Mr Portland had two reasons for not appearing at Usk Hall on the
evening of the day he married Nell Llewellyn. In the first place,
he did not fancy seeing the countess again after she had heard the
truth about her letters; in the second, he foresaw more difficulty
in getting away, if he left it till after dinner. To have received
a summons to London by telegraph or post in the afternoon, and to
have been compelled to quit Usk at once, seemed more feasible to him
than to announce his determination before the assembled company, to
be submitted to their cross questioning--sent to the railway station
in Sir Archibald’s carriage, perhaps accompanied by the genial host
himself, and to have to bribe the servants to conceal the fact that
he never went at all. After that evening, so he argued, when all the
world must know that he had married Nell, he would not mind confessing
the little ruse to which he had had recourse, and felt sure of
receiving sympathy and forgiveness. So he went to ‘The Three Pilchards’
and engaged his rooms, and ordered his dinner in a state of pleased
expectancy. The accommodation was not very grand--the _cuisine_ would,
doubtless, not be first-rate, but Nell had never been a _gourmande_
nor a sybarite, and Mr Portland pleased himself with thinking how well
he would treat her in the future. What with the various race-meetings
he had attended, he had been pretty lucky lately, and the visit to
Usk Hall had not failed to recoup him still more. He would be able to
take his wife abroad to Paris or Italy, if she so wished it, and show
her a little life. Perhaps, though, it would be better to run over to
Monte Carlo or Hamburg, and so combine business with pleasure. How
divinely handsome she was, ‘a daughter of the gods, divinely tall,
and most divinely fair!’ With what envious eyes he would be followed
by the frequenters of the places he thought of. He had little fear
that his wife would be recognised by the herd as Lord Ilfracombe’s
former mistress. She had kept herself too much at home for that, and
had hardly ever been seen in public whilst living with the earl. It
would only be a few of his intimates who would be likely to know her
again. And Jack Portland would not have concerned himself about it if
they had. He had married his wife for himself--not for the world, and
it was welcome to think what it liked of his choice. A few old cats,
whose virtue had never been attacked during the best part of a century,
might turn up their noses at her; but Nell was strong enough to hold
her own, and so was he. If a thought crossed his mind that Ilfracombe,
on hearing of his marriage with Nell, might insist on giving her as
a wedding portion what she had refused as a peace-offering, we must
do him the justice to say that it had no weight with him, excepting
as it might prove the earl’s good feeling towards them both, and be
the precursor of a renewed intimacy. For, if something of the kind
did not interfere, Jack Portland felt that the condition Nell had
made regarding the packet of letters would prove the quietus to his
friendship with Ilfracombe. If the countess told her husband the whole
truth, he would never receive him again. Of that he was certain. But
there was the chance that, for her own sake, Nora would _not_ tell
him the truth, and in that case, if he heard of the marriage first,
he might never be told of the other little affair at all, and the
countess secure of herself, might join her husband in extending her
hospitality to him. This was what Mr Portland was dreaming of as he sat
in the parlour of ‘The Three Pilchards’ smoking, and waiting for Nell’s
arrival. As the time went on, and she did not appear, he grew rather
fidgety. He had had his dinner at his usual hour of seven, but, as nine
o’clock sounded, it struck him that Nell might expect to see supper
waiting for her, so rang the bell to order it.
‘What have you in the house? What can I have for supper?’
‘Supper, sir?’ echoed the country waiter, who though he could play a
very pretty tune with a knife and fork himself, was rather taken aback
at the gentleman requiring supper at nine, after a hearty dinner at
seven.
‘Yes. Are you deaf? I expect my wife here soon, and she may require
something to eat. What can we have?’
‘We have a joint of cold beef in the house, sir, and a veal and ham
pie, and--’
‘None of those will do. I want something hot.’
‘A chicken, sir, with a cauliflower and potatoes?’ suggested the waiter.
‘Yes, yes. The best you have, whatever it may be. Get it ready as soon
as you can. My wife may be here at any moment. Another bottle of that
champagne too, which I had at dinner. Cursed bad stuff,’ he added to
himself, as the servant left the room, ‘but women don’t know the
difference. Well, who would ever have thought I could have stood such
discomfort as this, with so good a grace, for the sake of a woman? But
_such_ a woman! I don’t believe she has her peer in England. As for
that little sharp-featured, flirting, deceitful countess, she can’t
hold a candle to her. What fools and blind men are with regard to
women! It is quite impossible to decide why one piece of femininity
should hold them as in a vice whilst they pass over or ignore the
virtues of another. Now, to my mind, Nell combines all the perfections
of which human nature is capable. She is beautiful, amiable (a bit of
a temper, but she very seldom shows it, and a woman is worth nothing
without a spice of the devil in her), dignified, sensible, and modest.
She would have made a magnificent countess; beaten Lady D----and Lady
S----, and all the other Court beauties hollow. However, I’m very glad
Ilfracombe didn’t see it in that light, and that the crumbs from the
rich man’s table have fallen to my share. Hang it all! What a time she
is. It’s nearly ten. Surely she isn’t going to play-off any airs and
graces on me, and pose as a blushing bride. Or is it only a womanly
dodge to make her welcome more assured? She needn’t fear missing it.
I never felt so much for any woman in my life before. I almost think,
if she thought it worth her while, that she might make a better man of
me. I wonder if she will learn to love me? I know what her love for
that ass Ilfracombe was, and that it is worth a man’s trying for. I
wonder--I wonder--by Jove! that’s the half-hour striking. Whatever can
be the reason of this delay? Waiter,’ continued Mr Portland to the man,
who now appeared with the supper, ‘is that half-past ten that struck
just now? Surely, your clocks must be very fast.’
‘Don’t think so, sir! I heard the missus asking the master to put ’em
on a bit just now. Do you think the lady will come to-night, sir?’
‘Of course she will! What do you mean by asking me such a question?’
‘Only, you see, sir, we’re obliged to close at eleven, whether we like
or no, so the missus told me to ask you if--’
‘Here!’ exclaimed Jack Portland, quickly; ‘get me pen and ink and paper
at once. I must send a messenger up to Panty-cuckoo Farm!’
‘Panty-cuckoo Farm,’ repeated the waiter; ‘Mr Llewellyn’s place? That
be better than a mile and an’ arf away from here, sir. It’ll take a
good bit of time to carry a letter there to-night.’
‘Never mind! I’m willing to pay for it, and for keeping you up as well,
but the message must be carried by some one. Whom have you to send?’
‘I expect the ostler can go, but I’ll ask the missus,’ replied the
waiter, as he went to consult the higher powers.
In a few minutes he returned to say the ostler would take the letter,
and Mr Portland despatched the missive on its way. It contained but a
very few words, only, ‘What is the reason of this delay? Pray come at
once! Am waiting here impatiently. JACK.’
He did not know into whose hands it might fall, so thought it best to
be as curt as possible, and then he sat down to get through the time as
best he might till his messenger returned. How trying are the moments
when we wait in utter darkness, the explanation of some mystery which
is inexplicable to us. What a thousand and one fancies rush through our
brain, as we attempt to penetrate what is impenetrable! How we ‘think’
it may be that--or we ‘fancy’ it must be this--or we ‘fear’ the other.
Then, tired out with conjecture, we resolve not to think at all, but
wait the natural sequence of events, only to fall back upon fancy and
worry ourselves to death with imagination, and, after all, it usually
turns out to be nothing--a bogy conjectured up by our anxiety--due as
likely as not to the selfishness of our friend, who had not sufficient
feeling for us to suspect what we were suffering on his behalf. We have
all, at some time or other, experienced the feeling of suspense under
which Mr Portland was suffering now,--yes, actually _suffering_!
This selfish, immoral, dishonourable man had found his match at last
in fate. Nell Llewellyn was the one creature who had ever awakened any
better or higher feelings in his hardened heart, and he was suffering
the agony of thinking that she might have repented of her bargain and
meant to play him false as he had played so many other people. The
ostler took his time to walk to Panty-cuckoo Farm. He was going to be
paid for his trouble under any circumstances, so he didn’t see the fun
of hurrying himself. Besides, the farm was more than a mile away, and
one mile makes two on a dark night, so it was twelve o’clock before the
waiter reappeared with Mr Portland’s own note on a salver.
‘If you please, sir, the hostler, he ‘ave been to Panty-cuckoo Farm,
but everybody’s a-bed, and he couldn’t make no one hear.’
‘Couldn’t make anybody hear!’ exclaimed Jack Portland, starting to his
feet; ‘what was the fool about? Why didn’t he knock till he _did_ make
some one hear? What was the good of his going, when he only brings me
my own note back again?’
‘Well, sir; he did throw stones at the bedroom winders, but no one
took no notice of ’im, so Joe, he thought, ’twas no use waiting about
there any longer at this time o’ night, so he bringed the note back
again, and, perhaps, you’d like me to send it up the first thing in the
morning.’
‘No, no,’ replied Jack Portland, angrily; ‘the ostler is a d----d fool
for his pains, and you may tell him I said so. Leave the note on the
table and leave the room. I wish to be alone!’
‘Are we to shut up, sir? Will the lady come to-night, do you think? The
last train was in an hour ago!’
‘Shut up! shut up! Yes! Do anything you like. I don’t care so long as
you leave me alone,’ was the reply.
‘Yes, sir; certainly, and what time would you like to be called in the
morning, sir?’
‘Oh! go to the devil!’ cried Portland furiously, as the man
disappeared, repeating his usual formula of ‘Yes, sir;’ ‘thank you,
sir,’ and left him to his disappointment and conjectures.
What _could_ be the matter? Where was Nell? What was she doing? What
did she mean? These were the questions that repeated themselves over
and over in his brain, and which received no answer till the following
morning. He would have his answer then, he thought. He would go up to
Panty-cuckoo Farm the very first thing and tell the Llewellyns of his
marriage to their daughter, and, if need be, take his wife back with
him by force. No power on earth could prevent that. But it was not the
sort of honeymoon he had promised himself.
Meanwhile Lord and Lady Ilfracombe were saying to each other, as we
have seen before, ‘We will go over to the farm to-morrow morning and
say good-bye to Nell, and tell her of all the good things we mean
to do for her when she is married,’ and so at last they all slept,
the husband and wife locked in each other’s arms--Jack Portland,
restlessly, and starting up now and then to remember his disappointment
with an oath, and Nell Llewellyn slept also, the sweetest and most
peaceful sleep of them all.
She had gone straight home to her parents when she parted with Nora,
and had passed a very pleasant evening with them. The old people had
been particularly cheerful. Bonnie, the cow, had quite recovered, and
was giving her milk as well as ever; and Sir Archibald Bowmant had met
the farmer on his way home and intimated to him that he was likely to
have a change of landlords.
‘I do think,’ said Mr Llewellyn, ‘as his lordship buying the old farm
is the grandest thing I’ve ever heard on, and, if it come to pass (and
Sir Archibald spoke of it as a settled thing), mother and me shall feel
as we owe it all to you, my lass. Sha’n’t us, mother?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ acquiesced the old woman, ‘it’s all due to Nell, there’s
no question of that. It was a fortunate day for us when you took
service with the earl, Nell, though we were both set agen you going to
London at the time; but there, one never knows how things will turn
out.’
Nell looked gratified by her parents’ approval. She had been more
serious and silent than usual that evening, but now she seemed to
brighten up, and talked with them of all they should do and say when
Lord Ilfracombe came to tell them of his kindness in person.
‘Ay! but that will be a grand occasion,’ quoth her mother; ‘and you
must do credit to it, my lass. I daresay the earl will bring his lady
with him, and we must all put on our Sunday best to do them honour.’
‘Mother,’ said Nell presently, ‘I have something to tell you. I saw
Lady Ilfracombe in the fields this afternoon, and she said that she
and the earl intended to call here to-morrow morning. They are going
to leave Usk Hall to-morrow afternoon, and so I daresay they will take
this opportunity to tell father about the farm. You mustn’t go out
to-morrow, father, till you have seen him.’
‘_I_ go out,’ exclaimed the farmer, ‘on such an occasion? I should
think not. Why no one in the house shall stir till they’re come and
gone. Has the parlour been swept to-day, for if not you and mother will
have to stay up till it’s done? I couldn’t have his lordship sitting
down in a dusty room. That wouldn’t be the way to make him think us
good tenants.’
‘A dusty room,’ cried the old woman indignantly. ‘We’ve been man and
wife now for five-and-twenty years come Michaelmas, Griffith Llewellyn,
and you can’t name the day you’ve ever seen my parlour dusty yet. The
Queen herself, God bless her, might enter it any day in the week and
not soil her royal robes.’
‘Well, well, wife, there’s enough words about that,’ said her husband.
‘I’m proud to hear his lordship’s coming to Panty-cuckoo, and glad
that Nell gave us warning of it. Did you find an opportunity to ask if
there’s a chance of your entering the earl’s service again, my girl?’
he continued to his daughter.
Nell left her seat and approached her father’s side, winding her arm
round the old man’s neck, and laying her cheek gently against his. ‘No,
dear father,’ she said, ‘I didn’t mention the subject. I don’t think I
shall ever go to service again, dear. I am not so strong as I was, and
it would be too hard for me.’
She strangled a kind of sob in her throat as she proceeded:--
‘I have been a great burden on you for the last year, father; but I
won’t be so much longer. If I can’t go to service, I will provide for
myself some way, don’t fear that.’
‘Ay, my lass, it will be as well. You’re a bonny lass, there’s no
denying, but you don’t seem to care much for marriage, and when your
mother and me is gone you’ll have a sore shift to provide for yourself
if you have no work to do. I mentioned his lordship’s service because
it seems to me as if it has left you pretty well unfit for anything
else. Your hands and face and your constitootion ain’t fit for a
farm-house, Nell, and that’s the truth. They improved you and they
spiled you both up in London. You’re fitter for the town than the
country, any one could see that with half an eye. But you’re a good
girl, my dear, and mother and me, we both say that.’
‘Thank you, father,’ she replied, as she kissed him several times,
more times than were necessary, according to the rough old farmer’s
ideas--and then did the same by her mother.
‘Good-night, dear, dear mother,’ she murmured fervently. ‘You’ve been a
good mother to your poor, thoughtless, useless Nell.’
‘Ay, that I have,’ replied Mrs Llewellyn, with the beautiful
self-assurance of the poor, ‘but you’re worth it all the same.’
‘Thank you, dear, God bless you,’ said Nell gently, as she prepared to
leave the room. At the door she turned and stood regarding the two old
people with her lovely hazel eyes, as if she could not gaze enough at
them.
‘You’re a rare fool,’ cried her mother gaily. ‘There, run away to your
bed, do, and get up wiser in the morning.’
And then, as her daughter with a solemn smile disappeared, she remarked
to her husband,--
‘I’m sometimes half afeared, father, if that girl ain’t a bit mazed.
She do look at one so queer with them big eyes of hers. Did you notice
her just now?’
‘Not I,’ replied the farmer. ‘I’ve other things to do besides noticing
a maid’s eyes. So now come along to bed, wife, and forget all such
rubbish, for we’ll have to be up betimes to make ready to receive his
lordship.’
And the old couple went up to their room, laughing and cackling as they
passed Nell’s door.
And as they did so the clock struck nine.
She heard it as she stood in her bedroom, with her hands clasped in
front of her, dazed and bewildered. The world seemed to have closed on
her with her parents’ good-night kisses--all the people in it appeared
to have become indistinct and blurred. They were fading away before her
mental vision one by one--the Earl and his Countess, Jack Portland,
Hugh Owen, her father and mother, Hetty, everyone. Nell felt she had
done with them all for ever. At one moment she thought of writing to
Hugh Owen. He had loved her and had great hopes of her, and she had
dashed them all aside. She was sorry for his disappointment and his
broken faith. Should she write and tell him so. But what could she say,
except that the man he saw her with was her former lover, and if he
discovered him to be the earl, there would be another unpleasantness
for Ilfracombe. Oh, no! Her life had been all a muddle and a mistake,
it was best to leave it so. She could not unravel it, and the more
she touched it the more entangled it became. Best to remain silent to
the last. Not a thought of Portland entered her head. She had made a
certain compact with him, and she had meant to end it like this all
along. But she moved across the room with a soft lingering step, and
eyes that seemed already covered with the film of death, and gazed from
the window that looked towards the house where Ilfracombe was sleeping.
‘Good-bye,’ she murmured indistinctly, ‘good-bye.’
And then Nell turned away, and taking hold of a chair, dragged it to
the wardrobe, and mounting on it took down the bottle of poison for
which her mother had told her to write a label.
END.
EDINBURGH
COLSTON AND COMPANY
PRINTERS.
LIST OF PUBLICATIONS.
_14 Bedford Street,
Strand,
London, W.C._
F. V. WHITE & CO.’S
=LIST OF=
PUBLICATIONS
=NEW=
=NOVELS AT ALL CIRCULATING LIBRARIES.=
A BANKRUPT HEART. By FLORENCE MARRYAT, Author of “My
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A MAN OF TO-DAY. By HELEN MATHERS, Author of “Comin’
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THE CONFESSIONS OF A PUBLISHER.
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VIOLA FANSHAWE.
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NOT IN THE BETTING.
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BLIND FATE.
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WEAK WOMAN.
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DREAM FACES.
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NORA CREINA.
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THE MAN IN POSSESSION.
SHEBA.
MISS KATE.
THE LAIRD O’ COCKPEN.
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DAUGHTERS OF BELGRAVIA.
A MODERN BRIDEGROOM.
THE NEW DUCHESS.
SHE CAME BETWEEN.
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MY SISTER, THE ACTRESS.
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VIOLET VYVIAN, M.F.H.
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A DAUGHTER’S SACRIFICE.
MARGARET BYNG.
MY FACE IS MY FORTUNE.
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SWEETHEART AND WIFE.
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MRS BOB. (7th Edition.) By the same Author.
BEAUTIFUL JIM. (8th Edition.) By the same Author.
A SIEGE BABY. (5th Edition.) By the same Author.
GARRISON GOSSIP. (6th Edition.) By the same Author.
ARMY SOCIETY. Life in a Garrison Town. (10th Edition.) By the
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THE MAN WITH A SECRET. (3d Edition.) By FERGUS HUME.
LONG ODDS. (5th Edition.) By HAWLEY SMART.
THE PLUNGER. (6th Edition.) By the same Author.
THE MASTER OF RATHKELLY. (5th Edition.) By the same Author.
BEATRICE AND BENEDICK. (2d Edition.) By the same Author.
THE OUTSIDER. (8th Edition.) By the same Author.
WEAK WOMAN. (3d Edition.) By Mrs LOVETT CAMERON.
A LOST WIFE. (3d Edition.) By the same Author.
IN A GRASS COUNTRY. (10th Edition.) By the same Author.
JACK’S SECRET. (3d Edition.) By the same Author.
BLIND FATE. By Mrs ALEXANDER.
FOR HIS SAKE. By the same Author.
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THE HON. MRS VEREKER. (4th Edition.) By Mrs HUNGERFORD, Author of
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NORA CREINA. By the same Author.
LADY PATTY. (3d Edition.) By the same Author.
APRIL’S LADY. (4th Edition.) By the same Author.
LANDING A PRIZE. (7th Edition.) By Mrs EDWARD KENNARD.
WEDDED TO SPORT. By the same Author.
THAT PRETTY LITTLE HORSE-BREAKER. (4th Edition.) By the same
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A HOMBURG BEAUTY. (3d Edition.) By the same Author.
MATRON OR MAID? (4th Edition.) By the same Author.
A CRACK COUNTY. (6th Edition.) By the same Author.
A REAL GOOD THING. (8th Edition.) By the same Author.
STRAIGHT AS A DIE. (9th Edition.) By the same Author.
THE GIRL IN THE BROWN HABIT. (8th Edition.) By the same Author.
OUR FRIENDS IN THE HUNTING-FIELD. By the same Author.
KILLED IN THE OPEN. (9th Edition.) By the same Author.
INTERFERENCE. (3d Edition.) By B. M. CROKER.
TWO MASTERS. (3rd Edition.) By the same Author.
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TOILERS OF BABYLON. (2d Edition.) By B. L. FARJEON.
THE DUCHESS OF ROSEMARY LANE. (2d Edition.) By the same Author.
A YOUNG GIRL’S LIFE. (3d Edition.) By the same Author.
BASIL AND ANNETTE. (3d Edition.) By the same Author.
THE RIVAL PRINCESS. (3d Edition.) By JUSTIN M’CARTHY, M.P., and
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THE LADIES’ GALLERY. (2d Edition.) By the same Authors.
A WOMAN’S FACE. By FLORENCE WARDEN, Author of “The House on the
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A WILD WOOING. By the same Author.
A WITCH OF THE HILLS. (3d Edition.) By the same Author.
VIOLET VYVIAN, M.F.H. (3d Edition.) By MAY CROMMELIN and J. MORAY
BROWN.
THE FREAKS OF LADY FORTUNE. By MAY CROMMELIN.
DAUGHTERS OF BELGRAVIA. By Mrs ALEXANDER FRASER.
THE NEW DUCHESS. (3d Edition.) By the same Author.
SYBIL ROSS’S MARRIAGE: The Romance of an Inexperienced Girl. (3d
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A DAUGHTER’S SACRIFICE. (3d Edition.) By F. C. PHILIPS and PERCY
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THE HEART OF JANE WARNER. By FLORENCE MARRYAT.
MY SISTER THE ACTRESS. By the same Author.
UNDER THE LILIES AND ROSES. By the same Author.
THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL. By the same Author.
A BROKEN BLOSSOM. By the same Author.
KATE VALLIANT. By ANNIE THOMAS (Mrs PENDER CUDLIP).
ALLERTON TOWERS. By the same Author.
MATED WITH A CLOWN. By LADY CONSTANCE HOWARD.
SWEETHEART AND WIFE. By the same Author.
KEITH’S WIFE. By LADY VIOLET GREVILLE.
THE CRUSADE OF THE “EXCELSIOR.” By BRET HARTE.
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NOT EASILY JEALOUS. By IZA DUFFUS HARDY.
ONLY A LOVE STORY. By the same Author.
POISONED ARROWS. By JEAN MIDDLEMASS, Author of ‘Dandy,’ &c.
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(3d Edition.) By HUME NISBET.
THE QUEEN’S DESIRE; A Romance of the Indian Mutiny. By the same
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THE BUSHRANGER’S SWEETHEART. An Australian Romance. (5th
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THE M.F.H.’S DAUGHTER. By Mrs ROBERT JOCELYN.
THE CRITON HUNT MYSTERY. By the same Author.
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MERE LUCK. (3d Edition.) By the same Author.
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HE WENT FOR A SOLDIER. (8th Edition.) By the same Author.
FERRERS COURT. (6th Edit.) By the same Author.
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THAT IMP. (12th Edition.) By the same Author.
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ON MARCH. (10th Edition.) By the same Author.
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WHAT THE GLASS TOLD. By the same Author.
A STUDY OF A WOMAN; or, Venus Victrix. By the same Author.
MY JO, JOHN. (2nd Edition.) By the same Author.
T’OTHER DEAR CHARMER. By the same Author.
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GRAVE LADY JANE. By the same Author.
A SHOCK TO SOCIETY. By the same Author.
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THE SEVENTH DREAM. By the same Author.
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THRICE PAST THE POST. (Cloth only.) By the same Author.
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Transcriber’s Note:
Words may have multiple spelling variations or inconsistent hyphenation
in the text. Jargon, dialect, obsolete and alternative spellings were
left unchanged. Misspelled words were corrected.
Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like
this_; those in bold by equal signs, =like this.= Obvious printing
errors, such as upside down, reversed order, or partially printed
letters and punctuation, were corrected. Final stops missing at the
end of sentences and abbreviations were added. Duplicate words and
printer’s marks were removed.
The following items were changed:
Added missing word ‘of’ ... you shall hear all of it ...
Changed ‘its’ to ‘the’... Portland despatched the missive on its way.