“I tell you it is all wrong!” she repeated with an effort. “I do not understand why these people at the clubs should talk of me, or pity me. I do not need any pity! My husband is all goodness and truth,” — she stopped and gathered courage as she went on. “Yes! he is better, braver, nobler than all other men in the world, it seems to me! He gives me all the joy of my life — each day and night I thank God for the blessing of his love!”
She paused again. Sir Francis turned and looked at her steadily. A sudden thought seemed to strike her, for she advanced eagerly, a sweet color flushing the pallor of her skin.
“You can do so much for me if you will!” she said, laying her hand on his arm. “You can tell all these people who talk so foolishly that they are wrong, — tell them how happy I am! And that my Philip has never deceived me in any matter, great or small!”
“Never?” he asked with a slight sneer. “You are sure?”
“Sure!” she answered bravely. “He would keep nothing from me that it was necessary or good for me to know. And I — oh! I might pass all my life in striving to please him, and yet I should never, never be worthy of all his tenderness and goodness! And that he goes many times to a theatre without me — what is it? A mere nothing — a trifle to laugh at! It is not needful to tell me of such a small circumstance!”
As she spoke she smiled — her form seemed to dilate with a sort of inner confidence and rapture.
Sir Francis stared at her half shamed, — half savage. The beautiful, appealing face, bright with simple trust, roused him to no sort of manly respect or forbearance, — the very touch of the blossom-white hand she had laid so innocently on his arm, stung his passion as with a lash — as he had said, he was fond of hunting — he had chased the unconscious deer all through the summer, and now that it had turned to bay with such pitiful mildness and sweet pleading, why not draw the knife across its slim throat without mercy?
“Really, Lady Errington!” he said at last sarcastically, “your wifely enthusiasm and confidence are indeed charming! But, unfortunately, the proofs are all against you. Truth is truth, however much you may wish to blind your eyes to its manifestations. I sincerely wish Sir Philip were present to hear your eloquent praises of him, instead of being where he most undoubtedly is, — in the arms of Violet Vere!”
As he said these words she started away from him and put her hands to her ears as though to shut out some discordant sound — her eyes glowed feverishly. A cold shiver shook her from head to foot.
“That is false — false!” she muttered in a low, choked voice. “How can you — how dare you?”
She ceased, and with a swaying, bewildered movement, as though she were blind, she fell senseless at his feet.
In one second he was kneeling beside her. He raised her head on his arm, — he gazed eagerly on her fair, still features. A dark contraction of his brows showed that his thoughts were not altogether righteous ones. Suddenly he laid her down again gently, and, springing to the door, locked it. Returning, he once more lifted her in a half-reclining position, and encircling her with his arms, drew her close to his breast and kissed her. He was in no hurry for her to recover — she looked very beautiful — she was helpless — she was in his power. The silvery ting-ling of the clock on the mantel-piece striking eleven startled him a little — he listened painfully — he thought he heard some one trying the handle of the door he had locked. Again — again he kissed those pale, unconscious lips! Presently, a slight shiver ran through her frame — she sighed, and a little moan escaped her. Gradually, as warmth and sensation returned to her, she felt the pressure of his embrace, and murmured —
“Philip! Darling, — you have come back earlier, — I thought—”
Here she opened her eyes and met those of Sir Francis, who was eagerly bending over her. She uttered an exclamation of alarm, and strove to rise. He held her still more closely.
“Thelma — dear, dearest Thelma! Let me comfort you, — let me tell you how much I love you!”
And before she could divine his intent, he pressed his lips passionately on her pale cheek. With a cry she tore herself violently from his arms and sprang to her feet, trembling in every limb.
“What — what is this?” she exclaimed wrathfully. “Are you mad?”
And still weak and confused from her recent attack of faintness, she pushed back her hair from her brows and regarded him with a sort of puzzled horror.
He flushed deeply, and set his lips hard.
“I dare say I am,” he answered, with a bitter laugh; “in fact, I know I am! You see, I’ve betrayed my miserable secret. Will you forgive me, Lady Errington — Thelma?” He drew nearer to her, and his eyes darkened with restrained passion. “Matchless beauty! — adorable woman, as you are! — will you not pardon my crime, if crime it be — the crime of loving you? For I do love you! — Heaven only knows how utterly and desperately!”
She stood mute, white, almost rigid, with that strange look of horror frozen, as it were, upon her features. Emboldened by her silence, he approached and caught her hand, — she wrenched it from his grasp and motioned him from her with a gesture of such royal contempt that he quailed before her. All suddenly the flood-gates of her speech were loosened, — the rising tide of burning indignation that in its very force had held her dumb and motionless, now broke forth unrestrainedly.
“O God!” she cried impetuously, a magnificent glory of disdain flashing in her jewel-like eyes, “what thing is this that calls itself a man? — this thief of honor, — this pretended friend? What have I done, sir, that you should put such deep disgrace as your so-called love upon me? — what have I seemed, that you thus dare to outrage me by the pollution of your touch? I, — the wife of the noblest gentleman in the land! Ah!” and she drew a long breath— “and it is you who speak against my husband — you!” She smiled scornfully, — then with more calmness continued— “You will leave my house, sir, at once! . . . and never presume to enter it again!”
And she stepped towards the bell. He looked at her with an evil leer.
“Stop a moment!” he said coolly. “Just one moment before you ring. Pray consider! The servant cannot possibly enter, as the door is locked.”
“You dared to lock the door!” she exclaimed, a sudden fear chilling her heart as she remembered similar manoeuvres on the part of the Reverend Mr. Dyceworthy — then another thought crossed her mind, and she began to retreat towards a large painted panel of “Venus” disporting among cupids and dolphins in the sea. Sir Francis sprang to her side, and caught her arm in an iron grip — his face was aflame with baffled spite and vindictiveness.
“Yes, I dared!” he muttered with triumphant malice. “And I dared do more than that! You lay unconscious in my arms, — you beautiful, bewitching Thelma, and I kissed you — ay! fifty times! You can never undo those kisses! You can never forget that my lips, as well as your husband’s, have rested on yours — I have had that much joy that shall never be taken away from me! And if I choose, even now,” — and he gripped her more closely— “yes, even now I will kiss you, in spite of you! — who is to prevent me? I will force you to love me, Thelma—”
Driven to bay, she struck him with all her force in the face, across the eyes.
“Traitor! — liar! — coward!” she gasped breathlessly. “Let me go!”
Smarting with the pain of the blow, he unconsciously loosened his grasp — she rushed to the “Venus” panel, and to his utter discomfiture and amazement he saw it open and close behind her. She disappeared suddenly and noiselessly as if by magic. With a fierce exclamation, he threw his whole weight against that secret sliding door — it resisted all his efforts. He searched for the spring by which it must have opened, — the whole panel was perfectly smooth and apparently solid, and the painted “Venus” reclining on her dolphin’s back seemed as though she smiled mockingly at his rage and disappointment.
While he was examining it, he heard the sudden, sharp, and continuous ringing of an electric bell somewhere
in the house, and with a guilty flush on his face he sprang to the drawing-room door and unlocked it. He was just in time, for scarcely had he turned the key, when Morris made his appearance. That venerable servitor looked round the room in evident surprise.
“Did her ladyship ring?” he inquired, his eyes roving everywhere in search of his mistress. Sir Francis collected his wits, and forced himself to seem composed.
“No,” he said coolly. “I rang.” He adopted this falsehood as a means of exit. “Call a hansom, will you?”
And he sauntered easily into the hall, and got on his hat and great-coat. Morris was rather bewildered, — but, obedient to the command, blew the summoning cab-whistle, which was promptly answered. Sir Francis tossed him half a crown, and entered the vehicle, which clattered away with him in the direction of Cromwell Road. Stopping at a particular house in a side street leading from thence, he bade the cabman wait, — and, ascending the steps, busied himself for some moments in scribbling something rapidly in pencil on a leaf of his note-book by the light of the hanging-lamp in the doorway. He then gave a loud knock, and inquired of the servant who answered it —
“Is Mr. Snawley-Grubbs in?”
“Yes, sir,” — the reply came rather hesitatingly— “but he’s having a party to-night.”
And, in fact, the scraping of violins and the shuffle of dancing feet were distinctly audible overhead.
“Oh, well, just mention my name — Sir Francis Lennox. Say I will not detain him more than five minutes.”
He entered, and was ushered into a small ante-room while the maid went to deliver her message. He caught sight of his own reflection in a round mirror over the mantel-piece, and his face darkened as he saw a dull red ridge across his forehead — the mark of Thelma’s well-directed blow, — the sign-manual of her scorn. A few minutes passed, and then there came in to him a large man in an expensive dress-suit, — a man with a puffy, red, Silenus-like countenance — no other than Mr. Snawley-Grubbs, who hailed him with effusive cordiality.
“My dear, Sir Francis!” he said in a rich, thick, uncomfortable voice. “This is an unexpected pleasure! Won’t you come upstairs? My girls are having a little informal dance — just among themselves and their own young friends — quite simple, — in fact an unpretentious little affair!” And he rubbed his fat hands, on which twinkled two or three large diamond rings. “But we shall be charmed if you will join us!”
“Thanks, not this evening,” returned Sir Francis. “It’s rather too late. I should not have intruded upon you at this hour — but I thought you might possibly like this paragraph for the Snake.”
And he held out with a careless air the paper on which he had scribbled but a few minutes previously. Mr. Snawley-Grubbs smiled, — and fixed a pair of elegant gold-rimmed eye-glasses on his inflamed crimson nose.
“I must tell you, though,” he observed, before reading, “that it is too late for this week, at any rate. We’ve gone to press already.”
“Never mind!” returned Sir Francis indifferently. “Next week will do as well.”
And he furtively watched Mr. Snawley-Grubbs while he perused the pencilled scrawl. That gentleman, however, as Editor and Proprietor of the Snake — a new, but highly successful weekly “society” journal, was far too dignified and self-important to allow his countenance to betray his feelings. He merely remarked, as he folded up the little slip very carefully.
“Very smart! very smart, indeed! Authentic, of course?”
Sir Francis drew himself up haughtily. “You doubt my word?”
“Oh dear, no!” declared Mr. Snawley-Grubbs hastily, venturing to lay a soothing hand on Sir Francis’s shoulder. “Your position, and all that sort of thing — Naturally you must be able to secure correct information. You can’t help it! I assure you the Snake is infinitely obliged to you for a great many well-written and socially exciting paragraphs. Only, you see, I myself should never have thought that so extreme a follower of the exploded old doctrine of noblesse oblige, as Sir Philip Bruce-Errington, would have started on such a new line of action at all. But, of course, we are all mortal!” And he shook his round thick head with leering sagacity. “Well!” he continued after a pause. “This shall go in without fail next week, I promise you.”
“You can send me a hundred copies of the issue,” said Sir Francis, taking up his hat to go. “I suppose you’re not afraid of an action for libel?”
Mr. Snawley-Grubbs laughed — nay, he roared, — the idea seemed so exquisitely suited to his sense of humor.
“Afraid? My dear fellow, there’s nothing I should like better! It would establish the Snake, and make my fortune! I would even go to prison with pleasure. Prison, for a first-class misdemeanant, as I should most probably be termed, is perfectly endurable.” He laughed again, and escorted Sir Francis to the street-door, where he shook hands heartily. “You are sure you won’t come upstairs and join us? No? Ah, I see you have a cab waiting. Good-night, good-night!”
And the Snawley-Grubbs door being closed upon him, Sir Francis re-entered his cab, and was driven straight to his bachelor lodgings in Piccadilly. He was in a better humor with himself now, — though he was still angrily conscious of a smart throbbing across the eyes, where Thelma’s ringed hand had struck him. He found a brief note from Lady Winsleigh awaiting him. It ran as follows: —
“You’re playing a losing game this time, — she will believe nothing without proofs — and even then it will be difficult. You had better drop the pursuit, I fancy. For once a woman’s reputation will escape you!”
He smiled bitterly as he read these last words.
“Not while a society paper exists!” he said to himself. “As long as there are editors willing to accept the word of a responsible man of position, for any report, the chastest Diana that ever lived shall not escape calumny! She wants proofs, does she? She shall have them — by Jove! she shall!”
And instead of going to bed, he went off to a bijou villa in St. John’s Wood, — an elegantly appointed little place, which he rented and maintained, — and where the popular personage known as Violet Vere, basked in the very lap of luxury.
Meanwhile, Thelma paced up and down her own boudoir, into which she had escaped through the sliding panel which had baffled her admirer. Her whole frame trembled as she thought of the indignity to which she had been subjected during her brief unconsciousness, — her face burned with bitter shame, — she felt as if she were somehow poisonously infected by those hateful kisses of Lennox, — all her womanly and wifely instincts were outraged. Her first impulse was to tell her husband everything the instant he returned. It was she who had rung the bell which had startled Sir Francis, and she was surprised that her summons was not answered. She rang again, and Britta appeared.
“I wanted Morris,” said Thelma quickly.
“He thought it was the drawing-room bell,” responded Britta meekly, for her “Fröken” looked very angry. “I saw him in the hall just now, letting out Sir Francis Lennox.”
“Has he gone?” demanded Thelma eagerly.
Britta’s wonder increased. “Yes, Fröken!”
Thelma caught her arm. “Tell Morris never, never to let him inside the house again — never!” and her blue eyes flashed wrathfully. “He is a wicked man, Britta! You do not know how wicked he is!”
“Oh yes, I do!” and Britta regarded her mistress very steadfastly. “I know quite well! But, then, I must not speak! If I dared, I could tell you some strange things, dear Fröken — but you will not hear me. You know you do not wish me to talk about your grand new friends, Fröken, but—” she paused timidly.
“Oh, Britta, dear!” said Thelma affectionately taking her hand. “You know they are not so much my friends as the friends of Sir Philip, — and for this reason I must never listen to anything against them. Do you not see? Of course their ways seem strange to us — but, then, life in London is so different to life in Norway, — and we cannot all at once understand—” she broke off, sighing a little. Then she res
umed— “Now you will give Morris my message, Britta — and then come to me in my bedroom — I am tired, and Philip said I was not to wait up for him.”
Britta departed, and Thelma went rather slowly up-stairs. It was now nearly midnight, and she felt languid and weary. Her reflections began to take a new turn. Suppose she told her husband all that had occurred, he would most certainly go to Sir Francis and punish him in some way — there might then be a quarrel in which Philip might suffer — and all sorts of evil consequences would perhaps result from her want of reticence. If, on the other hand, she said nothing, and simply refused to receive Lennox, would not her husband think such conduct on her part strange? She puzzled over these questions till her head ached — and finally resolved to keep her own counsel for the present, — after what had happened. Sir Francis would most probably not intrude himself again into her presence. “I will ask Mrs. Lorimer what is best to do,” she thought. “She is old and wise, and she will know.”
That night, as she laid her head on her pillow, and Britta threw the warm eidredon over her, she shivered a little and asked —
“Is it not very cold, Britta?”
“Very!” responded her little maid. “And it is beginning to snow.”
Thelma looked wistful. “It is all snow and darkness now at the Altenfjord,” she said.
Britta smiled. “Yes, indeed, Fröken! We are better off here than there.”
“Perhaps!” replied Thelma a little musingly, and then she settled herself as though to sleep.
Britta kissed her hand, and retired noiselessly. When she had gone, Thelma opened her eyes and lay broad awake looking at the flicker of rosy light flung on the ceiling from the little suspended lamp in her oratory. All snow and darkness at the Altenfjord! How strange the picture seemed! She thought of her mother’s sepulchre, — how cold and dreary it must be, — she could see in fancy the long pendent icicles fringing the entrance to the sea-king’s tomb, — the spot where she and Philip had first met, — she could almost hear the slow, sullen plash of the black Fjord against the shore. Her maiden life in Norway — her school days at Arles, — these were now like dreams, — dreams that had passed away long, long ago. The whole tenor of her existence had changed, — she was a wife, — she was soon to be a mother, — and with this near future of new and sacred joy before her, why did she to-night so persistently look backward to the past?
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 117