CHAPTER XXIV.

CHAPTER XXIV.

The announcement of Mrs. Lyon’s sudden and unexpected death caused great excitement and consternation the next morning at Glengrove.

“Oh, dear!” cried Gertie, “how provokingly unfortunate for her to die just now! Why couldn’t she have waited until after our birthday party? Of course Rex wouldn’t be expected to come now; and this whole matter was arranged especially for him; and my beautiful lilac silk is all made, and so bewitchingly lovely, too!”

“What can’t be cured must be endured, you know,” said Bess; “and now the best thing to be done is to send a note of condolence to him, extending our deepest sympathy, and offering him any assistance in our power; and be sure to add: ‘We would be very pleased to have Birdie come over here until you can make other arrangements for her.’”

“Have Birdie here!” flashed Gertie, angrily. “I actually think you have gone crazy!”

“Well, there is certainly a method in my madness,” remarked Bess. “Aren’t you quick-witted enough to understand that would be a sure way of bringing Rex over here every day?––he would come to see his sister––and that is quite a point gained.”

“You are rather clever, Bess; I never thought of that.”

And straightway the perfumed little note was dispatched, bearing Gertie’s monogram and tender-worded sympathy to the handsome young heir, who sat all alone in that darkened chamber, wondering why Heaven had been so unkind to him.

An hour later Bess and Gertie were in the library arranging some new volumes on the shelves. Mrs. Glenn sat in a large easy-chair superintending the affair, while Daisy stood at an118open window, holding the book from which she had been reading aloud in her restless fingers, her blue eyes gazing earnestly on the distant curling smoke that rose up lazily from the chimneys of Rex’s home, and upon the brilliant sunshine that lighted up the eastern windows with a blaze of glory––as if there was no such thing as death or sorrow within those palatial walls––when Rex’s answer was received.

“It is from Rex!” cried Gertie, all in a flutter. “Shall I read it aloud, mamma?” she asked, glancing furtively at Daisy, who stood at the window, her pale, death-like face half buried in the lace curtains.

“It is certainly not a personal letter,” said Bess, maliciously glancing at the superscription. “Don’t you see it is addressed to ‘Mrs. Glenn and daughters.’”

“In a time like that people don’t think much of letters,” commented Mrs. Glenn, apologetically. “Read the letter aloud, of course, my dear.”

It read:

“Dear Ladies,––I thank you more than I can express for your kind sympathy in my present sad bereavement. I would gladly have accepted your offer of bringing my dear little orphan sister to you, had I not received a telegram this morning from Miss Pluma Hurlhurst, of Whitestone Hall, West Virginia, announcing her intention of coming on at once, accompanied by Mrs. Corliss, to take charge of little Birdie.“Again thanking you for the courtesy and kindness shown me, I am“Yours very truly,“Rexford Lyon.”

“Dear Ladies,––I thank you more than I can express for your kind sympathy in my present sad bereavement. I would gladly have accepted your offer of bringing my dear little orphan sister to you, had I not received a telegram this morning from Miss Pluma Hurlhurst, of Whitestone Hall, West Virginia, announcing her intention of coming on at once, accompanied by Mrs. Corliss, to take charge of little Birdie.

“Again thanking you for the courtesy and kindness shown me, I am

“Yours very truly,“Rexford Lyon.”

There was a low, gasping, piteous cry; and the little figure at the window slipped down among the soft, billowy curtains in a deadly swoon; but the three, so deeply engrossed in discussing the contents of the note, did not notice it. At last Daisy opened her eyes, and the blue eyes were dazed with pain. She could hear them coupling the names of Rex and Pluma Hurlhurst. Rex––her husband!

Daisy was blind and stupefied. She groped rather than walked from the library––away from the three, who scarcely noticed her absence.

Who cared that her heart was broken? Who cared that the cruel stab had gone home to her tender, bleeding heart; that the sweet young face was whiter than the petals of the star-bells tossing their white plumes against the casement?

Slowly, blindly, with one hand grasping the balusters, she went up the broad staircase to her own room.

119

She tried to think of everything on the way except the one thing that had taken place. She thought of the story she had read, of a girl who was slain by having a dagger plunged into her breast. The girl ran a short distance, and when the dagger was drawn from the wound, she fell down dead. In some way she fancied she was like that girl––that, when she should reach her own room and stand face to face with her own pain, she should drop down dead.

The door was closed, and she stood motionless, trying to understand and realize what she had heard.

“Have my senses deceived me?” She said the words over and over to herself. “Did I dream it? Can it even be possible Pluma Hurlhurst is coming here, coming to the home where I should have been? God help me. Coming to comfort Rex––my husband!”

She could fancy the darkly beautiful face bending over him; her white jeweled hands upon his shoulder, or, perhaps, smoothing back the bonny brown clustering curls from his white brow.

“My place should have been by his side,” she continued.

It hurt and pained her to hear the name of the man she loved dearer than life mentioned with the name of Pluma Hurlhurst.

“Oh, Rex, my love, my love!” she cried out, “I can not bear it any longer. The sun of my life has gone down in gloom and chill. Oh, Rex, my husband, I have not the strength nor the courage to bear it. I am a coward. I can not give you up. We are living apart under the blue, smiling sky and the golden sun. Yet in the sight of the angels, I am your wife.”

Suddenly, the solemn bells from Rex’s home commenced tolling, and through the leafy branches of the trees she caught a glimpse of a white face and bowed head, and of a proud, cold face bending caressingly over it, just as she had pictured it in her imagination.

Dear Heaven! it was Rex and Pluma! She did not moan. She did not cry out, nor utter even a sigh. Like one turned to marble she, the poor little misguided child-wife, stood watching them with an intentness verging almost into madness.

She saw him lift his head wearily from his white hands, rise slowly, and then, side by side, both disappeared from the window.

After that Daisy never knew how the moments passed. She remembered the tidy little waiting-maid coming to her and asking if she would please come down to tea. She shook her120head but no sound issued from the white lips, and the maid went softly away, closing the door behind her.

Slowly the sun sunk in the west in a great red ball of fire. The light died out of the sky, and the song birds trilled their plaintive good-night songs in the soft gloaming. Still Daisy sat with her hands crossed in her lap, gazing intently at the window, where she had seen Pluma standing with Rex, her husband.

A hand turned the knob of her door.

“Oh, dear me,” cried Gertie, “you are all in the dark. I do not see you. Are you here, Daisy Brooks?”

“Yes,” said Daisy, controlling her voice by a violent effort. “Won’t you sit down? I will light the gas.”

“Oh, no, indeed!” cried Gertie. “I came up to ask you if you would please sew a little on my ball dress to-night. I can not use it just now; still, there is no need of putting it away half finished.”

Sew on a ball dress while her heart was breaking! Oh, how could she do it? Quietly she followed Gertie to her pretty little blue and gold boudoir, making no remonstrance. She was to sew on a ball dress while the heiress of Whitestone Hall was consoling her young husband in his bitter sorrow?

The shimmering billows of silk seemed swimming before her eyes, and the frost-work of seed-pearls to waver through the blinding tears that would force themselves to her eyes. Eve was not there. How pitifully lonely poor Daisy felt! The face, bent so patiently over the lilac silk, had a strange story written upon it. But the two girls, discussing the events of the day, did not glance once in her direction; their thoughts and conversation were of the handsome young heiress and Rex.

“For once in your life you were wrong,” said Bess. “The way affairs appear now does not look much like a broken-off marriage, I can assure you.”

“Those who have seen her say she is peculiarly beautiful and fascinating, though cold, reserved, and as haughty as a queen,” said Gertie.

“Cold and reserved,” sneered Bess. “I guess you would not have thought so if you had been at the drawing-room window to-day and seen her bending over Rex so lovingly. I declare I expected every moment to see her kiss him.”

The box which held the seed-pearls dropped to the floor with a crash, and the white, glistening beads were scattered about in all directions.

“Why, what a careless creature you are, Daisy Brooks!” cried Gertie, in dismay. “Just see what you have done! Half121of them will be lost, and what is not lost will be smashed, and I had just enough to finish that lily on the front breadth and twine among the blossoms for my hair. What do you suppose I’m going to do now, you provoking girl? It is actually enough to make one cry.”

“I am so sorry,” sighed Daisy, piteously.

“Sorry! Will that bring back my seed-pearls? I have half a mind to make mamma deduct the amount from your salary.”

“You may have it all if it will only replace them,” said Daisy, earnestly. “I think, though, I have gathered them all up.”

A great, round tear rolled off from her long, silky eyelashes and into the very heart of the frosted lily over which she bent, but the lily’s petals seemed to close about it, leaving no trace of its presence.

Bessie and Gertie openly discussed their chagrin and keen disappointment, yet admitting what a handsome couple Rex and Pluma made––he so courteous and noble, she so royal and queenly.

“Of course we must call upon her if she is to be Rex’s wife,” said Gertie, spitefully. “I foresee she will be exceedingly popular.”

“We must also invite her to Glengrove,” said Bess, thoughtfully. “It is the least we can do, and it is expected of us. I quite forgot to mention one of their servants was telling Jim both Rex and little Birdie intend to accompany Miss Hurlhurst back to Whitestone Hall as soon after the funeral as matters can be arranged.”

“Why, that is startling news indeed! Why, then, they will probably leave some time this week!” cried Gertie.

“Most probably,” said Bess. “You ought certainly to send over your note this evening––it is very early yet.”

“There is no one to send,” said Gertie. “Jim has driven over to Natchez, and there is no one else to go.”

“Perhaps Daisy will go for you,” suggested Bess.

There was no need of being jealousnowof Daisy’s beauty in that direction. Gertie gladly availed herself of the suggestion.

“Daisy,” she said, turning abruptly to the quivering little figure, whose face drooped over the lilac silk, “never mind finishing that dress to-night. I wish you to take a note over to the large gray stone house yonder, and be sure to deliver it to Mr. Rex Lyon himself.”

122CHAPTER XXV.

Gertie Glenn never forgot the despairing cry that broke from Daisy’s white lips as she repeated her command:

“I wish you to deliver this note to Mr. Rex Lyon himself.”

“Oh, Miss Gertie,” she cried, clasping her hands together in an agony of entreaty, “I can not––oh, indeed I can not! Ask anything of me but that and I will gladly do it!”

Both girls looked at her in sheer astonishment.

“What is the reason you can not?” cried Gertie, in utter amazement. “I do not comprehend you.”

“I––I can not take the note,” she said, in a frightened whisper. “I do not––I––”

She stopped short in utter confusion.

“I choose you shall do just as I bid you,” replied Gertie, in her imperious, scornful anger. “It really seems to me you forget your position here, Miss Brooks. How dare you refuse me?”

Opposition always strengthened Gertie’s decision, and she determined Daisy should take her note to Rex Lyon at all hazards.

The eloquent, mute appeal in the blue eyes raised to her own was utterly lost on her.

“The pride of these dependent companions is something ridiculous,” she went on, angrily. “You consider yourself too fine, I suppose, to be made a messenger of.” Gertie laughed aloud, a scornful, mocking laugh. “Pride and poverty do not work very well together. You may go to your room now and get your hat and shawl. I shall have the letter written in a very few minutes. There will be no use appealing to mamma. You ought to know by this time we overrule her objections always.”

It was too true, Mrs. Glenn never had much voice in a matter where Bess or Gertie had decided the case.

Like one in a dream Daisy turned from them. She never remembered how she gained her own room. With cold, tremulous fingers she fastened her hat, tucking the bright golden hair carefully beneath her veil, and threw her shawl over her shoulders, just as Gertie approached, letter in hand.

“You need not go around by the main road,” she said, “there is a much nearer path leading down to the stone wall. You need not wait for an answer: there will be none. The123servants over there are awkward, blundering creatures––do not trust it to them––you must deliver it to Rex himself.”

“I make one last appeal to you, Miss Gertie. Indeed, it is not pride that prompts me. I could not bear it. Have pity on me. You are gentle and kind to others; please, oh, please be merciful to me!”

“I have nothing more to say upon the subject––I have said you were to go. You act as if I were sending you to some place where you might catch the scarlet fever or the mumps. You amuse me; upon my word you do. Rex is not dangerous, neither is he a Bluebeard; his only fault is being alarmingly handsome. The best advice I can give you is, don’t admire him too much. He should be labeled, ‘Out of the market.’”

Gertie tripped gayly from the room, her crimson satin ribbons fluttering after her, leaving a perceptible odor of violets in the room, while Daisy clutched the note in her cold, nervous grasp, walking like one in a terrible dream through the bright patches of glittering moonlight, through the sweet-scented, rose-bordered path, on through the dark shadows of the trees toward the home of Rex––her husband.

A soft, brooding silence lay over the sleeping earth as Daisy, with a sinking heart, drew near the house. Her soft footfalls on the green mossy earth made no sound.

Silently as a shadow she crept up to the blossom-covered porch; some one was standing there, leaning against the very pillar around which she had twined her arms as she watched Rex’s shadow on the roses.

The shifting moonbeams pierced the white, fleecy clouds that enveloped them, and as he turned his face toward her she saw it was Rex. She could almost have reached out her hand and touched him from where she stood. She was sorely afraid her face or her voice might startle him if she spoke to him suddenly.

“I do not need to speak,” she thought. “I will go up to him and lay the letter in his hand.”

Then a great intense longing came over her to hear his voice and know that he was speaking to her. She had quite decided to pursue this course, when the rustle of a silken garment fell upon her ear. She knew the light tread of the slippered feet but too well––it was Pluma. She went up to him in her usual caressing fashion, laying her white hand on his arm.

“Do you know you have been standing here quite two hours, Rex, watching the shadows of the vine-leaves? I have longed124to come up and ask you what interest those dancing shadows had for you, but I could not make up my mind to disturb you. I often fancy you do not know how much time you spend in thought.”

Pluma was wondering if he was thinking of that foolish, romantic fancy that had come so near separating them––his boyish fancy for Daisy Brooks, their overseer’s niece. No, surely not. He must have forgotten her long ago.

“These reveries seem to have grown into a habit with me,” he said, dreamily; “almost a second nature, of late. If you were to come and talk to me at such times, you would break me of it.”

The idea pleased her. A bright flush rose to her face, and she made him some laughing reply, and he looked down upon her with a kindly smile.

Oh! the torture of it to the poor young wife standing watching them, with heart on fire in the deep shadow of the crimson-hearted passion-flowers that quivered on the intervening vines. The letter she held in her hand slipped from her fingers into the bushes all unheeded. She had but one thought––she must get away. The very air seemed to stifle her; her heart seemed numb––an icy band seemed pressing round it, and her poor forehead was burning hot. It did not matter much where she went, nobody loved her, nobody cared for her. As softly as she came, she glided down the path that led to the entrance-gate beyond. She passed through the moonlighted grounds, where the music and fragrance of the summer night was at its height. The night wind stirred the pink clover and the blue-bells beneath her feet. Her eyes were hot and dry; tears would have been a world of relief to her, but none came to her parched eyelids.

She paid little heed to the direction she took. One idea alone took possession of her––she must get away.

“If I could only go back to dear old Uncle John,” she sighed. “His love has never failed me.”

It seemed long years back since she had romped with him, a happy, merry child, over the cotton fields, and he had called her his sunbeam during all those years when no one lived at Whitestone Hall and the wild ivy climbed riotously over the windows and doors. Even Septima’s voice would have sounded so sweet to her. She would have lived over again those happy, childish days, if she only could. She remembered how Septima would send her to the brook for water, and how she sprinkled every flower in the path-way that bore her name; and how Septima would scold her when she returned with her125bucket scarce half full; and how she had loved to dream away those sunny summer days, lying under the cool, shady trees, listening to the songs the robins sang as they glanced down at her with their little sparkling eyes.

How she had dreamed of the gallant young hero who was to come to her some day. She had wondered how she would know him, and what were the words he first would say! If he would come riding by, as the judge did when “Maud Muller stood in the hay-fields;” and she remembered, too, the story of “Rebecca at the Well.” A weary smile flitted over her face as she remembered when she went to the brook she had always put on her prettiest blue ribbons, in case she might meet her hero.

Oh, those sweet, bright, rosy dreams of girlhood! What a pity it is they do not last forever! Those girlish dreams, where glowing fancy reigns supreme, and the prosaic future is all unknown. She remembered her meeting with Rex, how every nerve in her whole being thrilled, and how she had felt her cheeks grow flaming hot, just as she had read they would do when she met the right one. That was how she had known Rex was the right one when she had shyly glanced up, from under her long eyelashes, into the gay, brown hazel eyes, fixed upon her so quizzically, as he took the heavy basket from her slender arms, that never-to-be-forgotten June day, beneath the blossoming magnolia-tree.

Poor child! her life had been a sad romance since then. How strange it was she was fleeing from the young husband whom she had married and was so quickly parted from!

All this trouble had come about because she had so courageously rescued her letter from Mme. Whitney.

“If he had not bound me to secrecy, I could have have cried out before the whole world I was his wife,” she thought.

A burning flush rose to her face as she thought how cruelly he had suspected her, this poor little child-bride who had never known one wrong or sinful thought in her pure, innocent young life.

If he had only given her the chance of explaining how she had happened to be there with Stanwick; if they had taken her back she must have confessed about the letter and who Rex was and what he was to her.

Even Stanwick’s persecution found an excuse in her innocent, unsuspecting little heart.

“He sought to save me from being taken back when he called me his wife,” she thought. “He believed I was free to woo and win, because I dared not tell him I was Rex’s wife.” Yet the thought of Stanwick always brought a shudder to her126pure young mind. She could not understand why he would have resorted to such desperate means to gain an unwilling bride.

“Not yet seventeen. Ah, what a sad love-story hers had been. How cruelly love’s young dream had been blighted,” she told herself; and yet she would not have exchanged that one thrilling, ecstatic moment of rapture when Rex had clasped her in his arms and whispered: “My darling wife,” for a whole lifetime of calm happiness with any one else.

On and on she walked through the violet-studded grass, thinking––thinking. Strange fancies came thronging to her overwrought brain. She pushed her veil back from her face and leaned against the trunk of a tree; her brain was dizzy and her thoughts were confused; the very stars seemed dancing riotously in the blue sky above her, and the branches of the trees were whispering strange fancies. Suddenly a horseman, riding a coal-black charger, came cantering swiftly up the long avenue of trees. He saw the quiet figure standing leaning against the drooping branches.

“I will inquire the way,” he said to himself, drawing rein beside her. “Can you tell me, madame, if this is the most direct road leading to Glengrove and that vicinity? I am looking for a hostelry near it. I seem to have lost my way. Will you kindly direct me?” he asked, “or to the home of Mr. Rex Lyon?”

The voice sounded strangely familiar to Daisy. She was dimly conscious some one was speaking to her. She raised her face up and gazed at the speaker. The cold, pale moonlight fell full upon it, clearly revealing its strange, unearthly whiteness, and the bright flashing eyes, gazing dreamily past the terror-stricken man looking down on her, with white, livid lips and blanched, horror-stricken face. His eyes almost leaped from their sockets in abject terror, as Lester Stanwick gazed on the upturned face by the roadside.

“My God, do I dream?” he cried, clutching at the pommel of his saddle. “Is this the face of Daisy Brooks, or is it a specter, unable to sleep in the depths of her tomb, come back to haunt me for driving her to her doom?”

CHAPTER XXVI.

Rex and Pluma talked for some time out in the moonlight, then Rex excused himself, and on the plea of having important business letters to write retired to the library.

For some minutes Pluma leaned thoughtfully against the127railing. The night was still and clear; the moon hung over the dark trees; floods of silvery light bathed the waters of the glittering sea, the sleeping flowers and the grass, and on the snowy orange-blossoms and golden fruit amid the green foliage.

“I shall always love this fair southern home,” she thought, a bright light creeping into her dark, dazzling eyes. “I am Fortune’s favorite,” she said, slowly. “I shall have the one great prize I covet most on earth. I shall win Rex at last. I wonder at the change in him. There was a time when I believed he loved me. Could it be handsome, refined, courteous Rex had more than a passing fancy for Daisy Brooks––simple, unpretentious Daisy Brooks? Thank God she is dead!” she cried, vehemently. “I would have periled my very soul to have won him.”

Even as the thought shaped itself in her mind, a dark form stepped cautiously forward.

She was not startled; a passing wonder as to who it might be struck her. She did not think much about it; a shadow in the moonlight did not frighten her.

“Pluma!” called a low, cautious voice, “come down into the garden; I must speak with you. It is I, Lester Stanwick.”

In a single instant the soft love-light had faded from her face, leaving it cold, proud, and pitiless. A vague, nameless dread seized her. She was a courageous girl; she would not let him know it.

“The mad fool!” she cried, clinching her white jeweled hands together. “Why does he follow me here? What shall I do? I must buy him off at any cost. I dare not defy him. Better temporize with him.” She muttered the words aloud, and she was shocked to see how changed and hoarse her own voice sounded. “Women have faced more deadly peril than this,” she muttered, “and cleverly outwitted ingenious foes. Imustwin by stratagem.”

She quickly followed the tall figure down the path that divided the little garden from the shrubbery.

“I knew you would not refuse me, Pluma,” he said, clasping her hands and kissing her cold lips. He noticed the glance she gave him had nothing in it but coldness and annoyance. “You do not tell me you are pleased to see me, Pluma, and yet you have promised to be my wife.” She stood perfectly still leaning against an oleander-tree. “Why don’t you speak to me, Pluma?” he cried. “By Heaven! I am almost beginning to mistrust you. You remember your promise,” he said, hurriedly––“if I removed the overseer’s niece from your path128you were to reward me with your heart and hand.” She would have interrupted him, but he silenced her with a gesture. “You said your love for Rex had turned to bitter hatred. You found he loved the girl, and that would be a glorious revenge. I did not have to resort to abducting her from the seminary as we had planned. The bird flew into my grasp. I would have placed her in the asylum you selected, but she eluded me by leaping into the pit. I have been haunted by her face night and day ever since. I see her face in crowds, in the depths of the silent forest, her specter appears before me until I fly from it like one accursed.”

She could not stay the passionate torrent of his words.

“Lester, this is all a mistake,” she said; “you have not given me a chance to speak.” Her hands dropped nervously by her side. There were fierce, rebellious thoughts in her heart, but she dare not give them utterance. “What have I done to deserve all this?” she asked, trying to assume a tender tone she was far from feeling.

“What have you done?” he cried, hoarsely. “Why, I left you at Whitestone Hall, feeling secure in the belief that I had won you. Returning suddenly and unexpectedly, I found you had gone to Florida, to the home of Rex Lyon. Do you know what I would have done, Pluma, if I had found you his wife and false to your trust?”

“You forget yourself, Lester,” she said; “gentlemen never threaten women.”

He bit his lip angrily.

“There are extreme cases of desperation,” he made reply. “You must keep your promise,” he said, determinedly. “No other man must dare speak to you of love.”

She saw the angry light flame into his eyes, and trembled under her studied composure; yet not the quiver of an eyelid betrayed her emotion. She had not meant to quarrel with him; for once in her life she forgot her prudence.

“Suppose that, by exercise of any power you think you possess, you could really compel me to be your wife, do you think it would benefit you? I would learn to despise you. What would you gain by it?”

The answer sprung quickly to his lips: “The one great point for which I am striving––possession of Whitestone Hall;” but he was too diplomatic to utter the words. She saw a lurid light in his eyes.

“You shall be my wife,” he said, gloomily. “If you have been cherishing any hope of winning Rex Lyon, abandon it at129once. As a last resort, I would explain to him how cleverly you removed the pretty little girl he loved from his path.”

“You dare not!” she cried, white to the very lips. “You have forgotten your own share in that little affair. Who would believe you acted upon a woman’s bidding? You would soon be called to account for it. You forget that little circumstance, Lester; you dare not go to Rex!” He knew what she said was perfectly true. He had not intended going to Rex; he knew it would be as much as his life was worth to encounter him. He was aware his name had been coupled with Daisy’s in the journals which had described her tragic death. He knew Rex had fallen madly, desperately in love with little Daisy Brooks, but he did not dream he had made her his wife. “You have not given me time to explain why I am here.”

“I have heard all about it,” he answered, impatiently; “but I do not understand why they sent for you.”

“Mrs. Lyon requested it,” she replied, quietly. “Rex simply obeyed her wishes.”

“Perhaps she looked upon you as her future daughter-in-law,” sneered Lester, covertly. “I have followed you to Florida to prevent it; I would follow you to the ends of the earth to prevent it! A promise to me can not be lightly broken.”

Not a feature of that proud face quivered to betray the sharp spasm of fear that darted through her heart.

“You should have waited until you had cause to reproach me, Lester,” she said, drawing her wrap closer about her and shivering as if with cold. “I must go back to the house now; some one might miss me.”

He made no reply. The wind bent the reeds, and the waves of the sea dashed up on the distant beach with a long, low wash. He was wondering how far she was to be trusted.

“You may have perfect confidence in me, Lester,” she said; “my word ought to be sufficient,” as if quite divining his thoughts. “You need have no fear; I will be true to you.”

“I shall remain away until this affair has blown over,” he replied. “I can live as well in one part of the country as another, thanks to the income my father left me.” He laid great stress on the last sentence; he wanted to impress her with the fact that he had plenty of money. “She must never know,” he told himself, “that he had so riotously squandered the vast inheritance that had been left him, and he was standing on the verge of ruin.” A marriage with the wealthy heiress would save him at the eleventh hour. “I will trust you, Pluma,” he continued. “I know, you will keep your vow.”

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The false ring of apparent candor did not deceive her; she knew it would be a case of diamond cut diamond.

“That is spoken like your own generous self, Lester,” she said, softly, clasping his hands in her own white, jeweled ones. “You pained me by your distrust.”

He saw she was anxious to get away from him, and he bit his lip with vexation; her pretty, coaxing manner did not deceive him one whit, yet he clasped his arms in a very lover-like fashion around her as he replied:

“Forget that it ever existed, my darling. Where there is such ardent, passionate love, there is always more or less jealousy and fear. Do you realize I am making an alien of myself for your sweet sake? I could never refuse you a request. Your slightest will has been my law. Be kind to me, Pluma.”

She did try to be more than agreeable and fascinating.

“I must remove all doubts from his mind,” she thought. “I shall probably be Rex’s wife when we meet again. Then his threats will be useless; I will scornfully deny it. He has no proofs.”

She talked to him so gracefully, so tenderly, at times, he was almost tempted to believe she actually cared for him more than she would admit. Still he allowed it would do no harm to keep a strict watch of her movements.

“Good-bye, Pluma, dearest,” he said, “I shall keep you constantly advised of my whereabouts. As soon as matters can be arranged satisfactorily, I am coming back to claim you.”

Another moment and she was alone, walking slowly back to the house, a very torrent of anger in her proud, defiant heart.

“I must hurry matters up, delays are dangerous,” she thought, walking slowly up the broad path toward the house.

Slowly the long hours of the night dragged themselves by, yet Daisy did not return to Glengrove. The hours lengthened into days, and days into weeks, still there was no trace of her to be found. Gertie’s explanation readily accounted for her absence.

“She preferred to leave us rather than deliver my note,” she said, angrily; “and I for one am not sorry she has gone.”

“Rex did not mention having received it,” said Bess, “when he came with Birdie to bid us good-bye.”

“She probably read it and destroyed it,” said Gertie, “Well, there was nothing in it very particular. Toward the last of it I mentioned I would send the note over by Daisy Brooks, my mother’s companion. More than likely she took umbrage at that.”

131

“That was a very unkind remark,” asserted Eve. “You had no business to mention it at all; it was uncalled for.”

“Well, she would not have known it if she had not read it,” replied Gertie. “You must admit that.”

Mrs. Glenn felt sorely troubled. In the short time Daisy had been with her she had put unlimited confidence in her.

No one thought of searching for her; they all accepted the facts as the case presented itself to them. Daisy had certainly left them of her own free will.

Eve alone felt distressed.

“I know everything looks that way, but I shall never believe it,” she cried.

She remembered the conversation she had so lately had with Daisy. How she had clasped her loving little arms about her neck, crying out:

“Pray for me, Eve. I am sorely tried. My feet are on the edge of a precipice. No matter what I may be tempted to do, do not lose faith in me, Eve; always believe in me.”

Poor little Daisy! what was the secret sorrow that was goading her on to madness? Would she ever know?

Where was she now? Ah, who could tell?

A curious change seemed to come over romping, mischievous, merry Eve; she had grown silent and thoughtful.

“I could never believe any one in this world was true or pure again if I thought for one moment deceit lay brooding in a face so fair as little Daisy Brooks’s.”

CHAPTER XXVII.

The months flew quickly by; the cold winter had slipped away, and the bright green grass and early violets were sprinkling the distant hill-slopes. The crimson-breasted robins were singing in the budding branches of the trees, and all Nature reminded one the glorious spring had come.

Rex Lyon stood upon the porch of Whitestone Hall gazing up at the white, fleecy clouds that scudded over the blue sky, lost in deep thought.

He was the same handsome, debonair Rex, but ah, how changed! The merry, laughing brown eyes looked silent and grave enough now, and the lips the drooping brown mustache covered rarely smiled. Even his voice seemed to have a deeper tone.

He had done the one thing that morning which his mother had asked him to do with her dying breath––he had asked Pluma Hurlhurst to be his wife.

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The torture of the task seemed to grow upon him as the weeks rolled by, and in desperation he told himself he must settle the matter at once, or he would not have the strength to do it.

He never once thought what he should do with his life after he married her. He tried to summon up courage to tell her the story of his marriage, that his hopes, his heart, and his love all lay in the grave of his young wife. Poor Rex, he could not lay bare that sweet, sad secret; he could not have borne her questions, her wonder, her remarks, and have lived; his dead love was far too sacred for that; he could not take the treasured love-story from his heart and hold it up to public gaze. It would have been easier for him to tear the living, beating heart from his breast than to do this.

He had walked into the parlor that morning, where he knew he should find Pluma. She was standing before the fire. Although it was early spring the mornings were chilly, and a cheerful fire burned in the grate, throwing a bright, glowing radiance over the room and over the exquisite morning toilet of white cashmere, with its white lace frills, relieved here and there with coquettish dashes of scarlet blossoms, which Pluma wore, setting off her graceful figure to such queenly advantage.

Rex looked at her, at the imperious beauty any man might have been proud to win, secretly hoping she would refuse him.

“Good-morning, Rex,” she said, holding out her white hands to him. “I am glad you have come to talk to me. I was watching you walking up and down under the trees, and you looked so lonely I half made up my mind to join you.”

A lovely color was deepening in her cheeks, and her eyes drooped shyly. He broke right into the subject at once while he had the courage to do it.

“I have something to say to you, Pluma,” he began, leading her to an adjacent sofa and seating himself beside her. “I want to ask you if you will be my wife.” He looked perhaps the more confused of the two. “I will do my best to make you happy,” he continued. “I can not say that I will make a model husband, but I will say I will do my best.”

There was a minute’s silence, awkward enough for both.

“You have asked me to be your wife, Rex, but you have not said one word of loving me.”

The remark was so unexpected Rex seemed for a few moments to be unable to reply to it. Looking at the eager, expectant face turned toward him, it appeared ungenerous and unkind not to give her one affectionate word. Yet he did not133know how to say it; he had never spoken a loving word to any one except Daisy, his fair little child-bride.

He tried hard to put the memory of Daisy away from him as he answered:

“The question is so important that most probably I have thought more of it than of any words which should go with it.”

“Oh, that is it,” returned Pluma, with a wistful little laugh. “Most men, when they ask women to marry them, say something of love, do they not?”

“Yes,” he replied, absently.

“You have had no experience,” laughed Pluma, archly.

She was sorely disappointed. She had gone over in her own imagination this very scene a thousand times, of the supreme moment he would clasp his arms around her, telling her in glowing, passionate words how dearly he loved her and how wretched his life would be without her. He did nothing of the kind.

Rex was thinking he would have given anything to have been able to make love to her––anything for the power of saying tender words––she looked so loving.

Her dark, beautiful face was so near him, and her graceful figure so close, that he could have wound his arm around her, but he did not. In spite of every resolve, he thought of Daisy the whole time. How different that other love-making had been! How his heart throbbed, and every endearing name he could think of trembled on his lips, as he strained Daisy to his heart when she had bashfully consented to be his wife!

That love-making was real substance; this one only the shadow of love.

“You have not answered my question, Pluma. Will you be my wife?”

Pluma raised her dark, beautiful face, radiant with the light of love, to his.

“If I consent will you promise to love me better than anything else or any one in the wide world?”

“I will devote my whole life to you, study your every wish,” he answered, evasively.

How was she to know he had given all his heart to Daisy?

She held out her hands to him with a charming gesture of affection. He took them and kissed them; he could do neither more nor less.

“I will be your wife, Rex,” she said, with a tremulous, wistful sigh.

“Thank you, Pluma,” he returned, gently, bending down and kissing the beautiful crimson lips; “you shall never regret134it. You are so kind, I am going to impose on your good nature. You have promised me you will be my wife––when may I claim you, Pluma?”

“Do you wish it to be soon?” she asked, hesitatingly, wondering how he would answer her.

“Yes,” he said, absently; “the sooner it is over the better I shall be pleased.”

She looked up into his face, at a loss how to interpret the words.

“You shall set the day, Rex,” she replied.

“I have your father’s consent that it may take place just as soon as possible, in case you promised to marry me,” he said. “Suppose it takes place in a fortnight, say––will that be too soon for you?”

She gave a little scream of surprise. “As soon as that?” she murmured; but ended by readily consenting.

He thanked her and kissed her once more. After a few quiet words they parted––she, happy in the glamour of her love-dream; he, praying to Heaven from the depths of his miserable heart, to give him strength to carry out the rash vow which had been wrung from his unwilling lips.

In his heart Rex knew no one but Daisy could ever reign. Dead, he was devoted to her memory.

His life was narrowing down. He was all kindness, consideration and devotion; but the one supreme magnet of all––love––was wanting.

In vain Pluma exerted all her wondrous powers of fascination to win him more completely. How little he dreamed of the depths of love which controlled that passionate heart, every throb of which was for him––that to have won from him one token of warm affection she would have given all she held dear in this world.

“How does it happen, Rex,” she asked, one evening, “you have not asked me to sing to you since you have asked me to be your wife? Music used to be such a bond of sympathy between us.”

There was both love and reproach in her voice. He heard neither. He had simply forgotten it.

“I have been thinking of other things, I presume. Allow me to make up for it at once, however, by asking you if you will sing for me now.”

The tears came to her dark, flashing eyes, but she forced them bravely back. She had hoped he would clasp her in his arms, whispering some sweet compliment, then say to her “Darling, won’t you sing to me now?”

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