Friedhof still looked dubious, but finally yielded to her entreaties and agreed to arrange her pa.s.sage for her in the morning.

She stayed at his hotel that night, and with the very early dawn accompanied him on board the ship he had mentioned. It was a small, awkwardly built craft, with an ugly crooked black funnel out of which the steam was hissing and spitting with quite an unnecessary degree of violence--the decks were wet and dirty, and the whole vessel was pervaded with a sickening smell of whale-oil. The captain, a gruff red-faced fellow, looked rather surlily at his unexpected pa.s.senger--but was soon mollified by her gentle manner, and the readiness with which she paid the money he demanded for taking her.

"You won't be very warm," he said, eyeing her from head to foot--"but I can lend you a rug to sleep in."

Thelma smiled and thanked him. He called to his wife, a thin, overworked-looking creature, who put up her head from a window in the cabin, at his summons.

"Here's a lady going with us," he announced. "Look after her, will you?"

The woman nodded. Then, once more addressing himself to Thelma, he said, "We shall have nasty weather and a wicked sea!"

"I do not mind!" she answered quietly, and turning to Friedhof who had come to see her off, she shook hands with him warmly and thanked him for the trouble he had taken in her behalf. The good landlord bade her farewell somewhat reluctantly,--he had a presentiment that there was something wrong with the beautiful, golden-haired daughter of the _Jarl_--and that perhaps he ought to have prevented her making this uncomfortable and possibly perilous voyage. But it was too late now,--and at a little before seven o'clock, the vessel,--which rejoiced in the name of the _Black Polly_,--left the harbor, and steamed fussily down the Humber in the teeth of a sudden storm of sleet and snow.

Her departure had no interest for any one save Friedhof, who stood watching her till she was no more than a speck on the turbid water. He kept his post, regardless of the piercing cold of the gusty, early morning air, till she had entirely disappeared, and then returned to his own house and his daily business in a rather depressed frame of mind. He was haunted by the pale face and serious eyes of Thelma--she looked very ill, he thought. He began to reproach himself,--why had he been such a fool as to let her go?--why had he not detained her?--or at any rate, persuaded her to rest a few days in Hull? He looked at the threatening sky and the falling flakes of snow with a shiver.

"What weather!" he muttered, "and there must be a darkness as of death at the Altenfjord!"

Meanwhile the _Black Polly_--unhandsome as she was in appearance, struggled gallantly with and overcame an army of furious waves that rose to greet her as she rounded Spurn Head, and long ere Thelma closed her weary eyes in an effort to sleep, was plunging, shivering, and fighting her slow way through shattering mountainous billows and a tempest of sleet, snow, and tossing foam across the wild North Sea.

CHAPTER XXVII.

"What of her gla.s.s without her? The blank grey There, where the pool is blind of the moon's face-- Her dress without her? The tossed empty s.p.a.ce Of cloud-rack whence the moon has pa.s.sed away!"

DANTE G. ROSSETTI.

"Good G.o.d!" cried Errington impatiently "What's the matter? Speak out!"

He had just arrived home. He had barely set foot within his own door, and full of lover-like ardor and eagerness was about to hasten to his wife's room,--when his old servant Morris stood in his way trembling and pale-faced,--looking helplessly from him to Neville,--who was as much astonished as Sir Philip, at the man's woe-begone appearance.

"Something has happened," he stammered faintly at last. "Her ladyship--"

Philip started--his heart beat quickly and then seemed to grow still with a horrible sensation of fear.

"What of her?" he demanded in low hoa.r.s.e tones. "Is she ill?"

Morris threw up his hands with a gesture of despair.

"Sir Philip, my dear master!" cried the poor old man. "I do not know whether she is ill or well--I cannot guess! My lady went out last night at a little before eight o'clock,--and--and she has never come home at all! We cannot tell what has become of her! She has gone!"

And tears of distress and anxiety filled his eyes. Philip stood mute. He could not understand it. All color fled from his face--he seemed as though he had received a sudden blow on the head which had stunned him.

"Gone!" he said mechanically. "Thelma--my wife gone! Why should she go?"

And he stared fixedly at Neville, who laid one hand soothingly on his arm.

"Perhaps she is with friends," he suggested. "She may be at Lady Winsleigh's or Mrs. Lorimer's."

"No, no!" interrupted Morris. "Britta, who stayed up all night for her, has since been to every house that my lady visits and no one has seen or heard of her!"

"Where is Britta?" demanded Philip suddenly.

"She has gone again to Lady Winsleigh's," answered Morris, "she says it is there that mischief has been done,--I don't know what she means!"

Philip shook off his secretary's sympathetic touch, and strode through the rooms to Thelma's boudoir. He put aside the velvet curtains of the portiere with a noiseless hand--somehow he felt as if, in spite of all he had just heard, she _must_ be there as usual to welcome him with that serene sweet smile which was the sunshine of his life. The empty desolate air of the room smote him with a sense of bitter pain,--only the plaintive warble of her pet thrush, who was singing to himself most mournfully in his gilded cage, broke the heavy silence. He looked about him vacantly. All sorts of dark forebodings crowded on his mind,--she must have met with some accident, he thought with a shudder,--for that she would depart from him in this sudden way of her own accord for no reason whatsoever seemed to him incredible--impossible.

"What have I done that she should leave me?" he asked half aloud and wonderingly. Everything that had seemed to him of worth a few hours ago became valueless in this moment of time. What cared he now for the business of Parliament--for distinction or honors among men?

Nothing--less than nothing! Without her, the world was empty--its ambitions, its pride, its good, its evil, seemed but the dreariest and most foolish trifles!

"Not even a message?" he thought. "No hint of where she meant to go--no word of explanation for me? Surely I must be dreaming--my Thelma would never have deserted me!"

A sort of sob rose in his throat, and he pressed his hand strongly over his eyes to keep down the womanish drops that threatened to overflow them. After a minute or two, he went to her desk and opened it, thinking that there perhaps she might have left a note of farewell. There was nothing--nothing save a little heap of money and jewels. These Thelma had herself placed, before her sorrowful, silent departure, in the corner where he now found them.

More puzzled than ever, he glanced searchingly round the room--and his eyes were at once attracted by the sparkle of the diamond cross that lay uppermost on the cover of "Gladys the Singer," the book of poems which was in its usual place on his own reading table. In another second he seized it--he unwound the slight gold chain--he opened the little volume tremblingly. Yes!--there was a letter within its pages addressed to himself,--now, now he should know all! He tore it open with feverish haste--two folded sheets of paper fell out,--one was his own epistle to Violet Vere, and this, to his consternation, he perceived first. Full of a sudden misgiving he laid it aside, and began to read Thelma's parting words.

"My darling boy," she wrote--

"A friend of yours and mine brought me the enclosed letter and though, perhaps, it was wrong of me to read it, I hope you will forgive me for having done so. I do not quite understand it, and I cannot bear to think about it--but it seems that you are tired of your poor Thelma! I do not blame you, dearest, for I am sure that in some way or other the fault is mine, and it does grieve me so much to think you are unhappy! I know that I am very ignorant of many things, and that I am not suited to this London life--and I fear I shall never understand its ways. But one thing I can do, and that is to let you be free, my Philip--quite free! And so I am going back to the Altenfjord, where I will stay till you want me again, if you ever do. My heart is yours and I shall always love you till I die,-- and though it seems to me just now better that we should part, to give you greater ease and pleasure, still you must always remember that I have no reproaches to make to you. I am only sorry to think my love has wearied you,--for you have been all goodness and tenderness to me. And so that people shall not talk about me or you, you will simply say to them that I have gone to see my father, and they will think nothing strange in that. Be kind to Britta,--I have told her nothing, as it would only make her miserable. Do not be angry that I go away--I cannot bear to stay here, knowing all. And so, good-bye, my love, my dearest one!--if you were to love many women more than me, I still should love you best--I still would gladly die to serve you. Remember this always,--that, however long we may be parted, and though all the world should come between us, I am, and ever shall be your faithful wife,"

"THELMA."

The e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n that broke from Errington's lips as he finished reading this letter was more powerful than reverent. Stinging tears darted to his eyes--he pressed his lips pa.s.sionately on the fair writing.

"My darling--my darling!" he murmured. "What a miserable misunderstanding!"

Then without another moment's delay he rushed into Neville's study and cried abruptly--

"Look here! It's all your fault."

"_My_ fault!" gasped the amazed secretary.

"Yes--your fault!" shouted Errington almost beside himself with grief and rage. "Your fault, and that of your accursed _wife_, Violet Vere!"

And he dashed the letter, the cause of all the mischief, furiously down on the table. Neville shrank and shivered,--his grey head drooped, he stretched out his hands appealingly.

"For G.o.d's sake, Sir Philip, tell me what I've done?" he exclaimed piteously.

Errington strode up and down the room in a perfect fever of impatience.

"By Heaven, it's enough to drive me mad!" he burst forth.

"Your wife!--your wife!--confound her! When you first discovered her in that shameless actress, didn't I want to tell Thelma all about it--that very night?--and didn't you beg me not to do so? Your silly scruples stood in the way of everything! I was a fool to listen to you--a fool to meddle in your affairs--and--and I wish to G.o.d I'd never seen or heard of you!"

Neville turned very white, but remained speechless.

"Read that letter!" went on Philip impetuously. "You've seen it before!