Lord Stuart could hardly understand the strange interest he took in
Norman de Vere’s lovely young wife. She was beautiful, but he had seen
many beautiful women without feeling much interest in them. He was past
sixty now, and the interest he took in women was cynical rather than
romantic. Since the time when Camille de Vere’s charms had made him a
captive for a brief space of time, he had felt no touch of the tender
passion.
But the lovely face and dark-blue eyes of Norman de Vere’s girl-bride
haunted him with strange persistency, and he caught himself longing
to know her, wondering if Norman would present him when Thea came on
deck again. He did not dare to ask the favor, remembering that he had
not been quite guiltless in the affair with Camille, but had actually
wished to part her from her boy-husband, and marry her himself.
It was no such impulse that stirred him now in thinking of the fair
young girl who had taken the place of fair but faulty Camille in
Norman’s heart. If he had had a daughter, Lord Stuart would have felt
much the same toward her as he did toward Thea.
When she came on deck again, her beautiful face a little pale from her
experience of seasickness, he was standing near her steamer-chair, and
Norman, after a moment’s hesitation, presented him to his wife.
Lord Stuart felt an odd thrill of pleasure when Thea allowed him to
touch her dimpled white hand. He pressed it gently, and murmured his
pride and pleasure at knowing her, while she responded in shy yet
gracious terms.
In truth, the young girl was somehow as much attracted by the old
nobleman as he had been by her. There was something so kind and
friendly in his glance and smile, and his manners were so genial, that
she liked him at once. The two immediately became friends, and whether
Norman liked it or not, he gave no sign of displeasure, and resolved
not to dampen his darling’s pleasure by telling her of that long-past
time when he and Lord Stuart had been the most bitter foes. He murmured
to himself:
“The past is in the eternal past,
Our heads will soon lie low, Lorena,
Life’s tide is ebbing out so fast.”
Lord Stuart had been too wise to confess all his folly. Not even Norman
would ever know that for a brief while he had adored Camille and hated
her boy-husband. Enough to own that they had amused themselves by a
flirtation that, while harmless in the eyes of the _blasé_ world,
had seemed culpable in the eyes of the hot-headed boy. It was all so
long ago that Norman could not refuse to look at it more leniently
now--could not throw the shadow of that past across the sunshine of
Thea’s present.
Ah, how happy the young bride was in those golden honeymoon days when
the blue of the sky was mirrored in the blue of the sea by day, and
by night the stars. Although it was February the weather was balmy as
May. Nature seemed to smile on Thea. People said afterward that it
was a charming voyage, there were so many pleasant people on board,
and such a fair young bride, whose handsome husband, the celebrated
author, seemed to worship her. Nothing unpleasant occurred during the
whole week. The young people were sociable, the elders complaisant.
They enlivened the trip by amateur theatricals and Mrs. Jarley’s
wax-works. On Sunday they had a sermon in the cabin from an eminent
preacher who was bound for the Holy Land, and every day the kindly
friendship between the De Veres and Lord Stuart grew more genial. He
was determined that they should like him--determined to drive away the
bitter memories of the past by more agreeable impressions, and he knew
that it was all for the sake of the charming girl in whose voice and
smile lurked such a spell of subtle fascination.
“Mrs. de Vere, I want you to know my sister, Lady Moreland,” he said
to her on the last day of the voyage. “I think you will like her very
much. She is a widow, and she lives with me at my home in Devonshire.
When the season in London begins she comes up and occupies my town
house and entertains for me.”
“So you have no wife?” Thea said, almost pityingly.
“No; and Edith has no husband. She has been a widow eighteen years.”
“Has she any children?”
“None. We have only each other. We are the last of our family, and,
poor girl! she is often lonely, for I am somewhat of a wanderer, and I
have been away from her now six months. I wish she would marry again.”
“Do you think she will?” Thea asked him.
“No,” he answered, and a faint sigh escaped him. “Her heart is buried
in her husband’s grave.”
Norman came up at that moment, and Lord Stuart said:
“I have been telling Mrs. de Vere about my sister, trying to awaken
such an interest in my relative that she will accept an invitation to
visit her in May, when she comes up to our London house for the season.”
Norman smiled, and glanced at Thea, whose blue eyes were full of tender
interest.
“She is a widow, and her heart is buried in her husband’s grave. Is it
not sad?” she said, sweetly.
“You would think so if you knew her,” said Lord Stuart. “She is not
forty yet, though she has been a widow eighteen years, and she is
lovely still. It is her own fault that she has never married a second
time, for she has had many suitors. But she is romantic enough to suit
even you, Mrs. de Vere, and I want you to promise me you will visit us
in London.”
“I shall be glad,” she answered.