Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  She met its glance as one fascinated, — almost unconsciously her fingers dropped from the door-handle, — the little baby still looked at her in dreamlike, meditative fashion, — its mother slept profoundly. She bent lower and lower over the child. With a beating heart she ventured to touch the small, pink hand that lay outside its wrappings like a softly curved rose-leaf. With a sort of elf-like confidence and contentment the feeble, wee fingers closed and curled round hers, — and held her fast! Weak as a silken thread, yet stronger in its persuasive force than a grasp of iron, that soft, light pressure controlled and restrained her, . . . very gradually the mists of her mind cleared, — the rattling, thunderous dash of the train grew less dreadful, less monotonous, less painful to her sense of hearing, — her bosom heaved convulsively, and all suddenly her eyes filled with tears — merciful tears, which at first welled up slowly, and were hot as fire, but which soon began to fall faster and faster in large, bright drops down her pale cheeks. Seeing that its mother still slept, she took the baby gently into her own fair arms, — and rocked it to and fro with many a sobbing murmur of tenderness; — the little thing smiled drowsily and soon fell asleep again, all unconscious that its timely look and innocent touch had saved poor Thelma’s life and reason.

  She, meanwhile, wept on softly, till her tired brain and heart were somewhat relieved of their heavy burden, — the entanglement of her thoughts became unravelled, — and, though keenly aware of the blank desolation of her life, she was able to raise herself in spirit to the Giver of all Love and Consolation, and to pray humbly for that patience and resignation which now alone could serve her needs. And she communed with herself and God in silence, as the train rushed on northwards. Her fellow-traveller woke up as they were nearing their destination, and, seeing her holding the baby, was profuse in her thanks for this kindness. And when they at last reached Hull, about half an hour after midnight, the good woman was exceedingly anxious to know if she could be of any service, — but Thelma gently, yet firmly, refused all her offers of assistance.

  They parted in the most friendly manner, — Thelma kissing the child, through whose unconscious means, as she now owned to herself, she had escaped a terrible death, — and then she went directly to a quiet hotel she knew of, which was kept by a native of Christiania, a man who had formerly been acquainted with her father. At first, when this worthy individual saw a lady arrive, alone, young, richly dressed, and without luggage, he was inclined to be suspicious, — but as soon as she addressed him in Norwegian, and told him who she was, he greeted her with the utmost deference and humility.

  “The daughter of Jarl Güldmar,” he said, continuing to speak in his own tongue, “honors my house by entering it!”

  Thelma smiled a little. “The days of the great Jarls are past, Friedhof,” she replied somewhat sadly, “and my father is content to be what he is, — a simple bonde.”

  Friedhof shook his head quite obstinately. “A Jarl is always a Jarl,” he declared. “Nothing can alter a man’s birth and nature. And the last time I saw Valdemar Svensen, — he who lives with your father now, — he was careful always to speak of the Jarl, and seldom or never did he mention him in any other fashion. And now, noble Fröken, in what manner can I serve you?”

  Thelma told him briefly that she was going to see her father on business, and that she was desirous of starting for Norway the next day as early as possible.

  Friedhof held up his hands in amazement. “Ah! most surely you forget,” he exclaimed, using the picturesque expressions of his native speech, “that this is the sleeping time of the sun! Even at the Hardanger Fjord it is dark and silent, — the falling streams freeze with cold on their way; and if it is so at the Hardanger, what will it be at the Alten? And there is no passenger ship going to Christiania or Bergen for a fortnight!”

  Thelma clasped her hands in dismay. “But I must go!” she cried impatiently; “I must, indeed, good Friedhof! I cannot stay here! Surely, surely there is some vessel that would take me, — some fishing boat, — what does it matter how I travel, so long as I get away?”

  The landlord looked at her rather wonderingly. “Nay, if it is indeed so urgent, noble Fröken,” he replied, “do not trouble, for there is a means of making the journey. But for you, and in such bitter weather, it seems a cruelty to speak of it. A steam cargo-boat leaves here for Hammerfest and the North Cape to-morrow — it will pass the Altenfjord. No doubt you could go with that, if you so choose, — but there will be no warmth or comfort, and there are heavy storms on the North Sea. I know the captain; and ’tis true he takes his wife with him, so there would be a woman on board, — yet—”

  Thelma interrupted him. She pressed two sovereigns into his hand.

  “Say no more, Friedhof,” she said eagerly. “You will take me to see this captain — you will tell him I must go with him. My father will thank you for this kindness to me, even better than I can.”

  “It does not seem to me a kindness at all,” returned Friedhof with frank bluntness. “I would be loth to sail the seas myself in such weather. And I thought you were so grandly married, Fröken Güldmar, — though I forget your wedded name, — how comes it that your husband is not with you?”

  “He is very busy in London,” answered Thelma. “He knows where I am going. Do not be at all anxious, Friedhof, — I shall make the journey very well and I am not afraid of storm or wild seas.”

  Friedhof still looked dubious, but finally yielded to her entreaties and agreed to arrange her passage for her in the morning.

  She stayed at his hotel that night, and with the very early dawn accompanied him on board the ship he had mentioned. It was a small, awkwardly built craft, with an ugly crooked black funnel out of which the steam was hissing and spitting with quite an unnecessary degree of violence — the decks were wet and dirty, and the whole vessel was pervaded with a sickening smell of whale-oil. The captain, a gruff red-faced fellow, looked rather surlily at his unexpected passenger — but was soon mollified by her gentle manner, and the readiness with which she paid the money he demanded for taking her.

  “You won’t be very warm,” he said, eyeing her from head to foot— “but I can lend you a rug to sleep in.”

  Thelma smiled and thanked him. He called to his wife, a thin, overworked-looking creature, who put up her head from a window in the cabin, at his summons.

  “Here’s a lady going with us,” he announced. “Look after her, will you?” The woman nodded. Then, once more addressing himself to Thelma, he said, “We shall have nasty weather and a wicked sea!”

  “I do not mind!” she answered quietly, and turning to Friedhof who had come to see her off, she shook hands with him warmly and thanked him for the trouble he had taken in her behalf. The good landlord bade her farewell somewhat reluctantly, — he had a presentiment that there was something wrong with the beautiful, golden-haired daughter of the Jarl — and that perhaps he ought to have prevented her making this uncomfortable and possibly perilous voyage. But it was too late now, — and at a little before seven o’clock, the vessel, — which rejoiced in the name of the Black Polly, — left the harbor, and steamed fussily down the Humber in the teeth of a sudden storm of sleet and snow.

  Her departure had no interest for any one save Friedhof, who stood watching her till she was no more than a speck on the turbid water. He kept his post, regardless of the piercing cold of the gusty, early morning air, till she had entirely disappeared, and then returned to his own house and his daily business in a rather depressed frame of mind. He was haunted by the pale face and serious eyes of Thelma — she looked very ill, he thought. He began to reproach himself, — why had he been such a fool as to let her go? — why had he not detained her? — or at any rate, persuaded her to rest a few days in Hull? He looked at the threatening sky and the falling flakes of snow with a shiver.

  “What weather!” he muttered, “and there must be a darkness as of death at the Altenfjord!”

  Meanwhile the Black Polly — unhandsome as she was
in appearance, struggled gallantly with and overcame an army of furious waves that rose to greet her as she rounded Spurn Head, and long ere Thelma closed her weary eyes in an effort to sleep, was plunging, shivering, and fighting her slow way through shattering mountainous billows and a tempest of sleet, snow, and tossing foam across the wild North Sea.

  CHAPTER XXVII.

  “What of her glass without her? The blank grey

  There, where the pool is blind of the moon’s face —

  Her dress without her? The tossed empty space

  Of cloud-rack whence the moon has passed away!”

  DANTE G. ROSSETTI.

  “Good God!” cried Errington impatiently “What’s the matter? Speak out!”

  He had just arrived home. He had barely set foot within his own door, and full of lover-like ardor and eagerness was about to hasten to his wife’s room, — when his old servant Morris stood in his way trembling and pale-faced, — looking helplessly from him to Neville, — who was as much astonished as Sir Philip, at the man’s woe-begone appearance.

  “Something has happened,” he stammered faintly at last. “Her ladyship—”

  Philip started — his heart beat quickly and then seemed to grow still with a horrible sensation of fear.

  “What of her?” he demanded in low hoarse tones. “Is she ill?”

  Morris threw up his hands with a gesture of despair.

  “Sir Philip, my dear master!” cried the poor old man. “I do not know whether she is ill or well — I cannot guess! My lady went out last night at a little before eight o’clock, — and — and she has never come home at all! We cannot tell what has become of her! She has gone!”

  And tears of distress and anxiety filled his eyes. Philip stood mute. He could not understand it. All color fled from his face — he seemed as though he had received a sudden blow on the head which had stunned him.

  “Gone!” he said mechanically. “Thelma — my wife gone! Why should she go?”

  And he stared fixedly at Neville, who laid one hand soothingly on his arm.

  “Perhaps she is with friends,” he suggested. “She may be at Lady Winsleigh’s or Mrs. Lorimer’s.”

  “No, no!” interrupted Morris. “Britta, who stayed up all night for her, has since been to every house that my lady visits and no one has seen or heard of her!”

  “Where is Britta?” demanded Philip suddenly.

  “She has gone again to Lady Winsleigh’s,” answered Morris, “she says it is there that mischief has been done, — I don’t know what she means!”

  Philip shook off his secretary’s sympathetic touch, and strode through the rooms to Thelma’s boudoir. He put aside the velvet curtains of the portiere with a noiseless hand — somehow he felt as if, in spite of all he had just heard, she must be there as usual to welcome him with that serene sweet smile which was the sunshine of his life. The empty desolate air of the room smote him with a sense of bitter pain, — only the plaintive warble of her pet thrush, who was singing to himself most mournfully in his gilded cage, broke the heavy silence. He looked about him vacantly. All sorts of dark forebodings crowded on his mind, — she must have met with some accident, he thought with a shudder, — for that she would depart from him in this sudden way of her own accord for no reason whatsoever seemed to him incredible — impossible.

  “What have I done that she should leave me?” he asked half aloud and wonderingly. Everything that had seemed to him of worth a few hours ago became valueless in this moment of time. What cared he now for the business of Parliament — for distinction or honors among men? Nothing — less than nothing! Without her, the world was empty — its ambitions, its pride, its good, its evil, seemed but the dreariest and most foolish trifles!

  “Not even a message?” he thought. “No hint of where she meant to go — no word of explanation for me? Surely I must be dreaming — my Thelma would never have deserted me!”

  A sort of sob rose in his throat, and he pressed his hand strongly over his eyes to keep down the womanish drops that threatened to overflow them. After a minute or two, he went to her desk and opened it, thinking that there perhaps she might have left a note of farewell. There was nothing — nothing save a little heap of money and jewels. These Thelma had herself placed, before her sorrowful, silent departure, in the corner where he now found them.

  More puzzled than ever, he glanced searchingly round the room — and his eyes were at once attracted by the sparkle of the diamond cross that lay uppermost on the cover of “Gladys the Singer,” the book of poems which was in its usual place on his own reading table. In another second he seized it — he unwound the slight gold chain — he opened the little volume tremblingly. Yes! — there was a letter within its pages addressed to himself, — now, now he should know all! He tore it open with feverish haste — two folded sheets of paper fell out, — one was his own epistle to Violet Vere, and this, to his consternation, he perceived first. Full of a sudden misgiving he laid it aside, and began to read Thelma’s parting words.

  “My darling boy,” she wrote —

  “A friend of yours and mine brought me the enclosed letter and though, perhaps, it was wrong of me to read it, I hope you will forgive me for having done so. I do not quite understand it, and I cannot bear to think about it — but it seems that you are tired of your poor Thelma! I do not blame you, dearest, for I am sure that in some way or other the fault is mine, and it does grieve me so much to think you are unhappy! I know that I am very ignorant of many things, and that I am not suited to this London life — and I fear I shall never understand its ways. But one thing I can do, and that is to let you be free, my Philip — quite free! And so I am going back to the Altenfjord, where I will stay till you want me again, if you ever do. My heart is yours and I shall always love you till I die, — and though it seems to me just now better that we should part, to give you greater ease and pleasure, still you must always remember that I have no reproaches to make to you. I am only sorry to think my love has wearied you, — for you have been all goodness and tenderness to me. And so that people shall not talk about me or you, you will simply say to them that I have gone to see my father, and they will think nothing strange in that. Be kind to Britta, — I have told her nothing, as it would only make her miserable. Do not be angry that I go away — I cannot bear to stay here, knowing all. And so, good-bye, my love, my dearest one! — if you were to love many women more than me, I still should love you best — I still would gladly die to serve you. Remember this always, — that, however long we may be parted, and though all the world should come between us, I am, and ever shall be your faithful wife,”

  “THELMA.”

  The ejaculation that broke from Errington’s lips as he finished reading this letter was more powerful than reverent. Stinging tears darted to his eyes — he pressed his lips passionately on the fair writing.

  “My darling — my darling!” he murmured. “What a miserable misunderstanding!”

  Then without another moment’s delay he rushed into Neville’s study and cried abruptly —

  “Look here! It’s all your fault.”

  “My fault!” gasped the amazed secretary.

  “Yes — your fault!” shouted Errington almost beside himself with grief and rage. “Your fault, and that of your accursed wife, Violet Vere!”

  And he dashed the letter, the cause of all the mischief, furiously down on the table. Neville shrank and shivered, — his grey head drooped, he stretched out his hands appealingly.

  “For God’s sake, Sir Philip, tell me what I’ve done?” he exclaimed piteously.

  Errington strode up and down the room in a perfect fever of impatience.

  “By Heaven, it’s enough to drive me mad!” he burst forth.

  “Your wife! — your wife! — confound her! When you first discovered her in that shameless actress, didn’t I want to tell Thelma all about it — that very night? — and didn’t you beg me not to do so? Your silly scruples stood in the way of everything! I was a fool
to listen to you — a fool to meddle in your affairs — and — and I wish to God I’d never seen or heard of you!”

  Neville turned very white, but remained speechless.

  “Read that letter!” went on Philip impetuously. “You’ve seen it before! It’s the last one I wrote to your wife imploring her to see you and speak with you. Here it comes, the devil knows how, into Thelma’s hands. She’s quite in the dark about your secret, and fancies I wrote it on my own behalf! It looks like it too — looks exactly as if I were pleading for myself and breaking my heart over that detestible stage-fiend — by Jove! it’s too horrible!” And he gave a gesture of loathing and contempt.

  Neville heard him in utter bewilderment. “Not possible!” he muttered. “Not possible — it can’t be!”

  “Can’t be? It is!” shouted Philip. “And if you’d let me tell Thelma everything from the first, all this wouldn’t have happened. And you ask me what you’ve done! Done! You’ve parted me from the sweetest, dearest girl in the world!”

  And throwing himself into a chair, he covered his face with his hand and a great uncontrollable sob broke from his lips.

  Neville was in despair. Of course, it was his fault — he saw it all clearly. He painfully recalled all that had happened since that night at the Brilliant Theatre when with a sickening horror he had discovered Violet Vere to be no other than Violet Neville, — his own little violet! . . . as he had once called her — his wife that he had lost and mourned as though she were some pure dead woman lying sweetly at rest in a quiet grave. He remembered Thelma’s shuddering repugnance at the sight of her, — a repugnance which he himself had shared — and which made him shrink with fastidious aversion, from the idea of confiding to any one but Sir Philip, the miserable secret of his connection with her. Sir Philip had humored him in this fancy, little imagining that any mischief would come of it — and the reward of his kindly sympathy was this, — his name was compromised, his home desolate, and his wife estranged from him!