Nora’s voice was so sorrowful, and yet so full of dignity, as she pronounced these words, that Nell’s heart burned within her to listen to them, and she longed to have the power to steal those letters and restore them to her, spite of all Mr Jack Portland’s machinations. And as she sat there she clenched her hands together and said to herself that if it were to be done she would do it. She had not been unmindful of Nora’s kindness when she visited her under the guise of Mrs Lumley, though she had so ill-requited it, and now that she knew who she was, and that it was Ilfracombe’s unloved wife who had had her ring and money flung back in her face, Nell’s generous nature asserted itself, and she inwardly vowed that if she could do her a good turn she would.
‘Why are you so very anxious to get these letters back, especially if there’s nothing in them?’ asked Mr Portland. ‘It’s not because you’re so deuced fond of Ilfracombe that you tremble for his peace of mind surely? You’ve got your coronet out of him, and what on earth do you want more? You are not going to stuff me up with any humbug about your having fallen in love with him, because I sha’n’t believe it if you do. You married him for a settlement—you never left him alone till you had hooked him—and now you’ve got the poor gull fast, what harm can that little packet of letters do him, or you, even if I should take it into my head some day to bring you to order by showing them to him, eh?’
Even in the dim light of the starless sky Nell could see the countess twisting her lace handkerchief nervously about in her hands as she answered her tormentor.
‘Yes, you are right. I married Ilfracombe because I thought it a fine thing to become a countess, and to be presented at Court and have a large fortune and everything that I could require. But I don’t feel like that now. I—I—love him.’
‘You love him!’ echoed Portland, with a coarse laugh; ‘that’s the best joke I ever heard in my life. Do you suppose he cares for you? Why, he only married you because his people were always after him to get rid of poor Miss Llewellyn, and settle down respectably.’
‘Oh, no, no, don’t say that!’ cried the countess in a tone of unmistakable anguish.
‘But I do say it, and I could bring forward dozens of fellows to corroborate my statement. Ilfracombe adored Nell Llewellyn—so did she him. Do you suppose she would have committed suicide else? Would you risk your precious life, or still more precious coronet, for any man on earth?’
‘Yes, I could—for Ilfracombe,’ she answered tremblingly.
‘I can put all that in my eye and see none the worse,’ continued Portland; ‘but, at any rate, your devotion is thrown away. His lordship cares more for Miss Llewellyn’s memory than he does for your living self. You may represent his station in life to him—perhaps, his prospective family—but she was his love.’
‘You are very cruel to me,’ faltered Nora, ‘though perhaps I have deserved your contempt and irony. But no one could live with Ilfracombe and not love him. He is so generous—so considerate—so unselfish, that a woman would be insensible to every good influence not to feel grateful to him in return. And as for poor Miss Llewellyn, you are mistaken if you imagine you have been the first to tell me of his esteem for her, and sorrow for her untimely loss. He has told me all about it himself, and I have sympathised deeply with him. My husband has no secrets from me, as I earnestly desire not to have any from him. Were it not for these unfortunate letters I should have none. But you have tortured me too far, Jack. I throw up the sponge. I shall tell Ilfracombe on the first opportunity of the boasted hold you have over me, and beg him to end it one way or the other. Let him read the letters and do his worst. It can never be as bad as yours. You have made my married life a torment to me by your unmanly threats.’