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.