“I do not mope,” declared Thelma. “And you must not scold him, please! Poor boy! he is working so very hard, and has so much to attend to. He wants to distinguish himself for — for my sake!”
“That looks very much as if he were tired of you!” laughed Mrs. Lorimer. “Though I dare say you’d like him to stay at home and make love to you all day! Silly girl! You want the world to be a sort of Arcadia, with you as Phyllis, and Sir Philip as Corydon! My dear, we’re living in the nineteenth century, and the days of fond shepherds and languishing shepherdesses are past!”
Thelma laughed too, and felt soon ashamed of her depression. The figure of Violet Vere now and then danced before her like a mocking will-o’-the-wisp — but her pride forbade her to mention this, — the actual source of all her vague troubles.
She left Mrs. Lorimer’s house, which was near Holland Park, about four o’clock, and as she was passing Church Street, Kensington, she bade her coachman drive up to the Carmelite Church there, familiarly known as the “Carms.” She entered the sacred edifice, where the service of Benediction was in progress; and, kneeling down, she listened to the exquisite strains of the solemn music that pealed through those dim and shadowy aisles, and a sense of the most perfect peace settled soothingly on her soul. Clasping her gentle hands, she prayed with innocent and heart-felt earnestness — not for herself, — never for herself, — but always, always for that dear, most dear one, for whom every beat of her true heart was a fresh vow of undying and devoted affection.
“Dear God!” she whispered, “if I love him too much, forgive me! Thou who art all Love, wilt pardon me this excess of love! Bless my darling always, and teach me how to be more worthy of Thy goodness and his tenderness!”
And when she left the church, she was happier and more light-hearted than she had been for many a long day. She drove home, heedless of the fog and cold, dismal aspect of the weather, and resolved to go and visit Lady Winsleigh in the evening, so that when Philip came back on the morrow, she might be able to tell him that she had amused herself, and had not been lonely.
But when she arrived at her own door, Morris, who opened it, informed her that Lady Winsleigh was waiting in the drawing-room to see her, and had been waiting some time. Thelma hastened thither immediately, and held out her hands joyously to her friend.
“I am so sorry you have had to wait, Clara!” she began. “Why did you not send word and say you were coming? Philip is away and will not be back to-night, and I have been lunching with Mrs. Lorimer, and — why, what makes you look so grave?”
Lady Winsleigh regarded her fixedly. How radiantly lovely the young wife looked! — her cheeks had never been more delicately rosy, or her eyes more brilliant. The dark fur cloak she wore with its rich sable trimmings, and the little black velvet toque that rested on her fair curls, set off the beauty of her clear skin to perfection, and her rival, who stood gazing at her with such close scrutiny, envied her more than ever as she was once again reluctantly forced to admit to herself the matchless loveliness of the innocent creature whose happiness she now sought to destroy.
“Do I look grave, Thelma?” she said with a slight smile. “Well, perhaps I’ve a reason for my gravity. And so your husband is away?”
“Yes. He went quite early this morning, — a telegram summoned him and he was obliged to go.” Here she drew up a chair to the fire, and began to loosen her wraps. “Sit down, Clara! I will ring for tea.”
“No, don’t ring,” said Lady Winsleigh. “Not yet! I want to talk to you privately.” She sank languidly on a velvet lounge and looked Thelma straight in the eyes.
“Dear Thelma,” she continued in a sweetly tremulous, compassionate voice. “Can you bear to hear something very painful and shocking, something that I’m afraid will grieve you very much?”
The color fled from the girl’s fair face — her eyes grew startled.
“What do you mean, Clara? Is it anything about — about Philip?”
Lady Winsleigh bent her head in assent, but remained silent.
“If,” continued Thelma, with a little return of the rosy hue to her cheeks. “If it is something else about that — that person at the theatre, Clara, I would rather not hear it! I think I have been wrong in listening to any such stories — it is so seldom that gossip of any kind is true. It is not a wife’s duty to receive scandals about her husband. And suppose he does see Miss Vere, how do I know that it may not be on business for some friend of his? — because I do know that on that night when he went behind the scenes at the Brilliant, he said it was on business. Mr. Lovelace used often to go and see Miss Mary Anderson, all to persuade her to take a play written by a friend of his — and Philip, who is always kind-hearted, may perhaps be doing something of the same sort. I feel I have been wicked to have even a small doubt of my husband’s love, — so, Clara, do not let us talk any more on a subject which only displeases me.”
“You must choose your own way of life, of course,” said Lady Winsleigh coldly. “But you draw rather foolish comparisons, Thelma. There is a wide difference between Mary Anderson and Violet Vere. Besides, Mr. Lovelace is a bachelor, — he can do as he likes and go where he likes without exciting comment. However, whether you are angry with me or not, I feel I should not be your true friend if I did not show you — this. You know your husband’s writing!”
And she drew out the fatal letter, and continued, watching her victim as she spoke, “This was sent by Sir Philip to Violet Vere last night, — she gave it to me herself this morning.”
Thelma’s hand trembled as she took the paper.
“Why should I read it?” she faltered mechanically.
Lady Winsleigh raised her eyebrows and frowned impatiently.
“Why — why? Because it is your duty to do so! Have you no pride? Will you allow your husband to write such a letter as that to another woman, — and such a woman too! without one word of remonstrance? You owe it to yourself — to your own sense of honor — to resent and resist such treatment on his part! Surely the deepest love cannot pardon deliberate injury and insult.”
“My love can pardon anything,” answered the girl in a low voice, and then slowly, very slowly, she opened the folded sheet — slowly she read every word it contained, — words that stamped themselves one by one on her bewildered brain and sent it reeling into darkness and vacancy. She felt sick and cold — she stared fixedly at her husband’s familiar handwriting. “A man who has loved and who loves you still, and who without you is utterly weary and broken-hearted!”
Thus he wrote of himself to — to Violet Vere! It seemed incredible — yet it was true! She heard a rushing sound in her ears — the room swung round dizzily before her eyes — yet she sat, still, calm and cold, holding the letter and speaking no word.
Lady Winsleigh watched her, irritated at her passionless demeanor.
“Well!” she exclaimed at last. “Have you nothing to say?”
Thelma looked up, her eyes burning with an intense feverish light.
“Nothing!” she replied.
“Nothing?” repeated her ladyship with emphatic astonishment.
“Nothing against Philip,” continued the girl steadily. “For the blame is not his, but mine! That he is weary and broken-hearted must be my fault — though I cannot yet understand what I have done. But it must be something, because if I were all that he wished he would not have grown so tired.” She paused and her pale lips quivered. “I am sorry,” she went on with dreamy pathos, “sorrier for him than for myself, because now I see I am in the way of his happiness.” A quiver of agony passed over her face, — she fixed her large bright eyes on Lady Winsleigh, who instinctively shrank from the solemn speechless despair of that penetrating gaze.
“Who gave you this letter, Clara?” she asked calmly.
“I told you before, — Miss Vere herself.”
“Why did she give it to you?” continued Thelma in a dull, sad voice.
Lady Winsleigh hesitated and stammered a little. “Well, because �
�� because I asked her if the stories about Sir Philip were true. And she begged me to ask him not to visit her so often.” Then, with an additional thought of malice, she said softly. “She doesn’t wish to wrong you, Thelma, — of course, she’s not a very good woman, but I think she feels sorry for you!”
The girl uttered a smothered cry of anguish, as though she had been stabbed to the heart. She! — to be actually pitied by Violet Vere, because she had been unable to keep her husband’s love! This idea tortured her very soul, — but she was silent.
“I thought you were my friend, Clara?” she said suddenly, with a strange wistfulness.
“So I am, Thelma,” murmured Lady Winsleigh, a guilty flush coloring her cheeks.
“You have made me very miserable,” went on Thelma gravely, and with pathetic simplicity, “and I am sorry indeed that we ever met. I was so happy till I knew you! — and yet I was very fond of you! I am sure you mean everything for the best, but I cannot think it is so. And it is all so dark and desolate now — why have you taken such pains to make me sad? Why have you so often tried to make me doubt my husband’s love? — why have you come to-day so quickly to tell me I have lost it? But for you, I might never have known this sorrow, — I might have died soon, in happy ignorance, believing in my darling’s truth as I believe in God!”
Her voice broke, and a hard sob choked her utterance. For once Lady Winsleigh’s conscience smote her — for once she felt ashamed, and dared not offer consolation to the innocent soul she had so wantonly stricken. For a minute or two there was silence — broken only by the monotonous ticking of the clock and the crackling of the fire.
Presently Thelma spoke again. “I will ask you to go away now and leave me, Clara,” she said simply. “When the heart is sorrowful, it is best to be alone. Good-bye!” And she gently held out her hand.
“Poor Thelma!” said Lady Winsleigh, taking it with an affectation of tenderness. “What will you do?”
Thelma did not answer; she sat mute and rigid.
“You are thinking unkindly of me just now,” continued Clara softly; “but I felt it was my duty to tell you the worst at once. It’s no good living in a delusion! I’m very, very sorry for you, Thelma!”
Thelma remained perfectly silent. Lady Winsleigh moved towards the door, and as she opened it looked back at her. The girl might have been a lifeless figure for any movement that could be perceived about her. Her face was white as marble — her eyes were fixed on the sparkling fire — her very hands looked stiff and pallid as wax, as they lay clasped in her lap — the letter — the cruel letter, — had fallen at her feet. She seemed as one in a trance of misery — and so Lady Winsleigh left her.
CHAPTER XXVI.
“O my lord, O Love,
I have laid my life at thy feet;
Have thy will thereof
For what shall please thee is sweet!”
SWINBURNE.
She roused herself at last. Unclasping her hands, she pushed back her hair from her brows and sighed heavily. Shivering as with intense cold, she rose from the chair she had so long occupied, and stood upright, mechanically gathering around her the long fur mantle that she had not as yet taken off. Catching sight of the letter where it lay, a gleaming speck of white on the rich dark hues of the carpet, she picked it up and read it through again calmly and comprehensively, — then folded it up carefully as though it were something of inestimable value. Her thoughts were a little confused, — she could only realize clearly two distinct things, — first, that Philip was unhappy, — secondly, that she was in the way of his happiness. She did not pause to consider how this change in him had been effected, — moreover, she never imagined that the letter he had written could refer to any one but himself. Hers was a nature that accepted facts as they appeared — she never sought for ulterior motives or disguised meanings. True, she could not understand her husband’s admiration for Violet Vere, “But then” — she thought— “many other men admire her too. And so it is certain there must be something about her that wins love, — something I cannot see!”
And presently she put aside all other considerations, and only pondered on one thing, — how should she remove herself from the path of her husband’s pleasure? For she had no doubt but that she was an obstacle to his enjoyment. He had made promises to Violet Vere which he was “ready to fulfill,” — he offered her “an honorable position,” — he desired her “not to condemn him to death,” — he besought her to let his words “carry more weight with her.”
“It is because I am here,” thought Thelma wearily. “She would listen to him if I were gone!” She had the strangest notions of wifely duty — odd minglings of the stern Norse customs with the gentler teachings of Christianity, — yet in both cases the lines of woman’s life were clearly defined in one word — obedience. Most women, receiving an apparent proof of a husband’s infidelity, would have made what is termed a “scene,” — would have confronted him with rage and tears, and personal abuse, — but Thelma was too gentle for this, — too gentle to resist what seemed to be Philip’s wish and will, and far too proud to stay where it appeared evident she was not wanted. Moreover she could not bear the idea of speaking to him on, such a subject as his connection with Violet Vere, — the hot color flushed her cheeks with a sort of shame as she thought of it.
Of course, she was weak — of course, she was foolish, — we will grant that she was anything the reader chooses to call her. It is much better for a woman nowadays to be defiant rather than yielding, — aggressive, not submissive, — violent, not meek. We all know that! To abuse a husband well all round, is the modern method of managing him! But poor, foolish, loving, sensitive Thelma had nothing of the magnificent strength of mind possessed by most wives of to-day, — she could only realize that Philip — her Philip — was “utterly weary and broken-hearted” — for the sake of another woman — and that other woman actually pitied her! She pitied herself too, a little vaguely — her brows ached and throbbed violently — there was a choking sensation in her throat, but she could not weep. Tears would have relieved her tired brain, but no tears fell. She strove to decide on some immediate plan of action, — Philip would be home to-morrow, — she recoiled at the thought of meeting him, knowing what she knew. Glancing dreamily at her own figure, reflected by the lamplight in the long mirror opposite, she recognized that she was fully attired in outdoor costume — all save her hat, which she had taken off after her first greeting of Lady Winsleigh, and which was still on the table at her side. She looked at the clock, — it was five minutes to seven. Eight o’clock was her dinner-hour, and thinking of this, she suddenly rang the bell. Morris immediately answered it.
“I shall not dine at home,” she said in her usual gentle voice; “I am going to see some friend this evening. I may not be back till — till late.”
“Very well, my lady,” and Morris retired without seeing anything remarkable in his mistress’s announcement. Thelma drew a long breath of relief as he disappeared, and, steadying her nerves by a strong effort, passed into her own boudoir, — the little sanctum specially endeared to her by Philip’s frequent presence there. How cosy and comfortable a home-nest it looked! — a small fire glowed warmly in the grate, and Britta, whose duty it was to keep this particular room in order, had lit the lamp, — a rosy globe supported by a laughing cupid, — and had drawn the velvet curtains close at the window to keep out the fog and chilly air — there were fragrant flowers on the table, — Thelma’s own favorite lounge was drawn up to the fender in readiness for her, — opposite to it stood the deep, old-fashioned easy chair in which Philip always sat. She looked round upon all these familiar things with a dreary sense of strangeness and desolation, and the curves of her sweet mouth trembled a little and drooped piteously. But her resolve was taken, and she did not hesitate or weep. She sat down to her desk and wrote a few brief lines to her father — this letter she addressed and stamped ready for posting.
Then for a while she remained apparently lost in painf
ul musings, playing with the pen she held, and uncertain what to do. Presently she drew a sheet of note-paper toward her, and began, “My darling boy.” As these words appeared under her hand on the white page, her forced calm nearly gave way, — a low cry of intense agony escaped from her lips, and, dropping the pen, she rose and paced the room restlessly, one hand pressed against her heart as though that action could still its rapid beatings. Once more she essayed the hard task she had set herself to fulfill — the task of bidding farewell to the husband in whom her life was centred. Piteous, passionate words came quickly from her overcharged and almost breaking heart — words, tender, touching, — full of love, and absolutely free from all reproach. Little did she guess as she wrote that parting letter, what desperate misery it would cause to the receiver! —
When she had finished it, she felt quieted — even more composed than before. She folded and sealed it — then put it out of sight and rang for Britta. That little maiden soon appeared, and seemed surprised to see her mistress still in walking costume.
“Have you only just come in, Fröken?” she ventured to inquire.
“No, I came home some time ago,” returned Thelma gently. “But I was talking to Lady Winsleigh in the drawing-room, — and as I am going out again this evening I shall not require to change my dress. I want you to post this letter for me, Britta.”
And she held out the one addressed to her father, Olaf Güldmar. Britta took it, but her mind still revolved the question of her mistress’s attire.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 120
