CHAPTER XXI.
One thought only was uppermost in Daisy’s mind as she sped swiftly down the flower-bordered path in the moonlight, away from the husband who was still so dear to her.
“He did not recognize me,” she panted, in a little quivering voice. “Would he have cursed me, I wonder, had he known it was I?”
Down went the little figure on her knees in the dew-spangled grass with a sharp little cry.
“Oh, dear, what shall I do?” she cried out in sudden fright. “How could I know she was his sister when I told her my name?” A twig fell from the bough above her head brushed by some night-bird’s wing. “He is coming to search for me,” she whispered to herself.
A tremor ran over her frame; the color flashed into her cheek and parted lips, and a startled, wistful brightness crept into the blue eyes.
Ah! there never could have been a love so sweetly trustful and child-like as little Daisy’s for handsome Rex, her husband in name only.
Poor, little, innocent Daisy! if she had walked straight back to him, crying out, “Rex, Rex, see, I am Daisy, your wife!” how much untold sorrow might have been spared her.
Poor, little, lonely, heart-broken child-bride! how was she to know Rex had bitterly repented and come back to claim her, alas! too late; and how he mourned her, refusing to be comforted, and how they forced him back from the edge of the treacherous shaft lest he should plunge headlong down the terrible depths. Oh, if she had but known all this!