Part 68 (2/2)
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 att.i.tude 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 pa.s.sage 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 suddenly remembered that he had no weapon with him, not even a cane wherewith to carry out his intention of thras.h.i.+ng 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--Duprez 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.
<script>