DAISY BROOKS;
Or,
A Perilous Love.
by
LAURA JEAN LIBBEY,
Author of
"Parted on Her Bridal Tour," or "Miss Middleton's Lover,""When His Love Grew Cold," "He Loved, But Was Lured Away,""When Lovely Maiden Stoops to Folly," "The Crime of Hallow E'en,""Lovers Once, But Strangers Now," Etc., Etc.
Copyright 1883, by George Munro.Copyright 1911, by J. S. Ogilvie Publishing Company.Dramatic Rights Reserved by Laura Jean Libbey-Stillwell.
New York:J. S. Ogilvie Publishing Company,57 Rose Street.
DAISY BROOKS.
CHAPTER I.
A warm day in the southern part of West Virginia was fast drawing to aclose; the heat during the day had been almost intolerable under therays of the piercing sun, and the night was coming on in sullensultriness. No breath of cooling air stirred the leafy branches of thetrees; the stillness was broken only by the chirping of the crickets,and the fire-flies twinkled for a moment, and were then lost to sightin the long grasses.
On one of the most prosperous plantations in that section of thecountry there was a great stir of excitement; the master, BasilHurlhurst, was momentarily expected home with his bride. The negroesin their best attire were scattered in anxious groups here and there,watching eagerly for the first approach of their master's carriage onthe white pebbled road.
The curtains of Whitestone Hall were looped back, and a cheerful floodof light shone out on the waving cotton fields that stretched out asfar as the eye could reach, like a field of snow. The last touches hadbeen given to the pillars of roses that filled every available nookand corner, making the summer air redolent with their odorousperfumes. Mrs. Corliss, who had maintained the position of housekeeperfor a score of years or more, stood at the window twisting thetelegram she held in her hand with ill-concealed impatience. Theannouncement of this home-coming had been as unexpected as the news ofhis marriage had been quite a year before.
"Let there be no guests assembled--my reasons will be made apparent toyou later on," so read the telegram, which puzzled the housekeepermore than she cared to admit to the inquisitive maid, who stood nearher, curiously watching her thoughtful face.
"'Pears to me it will rain afore they get here, Hagar," she said,nervously, and, as if in confirmation of her words, a few rain-dropssplashed against the window-pane.
Both stood gazing intently out into the darkness. The storm had nowcommenced in earnest. The great trees bent to and fro like reedsbefore the wind; the lightning flashed, and the terrific crash ofroaring thunder mingled with the torrent of rain that beat furiouslyagainst the casement. It seemed as if the very flood-gates of heavenwere flung open wide on this memorable night of the master's return.
"It is a fearful night. Ah! happy is the bride upon whose home-comingthe sunlight falls," muttered Mrs. Corliss under her breath.
Hagar had caught the low-spoken words, and in a voice that soundedstrange and weird like a warning, she answered:
"Yes, and unhappy is the bride upon whose home-coming rain-dropsfall."
How little they knew, as they stood there, of the terrible tragedy--thecruelest ever enacted--those grim, silent walls of Whitestone Hallwere soon to witness, in fulfillment of the strange prophecy. Hagar,the maid, had scarcely ceased speaking ere the door was flung violentlyopen, and a child of some five summers rushed into the room, her facelivid with passion, and her dark, gleaming eyes shining like banefulstars, before which the two women involuntarily quailed.
"What is this I hear?" she cried, with wild energy, glancing fiercelyfrom the one to the other. "Is it true what they tell me--my father isbringing home his bride?"
"Pluma, my child," remonstrated Mrs. Corliss, feebly, "I--"
"Don't Pluma me!" retorted the child, clutching the deep crimsonpassion-roses from a vase at her side, and trampling them ruthlesslybeneath her feet. "Answer me at once, I say--has he _dared_ do it?"
"P-l-u-m-a!" Mrs. Corliss advances toward her, but the child turns herdarkly beautiful, willful face toward her with an imperious gesture.
"Do not come a step nearer," cried the child, bitterly, "or I shallfling myself from the window down on to the rocks below. I shall neverwelcome my father's wife here; and mark me, both of you, I hate her!"she cried, vehemently. "She shall rue the day that she was born!"
Mrs. Corliss knew but too well the child would keep her word. Nopower, save God, could stay the turbulent current of the ungovernableself-will which would drag her on to her doom. No human being couldhold in subjection the fierce, untamed will of the beautiful, youthfultyrant.
There had been strange rumors of the unhappiness of Basil Hurlhurst'sformer marriage. No one remembered having seen her but once, quitefive years before. A beautiful woman with a little babe had suddenlyappeared at Whitestone Hall, announcing herself as Basil Hurlhurst'swife. There had been a fierce, stormy interview, and on that verynight Basil Hurlhurst took his wife and child abroad; those who hadonce seen the dark, glorious, scornful beauty of the woman's facenever forgot it. Two years later the master had returned alone withthe little child, heavily draped in widower's weeds.
The master of Whitestone Hall was young; those who knew his story werenot surprised that he should marry--he could not go through lifealone; still they felt a nameless pity for the young wife who was tobe brought to the home in which dwelt the child of his former wife.
There would be bitter war to the end between them. No one could tellon which side the scales of mercy and justice would be balanced.
At that instant, through the raging of the fierce elements, the soundof carriage wheels smote upon their ears as the vehicle dashed rapidlyup the long avenue to the porch; while, in another instant, the youngmaster, half carrying the slight, delicate figure that clung timidlyto his arm, hurriedly entered the spacious parlor. There was a shortconsultation with the housekeeper, and Basil Hurlhurst, tenderlylifting the slight burden in his strong, powerful arms, quickly borehis wife to the beautiful apartments that had been prepared for her.
In the excitement of the moment Pluma was quite forgotten; for aninstant only she glanced bitterly at the sweet, fair face restingagainst her father's shoulder, framed in a mass of golden hair. Thechild clinched her small hands until she almost cried aloud with theintense pain, never once deigning a glance at her father's face. Inthat one instant the evil seeds of a lifetime were sown strong as lifeand more bitter than death.
Turning hastily aside she sprung hurriedly down the long corridor, andout into the darkness and the storm, never stopping to gain breathuntil she had quite reached the huge ponderous gate that shut in thegarden from the dense thicket that skirted the southern portion of theplantation. She laughed a hard, mocking laugh that sounded unnaturalfrom such childish lips, as she saw a white hand hurriedly loop backthe silken curtains of her father's window, and saw him bend tenderlyover the golden-haired figure in the arm-chair. Suddenly the sound ofher own name fell upon her ear.
"Pluma," whispered a low, cautious voice; and in the quick flashes oflightning she saw a white, haggard woman's face pressed close againstthe grating, and two white hands were steadily forcing the rusty lock.There was no fear in the fiery, rebellious heart of the dauntlesschild.
"Go away, you miserable beggar-woman," she cried, "or I shall set thehounds on you at once. Do you hear me, I say?"
"Who are you?" questioned the woman, in the same low, guarded voice.
The child threw her head back proudly, her voice rising shrilly abovethe wild warring of the elements, as she answered:
"Know, then, I am Pluma, the heiress of Whitestone Hall."
The child formed a strange picture--her dark, wild face, so strangelylike
the mysterious woman's own, standing vividly out against thecrimson lightning flashes, her dark curls blown about the gypsy-likeface, the red lips curling scornfully, her dark eyes gleaming.
"Pluma," called the woman, softly, "come here."
"How dare _you_, a beggar-woman, call me!" cried the child,furiously.
"Pluma--come--here--instantly!"
There was a subtle something in the stranger's voice that throbbedthrough the child's pulses like leaping fire--a strange, mysteriousinfluence that bound her, heart and soul, like the mesmeric influencea serpent exerts over a fascinated dove. Slowly, hesitatingly, thischild, whose fiery will had never bowed before human power, cametimidly forward, step by step, close to the iron gate against whichthe woman's face was pressed. She stretched out her hand, and itrested for a moment on the child's dark curls.
"Pluma, the gate is locked," she said. "Do you know where the keysare?"
"No," answered the child.
"They used to hang behind the pantry door--a great bunch of them.Don't they hang there now?"
"Ye--es."
"I thought so," muttered the woman, triumphantly. "Now, listen, Pluma;I want you to do exactly as I bid you. I want you to go quickly andquietly, and bring me the longest and thinnest one. You are not tobreathe one word of this to any living soul. Do you understand,Pluma--I command you to do it."
"Yes," answered the child, dubiously.
"Stay!" she called, as the child was about to turn from her. "Why isthe house lighted up to-night?"
Again the reckless spirit of the child flashed forth.
"My father has brought home his bride," she said. "Don't you see himbending over her, toward the third window yonder?"
The woman's eyes quickly followed in the direction indicated.
Was it a curse the woman muttered as she watched the fair, golden-hairedyoung girl-wife's head resting against Basil Hurlhurst's breast, hisarms clasped lovingly about her?
"Go, Pluma!" she commanded, bitterly.
Quickly and cautiously the child sped on her fatal errand through thestorm and the darkness. A moment later she had returned with the keywhich was to unlock a world of misery to so many lives.
"Promise me, Pluma, heiress of Whitestone Hall, never to tell what youhave done or seen or heard to-night. You must never dare breathe itwhile you live. Say you will never tell, Pluma."
"No," cried the child, "I shall never tell. They might kill me, but Iwould never tell them."
The next moment she was alone. Stunned and bewildered, she turned herface slowly toward the house. The storm did not abate in its fury;night-birds flapped their wings through the storm overhead; owlsshrieked in the distance from the swaying tree-tops; yet the childwalked slowly home, knowing no fear. In the house lights were movingto and fro, while servants, with bated breath and light footfalls,hurried through the long corridors toward her father's room. No oneseemed to notice Pluma, in her dripping robe, creeping slowly along bytheir side toward her own little chamber.
It was quite midnight when her father sent for her. Pluma suffered himto kiss her, giving back no answering caress.
"I have brought some one else to you, my darling," he said. "See,Pluma--a new mamma! And see who else--a wee, dimpled little sister,with golden hair like mamma's, and great blue eyes. Little Evalia isyour sister, dear. Pluma must love her new mamma and sister for papa'ssake."
The dark frown on the child's face never relaxed, and, with animpatient gesture, her father ordered her taken at once from theroom.
Suddenly the great bells of Whitestone Hall ceased pealing for thejoyous birth of Basil Hurlhurst's daughter, and bitter cries of astrong man in mortal anguish rent the air. No one had noticed how orwhen the sweet, golden-haired young wife had died. With a smile on herlips, she was dead, with her tiny little darling pressed close to herpulseless heart.
But sorrow even as pitiful as death but rarely travels singly. DearHeaven! how could they tell the broken-hearted man, who wept in suchagony beside the wife he had loved so well, of another mighty sorrowthat had fallen upon him? Who was there that could break the news tohim? The tiny, fair-haired infant had been stolen from their midst.They would have thanked God if it had been lying cold in death uponits mother's bosom.
Slowly throughout the long night--that terrible night that was neverto be forgotten--the solemn bells pealed forth from the turrets ofWhitestone Hall, echoing in their sound: "Unhappy is the bride therain falls on." Most truly had been the fulfillment of the fearfulprophecy!
"Merciful God!" cried Mrs. Corliss, "how shall I break the news to mymaster? The sweet little babe is gone!"
For answer Hagar bent quickly over her, and breathed a few words inher ear that caused her to cry out in horror and amaze.
"No one will ever know," whispered Hagar; "it is the wisest course.The truth will lie buried in our own hearts, and die with us."
* * * * *
Six weeks from the night his golden-haired wife had died Basil Hurlhurstawoke to consciousness from the ravages of brain-fever--awoke to a lifenot worth the living. Quickly Mrs. Corliss, the housekeeper, wassent for, who soon entered the room, leaning upon Hagar's arm.
"My wife is--" He could not say more.
"Buried, sir, beneath yonder willow."
"And the babe?" he cried, eagerly. "Dead," answered Hagar, softly."Both are buried in one grave."
Basil Hurlhurst turned his face to the wall, with a bitter groan.
Heaven forgive them--the seeds of the bitterest of tragedies wereirrevocably sown.
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