The shade of night was wrapping its dusky mantle over the earth as
Daisy, flushed and excited, and trembling in every limb, alighted from
the train at Allendale.
Whitestone Hall was quite a distance from the station; she had quite a
walk before her.
Not a breath of air seemed to stir the branches of the trees, and the
inky blackness of the sky presaged the coming storm.
Since dusk the coppery haze seemed to gather itself together; great
purple masses of clouds piled themselves in the sky; a lurid light
overspread the heavens, and now and then the dense, oppressive silence
was broken by distant peals of thunder, accompanied by great fierce
rain-drops.
Daisy drew her cloak closer about her, struggling bravely on through
the storm and the darkness, her heart beating so loudly she wondered
it did not break.
Poor child! how little she knew she was fast approaching the crisis of
her life!
She remembered, with a little sob, the last time she had traversed
that road--she was seated by John Brooks's side straining her eyes
toward the bend in the road, watching eagerly for the first glimpse of
the magnolia-tree, and the handsome young husband waiting there.
Coy blushes suffused Daisy's cheeks as she struggled on through the
pouring rain. She forgot she was a wretched, unpitied, forsaken little
bride, on a mission of such great importance. She was only a simple
child, after all, losing sight of all the whole world, as her thoughts
dwelt on the handsome young fellow, her husband in name only, whom she
saw waiting for her at the trysting-place, looking so cool, so
handsome and lovable in his white linen suit and blue tie; his white
straw hat, with the blue-dotted band around it, lying on the green
grass beside him, and the sunshine drifting through the green leaves
on his smiling face and brown, curling hair.
"If Rex had only known I was innocent, he could not have judged me so
harshly. Oh, my love--my love!" she cried out. "Heaven must have made
us for each other, but a fate more cruel than death has torn us
asunder. Oh, Rex, my love, if you had only been more patient with
me!"
She crept carefully along the road through the intense darkness and
the down-pouring rain. She knew every inch of the ground. She could
not lose her way. She reached the turn in the road which was but a few
feet distant from the magnolia-tree where first she had met Rex and
where she had seen him last--a few steps more and she would reach it.
A blinding glare of lightning lighted up the scene for one brief
instant; there was the tree, but, oh! was it only a fancy of her
imagination? she thought she saw a man's figure kneeling under it.
"Who was he, and what was he doing there?" she wondered. She stood
rooted to the spot. "Perhaps he had taken refuge there from the fury
of the storm."
Daisy was a shrinking, timid little creature; she dared not move a
step further, although the golden moments that flitted by were as
precious as her life-blood.
She drew back, faint with fear, among the protecting shadows of the
trees. Another flash of light--the man was surely gathering wild
flowers from the rain-drenched grass.
"Surely the man must be mad," thought Daisy, with a cold thrill of
horror.
Her limbs trembled so from sheer fright they refused to bear her
slight weight, and with a shudder of terror she sunk down in the wet
grass, her eyes fixed as one fascinated on the figure under the tree,
watching his every movement, as the lurid lightning illumined the
scene at brief intervals.
The great bell from the turret of Whitestone Hall pealed the hour of
seven, and in the lightning's flash she saw the man arise from his
knees; in one hand he held a small bunch of flowers, the other was
pressed over his heart.
Surely there was something strangely familiar in that graceful form;
then he turned his face toward her.
In that one instantaneous glance she had recognized him--it was Rex,
her husband--as he turned hastily from the spot, hurrying rapidly away
in the direction of Whitestone Hall.
"Why was Rex there alone on his wedding-night under the magnolia-tree
in the terrible storm?" she asked herself, in a strange, bewildered
way. "What could it mean?" She had heard the ceremony was to be
performed promptly at half past eight, it was seven already. "What
could it mean?"
She had been too much startled and dismayed when she found it was Rex
to make herself known. Ah, no, Rex must never know she was so near
him; it was Pluma she must see.
"Why had he come to the magnolia-tree?" she asked herself over and
over again. A moment later she had reached the self-same spot, and was
kneeling beneath the tree, just as Rex had done. She put out her
little white hand to caress the grass upon which her husband had
knelt, but it was not grass which met her touch, but a bed of flowers;
that was strange, too.
She never remembered flowers to grow on that spot. There was nothing
but the soft carpet of green grass, she remembered.
One or two beneath her touch were broken from the stem. She knew Rex
must have dropped them, and the poor little soul pressed the flowers
to her lips, murmuring passionate, loving words over them. She did not
know the flowers were daisies; yet they seemed so familiar to the
touch.
She remembered how she had walked home from the rectory with Rex in
the moonlight, and thought to herself how funny it sounded to hear Rex
call her his wife, in that rich melodious voice of his. Septima had
said it was such a terrible thing to be married. She had found it just
the reverse, as she glanced up into her pretty young husband's face,
as they walked home together; and how well she remembered how Rex had
taken her in his arms at the gate, kissing her rosy, blushing face,
until she cried out for mercy.
A sudden, blinding flash of lightning lighted up the spot with a lurid
light, and she saw a little white cross, with white daisies growing
around it, and upon the cross, in that one meteoric flash, she read
the words, "Sacred to the memory of Daisy Brooks."
She did not faint, or cry out, or utter any word. She realized all in
an instant why Rex had been there. Perhaps he felt some remorse for
casting her off so cruelly. If some tender regret for her, whom he
supposed dead, was not stirring in his heart, why was he there,
kneeling before the little cross which bore her name, on his
wedding-night?
Could it be that he had ever loved her? She held out her arms toward
the blazing lights that shone in the distance from Whitestone Hall,
with a yearning, passionate cry. Surely, hers was the saddest fate
that had ever fallen to the lot of a young girl.
A great thrill of joy filled her heart, that she was able to prevent
the marriage.
She arose from her knees and made her way swiftly through the storm
and the darkness, toward the distant cotton fields. She did not wish
to enter the Hall by the main gate; there was a small path, seldom
used, that led to the Hall, which she had often taken from John
Brooks's cottage; that was the one she chose to-night.
Although the storm raged in all its fury without, the interior of
Whitestone Hall was ablaze with light, that streamed with a bright,
golden glow from every casement.
Strains of music, mingled with the hum of voices, fell upon Daisy's
ear, as she walked hurriedly up the path. The damp air that swept
across her face with the beating rain was odorous with the perfume of
rare exotics.
The path up which she walked commanded a full view of Pluma
Hurlhurst's boudoir.
The crimson satin curtains, for some reason, were still looped back,
and she could see the trim little maid arranging her long dark hair;
she wore a silver-white dressing-robe, bordered around with soft
white swan's-down and her dainty white satin-slippered feet rested on
a crimson velvet hassock.
"How beautiful she is!" thought the poor little child-wife, wistfully
gazing at her fair, false enemy. "I can not wonder Rex is dazzled by
her peerless, royal beauty. I was mad to indulge the fatal, foolish
dream that he could ever love me, poor, plain little Daisy Brooks."
Daisy drew her cloak closer about her, and her thick veil more
securely over her face. As she raised the huge brass knocker her heart
beat pitifully, yet she told herself she must be brave to the bitter
end.
One, two, three minutes passed. Was no one coming to answer the
summons? Yes--some one came at last, a spruce little French maid, whom
Daisy never remembered having seen before.
She laughed outright when Daisy falteringly stated her errand.
"You are mad to think mademoiselle will see you to-night," she
answered, contemptuously. "Do you not know this is her wedding-night?"
"She is not married _yet_?" cried Daisy, in a low, wailing voice. "Oh,
I must see her!"
With a quizzical expression crossing her face the girl shrugged her
shoulders, as she scanned the little dark, dripping figure, answering
mockingly:
"The poor make one grand mistake, insisting on what the rich must do.
I say again, my lady will not see you--you had better go about your
business."
"Oh, I _must_ see her! indeed, I must!" pleaded Daisy. "Your heart,
dear girl, is human, and you can see my anguish is no light one."
Her courage and high resolve seemed to give way, and she wept--as
women weep only once in a lifetime--but the heart of the French maid
was obdurate.
"Mademoiselle would only be angry," she said; "it would be as much as
my place is worth to even mention you to her."
"But my errand can brook no delay," urged Daisy. "You do not realize,"
she gasped, brokenly, while her delicate frame was shaken with sobs,
and the hot tears fell like rain down her face.
"All that you say is useless," cried the girl, impatiently, as she
purposely obstructed the passage-way, holding the doorknob in her
hand; "all your speech is in vain--she will not see you, I say--I will
not take her your message."
"Then I will go to her myself," cried Daisy, in desperate determination.
"What's the matter, Marie?" cried a shrill voice from the head of the
rose-lighted stairway; "what in the world keeps you down there so
long? Come here instantly."
Daisy knew too well the handsome, impatient face and the imperious,
commanding voice.
"Miss Hurlhurst," she called out, piteously, "I must see you for a few
minutes. I shall die if you refuse me. My errand is one of almost life
and death; if you knew how vitally important it was you would not
refuse me," she panted.
Pluma Hurlhurst laughed a little hard laugh that had no music in it.
"What would a hundred lives or deaths matter to me?" she said,
contemptuously. "I would not listen to you ten minutes to-night if I
actually knew it was to save your life," cried the haughty beauty,
stamping her slippered foot impatiently.
"It is for your own sake," pleaded Daisy. "See, I kneel to you, Miss
Hurlhurst. If you would not commit a crime, I implore you by all you
hold sacred, to hear me--grant me but a few brief moments."
"Not an instant," cried Pluma, scornfully; "shut the door, Marie, and
send that person from the house."
"Oh, what shall I do!" cried Daisy, wringing her hands. "I am driven
to the very verge of madness! Heaven pity me--the bitter consequence
must fall upon your own head."
She turned away with a low, bitter cry, as the maid slammed the heavy
oaken door in her face.
"There is no other way for me to do," she told herself, despairingly,
"but to see Rex. I do not know how I am going to live through the
ordeal of entering his presence--listening to his voice--knowing I
bring him such a burden of woe--spoiling his life for the second
time."
She did not hear the door quietly reopen.
"I have heard all that has just passed, young lady," said a kind voice
close beside her. "I am extremely sorry for you--your case seems a
pitiful one. I am sorry my daughter refused to see you; perhaps I can
be of some assistance to you. I am Miss Hurlhurst's father."