Thelma
"Shame on you! Shame!"
Her ladyship laughed amusedly. "Please don't be tragic!" she said; "it's
too ridiculous! Sir Philip has only himself to blame. Of course, Thelma
knows about his frequent visits to the Brilliant Theatre. I told her all
that Sir Francis said. Why should she be kept in the dark? I dare say
she doesn't mind--she's very fond of Mr. Lorimer!"
Errington felt as though he must choke with fury. He forgot the presence
of Lord Winsleigh--he forgot everything but his just indignation.
"My God!" he cried passionately. "You _dare_ to speak so!--_you_!"
"Yes I!" she returned coolly, measuring him with a glance. "I dare! What
have you to say against _me_?" She drew herself up imperiously.
Then turning to her husband, she said, "Have the goodness to take your
excited friend away, my lord! I am going out--I have a great many
engagements this morning--and I really cannot stop to discuss this
absurd affair any longer! It isn't my fault that Sir Philip's excessive
admiration for Miss Vere has become the subject of gossip--_I_ don't
blame him for it! He seems extremely ill-tempered about it; after all,
_'ce n'est que la verite qui blesse!'_"
And she smiled maliciously.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
"For my mother's sake,
For thine and hers, O Love! I pity take
On all poor women. Jesu's will be done,
Honor for all, and infamy for none,
This side the borders of the burning lake."
ERIC MACKAY'S _Love-Letters of a Violinist_.
Lord Winsleigh did not move. Sir Philip fixed his eyes upon her in
silence. Some occult fascination forced her to meet his glance, and the
utter scorn of it stung her proud heart to its centre. Not that she felt
much compunction--her whole soul was up in arms against him, and had
been so from the very day she was first told of his unexpected marriage.
His evident contempt now irritated her--she was angrier with him than
ever, and yet--she had a sort of strange triumph in the petty vengeance
she had designed--she had destroyed his happiness for a time, at least.
If she could but shake his belief in his wife! she thought,
vindictively. To that end she had thrown out her evil hint respecting
Thelma's affection for George Lorimer, but the shaft had been aimed
uselessly. Errington knew too well the stainless purity of Thelma to
wrong her by the smallest doubt, and he would have staked his life on
the loyalty of his friend. Presently he controlled his anger
sufficiently to be able to speak, and still eyeing her with that
straight, keen look of immeasurable disdain, he said in cold, deliberate
accents--
"Your ladyship is in error,--the actress in question is the wife of my
secretary, Mr. Neville. For years they have been estranged--my visits to
her were entirely on Neville's behalf--my letters to her were all on the
same subject. Sir Francis Lennox must have known the truth all
along,--Violet Vere has been his mistress for the past five years!"
He uttered the concluding words with intense bitterness. A strange,
bewildered horror passed over Lady Winsleigh's face.
"I don't believe it," she said rather faintly.
"Believe it or not, it is true!" he replied curtly. "Ask the manager of
the Brilliant, if you doubt me. Winsleigh, it's no use my stopping here
any longer. As her ladyship refuses to give any explanation--"
"Wait a moment, Errington," interposed Lord Winsleigh in his coldest and
most methodical manner. "Her ladyship refuses--but _I_ do not refuse!
Her ladyship will not speak--she allows her husband to speak for her.
Therefore," and he smiled at his astonished wife somewhat sardonically,
"I may tell you at once, that her ladyship admits to having purchased
from Violet Vere for the sum of 20 pounds, the letter which she
afterwards took with her own hands to your wife." Lady Winsleigh uttered
an angry exclamation.
"Don't interrupt me, Clara, if you please," he said, with an icy smile.
"We have so many sympathies in common that I'm sure I shall be able to
explain your unspoken meanings quite clearly." He went on, addressing
himself to Errington, who stood utterly amazed.
"Her ladyship desires me to assure you that her only excuse for her
action in this matter is, that she fully believed the reports her
friend, Sir Francis Lennox, gave her concerning your supposed intimacy
with the actress in question,--and that, believing it, she made use of
it as much as possible for the purpose of destroying your wife's peace
of mind and confidence in you. Her object was most purely feminine--love
of mischief, and the gratification of private spite! There's nothing
like frankness!" and Lord Winsleigh's face was a positive study as he
spoke. "You see,"--he made a slight gesture towards his wife, who stood
speechless, and so pale that her very lips were colorless--"her ladyship
is not in a position to deny what I have said. Excuse her silence!"
And again he smiled--that smile as glitteringly chilled as a gleam of
light on the edge of a sword. Lady Winsleigh raised her head, and her
eyes met his with a dark expression of the uttermost anger. "Spy!" she
hissed between her teeth,--then without further word or gesture, she
swept haughtily away into her dressing-room, which adjoined the boudoir,
and closed the door of communication, thus leaving the two men alone
together.
Errington felt himself to be in a most painful and awkward position. If
there was anything he more than disliked, it was a _scene_--particularly
of a domestic nature. And he had just had a glimpse into Lord and Lady
Winsleigh's married life, which, to him, was decidedly unpleasant. He
could not understand how Lord Winsleigh had become cognizant of all he
had so frankly stated--and then, why had he not told him everything at
first, without waiting to declare it in his wife's presence? Unless,
indeed, he wished to shame her? There was evidently something in the
man's disposition and character that he, Philip, could not as yet
comprehend,--something that certainly puzzled him, and filled him with
vague uneasiness.
"Winsleigh, I'm awfully sorry this has happened," he began hurriedly,
holding out his hand.
Lord Winsleigh grasped it cordially. "My dear fellow, so am I! Heartily
sorry! I have to be sorry for a good many things rather often. But I'm
specially grieved to think that your beautiful and innocent young wife
is the victim in this case. Unfortunately I was told nothing till this
morning, otherwise I might possibly have prevented all your unhappiness.
But I trust it won't be of long duration. Here's this letter," he
returned it as he spoke, "which in more than one way has cost so large a
price. Possibly her ladyship may now regret her ill-gotten purchase."
"Pardon me," said Errington curiously, "but how did you know--"
"The information was pressed upon me very much," replied Lord Winsleigh
evasively, "and from such a source that up to the last moment I almost
refused to believe it." He paused, and then went on with a forced smile,
"Suppose we don't talk any more about it, Errington? The subject's
rather painful to me. Only allow me to ask your pardon for my wife's
share in the mischief!"
Something in his manner of speaking affected Sir Philip.
"Upon my soul, Winsleigh," he exclaimed with sudden fervor, "I fancy
you're a man greatly wronged!"
Lord Winsleigh smiled slightly. "You only _fancy_?" he said quietly.
"Well,--my good friend, we all have our troubles--I dare say mine are no
greater than those of many better men." He stopped short, then asked
abruptly, "I suppose you'll see Lennox?"
Errington set his teeth hard. "I shall,--at once!" he replied. "And I
shall probably thrash him within an inch of his life!"
"That's right! I shan't be sorry!" and Lord Winsleigh's hand clenched
almost unconsciously. "I hope you understand, Errington, that if it
hadn't been for my son, I should have shot that fellow long ago. I dare
say you wonder,--and some others too,--why I haven't done it. But
Ernest--poor little chap! . . . he would have heard of it,--and the
reason of it,--his young life is involved in mine--why should I bequeath
him a dishonored mother's name? There--for heaven's sake, don't let me
make a fool of myself!" and he fiercely dashed his hand across his eyes.
"A duel or a divorce--or a horsewhipping--they all come to pretty much
the same thing--all involve public scandal for the name of the woman who
may be unhappily concerned--and scandal clings, like the stain on Lady
Macbeth's hand. In your case you can act--_your_ wife is above a shadow
of suspicion--but I--oh, my God! how much women have to answer for in
the miseries of this world!"
Errington said nothing. Pity and respect for the man before him held him
silent. Here was one of the martyrs of modern social life--a man who
evidently knew himself to be dishonored by his wife,--and who yet, for
the sake of his son, submitted to be daily broken on the wheel of
private torture rather than let the boy grow up to despise and slight
his mother. Whether he were judged as wise or weak in his behavior there
was surely something noble about him--something unselfish and heroic
that deserved recognition. Presently Lord Winsleigh continued in calmer
tones--
"I've been talking too much about myself, Errington, I fear--forgive it!
Sometimes I've thought you misunderstood me--"
"I never shall again!" declared Philip earnestly.
Lord Winsleigh met his look of sympathy with one of gratitude.
"Thanks!" he said briefly,--and with this they shook hands again
heartily, and parted. Lord Winsleigh saw his visitor to the door--and
then at once returned to his wife's apartments. She was still absent
from the boudoir--he therefore entered her dressing-room without
ceremony.
There he found her,--alone, kneeling on the floor, her head buried in an
arm-chair,--and her whole frame shaken with convulsive sobs. He looked
down upon her with a strange wistful pain in his eyes,--pain mingled
with compassion.
"Clara!" he said gently. She started and sprang up--confronting him with
flushed cheeks and wet eyes.
"_You_ here?" she exclaimed angrily. "I wonder you dare to--" she broke
off, confused by his keen, direct glance.
"It _is_ a matter for wonder," he said quietly. "It's the strangest
thing in the world that I--your husband--should venture to intrude
myself into your presence! Nothing could be more out of the common. But
I have something to say to you--something which must be said sooner or
later--and I may as well speak now."
He paused,--she was silent, looking at him in a sort of sudden fear.
"Sit down," he continued in the same even tones. "You must have a little
patience with me--I'll endeavor to be as brief as possible."
Mechanically she obeyed him and sank into a low fauteuil. She began
playing with the trinkets on her silver chatelaine, and endeavored to
feign the most absolute unconcern, but her heart beat quickly--she could
not imagine what was coming next--her husband's manner and tone were
quite new to her.
"You accused me just now," he went on, "of being a spy. I have never
condescended to act such a part toward you, Clara. When I first married
you I trusted you with my life, my honor, and my name, and though you
have betrayed all three"--she moved restlessly as his calm gaze remained
fixed on her--"I repeat,--though you have betrayed all three,--I have
deliberately shut my eyes to the ruin of my hopes, in a loyal endeavor
to shield you from the world's calumny. Regarding the unhappiness you
have caused the Erringtons,--your own maid Louise Renaud (who has given
you notice of her intention to leave you) told me all she knew of your
share in what I may call positive cruelty, towards a happy and innocent
woman who has never injured you, and whose friend you declared yourself