“After all, it is very lonely without my mother. I am glad she is
coming home to-night,” Norman de Vere said to himself, when quite two
weeks of time had elapsed since his mother’s departure for Virginia.
He had not had the least idea that she would remain away more than
a week, for he had great faith in her powers of persuasion. She, if
any one, would be able to overcome Thea West’s sturdy notions of
independence.
She had succeeded, as he had thought she would. Thea capitulated to the
sweet and gentle woman’s arguments and persuasions, although she would
have stood firm as a rock against Norman de Vere’s commands. The first
letter had told Norman she had succeeded.
“She will come with me to Verelands, but we are going to Richmond
first. I want to buy Thea some new things,” she wrote, indefinitely, so
it was two weeks now, and to-day there was another letter saying that
to-night they would be home. Mrs. de Vere wrote:
“Thea remembers you, although she was so young when she saw you
last. She is a sweet child.”
“Rather a big child now,” Norman de Vere thought, with some amusement.
“I wonder if she will take to me now as she did when she first saw me?
But, no; I was a handsome young fellow then. I am old and altered now;”
and he glanced disparagingly into a mirror that reflected a man whose
claims to good looks far exceeded even those of thirteen years ago,
while he certainly did not look more than thirty. Time had only touched
him to improve, although he had added a touch of sad gravity to the
beautiful beardless lips and a thoughtful light to the splendid dark
eyes.
“I hope the little coquette will not turn the house topsy-turvy with
her whims. Why could she not have married Frank Hinton and settled
herself for life?” he had thought many times since his mother had gone
away, with an inward chafing against the change the girl’s coming would
make at Verelands. Then he would take himself severely to task: “I am
growing selfish, bearish. I ought to be glad for my mother’s sake.”
And for her sake more than Thea’s he directed the gardener to fill
the house with flowers the day of their coming. The halls, the
drawing-room, the dining-room, the bedrooms, all blushed with beauty,
and gave out a fragrant welcome to Sweetheart when she again crossed
the threshold of the grand old home and stood in all her fresh, girlish
beauty before the handsome, stately man who smiled a little as she
impulsively held out both little hands, but certainly pressed them
warmly enough in his as he uttered some cordial phrases of welcome.
Thea West gave him a bright, arch look.
“You do not mean it, I know,” she said, saucily. “You believe all the
bad things the Hintons say about me, and you’re afraid I shall run you
crazy with my flirtations. But I sha’n’t. I’ll be good.”
He gave her a look in return before which her white lids drooped shyly
to her cheeks, then turned to welcome his mother, who thought that
Norman certainly seemed younger than when she went away. How kindly,
almost fondly, he had welcomed Thea, too.
“I hope we shall have time to dress before dinner, Norman, we are so
dusty,” she said.
“Plenty of time. But do not be long. I shall be impatient,” he
answered; and as they went upstairs he turned into the drawing-room to
wait.
There was an unwonted glow on his smooth, dark cheek, an eager light in
the dark eyes.
“I have never quite realized that my protégée was a young lady till
now,” he mused, dreamily. “But she is as sweet and winning as when a
baby. I wonder if she remembers how she used to kiss me?”