‘Oh, stop that rot, do!’ exclaimed Mr Portland elegantly. ‘We can put all that in our eyes and see none the worse for it. It’s the real reason I want to know.’
‘I have no other to give you.’
‘Now, look here, Nora,’ said Jack Portland, turning round short to confront her, ‘I told you very plainly, when we talked business over at Thistlemere, that I would not brook your interference between Ilfracombe and myself. You have not taken my caution, and must be prepared for the consequences. I daresay you have not forgotten them.’
‘Of course not,’ replied Nora coolly, though her heart beat rapidly with apprehension; ‘but in this instance you blame me unfairly. I give you my word of honour—I swear before heaven, if that will please you better—that I have had nothing to do with this change in our plans; indeed, I argued against it. It was entirely my husband’s proposition, and if you want any other reason but the one I have given you, you must seek it from himself.’
‘Very well, we will drop that branch of the argument. But if you did not originate it, you must prevent it. If you choose to do it, it is in your power, and if you do not choose to do it—well.’
He finished off with a shrug of his broad shoulders, the interpretation of which she knew to be, ‘take the consequences.’
‘You mean that you will produce those letters?’ she said quickly.
‘I do.’
‘And if I consent to use my influence to induce Ilfracombe to remain here, what is to be my reward?’
Mr Portland did not immediately answer, and his silence roused her fears. Nora had often questioned herself which would be the best means by which to regain possession of her letters. She had tried force and argument and entreaty, and all three had failed. This cruel wretch kept her under his thumb by the mere retention of that little packet. She was a woman of courage and determination, and by hook or by crook she meant to have it. Had she lived in a more barbarous time, she would have slunk after him as he went to his nightly rest, and stabbed him, without any compunction, in the back, and been pleased to watch his death struggles, and to hiss into his ear at the last that she was revenged. But, however much we may occasionally long to take the law into our own hands, the nineteenth century holds certain obstacles against it. Nora was a woman, also, of finesse and intrigue. She had several times argued whether, in lieu of other ways, she could bring herself to profess a lurking affection for Jack Portland that should bring him once more to her feet, as in the olden days, and make him give for a fancied love what force had no power to wrest from him. This idea flashed into her mind again as she waited for his reply, and felt she would sacrifice everything except her honour to bend him to her will.