Daisy Brooks: or, A Perilous Love

Bessie and Gertie openly discussed their chagrin and keen disappointment, yet admitting what a handsome couple Rex and Pluma made–he so courteous and noble, she so royal and queenly.

“Of course we must call upon her if she is to be Rex’s wife,” said Gertie, spitefully. “I foresee she will be exceedingly popular.”

“We must also invite her to Glengrove,” said Bess, thoughtfully. “It is the least we can do, and it is expected of us. I quite forgot to mention one of their servants was telling Jim both Rex and little Birdie intend to accompany Miss Hurlhurst back to Whitestone Hall as soon after the funeral as matters can be arranged.”

“Why, that is startling news indeed! Why, then, they will probably leave some time this week!” cried Gertie.

“Most probably,” said Bess. “You ought certainly to send over your note this evening–it is very early yet.”

“There is no one to send,” said Gertie. “Jim has driven over to Natchez, and there is no one else to go.”

“Perhaps Daisy will go for you,” suggested Bess.

There was no need of being jealous now of Daisy’s beauty in that direction. Gertie gladly availed herself of the suggestion.

“Daisy,” she said, turning abruptly to the quivering little figure, whose face drooped over the lilac silk, “never mind finishing that dress to-night. I wish you to take a note over to the large gray stone house yonder, and be sure to deliver it to Mr. Rex Lyon himself.”

CHAPTER XXV

Gertie Glenn never forgot the despairing cry that broke from Daisy’s white lips as she repeated her command:

“I wish you to deliver this note to Mr. Rex Lyon himself.”

“Oh, Miss Gertie,” she cried, clasping her hands together in an agony of entreaty, “I can not–oh, indeed I can not! Ask anything of me but that and I will gladly do it!”

Both girls looked at her in sheer astonishment.

“What is the reason you can not?” cried Gertie, in utter amazement. “I do not comprehend you.”

“I–I can not take the note,” she said, in a frightened whisper. “I do not–I–”

She stopped short in utter confusion.

“I choose you shall do just as I bid you,” replied Gertie, in her imperious, scornful anger. “It really seems to me you forget your position here, Miss Brooks. How dare you refuse me?”

Opposition always strengthened Gertie’s decision, and she determined Daisy should take her note to Rex Lyon at all hazards.

The eloquent, mute appeal in the blue eyes raised to her own was utterly lost on her.

“The pride of these dependent companions is something ridiculous,” she went on, angrily. “You consider yourself too fine, I suppose, to be made a messenger of.” Gertie laughed aloud, a scornful, mocking laugh. “Pride and poverty do not work very well together. You may go to your room now and get your hat and shawl. I shall have the letter written in a very few minutes. There will be no use appealing to mamma. You ought to know by this time we overrule her objections always.”

It was too true, Mrs. Glenn never had much voice in a matter where Bess or Gertie had decided the case.

Like one in a dream Daisy turned from them. She never remembered how she gained her own room. With cold, tremulous fingers she fastened her hat, tucking the bright golden hair carefully beneath her veil, and threw her shawl over her shoulders, just as Gertie approached, letter in hand.

“You need not go around by the main road,” she said, “there is a much nearer path leading down to the stone wall. You need not wait for an answer: there will be none. The servants over there are awkward, blundering creatures–do not trust it to them–you must deliver it to Rex himself.”

“I make one last appeal to you, Miss Gertie. Indeed, it is not pride that prompts me. I could not bear it. Have pity on me. You are gentle and kind to others; please, oh, please be merciful to me!”

“I have nothing more to say upon the subject–I have said you were to go. You act as if I were sending you to some place where you might catch the scarlet fever or the mumps. You amuse me; upon my word you do. Rex is not dangerous, neither is he a Bluebeard; his only fault is being alarmingly handsome. The best advice I can give you is, don’t admire him too much. He should be labeled, ‘Out of the market.’”

Gertie tripped gayly from the room, her crimson satin ribbons fluttering after her, leaving a perceptible odor of violets in the room, while Daisy clutched the note in her cold, nervous grasp, walking like one in a terrible dream through the bright patches of glittering moonlight, through the sweet-scented, rose-bordered path, on through the dark shadows of the trees toward the home of Rex–her husband.

A soft, brooding silence lay over the sleeping earth as Daisy, with a sinking heart, drew near the house. Her soft footfalls on the green mossy earth made no sound.

Silently as a shadow she crept up to the blossom-covered porch; some one was standing there, leaning against the very pillar around which she had twined her arms as she watched Rex’s shadow on the roses.

The shifting moonbeams pierced the white, fleecy clouds that enveloped them, and as he turned his face toward her she saw it was Rex. She could almost have reached out her hand and touched him from where she stood. She was sorely afraid her face or her voice might startle him if she spoke to him suddenly.

“I do not need to speak,” she thought. “I will go up to him and lay the letter in his hand.”

Then a great intense longing came over her to hear his voice and know that he was speaking to her. She had quite decided to pursue this course, when the rustle of a silken garment fell upon her ear. She knew the light tread of the slippered feet but too well–it was Pluma. She went up to him in her usual caressing fashion, laying her white hand on his arm.

“Do you know you have been standing here quite two hours, Rex, watching the shadows of the vine-leaves? I have longed to come up and ask you what interest those dancing shadows had for you, but I could not make up my mind to disturb you. I often fancy you do not know how much time you spend in thought.”

Pluma was wondering if he was thinking of that foolish, romantic fancy that had come so near separating them–his boyish fancy for Daisy Brooks, their overseer’s niece. No, surely not. He must have forgotten her long ago.

“These reveries seem to have grown into a habit with me,” he said, dreamily; “almost a second nature, of late. If you were to come and talk to me at such times, you would break me of it.”

The idea pleased her. A bright flush rose to her face, and she made him some laughing reply, and he looked down upon her with a kindly smile.

Oh! the torture of it to the poor young wife standing watching them, with heart on fire in the deep shadow of the crimson-hearted passion-flowers that quivered on the intervening vines. The letter she held in her hand slipped from her fingers into the bushes all unheeded. She had but one thought–she must get away. The very air seemed to stifle her; her heart seemed numb–an icy band seemed pressing round it, and her poor forehead was burning hot. It did not matter much where she went, nobody loved her, nobody cared for her. As softly as she came, she glided down the path that led to the entrance-gate beyond. She passed through the moonlighted grounds, where the music and fragrance of the summer night was at its height. The night wind stirred the pink clover and the blue-bells beneath her feet. Her eyes were hot and dry; tears would have been a world of relief to her, but none came to her parched eyelids.

She paid little heed to the direction she took. One idea alone took possession of her–she must get away.

“If I could only go back to dear old Uncle John,” she sighed. “His love has never failed me.”

It seemed long years back since she had romped with him, a happy, merry child, over the cotton fields, and he had called her his sunbeam during all those years when no one lived at Whitestone Hall and the wild ivy climbed riotously over the windows and doors. Even Septima’s voice would have sounded so sweet to her. She would have lived over again those happy, childish days, if she only could. She remembered how Septima would send her to the brook for water, and how she sprinkled every flower in the path-way that bore her name; and how Septima would scold her when she returned with her bucket scarce half full; and how she had loved to dream away those sunny summer days, lying under the cool, shady trees, listening to the songs the robins sang as they glanced down at her with their little sparkling eyes.

How she had dreamed of the gallant young hero who was to come to her some day. She had wondered how she would know him, and what were the words he first would say! If he would come riding by, as the judge did when “Maud Muller stood in the hay-fields;” and she remembered, too, the story of “Rebecca at the Well.” A weary smile flitted over her face as she remembered when she went to the brook she had always put on her prettiest blue ribbons, in case she might meet her hero.

Oh, those sweet, bright, rosy dreams of girlhood! What a pity it is they do not last forever! Those girlish dreams, where glowing fancy reigns supreme, and the prosaic future is all unknown. She remembered her meeting with Rex, how every nerve in her whole being thrilled, and how she had felt her cheeks grow flaming hot, just as she had read they would do when she met the right one. That was how she had known Rex was the right one when she had shyly glanced up, from under her long eyelashes, into the gay, brown hazel eyes, fixed upon her so quizzically, as he took the heavy basket from her slender arms, that never-to-be-forgotten June day, beneath the blossoming magnolia-tree.

Poor child! her life had been a sad romance since then. How strange it was she was fleeing from the young husband whom she had married and was so quickly parted from!

All this trouble had come about because she had so courageously rescued her letter from Mme. Whitney.

“If he had not bound me to secrecy, I could have have cried out before the whole world I was his wife,” she thought.

A burning flush rose to her face as she thought how cruelly he had suspected her, this poor little child-bride who had never known one wrong or sinful thought in her pure, innocent young life.

If he had only given her the chance of explaining how she had happened to be there with Stanwick; if they had taken her back she must have confessed about the letter and who Rex was and what he was to her.

Even Stanwick’s persecution found an excuse in her innocent, unsuspecting little heart.

“He sought to save me from being taken back when he called me his wife,” she thought. “He believed I was free to woo and win, because I dared not tell him I was Rex’s wife.” Yet the thought of Stanwick always brought a shudder to her pure young mind. She could not understand why he would have resorted to such desperate means to gain an unwilling bride.

“Not yet seventeen. Ah, what a sad love-story hers had been. How cruelly love’s young dream had been blighted,” she told herself; and yet she would not have exchanged that one thrilling, ecstatic moment of rapture when Rex had clasped her in his arms and whispered: “My darling wife,” for a whole lifetime of calm happiness with any one else.

On and on she walked through the violet-studded grass, thinking–thinking. Strange fancies came thronging to her overwrought brain. She pushed her veil back from her face and leaned against the trunk of a tree; her brain was dizzy and her thoughts were confused; the very stars seemed dancing riotously in the blue sky above her, and the branches of the trees were whispering strange fancies. Suddenly a horseman, riding a coal-black charger, came cantering swiftly up the long avenue of trees. He saw the quiet figure standing leaning against the drooping branches.

“I will inquire the way,” he said to himself, drawing rein beside her. “Can you tell me, madame, if this is the most direct road leading to Glengrove and that vicinity? I am looking for a hostelry near it. I seem to have lost my way. Will you kindly direct me?” he asked, “or to the home of Mr. Rex Lyon?”

The voice sounded strangely familiar to Daisy. She was dimly conscious some one was speaking to her. She raised her face up and gazed at the speaker. The cold, pale moonlight fell full upon it, clearly revealing its strange, unearthly whiteness, and the bright flashing eyes, gazing dreamily past the terror-stricken man looking down on her, with white, livid lips and blanched, horror-stricken face. His eyes almost leaped from their sockets in abject terror, as Lester Stanwick gazed on the upturned face by the roadside.

“My God, do I dream?” he cried, clutching at the pommel of his saddle. “Is this the face of Daisy Brooks, or is it a specter, unable to sleep in the depths of her tomb, come back to haunt me for driving her to her doom?”

CHAPTER XXVI

Rex and Pluma talked for some time out in the moonlight, then Rex excused himself, and on the plea of having important business letters to write retired to the library.

For some minutes Pluma leaned thoughtfully against the railing. The night was still and clear; the moon hung over the dark trees; floods of silvery light bathed the waters of the glittering sea, the sleeping flowers and the grass, and on the snowy orange-blossoms and golden fruit amid the green foliage.

“I shall always love this fair southern home,” she thought, a bright light creeping into her dark, dazzling eyes. “I am Fortune’s favorite,” she said, slowly. “I shall have the one great prize I covet most on earth. I shall win Rex at last. I wonder at the change in him. There was a time when I believed he loved me. Could it be handsome, refined, courteous Rex had more than a passing fancy for Daisy Brooks–simple, unpretentious Daisy Brooks? Thank God she is dead!” she cried, vehemently. “I would have periled my very soul to have won him.”

Even as the thought shaped itself in her mind, a dark form stepped cautiously forward.

She was not startled; a passing wonder as to who it might be struck her. She did not think much about it; a shadow in the moonlight did not frighten her.

“Pluma!” called a low, cautious voice, “come down into the garden; I must speak with you. It is I, Lester Stanwick.”

In a single instant the soft love-light had faded from her face, leaving it cold, proud, and pitiless. A vague, nameless dread seized her. She was a courageous girl; she would not let him know it.

“The mad fool!” she cried, clinching her white jeweled hands together. “Why does he follow me here? What shall I do? I must buy him off at any cost. I dare not defy him. Better temporize with him.” She muttered the words aloud, and she was shocked to see how changed and hoarse her own voice sounded. “Women have faced more deadly peril than this,” she muttered, “and cleverly outwitted ingenious foes. I must win by stratagem.”

She quickly followed the tall figure down the path that divided the little garden from the shrubbery.

“I knew you would not refuse me, Pluma,” he said, clasping her hands and kissing her cold lips. He noticed the glance she gave him had nothing in it but coldness and annoyance. “You do not tell me you are pleased to see me, Pluma, and yet you have promised to be my wife.” She stood perfectly still leaning against an oleander-tree. “Why don’t you speak to me, Pluma?” he cried. “By Heaven! I am almost beginning to mistrust you. You remember your promise,” he said, hurriedly–“if I removed the overseer’s niece from your path you were to reward me with your heart and hand.” She would have interrupted him, but he silenced her with a gesture. “You said your love for Rex had turned to bitter hatred. You found he loved the girl, and that would be a glorious revenge. I did not have to resort to abducting her from the seminary as we had planned. The bird flew into my grasp. I would have placed her in the asylum you selected, but she eluded me by leaping into the pit. I have been haunted by her face night and day ever since. I see her face in crowds, in the depths of the silent forest, her specter appears before me until I fly from it like one accursed.”

She could not stay the passionate torrent of his words.

“Lester, this is all a mistake,” she said; “you have not given me a chance to speak.” Her hands dropped nervously by her side. There were fierce, rebellious thoughts in her heart, but she dare not give them utterance. “What have I done to deserve all this?” she asked, trying to assume a tender tone she was far from feeling.

“What have you done?” he cried, hoarsely. “Why, I left you at Whitestone Hall, feeling secure in the belief that I had won you. Returning suddenly and unexpectedly, I found you had gone to Florida, to the home of Rex Lyon. Do you know what I would have done, Pluma, if I had found you his wife and false to your trust?”

“You forget yourself, Lester,” she said; “gentlemen never threaten women.”

He bit his lip angrily.

“There are extreme cases of desperation,” he made reply. “You must keep your promise,” he said, determinedly. “No other man must dare speak to you of love.”

She saw the angry light flame into his eyes, and trembled under her studied composure; yet not the quiver of an eyelid betrayed her emotion. She had not meant to quarrel with him; for once in her life she forgot her prudence.

“Suppose that, by exercise of any power you think you possess, you could really compel me to be your wife, do you think it would benefit you? I would learn to despise you. What would you gain by it?”

The answer sprung quickly to his lips: “The one great point for which I am striving–possession of Whitestone Hall;” but he was too diplomatic to utter the words. She saw a lurid light in his eyes.

“You shall be my wife,” he said, gloomily. “If you have been cherishing any hope of winning Rex Lyon, abandon it at once. As a last resort, I would explain to him how cleverly you removed the pretty little girl he loved from his path.”

“You dare not!” she cried, white to the very lips. “You have forgotten your own share in that little affair. Who would believe you acted upon a woman’s bidding? You would soon be called to account for it. You forget that little circumstance, Lester; you dare not go to Rex!” He knew what she said was perfectly true. He had not intended going to Rex; he knew it would be as much as his life was worth to encounter him. He was aware his name had been coupled with Daisy’s in the journals which had described her tragic death. He knew Rex had fallen madly, desperately in love with little Daisy Brooks, but he did not dream he had made her his wife. “You have not given me time to explain why I am here.”

“I have heard all about it,” he answered, impatiently; “but I do not understand why they sent for you.”

“Mrs. Lyon requested it,” she replied, quietly. “Rex simply obeyed her wishes.”

“Perhaps she looked upon you as her future daughter-in-law,” sneered Lester, covertly. “I have followed you to Florida to prevent it; I would follow you to the ends of the earth to prevent it! A promise to me can not be lightly broken.”

Not a feature of that proud face quivered to betray the sharp spasm of fear that darted through her heart.

“You should have waited until you had cause to reproach me, Lester,” she said, drawing her wrap closer about her and shivering as if with cold. “I must go back to the house now; some one might miss me.”

He made no reply. The wind bent the reeds, and the waves of the sea dashed up on the distant beach with a long, low wash. He was wondering how far she was to be trusted.

“You may have perfect confidence in me, Lester,” she said; “my word ought to be sufficient,” as if quite divining his thoughts. “You need have no fear; I will be true to you.”

“I shall remain away until this affair has blown over,” he replied. “I can live as well in one part of the country as another, thanks to the income my father left me.” He laid great stress on the last sentence; he wanted to impress her with the fact that he had plenty of money. “She must never know,” he told himself, “that he had so riotously squandered the vast inheritance that had been left him, and he was standing on the verge of ruin.” A marriage with the wealthy heiress would save him at the eleventh hour. “I will trust you, Pluma,” he continued. “I know, you will keep your vow.”

The false ring of apparent candor did not deceive her; she knew it would be a case of diamond cut diamond.

“That is spoken like your own generous self, Lester,” she said, softly, clasping his hands in her own white, jeweled ones. “You pained me by your distrust.”

He saw she was anxious to get away from him, and he bit his lip with vexation; her pretty, coaxing manner did not deceive him one whit, yet he clasped his arms in a very lover-like fashion around her as he replied:

“Forget that it ever existed, my darling. Where there is such ardent, passionate love, there is always more or less jealousy and fear. Do you realize I am making an alien of myself for your sweet sake? I could never refuse you a request. Your slightest will has been my law. Be kind to me, Pluma.”

She did try to be more than agreeable and fascinating.

“I must remove all doubts from his mind,” she thought. “I shall probably be Rex’s wife when we meet again. Then his threats will be useless; I will scornfully deny it. He has no proofs.”

She talked to him so gracefully, so tenderly, at times, he was almost tempted to believe she actually cared for him more than she would admit. Still he allowed it would do no harm to keep a strict watch of her movements.

“Good-bye, Pluma, dearest,” he said, “I shall keep you constantly advised of my whereabouts. As soon as matters can be arranged satisfactorily, I am coming back to claim you.”

Another moment and she was alone, walking slowly back to the house, a very torrent of anger in her proud, defiant heart.

“I must hurry matters up, delays are dangerous,” she thought, walking slowly up the broad path toward the house.

Slowly the long hours of the night dragged themselves by, yet Daisy did not return to Glengrove. The hours lengthened into days, and days into weeks, still there was no trace of her to be found. Gertie’s explanation readily accounted for her absence.

“She preferred to leave us rather than deliver my note,” she said, angrily; “and I for one am not sorry she has gone.”

“Rex did not mention having received it,” said Bess, “when he came with Birdie to bid us good-bye.”

“She probably read it and destroyed it,” said Gertie, “Well, there was nothing in it very particular. Toward the last of it I mentioned I would send the note over by Daisy Brooks, my mother’s companion. More than likely she took umbrage at that.”

“That was a very unkind remark,” asserted Eve. “You had no business to mention it at all; it was uncalled for.”

“Well, she would not have known it if she had not read it,” replied Gertie. “You must admit that.”

Mrs. Glenn felt sorely troubled. In the short time Daisy had been with her she had put unlimited confidence in her.

No one thought of searching for her; they all accepted the facts as the case presented itself to them. Daisy had certainly left them of her own free will.

Eve alone felt distressed.

“I know everything looks that way, but I shall never believe it,” she cried.

She remembered the conversation she had so lately had with Daisy. How she had clasped her loving little arms about her neck, crying out:

“Pray for me, Eve. I am sorely tried. My feet are on the edge of a precipice. No matter what I may be tempted to do, do not lose faith in me, Eve; always believe in me.”

Poor little Daisy! what was the secret sorrow that was goading her on to madness? Would she ever know?

Where was she now? Ah, who could tell?

A curious change seemed to come over romping, mischievous, merry Eve; she had grown silent and thoughtful.

“I could never believe any one in this world was true or pure again if I thought for one moment deceit lay brooding in a face so fair as little Daisy Brooks’s.”

CHAPTER XXVII

The months flew quickly by; the cold winter had slipped away, and the bright green grass and early violets were sprinkling the distant hill-slopes. The crimson-breasted robins were singing in the budding branches of the trees, and all Nature reminded one the glorious spring had come.