Thelma Part 61

interrupted Mrs. Lorimer quickly. "She isn't satisfied with her own marriage, and she thinks everybody must be as discontented as herself.

Now, my husband and I lived always together for five and twenty years,--and we were lovers to the last day, when my darling died with his hand in mine--and--and--if it hadn't been for my boy,--I should have died too!"

And two bright tears fell glittering on the old lady's knitting.

Thelma took her hand and kissed it fondly. "I can understand that," she said softly; "but still,--still I do believe it is difficult to keep love when you have won it! It is, perhaps, easy to win--but I am sure it is hard to keep!"

Mrs. Lorimer looked at her earnestly.

"My dear child, don't let that frivolous Winsleigh woman put nonsense into your pretty head. You are too sensible to take such a morbid view of things,--and you mustn't allow your wholesome fresh nature to be contaminated by the petulant, wrong-headed notions that cloud the brains of idle, fashionable, useless women. Believe me, good men don't tire of their wives--and Sir Philip is a good man. Good wives never weary their husbands--and you are a good wife--and you will be a good, sweet mother.

Think of that new delight so soon coming for you,--and leave all the modern, crazy, one-sided notions of human life to the French and Russian novelists. Tut-tut!" continued the old lady tenderly. "A nice little ladyship you are,--worrying yourself about nothing! Send Philip to me when he comes home--I'll scold him for leaving his bird to mope in her London cage!"

"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 pa.s.sing 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 G.o.d!" 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 tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs, 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, compa.s.sionate 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 a.s.sent, 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 pa.s.sionless 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d!"

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.