But after the ball-tickets went out, and Thea had come home, and
the entertainment was but three days off, a heavy shadow fell upon
Verelands, and it dated from a call made by Mrs. Bentley upon Mrs. de
Vere.
The portly, well-dressed lady had sent in her card to Mrs. de Vere
without asking for Thea at all. They were together about an hour, and
when the visitor went away, Mrs. de Vere went straight to the library,
where her son was at work, with a gravity on her face that startled him.
She never intruded upon his study hours unless there was something very
serious the matter. He knew now that something must be gravely wrong.
He threw down his pen, and hurried to place a chair.
“Mother!”
“Norman, I have had a great shock,” she said, sinking into a seat.
“What was it?”
“That old scandal has cropped up again--the slander I thought buried
forever.”
“I do not understand you, mother;” but his handsome face grew pale.
“Mrs. Bentley has just been here, Norman. You know her son is madly in
love with Thea West. He wishes to propose for her hand in marriage.”
“And asks for our consent first, good boy,” Norman said, with a ghastly
smile.
“Why, it is not exactly that. He can not get his father’s consent
until--until--” she faltered, and paused.
“What?” he asked, sharply.
“Until certain scandals have been cleared up--old scandals we thought
dead, Norman. So Mrs. Bentley came herself to me. She is anxious
Cameron should have Thea if everything is all right.”
“Well, what is wrong about it?” he asked, with bitter impatience.
“You remember poor Camille’s jealous charge, Norman--her ridiculous
suspicion that Thea West was your own child? The malicious story
has been revived with cruel additions. Anonymous letters have been
circulated in Jacksonville, asserting the same story. Thea is declared
to be your own illegitimate daughter, her mother a circus performer--a
bareback rider--in a low hippodrome.”
Norman de Vere grew ghastly; a stifled imprecation escaped his lips.
“Mrs. Bentley thought,” continued his mother, “that perhaps you had
some clew to Thea’s parentage which you could follow up so as to remove
the stain upon her and satisfy the world. Unless this could be done,
she and her husband would withhold their consent to Cameron speaking to
Thea as he had planned to do at our ball.”
“Are they so sure of her consent?” he asked, scornfully.
“I suppose so. It would be a great match for Thea, you know, and if she
has a spark of ambition she could not but accept him. Even outside of
his gifts of good birth and wealth, the young man is personally very
attractive. It would seem quite natural for Thea to love him.”
“Yes,” her son said, in a strange voice. He paused a minute, then
added: “Does Sweetheart, poor child, know this miserable thing?”
“No.”
“Of course you told Mrs. Bentley that I knew nothing, absolutely
nothing, of Sweetheart’s past--not even her name?”
“Yes.”
“And her answer?”
“She said it was most unfortunate, because the scandal was being
circulated to so great an extent that it was beyond doubt the work
of a most malicious enemy--one who hated you or Thea, or both.
They were some women, she said, who had decided to drop Thea’s
acquaintance--among them the young beauty from New York now visiting
Orange Grove. She sent this morning a regret for the ball.”
“Miss Faris? Pshaw! that is the merest spite. She is in love with
Cameron Bentley herself,” he said, contemptuously.
“I fancied so,” said his mother. “She is one of the most industrious in
fanning the flame of scandal. She asserts that her mother knew Camille
in New York, and that Camille told her that she left you forever
because of your bringing your illegitimate child to Verelands.”
His face grew livid. He began to stride impatiently up and down the
long apartment.
“A curse on their false tongues!” he muttered, hoarsely. “It is this
Faris girl, then, most probably, who has revived that wicked falsehood
out of jealous determination to oust a rival. But Cameron Bentley is
less a man than I deemed him if he can turn to her even though he loses
Thea.”
She sat wringing her hands in silent distress, while he continued his
slow, thoughtful march up and down the floor, speaking no more until he
heard her mutter half to herself:
“Poor little Sweetheart! It is hard to lose her happiness like this for
a cruel lie.”
He turned upon her abruptly.
“Are you so sure she loves him?”
“No, I am not sure; but I was thinking how this bitter story will
follow the poor child, until she is some day confronted with it. It
will kill her, she is so proud, so high-spirited--without a suspicion
of any shameful mystery attached to her origin only in the minds of the
evil and malicious.”
He did not answer for many minutes, but, pausing at last in his weary
tramp, turned on her his pale face and strangely gleaming dark eyes.
“Mother, I swear to you, upon my honor, that I see but one way to
silence forever this foul slander upon my name, and to save Sweetheart
from the agony of shame and grief you forebode.”
“Oh, Norman, if there is any sacrifice I can make to save her--”
“To make Sweetheart my wife, if she will have me,” he ended, in a voice
shaken with emotion.