Thelma
people,--they are never grateful, and they always impose upon you."
Aloud she asked Sir Philip--
"Does Lady Errington play?"
"A little," he answered. "She sings."
At once there was a chorus of inanely polite voices round the piano,
"Oh, _do_ sing, Lady Errington! Please, give us one song!" and Sir
Francis Lennox, sauntering up, fixed his languorous gaze on Thelma's
face, murmuring, "You will not be so cruel as to refuse us such
delight?"
"But, of course not!" answered the girl, greatly surprised at all these
unnecessary entreaties. "I am always pleased to sing." And she drew off
her long loose gloves and seated herself at the piano without the least
affectation of reluctance. Then, glancing at her husband with a bright
smile, she asked, "What song do you think will be best, Philip?"
"One of those old Norse mountain-songs," he answered.
She played a soft minor prelude--there was not a sound in the room
now--everybody pressed towards the piano, staring with a curious
fascination at her beautiful face and diamond-crowned hair. One
moment--and her voice, in all its passionate, glorious fullness, rang
out with a fresh vibrating tone that thrilled to the very heart--and the
foolish crowd that gaped and listened was speechless, motionless,
astonished, and bewildered.
A Norse mountain-song was it? How strange, and grand, and wild! George
Lorimer stood apart--his eyes ached with restrained tears. He knew the
melody well--and up before him rose the dear solemnity of the Altenguard
hills, the glittering expanse of the Fjord, the dear old farmhouse
behind its cluster of pines. Again he saw Thelma as he had seen her
first--clad in her plain white gown, spinning in the dark embrasure of
the rose-wreathed window--again the words of the self-destroyed Sigurd
came back to his recollection, "Good things may come for others--but for
you the heavens are empty!" He looked at her now,--Philip's wife--in all
the splendor of her rich attire;--she was lovelier than ever, and her
sweet nature was as yet unspoilt by all the wealth and luxury around
her.
"Good God! what an _inferno_ she has come into!" he thought vaguely.
"How will she stand these people when she gets to know them? The Van
Clupps, the Rush-Marvelles, and others like them,--and as for Clara
Winsleigh--" He turned to study her ladyship attentively. She was
sitting quite close to the piano--her eyes were cast down, but the
rubies on her bosom heaved quickly and restlessly, and she furled and
unfurled her fan impatiently. "I shouldn't wonder," he went on
meditating gravely, "if she doesn't try and make some mischief somehow.
She looks it."
At that moment Thelma ceased singing, and the room rang with applause.
Herr Machtenklinken was overcome with admiration.
"It is a voice of heaven!" he said in a rapture.
The fair singer was surrounded with people.
"I hope," said Mrs. Van Clupp, with her usual ill-bred eagerness to
ingratiate herself with the titled and wealthy, "I hope you will come
and see me, Lady Errington? I am at home every Friday evening to my
friends."
"Oh yes," said Thelma, simply. "But I am not your friend yet! When we do
know each other better I will come. We shall meet each other many times
first,--and then you will see if you like me to be your friend. Is it
not so?"
A scarcely concealed smile reflected itself on the faces of all who
heard this naive, but indefinite acceptance of Mrs. Van Clupp's
invitation, while Mrs. Van Clupp herself was somewhat mortified, and
knew not what to answer. This Norwegian girl was evidently quite
ignorant of the usages of polite society, or she would at once have
recognized the fact that an "at home" had nothing whatsoever to do with
the obligations of friendship--besides, as far as friendship was
concerned, had not Mrs. Van Clupp tabooed several of her own
blood-relations and former intimate acquaintances? . . . for the very
sensible reason that while she had grown richer, they had grown poorer.
But now Mrs. Rush-Marvelle sailed up in all her glory, with her
good-natured smile and matronly air. She was a privileged person, and
she put her arm round Thelma's waist.
"You must come to me, my dear," she said with real kindness--her
motherly heart had warmed to the girl's beauty and innocence,--"I knew
Philip when he was quite a boy. He will tell you what a dreadfully old
woman I am! You must try to like me for his sake."
Thelma smiled radiantly. "I always wish to like Philip's friends," she
said frankly. "I do hope I shall please you!"
A pang of remorse smote Mrs. Rush-Marvelle's heart as she remembered how
loth she had been to meet Philip's "peasant" wife,--she
hesitated,--then, yielding to her warm impulse, drew the girl closer and
kissed her fair rose-tinted cheek.
"You please everybody, my child," she said honestly. "Philip is a lucky
man! Now I'll say good night, for it is getting late,--I'll write to you
to-morrow and fix a day for you to come and lunch with me."
"But you must also come and see Philip," returned Thelma, pressing her
hand.
"So I will--so I will!" and Mrs. Rush-Marvelle nodded beamingly, and
made her way up to Lady Winsleigh, saying, "Bye-bye, Clara! Thanks for a
most charming evening!"
Clara pouted. "Going already, Mimsey?" she queried,--then, in a lower
tone, she said, "Well! what do you think of her?"
"A beautiful child--no more!" answered Mrs. Marvelle,--then, studying
with some gravity the brilliant brunette face before her, she added in a
whisper, "Leave her alone, Clara,--don't make her miserable! You know
what I mean! It wouldn't take much to break her heart."
Clara laughed harshly and played with her fan.
"Dear me, Mimsey! . . . you are perfectly outrageous! Do you think I'm an
ogress ready to eat her up? On the contrary, I mean to be a friend to
her."
Mrs. Marvelle still looked grave.
"I'm glad to hear it," she said; "only some friends are worse than
declared enemies."
Lady Winsleigh shrugged her shoulders.
"Go along, Mimsey,--go home to bed!" she exclaimed impatiently. "You are
_insense_! I hate sentimental philosophy and copy-book platitudes!" She
laughed again and folded her hands with an air of mock penitence,
"There! I didn't mean to be rude! Good-night, dear old darling!"
"Good-night, Clara!" and Mrs. Marvelle, summoning her timid husband from
some far corner, where he had remained in hiding, took her departure
with much stateliness.
A great many people were going down to supper by this time, but Sir
Philip was tired of the heat and glare and noise, and whispered as much
to Thelma, who at once advanced to bid her hostess farewell.
"Won't you have some supper?" inquired her ladyship. "Don't go yet!"
But Thelma was determined not to detain her husband a moment longer than
he wished--so Lady Winsleigh, seeing remonstrances were of no avail,
bade them both an effusive good-night.
"We must see a great deal of each other!" she said, pressing Thelma's
hands warmly in her own: "I hope we shall be quite dear friends!"
"Thank you!" said Thelma, "I do hope so too, if you wish it so much.
Good-night, Lord Winsleigh!"
"Let me escort you to your carriage," said her noble host, at once
offering her his arm.
"And allow me to follow," added Beau Lovelace, slipping his arm through
Errington's, to whom he whispered, "How dare you, sir! How dare you be
such a provokingly happy man in this miserable old world?" Errington
laughed--and the little group had just reached the door of the
drawing-room when Thelma suddenly turned with a look of inquiry in her
eyes.
"Where is Mr. Lorimer?" she said. "I have forgotten to say good-night to
him, Philip."
"Here I am, Lady Errington," and Lorimer sauntered forward with rather a
forced smile,--a smile which altogether vanished, leaving his face
strangely pale, as she stretched out her hand to him, and said
laughingly--
"You bad Mr. Lorimer! Where were you? You know it would make me quite
unhappy not to wish you good-night. Ah, you are a very naughty brother!"
"Come home with us, George," said Sir Philip eagerly. "Do, there's a
good fellow!"
"I can't, Phil!" answered Lorimer, almost pathetically. "I can't
to-night--indeed, I can't! Don't ask me!" And he wrung his friend's hand
hard,--and then bravely met Thelma's bright glance.
"Forgive me!" he said to her. "I know I ought to have presented myself
before--I'm a dreadfully lazy fellow, you know! Good-night!"
Thelma regarded him steadfastly.
"You look,--what is it you call yourself sometimes--_seedy_?" she
observed. "Not well at all. Mind you come to us to-morrow!"
He promised--and then accompanied them down to their carriage--he and
Beau Lovelace assisting to cover Thelma with her fur cloak, and being
the last to shake hands with Sir Philip as he sprang in beside his wife,
and called to the coachman "Home!" The magic word seemed to effect the
horses, for they started at a brisk trot, and within a couple of minutes
the carriage was out of sight. It was a warm star-lit evening,--and as
Lorimer and Lovelace re-entered Winsleigh House, Beau stole a
side-glance at his silent companion.
"A plucky fellow!" he mused; "I should say he'd die game. Tortures won't
wring his secret out of him." Aloud he said, "I say, haven't we had
enough of this? Don't let us sup here--nothing but unsubstantial pastry
and claretcup--the latter abominable mixture would kill me. Come on to
the Club, will you?"
Lorimer gladly assented--they got their over-coats from the officious
Briggs, tipped him handsomely, and departed arm in arm. The last glimpse
they caught of the Winsleigh festivities was Marcia Van Clupp sitting on
the stairs, polishing off with much gusto the wing and half-breast of a
capon,--while the mild Lord Masherville stood on the step just above
her, consoling his appetite with a spoonful of tepid yellow jelly. He
had not been able to secure any capon for himself--he had been
frightened away by the warning cry of "Ladies first!" shouted forth by a
fat gentleman, who was on guard at the head of the supper-table, and who
had already secreted five plates of different edibles for his own
consumption, in a neat corner behind the window-curtains. Meanwhile, Sir
Philip Bruce-Errington, proud, happy, and triumphant, drew his wife into
a close embrace as they drove home together, and said, "You were the
queen of the evening, my Thelma! Have you enjoyed yourself?"
"Oh, I do not call that enjoyment!" she declared. "How is it possible to
enjoy anything among so many strangers?"
"Well, what is it?" he asked laughingly.
She laughed also. "I do not know indeed what it is!" she said. "I have
never been to anything like it before. It did seem to me as if all the
people were on show for some reason or other. And the gentlemen did look
very tired--there was nothing for them to do. Even you, my boy! You made
several very big yawns! Did you know that?"
Philip laughed more than ever. "I didn't know it, my pet!" he answered;
"but I'm not surprised. Big yawns are the invariable result of an 'at
home.' Do you like Beau Lovelace?"
"Very much," she answered readily. "But, Philip, I should not like to
have so many friends as Lady Winsleigh. I thought friends were rare?"
"So they are! She doesn't care for these people a bit. They are mere
acquaintances."
"Whom does she care for then?" asked Thelma suddenly. "Of course I mean
after her husband. Naturally she loves him best."
"Naturally," and Philip paused, adding, "she has her son--Ernest--he's a
fine bright boy--he was not there to-night. You must see him some day.
Then I think her favorite friend is Mrs. Rush-Marvelle."
"I do like that lady too," said Thelma. "She spoke very kindly to me and
kissed me."
"Did she really!" and Philip smiled. "I think she was more to be