“Arouse the household if you dare!” hissed the woman, tightening her hold upon the white arm upon which the jewels flashed and quivered. “If Basil Hurlhurst knew what I know you would be driven from this house before an hour had passed.”
“I––I––do not know what you mean,” gasped Pluma, her great courage and fortitude sinking before this woman’s fearlessness and defiant authority.
“No, you don’t know what I mean; and little you thank me for carrying the treacherous secret since almost the hour of your birth. It is time for you to know the truth at last. You are not the heiress of Whitestone Hall––you are not Basil Hurlhurst’s child!”
Pluma’s face grew deathly white; a strange mist seemed gathering before her.
“I can not––seem––to––grasp––what you mean, or who you are to terrify me so.”
A mocking smile played about the woman’s lips as she replied, in a slow, even, distinct voice:
“I am your mother, Pluma!”