Daisy Brooks Part 22

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 suns.h.i.+ne; 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.

CHAPTER XX.

"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 ident.i.ty.

"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.