Kitabı oku: «Daisy Brooks: or, A Perilous Love», sayfa 5
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 most effectually, 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.
“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 the white 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 appeared so 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. Kind lady, 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, she did remember him, standing beneath a waving palm-tree, his bold, dark eyes following her every motion, while she was waltzing with Rex.
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, I must go 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.”
“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, send for 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?”
Roué and 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 sordid motive of revenge alone prompted him–now he was beginning to experience the sweet thrillings of awakened love himself. Yes, he had learned to love Daisy for her own sweet self.
He smiled as he thought of the last words Pluma Hurlhurst had said to him: “Revenge is sweet, Lester, when love is turned to bitter hatred. Help me to drag Rex Lyon’s pride as low as he has this night dragged mine, and you shall have my hand as your reward. My father is an invalid–he can not live much longer–then you will be master of Whitestone Hall.” As he had walked down the broad gravel path, running his eye over the vast plantation stretching afar on all sides, like a field of snow, as the moonlight fell upon the waving cotton, he owned to himself it was a fair domain well worth the winning.
But as he stood there, gazing silently down upon little Daisy’s face–how strange it was–he would have given up twenty such inheritances for the hope of making sweet little Daisy Brooks his wife.
It was well for Daisy Brooks he little dreamed of the great barrier which lay between them, shutting him out completely from all thoughts of love in Daisy’s romantic heart.
