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.