Had he been to blame? he mused, with a sorrowful weight at his heart. Unintentionally, had he,—yes, he would put it plainly,—had he neglected her, just a little? Had he not, with all his true and passionate love for her, taken her beauty, her devotion, her obedience too much for granted—too much as his right? And in these latter months, when her health had made her weaker and more in need of his tenderness, had he not, in a sudden desire for political fame and worldly honor, left her too much alone, a prey to solitude and the often morbid musings which solitude engenders?
He began to blame himself heartily for the misunderstanding that had arisen out of his share in Neville's unhappy secret. Neville had been weak and timid,—he had shrunk nervously from avowing that the notorious Violet Vere was actually the woman he had so faithfully loved and mourned,—but he, Philip, ought not to have humored him in these fastidious scruples—he ought to have confided everything to Thelma. He remembered now that he had once or twice been uneasy lest rumors of his frequent visits to Miss Vere might possibly reach his wife's ears,—but, then, as his purpose was absolutely disinterested and harmless, he did not dwell on this idea, but dismissed it, and held his peace for Neville's sake, contenting himself with the thought that, "If Thelma did hear anything, she would never believe a word against me."
He could not quite see where his fault had been,—though a fault there was somewhere, as he uneasily felt—and he would no doubt have started indignantly had a small elf whispered in his ear the word "Conceit." Yet that was the name of his failing—that and no other. How many men, otherwise noble-hearted, are seriously, though often unconsciously, burdened with this large parcel of blown-out Nothing! Sir Philip did not appear to be conceited—he would have repelled the accusation with astonishment,—not knowing that in his very denial of the fault, the fault existed. He had never been truly humbled but twice in his life,—once as he knelt to receive his mother's dying benediction,—and again when he first loved Thelma, and was uncertain whether his love could be returned by so fair and pure a creature. With these two exceptions, all his experience had tended to give him an excellent opinion of himself,—and that he should possess one of the best and loveliest wives in the world, seemed to him quite in keeping with the usual course of things. The feeling that it was a sheer impossibility for her to ever believe a word against him, rose out of this inward self-satisfaction—this one flaw in his otherwise bright, honest, and lovable character—a flaw of which he himself was not aware. Now, when for the third time his fairy castle of perfect peace and pleasure seemed shaken to its foundations,—when he again realized the uncertainty of life or death, he felt bewildered and wretched. His chiefest pride was centred in Thelma, and she—was gone! Again he reverted to the miserable idea that, like a melancholy refrain, haunted him—"What if I should find her dead!"
Absorbed in painful reflections, he was a very silent companion for Lorimer during the luncheon which they took at a quiet little restaurant well known to the habitués of Pall Mall and Regent Street. Lorimer himself had his own reasons for being equally depressed and anxious,—for did he not love Thelma as much as even her husband could?—nay, perhaps more, knowing his love was hopeless. Not always does possession of the adored object strengthen the adoration,—the rapturous dreams of an ideal passion have often been known to surpass reality a thousandfold. So the two friends exchanged but few words,—though they tried to converse cheerfully on indifferent subjects, and failed in the attempt. They had nearly finished their light repast, when a familiar voice saluted them.
"It is Errington,—I thocht I couldna be mistaken! How are ye both?"
Sandy Macfarlane stood before them, unaltered, save that his scanty beard had grown somewhat longer. They had seen nothing of him since their trip to Norway, and they greeted him now with unaffected heartiness, glad of the distraction his appearance afforded them.
"Where do you hail from, Mac?" asked Lorimer, as he made the new-comer sit down at their table. "We haven't heard of you for an age."
"It is a goodish bit of time," assented Macfarlane, "but better late than never. I came up to London a week ago from Glasgie,—and my heed has been in a whirl ever since. Eh, mon! but it's an awful place!—maybe I'll get used to't after a wee whilie."
"Are you going to settle here, then?" inquired Errington, "I thought you intended to be a minister somewhere in Scotland?"
Macfarlane smiled, and his eyes twinkled.