Daisy Brooks: or, A Perilous Love

Basil Hurlhurst broke open the seal. There were but a few penciled words, which ran as follows:

“Mr. Hurlhurst, – Will you kindly grant me an immediate interview? I shall detain you but a few moments.

“Yours, hastily,“Harvey Tudor,“Of Tudor, Peck & Co, Detectives, Baltimore.”

The man never forgot the cry that came from his master’s lips as he read those brief words.

“Yes, tell him to come up at once,” he cried; “I will see him here.”

He forgot the message he had sent for Pluma and Rex–forgot the shrinking, timid little figure in the shadowy drapery of the curtains–even the gay hum of the voices down below, and the strains of music, or that the fatal marriage moment was drawing near.

He was wondering if the detective’s visit brought him a gleam of hope. Surely he could have no other object in calling so hurriedly on this night above all other nights.

A decanter of wine always sat on the study table. He turned toward it now with feverish impatience, poured out a full glass with his nervous fingers, and drained it at a single draught.

A moment later the detective and John Brooks, looking pale and considerably excited, were ushered into the study.

For a single instant the master of Whitestone Hall glanced into the detective’s keen gray eyes for one ray of hope, as he silently grasped his extended hand.

“I see we are alone,” said Mr. Tudor, glancing hurriedly around the room–“we three, I mean,” he added.

Suddenly Basil Hurlhurst thought of the young girl, quite hidden from view.

“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.”

“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.”

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.