‘What letters did you say?’ asked Nell curiously.
‘J. S. P., my dear. John something, I suppose. However, it don’t matter to us, so long as they don’t make too much noise when they come home at night. There was one gentleman we had once who was dreadful. He wasn’t content with singing all sorts of songs as soon as he got into his room, but he must go for dancing, and he used to make such a row and keep it up so late, that at last father and I could stand it no longer, and were obliged to speak to Sir Archibald. There was no rest for anyone, and when you have to be up at five o’clock, that’s no joke. So Sir Archibald was very good about it, and sent us a quieter gentleman instead.’
But Nell had heard nothing of her mother’s discourse. She was kneeling down by the portmanteau marked J. S. P., and examining it all over.
‘What do you see there, my lass?’ said Mrs Llewellyn. ‘What’s the matter with it? Anything gone wrong?’
‘No, mother, nothing—nothing,’ replied the girl, as she rose to her feet again.
She was wondering what there was in the stranger’s portmanteau that seemed so familiar to her—where she could have seen it before—for what name the initials J. S. P. stood? The intermediate letter prevented her grasping the truth at once. She had never associated it with the other two. But something about the luggage seemed to bring an old memory with it, and made her feel uneasy. Could it possibly belong to someone whom she had met in Grosvenor Square? or at Thistlemere?—anyone who might recognise her as having been in Lord Ilfracombe’s household? The thought made her turn cold with apprehension.
‘Both these bundles of shawls can’t belong to one gentleman, Nell,’ said her mother presently. ‘Come and take one into the other room. Ay, but that’s a beauty. And what a pretty plaid, too—green and orange and blue. Wouldn’t I like just such another to keep my feet warm when father drives me to market at Newport. Carry it carefully, lass. Don’t let the straps get loose, or maybe the gentleman will be annoyed.’
But Nell had already let the plaid of green and orange and blue fall to the ground. She recognised it now; she recognised the initials also. They both belonged to Mr John Portland. The thought made her head whirl. She sat down on the floor to recover herself.
‘Eh, Nell, my lass, but you’re faint,’ cried her mother. ‘Don’t sit on the bed, child, for mercy’s sake. You’ll ruin the look of the sheets; but get into the parlour as quick as you can. Why, what ails you? You were looking ever so well this morning.’
‘Yes, mother, and I’m all right now,’ said Nell, as she made an effort to raise herself. ‘The day’s warm, you know, and I’m only a little tired. I’ll be better when I’ve had my dinner. I don’t think there’s anything more to be done to the rooms now, so I’ll go and look after my own,’ and so she escaped to the shelter of her bedroom. But when she had time to consider the scare she had received, she was ready to call herself a fool for having been frightened so easily.