CHAPTER XVI.
A strong hand drew Daisy quickly back.
"Rash child! What is this that you would do?" cried an eager, earnestvoice, and, turning quickly about, speechless with fright, Daisy metthe stern eyes of the apothecary bent searchingly, inquiringly uponher.
"It means that I am tired of life," she replied, desperately. "My lifeis so full of sadness it will be no sorrow to leave it. I wanted torest quietly down there, but you have held me back; it is useless toattempt to save me now. I have already swallowed a portion of thelaudanum. Death must come to relieve me soon. It would be better tolet me die down there where no one could have looked upon my faceagain."
"I had no intention to let you die so easily," said the apothecary,softly. "I read your thoughts too plainly for that. I did not give youlaudanum, but a harmless mixture instead, and followed you to see ifmy surmise was correct. You are young and fair--surely life could nothave lost all hope and sunshine for you?"
"You do not know all," said Daisy, wearily, "or you would not haveheld me back. I do not know of another life so utterly hopeless as myown."
The good man looked at the sweet, innocent, beautiful face, upon whichthe starlight fell, quite bewildered and thoughtful.
"I should like to know what your trouble is," he said, gently.
"I could tell you only one half of it," she replied, wearily. "I havesuffered much, and yet through no fault of my own. I am cast off,deserted, condemned to a loveless, joyless life; my heart is broken;there is nothing left me but to die. I repeat that it is a sad fate."
"It is indeed," replied the apothecary, gravely. "Yet, alas! not anuncommon one. Are you quite sure that nothing can remedy it?"
"Quite sure," replied Daisy, hopelessly. "My doom is fixed; and nomatter how long I live, or how long he lives, it can never bealtered."
The apothecary was uncomfortable without knowing why, haunted by avague, miserable suspicion, which poor Daisy's words secretlycorroborated; yet it seemed almost a sin to harbor one suspicionagainst the purity of the artless little creature before him. Helooked into the fresh young face. There was no cloud on it, no guiltlay brooding in the clear, truthful blue eyes. He never dreamed littleDaisy was a wife. "Why did he not love her?" was the query theapothecary asked himself over and over again; "she is so young, soloving, and so fair. He has cast her off, this man to whom she hasgiven the passionate love of her young heart."
"You see you did wrong to hold me back," she said, gently. "How am Ito live and bear this sorrow that has come upon me? What am I to do?"
She looked around her with the bewildered air of one who had lost herway, with the dazed appearance of one from beneath whose feet the bankof safety has been withdrawn. Hope was dead, and the past a blank.
"No matter what your past has been, my poor child, you must rememberthere is a future. Take up the burden again, and bear it nobly; goback to your home, and commence life anew."
"I have no home and no friends," she sighed, hopelessly.
"Poor child," he said, pityingly, "is it as bad as that?"
A sudden idea seemed to occur to him.
"You are a perfect stranger to me," he said, "but I believe you to bean honorable girl, and I should like to befriend you, as I would prayHeaven to befriend a daughter of mine if she were similarly situated.If I should put you in a way of obtaining your own living as companionto an elderly lady in a distant city, would you be willing to take upthe tangled threads of your life again, and wait patiently until Godsaw fit to call you--that is, you would never attempt to take yourlife into your own hands again?" he asked, slowly. "Remember, such anact is murder, and a murderer can not enter the kingdom of heaven."
He never forgot the startled, frightened glance that swept over thebeautiful face, plainly discernible in the white moonlight, nor thequiver of the sweet, tremulous voice as Daisy answered:
"I think God must have intended me to live, or He would not have sentyou here to save me," she answered, impulsively. "Twice I have beennear death, and each time I have been rescued. I never attempted totake my own life but this once. I shall try and accept my fate andlive out my weary life."
"Bravely spoken, my noble girl," replied her rescuer, heartily.
"I must go far away from here, though," she continued, shuddering; "Iam sorely persecuted here."
The old man listened gravely to her disconnected, incoherent words,drawing but one conclusion from them--"the lover who had cast her offwas pursuing the child, as her relentless foe, to the very verge ofdeath and despair."
"It is my sister who wants a companion," he said. "She lives in theSouth--in Florida. Do you think you would like to go as far away asthat?"
"Yes," said Daisy, mechanically. "I should like to go to the furthestend of the world. It does not matter much where I go!"
How little she knew where fate was drifting her! Rex had not told herhis home was in Florida; he meant to tell her that on the morning hewas to have met her.
"It will be a long, wearisome journey for you to undertake, still Ifeel sure you are brave enough to accomplish it in safety."
"I thank you very much for your confidence in me, sir," said Daisy,simply.
"Tut, tut, child!" exclaimed the old man, brusquely. "That innocentlittle face of yours ought to be a passport to any one's confidence. Idon't think there's any doubt but what you will get on famously withMaria--that's my sister Mrs. Glenn--but she's got three daughters thatwould put an angel's temper on edge. They're my nieces--more's thepity, for they are regular Tartars. Mrs. Glenn sent for my daughterAlice to come down there; but, Lord bless you, I wouldn't dare sendher! There would be a raging quarrel before twenty-four hours! MyAlice has got a temper of her own. But, pshaw! I ought not to frightenyou, 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 whomight come in search of me. I must remain dead to the world forever; Ishall never take up the old life again. They must believe me dead."
Argument and persuasion alike were useless; and, sorely troubled atheart, the apothecary reluctantly consented. Poor little Daisyimpulsively caught him by both hands, and gratefully sobbed out herthanks.
The arrangements were soon completed, and before the gray dawn piercedthe darkness of the eastern sky poor little Daisy was whirling rapidlyaway from Elmwood.
The consternation and excitement which prevailed at the Burton Cottagewhen Daisy's absence was discovered can better be imagined thandescribed; or the intense anger of Stanwick upon finding Daisy hadeluded him.
"Checkmated!" he cried, white to the very lips. "But she shall notescape me; she shall suffer for this freak. I am not a man to betrifled with. She can not have gone far," he assured himself. "In allprobability she has left Elmwood; but if by rail or by water I caneasily recapture my pretty bird. Ah, Daisy Brooks!" he muttered, "youcan not fly away from your fate; it will overtake you sooner orlater."
Some hours after Stanwick had left the cottage, an old man toiledwearily up the grass-grown path.
"Oh, poor little Daisy," he said, wiping the tears from his eyes withhis old red and white cotton kerchief; "no matter what you have doneI will take you back to my heart--that I will!"
He clutched the letter Mme. Whitney had written him close in histoil-hardened hand. The letter simply told him Daisy had fled from theseminary, and she had every reason to believe she was now in Elmwood.He had received the letter while in New York, and hastily proceeded toElmwood, the station indicated, at once, without stopping over atAllendale to acquaint Septima with the news.
"She shall never be sent off to school again," he commented; "but sheshall stop at home. Poor little pet, she was always as happy as theday was long; she sha'n't have book-learning if she don't want it. Iam too hard, I s'pose, with the child in sending her off among theseprimpy city gals, with their flounces and furbelows, with o
nly threeplain muslin frocks. The dickens fly away with the book-learnin'; Ilike 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 methim 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 ishere. 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 behis wife; of her illness which culminated in her disappearance.
They never forgot the white, set face turned toward them. The veinsstood out like cords on his forehead, and the perspiration rolled downhis pallid cheeks in great quivering beads. This heart-rending, silentemotion was more terrible to witness than the most violent paroxysmsof grief. Strangely enough they had quite forgotten to mention Rex'svisit.
"You don't know how I loved that child," he cried, brokenly. "She wasall I had to love in the whole world, and I set such store by her, butStanwick shall pay dearly for this," he cried, hoarsely. "I shallnever rest day or night until my little Daisy's honor is avenged, sohelp me God! You think she is dead?" he questioned, looking brokenlyfrom the one to the other.
They only nodded their heads; they could not speak through theirsobs.
At that moment several of the neighbors who were assisting in thesearch were seen coming toward the cottage.
They gathered in a little knot by the garden wall. With a heartheavier 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 God's sake speak out, my men!" hecried, in agony; "I can't stand this suspense."
"There are footprints in the wet grass down yonder," one of themreplied; "and they lead straight down to the old shaft. Do you thinkyour 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 hishearers, and more than one coat-sleeve was drawn hastily acrosssympathetic eyes as they whispered one to the other he would surelyfind her there.
John Brooks had reached the very mouth of the pit now, and through thebranches of the trees the men saw him suddenly spring forward, andstoop as if to pick up something, and bitter cries rent the stillnessof the summer morning.
"Daisy! oh, Daisy! my child, my child!"
Then they saw him fall heavily to the ground on the very brink of theshaft.
"I guess he's found her!" cried the sympathizing men. "Let us go andsee."
They found John Brooks insensible, lying prone on his face, grasping atiny little glove in one hand, and in the other a snowy littlehandkerchief, which bore, in one corner, worked in fanciful design,the name of "Daisy."