"I am very grateful to you for the service you have rendered my little
sister," said Rex, extending his hand to the little veiled figure
standing in the shade of the orange-trees. "Allow me to thank you for
it."
Poor Daisy! she dared not speak lest the tones of her voice should
betray her identity.
"I must for evermore be as one dead to him," she whispered to her
wildly beating heart.
Rex wondered why the little, fluttering, cold fingers dropped so
quickly from his clasp; he thought he heard a stifled sigh; the
slight, delicate form looked strangely familiar, yet he could see it
was neither Eve, Gerty, nor Bess. She bowed her head with a few
low-murmured words he scarcely caught, and the next instant the little
figure was lost to sight in the darkness beyond.
"Who was that, Birdie?" he asked, scarcely knowing what prompted the
question.
Alas for the memory of childhood! poor little Birdie had quite
forgotten.
"It is so stupid of me to forget, but when I see her again I shall ask
her and try and remember it then."
"It is of no consequence," said Rex, raising the little figure in his
arms and bearing her quickly up the graveled path to the house.
As he neared the house Rex observed there was great confusion among
the servants; there was a low murmur of voices and lights moving to
and fro.
"What is the matter, Parker?" cried Rex, anxiously, of the servant who
came out to meet him.
"Mrs. Lyon is very ill, sir," he answered, gravely; "it is a
paralytic stroke the doctor says. We could not find you, so we went
for Doctor Elton at once."
It seemed but a moment since he had parted from his mother in the
gathering twilight, to search for Birdie. His mother very ill--dear
Heaven! he could scarcely realize it.
"Oh, take me to mother, Rex!" cried Birdie, clinging to him piteously.
"Oh, it can not, it cannot be true; take me to her, Rex!"
The sound of hushed weeping fell upon his ears and seemed to bring to
him a sense of what was happening. Like one in a dream he hurried
along the corridor toward his mother's boudoir. He heard his mother's
voice calling for him.
"Where is my son?" she moaned.
He opened the door quietly and went in. Her dark eyes opened feebly as
Rex entered, and she held out her arms to him.
"Oh, my son, my son!" she cried; "thank Heaven you are here!"
She clung to him, weeping bitterly. It was the first time he had ever
seen tears in his mother's eyes, and he was touched beyond words.
"It may not be as bad as you think, mother," he said; "there is always
hope while there is life."
She raised her face to her son's, and he saw there was a curious
whiteness upon it.
The large, magnificent room was quite in shadow; soft shadows filled
the corners; the white statuettes gleamed in the darkness; one blind
was half drawn, and through it came the soft, sweet moonlight. A large
night-lamp stood upon the table, but it was carefully shaded. Faint
glimmers of light fell upon the bed, with its costly velvet hangings,
and on the white, drawn face that lay on the pillows, with the gray
shadow of death stealing softly over it--the faint, filmy look that
comes only into eyes that death has begun to darken.
His mother had never been demonstrative; she had never cared for many
caresses; but now her son's love seemed her only comfort.
"Rex," she said, clinging close to him, "I feel that I am dying. Send
them all away--my hours are numbered--a mist rises before my face,
Rex. Oh, dear Heaven! I can not see you--I have lost my sight--my eyes
grow dim."
A cry came from Rex's lips.
"Mother, dear mother," he cried, "there is no pain in this world I
would not undergo for your dear sake!" he cried, kissing the
stiffening lips.
She laid her hands on the handsome head bent before her.
"Heaven bless you, my son," she murmured. "Oh, Rex, my hope and my
trust are in you!" she wailed. "Comfort me, calm me--I have suffered
so much. I have one last dying request to make of you, my son. You
will grant my prayer, Rex? Surely Heaven would not let you refuse my
last request!"
Rex clasped her in his arms. This was his lady-mother, whose proud,
calm, serene manner had always been perfect--whose fair, proud face
had never been stained with tears--whose lips had never been parted
with sighs or worn with entreaties.
It was so new to him, so terrible in its novelty, he could hardly
understand it. He threw his arms around her, and clasped her closely
to his breast.
"My dearest mother," he cried, "you know I would die for you if dying
would benefit you. Why do you doubt my willingness to obey your
wishes, whatever they may be? Whatever I can do to comfort you I will
surely do it, mother."
"Heaven bless you, Rex!" she cried, feebly caressing his face and his
bands. "You make death a thousand-fold more easy to bear, my darling,
only son!"
"My dear sir," said the doctor, bending over him gently, "I must
remind you your mother's life hangs on a thread. The least excitement,
the least agitation, and she will be dead before you can call for
help. No matter what she may say to you, listen and accede."
Rex bent down and kissed the pale, agitated face on the pillow.
"I will be careful of my dearest mother. Surely you may trust me," he
said.
"I do," replied the doctor, gravely. "Your mother's life, for the
present, lies in your hands."
"Is it true, Rex, that I must die?" she gasped. The look of anguish on
his face answered her. "Rex," she whispered, clinging like a child to
his strong white hands, "my hope and trust are in you, my only son. I
am going to put your love to the test, my boy. I beseech you to say
'Yes' to the last request I shall ever make of you. Heaven knows, Rex,
I would not mention it now, but I am dying--yes, dying, Rex."
"You need not doubt it, mother," he replied, earnestly, "I can not
refuse anything you may ask! Why should I?"
But, as he spoke, he had not the faintest idea of what he would be
asked to do. As he spoke his eyes caught the gleam of the moonlight
through the window, and his thoughts traveled for one moment to the
beloved face he had seen in the moonlight--how fair and innocent the
face was as they parted on the night they were wed! The picture of
that lonely young girl-wife, going home by herself, brought tears to
his eyes.
"Was there ever a fate so cruel?" he said to himself. "Who ever lost a
wife on his wedding-day?"
Surely there had never been a love-dream so sweet, so passionate, or
so bright as his. Surely there had never been one so rudely broken.
Poor little Daisy--his wife--lying cold and still in death. Even his
mother was to be taken from him.
The feeble pressure of his mother's hands recalled his wandering
thoughts.
"Listen, Rex," she whispered, faintly, "my moments are precious."
He felt his mother's arms clasp closely round his neck.
"Go on, mother," he said, gently.
"Rex, my son," she whispered, gaspingly, "I could not die and leave
the words unspoken. I want my race to live long generations after me.
Your poor little lame sister will go unmarried to the grave; and now
all rests with you, my only son. You understand me, Rex; you know the
last request I have to ask."
For the first time a cry came to Rex's lips; her words pierced like a
sword in his heart.
"Surely, mother, you do not mean--you do not think I could ever--"
The very horror of the thought seemed to completely unman him.
"You will marry again," she interrupted, finishing the sentence he
could not utter. "Remember, she whom you loved is dead. I would not
have asked this for long years to come, but I am dying--I must speak
now."
"My God, mother!" he cried out in agony, "ask anything but that. My
heart is torn and bleeding; have pity on me, have pity!"
Great drops of agony started on his brow; his whole frame shook with
agitation.
He tried to collect himself, to gather his scattered thoughts, to
realize the full import of the words she had spoken.
Marry again! Heaven pity him! How could he harbor such a thought for a
single instant, when he thought of the pale, cold face of little
Daisy--his fair young bride--whom he so madly loved, lying pale and
still in death, like a broken lily, down in the dark, bottomless pit
which never yielded up its terrible secrets!
"Rex," wailed his mother, feebly, gazing into his eyes with a suspense
heart-breaking to witness, "don't refuse me this the first prayer I
had ever made. If you mean to refuse it would be kinder far to plunge
a dagger into my heart and let me die at once. You can not refuse."
One trembling hand she laid on his breast, and with the other caressed
his face. "You are good and gentle of heart, Rex; the prayers of your
dying mother will touch you. Answer me, my son; tell me my proud old
race shall not die with you, and I will rest calmly in my grave."
The cold night-wind fanned his pallid brow, and the blood coursed
through his veins like molten lead. He saw the tears coursing down her
pale, withered cheeks. Ah, God! was it brave to speak the words which
must bring despair and death to her? Was it filial to send his mother
to her grave with sorrow and sadness in her heart? Could he thrust
aside his mother's loving arms and resist her dying prayer? Heaven
direct him, he was so sorely tried.
"Comfort me, Rex," she whispered, "think of how I have loved you since
you were a little child, how I used to kiss your rosy little face and
dream what your future would be like. It comes back to me now while I
plead to you with my fast-fleeting breath. Oh, answer me, Rex."
All the love and tenderness of the young man's impulsive heart was
stirred by the words. Never was a man so fearfully tried. Rex's
handsome face had grown white with emotion; deep shadows came into his
eyes. Ah, what could it matter now? His hopes were dead, his heart
crushed, yet how could he consent?
"Oh, Heaven, Rex!" she cried, "what does that look on your face mean?
What is it?"
The look of terror on her face seemed to force the mad words from his
lips, the magnetic gaze seemed to hold him spellbound. He bent over
hie mother and laid his fresh, brave young face on the cold, white
face of his dying mother.
"Promise me, Rex," she whispered.
"I promise, mother!" he cried. "God help me; if it will make your last
moments happier, I consent."
"Heaven bless you, my noble son!" whispered the quivering voice. "You
have taken the bitter sting from death, and filled my heart with
gratitude. Some day you will thank me for it, Rex."
They were uttered! Oh, fatal words! Poor Rex, wedded and parted, his
love-dream broken, how little he knew of the bitter grief which was to
accrue from that promise wrung from his white lips.
Like one in a dream he heard her murmur the name of Pluma Hurlhurst.
The power of speech seemed denied him; he knew what she meant. He
bowed his head on her cold hands.
"I have no heart to give her," he said, brokenly. "My heart is with
Daisy, my sweet little lost love."
Poor Rex! how little he knew Daisy was at that self-same moment
watching with beating heart the faint light of his window through the
branches of the trees--Daisy, whom he mourned as dead, alas! dead to
him forever, shut out from his life by the rash words of that fatally
cruel promise.