by Ellen Wood
September was a busy month with Jane Chesney. The term for which they had engaged their present furnished residence was expiring, and Lord Oakburn took on lease one of the neighbouring houses in Portland Place.
Jane was in her element. Choosing furniture and planning out arrangements for their new home was welcome work, all being done with one primary object — the comfort of her father. The best rooms were appropriated to him, the best things were placed in them. Jane thought how happy they should be together, she and her father, in this settled homestead. They did not intend to go out of town that year: why should they? they had only a few months ago entered it. Custom? Fashion? The earl did not understand custom, and fashion was a foreign vessel to him. Jane only cared for what he cared.
They moved into the house the last week in September, Jane anxious with loving thoughts still. But for the mysterious and prolonged absence of Clarice, she would have been thoroughly and completely happy. Miss Snow was proving an efficient governess for Lucy, and Jane had leisure on her hands. The unpleasant episode in the reign of the last governess, Eliza Lethwait, had nearly faded from Jane Chesney’s memory. She no more dreamt of connecting that condemned lady with certain occasional short absences of the earl in the country, than she dreamt of attributing them to visits paid to the Great Mogul.
The first week in October came in, and the evenings were growing wintry. Lord Oakburn had been away from home three days, and Jane, who had just got the house into nice condition, and was resting from her labours, had leisure to feel ill. Not actually ill, perhaps; but anything but well. She had felt so all day; a sick shivery feeling that she could not account for; a depressed sensation, as of some approaching evil. Do coming events thus cast their shadows before? There are those who tell us that they do so. Not in that way, however, was Jane Chesney superstitious, nor did she think of attributing her sensations to any such mystical cause.
She felt “out of sorts,” she said to Lucy’s governess, and supposed she had caught cold.
Causing a fire to be lighted in her dressing-room, a little snuggery on the second floor adjoining her bedroom, she resolved to make herself comfortable there for the evening. She ordered the tea-tray to be brought up, and sent a message for Miss Snow and Lucy.
Miss Snow, a little, lively, warm-mannered woman, the very reverse of the dignified Miss Lethwait, was full of trifling cares for Lady Jane. She threw a warm shawl on her shoulders, she insisted on wrapping her feet in flannel as they rested on the footstool before the fire, and she asked permission to make and pour out the tea.
Judith was at that moment bringing in the tea-tray. Judith — I’m sure I forget whether this has been mentioned before — had taken the place of own maid to Jane and Lucy when the change occurred in their fortunes. Jane valued her greatly, and the girl deserved it.
“A gentleman has called to inquire when the earl will be at home, my lady,” she said, as she put down the tray. “He wishes very particularly to see him.”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Jane rather listlessly. “Who is it?”
“It is that same gentleman who has been here occasionally on Sir James Marden’s business,” replied Judith. “I heard him say to Wilson as I came through the hall that he had a communication from Chesney Oaks which he wished the earl to see as soon as possible. Wilson asked me if I would bring the message to your ladyship.”
Jane turned her head in some slight surprise. “A communication from Chesney Oaks?” she repeated. “But papa is at Chesney Oaks. You can tell the gentleman so, Judith.”
“No, Jane, papa’s not at Chesney Oaks,” interposed Lucy, who was dancing about the room with her usual restlessness. “If he had been going to Chesney Oaks he would have gone from Paddington, wouldn’t he?”
“Well?” said Jane.
“Well, he went to King’s Cross.”
“How do you know?” asked Jane.
Lucy gave a deprecatory glance at Miss Snow ere she entered on her confession. She had run out to her papa after he was in the carriage for a last kiss, and heard Pompey give the order to the coachman, “King’s Cross Station.”
Jane shook her head. “You must have been mistaken, Lucy,” she said. “I asked papa whether he was going to Chesney Oaks, and he — he —— — —” Jane stopped a moment in recollection— “he nodded his head in the affirmative. It must have meant the affirmative,” she added slowly, as if debating the point with herself. “I am sure he is at Chesney Oaks.”
“Shall I inquire of the coachman, my lady?” asked Judith. “He is downstairs.”
“Yes, do,” replied Jane. “And you can tell the gentleman, Sir James Marden’s agent, that I expect Lord Oakburn home daily until I see him. He seldom remains away above three days.”
Judith went down on her errand, and came up again. Lucy was right. The coachman had driven his master to King’s Cross Station: the coachman further said that it was to King’s Cross Station he had driven his master on his recent absences. Jane wondered. She was not aware that Lord Oakburn knew any one on that line. This time he had taken Pompey with him.
Miss Snow busied herself with the tea; Lucy talked; Jane sat in listless idleness. And thus the time went on until a loud knock and ring resounded through the house. Jane lifted her eyes to the clock on the mantel-piece, and saw that it wanted ten minutes to nine.
“Visitors to-night!” she exclaimed, in vexation.
“Don’t admit them, Lady Jane,” spoke up Miss Snow impulsively, in her sympathy for Lady Jane. “You are not well enough to see them.”
Lucy had escaped from the room, and Miss Snow caught her at the dignified pastime of listening. Stretched over the balustrades as far as she could stretch, her ears and eyes were riveted to what was going on in the hall below. The governess administered a sharp reprimand, and ordered her to come away. But Lucy was absorbed, and altogether ignored both Miss Snow and the mandate.
“Do you hear me speak to you, Lady Lucy? Must I come for you?”
Lucy drew away now, but not, as it appeared, in obedience to the governess. Her face wore a puzzled look of surprise, and she went back to the room on tiptoe.
“Jane,” said she, scarcely above her breath, “Jane, what do you think? It is papa and Miss Lethwait.”
Jane turned round on her chair. “What nonsense, Lucy! Miss Lethwait!”
“It is indeed, Jane. It looks just as though papa had brought her on a visit, and there’s some luggage coming into the hall. Miss Lethwait—”
“It cannot be Miss Lethwait,” sharply interrupted Lady Jane, her tone betraying annoyance at the very mistake.
“Yes, it is Miss Lethwait,” persisted Lucy. “She is dressed so well! — in a rich damask dress and a white bonnet, and an Indian shawl with a gold border. It is just like that Indian shawl of mamma’s that you never remove from the drawer and never wear, because you say; it puts you too much in mind of her.”
“Lucy, you must certainly be dreaming!” reiterated Jane. “Miss Lethwait would never dare to step inside our house again. If—”
Jane stopped. Wilson the footman had come up the stairs and his face wore a blank look.
“I beg your pardon, my lady: the earl has arrived.”
“Well?” said Jane.
“He ordered me to come up to you, my lady, and ask whether there was nobody to receive him and — and — Lady Oakburn.”
“Bade you ask WHAT?” demanded Jane, bending her haughty eyelids on the servant.
“My lady,” returned the man, thinking he would repeat the words as they were given to him, and then perhaps he should escape anger, “what his lordship said was this: ‘Go up and see where they are, and ask what’s the reason that nobody is about, to receive Lady Oakburn.’ Those were the exact words, my lady.”
“Is it my aunt, the Dowager Lady Oakburn?” asked Jane in wonder.
“It is Miss Lethwait, my lady. That is to say, she was Miss Lethwait when she lived here.”
Lucy was right, then! A ghastly hue ov
erspread the face of Jane Chesney. Not at the unhappy fact — which as yet, strange to say, had not dawned on her mind — but at the insult offered to her by this re-entrance of the governess into their house. Who was she, this Eliza Lethwait, that she should come again, and beard her in her home? Had he, her father, brought her — brought her on a visit, as surmised by Lucy?
The footman had already gone down again. Jane flung aside Miss Snow’s wrapperings and prepared to descend. The governess had stood in a state of puzzled amazement, wondering what it all meant. On the stairs Jane encountered Judith. The girl was paler than usual, and very grave.
“My lady,” she whispered, arresting Jane’s progress, “do you know what has occurred?”
“I know that that person whom I turned from my house has dared to intrude into it again,” answered Lady Jane in her wrath, speaking far more openly than it was her custom to speak before a servant. “But she shall not remain in it; no, not for an hour. Let me pass, Judith.”
“Oh, my lady, hear the worst before you go in; before you enter upon a contest with her that perhaps she would gain,” implored Judith, in her eager sympathy for her mistress. “My lord has married her, and has brought her home.”
Jane fell against the wall and looked at Judith, a pitiable expression of helplessness on her face. The girl resumed:
“Pompey says they were married yesterday morning; were married by Miss Lethwait’s father in his own church. He says, my lady, he finds it is to Miss Lethwait’s the earl has gone lately when he has been absent from town; not to Chesney Oaks.”
“Support me, Judith,” was the feeble prayer of the unhappy daughter.
Utterly sick and faint was she, and but for Judith’s help she would have fallen. She sunk down on the friendly stairs, and let her head rest on them until the faintness had passed. Then she rose, staggering, and went on with what feeble strength was left her.
“I must know the worst,” she moaned. “I must know the worst.”
Lucy, wondering and timid, stole into the drawing-room after her. Standing by its fire, her face turned to the door in expectation, was she who had quitted the house as Miss Lethwait, only six or seven weeks before. Jane’s eyes fell on her dress, as mentioned by Lucy, the rich sweeping silk, the pretty white bonnet, and the costly shawl — their own mother’s shawl! taken by the earl from its resting-place to bestow on his new bride. Woman’s mind is a strange compound of strength and littleness; and to see that shawl on her shoulders brought to Jane’s heart perhaps the keenest pang of all. The earl was striding the room; his stick, suspiciously restless, coming down loudly with each step. He confronted his two daughters.
“So! here you are at last! And nothing ready, that I see, in the shape of welcome. Not so much as tea laid! What’s the reason, Lady Jane?”
“We did not expect you,” replied Jane in low tones, her back turned on the ex-governess.
“You had my letter. Wasn’t it plain enough?”
“I have not received any letter.”
“Not received any letter! By Jove! I’ll prosecute the post office! Girls,” with a flourish of his hand towards his wife—” here’s your new mother, Lady Oakburn. You don’t want a letter to welcome her.”
It seemed that Jane, at any rate, wanted something, if not a letter. She persistently ignored the presence of the lady, keeping her face turned to her father. But when she tried to address him, no sound issued from her white and quivering lips. The new countess came forward, and humbly, deprecatingly, held out her hand to Jane.
“Lady Jane, I implore you, let there be peace between us. Suffer me to sue for it. It has pleased Lord Oakburn to make me his wife; but indeed I have not come here to interfere with his daughters’ privileges or to sow dissension in their home. Try to like me, Lady Jane! It will not be difficult to me to love you.”
Jane wheeled round, her white lips trembling, her face blazing with scorn.
“Like you!” she repeated, her voice, in her terrible emotion, rising to a hiss. “Like you! Can we like the serpent that entwines its deadly coils around its victim? You have brought your arts to bear on my unsuspicious father, and torn him from his children. As you have dealt with us, Eliza Lethwait, may you so be dealt with when your turn shall come!”
The countess drew back in agitation. She laid her hand on Lucy.
“You at least will let me love you, Lucy! I loved you when I was with you, and I will endeavour to be to you a second mother. This entrance into your home is as embarrassing and painful to me as to you.”
Lucy burst into tears as she received the kiss pressed upon her lips. She had liked Miss Lethwait very much, but she did not like her to bring upon them this discomfort.
The earl and his stick, neither of them quite so brave as usual, went off to take refuge in the small room that they had made the library; glad, perhaps, if the truth could be known, that he had a refuge just then in which to hide himself.
“It’s new lines to them yet, Eliza,” he called out as he went, for the benefit of his rebellious daughters. “To Jane especially. They haven’t their sea-legs on at present; but it will be all right in a day or two. Or you shall ask them the reason why.”
An exceedingly smart lady’s-maid brushed past the earl, brushed past Jane, and addressed her mistress, with whom she had arrived.
“Your chamber is in order now, my lady, and what you will want to-night unpacked. I thought your ladyship might like a fire, and have had one lighted.”
The countess passed from the room, glad as the earl, perhaps, to make her escape. Jane grasped a chair in her heart-sickness.
Oh, reader! surely you can feel for her! She was hurled without warning from the post of authority in her father’s home, in which she had been mistress for years; she was hurled from the chief place in her father’s heart. One whom she regarded as in every way beneath her, whom she disliked and despised, over whom she had held control, was exalted into her place; raised over her. She might have borne that bitterness; not patiently, but still she might have borne it: but what she could not bear was that another should become more to her father than she was. He whom she had so revered and loved, he in whom her very life had been bound up, had now taken to himself an idol — and Jane henceforth was nothing.
She dragged her aching limbs back to her dressing-room and cowered down before the fire with a low moan. Judith found her there. The girl had a letter in her hand.
“My lady, Pompey’s nearly out of his mind with alarm. He says he’d rather run away back to Africa than that his fault should become known to his master. My lord gave him a letter to post for you yesterday, and he forgot it, and has just found it in his pocket.”
Jane mechanically stretched out her hand for the letter; mechanically opened it. It was short and pithy.
“DEAR JANE, — I married Miss Lethwait this morning, and we shall be home to tea to-morrow; have things ship-shape. You behaved ill to her when she was with us, and she felt it keenly, but you’ll take care to steer clear of that quicksand for the future; for remember she’s my wife now, and will be the mistress of my home.
“Your affectionate father,
“OAKBURN.”
Jane crushed the letter in her hand and let her head fall, a convulsive sob that rose in her throat from time to time alone betraying her anguish. If ever iron entered into the soul of woman, it had surely entered into that of Jane Chesney.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
BACK AT THE OLD HOME.
THEY stood together in the library — the earl and his daughter Jane. The morning sun streamed in at the window, playing on the fair smooth hair of Jane, showing all too conspicuously the paleness of her cheek, the utter misery of her countenance. The earl, looking bluff and uncomfortable, paced the carpet restlessly, his stick, for a wonder, lying unheeded in a corner.
It was their first meeting since the moment of his return the previous night. Ah, what a night it had been for Jane! Never for an instant had she closed her eyes. As she went to bed, so she
rose; not having once lost consciousness of the blow that had been dealt out to her.
She had heard the earl go into the library, after his breakfast. He had taken it with the countess and Lucy. And Jane, hastily drinking the cup of tea brought to her, which had stood neglected until it was cold, went down and followed him in.
Not to reproach him; not to cast a word of indignation on the usurping countess; simply to speak of herself, and what her future course must be.
“This is no longer a home for me, papa,” she quietly began, striving to subdue all outward token of emotion, of the bitter pain that was struggling within her. “I think you must see that it is not. Will you help me to another?”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Jane,” said the earl testily, wishing he was breasting the waves in a hurricane off the Cape, rather than in this dilemma. “It will all smooth down in a few days, if you’ll only let it do so.”
Jane lifted her eyes to him, a whole world of anguish in their depths. “I could not stop here,” she said in low tones, quite painful from their earnestness. “Papa, it would kill me.”
And it seemed as if it really would kill her. Lord Oakburn grunted something unintelligible, and looked uncommonly ill-at-ease.
“You must let me go away, papa. Perhaps you will help me to another home?”
“What home? Where d’ye want to go?” he crossly asked.
“I have been thinking that I could go to South Wennock,” she said. “I cannot remain in London. The house at South Wennock has not let since we left it; it is lying useless, with its furniture; and, now that winter is approaching, it will not be likely to let. Suffer me to go back to it.”
Lord Oakburn took a few strides up and down without reply. Jane stood, as before, near the table, one hand leaning on it, as if for support.
“It’s the most rubbishing folly in the world, Jane! You’d be as comfortable at home as ever you were, if you’d only bring your mind to it. Do you suppose she has come into the house to make things unpleasant for us? You don’t know her, if you think that. But there! — have it your own way! If you’d like to go back to South Wennock for the winter, you can do so.”