CHAPTER XXXI.
Camille had been dead more than two years now, and the shock of her death had worn off some from the minds of Norman de Vere and his devoted mother. They had gone back to Verelands and settled down to a quiet, passively contented life, he with his books and writing, she with her birds and flowers and the old associations that were so dear to her tender heart.
In their troubles they had almost forgotten Little Sweetheart, the child they had given into George Hinton’s care. Mrs. de Vere sent annually out of her slender income the requisite sum for the girl’s maintenance and education, and there always came back a letter of thanks from him, giving an account of his stewardship. They knew that the girl was well and happy, and in the last letter they received they learned that she had graduated with the honors of her class, and was at home now for good. Mrs. de Vere said timidly then that it would be pleasant to have a daughter to brighten up the quiet old house, but her son had answered, gravely:
“We do quite well as we are, mother.”
She knew then that she must strangle the faint yearning she felt for the child she had been so fond of long ago. Norman had forgotten, perhaps, how he hadcoveted her for a little sister. He had changed so much in these thirteen years that he was not much like the ardent, impulsive boy who had married the mature woman, and then repented his folly atsuch bitter cost. Kind and gentle as ever to his adoring mother, he seemed to have hardened to the rest of the world.
He shut himself up long hours each day in the library, evolving from his busy brain the clever novels that brought in such solid returns in the shape of useless gold—useless because it brought no happiness to the stern, grave man, who found in ceaseless labor the only antidote for wearying retrospections.
He cared nothing for the world—nothing for society. It chafed him to know, as he did, that people judged him severely; that it was whispered that he had wronged his beautiful wife by jealous, causeless suspicions; that he had driven her to madness and to suicide by his cruelty. He knew it was the world’s verdict; he read it even in the faces of those who looked most kindly upon him. He could not explain—he could not betray Camille, even in her grave, where no harm could reach her, save the scorn of men. He had punished her as lightly as lay in his power; he had been merciful to her to the verge of wronging others, but, though he was suffering a most bitter penalty for his clemency, and though Robert Lacy’s blood seemed to cry aloud from the ground for vengeance, he would not speak. But it hardened the man, this unjust verdict of a world against which he would not defend himself, and he held himself coldly aloof from it.
Yet his heart had sometimes throbbed a little faster at thought of the child whose life he had saved, and whose future, in all its helplessness and beauty, had been thrown upon his hands. He had done his best, he knew, yet he had always been haunted by a secret regret that a cruel scandal had obliged him to put away from his heart the coveted pleasure and comfort of a sweet little azure-eyed sister.
On this fair October morning, as he dallied over his coffee and inspected his mail, he had come upon a letter from George Hinton—an unexpected letter, for they only heard once a year from Virginia.
“That is George Hinton’s writing. I hope poor little Thea West is not ill,” said his mother, curiously; but he did not answer. His eyes were traveling eagerly down the closely written pages.
She waited most impatiently till he had finished, and then he looked across the table with a troubled light in his grave, dark eyes.
“Mother, this is most distressing news,” he said.
“Oh, dear! I hope dear Little Sweetheart isn’t dead, Norman?” she uttered, nervously.
“Oh, no, no!” he said, and smiled; then the smile gave place to vexation. “Thea has dreadfully disappointed the Hintons—ungrateful, and all that. Really, it is too bad.”
“But, Norman, what has she done—eloped?” anxiously.
“She has grown up into a beautiful, heartless little flirt, who delights in breaking hearts for pastime. She has jilted both George Hinton’s sons, taken away his daughter’s lover, and played universal havoc with the youths of Louisa, and now she has run away from her guardian’s and sought work in a milliner’s shop,” he replied, displeasedly.