CHAPTER XV.

Slowly the days came and went for the next fortnight. The crisis had

passed, and Dr. West said she would soon recover. The beautiful, long,

golden hair had been shorn from the pretty little head, and the

rose-bloom had died out of the pretty cheeks, but the bright, restless

light never left the beautiful blue eyes--otherwise there was but

little change in Daisy.

It had been just two weeks that morning, they told her, as she opened

her eyes to consciousness, since she had first been stricken down.

"And I have been here ever since?" she inquired, wonderingly.

"Yes, my dear," replied Ruth Burton, softly patting the thin white

cheeks; "of course you have been here ever since. I am afraid we are

going to lose you soon, however. We have received a letter from your

husband, saying he will be here some time to-morrow. Shall you be

pleased to see him, dear?"

In one single instant all the dim, horrible past rushed back to Daisy's

mind. She remembered flinging herself down in the clover-scented

grass, and the world growing dark around her, as the terrible words of

Stanwick rang in her ears--he would be back in just fifteen minutes to

claim her.

Ah, bonny little Daisy, tossing on your pillow, babbling empty

nothings, better would it have been for you, perhaps, if you had

dropped the weary burden of your life into the kindly arms of death

then and there than to struggle onward into the dark mystery which lay

entombed in your future.

"Shall you be glad to see Mr. Stanwick, dear?" repeated the old lady,

and, unconscious of any wrong, she placed the letter he had written in

Daisy's hands. Like one in a terrible dream, Daisy read it quite

through to the end. "You see, he says he incloses fifty dollars extra

for you, dear. I have placed it with the twenty safe in your little

purse."

"Oh, Miss Ruth, you are so very kind to me. I shall never forget how

good you have all been to me," said Daisy, softly, watching the three

peaceful-faced old ladies, who had drawn their rocking-chairs, as was

their custom, all in a row, and sat quietly knitting in the sunshine,

the gentle click of their needles falling soothingly upon Daisy's

poor, tired brain.

"We shall miss you sadly when you go," said Ruth, knitting away

vigorously. "You have been like a ray of sunshine in this gloomy old

house. We have all learned to love you very dearly."

"You love me?" repeated Daisy, wonderingly. "I was beginning to

believe every one hated me in the whole world, every one has been so

bitter and so cruel with me, except poor old Uncle John. I often

wonder why God lets me live--what am I to do with my life! Mariana in

the moated grange, was not more to be pitied than I. Death relieved

her, but I am left to struggle on."

"Heaven hear her!" cried Ruth. "One suffers a great deal to lose all

interest in life. You are so young, dear, you could not have suffered

much."

"I have lost all I hold dear in life," she answered, pathetically,

lifting her beautiful, childish blue eyes toward the white fleecy

clouds tinted by the setting sun.

Their hearts ached for the pretty, lonely little creature. They

believed she was thinking of her mother. So she was--and of Rex, the

handsome young husband whom she so madly idolized in her worshipful

childish fashion, who was worse than dead to her--the husband who

should have believed in her honor and purity, though the world had

cried out to him that she was false. He had thrust aside all

possibility of her writing to him; cast her out from his life; left

her to be persecuted beyond all endurance; bound by a vow she dare not

break to keep her marriage with Rex a secret. Though he was more cruel

than death, she loved Rex with a devotion that never faltered.

Daisy lay there, thinking of it all, while the soft, golden sunlight

died out of the sky, and the deep dusk of twilight crept softly on.

Then the old ladies arose from their chairs, folded their knitting,

and put it away. Dusk was their hour for retiring.

They were discussing which one should sit up with Daisy, when she

summoned them all to her bedside.

"I want you all to go to bed and never mind me," coaxed Daisy, with a

strange light in her eyes. "Take a good sleep, as I am going to do. I

shall be very happy to-morrow--happier than I have ever been before!"

She clasped her white arms about their necks in turn, clinging to

them, and sobbing as though she was loath to part with them.

Ruth's hand she held last and longest.

"Please kiss me again," she sobbed. "Clasp your arms tight around me,

and say 'Good-night, Daisy.' It will be so nice to dream about."

With a cheery laugh the old lady lovingly complied with her request.

"You must close those bright little eyes of yours, and drift quickly

into the Land of Nod, or there will be no roses in these cheeks

to-morrow. Good-night, my pretty little dear!"

"Good-night, dear, kind Ruth!" sighed Daisy.

And she watched the old lady with wistful, hungry eyes as she picked

up her shaded night-lamp, that threw such a soft, sweet radiance over

her aged face, as she quietly quitted the room.

A sudden change came over Daisy's face as the sound of her footsteps

died away in the hall.

"Oh, God! help me!" she cried, piteously, struggling to her feet. "I

must be far away from here when daylight breaks."

She was so weak she almost fell back on her bed again when she

attempted to rise. The thought of the morrow lent strength to her

flagging energies. A strange mist seemed rising before her. Twice she

seemed near fainting, but her indomitable courage kept her from

sinking, as she thought of what the morrow would have in store for

her.

Quietly she counted over the little store in her purse by the moon's

rays.

"Seventy dollars! Oh, I could never use all that in my life!" she

cried. "Besides, I could never touch one cent of Stanwick's money. It

would burn my fingers--I am sure it would!"

Folding the bill carefully in two she placed it beneath her little

snowy ruffled pillow. Then catching up the thick, dark shawl which lay

on an adjacent table, she wrapped it quickly about her. She opened the

door leading out into the hall, and listened. All was still--solemnly

still.

Daisy crept softly down the stairs, and out into the quiet beauty of

the still, summer night.

"Rex," she wailed, softly, "perhaps when I am dead you will feel sorry

for poor little Daisy, and some one may tell you how you have wronged

me in your thoughts, but you would not let me tell you how it

happened!"

In the distance she saw the shimmer of water lying white and still

under the moon's rays, tipped by the silvery light of the stars.

"No, not that way," she cried, with a shudder; "some one might save

me, and I want to die!"

In the distance the red and colored gleaming lights of an apothecary's

shop caught her gaze.

"Yes, that way will be best," she said, reflectively.

She drew the shawl closer about her, pressing on as rapidly as her

feeble little feet would carry her. How weak she was when she turned

the knob and entered--the very lights seemed dancing around her.

A small, keen-eyed, shrewd little man stepped briskly forward to wait

upon her. He started back in horror at the utter despair and woe in

the beautiful young face that was turned for a moment toward him,

beautiful in all its pallor as a statue, with a crown of golden hair

such as pictures of angels wear encircling the perfect head.

"What can I do for you, miss?" queried the apothecary, gazing

searchingly into the beautiful dreamy blue eyes raised up to his and

wondering who she could possibly be.

"I wish to purchase some laudanum," Daisy faltered. "I wish it to

relieve a pain which is greater than I can bear."

"Toothache, most probably?" intimated the brisk little doctor. "I know

what it is. Lord bless you! I've had it until I thought I should jump

through the roof. Laudanum's a first-class thing, but I can tell you

of something better--jerk 'em out, that's my recipe," he said, with an

odd little smile. "Of course every one to their notion, and if you say

laudanum--and nothing else--why it's laudanum you shall have; but

remember it's powerful. Why, ten drops of it would cause--death."

"How many drops did you say?" asked Daisy, bending forward eagerly.

"I--I want to be careful in taking it."

"Ten drops, I said, would poison a whole family, and twenty a

regiment. You must use it very carefully, miss. Remember I have warned

you," he said, handing her the little bottle filled with a dark liquid

and labeled conspicuously, "Laudanum--a poison."

"Please give me my change quickly," she said, a strange, deadly

sickness creeping over her.

"Certainly, ma'am," assented the obliging little man, handing her back

the change.

Daisy quite failed to notice that he returned her the full amount she

had paid him in his eagerness to oblige her, and he went happily back

to compounding his drugs in the rear part of the shop, quite

unconscious he was out the price of the laudanum.

He was dreaming of the strange beauty of the young girl, and the smile

deepened on his good-humored face as he remembered how sweetly she had

gazed up at him.

Meanwhile Daisy struggled on, clasping her treasure close to her

throbbing heart. She remembered Ruth had pointed out an old shaft to

her from her window; it had been unused many years, she had said.

"The old shaft shall be my tomb," she said; "no one will think of

looking for me there."

Poor little Daisy--unhappy girl-bride, let Heaven not judge her

harshly--she was sorely tried.

"Mother, mother!" she sobbed, in a dry, choking voice, "I can not live

any longer. I am not taking the life God gave me, I am only returning

it to Him. This is the only crime I have ever committed, mother, and

man will forget it, and God will forgive me. You must plead for me,

angel-mother. Good-bye, dear, kind Uncle John, your love never failed

me, and Rex--oh, Rex--whom I love best of all, you will not know how I

loved you. Oh, my love--my lost love--I shall watch over you up

there!" she moaned, "and come to you in your dreams! Good-bye, Rex, my

love, my husband!" she sobbed, holding the fatal liquid to her parched

lips.

The deep yawning chasm lay at her feet. Ten--ay, eleven drops she

hastily swallowed. Then with one last piteous appeal to Heaven for

forgiveness, poor, helpless little Daisy closed her eyes and sprung

into the air.

Daisy Brooks; Or, A Perilous Love · 第 15 / 40 章