Lord Stuart saw his sister comfortably settled in the best suite of
rooms at the Hôtel Français, then he set himself to work to find out
the whereabouts of Norman de Vere.
It was an easy task, for the city was ringing with the story of the
scandalous happenings at Verelands, and in a short time Lord Stuart was
driving out to the negro cabin on the suburbs, where the ill, perhaps
dying mother lay amid her humble surroundings, attended by her faithful
maid and her half-distracted son.
The meeting between Lord Stuart and the author took place in the tidy
but bare little kitchen, the only other room being the one where the
invalid lay. It was a sad and sympathetic meeting, for Lord Stuart
was awed by Norman’s changed and haggard looks. His face was pale and
wan, his beautiful dark eyes heavy with watching and unshed tears, his
sensitive lips trembled with grief, and silver threads shone in the
wavy locks that a month ago were dark as the raven’s wing.
Lord Stuart pressed his cold, nervous hand with the warmth of a brother.
“Be of good cheer, my friend. ‘Every cloud has a silver lining,’” he
said, hopefully.
“You do not know all,” Norman answered, despairingly.
“Yes; I have been to Verelands. I have seen Camille, and heard the
whole story from her lips.”
They sat down together and talked as old friends, sadly, earnestly.
Norman told him that his mother was so ill that her death might be
expected at any time.
“Doctor Hall has told me that the crisis of her disease will come
to-night,” he said. “A few hours now will decide her fate. Oh, my God!
if my poor mother dies of the treatment received at the hands of that
remorseless fiend, I believe that I shall go mad with the horror of it.”
“We will hope and pray for the best,” Lord Stuart said, deeply moved,
and added: “I will come and watch with you to-night.”
By degrees Lord Stuart brought the conversation around to the story
Camille had told him of Sweetheart’s origin. He induced Norman to
repeat the whole story to him.
“Have you kept the clothing the child wore when you saved her life?” he
asked, eagerly.
“Yes; every little garment is in a trunk at Verelands, together with
a water-colored photograph I had taken of her a few days after I took
charge of her. I kept the things in the hope that they might some day
assist in establishing her identity.”
“I hope you will not believe me idly curious if I ask you to show me
those garments and that picture at some future day,” Lord Stuart said,
in a strange voice.
Norman promised to gratify his curiosity without thinking that there
was anything significant in it, so fully was his mind absorbed in his
trouble; and presently Lord Stuart took leave, promising to return that
night and watch with Norman through the crisis that the physician had
predicted as imminent.
Then he returned to the hotel to his sister, having decided that it
would be better to confide to her some of the facts he had learned,
smoothing them over as best he could, lest her grief over poor Thea’s
trouble should prostrate her upon a sick-bed, and so hinder him from
assisting Norman in his troubles.
Lady Edith was cruelly shocked, but she bore it more bravely than he
had expected.
“Dear brother, there is something in your face that tells me you are
hopeful,” she cried, eagerly, through her starting tears.
“Yes, I am hopeful,” he answered, firmly. “All is not so dark as it
appears, Edith, and if Norman’s mother only gets well, and we can find
our precious runaways, I shall do all I can to help our noble friend
unravel the web of fate that wicked Camille has woven around him. There
are some precious threads in my grasp, but I must not tell you more
just now. Only be brave and patient, my sister, and keep in your mind
the old adage: ‘The darkest hour is just before the dawn.’”