Thelma Part 54

"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 Duprez; "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 pa.s.sionately, 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 pa.s.sion--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 pa.s.sion 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 Duprez'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 n.o.blest 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 _tete-a-tete_?"

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 pa.s.sed 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.

"Long engagements are a great mistake," she told Marcia,--then, in a warning undertone she added, "Men are capricious nowadays,--they're all so much in demand,--better take Masherville while he's in the humor."

Marcia accepted this hint and took him,--and Mrs. Rush-Marvelle heaved a sigh of relief when she saw the twain safely married, and off to the Continent on their honeymoon-trip,--Marcia all sparkling and triumphant,--Lord Algy tremulous and feebly ecstatic.

"Thank Heaven _that's_ over!" she said to her polite and servile husband. "I never had such a troublesome business in my life! That girl's been nearly two seasons on my hands, and I think five hundred guineas not a bit too much for all I've done."

"Not a bit--not a bit!" agreed Mr. Marvelle warmly. "Have they--have they--" here he put on a most benevolent side-look--"quite settled with you, my dear?"

"Every penny," replied Mrs. Marvelle calmly. "Old Van Clupp paid me the last hundred this morning. And poor Mrs. Van Clupp is so _very_ grateful!" She sighed placidly, and appeared to meditate. Then she smiled sweetly and, approaching Mr. Marvelle, patted his shoulder caressingly. "I think we'll do the Italian lakes, dear--what do you say?"

"Charming--charming!" declared, not her lord and master, but her slave and va.s.sal. "Nothing could be more delightful!"

And to the Italian lakes accordingly they went. A great many people were out of town,--all who had leisure and money enough to liberate themselves from the approaching evils of an English winter, had departed or were departing,--Beau Lovelace had gone to Como,--George Lorimer had returned with Duprez to Paris, and Thelma had very few visitors except Lady Winsleigh, who was more often with her now than ever. In fact, her ladyship was more like one of the Errington household than anything else,--she came so frequently and stayed so long. She seemed sincerely attached to Thelma,--and Thelma herself, too single-hearted and simple to imagine that such affection could be feigned, gave her in return, what Lady Winsleigh had never succeeded in winning from any woman,--a pure, trusting, and utterly unsuspecting love, such as she would have lavished on a twin-born sister. But there was one person who was not deceived by Lady Winsleigh's charm of manner, and grace of speech. This was Britta. Her keen eyes flashed a sort of unuttered defiance into her ladyship's beautiful, dark languishing ones--she distrusted her, and viewed the intimacy between her and the "Froken" with entire disfavor.

Once she ventured to express something of her feeling on the matter to Thelma--but Thelma had looked so gently wondering and reproachful that Britta had not courage to go on.

"I am so sorry, Britta," said her mistress, "that you do not like Lady Winsleigh--because I am very fond of her. You must try to like her for my sake."

But Britta pursed her lips and shook her head obstinately. However, she said no more at the time, and decided within herself to wait and watch the course of events. And in the meantime she became very intimate with Lady Winsleigh's maid, Louise Renaud, and Briggs, and learned from these two domestic authorities many things which greatly tormented and puzzled her little brain,--things over which she pondered deeply without arriving at any satisfactory conclusion.