'Nelly, don't be a fool!' said Bridget, stung at last into speech. 'Suppose all you think is true—I don't admit it, mind—but suppose it's true. How was I doing such a terrible wrong to you?—in the eyes, I mean, of sensible people—in not disturbing your mind. Nobody expected—that man I saw—to know anybody again—or to live more than a few days. Even if I had been certain—and how could I be certain?—wasn't it reasonable to weigh one thing against another? You know very well—it's childish to ignore it—what's been going on here——'
But she paused. Nelly, writing a letter, was not apparently concerned with anything Bridget had been saying. It did not seem to have reached her ears. A queer terror shot through Bridget. But she dismissed it. As if Nelly could ever really get on without her. Little, feckless, sentimental thing!
Nelly finished her letter and put it up.
'I have written to Sir William's agent, Bridget'—she said turning towards her sister—'to say that I give up the farm. I shall pay the servant. Hester will look after my things, and send them—when I want them.'
'Why Hester?' said Bridget, with something of a sneer.
Nelly did not answer. She put up her letter, took the money and the cheque-book and went out of the room. Bridget heard her call their one servant, Mrs. Dowson, and presently steps ascended the stairs and Nelly's door shut. The sound of the shutting door roused in her again that avenging terror. Her first impulse was to go and force herself into Nelly's room, so as to manage and pack for her as usual. But something stopped her. She consoled herself by going down to the kitchen to look after the supper. Nelly, of course, must have some food before her night journey.
Behind that shut door, Nelly was looking into the kind weather-beaten face of Mrs. Dowson.
'Mrs. Dowson, I'm going away to-night—and I'm not coming back. Sir
William knows.'
Then she caught the woman's gnarled hands, and her own features began to work.
'Mrs. Dowson, they've found my husband! Did Sir William tell you? He's not dead—he's alive—But he's very, very ill.'