Herr Machtenklinken paused, and a smile softened his hitherto angry countenance.
“You are fery goot, Mr. Lofelace,” he remarked— “and I would do moch for you — but her ladyshib understands me not — she has offend me — it is better I should take my leave.”
“Oh, bother her ladyship!” said Beau lightly. “Come along, and give us something in your best style.”
So saying, he led the half-reluctant artist back to the piano, where he was introduced to Thelma, who gave him so sweet a smile that he was fairly dazzled.
“It is you who play Schumann so beautifully,” she said. “My husband and I heard you at one of Lamoureux’s concerts in Paris. I fear,” and she looked wistfully at him, “that you would think it very rude and selfish of me if I asked you to play just one little piece? Because, of course, you are here to enjoy yourself, and talk to your friends, and it seems unkind to take you away from them!”
A strange moisture dimmed the poor German’s eyes. This was the first time in England that the “celebrate” had been treated as a friend and a gentleman. Up to this moment, at all the “at homes” and “assemblies,” he had not been considered as a guest at all, — he was an “artist,” “a good pianist,”— “a man who had played before the Emperor of Germany” — and he was expected to perform for nothing, and be grateful for the “influence” exercised on his behalf — influence which as yet had not put one single extra guinea in his pocket. Now, here was a great lady almost apologizing for asking him to play, lest it should take him away from his “friends”! His heart swelled with emotion and gratitude — the poor fellow had no “friends” in London, except Beau Lovelace, who was kind to him, but who had no power in the musical world, — and, as Thelma’s gentle voice addressed him, he could have knelt and kissed her little shoe for her sweet courtesy and kindness.
“Miladi,” he said, with a profound reverence, “I will blay for you with bleasure, — it will be a joy for ze music to make itself beautiful for you!”
And with this fantastic attempt at a compliment, he seated himself at the instrument and struck a crashing chord to command silence.
The hum of conversation grew louder than ever — and to Thelma’s surprise Lady Winsleigh seated herself by her and began to converse. Herr Machtenklinken struck another chord, — in vain! The deafening clamor of tongues continued, and Lady Winsleigh asked Thelma with much seeming interest if the scenery was very romantic in Norway?
The girl colored deeply, and after a little hesitation, said —
“Excuse me, — I would rather not speak till the music is over. It is impossible for a great musician to think his thoughts out properly unless there is silence. Would it not be better to ask every one to leave off talking while this gentleman plays?”
Clara Winsleigh looked amused. “My dear, you don’t know them,” she said carelessly. “They would think me mad to propose such a thing! There are always a few who listen.”
Once more the pianist poised his hands over the keys of the instrument, — Thelma looked a little troubled and grieved. Beau Lovelace saw it, and acting on a sudden impulse, turned towards the chattering crowds, and, holding up his hand, called, “Silence, please!”
There was an astonished hush. Beau laughed. “We want to hear some music,” he said, with the utmost coolness. “Conversation can be continued afterwards.” He then nodded cheerfully towards Herr Machtenklinken, who, inspired by this open encouragement, started off like a race-horse into one of the exquisite rambling preludes of Chopin. Gradually, as he played, his plain face took upon itself a noble, thoughtful, rapt expression, — his wild eyes softened, — his furrowed, frowning brow smoothed, — and, meeting the grave, rare blue eyes of Thelma, he smiled. His touch grew more and more delicate and tender — from the prelude he wandered into a nocturne of plaintive and exceeding melancholy, which he played with thrilling and exquisite pathos — anon, he glided into one of those dreamily joyous yet sorrowful mazurkas, that remind one of bright flowers growing in wild luxuriance over lonely and forsaken graves. The “celebrate” had reason to boast of himself — he was a perfect master of the instrument, — and as his fingers closed on the final chord, a hearty burst of applause rewarded his efforts, led by Lovelace and Lorimer. He responded by the usual bow, — but his real gratitude was all for Thelma. For her he had played his best — and he had seen tears in her lovely eyes. He felt as proud of her appreciation as of the ring he had received from the Tsar, — and bent low over the fair hand she extended to him.
“You must be very happy,” she said, “to feel all those lovely sounds in your heart! I hope I shall see and hear you again some day, — I thank you so very much for the pleasure you have given me!”
Lady Winsleigh said nothing — and she listened to Thelma’s words with a sort of contempt.
“Is the girl half-witted?” she thought. “She must be, or she would not be so absurdly enthusiastic! The man plays well, — but it is his profession to play well — it’s no good praising these sort of people, — they are never grateful, and they always impose upon you.” Aloud she asked Sir Philip —
“Does Lady Errington play?”
“A little,” he answered. “She sings.”
At once there was a chorus of inanely polite voices round the piano, “Oh, do sing, Lady Errington! Please, give us one song!” and Sir Francis Lennox, sauntering up, fixed his languorous gaze on Thelma’s face, murmuring, “You will not be so cruel as to refuse us such delight?”
“But, of course not!” answered the girl, greatly surprised at all these unnecessary entreaties. “I am always pleased to sing.” And she drew off her long loose gloves and seated herself at the piano without the least affectation of reluctance. Then, glancing at her husband with a bright smile, she asked, “What song do you think will be best, Philip?”
“One of those old Norse mountain-songs,” he answered.
She played a soft minor prelude — there was not a sound in the room now — everybody pressed towards the piano, staring with a curious fascination at her beautiful face and diamond-crowned hair. One moment — and her voice, in all its passionate, glorious fullness, rang out with a fresh vibrating tone that thrilled to the very heart — and the foolish crowd that gaped and listened was speechless, motionless, astonished, and bewildered.
A Norse mountain-song was it? How strange, and grand, and wild! George Lorimer stood apart — his eyes ached with restrained tears. He knew the melody well — and up before him rose the dear solemnity of the Altenguard hills, the glittering expanse of the Fjord, the dear old farmhouse behind its cluster of pines. Again he saw Thelma as he had seen her first — clad in her plain white gown, spinning in the dark embrasure of the rose-wreathed window — again the words of the self-destroyed Sigurd came back to his recollection, “Good things may come for others — but for you the heavens are empty!” He looked at her now, — Philip’s wife — in all the splendor of her rich attire; — she was lovelier than ever, and her sweet nature was as yet unspoilt by all the wealth and luxury around her.
“Good God! what an inferno she has come into!” he thought vaguely. “How will she stand these people when she gets to know them? The Van Clupps, the Rush-Marvelles, and others like them, — and as for Clara Winsleigh—” He turned to study her ladyship attentively. She was sitting quite close to the piano — her eyes were cast down, but the rubies on her bosom heaved quickly and restlessly, and she furled and unfurled her fan impatiently. “I shouldn’t wonder,” he went on meditating gravely, “if she doesn’t try and make some mischief somehow. She looks it.”
At that moment Thelma ceased singing, and the room rang with applause. Herr Machtenklinken was overcome with admiration.
“It is a voice of heaven!” he said in a rapture.
The fair singer was surrounded with people.
“I hope,” said Mrs. Van Clupp, with her usual ill-bred eagerness to ingratiate herself with the titled and wealthy, “I hope you will come and see me, Lady Errington? I
am at home every Friday evening to my friends.”
“Oh yes,” said Thelma, simply. “But I am not your friend yet! When we do know each other better I will come. We shall meet each other many times first, — and then you will see if you like me to be your friend. Is it not so?”
A scarcely concealed smile reflected itself on the faces of all who heard this naïve, but indefinite acceptance of Mrs. Van Clupp’s invitation, while Mrs. Van Clupp herself was somewhat mortified, and knew not what to answer. This Norwegian girl was evidently quite ignorant of the usages of polite society, or she would at once have recognized the fact that an “at home” had nothing whatsoever to do with the obligations of friendship — besides, as far as friendship was concerned, had not Mrs. Van Clupp tabooed several of her own blood-relations and former intimate acquaintances? . . . for the very sensible reason that while she had grown richer, they had grown poorer. But now Mrs. Rush-Marvelle sailed up in all her glory, with her good-natured smile and matronly air. She was a privileged person, and she put her arm round Thelma’s waist.
“You must come to me, my dear,” she said with real kindness — her motherly heart had warmed to the girl’s beauty and innocence,— “I knew Philip when he was quite a boy. He will tell you what a dreadfully old woman I am! You must try to like me for his sake.”
Thelma smiled radiantly. “I always wish to like Philip’s friends,” she said frankly. “I do hope I shall please you!”
A pang of remorse smote Mrs. Rush-Marvelle’s heart as she remembered how loth she had been to meet Philip’s “peasant” wife, — she hesitated, — then, yielding to her warm impulse, drew the girl closer and kissed her fair rose-tinted cheek.
“You please everybody, my child,” she said honestly. “Philip is a lucky man! Now I’ll say good night, for it is getting late, — I’ll write to you to-morrow and fix a day for you to come and lunch with me.”
“But you must also come and see Philip,” returned Thelma, pressing her hand.
“So I will — so I will!” and Mrs. Rush-Marvelle nodded beamingly, and made her way up to Lady Winsleigh, saying, “Bye-bye, Clara! Thanks for a most charming evening!”
Clara pouted. “Going already, Mimsey?” she queried, — then, in a lower tone, she said, “Well! what do you think of her?”
“A beautiful child — no more!” answered Mrs. Marvelle, — then, studying with some gravity the brilliant brunette face before her, she added in a whisper, “Leave her alone, Clara, — don’t make her miserable! You know what I mean! It wouldn’t take much to break her heart.”
Clara laughed harshly and played with her fan.
“Dear me, Mimsey! . . . you are perfectly outrageous! Do you think I’m an ogress ready to eat her up? On the contrary, I mean to be a friend to her.”
Mrs. Marvelle still looked grave.
“I’m glad to hear it,” she said; “only some friends are worse than declared enemies.”
Lady Winsleigh shrugged her shoulders.
“Go along, Mimsey, — go home to bed!” she exclaimed impatiently. “You are insensé! I hate sentimental philosophy and copy-book platitudes!” She laughed again and folded her hands with an air of mock penitence, “There! I didn’t mean to be rude! Good-night, dear old darling!”
“Good-night, Clara!” and Mrs. Marvelle, summoning her timid husband from some far corner, where he had remained in hiding, took her departure with much stateliness.
A great many people were going down to supper by this time, but Sir Philip was tired of the heat and glare and noise, and whispered as much to Thelma, who at once advanced to bid her hostess farewell.
“Won’t you have some supper?” inquired her ladyship. “Don’t go yet!”
But Thelma was determined not to detain her husband a moment longer than he wished — so Lady Winsleigh, seeing remonstrances were of no avail, bade them both an effusive good-night.
“We must see a great deal of each other!” she said, pressing Thelma’s hands warmly in her own: “I hope we shall be quite dear friends!”
“Thank you!” said Thelma, “I do hope so too, if you wish it so much. Good-night, Lord Winsleigh!”
“Let me escort you to your carriage,” said her noble host, at once offering her his arm.
“And allow me to follow,” added Beau Lovelace, slipping his arm through Errington’s, to whom he whispered, “How dare you, sir! How dare you be such a provokingly happy man in this miserable old world?” Errington laughed — and the little group had just reached the door of the drawing-room when Thelma suddenly turned with a look of inquiry in her eyes.
“Where is Mr. Lorimer?” she said. “I have forgotten to say good-night to him, Philip.”
“Here I am, Lady Errington,” and Lorimer sauntered forward with rather a forced smile, — a smile which altogether vanished, leaving his face strangely pale, as she stretched out her hand to him, and said laughingly —
“You bad Mr. Lorimer! Where were you? You know it would make me quite unhappy not to wish you good-night. Ah, you are a very naughty brother!”
“Come home with us, George,” said Sir Philip eagerly. “Do, there’s a good fellow!”
“I can’t, Phil!” answered Lorimer, almost pathetically. “I can’t to-night — indeed, I can’t! Don’t ask me!” And he wrung his friend’s hand hard, — and then bravely met Thelma’s bright glance.
“Forgive me!” he said to her. “I know I ought to have presented myself before — I’m a dreadfully lazy fellow, you know! Good-night!”
Thelma regarded him steadfastly.
“You look, — what is it you call yourself sometimes — seedy?” she observed. “Not well at all. Mind you come to us to-morrow!”
He promised — and then accompanied them down to their carriage — he and Beau Lovelace assisting to cover Thelma with her fur cloak, and being the last to shake hands with Sir Philip as he sprang in beside his wife, and called to the coachman “Home!” The magic word seemed to effect the horses, for they started at a brisk trot, and within a couple of minutes the carriage was out of sight. It was a warm star-lit evening, — and as Lorimer and Lovelace re-entered Winsleigh House, Beau stole a side-glance at his silent companion.
“A plucky fellow!” he mused; “I should say he’d die game. Tortures won’t wring his secret out of him.” Aloud he said, “I say, haven’t we had enough of this? Don’t let us sup here — nothing but unsubstantial pastry and claretcup — the latter abominable mixture would kill me. Come on to the Club, will you?”
Lorimer gladly assented — they got their over-coats from the officious Briggs, tipped him handsomely, and departed arm in arm. The last glimpse they caught of the Winsleigh festivities was Marcia Van Clupp sitting on the stairs, polishing off with much gusto the wing and half-breast of a capon, — while the mild Lord Masherville stood on the step just above her, consoling his appetite with a spoonful of tepid yellow jelly. He had not been able to secure any capon for himself — he had been frightened away by the warning cry of “Ladies first!” shouted forth by a fat gentleman, who was on guard at the head of the supper-table, and who had already secreted five plates of different edibles for his own consumption, in a neat corner behind the window-curtains. Meanwhile, Sir Philip Bruce-Errington, proud, happy, and triumphant, drew his wife into a close embrace as they drove home together, and said, “You were the queen of the evening, my Thelma! Have you enjoyed yourself?”
“Oh, I do not call that enjoyment!” she declared. “How is it possible to enjoy anything among so many strangers?”
“Well, what is it?” he asked laughingly.
She laughed also. “I do not know indeed what it is!” she said. “I have never been to anything like it before. It did seem to me as if all the people were on show for some reason or other. And the gentlemen did look very tired — there was nothing for them to do. Even you, my boy! You made several very big yawns! Did you know that?”
Philip laughed more than ever. “I didn’t know it, my pet!” he answered; “but I’
m not surprised. Big yawns are the invariable result of an ‘at home.’ Do you like Beau Lovelace?”
“Very much,” she answered readily. “But, Philip, I should not like to have so many friends as Lady Winsleigh. I thought friends were rare?”
“So they are! She doesn’t care for these people a bit. They are mere acquaintances.”
“Whom does she care for then?” asked Thelma suddenly. “Of course I mean after her husband. Naturally she loves him best.”
“Naturally,” and Philip paused, adding, “she has her son — Ernest — he’s a fine bright boy — he was not there to-night. You must see him some day. Then I think her favorite friend is Mrs. Rush-Marvelle.”
“I do like that lady too,” said Thelma. “She spoke very kindly to me and kissed me.”
“Did she really!” and Philip smiled. “I think she was more to be congratulated on taking the kiss than you in receiving it! But she’s not a bad old soul, — only a little too fond of money. But, Thelma, whom do you care for most? You did tell me once, but I forget!”
She turned her lovely face and star-like eyes upon him, and, meeting his laughing look, she smiled.
“How often must I tell you!” she murmured softly. “I do think you will never tire of hearing! You know that it is you for whom I care most, and that all the world would be empty to me without you! Oh, my husband — my darling! do not make me try to tell you how much I love you! I cannot — my heart is too full!”
The rest of their drive homeward was very quiet — there are times when silence is more eloquent than speech.
CHAPTER XXI.
“A small cloud, so slight as to be a mere speck on the fair blue sky, was all the warning we received.” — PLINY.
After that evening great changes came into Thelma’s before peaceful life. She had conquered her enemies, or so it seemed, — society threw down all its barricades and rushed to meet her with open arms. Invitations crowded upon her, — often she grew tired and bewildered in the multiplicity of them all. London life wearied her, — she preferred the embowered seclusion of Errington Manor, the dear old house in green-wooded Warwickshire. But the “season” claimed her, — its frothy gaieties were deemed incomplete without her — no “at home” was considered quite “the” thing unless she was present. She became the centre of a large and ever-widening social circle, — painters, poets, novelists, wits savants, and celebrities of high distinction crowded her rooms, striving to entertain her as well as themselves with that inane small talk and gossip too often practiced by the wisest among us, — and thus surrounded, she began to learn many puzzling and painful things of which in her old Norwegian life, she had been happily ignorant.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 109
