CHAPTER XLII.
“Cecil,” his mother said one week later, “do you never intend to marry again?”
“You forget that I have a wife already,” with a frown.
“Do not speak of her!” impatiently. “No doubt she is dead, but you ought to have got a divorce from her long ago. Do you not see that Louise Barry is dying for you?”
“Nonsense,” he replied curtly. “I see nothing of the kind.”
“You must certainly have observed a change in her,” persisted Mrs. Laurens.
“Yes, her beauty is fading as might be expected. She must be almost thirty,” he replied cynically.
“She is five years younger than you, at least,” reprovingly. “And she might have been married long ago. She has had suitors enough. But I believe she has loved you all the time.”
“Nonsense!” he said again.
“But, Cecil, you would be so much happier if you married again, and you would please us all if you took Louise.”
“I would do much to please you, mother, but not this. I shall never love again. My heart’s wealth was poured out on my false young wife, and all its powers were wasted. If you wish me to stay with you, leave me at peace on this subject. I never expect to marry again,” he answered, sadly but decisively.
Mrs. Laurens sighed deeply, and looked out of thewindow of the library where they were sitting together.
To change the conversation she said carelessly:
“There is a strange man and a pretty little girl coming up the maple avenue.”
Cecil made no answer. He was pretending to be absorbed in a book. His mother relapsed into silence, watching curiously the man and child coming up the maple avenue, over the drifts of autumn leaves that strewed the ground with a gold and crimson carpet.
He was a good-looking man well dressed in a black suit, with the air and manner of a gentleman. The child he led by the hand was about five years old, daintily dressed in crimson cashmere and a broad white Leghorn hat, beneath which fell soft golden curls, framing a pretty, tear-stained little face.
Mrs. Laurens saw the man and child going up the steps, and a sudden vague suspicion darted into her mind.
“That strange child, good Heaven, what if Molly Trueheart has sent Cecil’s child home at last!” she muttered.
The door-bell clanged loudly, making her start with excitement. The next moment the library door opened and a servant handed in a card.
Mrs. Laurens glanced at Cecil. He was paying no attention to the little by-play. She glanced down again at the card, and read:
“John Keith to see Mrs. Laurens.”
“Gemmon in de parlor, mistis,” said the old colored man, and Mrs. Laurens followed him without a word.
She went along the wide hall, shaking with emotion.
“Oh, heavenly powers, the man must be mad to come here. Cecil will murder him,” she muttered, in terror. “But I was right. It is the child, as my heart foreboded. That woman must be dead, or she would not have been brought here.”
She opened the door and went in, a pale, handsome, haughty old lady in black silk, before whose severe aspect John Keith, sensitive as ever, recoiled in dismay.
“You wished to see me, sir?” frigidly.
“I beg your pardon. There is some mistake,” he faltered.
“There is no mistake, I am Mrs. Laurens,” impatiently.
“Then you are Cecil Laurens’ mother?”
“Yes.”
“I wished to see Mrs. Cecil Laurens!”
She recoiled from him in anger and reproach.
“How can you speak that name here?” she exclaimed. “You of all men ought to know that there is no longer a Mrs. Cecil Laurens! Or, perhaps, you think my son has married again?”
The handsome man before her sank back into his seat like one stunned. His face paled, his voice trembled as he said:
“Madame, I do not understand. Do you mean to tell me that your son’s wife is dead! poor, pretty Molly—dead?” mournfully.
“I thought you came here to tell usthat?” pointedly. “Whose child is that?” with a loathing gesture.
“Mine, madame,” proudly.
“And hers, Molly Trueheart’s!” exclaimed Mrs. Laurens scornfully.
He looked at her, wondering if she could be mad.
“Mrs. Laurens, answer me one question if you can,” he said impatiently. “Where is Mrs. Cecil Laurens if she is not dead?”
“I do not know. Cecil—we all thought she was with you,” hopelessly.
“My God, Mrs. Laurens, I have never seen sweet little Molly since her wedding night! Why should she come to me?”
“She ran away from Cecil four years ago. Every one thought she went to you,” Mrs. Laurens faltered, her heart beating fast with excitement.
He sprang up again, startled, incredulous. “Why should she leave her husband; why should she come to me, madame?” he demanded.
Mrs. Laurens looked at him in a dazed way and muttered, “Was she not your divorced wife?”
“No, a thousand times, no! She was my sweet little friend—no more. My God, what subtle treachery am I about to unearth?” exclaimed John Keith wildly.
Mrs. Laurens sat down and put her hand to her head. “You are deceiving me,” she muttered.
“Madame, I am not,” he answered coldly. “But I begin to scent treachery. Look at this child. She is mine by a heartless wife who divorced herself from me that she might inherit an old woman’s money. The child, deserted by her heartless mother, was left with an aunt, who, in dying, left the child to me. I came here to ask my kind friend, Molly, to keep the child for me until I could make some arrangements. Go, madame, bring Cecil Laurens here! Let me hear his story!”
She rose up from her chair, white and trembling.
“Wait then,” she said in broken tones. “I must tell him first all that you have told me, or else he would murder you at sight!”