The consternation and excitement which prevailed at the Burton Cottage when Daisy’s absence was discovered can better be imagined than described; or the intense anger of Stanwick upon finding Daisy had eluded him.
“Checkmated!” he cried, white to the very lips. “But she shall not escape me; she shall suffer for this freak. I am not a man to be trifled with. She can not have gone far,” he assured himself. “In all probability she has left Elmwood; but if by rail or by water I can easily recapture my pretty bird. Ah, Daisy Brooks!” he muttered, “you can not fly away from your fate; it will overtake you sooner or later.”
Some hours after Stanwick had left the cottage, an old man toiled wearily up the grass-grown path.
“Oh, poor little Daisy,” he said, wiping the tears from his eyes with his old red and white cotton kerchief; “no matter 81 what you have done I will take you back to my heart––that I will!”
He clutched the letter Mme. Whitney had written him close in his toil-hardened hand. The letter simply told him Daisy had fled from the seminary, and she had every reason to believe she was now in Elmwood. He had received the letter while in New York, and hastily proceeded to Elmwood, the station indicated, at once, without stopping over at Allendale to acquaint Septima with the news.
“She shall never be sent off to school again,” he commented; “but she shall stop at home. Poor little pet, she was always as happy as the day was long; she sha’n’t have book-learning if she don’t want it. I am too hard, I s’pose, with the child in sending her off among these primpy city gals, with their flounces and furbelows, with only three plain muslin frocks. The dickens fly away with the book-learnin’; I like 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 met him 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 is here. 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 be his wife; of her illness which culminated in her disappearance.
They never forgot the white, set face turned toward them. The veins stood out like cords on his forehead, and the perspiration rolled down his pallid cheeks in great quivering beads. This heart-rending, silent emotion was more terrible to witness than the most violent paroxysms of grief. Strangely enough they had quite forgotten to mention Rex’s visit.
“You don’t know how I loved that child,” he cried, brokenly. “She was all I had to love in the whole world, and I set such store by her, but Stanwick shall pay dearly for this,” he cried, hoarsely. “I shall never rest day or night until my little Daisy’s honor is avenged, so help me God! You think she is dead?” he questioned, looking brokenly from the one to the other.
They only nodded their heads; they could not speak through their sobs.