Norman de Vere did not dream of the depths of duplicity hidden in his
wife’s nature. He believed that she was honest in the repentance she
professed, and accordingly he had Little Sweetheart brought back the
next day to the home from which she had been so rudely torn by the wily
French maid, whom Mrs. de Vere had now sent into brief exile to carry
out the plot by which she had saved her guilty mistress.
A great change had been wrought in the pretty child by her week with
the wretched, heartless old rag-picker. Beaten and starved, her
pretty clothes taken from her and replaced with filthy rags, she was
a pitiable object when she returned to Verelands, and the big blue
eyes staring out of the wan little face were bright with fever. She
was given a warm bath, clothed in new and pretty garments, and laid
in a little bed beside that of Norman’s mother. There she lay for
weary weeks, consumed by scarlet fever. Norman’s wife fled in terror
to a fashionable hotel, leaving her mother-in-law to nurse the little
invalid, quite ignoring all the protestations she had made so recently.
“I have never had the fever; I should die if I contracted it!” she
cried, wildly; and although Norman tried to explain to her that grown
people rarely contracted the disease, she paid no attention.
“I am going; you must come with me,” she said, imperiously.
“And desert my mother and the child?” he asked, reproachfully.
“Your first duty is to me,” she exclaimed, throwing her superb arms
about his neck and kissing him with pleading fondness.
She conquered, and carried him off in her train, although he said:
“I shall come back to Verelands every day to help my mother. I had
scarlet fever when I was a child, so I am not afraid of it.”
She insisted that he would carry the contagion in his clothes.
“I will always change them before entering your presence,” he said; and
then she saw that he was obstinately bent upon his purpose. No words of
hers, no blandishments, although he loved her dearly, could turn him
from what he conceived to be his duty.
She had to acquiesce with smiles, although she was furious with secret
rage. She dared not push him to the wall.
“But I will punish him for this in my own fashion,” she raved, wildly,
when alone, clinching her jeweled hands in impotent rage, hating and
loving Norman de Vere in one and the same moment, so wild was her
jealousy, so fierce her love.
“It _is_ his child! Who could doubt it after this?” she muttered. “For
naught else would he run so great a risk--for naught else would he defy
my wishes. He loves the little beggar--loved her mother, perhaps--and
out of some foolish remorse is trying to atone for his sin by devotion
to the child. Oh! how I hate the little wretch! I hope it may die of
the fever! If only I had the courage to stay and pretend to nurse it, I
should give it such careless attention it could not possibly live!”
But she was too great a coward to remain and take the risk of
contracting the fever. She thought of recalling Finette to take the
place of nurse to Sweetheart, but the fear of opposition to her plan
deterred her from carrying it into execution.
“Norman would not approve--might refuse my request. I must give that
up, and only wish the brat dead,” she muttered, shrinking sensitively
from the thought of committing a crime, and little dreaming how soon
those jeweled white hands would be stained crimson with human blood.