Slowly the long hours of the night dragged themselves by, yet Daisy did not return to Glengrove. The hours lengthened into days, and days into weeks, still there was no trace of her to be found. Gertie"s explanation readily accounted for her absence.
"She preferred to leave us rather than deliver my note," she said, angrily; "and I for one am not sorry she has gone."
"Rex did not mention having received it," said Bess, "when he came with Birdie to bid us good-bye."
"She probably read it and destroyed it," said Gertie, "Well, there was nothing in it very particular. Toward the last of it I mentioned I would send the note over by Daisy Brooks, my mother"s companion. More than likely she took umbrage at that."
"That was a very unkind remark," a.s.serted Eve. "You had no business to mention it at all; it was uncalled for."
"Well, she would not have known it if she had not read it," replied Gertie. "You must admit that."
Mrs. Glenn felt sorely troubled. In the short time Daisy had been with her she had put unlimited confidence in her.
No one thought of searching for her; they all accepted the facts as the case presented itself to them. Daisy had certainly left them of her own free will.
Eve alone felt distressed.
"I know everything looks that way, but I shall never believe it," she cried.
She remembered the conversation she had so lately had with Daisy. How she had clasped her loving little arms about her neck, crying out:
"Pray for me, Eve. I am sorely tried. My feet are on the edge of a precipice. No matter what I may be tempted to do, do not lose faith in me, Eve; always believe in me."
Poor little Daisy! what was the secret sorrow that was goading her on to madness? Would she ever know?
Where was she now? Ah, who could tell?
A curious change seemed to come over romping, mischievous, merry Eve; she had grown silent and thoughtful.
"I could never believe any one in this world was true or pure again if I thought for one moment deceit lay brooding in a face so fair as little Daisy Brooks"s."
CHAPTER XXVII.
The months flew quickly by; the cold winter had slipped away, and the bright green gra.s.s and early violets were sprinkling the distant hill-slopes. The crimson-breasted robins were singing in the budding branches of the trees, and all Nature reminded one the glorious spring had come.
Rex Lyon stood upon the porch of Whitestone Hall gazing up at the white, fleecy clouds that scudded over the blue sky, lost in deep thought.
He was the same handsome, debonair Rex, but ah, how changed! The merry, laughing brown eyes looked silent and grave enough now, and the lips the drooping brown mustache covered rarely smiled. Even his voice seemed to have a deeper tone.
He had done the one thing that morning which his mother had asked him to do with her dying breath--he had asked Pluma Hurlhurst to be his wife.
The torture of the task seemed to grow upon him as the weeks rolled by, and in desperation he told himself he must settle the matter at once, or he would not have the strength to do it.
He never once thought what he should do with his life after he married her. He tried to summon up courage to tell her the story of his marriage, that his hopes, his heart, and his love all lay in the grave of his young wife. Poor Rex, he could not lay bare that sweet, sad secret; he could not have borne her questions, her wonder, her remarks, and have lived; his dead love was far too sacred for that; he could not take the treasured love-story from his heart and hold it up to 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 should find Pluma. She was standing before the fire. Although it was early spring the mornings were chilly, and a cheerful fire burned in the grate, throwing a bright, glowing radiance over the room and over the exquisite morning toilet of white cashmere, with its white lace frills, relieved here and there with coquettish dashes of scarlet blossoms, which Pluma wore, setting off her graceful figure to such queenly advantage.
Rex looked at her, at the imperious beauty any man might have been proud to win, secretly hoping she would refuse him.
"Good-morning, Rex," she said, holding out her white hands to him. "I am glad you have come to talk to me. I was watching you walking up and down under the trees, and you looked so lonely I half made up my mind to join you."
A lovely color was deepening in her cheeks, and her eyes drooped shyly. He broke right into the subject at once while he had the courage to do it.
"I have something to say to you, Pluma," he began, leading her to an adjacent sofa and seating himself beside her. "I want to ask you if you 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 say that 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 one word of loving me."
The remark was so unexpected Rex seemed for a few moments to be unable to reply to it. Looking at the eager, expectant face turned toward him, it appeared ungenerous and unkind not to give her one affectionate word. Yet he did not know how to say it; he had never spoken a loving word to any one except Daisy, his fair little child-bride.
He tried hard to put the memory of Daisy away from him as he answered:
"The question is so important that most probably I have thought more of it than of any words which should go with it."
"Oh, that is it," returned Pluma, with a wistful little laugh. "Most men, when they ask women to marry them, say something of love, do they not?"
"Yes," he replied, absently.
"You have had no experience," laughed Pluma, archly.
She was sorely disappointed. She had gone over in her own imagination this very scene a thousand times, of the supreme moment he would clasp his arms around her, telling her in glowing, pa.s.sionate words how dearly he loved her and how wretched his life would be without her. He did nothing of the kind.
Rex was thinking he would have given anything to have been able to make love to her--anything for the power of saying tender words--she looked so loving.
Her dark, beautiful face was so near him, and her graceful figure so close, that he could have wound his arm around her, but he did not. In spite of every resolve, he thought of Daisy the whole time. How different that other love-making had been! How his heart throbbed, and every endearing name he could think of trembled on his lips, as he strained Daisy to his heart when she had bashfully consented to be his wife!
That love-making was real substance; this one only the shadow of love.
"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 or any one in the wide world?"
"I will devote my whole life to you, study your every wish," he answered, 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. He took them and kissed them; he could do neither more nor less.
"I will be your wife, Rex," she said, with a tremulous, wistful sigh.