‘Oh, no, you don’t do that,’ replied Mrs Llewellyn hastily. ‘I’m too proud of getting my handsome daughter back again after so many years to let her go tramping over Usk by herself the first day she is at home. The Owens are sure to be there, and Hetty will be main glad to see us. So put on your hat, Nell, and we’ll be off. I wish you’d something a bit smarter to wear than that big black thing; however, I can’t deny but it suits you all the same.’
So chattering, the old woman trotted off by her tall daughter’s side, until they had reached Mr Tasker’s field. The open-air service had commenced some time when they arrived there. The thirty or forty people assembled had sung several hymns and listened to Hugh Owen’s earnest prayer, and were now engrossed by his address. The young preacher stood upon a bench, his long hair waving in the summer breeze; his eyes fixed upon his small congregation, and his arms stretched out as though to embrace them. He was not so enrapt, though, but that he perceived the approach of Nell and her mother, who took up their stand on the outside of the little group. His pale cheek glowed for a moment, and his heart beat more rapidly, but he soon subdued these feelings and threw his soul once more into the work he had appointed himself to do. He paused for one instant to recover his equanimity, and then proceeded with his discourse.
‘What is the great evil of this world, my friends?’ he said. ‘What is the greatest sin we sin against each other and ourselves? The sin of deceit. We deceive each other in trading—even the smallest grain of cheating, be it the quarter of a quarter of an ounce less in the scales than it should be, is as great a robbery in God’s eyes; as great a wrong to our neighbour; as great a wrong to ourselves, as if it had been a hundredweight! We deceive each other in religion. We go to church or chapel because others do, and others would think us irreligious if we neglected to do so, but we do not tell our neighbours this. We profess that we attend service for the love of God—because we could not be happy without attending; because the duty is a comfort and a delight to us. Can any duty so fulfilled bring any blessing in its train? And many of us are living lies! This seems a hard judgment, but look into your own hearts and say if it is not true! Which of you shows yourself in your true light to the world? Your small meannesses—your hasty tempers—your neglected duties—your backbitings—you put them all aside in public, and let your neighbours think you good mistresses; kind wives and husbands; liberal parents, and faithful friends. But do you imagine you can deceive God—the God of truth, who hates a lie—from whose heaven, we are told, all liars shall be excluded? How many of you now before me could enter that heaven to-day? How many are there who, if their real characters were known—if their secret sins were laid bare—would be received with the love and respect which you all accept as your due? Many a pure and beautiful outside conceals a deceitful soul—many an apparently innocent face is the mask for a guilty conscience; but you cannot deceive your God; He knows every sin you have committed—every wrong thought you have entertained. Is it not strange that what you are not afraid to let your God know you have done, you would not have your neighbour find out for all the world! But which is better, to be rejected of men to-day or of God in the days to come?—to endure a little scorn and contumely now, in a life which can only last at the best for a few years, or to be shut out from God’s love for ever? Think, my dearest friends, of what His love for ever means! For ever and for ever and for ever!—without sorrow, or sickness, or sin—wrapped in the arms of His boundless mercy and protection for all time, and then compare it with the paltry gain of keeping the good opinion of your neighbour here below—one, who probably (if the truth were known) has sinned in like proportion with yourself! If I could only make you realise what God’s love is like, you would, in order to gain it, throw all earthly consideration to the winds and think of Him and of Him only! He loves you as no mortal man can ever love you, and He hates a liar. He has said He will have none of them—that if men will not confess their sins before the world, He will not number them with His elect in heaven; and this confessing includes—’
But here Hugh Owen’s discourse was interrupted by a shrill scream, as Nell Llewellyn fell back in her mother’s arms in a fit of violent hysterics. Of course everyone present (who had been longing for the address to be concluded, that they might renew their acquaintance with her) rushed forward simultaneously to offer their advice, or assistance. But Nell shrunk from them all alike, as she tried to quell the distressing cries that rose involuntarily from her, in her mother’s bosom.
‘Just stand aside a bit and let the poor lass have air,’ said Mrs Llewellyn. ‘She’s so weak and faint after that nasty London, that the walk’s been too much for her. I was afraid it might be, but she was so bent on hearing Hugh Owen preach! There! Nell—there, my lass! try and control yourself, do! Lean on me, and we’ll go slowly home again. I’m main sorry we’ve interrupted your discourse, Hugh, but I hope you’ll go on now all the same! And you must forgive poor Nell! It’s all because she’s so weak and upset like.’
‘I’m sorry she came this evening,’ replied Hugh, who was the picture of distress, ‘but let me take her, Mrs Llewellyn, I am stronger than you are and Nell can lean as hard as she likes, on me!’
But Nell turned her head away, and at this juncture, one of the neighbours, who lived close by, returned with a little chaise drawn by a ragged pony, which he had been to fetch, and putting Nell and her mother in it, he drove them home; and Mrs Llewellyn’s whole care was then directed to getting her daughter into bed, where she trusted she would sleep and recuperate her exhausted strength. But creeping up an hour afterwards to see how she was going on, she found her so ill that she sent for the village doctor, who pronounced her to be in a very critical condition, and before another twelve hours were over her head, Nell was raving in the delirium of a nervous fever.
CHAPTER X.
Lord and Lady Ilfracombe had a pleasant time, yachting in the Mediterranean. The weather was perfect; their companions, Captain Knyvett and Mr Castelton, whom they had invited to accompany them, proved to be agreeable and entertaining; and the Débutante was as luxurious a little vessel as can well be imagined. Nora, who was the only lady on board, fascinated the whole crew, gentlemen and sailors alike. Without being in the least masculine, she was as energetic and as much to the fore as any man aboard. She did not suffer from mal de mer, and had no feminine fads, fancies, or fears. She never failed to appear at the breakfast-table, or to sit up playing cards, or singing songs to her banjo, till the most wakeful among them was ready to turn in. She sat on deck in all weathers, even when they encountered a sharp squall and a downpour of rain. Lady Ilfracombe said she preferred the open air to the saloon cabin, and had her wicker chair lashed to the mast, and sat there, enveloped in her husband’s rough great coat and her own spicy little naval cap with a peaked brim, encouraging the efforts of the sailors, and chatting with her friends, as if she did not know the name of danger. She was always lively, interested, and good-tempered, and a general favourite with everybody. And yet the earl, although he admired and was proud of his wife, did not feel so happy in her possession as he had hoped to do. Nora’s disposition had not altered with marriage. What woman’s ever did? The prudence or coldness which had induced her to refuse her lover, a kiss or an embrace before marriage, extended in a great measure to her behaviour to her husband. Ilfracombe, like many another man in the same position, had imagined her coolness to be due to maidenly reserve, and thought that it would all disappear with wifehood. The greatest mistake men ever make. Of matrimony, it might be written, as the terms on which we are supposed to enter heaven are written of in the Bible, ‘Let the flirt be a flirt still, and the prude be a prude still.’ Marriage is far more likely to cool the ardent, than to warm the cold. And the Countess of Ilfracombe had proved the truth of it. She did not actually repulse her bridegroom, but she only permitted his attentions—she never returned them. The earl was more in love with her than ever he had been, perhaps for this very reason, but he could not help wishing sometimes, with a sigh of disappointment, that she would put her arms round his neck of her own accord, and press her lips to his, with some little show of passion. Perhaps at such moments a memory would come to him, of a perfect mouth that had been used to cling to his with unconcealed rapture, and a pair of white arms that would hold him so closely, that he would unlock them by force, and tell their owner jestingly, that she would squeeze him to death if she did not take greater care. He had enjoyed these things until he had wearied of them, according to the manner of men, and now— He almost thought sometimes that Nora was colder and more distant to him than she had been before marriage, but that seemed an impossibility. She preserved the proprieties in public with the greatest care, was always courteous, and even respectful to him, before company—listened quietly whilst he spoke, and deferred to his opinion in everything. But when they were alone, she was just as courteous, that was all; and if he pressed his attentions on her, was apt to show the least signs of peevishness, or weariness, or sudden illness, which never exhibited itself on other occasions. But men in the flush of a new love are satisfied with very little, and Nora’s indifference only served to keep the flame bright and burning. One day, as she was reclining in her wicker chair, surrounded by her court, she gave vent to the wish that they had brought her favourite sister, Susie, with them, as she was sure she would have enjoyed herself so much.
‘I wish we had,’ acquiesced Ilfracombe heartily. ‘And I wish I had brought my old chum, Jack Portland, with me too! I invited him to come out with me on the Débutante, but that would have entailed his missing the Derby, and I don’t believe Jack would enter heaven, if he had the chance, if the Derby had yet to be run!’