Thelma

M >> Marie Corelli >> Thelma


So saying, with a whirl of her black silk dress and a flash of her white
muslin apron, she disappeared. Briggs, left alone, sauntered to a
looking-glass hanging on the wall and studied with some solicitude a
pimple that had recently appeared on his clean-shaven face.

"Mischief!" he soliloquized. "I des-say! Whenever a lot of women gets
together, there's sure to be mischief. Dear creeturs! They love it like
the best Clicquot. Sprightly young pusson is Mamzelle. Knows who's at
the bottom of 'eet,' does she! Well--she's not the only one as knows the
same thing. As long as doors 'as cracks and key'oles, it ain't in the
least difficult to find out wot goes on inside boo-dwars and
drorin'-rooms. And 'ighly interestin' things one 'ears now and
then--'ighly interestin'!"

And Briggs leered suavely at his own reflection, and then resumed the
perusal of his paper. He was absorbed in the piquant, highly flavored
details of a particularly disgraceful divorce case, and he was by no
means likely to disturb himself from his refined enjoyment for any less
important reason than the summons of Lord Winsleigh's bell, which rang
so seldom that, when it did, he made it a point of honor to answer it
immediately, for, as he said--

"His lordship knows wot is due to me, and I knows wot is due to
'im--therefore it 'appens we are able to ekally respect each other!"




CHAPTER XXII.

"If thou wert honorable,
Thou would'st have told this tale for virtue, not
For such an end thou seek'st; as base, as strange.
Thou wrong'st a gentleman who is as far
From thy report, as thou from honor."
_Cymbeline._


Summer in Shakespeare Land! Summer in the heart of England--summer in
wooded Warwickshire,--a summer brilliant, warm, radiant with flowers,
melodious with the songs of the heaven--aspiring larks, and the sweet,
low trill of the forest-hidden nightingales. Wonderful and divine it is
to hear the wild chorus of nightingales that sing beside Como in the hot
languorous nights of an Italian July--wonderful to hear them maddening
themselves with love and music, and almost splitting their slender
throats with the bursting bubbles of burning song,--but there is
something, perhaps, more dreamily enchanting still,--to hear them
warbling less passionately but more plaintively, beneath the drooping
leafage of those grand old trees, some of which may have stretched their
branches in shadowy benediction over the sacred head of the grandest
poet in the world. Why travel to Athens,--why wander among the Ionian
Isles for love of the classic ground? Surely, though the clear-brained
old Greeks were the founders of all noble literature, they have reached
their fulminating point in the English Shakespeare,--and the
Warwickshire lanes, decked simply with hawthorn and sweet-briar roses,
through which Mary Arden walked leading her boy-angel by the hand, are
sacred as any portion of that earth once trodden by the feet of Homer
and Plato.

So, at least, Thelma thought, when, released from the bondage of London
social life, she found herself once more at Errington Manor, then
looking its loveliest, surrounded with a green girdle of oak and beech,
and set off by the beauty of velvety lawns and terraces, and
rose-gardens in full bloom. The depression from which she had suffered
fell away from her completely--she grew light-hearted as a child, and
flitted from room to room, singing to herself for pure gladness. Philip
was with her all day now, save for a couple of hours in the forenoon
which he devoted to letter-writing in connection with his Parliamentary
aspirations,--and Philip was tender, adoring and passionate as lovers
may be, but as husbands seldom are. They took long walks together
through the woods,--they often rambled across the fragrant fields to
Anne Hathaway's cottage, which was not very far away, and sitting down
in some sequestered nook, Philip would pull from his pocket a volume of
the immortal Plays, and read passages aloud in his fine mellow voice,
while Thelma, making posies of the meadow flowers, listened entranced.
Sometimes, when he was in a more business-like humor, he would bring out
Cicero's Orations, and after pondering over them for a while would talk
very grandly about the way in which he meant to speak in Parliament.

"They want dash and fire there," he said, "and these qualities must be
united with good common sense. In addressing the House, you see, Thelma,
one must rouse and interest the men--not bore them. You can't expect
fellows to pass a Bill if you've made them long for their beds all the
time you've been talking about it."

Thelma smiled and glanced over his shoulder at "Cicero's Orations."

"And do you wish to speak to them like Cicero, my boy?" she said gently.
"But I do not think you will find that possible. Because when Cicero
spoke it was in a different, age and to very different people--people
who were glad to learn how to be wise and brave. But if you were Cicero
himself, do you think you would be able to impress the English
Parliament?"

"Why not, dear?" asked Errington with some fervor. "I believe that men,
taken as men, _pur et simple_, are the same in all ages, and are open to
the same impressions. Why should not modern Englishmen be capable of
receiving the same lofty ideas as the antique Romans, and acting upon
them?"

"Ah, do not ask _me_ why," said Thelma, with a plaintive little shake of
her head--"for _I_ cannot tell you! But remember how many members of
Parliament we did meet in London--and where were their lofty ideas?
Philip, had they any ideas at all, do you think? There was that very fat
gentleman who is a brewer,--well, to hear him talk, would you not think
all England was for the making of beer? And he does not care for the
country unless it continues to consume his beer! It was to that very man
I said something about _Hamlet_, and he told me he had no interest for
such nonsense as Shakespeare and play-going--his time was taken up at
the '_'Ouse_.' You see, he is a member of Parliament--yet it is evident
he neither knows the language nor the literature of his country! And
there must be many like him, otherwise so ignorant a person would not
hold such a position--and for such men, what would be the use of a
Cicero?"

Philip leaned back against the trunk of the tree under which they were
sitting, and laughed.

"You may be right, Thelma,--I dare say you are. There's certainly too
much beer represented in the House--I admit that. But, after all, trade
is the great moving-spring of national prosperity,--and it would hardly
be fair to refuse seats to the very men who help to keep the country
going."

"I do not see that," said Thelma gravely,--"if those men are ignorant,
why should they have a share in so important a thing as Government? They
may know all about beer, and wool, and iron,--but perhaps they can only
judge what is good for themselves, not what is best for the whole
country, with all its rich and poor. I do think that only the wisest
scholars and most intelligent persons should be allowed to help in the
ruling of a great nation."

"But the people choose their own rulers," remarked Errington
reflectively.

"Ah, the poor people!" sighed Thelma. "They know so very little,--and
they are taught so badly! I think they never do quite understand what
they do want,--they are the same in all histories,--like little
children, they get bewildered and frightened in any trouble, and the
wisest heads are needed to think for them. It is, indeed, most cruel to
make them puzzle out all difficulty for themselves!"

"What a little sage you are, my pet!" laughed Philip, taking her hand on
which the marriage-ring and its accompanying diamond circlet, glistened
brilliantly in the warm sunlight. "Do you mean to go in for politics?"

She shook her head. "No, indeed! That is not woman's work at all. The
only way in which I think about such things, is that I feel the people
cannot all be wise,--and that it seems a pity the wisest and greatest in
the land should not be chosen to lead them rightly."

"And so under the circumstances, you think it's no use my trying to
_pose_ as a Cicero?" asked her husband amusedly. She laughed--with a
very tender cadence in her laughter.

"It would not be worth your while, my boy," she said "You know I have
often told you that I do not see any great distinction in being a member
of Parliament at all. What will you do? You will talk to the fat brewer
perhaps, and he will contradict you--then other people will get up and
talk and contradict each other,--and so it will go on for days and
days--meanwhile the country remains exactly as it was, neither better
nor worse,--and all the talking does no good! It is better to be out of
it,--here together, as we are to-day."

And she raised her dreamy blue eyes to the sheltering canopy of green
leaves that overhung them--leaves thick-clustered and dewy, through
which the dazzling sky peeped in radiant patches. Philip looked at
her,--the rapt expression of her upward gaze,--the calm, untroubled
sweetness of her fair face,--were such as might well have suited one of
Raffaelle's divinest angels. His heart beat quickly--he drew closer to
her, and put his arm round her.

"Your eyes are looking at the sky, Thelma," he whispered. "Do you know
what that is? Heaven looking into heaven! And do you know which of the
two heavens I prefer?" She smiled, and turning, met his ardent gaze with
one of equal passion and tenderness.

"Ah, you _do_ know!" he went on, softly kissing the side of her slim
white throat. "I thought you couldn't possibly make a mistake!" He
rested his head against her shoulder, and after a minute or two of lazy
comfort, he resumed. "You are not ambitious, my Thelma! You don't seem
to care whether your husband distinguishes himself in the 'Ouse,' as our
friend the brewer calls it, or not. In fact, I don't believe you care
for anything save--love! Am I not right, my wife?"

A wave of rosy color flushed her transparent skin, and her eyes filled
with an earnest, almost pathetic languor.

"Surely of all things in the world," she said in a low tone,--"Love is
best?"

To this he made prompt answer, though not in words--his lips conversed
with hers, in that strange, sweet language which, though unwritten, is
everywhere comprehensible,--and then they left their shady resting-place
and sauntered homeward hand in hand through the warm fields fragrant
with wild thyme and clover.

Many happy days passed thus with these lovers--for lovers they still
were. Marriage had for once fulfilled its real and sacred meaning--it
had set Love free from restraint, and had opened all the gateways of the
only earthly paradise human hearts shall ever know,--the paradise of
perfect union and absolute sympathy with the one thing beloved on this
side eternity.

The golden hours fled by all too rapidly,--and towards the close of
August there came an interruption to their felicity. Courtesy had
compelled Bruce-Errington and his wife to invite a few friends down to
visit them at the Manor before the glory of the summer-time was
past,--and first among the guests came Lord and Lady Winsleigh and their
bright boy, Ernest. Her ladyship's maid, Louise Renaud, of course,
accompanied her ladyship,--and Briggs was also to the fore in the
capacity of Lord Winsleigh's personal attendant. After these, George
Lorimer arrived--he had avoided the Erringtons all the season,--but he
could not very well refuse the pressing invitation now given him without
seeming churlish,--then came Beau Lovelace, for a few days only, as with
the commencement of September he would be off as usual to his villa on
the Lago di Como. Sir Francis Lennox, too, made his appearance
frequently in a casual sort of way--he "ran down," to use his own
expression, now and then, and made himself very agreeable, especially to
men, by whom he was well liked for his invariable good-humor and
extraordinary proficiency in all sports and games of skill. Another
welcome visitor was Pierre Duprez, lively and sparkling as ever,--he
came from Paris to pass a fortnight with his "cher Phil-eep," and make
merriment for the whole party. His old admiration for Britta had by no
means decreased,--he was fond of waylaying that demure little maiden on
her various household errands, and giving her small posies of jessamine
and other sweet-scented blossoms to wear just above the left-hand corner
of her apron-bib, close to the place where the heart is supposed to be.
Olaf Gueldmar had been invited to the Manor at this period,--Errington
wrote many urgent letters, and so did Thelma, entreating him to
come,--for nothing would have pleased Sir Philip more than to have
introduced the fine old Odin worshipper among his fashionable friends,
and to have heard him bluntly and forcibly holding his own among them,
putting their feint and languid ways of life to shame by his manly,
honest, and vigorous utterance. But Gueldmar had only just returned to
the Altenfjord after nearly a year's absence, and his hands were too
full of work for him to accept his son-in-law's invitation.

"The farm lands have a waste and dreary look," he wrote, "though I let
them to a man who should verily have known how to till the soil trodden
by his fathers--and as for the farmhouse, 'twas like a hollow shell that
has lain long on the shore and become brown and brittle--for thou
knowest no human creature has entered there since we departed. However,
Valdemar Svensen and I, for sake of company, have resolved to dwell
together in it, and truly we have nearly settled down to the peaceful
contemplation of our past days,--so Philip, and thou, my child Thelma,
trouble not concerning me. I am hale and hearty, the gods be
thanked,--and may live on in hope to see you both next spring or
summer-tide. Your happiness keeps this old man young--so grudge me not
the news of your delights wherein I am myself delighted."

One familiar figure was missing from the Manor household,--that of
Edward Neville. Since the night at the Brilliant, when he had left the
theatre so suddenly, and gone home on the plea of illness, he had never
been quite the same man. He looked years older--he was strangely nervous
and timid--and he shrank away from Thelma as though he were some guilty
or tainted creature. Surprised at this, she spoke to her husband about
it,--but he, hurriedly, and with some embarrassment, advised her to "let
him alone"--his "nerves were shaken"--his "health was feeble"--and that
it would be kind on her part to refrain from noticing him or asking him
questions. So she refrained--but Neville's behavior puzzled her all the
same. When they left town, he implored, almost piteously, to be allowed
to remain behind,--he could attend to Sir Philip's business so much
better in London, he declared, and he had his way. Errington, usually
fond of Neville's society, made no attempt whatever to persuade him
against his will,--so he stayed in the half-shut-up house in Prince's
Gate through all the summer heat, poring over parliamentary documents
and pamphlets,--and Philip came up from the country once a fortnight to
visit him, and transact any business that might require his personal
attention.

On one of the last and hottest days in August, a grand garden-party was
given at the Manor. All the county people were invited, and they came
eagerly, though, before Thelma's social successes in London, they had
been reluctant to meet her. Now, they put on their best clothes, and
precipitated themselves into the Manor grounds like a flock of sheep
seeking land on which to graze,--all wearing their sweetest propitiatory
smirk--all gushing forth their admiration of "that _darling_ Lady
Errington"--all behaving themselves in the exceptionally funny manner
that county people affect,--people who are considered somebodies in the
small villages their big houses dominate,--but who, when brought to
reside in London, become less than the minnows in a vast ocean. These
good folks were not only anxious to _see_ Lady Errington--they wanted to
_say_ they had seen her,--and that she had spoken to _them_, so that
they might, in talking to their neighbors, mention it in quite an easy,
casual way, such as--"Oh, I was at Errington Manor the other day, and
Lady Errington said to me--." Or--"Sir Philip is _such_ a charming man!
I was talking to his lovely wife, and he asked me--" etc., etc.
Or--"You've no idea what large strawberries they grow at the Manor! Lady
Errington showed me some that were just ripening--magnificent!" And so
on. For in truth this _is_ "a mad world, my masters,"--and there is no
accounting for the inexpressibly small follies and mean toadyisms of the
people in it.

Moreover, all the London guests who were visiting Thelma came in for a
share of the county magnates' servile admiration. They found the
Winsleighs "so distingue"--Master Ernest instantly became "that _dear_
boy!"--Beau Lovelace was "so dreadfully clever, you know!"--and Pierre
Duprez "quite _too_ delightful!"

The grounds looked very brilliant--pink-and-white marquees were dotted
here and there on the smooth velvet lawns--bright flags waved from
different quarters of the gardens, signals of tennis, archery, and
dancing,--and the voluptuous waltz-music of a fine Hungarian band rose
up and swayed in the air with the downward floating songs of the birds
and the dash of fountains in full play. Girls in pretty light summer
costumes made picturesque groups under the stately oaks and
beeches,--gay laughter echoed from the leafy shrubberies, and stray
couples were seen sauntering meditatively through the rose-gardens,
treading on the fallen scented petals, and apparently too much absorbed
in each other to notice anything that was going on around them. Most of
these were lovers, of course--intending lovers, if not declared
ones,--in fact, Eros was very busy that day among the roses, and shot
forth a great many arrows, aptly aimed, out of his exhaustless quiver.

Two persons there were, however,--man and woman,--who, walking in that
same rose-avenue, did not seem, from their manner, to have much to do
with the fair Greek god,--they were Lady Winsleigh and Sir Francis
Lennox. Her ladyship looked exceedingly beautiful in her clinging dress
of Madras lace, with a bunch of scarlet poppies at her breast, and a
wreath of the same vivid flowers in her picturesque Leghorn hat. She
held a scarlet-lined parasol over her head, and from under the
protecting shadow of this silken pavilion, her dark, lustrous eyes
flashed disdainfully as she regarded her companion. He was biting an end
of his brown moustache, and looked annoyed, yet lazily amused too.

"Upon my life, Clara," he observed, "you are really awfully down on a
fellow, you know! One would think you never cared two-pence about me!"

"Too high a figure!" retorted Lady Winsleigh, with a hard little laugh.
"I never cared a brass farthing!"

He stopped short in his walk and stared at her.

"By Jove! you _are_ cool!" he ejaculated. "Then what did you mean all
the time?"

"What did _you_ mean?" she asked defiantly.

He was silent. After a slight, uncomfortable pause, he shrugged his
shoulders and smiled.

"Don't let us have a scene!" he observed in a bantering tone. "Anything
but that!"

"Scene!" she exclaimed indignantly. "Pray when have you had to complain
of me on that score?"

"Well, don't let me have to complain now," he said coolly.

She surveyed him in silent scorn for a moment, and her full, crimson
lips curled contemptuously.

"What a brute you are!" she muttered suddenly between her set pearly
teeth.

"Thanks, awfully!" he answered, taking out a cigarette and lighting it
leisurely. "You are really charmingly candid, Clara! Almost as frank as
Lady Errington, only less polite!"

"I shall not learn politeness from _you_, at any rate," she said,--then
altering her tone to one of studied indifference, she continued coldly,
"What do you want of me? We've done with each other, as you know. I
believe you wish to become gentleman-lacquey to Bruce-Errington's wife,
and that you find it difficult to obtain the situation. Shall I give you
a character?"

He flushed darkly, and his eyes glittered with an evil lustre.

"Gently, Clara! Draw it mild!" he said languidly. "Don't irritate me, or
I _may_ turn crusty! You know, if I chose, I could open
Bruce-Errington's eyes rather more widely than you'd like with respect
to the _devoted affection_ you entertain for his beautiful wife." She
winced a little at this observation--he saw it and laughed,--then
resumed: "At present I'm really in the best of humors. The reason I
wanted to speak to you alone for a minute or two was, that I'd something
to say which might possibly please you. But perhaps you'd rather not
hear it?"

She was silent. So was he. He watched her closely for a little--noting
with complacency the indignant heaving of her breast and the flush on
her cheeks,--signs of the strong repression she was putting upon her
rising temper.

"Come, Clara, you may as well be amiable," he said. "I'm sure you'll be
glad to know that the virtuous Philip is not immaculate after all. Won't
it comfort you to think that he's nothing but a mortal man like the rest
of us? . . . and that with a little patience your charms will most
probably prevail with him as easily as they once did with me? Isn't that
worth hearing?"

"I don't understand you," she replied curtly.

"Then you are very dense, my dear girl," he remarked smilingly. "Pardon
me for saying so! But I'll put it plainly and in as few words as
possible. The moral Bruce-Errington, like a great many other 'moral' men
I know, has gone in for Violet Vere,--and I dare say you understand what
_that_ means. In the simplest language, it means that he's tired of his
domestic bliss and wants a change."

Lady Winsleigh stopped in her slow pacing along the gravel-walk, and
raised her eyes steadily to her companion's face.

"Are you sure of this?" she asked.

"Positive!" replied Sir Francis, flicking the light ash off his
cigarette delicately with his little finger. "When you wrote me that
note about the Vere, I confess I had my suspicions. Since then they've
been confirmed. I know for a fact that Errington has had several private
interviews with Vi, and has also written her a good many letters. Some
of the fellows in the green-room tease her about her new conquest, and
she grins and admits it. Oh, the whole thing's plain enough! Only last
week, when he went up to town to see his man Neville on business he
called on Vi at her own apartments in Arundel Street, Strand. She told
me so herself--we're rather intimate, you know,--though of course she
refused to mention the object of his visit. Honor among thieves!" and he
smiled half mockingly.

Lady Winsleigh seemed absorbed, and walked on like one in a dream. Just
then, a bend in the avenue brought them in full view of the broad
terrace in front of the Manor, where Thelma's graceful figure, in a
close-fitting robe of white silk crepe, was outlined clearly against the
dazzling blue of the sky. Several people were grouped near her,--she
seemed to be in animated conversation with some of them, and her face
was radiant with smiles. Lady Winsleigh looked at her,--then said
suddenly in a low voice--

"It will break her heart!"

Sir Francis assumed an air of polite surprise. "Pardon! Whose heart?"

She pointed slightly to the white figure on the terrace.

"Hers! Surely you must know that?"

He smiled. "Well--isn't that precisely what you desire Clara? Though,
for my part, I don't believe in the brittleness of hearts--they seem to
me to be made of exceptionally tough material. However, if the fair
Thelma's heart cracks ever so widely, I think I can undertake to mend
it!"

Clara shrugged her shoulders. "You!" she exclaimed contemptuously.

He stroked his moustache with feline care and nicety.

"Yes--I! If not, I've studied women all my life for nothing!"

She broke into a low peal of mocking laughter--turned, and was about to
leave him, when he detained her by a slight touch on her arm.

"Stop a bit!" he said in an impressive _sotto-voce_. "A bargain's a
bargain all the world over. If I undertake to keep you cognizant of
Bruce-Errington's little goings-on in London,--information which, I dare
say, you can turn to good account,--you must do something for me. I ask
very little. Speak of me to Lady Errington--make her think well of
me,--flatter me as much as you used to do when we fancied ourselves
terrifically in love with each other--(a good joke, wasn't it!)--and,
above all, make her _trust_ me! Do you understand?"

"As Red Riding-Hood trusted the Wolf and was eaten up for her
innocence," observed Lady Winsleigh. "Very well! I'll do my best. As I
said before, you want a character. I'm sure I hope you'll obtain the
situation you so much desire! I can state that you made yourself fairly
useful in your last place, and that you left because your wages were not
high enough!"