And with a wave of her hand, she drove away to Grosvenor Square.
Her maid was waiting up for her, all consternation to find she had left the house without calling in her assistance.
‘Dear me, ma’am!’ she exclaimed, as she knelt down on the floor of Miss Llewellyn’s bedroom to unbutton her dainty boots, ‘to think you could go out, and me not to dress you. When John told me you had left the house, and not even taken the carriage, you might have knocked me down with a feather. And in this dress and mantle, too! Dear, dear, wherever did you go? Not to the theatre, surely?’
‘Yes, I did,’ responded her mistress. ‘I took some young friends from the country with me to the Adelphi; and you see, Susan, the fact is, they are not used to fashionable dressing, so I thought I would not make them feel uncomfortable by being smarter than themselves.’
‘Many ladies think the same,’ remarked the maid; ‘though I don’t hold with it, for it’s a real pleasure to look at such dresses as yours, even if one can’t have ’em for oneself.’
She spoke rather more familiarly than servants usually do to their mistresses, for she knew perfectly well, though she dared not say so openly, that Miss Llewellyn was not a gentlewoman any more than herself, but it was, she thought, to her profit to appear to think so. The Court favourite is generally the object of adulation and sycophancy until her reign is over. But Ellen Llewellyn had been accustomed to subservience for so long now that she had almost forgotten that it was not hers by right. It was only at times that the truth was borne in upon her that she held the luxuries of life on an uncertain tenure. Her maid undressed her, and put her blue cashmere dressing-gown about her shoulders, and would have hovered around her for an indefinite period, chattering of every bit of news she had heard that day, but Miss Llewellyn was in no mood to indulge her, and dismissed her at last rather abruptly. She wanted to be alone to ponder over the surprise she had had that afternoon—to dream again of Panty-cuckoo Farm; to wonder how the dear old garden looked under the July sun; if her mother had aged much during the last five years; whether her father’s figure was more bent and his steps feebler—above all, she wanted to communicate her thoughts to someone who would sympathise with them. She felt too excited to rest, so she took up her pen again and finished the letter in the writing of which she had been interrupted that afternoon by her sister’s arrival.
‘I had written thus far, my dearest, when I was interrupted by the appearance of my little sister Hetty, from Usk, and her husband, William Owen, when I never even knew that they were married. Oh, Ilfracombe, I was so surprised! They have come up to town for their wedding trip expressly to see me, so I felt compelled to show them some attention. But I was so nervous! I hurried them out of the house as soon as I could, and took them to the Adelphi; and there, who should spy us out but Mr Portland, who would keep on talking to me of you till I was fairly obliged to run away from him. What a fool he must be to speak so openly before strangers. I could have boxed his ears! Oh, I never feel safe or happy except when I am by your side. How very glad I shall be when you come home again. Then you will take me up to Abergeldie with you for the shooting, won’t you? Till then I shall not stir. How could I enjoy myself at a watering-place all alone? I have seen nothing of Mr Sterndale yet, and cannot imagine what he should have to say to me. We never had much in common; indeed, I regularly dislike him. He always looks at me so suspiciously as if he thought I was a wretched harpy, like some women we know of, and cared for nothing but your money and your title. Instead of which I love you so dearly that I could almost wish you were a ruined costermonger, Ilfracombe, instead of the grand gentleman you are, that I might prove my love by working for you and with you. Ah, if I only could do something to return all your goodness to me; but it is hopeless, and will never be. You are too high above me. All I can do is to love you.’
And with much more in this strain the letter ended. The excitement that had been engendered in Nell by seeing friends from home had been continued by writing her feelings to the man she loved; but now that it was over, and she lay down on her bed, the natural reaction set in, and she turned her beautiful face on her pillow and shed a few quiet tears.
‘Oh, how I wish Ilfracombe were here,’ she sobbed. ‘He has been away four months now, and my life is a desert without him. It is hardly bearable. And if Hetty or William should hear—if by chance anyone who knows it, like that officious Jack Portland, should come across them and mention it, and they should tell mother, it would break her heart and mine too. If he would only have the courage to end it, and do what’s right. But it’s too much to expect. I must not think of such a thing. I have always known it was impossible. And I am as certain as I am that there is a heaven that he will never forsake me; he has said it so often. I am as secure as if I were really his wife. Only this world is so hard—so bitterly, bitterly hard!’
And so Nell cried herself to sleep.