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 an open 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."
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.
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 her head 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! Half of 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 jealous _now_ of 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."