The Countess of Ilfracombe had had no desire to meet Mr Portland
again; in fact, she would have declined the honour, had she not been
afraid of exciting the suspicions of the earl; and she had not been
under the same roof with him for more than a few days, before she was
heartily sorry that she had not done so. Nora was a flirt, there was no
question of that. She could keep a dozen men at her feet at the same
time, and let each of them imagine he was the favoured individual.
But she was not a fool. She had a countess’s coronet on her head,
and she had no intention of soiling or risking the treasure she had
won. Mr Jack Portland was, as the reader will have guessed, the same
admirer of whom Nora had spoken to Ilfracombe before their marriage,
as having hair of the ‘goldenest golden’ hue, and who was the only man
for whose loss she had ever shed a tear. The earl had been a little
jealous at the time, but he had forgotten the circumstance long ago.
When the countess heard she was destined to meet her old flame again,
and as the intimate friend of her husband, she had felt rather afraid
lest her heart should ache a little from the encounter. But the first
glance at him had dispelled this idea. Two years is not a long time in
reality, but it is far too long to indulge in continual dissipation
with impunity. It had wrought havoc with the charms of Mr Jack
Portland. His manly figure had begun to show signs of _embonpoint_. His
complexion was very florid, and there were dropsical-looking bags under
his bloodshot eyes, and sundry rolls of flesh rising above the back
of his collar, which are not very attractive in the eyes of ladies.
His ‘goldenest golden’ hair had commenced to thin on the top, and his
heated breath was too often tainted with the fumes of alcohol. The
habits he had indulged in had destroyed the little modesty Mr Portland
had ever possessed, and he was so presuming in his words and looks,
that Nora had been on the point, more than once since he had come
down to Thistlemere, of telling him to hold his tongue or leave the
house. But then, there were those unfortunate letters of hers, which
he retained, and the importance of the contents of which, perhaps she
exaggerated. The fact is, that in the days when Mr Portland came to
Malta to stay with the Lovelesses, he and Nora had made very fierce
love to each other. There was no denying that, and the young lady
herself had never pretended to be a model of all the domestic virtues.
Her father had been very angry with her, and threatened to send her to
England to a boarding-school. But the mischief had been done by the
time Sir Richard discovered it. People generally lock the door after
the steed has been stolen. Not that it had gone quite so far with Miss
Nora Abinger as that; but a great deal of folly had passed between
her and handsome Jack Portland, a good many secret meetings had taken
place, and many letters written. Oh, those letters, those written
protestations of eternal fidelity; those allusions to the past; those
hopes for the future; how much mischief have they not done in this
world. We talk of women’s tongues; they might chatter to all eternity,
and not bring one half the trouble in their train as their too ready
pens create. Mr Portland, not being approved of by the admiral, had
found his visits to the house not so welcome as they might have been,
and so the lovers resorted to writing as a vent for their feelings,
and perhaps wrote more that they really felt--certainly more than
they cared to think about or look back upon. Nora positively shivered
when she thought what might, or might not be, in those letters which
Mr Portland had promised to deliver up to her as soon as he returned
to town. Meanwhile, she was on tenterhooks and afraid to a degree of
offending the man who held such a sword of Damocles over her head, and
presumed on his power, to treat her exactly as he chose, with coldness
or familiarity. But if she attempted to resent his conduct, Mr Portland
could always give her a quiet hint on the sly, that she had better be
very polite to him. So her life on first coming to her husband’s home
was not one of roses. She could remember the time when she had believed
she loved Jack Portland, but she wondered at herself for having done
so now. Perhaps it was not entirely the alteration which had taken
place in himself, but more likely that her taste had refined and become
more exclusive with the passing years. At anyrate, his present conduct
towards her, in its quiet insolence and presumption, made her loathe
and hate him. She wondered sometimes that her husband did not perceive
the aversion she had for his chosen friend, but Ilfracombe had been
very subdued and melancholy since the day of their arrival. As Nora was
so new to English society, and could not be presented at Court till
the following spring, they had decided to pass their first Christmas
very quietly, the Dowager Lady Ilfracombe, and the earl’s two sisters,
Lady Laura and Lady Blanche Devenish, being, with the exception of the
obnoxious Jack Portland, the only guests at Thistlemere. The Ladies
Devenish were not disposed to make her life any easier than it needed
to be to the youthful countess. In the first place, they were both
considerably older than their brother, and resented Nora’s twenty
years and her vivacity and independence as an affront to themselves.
She ought to have been humbler in their opinion, and more alive to the
honour that had been accorded her. To hear her talking to the earl on
terms of the most perfect familiarity, and just as if he had been a
commoner, like her own people, offended them. And then they considered
that Ilfracombe should have married into the aristocracy, and chosen
a woman as high born as himself. So they ‘held their heads high’ (as
the servants would have said) in consequence, and elevated their
eyebrows at Nora’s repartees, when she was conversing with gentlemen,
and frowned at her boldness in giving her opinion, especially if
it happened to clash with their own. The Dowager Countess did not
agree with her daughters. She thought Nora a very clever, smart and
fashionable woman, and quite capable of filling the position to which
her son had raised her, and supporting her title with dignity.
‘Well, I don’t agree with you, mamma,’ said Lady Blanche. ‘I consider
she is far too forward in her manners with gentlemen. I’m sure the
way in which Mr Portland leans over her when she is singing is quite
disgusting. I wonder Ilfracombe does not take some notice of it. And
what could be more undignified than her jumping up last evening to
show Lord Babbage what she calls the “Boston lurch?” Such a name too.
I think some of her expressions are most vulgar. I heard her tell
Ilfracombe that some place they went to together was “confoundedly
slow.” Fancy, a lady swearing! If those are to be the manners of the
new aristocracy, commend me to the old.’
‘Well, my dear,’ said her easy-going mother, ‘you know that times
are altered from what they were. Now that so many of our noblemen
are marrying American heiresses for money, you must expect to see a
difference. Look at the Duke of Mussleton and Lord Tottenham! One
married a music-hall singer, and the other, somebody a great deal
worse! Young men will have their own way in these days. We must be
thankful that Ilfracombe has chosen a nice, lady-like, intelligent girl
for his wife. For my part, I like Nora, and think she will make him
very happy. And,’ lowering her voice, ‘you know, my dear girls, that,
considering the dreadful life he led before, and the _awful_ creature
he introduced into his house, we really should be very thankful he has
married at all. Mr Sterndale was afraid, at one time, that nothing
would break that business off. But I feel sure Ilfracombe has forgotten
all about it. He seems quite devoted to his wife.’
‘Do you really think so, mamma?’ asked Lady Laura. ‘I think you are
very short-sighted. Blanche and I have often said we were afraid he
doesn’t care a pin for her. Just see how melancholy and low-spirited he
seems. He goes about with a face like a hatchet. I asked Nora yesterday
what on earth was the matter with him--if he were ill--and she replied
she was sure she didn’t know. Such an indifferent answer, it struck
me, for a young wife. But really one does not know what to make of
the girls now-a-days. They are quite different from what they were a
few years ago. I am sure of one thing, that Nora has no sense of the
responsibility of marrying into the aristocracy. I heard her say once
that she would just as soon Ilfracombe had been a tradesman!’
‘Oh, that must have been meant for impertinence!’ exclaimed Lady
Blanche. ‘What did she marry him for, then? I am sure she can’t love
him. She has told me she was engaged to six men at one time. Really,
mamma, her conversation at times is not fit for Laura and me to listen
to.’
‘Now you’re going a great deal too far,’ said the old countess, ‘and
I won’t let you speak of Nora in that way. Remember, if you please,
that she is the head of the family, and that some day you may both be
dependent on her for a chaperon.’
This prospect silenced the Ladies Devenish for a time at least, and
the subject of the young Countess of Ilfracombe was dropped by mutual
consent. But their remarks on their brother’s low spirits attracted
Nora’s attention to her husband, when she soon perceived that they were
right. Ilfracombe was certainly depressed. He seldom joined in the
general conversation, and when he did his voice was low and grave. The
earl was not a brilliant talker, as has been said before, but he had
always been able to hold his own when alone with his wife, and used to
relate every little incident that had occurred during the day to her
as soon as they found themselves shut in from the eyes of the world.
But he had dropped even this. Once or twice she had rallied him on his
low spirits, and had made him still graver in consequence. But when
others began to notice his moodiness, and make unkind remarks on it,
Nora thought it was time, for her own sake, to try and find out the
cause. It was after a long evening spent in his company, during which
Ilfracombe had let Jack Portland and two or three other guests do all
the talking, that his wife attacked him on the subject. Seizing hold of
his arm as he was about to pass from her bedroom to his dressing-room,
she swung him round and pulled him down upon the sofa by her side.
‘Not yet, Ilfracombe,’ she said archly. ‘I want to speak to you first.
You haven’t said a word to me the whole evening.’
‘Haven’t I, my darling?’ he replied, slipping his arm round her slender
waist. ‘It’s only because all these confounded women never give one
time to put in a syllable. I wish you and I were alone, Nora. I should
be so much happier.’
‘Should you, Ilfracombe?’ she asked, a little fearfully. ‘Why?’
She was so afraid lest he should get jealous of Mr Portland’s intimacy
with her before she had the power to promise him she would never
speak to the man again. But Mr Portland was the last person in Lord
Ilfracombe’s mind. All he was thinking of, was the disastrous fate of
Nell Llewellyn, and wishing he had had the courage to tell his wife
about it before he married her.
‘Because, if we were alone together day after day, we should get to
know each other’s hearts and minds better than we do now, and I should
feel more courage to speak to you of several little things that annoy
me.’
‘Things about _me_, you mean,’ she said in her confident manner, though
not without a qualm.
‘Things about _you_, my angel!’ exclaimed her enamoured husband, with
genuine surprise. ‘What is there about you that could possibly annoy
me? Why, I think you perfection--you know I do--and would not have you
altered in any particular for all the world.’
‘Then why are you so depressed, Ilfracombe?’ said Nora. ‘It is not only
I who have noticed it. Everybody, including your mother and sister,
say the same, and it is not very complimentary to _me_, you know,
considering we have only been married five months, is it?’
Lord Ilfracombe grew scarlet. The moment had come, he saw, for an
explanation, and how could he make it? He feared the girl beside him
would shrink from him with horror if she heard the truth. And yet he
was a man of honour, according to a man’s idea of honour, and could
not find it in his heart to stoop to subterfuge. If he told Nora
anything, he must tell her all.
‘Dearest,’ he said, laying his fair head down on her shoulder, ‘I
confess I have felt rather miserable lately, but it has nothing to do
with you. It concerns only my self and my past life. I have heard a
very sad story since we came home, Nora. I wonder if I dare tell it to
you?’
‘Why should you not, Ilfracombe? Perhaps I can guess a good part of it
before you begin.’
‘Oh, no, no, you cannot. I would rather not think you should. And yet
you are a little woman of the world, although you have been so long
cooped up (as you used to tell me) in Malta. Your father told me, when
I proposed for you, that I must be entirely frank and open with you,
for that girls now-a-days were not like the girls of romance, but were
wide awake to most things that go on in the world, and resented being
kept in the dark where their affections were concerned.’
‘I think my father was right,’ was all that Nora replied.
‘And yet--and yet--how _can_ I tell you? What will you think of me?
Nora, I have been trying so hard to keep it to myself, lest you should
shrink from me, when you hear the truth; and yet, we are husband and
wife, and should have no secrets from each other. I should be wretched,
I know, if I thought _you_ had ever deceived _me_. I would rather
suffer any mortification than know that, and so perhaps you, too, would
rather I were quite honest with you, although I have put it off so
long. Would you, my dearest?’ he asked, turning his handsome face up to
hers. Nora stooped and kissed him. It was a genuine kiss. She had not
been accustomed to bestow them spontaneously on her husband, but she
knew what was coming, and she felt, for the first time, how much better
Ilfracombe was than herself.
‘Yes, Ilfracombe,’ she answered gravely, ‘trust me. I am, as you say, a
woman of the world, and can overlook a great deal.’
‘That kiss has emboldened me,’ said the earl, ‘and I feel I owe it to
you to explain the reason of my melancholy. Nora, I have been no better
than other young men--’
‘I never supposed you were,’ interposed his wife.
‘Ah, wait till you hear all. Some years before I met you, I took a
fancy to a girl, and she--lived in my house. You understand?’
Lady Ilfracombe nodded.
‘Most men knew of this, and your father made it a condition of our
marriage that the whole thing was put an end to. Of course it was what
I only intended to do, but I knew it was my duty to make some provision
for the young woman, so directed Mr Sterndale to tell her of my
intended marriage, and settle a certain sum of money on her. I returned
to England, so happy in you, my darling, as you well know, and looking
forward to spending such a merry Christmas with you, for the first time
in our own home, when I was met with the news that--that--’
‘That--_what_, Ilfracombe? Don’t be afraid of shocking me. Is she
coming to Thistlemere to throw some vitriol in my face?’
‘Oh, no, my darling, don’t speak like that. Poor Nell never would have
injured you or anyone, and it is out of her power to do so now. She is
dead, Nora--dead by her own hand. When she heard the news she went and
threw herself into the river. Can you wonder if I feel miserable and
self-reproachful when I remember that I have caused that poor girl’s
death? that my great happiness has been built up on her despair? Oh,
what did the foolish child see in me to drive her to so rash an act for
my sake? I feel as if her dead face would haunt me to the end of my
life.’
And the earl covered his face with his hands. Nora also felt very much
shocked. Death seems a terrible thing to the young and careless. It
takes sorrow and disappointment and bodily pain to make us welcome it
as a release from all evil.
‘Oh, Ilfracombe,’ she whispered, ‘I am so sorry for you. Death is an
awful thing. But I cannot see it was _your_ fault. You meant to be good
and kind. She expected too much, surely? She must have known that some
day you would marry, and it would come to an end?’
‘That is just what Sterndale said!’ exclaimed the earl joyfully; ‘and
you say the same. You do not spurn me from you, my own darling, because
of the vileness of my former life? Oh, Nora, you are a woman in a
thousand. I have been dreading lest you should find this disgraceful
story out, or hear it from some kind friend. But now my mind will be at
perfect rest. You know the worst, my dearest. There is nothing more for
me to tell. We two are one for evermore,’ and he kissed her rapturously
as he concluded.
Nora shuddered under her husband’s caresses, although they had never
been so little disagreeable to her as now. How she wished she could
echo his words, and say that she, too, had nothing more to reveal.
But those terrible letters; what did they contain? what had she said
in them, or not said, to rise up at any moment and spoil her life? She
had never been so near honouring Ilfracombe as at that moment--never so
near despising herself. But she answered very quietly,--
‘My dear boy, you have told me nothing new. Do you remember a letter
that you received at the hotel a few days after we were married,
Ilfracombe? You left it in the sitting-room, and were terribly upset
because you could not find it, until the waiter said he had destroyed
one which he picked up. He didn’t destroy your letter. It was _I_ who
picked it up, and I have it still.’
‘And you read it?’ said the earl, with such genuine dismay, that it
completely restored Nora’s native assurance.
‘Now, what on earth do you suppose that a woman would do with a letter
of her husband’s that she had the good fortune to pick up?’ she cried,
‘especially a letter from a young woman who addressed him in the
most familiar terms? Why, of course, I read it, you simpleton, as I
shall read any others which you are careless enough to leave on the
floor. Seriously, Ilfracombe, I have known your great secret from the
beginning; and, well, let us say no more about it. I would rather not
venture an opinion on the subject. It’s over and done with, and, though
I’m awfully grieved the poor woman came to so tragic an end, you cannot
expect me, as your wife, to say that I’m sorry she’s out of the way.
I think it is awfully good of you to have told me of it, Ilfracombe.
Your confidence makes me feel small, because I know I haven’t told you
everything that _I’ve_ ever done; but then, you see,’ added Nora, with
one of her most winning expressions of naughtiness, ‘I’ve done such
lots, I can’t remember the half of it. It will come to the surface by
degrees, I daresay; and if we live to celebrate our golden wedding, you
may have heard all.’
But Ilfracombe would not let her finish her sentence. He threw his arms
around her, and embraced her passionately, saying,--
‘You’re the best and dearest and sweetest wife a man ever had, and I
don’t care what you’ve done, and I don’t want to hear a word about it;
only love me a little in return for my great love for you.’
But Lady Ilfracombe knew the sex too well not to be aware that, if
he had imagined there was anything to tell, he would not have rested
till he had heard it; and, as she lay down to sleep that night, all
her former love of intrigue and artifice seemed to have deserted her,
and she wished from the bottom of her heart that she could imitate
the moral courage of her husband, and “leave the future nothing to
reveal.”’