CHAPTER XXVII.
“A MARRIED FLIRT.”
When Pansy had left Norman Wylde, Mrs. Meade sat down on the seat she had vacated, and her face was very grave and thoughtful.
It had appeared very strange to her to find Norman Wylde and the beautiful Mrs. Falconer alone in the park together, and seeming to be on very amicable terms with each other, whereas she had supposed them to be almost utter strangers.
“Perhaps she is a flirt,” she thought suspiciously; and just then Norman Wylde turned his head, after watching Pansy until she disappeared, and said:
“How does it happen that Mrs. Falconer and Pet are so well acquainted with each other?”
The old housekeeper, who had known him ever since he was a little boy, answered dryly:
“Mr. Norman, I was just going to ask the same question about yourself and Mrs. Falconer.”
He smiled at first, then flushed a dark red at her searching glance, and answered:
“But I do not know Mrs. Falconer very well. I have never met her but once or twice until she came down this path, quite by accident, a while ago, and I invited her to rest a few minutes—she looked so tired and warm.”
“I was afraid she was one of them married flirts that’s getting so fashionable nowadays,” muttered Mrs. Meade.
“A married flirt! No, indeed! I believe Mrs. Falconer is as pure and sweet and shy as a child. She is so much like one I knew years ago that she could not be otherwise,” exclaimed Norman Wylde earnestly, as he fondled Pet, who had crept to his knee, thus consoling himself for the departure of his “pretty yady.”
Mrs. Meade looked up, all eager interest.
“Like some one you knew?” she exclaimed eagerly.
“Yes,” he replied, with a heavy sigh, and the housekeeper asked coaxingly:
“Would you mind telling me whom she looked like, Mr. Norman?”
“Curiosity, thy name is woman!” he said, with a low laugh, half dreary amusement, half bitterness; then, with another sigh, he went on: “Mrs. Meade, I suppose you know all about my unfortunate love affair of three years ago?”
She nodded, and then he said:
“This beautiful Mrs. Falconer is the image of the girl I loved, and from whom my parents parted me. She committed suicide by drowning within a year after I went away, you remember?”
“Ah!” exclaimed the old housekeeper, and her face began to glow with excitement.
“Mr. Norman, are you sure she drowned herself?” she asked eagerly.
“Sure!” he repeated, turning toward her, with wondering eyes. “Why, what do you mean, Mrs. Meade?”
“Was her body ever recovered from the river?” retorted the housekeeper significantly.
He started violently, then answered:
“No!”
“So I thought,” said Mrs. Meade, and, following up her train of thought, she added: “There isn’t any possibility that Mrs. Falconer can be the same girl, is there, Mr. Norman?”
He sprang from his seat, pushing Pet unconsciously from him, and confronted her, pale with surprise and excitement.
“You must be mad!” he exclaimed. “This lady was one of the belles of Louisville—never was in Richmond until this summer, I am told.”
“Sit down, Mr. Norman, and forgive me for talking like an old fool, although maybe I’m not such a fool, after all,” answered Mrs. Meade. But he would not sit down again; he remained standing in front of her and looking down consciously into her agitated face as she continued, in a low, grave voice:
“Being such an old woman, Mr. Norman, and knowing you ever since you was no bigger than Pet here, you needn’t mind my asking you questions that might be impertinent from some people.”
“Ask what you please, Mrs. Meade. I am too much your friend to take offense at your plain speaking,” he replied encouragingly; and, without any further preamble, she queried:
“In that unfortunate love affair of yours, Mr. Norman, was there any prospect of—a—child?”
“No!” he answered quickly, almost angrily, yet she saw the hot color shoot up to his brow, and his glance fell before hers.
She sighed, and exclaimed:
“Then I’m all at sea again, for, to tell you the truth, Mr. Norman, I’ve been half believing all this time that Pet here was your own child!”
He started as if shot, and, dropping into a seat again, caught Pet’s hand and drew him forward, scrutinizing his beautiful features with eager eyes:
“Can’t you see that he has your eyes, your features?” exclaimed Mrs. Meade triumphantly, and, with something like a groan, he muttered:
“And something of her, too!” he said. “That smile, those dainty dimples, how like, how like! Now I understand what drew my heart so strongly to the child. Mrs. Meade,” looking up at her with blazing eyes, “you must answer now the question I asked you first: How is it that Pet and Mrs. Falconer know each other so well?”
And, for answer, she began at the first meeting of Mrs. Falconer and the child, and related all that had taken place since, dwelling strongly on their mutual passionate attachment for each other, and on the lady’s eager desire to adopt the child.
“I will tell you the truth, Mr. Norman: I strongly suspect that this beautiful lady is the child’s own mother, and if there is no chance that the little one can be yours, why, then I ought to let her have him, maybe. I refused because I thought he was yours,” she said.
“You were right not to let her have him,” he exclaimed hurriedly. Then his face dropped into his hands a moment, and passers-by looked curiously at the old woman, the pretty child, and the handsome man bowed in an attitude of deep dejection.
Little Pet was so grieved at the man’s sorrowful attitude that he went up to him and encircled Norman’s neck with his chubby arms, and inquired tenderly:
“Oo kyin’ tause pretty yady gone?”
The young man caught him in his arms, straining him to his breast, and again gazed eagerly into his lovely face.
“My little darling, what if it were to prove true?” he muttered hoarsely; then, looking around at Mrs. Meade, he asked:
“Do you know where Mrs. Laurens, the mother of poor little Pansy, lives?”
“No, I do not know,” she replied; and a look of bitter disappointment came over his face.
“I have been trying ever since I came home to trace that woman,” he exclaimed. “I remember that just before I went away she was married a second time, and went on a bridal tour with her husband. But I do not know the name of the person she married, nor where she is living now, for she has moved away from where she resided when I went away.”
Was it fate, or only a blind chance, for at that moment there came along the walk a plainly dressed, stooping figure, with a sad, worn face that had once been very pretty, though now faded and forlorn. Norman had seen Pansy’s mother only once, but he recognized her again in this passer-by, and, springing to his feet, exclaimed:
“Mrs. Laurens!”
The pale, sad-looking creature recoiled from him with a frightened denial:
“I—I—that is not my name!”
Norman caught her wrist in a firm yet tender clasp, for she was trying to get away.
“Wait!” he said sternly. “Denials are useless, for I know that you are Mrs. Laurens, and I think you know that I am Norman Wylde. I was just speaking about you and wishing I knew where to find you. I want you to tell me the truth about this child here. Is it not your daughter Pansy’s?”
“No—oh, no!” she exclaimed wildly; but just then Mrs. Meade exclaimed surprisedly:
“La, me, that’s the very woman I have seen dozens of times, hanging about when I took Pet out, but never mistrusted who she was!”
Mrs. Laurens looked at her imploringly, and faltered out:
“You must be mistaken. I never saw you before, ma’am.”
“Well, I never!” ejaculated the housekeeper, and little Pet himself gave the lie to Mrs. Laurens’ denial, for he came to her with a smile, and cooed sweetly:
“Is oo dot any more tandy to-day?”
“You see, the child knows you. Confess the truth now! Are you not his own grandmother?” exclaimed Norman, low but eagerly.
Mrs. Laurens writhed under his grasp, and looked from right to left with frightened eyes.
“Answer me!” persisted Norman. But a dogged look came over her face, and she replied:
“No, my daughter Pansy never had a child. Why do you want to throw disgrace on my poor dead girl?” And she suddenly burst into tears, and, tugging at his hand, wailed out: “Oh, let me go! I promised to meet my daughter Alice when she was coming home from the factory, and—and—it’s past the closing time now.”
“Will you swear that this is not Pansy’s child?” Norman insisted hoarsely; but at that moment she succeeded in freeing her hand from his clasp and darted away like a startled deer. Not wishing to create a sensation, he had to refrain from following her.