“But, Norman, you will forgive her. Surely it can not be so bad as you
think. These flirtations of married women are so distressingly common
in high society, and Camille is too proud to run any risk of her good
name. Besides, she loves you.”
Mrs. de Vere looked distressfully into the white, drawn face of her
handsome son as she pleaded eagerly for Camille, but by the way in
which he shook his head she knew it was all in vain.
He had confided to her the story of the flirtation with Lord Stuart and
his resolution to have a divorce, and the gentle woman had been shocked
and incredulous. She knew all Camille’s faults and follies, but she did
not think the wife had done sufficient wrong to be put away from her
husband.
“Think better of it, Norman. You were not wont to be so stern and
unforgiving. Camille has been imprudent perhaps, but not criminal,
I am sure,” she kept on; and her son was compelled to see that she
disapproved of his resolve. He sighed and resigned himself to bear it.
He could not betray Camille’s hideous secret--not even to his mother.
He sat there some time pale, silent, and abstracted, without noticing
the pretty gambols of Sweetheart, who was rapidly regaining strength
and spirits. As he sat there, the child’s sweet, familiar little song
fell unheeded on his ears:
“Yittle Sweet’art, tum and tiss me,
Whisper to me sweet an’ low,
Tell me yat oor ’art will miss me,
As I wander to and fro.”
“Be quiet, dear. Norman does not feel well,” the mother said, gently.
Sweetheart ran to his knee, and stood very quietly, peering up into his
face with her large, wondering blue eyes.
“Sweet’art sorry oo sick,” she said, cooingly, wistfully; and with a
sigh he lifted her up in his arms.
“Poor little angel! I wonder if you will ever grow up to be cruel,
false, and wicked as some of your sex?” he muttered.
“No,” she replied, shaking her bright little head intelligently, as if
she understood every word. Then she slid down from his lap, and ran to
chase her little spotted kitten around the room.
Norman forgot her in an instant, and returned to his wretched thoughts.
Presently there was a light but decided tap upon the door.
Mrs. de Vere colored with surprise and displeasure when she met the
impudent, leering gaze of the discharged French maid.
“Nance told me I sall find m’sieur with you,” she said, her keen,
serpent-like eyes peering past Mrs. de Vere into the room. She scowled
at Sweetheart and the kitten, then pushed past Mrs. de Vere and went up
to her son.
“My mistress sends you dis lettaire,” she said; and as Norman took the
scented envelope into his hand she flounced out of the room.
Norman tore off the covering of the letter and began to read.
His mother sat waiting anxiously. She guessed that Camille had sent
some passionate petition for pity and pardon to the husband she loved.
She prayed silently that it would melt his heart.
Mrs. de Vere was a proud woman. She could not endure to think of the
notoriety that must inevitably attend upon her son’s divorce. She
pitied Camille, whose caprices had brought her to this shameful pass.
She saw a tempest of emotion sweep over Norman’s darkly handsome face.
It grew alternately pale and crimson, the lips worked with passion, the
dark eyes shot gleams of fire.
He finished at last, and flung the letter into his mother’s lap.