Thelma
the sound of her sobbing. A mad longing seized him to catch her in his
arms,--to gather her and her sorrows, whatever they were, to his
heart!--and he had much ado to restrain himself.
"Thelma," he presently said, in a gentle voice that trembled just a
little, "Thelma, what is troubling you? You call me your brother--give
me a brother's right to your confidence." He bent over her and took her
hand. "I--I can't bear to see you cry like this! Tell me--what's the
matter? Let me fetch Philip."
She looked up with wild wet eyes and quivering lips.
"Oh no--no!" she murmured, in a tone of entreaty and alarm. "Do
not,--Philip must not know--I do wish him always to see me bright and
cheerful--and--it is nothing! It is that I heard something which grieved
me--"
"What was it?" asked Lorimer, remembering Duprez's recent remarks.
"Oh, I would not tell you!" she said eagerly, drying her eyes and
endeavoring to smile, "because I am sure it was a mistake, and all
wrong--and I was foolish to fancy that such a thing could be, even for a
moment. But when one does not know the world, it seems cruel--"
"Thelma, what do you mean?" and George surveyed her in some perplexity.
"If any one's been bothering or vexing you, just you tell Phil all about
it. Don't have any secrets from him,--he'll soon put everything
straight, whatever it is."
She shook her head slightly. "Ah, you do not understand!" she said
pathetically, "how should you? Because you have not given your life away
to any one, and it is all different with you. But when you do love--if
you are at all like me,--you will be so anxious to always seem worthy of
love--and you will hide all your griefs away from your beloved,--so that
your constant presence shall not seem tiresome. And I would not for all
the world trouble Philip with my silly fancies--because then he might
grow more weary still--"
"_Weary_!" interrupted Lorimer, in an accent of emphatic surprise. "Why,
you don't suppose Phil's tired of you, Thelma? That _is_ nonsense
indeed! He worships you! Who's been putting such notions into your
head?"
She rose from her chair quite calm and very pale, and laid her two
trembling hands in his.
"Ah, you also will mistake me," she said, with touching sweetness, "like
so many others who think me strange in my speech and manner. I am sorry
I am not like other women,--but I cannot help it. What I do wish you to
understand is that I never suppose anything against my Philip--he is the
noblest and best of men! And you must promise not to tell him that I was
so foolish as to cry just now because you played that old song I sang to
you both so often in Norway--it was because I felt a little sad--but it
was only a fancy,--and I would not have him troubled with such things.
Will you promise?"
"But what has made you sad?" persisted Lorimer, still puzzled.
"Nothing--nothing indeed," she answered, with almost feverish
earnestness. "You yourself are sometimes sad, and can you tell why?"
Lorimer certainly could have told why,--but he remained silent, and
gently kissed the little hands he held.
"Then I mustn't tell Philip of your sadness?" he asked softly, at last.
"But will you tell him yourself, Thelma? Depend upon it, it's much
better to have no secrets from him. The least grief of yours would
affect him more than the downfall of a kingdom. You know how dearly he
loves you!"
"Yes--I know!" she answered, and her eyes brightened slowly. "And that
is why I wish him always to see me happy!" She paused, and then added in
a lower tone, "I would rather die, my friend, than vex him for one
hour!"
George still held her hands and looked wistfully in her face. He was
about to speak again, when a cold, courteous voice interrupted them.
"Lady Errington, may I have the honor of taking you in to supper?"
It was Sir Francis Lennox. He had entered quite noiselessly--his
footsteps making no sound on the thick velvet-pile carpet, and he stood
quite close to Lorimer, who dropped Thelma's hands hastily and darted a
suspicious glance at the intruder. But Sir Francis was the very picture
of unconcerned and bland politeness, and offered Thelma his arm with the
graceful ease of an accomplished courtier. She was, perforce, compelled
to accept it--and she was slightly confused, though she could not have
told why.
"Sir Philip has been looking everywhere for you," continued Sir Francis
amicably. "And for you also," he added, turning slightly to Lorimer. "I
trust I've not abruptly broken off a pleasant _tete-a-tete_?"
Lorimer colored hotly. "Not at all," he said rather brusquely. "I've
been strumming on the organ, and Lady Errington has been good enough to
listen to me."
"You do not _strum_" said Thelma, with gentle reproach. "You play very
beautifully."
"Ah! a charming accomplishment!" observed Sir Francis, with his
under-glance and covert smile, as they all three wended their way out of
the library. "I regret I have never had time to devote myself to
acquiring some knowledge of the arts. In music I am a positive
ignoramus! I can hold my own best in the field."
"Yes, you're a great adept at hunting, Lennox," remarked Lorimer
suddenly, with something sarcastic in his tone. "I suppose the quarry
never escapes you?"
"Seldom!" returned Sir Francis coolly. "Indeed, I think I may say,
never!"
And with that, he passed into the supper-room, elbowing a way for
Thelma, till he succeeded in placing her near the head of the table,
where she was soon busily occupied in entertaining her guests and
listening to their chatter; and Lorimer, looking at her once or twice,
saw, to his great relief, that all traces of her former agitation had
disappeared, leaving her face fair and radiant as a spring morning.
CHAPTER XXIV.
"A generous fierceness dwells with innocence,
And conscious virtue is allowed some pride."
DRYDEN.
The melancholy days of autumn came on apace, and by-and-by the Manor was
deserted. The Bruce-Errington establishment removed again to town, where
business, connected with his intending membership for Parliament,
occupied Sir Philip from morning till night. The old insidious feeling
of depression returned and hovered over Thelma's mind like a black bird
of ill omen, and though she did her best to shake it off she could not
succeed. People began to notice her deepening seriousness and the
wistful melancholy of her blue eyes, and made their remarks thereon when
they saw her at Marcia Van Clupp's wedding, an event which came off
brilliantly at the commencement of November, and which was almost
entirely presided over by Mrs. Rush-Marvelle. That far-seeing matron had
indeed urged on the wedding by every delicate expedient possible.
"Long engagements are a great mistake," she told Marcia,--then, in a
warning undertone she added, "Men are capricious nowadays,--they're all
so much in demand,--better take Masherville while he's in the humor."
Marcia accepted this hint and took him,--and Mrs. Rush-Marvelle heaved a
sigh of relief when she saw the twain safely married, and off to the
Continent on their honeymoon-trip,--Marcia all sparkling and
triumphant,--Lord Algy tremulous and feebly ecstatic.
"Thank Heaven _that's_ over!" she said to her polite and servile
husband. "I never had such a troublesome business in my life! That
girl's been nearly two seasons on my hands, and I think five hundred
guineas not a bit too much for all I've done."
"Not a bit--not a bit!" agreed Mr. Marvelle warmly. "Have they--have
they--" here he put on a most benevolent side-look--"quite settled with
you, my dear?"
"Every penny," replied Mrs. Marvelle calmly. "Old Van Clupp paid me the
last hundred this morning. And poor Mrs. Van Clupp is so _very_
grateful!" She sighed placidly, and appeared to meditate. Then she
smiled sweetly and, approaching Mr. Marvelle, patted his shoulder
caressingly. "I think we'll do the Italian lakes, dear--what do you
say?"
"Charming--charming!" declared, not her lord and master, but her slave
and vassal. "Nothing could be more delightful!"
And to the Italian lakes accordingly they went. A great many people were
out of town,--all who had leisure and money enough to liberate
themselves from the approaching evils of an English winter, had departed
or were departing,--Beau Lovelace had gone to Como,--George Lorimer had
returned with Duprez to Paris, and Thelma had very few visitors except
Lady Winsleigh, who was more often with her now than ever. In fact, her
ladyship was more like one of the Errington household than anything
else,--she came so frequently and stayed so long. She seemed sincerely
attached to Thelma,--and Thelma herself, too single-hearted and simple
to imagine that such affection could be feigned, gave her in return,
what Lady Winsleigh had never succeeded in winning from any woman,--a
pure, trusting, and utterly unsuspecting love, such as she would have
lavished on a twin-born sister. But there was one person who was not
deceived by Lady Winsleigh's charm of manner, and grace of speech. This
was Britta. Her keen eyes flashed a sort of unuttered defiance into her
ladyship's beautiful, dark languishing ones--she distrusted her, and
viewed the intimacy between her and the "Froeken" with entire disfavor.
Once she ventured to express something of her feeling on the matter to
Thelma--but Thelma had looked so gently wondering and reproachful that
Britta had not courage to go on.
"I am so sorry, Britta," said her mistress, "that you do not like Lady
Winsleigh--because I am very fond of her. You must try to like her for
my sake."
But Britta pursed her lips and shook her head obstinately. However, she
said no more at the time, and decided within herself to wait and watch
the course of events. And in the meantime she became very intimate with
Lady Winsleigh's maid, Louise Renaud, and Briggs, and learned from these
two domestic authorities many things which greatly tormented and puzzled
her little brain,--things over which she pondered deeply without
arriving at any satisfactory conclusion.
On her return to town, Thelma had been inexpressibly shocked at the
changed appearance of her husband's secretary, Edward Neville. At first
she scarcely knew him, he had altered so greatly. Always inclined to
stoop, his shoulders were now bent as by the added weight of twenty
years--his hair, once only grizzled, was now quite grey--his face was
deeply sunken and pale, and his eyes by contrast looked large and wild,
as though some haunting thought were driving him to madness. He shrank
so nervously from her gaze, that she began to fancy he must have taken
some dislike to her,--and though she delicately refrained from pressing
questions upon him personally, she spoke to her husband about him, with
real solicitude. "Is Mr. Neville working too hard?" she asked one day.
"He looks very ill."
Her remark seemed to embarrass Philip,--he colored and seemed confused.
"Does he? Oh, I suppose he sleeps badly. Yes, I remember, he told me so.
You see, the loss of his wife has always preyed on his mind--he never
loses hope of--of--that is--he is always trying to--you know!--to get
her back again."
"But do you think he will ever find her?" asked Thelma. "I thought you
said it was a hopeless case?"
"Well--I think so, certainly--but, you see, it's no good dashing his
hopes--one never knows--she might turn up any day--it's a sort of
chance!"
"I wish I could help him to search for her," she said compassionately.
"His eyes do look so full of sorrow," she paused and added musingly,
"almost like Sigurd's eyes sometimes."
"Oh, he's not losing his wits," said Philip hastily, "he's quite
patient, and--and all that sort of thing. Don't bother about him,
Thelma, he's all right!"