Daisy Brooks Part 8

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

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

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

"Bal--ti--more!" shouted the brakeman, l.u.s.tily. "Twenty minutes for breakfast. Change cars for the north and west!"

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

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

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

"Hold there, young man," cried John, quickly, recovering the satchel.

"Don't make yourself uneasy on our account. We would be pleased to ride in your conveyance if you don't charge anything. We have no money."

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

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

Mme. Whitney's Seminary for Young Ladies was a magnificent structure, situated in the suburbs of Baltimore. On either side of the pebbled walk which led to the main entrance were tall fountains tossing their rainbow-tinted sprays up to the summer sunshine. The lawn in front was closely shaven, and through the trees in the rear of the building could be seen the broad rolling Chesapeake dancing and sparkling in the sunlight. The reputation of this inst.i.tution was second to none.

Young ladies were justly proud of being able to say they finished their education at Mme. Whitney's establishment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Daisy Brooks," she answered, simply.

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

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

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

"Yes," said Daisy. "I like you now."

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

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

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

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

"What a pity," sighed Sara. "Well, Daisy," she cried, impulsively, throwing both her arms around her and giving her a hearty kiss, "you and I will be all the world to each other. I shall tell you all my secrets and you must tell me yours. There's some girls you can trust, and some you can't. If you tell them your secrets, the first time you have a spat your secret is a secret no longer. Every girl in the school knows all about it; of course you are sure to make up again.

But," added Sara, with a wise expression, "after you are once deceived, you can never trust them again."

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

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

CHAPTER VIII.

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

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

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

"Certainly, certainly; smoke, if you feel so inclined, by all means,"

replied the detective, watching with a puzzled twinkle in his eye the fair, boyish face of his visitor. "No, thank you," he said, as Rex tendered him an Havana; "I never smoke during business hours."

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

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

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

"Go on, sir; go on!"

And Rex did go on, never sparing himself in describing how he urged Daisy to marry him on the night of the fete, 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."