CHAPTER XLII.
But after the ball-tickets went out, and Thea had come home, and the entertainment was but three days off, a heavy shadow fell upon Verelands, and it dated from a call made by Mrs. Bentley upon Mrs. de Vere.
The portly, well-dressed lady had sent in her card to Mrs. de Vere without asking for Thea at all. They were together about an hour, and when the visitor went away, Mrs. de Vere went straight to the library, where her son was at work, with a gravity on her face that startled him.
She never intruded upon his study hours unless there was something very serious the matter. He knew now that something must be gravely wrong.
He threw down his pen, and hurried to place a chair.
“Mother!”
“Norman, I have had a great shock,” she said, sinking into a seat.
“What was it?”
“That old scandal has cropped up again—the slander I thought buried forever.”
“I do not understand you, mother;” but his handsome face grew pale.
“Mrs. Bentley has just been here, Norman. You know her son is madly in love with Thea West. He wishes to propose for her hand in marriage.”
“And asks for our consent first, good boy,” Norman said, with a ghastly smile.
“Why, it is not exactly that. He can not get his father’s consent until—until—” she faltered, and paused.
“What?” he asked, sharply.
“Until certain scandals have been cleared up—old scandals we thought dead, Norman. So Mrs. Bentley came herself to me. She is anxious Cameron should have Thea if everything is all right.”
“Well, what is wrong about it?” he asked, with bitter impatience.
“You remember poor Camille’s jealous charge, Norman—her ridiculous suspicion that Thea West was your own child? The malicious story has been revived with cruel additions. Anonymous letters have been circulated in Jacksonville, asserting the same story. Thea is declared to be your own illegitimatedaughter, her mother a circus performer—a bareback rider—in a low hippodrome.”
Norman de Vere grew ghastly; a stifled imprecation escaped his lips.
“Mrs. Bentley thought,” continued his mother, “that perhaps you had some clew to Thea’s parentage which you could follow up so as to remove the stain upon her and satisfy the world. Unless this could be done, she and her husband would withhold their consent to Cameron speaking to Thea as he had planned to do at our ball.”
“Are they so sure of her consent?” he asked, scornfully.
“I suppose so. It would be a great match for Thea, you know, and if she has a spark of ambition she could not but accept him. Even outside of his gifts of good birth and wealth, the young man is personally very attractive. It would seem quite natural for Thea to love him.”
“Yes,” her son said, in a strange voice. He paused a minute, then added: “Does Sweetheart, poor child, know this miserable thing?”
“No.”
“Of course you told Mrs. Bentley that I knew nothing, absolutely nothing, of Sweetheart’s past—not even her name?”
“Yes.”
“And her answer?”
“She said it was most unfortunate, because the scandal was being circulated to so great an extent that it was beyond doubt the work of a most malicious enemy—one who hated you or Thea, or both. They were some women, she said, who had decided to drop Thea’s acquaintance—among them the young beauty from New York now visiting Orange Grove. She sent this morning a regret for the ball.”
“Miss Faris? Pshaw! that is the merest spite. She is in love with Cameron Bentley herself,” he said, contemptuously.
“I fancied so,” said his mother. “She is one of the most industrious in fanning the flame of scandal. She asserts that her mother knew Camille in New York, and that Camille told her that she left you forever because of your bringing your illegitimate child to Verelands.”
His face grew livid. He began to stride impatiently up and down the long apartment.
“A curse on their false tongues!” he muttered, hoarsely. “It is this Faris girl, then, most probably, who has revived that wicked falsehood out of jealous determination to oust a rival. But Cameron Bentley is less a man than I deemed him if he can turn to her even though he loses Thea.”
She sat wringing her hands in silent distress, while he continued his slow, thoughtful march up and down the floor, speaking no more until he heard her mutter half to herself:
“Poor little Sweetheart! It is hard to lose her happiness like this for a cruel lie.”
He turned upon her abruptly.
“Are you so sure she loves him?”
“No, I am not sure; but I was thinking how this bitter story will follow the poor child, until she is some day confronted with it. It will kill her, she is so proud, so high-spirited—without a suspicion of any shameful mystery attached to her origin only in the minds of the evil and malicious.”
He did not answer for many minutes, but, pausing at last in his weary tramp, turned on her his pale face and strangely gleaming dark eyes.
“Mother, I swear to you, upon my honor, that I see but one way to silence forever this foul slander upon my name, and to save Sweetheart from the agony of shame and grief you forebode.”
“Oh, Norman, if there is any sacrifice I can make to save her—”
“To make Sweetheart my wife, if she will have me,” he ended, in a voice shaken with emotion.