We must now return to Daisy, whom we left standing in the heart of the
forest, the moonlight streaming on her upturned face, upon which the
startled horseman gazed.
He had not waited for her to reply, but, touching his horse hastily
with his riding-whip, he sped onward with the speed of the wind.
In that one instant Daisy had recognized the dark, sinister, handsome
face of Lester Stanwick.
"They have searched the pit and found I was not there. He is searching
for me; he has tracked me down!" she cried, vehemently, pressing her
little white hands to her burning head.
Faster, faster flew the little feet through the long dew-damp
grasses.
"My troubles seem closing more darkly around me," she sobbed. "I wish
I had never been born, then I could never have spoiled Rex's life. But
I am leaving you, my love, my darling, so you can marry Pluma, the
heiress. You will forget me and be happy."
Poor little, neglected, unloved bride, so fair, so young, so fragile,
out alone facing the dark terrors of the night, fleeing from the young
husband who was wearing his life out in grief for her. Ah, if the
gentle winds sighing above her, or the solemn, nodding trees had only
told her, how different her life might have been!
"No one has ever loved me but poor old Uncle John!" She bent her fair
young head and cried out to Heaven: "Why has no mercy been shown to
me? I have never done one wrong, yet I am so sorely tried. Oh, mother,
mother!" she cried, raising her blue eyes up to the starry sky, "if
you could have foreseen the dark, cruel shadows that would have folded
their pitiless wings over the head of your child, would you not have
taken me with you down into the depths of the seething waters?" She
raised up her white hands pleadingly as though she would fain pierce
with her wrongs the blue skies, and reach the great White Throne. "I
must be going mad," she said. "Why did Rex seek me out?" she cried, in
anguish. "Why did Heaven let me love him so madly, and my whole life
be darkened by living apart from him if I am to live? I had no thought
of suffering and sorrow when I met him that summer morning. Are the
summer days to pass and never bring him? Are the flowers to bloom, the
sun to shine, the years to come and go, yet never bring him once to
me? I can not bear it--I do not know how to live!"
If she could only see poor old, faithful John Brooks again she would
kneel at his feet just as she had done when she was a little child,
lay her weary head down on his toil-hardened hand, tell him how she
had suffered, and ask him how she could die and end it all.
She longed so hungrily for some one to caress her, murmuring tender
words over her. She could almost hear his voice saying as she told
him her pitiful story: "Come to my arms, pet, my poor little trampled
Daisy! You shall never want for some one to love you while poor old
Uncle John lives. Bless your dear little heart!"
The longing was strongly upon her. No one would recognize her--she
_must_ go and see poor old John. She never thought what would become
of her life after that.
At the station she asked for a ticket for Allendale. No one seemed to
know of such a place. After a prolonged search on the map the agent
discovered it to be a little inland station not far from Baltimore.
"We can sell you a ticket for Baltimore," he said, "and there you can
purchase a ticket for the other road."
And once again poor little Daisy was whirling rapidly toward the scene
of her first great sorrow.
Time seemed to slip by her unheeded during all that long, tedious
journey of two nights and a day.
"Are you going to Baltimore?" asked a gentle-faced lady, who was
strangely attracted to the beautiful, sorrowful young girl, in which
all hope, life, and sunshine seemed dead.
"Yes, madame," she made answer, "I change cars there; I am going
further."
The lady was struck by the peculiar mournful cadence of the young
voice.
"I beg your pardon for my seeming rudeness," she said, looking long
and earnestly at the fair young face; "but you remind me so strangely
of a young school-mate of my youth; you are strangely like what she
was then. We both attended Madame Whitney's seminary. Perhaps you have
heard of the institution; it is a very old and justly famous school."
She wondered at the beautiful flush that stole into the girl's
flower-like face--like the soft, faint tinting of a sea-shell. "She
married a wealthy planter," pursued the lady, reflectively; "but she
did not live long to enjoy her happy home. One short year after she
married Evalia Hurlhurst died." The lady never forgot the strange
glance that passed over the girl's face, or the wonderful light that
seemed to break over it. "Why," exclaimed the lady, as if a sudden
thought occurred to her, "when you bought your ticket I heard you
mention Allendale. That was the home of the Hurlhursts. Is it possible
you know them? Mr. Hurlhurst is a widower--something of a recluse, and
an invalid, I have heard; he has a daughter called Pluma."
"Yes, madame," Daisy made answer, "I have met Miss Hurlhurst, but not
her father."
How bitterly this stranger's words seemed to mock her! Did she know
Pluma Hurlhurst, the proud, haughty heiress who had stolen her young
husband's love from her?--the dark, sparkling, willful beauty who had
crossed her innocent young life so strangely--whom she had seen
bending over _her_ husband in the pitying moonlight almost caressing
him? She thought she would cry out with the bitterness of the thought.
How strange it was! The name, Evalia Hurlhurst, seemed to fall upon
her ears like the softest, sweetest music. Perhaps she wished she was
like that young wife, who had died so long ago, resting quietly
beneath the white daisies that bore her name.
"That is Madame Whitney's," exclaimed the lady, leaning forward toward
the window excitedly. "Dear me! I can almost imagine I am a young girl
again. Why, what is the matter, my dear? You look as though you were
about to faint."
The train whirled swiftly past--the broad, glittering Chesapeake on
one side, and the closely shaven lawn of the seminary on the other. It
was evidently recess. Young girls were flitting here and there under
the trees, as pretty a picture of happy school life as one would wish
to see. It seemed to poor hapless Daisy long ages must have passed
since that morning poor old John Brooks had brought her, a shy,
blushing, shrinking country lassie, among those daintily attired,
aristocratic maidens, who had laughed at her coy, timid mannerism, and
at the clothes poor John wore, and at his flaming red cotton
neckerchief.
She had not much time for further contemplation. The train steamed
into the Baltimore depot, and she felt herself carried along by the
surging crowd that alighted from the train.
She did not go into the waiting-room; she had quite forgotten she was
not at the end of her journey.
She followed the crowds along the bustling street, a solitary,
desolate, heart-broken girl, with a weary white face whose beautiful,
tender eyes looked in vain among the throngs that passed her by for
one kindly face or a sympathetic look.
Some pushed rudely by her, others looked into the beautiful face with
an ugly smile. Handsomely got-up dandies, with fine clothes and no
brains, nodded familiarly as Daisy passed them. Some laughed, and
others scoffed and jeered; but not one--dear Heaven! not one among the
vast throng gave her a kindly glance or a word. Occasionally one,
warmer hearted than the others, would look sadly on that desolate,
beautiful, childish face.
A low moan she could scarcely repress broke from her lips. A
handsomely dressed child, who was rolling a hoop in front of her,
turned around suddenly and asked her if she was ill.
"Ill?" She repeated the word with a vague feeling of wonder. What was
physical pain to the torture that was eating away her young life? Ill?
Why, all the illness in the world put together could not cause the
anguish she was suffering then--the sting of a broken heart.
She was not ill--only desolate and forsaken.
Poor Daisy answered in such a vague manner that she quite frightened
the child, who hurried away as fast as she could with her hoop,
pausing now and then to look back at the white, forlorn face on which
the sunshine seemed to cast such strange shadows.
On and on Daisy walked, little heeding which way she went. She saw
what appeared to be a park on ahead, and there she bent her steps. The
shady seats among the cool green grasses under the leafy trees looked
inviting. She opened the gate and entered. A sudden sense of dizziness
stole over her, and her breath seemed to come in quick, convulsive
gasps.
"Perhaps God has heard my prayer, Rex, my love," she sighed. "I am
sick and weary unto death. Oh, Rex--Rex--"
The beautiful eyelids fluttered over the soft, blue eyes, and with
that dearly loved name on her lips, the poor little child-bride sunk
down on the cold, hard earth in a death-like swoon.
"Oh, dear me, Harvey, who in the world is this?" cried a little,
pleasant-voiced old lady, who had witnessed the young girl enter the
gate, and saw her stagger and fall. In a moment she had fluttered down
the path, and was kneeling by Daisy's side.
"Come here, Harvey," she called; "it is a young girl; she has
fainted."
Mr. Harvey Tudor, the celebrated detective, threw away the cigar he
had been smoking, and hastened to his wife's side.
"Isn't she beautiful?" cried the little lady, in ecstasy. "I wonder
who she is, and what she wanted."
"She is evidently a stranger, and called to consult me professionally,"
responded Mr. Tudor; "she must be brought into the house."
He lifted the slight, delicate figure in his arms, and bore her into
the house.
"I am going down to the office now, my dear," he said; "we have some
important cases to look after this morning. I will take a run up in
the course of an hour or so. If the young girl should recover and
wish to see me very particularly, I suppose you will have to send for
me. Don't get me away up here unless you find out the case is
imperative."
And with a good-humored nod, the shrewd detective, so quiet and
domesticated at his own fireside, walked quickly down the path to the
gate, whistling softly to himself--thinking with a strange, puzzled
expression in his keen blue eyes, of Daisy. Through all of his
business transactions that morning the beautiful, childish face was
strangely before his mind's eye.
"Confound it!" he muttered, seizing his hat, "I must hurry home and
find out at once who that pretty little creature is--and what she
wants."