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"I must go and find Rex or Mr. Hurlhurst," she cried, grasping her crutch, and limping hurriedly out of the room. The door leading to Basil Hurlhurst's apartments stood open the master of Whitestone Hall sat in his easy-chair, in morning-gown and slippers, deeply immersed in the columns of his account-books. "Oh, Mr.
Those waving cotton-fields that stretched out on all sides as far as the eye could reach, like a waving field of snow, laid waste beneath the fire fiend's scorching breath! Never never! Then and there the proud, self-conscious young heiress lost all chances of reigning a regal queen, by fair means, of Whitestone Hall.
It will be a glorious revenge, also giving me a charming bride, and last, but not least, the possession at some future day of Whitestone Hall and the Hurlhurst Plantations. A pleasing picture, is it not, my dear?" Pluma Hurlhurst never quailed beneath the cold, mocking glance bent upon her.
Boats and boatmen were in great demand at Whitestone and other places on the river, and the Isabel promised to bring in a fortune to her owners during the summer months. A few days later, she was employed in carrying parties out upon excursions, with Dan as skipper, old Ben as pilot, and Cyd as foremast hand.
"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.
We met at Whitestone Hall, on the night of the lawn fête, and my name is Lester Stanwick." Ah, she did remember him, standing beneath a waving palm-tree, his bold, dark eyes following her every motion, while she was waltzing with Rex. He saw the flash of recognition in her eyes, and the blush that mantled her fair, sweet face. "I am very grateful to you, sir, for saving me.
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.
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.
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 fête had been given in honor of their return.
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?"
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