Daisy Brooks; Or, A Perilous LoveLibbey, Laura Jean
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Daisy Brooks; Or, A Perilous Love
Libbey, Laura Jean
Adventure stories; Dime novels; Fiction; Love stories
The last hope seemed withering in her proud, passionate heart. She
rose haughtily, and walked with the dignity of a queen through the
long drawing-room toward the terrace. Her heart almost stopped beating
as she caught sight of Rex leaning so gracefully against the trunk of
an old gnarled oak tree, smoking a cigar. That certainly did not look
as if he meant to greet her with a kiss.
She went forward hesitatingly--a world of anxiety and suspense on her
face--to know her fate. The color surged over her face, then receded
from it again, as she looked at him with a smile--a smile that was
more pitiful than a sigh.
"Rex," she cried, holding out her hands to him with a fluttering,
uncertain movement that stirred the perfumed laces of the exquisite
robe she wore, and the jewels on her white, nervous hands--"Rex, I am
here!"
CHAPTER XXXIII.
We must now return to Daisy, whom we left standing in the heart of the
forest, the moonlight streaming on her upturned face, upon which the
startled horseman gazed.
He had not waited for her to reply, but, touching his horse hastily
with his riding-whip, he sped onward with the speed of the wind.
In that one instant Daisy had recognized the dark, sinister, handsome
face of Lester Stanwick.
"They have searched the pit and found I was not there. He is searching
for me; he has tracked me down!" she cried, vehemently, pressing her
little white hands to her burning head.
Faster, faster flew the little feet through the long dew-damp
grasses.
"My troubles seem closing more darkly around me," she sobbed. "I wish
I had never been born, then I could never have spoiled Rex's life. But
I am leaving you, my love, my darling, so you can marry Pluma, the
heiress. You will forget me and be happy."
Poor little, neglected, unloved bride, so fair, so young, so fragile,
out alone facing the dark terrors of the night, fleeing from the young
husband who was wearing his life out in grief for her. Ah, if the
gentle winds sighing above her, or the solemn, nodding trees had only
told her, how different her life might have been!
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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