‘Oh, Vernie, she doesn’t love you as I did. Tell me that she doesn’t.’
‘No, dear, no,’ he answered gravely. ‘I don’t think she does.’
‘And you don’t love her as you did me?’ she persisted, and again Lord Ilfracombe was able to answer with truth, ‘No.’
She threw her arms passionately round him and inquired,—
‘When shall we meet again? Where can I see you, Vernie? The minutes will seem like hours till then.’
‘Nellie,’ he said seriously, ‘you know it is impossible that we can meet like this in any safety. I am overjoyed—more overjoyed than I can tell you—to find you are living, whom I have mourned as dead; but I am here only for a few days, and my time is not my own. Were I to say that I would meet you here to-morrow evening, I might be prevented, and you would think me unkind. But you will know that I am thinking of you all the same, and if we meet it will be an unexpected pleasure for us both, eh?’
He spoke kindly, but Nell, with the unerring instinct which love gives to women, read between the lines, and saw, that whatever he might say, Lord Ilfracombe would rather not meet her again in Usk.
‘Yes, you are right,’ she answered slowly. ‘But, oh, it is so hard to see you once, and, perhaps, not again for ages—like a drop of water to a man who is dying of thirst. Oh, Vernie, I must go. This has been heaven to me, but so much too short. Good-bye. God bless you. I will pray every moment that we may meet again.’
She heaved a deep sigh as she pronounced her farewell, and flitted down the grassy slope in the gloaming on her way to the farm again. And someone saw her—Hugh Owen, who had been lingering about the road in hopes of catching a glimpse of Nell, had watched more than half her interview with Lord Ilfracombe. He could not distinguish their words; he was too far off; but he had seen the two figures engaged in earnest conversation—he had seen them approach each other, and guessed the close embrace that followed—and he had seen their parting, and that Lord Ilfracombe watched the tall, graceful shape of his companion till she was out of sight; until, in fact, Nell had entered Panty-cuckoo Farm, and left the young minister in no doubt of her identity.
And what were Ilfracombe’s feelings as he strolled back to Usk Hall? Not entirely pleasurable ones, we may be sure. He could not but be thankful that his worst fears for Nell Llewellyn were allayed, that his conscience was no longer burdened with the thought that his desertion had been the means of her death—but as he became used to this relief, the old sensations regarding her returned, and he could not help acknowledging to himself that her love wearied him—that Nora’s sharpness of temper and standoffishness were as sauce piquante after Nell’s adoration—and that, though he rejoiced to see her alive, he was very sorry they should have met in such close proximity to the house which held his wife. He had had one or two doubts lately as to whether another week of Usk Hall would not suit him very well—now he had none. The sooner they were out of it, the better, and he should speak to Nora to-night about joining his mother’s party at Wiesbaden. She and Nell must not meet again. He should not reveal the identity of the latter to Lady Ilfracombe, but all intercourse must be stopped between them. He was sorry for poor Nell—very, very sorry; but, hang it all, Nora was his wife, and the prospective mother of his children, and at all hazards he would keep her for the future out of the other woman’s way.