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She read her choice, sparkling paragraphs from the papers, commenting upon them, in a pretty, gossiping way.
Nothing seemed to interest the pretty little creature, or bring a smile to the quivering, childish lips.
“Ah! here is something quite racy!” she cried, drawing her chair up closer to the bedside. “A scandal in high life.This is sure to be entertaining.”
Mrs. Tudor was a good little woman, but, like all women in general, she delighted in a spicy scandal.
A handsome stranger had married a beautiful heiress. For a time all went merry as a marriage-bell. Suddenly a second wife appeared on the scene, of which no one previously knew the existence. The husband had sincerely believed himself separated by law from wife number one, but through some technicality of the law, the separation was pronounced illegal, and the beautiful heiress bitterly realized to her cost that she was no wife.
“It must be a terrible calamity to be placed in such a predicament,” cried Mrs. Tudor, energetically. “I blame the husband for not finding out beyond a doubt that he was free from his first wife.”
A sudden thought seemed to come to Daisy, so startling it almost took her breath away.
“Supposing a husband left his wife, and afterward thought her dead, even though she were not, and he should marry again, would it not be legal? Supposing the poor, deserted wife knew of it, but allowed him to marry that some one else, because she believed he was unhappy with herself, would it not be legal?” she repeated in an intense voice, striving to appear calm.
“I can scarcely understand the question, my dear. I should certainly say, if the first wife knew her husband was about to remarry, and she knew she was not separated from him by law or death, she was certainly a criminal in allowing the ceremony to proceed. Why, did you ever hear of such a peculiar case, my dear?”
“No,” replied Daisy, flushing crimson. “I was thinking of Enoch Arden.”
“Why, there is scarcely a feature in Enoch Arden’s case resembling the one you have just cited. You must have made a mistake?”
“Yes; you are right. I have made a mistake,” muttered Daisy, growing deadly pale. “I did not know. I believed it was right.”
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“You believed what was right?” asked Mrs. Tudor, in amazement.
“I believed it was right for the first wife to go out of her husband’s life if she had spoiled it, and leave him free to woo and win the bride he loved,” replied Daisy, pitifully embarrassed.
“Why, you innocent child,” laughed Mrs. Tudor, “I have said he wouldnotbe free as long as the law did not separate him from his first wife, and she was alive. It is against the law of Heaven for any man to have two wives; and if the first wife remained silent and saw the sacred ceremony profaned by that silence, she broke the law of Heaven––a sin against God beyond pardon. Did you speak?” she asked, seeing Daisy’s white lips move.
She did not know a prayer had gone up to God from that young tortured heart for guidance.
Had she done wrong in letting Rex and the whole world believe her dead? Was it ever well to do a wrong that good should come from it?
And the clear, innocent, simple conscience was quick to answer, “No!”
Poor Daisy looked at the position in every possible way, and the more she reflected the more frightened she became.
Poor, little, artless child-bride, she was completely bewildered. She could find no way out of her difficulty until the idea occurred to her that the best person to help her would be John Brooks; and her whole heart and soul fastened eagerly on this.
She could not realize she had lain ill so long. Oh, Heaven, what might have happened in the meantime, if Rex should marry Pluma? She would not be his wife becauseshe––who was a barrier between them––lived.
CHAPTER XXXV.
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 the172scandals. 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.173Tudor, 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.
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“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.175Tudor 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 heshouldfind 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.
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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.”
CHAPTER XXXVI.
The shade of night was wrapping its dusky mantle over the earth as Daisy, flushed and excited, and trembling in every limb, alighted from the train at Allendale.
Whitestone Hall was quite a distance from the station; she had quite a walk before her.
Not a breath of air seemed to stir the branches of the trees, and the inky blackness of the sky presaged the coming storm.
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Since dusk the coppery haze seemed to gather itself together; great purple masses of clouds piled themselves in the sky; a lurid light overspread the heavens, and now and then the dense, oppressive silence was broken by distant peals of thunder, accompanied by great fierce rain-drops.
Daisy drew her cloak closer about her, struggling bravely on through the storm and the darkness, her heart beating so loudly she wondered it did not break.
Poor child! how little she knew she was fast approaching the crisis of her life!
She remembered, with a little sob, the last time she had traversed that road––she was seated by John Brooks’s side straining her eyes toward the bend in the road, watching eagerly for the first glimpse of the magnolia-tree, and the handsome young husband waiting there.
Coy blushes suffused Daisy’s cheeks as she struggled on through the pouring rain. She forgot she was a wretched, unpitied, forsaken little bride, on a mission of such great importance. She was only a simple child, after all, losing sight of all the whole world, as her thoughts dwelt on the handsome young fellow, her husband in name only, whom she saw waiting for her at the trysting-place, looking so cool, so handsome and lovable in his white linen suit and blue tie; his white straw hat, with the blue-dotted band around it, lying on the green grass beside him, and the sunshine drifting through the green leaves on his smiling face and brown, curling hair.
“If Rex had only known I was innocent, he could not have judged me so harshly. Oh, my love––my love!” she cried out. “Heaven must have made us for each other, but a fate more cruel than death has torn us asunder. Oh, Rex, my love, if you had only been more patient with me!”
She crept carefully along the road through the intense darkness and the down-pouring rain. She knew every inch of the ground. She could not lose her way. She reached the turn in the road which was but a few feet distant from the magnolia-tree where first she had met Rex and where she had seen him last––a few steps more and she would reach it.
A blinding glare of lightning lighted up the scene for one brief instant; there was the tree, but, oh! was it only a fancy of her imagination? she thought she saw a man’s figure kneeling under it.
“Who was he, and what was he doing there?” she wondered. She stood rooted to the spot. “Perhaps he had taken refuge there from the fury of the storm.”
Daisy was a shrinking, timid little creature; she dared not178move a step further, although the golden moments that flitted by were as precious as her life-blood.
She drew back, faint with fear, among the protecting shadows of the trees. Another flash of light––the man was surely gathering wild flowers from the rain-drenched grass.
“Surely the man must be mad,” thought Daisy, with a cold thrill of horror.
Her limbs trembled so from sheer fright they refused to bear her slight weight, and with a shudder of terror she sunk down in the wet grass, her eyes fixed as one fascinated on the figure under the tree, watching his every movement, as the lurid lightning illumined the scene at brief intervals.
The great bell from the turret of Whitestone Hall pealed the hour of seven, and in the lightning’s flash she saw the man arise from his knees; in one hand he held a small bunch of flowers, the other was pressed over his heart.
Surely there was something strangely familiar in that graceful form; then he turned his face toward her.
In that one instantaneous glance she had recognized him––it was Rex, her husband––as he turned hastily from the spot, hurrying rapidly away in the direction of Whitestone Hall.
“Why was Rex there alone on his wedding-night under the magnolia-tree in the terrible storm?” she asked herself, in a strange, bewildered way. “What could it mean?” She had heard the ceremony was to be performed promptly at half past eight, it was seven already. “What could it mean?”
She had been too much startled and dismayed when she found it was Rex to make herself known. Ah, no, Rex must never know she was so near him; it was Pluma she must see.
“Why had he come to the magnolia-tree?” she asked herself over and over again. A moment later she had reached the self-same spot, and was kneeling beneath the tree, just as Rex had done. She put out her little white hand to caress the grass upon which her husband had knelt, but it was not grass which met her touch, but a bed of flowers; that was strange, too.
She never remembered flowers to grow on that spot. There was nothing but the soft carpet of green grass, she remembered.
One or two beneath her touch were broken from the stem. She knew Rex must have dropped them, and the poor little soul pressed the flowers to her lips, murmuring passionate, loving words over them. She did not know the flowers were daisies; yet they seemed so familiar to the touch.
She remembered how she had walked home from the rectory179with Rex in the moonlight, and thought to herself how funny it sounded to hear Rex call her his wife, in that rich melodious voice of his. Septima had said it was such a terrible thing to be married. She had found it just the reverse, as she glanced up into her pretty young husband’s face, as they walked home together; and how well she remembered how Rex had taken her in his arms at the gate, kissing her rosy, blushing face, until she cried out for mercy.
A sudden, blinding flash of lightning lighted up the spot with a lurid light, and she saw a little white cross, with white daisies growing around it, and upon the cross, in that one meteoric flash, she read the words, “Sacred to the memory of Daisy Brooks.”
She did not faint, or cry out, or utter any word. She realized all in an instant why Rex had been there. Perhaps he felt some remorse for casting her off so cruelly. If some tender regret for her, whom he supposed dead, was not stirring in his heart, why was he there, kneeling before the little cross which bore her name, on his wedding-night?
Could it be that he had ever loved her? She held out her arms toward the blazing lights that shone in the distance from Whitestone Hall, with a yearning, passionate cry. Surely, hers was the saddest fate that had ever fallen to the lot of a young girl.
A great thrill of joy filled her heart, that she was able to prevent the marriage.
She arose from her knees and made her way swiftly through the storm and the darkness, toward the distant cotton fields. She did not wish to enter the Hall by the main gate; there was a small path, seldom used, that led to the Hall, which she had often taken from John Brooks’s cottage; that was the one she chose to-night.
Although the storm raged in all its fury without, the interior of Whitestone Hall was ablaze with light, that streamed with a bright, golden glow from every casement.
Strains of music, mingled with the hum of voices, fell upon Daisy’s ear, as she walked hurriedly up the path. The damp air that swept across her face with the beating rain was odorous with the perfume of rare exotics.
The path up which she walked commanded a full view of Pluma Hurlhurst’s boudoir.
The crimson satin curtains, for some reason, were still looped back, and she could see the trim little maid arranging her long dark hair; she wore a silver-white dressing-robe, bordered180around with soft white swan’s-down and her dainty white satin-slippered feet rested on a crimson velvet hassock.
“How beautiful she is!” thought the poor little child-wife, wistfully gazing at her fair, false enemy. “I can not wonder Rex is dazzled by her peerless, royal beauty. I was mad to indulge the fatal, foolish dream that he could ever love me, poor, plain little Daisy Brooks.”
Daisy drew her cloak closer about her, and her thick veil more securely over her face. As she raised the huge brass knocker her heart beat pitifully, yet she told herself she must be brave to the bitter end.
One, two, three minutes passed. Was no one coming to answer the summons? Yes––some one came at last, a spruce little French maid, whom Daisy never remembered having seen before.
She laughed outright when Daisy falteringly stated her errand.
“You are mad to think mademoiselle will see you to-night,” she answered, contemptuously. “Do you not know this is her wedding-night?”
“She is not marriedyet?” cried Daisy, in a low, wailing voice. “Oh, I must see her!”
With a quizzical expression crossing her face the girl shrugged her shoulders, as she scanned the little dark, dripping figure, answering mockingly:
“The poor make one grand mistake, insisting on what the rich must do. I say again, my lady will not see you––you had better go about your business.”
“Oh, Imustsee her! indeed, I must!” pleaded Daisy. “Your heart, dear girl, is human, and you can see my anguish is no light one.”
Her courage and high resolve seemed to give way, and she wept––as women weep only once in a lifetime––but the heart of the French maid was obdurate.
“Mademoiselle would only be angry,” she said; “it would be as much as my place is worth to even mention you to her.”
“But my errand can brook no delay,” urged Daisy. “You do not realize,” she gasped, brokenly, while her delicate frame was shaken with sobs, and the hot tears fell like rain down her face.
“All that you say is useless,” cried the girl, impatiently, as she purposely obstructed the passage-way, holding the doorknob in her hand; “all your speech is in vain––she will not see you, I say––I will not take her your message.”
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“Then I will go to her myself,” cried Daisy, in desperate determination.
“What’s the matter, Marie?” cried a shrill voice from the head of the rose-lighted stairway; “what in the world keeps you down there so long? Come here instantly.”
Daisy knew too well the handsome, impatient face and the imperious, commanding voice.
“Miss Hurlhurst,” she called out, piteously, “I must see you for a few minutes. I shall die if you refuse me. My errand is one of almost life and death; if you knew how vitally important it was you would not refuse me,” she panted.
Pluma Hurlhurst laughed a little hard laugh that had no music in it.
“What would a hundred lives or deaths matter to me?” she said, contemptuously. “I would not listen to you ten minutes to-night if I actually knew it was to save your life,” cried the haughty beauty, stamping her slippered foot impatiently.
“It is for your own sake,” pleaded Daisy. “See, I kneel to you, Miss Hurlhurst. If you would not commit a crime, I implore you by all you hold sacred, to hear me––grant me but a few brief moments.”
“Not an instant,” cried Pluma, scornfully; “shut the door, Marie, and send that person from the house.”
“Oh, what shall I do!” cried Daisy, wringing her hands. “I am driven to the very verge of madness! Heaven pity me––the bitter consequence must fall upon your own head.”
She turned away with a low, bitter cry, as the maid slammed the heavy oaken door in her face.
“There is no other way for me to do,” she told herself, despairingly, “but to see Rex. I do not know how I am going to live through the ordeal of entering his presence––listening to his voice––knowing I bring him such a burden of woe––spoiling his life for the second time.”
She did not hear the door quietly reopen.
“I have heard all that has just passed, young lady,” said a kind voice close beside her. “I am extremely sorry for you––your case seems a pitiful one. I am sorry my daughter refused to see you; perhaps I can be of some assistance to you. I am Miss Hurlhurst’s father.”
CHAPTER XXXVII.
For a moment Daisy stood irresolute. “Follow me into my study, and tell me your trouble. You say it concerns my daughter. Perhaps I can advise you.”
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Ah, yes! he above all others could help her––he was Pluma’s father––he could stop the fatal marriage. She would not be obliged to face Rex.
Without another word Daisy turned and followed him. Although Daisy had lived the greater portion of her life at John Brooks’ cottage on the Hurlhurst plantation, this was the first time she had ever gazed upon the face of the recluse master of Whitestone Hall. He had spent those years abroad; and poor Daisy’s banishment dated from the time the lawn fête had been given in honor of their return.
Daisy glanced shyly up through her veil with a strange feeling of awe at the noble face, with the deep lines of suffering around the mouth, as he opened his study door, and, with a stately inclination of the head, bade her enter.
“His face is not like Pluma’s,” she thought, with a strange flutter at her heart. “He looks good and kind. I am sure I can trust him.”
Daisy was quite confused as she took the seat he indicated. Mr. Hurlhurst drew up his arm-chair opposite her, and waited with the utmost patience for her to commence.
She arose and stood before him, clasping her trembling little white hands together supplicatingly. He could not see her face, for she stood in the shadow, and the room was dimly lighted; but he knew that the sweet, pathetic voice was like the sound of silvery bells chiming some half-forgotten strain.
“I have come to tell you this wedding can not––must not––go on to-night!” she cried, excitedly.
Basil Hurlhurst certainly thought the young girl standing before him must be mad.
“I do not understand,” he said, slowly, yet gently. “Why do you, a stranger, come to me on my daughter’s wedding-night with such words as these? What reason can you offer why this marriage should not proceed?”
He could not tell whether she had heard his words or not, she stood before him so silent, her little hands working nervously together. She looked wistfully into his face, and she drew her slender figure up to its full height, as she replied, in a low, passionate, musical voice:
“Mr. Lyon can not marry your daughter, sir, for he has a living wife.”
“Mr. Lyon has a wife?” repeated Basil Hurlhurst, literally dumbfounded with amazement. “In Heaven’s name, explain yourself!” he cried, rising hastily from his chair and facing her.
The agitation on his face was almost alarming. His grand183old face was as white as his linen. His eyes were full of eager, painful suspense and excitement. With a violent effort at self-control he restrained his emotions, sinking back in his arm-chair like one who had received an unexpected blow.
Daisy never remembered in what words she told him the startling truth. He never interrupted her until she had quite finished.
“You will not blame Rex,” she pleaded, her sweet voice choking with emotion; “he believes me dead.”
Basil Hurlhurst did not answer; his thoughts were too confused. Yes, it was but too true––the marriage could not go on. He reached hastily toward the bell-rope.
“You will not let my––Rex know until I am far away,” she cried, piteously, as she put her marriage certificate in Mr. Hurlhurst’s hand.
“I am going to send for Rex to come here at once,” he made answer.
With a low, agonized moan, Daisy grasped his outstretched hand, scarcely knowing what she did.
“Oh, please do not, Mr. Hurlhurst,” she sobbed. “Rex must not see me; I should die if you sent for him; I could not bear it––indeed, I could not.” She was looking at him, all her heart in her eyes, and, as if he felt magnetically the power of her glance, he turned toward her, meeting the earnest gaze of the blue, uplifted eyes.
The light fell full upon her fair, flushed face, and the bonnet and veil she wore had fallen back from the golden head.
A sudden mist seemed to come before his eyes, and he caught his breath with a sharp gasp.
“What did you say your name was before you were married?” he asked, in a low, intense voice. “I––I––did not quite understand.”
“Daisy Brooks, your overseer’s niece,” she answered, simply.
She wondered why he uttered such a dreary sigh as he muttered, half aloud, how foolish he was to catch at every straw of hope.
Carefully he examined the certificate. It was too true. It certainly certified Rexford Lyon and Daisy Brooks were joined together in the bonds of matrimony nearly a year before. And then he looked at the paper containing the notice of her tragic death, which Daisy had read and carefully saved. Surely no blame could be attached to Rex, in the face of these proofs.
He was sorry for the beautiful, haughty heiress, to whom this terrible news would be a great shock; he was sorry for184Rex, he had grown so warmly attached to him of late, but he felt still more sorry for the fair child-bride, toward whom he felt such a yearning, sympathetic pity.
The great bell in the tower slowly pealed the hour of eight, with a dull, heavy clang, and he suddenly realized what was to be done must be done at once.
“I must send for both Rex and Pluma,” he said, laying his hands on the beautiful, bowed head; “but, if it will comfort you to be unobserved during the interview, you shall have your wish.” He motioned her to one of the curtained recesses, and placed her in an easy-chair. He saw she was trembling violently.
It was a hard ordeal for him to go through, but there was no alternative.
He touched the bell with a shaking hand, thrusting the certificate and paper into his desk.
“Summon my daughter Pluma to me at once,” he said to the servant who answered the summons, “and bid Mr. Lyon come to me here within half an hour.”
He saw the man held a letter in his hand.
“If you please, sir,” said the man, “as I was coming to answer your bell I met John Brooks, your overseer, in the hall below. A stranger was with him, who requested me to give you this without delay.”
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.”
“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. He185turned 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 and186earnestly, 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.