In the first pangs of the remorse and sorrow that filled his heart, Neville could gladly have gone out and drowned himself. Presently he began to think, — was there not some one else beside himself who might possibly be to blame for all this misery? For instance, who could have brought or sent that letter to Lady Errington? In her high station, she, so lofty, so pure, so far above the rest of her sex, would have been the last person to make any inquiries about such a woman as Violet Vere. How had it all happened? He looked imploringly for some minutes at the dejected figure in the chair without daring to offer a word of consolation. Presently he ventured a remark —
“Sir Philip!” he stammered. “It will soon be all right, — her ladyship will come back immediately. I myself will explain — it’s — it’s only a misunderstanding . . .”
Errington moved in his chair impatiently, but said nothing. Only a misunderstanding! How many there are who can trace back broken friendships and severed loves to that one thing— “only a misunderstanding!” The tenderest relations are often the most delicate and subtle, and “trifles light as air” may scatter and utterly destroy the sensitive gossamer threads extending between one heart and another, as easily as a child’s passing foot destroys the spider’s web woven on the dewy grass in the early mornings of spring.
Presently Sir Philip started up — his lashes were wet and his face was flushed.
“It’s no good sitting here,” he said, rapidly buttoning on his overcoat. “I must go after her. Let all the business go to the devil! Write and say I won’t stand for Middleborough — I resign in favor of the Liberal candidate. I’m off to Norway to-night.”
“To Norway!” cried Neville. “Has she gone there? At this season—”
He broke off, for at that moment Britta entered, looking the picture of misery. Her face was pale and drawn — her eyelids red and swollen, and when she saw Sir Philip, she gave him a glance of the most despairing reproach and indignation. He sprang up to her.
“Any news?” he demanded.
Britta shook her head mournfully, the tears beginning to roll again down her cheeks.
“Oh, if I’d only thought!” she sobbed, “if I’d only known what the dear Fröken meant to do when she said good-bye to me last night, I could have prevented her going — I could — I would have told her all I know — and she would have stayed to see you! Oh, Sir Philip, if you had only been here, that wicked, wicked Lady Winsleigh couldn’t have driven her away!”
At this name such a fury filled Philip’s heart that he could barely control himself. He breathed quickly and heavily.
“What of her?” he demanded in a low, suffocated voice. “What has Lady Winsleigh to do with it, Britta?”
“Everything!” cried Britta, though, as she glanced at his set, stern face and paling lips, she began to feel a little frightened. “She has always hated the Fröken, and been jealous of her — always! Her own maid, Louise, will tell you so — Lord Winsleigh’s man, Briggs, will tell you so! They’ve listened at the doors, and they know all about it!” Britta made this statement with the most childlike candor. “And they’ve heard all sorts of wicked things — Lady Winsleigh was always talking to Sir Francis Lennox about the Fröken, — and now they’ve made her believe you do not care for her any more — they’ve been trying to make her believe everything bad of you for ever so many months—” she paused, terrified at Sir Philip’s increasing pallor.
“Go on, Britta,” he said quietly, though his voice sounded strange to himself. Britta gathered up all her remaining stock of courage.
“Oh dear, oh dear!” she continued desperately, “I don’t understand London people at all, and I never shall understand them. Everybody seems to want to be wicked! Briggs says that Lady Winsleigh was fond of you, Sir Philip, — then, that she was fond of Sir Francis Lennox, — and yet she has a husband of her own all the time! It is so very strange!” And the little maiden’s perplexity appeared to border on distraction. “They would think such a woman quite mad in Norway! But what is worse than anything is that you — you, Sir Philip, — oh! I won’t believe it,” and she stamped her foot passionately, “I can’t believe it! . . . and yet everybody says that you go to see a dreadful, painted dancing woman at the theatre, and that you like her better than the Fröken, — it isn’t true, is it?” Here she peered anxiously at her master — but he was absolutely silent. Neville made as though he would speak, but a gesture from Sir Philip’s hand restrained him. Britta went on rather dispiritedly, “Anyhow, Briggs has just told me that only yesterday Lady Winsleigh went all by herself to see this actress, and that she got some letter there which she brought to the Fröken—” she recoiled suddenly with a little scream. “Oh, Sir Philip! — where are you going?”
Errington’s hand came down on her shoulder, as he twisted her lightly out of his path and strode to the door.
“Sir Philip — Sir Philip!” cried Neville anxiously, hastening after him. “Think for a moment; don’t do anything rash!” Philip wrung his hand convulsively. “Rash! My good fellow, it’s a woman who has slandered me — what can I do? Her sex protects her!” He gave a short, furious laugh. “But — by God! — were she a man I’d shoot her dead!”
And with these words, and his eyes blazing with wrath, he left the room. Neville and Britta confronted each other in vague alarm.
“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 ladyship 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 glasses, 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 Fr
öken?”
“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 ladyship 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.
Meanwhile, Sir Philip himself, in a white heat of restrained anger, arrived at Winsleigh House, and asked to see Lord Winsleigh immediately. Briggs, who opened the door to him, was a little startled at his haggard face and blazing eyes, even though he knew, through Britta, all about the sorrow that had befallen him. Briggs was not surprised at Lady Errington’s departure, — that portion of his “duty” which consisted in listening at doors, had greatly enlightened him on many points, — all, save one — the reported connection between Sir Philip and Violet Vere. This seemed to be really true according to all appearances.
“Which it puzzles me,” soliloquized the owner of the shapely calves. “It do, indeed. Yet I feels very much for Sir Philip, — I said to Flopsie this morning— ‘Flopsie, I feels for ’im!’ Yes, — I used them very words. Only, of course, he shouldn’t ‘ave gone with Vi. She’s a fine woman certainly — but skittish — d — d skittish! I’ve allus made it a rule myself to avoid ‘er on principle. Lor! if I’d kep’ company with ‘er and the likes of ‘er I shouldn’t be the man I am!” And he smiled complacently.
Lord Winsleigh, who was in his library as usual, occupied with his duties as tutor to his son Ernest, rose to receive Sir Philip with an air of more than his usual gravity.
“I was about to write to you, Errington,” he began, and then stopped short, touched by the utter misery expressed in Philip’s face. He addressed Ernest with a sort of nervous haste.
“Run away, my boy, to your own room. I’ll send for you again presently.”
Ernest obeyed. “Now,” said Lord Winsleigh, as soon as the lad disappeared, “tell me everything, Errington. Is it true that your wife has left you?”
“Left me!” and Philip’s eyes flashed with passionate anger. “No Winsleigh! — she’s been driven away from me by the vilest and most heartless cruelty. She’s been made to believe a scandalous and abominable lie against me — and she’s gone! I — I — by Jove! I hardly like to say it to your face — but—”
“I understand!” a curious flicker of a smile shadowed rather than brightened Lord Winsleigh’s stern features. “Pray speak quite plainly! Lady Winsleigh is to blame? I am not at all surprised!”
Errington gave him a rapid glance of wonder. He had always fancied Winsleigh to be a studious, rather dull sort of man, absorbed in books and the education of his son, — a man, more than half blind to everything that went on around him — and, moreover, one who deliberately shut his eyes to the frivolous coquetry of his wife, — and though he liked him fairly well, there had been a sort of vague contempt mingled with his liking. Now a new light was suddenly thrown on his character — there was something in his look, his manner, his very tone of voice, — which proved to Errington that there was a deep and forcible side to his nature of which his closest friends had never dreamed — and he was somewhat taken aback by the discovery. Seeing that he still hesitated, Winsleigh laid a hand encouragingly on his shoulder and said —
“I repeat — I’m not at all surprised! Nothing that Lady Winsleigh might do would cause me the slightest astonishment. She has long ceased to be my wife, except in name, — that she still bears that name and holds the position she has in the world is simply — for my son’s sake! I do not wish,” — his voice quivered slightly— “I do not wish the boy to despise his mother. It’s always a bad beginning for a young man’s life. I want to avoid it for Ernest, if possible, — regardless of any personal sacrifice.” He paused a moment — then resumed. “Now, speak out, Errington, and plainly, — for if mischief has been done and I can repair it in any way, you may be sure I will.”
Thus persuaded, Sir Philip briefly related the whole story of the misunderstanding that had arisen concerning Neville’s wife, Violet Vere — and concluded by saying —
“It is, of course, only through Britta that I’ve just heard about Lady Winsleigh’s having anything to do with it. Her information may not be correct — I hope it isn’t, — but—”
Lord Winsleigh interrupted him. “Come with me,” he said composedly. “We’ll resolve this difficulty AT once.”
He led the way out of the library across the hall. Errington followed him in silence. He knocked at the door of his wife’s room, — in response to her “Come in!” they both entered. She was alone, reclining on a sofa, reading, — she started up with a pettish exclamation at sight of her husband, but observing who it was that came with him, she stood mute, the color rushing to her cheeks with surprise and something of fear. Yet she endeavored to smile, and returned with her usual grace their somewhat formal salutations.
“Clara,” then said Lord Winsleigh gravely, “I have to ask you a question on behalf of Sir Philip Errington here, — a question to which it is necessary for you to give the plain answer. Did you or did you not procure this letter from Violet Vere, of the Brilliant Theatre — and did you or did you not, give it yourself yesterday into the hands of Lady Bruce-Errington?” And he laid the letter in question, which Philip had handed to him, down upon the table before her.
She looked at it — then at him — then from him to Sir Philip, who uttered no word — and lightly shrugged her shoulders.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” she said, carelessly.
Sir Philip turned upon her indignantly.
“Lady Winsleigh, you do know—”
She interrupted him with a stately gesture.
“Excuse me, Sir Philip! I am not accustomed to be spoken to in this extraordinary manner. You forget yourself — my husband, I think, also forgets himself! I know nothing whatever about Violet Vere — I am not
fond of the society of actresses. Of course, I’ve heard about your admiration for her — that is common town-talk, — though my informant on this point was Sir Francis Lennox.”
“Sir Francis Lennox!” cried Philip furiously. “Thank God! there’s a man to deal with! By Heaven, I’ll choke him with his own lie!”
Lady Winsleigh raised her eyebrows in well-bred surprise.
“Dear me! It is a lie, then? Now, I should have thought from all accounts that it was so very likely to be true!”
Philip turned white with passion. Her sarcastic smile, — her mocking glance, — irritated him almost beyond endurance.
“Permit me to ask you, Clara,” continued Lord Winsleigh calmly, “if you, — as you say, know nothing about Violet Vere, why did you go to the Brilliant Theatre yesterday morning?”
She flashed an angry glance at him.
“Why? To secure a box for the new performance. Is there anything wonderful in that?”
Her husband remained unmoved. “May I see the voucher for this box?” he inquired.
“I’ve sent it to some friends,” replied her ladyship haughtily. “Since when have you decided to become an inquisitor, my lord?”
“Lady Winsleigh,” said Philip suddenly and eagerly, “will you swear to me that you have said or done nothing to make my Thelma leave me?”
“Oh, she has left you, has she?” and Lady Clara smiled maliciously. “I thought she would! Why don’t you ask your dear friend, George Lorimer, about her? He is madly in love with her, as everybody knows, — she is probably the same with him!”
“Clara, Clara!” exclaimed Lord Winsleigh in accents of deep reproach. “Shame on you! Shame!”
Her ladyship laughed amusedly. “Please don’t be tragic!” she said; “it’s too ridiculous! Sir Philip has only himself to blame. Of course, Thelma knows about his frequent visits to the Brilliant Theatre. I told her all that Sir Francis said. Why should she be kept in the dark? I dare say she doesn’t mind — she’s very fond of Mr. Lorimer!”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 123
