expect me to dance to a dirge, you lazy devil!"
Tommy, the player of the violin, paused in his efforts, and looked up
drearily. He was an old man, with a lean, long body and pinched
features--his lips had a curious way, too, of trembling when he spoke,
as if he were ready to cry.
"I can't help it," he said slowly. "I don't know it yet. I must practice
it a bit at home. My sight's not so good as it used to be--"
"Such a pair of optics, love, you've never, never seen--
One my mother blacked last night, the other it is green!"
sang Violet, to the infinite delight of all the unwashed-looking
supernumeraries and ballet-girls, who were scattered about the stage,
talking and laughing.
"Shut up, Tommy!" she continued. "You're always talking about your
eyesight. I warn you, if you say too much about it you'll lose your
place. We don't want blind fiddlers in the Brilliant. Put down you
catgut screamer, and fetch me a pint. Ask for the Vere's own
tipple--they'll twig!"
Tommy obeyed, and shuffled off on his errand. As he departed,--a little
man with a very red face, wearing a stove-pipe hat very much on one
side, bounced on the stage as if some one had thrown him there like a
ball.
"Now, ladies, ladies!" he shouted warningly. "Attention! Once again,
please! The last figure once again!" The straggling groups scrambled
hastily into something like order, and the little man continued--"One,
two, three! Advance--retreat--left, right! Very well, indeed! Arms up a
little more, Miss Jenkins--so! toes well pointed--curtsy--retire! One,
two, three! swift slide to the left wing--forward! Round--take
hands--all smile, please!" This general smile was apparently not quite
satisfactory, for he repeated persuasively--"All smile, please! So!
Round again--more quickly--now break the circle in a centre--enter Miss
Vere--" he paused, growing still redder in the face, and demanded, "Where
is Miss Vere?"
He was standing just beneath the painted bough of the sham tree, and in
one second his hat was dexterously kicked off, and two heels met with a
click round his neck.
"Here I am, pickaninny!" retorted Miss Vere holding him fast in this
novel embrace, amid the laughter of the supers. "You're getting as blind
as Tommy! Steady, steady now, donkey!--steady--woa!" And in a thrice she
stood upright, one foot planted firmly on each of his shoulders.
"No weight, am I, darling?" she went on jeeringly, and with an
inimitably derisive air she put up an eye-glass and surveyed the top of
his head. "You want a wig, my dear--you do, indeed! Come with me
to-morrow, and I'll buy you one to suit your complexion. Your wife won't
know you!"
And with a vigorous jump she sprang down from her position, managing to
give him a smart hit on the nose as she did so--and leaping to the
centre of the stage, she posed herself to commence her dance--when Tommy
came creeping back in his slow and dismal fashion, bearing something in
a pewter pot.
"That's the ticket!" she cried as she perceived him. "I'm as dry as a
whole desert! Give it here!" And she snatched the mug from the feeble
hand of her messenger and began drinking eagerly.
The little red-faced man interposed. "Now, Miss Vi," he said, "is that
brandy?"
"Rather so!" returned the Vere, with a knowing wink, "and a good many
things besides. It's a mixture. The 'Vere's Own!' Ha, ha! Might be the
name of a regiment!"
And she buried her mouth and nose again in the tankard.
"Look here," said the little man again. "Why not wait till after the
dance? It's bad for you before."
"Oh, is it, indeed!" screamed Violet, raising her face, which became
suddenly and violently flushed. "O good Lord! Are you a temperance
preacher? Teach your granny! Bad for me? Say another word, and I'll box
your ears for you! You braying jackass!--you snivelling idiot! Who makes
the Brilliant draw? You or I? Tell me that, you staring old--"
Here Tommy, who had for some minutes been vainly endeavoring to attract
her attention, raised his weak voice to a feeble shout.
"I say, Miss Vere! I've been trying to tell you, but you won't listen!
There's a lady waiting to see you!"
"A what?" she asked.
"A lady!" continued Tommy, in loud tones. "A lady of title! Wants to see
you in private! Won't detain you long!"
Violet Vere raised her pewter mug once more, and drained off its
contents.
"Lord, ain't I honored!" she said, smacking her lips with a grin. "A
lady of title to see me! Let her wait! Now then!" and snapping her
fingers, she began her dance, and went through it to the end, with her
usual vigor and frankness. When she had finished, she turned to the
red-faced man who had watched her evolutions with much delight in spite
of the abuse she had heaped upon him, and said with an affected,
smirking drawl--
"Show the lady of title into my dressing-room! I shall be ready for her
in ten minutes. Be sure to mention that I am very shy,--and unaccustomed
to company!"
And, giggling gently like an awkward school-girl, she held down her head
with feigned bashfulness, and stepped mincingly across the stage with
such a ludicrous air of prim propriety, that all her associates burst
out laughing, and applauded her vociferously. She turned and curtsied to
them demurely--then suddenly raising one leg in a horizontal position,
she twirled it rapidly in their faces,--then she gave a little shocked
cough behind her hand, grinned, and vanished.
When, in the stipulated ten minutes, she was ready to receive her
unknown visitor, she was quite transformed. She had arrayed herself in a
trailing gown of rich black velvet, fastened at the side with jet
clasps--a cluster of natural, innocent, white violets nestled in the
fall of Spanish lace at her throat--her face was pale with
pearl-powder,--and she had eaten a couple of scented bon-bons to drown
the smell of her recent brandy-tipple. She reclined gracefully in an
easy chair, pretending to read, and she rose with an admirably acted air
of startled surprise, as one of the errand boys belonging to the
Brilliant tapped at her door, and in answer to her "Come in!" announced,
"Lady Winsleigh!"
A faint, sweet, questioning smile played on the Vere's wide mouth.
"I am not aware that I have the honor of--" she began, modulating her
voice to the requirements of fashionable society, and wondering within
herself "what the d----l" this woman in the silk and sable-fur costume
wanted.
Lady Winsleigh in the meantime stared at her with cold, critical eyes.
"She is positively rather handsome," she thought. "I can quite imagine a
certain class of men losing their heads about her." Aloud she said--
"I must apologize for this intrusion, Miss Vere! I dare say you have
never heard my name--I am not fortunate enough to be famous,--as _you_
are." This with a killing satire in her smile. "May I sit down? Thanks!
I have called upon you in the hope that you may perhaps be able to give
me a little information in a private matter--a matter concerning the
happiness of a very dear friend of mine." She paused--Violet Vere sat
silent. After a minute or two, her ladyship continued in a somewhat
embarrassed manner--
"I believe you know a gentleman with whom I am also acquainted--Sir
Philip Bruce-Errington."
Miss Vere raised her eyes with charming languor and a slow smile.
"Oh yes!"
"He visits you, doesn't he?"
"Frequently!"
"I'm afraid you'll think me rude and inquisitive," continued Lady
Winsleigh, with a coaxing air, "but--but may I ask--"
"Anything in the world," interrupted Violet coolly. "Ask away! But I'm
not bound to answer."
Lady Winsleigh reddened with indignation. "What an insulting creature!"
she thought. But, after all, she had put herself in her present
position, and she could not very well complain if she met with a rebuff.
She made another effort.
"Sir Francis Lennox told me--" she began.
The Vere interrupted her with a cheerful laugh.
"Oh, you come from him, do you? Now, why didn't you tell me that at
first? It's all right! You're a great friend of Lennie's, aren't you?"
Lady Winsleigh sat erect and haughty, a deadly chill of disgust and fear
at her heart. This creature called her quondam lover, "Lennie"--even as
she herself had done,--and she, the proud, vain woman of society and
fashion shuddered at the idea that there should be even this similarity
between herself and the "thing" called Violet Vere. She replied
stiffly--
"I have known him a long time."
"He's a nice fellow," went on Miss Vere easily--"a _leetle_ stingy
sometimes, but never mind that! You want to know about Sir Philip
Errington, and I'll tell you. He's chosen to mix himself up with some
affairs of mine--"
"What affairs?" asked Lady Winsleigh rather eagerly.
"They don't concern you," returned Miss Vere calmly, "and we needn't
talk about them! But they concern Sir Philip,--or he thinks they do, and
insists on seeing me about them, and holding long conversations, which
bore me excessively!"
She yawned slightly, smothering her yawn in a dainty lace handkerchief,
and then went on--
"He's a moral young man, don't you know--and I never could endure moral
men! I can't get on with them at all!"
"Then you don't like him?" questioned Lady Winsleigh in rather a
disappointed tone.
"No, I don't!" said the Vere candidly. "He's not my sort. But, Lord
bless you! I know how he's getting talked about because he comes
here--and serve him right too! He shouldn't meddle with my business."
She paused suddenly and drew a letter from her pocket,--laughed and
tossed it across the table.
"You can read that, if you like," she said indifferently. "He wrote it,
and sent it round to me last night."
Lady Winsleigh's eyes glistened eagerly,--she recognized Errington's
bold, clear hand at once,--and as she read, an expression of triumph
played on her features. She looked up presently and said--
"Have you any further use for this letter, Miss Vere? Or--will you allow
me to keep it?"
The Vere seemed slightly suspicious of this proposal, but looked amused
too.
"Why, what do you want it for?" she inquired bluntly. "To tease him
about me?"
Lady Winsleigh forced a smile. "Well--perhaps!" she admitted, then with
an air of gentleness and simplicity she continued, "I think, Miss Vere,
with you, that it is very wrong of Sir Philip,--very absurd of him, in
fact--to interfere with your affairs, whatever they may be,--and as it
is very likely annoying to you--"
"It _is_," interrupted Violet decidedly.
"Then, with the help of this letter--which, really--really--excuse me
for saying it!--quite compromises him," and her ladyship looked amiably
concerned about it, "I might perhaps persuade him not to--to--intrude
upon you--you understand? But if you object to part with the letter,
never mind! If I did not fear to offend you, I should ask you to
exchange it for--for something more--well! let us say, something more
substantial--"
"Don't beat about the bush!" said Violet, with a sudden oblivion of her
company manners. "You mean money?"
Lady Winsleigh smiled. "As you put it so frankly, Miss Vere--" she
began.
"Of course! I'm always frank," returned the Vere, with a loud laugh.
"Besides, what's the good of pretending? Money's the only thing worth
having--it pays your butcher, baker, and dressmaker--and how are you to
get along if you _can't_ pay them, I'd like to know! Lord! if all the
letters I've got from fools were paying stock instead of waste-paper,
I'd shut up shop, and leave the Brilliant to look out for itself!"
Lady Winsleigh felt she had gained her object, and she could now afford
to be gracious.
"That would be a great loss to the world," she remarked sweetly. "An
immense loss! London could scarcely get on without Violet Vere!" Here
she opened her purse and took out some bank-notes, which she folded and
slipped inside an envelope. "Then I may have the letter?" she continued.
"You may and welcome!" returned Violet.
Lady Winsleigh instantly held out the envelope, which she as instantly
clutched. "Especially if you'll tell Sir Philip Errington to mind his
own business!" She paused, and a dark flush mounted to her brow--one of
those sudden flushes that purpled rather than crimsoned her face. "Yes,"
she repeated, "as he's a friend of yours, just tell him I said he was to
mind his own business! Lord! what does he want to come here and preach
at me for! I don't want his sermons! Moral!" here she laughed rather
hoarsely, "I'm as moral as any one on the stage! Who says I'm not! Take
'em all round--there's not a soul behind the footlights more open and
above-board than I am!"
And her eyes flashed defiantly.
"She's been drinking?" thought Lady Winsleigh disgustedly. In fact, the
"Vere's Own" tipple had begun to take its usual effect, which was to
make the Vere herself both blatant and boisterous.
"I'm sure," said her ladyship with frigid politeness, "that you are
everything that is quite charming, Miss Vere! I have a great respect for
the--the ornaments of the English stage. Society has quite thrown down
its former barriers, you know!--the members of your profession are
received in the very best circles--"
"I ain't!" said Violet, with ungrammatical candor. "Your Irvings and
your Terrys, your Mary Andersons and your Langtrys,--they're good enough
for your fine drawing-rooms, and get more invitations out than they can
accept. And none of them have got half my talent, I tell you! Lord bless
my soul! if they're respectable enough for you,--so am I!"
And she struck her hand emphatically on the table, Lady Winsleigh looked
at her with a slight smile.
"I must really say good-bye!" she said, rising and gathering her furs
about her. "I could talk with you all the morning, Miss Vere, but I have
so many engagements! Besides I mustn't detain _you_! I'm so much obliged
to you for your kind reception of me!"
"Don't mention, it!" and Violet glanced her over with a kind of sullen
sarcasm. "I'm bound to please Lennie when I can, you know!"
Again Lady Winsleigh shivered a little, but forced herself to shake
hands with the notorious stage-Jezebel.
"I shall come and see you in the new piece," she said graciously. "I
always take a box on first nights? And your dancing is so exquisite! The
very poetry of motion! So pleased to have met you! Good-bye!"
And with a few more vague compliments and remarks about the weather,
Lady Winsleigh took her departure. Left alone, the actress threw herself
back in her chair and laughed.
"That woman's up to some mischief," she exclaimed sotto voce, "and so is
Lennie! I wonder what's their little game? _I_ don't care, as long as
they'll keep the high-and-mighty Errington in his place. I'm tired of
him! Why does he meddle with _my_ affairs?" Her brows knitted into a
frown. "As if he or anybody else could persuade me to go back to--," she
paused, and bit her lips angrily. Then she opened the envelope Lady
Winsleigh had left with her, and pulled out the bank-notes inside. "Let
me see--five, ten, fifteen, twenty! Not bad pay, on the whole! It'll
just cover the bill for my plush mantle. Hullo! Who's there?"
Some one knocked at her door.
"Come in!" she cried.
The feeble Tommy presented himself. His weak mouth trembled more than
ever, and he was apparently conscious of this, for he passed his hand
nervously across it two or three times.
"Well, what's up?" inquired the "star" of the Brilliant, fingering her
bank-notes as she spoke.
"Miss Vere," stammered Tommy, "I venture to ask you a favor,--could you
kindly, very kindly lend me ten shillings till to-morrow night? I am so
pressed just now--and my wife is ill in bed--and--" he stopped, and his
eyes sought her face hopefully, yet timidly.
"You shouldn't have a wife, Tommy!" averred Violet with blunt frankness.
"Wives are expensive articles. Besides, I never lend. I never
give--except to public charities where one's name gets mentioned in the
papers. I'm obliged to do that, you know, by way of advertisement. Ten
shillings! Why, I can't afford ten pence! My bills would frighten you,
Tommy! There go along, and don't cry, for goodness sake! Let your fiddle
cry for you!"
"Oh, Miss Vere," once more pleaded Tommy, "if you knew how my wife
suffers--"
The actress rose and stamped her foot impatiently.
"Bother your wife!" she cried angrily, "and you too! Look out! or I tell
the manager we've got a beggar at the Brilliant. Don't stare at me like
that! Go to the d----l with you!"
Tommy slunk off abashed and trembling, and the Vere began to sing, or
rather croak, a low comic song, while she threw over her shoulders a
rich mantle glittering with embroidered trimmings, and poised a
coquettish Paris model hat on her thick untwisted coils of hair. Thus
attired, she passed out of her dressing-room, locking the door behind
her, and after a brief conversation with the jocose acting manager, whom
she met on her way out, she left the theatre, and took a cab to the
Criterion, where the young Duke of Moorlands, her latest conquest, had
invited her to a sumptuous luncheon with himself and friends, all men of
fashion, who were running through what money they had as fast as they
could go.
Lady Winsleigh, on her way home, was tormented by sundry uncomfortable
thoughts and sharp pricks of conscience. Her interview with Violet Vere
had instinctively convinced her that Sir Philip was innocent of the
intrigue imputed to him, and yet,--the letter she had now in her
possession seemed to prove him guilty. And though she felt herself to be
playing a vile part, she could not resist the temptation of trying what
the effect would be of this compromising document on Thelma's trusting
mind. It was undoubtedly a very incriminating epistle--any lawyer would
have said as much, while blandly pocketing his fee for saying it. It was
written off in evident haste, and ran as follows:--
"Let me see you once more on the subject you know of. Why will you
not accept the honorable position offered to you? There shall be
no stint of money--all the promises I have made I am quite ready
to fulfill--you shall lose nothing by being gentle. Surely you
cannot continue to seem so destitute of all womanly feeling and
pity? I will not believe that you would so deliberately condemn to
death a man who has loved, and who loves you still so faithfully,
and who, without you, is utterly weary of life and broken-hearted!
Think once more--and let my words carry more weight with you!"
"BRUCE-ERRINGTON."
This was all, but more than enough!
"I wonder what he means," thought Lady Winsleigh. "It looks as if he
were in love with the Vere and she refused to reciprocate. It _must_ be
that. And yet that doesn't accord with what the creature herself said
about his 'preaching at her.' He wouldn't do that if he were in love."
She studied every word of the letter again and again, and finally folded
it up carefully and placed it in her pocket-book.
"Innocent or guilty, Thelma must see it," she decided. "I wonder how
she'll take it! If she wants a proof--it's one she'll scarcely deny.
Some women would fret themselves to death over it--but I shouldn't
wonder if she sat down under it quite calmly without a word of
complaint." She frowned a little. "Why must _she_ always be superior to
others of her sex! How I detest that still solemn smile of hers and
those big baby-blue eyes! I think if Philip had married any other woman
than she--a woman more like the rest of us who'd have gone with her
time,--I could have forgiven him more easily. But to pick up a Norwegian
peasant and set her up as a sort of moral finger-post to society--and
then to go and compromise himself with Violet Vere--that's a kind of
thing I _can't_ stand! I'd rather be anything in the world than a
humbug!"
Many people desire to be something they are not, and her ladyship quite
unconsciously echoed this rather general sentiment. She was, without
knowing it, such an adept in society humbug, that she even humbugged
herself. She betrayed herself as she betrayed others, and told little
soothing lies to her own conscience as she told them to her friends.
There are plenty of women like her,--women of pleasant courtesy and
fashion, to whom truth is mere coarseness,--and with whom polite lying
passes for perfect breeding. She was not aware, as she was driven along
Park Lane to her own residence, that she carried with her on the box of
her brougham a private detective in the person of Briggs. Perched
stiffly on his seat, with arms tightly folded, this respectable retainer
was quite absorbed in meditation, so much so that he exchanged not a
word with his friend, the coachman, beside him. He had his own notions
of propriety,--he considered that his mistress had no business whatever
to call on an actress of Violet Vere's repute,--and he resolved that
whether he were reproved for over-officiousness or not, nothing should
prevent him from casually mentioning to Lord Winsleigh the object of her
ladyship's drive that morning.
"For," mused Briggs gravely, "a lady 'as responsibilities, and 'owever
she forgets 'erself, appearances 'as to be kep' up."
With the afternoon, the fog which had hung over the city all day,
deepened and darkened. Thelma had lunched with Mrs. Lorimer, and had
enjoyed much pleasant chat with that kindly, cheerful old lady. She had
confided to her, part of the story of Sir Francis Lennox's conduct,
carefully avoiding every mention of the circumstance which had given
rise to it,--namely, the discussion about Violet Vere. She merely
explained that she had suddenly fainted, in which condition Sir Francis
had taken advantage of her helplessness to insult her.
Mrs. Lorimer was highly indignant. "Tell your husband all about it, my
dear!" she advised. "He's big enough, and strong enough, to give that
little snob a good trouncing! My patience! I wish George were in
London--he'd lend a hand and welcome!"
And the old lady nodded her head violently over the sock she was
knitting,--the making of socks for her beloved son was her principal
occupation and amusement.
"But I hear," said Thelma, "that it is against the law to strike any
one, no matter how you have been insulted. If so,--then Philip would be
punished for attacking Sir Francis, and that would not be fair."
"You didn't think of that, child, when you struck Lennox yourself,"
returned Mrs. Lorimer, laughing. "And I guarantee you gave him a good
hard blow,--and serve him right! Never mind what comes of it, my
dearie--just tell your husband as soon as ever he comes home, and let
him take the matter into his own hands. He's a fine man--he'll know how
to defend the pretty wife he loves so well!" And she smiled, while her
shining knitting-needles clicked faster than ever.
Thelma's face saddened a little. "I think I am not worthy of his love,"
she said sorrowfully.
Mrs. Lorimer looked at her with some inquisitiveness.
"What makes you say that, my dear?"
"Because I feel it so much," she replied. "Dear Mrs. Lorimer, you
cannot, perhaps, understand--but when he married me, it seemed as if the
old story of the king and the beggar-maid were being repeated over
again. I sought nothing but his love--his love was, and is my life!
These riches--these jewels and beautiful things he surrounds me with--I
do not care for them at all, except for the reason that he wishes me to
have them. I scarcely understand their value, for I have been poor all
my life, and yet I have wanted nothing. I do not think wealth is needful
to make one happy. But love--ah! I could not live without it--and
now--now--" She paused, and her eyes filled with sudden tears.
"Now what?" asked Mrs. Lorimer gently.
"Now," continued the girl in a low voice, "my heart is always afraid!
Yes! I am afraid of losing my husband's love. Ah, do not laugh at me,
dear Mrs. Lorimer! You know people who are much together sometimes get
tired,--tired of seeing the same face always,--the same form--"
"Are _you_ tired, dearie?" asked the old lady meaningly.
"I? Tired of Philip? I am only happy when he is with me!" And her eyes
deepened with passionate tenderness. "I would wish to live and die
beside him, and I should not care if I never saw another human face than
his!"
"Well, and don't you think he has the same feelings for you?"
"Men are different, I think," returned Thelma musingly. "Now, love is
everything to me--but it may not be everything to Philip. I do believe
that love is only part of a man's life, while it is _all_ a woman's.
Clara told me once that most husbands wearied of their wives, though
they would not always confess it--"
"Clara Winsleigh's modern social doctrines are false, my dear!"
interrupted Mrs. Lorimer quickly. "She isn't satisfied with her own
marriage, and she thinks everybody must be as discontented as herself.
Now, my husband and I lived always together for five and twenty
years,--and we were lovers to the last day, when my darling died with
his hand in mine--and--and--if it hadn't been for my boy,--I should have
died too!"
And two bright tears fell glittering on the old lady's knitting.
Thelma took her hand and kissed it fondly. "I can understand that," she
said softly; "but still,--still I do believe it is difficult to keep
love when you have won it! It is, perhaps, easy to win--but I am sure it
is hard to keep!"
Mrs. Lorimer looked at her earnestly.
"My dear child, don't let that frivolous Winsleigh woman put nonsense
into your pretty head. You are too sensible to take such a morbid view
of things,--and you mustn't allow your wholesome fresh nature to be
contaminated by the petulant, wrong-headed notions that cloud the brains
of idle, fashionable, useless women. Believe me, good men don't tire of
their wives--and Sir Philip is a good man. Good wives never weary their
husbands--and you are a good wife--and you will be a good, sweet mother.
Think of that new delight so soon coming for you,--and leave all the
modern, crazy, one-sided notions of human life to the French and Russian
novelists. Tut-tut!" continued the old lady tenderly. "A nice little
ladyship you are,--worrying yourself about nothing! Send Philip to me
when he comes home--I'll scold him for leaving his bird to mope in her
London cage!"
"I do not mope," declared Thelma. "And you must not scold him, please!
Poor boy! he is working so very hard, and has so much to attend to. He
wants to distinguish himself for--for my sake!"
"That looks very much as if he were tired of you!" laughed Mrs. Lorimer.
"Though I dare say you'd like him to stay at home and make love to you
all day! Silly girl! You want the world to be a sort of Arcadia, with
you as Phyllis, and Sir Philip as Corydon! My dear, we're living in the
nineteenth century, and the days of fond shepherds and languishing
shepherdesses are past!"
Thelma laughed too, and felt soon ashamed of her depression. The figure
of Violet Vere now and then danced before her like a mocking
will-o'-the-wisp--but her pride forbade her to mention this,--the actual
source of all her vague troubles.
She left Mrs. Lorimer's house, which was near Holland Park, about four
o'clock, and as she was passing Church Street, Kensington, she bade her
coachman drive up to the Carmelite Church there, familiarly known as the
"Carms." She entered the sacred edifice, where the service of
Benediction was in progress; and, kneeling down, she listened to the
exquisite strains of the solemn music that pealed through those dim and
shadowy aisles, and a sense of the most perfect peace settled soothingly
on her soul. Clasping her gentle hands, she prayed with innocent and
heart-felt earnestness--not for herself,--never for herself,--but
always, always for that dear, most dear one, for whom every beat of her
true heart was a fresh vow of undying and devoted affection.
"Dear God!" she whispered, "if I love him too much, forgive me! Thou who
art all Love, wilt pardon me this excess of love! Bless my darling
always, and teach me how to be more worthy of Thy goodness and his
tenderness!"
And when she left the church, she was happier and more light-hearted
than she had been for many a long day. She drove home, heedless of the
fog and cold, dismal aspect of the weather, and resolved to go and visit
Lady Winsleigh in the evening, so that when Philip came back on the
morrow, she might be able to tell him that she had amused herself, and
had not been lonely.
But when she arrived at her own door, Morris, who opened it, informed
her that Lady Winsleigh was waiting in the drawing-room to see her, and
had been waiting some time. Thelma hastened thither immediately, and
held out her hands joyously to her friend.
"I am so sorry you have had to wait, Clara!" she began. "Why did you not
send word and say you were coming? Philip is away and will not be back
to-night, and I have been lunching with Mrs. Lorimer, and--why, what
makes you look so grave?"
Lady Winsleigh regarded her fixedly. How radiantly lovely the young wife
looked!--her cheeks had never been more delicately rosy, or her eyes
more brilliant. The dark fur cloak she wore with its rich sable
trimmings, and the little black velvet _toque_ that rested on her fair
curls, set off the beauty of her clear skin to perfection, and her
rival, who stood gazing at her with such close scrutiny, envied her more
than ever as she was once again reluctantly forced to admit to herself
the matchless loveliness of the innocent creature whose happiness she
now sought to destroy.
"Do I look grave, Thelma?" she said with a slight smile. "Well, perhaps
I've a reason for my gravity. And so your husband is away?"
"Yes. He went quite early this morning,--a telegram summoned him and he
was obliged to go." Here she drew up a chair to the fire, and began to
loosen her wraps. "Sit down, Clara! I will ring for tea."
"No, don't ring," said Lady Winsleigh. "Not yet! I want to talk to you
privately." She sank languidly on a velvet lounge and looked Thelma
straight in the eyes.
"Dear Thelma," she continued in a sweetly tremulous, compassionate
voice. "Can you bear to hear something very painful and shocking,
something that I'm afraid will grieve you very much?"
The color fled from the girl's fair face--her eyes grew startled.
"What do you mean, Clara? Is it anything about--about Philip?"
Lady Winsleigh bent her head in assent, but remained silent.
"If," continued Thelma, with a little return of the rosy hue to her
cheeks. "If it is something else about that--that person at the theatre,
Clara, I would rather not hear it! I think I have been wrong in
listening to any such stories--it is so seldom that gossip of any kind
is true. It is not a wife's duty to receive scandals about her husband.
And suppose he does see Miss Vere, how do I know that it may not be on
business for some friend of his?--because I do know that on that night
when he went behind the scenes at the Brilliant, he said it was on
business. Mr. Lovelace used often to go and see Miss Mary Anderson, all
to persuade her to take a play written by a friend of his--and Philip,
who is always kind-hearted, may perhaps be doing something of the same
sort. I feel I have been wicked to have even a small doubt of my
husband's love,--so, Clara, do not let us talk any more on a subject
which only displeases me."
"You must choose your own way of life, of course," said Lady Winsleigh
coldly. "But you draw rather foolish comparisons, Thelma. There is a
wide difference between Mary Anderson and Violet Vere. Besides, Mr.
Lovelace is a bachelor,--he can do as he likes and go where he likes
without exciting comment. However, whether you are angry with me or not,
I feel I should not be your true friend if I did not show you--_this_.
You know your husband's writing!"
And she drew out the fatal letter, and continued, watching her victim as
she spoke, "This was sent by Sir Philip to Violet Vere last night,--she
gave it to me herself this morning."
Thelma's hand trembled as she took the paper.
"Why should I read it?" she faltered mechanically.
Lady Winsleigh raised her eyebrows and frowned impatiently.
"Why--why? Because it is your duty to do so! Have you no pride? Will you
allow your husband to write such a letter as that to another woman,--and
_such_ a woman too! without one word of remonstrance? You owe it to
yourself--to your own sense of honor--to resent and resist such
treatment on his part! Surely the deepest love cannot pardon deliberate
injury and insult."
"My love can pardon anything," answered the girl in a low voice, and
then slowly, very slowly, she opened the folded sheet--slowly she read
every word it contained,--words that stamped themselves one by one on
her bewildered brain and sent it reeling into darkness and vacancy. She
felt sick and cold--she stared fixedly at her husband's familiar
handwriting. "A man who has loved and who loves you still, and who
without you is utterly weary and broken-hearted!"
Thus he wrote of himself to--to Violet Vere! It seemed incredible--yet
it was true! She heard a rushing sound in her ears--the room swung round
dizzily before her eyes--yet she sat, still, calm and cold, holding the
letter and speaking no word.
Lady Winsleigh watched her, irritated at her passionless demeanor.
"Well!" she exclaimed at last. "Have you nothing to say?"
Thelma looked up, her eyes burning with an intense feverish light.
"Nothing!" she replied.
"_Nothing_?" repeated her ladyship with emphatic astonishment.
"Nothing against Philip," continued the girl steadily. "For the blame is
not his, but mine! That he is weary and broken-hearted must be my
fault--though I cannot yet understand what I have done. But it must be
something, because if I were all that he wished he would not have grown
so tired." She paused and her pale lips quivered. "I am sorry," she went
on with dreamy pathos, "sorrier for him than for myself, because now I
see I am in the way of his happiness." A quiver of agony passed over her
face,--she fixed her large bright eyes on Lady Winsleigh, who
instinctively shrank from the solemn speechless despair of that
penetrating gaze.
"Who gave you this letter, Clara?" she asked calmly.
"I told you before,--Miss Vere herself."
"Why did she give it to you?" continued Thelma in a dull, sad voice.
Lady Winsleigh hesitated and stammered a little. "Well, because--because
I asked her if the stories about Sir Philip were true. And she begged me
to ask him not to visit her so often." Then, with an additional thought
of malice, she said softly. "She doesn't wish to wrong you, Thelma,--of
course, she's not a very good woman, but I think she feels sorry for
you!"
The girl uttered a smothered cry of anguish, as though she had been
stabbed to the heart. She!--to be actually _pitied_ by Violet Vere,
because she had been unable to keep her husband's love! This idea
tortured her very soul,--but she was silent.
"I thought you were my friend, Clara?" she said suddenly, with a strange
wistfulness.
"So I am, Thelma," murmured Lady Winsleigh, a guilty flush coloring her
cheeks.
"You have made me very miserable," went on Thelma gravely, and with
pathetic simplicity, "and I am sorry indeed that we ever met. I was so
happy till I knew you!--and yet I was very fond of you! I am sure you
mean everything for the best, but I cannot think it is so. And it is all
so dark and desolate now--why have you taken such pains to make me sad?
Why have you so often tried to make me doubt my husband's love?--why
have you come to-day so quickly to tell me I have lost it? But for you,
I might never have known this sorrow,--I might have died soon, in happy
ignorance, believing in my darling's truth as I believe in God!"
Her voice broke, and a hard sob choked her utterance. For once Lady
Winsleigh's conscience smote her--for once she felt ashamed, and dared
not offer consolation to the innocent soul she had so wantonly stricken.
For a minute or two there was silence--broken only by the monotonous
ticking of the clock and the crackling of the fire.
Presently Thelma spoke again. "I will ask you to go away now and leave
me, Clara," she said simply. "When the heart is sorrowful, it is best to
be alone. Good-bye!" And she gently held out her hand.
"Poor Thelma!" said Lady Winsleigh, taking it with an affectation of
tenderness. "What will you do?"
Thelma did not answer; she sat mute and rigid.
"You are thinking unkindly of me just now," continued Clara softly; "but
I felt it was my duty to tell you the worst at once. It's no good living
in a delusion! I'm very, very sorry for you, Thelma!"
Thelma remained perfectly silent. Lady Winsleigh moved towards the door,
and as she opened it looked back at her. The girl might have been a
lifeless figure for any movement that could be perceived about her. Her
face was white as marble--her eyes were fixed on the sparkling fire--her
very hands looked stiff and pallid as wax, as they lay clasped in her
lap--the letter--the cruel letter,--had fallen at her feet. She seemed
as one in a trance of misery--and so Lady Winsleigh left her.
CHAPTER XXVI.
"O my lord, O Love,
I have laid my life at thy feet;
Have thy will thereof
For what shall please thee is sweet!"
SWINBURNE.
She roused herself at last. Unclasping her hands, she pushed back her
hair from her brows and sighed heavily. Shivering as with intense cold,
she rose from the chair she had so long occupied, and stood upright,
mechanically gathering around her the long fur mantle that she had not
as yet taken off. Catching sight of the letter where it lay, a gleaming
speck of white on the rich dark hues of the carpet, she picked it up and
read it through again calmly and comprehensively,--then folded it up
carefully as though it were something of inestimable value. Her thoughts
were a little confused,--she could only realize clearly two distinct
things,--first, that Philip was unhappy,--secondly, that she was in the
way of his happiness. She did not pause to consider how this change in
him had been effected,--moreover, she never imagined that the letter he
had written could refer to any one but himself. Hers was a nature that
accepted facts as they appeared--she never sought for ulterior motives
or disguised meanings. True, she could not understand her husband's
admiration for Violet Vere, "But then"--she thought--"many other men
admire her too. And so it is certain there must be something about her
that wins love,--something I cannot see!"
And presently she put aside all other considerations, and only pondered
on one thing,--how should she remove herself from the path of her
husband's pleasure? For she had no doubt but that she was an obstacle to
his enjoyment. He had made promises to Violet Vere which he was "ready
to fulfill,"--he offered her "an honorable position,"--he desired her
"not to condemn him to death,"--he besought her to let his words "carry
more weight with her."
"It is because I am here," thought Thelma wearily. "She would listen to
him if I were gone!" She had the strangest notions of wifely duty--odd
minglings of the stern Norse customs with the gentler teachings of
Christianity,--yet in both cases the lines of woman's life were clearly
defined in one word--obedience. Most women, receiving an apparent proof
of a husband's infidelity, would have made what is termed a
"scene,"--would have confronted him with rage and tears, and personal
abuse,--but Thelma was too gentle for this,--too gentle to resist what
seemed to be Philip's wish and will, and far too proud to stay where it
appeared evident she was not wanted. Moreover she could not bear the
idea of speaking to him on, such a subject as his connection with Violet
Vere,--the hot color flushed her cheeks with a sort of shame as she
thought of it.
Of course, she was weak--of course, she was foolish,--we will grant that
she was anything the reader chooses to call her. It is much better for a
woman nowadays to be defiant rather than yielding,--aggressive, not
submissive,--violent, not meek. We all know that! To abuse a husband
well all round, is the modern method of managing him! But poor, foolish,
loving, sensitive Thelma had nothing of the magnificent strength of mind
possessed by most wives of to-day,--she could only realize that
Philip--her Philip--was "utterly weary and broken-hearted"--for the sake
of another woman--and that other woman actually pitied _her_! She pitied
herself too, a little vaguely--her brows ached and throbbed
violently--there was a choking sensation in her throat, but she could
not weep. Tears would have relieved her tired brain, but no tears fell.
She strove to decide on some immediate plan of action,--Philip would be
home to-morrow,--she recoiled at the thought of meeting him, knowing
what she knew. Glancing dreamily at her own figure, reflected by the
lamplight in the long mirror opposite, she recognized that she was fully
attired in outdoor costume--all save her hat, which she had taken off
after her first greeting of Lady Winsleigh, and which was still on the
table at her side. She looked at the clock,--it was five minutes to
seven. Eight o'clock was her dinner-hour, and thinking of this, she
suddenly rang the bell. Morris immediately answered it.
"I shall not dine at home," she said in her usual gentle voice; "I am
going to see some friend this evening. I may not be back till--till
late."
"Very well, my lady," and Morris retired without seeing anything
remarkable in his mistress's announcement. Thelma drew a long breath of
relief as he disappeared, and, steadying her nerves by a strong effort,
passed into her own boudoir,--the little sanctum specially endeared to
her by Philip's frequent presence there. How cosy and comfortable a
home-nest it looked!--a small fire glowed warmly in the grate, and
Britta, whose duty it was to keep this particular room in order, had lit
the lamp,--a rosy globe supported by a laughing cupid,--and had drawn
the velvet curtains close at the window to keep out the fog and chilly
air--there were fragrant flowers on the table,--Thelma's own favorite
lounge was drawn up to the fender in readiness for her,--opposite to it
stood the deep, old-fashioned easy chair in which Philip always sat. She
looked round upon all these familiar things with a dreary sense of
strangeness and desolation, and the curves of her sweet mouth trembled a
little and drooped piteously. But her resolve was taken, and she did not
hesitate or weep. She sat down to her desk and wrote a few brief lines
to her father--this letter she addressed and stamped ready for posting.
Then for a while she remained apparently lost in painful musings,
playing with the pen she held, and uncertain what to do. Presently she
drew a sheet of note-paper toward her, and began, "My darling boy." As
these words appeared under her hand on the white page, her forced calm
nearly gave way,--a low cry of intense agony escaped from her lips, and,
dropping the pen, she rose and paced the room restlessly, one hand
pressed against her heart as though that action could still its rapid
beatings. Once more she essayed the hard task she had set herself to
fulfill--the task of bidding farewell to the husband in whom her life
was centred. Piteous, passionate words came quickly from her overcharged
and almost breaking heart--words, tender, touching,--full of love, and
absolutely free from all reproach. Little did she guess as she wrote
that parting letter, what desperate misery it would cause to the
receiver!--
When she had finished it, she felt quieted--even more composed than
before. She folded and sealed it--then put it out of sight and rang for
Britta. That little maiden soon appeared, and seemed surprised to see
her mistress still in walking costume.
"Have you only just come in, Fröken?" she ventured to inquire.
"No, I came home some time ago," returned Thelma gently. "But I was
talking to Lady Winsleigh in the drawing-room,--and as I am going out
again this evening I shall not require to change my dress. I want you to
post this letter for me, Britta."
And she held out the one addressed to her father, Olaf Güldmar. Britta
took it, but her mind still revolved the question of her mistress's
attire.
"If you are going to spend the evening with friends," she suggested,
"would it not be better to change?"
"I have on a velvet gown," said Thelma, with a rather wearied patience.
"It is quite dressy enough for where I am going." She paused abruptly,
and Britta looked at her inquiringly.
"Are you tired, Fröken Thelma?" she asked. "You are so pale!"
"I have a slight headache," Thelma answered. "It is nothing,--it will
soon pass. I wish you to post that letter at once, Britta."
"Very well, Fröken." Britta still hesitated. "Will you be out all the
evening?" was her next query.
"Yes."
"Then perhaps you will not mind if I go and see Louise, and take supper
with her? She has asked me, and Mr. Briggs"--here Britta laughed--"is
coming to see if I can go. He will escort me, he says!" And she laughed
again.
Thelma forced herself to smile. "You can go, by all means, Britta! But I
thought you did not like Lady Winsleigh's French maid?"
"I don't like her much," Britta admitted--"still, she means to be kind
and agreeable, I think. And"--here she eyed Thelma with a mysterious and
important air--"I want to ask her a question about something very
particular."
"Then, go and stay as long as you like, dear," said Thelma, a sudden
impulse of affection causing her to caress softly her little maid's
ruffled brown curls, "I shall not be back till--till quite late. And
when you return from the post, I shall be gone--so--good-bye!"
"Good-bye!" exclaimed Britta wonderingly. "Why, where are you going? One
would think you were starting on a long journey. You speak so strangely,
Fröken!"
"Do I?" and Thelma smiled kindly. "It is because my head aches, I
suppose. But it is not strange to say good-bye, Britta!"
Britta caught her hand. "Where are you going?" she persisted.
"To see some friends," responded Thelma quietly. "Now do not ask any
more questions, Britta, but go and post my letter. I want father to get
it as soon as possible, and you will lose the post if you are not very
quick."
Thus reminded, Britta hastened off, determining to run all the way, in
order to get back before her mistress left the house. Thelma, however,
was too quick for her. As soon as Britta had gone, she took the letter
she had written to Philip, and slipped it within the pages of a small
volume of poems he had lately been reading. It was a new book entitled
"Gladys the Singer," and its leading _motif_ was the old,
never-exhausted subject of a woman's too faithful love, betrayal, and
despair. As she opened it, her eyes fell by chance on a few lines of
hopeless yet musical melancholy, which, like a sad song heard suddenly,
made her throat swell with rising yet restrained tears. They ran thus:--
"Oh! I can drown, or, like a broken lyre,
Be thrown to earth, or cast upon a fire,--
I can be made to feel the pangs of death,
And yet be constant to the quest of breath,--
Our poor pale trick of living through the lies
We name Existence when that 'something' dies
Which we call Honor. Many and many a way
Can I be struck or fretted night or day
In some new fashion,--or condemn'd the while
To take for food the semblance of a smile,--
The left-off rapture of a slain caress,--"
Ah!--she caught her breath sobbingly, "The left-off rapture of a slain
caress!" Yes,--that would be her portion now if--if she stayed to
receive it. But she would not stay! She turned over the volume
abstractedly, scarcely conscious of the action,--and suddenly, as if the
poet-writer of it had been present to probe her soul and make her inmost
thoughts public, she read:--
"Because I am unlov'd of thee to-day,
And undesired as sea-weeds in the sea!"
Yes!--that was the "because" of everything that swayed her sorrowful
spirit,--"because" she was "unlov'd and undesired."
She hesitated no longer, but shut the book with her farewell letter
inside it, and put it back in its former place on the little table
beside Philip's arm-chair. Then she considered how she should
distinguish it by some mark that should attract her husband's attention
toward it,--and loosening from her neck a thin gold chain on which was
suspended a small diamond cross with the names "Philip" and "Thelma"
engraved at the back, she twisted it round the little book, and left it
so that the sparkle of the jewels should be seen distinctly on the
cover. Now was there anything more to be done? She divested herself of
all her valuable ornaments, keeping only her wedding-ring and its
companion circlet of brilliants,--she emptied her purse of all money
save that which was absolutely necessary for her journey--then she put
on her hat, and began to fasten her long cloak slowly, for her fingers
were icy cold and trembled very strangely. Stay,--there was her
husband's portrait,--she might take that, she thought, with a sort of
touching timidity. It was a miniature on ivory--and had been painted
expressly for her,--she placed it inside her dress, against her bosom.
"He has been too good to me," she murmured; "and I have been too
happy,--happier than I deserved to be. Excess of happiness must always
end in sorrow."
She looked dreamily at Philip's empty chair--in fancy she could see his
familiar figure seated there, and she sighed as she thought of the face
she loved so well,--the passion of his eyes,--the tenderness of his
smile. Softly she kissed the place where his head had rested,--then
turned resolutely away.
She was giving up everything, she thought, to another woman,--but
then--that other woman, however incredible it seemed, was the one Philip
loved best,--his own written words were a proof of this. There was no
choice therefore,--his pleasure was her first consideration,--everything
must yield to that, so she imagined,--her own life was nothing, in her
estimation, compared to his desire. Such devotion as hers was of course
absurd--it amounted to weak self-immolation, and would certainly be
accounted as supremely foolish by most women who have husbands, and who,
when they swear to "obey," mean to break the vow at every convenient
opportunity--but Thelma could not alter her strange nature, and, with
her, obedience meant the extreme letter of the law of utter submission.
Leaving the room she had so lately called her own, she passed into the
entrance-hall. Morris was not there, and she did not summon him,--she
opened the street-door for herself, and shutting it quietly behind her,
she stood alone in the cold street, where the fog had now grown so dense
that the lamp-posts were scarcely visible. She walked on for a few paces
rather bewildered and chilled by the piercing bitterness of the
air,--then, rallying her forces, she hailed a passing cab, and told the
man to take her to Charing Cross Station. She was not familiar with
London--and Charing Cross was the only great railway terminus she could
just then think of.
Arrived there, the glare of the electric light, the jostling passengers
rushing to and from the trains, the shouts and wrangling of porters and
cabmen, confused her not a little,--and the bold looks of admiration
bestowed on her freely by the male loungers sauntering near the doors of
the restaurant and hotel, made her shrink and tremble for shame. She had
never travelled entirely alone before--and she began to be frightened at
the pandemonium of sights and noises that surged around her. Yet she
never once thought of returning,--she never dreamed of going to any of
her London friends, lest on hearing of her trouble they might reproach
Philip--and this Thelma would not have endured. For the same reason, she
had said nothing to Britta.
In her then condition, it seemed to her that only one course lay open
for her to follow,--and that was to go quietly home,--home to the
Altenfjord. No one would be to blame for her departure but herself, she
thought,--and Philip would be free. Thus she reasoned,--if, indeed, she
reasoned at all. But there was such a frozen stillness in her soul--her
senses were so numbed with pain, that as yet she scarcely realized
either what had happened or what she herself was doing. She was as one
walking in sleep--the awakening, bitter as death, was still to come.
Presently a great rush of people began to stream towards her from one of
the platforms, and trucks of luggage, heralded by shouts of, "Out of the
way, there!" and "By'r leave!" came trundling rapidly along--the tidal
train from the Continent had just arrived.
Dismayed at the increasing confusion and uproar, Thelma addressed
herself to an official with a gold band round his hat.
"Can you tell me," she asked timidly, "where I shall take a ticket for
Hull?"
The man glanced at the fair, anxious face, and smiled good-humoredly.
"You've come to the wrong station, miss," he said. "You want the Midland
line."
"The Midland?" Thelma felt more bewildered than ever.
"Yes,--the _Midland_," he repeated rather testily. "It's a good way from
here--you'd better take a cab."
She moved away,--but started and drew herself back into a shadowed
corner, coloring deeply as the sound of a rich, mellifluous voice, which
she instantly recognized, smote suddenly on her ears.
"And as I before remarked, my good fellow," the voice was saying, "I am
not a disciple of the semi-obscure. If a man has a thought which is
worth declaring, let him declare it with a free and noble
utterance--don't let him wrap it up in multifarious parcels of dreary
verbosity! There's too much of that kind of thing going on nowadays--in
England, at least. There's a kind of imitation of art which isn't art at
all,--a morbid, bilious, bad imitation. You only get close to the real
goddess in Italy. I wish I could persuade you to come and pass the
winter with me there?"
It was Beau Lovelace who spoke, and he was talking to George Lorimer.
The two had met in Paris,--Lovelace was on his way to London, where a
matter of business summoned him for a few days, and Lorimer, somewhat
tired of the French capital, decided to return with him. And here they
were,--just arrived at Charing Cross,--and they walked across the
station arm in arm, little imagining who watched them from behind the
shelter of one of the waiting-room doors, with a yearning sorrow in her
grave blue eyes. They stopped almost opposite to her to light their
cigars,--she saw Lorimer's face quite distinctly, and heard his answer
to Lovelace.
"Well, I'll see what I can do about it, Beau! You know my mother always
likes to get away from London in winter--but whether we ought to inflict
ourselves upon you,--you being a literary man too--"
"Nonsense, you won't interfere in the least with the flow of inky
inspiration," laughed Beau. "And as for your mother, I'm in love with
her, as you are aware! I admire her almost as much as I do Lady
Bruce-Errington--and that's saying a great deal! By-the-by, if Phil can
get through his share of this country's business, he might do worse than
bring his beautiful Thelma to the Lake of Como for a while. I'll ask
him!"
And having lit their Havannas successfully, they walked on and soon
disappeared. For one instant Thelma felt strongly inclined to run after
them, like a little forlorn child that had lost its way,--and,
unburdening herself of all her miseries to the sympathetic George,
entreat, with tears, to be taken back to that husband who did not want
her any more. But she soon overcame this emotion,--and calling to mind
the instructions of the official personage whose advice she had sought,
she hurried out of the huge, brilliantly lit station, and taking a
hansom, was driven, as she requested, to the Midland. Here the rather
gloomy aspect of the place oppressed her as much as the garish bustle of
Charing Cross had bewildered her,--but she was somewhat relieved when
she learned that a train for Hull would start in ten minutes. Hurrying
to the ticket-office she found there before her a kindly faced woman
with a baby in her arms, who was just taking a third-class ticket to
Hull, and as she felt lonely and timid, Thelma at once decided to travel
third-class also, and if possible in the same compartment with this
cheerful matron, who, as soon as she had secured her ticket, walked away
to the train, hushing her infant in her arms as she went. Thelma
followed her at a little distance--and as soon as she saw her enter a
third-class carriage, she hastened her steps and entered also, quite
thankful to have secured some companionship for the long cold journey.
The woman glanced at her a little curiously--it was strange to see so
lovely and young a creature travelling all alone at night,--and she
asked kindly--
"Be you goin' fur, miss?"
Thelma smiled--it was pleasant to be spoken to, she thought.
"Yes," she answered. "All the way to Hull."
"'Tis a cold night for a journey," continued her companion.
"Yes, indeed," answered Thelma. "It must be cold for your little baby."
And unconsciously her voice softened and her eyes grew sad as she looked
across at the sleeping infant.
"Oh, he's as warm as toast!" laughed the mother cheerily. "He gets the
best of everything, he do. It's yourself that's looking cold, my dear in
spite of your warm cloak. Will ye have this shawl?"
And she offered Thelma a homely gray woollen wrap with much kindly
earnestness of manner.
"I am quite warm, thank you," said Thelma gently, accepting the shawl,
however, to please her fellow-traveller. "It is a headache I have which
makes me look pale. And, I am very, very tired!"
Her voice trembled a little,--she sighed and closed her eyes. She felt
strangely weak and giddy,--she seemed to be slipping away from herself
and from all the comprehension of life,--she wondered vaguely who and
what she was. Had her marriage with Philip been all a dream?--perhaps
she had never left the Altenfjord after all! Perhaps she would wake up
presently and see the old farm-house quite unchanged, with the doves
flying about the roof, and Sigurd wandering under the pines as was his
custom. Ah, dear Sigurd! Poor Sigurd! he had loved her, she
thought--nay, he loved her still,--he could not be dead! Oh, yes,--she
must have been dreaming,--she felt certain she was lying on her own
little white bed at home, asleep;--she would by-and-by open her eyes and
get up and look through her little latticed window, and see the sun
sparkling on the water, and the _Eulalie_ at the anchor in the
Fjord--and her father would ask Sir Philip and his friends to spend the
afternoon at the farm-house--and Philip would come and stroll with her
through the garden and down to the shore, and would talk to her in that
low, caressing voice of his,--and though she loved him dearly, she must
never, never let him know of it, because she was not worthy! . . . She
woke from these musings with a violent start and a sick shiver running
through all her frame,--and looking wildly about her, saw that she was
reclining on some one's shoulder,--some one was dabbing a wet
handkerchief on her forehead--her hat was off and her cloak was
loosened.
"There, my dear, you're better now!" said a kindly voice in her ear.
"Lor! I thought you was dead--that I did! 'Twas a bad faint indeed. And
with the train jolting along like this too! It was lucky I had a flask
of cold water with me. Raise your head a little--that's it! Poor
thing,--you're as white as a sheet! You're not fit to travel, my
dear--you're not indeed."
Thelma raised herself slowly, and with a sudden impulse kissed the good
woman's honest, rosy face, to her intense astonishment and pleasure.
"You are very kind to me!" she said tremulously. "I am so sorry to have
troubled you. I do feel ill--but it will soon pass."
And she smoothed her ruffled hair, and sitting up erect, endeavored to
smile. Her companion eyed her pale face compassionately, and taking up
her sleeping baby from the shawl on which she had laid it while
ministering to Thelma's needs, began to rock it slowly to and fro.
Thelma, meanwhile, became sensible of the rapid movement of the train.
"We have left London?" she asked with an air of surprise.
"Nearly half an hour ago, my dear." Then, after a pause, during which
she had watched Thelma very closely, she said--
"I think you're married, aren't you, dearie?"
"Yes." Thelma answered, a slight tinge of color warming her fair pale
cheeks.
"Your husband, maybe, will meet you at Hull?"
"No,--he is in London," said Thelma simply. "I am going to see my
father."
This answer satisfied her humble friend, who, noticing her extreme
fatigue and the effort it cost her to speak, forbore to ask any more
questions, but good-naturedly recommended her to try and sleep. She
slept soundly herself for the greater part of the journey; but Thelma
was now feverishly wide awake, and her eyeballs ached and burned as
though there were fire behind them.
Gradually her nerves began to be wound up to an extreme tension of
excitement--she forgot all her troubles in listening with painful
intentness to the rush and roar of the train through the darkness. The
lights of passing stations and signal-posts gleamed like scattered and
flying stars--there was the frequent shriek of the engine-whistle,--the
serpent-hiss of escaping steam. She peered through the window--all was
blackness; there seemed to be no earth, no sky,--only a sable chaos,
through which the train flew like a flame-mouthed demon. Always that
rush and roar! She began to feel as if she could stand it no longer. She
must escape from that continuous, confusing sound--it maddened her
brain. Nothing was easier; she would open the carriage-door and get out!
Surely she could manage to jump off the step, even though the train was
in motion!
Danger! She smiled at that idea,--there was no danger; and, if there
was, it did not much matter. Nothing mattered now,--now that she had
lost her husband's love. She glanced at the woman opposite, who slept
profoundly--the baby had slipped a little from its mother's arms, and
lay with its tiny face turned towards Thelma. It was a pretty creature,
with soft cheeks and a sweet little mouth,--she looked at it with a
vague, wild smile. Again, again that rush and roar surged like a storm
in her ears and distracted her mind! She rose suddenly and seized the
handle of the carriage door. Another instant, and she would have sprang
to certain death,--when suddenly the sleeping baby woke, and, opening
its mild blue eyes, gazed at her.
She met its glance as one fascinated,--almost unconsciously her fingers
dropped from the door-handle,--the little baby still looked at her in
dreamlike, meditative fashion,--its mother slept profoundly. She bent
lower and lower over the child. With a beating heart she ventured to
touch the small, pink hand that lay outside its wrappings like a softly
curved rose-leaf. With a sort of elf-like confidence and contentment the
feeble, wee fingers closed and curled round hers,--and held her fast!
Weak as a silken thread, yet stronger in its persuasive force than a
grasp of iron, that soft, light pressure controlled and restrained her,
. . . very gradually the mists of her mind cleared,--the rattling,
thunderous dash of the train grew less dreadful, less monotonous, less
painful to her sense of hearing,--her bosom heaved convulsively, and all
suddenly her eyes filled with tears--merciful tears, which at first
welled up slowly, and were hot as fire, but which soon began to fall
faster and faster in large, bright drops down her pale cheeks. Seeing
that its mother still slept, she took the baby gently into her own fair
arms,--and rocked it to and fro with many a sobbing murmur of
tenderness;--the little thing smiled drowsily and soon fell asleep
again, all unconscious that its timely look and innocent touch had saved
poor Thelma's life and reason.
She, meanwhile, wept on softly, till her tired brain and heart were
somewhat relieved of their heavy burden,--the entanglement of her
thoughts became unravelled,--and, though keenly aware of the blank
desolation of her life, she was able to raise herself in spirit to the
Giver of all Love and Consolation, and to pray humbly for that patience
and resignation which now alone could serve her needs. And she communed
with herself and God in silence, as the train rushed on northwards. Her
fellow-traveller woke up as they were nearing their destination, and,
seeing her holding the baby, was profuse in her thanks for this
kindness. And when they at last reached Hull, about half an hour after
midnight, the good woman was exceedingly anxious to know if she could be
of any service,--but Thelma gently, yet firmly, refused all her offers
of assistance.
They parted in the most friendly manner,--Thelma kissing the child,
through whose unconscious means, as she now owned to herself, she had
escaped a terrible death,--and then she went directly to a quiet hotel
she knew of, which was kept by a native of Christiania, a man who had
formerly been acquainted with her father. At first, when this worthy
individual saw a lady arrive, alone, young, richly dressed, and without
luggage, he was inclined to be suspicious,--but as soon as she addressed
him in Norwegian, and told him who she was, he greeted her with the
utmost deference and humility.
"The daughter of Jarl Güldmar," he said, continuing to speak in his own
tongue, "honors my house by entering it!"
Thelma smiled a little. "The days of the great Jarls are past,
Friedhof," she replied somewhat sadly, "and my father is content to be
what he is,--a simple _bonde_."
Friedhof shook his head quite obstinately. "A Jarl is always a Jarl," he
declared. "Nothing can alter a man's birth and nature. And the last time
I saw Valdemar Svensen,--he who lives with your father now,--he was
careful always to speak of the _Jarl_, and seldom or never did he
mention him in any other fashion. And now, noble Fröken, in what manner
can I serve you?"
Thelma told him briefly that she was going to see her father on
business, and that she was desirous of starting for Norway the next day
as early as possible.
Friedhof held up his hands in amazement. "Ah! most surely you forget,"
he exclaimed, using the picturesque expressions of his native speech,
"that this is the sleeping time of the sun! Even at the Hardanger Fjord
it is dark and silent,--the falling streams freeze with cold on their
way; and if it is so at the Hardanger, what will it be at the Alten? And
there is no passenger ship going to Christiania or Bergen for a
fortnight!"
Thelma clasped her hands in dismay. "But I _must_ go!" she cried
impatiently; "I must, indeed, good Friedhof! I cannot stay here! Surely,
surely there is some vessel that would take me,--some fishing
boat,--what does it matter how I travel, so long as I get away?"
The landlord looked at her rather wonderingly. "Nay, if it is indeed so
urgent, noble Fröken," he replied, "do not trouble, for there is a means
of making the journey. But for _you_, and in such bitter weather, it
seems a cruelty to speak of it. A steam cargo-boat leaves here for
Hammerfest and the North Cape to-morrow--it will pass the Altenfjord. No
doubt you could go with that, if you so choose,--but there will be no
warmth or comfort, and there are heavy storms on the North Sea. I know
the captain; and 'tis true he takes his wife with him, so there would be
a woman on board,--yet--"
Thelma interrupted him. She pressed two sovereigns into his hand.
"Say no more, Friedhof," she said eagerly. "You will take me to see this
captain--you will tell him I must go with him. My father will thank you
for this kindness to me, even better than I can."
"It does not seem to me a kindness at all," returned Friedhof with frank
bluntness. "I would be loth to sail the seas myself in such weather. And
I thought you were so grandly married, Fröken Güldmar,--though I forget
your wedded name,--how comes it that your husband is not with you?"
"He is very busy in London," answered Thelma. "He knows where I am
going. Do not be at all anxious, Friedhof,--I shall make the journey
very well and I am not afraid of storm or wild seas."
Friedhof still looked dubious, but finally yielded to her entreaties and
agreed to arrange her passage for her in the morning.
She stayed at his hotel that night, and with the very early dawn
accompanied him on board the ship he had mentioned. It was a small,
awkwardly built craft, with an ugly crooked black funnel out of which
the steam was hissing and spitting with quite an unnecessary degree of
violence--the decks were wet and dirty, and the whole vessel was
pervaded with a sickening smell of whale-oil. The captain, a gruff
red-faced fellow, looked rather surlily at his unexpected passenger--but
was soon mollified by her gentle manner, and the readiness with which
she paid the money he demanded for taking her.
"You won't be very warm," he said, eyeing her from head to foot--"but I
can lend you a rug to sleep in."
Thelma smiled and thanked him. He called to his wife, a thin,
overworked-looking creature, who put up her head from a window in the
cabin, at his summons.
"Here's a lady going with us," he announced. "Look after her, will you?"
The woman nodded. Then, once more addressing himself to Thelma, he said,
"We shall have nasty weather and a wicked sea!"
"I do not mind!" she answered quietly, and turning to Friedhof who had
come to see her off, she shook hands with him warmly and thanked him for
the trouble he had taken in her behalf. The good landlord bade her
farewell somewhat reluctantly,--he had a presentiment that there was
something wrong with the beautiful, golden-haired daughter of the
_Jarl_--and that perhaps he ought to have prevented her making this
uncomfortable and possibly perilous voyage. But it was too late
now,--and at a little before seven o'clock, the vessel,--which rejoiced
in the name of the _Black Polly_,--left the harbor, and steamed fussily
down the Humber in the teeth of a sudden storm of sleet and snow.
Her departure had no interest for any one save Friedhof, who stood
watching her till she was no more than a speck on the turbid water. He
kept his post, regardless of the piercing cold of the gusty, early
morning air, till she had entirely disappeared, and then returned to his
own house and his daily business in a rather depressed frame of mind. He
was haunted by the pale face and serious eyes of Thelma--she looked very
ill, he thought. He began to reproach himself,--why had he been such a
fool as to let her go?--why had he not detained her?--or at any rate,
persuaded her to rest a few days in Hull? He looked at the threatening
sky and the falling flakes of snow with a shiver.
"What weather!" he muttered, "and there must be a darkness as of death
at the Altenfjord!"
Meanwhile the _Black Polly_--unhandsome as she was in appearance,
struggled gallantly with and overcame an army of furious waves that rose
to greet her as she rounded Spurn Head, and long ere Thelma closed her
weary eyes in an effort to sleep, was plunging, shivering, and fighting
her slow way through shattering mountainous billows and a tempest of
sleet, snow, and tossing foam across the wild North Sea.
CHAPTER XXVII.
"What of her glass without her? The blank grey
There, where the pool is blind of the moon's face--
Her dress without her? The tossed empty space
Of cloud-rack whence the moon has passed away!"
DANTE G. ROSSETTI.
"Good God!" cried Errington impatiently "What's the matter? Speak out!"
He had just arrived home. He had barely set foot within his own door,
and full of lover-like ardor and eagerness was about to hasten to his
wife's room,--when his old servant Morris stood in his way trembling and
pale-faced,--looking helplessly from him to Neville,--who was as much
astonished as Sir Philip, at the man's woe-begone appearance.
"Something has happened," he stammered faintly at last. "Her ladyship--"
Philip started--his heart beat quickly and then seemed to grow still
with a horrible sensation of fear.
"What of her?" he demanded in low hoarse tones. "Is she ill?"
Morris threw up his hands with a gesture of despair.
"Sir Philip, my dear master!" cried the poor old man. "I do not know
whether she is ill or well--I cannot guess! My lady went out last night
at a little before eight o'clock,--and--and she has never come home at
all! We cannot tell what has become of her! She has gone!"
And tears of distress and anxiety filled his eyes. Philip stood mute. He
could not understand it. All color fled from his face--he seemed as
though he had received a sudden blow on the head which had stunned him.
"Gone!" he said mechanically. "Thelma--my wife gone! Why should she go?"
And he stared fixedly at Neville, who laid one hand soothingly on his
arm.
"Perhaps she is with friends," he suggested. "She may be at Lady
Winsleigh's or Mrs. Lorimer's."
"No, no!" interrupted Morris. "Britta, who stayed up all night for her,
has since been to every house that my lady visits and no one has seen or
heard of her!"
"Where is Britta?" demanded Philip suddenly.
"She has gone again to Lady Winsleigh's," answered Morris, "she says it
is there that mischief has been done,--I don't know what she means!"
Philip shook off his secretary's sympathetic touch, and strode through
the rooms to Thelma's boudoir. He put aside the velvet curtains of the
portiere with a noiseless hand--somehow he felt as if, in spite of all
he had just heard, she _must_ be there as usual to welcome him with that
serene sweet smile which was the sunshine of his life. The empty
desolate air of the room smote him with a sense of bitter pain,--only
the plaintive warble of her pet thrush, who was singing to himself most
mournfully in his gilded cage, broke the heavy silence. He looked about
him vacantly. All sorts of dark forebodings crowded on his mind,--she
must have met with some accident, he thought with a shudder,--for that
she would depart from him in this sudden way of her own accord for no
reason whatsoever seemed to him incredible--impossible.
"What have I done that she should leave me?" he asked half aloud and
wonderingly. Everything that had seemed to him of worth a few hours ago
became valueless in this moment of time. What cared he now for the
business of Parliament--for distinction or honors among men?
Nothing--less than nothing! Without her, the world was empty--its
ambitions, its pride, its good, its evil, seemed but the dreariest and
most foolish trifles!
"Not even a message?" he thought. "No hint of where she meant to go--no
word of explanation for me? Surely I must be dreaming--my Thelma would
never have deserted me!"
A sort of sob rose in his throat, and he pressed his hand strongly over
his eyes to keep down the womanish drops that threatened to overflow
them. After a minute or two, he went to her desk and opened it, thinking
that there perhaps she might have left a note of farewell. There was
nothing--nothing save a little heap of money and jewels. These Thelma
had herself placed, before her sorrowful, silent departure, in the
corner where he now found them.
More puzzled than ever, he glanced searchingly round the room--and his
eyes were at once attracted by the sparkle of the diamond cross that lay
uppermost on the cover of "Gladys the Singer," the book of poems which
was in its usual place on his own reading table. In another second he
seized it--he unwound the slight gold chain--he opened the little volume
tremblingly. Yes!--there was a letter within its pages addressed to
himself,--now, now he should know all! He tore it open with feverish
haste--two folded sheets of paper fell out,--one was his own epistle to
Violet Vere, and this, to his consternation, he perceived first. Full of
a sudden misgiving he laid it aside, and began to read Thelma's parting
words.
"My darling boy," she wrote--
"A friend of yours and mine brought me the enclosed letter and
though, perhaps, it was wrong of me to read it, I hope you will
forgive me for having done so. I do not quite understand it, and I
cannot bear to think about it--but it seems that you are tired of
your poor Thelma! I do not blame you, dearest, for I am sure that in
some way or other the fault is mine, and it does grieve me so much
to think you are unhappy! I know that I am very ignorant of many
things, and that I am not suited to this London life--and I fear I
shall never understand its ways. But one thing I can do, and that is
to let you be free, my Philip--quite free! And so I am going back to
the Altenfjord, where I will stay till you want me again, if you
ever do. My heart is yours and I shall always love you till I die,--
and though it seems to me just now better that we should part, to
give you greater ease and pleasure, still you must always remember
that I have no reproaches to make to you. I am only sorry to think
my love has wearied you,--for you have been all goodness and
tenderness to me. And so that people shall not talk about me or you,
you will simply say to them that I have gone to see my father, and
they will think nothing strange in that. Be kind to Britta,--I have
told her nothing, as it would only make her miserable. Do not be
angry that I go away--I cannot bear to stay here, knowing all. And
so, good-bye, my love, my dearest one!--if you were to love many
women more than me, I still should love you best--I still would
gladly die to serve you. Remember this always,--that, however long
we may be parted, and though all the world should come between us, I
am, and ever shall be your faithful wife,"
"THELMA."
The ejaculation that broke from Errington's lips as he finished reading
this letter was more powerful than reverent. Stinging tears darted to
his eyes--he pressed his lips passionately on the fair writing.
"My darling--my darling!" he murmured. "What a miserable
misunderstanding!"
Then without another moment's delay he rushed into Neville's study and
cried abruptly--
"Look here! It's all your fault."
"_My_ fault!" gasped the amazed secretary.
"Yes--your fault!" shouted Errington almost beside himself with grief
and rage. "Your fault, and that of your accursed _wife_, Violet Vere!"
And he dashed the letter, the cause of all the mischief, furiously down
on the table. Neville shrank and shivered,--his grey head drooped, he
stretched out his hands appealingly.
"For God's sake, Sir Philip, tell me what I've done?" he exclaimed
piteously.
Errington strode up and down the room in a perfect fever of impatience.
"By Heaven, it's enough to drive me mad!" he burst forth.
"Your wife!--your wife!--confound her! When you first discovered her in
that shameless actress, didn't I want to tell Thelma all about it--that
very night?--and didn't you beg me not to do so? Your silly scruples
stood in the way of everything! I was a fool to listen to you--a fool to
meddle in your affairs--and--and I wish to God I'd never seen or heard
of you!"
Neville turned very white, but remained speechless.
"Read that letter!" went on Philip impetuously. "You've seen it before!
It's the last one I wrote to your wife imploring her to see you and
speak with you. Here it comes, the devil knows how, into Thelma's hands.
She's quite in the dark about _your secret_, and fancies I wrote it on
my own behalf! It looks like it too--looks exactly as if I were pleading
for myself and breaking my heart over that detestible stage-fiend--by
Jove! it's too horrible!" And he gave a gesture of loathing and
contempt.
Neville heard him in utter bewilderment. "Not possible!" he muttered.
"Not possible--it can't be!"
"Can't be? It _is_!" shouted Philip. "And if you'd let me tell Thelma
everything from the first, all this wouldn't have happened. And you ask
me what you've done! _Done!_ You've parted me from the sweetest, dearest
girl in the world!"
And throwing himself into a chair, he covered his face with his hand and
a great uncontrollable sob broke from his lips.
Neville was in despair. Of course, it was his fault--he saw it all
clearly. He painfully recalled all that had happened since that night at
the Brilliant Theatre when with a sickening horror he had discovered
Violet Vere to be no other than Violet Neville,--his own little violet!
. . . as he had once called her--his wife that he had lost and mourned as
though she were some pure dead woman lying sweetly at rest in a quiet
grave. He remembered Thelma's shuddering repugnance at the sight of
her,--a repugnance which he himself had shared--and which made him
shrink with fastidious aversion, from the idea of confiding to any one
but Sir Philip, the miserable secret of his connection with her. Sir
Philip had humored him in this fancy, little imagining that any mischief
would come of it--and the reward of his kindly sympathy was this,--his
name was compromised, his home desolate, and his wife estranged from
him!
In the first pangs of the remorse and sorrow that filled his heart,
Neville could gladly have gone out and drowned himself. Presently he
began to think,--was there not some one else beside himself who might
possibly be to blame for all this misery? For instance, who could have
brought or sent that letter to Lady Errington? In her high station, she,
so lofty, so pure, so far above the rest of her sex, would have been the
last person to make any inquiries about such a woman as Violet Vere. How
had it all happened? He looked imploringly for some minutes at the
dejected figure in the chair without daring to offer a word of
consolation. Presently he ventured a remark--
"Sir Philip!" he stammered. "It will soon be all right,--her ladyship
will come back immediately. I myself will explain--it's--it's only a
misunderstanding . . ."
Errington moved in his chair impatiently, but said nothing. Only a
misunderstanding! How many there are who can trace back broken
friendships and severed loves to that one thing--"only a
misunderstanding!" The tenderest relations are often the most delicate
and subtle, and "trifles light as air" may scatter and utterly destroy
the sensitive gossamer threads extending between one heart and another,
as easily as a child's passing foot destroys the spider's web woven on
the dewy grass in the early mornings of spring.
Presently Sir Philip started up--his lashes were wet and his face was
flushed.
"It's no good sitting here," he said, rapidly buttoning on his overcoat.
"I must go after her. Let all the business go to the devil! Write and
say I won't stand for Middleborough--I resign in favor of the Liberal
candidate. I'm off to Norway to-night."
"To Norway!" cried Neville. "Has she gone _there_? At this season--"
He broke off, for at that moment Britta entered, looking the picture of
misery. Her face was pale and drawn--her eyelids red and swollen, and
when she saw Sir Philip, she gave him a glance of the most despairing
reproach and indignation. He sprang up to her.
"Any news?" he demanded.
Britta shook her head mournfully, the tears beginning to roll again down
her cheeks.
"Oh, if I'd only thought!" she sobbed, "if I'd only known what the dear
Fröken meant to do when she said good-bye to me last night, I could have
prevented her going--I could--I would have told her all I know--and she
would have stayed to see you! Oh, Sir Philip, if you had only been here,
that wicked, wicked Lady Winsleigh _couldn't_ have driven her away!"
At this name such a fury filled Philip's heart that he could barely
control himself. He breathed quickly and heavily.
"What of her?" he demanded in a low, suffocated voice. "What has Lady
Winsleigh to do with it, Britta?"
"Everything!" cried Britta, though, as she glanced at his set, stern
face and paling lips, she began to feel a little frightened. "She has
always hated the Fröken, and been jealous of her--always! Her own maid,
Louise, will tell you so--Lord Winsleigh's man, Briggs, will tell you
so! They've listened at the doors, and they know all about it!" Britta
made this statement with the most childlike candor. "And they've heard
all sorts of wicked things--Lady Winsleigh was always talking to Sir
Francis Lennox about the Fröken,--and now they've made her believe you
do not care for her any more--they've been trying to make her believe
everything bad of you for ever so many months--" she paused, terrified
at Sir Philip's increasing pallor.
"Go on, Britta," he said quietly, though his voice sounded strange to
himself. Britta gathered up all her remaining stock of courage.
"Oh dear, oh dear!" she continued desperately, "I _don't_ understand
London people at all, and I never shall understand them. Everybody seems
to want to be wicked! Briggs says that Lady Winsleigh was fond of _you_,
Sir Philip,--then, that she was fond of Sir Francis Lennox,--and yet she
has a husband of her own all the time! It is so very strange!" And the
little maiden's perplexity appeared to border on distraction. "They
would think such a woman quite mad in Norway! But what is worse than
anything is that you--you, Sir Philip,--oh! I _won't_ believe it," and
she stamped her foot passionately, "I _can't_ believe it! . . . and yet
everybody says that you go to see a dreadful, painted dancing woman at
the theatre, and that you like her better than the Fröken,--it _isn't_
true, is it?" Here she peered anxiously at her master--but he was
absolutely silent. Neville made as though he would speak, but a gesture
from Sir Philip's hand restrained him. Britta went on rather
dispiritedly, "Anyhow, Briggs has just told me that only yesterday Lady
Winsleigh went all by herself to see this actress, and that she got some
letter there which she brought to the Fröken--" she recoiled suddenly
with a little scream. "Oh, Sir Philip!--where are you going?"
Errington's hand came down on her shoulder, as he twisted her lightly
out of his path and strode to the door.
"Sir Philip--Sir Philip!" cried Neville anxiously, hastening after him.
"Think for a moment; don't do anything rash!" Philip wrung his hand
convulsively. "Rash! My good fellow, it's a _woman_ who has slandered
me--what _can_ I do? Her sex protects her!" He gave a short, furious
laugh. "But--by God!--were she a man I'd shoot her dead!"
And with these words, and his eyes blazing with wrath, he left the room.
Neville and Britta confronted each other in vague alarm.
"Where will he go?" half whispered Britta.
"To Winsleigh House, I suppose," answered Neville in the same low tone.
Just then the hall door shut with a loud bang, that echoed through the
silent house.
"He's gone!" and as Neville said this he sighed and looked dubiously at
his companion. "How do you know all this about Lady Winsleigh, Britta?
It may not be true--it's only servants' gossip."
"Only servants' gossip!" exclaimed Britta. "And is that nothing? Why, in
these grand houses like Lord Winsleigh's, the servants know everything!
Briggs makes it his business to listen at the doors--he says it's a part
of his duty. And Louise opens all her mistress's letters--she says she
owes it to her own respectability to know what sort of a lady it is she
serves. And she's going to leave, because she says her ladyship _isn't_
respectable! There! what do you think of that! And Sir Philip will find
out a great deal more than even _I_ have told him--but oh! I _can't_
understand about that actress!" And she shook her head despairingly.
"Britta," said Neville suddenly, "That actress is my wife!"
Britta started,--and her round eyes opened wide.
"Your wife, Mr. Neville?" she exclaimed.
Neville took off his spectacles and polished them nervously.
"Yes, Britta--my wife!"
She looked at him in amazed silence. Neville went on rubbing his
glasses, and continued in rather dreamy, tremulous accents--
"Yes--I lost her years ago--I thought she was dead. But I found her--on
the stage of the Brilliant Theatre. I--I never expected--_that_! I would
rather she had died!" He paused and went on softly, "When I married her,
Britta, she was such a dear little girl,--so bright and pretty!--and
I--I fancied she was fond of me! Yes, I did,--of course, I was
foolish--I've always been foolish, I think. And when--when I saw her on
that stage I felt as if some one had struck me a hard blow--it seems as
if I'd been stunned ever since. And though she knows I'm in London, she
won't see me, Britta,--she won't let me speak to her even for a moment!
It's very hard! Sir Philip has tried his best to persuade her to see
me--he has talked to her and written to her about me; and that's not
all,--he has even tried to make her come back to me--but it's all no
use--and--and that's how all the mischief has arisen--do you see?"
Britta gazed at him still, with sympathy written on every line of her
face,--but a great load had been lifted from her mind by his words--she
began to understand everything.
"I'm so sorry for you, Mr. Neville!" she said. "But why didn't you tell
all this to the Fröken?"
"I _couldn't_!" murmured Neville desperately. "She was there that night
at the Brilliant,--and if you had seen how she looked when she saw--my
wife--appeared on the stage! So pained, so sorry, so ashamed! and she
wanted to leave the theatre at once. Of course, I ought to have told
her,--I wish I had--but--somehow, I never could." He paused again. "It's
all my stupidity, of course, Sir Philip is quite blameless--he has been
the kindest, the best of friends to me--" his voice trembled more and
more, and he could not go on. There was a silence of some minutes,
during which Britta appeared absorbed in meditation, and Neville
furtively wiped his eyes.
Presently he spoke again more cheerfully. "It'll soon be all right
again, Britta!" and he nodded encouragingly. "Sir Philip says her
ladyship has gone home to Norway, and he means to follow her to-night."
Britta nodded gravely, but heaved a deep sigh.
"And I posted her letter to her father!" she half murmured. "Oh, if I
had only thought or guessed why it was written!"
"Isn't it rather a bad time of the year for Norway?" pursued Neville.
"Why, there must be snow and darkness--"
"Snow and darkness at the Altenfjord!" suddenly cried Britta, catching
at his words. "That's exactly what she said to me the other evening! Oh
dear! I never thought of it--I never remembered it was the dark season!"
She clasped her hands in dismay. "There is no sun at the Altenfjord
now--it is like night--and the cold is bitter. And she is not
strong--not strong enough to travel--and there's the North Sea to
cross--oh, Mr. Neville," and she broke out sobbing afresh. "The journey
will kill her,--I know it will! my poor, poor darling! I must go after
her--I'll go with Sir Philip--I _won't_ be left behind!"
"Hush, hush, Britta!" said Neville kindly, patting her shoulder. "Don't
cry--don't cry!"
But he was very near crying himself, poor man, so shaken was he by the
events of the morning. And he could not help admitting to himself the
possibility that so long and trying a journey for Thelma in her present
condition of health meant little else than serious illness--perhaps
death. The only comfort he could suggest to the disconsolate Britta was,
that at that time of year it was very probable there would be no steamer
running to Christiansund or Bergen, and in that case Thelma would be
unable to leave England, and would, therefore, be overtaken by Sir
Philip at Hull.
Meanwhile, Sir Philip himself, in a white heat of restrained anger,
arrived at Winsleigh House, and asked to see Lord Winsleigh immediately.
Briggs, who opened the door to him, was a little startled at his haggard
face and blazing eyes, even though he knew, through Britta, all about
the sorrow that had befallen him. Briggs was not surprised at Lady
Errington's departure,--that portion of his "duty" which consisted in
listening at doors, had greatly enlightened him on many points,--all,
save one--the reported connection between Sir Philip and Violet Vere.
This seemed to be really true according to all appearances.
"Which it puzzles me," soliloquized the owner of the shapely calves. "It
do, indeed. Yet I feels very much for Sir Philip,--I said to Flopsie
this morning--'Flopsie, I feels for 'im!' Yes,--I used them very words.
Only, of course, he shouldn't 'ave gone with Vi. She's a fine woman
certainly--but skittish--d--d skittish! I've allus made it a rule myself
to avoid 'er on principle. Lor! if I'd kep' company with 'er and the
likes of 'er I shouldn't be the man I am!" And he smiled complacently.
Lord Winsleigh, who was in his library as usual, occupied with his
duties as tutor to his son Ernest, rose to receive Sir Philip with an
air of more than his usual gravity.
"I was about to write to you, Errington," he began, and then stopped
short, touched by the utter misery expressed in Philip's face. He
addressed Ernest with a sort of nervous haste.
"Run away, my boy, to your own room. I'll send for you again presently."
Ernest obeyed. "Now," said Lord Winsleigh, as soon as the lad
disappeared, "tell me everything, Errington. Is it true that your wife
has left you?"
"Left me!" and Philip's eyes flashed with passionate anger. "No
Winsleigh!--she's been driven away from me by the vilest and most
heartless cruelty. She's been made to believe a scandalous and
abominable lie against me--and she's gone! I--I--by Jove! I hardly like
to say it to your face--but--"
"I understand!" a curious flicker of a smile shadowed rather than
brightened Lord Winsleigh's stern features. "Pray speak quite plainly!
Lady Winsleigh is to blame? I am not at all surprised!"
Errington gave him a rapid glance of wonder. He had always fancied
Winsleigh to be a studious, rather dull sort of man, absorbed in books
and the education of his son,--a man, more than half blind to everything
that went on around him--and, moreover, one who deliberately shut his
eyes to the frivolous coquetry of his wife,--and though he liked him
fairly well, there had been a sort of vague contempt mingled with his
liking. Now a new light was suddenly thrown on his character--there was
something in his look, his manner, his very tone of voice,--which proved
to Errington that there was a deep and forcible side to his nature of
which his closest friends had never dreamed--and he was somewhat taken
aback by the discovery. Seeing that he still hesitated, Winsleigh laid a
hand encouragingly on his shoulder and said--
"I repeat--I'm not at all surprised! Nothing that Lady Winsleigh might
do would cause me the slightest astonishment. She has long ceased to be
my wife, except in name,--that she still bears that name and holds the
position she has in the world is simply--for my son's sake! I do not
wish,"--his voice quivered slightly--"I do not wish the boy to despise
his mother. It's always a bad beginning for a young man's life. I want
to avoid it for Ernest, if possible,--regardless of any personal
sacrifice." He paused a moment--then resumed. "Now, speak out,
Errington, and plainly,--for if mischief has been done and I can repair
it in any way, you may be sure I will."
Thus persuaded, Sir Philip briefly related the whole story of the
misunderstanding that had arisen concerning Neville's wife, Violet
Vere--and concluded by saying--
"It is, of course, only through Britta that I've just heard about Lady
Winsleigh's having anything to do with it. Her information may not be
correct--I hope it isn't,--but--"
Lord Winsleigh interrupted him. "Come with me," he said composedly.
"We'll resolve this difficulty AT once."
He led the way out of the library across the hall. Errington followed
him in silence. He knocked at the door of his wife's room,--in response
to her "Come in!" they both entered. She was alone, reclining on a sofa,
reading,--she started up with a pettish exclamation at sight of her
husband, but observing who it was that came with him, she stood mute,
the color rushing to her cheeks with surprise and something of fear. Yet
she endeavored to smile, and returned with her usual grace their
somewhat formal salutations.
"Clara," then said Lord Winsleigh gravely, "I have to ask you a question
on behalf of Sir Philip Errington here,--a question to which it is
necessary for you to give the plain answer. Did you or did you not
procure this letter from Violet Vere, of the Brilliant Theatre--and did
you or did you not, give it yourself yesterday into the hands of Lady
Bruce-Errington?" And he laid the letter in question, which Philip had
handed to him, down upon the table before her.
She looked at it--then at him--then from him to Sir Philip, who uttered
no word--and lightly shrugged her shoulders.
"I don't know what you are talking about," she said, carelessly.
Sir Philip turned upon her indignantly.
"Lady Winsleigh, you _do_ know--"
She interrupted him with a stately gesture.
"Excuse me, Sir Philip! I am not accustomed to be spoken to in this
extraordinary manner. You forget yourself--my husband, I think, also
forgets himself! I know nothing whatever about Violet Vere--I am not
fond of the society of actresses. Of course, I've heard about your
admiration for her--that is common town-talk,--though my informant on
this point was Sir Francis Lennox."
"Sir Francis Lennox!" cried Philip furiously. "Thank God! there's a man
to deal with! By Heaven, I'll choke him with his own lie!"
Lady Winsleigh raised her eyebrows in well-bred surprise.
"Dear me! It is a lie, then? Now, I should have thought from all
accounts that it was so very likely to be true!"
Philip turned white with passion. Her sarcastic smile,--her mocking
glance,--irritated him almost beyond endurance.
"Permit me to ask you, Clara," continued Lord Winsleigh calmly, "if
you,--as you say, know nothing about Violet Vere, why did you go to the
Brilliant Theatre yesterday morning?"
She flashed an angry glance at him.
"Why? To secure a box for the new performance. Is there anything
wonderful in that?"
Her husband remained unmoved. "May I see the voucher for this box?" he
inquired.
"I've sent it to some friends," replied her ladyship haughtily. "Since
when have you decided to become an inquisitor, my lord?"
"Lady Winsleigh," said Philip suddenly and eagerly, "will you swear to
me that you have said or done nothing to make my Thelma leave me?"
"Oh, she _has_ left you, has she?" and Lady Clara smiled maliciously. "I
thought she would! Why don't you ask your dear friend, George Lorimer,
about her? He is madly in love with her, as everybody knows,--she is
probably the same with him!"
"Clara, Clara!" exclaimed Lord Winsleigh in accents of deep reproach.
"Shame on you! Shame!"
Her ladyship laughed amusedly. "Please don't be tragic!" she said; "it's
too ridiculous! Sir Philip has only himself to blame. Of course, Thelma
knows about his frequent visits to the Brilliant Theatre. I told her all
that Sir Francis said. Why should she be kept in the dark? I dare say
she doesn't mind--she's very fond of Mr. Lorimer!"
Errington felt as though he must choke with fury. He forgot the presence
of Lord Winsleigh--he forgot everything but his just indignation.
"My God!" he cried passionately. "You _dare_ to speak so!--_you_!"
"Yes I!" she returned coolly, measuring him with a glance. "I dare! What
have you to say against _me_?" She drew herself up imperiously.
Then turning to her husband, she said, "Have the goodness to take your
excited friend away, my lord! I am going out--I have a great many
engagements this morning--and I really cannot stop to discuss this
absurd affair any longer! It isn't my fault that Sir Philip's excessive
admiration for Miss Vere has become the subject of gossip--_I_ don't
blame him for it! He seems extremely ill-tempered about it; after all,
_'ce n'est que la vérité qui blesse!'_"
And she smiled maliciously.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
"For my mother's sake,
For thine and hers, O Love! I pity take
On all poor women. Jesu's will be done,
Honor for all, and infamy for none,
This side the borders of the burning lake."
ERIC MACKAY'S _Love-Letters of a Violinist_.
Lord Winsleigh did not move. Sir Philip fixed his eyes upon her in
silence. Some occult fascination forced her to meet his glance, and the
utter scorn of it stung her proud heart to its centre. Not that she felt
much compunction--her whole soul was up in arms against him, and had
been so from the very day she was first told of his unexpected marriage.
His evident contempt now irritated her--she was angrier with him than
ever, and yet--she had a sort of strange triumph in the petty vengeance
she had designed--she had destroyed his happiness for a time, at least.
If she could but shake his belief in his wife! she thought,
vindictively. To that end she had thrown out her evil hint respecting
Thelma's affection for George Lorimer, but the shaft had been aimed
uselessly. Errington knew too well the stainless purity of Thelma to
wrong her by the smallest doubt, and he would have staked his life on
the loyalty of his friend. Presently he controlled his anger
sufficiently to be able to speak, and still eyeing her with that
straight, keen look of immeasurable disdain, he said in cold, deliberate
accents--
"Your ladyship is in error,--the actress in question is the wife of my
secretary, Mr. Neville. For years they have been estranged--my visits to
her were entirely on Neville's behalf--my letters to her were all on the
same subject. Sir Francis Lennox must have known the truth all
along,--Violet Vere has been his mistress for the past five years!"
He uttered the concluding words with intense bitterness. A strange,
bewildered horror passed over Lady Winsleigh's face.
"I don't believe it," she said rather faintly.
"Believe it or not, it is true!" he replied curtly. "Ask the manager of
the Brilliant, if you doubt me. Winsleigh, it's no use my stopping here
any longer. As her ladyship refuses to give any explanation--"
"Wait a moment, Errington," interposed Lord Winsleigh in his coldest and
most methodical manner. "Her ladyship refuses--but _I_ do not refuse!
Her ladyship will not speak--she allows her husband to speak for her.
Therefore," and he smiled at his astonished wife somewhat sardonically,
"I may tell you at once, that her ladyship admits to having purchased
from Violet Vere for the sum of 20 pounds, the letter which she
afterwards took with her own hands to your wife." Lady Winsleigh uttered
an angry exclamation.
"Don't interrupt me, Clara, if you please," he said, with an icy smile.
"We have so many sympathies in common that I'm sure I shall be able to
explain your unspoken meanings quite clearly." He went on, addressing
himself to Errington, who stood utterly amazed.
"Her ladyship desires me to assure you that her only excuse for her
action in this matter is, that she fully believed the reports her
friend, Sir Francis Lennox, gave her concerning your supposed intimacy
with the actress in question,--and that, believing it, she made use of
it as much as possible for the purpose of destroying your wife's peace
of mind and confidence in you. Her object was most purely feminine--love
of mischief, and the gratification of private spite! There's nothing
like frankness!" and Lord Winsleigh's face was a positive study as he
spoke. "You see,"--he made a slight gesture towards his wife, who stood
speechless, and so pale that her very lips were colorless--"her ladyship
is not in a position to deny what I have said. Excuse her silence!"
And again he smiled--that smile as glitteringly chilled as a gleam of
light on the edge of a sword. Lady Winsleigh raised her head, and her
eyes met his with a dark expression of the uttermost anger. "Spy!" she
hissed between her teeth,--then without further word or gesture, she
swept haughtily away into her dressing-room, which adjoined the boudoir,
and closed the door of communication, thus leaving the two men alone
together.
Errington felt himself to be in a most painful and awkward position. If
there was anything he more than disliked, it was a _scene_--particularly
of a domestic nature. And he had just had a glimpse into Lord and Lady
Winsleigh's married life, which, to him, was decidedly unpleasant. He
could not understand how Lord Winsleigh had become cognizant of all he
had so frankly stated--and then, why had he not told him everything at
first, without waiting to declare it in his wife's presence? Unless,
indeed, he wished to shame her? There was evidently something in the
man's disposition and character that he, Philip, could not as yet
comprehend,--something that certainly puzzled him, and filled him with
vague uneasiness.
"Winsleigh, I'm awfully sorry this has happened," he began hurriedly,
holding out his hand.
Lord Winsleigh grasped it cordially. "My dear fellow, so am I! Heartily
sorry! I have to be sorry for a good many things rather often. But I'm
specially grieved to think that your beautiful and innocent young wife
is the victim in this case. Unfortunately I was told nothing till this
morning, otherwise I might possibly have prevented all your unhappiness.
But I trust it won't be of long duration. Here's this letter," he
returned it as he spoke, "which in more than one way has cost so large a
price. Possibly her ladyship may now regret her ill-gotten purchase."
"Pardon me," said Errington curiously, "but how did you know--"
"The information was pressed upon me very much," replied Lord Winsleigh
evasively, "and from such a source that up to the last moment I almost
refused to believe it." He paused, and then went on with a forced smile,
"Suppose we don't talk any more about it, Errington? The subject's
rather painful to me. Only allow me to ask your pardon for my wife's
share in the mischief!"
Something in his manner of speaking affected Sir Philip.
"Upon my soul, Winsleigh," he exclaimed with sudden fervor, "I fancy
you're a man greatly wronged!"
Lord Winsleigh smiled slightly. "You only _fancy_?" he said quietly.
"Well,--my good friend, we all have our troubles--I dare say mine are no
greater than those of many better men." He stopped short, then asked
abruptly, "I suppose you'll see Lennox?"
Errington set his teeth hard. "I shall,--at once!" he replied. "And I
shall probably thrash him within an inch of his life!"
"That's right! I shan't be sorry!" and Lord Winsleigh's hand clenched
almost unconsciously. "I hope you understand, Errington, that if it
hadn't been for my son, I should have shot that fellow long ago. I dare
say you wonder,--and some others too,--why I haven't done it. But
Ernest--poor little chap! . . . he would have heard of it,--and the
reason of it,--his young life is involved in mine--why should I bequeath
him a dishonored mother's name? There--for heaven's sake, don't let me
make a fool of myself!" and he fiercely dashed his hand across his eyes.
"A duel or a divorce--or a horsewhipping--they all come to pretty much
the same thing--all involve public scandal for the name of the woman who
may be unhappily concerned--and scandal clings, like the stain on Lady
Macbeth's hand. In your case you can act--_your_ wife is above a shadow
of suspicion--but I--oh, my God! how much women have to answer for in
the miseries of this world!"
Errington said nothing. Pity and respect for the man before him held him
silent. Here was one of the martyrs of modern social life--a man who
evidently knew himself to be dishonored by his wife,--and who yet, for
the sake of his son, submitted to be daily broken on the wheel of
private torture rather than let the boy grow up to despise and slight
his mother. Whether he were judged as wise or weak in his behavior there
was surely something noble about him--something unselfish and heroic
that deserved recognition. Presently Lord Winsleigh continued in calmer
tones--
"I've been talking too much about myself, Errington, I fear--forgive it!
Sometimes I've thought you misunderstood me--"
"I never shall again!" declared Philip earnestly.
Lord Winsleigh met his look of sympathy with one of gratitude.
"Thanks!" he said briefly,--and with this they shook hands again
heartily, and parted. Lord Winsleigh saw his visitor to the door--and
then at once returned to his wife's apartments. She was still absent
from the boudoir--he therefore entered her dressing-room without
ceremony.
There he found her,--alone, kneeling on the floor, her head buried in an
arm-chair,--and her whole frame shaken with convulsive sobs. He looked
down upon her with a strange wistful pain in his eyes,--pain mingled
with compassion.
"Clara!" he said gently. She started and sprang up--confronting him with
flushed cheeks and wet eyes.
"_You_ here?" she exclaimed angrily. "I wonder you dare to--" she broke
off, confused by his keen, direct glance.