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 she bore 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.