CHAPTER LXXII.
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 shebore 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 amoment, 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.”