Part 65 (2/2)

”Where will he go?” half whispered Britta.

”To Winsleigh House, I suppose,” answered Neville in the same low tone.

Just then the hall door shut with a loud bang, that echoed through the silent house.

”He's gone!” and as Neville said this he sighed and looked dubiously at his companion. ”How do you know all this about Lady Winsleigh, Britta?

It may not be true--it's only servants' gossip.”

”Only servants' gossip!” exclaimed Britta. ”And is that nothing? Why, in these grand houses like Lord Winsleigh's, the servants know everything!

Briggs makes it his business to listen at the doors--he says it's a part of his duty. And Louise opens all her mistress's letters--she says she owes it to her own respectability to know what sort of a lady it is she serves. And she's going to leave, because she says her ladys.h.i.+p _isn't_ respectable! There! what do you think of that! And Sir Philip will find out a great deal more than even _I_ have told him--but oh! I _can't_ understand about that actress!” And she shook her head despairingly.

”Britta,” said Neville suddenly, ”That actress is my wife!”

Britta started,--and her round eyes opened wide.

”Your wife, Mr. Neville?” she exclaimed.

Neville took off his spectacles and polished them nervously.

”Yes, Britta--my wife!”

She looked at him in amazed silence. Neville went on rubbing his gla.s.ses, and continued in rather dreamy, tremulous accents--

”Yes--I lost her years ago--I thought she was dead. But I found her--on the stage of the Brilliant Theatre. I--I never expected--_that_! I would rather she had died!” He paused and went on softly, ”When I married her, Britta, she was such a dear little girl,--so bright and pretty!--and I--I fancied she was fond of me! Yes, I did,--of course, I was foolish--I've always been foolish, I think. And when--when I saw her on that stage I felt as if some one had struck me a hard blow--it seems as if I'd been stunned ever since. And though she knows I'm in London, she won't see me, Britta,--she won't let me speak to her even for a moment!

It's very hard! Sir Philip has tried his best to persuade her to see me--he has talked to her and written to her about me; and that's not all,--he has even tried to make her come back to me--but it's all no use--and--and that's how all the mischief has arisen--do you see?”

Britta gazed at him still, with sympathy written on every line of her face,--but a great load had been lifted from her mind by his words--she began to understand everything.

”I'm so sorry for you, Mr. Neville!” she said. ”But why didn't you tell all this to the Froken?”

”I _couldn't_!” murmured Neville desperately. ”She was there that night at the Brilliant,--and if you had seen how she looked when she saw--my wife--appeared on the stage! So pained, so sorry, so ashamed! and she wanted to leave the theatre at once. Of course, I ought to have told her,--I wish I had--but--somehow, I never could.” He paused again. ”It's all my stupidity, of course, Sir Philip is quite blameless--he has been the kindest, the best of friends to me--” his voice trembled more and more, and he could not go on. There was a silence of some minutes, during which Britta appeared absorbed in meditation, and Neville furtively wiped his eyes.

Presently he spoke again more cheerfully. ”It'll soon be all right again, Britta!” and he nodded encouragingly. ”Sir Philip says her ladys.h.i.+p has gone home to Norway, and he means to follow her to-night.”

Britta nodded gravely, but heaved a deep sigh.

”And I posted her letter to her father!” she half murmured. ”Oh, if I had only thought or guessed why it was written!”

”Isn't it rather a bad time of the year for Norway?” pursued Neville.

”Why, there must be snow and darkness--”

”Snow and darkness at the Altenfjord!” suddenly cried Britta, catching at his words. ”That's exactly what she said to me the other evening! Oh dear! I never thought of it--I never remembered it was the dark season!”

She clasped her hands in dismay. ”There is no sun at the Altenfjord now--it is like night--and the cold is bitter. And she is not strong--not strong enough to travel--and there's the North Sea to cross--oh, Mr. Neville,” and she broke out sobbing afresh. ”The journey will kill her,--I know it will! my poor, poor darling! I must go after her--I'll go with Sir Philip--I _won't_ be left behind!”

”Hush, hush, Britta!” said Neville kindly, patting her shoulder. ”Don't cry--don't cry!”

But he was very near crying himself, poor man, so shaken was he by the events of the morning. And he could not help admitting to himself the possibility that so long and trying a journey for Thelma in her present condition of health meant little else than serious illness--perhaps death. The only comfort he could suggest to the disconsolate Britta was, that at that time of year it was very probable there would be no steamer running to Christiansund or Bergen, and in that case Thelma would be unable to leave England, and would, therefore, be overtaken by Sir Philip at Hull.

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