"Your eyes are looking at the sky, Thelma," he whispered. "Do you know

what that is? Heaven looking into heaven! And do you know which of the

two heavens I prefer?" She smiled, and turning, met his ardent gaze with

one of equal passion and tenderness.

"Ah, you _do_ know!" he went on, softly kissing the side of her slim

white throat. "I thought you couldn't possibly make a mistake!" He

rested his head against her shoulder, and after a minute or two of lazy

comfort, he resumed. "You are not ambitious, my Thelma! You don't seem

to care whether your husband distinguishes himself in the 'Ouse,' as our

friend the brewer calls it, or not. In fact, I don't believe you care

for anything save--love! Am I not right, my wife?"

A wave of rosy color flushed her transparent skin, and her eyes filled

with an earnest, almost pathetic languor.

"Surely of all things in the world," she said in a low tone,--"Love is

best?"

To this he made prompt answer, though not in words--his lips conversed

with hers, in that strange, sweet language which, though unwritten, is

everywhere comprehensible,--and then they left their shady resting-place

and sauntered homeward hand in hand through the warm fields fragrant

with wild thyme and clover.

Many happy days passed thus with these lovers--for lovers they still

were. Marriage had for once fulfilled its real and sacred meaning--it

had set Love free from restraint, and had opened all the gateways of the

only earthly paradise human hearts shall ever know,--the paradise of

perfect union and absolute sympathy with the one thing beloved on this

side eternity.

The golden hours fled by all too rapidly,--and towards the close of

August there came an interruption to their felicity. Courtesy had

compelled Bruce-Errington and his wife to invite a few friends down to

visit them at the Manor before the glory of the summer-time was

past,--and first among the guests came Lord and Lady Winsleigh and their

bright boy, Ernest. Her ladyship's maid, Louise Rénaud, of course,

accompanied her ladyship,--and Briggs was also to the fore in the

capacity of Lord Winsleigh's personal attendant. After these, George

Lorimer arrived--he had avoided the Erringtons all the season,--but he

could not very well refuse the pressing invitation now given him without

seeming churlish,--then came Beau Lovelace, for a few days only, as with

the commencement of September he would be off as usual to his villa on

the Lago di Como. Sir Francis Lennox, too, made his appearance

frequently in a casual sort of way--he "ran down," to use his own

expression, now and then, and made himself very agreeable, especially to

men, by whom he was well liked for his invariable good-humor and

extraordinary proficiency in all sports and games of skill. Another

welcome visitor was Pierre Duprèz, lively and sparkling as ever,--he

came from Paris to pass a fortnight with his "cher Phil-eep," and make

merriment for the whole party. His old admiration for Britta had by no

means decreased,--he was fond of waylaying that demure little maiden on

her various household errands, and giving her small posies of jessamine

and other sweet-scented blossoms to wear just above the left-hand corner

of her apron-bib, close to the place where the heart is supposed to be.

Olaf Güldmar had been invited to the Manor at this period,--Errington

wrote many urgent letters, and so did Thelma, entreating him to

come,--for nothing would have pleased Sir Philip more than to have

introduced the fine old Odin worshipper among his fashionable friends,

and to have heard him bluntly and forcibly holding his own among them,

putting their feint and languid ways of life to shame by his manly,

honest, and vigorous utterance. But Güldmar had only just returned to

the Altenfjord after nearly a year's absence, and his hands were too

full of work for him to accept his son-in-law's invitation.

"The farm lands have a waste and dreary look," he wrote, "though I let

them to a man who should verily have known how to till the soil trodden

by his fathers--and as for the farmhouse, 'twas like a hollow shell that

has lain long on the shore and become brown and brittle--for thou

knowest no human creature has entered there since we departed. However,

Valdemar Svensen and I, for sake of company, have resolved to dwell

together in it, and truly we have nearly settled down to the peaceful

contemplation of our past days,--so Philip, and thou, my child Thelma,

trouble not concerning me. I am hale and hearty, the gods be

thanked,--and may live on in hope to see you both next spring or

summer-tide. Your happiness keeps this old man young--so grudge me not

the news of your delights wherein I am myself delighted."

One familiar figure was missing from the Manor household,--that of

Edward Neville. Since the night at the Brilliant, when he had left the

theatre so suddenly, and gone home on the plea of illness, he had never

been quite the same man. He looked years older--he was strangely nervous

and timid--and he shrank away from Thelma as though he were some guilty

or tainted creature. Surprised at this, she spoke to her husband about

it,--but he, hurriedly, and with some embarrassment, advised her to "let

him alone"--his "nerves were shaken"--his "health was feeble"--and that

it would be kind on her part to refrain from noticing him or asking him

questions. So she refrained--but Neville's behavior puzzled her all the

same. When they left town, he implored, almost piteously, to be allowed

to remain behind,--he could attend to Sir Philip's business so much

better in London, he declared, and he had his way. Errington, usually

fond of Neville's society, made no attempt whatever to persuade him

against his will,--so he stayed in the half-shut-up house in Prince's

Gate through all the summer heat, poring over parliamentary documents

and pamphlets,--and Philip came up from the country once a fortnight to

visit him, and transact any business that might require his personal

attention.

On one of the last and hottest days in August, a grand garden-party was

given at the Manor. All the county people were invited, and they came

eagerly, though, before Thelma's social successes in London, they had

been reluctant to meet her. Now, they put on their best clothes, and

precipitated themselves into the Manor grounds like a flock of sheep

seeking land on which to graze,--all wearing their sweetest propitiatory

smirk--all gushing forth their admiration of "that _darling_ Lady

Errington"--all behaving themselves in the exceptionally funny manner

that county people affect,--people who are considered somebodies in the

small villages their big houses dominate,--but who, when brought to

reside in London, become less than the minnows in a vast ocean. These

good folks were not only anxious to _see_ Lady Errington--they wanted to

_say_ they had seen her,--and that she had spoken to _them_, so that

they might, in talking to their neighbors, mention it in quite an easy,

casual way, such as--"Oh, I was at Errington Manor the other day, and

Lady Errington said to me--." Or--"Sir Philip is _such_ a charming man!

I was talking to his lovely wife, and he asked me--" etc., etc.

Or--"You've no idea what large strawberries they grow at the Manor! Lady

Errington showed me some that were just ripening--magnificent!" And so

on. For in truth this _is_ "a mad world, my masters,"--and there is no

accounting for the inexpressibly small follies and mean toadyisms of the

people in it.

Moreover, all the London guests who were visiting Thelma came in for a

share of the county magnates' servile admiration. They found the

Winsleighs "so distingué"--Master Ernest instantly became "that _dear_

boy!"--Beau Lovelace was "so dreadfully clever, you know!"--and Pierre

Duprèz "quite _too_ delightful!"

The grounds looked very brilliant--pink-and-white marquees were dotted

here and there on the smooth velvet lawns--bright flags waved from

different quarters of the gardens, signals of tennis, archery, and

dancing,--and the voluptuous waltz-music of a fine Hungarian band rose

up and swayed in the air with the downward floating songs of the birds

and the dash of fountains in full play. Girls in pretty light summer

costumes made picturesque groups under the stately oaks and

beeches,--gay laughter echoed from the leafy shrubberies, and stray

couples were seen sauntering meditatively through the rose-gardens,

treading on the fallen scented petals, and apparently too much absorbed

in each other to notice anything that was going on around them. Most of

these were lovers, of course--intending lovers, if not declared

ones,--in fact, Eros was very busy that day among the roses, and shot

forth a great many arrows, aptly aimed, out of his exhaustless quiver.

Two persons there were, however,--man and woman,--who, walking in that

same rose-avenue, did not seem, from their manner, to have much to do

with the fair Greek god,--they were Lady Winsleigh and Sir Francis

Lennox. Her ladyship looked exceedingly beautiful in her clinging dress

of Madras lace, with a bunch of scarlet poppies at her breast, and a

wreath of the same vivid flowers in her picturesque Leghorn hat. She

held a scarlet-lined parasol over her head, and from under the

protecting shadow of this silken pavilion, her dark, lustrous eyes

flashed disdainfully as she regarded her companion. He was biting an end

of his brown moustache, and looked annoyed, yet lazily amused too.

"Upon my life, Clara," he observed, "you are really awfully down on a

fellow, you know! One would think you never cared two-pence about me!"

"Too high a figure!" retorted Lady Winsleigh, with a hard little laugh.

"I never cared a brass farthing!"

He stopped short in his walk and stared at her.

"By Jove! you _are_ cool!" he ejaculated. "Then what did you mean all

the time?"

"What did _you_ mean?" she asked defiantly.

He was silent. After a slight, uncomfortable pause, he shrugged his

shoulders and smiled.

"Don't let us have a scene!" he observed in a bantering tone. "Anything

but that!"

"Scene!" she exclaimed indignantly. "Pray when have you had to complain

of me on that score?"

"Well, don't let me have to complain now," he said coolly.

She surveyed him in silent scorn for a moment, and her full, crimson

lips curled contemptuously.

"What a brute you are!" she muttered suddenly between her set pearly

teeth.

"Thanks, awfully!" he answered, taking out a cigarette and lighting it

leisurely. "You are really charmingly candid, Clara! Almost as frank as

Lady Errington, only less polite!"

"I shall not learn politeness from _you_, at any rate," she said,--then

altering her tone to one of studied indifference, she continued coldly,

"What do you want of me? We've done with each other, as you know. I

believe you wish to become gentleman-lacquey to Bruce-Errington's wife,

and that you find it difficult to obtain the situation. Shall I give you

a character?"

He flushed darkly, and his eyes glittered with an evil lustre.

"Gently, Clara! Draw it mild!" he said languidly. "Don't irritate me, or

I _may_ turn crusty! You know, if I chose, I could open

Bruce-Errington's eyes rather more widely than you'd like with respect

to the _devoted affection_ you entertain for his beautiful wife." She

winced a little at this observation--he saw it and laughed,--then

resumed: "At present I'm really in the best of humors. The reason I

wanted to speak to you alone for a minute or two was, that I'd something

to say which might possibly please you. But perhaps you'd rather not

hear it?"

She was silent. So was he. He watched her closely for a little--noting

with complacency the indignant heaving of her breast and the flush on

her cheeks,--signs of the strong repression she was putting upon her

rising temper.

"Come, Clara, you may as well be amiable," he said. "I'm sure you'll be

glad to know that the virtuous Philip is not immaculate after all. Won't

it comfort you to think that he's nothing but a mortal man like the rest

of us? . . . and that with a little patience your charms will most

probably prevail with him as easily as they once did with me? Isn't that

worth hearing?"

"I don't understand you," she replied curtly.

"Then you are very dense, my dear girl," he remarked smilingly. "Pardon

me for saying so! But I'll put it plainly and in as few words as

possible. The moral Bruce-Errington, like a great many other 'moral' men

I know, has gone in for Violet Vere,--and I dare say you understand what

_that_ means. In the simplest language, it means that he's tired of his

domestic bliss and wants a change."

Lady Winsleigh stopped in her slow pacing along the gravel-walk, and

raised her eyes steadily to her companion's face.

"Are you sure of this?" she asked.

"Positive!" replied Sir Francis, flicking the light ash off his

cigarette delicately with his little finger. "When you wrote me that

note about the Vere, I confess I had my suspicions. Since then they've

been confirmed. I know for a fact that Errington has had several private

interviews with Vi, and has also written her a good many letters. Some

of the fellows in the green-room tease her about her new conquest, and

she grins and admits it. Oh, the whole thing's plain enough! Only last

week, when he went up to town to see his man Neville on business he

called on Vi at her own apartments in Arundel Street, Strand. She told

me so herself--we're rather intimate, you know,--though of course she

refused to mention the object of his visit. Honor among thieves!" and he

smiled half mockingly.

Lady Winsleigh seemed absorbed, and walked on like one in a dream. Just

then, a bend in the avenue brought them in full view of the broad

terrace in front of the Manor, where Thelma's graceful figure, in a

close-fitting robe of white silk crepe, was outlined clearly against the

dazzling blue of the sky. Several people were grouped near her,--she

seemed to be in animated conversation with some of them, and her face

was radiant with smiles. Lady Winsleigh looked at her,--then said

suddenly in a low voice--

"It will break her heart!"

Sir Francis assumed an air of polite surprise. "Pardon! Whose heart?"

She pointed slightly to the white figure on the terrace.

"Hers! Surely you must know that?"

He smiled. "Well--isn't that precisely what you desire Clara? Though,

for my part, I don't believe in the brittleness of hearts--they seem to

me to be made of exceptionally tough material. However, if the fair

Thelma's heart cracks ever so widely, I think I can undertake to mend

it!"

Clara shrugged her shoulders. "You!" she exclaimed contemptuously.

He stroked his moustache with feline care and nicety.

"Yes--I! If not, I've studied women all my life for nothing!"

She broke into a low peal of mocking laughter--turned, and was about to

leave him, when he detained her by a slight touch on her arm.

"Stop a bit!" he said in an impressive _sotto-voce_. "A bargain's a

bargain all the world over. If I undertake to keep you cognizant of

Bruce-Errington's little goings-on in London,--information which, I dare

say, you can turn to good account,--you must do something for me. I ask

very little. Speak of me to Lady Errington--make her think well of

me,--flatter me as much as you used to do when we fancied ourselves

terrifically in love with each other--(a good joke, wasn't it!)--and,

above all, make her _trust_ me! Do you understand?"

"As Red Riding-Hood trusted the Wolf and was eaten up for her

innocence," observed Lady Winsleigh. "Very well! I'll do my best. As I

said before, you want a character. I'm sure I hope you'll obtain the

situation you so much desire! I can state that you made yourself fairly

useful in your last place, and that you left because your wages were not

high enough!"

And with another sarcastic laugh, she moved forward towards the terrace

where Thelma stood. Sir Francis followed at some little distance with no

very pleasant expression on his features. A stealthy step approaching

him front behind made him start nervously--it was Louise Rénaud, who,

carrying a silver tray on which soda-water bottles and glasses made an

agreeable clinking, tripped demurely past him without raising her eyes.

She came directly out of the rose-garden,--and, as she overtook her

mistress on the lawn, that lady seemed surprised, and asked--

"Where have you been, Louise?"

"Miladi was willing that I should assist in the attendance to-day,"

replied Louise discreetly. "I have waited upon Milord Winsleigh, and

other gentlemen in the summer-house at the end of the rose-garden."

And with one furtive glance of her black, bead-like eyes at Lady

Winsleigh's face, she made a respectful sort of half-curtsy and went her

way.

Later on in the afternoon, when it was nearing sunset, and all other

amusements had given way to the delight of dancing on the springy green

turf to the swinging music of the band,--Briggs, released for a time

from the duties of assisting the waiters at the splendid

refreshment-table (duties which were pleasantly lightened by the

drinking of a bottle of champagne which he was careful to reserve for

his own consumption), sauntered leisurely through the winding alleys and

fragrant shrubberies which led to the most unromantic portion of the

Manor grounds,--namely, the vegetable-garden. Here none of the

butterflies of fashion found their way,--the suggestions offered by

growing cabbages, turnips, beans, and plump, yellow-skinned marrows were

too prosaic for society bantams who require refined surroundings in

which to crow their assertive platitudes. Yet it was a peaceful

nook--and there were household odors of mint and thyme and sweet

marjoram, which were pleasant to the soul of Briggs, and reminded him of

roast goose on Christmas Day, with all its attendant succulent

delicacies. He paced the path slowly,--the light of the sinking sun

blazing gloriously on his plush breeches, silver cordons and

tassels,--for he was in full-dress livery in honor of the fête, and

looked exceedingly imposing. Now and then he glanced down at his calves

with mild approval,--his silk stockings fitted them well, and they had a

very neat and shapely appearance.

"I've developed," he murmured to himself. "There ain't a doubt about

it! One week of Country air, and I'm a different man;--the effecks of

overwork 'ave disappeared. Flopsie won't know these legs of mine when I

get back,--they've improved surprisingly." He stopped to survey a bed of

carrots. "Plenty of Cressy there," he mused. "Cressy's a noble soup, and

Flopsie makes it well,--a man might do wuss than marry Flopsie. She's a

widder, and a _leetle_ old--just a leetle old for me--but--" Here he

sniffed delicately at a sprig of thyme he had gathered, and smiled

consciously. Presently he perceived a small, plump, pretty figure

approaching him, no other than Britta, looking particularly charming in

a very smart cap, adorned with pink-ribbon bows, and a very elaborately

frilled muslin apron. Briggs at once assumed his most elegant and

conquering air, straightened himself to his full height and kissed his

hand to her with much condescension. She laughed as she came up to him,

and the dimples in her round cheeks appeared in full force.

"Well, Mr. Briggs," she said, "are you enjoying yourself?"

Briggs smiled down upon her benevolently. "I am!" he responded

graciously. "I find the hair refreshing. And you, Miss Britta?"

"Oh, I'm very comfortable, thank you!" responded Britta demurely, edging

a little away from his arm, which showed an unmistakable tendency to

encircle her waist,--then glancing at a basket she held full of grapes,

just cut from the hot house, she continued, "These are for the

supper-table. I must be quick, and take them to Mrs. Parton."

"Must you?" and Briggs asked this question with quite an unnecessary

amount of tenderness, then resuming his dignity, he observed, "Mrs.

Parton is a very worthy woman--an excellent 'ousekeeper. But she'll no

doubt excuse you for lingering a little, Miss Britta--especially in _my_

company."

Britta laughed again, showing her pretty little white teeth to the best

advantage. "Do you think she will?" she said merrily. "Then I'll stop a

minute, and if she scolds me I'll put the blame on you!"

Briggs played with his silver tassels and, leaning gracefully against a

plum-tree, surveyed her with a critical eye.

"I was not able," he observed, "to see much of you in town. Our people

were always a' visitin' each other, and yet our meetings were, as the

poet says, 'few and far between.'"

Britta nodded indifferently, and perceiving a particularly ripe

gooseberry on one of the bushes close to her, gathered it quickly and

popped it between her rosy lips. Seeing another equally ripe, she

offered it to Briggs, who accepted it and ate it slowly, though he had a

misgiving that by so doing he was seriously compromising his dignity. He

resumed his conversation.

"Since I've been down 'ere, I've 'ad more opportunity to observe you. I

'ope you will allow me to say I think very highly of you." He waved his

hand with the elegance of a Sir Charles Grandison. "Very 'ighly indeed!

Your youth is most becoming to you! If you only 'ad a little more

_chick_, there'd be nothing left to desire!"

"A little more--_what_?" asked Britta, opening her blue eyes very wide

in puzzled amusement.

"_Chick_!" replied Briggs, with persistent persuasiveness. "_Chick_,

Miss Britta, is a French word much used by the aristocracy. Coming from

Norway, an 'avin' perhaps a very limited experience, you mayn't 'ave

'erd it--but eddicated people 'ere find it very convenient and

expressive. _Chick_ means style,--_the_ thing, _the_ go, _the_ fashion.

For example, everything your lady wears is _chick_!"

"Really!" said Britta, with a wandering and innocent air. "How funny! It

doesn't sound like French, at all, Mr. Briggs,--it's more like English."

"Perhaps the Paris accent isn't familiar to you yet," remarked Briggs

majestically. "Your stay in the gay metropolis was probably short. Now,

I 'ave been there many times--ah, Paris, Paris!" he paused in a sort of

ecstacy, then, with a side leer, continued--"You'd 'ardly believe 'ow

wicked I am in Paris, Miss Britta! I am, indeed! It is something in the

hair of the Bollyvards, I suppose! And the caffy life excites my

nerves."

"Then you shouldn't go there," said Britta gravely, though her eyes

twinkled with repressed fun. "It can't be good for you. And, oh! I'm so

sorry, Mr. Briggs, to think that _you_ are ever wicked!" And she

laughed.

"It's not for long," explained Briggs, with a comically satisfied, yet

penitent, look. "It is only a sort of breaking out,--a fit of 'igh

spirits. Hall men are so at times! It's _chick_ to run a little wild in

Paris. But Miss Britta, if _you_ were with me I should never run wild!"

Here his arm made another attempt to get round her waist--and again she

skillfully, and with some show of anger, avoided it.

"Ah, you're very 'ard upon me," he then observed, "Very, very, 'ard! But

I won't complain, my--my dear gal--one day you'll know me better!" He

stopped and looked at her very intently. "Miss Britta," he said

abruptly, "you've a great affection for your lady, 'aven't you?"

Instantly Britta's face flushed, and she was all attention.

"Yes, indeed!" she answered quickly. "Why do you ask, Mr. Briggs?"

Briggs rubbed his nose perplexedly. "It is not easy to explain," he

said. "To run down my own employers wouldn't be in my line. But I've an

idea that Clara--by which name I allude to my Lord Winsleigh's lady,--is

up to mischief. She 'ates _your_ lady, Miss Britta--'ates 'er like

poison!"

"Hates her!" cried Britta in astonishment. "Oh, you must be mistaken,

Mr. Briggs! She is as fond of her as she can be--almost like a sister to

her!"

"Clara's a fine actress," murmured Briggs, more to himself than to his

companion. "She'd beat Violet Vere on 'er own ground." Raising his voice

a little, he turned gallantly to Britta and relieved her of the basket

she held.

"Hallow me!" he said. "We'll walk to the 'ouse together. On the way I'll

explain--and you'll judge for yourself. The words of the immortal bard,

whose county we are in, occur to me as _aprerpo_,--'There are more

things in 'evin and 'erth, 'Oratio,--than even the most devoted domestic

can sometimes be aweer of.'"

And gently sauntering by Britta's side, Briggs began to converse in low

and confidential tones,--she listened with strained and eager

attention,--and she was soon receiving information that startled her and

set her on the alert.

Talk of private detectives and secret service! Do private detectives

ever discover so much as the servants of a man's own household?--servants

who are aware of the smallest trifles,--who know the name and position

of every visitor that comes and goes,--who easily learn to recognize the

handwriting on every letter that arrives--who laugh and talk in their

kitchens over things that their credulous masters and mistresses imagine

are unknown to all the world save themselves,--who will judge the morals

of a Duke, and tear the reputation of a Duchess to shreds, for the

least, the most trifling error of conduct! If you can stand well with

your servants, you can stand well with the whole world--if not--carry

yourself as haughtily as you may--your pride will not last long, depend

upon it!

Meanwhile, as Briggs and Britta strolled in the side paths of the

shrubbery, the gay guests of the Manor were dancing on the lawn. Thelma

did not dance,--she reclined in a low basket-chair, fanning herself.

George Lorimer lay stretched in lazy length at her feet, and near her

stood her husband, together with Beau Lovelace and Lord Winsleigh. At a

little distance, under the shadow of a noble beech, sat Mrs.

Rush-Marvelle and Mrs. Van Clupp in earnest conversation. It was to Mrs.

Marvelle that the Van Clupps owed their invitation for this one day down

to Errington Manor,--for Thelma herself was not partial to them. But she

did not like to refuse Mrs. Marvelle's earnest entreaty that they should

be asked,--and that good-natured, scheming lady having gained her point,

straightway said to Marcia Van Clupp somewhat severely--

"Now, Marcia, this is your last chance. If you don't hook Masherville at

the Carringten fête, you'll lose him! You mark my words!"

Marcia had dutifully promised to do her best, and she was not having

what she herself called "a good hard time of it." Lord Algy was in one

of his most provokingly vacillating moods--moreover, he had a headache,

and felt bilious. Therefore he would not dance--he would not play

tennis--he did not understand archery--he was disinclined to sit in

romantic shrubberies or summer-houses, as he had a nervous dread of

spiders--so he rambled aimlessly about the grounds with his hands in his

pockets, and perforce Marcia was compelled to ramble too. Once she tried

what effect an opposite flirtation would have on his mind, so she

coquetted desperately with a young country squire, whose breed of pigs

was considered the finest in England--but Masherville did not seem to

mind it in the least. Nay, he looked rather relieved than otherwise, and

Marcia, seeing this, grew more resolute than ever.

"I guess I'll pay him out for this!" she thought as she watched him

feebly drinking soda-water for his headache. "He's a man that wants

ruling, and ruled he shall be!"

And Mrs. Rush-Marvelle and Mrs. Van Clupp observed her manoeuvres with

maternal interest, while the cunning-faced, white-headed Van Clupp

conversed condescendingly with Mr. Rush-Marvelle, as being a nonentity

of a man whom he could safely patronize.

As the glory of the sunset paled, and the delicate, warm hues of the

summer twilight softened the landscape, the merriment of the brilliant

assembly seemed to increase. As soon as it was dark, the grounds were to

be illuminated by electricity, and dancing was to be continued

indoors--the fine old picture-gallery being the place chosen for the

purpose. Nothing that could add to the utmost entertainment of the

guests had been forgotten, and Thelma, the fair mistress of these

pleasant revels, noting with quiet eyes the evident enjoyment of all

present, felt very happy and tranquil. She had exerted herself a good

deal, and was now a little tired. Her eyes had a dreamy, far-off look,

and she found her thoughts wandering, now and then, away to the

Altenfjord--she almost fancied she could hear the sigh of the pines and

the dash of the waves mingling in unison as they used to do when she sat

at the old farm-house window and span, little dreaming then how her life

would change--how all those familiar things would be swept away as

though they had never been. She roused herself from this momentary

reverie, and glancing down at the recumbent gentleman at her feet,

touched his shoulder lightly with the edge of her fan.

"Why do you not dance, you very lazy Mr. Lorimer?" she asked, with a

smile.

He turned up his fair, half-boyish face to hers and laughed.

"Dance! I! Good gracious! Such an exertion would kill me, Lady

Errington--don't you know that? I am of a Sultan-like disposition--I

shouldn't mind having slaves to dance for me if they did it well--but I

should look on from the throne whereon I sat cross-legged,--and smoke my

pipe in peace."

"Always the same!" she said lightly. "Are you never serious?"

His eyes darkened suddenly. "Sometimes. Awfully so! And in that

condition I become a burden to myself and my friends."

"Never be serious!" interposed Beau Lovelace, "it really isn't worth

while! Cultivate the humor of a Socrates, and reduce everything by means

of close argument to its smallest standpoint, and the world, life, and

time are no more than a pinch of snuff for some great Titantic god to

please his giant nose withal!"

"Your fame isn't worth much then, Beau, if we're to go by that line of

argument," remarked Errington, with a laugh.

"Fame! By Jove! You don't suppose I'm such an arrant donkey as to set

any store by fame!" cried Lovelace, a broad smile lighting up his face

and eyes. "Why, because a few people read my books and are amused

thereby,--and because the Press pats me graciously on the back, and says

metaphorically, 'Well done, little 'un!' or words to that effect, am I

to go crowing about the world as if I were the only literary

chanticleer? My dear friend, have you read 'Esdras'? You will find there

that a certain king of Persia wrote to one 'Rathumus, a story-writer.'

No doubt he was famous in his day, but,--to travesty _hamlet_, 'where be

his stories now?' Learn, from the deep oblivion into which poor

Rathumus's literary efforts have fallen, the utter mockery and

uselessness of so-called _fame_!"

"But there must be a certain pleasure in it while you're alive to enjoy

it," said Lord Winsleigh. "Surely you derive some little satisfaction

from your celebrity, Mr. Lovelace?"

Beau broke into a laugh, mellow, musical, and hearty.

"A satisfaction shared with murderers, thieves, divorced women,

dynamiters, and other notorious people in general," he said. "They're

all talked about--so am I. They all get written about--so do I. My

biography is always being carefully compiled by newspaper authorities,

to the delight of the reading public. Only the other day I learned for

the first time that my father was a greengrocer, who went in for selling

coals by the half-hundred and thereby made his fortune--my mother was an

unsuccessful oyster-woman who failed ignominiously at Margate--moreover,

I've a great many brothers and sisters of tender age whom I absolutely

refuse to assist. I've got a wife somewhere, whom my literary success

causes me to despise--and I have deserted children. I'm charmed with

the accuracy of the newspapers--and I wouldn't contradict them for the

world,--I find my biographies so original! They are the result of that

celebrity which Winsleigh thinks enjoyable."

"But assertions of that kind are libels," said Errington, "You could

prosecute."

"Too much trouble!" declared Beau. "Besides, five journals have

disclosed the name of the town where I was born, and as they all

contradict each other, and none of them are right, any contradiction on

_my_ part would be superfluous!"

They laughed,--and at that moment Lady Winsleigh joined them.

"Are you not catching cold, Thelma?" she inquired sweetly. "Sir Philip,

you ought to make her put on something warm,--I find the air growing

chilly."

At that moment the ever-ready Sir Francis Lennox approached with a light

woolen wrap he had found in the hall.

"Permit me!" he said gently, at the same time adroitly throwing it over

Thelma's shoulders.

She colored a little,--she did not care for his attention, but she could

not very well ignore it without seeming to be discourteous. So she

murmured, "Thank you!" and, rising from her chair, addressed Lady

Winsleigh.

"If you feel cold, Clara, you will like some tea," she said. "Shall we

go indoors, where it is ready?"

Lady Winsleigh assented with some eagerness,--and the two, beautiful

women--the one dark, the other fair--walked side by side across the lawn

into the house, their arms round each other's waists as they went.

"Two queens--and yet not rivals?" half queried Lovelace, as he watched

them disappearing.

"Their thrones are secure!" returned Sir Philip gaily.

The others were silent. Lord Winsleigh's thoughts, whatever they were,

deepened the lines of gravity on his face; and George Lorimer, as he got

up from his couch on the grass, caught a fleeting expression in the

brown eyes of Sir Francis Lennox that struck him with a sense of

unpleasantness. But he quickly dismissed the impression from his mind,

and went to have a quiet smoke in the shrubbery.

CHAPTER XXIII.

"La rose du jardin, comme tu sais, dure peu, et la saison des roses est

bien vite écoulée!"--SAADI.

Thelma took her friend Lady Winsleigh to her own boudoir, a room which

had been the particular pride of Sir Philip's mother. The walls were

decorated with panels of blue silk in which were woven flowers of gold

and silver thread,--and the furniture, bought from an old palace in

Milan, was of elaborately carved wood inlaid with ivory and silver. Here

a _tête-à-tête_ tea was served for the two ladies, both of whom were

somewhat fatigued by the pleasures of the day. Lady Winsleigh declared

she must have some rest, or she would be quite unequal to the gaieties

of the approaching evening, and Thelma herself was not sorry to escape

for a little from her duties as hostess,--so the two remained together

for some time in earnest conversations and Lady Winsleigh then and there

confided to Thelma what she had heard reported concerning Sir Philip's

intimate acquaintance with the burlesque actress, Violet Vere. And they

were both so long absent that, after a while, Errington began to miss

his wife, and, growing impatient, went in search of her. He entered the

boudoir, and, to his surprise, found Lady Winsleigh there quite alone.

"Where is Thelma?" he demanded.

"She seems not very well--a slight headache or something of that

sort--and has gone to lie down," replied Lady Winsleigh, with a faint

trace of embarrassment in her manner. "I think the heat has been too

much for her."

"I'll go and see after her,"--and he turned promptly to leave the room.

"Sir Philip!" called Lady Winsleigh. He paused and looked back.

"Stay one moment," continued her ladyship softly. "I have been for a

long time so very anxious to say something to you in private. Please let

me speak now. You--you know"--here she cast down her lustrous

eyes--"before you went to Norway I--I was very foolish--"

"Pray do not recall it," he said with kindly gravity "_I_ have forgotten

it."

"That is so good of you!" and a flush of color warmed her delicate

cheeks. "For if you have forgotten, you have also forgiven?"

"Entirely!" answered Errington,--and touched by her plaintive,

self-reproachful manner and trembling voice, he went up to her and took

her hands in his own. "Don't think of the past, Clara! Perhaps I also

was to blame a little--I'm quite willing to think I was. Flirtation's a

dangerous amusement at best." He paused as he saw two bright tears on

her long, silky lashes, and in his heart felt a sort of remorse that he

had ever permitted himself to think badly of her. "We are the best of

friends now, Clara," he continued cheerfully, "and I hope we may always

remain so. You can't imagine how glad I am that you love my Thelma!"

"Who would not love her!" sighed Lady Winsleigh gently, as Sir Philip

released her hands from his warm clasp,--then raising her tearful eyes

to his she added wistfully, "You must take great care of her,

Philip--she is so sensitive,--I always fancy an unkind word would kill

her."

"She'll never hear one from me!" he returned, with so tender and earnest

a look on his face, that Lady Winsleigh's heart ached for jealousy. "I

must really go and see how she is. She's been exerting herself too much

to-day. Excuse me!" and with a courteous smile and bow he left the room

with a hurried and eager step.

Alone, Lady Winsleigh smiled bitterly. "Men are all alike!" she said

half aloud. "Who would think he was such a hypocrite? Fancy his dividing

his affection between two such contrasts as Thelma and Violet Vere!

However, there's no accounting for tastes. As for man's fidelity, I

wouldn't give a straw for it--and for his morality--!" She finished the

sentence with a scornful laugh, and left the boudoir to return to the

rest of the company.

Errington, meanwhile, knocked softly at the door of his wife's

bedroom--and receiving no answer, turned the handle noiselessly and went

in. Thelma lay on the bed, dressed as she was, her cheek resting on her

hand, and her face partially hidden. Her husband approached on tiptoe,

and lightly kissed her forehead. She did not stir,--she appeared to

sleep profoundly.

"Poor girl!" he thought, "she's tired out, and no wonder, with all the

bustle and racket of these people! A good thing if she can rest a little

before the evening closes in."

And he stole quietly out of the room, and meeting Britta on the stairs

told her on no account to let her mistress be disturbed till it was time

for the illumination of the grounds. Britta promised,--Britta's eyes

were red--one would almost have fancied she had been crying. But Thelma

was not asleep--she had felt her husband's kiss,--her heart had beat as

quickly as the wing of a caged wild bird at his warm touch,--and now he

had gone she turned and pressed her lips passionately on the pillow

where his hand had leaned. Then she rose languidly from the bed, and,

walking slowly to the door, locked it against all comers. Presently she

began to pace the room up and down,--up and down,--her face was very

white and weary, and every now and then a shuddering sigh broke from her

lips.

"Can I believe it? Oh no!--I cannot--I will not!" she murmured. "There

must be some mistake--Clara has heard wrongly." She sighed again.

"Yet--if it is so,--he is not to blame--it is I--I who have failed to

please him. Where--how have I failed?"

A pained, puzzled look filled her grave blue eyes, and she stopped in

her walk to and fro.

"It cannot be true!" she said half aloud,--"it is altogether unlike him.

Though Clara says--and she has known him so long!--Clara says he loved

_her_ once--long before he saw me--my poor Philip!--he must have

suffered by that love!--perhaps that is why he thought life so wearisome

when he first came to the Altenfjord--ah! the Altenfjord!"

A choking sob rose in her throat--but she repressed it. "I must try not

to weary him," she continued softly--"I must have done so in some way,

or he would not be tired. But as for what I have heard,--it is not for

me to ask him questions. I would not have him think that I mistrust him.

No--there is some fault in me--something he does not like, or he would

never go to--" She broke off and stretched out her hands with a sort of

wild appeal. "Oh, Philip! my darling!" she exclaimed in a sobbing

whisper. "I always knew I was not worthy of you--but I thought,--I hoped

my love would make amends for all my shortcomings!"

Tears rushed into her eyes, and she turned to a little arched recess,

shaded by velvet curtains--her oratory--where stood an exquisite white

marble statuette of the Virgin and Child. There she knelt for some

minutes, her face hidden in her hands, and when she rose she was quite

calm, though very pale. She freshened her face with cold water,

rearranged her disordered hair,--and then went downstairs, thereby

running into the arms of her husband who was coming up again to look, as

he said, at his "Sleeping Beauty."

"And here she is!" he exclaimed joyously. "Have you rested enough, my

pet?"

"Indeed, yes!" she answered gently. "I am ashamed so be so lazy. Have

you wanted me, Philip?"

"I always want you," he declared. "I am never happy without you."

She smiled and sighed. "You say that to please me," she said half

wistfully.

"I say it because it is true!" he asserted proudly, putting his arm

round her waist and escorting her in this manner down the great

staircase. "And you know it, you sweet witch! You're just in time to see

the lighting up of the grounds. There'll be a good view from the

picture-gallery--lots of the people have gone in there--you'd better

come too, for it's chilly outside."

She followed him obediently, and her reappearance among her guests was

hailed with enthusiasm,--Lady Winsleigh being particular effusive,

almost too much so.

"Your headache has quite gone, dearest, hasn't it?" she inquired

sweetly.

Thelma eyed her gravely. "I did not suffer from the headache, Clara,"

she said. "I was a little tired, but I am quite rested now."

Lady Winsleigh bit her lips rather vexedly, but said no more, and at

that moment exclamations of delight broke from all assembled at the

brilliant scene that suddenly flashed upon their eyes. Electricity, that

radiant sprite whose magic wand has lately been bent to the service of

man, had in less than a minute played such dazzling pranks in the

gardens that they resembled the fabled treasure-houses discovered by

Aladdin. Every tree glittered with sparkling clusters of red, blue, and

green light--every flower-bed was bordered with lines and circles of

harmless flame, and the fountains tossed up tall columns of amber rose,

and amethyst spray against the soft blue darkness of the sky, in which a

lustrous golden moon had just risen. The brilliancy of the illuminations

showed up several dark figures strolling in couples about the

grounds--romantic persons evidently, who were not to be persuaded to

come indoors, even for the music of the band, which just then burst

forth invitingly through the open windows of the picture-gallery.

Two of these pensive wanderers were Marcia Van Clupp and Lord Algernon

Masherville,--and Lord Algy was in a curiously sentimental frame of

mind, and weak withal, "_comme une petite queue d'agneau affligé_" He had

taken a good deal of soda and brandy for his bilious headache, and,

physically, he was much better,--but mentally he was not quite his

ordinary self. By this it must not be understood that he was at all

unsteadied by the potency of his medicinal tipple--he was simply in a

bland humor--that peculiar sort of humor which finds strange and mystic

beauty in everything, and contemplates the meanest trifles with emotions

of large benevolence. He was conversational too, and inclined to quote

poetry--this sort of susceptibleness often affects gentlemen after they

have had an excellent dinner flavored with the finest Burgundy. Lord

Algy was as mild, as tame, and as flabby as a sleeping jelly-fish,--and

in this inoffensive, almost tender mood of his, Marcia pounced upon him.

She looked ravishingly pretty in the moonlight, with a white wrap thrown

carelessly round her head and shoulders, and her bold, bird-like eyes

sparkling with excitement (for who that knows the pleasure of sports, is

not excited when the fox is nearly run to earth?), and she stood with

him beside one of the smaller illuminated fountains, raising her small

white hand every now and then to catch some of the rainbow drops, and

then with a laugh she would shake them off her little pearly nails into

the air again. Poor Masherville could not help gazing at her with a

lack-lustre admiration in his pale eyes,--and Marcia, calculating every

move in her own shrewd mind, saw it. She turned her head away with a

petulant yet coquettish movement.

"My patience!" she exclaimed; "yew _kin_ stare! Yew'll know me again

when yew see me,--say?"

"I should know you anywhere," declared Masherville, nervously fumbling

with the string of his eye-glass. "It's impossible to forget _your_

face, Miss Marcia!"

She was silent,--and kept that face turned from him so long that the

gentle little lord was surprised. He approached her more closely and

took her hand--the hand that had played with the drops in the fountain.

It was such an astonishingly small hand.--so very fragile-looking and

tiny, that he was almost for putting up his eye-glass to survey it, as

if it were a separate object in a museum. But the faintest pressure of

the delicate fingers he held startled him, and sent the most curious

thrill through his body--and when he spoke he was in such a flutter that

he scarcely knew what he was saying.

"Miss--Miss Marcia!" he stammered, "have--have I said--anything to--to

offend you?"

Very slowly, and with seeming reluctance, she turned her head towards

him, and--oh, thou mischievous Puck, that sometimes takest upon thee the

semblance of Eros, what skill is thine! . . . there were tears in her

eyes--real tears--bright, large tears that welled up and fell through

her long lashes in the most beautiful, touching, and becoming manner!

"And," thought Marcia to herself, "if I don't fetch him now, I never

will!" Lord Algy was quite frightened--his poor brain grew more and more

bewildered.

"Why--Miss Marcia! I say! Look here!" he mumbled in his extremity,

squeezing her little hand tighter and tighter. "What--what _have_ I

done! Good gracious! You--you really mustn't cry, you know--I say--look

here! Marcia! I wouldn't vex you for the world!"

"Yew bet yew wouldn't!" said Marcia, with slow and nasal plaintiveness.

"I like that! That's the way yew English talk. But yew kin hang round a

girl a whole season and make all her folks think badly of

her--and--and--break her heart--yes--that's so!" Here she dried her eyes

with a filmy lace handkerchief. "But don't _yew_ mind me! I kin bear it.

I kin worry through!" And she drew herself up with dignified

resignation--while Lord Algy stared wildly at her, his feeble mind in a

whirl. Presently she smiled most seductively, and looked up with her

dark, tear-wet eyes to the moon.

"I guess it's a good night for lovers!" she said, sinking her ordinary

tone to an almost sweet cadence. "But we're not of that sort, are we?"

The die was cast! She looked so charming--so irresistible, that

Masherville lost all hold over his wits. Scarcely knowing what he did,

he put his arm round her waist. Oh, what a warm, yielding waist! He drew

her close to his breast, at the risk of breaking his most valuable

eyeglass,--and felt his poor weak soul in a quiver of excitement at this

novel and delicious sensation.

"We are--we are of that sort!" he declared courageously. "Why should you

doubt it, Marcia?"

"I believe _yew_ if _yew_ say so," responded Marcia. "But I guess yew're

only fooling me!"

"Fooling you!" Lord Algy was so surprised that he released her quite

suddenly from his embrace--so suddenly that she was a little frightened.

Was she to lose him, after all?

"Marcia," he continued mildly, yet with a certain manliness that did not

ill become him. "I--I hope I am too much of--of a gentleman to--to

'_fool_' any woman, least of all you, after I have, as you say,

compromised you in society by my--my attentions. I--I have very little

to offer you--but such as it is, is yours. In--in short, Marcia, I--I

will try to make you happy if you can--can care for me enough

to--to--marry me!"

Eureka! The game was won! A vision of Masherville Park, Yorkshire, that

"well-timbered and highly desirable residence," as the auctioneers would

describe it, flitted before Marcia's eyes,--and, filled with triumph,

she went straight into her lordly wooer's arms, and kissed him with

thorough transatlantic frankness. She was really grateful to him. Ever

since she had come to England, she had plotted and schemed to become "my

lady" with all the vigor of a purely republican soul,--and now at last,

after hard fighting, she had won the prize for which her soul had

yearned. She would in future belong to the English aristocracy--that

aristocracy which her relatives in New York pretended to despise, yet

openly flattered,--and with her arms round the trapped Masherville's

neck, she foresaw the delight she would have in being toadied by them as

far as toadyism could be made to go.

She is by no means presented to the reader as a favorable type of her

nation--for, of course, every one knows there are plenty of sweet,

unselfish, guileless American girls, who are absolutely incapable of

such unblushing marriage-scheming as hers,--but what else could be

expected from Marcia? Her grandfather, the navvy, had but recently

become endowed with Pilgrim-Father Ancestry,--and her maternal uncle was

a boastful pork-dealer in Cincinnati. It was her bounden duty to ennoble

the family somehow,--surely, if any one had a right to be ambitious, she

was that one! And wild proud dreams of her future passed through her

brain, little Lord Algy quivered meekly under her kiss, and returned it

with all the enthusiasm of which he was capable. One or two faint

misgivings troubled him as to whether he had not been just a little too

hasty in making a serious _bona fide_ offer of marriage to the young

lady by whose Pilgrim progenitors he was not deceived. He knew well

enough what her antecedents were, and a faint shudder crossed him as he

thought of the pork-dealing uncle, who would, by marriage, become _his_

uncle also. He had long been proud of the fact that the house of

Masherville had never, through the course of centuries, been associated,

even in the remotest manner with trade--and now!--

"Yet, after all," he mused, "the Marquis of Londonderry openly

advertises himself as a coal-merchant, and the brothers-in-law of the

Princess Louise are in the wine trade and stock-broking business,--and

all the old knightly blood of England is mingling itself by choice with

that of the lowest commoners--what's the use of my remaining aloof, and

refusing to go with the spirit of the age? Besides, Marcia loves me, and

it's pleasant to be loved!"

Poor Lord Algy. He certainly thought there could be no question about

Marcia's affection for him. He little dreamed that it was to his title

and position she had become so deeply attached,--he could not guess that

after he had married her there would be no more Lord Masherville worth

mentioning--that that individual, once independent, would be entirely

swallowed up and lost in the dashing personality of Lady Masherville,

who would rule her husband as with a rod of iron.

He was happily ignorant of his future, and he walked in the gardens for

some time with his arm round Marcia's waist, in a very placid and

romantic frame of mind. By-and-by he escorted her into the house, where

the dancing was in full swing--and she, with a sweet smile, bidding him

wait for her in the refreshment-room, sought for and found her mother,

who as usual, was seated in a quiet corner with Mrs. Rush-Marvelle,

talking scandal.

"Well?" exclaimed these two ladies, simultaneously and breathlessly.

Marcia's eyes twinkled. "Guess he came in as gently as a lamb!" she

said.

They understood her. Mrs. Rush-Marvelle rose from her chair in her usual

stately and expensive manner.

"I congratulate you, my dear!" kissing Marcia affectionately on both

cheeks. "Bruce Errington would have been a better match,--but, under the

circumstances, Masherville is really about the best thing you could do.

You'll find him quite easy to manage!" This with an air as though she

were recommending a quiet pony.

"That's so!" said Marcia carelessly, "I guess we'll pull together

somehow. Mar-ma," to her mother--"yew kin turn on the news to all the

folks yew meet--the more talk the better! I'm not partial to secrets!"

And with a laugh, she turned away.

Then Mrs. Van Clupp laid her plump, diamond-ringed hand on that of her

dear friend, Mrs. Marvelle.

"You have managed the whole thing beautifully," she said, with a

grateful heave of her ample bosom. "Such a clever creature as you are!"

She dropped her voice to a mysterious whisper. "You shall have that

cheque to-morrow, my love!"

Mrs. Rush-Marvelle pressed her fingers cordially.

"Don't hurry yourself about it!"--she returned in the same confidential

tone. "I dare say you'll want me to arrange the wedding and the 'crush'

afterwards. I can wait till then."

"No, no! that's a separate affair," declared Mrs. Van Clupp. "I must

insist on your taking the promised two hundred. You've been really so

_very_ energetic!"

"Well, I _have_ worked rather hard," said Mrs. Marvelle, with modest

self-consciousness. "You see nowadays it's so difficult to secure

suitable husbands for the girls who ought to have them. Men _are_ such

slippery creatures!"

She sighed--and Mrs. Van Clupp echoed the sigh,--and then these two

ladies,--the nature of whose intimacy may now be understood by the

discriminating reader,--went together to search out those of their

friends and acquaintances who were among the guests that night, and to

announce to them (in the strictest confidence, of course!) the

delightful news of "dear Marcia's engagement." Thelma heard of it, and

went at once to proffer her congratulations to Marcia in person.

"I hope you will be very, very happy!" she said simply, yet with such

grave earnestness in her look and voice that the "Yankee gel" was

touched to a certain softness and seriousness not at all usual with her,

and became so winning and gentle to Lord Algy that he felt in the

seventh heaven of delight with his new position as affianced lover to so

charming a creature.

Meanwhile George Lorimer and Pierre Duprèz were chatting together in the

library. It was very quiet there,--the goodly rows of books, the busts

of poets and philosophers,--the large, placid features of the Pallas

Athene crowning an antique pedestal,--the golden pipes of the organ

gleaming through the shadows,--all these gave a solemn, almost sacred

aspect to the room. The noise of the dancing and festivity in the

distant picture-gallery did not penetrate here, and Lorimer sat at the

organ, drawing out a few plaintive strains from its keys as he talked.

"It's your fancy, Pierre," he said slowly. "Thelma may be a little tired

to-day, perhaps--but I know she's perfectly happy."

"I think not so," returned Duprèz. "She has not the brightness--the

angel look--_les yeux d'enfant_,--that we beheld in her at that far

Norwegian Fjord. Britta is anxious for her."

Lorimer looked up, and smiled a little.

"Britta? It's always Britta with you, _mon cher_! One would think--" he

paused and laughed.

"Think what you please!" exclaimed Duprèz, with a defiant snap of his

fingers. "I would not give that little person for all the _grandes

dames_ here to-day! She is charming--and she is _true_!--_Ma foi!_ to be

true to any one is a virtue in this age! I tell you, my good boy, there

is something sorrowful--heavy--on _la belle_ Thelma's mind--and Britta,

who sees her always, feels it--but she cannot speak. One thing I will

tell you--it is a pity she is so fond of Miladi Winsleigh."

"Why?" asked Lorimer, with some eagerness.

"Because--" he stopped abruptly as a white figure suddenly appeared at

the doorway, and a musical voice addressed them--

"Why, what are you both doing here, away from everybody?" and Thelma

smiled as she approached. "You are hermits, or you are lazy! People are

going in to supper. Will you not come also?"

"_Ma foi!_" exclaimed Duprèz; "I had forgotten! I have promised your

most charming mother, _cher_ Lorimer, to take her in to this same

supper. I must fly upon the wings of chivalry!"

And with a laugh, he hurried off, leaving Thelma and Lorimer alone

together. She sank rather wearily into a chair near the organ, and

looked at him.

"Play me something!" she said softly.

A strange thrill quivered through him as he met her eyes--the sweet,

deep, earnest eyes of the woman he loved. For it was no use attempting

to disguise it from himself--he loved her passionately, wildly,

hopelessly; as he had loved her from the first.

Obedient to her wish, his fingers wandered over the organ-keys in a

strain of solemn, weird, yet tender melancholy--the grand, rich notes

pealed forth sobbingly--and she listened, her hands clasped idly in her

lap. Presently he changed the theme to one of more heart-appealing

passion--and a strange wild minor air, like the rushing of the wind

across the mountains, began to make itself heard through the subdued

rippling murmur of his improvised accompaniment. To his surprise and

fear, she started up, pressing her hands against her ears.

"Not that--not that song, my friend!" she cried, almost imploringly.

"Oh, it will break my heart! Oh, the Altenfjord!" And she gave way to a

passion of weeping.

"Thelma! Thelma!" and poor Lorimer, rising from the organ, stood gazing

at her in piteous dismay,--every nerve in his body wrung to anguish by

the sound of her sobbing. A mad longing seized him to catch her in his

arms,--to gather her and her sorrows, whatever they were, to his

heart!--and he had much ado to restrain himself.

"Thelma," he presently said, in a gentle voice that trembled just a

little, "Thelma, what is troubling you? You call me your brother--give

me a brother's right to your confidence." He bent over her and took her

hand. "I--I can't bear to see you cry like this! Tell me--what's the

matter? Let me fetch Philip."

She looked up with wild wet eyes and quivering lips.

"Oh no--no!" she murmured, in a tone of entreaty and alarm. "Do

not,--Philip must not know--I do wish him always to see me bright and

cheerful--and--it is nothing! It is that I heard something which grieved

me--"

"What was it?" asked Lorimer, remembering Duprèz's recent remarks.

"Oh, I would not tell you!" she said eagerly, drying her eyes and

endeavoring to smile, "because I am sure it was a mistake, and all

wrong--and I was foolish to fancy that such a thing could be, even for a

moment. But when one does not know the world, it seems cruel--"

"Thelma, what do you mean?" and George surveyed her in some perplexity.

"If any one's been bothering or vexing you, just you tell Phil all about

it. Don't have any secrets from him,--he'll soon put everything

straight, whatever it is."

She shook her head slightly. "Ah, you do not understand!" she said

pathetically, "how should you? Because you have not given your life away

to any one, and it is all different with you. But when you do love--if

you are at all like me,--you will be so anxious to always seem worthy of

love--and you will hide all your griefs away from your beloved,--so that

your constant presence shall not seem tiresome. And I would not for all

the world trouble Philip with my silly fancies--because then he might

grow more weary still--"

"_Weary_!" interrupted Lorimer, in an accent of emphatic surprise. "Why,

you don't suppose Phil's tired of you, Thelma? That _is_ nonsense

indeed! He worships you! Who's been putting such notions into your

head?"

She rose from her chair quite calm and very pale, and laid her two

trembling hands in his.

"Ah, you also will mistake me," she said, with touching sweetness, "like

so many others who think me strange in my speech and manner. I am sorry

I am not like other women,--but I cannot help it. What I do wish you to

understand is that I never suppose anything against my Philip--he is the

noblest and best of men! And you must promise not to tell him that I was

so foolish as to cry just now because you played that old song I sang to

you both so often in Norway--it was because I felt a little sad--but it

was only a fancy,--and I would not have him troubled with such things.

Will you promise?"

"But what has made you sad?" persisted Lorimer, still puzzled.

"Nothing--nothing indeed," she answered, with almost feverish

earnestness. "You yourself are sometimes sad, and can you tell why?"

Lorimer certainly could have told why,--but he remained silent, and

gently kissed the little hands he held.

"Then I mustn't tell Philip of your sadness?" he asked softly, at last.

"But will you tell him yourself, Thelma? Depend upon it, it's much

better to have no secrets from him. The least grief of yours would

affect him more than the downfall of a kingdom. You know how dearly he

loves you!"

"Yes--I know!" she answered, and her eyes brightened slowly. "And that

is why I wish him always to see me happy!" She paused, and then added in

a lower tone, "I would rather die, my friend, than vex him for one

hour!"

George still held her hands and looked wistfully in her face. He was

about to speak again, when a cold, courteous voice interrupted them.

"Lady Errington, may I have the honor of taking you in to supper?"

It was Sir Francis Lennox. He had entered quite noiselessly--his

footsteps making no sound on the thick velvet-pile carpet, and he stood

quite close to Lorimer, who dropped Thelma's hands hastily and darted a

suspicious glance at the intruder. But Sir Francis was the very picture

of unconcerned and bland politeness, and offered Thelma his arm with the

graceful ease of an accomplished courtier. She was, perforce, compelled

to accept it--and she was slightly confused, though she could not have

told why.

"Sir Philip has been looking everywhere for you," continued Sir Francis

amicably. "And for you also," he added, turning slightly to Lorimer. "I

trust I've not abruptly broken off a pleasant _tête-à-tête_?"

Lorimer colored hotly. "Not at all," he said rather brusquely. "I've

been strumming on the organ, and Lady Errington has been good enough to

listen to me."

"You do not _strum_" said Thelma, with gentle reproach. "You play very

beautifully."

"Ah! a charming accomplishment!" observed Sir Francis, with his

under-glance and covert smile, as they all three wended their way out of

the library. "I regret I have never had time to devote myself to

acquiring some knowledge of the arts. In music I am a positive

ignoramus! I can hold my own best in the field."

"Yes, you're a great adept at hunting, Lennox," remarked Lorimer

suddenly, with something sarcastic in his tone. "I suppose the quarry

never escapes you?"

"Seldom!" returned Sir Francis coolly. "Indeed, I think I may say,

never!"

And with that, he passed into the supper-room, elbowing a way for

Thelma, till he succeeded in placing her near the head of the table,

where she was soon busily occupied in entertaining her guests and

listening to their chatter; and Lorimer, looking at her once or twice,

saw, to his great relief, that all traces of her former agitation had

disappeared, leaving her face fair and radiant as a spring morning.

CHAPTER XXIV.

"A generous fierceness dwells with innocence,

And conscious virtue is allowed some pride."

DRYDEN.

The melancholy days of autumn came on apace, and by-and-by the Manor was

deserted. The Bruce-Errington establishment removed again to town, where

business, connected with his intending membership for Parliament,

occupied Sir Philip from morning till night. The old insidious feeling

of depression returned and hovered over Thelma's mind like a black bird

of ill omen, and though she did her best to shake it off she could not

succeed. People began to notice her deepening seriousness and the

wistful melancholy of her blue eyes, and made their remarks thereon when

they saw her at Marcia Van Clupp's wedding, an event which came off

brilliantly at the commencement of November, and which was almost

entirely presided over by Mrs. Rush-Marvelle. That far-seeing matron had

indeed urged on the wedding by every delicate expedient possible.

"Long engagements are a great mistake," she told Marcia,--then, in a

warning undertone she added, "Men are capricious nowadays,--they're all

so much in demand,--better take Masherville while he's in the humor."

Marcia accepted this hint and took him,--and Mrs. Rush-Marvelle heaved a

sigh of relief when she saw the twain safely married, and off to the

Continent on their honeymoon-trip,--Marcia all sparkling and

triumphant,--Lord Algy tremulous and feebly ecstatic.

"Thank Heaven _that's_ over!" she said to her polite and servile

husband. "I never had such a troublesome business in my life! That

girl's been nearly two seasons on my hands, and I think five hundred

guineas not a bit too much for all I've done."

"Not a bit--not a bit!" agreed Mr. Marvelle warmly. "Have they--have

they--" here he put on a most benevolent side-look--"quite settled with

you, my dear?"

"Every penny," replied Mrs. Marvelle calmly. "Old Van Clupp paid me the

last hundred this morning. And poor Mrs. Van Clupp is so _very_

grateful!" She sighed placidly, and appeared to meditate. Then she

smiled sweetly and, approaching Mr. Marvelle, patted his shoulder

caressingly. "I think we'll do the Italian lakes, dear--what do you

say?"

"Charming--charming!" declared, not her lord and master, but her slave

and vassal. "Nothing could be more delightful!"

And to the Italian lakes accordingly they went. A great many people were

out of town,--all who had leisure and money enough to liberate

themselves from the approaching evils of an English winter, had departed

or were departing,--Beau Lovelace had gone to Como,--George Lorimer had

returned with Duprèz to Paris, and Thelma had very few visitors except

Lady Winsleigh, who was more often with her now than ever. In fact, her

ladyship was more like one of the Errington household than anything

else,--she came so frequently and stayed so long. She seemed sincerely

attached to Thelma,--and Thelma herself, too single-hearted and simple

to imagine that such affection could be feigned, gave her in return,

what Lady Winsleigh had never succeeded in winning from any woman,--a

pure, trusting, and utterly unsuspecting love, such as she would have

lavished on a twin-born sister. But there was one person who was not

deceived by Lady Winsleigh's charm of manner, and grace of speech. This

was Britta. Her keen eyes flashed a sort of unuttered defiance into her

ladyship's beautiful, dark languishing ones--she distrusted her, and

viewed the intimacy between her and the "Fröken" with entire disfavor.

Once she ventured to express something of her feeling on the matter to

Thelma--but Thelma had looked so gently wondering and reproachful that

Britta had not courage to go on.

"I am so sorry, Britta," said her mistress, "that you do not like Lady

Winsleigh--because I am very fond of her. You must try to like her for

my sake."

But Britta pursed her lips and shook her head obstinately. However, she

said no more at the time, and decided within herself to wait and watch

the course of events. And in the meantime she became very intimate with

Lady Winsleigh's maid, Louise Rénaud, and Briggs, and learned from these

two domestic authorities many things which greatly tormented and puzzled

her little brain,--things over which she pondered deeply without

arriving at any satisfactory conclusion.

On her return to town, Thelma had been inexpressibly shocked at the

changed appearance of her husband's secretary, Edward Neville. At first

she scarcely knew him, he had altered so greatly. Always inclined to

stoop, his shoulders were now bent as by the added weight of twenty

years--his hair, once only grizzled, was now quite grey--his face was

deeply sunken and pale, and his eyes by contrast looked large and wild,

as though some haunting thought were driving him to madness. He shrank

so nervously from her gaze, that she began to fancy he must have taken

some dislike to her,--and though she delicately refrained from pressing

questions upon him personally, she spoke to her husband about him, with

real solicitude. "Is Mr. Neville working too hard?" she asked one day.

"He looks very ill."

Her remark seemed to embarrass Philip,--he colored and seemed confused.

"Does he? Oh, I suppose he sleeps badly. Yes, I remember, he told me so.

You see, the loss of his wife has always preyed on his mind--he never

loses hope of--of--that is--he is always trying to--you know!--to get

her back again."

"But do you think he will ever find her?" asked Thelma. "I thought you

said it was a hopeless case?"

"Well--I think so, certainly--but, you see, it's no good dashing his

hopes--one never knows--she might turn up any day--it's a sort of

chance!"

"I wish I could help him to search for her," she said compassionately.

"His eyes do look so full of sorrow," she paused and added musingly,

"almost like Sigurd's eyes sometimes."

"Oh, he's not losing his wits," said Philip hastily, "he's quite

patient, and--and all that sort of thing. Don't bother about him,

Thelma, he's all right!"

And he fumbled hastily with some papers, and began to talk of something

else. His embarrassed manner caused her to wonder a little at the time

as to the reason of it,--but she had many other things to think about,

and she soon forgot a conversation that might have proved a small

guiding-link in the chain of events that were soon about to follow

quickly one upon another, shaking her life to its very foundation. Lady

Winsleigh found it almost impossible to get her on the subject of the

burlesque actress, Violet Vere, and Sir Philip's supposed admiration for

that notorious stage-siren.

"I do not believe it," she said firmly, "and you--you must not believe

it either, Clara. For wherever you heard it, it is wrong. We should

dishonor Philip by such a thought--you are his friend, and I am his

wife--we are not the ones to believe anything against him, even if it

could be proved--and there are no proofs."

"My dear," responded her ladyship easily. "You can get proofs for

yourself if you like. For instance, ask Sir Philip how often he has seen

Miss Vere lately,--and hear what he says."

Thelma colored deeply. "I would not question my husband on such a

subject," she said proudly.

"Oh well! if you are so fastidious!" And Lady Winsleigh shrugged her

shoulders.

"I am not fastidious," returned Thelma, "only I do wish to be worthy of

his love,--and I should not be so if I doubted him. No, Clara, I will

trust him to the end."

Clara Winsleigh drew nearer to her, and took her hand.

"Even if he were unfaithful to you?" she asked in a low, impressive

tone.

"Unfaithful!" Thelma uttered the word with a little cry. "Clara, dear

Clara, you must not say such a word! Unfaithful! That means that my

husband would love some one more than me!--ah! that is impossible!"

"Suppose it were possible?" persisted Lady Winsleigh, with a cruel light

in her dark eyes. "Such things have been!"

Thelma stood motionless, a deeply mournful expression on her fair, pale

face. She seemed to think for a moment, then she spoke.

"I would never believe it!" she said solemnly. "Never, unless I heard it

from his own lips, or saw it in his own writing, that he was weary of

me, and wanted me no more."

"And then?"

"Then"--she drew a quick breath--"I should know what to do. But, Clara,

you must understand me well, even if this were so, I should never blame

him--no--not once!"

"Not blame him?" cried Lady Winsleigh impatiently. "Not blame him for

infidelity?"

A deep blush swept over her face at the hated word "infidelity," but she

answered steadily--

"No. Because, you see, it would be my fault, not his. When you hold a

flower in your hand for a long time, till all its fragrance has gone,

and you drop it because it no longer smells sweetly--you are not to

blame--it is natural you should wish to have something fresh and

fragrant,--it is the flower's fault because it could not keep its scent

long enough to please you. Now, if Philip were to love me no longer, I

should be like that flower, and how would HE be to blame? He would be

good as ever, but I--I should have ceased to seem pleasant to him--that

is all!"

She put this strange view of the case quite calmly, as if it were the

only solution to the question. Lady Winsleigh heard her, half in

contemptuous amusement, half in dismay. "What can I do with such a woman

as this," she thought. "And fancy Lennie imagining for a moment that HE

could have any power over her!" Aloud, she said--

"Thelma, you're the oddest creature going--a regular heathen child from

Norway! You've set up your husband as an idol, and you're always on your

knees before him. It's awfully sweet of you, but it's quite absurd, all

the same. Angelic wives always get the worst of it, and so you'll see!

Haven't you heard that?"

"Yes, I have heard it," she answered, smiling a little. "But only since

I came to London. In Norway, it is taught to women that to be patient

and obedient is best for every one. It is not so here. But I am not an

angelic wife, Clara, and so the 'worst of it' will not apply to me.

Indeed, I do not know of any 'worst' that I would not bear for Philip's

sake."

Lady Winsleigh studied the lovely face, eloquent with love and truth,

for some moments in silence;--a kind of compunction pricked her

conscience. Why destroy all that beautiful faith? Why wound that grandly

trusting nature? The feeling was but momentary.

"Philip _does_ run after the Vere," she said to herself--"it's true,

there's no mistake about it, and she ought to know of it. But she won't

believe without proofs--what proofs can I get, I wonder?" And her

scheming brain set to work to solve this problem.

In justice to her, it must be admitted, she had a good deal of seeming

truth on her side. Sir Philip's name _had_ somehow got connected with

that of the leading actress at the Brilliant, and more people than Lady

Winsleigh began to make jocose whispering comments on his stage

"amour"--comments behind his back, which he was totally unaware of.

Nobody knew quite how the rumor had first been started. Sir Francis

Lennox seemed to know a good deal about it, and he was an "intimate" of

the "Vere" magic circle of attraction. And though they talked, no one

ventured to say anything to Sir Philip himself;--the only two among his

friends who would have spoken out honestly were Beau Lovelace and

Lorimer, and these were absent.

One evening, contrary to his usual custom, Sir Philip went out after the

late dinner. Before leaving, he kissed his wife tenderly, and told her

on no account to sit up for him--he and Neville were going to attend to

a little matter of business which might detain them longer than they

could calculate. After they had gone, Thelma resigned herself to a

lonely evening, and, stirring the fire in the drawing-room to a cheerful

blaze, she sat down beside it. First, she amused herself by reading over

some letters recently received from her father,--and then, yielding to a

sudden fancy, she drew her spinning-wheel from the corner where it

always stood, and set it in motion. She had little time for spinning

now, but she never quite gave it up, and as the low, familiar whirring

sound hummed pleasantly on her ears, she smiled, thinking how quaint and

almost incongruous her simple implement of industry looked among all the

luxurious furniture, and costly nick-nacks by which she was surrounded.

"I ought to have one of my old gowns on," she half murmured, glancing

down at the pale-blue silk robe she wore, "I am too fine to spin!"

And she almost laughed as the wheel flew round swiftly under her

graceful manipulations. Listening to its whirr, whirr, whirr, she

scarcely heard a sudden knock at the street-door, and was quite startled

when the servant, Morris, announced--"Sir Francis Lennox!"

Surprised, she rose from her seat at the spinning-wheel with a slight

air of hauteur. Sir Francis, who had never in his life seen a lady of

title and fashion in London engaged in the primitive occupation of

spinning, was entirely delighted with the picture before him,--the tall,

lovely woman with her gold hair and shimmering blue draperies, standing

with such stateliness beside the simple wooden wheel, the antique emblem

of household industry. Instinctively he thought of Marguerite;--but

Marguerite as a crowned queen, superior to all temptations of either man

or fiend.

"Sir Philip is out," she said, as she suffered him to take her hand.

"So I was aware!" returned Lennox easily. "I saw him a little while ago

at the door of the Brilliant Theatre."

She turned very pale,--then controlling the rapid beating of her heart

by a strong effort, she forced a careless smile, and said bravely--

"Did you? I am very glad--for he will have some amusement there,

perhaps, and that will do him good. He has been working so hard!"

She paused. He said nothing, and she went on more cheerfully still--

"Is it not a very dismal, wet evening! Yes!--and you must be cold. Will

you have some tea?"

"Tha-anks!" drawled Sir Francis, staring at her admiringly. "If it's not

too much trouble--"

"Oh no!" said Thelma. "Why should it be?" And she rang the bell and gave

the order. Sir Francis sank lazily back in an easy chair, and stroked

his moustache slowly. He knew that his random hit about the theatre had

struck home,--but she allowed the arrow to pierce and possibly wound her

heart without showing any outward sign of discomposure. "A plucky

woman!" he considered, and wondered how he should make his next move.

She, meanwhile, smiled at him frankly, and gave a light twirl to her

spinning-wheel.

"You see!" she said, "I was amusing myself this evening by imagining

that I was once more at home in Norway."

"Pray don't let me interrupt the amusement," he responded, with a sleepy

look of satisfaction shooting from beneath his eyelids. "Go on spinning,

Lady Errington! . . . I've never seen any one spin before."

At that moment Morris appeared with the tea, and handed it to Sir

Francis,--Thelma took none, and as the servant retired, she quietly

resumed her occupation. There was a short silence, only broken by the

hum of the wheel. Sir Francis sipped his tea with a meditative air, and

studied the fair woman before him as critically as he would have studied

a picture.

"I hope I'm not in your way?" he asked suddenly. She looked up

surprised.

"Oh no--only I am sorry Philip is not here to talk to you. It would be

so much pleasanter."

"Would it?" he murmured rather dubiously and smiling. "Well--I shall be

quite contented if you will talk to me, Lady Errington!"

"Ah, but I am not at all clever in conversation," responded Thelma quite

seriously. "I am sure you, as well as many others, must have noticed

that. I never do seem to say exactly the right thing to please

everybody. Is it not very unfortunate?"

He laughed a little. "I have yet to learn in what way you do not please

everybody," he said, dropping his voice to a low, caressing cadence.

"Who, that sees you, does not admire--and--and love you?"

She met his languorous gaze without embarrassment,--while the childlike

openness of her regard confused and slightly shamed him.

"Admire me? Oh yes!" she said somewhat plaintively. "It is that of which

I am so weary! Because God has made one pleasant in form and face,--to

be stared at and whispered about, and have all one's dresses

copied!--all that is so small and common and mean, and does vex me so

much!"

"It is the penalty you pay for being beautiful," said Sir Francis

slowly, wondering within himself at the extraordinary incongruity of a

feminine creature who was actually tired of admiration.

She made no reply--the wheel went round faster than before. Presently

Lennox set aside his emptied cup, and drawing his chair a little closer

to hers, asked--

"When does Errington return?"

"I cannot tell you," she answered. "He said that he might be late. Mr.

Neville is with him."

There was another silence. "Lady Errington," said Sir Francis

abruptly--"pray excuse me--I speak as a friend, and in your

interests,--how long is this to last?"

The wheel stopped. She raised her eyes,--they were grave and steady.

"I do not understand you," she returned quietly. "What is it that you

mean?"

He hesitated--then went on, with lowered eyelids and a half-smile.

"I mean--what all our set's talking about--Errington's queer fancy for

that actress at the Brilliant."

Thelma still gazed at him fixedly. "It is a mistake," she said

resolutely, "altogether a mistake. And as you are his friend, Sir

Francis, you will please contradict this report--which is wrong, and may

do Philip harm. It has no truth in it at all--"

"No truth!" exclaimed Lennox. "It's true as Gospel! Lady Errington, I'm

sorry for it--but your husband is deceiving you most shamefully!"

"How dare you say such a thing!" she cried, springing upright and facing

him,--then she stopped and grew very pale--but she kept her eyes upon

him. How bright they were! What a chilling pride glittered in their

sea-blue depths!

"You are in error," she said coldly. "If it is wrong to visit this

theatre you speak of, why are you so often seen there--and why is not

some harm said of _you_? It is not your place to speak against my

husband. It is shameful and treacherous! You do forget yourself most

wickedly!"

And she moved to leave the room. But Sir Francis interposed.

"Lady Errington," he said very gently, "don't be hard upon me--pray

forgive me! Of course I've no business to speak--but how can I help it?

When I hear every one at the clubs discussing you, and pitying you, it's

impossible to listen quite unmoved! I'm the least among your friends, I

know,--but I can't bear this sort of thing to go on,--the whole affair

will be dished up in the society papers next!"

And he paced the room half impatiently,--a very well-feigned expression

of friendly concern and sympathy on his features. Thelma stood

motionless, a little bewildered--her head throbbed achingly, and there

was a sick sensation of numbness creeping about her.

"I tell you it is all wrong!" she repeated with an effort. "I do not

understand why these people at the clubs should talk of me, or pity me.

I do not need any pity! My husband is all goodness and truth,"--she

stopped and gathered courage as she went on. "Yes! he is better, braver,

nobler than all other men in the world, it seems to me! He gives me all

the joy of my life--each day and night I thank God for the blessing of

his love!"

She paused again. Sir Francis turned and looked at her steadily. A

sudden thought seemed to strike her, for she advanced eagerly, a sweet

color flushing the pallor of her skin.

"You can do so much for me if you will!" she said, laying her hand on

his arm. "You can tell all these people who talk so foolishly that they

are wrong,--tell them how happy I am! And that my Philip has never

deceived me in any matter, great or small!"

"Never?" he asked with a slight sneer. "You are sure?"

"Sure!" she answered bravely. "He would keep nothing from me that it was

necessary or good for me to know. And I--oh! I might pass all my life in

striving to please him, and yet I should never, never be worthy of all

his tenderness and goodness! And that he goes many times to a theatre

without me--what is it? A mere nothing--a trifle to laugh at! It is not

needful to tell me of such a small circumstance!"

As she spoke she smiled--her form seemed to dilate with a sort of inner

confidence and rapture.

Sir Francis stared at her half shamed,--half savage. The beautiful,

appealing face, bright with simple trust, roused him to no sort of manly

respect or forbearance,--the very touch of the blossom-white hand she

had laid so innocently on his arm, stung his passion as with a lash--as

he had said, he was fond of hunting--he had chased the unconscious deer

all through the summer, and now that it had turned to bay with such

pitiful mildness and sweet pleading, why not draw the knife across its

slim throat without mercy?

"Really, Lady Errington!" he said at last sarcastically, "your wifely

enthusiasm and confidence are indeed charming! But, unfortunately, the

proofs are all against you. Truth is truth, however much you may wish to

blind your eyes to its manifestations. I sincerely wish Sir Philip were

present to hear your eloquent praises of him, instead of being where he

most undoubtedly is,--in the arms of Violet Vere!"

As he said these words she started away from him and put her hands to

her ears as though to shut out some discordant sound--her eyes glowed

feverishly. A cold shiver shook her from head to foot.

"That is false--false!" she muttered in a low, choked voice. "How can

you--how dare you?"

She ceased, and with a swaying, bewildered movement, as though she were

blind, she fell senseless at his feet.

In one second he was kneeling beside her. He raised her head on his

arm,--he gazed eagerly on her fair, still features. A dark contraction

of his brows showed that his thoughts were not altogether righteous

ones. Suddenly he laid her down again gently, and, springing to the

door, locked it. Returning, he once more lifted her in a half-reclining

position, and encircling her with his arms, drew her close to his breast

and kissed her. He was in no hurry for her to recover--she looked very

beautiful--she was helpless--she was in his power. The silvery ting-ling

of the clock on the mantel-piece striking eleven startled him a

little--he listened painfully--he thought he heard some one trying the

handle of the door he had locked. Again--again he kissed those pale,

unconscious lips! Presently, a slight shiver ran through her frame--she

sighed, and a little moan escaped her. Gradually, as warmth and

sensation returned to her, she felt the pressure of his embrace, and

murmured--

"Philip! Darling,--you have come back earlier,--I thought--"

Here she opened her eyes and met those of Sir Francis, who was eagerly

bending over her. She uttered an exclamation of alarm, and strove to

rise. He held her still more closely.

"Thelma--dear, dearest Thelma! Let me comfort you,--let me tell you how

much I love you!"

And before she could divine his intent, he pressed his lips passionately

on her pale cheek. With a cry she tore herself violently from his arms

and sprang to her feet, trembling in every limb.

"What--what is this?" she exclaimed wrathfully. "Are you mad?"

And still weak and confused from her recent attack of faintness, she

pushed back her hair from her brows and regarded him with a sort of

puzzled horror.

He flushed deeply, and set his lips hard.

"I dare say I am," he answered, with a bitter laugh; "in fact, I know I

am! You see, I've betrayed my miserable secret. Will you forgive me,

Lady Errington--Thelma?" He drew nearer to her, and his eyes darkened

with restrained passion. "Matchless beauty!--adorable woman, as you

are!--will you not pardon my crime, if crime it be--the crime of loving

you? For I do love you!--Heaven only knows how utterly and desperately!"

She stood mute, white, almost rigid, with that strange look of horror

frozen, as it were, upon her features. Emboldened by her silence, he

approached and caught her hand,--she wrenched it from his grasp and

motioned him from her with a gesture of such royal contempt that he

quailed before her. All suddenly the flood-gates of her speech were

loosened,--the rising tide of burning indignation that in its very force

had held her dumb and motionless, now broke forth unrestrainedly.

"O God!" she cried impetuously, a magnificent glory of disdain flashing

in her jewel-like eyes, "what _thing_ is this that calls itself a

man?--this thief of honor,--this pretended friend? What have I done,

sir, that you should put such deep disgrace as your so-called _love_

upon me?--what have I _seemed_, that you thus dare to outrage me by the

pollution of your touch? I,--the wife of the noblest gentleman in the

land! Ah!" and she drew a long breath--"and it is you who speak against

my husband--_you_!" She smiled scornfully,--then with more calmness

continued--"You will leave my house, sir, at once! . . . and never

presume to enter it again!"

And she stepped towards the bell. He looked at her with an evil leer.

"Stop a moment!" he said coolly. "Just one moment before you ring. Pray

consider! The servant cannot possibly enter, as the door is locked."

"You _dared_ to lock the door!" she exclaimed, a sudden fear chilling

her heart as she remembered similar manoeuvres on the part of the

Reverend Mr. Dyceworthy--then another thought crossed her mind, and she

began to retreat towards a large painted panel of "Venus" disporting

among cupids and dolphins in the sea. Sir Francis sprang to her side,

and caught her arm in an iron grip--his face was aflame with baffled

spite and vindictiveness.

"Yes, I _dared_!" he muttered with triumphant malice. "And I dared do

more than that! You lay unconscious in my arms,--you beautiful,

bewitching Thelma, and I kissed you--ay! fifty times! You can never undo

those kisses! You can never forget that _my_ lips, as well as your

husband's, have rested on yours--I have had that much joy that shall

never be taken away from me! And if I choose, even now,"--and he gripped

her more closely--"yes, even now I will kiss you, in spite of you!--who

is to prevent me? I will force you to love me, Thelma--"

Driven to bay, she struck him with all her force in the face, across the

eyes.

"Traitor!--liar!--coward!" she gasped breathlessly. "Let me go!"

Smarting with the pain of the blow, he unconsciously loosened his

grasp--she rushed to the "Venus" panel, and to his utter discomfiture

and amazement he saw it open and close behind her. She disappeared

suddenly and noiselessly as if by magic. With a fierce exclamation, he

threw his whole weight against that secret sliding door--it resisted all

his efforts. He searched for the spring by which it must have

opened,--the whole panel was perfectly smooth and apparently solid, and

the painted "Venus" reclining on her dolphin's back seemed as though she

smiled mockingly at his rage and disappointment.

While he was examining it, he heard the sudden, sharp, and continuous

ringing of an electric bell somewhere in the house, and with a guilty

flush on his face he sprang to the drawing-room door and unlocked it. He

was just in time, for scarcely had he turned the key, when Morris made

his appearance. That venerable servitor looked round the room in evident

surprise.

"Did her ladyship ring?" he inquired, his eyes roving everywhere in

search of his mistress. Sir Francis collected his wits, and forced

himself to seem composed.

"No," he said coolly. "_I_ rang." He adopted this falsehood as a means

of exit. "Call a hansom, will you?"

And he sauntered easily into the hall, and got on his hat and

great-coat. Morris was rather bewildered,--but, obedient to the command,

blew the summoning cab-whistle, which was promptly answered. Sir Francis

tossed him half a crown, and entered the vehicle, which clattered away

with him in the direction of Cromwell Road. Stopping at a particular

house in a side street leading from thence, he bade the cabman

wait,--and, ascending the steps, busied himself for some moments in

scribbling something rapidly in pencil on a leaf of his note-book by the

light of the hanging-lamp in the doorway. He then gave a loud knock, and

inquired of the servant who answered it--

"Is Mr. Snawley-Grubbs in?"

"Yes, sir,"--the reply came rather hesitatingly--"but he's having a

party to-night."

And, in fact, the scraping of violins and the shuffle of dancing feet

were distinctly audible overhead.

"Oh, well, just mention my name--Sir Francis Lennox. Say I will not

detain him more than five minutes."

He entered, and was ushered into a small ante-room while the maid went

to deliver her message. He caught sight of his own reflection in a round

mirror over the mantel-piece, and his face darkened as he saw a dull red

ridge across his forehead--the mark of Thelma's well-directed blow,--the

sign-manual of her scorn. A few minutes passed, and then there came in

to him a large man in an expensive dress-suit,--a man with a puffy, red,

Silenus-like countenance--no other than Mr. Snawley-Grubbs, who hailed

him with effusive cordiality.

"My dear, Sir Francis!" he said in a rich, thick, uncomfortable voice.

"This is an unexpected pleasure! Won't you come upstairs? My girls are

having a little informal dance--just among themselves and their own

young friends--quite simple,--in fact an unpretentious little affair!"

And he rubbed his fat hands, on which twinkled two or three large

diamond rings. "But we shall be charmed if you will join us!"

"Thanks, not this evening," returned Sir Francis. "It's rather too late.

I should not have intruded upon you at this hour--but I thought you

might possibly like this paragraph for the _Snake_."

And he held out with a careless air the paper on which he had scribbled

but a few minutes previously. Mr. Snawley-Grubbs smiled,--and fixed a

pair of elegant gold-rimmed eye-glasses on his inflamed crimson nose.

"I must tell you, though," he observed, before reading, "that it is too

late for this week, at any rate. We've gone to press already."

"Never mind!" returned Sir Francis indifferently. "Next week will do as

well."

And he furtively watched Mr. Snawley-Grubbs while he perused the

pencilled scrawl. That gentleman, however, as Editor and Proprietor of

the _Snake_--a new, but highly successful weekly "society" journal, was

far too dignified and self-important to allow his countenance to betray

his feelings. He merely remarked, as he folded up the little slip very

carefully.

"Very smart! very smart, indeed! Authentic, of course?"

Sir Francis drew himself up haughtily. "You doubt my word?"

"Oh dear, no!" declared Mr. Snawley-Grubbs hastily, venturing to lay a

soothing hand on Sir Francis's shoulder. "Your position, and all that

sort of thing--Naturally you _must_ be able to secure correct

information. You can't help it! I assure you the _Snake_ is infinitely

obliged to you for a great many well-written and socially exciting

paragraphs. Only, you see, I myself should never have thought that so

extreme a follower of the exploded old doctrine of noblesse oblige, as

Sir Philip Bruce-Errington, would have started on such a new line of

action at all. But, of course, we are all mortal!" And he shook his

round thick head with leering sagacity. "Well!" he continued after a

pause. "This shall go in without fail next week, I promise you."

"You can send me a hundred copies of the issue," said Sir Francis,

taking up his hat to go. "I suppose you're not afraid of an action for

libel?"

Mr. Snawley-Grubbs laughed--nay, he roared,--the idea seemed so

exquisitely suited to his sense of humor.

"Afraid? My dear fellow, there's nothing I should like better! It would

establish the _Snake_, and make my fortune! I would even go to prison

with pleasure. Prison, for a first-class misdemeanant, as I should most

probably be termed, is perfectly endurable." He laughed again, and

escorted Sir Francis to the street-door, where he shook hands heartily.

"You are sure you won't come upstairs and join us? No? Ah, I see you

have a cab waiting. Good-night, good-night!"

And the Snawley-Grubbs door being closed upon him, Sir Francis

re-entered his cab, and was driven straight to his bachelor lodgings in

Piccadilly. He was in a better humor with himself now,--though he was

still angrily conscious of a smart throbbing across the eyes, where

Thelma's ringed hand had struck him. He found a brief note from Lady

Winsleigh awaiting him. It ran as follows:--

"You're playing a losing game this time,--she will believe nothing

without proofs--and even then it will be difficult. You had better drop

the pursuit, I fancy. For once a woman's reputation will escape you!"

He smiled bitterly as he read these last words.

"Not while a society paper exists!" he said to himself. "As long as

there are editors willing to accept the word of a responsible man of

position, for any report, the chastest Diana that ever lived shall not

escape calumny! She wants proofs, does she? She shall have them--by

Jove! she shall!"

And instead of going to bed, he went off to a bijou villa in St. John's

Wood,--an elegantly appointed little place, which he rented and

maintained,--and where the popular personage known as Violet Vere,

basked in the very lap of luxury.

Meanwhile, Thelma paced up and down her own boudoir, into which she had

escaped through the sliding panel which had baffled her admirer. Her

whole frame trembled as she thought of the indignity to which she had

been subjected during her brief unconsciousness,--her face burned with

bitter shame,--she felt as if she were somehow poisonously infected by

those hateful kisses of Lennox,--all her womanly and wifely instincts

were outraged. Her first impulse was to tell her husband everything the

instant he returned. It was she who had rung the bell which had startled

Sir Francis, and she was surprised that her summons was not answered.

She rang again, and Britta appeared.

"I wanted Morris," said Thelma quickly.

"He thought it was the drawing-room bell," responded Britta meekly, for

her "Fröken" looked very angry. "I saw him in the hall just now, letting

out Sir Francis Lennox."

"Has he gone?" demanded Thelma eagerly.

Britta's wonder increased. "Yes, Fröken!"

Thelma caught her arm. "Tell Morris never, never to let him inside the

house again--_never_!" and her blue eyes flashed wrathfully. "He is a

wicked man, Britta! You do not know how wicked he is!"

"Oh yes, I do!" and Britta regarded her mistress very steadfastly. "I

know quite well! But, then, I must not speak! If I dared, I could tell

you some strange things, dear Fröken--but you will not hear me. You know

you do not wish me to talk about your grand new friends, Fröken, but--"

she paused timidly.

"Oh, Britta, dear!" said Thelma affectionately taking her hand. "You

know they are not so much my friends as the friends of Sir Philip,--and

for this reason I must never listen to anything against them. Do you not

see? Of course their ways seem strange to us--but, then, life in London

is so different to life in Norway,--and we cannot all at once

understand--" she broke off, sighing a little. Then she resumed--"Now

you will give Morris my message, Britta--and then come to me in my

bedroom--I am tired, and Philip said I was not to wait up for him."

Britta departed, and Thelma went rather slowly up-stairs. It was now

nearly midnight, and she felt languid and weary. Her reflections began

to take a new turn. Suppose she told her husband all that had occurred,

he would most certainly go to Sir Francis and punish him in some

way--there might then be a quarrel in which Philip might suffer--and all

sorts of evil consequences would perhaps result from her want of

reticence. If, on the other hand, she said nothing, and simply refused

to receive Lennox, would not her husband think such conduct on her part

strange? She puzzled over these questions till her head ached--and

finally resolved to keep her own counsel for the present,--after what

had happened. Sir Francis would most probably not intrude himself again

into her presence. "I will ask Mrs. Lorimer what is best to do," she

thought. "She is old and wise, and she will know."

That night, as she laid her head on her pillow, and Britta threw the

warm _eidredon_ over her, she shivered a little and asked--

"Is it not very cold, Britta?"

"Very!" responded her little maid. "And it is beginning to snow."

Thelma looked wistful. "It is all snow and darkness now at the

Altenfjord," she said.

Britta smiled. "Yes, indeed, Fröken! We are better off here than there."

"Perhaps!" replied Thelma a little musingly, and then she settled

herself as though to sleep.

Britta kissed her hand, and retired noiselessly. When she had gone,

Thelma opened her eyes and lay broad awake looking at the flicker of

rosy light flung on the ceiling from the little suspended lamp in her

oratory. All snow and darkness at the Altenfjord! How strange the

picture seemed! She thought of her mother's sepulchre,--how cold and

dreary it must be,--she could see in fancy the long pendent icicles

fringing the entrance to the sea-king's tomb,--the spot where she and

Philip had first met,--she could almost hear the slow, sullen plash of

the black Fjord against the shore. Her maiden life in Norway--her school

days at Arles,--these were now like dreams,--dreams that had passed away

long, long ago. The whole tenor of her existence had changed,--she was a

wife,--she was soon to be a mother,--and with this near future of new

and sacred joy before her, why did she to-night so persistently look

backward to the past?

As she lay quiet, watching the glimmering light upon the wall, it seemed

as though her room were suddenly filled with shadowy forms,--she saw her

mother's sweet, sad, suffering face,--then her father's sturdy figure

and fine, frank features,--then came the flitting shape of the hapless

Sigurd, whose plaintive voice she almost imagined she could hear,--and

feeling that she was growing foolishly nervous, she closed her eyes, and

tried to sleep. In vain,--her mind began to work on a far more

unpleasing train of thought. Why did not Philip return? Where was he? As

though some mocking devil had answered her, the words, "In the arms of

Violet Vere!" as uttered by Sir Francis Lennox, recurred to her.

Overcome by her restlessness, she started up,--she determined to get out

of bed, and put on her dressing-gown and read,--when her quick ears

caught the sound of steps coming up the stair-case. She recognized her

husband's firm tread, and understood that he was followed by Neville,

whose sleeping-apartment was on the floor above. She listened

attentively--they were talking together in low tones on the landing

outside her door.

"I think it would be much better to make a clean breast of it," said Sir

Philip. "She will have to know some day."

"Your wife? For God's sake, don't tell her!" Neville's voice replied.

"Such a disgraceful--" Here his words sank to a whisper, and Thelma

could not distinguish them. Another minute, and her husband entered with

soft precaution, fearing to awake her--she stretched out her arms to

welcome him, and he hastened to her with an exclamation of tenderness

and pleasure.

"My darling! Not asleep yet?"

She smiled,--but there was something very piteous in her smile, had the

dim light enabled him to perceive it.

"No, not yet, Philip! And yet I think I have been dreaming of--the

Altenfjord."

"Ah! it must be cold there now," he answered lightly. "It's cold enough

here, in all conscience. To-night there is a bitter east wind, and snow

is falling."

She heard this account of the weather with almost morbid interest. Her

thoughts instantly betook themselves again to Norway, and dwelt there.

To the last,--before her aching eyes closed in the slumber she so sorely

needed,--she seemed to be carried away in fancy to a weird stretch of

gloom-enveloped landscape where she stood entirely alone, vaguely

wondering at the dreary scene. "How strange it seems!" she murmured

almost aloud. "All snow and darkness at the Altenfjord!"

CHAPTER XXV.

"Le temps où nous nous sommes aimés n'a guère duré, jeune fille;

il a passé comme un coup de vent!"

_Old Breton Ballad._

The next morning dawned, cold and dismal. A dense yellow fog hung over

the metropolis like a pall--the street lamps were lighted, but their

flare scarcely illumined the thoroughfares, and the chill of the

snow-burdened air penetrated into the warmest rooms, and made itself

felt even by the side of the brightest fires. Sir Philip woke with an

uncomfortable sense of headache and depression, and grumbled,--as surely

every Englishman has a right to grumble, at the uncompromising

wretchedness of his country's winter climate. His humor was not improved

when a telegram arrived before breakfast, summoning him in haste to a

dull town in one of the Midland counties, on pressing business connected

with his candidature for Parliament.

"What a bore!" he exclaimed, showing the missive to his wife. "I _must_

go,--and I shan't be able to get back tonight. You'll be all alone,

Thelma. I wish you'd go to the Winsleighs!"

"Why?" said Thelma quietly. "I shall much prefer to be here. I do not

mind, Philip. I am accustomed to be alone."

Something in her tone struck him as particularly sad, and he looked at

her intently.

"Now, my darling," he said suddenly, "if this Parliamentary bother is

making you feel worried or vexed in any way, I'll throw it all up--by

Jove, I will!" And he drew her into his warm embrace. "After all" he

added, with a laugh, "what does it matter! The country can get on

without me!"

Thelma smiled a little.

"You must not talk so foolishly, Philip," she said tenderly. "It is

wrong to begin a thing of importance, and not go through with it. And I

am not worried or vexed at all. What would people say of me if I, your

wife, were, for my own selfish comfort and pleasure of having you always

with me, to prevent you from taking a good place among the men of your

nation? Indeed, I should deserve much blame! And so, though it is a

gloomy day for you, poor boy,--you must go to this place where you are

wanted, and I shall think of you all the time you are gone, and shall be

so happy to welcome you home to-morrow!"

And she kissed and clung to him for a moment in silence. All that day

Philip was haunted by the remembrance of the lingering tenderness of her

farewell embrace. By ten o'clock he was gone, taking Neville with him;

and after her household duties were over, Thelma prepared herself to go

and lunch with old Mrs. Lorimer, and see what she would advise

concerning the affair of Sir Francis Lennox. But, at the same time, she

resolved that nothing should make her speak of the reports that were

afloat about her husband and Violet Vere.

"I know it is all false," she said to herself over and over again. "And

the people here are as silly as the peasants in Bosekop, ready to

believe any untruth so long as it gives them something to talk about.

But they may chatter as they please--I shall not say one word, not even

to Philip--for it would seem as if I mistrusted him."

Thus she put away all the morbid fancies that threatened to oppress her,

and became almost cheerful.

And while she made her simple plans for pleasantly passing the long,

dull day of her husband's enforced absence, her friend, Lady Winsleigh,

was making arrangements of a very different nature. Her ladyship had

received a telegram from Sir Francis Lennox that morning. The pink

missive had apparently put her in an excellent humor, though, after

reading it, she crumpled it up and threw it in the waste-paper basket,

from which receptacle, Louise Rénaud, her astute attendant, half an hour

later extracted it, secreting it in her own pocket for private perusal

at leisure. She ordered her brougham, saying she was going out on

business,--and before departing, she took from her dressing-case certain

bank-notes and crammed them hastily into her purse--a purse which, in

all good faith, she handed to her maid to put in her sealskin muff-bag.

Of course, Louise managed to make herself aware of its contents,--but

when her ladyship at last entered her carriage her unexpected order, "To

the Brilliant Theatre, Strand," was sufficient to startle Briggs, and

cause him to exchange surprise signals with "Mamzelle," who merely

smiled a prim, incomprehensible smile.

"_Where_ did your la'ship say?" asked Briggs dubiously.

"Are you getting deaf, Briggs?" responded his mistress pleasantly. "To

the Brilliant Theatre!" She raised her voice, and spoke with distinct

emphasis. There was no mistaking her. Briggs touched his hat,--in the

same instant he winked at Louise, and then the carriage rolled away.

At night, the Brilliant Theatre is a pretty little place,--comfortable,

cosy, bright, and deserving of its name;--in broad day, it is none of

these things. A squalid dreariness seems to have settled upon it--it has

a peculiar atmosphere of its own--an atmosphere dark, heavy, and

strangely flavored with odors of escaping gas and crushed orange-peel.

Behind the scenes, these odors mingle with a chronic, all-pervading

smell of beer--beer, which the stranger's sensitive nose detects

directly, in spite of the choking clouds of dust which arise from the

boards at the smallest movement of any part of the painted scenery. The

Brilliant had gone through much ill-fortune--its proprietors never

realized any financial profit till they secured Violet Vere. With her

came prosperity. Her utter absence of all reserve--the frankness with

which she threw modesty to the winds,--the vigor with which she danced a

regular "break-down,"--roaring a comic song of the lowest type, by way

of accompaniment,--the energetic manner in which, metaphorically

speaking, she kicked at the public with her shapely legs,--all this

overflow of genius on her part drew crowds to the Brilliant nightly, and

the grateful and happy managers paid her a handsome salary, humored all

her caprices, and stinted and snubbed for her sake, all the rest of the

company. She was immensely popular--the "golden youth" of London raved

about her dyed hair, painted eyes, and carmined lips--even her voice, as

coarse as that of a dustman, was applauded to the echo, and her dancing

excited the wildest enthusiasm. Dukes sent her presents of diamond

ornaments--gifts of value which they would have possibly refused to

their own wives and daughters,--Royal Highnesses thought it no shame to

be seen lounging near her stage dressing-room door,--in short, she was

in the zenith of her career, and, being thoroughly unprincipled,

audaciously insolent, and wholly without a conscience,--she enjoyed

herself immensely.

At the very time when Lady Winsleigh's carriage was nearing the Strand,

the grand morning rehearsal of a new burlesque was "on" at the

Brilliant--and Violet's harsh tones, raised to a sort of rough masculine

roar, were heard all over the theatre, as she issued commands or made

complaints according to her changeful humors. She sat in an elevated

position above the stage on a jutting beam of wood painted to resemble

the gnarled branch of a tree,--swinging her legs to and fro and clinking

the heels of her shoes together in time to the mild scraping of a

violin, the player whereof was "trying over" the first few bars of the

new "jig" in which she was ere long to distinguish herself. She was a

handsome woman, with a fine, fair skin, and large, full, dark eyes--she

had a wide mouth, which, nearly always on the grin, displayed to the

full her strong white teeth,--her figure was inclined to excessive

_embonpoint_, but this rather endeared her to her admirers than

otherwise,--many of these gentlemen being prone to describe her fleshly

charms by the epithet "Prime!" as though she were a fatting pig or other

animal getting ready for killing.