had not dawned on her mind—but at the insult offered to her by this re-entrance of the governess into their house. Who was she, this Eliza Lethwait, that she should come again, and beard her in her home? Had he, her father, brought her—brought her on a visit, as surmised by Lucy?
The footman had already gone down stairs again. Jane flung aside Miss Snow’s wrapperings and prepared to descend. The governess had stood in a state of puzzled amazement, wondering what it all meant. On the stairs Jane encountered Judith. The girl was paler than usual, and very grave.
“My lady,” she whispered, arresting Jane’s progress, “do you know what has occurred?”
“I know that that person whom I turned from my house has dared to intrude into it again,” answered Lady Jane in her wrath, speaking far more openly than it was her custom to speak before a servant. “But she shall not stop in it; no, not for an hour. Let me pass, Judith.”
“Oh, my lady, hear the worst before you go in; before you enter upon a contest with her that perhaps she’d gain,” implored Judith, in her eager sympathy for her mistress. “My lord has married her, and has brought her home.”
Jane fell against the wall and looked at Judith, a pitiable expression of helplessness on her face. The girl resumed.
“Pompey says they were married yesterday morning; were married by Miss Lethwait’s father in his own church. He says, my lady, he finds it is to Miss Lethwait’s the earl has gone lately when he has been absent from town; not to Chesney Oaks.”
“Support me, Judith,” was the feeble prayer of the unhappy daughter.
Utterly sick and faint was she, and but for Judith’s help she would have fallen. She sunk down on the friendly stairs, and let her head rest on them until the faintness had passed. Then she rose, staggering, and went on with what feeble strength was left her.
“I must know the worst,” she moaned. “I must know the worst.”
Lucy, wondering and timid, stole into the drawing-room after her. Standing by its fire, her face turned to the door in expectation, was she who had quitted the house as Miss Lethwait, only six or seven weeks before. Jane’s eyes fell on her dress, as mentioned by Lucy, the rich sweeping silk, the pretty white bonnet, and the costly shawl—their own mother’s shawl! taken by the earl from its resting place to bestow on his new bride. Woman’s mind is a strange compound of strength and littleness; and to see that shawl on her shoulders brought to Jane’s heart perhaps the keenest pang of all. The earl was striding the room; his stick, suspiciously restless, coming down loudly with each step. He confronted his two daughters.
“So! here you are at last! And nothing ready, that I see, in the shape of welcome. Not so much as the tea laid! What’s the reason, Lady Jane?”
“We did not expect you,” replied Jane in a low tone, her back turned on the ex-governess.
“You got my letter. Wasn’t it plain enough?”
“I have not received any letter.”
“Not received any letter! By Jove! I’ll prosecute the post-office! Girls,” with a flourish of his hand towards his wife—“here’s your new mother, Lady Oakburn. You don’t want a letter to welcome her.”
It seemed that Jane, at any rate, wanted something, if not a letter. She persistently ignored the presence of the lady, keeping her face turned to her father. But when she tried to address him, no sound issued from her white and quivering lips. The new countess came forward, and humbly, deprecatingly, held out her hand to Jane.
“Lady Jane, I implore you, let there be peace between us. Suffer me to sue for it. It has pleased Lord Oakburn to make me his wife; but indeed I have not come here to interfere with his daughters’ privileges or to sow dissension in their home. Try and like me, Lady Jane! It will not be difficult to me to love you.”
Jane wheeled round, her white lips trembling, her face ablaze with scorn.
“Like you!” she repeated, her voice, in her terrible emotion, rising to a hiss. “Like you! Can we like the serpent that entwines its deadly coils around its victim? You have brought your arts to bear on my unsuspicious father, and torn him from his children. As you have dealt with us, Eliza Lethwait, may you so be dealt with when your turn shall come!”
The countess drew back in agitation. She laid her hand on Lucy.
“You at least will let me love you, Lucy! I loved you when I was with you, and I will endeavour to be to you a second mother. This entrance into your home is as embarrassing and painful to me as to you.”
Lucy burst into tears as she received the kiss pressed upon her lips. She had liked Miss Lethwait very much, but she did not like her to bring upon them this discomfort.
The earl and his stick, neither of them quite so brave as usual, went off to take refuge in the small room that they had made the library; glad perhaps, if the truth could be