He never lost the hope of meeting her again, and from time to time he renewed his search for her, though all uselessly--he studied the daily papers with an almost morbid anxiety lest he should see the notice of her death--and he would even await each post with a heart beating more rapidly than usual, in case there should be some letter from her, imploring forgiveness, explaining everything, and summoning him once more to her side. He found a true and keenly sympathizing friend in Sir Philip, to whom he became profoundly attached,--to satisfy his wishes, to forward his interests, to attend to his affairs with punctilious exactitude--all this gave Neville the supremest happiness. He felt some slight doubt and anxiety, when he first received the sudden announcement of his patron's marriage,--but all forebodings as to the character and disposition of the new Lady Bruce-Errington fled like mist before sunshine, when he saw Thelma's fair face and felt her friendly hand-clasp.
Every morning on her way to the breakfast-room, she would look in at the door of his little study, which adjoined the library, and he learned to watch for the first glimmer of her dress, and to listen for her bright "Good morning, Mr. Neville!" with a sensation of the keenest pleasure. It was a sort of benediction on the whole day. A proud man was he when she asked him to give her lessons on the organ,--and never did he forget the first time he heard her sing. He was playing an exquisite "Ave Maria," by Stradella, and she, standing by her husband's side was listening, when she suddenly exclaimed-"Why, we used to sing that at Arles!"--and her rich, round voice pealed forth clear, solemn, and sweet, following with pure steadiness the sustained notes of the organ. Neville's heart thrilled,--he heard her with a sort of breathless wonder and rapture, and when she ceased, it seemed as though heaven had closed upon him.
"One cannot praise such a voice as that!" he said. "It would be a kind of sacrilege. It is divine!"
After this, many were the pleasant musical evenings they all passed together in the grand old library, and,--as Mrs. Rush-Marvelle had so indignantly told her husband,--no visitors were invited to the Manor during that winter. Errington was perfectly happy--he wanted no one but his wife, and the idea of entertaining a party of guests who would most certainly interfere with his domestic enjoyment, seemed almost abhorrent to him. The county-people called,--but missed seeing Thelma, for during the daytime she was always out with her husband taking long walks and rambling excursions to the different places hallowed by Shakespeare's presence,--and when she, instructed by Sir Philip, called on the county-people, they also seemed to be never at home.