Poor little Thea! she knew now why she had suffered with that late
remorse for her scorn of her rejected lovers. It was because she had
realized in her own heart all the sweetness and the pain of real love,
and out of this knowledge could sympathize with the emotion which had
once been the butt of her scornful ridicule.
All in a moment, as it were, while she had stood in the warm clasp of
Norman de Vere’s arm, there had come to her a realization of the truth.
She loved her guardian, not with the grateful affection of a ward, but
with a woman’s devotion. It seemed to her now that she had loved him
thus since that first night when he had smiled into her eyes and bid
her welcome to his home; but the knowledge might have lain dormant in
her mind much longer had not Norman’s sudden tenderness awakened her
to the truth. All in one dizzy moment she knew that she loved him and
believed that he loved her, that he was going to tell her so, and ask
her to be his wife.
As swift and sudden as was her hope followed the cruel downfall. She
was dazed, breathless, with its terrible suddenness. Crouching on her
bed, she wept with passionate _abandon_.
“Why did I ever come here?” she moaned, despairingly, “and why was it
that I learned to love him, this selfish, cold-hearted man? I can not
understand it. He did not try to win me,” her pride rising in arms at
the thought that she had given her heart unsought.
The love and admiration that had always surrounded Thea had naturally
given her a good opinion of her own self. She had heard so often that
she was beautiful, that it would have been an affectation to pretend
not to know it. But until now she had not cared about it--she had taken
it as a matter of course.
“Beauty is not all,” she sighed now, with bitter chagrin. “Perhaps he
has never even noticed that I am passably pretty. He has seen very
beautiful women, of course--proud, cultured, wealthy women--his equals
in everything, not dependent little nobodies like me.”
She sat up presently, dashing the tears from her violet eyes, her sweet
lips curling in fierce self-scorn.
“Thea West, you are a little simpleton. How could you have such a fancy
for one moment? You know perfectly well how far he ranks above you in
everything--even age. He was a man--a married man--when you were a
baby. He thinks you are a baby still.”
Some more fierce sobs came at that. Oh, how young, how silly, she must
appear in his eyes! If she could only add ten years to her age!
“He would not dare hug me then and call me his little sister. I should
seem too grown up and dignified.”
But Thea West was a very sensible girl in spite of her gay spirits.
When her first passion of disappointment had worn off, she began
to argue the case with herself. She saw that her little tempest of
resentment against Norman de Vere was all wrong. He had been very, very
kind to her. She owed him a world of gratitude.
“It is no wonder I fell in love with him, he is so handsome, so noble,
so gifted! One could love him just from reading his books,” she said,
sadly, yet with a thrilling consciousness of Norman’s dark, magnetic
eyes. “But with him it is different. He could never think of loving me.
Besides, he can have no faith in women. The Hintons have told me that
he was separated from his wife because she was false to him. Is that
why he looks so grave and sad, I wonder? Perhaps he loved her so well
that he can never love another, now that she is dead.”
A sudden pity filled her heart for the man whose life had been so
cruelly wrecked by a woman’s falsity.
“I wish I could comfort him. I wish I were really his little sister.”
She resolved suddenly that she would not disappoint Norman de Vere, who
had been so kind to her, who had asked her not to be afraid of him, but
to give him the confidence of a sister.
“I will fight down this too warm love of mine. It will soon die with
no hope to feed on,” she decided. “I will be a sister to him in truth.
It is possible I might be a comfort to him in that way.”
Drooping her face into her white hands, Thea prayed dumbly for strength
and patience--strength to hide her secret of love from Norman de Vere,
and patience to fall into her place as his sister--only his sister,
without daring to hope for anything sweeter or better.
“If I can repay him for his goodness to me by any sacrifice of self,
that happy consciousness shall be sufficient for me,” she vowed; and a
sort of pride came to her that she was conquering so nobly this fatal
passion that had stolen upon her unawares.
But she needed all her strength to meet Norman’s questioning gaze when
she met him again. He had been puzzled by her sudden faintness and
her abrupt departure from the library. Had she been offended by the
interest he had displayed in her? Had she fancied he was falling in
love with her like the rest, and so taken this means to express her
disapprobation? He turned hot and cold at the thought.
“It was most imprudent in me offering her that caress,” he thought. “I
had no right. I can not tell what came over me. I could not resist the
impulse, she was so sweet, so charming, and only a child as compared
with me. Yes, she is only a child to me. If she were more nearly my
equal in age, I should be frightened, fearing it was love I felt for
the beautiful little coquette.”
And when he again met Thea he looked at her with some anxiety.
It was in the drawing-room, just before dinner. Thea never dallied over
her toilet. She came in, as usual, before Mrs. de Vere, and she found
Norman waiting and pretending to be engrossed with a new book.
He looked up eagerly at the entrance of the blue-robed figure, and
their eyes met.
Thea smiled as she accepted the chair he placed for her, and said:
“I hope you will excuse me for leaving you so abruptly this morning. I
had a sudden faintness, and was obliged to seek the fresh air.”
“Are you quite well again?” anxiously.
“Oh, yes, I am quite cured.”
There was a faint emphasis on the last word, and Thea sighed so faintly
that he did not perceive it.
“I feared I had offended you by my unsought advice about your lovers,”
he said, questioningly.
“Oh, no, no; everything you said was kind. I thank you for what you
said to me,” with a frank glance quickly withdrawn.
Thea knew that she must not let her eyes linger on the noble face and
form. It would make her rebel heart beat too quickly.
But Norman came closer. He was not afraid yet to look his fill on the
lovely face set off so sweetly by the pale-blue dress with white lace
trimmings. He did not quite realize as yet the danger he was risking.
He thought:
“How that little pearl locket becomes the half-bare white neck, and how
perfectly molded are her dimpled arms! She has all the signs of good
blood and ancestry. I wonder if we shall ever find out her parents, or
will she always belong to me?” Then a most unwelcome thought came: “In
a few years at best some triumphant lover will bear her off to a new
home, and Verelands will know her charming presence no more.”
There was positive pain in the thought, but he tried to put it away
from him, as he said, gently:
“You did not tell me, Sweetheart, whether you would give over being
afraid of your elderly guardian, and be like a sister to him.”
“I shall be only too grateful,” Thea answered, softly; but she looked
down at her slim, white hands instead of into the dark eyes regarding
her so eagerly. In a minute she added, shyly: “I’ve never felt afraid
of you--only anxious not to disturb you at your work.”
“You can never disturb me, child. I shall be pleased to have you about
me. I suppose you sometimes want books from the library. You must come
and get them when you wish. It will not annoy me in the least.”
“Oh, thank you; but I don’t read very much, I’m afraid. I love to walk
and ride and row,” Thea said, hastily.
She did not dare to be alone in the library again with Norman de Vere.
He felt her reluctance. His face flushed deeply.
“It was that most unlucky kiss. Indeed, I had no right,” he thought,
but he could not regret it. The memory was too thrilling.
He immediately began to lay plans to join her in the outdoor life of
which she pretended to be so fond.
“Can you row?” he asked.
“Like a sailor,” she replied, gayly.
“And ride horseback?”
“I have never had an opportunity to learn.”
“Should you like to, Sweetheart?”
He had never adopted the new name by which others called her. Like
Tom Hinton, he found it pleasant to say Sweetheart, and his tone in
pronouncing it was very tender.
She was obliged to own the truth. She was most anxious to ride
horseback.
“Then I shall teach you,” said her guardian. “We will begin to-morrow.
You shall accompany me in my morning canter.”