Daisy Brooks: or, A Perilous Love

From their boyhood up Rex and Lester had been rivals. At college Rex had carried off the honors with flying colors. Pluma Hurlhurst, the wealthy heiress, had chosen Rex in preference to himself. He stood little chance with bright-eyed maidens compared with handsome, careless, winning Rex Lyon.

Quite unobserved, he had witnessed the meeting between Rex and Daisy at the fountain, and how tenderly he clasped her in his arms as they waltzed together in the mellow light, to the delicious strains of the “Blue Danube,” and knowing Rex as well as he did, he knew for the first time in life Rex’s heart was touched.

“It would be a glorious revenge,” Stanwick had muttered to himself, “if I could win her from him.” Then a sordid motive of revenge alone prompted him–now he was beginning to experience the sweet thrillings of awakened love himself. Yes, he had learned to love Daisy for her own sweet self.

He smiled as he thought of the last words Pluma Hurlhurst had said to him: “Revenge is sweet, Lester, when love is turned to bitter hatred. Help me to drag Rex Lyon’s pride as low as he has this night dragged mine, and you shall have my hand as your reward. My father is an invalid–he can not live much longer–then you will be master of Whitestone Hall.” As he had walked down the broad gravel path, running his eye over the vast plantation stretching afar on all sides, like a field of snow, as the moonlight fell upon the waving cotton, he owned to himself it was a fair domain well worth the winning.

But as he stood there, gazing silently down upon little Daisy’s face–how strange it was–he would have given up twenty such inheritances for the hope of making sweet little Daisy Brooks his wife.

It was well for Daisy Brooks he little dreamed of the great barrier which lay between them, shutting him out completely from all thoughts of love in Daisy’s romantic heart.

CHAPTER XII

“Please go away,” sobbed Daisy. “Leave me to myself, and I will get up.”

“Very well,” said Stanwick, involuntarily raising her little white hands courteously to his lips; “and remember, I warn you, for your own sake, not to dispute the assertion I have made–that you are my wife.”

“Why?” asked Daisy, wistfully. “They will forgive me when I tell them how it all came about.”

“You do not know women’s ways,” he replied. “They would hand you over at once to the authorities; you would bring disgrace and ruin upon your own head, and bitter shame to John Brooks’s heart. I know him well enough to believe he would never forgive you. On the other hand, when you feel well enough to depart, you can simply say you are going away with your husband. No one will think of detaining you; you will be free as the wind to go where you will. It will cost you but a few words. Remember, there are occasions when it is necessary to prevaricate in order to prevent greater evils–this is one of them.”

Daisy could not dispute this specious logic, and she suffered herself to be persuaded against her will and better judgment. She was dreadfully homesick, poor little soul! and to go back to Allendale, to Rex, was the one wish of her heart. But would he clasp her in his arms if a shadow of disgrace blotted her fair name? She would go back to him and kneel at his feet, and tell him why she had left Mme. Whitney’s. She certainly meant to tell him of all that followed, and, with her little, warm cheek pressed close to his, ask him if she had done right.

At that moment the door of an adjoining room opened, and Lester observed the three ladies standing in a row in the door-way. He knew that three pairs of eyes were regarding him intently through as many pairs of blue glasses.

“Good-bye, my little wife,” he said, raising his voice for their benefit; “I’m off now. I shall see you again to-morrow;” and, before Daisy had the least idea of his intentions, he had pressed a kiss upon her rosy lips and was gone.

The three ladies quickly advanced to the couch upon which Daisy reclined.

“We are very glad to find you are so much better this morning,” they exclaimed, all in a breath. “Your husband has been almost demented about you, my dear.”

They wondered why the white face on the pillow turned so pink, then faded to a dead white, and why the tear-drops started to her beautiful blue eyes.

“I was telling my sisters,” pursued one of the ladies, softly, “you were so young to be married–hardly more than a child. How old are you, my dear–not more than sixteen, I suppose?”

“Sixteen and a few months,” answered Daisy.

“How long have you been married, my dear?” questioned another of the sisters.

A great sob rose in Daisy’s throat as she remembered it was just a week that very day since she had stood in the dim old parlor at the rectory, while Rex clasped her hands, his handsome, smiling eyes gazing so lovingly down upon her, while the old minister spoke the words that bound them for life to each other. It almost seemed to Daisy that long years had intervened, she had passed through so much since then.

“Just a week to-day, madame,” she made answer.

“Why, you are a bride, then,” they all chorused. “Ah! that accounts for your husband’s great anxiety about you. We all agreed we had never seen a husband more devoted!”

Daisy hid her face in the pillow. She thought she would go mad upon being so cruelly misunderstood. Oh! if she had only dared throw herself into their arms and sob out her heartaches on their bosoms. Yes, she was a bride, but the most pitifully homesick, weary, disheartened little girl-bride that ever the sun shone on in the wide, wild world.

They assisted Daisy to arise, brushing out her long, tangled, golden curls, declaring to one another the pretty little creature looked more like a merry, rosy-cheeked school-girl than a little bride-wife, in her pink-and-white dotted muslin, which they had in the meantime done up for her with their own hands.

They wondered, too, why she never asked for her husband, and she looked almost ready to faint when they spoke of him.

“There seems to be something of a mystery here,” remarked one of the sisters when the trio were alone. “If that child is a bride, she is certainly not a happy one. I do not like to judge a fellow-creature–Heaven forbid! but I am sorely afraid all is not right with her. Twice this afternoon, entering the room quietly, I have found her lying face downward on the sofa, crying as if her heart would break! I am sorely puzzled!”

And the flame of suspicion once lighted was not easily extinguished in the hearts of the curious spinsters.

“‘Won’t you tell me your sorrow, my dear?’ I said.

“‘No, no; I dare not!’ she replied.

“‘Will you not confide in me, Mrs. Stanwick?’ I asked.

“She started up wildly, throwing her arms about my neck.

“‘Won’t you please call me Daisy?’ she sobbed, piteously; ‘just Daisy–nothing else.’

“‘Certainly, my dear, if you wish it,’ I replied. ‘There is one question I would like to ask you, Daisy–you have told me your mother is dead?’

“‘Yes,’ she said, leaning her golden head against the window, and watching the white clouds overhead in the blue sky–‘my poor, dear mother is dead!’

“‘Then will you answer me truthfully the question I am about to ask you, Daisy, remembering your mother up in heaven hears you.’

“She raised her blue eyes to mine.

“‘I shall answer truthfully any question you may put to me,’ she said; ‘if–if–it is not about Mr. Stanwick.’

“‘It is about yourself, Daisy,’ I said, gravely. ‘Tell me truthfully, child, are you really a wife?’

“She caught her breath with a hard, gasping sound; but her blue eyes met mine unflinchingly.

“‘Yes, madame, I am, in the sight of God and man; but I am such an unhappy one. I can not tell you why. My heart is breaking. I want to go back to Allendale!’

“‘Is that where you live, Daisy?’

“‘Yes,’ she said; ‘I am going to start to-morrow morning.’"

“How strange!” echoed the two sisters.

“The strangest part of the affair is yet to come. The little creature drew from her pocket a twenty-dollar bill.

“‘You have been kind and good to me,’ she said. I must take enough to carry me back to Allendale. You shall have all the rest, madame.’

“‘Put your money back into your pocket, Daisy,’ I replied. ‘Your husband has already paid your bill. He begged me to accept it in advance on the night you came.’

“She gave a great start, and a flood of hot color rushed over her face.

“‘I–I–did not know,’ she said, faintly, ‘how very good Mr. Stanwick has been to me.’”

The three sisters looked at one another in silent wonder over the rims of their spectacles and shook their heads ominously.

Dear reader, we must return at this period to Rex–poor, broken-hearted Rex–whom we left in the company of Pluma Hurlhurst in the spacious parlor of Whitestone Hall.

“Daisy Brooks is at this moment with Lester Stanwick! You must learn to forget her, Rex,” she repeated, slowly.

A low cry escaped from Rex’s lips, and he recoiled from her as though she had struck him a heavy blow. His heart seemed fairly stifled in his bosom, and he trembled in every limb with repressed excitement.

“Here is a letter from Madame Whitney,” she continued. “Read it for yourself, Rex. You see, she says: ‘Daisy fled. It has been since ascertained she went to Elmwood, a station some sixty miles from here, where she now is, at the cottage of the Burton sisters, in company with her lover. I shall not attempt to claim her–her retribution must come from another source.’”

The words seemed to stand out in letters of fire.

“Oh, my little love,” he cried, “there must be some terrible mistake! My God! my God! there must be some horrible mistake–some foul conspiracy against you, my little sweetheart, my darling love!”

He rose to his feet with a deep-drawn sigh, his teeth shut close, his heart beating with great strangling throbs of pain. Strong and brave as Rex was, this trouble was almost more than he could bear.

“Where are you going, Rex?” said Pluma, laying a detaining hand upon his arm.

“I am going to Elmwood,” he cried, bitterly, “to prove this accusation is a cruel falsehood. Daisy has no lover; she is as sweet and pure as Heaven itself! I was mad to doubt her for a single instant.”

“Judge for yourself, Rex–seeing is believing,” said Pluma, maliciously, a smoldering vengeance burning in her flashing eyes, and a cold, cruel smile flitting across her face, while she murmured under her breath: “Go, fond, foolish lover; your fool’s paradise will be rudely shattered–ay, your hopes crushed worse than mine are now, for your lips can not wear a smile like mine when your heart is breaking. Good-bye, Rex,” she said, “and remember, in the hour when sorrow strikes you keenest, turn to me; my friendship is true, and shall never fail you.”

Rex bowed coldly and turned away; his heart was too sick for empty words, and the heavy-hearted young man, who slowly walked down the graveled path away from Whitestone Hall in the moonlight, was as little like the gay, handsome Rex of one short week ago as could well be imagined.

There was the scent of roses and honeysuckles in the soft wind; and some sweet-voiced bird awakened from sleep, and fancying it was day, swung to and fro amid the green foliage, filling the night with melody. The pitying stars shone down upon him from the moonlighted heavens; but the still, solemn beauty of the night was lost upon Rex. He regretted–oh! so bitterly–that he had parted from his sweet little girl-bride, fearing his mother’s scornful anger, or through a sense of mistaken duty.

“Had they but known little Daisy is my wife, they would have known how impossible was their accusation that she was with Lester Stanwick.”

He shuddered at the very thought of such a possibility.

The thought of Daisy, his little girl-bride, being sent to school amused him.

“Poor little robin!” he murmured. “No wonder she flew from her bondage when she found the cage-door open! How pleased the little gypsy will be to see me!” he mused. “I will clasp the dear little runaway in my arms, and never let her leave me again! Mother could not help loving my little Daisy if she were once to see her, and sister Birdie would take to her at once.”

The next morning broke bright and clear; the sunshine drifted through the green foliage of the trees, and crimson-breasted robins sung their sweetest songs in the swaying boughs of the blossoming magnolias; pansies and buttercups gemmed the distant hill-slope, and nature’s fountain–a merry, babbling brook–danced joyously through the clover banks. No cloud was in the fair, blue, smiling heavens; no voice of nature warned poor little Daisy, as she stood at the open window drinking in the pure, sweet beauty of the morning of the dark clouds which were gathering over her innocent head, and of the storm which was so soon to burst upon her in all its fury. Daisy turned away from the window with a little sigh. She did not see a handsome, stalwart figure hurrying down the hill-side toward the cottage. How her heart would have throbbed if she had only known Rex (for it was he) was so near her! With a strangely beating heart he advanced toward the little wicket gate, at which stood one of the sisters, busily engaged pruning her rose-bushes.

“Can you tell me, madame, where I can find the Misses Burton’s cottage?” he asked, courteously lifting his hat.

“This is the Burton cottage,” she answered, “and I am Ruth Burton. What can I do for you?”

“I would like to see Daisy Brooks, if you please. She is here, I believe?” he said, questioningly. “May I come in?”

Rex’s handsome, boyish face and winning smile won their way straight to the old lady’s heart at once.

“Perhaps you are the young lady’s brother, sir? There is evidently some mistake, however, as the young lady’s name is Stanwick–Daisy Stanwick. Her husband, Lester Stanwick–I believe that is the name–is also in Elmwood.”

All the color died out of Rex’s handsome face and the light from his brown eyes. He leaned heavily against the gate-post. The words seemed shrieked on the air and muttered on the breeze.

“Daisy is not his wife! My God, madame!” he cried, hoarsely, “she could not be!”

“It is very true,” replied the old lady, softly. “I have her own words for it. There may be some mistake, as you say,” she said, soothingly, noting the death-like despair that settled over the noble face. “She is a pretty, fair, winsome little creature, blue-eyed, and curling golden hair, and lives at Allendale. She is certainly married. I will call her. She shall tell you so herself. Daisy–Mrs. Stanwick–come here, dear,” she called.

“I am coming, Miss Ruth,” answered a sweet, bird-like voice, which pierced poor Rex’s heart to the very core as a girlish little figure bounded through the open door-way, out into the brilliant sunshine.

“God pity me!” cried Rex, staggering forward. “It is Daisy–my wife!”

CHAPTER XIII

Rex had hoped against hope.

“Daisy!” he cried, holding out his arms to her with a yearning, passionate cry. “My God! tell me it is false–you are not here with Stanwick–or I shall go mad! Daisy, my dear little sweetheart, my little love, why don’t you speak?” he cried, clasping her close to his heart and covering her face and hair and hands with passionate, rapturous kisses.

Daisy struggled out of his embrace, with a low, broken sob, flinging herself on her knees at his feet with a sharp cry.

“Daisy,” said the old lady, bending over her and smoothing back the golden hair from the lovely anguished face, “tell him the truth, dear. You are here with Mr. Stanwick; is it not so?”

The sudden weight of sorrow that had fallen upon poor, hapless Daisy seemed to paralyze her very senses. The sunshine seemed blotted out, and the light of heaven to grow dark around her.

“Yes,” she cried, despairingly; and it almost seemed to Daisy another voice had spoken with her lips.

“This Mr. Stanwick claims to be your husband?” asked the old lady, solemnly.

“Yes,” she cried out again, in agony, “but, Rex, I–I–”

The words died away on her white lips, and the sound died away in her throat. She saw him recoil from her with a look of white, frozen horror on his face which gave place to stern, bitter wrath. Slowly and sadly he put her clinging arms away from him, folding his arms across his breast with that terrible look upon his face such as a hero’s face wears when he has heard, unflinchingly, his death sentence–the calm of terrible despair.

“Daisy,” he said, proudly, “I have trusted you blindly, for I loved you madly, passionately. I would as soon believe the fair smiling heavens that bend above us false as you whom I loved so madly and so well. I was mad to bind you with such cruel, irksome bonds when your heart was not mine but another’s. My dream of love is shattered now. You have broken my heart and ruined and blighted my life. God forgive you, Daisy, for I never can! I give you back your freedom; I release you from your vows; I can not curse you–I have loved you too well for that; I cast you from my heart as I cast you from my life; farewell, Daisy–farewell forever!”

She tried to speak, but her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth. Oh, pitying Heaven, if she could only have cried out to you and the angels to bear witness and proclaim her innocence! The strength to move hand or foot seemed suddenly to have left her. She tried hard, oh! so hard, to speak, but no sound issued from her white lips. She felt as one in a horrible trance, fearfully, terribly conscious of all that transpired around her, yet denied the power to move even a muscle to defend herself.

“Have you anything to say to me, Daisy?” he asked, mournfully, turning from her to depart.

The woful, terrified gaze of the blue eyes deepened pitifully, but she spoke no word, and Rex turned from her–turned from the girl-bride whom he loved so madly, with a bursting, broken heart, more bitter to bear than death itself–left her alone with the pitying sunlight falling upon her golden hair, and her white face turned up to heaven, silently praying to God that she might die then and there.

Oh, Father above, pity her! She had no mother’s gentle voice to guide her, no father’s strong breast to weep upon, no sister’s soothing presence. She was so young and so pitifully lonely, and Rex had drifted out of her life forever, believing her–oh, bitterest of thoughts!–believing her false and sinful.

Poor little Daisy was ignorant of the ways of the world; but a dim realization of the full import of the terrible accusation brought against her forced its way to her troubled brain.

She only realized–Rex–her darling Rex, had gone out of her life forever.

Daisy flung herself face downward in the long, cool, waving green grass where Rex had left her.

“Daisy,” called Miss Burton, softly, “it is all over; come into the house, my dear.”

But she turned from her with a shuddering gasp.

“In the name of pity, leave me to myself,” she sobbed; “it is the greatest kindness you can do me.”

And the poor old lady who had wrought so much sorrow unwittingly in those two severed lives, walked slowly back to the cottage, with tears in her eyes, strongly impressed there must be some dark mystery in the young girl’s life who was sobbing her heart out in the green grass yonder; and she did just what almost any other person would have done under the same circumstances–sent immediately for Lester Stanwick. He answered the summons at once, listening with intense interest while the aged spinster briefly related all that had transpired; but through oversight or excitement she quite forgot to mention Rex had called Daisy his wife.

“Curse him!” he muttered, under his breath, “I–I believe the girl actually cares for him.”

Then he went out to Daisy, lying so still and lifeless among the pink clover and waving grass.

Poor Daisy! Poor, desperate, lonely, struggling child! All this cruel load of sorrow, crushing her girlish heart, and blighting her young life, and she so innocent, so entirely blameless, yet such a plaything of fate.

“Daisy,” he said, bending over her and lifting the slight form in his arms, “they tell me some one has been troubling you. Who has dared annoy you? Trust in me, Daisy. What is the matter?”

Lester Stanwick never forgot the white, pitiful face that was raised to his.

“I want to die,” she sobbed. “Oh, why did you not leave me to die in the dark water? it was so cruel of you to save me.”

“Do you want to know why I risked my life to save you, Daisy? Does not my every word and glance tell you why?” The bold glance in his eyes spoke volumes. “Have you not guessed that I love you, Daisy?”

“Oh, please do not talk to me in that way, Mr. Stanwick,” she cried, starting to her feet in wild alarm. “Indeed you must not,” she stammered.

“Why not?” he demanded, a merciless smile stirring beneath his heavy mustache. “I consider that you belong to me. I mean to make you my wife in very truth.”

Daisy threw up her hands in a gesture of terror heart-breaking to see, shrinking away from him in quivering horror, her sweet face ashen pale.

“Oh, go away, go away!” she cried out. “I am growing afraid of you. I could never marry you, and I would not if I could. I shall always be grateful to you for what you have done for me, but, oh, go away, and leave me now, for my trouble is greater than I can bear!”

“You would not if you could,” he repeated, coolly, smiling so strangely her blood seemed to change to ice in her veins. “I thank you sincerely for your appreciation of me. I did not dream, however, your aversion to me was so deeply rooted. That makes little difference, however. I shall make you my wife this very day all the same; business, urgent business, calls me away from Elmwood to-day. I shall take you with me as my wife.”

She heard the cruel words like one in a dream.

“Rex! Rex!” she sobbed, under her breath. Suddenly she remembered Rex had left her–she was never to look upon his face again. He had left her to the cold mercies of a cruel world. Poor little Daisy–the unhappy, heart-broken girl-bride–sat there wondering what else could happen to her. “God has shut me out from His mercy,” she cried; “there is nothing for me to do but to die.”

“I am a desperate man, Daisy,” pursued Stanwick, slowly. “My will is my law. The treatment you receive at my hands depends entirely upon yourself–you will not dare defy me!” His eyes fairly glowed with a strange fire that appalled her as she met his passionate glance.

Then Daisy lifted up her golden head with the first defiance she had ever shown, the deathly pallor deepening on her fair, sweet, flower-like face, and the look of a hunted deer at bay in the beautiful velvety agonized eyes, as she answered:

“I refuse to marry you, Mr. Stanwick. Please go away and leave me in peace.”

He laughed mockingly.

“I shall leave you for the present, my little sweetheart,” he said, “but I shall return in exactly fifteen minutes. Hold yourself in readiness to receive me then; I shall not come alone, but bring with me a minister, who will be prepared to marry us. I warn you not to attempt to run away,” he said, interpreting aright the startled glance she cast about her. “In yonder lane stands a trusty sentinel to see that you do not leave this house. You have been guarded thus since you entered this house; knowing your proclivity to escape impending difficulties, I have prepared accordingly. You can not escape your fate, my little wild flower!”

“No minister would marry an unwilling bride–he could not. I would fling myself at his feet and tell him all, crying out I was–I was–”

“You will do nothing of the kind,” he interrupted, a hard, resolute look settling on his face. “I would have preferred winning you by fair means, if possible; if you make it impossible I shall be forced to a desperate measure. I had not intended adopting such stringent measures, except in an extreme case. Permit me to explain what I shall do to prevent you from making the slightest outcry.” As he spoke he drew from his pocket a small revolver heavily inlaid with pearl and silver. “I shall simply hold this toy to your pretty forehead to prevent a scene. The minister will be none the wiser–he is blind? Do you think,” he continued, slowly, “that I am the man to give up a thing I have set my heart upon for a childish whim?”

“Believe me,” cried Daisy, earnestly, “it is no childish whim. Oh, Mr. Stanwick, I want to be grateful to you–why will you torture me until I hate you?”