Opposition always strengthened Gertie’s decision, and she determined Daisy should take her note to Rex Lyon at all hazards.
The eloquent, mute appeal in the blue eyes raised to her own was utterly lost on her.
“The pride of these dependent companions is something ridiculous,” she went on, angrily. “You consider yourself too fine, I suppose, to be made a messenger of.” Gertie laughed aloud, a scornful, mocking laugh. “Pride and poverty do not work very well together. You may go to your room now and get your hat and shawl. I shall have the letter written in a very few minutes. There will be no use appealing to mamma. You ought to know by this time we overrule her objections always.”
It was too true, Mrs. Glenn never had much voice in a matter where Bess or Gertie had decided the case.
Like one in a dream Daisy turned from them. She never remembered how she gained her own room. With cold, tremulous fingers she fastened her hat, tucking the bright golden hair carefully beneath her veil, and threw her shawl over her shoulders, just as Gertie approached, letter in hand.
“You need not go around by the main road,” she said, “there is a much nearer path leading down to the stone wall. You need not wait for an answer: there will be none. The 123 servants over there are awkward, blundering creatures––do not trust it to them––you must deliver it to Rex himself.”
“I make one last appeal to you, Miss Gertie. Indeed, it is not pride that prompts me. I could not bear it. Have pity on me. You are gentle and kind to others; please, oh, please be merciful to me!”
“I have nothing more to say upon the subject––I have said you were to go. You act as if I were sending you to some place where you might catch the scarlet fever or the mumps. You amuse me; upon my word you do. Rex is not dangerous, neither is he a Bluebeard; his only fault is being alarmingly handsome. The best advice I can give you is, don’t admire him too much. He should be labeled, ‘Out of the market.’”
Gertie tripped gayly from the room, her crimson satin ribbons fluttering after her, leaving a perceptible odor of violets in the room, while Daisy clutched the note in her cold, nervous grasp, walking like one in a terrible dream through the bright patches of glittering moonlight, through the sweet-scented, rose-bordered path, on through the dark shadows of the trees toward the home of Rex––her husband.
A soft, brooding silence lay over the sleeping earth as Daisy, with a sinking heart, drew near the house. Her soft footfalls on the green mossy earth made no sound.