He would gladly have parted with her without giving cause for scandal, but it was impossible. The curious world must have reasons or it would make them. Better they should say he was jealous—unreasonably jealous, of Lord Stuart than that there was some guilty secret hidden behind the death of Robert Lacy, who had carried flowers to Camille the last hour of his life. Her safety hung in the balance. Between her two sins he must choose the lesser for her own sake, for part they must. The mad, feverish love he had borne Camille was dead and cold. It had fallen down in ruins in the moment when his appalled ears had heard her own lips admit her guilt.
He owed it to his mother’s gray hairs to save her from shame, and no less to Sweetheart yonder in her innocent youth and helplessness. What under heaven was he to do?
The sad, anxious voice of the mother broke in again:
“Norman, if you feel that you can not live longer with your wife, why not consent to a separation, as she wishes? Put off the thought of divorce. Who knows but that in the future you may learn she was innocent? Then there may be a reconciliation.”
“Mother, you madden me!” he cried, hoarsely. He knew how vain was that hope.
But he began to think seriously of her words. Might it not be best to cut loose quietly as possible from his guilty wife for the sake of his mother and Sweetheart?
His heavy eyes wandered to the child who was playing with her kitten in sweet unconsciousness. A deep sense of his responsibility suddenly overwhelmed him. He had saved her life, and it had been thrown on his hands in all its sweet helplessness. He would be answerable for her future.
He sat thinking, miserably, intently, his mother watching with anxious eyes. Suddenly he spoke:
“Mother, you comprehend the cruel malignancy with which Camille means to stain the name and future of this innocent child?”
“She will relent if you accede to her request, Norman.”