But the crowning trial was yet to come; the last drop of concentrated bitterness.
Not long after Maurice’s death, Mr. Huntingdon made his first overture of reconciliation through his lawyer.
His niece, Beatrice, had died suddenly, and her boy was fretting sadly for his mother.
Some one had pointed out to Mr. Huntingdon one day a dark-eyed handsome boy in deep mourning, looking at the riders in Rotten Row, and had told him that it was his grandson, Percy Trafford.
Mr. Huntingdon had said nothing at the time, but the boy’s face and noble bearing haunted him, he was so like his mother, when as a child she had played about the rooms at Belgrave House. Perhaps, stifle it as he might, the sobbing voice of his daughter rang in his ears, “Come home with your own Nea, father;” and in spite of his pride his conscience was beginning to torment him.
Nea smiled scornfully when she listened to the lawyer’s overtures. Mr. Huntingdon was willing to condone the past with regard to her son Percy. He would take the boy, educate him, and provide for him most liberally, though she must understand that his nephew, Erle, would be his heir; still on every other point the boys should have equal advantages.
“And Belgrave House, the home where my boy is to live, will be closed to his mother?” asked Nea, still with that delicate scorn on her face.
The lawyer looked uncomfortable.
“I have no instructions on that point, Mrs. Trafford; I was simply to guarantee that he should be allowed to see you from time to time, as you and he might wish it.”
“I can not entertain the proposal for a moment,” she returned, decidedly; but at his strong remonstrance she at last consented that when her boy was a little older, the matter should be laid before him; but no doubt as to his choice crossed her mind. Percy had always been an affectionate child; nothing would induce him to give up his mother.