Thelma Part 62

"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, pa.s.sed 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 painful 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, pa.s.sionate 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, Froken?" 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 Guldmar. Britta took it, but her mind still revolved the question of her mistress's attire.

"If you are going to spend the evening with friends," she suggested, "would it not be better to change?"

"I have on a velvet gown," said Thelma, with a rather wearied patience.

"It is quite dressy enough for where I am going." She paused abruptly, and Britta looked at her inquiringly.

"Are you tired, Froken Thelma?" she asked. "You are so pale!"

"I have a slight headache," Thelma answered. "It is nothing,--it will soon pa.s.s. I wish you to post that letter at once, Britta."

"Very well, Froken." Britta still hesitated. "Will you be out all the evening?" was her next query.

"Yes."

"Then perhaps you will not mind if I go and see Louise, and take supper with her? She has asked me, and Mr. Briggs"--here Britta laughed--"is coming to see if I can go. He will escort me, he says!" And she laughed again.

Thelma forced herself to smile. "You can go, by all means, Britta! But I thought you did not like Lady Winsleigh's French maid?"

"I don't like her much," Britta admitted--"still, she means to be kind and agreeable, I think. And"--here she eyed Thelma with a mysterious and important air--"I want to ask her a question about something very particular."

"Then, go and stay as long as you like, dear," said Thelma, a sudden impulse of affection causing her to caress softly her little maid's ruffled brown curls, "I shall not be back till--till quite late. And when you return from the post, I shall be gone--so--good-bye!"

"Good-bye!" exclaimed Britta wonderingly. "Why, where are you going? One would think you were starting on a long journey. You speak so strangely, Froken!"

"Do I?" and Thelma smiled kindly. "It is because my head aches, I suppose. But it is not strange to say good-bye, Britta!"

Britta caught her hand. "Where are you going?" she persisted.

"To see some friends," responded Thelma quietly. "Now do not ask any more questions, Britta, but go and post my letter. I want father to get it as soon as possible, and you will lose the post if you are not very quick."

Thus reminded, Britta hastened off, determining to run all the way, in order to get back before her mistress left the house. Thelma, however, was too quick for her. As soon as Britta had gone, she took the letter she had written to Philip, and slipped it within the pages of a small volume of poems he had lately been reading. It was a new book ent.i.tled "Gladys the Singer," and its leading _motif_ was the old, never-exhausted subject of a woman's too faithful love, betrayal, and despair. As she opened it, her eyes fell by chance on a few lines of hopeless yet musical melancholy, which, like a sad song heard suddenly, made her throat swell with rising yet restrained tears. They ran thus:--

"Oh! I can drown, or, like a broken lyre, Be thrown to earth, or cast upon a fire,-- I can be made to feel the pangs of death, And yet be constant to the quest of breath,-- Our poor pale trick of living through the lies We name Existence when that 'something' dies Which we call Honor. Many and many a way Can I be struck or fretted night or day In some new fashion,--or condemn'd the while To take for food the semblance of a smile,-- The left-off rapture of a slain caress,--"

Ah!--she caught her breath sobbingly, "The left-off rapture of a slain caress!" Yes,--that would be her portion now if--if she stayed to receive it. But she would not stay! She turned over the volume abstractedly, scarcely conscious of the action,--and suddenly, as if the poet-writer of it had been present to probe her soul and make her inmost thoughts public, she read:--

"Because I am unlov'd of thee to-day, And undesired as sea-weeds in the sea!"

Yes!--that was the "because" of everything that swayed her sorrowful spirit,--"because" she was "unlov'd and undesired."

She hesitated no longer, but shut the book with her farewell letter inside it, and put it back in its former place on the little table beside Philip's arm-chair. Then she considered how she should distinguish it by some mark that should attract her husband's attention toward it,--and loosening from her neck a thin gold chain on which was suspended a small diamond cross with the names "Philip" and "Thelma"

engraved at the back, she twisted it round the little book, and left it so that the sparkle of the jewels should be seen distinctly on the cover. Now was there anything more to be done? She divested herself of all her valuable ornaments, keeping only her wedding-ring and its companion circlet of brilliants,--she emptied her purse of all money save that which was absolutely necessary for her journey--then she put on her hat, and began to fasten her long cloak slowly, for her fingers were icy cold and trembled very strangely. Stay,--there was her husband's portrait,--she might take that, she thought, with a sort of touching timidity. It was a miniature on ivory--and had been painted expressly for her,--she placed it inside her dress, against her bosom.

"He has been too good to me," she murmured; "and I have been too happy,--happier than I deserved to be. Excess of happiness must always end in sorrow."

She looked dreamily at Philip's empty chair--in fancy she could see his familiar figure seated there, and she sighed as she thought of the face she loved so well,--the pa.s.sion of his eyes,--the tenderness of his smile. Softly she kissed the place where his head had rested,--then turned resolutely away.

She was giving up everything, she thought, to another woman,--but then--that other woman, however incredible it seemed, was the one Philip loved best,--his own written words were a proof of this. There was no choice therefore,--his pleasure was her first consideration,--everything must yield to that, so she imagined,--her own life was nothing, in her estimation, compared to his desire. Such devotion as hers was of course absurd--it amounted to weak self-immolation, and would certainly be accounted as supremely foolish by most women who have husbands, and who, when they swear to "obey," mean to break the vow at every convenient opportunity--but Thelma could not alter her strange nature, and, with her, obedience meant the extreme letter of the law of utter submission.

Leaving the room she had so lately called her own, she pa.s.sed into the entrance-hall. Morris was not there, and she did not summon him,--she opened the street-door for herself, and shutting it quietly behind her, she stood alone in the cold street, where the fog had now grown so dense that the lamp-posts were scarcely visible. She walked on for a few paces rather bewildered and chilled by the piercing bitterness of the air,--then, rallying her forces, she hailed a pa.s.sing cab, and told the man to take her to Charing Cross Station. She was not familiar with London--and Charing Cross was the only great railway terminus she could just then think of.

Arrived there, the glare of the electric light, the jostling pa.s.sengers rushing to and from the trains, the shouts and wrangling of porters and cabmen, confused her not a little,--and the bold looks of admiration bestowed on her freely by the male loungers sauntering near the doors of the restaurant and hotel, made her shrink and tremble for shame. She had never travelled entirely alone before--and she began to be frightened at the pandemonium of sights and noises that surged around her. Yet she never once thought of returning,--she never dreamed of going to any of her London friends, lest on hearing of her trouble they might reproach Philip--and this Thelma would not have endured. For the same reason, she had said nothing to Britta.

In her then condition, it seemed to her that only one course lay open for her to follow,--and that was to go quietly home,--home to the Altenfjord. No one would be to blame for her departure but herself, she thought,--and Philip would be free. Thus she reasoned,--if, indeed, she reasoned at all. But there was such a frozen stillness in her soul--her senses were so numbed with pain, that as yet she scarcely realized either what had happened or what she herself was doing. She was as one walking in sleep--the awakening, bitter as death, was still to come.

Presently a great rush of people began to stream towards her from one of the platforms, and trucks of luggage, heralded by shouts of, "Out of the way, there!" and "By'r leave!" came trundling rapidly along--the tidal train from the Continent had just arrived.

Dismayed at the increasing confusion and uproar, Thelma addressed herself to an official with a gold band round his hat.

"Can you tell me," she asked timidly, "where I shall take a ticket for Hull?"