all they had became mine. What with their savings and the sale of the business, I found I had about a hundred and fifty pounds a year. Then came my turn. George Smith, who had used our house for many years, and had been, as the nonsense runs, sweet upon me, said why should we not join our means together: his salary a hundred and fifty, and my hundred and fifty, would make three hundred, and we should be comfortable for life? I said nothing against it, but that I was getting on to be forty years of age and liked my own way; he, poor fellow, was turned forty by some years, and as mild as milk. So we married, and settled in London, where his master’s house of business was, he being their country traveller. I couldn’t set up for a lady, and I didn’t; I was as plain and rough as ever; that didn’t please Mrs. Lorton, and she shunned me; but when, soon after, Mrs. Lorton was taken with a dangerous illness, she was glad enough to send for me to nurse her through it. It was then I saw Miss Beauchamp; I thought her the sweetest girl I had ever met, and the more I saw of her the more I liked her. A real lady she was, there was no mistaking that; she had none of Mrs. Lorton’s stuck-up airs, but spoke gently and kindly to folks, as if they were human beings. I was there for a month, for my husband was away on his journey, and when I left, Miss Beauchamp promised faithfully to come and see me at Islington, where we lived. She did come, and she told me she had left Mrs. Lorton’s, through that great big booby of a son making up to her, and had gone to Mrs. West’s. After that I saw no more of her for some months, till—I think it must have been September in the following year; and then she came, and asked if I could recommend her to a lodging. Of course I was surprised, and she told me she would confide a secret to me—that she was married. I asked why it was a secret; she laughed, and said for two reasons; one was, that her husband could not and would not tell his father, on account of some money matters between them that were not settled amicably; and the other reason was, that she, on her part, could not tell her family, for they were very high and proud, and would say she had disgraced them by her choice. Her husband, she said, was a professional man, and as soon as he got on well, so as to keep her in comfort and tolerable style, then they should declare it, and care for nobody.”
“What did she say her name was?” interrupted Lady Jane.
“She did not say, madam. When I pressed her, she said it was better that it should not be known, especially as I was connected with the Gloucester Terrace Lortons; it might get to them and it might get to the Wests, and that would not do. I said, then what was I to call her, and she laughed again, and said I might call her Miss Beauchamp; she was not afraid of my misconstruing her position. My lady, she never left my house again until she came down to South Wennock.”
“Never left it!”
“I mean, not to live. Ours was a good house, and I said the drawing-room and bed-room were at her service; but she would pay for them, and my servant waited on her. In the December my little child was born, the only one I ever had; and she, dear lady, used to sit with me, and be———"
“But did her husband never come to see her all that time?” interrupted Lady Jane, with wonder.
“Never once to my house. From what I could gather—for she would let a word now and then drop in forgetfulness—he seemed to have left London to live in the country. He would occasionally come to London, and of that she made no secret, and at those times she would go out and be away a day or two. But I never knew where she stayed.”
“How were her letters addressed?” asked Jane. “She must have received letters.”
“No letters came to the house; she used to go to Islington post-office for them. Once, when she was expecting one, she was too ill to go out, and sent the maid. I saw the letter in the girl’s hand as she came in; it was directed ‘C. C'"
“For Clarice Crane,” thought Jane. Though it might have served equally for Clarice Chesney.
“Towards the next March she got restless; she would be expecting her own illness in May, and she did not like to lie up so far from her husband. She said she would go down to where he lived, whether he was pleased or not. He said she was not to go—so she told me; and I spoke against it; I did not think she was strong enough to travel. I was in great grief at that time, for my child had died; and, as to my husband, I thought he’d never be pacified. When old folks like us get blessed with a child for the first time, they are as fond of it and proud over it as a dog with two tails. Ah, well!” added Mrs. Smith, in an indifferent tone, as she rubbed her nose, “it’s all over, and I’m almost glad it didn’t live, for the world’s full of trouble and care and wickedness. Miss Beauchamp promised that I should have the nursing of hers, and, my lady, I looked to that promise like a famished man looks to meat, for I am naturally fond of young children, and I didn’t want her to go away, lest I should not get the baby, after all.”
