Part 57 (2/2)

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 ”Froken” 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, Froken!”

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 Froken--but you will not hear me. You know you do not wish me to talk about your grand new friends, Froken, 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 resumed--”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 s.h.i.+vered 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, Froken! 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 sh.o.r.e. Her maiden life in Norway--her school days at Arles,--these were now like dreams,--dreams that had pa.s.sed 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?

As she lay quiet, watching the glimmering light upon the wall, it seemed as though her room were suddenly filled with shadowy forms,--she saw her mother's sweet, sad, suffering face,--then her father's st.u.r.dy figure and fine, frank features,--then came the flitting shape of the hapless Sigurd, whose plaintive voice she almost imagined she could hear,--and feeling that she was growing foolishly nervous, she closed her eyes, and tried to sleep. In vain,--her mind began to work on a far more unpleasing train of thought. Why did not Philip return? Where was he? As though some mocking devil had answered her, the words, ”In the arms of Violet Vere!” as uttered by Sir Francis Lennox, recurred to her.

Overcome by her restlessness, she started up,--she determined to get out of bed, and put on her dressing-gown and read,--when her quick ears caught the sound of steps coming up the stair-case. She recognized her husband's firm tread, and understood that he was followed by Neville, whose sleeping-apartment was on the floor above. She listened attentively--they were talking together in low tones on the landing outside her door.

”I think it would be much better to make a clean breast of it,” said Sir Philip. ”She will have to know some day.”

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