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Solution Manual for Engineering Mechanics: Statics &

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1 General Principles
1.1 Mechanics
1.2 Fundamental Concepts
1.3 Units of Measurement
1.4 T he International System of Units
1.5 Numerical Calculations
1.6 General Procedure for Analysis
2 Force Vectors
2.1 Scalars and Vectors
2.2 Vector Operations
2.3 Vector Addition of Forces
2.4 Addition of a System of Coplanar Forces
2.5 C artesian Vectors
2.6 Addition of Cartesian Vectors
2.7 Position Vectors
2.8 Force Vector Directed Along a Line
2.9 Dot Product
3 Equilibrium of a Particle
3.1 Condition for the Equilibrium of a Particle
3.2 The Free-Body Diagram
3.3 Coplanar Force Systems
3.4 Three-Dimensional Force Systems
4 Force System Resultants
4.1 Moment of a Force--Scalar Formulation
4.2 Cross Product
4.3 Moment of a Force--Vector Formulation
4.4 Principle of Moments
4.5 Moment of a Force about a Specified Axis
4.6 Moment of a Couple
4.7 Simplification of a Force and Couple System
4.8 Further Simplification of a Force and Couple System
4.9 Reduction of a Simple Distributed Loading
5 Equilibrium of a Rigid Body
5.1 Conditions for Rigid-Body Equilibrium
5.2 Free-Body Diagrams
5.3 Equations of Equilibrium
5.4 Two- and Three-Force Members
5.5 Free-Body Diagrams
5.6 Equations of Equilibrium
5.7 Constraints and Statical Determinacy
6 Structural Analysis
6.1 Simple Trusses
6.2 The Method of Joints
6.3 Zero-Force Members
6.4 The Method of Sections
6.5 Space Trusses
6.6 Frames and Machines
7 Internal Forces
7.1 Internal Loadings Developed in Structural Members
7.2 Shear and Moment Equations and Diagrams
7.3 Relations between Distributed Load, Shear, and Moment
7.4 Cables
8 Friction
8.1 Characteristics of Dry Friction
8.2 Problems Involving Dry Friction
8.3 Wedges
8.4 Frictional Forces on Screws
8.5 Frictional Forces on Flat Belts
8.6 Frictional Forces on Collar Bearings, Pivot Bearings, and Disks
8.7 Frictional Forces on Journal Bearings
8.8 Rolling Resistance
9 Center of Gravity and Centroid
9.1 Center of Gravity, Center of Mass, and the Centroid of a Body
9.2 Composite Bodies
9.3 Theorems of Pappus and Guldinus
9.4 Resultant of a General Distributed Loading
9.5 Fluid Pressure
10 Moments of Inertia
10.1 Definition of Moments of Inertia for Areas
10.2 Parallel-Axis Theorem for an Area
10.3 Radius of Gyration of an Area
10.4 Moments of Inertia for Composite Areas
10.5 Product of Inertia for an Area
10.6 Moments of Inertia for an Area about Inclined Axes
10.7 Mohr's Circle for Moments of Inertia
10.8 Mass Moment of Inertia
11 Virtual Work
11.1 Definition of Work
11.2 Principle of Virtual Work
11.3 Principle of Virtual Work for a System of Connected Rigid Bodies
11.4 Conservative Forces
11.5 Potential Energy
11.6 Potential-Energy Criterion for Equilibrium
11.7 Stability of Equilibrium Configuration
Another random document with
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 He was just going to call out ‘good-night’ to her, when she came
back rapidly.
‘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.
This is the difference men make between their mistresses and
their wives. The one may be the infinitely better woman of the two,
but the law does not overshadow her, so she must stand like Hagar
apart in the wilderness which she has created for herself.
 CHAPTER III.
When Lord Ilfracombe walked into the lighted drawing-room of Usk
Hall he looked so pale and thoughtful that the ladies began to rally
him at once on his supposed melancholy. Dear me, what could it be?
Who could he have met during his evening ramble to make him look
so grave? Had she failed to keep her appointment, or had she been
unkind? The whole list of little pleasantries with which the fair sex
assail men on such occasions, with the idea of being arch and witty,
was recounted for his lordship’s benefit; but he looked very
disinclined to supply food for their banter. His worry was so pre-
evident that his wife asked him if he had a headache.
‘A little; nothing to speak of,’ he answered quietly.
‘Come along, old man, and have a game at pool,’ said Jack
Portland, in his turn; ‘that will soon chase the vapours away. I expect
it’s Sir Archibald’s port that’s done the job. It’s the most alluring wine
I’ve tasted for many a day.’
‘No, no. I won’t allow it. Nothing of the kind,’ cried the jolly
baronet; ‘there isn’t a headache in a dozen of it. Lord Ilfracombe
hasn’t had enough of it. That’s what’s the matter with him.’
‘I think the sun may have touched me,’ said Ilfracombe feebly; ‘it
has been very hot to-day.’
‘The sun; nonsense!’ exclaimed Mr Portland. ‘I never heard you
give that excuse before, though we’ve been in several hot countries
together. Come along to the billiard-room. You shouldn’t go
wandering away by yourself in this fashion, and thinking over your
sins. It’s enough to give any man the blues. I couldn’t stand it
myself. You’ll forget it before the first game’s over.’
 ‘No, thanks, Jack, not to-night. I don’t feel fit to compete with
your excellent play. I’ll sit here instead and listen to Nora’s singing.’
And he threw himself on a sofa by his wife’s side as he spoke.
‘Ulysses at the feet of Penelope!’ sneered Mr Portland. ‘Well,
Ilfracombe, long as I’ve known you, I never saw you turned into a
carpet knight before.’
‘Only for this evening,’ said the earl lazily, as he settled himself
comfortably on the sofa.
Jack Portland appeared quite aggrieved by his defalcation.
‘Well, come along Sir Archibald and Lumley and the rest of you
fellows. Don’t let us waste our time looking at his lordship doing the
lardi-dardi. He owes me my revenge for the “fiver” he made me
disgorge last night; but I suppose it’s no use trying to get it out of
him now.’ And, with a rude laugh, he left the room.
Ilfracombe lent back against the shoulder of his wife, and said,—
‘Sing something, darling, won’t you? Something low and sweet,
like “Come to me.” My head is really painful, and I want soothing to-
night.’
‘I will sing anything you like,’ replied Nora, as she rose and went
to the piano.
Her voice was not powerful, but she had received a first-rate
musical education in Malta, and was an accomplished drawing-room
singer. She ran through about half a dozen songs, one after the
other, accompanying herself with a delicacy of touch and artistic
expression which was more than half the battle. Ilfracombe listened
to her with a dreamy pleasure, but all the time he was cogitating
which would be the best plea on which to induce Nora to leave Usk
Hall. He was determined not to run the risk of her meeting Nell
Llewellyn again; but she was rather a wilful little lady, and wanted to
know the why and the wherefore of everything. She had asked him
not to go to Wales, and he had insisted on doing so—she had
begged they should not exceed the week for which they had
accepted the invitation, and he had told her but the day before that
he wished to remain as long as Jack did. Now, he had to invent
some excuse for leaving directly—what should it be? He was not a
bright man; had he been so he would have known by this time that
with Nora honesty was decidedly the best policy, because she was
not easily deceived; and had he told her the truth, she would have
been the first to wish to go. But he had a poor idea of women. He
fancied that if his wife heard of the proximity of his former mistress
there would be a ‘row’—that Nora would not be able to resist
flaunting her triumph in the other woman’s face, nor Nell of telling
his wife how far he had forgotten his duty to her in the pleasure and
relief of finding that she (Nell) lived. Ilfracombe was a chivalrous
gentleman; but it was not in his nature to love as either of these two
women (whom he so much distrusted) loved him. But he managed
to lay down a plan of action, as he lounged on the sofa listening to
his wife’s singing, and as soon as they were alone he opened fire.
‘Nora,’ he said abruptly, ‘I’ve made up my mind to leave the Hall.
How soon can you be ready?’
As he had anticipated, Lady Ilfracombe required to know the
reasons which had induced him to alter his plans.
‘Do you mean to go at once?’ she questioned. ‘Why, it was only
yesterday that you promised Lady Bowmant to stay until Mr Portland
left. Has he altered his plans also, or do you intend to leave without
him?’
‘What difference can that make to you?’ he said fretfully. ‘I have
always thought that you rather disliked Jack than otherwise.’
‘My likes or dislikes have nothing to do with the matter,
Ilfracombe, or we should not be here at all,’ she answered. ‘All I
want to know is, why we are going so suddenly, and what I am to
say to our hostess.’
‘Say, why, anything. Surely you are clever enough to invent an
excuse without my assistance? Pretend to have received a letter
from my mother, who desires us to join her without delay, or get a
relation to die for the express purpose. Nothing can be easier to a
clever girl like you.’
‘Oh, I can tell as many lies as you wish, Ilfracombe; and as for
going I shall only be too delighted to get away. Only it is not treating
me fairly to keep me so completely in the dark. Something must
have happened to make you so anxious to be off. Now, do tell me,’
she continued, as she seated herself upon his knee, ‘you know I’m
as safe as a church. Have you a row on with Portland or any of the
others? Or are Lady Bowmant’s attentions becoming altogether too
warm? I gave her free leave to make love to you, so you mustn’t
judge her too hardly.’
‘No, my dear, don’t be ridiculous; it’s nothing of that sort. But—
well, to make a clean breast of it, Nora, the play is awfully hot here;
enough to break the Bank of England, and I think it’s gone on quite
long enough. Why, I should be almost afraid to tell you how much
money I have lost since coming here. We have an ample fortune;
but, as you have often told me, no fortune will bear such a continual
strain on it for long. And it’s impossible to refuse playing with one’s
host. So I have decided that the sooner we are out of it the better.’
‘You are right,’ said his wife, thoughtfully. ‘I was afraid of this all
along. It sounds dreadfully vulgar, I know, but Usk Hall is in reality
no better than a private hell. But what will your fidus Achates, Mr
Portland, say to our going so suddenly?’
‘Let him say what he likes,’ replied the earl quickly. ‘I can’t be
always answerable to him for my actions. We’ll go straight from here
to Wiesbaden and join my mother. No one can reasonably find fault
with that.’
‘No one has a right to find fault with anything you may do,’ said
Nora, though her curiosity was aroused by hearing her husband
speak so curtly of the opinion of his closest friend; ‘and I’m with you,
Ilfracombe, for one. When do you think we can start? The day after
to-morrow? That will be Thursday.’
 ‘Couldn’t we manage it to-morrow morning?’ asked the earl
anxiously. ‘You received some letters by this afternoon’s post. Say
you didn’t open them till bedtime, and then found one from my
mother, begging us to join her at once as she is ill. Make Denham
pack your trunks to-night, and send word of your intentions to Lady
Bowmant the first thing in the morning. Can’t you manage it?’
‘Oh, Ilfracombe, what an arch deceiver and plotter you would
make,’ cried the countess, laughing; ‘but, really and truly, I don’t
think we can be off quite so soon as that. I’m not sure we should
get a train to London to suit us. Besides, unless the dowager were
dying, such extreme haste would look very suspicious.’
‘Well, let her die then. You know what I mean. Say the old lady is
in extremis, and we can easily revive her as soon as we get over to
Wiesbaden.’
‘But what is the necessity for such extraordinary haste?’
demanded Nora. ‘It cannot only be because you have lost money
over this visit. Surely the delay of a day or two cannot make much
difference in comparison with running the risk of offending people
who have honestly wished to give us pleasure? You know what my
opinion has been all along, Ilfracombe, that Mr Portland leads you
into a great deal of folly, and I shall be but too thankful if this is the
end of it; still we owe something to the hospitality of the Bowmants;
and now we are here, I cannot see what harm a day or two more
can do us.’
The earl saw that he was worsted in the argument, so he
contented himself with begging his wife to make arrangements to
leave Usk as soon as she could, determining inwardly not to lose
sight of her if possible till she had done so. The announcement next
morning of their intended departure gave general dissatisfaction.
The Bowmants declared they had not seen half the beauties of the
surrounding country, and that they had just made arrangements for
a picnic party, and a dance, and a lot of other gaieties. Nora
expressed her sorrow at the necessity of cutting their visit short; but
the earl said little, and gave one the impression that the sudden
determination had not originated with himself. Jack Portland, for
one, took it so, and seized the first opportunity he could to speak to
Nora on the subject.
‘Well, my lady,’ he commenced, ‘and so this is your doing, is it?—
your little plan for dragging Ilfracombe from the jaws of the sharks.’
‘I don’t understand you,’ said Lady Ilfracombe.
‘Oh, yes, you do. This sudden idea of leaving the Hall emanated
from your fertile brain alone. Ilfracombe had no idea of it yesterday.
He told me he was enjoying himself up to date, and should remain
here as long as I did. But you got hold of him last night and forced
the poor fellow to follow your lead. I see through it all as plain as a
pikestaff.’
‘Then you are utterly mistaken, Mr Portland. I had nothing to do
with it. My husband told me yesterday that he wished to go, and it
was with some difficulty that I persuaded him not to leave this
morning. But that would have seemed so rude to the Bowmants.’
‘But what is at the bottom of it?’
‘You heard me tell Lady Bowmant that we have received a letter
from Wiesbaden, to say that—’
‘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.
‘What is to be my reward?’ she repeated, ‘if I do as you ask? Will
you give me the packet?’
Unwittingly he played into her hands.
‘What is to be my reward if I do?’ he asked.
In a moment Nora had made up her mind. If the great stake at
issue, a stake the winning of which meant to secure the happiness
of her whole life, was to be won by finesse, she would put forth all
the finesse in her power to gain it, never mind what the
consequences might be. So she looked at him coquettishly and said,
like the arch actress he had once called her,—
‘What reward do you want, Jack, besides the condition you have
already named?’
‘Come, that’s better,’ said Mr Portland. ‘I haven’t seen a smile like
that on your ladyship’s face for many a day. What I want is, a little
more affectionate interest from you, Nora, a little more cordiality to
your husband’s best friend, a little more familiarity with him before
other people, that they may see he is enfant gaté du maison! I am
sure you understand me. Also, that you can comply with my wishes
if you chose. Be more like what you were in Malta, and I shall feel
my reward is equal to my sacrifice.’
‘And the sacrifice, Jack?’ she continued, ‘that is to be delivering
up the letters you hold of mine.’
‘Certainly, if you care to have them. Now, Nora, I will make a
bargain with you,—you shall have your letters as soon as ever you
consent to fetch them with your own fair hands.’
‘To fetch them?’ she echoed wonderingly.
‘To fetch them. Did I not speak plainly? They are over at Panty-
cuckoo Farm with my other things. If you will come to my room this
evening, I will engage to deliver your letters to you myself.’
 He thought she would have repudiated the proposal as a fresh
insult, but, to his surprise, she answered firmly,—
‘I will come, if these are your only conditions, Jack, I agree to
them. It is a risqué thing to do, but I will do it. I trust to your honour
too implicitly to be afraid of your permitting any scandal to accrue
from the act. And if you fulfil your promise, Ilfracombe shall stay on
at Usk Hall as long as you do. Is the bargain sealed?’
‘It is,’ replied Mr Portland, with the utmost surprise.
He had not entertained the faintest idea that Nora would agree to
visit him at Panty-cuckoo Farm. Was it possible she still retained an
inkling of affection for him, and had her constrained manner since
her marriage been a blind for her real feelings? Men are so conceited
where the beau sexe is concerned, that Jack Portland, bloated and
disfigured as he was by excess and dissipation, was yet quite ready
to believe that the Countess of Ilfracombe had been unable to resist
the feelings raised in her breast by meeting him again. He had made
the proposal that she should fetch her letters herself, because he
thought she would guess from that, that he had no intention of
giving them up to her; but when she consented to do so, he
determined to make her secret visit to him one more terror by which
to force her to influence her husband as he should direct. Now, he
hardly knew what he should do. She was coming, that was the
extraordinary part of it. Without any pressing or entreaty, the
Countess of Ilfracombe was actually coming over to his room at
night, to secure her packet of letters. Well, it was the very ‘rummiest
go’ he had ever heard of in his life before.
‘You must be very careful that you are not seen to leave the Hall,’
he said to her.
Now that she had agreed to come, he began to wish he had
never said anything about it. What if his dear friend Ilfracombe got
wind of the matter? Would not that render his wife’s efforts on Mr
Portland’s behalf futile ever afterwards? The earl was very suave and
easily led; but Jack Portland knew him too well to suppose he would
ever forgive an offence against his honour. If Nora’s good name
were compromised by his nearest and dearest friend, that friend
would have to go, if the parting broke his heart. Added to which Mr
Portland had no idea of getting into even an imaginary scrape for
Lady Ilfracombe; he did not like her well enough. He regarded her
only as a convenient tool in his hands which he had no intention of
letting go.
‘Perhaps, after all,’ he said cautiously, ‘you had better not risk it. It
would be a risk, you know, and it would be awkward to have to give
Ilfracombe an explanation of the affair, wouldn’t it?’
‘I shall be careful to run no risk,’ was her reply.
‘But suppose some of the farm people should see you, what
excuse could you make for being there?’
‘I should make no excuse at all. I have as much right as other
people, I suppose, to take a moonlight ramble. What time shall I
meet you? It must not be too late, as I must go upstairs when the
other ladies do.’
‘That is not very early, as a rule,’ said her companion; ‘let us say
midnight. Ilfracombe will be safe in the card or billiard-room at that
time, and not likely to notice what you are about.’
‘And how will you manage to leave the party without
observation?’
‘Oh, I shall trust to chance; but you may be sure I shall be there.
And—and—if you fail me, Nora, why, I shall understand that you
value your reputation more than you do—me, or your husband’s
good opinion, because in that case—’
‘I understand. You need not recapitulate. But I shall not fail you.
It will seem quite like old times having an assignation with you, Jack.
Do you remember the night I met you down by the landing-place at
Valetta, and that horrid man Pietro followed me all the way, and only
showed his ugly face just as I had reached your side? I always
believed that it was Pietro who betrayed us to papa, for he was
sometimes very impertinent in his manner to me afterwards. Oh,
and have you forgotten the time when you took me out in a boat
and we got caught in a squall, and had to put in to shore, and
remained nearly the whole day away in a little estaminet? What a
fearful row papa made about it, and I had to pretend I had been
alone, though I don’t think he believed me. Papa certainly did hate
you, Jack, though I never could understand why. I suppose it was all
the money, or, rather, the lack of it.’
And here Nora heaved a most deceitful sigh.
‘Do you ever regret that there was any obstacle between us?’
asked Mr Portland persuasively. ‘Do you think you could have been
happy as Mrs Jack Portland, if Ilfracombe had not come between
us?’
‘Why, of course, I told you at the time I should,’ said Nora.
‘Ah, well, perhaps things are better as they are,’ replied her
companion; ‘for I don’t think you were ever cut out for a poor man’s
wife; you are too pretty and dainty and refined, my lady, for that.
And if you had been miserable, I should have been so also. And so
you really like me well enough still to meet me at the farm this
evening, and fetch your dear little letters. I shall be so glad to have
you for a few moments to myself. It will seem quite like the dear old
times. Here, I can never say half a dozen words to you without as
many old cats prying into our faces. Well, au revoir, my dear, be
punctual, as our time will be limited—twelve o’clock to-night. I had
better not stand talking to you any longer now.’
‘I will be there,’ answered the countess mechanically, as she
turned round and walked another way.
 CHAPTER IV.
Hugh Owen was in a burning rage. From the high road he had
witnessed Nell’s meeting with the Earl of Ilfracombe, and he put the
worst construction upon what he saw. Because this young man was
a minister, it must not be supposed that he was naturally amiable
and good. On the contrary, he possessed a very high temper, and at
times an ungovernable one, and it was raging now. He had
perceived a marked difference in Nell lately. She was not the same
girl who had confessed her grievous fault to him in Panty-cuckoo
Farm, nor promised so sweetly to follow his fortunes to South Africa
in the Long Meadow subsequently. For a little while after the latter
event, she had been very subdued and gentle with him, as though
she were contemplating the serious step to which she had
conditionally pledged herself; but since the folks had returned to Usk
Hall, she had declined either to walk with him or talk with him. Her
old feverish, excitable manner had seemed to return, though Hugh
had not liked to connect it with the fact of the Hall being occupied
until the fatal moment when he was passing by Sir Archibald’s field
and witnessed Nell and the earl in close conversation. Who could she
be talking with? What could she have to say to him? Why were their
faces so close together? These were the questions that haunted
poor Hugh for hours afterwards, and to which he could find no
satisfactory solution. He could not trust himself to confront Nell as
she went back to the farm—he was afraid of what he might say to
her—so he resolved to sleep over it, if the restless, miserable,
disturbed slumbers which followed his discovery could be called
sleep. But on the next day he felt he must know the reason of what
he had seen. The remembrance of it came between him and his
duties. He would not be able to preach and pray with an earnest and
single heart until it had been relieved of the awful doubt that
assailed it. So, the day after, he set forth for the farm, and found
Nell, for a wonder, alone and free to receive him. The fact is, she did
not dare go out, as she had been used to do lately, for fear of
encountering Lord Ilfracombe in the company of his wife or friends.
She felt as if she could not bear the sight—as if she should proclaim
her right to him before all the world. And that would make him
angry—he, who loved her still above all other things; for so had she
interpreted his words of the night before. She had been in a state of
beatification ever since, and her mother knew no more what to
make of her present mood than she had done of her previous one. It
would be difficult to say what Nell expected or believed would come
of the interview which had made her so happy. Apparently she had
given herself no time to think. She knew perfectly well that her
intimacy with Ilfracombe was over and done with, and that
thenceforward she could have no part nor lot in him or his affairs.
She knew she should never enter his house again, nor associate with
his acquaintances, nor enjoy any of his good things. Yet she felt
supremely happy. To understand her feelings, one must not only be
a woman—one must be a woman who has loved and lost, and found
that whatever the loss, the love remained as it was. Women have
greater faith than men, as a rule, in the unseen and the
compensation of an after life. They think more of the heart than of
the body of the creature they love, and give them the hope of a
reunion in another world—of retaining the eternal affections of the
man they care for; and they will try and content themselves with the
thought of the future. Far better that, they say, than his
companionship on earth, whilst his heart is the property of some
other woman. The earl had managed to deceive Nell so well without
intending to deceive her, that she was already disposed to pity Lady
Ilfracombe, who could only lay claim to his worldly goods. As she
had told him, ‘Say you love me best of all the world, and the other
woman can have your title and your money.’ She had sat indoors all
day dreaming over the unexpected happiness that had come to her
—recalling in fancy every word he had uttered, every look he had
given, every kiss he had pressed upon her happy mouth. The
wretched interval that lay between them had vanished like a dream.
She had forgotten the abject misery with which she had received the
news of his marriage, the despairing attempt at suicide that followed
it, her return home, and the apathetic existence she had led since—
all had disappeared under the magic touch of love. She was no
longer Nell o’ Panty-cuckoo Farm, as the neighbourhood called her;
she was Lord Ilfracombe’s housekeeper, the woman he had chosen
to be the mistress of his home. She was his love, his lady, his daily
companion. She looked with a kind of pathetic curiosity at the print
dress she wore, at the simple arrangement of her chesnut hair, at
her ringless fingers and wrists unadorned by bangles. They had all
gone—the silks and satins, the golden combs and hairpins, the
jewels and laces; but he remained, the pride and jewel of her life.
‘Vernie’ loved her.
It was so wonderful, so delightful, so unexpected, that her head
swam when she thought of it. She was just considering whether she
might not venture to stroll up the long fields again that evening—
whether ‘Vernie’ might not come out as he had done the evening
before in hopes of meeting her, when Hugh Owen raised the latch of
the farmhouse door and walked unceremoniously in. His entrance
annoyed Nell. It disturbed her beautiful reverie, put to flight all her
golden dreams, and made her fear lest his visit might be prolonged
so as to interfere with her plans. The welcome he received,
therefore, was not, to say the least of it, cordial.
‘Neither father nor mother are at home, Hugh,’ she said, as she
caught sight of him, ‘and I’m just going out. You’ve come at an
unlucky moment.’
‘So I always seem to come now,’ he answered; ‘but I have a word
or two to you, Nell, that can’t be put off; so I must ask you to listen
to me for a few minutes first.’
‘They must be very few, then, for I’ve got work of my own to do,’
she replied.
‘It’s the work you do that I’ve come to speak to you about,’ said
the young man, ‘and I claim the right to do so. I was sauntering up
and down the road last night, Nell, in the hope of catching sight of
you, when I saw you cross the meadow over there and meet a man
and talk to him for better than half an hour. Who was he?’
Nell flared up in her impetuous manner at once.
‘And what business is that of yours?’ she exclaimed.
‘Why, every business in the world! Whose should it be but mine?
Haven’t you promised to be my wife?’
‘No!’ cried the girl boldly.
‘No? What! not in the Long Meadow behind father’s house?’ he
returned in astonishment.
‘I said if my people ever emigrated—which they never will do—
that I would go with them as your wife; but that was only a
conditional promise, and I’ve altered my mind since then. I shall
never be anybody’s wife now.’
‘If I saw rightly last night, Nell, perhaps it will be as well. Who
was the gentleman you met and talked with for so long? What is he
to you? Where have you met him before? What had you to say to
him?’
‘Which of your questions will you have answered first?’ asked Nell.
‘And what is it to you who I choose to talk to? Are you my master, or
am I a child to be catechised after this fashion? I shall see and
speak to whom I like, and I refuse to say anything more about it.’
‘Nell,’ said Hugh in a sorrowful voice, ‘when you told me your
history I was truly sorry for you. I thought what a terrible thing it
was that such a respectable girl should lower herself to the level of
the lowest of her sex; but I believed it was a misfortune—a step into
which you had been led with your eyes shut—and that you regarded
it with horror and loathing. I must have thought so, you know, or I
should never have proposed to make you my wife.’
‘Well, and what is all this tirade leading to?’ said Nell.
She felt sorry for Hugh, but not a bit ashamed of herself, and the
impossibility of explaining the matter to him made her irritable and
pert.
‘To a very sorrowful conclusion, Nell. I have seen, ever since this
party of gentlemen and ladies came to the Hall, that you are altered.
You have become restless and uneasy; you have refused to walk out
with me any more; and you have avoided my company. I can only
put two and two together, and draw my conclusions from that. I
have often heard it said that if once a woman is led astray to lead
what people call a “gay life,” she is never contented with a quiet,
domestic existence again, but I was loath to believe it of you, who
seemed so truly sorry for the past and all the shame and disgrace it
had brought you. But what am I to think now? I see you with my
own eyes meet a man who looked to me in the gloaming like a
gentleman, and talk familiarly with him, and yet you won’t tell me
his name, nor what your business was with him.’
‘No, I won’t,’ she replied determinedly, ‘because it is no concern of
yours.’
‘But I say it is my concern, and the concern of everybody that has
an interest in you, Nell. Where there is deceit there must be wrong.
Do your father and mother know this gentleman, and of your
meeting him? Did you tell them?’
‘I did not, and I shall not. It is my private affair, and I shall keep it
entirely to myself.’
The young man rose indignantly.
‘Then I’ll tell you now what I didn’t like to mention before, and
that is that I saw him kiss you. I am sure of it from the closeness
with which he held you. Oh, for shame, Nell, for shame!’
‘And what if he did?’ cried Nell, with crimson cheeks; ‘that also is
my business and not yours.’
‘Your business, yes, and you may keep it so!’ exclaimed Hugh
Owen hotly, as his eyes blazed with anger. ‘I see you now, Nell
Llewellyn, in your true colours, and would to God I had known you
from the first. Your penitence was all assumed, put on to catch an
unwary fool like myself, because there was no one better within
reach. Your sorrow, too, for the loss of your lover was another sham,
easily consoled by the kisses of a stranger. You are not a true
woman, Nell. You are unfit for the love or consideration of any
honest man. You are an outcast and a wanton, and I will never
willingly speak to you again.’
‘I will take good care you don’t,’ cried Nell in her turn. ‘I have
more powerful friends than you think of—friends who will not see
me insulted by a common farmer’s son. I know I promised
conditionally to be your wife, but I did it for your sake, not my own.
I should have hated the life—the very thought is distasteful to me.
So never think of me in that light or any light again. I break off with
you from this moment. The man I met last night is worth ten
thousand of you. I value his little finger more than your whole body.
I would rather beg my bread with a gentleman than sit on a throne
with a clod like you. Now you have the whole truth. Make what you
like of it.’
‘Oh, stop, stop. In mercy to yourself, stop,’ cried the young man,
as with both hands clapped to his ears he ran out of the house.
Nell felt rather subdued when left to herself. She was not quite
sure how far she had betrayed her secret, or if she had said
anything in her wrath to lead to Lord Ilfracombe’s identity. But on
revision she thought not. Hugh did not know the name of her former
lover—he had not heard those of the guests at the Hall. There was
no chance of his gaining a knowledge of the truth. And, as for the
rest, it was just as well he had seen for himself that they could
never be more to each other than they were at present. And then
she resolved into another of the pleasing day-dreams from which his
entrance had disturbed her. Her father and mother came bustling in
after a little while full of complaints and anxiety. One of their best
cows had shown symptoms of dangerous illness, and every remedy
that the farm could boast of was set in motion at once.
‘Come, my lass,’ cried Mrs Llewellyn, as she entered the parlour,
‘you must bestir yourself and help me. Father and I are in sad
trouble. Bonnie is as bad as she can be, and if we can’t stop the
symptoms she’ll be dead before the morning. Ay, but misfortunes
never seem to come single, what with the raising of the rent and
other troubles. I’ve set Betty to put on all the hot water she can, and
we must choose the oldest blankets we have for fomentations. Bring
the lamp with you, Nell, I want to find the proper medicines in
father’s chest.’
The girl snatched up the light, and followed her mother to where
Mr Llewellyn kept a chest full of veterinary drugs.
‘That ain’t it, and that ain’t it,’ the old woman kept on saying as
she pulled bottle after bottle to the light. ‘Ah, I think this is the stuff
that cured Daisy last year.
She pulled out the cork with her teeth, and tasted a little of the
brown, nauseous-looking mixture, but spat it out immediately on the
floor. ‘God save us, that’s the lotion for the sheep’s backs, deadly
poison. Don’t you ever touch that, my girl. It’ll take the skin off your
tongue in no time.’
‘Am I likely?’ remonstrated Nell seriously; ‘but suppose you had
given it to the poor cow by mistake? Why don’t you label it plainly
“Poison,” mother, and then there would be no fear of an accident?’
‘Ay, my lass, that’s a good thought. Don’t put it back, Nell, but
carry it to your bedroom and put it a-top of the wardrobe. It will be
safe enough there, and when we’re a bit less busy you shall write a
label for it. It’s arsenic, I believe. I know last year father gave a drop
or two by mistake to one of the cats that was bad in its inside, and
the poor beast was dead in a few minutes. This is the cows’ mixture,’
said Mrs Llewellyn, pulling out a second bottle from the recesses of
the old trunk. ‘Not dissimilar looking, are they? but, Lor’, what a
difference in their effects. This is some of the finest stuff we ever
had, made from a receipt of farmer Owen’s. Take it down to father
at once, Nell, for he’s in a hurry for it. and I’ll fetch the blanket. And
don’t forget to put the other a-top of your wardrobe,’ she called out
after her daughter.
 The poor cow was very bad, and for some hours the whole
household was occupied in providing remedies and applying them.
When ten o’clock struck, and the animal was pronounced to be out
of danger, Nell was regularly tired out, and hardly inclined to sit
down to supper with her parents, but the farmer would not hear of
her leaving them.
‘Come on, lass,’ he said; ‘I’ve news for you, only this bothering
cow put it clean out of my head. Grand news, Nelly. You’ll never
guess it, not if you tried for a twelvemonth.’
Nell returned to the table, white and scared looking.
‘News about me, father?’ she said.
‘Well, not about you exactly, but that concerns you all the same.
Now, who do you suppose has come to the Hall, and is staying along
of Sir Archibald?’
Then she knew he had heard of Lord Ilfracombe’s arrival, and set
her teeth, lest she should betray herself.
‘How should I know, father?’ she said tremblingly. ‘I haven’t been
near Mrs Hody for the last week. Is it the prince whom they
expected?’
‘The prince, be d—d!’ exclaimed the farmer. ‘What’s the value of a
foreign prince beside one of our own English noblemen? I wouldn’t
give you that for the prince,’ snapping his fingers. ‘No; it is
somebody much better and higher. It’s your old master, the Earl of
Ilfracombe, and his lady. What do you think of that?’
‘The Earl of Ilfracombe!’ echoed Nell, in order to gain time. ‘But
who told you, father?’
‘Jackson, the coachman, to be sure, who drove them both home
from the railway station, and who should know better than he? He
says the earl is a fine-looking young man, as fair as daylight, and his
lady is a nice, pretty creature too. I thought I should surprise you,
Nell. You’ll be wanting to go up to the Hall to see ’em both, now,
won’t you?’
 ‘Oh, father, why should I go to see them? His lordship won’t want
to see me. Most likely he’s forgotten my very name.’
‘Well, Nell, I am surprised to hear you talk so!’ exclaimed her
mother. ‘It don’t look as if you knew much about the gentry, who are
always glad to see servants as have behaved themselves whilst in
their service. But perhaps you’re afraid the earl is annoyed with you
for leaving him so suddenly, and just as he was bringing home his
bride. Is that it?’
‘Perhaps so, mother,’ said the girl, looking very much confused.
‘Ah, I was always doubtful if there wasn’t something queer about
your coming back so suddenly, and so I’ve told your mother,’
remarked Mr Llewellyn dubiously. ‘But if it was so, why, you must go
over to the Hall to-morrow morning and ask his lordship’s pardon;
and perhaps mother, here, can find some little thing as you could
take up as an offering for his lady. Can you, mother?’
‘Oh, I daresay,’ replied Mrs Llewellyn, ‘she might fancy a pen of
our Minorca fowls or Cochins. I suppose they’ve a fine farm down at
Thistlemere, Nell?’
‘Yes, I suppose so. But, mother, I cannot go and see them, or
take Lady Ilfracombe any presents. It will seem like intrusion.
They’ve not asked to see me, and I’m only a discharged servant,
after all.’
‘Rubbish! Nonsense! What are you talking about?’ exclaimed the
old farmer angrily. ‘A discharged servant! Why, didn’t you tell mother
and me that you gave his lordship warning yourself? Haven’t you
told the truth about your leaving? Is there anything hid under it all
as we know nothing about? Come, now, no more secrets, if you
please; let us have the plain truth at once, or I will go up the first
thing in the morning and see his lordship myself.’
‘Lor’, father, don’t be so hard on the lass!’ exclaimed his wife.
‘You’ve turned her as white as a lily with your noise. What should be
under it, except that the maid wanted to come home? And time
enough, too, after being three years away. Don’t you mind him, Nell,
my girl. He’s just put out and cranky about the cow. If you don’t
want to see his lordship, why, no more you shall. Here, sup up your
beer and get to bed. I don’t half like the way in which you flushes on
and off. It’s just how my sister’s girl went off in a waste. You sha’n’t
be worried to do anything as you don’t wish to, take my word for it.’
‘That’s how you fools of women go on together, without a thought
of the business, and how it’s going to the devil,’ grumbled her
husband. ‘Here’s Lord Ilfracombe come here, as you may say, in the
very nick o’ time, and Nell the very one to ask a favour of him, and
you cram her head with a pack o’ nonsense about not going near
him. Sir Archibald is going to raise the rent, and send us all to the
workhouse, when a word from his lordship might turn his mind the
other way, especially if Nell put it to him, on account of her long
service and good character, and you tell her not to do it. Bah! I’ve no
patience with you.’
‘Oh, that’s a different thing,’ quoth the old woman. ‘If Nell can get
Lord Ilfracombe to plead with Sir Archibald on our account, why, of
course, she’ll do it, for her own sake as well as for ours; won’t you,
my lass?’
‘Plead with Lord Ilfracombe!’ cried Nell hysterically. ‘No, no,
indeed, I cannot. What has he to do with Sir Archibald’s rents? He is
only a guest in the house. It would be too much to ask. It would
place him in an unpleasant position. I would not presume to do such
a thing.’
Both her parents rounded on her at once.
‘Well, of all the ungrateful hussies as I ever saw,’ said her father,
‘you’re the worst. You come home to see your poor parents toiling
and moiling to keep a roof above their heads, and nigh breaking
their hearts over the raising of the rent and the idea of having to
leave the old homestead, and you refuse even to speak a word to
save them from starvation.’
‘Well, I never did!’ cried her mother. ‘Here you’ve been home for
nearly a year, and no more use than a baby, what with your London
training and your illness, and your fid-fads and the first thing as your
poor father asks you to do for him you downright refuse. I didn’t
think it of you, Nell, and I begin to fear, like father, that there must
be something under it all as you’re afraid to let us know.’
‘But I shall know it for all that,’ said the farmer; ‘for I’ll see this
fine lord with the break of day, and ask him downright under what
circumstances you left his service. If he’s a gentleman, he’ll answer
the question, and give me some sort of satisfaction. I won’t put up
with this sort of treatment from you no longer, my lass, and so I give
you plain notice.’
‘Very well. Do as you like. It’s all the same to me,’ cried Nell, as
she rose from the table and rushed from the room.
Her sleeping apartment was over the lodgers’ rooms, and as she
reached it she locked the door and flung herself on the bed, face
downwards, in an agony of apprehension. What was going to
happen next? she asked herself. What was to be the next scene in
her life’s tragedy? Would her irate father force the truth from the
earl, or would he guess it from his embarrassment? Would the story
come to the ears of the countess, and make mischief between her
husband and herself? There seemed to be no end to the horrors that
might happen from her father having gained knowledge of the
proximity of her former employer. And if he confided his doubts to
Hugh Owen, or any of the Dale Farm party, might not he add his
quota to the chapter of horrors by relating what he had witnessed in
the field the night before?
Poor Nell could get no rest that night for thinking of these things,
and wondering how she should come out of them all.
She rose after a while and bathed her burning and swollen eyelids
in cold water, and took a seat by the open casement and out-gazed
into the calm, peaceful night. The air was warm and balmy, but
there were few stars, and the moon was in her first quarter.
How long she had sat there she did not know, till she heard the
church clock chiming the hour of twelve, and thought to herself that
it was time she lay down on her bed. But just as she was about to
do so, her attention was arrested by the figure of a woman walking
slowly and furtively over the grass beneath the window.
Nell did not know who she was, nor what she came for; but not
unnaturally supposing that she would not be there at that time of
night unless she needed the assistance of her mother or herself in
some sudden emergency, she waited quietly until the stranger
should knock or call out in order to summons her. To her surprise,
however, the woman did not go round to the principal entrance to
the farmhouse, but lingered about the grass-plat, walking backwards
and forwards, and occasionally glancing over her shoulder in the
direction of the Hall.
Nell’s curiosity was now fully aroused, but she made no sign to
arrest the attention of the visitor. On the contrary, she drew further
back from the window, so as to be entirely concealed by the dimity
curtain that shaded it. From this vantage-ground she presently saw
the woman joined by a man, who she at once recognised as Mr
Portland. Nell’s first feeling was indignation that he should presume
to make her mother’s house a place of assignation; but when he
commenced to talk, she could only listen, spellbound.
 CHAPTER V.
‘And so you have kept your word, my lady,’ he said nonchalantly.
‘Had you any doubt that I should do so?’ she answered.
‘It would not have been the first time if you had broken it,’ was
the sarcastic rejoinder.
‘Now, look here Jack,’ said the woman, ‘you have not brought me
here at this time of night to upbraid me for the inevitable past,
surely? You must know that I run a fearful risk in coming here. You
must know also that only one object on earth would have brought
me. Be merciful as you are great, and don’t keep me fooling my time
away in order to listen to your platitudes. Isn’t the subject of our
former relations with each other rather stale?’
‘It will never be stale to me, Nora,’ replied Mr Portland; ‘and the
melancholy fact that you preferred Ilfracombe to myself is not likely
to make me forget it.’
‘Ilfracombe!’ thought Nell, from her post of observation, ‘can this
really be the countess? Oh, how grossly she must be deceiving him.
Prefer Ilfracombe to him! Why, of course it must be she. I will hear
every word they say now, if I die for it.’
‘That is nonsense,’ resumed Nora, ‘you never really cared for me,
Jack; and if you did, the sentiment has died long ago. Don’t let us
twaddle, pray, but come to business.’
‘I thought the twaddle (as you call it) was part of our business,
but I am willing to let it drop. What has your ladyship to say next?’
‘I want to ask you something which I have been afraid to mention
with so many eavesdroppers as we have round us at the Hall. You
knew that chère amie of Ilfracombe’s—Miss Llewellyn—of course.’
 ‘I did. Everyone who knew him knew her. What of it? Are you
getting up a little jealousy of the dead for future use?’
‘Don’t talk nonsense. Am I the sort of woman to go raving mad
on account of my husband’s former peccadilloes? But what became
of her?’
At this juncture Nell became keenly attentive. She thrust her head
as far as she dared out of the window, and did not lose a single
word.
‘By Jove! no,’ laughed Portland, ‘I cannot imagine your ladyship
being jealous of anything, or anyone who had not the power to take
your beloved coronet from you. But surely you know what became
of the poor girl? She is dead. She drowned herself when Ilfracombe
sent home word that he was about to marry you, and told old
Sterndale to give her “the genteel kick out.”’
‘Poor child,’ said the countess, compassionately, ‘it was very
terrible, if true. But what proofs were there of her doing so? Was the
body ever found?’
‘I believe not. But don’t talk of it, please. I had a sincere regard
for Miss Llewellyn, and the thought of her dreadful end makes me
sad.’
‘You feeling for anyone of your fellow-creatures, Jack?’ replied
Nora incredulously. ‘You must have been very hard hit. But I really
want to know if there was any doubt of her death. I have a
particular reason for asking.’
‘I heard there was no doubt. That is all I can tell you, Lady
Ilfracombe.’
‘What was she like, Jack?’ urged Nora.
‘Very handsome indeed, more than handsome, beautiful; with the
most glorious golden chesnut hair imaginable, and large hazel eyes,
with dark brows and lashes, and a straight nose and good mouth
and chin. A lovely figure, too, tall and graceful, though with large
hands and feet. A remarkable-looking young woman, Nora, and it is
a feather in your cap to have driven her memory so completely from
Ilfracombe’s heart.’
‘But I am not sure that I have driven it. Ilfracombe is very touchy
on the subject now, and cannot bear her name to be mentioned. But
I tell you what, Jack, she is no more dead than I am, for I have seen
her.’
‘My God! Where?’ exclaimed Mr Portland excitedly.
‘Why, in this very house. Don’t you remember Sir Archibald telling
us that the young woman who stopped Lady Bowmant’s cobs must
have been one of the Llewellyns? I came over here the same
afternoon to see her and thank her more particularly than I had
been able to do, and if the girl I saw is not Nell Llewellyn, I’ll eat my
hat. She answers to your description exactly.’
‘You don’t mean to say so! It never entered into my calculations. I
had made so sure that she was gone. Have you mentioned your
suspicions to Ilfracombe?’
‘No fear. I’m not such a fool as I look. Why should I raise up all
the old feelings in him, just as he is settling down so nicely with me?
But I should like to know it is true, and to know for certain. It is a
dreadful thing to have a girl’s death at one’s door. So I thought I
would tell you, and you could find out for me.’
‘I will make a point of doing so, but I’m afraid you are labouring
under a mistake. There was so little doubt of Miss Llewellyn’s death.
The young woman you have seen may be a sister, or other relation.
It is worth while inquiring.’
‘But don’t compromise Ilfracombe in doing so. He particularly
begged me not to mention his name when I called here, in case they
might be of the same family. But I mustn’t stay longer, Jack, so
please let me have the letters.’
‘All right. But you must come and fetch them.’
‘Well, I am here, safe enough.’
 ‘Perhaps, but the letters are not here. They are in my despatch-
box in my room.’
‘Go and bring them then.’
‘The bargain was that you were to fetch them, Nora.’
‘But not to enter your room, Jack. I cannot do that. It is
impossible. I refuse.’
‘Then you can’t fetch the letters, my lady.’
‘And have you brought me here to play me such an unfair trick as
that? You knew that I could not enter your room? It would be risking
the happiness of my whole future life. Supposing Mr Lennox were to
return suddenly, and find me closeted there with you? You want to
ruin me. I shall do no such thing.’
‘You know now that you are only quibbling, Nora—only fighting
with the inevitable. You will not rest till you have those letters in
your own hands. You have told me you would give half your fortune
to get them, and yet you refuse to pass the threshold of my room.
What nonsense. You must devise some others means by which to
procure them then, for I will not go back from my word. I said you
should have them if you would fetch them, and now that they are
within your reach, you refuse to stretch out your hand and take
them. Very well, it is not my fault. You must return without them.’
Nora thought a minute, and then said,—
‘What time is it?’
‘Half-past twelve,’ replied her companion. ‘They will not break up
over there for another hour and a half.’
She knew she was as much within this man’s power as if he held
the proofs of some great crime which she had committed. She did
not exactly remember what her foolish letters to him contained; but
she was sure there was sufficient love-sick folly in them which, aided
by his inuendoes, and even falsehoods, might bring everlasting
disgrace upon her, to say nothing of Ilfracombe’s serious displeasure
which she dreaded still more. To lose her husband’s trust and
confidence and respect—perhaps his love—was too terrible a
contingency in the young countess’s eyes. She had been guilty of a
fearful social error in going to the farm at all; she knew that, but
now she was there, would it not be better to comply with Jack
Portland’s conditions, hard as they might be, than to return to the
Hall, having played her escapade for nothing.
‘Where are the letters?’ was the next question she asked him.
‘I have told you. In my despatch-box.’
‘But where is the box?’
‘On a table just within the door.’
‘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.