Thelma
during that winter. Errington was perfectly happy--he wanted no one but
his wife, and the idea of entertaining a party of guests who would most
certainly interfere with his domestic enjoyment, seemed almost abhorrent
to him. The county-people called,--but missed seeing Thelma, for during
the daytime she was always out with her husband taking long walks and
rambling excursions to the different places hallowed by Shakespeare's
presence,--and when she, instructed by Sir Philip, called on the
county-people, they also seemed to be never at home.
And so, as yet, she had made no acquaintances, and now that she had been
married eight months and had come to London, the same old story repeated
itself. People called on her in the afternoon just at the time when she
went out driving,--when she returned their visits, she, in her turn,
found them absent. She did not as yet understand the mystery of having
"a day" on which to receive visitors in shoals--a day on which to drink
unlimited tea, talk platitudes, and utterly bored and exhausted at the
end thereof--in fact, she did not see the necessity of knowing many
people,--her husband was all-sufficient for her,--to be in his society
was all she cared for. She left her card at different houses because he
told her to do so, but this social duty amused her immensely.
"It is like a game!" she declared, laughing, "some one comes and leaves
these little cards which explain who _they_ are, on _me_,--then I go and
leave _my_ little cards and yours, explaining who _we_ are on that some
one--and we keep on doing this, yet we never see each other by any
chance! It is so droll!"
Errington did not feel called upon to explain what was really the
fact,--namely, that none of the ladies who had left cards on his wife
had given her the option of their "at home" day on which to call,--he
did not think it necessary to tell her what he knew very well, that his
"set," both in county and town, had resolved to "snub" her in every
petty fashion they could devise,--that he had already received several
invitations which, as they did not include her, he had left
unanswered,--and that the only house to which she had as yet been really
asked in proper form was that of Lady Winsleigh. He was more amused than
vexed at the resolute stand made by the so-called "leaders" of society
against her, knowing as he did, most thoroughly, how she must conquer
them all in the end. She had been seen nowhere as yet but in the Park,
and Philip had good reason to be contented with the excitement her
presence had created there,--but he was a little astonished at Lady
Winsleigh's being the first to extend a formal welcome to his unknown
bride. Her behavior seemed to him a little suspicious,--for he certainly
could not disguise from himself that she had at one time been most
violently and recklessly in love with him. He recollected one or two
most painful scenes he had had with her, in which he had endeavored to
recall her to a sense of the duty she owed to her husband,--and his face
often flushed with vexation when he thought of her wild and wicked
abandonment of despair, her tears, her passion, and distracted,
dishonoring words. Yet she was the very woman who now came forward in
the very front of society to receive his wife!--he could not quite
understand it. After all, he was a man,--and the sundry artful tricks
and wiles of fashionable ladies were, naturally, beyond him. Thelma had
never met Lady Winsleigh--not even for a passing glance in the
Park,--and when she received the invitation for the grand reception at
Winsleigh House, she accepted it, because her husband wished her so to
do, not that she herself anticipated any particular pleasure from it.
When the day came round at last she scarcely thought of it, till at the
close of their pleasant breakfast _tete-a-tete_ described at the
commencement of this chapter, Philip suddenly said,--"By-the-by, Thelma,
I have sent to the bank for the Errington diamonds. They'll be here
presently. I want you to wear them to-night."
Thelma looked puzzled and inquiring. "To-night? What is it that we do? I
forget! Oh! now I know--it is to go to Lady Winsleigh. What will it be
like, Philip?"
"Well, there'll be heaps of people all cramming and crowding up the
stairs and down them again,--you'll see all those women who have called
on you, and you'll be introduced to them,--I dare say there'll be some
bad music and an indigestible supper--and--and--that's all!"
She laughed and shook her head reproachfully. "I cannot believe you, my
naughty boy!" she said, rising from her seat, and kneeling beside him
with arms round his neck, and soft eyes gazing lovingly into his. "You
are nearly as bad as that very bad Mr. Lorimer, who will always see
strange vexations in everything! I am quite sure Lady Winsleigh will not
have crowds up and down her stairs,--that would be bad taste. And if she
has music, it will be good--and she would not give her friends a supper
to make them ill."
Philip did not answer. He was studying every delicate tint in his wife's
dazzling complexion and seemed absorbed.
"Wear that one gown you got from Worth," he said abruptly. "I like
it--it suits you."
"Of course I will wear it if you wish," she answered, laughing still.
"But why? What does it matter? You want me to be something very splendid
in dress to-night?"
Philip drew a deep breath. "I want you to eclipse every woman in the
room!" he said with remarkable emphasis.
She grew rather pensive. "I do not think that would be pleasant," she
said gravely. "Besides, it is impossible. And it would be wrong to wish
me to make every one else dissatisfied with themselves. That is not like
you, my Philip!"
He touched with tender fingers the great glistening coil of hair that
was twisted up at the top of her graceful head.
"Ah, darling! You don't know what a world it is, and what very queer
people there are in it! Never mind! . . . don't bother yourself about
it. You'll have a good bird's-eye view of society tonight, and you shall
tell me afterwards how you like it. I shall be curious to know what you
think of Lady Winsleigh."
"She is beautiful, is she not?"
"Well, she is considered so by most of her acquaintances, and by
herself," he returned with a smile.
"I do like to see very pretty faces," said Thelma warmly; "it is as if
one looked at pictures. Since I have been in London I have seen so many
of them--it is quite pleasant. Yet none of these lovely ladies seem to
me as if they were really happy or strong in health."
"Half of them have got nervous diseases and all sorts of things wrong
with them from over-much tea and tight lacing," replied Errington, "and
the few who _are_ tolerably healthy are too bouncing by half, going in
for hunting and such-like amusements till they grow blowsy and fat, and
coarse as tom-boys or grooms. They can never hit the _juste milieu_.
Well!" and he rose from the breakfast-table. "I'll go and see Neville
and attend to business. We'll drive out this afternoon for some fresh
air, and afterwards you must rest, my pet--for you'll find an 'at home'
more tiring than climbing a mountain in Norway."
He kissed, and left her to her usual occupations, of which she had many,
for she had taken great pains to learn all the details of the work in
the Errington Establishment,--in fact, she went every morning to the
little room where Mistress Parton, the housekeeper, received her with
much respect and affection, and duly instructed her on every point of
the domestic management and daily expenditure, so that she was
thoroughly acquainted with everything that went on.
She had very orderly quiet ways of her own, and though thoughtful for
the comfort and well-being of the lowest servant in her household she
very firmly checked all extravagance and waste, yet in such a gentle,
unobtrusive manner that her control was scarcely felt--though her
husband at once recognized it in the gradually decreasing weekly
expenses, while to all appearance, things were the same as ever. She had
plenty of clear, good common sense,--she saw no reason why she should
waste her husband's wealth simply because it was abundant,--so that
under her mild sway, Sir Philip found himself getting richer without any
trouble on his own part. His house assumed an air of lighter and more
tasteful elegance,--flowers, always arranged by Thelma herself, adorned
the rooms,--birds filled the great conservatory with their delicious
warblings, and gradually that strange fairy sweet fabric known as "Home"
rose smilingly around him. Formerly he had much disliked his stately
town mansion--he had thought it dull and cold--almost gloomy,--but now
he considered it charming, and wondered he had missed so many of its
good points before.
And when the evening for Lady Winsleigh's "crush" came,--he looked
regretfully round the lovely luxurious drawing-room with its bright
fire, deep easy chairs, books, and grand piano, and wished he and his
wife could remain at home in peace. He glanced at his watch--it was ten
o'clock. There was no hurry--he had not the least intention of arriving
at Winsleigh House too early. He knew what the effect of Thelma's
entrance would be--and he smiled as he thought of it. He was waiting for
her now,--he himself was ready in full evening dress--and remarkably
handsome he looked. He walked up and down restlessly for a minute or
so,--then taking up a volume of Keats, he threw himself into an easy
chair and soon became absorbed. His eyes were still on the printed page,
when a light touch on his shoulder startled him,--a soft, half-laughing
voice inquired--"Philip! Do I please you?"
He sprang up and faced her,--but for a moment could not speak. The
perfection of her beauty had never ceased to arouse his wonder and
passionate admiration,--but on this night, as she stood before him,
arrayed in a simple, trailing robe of ivory-tinted velvet, with his
family diamonds flashing in a tiara of light on her hair, glistening
against the whiteness of her throat and rounded arms, she looked
angelically lovely--so radiant, so royal, and withal so innocently
happy, that, wistfully gazing at her, and thinking of the social clique
into which she was about to make her entry, he wondered vaguely whether
he was not wrong to take so pure and fair a creature among the false
glitter and reckless hypocrisy of modern fashion and folly. And so he
stood silent, till Thelma grew anxious.
"Ah, you are not satisfied!" she said plaintively. "I am not as you
wish! There is something wrong."
He drew her closely into his arms, kissing her with an almost pathetic
tenderness.
"Thelma, my love, my sweet one!" and his strong voice trembled. "You do
not know--how should you? what I think of you! Satisfied? Pleased? Good
Heavens--what little words those are to express my feelings! I can tell
you how you look, for nothing can ever make _you_ vain. You are
beautiful! . . . you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and
you look your very best tonight. But you are more than beautiful--you
are good and pure and true, while society is--But why should I destroy
your illusions? Only, my wife,--we have been all in all to each
other,--and now I have a foolish feeling as if things were going to be
different--as if we should not be so much together--and I wish--I wish
to God I could keep you all to myself without anybody's interference!"
She looked at him in wonder, though she smiled.
"But you have changed, my boy, since the morning," she said. "Then you
did wish me to be particular in dress,--and to wear your jewels, for
this Lady Winsleigh. Now your eyes are sad, and you seem as if you would
rather not go at all. Well, is it not easy to remain at home? I will
take off these fine things, and we will sit together and read. Shall it