Thelma
"How dare you say such a thing!" she cried, springing upright and facing
him,--then she stopped and grew very pale--but she kept her eyes upon
him. How bright they were! What a chilling pride glittered in their
sea-blue depths!
"You are in error," she said coldly. "If it is wrong to visit this
theatre you speak of, why are you so often seen there--and why is not
some harm said of _you_? It is not your place to speak against my
husband. It is shameful and treacherous! You do forget yourself most
wickedly!"
And she moved to leave the room. But Sir Francis interposed.
"Lady Errington," he said very gently, "don't be hard upon me--pray
forgive me! Of course I've no business to speak--but how can I help it?
When I hear every one at the clubs discussing you, and pitying you, it's
impossible to listen quite unmoved! I'm the least among your friends, I
know,--but I can't bear this sort of thing to go on,--the whole affair
will be dished up in the society papers next!"
And he paced the room half impatiently,--a very well-feigned expression
of friendly concern and sympathy on his features. Thelma stood
motionless, a little bewildered--her head throbbed achingly, and there
was a sick sensation of numbness creeping about her.
"I tell you it is all wrong!" she repeated with an effort. "I do not
understand why these people at the clubs should talk of me, or pity me.
I do not need any pity! My husband is all goodness and truth,"--she
stopped and gathered courage as she went on. "Yes! he is better, braver,
nobler than all other men in the world, it seems to me! He gives me all
the joy of my life--each day and night I thank God for the blessing of
his love!"
She paused again. Sir Francis turned and looked at her steadily. A
sudden thought seemed to strike her, for she advanced eagerly, a sweet
color flushing the pallor of her skin.
"You can do so much for me if you will!" she said, laying her hand on
his arm. "You can tell all these people who talk so foolishly that they
are wrong,--tell them how happy I am! And that my Philip has never
deceived me in any matter, great or small!"
"Never?" he asked with a slight sneer. "You are sure?"
"Sure!" she answered bravely. "He would keep nothing from me that it was
necessary or good for me to know. And I--oh! I might pass all my life in
striving to please him, and yet I should never, never be worthy of all
his tenderness and goodness! And that he goes many times to a theatre
without me--what is it? A mere nothing--a trifle to laugh at! It is not
needful to tell me of such a small circumstance!"
As she spoke she smiled--her form seemed to dilate with a sort of inner
confidence and rapture.
Sir Francis stared at her half shamed,--half savage. The beautiful,
appealing face, bright with simple trust, roused him to no sort of manly
respect or forbearance,--the very touch of the blossom-white hand she
had laid so innocently on his arm, stung his passion as with a lash--as
he had said, he was fond of hunting--he had chased the unconscious deer
all through the summer, and now that it had turned to bay with such
pitiful mildness and sweet pleading, why not draw the knife across its
slim throat without mercy?
"Really, Lady Errington!" he said at last sarcastically, "your wifely
enthusiasm and confidence are indeed charming! But, unfortunately, the
proofs are all against you. Truth is truth, however much you may wish to
blind your eyes to its manifestations. I sincerely wish Sir Philip were
present to hear your eloquent praises of him, instead of being where he
most undoubtedly is,--in the arms of Violet Vere!"
As he said these words she started away from him and put her hands to
her ears as though to shut out some discordant sound--her eyes glowed
feverishly. A cold shiver shook her from head to foot.
"That is false--false!" she muttered in a low, choked voice. "How can
you--how dare you?"
She ceased, and with a swaying, bewildered movement, as though she were
blind, she fell senseless at his feet.
In one second he was kneeling beside her. He raised her head on his
arm,--he gazed eagerly on her fair, still features. A dark contraction
of his brows showed that his thoughts were not altogether righteous
ones. Suddenly he laid her down again gently, and, springing to the
door, locked it. Returning, he once more lifted her in a half-reclining
position, and encircling her with his arms, drew her close to his breast
and kissed her. He was in no hurry for her to recover--she looked very
beautiful--she was helpless--she was in his power. The silvery ting-ling
of the clock on the mantel-piece striking eleven startled him a
little--he listened painfully--he thought he heard some one trying the
handle of the door he had locked. Again--again he kissed those pale,
unconscious lips! Presently, a slight shiver ran through her frame--she
sighed, and a little moan escaped her. Gradually, as warmth and
sensation returned to her, she felt the pressure of his embrace, and
murmured--
"Philip! Darling,--you have come back earlier,--I thought--"
Here she opened her eyes and met those of Sir Francis, who was eagerly
bending over her. She uttered an exclamation of alarm, and strove to
rise. He held her still more closely.
"Thelma--dear, dearest Thelma! Let me comfort you,--let me tell you how
much I love you!"
And before she could divine his intent, he pressed his lips passionately
on her pale cheek. With a cry she tore herself violently from his arms
and sprang to her feet, trembling in every limb.
"What--what is this?" she exclaimed wrathfully. "Are you mad?"
And still weak and confused from her recent attack of faintness, she
pushed back her hair from her brows and regarded him with a sort of
puzzled horror.
He flushed deeply, and set his lips hard.
"I dare say I am," he answered, with a bitter laugh; "in fact, I know I
am! You see, I've betrayed my miserable secret. Will you forgive me,
Lady Errington--Thelma?" He drew nearer to her, and his eyes darkened
with restrained passion. "Matchless beauty!--adorable woman, as you
are!--will you not pardon my crime, if crime it be--the crime of loving
you? For I do love you!--Heaven only knows how utterly and desperately!"
She stood mute, white, almost rigid, with that strange look of horror
frozen, as it were, upon her features. Emboldened by her silence, he
approached and caught her hand,--she wrenched it from his grasp and
motioned him from her with a gesture of such royal contempt that he
quailed before her. All suddenly the flood-gates of her speech were
loosened,--the rising tide of burning indignation that in its very force
had held her dumb and motionless, now broke forth unrestrainedly.
"O God!" she cried impetuously, a magnificent glory of disdain flashing
in her jewel-like eyes, "what _thing_ is this that calls itself a
man?--this thief of honor,--this pretended friend? What have I done,
sir, that you should put such deep disgrace as your so-called _love_
upon me?--what have I _seemed_, that you thus dare to outrage me by the
pollution of your touch? I,--the wife of the noblest gentleman in the
land! Ah!" and she drew a long breath--"and it is you who speak against
my husband--_you_!" She smiled scornfully,--then with more calmness
continued--"You will leave my house, sir, at once! . . . and never
presume to enter it again!"
And she stepped towards the bell. He looked at her with an evil leer.
"Stop a moment!" he said coolly. "Just one moment before you ring. Pray
consider! The servant cannot possibly enter, as the door is locked."
"You _dared_ to lock the door!" she exclaimed, a sudden fear chilling
her heart as she remembered similar manoeuvres on the part of the
Reverend Mr. Dyceworthy--then another thought crossed her mind, and she
began to retreat towards a large painted panel of "Venus" disporting
among cupids and dolphins in the sea. Sir Francis sprang to her side,
and caught her arm in an iron grip--his face was aflame with baffled
spite and vindictiveness.
"Yes, I _dared_!" he muttered with triumphant malice. "And I dared do
more than that! You lay unconscious in my arms,--you beautiful,
bewitching Thelma, and I kissed you--ay! fifty times! You can never undo
those kisses! You can never forget that _my_ lips, as well as your
husband's, have rested on yours--I have had that much joy that shall
never be taken away from me! And if I choose, even now,"--and he gripped
her more closely--"yes, even now I will kiss you, in spite of you!--who
is to prevent me? I will force you to love me, Thelma--"
Driven to bay, she struck him with all her force in the face, across the
eyes.
"Traitor!--liar!--coward!" she gasped breathlessly. "Let me go!"
Smarting with the pain of the blow, he unconsciously loosened his
grasp--she rushed to the "Venus" panel, and to his utter discomfiture
and amazement he saw it open and close behind her. She disappeared
suddenly and noiselessly as if by magic. With a fierce exclamation, he
threw his whole weight against that secret sliding door--it resisted all
his efforts. He searched for the spring by which it must have
opened,--the whole panel was perfectly smooth and apparently solid, and
the painted "Venus" reclining on her dolphin's back seemed as though she
smiled mockingly at his rage and disappointment.
While he was examining it, he heard the sudden, sharp, and continuous
ringing of an electric bell somewhere in the house, and with a guilty
flush on his face he sprang to the drawing-room door and unlocked it. He
was just in time, for scarcely had he turned the key, when Morris made
his appearance. That venerable servitor looked round the room in evident
surprise.
"Did her ladyship ring?" he inquired, his eyes roving everywhere in
search of his mistress. Sir Francis collected his wits, and forced
himself to seem composed.
"No," he said coolly. "_I_ rang." He adopted this falsehood as a means
of exit. "Call a hansom, will you?"
And he sauntered easily into the hall, and got on his hat and
great-coat. Morris was rather bewildered,--but, obedient to the command,
blew the summoning cab-whistle, which was promptly answered. Sir Francis
tossed him half a crown, and entered the vehicle, which clattered away
with him in the direction of Cromwell Road. Stopping at a particular
house in a side street leading from thence, he bade the cabman
wait,--and, ascending the steps, busied himself for some moments in
scribbling something rapidly in pencil on a leaf of his note-book by the
light of the hanging-lamp in the doorway. He then gave a loud knock, and
inquired of the servant who answered it--
"Is Mr. Snawley-Grubbs in?"
"Yes, sir,"--the reply came rather hesitatingly--"but he's having a
party to-night."
And, in fact, the scraping of violins and the shuffle of dancing feet
were distinctly audible overhead.
"Oh, well, just mention my name--Sir Francis Lennox. Say I will not
detain him more than five minutes."
He entered, and was ushered into a small ante-room while the maid went
to deliver her message. He caught sight of his own reflection in a round
mirror over the mantel-piece, and his face darkened as he saw a dull red
ridge across his forehead--the mark of Thelma's well-directed blow,--the
sign-manual of her scorn. A few minutes passed, and then there came in
to him a large man in an expensive dress-suit,--a man with a puffy, red,
Silenus-like countenance--no other than Mr. Snawley-Grubbs, who hailed
him with effusive cordiality.
"My dear, Sir Francis!" he said in a rich, thick, uncomfortable voice.
"This is an unexpected pleasure! Won't you come upstairs? My girls are
having a little informal dance--just among themselves and their own
young friends--quite simple,--in fact an unpretentious little affair!"