On the evening which followed the one just described in our last
chapter, Pluma Hurlhurst sat in her luxuriant boudoir of rose and
gold, deeply absorbed in the three letters which she held in her lap.
To one was appended the name of Septima Brooks, one was from Rex's
mother, and the last--and by far the most important one--bore the
signature of Lester Stanwick.
Once, twice, thrice she perused it, each time with growing interest,
the glittering light deepening in her dark, flashing eyes, and the red
lips curling in a scornful smile.
"This is capital!" she cried, exultingly; "even better than I had
planned. I could not see my way clear before, but now everything is
clear sailing." She crossed over to the mirror, looking long and
earnestly at the superb figure reflected there. "I am fair to look
upon," she cried, bitterly. "Why can not Rex love me?"
Ah! she was fair to look upon, standing beneath the softened glow of
the overhanging chandelier, in her dress of gold brocade, with a
pomegranate blossom on her bosom, and a diamond spray flashing from
the dark, glossy curls, magnificently beautiful.
"I was so sure of Rex," she said, bitterly; "if any one had said to
me, 'Rex prefers your overseer's niece, Daisy Brooks, with her baby
face and pink-and-white beauty,' I would have laughed them to scorn.
Prefers her to me, the haughty heiress of Whitestone Hall, for whose
love, or even smile, men have sued in vain! I have managed the whole
affair very cleverly!" she mused. "John Brooks does not return before
the coming spring, and Septima is removed from my path most
effectually, and if Lester Stanwick manages his part successfully, I
shall have little to fear from Daisy Brooks! How clever Lester was to
learn Rex had been to the Detective Agency! How he must have loved
that girl!" she cried, hotly, with a darkening brow. "Ah, Rex!" she
whispered, softly (and for an instant the hard look died out of her
face), "no one shall take you from me. I would rather look upon your
face cold in death, and know no one else could claim you, than see you
smile lovingly upon a rival. There is no torture under heaven so
bitter to endure as the pangs of a love unreturned!" she cried,
fiercely. She threw open the window and leaned far out into the
radiant starlight, as the great clock pealed the hour of seven. "Rex
has received my note," she said, "with the one from his mother
inclosed. Surely he will not refuse my request. He will come, if only
through politeness!" Again she laughed, that low, mocking laugh
peculiar to her, as she heard the peal of the bell. "It is Rex," she
whispered, clasping her hands over her beating heart. "To-night I will
sow the first seeds of distrust in your heart, and when they take root
you shall despise Daisy Brooks a thousand-fold more than you love her
now. She shall feel the keen thrust of a rival's bitter vengeance!"
Casting a last lingering glance (so woman-like!) at the perfect face
the mirror reflected, to give her confidence in herself for the coming
ordeal, Pluma Hurlhurst glided down to the parlor, where Rex awaited
her.
It would have been hard to believe the proud, willful, polished young
heiress could lend herself to a plot so dark and so cruel as the one
she was at that moment revolving in her fertile brain.
Rex was standing at the open window, his handsome head leaning wearily
against the casement. His face was turned partially toward her, and
Pluma could scarcely repress the cry of astonishment that rose to her
lips as she saw how pale and haggard he looked in the softened light.
She knew but too well the cause.
He was quite unaware of Pluma's presence until a soft, white, jeweled
hand was laid lightly on his arm, and a low, musical voice whispered,
"I am so glad you have come, Rex," close to his elbow.
They had parted under peculiar circumstances. He could fancy her at
that moment kneeling to him, under the glare of the lamp-light,
confessing her love for him, and denouncing poor little clinging Daisy
with such bitter scorn. His present position was certainly an
embarrassing one to Rex.
"I am here in accordance with your request, Miss Hurlhurst," he said,
simply, bowing coldly over the white hand that would cling to his
arm.
"You are very kind," she said, sweetly, "to forget that unpleasant
little episode that happened at the fête, and come to-night. I believe
I should never have sent for you," she added, archly, smiling up into
his face, "had it not been at the urgent request of your mother,
Rex."
Pluma hesitated. Rex bit his lip in annoyance, but he was too
courteous to openly express his thoughts; he merely bowed again. He
meant Pluma should understand all thoughts of love or tenderness must
forever more be a dead letter between them.
"My mother!" he repeated, wonderingly; "pardon me, I do not
understand."
For answer she drew his mother's letter from her bosom and placed it
in his hands.
He ran his eyes quickly over the page. The postscript seemed to
enlighten him.
"The course of true love never runs smooth," it ran, "and I beseech
you, Pluma dear, if anything should ever happen, any shadow fall upon
your love, I beseech you send for Rex and place this letter in his
hands. It would not be unwomanly, Pluma, because I, his mother, so
earnestly request it; for, on your love for each other hangs my hopes
of happiness. Rex is impulsive and willful, but he will respect his
mother's wishes."
No thought of treachery ever crossed Rex's mind as he read the lines
before him; he never once dreamed the ingeniously worded postscript
had been so cleverly imitated and added by Pluma's own hand. It never
occurred to him for an instant to doubt the sincerity of the words he
read, when he knew how dearly his mother loved the proud, haughty
heiress before him.
"I heard you were going away, Rex," she said, softly, "and I--I could
not let you go so, and break my own heart."
"In one sense, I am glad you sent for me," said Rex, quietly ignoring
her last remark. "I shall be much pleased to renew our friendship,
Miss Pluma, for I need your friendship--nay, more, I need your
sympathy and advice more than I can express. I have always endeavored
to be frank with you, Pluma," he said, kindly. "I have never spoken
words which might lead you to believe I loved you."
He saw her face grow white under his earnest gaze and the white lace
on her bosom rise and fall convulsively, yet she made him no answer.
"Please permit me to tell you why, Pluma," he said, taking her hand
and leading her to a sofa, taking a seat by her side. "I could not,"
he continued, "in justice to either you or myself; for I never knew
what love was," he said, softly, "until the night of the fête." Again
he paused; but, as no answer was vouchsafed him, he went on: "I never
knew what love meant until I met Daisy--little Daisy Brooks."
"Rex!" cried Pluma, starting to her feet, "you know not what you
say--surely you do not know! I would have warned you, but you would
not listen. I saw you drifting toward a yawning chasm; I stretched out
my arms to save you, but you would not heed me. You are a stranger to
the people around here, Rex, or they would have warned you. Sin is
never so alluring as in the guise of a beautiful woman. It is not too
late yet. Forget Daisy Brooks; she is not a fit companion for noble
Rex Lyon, or pure enough to kiss an honest man's lips."
"For God's sake, Miss Hurlhurst, what do you mean?" cried Rex, slowly
rising from his seat and facing her, pale as death. "In Heaven's name,
explain the accusations you have just uttered, or I shall go mad! If a
man had uttered those words, I would have--"
The words died away on his lips; he remembered he was talking to a
woman. Rex's eyes fairly glowed with rage as he turned on his heel and
strode rapidly up and down the room.
"Rex," said Pluma, softly advancing a step toward him, "it always
grieves a true woman to admit the error of a fallen sister--they would
shield her if such a thing were possible."
"I do not believe it," retorted Rex, impetuously. "Women seem to take
a keen delight in slandering one another, as far as I can see. But you
might as well tell me yonder moon was treacherous and vile as to tell
me Daisy Brooks was aught but sweet and pure--you could not force me
to believe it."
"I do not attempt to force you to believe it. I have told you the
truth, as a loving sister might have done. None are so blind as those
who will not see," she said, toying with the jewels upon her white
fingers.
"Daisy Brooks is as pure as yonder lily," cried Rex, "and I love her
as I love my soul!"
His quivering, impassioned voice thrilled Pluma to her heart's core,
and she felt a keen regret that this wealth of love was withheld from
her own hungry heart. Rex had never appeared so noble, so handsome,
so well worth winning, in her eyes, as at that moment.
"I am sorry for you, Rex," sobbed Pluma, artfully burying her face in
her lace kerchief, "because she can never return your love; she does
not love you, Rex."
"Yes, she does love me," cried Rex. "I have settled it beyond a
doubt."
"She has settled it beyond a doubt--is not that what you mean, Rex?"
she asked, looking him squarely in the face, with a peculiar glitter
in her sparkling dark eyes.
"There is something you are keeping from me, Pluma," cried Rex,
seizing both of her hands, and gazing anxiously into the false, fair,
smiling, treacherous face. "You know where Daisy has gone--in Heaven's
name, tell me! I can not endure the suspense--do not torture me,
Pluma! I will forget you have spoken unkindly of poor little Daisy if
you will only tell me where she has gone."
"Sit down, Rex," she said, soothingly; "I will not dare tell you while
you look at me with such a gleaming light in your eyes. Promise not to
interrupt me to the end."
A nameless dread was clutching at his heart-strings. What could she
mean? he asked himself, confusedly. What did this foul mystery mean?
He must know, or he would go mad!
"You may speak out unreservedly, Miss Pluma," he said, hoarsely. "I
give you my word, as a gentleman, I shall not interrupt you, even
though your words should cause me a bitter heart-pang."
He stood before her, his arms folded across his breast, yet no pang of
remorse crept into Pluma Hurlhurst's relentless heart for the cruel
blow she was about to deal him.
"I must begin at the time of the lawn fête," she said. "That morning
a woman begged to see me, sobbing so piteously I could not refuse
her an audience. No power of words could portray the sad story of
suffering and wrong she poured into my ears, of a niece--beautiful,
young, passionate, and willful--and of her prayers and useless
expostulations, and of a handsome, dissolute lover to whom the
girl was passionately attached, and of elopements she had frustrated,
alas! more than once. Ah! how shall I say it!--the lover was not a
marrying man."
Pluma stopped short, and hid her face again in her kerchief as if in
utter confusion.
"Go on--go on!" cried Rex, hoarsely.
"'Lend me money,' cried the woman, 'that I may protect the girl by
sending her off to school at once. Kind lady, she is young, like
you, and I beg you on my knees!' I gave the woman the required
amount, and the girl was taken to school the very next day. But the
end was not there. The lover followed the girl--there must have been
a preconcerted plan between them--and on the morning after she had
entered school she fled from it--fled with her lover. That lover
was Lester Stanwick--gay, fascinating, perfidious Lester--whom you
know but too well. Can you not guess who the girl was, Rex?"
The dark eyes regarding her were frozen with horror, his white lips
moved, but no sound issued from them. She leaned nearer to him, her
dark, perfumed hair swept across his face as she whispered, with
startling effect:
"The girl was Daisy Brooks, and she is at this moment in company with
her lover! Heaven pity you, Rex; you must learn to forget her."