Thelma looked puzzled and inquiring. "To-night? What is it that we do? I

forget! Oh! now I know--it is to go to Lady Winsleigh. What will it be

like, Philip?"

"Well, there'll be heaps of people all cramming and crowding up the

stairs and down them again,--you'll see all those women who have called

on you, and you'll be introduced to them,--I dare say there'll be some

bad music and an indigestible supper--and--and--that's all!"

She laughed and shook her head reproachfully. "I cannot believe you, my

naughty boy!" she said, rising from her seat, and kneeling beside him

with arms round his neck, and soft eyes gazing lovingly into his. "You

are nearly as bad as that very bad Mr. Lorimer, who will always see

strange vexations in everything! I am quite sure Lady Winsleigh will not

have crowds up and down her stairs,--that would be bad taste. And if she

has music, it will be good--and she would not give her friends a supper

to make them ill."

Philip did not answer. He was studying every delicate tint in his wife's

dazzling complexion and seemed absorbed.

"Wear that one gown you got from Worth," he said abruptly. "I like

it--it suits you."

"Of course I will wear it if you wish," she answered, laughing still.

"But why? What does it matter? You want me to be something very splendid

in dress to-night?"

Philip drew a deep breath. "I want you to eclipse every woman in the

room!" he said with remarkable emphasis.

She grew rather pensive. "I do not think that would be pleasant," she

said gravely. "Besides, it is impossible. And it would be wrong to wish

me to make every one else dissatisfied with themselves. That is not like

you, my Philip!"

He touched with tender fingers the great glistening coil of hair that

was twisted up at the top of her graceful head.

"Ah, darling! You don't know what a world it is, and what very queer

people there are in it! Never mind! . . . don't bother yourself about

it. You'll have a good bird's-eye view of society tonight, and you shall

tell me afterwards how you like it. I shall be curious to know what you

think of Lady Winsleigh."

"She is beautiful, is she not?"

"Well, she is considered so by most of her acquaintances, and by

herself," he returned with a smile.

"I do like to see very pretty faces," said Thelma warmly; "it is as if

one looked at pictures. Since I have been in London I have seen so many

of them--it is quite pleasant. Yet none of these lovely ladies seem to

me as if they were really happy or strong in health."

"Half of them have got nervous diseases and all sorts of things wrong

with them from over-much tea and tight lacing," replied Errington, "and

the few who _are_ tolerably healthy are too bouncing by half, going in

for hunting and such-like amusements till they grow blowsy and fat, and

coarse as tom-boys or grooms. They can never hit the _juste milieu_.

Well!" and he rose from the breakfast-table. "I'll go and see Neville

and attend to business. We'll drive out this afternoon for some fresh

air, and afterwards you must rest, my pet--for you'll find an 'at home'

more tiring than climbing a mountain in Norway."

He kissed, and left her to her usual occupations, of which she had many,

for she had taken great pains to learn all the details of the work in

the Errington Establishment,--in fact, she went every morning to the

little room where Mistress Parton, the housekeeper, received her with

much respect and affection, and duly instructed her on every point of

the domestic management and daily expenditure, so that she was

thoroughly acquainted with everything that went on.

She had very orderly quiet ways of her own, and though thoughtful for

the comfort and well-being of the lowest servant in her household she

very firmly checked all extravagance and waste, yet in such a gentle,

unobtrusive manner that her control was scarcely felt--though her

husband at once recognized it in the gradually decreasing weekly

expenses, while to all appearance, things were the same as ever. She had

plenty of clear, good common sense,--she saw no reason why she should

waste her husband's wealth simply because it was abundant,--so that

under her mild sway, Sir Philip found himself getting richer without any

trouble on his own part. His house assumed an air of lighter and more

tasteful elegance,--flowers, always arranged by Thelma herself, adorned

the rooms,--birds filled the great conservatory with their delicious

warblings, and gradually that strange fairy sweet fabric known as "Home"

rose smilingly around him. Formerly he had much disliked his stately

town mansion--he had thought it dull and cold--almost gloomy,--but now

he considered it charming, and wondered he had missed so many of its

good points before.

And when the evening for Lady Winsleigh's "crush" came,--he looked

regretfully round the lovely luxurious drawing-room with its bright

fire, deep easy chairs, books, and grand piano, and wished he and his

wife could remain at home in peace. He glanced at his watch--it was ten

o'clock. There was no hurry--he had not the least intention of arriving

at Winsleigh House too early. He knew what the effect of Thelma's

entrance would be--and he smiled as he thought of it. He was waiting for

her now,--he himself was ready in full evening dress--and remarkably

handsome he looked. He walked up and down restlessly for a minute or

so,--then taking up a volume of Keats, he threw himself into an easy

chair and soon became absorbed. His eyes were still on the printed page,

when a light touch on his shoulder startled him,--a soft, half-laughing

voice inquired--"Philip! Do I please you?"

He sprang up and faced her,--but for a moment could not speak. The

perfection of her beauty had never ceased to arouse his wonder and

passionate admiration,--but on this night, as she stood before him,

arrayed in a simple, trailing robe of ivory-tinted velvet, with his

family diamonds flashing in a tiara of light on her hair, glistening

against the whiteness of her throat and rounded arms, she looked

angelically lovely--so radiant, so royal, and withal so innocently

happy, that, wistfully gazing at her, and thinking of the social clique

into which she was about to make her entry, he wondered vaguely whether

he was not wrong to take so pure and fair a creature among the false

glitter and reckless hypocrisy of modern fashion and folly. And so he

stood silent, till Thelma grew anxious.

"Ah, you are not satisfied!" she said plaintively. "I am not as you

wish! There is something wrong."

He drew her closely into his arms, kissing her with an almost pathetic

tenderness.

"Thelma, my love, my sweet one!" and his strong voice trembled. "You do

not know--how should you? what I think of you! Satisfied? Pleased? Good

Heavens--what little words those are to express my feelings! I can tell

you how you look, for nothing can ever make _you_ vain. You are

beautiful! . . . you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and

you look your very best tonight. But you are more than beautiful--you

are good and pure and true, while society is--But why should I destroy

your illusions? Only, my wife,--we have been all in all to each

other,--and now I have a foolish feeling as if things were going to be

different--as if we should not be so much together--and I wish--I wish

to God I could keep you all to myself without anybody's interference!"

She looked at him in wonder, though she smiled.

"But you have changed, my boy, since the morning," she said. "Then you

did wish me to be particular in dress,--and to wear your jewels, for

this Lady Winsleigh. Now your eyes are sad, and you seem as if you would

rather not go at all. Well, is it not easy to remain at home? I will

take off these fine things, and we will sit together and read. Shall it

be so?"

He laughed. "I believe you would do it if I asked you!" he said.

"But, of course! I am quite happy alone with you. I care nothing for

this party,--what is it to me if you do not wish to go?"

He kissed her again. "Thelma, don't spoil me too much! If you let me

have my own way to such an extent, who knows what an awful domestic

tyrant I may become! No, dear--we must go tonight--there's no help for

it. You see we've accepted the invitation, and it's no use being

churlish. Besides, after all"--he gazed at her admiringly--"I want them

to see my Norwegian rose! Come along! The carriage is waiting."

They passed out into the hall, where Britta was in attendance with a

long cloak of pale-blue plush lined with white fur, in which she

tenderly enveloped her beloved "Fröken," her rosy face beaming with

affectionate adoration as she glanced from the fair diamond-crowned head

down to the point of a small pearl-embroidered shoe that peeped beneath

the edge of the rich, sheeny white robe, and saw that nothing was

lacking to the most perfect toilette that ever woman wore.

"Good-night, Britta!" said Thelma kindly. "You must not sit up for me.

You will be tired."

Britta smiled--it was evident she meant to outwatch the stars, if

necessary, rather than allow her mistress to be unattended on her

return. But she said nothing--she waited at the door while Philip

assisted his wife into the carriage--and still stood musingly under the

wide portico, after they had driven away.

"Hadn't you better come in, Miss Britta?" said the butler

respectfully,--he had a great regard for her ladyship's little maid.

Britta, recalled to herself, started, turned, and re-entered the hall.

"There will be many fine folks there to-night, I suppose?" she asked.

The butler rubbed his nose perplexedly. "Fine folks at Winsleigh House?

Well, as far as clothes go, I dare say there will. But there'll be no

one like her ladyship--no one!" And he shook his grey head emphatically.

"Of course not!" said Britta, with a sort of triumphant defiance. "We

know that very well, Morris! There's no one like her ladyship anywhere

in the wide world! But I tell you what--I think a great many people will

be jealous of her."

Morris smiled. "You may take your oath of that, Miss Britta," he said

with placid conviction. "Jealous! Jealous isn't the word for it! Why,"

and he surveyed Britta's youthful countenance with fatherly interest,

"you're only a child as it were, and you don't know the world much. Now,

I've been five and twenty years in this family, and I knew Sir Philip's

mother, the Lady _Eulalie_--he named his yacht after her. Ah! she was a

sweet creature--she came from Austria, and she was as dark as her

present ladyship is fair. Wherever she went, I tell you, the women were

ready to cry for spite and envy of her good looks--and they would say

anything against her they could invent. That's the way they go on

sometimes in society, you know."

"As bad as in Bosekop," murmured Britta, more to herself than to him,

"only London is a larger place." Then raising her voice again, she said,

"Perhaps there will be some people wicked enough to hate her ladyship,

Morris?"

"I shouldn't wonder," said Morris philosophically. "I shouldn't wonder

at all! There's a deal of hate about one way or another,--and if a lady

is as beautiful as an angel, and cuts out everybody wherever she goes,

why you can't expect the other ladies to be very fond of her. 'Tisn't in

human nature--at least not in feminine human nature. Men don't care much

about their looks, one way or the other, unless they're young

chaps--then one has a little patience with them and they come all

right."

But Britta had become meditative again. She went slowly up into her

mistress's room and began arranging the few trifles that had been left

in disorder.

"Just fancy!"--she said to herself--"some one may hate the Fröken even

in London just as they hated her in Bosekop, because she is so unlike

everybody else. _I_ shall keep my eyes open,--and _I_ shall soon find

out any wickedness against her! My beautiful, dear darling! I believe

the world is a cruel place after all,--but _she_ shan't be made unhappy

in it, if I can help it!"

And with this emphatic declaration, she kissed a little shoe of Thelma's

that she was just putting by--and, smoothing her curls, went down to her

supper.

CHAPTER XX.

"Such people there are living and flourishing in the

world,--Faithless, Hopeless, Charityless,--let us have at them,

dear friends, with might and main!"--THACKERAY.

Who can adequately describe the thrilling excitement attending an

aristocratic "crush,"--an extensive, sweeping-off-of-old-cores "at

home,"--that scene of bewildering confusion which might be appropriately

set forth to the minds of the vulgar in the once-popular ditty, "Such a

getting-up-stairs I never did see!" Who can paint in sufficiently

brilliant colors the mere _outside_ of a house thus distinguished by

this strange festivity, in which there is no actual pleasure,--this

crowding of carriages--this shouting of small boys and policemen?--who

can, in words, delineate the various phases of lofty indignation and

offense on the countenances of pompous coachmen, forced into contention

with vulgar but good-natured "cabbys"--for right of way? . . . who can

sufficiently set forth the splendors of a striped awning avenue, lined

on both sides with a collection of tropical verdure, hired for the

occasion at so much per dozen pots, and illuminated with Chinese

lanterns! Talk of orange groves in Italy and the languid light of a

southern moon! What are they compared to the marvels of striped awning?

Mere trees--mere moonlight--(poor products of Nature!) do not excite

either wonder or envy--but, strange to say, an awning avenue invariably

does! As soon as it is erected in all its bland suggestiveness, no

matter at what house, a small crowd of street-arabs and nursemaids

collect to stare at it,--and when tired of staring, pass and repass

under it with peculiar satisfaction; the beggar, starving for a crust,

lingers doubtfully near it, and ventures to inquire of the

influenza-smitten crossing-sweeper whether it is a wedding or a party?

And if Awning Avenue means matrimony, the beggar waits to see the guests

come out; if, on the contrary, it stands for some evening festivity, he

goes, resolving to return at the appointed hour, and try if he cannot

persuade one "swell" at least to throw him a penny for his night's

supper. Yes--a great many people endure sharp twinges of discontent at

the sight of Awning Avenue,--people who can't afford to give parties,

and who wish they could,--pretty, sweet girls who never go to a dance in

their lives, and long with all their innocent hearts for a

glimpse,--just _one_ glimpse!--of what seems to them inexhaustible,

fairy-like delight,--lonely folks, who imagine in their simplicity that

all who are privileged to pass between the lines of hired tropical

foliage aforementioned, must perforce be the best and most united of

friends--hungry men and women who picture, with watering mouths, the

supper-table that lies _beyond_ the awning, laden with good things, of

the very names of which they are hopelessly ignorant,--while now and

then a stern, dark-browed Thinker or two may stalk by and metaphorically

shake his fist at all the waste, extravagance, useless luxury, humbug,

and hypocrisy Awning Avenue usually symbolizes, and may mutter in his

beard, like an old-fashioned tragedian, "A time _will_ come!" Yes, Sir

Thinker!--it will most undoubtedly--it _must_--but not through you--not

through any mere human agency. Modern society contains within itself the

seed of its own destruction,--the most utter Nihilist that ever swore

deadly oath need but contain his soul in patience and allow the seed to

ripen. For God's justice is as a circle that slowly surrounds an evil

and as slowly closes on it with crushing and resistless force,--and

feverish, fretting humanity, however nobly inspired, can do nothing

either to hasten or retard the round, perfect, absolute and Divine Law.

So let the babes of the world play on, and let us not frighten them with

stories of earthquakes; they are miserable enough as it is, believe

it!--their toys are so brittle, and snap in their feeble hands so

easily, that one is inclined to pity them! And Awning Avenue, with its

borrowed verdure and artificial light, is frequently erected for the use

of some of the most wretched among the children of the earth,--children

who have trifled with and lost everything,--love, honor, hope, and

faith, and who are travelling rapidly to the grave with no consolation

save a few handfuls, of base coin, which they must, perforce, leave

behind them at the last.

So it may be that the crippled crossing-sweeper outside Winsleigh House

is a very great deal happier than the master of that stately mansion. He

has a new broom,--and Master Ernest Winsleigh has given him two oranges,

and a rather bulky stick of sugar candy. He is a _protégé_ of

Ernest's--that bright handsome boy considers it a "jolly shame"--to have

only one leg,--and has said so with much emphasis,--and though the

little sweeper himself has never regarded his affliction quite in that

light, he is exceedingly grateful for the young gentleman's patronage

and sympathy thus frankly expressed. And on this particular night of the

grand reception he stands, leaning on his broom and munching his candy,

a delighted spectator of the scene in Park Lane,--the splendid

equipages, the prancing horses, the glittering liveries, the excited

cabmen, the magnificent toilettes of the ladies, the solemn and resigned

deportment of the gentlemen,--and he envies none of them--not he! Why

should he? His oranges are in his pocket--untouched as yet--and it is

doubtful whether the crowding guests at the Winsleigh supper-table shall

find anything there to yield them such entire enjoyment as he will

presently take in his humble yet refreshing desert. And he is pleased as

a child at a pantomime--the Winsleigh "at home" is a show that amuses

him,--and he makes sundry remarks on "'im" and "'er" in a meditative

_sotto voce_. He peeps up Awning Avenue heedless of the severe eye of

the policeman on guard,--he sweeps the edge of the crimson felt

foot-cloth tenderly with his broom,--and if he has a desire ungratified,

it is that he might take a peep just for a minute inside the front door,

and see how "they're all a'goin' it!"

And how _are_ they a'goin' it! Well, not very hilariously, if one may

judge by the aspect of the gentlemen in the hall and on the

stairs,--gentlemen of serious demeanor, who are leaning, as though

exhausted, against the banisters, with a universal air of profound

weariness and dissatisfaction. Some of these are young fledglings of

manhood,--callow birds who, though by no means innocent,--are more or

less inexperienced,--and who have fluttered hither to the snare of Lady

Winsleigh's "at home," half expecting to be allowed to make love to

their hostess, and so have something to boast of afterwards,--others are

of the middle-aged complacent type, who, though infinitely bored, have

condescended to "look in" for ten minutes or so, to see if there are any

pretty women worth the honor of their criticism--others again (and these

are the most unfortunate) are the "nobodies"--or husbands, fathers, and

brothers of "beauties," whom they have dutifully escorted to the scene

of triumph, in which they, unlucky wights! are certainly not expected to

share. A little desultory conversation goes on among these

stair-loungers,--conversation mingled with much dreary yawning,--a

trained opera-singer is shaking forth chromatic roulades and trills in

the great drawing-room above,--there is an incessant stream of people

coming and going,--there is the rustle of silk and satin,--perfume,

shaken out of lace kerchiefs, and bouquets oppresses the warm air,--the

heat is excessive,--and there is a never-ending monotonous hum of

voices, only broken at rare intervals by the "society laugh"--that

unmeaning giggle on the part of the women,--that strained "ha, ha, ha!"

on the part of the men, which is but the faint ghostly echo of the

farewell voice of true mirth.

Presently, out of the ladies' cloak-room come two fascinating

figures--the one plump and matronly, with grey hair and a capacious neck

glittering with diamonds,--the other a slim girl in pale pink, with dark

eyes and a ravishing complexion, for whom the lazy gentlemen on the

stairs make immediate and respectful room.

"How d'ye do, Mrs. Van Clupp?" says one of the loungers.

"Glad to see you, Miss Marcia!" says another, a sandy-haired young man,

with a large gardenia in his button-hole, and a glass in his eye.

At the sound of his voice Miss Marcia stops and regards him with a

surprised smile. She is very pretty, is Marcia,--bewitchingly

pretty,--and she has an air of demure grace and modesty about her that

is perfectly charming. Why? oh, why does she not remain in that

sylph-like, attitude of questioning silence? But she speaks--and the

charm is broken.

"Waal now! Dew tell!" she exclaims. "I thought yew were in Pa-ar--is!

Ma, would yew have concluded to find Lord Algy here? This is _too_

lovely! If I'd known _yew_ were coming I'd have stopped at home--yes, I

would--that's so!"

And she nods her little head, crowned with its glossy braids of chestnut

hair, in a very coquettish manner, while her mother, persistently

beaming a stereotyped company smile on all around her, begins to ascend

the stairs, beckoning her daughter to follow. Marcia does so, and Lord

Algernon Masherville escorts her.

"You--you didn't mean that!" he stammers rather feebly--"You--you don't

mind my being here, do you? I'm--I'm _awfully_ glad to see you again,

you know--and--er--all that sort of thing!"

Marcia darts a keen glance at him,--the glance of an observant,

clear-headed magpie.

"Oh yes! I dare say!" she remarks with airy scorn. "S'pect _me_ to

believe _yew_! Waal! Did yew have a good time in Pa-ar--is?"

"Fairly so," answers Lord Masherville indifferently. "I only came back

two days ago. Lady Winsleigh met me by chance at the theatre, and asked

me to look in to-night for 'some fun' she said. Have you any idea what

she meant?"

"Of course!" says the fair New Yorker, with a little nasal

laugh,--"don't _yew_ know? We're all here to see the fisherwoman from

the wilds of Norway,--the creature Sir Philip Errington married last

year. I conclude she'll give us fits all round, don't yew?"

Lord Masherville, at this, appears to hesitate. His eye-glass troubles

him, and he fidgets with its black string. He is not intellectual--he is

the most vacillating, most meek and timid of mortals--but he is a

gentleman in his own poor fashion, and has a sort of fluttering chivalry

about him, which, though feeble, is better than none.

"I really cannot tell you, Miss Marcia," he replies almost nervously. "I

hear--at the Club,--that--that Lady Bruce-Errington is a great beauty."

"Dew tell!" shrieks Marcia, with a burst of laughter. "Is she really

though! But I guess her looks won't mend her grammar any way!"

He makes no reply, as by this time they have reached the crowded

drawing-room, where Lady Winsleigh, radiant in ruby velvet and

rose-brilliants, stands receiving her guests, with a cool smile and nod

for mere acquaintances,--and a meaning flash of her dark eyes for her

intimates, and a general air of haughty insolence and perfect

self-satisfaction pervading her from head to foot. Close to her is her

husband, grave, courtly, and kind to all comers, and fulfilling his duty

as host to perfection,--still closer is Sir Francis Lennox, who in the

pauses of the incoming tide of guests finds occasion to whisper trifling

nothings in her tiny white ear, and even once ventures to arrange more

tastefully a falling cluster of pale roses that rests lightly on the

brief shoulder-strap (called by courtesy a sleeve) which, keeps her

ladyship's bodice in place.

Mrs. Rush-Marvelle is here too, in all her glory,--her good-humored

countenance and small nose together beam with satisfaction,--her

voluminous train of black satin showered with jet gets in everybody's

way,--her ample bosom heaves like the billowy sea, somewhat above the

boundary line of transparent lace that would fain restrain it--but in

this particular she is prudence itself compared with her hostess, whose

charms are exhibited with the unblushing frankness of a

ballet-girl,--and whose example is followed, it must be confessed, by

most of the women in the room. Is Mr. Rush-Marvelle here? Oh yes--after

some little trouble we discover him,--squeezed against the wall and

barricaded by the grand piano,--in company with a large album, over

which he pores, feigning an almost morbid interest in the portraits of

persons he has never seen, and never will see. Beside him is a

melancholy short man with long hair and pimples, who surveys the

increasing crowd in the room with an aspect that is almost tragic. Once

or twice he eyes Mr. Marvelle dubiously as though he would speak--and,

finally, he _does_ speak, tapping that album-entranced gentleman on the

arm with an energy that is somewhat startling.

"It is to blay I am here!" he announces. "To blay ze biano! I am great

artist!" He rolls his eyes wildly and with a sort of forced calmness

proceeds to enumerate on his fingers--"Baris, Vienna, Rome, Berlin, St.

Betersburg--all know me! All resbect me! See!" And he holds out his

button-hole in which there is a miniature red ribbon. "From ze Emberor!

Kaiser Wilhelm!" He exhibits a ring on his little finger. "From ze

Tsar!" Another rapid movement and a pompous gold watch is thrust before

the bewildered gaze of his listener. "From my bubils in Baris! I am

bianist--I am here to blay!"

And raking his fingers through his long locks, he stares defiantly

around him. Mr. Rush-Marvelle is a little frightened. This is an

eccentric personage--he must be soothed. Evidently he must be soothed!

"Yes, yes, I quite understand!" he says, nodding persuasively at the

excited genius. "You are here to play. Exactly! Yes, yes! We shall all

have the pleasure of hearing you presently. Delightful, I'm sure! You

are the celebrated Herr--?"

"Machtenklinken," adds the pianist haughtily. "Ze celebrated

Machtenklinken!"

"Yes--oh--er,--yes!" And Mr. Marvelle grapples desperately with this

terrible name. "Oh--er--yes! I--er know you by reputation

Herr--er--Machten--. Oh, er--yes! Pray excuse me for a moment!"

And thankfully catching the commanding eye of his wife, he scrambles

hastily away from the piano and joins her. She is talking to the Van

Clupps, and she wants him to take away Mr. Van Clupp, a white-headed,

cunning-looking old man, for a little conversation, in order that she

may be free to talk over certain naughty bits of scandal with Mrs. Van

Clupp and Marcia.

To-night there is no place to sit down in all the grand extent of the

Winsleigh drawing-rooms,--puffy old dowagers occupy the sofas, ottomans,

and chairs, and the largest and most brilliant portion of the assemblage

are standing, grinning into each other's faces with praiseworthy and

polite pertinacity, and talking as rapidly as though their lives

depended on how many words they could utter within the space of two

minutes. Mrs. Rush-Marvelle, Mrs. Van Clupp and Marcia make their way

slowly through the gabbling, pushing, smirking crowd till they form a

part of the little _coterie_ immediately round Lady Winsleigh, to whom,

at the first opportunity, Mrs. Marvelle whispers--

"Have they come?"

"The modern Paris and the new Helen?" laughs Lady Clara, with a shrug of

her snowy shoulders. "No, not yet. Perhaps they won't turn up at all!

Marcia dear, you look _quite_ charming! Where is Lord Algy?"

"I guess he's not a thousand miles away!" returns Marcia, with a knowing

twinkle of her dark eyes. "He'll hang round here presently!

Why,--there's Mr. Lorimer worrying in at the doorway!"

"Worrying in" is scarcely the term to apply to the polite but determined

manner in which George Lorimer coolly elbows a passage among the heaving

bare shoulders, backs, fat arms, and long trains that seriously obstruct

his passage, but after some trouble he succeeds in his efforts to reach

his fair hostess, who receives him with rather a supercilious uplifting

of her delicate eyebrows.

"Dear me, Mr. Lorimer, you are quite a stranger!" she observes somewhat

satirically. "We thought you had made up your mind to settle in Norway!"

"Did you really, though!" and Lorimer smiles languidly. "I wonder at

that,--for you knew I came back from that region in the August of last

year."

"And since then I suppose you have played the hermit?" inquires her

ladyship indifferently, unfurling her fan of ostrich feathers and waving

it slowly to and fro.

"By no means! I went off to Scotland with a friend, Alec Macfarlane, and

had some excellent shooting. Then, as I never permit my venerable mamma

to pass the winter in London, I took her to Nice, from which delightful

spot we returned three weeks ago."

Lady Winsleigh laughs. "I did not ask you for a categorical explanation

of your movements, Mr. Lorimer," she says lightly--"I'm sure I hope you

enjoyed yourself?"

He bows gravely. "Thanks! Yes,--strange to say, I _did_ manage to

extract a little pleasure here and there out of the universal dryness of

things."

"Have you seen your friend, Sir Philip, since he came to town?" asks

Mrs. Rush-Marvelle in her stately way.

"Several times. I have dined with him and Lady Errington frequently. I

understand they are to be here to-night?"

Lady Winsleigh fans herself a little more rapidly, and her full crimson

lips tighten into a thin, malicious line.

"Well, I asked them, of course,--as a matter of form," she says

carelessly,--"but I shall, on the whole, be rather relieved if they

don't come."

A curious, amused look comes over Lorimer's face.

"Indeed! May I ask why?"

"I should think the reason ought to be perfectly apparent to you"--and

her ladyship's eyes flash angrily. "Sir Philip is all very well--he is

by birth a gentleman,--but the person he has married is not a lady, and

it is an exceedingly unpleasant duty for me to have to receive her."

A feint tinge of color flushes Lorimer's brow. "I think," he says

slowly, "I think you will find yourself mistaken, Lady Winsleigh. I

believe--" Here he pauses, and Mrs. Rush-Marvelle fixes him with a stony

stare.

"Are we to understand that she is educated?" she inquires freezingly.

"Positively well-educated?"

Lorimer laughs. "Not according to the standard of modern fashionable

requirements!" he replies.

Mrs. Marvelle sniffs the air portentously,--Lady Clara curls her lip. At

that moment everybody makes respectful way for one of the most important

guests of the evening--a broad-shouldered man of careless attire, rough

hair, fine features, and keen, mischievous eyes--a man of whom many

stand in wholesome awe,--Beaufort Lovelace, or as he is commonly called.

"Beau" Lovelace, a brilliant novelist, critic, and pitiless satirist.

For him society is a game,--a gay humming-top which he spins on the palm

of his hand for his own private amusement. Once a scribbler in an attic,

subsisting bravely on bread and cheese and hope, he now lords it more

than half the year in a palace of fairy-like beauty on the Lago di

Como,--and he is precisely the same person who was formerly disdained

and flouted by fair ladies because his clothes were poor and shabby, yet

for whom they now practise all the arts known to their sex, in fruitless

endeavors to charm and conciliate him. For he laughs at them and their

pretty ways,--and his laughter is merciless. His arrowy glance discovers

the "poudre de riz" on their blooming cheeks,--the carmine on their

lips, and the "kohl" on their eyelashes. He knows purchased hair from

the natural growth--and he has a cruel eye for discerning the artificial

contour of a "made-up" figure. And like a merry satyr dancing in a

legendary forest, he capers and gambols in the vast fields of

Humbug--all forms of it are attacked and ridiculed by his powerful and

pungent pen,--he is a sort of English Heine, gathering in rich and daily

harvests from the never-perishing incessantly-growing crop of fools. And

as he,--in all the wickedness of daring and superior intellect,--approaches,

Lady Winsleigh draws herself up with the conscious air of a

beauty who knows she is nearly perfect,--Mrs. Rush-Marvelle makes a

faint endeavor to settle the lace more modestly over her rebellious

bosom,--Marcia smiles coquettishly, and Mrs. Van Clupp brings her

diamond pendant (value, a thousand guineas) more prominently

forward,--for as she thinks, poor ignorant soul! "wealth always

impresses these literary men more than anything!" In one swift glance

Beau Lovelace observes all these different movements,--and the inner

fountain of his mirth begins to bubble. "What fun those Van Clupps are!"

he thinks. "The old woman's got a diamond plaster on her neck! Horrible

taste! She's anxious to show how much she's worth, I suppose! Mrs.

Marvelle wants a shawl, and Lady Clara a bodice. By Jove! What sights

the women do make of themselves!"

But his face betrays none of these reflections,--its expression is one

of polite gravity, though a sudden sweetness smooths it as he shakes

hands with Lord Winsleigh and Lorimer,--a sweetness that shows how

remarkably handsome Beau can look if he chooses. He rests one hand on

Lorimer's shoulder.

"Why, George, old boy, I thought you were playing the dutiful son at

Nice? Don't tell me you've deserted the dear old lady! Where is she? You

know I've got to finish that argument with her about her beloved Byron."

Lorimer laughs. "Go and finish it when you like, Beau," he answers. "My

mother's all right. She's at home. You know she's always charmed to see

you. She's delighted with that new book of yours."

"Is she? She finds pleasure in trifles then--"

"Oh no, Mr. Lovelace!" interrupts Lady Clara, with a winning glance.

"You must not run yourself down! The book is exquisite! I got it at once

from the library, and read every line of it!"

"I am exceedingly flattered!" says Lovelace, with a grave bow, though

there is a little twinkling mockery in his glance. "When a lady so

bewitching condescends to read what I have written, how can I express my

emotion!"

"The press is unanimous in its praise of you," remarks Lord Winsleigh

cordially. "You are quite the lion of the day!"

"Oh quite!" agrees Beau laughing. "And do I not roar 'as sweet as any

nightingale'? But I say, where's the new beauty?"

"I really do not know to whom you allude, Mr. Lovelace," replies Lady

Winsleigh coldly. Lorimer smiles and is silent. Beau looks from one to

the other amusedly.

"Perhaps I've made a mistake," he says, "but the Duke of Roxwell is

responsible. He told me that if I came here to-night I should see one of

the loveliest women living,--Lady Bruce-Errington. He saw her in the

park. I think _this_ gentleman"--indicating Sir Francis Lennox, who

bites his moustache vexedly--"said quite openly at the Club last night

that she _was_ the new beauty,--and that she would be here this

evening."

Lady Winsleigh darts a side glance at her "Lennie" that is far from

pleasant.

"Really it's perfectly absurd!" she says, with a scornful toss of her

head. "We shall have housemaids and bar-girls accepted as 'quite the

rage' next. I do not know Sir Philip's wife in the least,--I hear she

was a common farmer's daughter. I certainly invited her to-night out of

charity and kindness in order that she might get a little accustomed to

society--for, of course, poor creature! entirely ignorant and uneducated

as she is, everything will seem strange to her. But she has not come--"

"SIR PHILIP AND LADY BRUCE-ERRINGTON!" announces Briggs at this

juncture.

There is a sudden hush--a movement of excitement,--and the groups near

the door fall apart staring, and struck momentarily dumb with surprise,

as a tall, radiant figure in dazzling white, with diamonds flashing on a

glittering coil of gold hair, and wondrous sea-blue earnest eyes, passes

through their midst with that royal free step and composed grace of

bearing that might distinguish an Empress of many nations.

"Good heavens! What a magnificent woman!" mutters Beau Lovelace--"Venus

realized!"

Lady Winsleigh turns very pale,--she trembles and can scarcely regain

her usual composure as Sir Philip, with a proud tenderness lighting up

the depths of his hazel eyes, leads this vision of youth and perfect

loveliness up to her, saying simply--

"Lady Winsleigh, allow me to introduce to you--my wife! Thelma, this is

Lady Winsleigh."

There is a strange sensation in Lady Winsleigh's throat as though a very

tight string were suddenly drawn round it to almost strangling

point--and it is certain that she feels as though she must scream, hit

somebody with her fan, and rush from the room in an undignified rage.

But she chokes back these purely feminine emotions--she smiles and

extends her jewelled hand.

"So good of you to come to-night!" she says sweetly. "I have been

longing to see you, Lady Errington! I dare say you know your husband is

quite an old acquaintance of mine!"

And a langourous glance, like fire seen through smoke, leaps from

beneath her silky eyelashes at Sir Philip--but he sees it not--he is

chatting and laughing gaily with Lorimer and Beau Lovelace.

"Indeed, yes!" answers Thelma, in that soft low voice of hers, which had

such a thrilling richness within it--"and it is for that reason I am

very glad to meet you. It is always pleasant for me to know my husband's

friends."

Here she raises those marvellous, innocent eyes of hers and smiles;--why

does Lady Winsleigh shrink from that frank and childlike openness of

regard? Why does she, for one brief moment, hate herself?--why does she

so suddenly feel herself to be vile and beneath contempt? God only

knows!--but the first genuine blush that has tinged her ladyship's cheek

for many a long day, suddenly spreads a hot and embarrassing tide of

crimson over the polished pallor of her satiny skin, and she says

hurriedly--

"I must find you some people to talk to. This is my dear friend, Mrs.

Rush-Marvelle--I am sure you will like each other. Let me introduce Mrs.

Van Clupp to you--Mrs. Van Clupp, and Miss Van Clupp!"

The ladies bow stiffly while Thelma responds to their prim salutation

with easy grace.

"Sir Francis Lennox"--continues Lady Winsleigh, and there is something

like a sneer in her smile, as that gentleman makes a deep and courtly

reverence, with an unmistakable look of admiration in his sleepy

tiger-brown eyes,--then she turns to Lord Winsleigh and adds in a casual

way, "My husband!" Lord Winsleigh advances rather eagerly--there is a

charm in the exquisite nobility of Thelma's face that touches his heart

and appeals to the chivalrous and poetical part of his nature.

"Sir Philip and I have known each other for some years," he says,

pressing her little fair hand cordially. "It is a great pleasure for me

to see you to-night, Lady Errington--I realize how very much my friend

deserves to be congratulated on his marriage!"

Thelma smiles. This little speech pleases her, but she does not accept

the compliment implied to herself.

"You are very kind, Lord Winsleigh"--she answers; "I am glad indeed that

you like Philip. I do think with you that he deserves every one's good

wishes. It is my great desire to make him always happy."

A brief shadow crosses Lord Winsleigh's thoughtful brow, and he studies

her sweet eyes attentively. Is she sincere? Does she mean what she says?

Or is she, like others of her sex, merely playing a graceful part? A

slight sigh escapes him,--absolute truth, innocent love, and stainless

purity are written in such fair, clear lines on that perfect countenance

that the mere idea of questioning her sincerity seems a sacrilege.

"Your desire is gratified, I am sure," he returns, and his voice is

somewhat sad. "I never saw him looking so well. He seems in excellent

spirits."

"Oh, for that!" and she laughs. "He is a very light-hearted boy! But

once he would tell me very dreadful things about the world--how it was

not at all worth living in--but I do think he must have been lonely. For

he is very pleased with everything now, and finds no fault at all!"

"I can quite understand that!" and Lord Winsleigh smiles, though that

shadow of pain still rests on his brow.

Mrs. Rush-Marvelle and the Van Clupps are listening to the conversation

with straining ears. What strange person is this? She does not talk bad

grammar, though her manner of expressing herself is somewhat quaint and

foreign. But she is babyish--perfectly babyish! The idea of any

well-bred woman condescending to sing the praises of her own husband in

public! Absurd! "Deserves every-one's good wishes!"--pooh! her "great

desire is to make him always happy!"--what utter rubbish!--and he is a

"light-hearted boy!" Good gracious!--what next? Marcia Van Clupp is

strongly inclined to giggle, and Mrs. Van Clupp is indignantly conscious

that the Errington diamonds far surpass her own, both for size and

lustre.

At that moment Sir Philip approaches his wife, with George Lorimer and

Beau Lovelace. Thelma's smile at Lorimer is the greeting of an old

friend--a sun-bright glance that makes his heart beat a little quicker

than usual. He watches her as she turns to be introduced to

Lovelace,--while Miss Van Clupp, thinking of the relentless gift of

satire with which that brilliant writer is endowed, looks out for "some

fun"--for, as she confides in a low tone to Mrs. Marvelle--"she'll never

know how to talk to that man!"

"Thelma," says Sir Philip, "this is the celebrated author, Beaufort

Lovelace,--you have often heard me speak of him."

She extends both her hands, and her eyes deepen and flash.

"Ah! you are one of those great men whom we all love and admire!" she

says, with direct frankness,--and the cynical Beau, who has never yet

received so sincere a compliment, feels himself coloring like a

school-girl. "I am so very proud to meet you! I have read your wonderful

book, 'Azaziel,' and it made me glad and sorry together. For why do you

draw a noble example and yet say at the same time that it is impossible

to follow it? Because in one breath you inspire us to be good, and yet

you tell us we shall never become so! That is not right,--is it?"

Beau meets her questioning glance with a grave smile.

"It is most likely entirely wrong from _your_ point of view, Lady

Errington," he said. "Some day we will talk over the matter. You shall

show me the error of my ways. Perhaps you will put life, and the

troublesome business of living, in quite a new light for me! You see, we

novelists have an unfortunate trick of looking at the worst or most

ludicrous side of everything--we can't help it! So many apparently lofty

and pathetic tragedies turn out, on close examination, to be the meanest

and most miserable of farces,--it's no good making them out to be grand

Greek poems when they are only base doggerel rhymes. Besides, it's the

fashion nowadays to be _chiffonniers_ in literature--to pick up the rags

of life and sort them in all their uncomeliness before the morbid eyes

of the public. What's the use of spending thought and care on the

manufacture of a jewelled diadem, and offering it to the people on a

velvet cushion, when they prefer an _olla-podrida_ of cast-off clothing,

dried bones and candle-ends? In brief, what would it avail to write as

grandly as Shakespeare or Scott, when society clamors for Zola and

others of his school?"

There was a little group round them by this time,--men generally

collected wherever Beau Lovelace aired his opinions,--and a double

attraction drew them together now in the person of the lovely woman to

whom he was holding forth.

Marcia Van Clupp stared mightily--surely the Norwegian peasant would not

understand Beau's similes,--for they were certainly incomprehensible to

Marcia. As for his last remark--why! she had read all Zola's novels in

the secrecy of her own room, and had gloated over them;--no words could

describe her intense admiration of books that were so indelicately

realistic! "He is jealous of other writers, I suppose," she thought;

"these literary people hate each other like poison."

Meanwhile Thelma's blue eyes looked puzzled. "I do not know that name,"

she said. "Zola!--what is he? He cannot be great. Shakespeare I

know,--he is the glory of the world, of course; I think him as noble as

Homer. Then for Walter Scott--I love all his beautiful stories--I have

read them many, many times, nearly as often as I have read Homer and the

Norse Sagas. And the world must surely love such writings--or how should

they last so long?" She laughed and shook her bright head archly.

"_Chiffonnier! Point du tout! Monsieur, les divines pensées que vous

avez donné au monde ne sont pas des chiffons._"

Beau smiled again, and offered her his arm. "Let me find you a chair!"

he said. "It will be rather a difficult matter,--still I can but try.

You will be fatigued if you stand too long." And he moved through the

swaying crowd, with her little gloved hand resting lightly on his

coat-sleeve,--while Marcia Van Clupp and her mother exchanged looks of

wonder and dismay. The "fisherwoman" could speak French,--moreover, she

could speak it with a wonderfully soft and perfect accent,--the "person"

had studied Homer and Shakespeare, and was conversant with the best

literature,--and, bitterest sting of all, the "peasant" could give every

woman in the room a lesson in deportment, grace, and perfect taste in

dress. Every costume looked tawdry beside her richly flowing velvet

draperies--every low bodice became indecent compared with the modesty of

that small square opening at Thelma's white throat--an opening just

sufficient to display her collar of diamonds--and every figure seemed

either dumpy and awkward, too big or too fat, or too lean and too

lanky--when brought into contrast with her statuesque outlines.

The die was cast,--the authority of Beau Lovelace was nearly supreme in

fashionable and artistic circles, and from the moment he was seen

devoting his attention to the "new beauty," excited whispers began to

flit from mouth to mouth,--"She will be the rage this season!"--"We must

ask her to come to us!"--"_Do_ ask Lady Winsleigh to introduce

us!"--"She _must_ come to _our_ house!" and so on. And Lady Winsleigh

was neither blind nor deaf--she saw and heard plainly enough that her

reign was over, and in her secret soul she was furious. The "common

farmer's daughter" was neither vulgar nor uneducated--and she was

surpassingly lovely--even Lady Winsleigh could not deny so plain and

absolute a fact. But her ladyship was a woman of the world, and she

perceived at once that Thelma was not. Philip had married a creature

with the bodily loveliness of a goddess and the innocent soul of a

child--and it was just that child-like, pure soul looking serenely out

of Thelma's eyes that had brought the long-forgotten blush of shame to

Clara Winsleigh's cheek. But that feeling of self-contempt soon

passed--she was no better and no worse than other women of her set, she

thought--after all, what had she to be ashamed of? Nothing,

except--except--perhaps, her "little affair" with "Lennie." A new

emotion now stirred her blood--one of malice and hatred, mingled with a

sense of outraged love and ungratified passion--for she still admired

Philip to a foolish excess. Her dark eyes flashed scornfully as she

noted the attitude of Sir Francis Lennox,--he was leaning against the

marble mantel-piece, stroking his moustache with one hand, absorbed in

watching Thelma, who, seated in an easy chair which Beau Lovelace had

found for her, was talking and laughing gaily with those immediately

around her, a group which increased in size every moment, and in which

the men were most predominant.

"Fool!" muttered Lady Winsleigh to herself, apostrophizing "Lennie" in

this uncomplimentary manner. "Fool! I wonder if he thinks I care! He may

play hired lacquey to all the women in London if he likes! He looks a

prig compared to Philip!"

And her gaze wandered,--Philip was standing by his wife, engaged in an

animated conversation with Lord Winsleigh. They were all near the grand

piano--and Lady Clara, smoothing her vexed brow, swept her ruby velvets

gracefully up to that quarter of the room. Before she could speak, the

celebrated Herr Machtenklinken confronted her with some sternness.

"Your ladyshib vill do me ze kindness to remember," he said, loftily,

"zat I am here to blay! Zere has been no obbortunity--ze biano could not

make itself to be heard in zis fery moch noise. It is bossible your

ladyshib shall require not ze music zis efening? In zat case I shall

take my fery goot leave."

Lady Winsleigh raised her eyes with much superciliousness.

"As you please," she said coolly. "If _you_ are so indifferent to your

advantages--then all I can say is, so am I! You are, perhaps, known on

the Continent, Herr Machtenklinken,--but not here--and I think you ought

to be more grateful for my influence."

So saying, she passed on, leaving the luckless pianist in a state of the

greatest indignation.

"_Gott in Himmel!_" he gasped, in a sort of infuriated sotto voce. "Ze

Emberor himself would not have speak to me so! I come here as a

favor--her ladyshib do not offer me one _pfenning_,--ach! ze music is

not for such beoble! I shall brefer to blay to bigs! Zere is no art in

zis country!--"

And he began to make his way out of the room, when he was overtaken by

Beau Lovelace, who had followed him in haste.

"Where are you off to, Hermann?" he asked good-naturedly. "We want you

to play. There is a lady here who heard you in Paris quite recently--she

admires you immensely. Won't you come and be introduced to her?"

Herr Machtenklinken paused, and a smile softened his hitherto angry

countenance.

"You are fery goot, Mr. Lofelace," he remarked--"and I would do moch for

_you_--but her ladyshib understands me not--she has offend me--it is

better I should take my leave."

"Oh, bother her ladyship!" said Beau lightly. "Come along, and give us

something in your best style."

So saying, he led the half-reluctant artist back to the piano, where he

was introduced to Thelma, who gave him so sweet a smile that he was

fairly dazzled.

"It is you who play Schumann so beautifully," she said. "My husband and

I heard you at one of Lamoureux's concerts in Paris. I fear," and she

looked wistfully at him, "that you would think it very rude and selfish

of me if I asked you to play just one little piece? Because, of course,

you are here to enjoy yourself, and talk to your friends, and it seems

unkind to take you away from them!"

A strange moisture dimmed the poor German's eyes. This was the first

time in England that the "celebrate" had been treated as a friend and a

gentleman. Up to this moment, at all the "at homes" and "assemblies," he

had not been considered as a guest at all,--he was an "artist," "a good

pianist,"--"a man who had played before the Emperor of Germany"--and he

was expected to perform for nothing, and be grateful for the "influence"

exercised on his behalf--influence which as yet had not put one single

extra guinea in his pocket. Now, here was a great lady almost

apologizing for asking him to play, lest it should take him away from

his "friends"! His heart swelled with emotion and gratitude--the poor

fellow had no "friends" in London, except Beau Lovelace, who was kind to

him, but who had no power in the musical world,--and, as Thelma's gentle

voice addressed him, he could have knelt and kissed her little shoe for

her sweet courtesy and kindness.

"Miladi," he said, with a profound reverence, "I will blay for you with

bleasure,--it will be a joy for ze music to make itself beautiful for

you!"

And with this fantastic attempt at a compliment, he seated himself at

the instrument and struck a crashing chord to command silence.

The hum of conversation grew louder than ever--and to Thelma's surprise

Lady Winsleigh seated herself by her and began to converse. Herr

Machtenklinken struck another chord,--in vain! The deafening clamor of

tongues continued, and Lady Winsleigh asked Thelma with much seeming

interest if the scenery was very romantic in Norway?

The girl colored deeply, and after a little hesitation, said--

"Excuse me,--I would rather not speak till the music is over. It is

impossible for a great musician to think his thoughts out properly

unless there is silence. Would it not be better to ask every one to

leave off talking while this gentleman plays?"

Clara Winsleigh looked amused. "My dear, you don't know them," she said

carelessly. "They would think me mad to propose such a thing! There are

always a few who listen."

Once more the pianist poised his hands over the keys of the

instrument,--Thelma looked a little troubled and grieved. Beau Lovelace

saw it, and acting on a sudden impulse, turned towards the chattering

crowds, and, holding up his hand, called, "Silence, please!"

There was an astonished hush. Beau laughed. "We want to hear some

music," he said, with the utmost coolness. "Conversation can be

continued afterwards." He then nodded cheerfully towards Herr

Machtenklinken, who, inspired by this open encouragement, started off

like a race-horse into one of the exquisite rambling preludes of Chopin.

Gradually, as he played, his plain face took upon itself a noble,

thoughtful, rapt expression,--his wild eyes softened,--his furrowed,

frowning brow smoothed,--and, meeting the grave, rare blue eyes of

Thelma, he smiled. His touch grew more and more delicate and

tender--from the prelude he wandered into a nocturne of plaintive and

exceeding melancholy, which he played with thrilling and exquisite

pathos--anon, he glided into one of those dreamily joyous yet sorrowful

mazurkas, that remind one of bright flowers growing in wild luxuriance

over lonely and forsaken graves. The "celebrate" had reason to boast of

himself--he was a perfect master of the instrument,--and as his fingers

closed on the final chord, a hearty burst of applause rewarded his

efforts, led by Lovelace and Lorimer. He responded by the usual

bow,--but his real gratitude was all for Thelma. For her he had played

his best--and he had seen tears in her lovely eyes. He felt as proud of

her appreciation as of the ring he had received from the Tsar,--and bent

low over the fair hand she extended to him.

"You must be very happy," she said, "to feel all those lovely sounds in

your heart! I hope I shall see and hear you again some day,--I thank you

so very much for the pleasure you have given me!"

Lady Winsleigh said nothing--and she listened to Thelma's words with a

sort of contempt.

"Is the girl half-witted?" she thought. "She must be, or she would not

be so absurdly enthusiastic! The man plays well,--but it is his

profession to play well--it's no good praising these sort of

people,--they are never grateful, and they always impose upon you."

Aloud she asked Sir Philip--

"Does Lady Errington play?"

"A little," he answered. "She sings."

At once there was a chorus of inanely polite voices round the piano,

"Oh, _do_ sing, Lady Errington! Please, give us one song!" and Sir

Francis Lennox, sauntering up, fixed his languorous gaze on Thelma's

face, murmuring, "You will not be so cruel as to refuse us such

delight?"

"But, of course not!" answered the girl, greatly surprised at all these

unnecessary entreaties. "I am always pleased to sing." And she drew off

her long loose gloves and seated herself at the piano without the least

affectation of reluctance. Then, glancing at her husband with a bright

smile, she asked, "What song do you think will be best, Philip?"

"One of those old Norse mountain-songs," he answered.

She played a soft minor prelude--there was not a sound in the room

now--everybody pressed towards the piano, staring with a curious

fascination at her beautiful face and diamond-crowned hair. One

moment--and her voice, in all its passionate, glorious fullness, rang

out with a fresh vibrating tone that thrilled to the very heart--and the

foolish crowd that gaped and listened was speechless, motionless,

astonished, and bewildered.

A Norse mountain-song was it? How strange, and grand, and wild! George

Lorimer stood apart--his eyes ached with restrained tears. He knew the

melody well--and up before him rose the dear solemnity of the Altenguard

hills, the glittering expanse of the Fjord, the dear old farmhouse

behind its cluster of pines. Again he saw Thelma as he had seen her

first--clad in her plain white gown, spinning in the dark embrasure of

the rose-wreathed window--again the words of the self-destroyed Sigurd

came back to his recollection, "Good things may come for others--but for

you the heavens are empty!" He looked at her now,--Philip's wife--in all

the splendor of her rich attire;--she was lovelier than ever, and her

sweet nature was as yet unspoilt by all the wealth and luxury around

her.

"Good God! what an _inferno_ she has come into!" he thought vaguely.

"How will she stand these people when she gets to know them? The Van

Clupps, the Rush-Marvelles, and others like them,--and as for Clara

Winsleigh--" He turned to study her ladyship attentively. She was

sitting quite close to the piano--her eyes were cast down, but the

rubies on her bosom heaved quickly and restlessly, and she furled and

unfurled her fan impatiently. "I shouldn't wonder," he went on

meditating gravely, "if she doesn't try and make some mischief somehow.

She looks it."

At that moment Thelma ceased singing, and the room rang with applause.

Herr Machtenklinken was overcome with admiration.

"It is a voice of heaven!" he said in a rapture.

The fair singer was surrounded with people.

"I hope," said Mrs. Van Clupp, with her usual ill-bred eagerness to

ingratiate herself with the titled and wealthy, "I hope you will come

and see me, Lady Errington? I am at home every Friday evening to my

friends."

"Oh yes," said Thelma, simply. "But I am not your friend yet! When we do

know each other better I will come. We shall meet each other many times

first,--and then you will see if you like me to be your friend. Is it

not so?"

A scarcely concealed smile reflected itself on the faces of all who

heard this naïve, but indefinite acceptance of Mrs. Van Clupp's

invitation, while Mrs. Van Clupp herself was somewhat mortified, and

knew not what to answer. This Norwegian girl was evidently quite

ignorant of the usages of polite society, or she would at once have

recognized the fact that an "at home" had nothing whatsoever to do with

the obligations of friendship--besides, as far as friendship was

concerned, had not Mrs. Van Clupp tabooed several of her own

blood-relations and former intimate acquaintances? . . . for the very

sensible reason that while she had grown richer, they had grown poorer.

But now Mrs. Rush-Marvelle sailed up in all her glory, with her

good-natured smile and matronly air. She was a privileged person, and

she put her arm round Thelma's waist.

"You must come to me, my dear," she said with real kindness--her

motherly heart had warmed to the girl's beauty and innocence,--"I knew

Philip when he was quite a boy. He will tell you what a dreadfully old

woman I am! You must try to like me for his sake."

Thelma smiled radiantly. "I always wish to like Philip's friends," she

said frankly. "I do hope I shall please you!"

A pang of remorse smote Mrs. Rush-Marvelle's heart as she remembered how

loth she had been to meet Philip's "peasant" wife,--she

hesitated,--then, yielding to her warm impulse, drew the girl closer and

kissed her fair rose-tinted cheek.

"You please everybody, my child," she said honestly. "Philip is a lucky

man! Now I'll say good night, for it is getting late,--I'll write to you

to-morrow and fix a day for you to come and lunch with me."

"But you must also come and see Philip," returned Thelma, pressing her

hand.

"So I will--so I will!" and Mrs. Rush-Marvelle nodded beamingly, and

made her way up to Lady Winsleigh, saying, "Bye-bye, Clara! Thanks for a

most charming evening!"

Clara pouted. "Going already, Mimsey?" she queried,--then, in a lower

tone, she said, "Well! what do you think of her?"

"A beautiful child--no more!" answered Mrs. Marvelle,--then, studying

with some gravity the brilliant brunette face before her, she added in a

whisper, "Leave her alone, Clara,--don't make her miserable! You know

what I mean! It wouldn't take much to break her heart."

Clara laughed harshly and played with her fan.

"Dear me, Mimsey! . . . you are perfectly outrageous! Do you think I'm an

ogress ready to eat her up? On the contrary, I mean to be a friend to

her."

Mrs. Marvelle still looked grave.

"I'm glad to hear it," she said; "only some friends are worse than

declared enemies."

Lady Winsleigh shrugged her shoulders.

"Go along, Mimsey,--go home to bed!" she exclaimed impatiently. "You are

_insensé_! I hate sentimental philosophy and copy-book platitudes!" She

laughed again and folded her hands with an air of mock penitence,

"There! I didn't mean to be rude! Good-night, dear old darling!"

"Good-night, Clara!" and Mrs. Marvelle, summoning her timid husband from

some far corner, where he had remained in hiding, took her departure

with much stateliness.

A great many people were going down to supper by this time, but Sir

Philip was tired of the heat and glare and noise, and whispered as much

to Thelma, who at once advanced to bid her hostess farewell.

"Won't you have some supper?" inquired her ladyship. "Don't go yet!"

But Thelma was determined not to detain her husband a moment longer than

he wished--so Lady Winsleigh, seeing remonstrances were of no avail,

bade them both an effusive good-night.

"We must see a great deal of each other!" she said, pressing Thelma's

hands warmly in her own: "I hope we shall be quite dear friends!"

"Thank you!" said Thelma, "I do hope so too, if you wish it so much.

Good-night, Lord Winsleigh!"

"Let me escort you to your carriage," said her noble host, at once

offering her his arm.

"And allow me to follow," added Beau Lovelace, slipping his arm through

Errington's, to whom he whispered, "How dare you, sir! How dare you be

such a provokingly happy man in this miserable old world?" Errington

laughed--and the little group had just reached the door of the

drawing-room when Thelma suddenly turned with a look of inquiry in her

eyes.

"Where is Mr. Lorimer?" she said. "I have forgotten to say good-night to

him, Philip."

"Here I am, Lady Errington," and Lorimer sauntered forward with rather a

forced smile,--a smile which altogether vanished, leaving his face

strangely pale, as she stretched out her hand to him, and said

laughingly--

"You bad Mr. Lorimer! Where were you? You know it would make me quite

unhappy not to wish you good-night. Ah, you are a very naughty brother!"

"Come home with us, George," said Sir Philip eagerly. "Do, there's a

good fellow!"

"I can't, Phil!" answered Lorimer, almost pathetically. "I can't

to-night--indeed, I can't! Don't ask me!" And he wrung his friend's hand

hard,--and then bravely met Thelma's bright glance.

"Forgive me!" he said to her. "I know I ought to have presented myself

before--I'm a dreadfully lazy fellow, you know! Good-night!"

Thelma regarded him steadfastly.

"You look,--what is it you call yourself sometimes--_seedy_?" she

observed. "Not well at all. Mind you come to us to-morrow!"

He promised--and then accompanied them down to their carriage--he and

Beau Lovelace assisting to cover Thelma with her fur cloak, and being

the last to shake hands with Sir Philip as he sprang in beside his wife,

and called to the coachman "Home!" The magic word seemed to effect the

horses, for they started at a brisk trot, and within a couple of minutes

the carriage was out of sight. It was a warm star-lit evening,--and as

Lorimer and Lovelace re-entered Winsleigh House, Beau stole a

side-glance at his silent companion.

"A plucky fellow!" he mused; "I should say he'd die game. Tortures won't

wring his secret out of him." Aloud he said, "I say, haven't we had

enough of this? Don't let us sup here--nothing but unsubstantial pastry

and claretcup--the latter abominable mixture would kill me. Come on to

the Club, will you?"

Lorimer gladly assented--they got their over-coats from the officious

Briggs, tipped him handsomely, and departed arm in arm. The last glimpse

they caught of the Winsleigh festivities was Marcia Van Clupp sitting on

the stairs, polishing off with much gusto the wing and half-breast of a

capon,--while the mild Lord Masherville stood on the step just above

her, consoling his appetite with a spoonful of tepid yellow jelly. He

had not been able to secure any capon for himself--he had been

frightened away by the warning cry of "Ladies first!" shouted forth by a

fat gentleman, who was on guard at the head of the supper-table, and who

had already secreted five plates of different edibles for his own

consumption, in a neat corner behind the window-curtains. Meanwhile, Sir

Philip Bruce-Errington, proud, happy, and triumphant, drew his wife into

a close embrace as they drove home together, and said, "You were the

queen of the evening, my Thelma! Have you enjoyed yourself?"

"Oh, I do not call that enjoyment!" she declared. "How is it possible to

enjoy anything among so many strangers?"

"Well, what is it?" he asked laughingly.

She laughed also. "I do not know indeed what it is!" she said. "I have

never been to anything like it before. It did seem to me as if all the

people were on show for some reason or other. And the gentlemen did look

very tired--there was nothing for them to do. Even you, my boy! You made

several very big yawns! Did you know that?"

Philip laughed more than ever. "I didn't know it, my pet!" he answered;

"but I'm not surprised. Big yawns are the invariable result of an 'at

home.' Do you like Beau Lovelace?"

"Very much," she answered readily. "But, Philip, I should not like to

have so many friends as Lady Winsleigh. I thought friends were rare?"

"So they are! She doesn't care for these people a bit. They are mere

acquaintances."

"Whom does she care for then?" asked Thelma suddenly. "Of course I mean

after her husband. Naturally she loves him best."

"Naturally," and Philip paused, adding, "she has her son--Ernest--he's a

fine bright boy--he was not there to-night. You must see him some day.

Then I think her favorite friend is Mrs. Rush-Marvelle."

"I do like that lady too," said Thelma. "She spoke very kindly to me and

kissed me."

"Did she really!" and Philip smiled. "I think she was more to be

congratulated on taking the kiss than you in receiving it! But she's not

a bad old soul,--only a little too fond of money. But, Thelma, whom do

_you_ care for most? You did tell me once, but I forget!"

She turned her lovely face and star-like eyes upon him, and, meeting his

laughing look, she smiled.

"How often must I tell you!" she murmured softly. "I do think you will

never tire of hearing! You know that it is you for whom I care most, and

that all the world would be empty to me without you! Oh, my husband--my

darling! do not make me try to tell you how much I love you! I

cannot--my heart is too full!"

The rest of their drive homeward was very quiet--there are times when

silence is more eloquent than speech.

CHAPTER XXI.

"A small cloud, so slight as to be a mere speck on the fair blue

sky, was all the warning we received."--PLINY.

After that evening great changes came into Thelma's before peaceful

life. She had conquered her enemies, or so it seemed,--society threw

down all its barricades and rushed to meet her with open arms.

Invitations crowded upon her,--often she grew tired and bewildered in

the multiplicity of them all. London life wearied her,--she preferred

the embowered seclusion of Errington Manor, the dear old house in

green-wooded Warwickshire. But the "season" claimed her,--its frothy

gaieties were deemed incomplete without her--no "at home" was considered

quite "the" thing unless she was present. She became the centre of a

large and ever-widening social circle,--painters, poets, novelists, wits

savants, and celebrities of high distinction crowded her rooms, striving

to entertain her as well as themselves with that inane small talk and

gossip too often practiced by the wisest among us,--and thus surrounded,

she began to learn many puzzling and painful things of which in her old

Norwegian life, she had been happily ignorant.

For instance, she had once imagined that all the men and women of

culture who followed the higher professions must perforce be a sort of

"Joyous Fraternity," superior to other mortals not so gifted,--and,

under this erroneous impression, she was at first eager to know some of

the so-called "great" people who had distinguished themselves in

literature or the fine arts. She had fancied that they must of necessity

be all refined, sympathetic, large-hearted, and noble-minded--alas! how

grievously was she disappointed! She found, to her sorrow, that the tree

of modern Art bore but few wholesome roses and many cankered buds--that

the "Joyous Fraternity" were not joyous at all--but, on the contrary,

inclined to dyspepsia and discontentment. She found that even poets,

whom she had fondly deemed were the angel-guides among the children of

this earth,--were most of them painfully conceited, selfish in aim and

limited in thought,--moreover, that they were often so empty of all true

inspiration, that they were actually able to hate and envy one another

with a sort of womanish spite and temper,--that novelists, professing to

be in sympathy with the heart of humanity, were no sooner brought into

contact one with another, than they plainly showed by look, voice, and

manner, the contempt they entertained for each other's work,--that men

of science were never so happy as when trying to upset each other's

theories;--that men of religious combativeness were always on the alert

to destroy each other's creeds,--and that, in short, there was a very

general tendency to mean jealousies, miserable heart-burnings and utter

weariness all round.

On one occasion, she, in the sweetest simplicity, invited two lady

authoresses of note to meet at one of her "at homes,". . . she welcomed

both the masculine-looking ladies with a radiant smile, and introduced

them, saying gently,--"You will be so pleased to know each other!" But

the stony stare, stiff nod, portentous sniff, and scornful smile with

which these two eminent females exchanged cold greetings, were enough to

daunt the most sympathetic hostess that ever lived--and when they at

once retired to different corners of the room and sat apart with their

backs turned to one another for the remainder of the evening, their

attitude was so uncompromising that it was no wonder the gentle Thelma

felt quite dismayed and wretched at the utter failure of the

_rencontre_.

"They would _not_ be sociable!" she afterwards complained to Lady

Winsleigh. "They _tried_ to be as rude to each other as they could!"

Lady Winsleigh laughed. "Of course!" she said. "What else _did_ you

expect! But if you want some fun, ask a young, pretty, and brilliant

authoress (there are a few such) to meet an old, ugly and dowdy one (and

there are many such), and watch the dowdy one's face! It will be a

delicious study of expression, I assure you!"

But Thelma would not try this delicate experiment,--in fact, she began

rather to avoid literary people, with the exception of Beau Lovelace.

His was a genial, sympathetic nature, and, moreover, he had a winning

charm of manner which few could resist. He was not a bookworm,--he was

not, strictly speaking, a literary man,--and he was entirely indifferent

to public praise or blame. He was, as he himself expressed it, "a

servant and worshipper of literature," and there is a wide gulf of

difference between one who serves literature for its own sake and one

who uses it basely as a tool to serve himself.

But in all her new and varied experiences, perhaps Thelma was most

completely bewildered by the women she met. Her simple Norse beliefs in

the purity and gentleness of womanhood were startled and outraged,--she

could not understand London ladies at all. Some of them seemed to have

no idea beyond dress and show,--others looked upon their husbands, the

lawful protectors of their name and fame, with easy indifference, as

though they were mere bits of household furniture,--others, having

nothing better to do, "went in" for spiritualism,--the low spiritualism

that manifests itself in the turning of tables and moving of

side-boards--not the higher spiritualism of an improved, perfected, and

saint-like way of life--and these argued wildly on the theory of matter

passing through matter, to the extent of declaring themselves able to

send a letter or box through the wall without making a hole in it,--and

this with such obstinate gravity as made Thelma fear for their reason.

Then there were the women-atheists,--creatures who had voluntarily

crushed all the sweetness of the sex within them--foolish human flowers

without fragrance, that persistently turned away their faces from the

sunlight and denied its existence, preferring to wither, profitless, on

the dry stalk of their own theory;--there were the "platform-women,"

unnatural products of an unnatural age,--there were the great ladies of

the aristocracy who turned with scorn from a case of real necessity, and

yet spent hundreds of pounds on private theatricals wherein they might

have the chance of displaying themselves in extravagant costumes,--and

there were the "professional" beauties, who, if suddenly deprived of

elegant attire and face-cosmetics, turned out to be no beauties at all,

but very ordinary, unintelligent persons.

"What is the exact meaning of the term, 'professional beauty'?" Thelma

had asked Beau Lovelace on one occasion. "I suppose it is some very poor

beautiful woman, who takes money for showing herself to the public, and

having her portraits sold in the shops? And who is it that pays her?"

Lovelace broke into a laugh. "Upon my word, Lady Errington,--you have

put the matter in a most original but indubitably correct light! Who

pays the 'professional beauty,' you ask? Well, in the case of Mrs.

Smith-Gresham, whom you met the other day, it is a certain Duke who pays

her to the tune of several thousands a year. When he gets tired of her,

or she of him, she'll find somebody else--or perhaps she'll go on the

stage and swell the list of bad amateurs. She'll get on somehow, as long

as she can find a fool ready to settle her dressmaker's bill."

"I do not understand!" said Thelma,--and her fair brows drew together in

that pained grave look that was becoming rather frequent with her now.

And she began to ask fewer questions concerning the various strange

phases of social life that puzzled her,--why, for instance, religious

theorists made so little practical use of their theories,--why there

were cloudy-eyed eccentrics who admired the faulty drawing of Watts, and

the common-place sentence-writing of Walt Whitman,--why members of

Parliament talked so much and did so little,--why new poets, however

nobly inspired, were never accepted unless they had influential friends

on the press,--why painters always married their models or their cooks,

and got heartily ashamed of them afterwards,--and why people all round

said so many things they did not mean. And confused by the general

insincerity, she clung,--poor child!--to Lady Winsleigh, who had the

tact to seem what she was not,--and the cleverness to probe into

Thelma's nature and find out how translucently clear and pure it was--a

perfect well of sweet water, into which one drop of poison, or better

still, several drops, gradually and insidiously instilled, might in time

taint its flavor and darken its brightness. For if a woman have an

innocent, unsuspecting soul as delicate as the curled cup of a Nile

lily, the more easily will it droop and wither in the heated grasp of a

careless, cruel hand. And to this flower-crushing task Lady Winsleigh

set herself,--partly for malice pretense against Errington, whose

coldness to herself in past days had wounded her vanity, and partly for

private jealousy of Thelma's beauty and attractiveness.

Within a short time she had completely won the girl's confidence and

affection,--Sir Philip, forgetting his former suspicions of her, was

touched and disarmed by the attachment and admiration she openly

displayed towards his young wife,--she and Thelma were constantly seen

together, and Mrs. Rush-Marvelle, far-sighted as she generally was,

often sighed doubtfully and rubbed her nose in perplexity as she

confessed she "couldn't quite understand Clara." But Mrs. Rush-Marvelle

had her hands full of other matters,--she was aiding and abetting Marcia

Van Clupp to set traps for that mild mouse Lord Masherville,--and she

was too much absorbed in this difficult and delicate business to attend

to anything else just then. Otherwise, it is possible she might have

scented danger for Thelma's peace of mind, and being good-natured, might

have warded it off before it approached too closely,--but, like

policeman who are never within call when wanted, so friends are seldom

at hand when their influence might be of real benefit.

The Van Clupps were people Thelma could not get on with at all--she

tried to do so because Mrs. Rush-Marvelle had assured her they were

"charming"--and she liked Mrs. Marvelle sufficiently well to be willing

to please her. But, in truth, these rich and vulgar Yankees seemed to

her mind less to be esteemed than the peasants of the Altenfjord, who in

many instances possessed finer tact and breeding than old Van Clupp, the

man of many dollars, whose father had been nothing but a low navvy, but

of whom he spoke now with smirking pride as a real descendant of the

Pilgrim Fathers. An odd thing it is, by the way, how fond some Americans

are of tracing back their ancestry to these virtuous old gentlemen! The

Van Clupps were of course not the best types of their country--they were

of that class who, because they have money, measure everything by the

money-standard, and hold even a noble poverty in utter contempt. Poor

Van Clupp! It was sometimes pitiable to see him trying to be a

gentleman--"going in" for "style"--to an excess that was

ludicrous,--cramming his house with expensive furniture like an

upholsterer's show-room,--drinking his tea out of pure Sevres, with a

lofty ignorance of its beauty and value,--dressing his wife and daughter

like shilling fashion-plates, and having his portrait taken in precisely

the same attitude as that assumed by the Duke of Wrigglesbury when his

Grace sat to the same photographer! It was delicious to hear him

bragging of his pilgrim ancestor,--while in the same breath he would

blandly sneer at certain "poor gentry" who could trace back their

lineage to Coeur de Lion! But because the Erringtons were rich as well

as titled persons, Van Clupp and his belongings bent the servile knee

before them, flattering Thelma with that ill-judged eagerness and

zealous persistency which distinguish inborn vulgarity, and which, far

from pleasing her, annoyed and embarrassed her because she could not

respond sincerely to such attentions.

There were many others too, not dollar-crusted Americans, whose

excessive adulation and ceaseless compliment vexed the sincere, frank

spirit of the girl,--a spirit fresh and pure as the wind blowing over

her own Norse mountains. One of these was Sir Francis Lennox, that

fashionable young man of leisure,--and she had for him an instinctive,

though quite unreasonable aversion. He was courtesy itself--he spared no

pains to please her. Yet she felt as if his basilisk brown eyes were

always upon her,--he seemed to be ever at hand, ready to watch over her

in trifles, such as the passing of a cup of tea, the offering of her

wrap,--the finding of a chair,--the holding of a fan,--he was always on

the alert, like a remarkably well-trained upper servant. She could not,

without rudeness, reject such unobtrusive, humble services,--and

yet--they rendered her uncomfortable, though she did not quite know why.

She ventured to mention her feeling concerning him to her friend Lady

Winsleigh, who heard her timid remarks with a look on her face that was

not quite pleasant.

"Poor Sir Francis!" her ladyship said with a slight, mocking laugh.

"He's never happy unless he plays puppy-dog! Don't mind him, Thelma! He

won't bite, I assure you,--he means no harm. It's only his little way of

making himself agreeable!"

George Lorimer, during this particular "London season," fled the field

of action, and went to Paris to stay with Pierre Duprèz. He felt that it

was dangerous to confront the fair enemy too often, for he knew in his

own honest heart that his passion for Thelma increased each time he saw

her--so, he avoided her. She missed him very much from her circle of

intimates, and often went to see his mother, Mrs. Lorimer, one of the

sweetest old ladies in the world,--who had at once guessed her son's

secret, but, like a prudent dame, kept it to herself. There were few

young women as pretty and charming as old Mrs. Lorimer, with her

snow-white parted hair and mild blue eyes, and voice as cheery as the

note of a thrush in spring-time. After Lady Winsleigh, Thelma liked her

best of all her new friends, and was fond of visiting her quiet little

house in Kensington,--for it was very quiet, and seemed like a sheltered

haven of rest from the great rush of frivolity and folly in which the

fashionable world delighted.

And Thelma was often now in need of rest. As the season drew towards its

close, she found herself strangely tired and dispirited. The life she

was compelled to lead was all unsuited to her nature--it was artificial

and constrained,--and she was often unhappy. Why? Why, indeed! She did

her best,--but she made enemies everywhere. Again, why? Because she had

a most pernicious,--most unpleasant habit of telling the truth. Like

Socrates, she seemed to say--"If any man should appear to me not to

possess virtue, but to pretend that he does, I shall reproach him." This

she expressed silently in face, voice, and manner,--and, like Socrates,

she might have added that she went about "perceiving, indeed, and

grieving and alarmed that she was making herself odious." For she

discovered, by degrees, that many people looked strangely upon her--that

others seemed afraid of her--and she continually heard that she was

considered "eccentric." So she became more reserved--even cold,--she was

content to let others argue about trifles, and air their whims and

follies without offering an opinion on any side.

And by-and-by the first shadow began to sweep over the fairness of her

married life. It happened at a time when she and her husband were not

quite so much together,--society and its various claims had naturally

separated them a little, but now a question of political ambition

separated them still more. Some well-intentioned friends had persuaded

Sir Philip to stand for Parliament--and this idea no sooner entered his

head, than he decided with impulsive ardor that he had been too long

without a "career,"--and a "career" he must have in order to win

distinction for his wife's sake. Therefore, summoning his secretary,

Neville to his aid, he plunged headlong into the seething, turgid waters

of English politics, and shut himself up in his library day after day,

studying blue-books, writing and answering letters, and drawing up

addresses,--and with the general proneness of the masculine mind to

attend to one thing only at a time, he grew so absorbed in his work that

his love for Thelma, though all unchanged and deep as ever, fell

slightly into the background of his thoughts. Not that he neglected

her,--he simply concerned himself more with other things. So it happened

that a certain indefinable sense of loss weighed upon her,--a vague,

uncomprehended solitude began to encompass her,--a solitude even more

keenly felt when she was surrounded by friends than when she was quite

alone,--and as the sweet English June drew to its end, she grew languid

and listless, and her blue eyes often filled with sudden tears. Her

little watch-dog, Britta, began to notice this, and to wonder concerning

the reason of her mistress's altered looks.

"It is this dreadful London," thought Britta. "So hot and

stifling--there's no fresh air for her. And all this going about to

balls and parties and shows--no wonder she is tired out!"

But it was something more than mere fatigue that made Thelma's eyes look

sometimes so anxious, so gravely meditative and earnest. One day she

seemed so much abstracted and lost in painful musings that Britta's

loving heart ached, and she watched her for some moments without

venturing to say a word. At last she spoke out bravely--

"Fröken!"--she paused,--Thelma seemed not to hear her. "Fröken!--has

anything vexed or grieved you today?"

Thelma started nervously. "Vexed me--grieved me?" she repeated. "No,

Britta--why do you ask?"

"You look very tired, dear Fröken," continued Britta gently. "You are

not as bright as you were when we first came to London."

Thelma's lips quivered. "I--I am not well, Britta," she murmured, and

suddenly her self-control gave way, and she broke into tears. In an

instant Britta was kneeling by her, coaxing and caressing her, and

calling her by every endearing name she could think of, while she wisely

forbore from asking any more questions. Presently her sobs grew

calmer,--she rested her fair head against Britta's shoulder and smiled

faintly. At that moment a light tap was heard outside, and a voice

called--

"Thelma! Are you there?"

Britta opened the door, and Sir Philip entered hurriedly and

smiling--but stopped short to survey his wife in dismay.

"Why, my darling!" he exclaimed distressfully. "Have you been crying?"

Here the discreet Britta retired.

Thelma sprang to her husband and nestled in his arms.

"Philip, do not mind it," she murmured. "I felt a little sad--it is

nothing! But tell me--you _do_ love me? You will never tire of me? You

have always loved me, I am sure?"

He raised her face gently with one hand, and looked at her in surprise.

"Thelma--what strange questions from _you_! Love you? Is not every beat

of my heart for you? Are you not my life, my joy--my everything in this

world?" And he pressed her passionately in his arms and kissed her.

"You have never loved any one else so much?" she whispered, half

abashed.

"Never!" he answered readily. "What makes you ask such a thing?"

She was silent. He looked down at her flushing cheeks and tear-wet

lashes attentively.

"You are fanciful to-day, my pet," he said at last. "You've been tiring

yourself too much. You must rest. You'd better not go to the Brilliant

Theatre to-night--it's only a burlesque, and is sure to be vulgar and

noisy. We'll stop at home and spend a quiet evening together--shall we?"

She raised her eyes half wistfully and smiled. "I should like that very,

very much, Philip!" she murmured; "but you know we did promise Clara to

go with her to-night. And as we are so soon to leave London and return

to Warwickshire, I should not like to disappoint her."

"You are very fond of Clara?" he asked suddenly.

"Very!" She paused and sighed slightly. "She is so kind and clever--much

more clever than I can ever be--and she knows many things about the

world which I do not. And she admires you so much, Philip!"

"Does she indeed?" Philip laughed and colored a little. "Very good of

her, I'm sure! And so you'd really like to go to the Brilliant to-night?"

"I think so," she said hesitatingly. "Clara says it will be very

amusing. And you must remember how much I enjoyed 'Faust' and 'Hamlet.'"

Errington smiled. "You'll find the Brilliant performance very different

to either," he said amusedly. "You don't know what a burlesque is like!"

"Then I must be instructed," replied Thelma, smiling also, "I need to

learn many things. I am very ignorant!"

"Ignorant!" and he swept aside with a caressing touch the clustering

hair from her broad, noble brow. "My darling, you possess the greatest

wisdom--the wisdom of innocence. I would not change it for all the

learning of the sagest philosophers!"

"You really mean that?" she asked half timidly.

"I really mean that!" he answered fondly. "Little sceptic! As if I would

ever say anything to you that I did _not_ mean! I shall be glad when

we're out of London and back at the Manor--then I shall have you all to

myself again--for a time, at least."

She raised her eyes full of sudden joy,--all traces of her former

depression had disappeared.

"And _I_ shall have _you_!" she said gladly. "And we shall not

disappoint Lady Winsleigh to-night, Philip--I am not tired--and I shall

be pleased to go to the theatre."

"All right!" responded Philip cheerfully. "So let it be! Only I don't

believe you'll like the piece,--though it certainly won't make you cry.

Yet I doubt if it will make you laugh, either. However, it will be a new

experience for you."

And a new experience it decidedly was,--an experience, too, which

brought some strange and perplexing results to Thelma of which she never

dreamed.

She went to the Brilliant, accompanied by Lady Winsleigh and her

husband,--Neville, the secretary, making the fourth in their box; and

during the first and second scene of the performance the stage effects

were so pretty and the dancing so graceful that she nearly forgot the

bewildered astonishment she had at first felt at the extreme scantiness

of apparel worn by the ladies of the ballet. They represented birds,

bees, butterflies, and the other winged denizens of the

forest-world,--and the _tout-ensemble_ was so fairy-like and brilliant

with swift movement, light, and color that the eye was too dazzled and

confused to note objectionable details. But in the third scene, when a

plump, athletic young woman leaped on the stage in the guise of a

humming-bird, with a feather tunic so short that it was a mere

waist-belt of extra width,--a flesh-colored bodice about three inches

high, and a pair of blue wings attached to her fat shoulders, Thelma

started and half rose from her seat in dismay, while a hot tide of color

crimsoned her cheeks. She looked nervously at her husband.

"I do not think this is pleasant to see," she said in a low tone. "Would

it not be best to go away? I--I think I would rather be at home."

Lady Winsleigh heard and smiled,--a little mocking smile.

"Don't be silly, child!" she said. "If you leave the theatre just now

you'll have every one staring at you. That woman's an immense

favorite--she is the success of the piece. She's got more diamonds than

either you or I."

Thelma regarded her friend with a sort of grave wonder,--but said

nothing in reply. If Lady Winsleigh liked the performance and wished to

remain, why--then politeness demanded that Thelma should not interfere

with her pleasure by taking an abrupt leave. So she resumed her seat,

but withdrew herself far behind the curtain of the box, in a corner

where the stage was almost invisible to her eyes. Her husband bent over

her and whispered--

"I'll take you home if you wish it, dear! only say the word."

She shook her head.

"Clara enjoys it!" she answered somewhat plaintively. "We must stay."

Philip was about to address Lady Winsleigh on the subject, when suddenly

Neville touched him on the arm.

"Can I speak to you alone for a moment, Sir Philip?" he said in a

strange, hoarse whisper. "Outside the box--away from the ladies--a

matter of importance!"

He looked as if he were about to faint. He gasped rather than spoke

these words; his face was white as death, and his eyes had a confused

and bewildered stare.

"Certainly!" answered Philip promptly, though not without an accent of

surprise,--and, excusing their absence briefly to his wife and Lady

Winsleigh, they left the box together. Meanwhile the well-fed

"Humming-Bird" was capering extravagantly before the footlights,

pointing her toe in the delighted face of the stalls and singing in a in

a loud, coarse voice the following refined ditty--

"Oh my ducky, oh my darling, oh my duck, duck, duck!

If you love me you must have a little pluck, pluck, pluck!

Come and put your arms around me, kiss me once, twice, thrice,

For kissing may be naughty, but, by Jingo! it is nice!

Once, twice, thrice!

Nice, nice, nice!

Bliss, bliss, bliss!

Kiss, kiss, kiss!

Kissing may be naughty, but it's nice!"

There were several verses in this graceful poem, and each one was hailed

with enthusiastic applause. The "Humming-Bird" was triumphant, and when

her song was concluded she executed a startling _pas-seul_ full of

quaint and astonishing surprises, reaching her superbest climax, when

she backed off the stage on one portly leg,--kicking the other in

regular time to the orchestra. Lady Winsleigh laughed, and leaning

towards Thelma, who still sat in her retired corner, said with a show of

kindness--

"You dear little goose! You must get accustomed to this kind of

thing--it takes with the men immensely. Why, even your wonderful Philip

has gone down behind the scenes with Neville--you may be sure of that!"

The startled, pitiful astonishment in the girl's face might have touched

a less callous heart than Lady Winsleigh's,--but her ladyship was

prepared for it and only smiled.

"Gone behind the scenes! To see that dreadful woman!" exclaimed Thelma

in a low pained tone. "Oh no, Clara! He would not do such a thing.

Impossible!"

"Well, my dear, then where is he? He has been gone quite ten minutes.

Look at the stalls--all the men are out of them! I tell you Violet Vere

draws everybody--of the male sex after her! At the end of all her

'scenes' she has a regular reception--for men only--of course! Ladies

not admitted!" And Clara Winsleigh laughed. "Don't look so shocked for

heaven's sake, Thelma,--you don't want your husband to be a regular

nincompoop! He must have his amusements as well as other people. I

believe you want him to be like a baby, tied to your apron-string!

You'll find that an awful mistake,--he'll get tired to death of you,

sweet little Griselda though you are!"

Thelma's face grew very pale, and her hand closed more tightly on the

fan she held.

"You have said that so very, very often lately, Clara!" she murmured.

"You seem so sure that he will get tired--that all men get tired. I do

not think you know Philip--he is not like any other person I have ever

met. And why should he go behind the scenes to such a person as Violet

Vere--"

At that moment the box-door opened with a sharp click, and Errington

entered alone. He looked disturbed and anxious.

"Neville is not well," he said abruptly, addressing his wife. "I've sent

him home. He wouldn't have been able to sit this thing out." And he

glanced half angrily towards the stage--the curtain had just gone up

again and displayed the wondrous Violet Vere still in her "humming-bird"

character, swinging on the branch of a tree and (after the example of

all humming-birds) smoking a cigar with brazen-faced tranquillity.

"I am sorry he is ill," said Thelma gently. "That is why you were so

long away?"

"Was I long?" returned Philip somewhat absently. "I didn't know it. I

went to ask a question behind the scenes."

Lady Winsleigh coughed and glanced at Thelma, whose eyes dropped

instantly.

"I suppose you saw Violet Vere?" asked Clara.

"Yes, I saw her," he replied briefly. He seemed irritable and

vexed--moreover, decidedly impatient. Presently he said--

"Lady Winsleigh, would you mind very much if we left this place and went

home? I'm rather anxious about Neville--he's had a shock. Thelma doesn't

care a bit about this piece, I know, and if you are not very much

absorbed--"

Lady Winsleigh rose instantly, with her usual ready grace.

"My dear Sir Philip!" she said sweetly. "As if I would not, do anything

to oblige you! Let us go by all means! These burlesques _are_ extremely

fatiguing!"

He seemed relieved by her acquiescence--and smiled that rare sweet smile

of his, which had once played such havoc with her ladyship's sensitive

feelings. They left the theatre, and were soon on their way home, though

Thelma was rather silent during the drive. They dropped Lady Winsleigh

at her own door, and after they had bidden her a cordial good night, and

were going on again towards home, Philip, turning towards his wife, and

catching sight of her face by the light of a street-lamp, was struck by

her extreme paleness and weary look.

"You are very tired, my darling, I fear?" he inquired, tenderly

encircling her with one arm. "Lean your head on my shoulder--so!"

She obeyed, and her hand trembled a little as he took and held it in his

own warm, strong clasp.

"We shall soon be home!" he added cheerily. "And I think we must have no

more theatre-going this season. The heat and noise and glare are too

much for you."

"Philip," said Thelma suddenly. "Did you really go behind the scenes

to-night?"

"Yes, I did," he answered readily. "I was obliged to go on a matter of

business--a very disagreeable and unpleasant matter too."

"And what was it?" she asked timidly, yet hopefully.

"My pet, I can't tell you! I wish I could! It's a secret I'm bound not

to betray--a secret which involves the name of another person who'd be

wretched if I were to mention it to you. There,--don't let us talk about

it any more!"

"Very well, Philip," said Thelma resignedly,--but though she smiled, a

sudden presentiment of evil depressed her. The figure of the vulgar,

half-clothed, painted creature known as Violet Vere rose up mockingly

before her eyes,--and the half-scornful, half-jesting words of Lady

Winsleigh rang persistently in her ears.

On reaching home, Philip went straight to Neville's little study and

remained with him in earnest conversation for a long time--while Thelma

went to bed, and lay restless among her pillows, puzzling her brain with

strange forebodings and new and perplexing ideas, till fatigue

overpowered her, and she fell asleep with a few tear-drops wet on her

lashes. And that night Philip wondered why his sweet wife talked so

plaintively in her sleep,--though he smiled as he listened to the drift

of those dove-like murmurings.

"No one knows how my boy loves me," sighed the dreaming voice. "No one

in all the world! How should he tire? Love can never tire!"

Meanwhile, Lady Winsleigh, in the seclusion of her own boudoir, penned a

brief note to Sir Francis Lennox as follows--

"DEAR OLD LENNIE,"

"I saw you in the stalls at the theatre this evening, though you

pretended not to see me. What a fickle creature you are! not that I

mind in the very least. The virtuous Bruce-Errington left his

saintly wife and me to talk little platitudes together, while he,

decorously accompanied by his secretary, went down to pay court to

Violet Vere. How stout she is getting! Why don't you men advise her

to diet herself? I know you also went behind the scenes--of course,

you _are_ an _ami intime_--promising boy you are, to be sure! Come and

lunch with me to-morrow, if you're not too lazy."

"Yours ever, CLARA."

She gave this missive to her maid, Louise Rénaud, to post,--that

faithful attendant took it first to her own apartment where she ungummed

the envelope neatly by the aid of hot water, and read every word of it.

This was not an exceptional action of hers,--all the letters received

and sent by her mistress were subjected to the same process,--even those

that were sealed with wax she had a means of opening in such a manner

that it was impossible to detect that they had been tampered with.

She was a very clever French maid was Louise,--one of the cleverest of

her class. Fond of mischief, ever suspicious, always on the alert for

evil, utterly unscrupulous and malicious, she was an altogether

admirable attendant for a lady of rank and fashion, her skill as a

_coiffeur_ and needle-woman always obtaining for her the wages she so

justly deserved. When will wealthy women reared in idleness and luxury

learn the folly of keeping a trained spy attached to their persons?--a

spy whose pretended calling is merely to arrange dresses and fripperies

(half of which she invariably steals), but whose real delight is to take

note of all her mistress's incomings and outgoings, tempers and

tears--to watch her looks, her smiles and frowns,--and to start

scandalous gossip concerning her in the servants' hall, from whence it

gradually spreads to the society newspapers--for do you think these

estimable and popular journals are never indebted for their "reliable"

information to the "honest" statements of discharged footman or valet?

Briggs, for instance, had tried his hand at a paragraph or two

concerning the "Upper Ten," and with the aid of a dictionary, had

succeeded in expressing himself quite smartly, though in ordinary

conversation his h's were often lacking or superfluous, and his grammar

doubtful. Whether he persuaded any editor to accept his literary efforts

is quite another matter--a question to which the answer must remain for

ever enveloped in mystery,--but if he _did_ appear in print (it is only

an if!) he must have been immensely gratified to consider that his

statements were received with gusto by at least half aristocratic

London, and implicitly believed as having emanated from the "best

authorities." And Louise Rénaud having posted her mistress's letter at

last, went down to visit Briggs in his private pantry, and to ask him a

question.

"Tell me," she said rapidly, with her tight, prim smile. "You read the

papers--you will know. What lady is that of the theatres--Violet Vere?"

Briggs laid down the paper he was perusing and surveyed her with a

superior air.

"What, Vi?" he exclaimed with a lazy wink. "Vi, of the Hopperer-Buff?

You've 'erd of 'er surely, Mamzelle? No? There's not a man (as is worth

calling a man) about town, as don't know _'er_! Dukes, Lords, an' Royal

'Ighnesses--she's the style for 'em! Mag-ni-ficent creetur! all legs and

arms! I won't deny but wot I 'ave an admiration for 'er myself--I bought

a 'arf-crown portrait of 'er quite recently." And Briggs rose slowly and

searched in a mysterious drawer which he invariably kept locked.

"'Ere she is, as large as life, Mamzelle," he continued, exhibiting a

"promenade" photograph of the actress in question. "There's a neck for

you! There's form! Vi, my dear, I saloot you!" and he pressed a sounding

kiss on the picture--"you're one in a million! Smokes and drinks like a

trooper, Mamzelle!" he added admiringly, as Louise Rénaud studied the

portrait attentively. "But with all 'er advantages, you would not call

'er a lady. No--that term would be out of the question. She is wot we

men would call an enchantin' female!" And Briggs kissed the tips of his

fingers and waved them in the air as he had seen certain foreign

gentlemen do when enthusiastic.

"I comprehend," said the French maid, nodding emphatically. "Then, if

she is so, what makes that proud Seigneur Bruce-Errington visit her?"

Here she shook her finger at Briggs. "And leave his beautiful lady wife,

to go and see her?" Another shake. "And that _miserable_ Sieur Lennox to

go also? Tell me that!" She folded her arms, like Napoleon at St.

Helena, and smiled again that smile which was nothing but a sneer.

Briggs rubbed his nose contemplatively.

"Little Francis can go ennywheres," he said at last. "He's laid out a

good deal of tin on Vi and others of 'er purfession. You cannot make

enny-think of that young feller but a cad. I would not accept 'im for my

pussonal attendant. No! But Sir Philip Bruce-Errington--" He paused,

then continued, "Air you sure of your facts, Mamzelle?"

Mamzelle was so sure, that the bow on her cap threatened to come off

with the determined wagging of her head.

"Well," resumed Briggs, "Sir Philip may, like hothers, consider it 'the

thing' you know, to 'ang on as it were to Vi. But I _'ad_ thought 'im

superior to it. Ah! poor 'uman natur, as 'Uxley says!" and Briggs

sighed. "Lady Errington is a sweet creetur, Mamzelle--a _very_ sweet

creetur! _Has_ a rule I find the merest nod of my 'ed a sufficient

saloot to a woman of the aristocracy--but for _'er_, Mamzelle, I never

fail to show 'er up with a court bow!" And involuntarily Briggs bowed

then and there in his most elegant manner. Mamzelle tightened her thin

lips a little and waved her hand expressively.

"She is an angel of beauty!" she said, "and Miladi Winsleigh is

jealous--ah, _Dieu!_ jealous to death of her! She is innocent too--like

a baby--and she worships her husband. That is an error! To worship a man

is a great mistake--she will find it so. Men are not to be too much

loved--no, no!"

Briggs smiled in superb self-consciousness. "Well, well! I will not

deny, Mamzelle, that it spoils us," he said complacently. "It certainly

spoils us! 'When lovely woman stoops to folly,'--the hold, hold story!"

"You will r-r-r-emember," said Mamzelle, suddenly stepping up very close

to him and speaking with a strong accent, "what I have said to-night!

Monsieur Briggs, you will r-remember! There will be mees-cheef!

Yes--there will be mees-cheef to Sieur Bruce-Errington, and when there

is,--I--I, Louise Rénaud--I know who ees at the bottom of eet!"

So saying, with a whirl of her black silk dress and a flash of her white

muslin apron, she disappeared. Briggs, left alone, sauntered to a

looking-glass hanging on the wall and studied with some solicitude a

pimple that had recently appeared on his clean-shaven face.

"Mischief!" he soliloquized. "I des-say! Whenever a lot of women gets

together, there's sure to be mischief. Dear creeturs! They love it like

the best Clicquot. Sprightly young pusson is Mamzelle. Knows who's at

the bottom of 'eet,' does she! Well--she's not the only one as knows the

same thing. As long as doors 'as cracks and key'oles, it ain't in the

least difficult to find out wot goes on inside boo-dwars and

drorin'-rooms. And 'ighly interestin' things one 'ears now and

then--'ighly interestin'!"

And Briggs leered suavely at his own reflection, and then resumed the

perusal of his paper. He was absorbed in the piquant, highly flavored

details of a particularly disgraceful divorce case, and he was by no

means likely to disturb himself from his refined enjoyment for any less

important reason than the summons of Lord Winsleigh's bell, which rang

so seldom that, when it did, he made it a point of honor to answer it

immediately, for, as he said--

"His lordship knows wot is due to me, and I knows wot is due to

'im--therefore it 'appens we are able to ekally respect each other!"

CHAPTER XXII.

"If thou wert honorable,

Thou would'st have told this tale for virtue, not

For such an end thou seek'st; as base, as strange.

Thou wrong'st a gentleman who is as far

From thy report, as thou from honor."

_Cymbeline._

Summer in Shakespeare Land! Summer in the heart of England--summer in

wooded Warwickshire,--a summer brilliant, warm, radiant with flowers,

melodious with the songs of the heaven--aspiring larks, and the sweet,

low trill of the forest-hidden nightingales. Wonderful and divine it is

to hear the wild chorus of nightingales that sing beside Como in the hot

languorous nights of an Italian July--wonderful to hear them maddening

themselves with love and music, and almost splitting their slender

throats with the bursting bubbles of burning song,--but there is

something, perhaps, more dreamily enchanting still,--to hear them

warbling less passionately but more plaintively, beneath the drooping

leafage of those grand old trees, some of which may have stretched their

branches in shadowy benediction over the sacred head of the grandest

poet in the world. Why travel to Athens,--why wander among the Ionian

Isles for love of the classic ground? Surely, though the clear-brained

old Greeks were the founders of all noble literature, they have reached

their fulminating point in the English Shakespeare,--and the

Warwickshire lanes, decked simply with hawthorn and sweet-briar roses,

through which Mary Arden walked leading her boy-angel by the hand, are

sacred as any portion of that earth once trodden by the feet of Homer

and Plato.

So, at least, Thelma thought, when, released from the bondage of London

social life, she found herself once more at Errington Manor, then

looking its loveliest, surrounded with a green girdle of oak and beech,

and set off by the beauty of velvety lawns and terraces, and

rose-gardens in full bloom. The depression from which she had suffered

fell away from her completely--she grew light-hearted as a child, and

flitted from room to room, singing to herself for pure gladness. Philip

was with her all day now, save for a couple of hours in the forenoon

which he devoted to letter-writing in connection with his Parliamentary

aspirations,--and Philip was tender, adoring and passionate as lovers

may be, but as husbands seldom are. They took long walks together

through the woods,--they often rambled across the fragrant fields to

Anne Hathaway's cottage, which was not very far away, and sitting down

in some sequestered nook, Philip would pull from his pocket a volume of

the immortal Plays, and read passages aloud in his fine mellow voice,

while Thelma, making posies of the meadow flowers, listened entranced.

Sometimes, when he was in a more business-like humor, he would bring out

Cicero's Orations, and after pondering over them for a while would talk

very grandly about the way in which he meant to speak in Parliament.

"They want dash and fire there," he said, "and these qualities must be

united with good common sense. In addressing the House, you see, Thelma,

one must rouse and interest the men--not bore them. You can't expect

fellows to pass a Bill if you've made them long for their beds all the

time you've been talking about it."

Thelma smiled and glanced over his shoulder at "Cicero's Orations."

"And do you wish to speak to them like Cicero, my boy?" she said gently.

"But I do not think you will find that possible. Because when Cicero

spoke it was in a different age and to very different people--people

who were glad to learn how to be wise and brave. But if you were Cicero

himself, do you think you would be able to impress the English

Parliament?"

"Why not, dear?" asked Errington with some fervor. "I believe that men,

taken as men, _pur et simple_, are the same in all ages, and are open to

the same impressions. Why should not modern Englishmen be capable of

receiving the same lofty ideas as the antique Romans, and acting upon

them?"

"Ah, do not ask _me_ why," said Thelma, with a plaintive little shake of

her head--"for _I_ cannot tell you! But remember how many members of

Parliament we did meet in London--and where were their lofty ideas?

Philip, had they any ideas at all, do you think? There was that very fat

gentleman who is a brewer,--well, to hear him talk, would you not think

all England was for the making of beer? And he does not care for the

country unless it continues to consume his beer! It was to that very man

I said something about _Hamlet_, and he told me he had no interest for

such nonsense as Shakespeare and play-going--his time was taken up at

the '_'Ouse_.' You see, he is a member of Parliament--yet it is evident

he neither knows the language nor the literature of his country! And

there must be many like him, otherwise so ignorant a person would not

hold such a position--and for such men, what would be the use of a

Cicero?"

Philip leaned back against the trunk of the tree under which they were

sitting, and laughed.

"You may be right, Thelma,--I dare say you are. There's certainly too

much beer represented in the House--I admit that. But, after all, trade

is the great moving-spring of national prosperity,--and it would hardly

be fair to refuse seats to the very men who help to keep the country

going."

"I do not see that," said Thelma gravely,--"if those men are ignorant,

why should they have a share in so important a thing as Government? They

may know all about beer, and wool, and iron,--but perhaps they can only

judge what is good for themselves, not what is best for the whole

country, with all its rich and poor. I do think that only the wisest

scholars and most intelligent persons should be allowed to help in the

ruling of a great nation."

"But the people choose their own rulers," remarked Errington

reflectively.

"Ah, the poor people!" sighed Thelma. "They know so very little,--and

they are taught so badly! I think they never do quite understand what

they do want,--they are the same in all histories,--like little

children, they get bewildered and frightened in any trouble, and the

wisest heads are needed to think for them. It is, indeed, most cruel to

make them puzzle out all difficulty for themselves!"

"What a little sage you are, my pet!" laughed Philip, taking her hand on

which the marriage-ring and its accompanying diamond circlet, glistened

brilliantly in the warm sunlight. "Do you mean to go in for politics?"

She shook her head. "No, indeed! That is not woman's work at all. The

only way in which I think about such things, is that I feel the people

cannot all be wise,--and that it seems a pity the wisest and greatest in

the land should not be chosen to lead them rightly."

"And so under the circumstances, you think it's no use my trying to

_pose_ as a Cicero?" asked her husband amusedly. She laughed--with a

very tender cadence in her laughter.

"It would not be worth your while, my boy," she said "You know I have

often told you that I do not see any great distinction in being a member

of Parliament at all. What will you do? You will talk to the fat brewer

perhaps, and he will contradict you--then other people will get up and

talk and contradict each other,--and so it will go on for days and

days--meanwhile the country remains exactly as it was, neither better

nor worse,--and all the talking does no good! It is better to be out of

it,--here together, as we are to-day."

And she raised her dreamy blue eyes to the sheltering canopy of green

leaves that overhung them--leaves thick-clustered and dewy, through

which the dazzling sky peeped in radiant patches. Philip looked at

her,--the rapt expression of her upward gaze,--the calm, untroubled

sweetness of her fair face,--were such as might well have suited one of

Raffaelle's divinest angels. His heart beat quickly--he drew closer to

her, and put his arm round her.