Thelma
But Errington would hear of no more delays--each hour that passed filled
him with fresh anxieties--and once in Norway he could not rest. The idea
that Thelma might be ill--dying--or dead--gained on him with redoubled
force,--and his fears easily communicating themselves to Britta, who was
to the full as impatient as he, the two made up their minds, and
providing every necessary for the journey they could think of, they
started for the far sunless North, through a white, frozen land, which
grew whiter and more silent the further they went,--even as the brooding
sky above them grew darker and darker. The aurora borealis flashed its
brilliant shafts of color against the sable breast of heaven,--the tall
pines, stripped bare, every branch thick with snow and dropping icicles,
stood,--pale ghosts of the forest,--shedding frozen tears--the moon,
more like steel than silver, shone frostily cold, her light seeming to
deepen rather than soften the dreariness of the land--and
on--on--on--they went, Britta enveloped to the chin in furs, steadily
driving the strange elfin-looking steeds with their horned heads casting
long distorted shadows on the white ground,--and Philip beside her,
urging her on with feverish impatience, while he listened to the smooth
trot of the reindeer,--the tinkle of the bells on their harness, and the
hiss of the sledge across the sparkling snow.
Meanwhile, as he thus pursued his long and difficult journey, rumor was
very busy with his name in London. Everybody--that is, everybody worth
consideration in the circle of the "Upper Ten"--was talking about
him,--shrugging their shoulders, lifting their eyebrows and smiling
knowingly, whenever he was mentioned. He became more known in one day
than if he had served his country's interests in Parliament for years.
On the very morning after he had left the metropolis en route for
Norway, that admirably conducted society journal, the _Snake_,
appeared,--and of course, had its usual amount of eager purchasers,
anxious to see the latest bit of aristocratic scandal. Often these good
folks were severely disappointed--the _Snake_ was sometimes so
frightfully dull, that it had actually nothing to say against
anybody--then, naturally, it was not worth buying. But this time it was
really interesting--it knocked down--or tried to knock down--at one
blow, a formerly spotless reputation--and "really--really!" said the
Upper Ten, "it was dreadful, but of course it was to be expected! Those
quiet, seemingly virtuous persons are always the worst when you come to
know them, yet who would have thought it!" And society read the
assailing paragraph, and rolled it in its rank mouth, like a bon-bon,
enjoying its flavor. It ran as follows:--
"We hear on excellent authority that the Norwegian 'beauty,' Lady
Bruce-Errington, wife of Sir Philip Bruce-Errington, is about to sue for
a divorce on the ground of infidelity. The offending dama in the
question is an admired actress, well-known to the frequenters of the
Brilliant Theatre. But there are always two sides to these affairs, and
it is rumored that the fair Norwegian (who before her marriage, we
understand, was a great adept in the art of milking reindeer on the
shores of her native Fjord) has private reasons of her own for desiring
the divorce, not altogether in keeping with her stated reasons or her
apparent reserve. We are, however, always on the side of the fair sex,
and, as the faithless husband has made no secret of his new liaison, we
do not hesitate to at once pronounce in the lady's favor. The case is
likely to prove interesting to believers in wedded happiness, combined
with the strictest moral and religious sentiments."
Quite by accident this piece of would-be "smartness" was seen by Beau
Lovelace. He had a wholesome contempt for the _Snake_--and all its
class,--he would never have looked at it, or known of the paragraph, had
not a friend of his at the Garrick pointed it out to him with half a
smile and half a sneer.
"It's a damned lie!" said Beau briefly.
"That remains to be proved!" answered his friend, and went away
laughing.
Beau read it over and over again, his blood firing with honest
indignation. Thelma! Thelma--that pure white lily of womanhood,--was she
to have her stainless life blurred by the trail of such a thing as the
_Snake_?--and was Errington's honor to be attainted in his absence, and
he condemned without a word uttered in his defence?
"Detestable blackguard!" muttered Lovelace, reverting in his mind to the
editor of the journal in question. "What's his name I wonder?" He
searched and found it at the top of a column--"Sole Editor and
Proprietor, C. Snawley-Grubbs, to whom all checks and post-office orders
should be made payable. The Editor cannot be responsible for the return
of rejected MSS."
Beau noted the name, and wrote the address of the office in his
pocket-book, smiling curiously to himself the while.
"I'm almost glad Errington's out of the way," he said half aloud. "He
shan't see this thing if I can help it, though I dare say some
particularly affectionate friend will send it to him, carefully marked.
At any rate, he needn't know it just yet--and as for Lorimer--shall I
tell him! No, I won't. I'll have the game all to myself--and--by Jove!
how I _shall_ enjoy it!"
An hour later he stood in the office of the _Snake_, courteously
inquiring for Mr. Snawley-Grubbs. Apparently he had come on horseback,
for he held a riding-whip in his hand,--the very whip Errington had left
with him the previous day. The inky, dirty, towzle-headed boy who
presided in solitary grandeur over the _Snake's_ dingy premises, stared
at him inquiringly,--visitors of his distinguished appearance and manner
being rather uncommon. Those who usually had business with the great
Grubbs were of a different type altogether,--some of them discarded
valets or footmen, who came to gain half a crown or five shillings by
offering information as to the doings of their late masters and
mistresses,--shabby "supers" from the theatres, who had secured the last
bit of scandal concerning some celebrated stage or professional
"beauty"--sporting men and turf gamblers of the lowest class,--
unsuccessful dramatists and small verse writers--these, with now and
then a few "ladies"--ladies of the bar-room, ballet, and demi-monde,
were the sort, of persons who daily sought private converse with
Grubbs--and Beau Lovelace, with his massive head, fine muscular figure,
keen eyes, and self-assertive mien, was quite a novel specimen of
manhood for the wondering observation of the office-boy, who scrambled
off his high chair with haste and something of respect as he said--
"What name, sir, please?"
"Beaufort Lovelace," said the gentleman, with a bland smile. "Here is my
card. Ask Mr. Grubbs whether he can see me for a few minutes. If he is
engaged--editors generally are engaged--tell him I'll wait."
The boy went off in a greater hurry than ever. The name of Lovelace was
quite familiar to him--he knew him, not as a distinguished novelist, but
as "'im who makes such a precious lot of money." And he was breathless
with excitement; when he reached the small editorial chamber at the top
of a dark, narrow flight of stairs, wherein sat the autocratic Snawley,
smiling suavely over a heap of letters and disordered MSS. He glanced at
the card which his ink-smeared attendant presented him.
"Ah, indeed!" he said condescendingly. "Lovelace--Lovelace? Oh yes--I
suppose it must be the novelist of that name--yes!--show him up."
Shown up he was accordingly. He entered the room with a firm tread, and
closed the door behind him!
"How do you do, my dear sir!" exclaimed Grubbs warmly. "You are well
known to me by reputation! I am charmed--delighted to make the personal
acquaintance of one who is--yes--let me say, who is a brother in
literature! Sit down, I beg of you!"
And he waved his hand towards a chair, thereby displaying the great
rings that glittered on his podgy fingers.
Beau, however, did not seat himself--he only smiled very coldly and
contemptuously.
"We can discuss the fraternal nature of our relationship afterwards," he
said satirically, "Business first. Pray, sir,"--here he drew from his
pocket the last number of the _Snake_--"are you the writer of this
paragraph?"
He pointed to it, as he flattened the journal and laid it in front of
the editor on the desk. Mr. Snawley-Grubbs glanced at it and smiled
unconcernedly.
"No I am not. But I happen to know it is perfectly correct. I received
the information on the highest--the very highest and most credible
authority."
"Indeed!" and Beau's lip curled haughtily, while his hand clenched the
riding-whip more firmly. "Then allow me to tell you, sir, that it is
utterly false in every particular--moreover--that it is a gross
libel,--published with deliberate intent to injure those whom it
presumes to mention,--and that, whoever wrote it,--you, sir, you alone
are responsible for a most mischievous, scandalous, and damnable lie!"
Mr. Grubbs was in no wise disconcerted. Honest indignation honestly
expressed, always amused him--he was amused now.
"You're unduly excited, Mr. Lovelace," he said with a little laugh.
"Permit me to remark that your language is rather extraordinary--quite
too strong under the circumstances! However, you're a privileged
person--genius is always a little mad, or shall we say,--eccentric?--I
suppose you are a friend of Sir Philip Errington, and you naturally feel
hurt--yes--yes, I quite understand! But the scourge of the press--the
wholesome, purifying scourge, cannot be withheld out of consideration
for private or personal feelings. No--no! There's a higher duty--the
duty we owe to the public!"
"I tell you again," repeated Lovelace firmly--"the whole thing is a lie.
Will you apologize?"
Mr. Grubbs threw himself back in his chair and laughed aloud.
"Apologize? My dear sir, you must be dreaming! Apologize? Certainly not!
I cannot retract the statements I have made--and I firmly believe them
to be true. And though there is a saying, 'the greater the truth the
greater the libel,' I'm ready, sir, and, always have been ready, to
sacrifice myself to the cause of truth. Truth, truth for ever! Tell the
truth and shame the devil! You are at liberty to inform Sir Philip
Errington from me, that as it is my object--a laudable and praiseworthy
one, too, I think--to show up the awful immorality now reigning in our
upper classes, I do not regret in the least the insertion of the
paragraph in question. If it only makes him ashamed of his vices, I
shall have done a good deed, and served the interests of society at
large. At the same time, if he wishes to bring an action for libel--"
"You dog!" exclaimed Lovelace fiercely, approaching him with such a
sudden rapid stride that the astonished editor sprang up and barricaded
himself behind his own chair. "You hope for that, do you? An action for
libel! nothing would please you better! To bring your scandalous printed
trash into notoriety,--to hear your name shouted by dirty hawkers and
newsboys--to be sentenced as a first-class misdemenent; ah, no such luck
for you! I know the tricks of your vile trade! There are other ways of
dealing with a vulgar bully and coward!"
And before the startled Grubbs could realize his position, Lovelace
closed with him, beat him under, and struck the horsewhip smartly cross
his back and shoulders. He uttered a yell of pain and fury, and strove
vigorously to defend himself, but, owing to his obesity, his muscles
were weak and flabby, and he was powerless against the activity and
strength of his opponent. Lash after lash descended regularly and
mercilessly--his cries, which gradually became like the roarings of a