Miss Llewellyn had almost forgotten that she was to expect a visit
from Lord Ilfracombe’s solicitor, Mr Sterndale, when one day, as she
was sitting alone, his card was brought in to her. Hetty and William
had returned to Usk by this time. Their modest resources could not
stand out against more than a week in London, though their sister had
helped them as much as they would allow her. So they were gone, taking
the fresh smell of the country with them, and leaving Miss Llewellyn
more melancholy and depressed than they had found her. For she had not
heard again from Lord Ilfracombe since the few lines she had received
on the day of their arrival, and she was beginning to dread all sorts
of unlikely things, just because the unusual silence frightened her,
like a child left alone in the dark. Hetty and Will had been most
urgent that she should accompany them back to Usk, and for a moment
Nell thought the temptation too great to be resisted. What would she
not give for a sight of her dear mother’s face, she thought--for her
father’s grave smile; for a night or two spent in the old farmhouse
where she had been so careless and so happy; to lie down to sleep with
the scent of the climbing roses and honeysuckle in her nostrils, and
the lowing of the cattle and twittering of the wild birds in her ears.
And Ilfracombe had urged her to take change of air, too. He would be
pleased to hear she had left London for awhile! But here came the idea
that he might return home any day, perhaps unexpectedly and sooner than
he imagined, and then if she were absent what would he think?--what
would she suffer? She would not cease to reproach herself. Oh, no,
it was useless for Hetty to plead with her. She would come back some
day, when she could have a holiday without inconvenience, but just
now with the master of the house absent, her mother would understand
it was impossible; it would not be right for her, in her position as
housekeeper, to leave the servants to look after themselves. So Hetty,
having been brought up very strictly with regard to duty, was fain to
acquiesce in her sister’s decision, and comfort herself with the hope
that she would fulfil her promise some day. But when they had left
London, Nell felt as if she had escaped a great danger, and was only
just able to breathe freely again. And had she accompanied them to
Usk, and gone to stay at Panty-cuckoo Farm, she would have felt almost
as bad. To live under the eyes of her parents day after day; to have
to submit to their eager questioning; to evade their sharpness--for
country people are sometimes very sharp in matters that affect their
domestic happiness and very eager for revenge when their family honour
is compromised; all this Nell felt she dared not, under present
circumstances, undergo. So she was sorry and glad to part with her
sister at the same time; but her advent had so put other matters out
of her head, that she was quite startled at receiving Mr Sterndale’s
card. It revived all the old curiosity, which the first notice of his
coming had evoked in her mind. What on earth could he possibly have
to say to her? However, that question would soon be put to rest, and
she was bound, for Ilfracombe’s sake, to receive him. She happened
to be in her boudoir at the time, and told the servant to desire her
visitor to walk up there. Nell knew that the lawyer did not like her,
and the feeling was reciprocal. Mr Sterndale was a little, old man of
sixty, with silver hair. A very cute lawyer, and a firm friend, but
uncompromising to a degree--a man from whom a fallen woman might expect
no mercy. Miss Llewellyn had said in her letter to her lover, that
she knew Mr Sterndale regarded her as a harpy who cared for nothing
but his money, and this estimate of his opinion was strictly true.
With him, women were divided into only two classes--moral and immoral.
The class to which poor Nell belonged was generally mercenary and
grasping, and deserted a poor man to join a richer one, and he had no
idea that she was any different. She was beautiful, he saw, so much
the more dangerous; and all his fear of late years had been lest the
earl should have taken it in his head to marry her, as indeed, except
for Mr Sterndale’s constant warnings and entreaties, he would have
done. Now he rejoiced to think that his client was about to be wedded
to a woman in his own sphere of life, for the news of the marriage
had not yet reached England, and he had come to Grosvenor Square to
fulfil Lord Ilfracombe’s request that he would break the intelligence
to Miss Llewellyn, as calmly and deliberately as if he were the bearer
of the best of news. She did not rise as he entered, but, bowing rather
curtly, begged he would be seated and disclose his business with her.
She had been accustomed for so long to be treated by this man as the
mistress of the establishment, that she had come to regard him much
as Lord Ilfracombe did, in the light of a servant. Mr Sterndale noted
the easy familiarity with which she motioned him to take a chair, and
chuckled inwardly, to think how soon their relative positions would be
reversed.
‘Good morning,’ began Miss Llewellyn. ‘Ilfracombe wrote me word I might
expect to see you, Mr Sterndale, but I have no idea for what purpose.’
‘Perhaps not, madam,’ was the reply, ‘but it will soon be explained.
Have you heard from his lordship lately?’
Miss Llewellyn raised her head proudly.
‘I hear constantly, as you know. Ilfracombe is well, I am thankful
to say, and apparently enjoying himself. He has made some pleasant
acquaintances in Valetta, and they are urging him to stay on with them
a little longer. Else he would have returned before now. He is longing
to get home again, I know.’
‘Ah, perhaps, very likely,’ replied Mr Sterndale, who was fumbling with
some papers he held in his hand. ‘Indeed, I have no doubt his lordship
will be back before long--when he has completed another little trip he
has in contemplation to the Grecian Isles.’
Nell’s face assumed a look of perplexity.
‘Another yachting trip, and not homewards? Oh, I think you must be
mistaken, Mr Sterndale, or are you saying it to tease me? He has been
gone four months already, ever since the fifth of April, and I am
expecting to hear he has started for home by every mail. What has put
such an idea into your head?’
‘No one less than his lordship himself, Miss Llewellyn. In a letter
from him, dated the beginning of the month, but which, for reasons
which I will explain hereafter, I have not thought fit to bring to you
till now, he distinctly says that when certain arrangements which he
is making in Malta are completed, he intends to sail for the Grecian
Isles, and does not expect to be home at Thistlemere till late in the
autumn.’
Nell looked fearfully anxious and distressed.
‘I cannot believe it,’ she said incredulously. ‘Why should Ilfracombe
make such arrangements without consulting me first? He always has done
so. I might have wished to join him in Malta. We have been separated
for such a long time now--longer than ever before, and I have told him
how sick and weary I am of it--how I long to see him again.’
‘The money has not run short, has it?’ inquired the solicitor; ‘for, if
so, you should have applied to me.’
She gave a shrug of impatience.
‘My money has never run short, thank you,’ she replied. ‘Ilfracombe
thinks too much of my comfort for that.’
‘It is his prolonged stay abroad, then, that is puzzling you,’
continued Mr Sterndale; ‘but I am in a position to explain that. I have
a painful duty before me, Miss Llewellyn, but I don’t know that I shall
make it any better by beating about the bush.’
‘A painful task,’ she echoed, with staring eyes. ‘For God’s sake, don’t
tell me that my--that Ilfracombe is ill?’
‘No, no, nothing of the sort. But has it never occurred to you, Miss
Llewellyn, that circumstances may alter in this life, that a tie like
that between you and Lord Ilfracombe, for example, does not, as a rule,
last for ever.’
‘No, never,’ she answered firmly, ‘because it is no ordinary tie, and
Lord Ilfracombe is a gentleman. I am as sure of him as I am of myself.
He would never break his word to me.’
‘There is no question of breaking his word. You knew the conditions
under which you took up your residence in this house, and that you have
no legal right here.’
‘Have you come here to insult me?’ cried Nell shrilly. ‘How dare you
allude to any agreement between Lord Ilfracombe and myself? I _am_
here, that is quite enough for you to know, and the earl has said that
I am to remain. I am sure he never desired you to come here and taunt
me with my position?’
‘_Taunt_, my dear lady. That is scarcely the word to use. I was
only reminding you, as gently as I knew how, that your position is
untenable, and that young men are apt to change their minds.’
‘Lord Ilfracombe will not change his,’ replied Miss Llewellyn proudly.
‘I am aware you have done your best to try and make him do so, Mr
Sterndale, but you have not succeeded.’
‘Perhaps not. I have certainly nothing to do with his lordship’s
prolonged absence from England. But, since you profess to be much
attached to him, Miss Llewellyn, has it never occurred to you what a
very disadvantageous thing for the earl this connection between you is?’
‘That is for the earl to decide,’ said Miss Llewellyn.
‘You are right, and he has decided. Lord Ilfracombe is a young man who
owes a duty to Society and the exalted station he occupies. His friends
and family have been shocked and scandalised for the last three years
to witness the outrage he has committed against the world and them, and
that he has never considered the importance of founding a family to
succeed him, and of leaving an heir to inherit his ancient title.’
Miss Llewellyn’s lip trembled as she replied,--
‘All very true, I daresay, but Lord Ilfracombe prefers the present
state of affairs to the opinion of the world.’
‘Happily, I am in a position to inform you, Miss Llewellyn, that he
has at last come to his senses, and determined to do his duty in that
respect. In this letter,’ said Mr Sterndale, dangling one in his hand
as he spoke, ‘Lord Ilfracombe desires me to break the news to you of
his approaching marriage with Miss Leonora Abinger, the daughter of Sir
Richard Abinger, which is fixed to come off at an early date.’
‘It is a lie!’ cried Miss Llewellyn, as she rose to her feet and drew
herself up to her full height, ‘a mean, wicked lie, which you have
forged for some purpose of your own. Oh, you need not look at me like
that, Mr Sterndale. I have known for long how you hate me, and how
glad you would be to get rid of me. I have too much influence over
Ilfracombe to suit your book. If you could persuade me to leave this
house, and then convince him that I had gone off with some other man
it would fit in nicely with your own little plans, wouldn’t it? But
you don’t hoodwink me. I know your master too well. He never wished me
to leave his protection, nor told you to forge that lie in his name.
He has no intention of marrying--if he had he would have told me so
himself--and not left it to an attorney to deal the worst blow that
life could give me. Leave this house, sir! Till the man whom I regard
as my husband returns to it there is no master here but I. Go! and take
your lies with you. I will believe your statement on no authority but
that of Ilfracombe himself.’
‘And that is just the authority with which I am armed, Miss Llewellyn,
if you will but listen to me quietly. What is the use of making all
this fuss over the inevitable? You are acquainted with the earl’s
handwriting. Will you kindly glance at this, and tell me if you
recognise it as his?’
‘Yes, it is his.’
‘Let me read it to you, and pray remember that the servants are near at
hand, and ready to make copy out of all they hear. Are you listening to
me?’
‘Yes.’
‘This letter is dated 2d of July.
‘“DEAR STERNDALE,--You will be surprised, and I suppose
delighted, to hear that I am engaged to be married to
Miss Leonora Abinger, the second daughter of Admiral Sir
Richard Abinger, a young lady of twenty. The wedding will
take place within six weeks or so. Of course, the only
difficulty with me is Miss Llewellyn. The news will be
unexpected to her, and I am not quite sure how she will
take it. We have been together now for three years, and
that is a long time. However, she is a very sensible
woman, and must have known from the beginning that it was
impossible such a state of things could go on for ever.
Will you go, like a good soul, and break it to her? Of
course, she must be well provided for. What would be a
suitable sum? Five thousand pounds? Draw up a settlement
for what you consider best, but I want to be generous to
her, for she has been very good to me. I should consider
myself a scoundrel if I did not provide for her for life;
but she will doubtless marry before long, and a few
thousands will form a nice little _dot_ for her. After my
marriage I am going to take my wife straight to the Grecian
Isles in the _Débutante_, so that we shall not be home
till late in the autumn. You will see, like a good friend,
that the coast is quite clear before then. We mean to go
to Thistlemere for Christmas, and while the town house is
being done up.”
‘There Miss Llewellyn,’ said Mr Sterndale, as he came to a full stop,
‘that is all of the letter that concerns you. The rest consists of
directions about draining and decoration, and matters that ladies do
not trouble their heads about. You perfectly understand now, I am sure,
and will absolve me from attempting to deceive you in the business.’
He glanced at her as he spoke, and observed she was sitting on the
couch with her head drooping on her breast.
‘May I see the letter?’ was all she said.
He placed it in her hands, and she perused the portion he had read
aloud, mechanically. Then she held it out to him again, and he pocketed
it. But he wished she would say something. He did not like her total
silence. It was so unlike Miss Llewellyn. With a view to disperse it,
he continued,--
‘I told you I had a reason for not having called on you before. It
was because I thought it best to have the settlement, which his
lordship proposes to make upon you, drawn up, that you may be perfectly
convinced of his good intentions towards you. The deed, of course,
will not be complete without his signature, but, with a man of Lord
Ilfracombe’s honour, you may rest assured of his signing it on the
first possible occasion, and meanwhile I am prepared, on my own
account, to advance you any sum of money of which you may stand in
need.’
Still she did not answer his remarks, but sat silent and immovable,
with her features concealed by the drooping of her head.
‘His lordship is sure to be home before the winter, but if you wish to
have this sum invested for you at once, I know I shall only be meeting
his wishes in helping you to do so. Perhaps you would like me to put
the money into the earl’s own coal mines, Miss Llewellyn. They are an
excellent investment, and the shares are paying seven per cent., a rate
of interest which you are not likely to get elsewhere. And it would
have this further advantage, that in case of any unforeseen accident,
or depreciation in the market, I feel sure the earl would never hear of
your losing your money, whatever the other shareholders might do. The
John Penn Mine is yielding wonderfully, so is the Llewellyn, which, if
I mistake not, the earl called after yourself.’
‘Are you a man?’ demanded Nell, slowly raising her head, ‘or are you a
devil? Cease chattering to me about your coal mines and shareholders!
When I want to invest money, I shall not come to you to help or advise
me. Do you suppose that I don’t know that if this letter speaks
truth--that if my--if the earl contemplates doing what he says, it
is not owing in a great measure to your advice and exhortations? You
were for ever dinning the necessity of marriage into his ears. We have
laughed over it together.’
‘Have you indeed? Well, I don’t deny it. I have done my duty by Lord
Ilfracombe, and I’m very glad to find that my advice has had a good
effect. You laughed too soon you see, Miss Llewellyn. But whatever
influence has been brought to bear upon his lordship, the fact remains,
that it has been successful, and he is about to be married--may even
be married at the present moment. Nothing now remains to be done but
for you to look at this settlement and decide how soon it will be
convenient for you to leave Grosvenor Square.’
He laid the paper on her lap as he spoke, but Miss Llewellyn sprang to
her feet, and, seizing the document in her strong grasp, tore it across
and flung the fragments in the solicitor’s face.
‘Go back to your master!’ she exclaimed, ‘to the man who was good and
true and honourable until your crafty advice and insinuations made him
forget his nobler nature, and tell him to take his money and spend it
on the woman he marries, for I will have none of it! Does he think he
can _pay_ me for my love, my faith, my honour? In God’s sight, I am the
wife of Lord Ilfracombe, and I will not accept his alms, as if I were
a beggar. For three years I have lived by his side, sharing all that
was his--his pleasures, his troubles, and his pains. He has had all my
love, my devotion, my duty! I have nursed him in sickness, and looked
after his interests at all times, and I will not be remunerated for my
services as if I were a hireling. Tell him I am his wife, and I throw
his money back in his face. He can never pay me for what I have been to
him. He will never find another woman to fill my place.’
‘But, my dear madam, this is folly! Let me entreat you to be
reasonable,’ said Mr Sterndale, as he picked up the torn settlement.
‘You may have _thought_ all this, but you know it is not tenable. You
are _not_ Lord Ilfracombe’s wife, and you never will be! You have been
the most excellent of friends and companions, I admit that freely; but
the time has come for parting, and the wisest and most sensible thing
for you to do is to acquiesce in his lordship’s decision, and effect
this little alteration in his domestic arrangements as quietly as
possible. It _must_ be, you know! Why not let it pass without scandal?’
‘We have not been only friends and companions,’ she repeated
scornfully, ‘we have been the dearest and closest of lovers and
_confidantes_. Oh, why should I speak to you of it? What should _you_
know of such things? It is not in you to love anyone as I have loved
Ilfracombe and he has loved me. But I do not believe your story, not
even from the letter you showed me. I don’t believe he wrote it. You
lawyers are cunning enough for anything. You may have forged his
writing. So I reject your news and your settlement and yourself. Leave
me at once and don’t come near me again. I will accept this assurance
from no one but Ilfracombe, and I shall not quit his house till he
tells me to do so. He left me in charge here, and I do not relinquish
it till my master bids me go.’
‘He’ll bid you fast enough,’ replied the solicitor, as he gathered up
his papers and prepared to leave her; ‘and it will be your own fault,
Miss Llewellyn, if your exit is made more unpleasant to you than it
need have been. The decorators will be in the house, probably, before
you get any answer to your appeal to his lordship.’
‘Then I shall superintend the decorators,’ she said haughtily. ‘As long
as anyone sleeps here, I shall sleep here, unless Ilfracombe himself
tells me to go.’
‘Very ill-advised--very foolish,’ remarked Mr Sterndale; ‘but don’t
blame me if you suffer for your obstinacy.’
‘All I want is to get rid of you,’ she cried. ‘I have always disliked
you, and now I hate you like poison.’
‘Much obliged, I’m sure,’ he said, as he left the room. But he revenged
himself for the affronts she had put upon him as he went downstairs.
‘You must tell the women to look after poor Miss Llewellyn,’ he
whispered to the footman, who let him out, ‘for I have been the bearer
of bad news to her.’
‘Indeed, sir?’ said the man.
‘Yes, though it is the best possible for all the rest of you. Your
master is about to be married very shortly to a young lady in Malta.
There will be high jinks for all of you servants when he brings his
bride home to England, but you must know what it will mean for _her_,’
jerking his thumb towards the upper storey.
‘Well, naturally,’ acquiesced the footman with a wink.
‘She won’t be here long, but you must make her as comfortable as you
can during her stay. And you are welcome to tell the news everywhere.
It’s no secret. I’ve a letter from the earl in my pocket to say he
will bring her ladyship home in time for the Christmas festivities at
Thistlemere. Good morning.’
‘Good morning, sir,’ echoed the footman, and rushed down to the
servants’ hall to disseminate the tidings.
Meanwhile Nell, with her limbs as cold as stone, and all her pulses
at fever heat, was dashing off the impassioned letter which Lord
Ilfracombe received a few days after his wedding.
‘MY DARLING, MY OWN,’ she wrote, heedless of who should
see the letter,--‘Mr Sterndale has just been here to tell
me you are thinking of getting married. But it is not
true--I don’t believe it--I told him so to his face. Oh,
Ilfracombe, it cannot be true. Write to me for God’s sake
as soon as you receive this, and tell me it is a lie. The
old man has said it to make me miserable--to try and get
rid of me. He has always hated me, and been jealous of
my influence over you. And yet--he showed me a letter in
your handwriting, or what looked just like it, in which
you said that it was true. My God! is it possible? Can
you seriously think of deserting me? Oh, no, I will not
believe it till you tell me so yourself. You could not part
with me after all these years. Darling, think of the time
when you first saw me at Mrs Beresford’s, when she brought
you up into the nursery to see her little baby, and I
was sitting on a footstool before the fire nursing it. I
stood up when you and my mistress entered, but instead
of looking at the baby, you looked at me. I overheard
Mrs Beresford chaff you about it as you went downstairs
again, and you said,--“Well, you shouldn’t have such lovely
nursemaids then.” I was only twenty, dearest, and with no
more sense than a town-bred girl of sixteen. I dreamed of
those words of yours, and I dreamed of you as the noblest
and handsomest gentleman I had ever seen, as indeed you
were. And then you began to call at Mrs Beresford’s two
and three times a week and to meet me in the park, until
that happy day came when you asked me if I would leave
my place and be your housekeeper in Grosvenor Square. I
thought it was a grand rise for me, and wrote and told
my people so; but even then I didn’t guess at what you
meant or that you loved me in _that_ way. Ilfracombe, you
_know_ I was an innocent, good girl when I first came to
this house, and that I shouldn’t have ever been otherwise
had you not persuaded me that if our hearts were truly
each others our marriage would be as lasting as if we had
gone to church together. I believed you. I knew it was
wrong, but I loved you and I believed you. Oh, my own
only darling, don’t desert me now. What is to become of
me if you do? I can’t go back to my own people. I am no
longer fit to associate with them. You have raised me to
the dignity of your companionship. You have unfitted me
for country life, and how can I go out to service again?
Who would take me? Everybody knows our history. I have no
character. Darling, do you remember the time when you had
the typhoid fever and were so ill, we thought that you
would die. Oh, what a fearful time that was. And when you
recovered you were going to marry me, at least you said
so, and I was so happy, and yet so afraid of what your
family would think. But you had quite made up your mind
about it, till Mr Sterndale heard you mention the subject
and talked you out of it. You never told me, but I guessed
it all the same. I never reproached you for it, did I?
or reminded you of your promise. I knew I was no fit wife
for you--only fit to love and serve you as I have done,
gladly and faithfully. How can you marry another woman when
I have been your wife for three long, happy years? Won’t
the remembrance of me come between you and her? Won’t you
often think of the many, many times you have declared you
should never think of marrying whilst I lived--that I was
your wife to all intents and purposes, and that any other
woman would seem an interloper. Oh, Ilfracombe, do try and
remember all these things before you perpetrate an action
for which you will reproach yourself all your life. I know
your nature. Who should know it so well as I? You are weak
and easily led, but you are sensitive and generous, and I
know you will not forget me easily. Dearest, write to me
and tell me it is a lie, and I will serve you all my life
as no servant and no wife will ever do. For you are far
more than a husband to me. You are my world and my all--my
one friend--my one hope and support. Oh, Ilfracombe, don’t
leave me. I live in you and your love, and if you desert me
I cannot live. For God’s sake--for the sake of Heaven--for
your honour’s sake, don’t leave me,--Your broken-hearted
NELL.’
So the poor girl wrote, as other poor, forsaken wretches have written
before her, thinking to move the heart of a man who was already tired
of her. As soon hope to move the heart of a stone as that of a lover
hot on a new fancy. Her letter reached him, as we have seen, when
the step she deprecated was taken beyond remedy, but it stirred his
sense of having committed an injustice if it could not requicken his
burnt-out flame. He did not know how to answer it. He had nothing
to say in defence of himself, or his broken promises. So, like many
a man in similar circumstances, he shirked his duty, and seized the
first opportunity that presented itself of putting it on the shoulders
of someone else. Since Sterndale had failed in his commission, the
newspaper must convey to his cast-off mistress the news she refused
to believe. So he posted the little sheet of paper printed for the
edification of the British residents in Malta, to her address, and
transcribed it in his own hand. She couldn’t make any mistake about
_that_, he said to himself, as he returned to the agreeable task of
making love to his countess. But the incident did not increase the
flavour of his courtship. There is a sense called Memory that has on
occasions an inconveniently loud voice and not the slightest scruple in
making itself heard, when least required. The Earl of Ilfracombe had
yet to learn if the charms of his newly-wedded wife were sufficiently
powerful to have made it worth his while, in order to possess them, to
have invoked the demon of Memory to dog his footsteps for the remainder
of his life. But for the nonce he put it away from him as an unclean
thing. Nora, Countess of Ilfracombe, reigned triumphant, and Nell
Llewellyn, disgraced and disherited, was ordered to ‘move on,’ and find
herself another home! Meanwhile, she awaited her lover’s answer in his
own house. She refused to ‘move on’ until she received it.
It was a very miserable fortnight. She felt, for the first time, so
debased and degraded, that she would not leave the house, but sat
indoors all day, without employment and without hope, only waiting in
silence and despair for the assurance of the calamity that had been
announced to her. Her sufferings were augmented at this time by the
altered demeanour of the servants towards her. She had always been
an indulgent mistress, and they had liked her, so that she did not
experience anything like rudeness at their hands. On the contrary, it
was the increase of their attentions and familiarity that annoyed and
made her more unhappy. She read in it, too surely, the signs of the
coming times; the signs that they knew her reign was over, and the
marriage of their master a certain thing. Nell felt as if she had been
turned to stone in those days, as if the wheels of her life’s machinery
had been arrested, and all she could do was to await the verdict. It
came all too soon. One lovely night, about a fortnight after she had
written to Lord Ilfracombe, a newspaper was put into her hand. This
was such a very unusual occurrence, that she tore off the wrapper
hastily, and turned the sheets over with trembling fingers. She was not
long in finding the announcement of her death warrant.
‘On the 28th of July, at Malta, the Right Honourable the Earl of
Ilfracombe, to Leonora Adelaide Maria, fourth daughter of Admiral Sir
Richard Abinger, R.N.C.B.’
And in another part of the paper was a long description of the wedding
festivities, the number of invited guests, and the dresses of the bride
and bridesmaids. Miss Llewellyn read the account through to the very
end, and then tottered to her feet to seek her bedroom.
‘Lor’, miss, you do look bad!’ exclaimed a sympathising housemaid, whom
she met on the way--it was a significant fact that since the news of
his lordship’s intended marriage had been made public in the servants’
hall, poor Nell had been degraded from madam to miss,--‘let me fetch
you a cup of tea, or a drop of brandy and water. Now do, there’s a
dear. You might have seen a ghost by the look of you.’
‘No, thank you, Sarah,’ replied Miss Llewellyn, with a faint smile;
‘you are very kind, but I have not met a ghost, only the day has been
warm and I long for a breath of fresh air. Don’t worry about me. I will
go out into the square for half an hour, and that will do me good.’
The servant went on her way, and Nell turned into her bedroom. What a
luxurious room it was. The furniture was upholstered in soft shades
of grey and pink, and the walls were hung with engravings, all chosen
by the earl himself. There was a spring couch by the fireplace before
which was spread a thick white fur rug. The toilet-table was strewn
with toys of china and glass and silver. It was the room of a lady, but
it was Nell’s no longer. She walked deliberately to the toilet-table,
and, opening her trinket case, examined its contents, to see if
everything she had received at her lover’s hands was in its place. Then
she quietly took off her dainty little watch, encrusted with diamonds,
and her bangle bracelets, and two or three handsome rings which he had
given her, amongst which was a wedding-ring which she usually wore.
She put them all carefully in the trinket-case, and scribbling on the
outside of an old envelope, in pencil, the words, ‘Good-bye, my only
love, I cannot live without you,’ she placed it with the jewellery,
and, locking the box, threw the key out of the window.
‘That will prevent the servants opening it,’ she thought. ‘They will be
afraid to force the lock, but _he_ will, by-and-by, and then he will
guess the truth. I do not rob him much by taking this gown,’ she said,
smiling mournfully, as she gazed at her simple print frock, ‘and he
would not mind if I did. He was always generous, to me and everybody.’
Then, overburdened by a sudden rush of memory, she sank on her knees by
the couch crying, ‘Oh my love, my love! why did you leave me? It is so
very, very hard to part with you thus.’
But when her little outburst was over, Nell dried her eyes, and crept
softly downstairs. It was dark by this time; the servants were making
merry over their supper in the hall; and the crowds, not having yet
issued from the theatres, the streets were comparatively free. Nell
walked straight but steadily through Piccadilly and the Strand till
she came to Waterloo Street. She was dressed so quietly and walking so
deliberately that a stranger might have thought she was going to see a
friend; certainly no one would have dreamt of the fire of passion that
was raging in her breast. No one looked round at her--not an official
of the law asked her business, or followed in her track. She even
turned to cross Waterloo Bridge without exciting any suspicion in the
bystanders. Why should she not be a peaceful citizen like the rest of
them, bent on a common errand? Had it been later at night, it might
have been different. It was the early hour of ten, and the crowded
pathway that lulled all suspicion. Yet Nell was as distraught as any
lunatic who ever contemplated suicide. She was walking to her death,
and it was only a proof of the state of her mind that she went without
a thought excepting that the rest of forgetfulness was so near. As she
came to the centre of the bridge, she stopped for a moment and looked
over the coping wall at the calm water.
‘How deep it is,’ she thought. ‘What a fool I am to deliberate. It will
be over in a minute, and it will be so sweet never to dream again.’
As she mused in this manner, she gave a sudden leap and was over before
the passersby could catch hold of her clothing. They gave the alarm at
once, and a policeman, who was half way down on the other side, heard
it and came hurrying up. But the waters of old Father Thames, who has
received so many of his despairing children to his bosom, had already
closed over the bright hair and beautiful face of Nell Llewellyn.