Thelma
herself, with much pride, brought home an evening dress of the very
palest and tenderest sea-green silk, showered with pearls and
embroidered in silver, a perfect _chef-d'oeuvre_ of the dressmaker's
art. The skirt, with its billowy train and peeping folds of delicate
lace, pleased Thelma,--but she could not understand the bodice, and she
held that very small portion of the costume in her hand with an air of
doubt and wonderment. At last she turned her grave blue eyes inquiringly
on Madame.
"It is not finished?" she asked. "Where is the upper part of it and the
sleeves?"
Madame Rosine gesticulated with her hands and smiled.
"Miladi, there is no more!" she declared. "Miladi will perceive it is
for the evening wear--it is _decolletee_--it is to show to everybody
Miladi's most beautiful white neck and arms. The effect will be
ravishing!"
Thelma's face grew suddenly grave--almost stern.
"You must be very wicked!" she said severely, to the infinite amazement
of the vivacious Rosine. "You think I would show myself to people half
clothed? How is it possible! I would not so disgrace myself! It would
bring shame to my husband!"
Madame was almost speechless with surprise. What strange lady was this
who was so dazzlingly beautiful and graceful, and yet so ignorant of the
world's ways? She stared,--but was soon on the defensive.
"Miladi is in a little error!" she said rapidly and with soft
persuasiveness. "It is _la mode_. Miladi has perhaps lived in a country
where the fashions are different. But if she will ask the most amiable
Sieur Bruce-Errington, she will find that her dress is quite in keeping
with _les convenances_."
A pained blush crimsoned Thelma's fair cheek. "I do not like to ask my
husband such a thing," she said slowly, "but I must. For I could not
wear this dress without shame. I cannot think he would wish me to appear
in it as you have made it--but--" She paused, and taking up the
objectionable bodice, she added gently--"You will kindly wait here,
madame, and I will see what Sir Philip says."
And she retired, leaving the _modiste_ in a state of much astonishment,
approaching resentment. The idea was outrageous,--a woman with such
divinely fair skin,--a woman with the bosom of a Venus, and arms of a
shape to make sculptors rave,--and yet she actually wished to hide these
beauties from the public gaze! It was ridiculous--utterly
ridiculous,--and Madame sat fuming impatiently, and sniffing the air in
wonder and scorn. Meanwhile Thelma, with flushing cheeks and lowered
eyes, confided her difficulty to Philip, who surveyed the shocking
little bodice she brought for his inspection with a gravely amused, but
very tender smile.
"There certainly doesn't seem much of it, does there, darling?" he said.
"And so you don't like it?"
"No," she confessed frankly--"I think I should feel quite undressed in
it. I often wear just a little opening at the throat--but this--! Still,
Philip, I must not displease you--and I will always wear what you wish,
even if it is uncomfortable to myself."
"Look here, my pet," and he encircled her waist fondly with his arm,
"Rosine is quite right. The thing's perfectly fashionable,--and there
isn't a woman in society who wouldn't be perfectly charmed with it. But
your ideas are better than Rosine's and all society's put together. Obey
your own womanly instinct, Thelma!"
"But what do _you_ wish?" she asked earnestly. "You must tell me. It is
to please you that I live."
He kissed her. "You want me to issue a command about the affair?" he
said half laughingly.
She smiled up into his eyes. "Yes!--and I will obey!"
"Very well! Now listen!" and he held her by both hands, and looked with
sudden gravity into her sweet face--"Thelma, my wife, thus sayeth your
lord and master,--despise the vulgar indecencies of fashion, and you
will gratify me more than words can say;--keep your pure and beautiful
self sacred from the profaning gaze of the multitude,--sacred to me and
my love for you, and I shall be the proudest man living! Finally,"--and
he smiled again--"give Rosine back this effort at a bodice, and tell her
to make something more in keeping with the laws of health and modesty.
And Thelma--one more kiss! You are a darling!"
She laughed softly and left him, returning at once to the irate
dressmaker who waited for her.
"I am sorry," she said very sweetly, "to have called you wicked! You
see, I did not understand! But though this style of dress is
fashionable, I do not wish to wear it--so you will please make me
another bodice, with a small open square at the throat, and
elbow-sleeves,--and you will lose nothing at all--for I shall pay you
for this one just the same. And you must quite pardon me for my mistake
and hasty words!"
Maladi's manner was so gracious and winning, that Madame Rosine found it
impossible not to smile in a soothed and mollified way,--and though she
deeply regretted that so beautiful a neck and arms were not to be
exposed to public criticism, she resigned herself to the inevitable, and
took away the offending bodice, replacing it in a couple of days by one
much prettier and more becoming by reason of its perfect modesty.
On leaving Paris, Sir Philip had taken his wife straight home to his
fine old Manor in Warwickshire. Thelma's delight in her new abode was
unbounded--the stately oaks that surrounded it,--the rose-gardens, the
conservatories,--the grand rooms, with their fine tapestries, oak
furniture, and rare pictures,--the splendid library, the long, lofty
drawing-rooms, furnished and decorated after the style of Louis
Quinze,--all filled her with a tender pride and wistful admiration. This
was Philip's home! and she was here to make it bright and glad for
him!--she could imagine no fairer fate. The old servants of the place
welcomed their new mistress with marked respect and evident astonishment
at her beauty, though, when they knew her better, they marvelled still
more at her exceeding gentleness and courtesy. The housekeeper, a
stately white-haired dame, who had served the former Lady Errington,
declared she was "an angel"--while the butler swore profoundly that "he
knew what a queen was like at last!"
The whole household was pervaded with an affectionate eagerness to
please her, though, perhaps, the one most dazzled by her entrancing
smile and sweet consideration for his comfort was Edward Neville, Sir
Philip's private secretary and librarian,--a meek, mild-featured man of
some five and forty years old, whose stooping shoulders, grizzled hair,
and weak eyes gave him an appearance of much greater age. Thelma was
particularly kind to Neville, having heard his history from her husband.
It was brief and sad. He had married a pretty young girl whom he had
found earning a bare subsistence as a singer in provincial
music-halls,--loving her, he had pitied her unprotected state, and had
rescued her from the life she led--but after six months of comparative
happiness, she had suddenly deserted him, leaving no clue as to where or
why she had gone. His grief for her loss, weighed heavily upon his
mind--he brooded incessantly upon it--and though his profession was that
of a music master and organist, he grew so abstracted and inattentive to
the claims of the few pupils he had, that they fell away from him one by
one--and, after a bit, he lost his post as organist to the village
church as well. This smote him deeply, for he was passionately fond of
music, and was, moreover, a fine player,--and it was at this stage of
his misfortunes that he met by chance Bruce-Errington. Philip, just
then, was almost broken-hearted--his father and mother had died suddenly
within a week of one another,--and he, finding the blank desolation of
his home unbearable, was anxious to travel abroad for a time, so soon as
he could find some responsible person in whose hands to leave the charge
of the Manor, with its invaluable books and pictures, during his
absence.
Hearing Neville's history through a mutual friend, he decided, with his
usual characteristic impulse, that here was the very man for him--a
gentleman by birth, rumored to be an excellent scholar,--and he at once
offered him the post he had in view,--that of private secretary at a
salary of 200 pounds per annum. The astonished Neville could not at
first believe in his good fortune, and began to stammer forth his
gratitude with trembling lips and moistening eyes,--but Errington cut
him short by declaring the whole thing settled, and desiring him to
enter on his duties at once. He was forthwith installed in his
position,--a highly enviable one for a man of his dreamy and meditative
turn of mind. To him, literature and music were precious as air and
light, he handled the rare volumes on the Errington book-shelves with
lingering tenderness, and often pored over some difficult manuscript, or
dusty folio till long past midnight, almost forgetful of his griefs in
the enchantment thus engendered. Nor did he lack his supreme comforter,
music,--there was a fine organ at the lower end of the long library, and
seated at his beloved instrument, he wiled away many an hour,--steeping
his soul in the divine and solemn melodies of Palestrina and Pergolesi,
till the cruel sorrow that had darkened his life seemed nothing but a
bad dream, and the face of his wife as he had first known it, fair,
trustful, and plaintive, floated before his eyes unchanged, and arousing
in him the old foolish throbbing emotions of rapture and passion that
had gladdened the bygone days.
He never lost the hope of meeting her again, and from time to time he
renewed his search for her, though all uselessly--he studied the daily
papers with an almost morbid anxiety lest he should see the notice of
her death--and he would even await each post with a heart beating more
rapidly than usual, in case there should be some letter from her,
imploring forgiveness, explaining everything, and summoning him once
more to her side. He found a true and keenly sympathizing friend in Sir
Philip, to whom he became profoundly attached,--to satisfy his wishes,
to forward his interests, to attend to his affairs with punctilious
exactitude--all this gave Neville the supremest happiness. He felt some
slight doubt and anxiety, when he first received the sudden announcement
of his patron's marriage,--but all forebodings as to the character and
disposition of the new Lady Bruce-Errington fled like mist before
sunshine, when he saw Thelma's fair face and felt her friendly
hand-clasp.
Every morning on her way to the breakfast-room, she would look in at the
door of his little study, which adjoined the library, and he learned to
watch for the first glimmer of her dress, and to listen for her bright
"Good morning, Mr. Neville!" with a sensation of the keenest pleasure.
It was a sort of benediction on the whole day. A proud man was he when
she asked him to give her lessons on the organ,--and never did he forget
the first time he heard her sing. He was playing an exquisite "Ave
Maria," by Stradella, and she, standing by her husband's side was
listening, when she suddenly exclaimed--
"Why, we used to sing that at Arles!"--and her rich, round voice pealed
forth clear, solemn, and sweet, following with pure steadiness the
sustained notes of the organ. Neville's heart thrilled,--he heard her
with a sort of breathless wonder and rapture, and when she ceased, it
seemed as though heaven had closed upon him.
"One cannot praise such a voice as that!" he said. "It would be a kind
of sacrilege. It is divine!"
After this, many were the pleasant musical evenings they all passed
together in the grand old library, and,--as Mrs. Rush-Marvelle had so
indignantly told her husband,--no visitors were invited to the Manor