Kitabı oku: «Daisy Brooks: or, A Perilous Love», sayfa 9
CHAPTER XIX
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.
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 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.
