It was one of the hardest tasks that Norman de Vere set himself to
stay away two days from Orange Grove and the blue-eyed beauty who had
beguiled the heart from his breast in such artless fashion.
He knew now, he owned it frankly to himself, that it was no brotherly
love with which Thea West had inspired him. He who had thought his
heart dead within his breast was in love now, ardently, romantically,
as any boy of twenty, and the worst of it all was that he held his love
as hopeless, deeming the disparity between them too great for him ever
to win the girl’s heart.
Perhaps it was her absence that forced upon him a realization of the
truth, perhaps the simple verses that somehow lingered in his mind,
repeating themselves over and over in the solitude of the night:
“Poor heart, how vain thy dream!
As easy would it seem
In winter time dead summer to recall,
As in life’s autumn days
Retracing youthful ways
For him on whom life’s length’ning shadows fall!”
“Too true,” he murmured, sadly. “It would almost seem as if the girl
wrote with a subtle prescience of this day. How strange the charm she
has always had for me, even in her sweet childhood. She loved me then,
too, but now I am too old. Sweetheart can not be more than eighteen,
while I am thirty-five! Why should I dream of rivaling Cameron Bentley,
who has youth, wealth, and good looks to recommend him to her favor?”
It was the first time that he had ever regretted the swift passage of
the years that had changed him from an ardent, impetuous boy into a
dreamy, thoughtful man. Now he realized in all its intensity the poet’s
plaint:
“There are gains for all our losses,
There are balms for all our pains;
But when youth, the dream, departs,
It takes something from our hearts,
And it never comes again.”
“Ah, to be a boy again--to be a boy that I might dare to woo her for my
own!” he sighed; and at length his passion drove him to Orange Grove,
that he might see for himself how Cameron Bentley’s wooing sped.
He found Cameron, metaphorically, at her feet. She had other lovers,
too, this dainty young ward of his. Half a score of young men staying
at the house were ready to murder one another for her fair sake; but
with wonderful cleverness she distributed her smiles impartially among
them all, causing one jealous damsel to quote:
“Sister she’ll be to them all, and
Loving and faithful and true;
Rather inclined round her fingers to wind
About--say, a dozen or two.”
“I don’t think she means to flirt with anybody. See how she tries to
be the same with all,” Nell Bentley replied, valiantly taking her
favorite’s part; but she only got a shrug of the shoulders from the
malicious New York belle.
Into this coterie of beauties and gallants Norman de Vere now intruded,
and his fame, no less than his darkly handsome, melancholy face,
secured for him the most flattering attention. But Miss Bentley at
once took possession of him, and during his call--which was as long as
conventionality would permit--he was not allowed so much as a minute’s
quiet conversation with Thea. He spoke to her formally across the
room, and had the pleasure of hearing that she was having a delightful
time, and that the riding-lessons went on daily. Miss Bentley, who had
long adored the handsome widower in secret, monopolized him entirely,
and Cameron Bentley tried to do the same by Thea. So Norman went away
disappointed, his chagrin hardly soothed by the fact that in spite of
being “so old,” as he phrased it to himself, he had been lionized by
the Bentleys and their guests and invited to come the next day. He
could remember nothing very clearly, except that Thea had looked almost
unpardonably young and happy, and that her dress of rich dark-green
cashmere with plush trimmings was quite the most becoming he had ever
seen her wear, setting off the gold of her hair till it seemed like
living sunshine, and bringing out all the rose-leaf tints of her
dazzling complexion at their best. She had not looked at him much, not
daring to meet his eyes with the memory fresh in her mind of the verses
she had been rash enough to permit him to read.
“No doubt he is laughing in his sleeve at me now. Of course they seemed
wishy-washy trash to him,” she thought, ruefully; then a little later,
jealously: “But he is not thinking of me. He is quite absorbed in Miss
Bentley. She is handsome, and she likes him, I know. It was easy to
find that out. What if it is a mutual affair?”
Her heart sunk, and the flushed cheeks grew a shade paler with fear.
When he was gone and Thea was alone in her room that night, she gave
way to hysteric tears.
“He shall never call me his sister again. I will not bear it,” she
vowed. “I will be all or nothing. What if he is ever so much older and
richer and smarter than I am? Old men have married pretty, penniless
girls before now. And I am pretty, they say. Other men admire me. Why
not Norman de Vere, the man on whom I have set my heart?”
She flung herself impetuously down upon her knees, and lifting wet
eyes, like violets drowned in summer rain, prayed passionately:
“Dear Heaven, only give me his love, I ask no other boon under the sun!”
The next morning Thea was more careful with her toilet than she had
ever been before. Jealousy of the handsome Miss Bentley had suddenly
forced her to place herself on the defensive. She felt that she could
not give up her hope without an effort to win him, although she sighed:
“She has everything in her favor--wealth, family, culture, even
age--for she is twenty-five, Nell says--while I, nameless, penniless,
scarcely more than a child, have nothing but beauty and innocence on
my side. Yet I love him with the true heart of a woman, and I can not
content myself with that farce of sisterhood. Let it be all or nothing!”
If she chose to be wandering through the grounds that morning, no one
could blame her, for she knew perfectly well that Miss Bentley would
monopolize him when he entered the house.
But when she saw him dismount from the beautiful bay horse, fling the
reins to a servant, and enter, a sudden shyness seized upon Thea, and
she fled from the path down a secluded rose alley to a seat, with a
wildly beating heart.
“It looked too much as if I were waiting for him. He would deem me
forward,” she thought.
But Norman de Vere had caught the flutter of a white wool dress and
golden curls. He followed where they led.
There was Thea palpitating on a garden-seat, looking adorable in a
white cashmere dress trimmed in black velvet, a big black hat with
nodding white plumes on her head, a bunch of roses at her waist.
She rose to her feet with a guilty blush. Oh, would he suspect that she
had come here to waylay him? would he think her bold and unmaidenly?
“Why did you run out of the path when you saw me coming?” he cried.
“Didn’t you care to see me, little sister?”
He had caught both her hands in his after his usual fashion, looking
eagerly into the charming face. She tossed her head with a petulant
motion.
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that!” she cried.
“That--what?”
“Sister. It isn’t true, you know, and I--I--would not care to have it
so. I never cared about brothers, anyway. Emmie’s brothers were not so
nice to her, I’m sure. They liked other boys’ sisters best. Please, I
don’t want to offend you, Mr. de Vere, but I’d rather be your little
friend.”
He dropped the little hands and frowned.
“Very well, Thea,” he said, stiffly, displeasedly, not at all
comprehending her eagerness to remove the least hint of a fraternal
relation in her yearning to be more.
“Thea! You never called me that before. I--I like the old name
best--from you,” she pleaded, with a swift, upward glance that made his
heart beat madly.
“Little coquette! She will not even spare her elderly guardian,”
he thought, half bitterly, then aloud: “Sweetheart, you seem in a
capricious mood to-day. Why are you here alone? Where are all your
lovers?”
“I was tired of everybody. I stole out to be alone.”
“And I am intruding on you. I beg your pardon. I will go,” turning from
her hastily.
“Oh, please don’t!” She put an entreating little hand on his
coat-sleeve, and he turned back.
“If you are not in a hurry, please stay awhile and tell me how dear
Mrs. de Vere is. Miss Bentley would not give me a chance to ask you
yesterday,” she said, sweetly.
He sat down by her on the low garden-seat, and there was silence for a
minute between them. The southern air was soft and balmy, although it
was January, and some long-stemmed roses nodded on tall bushes behind
them, making a fitting background for her delicate, spirited beauty.
Finding that he did not speak, she said:
“Your mother is well, I hope?”
“Quite well. She sent her love.”
“You must give her mine in return. Does she miss me?”
“She did not say.”