Daisy Brooks Part 18

"Tut, tut, child!" exclaimed the old man, brusquely. "That innocent little face of yours ought to be a pa.s.sport to any one's confidence. I don't think there's any doubt but what you will get on famously with Maria--that's my sister Mrs. Glenn--but she's got three daughters that would put an angel's temper on edge. They're my nieces--more's the pity, for they are regular Tartars. Mrs. Glenn sent for my daughter Alice to come down there; but, Lord bless you, I wouldn't dare send her! There would be a raging quarrel before twenty-four hours! My Alice has got a temper of her own. But, pshaw! I ought not to frighten you, my dear; they could not help but love _you_."

And thus it was Daisy's fate was unchangeably settled for her.

"There is one thing I would like you to promise me," she said, timidly, "and that is never to divulge my whereabouts to any one who might come in search of me. I must remain dead to the world forever; I shall never take up the old life again. They must believe me dead."

Argument and persuasion alike were useless; and, sorely troubled at heart, the apothecary reluctantly consented. Poor little Daisy impulsively caught him by both hands, and gratefully sobbed out her thanks.

The arrangements were soon completed, and before the gray dawn pierced the darkness of the eastern sky poor little Daisy was whirling rapidly away from Elmwood.

The consternation and excitement which prevailed at the Burton Cottage when Daisy's absence was discovered can better be imagined than described; or the intense anger of Stanwick upon finding Daisy had eluded him.

"Checkmated!" he cried, white to the very lips. "But she shall not escape me; she shall suffer for this freak. I am not a man to be trifled with. She can not have gone far," he a.s.sured himself. "In all probability she has left Elmwood; but if by rail or by water I can easily recapture my pretty bird. Ah, Daisy Brooks!" he muttered, "you can not fly away from your fate; it will overtake you sooner or later."

Some hours after Stanwick had left the cottage, an old man toiled wearily up the gra.s.s-grown path.

"Oh, poor little Daisy," he said, wiping the tears from his eyes with his old red and white cotton kerchief; "no matter what you have done I will take you back to my heart--that I will!"

He clutched the letter Mme. Whitney had written him close in his toil-hardened hand. The letter simply told him Daisy had fled from the seminary, and she had every reason to believe she was now in Elmwood.

He had received the letter while in New York, and hastily proceeded to Elmwood, the station indicated, at once, without stopping over at Allendale to acquaint Septima with the news.

"She shall never be sent off to school again," he commented; "but she shall stop at home. Poor little pet, she was always as happy as the day was long; she sha'n't have book-learning if she don't want it. I am too hard, I s'pose, with the child in sending her off among these primpy city gals, with their flounces and furbelows, with only three plain muslin frocks. The d.i.c.kens fly away with the book-learnin'; I like her all the better just as she is, bless her dear little heart!

I'm after little Daisy Brooks," he said, bowing to the ladies who met him at the door. "I heard she was here--run away from school, you see, ma'am--but I'll forgive the little gypsy. Tell her old Uncle John is here. She'll be powerful glad to see me."

Slowly and gently they broke to him the cruel story. How the dark, handsome stranger had brought her there in the storm and the night; and they could not refuse her shelter; the gentleman claimed her to be his wife; of her illness which culminated in her disappearance.

They never forgot the white, set face turned toward them. The veins stood out like cords on his forehead, and the perspiration rolled down his pallid cheeks in great quivering beads. This heart-rending, silent emotion was more terrible to witness than the most violent paroxysms of grief. Strangely enough they had quite forgotten to mention Rex's visit.

"You don't know how I loved that child," he cried, brokenly. "She was all I had to love in the whole world, and I set such store by her, but Stanwick shall pay dearly for this," he cried, hoa.r.s.ely. "I shall never rest day or night until my little Daisy's honor is avenged, so help me G.o.d! You think she is dead?" he questioned, looking brokenly from the one to the other.

They only nodded their heads; they could not speak through their sobs.

At that moment several of the neighbors who were a.s.sisting in the search were seen coming toward the cottage.

They gathered in a little knot by the garden wall. With a heart heavier than lead in his bosom John Brooks went forward to meet them.

"You haven't got any track of my little Daisy?" he asked, despondingly.

The men averted their faces. "For G.o.d's sake speak out, my men!" he cried, in agony; "I can't stand this suspense."

"There are footprints in the wet gra.s.s down yonder," one of them replied; "and they lead straight down to the old shaft. Do you think your girl has made away with herself?"

A gray, ghastly pallor settled over John Brooks' anguished face.

"The Lord knows! All of you stay here while I go down there and look.

If I should find anything there I'd rather be alone."

There was a depth of agony in the man's voice that touched his hearers, and more than one coat-sleeve was drawn hastily across sympathetic eyes as they whispered one to the other he would surely find her there.

John Brooks had reached the very mouth of the pit now, and through the branches of the trees the men saw him suddenly spring forward, and stoop as if to pick up something, and bitter cries rent the stillness of the summer morning.

"Daisy! oh, Daisy! my child, my child!"

Then they saw him fall heavily to the ground on the very brink of the shaft.

"I guess he's found her!" cried the sympathizing men. "Let us go and see."

They found John Brooks insensible, lying p.r.o.ne on his face, grasping a tiny little glove in one hand, and in the other a snowy little handkerchief, which bore, in one corner, worked in fanciful design, the name of "Daisy."

CHAPTER XVII.

Glengrove was one of the most beautiful spots in the south of Florida. The house--similar to many in the South in style of architecture--stood in the midst of charming grounds which were filled with flowers. To the left of the house was a large shrubbery which opened on to a wide carriage-drive leading to the main road, but the princ.i.p.al attraction of Glengrove was its magnificent orange grove, where the brilliant suns.h.i.+ne loved to linger longest among the dark-green boughs, painting the luscious fruit with its own golden coloring--from green to gold. A low stone wall divided it from the beach which led to the sea.

It was early morning. In an elegant boudoir, whose oriel window overlooked the garden, sat three young ladies, respectively, Bessie Glenn, two-and-twenty; Gertie Glenn, twenty; and Eve Glenn, eighteen--all dark-eyed, dark-haired, and handsome, yet each of a distinct different type.

"I declare, Bess," cried Gertie, indignantly, twisting the telegram she held in her hand into a wisp, "it's from Uncle Jet! Guess what he says!"

"I couldn't possibly," yawns Bess, from the depths of her easy-chair; "it's too much trouble."

"Is it about Alice?" questioned Eve, maliciously.

"Yes," replied Gertie; "but you are to try and guess what it is."

"Why, I suppose some stranger has chanced to flutter down into the quiet little village of Elmwood, and Alice thinks it her duty to stay there and capture him."

"That isn't it at all," snapped Gertie. "Uncle Jet says Alice can not come; but he has taken the liberty of sending another young lady in her stead, and hopes Miss Daisy Brooks will be the right person in the right place. She will arrive on the twentieth, at nine A. M."

Eve jumped to her feet in actual astonishment, and even Bessie dropped her novel, with widely opened eyes.

"Just fancy some tall, gaunt old maid of a companion, with such a name!" she cried, raising her eyebrows and picking up her book again.

"I think you will find the daisy a rather ancient and faded flower."

"She couldn't be anything else," a.s.sented Gertie.

"Wouldn't it be fun if she should turn out to be young and pretty, and take the s.h.i.+ne off both of you?" laughed Eve, puckering up her mouth.

"I would enjoy it immensely!"

"Eve, will you hold your tongue?" commanded Bessie, sharply.

"You'd better hold your temper!" retorted Eve.

"Pshaw! what's the use of being so silly as to quarrel over a Miss n.o.body?" cried Gertie, stamping her pretty slippered foot. "Guess what else is the news."

"Haven't I told you I despise guessing?" cried Bess, angrily. "It is not good form to insist upon a person's guessing--please remember it."

"Write it down on ice," said Eve, _sotto voce_, mimicking her elder sister's tone.