A BANKRUPT HEART.

A BANKRUPT HEART.

BY

FLORENCE MARRYAT,

AUTHOR OF
‘LOVE’S CONFLICT,’ ‘MY OWN CHILD,’ ‘PARSON JONES,’
ETC., ETC.

IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.

LONDON:
F. V. WHITE & CO.,
14 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND, W.C.

1894.
This story being already dramatised, all rights are reserved.

CONTENTS.

A BANKRUPT HEART.

A BANKRUPT HEART.

——o——

CHAPTER I.

But as she looked at Nell, Nora saw a stain of blood showing through the sleeve of her light print dress.

‘But you msng hurt. You are bleeding!’ she exclaimed with horror. ‘Oh, I am so sorry. What can I do for you?’

Nell regarded the blood-stain with calm indifference.

‘It is nothing, my lady. I presume I am speaking to Lady Bowmant,’ she added, with a courtesy that struck Nora as uncommon with her class.

‘Oh, no, I am not Lady Bowmant. I am only one of her visitors. I was driving with her, and she went into a cottage and left me with the carriage, and these two little brutes ran away with me. But how am I to get them home? I dare not take the reins again for my life. How far is it to the Hall?’

‘Oh, the Hall is only round the corner, madam,’ answered Nell; ‘I would help you to lead them, but—’ Here she hesitated, not knowing how to proceed; then, as if a sudden thought had struck her, she stood on tip-toe and looked over the hedge and called loudly, ‘Tom.’

‘Yes, miss,’ replied a hedger coming at her call.

‘Come round here at once and lead these horses up to the Hall for this lady. They are beyond her control.’ Then addressing Nora, she continued—‘You had better get in again, madam, and this man will see you safely to the Hall. You will want to send the carriage back for Lady Bowmant.’

‘Oh, yes, indeed. What will she think of my disappearing in this extraordinary manner? Thank you so much. I don’t know what I should have done without your assistance. But I am so troubled about your arm. I am sure you are horribly hurt,’ said Nora, as she mounted into the dog-cart.

‘Please don’t say anything more about it,’ replied Nell; ‘at the worst it will only be a bruise; you need not be afraid now, madam. This man is rough, but he understands horses, and is very steady.’

And so saying Nell slipped through a break in the hedge and was gone.

Lady Ilfracombe arrived safely at the Hall, and a groom was at once despatched to pick up Lady Bowmant, whom he met half-way between old Farley’s cottage and the house, laughing heartily to herself over the disappearance of her friend and her carriage, having made a shrewd guess that Beau and Belle had taken her home, whether she would or not. The occurrence formed the chief topic of conversation at the luncheon-table, and Nora was full of the beautiful country girl she had met and who had shown so much courage in stopping the runaway cobs.

‘I must make her some little acknowledgment of the service she rendered me, mustn’t I, Ilfracombe?’ she asked her husband. ‘I might have been killed, if it hadn’t been for her, and, or still worse, smashed Lady Bowmant’s pretty trap.’

‘Of course you must, darling,’ replied the earl. ‘We can never repay her for what she did for us.’

‘But I don’t know her name!’ exclaimed Nora, ‘though I suppose she lives somewhere over the way, because she ordered the old hedger to lead the cobs home, as if he were her servant. Oh, she is such a pretty young woman. Her face is perfectly lovely. I think it was because I was so occupied gazing at her, that I forgot to ask her name.’

‘A very pretty girl,’ repeated Sir Archibald. ‘I think that must be one of the Llewellyns. They’re the prettiest girls for a good many miles round Usk. Isn’t that the case, Dolly?’ he said, addressing his wife.

‘Well, I’ve only seen the married one,’ she replied, but I know they bear that reputation. The father is a very handsome old man.’

At the name of Llewellyn, Lady Ilfracombe looked up quickly, and the earl and Jack Portland exchanged glances with each other.

‘What is there in that to surprise you?’ demanded their host, mistaking the meaning of their looks. ‘Wales is rather celebrated for beauty, you know; at least we won’t allow that England, Ireland or Scotland can hold a candle to us in that respect.’

Ilfracombe did not seem disposed to answer, so Jack Portland took upon himself to be spokesman.

‘I have not the slightest doubt of your superiority, Sir Archibald,’ he said, ‘and was not the least surprised to hear you say so. I only thought I had heard the name before.’

‘What! of Llewellyn? I should be surprised if you had not. We are all Llewellyns, or Owens, or Lewises, or Thomases in Wales. It’s one of the commonest names here. I’ve about half a dozen Llewellyns amongst my tenants. But this man’s daughters are really uncommonly handsome. Fine tall girls, with splendidly cut features. By Jove! it’s a pleasure to go to the farm only to catch a glimpse of one of them.’

‘And that’s why you’re always going over there then,’ cried Lady Bowmant. ‘I’ve caught you at last, my gentleman. No more Panty-cuckoo Farm for you. I’ll take good care of that.’

‘Panty-cuckoo Farm! Is that where my rustic beauty lives?’ exclaimed Nora. ‘What a fanciful name! What does it mean? Panty-cuckoo.’

‘The dell of the cuckoo, or the cuckoo’s dell,’ replied Lady Bowmant. ‘Yes, isn’t it pretty? It’s the farm just across the road, where Mr Portland and Mr Lennox sleep. Mrs Llewellyn is a dear old woman. I always go to her in any perplexity. She supplies us with all the extra eggs and chickens and butter we may want. Lady Ilfracombe, you should see her dairy; it’s a perfect picture, and everything about the farm is so quaint and old, and so faultlessly clean and neat. She and her husband are quite model tenants. I always take my friends to pay them a visit.’

After luncheon, when the rest of the party had separated to pursue their own devices, Nora crept after her husband.

‘Ilfracombe,’ she whispered, ‘supposing this should be one of her sisters?’

‘Whose? What are you talking about?’ he said rather curtly.

‘You know. The Miss Llewellyn you have told me of.’

‘What will you get into your head next? What likelihood is there of such a thing? Who ever said she had any sisters, or came from Usk? Didn’t you hear Sir Archibald say the place was peopled with Llewellyns? Please don’t get any absurd fancies into your head. The name is distasteful to me as it is? I wish we had not heard it. Now, I suppose there will be a grand fuss made of the service this girl rendered you, and the whole family will be paraded out for our special benefit. You have been a good friend to me in this business, Nora. Get me out of this unnecessary annoyance, if you can.’

‘Of course, I will,’ replied his wife readily. ‘You sha’n’t be bothered if I can help it, Ilfracombe. You were a dear, good boy to make a clean breast to me of the matter, and I’ll see you don’t suffer for it. I must remunerate the young woman or her parents for what she did this morning, so I’ll just go to the farm this afternoon by myself and get it quietly over. How much should I offer her? What do you think? Will five pounds be enough?’

‘I think so; but that is as you feel about it. But Nora, darling, you needn’t mention our names, need you? We shall be gone probably before they have a chance of finding out anything about us, and though I don’t suppose there is any chance of their being related to—to—her—yet if they should be—you understand?’

Lady Ilfracombe went up to her husband and kissed his anxious face.

‘I understand,’ she replied, and then left the room. There was a slight summer shower that afternoon, and the rest of the Hall party had already settled themselves to spend it indoors. A noisy set were occupied in the billiard-room, chatting and laughing over their game, and the more respectable scandalmongers were working, reading, and taking away their neighbours’ characters in the seclusion of the drawing-room. Lady Ilfracombe donned a large straw hat, and, taking an umbrella in her hand, set forth for Panty-cuckoo Farm without observation. She soon found her way through the white gate, and down the hilly slope, and found the latched wicket that guarded the bricked pathway up to the house. As soon as she placed her hand upon the latch, Mrs Llewellyn, as was her custom at the approach of any visitors, came quickly forward to save her the trouble of opening it, and give her a welcome to Panty-cuckoo Farm.

‘Walk in, my lady,’ she exclaimed cordially. ‘This way, if you please,’ and ushering Nora into the parlour she dusted a chair with her apron, and set it before her.

‘Oh, what a lovely room,’ cried Nora enthusiastically, as she gazed around her. ‘What dear old carved oak. Why, it must be centuries old; and what beautiful china. Don’t leave me here alone, pray, or I shall steal half your things. I suppose you are Mrs Llewellyn. Well, you have the very jolliest room I ever saw in my life.’

Mrs Llewellyn was completely won over by this praise. She was very proud, as has been said before, of her room and oak and china, and nothing pleased her better than to see them appreciated.

‘Many have told me so before, ma’am; but I am glad you like them. My husband and I have been offered pounds and pounds sometimes for these very things by the ladies and gentlemen who have visited Usk; but we could never make up our minds to sell them. They belonged to our great-great-grandparents, and there they will be till our time comes to leave them behind us for the benefit of our daughters.’

‘Your daughters, Mrs Llewellyn. That reminds me of the purpose of my visit to you. A young woman, whom I believe to be one of your daughters, did me a very great service this morning. She stopped a pair of runaway horses for me, and saved, perhaps, my life.’

‘Ay, that was my eldest girl. She told us of it; but it is nothing to make a fuss about, ma’am. Country girls are more used to do such things than town ladies. There’s not a girl in Usk but what would do her best to stop a horse. I hope you weren’t hurt at all yourself, ma’am?’

‘Not a bit; but your daughter was. I saw the blood-stain on the sleeve of her dress. I am afraid the horse touched her arm with his hoof when he threw her down.’

‘It can’t be over much,’ said Mrs Llewellyn quietly, ‘for she never said anything to me about it, though now you mention it, ma’am, I did notice a bit of blood on her sleeve too. Lor’, it’s nothing. I thought she got it in the henhouse maybe, or the larder. It isn’t worth speaking of.’

‘But I am quite of a different opinion I can assure you, Mrs Llewellyn, and I came over expressly to tell you so. May I see your daughter? Is she in the house?’

‘Certainly, ma’am, if you wish it. I’ll send her to you at once, and perhaps you would do us the honour to take a cup of tea whilst you wait. Lady Bowmant, she always has a cup of tea when she comes here. She says she has quite a fancy for our cream.’

‘I will with pleasure, Mrs Llewellyn. Indeed I have heard such grand accounts of your famous dairy that I am quite anxious to taste its produce.’

The farmer’s wife bridled under the compliment, and turned with the intention of leaving the room; but as she reached the door she said,—

‘May I take the liberty of asking your name, madam?’

Nora was just about to give her maiden name, remembering her husband’s injunction, when she noticed she had withdrawn the glove of her left hand, and displaying her wedding-ring and jewelled keepers, so with her quick wit, which never found her at a disadvantage, she borrowed the name of one of the ladies, who was even at that moment taking away hers in the Hall drawing-room, and answered, ‘Mrs Lumley.’

‘Thank you, madam,’ said the old woman, as she curtseyed and withdrew. In another moment she was adjuring Nell to go down to the parlour and hear what the lady from the Hall had to say to her.

‘Oh, mother, why did you say I was indoors?’ she exclaimed fretfully. ‘What should she want to see me for? You know how I hate seeing strangers.’

‘Well, my lass, it is not my fault. The lady, Mrs Lumley is her name, wants to thank you for what you did this morning, and for my part I think it is very pretty-mannered of her to come over herself when she might have written to express her gratitude. But here she is, and you must go down and see her whilst I make her a cup of tea. She says she heard so much of our dairy that she’s quite anxious to taste our cream. She’s as nice-spoken a young lady as ever I met, and I’m sure she has good intentions towards you.’

‘But I don’t want to be thanked,’ repeated Nell in the same tone. ‘It was the simplest thing in the world; anyone would have done it. I only caught at the reins as the horses passed me. What does she want to make a fuss about it for? Its over and done with. Why can’t she leave it alone?’

‘Well, my lass, I can’t stay to answer all your testy questions. I must go and see that the kettle boils for the tea. Now, go down, there’s a good girl. She’s one of the Hall guests, and we mustn’t offend them, you know.’

So Nell smoothed her rippling hair, and went down to the parlour with a bad grace, and stood just inside the door, stiff as a soldier on duty, and without speaking a word. But Nora did not seem to perceive her mood. She thought her stiffness was meant for respect.

‘Oh, Miss Llewellyn,’ she began, ‘I’ve come over expressly to see you, and thank you better than I could this morning for the great service you rendered me. Don’t stand there, pray, but come here and sit down by me, and let me tell you how brave and courageous and good I think you were to do so much for a stranger.’

Nell’s haughty shyness was overcome by the cordiality of her new acquaintance. She sat down as she was asked to do, but not a feature of her beautiful face relaxed. She could not forget that she was speaking to a visitor from the Hall—that place which she had so much dreaded since she knew that Mr Portland was staying there.

‘I can’t see the particular courage of it, Mrs Lumley,’ she replied. ‘I was sauntering along inside the hedge looking for some of my mother’s turkey poults that had strayed from the yard when your horses came tearing along, and I put out my hand mechanically to stop them. You are making too much of my action—indeed you are. Tom was only a few yards further on, clipping the hedges. He would have stopped them, and better than I did, and not been rolled so ignominiously in the dust,’ and Nell could not help smiling at the recollection.

‘Ah, and you were kicked or something!’ exclaimed Nora; ‘I saw the blood on your arm. And yet you will say it was of no consequence.’

Nell rolled up the sleeve of her print dress, exposing her white, smooth arm. There was a long graze on it, and it was beginning to get discoloured.

‘That is all,’ she said contemptuously. ‘You don’t call that anything.’

‘But indeed I do,’ said Nora; ‘and it was ever so good of you to incur it for my sake. Besides, you don’t consider the risk you ran. Because you happened to get off with a few bruises, it doesn’t follow that it was not quite as brave of you to risk getting your leg broken or your head run over. And there is no saying what you did not save me from. No, no, Miss Llewellyn, you shall not put me off that way. You must let me offer you some little remuneration for your timely help. Don’t imagine I think any money can repay you for it, but perhaps you will buy yourself some little present to remind you of this day, and how grateful I am to you.’

And Nora placed the five-pound note gently in Nell’s hand as she spoke. Nell never opened it. It might have been for fifty pounds for aught she knew, but she took it up, folded as it was, and replaced it on her companion’s lap.

‘No, thank you, Mrs Lumley,’ she said quietly. ‘You mean it kindly, I know, and I appreciate your intention, but I cannot take money from you for so slight a thing. My father would not like it; we are not in need of it, and I shall remember you and to-day quite well without it.’

Nora felt hurt and annoyed—not with Nell, but herself. She ought to have known better than to offer such a very superior sort of young woman money. It was thoughtless of her—unpardonable. She thrust the offending bank-note into her pocket, and turning, took Nell’s hand.

‘Forgive me,’ she said, just as if she had known her for years. ‘I have been a fool. I ought to have seen that you were above such paltry considerations. You don’t look like a farmer’s daughter to me. You seem as if you had been used to such much better things. Have you lived in Usk all your life?’

‘No, not all my life,’ said Nell.

‘Have you been a governess, then, or anything of that sort? You seem to have had such a very superior education,’ remarked Nora.

‘Do you think so?’ replied Nell.

She certainly seemed a very difficult sort of young woman to get on with. Nora hardly knew how to proceed. But then a sudden thought struck her (for hers was a generous nature), and hastily drawing a sapphire ring off her finger, she tried to put it on one of Nell’s. It was one that the earl had given her—that he had been accustomed to wear himself. It was what is called a gipsy ring—a broad band of gold, in which three unusually fine, dark-blue, flawless sapphires were sunk—the only ring which Ilfracombe had worn before his marriage. He had put it on Nora’s finger at Malta as soon as he was engaged to her, as proxy for one better suited to her slender hand, and she had refused to give it up again. Now it struck her that it would be just the sort of ring to present to a young woman whose hands were rather large and used to rough work. So she tried to put it on the third finger of Nell’s left hand.

‘They say it is unlucky to wear a ring on your wedding-finger till you are married,’ she said, laughing; ‘but I am sure, Miss Llewellyn, you are far too sensible a girl to mind an old superstition.’

‘But what are you doing?’ asked Nell sharply, as she drew her hand away. There, on her finger glittered the ring she knew so well—had seen so often on the hand of her lover in the olden days. She gazed at it for a moment, fascinated as a bird by the eye of a snake; and then, with a sharp cry, she dragged the jewel off again, and it rolled under the table and along the polished oak floor.

‘Oh, my poor ring,’ cried the countess, somewhat offended at this determined repulse.

‘Whose is it? Where did you get it?’ exclaimed Nell, as she rose to her feet with flashing eyes and trembling limbs.

‘Where did I get it?’ echoed Nora, with amazement. ‘Why, I bought it, of course. Where should I have got it?’

‘No, you didn’t!’ said Nell, panting. ‘It was given to you!’

‘What an extraordinary girl you are,’ replied Nora, as she stooped to recover her ring. ‘If it were given to me, you may be sure I have every right to pass it on to you if I choose. But what makes you say so?’

‘Who gave it you?’ asked Nell, without apologising for her strange behaviour.

‘My husband,’ replied Nora, without thinking.

‘Your husband? Mr Lumley? And from whom did he get it then?’ persisted the farmer’s daughter.

‘Really, I don’t see what right you have to question me after this fashion,’ said Nora. ‘I don’t know whom he got it from. The jewellers, I suppose. But pray don’t let us say another word upon the subject. It is evident that, instead of giving you pleasure, I have done just the other thing. All my stupidity, I suppose. I thought, as you would not take money, that the ring would have been more acceptable to you, but I was mistaken. Now, pray don’t be angry. Let us drop the subject altogether. Ah, here comes your mother with the tea-tray. Mrs Llewellyn, your daughter and I have been having quite a little quarrel over this affair. She won’t take money from me, and she won’t take a present, so I don’t know what to do. Perhaps you will be able to make her a little more reasonable after I have gone.’

‘Ah, ma’am, she’s very queer at times, poor lass,’ said Mrs Llewellyn, for Nell had taken the occasion of her entrance to escape to the upper storey again. ‘She’s been so pulled-down and weakened by the fever, that father and I say we hardly know her. Sometimes I think she’ll never be the same girl again as she was before she left home. But you mustn’t think nothing more about giving her a present, ma’am. What she did for you, you was most heartily welcome to, as her father would say, too, if he was here. Sir Archibald has been a good landlord to us for many years past; and if he hadn’t taken it into his head to raise the rent, we shouldn’t have anything to say against him. But pray let me give you a cup of tea, ma’am, with cream and sugar to your liking.’

And, over the discussion of Mrs Llewellyn’s excellent tea, Nell and her abrupt behaviour were spoken of no more. But Lady Ilfracombe, though she did not like to vex the earl by mentioning the subject to him, could not banish it from her mind for some time afterwards.

CHAPTER II.

Whilst Nora was walking thoughtfully back to the Hall, Nell was raging up and down the circumscribed limits of her bedroom, with her heart and brain in a tumult of suspicion and suspense. ‘The ring! the ring!’ was all she could say to herself. It was the earl’s ring, she was sure of that—she had always seen it on his finger—had so often drawn it off playfully, and placed it on her own. She recognised the very colour of the sapphires; they were so darkly blue, and yet clear as a summer sea; she remembered Lord Ilfracombe having told her the gems were flawless, and had been presented in another form by an Eastern potentate to some ancestor of his, who had been Governor-General of India. She would have sworn to them amongst a thousand! How then had this woman, this Mrs Lumley, got hold of them? Was she a friend of Ilfracombe’s, and had he given them to her? Nell thought it unlikely. The earl had never been a cavalier des dames; besides, he was married now, and his family heirlooms belonged to his wife. At that her thoughts flew to Mr Portland. He was at the bottom of the mystery perhaps. He had obtained the jewel from Lord Ilfracombe, either by an appeal to the latter’s generosity, or by his odious habit of gambling, laid a bet with the earl about it, or won it as a stake. And then he must have given it to this lady—this Mrs Lumley. What was she to him then? Was their combined presence at the Hall by accident or design? Nell thirsted to learn the truth of it. She felt it a desecration to have seen his ring on the hand of another person, and to have had it offered to herself in that careless fashion, as if it were of no intrinsic value. The ring that she had known for so long—that had been clasped in her hand by day—that she had lain with her head on by night. Poor Nell sobbed aloud in the agony of remembrance as she recalled the fact that she had no further part nor lot in it. It was something more than mere suspicion that was worrying her. We have a sixth sense, called intuition, which, as a rule, we pay too little attention to. The influences to which we have been subject, the experiences we have passed through, all leave a subtle something behind them, which is patent to the intuition of our acquaintances, as theirs is to us. We may not recognise it, but it guides, in a great measure, our feelings and ideas, our likes and dislikes. It was intuition that drew Lady Ilfracombe to Panty-cuckoo Farm, and made her conceive such an unusual interest in Nell Llewellyn. It was intuition that made Nell shrink from the friendly advances of the woman who had supplanted her in the affections of her lover, and burn to discover the reason that she was in possession of his ring. It was fate—the fate that, laugh at it or despise it as we will, still goes on silently but surely, weaving the web of all our destinies—that had drawn these actors in the tragedy of life together to one meeting-place, to fulfil the appointed end of the drama which they had written for themselves. The Countess of Ilfracombe went back to Usk Hall rather depressed than otherwise, for it is not pleasant to have an intended kindness thrown back in your face; and intuition told her that there was something more beneath the surface of Nell’s manner than she chose to let her know; and Nell Llewellyn was vexed with herself as well as the stranger, because intuition told her that Nora was not at fault, however the circumstances of her life might have become entangled with her own. She wished now that she had not been so hasty, that she had asked a few questions about the ring and where it came from. By that means she might have gained what she so longed for—news of Lord Ilfracombe—without betraying her own identity. Now that the opportunity was past, Nell blamed herself, and wished it might come over again. Was it possible that she could bring about another interview with the lady?—induce her once more to speak of her gratitude for the service rendered her—and so bring the conversation round, without direct inquiry, to her refusal of the sapphire ring. Her next thought was, how should she gain speech of Mrs Lumley without encountering Jack Portland? Nell thought it would be pretty safe to visit the Hall in the evening. The beautiful warm nights they were having then were very likely to tempt the ladies of the party to walk about the grounds after dinner, whilst she knew from experience that that was the very time the gentlemen would commence to play billiards or baccarat. If she went that way about eight o’clock that evening she might have a chance of encountering Mrs Lumley; at all events, some force, of which Nell knew not the name, drew her that way, and, as soon as their early supper was over, she threw a light shawl over her head and stole out, as she told her mother, ‘for a breath of fresh air.’ The Hall stood on an eminence crowned with wood. To the back of it was a copse of fir trees, which formed an admirable shelter from the north wind, and extended down either side for some distance. It was under cover of this plantation that Nell approached the house. It was not so thick but that she could see from it if anyone was walking in the open grounds that surrounded the Hall, and it was on this plantation, naturally, that the back premises, through which she gained access to Mrs Hody’s apartments, looked. The way to it, unless one used the drive, was through some large meadows belonging to the estate, and Nell had traversed the whole length of these and gained the back of the plantation, when she was startled by seeing the figure of a man approaching her. Her first impulse was to turn and fly, forgetting in her simplicity that it was the very mode to attract attention. She had turned her back upon the stranger, and was walking rapidly the other way, when she heard him say,—

‘Don’t let me frighten you away. You are quite welcome to walk here.’

It was the voice of Lord Ilfracombe.

She would have known it amidst the assembled multitudes of earth, and the sound of it made her forget everything but himself. She forgot that he must suppose her to be dead. She forgot that he had voluntarily given her up, that he was a married man—everything but that he was there, and she loved him. At the sound of her lover’s voice, as potent as the trump at the last day to rouse her slumbering soul, Nell turned sharply round, and cried in a tone of ecstasy,—

‘Vernie! Oh, my Vernie!’ and flew towards him.

She was the only person in the world who had ever called him by that name. Lord Ilfracombe’s father had died before he could remember, and ever since his babyhood he had been addressed, as is usual, by his title only. Even his doting mother and proud sisters had called him nothing else. To everybody, he had been Ilfracombe, and Ilfracombe alone. But when he became intimate with Nell, and took her about occasionally with him to Paris or Rome, it became necessary to use a little discretion, and he had entered their names on the travellers’ books and passports as Mr and Mrs Vernon, which was his Christian name. So she had come to call him ‘Vernie’ as a pet name, and he had let her do it, because it was just as well she should not be shouting ‘Ilfracombe’ after him wherever they went. But the circumstance had identified her with the name, and when she cried ‘Vernie! Oh, my Vernie!’ in response to his words, Lord Ilfracombe stood still—petrified, as though he had encountered a voice from heaven.

‘Who is it? What do you want?’ he answered, trembling.

But Nell left him in no doubt. She came flying to his breast, and threw her arms round him, and pressed her warm mouth on his, and displayed all the passion she had been wont to do when he returned to her after an absence from home.

‘Vernie, my darling, my own darling!’ she reiterated, gasping for breath, ‘Oh, I did not know you were here—I did not know you were here! My God, I shall die with joy!’

‘Nell!’ he uttered in an awed tone, ‘Nell, is this really you?’

‘Yes, yes, it is I. Who else should it be? Who has ever loved you as your poor Nell?’ and she embraced him anew.

‘But—’ said the earl, incredulously, ‘who was drowned then? They told me you were drowned, Nell. How has this mistake arisen, or have I been deceived by design?’

‘Oh, Vernie, I did drown myself; that is, I tried to—I wanted to—I felt I could not live, my darling, without you or your love. What was there for me to live for, Vernie, when you were gone?’

All the earl’s remorse—all the hard things he had thought of himself, and all the kind thoughts he had had of her, since he had learnt how they parted, rushed back upon his mind now, and he, too, forgot everything, except that his conscience had been relieved from an intolerable burden, and that the woman he held in his arms had loved him faithfully for many years.

He laid his mouth upon hers, and kissed her as warmly in return as ever he had done in the days gone by.

‘Thank God, it is not true!’ he exclaimed. ‘Oh, my poor Nell, I have suffered hell in thinking you had died by your own hand for my sake.’

‘I, too, have been in hell,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, Vernie, why did you leave me? I loved you so.’

‘I was a brute,’ replied the earl, ‘an ungrateful, selfish brute; but I will make you amends for it, if I die.’

What amends could he make her, except by giving her back the love he had seemed to withdraw? Nell thought of no other; she would have accepted no other. She held her heaven in her arms now—and all the troubles of life had faded away.

‘Your love, your love! I only want your love, Vernie,’ she whispered.

‘You have it, darling. You always had it,’ replied Ilfracombe, as he gazed at the lovely face upturned to his in the moonlight. ‘But how thin and pale you are, Nell. You are not like the same girl. What has happened, dear, to change you so?’

‘I have been ill, Vernie’ answered Nell. ‘I have had a bad fever, and my trouble has done the rest. I have had no peace—no hope without you. I have been unable to eat or sleep. How could I, knowing you had given me up? Oh, Vernie, why didn’t you kill me first? It would have been so much kinder.’

Lord Ilfracombe groaned.

‘God forgive me! I never saw what I had done before this night. Nell, will you ever forgive me, or forget my base ingratitude to you, who were always so good to me? How can you say you love me? A man like myself is unworthy of any woman’s love. You ought by rights to loathe and execrate my very name.’

‘But I don’t—I don’t. I love you still with all my heart and soul. Oh, Vernie, I was so wretched, so miserable, when I came out to walk to-night, and now I’m as happy as the day is long. You love me still. That is all I want to know.’

‘But that won’t rectify the great wrong I have done you, Nell. That won’t replace you in the position my selfishness hurled you from. You forget—perhaps you don’t know—that I am—married.’

Nell drew herself a little away from him.

‘Oh, yes, I know it,’ she said in a low voice; ‘but if you love me, Vernie, I have the best part of you still.’

Lord Ilfracombe did not know what to answer. The great emotion—the surprise, almost the shock of finding that Nell still lived, was over now in a great measure, and he had time to remember his wife and how much he loved her (as he had never, even in the flush of his first passion, loved the poor girl before him), and what she would think if she could see and hear him now. The disloyalty of which he was guilty struck him like a cold chill. Was he fated never to be true to any one woman? He relaxed the tight hold he had maintained on Nell, and putting her a little away from him, said gently,—

‘I do love you, my dear; I shall always love you and remember the time we spent together; but my marriage, you see, will prevent my showing it as I used to do.’

‘Oh, yes, of course.’

‘Lady Ilfracombe is very good to me, and deserves all the respect and esteem that I can show her’ (he dared not speak of his love for Nora to the poor wreck who stood so patiently hanging on his words), ‘and when she heard that you were drowned, Nell, she was almost as sorry as myself—’

‘Never mind that,’ interposed Nell, ‘I don’t want to hear about it.’

‘But, of course, the past must be past now. It cannot come over again. But you must let me provide for your future, Nell. I will not have—it is impossible that you, who have been so near to me, should either work for your living or live without the comforts to which you have been accustomed. It was very naughty of you to refuse the settlement I wished to make upon you—more, it was unkind to me, and when I heard what you had said and done, I was very unhappy.’

‘It was no use, Vernie. I could not take it,’ said Nell.

‘But you will accept it now, darling, won’t you? if only to prove you have forgiven me all the wrong I have done you, and to make me happy too—to wipe out the bitter remorse I have felt—eh, Nell?’

She shook her head.

‘I couldn’t. Don’t ask me. Vernie, my people know nothing of all this—of what you and I were to one another. They think I was just in service in your house, and nothing more. You wouldn’t shame me before them, would you? How could I account for your giving me an allowance? They would guess the truth at once. Besides, I don’t want it. I have everything that I can desire, except your love. And now I have seen you, and know you love me still, I am quite happy, and want nothing more. Oh, God bless you for your kindness to me. Say you love me best of all the world, and the other woman may have your title and your money.’

He could not say what she asked him to do, but he bent down his head again and murmured in her ear,—

‘I have told you so, a dozen times. Do you suppose that a few months can make such a difference to a man as that? I could wish things had been otherwise for us, my poor Nell. I wish I had had the courage to marry you years ago. I should have been a happier man than I am ever likely to be now, with the remembrance of your disappointment haunting me like an evil spirit.’

‘No, no, it must not haunt you. It is gone,’ she exclaimed with womanly unselfishness. ‘I shall never fret again now I have seen you once more and heard you speak. Kiss me, my Vernie—again—again! Ah, that is sweet. How many, many weary months it is—more than a year—since I have felt your dear lips on my own. It is like a draught of new wine. It has made a strong woman of me.’

‘And where are you going now, Nell?’ he asked, as she disengaged herself from his clasp.

‘To my home—back to Panty-cuckoo Farm,’ she replied.

‘Ah, it is you, then, who live at Panty-cuckoo Farm? Did you not stop Lady Bowmant’s cobs as they were running away this morning.’

‘What! they have told you too. What an absurd fuss they make of nothing. The lady, Mrs Lumley, was at the farm this afternoon, worrying me about it.’

‘Mrs Lumley!’ he ejaculated, for though Nora had not informed him of her visit, he knew the real Mrs Lumley had not been there. ‘What was she like?’

‘A slight, willowy-looking young woman, with quick, brown eyes and pointed features. She was very kind, but she teased me so about taking a reward for doing nothing at all. Why, I didn’t even stop them. They stopped of themselves. All I did was to get myself rolled over in the dust. By the way,’ continued Nell, as a sudden thought struck her, ‘are you very intimate with Mrs Lumley, Vernie?’

‘By no means. Why do you ask?’

‘Because when I told her I couldn’t accept money at her hands, she took a ring off her finger and tried to put it on mine. And it was your ring—the gipsy ring set with sapphires—I recognised it directly, and I thought I should have gone mad with puzzling my brain where she got it and if you had given it to her. Did you?’

‘Given my sapphire ring to Mrs Lumley? Most certainly not,’ replied the earl, who guessed at once that his sharp-witted little wife, in order to obey his injunction not to disclose her real name, had borrowed the other woman’s. ‘By Jove, that was cool of her. I remember now she was fooling with my ring last night and put it on her own finger for a piece of fun. But to offer it to you. Well, I wish you had taken it. She would have looked very foolish when I asked where it was gone, wouldn’t she?’

‘Oh, Vernie, I couldn’t have touched it. It would have burned me. The dear ring I had so often played with myself. I have been crying all the afternoon for thinking of it.’

‘Silly girl. I must get you one as like it as I can. But now I am afraid I must return to the house, or some of the fellows may come out to look after me.’

‘Ah!’ said Nell, with a shudder. ‘You have that horrid Mr Portland there. Vernie, you will not tell him you have met me, will you?’

‘Certainly not. It is the last thing I should do. But I cannot understand why all you women should seem to take a dislike to dear old Jack. He is the best fellow I know.’

‘Vernie, he was never your friend,’ said Nell earnestly. ‘You wouldn’t believe it in the old days. Try to believe it now.’

‘No, Nell I cannot, not till I have some better proofs than another’s word. Lady Ilfracombe is always dinning the same thing into my ears, but without effect. Jack has been always true to me so far as I know, and I speak of a man as I find him.’

‘Vernie,’ said Nell, after a pause, ‘is she fond of you?’

He knew she alluded to his wife, and answered,—

‘I think so. I hope so. If people have to pass their lives together, it is best they should be good friends, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ replied the girl, as she slowly moved away.

He was just going to call out ‘good-night’ to her, when she came back rapidly.

‘Oh, Vernie, she doesn’t love you as I did. Tell me that she doesn’t.’

‘No, dear, no,’ he answered gravely. ‘I don’t think she does.’

‘And you don’t love her as you did me?’ she persisted, and again Lord Ilfracombe was able to answer with truth, ‘No.’

She threw her arms passionately round him and inquired,—

‘When shall we meet again? Where can I see you, Vernie? The minutes will seem like hours till then.’

‘Nellie,’ he said seriously, ‘you know it is impossible that we can meet like this in any safety. I am overjoyed—more overjoyed than I can tell you—to find you are living, whom I have mourned as dead; but I am here only for a few days, and my time is not my own. Were I to say that I would meet you here to-morrow evening, I might be prevented, and you would think me unkind. But you will know that I am thinking of you all the same, and if we meet it will be an unexpected pleasure for us both, eh?’

He spoke kindly, but Nell, with the unerring instinct which love gives to women, read between the lines, and saw, that whatever he might say, Lord Ilfracombe would rather not meet her again in Usk.

‘Yes, you are right,’ she answered slowly. ‘But, oh, it is so hard to see you once, and, perhaps, not again for ages—like a drop of water to a man who is dying of thirst. Oh, Vernie, I must go. This has been heaven to me, but so much too short. Good-bye. God bless you. I will pray every moment that we may meet again.’

She heaved a deep sigh as she pronounced her farewell, and flitted down the grassy slope in the gloaming on her way to the farm again. And someone saw her—Hugh Owen, who had been lingering about the road in hopes of catching a glimpse of Nell, had watched more than half her interview with Lord Ilfracombe. He could not distinguish their words; he was too far off; but he had seen the two figures engaged in earnest conversation—he had seen them approach each other, and guessed the close embrace that followed—and he had seen their parting, and that Lord Ilfracombe watched the tall, graceful shape of his companion till she was out of sight; until, in fact, Nell had entered Panty-cuckoo Farm, and left the young minister in no doubt of her identity.

And what were Ilfracombe’s feelings as he strolled back to Usk Hall? Not entirely pleasurable ones, we may be sure. He could not but be thankful that his worst fears for Nell Llewellyn were allayed, that his conscience was no longer burdened with the thought that his desertion had been the means of her death—but as he became used to this relief, the old sensations regarding her returned, and he could not help acknowledging to himself that her love wearied him—that Nora’s sharpness of temper and standoffishness were as sauce piquante after Nell’s adoration—and that, though he rejoiced to see her alive, he was very sorry they should have met in such close proximity to the house which held his wife. He had had one or two doubts lately as to whether another week of Usk Hall would not suit him very well—now he had none. The sooner they were out of it, the better, and he should speak to Nora to-night about joining his mother’s party at Wiesbaden. She and Nell must not meet again. He should not reveal the identity of the latter to Lady Ilfracombe, but all intercourse must be stopped between them. He was sorry for poor Nell—very, very sorry; but, hang it all, Nora was his wife, and the prospective mother of his children, and at all hazards he would keep her for the future out of the other woman’s way.

This is the difference men make between their mistresses and their wives. The one may be the infinitely better woman of the two, but the law does not overshadow her, so she must stand like Hagar apart in the wilderness which she has created for herself.

CHAPTER III.

When Lord Ilfracombe walked into the lighted drawing-room of Usk Hall he looked so pale and thoughtful that the ladies began to rally him at once on his supposed melancholy. Dear me, what could it be? Who could he have met during his evening ramble to make him look so grave? Had she failed to keep her appointment, or had she been unkind? The whole list of little pleasantries with which the fair sex assail men on such occasions, with the idea of being arch and witty, was recounted for his lordship’s benefit; but he looked very disinclined to supply food for their banter. His worry was so pre-evident that his wife asked him if he had a headache.

‘A little; nothing to speak of,’ he answered quietly.

‘Come along, old man, and have a game at pool,’ said Jack Portland, in his turn; ‘that will soon chase the vapours away. I expect it’s Sir Archibald’s port that’s done the job. It’s the most alluring wine I’ve tasted for many a day.’

‘No, no. I won’t allow it. Nothing of the kind,’ cried the jolly baronet; ‘there isn’t a headache in a dozen of it. Lord Ilfracombe hasn’t had enough of it. That’s what’s the matter with him.’

‘I think the sun may have touched me,’ said Ilfracombe feebly; ‘it has been very hot to-day.’

‘The sun; nonsense!’ exclaimed Mr Portland. ‘I never heard you give that excuse before, though we’ve been in several hot countries together. Come along to the billiard-room. You shouldn’t go wandering away by yourself in this fashion, and thinking over your sins. It’s enough to give any man the blues. I couldn’t stand it myself. You’ll forget it before the first game’s over.’

‘No, thanks, Jack, not to-night. I don’t feel fit to compete with your excellent play. I’ll sit here instead and listen to Nora’s singing.’

And he threw himself on a sofa by his wife’s side as he spoke.

‘Ulysses at the feet of Penelope!’ sneered Mr Portland. ‘Well, Ilfracombe, long as I’ve known you, I never saw you turned into a carpet knight before.’

‘Only for this evening,’ said the earl lazily, as he settled himself comfortably on the sofa.

Jack Portland appeared quite aggrieved by his defalcation.

‘Well, come along Sir Archibald and Lumley and the rest of you fellows. Don’t let us waste our time looking at his lordship doing the lardi-dardi. He owes me my revenge for the “fiver” he made me disgorge last night; but I suppose it’s no use trying to get it out of him now.’ And, with a rude laugh, he left the room.

Ilfracombe lent back against the shoulder of his wife, and said,—

‘Sing something, darling, won’t you? Something low and sweet, like “Come to me.” My head is really painful, and I want soothing to-night.’

‘I will sing anything you like,’ replied Nora, as she rose and went to the piano.

Her voice was not powerful, but she had received a first-rate musical education in Malta, and was an accomplished drawing-room singer. She ran through about half a dozen songs, one after the other, accompanying herself with a delicacy of touch and artistic expression which was more than half the battle. Ilfracombe listened to her with a dreamy pleasure, but all the time he was cogitating which would be the best plea on which to induce Nora to leave Usk Hall. He was determined not to run the risk of her meeting Nell Llewellyn again; but she was rather a wilful little lady, and wanted to know the why and the wherefore of everything. She had asked him not to go to Wales, and he had insisted on doing so—she had begged they should not exceed the week for which they had accepted the invitation, and he had told her but the day before that he wished to remain as long as Jack did. Now, he had to invent some excuse for leaving directly—what should it be? He was not a bright man; had he been so he would have known by this time that with Nora honesty was decidedly the best policy, because she was not easily deceived; and had he told her the truth, she would have been the first to wish to go. But he had a poor idea of women. He fancied that if his wife heard of the proximity of his former mistress there would be a ‘row’—that Nora would not be able to resist flaunting her triumph in the other woman’s face, nor Nell of telling his wife how far he had forgotten his duty to her in the pleasure and relief of finding that she (Nell) lived. Ilfracombe was a chivalrous gentleman; but it was not in his nature to love as either of these two women (whom he so much distrusted) loved him. But he managed to lay down a plan of action, as he lounged on the sofa listening to his wife’s singing, and as soon as they were alone he opened fire.

‘Nora,’ he said abruptly, ‘I’ve made up my mind to leave the Hall. How soon can you be ready?’

As he had anticipated, Lady Ilfracombe required to know the reasons which had induced him to alter his plans.

‘Do you mean to go at once?’ she questioned. ‘Why, it was only yesterday that you promised Lady Bowmant to stay until Mr Portland left. Has he altered his plans also, or do you intend to leave without him?’

‘What difference can that make to you?’ he said fretfully. ‘I have always thought that you rather disliked Jack than otherwise.’

‘My likes or dislikes have nothing to do with the matter, Ilfracombe, or we should not be here at all,’ she answered. ‘All I want to know is, why we are going so suddenly, and what I am to say to our hostess.’

‘Say, why, anything. Surely you are clever enough to invent an excuse without my assistance? Pretend to have received a letter from my mother, who desires us to join her without delay, or get a relation to die for the express purpose. Nothing can be easier to a clever girl like you.’

‘Oh, I can tell as many lies as you wish, Ilfracombe; and as for going I shall only be too delighted to get away. Only it is not treating me fairly to keep me so completely in the dark. Something must have happened to make you so anxious to be off. Now, do tell me,’ she continued, as she seated herself upon his knee, ‘you know I’m as safe as a church. Have you a row on with Portland or any of the others? Or are Lady Bowmant’s attentions becoming altogether too warm? I gave her free leave to make love to you, so you mustn’t judge her too hardly.’

‘No, my dear, don’t be ridiculous; it’s nothing of that sort. But—well, to make a clean breast of it, Nora, the play is awfully hot here; enough to break the Bank of England, and I think it’s gone on quite long enough. Why, I should be almost afraid to tell you how much money I have lost since coming here. We have an ample fortune; but, as you have often told me, no fortune will bear such a continual strain on it for long. And it’s impossible to refuse playing with one’s host. So I have decided that the sooner we are out of it the better.’

‘You are right,’ said his wife, thoughtfully. ‘I was afraid of this all along. It sounds dreadfully vulgar, I know, but Usk Hall is in reality no better than a private hell. But what will your fidus Achates, Mr Portland, say to our going so suddenly?’

‘Let him say what he likes,’ replied the earl quickly. ‘I can’t be always answerable to him for my actions. We’ll go straight from here to Wiesbaden and join my mother. No one can reasonably find fault with that.’

‘No one has a right to find fault with anything you may do,’ said Nora, though her curiosity was aroused by hearing her husband speak so curtly of the opinion of his closest friend; ‘and I’m with you, Ilfracombe, for one. When do you think we can start? The day after to-morrow? That will be Thursday.’

‘Couldn’t we manage it to-morrow morning?’ asked the earl anxiously. ‘You received some letters by this afternoon’s post. Say you didn’t open them till bedtime, and then found one from my mother, begging us to join her at once as she is ill. Make Denham pack your trunks to-night, and send word of your intentions to Lady Bowmant the first thing in the morning. Can’t you manage it?’

‘Oh, Ilfracombe, what an arch deceiver and plotter you would make,’ cried the countess, laughing; ‘but, really and truly, I don’t think we can be off quite so soon as that. I’m not sure we should get a train to London to suit us. Besides, unless the dowager were dying, such extreme haste would look very suspicious.’

‘Well, let her die then. You know what I mean. Say the old lady is in extremis, and we can easily revive her as soon as we get over to Wiesbaden.’

‘But what is the necessity for such extraordinary haste?’ demanded Nora. ‘It cannot only be because you have lost money over this visit. Surely the delay of a day or two cannot make much difference in comparison with running the risk of offending people who have honestly wished to give us pleasure? You know what my opinion has been all along, Ilfracombe, that Mr Portland leads you into a great deal of folly, and I shall be but too thankful if this is the end of it; still we owe something to the hospitality of the Bowmants; and now we are here, I cannot see what harm a day or two more can do us.’

The earl saw that he was worsted in the argument, so he contented himself with begging his wife to make arrangements to leave Usk as soon as she could, determining inwardly not to lose sight of her if possible till she had done so. The announcement next morning of their intended departure gave general dissatisfaction. The Bowmants declared they had not seen half the beauties of the surrounding country, and that they had just made arrangements for a picnic party, and a dance, and a lot of other gaieties. Nora expressed her sorrow at the necessity of cutting their visit short; but the earl said little, and gave one the impression that the sudden determination had not originated with himself. Jack Portland, for one, took it so, and seized the first opportunity he could to speak to Nora on the subject.

‘Well, my lady,’ he commenced, ‘and so this is your doing, is it?—your little plan for dragging Ilfracombe from the jaws of the sharks.’

‘I don’t understand you,’ said Lady Ilfracombe.

‘Oh, yes, you do. This sudden idea of leaving the Hall emanated from your fertile brain alone. Ilfracombe had no idea of it yesterday. He told me he was enjoying himself up to date, and should remain here as long as I did. But you got hold of him last night and forced the poor fellow to follow your lead. I see through it all as plain as a pikestaff.’

‘Then you are utterly mistaken, Mr Portland. I had nothing to do with it. My husband told me yesterday that he wished to go, and it was with some difficulty that I persuaded him not to leave this morning. But that would have seemed so rude to the Bowmants.’

‘But what is at the bottom of it?’

‘You heard me tell Lady Bowmant that we have received a letter from Wiesbaden, to say that—’

‘Oh, stop that rot, do!’ exclaimed Mr Portland elegantly. ‘We can put all that in our eyes and see none the worse for it. It’s the real reason I want to know.’

‘I have no other to give you.’

‘Now, look here, Nora,’ said Jack Portland, turning round short to confront her, ‘I told you very plainly, when we talked business over at Thistlemere, that I would not brook your interference between Ilfracombe and myself. You have not taken my caution, and must be prepared for the consequences. I daresay you have not forgotten them.’

‘Of course not,’ replied Nora coolly, though her heart beat rapidly with apprehension; ‘but in this instance you blame me unfairly. I give you my word of honour—I swear before heaven, if that will please you better—that I have had nothing to do with this change in our plans; indeed, I argued against it. It was entirely my husband’s proposition, and if you want any other reason but the one I have given you, you must seek it from himself.’

‘Very well, we will drop that branch of the argument. But if you did not originate it, you must prevent it. If you choose to do it, it is in your power, and if you do not choose to do it—well.’

He finished off with a shrug of his broad shoulders, the interpretation of which she knew to be, ‘take the consequences.’

‘You mean that you will produce those letters?’ she said quickly.

‘I do.’

‘And if I consent to use my influence to induce Ilfracombe to remain here, what is to be my reward?’

Mr Portland did not immediately answer, and his silence roused her fears. Nora had often questioned herself which would be the best means by which to regain possession of her letters. She had tried force and argument and entreaty, and all three had failed. This cruel wretch kept her under his thumb by the mere retention of that little packet. She was a woman of courage and determination, and by hook or by crook she meant to have it. Had she lived in a more barbarous time, she would have slunk after him as he went to his nightly rest, and stabbed him, without any compunction, in the back, and been pleased to watch his death struggles, and to hiss into his ear at the last that she was revenged. But, however much we may occasionally long to take the law into our own hands, the nineteenth century holds certain obstacles against it. Nora was a woman, also, of finesse and intrigue. She had several times argued whether, in lieu of other ways, she could bring herself to profess a lurking affection for Jack Portland that should bring him once more to her feet, as in the olden days, and make him give for a fancied love what force had no power to wrest from him. This idea flashed into her mind again as she waited for his reply, and felt she would sacrifice everything except her honour to bend him to her will.

‘What is to be my reward?’ she repeated, ‘if I do as you ask? Will you give me the packet?’

Unwittingly he played into her hands.

‘What is to be my reward if I do?’ he asked.

In a moment Nora had made up her mind. If the great stake at issue, a stake the winning of which meant to secure the happiness of her whole life, was to be won by finesse, she would put forth all the finesse in her power to gain it, never mind what the consequences might be. So she looked at him coquettishly and said, like the arch actress he had once called her,—

‘What reward do you want, Jack, besides the condition you have already named?’

‘Come, that’s better,’ said Mr Portland. ‘I haven’t seen a smile like that on your ladyship’s face for many a day. What I want is, a little more affectionate interest from you, Nora, a little more cordiality to your husband’s best friend, a little more familiarity with him before other people, that they may see he is enfant gaté du maison! I am sure you understand me. Also, that you can comply with my wishes if you chose. Be more like what you were in Malta, and I shall feel my reward is equal to my sacrifice.’

‘And the sacrifice, Jack?’ she continued, ‘that is to be delivering up the letters you hold of mine.’

‘Certainly, if you care to have them. Now, Nora, I will make a bargain with you,—you shall have your letters as soon as ever you consent to fetch them with your own fair hands.’

‘To fetch them?’ she echoed wonderingly.

‘To fetch them. Did I not speak plainly? They are over at Panty-cuckoo Farm with my other things. If you will come to my room this evening, I will engage to deliver your letters to you myself.’

He thought she would have repudiated the proposal as a fresh insult, but, to his surprise, she answered firmly,—

‘I will come, if these are your only conditions, Jack, I agree to them. It is a risqué thing to do, but I will do it. I trust to your honour too implicitly to be afraid of your permitting any scandal to accrue from the act. And if you fulfil your promise, Ilfracombe shall stay on at Usk Hall as long as you do. Is the bargain sealed?’

‘It is,’ replied Mr Portland, with the utmost surprise.

He had not entertained the faintest idea that Nora would agree to visit him at Panty-cuckoo Farm. Was it possible she still retained an inkling of affection for him, and had her constrained manner since her marriage been a blind for her real feelings? Men are so conceited where the beau sexe is concerned, that Jack Portland, bloated and disfigured as he was by excess and dissipation, was yet quite ready to believe that the Countess of Ilfracombe had been unable to resist the feelings raised in her breast by meeting him again. He had made the proposal that she should fetch her letters herself, because he thought she would guess from that, that he had no intention of giving them up to her; but when she consented to do so, he determined to make her secret visit to him one more terror by which to force her to influence her husband as he should direct. Now, he hardly knew what he should do. She was coming, that was the extraordinary part of it. Without any pressing or entreaty, the Countess of Ilfracombe was actually coming over to his room at night, to secure her packet of letters. Well, it was the very ‘rummiest go’ he had ever heard of in his life before.

‘You must be very careful that you are not seen to leave the Hall,’ he said to her.

Now that she had agreed to come, he began to wish he had never said anything about it. What if his dear friend Ilfracombe got wind of the matter? Would not that render his wife’s efforts on Mr Portland’s behalf futile ever afterwards? The earl was very suave and easily led; but Jack Portland knew him too well to suppose he would ever forgive an offence against his honour. If Nora’s good name were compromised by his nearest and dearest friend, that friend would have to go, if the parting broke his heart. Added to which Mr Portland had no idea of getting into even an imaginary scrape for Lady Ilfracombe; he did not like her well enough. He regarded her only as a convenient tool in his hands which he had no intention of letting go.

‘Perhaps, after all,’ he said cautiously, ‘you had better not risk it. It would be a risk, you know, and it would be awkward to have to give Ilfracombe an explanation of the affair, wouldn’t it?’

‘I shall be careful to run no risk,’ was her reply.

‘But suppose some of the farm people should see you, what excuse could you make for being there?’

‘I should make no excuse at all. I have as much right as other people, I suppose, to take a moonlight ramble. What time shall I meet you? It must not be too late, as I must go upstairs when the other ladies do.’

‘That is not very early, as a rule,’ said her companion; ‘let us say midnight. Ilfracombe will be safe in the card or billiard-room at that time, and not likely to notice what you are about.’

‘And how will you manage to leave the party without observation?’

‘Oh, I shall trust to chance; but you may be sure I shall be there. And—and—if you fail me, Nora, why, I shall understand that you value your reputation more than you do—me, or your husband’s good opinion, because in that case—’

‘I understand. You need not recapitulate. But I shall not fail you. It will seem quite like old times having an assignation with you, Jack. Do you remember the night I met you down by the landing-place at Valetta, and that horrid man Pietro followed me all the way, and only showed his ugly face just as I had reached your side? I always believed that it was Pietro who betrayed us to papa, for he was sometimes very impertinent in his manner to me afterwards. Oh, and have you forgotten the time when you took me out in a boat and we got caught in a squall, and had to put in to shore, and remained nearly the whole day away in a little estaminet? What a fearful row papa made about it, and I had to pretend I had been alone, though I don’t think he believed me. Papa certainly did hate you, Jack, though I never could understand why. I suppose it was all the money, or, rather, the lack of it.’

And here Nora heaved a most deceitful sigh.

‘Do you ever regret that there was any obstacle between us?’ asked Mr Portland persuasively. ‘Do you think you could have been happy as Mrs Jack Portland, if Ilfracombe had not come between us?’

‘Why, of course, I told you at the time I should,’ said Nora.

‘Ah, well, perhaps things are better as they are,’ replied her companion; ‘for I don’t think you were ever cut out for a poor man’s wife; you are too pretty and dainty and refined, my lady, for that. And if you had been miserable, I should have been so also. And so you really like me well enough still to meet me at the farm this evening, and fetch your dear little letters. I shall be so glad to have you for a few moments to myself. It will seem quite like the dear old times. Here, I can never say half a dozen words to you without as many old cats prying into our faces. Well, au revoir, my dear, be punctual, as our time will be limited—twelve o’clock to-night. I had better not stand talking to you any longer now.’

‘I will be there,’ answered the countess mechanically, as she turned round and walked another way.

CHAPTER IV.

Hugh Owen was in a burning rage. From the high road he had witnessed Nell’s meeting with the Earl of Ilfracombe, and he put the worst construction upon what he saw. Because this young man was a minister, it must not be supposed that he was naturally amiable and good. On the contrary, he possessed a very high temper, and at times an ungovernable one, and it was raging now. He had perceived a marked difference in Nell lately. She was not the same girl who had confessed her grievous fault to him in Panty-cuckoo Farm, nor promised so sweetly to follow his fortunes to South Africa in the Long Meadow subsequently. For a little while after the latter event, she had been very subdued and gentle with him, as though she were contemplating the serious step to which she had conditionally pledged herself; but since the folks had returned to Usk Hall, she had declined either to walk with him or talk with him. Her old feverish, excitable manner had seemed to return, though Hugh had not liked to connect it with the fact of the Hall being occupied until the fatal moment when he was passing by Sir Archibald’s field and witnessed Nell and the earl in close conversation. Who could she be talking with? What could she have to say to him? Why were their faces so close together? These were the questions that haunted poor Hugh for hours afterwards, and to which he could find no satisfactory solution. He could not trust himself to confront Nell as she went back to the farm—he was afraid of what he might say to her—so he resolved to sleep over it, if the restless, miserable, disturbed slumbers which followed his discovery could be called sleep. But on the next day he felt he must know the reason of what he had seen. The remembrance of it came between him and his duties. He would not be able to preach and pray with an earnest and single heart until it had been relieved of the awful doubt that assailed it. So, the day after, he set forth for the farm, and found Nell, for a wonder, alone and free to receive him. The fact is, she did not dare go out, as she had been used to do lately, for fear of encountering Lord Ilfracombe in the company of his wife or friends. She felt as if she could not bear the sight—as if she should proclaim her right to him before all the world. And that would make him angry—he, who loved her still above all other things; for so had she interpreted his words of the night before. She had been in a state of beatification ever since, and her mother knew no more what to make of her present mood than she had done of her previous one. It would be difficult to say what Nell expected or believed would come of the interview which had made her so happy. Apparently she had given herself no time to think. She knew perfectly well that her intimacy with Ilfracombe was over and done with, and that thenceforward she could have no part nor lot in him or his affairs. She knew she should never enter his house again, nor associate with his acquaintances, nor enjoy any of his good things. Yet she felt supremely happy. To understand her feelings, one must not only be a woman—one must be a woman who has loved and lost, and found that whatever the loss, the love remained as it was. Women have greater faith than men, as a rule, in the unseen and the compensation of an after life. They think more of the heart than of the body of the creature they love, and give them the hope of a reunion in another world—of retaining the eternal affections of the man they care for; and they will try and content themselves with the thought of the future. Far better that, they say, than his companionship on earth, whilst his heart is the property of some other woman. The earl had managed to deceive Nell so well without intending to deceive her, that she was already disposed to pity Lady Ilfracombe, who could only lay claim to his worldly goods. As she had told him, ‘Say you love me best of all the world, and the other woman can have your title and your money.’ She had sat indoors all day dreaming over the unexpected happiness that had come to her—recalling in fancy every word he had uttered, every look he had given, every kiss he had pressed upon her happy mouth. The wretched interval that lay between them had vanished like a dream. She had forgotten the abject misery with which she had received the news of his marriage, the despairing attempt at suicide that followed it, her return home, and the apathetic existence she had led since—all had disappeared under the magic touch of love. She was no longer Nell o’ Panty-cuckoo Farm, as the neighbourhood called her; she was Lord Ilfracombe’s housekeeper, the woman he had chosen to be the mistress of his home. She was his love, his lady, his daily companion. She looked with a kind of pathetic curiosity at the print dress she wore, at the simple arrangement of her chesnut hair, at her ringless fingers and wrists unadorned by bangles. They had all gone—the silks and satins, the golden combs and hairpins, the jewels and laces; but he remained, the pride and jewel of her life. ‘Vernie’ loved her.

It was so wonderful, so delightful, so unexpected, that her head swam when she thought of it. She was just considering whether she might not venture to stroll up the long fields again that evening—whether ‘Vernie’ might not come out as he had done the evening before in hopes of meeting her, when Hugh Owen raised the latch of the farmhouse door and walked unceremoniously in. His entrance annoyed Nell. It disturbed her beautiful reverie, put to flight all her golden dreams, and made her fear lest his visit might be prolonged so as to interfere with her plans. The welcome he received, therefore, was not, to say the least of it, cordial.

‘Neither father nor mother are at home, Hugh,’ she said, as she caught sight of him, ‘and I’m just going out. You’ve come at an unlucky moment.’

‘So I always seem to come now,’ he answered; ‘but I have a word or two to you, Nell, that can’t be put off; so I must ask you to listen to me for a few minutes first.’

‘They must be very few, then, for I’ve got work of my own to do,’ she replied.

‘It’s the work you do that I’ve come to speak to you about,’ said the young man, ‘and I claim the right to do so. I was sauntering up and down the road last night, Nell, in the hope of catching sight of you, when I saw you cross the meadow over there and meet a man and talk to him for better than half an hour. Who was he?’

Nell flared up in her impetuous manner at once.

‘And what business is that of yours?’ she exclaimed.

‘Why, every business in the world! Whose should it be but mine? Haven’t you promised to be my wife?’

‘No!’ cried the girl boldly.

‘No? What! not in the Long Meadow behind father’s house?’ he returned in astonishment.

‘I said if my people ever emigrated—which they never will do—that I would go with them as your wife; but that was only a conditional promise, and I’ve altered my mind since then. I shall never be anybody’s wife now.’

‘If I saw rightly last night, Nell, perhaps it will be as well. Who was the gentleman you met and talked with for so long? What is he to you? Where have you met him before? What had you to say to him?’

‘Which of your questions will you have answered first?’ asked Nell. ‘And what is it to you who I choose to talk to? Are you my master, or am I a child to be catechised after this fashion? I shall see and speak to whom I like, and I refuse to say anything more about it.’

‘Nell,’ said Hugh in a sorrowful voice, ‘when you told me your history I was truly sorry for you. I thought what a terrible thing it was that such a respectable girl should lower herself to the level of the lowest of her sex; but I believed it was a misfortune—a step into which you had been led with your eyes shut—and that you regarded it with horror and loathing. I must have thought so, you know, or I should never have proposed to make you my wife.’

‘Well, and what is all this tirade leading to?’ said Nell.

She felt sorry for Hugh, but not a bit ashamed of herself, and the impossibility of explaining the matter to him made her irritable and pert.

‘To a very sorrowful conclusion, Nell. I have seen, ever since this party of gentlemen and ladies came to the Hall, that you are altered. You have become restless and uneasy; you have refused to walk out with me any more; and you have avoided my company. I can only put two and two together, and draw my conclusions from that. I have often heard it said that if once a woman is led astray to lead what people call a “gay life,” she is never contented with a quiet, domestic existence again, but I was loath to believe it of you, who seemed so truly sorry for the past and all the shame and disgrace it had brought you. But what am I to think now? I see you with my own eyes meet a man who looked to me in the gloaming like a gentleman, and talk familiarly with him, and yet you won’t tell me his name, nor what your business was with him.’

‘No, I won’t,’ she replied determinedly, ‘because it is no concern of yours.’

‘But I say it is my concern, and the concern of everybody that has an interest in you, Nell. Where there is deceit there must be wrong. Do your father and mother know this gentleman, and of your meeting him? Did you tell them?’

‘I did not, and I shall not. It is my private affair, and I shall keep it entirely to myself.’

The young man rose indignantly.

‘Then I’ll tell you now what I didn’t like to mention before, and that is that I saw him kiss you. I am sure of it from the closeness with which he held you. Oh, for shame, Nell, for shame!’

‘And what if he did?’ cried Nell, with crimson cheeks; ‘that also is my business and not yours.’

‘Your business, yes, and you may keep it so!’ exclaimed Hugh Owen hotly, as his eyes blazed with anger. ‘I see you now, Nell Llewellyn, in your true colours, and would to God I had known you from the first. Your penitence was all assumed, put on to catch an unwary fool like myself, because there was no one better within reach. Your sorrow, too, for the loss of your lover was another sham, easily consoled by the kisses of a stranger. You are not a true woman, Nell. You are unfit for the love or consideration of any honest man. You are an outcast and a wanton, and I will never willingly speak to you again.’

‘I will take good care you don’t,’ cried Nell in her turn. ‘I have more powerful friends than you think of—friends who will not see me insulted by a common farmer’s son. I know I promised conditionally to be your wife, but I did it for your sake, not my own. I should have hated the life—the very thought is distasteful to me. So never think of me in that light or any light again. I break off with you from this moment. The man I met last night is worth ten thousand of you. I value his little finger more than your whole body. I would rather beg my bread with a gentleman than sit on a throne with a clod like you. Now you have the whole truth. Make what you like of it.’

‘Oh, stop, stop. In mercy to yourself, stop,’ cried the young man, as with both hands clapped to his ears he ran out of the house.

Nell felt rather subdued when left to herself. She was not quite sure how far she had betrayed her secret, or if she had said anything in her wrath to lead to Lord Ilfracombe’s identity. But on revision she thought not. Hugh did not know the name of her former lover—he had not heard those of the guests at the Hall. There was no chance of his gaining a knowledge of the truth. And, as for the rest, it was just as well he had seen for himself that they could never be more to each other than they were at present. And then she resolved into another of the pleasing day-dreams from which his entrance had disturbed her. Her father and mother came bustling in after a little while full of complaints and anxiety. One of their best cows had shown symptoms of dangerous illness, and every remedy that the farm could boast of was set in motion at once.

‘Come, my lass,’ cried Mrs Llewellyn, as she entered the parlour, ‘you must bestir yourself and help me. Father and I are in sad trouble. Bonnie is as bad as she can be, and if we can’t stop the symptoms she’ll be dead before the morning. Ay, but misfortunes never seem to come single, what with the raising of the rent and other troubles. I’ve set Betty to put on all the hot water she can, and we must choose the oldest blankets we have for fomentations. Bring the lamp with you, Nell, I want to find the proper medicines in father’s chest.’

The girl snatched up the light, and followed her mother to where Mr Llewellyn kept a chest full of veterinary drugs.

‘That ain’t it, and that ain’t it,’ the old woman kept on saying as she pulled bottle after bottle to the light. ‘Ah, I think this is the stuff that cured Daisy last year.

She pulled out the cork with her teeth, and tasted a little of the brown, nauseous-looking mixture, but spat it out immediately on the floor. ‘God save us, that’s the lotion for the sheep’s backs, deadly poison. Don’t you ever touch that, my girl. It’ll take the skin off your tongue in no time.’

‘Am I likely?’ remonstrated Nell seriously; ‘but suppose you had given it to the poor cow by mistake? Why don’t you label it plainly “Poison,” mother, and then there would be no fear of an accident?’

‘Ay, my lass, that’s a good thought. Don’t put it back, Nell, but carry it to your bedroom and put it a-top of the wardrobe. It will be safe enough there, and when we’re a bit less busy you shall write a label for it. It’s arsenic, I believe. I know last year father gave a drop or two by mistake to one of the cats that was bad in its inside, and the poor beast was dead in a few minutes. This is the cows’ mixture,’ said Mrs Llewellyn, pulling out a second bottle from the recesses of the old trunk. ‘Not dissimilar looking, are they? but, Lor’, what a difference in their effects. This is some of the finest stuff we ever had, made from a receipt of farmer Owen’s. Take it down to father at once, Nell, for he’s in a hurry for it. and I’ll fetch the blanket. And don’t forget to put the other a-top of your wardrobe,’ she called out after her daughter.

The poor cow was very bad, and for some hours the whole household was occupied in providing remedies and applying them. When ten o’clock struck, and the animal was pronounced to be out of danger, Nell was regularly tired out, and hardly inclined to sit down to supper with her parents, but the farmer would not hear of her leaving them.

‘Come on, lass,’ he said; ‘I’ve news for you, only this bothering cow put it clean out of my head. Grand news, Nelly. You’ll never guess it, not if you tried for a twelvemonth.’

Nell returned to the table, white and scared looking.

‘News about me, father?’ she said.

‘Well, not about you exactly, but that concerns you all the same. Now, who do you suppose has come to the Hall, and is staying along of Sir Archibald?’

Then she knew he had heard of Lord Ilfracombe’s arrival, and set her teeth, lest she should betray herself.

‘How should I know, father?’ she said tremblingly. ‘I haven’t been near Mrs Hody for the last week. Is it the prince whom they expected?’

‘The prince, be d—d!’ exclaimed the farmer. ‘What’s the value of a foreign prince beside one of our own English noblemen? I wouldn’t give you that for the prince,’ snapping his fingers. ‘No; it is somebody much better and higher. It’s your old master, the Earl of Ilfracombe, and his lady. What do you think of that?’

‘The Earl of Ilfracombe!’ echoed Nell, in order to gain time. ‘But who told you, father?’

‘Jackson, the coachman, to be sure, who drove them both home from the railway station, and who should know better than he? He says the earl is a fine-looking young man, as fair as daylight, and his lady is a nice, pretty creature too. I thought I should surprise you, Nell. You’ll be wanting to go up to the Hall to see ’em both, now, won’t you?’

‘Oh, father, why should I go to see them? His lordship won’t want to see me. Most likely he’s forgotten my very name.’

‘Well, Nell, I am surprised to hear you talk so!’ exclaimed her mother. ‘It don’t look as if you knew much about the gentry, who are always glad to see servants as have behaved themselves whilst in their service. But perhaps you’re afraid the earl is annoyed with you for leaving him so suddenly, and just as he was bringing home his bride. Is that it?’

‘Perhaps so, mother,’ said the girl, looking very much confused.

‘Ah, I was always doubtful if there wasn’t something queer about your coming back so suddenly, and so I’ve told your mother,’ remarked Mr Llewellyn dubiously. ‘But if it was so, why, you must go over to the Hall to-morrow morning and ask his lordship’s pardon; and perhaps mother, here, can find some little thing as you could take up as an offering for his lady. Can you, mother?’

‘Oh, I daresay,’ replied Mrs Llewellyn, ‘she might fancy a pen of our Minorca fowls or Cochins. I suppose they’ve a fine farm down at Thistlemere, Nell?’

‘Yes, I suppose so. But, mother, I cannot go and see them, or take Lady Ilfracombe any presents. It will seem like intrusion. They’ve not asked to see me, and I’m only a discharged servant, after all.’