"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."