Daisy Brooks; Or, A Perilous Love

by Laura Jean Libbey

  CHAPTER XXIX.

  "I do think it is a perfect shame those horrid Glenn girls are to beinvited up here to Rex's wedding," cried little Birdie Lyon, hobblinginto the room where Mrs. Corliss sat, busily engaged in hemming somenew table-linen, and throwing herself down on a low hassock at herfeet, and laying down her crutch beside her--"it is perfectly awful."

  "Why," said Mrs. Corliss, smoothing the nut-brown curls back from thechild's flushed face, "I should think you would be very pleased. Theywere your neighbors when you were down in Florida, were they not?"

  "Yes," replied the little girl, frowning, "but I don't like them onebit. Bess and Gertie--that's the two eldest ones, make me think ofthose stiff pictures in the gay trailing dresses in the magazines. Eveis nice, but she's a Tom-boy."

  "A wh--at!" cried Mrs. Corliss.

  "She's a Tom-boy, mamma always said; she romps, and has no manners."

  "They will be your neighbors when you go South again--so I supposeyour brother thought of that when he invited them."

  "He never dreamed of it," cried Birdie; "it was Miss Pluma's doings."

  "Hush, child, don't talk so loud," entreated the old housekeeper; "shemight hear you."

  "I don't care," cried Birdie. "I don't like her anyhow, and she knowsit. When Rex is around she is as sweet as honey to me, and calls me'pretty little dear,' but when Rex isn't around she scarcely noticesme, and I _hate_ her--yes, I do."

  Birdie clinched her little hands together venomously, crying out thewords in a shrill scream.

  "Birdie," cried Mrs. Corliss, "you _must not_ say such hard, cruelthings. I have heard you say, over and over again, you liked Mr.Hurlhurst, and you must remember Pluma is his daughter, and she is tobe your brother's wife. You must learn to speak and think kindly ofher."

  "I never shall like her," cried Birdie, defiantly, "and I am sure Mr.Hurlhurst don't."

  "Birdie!" ejaculated the good lady in a fright, dropping her scissorsand spools in consternation; "let me warn you not to talk so again;if Miss Pluma was to once hear you, you would have a sorry enough timeof it all your after life. What put it into your head Mr. Hurlhurstdid not like his own daughter?"

  "Oh, lots of things," answered Birdie. "When I tell him how prettyevery one says she is, he groans, and says strange things about fatalbeauty, which marred all his young life, and ever so many things Ican't understand, and his face grows so hard and so stern I am almostafraid of him."

  "He is thinking of Pluma's mother," thought Mrs. Corliss--but she madeno answer.

  "He likes to talk to me," pursued the child, rolling the empty spoolsto and fro with her crutch, "for he pities me because I am lame."

  "Bless your dear little heart," said Mrs. Corliss, softly stroking thelittle girl's curls; "it is seldom poor old master takes to any one ashe has to you."

  "Do I look anything like the little child that died?" questionedBirdie.

  A low, gasping cry broke from Mrs. Corliss's lips, and her face grewashen white. She tried to speak, but the words died away in herthroat.

  "He talks to me a great deal about her," continued Birdie, "and heweeps such bitter tears, and has such strange dreams about her. Why,only last night he dreamed a beautiful, golden-haired young girl cameto him, holding out her arms, and crying softly: 'Look at me, father;I am your child. I was never laid to rest beneath the violets, in myyoung mother's tomb. Father, I am in sore distress--come to me,father, or I shall die!' Of course it was only a dream, but it makespoor Mr. Hurlhurst cry so; and what do you think he said?"

  The child did not notice the terrible agony on the old housekeeper'sface, or that no answer was vouchsafed her.

  "'My dreams haunt me night and day,' he cried. 'To still this wild,fierce throbbing of my heart I must have that grave opened, and gazeonce more upon all that remains of my loved and long-lost bride, sweetEvalia and her little child.' He was--"

  Birdie never finished her sentence.

  A terrible cry broke from the housekeeper's livid lips.

  "My God!" she cried, hoarsely, "after nearly seventeen years the sinof my silence is about to find me out at last."

  "What is the matter, Mrs. Corliss? Are you ill?" cried the startledchild.

  A low, despairing sob answered her, as Mrs. Corliss arose from herseat, took a step or two forward, then fell headlong to the floor in adeep and death-like swoon.

  Almost any other child would have been terrified, and alarmed thehousehold.

  Birdie was not like other children. She saw a pitcher of ice-water onan adjacent table, which she immediately proceeded to sprinkle on thestill, white, wrinkled face; but all her efforts failed to bring thefleeting breath back to the cold, pallid lips.

  At last the child became fairly frightened.

  "I must go and find Rex or Mr. Hurlhurst," she cried, grasping hercrutch, and limping hurriedly out of the room.

  The door leading to Basil Hurlhurst's apartments stood open--themaster of Whitestone Hall sat in his easy-chair, in morning-gown andslippers, deeply immersed in the columns of his account-books.

  "Oh, Mr. Hurlhurst," cried Birdie, her little, white, scared facepeering in at the door, "won't you please come quick? Mrs. Corliss,the housekeeper, has fainted ever so long ago, and I can't bring herto!"

  Basil Hurlhurst hurriedly arose and followed the now thoroughlyfrightened child quickly to the room where the old housekeeper lay,her hands pressed close to her heart, the look of frozen horrordeepening on her face.

  Quickly summoning the servants, they raised her from the floor. It wassomething more than a mere fainting fit. The poor old lady had fallenface downward on the floor, and upon the sharp point of the scissorsshe had been using, which had entered her body in close proximity toher heart. The wound was certainly a dangerous one. The surgeon, whowas quickly summoned, shook his head dubiously.

  "The wound is of the most serious nature," he said. "She can notpossibly recover."

  "I regret this sad affair more than I can find words to express," saidBasil Hurlhurst, gravely. "Mrs. Corliss's whole life almost has beenspent at Whitestone Hall. You tell me, doctor, there is no hope. I canscarcely realize it."

  Every care and attention was shown her; but it was long hours beforeMrs. Corliss showed signs of returning consciousness, and with herfirst breath she begged that Basil Hurlhurst might be sent for atonce.

  He could not understand why she shrunk from him, refusing hisproffered hand.

  "Tell them all to leave the room," she whispered. "No one must knowwhat I have to say to you."

  Wondering a little what she had to say to him, he humored her wishes,sending them all from the room.

  "Now, Mrs. Corliss," he said, kindly drawing his chair up close by thebedside, "what is it? You can speak out without reserve; we are allalone."

  "Is it true that I can not live?" she asked, eagerly scanning hisface. "Tell me truthfully, master, is the wound a fatal one?"

  "Yes," he said, sympathetically, "I--I--am afraid it is."

  He saw she was making a violent effort to control her emotions. "Donot speak," he said, gently; "it distresses you. You need perfect restand quiet."

  "I shall never rest again until I make atonement for my sin," shecried, feebly. "Oh, master, you have ever been good and kind to me,but I have sinned against you beyond all hope of pardon. When you hearwhat I have to say you will curse me. Oh, how can I tell it! Yet I cannot sleep in my grave with this burden on my soul."

  He certainly thought she was delirious, this poor, patient, toil-wornsoul, speaking so incoherently of sin; she, so tender-hearted--shecould not even have hurt a sparrow.

  "I can promise you my full pardon, Mrs. Corliss," he said, soothingly;"no matter on what grounds the grievance may be."

  For a moment she looked at him incredulously.

  "You do not know what you say. You do not understand," she muttered,fixing her fast-dimming eyes strangely upon him.

  "Do not give yourself any uneasiness upon that score, Mrs. Corliss,"he said, gently; "try to think of
something else. Is there anythingyou would like to have done for you?"

  "Yes," she replied, in a voice so hoarse and changed he could scarcelyrecognize it was her who had spoken; "when I tell you all, promise meyou will not curse me; for I have sinned against you so bitterly thatyou will cry out to Heaven asking why I did not die long years ago,that the terrible secret I have kept so long might have been wrungfrom my lips."

  "Surely her ravings were taking a strange freak," he thought tohimself; "yet he would be patient with her and humor her strangefancy."

  The quiet, gentle expression did not leave his face, and she tookcourage.

  "Master," she said, clasping her hands nervously together, "would itpain you to speak of the sweet, golden-haired young girl-bride whodied on that terrible stormy night nearly seventeen years ago?"

  She saw his care-worn face grow white, and the lines of pain deepenaround his mouth.

  "That is the most painful of all subjects to me," he said, slowly."You know how I have suffered since that terrible night," he saidshudderingly. "The double loss of my sweet young wife and her littlebabe has nearly driven me mad. I am a changed man, the weight of thecross I have had to bear has crushed me. I live on, but my heart isburied in the grave of my sweet, golden-haired Evalia and her littlechild. I repeat, it is a painful subject, still I will listen to whatyou have to say. I believe I owe my life to your careful nursing, whenI was stricken with the brain fever that awful time."

  "It would have been better if I had let you die then, rather than liveto inflict the blow which my words will give you. Oh, master!" sheimplored, "I did not know then what I did was a sin. I feared to tellyou lest the shock might cost you your life. As time wore on, I grewso deadly frightened I dared not undo the mischief my silence hadwrought. Remember, master, when you looked upon me in your bitterest,fiercest moments of agony, what I did was for _your_ sake; to saveyour bleeding heart one more pang. I have been a good and faithfulwoman all my life, faithful to your interests."

  "You have indeed," he responded, greatly puzzled as to what she couldpossibly mean.

  She tried to raise herself on her elbows, but her strength failed her,and she sunk back exhausted on the pillow.

  "Listen, Basil Hurlhurst," she said, fixing her strangely bright eyesupon his noble, care-worn face; "this is the secret I have carried inthis bosom for nearly seventeen years: 'Your golden-haired young wifedied on that terrible stormy night you brought her to WhitestoneHall;' but listen, Basil, '_the child did not!_' It was stolen fromour midst on the night the fair young mother died."