‘All I want is to get rid of you,’ she cried. ‘I have always disliked you, and now I hate you like poison.’ ‘Much obliged, I’m sure,’ he said, as he left the room. But he revenged himself for the affronts she had put upon him as he went downstairs. ‘You must tell the women to look after poor Miss Llewellyn,’ he whispered to the footman, who let him out, ‘for I have been the bearer of bad news to her.’ ‘Indeed, sir?’ said the man. ‘Yes, though it is the best possible for all the rest of you. Your master is about to be married very shortly to a young lady in Malta. There will be high jinks for all of you servants when he brings his bride home to England, but you must know what it will mean for _her_,’ jerking his thumb towards the upper storey. ‘Well, naturally,’ acquiesced the footman with a wink. ‘She won’t be here long, but you must make her as comfortable as you can during her stay. And you are welcome to tell the news everywhere. It’s no secret. I’ve a letter from the earl in my pocket to say he will bring her ladyship home in time for the Christmas festivities at Thistlemere. Good morning.’ ‘Good morning, sir,’ echoed the footman, and rushed down to the servants’ hall to disseminate the tidings. Meanwhile Nell, with her limbs as cold as stone, and all her pulses at fever heat, was dashing off the impassioned letter which Lord Ilfracombe received a few days after his wedding. ‘MY DARLING, MY OWN,’ she wrote, heedless of who should see the letter,--‘Mr Sterndale has just been here to tell me you are thinking of getting married. But it is not true--I don’t believe it--I told him so to his face. Oh, Ilfracombe, it cannot be true. Write to me for God’s sake as soon as you receive this, and tell me it is a lie. The old man has said it to make me miserable--to try and get rid of me. He has always hated me, and been jealous of my influence over you. And yet--he showed me a letter in your handwriting, or what looked just like it, in which you said that it was true. My God! is it possible? Can you seriously think of deserting me? Oh, no, I will not believe it till you tell me so yourself. You could not part with me after all these years. Darling, think of the time when you first saw me at Mrs Beresford’s, when she brought you up into the nursery to see her little baby, and I was sitting on a footstool before the fire nursing it. I stood up when you and my mistress entered, but instead of looking at the baby, you looked at me. I overheard Mrs Beresford chaff you about it as you went downstairs again, and you said,--“Well, you shouldn’t have such lovely nursemaids then.” I was only twenty, dearest, and with no more sense than a town-bred girl of sixteen. I dreamed of those words of yours, and I dreamed of you as the noblest and handsomest gentleman I had ever seen, as indeed you were.