On the evening which followed the one just described in our last chapter, Pluma Hurlhurst sat in her luxuriant boudoir of rose and gold, deeply absorbed in the three letters which she held in her lap. To one was appended the name of Septima Brooks, one was from Rex’s mother, and the last––and by far the most important one––bore the signature of Lester Stanwick.

Once, twice, thrice she perused it, each time with growing interest, the glittering light deepening in her dark, flashing eyes, and the red lips curling in a scornful smile.

“This is capital!” she cried, exultingly; “even better than I had planned. I could not see my way clear before, but now everything is clear sailing.” She crossed over to the mirror, looking long and earnestly at the superb figure reflected there. “I am fair to look upon,” she cried, bitterly. “Why can not Rex love me?”

Ah! she was fair to look upon, standing beneath the softened glow of the overhanging chandelier, in her dress of gold brocade, with a pomegranate blossom on her bosom, and a diamond spray flashing from the dark, glossy curls, magnificently beautiful.

“I was so sure of Rex,” she said, bitterly; “if any one had said to me, ‘Rex prefers your overseer’s niece, Daisy Brooks, with her baby face and pink-and-white beauty,’ I would have laughed them to scorn. Prefers her to me, the haughty heiress of Whitestone Hall, for whose love, or even smile, men have sued in vain! I have managed the whole affair very cleverly!” she mused. “John Brooks does not return before the coming spring, and Septima is removed from my path most 50 effectually, and if Lester Stanwick manages his part successfully, I shall have little to fear from Daisy Brooks! How clever Lester was to learn Rex had been to the Detective Agency! How he must have loved that girl!” she cried, hotly, with a darkening brow. “Ah, Rex!” she whispered, softly (and for an instant the hard look died out of her face), “no one shall take you from me. I would rather look upon your face cold in death, and know no one else could claim you, than see you smile lovingly upon a rival. There is no torture under heaven so bitter to endure as the pangs of a love unreturned!” she cried, fiercely. She threw open the window and leaned far out into the radiant starlight, as the great clock pealed the hour of seven. “Rex has received my note,” she said, “with the one from his mother inclosed. Surely he will not refuse my request. He will come, if only through politeness!” Again she laughed, that low, mocking laugh peculiar to her, as she heard the peal of the bell. “It is Rex,” she whispered, clasping her hands over her beating heart. “To-night I will sow the first seeds of distrust in your heart, and when they take root you shall despise Daisy Brooks a thousand-fold more than you love her now. She shall feel the keen thrust of a rival’s bitter vengeance!”

Casting a last lingering glance (so woman-like!) at the perfect face the mirror reflected, to give her confidence in herself for the coming ordeal, Pluma Hurlhurst glided down to the parlor, where Rex awaited her.

It would have been hard to believe the proud, willful, polished young heiress could lend herself to a plot so dark and so cruel as the one she was at that moment revolving in her fertile brain.

Rex was standing at the open window, his handsome head leaning wearily against the casement. His face was turned partially toward her, and Pluma could scarcely repress the cry of astonishment that rose to her lips as she saw how pale and haggard he looked in the softened light. She knew but too well the cause.

He was quite unaware of Pluma’s presence until a soft, white, jeweled hand was laid lightly on his arm, and a low, musical voice whispered, “I am so glad you have come, Rex,” close to his elbow.

They had parted under peculiar circumstances. He could fancy her at that moment kneeling to him, under the glare of the lamp-light, confessing her love for him, and denouncing poor little clinging Daisy with such bitter scorn. His present position was certainly an embarrassing one to Rex.

“I am here in accordance with your request, Miss Hurlhurst,” he said, simply, bowing coldly over the white hand that would cling to his arm.

“You are very kind,” she said, sweetly, “to forget that unpleasant little episode that happened at the fÊte, and come to-night. I believe I should never have sent for you,” she added, archly, smiling up into his face, “had it not been at the urgent request of your mother, Rex.”

Pluma hesitated. Rex bit his lip in annoyance, but he was too courteous to openly express his thoughts; he merely bowed again. He meant Pluma should understand all thoughts of love or tenderness must forever more be a dead letter between them.

“My mother!” he repeated, wonderingly; “pardon me, I do not understand.”

For answer she drew his mother’s letter from her bosom and placed it in his hands.

He ran his eyes quickly over the page. The postscript seemed to enlighten him.

“The course of true love never runs smooth,” it ran, “and I beseech you, Pluma dear, if anything should ever happen, any shadow fall upon your love, I beseech you send for Rex and place this letter in his hands. It would not be unwomanly, Pluma, because I, his mother, so earnestly request it; for, on your love for each other hangs my hopes of happiness. Rex is impulsive and willful, but he will respect his mother’s wishes.”

No thought of treachery ever crossed Rex’s mind as he read the lines before him; he never once dreamed the ingeniously worded postscript had been so cleverly imitated and added by Pluma’s own hand. It never occurred to him for an instant to doubt the sincerity of the words he read, when he knew how dearly his mother loved the proud, haughty heiress before him.

“I heard you were going away, Rex,” she said, softly, “and I––I could not let you go so, and break my own heart.”

“In one sense, I am glad you sent for me,” said Rex, quietly ignoring her last remark. “I shall be much pleased to renew our friendship, Miss Pluma, for I need your friendship––nay, more, I need your sympathy and advice more than I can express. I have always endeavored to be frank with you, Pluma,” he said, kindly. “I have never spoken words which might lead you to believe I loved you.”

He saw her face grow white under his earnest gaze and the 52 white lace on her bosom rise and fall convulsively, yet she made him no answer.

“Please permit me to tell you why, Pluma,” he said, taking her hand and leading her to a sofa, taking a seat by her side. “I could not,” he continued, “in justice to either you or myself; for I never knew what love was,” he said, softly, “until the night of the fÊte.” Again he paused; but, as no answer was vouchsafed him, he went on: “I never knew what love meant until I met Daisy––little Daisy Brooks.”

“Rex!” cried Pluma, starting to her feet, “you know not what you say––surely you do not know! I would have warned you, but you would not listen. I saw you drifting toward a yawning chasm; I stretched out my arms to save you, but you would not heed me. You are a stranger to the people around here, Rex, or they would have warned you. Sin is never so alluring as in the guise of a beautiful woman. It is not too late yet. Forget Daisy Brooks; she is not a fit companion for noble Rex Lyon, or pure enough to kiss an honest man’s lips.”

“For God’s sake, Miss Hurlhurst, what do you mean?” cried Rex, slowly rising from his seat and facing her, pale as death. “In Heaven’s name, explain the accusations you have just uttered, or I shall go mad! If a man had uttered those words, I would have––”

The words died away on his lips; he remembered he was talking to a woman. Rex’s eyes fairly glowed with rage as he turned on his heel and strode rapidly up and down the room.

“Rex,” said Pluma, softly advancing a step toward him, “it always grieves a true woman to admit the error of a fallen sister––they would shield her if such a thing were possible.”

“I do not believe it,” retorted Rex, impetuously. “Women seem to take a keen delight in slandering one another, as far as I can see. But you might as well tell me yonder moon was treacherous and vile as to tell me Daisy Brooks was aught but sweet and pure––you could not force me to believe it.”

“I do not attempt to force you to believe it. I have told you the truth, as a loving sister might have done. None are so blind as those who will not see,” she said, toying with the jewels upon her white fingers.

“Daisy Brooks is as pure as yonder lily,” cried Rex, “and I love her as I love my soul!”

His quivering, impassioned voice thrilled Pluma to her heart’s core, and she felt a keen regret that this wealth of love was withheld from her own hungry heart. Rex had never appeared 53 so noble, so handsome, so well worth winning, in her eyes, as at that moment.

“I am sorry for you, Rex,” sobbed Pluma, artfully burying her face in her lace kerchief, “because she can never return your love; she does not love you, Rex.”

“Yes, she does love me,” cried Rex. “I have settled it beyond a doubt.”

“She has settled it beyond a doubt––is not that what you mean, Rex?” she asked, looking him squarely in the face, with a peculiar glitter in her sparkling dark eyes.

“There is something you are keeping from me, Pluma,” cried Rex, seizing both of her hands, and gazing anxiously into the false, fair, smiling, treacherous face. “You know where Daisy has gone––in Heaven’s name, tell me! I can not endure the suspense––do not torture me, Pluma! I will forget you have spoken unkindly of poor little Daisy if you will only tell me where she has gone.”

“Sit down, Rex,” she said, soothingly; “I will not dare tell you while you look at me with such a gleaming light in your eyes. Promise not to interrupt me to the end.”

A nameless dread was clutching at his heart-strings. What could she mean? he asked himself, confusedly. What did this foul mystery mean? He must know, or he would go mad!

“You may speak out unreservedly, Miss Pluma,” he said, hoarsely. “I give you my word, as a gentleman, I shall not interrupt you, even though your words should cause me a bitter heart-pang.”

He stood before her, his arms folded across his breast, yet no pang of remorse crept into Pluma Hurlhurst’s relentless heart for the cruel blow she was about to deal him.

“I must begin at the time of the lawn fÊte,” she said. “That morning a woman begged to see me, sobbing so piteously I could not refuse her an audience. No power of words could portray the sad story of suffering and wrong she poured into my ears, of a niece––beautiful, young, passionate, and willful––and of her prayers and useless expostulations, and of a handsome, dissolute lover to whom the girl was passionately attached, and of elopements she had frustrated, alas! more than once. Ah! how shall I say it!––the lover was not a marrying man.”

Pluma stopped short, and hid her face again in her kerchief as if in utter confusion.

“Go on––go on!” cried Rex, hoarsely.

“‘Lend me money,’ cried the woman, ‘that I may protect the girl by sending her off to school at once. Kind 54 lady, she is young, like you, and I beg you on my knees!’ I gave the woman the required amount, and the girl was taken to school the very next day. But the end was not there. The lover followed the girl––there must have been a preconcerted plan between them––and on the morning after she had entered school she fled from it––fled with her lover. That lover was Lester Stanwick––gay, fascinating, perfidious Lester––whom you know but too well. Can you not guess who the girl was, Rex?”

The dark eyes regarding her were frozen with horror, his white lips moved, but no sound issued from them. She leaned nearer to him, her dark, perfumed hair swept across his face as she whispered, with startling effect:

“The girl was Daisy Brooks, and she is at this moment in company with her lover! Heaven pity you, Rex; you must learn to forget her.”