Two days of the most cruel unrest followed to Norman de Vere after that
painful interview with his mother, for although he had fully resolved
to ask Thea West to marry him, he could not bring himself to the point
of a proposal. What if she should refuse, as it seemed almost certain
she would do? He would be confronted again with the problem of her
future.
And the girl was so young, so lovely, so utterly adorable, it seemed
cruel that her life should be clouded by the shameful story that
Camille’s relentless malice had sent ringing down the years to torture
him when he had thought himself free of her forever. Dead and buried
as she was, she was yet taking on him a most bitter vengeance for her
slighted love.
But if Thea could only love him, the ban of Camille’s malice would be
removed. He would devote his life to making her happy if she would
consent to bind her fresh young life with his saddened, world-weary
one. Perhaps the advantages he could give her--an unsullied name,
riches, and a heart’s devotion, might be some compensation for the
disparity in years that made him think Cameron Bentley or even Frank
Hinton a more desirable _parti_ than himself.
Meanwhile, the hours flew by, bringing the day of the ball, and he had
not yet spoken to Thea, although he felt himself a coward for delaying.
“He either fears his fate too much
Or his desert is small
Who dares not put it to the touch
To win or lose it all.”
Thea, all unconscious of the fate that hung over her, was all
excitement in the prospect of the ball. She did not see much of her
guardian, for the house was topsy-turvy with the preparations, and he
remained closely shut up in the library, except when he met her at
meals. He had not asked Thea to resume her rides with him, and the
brief spirit of hope and courage that had inspired her at Orange Grove
died out again under what seemed the careless friendliness of his
manner.
“I must give up the struggle,” she said, hopelessly. “I do not believe
he will ever care for any one again. I need not regard Miss Bentley as
a rival, either. He is too self absorbed to think tenderly of her or
me. I fooled myself thinking there was anything in his manner to me to
inspire hope. It was only a way he had of showing me just a little more
than friendliness because--because--he saved my life. But as for love,
it is like that pretty poem of Ella Wheeler Wilcox;” and with a sigh
she repeated:
“‘You said good-night, and the spell was over--
Too warm for a friend and too cold for a lover--
There was nothing else to say.’”
It was still early in the afternoon when Thea laid out upon the bed
all her pretty things to be ready for dressing early that evening. She
lingered some time over the airy white robe, the snowy, embroidered
hose and slippers, admiring the silken lilies of the valley that were
to match the garniture of the dress. She practiced airily before the
mirror some moments with the exquisite white fan, then it occurred to
her that perhaps there was something she could do for Mrs. de Vere, her
heart bubbling over with gratitude to the woman who was so generous and
kind.
“No, there is nothing you can do,” said the good lady. “I advise you,
though, my dear, to take your hat and go out for a stroll through the
grounds that you may get up a perfect complexion for to-night.”
Thea laughed and obeyed, and Mrs. de Vere, looking after her, sighed.
“I wonder if she is going to be my daughter or not? I suppose Norman
can not be so anxious over it as he pretended to me, or he would have
spoken to her before now.”