Thelma Part 68

"Clara," said her husband solemnly, with a strange light in his eyes, "I would rather kill you than divorce you!"

There was something so terribly earnest in his tone that her heart beat fast with fear.

"Kill me?--kill me?" she gasped, with white lips.

"Yes!" he repeated, "kill you,--as a Frenchman or an Italian would,--and take the consequences. Yes--though an Englishman, I would rather do this than drag your frail poor womanhood through the mire of public scandal!

I have, perhaps, a strange nature, but such as I am, I am. There are too many of our high-born families already, flaunting their immorality and low licentiousness in the face of the mocking, grinning populace,--I for one could never make up my mind to fling the honor of my son's mother to them, as though it were a bone for dogs to fight over. No--I have another proposition to make to you--"

He stopped short. She stared at him wonderingly. He resumed in methodical, unmoved, business-like tones.

"I propose, Clara, simply,--to leave you! I'll take the boy and absent myself from this country, so as to give you perfect freedom and save you all trouble. There'll be no possibility of scandal, for I will keep you cognizant of my movements,--and should you require my presence at any time for the sake of appearances,--or--to shield you from calumny,--you may rely on my returning to you at once,--without delay. Ernest will gain many advantages by travel,--his education is quite a sufficient motive for my departure, my interest in his young life being well known to all our circle. Moreover, with me--under my surveillance--he need never know anything against--against you. I have always taught him to honor and obey you in his heart."

Lord Winsleigh paused a moment--then went on, somewhat musingly;--"When he was quite little, he used to wonder why you didn't love him,--it was hard for me to hear him say that, sometimes. But I always told him that you did love him--but that you had so many visits to makes and so many friends to entertain, that you had no time to play with him. I don't think he quite understood,--but still--I did my best!"

He was silent. She had hidden her face again in her hands, and he heard a sound of smothered sobbing.

"I think," he continued calmly, "that he has a great reverence for you in his young heart--a feeling which partakes, perhaps, more of fear than love--still it is better than--disdain--or--or disrespect. I shall always teach him to esteem you highly,--but I think, as matters stand--if I relieve you of all your responsibilities to husband and son--you--Clara!--pray don't distress yourself--there's no occasion for this--Clara--"

For on a sudden impulse she had flung herself at his feet in an irrepressible storm of pa.s.sionate weeping.

"Kill me, Harry!" she sobbed wildly, clinging to him. "Kill me! don't speak to me like this!--don't leave me! Oh, my G.o.d! don't, don't despise me so utterly! Hate me--curse me--strike me--do anything, but don't leave me as if I were some low thing, unfit for your touch,--I know I am, but oh, Harry! . . ." She clung to him more closely. "If you leave me I will not live,--I cannot! Have you no pity? Why would you throw me back alone--all, all alone, to die of your contempt and my shame!"

And she bowed her head in an agony of tears.

He looked down upon her a moment in silence.

"Your shame!" he murmured. "My wife--"

Then he raised her in his arms and drew her with a strange hesitation of touch, to his breast, as though she were some sick or wounded child, and watched her as she lay there weeping, her face hidden, her whole frame trembling in his embrace.

"Poor soul!" he whispered, more to himself than to her. "Poor frail woman! Hush, hush, Clara! The past is past! I'll make you no more reproaches. I--I _can't_ hurt you, because I once so loved you--but now--now,--what _is_ there left for me to do, but to leave you? You'll be happier so--you'll have perfect liberty--you needn't even think of me--unless, perhaps, as one dead and buried long ago--"

She raised herself in his arms and looked at him piteously.

"Won't you give me a chance?" she sobbed. "Not one? If I had but known you better--if I had understood oh, I've been vile, wicked, deceitful--but I'm not happy, Harry--I've never been happy since I wronged you! Won't you give me one little hope that I may win your love again,--no, not your love, but your pity? Oh, Harry, have I lost all--all--"

Her voice broke--she could say no more.

He stroked her hair gently. "You speak on impulse just now, Clara," he said gravely yet tenderly. "You can't know your own strength or weakness. G.o.d forbid that _I_ should judge you harshly! As you wish it, I will not leave you yet. I'll wait. Whether we part or remain together, shall be decided by your own actions, your own looks, your own words.

You understand, Clara? You know my feelings. I'm content for the present to place my fate in your hands." He smiled rather sadly. "But for love, Clara--I fear nothing can be done to warm to life this poor perished love of ours. We can, perhaps, take hands and watch its corpse patiently together and say how sorry we are it is dead--such penitence comes always too late!"

He sighed, and put her gently away from him.

She turned up her flushed, tear-stained face to his.

"Will you kiss me, Harry?" she asked tremblingly. He met her eyes, and an exclamation that was almost a groan broke from his lips. A shudder pa.s.sed through his frame.

"I can't, Clara! I can't--G.o.d forgive me!--Not yet!" And with that he bowed his head and left her.

She listened to the echo of his firm footsteps dying away, and creeping guiltily to a side-door she opened it, and watched yearningly his retreating figure till it had disappeared.

"Why did I never love him till now?" she murmured sobbingly. "Now, when he despises me--when he will not even kiss me?--" She leaned against the half-open door in an att.i.tude of utter dejection, not caring to move, listening intently with a vague hope of hearing her husband's returning tread. A lighter step than his, however, came suddenly along from the other side of the pa.s.sage and startled her a little--it was Ernest, looking the picture of boyish health and beauty. He was just going out for his usual ride--he lifted his cap with a pretty courtesy as he saw her, and said--

"Good-morning, mother!"

She looked at him with new interest,--how handsome the lad was!--how fresh his face!--how joyously clear those bright blue eyes of his! He, on his part, was moved by a novel sensation too--his mother,--his proud, beautiful, careless mother had been crying--he saw that at a glance, and his young heart beat faster when she laid her white hand, sparkling all over with rings, on his arm and drew him closer to her.

"Are you going to the Park?" she asked gently.

"Yes." Then recollecting his training in politeness and obedience he added instantly--"Unless you want me."

She smiled faintly. "I never do want you--do I, Ernest?" she asked half sadly. "I never want my boy at all." Her voice quivered,--and Ernest grew more and more astonished.

"If you do, I'll stay," he said stoutly, filled with a chivalrous desire to console his so suddenly tender mother of his, whatever her griefs might be. Her eyes filled again, but she tried to laugh.

"No dear--not now,--run along and enjoy yourself. Come to me when you return. I shall be at home all day. And,--stop Ernest--won't you kiss me?"

The boy opened his eyes wide in respectful wonderment, and his cheeks flushed with surprise and pleasure.

"Why, mother--of course!" And his fresh, sweet lips closed on hers with frank and unaffected heartiness. She held him fast for a moment and looked at him earnestly.

"Tell your father you kissed me--will you?" she said. "Don't forget!"

And with that she waved her hand to him, and retreated again into her own apartment. The boy went on his way somewhat puzzled and bewildered--did his mother love him, after all? If so, he thought--how glad he was!--how very glad! and what a pity he had not known it before!

CHAPTER XXIX.

"I heed not custom, creed, nor law; I care for nothing that ever I saw-- I terribly laugh with an oath and sneer, When I think that the hour of Death draws near!"

W. WINTER.

Errington's first idea, on leaving Winsleigh House, was to seek an interview with Sir Francis Lennox, and demand an explanation. He could not understand the man's motive for such detestable treachery and falsehood. His anger rose to a white heat as he thought of it, and he determined to "have it out" with him whatever the consequences might be.

"No apology will serve his turn," he muttered. "The scoundrel! He has lied deliberately--and, by Jove, he shall pay for it!"

And he started off rapidly in the direction of Piccadilly, but on the way he suddenly remembered that he had no weapon with him, not even a cane wherewith to carry out his intention of thrashing Sir Francis, and calling to mind a certain heavy horsewhip, that hung over the mantel-piece in his own room, he hailed a hansom, and was driven back to his house in order to provide himself with that implement of castigation before proceeding further. On arriving at the door, to his surprise he found Lorimer who was just about to ring the bell.

"Why, I thought you were in Paris?" he exclaimed.

"I came back last night," George began, when Morris opened the door, and Errington, taking his friend by the arm hurried him into the house. In five minutes he had unburdened himself of all his troubles--and had explained the misunderstanding about Violet Vere and Thelma's consequent flight. Lorimer listened with a look of genuine pain and distress on his honest face.

"Phil, you _have_ been a fool!" he said candidly. "A positive fool, if you'll pardon me for saying so. You ought to have told Thelma everything at first,--she's the very last woman in the world who ought to be kept in the dark about anything. Neville's feelings? Bother Neville's feelings! Depend upon it the poor girl has heard all manner of stories.

She's been miserable for some time--Duprez noticed it." And he related in a few words the little scene that had taken place at Errington Manor on the night of the garden-party, when his playing on the organ had moved her to such unwonted emotion.

Philip heard him in moody silence,--how had it happened, he wondered, that others,--comparative strangers,--had observed that Thelma looked unhappy, while he, her husband, had been blind to it? He could not make this out,--and yet it is a thing that very commonly happens. Our nearest and dearest are often those who are most in the dark respecting our private and personal sufferings,--we do not wish to trouble them,--and they prefer to think that everything is right with us, even though the rest of the world can plainly perceive that everything is wrong. To the last moment they will refuse to see death in our faces, though the veriest stranger meeting us casually, clearly beholds the shadow of the dark Angel's hand.