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"I must see her at once. It is a question of life or death with me. Oh, sir, please do not refuse me. I must see her at once and all alone!" In the beautiful drawing-room at Whitestone Hall sat Pluma Hurlhurst, running her white, jeweled fingers lightly over the keyboard of a grand piano, but the music evidently failed to charm her.
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.
"Judge for yourself, Rex seeing is believing," said Pluma, maliciously, a smoldering vengeance burning in her flashing eyes, and a cold, cruel smile flitting across her face, while she murmured under her breath: "Go, fond, foolish lover; your fool's paradise will be rudely shattered ay, your hopes crushed worse than mine are now, for your lips can not wear a smile like mine when your heart is breaking.
"The conditions were I should marry the bride whom my mother selected for me. I was as much startled as you will be, Daisy, when you hear who it was Pluma Hurlhurst, of Whitestone Hall." "But you can not marry her now, Rex," whispered the little child-bride, nestling closer in his embrace. "No; nor I would not if I could. I love you the best, my pretty wild flower.
Después de haber tributado el debido homenaje de elogios que de nuestra pluma reclamaba imperiosamente la divertida comedia del señor Gorostiza ¿nos será permitido indicar algunos de los defectos de que rara obra humana consigue verse completamente purgada? ¿Se dirá que nos ensangrentamos, que somos parciales, si ponemos al lado del elogio el grito de nuestra conciencia literaria?
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."
"You, whom people call so haughty and so proud you would really let me wear one of your dresses? I do not know how to tell you how much I am pleased!" she said, eagerly. Pluma Hurlhurst laughed. Such rapture was new to her. The night which drew its mantle over the smiling earth was a perfect one.
She did not think much about it; a shadow in the moonlight did not frighten her. "Pluma!" called a low, cautious voice, "come down into the garden; I must speak with you. It is I, Lester Stanwick." In a single instant the soft love-light had faded from her face, leaving it cold, proud, and pitiless. A vague, nameless dread seized her. She was a courageous girl; she would not let him know it.
He was all kindness, consideration and devotion; but the one supreme magnet of all love was wanting. In vain Pluma exerted all her wondrous powers of fascination to win him more completely.
He meant to tell her the whole truth, but the words seemed to fail him. "Mother," he said, turning toward her a face white with anguish, "in Heaven's name, never mention love or marriage to me again or I shall go mad. I shall never bring a bride here." "He has had a quarrel with Pluma," she thought.
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