Thelma
particular occasion that he had formed a perfectly correct judgment.
CHAPTER XIX.
"Could you not drink her gaze like wine?
Yet in its splendor swoon
Into the silence languidly,
As a tune into a tune?"
DANTE ROSSETTI.
On the morning of the twenty-fifth of May, Thelma, Lady Bruce-Errington,
sat at breakfast with her husband in their sun-shiny morning-room,
fragrant with flowers and melodious with the low piping of a tame thrush
in a wild gilded cage, who had the sweet habit of warbling his strophes
to himself very softly now and then, before venturing to give them
full-voiced utterance. A bright-eyed, feathered poet he was, and an
exceeding favorite with his fair mistress, who occasionally leaned back
in her low chair to look at him and murmur an encouraging "Sweet,
sweet!" which caused the speckled plumage on his plump breast to ruffle
up with suppressed emotion and gratitude.
Philip was pretending to read the _Times_, but the huge, self-important
printed sheet had not the faintest interest for him,--his eyes wandered
over the top of its columns to the golden gleam of his wife's hair,
brightened just then by the sunlight streaming through the window,--and
finally he threw it down beside him with a laugh.
"There's no news," he declared. "There never _is_ any news!"
Thelma smiled, and her deep-blue eyes sparkled.
"No?" she half inquired--then taking her husband's cup from his hand to
re-fill it with coffee, she added, "but I think you do not give yourself
time to find the news, Philip. You will never read the papers more than
five minutes."
"My dear girl," said Philip gaily, "I am more conscientious than you
are, at any rate, for you never read them at all!"
"Ah, but you must remember," she returned gravely, "that is because I do
not understand them! I am not clever. They seem to me to be all about
such dull things--unless there is some horrible murder or cruelty or
accident--and I would rather not hear of these. I do prefer books
always--because the books last, and news is never certain--it may not
even be true."
Her husband looked at her fondly; his thoughts were evidently very far
away from newspapers and their contents.
As she met his gaze, the rich color flushed her soft cheeks and her eyes
drooped shyly under their long lashes. Love, with her, had not yet
proved an illusion,--a bright toy to be snatched hastily and played with
for a brief while, and then thrown aside as broken and worthless. It
seemed to her a most marvellous and splendid gift of God, increasing
each day in worth and beauty,--widening upon her soul and dazzling her
life in ever new and expanding circles of glory. She felt as if she
could never sufficiently understand it,--the passionate adoration Philip
lavished upon her, filled her with a sort of innocent wonder and
gratitude, while her own overpowering love and worship of him, sometimes
startled her by its force into a sweet shame and hesitating fear. To her
mind he was all that was great, strong, noble, and beautiful--he was her
master, her king,--and she loved to pay him homage by her exquisite
humility, clinging tenderness, and complete, contented submission. She
was neither weak nor timid,--her character, moulded on grand and simple
lines of duty, saw the laws of Nature in their true light, and accepted
them without question. It seemed to her quite clear that man was the
superior,--woman the inferior, creature--and she could not understand
the possibility of any wife not rendering instant and implicit obedience
to her husband, even in trifles.
Since her wedding-day no dark cloud had crossed her heaven of happiness,
though she had been a little confused and bewildered at first by the
wealth and dainty luxury with which Sir Philip had delighted to surround
her. She had been married quietly at Christiania, arrayed in one of her
own simple white gowns, with no ornament save a cluster of pale
blush-roses, the gift of Lorimer. The ceremony was witnessed by her
father and Errington's friends,--and when it was concluded they had all
gone on their several ways,--old Gueldmar for a "toss" on the Bay of
Biscay,--the yacht _Eulalie_, with Lorimer, Macfarlane, and Duprez on
board, back to England, where these gentlemen had separated to their
respective homes,--while Errington, with his beautiful bride, and Britta
in demure and delighted attendance on her, went straight to Copenhagen.
From there they travelled to Hamburg, and through Germany to the
Schwarzwald, where they spent their honeymoon at a quiet little hotel in
the very heart of the deep-green Forest.
Days of delicious dreaming were these,--days of roaming on the emerald
green turf under the stately and odorous pines, listening to the dash of
the waterfalls, or watching the crimson sunset burning redly through the
darkness of the branches,--and in the moonlit evenings sitting under the
trees to hear the entrancing music of a Hungarian string-band, which
played divine and voluptuous melodies of the land,--"lieder" and
"walzer" that swung the heart away on a golden thread of sound to a
paradise too sweet to name! Days of high ecstacy, and painfully
passionate joy!--when "love, love!" palpitated in the air, and struggled
for utterance in the jubilant throats of birds, and whispered wild
suggestions in the rustling of the leaves! There were times when
Thelma,--lost and amazed and overcome by the strength and sweetness of
the nectar held to her innocent lips by a smiling and flame-winged
Eros,--would wonder vaguely whether she lived indeed, or whether she
were not dreaming some gorgeous dream, too brilliant to last? And even
when her husband's arms most surely embraced her, and her husband's kiss
met hers in all the rapture of victorious tenderness, she would often
question herself as to whether she were worthy of such perfect
happiness, and she would pray in the depths of her pure heart to be made
more deserving of this great and wonderful gift of love--this supreme
joy, almost too vast for her comprehension.
On the other hand, Errington's passion for his wife was equally
absorbing--she had become the very moving-spring of his existence. His
eyes delighted in her beauty,--but more than this, he revelled in and
reverenced the crystal-clear parity and exquisite refinement of her
soul. Life assumed for him a new form,--studied by the light of Thelma's
straightforward simplicity and intelligence, it was no longer, as he had
once been inclined to think, a mere empty routine,--it was a treasure of
inestimable value fraught with divine meanings. Gradually, the touch of
modern cynicism that had at one time threatened to spoil his nature,
dropped away from him like the husk from an ear of corn,--the world
arrayed itself in bright and varying colors--there was good--nay, there
was glory--in everything.
With these ideas, and the healthy satisfaction they engendered, his
heart grew light and joyous,--his eyes more lustrous,--his step gay and
elastic,--and his whole appearance was that of man at his best,--man, as
God most surely meant him to be--not a rebellious, feebly-repining,
sneering wretch, ready to scoff at the very sunlight,--but a being both
brave and intelligent, strong and equally balanced in temperament, and
not only contented, but absolutely glad to be alive,--glad to feel the
blood flowing through the veins,--glad and grateful for the gifts of
breathing and sight.
As each day passed, the more close and perfect grew the sympathies of
husband and wife,--they were like two notes of a perfect chord, sounding
together in sweetest harmony. Naturally, much of this easy and mutual
blending of character and disposition arose from Thelma's own gracious
and graceful submissiveness,--submissiveness which, far from humiliating
her, actually placed her (though she knew it not) on a throne of almost
royal power, before which Sir Philip was content to kneel--an ardent
worshipper of her womanly sweetness. Always without question or demur,
she obeyed his wishes implicitly,--though, as has been before mentioned,
she was at first a little overpowered and startled by the evidences of
his wealth, and did not quite know what to do with all the luxuries and
gifts he heaped upon her. Britta's worldly prognostications had come
true,--the simple gowns her mistress had worn at the Altenfjord were
soon discarded for more costly apparel,--though Sir Philip had an
affection for his wife's Norwegian costumes, and in his heart thought
they were as pretty, if not prettier, than the most perfect triumphs of
a Parisian _modiste_.
But in the social world, Fashion, the capricious deity, must be
followed, if not wholly, yet in part; and so Thelma's straight, plain
garments were laid carefully by as souvenirs of the old days, and were
replaced by toilettes of the most exquisite description,--some
simple,--some costly,--and it was difficult to say in which of them the
lovely wearer looked her best. She herself was indifferent in the
matter--she dressed to please Philip,--if he was satisfied, she was
happy--she sought nothing further. It was Britta whose merry eyes
sparkled with pride and admiration when she saw her "Froeken" arrayed in
gleaming silk or sweeping velvets, with the shine of rare jewels in her
rippling hair,--it was Britta who took care of all the dainty trifles
that gradually accumulated on Thelma's dressing table,--in fact, Britta
had become a very important personage in her own opinion. Dressed neatly
in black, with a coquettish muslin apron and cap becomingly frilled, she
was a very taking little maid, with her demure rosy face and rebellious
curls, though very different to the usual trained spy whose officious
ministrations are deemed so necessary by ladies of position, whose lofty
station in life precludes them from the luxury of brushing their own
hair. Britta's duties were slight--she invented most of them--yet she
was always busy sewing, dusting, packing, or polishing. She was a very
wide-awake little person, too,--no hint was lost upon her,--and she held
her own wherever she went with her bright eyes and sharp tongue. Though
secretly in an unbounded state of astonishment at everything new she
saw, she was too wise to allow this to be noticed, and feigned the
utmost coolness and indifference, even when they went from Germany to
Paris, where the brilliancy and luxury of the shops almost took away her
breath for sheer wonderment.
In Paris, Thelma's wardrobe was completed--a certain Madame Rosine,
famous for "artistic arrangements," was called into requisition, and
viewing with a professional eye the superb figure and majestic carriage
of her new customer, rose to the occasion in all her glory, and resolved
that Miladi Bruce-Errington's dresses should be the wonder and envy of
all who beheld them.
"For," said Madame, with a grand air, "it is to do me justice. That form
so magnificent is worth draping,--it will support my work to the best
advantage. And persons without figures will hasten to me and entreat me
for costumes, and will think that if I dress them I can make them look
as well as Miladi. And they will pay!"--Madame shook her head with much
shrewdness--"_Mon Dieu!_ they will pay!--and that they still look
frightful will not be my fault."
And undoubtedly Madame surpassed her usual skill in all she did for
Thelma,--she took such pains, and was so successful in all her designs,
that "Miladi," who did not as a rule show more than a very ordinary
interest in her toilette, found it impossible not to admire the artistic
taste, harmonious coloring, and exquisite fit of the few choice gowns
supplied to her from the "Maison Rosine"--and only on one occasion had
she any discussion with the celebrated modiste. This was when Madame