Daisy Brooks: or, A Perilous Love. Libbey Laura Jean

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СКАЧАТЬ dresses at the Hall in good time, I’ll warrant.”

      “Too hard, indeed; that’s just like you men; no feeling for your poor, overworked sister, so long as that girl has an easy life of it. It was a sorry day for me when your aunt Taiza died, leaving this girl to our care.”

      A deep flush mantled John Brooks’ face, but he made no retort, while Septima energetically piled the white fluted laces in the huge basket–piled it full to the brim, until her arm ached with the weight of it–the basket which was to play such a fatal part in the truant Daisy’s life–the life which for sixteen short years had been so monotonous.

      Over the corn-fields half hid by the clover came a young girl tripping lightly along. John Brooks paused in the path as he caught sight of her. “Poor, innocent little Daisy!” he muttered half under his breath, as he gazed at her quite unseen.

      Transferred to canvas, it would have immortalized a painter. No wonder the man’s heart softened as he gazed. He saw a glitter of golden curls, and the scarlet gleam of a mantle–a young girl, tall and slender, with rounded, supple limbs, and a figure graceful in every line and curve–while her arms, bare to the elbow, would have charmed a sculptor. Cheek and lips were a glowing rosy red–while her eyes, of the deepest and darkest blue, were the merriest that ever gazed up to the summer sunshine.

      Suddenly from over the trees there came the sound of the great bell at the Hall. Daisy stood quite still in alarm.

      “It is five o’clock!” she cried. “What shall I do? Aunt Septima will be so angry with me; she promised Miss Pluma her white dresses should be at the Hall by five, and it is that already.”

      Poor little Daisy! no wonder her heart throbbed painfully and the look of fear deepened in her blue eyes as she sped rapidly up the path that led to the little cottage where Septima grimly awaited her with flushed face and flashing eyes.

      “So,” she said, harshly, “you are come at last, are you? and a pretty fright you have given me. You shall answer to Miss Pluma herself for this. I dare say you will never attempt to offend her a second time.”

      “Indeed, Aunt Septima, I never dreamed it was so late,” cried conscious Daisy. “I was watching the sun rise over the cotton-fields, and watching the dewdrops glittering on the corn, thinking of the beautiful heiress of Whitestone Hall. I am so sorry I forgot about the dresses.”

      Hastily catching up the heavy basket, she hurried quickly down the path, like a startled deer, to escape the volley of wrath the indignant spinster hurled after her.

      It was a beautiful morning; no cloud was in the smiling heavens; the sun shone brightly, and the great oak and cedar-trees that skirted the roadside seemed to thrill with the song of birds. Butterflies spread their light wings and coquetted with the fragrant blossoms, and busy humming-bees buried themselves in the heart of the crimson wild rose. The basket was very heavy, and poor little Daisy’s hands ached with the weight of it.

      “If I might but rest for a few moments only,” she said to herself, eying the cool, shady grass by the roadside. “Surely a moment or two will not matter. Oh, dear, I am so tired!”

      She set the basket down on the cool, green grass, flinging herself beside it beneath the grateful shade of a blossoming magnolia-tree, resting her golden head against the basket of filmy laces that were to adorn the beautiful heiress of whom she had heard so much, yet never seen, and of whom every one felt in such awe.

      She looked wistfully at the great mansion in the distance, thinking how differently her own life had been.

      The soft, wooing breeze fanned her cheeks, tossing about her golden curls in wanton sport. It was so pleasant to sit there in the dreamy silence watching the white fleecy clouds, the birds, and the flowers, it was little wonder the swift-winged moments flew heedlessly by. Slowly the white lids drooped over the light-blue eyes, the long, golden lashes lay against the rosy cheeks, the ripe lips parted in a smile–all unheeded were the fluted laces–Daisy slept. Oh, cruel breeze–oh, fatal wooing breeze to have infolded hapless Daisy in your soft embrace!

      Over the hills came the sound of baying hounds, followed by a quick, springy step through the crackling underbrush, as a young man in close-fitting velvet hunting-suit and jaunty velvet cap emerged from the thicket toward the main road.

      As he parted the magnolia branches the hound sprang quickly forward at some object beneath the tree, with a low, hoarse growl.

      “Down, Towser, down!” cried Rex Lyon, leaping lightly over some intervening brushwood. “What kind of game have we here? Whew!” he ejaculated, surprisedly; “a young girl, pretty as a picture, and, by the eternal, fast asleep, too!”

      Still Daisy slept on, utterly unconscious of the handsome brown eyes that were regarding her so admiringly.

      “I have often heard of fairies, but this is the first time I have ever caught one napping under the trees. I wonder who she is anyhow? Surely she can not be some drudging farmer’s daughter with a form and face like that?” he mused, suspiciously eying the basket of freshly laundered laces against which the flushed cheeks and waving golden hair rested.

      Just then his ludicrous position struck him forcibly.

      “Come, Towser,” he said, “it would never do for you and me to be caught staring at this pretty wood-nymph so rudely, if she should by chance awaken just now.”

      Tightening the strap of his game-bag over his shoulder, and readjusting his velvet cap jauntily over his brown curls, Rex was about to resume his journey in the direction of Whitestone Hall, when the sound of rapidly approaching carriage-wheels fell upon his ears. Realizing his awkward position, Rex knew the wisest course he could possibly pursue would be to screen himself behind the magnolia branches until the vehicle should pass. The next instant a pair of prancing ponies, attached to a basket phaeton, in which sat a young girl, who held them well in check, dashed rapidly up the road. Rex could scarcely repress an exclamation of surprise as he saw the occupant was his young hostess, Pluma Hurlhurst of Whitestone Hall. She drew rein directly in front of the sleeping girl, and Rex Lyon never forgot, to his dying day, the discordant laugh that broke from her red lips–a laugh which caused poor Daisy to start from her slumber in wild alarm, scattering the snowy contents of the basket in all directions.

      For a single instant their eyes met–these two girls, whose lives were to cross each other so strangely–poor Daisy, like a frightened bird, as she guessed intuitively at the identity of the other; Pluma, haughty, derisive, and scornfully mocking.

      “You are the person whom Miss Brooks sent to Whitestone Hall with my mull dresses some three hours since, I presume. May I ask what detained you?”

      Poor Daisy was quite crestfallen; great tear-drops trembled on her long lashes. How could she answer? She had fallen asleep, wooed by the lulling breeze and the sunshine.

      “The basket was so heavy,” she answered, timidly, “and I–I–sat down to rest a few moments, and–”

      “Further explanation is quite unnecessary,” retorted Pluma, sharply, gathering up the reins. “See that you have those things at the Hall within ten minutes; not an instant later.”

      Touching the prancing ponies with her ivory-handled whip, the haughty young heiress whirled leisurely down the road, leaving Daisy, with flushed face and tear-dimmed eyes, gazing after her.

      “Oh, dear, I wish I had never been born,” she sobbed, flinging herself down on her knees, and burying her face in the long, cool grass. “No one ever speaks a kind word to me but poor old Uncle John, and even he dare not be kind СКАЧАТЬ