Daisy Brooks Part 42

"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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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," a.s.sented 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 a.s.sist 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.