“Pompey has been saying that the people were talking when they came out of the inquest room about the strange face on the stairs. They said that, but for that, the verdict might have gone against Mr. Stephen Grey.”
This interposition came from Lucy Chesney; she had come silently into the room to look at the young woman who was seeking to live with them. The unfortunate affair in Palace Street with its strange circumstances had excited all her interest—as such affairs will and do excite the interest of children—and every little additional detail was eagerly picked up by Lucy.
“What strange face was seen on the stairs?” exclaimed Jane Chesney, forgetting reproof in her surprise.
“Pompey says that Mr. Carlton saw a man with a strange face by the lady’s bedroom door, just before her death, Jane.”
Jane Chesney recalled her scattered senses. “Lucy, go up to papa,” she said. “You should not have come in here without asking my permission, and you must not listen to all the idle tales brought home by Pompey.”
The little girl went away in obedience, but half reluctantly, and Miss Chesney inquired an explanation of Judith.
“When Mr. Carlton paid a visit to Mrs. Crane the night of the death, he thought, in leaving, that he saw a strange face on the stairs. Mr. Carlton now says he thinks it was only his fancy; but, ma'am, the coroner seemed to attach a great deal of importance to it. It is a pity,” added Judith, again falling into soliloquy, “but all the circumstances could be brought into the full, clear light of day.”
"Seemed to attach—you do not mean to say you were at the inquest!” exclaimed Miss Chesney.
“Yes I was, ma'am. I have now come from it,”
“I never heard of such a thing,” cried Miss Chesney, recovering from her astonishment. It did sound very strange to her that a servant should attend a coroner’s inquest for —as she supposed—pleasure.
“I was anxious to be there,” explained Judith, “and I did not know but I might be called upon also as a witness. Though I had known the young lady but three or four days, ma'am, I had learnt to love her, and since she died I have hardly touched food. I could not have rested without hearing the evidence. And I am very glad I did hear it,” she added, pointedly and emphatically. “My having been at the inquest will not make me the less good servant, ma'am.”
Miss Chesney could not avoid a smile. Of course it would not, she answered; but the admission had sounded strange. However, she was not one to carry on gossip with a servant, and she quitted the subject for the other, which had brought Judith to the house.
The result of the interview was, that Judith’s character was to be inquired into of her late mistress, and she was told to come again in a day or two for a final answer.
Miss Chesney, deep in thought, entered the drawing-room with a quiet step; and a choking sensation of pain, of dread, rushed over her, for she fancied she saw her sister Laura’s face lifted hurriedly from the shoulder of Mr. Carlton. She must have been deceived, she repeated to herself the next moment; yes, she must have been deceived.
But he was certainly standing there; they were standing together in the slight remaining rays of light that came in at the window. Jane Chesney’s eyes suddenly opened to much that had hitherto been obscure—to Laura’s fastidiousness latterly on the subject of her own dress, to the beaming look of radiant happiness sometimes to be seen on her face, to her unaccountable restlessness when they were expecting the daily professional visit of the surgeon. Could it be possible that she was learning to love him?
Crossing the room, she stirred the black fire into a blaze, rang for the lamp, and turned to Laura; speaking sharply.
“Why are you in the dark, Laura?”
“Because Pompey did not bring in the lamp, I suppose,” returned Laura, in a tone breathing somewhat of incipient defiance.
Jane pressed down her anger, her fear, and composed her manner to calmness. “I did not know you had returned, Mr. Carlton,” she said. “Have you been back long?”
“Long enough to talk secrets to Laura,” he laughingly replied, in a bold spirit. “And now I will go up to Captain Chesney.”
He met the black servant carrying the lamp in as he quitted the room. Pompey was getting to be quite an old man now; he had been in Captain Chesney’s service for many years.
“Let the shutters be for the present, Pompey,” said his mistress; “Come in again by-and-by. What is all this, Laura?” she added impatiently, as the man left the room.
Laura Chesney remained at the window, looking out into the darkness, her heart full of rebellion. “What is what?” she asked.
“What did Mr. Carlton mean—that he had been talking secrets to you?”
“It was a foolish remark to make.”
“And he presumingly spoke of you by your Christian name!”
