CHAPTER XIX.
On the day following Rex's return home, and the morning preceding theevents narrated in our last chapter, Mrs. Theodore Lyon sat in herdressing-room eagerly awaiting her son; her eyebrows met in a darkfrown and her jeweled hands were locked tightly together in her lap.
"Rex is like his father," she mused; "he will not be coerced in thismatter of marriage. He is reckless and willful, yet kind of heart. Forlong years I have set my heart upon this marriage between Rex andPluma Hurlhurst. I say again it must be!" Mrs. Lyon idolized her onlyson. "He would be a fitting mate for a queen," she told herself. Theproud, peerless beauty of the haughty young heiress of Whitestone Hallpleased her. "She and no other shall be Rex's wife," she said.
When Rex accepted the invitation to visit Whitestone Hall she smiledcomplacently.
"It can end in but one way," she told herself; "Rex will bring Plumahome as his bride."
Quite unknown to him, his elegant home had been undergoing repairs formonths.
"There will be nothing wanting for the reception of his bride," shesaid, viewing the magnificent suites of rooms which contained everyluxury that taste could suggest or money procure.
Then came Rex's letter like a thunderbolt from a clear sky begging hernot to mention the subject again, as he could never marry PlumaHurlhurst.
"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 hadgrown when she greeted him the night before, in the flickering lightof the chandelier. She would not speak to him then of the subjectuppermost in her mind.
"Retire to your room at once, Rex," she said, "your journey haswearied you. See, it is past midnight already. I will await youto-morrow morning in my boudoir; we will breakfast there together."
She leaned back against the crimson velvet cushions, tapping her satinquilted slipper restlessly on the thick velvet carpet, ever and anonglancing at her jeweled watch, wondering what could possibly detainRex.
She heard the sound of a quick, familiar footstep in the corridor; amoment later Rex was by her side. As she stooped down to kiss his faceshe noticed, in the clear morning light, how changed he was. Herjeweled hands lingered on his dark curls and touched his bright, proudface. "What had come over this handsome, impetuous son of hers?" sheasked herself.
"You have been ill, Rex," she said, anxiously, "and you have not toldme."
"I have not, indeed, mother," he replied.
"Not ill? Why, my dear boy, your face is haggard and worn, and thereare 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 hisstrong white hands tightly clasped in her own, "I do not want to teaseyou or bring up an unpleasant subject, but I had so hoped, my boy, youwould not come alone. I have hoped and prayed, morning and night, youwould bring home a bride, and that bride would be--Pluma Hurlhurst."
Rex staggered from her arms with a groan. He meant to tell her thewhole truth, but the words seemed to fail him.
"Mother," he said, turning toward her a face white with anguish, "inHeaven's name, never mention love or marriage to me again or I shallgo 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 downinto his face, "tell me, has Pluma Hurlhurst refused you? Tell me whatis 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 notgive 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 hishands.
Then something like the truth seemed to dawn upon her.
"My son," she said, in a slight tone of irritation, "Pluma wrote me ofthat little occurrence at the lawn fete. Surely you are not in lovewith that girl you were so foolishly attentive to--the overseer'sniece, I believe it was. I can not, I will not, believe a son of minecould so far forget his pride as to indulge in such mad, recklessfolly. Remember, Rexford," she cried, in a voice fairly trembling withsuppressed 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 flashingscorn of her eyes unflinchingly, "you must not speak so; I--can notlisten 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 uponhis 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 likethunder through the room, and seemed to repeat themselves, over andover again, during the moment of utter silence that ensued. Rex hadtold his pitiful secret, and felt better already, as if the worst wasover; while his mother stood motionless and dumb, glaring upon himwith a baleful light in her eyes. He had dashed down in a singleinstant 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 wasstrangely sad and low, Rex told his story--every word of it: how hisheart had went out to the sweet-faced, golden-haired little creaturewhom he found fast asleep under the blossoming magnolia-tree in themorning sunshine; how he protected the shrinking, timid littlecreature from the cruel insults of Pluma Hurlhurst; how he persuadedher to marry him out in the starlight, and how they had agreed to meeton the morrow--that morrow on which he found the cottage empty andhis child-bride gone; of his search for her, and--oh, cruelest andbitterest of all!--where and with whom he found her; how he had lefther lying among the clover, loving her too madly to curse her, yetpraying 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 faceagain. He spoke of Daisy as his wife over and over again, the namelingering tenderly on his lips. He did not see how, at the mention ofthe words, "My wife," his mother's face grew more stern and rigid, andshe clutched her hands so tightly together that the rings she worebruised her tender flesh, yet she did not seem to feel the pain.
She saw the terrible glance that leaped into his eyes when hementioned Stanwick's name, and how he ground his teeth, like onesilently breathing a terrible curse. Then his voice fell to awhisper.
"I soon repented of my harshness," he said, "and I went back toElmwood; 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 shaftin a delirium. I would have followed her, but they held me back. I canscarcely realize it, mother," he cried. "The great wonder is that I donot go insane."
Mrs. Lyon had heard but one word--"Dead." This girl who had inveigledher handsome son into a low marriage was dead. Rex was free--free tomarry the bride whom she had selected for him. Yet she dare notmention 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 shesupposed lying cold and still in death, whom her son so wildlymourned; she only realized her darling Rex was free. What mattered itto her at what bitter a cost Rex was free? She should yet see herdarling hopes realized. Pluma should be his wife, just as sure as theyboth lived.
"I have told you all now, mother," Rex said, in conclusion; "you mustcomfort me, for Heaven knows I need all of your sympathy. You willforgive me, mother," he said. "You would have loved Daisy, too, if youhad seen her; I shall always believe, through some enormous villainy,Stanwick must have tempted her. I shall follow him to the ends of theearth. I shall wring the truth from his lips. I must go away," hecried--"anywhere, everywhere, trying to forget my great sor
row. How amI 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 abrief moment Rex forgot his great grief in greeting his littlesister.
"Oh, you darling brother Rex," she cried, clinging to him and laughingand crying in one breath, "I told them to wake me up sure, if you camein the night. I dreamed I heard your voice. You see, it must have beenreal, but I couldn't wake up; and this morning I heard every onesaying: 'Rex is here, Rex is here,' and I couldn't wait anothermoment, but I came straight down to you."
Rex kissed the pretty little dimpled face, and the little chubby handsthat 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 hercheek 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," saidMrs. 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 younglady like Bess and Gertie, over at Glengrove."
"And Eve," suggested Rex, the shadow of a smile flickering around hismouth.
"No, not like Eve," cried the child, gathering up her crutch andsun-hat as she limped toward the door; "Eve is not a young lady, she'sa Tom-boy; she wears short dresses and chases the hounds around, whilethe other two wear silk dresses with big, big trains and have beaus tohold their fans and handkerchiefs. I am going to take my new books yousent me down to my old seat on the stone wall and read those prettystories there. I don't know if I will be back for lunch or not," shecalled 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 anappearance. At last Rex was beginning to feel uneasy about her.
"You need not be the least alarmed," said Mrs. Lyon, laughingly, "thechild is quite spoiled; she is like a romping gypsy, more content tolive out of doors in a tent than to remain indoors. She is probablywaiting down on the stone wall for you to come for her and carry herhome as you used to do. You had better go down and see, Rex; it isgrowing quite dark."
And Rex, all unconscious of the strange, invisible thread which fatewas weaving so closely about him, quickly made his way through thefast-gathering darkness down the old familiar path which led throughthe odorous orange groves to the old stone wall, guided by the shrilltreble of Birdie's childish voice, which he heard in the distance,mingled with the plaintive murmur of the sad sea-waves--those wavesthat seemed ever murmuring in their song the name of Daisy. Even thesubtle breeze seemed to whisper of her presence.