Daisy Brooks Part 26

"Youth is blind and will not see," had been too bitterly true with him. It was in his college days, when the world seemed all gayety, youth and suns.h.i.+ne to him, he first met the beautiful face that was to darken all of his after life. He was young and impulsive; he thought it was love that filled his heart for the beautiful stranger who appeared alone and friendless in that little college town.

He never once asked who or what she was, or from whence she came, this beautiful creature with the large, dark, dreamy eyes that thrilled his heart into love. She carried the town by storm; every young man at the college was deeply, desperately in love. But Basil, the handsomest and wealthiest of them all, thought what a lark it would be to steal a march on them all by marrying the dark-eyed beauty then and there. He not only thought it, but executed it, but it was not the lark that he thought it was going to be. For one short happy week he lived in a fool's paradise, then a change came over the spirit of his dreams. In that one week she had spent his year's income and all the money he could borrow, then petulantly left him in anger.

For two long years he never looked upon her face again. One stormy night she returned quite unexpectedly at Whitestone Hall, bringing with her their little child Pluma, and, placing her in her father's arms, bitter recriminations followed. Bitterly Basil Hurlhurst repented that terrible mistake of his youth, that hasty marriage.

When the morning light dawned he took his wife and child from Whitestone Hall--took them abroad. What did it matter to him where they went? Life was the same to him in one part of the world as another. For a year they led a weary life of it. Heaven only knew how weary he was of the woman the law called his wife!

One night, in a desperate fit of anger, she threw herself into the sea; her body was never recovered. Then the master of Whitestone Hall returned with his child, a sadder and wiser man.

But the bitterest drop in his cup had been added last. The golden-haired young wife, the one sweet love whom he had married last, was taken from him; even her little child, tiny image of that fair young mother, had not been spared him.

How strange it was such a pa.s.sionate yearning always came over him when he thought of his child!

When he saw a fair, golden-haired young girl, with eyes of blue, the pain in his heart almost stifled him. Some strange unaccountable fate urged him to ever seek for that one face even in the midst of crowds.

It was a mad, foolish fancy, yet it was the one consolation of Basil Hurlhurst's weary, tempest tossed life.

No wonder he set his teeth hard together as he listened to the cold words of the proud, peerless beauty before him, who bore every lineament of her mother's dark, fatal beauty--this daughter who scornfully spoke of the hour when he should die as of some happy, long-looked-for event.

Those waving cotton-fields that stretched out on all sides as far as the eye could reach, like a waving field of snow, laid waste beneath the fire fiend's scorching breath! Never--never!

Then and there the proud, self-conscious young heiress lost all chances of reigning a regal queen, by _fair_ means, of Whitestone Hall.

CHAPTER XXIII.

The servant who opened the door for Daisy looked earnestly at the fair, pleading young face, framed in rings of golden hair, so pure and spiritual that it looked like an angel's with the soft white moonlight falling over it.

"You will not refuse me," she repeated, timidly. "I must speak to Mrs.

Lyon."

"You have come too late," he replied, gently; "Mrs. Lyon is dead."

The man never forgot the despairing look of horror that deepened in the childish blue eyes raised to his.

"Rex's mother dead!" she repeated, slowly, wondering if she had heard aright. "Oh, my poor Rex, my poor Rex!"

How she longed to go to him and comfort him in that terrible hour, but she dared not intrude upon him.

"If there is any message you would like to leave," said the kind-hearted Parker, "I will take it to Mr. Rex."

"No," said Daisy, shaking her head, "I have no message to leave; perhaps I will come again--after this is all over," she made answer, hesitatingly; her brain was in a whirl; she wanted to get away all by herself to think. "Please don't say any one was here," she said, quickly; "I--I don't want any one to know."

The sweet, plaintive voice, as sweet as the silvery note of a forest bird, went straight to his heart.

Whatever the mission of this beautiful, mysterious visitor, he would certainly respect her wishes.

"I shall not mention it if you do not wish it," he said.

"Thank you," she replied, simply; "you are very kind. My life seems made up of disappointments," she continued, as she walked slowly home under the restless, sighing green branches.

It seemed so indeed. She was so young and inexperienced to be thrown so entirely upon the cold, pitiless world--cut off so entirely from all human sympathy. She entered the house quite un.o.bserved.

Eve--bright, merry, das.h.i.+ng Eve--was singing like a lark in the drawing-room, making the old house echo with her bright young voice.

"How happy she is!" thought Daisy, wistfully. "She has home, friends, and love, while I have nothing that makes life worth the living."

Like a shadow, she flitted on through the dim, shadowy hall, toward her own little room. She saw Gertie's door was ajar as she pa.s.sed it, and the sound of her own name caused her to pause voluntarily.

It was very natural for Daisy to pause. How many are there who would have pa.s.sed on quietly, with no desire to know what was being said of themselves, when they heard their own names mentioned in such a sneering manner? Daisy certainly meant no harm by it; she paused, thoughtfully and curiously, as any one would have done.

"I am sure I don't like it," Gertie was saying, spitefully. "It is an actual shame allowing Daisy Brooks to remain here. Uncle Jet was a mean old thing to send her here, where there were three marriageable young ladies. I tell you he did it out of pure spite."

"I believe it," answered Bess, spiritedly. "Every one of my beaus either hints for an introduction or asks for it outright."

"What do you tell them?" questions Gertie, eagerly.

"Tell them! Why, I look exceedingly surprised, replying: 'I do not know to whom you refer. We have no company at the house just now.' 'I mean that beautiful, golden-haired little fairy, with the rosy cheeks and large blue eyes. If not your guest, may I ask who she is?' I am certainly compelled to answer so direct a thrust," continued Bess, angrily; "and I ask in well-feigned wonder: 'Surely you do not mean Daisy Brooks, my mother's paid companion?'"

"What do they say to that?" asked Gertie, laughing heartily at her elder sister's ingenuity, and tossing her curl papers until every curl threatened to tumble down. "That settles it, doesn't it?"

"Mercy, no!" cried Bess, raising her eyebrows; "not a bit of it. The more I say against her--in a sweet way, of course--the more they are determined to form her acquaintance."

"I don't see what every one can see in that little pink-and-white baby-face of hers to rave over so!" cried Gertie, hotly. "I can't imagine where in the world people see her. I have as much as told her she was not expected to come into the parlor or drawing-room when strangers were there, and what do you suppose she said?"

"Cried, perhaps," said Bess, yawning with ennui.

"She did nothing of the kind," retorted Gertie. "She seized my hand, and said: 'Oh, Miss Gertrude, that is very kind of you, indeed! I thank you ever so much!'"

"Pshaw!" cried Bess, contemptuously. "That was a trick to make you believe she did not want to be observed by our guests. She is a sly, designing little creature, with her pretty face and soft, childish ways."

"But there is one point that seriously troubles me," said Gertie, fastening the pink satin bow on her tiny slipper more securely, and breaking off the thread with a nervous twitch. "I am seriously afraid, if Rex were to see her, that would be the end of our castle in the air. Daisy Brooks has just the face to attract a handsome, debonair young fellow like Rex."

"You can depend upon it he shall never see her," said Bess, decidedly.

"Where there's a will there's a way."

"I have never been actually jealous of anyone before," said Gertie, flus.h.i.+ng furiously, as she acknowledged the fact; "but that Daisy has such a way of attracting people toward her they quite forget your presence when she is around. 'When one rival leaves the field, another one is sure to come to the fore.' That's a true saying," said Gertie, meditatively. "You see, he did not marry the heiress of Whitestone Hall. So he is still in the market, to be captured by some lucky girl."

"Well, if I am the lucky one, you must forgive me, Gertie. All is fair in love and war, you know. Besides, his wealth is too tempting to see slip quietly by without a struggle."

Before she could reply Eve popped in through the long French window that opened out on the porch.

"Oh, I'm so tired of hearing you two talk of lovers and riches!" she cried, throwing herself down on the sofa. "I do hate to hear love weighed against riches, as if it were a purchasable article. According to your ideas, if a fellow was worth a hundred thousand, you would love him moderately; but if he was worth half a million, you could afford to love him immensely."

"You have got a sensible idea of the matter," said Bess, coolly.

"For shame!" cried Eve, in a hot fury. "It's an actual sin to talk in that way. If a handsome young man loves you, and you love him, why, you ought to marry him if he hadn't a dollar in the world!"