The next morning a box was sent to Thea’s room, and on opening it
she found a beautiful riding-habit of dark-blue cloth and a cap to
match. To her surprise, it fitted exactly, and in the pretty little
watch-pocket she found a card:
“TO MY LITTLE SISTER.”
A momentary cloud came over the radiant face, and Thea sighed as she
murmured:
“Sister!”
Evidently she had not become reconciled to bearing that relation toward
Norman de Vere.
She stood a moment looking intently at her lovely reflection in the
long mirror, and she could not help but see that she was surpassingly
lovely. The dark, rich blue of the habit set off at their best the
dazzling tints of her complexion and the living gold of her long curls.
The close jacket showed every exquisite curve of the lissom, girlish
figure. But the blue eyes flashed and the red lips curled into a pout
as Thea gazed, and she sighed:
“If he were younger, he could not be so cold.”
She went down and found a beautiful, cream-white pony awaiting her
pleasure. Norman, on a magnificent bay horse, looked his best, and his
dark eyes kindled with admiration as he beheld Thea.
How carefully he assisted her into the saddle, how particular he was
that the dear little foot should be properly placed in the stirrup. He
knew quite well that he held it in his hand something longer than was
necessary. It was a temptation like the kiss of yesterday, impossible
to resist.
As they rode slowly away, side by side, he said:
“Thea, I always longed for a sister. I think I should have had a
happier lot in life if my wish had not been denied.”
She gave him a frank, grateful smile, but could think of no words with
which to answer. She did not want to be his sister, and to have him
come to her some day to confide to her his love for some more fortunate
woman whom he was going to make his wife. This thought rankled, and she
sighed to herself:
“If only I knew that he would never marry--that life could go on always
like this, I should not mind so much. I would try to be content. But I
am afraid, afraid!”
She determined to turn the conversation from its sentimental turn at
once, and by a little clever maneuvering soon had him engaged in a
conversation descriptive of his foreign tour. Thea pretended so much
interest that he presently promised to take her abroad next year if his
mother would consent to go with them.
“I am quite sure you would enjoy it,” he said.
“But it would be tiresome to you. You have been through it all, and I
would not like for you to make such a sacrifice to me.”
The blue eyes looked wistfully at him a moment, but the fond,
reassuring glance they met in return made the lashes fall hastily to
her cheeks.
“Do not call it a sacrifice, Sweetheart. It would be a pleasure
to travel with you for a companion. I fancy that your interest in
everything would make it doubly charming to me.”
Thea’s heart thrilled at the words. She thought, half bitterly, half
with amusement:
“Really, I did not know that brothers ever made such charming speeches
to their sisters. I know Emmie’s brothers were never very gallant to
her. Come, I think I shall have a very agreeable brother, after all.”
But aloud she only said, gratefully:
“How kind you are to me! I wish I knew how to repay you, Mr. de Vere.”
Then after a moment, looking up at him eagerly, though shyly, she
abruptly said:
“Will you tell me which you admire the more in woman--beauty or
intellect?”
“What a strange question from a little girl like you!” he said, looking
at her in surprise.
“Do you think so?” she flushed warmly. “Why, we used to discuss that
question in Virginia--the boys and girls I knew.”
“And what did Frank and Tom say?”
“They preferred beauty,” she replied, in a low voice.
“As for me,” Norman said, riding close to her side, “I should prefer a
combination of both.”
He was eagerly watching the lovely face where the beautiful flickering
color came and went so rapidly under the trying sunlight of the clear,
bright day. He fancied that a shade of disappointment came into the
clear, blue eyes.
“I thought you would think so,” she said, timidly.
“Naturally,” he replied. “Why, Sweetheart, what would beauty be without
mind? A lamp without a flame, a rose without fragrance.”
She turned to him a grave, almost sad face.
“But the boys used to say that brains and beauty were but seldom
united,” she ventured.
“You should not have listened,” he replied, warmly. “It was a libel
upon beauty. Where could one find a fairer face than yours, Sweetheart?
Yet you are most fairly gifted in mind. You have talent. Your musical
abilities are of a high order, and you told me, if you remember,”
mischievously, “that you had a talent for millinery.”
“Miss Barnes, the lady I worked for at Louisa, said so,” eagerly. “But
of course that is not exactly intellect. It was intellect we were
talking of, you know.”
“Yes,” smilingly.
She rode on silently awhile, giving all her attention to the
cream-white pony which was as sweetly docile as could be desired
for a new beginner. They were outside the city now, going along a
country-road luxuriant with the tropic vegetation of the South. Norman
de Vere, watching the thoughtful face eagerly, fancied that some
struggle was going on in her mind between timidity and doubt.
“What is it you wish to ask me, Sweetheart?” kindly.
“Oh! how did you know? Does my face tell secrets like that?” She looked
surprised, rueful, then burst out: “Well, it was only this: Do you
think verse-writing a sign of intellect?”
“Do you write verse, little sister?” laughingly.
“Answer me first,” she returned, saucily.
“Well, then, I can not say positively. I have read verse that was not
poetry--nothing but laboriously constructed rhyme, with not a pretty
conceit or fancy to pay one for reading it.”
“I dare say that is my kind of verse,” despondently.
“So you do write poetry?” eagerly, amusedly.
“No--rhymes--although they come to me very fast. At school I wrote lots
of them.”
“You will show them to me, Sweetheart? I will tell you then whether you
are a true poet or simply a rhymester.”
“I will show them to you on one condition, Mr. de Vere.”
“Well?”
“That you answer the question I asked you just now.”
“What was it?”
“Which do you prefer--beauty or intellect?”
“But I answered it.”
“No; you expressed a preference for a combination. I desire that you
express a choice.”
Norman laughed at her anxiety, with a little inward wonder over it.
“I hardly know how to reply,” he said. “I own I am a beauty-worshiper;
but then I admire intellect too, and I do not believe I could see any
permanent charm in beauty unadorned by the graces of a superior mind.”
“Then you declare in favor of mind?”
“I suppose so, if you compel me to make a choice.”
“I thought you would,” she said, and a soft little sigh ended the words.
His keen ear caught it.
“Why did you sigh, Sweetheart?”
“Did I? Oh, I suppose I was wishing that I was very clever. But I am
always wishing that, only I know I never can be. I am too fond of
dancing and theaters, and all those giddy things that clever people
scorn.”
“The cleverest people like those things just as well as you do,
child, only they can find pleasure in other things, too, and so, I
suppose, can you. You have not had many dissipations since you came to
Jacksonville, yet you have seemed to be happy.”
“I have been. It is such a lovely place. I enjoy it so much. But I
should have been content even if it had not been so charming. I try
always to make my own sunshine,” she said, smiling.
“And while you are making your own you shed some on the paths of
others. You have made my life brighter since you came, Sweetheart.”
“I am so glad,” she said, simply, and a brighter light came to the
lustrous blue eyes, a warmer glow to the dimpled cheek. Unconsciously
to himself, Norman de Vere’s words and glances were far warmer than
those of a brother to a sister. Thea felt it, and thrilled at the
consciousness. Perhaps he loved her better than he knew.
“Ah, if I were only clever!” she thought, eagerly. “I will study--I
will learn more things than they taught at school. My teachers said I
could become very clever if I chose.”