CHAPTER XLVII.
But that happy month came to an end at last, to be followed by still happier ones, for now it was sweet Thea’s bridal-eve, and she was going across the sea with the husband of her choice.
Mrs. de Vere had wished for the wedding to be on as grand a scale as the ball had been, but out of delicacy to Cameron Bentley, who was not yet out of his room, it was arranged more quietly. There was a marriage at church, with cards for the most intimate friends of the family, and a wedding-breakfast for the same. There were many floral decorations, as became the wedding of so fair and youthful a bride, and, to crown the happiness of the generous-hearted girl, all the Hintons had been bidden to the wedding, and two had come—Tom, all curiosity and eagerness over the grand marriage of his former friend, and Emmie, ashamed and repentant over her cruel treatment of Thea, and eager to be forgiven for herfolly. Frank had gone to the far West to practice medicine in a rising town, and Mrs. de Vere, who was going to stay at Verelands, made the brother and sister promise to spend a month with her before returning to their Virginia home.
Reader, if we could say farewell here and leave our lovely heroine to her happiness, her heart beating high with hope and love, and the orange-blossoms wreathing her innocent brow, how sweet the task.
But the pen that has tried to trace the story of her sweet young life to her marriage-day must falter not yet until the dark shadows that fell from a sky that was seemingly all sunshine have been recorded too on the page of romance.
When the steamer “City of New York” left her moorings, there leaned against the rail among the excited passengers two figures noticeable for manly grace and feminine beauty. Norman de Vere and his beautiful bride Thea in a lovely steamer costume of Russia blue, her gold curls streaming on the breeze like sunshine, her blue eyes beaming with shy happiness. No wonder that every eye rested on her with wonder and admiration, and that even the listless, haughty old Englishman, past sixty years old, started and moved nearer to the handsome pair, putting up his eyeglass to scan them the better.
“Jove! what an out-and-out beauty! A real English face, too—pink and white, with the loveliest shadings. Who can she be? Heavens!”
His eyes had wandered to her male companion.
Lord Stuart, for it was no other, had recognized in the darkly handsome, beardless face of Thea’s companion an old acquaintance, Norman de Vere.
With a grim smile the old nobleman watched the pair, drawing very correct conclusions.
“A wedding-tour! He has married again? Camille, then, that creature of ice and fire, of jealousy and treachery, of love and hate, must be dead at last. Peace to her wicked soul!”
He watched the wedded pair with musing, thoughtful eyes, while his mind went back over the long years to the time when he had been Camille de Vere’s adoring slave, and plotted treachery against the princely looking man yonder, whose face in repose showed in its gravity faint traces yet of the storm through which his soul had passed.
“There was more in him than I thought, dupe of Camille that I was!” he muttered. “She was only playing me off to make her value greater in his eyes, for she loved him, as Isoon proved to my chagrin. Well, she was not worthy of either—certainly not of this man who has risen like a phenix from his ashes, and made himself a name that rings from one continent to another! I wonder if I dare resume the old acquaintance?”