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.