At the self-same moment that the scene just described was being
enacted in the study Rex Lyon was pacing to and fro in his room,
waiting for the summons of Pluma to join the bridal-party in the
corridor and adjourn to the parlors below, where the guests and the
minister awaited them.
He walked toward the window and drew aside the heavy curtains. The
storm was beating against the window-pane as he leaned his feverish
face against the cool glass, gazing out into the impenetrable darkness
without.
Try as he would to feel reconciled to his marriage he could not do it.
How could he promise at the altar to love, honor, and cherish the wife
whom he was about to wed?
He might honor and cherish her, but love her he could not, no matter
for all the promises he might make. The power of loving was directed
from Heaven above--it was not for mortals to accept or reject at
will.
His heart seemed to cling with a strange restlessness to Daisy, the
fair little child-bride, whom he had loved so passionately--his first
and only love, sweet little Daisy!
From the breast-pocket of his coat he took the cluster of daisies he
had gone through the storm on his wedding-night to gather. He was
waiting until the monument should arrive before he could gather
courage to tell Pluma the sorrowful story of his love-dream.
All at once he remembered the letter a stranger had handed him outside
of the entrance gate. He had not thought much about the matter until
now. Mechanically he picked it up from the mantel, where he had tossed
it upon entering the room, glancing carelessly at the superscription.
His countenance changed when he saw it; his lips trembled, and a hard,
bitter light crept into his brown eyes. He remembered the chirography
but too well.
"From Stanwick!" he cried, leaning heavily against the mantel.
Rex read the letter through with a burning flush on his face, which
grew white as with the pallor of death as he read; a dark mist was
before his eyes, the sound of surging waters in his ears.
"OLD COLLEGE CHUM,"--it began,--"For the sake of those happy hours of
our school-days, you will please favor me by reading what I have
written to the end.
"If you love Pluma Hurlhurst better than your sense of honor this
letter is of no avail. I can not see you drifting on to ruin without
longing to save you. You have been cleverly caught in the net the
scheming heiress has set for you. It is certainly evident she loves
you with a love which is certainly a perilous one. There is not much
safety in the fierce, passionate love of a desperate, jealous woman.
You will pardon me for believing at one time your heart was elsewhere.
You will wonder why I refer to that; it will surprise you to learn,
that one subject forms the basis of this letter. I refer to little
Daisy Brooks.
"You remember the night you saw little Daisy home, burning with
indignation at the cut direct--which Pluma had subjected the pretty
little fairy to? I simply recall that fact, as upon that event hangs
the terrible sequel which I free my conscience by unfolding. You had
scarcely left the Hall ere Pluma called me to her side.
"'Do not leave me, Lester,' she said; 'I want to see you; remain until
after all the guests have left.'
"I did so. You have read the lines:
"'Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned,
Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned'?
"They were too truly exemplified in the case of Pluma Hurlhurst when
she found you preferred little golden-haired Daisy Brooks to her own
peerless self. 'What shall I do, Lester,' she cried, 'to strike his
heart? What shall I do to humble his mighty pride as he has humbled
mine?' Heaven knows, old boy, I am ashamed to admit the shameful
truth. I rather enjoyed the situation of affairs. 'My love is turned
to hate!' she cried, vehemently. 'I must strike him through his love
for that little pink-and-white baby-faced creature he is so madly
infatuated with. Remove her from his path, Lester,' she cried, 'and I
shall make it worth your while. You asked me once if I would marry
you. I answer _now_: remove that girl from his path, by fair means or
foul, and I give you my hand as the reward, I, the heiress of
Whitestone Hall.'
"She knew the temptation was dazzling. For long hours we talked the
matter over. She was to furnish money to send the girl to school, from
which I was shortly to abduct her. She little cared what happened the
little fair-haired creature. Before I had time to carry out the design
fate drifted her into my hands. I rescued her, at the risk of my own
life, from a watery grave. I gave out she was my wife, that the affair
might reach your ears, and you would believe the child willfully
eloped with me. I swear to you no impure thought ever crossed that
child's brain. I gave her a very satisfactory explanation as to why I
had started so false a report. In her innocence--it seemed
plausible--she did not contradict my words.
"Then you came upon the scene, charging her with the report and
demanding to know the truth.
"At that moment she saw the affair in its true light. Heaven knows she
was as pure as a spotless lily; but appearances were sadly against the
child, simply because she had not contradicted the report that I had
circulated--that she was my wife. Her lips were dumb at the mere
suspicion you hurled against her, and she could not plead with you for
very horror and amazement.
"When you left her she was stricken with a fever that was said to have
cost her her life. She disappeared from sight, and it was said she had
thrown herself into the pit.
"I give you this last and final statement in all truth. I was haunted
day and night by her sad, pitiful face; it almost drove me mad with
remorse, and to ease my mind I had the shaft searched a week ago, and
learned the startling fact--it revealed no trace of her ever having
been there.
"The shaft does not contain the remains of Daisy Brooks, and I
solemnly affirm (although I have no clew to substantiate the belief)
that Daisy Brooks is not dead, but living, and Pluma Hurlhurst's soul
is not dyed with the blood which she would not have hesitated to shed
to remove an innocent rival from her path. I do not hold myself
guiltless, still the planner of a crime is far more guilty than the
tool who does the work in hope of reward.
"The heiress of Whitestone Hall has played me false, take to your
heart your fair, blushing bride, but remember hers is a perilous
love."
* * * * *
The letter contained much more, explaining each incident in detail,
but Rex had caught at one hope, as a drowning man catches at a straw.
"Merciful Heaven!" he cried, his heart beating loud and fast. "Was it
not a cruel jest to frighten him on his wedding-eve? Daisy alive! Oh,
just Heaven, if it could only be true!" He drew his breath, with a
long, quivering sigh, at the bare possibility. "Little Daisy was as
pure in thought, word and deed as an angel. God pity me!" he cried.
"Have patience with me for my harshness toward my little love. I did
not give my little love even the chance of explaining the situation,"
he groaned. Then his thoughts went back to Pluma.
He could not doubt the truth of the statement Stanwick offered, and
the absolute proofs of its sincerity. He could not curse her for her
horrible deceit, because his mother had loved her so, and it was done
through her blinding, passionate love for him; and he buried his face
in his hands, and wept bitterly. It was all clear as noonday to him
now why Daisy had not kept the tryst under the magnolia-tree, and the
cottage was empty. She must certainly have attempted to make her
escape from the school in which they placed her to come back to his
arms.
"Oh, dupe that I have been!" he moaned. "Oh, my sweet little innocent
darling!" he cried. "I dare not hope Heaven has spared you to me!"
Now he understood why he had felt such a terrible aversion to Pluma
all along. She had separated him from his beautiful, golden-haired
child-bride.
His eyes rested on the certificate which bore Pluma's name, also his
own. He tore it into a thousand shreds.
"It is all over between us now," he cried. "Even if Daisy were dead, I
could never take the viper to my bosom that has dealt me such a
death-stinging blow. If living, I shall search the world over till I
find her; if dead, I shall consecrate my life to the memory of my
darling, my pure, little, injured _only_ love."
He heard a low rap at the door. The servant never forgot the young
man's haggard, hopeless face as he delivered Basil Hurlhurst's
message.
"Ah, it is better so," cried Rex to himself, vehemently, as the man
silently and wonderingly closed the door. "I will go to him at once,
and tell him I shall never marry his daughter. Heaven help me! I will
tell him all."
Hastily catching up the letter, Rex walked, with a firm, quick tread,
toward the study, in which the strangest tragedy which was ever
enacted was about to transpire.
* * * * *
"I am your mother, Pluma," repeated the woman, slowly. "Look into my
face, and you will see every lineament of your own mirrored there. But
for me you would never have enjoyed the luxuries of Whitestone Hall,
and this is the way you repay me! Is there no natural instinct in your
heart that tells you you are standing in your mother's presence?"
"Every instinct in my heart tells me you are a vile impostor, woman. I
wonder that you dare intimate such a thing. You are certainly an
escaped lunatic. My mother was lost at sea long years ago."
"So every one believed. But my very presence here is proof positive
such was not the case."
Pluma tried to speak, but no sound issued from her white lips. The
very tone of the woman's voice carried positive conviction with it. A
dim realization was stealing over her that this woman's face, and the
peculiar tone of her voice, were strangely mixed up with her childhood
dreams; and, try as she would to scoff at the idea, it seemed to be
gaining strength with every moment.
"You do not believe me, I see," pursued the woman, calmly. "There is
nothing but the stern facts that will satisfy you. You shall have
them. They are soon told: Years ago, when I was young and fair as you
are now, I lived at the home of a quiet, well-to-do spinster, Taiza
Burt. She had a nephew, an honest, well-to-do young fellow, who
worshiped me, much to the chagrin of his aunt; and out of pique one
day I married him. I did not love the honest-hearted fellow, and I
lived with him but a few brief months. I hated him--yes, hated him,
for I had seen another--young, gay and handsome--whom I might have won
had it not been for the chains which bound me. He was a handsome,
debonair college fellow, as rich as he was handsome. This was Basil
Hurlhurst, the planter's only son and heir. Our meeting was romantic.
I had driven over to the village in which the college was situated, on
an errand for Taiza. Basil met me driving through the park. He was
young, reckless and impulsive. He loved me, and the knowledge of his
wealth dazzled me. I did not tell him I was a wife, and there
commenced my first sin. My extreme youth and ignorance of the world
must plead for me--my husband or the world would never know of it. I
listened to his pleading, and married him--that is, we went through
the ceremony. He had perfect faith in its sincerity. I alone knew the
guilty truth. Yet enormous as was my crime, I had but a dim
realization of it.
"For one brief week I was dazzled with the wealth and jewels he
lavished upon me; but my conscience would not let me rest when I
thought of my honest-hearted husband, from whom I had fled and whom I
had so cruelly deceived.
"My love for Basil was short lived; I was too reckless to care much
for any one. My conscience bade me fly from him. I gathered up what
money and jewels I could, and fled. A few months after you were born;
and I swear to you, by the proofs I can bring you, beyond all shadow
of a doubt, you were my lawful husband's child, not Basil's.
"Soon after this event a daring thought came to me. I could present
you, ere long, with myself, at Whitestone Hall. Basil Hurlhurst would
never know the deception practiced upon him; and you, the child of
humble parentage, should enjoy and inherit his vast wealth. My bold
plan was successful. We had a stormy interview, and it never occurred
to him there could be the least deception--that I was not his lawful
wife, or you his child.
"I found Basil had learned to despise even more fiercely than he had
ever loved me.
"He took us abroad, refusing to speak or look upon my face, even
though he escorted us. In a fit of desperation I threw myself into the
sea, but I was rescued by another vessel. A strong inclination seized
me to again visit Whitestone Hall and see what disposition he had made
of you. Years had passed; you were then a child of five years.
"One terrible stormy night--as bad a night as this one--I made my way
to the Hall. It was brilliantly lighted up, just as it is to-night.
"I saw the gate was locked; and through the flashes of lightning I saw
a little girl sobbing wildly, flung face downward in the grass,
heedless of the storm.
"I knew you, and called you to me. I questioned you as to why the
house was lighted, and learned the truth. Basil Hurlhurst had
remarried; he had been abroad with his wife, and to-night he was
bringing home his young wife.
"My rage knew no bounds. I commanded you to bring me the key of the
gate. You obeyed. That night a little golden-haired child was born at
Whitestone Hall, and I knew it would live to divide the honors and
wealth of Whitestone Hall with you--my child.
"The thought maddened me. I stole the child from its mother's arms,
and fled. I expected to see the papers full of the terrible deed, or
to hear you had betrayed me, a stranger, wanting the key of the
gate."
"My surprise knew no bounds when I found it was given out the child
had died, and was buried with its young mother. I never understood why
Basil Hurlhurst did not attempt to recover his child.
"I took the child far from here, placing it in a basket on the river
brink, with a note pinned to it saying that I, the mother, had sinned
and had sought a watery grave beneath the waves. I screened myself,
and watched to see what would become of the child, as I saw a man's
form approaching in the distance.
"I fairly caught my breath as he drew near. I saw it was my own
husband, whom I had so cruelly deserted years ago--your father, Pluma,
who never even knew or dreamed of your existence.
"Carefully he lifted the basket and the sleeping babe. How he came in
that locality I do not know. I found, by some strange freak of fate,
he had taken the child home to his aunt Taiza, and there the little
one remained until the spinster died.
"Again, a few years later, I determined to visit Whitestone Hall, when
a startling and unexpected surprise presented itself. Since then I
have believed in fate. All unconscious of the strange manner in which
these two men's lives had crossed each other, I found Basil Hurlhurst
had engaged my own husband, and your father, John Brooks, for his
overseer."
Pluma gave a terrible cry, but the woman did not heed her.
"I dared not betray my identity then, but fled quickly from Whitestone
Hall; for I knew, if all came to light, it would be proved without a
doubt you were not the heiress of Whitestone Hall.
"I saw a young girl, blue-eyed and golden-haired, singing like a lark
in the fields. One glance at her face, and I knew she was Basil
Hurlhurst's stolen child fate had brought directly to her father's
home. I questioned her, and she answered she had lived with Taiza
Burt, but her name was Daisy Brooks."
"It is a lie--a base, ingenious lie!" shrieked Pluma. "Daisy Brooks
the heiress of Whitestone Hall! Even if it were true," she cried,
exultingly, "she will never reign here, the mistress of Whitestone
Hall. She is dead."
"Not exactly!" cried a ringing voice from the rear; and before the two
women could comprehend the situation, the detective sprung through the
silken curtains, placing his back firmly against the door. "You have
laid a deep scheme, with a cruel vengeance; but your own weapons are
turned against you. Bring your daughter forward, Mr. Hurlhurst. Your
presence is also needed, Mr. Brooks," he called.