Daisy Brooks Part 24

"Oh, dear, what shall I do?" she cried out in sudden fright. "How could I know she was his sister when I told her my name?" A twig fell from the bough above her head brushed by some night-bird's wing. "He is coming to search for me," she whispered to herself.

A tremor ran over her frame; the color flashed into her cheek and parted lips, and a startled, wistful brightness crept into the blue eyes.

Ah! there never could have been a love so sweetly trustful and child-like as little Daisy's for handsome Rex, her husband in name only.

Poor, little, innocent Daisy! if she had walked straight back to him, crying out, "Rex, Rex, see, I am Daisy, your wife!" how much untold sorrow might have been spared her.

Poor, little, lonely, heart-broken child-bride! how was she to know Rex had bitterly repented and come back to claim her, alas! too late; and how he mourned her, refusing to be comforted, and how they forced him back from the edge of the treacherous shaft lest he should plunge headlong down the terrible depths. Oh, if she had but known all this!

If Rex had dropped down from the clouds she could not have been more startled and amazed at finding him in such close proximity away down in Florida.

She remembered he had spoken to her of his mother, as he clasped her to his heart out in the starlight of that never-to-be-forgotten night, whispering to her of the marriage which had been the dearest wish of his mother's heart.

She remembered how she had hid her happy, rosy, blushing face on his breast, and asked him if he was quite sure he loved her better than Pluma Hurlhurst, the haughty, beautiful heiress.

"Yes, my pretty little sweetheart, a thousand times better," he had replied, emphatically, holding her off at arm's-length, watching the heightened color that surged over the dainty, dimpled face so plainly discernible in the white, radiant starlight.

Daisy rested her head on one soft, childish hand, and gazed thoughtfully up at the cold, brilliant stars that gemmed the heavens above her.

"Oh, if you had only warned me, little stars!" she said. "I was so happy then; and now life is so bitter!"

A sudden impulse seized her, strong as her very life, to look upon his face again.

"I would be content to live my weary life out uncomplainingly then,"

she said.

Without intent or purpose she walked hurriedly back through the pansy-bordered path she had so lately traversed.

The grand old trees seemed to stretch their giant arms protectingly over her, as if to ward off all harm.

The night-wind fanned her flushed cheeks and tossed her golden curls against her wistful, tear-stained face. Noiselessly she crept up the wide, graveled path that led to his home--the home which should have been hers.

Was it fancy? She thought she heard Rex's voice crying out: "Daisy, my darling!" How pitifully her heart thrilled! Dear Heaven! if it had only been true. It was only the restless murmur of the waves sighing among the orange-trees.

A light burned dimly in an upper window. Suddenly a shadow fell across the pale, silken curtains. She knew but too well whose shadow it was; the proud, graceful poise of the handsome head, and the line of the dark curls waving over the broad brow, could belong to no one but Rex.

There was no one but the pitying moonlight out there to see how pa.s.sionately the poor little child-bride kissed the pale roses on which that shadow had fallen, and how she broke it from the stem and placed it close to her beating heart--that lonely, starved little heart, chilled under the withering frost of neglect, when life, love and happiness should have been just bursting into bloom for her.

"He said I had spoiled his life," she sighed, leaning her pale face wearily against the dark-green ivy vines. "He must have meant I had come between him and Pluma. Will he go back to her, now that he believes me dead?"

One question alone puzzled her: Had Birdie mentioned her name, and would he know it was she, whom every one believed lying so cold and still in the bottomless pit? She could not tell.

"If I could but see Birdie for a moment," she thought, "and beseech her to keep my secret!"

Birdie had said her brother was soon going away again.

"How could I bear it?" she asked herself, piteously.

It was not in human nature to see the young husband whom she loved so well drifting so completely away from her and still remain silent. "I will watch over him from afar; I will be his guardian angel; I must remain as one dead to him forever," she told herself.

Afar off, over the dancing, moonlighted waters she saw a pleasure-boat gliding swiftly over the rippling waves. She could hear their merry laughter and gay, happy voices, and s.n.a.t.c.hes of mirthful songs.

Suddenly the band struck up an old, familiar strain. Poor little Daisy leaned her head against the iron railing of the porch and listened to those cruel words--the piece that they played was "Love's Young Dream."

Love's young dream! Ah! how cruelly hers had ended! She looked up at the white, fleecy clouds above her, vaguely wondering why the love of one person made the earth a very paradise, or a wilderness. As the gay, joyous music floated up to her the words of the poet found echo in her heart in a pa.s.sionate appeal:

"No one could tell, for n.o.body knew, Why love was made to gladden a few; And hearts that would forever be true, Go lone and starved the whole way through,"

Oh, it was such a blessed relief to her to watch that shadow. Rex was pacing up and down the room now, his arms folded and his head bent on his breast. Poor, patient little Daisy, watching alone out in the starlight, was wondering if he was thinking of her.

No thought occurred to her of being discovered there with her arms clasped around that marble pillar watching so intently the shadow of that graceful, manly figure pacing to and fro.

No thought occurred to her that a strange event was at that moment transpiring within those walls, or that something unusual was about to happen.

How she longed to look upon his face for just one brief moment!

Estrangement had not chilled her trusting love, it had increased it, rather, tenfold.

Surely it was not wrong to gaze upon that shadow--he was her husband.

In that one moment a wild, bitter thought swept across her heart.

Did Rex regret their marriage because she was poor, friendless, and an orphan? Would it have been different if she had been the heiress of Whitestone Hall?

She pitied herself for her utter loneliness. There was no one to whom she could say one word of all that filled her heart and mind, no face to kiss, no heart to lean on; she was so completely alone. And this was the hour her fate was being decided for her. There was no sympathy for her, her isolation was bitter. She thought of all the heroines she had ever read of. Ah, no one could picture such a sad fate as was hers.

A bright thought flashed across her lonely little heart.

"His mother is there," she sighed. "Ah, if I were to go to her and cry out: 'Love me, love me! I am your son's wife!' would she cast me from her? Ah, no, surely not; a woman's gentle heart beats in her breast, a woman's tender pity. I will plead with her on my knees--to comfort me--to show me some path out of the pitiful darkness; I can love her because she is his mother."

Daisy drew her breath quickly; the color glowed warmly on her cheek and lips; she wondered she had not thought of it before. Poor child!

she meant to tell her all, and throw herself upon her mercy.

Her pretty, soft blue eyes, tender with the light of love, were swimming with tears. A vain hope was struggling in her heart--Rex's mother might love her, because she worshiped her only son so dearly.

Would she send her forth from that home that should have sheltered her, or would she clasp those little cold fingers in Rex's strong white ones, as she explained to him, as only a mother can, how sadly he had misjudged poor little Daisy--his wife?

No wonder her heart throbbed pitifully as she stole silently across the wide, shadowy porch, and, quivering from head to foot, touched the bell that echoed with a resounding sound through the long entrance-hall.

"I would like to see Mrs. Lyon," she said, hesitatingly, to the servant who answered her summons. "Please do not refuse me," she said, clasping her little white hands pleadingly. "I must see her at once.

It is a question of life or death with me. Oh, sir, please do not refuse me. I must see her at once--and--all alone!"

CHAPTER XXII.

In the beautiful drawing-room at Whitestone Hall sat Pluma Hurlhurst, running her white, jeweled fingers lightly over the keyboard of a grand piano, but the music evidently failed to charm her. She arose listlessly and walked toward the window, which opened out upon the wide, cool, rose-embowered porch.

The sunshine glimmered on her amber satin robe, and the white frost-work of lace at her throat, and upon the dark, rich beauty of her southern face.