Lord Stuart was overjoyed at the success of his journey. He lost no
time in writing to Norman de Vere.
But he did not tell Norman that he had found Thea and her baby. He had
a little plan of his own, and wanted to carry it out in his own fashion.
He wrote simply to Norman that he had a clew to Thea’s whereabouts,
and that he was following it up closely, accompanied by his sister. He
felt almost certain that he should find the missing ones, and he begged
Norman to reply to him immediately, letting him hear from his mother,
over whom, Lord Stuart added, he felt a strong anxiety.
“Yet I am almost certain that she is dead ere this,” he decided,
thinking of the awfully corpse-like face upon which he had looked just
before starting West.
To his astonishment and delight, the letter that came in due course of
time conveyed the joyful information that the sick woman had rallied,
and was in a fair way to recover.
“With Heaven’s blessing, she will be restored to us; but she is very
weak yet. I dare not leave her to less loving care than mine, or I
would hasten to join you in the search for my darlings. God bless you
and your noble sister, and give success to your mission. I can not
describe to you the eagerness I feel to join you, but my duty will hold
me here until my mother is stronger,” Norman wrote; and Lord Stuart’s
heart thrilled with pleasure at the thought of the happiness soon
coming to the man now crushed with grief and despair.
“He little dreams of the charming surprise I have in store for him,”
he murmured, with dim eyes, for pure tears of joy had arisen at the
thought of the good he was going to accomplish and the happiness he
would bring to the crushed and bleeding hearts of those he loved.
No purer pleasure ever comes to the human heart than by the
accomplishment of a good deed, and Lord Stuart was tasting this in
eager anticipation.
Thea was now convalescing rapidly, and he gave her the letter to read.
She kissed it and shed bitter tears over it.
“You should not have written that about me. We can never be anything to
each other again,” she said, piteously.
“Nonsense! there is a way to get rid of that wicked woman, and you and
Norman will soon be all in all to each other again,” he said, cheerily;
but Thea shook her golden head despondently.
“So you do not believe my prophecies?” he laughed, going down upon his
knees before her as she sat among the pillows of the invalid-chair.
He put his hands gently on either side of her head and made her look
at him. “I want to tell you,” he exclaimed, “that the day you made my
acquaintance on the steamer bound for Europe was one of the brightest,
most fortunate days of your life. I am going to turn into a fairy
godfather, and transmute all your sorrows into joys by a touch of my
magic wand. So you will please get strong as soon as you can, for I am
anxious to take you back to Jacksonville as soon as you can travel.”
“You are jesting,” faltered the beautiful girl.
“Not so; I mean every word. You must put perfect faith in me, Thea, and
all will come out right,” he replied, reassuringly; and the confidence
of his tone made her heart bound with new hope.
Dr. Hinton came in at that moment, and Lord Stuart immediately asked
him how soon Thea would be able to travel.
“In a week,” was the confident answer; and then Lord Stuart fell to
laying his plans for their return.
He had taken Dr. Hinton partly into his confidence, and in the days
that followed he hinted so strongly at a dramatic _dénouement_ of
Thea’s sorrows that he finally persuaded the young man to return with
them for a brief visit South.
“Oh, I am so glad you will go with us!” cried Thea, joyfully. “I want
you to fall in love with my dear friend, Nellie Bentley. She would make
you a charming wife, Frank.”
Poor Frank thought within himself that if he could find any woman fair
enough to drive Thea’s image from his sore heart, he would be only too
glad to find her, so he made up his mind to return South with them and
to woo Thea’s friend for his bride, if she was as charming as she was
represented.
Lady Edith was quietly happy in the companionship of her dear Thea and
the beautiful boy, her dead husband’s namesake. She spent hours amusing
him and petting him, never seeming so happy as when she had him in her
arms.
One day, when they were all sitting quietly in Thea’s room, and Lady
Edith had Alan in her arms, caressing him tenderly, her brother
exclaimed:
“Edith, the sight of you with Thea’s child in your arms brings vividly
back to me the days of long ago, before your little girl died, when you
used to hold her that way and sing to her so sweetly in the twilight.”
Lady Edith started, and a long, deep sigh broke from her as she clasped
the blue-eyed boy more tightly to her breast.
“Do you remember the pretty songs you used to sing then? I wish you
would sing one now for little Alan,” continued Lord Stuart.
“I will try,” Lady Edith answered; but her sweet voice trembled and she
sighed deeply. At last she began to sing falteringly, and Thea, who had
been half sunk in painful reverie, gave a violent start as the words
fell on her ear:
“‘Little Sweetheart, come and kiss me,
Just once more before I go;
Tell me that your heart will miss me
As I wander to and fro.
Let me feel the tender pressing
Of your ruby lips to mine,
With your dimpled hands caressing,
And your snowy arms intwine.
“‘Ah, Little Sweetheart, come and kiss me,
Come and whisper sweet and low;
Tell me that your heart will miss me
As I wander to and fro.
“‘Little Sweetheart, come and kiss me,
We may never meet again;
We may never roam together
Down the dear old shady lane.
Future years may bring us sorrow
That our hearts but little know;
Still of care we should not borrow--
Come and kiss me ere I go.
“‘Ah, Little Sweetheart, come and kiss me,
Whisper to me sweet and low;
Tell me that your heart will miss me
As I wander to and fro.’”
Lord Stuart’s eyes had never left Thea’s pale, startled face although
he pretended to be looking over an evening paper. He saw that the
lovely girl was struggling with some deep, overmastering agitation. Her
lips were parted eagerly, her cheeks pale, her dilated blue eyes were
fixed on Lady Edith with an expression of wistful yearning, and the
small white hands clasped each other tightly upon her knee.
Lady Edith did not see the uncontrollable emotion of her young friend.
She was singing with her eyes closed, but tears were stealing down her
pale cheeks. She held little Alan tightly clasped to her breast, and
perhaps in fancy she was back in the long ago, clasping to her heart
the child long dead. Her brother, watching her with deep emotion, felt
that it was so.
Once Thea started from her chair with outstretched arms and a yearning
gesture, as if she would throw herself at the singer’s feet; but she
caught Lord Stuart’s glance and shrunk back.
“What is it, dear child?” he whispered, drawing near.
She clung to him with both hands, and her face seemed irradiated with
supernal light, it grew so tender.
“Her face, her voice, her song--they are like my lost mother’s. They go
to my heart!” she murmured.
Then the half smile faded, and she sunk back into her chair, weeping
silently. She had suddenly remembered Norman’s sensitive shrinking from
the thought of strangers knowing her sad story. She must not confide to
Lord Stuart her bitter cause for tears.