And once again poor little Daisy was whirling rapidly toward the scene of her first great sorrow.

Time seemed to slip by her unheeded during all that long, tedious journey of two nights and a day.

"Are you going to Baltimore?" asked a gentle-faced lady, who was strangely attracted to the beautiful, sorrowful young girl, in which all hope, life, and sunshine seemed dead.

"Yes, madame," she made answer, "I change cars there; I am going further."

The lady was struck by the peculiar mournful cadence of the young voice.

"I beg your pardon for my seeming rudeness," she said, looking long and earnestly at the fair young face; "but you remind me so strangely of a young school-mate of my youth; you are strangely like what she was then. We both attended Madame Whitney's seminary. Perhaps you have heard of the institution; it is a very old and justly famous school." She wondered at the beautiful flush that stole into the girl's flower-like face—like the soft, faint tinting of a sea-shell. "She married a wealthy planter," pursued the lady, reflectively; "but she did not live long to enjoy her happy home. One short year after she married Evalia Hurlhurst died." The lady never forgot the strange glance that passed over the girl's face, or the wonderful light that seemed to break over it. "Why," exclaimed the lady, as if a sudden thought occurred to her, "when you bought your ticket I heard you mention Allendale. That was the home of the Hurlhursts. Is it possible you know them? Mr. Hurlhurst is a widower—something of a recluse, and an invalid, I have heard; he has a daughter called Pluma."

"Yes, madame," Daisy made answer, "I have met Miss Hurlhurst, but not her father."

How bitterly this stranger's words seemed to mock her! Did she know Pluma Hurlhurst, the proud, haughty heiress who had stolen her young husband's love from her?—the dark, sparkling, willful beauty who had crossed her innocent young life so strangely—whom she had seen bending over her husband in the pitying moonlight almost caressing him? She thought she would cry out with the bitterness of the thought. How strange it was! The name, Evalia Hurlhurst, seemed to fall upon her ears like the softest, sweetest music. Perhaps she wished she was like that young wife, who had died so long ago, resting quietly beneath the white daisies that bore her name.

"That is Madame Whitney's," exclaimed the lady, leaning forward toward the window excitedly. "Dear me! I can almost imagine I am a young girl again. Why, what is the matter, my dear? You look as though you were about to faint."

The train whirled swiftly past—the broad, glittering Chesapeake on one side, and the closely shaven lawn of the seminary on the other. It was evidently recess. Young girls were flitting here and there under the trees, as pretty a picture of happy school life as one would wish to see. It seemed to poor hapless Daisy long ages must have passed since that morning poor old John Brooks had brought her, a shy, blushing, shrinking country lassie, among those daintily attired, aristocratic maidens, who had laughed at her coy, timid mannerism, and at the clothes poor John wore, and at his flaming red cotton neckerchief.

She had not much time for further contemplation. The train steamed into the Baltimore depot, and she felt herself carried along by the surging crowd that alighted from the train.

She did not go into the waiting-room; she had quite forgotten she was not at the end of her journey.

She followed the crowds along the bustling street, a solitary, desolate, heart-broken girl, with a weary white face whose beautiful, tender eyes looked in vain among the throngs that passed her by for one kindly face or a sympathetic look.

Some pushed rudely by her, others looked into the beautiful face with an ugly smile. Handsomely got-up dandies, with fine clothes and no brains, nodded familiarly as Daisy passed them. Some laughed, and others scoffed and jeered; but not one—dear Heaven! not one among the vast throng gave her a kindly glance or a word. Occasionally one, warmer hearted than the others, would look sadly on that desolate, beautiful, childish face.

A low moan she could scarcely repress broke from her lips. A handsomely dressed child, who was rolling a hoop in front of her, turned around suddenly and asked her if she was ill.

"Ill?" She repeated the word with a vague feeling of wonder. What was physical pain to the torture that was eating away her young life? Ill? Why, all the illness in the world put together could not cause the anguish she was suffering then—the sting of a broken heart.

She was not ill—only desolate and forsaken.

Poor Daisy answered in such a vague manner that she quite frightened the child, who hurried away as fast as she could with her hoop, pausing now and then to look back at the white, forlorn face on which the sunshine seemed to cast such strange shadows.

On and on Daisy walked, little heeding which way she went. She saw what appeared to be a park on ahead, and there she bent her steps. The shady seats among the cool green grasses under the leafy trees looked inviting. She opened the gate and entered. A sudden sense of dizziness stole over her, and her breath seemed to come in quick, convulsive gasps.

"Perhaps God has heard my prayer, Rex, my love," she sighed. "I am sick and weary unto death. Oh, Rex—Rex—"

The beautiful eyelids fluttered over the soft, blue eyes, and with that dearly loved name on her lips, the poor little child-bride sunk down on the cold, hard earth in a death-like swoon.

"Oh, dear me, Harvey, who in the world is this?" cried a little, pleasant-voiced old lady, who had witnessed the young girl enter the gate, and saw her stagger and fall. In a moment she had fluttered down the path, and was kneeling by Daisy's side.

"Come here, Harvey," she called; "it is a young girl; she has fainted."

Mr. Harvey Tudor, the celebrated detective, threw away the cigar he had been smoking, and hastened to his wife's side.

"Isn't she beautiful?" cried the little lady, in ecstasy. "I wonder who she is, and what she wanted."

"She is evidently a stranger, and called to consult me professionally," responded Mr. Tudor; "she must be brought into the house."

He lifted the slight, delicate figure in his arms, and bore her into the house.

"I am going down to the office now, my dear," he said; "we have some important cases to look after this morning. I will take a run up in the course of an hour or so. If the young girl should recover and wish to see me very particularly, I suppose you will have to send for me. Don't get me away up here unless you find out the case is imperative."

And with a good-humored nod, the shrewd detective, so quiet and domesticated at his own fireside, walked quickly down the path to the gate, whistling softly to himself—thinking with a strange, puzzled expression in his keen blue eyes, of Daisy. Through all of his business transactions that morning the beautiful, childish face was strangely before his mind's eye.

"Confound it!" he muttered, seizing his hat, "I must hurry home and find out at once who that pretty little creature is—and what she wants."



CHAPTER XXXIV.

The sunny summer days came and went, lengthening themselves into long weeks before Daisy Brooks opened her eyes to consciousness. No clew could be found as to who the beautiful young stranger was.

Mr. Tudor had proposed sending her to the hospital—but to this proposition his wife would not listen.

"No, indeed, Harvey," she exclaimed, twisting the soft, golden curls over her white fingers, "she shall stay here where I can watch over her myself, poor little dear."

"You amaze me, my dear," expostulated her husband, mildly. "You can not tell who you may be harboring."

"Now, Harvey," exclaimed the little woman, bending over the beautiful, still, white face resting against the crimson satin pillow, "don't insinuate there could be anything wrong with this poor child. My woman's judgment tells me she is as pure as those lilies in yonder fountain's bed."

"If you had seen as much of the world as I have, my dear, you would take little stock in the innocence of beautiful women; very homely women are rarely dangerous."

"There is no use in arguing the point, Harvey. I have determined she shall not be sent to the hospital, and she shall stay here."

Mrs. Tudor carried the point, as she always did in every argument.

"Well, my dear, if any ill consequences arise from this piece of folly of yours, remember, I shirk all responsibility."

"'When a woman will, she will, you may depend on't, And when she won't—she won't, and there's an end on't,'"

he quoted, dryly. "I sincerely hope you will not rue it."

"Now, you would be surprised, my dear, to find out at some future time you had been entertaining an angel unawares."

"I should be extremely surprised; you have put it mildly, my dear—nay, I may say dumbfounded—to find an angel dwelling down here below among us sinners. My experience has led me to believe the best place for angels is up above where they belong. I am glad that you have such pretty little notions, though, my dear. It is not best for women to know too much of the ways of the world."

"Harvey, you shock me!" cried the little lady, holding up her hands in horror at her liege lord's remarks.

Still she had her own way in the matter, and Daisy stayed.

Every day the detective grew more mystified as to who in the world she could be. One thing was certain, she had seen some great trouble which bid fair to dethrone her reason.

At times she would clasp his hands, calling him Uncle John, begging him piteously to tell her how she could die. And she talked incoherently, too, of a dark, handsome woman's face, that had come between her and some lost treasure.

Then a grave look would come into the detective's face. He had seen many such cases, and they always ended badly, he said to himself. She had such an innocent face, so fair, so childish, he could not make up his mind whether she was sinned against or had been guilty of a hidden sin herself.

Love must have something to do with it, he thought, grimly. Whenever he saw such a hopeless, despairing look on a young and beautiful face he always set it down as a love case in his own mind, and in nine cases out of ten he was right.

"Ah! it is the old, old story," he muttered. "A pretty, romantic school-girl, and some handsome, reckless lover," and something very much like an imprecation broke from his lips, thorough man of the world though he was, as he ruminated on the wickedness of men.

Two days before the marriage of Rex and Pluma was to be solemnized, poor little Daisy awoke to consciousness, her blue eyes resting on the joyous face of Mrs. Tudor, who bent over her with bated breath, gazing into the upraised eyes, turned so wonderingly upon her.

"You are to keep perfectly quiet, my dear," said Mrs. Tudor, pleasantly, laying her hands on Daisy's lips as she attempted to speak. "You must not try to talk or to think; turn your face from the light, and go quietly to sleep for a bit, then you shall say what you please."

Daisy wondered who the lady was, as she obeyed her like an obedient, tired child—the voice seemed so motherly, so kind, and so soothing, as she lay there, trying to realize how she came there. Slowly all her senses struggled into life, her memory came back, her mind and brain grew clear. Then she remembered walking into the cool, shady garden, and the dizziness which seemed to fall over her so suddenly. "I must have fainted last night," she thought. She also remembered Pluma bending so caressingly over her young husband in the moonlight, and that the sight had almost driven her mad, and, despite her efforts to suppress her emotion, she began to sob aloud.

Mrs. Tudor hurried quickly to the bedside. She saw at once the ice from the frozen fountain of memory had melted.

"If you have any great sorrow on your mind, my dear, and wish to see Mr. Tudor, I will call him at once. He is in the parlor."

"Please don't," sobbed Daisy. "I don't want to see anybody. I must go home to Uncle John at once. Have I been here all night?"

"Why, bless your dear little heart, you have been here many a night and many a week. We thought at one time you would surely die."

"I wish I had," moaned Daisy. In the bitterness of her sorely wounded heart she said to herself that Providence had done everything for her without taking her life.

"We thought," pursued Mrs. Tudor, gently, "that perhaps you desired to see my husband—he is a detective—upon some matter. You fainted when you were just within the gate."

"Was it your garden?" asked Daisy, surprisedly. "I thought it was a park!"

"Then you were not in search of Mr. Tudor, my dear?" asked his wife, quite mystified.

"No," replied Daisy. "I wanted to get away from every one who knew me, or every one I knew, except Uncle John."

"I shall not question her concerning herself to-day," Mrs. Tudor thought. "I will wait a bit until she is stronger." She felt delicate about even asking her name. "She will seek my confidence soon," she thought. "I must wait."

Mrs. Tudor was a kind-hearted little soul. She tried every possible means of diverting Daisy's attention from the absorbing sorrow which seemed consuming her.

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."

"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 would not be 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 because she—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 the scandals. 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. Tudor, 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.

"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. Tudor 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 he should find 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 protegee 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.

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.

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 not move 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 rectory with 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, bordered around 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 married yet?" 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, I must see 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."

"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."

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 fete 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 grand old 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 for Rex, 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."

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.

"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.

"I found Basil had learned to despise even more fiercely than he had ever loved me.

"He took us abroad, refusing to speak or look upon my face, even though he escorted us. In a fit of desperation I threw myself into the sea, but I was rescued by another vessel. A strong inclination seized me to again visit Whitestone Hall and see what disposition he had made of you. Years had passed; you were then a child of five years.

"One terrible stormy night—as bad a night as this one—I made my way to the Hall. It was brilliantly lighted up, just as it is to-night.

"I saw the gate was locked; and through the flashes of lightning I saw a little girl sobbing wildly, flung face downward in the grass, heedless of the storm.

"I knew you, and called you to me. I questioned you as to why the house was lighted, and learned the truth. Basil Hurlhurst had remarried; he had been abroad with his wife, and to-night he was bringing home his young wife.

"My rage knew no bounds. I commanded you to bring me the key of the gate. You obeyed. That night a little golden-haired child was born at Whitestone Hall, and I knew it would live to divide the honors and wealth of Whitestone Hall with you—my child.

"The thought maddened me. I stole the child from its mother's arms, and fled. I expected to see the papers full of the terrible deed, or to hear you had betrayed me, a stranger, wanting the key of the gate."

"My surprise knew no bounds when I found it was given out the child had died, and was buried with its young mother. I never understood why Basil Hurlhurst did not attempt to recover his child.

"I took the child far from here, placing it in a basket on the river brink, with a note pinned to it saying that I, the mother, had sinned and had sought a watery grave beneath the waves. I screened myself, and watched to see what would become of the child, as I saw a man's form approaching in the distance.

"I fairly caught my breath as he drew near. I saw it was my own husband, whom I had so cruelly deserted years ago—your father, Pluma, who never even knew or dreamed of your existence.

"Carefully he lifted the basket and the sleeping babe. How he came in that locality I do not know. I found, by some strange freak of fate, he had taken the child home to his aunt Taiza, and there the little one remained until the spinster died.

"Again, a few years later, I determined to visit Whitestone Hall, when a startling and unexpected surprise presented itself. Since then I have believed in fate. All unconscious of the strange manner in which these two men's lives had crossed each other, I found Basil Hurlhurst had engaged my own husband, and your father, John Brooks, for his overseer."

Pluma gave a terrible cry, but the woman did not heed her.

"I dared not betray my identity then, but fled quickly from Whitestone Hall; for I knew, if all came to light, it would be proved without a doubt you were not the heiress of Whitestone Hall.

"I saw a young girl, blue-eyed and golden-haired, singing like a lark in the fields. One glance at her face, and I knew she was Basil Hurlhurst's stolen child fate had brought directly to her father's home. I questioned her, and she answered she had lived with Taiza Burt, but her name was Daisy Brooks."

"It is a lie—a base, ingenious lie!" shrieked Pluma. "Daisy Brooks the heiress of Whitestone Hall! Even if it were true," she cried, exultingly, "she will never reign here, the mistress of Whitestone Hall. She is dead."

"Not exactly!" cried a ringing voice from the rear; and before the two women could comprehend the situation, the detective sprung through the silken curtains, placing his back firmly against the door. "You have laid a deep scheme, with a cruel vengeance; but your own weapons are turned against you. Bring your daughter forward, Mr. Hurlhurst. Your presence is also needed, Mr. Brooks," he called.



CHAPTER XL.

Not a muscle of Pluma Hurlhurst's face quivered, but the woman uttered a low cry, shrinking close to her side.

"Save me, Pluma!" she gasped. "I did it for your sake!"

Basil Hurlhurst slowly put back the curtain, and stepped into the room, clasping his long-lost daughter to his breast. Daisy's arms were clinging round his neck, and her golden head rested on his shoulder. She was sobbing hysterically, John Brooks, deeply affected, following after.

Like a stag at bay, the woman's courage seemed to return to her, as she stood face to face after all those years with the husband whom she had so cruelly deceived—and the proud-faced man who stood beside him—whose life she had blighted with the keenest and most cruel blow of all.

Basil Hurlhurst was the first to break the ominous silence.

"It is unnecessary to tell you we have heard all," he said, slowly. "I shall not seek redress for your double crime. Leave this locality at once, or I may repent the leniency of my decision. I hold you guiltless, Pluma," he added, gently. "You are not my child, yet I have not been wanting in kindness toward you. I shall make every provision for your future comfort with your father," he said, indicating John Brooks, who stood pale and trembling at his side.

"Pluma, my child," cried John Brooks, brokenly, extending his arms.

But the scornful laugh that fell from her lips froze the blood in his veins.

"Your child!" she shrieked, mockingly; "do not dare call me that again. What care I for your cotton fields, or for Whitestone Hall?" she cried, proudly, drawing herself up to her full height. "You have always hated me, Basil Hurlhurst," she cried, turning haughtily toward him. "This is your triumph! Within the next hour I shall be Rex Lyon's wife."

She repeated the words with a clear, ringing laugh, her flaming eyes fairly scorching poor little Daisy's pale, frightened face.

"Do you hear me, Daisy Brooks!" she screamed. "You loved Rex Lyon, and I have won him from you. You can queen it over Whitestone Hall, but I shall not care. I shall be queen of Rex's heart and home! Mine is a glorious revenge!"

She stopped short for want of breath, and Basil Hurlhurst interrupted her.

"I have to inform you you are quite mistaken there," he replied, calmly. "Mr. Rexford Lyon will not marry you to-night, for he is already married to my little daughter Daisy." He produced the certificate as he spoke, laying it on the table. "Rex thought her dead," he continued, simply. "I have sent for him to break the startling news of Daisy's presence, and I expect him here every moment."

"Pluma," cried Daisy, unclasping her arms from her father's neck, and swiftly crossing over to where her rival stood, beautifully, proudly defiant, "forgive me for the pain I have caused you unknowingly. I did not dream I was—an—an—heiress—or that Mr. Hurlhurst was my father. I don't want you to go away, Pluma, from the luxury that has been yours; stay and be my sister—share my home."

"My little tender-hearted angel!" cried Basil Hurlhurst, moved to tears.

John Brooks hid his face in his hands.

For a single instant the eyes of these two girls met—whose lives had crossed each other so strangely—Daisy's blue eyes soft, tender and appealing, Pluma's hard, flashing, bitter and scornful.

She drew herself up to her full height.

"Remain in your house?" she cried, haughtily, trembling with rage. "You mistake me, girl: do you think I could see you enjoying the home that I have believed to be mine—see the man I love better than life itself lavish caresses upon you—kiss your lips—and bear it calmly? Live the life of a pauper when I have been led to believe I was an heiress! Better had I never known wealth than be cast from luxury into the slums of poverty," she wailed out, sharply. "I shall not touch a dollar of your money, Basil Hurlhurst. I despise you too much. I have lived with the trappings of wealth around me—the petted child of luxury—all in vain—all in vain."

Basil Hurlhurst was struck with the terrible grandeur of the picture she made, standing there in her magnificent, scornful pride—a wealth of jewels flashing on her throat and breast and twined in the long, sweeping hair that had become loosened and swept in a dark, shining mass to her slender waist, her flashing eyes far outshining the jewels upon which the softened gas-light streamed. Not one gleam of remorse softened her stony face in its cruel, wicked beauty. Her jeweled hand suddenly crept to the pocket of her dress where she had placed the vial.

"Open that door!" she commanded.

The key fell from her mother's nerveless grasp. The detective quietly picked it up, placed it in the lock, and opened the door. And just at that instant, Rex Lyon, with the letter in his hand, reached it.

Pluma saw him first.

"Rex!" she cried, in a low, hoarse voice, staggering toward him; but he recoiled from her, and she saw Stanwick's letter in his hands; and she knew in an instant all her treachery was revealed; and without another word—pale as death—but with head proudly erect, she swept with the dignity of a princess from the scene of her bitter defeat, closely followed by her cowering mother.

Rex did not seek to detain her; his eyes had suddenly fallen upon the golden-haired little figure kneeling by Basil Hurlhurst's chair.

He reached her side at a single bound.

"Oh, Daisy, my darling, my darling!" he cried, snatching her in his arms, and straining her to his breast, as he murmured passionate, endearing words over her.

Suddenly he turned to Mr. Hurlhurst.

"I must explain—"

"That is quite unnecessary, Rex, my boy," said Mr. Tudor, stepping forward with tears in his eyes; "Mr. Hurlhurst knows all."

It never occurred to handsome, impulsive Rex to question what Daisy was doing there. He only knew Heaven had restored him his beautiful, idolized child-bride.

"You will forgive my harshness, won't you, love?" he pleaded. "I will devote my whole life to blot out the past. Can you learn to love me, sweetheart, and forget the cloud that drifted between us?"

A rosy flush suffused the beautiful flower-like face, as Daisy shyly lifted her radiantly love-lighted blue eyes to his face with a coy glance that fairly took his breath away for rapturous ecstasy.

Daisy's golden head nestled closer on his breast, and two little soft, white arms, whose touch thrilled him through and through, stole round his neck—that was all the answer she made him.