“The villain,” she muttered “that accounts for all his absences abroad, leading a double life, and then trying to do my son out of his rights at the end.” For black hatred had come to her of the man who still haunted her in her dreams, and more of the innocent girl and her son, far away in Italy, who would hang like a dark cloud over her son’s head for all his life. Truly the Curse was heavy on the family.
And in Murano poor Carlotta awaited with yearning anxiety for the man who would never come back to her, and the weeks went on without news. Bitter tears fell over that little cot, and she would talk to the tiny mite lying there as though he could understand, in baby language. But the weeks went on, and her only friend was Doctor Halley, who came with unfailing regularity, always sympathetic and hopeful. She grew to look for his visits, and if business kept him, she became fretful. Time was taking its toll with her, and sad lines came to her beautiful face, which the doctor noticed with secret anguish.
At last he came with a solemn look on his usually cheerful face.
“Mrs. Desmond,” he said “I am afraid I have some terrible news for you. You must try and be brave.”
“He is dead,” she gasped with quick intuition.
“It is worse than that, I grieve to say.”
“Worse?”
He slowly unfolded an English paper, where an account was given of the wreck, and the drowning of Lord Reckavile.
It was of old date, but a print was given of the dead man, and the likeness was unmistakable, apart from the name below, “Hugh Desmond, Lord Reckavile.”
At first she did not understand.