CHAPTER XXXIII.
“After all, it is very lonely without my mother. I am glad she is coming home to-night,” Norman de Vere said to himself, when quite two weeks of time had elapsed since his mother’s departure for Virginia.
He had not had the least idea that she would remain away more than a week, for he had great faith in her powers of persuasion. She, if any one, would be able to overcome Thea West’s sturdy notions of independence.
She had succeeded, as he had thought she would. Thea capitulated to the sweet and gentle woman’s arguments and persuasions, although she would have stood firm as a rock against Norman de Vere’s commands. The first letter had told Norman she had succeeded.
“She will come with me to Verelands, but we are going to Richmond first. I want to buy Thea some new things,” she wrote, indefinitely, so it was two weeks now, and to-day there was another letter saying that to-night they would be home. Mrs. de Vere wrote:
“Thea remembers you, although she was so young when she saw you last. She is a sweet child.”
“Thea remembers you, although she was so young when she saw you last. She is a sweet child.”
“Rather a big child now,” Norman de Vere thought, with some amusement. “I wonder if she will take to me now as she did when she first saw me? But, no; I was a handsome young fellow then. I am old and altered now;” and he glanced disparagingly into a mirror that reflected a man whose claims to good looks far exceeded even those of thirteen years ago, while he certainly did not look more than thirty. Time had only touched him to improve, although he had addeda touch of sad gravity to the beautiful beardless lips and a thoughtful light to the splendid dark eyes.
“I hope the little coquette will not turn the house topsy-turvy with her whims. Why could she not have married Frank Hinton and settled herself for life?” he had thought many times since his mother had gone away, with an inward chafing against the change the girl’s coming would make at Verelands. Then he would take himself severely to task: “I am growing selfish, bearish. I ought to be glad for my mother’s sake.”
And for her sake more than Thea’s he directed the gardener to fill the house with flowers the day of their coming. The halls, the drawing-room, the dining-room, the bedrooms, all blushed with beauty, and gave out a fragrant welcome to Sweetheart when she again crossed the threshold of the grand old home and stood in all her fresh, girlish beauty before the handsome, stately man who smiled a little as she impulsively held out both little hands, but certainly pressed them warmly enough in his as he uttered some cordial phrases of welcome.
Thea West gave him a bright, arch look.
“You do not mean it, I know,” she said, saucily. “You believe all the bad things the Hintons say about me, and you’re afraid I shall run you crazy with my flirtations. But I sha’n’t. I’ll be good.”
He gave her a look in return before which her white lids drooped shyly to her cheeks, then turned to welcome his mother, who thought that Norman certainly seemed younger than when she went away. How kindly, almost fondly, he had welcomed Thea, too.
“I hope we shall have time to dress before dinner, Norman, we are so dusty,” she said.
“Plenty of time. But do not be long. I shall be impatient,” he answered; and as they went upstairs he turned into the drawing-room to wait.
There was an unwonted glow on his smooth, dark cheek, an eager light in the dark eyes.
“I have never quite realized that my protégée was a young lady till now,” he mused, dreamily. “But she is as sweet and winning as when a baby. I wonder if she remembers how she used to kiss me?”