“I heard to-day that there was a servant wanted at that house on the Rise—where the new folks live. Their housemaid’s going to leave.”
“What new folks?” asked Judith.
“Those fresh people that came from a distance. What’s the name?—Chesney, isn’t it? The Chesneys. I mean Cedar Lodge. It might suit you. Coming! coming!” shrieked out Mrs. Fitch, in answer to a succession of calls.
“Yes, it might suit me,” murmured Judith to herself. “They look nice people. I’ll go and see after it.”
The words were interrupted by a movement, a hubbub, and Judith hastened outside to ascertain its cause. Could the deliberation of the jury be already over? Yes, it was even so. The door of the inquest-room had been been thrown open, and the eager crowd were pressing on to it. A few minutes more, and the decree was spoken; was running like wildfire to every part of the expectant town.
“We find that the deceased, whose married name appears to have been Crane, but to whose Christian name we have no clue, came by her death through swallowing prussic acid mixed in a composing draught; but by whom it was thus mixed in the draught, or whether by mistake or intentionally, we deem there is not sufficient evidence to show.”
So Stephen Grey was yet a free man. His friends pressed up to him and shook him warmly by the hand. While young Frederick, with a check of emotion, now white, now crimson, galloped home through the mud and shut himself in his bed-room, there to hide his thankfulness and his agitation.
Wretched as the weather had been with its wind and its rain, the sun showed itself just before its setting, and broke forth with a glowing red gleam, as if it would, in compassion, accord a glimpse of warmth and brightness to the passing day which had been longing for it.
Its slanting beams fell on that pleasant white house on the Rise, the residence of Captain Chesney, glimmering through the trees and dancing on the carpet in the drawing-room. The large French window opening to the ground looked bright and clear with those welcome rays, and one of the inmates of the room turned to them with a glad expression; an expression that told of some expectant hope.
Seated at the table was the eldest daughter, Jane Chesney; a peculiarly quiet-looking, lady-like young woman of thirty years, with drooping eyelids and fair hair. She had some bits of paper before her that were wonderfully like bills, and an open account-book lay beside them. There was a patient, wearied expression in her face, that seemed to say her life was not free from care.
Touching the keys of the piano with a masterly hand, but softly, as if she would subdue its sound, her brilliant brown eyes flashing with a radiant light, and her exquisite features unusually beautiful, sat Laura Chesney. Three-and-twenty years of age, she yet looked younger than she was; of middle height, slight and graceful, with the charm of an unusually youthful manner, Laura never was taken for her real age. She was one of the vainest girls living; though none detected it. Girls are naturally vain; beautiful girls very vain; but it has rarely entered into the heart of woman to conceive of vanity so intense as that which tarnished the heart of Laura Chesney. It had been the one passion of her life—the great passion which overpowered other implanted seeds whether for good or for evil, rendering them partially dormant. Not that vanity was her only failing; far from it; she had others less negative: self-will, obstinancy, and a rebellious spirit.
Latterly another passion had taken possession of her; one which seemed to change her very nature, and to which even her vanity became subservient—love for Mr. Carlton. It is her eyes which are turning to this bright sunshine; it is her heart which is whispering he will be sure to come! She was dressed in a handsome robe of glittering silk, hanging sleeves of costly lace shading her small white arms, on which were golden bracelets. Jane wore a violet merino, somewhat faded, a white collar, and small white cuffs on the closed sleeves its only ornament. The one looked fit to be the denizen of a palace; the other, with her plain attire and gentle manner, fit only for a quiet home life.
And, standing near the window, softly dancing to the time of Laura’s music and humming in concert, was the little girl, Lucy. Her frock was of similar material to Jane’s, violet merino, but far more faded, the frills of her white drawers just peeping below its short skirt. She was a graceful child of eleven, very pretty, her eyes dark and luminous as Laura’s, but shining with a far sweeter and softer light, and there was a repose in her whole bearing and manner, the counterpart of that which distinguished her eldest sister.
In the room above was the naval half-pay captain, unusually fierce and choleric to-night, as was sure to be the case when getting well from his gouty attacks. Far more noisy and impatient was he at these times than even when the gout was full upon him. The means of the family were grievously straitened, the