“But the girl said that Thea was sick.”
“She said that Mrs. de Vere was sick. It was the elder lady.”
“Norman’s mother?”
“Yes. Heaven forgive me, but she must not know yet,” he added to himself.
“But where are they gone? It is rather strange; for he knew we were coming!” cried poor Lady Edith, in disappointment and distress.
“It was a compulsory trip, Edith—something connected with that fraudulent telegram, you know,” evasively. “But, my dear, as Mrs. de Vere is so ill, I think I will take you to a hotel for the present.”
“Yes, yes, that will be better,” she assented, with a sigh of the most bitter disappointment.
She rose obediently and went away with him to the carriage, which was still waiting for them at the gate, with the prim English maid in it wondering if her mistress was ever going to summon her into the house, or if she were making a ceremonious call only at the handsome Southern mansion.
Lord Stuart put his sister into the carriage, gave the driver his order for a hotel, and then they drove away from Verelands, Lord Stuart, pale and excited, his sister pensive and tearful over the bitter disappointment of finding her beloved Thea away from her home.