‘Will you go in first and get them out, and then I will cross the threshold and take them from you.’
‘Are you so terribly afraid of me as all that, Nora?’
‘Not afraid of you or any man,’ she answered haughtily, ‘but afraid of compromising my good name. It is too fearful a risk. Anything might happen. Mr Lennox might return, or the people of the house come down, or—or— Oh, Jack, if you ever loved me the least little bit, don’t ask me to do more than I have done.’
He appeared to be satisfied with her excuse, for Nell saw him leave her side and disappear into the house. In another minute the countess, who had stood looking anxiously after him, seemed to have received his signal, for she cautiously followed him. Then there was a silence of several minutes, during which Nell listened eagerly to hear what passed, but no sound reached her ear. The next thing she saw was the figure of Lady Ilfracombe, who left the house hurriedly, and, throwing herself down on the grass, burst into tears. It was a rare occurrence for Nora to lose command of herself, but to-night she felt utterly worsted and broken down. She had built so many fair hopes on this venture, and now she found herself as far from obtaining her wishes as ever.
‘You are a brute!’ she exclaimed, as Jack Portland joined her; ‘a false and merciless brute! You have lured me here under false pretences, and in order to get me only more surely in your toils. You knew you were deceiving me—you knew the letters were not there—you persuaded me to enter your room against all my better judgment, in order that I may compromise myself, and be more your slave than before. But there must be an end put to it some day. I will not go on being laughed at by you for ever. I defy you to do your worst. Show Ilfracombe those letters, as you have so often threatened, and I will take good care the day you do so is the last you ever spend under any roof of mine.’
‘Softly, softly, my lady,’ said Portland; ‘aren’t you going a little too fast, and making a little too much noise over this business? I give you my word of honour that I fully believed that interesting packet of letters was in my despatch-box.’
‘Your word of honour!’ repeated Nora, disdainfully, as she rose from her despairing attitude and stood up, wiping her wet eyes; ‘how long have you possessed the article?’
‘Now, Nora, none of your sneers, if you please,’ said Jack Portland; ‘don’t be foolish, and make a regular quarrel of this matter. Let me tell you this—that so long as you insult me on every occasion I shall never give you back those letters. After all, they are legally mine, and you have no right to demand their restoration. If I return them, it will be as a favour; and people do not, as a rule, grant favours to ladies who call them liars and scoundrels and cheats for their pains. And now, had you not better go back to the Hall? I have shown you what I can do by bringing you here, and I don’t mean to do anything more for you to-night. When you have learned how to coax and wheedle a little, instead of bully and storm, perhaps you may persuade me to give you back those much-longed-for letters.’
The countess seemed to be perfectly subdued. To those who knew her as she generally was, and especially to the man before her, the change in her voice and demeanour would have seemed a marvel.
‘Yes, I will go,’ she replied in a meek tone; ‘but I should like to have a few words with you first, Jack. I cannot think what has changed you so; but you are not the same man you were at Malta. Still, I do not think you can have quite forgotten that time when we first met, and thought we loved each other. It was my father, Sir Richard Abinger, who separated us, as you know well, and even if he had not done so, I do not think you would have wished to marry me, for you had no income, and I should only have been a great burden to you. So, is it quite fair, do you think, to visit the fact of our parting on my head, especially now that I am married to another man? Those letters of mine—written to you when I considered we were engaged lovers—I daresay they are very silly and spooney, and full of the nonsense people generally write under such circumstances; but I cannot think there is anything compromising in them, as you would lead me to believe. I feel sure, if I were to show them to my husband, he would forgive and absolve me from all thought of wrong. But will you not spare me such an act of self-humiliation? Cannot you be man enough to forgive a girl who has never done you any harm for having caused you a little mortification? Will you not do so—for the sake of Malta and the time when you thought you loved me?’