Thelma
he despises me--when he will not even kiss me?--" She leaned against the
half-open door in an attitude of utter dejection, not caring to move,
listening intently with a vague hope of hearing her husband's returning
tread. A lighter step than his, however, came suddenly along from the
other side of the passage and startled her a little--it was Ernest,
looking the picture of boyish health and beauty. He was just going out
for his usual ride--he lifted his cap with a pretty courtesy as he saw
her, and said--
"Good-morning, mother!"
She looked at him with new interest,--how handsome the lad was!--how
fresh his face!--how joyously clear those bright blue eyes of his! He,
on his part, was moved by a novel sensation too--his mother,--his proud,
beautiful, careless mother had been crying--he saw that at a glance, and
his young heart beat faster when she laid her white hand, sparkling all
over with rings, on his arm and drew him closer to her.
"Are you going to the Park?" she asked gently.
"Yes." Then recollecting his training in politeness and obedience he
added instantly--"Unless you want me."
She smiled faintly. "I never do want you--do I, Ernest?" she asked half
sadly. "I never want my boy at all." Her voice quivered,--and Ernest
grew more and more astonished.
"If you do, I'll stay," he said stoutly, filled with a chivalrous desire
to console his so suddenly tender mother of his, whatever her griefs
might be. Her eyes filled again, but she tried to laugh.
"No dear--not now,--run along and enjoy yourself. Come to me when you
return. I shall be at home all day. And,--stop Ernest--won't you kiss
me?"
The boy opened his eyes wide in respectful wonderment, and his cheeks
flushed with surprise and pleasure.
"Why, mother--of course!" And his fresh, sweet lips closed on hers with
frank and unaffected heartiness. She held him fast for a moment and
looked at him earnestly.
"Tell your father you kissed me--will you?" she said. "Don't forget!"
And with that she waved her hand to him, and retreated again into her
own apartment. The boy went on his way somewhat puzzled and
bewildered--did his mother love him, after all? If so, he thought--how
glad he was!--how very glad! and what a pity he had not known it before!
CHAPTER XXIX.
"I heed not custom, creed, nor law;
I care for nothing that ever I saw--
I terribly laugh with an oath and sneer,
When I think that the hour of Death draws near!"
W. WINTER.
Errington's first idea, on leaving Winsleigh House, was to seek an
interview with Sir Francis Lennox, and demand an explanation. He could
not understand the man's motive for such detestable treachery and
falsehood. His anger rose to a white heat as he thought of it, and he
determined to "have it out" with him whatever the consequences might be.
"No apology will serve his turn," he muttered. "The scoundrel! He has
lied deliberately--and, by Jove, he shall pay for it!"
And he started off rapidly in the direction of Piccadilly, but on the
way he suddenly remembered that he had no weapon with him, not even a
cane wherewith to carry out his intention of thrashing Sir Francis, and
calling to mind a certain heavy horsewhip, that hung over the
mantel-piece in his own room, he hailed a hansom, and was driven back to
his house in order to provide himself with that implement of castigation
before proceeding further. On arriving at the door, to his surprise he
found Lorimer who was just about to ring the bell.
"Why, I thought you were in Paris?" he exclaimed.
"I came back last night," George began, when Morris opened the door, and
Errington, taking his friend by the arm hurried him into the house. In
five minutes he had unburdened himself of all his troubles--and had
explained the misunderstanding about Violet Vere and Thelma's consequent
flight. Lorimer listened with a look of genuine pain and distress on his
honest face.
"Phil, you _have_ been a fool!" he said candidly. "A positive fool, if
you'll pardon me for saying so. You ought to have told Thelma everything
at first,--she's the very last woman in the world who ought to be kept
in the dark about anything. Neville's feelings? Bother Neville's
feelings! Depend upon it the poor girl has heard all manner of stories.
She's been miserable for some time--Duprez noticed it." And he related
in a few words the little scene that had taken place at Errington Manor
on the night of the garden-party, when his playing on the organ had
moved her to such unwonted emotion.
Philip heard him in moody silence,--how had it happened, he wondered,
that others,--comparative strangers,--had observed that Thelma looked
unhappy, while he, her husband, had been blind to it? He could not make
this out,--and yet it is a thing that very commonly happens. Our nearest
and dearest are often those who are most in the dark respecting our
private and personal sufferings,--we do not wish to trouble them,--and
they prefer to think that everything is right with us, even though the
rest of the world can plainly perceive that everything is wrong. To the
last moment they will refuse to see death in our faces, though the
veriest stranger meeting us casually, clearly beholds the shadow of the
dark Angel's hand.
"_Apropos_ of Lennox," went on Lorimer, sympathetically watching his
friend, "I came on purpose to speak to you about him. I've got some news
for you. He's a regular sneak and scoundrel. You can thrash him to your
heart's content for he has grossly insulted your wife."
"_Insulted_ her?" cried Errington furiously. "How,--What--"
"Give me time to speak!" And George laid a restraining hand on his arm.
"Thelma visited my mother yesterday and told her that on the night
before, when you had gone out, Lennox took advantage of your absence to
come here and make love to her,--and she actually had to struggle with
him, and even to strike him, in order to release herself from his
advances. My mother advised her to tell you about it--and she evidently
then had no intention of flight, for she said she would inform you of
everything as soon as you returned from the country. And if Lady
Winsleigh hadn't interfered, it's very probable that--I say, where are
you going?" This as Philip made a bound for the door.
"To get my horsewhip!" he answered.
"All right--I approve!" cried Lorimer. "But wait one instant, and see
how clear the plot becomes. Thelma's beauty had maddened Lennox,--to
gain her good opinion, as he thinks, he throws his mistress, Violet
Vere, on _your_ shoulders--(your ingenuous visits to the Brilliant
Theatre gave him a capital pretext for this) and as for Lady Winsleigh's
share in the mischief, it's nothing but mere feminine spite against you
for marrying at all, and hatred of the woman whose life is such a
contrast to her own, and who absorbs all your affection. Lennox has used
her as his tool and the Vere also, I've no doubt. The thing's as clear
as crystal. It's a sort of general misunderstanding all round--one of
those eminently unpleasant trifles that very frequently upset the peace
and comfort of the most quiet and inoffensive persons. But the fault
lies with _you_, dear old boy!"
"With _me_!" exclaimed Philip.
"Certainly! Thelma's soul is as open as daylight--you shouldn't have had
any secret from her, however trifling. She's not a woman 'on
guard,'--she can't take life as the most of us do, in military fashion,
with ears pricked for the approach of a spy, and prepared to expect
betrayal from her most familiar friends. She accepts things as they
appear, without any suspicion of mean ulterior designs. It's a pity, of
course!--it's a pity she can't be worldly-wise, and scheme and plot and
plan and lie like the rest of us! However, _your_ course is plain--first
interview Lennox and then follow Thelma. She can't have left Hull
yet,--there are scarcely any boats running to Norway at this season.
You'll overtake her I'm certain."
"By Jove, Lorimer!" said Errington suddenly. "Clara Winsleigh sticks at
nothing--do you know she actually had the impudence to suggest that
_you_,--you, of all people,--were in love with Thelma!"
Lorimer flushed up, but laughed lightly. "How awfully sweet of her! Much
obliged to her, I'm sure! And how did you take it Phil?"
"Take it? I didn't take it at all," responded Philip warmly. "Of course,
I knew it was only her spite--she'd say anything in one of her tempers."
Lorimer looked at him with a sudden tenderness in his blue eyes. Then he
laughed again, a little forcedly, and said--
"Be off, old man, and get that whip of yours! We'll run Lennox to earth.
Hullo! here's Britta!"
The little maid entered hurriedly at that moment,--she came to ask with
quivering lips, whether she might accompany Sir Philip in his intended
journey to Norway.
"For if you do not find the Froeken at Hull, you will want to reach the
Altenfjord," said Britta, folding hands resolutely in front of her
apron, "and you will not get on without me. You do not know what the
country is like in the depth of winter when the sun is asleep. You must
have the reindeer to help you--and no Englishman knows how to drive
reindeer. And--and--" here Britta's eyes filled--"you have not thought,
perhaps, that the journey may make the Froeken very ill--and that when we
find her--she may be dying--" and Britta's strength gave way in a big
sob that broke from the depths of her honest, affectionate heart.
"Don't--_don't_ talk like that, Britta!" cried Philip passionately. "I
can't bear it! Of course, you shall go with me! I wouldn't leave you
behind for the world! Get everything ready--" and in a fever of heat and
impatience he began rummaging among some books on a side-shelf, till he
found the time-tables he sought. "Yes,--here we are,--there's a train
leaving for Hull at five--we'll take that. Tell Morris to pack my
portmanteau, and you bring it along with you to the Midland
railway-station this afternoon. Do you understand?"
Britta nodded emphatically, and hurried off at once to busy herself with
these preparations, while Philip, all excitement, dashed off to give a
few parting injunctions to Neville, and to get his horsewhip.
Lorimer, left alone for a few minutes, seated himself in an easy chair
and began absently turning over the newspapers on the table. But his
thoughts were far away, and presently he covered his eyes with one hand
as though the light hurt them. When he removed it, his lashes were wet.
"What a fool I am!" he muttered impatiently. "Oh Thelma, Thelma! my
darling!--how I wish I could follow and find you and console you!--you
poor, tender, resigned soul, going away like this because you thought
you were not wanted--not wanted!--my God!--if you only knew how one man
at least has wanted and yearned for you ever since he saw your sweet
face!--Why can't I tear you out of my heart--why can't I love some one
else? Ah Phil!--good, generous, kind old Phil!--he little guesses," he
rose and paced the room up and down restlessly. "The fact is I oughtn't
to be here at all--I ought to leave England altogether for a long
time--till--till I get over it. The question is, _shall_ I ever get over
it? Sigurd was a wise boy--he found a short way out of all his
troubles,--suppose I imitate his example? No,--for a man in his senses
that would be rather cowardly--though it might be pleasant!" He stopped
in his walk with a pondering expression on his face. "At any rate, I
won't stop here to see her come back--I couldn't trust myself,--I should
say something foolish--I know I should! I'll take my mother to
Italy--she wants to go; and we'll stay with Lovelace. It'll be a
change--and I'll have a good stand-up fight with myself, and see if I