Camille waited breathlessly for her husband’s answer. After a moment’s
silence it came, sternly, yet with infinite sadness:
“Camille, have pity on your immortal soul, and do not blacken it
further by such terrible perjuries! You have lost no ring. You were
searching for the bouquet that Robert Lacy brought to you at this spot
yesterday--the bouquet that I found when I came back this morning to
escort you to the inquest.”
“You--you!” she almost shrieked.
“Be quiet, unless you wish to draw listeners to the spot,” he said,
sharply. “Yes, I found the flowers, Camille. When I heard the evidence
at the inquest I wondered what had become of the flowers Lord Stuart
had sent you. I thought they would form an important link in the chain
of evidence. Some instinct drove me to search for them on my way home.
I found them. There were clots of blood on the green leaves redder than
the fading red roses, and the note among the flowers was dyed crimson,
too. In this cool and shady spot the stains were scarcely dry. I was
frightened, Camille. I took the bouquet home and hid it, and at the
inquest I dared not say one word about it. Yet I hoped that the man had
committed suicide--”
“Oh, he did--I swear he--” Camille interrupted, eagerly; but he frowned
her coldly down.
“Hush! denials are vain! By your own lips you stand convicted of your
guilt. Almost as soon as I entered my mother’s room there came to me
a fear that some clew might have been left at this spot by which the
world might find out that Robert Lacy met his death at Verelands. With
a shrinking from the notoriety such knowledge would entail on the De
Veres, I hurriedly left the room and hastened here. You know the rest.”
“You spyed upon me! You did not make your presence known!” she
muttered, hoarsely.
“I was dazed with wonder and with horror. My feet refused to move, and
my tongue grew stiff as I realized the awful truth. I seemed at first
to be turned to stone by the horror of my discovery,” he answered, in a
slow, troubled voice, and in a minute he added: “Some one may come upon
us here. We will go back to the house, Camille. I must speak to you in
private.”
She pulled the small lace veil down over her face and followed him in
dead silence to the beautiful mansion among the trees.
He went to the library: she followed in dumb misery and despair. The
door was locked, and he pushed forward an easy-chair for her to sit
down. She sunk into it, glad to rest, for her limbs were trembling and
weak.
“Now tell me, Camille,” he said, sternly, “what was Robert Lacy to you
that you should take his life?”
She attempted to deny the accusation, but he would not permit her to do
so.
“I heard you confess your guilt when you thought yourself alone,” he
said. “You said that if he would have made terms for the keeping a
secret, you would have spared him, but that there was no other way.”
She sat silent and sullen, feeling her doom sealed.
“Shall I tell you what my suspicions are, Camille?” he asked, after a
moment’s pause.
She nodded without looking up at his white, awfully stern face, and he
continued:
“You had been carrying on with Lord Stuart a flirtation more shameless
than I suspected, and this valet became cognizant of the truth and
threatened you with exposure. To save your good name you murdered him.
Hush! do not perjure yourself with useless denials. I shall not betray
you. I will keep your hideous secret for the sake of the love I had for
you in the past.”
“Oh, my God, do not desert me, Norman! I am innocent! Lord Stuart will
tell you that it was the most harmless flirtation,” she cried, in
terror and entreaty.
He unlocked a drawer and took out a bouquet of faded red roses with
their awful stains, shuddering as he touched them. From among them he
took out a sheet of blood-dyed paper on which was the crest of a noble
house. Unfolding the paper, he said:
“I can not believe, Camille, that any man would dare write such lines
as these to a married woman unless there was some secret guilty
consciousness between them.”
He read aloud, in tones vibrant with scorn:
“‘Ah! one thing worth beginning,
One thread in life worth spinning;
Ah, sweet, one sin worth sinning
With all the whole soul’s will.
To lull you till one stilled you,
To kiss you till one killed you,
To feed you till one filled you,
Sweet lips, if love could fill!’”
He paused, and she cried out, passionately:
“How dared he? I gave him no cause for this insult.”
A smile of bitter scorn and anger crossed his deathly pale face as he
said:
“Untrue wife and guilty woman, we must part! You have slain all love
between us by your sins. The murder of Robert Lacy I will never betray,
but in order that the world may have an excuse for the divorce I shall
procure from you, I shall publicly chastise Lord Stuart to-night. In a
few hours I shall leave Verelands. I presume my mother will accompany
me. Our divorce I will manage with as little scandal as possible for
both our sakes.” He bowed, and, without giving her a chance to reply,
abruptly quitted the room.