Thelma
ludicrous,--cramming his house with expensive furniture like an
upholsterer's show-room,--drinking his tea out of pure Sevres, with a
lofty ignorance of its beauty and value,--dressing his wife and daughter
like shilling fashion-plates, and having his portrait taken in precisely
the same attitude as that assumed by the Duke of Wrigglesbury when his
Grace sat to the same photographer! It was delicious to hear him
bragging of his pilgrim ancestor,--while in the same breath he would
blandly sneer at certain "poor gentry" who could trace back their
lineage to Coeur de Lion! But because the Erringtons were rich as well
as titled persons, Van Clupp and his belongings bent the servile knee
before them, flattering Thelma with that ill-judged eagerness and
zealous persistency which distinguish inborn vulgarity, and which, far
from pleasing her, annoyed and embarrassed her because she could not
respond sincerely to such attentions.
There were many others too, not dollar-crusted Americans, whose
excessive adulation and ceaseless compliment vexed the sincere, frank
spirit of the girl,--a spirit fresh and pure as the wind blowing over
her own Norse mountains. One of these was Sir Francis Lennox, that
fashionable young man of leisure,--and she had for him an instinctive,
though quite unreasonable aversion. He was courtesy itself--he spared no
pains to please her. Yet she felt as if his basilisk brown eyes were
always upon her,--he seemed to be ever at hand, ready to watch over her
in trifles, such as the passing of a cup of tea, the offering of her
wrap,--the finding of a chair,--the holding of a fan,--he was always on
the alert, like a remarkably well-trained upper servant. She could not,
without rudeness, reject such unobtrusive, humble services,--and
yet--they rendered her uncomfortable, though she did not quite know why.
She ventured to mention her feeling concerning him to her friend Lady
Winsleigh, who heard her timid remarks with a look on her face that was
not quite pleasant.
"Poor Sir Francis!" her ladyship said with a slight, mocking laugh.
"He's never happy unless he plays puppy-dog! Don't mind him, Thelma! He
won't bite, I assure you,--he means no harm. It's only his little way of
making himself agreeable!"
George Lorimer, during this particular "London season," fled the field
of action, and went to Paris to stay with Pierre Duprez. He felt that it
was dangerous to confront the fair enemy too often, for he knew in his
own honest heart that his passion for Thelma increased each time he saw
her--so, he avoided her. She missed him very much from her circle of
intimates, and often went to see his mother, Mrs. Lorimer, one of the
sweetest old ladies in the world,--who had at once guessed her son's
secret, but, like a prudent dame, kept it to herself. There were few
young women as pretty and charming as old Mrs. Lorimer, with her
snow-white parted hair and mild blue eyes, and voice as cheery as the
note of a thrush in spring-time. After Lady Winsleigh, Thelma liked her
best of all her new friends, and was fond of visiting her quiet little
house in Kensington,--for it was very quiet, and seemed like a sheltered
haven of rest from the great rush of frivolity and folly in which the
fashionable world delighted.
And Thelma was often now in need of rest. As the season drew towards its
close, she found herself strangely tired and dispirited. The life she
was compelled to lead was all unsuited to her nature--it was artificial
and constrained,--and she was often unhappy. Why? Why, indeed! She did
her best,--but she made enemies everywhere. Again, why? Because she had
a most pernicious,--most unpleasant habit of telling the truth. Like
Socrates, she seemed to say--"If any man should appear to me not to
possess virtue, but to pretend that he does, I shall reproach him." This
she expressed silently in face, voice, and manner,--and, like Socrates,
she might have added that she went about "perceiving, indeed, and
grieving and alarmed that she was making herself odious." For she
discovered, by degrees, that many people looked strangely upon her--that
others seemed afraid of her--and she continually heard that she was
considered "eccentric." So she became more reserved--even cold,--she was
content to let others argue about trifles, and air their whims and
follies without offering an opinion on any side.
And by-and-by the first shadow began to sweep over the fairness of her
married life. It happened at a time when she and her husband were not
quite so much together,--society and its various claims had naturally
separated them a little, but now a question of political ambition
separated them still more. Some well-intentioned friends had persuaded
Sir Philip to stand for Parliament--and this idea no sooner entered his
head, than he decided with impulsive ardor that he had been too long
without a "career,"--and a "career" he must have in order to win
distinction for his wife's sake. Therefore, summoning his secretary,
Neville to his aid, he plunged headlong into the seething, turgid waters
of English politics, and shut himself up in his library day after day,
studying blue-books, writing and answering letters, and drawing up
addresses,--and with the general proneness of the masculine mind to
attend to one thing only at a time, he grew so absorbed in his work that
his love for Thelma, though all unchanged and deep as ever, fell
slightly into the background of his thoughts. Not that he neglected
her,--he simply concerned himself more with other things. So it happened
that a certain indefinable sense of loss weighed upon her,--a vague,
uncomprehended solitude began to encompass her,--a solitude even more
keenly felt when she was surrounded by friends than when she was quite
alone,--and as the sweet English June drew to its end, she grew languid
and listless, and her blue eyes often filled with sudden tears. Her
little watch-dog, Britta, began to notice this, and to wonder concerning
the reason of her mistress's altered looks.
"It is this dreadful London," thought Britta. "So hot and
stifling--there's no fresh air for her. And all this going about to
balls and parties and shows--no wonder she is tired out!"
But it was something more than mere fatigue that made Thelma's eyes look
sometimes so anxious, so gravely meditative and earnest. One day she
seemed so much abstracted and lost in painful musings that Britta's
loving heart ached, and she watched her for some moments without
venturing to say a word. At last she spoke out bravely--
"Froeken!"--she paused,--Thelma seemed not to hear her. "Froeken!--has
anything vexed or grieved you today?"
Thelma started nervously. "Vexed me--grieved me?" she repeated. "No,
Britta--why do you ask?"
"You look very tired, dear Froeken," continued Britta gently. "You are
not as bright as you were when we first came to London."
Thelma's lips quivered. "I--I am not well, Britta," she murmured, and
suddenly her self-control gave way, and she broke into tears. In an
instant Britta was kneeling by her, coaxing and caressing her, and
calling her by every endearing name she could think of, while she wisely
forbore from asking any more questions. Presently her sobs grew
calmer,--she rested her fair head against Britta's shoulder and smiled
faintly. At that moment a light tap was heard outside, and a voice
called--
"Thelma! Are you there?"
Britta opened the door, and Sir Philip entered hurriedly and
smiling--but stopped short to survey his wife in dismay.
"Why, my darling!" he exclaimed distressfully. "Have you been crying?"
Here the discreet Britta retired.
Thelma sprang to her husband and nestled in his arms.
"Philip, do not mind it," she murmured. "I felt a little sad--it is
nothing! But tell me--you _do_ love me? You will never tire of me? You
have always loved me, I am sure?"
He raised her face gently with one hand, and looked at her in surprise.
"Thelma--what strange questions from _you_! Love you? Is not every beat
of my heart for you? Are you not my life, my joy--my everything in this
world?" And he pressed her passionately in his arms and kissed her.
"You have never loved any one else so much?" she whispered, half
abashed.
"Never!" he answered readily. "What makes you ask such a thing?"
She was silent. He looked down at her flushing cheeks and tear-wet
lashes attentively.
"You are fanciful to-day, my pet," he said at last. "You've been tiring
yourself too much. You must rest. You'd better not go to the Brilliant
Theatre to-night--it's only a burlesque, and is sure to be vulgar and
noisy. We'll stop at home and spend a quiet evening together--shall we?"
She raised her eyes half wistfully and smiled. "I should like that very,
very much, Philip!" she murmured; "but you know we did promise Clara to
go with her to-night. And as we are so soon to leave London and return
to Warwickshire, I should not like to disappoint her."
"You are very fond of Clara?" he asked suddenly.
"Very!" She paused and sighed slightly. "She is so kind and clever--much
more clever than I can ever be--and she knows many things about the
world which I do not. And she admires you so much, Philip!"
"Does she indeed?" Philip laughed and colored a little. "Very good of
her, I'm sure! And so you'd really like to go to the Brilliant to-night?"
"I think so," she said hesitatingly. "Clara says it will be very
amusing. And you must remember how much I enjoyed 'Faust' and 'Hamlet.'"
Errington smiled. "You'll find the Brilliant performance very different
to either," he said amusedly. "You don't know what a burlesque is like!"
"Then I must be instructed," replied Thelma, smiling also, "I need to
learn many things. I am very ignorant!"
"Ignorant!" and he swept aside with a caressing touch the clustering
hair from her broad, noble brow. "My darling, you possess the greatest
wisdom--the wisdom of innocence. I would not change it for all the
learning of the sagest philosophers!"
"You really mean that?" she asked half timidly.
"I really mean that!" he answered fondly. "Little sceptic! As if I would
ever say anything to you that I did _not_ mean! I shall be glad when
we're out of London and back at the Manor--then I shall have you all to
myself again--for a time, at least."
She raised her eyes full of sudden joy,--all traces of her former
depression had disappeared.
"And _I_ shall have _you_!" she said gladly. "And we shall not
disappoint Lady Winsleigh to-night, Philip--I am not tired--and I shall
be pleased to go to the theatre."
"All right!" responded Philip cheerfully. "So let it be! Only I don't
believe you'll like the piece,--though it certainly won't make you cry.
Yet I doubt if it will make you laugh, either. However, it will be a new
experience for you."
And a new experience it decidedly was,--an experience, too, which
brought some strange and perplexing results to Thelma of which she never
dreamed.
She went to the Brilliant, accompanied by Lady Winsleigh and her
husband,--Neville, the secretary, making the fourth in their box; and
during the first and second scene of the performance the stage effects
were so pretty and the dancing so graceful that she nearly forgot the
bewildered astonishment she had at first felt at the extreme scantiness
of apparel worn by the ladies of the ballet. They represented birds,
bees, butterflies, and the other winged denizens of the
forest-world,--and the _tout-ensemble_ was so fairy-like and brilliant
with swift movement, light, and color that the eye was too dazzled and
confused to note objectionable details. But in the third scene, when a
plump, athletic young woman leaped on the stage in the guise of a
humming-bird, with a feather tunic so short that it was a mere