Thelma
Philip--and this Thelma would not have endured. For the same reason, she
had said nothing to Britta.
In her then condition, it seemed to her that only one course lay open
for her to follow,--and that was to go quietly home,--home to the
Altenfjord. No one would be to blame for her departure but herself, she
thought,--and Philip would be free. Thus she reasoned,--if, indeed, she
reasoned at all. But there was such a frozen stillness in her soul--her
senses were so numbed with pain, that as yet she scarcely realized
either what had happened or what she herself was doing. She was as one
walking in sleep--the awakening, bitter as death, was still to come.
Presently a great rush of people began to stream towards her from one of
the platforms, and trucks of luggage, heralded by shouts of, "Out of the
way, there!" and "By'r leave!" came trundling rapidly along--the tidal
train from the Continent had just arrived.
Dismayed at the increasing confusion and uproar, Thelma addressed
herself to an official with a gold band round his hat.
"Can you tell me," she asked timidly, "where I shall take a ticket for
Hull?"
The man glanced at the fair, anxious face, and smiled good-humoredly.
"You've come to the wrong station, miss," he said. "You want the Midland
line."
"The Midland?" Thelma felt more bewildered than ever.
"Yes,--the _Midland_," he repeated rather testily. "It's a good way from
here--you'd better take a cab."
She moved away,--but started and drew herself back into a shadowed
corner, coloring deeply as the sound of a rich, mellifluous voice, which
she instantly recognized, smote suddenly on her ears.
"And as I before remarked, my good fellow," the voice was saying, "I am
not a disciple of the semi-obscure. If a man has a thought which is
worth declaring, let him declare it with a free and noble
utterance--don't let him wrap it up in multifarious parcels of dreary
verbosity! There's too much of that kind of thing going on nowadays--in
England, at least. There's a kind of imitation of art which isn't art at
all,--a morbid, bilious, bad imitation. You only get close to the real
goddess in Italy. I wish I could persuade you to come and pass the
winter with me there?"
It was Beau Lovelace who spoke, and he was talking to George Lorimer.
The two had met in Paris,--Lovelace was on his way to London, where a
matter of business summoned him for a few days, and Lorimer, somewhat
tired of the French capital, decided to return with him. And here they
were,--just arrived at Charing Cross,--and they walked across the
station arm in arm, little imagining who watched them from behind the
shelter of one of the waiting-room doors, with a yearning sorrow in her
grave blue eyes. They stopped almost opposite to her to light their
cigars,--she saw Lorimer's face quite distinctly, and heard his answer
to Lovelace.
"Well, I'll see what I can do about it, Beau! You know my mother always
likes to get away from London in winter--but whether we ought to inflict
ourselves upon you,--you being a literary man too--"
"Nonsense, you won't interfere in the least with the flow of inky
inspiration," laughed Beau. "And as for your mother, I'm in love with
her, as you are aware! I admire her almost as much as I do Lady
Bruce-Errington--and that's saying a great deal! By-the-by, if Phil can
get through his share of this country's business, he might do worse than
bring his beautiful Thelma to the Lake of Como for a while. I'll ask
him!"
And having lit their Havannas successfully, they walked on and soon
disappeared. For one instant Thelma felt strongly inclined to run after
them, like a little forlorn child that had lost its way,--and,
unburdening herself of all her miseries to the sympathetic George,
entreat, with tears, to be taken back to that husband who did not want
her any more. But she soon overcame this emotion,--and calling to mind
the instructions of the official personage whose advice she had sought,
she hurried out of the huge, brilliantly lit station, and taking a
hansom, was driven, as she requested, to the Midland. Here the rather
gloomy aspect of the place oppressed her as much as the garish bustle of
Charing Cross had bewildered her,--but she was somewhat relieved when
she learned that a train for Hull would start in ten minutes. Hurrying
to the ticket-office she found there before her a kindly faced woman
with a baby in her arms, who was just taking a third-class ticket to
Hull, and as she felt lonely and timid, Thelma at once decided to travel
third-class also, and if possible in the same compartment with this
cheerful matron, who, as soon as she had secured her ticket, walked away
to the train, hushing her infant in her arms as she went. Thelma
followed her at a little distance--and as soon as she saw her enter a
third-class carriage, she hastened her steps and entered also, quite
thankful to have secured some companionship for the long cold journey.
The woman glanced at her a little curiously--it was strange to see so
lovely and young a creature travelling all alone at night,--and she
asked kindly--
"Be you goin' fur, miss?"
Thelma smiled--it was pleasant to be spoken to, she thought.
"Yes," she answered. "All the way to Hull."
"'Tis a cold night for a journey," continued her companion.
"Yes, indeed," answered Thelma. "It must be cold for your little baby."
And unconsciously her voice softened and her eyes grew sad as she looked
across at the sleeping infant.
"Oh, he's as warm as toast!" laughed the mother cheerily. "He gets the
best of everything, he do. It's yourself that's looking cold, my dear in
spite of your warm cloak. Will ye have this shawl?"
And she offered Thelma a homely gray woollen wrap with much kindly
earnestness of manner.
"I am quite warm, thank you," said Thelma gently, accepting the shawl,
however, to please her fellow-traveller. "It is a headache I have which
makes me look pale. And, I am very, very tired!"
Her voice trembled a little,--she sighed and closed her eyes. She felt
strangely weak and giddy,--she seemed to be slipping away from herself
and from all the comprehension of life,--she wondered vaguely who and
what she was. Had her marriage with Philip been all a dream?--perhaps
she had never left the Altenfjord after all! Perhaps she would wake up
presently and see the old farm-house quite unchanged, with the doves
flying about the roof, and Sigurd wandering under the pines as was his
custom. Ah, dear Sigurd! Poor Sigurd! he had loved her, she
thought--nay, he loved her still,--he could not be dead! Oh, yes,--she
must have been dreaming,--she felt certain she was lying on her own
little white bed at home, asleep;--she would by-and-by open her eyes and
get up and look through her little latticed window, and see the sun
sparkling on the water, and the _Eulalie_ at the anchor in the
Fjord--and her father would ask Sir Philip and his friends to spend the
afternoon at the farm-house--and Philip would come and stroll with her
through the garden and down to the shore, and would talk to her in that
low, caressing voice of his,--and though she loved him dearly, she must
never, never let him know of it, because she was not worthy! . . . She
woke from these musings with a violent start and a sick shiver running
through all her frame,--and looking wildly about her, saw that she was
reclining on some one's shoulder,--some one was dabbing a wet
handkerchief on her forehead--her hat was off and her cloak was
loosened.
"There, my dear, you're better now!" said a kindly voice in her ear.
"Lor! I thought you was dead--that I did! 'Twas a bad faint indeed. And
with the train jolting along like this too! It was lucky I had a flask
of cold water with me. Raise your head a little--that's it! Poor
thing,--you're as white as a sheet! You're not fit to travel, my
dear--you're not indeed."
Thelma raised herself slowly, and with a sudden impulse kissed the good
woman's honest, rosy face, to her intense astonishment and pleasure.
"You are very kind to me!" she said tremulously. "I am so sorry to have
troubled you. I do feel ill--but it will soon pass."
And she smoothed her ruffled hair, and sitting up erect, endeavored to
smile. Her companion eyed her pale face compassionately, and taking up
her sleeping baby from the shawl on which she had laid it while
ministering to Thelma's needs, began to rock it slowly to and fro.
Thelma, meanwhile, became sensible of the rapid movement of the train.
"We have left London?" she asked with an air of surprise.
"Nearly half an hour ago, my dear." Then, after a pause, during which
she had watched Thelma very closely, she said--
"I think you're married, aren't you, dearie?"
"Yes." Thelma answered, a slight tinge of color warming her fair pale
cheeks.
"Your husband, maybe, will meet you at Hull?"
"No,--he is in London," said Thelma simply. "I am going to see my
father."
This answer satisfied her humble friend, who, noticing her extreme
fatigue and the effort it cost her to speak, forbore to ask any more
questions, but good-naturedly recommended her to try and sleep. She
slept soundly herself for the greater part of the journey; but Thelma
was now feverishly wide awake, and her eyeballs ached and burned as
though there were fire behind them.
Gradually her nerves began to be wound up to an extreme tension of
excitement--she forgot all her troubles in listening with painful
intentness to the rush and roar of the train through the darkness. The
lights of passing stations and signal-posts gleamed like scattered and
flying stars--there was the frequent shriek of the engine-whistle,--the
serpent-hiss of escaping steam. She peered through the window--all was
blackness; there seemed to be no earth, no sky,--only a sable chaos,
through which the train flew like a flame-mouthed demon. Always that
rush and roar! She began to feel as if she could stand it no longer. She
must escape from that continuous, confusing sound--it maddened her
brain. Nothing was easier; she would open the carriage-door and get out!
Surely she could manage to jump off the step, even though the train was
in motion!
Danger! She smiled at that idea,--there was no danger; and, if there
was, it did not much matter. Nothing mattered now,--now that she had
lost her husband's love. She glanced at the woman opposite, who slept
profoundly--the baby had slipped a little from its mother's arms, and
lay with its tiny face turned towards Thelma. It was a pretty creature,
with soft cheeks and a sweet little mouth,--she looked at it with a
vague, wild smile. Again, again that rush and roar surged like a storm
in her ears and distracted her mind! She rose suddenly and seized the
handle of the carriage door. Another instant, and she would have sprang
to certain death,--when suddenly the sleeping baby woke, and, opening
its mild blue eyes, gazed at her.
She met its glance as one fascinated,--almost unconsciously her fingers
dropped from the door-handle,--the little baby still looked at her in
dreamlike, meditative fashion,--its mother slept profoundly. She bent
lower and lower over the child. With a beating heart she ventured to
touch the small, pink hand that lay outside its wrappings like a softly
curved rose-leaf. With a sort of elf-like confidence and contentment the
feeble, wee fingers closed and curled round hers,--and held her fast!
Weak as a silken thread, yet stronger in its persuasive force than a
grasp of iron, that soft, light pressure controlled and restrained her,
. . . very gradually the mists of her mind cleared,--the rattling,
thunderous dash of the train grew less dreadful, less monotonous, less
painful to her sense of hearing,--her bosom heaved convulsively, and all
suddenly her eyes filled with tears--merciful tears, which at first