CHAPTER XVII.

"Do not, I pray you, think evilly of so holy a man! He has a sore

combat against the flesh and the devil!"--_The Maid of Honor_.

The horror-stricken spectators of the catastrophe stood for a minute

inert and speechless,--stupefied by its suddenness and awful rapidity.

Then with one accord they hurried down to the level shore of the

torrent, moved by the unanimous idea that they might possibly succeed in

rescuing Sigurd's frail corpse from the sharp teeth of the jagged rocks,

that, piercing upwards through the foam of the roaring rapids, were

certain to bruise, tear, and disfigure it beyond all recognition. But

even this small satisfaction was denied them. There was no sign of a

floating or struggling body anywhere visible. And while they kept an

eager look-out, the light in the heavens slowly changed. From burning

crimson it softened to a tender amethyst hue, as smooth and delicate as

the glossy pale tint of the purple clematis,--and with it the rosy foam

of the Fall graduated to varying tints of pink, from pink to tender

green, and lastly, it became as a shower of amber wine. Güldmar spoke

first in a voice broken by deep emotion.

"'Tis all over with him, poor lad!" he said, and tears glittered thickly

in his keen old eyes. "And--though the gods, of a surety, know

best--this is an end I looked not for! A mournful home-returning shall

we have--for how to break the news to Thelma is more than I can tell!"

And he shook his head sorrowfully while returning the warm and

sympathizing pressure of Errington's hand.

"You see," he went on, with a wistful look at the grave and

compassionate face of his accepted son-in-law--"the boy was no boy of

mine, 'tis true--and the winds had more than their share of his

wits--yet--we knew him from a baby--and my wife loved him for his sad

estate, which he was not to blame for. Thelma, too--he was her first

playmate--"

The _bonde_ could trust himself to say no more, but turned abruptly

away, brushing one hand across his eyes, and was silent for many

minutes. The young men, too, were silent,--Sigurd's determined suicide

had chilled and sickened them. Slowly they returned to the hut to pass

the remaining hours of the night--though sleep was, of course, after

what they had witnessed, impossible. They remained awake, therefore,

talking in low tones of the fatal event, and listening to the solemn

_sough_ of the wind through the pines, that sounded to Errington's ears

like a monotonous forest dirge. He thought of the first time he had ever

seen the unhappy creature whose wandering days had just ended,--of that

scene in the mysterious shell cavern,--of the wild words he had then

uttered--how strangely they came back to Philip's memory now!

"You have come as a thief in the golden midnight, and the thing you seek

is the life of Sigurd! Yes--yes! it is true--the spirit cannot lie! You

must kill, you must steal--see how the blood drips, drop by drop, from

the heart of Sigurd! and the jewel you steal,--ah! what a jewel! You

shall not find such another in Norway!" Was not the hidden meaning of

these incoherent phrases rendered somewhat clear now? though how the

poor lad's disordered imagination had been able thus promptly to conjure

up with such correctness, an idea of Errington's future relations with

Thelma, was a riddle impossible of explanation. He thought, too, with a

sort of generous remorse, of that occasion when Sigurd had visited him

on board the yacht to implore him to leave the Altenfjord. He realized

everything,--the inchoate desires of the desolate being, who, though

intensely capable of loving, felt himself in a dim, sad way, unworthy of

love,--the struggling passions in him that clamored for utterance--the

instinctive dread and jealousy of a rival, while knowing that he was

both physically and mentally unfitted to compete with one,--all these

things passed through Philip's mind, and filled him with a most profound

pity for the hidden sufferings, the tortures and inexplicable emotions

which had racked Sigurd's darkened soul. And, still busy with these

reflections, he turned on his arm as he lay, and whispered softly to his

friend who was close by him--"I say, Lorimer,--I feel as if I had been

to blame somehow in this affair! If I had never come on the scene,

Sigurd would still have been happy in his own way."

Lorimer was silent. After a pause, Errington went on still in the same

low tone.

"Poor little fellow! Do you know, I can't imagine anything more utterly

distracting than having to see such a woman as Thelma day after

day,--loving her all the time, and knowing such love to be absolutely

hopeless! Why, it was enough to make him crazier than ever!"

Lorimer moved restlessly. "Yes, it must have been hard on him!" he

answered at last, in a gentle, somewhat sad tone. "Perhaps it's as well

he's out of it all. Life is infinitely perplexing to many of us. By this

time he's no doubt wiser than you or I, Phil,--he could tell us the

reason why love is such a blessing to some men, and such a curse to

others!"

Errington made no answer, and they relapsed into silence--silence which

was almost unbroken save by an occasional deep sigh from Olaf Güldmar

and a smothered exclamation such as, "Poor lad, poor lad! Who would have

thought it?"

With the early dawn they were all up and ready for the homeward

journey,--though with very different feelings to those with which they

had started on their expedition. The morning was dazzlingly bright and

clear,--and the cataract of Njedegorze rolled down in glittering folds

of creamy white and green, uttering its ceaseless psalm of praise to the

Creator in a jubilant roar of musical thunder. They paused and looked at

it for the last time before leaving,--it had assumed for them a new and

solemn aspect--it was Sigurd's grave. The _bonde_ raised his cap from

his rough white hair,--instinctively the others followed his example.

"May the gods grant him good rest!" said the old man reverently. "In the

wildest waters they say there is a calm underflow,--maybe the lad has

found it and is glad to sleep." He paused and stretched his hands forth

with an eloquent and touching gesture. "Peace be with him!"

Then, without more words, and as though disdaining his own emotion, he

turned abruptly away, and began to descend the stony and precipitous

hill, up which Sigurd had so skillfully guided them the day before.

Macfarlane and Duprèz followed him close,--Macfarlane casting more than

once a keen look over the rapids.

"'Tis a pity we couldna find his body," he said in a low tone.

Duprèz shrugged his shoulders. Sigurd's death had shocked him

considerably by its suddenness, but he was too much of a volatile

Frenchman to be morbidly anxious about securing the corpse.

"I think not so at all," he said. "Of what use would it be? To grieve

_mademoiselle_? to make her cry? That would be cruel,--I would not

assist in it! A dead body is not a sight for ladies,--believe me, things

are best as they are."

They went on, while Errington and Lorimer lingered yet a moment longer.

"A magnificent sepulchre!" said Lorimer, dreamily eyeing for the last

time the sweeping flow of the glittering torrent. "Better than all the

monuments ever erected! Upon my life, I would not mind having such a

grave myself! Say what you like, Phil, there was something grand in

Sigurd's choice of a death. We all of us have to get out of life somehow

one day--that's certain--but few of us have the chance of making such a

triumphant exit!"

Errington looked at him with a grave smile. "How you talk, George!" he

said half-reproachfully. "One would think you envied the end of that

unfortunate, half-witted fellow! You've no reason to be tired of your

life, I'm sure,--all your bright days are before you."

"Are they?" And Lorimer's blue eyes looked slightly melancholy. "Well, I

dare say they are! Let's hope so at all events. There need be something

before me,--there isn't much behind except wasted opportunities. Come

on, Phil!"

They resumed their walk, and soon rejoined the others. The journey back

to the Altenfjord was continued all day with but one or two

interruptions for rest and refreshment. It was decided that on reaching

home, old Güldmar should proceed a little in advance, in order to see

his daughter alone first, and break to her the news of the tragic event

that had occurred,--so that when, after a long and toilsome journey,

they caught sight, at about eight in the evening, of the familiar

farmhouse through the branches of the trees that surrounded and

sheltered it, they all came to a halt.

The young men seated themselves on a pleasant knoll under some tall

pines, there to wait a quarter of an hour or so, while the _bonde_ went

forward to prepare Thelma. On second thoughts, the old man asked

Errington to accompany him,--a request to which he very readily acceded,

and these two, leaving the others to follow at their leisure, went on

their way rapidly. They arrived at, and entered the garden,--their

footsteps made a crunching noise on the pebbly path,--but no welcoming

face looked forth from any of the windows of the house. The entrance

door stood wide open,--there was not a living soul to be seen but the

kitten asleep in a corner of the porch, and the doves drowsing on the

roof in the sunshine. The deserted air of the place was unmistakable,

and Güldmar and Errington exchanged looks of wonder not unmixed with

alarm.

"Thelma! Thelma!" called the _bonde_ anxiously. There was no response.

He entered the house and threw open the kitchen door. There was no

fire,--and not the slightest sign of any of the usual preparations for

supper.

"Britta!" shouted Güldmar. Still no answer. "By the gods!" he exclaimed,

turning to the astonished Philip, "this is a strange thing! Where can

the girls be? I have never known both of them to be absent from the

house at the same time. Go down to the shore, my lad, and see if

Thelma's boat is missing, while I search the garden."

Errington obeyed--hurrying off on his errand with a heart beating fast

from sudden fear and anxiety. For he knew Thelma was not likely to

have gone out of her own accord, at the very time she would have

naturally expected her father and his friends back, and the absence of

Britta too, was, to say the least of it, extraordinary. He reached the

pier very speedily, and saw at a glance that the boat was gone. He

hastened back to report this to Güldmar, who was making the whole place

resound with his shouts of "Thelma!" and "Britta!" though he shouted

altogether in vain.

"Maybe," he said dubiously, on hearing of the missing boat--"Maybe the

child has gone on the Fjord--'tis often her custom,--but, then, where is

Britta? Besides, they must have expected us--they would have prepared

supper--they would have been watching for our return. No, no! there is

something wrong about this--'tis altogether unusual."

And he looked about him in a bewildered way, while Sir Philip, noting

his uneasiness, grew more and more uneasy himself.

"Let me go and search for them, sir," he said, eagerly. "They may be in

the woods, or up towards the orchard."

Güldmar shook his head and drew his fuzzy white brows together in

puzzled meditation--suddenly he started and struck his staff forcibly on

the ground.

"I have it!" he exclaimed. "That old hag Lovisa is at the bottom of

this!"

"By Jove!" cried Errington. "I believe you're right! What shall we do?"

At that moment, Lorimer, Duprèz, and Macfarlane came on the scene,

thinking they had kept aloft long enough,--and the strange disappearance

of the two girls was rapidly explained to them. They listened astonished

and almost incredulous, but agreed with the _bonde_ as to Lovisa's

probable share in the matter.

"Look here!" said Lorimer excitedly. "I'm not in the least tired,--show

me the way to Talvig, where that old screech-owl lives, and I'll go

there straight as a gun! Shouldn't wonder if she has not forced away her

grandchild, in which case Miss Thelma may have gone after her."

"I'll come with you!" said Errington. "Let's lose no time about it."

But Güldmar shook his head. "'Tis a long way, my lads,--and you do not

know the road. No--'twill be better we should take the boat and pull

over to Bosekop; there we can get a carriole to take two of us at least

to Talvig--"

He stopped, interrupted by Macfarlane, who looked particularly shrewd.

"I should certainly advise ye to try Bosekop first," he remarked

cautiously. "Mr. Dyceworthy might be able to provide ye with valuable

information."

"Dyceworthy!" roared the _bonde_, becoming inflammable at once. "He

knows little of me or mine, thank the gods! and I would not by choice

step within a mile of his dwelling. What makes you think of him, sir?"

Lorimer laid a hand soothingly on his arm.

"Now, my dear Mr. Güldmar, don't get excited! Mac is right. I dare say

Dyceworthy knows as much in his way as the ancient Lovisa. At any rate,

it isn't his fault if he does not. Because you see--" Lorimer hesitated

and turned to Errington. "You tell him, Phil! you know all about it."

"The fact is," said Errington, while Güldmar gazed from one to the other

in speechless amazement, "Thelma hasn't told you because she knew how

angry you'd be--but Dyceworthy asked her to marry him. Of course she

refused him, and I doubt if he's taken his rejection very resignedly."

The face of the old farmer as he heard these words was a study. Wonder,

contempt, pride, and indignation struggled for the mastery on his rugged

features.

"Asked--her--to--marry--him!" he repeated slowly. "By the sword of Odin!

Had I known it I would have throttled him!" His eyes blazed and he

clenched his hand. "Throttled him, lads! I would! Give me the chance and

I'll do it now! I tell you, the mere look of such a man as that is a

desecration to my child,--liar and hypocrite as he is! may the gods

confound him!" He paused--then suddenly bracing himself up, added. "I'll

away to Bosekop at once--they've been afraid of me there for no

reason--I'll teach them to be afraid of me in earnest! Who'll come with

me?"

All eagerly expressed their desire to accompany him with the exception

of one,--Pierre Duprèz,--he had disappeared.

"Why, where has he gone?" demanded Lorimer in some surprise.

"I canna tell," replied Macfarlane. "He just slipped awa' while ye were

haverin' about Dyceworthy--he'll maybe join us at the shore."

To the shore they at once betook themselves, and were soon busied in

unmooring Güldmar's own rowing-boat, which, as it had not been used for

some time, was rather a tedious business,--moreover they noted with

concern that the tide was dead against them.

Duprèz did not appear,--the truth is, that he had taken into his head to

start off for Talvig on foot without waiting for the others. He was fond

of an adventure and here was one that suited him precisely--to rescue

distressed damsels from the grasp of persecutors. He was tired, but he

managed to find the road,--and he trudged on determinedly, humming a

song of Beranger's as he walked to keep him cheerful. But he had not

gone much more than a mile when he discerned in the distance a carriole

approaching him,--and approaching so swiftly that it appeared to swing

from side to side of the road at imminent risk of upsetting altogether.

There seemed to be one person in it--an excited person too, who lashed

the stout little pony and urged it on to fresh exertions with

gesticulations and cries. That plump buxom figure--that tumbled brown

hair streaming wildly on, the breeze,--that round rosy face--why! it was

Britta! Britta, driving all alone, with the reckless daring of a

Norwegian peasant girl accustomed to the swaying, jolting movement of

the carriole as well as the rough roads and sharp turnings. Nearer she

came and nearer--and Duprèz hailed her with a shout of welcome. She saw

him, answered his call, and drove still faster,--soon she came up beside

him, and without answering his amazed questions, she cried

breathlessly--

"Jump in--jump in! We must go on as quickly as possible to Bosekop!

Quick--quick! Oh my poor Fröken! The old villain! Wait till I get at

him!"

"But, my _leet-le_ child!" expostulated Pierre, climbing up into the

queer vehicle--"What is all this? I am in astonishment--I understand not

at all! How comes it that you are run away from home, and Mademoiselle

also?"

Britta only waited till he was safely seated, and then lashed the pony

with redoubled force. Away they clattered at a break-neck pace, the

Frenchman having much ado to prevent himself from being jolted out again

on the road.

"It is a wicked plot!" she then exclaimed, panting with excitement--"a

wicked, wicked plot! This afternoon Mr. Dyceworthy's servant came and

brought Sir Philip's card. It said that he had met with an accident and

had been brought back to Bosekop, and that he wished the Fröken to come

to him at once. Of course, the darling believed it all--and she grew so

pale, so pale! And she went straight away in her boat all by herself! Oh

my dear--my dear!"

Britta gasped for breath, and Duprèz soothingly placed an arm round her

waist, an action which the little maiden seemed not to be aware of. She

resumed her story--"Then the Fröken had not been gone so very long, and

I was watching for her in the garden, when a woman passed by--a friend

of my grandmother's. She called out--'Hey, Britta! Do you know they have

got your mistress down at Talvig, and they'll burn her for a witch

before they sleep!' 'She has gone to Bosekop,' I answered, 'so I know

you tell a lie.' 'It is no lie,' said the old woman, 'old Lovisa has her

this time for sure.' And she laughed and went away. Well, I did not stop

to think twice about it--I started off for Talvig at once--I ran nearly

all the way. I found my grandmother alone--I asked her if she had seen

the Fröken? She screamed and clapped her hands like a mad woman! she

said that the Fröken was with Mr. Dyceworthy--Mr. Dyceworthy would know

what to do with her!"

"_Sapristi!_" ejaculated Duprèz. "This is serious!"

Britta glanced anxiously at him, and went on. "Then she tried to shut

the doors upon me and beat me--but I escaped. Outside I saw a man I knew

with his carriole, and I borrowed it of him and came back as fast as I

could--but oh! I am so afraid--my grandmother said such dreadful

things!"

"The others have taken a boat to Bosekop," said Duprèz, to reassure her.

"They may be there by now."

Britta shook her head. "The tide is against them--no! we shall be there

first. But," and she looked wistfully at Pierre, "my grandmother said

Mr. Dyceworthy had sworn to ruin the Fröken. What did she mean, do you

think?"

Duprèz did not answer,--he made a strange grimace and shrugged his

shoulders. Then he seized the whip and lashed the pony.

"Faster, faster, _mon chère_!" he cried to that much-astonished,

well-intentioned animal. "It is not a time to sleep, _ma foi_!" Then to

Britta--"My little one, you shall see! We shall disturb the good

clergyman at his peaceful supper--yes indeed! Be not afraid!"

And with such reassuring remarks he beguiled the rest of the way, which

to both of them seemed unusually long, though it was not much past nine

when they rattled into the little village called by courtesy a town, and

came to a halt within a few paces of the minister's residence.

Everything was very quiet--the inhabitants of the place retired to rest

early--and the one principal street was absolutely deserted. Duprèz

alighted.

"Stay you here, Britta," he said, lightly kissing the hand that held the

pony's reins. "I will make an examination of the windows of the house.

Yes--before knocking at the door! You wait with patience. I will let you

know everything!"

And with a sense of pleasurable excitement in his mind, he stole softly

along on tip-toe--entered the minister's garden, fragrant with roses and

mignonette, and then, attracted by the sound of voices, went straight up

to the parlor window. The blind was down and he could see nothing, but

he heard Mr. Dyceworthy's bland persuasive tones, echoing out with a

soft sonorousness, as though he were preaching to some refractory

parishioner. He listened attentively.

"Oh strange, strange!" said Mr. Dyceworthy. "Strange that you will not

see how graciously the Lord hath delivered you into my hands! Yea,--and

no escape is possible! For lo, you yourself, Fröken Thelma," Dyceworthy

started, "you yourself came hither unto my dwelling, a woman all

unprotected, to a man equally unprotected,--and who, though a humble

minister of saving grace, is not proof against the offered surrender of

your charms! Make the best of it, my sweet girl!--make the best of it!

You can never undo what you have done to-night."

"Coward! . . . coward!" and Thelma's rich low voice caused Pierre to

almost leap forward from the place where he stood concealed.

"You,--_you_ made me come here--_you_ sent me that card--_you_ dared to

use the name of my betrothed husband, to gain your vile purpose! _You_

have kept me locked in this room all these hours--and do you think you

will not be punished? I will let the whole village know of your

treachery and falsehood!"

Mr. Dyceworthy laughed gently. "Dear me, dear me!" he remarked sweetly.

"How pretty we look in a passion, to be sure! And we talk of our

'betrothed husband' do we? Tut-tut! Put that dream out of your mind, my

dear girl--Sir Philip Bruce-Errington will have nothing to do with you

after your little escapade of to-night! Your honor is touched!--yes,

yes! and honor is everything to such a man as he. As for the 'card' you

talk about, I never sent a card--not I!" Mr. Dyceworthy made this

assertion in a tone of injured honesty. "Why should I! No--no! You came

here of your own accord,--that is certain and--" here he spoke more

slowly and with a certain malicious glee, "I shall have no difficulty in

proving it to be so, should the young man Errington ask me for an

explanation! Now you had better give me a kiss and make the peace!

There's not a soul in the place who will believe anything you say

against me; _you_, a reputed witch, and I, a minister of the Gospel. For

your father I care nothing, a poor sinful pagan can never injure a

servant of the Lord. Come now, let me have that kiss! I have been very

patient--I am sure I deserve it!"

There was a sudden rushing movement in the room, and a slight cry.

"If you touch me!" cried Thelma, "I will kill you! I will! God will help

me!"

Again Mr. Dyceworthy laughed sneeringly. "God will help you!" he

exclaimed as though in wonder. "As if God ever helped a _Roman_! Fröken

Thelma, be sensible. By your strange visit to me to-night you have

ruined your already damaged character--I say you have ruined it,--and if

anything remains to be said against you, I can say it--moreover, I

_will_!"

A crash of breaking window-glass followed these words, and before Mr.

Dyceworthy could realize what had happened, he was pinioned against his

own wall by an active, wiry, excited individual, whose black eyes

sparkled with gratified rage, whose clenched fist was dealing him severe

thumps all over his fat body.

"Ha, ha! You will, will you!" cried Duprèz, literally dancing up against

him and squeezing him as though he were a jelly. "You will tell lies in

the service of _le Bon Dieu_? No--not quite, not yet!" And still

pinioning him with one hand, he dragged at his collar with the other

till he succeeded, in spite of the minister's unwieldly efforts to

defend himself, in rolling him down upon the floor, where he knelt upon

him in triumph. "_Voilà! Je sais faire la boxe, moi!_" Then turning to

Thelma, who stood an amazed spectator of the scene, her flushed cheeks

and tear-swollen eyes testifying to the misery of the hours she had

passed, he said, "Run, Mademoiselle, run! The little Britta is outside,

she has a pony-car--she will drive you home. I will stay here till

Phil-eep comes. I shall enjoy myself! I will begin--Phil-eep with

finish! Then we will return to you."

Thelma needed no more words, she rushed to the door, threw it open, and

vanished like a bird in air. Britta's joy at seeing her was too great

for more than an exclamation of welcome,--and the carriole, with the two

girls safely in it, was soon on its rapid way back to the farm.

Meanwhile, Olaf Güldmar, with Errington and the others, had just landed

at Bosekop after a heavy pull across the Fjord, and they made straight

for Mr. Dyceworthy's house, the _bonde_ working himself up as he walked

into a positive volcano of wrath. Finding the street-door open as it had

just been left by the escaped Thelma, they entered, and on the threshold

of the parlor, stopped abruptly, in amazement at the sight that

presented itself. Two figures were rolling about on the floor,

apparently in a close embrace,--one large and cumbrous, the other small

and slight. Sometimes they shook each other,--sometimes they lay

still,--sometimes they recommenced rolling. Both were perfectly silent,

save that the larger personage seemed to breathe somewhat heavily.

Lorimer stepped into the room to secure a better view--then he broke

into an irrepressible laugh.

"It's Duprèz," he cried, for the benefit of the others that stood at the

door. "By Jove! How did he get here, I wonder?"

Hearing his name, Duprèz looked up from that portion of Mr. Dyceworthy's

form in which he had been burrowing, and smiled radiantly.

"Ah, _cher_ Lorimer! Put your knee here, will you? So! that is well--I

will rest myself!" And he rose, smoothing his roughened hair with both

hands, while Lorimer in obedience to his request, kept one knee

artistically pressed on the recumbent figure of the minister. "Ah! and

there is our Phil-eep, and Sandy, and Monsieur Güldmar! But I do not

think," here he beamed all over, "there is much more to be done! He is

one bruise, I assure you! He will not preach for many Sundays;--it is

bad to be so fat--he will be so exceedingly suffering!"

Errington could not forbear smiling at Pierre's equanimity. "But what

has happened?" he asked. "Is Thelma here?"

"She _was_ here," answered Duprèz. "The religious had decoyed her here

by means of some false writing,--supposed to be from you. He kept her

locked up here the whole afternoon. When I came he was making love and

frightening her,--I am pleased I was in time. But"--and he smiled

again--"he is well beaten!"

Sir Philip strode up to the fallen Dyceworthy, his face darkening with

wrath.

"Let him go, Lorimer," he said sternly. Then, as the reverend gentleman

slowly struggled to his feet, moaning with pain, he demanded, "What have

you to say for yourself, sir? Be thankful if I do not give you the

horse-whipping you deserve, you scoundrel!"

"Let me get at him!" vociferated Güldmar at this juncture, struggling to

free himself from the close grasp of the prudent Macfarlane. "I have

longed for such a chance! Let me get at him!"

But Lorimer assisted to restrain him from springing forward,--and the

old man chafed and swore by his gods in vain.

Mr. Dyceworthy meanwhile meekly raised his eyes, and folded his hands

with a sort of pious resignation.

"I have been set upon and cruelly abused," he said mournfully, "and

there is no part of me without ache and soreness!" He sighed deeply.

"But I am punished rightly for yielding unto carnal temptation, put

before me in the form of the maiden who came hither unto me with

delusive entrancements--"

He stopped, shrinking back in alarm from the suddenly raised fist of the

young baronet.

"You'd better be careful!" remarked Philip coolly, with dangerously

flashing eyes; "there are four of us here, remember!"

Mr. Dyceworthy coughed, and resumed an air of outraged dignity.

"Truly, I am aware of it!" he said; "and it surpriseth me not at all

that the number of the ungodly outweigheth that of the righteous! Alas!

'why do the heathen rage so furiously together?' Why, indeed! Except

that 'in their hearts they imagine a vain thing!' I pardon you, Sir

Philip, I freely pardon you! And you also, sir," turning gravely to

Duprèz, who received his forgiveness with a cheerful and delighted bow.

"You can indeed injure--and you _have_ injured this poor body of

mine--but you cannot touch the _soul_! No, nor can you hinder that

freedom of speech"--here his malignant smile was truly diabolical--"which

is my glory, and which shall forever be uplifted against all manner of

evil-doers, whether they be fair women and witches, or misguided

pagans--"

Again he paused, rather astonished at Errington's scornful laugh.

"You low fellow!" said the baronet. "From Yorkshire, are you? Well, I

happen to know a good many people in that part of the world--and I have

some influence there, too. Now, understand me--I'll have you hounded out

of the place! You shall find it too hot to hold you--that I swear!

Remember! I'm a man of my word! And if you dare to mention the name of

Miss Güldmar disrespectfully, I'll thrash you within an inch of your

life!"

Mr. Dyceworthy blinked feebly, and drew out his handkerchief.

"I trust, Sir Philip," he said mildly, "you will reconsider your words!

It would ill beseem you to strive to do me harm in the parish were my

ministrations are welcome, as appealing to that portion of the people

who follow the godly Luther. Oh yes,"--and he smiled cheerfully--"you

will reconsider your words. In the meantime--I--I"--he stammered

slightly--"I apologize! I meant naught but good to the maiden--but I

have been misunderstood, as is ever the case with the servants of the

Lord. Let us say no more about it! I forgive!--let us all forgive! I

will even extend my pardon to the pagan yonder--"

But the "pagan" at that moment broke loose from the friendly grasp in

which he had been hitherto held, and strode up to the minister, who

recoiled like a beaten cur from the look of that fine old face flushed

with just indignation, and those clear blue eyes fiery as the flash of

steel.

"Pagan, you call me!" he cried. "I thank the gods for it--I am proud of

the title! I would rather be the veriest savage that ever knelt in

untutored worship to the great forces of Nature, than such a _thing_ as

you--a slinking, unclean animal, crawling coward-like between earth and

sky, and daring to call itself a _Christian_! Faugh! Were I the Christ,

I should sicken at sight of you!"

Dyceworthy made no reply, but his little eyes glittered evilly.

Errington, not desiring any further prolongation of the scene, managed

to draw the irate _bonde_ away, saying in a low tone--

"We've had enough of this, sir! Let us get home to Thelma."

"I was about to suggest a move," added Lorimer. "We are only wasting

time here."

"Ah!" exclaimed Duprèz radiantly--"and Monsieur Dyceworthy will be glad

to be in bed! He will be very stiff to-morrow, I am sure! Here is a lady

who will attend him."

This with a courteous salute to the wooden-faced Ulrika, who suddenly

confronted them in the little passage. She seemed surprised to see them,

and spoke in a monotonous dreamy tone, as though she walked in her

sleep.

"The girl has gone?" she added slowly.

Duprèz nodded briskly. "She has gone! And let me tell you, madame, that

if it had not been for you, she would not have come here at all. You

took that card to her?"

Ulrika frowned. "I was compelled," she said. "_She_ made me take it. I

promised." She turned her dull eyes slowly on Güldmar. "It was Lovisa's

fault. Ask Lovisa about it." She paused, and moistened her dry lips with

her tongue. "Where is your crazy lad?" she asked, almost anxiously. "Did

he come with you?"

"He is dead!" answered Güldmar, with grave coldness.

"Dead!" And to their utter amazement, she threw up her arms and burst

into a fit of wild laughter. "Dead! Thank God! Thank God! Dead! And

through no fault of mine! The Lord be praised! He was only fit for

death--never mind how he died--it is enough that he is dead--dead! I

shall see him no more--he cannot curse me again!--the Lord be thankful

for all His mercies!"

And her laughter ceased--she threw her apron over her head and broke

into a passion of weeping.

"The woman must be crazy!" exclaimed the _bonde_, thoroughly

mystified,--then placing his arm through Errington's, he said

impatiently, "You're right, my lad! We've had enough of this. Let us

shake the dust of this accursed place off our feet and get home. I'm

tired out!"

They left the minister's dwelling and made straight for the shore, and

were soon well on their journey back to the farm across the Fjord. This

time the tide was with them--the evening was magnificent, and the

coolness of the breeze, the fresh lapping of the water against the boat,

and the brilliant tranquility of the landscape, soon calmed their

over-excited feelings. Thelma was waiting for them under the porch as

usual, looking a trifle paler than her wont, after all the worry and

fright and suspense she had undergone,--but the caresses of her father

and lover soon brought back the rosy warmth on her fair face, and

restored the lustre to her eyes. Nothing was said about Sigurd's fate

just then,--when she asked for her faithful servitor, she was told he

had "gone wandering as usual," and it was not till Errington and his

friends returned to their yacht that old Güldmar, left alone with his

daughter, broke the sad news to her very gently. But the shock, so

unexpected and terrible, was almost too much for her already overwrought

nerves,--and such tears were shed for Sigurd as Sigurd himself might

have noted with gratitude. Sigurd--the loving, devoted Sigurd--gone for

ever! Sigurd,--her playmate,--her servant,--her worshiper,--dead! Ah,

how tenderly she mourned him!--how regretfully she thought of his wild

words! "Mistress, you are killing poor Sigurd!" Wistfully she wondered

if, in her absorbing love for Philip, she had neglected the poor crazed

lad,--his face, in all its pale, piteous appeal, haunted her, and her

grief for his loss was the greatest she had ever known since the day on

which she had seen her mother sink into the last long sleep. Britta,

too, wept and would not be comforted--she had been fond of Sigurd in her

own impetuous little way,--and it was some time before either she or her

mistress, could calm themselves sufficiently to retire to rest. And long

after Thelma was sleeping, with tears still wet on her cheeks, her

father sat alone under his porch, lost in melancholy meditation. Now and

then he ruffled his white hair impatiently with his hand,--his

daughter's adventure in Mr. Dyceworthy's house had vexed his proud

spirit. He knew well enough that the minister's apology meant

nothing--that the whole village would be set talking against Thelma

more, even than before,--that there was no possibility of preventing

scandal so long as Dyceworthy was there to start it. He thought and

thought and puzzled himself with probabilities--till at last, when he

finally rose to enter his dwelling for the night, he muttered

half-aloud. "If it must be, it must! And the sooner the better now, I

think, for the child's sake."

The next morning Sir Philip arrived unusually early,--and remained shut

up with the _bonde_, in private conversation for more than an hour. At

the expiration of that time, Thelma was called, and taken into their

confidence. The result of their mysterious discussion was not

immediately evident,--though for the next few days, the farm-house lost

its former tranquility and became a scene of bustle and excitement.

Moreover, to the astonishment of the Bosekop folk, the sailing-brig

known as the _Valkyrie_, belonging to Olaf Güldmar, which had been

hauled up high and dry on the shore for many months, was suddenly seen

afloat on the Fjord, and Valdemar Svensen, Errington's pilot, appeared

to be busily engaged upon her decks, putting everything in ship-shape

order. It was no use asking _him_ any questions--he was not the man to

gratify impertinent curiosity. By-and-by a rumor got about in the

village--Lovisa had gained her point in one particular,--the Güldmars

were going away--going to leave the Altenfjord!

At first, the report was received with incredulity--but gained ground,

as people began to notice that several packages were being taken in

boats from the farm-house to both the _Eulalie_ and the _Valkyrie_.

These preparations excited a great deal of interest and

inquisitiveness,--but no one dared ask for information as to what was

about to happen. The Reverend Mr. Dyceworthy was confined to his bed

"from a severe cold"--as he said, and therefore was unable to perform

his favorite mission of spy;--so that when, one brilliant morning,

Bosekop was startled by the steam-whistle of the _Eulalie_ blowing

furiously, and echoing far and wide across the surrounding rocky

islands, several of the lounging inhabitants paused on the shore, or

sauntered down to the rickety pier, to see what was the cause of the

clamor. Even the long-suffering minister crawled out of bed and applied

his fat, meek visage to his window, from whence he could command an

almost uninterrupted view of the glittering water. Great was his

amazement, and discomfiture to see the magnificent yacht moving

majestically out of the Fjord, with Güldmar's brig in tow behind her,

and the English flag fluttering gaily from her middle-mast, as she

curtsied her farewell to the dark mountains, and glided swiftly over the

little hissing waves. Had Mr. Dyceworthy been possessed of a

field-glass, he might have been able to discern on her deck, the figure

of a tall, fair girl, who, drawing her crimson hood over her rich hair,

stood gazing with wistful, dreamy blue eyes, at the last receding shores

of the Altenfjord--eyes that smiled and yet were tearful.

"Are you sorry, Thelma?" asked Errington gently, as he passed one arm

tenderly round her. "Sorry to trust your life to me?"

She laid her little hand in playful reproach against his lips.

"Sorry! you foolish boy! I am glad and grateful! But it is saying

good-bye to one's old life, is it not? The dear old home!--and poor

Sigurd!"

Her voice trembled, and bright tears fell.

"Sigurd is happy,"--said Errington gravely, taking the hand that

caressed him, and reverently kissing it. "Believe me, love,--if he had

lived some cruel misery might have befallen him--it is better as it is!"

Thelma did not answer for a minute or two--then she said

suddenly--"Philip,--do you remember where I saw you first?"

"Perfectly!" he answered, looking fondly into the sweet upturned face.

"Outside a wonderful cavern, which I afterwards explored."

She started and seemed surprised. "You went inside?--you saw--?"

"Everything!"--and Philip related his adventure of that morning, and his

first interview with Sigurd. She listened attentively--then she

whispered softly--

"My mother sleeps there, you know,--yesterday I went to take her some

flowers for the last time. Father came with me--we asked her blessing.

And I think she will give it, Philip--she must know how good you are and

how happy I am."

He stroked her silky hair tenderly and was silent. The _Eulalie_ had

reached the outward bend of the Altenfjord, and the station of Bosekop

was rapidly disappearing. Olaf Güldmar and the others came on deck to

take their last look of it.

"I shall see the old place again, I doubt not, long before you do,

Thelma, child," said the stout old _bonde_, viewing, with a keen, fond

glance, the stretch of the vanishing scenery. "Though when once you are

safe married at Christiania, Valdemar Svensen and I will have a fine

toss on the seas in the _Valkyrie_,--and I shall grow young again in the

storm and drift of the foam and the dark wild waves! Yes--a wandering

life suits me--and I am not sorry to have a taste of it once more.

There's nothing like it--nothing like a broad ocean and a sweeping

wind!"

And he lifted his cap and drew himself erect, inhaling the air like an

old warrior scenting battle. The others listened, amused at his

enthusiasm,--and, meanwhile, the Altenfjord altogether disappeared, and

the _Eulalie_ was soon plunging in a rougher sea. They were bound for

Christiania, where it was decided Thelma's marriage should at once take

place--after which Sir Philip would leave his yacht at the disposal of

his friends, for them to return in it to England. He himself intended to

start directly for Germany with his bride, a trip in which Britta was to

accompany them as Thelma's maid. Olaf Güldmar, as he had just stated,

purposed making a voyage in the _Valkyrie_, as soon as he should get her

properly manned and fitted, which he meant to do at Christiania.

Such were their plans,--and, meanwhile, they were all together on the

_Eulalie_,--a happy and sociable party,--Errington having resigned his

cabin to the use of his fair betrothed, and her little maid, whose

delight at the novel change in her life, and her escape from the

persecution of her grandmother, was extreme. Onward they sailed,--past

the grand Lofoden Islands and all the magnificent scenery extending

thence to Christiansund, while the inhabitants of Bosekop looked in vain

for their return to the Altenfjord.

The short summer there was beginning to draw to a close,--some of the

birds took their departure from the coast,--the dull routine of the

place went on as usual, rendered even duller by the absence of the

"witch" element of discord,--a circumstance that had kept the

superstitious villagers, more or less on a lively tension of religious

and resentful excitement--and by-and-by, the rightful minister of

Bosekop came back to his duties and released the Reverend Charles

Dyceworthy, who straightway returned to his loving flock in Yorkshire.

It was difficult to ascertain whether the aged Lovisa was satisfied or

wrathful, at the departure of the Güldmars with her granddaughter Britta

in their company--she kept herself almost buried in her hut at Talvig,

and saw no one but Ulrika, who seemed to grow more respectably staid

than ever, and who, as a prominent member of the Lutheran congregation,

distinguished herself greatly by her godly bearing and uncompromising

gloom.

Little by little, the gossips ceased to talk about the disappearance of

the "white witch" and her father--little by little they ceased to

speculate as to whether the rich Englishman, Sir Philip Errington,

really meant to marry her--a consummation of things which none of them

seemed to think likely--the absence of their hated neighbors, was felt

by them as a relief, while the rumored fate of the crazy Sigurd was of

course looked upon as evidence of fresh crime on the part of the

"pagan," who was accused of having, in some way or other, caused the

unfortunate lad's death. And the old farm-house on the pine-covered

knoll was shut up and silent,--its doors and windows safely barred

against wind and rain,--and only the doves, left to forage for

themselves, crooned upon its roof, all day, or strutting on the deserted

paths, ruffled their plumage in melancholy meditation, as though

wondering at the absence of the fair ruling spirit of the place, whose

smile had been brighter than the sunshine. The villagers avoided it as

though it were haunted--the roses drooped and died untended,--and by

degrees the old homestead grew to look like a quaint little picture of

forgotten joys, with its deserted porch and fading flowers.

Meanwhile, a thrill of amazement, incredulity, disappointment,

indignation, and horror, rushed like a violent electric shock through

the upper circles of London society, arousing the deepest disgust in the

breasts of match-making matrons, and seriously ruffling the pretty

feathers of certain bird-like beauties who had just began to try their

wings, and who "had expectations." The cause of the sensation was very

simple. It was an announcement in the _Times_--under the head of

"Marriages"--and ran as follows:

"At the English Consulate, Christiania, Sir Philip Bruce-Errington,

Bart., to Thelma, only daughter of Olaf Güldmar, _bonde_, of the

Altenfjord, Norway. No cards."

BOOK II.

THE LAND OF MOCKERY

CHAPTER XVIII.

"There's nothing serious in mortality: All is but toys."

MACBETH.

"I think," said Mrs. Rush-Marvelle deliberately, laying down the

_Morning Post_ beside her breakfast-cup, "I think his conduct is

perfectly disgraceful!"

Mr. Rush-Marvelle, a lean gentleman with a sallow, clean-shaven face and

an apologetic, almost frightened manner, looked up hastily.

"Of whom are you speaking, my dear?" he inquired.

"Why, of that wretched young man Bruce-Errington! He ought to be ashamed

of himself!"

And Mrs. Marvelle fixed her glasses more firmly on her small nose, and

regarded her husband almost reproachfully. "Don't tell me, Montague,

that you've forgotten that scandal about him! He went off last year, in

the middle of the season, to Norway, in his yacht, with three of the

very fastest fellows he could pick out from his acquaintance--regular

reprobates, so I'm told--and after leading the most awful life out

there, making love to all the peasant girls in the place, he married one

of them,--a common farmer's daughter. Don't you remember? We saw the

announcement of his marriage in the _Times_."

"Ah yes, yes!" And Mr. Rush-Marvelle smiled a propitiatory smile,

intended to soothe the evidently irritated feelings of his better-half,

of whom he stood always in awe. "Of course, of course! A very sad

_mésalliance_. Yes, yes! Poor fellow! And is there fresh news of him?"

"Read _that_,"--and the lady handed the _Morning Post_ across the table,

indicating by a dent of her polished finger-nail, the paragraph that had

offended her sense of social dignity. Mr. Marvelle read it with almost

laborious care--though it was remarkably short and easy of

comprehension.

"Sir Philip and Lady Bruce-Errington have arrived at their house in

Prince's Gate from Errington Manor."

"Well, my dear?" he inquired, with a furtive and anxious glance at his

wife. "I suppose--er--it--er--it was to be expected?"

"No, it was _not_ to be expected," said Mrs. Rush-Marvelle, rearing her

head, and heaving her ample bosom to and fro in rather a tumultuous

manner. "Of course it was to be expected that Bruce-Errington would

behave like a fool--his father was a fool before him. But I say it was

not to be expected that he would outrage society by bringing that common

wife of his to London, and expecting _us_ to receive her! The thing is

perfectly scandalous! He has had the decency to keep away from town ever

since his marriage--part of the time he has staid abroad, and since

January he has been at his place in Warwickshire,--and this

time--observe this!" and Mrs. Marvelle looked most impressive--"not a

soul has been invited to the Manor--not a living soul! The house used to

be full of people during the winter season--of course, now, he dare not

ask anybody lest they should be shocked at his wife's ignorance. That's

as clear as daylight! And now he has the impudence to actually bring her

here,--into _society_! Good Heavens! He must be mad! He will be laughed

at wherever he goes!"

Mr. Rush-Marvelle scratched his bony chin perplexedly.

"It makes it a little awkward for--for you," he remarked feelingly.

"Awkward! It is abominable!" And Mrs. Marvelle rose from her chair, and

shook out the voluminous train of her silken breakfast-gown, an

elaborate combination of crimson with grey chinchilla fur. "I shall have

to call on the creature--just imagine it! It is most unfortunate for me

that I happen to be one of Bruce-Errington's oldest friends--otherwise I

might have passed him over in some way--as it is I can't. But fancy

having to meet a great coarse peasant woman, who, I'm certain, will only

be able to talk about fish and whale-oil! It is really _quite_

dreadful!"

Mr. Rush-Marvelle permitted himself to smile faintly.

"Let us hope she will not turn out so badly," he said soothingly,--"but,

you know, if she proves to be--er--a common person of,--er--a very

uneducated type--you can always let her drop gently--quite gently!"

And he waved his skinny hand with an explanatory flourish.

But Mrs. Marvelle did not accept his suggestion in good part.

"You know nothing about it," she said somewhat testily. "Keep to your

own business, Montague, such as it is. The law suits your particular

form of brain--society does not. You would never be in society at all if

it were not for me--now you know you wouldn't!"

"My love," said Mr. Marvelle, with a look of meek admiration at his

wife's majestic proportions. "I am aware of it! I always do you justice.

You are a remarkable woman!"

Mrs. Marvelle smiled, somewhat mollified. "You see," she then

condescended to explain--"the whole thing is so extremely disappointing

to me. I wanted Marcia Van Clupp to go in for the Errington stakes,--it

would have been such an excellent match,--money on both sides. And

Marcia would have been just the girl to look after that place down in

Warwickshire--the house is going to rack and ruin, in _my_ opinion."

"Ah, yes!" agreed her husband mildly. "Van Clupp is a fine girl--a

_very_ fine girl! No end of 'go' in her. And so Errington Manor needs a

good deal of repairing, perhaps?" This query was put by Mr. Marvelle,

with his head very much on one side, and his bilious eyes blinking

drowsily.

"I don't know about repairs," replied Mrs. Marvelle. "It is a

magnificent place, and certainly the grounds are ravishing. But one of

the best rooms in the house, is the former Lady Errington's boudoir--it

is full of old-fashioned dirty furniture, and Bruce-Errington won't have

it touched,--he will insist on keeping it as his mother left it. Now

that is ridiculous--perfectly morbid! It's just the same thing with his

father's library--he won't have that touched either--and the ceiling

wants fresh paint, and the windows want new curtains--and all sorts of

things ought to be done. Marcia would have managed all that

splendidly--she'd have had everything new throughout--Americans are so

quick, and there's no nonsensical antiquated sentiment about Marcia."

"She might even have had new pictures and done away with the old ones,"

observed Mr. Marvelle, with a feeble attempt at satire. His wife darted

a keen look at him, but smiled a little too. She was not without a sense

of humor.

"Nonsense, Montague! She knows the value of works of art better than

many a so-called connoisseur. I won't have you make fun of her. Poor

girl! She _did_ speculate on Bruce-Errington,--you know he was very

attentive to her, at that ball I gave just before he went off to

Norway."

"He certainly seemed rather amused by her," said Mr. Marvelle. "Did she

take it to heart when she heard he was married?"

"I should think not," replied Mrs. Marvelle loftily. "She has too much

sense. She merely said, 'All right! I must stick to Masherville!'"

Mr. Marvelle nodded blandly. "Admirable,--admirable!" he murmured, with

a soft little laugh, "A _very_ clever girl--a very bright creature! And

really there are worse fellows than Masherville! The title is old."

"Yes, the title is all very well," retorted his wife--"but there's no

money--or at least very little."

"Marcia has sufficient to cover any deficit?" suggested Mr. Marvelle, in

a tone of meek inquiry.

"An American woman _never_ has sufficient," declared Mrs. Marvelle. "You

know that as well as I do. And poor dear Mrs. Van Clupp has so set her

heart on a really brilliant match for her girl--and I had positively

promised she should have Bruce-Errington. It is really too bad!" And

Mrs. Marvelle paced the room with a stately, sweeping movement, pausing

every now and then to glance at herself approvingly in the mirror above

the chimney-piece, while her husband resumed his perusal of the _Times_.

By-and-by she said abruptly--

"Montague!"

Mr. Marvelle dropped his paper with an alarmed air.

"My dear!"

"I shall go to Clara Winsleigh this morning--and see what she means to

do in the matter. Poor Clara! She must be disgusted at the whole

affair!"

"She had rather a liking for Errington, hadn't she?" inquired Mr.

Marvelle, folding up the _Times_ in a neat parcel, preparatory to taking

it with him in order to read it in peace on his way to the Law Courts.

"Liking? Well!" And Mrs. Marvelle, looking at herself once more in the

glass, carefully arranged the ruffle of Honiton lace about her massive

throat,--"It was a little more than liking--though, of course, her

feelings were perfectly proper, and all that sort of thing,--at least, I

suppose they were! She had a great friendship for him,--one of those

emotional, perfectly spiritual and innocent attachments, I believe,

which are so rare in this wicked world." Mrs. Marvelle sighed, then

suddenly becoming practical again, she continued. "Yes, I shall go there

and stop to luncheon, and talk this thing over. Then I'll drive on to

the Van Clupps, and bring Marcia home to dinner. I suppose you don't

object?"

"Object!" Mr. Marvelle made a deprecatory gesture, and raised his eyes

in wonder. As if he dared object to anything whatsoever that his wife

desired!

She smiled graciously as he approached, and respectfully kissed her

smooth cool cheek, before taking his departure for his daily work as a

lawyer in the city, and when he was gone, she betook herself to her own

small boudoir, where she busied herself for more than an hour in writing

letters, and answering invitations.

She was, in her own line, a person of importance. She made it her

business to know everything and everybody--she was fond of meddling with

other people's domestic concerns, and she had a finger in every family

pie. She was, moreover, a regular match-maker,--fond of taking young

ladies under her maternal wing, and "introducing" them to the proper

quarters, and when, as was often the case, a distinguished American of

many dollars but no influence offered her three or four hundred guineas

for chaperoning his daughter into English society and marrying her well,

Mrs. Rush-Marvelle pocketed the _douceur_ quite gracefully, and did her

best for the girl. She was a good-looking woman, tall, portly, and with

an air of distinction about her, though her features were by no means

striking, and the smallness of her nose was out of all proportion to the

majesty of her form--but she had a very charming smile, and a pleasant,

taking manner, and she was universally admired in that particular "set"

wherein she moved. Girls adored her, and wrote her gushing letters, full

of the most dulcet flatteries--married ladies on the verge of a scandal

came to her to help them out of their difficulties--old dowagers,

troubled with rheumatism or refractory daughters, poured their troubles

into her sympathizing ears--in short, her hands were full of other

people's business to such an extent that she had scarcely any leisure to

attend to her own. Mr. Rush-Marvelle,--but why describe this gentleman

at all? He was a mere nonentity--known simply as the husband of Mrs.

Rush-Marvelle. He knew he was nobody--and, unlike many men placed in a

similar position, he was satisfied with his lot. He admired his wife

intensely, and never failed to flatter her vanity to the utmost excess,

so that, on the whole, they were excellent friends, and agreed much

better than most married people.

It was about twelve o'clock in the day, when Mrs. Rush-Marvelle's neat

little brougham and pair stopped at Lord Winsleigh's great house in Park

Lane. A gorgeous flunkey threw open the door with a virtuously severe

expression on his breakfast-flushed countenance,--an expression which

relaxed into a smile of condescension on seeing who the visitor was.

"I suppose Lady Winsleigh is at home, Briggs?" inquired Mrs. Marvelle,

with the air of one familiar with the ways of the household.

"Yes'm," replied Briggs slowly, taking in the "style" of Mrs.

Rush-Marvelle's bonnet, and mentally calculating its cost. "Her ladyship

is in the boo-dwar."

"I'll go there," said Mrs. Marvelle, stepping into the hall, and

beginning to walk across it, in her own important and self-assertive

manner. "You needn't announce me."

Briggs closed the street-door, settled his powdered wig, and looked

after her meditatively. Then he shut up one eye in a sufficiently

laborious manner and grinned. After this he retired slowly to a small

ante-room, where he found the _World_ with its leaves uncut. Taking up

his master's ivory paper-knife, he proceeded to remedy this slight

inconvenience,--and, yawning heavily, he seated himself in a velvet

arm-chair, and was soon absorbed in perusing the pages of the journal in

question.

Meanwhile Mrs. Marvelle, in her way across the great hall to the

"boo-dwar," had been interrupted and nearly knocked down by the playful

embrace of a handsome boy, who sprang out upon her suddenly with a shout

of laughter,--a boy of about twelve years old, with frank, bright blue

eyes and clustering dark curls.

"Hullo, Mimsey!" cried this young gentleman--"here you are again! Do you

want to see papa? Papa's in there!"--pointing to the door from which he

had emerged--"he's correcting my Latin exercise. Five good marks to-day,

and I'm going to the circus this afternoon! Isn't it jolly?"

"Dear me, Ernest!" exclaimed Mrs. Marvelle half crossly, yet with an

indulgent smile,--"I wish you would not be so boisterous! You've nearly

knocked my bonnet off."

"No, I haven't," laughed Ernest; "it's as straight as--wait a bit!" And

waving a lead pencil in the air, he drew an imaginary stroke with it.

"The middle feather is bobbing up and down just on a line with your

nose--it couldn't be better!"

"There, go along, you silly boy!" said Mrs. Marvelle, amused in spite of

herself. "Get back to your lessons. There'll be no circus for you if you

don't behave properly! I'm going to see your mother."

"Mamma's reading," announced Ernest. "Mudie's cart has just been and

brought a lot of new novels. Mamma wants to finish them all before

night. I say, are you going to stop to lunch?"

"Ernest, why are you making such a noise in the passage?" said a gentle,

grave voice at this juncture. "I am waiting for you, you know. You

haven't finished your work yet. Ah, Mrs. Marvelle! How do you do?"

And Lord Winsleigh came forward and shook hands. "You will find her

ladyship in, I believe. She will be delighted to see you. This young

scapegrace," here he caressed his son's clustering curls tenderly--"has

not yet done with his lessons--the idea of the circus to-day seems to

have turned his head."

"Papa, you promised you'd let me off Virgil this morning!" cried Ernest,

slipping his arm coaxingly through his father's. Lord Winsleigh smiled.

Mrs. Rush-Marvelle shook her head with a sort of mild reproachfulness.

"He really ought to go to school," she said, feigning severity. "You

will find him too much for you, Winsleigh, in a little while."

"I think not," replied Lord Winsleigh, though an anxious look troubled

for an instant the calm of his deep-set grey eyes. "We get on very well

together, don't we, Ernest?" The boy glanced up fondly at his father's

face and nodded emphatically. "At a public-school, you see, the boys are

educated on hard and fast lines--all ground down to one

pattern,--there's no chance of any originality possible. But don't let

me detain you, Mrs. Marvelle--you have no doubt much to say to Lady

Winsleigh. Come, Ernest! If I let you off Virgil, you must do the rest

of your work thoroughly."

And with a courteous salute, the grave, kindly-faced nobleman re-entered

his library, his young son clinging to his arm and pouring forth boyish

confidences, which seemingly received instant attention and

sympathy,--while Mrs. Rush-Marvelle looked after their retreating

figures with something of doubt and wonder on her placid features. But

whatever her thoughts, they were not made manifest just then. Arriving

at a door draped richly with old-gold plush and satin, she knocked.

"Come in!" cried a voice that, though sweet in tone, was also somewhat

petulant.

Mrs. Marvelle at once entered, and the occupant of the room sprang up in

haste from her luxurious reading-chair, where she was having her long

tresses brushed out by a prim-looking maid, and uttered an exclamation

of delight.

"My dearest Mimsey!" she cried, "this is quite too sweet of you! You're

just the very person I wanted to see!" And she drew an easy fauteuil to

the sparkling fire,--for the weather was cold, with that particularly

cruel coldness common to an English May,--and dismissed her attendant.

"Now sit down, you dear old darling," she continued, "and let me have

all the news!"

Throwing herself back on her lounge, she laughed, and tossed her waving

hair loose over her shoulders, as the maid had left it,--then she

arranged, with a coquettish touch here and there, the folds of her pale

pink dressing-gown, showered with delicate Valenciennes. She was

undeniably a lovely woman. Tall and elegantly formed, with an almost

regal grace of manner, Clara, Lady Winsleigh, deserved to be considered,

as she was, one of the reigning beauties of the day. Her full dark eyes

were of a bewitching and dangerous softness,--her complexion was pale,

but of such a creamy, transparent pallor as to be almost brilliant,--her

mouth was small and exquisitely shaped. True,--her long eyelashes were

not altogether innocent of "kohl,"--true, there was a faint odor about

her as of rare perfumes and cosmetics,--true, there was something not

altogether sincere or natural even in her ravishing smile and

fascinating ways--but few, save cynics, could reasonably dispute her

physical perfections, or question the right she had to tempt and arouse

the passions of men, or to trample underfoot? with an air of insolent

superiority, the feelings of women less fair and fortunate. Most of her

sex envied her,--but Mrs. Rush-Marvelle, who was past the prime of life,

and, who, moreover, gained her social successes through intelligence and

tact alone, was far too sensible to grudge any woman her beauty. On the

contrary, she was a frank admirer of handsome persons, and she surveyed

Lady Winsleigh now through her glasses with a smile of bland approval.

"You are looking very well, Clara," she said. "Let me see--you went to

Kissingen in the summer, didn't you?"

"Of course I did," laughed her ladyship. "It was delicious! I suppose

you know Lennie came after me there! Wasn't it ridiculous!"

Mrs. Marvelle coughed dubiously. "Didn't Winsleigh put in an appearance

at all?" she asked.

Lady Clara's brow clouded. "Oh yes! For a couple of weeks or so. Ernest

came with him, of course, and they rambled about together all the time.

The boy enjoyed it."

"I remember now," said Mrs. Marvelle. "But I've not seen anything of you

since you came back, Clara, except once in the park and once at the

theatre. You've been all the time at Winsleigh Court--by-the-by, was Sir

Francis Lennox there too?"

"Why, naturally!" replied the beauty, with a cool smile. "He follows me

everywhere like a dog! Poor Lennie!"

Again the elder lady coughed significantly.

Clara Winsleigh broke into a ringing peal of laughter, and rising from

her lounge, knelt beside her visitor in a very pretty coaxing attitude.

"Come, Mimsey!" she said, "you are not going to be proper at this time

of day! That would be a joke! Darling, indulgent, good old Mimsey!--you

don't mean to turn into a prim, prosy, cross Mrs. Grundy! I won't

believe it! And you mustn't be severe on poor Lennie--he's such a

docile, good boy, and really not bad-looking!"

Mrs. Marvelle fidgeted a little on her chair. "I don't want to talk

about _Lennie_, as you call him," she said, rather testily--"Only I

think you'd better be careful how far you go with him. I came to consult

you on something quite different. What are you going to do about the

Bruce-Errington business? You know it was in the Post to-day that

they've arrived in town. The idea of Sir Philip bringing his common wife

into society!--It's too ridiculous!"

Lady Winsleigh sprang to her feet, and her eyes flashed disdainfully.

"What am I going to do?" she repeated, in accents of bitter contempt.

"Why, receive them, of course! It will be the greatest punishment

Bruce-Errington can have! I'll get all the best people here that I

know--and he shall bring his peasant woman among them, and blush for

her! It will be the greatest fun out! Fancy a Norwegian farmer's girl

lumbering along with her great feet and red hands! . . . and, perhaps,

not knowing whether to eat an ice with a spoon or with her fingers! I

tell you Bruce-Errington will be ready to die for shame--and serve him

right too!"

Mrs. Marvelle was rather startled at the harsh, derisive laughter with

which her ladyship concluded her excited observations, but she merely

observed mildly--

"Well, then, you will leave cards?"

"Certainly?"

"Very good--so shall I," and Mrs. Marvelle sighed resignedly. "What must

be, must be! But it's really dreadful to think of it all--I would never

have believed Philip Errington could have so disgraced himself!"

"He is no gentleman!" said Lady Winsleigh freezingly. "He has low tastes

and low desires. He and his friend Lorimer are two _cads_, in my

opinion!"

"Clara!" exclaimed Mrs. Marvelle warningly. "You were fond of him

once!--now, don't deny it!"

"Why should I deny it?" and her ladyship's dark eyes blazed with

concentrated fury. "I loved him! There! I would have done anything for

him! He might have trodden me down under his feet! He knew it well

enough--cold, cruel, heartless cynic as he was and is! Yes, I loved

him!--but I _hate_ him now!"

And she stamped her foot to give emphasis to her wild words. Mrs.

Marvelle raised her hands and eyes in utter amazement.

"Clara, Clara! Pray, pray be careful! Suppose any one else heard you

going on in this manner! Your reputation would suffer, I assure you!

Really, you're horribly reckless! Just think of your husband--"

"My husband!" and a cold gleam of satire played round Lady Winsleigh's

proud mouth. She paused and laughed a little. Then she resumed in her

old careless way--"You must be getting very goody-goody, Mimsey, to talk

to me about my husband! Why don't you read me a lecture on the duties of

wives and the education of children? I am sure you know how profoundly

it would interest me!"

She paced up and down the room slowly while Mrs. Marvelle remained

discreetly silent. Presently there came a tap at the door, and the

gorgeous Briggs entered. He held himself like an automaton, and spoke as

though repeating a lesson.

"His lordship's compliments, and will her la'ship lunch in the

dining-room to-day?"

"No," said Lady Winsleigh curtly. "Luncheon for myself and Mrs. Marvelle

can be sent up here."

Briggs still remained immovable. "His lordship wished to know if Master

Hernest was to come to your la'ship before goin' out?"

"Certainly not!" and Lady Winsleigh's brows drew together in a frown.

"The boy is a perfect nuisance!"

Briggs bowed and vanished. Mrs. Rush-Marvelle grew more and more

restless. She was a good-hearted woman, and there was something in the

nature of Clara Winsleigh that, in spite of her easy-going conscience,

she could not altogether approve of.

"Do you never lunch with your husband, Clara?" she asked at last.

Lady Winsleigh looked surprised. "Very seldom. Only when there is

company, and I am compelled to be present. A domestic meal would be too

_ennuyant_! I wonder you can think of such a thing! And we generally

dine out."

Mrs. Marvelle was silent again, and, when she did speak, it was on a

less delicate matter.

"When is your great 'crush,' Clara?" she inquired, "You sent me a card,

but I forget the date."

"On the twenty-fifth," replied Lady Winsleigh. "This is the fifteenth. I

shall call on Lady Bruce-Errington"--here she smiled scornfully--"this

afternoon--and to-morrow I shall send them their invitations. My only

fear is whether they mayn't refuse to come. I would not miss the chance

for the world! I want my house to be the first in which her

peasant-ladyship distinguishes herself by her blunders!"

"I'm afraid it'll be quite a scandal!" sighed Mrs. Rush-Marvelle.

"Quite! Such a pity! Bruce-Errington was such a promising, handsome

young man!"

At that moment Briggs appeared again with an elegantly set

luncheon-tray, which he placed on the table with a flourish.

"Order the carriage at half-past three," commanded Lady Winsleigh. "And

tell Mrs. Marvelle's coachman that he needn't wait,--I'll drive her home

myself."

"But, my dear Clara," remonstrated Mrs. Marvelle, "I must call at the

Van Clupps'--"

"I'll call there with you. I owe them a visit. Has Marcia caught young

Masherville yet?"

"Well," hesitated Mrs. Marvelle, "he is rather slippery, you know--so

undecided and wavering!"

Lady Winsleigh laughed. "Never mind that! Marcia's a match for him!

Rather a taking girl--only _what_ an accent! My nerves are on edge

whenever I hear her speak."

"It's a pity she can't conquer that defect," agreed Mrs. Marvelle. "I

know she has tried. But, after all, they're not the best sort of

Americans--"

"The _best_ sort! I should think not! But they're of the _richest_ sort,

and that's something, Mimsey! Besides, though everybody knows what Van

Clupp's father was, they make a good pretense at being well-born,--they

don't cram their low connections down your throat, as Bruce-Errington

wants to do with his common wife. They ignore all their vulgar

belongings delightfully! They've been cruelly 'cut' by Mrs.

Rippington--she's American--but, then, she's perfect style. Do you

remember that big 'at home' at the Van Clupp's when they had a band to

play in the back-yard, and everybody was deafened by the noise? Wasn't

it quite too ridiculous!"

Lady Winsleigh laughed over this reminiscence, and then betook herself

to the consideration of lunch,--a tasty meal which both she and Mrs.

Marvelle evidently enjoyed, flavored as it was with the high spice of

scandal concerning their most immediate and mutual friends, who were,

after much interesting discussion, one by one condemned as of

"questionable" repute, and uncertain position. Then Lady Winsleigh

summoned her maid, and was arrayed _cap-à-pie_ in "carriage-toilette,"

while Mrs. Marvelle amused herself by searching the columns of _Truth_

for some new tit-bit of immorality connected with the royalty or

nobility of England. And at half-past three precisely, the two ladies

drove off together in an elegant victoria drawn by a dashing pair of

greys, with a respectably apoplectic coachman on the box, supported by

the stately Briggs, in all the glory of the olive-green and gold

liveries which distinguished the Winsleigh equipage. By her ladyship's

desire, they were driven straight to Prince's Gate.

"We may as well leave our cards together," said Clara, with a malicious

little smile, "though I hope to goodness the creature won't be at home."

Bruce-Errington's town-house was a very noble-looking mansion--refined

and simple in outer adornment, with a broad entrance, deep portico, and

lofty windows--windows which fortunately were not spoilt by gaudy

hangings of silk or satin in "æsthetic" colors. The blinds were

white--and, what could be seen of the curtains from the outside,

suggested the richness of falling velvets, and gold-woven tapestries.

The drawing-room balconies were full of brilliant flowers, shaded by

quaint awnings of Oriental pattern, thus giving the place an air of

pleasant occupation and tasteful elegance.

Lady Winsleigh's carriage drew up at the door, and Briggs descended.

"Inquire if Lady Bruce-Errington is at home," said his mistress. "And if

not, leave these cards."

Briggs received the scented glossy bits of pasteboard in his

yellow-gloved hand with due gravity, and rang the bell marked "Visitors"

in his usual ponderous manner, with a force that sent it clanging loudly

through the corridors of the stately mansion. The door was instantly

opened by a respectable man with grey hair and a gentle, kindly face,

who was dressed plainly in black, and who eyed the gorgeous Briggs with

the faintest suspicion of a smile. He was Errington's butler, and had

served the family for twenty-five years.

"Her ladyship is driving in the Park," he said in response to the

condescending inquiries of Briggs. "She left the house about half an

hour ago."

Briggs thereupon handed in the cards, and forthwith reported the result

of his interview to Lady Winsleigh, who said with some excitement--

"Turn into the Park and drive up and down till I give further orders."

Briggs mutely touched his hat, mounted the box, and the carriage rapidly

bowled in the required direction, while Lady Winsleigh remarked

laughingly to Mrs. Marvelle--

"Philip is sure to be with his treasure! If we can catch a glimpse of

her, sitting, staring open-mouthed at everything, it will be amusing! We

shall then know what to expect."

Mrs. Marvelle said nothing, though she too was more or less curious to

see the "peasant" addition to the circle of fashionable society,--and

when they entered the Park, both she and Lady Winsleigh kept a sharp

look-out for the first glimpse of the quiet grey and silver of the

Bruce-Errington liveries. They watched, however, in vain--it was not yet

the hour for the crowding of the Row--and there was not a sign of the

particular equipage they were so desirous to meet. Presently Lady

Winsleigh's face flushed--she laughed, and bade her coachman come to a

halt.

"It is only Lennie," she said in answer to Mrs. Marvelle's look of

inquiry. "I _must_ speak to him a moment!"

And she beckoned coquettishly to a slight, slim young man with a dark

moustache and rather handsome features, who was idling along on the

footpath, apparently absorbed in a reverie, though it was not of so deep

a character that he failed to be aware of her ladyship's presence--in

fact he had seen her as soon as she appeared in the Park. He saw

everything apparently without looking--he had lazily drooping eyes, but

a swift under-glance which missed no detail of whatever was going on. He

approached now with an excessively languid air, raising his hat slowly,

as though the action bored him.

"How do, Mrs. Marvelle!" he drawled lazily, addressing himself first to

the elder lady, who responded somewhat curtly,--then leaning his arms on

the carriage door, he fixed Lady Winsleigh with a sleepy stare of

admiration. "And how is our Clara? Looking charming, as usual! By Jove!

Why weren't you here ten minutes ago? You never saw such a sight in your

life! Thought the whole Row was going crazy, 'pon my soul!"

"Why, what happened?" asked Lady Winsleigh, smiling graciously upon him.

"Anything extraordinary?"

"Well, I don't know what you'd call extraordinary;" and Sir Francis

Lennox yawned and examined the handle of his cane attentively. "I

suppose if Helen of Troy came driving full pelt down the Row all of a

sudden, there'd be some slight sensation!"

"Dear me!" said Clara Winsleigh pettishly. "You talk in enigmas to-day.

What on earth do you mean?"

Sir Francis condescended to smile. "Don't be waxy, Clara!" he urged--"I

mean what I say--a new Helen appeared here to-day, and instead of 'tall

Troy' being on fire, as Dante Rossetti puts it, the Row was in a burning

condition of excitement--fellows on horseback galloped the whole length

of the Park to take a last glimpse of her--her carriage dashed off to

Richmond after taking only four turns. She is simply magnificent!"

"Who is she?" and in spite of herself, Lady Winsleigh's smile vanished

and her lips quivered.

"Lady Bruce-Errington," answered Sir Francis readily. "The loveliest

woman in the world, I should say! Phil was beside her--he looks in

splendid condition--and that meek old secretary fellow sat

opposite--Neville--isn't that his name? Anyhow they seemed as jolly as

pipers,--as for that woman, she'll drive everybody out of their wits

about her before half the season's over."

"But she's a mere peasant!" said Mrs. Marvelle loftily. "Entirely

uneducated--a low, common creature!"

"Ah, indeed!" and Sir Francis again yawned extensively. "Well, I don't

know anything about that! She was exquisitely dressed, and she held

herself like a queen. As for her hair--I never saw such wonderful

hair,--there's every shade of gold in it."

"Dyed!" said Lady Winsleigh, with a sarcastic little laugh. "She's been

in Paris,--I dare say a good _coiffeur_ has done it for her there

artistically!"

This time Sir Francis's smile was a thoroughly amused one.

"Commend me to a woman for spite!" he said carelessly. "But I'll not

presume to contradict you, Clara! You know best, I dare say! Ta-ta! I'll

come for you to-night,--you know we're bound for the theatre together.

By-bye, Mrs. Marvelle! You look younger than ever!"

And Sir Francis Lennox sauntered easily away, leaving the ladies to

resume their journey through the Park. Lady Winsleigh looked vexed--Mrs.

Marvelle bewildered.

"Do you think," inquired this latter, "she can really be so wonderfully

lovely?"

"No, I don't!" answered Clara snappishly. "I dare say she's a plump

creature with a high color--men like fat women with brick-tinted

complexions--they think it's healthy. Helen of Troy indeed! Pooh! Lennie

must be crazy."

The rest of their drive was very silent,--they were both absorbed in

their own reflections. On arriving at the Van Clupps', they found no one

at home--not even Marcia--so Lady Winsleigh drove her "dearest Mimsey"

back to her own house in Kensington, and there left her with many

expressions of tender endearment--then, returning home, proceeded to

make an elaborate and brilliant toilette for the enchantment and

edification of Sir Francis Lennox that evening. She dined alone, and was

ready for her admirer when he called for her in his private hansom, and

drove away with him to the theatre, where she was the cynosure of many

eyes; meanwhile her husband, Lord Winsleigh, was pressing a good-night

kiss on the heated forehead of an excited boy, who, plunging about in

his little bed and laughing heartily, was evidently desirous of

emulating the gambols of the clown who had delighted him that afternoon

at Hengler's.

"Papa! could you stand on your head and shake hands with your foot?"

demanded this young rogue, confronting his father with towzled curls and

flushed cheeks.

Lord Winsleigh laughed. "Really, Ernest, I don't think I could!" he

answered good-naturedly. "Haven't you talked enough about the circus by

this time? I thought you were ready for sleep, otherwise I should not

have come up to say good-night."

Ernest studied the patient, kind features of his father for a moment,

and then slipped penitently under the bedclothes, settling his restless

young head determinedly on the pillow.

"I'm all right now!" he murmured, with a demure, dimpling smile. Then,

with a tender upward twinkle of his merry blue eyes, he added,

"Good-night, papa dear! God bless you!"

A sort of wistful pathos softened the grave lines of Lord Winsleigh's

countenance as he bent once more over the little bed, and pressed his

bearded lips lightly on the boy's fresh cheek, as cool and soft as a

rose-leaf.

"God bless you, little man!" he answered softly, and there was a slight

quiver in his calm voice. Then he put out the light and left the room,

closing the door after him with careful noiselessness. Descending the

broad stairs slowly, his face changed from its late look of tenderness

to one of stern and patient coldness, which was evidently its habitual

expression. He addressed himself to Briggs, who was lounging aimlessly

in the hall.

"Her ladyship is out?"

"Yes, my lord! Gone to the theayter with Sir Francis Lennox."

Lord Winsleigh turned upon him sharply. "I did not ask you, Briggs,

_where_ she had gone, or _who_ accompanied her. Have the goodness to

answer my questions simply, without adding useless and unnecessary

details."

Briggs's mouth opened a little in amazement at his master's peremptory

tone, but he answered promptly--

"Very good, my lord!"

Lord Winsleigh paused a moment, and seemed to consider. Then he said--

"See that her ladyship's supper is prepared in the dining-room. She will

most probably return rather late. Should she inquire for me, say I am at

the Carlton."

Again Briggs responded, "Very good, my lord!" And, like an exemplary

servant as he was, he lingered about the passage while Lord Winsleigh

entered his library, and, after remaining there some ten minutes or so,

came out again in hat and great coat. The officious Briggs handed him

his cane, and inquired--

"'Ansom, my lord?"

"Thanks, no. I will walk."

It was a fine moonlight night, and Briggs stood for some minutes on the

steps, airing his shapely calves and watching the tall, dignified figure

of his master walking, with the upright, stately bearing which always

distinguished him, in the direction of Pall Mall. Park Lane was full of

crowding carriages with twinkling lights, all bound to the different

sources of so-called "pleasure" by which the opening of the season is

distinguished. Briggs surveyed the scene with lofty indifference,

sniffed the cool breeze, and, finding it somewhat chilly, re-entered the

house and descended to the servant's hall. Here all the domestics of the

Winsleigh household were seated at a large table loaded with hot and

savory viands,--a table presided over by a robust and perspiring lady,

with a very red face and sturdy arms bare to the elbow.

"Lor', Mr. Briggs!" cried this personage, rising respectfully as he

approached, "'ow late you are! Wot 'ave you been a-doin' on? 'Ere I've

been a-keepin' your lamb-chops and truffles 'ot all this time, and if

they's dried up 'taint my fault, nor that of the hoven, which is as good

a hoven as you can wish to bake in. . . ."

She paused breathless, and Briggs smiled blandly.

"Now, Flopsie!" he said in a tone of gentle severity. "Excited again--as

usual! It's bad for your 'elth--very bad! _Hif_ the chops is dried, your

course is plain--cook some more! Not that I am enny ways particular--but

chippy meat is bad for a delicate digestion. And you would not make me

hill, my Flopsie, would you?"

Whereupon he seated himself, and looked condescendingly round the table.

He was too great a personage to be familiar with such inferior creatures

as housemaids, scullery-girls, and menials of that class,--he was only

on intimate terms with the cook, Mrs. Flopper, or, as he called her,

"Flopsie,"--the coachman, and Lady Winsleigh's own maid, Louise Rénaud,

a prim, sallow-faced Frenchwoman, who, by reason of her nationality, was

called by all the inhabitants of the kitchen, "mamzelle," as being a

name both short, appropriate, and convenient.

On careful examination, the lamb-chops turned out

satisfactorily--"chippiness" was an epithet that could not justly be

applied to them,--and Mr. Briggs began to eat them leisurely, flavoring

them with a glass or two of fine port out of a decanter which he had

taken the precaution to bring down from the dining-room sideboard.

"I _ham_, late," he then graciously explained--"not that I was detained

in enny way by the people upstairs. The gay Clara went out early, but I

was absorbed in the evenin' papers--Winsleigh forgot to ask me for them.

But he'll see them at his club. He's gone there now on foot--poor

fellah!"

"I suppose _she's_ with the same party?" grinned the fat Flopsie, as she

held a large piece of bacon dipped in vinegar on her fork, preparatory

to swallowing it with a gulp.

Briggs nodded gravely, "The same! Not a fine man at all, you know--no

leg to speak of, and therefore no form. Legs--_good_ legs--are beauty.

Now, Winsleigh's not bad in that particular,--and I dare say Clara can

hold her own,--but I wouldn't bet on little Francis."

Flopsie shrieked with laughter till she had a "stitch in her side," and

was compelled to restrain her mirth.

"Lor', Mr. Briggs!" she gasped, wiping the moisture from her eyes, "you

are a regular one, aren't you! Mussy on us, you ought to put all wot you

say in the papers--you'd make your fortin!"

"Maybe, maybe, Flopsie," returned Briggs with due dignity. "I will not

deny that there may be wot is called 'sparkle' in my natur. And

'sparkle' is wot is rekwired in polite literatoor. Look at 'Hedmund' and

''Enery!' Sparkle again,--read their magnificent productions, the

_World_ and _Truth_,--all sparkle, every line! It is the secret of

success, Flopsie--be a sparkler and you've got everything before you."

Louise Rénaud looked across at him half-defiantly. Her prim, cruel mouth

hardened into a tight line.

"To spark-el?" she said--"that is what we call _étinceler_--_éclater_.

Yes, I comprehend! Miladi is one spark-el! But one must be a very good

jewel to spark-el always--yes--yes--not a sham!"

And she nodded a great many times, and ate her salad very fast. Briggs

surveyed her with much complacency.

"You are a talented woman, Mamzelle," he said, "very talented! I admire

your ways--I really do!"

Mamzelle smiled with a gratified air, and Briggs settled his wig, eyeing

her anew with fresh interest.

"_Wot_ a witness you would be in a divorce case!" he continued

enthusiastically. "You'd be in your helement!"

"I should--I should indeed!" exclaimed Mamzelle, with sudden

excitement,--then as suddenly growing calm, she made a rapid gesture

with her hands--"But there will be no divorce. Milord Winsleigh is a

fool!"

Briggs appeared doubtful about this, and meditated for a long time over

his third glass of port with the profound gravity of a philosopher.

"No, Mamzelle," he said at last, when he rose from the table to return

to his duties upstairs--"No! there I must differ from you. I am a close

observer. Wotever Winsleigh's faults,--and I do not deny that they are

many,--he is a gentleman--that I _must_ admit--and with _hevery_ respect

for you, Mamzelle--I can assure you he's no fool!"

And with these words Briggs betook himself to the library to arrange the

reading-lamp and put the room in order for his master's return, and as

he did so, he paused to look at a fine photograph of Lady Winsleigh that

stood on the oak escritoire, opposite her husband's arm-chair.

"No," he muttered to himself. "Wotever he thinks of some goings-on, he

ain't blind nor deaf--that's certain. And I'd stake my character and

purfessional reputation on it--wotever he is, he's no fool!"

For once in his life, Briggs was right. He was generally wrong in his

estimate of both persons and things--but it so happened on this

particular occasion that he had formed a perfectly correct judgment.

CHAPTER XIX.

"Could you not drink her gaze like wine?

Yet in its splendor swoon

Into the silence languidly,

As a tune into a tune?"

DANTE ROSSETTI.

On the morning of the twenty-fifth of May, Thelma, Lady Bruce-Errington,

sat at breakfast with her husband in their sun-shiny morning-room,

fragrant with flowers and melodious with the low piping of a tame thrush

in a wild gilded cage, who had the sweet habit of warbling his strophes

to himself very softly now and then, before venturing to give them

full-voiced utterance. A bright-eyed, feathered poet he was, and an

exceeding favorite with his fair mistress, who occasionally leaned back

in her low chair to look at him and murmur an encouraging "Sweet,

sweet!" which caused the speckled plumage on his plump breast to ruffle

up with suppressed emotion and gratitude.

Philip was pretending to read the _Times_, but the huge, self-important

printed sheet had not the faintest interest for him,--his eyes wandered

over the top of its columns to the golden gleam of his wife's hair,

brightened just then by the sunlight streaming through the window,--and

finally he threw it down beside him with a laugh.

"There's no news," he declared. "There never _is_ any news!"

Thelma smiled, and her deep-blue eyes sparkled.

"No?" she half inquired--then taking her husband's cup from his hand to

re-fill it with coffee, she added, "but I think you do not give yourself

time to find the news, Philip. You will never read the papers more than

five minutes."

"My dear girl," said Philip gaily, "I am more conscientious than you

are, at any rate, for you never read them at all!"

"Ah, but you must remember," she returned gravely, "that is because I do

not understand them! I am not clever. They seem to me to be all about

such dull things--unless there is some horrible murder or cruelty or

accident--and I would rather not hear of these. I do prefer books

always--because the books last, and news is never certain--it may not

even be true."

Her husband looked at her fondly; his thoughts were evidently very far

away from newspapers and their contents.

As she met his gaze, the rich color flushed her soft cheeks and her eyes

drooped shyly under their long lashes. Love, with her, had not yet

proved an illusion,--a bright toy to be snatched hastily and played with

for a brief while, and then thrown aside as broken and worthless. It

seemed to her a most marvellous and splendid gift of God, increasing

each day in worth and beauty,--widening upon her soul and dazzling her

life in ever new and expanding circles of glory. She felt as if she

could never sufficiently understand it,--the passionate adoration Philip

lavished upon her, filled her with a sort of innocent wonder and

gratitude, while her own overpowering love and worship of him, sometimes

startled her by its force into a sweet shame and hesitating fear. To her

mind he was all that was great, strong, noble, and beautiful--he was her

master, her king,--and she loved to pay him homage by her exquisite

humility, clinging tenderness, and complete, contented submission. She

was neither weak nor timid,--her character, moulded on grand and simple

lines of duty, saw the laws of Nature in their true light, and accepted

them without question. It seemed to her quite clear that man was the

superior,--woman the inferior, creature--and she could not understand

the possibility of any wife not rendering instant and implicit obedience

to her husband, even in trifles.

Since her wedding-day no dark cloud had crossed her heaven of happiness,

though she had been a little confused and bewildered at first by the

wealth and dainty luxury with which Sir Philip had delighted to surround

her. She had been married quietly at Christiania, arrayed in one of her

own simple white gowns, with no ornament save a cluster of pale

blush-roses, the gift of Lorimer. The ceremony was witnessed by her

father and Errington's friends,--and when it was concluded they had all

gone on their several ways,--old Güldmar for a "toss" on the Bay of

Biscay,--the yacht _Eulalie_, with Lorimer, Macfarlane, and Duprèz on

board, back to England, where these gentlemen had separated to their

respective homes,--while Errington, with his beautiful bride, and Britta

in demure and delighted attendance on her, went straight to Copenhagen.

From there they travelled to Hamburg, and through Germany to the

Schwarzwald, where they spent their honeymoon at a quiet little hotel in

the very heart of the deep-green Forest.

Days of delicious dreaming were these,--days of roaming on the emerald

green turf under the stately and odorous pines, listening to the dash of

the waterfalls, or watching the crimson sunset burning redly through the

darkness of the branches,--and in the moonlit evenings sitting under the

trees to hear the entrancing music of a Hungarian string-band, which

played divine and voluptuous melodies of the land,--"lieder" and

"walzer" that swung the heart away on a golden thread of sound to a

paradise too sweet to name! Days of high ecstacy, and painfully

passionate joy!--when "love, love!" palpitated in the air, and struggled

for utterance in the jubilant throats of birds, and whispered wild

suggestions in the rustling of the leaves! There were times when

Thelma,--lost and amazed and overcome by the strength and sweetness of

the nectar held to her innocent lips by a smiling and flame-winged

Eros,--would wonder vaguely whether she lived indeed, or whether she

were not dreaming some gorgeous dream, too brilliant to last? And even

when her husband's arms most surely embraced her, and her husband's kiss

met hers in all the rapture of victorious tenderness, she would often

question herself as to whether she were worthy of such perfect

happiness, and she would pray in the depths of her pure heart to be made

more deserving of this great and wonderful gift of love--this supreme

joy, almost too vast for her comprehension.

On the other hand, Errington's passion for his wife was equally

absorbing--she had become the very moving-spring of his existence. His

eyes delighted in her beauty,--but more than this, he revelled in and

reverenced the crystal-clear parity and exquisite refinement of her

soul. Life assumed for him a new form,--studied by the light of Thelma's

straightforward simplicity and intelligence, it was no longer, as he had

once been inclined to think, a mere empty routine,--it was a treasure of

inestimable value fraught with divine meanings. Gradually, the touch of

modern cynicism that had at one time threatened to spoil his nature,

dropped away from him like the husk from an ear of corn,--the world

arrayed itself in bright and varying colors--there was good--nay, there

was glory--in everything.

With these ideas, and the healthy satisfaction they engendered, his

heart grew light and joyous,--his eyes more lustrous,--his step gay and

elastic,--and his whole appearance was that of man at his best,--man, as

God most surely meant him to be--not a rebellious, feebly-repining,

sneering wretch, ready to scoff at the very sunlight,--but a being both

brave and intelligent, strong and equally balanced in temperament, and

not only contented, but absolutely glad to be alive,--glad to feel the

blood flowing through the veins,--glad and grateful for the gifts of

breathing and sight.

As each day passed, the more close and perfect grew the sympathies of

husband and wife,--they were like two notes of a perfect chord, sounding

together in sweetest harmony. Naturally, much of this easy and mutual

blending of character and disposition arose from Thelma's own gracious

and graceful submissiveness,--submissiveness which, far from humiliating

her, actually placed her (though she knew it not) on a throne of almost

royal power, before which Sir Philip was content to kneel--an ardent

worshipper of her womanly sweetness. Always without question or demur,

she obeyed his wishes implicitly,--though, as has been before mentioned,

she was at first a little overpowered and startled by the evidences of

his wealth, and did not quite know what to do with all the luxuries and

gifts he heaped upon her. Britta's worldly prognostications had come

true,--the simple gowns her mistress had worn at the Altenfjord were

soon discarded for more costly apparel,--though Sir Philip had an

affection for his wife's Norwegian costumes, and in his heart thought

they were as pretty, if not prettier, than the most perfect triumphs of

a Parisian _modiste_.

But in the social world, Fashion, the capricious deity, must be

followed, if not wholly, yet in part; and so Thelma's straight, plain

garments were laid carefully by as souvenirs of the old days, and were

replaced by toilettes of the most exquisite description,--some

simple,--some costly,--and it was difficult to say in which of them the

lovely wearer looked her best. She herself was indifferent in the

matter--she dressed to please Philip,--if he was satisfied, she was

happy--she sought nothing further. It was Britta whose merry eyes

sparkled with pride and admiration when she saw her "Fröken" arrayed in

gleaming silk or sweeping velvets, with the shine of rare jewels in her

rippling hair,--it was Britta who took care of all the dainty trifles

that gradually accumulated on Thelma's dressing table,--in fact, Britta

had become a very important personage in her own opinion. Dressed neatly

in black, with a coquettish muslin apron and cap becomingly frilled, she

was a very taking little maid, with her demure rosy face and rebellious

curls, though very different to the usual trained spy whose officious

ministrations are deemed so necessary by ladies of position, whose lofty

station in life precludes them from the luxury of brushing their own

hair. Britta's duties were slight--she invented most of them--yet she

was always busy sewing, dusting, packing, or polishing. She was a very

wide-awake little person, too,--no hint was lost upon her,--and she held

her own wherever she went with her bright eyes and sharp tongue. Though

secretly in an unbounded state of astonishment at everything new she

saw, she was too wise to allow this to be noticed, and feigned the

utmost coolness and indifference, even when they went from Germany to

Paris, where the brilliancy and luxury of the shops almost took away her

breath for sheer wonderment.

In Paris, Thelma's wardrobe was completed--a certain Madame Rosine,

famous for "artistic arrangements," was called into requisition, and

viewing with a professional eye the superb figure and majestic carriage

of her new customer, rose to the occasion in all her glory, and resolved

that Miladi Bruce-Errington's dresses should be the wonder and envy of

all who beheld them.

"For," said Madame, with a grand air, "it is to do me justice. That form

so magnificent is worth draping,--it will support my work to the best

advantage. And persons without figures will hasten to me and entreat me

for costumes, and will think that if I dress them I can make them look

as well as Miladi. And they will pay!"--Madame shook her head with much

shrewdness--"_Mon Dieu!_ they will pay!--and that they still look

frightful will not be my fault."

And undoubtedly Madame surpassed her usual skill in all she did for

Thelma,--she took such pains, and was so successful in all her designs,

that "Miladi," who did not as a rule show more than a very ordinary

interest in her toilette, found it impossible not to admire the artistic

taste, harmonious coloring, and exquisite fit of the few choice gowns

supplied to her from the "Maison Rosine"--and only on one occasion had

she any discussion with the celebrated modiste. This was when Madame

herself, with much pride, brought home an evening dress of the very

palest and tenderest sea-green silk, showered with pearls and

embroidered in silver, a perfect _chef-d'oeuvre_ of the dressmaker's

art. The skirt, with its billowy train and peeping folds of delicate

lace, pleased Thelma,--but she could not understand the bodice, and she

held that very small portion of the costume in her hand with an air of

doubt and wonderment. At last she turned her grave blue eyes inquiringly

on Madame.

"It is not finished?" she asked. "Where is the upper part of it and the

sleeves?"

Madame Rosine gesticulated with her hands and smiled.

"Miladi, there is no more!" she declared. "Miladi will perceive it is

for the evening wear--it is _décolletée_--it is to show to everybody

Miladi's most beautiful white neck and arms. The effect will be

ravishing!"

Thelma's face grew suddenly grave--almost stern.

"You must be very wicked!" she said severely, to the infinite amazement

of the vivacious Rosine. "You think I would show myself to people half

clothed? How is it possible! I would not so disgrace myself! It would

bring shame to my husband!"

Madame was almost speechless with surprise. What strange lady was this

who was so dazzlingly beautiful and graceful, and yet so ignorant of the

world's ways? She stared,--but was soon on the defensive.

"Miladi is in a little error!" she said rapidly and with soft

persuasiveness. "It is _la mode_. Miladi has perhaps lived in a country

where the fashions are different. But if she will ask the most amiable

Sieur Bruce-Errington, she will find that her dress is quite in keeping

with _les convenances_."

A pained blush crimsoned Thelma's fair cheek. "I do not like to ask my

husband such a thing," she said slowly, "but I must. For I could not

wear this dress without shame. I cannot think he would wish me to appear

in it as you have made it--but--" She paused, and taking up the

objectionable bodice, she added gently--"You will kindly wait here,

madame, and I will see what Sir Philip says."

And she retired, leaving the _modiste_ in a state of much astonishment,

approaching resentment. The idea was outrageous,--a woman with such

divinely fair skin,--a woman with the bosom of a Venus, and arms of a

shape to make sculptors rave,--and yet she actually wished to hide these

beauties from the public gaze! It was ridiculous--utterly

ridiculous,--and Madame sat fuming impatiently, and sniffing the air in

wonder and scorn. Meanwhile Thelma, with flushing cheeks and lowered

eyes, confided her difficulty to Philip, who surveyed the shocking

little bodice she brought for his inspection with a gravely amused, but

very tender smile.

"There certainly doesn't seem much of it, does there, darling?" he said.

"And so you don't like it?"

"No," she confessed frankly--"I think I should feel quite undressed in

it. I often wear just a little opening at the throat--but this--! Still,

Philip, I must not displease you--and I will always wear what you wish,

even if it is uncomfortable to myself."

"Look here, my pet," and he encircled her waist fondly with his arm,

"Rosine is quite right. The thing's perfectly fashionable,--and there

isn't a woman in society who wouldn't be perfectly charmed with it. But

your ideas are better than Rosine's and all society's put together. Obey

your own womanly instinct, Thelma!"

"But what do _you_ wish?" she asked earnestly. "You must tell me. It is

to please you that I live."

He kissed her. "You want me to issue a command about the affair?" he

said half laughingly.

She smiled up into his eyes. "Yes!--and I will obey!"

"Very well! Now listen!" and he held her by both hands, and looked with

sudden gravity into her sweet face--"Thelma, my wife, thus sayeth your

lord and master,--despise the vulgar indecencies of fashion, and you

will gratify me more than words can say;--keep your pure and beautiful

self sacred from the profaning gaze of the multitude,--sacred to me and

my love for you, and I shall be the proudest man living! Finally,"--and

he smiled again--"give Rosine back this effort at a bodice, and tell her

to make something more in keeping with the laws of health and modesty.

And Thelma--one more kiss! You are a darling!"

She laughed softly and left him, returning at once to the irate

dressmaker who waited for her.

"I am sorry," she said very sweetly, "to have called you wicked! You

see, I did not understand! But though this style of dress is

fashionable, I do not wish to wear it--so you will please make me

another bodice, with a small open square at the throat, and

elbow-sleeves,--and you will lose nothing at all--for I shall pay you

for this one just the same. And you must quite pardon me for my mistake

and hasty words!"

Maladi's manner was so gracious and winning, that Madame Rosine found it

impossible not to smile in a soothed and mollified way,--and though she

deeply regretted that so beautiful a neck and arms were not to be

exposed to public criticism, she resigned herself to the inevitable, and

took away the offending bodice, replacing it in a couple of days by one

much prettier and more becoming by reason of its perfect modesty.

On leaving Paris, Sir Philip had taken his wife straight home to his

fine old Manor in Warwickshire. Thelma's delight in her new abode was

unbounded--the stately oaks that surrounded it,--the rose-gardens, the

conservatories,--the grand rooms, with their fine tapestries, oak

furniture, and rare pictures,--the splendid library, the long, lofty

drawing-rooms, furnished and decorated after the style of Louis

Quinze,--all filled her with a tender pride and wistful admiration. This

was Philip's home! and she was here to make it bright and glad for

him!--she could imagine no fairer fate. The old servants of the place

welcomed their new mistress with marked respect and evident astonishment

at her beauty, though, when they knew her better, they marvelled still

more at her exceeding gentleness and courtesy. The housekeeper, a

stately white-haired dame, who had served the former Lady Errington,

declared she was "an angel"--while the butler swore profoundly that "he

knew what a queen was like at last!"

The whole household was pervaded with an affectionate eagerness to

please her, though, perhaps, the one most dazzled by her entrancing

smile and sweet consideration for his comfort was Edward Neville, Sir

Philip's private secretary and librarian,--a meek, mild-featured man of

some five and forty years old, whose stooping shoulders, grizzled hair,

and weak eyes gave him an appearance of much greater age. Thelma was

particularly kind to Neville, having heard his history from her husband.

It was brief and sad. He had married a pretty young girl whom he had

found earning a bare subsistence as a singer in provincial

music-halls,--loving her, he had pitied her unprotected state, and had

rescued her from the life she led--but after six months of comparative

happiness, she had suddenly deserted him, leaving no clue as to where or

why she had gone. His grief for her loss, weighed heavily upon his

mind--he brooded incessantly upon it--and though his profession was that

of a music master and organist, he grew so abstracted and inattentive to

the claims of the few pupils he had, that they fell away from him one by

one--and, after a bit, he lost his post as organist to the village

church as well. This smote him deeply, for he was passionately fond of

music, and was, moreover, a fine player,--and it was at this stage of

his misfortunes that he met by chance Bruce-Errington. Philip, just

then, was almost broken-hearted--his father and mother had died suddenly

within a week of one another,--and he, finding the blank desolation of

his home unbearable, was anxious to travel abroad for a time, so soon as

he could find some responsible person in whose hands to leave the charge

of the Manor, with its invaluable books and pictures, during his

absence.

Hearing Neville's history through a mutual friend, he decided, with his

usual characteristic impulse, that here was the very man for him--a

gentleman by birth, rumored to be an excellent scholar,--and he at once

offered him the post he had in view,--that of private secretary at a

salary of 200 pounds per annum. The astonished Neville could not at

first believe in his good fortune, and began to stammer forth his

gratitude with trembling lips and moistening eyes,--but Errington cut

him short by declaring the whole thing settled, and desiring him to

enter on his duties at once. He was forthwith installed in his

position,--a highly enviable one for a man of his dreamy and meditative

turn of mind. To him, literature and music were precious as air and

light, he handled the rare volumes on the Errington book-shelves with

lingering tenderness, and often pored over some difficult manuscript, or

dusty folio till long past midnight, almost forgetful of his griefs in

the enchantment thus engendered. Nor did he lack his supreme comforter,

music,--there was a fine organ at the lower end of the long library, and

seated at his beloved instrument, he wiled away many an hour,--steeping

his soul in the divine and solemn melodies of Palestrina and Pergolesi,

till the cruel sorrow that had darkened his life seemed nothing but a

bad dream, and the face of his wife as he had first known it, fair,

trustful, and plaintive, floated before his eyes unchanged, and arousing

in him the old foolish throbbing emotions of rapture and passion that

had gladdened the bygone days.

He never lost the hope of meeting her again, and from time to time he

renewed his search for her, though all uselessly--he studied the daily

papers with an almost morbid anxiety lest he should see the notice of

her death--and he would even await each post with a heart beating more

rapidly than usual, in case there should be some letter from her,

imploring forgiveness, explaining everything, and summoning him once

more to her side. He found a true and keenly sympathizing friend in Sir

Philip, to whom he became profoundly attached,--to satisfy his wishes,

to forward his interests, to attend to his affairs with punctilious

exactitude--all this gave Neville the supremest happiness. He felt some

slight doubt and anxiety, when he first received the sudden announcement

of his patron's marriage,--but all forebodings as to the character and

disposition of the new Lady Bruce-Errington fled like mist before

sunshine, when he saw Thelma's fair face and felt her friendly

hand-clasp.

Every morning on her way to the breakfast-room, she would look in at the

door of his little study, which adjoined the library, and he learned to

watch for the first glimmer of her dress, and to listen for her bright

"Good morning, Mr. Neville!" with a sensation of the keenest pleasure.

It was a sort of benediction on the whole day. A proud man was he when

she asked him to give her lessons on the organ,--and never did he forget

the first time he heard her sing. He was playing an exquisite "Ave

Maria," by Stradella, and she, standing by her husband's side was

listening, when she suddenly exclaimed--

"Why, we used to sing that at Arles!"--and her rich, round voice pealed

forth clear, solemn, and sweet, following with pure steadiness the

sustained notes of the organ. Neville's heart thrilled,--he heard her

with a sort of breathless wonder and rapture, and when she ceased, it

seemed as though heaven had closed upon him.

"One cannot praise such a voice as that!" he said. "It would be a kind

of sacrilege. It is divine!"

After this, many were the pleasant musical evenings they all passed

together in the grand old library, and,--as Mrs. Rush-Marvelle had so

indignantly told her husband,--no visitors were invited to the Manor

during that winter. Errington was perfectly happy--he wanted no one but

his wife, and the idea of entertaining a party of guests who would most

certainly interfere with his domestic enjoyment, seemed almost abhorrent

to him. The county-people called,--but missed seeing Thelma, for during

the daytime she was always out with her husband taking long walks and

rambling excursions to the different places hallowed by Shakespeare's

presence,--and when she, instructed by Sir Philip, called on the

county-people, they also seemed to be never at home.

And so, as yet, she had made no acquaintances, and now that she had been

married eight months and had come to London, the same old story repeated

itself. People called on her in the afternoon just at the time when she

went out driving,--when she returned their visits, she, in her turn,

found them absent. She did not as yet understand the mystery of having

"a day" on which to receive visitors in shoals--a day on which to drink

unlimited tea, talk platitudes, and utterly bored and exhausted at the

end thereof--in fact, she did not see the necessity of knowing many

people,--her husband was all-sufficient for her,--to be in his society

was all she cared for. She left her card at different houses because he

told her to do so, but this social duty amused her immensely.

"It is like a game!" she declared, laughing, "some one comes and leaves

these little cards which explain who _they_ are, on _me_,--then I go and

leave _my_ little cards and yours, explaining who _we_ are on that some

one--and we keep on doing this, yet we never see each other by any

chance! It is so droll!"

Errington did not feel called upon to explain what was really the

fact,--namely, that none of the ladies who had left cards on his wife

had given her the option of their "at home" day on which to call,--he

did not think it necessary to tell her what he knew very well, that his

"set," both in county and town, had resolved to "snub" her in every

petty fashion they could devise,--that he had already received several

invitations which, as they did not include her, he had left

unanswered,--and that the only house to which she had as yet been really

asked in proper form was that of Lady Winsleigh. He was more amused than

vexed at the resolute stand made by the so-called "leaders" of society

against her, knowing as he did, most thoroughly, how she must conquer

them all in the end. She had been seen nowhere as yet but in the Park,

and Philip had good reason to be contented with the excitement her

presence had created there,--but he was a little astonished at Lady

Winsleigh's being the first to extend a formal welcome to his unknown

bride. Her behavior seemed to him a little suspicious,--for he certainly

could not disguise from himself that she had at one time been most

violently and recklessly in love with him. He recollected one or two

most painful scenes he had had with her, in which he had endeavored to

recall her to a sense of the duty she owed to her husband,--and his face

often flushed with vexation when he thought of her wild and wicked

abandonment of despair, her tears, her passion, and distracted,

dishonoring words. Yet she was the very woman who now came forward in

the very front of society to receive his wife!--he could not quite

understand it. After all, he was a man,--and the sundry artful tricks

and wiles of fashionable ladies were, naturally, beyond him. Thelma had

never met Lady Winsleigh--not even for a passing glance in the

Park,--and when she received the invitation for the grand reception at

Winsleigh House, she accepted it, because her husband wished her so to

do, not that she herself anticipated any particular pleasure from it.

When the day came round at last she scarcely thought of it, till at the

close of their pleasant breakfast _tête-à-tête_ described at the

commencement of this chapter, Philip suddenly said,--"By-the-by, Thelma,

I have sent to the bank for the Errington diamonds. They'll be here

presently. I want you to wear them to-night."