CHAPTER LXVI.
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 beingthe 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 hehad 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.’”