Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “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, Fröken Thelma?” she asked. “You are so pale!”

  “I have a slight headache,” Thelma answered. “It is nothing, — it will soon pass. I wish you to post that letter at once, Britta.”

  “Very well, Fröken.” 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, Fröken!”

  “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 entitled “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 passion 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 passed 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 passing 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 passengers 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?”

  The man glanced at the fair, anxious face, and smiled good-humoredly.

  “You’ve come to the wrong station, miss,” he said. “You want the Midland line.”

  “The Midland?” Thelma felt more bewildered than ever.

  “Yes, — the Midland,” he repeated rather testily. “It’s a good way from here — you’d better take a cab.”

  She moved away, — but started and drew herself back into a shadowed corner, coloring deeply as the sound of a rich, mellifluous voice, which she instantly recognized, smote suddenly on her ears.

  “And as I before remarked, my good fellow,” the voice was saying, “I am not a disciple of the semi-obscure. If a man has a thought which is worth declaring, let him declare it with a free and noble utterance — don’t let him wrap it up in multifarious parcels of dreary verbosity! There’s too much of that kind of thing going on nowadays — in England, at least. There’s a kind of imitation of art which isn’t art at all, — a morbid, bilious, bad imitation. You only get close to the real goddess in Italy. I wish I could persuade you to come and pass the winter with me there?”

  It was Beau Lovelace who spoke, and he was talking to George Lorimer. The two had met in Paris, — Lovelace was on his way to London, where a matter of business summoned him for a few days, and Lorimer, somewhat tired of the French capital, decided to return with him. And here they were, — just arrived at Charing Cross, — and they walked across the station arm in arm, little imagining who watched them from behind the shelter of one of the waiting-room doors, with a yearning sorrow in her grave blue eyes. They stopped almost opposite to her to light their cigars, — she saw Lorimer’s face quite distinctly, and heard his answer to Lovelace.

  “Well, I’ll see what I can do about it, Beau! You know my mother always likes to get away from London in winter — but whether we ought to inflict ourselves upon you, — you being a literary man too—”

  “Nonsense, you won’t interfere in the least with the flow of inky inspiration,” laughed Beau. “And as for your mother, I’m in love with her, as you are aware! I admire her almost as much as I do Lady Bruce-Errington — and that’s saying a great deal! By-the-by, if Phil can get through his share of this country’s business, he might do worse than bring his beautiful Thelma to the Lake of Como for a while. I’ll ask him!”

  And having lit their Havannas successfully, they walked on and soon disappeared. For one instant Thelma felt strongly inclined to run after them, like a little forlorn child that had lost its way, — and, unburdening herself of all her miseries to the sympathetic George, entreat, with tears, to be taken back to that husband who did not want her any more. But she soon overcame this emotion, — and calling to mind the instructions of the official personage whose advice she had sought, she hurried out of the huge, brilliantly lit station, and taking a hansom, was driven, as she requested, to the Midland. Here the rather gloomy aspect of the place oppressed her as much as the garish bustle of Charing Cross had bewildered her, — but she was somewhat relieved when she learned that a train for Hull would start in ten minutes. Hurrying to the ticket-office she found there before her a kindly faced woman with a baby in her arms, who was just taking a third-class ticket to Hull, and as she felt lonely and timid, Thelma at once decided to travel third-class also, and if possible in the same compartment with this cheerful matron, who, as soon as she had secured her ticket, walked away to the train, hushing her infant in her arms as she went. Thelma followed her at a little distance — and as soon as she saw her enter a third-class carriage, she hastened her steps and entered also, quite thankful to have secured some companionship for the long cold journey. The woman glanced at her a little curiously — it was strange to see so lovely and young a creature travelling all alone at night, — and she asked kindly —

  “Be you goin’ fur, miss?”

  Thelma smiled — it was pleasant to be spoken to, she thought.

  “Yes,” she answered. “All the way to Hull.”

  “’Tis a cold night for a journey,” continued her companion.

  “Yes, indeed,” answered Thelma. “It must be cold for your little baby.”

  And unconsciously her voice softened and her eyes grew sad as she looked across at the sleeping infant.

  “Oh, he’s as warm as toast!” laughed the mother cheerily. “He gets the best of everything, he do. It’s yourself that’s looking cold, my dear in spite of your warm cloak. Will ye have this shawl?”

  And she offered Thelma a homely gray woollen wrap with much kindly earnestness of manner.

  “I am quite warm, thank you,” said Thelma gently, accepting the shawl, however, to please her fellow-traveller. “It is a headache I have which makes me look pale. And, I am very, very tired!”

  Her voice trembled a little, — she sighed and closed her eyes. She felt strangely weak and giddy, — she seemed to be slipping away from herself and from all the comprehension of life, — she wondered vaguely who and what she was. Had her marriage with Philip been all a dream? — perhaps she had never left the Altenfjord after all! Perhaps she would wake up presently and see the old farm-house quite unchanged, with the doves flying about the roof, and Sigurd wandering under the pines as was his custom. Ah, dear Sigurd! Poor Sigurd! he had loved her, she thought — nay, he loved her still, — he could not be dead! Oh, yes, — she must have been dreaming, — she felt certain she was lying on her own little white bed at home, asleep; — she would by-and-by open her eyes and get up and look through her little latticed window, and see the sun sparkling on the water, and the Eulalie at the anchor in the Fjord — and her father would ask Sir Philip and his friends to spend the afternoon at the farm-house — and Philip would come and stroll with her through the garden and down to the shore, and would talk to her in that low, caressing voice of his, — and though she loved him dearly, she must never, never let him know of it, because she was not worthy! . . . She woke from these musings with a violent start and a sick shiver running through all her frame, — and looking wildly about her, saw that she was reclining on some one’s shoulder, — some one was dabbing a wet handkerchief on her forehead — her hat was off and her cloak was loosened.

  “There, my dear, you’re better now!” said a kindly voice in her ear. “Lor! I thought you was dead — that I did! ’Twas a bad faint indeed. And with the train jolting along like this too! It was lucky I had a flask of cold water with me. Raise your head a little — that’s it! Poor thing, — you’re as white as a sheet! You’re not fit to travel, my dear — you’re not indeed.”

  Thelma raised herself slowly, and with a sudden impulse kissed the good woman’s honest, rosy face, to her intense astonishment and pleasure.

  “You are very kind to me!” she said tremulously. “I am so sorry to have troubled you. I do feel ill — but it will soon pass.”

  And she smoothed her ruffled hair, and sitting up erect, endeavored to smile. Her companion eyed her pale face compassionately, and taking up her sleeping baby from the shawl on which she had laid it while ministering to Thelma’s needs, began to rock it slowly to and fro. Thelma, meanwhile, became sensible of the rapid movement of the train.

  “We have left London?” she asked with an air of surprise.

  “Nearly half an hour ago, my dear.” Then, after a pause, during which she had watched Thelma very closely, she said —

  “I think you’re married, aren’t you, dearie?”

 
“Yes.” Thelma answered, a slight tinge of color warming her fair pale cheeks.

  “Your husband, maybe, will meet you at Hull?”

  “No, — he is in London,” said Thelma simply. “I am going to see my father.”

  This answer satisfied her humble friend, who, noticing her extreme fatigue and the effort it cost her to speak, forbore to ask any more questions, but good-naturedly recommended her to try and sleep. She slept soundly herself for the greater part of the journey; but Thelma was now feverishly wide awake, and her eyeballs ached and burned as though there were fire behind them.

  Gradually her nerves began to be wound up to an extreme tension of excitement — she forgot all her troubles in listening with painful intentness to the rush and roar of the train through the darkness. The lights of passing stations and signal-posts gleamed like scattered and flying stars — there was the frequent shriek of the engine-whistle, — the serpent-hiss of escaping steam. She peered through the window — all was blackness; there seemed to be no earth, no sky, — only a sable chaos, through which the train flew like a flame-mouthed demon. Always that rush and roar! She began to feel as if she could stand it no longer. She must escape from that continuous, confusing sound — it maddened her brain. Nothing was easier; she would open the carriage-door and get out! Surely she could manage to jump off the step, even though the train was in motion!

  Danger! She smiled at that idea, — there was no danger; and, if there was, it did not much matter. Nothing mattered now, — now that she had lost her husband’s love. She glanced at the woman opposite, who slept profoundly — the baby had slipped a little from its mother’s arms, and lay with its tiny face turned towards Thelma. It was a pretty creature, with soft cheeks and a sweet little mouth, — she looked at it with a vague, wild smile. Again, again that rush and roar surged like a storm in her ears and distracted her mind! She rose suddenly and seized the handle of the carriage door. Another instant, and she would have sprang to certain death, — when suddenly the sleeping baby woke, and, opening its mild blue eyes, gazed at her.