Finette Du Val did not take kindly to the command of her mistress that
she should leave the room. She had counted on the rare treat to her
malicious mind of seeing Norman de Vere’s two wives pitted against each
other in deadly warfare.
So when Camille bid her go and prepare her rooms, she stood silently
and pretended not to hear.
Camille waited a moment, then turned on her furiously and repeated the
command, adding, stormily:
“How dare you pretend not to hear? Go this instant!”
Finette frowned, but she went--went outside the door at least, and
leaving it just the least bit ajar, knelt down and peeped through the
crevice she had thus made.
Then Camille turned back to the girl she hated, crying, with blazing
eyes:
“Perhaps you think my husband married you for love, girl?”
Thea had sunk helplessly into a low chair beside the baby. She did
not know whether the woman before her was Norman’s first wife or
not, and she did not know how to get rid of her, but she hoped that
the nurse would come in at any minute and then she could send for
her mother-in-law. She determined not to bandy words with the angry
creature.
Lifting her golden head with a proud air that belied the terrible
sinking at her heart, she said, defiantly:
“Madame, you have forced yourself into Verelands without an invitation,
and you persist in remaining against my command that you go. Therefore
you can not expect to be treated with the courtesy due to a welcome
guest. I decline, therefore, to reply to any questions you may
impertinently ask, and from this moment ignore your undesired presence.”
“_Ma foi!_ but that was queenly,” muttered the eavesdropper at the
door, forced into unwilling recognition of the young wife’s dignity.
Camille drew her breath hard. She realized, too, that Thea had the
advantage of her; but after a moment she gave vent to a forced laugh.
“Oh, very well; sit there dumb, if you choose,” she said, airily. “Your
silence will in nowise alter the unpleasant facts I am here to tell
you.”
Thea did not answer--did not deign to look at her. She sat silent and
pale, her blue eyes resting on Alan’s lovely, sleeping face, one
slender hand--the one that wore the wedding-ring--wandering softly
through the golden rings of baby’s hair. She was saying to herself
over and over that it was all a lie--the woman was an impostor, bent
most probably on blackmail. She had read of such things in sensational
newspapers.
Camille resumed, angrily:
“As I was saying, you imagine that my husband married you for love. You
never made a worse mistake in your life. He gave you the shelter of his
name to save you from disgrace, because that old scandal of long ago
had cropped up and was in everybody’s mouth. If he had not married you
when he did, and so given the lie to that report, the people who had
been kind enough to notice you at first would have given you the cold
shoulder very soon, because it had come to be believed that you were
Norman de Vere’s illegitimate child.”
She saw Thea start as if she had stabbed her to the heart; but the
pale, tightly shut lips did not open to utter a word. The girl was
proud enough, if need be, to die of her inward wound in silence.
Camille laughed mockingly as she saw what a wound she had given her
foe, and resumed:
“He did not tell you the truth, of course; he pitied you too much; but
it was hard for him to give up his attitude of brother and guardian to
you and make you his wife to satisfy a carping world. It would have
pleased him better if you had married Cameron Bentley. But the Bentleys
were too proud; they informed him frankly that their son could never
address you on that subject until he brought proof of your parentage
and refuted the slander against you. Already it was working in people’s
minds. Miss Faris and many others sent regrets for your coming-out
ball, because they did not choose to associate with you. The suspicion
that had caused Norman de Vere’s wife to leave him had taken root in
the minds of others, too. To save himself he would not have made the
sacrifice he did; but to save you, feeling that you had a claim on his
pity, he married you. But he never loved you--never--save as one loves
a pretty child or a favorite sister. All the love he was capable of he
lavished on me. When I left him, I believe his heart died.”
She stopped with a sort of hysteric gasp; but the silent, statue-like
form before her made no sign, although every bitter word had sunk into
her heart.
Camille could not tell how deeply she had hurt her victim, so quiet
was Thea under the rain of bitter words, but she went on angrily,
scathingly:
“Perhaps you do not believe me. Very well, ask others. Ask Mrs. Bentley
if she ever heard a word of Norman’s marrying you until immediately
after the embarrassing affair of her son. Ask your mother-in-law the
same. Ask Norman himself. Why, if he ever had a thought of courting any
one after my supposed death, it was Diana Bentley, who is much more
suitable to him than a girl like you, young enough to be his daughter.”
“While you, madame,” muttered the unsuspected listener at the door,
“are almost old enough to be his mother.”
Camille remembered it but too well, and the sting of her deadly hate
went all the deeper for that.
How dared the girl yonder be so young, so happy, filling her old place
in Norman’s heart, the mother of his beautiful child, while she,
growing old ungracefully, painted, made up by art, was remembered only
with scorn and loathing.
“Well, I have come to take my revenge at last,” she went on. “I knew
when he married you, but I also knew he did not love you. I waited
my time to strike. I thought he might learn to love you a little,
especially if you bore him a child. Perhaps he did, men are such fools.
So now I can wound him worse by the child’s illegitimacy than by your
dishonor.”
How gloatingly the words rolled off the painted lips, how exultantly
the hazel eyes flashed! But Thea did not look at her, although her
heart quailed before the horror of what she had heard.
“My God, can this horrible thing be true?” she asked herself, in dumb
agony; and the heavy eyes fixed on the child’s sleeping face seemed
to see in fancy on the smooth white brow the dark brand of a terrible
dishonor.
It was too much. She could not maintain the icy front of scorn and
incredulity she was trying to wear before her bitter foe. She knew
that her lips were writhing with pain, and suddenly dropped her face
down upon the arm that was outstretched toward the child. The quick
movement sent all her beautiful veil of golden hair like a mantle over
the graceful, slender form, as if trying to hide her from the angry,
burning gaze of Camille, who laughed in insolent triumph when she
realized her victory.
“You begin to realize the truth--ha! ha!” she cried. “Ah! now I am
repaid for all my scheming and plotting. You are in my power at last.
Do you know what pains I took to get you there? I sent a fraudulent
telegram to Norman de Vere, and got him out of the way. I sent that
message to Mrs. de Vere from Nance, who is no more dying than you are,
but your credulous mother-in-law is locked up tight and fast in a negro
cabin, from which she will not escape while you remain at Verelands. Of
course that will not be long. Your pride will not permit you to remain
here to meet my husband when he returns to find that I am alive. Were I
in your place, I would take my child in my arms and seek refuge from my
deep disgrace in the river.”
She hoped that Thea would take her at her word. It would be a glorious
revenge upon the man who had put her away from him with such scathing
scorn, but Thea did not answer her. She remained silent, with her
convulsed face hidden on her arm.
“You have no right in this house--neither you nor the child--and I
command you to go away at once--at once! You hear? I have come to
stay, and it would not be pleasant to my husband to return and find
his two wives under the same roof. I am going to my rooms now. When
I come down-stairs in the morning, I hope that I shall find you gone
peaceably away. If you are still here, I shall thrust you forth with my
own hands!” stormed the heartless woman; but as she elicited no answer
from Thea she turned away after one scathing look of unquenchable hate,
and left the room, stumbling over Finette in the hall, and immediately
flying into a gust of passion at her disobedience.
“Miladi, I think you ought to try to keep the one friend you have
left,” the woman answered, sullenly. “You need not think you will
conquer that young girl easily. She has ten times the dignity that you
have. She heard all those cruel things with the silence and dignity
of a dethroned queen. It is no wonder Mr. de Vere loves her. I think
if her parentage could be traced it would be found she had descended
from noble blood. I dare say she is kinder to her servants than you to
yours. Oh, you don’t like for me to praise her? Well, then, don’t be so
ready with your ill words if you don’t want me to turn traitor.”