‘All I want is to get rid of you,’ she cried. ‘I have always disliked you, and now I hate you like poison.’
‘Much obliged, I’m sure,’ he said, as he left the room. But he revenged himself for the affronts she had put upon him as he went downstairs.
‘You must tell the women to look after poor Miss Llewellyn,’ he whispered to the footman, who let him out, ‘for I have been the bearer of bad news to her.’
‘Indeed, sir?’ said the man.
‘Yes, though it is the best possible for all the rest of you. Your master is about to be married very shortly to a young lady in Malta. There will be high jinks for all of you servants when he brings his bride home to England, but you must know what it will mean for her,’ jerking his thumb towards the upper storey.
‘Well, naturally,’ acquiesced the footman with a wink.
‘She won’t be here long, but you must make her as comfortable as you can during her stay. And you are welcome to tell the news everywhere. It’s no secret. I’ve a letter from the earl in my pocket to say he will bring her ladyship home in time for the Christmas festivities at Thistlemere. Good morning.’
‘Good morning, sir,’ echoed the footman, and rushed down to the servants’ hall to disseminate the tidings.
Meanwhile Nell, with her limbs as cold as stone, and all her pulses at fever heat, was dashing off the impassioned letter which Lord Ilfracombe received a few days after his wedding.
‘My darling, my own,’ she wrote, heedless of who should see the letter,—‘Mr Sterndale has just been here to tell me you are thinking of getting married. But it is not true—I don’t believe it—I told him so to his face. Oh, Ilfracombe, it cannot be true. Write to me for God’s sake as soon as you receive this, and tell me it is a lie. The old man has said it to make me miserable—to try and get rid of me. He has always hated me, and been jealous of my influence over you. And yet—he showed me a letter in your handwriting, or what looked just like it, in which you said that it was true. My God! is it possible? Can you seriously think of deserting me? Oh, no, I will not believe it till you tell me so yourself. You could not part with me after all these years. Darling, think of the time when you first saw me at Mrs Beresford’s, when she brought you up into the nursery to see her little baby, and I was sitting on a footstool before the fire nursing it. I stood up when you and my mistress entered, but instead of looking at the baby, you looked at me. I overheard Mrs Beresford chaff you about it as you went downstairs again, and you said,—“Well, you shouldn’t have such lovely nursemaids then.” I was only twenty, dearest, and with no more sense than a town-bred girl of sixteen. I dreamed of those words of yours, and I dreamed of you as the noblest and handsomest gentleman I had ever seen, as indeed you were. And then you began to call at Mrs Beresford’s two and three times a week and to meet me in the park, until that happy day came when you asked me if I would leave my place and be your housekeeper in Grosvenor Square. I thought it was a grand rise for me, and wrote and told my people so; but even then I didn’t guess at what you meant or that you loved me in that way. Ilfracombe, you know I was an innocent, good girl when I first came to this house, and that I shouldn’t have ever been otherwise had you not persuaded me that if our hearts were truly each others our marriage would be as lasting as if we had gone to church together. I believed you. I knew it was wrong, but I loved you and I believed you. Oh, my own only darling, don’t desert me now. What is to become of me if you do? I can’t go back to my own people. I am no longer fit to associate with them. You have raised me to the dignity of your companionship. You have unfitted me for country life, and how can I go out to service again? Who would take me? Everybody knows our history. I have no character. Darling, do you remember the time when you had the typhoid fever and were so ill, we thought that you would die. Oh, what a fearful time that was. And when you recovered you were going to marry me, at least you said so, and I was so happy, and yet so afraid of what your family would think. But you had quite made up your mind about it, till Mr Sterndale heard you mention the subject and talked you out of it. You never told me, but I guessed it all the same. I never reproached you for it, did I? or reminded you of your promise. I knew I was no fit wife for you—only fit to love and serve you as I have done, gladly and faithfully. How can you marry another woman when I have been your wife for three long, happy years? Won’t the remembrance of me come between you and her? Won’t you often think of the many, many times you have declared you should never think of marrying whilst I lived—that I was your wife to all intents and purposes, and that any other woman would seem an interloper. Oh, Ilfracombe, do try and remember all these things before you perpetrate an action for which you will reproach yourself all your life. I know your nature. Who should know it so well as I? You are weak and easily led, but you are sensitive and generous, and I know you will not forget me easily. Dearest, write to me and tell me it is a lie, and I will serve you all my life as no servant and no wife will ever do. For you are far more than a husband to me. You are my world and my all—my one friend—my one hope and support. Oh, Ilfracombe, don’t leave me. I live in you and your love, and if you desert me I cannot live. For God’s sake—for the sake of Heaven—for your honour’s sake, don’t leave me,—Your broken-hearted