Daisy Brooks: or, A Perilous Love

“Very well, then. I find I am compelled to tell you something I never intended you should know–something that, unless I am greatly mistaken in my estimate of you, will change your high and mighty notions altogether.”

The woman was bending so near her, her breath almost scorched her cheek.

“I want money,” she said, her thin lips quivering in an evil smile, “and it is but right that you should supply me with it. Look at the diamonds, representing a fortune, gleaming on your throat, while I am lacking the necessaries of life.”

“What is that to me?” cried Pluma, scornfully. “Allow me to pass from the room, and I will send my maid back to you with a twenty-dollar note. My moments are precious; do not detain me.”

The woman laughed contemptuously.

“Twenty dollars, indeed!” she sneered, mockingly. “Twenty thousand will not answer my purpose. From this time forth I intend to live as befits a lady. I want that necklace you are wearing, as security that you will produce the required sum for me before to-morrow night.”

The coarse proposal amazed Pluma.

“I thought Whitestone Hall especially guarded against thieves,” she said, steadily. “You seem to be a desperate woman; but I, Pluma Hurlhurst, do not fear you. We will pass over the remarks you have just uttered as simply beyond discussion.”

With a swift, gliding motion she attempted to reach the bell-rope. Again the woman intercepted her.

“Arouse the household if you dare!” hissed the woman, tightening her hold upon the white arm upon which the jewels flashed and quivered. “If Basil Hurlhurst knew what I know you would be driven from this house before an hour had passed.”

“I–I–do not know what you mean,” gasped Pluma, her great courage and fortitude sinking before this woman’s fearlessness and defiant authority.

“No, you don’t know what I mean; and little you thank me for carrying the treacherous secret since almost the hour of your birth. It is time for you to know the truth at last. You are not the heiress of Whitestone Hall–you are not Basil Hurlhurst’s child!”

Pluma’s face grew deathly white; a strange mist seemed gathering before her.

“I can not–seem–to–grasp–what you mean, or who you are to terrify me so.”

A mocking smile played about the woman’s lips as she replied, in a slow, even, distinct voice:

“I am your mother, Pluma!”

CHAPTER XXXIX

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.”