gentlewoman at least as efficiently as the countess, should be left away from her cane, entrusted to another, was indeed a bitter trial. Jane, like Laura, spoke not of her mortification; but unlike Laura, she strove to subdue it. “It is but another cross in my tried life,” she murmured to herself. “I must take it up meekly and pray for help to bear it.”
“You should have her entirely indeed, did the will allow of it,” said the countess to Jane, for she divined the disappointment, and the tears in her eyes proved the genuine fervour with which she spoke. “I love her greatly; but I would not have been so selfish as to keep her from you. She shall visit you as often as you like, Lady Jane; she is more yours than mine.”
Jane caught at the words. “Let me take her home with me for a little change, then. She feels the loss greatly, and change of scene will be good for her. She can stay a week or two with me until you are strong again.”
“Willingly, willingly,” was the answer. “Ask for her when you will, at any time, and she shall go to you. Unless—unless———" Lady Oakburn suddenly stopped.
“Unless what?” asked Jane.
“Oh, I feel that I scarcely dare to mention it,” returned the countess. “I spoke in impulse. Pray pardon me, Lady Jane! My thought was—unless you would come back again and make this your home.”
Jane shook her heed. “No,” she said, “I think I must have a home of my own. I have got used to it, you see. But I will come to you sometimes and be your guest.”
So Lucy went with Jane to South Wennock. They journeyed down on the second day after the funeral. Laura was silent on the way, somewhat resentful, as she brooded bitterly over the ill news she had to carry to her husband. Once she turned round in the carriage and spoke to Jane quite sharply.
“Why did you never tell me you had asked papa about that torn note of Clarice’s? nobody seems to care for me, I think.”
Jane Chesney sighed wearily. “I don’t know why I did not. Somehow I do not like to talk of Clarice; and it only left the mystery where it was.”
They reached Great Wennock in safety. Laura had not apprised her husband of her coming, and there was no carriage in waiting; the disappointment to be inflicted on him had deterred her. The omnibus and one fly stood at the station. Judith was hastening to secure the latter, but was too late. A handsome stripling leaped into it before her. It was Frederick Grey.
“Oh, Master Grey!” she said in an accent of dismay. He looked tall enough now for Mr. Grey; but Judith adhered to the familiar salutation. “You’ll give up the fly, won’t you, sir?”
“I daresay, Judith!” returned the young gentleman, with a laugh. “There’s the omnibus for you.”
“It’s not for me, Master Frederick. The ladies are here.”
He glanced across, caught sight of them, and was out of the fly in an instant, lugging with him a big box which he took to the omnibus, and offered the fly to Lady Jane. He stood with his hat in his hand, a frank smile on his pleasant countenance as he pressed them to take it.
“But it is not right to deprive you of it,” said Jane. “You had it first”
“What, and leave you the omnibus, Lady Jane! What would you think of me? The jolting won’t hurt me; it’s rather fun than otherwise. I should walk, if it were not for the rain.”
“Have you come from London?”
“Oh no. Only from Lichford.”
He helped to place them in the fly, and they were obliged to make room for Judith, for it was raining fast, and Jane would not let her go outside. Lucy gazed at him as he stood there raising his hat when they drove away.
“What a nice face he has!” she exclaimed. “I like him so much, Jane!”
“I declare I forgot to tell him that we saw his father,” said Jane. “I must send for him to call.”
Mr. Carlton’s was first reached. Lady Laura got out, and the fly drove on with the rest towards Cedar Lodge. Mr. Carlton was at home, and he welcomed her with many kisses. It was late, and the tea was on the table; the room, bright with fire, looked cheering after her journey. Mr. Carlton loved her still, and the absence had been felt by him.
“Between Pembury and London you have been away thirteen days, Laura! And I, longing for you all the while, thinking they would never pass!”
“There is no place like home, after all,” said Laura. “And oh, Lewis, there’s nobody like you! We stayed over the funeral, you know, and—to—to hear the will reed.”
“And how are things left?” asked Mr. Carlton. “I suppose you are so rich now, we poor commoners must scarcely dare to touch you with a long pole.”
Laura had been sitting before the fire, her feet on the fender, Mr. Carlton leaning careasingly over her. She suddenly sprang