Thea sat staring at that cruel letter like one dazed. Her cheeks went
pale, then crimson, with an overpowering sense of shame.
Hitherto she had cherished a profound pity for the unhappy woman who,
having been fortunate enough to win Norman de Vere’s heart, had been
too weak to hold it; now, a burning indignation against the dead woman
heaved in her breast. How had she dared wound him with that false and
hateful accusation--he, her hero, her king?
“Oh, my love, my darling, you bore this for my sake! I understand now
why there was no divorce,” she murmured; and her beautiful eyes filled
with tears--the hot tears of a woman’s love and sorrow--although she
looked scarcely more than a child sitting there with the box of toys,
her long curls, still worn child-fashion, falling about her shoulders
like a veil of sunshine.
“How could she wound him so?” the young wife sobbed, in bitterest
indignation. “She did not love him; hers was a selfish passion--not
true, self-sacrificing love. Ah! now I no longer pity her. She was not
worthy of my Norman. Oh, Heaven help us--my child and me--to make him
so happy that he will wholly forget her and the cruel stabs she dealt
his generous nature.”
There came a light tap upon the door. It was her mother-in-law’s light
step outside.
Thea pushed the old letter under the full draperies of her dress, and
called out:
“Come in.”
Mrs. de Vere’s sweet old face, framed in waves of snowy hair, took on
an expression of solicitude as she saw Thea’s tear-wet face.
“Oh, my dear! what is it?” Then, as she saw the scattered toys: “What,
you have been weeping over the old playthings? Would you like to be a
child again, my daughter?”
“No, no; it is not that, dear mother!” Thea cried, hastily. She stood a
moment irresolute, with her little hand under the folds of her dress;
then, going closer to Mrs. de Vere, she said, faintly: “I will tell you
the truth. While looking through my old picture-books I came across a
letter that I found on the floor and put away in my childish days--to
destroy, I suppose, as my little scissors were with it. Then I must
have forgotten it, and it remained there until now, when I read it,
and--and--it gave me the--heartache,” sighing.
“A letter?” Mrs. de Vere said, uncomprehendingly.
“Here it is; but I suppose you read it long ago, mother;” and Thea put
the letter in her mother-in-law’s hand, and turning away began to walk
nervously up and down the floor.
Mrs. de Vere read it, and the past rushed over her mind.
“I remember this,” she said. “Norman was so angry he threw it down upon
the floor. When we looked for it we thought you had cut it up, there
were so many bits of paper on the floor.”
“I think I cut the envelope into paper dolls,” said Thea.
“I wish it had been the letter,” sighed the old lady.
“It was true, then? My husband’s first wife was wicked enough to doubt
her husband’s honor,” Thea cried, vehemently.
“She was unreasonably jealous, dear. Judge her as lightly as you can.
She is not here to defend herself,” the old lady said, solemnly; then
added: “Let me destroy the letter, Sweetheart. I should not like for my
son to see it again, or even to know of your reading it.”
Thea paused in her restless walk, and dashing the tears from her eyes,
cried, pleadingly:
“Only tell me this: was that the reason why I was sent away from
Verelands in my childhood to be reared by strangers?”
“Yes, that was the reason,” reluctantly. “Norman feared that his wife’s
malice might cast a blot on your future if we kept you. You are not
angry with him, dear?”
“It is the only grudge I ever had against my husband, and now that I
understand, I love him more devotedly than ever.”
“That is right. He is worthy of it all, dear. He worships you and your
child, Thea.”
“I know--Heaven bless him and make us always worthy of his devotion,”
she answered, with a sort of solemnity; then, clasping her jeweled
hands together, she cried, feverishly: “Oh, I would give the world to
find out my origin, just for my dear husband’s sake!”
“Try to be content. He could not love you more if you were a king’s
daughter, my child, nor less if you belonged to the most lowly family.”
Thea sighed, for she knew that her husband was keenly sensitive to
the mystery of her origin. She remembered that he did not care for
strangers to know her story.
“And now,” she thought, sadly, “he will be more sensitive than ever
for the sake of our little child. It was noble in him to marry me and
lift me to his own proud position in life, and I wish he could be
rewarded by finding out that I belong to a family equal to his own.”
“Now dry your eyes, my dear, and do not suffer yourself to brood over
this discovery that you have made,” Mrs. de Vere cried, soothingly.
“After all, it is so far back in the past that it can trouble Norman no
more. He has doubtless forgotten all about it; and though he was very
unhappy for a time, that is all over now, and you have made up for it
all by your love.”
“If I did not believe that, I should almost die of despair!” Thea
cried, with a sort of hysterical excitement; and she mentally resolved
that she would try to make Norman forget all the sadness of his past in
the sunshine of her love.
“He may have loved her well, but he loves me, too, and I have one more
claim upon his heart--I have borne him a beautiful child,” she thought,
triumphantly; and so she washed away the bitter stains of tears from
her cheeks and made herself as lovely as possible in her eager desire
to make up to Norman for the sadness of his past.