Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “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 passionate 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 God! 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. God 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 passed through his frame.

  “I can’t, Clara! I can’t — God 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 attitude 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 passage 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 s
uddenly 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 — Duprèz 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.

  “Apropos of Lennox,” went on Lorimer, sympathetically watching his friend, “I came on purpose to speak to you about him. I’ve got some news for you. He’s a regular sneak and scoundrel. You can thrash him to your heart’s content for he has grossly insulted your wife.”

  “Insulted her?” cried Errington furiously. “How, — What—”

  “Give me time to speak!” And George laid a restraining hand on his arm. “Thelma visited my mother yesterday and told her that on the night before, when you had gone out, Lennox took advantage of your absence to come here and make love to her, — and she actually had to struggle with him, and even to strike him, in order to release herself from his advances. My mother advised her to tell you about it — and she evidently then had no intention of flight, for she said she would inform you of everything as soon as you returned from the country. And if Lady Winsleigh hadn’t interfered, it’s very probable that — I say, where are you going?” This as Philip made a bound for the door.

  “To get my horsewhip!” he answered.

  “All right — I approve!” cried Lorimer. “But wait one instant, and see how clear the plot becomes. Thelma’s beauty had maddened Lennox, — to gain her good opinion, as he thinks, he throws his mistress, Violet Vere, on your shoulders — (your ingenuous visits to the Brilliant Theatre gave him a capital pretext for this) and as for Lady Winsleigh’s share in the mischief, it’s nothing but mere feminine spite against you for marrying at all, and hatred of the woman whose life is such a contrast to her own, and who absorbs all your affection. Lennox has used her as his tool and the Vere also, I’ve no doubt. The thing’s as clear as crystal. It’s a sort of general misunderstanding all round — one of those eminently unpleasant trifles that very frequently upset the peace and comfort of the most quiet and inoffensive persons. But the fault lies with you, dear old boy!”

  “With me!” exclaimed Philip.

  “Certainly! Thelma’s soul is as open as daylight — you shouldn’t have had any secret from her, however trifling. She’s not a woman ‘on guard,’ — she can’t take life as the most of us do, in military fashion, with ears pricked for the approach of a spy, and prepared to expect betrayal from her most familiar friends. She accepts things as they appear, without any suspicion of mean ulterior designs. It’s a pity, of course! — it’s a pity she can’t be worldly-wise, and scheme and plot and plan and lie like the rest of us! However, your course is plain — first interview Lennox and then follow Thelma. She can’t have left Hull yet, — there are scarcely any boats running to Norway at this season. You’ll overtake her I’m certain.”

  “By Jove, Lorimer!” said Errington suddenly. “Clara Winsleigh sticks at nothing — do you know she actually had the impudence to suggest that you, — you, of all people, — were in love with Thelma!”

  Lorimer flushed up, but laughed lightly. “How awfully sweet of her! Much obliged to her, I’m sure! And how did you take it Phil?”

  “Take it? I didn’t take it at all,” responded Philip warmly. “Of course, I knew it was only her spite — she’d say anything in one of her tempers.”

  Lorimer looked at him with a sudden tenderness in his blue eyes. Then he laughed again, a little forcedly, and said —

  “Be off, old man, and get that whip of yours! We’ll run Lennox to earth. Hullo! here’s Britta!”

  The little maid entered hurriedly at that moment, — she came to ask with quivering lips, whether she might accompany Sir Philip in his intended journey to Norway.

  “For if you do not find the Fröken at Hull, you will want to reach the Altenfjord,” said Britta, folding hands resolutely in front of her apron, “and you will not get on without me. You do not know what the country is like in the depth of winter when the sun is asleep. You must have the reindeer to help you — and no Englishman knows how to drive reindeer. And — and—” here Britta’s eyes filled— “you have not thought, perhaps, that the journey may make the Fröken very ill — and that when we find her — she may be dying—” and Britta’s strength gave way in a big sob that broke from the depths of her honest, affectionate heart.

  “Don’t — don’t talk like that, Britta!” cried Philip passionately. “I can’t bear it! Of course, you shall go with me! I wouldn’t leave you behind for the world! Get everything ready—” and in a fever of heat and impatience he began rummaging among some books on a side-shelf, till he found the time-tables he sought. “Yes, — here we are, — there’s a train leaving for Hull at five — we’ll take that. Tell Morris to pack my portmanteau, and you bring it along with you to the Midland railway-station this afternoon. Do you understand?”

  Britta nodded emphatically, and hurried off at once to busy herself with these preparations, while Philip, all excitement, dashed off to give a few parting injunctions to Neville, and to get his horsewhip.

  Lorimer, left alone for a few minutes, seated himself in an easy chair and began absently turning over the newspapers on the table. But his thoughts were far away, and presently he covered his eyes with one hand as though the light hurt them. When he removed it, his lashes were wet.

  “What a fool I am!” he muttered impatiently. “Oh Thelma, Thelma! my darling! — how I wish I could follow and find you and console you! — you poor, tender, resigned soul, going away like this because you thought you were not wanted — not wanted! — my God! — if you only knew how one man at least has wanted and yearned for you ever since he saw your sweet face! — Why can’t I tear you out of my heart — why can’t I love some one else? Ah Phil! — good, generous, kind old Phil! — he little guesses,” he rose and paced the room up and down restlessly. “The fact is I oughtn’t to be here at all — I ought to leave England altogether for a long time — till — till I get over it. The question is, shall I ever get over it? Sigurd was a wise boy — he found a short way out of all his troubles, — suppose I imitate his example? No, — for a man in his senses that woul
d be rather cowardly — though it might be pleasant!” He stopped in his walk with a pondering expression on his face. “At any rate, I won’t stop here to see her come back — I couldn’t trust myself, — I should say something foolish — I know I should! I’ll take my mother to Italy — she wants to go; and we’ll stay with Lovelace. It’ll be a change — and I’ll have a good stand-up fight with myself, and see if I can’t come off the conqueror somehow! It’s all very well to kill an opponent in battle but the question is, can a man kill his inner, grumbling, discontented, selfish Self? If he can’t, what’s the good of him?”

  As he was about to consider this point reflectively, Errington entered, equipped for travelling, and whip in hand. His imagination had been at work during the past few minutes, exaggerating all the horrors and difficulties of Thelma’s journey to the Altenfjord, till he was in a perfect fever of irritable excitement.

  “Come on Lorimer!” he cried. “There’s no time to lose! Britta knows what to do — she’ll meet me at the station. I can’t breathe in this wretched house a moment longer — let’s be off!”

  Plunging out into the hall, he bade Morris summon a hansom, — and with a few last instructions to that faithful servitor, and an encouraging kind word and shake of the hand to Neville, who with a face of remorseful misery, stood at the door to watch his departure, — he was gone. The hansom containing him and Lorimer rattled rapidly towards the abode of Sir Francis Lennox, but on entering Piccadilly, the vehicle was compelled to go so slowly on account of the traffic, that Errington, who every moment grew more and more impatient, could not stand it.

  “By Jove! this is like a walking funeral!” he muttered. “I say Lorimer, let’s get out! We can do the rest on foot.”

  They stopped the cabman and paid him his fare — then hurried along rapidly, Errington every now and then giving a fiercer clench to the formidable horsewhip which was twisted together with his ordinary walking-stick in such a manner as not to attract special attention.