(Printed in the United States of America)

LITTLE SWEETHEART

OR,

NORMAN DE VERE’S PROTEGEE.

BY

MRS. ALEX. McVEIGH MILLER.

HART SERIES No. 49

COPYRIGHT 1889 BY GEORGE MUNRO.

PUBLISHED BY
THE ARTHUR WESTBROOK COMPANY
Cleveland, O., U. S. A.

LITTLE SWEETHEART.

[CHAPTER I.]
[CHAPTER II.]
[CHAPTER III.]
[CHAPTER IV.]
[CHAPTER V.]
[CHAPTER VI.]
[CHAPTER VII.]
[CHAPTER VIII.]
[CHAPTER IX.]
[CHAPTER X.]
[CHAPTER XI.]
[CHAPTER XII.]
[CHAPTER XIII.]
[CHAPTER XIV.]
[CHAPTER XV.]
[CHAPTER XVI.]
[CHAPTER XVII.]
[CHAPTER XVIII.]
[CHAPTER XIX.]
[CHAPTER XX.]
[CHAPTER XXI.]
[CHAPTER XXII.]
[CHAPTER XXIII.]
[CHAPTER XXIV.]
[CHAPTER XXV.]
[CHAPTER XXVI.]
[CHAPTER XXVII.]
[CHAPTER XXVIII.]
[CHAPTER XXIX.]
[CHAPTER XXX.]
[CHAPTER XXXI.]
[CHAPTER XXXII.]
[CHAPTER XXXIII.]
[CHAPTER XXXIV.]
[CHAPTER XXXV.]
[CHAPTER XXXVI.]
[CHAPTER XXXVII.]
[CHAPTER XXXVIII.]
[CHAPTER XXXIX.]
[CHAPTER XL.]
[CHAPTER XLI.]
[CHAPTER XLII.]
[CHAPTER XLIII.]
[CHAPTER XLIV.]
[CHAPTER XLV.]
[CHAPTER XLVI.]
[CHAPTER XLVII.]
[CHAPTER XLVIII.]
[CHAPTER XLIX.]
[CHAPTER L.]
[CHAPTER LI.]
[CHAPTER LII.]
[CHAPTER LIII.]
[CHAPTER LIV.]
[CHAPTER LV.]
[CHAPTER LVI.]
[CHAPTER LVII.]
[CHAPTER LVIII.]
[CHAPTER LIX.]
[CHAPTER LX.]
[CHAPTER LXI.]
[CHAPTER LXII.]
[CHAPTER LXIII.]
[CHAPTER LXIV.]
[CHAPTER LXV.]
[CHAPTER LXVI.]
[CHAPTER LXVII.]
[CHAPTER LXVIII.]
[CHAPTER LXIX.]
[CHAPTER LXX.]
[CHAPTER LXXI.]
[CHAPTER LXXII.]
[CHAPTER LXXIII.]
[CHAPTER LXXIV.]

CHAPTER I.

The smoking-car was draughty and ill-smelling; the three commercial travelers, with their cards and whisky, noisy to the point of rudeness, and the view from the windows of the slowly moving train was not interesting to one who had gone over the route to Jacksonville a dozen times before. The rocking motion of the train hindered reading with any comfort, and Norman de Vere flung down his newspaper impatiently and went into the ladies’ car.

“There may be some pretty women in there to look at,” he thought, idly, having an artistic taste that could interest itself for hours in traveling in watching the delicate profile of some beautiful face with a ravishing turn to chin and throat, or round cheek shaded by the curled fringe of a long, dark eyelash.

For the matter of that, any woman might have looked twice at him, too, if she had any feminine penchant for manly beauty.

Tall, broad-shouldered, symmetrically formed, with olive skin, large, flashing, dark eyes, wavy dark hair, clear-cut, handsome features, and a mouth so beautifully shaped that the absence of the conventional mustache from the short, curled upper lip seemed almost an affectation to display its beauty. Norman de Vere at two-and-twenty was a magnificent specimen of young manhood, combining in his fine person all the best elements of strength and beauty. You saw, too, from the cut and quality of his well-chosen traveling garments, and from his very air of easy indifference, that he was Fortune’s favorite—beloved of Plutus as well as Apollo.

He dropped languidly down into a seat some little distance back of the woman and child who were the sole occupants of the ladies’ car.

“Wonder where they got on? They were not in here two hours ago when I went forward to the smoking-car,” he thought, with idle curiosity, having nothing better to attract his attention.

The slight, black-robed figure sitting in front of him had its head and face hidden in a little black poke bonnet and black lace veil. The face, turned steadfastly from him, as if gazing through the window, was propped against a small hand in a trim, black kid glove. Before her, on a seat which the accommodating conductor had turned over to face her, slumbered a lovely child of about four years. By contrast with the somber black garments of the lady and the rich crimson velvet of the cushions on which it was lying, the little creature, in its white dress, its tangle of rich golden curls, its round cheeks warmly flushed with happy slumber, its half-parted, dewy red lips giving glimpses of pearly baby-teeth, looked like a beautiful human flower.

But Norman de Vere’s handsome face had assumed a rather rueful expression when he looked over and saw the pretty sleeper.

“Presently it will wake up and squall. Then I shall beat a retreat into the smoking-car. The drummers could be no worse,” thought he, testily.

But pending the meditated retreat he fell to speculating over these chance companions of his railway ride.

“Some poor little widow who has buried her husband among strangers and is going home to her people with her little child,” he decided from her garb of somber black.

And as men always take a peculiar interest in young and pretty widows, our hero began to wish that she would turn her head and let him see her face. That she was young he felt quite sure from her erect shoulders and slight and delicate shape.

But the young widow remained motionless, with her cheek in her hand and her head turned toward the window, seemingly intent on the flitting landscape, with its dreary dead-level clothed with forests of pine, cedar, and cypress, while here and there the glittering leaves and magnificent white flowers of the magnolia-tree divided admiration with the long, swaying wreaths of funereal-looking moss somberly draping the great live-oaks. Perhaps the tropical growth lying under the soft, velvety drizzle of a steady October rain pleased her fancy or held her interest, or perhaps hot, silent tears were falling under the little black veil, for she never stirred from her statue-like quiet even when the door opened noisily presently, admitting the jolly commercial travelers whose loud talk and laughter immediately startled the smiling baby sleeper from her dreams.

There was a low, startled whimper of fear, and the little darling sat erect, first digging dimpled, chubby fists into her eyes, then staring at the heartless disturbers of her dreams with the brightest, bluest, most reproachful orbs they had ever seen.

“She is going to squall! The widow will have to move at last!” Norman de Vere muttered, with triumphant curiosity.

He was right, and wrong. The baby did not squall, but the lady moved. She leaned forward, patted the child with her little gloved hand, murmured some low, soothing words, and immediately returned to her musing position at the window without any one ever having seen her face.

The travelers were staring with all their might. Every heart went out to the little angel in the white dress.

One of them—rough fellow and hard drinker as his red face showed him to be—had pretty little children of his own at home. He uttered a caressing sound and held out eager arms.

The baby shook her golden head archly and made him a little grimace of disdain that set the other two laughing. She climbed down from her seat and up again upon the lady’s, where she stood erect, the sweetest thing alive, already full of innate, unconscious coquetry. The big, cloudless blue eyes wandered guilelessly over their faces as she clung with her tiny dimpled fists to the back of the seat, scanning each face in turn with pretty, fearless curiosity.

By this time every man in the car was in love with the beautiful, bright little thing, and the drummers began to rummage their pockets for something pretty wherewith to tempt her to come to their arms. Their boisterous mirth had already softened to something more respectful, and when one actually found a paper of peppermint lozenges about him, his eyes gleamed with triumph.

“Come, sit on my knee and you shall have candy,” he called out, persuasively.

The little beauty did not notice him. She was watching the face of Norman de Vere and making eyes at him with the sweetest baby coquetry, so “innocent arch, so cunning simple,” that the gazers were transported with delight. The young man, on his part, was regarding her with a gentle gravity of expression that puzzled her guileless mind. The three drummers she recognized instinctively as being already her slaves. What of this silent man who made no effort to attract her, who returned her inviting, wistful gaze without a smile, unless that sparkle in his large dark eyes could be called one?

Was it his seeming indifference that attracted her, or his wonderful, god-like beauty? There awoke in the young mind something of that pain which we of older growth term the yearning for the unattainable.

She sprung down into the aisle unheeded by her silent female companion, and the drummers each reached out for her. She stopped a minute to look at the unique watch-charm that one dangled before her eyes, laughed gleefully as she eluded the outstretched arm of the second, and promptly accepted the lozenges from the third, turning from him with a polite “Ta-ta,” and going straight to Norman de Vere.

“Wretched little flirt!” ejaculated the giver of the candy, with mock indignation, as he saw her climbing upon Norman de Vere’s lap with the most engaging confidence.

Then:

“Don’t oo want some of my tandy?” she inquired, cooingly, as she offered him the paper.

Norman de Vere’s thoughtful gravity relaxed into a laugh, and he promptly put an arm about the plump form that had enthroned itself on his knee.

“I don’t want any candy, please,” he said, shutting his lips tight against the small thumb and finger that were conveying a pink lozenge to his lips; “but I’ll take a kiss.”

No sooner said than the rosebud mouth was pressed eagerly, softly upon his, sending an odd thrill through his whole frame, then she half whispered:

“I ’ove oo.”

“A case of love at first sight,” haw-hawed one of the irrepressibles across the aisle, and the baby shook her tiny pink-and-white fist at him and cried out, disdainfully:

“Go way! I don’t ’ove oo! Oo ain’t pritty!”

Everybody laughed except that slight, silent form like a statue of black marble in the front seat, and Norman de Vere asked with a smile:

“Won’t you tell me your name, little one?”

She beamed upon him with her sunny blue eyes, and answered:

“Sweet’art.”

There was more laughter from across the aisle. The young man reddened in spite of himself, but persisted:

“Yes, I know you are my sweetheart, but what is your other name? What does your mamma call you?”

“Nuffin, only des Sweet’art,” she replied, amiably, reaching up and patting his cheek with a warm, sticky little palm, with a lozenge glued to it by its own sweetness.

“That is her name for you when you are very good, I suppose, but when you are bad—when you cry and scold your doll, what name does she call you then?” he queried, and she replied, intelligently:

“‘Naughty yittle Sweet’art.’”

“I give it up,” he said, carelessly; and then she asked, in her innocent, confiding manner:

“Don’t oo want me to sing mamma’s yittle song all ’bout me myse’f?”

“Yes, please.”

She threw back her curly golden head, swelled her soft, white throat, opened her rosebud mouth, and sung, with bird-like sweetness, these words:

“Yittle sweet’art, tum an’ tiss me,

Des once mo’ before I go;

Tell me truly, will you miss me

As I wander to and fro?

Yet me feel ’e tender p’essing

Of oor wosy lips to mine,

Wif oor dimple’ hands cawessing,

An’ oor snowy arms intwine.

“Yittle sweet’art, tum an’ tiss me,

We may ne’er meet adain;

We may ne’er woam togedder

Down ’e dear ole shady lane.

Uvver years may bwing us sowow

Yat our ’arts but yittle know;

But if tare we s’ould not bo’wow,

Tum an’ tiss me ’fore I go.

“Ah! yittle sweet’art, tum an’ tiss me,

Tum an’ whisper sweet an’ low;

Tell me yat oor ’art will miss me

As I wander to an’ fro.”

No words could describe fitly the wonderful, wooing sweetness, the bird-like melody of the little one’s voice as it rose soft and clear above the clatter of the moving train—every word, though uttered in broken baby dialect, distinctly audible to the listeners.

The innocent little child, absorbed in the delight of her own performance, appeared as unconscious of them all as some wild-wood bird caroling alone upon its leafy nest, and produced as pure an effect upon her hearers.

When she stopped no one moved or spoke for a minute, then the red-faced drummer chuckled:

“Sweetheart, you’re an out-and-out prima-donna!”

The others were touched and silent.

CHAPTER II.

Sweetheart herself remained quite silent and pensive for a moment after her little song, as if it had touched some chord of sadness in her heart. Then she nestled her curly head softly against Norman de Vere’s broad breast.

“Sweet’art tired, Sweet’art s’eepy,” she lisped in a plaintive tone, and shut her eyes.

He held her closely in a tender clasp, looking down admiringly at the lovely baby face, fair as carven pearl, and tinted warmly yet delicately as a Mme. de Watteville rose. How richly fringed with thick gold were the full white lids; how lovely the curve of the scarlet lips; how deep the dimple—a perfect Cupid’s nest—in the exquisite chin! His eyes dwelt long and lingeringly on every perfect outline, and he said to himself, with a half smile:

“If she grows up like this, she will give many a man the heartache.”

A sigh chased away the smile, and a cold, cynical look came into the dark eyes, as if some unpleasant memory stirred within him.

The train rushed on through the rainy afternoon, past the swamps and forests, past the unfrequent little towns where they seemed to make the most unconscionably long stops, considering the small additions received to the stock of passengers, and presently it seemed to Norman de Vere that every one was asleep but himself.

The drummers had each taken a double seat to himself, and with silk handkerchiefs over their faces, snored sedately. Even the “little widow,” as Norman called her in his thoughts, had let her arm and head slip down to the back of her seat, and seemed to be quietly sleeping. Sweetheart still lay close in the fold of his strong arm, and though presently the plump little thing began to feel warm and heavy, he would not rouse her, lest he should call her back from her wandering in the beautiful Land of Nod.

“But what a careless little mother!” he thought. “She takes small concern over her baby, leaving her to be nursed and cuddled by utter strangers. Still,” with an excusing thought, “she must be fond of the little one, she has trained her to sing with such wondrous sweetness and accuracy. It is only that she is tired or ill—broken down with grief most likely—and she knows that even rough men are only too proud to play the nurse to her little pet.”

He wondered vaguely if the face hidden under the little poke bonnet and veil were one half as lovely as the one slumbering so peacefully on his breast, and gazing down at little Sweetheart, tried to fancy the cherub face grown older, and the innocent soul grown wise with woman’s lore; but again a heavy sigh heaved his breast and a frown of deep cynicism drew ungracious lines on his high, white brow.

“Heaven forbid! Heaven forbid!” he muttered, with something like impatient wrath. “It seems a pity for this dear little one to grow up so. Yet,” bitterly, “how else could it be, and a woman?”

The early autumn twilight, hastened by the steady rain, began to darken in the car, and the brakeman came in and lighted the lamps.

“A bad spell o’ weather, sir,” he said, loquaciously, to the occupant of the car who had his eyes open. “Uncommon rainy for Florida; been fallin’ stiddy for two days and nights. ’Counts for the few passengers, I ’spose. Well, ’tis er ill wind blows nobody good. Better sleepin’ ’commodations for the passengers,” glancing around humorously; for this was twenty years ago, reader, and before the luxurious era of Pullman sleepers and parlor cars and fast-flying vestibule trains.

Norman de Vere was about to make some brief, courteous answer to the man’s remarks, but he was prevented by a sudden terrible rumble and rocking of the car—the swift precursor of one of those dreadful railway accidents due to heavy rains and weakened bridge foundations that desolate so many hearts and homes. With a swift instinct he clasped his sleeping burden tightly to his breast just as the doomed car reared upward a moment, like a maddened, living creature, only to collapse the next instant with its freight of human souls and go crashing down through a broken bridge into a mad hell of seething, foaming water.

A little river ordinarily insignificant enough, but swollen now to a torrent by incessant rains for several days, had washed all the mortar from the stone foundations of the railroad bridge and weakened it so that the weight of the locomotive had carried it down crashing to the bed of the river and telescoped the train.

When Norman de Vere realized that, but for a sharp blow on the head from a heavy timber, he was unhurt, and that he held the struggling child safe in his arms, it seemed to him that he must have been saved by a miracle, nothing less.

The whole train was a wreck, and but for the fact that the ladies’ car was on top of the débris, he could never have escaped alive. He was wedged between two seats of the car, which lay on its side, the windows uppermost, and over and around surged the raging water, churned into foam by the rapid descent of the train, and by the explosion of the locomotive’s boiler as soon as it touched the river. To add to the horror of the position, the lamps just lighted by the brakeman had exploded and caught fire, affording a lurid light within the interior of the wrecked car.

The child in his arms waked and screamed with sudden terror. He hushed her with a tender word, and listened appalled for another human sound in that terrible tumult of crashing timbers and raging waters.

But no sound came.

He saw the brakeman’s legs sticking out from under a pile of timbers that had instantaneously crushed the life from his body. Turning about in his cramped position, he looked for Sweetheart’s mother and the drummers.

There was no sign of the slender little black-draped figure, but a pair of masculine arms protruded from under an overturned seat. He put Sweetheart down and went to work manfully to extricate the owner.

To his joy, he dragged the man out, stunned, but alive—one of the jolly drummers. Rapidly as he could, he resuscitated him and made him understand their position.

“We will either be burned or drowned if we do not speedily escape,” he said. “But before we think of ourselves we must see if there are any more alive in the car.”

“I’m with you to the death!” the other cried, heartily; then he shuddered. “But this is horrible! How the water seethes over the settling wreck! And it will be on fire inside presently.”

“Be good, little darling!” Norman cried to the whimpering, frightened baby, who sat very still where he had placed her, with a dazed look in her big blue eyes.

Obeying a pitying impulse, he kissed her lightly, then turned to his grewsome task.

The two other drummers were soon discovered, both stone dead, and one horribly mutilated.

“God rest their souls!” cried the drummer, who was a devout Catholic.

He crossed himself, his face pale with grief and horror, then went on with his task. The mysterious woman had not been found yet.

A few steps further on and they began to pull away great fragments of the roof where it had crashed in over the seat where she had been reclining. They were obliged to work very carefully lest she should be pinioned under them yet alive, and they must not crush out the faintest spark of life.

And above them and around them the fierce and swollen river roared like a tiger eager for its prey, while within the narrow compass of the wrecked car the air began to grow hot and dense with smoke from the burning lamp that had sent its blazing oil running about like tongues of flame, devouring all it touched.

A minute more and they found her, dead. Norman de Vere was never to know whether the face over which he had wondered was beautiful or homely. The heavy timbers had mutilated it beyond all semblance of humanity, and he reeled and sickened at sight of the bloody corpse.

“Oh, my God, how terrible!” he cried, and the Catholic crossed himself again. “God rest her soul!” he muttered, then eagerly: “We can do no more. They are all dead. Let us try to save ourselves. We shall suffocate if we remain in here five minutes longer. See the child!”

Little Sweetheart had suddenly succumbed to the heat and smoke, and fallen senseless.

Norman de Vere caught her up in his arms with a cry very like despair.

“Now don’t give way!” cried George Hinton, the drummer, eagerly. “What do you propose to do?”

“Can you swim?”

“Like a fish.”

“So can I. We must knock out that window there. The water will pour into the car, but we must climb through the opening and commit ourselves to the mercy of the river.”

The hour of deadly peril under the gloomy night sky on the wild, swirling river, battling fiercely with the elements in the effort to reach the lights that glimmered on shore, would the two nearly exhausted men ever forget it?

Norman de Vere’s efforts were greatly hampered by the little unconscious burden in his arms, but he would not listen to the shouts of the other.

“She is dead, poor little one! She was suffocated in the burning car. Better let her go and save yourself.”

“Never! We sink together rather than so cowardly a deed!” Norman de Vere replied above the roar of the water; and by the most heroic struggles he neared the land, where a rope was thrown by friendly hands of excited watchers along the shore. A moment more and safety was assured to them, and a loud, solemn shout of thanksgiving went up from fifty throats for the three solitary survivors of the wrecked train.

CHAPTER III.

Twenty-four hours later it was night in Jacksonville—night, all lovely with countless stars and a full October moon.

“The light of many stars

Quivered in tremulous softness on the air,

And the night breeze was singing here and there.”

Before the gates of a palatial home, whose white walls glimmered like a fairy palace through the dark-green shrubberies of the extensive grounds, stood a line of carriages. The mistress of that Eden-like home had been holding her weekly reception—not a garish ball or a weary crush of uncongenial people, but an assemblage of choice spirits, her most intimate friends, only fifty people all told; and now on the stroke of midnight, after two hours most charmingly spent, they were decorously taking their departure.

The echo of their gay voices came floating out on the orange-perfumed air as they lingered on the pillared portico.

“Oh, Mrs. de Vere, you must be proud of your husband. Such a hero! They say he saved two lives!”

“I am proud of him!” the musical voice of the fair hostess replied, with a note of tenderness breaking through its proud ring; then she bowed good-night to her friends and went back to the deserted drawing-room, around whose door hovered sleepy servants anxious to put out the lights, shut up the house and retire.

Their proud mistress paid no attention to them. She pushed to the door, and began to walk slowly up and down the floor, the rich Turkish carpet giving back no echo to the fall of her silken slippers.

A woman in the early prime of her rich beauty, thirty-three years old, but looking barely twenty-five—beauty is always young—tall, with a magnificent figure draped in black lace that set off with its somber elegance her peculiar type of beauty.

Red hair—rich, dusky auburn red, with soft natural waves in it from where it was drawn simply back from its parting on the low white brow to the loose coil at the back of the shapely head; the clear, colorless, dazzling skin that goes with such fiery locks; eyes of sparkling reddish hazel with full, white lids and long, curled lashes; a Grecian nose long enough to indicate decided characteristics; a rather large mouth, with thin red lips that could express cruelty when they chose, but whose smile could dazzle and betray—such she stood in her somber garb, with diamonds flashing on her bare white arms and throat, looking the siren that she was by right of beauty, passion and power, yet all inconsistency, capable of heights and depths, and predominated by something subtle and tigerish in her animal nature.

“Will he come to-night?” she muttered, half bitterly, as she paced from one end to the other of the splendid room. “It is more than two weeks since I came to our winter home in Jacksonville. Why did he wish to linger, unless it was to be rid of me, to be from his chains, as no doubt he calls them in his secret heart? What has he been doing all this time? I will not believe it was business, as he writes. Had he loved me as he pretends, he would have come with me; he—”

The door opened quickly, arresting the querulous complaint. She turned and saw her husband coming toward her with an eager face, and his name fell from her lips in a tone of mingled reproach and rapture:

“Norman!”

“Camille!” he answered, in a deep voice; and as he paused by her side his dark eyes swept the dazzling face searchingly, and somewhat plaintively, as if doubtful of a welcome.

But she flung herself upon his breast, and her round, white arms clasped his neck with passionate abandon.

His momentary doubt dispelled, he embraced her with an ardor equaling her own, and pressed kiss after kiss on her upturned face.

“You are glad to see me again, Camille,” he murmured, happily. “Ah! this pays for the dreary days of absence from your side.”

Mrs. de Vere half withdrew herself at those words from her husband’s arms, and looking up at him, cried out, reproachfully.

“If you had loved me you would not have stayed so long!”

“Did you miss me, darling?”

She pouted mutinously as a school-girl for an instant, then, as if impelled to the truth in spite of herself, hung her graceful head and murmured, bashfully:

“Yes—bitterly.”

Norman de Vere’s dark eyes beamed with a sort of loving triumph as he answered:

“It was to win this sweet confession that I stayed behind. I know that in your heart you love me well, but when I am with you constantly you madden me with your caprices and humors, your unfounded jealousies and wounding suspicions. Why, you never give me a loving word or an involuntary caress, and you degrade yourself and me with such cruel charges as I can scarcely endure. But when I am away from you, you judge me more kindly, perhaps, and so I find an intoxicating welcome awaiting me. It was no business that detained me, my darling. Maddened by your coldness and distain, I remained away from you, hoping you would think more kindly of me and meet me with just this charming welcome,” drawing her again into his arms and kissing the curved red lips with eager passion.

She returned his kisses ardently, murmuring the while:

“You were cruel—I love you so—I can not bear you out of my sight! I will not bear it—your taming me by so cruel an absence—as if I were a real shrew!”

“I will never do so again—that is—if you will always be like this,” he answered, feasting his eager eyes on the rare beauty of the face that lay against his breast, his tone almost pleading in its earnestness.

She lifted her head and looked into his eyes with a shadowed gaze.

“How can I promise you?” she asked, half resentfully, half sadly. “You do not make due allowance for me, Norman; yet you know well the miserable doubt of your love that turns me sometimes into a fury. How can I be quite, quite sure of your heart, remembering, as I do every hour of my life, that I am quite thirteen years older than you, and that the royal dower my father gave me might have tempted many a man to forget that disparity.”

There was sudden, swift anguish in his face and voice, bitter pain and humiliation in the tone with which he cried:

“Oh, my love, that old complaint again—and so soon, so cruelly soon! You do injustice to yourself and your own charms. It was yourself that won me, not your splendid dowry. For those few years between us, bah! I never remember them unless you remind me. If I had been Cophetua and you the beggar maid, I should have implored you to share my throne.”

“But you were only a boy when you married me—barely twenty. By and by your fancy will change—you will repent.”

“Hush! you will be in hysterics presently,” he said, warningly. “Come with me, darling. You will forget these morbid fancies when you see the sweet little pet I have brought you.”

He drew her into a small anteroom adjoining, and she saw on a velvet sofa, fast asleep, a golden-haired little fairy.

“It is a little child I rescued from the wrecked train,” he said. “I brought her home with me until I could find her friends.”

To his amazement, her thin red lips began to curl into the cruelest sneer.

“Are you displeased, Camille?” he asked, anxiously. “Why, I thought any woman would be delighted with so lovely a pet. I assure you she will win your heart as soon as you look into her sunny blue eyes.”

She flung off his caressing hand as if it were a serpent, and with blazing eyes, hissed out:

“A likely tale! Rescued from the wreck—ha! ha!”

“My God, Camille, what do you mean by your scorn?” he cried, aghast.

She turned on him like a beautiful tigress.

“I mean, Norman de Vere, that you can not deceive me with such a trumped-up tale! How dare you, dare you, think to bring home your base-born brat, issue of some shameless clandestine affair, to the shelter of this honest roof?”

CHAPTER IV.

Norman de Vere was by no means unacquainted with the passionate and jealous temper of his wife, having experienced its evil effects many times during the two years in which he had been her husband.

But her present outburst was so unexpected and so reasonless that he almost recoiled in terror from the fierce and angry glitter of the hazel eyes and the bitter sneer that distorted her lovely mouth.

He could not speak. Sheer indignation and amazement held him silent, and pointing a disdainful finger at him, the angry woman continued:

“No, I am not so easily duped as you expected! I know too much of the world and its wickedness! Your pretense is a very clever one, but I can see through it!”

“Good heavens!” the young man exclaimed, in a shocked voice. His dark eyes blazed with indignation.

She went on, sharply:

“I wish you to understand that that brat can not remain under this roof to-night! You will send it away at once!”

Norman de Vere, by humoring the caprices of a selfish woman, had made himself almost a slave to her despotic will. With her to speak had always been to be obeyed, and she expected no less now.

“But, Camille, think,” he said, remonstratingly. “The child has no friends that I know of. Her mother perished in the wreck. I saved the child’s life, and I must take care of her until I hear from her friends. The charge you bring against me is utterly without foundation. Look at the little one. She is at least four years old. Remember, I was but a boy when I married you, two years ago.”

“I have heard that you were very wild when you were at college,” she replied, tauntingly. “This, no doubt, is the outcome of your youthful folly. The wretched mother has no doubt deserted the child, and you, with a foolish sentimentality, dared bring it under this roof to rear. Or perhaps,” her voice rising almost to a shriek of rage, “you had a double purpose in bringing it here! You wished—wished,” with a hysterical sob, “to taunt me with my childlessness!”

He stood staring at the beautiful fury, asking himself in wonder if this could be the same woman who such a little while ago had lain in his arms, clasping his neck, and giving him kiss for kiss. It scarcely seemed possible; such a fury she looked now with her blazing eyes and distorted features quivering with jealous rage. Yet he had seen her before in fits of jealous anger that usually culminated in hysterics.

Dreading this effect, he endeavored to soothe her; but all in vain, and only his remonstrance that she would be overheard by the servants had any effect in moderating her loud, shrewish tones. But she reiterated, though in a lower voice, her resolve that the child should be sent immediately away.

Her furious tones had already awakened little Sweetheart. She sat up on the sofa without a word, staring drowsily from one to the other with her sleepy blue eyes under her tangle of golden curls.

Mrs. de Vere, in her fury of wrath, shook her jeweled fist threateningly in the child’s face, and the baby shrunk back with a startled cry.

“Camille!” cried her husband, sternly. He caught back her menacing hand. “Would you be cruel enough to strike that innocent baby?”

She laughed insanely.

“Yes, unless you take her away, and at once!” she answered, struggling to free herself.

But he held her firmly.

“You are mad!” he cried, hotly. “You exhaust my patience by your words and manners, which are alike disgraceful. I will no longer bear your exactions. The child shall remain here until her friends can be found. You force me to remind you that this house at least is mine—all that was left me when the war deprived me of my father, the brave soldier, who died for the South, and all our wealth. Here, at least, I am master, and here my poor little protégée shall find shelter!”

She was so dazed with his defiance that for a moment she could not speak, only writhe impotently under the firm but gentle grasp in which he held her wrist, while a low, hissing sound issued from her lips.

Little Sweetheart, who had been watching them in doubt and terror, now slipped down from the sofa, and running to her friend, clasped his leg tightly with her little arms, crying out through frightened tears:

“Oh, p’ease, p’ease, don’t hurt the yady! don’t make her ky!”

“Little angel!” he cried, and released the wrist he was holding.

Instantly Mrs. de Vere flung herself full length upon the floor, screaming and kicking in hysteria.

Norman de Vere picked up Sweetheart in his arms and strode to the door. He expected to find several frightened servants listening, and he was not mistaken.

“Your mistress is ill. Go in and attend to her at once,” he said to the French maid, whom he detected among them.

“Oui, monsieur,” answered Finette, with a courtesy of her capped head.

Then she ran in to her mistress, and Norman de Vere went up the broad, shallow stairs toward the sleeping apartments, still carrying the child.

A dim light burned in the upper hall. He knocked several times at a door near the head of the staircase, and presently a drowsy voice, sounding as if muffled among pillows, inquired:

“Who is that? What do you want?”

“It is Norman, mother. Can I see you, please?”

“Of course, my son;” and in a few moments the door opened and an elderly lady in a dressing-gown invited him in.

CHAPTER V.

“I hope you are well, mother?” the young man said, kissing her tenderly, and as the light fell on her face one saw features still handsome in spite of the silver hair that set off the blackness of her large eyes.

“Yes, I am well. And you, my dear son?” fondly; then she started in amaze: “Good gracious, Norman! where did you get that child?”

He would have laughed at her amazement if he had not been so perturbed by the exciting scene through which he had just passed. As it was, he sighed as he put Sweetheart gently down on a low ottoman.

“It is a child I saved from the wreck and brought home with me until I could find her friends, mother.”

“Oh, poor little one!” said the lady, tenderly. She sat down and held out her arms. “Come here, you little beauty, and let me kiss you.”

Sweetheart ran eagerly to her new friend and held up her rosebud mouth; then she climbed into the lady’s lap with childish confidence.

“Sweet’art so tired an’ s’eepy!” she sighed, dropping the curly head on that motherly breast.

“Poor little thing! she must be put to bed,” said Mrs. de Vere.

She undressed the weary, drowsy child and laid her gently down in her own bed. In a minute she was fast asleep.

“God bless you, dear little mother! Oh, what a relief this is to me!” exclaimed the young man.

“Was she so very troublesome?”

“No; I did not mean that. I—I—But, mother, perhaps you are too tired for me to talk to you to-night?”

“No, indeed: I could sit up for hours. But have you seen Camille yet?”

“Yes, I have seen her. I will describe to you, mother, the charming interview I have just held with my wife,” he replied, in tones of bitter mockery.

She listened while he went over the painful scene, and her eyes reflected the indignation that flashed from his.

“How could she be so unjust, so cruel? Oh, I never dreamed that the daughter of my old friend could be so jealous and so suspicious,” she cried, in real distress, for the mother knew that she was in some degree responsible for her son’s misery.

She had fostered and encouraged the boy’s passion for the mature siren.

The close of the war had left her an impoverished widow with an only son, and it had taxed her shallow resources to provide means for him to have an education such as befitted a De Vere who had some of the best blood of France as well as of the South in his veins. But she sent him to college, and it was on a visit home at Christmas that she took him to call on a lady who was wintering in Jacksonville—a Miss Acton—the daughter of an old friend of hers. Miss Acton was an orphan, and had inherited a million of dollars from her California father and a beautiful face from her mother. She was alone in Florida, except for her fashionable friends and her French maid. She told Mrs. de Vere, who had sought her out for her mother’s sake, that she was unmarried still, because she could put no faith in the disinterested love of any man.

Mrs. de Vere took her son with her when he came home at Christmas to call on the distrustful heiress. He was young and impressionable, and Camille Acton did not look twenty-five. Her beauty, her style, her Parisian costume, all combined made so strong an impression that he fell ardently in love, and as he had the beauty of an Adonis, it was no wonder that her fiery heart was thrilled in return. The ambitious mother saw all with astonishment and delight. She invited Miss Acton to winter at Castle Rackrent, as she often bitterly termed it, and between the two maneuvering women the fatal match was made.

A European tour followed upon the brilliant wedding that took place in a few months, and they remained abroad for a year, during which time the Jacksonville home was put into perfect repair and elegantly refurnished with the bride’s money for a winter residence. In due time they came back, but not before the boy had discovered that he had wedded a beautiful Xanthippe.

Camille de Vere had a jealous passion for the boy she had married that drove her into excesses of rage without reason. Added to this was a distrust of his love, a horror lest he had wedded her from a mercenary purpose alone, for with all her faults she was quite free from vanity. She hated her peculiar type of beauty, and she would not permit flattery. She believed it was addressed to the heiress, not the woman. Proud, jealous, despotic, she yet underrated her own attractions, and made herself wretched in consequence.

The bitterest taunt, the one that cut most deeply into the sensitive spirit of Norman de Vere, was one that she only ventured upon in the most towering flights of rage.

“You never loved me! You could not have cared for a woman thirteen years older than yourself, and with red hair. You married me for my money, and now you are trying to break my heart so that you may enjoy it without incumbrance!” she would cry out, coarsely; and all his protestations would be useless until she relented of herself, touched by his white face of misery. Then she would atone after her fashion by intervals of almost slavish devotion, and by costly gifts, trying to buy the forgiveness she was ashamed to beg.

Norman’s mother knew in her heart that by her ambition and her adroit management she had brought about this misery, but she dared not utter her repentance aloud. She knew that she had to remain perfectly neutral, or her rich daughter-in-law would find means to separate her from the son she idolized.

When she had heard Norman’s story, her motherly heart thrilled with indignation at the false and unjust charge brought against her idolized son.

Angry words rushed to her lips, but she crowded them back. She must not foment strife between husband and wife. The least she could do to atone for her share in their misery was to act the part of peace-maker.

She waited a few moments to quell the indignant words that swelled in her throat, then began to talk to her son in kind and soothing terms, making every excuse that she could for the erring wife.

“She was an only daughter. She has been spoiled all her life, and she can not know how her tempers appear to us. We must try to soften her by repeated kindnesses and by continual forgiveness,” she ended.

Her son’s eyes flashed darkly under the straight, black brows.

“I have already given up to her to the extent of debasing my manhood by almost dog-like humility,” he replied. “‘Forbearance has ceased to be a virtue,’ and the issue now raised between us may become a battle-ground on which her insolent pride of power must be humbled, for I shall never yield.”

“The issue?” she repeated.

“The child,” he replied.

“I do not quite understand,” she said.

“I mean that she has vowed that my protégée shall not pass the night beneath this roof. I am determined that Sweetheart shall remain until I restore her to her friends.”

The pale determination of his handsome face was so marked that she trembled with dread.

“But what if her friends should never be found? What then, Norman?”

“She would have to remain my protégée,” he replied, firmly.

She trembled at the firmness of his tone. Her prophetic mind saw endless vistas of perplexity and trouble looming dimly in the future. The thought came:

“Better, perhaps, if the child had perished with her mother!”

Then her heart smote her as a low, grieving sob broke from the little cherub in its sleep.

“Heaven forgive me!” Mrs. de Vere muttered to herself humbly.

Norman looked at her wistfully, and continued:

“I suppose you can not quite enter into my feelings, mother. I saved the little thing’s life, and somehow she almost seems to belong to me. You can not think how sweet and winning she is, too. What a sunshine she would make in this quiet old house!”

“You can not dream of adopting her!” she cried, appalled.

“Certainly not—under the circumstances,” he replied, grimly. He paused a moment, then added: “Otherwise, nothing would give me more pleasure than to claim my protégée as an adopted daughter.”

“You are mad!” she cried, in dismay.

“I do not think so,” he replied, gently. A slight flush crept up to his temples as he added: “I do not believe that my wife will ever give me a child of my own to love, yet it is but natural I should desire one.”

The same pang, the same regret had touched her own heart, but she had borne it in silence. The tears started to her eyes as she said:

“We must keep on hoping, keep on waiting. In any case, Norman, think no more of this wild fancy. It is impossible you should defy Camille in this affair. Take my advice and carry Sweetheart away early to-morrow to some friend who will take care of her until her friends are found. She will be safe with me to-night.”

“Safe!” he cried, in a startled tone. “Mother, you do not mean—”

“I mean nothing only that I will keep Sweetheart with me to-night, but that you must take her away to-morrow,” she replied, firmly, adding as he moved to the door: “Remember your first duty is to your wife. Go now and try to make your peace with her, dear boy.”

The dark eyes flashed.

“Good-night, mother,” he said, with sudden coldness, and went out.

The shrill screams that had gone with him up the stairway a little while before were silent now. He had heard a bustle in the hall shortly before, and he knew that the servants had carried their hysterical mistress upstairs. He went softly along the hall and tapped at the door.

It opened quietly. Mlle. Finette showed her sallow face, beady black eyes and smart cap in the crevice of the door.

“How is your mistress?” he asked.

“Vair mooch bettaire, and asleep, m’sieur.”

“Did she leave me any message?”

“Non, m’sieur; but she ordered me to stay by her bed all the night,” her eyes snapping maliciously.

“Very well,” he said, calmly, turning away and going down the hall toward the stairway.

He was eager to get into the open air. The house seemed stifling.

The night breeze struck coolly on his heated brow as he let himself out at the back door and walked wearily toward a beautiful grove of orange-trees now in the full glory of blossom and fruit. Their tropical fragrance blended deliciously with the odor of Maréchal Neil roses that clambered over a picturesque summer-house near at hand.

He went inside and sunk heavily into a rustic chair.

“My God, and this is the home-coming to which I have looked forward so longingly for two long weeks!” he muttered, with a laugh that was half self-mockery, half despair. Then a moment later: “Why did I battle so eagerly for life that night? Was it worth it?”

CHAPTER VI.

When Norman de Vere turned away from his wife’s door the maid locked it quickly, and crossed the room to the bedside of her mistress.

Mrs. de Vere had half risen from the luxurious nest of linen and lace, and with her wavy red locks falling backward like a veil, was leaning on her white elbow listening eagerly.

“He did not ask to see me, Finette?” she whispered, half longingly.

“Non, miladi—only about your health.”

“You told him I was asleep—that you were ordered to remain by me all night?”

“Oui, madame.”

“Finette, I wish you would quit your bad habit of falling into French. It is annoying, after the pains I took to have you taught good English years ago!” Mrs. de Vere cried out petulantly.

“Pardon, madame. C’est—that is, ’twas slip of the tongue,” Finette replied, meekly.

“Very well. Try to command your tongue. Now, tell me, what of the brat?”

“He left it with the old lady, madame, as I told you.”

“You heard nothing of what they said when you listened at the door?”

Finette’s beady black eyes glistened malevolently.

“Not vair mooch—they spoke too low,” she said. “As well as I could understand English—which I speak but imperfectly, madame—my master he complained bitterly of you. His mother she said it was one vair great shame you was so jealous and so cruel to him.”

The hazel eyes shot forth red lights of fury.

“Very well; I will pay her out for her interference!” she cried, in a hissing tone of rage; then she lay back on her pillow, gasping with anger.

“Oh, madame! these moder-in-laws they be marplots between the young married ones,” cried Finette, lugubriously.

Having cast this lighted match into the gunpowder of her lady’s wrath, the artful and malicious French maid became discreetly silent.

Her mistress too was very quiet. She was divided between bitter wrath and inconsistent pique. She had forbidden her husband’s presence, yet she fiercely resented the fact that he had not insisted on coming into the room—that he had taken her dismissal so calmly and gone away.

“If he had really loved me, he would have insisted on seeing me,” she burst out, bitterly, and the wily French maid answered:

“Madame, he loves you—be sure of that. But he is too young; that is my master’s great fault. He is just from his books; he understands not, like a man of the world, the caprice of the woman. He knows not that her no means yes, and that her stay out means come in.”

Mrs. de Vere flushed at hearing herself so correctly analysed by the crafty French maid, but she did not contradict her. She remained silent for a few minutes, and Finette waited patiently. At last:

“He defies me; his mother defies me; the ungrateful beggars that I raised from penury to wealth and luxury!” Mrs. de Vere burst forth, wrathful, unheeding the presence of the attendant. “They keep the little wretch here, despite the fact that I ordered him to take it away! Strange! Strange! But I will show them what stuff Camille de Vere is made of! Finette!”

“Madame!”

“Do you not believe with me that this mysterious child is Norman de Vere’s own?”

Finette shrugged her narrow shoulders expressively.