CHAPTER XXII.
In the beautiful drawing-room at Whitestone Hall sat Pluma Hurlhurst,running her white, jeweled fingers lightly over the keyboard of agrand piano, but the music evidently failed to charm her. She aroselistlessly and walked toward the window, which opened out upon thewide, cool, rose-embowered porch.
The sunshine glimmered on her amber satin robe, and the whitefrost-work of lace at her throat, and upon the dark, rich beauty ofher southern face.
"Miss Pluma," called Mrs. Corliss, the housekeeper, entering the room,"there is a person down-stairs who wishes to see you. I have told herrepeatedly it is an utter impossibility--you would not see her; butshe declares she will not go away until she does see you."
Pluma turns from the window with cold disdain.
"You should know better than to deliver a message of this kind to me.How dare the impertinent, presuming beggar insist upon seeing me!Order the servants to put her out of the house at once."
"She is not young," said the venerable housekeeper, "and I thought, ifyou only would--"
"Your opinion was not called for, Mrs. Corliss," returned the heiress,pointing toward the door haughtily.
"I beg your pardon," the housekeeper made answer, "but the poorcreature begged so hard to see you I did feel a little sorry forher."
"This does not interest me, Mrs. Corliss," said Pluma, turning towardthe window, indicating the conversation was at an end--"not in theleast."
"The Lord pity you, you stony-hearted creature!" murmured thesympathetic old lady to herself as the door closed between them. "Oneword wouldn't have cost you much, Heaven knows, it's mightly littlecomfort poor old master takes with you! You are no more like thebonny race of Hurlhursts than a raven is like a white dove!" And thepoor old lady walked slowly back to the dark-robed figure in the hall,so eagerly awaiting her.
"There was no use in my going to my young mistress; I knew she wouldnot see you. But I suppose you are more satisfied now."
"She utterly refuses to see me, does she," asked the woman, in anagitated voice, "when you told her I wished to see her particularly?"
The housekeeper shook her head.
"When Miss Pluma once makes up her mind to a thing, no power on earthcould change her mind," she said; "and she is determined she won't seeyou, so you may as well consider that the end of it."
Without another word the stranger turned and walked slowly down thepath and away from Whitestone Hall.
"Fool that I was!" she muttered through her clinched teeth. "I mighthave foreseen this. But I will haunt the place day and night until Isee you, proud heiress of Whitestone Hall. We shall see--time willtell."
Meanwhile Mrs. Corliss, the housekeeper, was staring after her withwondering eyes.
"I have heard that voice and seen that face somewhere," she ruminated,thoughtfully; "but where--where? There seems to be strange leaks inthis brain of mine--I can not remember."
A heavy, halting step passed the door, and stopped there.
"What did that woman want, Mrs. Corliss?"
She started abruptly from her reverie, replying, hesitatingly.
"She wanted to see Miss Pluma, sir."
"Was Pluma so busily engaged she could not spare that poor creature amoment or so?" he inquired, irritably. "Where is she?"
"In the parlor, sir."
With slow, feeble steps, more from weakness than age, Basil Hurlhurstwalked slowly down the corridor to the parlor.
It was seldom he left his own apartments of late, yet Pluma neverraised her superb eyes from the book of engravings which lay in herlap as he entered the room.
A weary smile broke under his silver-white mustache.
"You do not seem in a hurry to bid me welcome, Pluma," he said,grimly, throwing himself down into an easy-chair opposite her. "Icongratulate myself upon having such an affectionate daughter."
Pluma tossed aside her book with a yawn.
"Of course I am glad to see you," she replied, carelessly; "but youcan not expect me to go into ecstasies over the event like a child inpinafores might. You ought to take it for granted that I'm glad youare beginning to see what utter folly it is to make such a recluse ofyourself."
He bit his lip in chagrin. As is usually the case with invalids, hewas at times inclined to be decidedly irritable, as was the case justnow.
"It is you who have driven me to seek the seclusion of my ownapartments, to be out of sight and hearing of the household ofsimpering idiots you insist upon keeping about you," he cried,angrily. "I came back to Whitestone Hall for peace and rest. Do I getit? No."
"That is not my fault," she answered, serenely. "You do not minglewith the guests. I had no idea they could annoy you."
"Well, don't you suppose I have eyes and ears, even if I do not minglewith the chattering magpies you fill the house up with? Why, I cannever take a ramble in the grounds of an evening without stumblingupon a dozen or more pair of simpering lovers at every turn. I likedarkness and quiet. Night after night I find the grounds strung upwith these Chinese lanterns, and I can not even sleep in my bed forthe eternal brass bands at night; and in the daytime not a moment'squiet do I get for these infernal sonatas and screeching trills of thepiano. I tell you plainly, I shall not stand this thing a day longer.I am master of Whitestone Hall yet, and while I live I shall havethings my own way. After I die you can turn it into a pandemonium, forall I care."
Pluma flashed her large dark eyes upon him surprisedly, beginning tolose her temper, spurred on by opposition.
"I am sure I do not mean to make a hermit of myself because you aretoo old to enjoy the brightness of youth," she flashed out, defiantly;"and you ought not to expect it--it is mean and contemptible of you."
"Pluma!" echoed Basil Hurlhurst, in astonishment, his noble facegrowing white and stern with suppressed excitement, "not anotherword."
Pluma tossed her head contemptuously. When once her temper arose itwas quite as impossible to check it as it was when she was a willful,revengeful, spoiled child.
"Another man as rich as you are would have taken their daughter toWashington for a season, and in the summer to Long Branch orNewport--somewhere, anywhere, away from the detestable wavingcotton-fields. When you die I shall have it all set on fire."
"Pluma!" he cried, hoarsely, rising to his feet and drawing hisstately, commanding figure to its full height, "I will not brook suchlanguage from a child who should at least yield me obedience, if notlove. You are not the heiress of Whitestone Hall yet, and you nevermay be. If I thought you really contemplated laying waste these wavingfields that have been my pride for long years--and my father's beforeme--I would will it to an utter stranger, so help me Heaven!"
Were his words prophetic? How little she knew the echo of these wordswere doomed to ring for all time down the corridors of her life! Howlittle we know what is in store for us!
"I am your only child," said Pluma, haughtily; "you would not rob meof my birthright. I shall be forced to submit to your pleasure--whileyou are here--but, thank Heaven, the time is not far distant when Ishall be able to do as I please. 'The mills of the gods grind slowly,but they grind exceeding fine,'" she quoted, saucily.
"Thank Heaven the time is not far distant when I shall be able to doas I please." He repeated the words slowly after her, each one sinkinginto his heart like a poisoned arrow. "So you would thank Heaven formy death, would you?" he cried, with passion rising to a white heat."Well, this is no better than I could expect from the daughter--ofsuch a mother."
He had never intended speaking those words; but she goaded him on toit with her taunting, scornful smile, reminding him so bitterly of theone great error of his past life.
He was little like the kind, courteous master of Whitestone Hall, whomnone named but to praise, as he stood there watching the immovableface of his daughter. All the bitterness of his nature was by passionrocked. No look of pain or anguish touched the dark beauty of thatsouthern face at the mention of her mother's name.
"You have spoken well," she said
. "I am her child. You speak of love,"she cried, contemptuously. "Have you not told me, a thousand times,you never cared for my mother? How, then, could I expect you to carefor me? Have you not cried out unceasingly for the golden-haired youngwife and the babe you lost, and that you wished Heaven had taken youtoo? Did I ever hear my mother's name upon your lips except with asneer? Do you expect these things made that mother's child more fondof you, were you twenty times my father?"
She stood up before him, proudly defiant, like a beautiful tragedyqueen, the sunlight slanting on the golden vines of her amber satinrobe, on the long, dark, silken curls fastened with a ruby star, andon the deep crimson-hearted passion-roses that quivered on her heavingbreast. There was not one feature of that gloriously dark face thatresembled the proud, cold man sitting opposite her.
He knew all she had said was quite true. He had tried so hard to lovethis beautiful queenly girl from her infancy up. He was tender ofheart, honest and true; but an insurmountable barrier seemed everbetween them; each year found them further apart.
Basil Hurlhurst lived over again in those few moments the terriblefolly that had cursed his youth, as he watched the passion-rocked facebefore him.
"Youth is blind and will not see," had been too bitterly true withhim. It was in his college days, when the world seemed all gayety,youth and sunshine to him, he first met the beautiful face that was todarken all of his after life. He was young and impulsive; he thoughtit was love that filled his heart for the beautiful stranger whoappeared alone and friendless in that little college town.
He never once asked who or what she was, or from whence she came, thisbeautiful creature with the large, dark, dreamy eyes that thrilled hisheart into love. She carried the town by storm; every young man at thecollege was deeply, desperately in love. But Basil, the handsomest andwealthiest of them all, thought what a lark it would be to steal amarch on them all by marrying the dark-eyed beauty then and there. Henot only thought it, but executed it, but it was not the lark that hethought it was going to be. For one short happy week he lived in afool's paradise, then a change came over the spirit of his dreams. Inthat one week she had spent his year's income and all the money hecould borrow, then petulantly left him in anger.
For two long years he never looked upon her face again. One stormynight she returned quite unexpectedly at Whitestone Hall, bringingwith her their little child Pluma, and, placing her in her father'sarms, bitter recriminations followed. Bitterly Basil Hurlhurstrepented that terrible mistake of his youth, that hasty marriage.
When the morning light dawned he took his wife and child fromWhitestone Hall--took them abroad. What did it matter to him wherethey went? Life was the same to him in one part of the world asanother. For a year they led a weary life of it. Heaven only knew howweary he was of the woman the law called his wife!
One night, in a desperate fit of anger, she threw herself into thesea; her body was never recovered. Then the master of Whitestone Hallreturned with his child, a sadder and wiser man.
But the bitterest drop in his cup had been added last. The golden-hairedyoung wife, the one sweet love whom he had married last, was takenfrom him; even her little child, tiny image of that fair young mother,had not been spared him.
How strange it was such a passionate yearning always came over himwhen he thought of his child!
When he saw a fair, golden-haired young girl, with eyes of blue, thepain in his heart almost stifled him. Some strange unaccountable fateurged him to ever seek for that one face even in the midst of crowds.It was a mad, foolish fancy, yet it was the one consolation of BasilHurlhurst's weary, tempest tossed life.
No wonder he set his teeth hard together as he listened to the coldwords of the proud, peerless beauty before him, who bore everylineament of her mother's dark, fatal beauty--this daughter whoscornfully spoke of the hour when he should die as of some happy,long-looked-for event.
Those waving cotton-fields that stretched out on all sides as far asthe eye could reach, like a waving field of snow, laid waste beneaththe fire fiend's scorching breath! Never--never!
Then and there the proud, self-conscious young heiress lost allchances of reigning a regal queen, by _fair_ means, of WhitestoneHall.