“Why — Miss Marcia! I say! Look here!” he mumbled in his extremity, squeezing her little hand tighter and tighter. “What — what have I done! Good gracious! You — you really mustn’t cry, you know — I say — look here! Marcia! I wouldn’t vex you for the world!”
“Yew bet yew wouldn’t!” said Marcia, with slow and nasal plaintiveness. “I like that! That’s the way yew English talk. But yew kin hang round a girl a whole season and make all her folks think badly of her — and — and — break her heart — yes — that’s so!” Here she dried her eyes with a filmy lace handkerchief. “But don’t yew mind me! I kin bear it. I kin worry through!” And she drew herself up with dignified resignation — while Lord Algy stared wildly at her, his feeble mind in a whirl. Presently she smiled most seductively, and looked up with her dark, tear-wet eyes to the moon.
“I guess it’s a good night for lovers!” she said, sinking her ordinary tone to an almost sweet cadence. “But we’re not of that sort, are we?”
The die was cast! She looked so charming — so irresistible, that Masherville lost all hold over his wits. Scarcely knowing what he did, he put his arm round her waist. Oh, what a warm, yielding waist! He drew her close to his breast, at the risk of breaking his most valuable eyeglass, — and felt his poor weak soul in a quiver of excitement at this novel and delicious sensation.
“We are — we are of that sort!” he declared courageously. “Why should you doubt it, Marcia?”
“I believe yew if yew say so,” responded Marcia. “But I guess yew’re only fooling me!”
“Fooling you!” Lord Algy was so surprised that he released her quite suddenly from his embrace — so suddenly that she was a little frightened. Was she to lose him, after all?
“Marcia,” he continued mildly, yet with a certain manliness that did not ill become him. “I — I hope I am too much of — of a gentleman to — to ‘fool’ any woman, least of all you, after I have, as you say, compromised you in society by my — my attentions. I — I have very little to offer you — but such as it is, is yours. In — in short, Marcia, I — I will try to make you happy if you can — can care for me enough to — to — marry me!”
Eureka! The game was won! A vision of Masherville Park, Yorkshire, that “well-timbered and highly desirable residence,” as the auctioneers would describe it, flitted before Marcia’s eyes, — and, filled with triumph, she went straight into her lordly wooer’s arms, and kissed him with thorough transatlantic frankness. She was really grateful to him. Ever since she had come to England, she had plotted and schemed to become “my lady” with all the vigor of a purely republican soul, — and now at last, after hard fighting, she had won the prize for which her soul had yearned. She would in future belong to the English aristocracy — that aristocracy which her relatives in New York pretended to despise, yet openly flattered, — and with her arms round the trapped Masherville’s neck, she foresaw the delight she would have in being toadied by them as far as toadyism could be made to go.
She is by no means presented to the reader as a favorable type of her nation — for, of course, every one knows there are plenty of sweet, unselfish, guileless American girls, who are absolutely incapable of such unblushing marriage-scheming as hers, — but what else could be expected from Marcia? Her grandfather, the navvy, had but recently become endowed with Pilgrim-Father Ancestry, — and her maternal uncle was a boastful pork-dealer in Cincinnati. It was her bounden duty to ennoble the family somehow, — surely, if any one had a right to be ambitious, she was that one! And wild proud dreams of her future passed through her brain, little Lord Algy quivered meekly under her kiss, and returned it with all the enthusiasm of which he was capable. One or two faint misgivings troubled him as to whether he had not been just a little too hasty in making a serious bona fide offer of marriage to the young lady by whose Pilgrim progenitors he was not deceived. He knew well enough what her antecedents were, and a faint shudder crossed him as he thought of the pork-dealing uncle, who would, by marriage, become his uncle also. He had long been proud of the fact that the house of Masherville had never, through the course of centuries, been associated, even in the remotest manner with trade — and now! —
“Yet, after all,” he mused, “the Marquis of Londonderry openly advertises himself as a coal-merchant, and the brothers-in-law of the Princess Louise are in the wine trade and stock-broking business, — and all the old knightly blood of England is mingling itself by choice with that of the lowest commoners — what’s the use of my remaining aloof, and refusing to go with the spirit of the age? Besides, Marcia loves me, and it’s pleasant to be loved!”
Poor Lord Algy. He certainly thought there could be no question about Marcia’s affection for him. He little dreamed that it was to his title and position she had become so deeply attached, — he could not guess that after he had married her there would be no more Lord Masherville worth mentioning — that that individual, once independent, would be entirely swallowed up and lost in the dashing personality of Lady Masherville, who would rule her husband as with a rod of iron.
He was happily ignorant of his future, and he walked in the gardens for some time with his arm round Marcia’s waist, in a very placid and romantic frame of mind. By-and-by he escorted her into the house, where the dancing was in full swing — and she, with a sweet smile, bidding him wait for her in the refreshment-room, sought for and found her mother, who as usual, was seated in a quiet corner with Mrs. Rush-Marvelle, talking scandal.
“Well?” exclaimed these two ladies, simultaneously and breathlessly.
Marcia’s eyes twinkled. “Guess he came in as gently as a lamb!” she said.
They understood her. Mrs. Rush-Marvelle rose from her chair in her usual stately and expensive manner.
“I congratulate you, my dear!” kissing Marcia affectionately on both cheeks. “Bruce Errington would have been a better match, — but, under the circumstances, Masherville is really about the best thing you could do. You’ll find him quite easy to manage!” This with an air as though she were recommending a quiet pony.
“That’s so!” said Marcia carelessly, “I guess we’ll pull together somehow. Mar-ma,” to her mother— “yew kin turn on the news to all the folks yew meet — the more talk the better! I’m not partial to secrets!” And with a laugh, she turned away.
Then Mrs. Van Clupp laid her plump, diamond-ringed hand on that of her dear friend, Mrs. Marvelle.
“You have managed the whole thing beautifully,” she said, with a grateful heave of her ample bosom. “Such a clever creature as you are!” She dropped her voice to a mysterious whisper. “You shall have that cheque to-morrow, my love!”
Mrs. Rush-Marvelle pressed her fingers cordially.
“Don’t hurry yourself about it!” — she returned in the same confidential tone. “I dare say you’ll want me to arrange the wedding and the ‘crush’ afterwards. I can wait till then.”
“No, no! that’s a separate affair,” declared Mrs. Van Clupp. “I must insist on your taking the promised two hundred. You’ve been really so very energetic!”
“Well, I have worked rather hard,” said Mrs. Marvelle, with modest self-consciousness. “You see nowadays it’s so difficult to secure suitable husbands for the girls who ought to have them. Men are such slippery creatures!”
She sighed — and Mrs. Van Clupp echoed the sigh, — and then these two ladies, — the nature of whose intimacy may now be understood by the discriminating reader, — went together to search out those of their friends and acquaintances who were among the guests that night, and to announce to them (in the strictest confidence, of course!) the delightful news of “dear Marcia’s engagement.” Thelma heard of it, and went at once to proffer her congratulations to Marcia in person.
“I hope you will be very, very happy!” she said simply, yet with such grave earnestness in her look and voice that the “Yankee gel” was touched to a certain softness and seriousness not at all usual with her, and became so winning and gentle to Lord Al
gy that he felt in the seventh heaven of delight with his new position as affianced lover to so charming a creature.
Meanwhile George Lorimer and Pierre Duprèz were chatting together in the library. It was very quiet there, — the goodly rows of books, the busts of poets and philosophers, — the large, placid features of the Pallas Athene crowning an antique pedestal, — the golden pipes of the organ gleaming through the shadows, — all these gave a solemn, almost sacred aspect to the room. The noise of the dancing and festivity in the distant picture-gallery did not penetrate here, and Lorimer sat at the organ, drawing out a few plaintive strains from its keys as he talked.
“It’s your fancy, Pierre,” he said slowly. “Thelma may be a little tired to-day, perhaps — but I know she’s perfectly happy.”
“I think not so,” returned Duprèz. “She has not the brightness — the angel look — les yeux d’enfant, — that we beheld in her at that far Norwegian Fjord. Britta is anxious for her.”
Lorimer looked up, and smiled a little.
“Britta? It’s always Britta with you, mon cher! One would think—” he paused and laughed.
“Think what you please!” exclaimed Duprèz, with a defiant snap of his fingers. “I would not give that little person for all the grandes dames here to-day! She is charming — and she is true! — Ma foi! to be true to any one is a virtue in this age! I tell you, my good boy, there is something sorrowful — heavy — on la belle Thelma’s mind — and Britta, who sees her always, feels it — but she cannot speak. One thing I will tell you — it is a pity she is so fond of Miladi Winsleigh.”
“Why?” asked Lorimer, with some eagerness.
“Because—” he stopped abruptly as a white figure suddenly appeared at the doorway, and a musical voice addressed them —
“Why, what are you both doing here, away from everybody?” and Thelma smiled as she approached. “You are hermits, or you are lazy! People are going in to supper. Will you not come also?”
“Ma foi!” exclaimed Duprèz; “I had forgotten! I have promised your most charming mother, cher Lorimer, to take her in to this same supper. I must fly upon the wings of chivalry!”
And with a laugh, he hurried off, leaving Thelma and Lorimer alone together. She sank rather wearily into a chair near the organ, and looked at him.
“Play me something!” she said softly.
A strange thrill quivered through him as he met her eyes — the sweet, deep, earnest eyes of the woman he loved. For it was no use attempting to disguise it from himself — he loved her passionately, wildly, hopelessly; as he had loved her from the first.
Obedient to her wish, his fingers wandered over the organ-keys in a strain of solemn, weird, yet tender melancholy — the grand, rich notes pealed forth sobbingly — and she listened, her hands clasped idly in her lap. Presently he changed the theme to one of more heart-appealing passion — and a strange wild minor air, like the rushing of the wind across the mountains, began to make itself heard through the subdued rippling murmur of his improvised accompaniment. To his surprise and fear, she started up, pressing her hands against her ears.
“Not that — not that song, my friend!” she cried, almost imploringly. “Oh, it will break my heart! Oh, the Altenfjord!” And she gave way to a passion of weeping.
“Thelma! Thelma!” and poor Lorimer, rising from the organ, stood gazing at her in piteous dismay, — every nerve in his body wrung to anguish by the sound of her sobbing. A mad longing seized him to catch her in his arms, — to gather her and her sorrows, whatever they were, to his heart! — and he had much ado to restrain himself.
“Thelma,” he presently said, in a gentle voice that trembled just a little, “Thelma, what is troubling you? You call me your brother — give me a brother’s right to your confidence.” He bent over her and took her hand. “I — I can’t bear to see you cry like this! Tell me — what’s the matter? Let me fetch Philip.”
She looked up with wild wet eyes and quivering lips.
“Oh no — no!” she murmured, in a tone of entreaty and alarm. “Do not, — Philip must not know — I do wish him always to see me bright and cheerful — and — it is nothing! It is that I heard something which grieved me—”
“What was it?” asked Lorimer, remembering Duprèz’s recent remarks.
“Oh, I would not tell you!” she said eagerly, drying her eyes and endeavoring to smile, “because I am sure it was a mistake, and all wrong — and I was foolish to fancy that such a thing could be, even for a moment. But when one does not know the world, it seems cruel—”
“Thelma, what do you mean?” and George surveyed her in some perplexity. “If any one’s been bothering or vexing you, just you tell Phil all about it. Don’t have any secrets from him, — he’ll soon put everything straight, whatever it is.”
She shook her head slightly. “Ah, you do not understand!” she said pathetically, “how should you? Because you have not given your life away to any one, and it is all different with you. But when you do love — if you are at all like me, — you will be so anxious to always seem worthy of love — and you will hide all your griefs away from your beloved, — so that your constant presence shall not seem tiresome. And I would not for all the world trouble Philip with my silly fancies — because then he might grow more weary still—”
“Weary!” interrupted Lorimer, in an accent of emphatic surprise. “Why, you don’t suppose Phil’s tired of you, Thelma? That is nonsense indeed! He worships you! Who’s been putting such notions into your head?”
She rose from her chair quite calm and very pale, and laid her two trembling hands in his.
“Ah, you also will mistake me,” she said, with touching sweetness, “like so many others who think me strange in my speech and manner. I am sorry I am not like other women, — but I cannot help it. What I do wish you to understand is that I never suppose anything against my Philip — he is the noblest and best of men! And you must promise not to tell him that I was so foolish as to cry just now because you played that old song I sang to you both so often in Norway — it was because I felt a little sad — but it was only a fancy, — and I would not have him troubled with such things. Will you promise?”
“But what has made you sad?” persisted Lorimer, still puzzled.
“Nothing — nothing indeed,” she answered, with almost feverish earnestness. “You yourself are sometimes sad, and can you tell why?”
Lorimer certainly could have told why, — but he remained silent, and gently kissed the little hands he held.
“Then I mustn’t tell Philip of your sadness?” he asked softly, at last. “But will you tell him yourself, Thelma? Depend upon it, it’s much better to have no secrets from him. The least grief of yours would affect him more than the downfall of a kingdom. You know how dearly he loves you!”
“Yes — I know!” she answered, and her eyes brightened slowly. “And that is why I wish him always to see me happy!” She paused, and then added in a lower tone, “I would rather die, my friend, than vex him for one hour!”
George still held her hands and looked wistfully in her face. He was about to speak again, when a cold, courteous voice interrupted them.
“Lady Errington, may I have the honor of taking you in to supper?”
It was Sir Francis Lennox. He had entered quite noiselessly — his footsteps making no sound on the thick velvet-pile carpet, and he stood quite close to Lorimer, who dropped Thelma’s hands hastily and darted a suspicious glance at the intruder. But Sir Francis was the very picture of unconcerned and bland politeness, and offered Thelma his arm with the graceful ease of an accomplished courtier. She was, perforce, compelled to accept it — and she was slightly confused, though she could not have told why.
“Sir Philip has been looking everywhere for you,” continued Sir Francis amicably. “And for you also,” he added, turning slightly to Lorimer. “I trust I’ve not abruptly broken off a pleasant tête-à-tête?”
Lorimer colored hotly. “Not at all,” he said rather
brusquely. “I’ve been strumming on the organ, and Lady Errington has been good enough to listen to me.”
“You do not strum” said Thelma, with gentle reproach. “You play very beautifully.”
“Ah! a charming accomplishment!” observed Sir Francis, with his under-glance and covert smile, as they all three wended their way out of the library. “I regret I have never had time to devote myself to acquiring some knowledge of the arts. In music I am a positive ignoramus! I can hold my own best in the field.”
“Yes, you’re a great adept at hunting, Lennox,” remarked Lorimer suddenly, with something sarcastic in his tone. “I suppose the quarry never escapes you?”
“Seldom!” returned Sir Francis coolly. “Indeed, I think I may say, never!”
And with that, he passed into the supper-room, elbowing a way for Thelma, till he succeeded in placing her near the head of the table, where she was soon busily occupied in entertaining her guests and listening to their chatter; and Lorimer, looking at her once or twice, saw, to his great relief, that all traces of her former agitation had disappeared, leaving her face fair and radiant as a spring morning.
CHAPTER XXIV.
“A generous fierceness dwells with innocence,
And conscious virtue is allowed some pride.”
DRYDEN.
The melancholy days of autumn came on apace, and by-and-by the Manor was deserted. The Bruce-Errington establishment removed again to town, where business, connected with his intending membership for Parliament, occupied Sir Philip from morning till night. The old insidious feeling of depression returned and hovered over Thelma’s mind like a black bird of ill omen, and though she did her best to shake it off she could not succeed. People began to notice her deepening seriousness and the wistful melancholy of her blue eyes, and made their remarks thereon when they saw her at Marcia Van Clupp’s wedding, an event which came off brilliantly at the commencement of November, and which was almost entirely presided over by Mrs. Rush-Marvelle. That far-seeing matron had indeed urged on the wedding by every delicate expedient possible.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 115
