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, thank41you,” 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.”
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“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 somethingverydesperate 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 the43out-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 tenderbillets-douxfound 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.
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“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.”
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“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 to46the 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 defymein 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, flushed47and 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.
“I shall stay here until it is quite dark,” she said to herself; “they will have ceased to look for me by that time. I can reach the shore quite unobserved, and watch for Sara to get my hat and sacque; and then”––a rosy flush stole up to the rings of her golden hair as she thought what she would do then––“I shall go straight back to Rex––my husband!”
She knew John Brooks would not return home for some time to come, and she would not go back to Septima. She made up her mind she would certainly go to Rex. She would wait at the depot, and, if Rex did not come in on the early train, she would go back at once to Allendale. Her purse, with twenty dollars in it––which seemed quite a fortune to Daisy––was luckily in her pocket, together with half of an apple and a biscuit. The healthful exercise of rowing, together with the fresh, cool breeze, gave Daisy a hearty appetite, and the apple and biscuit afforded her quite a pleasant lunch.
Poor Daisy! The pretty little girl-bride had no more thought of danger than a child. She had no premonition that every moment the little boat, drifting rapidly along with the tide, was bearing her rapidly onward toward death and destruction.
Daisy paid little heed to the dark rolling clouds that were slowly obscuring the brilliant sunshine, or the swirl and dash of the waves that were rocking her little boat so restlessly to and fro. The hours seemed to slip heedlessly by her. The soft gloaming seemed to fall about her swiftly and without warning.
“I must turn my boat about at once!” cried Daisy, in alarm. “I am quite a long way from the shore!”
At that moment the distant rumbling roar of thunder sounded dismally over the leaden-gray, white-capped water; and the wind, rising instantly into a fierce gale, hurled the dark storm-clouds across the sky, blotting the lurid glow of sunset and mantling the heavens above her in its dusky folds.
Daisy was brave of heart, but in the face of such sudden and unlooked-for danger her courage failed her. The pretty rose-bloom48died away from her face, and her beautiful blue eyes expanded wide with terror. She caught her breath with a sob, and, seizing the oar with two soft, childish hands, made a desperate attempt to turn the boat. The current resisted her weak effort, snapping the oar in twain like a slender twig and whirling it from her grasp.
“Rex! Rex!” she cried out, piteously, stretching out her arms, “save me! Oh, I am lost––lost! Heaven pity me!”
The night had fallen swiftly around her. Out, alone, on the wild, pitiless, treacherous waves––alone with the storm and the darkness!
The storm had now commenced in earnest, beating furiously against the little boat, and lashing the mad waves into seething foam as they dashed high above the terrified girl. No sound could be heard above the wild warring of the elements––the thunder’s roar, the furious lashing of the waves and the white, radiant lightning blazing across the vast expanse of water, making the scene sublime in its terrible grandeur.
“Rex! my love, my life!” she cried, in the intense agony of despair, “you will never know how well I loved you! I have faced death rather than betray the sweet, sad secret––I am your wife!”
Was it the wild flashing of the lightning, or was it a red light she saw swinging to and fro, each moment drawing rapidly nearer and nearer? Heaven be praised! it was a barge of some kind; help was within her reach.
“Help!” cried Daisy, faintly. “Help! I am alone out on the water!” she held out her arms toward the huge vessel which loomed up darkly before her, but the terrified voice was drowned by the fierce beating of the storm.
Suddenly her little boat spun round and round, the swift water was drawing her directly in the path of the barge; another moment and it would be upon her; she beat the air with her white hands, gazing with frozen horror at the fatal lights drawing nearer and nearer.
“Rex, my love, good-bye!” she wailed, sinking down in the bottom of the boat as one end of the barge struck it with tremendous force.
Leaning over the railing, evidently unmindful of the fierce fury of the storm that raged around him, stood a young man, gazing abstractedly over the wild dashing waves. A dark smile played about the corners of his mouth, and his restless eyes wore a pleased expression, as though his thoughts were in keeping with the wild, warring elements.
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Suddenly, through the terrible roar of the storm, he heard a piteous appeal for help, and the voice seemed to die away over the angry, muttering waves. He leaned over the railing breathless with excitement. The thunder crashed almost incessantly, and there came a stunning bolt, followed by a blinding blaze of lightning. In that one instant he had seen a white, childish face, framed in a mass of floating golden hair, turned toward him.
One instant more and she would be swept beneath the ponderous wheel, beyond all mortal power of help; then the dark, hungry waters closed cruelly over her, but in that one instantaneous glance the man’s face had turned deadly pale.
“Great God!” he shrieked, hoarsely, “it is Daisy Brooks!”
CHAPTER X.
On the evening which followed the one just described in our last chapter, Pluma Hurlhurst sat in her luxuriant boudoir of rose and gold, deeply absorbed in the three letters which she held in her lap. To one was appended the name of Septima Brooks, one was from Rex’s mother, and the last––and by far the most important one––bore the signature of Lester Stanwick.
Once, twice, thrice she perused it, each time with growing interest, the glittering light deepening in her dark, flashing eyes, and the red lips curling in a scornful smile.
“This is capital!” she cried, exultingly; “even better than I had planned. I could not see my way clear before, but now everything is clear sailing.” She crossed over to the mirror, looking long and earnestly at the superb figure reflected there. “I am fair to look upon,” she cried, bitterly. “Why can not Rex love me?”
Ah! she was fair to look upon, standing beneath the softened glow of the overhanging chandelier, in her dress of gold brocade, with a pomegranate blossom on her bosom, and a diamond spray flashing from the dark, glossy curls, magnificently beautiful.
“I was so sure of Rex,” she said, bitterly; “if any one had said to me, ‘Rex prefers your overseer’s niece, Daisy Brooks, with her baby face and pink-and-white beauty,’ I would have laughed them to scorn. Prefers her to me, the haughty heiress of Whitestone Hall, for whose love, or even smile, men have sued in vain! I have managed the whole affair very cleverly!” she mused. “John Brooks does not return before the coming spring, and Septima is removed from my path most50effectually, and if Lester Stanwick manages his part successfully, I shall have little to fear from Daisy Brooks! How clever Lester was to learn Rex had been to the Detective Agency! How he must have loved that girl!” she cried, hotly, with a darkening brow. “Ah, Rex!” she whispered, softly (and for an instant the hard look died out of her face), “no one shall take you from me. I would rather look upon your face cold in death, and know no one else could claim you, than see you smile lovingly upon a rival. There is no torture under heaven so bitter to endure as the pangs of a love unreturned!” she cried, fiercely. She threw open the window and leaned far out into the radiant starlight, as the great clock pealed the hour of seven. “Rex has received my note,” she said, “with the one from his mother inclosed. Surely he will not refuse my request. He will come, if only through politeness!” Again she laughed, that low, mocking laugh peculiar to her, as she heard the peal of the bell. “It is Rex,” she whispered, clasping her hands over her beating heart. “To-night I will sow the first seeds of distrust in your heart, and when they take root you shall despise Daisy Brooks a thousand-fold more than you love her now. She shall feel the keen thrust of a rival’s bitter vengeance!”
Casting a last lingering glance (so woman-like!) at the perfect face the mirror reflected, to give her confidence in herself for the coming ordeal, Pluma Hurlhurst glided down to the parlor, where Rex awaited her.
It would have been hard to believe the proud, willful, polished young heiress could lend herself to a plot so dark and so cruel as the one she was at that moment revolving in her fertile brain.
Rex was standing at the open window, his handsome head leaning wearily against the casement. His face was turned partially toward her, and Pluma could scarcely repress the cry of astonishment that rose to her lips as she saw how pale and haggard he looked in the softened light. She knew but too well the cause.
He was quite unaware of Pluma’s presence until a soft, white, jeweled hand was laid lightly on his arm, and a low, musical voice whispered, “I am so glad you have come, Rex,” close to his elbow.
They had parted under peculiar circumstances. He could fancy her at that moment kneeling to him, under the glare of the lamp-light, confessing her love for him, and denouncing poor little clinging Daisy with such bitter scorn. His present position was certainly an embarrassing one to Rex.
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“I am here in accordance with your request, Miss Hurlhurst,” he said, simply, bowing coldly over the white hand that would cling to his arm.
“You are very kind,” she said, sweetly, “to forget that unpleasant little episode that happened at the fête, and come to-night. I believe I should never have sent for you,” she added, archly, smiling up into his face, “had it not been at the urgent request of your mother, Rex.”
Pluma hesitated. Rex bit his lip in annoyance, but he was too courteous to openly express his thoughts; he merely bowed again. He meant Pluma should understand all thoughts of love or tenderness must forever more be a dead letter between them.
“My mother!” he repeated, wonderingly; “pardon me, I do not understand.”
For answer she drew his mother’s letter from her bosom and placed it in his hands.
He ran his eyes quickly over the page. The postscript seemed to enlighten him.
“The course of true love never runs smooth,” it ran, “and I beseech you, Pluma dear, if anything should ever happen, any shadow fall upon your love, I beseech you send for Rex and place this letter in his hands. It would not be unwomanly, Pluma, because I, his mother, so earnestly request it; for, on your love for each other hangs my hopes of happiness. Rex is impulsive and willful, but he will respect his mother’s wishes.”
No thought of treachery ever crossed Rex’s mind as he read the lines before him; he never once dreamed the ingeniously worded postscript had been so cleverly imitated and added by Pluma’s own hand. It never occurred to him for an instant to doubt the sincerity of the words he read, when he knew how dearly his mother loved the proud, haughty heiress before him.
“I heard you were going away, Rex,” she said, softly, “and I––I could not let you go so, and break my own heart.”
“In one sense, I am glad you sent for me,” said Rex, quietly ignoring her last remark. “I shall be much pleased to renew our friendship, Miss Pluma, for I need your friendship––nay, more, I need your sympathy and advice more than I can express. I have always endeavored to be frank with you, Pluma,” he said, kindly. “I have never spoken words which might lead you to believe I loved you.”
He saw her face grow white under his earnest gaze and the52white lace on her bosom rise and fall convulsively, yet she made him no answer.
“Please permit me to tell you why, Pluma,” he said, taking her hand and leading her to a sofa, taking a seat by her side. “I could not,” he continued, “in justice to either you or myself; for I never knew what love was,” he said, softly, “until the night of the fête.” Again he paused; but, as no answer was vouchsafed him, he went on: “I never knew what love meant until I met Daisy––little Daisy Brooks.”
“Rex!” cried Pluma, starting to her feet, “you know not what you say––surely you do not know! I would have warned you, but you would not listen. I saw you drifting toward a yawning chasm; I stretched out my arms to save you, but you would not heed me. You are a stranger to the people around here, Rex, or they would have warned you. Sin is never so alluring as in the guise of a beautiful woman. It is not too late yet. Forget Daisy Brooks; she is not a fit companion for noble Rex Lyon, or pure enough to kiss an honest man’s lips.”
“For God’s sake, Miss Hurlhurst, what do you mean?” cried Rex, slowly rising from his seat and facing her, pale as death. “In Heaven’s name, explain the accusations you have just uttered, or I shall go mad! If a man had uttered those words, I would have––”
The words died away on his lips; he remembered he was talking to a woman. Rex’s eyes fairly glowed with rage as he turned on his heel and strode rapidly up and down the room.
“Rex,” said Pluma, softly advancing a step toward him, “it always grieves a true woman to admit the error of a fallen sister––they would shield her if such a thing were possible.”
“I do not believe it,” retorted Rex, impetuously. “Women seem to take a keen delight in slandering one another, as far as I can see. But you might as well tell me yonder moon was treacherous and vile as to tell me Daisy Brooks was aught but sweet and pure––you could not force me to believe it.”
“I do not attempt to force you to believe it. I have told you the truth, as a loving sister might have done. None are so blind as those who will not see,” she said, toying with the jewels upon her white fingers.
“Daisy Brooks is as pure as yonder lily,” cried Rex, “and I love her as I love my soul!”
His quivering, impassioned voice thrilled Pluma to her heart’s core, and she felt a keen regret that this wealth of love was withheld from her own hungry heart. Rex had never appeared53so noble, so handsome, so well worth winning, in her eyes, as at that moment.
“I am sorry for you, Rex,” sobbed Pluma, artfully burying her face in her lace kerchief, “because she can never return your love; she does not love you, Rex.”
“Yes, she does love me,” cried Rex. “I have settled it beyond a doubt.”
“She has settled it beyond a doubt––is not that what you mean, Rex?” she asked, looking him squarely in the face, with a peculiar glitter in her sparkling dark eyes.
“There is something you are keeping from me, Pluma,” cried Rex, seizing both of her hands, and gazing anxiously into the false, fair, smiling, treacherous face. “You know where Daisy has gone––in Heaven’s name, tell me! I can not endure the suspense––do not torture me, Pluma! I will forget you have spoken unkindly of poor little Daisy if you will only tell me where she has gone.”
“Sit down, Rex,” she said, soothingly; “I will not dare tell you while you look at me with such a gleaming light in your eyes. Promise not to interrupt me to the end.”
A nameless dread was clutching at his heart-strings. What could she mean? he asked himself, confusedly. What did this foul mystery mean? He must know, or he would go mad!
“You may speak out unreservedly, Miss Pluma,” he said, hoarsely. “I give you my word, as a gentleman, I shall not interrupt you, even though your words should cause me a bitter heart-pang.”
He stood before her, his arms folded across his breast, yet no pang of remorse crept into Pluma Hurlhurst’s relentless heart for the cruel blow she was about to deal him.
“I must begin at the time of the lawn fête,” she said. “That morning a woman begged to see me, sobbing so piteously I could not refuse her an audience. No power of words could portray the sad story of suffering and wrong she poured into my ears, of a niece––beautiful, young, passionate, and willful––and of her prayers and useless expostulations, and of a handsome, dissolute lover to whom the girl was passionately attached, and of elopements she had frustrated, alas! more than once. Ah! how shall I say it!––the lover was not a marrying man.”
Pluma stopped short, and hid her face again in her kerchief as if in utter confusion.
“Go on––go on!” cried Rex, hoarsely.
“‘Lend me money,’ cried the woman, ‘that I may protect the girl by sending her off to school at once. Kind54lady, she is young, like you, and I beg you on my knees!’ I gave the woman the required amount, and the girl was taken to school the very next day. But the end was not there. The lover followed the girl––there must have been a preconcerted plan between them––and on the morning after she had entered school she fled from it––fled with her lover. That lover was Lester Stanwick––gay, fascinating, perfidious Lester––whom you know but too well. Can you not guess who the girl was, Rex?”
The dark eyes regarding her were frozen with horror, his white lips moved, but no sound issued from them. She leaned nearer to him, her dark, perfumed hair swept across his face as she whispered, with startling effect:
“The girl was Daisy Brooks, and she is at this moment in company with her lover! Heaven pity you, Rex; you must learn to forget her.”
CHAPTER XI.
When Daisy Brooks opened her eyes, she found herself lying on a white bed, and in a strange apartment which she never remembered having seen before. For one brief instant she quite imagined the terrible ordeal through which she had passed was but a dream. Then it all came back to her with cruel distinctness.
“Where am I?” she cried, struggling up to a sitting posture, and putting back the tangled golden hair from her face. “How came I here? Who saved me from the terrible dark water?”
“I did,” answered a young man, rising from his seat by the open window. “I saved your life at the risk of my own. Look up into my face, Daisy, and see if you do not remember me.”
She lifted her blue eyes to the dark, handsome, smiling face before her. Yes, she had seen that face before, but she could not remember where.
He laughed, disclosing his handsome white teeth.
“You can not guess, eh?” he said. “Then it is certainly evident I did not make much of an impression upon you. I am disappointed. I will not keep you in suspense, however. We met at Whitestone Hall, on the night of the lawn fête, and my name is Lester Stanwick.”
Ah, shedidremember him, standing beneath a waving palm-tree, his bold, dark eyes following her every motion, while she was waltzing with Rex.
55
He saw the flash of recognition in her eyes, and the blush that mantled her fair, sweet face.
“I am very grateful to you, sir, for saving me. But won’t you take me home, please? I don’t want to go back to Madame Whitney’s.”
“Of course not,” he said, with a twinkle in his eyes, “when you left it in such a remarkable manner as running away.”
“How did you know I ran away?” asked Daisy, flushing hotly.
“Madame Whitney has advertised for you,” he responded, promptly.
Although he well knew what he uttered was a deliberate falsehood, he merely guessed the little wild bird had grown weary of the restraint, and had flown away.
“Did she do that?” asked Daisy, thoroughly alarmed, her great blue eyes dilating with fear. “Oh, Mr. Stanwick, what shall I do? I do not want to go back. I would sooner die first.”
“There is no occasion for you to do either,” he replied. “You are in good hands. Stay here until the storm blows over. In all probability the madame has sent detectives out in all directions searching for you.”
Daisy was so young, so unsuspecting, so artless, and knew so little of the ways of the world or its intriguing people that she quite believed his assertion.
“Oh, what shall I do?” she sobbed, covering her face with her hands. “Oh, Imustgo back to Uncle John, and––to––to––”
Stanwick had no idea she meant Rex. He took it for granted she meant John Brooks and Septima.
“It is quite uncertain when John Brooks returns to Allendale,” he said; “and I suppose you are aware his sister has also left the place––gone, no one knows whither––the Brookses’ cottage on the brow of the hill stands empty.”
“Gone!” cried Daisy, catching her breath swift and hard, “did you say, sir? Aunt Septima has gone––no one lives in the cottage?” Poor Daisy quite believed she was losing her senses.
“Yes,” said Stanwick, smothering a low, malicious laugh, “that is what I said; but I am quite surprised that it is news to you. You are all alone in the world, you see. Of course you could not go back to Allendale. You can do no better than stay in your present quarters for at least a week or so, until you fully recover from your mad frolic on the water and gain a little strength.”
56
“Where am I?” asked Daisy, “and how did I get here? and who lives here?”
“One question at a time, if you please,” laughed Stanwick, gazing admiringly at the beautiful, questioning, eager face.
“I suppose,” he began, with provoking coolness, “you have been filling that little head of yours with romantic ideas of running away from school, and sailing far out to sea, and straight into the arms of some handsome hero who would save you, and would carry you off to some castle, and turn out to be a prince in disguise! That’s the way they usually turn out, isn’t it? But you found the theory did not work very well in real life, and your little romance came near costing you your life––eh, Miss Daisy? As for the second question, I rescued you, just in the nick of time, by jumping into the turbulent waves and bearing you out of harm’s way and keeping that little romantic head of yours above water until the barge could be stopped, and you were then brought on board. I recognized you at once,” he continued; “and to prevent suspicion and inquiry, which would have been sure to follow, I claimed you––as my wife! Do not be alarmed,” he said, as a sharp, horrified cry rose to the red lips. “I simply did that in order to protect you from being returned at once in bitter disgrace to Madame Whitney’s. Not knowing what else to do with you when the boat landed, I brought you here, and here you have been ever since, quite unconscious up to date.”
“Was it last night you brought me here?” asked Daisy.
“You are not good at guessing. You have been here two nights and two days.”
“But who lives here?” persisted Daisy. “Is this your house?”
“Oh, dear, no,” laughed Stanwick. “Upon my honor, you are not very complimentary to my taste,” he said, glancing around the meagerly furnished apartment. “As near as I can understand it, the house is occupied by three grim old maids. Each looks to be the twin of the other. This was the first shelter I could find, and I had carried you all the way from the boat in my arms, and under the circumstances, after much consulting, they at last agreed to allow you to remain here. Now you have the whole story in a nutshell.”
“Why did they not send to Septima to come to me?” she asked presently.
“Because they thought you were with your best protector––your husband.”
“Did you tell them that here, too?” asked Daisy, growing white and ill with a dizzy horror. “Oh, Mr. Stanwick, send57for them at once, and tell them it is not so, or I must!” she added, desperately.
“You must do nothing of the kind, you silly child. Do you suppose they would have sheltered you for a single instant if they had not believed you were my wife? You do not know the ways of the world. Believe me, it was the only course I could pursue, in that awkward dilemma, without bringing disgrace and detection upon you.”
As if in answer to the question that was trembling upon Daisy’s lips, he continued:
“I am stopping at a boarding-place some little distance from here. This is not Baltimore, but a little station some sixty miles from there. When you are well and strong you may go where you please, although I frankly own the situation is by no means an unpleasant one for me. I would be willing to stay here always––with you.”
“Sir!” cried Daisy, flushing as red as the climbing roses against the window, her blue eyes blazing up with sudden fire, “do you mean to insult me?”
“By no means,” responded Lester Stanwick, eagerly. “Indeed, I respect and honor you too much for that. Why, I risked my life to save yours, and shielded your honor with my name. Had I been your husband in very truth I could not have done more.”
Daisy covered her face with her hands.
“I thank you very much for saving me,” she sobbed, “but won’t you please go away now and leave me to myself?”
Rouéand villain as Lester Stanwick was, he could not help feeling touched by the innocence and beauty of little Daisy, and from that instant he loved her with a wild, absorbing, passionate love, and he made a vow, then and there, that he would win her.
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 sordid58motive 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.