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.59She 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 most60pitifully 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!’
61
“‘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.
62
“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-breasted63robins 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 isnothis wife! My God, madame!” he cried, hoarsely, “shecould notbe!”
“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 girlish64little figure bounded through the open door-way, out into the brilliant sunshine.
“God pity me!” cried Rex, staggering forward. “ItisDaisy––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 arenothere 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;65I 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.66He 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,67calls 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 forehead68to 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?”
“I will marry you this very day, Daisy Brooks, whether you hate me or love me. I have done my best to gain your love. It will come in time; I can wait for it.”
“You will never make me love you,” cried Daisy, covering her face with her hands; “do not hope it––and the more you talk to me the less I like you. I wish you would go away.”
“I shall not despair,” said Stanwick, with a confident smile. “I like things which I find it hard to obtain––that was always one of my characteristics––and I never liked you so well as I like you now, in your defiant anger, and feel more determined than ever to make you my own.”
Suddenly a new thought occurred to him as he was about to turn from her.
“Why, how stupid of me!” he cried. “I could not bring the parson here, for they think you my wife already. I must change my plan materially by taking you to the parsonage. We can go from here directly to the station. I shall return in exactly fifteen minutes with a conveyance. Remember, I warn you to make no outcry for protection in the meantime. If you do I shall say you inherited your mother’s malady. I am well acquainted with your history, you see.” He kissed his finger-tips to her carelessly. “Au revoir, my love, but not farewell,” he said, lightly, “until we meet to be parted nevermore,” and, with a quick, springy step Lester Stanwick walked rapidly down the clover-bordered path on his fatal errand.
In the distance the little babbling brook sung to her of peace and rest beneath its curling, limpid waters.
“Oh, mother, mother,” she cried, “what was the dark sorrow that tortured your poor brain, till it drove you mad––ay, mad––ending in death and despair? Why did you leave your little Daisy here to suffer so? I feel such a throbbing in my own poor brain––but I must fly anywhere, anywhere, to escape this new sorrow. God has forgotten me.” She took one step forward in a blind, groping, uncertain way. “My last ray of hope has died out,” she cried as the memory of his cruel words came slowly back to her, so mockingly uttered––“the minister would be none the wiser––he is blind.”
69CHAPTER XIV.
When Lester Stanwick returned to the cottage he found that quite an unexpected turn of events had transpired. Miss Burton had gone out to Daisy––she lay so still and lifeless in the long green grass.
“Heaven bless me!” she cried, in alarm, raising her voice to a pitch that brought both of the sisters quickly to her side. “Matilda, go at once and fetch the doctor. See, this child is ill, her cheeks are burning scarlet and her eyes are like stars.”
At that opportune moment they espied the doctor’s carriage proceeding leisurely along the road.
“Dear me, how lucky,” cried Ruth, “Doctor West should happen along just now. Go to the gate, quick, Matilda, and ask him to stop.”
The keen eyes of the doctor, however, had observed the figure lying on the grass and the frantic movements of the three old ladies bending over it, and drew rein of his own accord to see what was the matter.
He drew back with a cry of surprise as his eyes rested on the beautiful flushed face of the young girl lying among the blue harebells at his feet.
“I am afraid this is a serious case,” he said, thoughtfully, placing his cool hand on her burning forehead; “the child has all the symptoms of brain fever in its worst form, brought on probably through some great excitement.” The three ladies looked at one another meaningly. “She must be taken into the house and put to bed at once,” he continued, authoritatively, lifting the slight figure in his strong arms, and gazing pityingly down upon the beautiful flushed face framed in its sheen of golden hair resting against his broad shoulders.
The doctor was young and unmarried and impressible; and the strangest sensation he had ever experienced thrilled through his heart as the blue, flaring eyes met his and the trembling red lips incoherently beseeched him to save her, hide her somewhere, anywhere, before the fifteen minutes were up.
A low muttered curse burst from Stanwick’s lips upon his return, as he took in the situation at a single glance.
As Daisy’s eyes fell upon Stanwick’s face she uttered a piteous little cry:
“Save me from him––save me!” she said, hysterically, growing rapidly so alarmingly worse that Stanwick was forced70to leave the room, motioning the doctor to follow him into the hall.
“The young lady is my wife,” he said, with unflinching assurance, uttering the cruel falsehood, “and we intend leaving Elmwood to-day. I am in an uncomfortable dilemma. I must go, yet I can not leave my––my wife. She must be removed, doctor; can you not help me to arrange it in some way?”
“No, sir,” cried the doctor, emphatically; “she can not be removed. As her physician, I certainly would not give my consent to such a proceeding; her very life would pay the forfeit.”
For a few moments Lester Stanwick paced up and down the hall lost in deep thought; his lips were firmly set, and there was a determined gleam in his restless black eyes. Suddenly he stopped short directly before the doctor, who stood regarding him with no very agreeable expression in his honest gray eyes.
“How long will it be before the crisis is past––that is, how long will it be before she is able to be removed?”
“Not under three weeks,” replied the doctor, determinedly.
“Good heavens!” he ejaculated, sharply. “Why, I shall have to––” He bit his lip savagely, as if he had been on the point of disclosing some guarded secret. “Fate is against me,” he said, “in more ways than one; these things can not be avoided, I suppose. Well, doctor, as I am forced to leave to-day I shall leave her in your charge. I will return in exactly two weeks. She has brain fever, you say?”
The doctor nodded.
“You assure me she can not leave her bed for two weeks to come?” he continued, anxiously.
“I can safely promise that,” replied the doctor, wondering at the strange, satisfied smile that flitted like a meteor over his companion’s face for one brief instant.
“This will defray her expenses in the meantime,” he said, putting a few crisp bank-notes into the doctor’s hand. “See that she has every luxury.”
He was about to re-enter the room where Daisy lay, but the doctor held him back.
“I should advise you to remain away for the present,” he said, “your presence produces such an unpleasant effect upon her. Wait until she sleeps.”
“I have often thought it so strange people in delirium shrink so from those they love best; I can not understand it,” said Stanwick, with an odd, forced laugh. “As you are the71doctor, I suppose your orders must be obeyed, however. If the fever should happen to take an unfavorable turn in the meantime, please drop a line to my address, ‘care of Miss Pluma Hurlhurst, of Whitestone Hall, Allendale,’” he said, extending his card. “It will be forwarded to me promptly, and I can come on at once.”
Again the doctor nodded, putting the card safely away in his wallet, and soon after Lester Stanwick took his departure, roundly cursing his luck, yet congratulating himself upon the fact that Daisy could not leave Elmwood––he could rest content on that score.
Meanwhile the three venerable sisters and the young doctor were watching anxiously at Daisy’s bedside.
“Oh, my poor little dear––my pretty little dear!” sobbed Ruth, caressing the burning little hands that clung to her so tightly.
“Won’t you hide me?” pleaded Daisy, laying her hot cheek against the wrinkled hand that held hers. “Hide me, please, just as if I were your own child; I have no mother, you know.”
“God help the pretty, innocent darling!” cried the doctor, turning hastily away to hide the suspicious moisture that gathered in his eyes. “No one is going to harm you, little one,” he said, soothingly; “no one shall annoy you.”
“Was it so great a sin? He would not let me explain. He has gone out of my life!” she wailed, pathetically, putting back the golden rings of hair from her flushed face. “Rex! Rex!” she sobbed, incoherently, “I shall die––or, worse, I shall go mad, if you do not come back to me!”
The three ladies looked at one another questioningly, in alarm.
“You must not mind the strange ravings of a person in delirium,” said the doctor, curtly; “they are liable to imagine and say all sorts of nonsense. Pay no attention to what she says, my dear ladies; don’t disturb her with questions. That poor little brain needs absolute rest; every nerve seems to have been strained to its utmost.”
After leaving the proper medicines and giving minute instructions as to how and when it should be administered, Dr. West took his departure, with a strange, vague uneasiness at his heart.
“Pshaw!” he muttered to himself, as he drove briskly along the shadowy road, yet seeing none of its beauty, “how strange it is these young girls will fall in love and marry such fellows as that!” he mused. “There is something about his72face that I don’t like; he is a scoundrel, and I’ll bet my life on it!”
The doctor brought his fist down on his knee with such a resounding blow that poor old Dobbin broke into a gallop. But, drive as fast he would, he could not forget the sweet, childish face that had taken such a strong hold upon his fancy. The trembling red lips and pleading blue eyes haunted him all the morning, as though they held some secret they would fain have whispered.
All the night long Daisy clung to the hands that held hers, begging and praying her not to leave her alone, until the poor old lady was quite overcome by the fatigue of continued watching beside her couch. Rest or sleep seemed to have fled from Daisy’s bright, restless eyes.
“Don’t go away,” she cried; “everybody goes away. I do not belong to any one. I am all––all––alone,” she would sigh, drearily.
Again she fancied she was with Rex, standing beneath the magnolia boughs in the sunshine; again, she was clinging to his arm––while some cruel woman insulted her––sobbing pitifully upon his breast; again, she was parting from him at the gate, asking him if what they had done was right; then she was in some school-room, begging piteously for some cruel letter; then out on the waves in the storm and the on-coming darkness of night.
The sisters relieved one another at regular intervals. They had ceased to listen to her pathetic little appeals for help, or the wild cries of agony that burst from the red feverish lips as she started up from her slumbers with stifled sobs, moaning out that the time was flying; that she must escape anywhere, anywhere, while there were still fifteen minutes left her.
She never once mentioned Stanwick’s name, or Septima’s, but called incessantly for Rex and poor old Uncle John.
“Who in the world do you suppose Rex is?” said Matilda, thoughtfully. “That name is continually on her lips––the last word she utters when she closes her eyes, the first word to cross her lips when she awakes. That must certainly be the handsome young fellow she met at the gate. If he is Rex I do not wonder the poor child loved him so. He was the handsomest, most noble-looking, frank-faced young man I have ever seen; and he took on in a way that made me actually cry when I told him she was married. He would not believe it, until I called the child and she told him herself it was the truth. I was sorry from the bottom of my heart that young73fellow had not won her instead of this Stanwick, they were so suited to each other.”
“Ah,” said Ruth, after a moment’s pause, “I think I have the key to this mystery. She loves this handsome Rex, that is evident; perhaps they have had a lovers’ quarrel, and she has married this one on the spur of the moment through pique. Oh, the pretty little dear!” sighed Ruth. “I hope she will never rue it.”
CHAPTER XV.
Slowly the days came and went for the next fortnight. The crisis had passed, and Dr. West said she would soon recover. The beautiful, long, golden hair had been shorn from the pretty little head, and the rose-bloom had died out of the pretty cheeks, but the bright, restless light never left the beautiful blue eyes––otherwise there was but little change in Daisy.
It had been just two weeks that morning, they told her, as she opened her eyes to consciousness, since she had first been stricken down.
“And I have been here ever since?” she inquired, wonderingly.
“Yes, my dear,” replied Ruth Burton, softly patting the thin white cheeks; “of course you have been here ever since. I am afraid we are going to lose you soon, however. We have received a letter from your husband, saying he will be here some time to-morrow. Shall you be pleased to see him, dear?”
In one single instant all the dim, horrible past rushed back to Daisy’s mind. She remembered flinging herself down in the clover-scented grass, and the world growing dark around her, as the terrible words of Stanwick rang in her ears––he would be back in just fifteen minutes to claim her.
Ah, bonny little Daisy, tossing on your pillow, babbling empty nothings, better would it have been for you, perhaps, if you had dropped the weary burden of your life into the kindly arms of death then and there than to struggle onward into the dark mystery which lay entombed in your future.
“Shall you be glad to see Mr. Stanwick, dear?” repeated the old lady, and, unconscious of any wrong, she placed the letter he had written in Daisy’s hands. Like one in a terrible dream, Daisy read it quite through to the end. “You see, he says he incloses fifty dollars extra for you, dear. I have placed it with the twenty safe in your little purse.”
74
“Oh, Miss Ruth, you are so very kind to me. I shall never forget how good you have all been to me,” said Daisy, softly, watching the three peaceful-faced old ladies, who had drawn their rocking-chairs, as was their custom, all in a row, and sat quietly knitting in the sunshine, the gentle click of their needles falling soothingly upon Daisy’s poor, tired brain.
“We shall miss you sadly when you go,” said Ruth, knitting away vigorously. “You have been like a ray of sunshine in this gloomy old house. We have all learned to love you very dearly.”
“You love me?” repeated Daisy, wonderingly. “I was beginning to believe every one hated me in the whole world, every one has been so bitter and so cruel with me, except poor old Uncle John. I often wonder why God lets me live––what am I to do with my life! Mariana in the moated grange, was not more to be pitied than I. Death relieved her, but I am left to struggle on.”
“Heaven hear her!” cried Ruth. “One suffers a great deal to lose all interest in life. You are so young, dear, you could not have suffered much.”
“I have lost all I hold dear in life,” she answered, pathetically, lifting her beautiful, childish blue eyes toward the white fleecy clouds tinted by the setting sun.
Their hearts ached for the pretty, lonely little creature. They believed she was thinking of her mother. So she was––and of Rex, the handsome young husband whom she so madly idolized in her worshipful childish fashion, who was worse than dead to her––the husband who should have believed in her honor and purity, though the world had cried out to him that she was false. He had thrust aside all possibility of her writing to him; cast her out from his life; left her to be persecuted beyond all endurance; bound by a vow she dare not break to keep her marriage with Rex a secret. Though he was more cruel than death, she loved Rex with a devotion that never faltered.
Daisy lay there, thinking of it all, while the soft, golden sunlight died out of the sky, and the deep dusk of twilight crept softly on.
Then the old ladies arose from their chairs, folded their knitting, and put it away. Dusk was their hour for retiring.
They were discussing which one should sit up with Daisy, when she summoned them all to her bedside.
“I want you all to go to bed and never mind me,” coaxed Daisy, with a strange light in her eyes. “Take a good sleep,75as I am going to do. I shall be very happy to-morrow––happier than I have ever been before!”
She clasped her white arms about their necks in turn, clinging to them, and sobbing as though she was loath to part with them.
Ruth’s hand she held last and longest.
“Please kiss me again,” she sobbed. “Clasp your arms tight around me, and say ‘Good-night, Daisy.’ It will be so nice to dream about.”
With a cheery laugh the old lady lovingly complied with her request.
“You must close those bright little eyes of yours, and drift quickly into the Land of Nod, or there will be no roses in these cheeks to-morrow. Good-night, my pretty little dear!”
“Good-night, dear, kind Ruth!” sighed Daisy.
And she watched the old lady with wistful, hungry eyes as she picked up her shaded night-lamp, that threw such a soft, sweet radiance over her aged face, as she quietly quitted the room.
A sudden change came over Daisy’s face as the sound of her footsteps died away in the hall.
“Oh, God! help me!” she cried, piteously, struggling to her feet. “I must be far away from here when daylight breaks.”
She was so weak she almost fell back on her bed again when she attempted to rise. The thought of the morrow lent strength to her flagging energies. A strange mist seemed rising before her. Twice she seemed near fainting, but her indomitable courage kept her from sinking, as she thought of what the morrow would have in store for her.
Quietly she counted over the little store in her purse by the moon’s rays.
“Seventy dollars! Oh, I could never use all that in my life!” she cried. “Besides, I could never touch one cent of Stanwick’s money. It would burn my fingers––I am sure it would!”
Folding the bill carefully in two she placed it beneath her little snowy ruffled pillow. Then catching up the thick, dark shawl which lay on an adjacent table, she wrapped it quickly about her. She opened the door leading out into the hall, and listened. All was still––solemnly still.
Daisy crept softly down the stairs, and out into the quiet beauty of the still, summer night.
“Rex,” she wailed, softly, “perhaps when I am dead you will feel sorry for poor little Daisy, and some one may tell you76how you have wronged me in your thoughts, but you would not let me tell you how it happened!”
In the distance she saw the shimmer of water lying white and still under the moon’s rays, tipped by the silvery light of the stars.
“No, not that way,” she cried, with a shudder; “some one might save me, and I want to die!”
In the distance the red and colored gleaming lights of an apothecary’s shop caught her gaze.
“Yes, that way will be best,” she said, reflectively.
She drew the shawl closer about her, pressing on as rapidly as her feeble little feet would carry her. How weak she was when she turned the knob and entered––the very lights seemed dancing around her.
A small, keen-eyed, shrewd little man stepped briskly forward to wait upon her. He started back in horror at the utter despair and woe in the beautiful young face that was turned for a moment toward him, beautiful in all its pallor as a statue, with a crown of golden hair such as pictures of angels wear encircling the perfect head.
“What can I do for you, miss?” queried the apothecary, gazing searchingly into the beautiful dreamy blue eyes raised up to his and wondering who she could possibly be.
“I wish to purchase some laudanum,” Daisy faltered. “I wish it to relieve a pain which is greater than I can bear.”
“Toothache, most probably?” intimated the brisk little doctor. “I know what it is. Lord bless you! I’ve had it until I thought I should jump through the roof. Laudanum’s a first-class thing, but I can tell you of something better––jerk ’em out, that’s my recipe,” he said, with an odd little smile. “Of course every one to their notion, and if you say laudanum––and nothing else––why it’s laudanum you shall have; but remember it’s powerful. Why, ten drops of it would cause––death.”
“How many drops did you say?” asked Daisy, bending forward eagerly. “I––I want to be careful in taking it.”
“Ten drops, I said, would poison a whole family, and twenty a regiment. You must use it very carefully, miss. Remember I have warned you,” he said, handing her the little bottle filled with a dark liquid and labeled conspicuously, “Laudanum––a poison.”
“Please give me my change quickly,” she said, a strange, deadly sickness creeping over her.
“Certainly, ma’am,” assented the obliging little man, handing her back the change.