with Jane for her persistency. It was the first coolness, the first unpleasantness, that had ever occurred between Jane and her father.
But, if they could only have put away the useless old family pride, there appeared to be not so great cause for uneasiness on the score of Clarice and the step she had taken. A very short time after Clarice left home, Jane received a letter from her, telling of her movements. She had obtained, she wrote, through a governess-agency house, a situation as governess, and had entered upon it. It was in a good family residing at the west end of London, where she should certainly be safe, and, she hoped, comfortable. She had changed her name, she added, though she should decline to say for what other; and if Jane wanted to write to her, she might send a letter directed to Miss Chesney, care of a certain library in the neighbourhood of Hyde Park. “Tell papa, with my love,” ran the conclusion of the letter, “that he may thoroughly trust me in all ways; I will not disgrace myself or his name. What I have done I have done from good and loving motives, and I hope that the time may come when he will think of me less harshly.”
Jane showed the letter to her father. He flew into a paroxysm of anger, and sent a harsh message to Clarice, to the effect that she should never come home again, and he would never forgive her; which message he compelled Jane to write. It would have the effect of hardening Clarice, as Jane knew; but she could only obey. And from that hour Captain Chesney had interdicted all mention of Clarice by Jane.
But surely Jane had now a right to expect that the change in their position would cause her father to recal Clarice. She was Lady Clarice Chesney now, and the incongruity of a young lady of title being out as a governess must surely strike Lord Oakburn. To hear him thunder out “No,” in answer to her appeal, with the added words, “let Clarice come to her senses,” fell like a leaden weight on Jane’s heart. Her private conviction was, that Clarice, obstinate in spirit and in temper, would not come to her senses of her own accord; unless they made the first move to bring her to them.
But Jane had not time just now to indulge her thoughts or her disappointment. In one week from that day, she and Lucy were to depart from their present home for Chesney Oaks, and there were innumerable things to see about, arrangements to make. Lord Oakburn had brought with him more than sufficient money to satisfy all outstanding claims, and this he left in Jane’s lands, desiring her to pay them. With what satisfaction Jane gazed at this money, let those who have been unwilling debtors only picture. Ah, the rise in the position was little—the rank they had stepped into, the high-sounding titles that must be theirs now for life—they were but little to Jane Chesney, as compared with this blessed power to pay the creditors—to be free from care!
With that delicacy of feeling which I think does in a large measure characterise the greater portion of people, not one creditor had presented himself at the door of Cedar Lodge since the change in Captain Chesney’s fortunes. Of course there was a great deal in knowing now that they were secure. Jane was busy after breakfast giving directions in the house to Judith and the new woman-servant who had been temporarily engaged. Later she called Judith into the room that had been Laura’s, to help to collect that young lady’s things together.
“It is surely not worth while putting in these old shoes and boots,” remarked Jane, in the midst of the packing. “She will never wear them again.”
The words were spoken to Judith. Judith, however, did not reply. She was standing at the window, looking out on the road.
“Judith.”
Judith turned. “I beg your pardon, my lady. I was looking at a carriage that has stopped at the gate. There appears to be an old lady in it.”
Lady Jane went to the window. It was the same carriage that so nearly ran over Mr. Carlton; the same that pulled up at the Red Lion to inquire its way to Cedar Lodge. One glimpse was enough for Jane, and something like dismay mixed with the surprise that fell over her features.
“O Judith, run! Run down to receive her. It is my aunt, the dowager Lady Oakburn.”
Judith did as she was bid. Jane hastily washed her hands, shook out the flounces of the new mourning worn for the late earl, glanced at the glass and smoothed down the braids of her fair hair—which never looked anything but smooth—and was below ere Lady Oakburn had entered the hall door.
She came in with short, quick steps, her high heels clattering on the flags of the hall. Although very stout, she imparted the idea of being a remarkably active woman—and in truth she was such: active in body, active in mind, active in tongue. And those active women wear well. Lady Oakburn, with her seventy years, did not look more than sixty.
“And now where’s your father?” she began, before she had time to receive Jane’s salute;