CHAPTER XLIII.
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 disparityin years that made him think Cameron Bentley or even Frank Hinton a more desirablepartithan 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 muchOr his desert is smallWho dares not put it to the touchTo win or lose it all.”
“He either fears his fate too muchOr his desert is smallWho dares not put it to the touchTo win or lose it all.”
“He either fears his fate too muchOr his desert is smallWho dares not put it to the touchTo win or lose it all.”
“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.’”
“‘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.’”
“‘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.’”
“‘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.”