Part 47 (1/2)
”How often must I tell you!” she murmured softly. ”I do think you will never tire of hearing! You know that it is you for whom I care most, and that all the world would be empty to me without you! Oh, my husband--my darling! do not make me try to tell you how much I love you! I cannot--my heart is too full!”
The rest of their drive homeward was very quiet--there are times when silence is more eloquent than speech.
CHAPTER XXI.
”A small cloud, so slight as to be a mere speck on the fair blue sky, was all the warning we received.”--PLINY.
After that evening great changes came into Thelma's before peaceful life. She had conquered her enemies, or so it seemed,--society threw down all its barricades and rushed to meet her with open arms.
Invitations crowded upon her,--often she grew tired and bewildered in the multiplicity of them all. London life wearied her,--she preferred the embowered seclusion of Errington Manor, the dear old house in green-wooded Warwicks.h.i.+re. But the ”season” claimed her,--its frothy gaieties were deemed incomplete without her--no ”at home” was considered quite ”the” thing unless she was present. She became the centre of a large and ever-widening social circle,--painters, poets, novelists, wits savants, and celebrities of high distinction crowded her rooms, striving to entertain her as well as themselves with that inane small talk and gossip too often practiced by the wisest among us,--and thus surrounded, she began to learn many puzzling and painful things of which in her old Norwegian life, she had been happily ignorant.
For instance, she had once imagined that all the men and women of culture who followed the higher professions must perforce be a sort of ”Joyous Fraternity,” superior to other mortals not so gifted,--and, under this erroneous impression, she was at first eager to know some of the so-called ”great” people who had distinguished themselves in literature or the fine arts. She had fancied that they must of necessity be all refined, sympathetic, large-hearted, and n.o.ble-minded--alas! how grievously was she disappointed! She found, to her sorrow, that the tree of modern Art bore but few wholesome roses and many cankered buds--that the ”Joyous Fraternity” were not joyous at all--but, on the contrary, inclined to dyspepsia and discontentment. She found that even poets, whom she had fondly deemed were the angel-guides among the children of this earth,--were most of them painfully conceited, selfish in aim and limited in thought,--moreover, that they were often so empty of all true inspiration, that they were actually able to hate and envy one another with a sort of womanish spite and temper,--that novelists, professing to be in sympathy with the heart of humanity, were no sooner brought into contact one with another, than they plainly showed by look, voice, and manner, the contempt they entertained for each other's work,--that men of science were never so happy as when trying to upset each other's theories;--that men of religious combativeness were always on the alert to destroy each other's creeds,--and that, in short, there was a very general tendency to mean jealousies, miserable heart-burnings and utter weariness all round.
On one occasion, she, in the sweetest simplicity, invited two lady auth.o.r.esses of note to meet at one of her ”at homes,”. . . she welcomed both the masculine-looking ladies with a radiant smile, and introduced them, saying gently,--”You will be so pleased to know each other!” But the stony stare, stiff nod, portentous sniff, and scornful smile with which these two eminent females exchanged cold greetings, were enough to daunt the most sympathetic hostess that ever lived--and when they at once retired to different corners of the room and sat apart with their backs turned to one another for the remainder of the evening, their att.i.tude was so uncompromising that it was no wonder the gentle Thelma felt quite dismayed and wretched at the utter failure of the _rencontre_.
”They would _not_ be sociable!” she afterwards complained to Lady Winsleigh. ”They _tried_ to be as rude to each other as they could!”
Lady Winsleigh laughed. ”Of course!” she said. ”What else _did_ you expect! But if you want some fun, ask a young, pretty, and brilliant auth.o.r.ess (there are a few such) to meet an old, ugly and dowdy one (and there are many such), and watch the dowdy one's face! It will be a delicious study of expression, I a.s.sure you!”
But Thelma would not try this delicate experiment,--in fact, she began rather to avoid literary people, with the exception of Beau Lovelace.
His was a genial, sympathetic nature, and, moreover, he had a winning charm of manner which few could resist. He was not a bookworm,--he was not, strictly speaking, a literary man,--and he was entirely indifferent to public praise or blame. He was, as he himself expressed it, ”a servant and wors.h.i.+pper of literature,” and there is a wide gulf of difference between one who serves literature for its own sake and one who uses it basely as a tool to serve himself.
But in all her new and varied experiences, perhaps Thelma was most completely bewildered by the women she met. Her simple Norse beliefs in the purity and gentleness of womanhood were startled and outraged,--she could not understand London ladies at all. Some of them seemed to have no idea beyond dress and show,--others looked upon their husbands, the lawful protectors of their name and fame, with easy indifference, as though they were mere bits of household furniture,--others, having nothing better to do, ”went in” for spiritualism,--the low spiritualism that manifests itself in the turning of tables and moving of side-boards--not the higher spiritualism of an improved, perfected, and saint-like way of life--and these argued wildly on the theory of matter pa.s.sing through matter, to the extent of declaring themselves able to send a letter or box through the wall without making a hole in it,--and this with such obstinate gravity as made Thelma fear for their reason.
Then there were the women-atheists,--creatures who had voluntarily crushed all the sweetness of the s.e.x within them--foolish human flowers without fragrance, that persistently turned away their faces from the sunlight and denied its existence, preferring to wither, profitless, on the dry stalk of their own theory;--there were the ”platform-women,”
unnatural products of an unnatural age,--there were the great ladies of the aristocracy who turned with scorn from a case of real necessity, and yet spent hundreds of pounds on private theatricals wherein they might have the chance of displaying themselves in extravagant costumes,--and there were the ”professional” beauties, who, if suddenly deprived of elegant attire and face-cosmetics, turned out to be no beauties at all, but very ordinary, unintelligent persons.
”What is the exact meaning of the term, 'professional beauty'?” Thelma had asked Beau Lovelace on one occasion. ”I suppose it is some very poor beautiful woman, who takes money for showing herself to the public, and having her portraits sold in the shops? And who is it that pays her?”
Lovelace broke into a laugh. ”Upon my word, Lady Errington,--you have put the matter in a most original but indubitably correct light! Who pays the 'professional beauty,' you ask? Well, in the case of Mrs.
Smith-Gresham, whom you met the other day, it is a certain Duke who pays her to the tune of several thousands a year. When he gets tired of her, or she of him, she'll find somebody else--or perhaps she'll go on the stage and swell the list of bad amateurs. She'll get on somehow, as long as she can find a fool ready to settle her dressmaker's bill.”
”I do not understand!” said Thelma,--and her fair brows drew together in that pained grave look that was becoming rather frequent with her now.
And she began to ask fewer questions concerning the various strange phases of social life that puzzled her,--why, for instance, religious theorists made so little practical use of their theories,--why there were cloudy-eyed eccentrics who admired the faulty drawing of Watts, and the common-place sentence-writing of Walt Whitman,--why members of Parliament talked so much and did so little,--why new poets, however n.o.bly inspired, were never accepted unless they had influential friends on the press,--why painters always married their models or their cooks, and got heartily ashamed of them afterwards,--and why people all round said so many things they did not mean. And confused by the general insincerity, she clung,--poor child!--to Lady Winsleigh, who had the tact to seem what she was not,--and the cleverness to probe into Thelma's nature and find out how translucently clear and pure it was--a perfect well of sweet water, into which one drop of poison, or better still, several drops, gradually and insidiously instilled, might in time taint its flavor and darken its brightness. For if a woman have an innocent, unsuspecting soul as delicate as the curled cup of a Nile lily, the more easily will it droop and wither in the heated grasp of a careless, cruel hand. And to this flower-crus.h.i.+ng task Lady Winsleigh set herself,--partly for malice pretense against Errington, whose coldness to herself in past days had wounded her vanity, and partly for private jealousy of Thelma's beauty and attractiveness.
Within a short time she had completely won the girl's confidence and affection,--Sir Philip, forgetting his former suspicions of her, was touched and disarmed by the attachment and admiration she openly displayed towards his young wife,--she and Thelma were constantly seen together, and Mrs. Rush-Marvelle, far-sighted as she generally was, often sighed doubtfully and rubbed her nose in perplexity as she confessed she ”couldn't quite understand Clara.” But Mrs. Rush-Marvelle had her hands full of other matters,--she was aiding and abetting Marcia Van Clupp to set traps for that mild mouse Lord Masherville,--and she was too much absorbed in this difficult and delicate business to attend to anything else just then. Otherwise, it is possible she might have scented danger for Thelma's peace of mind, and being good-natured, might have warded it off before it approached too closely,--but, like policeman who are never within call when wanted, so friends are seldom at hand when their influence might be of real benefit.
The Van Clupps were people Thelma could not get on with at all--she tried to do so because Mrs. Rush-Marvelle had a.s.sured her they were ”charming”-and she liked Mrs. Marvelle sufficiently well to be willing to please her. But, in truth, these rich and vulgar Yankees seemed to her mind less to be esteemed than the peasants of the Altenfjord, who in many instances possessed finer tact and breeding than old Van Clupp, the man of many dollars, whose father had been nothing but a low navvy, but of whom he spoke now with smirking pride as a real descendant of the Pilgrim Fathers. An odd thing it is, by the way, how fond some Americans are of tracing back their ancestry to these virtuous old gentlemen! The Van Clupps were of course not the best types of their country--they were of that cla.s.s who, because they have money, measure everything by the money-standard, and hold even a n.o.ble poverty in utter contempt. Poor Van Clupp! It was sometimes pitiable to see him trying to be a gentleman--”going in” for ”style”--to an excess that was ludicrous,--cramming his house with expensive furniture like an upholsterer's show-room,--drinking his tea out of pure Sevres, with a lofty ignorance of its beauty and value,--dressing his wife and daughter like s.h.i.+lling fas.h.i.+on-plates, and having his portrait taken in precisely the same att.i.tude as that a.s.sumed by the Duke of Wrigglesbury when his Grace sat to the same photographer! It was delicious to hear him bragging of his pilgrim ancestor,--while in the same breath he would blandly sneer at certain ”poor gentry” who could trace back their lineage to Coeur de Lion! But because the Erringtons were rich as well as t.i.tled persons, Van Clupp and his belongings bent the servile knee before them, flattering Thelma with that ill-judged eagerness and zealous persistency which distinguish inborn vulgarity, and which, far from pleasing her, annoyed and embarra.s.sed her because she could not respond sincerely to such attentions.
There were many others too, not dollar-crusted Americans, whose excessive adulation and ceaseless compliment vexed the sincere, frank spirit of the girl,--a spirit fresh and pure as the wind blowing over her own Norse mountains. One of these was Sir Francis Lennox, that fas.h.i.+onable young man of leisure,--and she had for him an instinctive, though quite unreasonable aversion. He was courtesy itself--he spared no pains to please her. Yet she felt as if his basilisk brown eyes were always upon her,--he seemed to be ever at hand, ready to watch over her in trifles, such as the pa.s.sing of a cup of tea, the offering of her wrap,--the finding of a chair,--the holding of a fan,-he was always on the alert, like a remarkably well-trained upper servant. She could not, without rudeness, reject such un.o.btrusive, humble services,--and yet--they rendered her uncomfortable, though she did not quite know why.
She ventured to mention her feeling concerning him to her friend Lady Winsleigh, who heard her timid remarks with a look on her face that was not quite pleasant.
”Poor Sir Francis!” her ladys.h.i.+p said with a slight, mocking laugh.
”He's never happy unless he plays puppy-dog! Don't mind him, Thelma! He won't bite, I a.s.sure you,--he means no harm. It's only his little way of making himself agreeable!”