“Miss Beauchamp disappeared from the neighbourhood suddenly—as it seemed to me,” he continued. “At any rate, she ceased coming here. We have two or three letters with the same address waiting still.”
Jane wondered whether they could be those she had sent. She asked to see them, and he brought them forward: three. They were the same.
“I will take them away with me,” said Jane.
The librarian hesitated at this—not unnaturally. “You will pardon me, I am sure, ma'am, if I inquire by what authority you would take them? Miss Beauchamp may call for them yet.”
Jane smiled. “They were written by me,” she said, tearing open one of the letters and showing him the signature. “And,” she added, taking out her card-case and handing him a card, “that will prove that I am Jane Chesney.”
The librarian bowed; and intimated that her ladyship was of course at liberty to do what she pleased with her own letters.
“Upon second thoughts, I will leave this one, the last written, and write upon it our present address,” said Jane. “As you observe, Miss Beauchamp may call yet.”
Obtaining the address of the two families in which she was told Miss Beauchamp had served, Lady Jane quitted the shop, and walked on to Gloucester Terrace, ordering the carriage to follow her by-and-by. She reached the house occupied by the Lortons first, and inquired of a showy footman whether Mrs. Lorton was at home. The answer was given in the affirmative, but with some hesitation: it was earlier than the orthodox hour for receiving visitors, and the man probably doubted whether his mistress was presentable. Jane was shown to an excessively smart room, and after some delay an excessively smart lady came to her; but neither room nor lady possessed aught of refinement.
Jane had not given her name. “It is of no consequence: I am a stranger,” she said to the servant when he inquired. Mrs. Lorton dropped Jane a swimming curtsy, and sailing to a large velvet ottoman in the middle of the room, took her seat upon it. Jane looked, as she ever did, a lady, and Mrs. Lorton was all smiles and suavity.
“I have called to inquire if you can kindly give me any information as to the present address of a young lady who lived with you as governess,” began Jane. “A Miss Beauchamp.”
Mrs. Lorton’s smiles froze at the question. “I know nothing about Miss Beauchamp,” she answered, somewhat rudely. “She did not behave well in my house, and it was a good riddance when she quitted it.”
“Not behave well!” echoed Jane.
“No, she did not. She encouraged my son to pay her attention, and when it was all found out she left me at a pinch without a governess. Perhaps you know her?”
“I do,” answered Jane, with cold dignity. She knew that Clarice was being traduced. “Miss Beauchamp is my sister.”
“Oh!” said Mrs. Lorton; and there was a whole volume of contempt in the tone. The lady before her, who had caused her to dress herself in that inconvenient haste, was after all nothing but a governess’s sister! Mrs. Lorton felt angry and vexed; and the expression that her face assumed did not add to its beauty.
“I would not have troubled you,” resumed Lady Jane, but I do not exactly know where my sister is now, and I am in search of her. I inquired at a library where I know Miss Beauchamp used to deal, and they gave me your address, as one of the situations in which Miss Boauchamp had lived. If you can direct me to her present place of abode, I shall return you sincere thanks.”
“I tell you I know nothing of her,” repeated Mrs. Lorton. “Here, Harriet,” she added, as a young lady as much over-dressed as herself entered the room, “here’s that Miss Beauchamp’s sister come to inquire after her. The idea of our knowing anything about her!”
“The idea!” repeated the young lady pertly to Jane. “When she left us, she took a fresh place a few doors further on. But she didn’t stop there long.”
“She was not calculated for a governess,” said Mrs. Lorton. “She carried her head too high.”
“I scarcely think she was calculated for one,” remarked Jane. “She was of good birth, and the consciousness of that may have caused her to—as you express it—carry her head high. Though, unduly high I do not think she was capable of carrying it. When she quitted her home to become a governess, she made a firm determination to do her duty in her new life and adapt herself to its penalties. Our family was in straitened circumstances at the time; and Clarice and my sister generously resolved to get her own living, so that she might no longer be a burden upon it. Others, well born and connected, have done as much before her.”
Mrs. Lorton threw back her head. “That is sure to be the case,” she said, in a sneering tone of disbelief. “Half the young women on the governess’ list will assure you that they are of good birth, and only go out through