"Ah, the poor people!" sighed Thelma. "They know so very little,--and they are taught so badly! I think they never do quite understand what they do want,--they are the same in all histories,--like little children, they get bewildered and frightened in any trouble, and the wisest heads are needed to think for them. It is, indeed, most cruel to make them puzzle out all difficulty for themselves!"

"What a little sage you are, my pet!" laughed Philip, taking her hand on which the marriage-ring and its accompanying diamond circlet, glistened brilliantly in the warm sunlight. "Do you mean to go in for politics?"

She shook her head. "No, indeed! That is not woman's work at all. The only way in which I think about such things, is that I feel the people cannot all be wise,--and that it seems a pity the wisest and greatest in the land should not be chosen to lead them rightly."

"And so under the circ.u.mstances, you think it's no use my trying to _pose_ as a Cicero?" asked her husband amusedly. She laughed--with a very tender cadence in her laughter.

"It would not be worth your while, my boy," she said "You know I have often told you that I do not see any great distinction in being a member of Parliament at all. What will you do? You will talk to the fat brewer perhaps, and he will contradict you--then other people will get up and talk and contradict each other,--and so it will go on for days and days--meanwhile the country remains exactly as it was, neither better nor worse,--and all the talking does no good! It is better to be out of it,--here together, as we are to-day."

And she raised her dreamy blue eyes to the sheltering canopy of green leaves that overhung them--leaves thick-cl.u.s.tered and dewy, through which the dazzling sky peeped in radiant patches. Philip looked at her,--the rapt expression of her upward gaze,--the calm, untroubled sweetness of her fair face,--were such as might well have suited one of Raffaelle's divinest angels. His heart beat quickly--he drew closer to her, and put his arm round her.

"Your eyes are looking at the sky, Thelma," he whispered. "Do you know what that is? Heaven looking into heaven! And do you know which of the two heavens I prefer?" She smiled, and turning, met his ardent gaze with one of equal pa.s.sion and tenderness.

"Ah, you _do_ know!" he went on, softly kissing the side of her slim white throat. "I thought you couldn't possibly make a mistake!" He rested his head against her shoulder, and after a minute or two of lazy comfort, he resumed. "You are not ambitious, my Thelma! You don't seem to care whether your husband distinguishes himself in the 'Ouse,' as our friend the brewer calls it, or not. In fact, I don't believe you care for anything save--love! Am I not right, my wife?"

A wave of rosy color flushed her transparent skin, and her eyes filled with an earnest, almost pathetic languor.

"Surely of all things in the world," she said in a low tone,--"Love is best?"

To this he made prompt answer, though not in words--his lips conversed with hers, in that strange, sweet language which, though unwritten, is everywhere comprehensible,--and then they left their shady resting-place and sauntered homeward hand in hand through the warm fields fragrant with wild thyme and clover.

Many happy days pa.s.sed thus with these lovers--for lovers they still were. Marriage had for once fulfilled its real and sacred meaning--it had set Love free from restraint, and had opened all the gateways of the only earthly paradise human hearts shall ever know,--the paradise of perfect union and absolute sympathy with the one thing beloved on this side eternity.

The golden hours fled by all too rapidly,--and towards the close of August there came an interruption to their felicity. Courtesy had compelled Bruce-Errington and his wife to invite a few friends down to visit them at the Manor before the glory of the summer-time was past,--and first among the guests came Lord and Lady Winsleigh and their bright boy, Ernest. Her ladyship's maid, Louise Renaud, of course, accompanied her ladyship,--and Briggs was also to the fore in the capacity of Lord Winsleigh's personal attendant. After these, George Lorimer arrived--he had avoided the Erringtons all the season,--but he could not very well refuse the pressing invitation now given him without seeming churlish,--then came Beau Lovelace, for a few days only, as with the commencement of September he would be off as usual to his villa on the Lago di Como. Sir Francis Lennox, too, made his appearance frequently in a casual sort of way--he "ran down," to use his own expression, now and then, and made himself very agreeable, especially to men, by whom he was well liked for his invariable good-humor and extraordinary proficiency in all sports and games of skill. Another welcome visitor was Pierre Duprez, lively and sparkling as ever,--he came from Paris to pa.s.s a fortnight with his "cher Phil-eep," and make merriment for the whole party. His old admiration for Britta had by no means decreased,--he was fond of waylaying that demure little maiden on her various household errands, and giving her small posies of jessamine and other sweet-scented blossoms to wear just above the left-hand corner of her ap.r.o.n-bib, close to the place where the heart is supposed to be.

Olaf Guldmar had been invited to the Manor at this period,--Errington wrote many urgent letters, and so did Thelma, entreating him to come,--for nothing would have pleased Sir Philip more than to have introduced the fine old Odin worshipper among his fashionable friends, and to have heard him bluntly and forcibly holding his own among them, putting their feint and languid ways of life to shame by his manly, honest, and vigorous utterance. But Guldmar had only just returned to the Altenfjord after nearly a year's absence, and his hands were too full of work for him to accept his son-in-law's invitation.

"The farm lands have a waste and dreary look," he wrote, "though I let them to a man who should verily have known how to till the soil trodden by his fathers--and as for the farmhouse, 'twas like a hollow sh.e.l.l that has lain long on the sh.o.r.e and become brown and brittle--for thou knowest no human creature has entered there since we departed. However, Valdemar Svensen and I, for sake of company, have resolved to dwell together in it, and truly we have nearly settled down to the peaceful contemplation of our past days,--so Philip, and thou, my child Thelma, trouble not concerning me. I am hale and hearty, the G.o.ds be thanked,--and may live on in hope to see you both next spring or summer-tide. Your happiness keeps this old man young--so grudge me not the news of your delights wherein I am myself delighted."

One familiar figure was missing from the Manor household,--that of Edward Neville. Since the night at the Brilliant, when he had left the theatre so suddenly, and gone home on the plea of illness, he had never been quite the same man. He looked years older--he was strangely nervous and timid--and he shrank away from Thelma as though he were some guilty or tainted creature. Surprised at this, she spoke to her husband about it,--but he, hurriedly, and with some embarra.s.sment, advised her to "let him alone"--his "nerves were shaken"--his "health was feeble"--and that it would be kind on her part to refrain from noticing him or asking him questions. So she refrained--but Neville's behavior puzzled her all the same. When they left town, he implored, almost piteously, to be allowed to remain behind,--he could attend to Sir Philip's business so much better in London, he declared, and he had his way. Errington, usually fond of Neville's society, made no attempt whatever to persuade him against his will,--so he stayed in the half-shut-up house in Prince's Gate through all the summer heat, poring over parliamentary doc.u.ments and pamphlets,--and Philip came up from the country once a fortnight to visit him, and transact any business that might require his personal attention.

On one of the last and hottest days in August, a grand garden-party was given at the Manor. All the county people were invited, and they came eagerly, though, before Thelma's social successes in London, they had been reluctant to meet her. Now, they put on their best clothes, and precipitated themselves into the Manor grounds like a flock of sheep seeking land on which to graze,--all wearing their sweetest propitiatory smirk--all gushing forth their admiration of "that _darling_ Lady Errington"--all behaving themselves in the exceptionally funny manner that county people affect,--people who are considered somebodies in the small villages their big houses dominate,--but who, when brought to reside in London, become less than the minnows in a vast ocean. These good folks were not only anxious to _see_ Lady Errington--they wanted to _say_ they had seen her,--and that she had spoken to _them_, so that they might, in talking to their neighbors, mention it in quite an easy, casual way, such as--"Oh, I was at Errington Manor the other day, and Lady Errington said to me--." Or--"Sir Philip is _such_ a charming man!

I was talking to his lovely wife, and he asked me--" etc., etc.

Or--"You've no idea what large strawberries they grow at the Manor! Lady Errington showed me some that were just ripening--magnificent!" And so on. For in truth this _is_ "a mad world, my masters,"--and there is no accounting for the inexpressibly small follies and mean toadyisms of the people in it.

Moreover, all the London guests who were visiting Thelma came in for a share of the county magnates' servile admiration. They found the Winsleighs "so distingue"--Master Ernest instantly became "that _dear_ boy!"--Beau Lovelace was "so dreadfully clever, you know!"--and Pierre Duprez "quite _too_ delightful!"

The grounds looked very brilliant--pink-and-white marquees were dotted here and there on the smooth velvet lawns--bright flags waved from different quarters of the gardens, signals of tennis, archery, and dancing,--and the voluptuous waltz-music of a fine Hungarian band rose up and swayed in the air with the downward floating songs of the birds and the dash of fountains in full play. Girls in pretty light summer costumes made picturesque groups under the stately oaks and beeches,--gay laughter echoed from the leafy shrubberies, and stray couples were seen sauntering meditatively through the rose-gardens, treading on the fallen scented petals, and apparently too much absorbed in each other to notice anything that was going on around them. Most of these were lovers, of course--intending lovers, if not declared ones,--in fact, Eros was very busy that day among the roses, and shot forth a great many arrows, aptly aimed, out of his exhaustless quiver.

Two persons there were, however,--man and woman,--who, walking in that same rose-avenue, did not seem, from their manner, to have much to do with the fair Greek G.o.d,--they were Lady Winsleigh and Sir Francis Lennox. Her ladyship looked exceedingly beautiful in her clinging dress of Madras lace, with a bunch of scarlet poppies at her breast, and a wreath of the same vivid flowers in her picturesque Leghorn hat. She held a scarlet-lined parasol over her head, and from under the protecting shadow of this silken pavilion, her dark, l.u.s.trous eyes flashed disdainfully as she regarded her companion. He was biting an end of his brown moustache, and looked annoyed, yet lazily amused too.

"Upon my life, Clara," he observed, "you are really awfully down on a fellow, you know! One would think you never cared two-pence about me!"

"Too high a figure!" retorted Lady Winsleigh, with a hard little laugh.

"I never cared a bra.s.s farthing!"

He stopped short in his walk and stared at her.

"By Jove! you _are_ cool!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. "Then what did you mean all the time?"

"What did _you_ mean?" she asked defiantly.

He was silent. After a slight, uncomfortable pause, he shrugged his shoulders and smiled.

"Don't let us have a scene!" he observed in a bantering tone. "Anything but that!"

"Scene!" she exclaimed indignantly. "Pray when have you had to complain of me on that score?"

"Well, don't let me have to complain now," he said coolly.

She surveyed him in silent scorn for a moment, and her full, crimson lips curled contemptuously.

"What a brute you are!" she muttered suddenly between her set pearly teeth.

"Thanks, awfully!" he answered, taking out a cigarette and lighting it leisurely. "You are really charmingly candid, Clara! Almost as frank as Lady Errington, only less polite!"

"I shall not learn politeness from _you_, at any rate," she said,--then altering her tone to one of studied indifference, she continued coldly, "What do you want of me? We've done with each other, as you know. I believe you wish to become gentleman-lacquey to Bruce-Errington's wife, and that you find it difficult to obtain the situation. Shall I give you a character?"

He flushed darkly, and his eyes glittered with an evil l.u.s.tre.

"Gently, Clara! Draw it mild!" he said languidly. "Don't irritate me, or I _may_ turn crusty! You know, if I chose, I could open Bruce-Errington's eyes rather more widely than you'd like with respect to the _devoted affection_ you entertain for his beautiful wife." She winced a little at this observation--he saw it and laughed,--then resumed: "At present I'm really in the best of humors. The reason I wanted to speak to you alone for a minute or two was, that I'd something to say which might possibly please you. But perhaps you'd rather not hear it?"

She was silent. So was he. He watched her closely for a little--noting with complacency the indignant heaving of her breast and the flush on her cheeks,--signs of the strong repression she was putting upon her rising temper.

"Come, Clara, you may as well be amiable," he said. "I'm sure you'll be glad to know that the virtuous Philip is not immaculate after all. Won't it comfort you to think that he's nothing but a mortal man like the rest of us? . . . and that with a little patience your charms will most probably prevail with him as easily as they once did with me? Isn't that worth hearing?"

"I don't understand you," she replied curtly.

"Then you are very dense, my dear girl," he remarked smilingly. "Pardon me for saying so! But I'll put it plainly and in as few words as possible. The moral Bruce-Errington, like a great many other 'moral' men I know, has gone in for Violet Vere,--and I dare say you understand what _that_ means. In the simplest language, it means that he's tired of his domestic bliss and wants a change."

Lady Winsleigh stopped in her slow pacing along the gravel-walk, and raised her eyes steadily to her companion's face.

"Are you sure of this?" she asked.

"Positive!" replied Sir Francis, flicking the light ash off his cigarette delicately with his little finger. "When you wrote me that note about the Vere, I confess I had my suspicions. Since then they've been confirmed. I know for a fact that Errington has had several private interviews with Vi, and has also written her a good many letters. Some of the fellows in the green-room tease her about her new conquest, and she grins and admits it. Oh, the whole thing's plain enough! Only last week, when he went up to town to see his man Neville on business he called on Vi at her own apartments in Arundel Street, Strand. She told me so herself--we're rather intimate, you know,--though of course she refused to mention the object of his visit. Honor among thieves!" and he smiled half mockingly.

Lady Winsleigh seemed absorbed, and walked on like one in a dream. Just then, a bend in the avenue brought them in full view of the broad terrace in front of the Manor, where Thelma's graceful figure, in a close-fitting robe of white silk crepe, was outlined clearly against the dazzling blue of the sky. Several people were grouped near her,--she seemed to be in animated conversation with some of them, and her face was radiant with smiles. Lady Winsleigh looked at her,--then said suddenly in a low voice--

"It will break her heart!"

Sir Francis a.s.sumed an air of polite surprise. "Pardon! Whose heart?"

She pointed slightly to the white figure on the terrace.

"Hers! Surely you must know that?"

He smiled. "Well--isn't that precisely what you desire Clara? Though, for my part, I don't believe in the brittleness of hearts--they seem to me to be made of exceptionally tough material. However, if the fair Thelma's heart cracks ever so widely, I think I can undertake to mend it!"

Clara shrugged her shoulders. "You!" she exclaimed contemptuously.