One bright May morning some sixteen years later, the golden sunshine
was just putting forth its first crimson rays, lighting up the
ivy-grown turrets of Whitestone Hall, and shining upon a little white
cottage nestling in a bower of green leaves far to the right of it,
where dwelt John Brooks, the overseer of the Hurlhurst plantation.
For sixteen years the grand old house had remained closed--the
plantation being placed in charge of a careful overseer. Once again
Whitestone Hall was thrown open to welcome the master, Basil
Hurlhurst, who had returned from abroad, bringing with him his
beautiful daughter and a party of friends.
The interior of the little cottage was astir with bustling activity.
It was five o'clock; the chimes had played the hour; the laborers were
going to the fields, and the dairy-maids were beginning their work.
In the door-way of the cottage stood a tall, angular woman, shading
her flushed and heated face from the sun's rays with her hand.
"Daisy, Daisy!" she calls, in a harsh, rasping voice, "where are you,
you good-for-nothing lazy girl? Come into the house directly, I say."
Her voice died away over the white stretches of waving cotton, but no
Daisy came. "Here's a pretty go," she cried, turning into the room
where her brother sat calmly finishing his morning meal, "a pretty go,
indeed! I promised Miss Pluma those white mulls should be sent over to
her the first thing in the morning. She will be in a towering rage,
and no wonder, and like enough you'll lose your place, John Brooks,
and 'twill serve you right, too, for encouraging that lazy girl in her
idleness."
"Don't be too hard on little Daisy, Septima," answered John Brooks,
timidly, reaching for his hat. "She will have the dresses at the Hall
in good time, I'll warrant."
"Too hard, indeed; that's just like you men; no feeling for your poor,
overworked sister, so long as that girl has an easy life of it. It was
a sorry day for _me_ when your aunt Taiza died, leaving this girl to
our care."
A deep flush mantled John Brooks' face, but he made no retort, while
Septima energetically piled the white fluted laces in the huge
basket--piled it full to the brim, until her arm ached with the weight
of it--the basket which was to play such a fatal part in the truant
Daisy's life--the life which for sixteen short years had been so
monotonous.
Over the corn-fields half hid by the clover came a young girl tripping
lightly along. John Brooks paused in the path as he caught sight of
her. "Poor, innocent little Daisy!" he muttered half under his breath,
as he gazed at her quite unseen.
Transferred to canvas, it would have immortalized a painter. No wonder
the man's heart softened as he gazed. He saw a glitter of golden
curls, and the scarlet gleam of a mantle--a young girl, tall and
slender, with rounded, supple limbs, and a figure graceful in every
line and curve--while her arms, bare to the elbow, would have charmed
a sculptor. Cheek and lips were a glowing rosy red--while her eyes, of
the deepest and darkest blue, were the merriest that ever gazed up to
the summer sunshine.
Suddenly from over the trees there came the sound of the great bell at
the Hall. Daisy stood quite still in alarm.
"It is five o'clock!" she cried. "What shall I do? Aunt Septima will
be so angry with me; she promised Miss Pluma her white dresses should
be at the Hall by five, and it is that already."
Poor little Daisy! no wonder her heart throbbed painfully and the look
of fear deepened in her blue eyes as she sped rapidly up the path that
led to the little cottage where Septima grimly awaited her with
flushed face and flashing eyes.
"So," she said, harshly, "you are come at last, are you? and a pretty
fright you have given me. You shall answer to Miss Pluma _herself_ for
this. I dare say you will never attempt to offend her a second time."
"Indeed, Aunt Septima, I never dreamed it was so late," cried
conscious Daisy. "I was watching the sun rise over the cotton-fields,
and watching the dewdrops glittering on the corn, thinking of the
beautiful heiress of Whitestone Hall. I am so sorry I forgot about the
dresses."
Hastily catching up the heavy basket, she hurried quickly down the
path, like a startled deer, to escape the volley of wrath the
indignant spinster hurled after her.
It was a beautiful morning; no cloud was in the smiling heavens; the
sun shone brightly, and the great oak and cedar-trees that skirted the
roadside seemed to thrill with the song of birds. Butterflies spread
their light wings and coquetted with the fragrant blossoms, and busy
humming-bees buried themselves in the heart of the crimson wild rose.
The basket was very heavy, and poor little Daisy's hands ached with
the weight of it.
"If I might but rest for a few moments only," she said to herself,
eying the cool, shady grass by the roadside. "Surely a moment or two
will not matter. Oh, dear, I am so tired!"
She set the basket down on the cool, green grass, flinging herself
beside it beneath the grateful shade of a blossoming magnolia-tree,
resting her golden head against the basket of filmy laces that were to
adorn the beautiful heiress of whom she had heard so much, yet never
seen, and of whom every one felt in such awe.
She looked wistfully at the great mansion in the distance, thinking
how differently her own life had been.
The soft, wooing breeze fanned her cheeks, tossing about her golden
curls in wanton sport. It was so pleasant to sit there in the dreamy
silence watching the white fleecy clouds, the birds, and the flowers,
it was little wonder the swift-winged moments flew heedlessly by.
Slowly the white lids drooped over the light-blue eyes, the long,
golden lashes lay against the rosy cheeks, the ripe lips parted in a
smile--all unheeded were the fluted laces--Daisy slept. Oh, cruel
breeze--oh, fatal wooing breeze to have infolded hapless Daisy in your
soft embrace!
Over the hills came the sound of baying hounds, followed by a quick,
springy step through the crackling underbrush, as a young man in
close-fitting velvet hunting-suit and jaunty velvet cap emerged from
the thicket toward the main road.
As he parted the magnolia branches the hound sprang quickly forward at
some object beneath the tree, with a low, hoarse growl.
"Down, Towser, down!" cried Rex Lyon, leaping lightly over some
intervening brushwood. "What kind of game have we here? Whew!" he
ejaculated, surprisedly; "a young girl, pretty as a picture, and, by
the eternal, fast asleep, too!"
Still Daisy slept on, utterly unconscious of the handsome brown eyes
that were regarding her so admiringly.
"I have often heard of fairies, but this is the first time I have ever
caught one napping under the trees. I wonder who she is anyhow? Surely
she can not be some drudging farmer's daughter with a form and face
like that?" he mused, suspiciously eying the basket of freshly
laundered laces against which the flushed cheeks and waving golden
hair rested.
Just then his ludicrous position struck him forcibly.
"Come, Towser," he said, "it would never do for you and me to be
caught staring at this pretty wood-nymph so rudely, if she should by
chance awaken just now."
Tightening the strap of his game-bag over his shoulder, and
readjusting his velvet cap jauntily over his brown curls, Rex was
about to resume his journey in the direction of Whitestone Hall, when
the sound of rapidly approaching carriage-wheels fell upon his ears.
Realizing his awkward position, Rex knew the wisest course he could
possibly pursue would be to screen himself behind the magnolia
branches until the vehicle should pass. The next instant a pair of
prancing ponies, attached to a basket phaeton, in which sat a young
girl, who held them well in check, dashed rapidly up the road. Rex
could scarcely repress an exclamation of surprise as he saw the
occupant was his young hostess, Pluma Hurlhurst of Whitestone Hall.
She drew rein directly in front of the sleeping girl, and Rex Lyon
never forgot, to his dying day, the discordant laugh that broke from
her red lips--a laugh which caused poor Daisy to start from her
slumber in wild alarm, scattering the snowy contents of the basket in
all directions.
For a single instant their eyes met--these two girls, whose lives were
to cross each other so strangely--poor Daisy, like a frightened bird,
as she guessed intuitively at the identity of the other; Pluma,
haughty, derisive, and scornfully mocking.
"You are the person whom Miss Brooks sent to Whitestone Hall with my
mull dresses some three hours since, I presume. May I ask what
detained you?"
Poor Daisy was quite crestfallen; great tear-drops trembled on her
long lashes. How could she answer? She had fallen asleep, wooed by the
lulling breeze and the sunshine.
"The basket was so heavy," she answered, timidly, "and I--I--sat down
to rest a few moments, and--"
"Further explanation is quite unnecessary," retorted Pluma, sharply,
gathering up the reins. "See that you have those things at the Hall
within ten minutes; not an instant later."
Touching the prancing ponies with her ivory-handled whip, the haughty
young heiress whirled leisurely down the road, leaving Daisy, with
flushed face and tear-dimmed eyes, gazing after her.
"Oh, dear, I wish I had never been born," she sobbed, flinging herself
down on her knees, and burying her face in the long, cool grass. "No
one ever speaks a kind word to me but poor old Uncle John, and even he
dare not be kind when Aunt Septima is near. She might have taken this
heavy basket in her carriage," sighed Daisy, bravely lifting the heavy
burden in her delicate arms.
"That is just what I think," muttered Rex Lyon from his place of
concealment, savagely biting his lip.
In another moment he was by her side.
"Pardon me," he said, deferentially raising his cap from his glossy
curls, "that basket is too heavy for your slender arms. Allow me to
assist you."
In a moment the young girl stood up, and made the prettiest and most
graceful of courtesies as she raised to his a face he never forgot.
Involuntarily he raised his cap again in homage to her youth, and her
shy sweet beauty.
"No; I thank you, sir, I have not far to carry the basket," she
replied, in a voice sweet as the chiming of silver bells--a voice that
thrilled him, he could not tell why.
A sudden desire possessed Rex to know who she was and from whence she
came.
"Do you live at the Hall?" he asked.
"No," she replied, "I am Daisy Brooks, the overseer's niece."
"Daisy Brooks," said Rex, musingly. "What a pretty name! how well it
suits you!"
He watched the crimson blushes that dyed her fair young face--she
never once raised her dark-blue eyes to his. The more Rex looked at
her the more he admired this coy, bewitching, pretty little maiden.
She made a fair picture under the boughs of the magnolia-tree, thick
with odorous pink-and-white tinted blossoms, the sunbeams falling on
her golden hair.
The sunshine or the gentle southern wind brought Rex no warning he was
forging the first links of a dreadful tragedy. He thought only of the
shy blushing beauty and coy grace of the young girl--he never dreamed
of the hour when he should look back to that moment, wondering at his
own blind folly, with a curse on his lips.
Again from over the trees came the sound of the great bell from the
Hall.
"It is eight o'clock," cried Daisy, in alarm. "Miss Pluma will be so
angry with me."
"Angry!" said Rex; "angry with you! For what?"
"She is waiting for the mull dresses," replied Daisy.
It was a strange idea to him that any one should dare be angry with
this pretty gentle Daisy.
"You will at least permit me to carry your basket as far as the gate,"
he said, shouldering her burden without waiting for a reply. Daisy had
no choice but to follow him. "There," said Rex, setting the basket
down by the plantation gate, which they had reached all too soon, "you
must go, I suppose. It seems hard to leave the bright sunshine to go
indoors."
"I--I shall soon return," said Daisy, with innocent frankness.
"Shall you?" cried Rex. "Will you return home by the same path?"
"Yes," she replied, "if Miss Pluma does not need me."
"Good-bye, Daisy," he said. "I shall see you again."
He held out his hand and her little fingers trembled and fluttered in
his clasp. Daisy looked so happy yet so frightened, so charming yet so
shy, Rex hardly knew how to define the feeling that stirred in his
heart.
He watched the graceful, fairy figure as Daisy tripped away--instead
of thinking he had done a very foolish thing that bright morning. Rex
lighted a cigar and fell to dreaming of sweet little Daisy Brooks, and
wondering how he should pass the time until he should see her again.
While Daisy almost flew up the broad gravel path to the house, the
heavy burden she bore seemed light as a feather--no thought that she
had been imprudent ever entered her mind.
There was no one to warn her of the peril which lay in the witching
depths of the handsome stranger's glances.
All her young life she had dreamed of the hero who would one day come
to her, just such a dream as all youthful maidens experience--an idol
they enshrine in their innermost heart, and worship in secret, never
dreaming of a cold, dark time when the idol may lie shattered in ruins
at their feet. How little knew gentle Daisy Brooks of the fatal love
which would drag her down to her doom!