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.”