Thelma
submissive,--violent, not meek. We all know that! To abuse a husband
well all round, is the modern method of managing him! But poor, foolish,
loving, sensitive Thelma had nothing of the magnificent strength of mind
possessed by most wives of to-day,--she could only realize that
Philip--her Philip--was "utterly weary and broken-hearted"--for the sake
of another woman--and that other woman actually pitied _her_! She pitied
herself too, a little vaguely--her brows ached and throbbed
violently--there was a choking sensation in her throat, but she could
not weep. Tears would have relieved her tired brain, but no tears fell.
She strove to decide on some immediate plan of action,--Philip would be
home to-morrow,--she recoiled at the thought of meeting him, knowing
what she knew. Glancing dreamily at her own figure, reflected by the
lamplight in the long mirror opposite, she recognized that she was fully
attired in outdoor costume--all save her hat, which she had taken off
after her first greeting of Lady Winsleigh, and which was still on the
table at her side. She looked at the clock,--it was five minutes to
seven. Eight o'clock was her dinner-hour, and thinking of this, she
suddenly rang the bell. Morris immediately answered it.
"I shall not dine at home," she said in her usual gentle voice; "I am
going to see some friend this evening. I may not be back till--till
late."
"Very well, my lady," and Morris retired without seeing anything
remarkable in his mistress's announcement. Thelma drew a long breath of
relief as he disappeared, and, steadying her nerves by a strong effort,
passed into her own boudoir,--the little sanctum specially endeared to
her by Philip's frequent presence there. How cosy and comfortable a
home-nest it looked!--a small fire glowed warmly in the grate, and
Britta, whose duty it was to keep this particular room in order, had lit
the lamp,--a rosy globe supported by a laughing cupid,--and had drawn
the velvet curtains close at the window to keep out the fog and chilly
air--there were fragrant flowers on the table,--Thelma's own favorite
lounge was drawn up to the fender in readiness for her,--opposite to it
stood the deep, old-fashioned easy chair in which Philip always sat. She
looked round upon all these familiar things with a dreary sense of
strangeness and desolation, and the curves of her sweet mouth trembled a
little and drooped piteously. But her resolve was taken, and she did not
hesitate or weep. She sat down to her desk and wrote a few brief lines
to her father--this letter she addressed and stamped ready for posting.
Then for a while she remained apparently lost in painful musings,
playing with the pen she held, and uncertain what to do. Presently she
drew a sheet of note-paper toward her, and began, "My darling boy." As
these words appeared under her hand on the white page, her forced calm
nearly gave way,--a low cry of intense agony escaped from her lips, and,
dropping the pen, she rose and paced the room restlessly, one hand
pressed against her heart as though that action could still its rapid
beatings. Once more she essayed the hard task she had set herself to
fulfill--the task of bidding farewell to the husband in whom her life
was centred. Piteous, passionate words came quickly from her overcharged
and almost breaking heart--words, tender, touching,--full of love, and
absolutely free from all reproach. Little did she guess as she wrote
that parting letter, what desperate misery it would cause to the
receiver!--
When she had finished it, she felt quieted--even more composed than
before. She folded and sealed it--then put it out of sight and rang for
Britta. That little maiden soon appeared, and seemed surprised to see
her mistress still in walking costume.
"Have you only just come in, Froeken?" she ventured to inquire.
"No, I came home some time ago," returned Thelma gently. "But I was
talking to Lady Winsleigh in the drawing-room,--and as I am going out
again this evening I shall not require to change my dress. I want you to
post this letter for me, Britta."
And she held out the one addressed to her father, Olaf Gueldmar. Britta
took it, but her mind still revolved the question of her mistress's
attire.
"If you are going to spend the evening with friends," she suggested,
"would it not be better to change?"
"I have on a velvet gown," said Thelma, with a rather wearied patience.
"It is quite dressy enough for where I am going." She paused abruptly,
and Britta looked at her inquiringly.
"Are you tired, Froeken Thelma?" she asked. "You are so pale!"
"I have a slight headache," Thelma answered. "It is nothing,--it will
soon pass. I wish you to post that letter at once, Britta."
"Very well, Froeken." Britta still hesitated. "Will you be out all the
evening?" was her next query.
"Yes."
"Then perhaps you will not mind if I go and see Louise, and take supper
with her? She has asked me, and Mr. Briggs"--here Britta laughed--"is
coming to see if I can go. He will escort me, he says!" And she laughed
again.
Thelma forced herself to smile. "You can go, by all means, Britta! But I
thought you did not like Lady Winsleigh's French maid?"
"I don't like her much," Britta admitted--"still, she means to be kind
and agreeable, I think. And"--here she eyed Thelma with a mysterious and
important air--"I want to ask her a question about something very
particular."
"Then, go and stay as long as you like, dear," said Thelma, a sudden
impulse of affection causing her to caress softly her little maid's
ruffled brown curls, "I shall not be back till--till quite late. And
when you return from the post, I shall be gone--so--good-bye!"
"Good-bye!" exclaimed Britta wonderingly. "Why, where are you going? One
would think you were starting on a long journey. You speak so strangely,
Froeken!"
"Do I?" and Thelma smiled kindly. "It is because my head aches, I
suppose. But it is not strange to say good-bye, Britta!"
Britta caught her hand. "Where are you going?" she persisted.
"To see some friends," responded Thelma quietly. "Now do not ask any
more questions, Britta, but go and post my letter. I want father to get
it as soon as possible, and you will lose the post if you are not very
quick."
Thus reminded, Britta hastened off, determining to run all the way, in
order to get back before her mistress left the house. Thelma, however,
was too quick for her. As soon as Britta had gone, she took the letter
she had written to Philip, and slipped it within the pages of a small
volume of poems he had lately been reading. It was a new book entitled
"Gladys the Singer," and its leading _motif_ was the old,
never-exhausted subject of a woman's too faithful love, betrayal, and
despair. As she opened it, her eyes fell by chance on a few lines of
hopeless yet musical melancholy, which, like a sad song heard suddenly,
made her throat swell with rising yet restrained tears. They ran thus:--
"Oh! I can drown, or, like a broken lyre,
Be thrown to earth, or cast upon a fire,--
I can be made to feel the pangs of death,
And yet be constant to the quest of breath,--
Our poor pale trick of living through the lies
We name Existence when that 'something' dies
Which we call Honor. Many and many a way
Can I be struck or fretted night or day
In some new fashion,--or condemn'd the while
To take for food the semblance of a smile,--
The left-off rapture of a slain caress,--"
Ah!--she caught her breath sobbingly, "The left-off rapture of a slain
caress!" Yes,--that would be her portion now if--if she stayed to
receive it. But she would not stay! She turned over the volume
abstractedly, scarcely conscious of the action,--and suddenly, as if the
poet-writer of it had been present to probe her soul and make her inmost
thoughts public, she read:--
"Because I am unlov'd of thee to-day,
And undesired as sea-weeds in the sea!"
Yes!--that was the "because" of everything that swayed her sorrowful
spirit,--"because" she was "unlov'd and undesired."
She hesitated no longer, but shut the book with her farewell letter
inside it, and put it back in its former place on the little table
beside Philip's arm-chair. Then she considered how she should
distinguish it by some mark that should attract her husband's attention
toward it,--and loosening from her neck a thin gold chain on which was
suspended a small diamond cross with the names "Philip" and "Thelma"
engraved at the back, she twisted it round the little book, and left it
so that the sparkle of the jewels should be seen distinctly on the
cover. Now was there anything more to be done? She divested herself of
all her valuable ornaments, keeping only her wedding-ring and its
companion circlet of brilliants,--she emptied her purse of all money
save that which was absolutely necessary for her journey--then she put
on her hat, and began to fasten her long cloak slowly, for her fingers
were icy cold and trembled very strangely. Stay,--there was her
husband's portrait,--she might take that, she thought, with a sort of
touching timidity. It was a miniature on ivory--and had been painted
expressly for her,--she placed it inside her dress, against her bosom.
"He has been too good to me," she murmured; "and I have been too
happy,--happier than I deserved to be. Excess of happiness must always
end in sorrow."
She looked dreamily at Philip's empty chair--in fancy she could see his
familiar figure seated there, and she sighed as she thought of the face
she loved so well,--the passion of his eyes,--the tenderness of his
smile. Softly she kissed the place where his head had rested,--then
turned resolutely away.
She was giving up everything, she thought, to another woman,--but
then--that other woman, however incredible it seemed, was the one Philip
loved best,--his own written words were a proof of this. There was no
choice therefore,--his pleasure was her first consideration,--everything
must yield to that, so she imagined,--her own life was nothing, in her
estimation, compared to his desire. Such devotion as hers was of course
absurd--it amounted to weak self-immolation, and would certainly be
accounted as supremely foolish by most women who have husbands, and who,
when they swear to "obey," mean to break the vow at every convenient
opportunity--but Thelma could not alter her strange nature, and, with
her, obedience meant the extreme letter of the law of utter submission.
Leaving the room she had so lately called her own, she passed into the
entrance-hall. Morris was not there, and she did not summon him,--she
opened the street-door for herself, and shutting it quietly behind her,
she stood alone in the cold street, where the fog had now grown so dense
that the lamp-posts were scarcely visible. She walked on for a few paces
rather bewildered and chilled by the piercing bitterness of the
air,--then, rallying her forces, she hailed a passing cab, and told the
man to take her to Charing Cross Station. She was not familiar with
London--and Charing Cross was the only great railway terminus she could
just then think of.
Arrived there, the glare of the electric light, the jostling passengers
rushing to and from the trains, the shouts and wrangling of porters and
cabmen, confused her not a little,--and the bold looks of admiration
bestowed on her freely by the male loungers sauntering near the doors of
the restaurant and hotel, made her shrink and tremble for shame. She had
never travelled entirely alone before--and she began to be frightened at
the pandemonium of sights and noises that surged around her. Yet she
never once thought of returning,--she never dreamed of going to any of
her London friends, lest on hearing of her trouble they might reproach