Daisy Brooks: or, A Perilous Love

Fate was playing at cross-purposes with handsome Rex, but no subtle warning came to him.

CHAPTER XXXI

The preparations for the wedding went steadily on. It was to be a magnificent affair. Inside and outside of Whitestone Hall fairly glowed with brilliancy and bloom.

Rex’s deportment toward his promised bride was exemplary; he did his best to show her every possible attention and kindness in lieu of the love which should have been hers.

There seemed to be no cloud in Pluma Hurlhurst’s heaven.

She had no warning of the relentless storm-cloud that was gathering above her head and was so soon to burst upon her in all its fury.

She walked among her guests with a joyous, happy smile and the air of a queen. Why should she not? On the morrow she would gain the prize she coveted most on earth–she would be Rex’s wife.

Her father had gone unexpectedly to Baltimore, and the good old housekeeper had been laid to rest, but in the excitement and bustle attending the great coming event these two incidents created little comment.

Mirth and gayety reigned supreme, and the grim old halls resounded with laughter and song and gay young voices from morning until night.

Pluma, the spoiled, petted, willful heiress, was fond of excitement and gay throngs.

“Our marriage must be an event worthy of remembrance, Rex,” she said, as they walked together through the grounds the morning before the wedding. “We must have something new and novel. I am tired of brilliant parlors and gas-light. I propose we shall have a beautiful platform built, covered with moss and roses, beneath the blossoming trees, with the birds singing in their boughs, upon which we shall be united. What do you think of my idea–is it not a pretty one?”

“Your ideas are always poetical and fanciful,” said Rex, glancing down into the beautiful brilliant face beside him. “My thoughts are so dull and prosy compared with yours, are you not afraid you will have a very monotonous life-companion?”

“I am going to try my best to win you from that cold reserve. There must not be one shadow between us; do you know, Rex, I have been thinking, if anything should ever happen to take your love from me I should surely die. I–I am jealous of your very thoughts. I know I ought not to admit it, but I can not help it.”

Rex flushed nervously; it was really embarrassing to him, the tender way in which she looked up to him–her black eyelids coyly drooping over her dark, slumbrous eyes, inviting a caress. He was certainly wooed against his will, but there was no help for it; he was forced to take up his part and act it out gracefully.

“You need not be jealous of my thoughts, Pluma,” he replied, “for they were all of you.”

“I wonder if they were pleasant thoughts?” she asked, toying with the crimson flower-bells she holds in her white hands. “I have heard you sigh so much of late. Are you quite happy, Rex?” she inquired, hesitatingly.

The abruptness of the question staggered him: he recovered his composure instantly, however.

“How can you ask me such a question, Pluma?” he asked, evasively; “any man ought to be proud of winning so peerless a treasure as you are. I shall be envied by scores of disappointed lovers, who have worshiped at your shrine. I am not as demonstrative as some might be under similar circumstances, but my appreciation is none the less keen.”

She noticed he carefully avoided the word–love.

In after years Rex liked to remember that, yielding to a kindly impulse, he bent down and kissed her forehead.

It was the first time he had caressed her voluntarily; it was not love which prompted the action–only kindness.

“Perhaps you will love me some day with your whole heart, Rex?” she asked.

“You seem quite sure that I do not do that now?” he remarked.

“Yes,” she said, clasping his arm more closely, “I often fear you do not, but as time passes you will give me all your affection. Love must win love.”

Other young girls could not have made such an open declaration without rosy blushes suffusing their cheeks; they would have been frightened at their free-spoken words, even though the morrow was their wedding-day.

She stood before him in her tall, slim loveliness, as fair a picture as any man’s eyes could rest on. She wore a most becoming dress, and a spring blossom was in her hair. Almost any other man’s heart would have warmed toward her as she raised her dark eyes to his and the white fingers trembled on his arm.

Rex was young, impulsive, and mortal; tender words from such lovely lips would have intoxicated any man. Yet from that faithful heart of his the words did not take one thought that belonged to Daisy; he did his utmost to forget that sunny, golden memory.

To Pluma, handsome, courtly Rex was an enigma. In her own mind she liked him all the better because he had not fallen down and worshiped her at once. Most men did that.

For several moments they walked along in utter silence–until they had reached the brink of the dark pool, which lay quite at the further end of the inclosure.

Pluma gave a little shuddering scream:

“I did not mean to bring you here,” she cried. “I always avoid this path; the waters of the pool have always had a great dread for me.”

“It should be filled up,” said Rex, “or fenced around; it is certainly a dangerous locality.”

“It can not be filled up,” she returned, laughingly; “it is said to be bottomless. I do not like to think of it; come away, Rex.”

The magnificent bridal costume, ordered expressly from Paris, had arrived–perfect even to the last detail. The bride-maids’ costumes were all ready; and to everything in and about the Hall the last finishing touches had been given.

All the young girls hovered constantly around Pluma, in girl-fashion admiring the costume, the veil, the wreath, and above all the radiantly beautiful girl who was to wear them. Even the Glenn girls and Grace Alden were forced to admit the willful young heiress would make the most peerless bride they had ever beheld.

Little Birdie alone held aloof, much to Rex’s amusement and Pluma’s intense mortification.

“Little children often take such strange freaks,” she would say to Rex, sweetly. “I really believe your little sister intends never to like me; I can not win one smile from her.”

“She is not like other children,” he replied, with a strange twinkle in his eye. “She forms likes and dislikes to people from simply hearing their name. Of course I agree with you it is not right to do so, but Birdie has been humored more or less all her life. I think she will grow to love you in time.”

Pluma’s lips quivered like the lips of a grieving child.

“I shall try so hard to make her love me, because she is your sister, Rex.”

He clasped the little jeweled hands that lay so confidingly within his own still closer, saying he knew she could not help but succeed.

The whole country-side was ringing with the coming marriage. No one could be more popular than handsome Rex Lyon, no one admired more than the young heiress of Whitestone Hall. The county papers were in ecstasies; they discussed the magnificent preparations at the Hall, the number of bride-maids, the superb wedding-presents, the arrangements for the marriage, and the ball to be given in the evening.

The minister from Baltimore who was to perform the ceremony was expected to arrive that day. That all preparations might be completed for the coming morrow, Rex had gone down to meet the train, and Pluma strolled into the conservatory, to be alone for a few moments with her own happy thoughts.

Out on the green lawns happy maidens were tripping here and there, their gay laughter floating up to her where she stood.

Every one seemed to be making the most of the happy occasion. Lawn-tennis parties here and croquet-parties there, and lovers strolling under the blossoming trees or reclining on the rustic benches–it was indeed a happy scene.

Pluma leaned her dark head against the fragrant roses. The breeze, the perfume of the flowers, all told one story to the impassioned girl–the story of her triumph and her mad, reckless love.

She gathered a spray of the fairest flowers, and fastened them in the bodice of her dress.

“To-morrow I shall have won the one great prize I covet,” she murmured, half aloud. “After to-morrow I can defy Lester Stanwick to bring one charge against me. I shall be Rex’s wife–it will avail him nothing.”

“Speaking of angels, you often hear ‘the rustle of their wings.’ I believe there is an old adage of that sort, or something similar,” said a deep voice beside her, and turning around with a low cry she saw Lester Stanwick himself standing before her.

For one moment her lips opened as though to utter a piercing cry, but even the very breath seemed to die upon them, they were so fixed and still.

The flowers she held in her hand fell into the fountain against which she leaned, but she did not heed them.

Like one fascinated, her eyes met the gaze of the bold, flashing dark ones bent so steadily upon her.

“You thought you would escape me,” he said. “How foolish and blind you are, my clever plotter. Did you think I did not see through your clever maneuverings? There shall be a wedding to-morrow, but you shall marry me, instead of handsome, debonair Rex. You can not fly from your fate.”

She set her lips firmly together. She had made a valiant struggle. She would defy him to the bitter end. She was no coward, this beautiful, imperious girl. She would die hard. Alas! she had been too sanguine, hoping Lester Stanwick would not return before the ceremony was performed.

The last hope died out of that proud, passionate heart–as well hope to divert a tiger from its helpless prey as expect Lester Stanwick to relinquish any plans he had once formed.

“I have fought my fight,” she said to herself, “and have failed on the very threshold of victory, still, I know how to bear defeat. What do you propose to do?” she said, huskily. “If there is any way I can buy your silence, name your price, keeping back the truth will avail me little now. I love Rex, and no power on earth shall prevent me from becoming his wife.”

Lester Stanwick smiled superciliously–drawing from his pocket a package of letters.

“Money could not purchase these charming billets-doux from me,” he said. “This will be charming reading matter for the Honorable Rex Lyon, and the general public to discuss.”

She raised her flashing eyes unflinchingly to his face, but no word issued from her white lips.

“A splendid morsel for the gossips to whisper over. The very refined and exclusive heiress of Whitestone Hall connives to remove an innocent rival from her path, by providing money for her to be sent off secretly to boarding-school, from which she is to be abducted and confined in a mad-house. Your numerous letters give full instructions; it would be useless to deny these accusations. I hold proof positive.”

“That would not screen you,” she said, scornfully.

“I did not carry out your plans. No matter what the intentions were, the points in the case are what actually happened. I can swear I refused to comply with your nefarious wishes, even though you promised me your hand and fortune if I succeeded,” he answered, mockingly.

“Will not money purchase your silence?” she said, with a deep-drawn breath. “I do not plead with you for mercy or compassion,” she said, haughtily.

Lester Stanwick laughed a mocking laugh.

“Do not mistake me, Miss Pluma,” he said, making no attempt at love-making; “I prefer to wrest you from Rex Lyon. I have contemplated with intense satisfaction the blow to his pride. It will be a glorious revenge, also giving me a charming bride, and last, but not least, the possession at some future day of Whitestone Hall and the Hurlhurst Plantations. A pleasing picture, is it not, my dear?”

CHAPTER XXXII

Pluma Hurlhurst never quailed beneath the cold, mocking glance bent upon her.

There was no hope for her; disgrace and ruin stared her in the face; she would defy even Fate itself to the bitter end with a heroism worthy of a better cause. In that hour and that mood she was capable of anything.

She leaned against a tall palm-tree, looking at him with a strange expression on her face, as she made answer, slowly:

“You may depend upon it, I shall never marry you, Lester Stanwick. If I do not marry Rex I shall go unmarried to the grave. Ah, no!” she cried desperately; “Heaven will have more mercy, more pity than to take him from me.”

“What mercy or pity did you feel in thrusting poor little Daisy Brooks from his path?” asked Stanwick, sarcastically. “Your love has led you through dangerous paths. I should call it certainly a most perilous love.”

She recoiled from him with a low cry, those words again still ringing in her ears, “A perilous love.”

She laughed with a laugh that made even Stanwick’s blood run cold–a horrible laugh.

“I do not grieve that she is dead,” she said. “You ought to understand by this time I shall allow nothing to come between Rex and me.”

“You forget the fine notions of honor your handsome lover entertains; it may not have occurred to you that he might object at the eleventh hour.”

“He will not,” she cried, fiercely, her bosom rising and falling convulsively under its covering of filmy lace and the diamond brooch which clasped it. “You do not know the indomitable will of a desperate woman,” she gasped. “I will see him myself and confess all to him, if you attempt to reveal the contents of those letters. He will marry me and take me abroad at once. If I have Rex’s love, what matters it what the whole world knows or says?”

She spoke rapidly, vehemently, with flushed face and glowing eyes; and even in her terrible anger Stanwick could not help but notice how gloriously beautiful she was in her tragic emotion.

“I have asked you to choose between us,” he said, calmly, “and you have chosen Rex regardless of all the promises of the past. The consequences rest upon your own head.”

“So be it,” she answered, haughtily.

With a low bow Stanwick turned and left her.

“Au revoir, my dear Pluma,” he said, turning again toward her on the threshold. “Not farewell–I shall not give up hope of winning the heiress of Whitestone Hall.”

For several moments she stood quite still among the dark-green shrubs, and no sound told of the deadly strife and despair. Would he see Rex and divulge the crime she had planned? Ah! who would believe she, the proud, petted heiress had plotted so cruelly against the life of an innocent young girl because she found favor in the eyes of the lover she had sworn to win? Ah! who could believe she had planned to confine that sweet young life within the walls of a mad-house until death should release her?

What if the plan had failed? The intention still remained the same. She was thankful, after all, the young girl was dead.

“I could never endure the thought of Rex’s intense anger if he once imagined the truth; he would never forgive duplicity,” she cried, wildly.

The proud, beautiful girl, radiant with love and happiness a short time since, with a great cry flung herself down among the ferns, the sunlight gleaming on the jewels, the sumptuous morning dress, the crushed roses, and the white, despairing face.

Any one who saw Pluma Hurlhurst when she entered the drawing-room among her merry-hearted guests, would have said that she had never shed a tear or known a sigh. Could that be the same creature upon whose prostrate figure and raining tears the sunshine had so lately fallen? No one could have told that the brightness, the smiles, and the gay words were all forced. No one could have guessed that beneath the brilliant manner there was a torrent of dark, angry passions and an agony of fear.

It was pitiful to see how her eyes wandered toward the door. Hour after hour passed, and still Rex had not returned.

The hum of girlish voices around her almost made her brain reel. Grace Alden and Miss Raynor were singing a duet at the piano. The song they were singing fell like a death-knell upon her ears; it was “‘He Cometh Not,’ She Said.”

Eve Glenn, with Birdie upon her lap, sat on an adjoining sofa flirting desperately with the two or three devoted beaus; every one was discussing the prospect of the coming morrow.

Her father had returned from Baltimore some time since. She was too much engrossed with her thoughts of Rex to notice the great change in him–the strange light in his eyes, or the wistful, expectant expression of his face, as he kissed her more fondly than he had ever done in his life before.

She gave appropriate answers to her guests grouped around her, but their voices seemed afar off. Her heart and her thoughts were with Rex. Why had he not returned? What was detaining him? Suppose anything should happen–it would kill her now–yet nothing could go wrong on the eve of her wedding-day. She would not believe it. Stanwick would not dare go to Rex with such a story–he would write it–and all those things took time. With care and caution and constant watching she would prevent Rex from receiving any communications whatever until after the ceremony; then she could breathe freely, for the battle so bravely fought would be won.

“If to-morrow is as bright as to-day, Pluma will have a glorious wedding-day,” said Bessie Glenn, smiling up into the face of a handsome young fellow who was fastening a rosebud she had just given him in the lapel of his coat with one hand, and with the other tightly clasping the white fingers that had held the rose.

He did not notice that Pluma stood in the curtained recesses of an adjoining window as he answered, carelessly enough:

“Of course, I hope it will be a fine, sunshiny day, but the indications of the weather don’t look exactly that way, if I am any judge.”

“Why, you don’t think it is going to rain, do you? Why, it will spoil the rose-bower she is to be married in and all the beautiful decoration. Oh, please don’t predict anything so awfully horrible; you make me feel nervous; besides, you know what everybody says about weddings on which the rain falls.”

“Would you be afraid to experiment on the idea?” asked the impulsive young fellow, who always acted on the spur of the moment. “If to-morrow were a rainy day, and I should say to you, ‘Bess, will you marry me to-day or never?’ what would your answer be?”

“I should say, just now, I do not like ‘ifs and ands.’ Supposing a case, and standing face to face with it, are two different things. I like people who say what they mean, and mean what they say.”

Pluma saw the dazzling light flame into the bashful young lover’s eyes as he bent his head lower over the blushing girl who had shown him the right way to capture a hesitating heart.

“That is love,” sighed Pluma. “Ah, if Rex would only look at me like that I would think this earth a heaven.” She looked up at the bright, dazzling clouds overhead; then she remembered the words she had heard–“It looked like rain on the morrow.”

Could those white, fleecy clouds darken on the morrow that was to give her the only treasure she had ever coveted in her life?

She was not superstitious. Even if it did rain, surely a few rain-drops could not make or mar the happiness of a lifetime. She would not believe it.

“Courage until to-morrow,” she said, “and my triumph will be complete. I will have won Rex.” The little ormolu clock on the mantel chimed the hour of five. “Heavens!” she cried to herself, “Rex has been gone over two hours. I feel my heart must be bursting.”

No one noticed Pluma’s anxiety. One moment hushed and laughing, the queen of mirth and revelry, then pale and silent, with shadowed eyes, furtively glancing down the broad, pebbled path that led to the entrance gate.

Yet, despite her bravery, Pluma’s face and lips turned white when she heard the confusion of her lover’s arrival.

Perhaps Pluma had never suffered more suspense in all her life than was crowded into those few moments.

Had he seen Lester Stanwick? Had he come to denounce her for her treachery, in his proud, clear voice, and declare the marriage broken off?

She dared not step forward to greet him, lest the piercing glance of his eyes would cause her to fall fainting at his feet.

“A guilty conscience needs no accuser.” Most truly the words were exemplified in her case. Yet not one pang of remorse swept across her proud heart when she thought of the young girl whose life she had so skillfully blighted.

What was the love of Daisy Brooks, an unsophisticated child of nature, only the overseer’s niece, compared to her own mighty, absorbing passion?

The proud, haughty heiress could not understand how Rex, polished, courteous and refined, could have stooped to such a reckless folly. He would thank her in years to come for sparing him from such a fate. These were the thoughts she sought to console herself with.

She stood near the door when he entered, but he did not see her; a death-like pallor swept over her face, her dark eyes had a wild, perplexing look.

She was waiting in terrible suspense for Rex to call upon her name; ask where she was, or speak some word in which she could read her sentence of happiness or despair in the tone of his voice.

She could not even catch the expression of his face; it was turned from her. She watched him so eagerly she hardly dared draw her breath.

Rex walked quickly through the room, stopping to chat with this one or that one a moment; still, his face was not turned for a single instant toward the spot where she stood.

Was he looking for her? She could not tell. Presently he walked toward the conservatory, and a moment later Eve Glenn came tripping toward her.

“Oh, here you are!” she cried, flinging her arms about her in regular school-girl abandon, and kissing the cold, proud mouth, that deigned no answering caress. “Rex has been looking for you everywhere, and at last commissioned me to find you and say he wants to speak to you. He is out on the terrace.”

How she longed to ask if Rex’s face was smiling or stern, but she dared not.

“Where did you say Rex was, Miss Glenn?”

“I said he was out on the terrace; but don’t call me Miss Glenn, for pity’s sake–it sounds so freezingly cold. Won’t you please call me Eve,” cried the impetuous girl–“simply plain Eve? That has a more friendly sound, you know.”

Another girl less proud than the haughty heiress would have kissed Eve’s pretty, piquant, upturned, roguish face.

“What did Rex have to say to her?” she asked herself, in growing dread.

The last hope seemed withering in her proud, passionate heart. She rose haughtily, and walked with the dignity of a queen through the long drawing-room toward the terrace. Her heart almost stopped beating as she caught sight of Rex leaning so gracefully against the trunk of an old gnarled oak tree, smoking a cigar. That certainly did not look as if he meant to greet her with a kiss.

She went forward hesitatingly–a world of anxiety and suspense on her face–to know her fate. The color surged over her face, then receded from it again, as she looked at him with a smile–a smile that was more pitiful than a sigh.

“Rex,” she cried, holding out her hands to him with a fluttering, uncertain movement that stirred the perfumed laces of the exquisite robe she wore, and the jewels on her white, nervous hands–“Rex, I am here!”

CHAPTER XXXIII

We must now return to Daisy, whom we left standing in the heart of the forest, the moonlight streaming on her upturned face, upon which the startled horseman gazed.

He had not waited for her to reply, but, touching his horse hastily with his riding-whip, he sped onward with the speed of the wind.

In that one instant Daisy had recognized the dark, sinister, handsome face of Lester Stanwick.

“They have searched the pit and found I was not there. He is searching for me; he has tracked me down!” she cried, vehemently, pressing her little white hands to her burning head.

Faster, faster flew the little feet through the long dew-damp grasses.

“My troubles seem closing more darkly around me,” she sobbed. “I wish I had never been born, then I could never have spoiled Rex’s life. But I am leaving you, my love, my darling, so you can marry Pluma, the heiress. You will forget me and be happy.”

Poor little, neglected, unloved bride, so fair, so young, so fragile, out alone facing the dark terrors of the night, fleeing from the young husband who was wearing his life out in grief for her. Ah, if the gentle winds sighing above her, or the solemn, nodding trees had only told her, how different her life might have been!