Thelma
morrow, she might be able to tell him that she had amused herself, and
had not been lonely.
But when she arrived at her own door, Morris, who opened it, informed
her that Lady Winsleigh was waiting in the drawing-room to see her, and
had been waiting some time. Thelma hastened thither immediately, and
held out her hands joyously to her friend.
"I am so sorry you have had to wait, Clara!" she began. "Why did you not
send word and say you were coming? Philip is away and will not be back
to-night, and I have been lunching with Mrs. Lorimer, and--why, what
makes you look so grave?"
Lady Winsleigh regarded her fixedly. How radiantly lovely the young wife
looked!--her cheeks had never been more delicately rosy, or her eyes
more brilliant. The dark fur cloak she wore with its rich sable
trimmings, and the little black velvet _toque_ that rested on her fair
curls, set off the beauty of her clear skin to perfection, and her
rival, who stood gazing at her with such close scrutiny, envied her more
than ever as she was once again reluctantly forced to admit to herself
the matchless loveliness of the innocent creature whose happiness she
now sought to destroy.
"Do I look grave, Thelma?" she said with a slight smile. "Well, perhaps
I've a reason for my gravity. And so your husband is away?"
"Yes. He went quite early this morning,--a telegram summoned him and he
was obliged to go." Here she drew up a chair to the fire, and began to
loosen her wraps. "Sit down, Clara! I will ring for tea."
"No, don't ring," said Lady Winsleigh. "Not yet! I want to talk to you
privately." She sank languidly on a velvet lounge and looked Thelma
straight in the eyes.
"Dear Thelma," she continued in a sweetly tremulous, compassionate
voice. "Can you bear to hear something very painful and shocking,
something that I'm afraid will grieve you very much?"
The color fled from the girl's fair face--her eyes grew startled.
"What do you mean, Clara? Is it anything about--about Philip?"
Lady Winsleigh bent her head in assent, but remained silent.
"If," continued Thelma, with a little return of the rosy hue to her
cheeks. "If it is something else about that--that person at the theatre,
Clara, I would rather not hear it! I think I have been wrong in
listening to any such stories--it is so seldom that gossip of any kind
is true. It is not a wife's duty to receive scandals about her husband.
And suppose he does see Miss Vere, how do I know that it may not be on
business for some friend of his?--because I do know that on that night
when he went behind the scenes at the Brilliant, he said it was on
business. Mr. Lovelace used often to go and see Miss Mary Anderson, all
to persuade her to take a play written by a friend of his--and Philip,
who is always kind-hearted, may perhaps be doing something of the same
sort. I feel I have been wicked to have even a small doubt of my
husband's love,--so, Clara, do not let us talk any more on a subject
which only displeases me."
"You must choose your own way of life, of course," said Lady Winsleigh
coldly. "But you draw rather foolish comparisons, Thelma. There is a
wide difference between Mary Anderson and Violet Vere. Besides, Mr.
Lovelace is a bachelor,--he can do as he likes and go where he likes
without exciting comment. However, whether you are angry with me or not,
I feel I should not be your true friend if I did not show you--_this_.
You know your husband's writing!"
And she drew out the fatal letter, and continued, watching her victim as
she spoke, "This was sent by Sir Philip to Violet Vere last night,--she
gave it to me herself this morning."
Thelma's hand trembled as she took the paper.
"Why should I read it?" she faltered mechanically.
Lady Winsleigh raised her eyebrows and frowned impatiently.
"Why--why? Because it is your duty to do so! Have you no pride? Will you
allow your husband to write such a letter as that to another woman,--and
_such_ a woman too! without one word of remonstrance? You owe it to
yourself--to your own sense of honor--to resent and resist such
treatment on his part! Surely the deepest love cannot pardon deliberate
injury and insult."
"My love can pardon anything," answered the girl in a low voice, and
then slowly, very slowly, she opened the folded sheet--slowly she read
every word it contained,--words that stamped themselves one by one on
her bewildered brain and sent it reeling into darkness and vacancy. She
felt sick and cold--she stared fixedly at her husband's familiar
handwriting. "A man who has loved and who loves you still, and who
without you is utterly weary and broken-hearted!"
Thus he wrote of himself to--to Violet Vere! It seemed incredible--yet
it was true! She heard a rushing sound in her ears--the room swung round
dizzily before her eyes--yet she sat, still, calm and cold, holding the
letter and speaking no word.
Lady Winsleigh watched her, irritated at her passionless demeanor.
"Well!" she exclaimed at last. "Have you nothing to say?"
Thelma looked up, her eyes burning with an intense feverish light.
"Nothing!" she replied.
"_Nothing_?" repeated her ladyship with emphatic astonishment.
"Nothing against Philip," continued the girl steadily. "For the blame is
not his, but mine! That he is weary and broken-hearted must be my
fault--though I cannot yet understand what I have done. But it must be
something, because if I were all that he wished he would not have grown
so tired." She paused and her pale lips quivered. "I am sorry," she went
on with dreamy pathos, "sorrier for him than for myself, because now I
see I am in the way of his happiness." A quiver of agony passed over her
face,--she fixed her large bright eyes on Lady Winsleigh, who
instinctively shrank from the solemn speechless despair of that
penetrating gaze.
"Who gave you this letter, Clara?" she asked calmly.
"I told you before,--Miss Vere herself."
"Why did she give it to you?" continued Thelma in a dull, sad voice.
Lady Winsleigh hesitated and stammered a little. "Well, because--because
I asked her if the stories about Sir Philip were true. And she begged me
to ask him not to visit her so often." Then, with an additional thought
of malice, she said softly. "She doesn't wish to wrong you, Thelma,--of
course, she's not a very good woman, but I think she feels sorry for
you!"
The girl uttered a smothered cry of anguish, as though she had been
stabbed to the heart. She!--to be actually _pitied_ by Violet Vere,
because she had been unable to keep her husband's love! This idea
tortured her very soul,--but she was silent.
"I thought you were my friend, Clara?" she said suddenly, with a strange
wistfulness.
"So I am, Thelma," murmured Lady Winsleigh, a guilty flush coloring her
cheeks.
"You have made me very miserable," went on Thelma gravely, and with
pathetic simplicity, "and I am sorry indeed that we ever met. I was so
happy till I knew you!--and yet I was very fond of you! I am sure you
mean everything for the best, but I cannot think it is so. And it is all
so dark and desolate now--why have you taken such pains to make me sad?
Why have you so often tried to make me doubt my husband's love?--why
have you come to-day so quickly to tell me I have lost it? But for you,
I might never have known this sorrow,--I might have died soon, in happy
ignorance, believing in my darling's truth as I believe in God!"
Her voice broke, and a hard sob choked her utterance. For once Lady
Winsleigh's conscience smote her--for once she felt ashamed, and dared
not offer consolation to the innocent soul she had so wantonly stricken.
For a minute or two there was silence--broken only by the monotonous
ticking of the clock and the crackling of the fire.
Presently Thelma spoke again. "I will ask you to go away now and leave
me, Clara," she said simply. "When the heart is sorrowful, it is best to
be alone. Good-bye!" And she gently held out her hand.
"Poor Thelma!" said Lady Winsleigh, taking it with an affectation of
tenderness. "What will you do?"
Thelma did not answer; she sat mute and rigid.
"You are thinking unkindly of me just now," continued Clara softly; "but
I felt it was my duty to tell you the worst at once. It's no good living
in a delusion! I'm very, very sorry for you, Thelma!"
Thelma remained perfectly silent. Lady Winsleigh moved towards the door,
and as she opened it looked back at her. The girl might have been a
lifeless figure for any movement that could be perceived about her. Her
face was white as marble--her eyes were fixed on the sparkling fire--her
very hands looked stiff and pallid as wax, as they lay clasped in her
lap--the letter--the cruel letter,--had fallen at her feet. She seemed
as one in a trance of misery--and so Lady Winsleigh left her.
CHAPTER XXVI.
"O my lord, O Love,
I have laid my life at thy feet;
Have thy will thereof
For what shall please thee is sweet!"
SWINBURNE.
She roused herself at last. Unclasping her hands, she pushed back her
hair from her brows and sighed heavily. Shivering as with intense cold,
she rose from the chair she had so long occupied, and stood upright,
mechanically gathering around her the long fur mantle that she had not
as yet taken off. Catching sight of the letter where it lay, a gleaming
speck of white on the rich dark hues of the carpet, she picked it up and
read it through again calmly and comprehensively,--then folded it up
carefully as though it were something of inestimable value. Her thoughts
were a little confused,--she could only realize clearly two distinct
things,--first, that Philip was unhappy,--secondly, that she was in the
way of his happiness. She did not pause to consider how this change in
him had been effected,--moreover, she never imagined that the letter he
had written could refer to any one but himself. Hers was a nature that
accepted facts as they appeared--she never sought for ulterior motives
or disguised meanings. True, she could not understand her husband's
admiration for Violet Vere, "But then"--she thought--"many other men
admire her too. And so it is certain there must be something about her
that wins love,--something I cannot see!"
And presently she put aside all other considerations, and only pondered
on one thing,--how should she remove herself from the path of her
husband's pleasure? For she had no doubt but that she was an obstacle to
his enjoyment. He had made promises to Violet Vere which he was "ready
to fulfill,"--he offered her "an honorable position,"--he desired her
"not to condemn him to death,"--he besought her to let his words "carry
more weight with her."
"It is because I am here," thought Thelma wearily. "She would listen to
him if I were gone!" She had the strangest notions of wifely duty--odd
minglings of the stern Norse customs with the gentler teachings of
Christianity,--yet in both cases the lines of woman's life were clearly
defined in one word--obedience. Most women, receiving an apparent proof
of a husband's infidelity, would have made what is termed a
"scene,"--would have confronted him with rage and tears, and personal
abuse,--but Thelma was too gentle for this,--too gentle to resist what
seemed to be Philip's wish and will, and far too proud to stay where it
appeared evident she was not wanted. Moreover she could not bear the
idea of speaking to him on, such a subject as his connection with Violet
Vere,--the hot color flushed her cheeks with a sort of shame as she
thought of it.
Of course, she was weak--of course, she was foolish,--we will grant that
she was anything the reader chooses to call her. It is much better for a
woman nowadays to be defiant rather than yielding,--aggressive, not