Daisy had decided the great question of her life. Yes, she would go to
John Brooks with her pitiful secret, and, kneeling at his feet, tell
him all, and be guided by his judgment.
"I can never go back to Rex," she thought, wearily. "I have spoiled
his life; he does not love me; he wished to be free and marry Pluma."
"You must not think of the troubles of other people, my dear," said
Mrs. Tudor, briskly, noting the thoughtful expression of the fair
young face. "Such cases as I have just read you are fortunately rare.
I should not have read you the scandals. Young girls like to hear
about the marriages best. Ah! here is one that is interesting--a grand
wedding which is to take place at Whitestone Hall, in Allendale,
to-morrow night. I have read of it before; it will be a magnificent
affair. The husband-to-be, Mr. Rexford Lyon, is very wealthy; and the
bride, Miss Pluma Hurlhurst, is quite a society belle--a beauty and an
heiress."
Poor Daisy! although she had long expected it, the announcement seemed
like a death-blow to her loving little heart; in a single instant all
her yearning, passionate love for her handsome young husband awoke
into new life.
She had suddenly awakened to the awful reality that her husband was
about to marry another.
"Oh, pitiful Heaven, what shall I do?" she cried, wringing her hands.
"I will be too late to warn them. Yet I must--I must! It must not be!"
she cried out to herself; "the marriage would be wrong." If she
allowed it to go on, she would be guilty of a crime; therefore, she
must prevent it.
Pluma was her mortal enemy. Yet she must warn her that the flower-covered
path she was treading led to a precipice. The very thought filled her
soul with horror.
She wasted no more time in thinking, she must act.
"I can not go to poor old Uncle John first," she told herself. "I must
go at once to Pluma. Heaven give me strength to do it. Rex will never
know, and I can go quietly out of his life again."
The marriage must not be! Say, think, argue with herself as she would,
she could not help owning to herself that it was something that must
be stopped at any price. She had not realized it in its true light
before. She had had a vague idea that her supposed death would leave
Rex free to marry Pluma. That wrong could come of it, in any way, she
never once dreamed.
The terrible awakening truth had flashed upon her suddenly; she might
hide herself forever from her husband, but it would not lessen the
fact; she, and she only, was his lawful wife before God and man. From
Heaven nothing could be hidden.
Her whole heart seemed to go out to her young husband and cling to him
as it had never done before.
"What a fatal love mine was!" she said to herself; "how fatal, how
cruel to me!"
To-morrow night! Oh, Heaven! would she be in time to save him? The
very thought seemed to arouse all her energy.
"Why, what are you going to do, my dear?" cried Mrs. Tudor, in
consternation, as Daisy staggered, weak and trembling, from her
couch.
"I am going away," she cried. "I have been guilty of a great wrong. I
can not tell you all that I have done, but I must atone for it if it
is in my power while yet there is time. Pity me, but do not censure
me;" and sobbing as if her heart would break, she knelt at the feet of
the kind friend Heaven had given her and told her all.
Mrs. Tudor listened in painful interest and amazement. It was a
strange story this young girl told her; it seemed more like a romance
than a page from life's history.
"You say you must prevent this marriage at Whitestone Hall." She took
Daisy's clasped hands from her weeping face, and holding them in her
own looked into it silently, keenly, steadily. "How could you do it?
What is Rexford Lyon to you?"
Lower and lower drooped the golden bowed head, and a voice like no
other voice, like nothing human, said:
"I am Rex Lyon's wife, his wretched, unhappy, abandoned wife."
Mrs. Tudor dropped her hands with a low cry of dismay.
"You will keep my secret," sobbed Daisy; and in her great sorrow she
did not notice the lady did not promise.
In vain Mrs. Tudor pleaded with her to go back to her husband and beg
him to hear her.
"No," said Daisy, brokenly. "He said I had spoiled his life, and he
would never forgive me. I have never taken his name, and I never
shall. I will be Daisy Brooks until I die."
"Daisy Brooks!" The name seemed familiar to Mrs. Tudor, yet she could
not tell where she had heard it before.
Persuasion was useless. "Perhaps Heaven knows best," sighed Mrs.
Tudor, and with tears in her eyes (for she had really loved the
beautiful young stranger, thrown for so many long weeks upon her mercy
and kindness) she saw Daisy depart.
"May God grant you may not be too late!" she cried, fervently,
clasping the young girl, for the last time, in her arms.
Too late! The words sounded like a fatal warning to her. No, no; she
could not, she must not, be too late!
* * * * *
At the very moment Daisy had left the detective's house, Basil
Hurlhurst was closeted with Mr. Tudor in his private office, relating
minutely the disappearance of his infant daughter, as told him by the
dying housekeeper, Mrs. Corliss.
"I will make you a rich man for life," he cried, vehemently, "if you
can trace my long-lost child, either dead or alive!"
Mr. Tudor shook his head. "I am inclined to think there is little
hope, after all these years."
"Stranger things than that have happened," cried Basil Hurlhurst,
tremulously. "You must give me hope, Mr. Tudor. You are a skillful,
expert detective; you will find her, if any one can. If my other child
were living," he continued, with an effort, "you know it would make
considerable difference in the distribution of my property. On the
night my lost child was born I made my will, leaving Whitestone Hall
and the Hurlhurst Plantations to the child just born, and the
remainder of my vast estates I bequeathed to my daughter Pluma. I
believed my little child buried with its mother, and in all these
years that followed I never changed that will--it still stands. My
daughter Pluma is to be married to-morrow night. I have not told her
of the startling discovery I have made; for if anything should come of
it, her hopes of a lifetime would be dashed. She believes herself sole
heiress to my wealth. I have made up my mind, however," he continued,
eagerly, "to confide in the young man who is to be my future
son-in-law. If nothing ever comes of this affair, Pluma need never
know of it."
"That would be a wise and safe plan," assented the detective.
"Wealth can have no influence over him," continued the father,
reflectively; "for Mr. Rex Lyon's wealth is sufficient for them, even
if they never had a single dollar from me; still, it is best to
mention this matter to him."
Rex Lyon! Ah! the detective remembered him well--the handsome,
debonair young fellow who had sought his services some time since,
whose wife had died such a tragic death. He remembered how sorry he
had been for the young husband; still he made no comment. He had
little time to ruminate upon past affairs. It was his business now to
glean from Mr. Hurlhurst all the information possible to assist him in
the difficult search he was about to commence. If he gave him even the
slightest clew, he could have had some definite starting point. The
detective was wholly at sea--it was like looking for a needle in a
hay-stack.
"You will lose no time," said Basil Hurlhurst, rising to depart. "Ah!"
he exclaimed, "I had forgotten to leave you my wife's portrait. I have
a fancy the child, if living, must have her mother's face."
At that opportune moment some one interrupted them. Mr. Tudor had not
time to open the portrait and examine it then, and, placing it
securely in his private desk, he courteously bade Mr. Hurlhurst
good-afternoon; adding, if he _should_ find a possible clew, he would
let him know at once, or, perhaps, take a run up to Whitestone Hall to
look around a bit among the old inhabitants of that locality.
It was almost time for quitting the office for the night, when the
detective thought of the portrait. He untied the faded blue ribbon,
and touched the spring; the case flew open, revealing a face that made
him cry out in amazement:
"Pshaw! people have a strange trick of resembling each other very
often," he muttered; "I must be mistaken."
Yet the more he examined the fair, bewitching face of the portrait,
with its childish face and sunny, golden curls, the more he knit his
brow and whistled softly to himself--a habit he had when thinking
deeply.
He placed the portrait in his breast-pocket, and walked slowly home. A
brilliant idea was in his active brain.
"I shall soon see," he muttered.
His wife met him at the door, and he saw that her eyes were red with
weeping.
"What is the commotion, my dear?" he asked, hanging his hat and coat
on the hat-rack in the hall. "What's the difficulty?"
"Our protégée has gone, Harvey; she--"
"Gone!" yelled the detective, frantically, "where did she go? How long
has she been gone?"
Down from the rack came his hat and coat.
"Where are you going, Harvey?"
"I am going to hunt that girl up just as fast as I can."
"She did not wish to see you, my dear."
"I haven't the time to explain to you," he expostulated. "Of course,
you have no idea where she went, have you?"
"Wait a bit, Harvey," she replied, a merry twinkle in her eye. "You
have given me no time to tell you. I do know where she went. Sit down
and I will tell you all about it."
"You will make a long story out of nothing," he exclaimed, impatiently;
"and fooling my time here may cost me a fortune."
Very reluctantly Mr. Tudor resumed his seat at his wife's earnest
persuasion.
"Skim lightly over the details, my dear; just give me the main
points," he said.
Like the good little wife she was, Mrs. Tudor obediently obeyed.
It was not often the cool, calculating detective allowed himself to
get excited, but as she proceeded he jumped up from his seat, and
paced restlessly up and down the room. He was literally astounded.
"Rex Lyon's wife," he mused, thoughtfully. "Well, in all the years of
my experience I have never come across anything like this. She has
gone to Whitestone Hall, you say, to stop the marriage?" he
questioned, eagerly.
"Yes," she replied, "the poor child was almost frantic over it. You
seem greatly agitated, Harvey. Have you some new case connected with
her?"
"Yes," he answered, grimly. "I think I have two cases."
Mr. Tudor seldom brought his business perplexities to his fireside.
His little wife knew as little of business matters as the sparrows
twittering on the branches of the trees out in the garden.
He made up his mind not to mention certain suspicions that had lodged
in his mind until he saw his way clearly out of the complicated
affair.
He determined it would do no harm to try an experiment, however.
Suiting the action to the thought, he drew out the portrait from his
pocket.
"I do not think I shall have as much trouble with this affair as I
anticipated."
Mrs. Tudor came and leaned over his shoulder.
"Whose picture have you there, Harvey? Why, I declare," she cried, in
amazement, "if it isn't Daisy Brooks!"
"Mrs. Rex Lyon, you mean," said the detective, with a sly twinkle in
his eye. "But for once in your life you are at sea--and far from
shore; this portrait represents a different person altogether. Come,
come, wife, get me a cup of tea--quick--and a biscuit," he cried,
leading the way to the kitchen, where the savory supper was cooking.
"I haven't time to wait for tea, I must overtake that girl before she
reaches Whitestone Hall."