Thelma
corner where he now found them.
More puzzled than ever, he glanced searchingly round the room--and his
eyes were at once attracted by the sparkle of the diamond cross that lay
uppermost on the cover of "Gladys the Singer," the book of poems which
was in its usual place on his own reading table. In another second he
seized it--he unwound the slight gold chain--he opened the little volume
tremblingly. Yes!--there was a letter within its pages addressed to
himself,--now, now he should know all! He tore it open with feverish
haste--two folded sheets of paper fell out,--one was his own epistle to
Violet Vere, and this, to his consternation, he perceived first. Full of
a sudden misgiving he laid it aside, and began to read Thelma's parting
words.
"My darling boy," she wrote--
"A friend of yours and mine brought me the enclosed letter and
though, perhaps, it was wrong of me to read it, I hope you will
forgive me for having done so. I do not quite understand it, and I
cannot bear to think about it--but it seems that you are tired of
your poor Thelma! I do not blame you, dearest, for I am sure that in
some way or other the fault is mine, and it does grieve me so much
to think you are unhappy! I know that I am very ignorant of many
things, and that I am not suited to this London life--and I fear I
shall never understand its ways. But one thing I can do, and that is
to let you be free, my Philip--quite free! And so I am going back to
the Altenfjord, where I will stay till you want me again, if you
ever do. My heart is yours and I shall always love you till I die,--
and though it seems to me just now better that we should part, to
give you greater ease and pleasure, still you must always remember
that I have no reproaches to make to you. I am only sorry to think
my love has wearied you,--for you have been all goodness and
tenderness to me. And so that people shall not talk about me or you,
you will simply say to them that I have gone to see my father, and
they will think nothing strange in that. Be kind to Britta,--I have
told her nothing, as it would only make her miserable. Do not be
angry that I go away--I cannot bear to stay here, knowing all. And
so, good-bye, my love, my dearest one!--if you were to love many
women more than me, I still should love you best--I still would
gladly die to serve you. Remember this always,--that, however long
we may be parted, and though all the world should come between us, I
am, and ever shall be your faithful wife,"
"THELMA."
The ejaculation that broke from Errington's lips as he finished reading
this letter was more powerful than reverent. Stinging tears darted to
his eyes--he pressed his lips passionately on the fair writing.
"My darling--my darling!" he murmured. "What a miserable
misunderstanding!"
Then without another moment's delay he rushed into Neville's study and
cried abruptly--
"Look here! It's all your fault."
"_My_ fault!" gasped the amazed secretary.
"Yes--your fault!" shouted Errington almost beside himself with grief
and rage. "Your fault, and that of your accursed _wife_, Violet Vere!"
And he dashed the letter, the cause of all the mischief, furiously down
on the table. Neville shrank and shivered,--his grey head drooped, he
stretched out his hands appealingly.
"For God's sake, Sir Philip, tell me what I've done?" he exclaimed
piteously.
Errington strode up and down the room in a perfect fever of impatience.
"By Heaven, it's enough to drive me mad!" he burst forth.
"Your wife!--your wife!--confound her! When you first discovered her in
that shameless actress, didn't I want to tell Thelma all about it--that
very night?--and didn't you beg me not to do so? Your silly scruples
stood in the way of everything! I was a fool to listen to you--a fool to
meddle in your affairs--and--and I wish to God I'd never seen or heard
of you!"
Neville turned very white, but remained speechless.
"Read that letter!" went on Philip impetuously. "You've seen it before!
It's the last one I wrote to your wife imploring her to see you and
speak with you. Here it comes, the devil knows how, into Thelma's hands.
She's quite in the dark about _your secret_, and fancies I wrote it on
my own behalf! It looks like it too--looks exactly as if I were pleading
for myself and breaking my heart over that detestible stage-fiend--by
Jove! it's too horrible!" And he gave a gesture of loathing and
contempt.
Neville heard him in utter bewilderment. "Not possible!" he muttered.
"Not possible--it can't be!"
"Can't be? It _is_!" shouted Philip. "And if you'd let me tell Thelma
everything from the first, all this wouldn't have happened. And you ask
me what you've done! _Done!_ You've parted me from the sweetest, dearest
girl in the world!"
And throwing himself into a chair, he covered his face with his hand and
a great uncontrollable sob broke from his lips.
Neville was in despair. Of course, it was his fault--he saw it all
clearly. He painfully recalled all that had happened since that night at
the Brilliant Theatre when with a sickening horror he had discovered
Violet Vere to be no other than Violet Neville,--his own little violet!
. . . as he had once called her--his wife that he had lost and mourned as
though she were some pure dead woman lying sweetly at rest in a quiet
grave. He remembered Thelma's shuddering repugnance at the sight of
her,--a repugnance which he himself had shared--and which made him
shrink with fastidious aversion, from the idea of confiding to any one
but Sir Philip, the miserable secret of his connection with her. Sir
Philip had humored him in this fancy, little imagining that any mischief
would come of it--and the reward of his kindly sympathy was this,--his
name was compromised, his home desolate, and his wife estranged from
him!
In the first pangs of the remorse and sorrow that filled his heart,
Neville could gladly have gone out and drowned himself. Presently he
began to think,--was there not some one else beside himself who might
possibly be to blame for all this misery? For instance, who could have
brought or sent that letter to Lady Errington? In her high station, she,
so lofty, so pure, so far above the rest of her sex, would have been the
last person to make any inquiries about such a woman as Violet Vere. How
had it all happened? He looked imploringly for some minutes at the
dejected figure in the chair without daring to offer a word of
consolation. Presently he ventured a remark--
"Sir Philip!" he stammered. "It will soon be all right,--her ladyship
will come back immediately. I myself will explain--it's--it's only a
misunderstanding . . ."
Errington moved in his chair impatiently, but said nothing. Only a
misunderstanding! How many there are who can trace back broken
friendships and severed loves to that one thing--"only a
misunderstanding!" The tenderest relations are often the most delicate
and subtle, and "trifles light as air" may scatter and utterly destroy
the sensitive gossamer threads extending between one heart and another,
as easily as a child's passing foot destroys the spider's web woven on
the dewy grass in the early mornings of spring.
Presently Sir Philip started up--his lashes were wet and his face was
flushed.
"It's no good sitting here," he said, rapidly buttoning on his overcoat.
"I must go after her. Let all the business go to the devil! Write and
say I won't stand for Middleborough--I resign in favor of the Liberal
candidate. I'm off to Norway to-night."
"To Norway!" cried Neville. "Has she gone _there_? At this season--"
He broke off, for at that moment Britta entered, looking the picture of
misery. Her face was pale and drawn--her eyelids red and swollen, and
when she saw Sir Philip, she gave him a glance of the most despairing
reproach and indignation. He sprang up to her.
"Any news?" he demanded.
Britta shook her head mournfully, the tears beginning to roll again down
her cheeks.
"Oh, if I'd only thought!" she sobbed, "if I'd only known what the dear
Froeken meant to do when she said good-bye to me last night, I could have
prevented her going--I could--I would have told her all I know--and she
would have stayed to see you! Oh, Sir Philip, if you had only been here,
that wicked, wicked Lady Winsleigh _couldn't_ have driven her away!"
At this name such a fury filled Philip's heart that he could barely
control himself. He breathed quickly and heavily.
"What of her?" he demanded in a low, suffocated voice. "What has Lady
Winsleigh to do with it, Britta?"
"Everything!" cried Britta, though, as she glanced at his set, stern
face and paling lips, she began to feel a little frightened. "She has
always hated the Froeken, and been jealous of her--always! Her own maid,
Louise, will tell you so--Lord Winsleigh's man, Briggs, will tell you
so! They've listened at the doors, and they know all about it!" Britta
made this statement with the most childlike candor. "And they've heard
all sorts of wicked things--Lady Winsleigh was always talking to Sir
Francis Lennox about the Froeken,--and now they've made her believe you
do not care for her any more--they've been trying to make her believe
everything bad of you for ever so many months--" she paused, terrified
at Sir Philip's increasing pallor.
"Go on, Britta," he said quietly, though his voice sounded strange to
himself. Britta gathered up all her remaining stock of courage.
"Oh dear, oh dear!" she continued desperately, "I _don't_ understand
London people at all, and I never shall understand them. Everybody seems
to want to be wicked! Briggs says that Lady Winsleigh was fond of _you_,
Sir Philip,--then, that she was fond of Sir Francis Lennox,--and yet she
has a husband of her own all the time! It is so very strange!" And the
little maiden's perplexity appeared to border on distraction. "They
would think such a woman quite mad in Norway! But what is worse than
anything is that you--you, Sir Philip,--oh! I _won't_ believe it," and
she stamped her foot passionately, "I _can't_ believe it! . . . and yet
everybody says that you go to see a dreadful, painted dancing woman at
the theatre, and that you like her better than the Froeken,--it _isn't_
true, is it?" Here she peered anxiously at her master--but he was
absolutely silent. Neville made as though he would speak, but a gesture
from Sir Philip's hand restrained him. Britta went on rather
dispiritedly, "Anyhow, Briggs has just told me that only yesterday Lady
Winsleigh went all by herself to see this actress, and that she got some
letter there which she brought to the Froeken--" she recoiled suddenly
with a little scream. "Oh, Sir Philip!--where are you going?"
Errington's hand came down on her shoulder, as he twisted her lightly
out of his path and strode to the door.
"Sir Philip--Sir Philip!" cried Neville anxiously, hastening after him.
"Think for a moment; don't do anything rash!" Philip wrung his hand
convulsively. "Rash! My good fellow, it's a _woman_ who has slandered
me--what _can_ I do? Her sex protects her!" He gave a short, furious
laugh. "But--by God!--were she a man I'd shoot her dead!"
And with these words, and his eyes blazing with wrath, he left the room.
Neville and Britta confronted each other in vague alarm.
"Where will he go?" half whispered Britta.
"To Winsleigh House, I suppose," answered Neville in the same low tone.
Just then the hall door shut with a loud bang, that echoed through the
silent house.
"He's gone!" and as Neville said this he sighed and looked dubiously at
his companion. "How do you know all this about Lady Winsleigh, Britta?
It may not be true--it's only servants' gossip."
"Only servants' gossip!" exclaimed Britta. "And is that nothing? Why, in