“And desert my mother and the child?” he asked, reproachfully.
“Your first duty is to me,” she exclaimed, throwing her superb arms about his neck and kissing him with pleading fondness.
She conquered, and carried him off in her train, although he said:
“I shall come back to Verelands every day to help my mother. I had scarlet fever when I was a child, so I am not afraid of it.”
She insisted that he would carry the contagion in his clothes.
“I will always change them before entering your presence,” he said; and then she saw that he was obstinately bent upon his purpose. No words of hers, no blandishments, although he loved her dearly, could turn him from what he conceived to be his duty.
She had to acquiesce with smiles, although she was furious with secret rage. She dared not push him to the wall.
“But I will punish him for this in my own fashion,” she raved, wildly, when alone, clinching her jeweled hands in impotent rage, hating and loving Norman de Vere in one and the same moment, so wild was her jealousy, so fierce her love.
“It is his child! Who could doubt it after this?” she muttered. “For naught else would he run so great a risk—for naught else would he defy my wishes. He loves the little beggar—loved her mother, perhaps—and out of some foolish remorse is trying to atone for his sin by devotion to the child. Oh! how I hate the little wretch! I hope it may die of the fever! If only I had the courage to stay and pretend to nurse it, I should give it such careless attention it could not possibly live!”
But she was too great a coward to remain and take the risk of contracting the fever. She thought of recalling Finette to take the place of nurse to Sweetheart, but the fear of opposition to her plan deterred her from carrying it into execution.