Thelma
rich mantle glittering with embroidered trimmings, and poised a
coquettish Paris model hat on her thick untwisted coils of hair. Thus
attired, she passed out of her dressing-room, locking the door behind
her, and after a brief conversation with the jocose acting manager, whom
she met on her way out, she left the theatre, and took a cab to the
Criterion, where the young Duke of Moorlands, her latest conquest, had
invited her to a sumptuous luncheon with himself and friends, all men of
fashion, who were running through what money they had as fast as they
could go.
Lady Winsleigh, on her way home, was tormented by sundry uncomfortable
thoughts and sharp pricks of conscience. Her interview with Violet Vere
had instinctively convinced her that Sir Philip was innocent of the
intrigue imputed to him, and yet,--the letter she had now in her
possession seemed to prove him guilty. And though she felt herself to be
playing a vile part, she could not resist the temptation of trying what
the effect would be of this compromising document on Thelma's trusting
mind. It was undoubtedly a very incriminating epistle--any lawyer would
have said as much, while blandly pocketing his fee for saying it. It was
written off in evident haste, and ran as follows:--
"Let me see you once more on the subject you know of. Why will you
not accept the honorable position offered to you? There shall be
no stint of money--all the promises I have made I am quite ready
to fulfill--you shall lose nothing by being gentle. Surely you
cannot continue to seem so destitute of all womanly feeling and
pity? I will not believe that you would so deliberately condemn to
death a man who has loved, and who loves you still so faithfully,
and who, without you, is utterly weary of life and broken-hearted!
Think once more--and let my words carry more weight with you!"
"BRUCE-ERRINGTON."
This was all, but more than enough!
"I wonder what he means," thought Lady Winsleigh. "It looks as if he
were in love with the Vere and she refused to reciprocate. It _must_ be
that. And yet that doesn't accord with what the creature herself said
about his 'preaching at her.' He wouldn't do that if he were in love."
She studied every word of the letter again and again, and finally folded
it up carefully and placed it in her pocket-book.
"Innocent or guilty, Thelma must see it," she decided. "I wonder how
she'll take it! If she wants a proof--it's one she'll scarcely deny.
Some women would fret themselves to death over it--but I shouldn't
wonder if she sat down under it quite calmly without a word of
complaint." She frowned a little. "Why must _she_ always be superior to
others of her sex! How I detest that still solemn smile of hers and
those big baby-blue eyes! I think if Philip had married any other woman
than she--a woman more like the rest of us who'd have gone with her
time,--I could have forgiven him more easily. But to pick up a Norwegian
peasant and set her up as a sort of moral finger-post to society--and
then to go and compromise himself with Violet Vere--that's a kind of
thing I _can't_ stand! I'd rather be anything in the world than a
humbug!"
Many people desire to be something they are not, and her ladyship quite
unconsciously echoed this rather general sentiment. She was, without
knowing it, such an adept in society humbug, that she even humbugged
herself. She betrayed herself as she betrayed others, and told little
soothing lies to her own conscience as she told them to her friends.
There are plenty of women like her,--women of pleasant courtesy and
fashion, to whom truth is mere coarseness,--and with whom polite lying
passes for perfect breeding. She was not aware, as she was driven along
Park Lane to her own residence, that she carried with her on the box of
her brougham a private detective in the person of Briggs. Perched
stiffly on his seat, with arms tightly folded, this respectable retainer
was quite absorbed in meditation, so much so that he exchanged not a
word with his friend, the coachman, beside him. He had his own notions
of propriety,--he considered that his mistress had no business whatever
to call on an actress of Violet Vere's repute,--and he resolved that
whether he were reproved for over-officiousness or not, nothing should
prevent him from casually mentioning to Lord Winsleigh the object of her
ladyship's drive that morning.
"For," mused Briggs gravely, "a lady 'as responsibilities, and 'owever
she forgets 'erself, appearances 'as to be kep' up."
With the afternoon, the fog which had hung over the city all day,
deepened and darkened. Thelma had lunched with Mrs. Lorimer, and had
enjoyed much pleasant chat with that kindly, cheerful old lady. She had
confided to her, part of the story of Sir Francis Lennox's conduct,
carefully avoiding every mention of the circumstance which had given
rise to it,--namely, the discussion about Violet Vere. She merely
explained that she had suddenly fainted, in which condition Sir Francis
had taken advantage of her helplessness to insult her.
Mrs. Lorimer was highly indignant. "Tell your husband all about it, my
dear!" she advised. "He's big enough, and strong enough, to give that
little snob a good trouncing! My patience! I wish George were in
London--he'd lend a hand and welcome!"
And the old lady nodded her head violently over the sock she was
knitting,--the making of socks for her beloved son was her principal
occupation and amusement.
"But I hear," said Thelma, "that it is against the law to strike any
one, no matter how you have been insulted. If so,--then Philip would be
punished for attacking Sir Francis, and that would not be fair."
"You didn't think of that, child, when you struck Lennox yourself,"
returned Mrs. Lorimer, laughing. "And I guarantee you gave him a good
hard blow,--and serve him right! Never mind what comes of it, my
dearie--just tell your husband as soon as ever he comes home, and let
him take the matter into his own hands. He's a fine man--he'll know how
to defend the pretty wife he loves so well!" And she smiled, while her
shining knitting-needles clicked faster than ever.
Thelma's face saddened a little. "I think I am not worthy of his love,"
she said sorrowfully.
Mrs. Lorimer looked at her with some inquisitiveness.
"What makes you say that, my dear?"
"Because I feel it so much," she replied. "Dear Mrs. Lorimer, you
cannot, perhaps, understand--but when he married me, it seemed as if the
old story of the king and the beggar-maid were being repeated over
again. I sought nothing but his love--his love was, and is my life!
These riches--these jewels and beautiful things he surrounds me with--I
do not care for them at all, except for the reason that he wishes me to
have them. I scarcely understand their value, for I have been poor all
my life, and yet I have wanted nothing. I do not think wealth is needful
to make one happy. But love--ah! I could not live without it--and
now--now--" She paused, and her eyes filled with sudden tears.
"Now what?" asked Mrs. Lorimer gently.
"Now," continued the girl in a low voice, "my heart is always afraid!
Yes! I am afraid of losing my husband's love. Ah, do not laugh at me,
dear Mrs. Lorimer! You know people who are much together sometimes get
tired,--tired of seeing the same face always,--the same form--"
"Are _you_ tired, dearie?" asked the old lady meaningly.
"I? Tired of Philip? I am only happy when he is with me!" And her eyes
deepened with passionate tenderness. "I would wish to live and die
beside him, and I should not care if I never saw another human face than
his!"
"Well, and don't you think he has the same feelings for you?"
"Men are different, I think," returned Thelma musingly. "Now, love is
everything to me--but it may not be everything to Philip. I do believe
that love is only part of a man's life, while it is _all_ a woman's.
Clara told me once that most husbands wearied of their wives, though
they would not always confess it--"
"Clara Winsleigh's modern social doctrines are false, my dear!"
interrupted Mrs. Lorimer quickly. "She isn't satisfied with her own
marriage, and she thinks everybody must be as discontented as herself.
Now, my husband and I lived always together for five and twenty
years,--and we were lovers to the last day, when my darling died with
his hand in mine--and--and--if it hadn't been for my boy,--I should have
died too!"
And two bright tears fell glittering on the old lady's knitting.
Thelma took her hand and kissed it fondly. "I can understand that," she
said softly; "but still,--still I do believe it is difficult to keep
love when you have won it! It is, perhaps, easy to win--but I am sure it
is hard to keep!"
Mrs. Lorimer looked at her earnestly.
"My dear child, don't let that frivolous Winsleigh woman put nonsense
into your pretty head. You are too sensible to take such a morbid view
of things,--and you mustn't allow your wholesome fresh nature to be
contaminated by the petulant, wrong-headed notions that cloud the brains
of idle, fashionable, useless women. Believe me, good men don't tire of
their wives--and Sir Philip is a good man. Good wives never weary their
husbands--and you are a good wife--and you will be a good, sweet mother.
Think of that new delight so soon coming for you,--and leave all the
modern, crazy, one-sided notions of human life to the French and Russian
novelists. Tut-tut!" continued the old lady tenderly. "A nice little
ladyship you are,--worrying yourself about nothing! Send Philip to me
when he comes home--I'll scold him for leaving his bird to mope in her
London cage!"
"I do not mope," declared Thelma. "And you must not scold him, please!
Poor boy! he is working so very hard, and has so much to attend to. He
wants to distinguish himself for--for my sake!"
"That looks very much as if he were tired of you!" laughed Mrs. Lorimer.
"Though I dare say you'd like him to stay at home and make love to you
all day! Silly girl! You want the world to be a sort of Arcadia, with
you as Phyllis, and Sir Philip as Corydon! My dear, we're living in the
nineteenth century, and the days of fond shepherds and languishing
shepherdesses are past!"
Thelma laughed too, and felt soon ashamed of her depression. The figure
of Violet Vere now and then danced before her like a mocking
will-o'-the-wisp--but her pride forbade her to mention this,--the actual
source of all her vague troubles.
She left Mrs. Lorimer's house, which was near Holland Park, about four
o'clock, and as she was passing Church Street, Kensington, she bade her
coachman drive up to the Carmelite Church there, familiarly known as the
"Carms." She entered the sacred edifice, where the service of
Benediction was in progress; and, kneeling down, she listened to the
exquisite strains of the solemn music that pealed through those dim and
shadowy aisles, and a sense of the most perfect peace settled soothingly
on her soul. Clasping her gentle hands, she prayed with innocent and
heart-felt earnestness--not for herself,--never for herself,--but
always, always for that dear, most dear one, for whom every beat of her
true heart was a fresh vow of undying and devoted affection.
"Dear God!" she whispered, "if I love him too much, forgive me! Thou who
art all Love, wilt pardon me this excess of love! Bless my darling
always, and teach me how to be more worthy of Thy goodness and his
tenderness!"
And when she left the church, she was happier and more light-hearted
than she had been for many a long day. She drove home, heedless of the
fog and cold, dismal aspect of the weather, and resolved to go and visit
Lady Winsleigh in the evening, so that when Philip came back on the