"I am your mother, Pluma!"
CHAPTER x.x.xIX.
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 gla.s.s, 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 pa.s.sionately--his first and only love, sweet little Daisy!
From the breast-pocket of his coat he took the cl.u.s.ter 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, pa.s.sionate 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 h.e.l.l 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. G.o.d 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, pa.s.sionate 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.