by Ellen Wood
Jane knew how idle was the threat; how often it was hurled at the unhappy Pompey. Before she could say a word, her father had begun again.
“The idea of your sending for me to Pembury! Just like you! As if, when you had come so far, you could not come on to Chesney Oaks. It’s my house now — and yours. You never do things like any one else.”
“I did not care to come on, papa,” she answered in a low tone. “I thought — I thought Lady Oakburn might be here, and I did not wish to meet her just now. I have brought very bad news. I thought, too, of the fever.”
“There’s no danger from that; the poor fellow’s lying in the other wing. And Lady Oakburn’s not here; but what difference it would make to you if she had been, I should be glad to know. And now, what have you got to tell me? Is the house burnt down?”
Jane looked at the steward, who was standing aside respectfully. He understood the look — that she wished to be with her father alone — and turned to his new master.
“Shall I come in again by-and-by, my lord?”
Lord Oakburn nodded acquiescence. He had slipped as easily and naturally into his new position as though he had been bred to it. As the son of the Honourable Frank Chesney, he had seen somewhat of all this in his youth. Jane had not. Although reared a gentlewoman, she had always been only the daughter of a poor naval officer.
The room they were in, plain though it was as compared with some, bore signs of luxury. The delicate paper on the walls, the gilded cornices, the rich carpet into which the feet sank, the brilliant and beautiful cloth covering the centre table. Lord Oakburn had been shown to it that morning for breakfast, and he intended to make it his sitting-room during this his temporary sojourn in the house. How things had changed with him! And, but for the terrible escapade of the previous night, what a load of care would have been removed from Jane’s heart. No more pinching, no more miserable debts, no more dread of privation for her dear father.
She untied her bonnet-strings, wondering how she should break it to him, how begin. Lord Oakburn pushed the steward’s papers into a heap as they lay on the costly cloth, and turned to her, waiting. “Now, Jane, why don’t you speak? What is it?”
“It is because I do not know how to speak, papa,” she said at length. “I came myself to see you because I thought none could break the news to you so well as I: and now that I am here I seem as powerless to do it as a child could be. Papa, a great calamity has overtaken us.”
The old sailor, whatever his roughness of manner, his petty tyranny at home, loved his children truly. He leaped to the conclusion, in spite of Pompey’s denial, that something bad had arisen from Lucy’s hands. He believed, now he saw Jane and her emotion, that no slight misfortune had brought her.
“The obstinate villain! Not to tell me! And you, Jane, why do you beat about the bush? Is the child dead?”
“No, no; it is not Lucy, papa; her hands are going on quite well. It — it is about Laura.”
Lord Oakburn stared. “Has she fallen through a window?”
“It is worse than that,” said Jane in low tones.
“Worse than that! Hang it, Jane, tell it out, and have done with it,” he cried in a burst of passion, as he stamped his foot. Suspense to a man of his temper is not easy to bear.
“Laura has run away,” she said.
“Run away!” he repeated, staring at Jane.
“She quitted the house last night. She must have been gone when you left it. Don’t you remember, papa, you called to her and she did not answer? Not at first — not until it was too late to do anything — did I know she had run away.”
No suspicion of the truth dawned on Lord Oakburn, and Jane seemed to shrink from speaking more plainly. Compared with what he had dreaded — the death of Lucy — this appeared a very light calamity indeed.
“I’ll run her,” said he. “Where has she run to? What has she run for?”
“Papa, she has not gone alone,” said Jane, looking down. “Mr. Carlton is with her.”
“What?” shouted the peer.
“They have gone off to be married, I fear. There can be no doubt about it.”
A pause of consternation on the part of the earl, and then the storm broke out. Jane had never witnessed anything like it. He did not spare Laura, he did not spare Mr. Carlton; a good thing for both offenders that they were not within his reach in that moment of passion.
Jane burst into tears. “Oh, papa, forgive me,” she said. “I ought to have told you less abruptly; I meant to tell you so; but somehow my powers failed me. I am so grieved to be obliged to bring you this pain.”
Pain! yes, it was pain to the honest old sailor, pain of the keenest description. His beautiful daughter, of whom he had been so proud! His passion somewhat subsided, he sat down in a chair and buried his face in his hands. Presently he looked up, pale and resolute.
“Jane, this makes the second. Let her go as the other did. Never mention her name to me again, any more than you mention that other.”
And Jane felt all the more sad when she heard the injunction “that other;” an injunction which she should not dare to break. She felt it all the more keenly because she had been confidently hoping that her father’s new rank as a peer of England would cause the barrier of silence as to “that other” to be raised.
A dinner hastily served was brought in, and when she had partaken of it, with what appetite she had, she proceeded to the station at Pembury to return home, conducted to it in all the pomp and state that befitted her new position as the Lady Jane Chesney.
But on poor Jane’s heart as she was whirled back to Great Wennock, there rested a sense of failure as to the expedition of the day. If she had only contrived to break it better! she thought in her meek self-reproach. It never occurred to this loving daughter that Lord Oakburn was just the man to whom such things cannot be “broken.”
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE RETURN.
THE weather seemed to have taken an ill-natured fit and to be favouring the world with nothing but storms of hail and rain. The flight of Mr. Carlton and Laura Chesney had taken place on a Wednesday evening, and on that day week, Mr and Lady Laura Carlton returned to South Wennock in some such a storm as the one in which they had departed from it. They had been married in Scotland, and had since solaced themselves with a few days’ tour, by way of recompense for the mishaps attending their flight, but the weather had been most unpropitious.
Mr. Carlton’s servants had enjoyed a week of jubilee. Orders had been received from that gentleman, written the day after his marriage, to have everything in readiness for the reception of their mistress; but the house had been so recently put in order on the occasion of the arrival of the new furniture, that there was really nothing to do; a little impromptu work, chiefly in the kitchens, they had in a charwoman to perform, taking holiday themselves.
But on this, the Wednesday night, they had resumed duty again, and were alike on their best behaviour and in their best attire to receive their master and new mistress. A post-carriage was ordered to be at the Great Wennock station to await the seven o’clock train, and the servants looked out impatiently.
When a carriage is bringing home people from a wedding, it generally considers itself under an obligation to put forth its most dashing speed. So argued Mr. Carlton’s servants; therefore, long before half-past seven, they were on the tiptoe of expectation, looking and listening for the arrival as the moments flew by.
The moments flew, however, to no purpose. No one arrived. Eight o’clock struck, and half-past eight struck, and the servants gazed at each other in wonderment as to what could be the cause of the delay.
Ben, the surgery boy, went out to the front gate, inserted the tips of his boots between the upright iron wires, and stood there taking a little riding recreation, which he accomplished by swinging the gate backwards and forwards. There was no troublesome household authority at hand, either Hannah or Evan, to box his ears and send him off, so he enjoyed his ride as long as he pleased,
whistling a popular tune, and keeping his eyes fixed in the direction of the town.
“I say,” cried he, to a butcher-boy of his acquaintance, who passed on his way home from his day’s work, “do you know what makes the train so late to-night?”
“What train?” asked the young butcher, stopping and gazing at Ben.
“The seven train to Great Wennock. It ought to have been in a good hour ago.”
“It is in,” said the boy.
“It isn’t,” responded Ben. “Who says it is?”
“I says it. I see the omnibus come in with my own eyes. Why, it’s on its road back again to take the folks to the nine train.”
Indisputable evidence to Ben’s mind. He jumped off the gate and dashed indoors, without the ceremony of saying good night to his friend.
“I say, the train’s in; it has been in ever so long,” he cried to Hannah and the others.
“No!” exclaimed Hannah.
“It has, then. Bill Jupp has just told me. He see the omnibus coming back at its time with his own eyes.”
“Then something has detained them,” decided Hannah, “and they won’t be here to-night.”
Quite comforting assurance. A whole night’s further holiday! “Let’s have supper,” said Sarah, the additional maid who had been this week engaged by Hannah according to her master’s written directions.
“I say, though,” cried Ben, “there’s another train. Bill Jupp saw the omnibus going back again for it.”
“That don’t come from their way, stupid!” corrected Hannah. “The trouble I’ve had, laying out their tea and things in the diningroom, and all to no purpose!” she added crossly.
Of course, their master and mistress not being, home to tea or supper, there was all the more reason why the servants should enjoy theirs. And they were doing so to their hearts’ content, sitting over a well-spread table, at which much laughter prevailed, and rather more noise than is absolutely necessary for digestion, when a loud ring startled them from their security.
“My goodness!” exclaimed Hannah. “If it should be them, after all! What on earth — get along, Evan, and open the door! Don’t sit staring there like a stuck pig.”
Thus politely urged, Evan sprang out of the kitchen and into the hall. He opened the front door with a swing grand enough to admit a duke, and found himself confronted with nothing but a woman and a bundle.
A large awkward bundle, which appeared to have been put hastily together, and was encased by a thick old shawl to protect it from the rain. The bearer was Judith. She passed Evan without ceremony or preface, and dropped the bundle on a chair in the hall.
“Why, what’s that?” exclaimed Evan in surprise, who did not recognize Judith. In fact, he did not know her.
“Can I speak a word to Lady Laura Carlton?” was the answer. Evan looked at the woman. Hannah, who had come into the hall, looked also; the boy Ben pushed himself forward and took his share of looking.
“I come from Cedar Lodge, from Lady Jane Chesney,” explained Judith, perceiving she was unknown. “These are some of Lady Laura’s things; but her trunks will be sent to-morrow.”
Hannah cast a contemptuous glance at the bundle. She thought it rather an unceremonious way of forwarding an instalment of a bride’s wardrobe. In truth, Judith felt the same herself, but there was no help for it.
On the day of Laura’s marriage, subsequent to the ceremony, she had written a half-penitent note to Jane for the escapade of which she had been guilty, and stated that the ceremony had taken place. In this was enclosed a wholly penitential letter to her father. The superscriptions, “Captain Chesney, R.N.,” and “Miss Chesney,” proved that Laura was in ignorance of their accession to higher rank. Jane had forwarded the note to her father at Chesney Oaks, and he had flung it into the fire unread. Her own letter she did not dare to answer, for she had been strictly forbidden to hold further communication of any sort with her offending Sister. The late earl’s funeral took place on the Monday; Lord Oakburn returned to Cedar Lodge on the Tuesday; and on the Wednesday morning there arrived another letter from Laura to Jane, stating that she and Mr. Carlton purposed to be at South Wennock on Wednesday evening, and begging Jane to send her things to her new home, to await her arrival at it, especially a certain “light silk dress.”
“Not a thread of them,” cried the earl, bringing down his stick decisively when Jane spoke to him. “She shall have no clothes sent from here.”
“But, papa, she has nothing to wear,” pleaded Jane. “She did not take with her as much as a pair of stockings to change.”
“So much the better,” fumed the earl. “Let her go barefooted.” But Jane, considerate even for the offending Laura, and for the straits she would be put to without clothes, ventured to appeal to her father again in the course of the day. Not until evening would the earl unbend. And then, quite late, he suddenly announced that the things might go, and that the sooner the house was rid of them, the better.
It was then eight o’clock. Jane hastily put some things together, the light silk dress particularly mentioned, and a few other articles that she deemed Laura might most need, and despatched Judith with them, charging her to see Lady Laura privately, and to explain how it was that the things had not been properly sent, and could not be sent, now, before the morrow. Hence it was that Judith stood in Mr. Carlton’s hall demanding to see its new mistress.
“They have not come yet,” was the reply of Hannah, given crustily.
“Not come!” repeated Judith. “My lady told me they were to return by the seven o’clock train.”
“And so they sent us word, and there’s the tea laid ready in the dining-room, but they haven’t come. The train’s in long ago, and it haven’t brought them.”
“Well,” said Judith slowly, considering how much to say and how much to withhold, “will you tell your lady that we were not able to send her things to-day — except just these few that I have brought — but that the rest will all be here to-morrow. I am sorry not to see her ladyship, because I had a private message for her from her sister.”
“I’ll tell her,” answered Hannah in an ungracious, grumbling tone; for the advent of a new mistress in the house did not meet her approbation. “I think master might have said a word to us before he went away, and not have — what’s that?”
The sound of a carriage thundering up to the gate and stopping, scared their senses away. Evan opened the door at length, but not immediately; not until the bell had sent its echoes through the house.
They entered the hall; Mr. Carlton, and his young wife upon his arm. She wore two shoes now, and a beautiful cashmere shawl, the latter the present of Mr. Carlton. He was a fond husband in this his first dream of passion. Mr. Bill Jupp’s information as to the train’s arrival was incorrect. It was true that the omnibus had come back, but it brought no passengers with it; it had waited as long as it could, and then had to return to convey back its customers to the nine o’clock train. An accident, productive of no ill consequences save detention, had occurred to the seven o’clock train containing Mr. Carlton and his wife, and this caused the delay.
She came in with her beaming face, laughing at something said by Mr. Carlton, and nodding affably to the servants by way of her first greeting to them. Very much surprised indeed did she look at seeing Judith standing in the background.
“Judith!” she exclaimed, “is it you?”
Judith came forward in her quiet, respectful manner. “Can I speak a word to you, my lady, if you please? Lady Jane charged me with it.”
Laura dropped Mr. Carlton’s arm and stared at her. The salutation was strange to her ears. “My lady!”
“Lady Jane!” Had the world turned upside down, Laura Carlton had not been more surprised, more perplexed.
It must be remembered that she had known nothing of the late earl’s illness; when she quitted her home to fly with Mr. Carlton, he, Lord Oakburn, was being expected at Cedar Lodge. Mr. Carlton had said nothing to her of his surmised death;
and during this wedding tour in the remoter parts of Scotland, not a newspaper had fallen under her notice. Laura was therefore still in ignorance of all that had taken place.
“What did you say, Judith?” she asked, after a pause. “Lady — Lady Jane sent you to me? Do you mean my sister?”
“Yes, my lady. She wished me to say a word to yourself.”
No woman living had greater tact than Laura Carlton. Not before her new servants would she betray her perplexity at the strange title, or give the slightest indication that she did not know how it could belong to her. From the open door of the dining-room on the side of the hall streamed the light of fire and lamp, and she stepped into it, followed by Judith. Mr. Carlton had turned back, after bringing her in, to see what had been left in the post-chaise.
“Judith! you called my sister Lady Jane. Has anything happened to Lord Oakburn?”
It would have been Judith’s turn to stare now, but that she was too well-bred a servant to do anything of the sort. A whole week since the change! it seemed next to impossible that Lady Laura should still be in ignorance of it. She answered quietly.
“Lord Oakburn is dead, my lady — that is, the late Lord Oakburn — and my master is Lord Oakburn now.”
“I never heard of such a thing!” exclaimed Laura, sinking into a chair in her astonishment. “When did he die? How long have you known it?”
“He died on the Tuesday, yesterday week, my lady. He died of fever at Chesney Oaks, and the letter that came on the Wednesday morning to our house was not for him, after all, but for my master.”
“And when did you find out that it was for papa? — when was it first known at home?”
“My lady, it was known just about the time that you left it. Mr. Grey was there that evening, if you remember, and he told the news of Lord Oakburn’s illness; that he was lying without hope a day or two before at Chesney Oaks. There could be no doubt then, he said, that the letters had come for my master as Earl of Oakburn.”
“I wonder whether Lewis knew it?” was the question that crossed Laura’s heart. “Mr. Grey spoke to him that night as he left our house. But no, he could not know it,” came the next thought, in her unbounded love and confidence, “or he would have told me.” Question after question she poured upon Judith, and the woman told all she knew. Lord Oakburn was at home again now, she said, but she believed he and the young ladies were very soon to depart for Chesney Oaks.
