With a low, agonized moan, Daisy grasped his outstretched hand, scarcely knowing what she did.
“Oh, please do not, Mr. Hurlhurst,” she sobbed. “Rex must not see me; I should die if you sent for him; I could not bear it––indeed, I could not.” She was looking at him, all her heart in her eyes, and, as if he felt magnetically the power of her glance, he turned toward her, meeting the earnest gaze of the blue, uplifted eyes.
The light fell full upon her fair, flushed face, and the bonnet and veil she wore had fallen back from the golden head.
A sudden mist seemed to come before his eyes, and he caught his breath with a sharp gasp.
“What did you say your name was before you were married?” he asked, in a low, intense voice. “I––I––did not quite understand.”
“Daisy Brooks, your overseer’s niece,” she answered, simply.
She wondered why he uttered such a dreary sigh as he muttered, half aloud, how foolish he was to catch at every straw of hope.
Carefully he examined the certificate. It was too true. It certainly certified Rexford Lyon and Daisy Brooks were joined together in the bonds of matrimony nearly a year before. And then he looked at the paper containing the notice of her tragic death, which Daisy had read and carefully saved. Surely no blame could be attached to Rex, in the face of these proofs.
He was sorry for the beautiful, haughty heiress, to whom this terrible news would be a great shock; he was sorry for 184 Rex, he had grown so warmly attached to him of late, but he felt still more sorry for the fair child-bride, toward whom he felt such a yearning, sympathetic pity.
The great bell in the tower slowly pealed the hour of eight, with a dull, heavy clang, and he suddenly realized what was to be done must be done at once.