On the day following Rex's return home, and the morning preceding the
events narrated in our last chapter, Mrs. Theodore Lyon sat in her
dressing-room eagerly awaiting her son; her eyebrows met in a dark
frown and her jeweled hands were locked tightly together in her lap.
"Rex is like his father," she mused; "he will not be coerced in this
matter of marriage. He is reckless and willful, yet kind of heart. For
long years I have set my heart upon this marriage between Rex and
Pluma Hurlhurst. I say again it must be!" Mrs. Lyon idolized her only
son. "He would be a fitting mate for a queen," she told herself. The
proud, peerless beauty of the haughty young heiress of Whitestone Hall
pleased her. "She and no other shall be Rex's wife," she said.
When Rex accepted the invitation to visit Whitestone Hall she smiled
complacently.
"It can end in but one way," she told herself; "Rex will bring Pluma
home as his bride."
Quite unknown to him, his elegant home had been undergoing repairs for
months.
"There will be nothing wanting for the reception of his bride," she
said, viewing the magnificent suites of rooms which contained every
luxury that taste could suggest or money procure.
Then came Rex's letter like a thunderbolt from a clear sky begging her
not to mention the subject again, as he could never marry Pluma
Hurlhurst.
"I shall make a flying trip home," he said, "then I am going abroad."
She did not notice how white and worn her boy's handsome face had
grown when she greeted him the night before, in the flickering light
of the chandelier. She would not speak to him then of the subject
uppermost in her mind.
"Retire to your room at once, Rex," she said, "your journey has
wearied you. See, it is past midnight already. I will await you
to-morrow morning in my boudoir; we will breakfast there together."
She leaned back against the crimson velvet cushions, tapping her satin
quilted slipper restlessly on the thick velvet carpet, ever and anon
glancing at her jeweled watch, wondering what could possibly detain
Rex.
She heard the sound of a quick, familiar footstep in the corridor; a
moment later Rex was by her side. As she stooped down to kiss his face
she noticed, in the clear morning light, how changed he was. Her
jeweled hands lingered on his dark curls and touched his bright, proud
face. "What had come over this handsome, impetuous son of hers?" she
asked herself.
"You have been ill, Rex," she said, anxiously, "and you have not told
me."
"I have not, indeed, mother," he replied.
"Not ill? Why, my dear boy, your face is haggard and worn, and there
are lines upon it that ought not to have been there for years. Rex,"
she said, drawing him down on the sofa beside her, and holding his
strong white hands tightly clasped in her own, "I do not want to tease
you or bring up an unpleasant subject, but I had so hoped, my boy, you
would not come alone. I have hoped and prayed, morning and night, you
would bring home a bride, and that bride would be--Pluma Hurlhurst."
Rex staggered from her arms with a groan. He meant to tell her the
whole truth, but the words seemed to fail him.
"Mother," he said, turning toward her a face white with anguish, "in
Heaven's name, never mention love or marriage to me again or I shall
go mad. I shall never bring a bride here."
"He has had a quarrel with Pluma," she thought.
"Rex," she said, placing her hands on his shoulders and looking down
into his face, "tell me, has Pluma Hurlhurst refused you? Tell me what
is the matter, Rex. I am your mother, and I have the right to know.
The one dream of my life has been to see Pluma your wife; I can not
give up that hope. If it is a quarrel it can be easily adjusted;
'true love never runs smooth,' you know."
"It is not that, mother," said Rex, wearily bowing his head on his
hands.
Then something like the truth seemed to dawn upon her.
"My son," she said, in a slight tone of irritation, "Pluma wrote me of
that little occurrence at the lawn fête. Surely you are not in love
with that girl you were so foolishly attentive to--the overseer's
niece, I believe it was. I can not, I will not, believe a son of mine
could so far forget his pride as to indulge in such mad, reckless
folly. Remember, Rexford," she cried, in a voice fairly trembling with
suppressed rage, "I could never forgive such an act of recklessness.
She should never come here, I warn you."
"Mother," said Rex, raising his head proudly, and meeting the flashing
scorn of her eyes unflinchingly, "you must not speak so; I--can not
listen to it."
"By what right do you forbid me to speak of that girl as I choose?"
she demanded, in a voice hard and cold with intense passion.
Once or twice Rex paced the length of the room, his arms folded upon
his breast. Suddenly he stopped before her.
"What is this girl to you?" she asked.
With white, quivering lips Rex answered back:
"She is my wife!"
The words were spoken almost in a whisper, but they echoed like
thunder through the room, and seemed to repeat themselves, over and
over again, during the moment of utter silence that ensued. Rex had
told his pitiful secret, and felt better already, as if the worst was
over; while his mother stood motionless and dumb, glaring upon him
with a baleful light in her eyes. He had dashed down in a single
instant the hopes she had built up for long years.
"Let me tell you about it, mother," he said, kneeling at her feet.
"The worst and bitterest part is yet to come."
"Yes, tell me," his mother said, hoarsely.
Without lifting up his bowed head, or raising his voice, which was
strangely sad and low, Rex told his story--every word of it: how his
heart had went out to the sweet-faced, golden-haired little creature
whom he found fast asleep under the blossoming magnolia-tree in the
morning sunshine; how he protected the shrinking, timid little
creature from the cruel insults of Pluma Hurlhurst; how he persuaded
her to marry him out in the starlight, and how they had agreed to meet
on the morrow--that morrow on which he found the cottage empty and
his child-bride gone; of his search for her, and--oh, cruelest and
bitterest of all!--where and with whom he found her; how he had left
her lying among the clover, loving her too madly to curse her, yet
praying Heaven to strike him dead then and there. Daisy--sweet little,
blue-eyed Daisy was false; he never cared to look upon a woman's face
again. He spoke of Daisy as his wife over and over again, the name
lingering tenderly on his lips. He did not see how, at the mention of
the words, "My wife," his mother's face grew more stern and rigid, and
she clutched her hands so tightly together that the rings she wore
bruised her tender flesh, yet she did not seem to feel the pain.
She saw the terrible glance that leaped into his eyes when he
mentioned Stanwick's name, and how he ground his teeth, like one
silently breathing a terrible curse. Then his voice fell to a
whisper.
"I soon repented of my harshness," he said, "and I went back to
Elmwood; but, oh, the pity of it--the pity of it--I was too late;
little Daisy, my bride, was dead! She had thrown herself down a shaft
in a delirium. I would have followed her, but they held me back. I can
scarcely realize it, mother," he cried. "The great wonder is that I do
not go insane."
Mrs. Lyon had heard but one word--"Dead." This girl who had inveigled
her handsome son into a low marriage was dead. Rex was free--free to
marry the bride whom she had selected for him. Yet she dare not
mention that thought to him now--no, not now; she must wait a little.
No pity lurked in her heart for the poor little girl-bride whom she
supposed lying cold and still in death, whom her son so wildly
mourned; she only realized her darling Rex was free. What mattered it
to her at what bitter a cost Rex was free? She should yet see her
darling hopes realized. Pluma should be his wife, just as sure as they
both lived.
"I have told you all now, mother," Rex said, in conclusion; "you must
comfort me, for Heaven knows I need all of your sympathy. You will
forgive me, mother," he said. "You would have loved Daisy, too, if you
had seen her; I shall always believe, through some enormous villainy,
Stanwick must have tempted her. I shall follow him to the ends of the
earth. I shall wring the truth from his lips. I must go away," he
cried--"anywhere, everywhere, trying to forget my great sorrow. How am
I to bear it? Has Heaven no pity, that I am so sorely tried?"
At that moment little Birdie came hobbling into the room, and for a
brief moment Rex forgot his great grief in greeting his little
sister.
"Oh, you darling brother Rex," she cried, clinging to him and laughing
and crying in one breath, "I told them to wake me up sure, if you came
in the night. I dreamed I heard your voice. You see, it must have been
real, but I couldn't wake up; and this morning I heard every one
saying: 'Rex is here, Rex is here,' and I couldn't wait another
moment, but I came straight down to you."
Rex kissed the pretty little dimpled face, and the little chubby hands
that stroked his hair so tenderly.
"Why, you have been crying, Rex," she cried out, in childish wonder.
"See, there are tear-drops on your eyelashes--one fell on my hand.
What is the matter, brother dear, are you not happy?"
Birdie put her two little soft white arms around his neck, laying her
cheek close to his in her pretty, childish, caressing way.
He tried to laugh lightly, but the laugh had no mirth in it.
"You must run away and play, Birdie, and not annoy your brother," said
Mrs. Lyon, disengaging the child's clinging arms from Rex's neck.
"That child is growing altogether too observing of late."
"Child!" cried Birdie. "I am ten years old. I shall soon be a young
lady like Bess and Gertie, over at Glengrove."
"And Eve," suggested Rex, the shadow of a smile flickering around his
mouth.
"No, not like Eve," cried the child, gathering up her crutch and
sun-hat as she limped toward the door; "Eve is not a young lady, she's
a Tom-boy; she wears short dresses and chases the hounds around, while
the other two wear silk dresses with big, big trains and have beaus to
hold their fans and handkerchiefs. I am going to take my new books you
sent me down to my old seat on the stone wall and read those pretty
stories there. I don't know if I will be back for lunch or not," she
called back; "if I don't, will you come for me, Brother Rex?"
"Yes, dear," he made answer, "of course I will."
The lunch hour came and went, still Birdie did not put in an
appearance. At last Rex was beginning to feel uneasy about her.
"You need not be the least alarmed," said Mrs. Lyon, laughingly, "the
child is quite spoiled; she is like a romping gypsy, more content to
live out of doors in a tent than to remain indoors. She is probably
waiting down on the stone wall for you to come for her and carry her
home as you used to do. You had better go down and see, Rex; it is
growing quite dark."
And Rex, all unconscious of the strange, invisible thread which fate
was weaving so closely about him, quickly made his way through the
fast-gathering darkness down the old familiar path which led through
the odorous orange groves to the old stone wall, guided by the shrill
treble of Birdie's childish voice, which he heard in the distance,
mingled with the plaintive murmur of the sad sea-waves--those waves
that seemed ever murmuring in their song the name of Daisy. Even the
subtle breeze seemed to whisper of her presence.