Norman de Vere was by no means unacquainted with the passionate and
jealous temper of his wife, having experienced its evil effects many
times during the two years in which he had been her husband.
But her present outburst was so unexpected and so reasonless that he
almost recoiled in terror from the fierce and angry glitter of the
hazel eyes and the bitter sneer that distorted her lovely mouth.
He could not speak. Sheer indignation and amazement held him silent,
and pointing a disdainful finger at him, the angry woman continued:
“No, I am not so easily duped as you expected! I know too much of the
world and its wickedness! Your pretense is a very clever one, but I can
see through it!”
“Good heavens!” the young man exclaimed, in a shocked voice. His dark
eyes blazed with indignation.
She went on, sharply:
“I wish you to understand that that brat can not remain under this roof
to-night! You will send it away at once!”
Norman de Vere, by humoring the caprices of a selfish woman, had made
himself almost a slave to her despotic will. With her to speak had
always been to be obeyed, and she expected no less now.
“But, Camille, think,” he said, remonstratingly. “The child has no
friends that I know of. Her mother perished in the wreck. I saved
the child’s life, and I must take care of her until I hear from her
friends. The charge you bring against me is utterly without foundation.
Look at the little one. She is at least four years old. Remember, I was
but a boy when I married you, two years ago.”
“I have heard that you were very wild when you were at college,” she
replied, tauntingly. “This, no doubt, is the outcome of your youthful
folly. The wretched mother has no doubt deserted the child, and you,
with a foolish sentimentality, dared bring it under this roof to rear.
Or perhaps,” her voice rising almost to a shriek of rage, “you had
a double purpose in bringing it here! You wished--wished,” with a
hysterical sob, “to taunt me with my childlessness!”
He stood staring at the beautiful fury, asking himself in wonder if
this could be the same woman who such a little while ago had lain in
his arms, clasping his neck, and giving him kiss for kiss. It scarcely
seemed possible; such a fury she looked now with her blazing eyes and
distorted features quivering with jealous rage. Yet he had seen her
before in fits of jealous anger that usually culminated in hysterics.
Dreading this effect, he endeavored to soothe her; but all in vain, and
only his remonstrance that she would be overheard by the servants had
any effect in moderating her loud, shrewish tones. But she reiterated,
though in a lower voice, her resolve that the child should be sent
immediately away.
Her furious tones had already awakened little Sweetheart. She sat up on
the sofa without a word, staring drowsily from one to the other with
her sleepy blue eyes under her tangle of golden curls.
Mrs. de Vere, in her fury of wrath, shook her jeweled fist
threateningly in the child’s face, and the baby shrunk back with a
startled cry.
“Camille!” cried her husband, sternly. He caught back her menacing
hand. “Would you be cruel enough to strike that innocent baby?”
She laughed insanely.
“Yes, unless you take her away, and at once!” she answered, struggling
to free herself.
But he held her firmly.
“You are mad!” he cried, hotly. “You exhaust my patience by your words
and manners, which are alike disgraceful. I will no longer bear your
exactions. The child shall remain here until her friends can be found.
You force me to remind you that this house at least is mine--all that
was left me when the war deprived me of my father, the brave soldier,
who died for the South, and all our wealth. Here, at least, I am
master, and here my poor little protégée shall find shelter!”
She was so dazed with his defiance that for a moment she could not
speak, only writhe impotently under the firm but gentle grasp in which
he held her wrist, while a low, hissing sound issued from her lips.
Little Sweetheart, who had been watching them in doubt and terror, now
slipped down from the sofa, and running to her friend, clasped his leg
tightly with her little arms, crying out through frightened tears:
“Oh, p’ease, p’ease, don’t hurt the yady! don’t make her ky!”
“Little angel!” he cried, and released the wrist he was holding.
Instantly Mrs. de Vere flung herself full length upon the floor,
screaming and kicking in hysteria.
Norman de Vere picked up Sweetheart in his arms and strode to the door.
He expected to find several frightened servants listening, and he was
not mistaken.
“Your mistress is ill. Go in and attend to her at once,” he said to the
French maid, whom he detected among them.
“_Oui, monsieur_,” answered Finette, with a courtesy of her capped head.
Then she ran in to her mistress, and Norman de Vere went up the broad,
shallow stairs toward the sleeping apartments, still carrying the child.
A dim light burned in the upper hall. He knocked several times at a
door near the head of the staircase, and presently a drowsy voice,
sounding as if muffled among pillows, inquired:
“Who is that? What do you want?”
“It is Norman, mother. Can I see you, please?”
“Of course, my son;” and in a few moments the door opened and an
elderly lady in a dressing-gown invited him in.