold words of the proud, peerless beauty before him, who bore every lineament of her mother’s dark, fatal beauty–this daughter who scornfully spoke of the hour when he should die as of some happy, long-looked-for event.

Those waving cotton-fields that stretched out on all sides as far as the eye could reach, like a waving field of snow, laid waste beneath the fire fiend’s scorching breath! Never–never!

Then and there the proud, self-conscious young heiress lost all chances of reigning a regal queen, by fair means, of Whitestone Hall.

CHAPTER XXIII

The servant who opened the door for Daisy looked earnestly at the fair, pleading young face, framed in rings of golden hair, so pure and spiritual that it looked like an angel’s with the soft white moonlight falling over it.

“You will not refuse me,” she repeated, timidly. “I must speak to Mrs. Lyon.”

“You have come too late,” he replied, gently; “Mrs. Lyon is dead.”

The man never forgot the despairing look of horror that deepened in the childish blue eyes raised to his.

“Rex’s mother dead!” she repeated, slowly, wondering if she had heard aright. “Oh, my poor Rex, my poor Rex!”

How she longed to go to him and comfort him in that terrible hour, but she dared not intrude upon him.

“If there is any message you would like to leave,” said the kind-hearted Parker, “I will take it to Mr. Rex.”

“No,” said Daisy, shaking her head, “I have no message to leave; perhaps I will come again–after this is all over,” she made answer, hesitatingly; her brain was in a whirl; she wanted to get away all by herself to think. “Please don’t say any one was here,” she said, quickly; “I–I don’t want any one to know.”

The sweet, plaintive voice, as sweet as the silvery note of a forest bird, went straight to his heart.

Whatever the mission of this beautiful, mysterious visitor, he would certainly respect her wishes.

“I shall not mention it if you do not wish it,” he said.

“Thank you,” she replied, simply; “you are very kind. My life seems made up of disappointments,” she continued, as she walked slowly home under the restless, sighing green branches.

It seemed so indeed. She was so young and inexperienced to be thrown so entirely upon the cold, pitiless world–cut off so entirely from all human sympathy. She entered the house quite unobserved. Eve–bright, merry, dashing Eve–was singing like a lark in the drawing-room, making the old house echo with her bright young voice.

“How happy she is!” thought Daisy, wistfully. “She has home, friends, and love, while I have nothing that makes life worth the living.”

Like a shadow, she flitted on through the dim, shadowy hall, toward her own little room. She saw Gertie’s door was ajar as she passed it, and the sound of her own name caused her to pause voluntarily.

It was very natural for Daisy to pause. How many are there who would have passed on quietly, with no desire to know what was being said of themselves, when they heard their own names mentioned in such a sneering manner? Daisy certainly meant no harm by it; she paused, thoughtfully and curiously, as any one would have done.

“I am sure I don’t like it,” Gertie was saying, spitefully. “It is an actual shame allowing Daisy Brooks to remain here. Uncle Jet was a mean old thing to send her here, where there were three marriageable young ladies. I tell you he did it out of pure spite.”

“I believe it,” answered Bess, spiritedly. “Every one of my beaus either hints for an introduction or asks for it outright.”

“What do you tell them?” questions Gertie, eagerly.

“Tell them! Why, I look exceedingly surprised, replying: ‘I do not know to whom you refer. We have no company at the house just now.’ ‘I mean that beautiful, golden-haired little fairy, with the rosy cheeks and large blue eyes. If not your guest, may I ask who she is?’ I am certainly compelled to answer so direct a thrust,” continued Bess, angrily; “and I ask in well-feigned wonder: ‘Surely you do not mean Daisy Brooks, my mother’s paid companion?’”

“What do they say to that?” asked Gertie, laughing heartily at her elder sister’s ingenuity, and tossing her curl papers until every curl threatened to tumble down. “That settles it, doesn’t it?”

“Mercy, no!” cried Bess, raising her eyebrows; “not a bit of it. The more I say against her–in a sweet way, of course–the more they are determined to form her acquaintance.”

“I don’t see what every one can see in that little pink-and-white baby-face of hers to rave over so!” cried Gertie, hotly. “I can’t imagine where in the world people see her. I have as much as told her she was not expected to come into the parlor or drawing-room when strangers were there, and what do you suppose she said?”

“Cried, perhaps,” said Bess, yawning with ennui.

“She did nothing of the kind,” retorted Gertie. “She seized my hand, and said: ‘Oh, Miss Gertrude, that is very kind of you, indeed! I thank you ever so much!’”

“Pshaw!” cried Bess, contemptuously. “That was a trick to make you believe she did not want to be observed by our guests. She is a sly, designing little creature, with her pretty face and soft, childish ways.”

“But there is one point that seriously troubles me,” said Gertie, fastening the pink satin bow on her tiny slipper more securely, and breaking off the thread with a nervous twitch. “I am seriously afraid, if Rex were to see her, that would be the end of our castle in the air. Daisy Brooks has just the face to attract a handsome, debonair young fellow like Rex.”

“You can depend upon it he shall never see her,” said Bess, decidedly. “Where there’s a will there’s a way.”

“I have never been actually jealous of anyone before,” said Gertie, flushing furiously, as she acknowledged the fact; “but that Daisy has such a way of attracting people toward her they quite forget your presence when she is around. ‘When one rival leaves the field, another one is sure to come to the fore.’ That’s a true saying,” said Gertie, meditatively. “You see, he did not marry the heiress of Whitestone Hall. So he is still in the market, to be captured by some lucky girl.”

“Well, if I am the lucky one, you must forgive me, Gertie. All is fair in love and war, you know. Besides, his wealth is too tempting to see slip quietly by without a struggle.”

Before she could reply Eve popped in through the long French window that opened out on the porch.

“Oh, I’m so tired of hearing you two talk of lovers and riches!” she cried, throwing herself down on the sofa. “I do hate to hear love weighed against riches, as if it were a purchasable article. According to your ideas, if a fellow was worth a hundred thousand, you would love him moderately; but if he was worth half a million, you could afford to love him immensely.”

“You have got a sensible idea of the matter,” said Bess, coolly.

“For shame!” cried Eve, in a hot fury. “It’s an actual sin to talk in that way. If a handsome young man loves you, and you love him, why, you ought to marry him if he hadn’t a dollar in the world!”

Gertie and the worldly-wise Bess laughed at their younger sister’s enthusiasm.

“Now, there’s Rex Lyon, for instance,” persisted Eve, absolutely refusing to be silenced. “I would wager a box of the best kid gloves either one of you would marry him to-morrow, if he were to ask you, if he hadn’t a penny in his pocket.”

“Pshaw!” reiterated Gertie, and Bess murmured something about absurd ideas; but nevertheless both sisters were blushing furiously to the very roots of their hair. They well knew in their hearts what she said was perfectly true.

“Eve,” said Bess, laying her hand coaxingly on the young rebel’s arm, “Gertie and I want you to promise us something. Come, now, consent that you will do as we wish, that’s a good girl.”

“How can I promise before I know what you want?” said Eve, petulantly. “You might want the man in the moon, after you’ve tried and failed to get his earthly brethren, for all I know!”

“Eve, you are actually absurd!” cried Bess, sharply. “This is merely a slight favor we wish you to do.”

“If you warn her not to do a thing, that is just what she will set her heart upon doing,” said Gertie, significantly.

By this time Eve’s curiosity was well up.

“You may as well tell me anyhow,” she said; “for if you don’t, and I ever find out what it is, I’ll do my very worst, because you kept it from me.”

“Well,” said Gertie, eagerly, “we want you to promise us not to give Daisy Brooks an introduction to Rex Lyon.”

A defiant look stole over Eve’s mischievous face.

“If he asks me, I’m to turn and walk off, or I’m to say, ‘No, sir, I am under strict orders from my marriageable sisters not to.’ Is that what you mean?”

“Eve,” they both cried in chorus, “don’t be unsisterly; don’t put a stumbling-block in our path; rather remove it!”

“I shall not bind myself to such a promise!” cried Eve. “You are trying to spoil my pet scheme. I believe you two are actually witches and guessed it. What put it into your heads that I had any such intentions anyhow?”

“Then you were actually thinking of going against our interest in that way,” cried Gertie, white to the very lips, “you insolent little minx!”

“I don’t choose to remain in such polite society,” said Eve, with a mocking courtesy, skipping toward the door. “I may take a notion to write a little note to Mr. Rex, inviting him over here to see our household fairy, just as the spirit moves me.”

This was really more than Gertie’s warm, southern temper could bear. She actually flew at the offending Eve in her rage; but Eve was nimble of foot and disappeared up the stairway, three steps at a bound.

“What a vixen our Gertie is growing to be!” she cried, pantingly, as she reached the top step.

She saw a light in Daisy’s room, and tapped quietly on the door.

“Is that you, Eve?” cried a smothered voice from the pillows.

“Yes,” replied Eve; “I’d like very much to come in. May I?”

For answer, Daisy opened the door, but Eve stood quite still on the threshold.

“What’s the matter, Daisy, have you been crying?” she demanded. “Why, your eyelids are red and swollen, and your eyes glow like the stars. Has Gertie or Bess said anything cross to you?” she inquired, smoothing back the soft golden curls that clustered round the white brow.

“No,” said Daisy, choking down a hard sob; “only I am very unhappy, Eve, and I feel just–just as if every one in the world hated me.”

“How long have you been up here in your room?” asked Eve, suspiciously, fearing Daisy had by chance overheard the late conversation down-stairs.

“Quite an hour,” answered Daisy, truthfully.

“Then you did not hear what I was talking about down-stairs, did you?” she inquired, anxiously.

“No,” said Daisy, “you were playing over a new waltz when I came upstairs.”

“Oh,” said Eve, breathing freer, thinking to herself, “She has not heard what we said. I am thankful for that.”

“You must not talk like that, Daisy,” she said, gayly, clasping her arms caressingly around the slender figure leaning against the casement; “I predict great things in store for you–wonderful things. Do not start and look at me so curiously, for I shall not tell you anything else, for it is getting dangerously near a certain forbidden subject. You know you warned me not to talk to you of love or lovers. I intend to have a great surprise for you. That is all I’m going to tell you now.”

Eve was almost frightened at the rapture that lighted up the beautiful face raised to her own.

“Has any one called for me, Eve?” she asked, piteously. “Oh, Eve, tell me quickly. I have hoped against hope, almost afraid to indulge so sweet a dream. Has any one inquired for me?”

Eve shook her head, sorely puzzled.

“Were you expecting any one to call?” she asked. She saw the light die quickly out of the blue eyes and the rich peachlike bloom from the delicate, dimpled cheeks. “I know something is troubling you greatly, little Daisy,” she said, “and I sympathize with you even if I may not share your secret.”

“Every one is so cold and so cruel to me, I think I should die if I were to lose your friendship, Eve,” she said.

Eve held the girl’s soft white hand in hers. “You will never die, then, if you wait for that event to happen. When I like a person, I like them for all time. I never could pretend a friendship I did not feel. And I said to myself the first moment I saw you: ‘What a sweet littly fairy! I shall love her, I’m sure.’”

“And do you love me?” asked Daisy.

“Yes,” said Eve; “my friendship is a lasting one. I could do almost anything for you.”

She wondered why Daisy took her face between her soft little palms and looked so earnestly down into her eyes, and kissed her lips so repeatedly.

Poor Daisy! if she had only confided in Eve–reckless, impulsive, warm-hearted, sympathetic Eve–it might have been better for her. “No matter what you might hear of me in the future, no matter what fate might tempt me to do, promise me, Eve, that you, of all the world, will believe in me, you will not lose your faith in me.” The sweet voice sounded hollow and unnatural. “There are dark, pitiful secrets in many lives,” she said, “that drive one to the very verge of madness in their woe. If you love me, pray for me, Eve. My feet are on the edge of a terrible precipice.”

In after years Eve never forgot the haunted look of despair that crossed the fair face of Daisy Brooks, as the words broke from her lips in a piteous cry.

CHAPTER XXIV

The announcement of Mrs. Lyon’s sudden and unexpected death caused great excitement and consternation the next morning at Glengrove.

“Oh, dear!” cried Gertie, “how provokingly unfortunate for her to die just now! Why couldn’t she have waited until after our birthday party? Of course Rex wouldn’t be expected to come now; and this whole matter was arranged especially for him; and my beautiful lilac silk is all made, and so bewitchingly lovely, too!”

“What can’t be cured must be endured, you know,” said Bess; “and now the best thing to be done is to send a note of condolence to him, extending our deepest sympathy, and offering him any assistance in our power; and be sure to add: ‘We would be very pleased to have Birdie come over here until you can make other arrangements for her.’”

“Have Birdie here!” flashed Gertie, angrily. “I actually think you have gone crazy!”

“Well, there is certainly a method in my madness,” remarked Bess. “Aren’t you quick-witted enough to understand that would be a sure way of bringing Rex over here every day?–he would come to see his sister–and that is quite a point gained.”

“You are rather clever, Bess; I never thought of that.”

And straightway the perfumed little note was dispatched, bearing Gertie’s monogram and tender-worded sympathy to the handsome young heir, who sat all alone in that darkened chamber, wondering why Heaven had been so unkind to him.

An hour later Bess and Gertie were in the library arranging some new volumes on the shelves. Mrs. Glenn sat in a large easy-chair superintending the affair, while Daisy stood at an open window, holding the book from which she had been reading aloud in her restless fingers, her blue eyes gazing earnestly on the distant curling smoke that rose up lazily from the chimneys of Rex’s home, and upon the brilliant sunshine that lighted up the eastern windows with a blaze of glory–as if there was no such thing as death or sorrow within those palatial walls–when Rex’s answer was received.

“It is from Rex!” cried Gertie, all in a flutter. “Shall I read it aloud, mamma?” she asked, glancing furtively at Daisy, who stood at the window, her pale, death-like face half buried in the lace curtains.

“It is certainly not a personal letter,” said Bess, maliciously glancing at the superscription. “Don’t you see it is addressed to ‘Mrs. Glenn and daughters.’”

“In a time like that people don’t think much of letters,” commented Mrs. Glenn, apologetically. “Read the letter aloud, of course, my dear.”

It read:

“Dear Ladies,–I thank you more than I can express for your kind sympathy in my present sad bereavement. I would gladly have accepted your offer of bringing my dear little orphan sister to you, had I not received a telegram this morning from Miss Pluma Hurlhurst, of Whitestone Hall, West Virginia, announcing her intention of coming on at once, accompanied by Mrs. Corliss, to take charge of little Birdie.

“Again thanking you for the courtesy and kindness shown me, I am

“Yours very truly,“Rexford Lyon.”

There was a low, gasping, piteous cry; and the little figure at the window slipped down among the soft, billowy curtains in a deadly swoon; but the three, so deeply engrossed in discussing the contents of the note, did not notice it. At last Daisy opened her eyes, and the blue eyes were dazed with pain. She could hear them coupling the names of Rex and Pluma Hurlhurst. Rex–her husband!

Daisy was blind and stupefied. She groped rather than walked from the library–away from the three, who scarcely noticed her absence.

Who cared that her heart was broken? Who cared that the cruel stab had gone home to her tender, bleeding heart; that the sweet young face was whiter than the petals of the star-bells tossing their white plumes against the casement?

Slowly, blindly, with one hand grasping the balusters, she went up the broad staircase to her own room.

She tried to think of everything on the way except the one thing that had taken place. She thought of the story she had read, of a girl who was slain by having a dagger plunged into her breast. The girl ran a short distance, and when the dagger was drawn from the wound, she fell down dead. In some way she fancied she was like that girl–that, when she should reach her own room and stand face to face with her own pain, she should drop down dead.

The door was closed, and she stood motionless, trying to understand and realize what she had heard.

“Have my senses deceived me?” She said the words over and over to herself. “Did I dream it? Can it even be possible Pluma Hurlhurst is coming here, coming to the home where I should have been? God help me. Coming to comfort Rex–my husband!”

She could fancy the darkly beautiful face bending over him; her white jeweled hands upon his shoulder, or, perhaps, smoothing back the bonny brown clustering curls from his white brow.

“My place should have been by his side,” she continued.

It hurt and pained her to hear the name of the man she loved dearer than life mentioned with the name of Pluma Hurlhurst.

“Oh, Rex, my love, my love!” she cried out, “I can not bear it any longer. The sun of my life has gone down in gloom and chill. Oh, Rex, my husband, I have not the strength nor the courage to bear it. I am a coward. I can not give you up. We are living apart under the blue, smiling sky and the golden sun. Yet in the sight of the angels, I am your wife.”

Suddenly, the solemn bells from Rex’s home commenced tolling, and through the leafy branches of the trees she caught a glimpse of a white face and bowed head, and of a proud, cold face bending caressingly over it, just as she had pictured it in her imagination.

Dear Heaven! it was Rex and Pluma! She did not moan. She did not cry out, nor utter even a sigh. Like one turned to marble she, the poor little misguided child-wife, stood watching them with an intentness verging almost into madness.

She saw him lift his head wearily from his white hands, rise slowly, and then, side by side, both disappeared from the window.

After that Daisy never knew how the moments passed. She remembered the tidy little waiting-maid coming to her and asking if she would please come down to tea. She shook her head but no sound issued from the white lips, and the maid went softly away, closing the door behind her.

Slowly the sun sunk in the west in a great red ball of fire. The light died out of the sky, and the song birds trilled their plaintive good-night songs in the soft gloaming. Still Daisy sat with her hands crossed in her lap, gazing intently at the window, where she had seen Pluma standing with Rex, her husband.

A hand turned the knob of her door.

“Oh, dear me,” cried Gertie, “you are all in the dark. I do not see you. Are you here, Daisy Brooks?”

“Yes,” said Daisy, controlling her voice by a violent effort. “Won’t you sit down? I will light the gas.”

“Oh, no, indeed!” cried Gertie. “I came up to ask you if you would please sew a little on my ball dress to-night. I can not use it just now; still, there is no need of putting it away half finished.”

Sew on a ball dress while her heart was breaking! Oh, how could she do it? Quietly she followed Gertie to her pretty little blue and gold boudoir, making no remonstrance. She was to sew on a ball dress while the heiress of Whitestone Hall was consoling her young husband in his bitter sorrow?

The shimmering billows of silk seemed swimming before her eyes, and the frost-work of seed-pearls to waver through the blinding tears that would force themselves to her eyes. Eve was not there. How pitifully lonely poor Daisy felt! The face, bent so patiently over the lilac silk, had a strange story written upon it. But the two girls, discussing the events of the day, did not glance once in her direction; their thoughts and conversation were of the handsome young heiress and Rex.

“For once in your life you were wrong,” said Bess. “The way affairs appear now does not look much like a broken-off marriage, I can assure you.”

“Those who have seen her say she is peculiarly beautiful and fascinating, though cold, reserved, and as haughty as a queen,” said Gertie.

“Cold and reserved,” sneered Bess. “I guess you would not have thought so if you had been at the drawing-room window to-day and seen her bending over Rex so lovingly. I declare I expected every moment to see her kiss him.”

The box which held the seed-pearls dropped to the floor with a crash, and the white, glistening beads were scattered about in all directions.

“Why, what a careless creature you are, Daisy Brooks!” cried Gertie, in dismay. “Just see what you have done! Half of them will be lost, and what is not lost will be smashed, and I had just enough to finish that lily on the front breadth and twine among the blossoms for my hair. What do you suppose I’m going to do now, you provoking girl? It is actually enough to make one cry.”

“I am so sorry,” sighed Daisy, piteously.

“Sorry! Will that bring back my seed-pearls? I have half a mind to make mamma deduct the amount from your salary.”

“You may have it all if it will only replace them,” said Daisy, earnestly. “I think, though, I have gathered them all up.”

A great, round tear rolled off from her long, silky eyelashes and into the very heart of the frosted lily over which she bent, but the lily’s petals seemed to close about it, leaving no trace of its presence.