CHAPTER XXVII.
The months flew quickly by; the cold winter had slipped away, and thebright green grass and early violets were sprinkling the distanthill-slopes. The crimson-breasted robins were singing in the buddingbranches of the trees, and all Nature reminded one the glorious springhad come.
Rex Lyon stood upon the porch of Whitestone Hall gazing up at thewhite, fleecy clouds that scudded over the blue sky, lost in deepthought.
He was the same handsome, debonair Rex, but ah, how changed! Themerry, laughing brown eyes looked silent and grave enough now, and thelips the drooping brown mustache covered rarely smiled. Even his voiceseemed to have a deeper tone.
He had done the one thing that morning which his mother had asked himto do with her dying breath--he had asked Pluma Hurlhurst to be hiswife.
The torture of the task seemed to grow upon him as the weeks rolledby, and in desperation he told himself he must settle the matter atonce, or he would not have the strength to do it.
He never once thought what he should do with his life after he marriedher. He tried to summon up courage to tell her the story of hismarriage, that his hopes, his heart, and his love all lay in the graveof his young wife. Poor Rex, he could not lay bare that sweet, sadsecret; he could not have borne her questions, her wonder, herremarks, and have lived; his dead love was far too sacred for that; hecould not take the treasured love-story from his heart and hold it upto public gaze. It would have been easier for him to tear the living,beating heart from his breast than to do this.
He had walked into the parlor that morning, where he knew he shouldfind Pluma. She was standing before the fire. Although it was earlyspring the mornings were chilly, and a cheerful fire burned in thegrate, throwing a bright, glowing radiance over the room and over theexquisite morning toilet of white cashmere, with its white lacefrills, relieved here and there with coquettish dashes of scarletblossoms, which Pluma wore, setting off her graceful figure to suchqueenly advantage.
Rex looked at her, at the imperious beauty any man might have beenproud to win, secretly hoping she would refuse him.
"Good-morning, Rex," she said, holding out her white hands to him. "Iam glad you have come to talk to me. I was watching you walking up anddown under the trees, and you looked so lonely I half made up my mindto join you."
A lovely color was deepening in her cheeks, and her eyes droopedshyly. He broke right into the subject at once while he had thecourage to do it.
"I have something to say to you, Pluma," he began, leading her to anadjacent sofa and seating himself beside her. "I want to ask you ifyou will be my wife." He looked perhaps the more confused of the two."I will do my best to make you happy," he continued. "I can not saythat I will make a model husband, but I will say I will do my best."
There was a minute's silence, awkward enough for both.
"You have asked me to be your wife, Rex, but you have not said oneword of loving me."
The remark was so unexpected Rex seemed for a few moments to beunable to reply to it. Looking at the eager, expectant face turnedtoward him, it appeared ungenerous and unkind not to give her oneaffectionate word. Yet he did not know how to say it; he had neverspoken a loving word to any one except Daisy, his fair littlechild-bride.
He tried hard to put the memory of Daisy away from him as heanswered:
"The question is so important that most probably I have thought moreof it than of any words which should go with it."
"Oh, that is it," returned Pluma, with a wistful little laugh. "Mostmen, when they ask women to marry them, say something of love, do theynot?"
"Yes," he replied, absently.
"You have had no experience," laughed Pluma, archly.
She was sorely disappointed. She had gone over in her own imaginationthis very scene a thousand times, of the supreme moment he would clasphis arms around her, telling her in glowing, passionate words howdearly he loved her and how wretched his life would be without her. Hedid nothing of the kind.
Rex was thinking he would have given anything to have been able tomake love to her--anything for the power of saying tender words--shelooked so loving.
Her dark, beautiful face was so near him, and her graceful figure soclose, that he could have wound his arm around her, but he did not. Inspite of every resolve, he thought of Daisy the whole time. Howdifferent that other love-making had been! How his heart throbbed, andevery endearing name he could think of trembled on his lips, as hestrained Daisy to his heart when she had bashfully consented to be hiswife!
That love-making was real substance; this one only the shadow oflove.
"You have not answered my question, Pluma. Will you be my wife?"
Pluma raised her dark, beautiful face, radiant with the light of love,to his.
"If I consent will you promise to love me better than anything else orany one in the wide world?"
"I will devote my whole life to you, study your every wish," heanswered, evasively.
How was she to know he had given all his heart to Daisy?
She held out her hands to him with a charming gesture of affection. Hetook them and kissed them; he could do neither more nor less.
"I will be your wife, Rex," she said, with a tremulous, wistful sigh.
"Thank you, Pluma," he returned, gently, bending down and kissing thebeautiful crimson lips; "you shall never regret it. You are so kind,I am going to impose on your good nature. You have promised me youwill be my wife--when may I claim you, Pluma?"
"Do you wish it to be soon?" she asked, hesitatingly, wondering how hewould answer her.
"Yes," he said, absently; "the sooner it is over the better I shall bepleased."
She looked up into his face, at a loss how to interpret the words.
"You shall set the day, Rex," she replied.
"I have your father's consent that it may take place just as soon aspossible, in case you promised to marry me," he said. "Suppose ittakes place in a fortnight, say--will that be too soon for you?"
She gave a little scream of surprise. "As soon as that?" she murmured;but ended by readily consenting.
He thanked her and kissed her once more. After a few quiet words theyparted--she, happy in the glamour of her love-dream; he, praying toHeaven from the depths of his miserable heart, to give him strength tocarry out the rash vow which had been wrung from his unwilling lips.
In his heart Rex knew no one but Daisy could ever reign. Dead, he wasdevoted to her memory.
His life was narrowing down. He was all kindness, consideration anddevotion; but the one supreme magnet of all--love--was wanting.
In vain Pluma exerted all her wondrous powers of fascination to winhim more completely. How little he dreamed of the depths of love whichcontrolled that passionate heart, every throb of which was forhim--that to have won from him one token of warm affection she wouldhave given all she held dear in this world.
"How does it happen, Rex," she asked, one evening, "you have not askedme to sing to you since you have asked me to be your wife? Music usedto be such a bond of sympathy between us."
There was both love and reproach in her voice. He heard neither. Hehad simply forgotten it.
"I have been thinking of other things, I presume. Allow me to make upfor it at once, however, by asking you if you will sing for me now."
The tears came to her dark, flashing eyes, but she forced them bravelyback. She had hoped he would clasp her in his arms, whispering somesweet compliment, then say to her "Darling, won't you sing to menow?"
She swept toward the piano with the air of a queen.
"I want you to sit where I can see you, Rex," she demanded, prettily;"I like to watch your face when I sing you my favorite songs."
Rex drew his chair up close to the piano, laying his head backdreamily against the crimson cushions. He would not be obliged totalk; for once--just once--he would let his fancies roam where theywould. He had often heard Pluma sing before, but never in the wayshe sung to-night. A low, thrilling, seductive voice full ofpleading, pa
ssionate tenderness--a voice that whispered of thesweet irresistible power of love, that carried away the hearts ofher listeners as a strong current carries a leaflet.
Was it a dream, or was it the night wind breathing the name of Daisy?The tears rose in his eyes, and he started to his feet, pale andtrembling with agitation. Suddenly the music ceased.
"I did not think such a simple little melody had power to move you,"she said.
"Is it a new song?" he asked. "I do not remember having heard itbefore. What is the title of it?"
He did not notice her face had grown slightly pale under the soft,pearly light of the gleaming lamps, as she held the music out towardhim.
"It is a pretty title," she said, in her low, musical voice, "'DaisiesGrowing o'er my Darling's Grave.'"
In the terrible look of agony that swept over his handsome face, Plumaread the secret of his life; the one secret she had dreaded stood asclearly revealed to her as though it had been stamped in glowingletters upon his brow. She would have stood little chance of beingRex's wife if Daisy Brooks had lived.
Who would have dreamed the beautiful, proud young heiress could havecursed the very memory of the young girl whom she believed to bedead--lying all uncared for in a neglected, lonely grave?
Rex felt sorely disturbed. He never remembered how the remainder ofthe evening passed. Ah, heavens! how his mind wandered back to thatsweet love-dream so cruelly broken. A mist as of tears spread beforehis eyes, and shut the whole world from him as he glanced out of thewindow and up at the star-gemmed sky--that was his Daisy's home.
"I hope my little song has not cast a gloom over you, Rex?" she said,holding out her hands to him as she arose to bid him good-night--thosesmall white hands upon one of which his engagement-ring glowed with athousand prismatic hues.
"Why should it?" he asked, attempting to laugh lightly. "I admired itperhaps more than any other I have ever heard you sing."
Pluma well knew why.
"It was suggested to me by a strange occurrence. Shall I relate it toyou, Rex?"
He made some indistinct answer, little dreaming of how wofully thelittle anecdote would affect him.
"I do not like to bring up old, unpleasant subjects, Rex. But do youremember what the only quarrel we ever had was about, or rather _who_it was about?"
He looked at her in surprise; he had not the least idea of what shealluded to.
"Do you remember what a romantic interest you once took in ouroverseer's niece--the one who eloped with Lester Stanwick fromboarding-school--the one whose death we afterward read of? Her namewas Daisy--Daisy Brooks."
If she had suddenly plunged a dagger into his heart with her whitejeweled hands he could not have been more cruelly startled. He couldhave cried aloud with the sharp pain of unutterable anguish thatmemory brought him. His answer was a bow; he dared not look up lestthe haggard pain of his face should betray him.
"Her uncle (he was no relation, I believe, but she called him that)was more fond of her than words can express. I was driving along by anunfrequented road to-day when I came across a strange, pathetic sight.The poor old man was putting the last touches to a plain wooden crosshe had just erected under a magnolia-tree, which bore the simplewords: 'To the memory of Daisy Brooks, aged sixteen years.' Around thecross the grass was thickly sown with daisies.
"'She does not rest here,' the old man said, drawing his rough sleeveacross his tear-dimmed eyes; 'but the poor little girl loved this spotbest of any.'"
Pluma wondered why Rex took her just then in his arms for the firsttime and kissed her. He was thanking her in his heart; he could haveknelt to her for the kind way she had spoken of Daisy.
A little later he was standing by the open window of his own room inthe moonlight.
"My God!" he cried, burying his face in his hands, "this poor JohnBrooks did what I, her husband, should have done; but it is nottoo late now. I shall honor your memory, my darling; I shall havea costly marble monument erected to your memory, bearing theinscription: 'Sacred to the memory of Daisy, beloved wife of Rex Lyon,aged sixteen years.' Not Daisy Brooks, but Daisy Lyon. Mother is dead,what can secrecy avail now?"
He would not tell Pluma until the last moment. Straightway he ordereda magnificent monument from Baltimore--one of pure unblemished white,with an angel with drooping wings overlooking the tall white pillar.
When it arrived he meant to take Pluma there, and, reverently kneelingdown before her, tell her all the story of his sweet, sad love-dreamwith his face pressed close against the cold, pulseless marble--tellher of the love-dream which had left him but the ashes of dead hope.He sealed the letter and placed it with the out-going morning mail.
"Darling, how I wish I had not parted from you that night!" hesighed.
How bitterly he regretted he could not live that one brief hour of hispast life over again--how differently he would act!
Daisy Brooks; Or, A Perilous Love Page 27