Camille made a step forward, and was about to make an angry speech, but
Finette restrained her.
“Wait--listen!” muttered the curious French woman.
Lord Stuart, after a minute’s silence, because of the lump that seemed
to be swelling in his throat, turned again to his friends, and said,
proudly:
“Yes, Thea is my sister’s only child, my own dear niece, and her
beautiful little boy yonder will, as next of kin to me, inherit my
title and estates at my death. I am very proud of it, for if we had
not found Thea and her child, I should have been succeeded by a very
distant relative, a soldier in India, whom I have never seen.”
Camille was again about to interrupt him with an angry taunt concerning
the stain upon little Alan’s birth, but the curious Finette again
restrained her.
“Let us hear it all, then storm at them as much as you please,” she
said; and Lord Stuart continued:
“I will briefly explain, my friends, the circumstances of Thea’s loss,
or perhaps I should call her Edith, as she was named for her mother,
and Sweetheart was the pet name she bore all the time. Sir Harry
Moreland, my sister’s young husband, died of a fever when they had
been married but a few years. It was a love-match, for Arthur, though
well born, was poor, and his death almost broke his young wife’s
heart. Long months of illness followed, and our physician ordered her
to Italy. It was thought best to leave Sweetheart at our country home
in Devonshire to insure perfect quiet and rest to her nervous mother.
But, unfortunately, my sister had employed as a nursery governess a
young girl called Mattie Steyne, who, unknown to us, had once loved
Sir Arthur Moreland, and fancied herself bound to punish Lady Edith
for winning the heart she had coveted. I think long brooding over her
loss had turned the girl’s brain, for she stole Sweetheart in Edith’s
absence, and left behind her a most cruel letter, avowing her hatred
for her rival, and stating that she would keep her dead love’s child
away from her forever. She almost succeeded in doing so, for we never
learned that she had left Europe with the child, although I have had a
detective on the case for years. If this lady”--he bowed for the first
time toward angry Camille--“had not told me, a few weeks ago, the story
of little Sweetheart, it is probable that I never should have suspected
her identity with my stolen niece.”
How angry Camille grew as she listened to those words, and realized
that her vindictive spite had recoiled upon herself! Finette could
restrain her no longer; she cried out, malevolently:
“Boast as you will, Lord Stuart, her relationship to you can not alter
the fact of the deep disgrace that lies upon her and her child--a
disgrace that will prevent his inheriting your title and estates, since
he is illegitimate. Ha! ha!” with a sneering laugh.
He turned to her with a strange smile.
“‘Those laugh best who laugh last,’” he answered. “I have another
little story to tell here to-night, madame. Pray be seated, and listen.”
A storm of angry, defiant words burst from her writhing lips, and he
turned from her to the maid.
“If you can induce your mistress to sit down and listen to me, it will
be to her interest and yours,” he said; and Finette drew forward a
chair and resolutely pushed her mistress into it.
“Sit still and listen, or he will think you are afraid to hear him,”
she whispered, menacingly; and Camille, who was more than half afraid
of her clever maid, whimpered rebelliously a moment, then sat still,
sweeping the company over with mad, defiant eyes, and longing to tear
from Norman’s arms the beautiful child he was holding so tenderly.
“Once upon a time,” began Lord Stuart, “a beautiful young heiress in
San Francisco ran away with a handsome book-agent and married him.
He took her to his home in California, a lonely mountain retreat
frequented by cut-throats and desperadoes of the worst class, and
she very soon discovered that she had linked her fate with that of
a handsome villain whose trade was stealing horses. She upbraided
him, and he struck her, arousing the worst passions of her vindictive
nature. She sought out the Vigilantes, an organization then existing
in California--it was more than twenty-five years ago, my friends--and
they swung Robert Lacy up to a tree without giving him time to utter
a prayer. I was in at the death, as they called it, and when they all
slunk away from the scene of the murder--the heartless wife among the
rest--I cut the man down and had the happiness of restoring him to
life. He swore eternal gratitude, and I brought him away with me. For
years he was my faithful, devoted valet; but he swore to me many a time
that he carried a knife for his false wife’s heart, and that he would
murder her on sight. But I did not think it was likely that he would
ever meet her, for I supposed she had returned to her rich father and
resumed her maiden name of Acton.”
“I will hear no more!” Camille shrieked, hysterically; but Finette put
her hand rudely over her lips.
“You shall hear it all!” she said, resolutely.
“There is little more to tell,” said Lord Stuart. “Robert Lacy did
find his wife again, and in the struggle that ensued between them, she
murdered him and flung his body into the river that skirts the lawn at
Verelands.”
“It is false!” Camille groaned, hoarsely; but he paid no attention to
her denials--he went on with his story:
“I was a witness to Camille Lacy’s terrible crime, for I had sent
Robert to carry her some flowers, and I hung about the grounds like
a foolish, romantic lover, so I saw it all; and because I had, in my
madness, loved that woman, not knowing her wicked nature, I stole
silently away from the scene, and did not betray her sin, leaving
vengeance to Heaven.”