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 fête, 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."
"I think I shall go back to Allendale, remaining there at least a
month or so. I have a strong conviction Daisy might come back, or at
least write to me there."
Mr. Tudor jotted down the address, feeling actually sorry for the
handsome young husband clinging to such a frail straw of hope. In his
own mind, long before Rex had concluded his story, he had settled his
opinion--that from some cause the young wife had fled from him with
some rival, bitterly repenting her mad, hasty marriage.
"I have great faith in your acknowledged ability," said Rex, grasping
Mr. Tudor's outstretched hand. "I shall rest my hopes upon your
finding Daisy. I can not, will not, believe she is false. I would as
soon think of the light of heaven playing me false as my sweet little
love!"
* * * * *
The dark mantle of night had folded its dusky wings over the inmates
of the seminary. All the lights were out in the young ladies'
rooms--as the nine-o'clock call, "All lights out!" had been called
some ten minutes before--all the lights save one, flickering, dim, and
uncertain, from Daisy's window.
"Oh, dear!" cried Daisy, laying her pink cheek down on the letter she
was writing to Rex, "I feel as though I could do something _very_
desperate to get away from here--and--and--back to Rex. Poor fellow!"
she sighed, "I wonder what he thought, as the hours rolled by and I
did not come? Of course he went over to the cottage," she mused, "and
Septima must have told him where I had gone. Rex will surely come for
me to-morrow," she told herself, with a sweet, shy blush.
She read and reread the letter her trembling little hands had penned
with many a heart-flutter. It was a shy, sweet little letter,
beginning with "Dear Mr. Rex," and ending with, "Yours sincerely,
Daisy." It was just such a dear, timid letter as many a pure,
fresh-hearted loving young girl would write, brimful of the love which
filled her guileless heart for her handsome, debonair Rex--with many
allusions to the secret between them which weighed so heavily on her
heart, sealing her lips for his dear sake.
After sealing and directing her precious letter, and placing it in the
letter-bag which hung at the lower end of the corridor, Daisy hurried
back to her own apartment and crept softly into her little white bed,
beside Sara, and was soon fast asleep, dreaming of Rex and a dark,
haughty, scornful face falling between them and the sunshine--the
cold, mocking face of Pluma Hurlhurst.
Mme. Whitney, as was her custom, always looked over the out-going
mail early in the morning, sealing the letters of which she approved,
and returning, with a severe reprimand, those which did not come up to
the standard of her ideas.
"What is this?" she cried, in amazement, turning the letter Daisy had
written in her hand. "Why, I declare, it is actually sealed!" Without
the least compunction she broke the seal, grimly scanning its contents
from beginning to end. If there was anything under the sun the madame
abominated it was love-letters.
It was an established fact that no tender _billets-doux_ found their
way from the academy; the argus-eyed madame was too watchful for
that.
With a lowering brow, she gave the bell-rope a hasty pull.
"Jenkins," she said to the servant answering her summons, "send Miss
Brooks to me here at once!"
"Poor little thing!" cried the sympathetic Jenkins to herself. "I
wonder what in the world is amiss now? There's fire in the madame's
eye. I hope she don't intend to scold poor little Daisy Brooks."
Jenkins had taken a violent fancy to the sweet-faced, golden-haired,
timid young stranger.
"It must be something terrible, I'm sure!" cried Sara, when she heard
the madame had sent for Daisy; while poor Daisy's hand trembled
so--she could scarcely tell why--that she could hardly bind up the
golden curls that fell down to her waist in a wavy, shining sheen.
Daisy never once dreamed her letter was the cause of her unexpected
summons, until she entered Mme. Whitney's presence and saw it
opened--yes, opened--her own sacred, loving letter to Rex--in her
hand.
Daisy was impulsive, and her first thought was to grasp her precious
letter and flee to her own room. How dared the madame open the
precious letter she had intended only for Rex's eyes!
"Miss Brooks," began madame, impressively, "I suppose I am right in
believing this epistle belongs to you?"
A great lump rose in Daisy's throat.
"Yes, madame," answered Daisy, raising her dark-blue eyes pleadingly
to the stern face before her.
"And may I ask by what right you dared violate the rules and
regulations of this establishment by sending a sealed letter to--a
man? Your guardian strictly informed me you had no correspondents
whatever, and I find this is a--I blush to confess it--actually a
love-letter. What have you to say in reference to your folly, Miss
Brooks?"
"I'm sure I don't know," sobbed Daisy.
"You don't know?" repeated madame, scornfully. "Not a very satisfactory
explanation. Well, Miss Brooks, I have fully determined what steps I
shall take in the matter. I shall read this letter this morning before
the whole school; it will afford me an excellent opportunity to point
out the horrible depths to which young girls are plunged by allowing
their minds to wander from their books to such thoughts as are here
expressed. What do you mean by this secret to which you allude so
often?" she asked, suddenly.
"Please do not ask me, madame," sobbed Daisy; "I can not tell
you--indeed I can not. I dare not!"
An alarming thought occurred to madame.
"Speak, girl!" she cried, hoarsely, grasping her firmly by the
shoulder. "I must know the meaning of this secret which is so
appalling. You fear to reveal it! Does your guardian know of it?"
"No--o!" wailed Daisy; "I could not tell him. I must keep the
secret."
Poor little innocent Daisy! her own words had convicted her beyond all
pardon in the eyes of shrewd, suspicious Mme. Whitney, who guessed, as
is usually the case, wide of the mark, as to the cause of the secret
Daisy dare not to reveal to her guardian or herself.
"My duty is plain in this case," said madame. "I shall read this as a
terrible warning to the young ladies of this institution; then I will
send for Mr. John Brooks, your guardian, and place this letter in his
hands."
"Oh, no, madame, in pity's name, no!" sobbed Daisy, wildly, kneeling
imploringly at her feet, her heart beating tumultuously, and her hands
locked convulsively together. "Do not, madame, I pray you; anything
but that; he would cast me out of his heart and home, and I--I could
not go to Rex, you see."
But madame did not see. She laughed a little hard, metallic laugh that
grated, oh, so cruelly, on Daisy's sensitive nerves.
When one woman's suspicions are aroused against another, Heaven help
the suspected one; there is little mercy shown her.
"Man's inhumanity to man" is nothing compared to woman's inhumanity to
woman.
Mme. Whitney had discovered a capital way to score a hit in the
direction of morality.
"No," she said, laying the letter down on the table before her. "Arise
from your knees, Miss Brooks. Your prayers are useless. I think this
will be a life-long lesson to you."
"Oh, madame, for the love of Heaven!" cried Daisy, rocking herself to
and fro, "spare me, I beseech you! Can nothing alter your purpose?"
"Well," said madame, reflectively, "I may not be quite so severe with
you if you will confess, unreservedly, the whole truth concerning this
terrible secret, and what this young man Rex is to you."
"I can not," wailed Daisy, "I can not. Oh, my heart is breaking, yet I
dare not."
"Very well," said madame, rising, indicating the conversation was at
an end, "I shall not press you further on the subject. I will excuse
you now, Miss Brooks. You may retire to your room."
Still Daisy rocked herself to and fro on her knees at her feet.
Suddenly a daring thought occurred to her. The letter which had caused
her such bitter woe lay on the table almost within her very grasp--the
letter, every line of which breathed of her pure, sacred love for
Rex--her Rex--whom she dared not even claim. She could imagine madame
commenting upon every word and sentence, ridiculing those tender
expressions which had been such rapturous joy to her hungry little
heart as she had penned them. And, last of all, and far the most
bitter thought, how dear old John Brooks would turn his honest eyes
upon her tell-tale face, demanding to know what the secret was--the
secret which she had promised her young husband she would not reveal,
come what would. If his face should grow white and stern, and those
lips, which had blessed, praised, and petted, but never scolded
her--if those lips should curse her, she would die then and there at
his feet. In an instant she had resolved upon a wild, hazardous plan.
Quick as a flash of lightning Daisy sprung to her feet and tore the
coveted letter from madame's detaining grasp; the door stood open, and
with the fleetness of a hunted deer she flew down the corridor, never
stopping for breath until she had gained the very water's edge.
Mme. Whitney gave a loud shriek and actually fainted, and the
attendant, who hurried to the scene, caught but a glimpse of a white,
terrified, beautiful face, and a cloud of flying golden hair. No one
in that establishment ever gazed upon the face of Daisy Brooks again!