Daisy Brooks: or, A Perilous Love

“No,” he answered, leading the way toward an inner room, separated from the study by a heavy silken curtain; “but in this apartment we shall certainly be free from interruption. Your face reveals nothing,” he continued, in an agitated voice, “but I believe you have brought me news of my child.”

Basil Hurlhurst had no idea the conversation carried on in the small apartment to which he had conducted them could be overheard from the curtained recess in which Daisy sat. But he was mistaken; Daisy could hear every word of it.

She dared not cry out or walk forth from her place of concealment lest she should come suddenly face to face with Rex.

As the light had fallen on John Brooks’ honest face, how she had longed to spring forward with a glad little cry and throw herself into his strong, sheltering arms! She wondered childishly why he was there with Mr. Tudor, the detective, whose voice she had instantly recognized.

“I have two errands here to-night,” said the detective, pleasantly. “I hope I shall bring good news, in one sense; the other we will discuss later on.”

The master of Whitestone Hall made no comments; still he wondered why the detective had used the words “one sense.” Surely, he thought, turning pale, his long-lost child could not be dead.

Like one in a dream, Daisy heard the detective go carefully over the ground with Basil Hurlhurst–all the incidents connected with the loss of his child. Daisy listened out of sheer wonder. She could not tell why.

“I think we have the right clew,” continued the detective, “but we have no actual proof to support our supposition; there is one part still cloudy.”

There were a few low-murmured words spoken to John Brooks. There was a moment of silence, broken by her uncle John’s voice. For several moments he talked rapidly and earnestly, interrupted now and then by an exclamation of surprise from the master of Whitestone Hall.

Every word John Brooks uttered pierced Daisy’s heart like an arrow. She uttered a little, sharp cry, but no one heard her. She fairly held her breath with intense interest. Then she heard the detective tell them the story of Rex Lyon’s marriage with her, and he had come to Whitestone Hall to stop the ceremony about to be performed.

Basil Hurlhurst scarcely heeded his words. He had risen to his feet with a great, glad cry, and pushed aside the silken curtains that led to the study. As he did so he came face to face with Daisy Brooks, standing motionless, like a statue, before him. Then she fell, with a low, gasping cry, senseless at Basil Hurlhurst’s feet.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

Pluma Hurlhurst received her father’s summons with no little surprise. “What can that foolish old man want, I wonder?” she soliloquized, clasping the diamond-studded bracelets on her perfect arms. “I shall be heartily glad when I am Rex Lyon’s wife. I shall soon tell him, then, in pretty plain words, I am not at his beck and call any longer. Come to him instantly, indeed! I shall certainly do no such thing,” she muttered.

“Did you speak, mademoiselle?” asked the maid.

“No,” replied Pluma, glancing at the little jeweled watch that glittered in its snow-white velvet case. She took it up with a caressing movement. “How foolish I was to work myself up into such a fury of excitement, when Rex sent for me to present me with the jewels!” she laughed, softly, laying down the watch, and taking up an exquisite jeweled necklace, admired the purity and beauty of the soft, white, gleaming stones.

The turret-bell had pealed the hour of eight; she had yet half an hour.

She never could tell what impulse prompted her to clasp the shining gems around her white throat, even before she had removed her dressing-robe.

She leaned back dreamily in her cushioned chair, watching the effect in the mirror opposite.

Steadfastly she gazed at the wondrous loveliness of the picture she made, the dark, lustrous eyes, gleaming with unwonted brilliancy, with their jetty fringe; the rich, red lips, and glowing cheeks.

“There are few such faces in the world,” she told herself triumphantly.

Those were the happiest moments proud, peerless Pluma Hurlhurst was ever to know–“before the hour should wane the fruition of all her hopes would be attained.”

No feeling of remorse stole over her to imbitter the sweets of her triumphant thoughts.

She had lived in a world of her own, planning and scheming, wasting her youth, her beauty, and her genius, to accomplish the one great ultimatum–winning Rex Lyon’s love.

She took from her bosom a tiny vial, containing a few white, flaky crystals. “I shall not need this now,” she told herself. “If Lester Stanwick had intended to interfere he would have done so ere this; he has left me to myself, realizing his threats were all in vain; yet I have been sore afraid. Rex will never know that I lied and schemed to win his love, or that I planned the removal of Daisy Brooks from his path so cleverly; he will never know that I have deceived him, or the wretched story of my folly and passionate, perilous love. I could not have borne the shame and the exposure; there would have been but one escape”–quite unconsciously she slid the vial into the pocket of her silken robe–“I have lived a coward’s life; I should have died a coward’s death.”

“It is time to commence arranging your toilet, mademoiselle,” said the maid, approaching her softly with the white glimmering satin robe, and fleecy veil over her arm. “My fingers are deft, but you have not one moment to spare.”

Pluma waved her off with an imperious gesture.

“Not yet,” she said. “I suppose I might as well go down first as last to see what in the world he wants with me; he should have come to me if he had wished to see me so very particularly;” and the dutiful daughter, throwing the train of her dress carelessly over her arm, walked swiftly through the brilliantly lighted corridor toward Basil Hurlhurst’s study. She turned the knob and entered. The room was apparently deserted. “Not here!” she muttered, with surprise. “Well, my dear, capricious father, I shall go straight back to my apartments. You shall come to me hereafter.” As she turned to retrace her steps a hand was laid upon her shoulder, and a woman’s voice whispered close to her ear:

“I was almost afraid I should miss you–fate is kind.”

Pluma Hurlhurst recoiled from the touch, fairly holding her breath, speechless with fury and astonishment.

“You insolent creature!” she cried. “I wonder at your boldness in forcing your presence upon me. Did I not have you thrust from the house an hour ago, with the full understanding I would not see you, no matter who you were or whom you wanted.”

“I was not at the door an hour ago,” replied the woman, coolly; “it must have been some one else. I have been here–to Whitestone Hall–several times before, but you have always eluded me. You shall not do so to-night. You shall listen to what I have come to say to you.”

For once in her life the haughty, willful heiress was completely taken aback, and she sunk into the arm-chair so lately occupied by Basil Hurlhurst.

“I shall ring for the servants, and have you thrown from the house; such impudence is unheard of, you miserable creature!”

She made a movement toward the bell-rope, but the woman hastily thrust her back into her seat, crossed over, turned the key in the lock, and hastily removed it. Basil Hurlhurst and John Brooks were about to rush to her assistance, but the detective suddenly thrust them back, holding up his hand warningly.

“Not yet,” he whispered; “we will wait until we know what this strange affair means. I shall request you both to remain perfectly quiet until by word or signal I advise you to act differently.”

And, breathless with interest, the three, divided only by the silken hanging curtains, awaited eagerly further developments of the strange scene being enacted before them.

Pluma’s eyes flashed like ebony fires, and unrestrained passion was written on every feature of her face, as the woman took her position directly in front of her with folded arms, and dark eyes gleaming quite as strangely as her own. Pluma, through sheer astonishment at her peculiar, deliberate manner, was hushed into strange expectancy.

For some moments the woman gazed into her face, coolly–deliberately–her eyes fastening themselves on the diamond necklace which clasped her throat, quivering with a thousand gleaming lights.

“You are well cared for,” she said, with a harsh, grating laugh, that vibrated strangely on the girl’s ear. “You have the good things of life, while I have only the hardships. I am a fool to endure it. I have come to you to-night to help me–and you must do it.”

“Put the key in that door instantly, or I shall cry out for assistance. I have heard of insolence of beggars, but certainly this is beyond all imagination. How dare you force your obnoxious presence upon me? I will not listen to another word; you shall suffer for this outrage, woman! Open the door instantly, I say.”

She did not proceed any further in her breathless defiance of retort; the woman coolly interrupted her with that strange, grating laugh again, as she answered, authoritatively:

“I shall not play at cross-purposes with you any longer; it is plainly evident there is little affection lost between us. You will do exactly as I say, Pluma; you may spare yourself a great deal that may be unpleasant–if you not only listen but quietly obey me. Otherwise–”

Pluma sprung wildly to her feet.

“Obey you! obey you!”

She would have screamed the words in her ungovernable rage, had not a look from this woman’s eyes, who used her name with such ill-bred familiarity, actually frightened her.

“Be sensible and listen to what I intend you shall hear, and, as I said and repeat, obey. You have made a slight mistake in defying me, young lady. I hoped and intended to be your friend and adviser; but since you have taken it into your head to show such an aversion to me, it will be so much the worse for you, for I fully intend you shall act hereafter under my instructions; it has spoiled you allowing you to hold the reins in your own hands unchecked.”

“Oh, you horrible creature! I shall have you arrested and–”

The woman interrupted her gasping, vindictive words again, more imperiously than before.

“Hush! not another word; you will not tell any one a syllable of what has passed in this room.”

“Do you dare threaten me in my own house,” cried Pluma, fairly beside herself with passion. “I begin to believe you are not aware to whom you are speaking. You shall not force me to listen. I shall raise the window and cry out to the guests below.”