Daisy Brooks: or, A Perilous Love

“I could have sent you under the care of Mr. Stanwick,” continued John, thoughtfully. “He started for the city yesterday–but I did not receive Madame Whitney’s letter in time.”

He did not notice, as he spoke, that the occupant in the seat directly in front of them gave a perceptible start, drawing the broad slouch hat he wore, which concealed his features so well, still further over his face, while a cruel smile lingered for a moment about the handsome mouth.

The stranger appeared deeply interested in the columns of the paper he held before him; but in reality he was listening attentively to the conversation going on behind him.

“I shall not lose sight of this pretty little girl,” said Lester Stanwick to himself, for it was he. “No power on earth shall save her from me. I shall win her from him–by fair means or foul. It will be a glorious revenge!”

“Madame Whitney’s seminary is a very high-toned institution,” continued John, reflectively; “and the young girls I saw there wore no end of furbelows and ribbons; but I’ll warrant for fresh, sweet beauty you’ll come out ahead of all of ’em, Pet.”

“You think so much of me, dear good old uncle,” cried Daisy, gratefully. “I–I wonder if any one in the world could ever–could ever care for me as–as you do?” whispered Daisy, laying her soft, warm cheek against his rough hand.

“No one but a husband,” he responded, promptly. “But you are too young to have such notions in your head yet awhile. Attend to your books, and don’t think of beaus. Now that we are on the subject, I might as well speak out what I’ve had on my mind some time back. I don’t want my little Daisy to fall in love with any of these strangers she happens to meet. You are too young to know anything about love affairs. You’ll never rightly understand it until it comes to you. I must know all about the man who wants my little Daisy. Whatever you do, little one, do upright and honestly. And, above all, never deceive me. I have often heard of these romantic young school-girls falling in love with handsome strangers, and clandestine meetings following, ending in elopements; but, mark my words, no good comes of these deceptions–forewarned is forearmed. Daisy, you’ll always remember my words, and say to yourself: ‘He knows what is best.’ You will remember what I say, won’t you, Pet?”

He wondered why the fair, sweet face grew as pale as a snow-drop, and the cold little fingers trembled in his clasp, and the velvety eyes drooped beneath his earnest gaze.

“Yes,” whispered Daisy; “I shall remember what you have said.”

In spite of her efforts to speak naturally and calmly the sweet voice would tremble.

“Bal–ti–more!” shouted the brakeman, lustily. “Twenty minutes for breakfast. Change cars for the north and west!”

“Ah, here we are!” cried John, hastily gathering up their satchels and innumerable bundles. “We must make haste to reach the uptown omnibus to get a seat, or we shall have to stand and cling to the strap all the way up. I’m an old traveler, you see. There’s nothing like knowing the ins and outs.”

“Have a coach uptown, sir? Take you to any part of the city. Coach, sir?” cried innumerable hackmen, gathering about them.

Daisy tightened her hold on John’s arm. She quite believed they intended to pick her up and put her in the coach by main force. One of them was actually walking off with her reticule.

“Hold there, young man,” cried John, quickly, recovering the satchel. “Don’t make yourself uneasy on our account. We would be pleased to ride in your conveyance if you don’t charge anything. We have no money.”

The loquacious hackmen fell back as if by magic. Daisy was blushing like a rose, terribly embarrassed. John Brooks laughed long and heartily.

“That’s the quickest way in the world to rid yourself of those torments,” he declared, enjoying his little joke hugely. “Why, Daisy, if you had come on alone some of those chaps would have spirited you away without even saying so much as ‘by your leave.’”

Mme. Whitney’s Seminary for Young Ladies was a magnificent structure, situated in the suburbs of Baltimore. On either side of the pebbled walk which led to the main entrance were tall fountains tossing their rainbow-tinted sprays up to the summer sunshine. The lawn in front was closely shaven, and through the trees in the rear of the building could be seen the broad rolling Chesapeake dancing and sparkling in the sunlight. The reputation of this institution was second to none. Young ladies were justly proud of being able to say they finished their education at Mme. Whitney’s establishment.

As a natural consequence, the school was composed of the élite of the South. Clang! clang! clang! sounded the great bell from the belfry as Daisy, with a sinking, homesick feeling stealing over her, walked slowly up the paved walk by John Brooks’ side toward the imposing, aristocratic structure.

Poor little Daisy never forgot that first day at boarding-school; how all the dainty young girls in their soft white muslins glanced in surprise at her when Mme. Whitney brought her into the school-room, but she could have forgiven them for that if they had not laughed at her poor old uncle John, in his plain country garb, and they giggled behind their handkerchiefs when she clung to his neck and could not say good-bye through her tears, but sunk down into her seat, leaning her head on her desk, bravely trying to keep back the pearly drops that would fall.

When recess came Daisy did not leave her seat. She would have given the world to have heard Rex’s voice just then; she was beginning to realize how much his sheltering love was to her. She would even have been heartily glad to have been back in the little kitchen at the cottage, no matter how much Septima scolded her.

All the girls here had the same haughty way of tossing their heads and curling their lips and looking innumerable things out of their eyes, which reminded Daisy so strongly of Pluma Hurlhurst.

Most of the girls had left the school-room, dividing off into groups and pairs here and there. Daisy sat watching them, feeling wretchedly lonely. Suddenly a soft white hand was laid lightly on her shoulder, and a sweet voice said:

“We have a recess of fifteen minutes, won’t you come out into the grounds with me? I should be so pleased to have you come.” The voice was so gentle, so coaxing, so sweet, Daisy involuntarily glanced up at the face of the young girl bending over her as she arose to accompany her. She put her arm around Daisy’s waist, school-girl fashion, as they walked down the lone halls and out to the green grassy lawn. “My name is Sara Miller,” she said; “will you tell me yours?”

“Daisy Brooks,” she answered, simply.

“What a pretty name!” cried her new-found friend, enthusiastically, “and how well it suits you! Why, it is a little poem in itself.”

Daisy flushed as rosy as the crimson geraniums near them, remembering Rex, her own handsome Rex, had said the same thing that morning he had carried her heavy basket to the gates of Whitestone Hall–that morning when all the world seemed to change as she glanced up into his merry brown eyes.

“We are to be room-mates,” explained Sara, “and I know I shall like you ever so much. Do you think you will like me?”

“Yes,” said Daisy. “I like you now.”

“Thank you,” said Miss Sara, making a mock courtesy. “I am going to love you with all my might, and if you don’t love me you will be the most ungrateful creature in the world. I know just how lonesome you must be,” continued Sara. “I remember just how lonesome I was the first day I was away from mamma, and when night set in and I was all alone, and I knew I was securely locked in, I was actually thinking of tearing the sheets of my bed into strips and making a rope of them, and letting myself down to the ground through the window, and making for home as fast as I could. I knew I would be brought back the next day, though,” laughed Sara. “Mamma is so strict with me. I suppose yours is too?”

“I have no mother–or father,” answered Daisy. “All my life I have lived with John Brooks and his sister Septima, on the Hurlhurst Plantation. I call them aunt and uncle. Septima has often told me no relationship at all existed between us.”

“You are an orphan, then?” suggested the sympathetic Sara. “Is there no one in all the world related to you?”

“Yes–no–o,” answered Daisy, confusedly, thinking of Rex, her young husband, and of the dearest relationship in all the world which existed between them.

“What a pity,” sighed Sara. “Well, Daisy,” she cried, impulsively, throwing both her arms around her and giving her a hearty kiss, “you and I will be all the world to each other. I shall tell you all my secrets and you must tell me yours. There’s some girls you can trust, and some you can’t. If you tell them your secrets, the first time you have a spat your secret is a secret no longer. Every girl in the school knows all about it; of course you are sure to make up again. But,” added Sara, with a wise expression, “after you are once deceived, you can never trust them again.”

“I have never known many girls,” replied Daisy. “I do not know how others do, but I’m sure you can always trust my friendship.”

And the two girls sealed their compact with a kiss, just as the great bell in the belfry rang, warning them they must be at their lessons again–recess was over.

CHAPTER VIII

In one of the private offices of Messrs. Tudor, Peck & Co., the shrewd Baltimore detectives, stood Rex, waiting patiently until the senior member of the firm should be at leisure.

“Now, my dear sir, I will attend you with pleasure,” said Mr. Tudor, sealing and dispatching the note he had just finished, and motioning Rex to a seat.

“I shall be pleased if you will permit me to light a cigar,” said Rex, taking the seat indicated.

“Certainly, certainly; smoke, if you feel so inclined, by all means,” replied the detective, watching with a puzzled twinkle in his eye the fair, boyish face of his visitor. “No, thank you,” he said, as Rex tendered him an Havana; “I never smoke during business hours.”

“I wish to engage your services to find out the whereabouts of–of–of–my wife,” said Rex, hesitatingly. “She has left me–suddenly–she fled–on the very night of our marriage!”

It hurt Rex’s pride cruelly to make this admission, and a painful flush crept up into the dark rings of hair lying on his white forehead.

Mr. Tudor was decidedly amazed. He could not realize how any sane young woman could leave so handsome a young fellow as the one before him. In most cases the shoe was on the other foot; but he was too thoroughly master of his business to express surprise in his face. He merely said:

“Go on, sir; go on!”

And Rex did go on, never sparing himself in describing how he urged Daisy to marry him on the night of the fête, and of their parting, and the solemn promise to meet on the morrow, and of his wild grief–more bitter than death–when he had found the cottage empty.

“It reads like the page of a romance,” said Rex, with a dreary smile, leaning his head on his white hand. “But I must find her!” he cried, with energy. “I shall search the world over for her. If it takes every cent of my fortune, I shall find Daisy!”

Rex looked out of the window at the soft, fleecy clouds overhead, little dreaming Daisy was watching those self-same clouds, scarcely a stone’s throw from the very spot where he sat, and at that moment he was nearer Daisy than he would be for perhaps years again, for the strong hand of Fate was slowly but surely drifting them asunder.

For some moments neither spoke.

“Perhaps,” said Mr. Tudor, breaking the silence, “there was a previous lover in the case?”

“I am sure there was not!” said Rex, eagerly.

Still the idea was new to him. He adored Daisy with a mad, idolatrous adoration, almost amounting to worship, and a love so intense is susceptible to the poisonous breath of jealousy, and jealousy ran in Rex’s veins. He could not endure the thought of Daisy’s–his Daisy’s–eyes brightening or her cheek flushing at the approach of a rival–that fair, flower-like face, sweet and innocent as a child’s–Daisy, whom he so madly loved.

“Well,” said Mr. Tudor, as Rex arose to depart, “I will do all I can for you. Leave your address, please, in case I should wish to communicate with you.”

“I think I shall go back to Allendale, remaining there at least a month or so. I have a strong conviction Daisy might come back, or at least write to me there.”

Mr. Tudor jotted down the address, feeling actually sorry for the handsome young husband clinging to such a frail straw of hope. In his own mind, long before Rex had concluded his story, he had settled his opinion–that from some cause the young wife had fled from him with some rival, bitterly repenting her mad, hasty marriage.

“I have great faith in your acknowledged ability,” said Rex, grasping Mr. Tudor’s outstretched hand. “I shall rest my hopes upon your finding Daisy. I can not, will not, believe she is false. I would as soon think of the light of heaven playing me false as my sweet little love!”

The dark mantle of night had folded its dusky wings over the inmates of the seminary. All the lights were out in the young ladies’ rooms–as the nine-o’clock call, “All lights out!” had been called some ten minutes before–all the lights save one, flickering, dim, and uncertain, from Daisy’s window.

“Oh, dear!” cried Daisy, laying her pink cheek down on the letter she was writing to Rex, “I feel as though I could do something very desperate to get away from here–and–and–back to Rex. Poor fellow!” she sighed, “I wonder what he thought, as the hours rolled by and I did not come? Of course he went over to the cottage,” she mused, “and Septima must have told him where I had gone. Rex will surely come for me to-morrow,” she told herself, with a sweet, shy blush.

She read and reread the letter her trembling little hands had penned with many a heart-flutter. It was a shy, sweet little letter, beginning with “Dear Mr. Rex,” and ending with, “Yours sincerely, Daisy.” It was just such a dear, timid letter as many a pure, fresh-hearted loving young girl would write, brimful of the love which filled her guileless heart for her handsome, debonair Rex–with many allusions to the secret between them which weighed so heavily on her heart, sealing her lips for his dear sake.

After sealing and directing her precious letter, and placing it in the letter-bag which hung at the lower end of the corridor, Daisy hurried back to her own apartment and crept softly into her little white bed, beside Sara, and was soon fast asleep, dreaming of Rex and a dark, haughty, scornful face falling between them and the sunshine–the cold, mocking face of Pluma Hurlhurst.

Mme. Whitney, as was her custom, always looked over the out-going mail early in the morning, sealing the letters of which she approved, and returning, with a severe reprimand, those which did not come up to the standard of her ideas.

“What is this?” she cried, in amazement, turning the letter Daisy had written in her hand. “Why, I declare, it is actually sealed!” Without the least compunction she broke the seal, grimly scanning its contents from beginning to end. If there was anything under the sun the madame abominated it was love-letters.

It was an established fact that no tender billets-doux found their way from the academy; the argus-eyed madame was too watchful for that.

With a lowering brow, she gave the bell-rope a hasty pull.

“Jenkins,” she said to the servant answering her summons, “send Miss Brooks to me here at once!”

“Poor little thing!” cried the sympathetic Jenkins to herself. “I wonder what in the world is amiss now? There’s fire in the madame’s eye. I hope she don’t intend to scold poor little Daisy Brooks.” Jenkins had taken a violent fancy to the sweet-faced, golden-haired, timid young stranger.

“It must be something terrible, I’m sure!” cried Sara, when she heard the madame had sent for Daisy; while poor Daisy’s hand trembled so–she could scarcely tell why–that she could hardly bind up the golden curls that fell down to her waist in a wavy, shining sheen.

Daisy never once dreamed her letter was the cause of her unexpected summons, until she entered Mme. Whitney’s presence and saw it opened–yes, opened–her own sacred, loving letter to Rex–in her hand.

Daisy was impulsive, and her first thought was to grasp her precious letter and flee to her own room. How dared the madame open the precious letter she had intended only for Rex’s eyes!

“Miss Brooks,” began madame, impressively, “I suppose I am right in believing this epistle belongs to you?”

A great lump rose in Daisy’s throat.

“Yes, madame,” answered Daisy, raising her dark-blue eyes pleadingly to the stern face before her.

“And may I ask by what right you dared violate the rules and regulations of this establishment by sending a sealed letter to–a man? Your guardian strictly informed me you had no correspondents whatever, and I find this is a–I blush to confess it–actually a love-letter. What have you to say in reference to your folly, Miss Brooks?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” sobbed Daisy.

“You don’t know?” repeated madame, scornfully. “Not a very satisfactory explanation. Well, Miss Brooks, I have fully determined what steps I shall take in the matter. I shall read this letter this morning before the whole school; it will afford me an excellent opportunity to point out the horrible depths to which young girls are plunged by allowing their minds to wander from their books to such thoughts as are here expressed. What do you mean by this secret to which you allude so often?” she asked, suddenly.

“Please do not ask me, madame,” sobbed Daisy; “I can not tell you–indeed I can not. I dare not!”

An alarming thought occurred to madame.

“Speak, girl!” she cried, hoarsely, grasping her firmly by the shoulder. “I must know the meaning of this secret which is so appalling. You fear to reveal it! Does your guardian know of it?”

“No–o!” wailed Daisy; “I could not tell him. I must keep the secret.”

Poor little innocent Daisy! her own words had convicted her beyond all pardon in the eyes of shrewd, suspicious Mme. Whitney, who guessed, as is usually the case, wide of the mark, as to the cause of the secret Daisy dare not to reveal to her guardian or herself.

“My duty is plain in this case,” said madame. “I shall read this as a terrible warning to the young ladies of this institution; then I will send for Mr. John Brooks, your guardian, and place this letter in his hands.”

“Oh, no, madame, in pity’s name, no!” sobbed Daisy, wildly, kneeling imploringly at her feet, her heart beating tumultuously, and her hands locked convulsively together. “Do not, madame, I pray you; anything but that; he would cast me out of his heart and home, and I–I could not go to Rex, you see.”

But madame did not see. She laughed a little hard, metallic laugh that grated, oh, so cruelly, on Daisy’s sensitive nerves.

When one woman’s suspicions are aroused against another, Heaven help the suspected one; there is little mercy shown her.

“Man’s inhumanity to man” is nothing compared to woman’s inhumanity to woman.

Mme. Whitney had discovered a capital way to score a hit in the direction of morality.

“No,” she said, laying the letter down on the table before her. “Arise from your knees, Miss Brooks. Your prayers are useless. I think this will be a life-long lesson to you.”

“Oh, madame, for the love of Heaven!” cried Daisy, rocking herself to and fro, “spare me, I beseech you! Can nothing alter your purpose?”

“Well,” said madame, reflectively, “I may not be quite so severe with you if you will confess, unreservedly, the whole truth concerning this terrible secret, and what this young man Rex is to you.”

“I can not,” wailed Daisy, “I can not. Oh, my heart is breaking, yet I dare not.”

“Very well,” said madame, rising, indicating the conversation was at an end, “I shall not press you further on the subject. I will excuse you now, Miss Brooks. You may retire to your room.”

Still Daisy rocked herself to and fro on her knees at her feet. Suddenly a daring thought occurred to her. The letter which had caused her such bitter woe lay on the table almost within her very grasp–the letter, every line of which breathed of her pure, sacred love for Rex–her Rex–whom she dared not even claim. She could imagine madame commenting upon every word and sentence, ridiculing those tender expressions which had been such rapturous joy to her hungry little heart as she had penned them. And, last of all, and far the most bitter thought, how dear old John Brooks would turn his honest eyes upon her tell-tale face, demanding to know what the secret was–the secret which she had promised her young husband she would not reveal, come what would. If his face should grow white and stern, and those lips, which had blessed, praised, and petted, but never scolded her–if those lips should curse her, she would die then and there at his feet. In an instant she had resolved upon a wild, hazardous plan. Quick as a flash of lightning Daisy sprung to her feet and tore the coveted letter from madame’s detaining grasp; the door stood open, and with the fleetness of a hunted deer she flew down the corridor, never stopping for breath until she had gained the very water’s edge.

Mme. Whitney gave a loud shriek and actually fainted, and the attendant, who hurried to the scene, caught but a glimpse of a white, terrified, beautiful face, and a cloud of flying golden hair. No one in that establishment ever gazed upon the face of Daisy Brooks again!

CHAPTER IX

“Where is Miss Brooks?” cried Mme. Whitney, excitedly, upon opening her eyes. “Jenkins,” she cried, motioning to the attendant who stood nearest her, “see that Miss Brooks is detained in her own room under lock and key until I am at liberty to attend to her case.”

The servants looked at one another in blank amazement. No one dared tell her Daisy had fled.

The torn envelope, which Daisy had neglected to gain possession of, lay at her feet.

With a curious smile Mme. Whitney smoothed it out carefully, and placed it carefully away in her private desk.

“Rex Lyon,” she mused, knitting her brow. “Ah, yes, that was the name, I believe. He must certainly be the one. Daisy Brooks shall suffer keenly for this outrage,” cried the madame, grinding her teeth with impotent rage. “I shall drag her pride down to the very dust beneath my feet. How dare the little rebel defy my orders? I shall have her removed to the belfry-room; a night or two there will humble her pride, I dare say,” fumed the madame, pacing up and down the room. “I have brought worse tempers than hers into subjection; still I never dreamed the little minx would dare openly defy me in that manner. I shall keep her in the belfry-room, under lock and key, until she asks my pardon on her bended knees; and what is more, I shall wrest the secret from her–the secret she has defied me to discover.”

On sped Daisy, as swift as the wind, crushing the fatal letter in her bosom, until she stood at the very edge of the broad, glittering Chesapeake. The rosy-gold rays of the rising sun lighted up the waves with a thousand arrowy sparkles like a vast sea of glittering, waving gold. Daisy looked over her shoulder, noting the dark forms hurrying to and fro.

“They are searching for me,” she said, “but I will never go back to them–never!”

She saw a man’s form hurrying toward her. At that moment she beheld, moored in the shadow of a clump of alders at her very feet, a small boat rocking to and fro with the tide. Daisy had a little boat of her own at home; she knew how to use the oars.

“They will never think of looking for me out on the water,” she cried, triumphantly, and quickly untying it, she sprung into the little skiff, and seizing the oars, with a vigorous stroke the little shell shot rapidly out into the shimmering water, Daisy never once pausing in her mad, impetuous flight until the dim line of the shore was almost indistinguishable from the blue arching dome of the horizon. “There,” she cried, flushed and excited, leaning on the oars; “no one could possibly think of searching for me out here.”

Her cheeks were flushed and her blue eyes danced like stars, while the freshening breeze blew her bright shining hair to and fro.

Many a passing fisherman cast admiring glances at the charming little fairy, so sweet and so daring, out all alone on the smiling, treacherous, dancing waves so far away from the shore. But if Daisy saw them, she never heeded them.