Thelma
"And so under the circumstances, you think it's no use my trying to
_pose_ as a Cicero?" asked her husband amusedly. She laughed--with a
very tender cadence in her laughter.
"It would not be worth your while, my boy," she said "You know I have
often told you that I do not see any great distinction in being a member
of Parliament at all. What will you do? You will talk to the fat brewer
perhaps, and he will contradict you--then other people will get up and
talk and contradict each other,--and so it will go on for days and
days--meanwhile the country remains exactly as it was, neither better
nor worse,--and all the talking does no good! It is better to be out of
it,--here together, as we are to-day."
And she raised her dreamy blue eyes to the sheltering canopy of green
leaves that overhung them--leaves thick-clustered and dewy, through
which the dazzling sky peeped in radiant patches. Philip looked at
her,--the rapt expression of her upward gaze,--the calm, untroubled
sweetness of her fair face,--were such as might well have suited one of
Raffaelle's divinest angels. His heart beat quickly--he drew closer to
her, and put his arm round her.
"Your eyes are looking at the sky, Thelma," he whispered. "Do you know
what that is? Heaven looking into heaven! And do you know which of the
two heavens I prefer?" She smiled, and turning, met his ardent gaze with
one of equal passion and tenderness.
"Ah, you _do_ know!" he went on, softly kissing the side of her slim
white throat. "I thought you couldn't possibly make a mistake!" He
rested his head against her shoulder, and after a minute or two of lazy
comfort, he resumed. "You are not ambitious, my Thelma! You don't seem
to care whether your husband distinguishes himself in the 'Ouse,' as our
friend the brewer calls it, or not. In fact, I don't believe you care
for anything save--love! Am I not right, my wife?"
A wave of rosy color flushed her transparent skin, and her eyes filled
with an earnest, almost pathetic languor.
"Surely of all things in the world," she said in a low tone,--"Love is
best?"
To this he made prompt answer, though not in words--his lips conversed
with hers, in that strange, sweet language which, though unwritten, is
everywhere comprehensible,--and then they left their shady resting-place
and sauntered homeward hand in hand through the warm fields fragrant
with wild thyme and clover.
Many happy days passed thus with these lovers--for lovers they still
were. Marriage had for once fulfilled its real and sacred meaning--it
had set Love free from restraint, and had opened all the gateways of the
only earthly paradise human hearts shall ever know,--the paradise of
perfect union and absolute sympathy with the one thing beloved on this
side eternity.
The golden hours fled by all too rapidly,--and towards the close of
August there came an interruption to their felicity. Courtesy had
compelled Bruce-Errington and his wife to invite a few friends down to
visit them at the Manor before the glory of the summer-time was
past,--and first among the guests came Lord and Lady Winsleigh and their
bright boy, Ernest. Her ladyship's maid, Louise Renaud, of course,
accompanied her ladyship,--and Briggs was also to the fore in the
capacity of Lord Winsleigh's personal attendant. After these, George
Lorimer arrived--he had avoided the Erringtons all the season,--but he
could not very well refuse the pressing invitation now given him without
seeming churlish,--then came Beau Lovelace, for a few days only, as with
the commencement of September he would be off as usual to his villa on
the Lago di Como. Sir Francis Lennox, too, made his appearance
frequently in a casual sort of way--he "ran down," to use his own
expression, now and then, and made himself very agreeable, especially to
men, by whom he was well liked for his invariable good-humor and
extraordinary proficiency in all sports and games of skill. Another
welcome visitor was Pierre Duprez, lively and sparkling as ever,--he
came from Paris to pass a fortnight with his "cher Phil-eep," and make
merriment for the whole party. His old admiration for Britta had by no
means decreased,--he was fond of waylaying that demure little maiden on
her various household errands, and giving her small posies of jessamine
and other sweet-scented blossoms to wear just above the left-hand corner
of her apron-bib, close to the place where the heart is supposed to be.
Olaf Gueldmar had been invited to the Manor at this period,--Errington
wrote many urgent letters, and so did Thelma, entreating him to
come,--for nothing would have pleased Sir Philip more than to have
introduced the fine old Odin worshipper among his fashionable friends,
and to have heard him bluntly and forcibly holding his own among them,
putting their feint and languid ways of life to shame by his manly,
honest, and vigorous utterance. But Gueldmar had only just returned to
the Altenfjord after nearly a year's absence, and his hands were too
full of work for him to accept his son-in-law's invitation.
"The farm lands have a waste and dreary look," he wrote, "though I let
them to a man who should verily have known how to till the soil trodden
by his fathers--and as for the farmhouse, 'twas like a hollow shell that
has lain long on the shore and become brown and brittle--for thou
knowest no human creature has entered there since we departed. However,
Valdemar Svensen and I, for sake of company, have resolved to dwell
together in it, and truly we have nearly settled down to the peaceful
contemplation of our past days,--so Philip, and thou, my child Thelma,
trouble not concerning me. I am hale and hearty, the gods be
thanked,--and may live on in hope to see you both next spring or
summer-tide. Your happiness keeps this old man young--so grudge me not
the news of your delights wherein I am myself delighted."
One familiar figure was missing from the Manor household,--that of
Edward Neville. Since the night at the Brilliant, when he had left the
theatre so suddenly, and gone home on the plea of illness, he had never
been quite the same man. He looked years older--he was strangely nervous
and timid--and he shrank away from Thelma as though he were some guilty
or tainted creature. Surprised at this, she spoke to her husband about
it,--but he, hurriedly, and with some embarrassment, advised her to "let
him alone"--his "nerves were shaken"--his "health was feeble"--and that
it would be kind on her part to refrain from noticing him or asking him
questions. So she refrained--but Neville's behavior puzzled her all the
same. When they left town, he implored, almost piteously, to be allowed
to remain behind,--he could attend to Sir Philip's business so much
better in London, he declared, and he had his way. Errington, usually
fond of Neville's society, made no attempt whatever to persuade him
against his will,--so he stayed in the half-shut-up house in Prince's
Gate through all the summer heat, poring over parliamentary documents
and pamphlets,--and Philip came up from the country once a fortnight to
visit him, and transact any business that might require his personal
attention.
On one of the last and hottest days in August, a grand garden-party was
given at the Manor. All the county people were invited, and they came
eagerly, though, before Thelma's social successes in London, they had
been reluctant to meet her. Now, they put on their best clothes, and
precipitated themselves into the Manor grounds like a flock of sheep
seeking land on which to graze,--all wearing their sweetest propitiatory
smirk--all gushing forth their admiration of "that _darling_ Lady
Errington"--all behaving themselves in the exceptionally funny manner
that county people affect,--people who are considered somebodies in the
small villages their big houses dominate,--but who, when brought to
reside in London, become less than the minnows in a vast ocean. These
good folks were not only anxious to _see_ Lady Errington--they wanted to
_say_ they had seen her,--and that she had spoken to _them_, so that
they might, in talking to their neighbors, mention it in quite an easy,
casual way, such as--"Oh, I was at Errington Manor the other day, and
Lady Errington said to me--." Or--"Sir Philip is _such_ a charming man!
I was talking to his lovely wife, and he asked me--" etc., etc.
Or--"You've no idea what large strawberries they grow at the Manor! Lady
Errington showed me some that were just ripening--magnificent!" And so
on. For in truth this _is_ "a mad world, my masters,"--and there is no
accounting for the inexpressibly small follies and mean toadyisms of the
people in it.
Moreover, all the London guests who were visiting Thelma came in for a
share of the county magnates' servile admiration. They found the
Winsleighs "so distingue"--Master Ernest instantly became "that _dear_
boy!"--Beau Lovelace was "so dreadfully clever, you know!"--and Pierre
Duprez "quite _too_ delightful!"
The grounds looked very brilliant--pink-and-white marquees were dotted
here and there on the smooth velvet lawns--bright flags waved from
different quarters of the gardens, signals of tennis, archery, and
dancing,--and the voluptuous waltz-music of a fine Hungarian band rose
up and swayed in the air with the downward floating songs of the birds
and the dash of fountains in full play. Girls in pretty light summer
costumes made picturesque groups under the stately oaks and
beeches,--gay laughter echoed from the leafy shrubberies, and stray
couples were seen sauntering meditatively through the rose-gardens,
treading on the fallen scented petals, and apparently too much absorbed
in each other to notice anything that was going on around them. Most of
these were lovers, of course--intending lovers, if not declared
ones,--in fact, Eros was very busy that day among the roses, and shot
forth a great many arrows, aptly aimed, out of his exhaustless quiver.
Two persons there were, however,--man and woman,--who, walking in that
same rose-avenue, did not seem, from their manner, to have much to do
with the fair Greek god,--they were Lady Winsleigh and Sir Francis
Lennox. Her ladyship looked exceedingly beautiful in her clinging dress
of Madras lace, with a bunch of scarlet poppies at her breast, and a
wreath of the same vivid flowers in her picturesque Leghorn hat. She
held a scarlet-lined parasol over her head, and from under the
protecting shadow of this silken pavilion, her dark, lustrous eyes
flashed disdainfully as she regarded her companion. He was biting an end
of his brown moustache, and looked annoyed, yet lazily amused too.
"Upon my life, Clara," he observed, "you are really awfully down on a
fellow, you know! One would think you never cared two-pence about me!"
"Too high a figure!" retorted Lady Winsleigh, with a hard little laugh.
"I never cared a brass farthing!"
He stopped short in his walk and stared at her.
"By Jove! you _are_ cool!" he ejaculated. "Then what did you mean all
the time?"
"What did _you_ mean?" she asked defiantly.
He was silent. After a slight, uncomfortable pause, he shrugged his
shoulders and smiled.
"Don't let us have a scene!" he observed in a bantering tone. "Anything
but that!"
"Scene!" she exclaimed indignantly. "Pray when have you had to complain
of me on that score?"
"Well, don't let me have to complain now," he said coolly.
She surveyed him in silent scorn for a moment, and her full, crimson
lips curled contemptuously.
"What a brute you are!" she muttered suddenly between her set pearly
teeth.
"Thanks, awfully!" he answered, taking out a cigarette and lighting it
leisurely. "You are really charmingly candid, Clara! Almost as frank as
Lady Errington, only less polite!"
"I shall not learn politeness from _you_, at any rate," she said,--then